#and the cast and family just chilling out | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

seraphdreams · 9 months

Text

DON'T FORGET ME | BAJI KEISUKE.

⋆˙⟡♡ synopis. going to a concert with your best friend certainly has its perks. and so does hooking up with one of the bandmates.

⋆˙⟡♡ contains. bimbo!reader, rockstar!baji, unprotected sex, pet names, asphyxiation, creampie, semi-public sex, baji being sleazy + eighteen plus, mdni.

⋆˙⟡♡ word count. 3.3k.

“Thanks for coming to tonight’s show! Here’s one more song before we head out!”

You’d never been much of a fan of underground rock music, and quite frankly, you still weren’t. Something about obnoxiously loud vocals backed up with random electric guitar riffs just never settle right within your spirit. In fact, you almost forgot the real reason you stood just yards away from one of the biggest up and coming rock bands.

For one thing, the air was incredulously too suffocating. Bodies upon bodies virtually sewn together despite the spacious arena that held them, and the stage lights abnormally dim—Only a few saffron-hued luminescences casted upon the four males that appeared on the platform. You hardly saw the members in the far back on their guitars but of what you could make out, one had white hair decorated with a small black streak and tan skin that glimmered under the hot lights while the other, with a dark neck tattoo and bold eyes, drank from his half-full water bottle.

Mostly by the front and center of the stage, occupied the drummer and the person who was just speaking out from the mic mere seconds ago.

“That’s my fucking brother!” Your best friend and little sister of the main vocalist, Airi shouted. She was but the replication of her brother; large, emerald orbs dazzled with long dark brown eyelashes and heaps of wavy blonde hair that fell downward to her lower back. Her outfit choice of leather pants donned with a matching corset top left none of her figure to the imagination, an ode to her love of the genre.

Wherever Airi went, you followed, and when she proposed the idea of seeing her brother and his bandmates perform, you couldn’t pass up the opportunity—Not to mention the free front row tickets he offered.

It was clear Chifuyu heard his sister from the crowd, looking down at the two of you with an illustrious smile and gesturing a two finger salute. He inched back with the microphone taut in the grip of his left hand and sent off a cue to the rest of his bandmates. Music followed hastily after and he began to sing.

Throughout the whole show, your eyes remained locked onto the raven-haired drummer. You marveled at each and every ministration he made, how his demeanor seemed to switch with each passing song and how the sweat accumulated on his perfectly toned body. In your head, you could’ve cursed Airi for not telling you about him beforehand, he’s totally your type.

You bobbed your head along to the melody that flowed within your ears and it was evident to Airi that you were enjoying the show you formally told her you “probably wouldn’t enjoy.”

She leaned over to sonorously whisper-yell in your ear. “Having fun?” The expiration of her words practically fell to flat ears had you not seen her in your peripheral view. In all honesty, you were more-so focused on the aggression that sexy drummer displayed while he played. How did he not break the drumset? Surely, he was strong enough to do so.

“Huh?” You peered over at her, vacant eyes meeting her jaded ones. She gave you her signature allknowing look and turned back to face the band.

Soon enough, the music stopped and the venue was filled with its final cheers. The stage went ominously tenebrous and the rest of the audience filed out of the stadium, except for you and Airi.

“Wanna go chill backstage?” Airi proposed. She pointed her thumb in the direction of a hallway filled with staff. “Are we even allowed to?” you started. “The place is packed with security.”

Airi mirthfully elbowed you, that sly smile on her perfectly made-up face. “I’m family, they’ll understand.”

One thing you couldn’t knock about your best friend was her adventurousness. Truthfully, you were just as bad as her, yet a bit more wary of getting in trouble—Especially if the law was involved, but you liked fun. And this was definitely what you needed. “Show me the way then, Little Matsuno.”

And with that, the both of you had set foot on your way to heading backstage.

Which undoubtedly felt like the case until you found yourself stranded among other concertgoers and personnel that you lost sight of your friend. She couldn’t have gotten far so where the hell was she? You continued your search by calling her phone, walking in any direction to pick up the slightest amount of signal.

“Hey.”

The bellow of a deep voice stopped you dead in your tracks and you sheepishly looked up with silent hopes that you hadn’t gotten in it with the wrong person. Much to your dismay (Or maybe it was a blessing), the man you’d been eyeing all night stood tall above you. Long, wavy noir tresses sat at his wide shoulders to match his black tank top that was slightly rolled up at the hem, showing off his midriff and that delicious v-line. His toned and ink littered arms folded across his chest while an undistinguishable expression etched over his features.

“Uh, hi.” You blinked a few times in dubiousness at the circumstance you so gracefully landed yourself in. Proximal distance to his figure led you to tread backward a few steps until you were at a comfortable enough range to take him in fully.

He looked so fucking mean, thick eyebrows pursed together, and sharp, amber eyes narrowed upon your figure.

“What do ya think you’re doin’?”

You had half a mind to drop to your knees and show him what was on your mind, yet you remained to keep yourself where you stood, for his sake of course.

His eyes bored holes into your frame. Whereas you couldn’t keep up with his unwavering eye contact, he managed to take note of every little quirk about you. “Um.. I was looking for my friend.” Your throat felt dry as you began to speak. “She said I could come backstage—Her name’s Airi Matsuno, Chifuyu’s sister.” The words got quieter as you spewed them out. You weren’t sure if it was your nerves or the intimidation, he’s so much taller up close.

“Eh? Fuyu’s lil’ sis?” He looked behind him to one of his bandmates, that same one as before with the blond streaks and neck tattoo. It seemed as though every member had genes blessed by the deities up above. “Tora, does Fuyu have a sister?”

The man you come to realize as “Tora” affirms your claim, adding that he had just seen Airi and Chifuyu leave the venue.

“Damn it, Ai.” You thought to yourself as if she’d actually given one day to not be herself.

The drummer turns back to look at you, this time unfolding his arms and standing somewhat widely. His thick dark brows remained quirked in a perplexed manner. He leans down to meet your gaze, hands hidden in his pockets as he concludes. “Some friend you got there. She left ya all alone.”

“She does that sometimes.” You reply.

He straightened up back to his full height, his expression softening, and a slight crack of a smile on his lips. “Guess i’ll keep ya company ‘til she comes back.”

Any other day, your humility would’ve been disregarded to the back of your mind. In all actuality, you were discourteous and loved attention, yet the feeling of a celebrity seemingly stooping low enough for some lost, 20-something year old groupie in disguise, kept your modesty in perfect condition.

“Oh, you don’t have to-“

Your words were quickly cut off by his cold demeanor as he opened one of the doors in the narrow hallway beside him. “But I wanna. /Ven aqui/.“ Eyes looked into yours like daggers and you couldn’t quite tell if he were vexed at your facade or if he were just blessed with bedroom eyes.

You followed him into what seemed to be his greenroom. It’s complete with a set of drums on one side near the corner and a half opened window, and a leather couch in the middle, not to mention the rack of clothes on the other edge.

“Didn’t catch your name, though. You are?” He questioned, sitting at the drumset in front of you. You made yourself comfortable on the plush couch, pulling the hem of your pink bodycon down in hopes you don’t reveal too much.

“I’m Y/N. And you are?”

He raises an eyebrow then follows it with a hearty laugh. “You came to my show ‘nd ya don’t even know my name?” You felt heat rise to your cheeks in embarrassment, but he was right. You didn’t know any of the members aside from the obvious, Chifuyu.

“My friend dragged me here, I just go wherever she goes.” You retort, a cordial grin on your face. He adjusts his sitting position and spreads his legs slightly.

It’s coming. The urge to suck dick.

“Yeah? Name’s Baji. You can call me Keisuke though.”

He pulled the pair of drumsticks from his back pocket and quietly tapped away. “You’re cute.” Dexterously, he twirled one of the sticks between his fingers where you noticed his black lacquered nails paired with the skull-esque designs of the rings that adorned said digits. “You like a college student or something?” Heat spread across your cheeks at the comment. A band member calling you cute was not something you thought you’d experience tonight, but there’s lots you haven’t experienced yet.

“Mhm. It’s a lot though, I'm thinking of dropping out.” More calm your voice was, and he picked up on your energy, sending a stern glance your way.

“Nah, don’t do that.” The melodic tapping from the drumsticks halt. “Ya seem like a smart girl, don’t be like me.”

Curiosity overtakes you, causing you to press forward. “And what are you like, Keisuke?” His name tasted saccharine falling off your tongue and filling your ears with the sweetest music. Keisuke, Keisuke, Keisuke.

“Dropped out at 14, ran around with a few gangs, and now ‘m doing music.” His words register in his mind before he continues. “But ‘m makin’ good money now, maybe you should live like me a little.”

A giggle resonated within the room and he felt his heart swell at the cute laughter. He wasn’t quite sure what urged your joy but he returned it with a smile of his own. You truly do have the prettiest face. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Ya know..” His words slipped off his tongue like honey and in turn you gave him the most of your attention, curious eyes locked on his dismal bronze ones. “I got this beat I can’t get out my head. Can I get your opinion?” His expression was glazed over in calculation with a slight pat to his thigh that you seemingly picked up. Instinctively, your body moved on its own and replied to his silent call. As you nestled into his lap, you only hoped that this had been what he was asking for. “Mhm.” Your response was curt and barely escaped under the pressure of your breath.

Your back was pressed against his chest and your core was slotted over his thigh, a relatively intimate position despite the need for cordial relations. He started up on the drums, stirring up the common one-two, one-two beat that emphasized its focus on the round bass drum that sat at the bottom of the set. It was as if with each press to the drum pedal the muscle of his thigh dangerously tensed beneath your heat, eliciting surges of delirium and pleasure straight to the very source. It’s clear he knew what he was doing from the onsight of your glossy lips parting and the faintest decibel of a gasp leaving your lips.

“Y’like it?” Deep voice ghosted over your ear as he leaned in precariously close. “Y’sure it won’t sound better like this?”

The beat he originally created morphed into one of a sonorous, heavier tone. Your body vaguely rocked over his, your tits bouncing from the nefarious rising and falling of his leg in the sweetest, yet most sinister tandem with his flexing thighs.

And all restraint vanished from within you as you diligently rutted your hips. You felt embarrassed. Like a needy nuisance needed to be taken care of, yet again, your humility sat idly by and pride dwindled from your very being.

“That—That sounds nice.” Your reply was breathy and if you thought enough of this through, your little plan of passing your insatiability off as adjusting your position would’ve worked on him. But it didn’t.

The sultry, damp sensation he felt on his blackened denim pants told him otherwise. Baji chuckled to no one in particular, the sharp canines on display while he smirked mirthfully to himself. He’s had his fair share of girls practically throwing themselves at him, and still, you were the most fun to play with.

The flexing and relaxing of his muscles didn’t let up, as with your ruthless humping. You held tightly to his knees with the pressure only gradually increasing when you felt yourself crumbling in his hold.

On the verge of your awaiting orgasm, Baji’s lips press against the shell of your studded ear.

“I saw you starin’ in the crowd tonight—Couldn’t keep my eyes off that tiny lil’ dress you’re wearing.” He moved one hand from the drumset to snake over the front of your garment, calloused hands kneading at your soft and pert breasts. The movement was one of full dexterity. Your nipples ached as he pinched and rolled them between his fingers.

“Knew you weren’t wearin’ a bra.” his lips against your ear trailed down to your neck which caused the helplessly rutting of your core over his thigh, strikingly close to orgasm. You had managed to keep your whimpers low but due to proximity, you left nothing to be unheard. A harsh tug of your nipples pulled you from the hazed out state you were entranced in.

“Gotta tell Tora I won our little bet.”

False lashes fluttered with every move the both of you made. Your voice was soft as you responded, “You’re just so fucking fine, Couldn’t help myself.”

He was used to the attention. He’s a 6’0 rockstar with a checkered past — Any girl would fall for that cliche shtick, yet something within him wanted to toy with your naivety. Would you really believe anything he said?

“I don’t get much attention from fans, but you? You’re special.”

It was that moment that sent you over the edge, a lewd cry followed by your body convulsing, pretty face screwed up in pleasure, letting Baji know your release had hit you, and fucking hard at that.

“Oh ho? That did it for ya, huh?” He watched in awe at the sopping mess of his pants while allowing you to ride out your high completely before those same strong hands bunched your dress up at the hip.

You rested against his back for a while as stray pants waned themselves from your lips.

“Ya poor thing, I ain’t even get to finish my drummin.’” his hands left your tits as he rasped out the words and settled on turning you around to face him on his lap. “Sorry..” you meekly responded. An airy chuckle sounded itself from him as he whips out his throbbing hard length.

It should be illegal to be as thick as a fucking Coke can, yet there he was — The tip flushed a deep mauve, and pretty pearlescent beads of precum streaming down his cock and over the few veins that seemed to run along the shaft. The prettiest dick you’ve ever seen, and you stared in awe until the deep clearing of his throat caught your attention.

Pumping it shallowly, he pushed those cute fucking pink lace panties to the side, revealing your glistening and sticky folds to him. He prodded the tip at your hole, bullying your core that left you aching for his touch.

“Ride it for me, muñequita.”

With no hesitation, you sank yourself down onto his cock, carefully taking him in.

“Fuck—” The low whimper is sounded from you as you began to bounce yourself on his lap. He felt impossible to take and with your hands rested over his shoulders paired with his arms at your waist, slowly pushing you further down, you didn’t think you could take it. “That’s it, baby. Ride it like it’s yours.” He cooed, letting his head fall back as you got him off.

You bit at your plush bottom lip to elicit any moans from flying which reigned ineffective when you picked up pace and rolled your hips, allowing his cock to drag against that spongey spot within your walls that had your resolve weakening.

Obscenities and the reverberation of skin on skin bounced against the walls of his green room. You were tighter than any girl he’d ever been in and much cuter too.

Once you were able to fall into a comfortable rhythm of bouncing on his cock he hastily began to work toward his own release having grown tired of your saunterous riding.

He lifted you up off his length and turned you around so that you were bent over his drumset. “I know you were trying your best,” he followed up his words with a quick slap to your ass before aligning his cock with your slit once more, “But i’m gonna need better than that.”

Baji noticed the way you faltered once he built up his own pace, with more fervor than the previous. You almost fell forward with the trajectory of the thrusts and to his chagrin, your moans amplified.

“D-Deep! ‘S so deep!” You cried wantonly. You felt your guts get turned inside out with his vigor. A scoff was heard from him in response, the inked up hands that rested at your hips now filing up your body and hooking at your elbows, holding you back flush against him as he continued to hit harder within your walls.

You felt unsteady when his right hand trailed up to your neck and gripped at your jaw before his index and middle finger slipped past your lips into your mouth. The metal of the rings tasted metallic and felt cold against your tongue, those being the least of your concerns when you felt your high from previously coil right up within you once more.

Without warning, you were hit with your release that left you limp in his hold, his fingers retracting from your mouth and messily running down your fat bottom lip where he also smeared a mix of saliva and cherry oil gloss down your chin.

Just momentarily from the sight of how pretty you looked, convulsing and crumbling because of his doing, he followed suit and filled your insides in thick, hot spurts of his cum, drops dripping down your thigh when he continued to rut inside you, emptying himself of his need.

It took you both a while to settle down, his lips hungrily taking in your neck down to your shoulder.

“Was that deep enough for ya?” He rasped and haziness filled your system when you pant to respond. “I-“

Just before you could respond, there’s a knock at the door and a familiar voice accompanied.

“Y/N! You in here? I’m ready to leave!”

It’s Airi, loud and clear after her awaited reappearance.

“Shit.” Baji cursed under his breath. He pulled you off of him and bent you over slightly, fetching a thick black marker from the table beside him and holding the cap between his teeth.

The uncomfortable sensation of the felt tip on your ass trailing down to your thigh lasted mere seconds as you tried to make out the shapes you couldn’t see. “Here’s my number. Don’t forget me.”

He stood you up properly and fixed your skirt, sending you off with a pat to your ass.

“I’ll see you again, Keisuke?”

“Damn right you will.”

tags - @meena-in-a-nutshell @imkumichan @messofavs @aotdump @saaraunicorn @cloudnitee @saffronity @aasouthteranoswife @kageyama-i-want-tobiors @anahryal @withlovetengen @zuuki @keooooothings @bunnyyamor @koucaine @bluerskiees @ready2readagain @sarnghoe

+ a great big thanks to my moot ! @lovelysho thank you so much for beta reading my love !

– all rights reserved © seraphdreams 2023. do not repost, change, copy, republish, read, translate, or recommend my work on tumblr or any other platforms without prior permission. feedback is widely appreciated!

3K notes · View notes

abbyshands · 2 months

Text

THE LAST OF US, and the israeli themes surrounding it

i'm very glad that people were able to see one of the previous things i published, where i complied a series of links that you can use to learn more of what's going on in gaza, how you can help, places you need to boycott, etc. however, at the end of the post, there is a large part of it that is DIRECTLY meant for people who play or watch the last of us, or play the last of us 2.

the last of us 2 in specific is not at all elusive in displaying the chilling themes we are seeing before us today. what boggles my mind, is that a select few individuals are choosing to keep publishing fics, reblogging them, uploading content that has NOTHING to do with what's going on, etc. also, you can't reblog one thing about palestine and claim that you care, then flood your account or people's home pages in fanfiction, especially during a media blackout. it just doesn't work like that.

i took the time to make a post discussing all of the israeli/palestinian themes that the games as a whole, but mainly the second one, display. if you are my mutual, a friend, a fan of my work, or a fan of the game or show, then i 100% demand you read this. if you can read fics for hours, you can spend time to read a post discussing the universe those very fics came from.

a lot of us are now aware of the last of us's nature in regards to the ongoing genocide, but not many people know the specifics of it. after seeing this post last night (the person who made this, you are an angel), i decided to take the time to dive into the specifics of the last of us 2's israeli nature, on a logical level, but also a moral level, using a list of sources to help me along, which will be linked at the end of this post. i will link the sources along the way so you know which sources i got my information from.

regardless of if this changes anyone's mind about ignoring the media blackout, or not giving a fuck about what's going on period, know this: regardless of how you feel, regardless of what you believe, from the river to the see, palestine will be free. at this fucking point, the people who are on the right side will keep speaking out and spreading awareness, regardless if you are here to do it with us. that's it. now, let's get into this.

UPCOMING DISCUSSIONS: neil druckmann, the last of us 1, the last of us 2, the last of us show and zionism in the show's cast, boycotting the game and show, and conclusion

NEIL DRUCKMANN

45-year-old neil druckmann, who was the co-director and co-writer for the last of us 2, was born in tel aviv, israel in 1978. according to the above source, druckmann was raised in a settlement in the west bank, where he was surrounded by violence on a daily basis. comics, movies, and most of all, video games, became an escape for him as a child, before he and his family moved to miami, floridawhen he was 10 years old.

to water down the full story that you can, again, read here, druckmann went to college to major in criminology. however, when he was in college, druckmann took a compsci course, that later lead to his major becoming coding as opposed to criminology. soon after, he knew he wanted a career that related to one thing: video games.

in the summer of 2013, the last of us part 1 was released, and it was renowned as one of best video games to have ever been made. in 2020, druckmann and nd released the last of us part 2, followed by the 2022 release of HBO's show based on the first video game. druckmann played a huge part on set, being not only the co-creator and co-writer of the show, but also having directed an episode himself. druckmann will remain involved in the second season of the show.

bringing up neil druckmann’s background is a crucial aspect of what’s upcoming in this post, hence why i wanted to discuss it at all. druckmann growing up in israel is one of the sole reasons the last of us was ever made at all, and not only that: it is the reason why the second game is the way it is, because neil druckmann planted his israeli ideologies right into it.

so, let’s speak on it.

THE LAST OF US 1

on the official the last of us podcast, neil druckmann himself discussed the last of us' link to the israeli-palestinian conflict, and now, genocide. the general consensus was that people will go ridiculously far for the people that they love. this idea of druckmann's was revealed when he discussed the first time the main character of the first game, joel miller, kills somebody to keep his daughter, sarah, safe from harm. this is one of the first scenes in the game prior to the time jump, where the pair's neighbor becomes infected, and attacks them. joel uses a gun to kill him so that the neighbor doesn't harm sarah.

the following is a quote i would like to copy from this link word for word: "Druckmann said he follows "a lot of Israeli politics" and compared the incident to Israel's release of hundreds of Palestinians prisoners in exchange for the captured Israeli soldier Gilad Shalit in 2011."

the plot of the first game, as neil druckmann explained, is based around a moral dilemma. he discusses how if joel had to kill a man to save a random kid, would he have done it? druckmann himself says, "but when it was his tribe, his daughter, there was no question about what he was going to do."

while the first game, in my opinion, isn't as heavily centered around israeli themes as the second game is, regardless, it is heavily crucial to note that the basis of the first game derived from a real-life incident involving israel and palestine, where hundreds of palestinian people (edit: i believe it is more than 1,000) were released from imprisonment, all in exchange for one israeli soldier. in the second game, the israeli-palestinian themes, if you look closely enough, scream out at you.

let's talk about it.

THE LAST OF US 2

"There is a common saying that if you seek revenge, you should dig two graves. Playing The Last of Us Part II is like being made to dig those graves with your teeth (Zacny)."

nd's 2022 the last of us part II is described down to the last letter in the above quote, albeit the game's utterly obvious israeli nature. in this post, the creator, rob zacny, goes on to discuss the game's theme of a "cycle of violence," and how the game reminds you in each grotesque encounter of the cruel ideology behind that. due to what occurs in the last of us 1, joel, basically, reaps what he sows when he is murdered for killing a surgeon who, along with the group said surgeon was a member of, the fireflies, was planning to perform surgery on ellie, who joel had since grown close to, in search of a cure for the infection that has plagued their world for decades. four years later, the second playable character in the game, who is introduced in the first half hour or so, abby anderson, kills joel to avenge the surgeon who was murdered, who happened to be her father. from then on, the game follows what, again, can only be described as a "cycle of violence." joel kills abby's dad, abby kills joel, ellie kills all of abby's friends, aims to kill abby in the final battle of the game, but spares abby when ellie's conscious morally attacks her for her decisions.

throughout the 24 odd hour gameplay, the player is allowed to play as ellie and abby, abby's parts of the game being arguably longer than ellie's. the idea this, i believe, is meant to introduce, is one of perspective: the player is meant to be loyal to joel miller once the first game has been finished, so when he is killed, they are inclined to make abby pay for it. however, abby's perspective, both in the past and as the present course of the game goes on, is meant to make the player understand why she did what she did. thus, the moral: there are no good guys in this game. every person is as equally bad as the following, and no one is innocent. however, when we consider the israeli-palestinian nature of this ideology and how it is presented in the last of us part 2, it simply doesn't work like this.

“I suspect that some players, if they consciously clock the parallels at all, will think The Last of Us Part II is taking a balanced and fair perspective on that conflict, humanizing and exposing flaws in both sides of its in-game analogues. But as someone who grew up in Israel, I recognized a familiar, firmly Israeli way of seeing and explaining the conflict which tries to appear evenhanded and even enlightened, but in practice marginalizes Palestinian experience in a manner that perpetuates a horrific status quo (Maiberg).”

when discussing the last of us part 2’s plot, one could 100% argue that there really aren’t good guys on the dual sides of the game. if you compare ellie and abby, you know that ellie went on a murder frenzy to get revenge on abby for killing joel. on abby’s side of it all, you know that abby wasn’t all that great before coming across lev and yara, and even then, she killed people to do what everyone in said world aims to do: survive. prior to finding lev and yara, abby had killed numerous people before, and did, as the player sees, handle joel very cruelly before she ended up killing him. here’s one more example, one that’s more random (but it’s simply to compare abby vs. ellie’s people, if you will): joel and manny. joel went on a cross country murder spree to keep ellie safe, and killed a building full of people at the end of the game to save her life. in regards to manny, if you recall a discussion that manny and mel had in the beginning of abby’s parts of the game, the pair are discussing a happening where a group aside from the wlf, the seraphites (which we will discuss later) attacked them because the wlf killed children who were a part of their (the seraphite’s) group. manny voiced how he would prefer to keep their people (the wlf) safe, and challenges mel, implying that those “kids” weren’t really kids, because they were the ones who attacked their guys (the wlf) in the first place. as a general consensus, manny kills several people throughout the course of the game, which can be inferred or seen by the player, making him, for the sake of what i’m getting at, a bad guy.

we see in the game how ellie and abby’s people are unanimously bad. the last of us is set in a world where laws and morals are thrown out the window for the sake of survival, so this is no surprise. however, this dual perspective, “no bad guy,” ideology simply doesn’t apply in the world today. you may compare ellie vs. abby, or joel vs. manny, or bring in more characters in the game, such as tommy, nora, etc, claiming that all parties are bad. that makes perfect sense. but think about it like this: if this is meant to represent the israeli-palestinian perspective, and i give you the scenario of a five-year-old child versus a full-grown IDF soldier, what would you say? isn’t there an obvious answer as to who is in the wrong and who’s not? maiberg is 100% right in claiming that the game marginalizes the real-life palestinian experience. abby, ellie, joel, manny, etc, are not real people. but the thousands of innocent children who have been killed for the ridiculousness and inhumane israeli regime are. you can’t say each side is equal in awfulness, not when one side is full of innocent men, women, and children, some of which could never make it into a year of their lives. not when if one side pauses their battle, there would be a ceasefire, but if the converse pauses their battle, they would all be dead.

“And then they cheered afterward,” Druckmann, who grew up in Israel, recalls. “It was the cheering that was really chilling to me. … In my mind, I thought, ‘Oh, man, if I could just push a button and kill all these people that committed this horrible act, I would make them feel the same pain that they inflicted on these people.’"

remember how i said discussing neil druckmann's background was crucial? it is. druckmann, who, again, was born in israel, told the Washington Post that the game's cynical themes of revenge and suffering is linked to the 2000 killing of two israeli soldiers (tw, lynching), who were killed by a mob (maiberg). allegedly, some of the incident was remembered in film, that druckmann watched, and in his interview, he explained his angry nature that came about in response to the video, and how he desired vengeance.

the last of us part 2 is mainly set in seattle, washington, where secondary main character, abby anderson, resides in with a militia group named the wlf (which we will also delve into later, alongside the seraphites). maiberg brings out how seattle, on a visual and mechanical level, is based around "a series of checkpoints, security walls, and barriers (Maiberg)." he notes: "[seattle] looks almost exactly like the tall, precast concrete barriers and watch towers Israel started building through the West Bank in 2000." here are side by side images for comparison:

now that we’ve discussed this, let us discuss one of most prevalent aspects of abby’s part of the story: the wlf, and the seraphites. the seraphites are a religious group, nicknamed “the scars” due to the scars the members of said group carve into their faces to display their membership, who the wlf, a makeshift militia group, runs into conflict with following the fall of FEDRA, the country’s former military. in a note in the game, a fedra commander explains that the city of seattle has been lost to the wolves (the wlf), who he names as terrorists. maiberg brings out the following: “Here, there are parallels to early Zionist organisations that fought British rule in the region. These organizations were also described as terrorists, and leaders of those organizations later became leaders in Israel, much like how Isaac, the leader of the Wolves, came to control Seattle. Other in-game notes, scenes of urban ambushes, and the bodies of executed FEDRA officers laboriously walk the player through the cliche "one man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter (Maiberg).”

maiberg also discusses a series of manners in which the fictional seraphites resemble real-life palestinians. here are the three ways he specifically discusses in his original post, but there are much more:

“The same note from the Seattle FEDRA commander that bitterly says the Wolves are in charge explains that it's now their responsibility to not only feed and shelter the people of Seattle, but deal with the "religious fanatics," referring to the Scars.

Later in the game, Ellie finds a location called "Martyr Gate," where the Scars' spiritual leader apparently died, indicating a religious significance of a specific and disputed location, and emphasizing the notion of martyrdom as central to their culture.

The Scars are able to get around Wolf patrols and various barriers around the city via an elaborate, secret system of bridges between skyscrapers. These function as a kind of flipped version of the underground tunnels Palestinians use to bypass Israeli blockades and other means of limiting free movement in order to get supplies and carry out attacks on Israel.”

one more post i would like to link is this one, the very reason i decided to make this in the first place. it captures the zionism in the last of us 2, along with the wlf vs. seraphite conflict, perfectly. i very much recommend you read it, as it explains it much better than i can.

the general consensus is this: the idea that the seraphites are equally as bad as the wlf, which implies that palestinians are equally as bad as israelis, simply doesn’t apply in 2024. as i said before: what is so vile and cruel about a newborn baby? a pregnant woman? an innocent man? NOTHING. part of the reason the last of us captures this so poorly is due to the apocalyptic nature of the world the game is set in. obviously, people would go rogue if their lives were put in peril by not only animalistic infected beings, but also humans. however, we live in a real world where laws and morals do, in fact, apply. this isn’t a video game where those are simply discarded. what the wlf and the seraphites did to each other in the last of us 2 could be any other day for them: but what israel is doing to palestine right now is a war crime, a genocide, and plainly vile.

THE LAST OF US SHOW, and zionism in the show’s cast

i don’t think i need to spend a lot of time here, because if you have made it this far, you are well aware of the real nature of the last of us and the last of us 2 already, so you must understand that the show is HBO’s take on the game’s story (which, need i remind you show-wise and game-wise, neil druckmann played a huge part in). i simply bring it up so that people are aware of the fact that the 2022 show is ALSO linked to the ongoing genocide, and the cast is a major part of that (however, if anyone would like me to delve deeper into the show, let me know, and i 100% will).

for the following season which is a sequel to the last, theorized to center around the happenings of the last of us 2, members who are set to play a few crucial characters in the game have been announced. this includes isabela merced, who will play dina woodward, ellie’s romantic partner for most of the game, alongside kaitlyn dever, who will play abby anderson.

many people freaked out when they realized kaitlyn dever will be playing abby, but not for the reason they should have been. if you are a last of us fan, you are well aware that abby’s muscles are a central aspect of her persona. yet, kaitlyn dever is on the skinnier side, and according to some, does not resemble abby.

but this is not the issue that is most crucial to discuss.

kaitlyn dever is a zionist, and so is isabela merced (i am under the impression that both of these claims are true, but i had trouble finding a source i deemed reliable enough to link here. if i do, however, i will). now, while i’m not here to riddle you with conspiracy theories, people believe this (zionism) is the reason kaitlyn dever in specific got the role of abby anderson (there is a separate actress, shannon berry, who more closely resembles abby, but made a post in solidarity with palestine. this is theorized to be the reason why she didn’t get the part, and why kaitlyn dever was announced shortly after this particular actress made said post). let us not also forget that ellie’s actor, bella ramsey, is also in support of israel, which can be seen here.

(edit: i was informed since making this that bella has a story on one of their social medias, showing their alleged support of palestine and calling for a ceasefire. i’m going to link this post where i spoke on it, so you aware of what i think on that front).

all of the previously provided information brings me to my final part of this post: boycotting the games, and boycotting the show.

BOYCOTTING THE GAME AND SHOW

i could go on and on about why this is so crucial, but we would be here forever. however, i’m going to paste in what i wrote in this post surrounding the topic of boycotting, as i personally believe i got it down quite well in regards to the last of us (the show and game). it reads:

"DO NOT BUY TLOU, TLOU REMASTERED, TLOU2, TLOU2 REMASTERED, OR ANY GAME FROM ND! neil druckmann has donated money to the IDF in the past. & where do you think he’s getting his money from? yeah, you got that. watch gameplays, pirate these games, or buy them secondhand. several shops sell used games. & for those of you who went and purchased the game anyway, knowing about all of this? fuck you.

if you think your $10 doesn’t matter, then think about this: okay, one person spends $10 on the game. whatever. but when 100,000 people do it? that’s a million dollars, going into the hands of a zionist, who is using YOUR money to help kill innocent men, women, and children. put that in your pipe and smoke it.

it is not just the games you need to boycott. HBO’S show also needs to be. follow this link to learn of more movies and shows you need to boycott, & the reasons why, including the last of us. let’s also not forget that dina & abby’s actresses are in support of israel, and BELLA RAMSEY, ellie’s actress, has also shown support.

boycott. the fucking. show. there are a million websites where you can pirate it, so you are not giving any of your support to it. resist."

what it comes down to is this: purchasing the game or watching the show directly from nd or HBO is not a must. spreading awareness and speaking out about palestine is. you are more than capable of not purchasing the game, or watching playthroughs, or buying the game secondhand, etc. you are more than capable of pirating the hbo show so that money is not made off of your engagement. it's not that difficult. i have said it once, and i will say it again: boycotting is a form of resistance, and that is the least we can do for those suffering in gaza as you read this. resist. people openly admitting that they went and purchased the game anyway simply make me sick. i hope you know what an awful thing to brag about that is, and how despicable of a human it makes you.

CONCLUSION

there's so much to discuss when it comes down to this topic, and it's possible that in the future, i will make a second part to this. however, for now, i really hope this does suffice. i believe knowing of the game's israeli nature is a step. but knowing the specifics is a leap, one that i need everyone engaged in this fandom to take, hence why i wanted to make this post at all.

i'm not saying anyone needs to quit liking the games or the show or whatever. i'm not saying you need to delete or throw away a game you spent $60 on. i've seen so many people who are way too dense to understand that. what i'm saying is that it's crucial you are at least AWARE of the content you are consuming. aware of why it even came about at all.

in my opinion, you can't separate the game from the roots. but you can remain aware of the inner workings of this world you've grown to love. you can keep spreading awareness about it, and you can do right by the people in gaza by discussing the ongoing genocide, and using your voice as much as you can.

i'm so lucky to have been able to gain a following on here in such a short amount of time, even if that following has gone up and down because i've chosen to post more about palestine as opposed to my previous content (granted, that fact won't deter me at all). i will keep using said following to keep speaking out for the people in gaza, and i encourage you to do the same. keep reblogging. keep speaking up. keep using your voices. the people in gaza need us. be there for them.

FROM THE RIVER TO THE SEA, PALESTINE WILL BE FREE 🇵🇸🍉.

LINKS AND RESOURCES:

neil druckmann | the official the last of us podcast | the not so hidden israeli politics of the last of us 2, by emanuel maiberg (i highly recommend you read the full post. it discusses several crucial details i didn't discuss in this post) | galid shalit prisoner exchange | Neil Druckmann Speaking on the Washington Post | 2000 killing of two israeli soldiers (TW: LYNCHING) | 'The Last of Us Part II' Is a Grim and Bloody Spectacle, but a Poor Sequel | Veiling Colonial Violence: The Last of Us Part II, Israel and the Erasure of Power (full disclosure, i did not read the full post. i merely needed the quote in the very beginning of it) | zionism in tlou2 | isabela merced | kaitlyn dever | bella ramsey's support of israel

PALESTINE LINKS

—

986 notes · View notes

musicforastylesrestaurant · 5 months

Text

Do You Still Love Me?

masterlist || ask me anything <3

my blurb masterlist is here!

in which, harrys been acting shifty lately, when your looking for a shirt in his wardrobe, he gets hostile, when you say your going to go and shower, he gets hostile and for some reason doubts start to creep into your mind about what he’s been doing, so when you confront him about it, he tells you of his secret all along.

word count - 3.1k

23rd December, 2023.

The December air in Holmes Chapel holds a crisp chill, and as you sit in the cozy living room of Harry's family home in Manchester, the warmth envelops you. The room is adorned with festive cheer – a beautifully decorated Christmas tree takes center stage, casting a soft glow of twinkling lights.

The two of you had decided to spend Christmas at his family’s like you do every year, you’ve blended into a member of there family, as if you were always there. Anne considered you as another daughter, and sometimes on accident you sometimes referred to Gemma as your sister, so spending Christmas with them was undoubtedly a no brainer.

You were going to be staying for a total of three weeks, arriving two weeks before the big day and then going home January 1st.

You find comfort on the sofa, admiring the personalized stockings that hang from the mantelpiece, proudly displaying everyone’s initials. One for Harry, one for you, one for Gemma, one for Anne as well as one that is put up every year, an R, for everyone’s angel Robin. The stockings serve as a poignant reminder of the shared holiday traditions and the presence of loved ones, including a thoughtful tribute to his late stepfather.

As you await Harry's return from the grocery shop with his mother and sister, you revel in the tranquility of the moment. The crackling fireplace adds a soothing soundtrack to the scene, enhancing the coziness of the room. You can't help but reflect on the significance of spending Christmas in this familiar space, filled with memories of the past four years.

However, amidst the festive atmosphere, a subtle unease lingers. Lately, you've observed a shift in Harry's demeanor. His actions and words have become increasingly shifty, leaving you with a sense of uncertainty.

He dances around conversations, offering vague responses that only intensify your curiosity. It's a stark contrast to the openness and connection you've shared over the years, causing a quiet concern to settle within you.

You gaze at the stockings once more, the embroidered initials a testament to the bonds that tie your lives together. Yet, as you sit in the glow of the Christmas lights, a question lingers in the air – a question you can't quite bring yourself to voice. The flickering flames cast shadows on the wall, mirroring the uncertainty that clouds your thoughts, which happen to consist of the three moments that you’ve caught him acting weird.

15th December, 2023.

The date was December 15th, and the evening held a quiet tension as you sat on the sofa in Harry's family home, the soft glow of lamplight illuminating the room.

Anne, occupied herself with knitting a jumper, a rhythmic pattern of needles clacking together in the stillness. The warmth of the room, usually comforting, now seemed to underscore an unspoken discomfort.

Around eight at night, the front door creaked open, and Harry entered, an unusual weariness etched across his features.

He had gone out around two, and it was now evening, he just explained to you that a few friends from school wanted to meet up before Christmas, but there was a hint of doubt that remained in your brain.

You couldn't help but inquire about his whereabouts, a hint of concern in your voice.

"Where've you been, Harry?" you asked, eyes searching his face for answers. He shrugged nonchalantly, a vague response that only deepened the unease settling in the room.

Attempting to break through the tension, you pressed further, a furrow forming on your brow. "What's wrong?"

The question hung in the air, met with a dismissive reply.

"Just tired, m’love. Think I might hit the hay early tonight," he mumbled, avoiding eye contact. The words lingered, laden with unspoken weight, leaving you with a sense of disquiet.

As Harry made his way toward the stairs, you couldn't let the matter rest. Concern etched across your face, you followed him, determined to understand the source of his unease. His hand halted you mid-step, a silent plea for space. Unbeknownst to you that it pained him, because he was doing it for the right reason.

"I'd like t’be alone for a little bit," he uttered, the distance in his eyes leaving you feeling shut out.

Left standing at the foot of the staircase, a chasm seemed to widen between you and Harry. The uncertainty echoed in the air, and as he ascended the stairs, the door to understanding remained firmly closed. The normally familiar and comforting surroundings felt alien, the clinking of Anne's knitting needles a somber soundtrack to the unspoken rift.

That night, as you lay in bed, questions lingered in the darkness. The echoes of Harry's vague responses resonated, and a sense of foreboding cast a shadow over what was once a haven of warmth and connection.

19th December, 2023.

The chill of December hangs in the air as you step through the front door, returning from the farmers market with Gemma. The aroma of fresh produce lingers on your clothes, and a shiver runs down your spine as the warmth of the cozy living room beckons.

The house is quiet, save for the faint sounds emanating from the kitchen, where Harry is preparing a cup of coffee for himself.

You navigate the familiar space, following the scent of brewing coffee that wafts through the air. The kitchen is dimly lit, and there he is, Harry, standing by the counter, lost in the quiet ritual of making coffee. His silhouette is a comforting sight, a presence that adds to the warmth of the home.

You make your way up the steps, wanting to be comfy when you greet your lover boy.

The December cold clings to your skin, urging you to shed the layers of the outside world. A yearning for warmth and comfort consumes you, and the thought of slipping into one of Harry's oversized shirts becomes a tempting refuge. The familiarity of his presence in the adjacent room promises solace in the face of the winter chill.

As you move toward the bedroom, the creaking floorboards beneath your feet seem to echo in the quietude of the house.

Gemma strolled into the kitchen, the door swinging gently behind her. She found her brother,

Harry, leaning against the counter, sipping on a cup of coffee. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee beans hung in the air as he greeted her with a cheerful " ‘Ey, how was the market?"

Gemma looked up, offering a warm smile. "It was good, got some nice stuff.

Harry hummed before tilting his head to the side. “Where’s (Y/N)?”

Gemma mirrored his smile, her eyes lighting up. "She went upstairs to get changed, though."

Harry nodded, his attention momentarily diverted as he took another sip of his coffee. However, a realisation dawned on him, and he furrowed his brow. "Wait, she's upstairs?"

Gemma, unaware of the subtle shift in Harry's demeanor, nodded. "Yeah, she mentioned wanting to warm up and change. Why?"

Harry's gaze darted toward the staircase, a sudden sense of urgency gripping him.

"No reason, just wanted t’check on ‘er. Be right back," he said, placing his coffee mug on the counter.

With a quick stride, he headed toward the stairs, a mild curiosity turning into a subtle concern. As he ascended, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was amiss. When he reached the top of the staircase, he spotted you about to enter the bedroom, ready to change.

"Hold on a sec," he called out, hastily covering the distance to stand before you, his expression a mix of surprise and tension. "Y’not allowed in there."

Because in his head, if you wanted to get changed, you’d go to his section of the wardrobe because he knows that you’d want one of his shirts, and then you’d find the surprise and he wasn’t planning on ruining that any time soon.

You paused, mid-step, your brow furrowing. "What do you mean, not allowed? H, I'm just getting changed."

His features tightened with an unexpected intensity. "I said, y’not allowed in there," he repeated, the words hanging heavily in the air.

Confusion and concern painted your expression as you took a step back. "Harry, what's going on? Why can't I go into our bedroom?"

His gaze remained fixed, a wall building between you two. "Just... not right now. I need Don't go in there."

You sighed, a heavy breath escaping you, and nodded in resignation. "Fine, whatever. Just get me some clothes, please."

Harry's shoulders tensed, and he hesitated before nodding. "Ye’okay. I'll get y’some clothes."

22nd December, 2023.

You can't help but replay the scenes in your mind—the December evenings, the vague responses, the moments when he seemed to withdraw. Each memory adds a layer of doubt, and as you connect the dots, a stray tear rolls down your face. The fear of him cheating on you lingers, casting a shadow over the warmth that once permeated your shared space.

The absence of Harry, his mother, and sister intensifies the solitude, and the room feels emptier than ever. The Christmas tree, adorned with memories, offers little solace in the face of the growing suspicion. You contemplate the significance of the three instances, questioning the foundation of trust that once defined your relationship.

In the quiet of the room, the tear on your cheek becomes a silent witness to the emotional turmoil within. The fear of betrayal, the uncertainty, and the unanswered questions create a palpable tension, leaving you to grapple with the haunting possibility that the person you love may be slipping away.

As the front door creaks open, signaling their return from the grocery shopping trip, Harry, his mother, and sister step into the living room. The warmth of familial greetings fills the air, and they collectively acknowledge your presence with smiles and hellos. The shared laughter and banter among them, however, are met with a strained silence on your part.

As Harry approaches, intending to seal the reunion with a customary kiss, you rise from the sofa. The heaviness in the room seems to amplify as you avoid his attempt at affection. You make a deliberate choice to distance yourself, turning away from the warmth that once brought solace and comfort.

With measured steps, you ascend the staircase, each footfall echoing a growing emotional distance. The decision to retreat upstairs becomes a silent declaration of your need for space, a momentary escape from the complexities that have woven themselves into your relationship. The unanswered questions and the lingering fear make it challenging to engage in the familial camaraderie that unfolds below.

As you walk away and ascend the stairs, the atmosphere in the living room subtly shifts. Anne, Harry's mother, notices the change in dynamics and glances at her son, concerned etching her features.

"Everything alright, love?" she asks, a mother's intuition sensing the unspoken tension.

Harry, removing his jacket and shoes, offers a dismissive smile. "Ye’, just gonna check on (Y/N) . Be right back."

His attempt to brush off the situation adds a layer of ambiguity to the air, leaving Anne with a lingering worry that she can't quite shake.

Upstairs, Harry follows in your footsteps, the silence between you palpable. As he enters the room, he finds you standing near the window, gazing out into the night.

"Ey’," he begins tentatively, his voice carrying a hint of uncertainty. "S’going on? Are y’okay?"

Tearfully, you turn around to face him, emotions laid bare in your eyes. The air is thick with a mixture of sorrow and uncertainty as you pose a question that lingers in the silent space,

"Do you still love me?"

The vulnerability in your voice cuts through the room, leaving an atmosphere heavy with the anticipation of his response. Harry, caught off guard by the rawness of the question, searches your eyes for understanding.

Harry, caught off guard, furrows his brow defensively. "F’course, I do. Why would y’even think otherwise?"

His tone carries a mixture of hurt and frustration, an instinctive response to the implication that the love between you might be in question.

The room becomes charged with an anguished tension as you gather the courage to voice the unspoken concerns that have festered. "It's just... you've been acting so differently lately. There are these moments, these instances when you seem so distant. I can't help but feel like there's something you're not telling me."

Harry's defensive stance persists as he denies any wrongdoing.

"M’don't know what y’talking about. S’nothing going on," he insists, avoiding eye contact. The weight of his denial adds another layer to the unease in the room, leaving you to grapple with the growing chasm between you two.

The frustration builds, and you press further, "Harry, you can't just brush this off. It feels like you're hiding something, and I deserve to know what's going on."

The plea in your voice is met with a guarded expression from Harry, his defensive walls standing tall.

The room seems to tighten with each passing moment, the emotional stakes escalating.

"M’not hiding anything," Harry asserts, his voice tinged with exasperation. "Y’reading into things, making a big deal out f’nothing."

As the back-and-forth continues, a sense of despair settles in.

"Harry, I need honesty. We can't move forward if you keep shutting me out," you implore, the depth of your emotions exposed. Yet, his walls remain intact, and the elusive nature of the truth becomes a palpable barrier.

The echoes of their laughter from downstairs seem like distant memories now, drowned out by the intensity of the conversation unfolding.

"Just tell me, Harry. Tell me what's going on,the time you stopped me coming upstairs with you, the time you stopped me coming into the bedroom and had a go at me for wanting to go on your phone " you plead, your voice cracking under the weight of the unresolved tension.

The emotional exchange reaches a breaking point, leaving you on the floor, sobbing, desperate for answers. The weight of the uncertainty, the unspoken tensions, and the fear of losing the connection you once cherished overwhelm you. The room becomes a backdrop for your vulnerability, the walls echoing with the sound of your heartache.

Amidst your tears, you hear Harry sigh, and the rustle of a box catches your attention. He crouches down beside you, the heaviness in the air momentarily shifting.

"Look at m’please," he implores gently, his voice carrying a tone of sincerity that cuts through the emotional fog.

Hesitant, you raise your tear-stained eyes to meet his. His gaze holds a mixture of regret and determination, and he asks you to stand up. Every fiber of your being is hesitant, a cocktail of emotions bubbling beneath the surface. Reluctantly, you rise, uncertainty written all over your face.

As you stand, Harry, now on one knee, pulls out a small box. The room seems to hold its breath as he meets your gaze.

"V’been acting shifty because v’been planning this," he confesses, his voice soft yet earnest. "I wanted it t’be a surprise, but the timing... it just got all messed up."

"From the moment we met, m’life gained a sparkle that I never knew I needed. V’been m’confidante, m’partner in laughter, and the steady warmth that completes every corner of m’world. These past four years ‘ave been a journey f’growth, laughter, and endless love. Y’seen me at m’best and m’worst, yet y’loved m’unwaveringly."

He lets out a soft sigh. “Will y’make m’the happiest person in the world and say yes?"

Overwhelmed by the heartfelt speech and the flood of emotions, you fall into Harry's waiting arms, the warmth of his embrace grounding you in the reality of the moment. His arms wrap securely around you, and you find solace in the familiar comfort of his presence. With tears of joy streaming down your face, you look into his eyes, a silent affirmation of the love that binds you.

In a tender exchange, you press a loving kiss to his lips, the connection deepening as the weight of the proposal lifts from the room.

"Yes," you whisper against his lips, the word echoing with the promise of a shared future.

"Yes, Harry, a thousand times yes," you repeat, each affirmation punctuating the joy that now fills the space between you.

The room seems to shimmer with the shared happiness, and Harry holds you closer, his own eyes reflecting the relief and joy of the moment.

"I love you," he murmurs, the words a gentle reassurance that lingers in the air.

Harry tenderly tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch a gentle reassurance.

"M’sorry f’being so sneaky and, well, a bit harsh," he admits, sincerity coloring his gaze. "I just wanted the proposal t’be a surprise, but I guess v’already messed that up."

A light laugh escapes him, the sound a blend of amusement and relief. "Guess I couldn't keep it under wraps as well as I thought."

You join in the laughter, finding the humor in the unexpected twists of the evening.

"Well, surprise or not, it's the most wonderful thing that could have happened. I can't wait to be Mrs. Styles," you express, your eyes reflecting the genuine excitement that courses through you.

Harry's eyes soften with affection as he hears those words, and he leans in to press a sweet kiss to your forehead.

"M’can't wait either, m’love," he whispers, his voice carrying the promise of a shared future.

The room becomes a haven of shared laughter, love, and the promise of forever. Harry, still on one knee, takes your hand and delicately kisses the engagement ring.

"S’ring represents the love we've shared and the life we're about t’build together," he says, his words a poignant acknowledgment of the significance of the moment.

The room, once filled with questions and uncertainty, is now brimming with the certainty of love and the anticipation of a future together as Mr. and Mrs. Styles.

738 notes · View notes

cybrsan · 4 months

Text

Miracle Of The Season — J.JK

STORY SUMMARY: Cast out of Heaven after a painful betrayal, you find yourself having to navigate the intricacies of human life without any guidance from the Creator or the family you have always known. Things only get worse as the holiday season reaches its peak, with reminders of the life you left behind everywhere you look. When a familiar face pops up, you aren’t sure whether to consider it a blessing or a curse.

PAIRING: Angel Jungkook x Fallen Angel F!Reader

RATING/GENRE: M ; angst, fluff, smut ; second chance romance, angel AU, soulmate AU

WORD COUNT: 17.2k

WARNINGS: Heavy themes of religious trauma, an initially negative view of Christianity transforming into a more neutral/respectful view of individual faiths, initial dismissal of other religions, difficult self-growth journey, homelessness, very brief mentions of murder and rape

OTHER/NSFW WARNINGS: Sharing one-bed trope (kinda), mistletoe trope (teehee), first time, fingering, cunnilingus, hand job, unprotected sex

A/N: This is a lot. The story definitely got away from me, but I think that's because there was so much I wanted to say. I definitely could have made this longer, and if I had time/wasn't such a slow writer, I probably would have. It's a heavy topic, but it's one that is near and dear to my heart and one that I think a lot of people can relate to. If you do, I hope this story feels a bit healing.

A/N 2: This is based on the vibes of his song "Standing Next To You" and the m/v for it.

LINKS: Part of the Jingle All The Way! collab with my talented, wonderful friends. Cross-posted on AO3 and (eventually) Wattpad. Banner made by the lovely @kithtaehyung.

"—let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!"

You take a deep, calming breath as you pass the carolers. Their cheerful voices grate on your nerves, but you keep your head down and continue walking. Lashing out at them won't do any good, even if it might give you a moment of satisfaction. It's not like they're the source of your irritation anyway; the crowded streets are abuzz with the unrelenting chaos of the Christmas season, and you have been on edge all morning.

Turning a corner, you enter a street closer to the shelter you have been calling home for the past year and a half. Immediately, some of your tension dissipates, and you feel like you can breathe a bit easier. There are fewer lights here and less noise, but a few decorations still attract your attention, like a moth to a flame. A nativity scene is proudly displayed in someone's window, and you stop dead in your tracks.

"Freedom of religion, my ass," you mutter bitterly as you tear your gaze away. Why does everyone and their mother seem to celebrate this stupid holiday?

You know that for many, Christmas isn’t necessarily a holy season. Some humans just use the holiday as an excuse to wear obnoxious sweaters, play the same song on repeat, and spoil one another with gifts. Yet reminders of the celestial realm, of the life you have been cast out from, are everywhere. The nativity, for one. Then there are the carolers singing their songs, and the cartoonish cherub decals that can be found on shop windows, holding banners that proclaim, “Buy one, get one 20% off!” Even the name of the holiday is marked by one of His monikers. Christmas.

It makes you sick.

The weather doesn't help, either. Drawing your coat more tightly around yourself, you try to ignore the relentless chill that settles deep in your bones. You’re definitely not dressed warmly enough, ill-prepared considering the sensation of being cold is something you’re still getting used to. It is yet another item you have added to your ever-growing list of "whys.” The question of why God created snow joins the ranks of "why did He make spiders?" and "why is He the most selfish being in existence?"

You sniff. Perhaps you let your emotions get the best of you at times.

Emotions. Another thing that’s somewhat new. As an angel, you didn’t really have those. The only thing you ever thought about was following orders and how better you could praise His name. Ugh. It’s hard to believe now that you were ever so single-minded. Though, towards the end, you suppose that wasn’t the case. It all went awry when you started this “list” of yours—when you started questioning things.

The moment that doubt had first crept into your mind seems like a lifetime ago. Reaching the status of archangel was something you had been working toward for millennia. It was a position that allowed you to work more closely with humanity; you were able to actually guide their paths and alter their destiny.

At first, it was everything you had ever wanted. The miracles that occurred because of your intervention made you feel like you were doing something worthwhile. But you quickly learned that not all of your missions would be quite as fulfilling.

You will never forget the first time you were put in charge of administering a holy test. The man had done nothing wrong, yet your higher-ups still insisted that he needed to be "tried by fire." The divine reasons were beyond comprehension, or so you were told. But watching the man suffer as everything he loved was taken from him, seeing the desperation and despair in his eyes… It felt wrong. That feeling stayed with you even as you watched the man's faith remain unbroken. Somehow, that made it worse.

And then there were those who committed sinful acts and escaped punishment. You saw murderers and rapists living their lives in peace while innocent souls suffered unjustly at their hands. The scales of justice seemed unfairly balanced, and you began to feel crushed by the weight of your guilt.

Thus, the degradation process began. For the longest time, you thought it was a myth, a scary story told to keep angels in line. If you doubt, if you disobey, you begin withering away into nothingness. You'll start to feel things, to lose your sense of purpose. It will be painful and overwhelming and, eventually, you'll cease to exist entirely. You were told that if it were to happen, you must report it to a superior at once. But you were terrified.

There was only one person you trusted enough to share the way you were feeling—your other half, your celestial counterpart. The one who knew you like no other did. Your Astrom, Jungkook.

There is an old celestial folk tale that documents the first creation of an Astrom pair. It is said God took one star and split it into two. Neither half could live without the other, nor would they want to. It is difficult to describe the way you felt for him, as angels are devoid of personal desires or emotions as humans experience them. It was simply as if being with him was as natural as breathing. He was the only being other than the Creator that you felt beholden to, that you admired.

When you first revealed your doubts to him, he simply listened, displaying a level of patience that you found comforting. He answered your questions about morality, about justice as best he could, trying to reassure you that everything happened for a reason. Yet no matter how persuasively he argued, your doubts wouldn't go away.

Eventually, you began to start contemplating letting yourself fall from grace. The thought was terrifying, but at the same time, there was a certain allure to it. To Fall meant to renounce your celestial responsibilities, and that included no longer having to inflict pain on innocent souls.

When you confessed this dangerous thought to him, Jungkook gave you a look that you couldn't decipher. All you remember is what he said next: "If you Fall, I shall Fall with you."

His words had been unexpected, and you didn’t know whether to take comfort in them or not. You didn’t want him to share your fate, to bear the burden of your guilt. Could you live with yourself if he Fell too? The answer was an obvious no. But the mere thought of being alone in your struggle was something you couldn’t stomach either. So, you attempted to keep your dissent to a minimum and perform your duties as required. But it wasn’t long before everything fell apart regardless.

Eventually, you were discovered and brought before the celestial court. You were accused of blasphemy since questioning Him was an unforgivable sin and sentenced to Fall, to be cast out from the life you have always known. Yet, the real blow came when you found out who had betrayed you.

Jungkook.

Your Astrom.

The one you had trusted implicitly, the other half of your celestial star, had betrayed you in the name of divine loyalty. The pain of the Fall, the feeling of your grace ripped from your body, the scorching burn of your wings as they turned to ash—none of this could compete with the raw, gut-wrenching anguish of his betrayal.

Even now, months later, remembering makes you feel as if you can't breathe, as if you might die. Every memory of him is like a punch to the gut, and the city, so full of noise and life, does nothing to drown out the agony. Some days, the pain is so vivid and unbearable that it feels as though you are Falling all over again.

A rough shove against your shoulder makes you stumble, and the man who ran into you barely grunts out an apology before continuing past. At least the disruption is a timely one, allowing you to pull yourself out of your thoughts before you spiral. There’s no point focusing on the past when there’s nothing you to do to change it, especially not when you have a myriad of new human concerns to deal with.

Your job hunt was, once again, unsuccessful. You keep telling yourself that it’s because it’s so close to the holidays and you’ll have a better chance once the new year comes. In reality, you’re sure it’s because you have no experience, no schooling, and no useful knowledge.

At least you’re familiar enough with the city now that zoning out didn’t prevent you from getting to your destination.

Lost Star Shelter.

The place you’ve been calling home. It’s certainly not perfect, but little on Earth ever is. You feel awful stepping past the crowd of people waiting outside its doors, knowing that they, like you, have nowhere else to go. You've been fortunate enough to secure your spot due to your volunteering efforts and the fact that the manager, Naomi, seems to have taken a liking to you. But not everyone is so lucky.

You step inside, greeted by the familiar smells of disinfectant and something cooking in the kitchen. The place is buzzing with activity as usual—mothers trying to soothe crying children, elderly folks chatting away in groups, and a few lone souls quietly scrawling job applications.

"Long day?" Naomi catches your gaze from behind the front desk, her warm smile a stark contrast to the weariness etched in the lines of her face.

"Isn't it always?" You head over and pick up the clipboard she slides toward you, scanning your list of tasks for the day. As expected, it's long hours of mindless labor, but you don't mind. Not only do you need to earn your place here, but volunteering gives you a sense of purpose similar to your previous heavenly duties. And you have the satisfaction of knowing you're actually helping, not harming.

"First on the list," Naomi points to an item at the top of your clipboard, "is the donations room. We just had a big drop-off and could use some extra hands sorting through it all. But grab some dinner before you start, okay?"

You nod, her straightforward nature getting a slight smile out of you. "Yes, ma'am."

You navigate your way towards the crowded dining area, where a line of people has formed, waiting for their turn to get served. The cooks, all volunteers like yourself, are bustling about, serving portions of the day's meal which looks to be a thick stew accompanied by fresh bread. The food is simple but hearty, more than enough to keep you working through the evening. You make a mental note to slip into the kitchen later and thank them for their hard work.

You find an empty seat at one of the long tables that occupy the space, making yourself at home amongst the people who are engrossing themselves in their meals or with idle chatter. You even join in on a conversation with some older women across the table, who are engaged in a spirited debate about soap operas. Your knowledge of pop culture is sparse at best, but they seem delighted to fill you in on the latest drama, their laughter infectious.

After your meal, you make your way towards the donations room. The sight of piled-up clothes, toys, blankets, and other items is both overwhelming and heartwarming. Naomi wasn't kidding when she said they'd received a large drop-off. It's a daunting task, but you roll up your sleeves and get to work. You start by sorting through the clutter, meticulously separating everything into various categories—men's clothes, women's clothes, children's clothes, etc., and items that need repairs or cleaning. Hours pass by unnoticed, the rhythm of work almost meditative.

Your thoughts inevitably wander back to Jungkook. A pang of longing shoots through you. He was the one who would always be by your side when you had to perform menial tasks like this in the celestial realm. You wonder what he would think of your new life. Does he look down on you from up high with pity or disdain, or does he simply not think of you at all? You aren't sure if you even want to know the answer.

As time wears on, the room gradually becomes less cluttered and more organized. You're just about to take a break when Naomi appears at the doorway, her aging features softened by the warm glow of the hallway light behind her. She takes in your progress with an approving nod.

"You've done well," she says, stepping into the room.

You can't help but feel a sense of pride at her words. "Thank you, Naomi."

She strolls around the room, her observant gaze sweeping over the sorted piles, her hands touching a few items here and there.

"It's amazing," she finally says, "how much kindness there is out there, even when it seems like everything is falling apart. No matter how rough things get, we can choose to be generous, choose to help others. That's what makes us human."

Her words resonate with you. You’ve seen the worst and best of humanity firsthand; the same species that wages wars also unite in times of crisis, offering support and showing kindness to total strangers. How much is influenced by higher powers and how much is purely human nature, you wouldn't presume to know. Your very existence has blurred the lines between supernatural influence and mortal will.

"True," you say, looking up at Naomi from where you're still seated on the floor surrounded by donations. "That’s a nice way to look at things."

Naomi's smile broadens at that, and she gives one last cursory glance around the room before saying, "Well, I'll let you get back to work. Don't stay up too late."

"Goodnight, Naomi," you call after her as she steps out into the hallway, half-waving at you as she goes.

A little over an hour later, you step back to admire your work. Each item has been categorized, ready to be cleaned and redistributed. You move on to your next set of responsibilities: cleaning up the common areas and helping close up for the night.

The smell of cleaning supplies clings to your skin as you make your way back to your sleeping quarters—a small, shared room filled with single beds. Careful not to disturb anyone, you move towards your assigned bed, its familiar creaks and groans echoing softly under your weight as you settle into it. Exhaustion pulls at your muscles, but you need to wash up and change before you sleep.

You grab your shower caddy, change of clothes, and quietly make your way to the women’s bathroom. The fluorescent white lights flicker to life as you enter, revealing a row of curtained shower cubicles. You choose one at the end and let the water heat up as you undress. The hot water cascades over your tired body, soothing your muscles and washing away the sweat and grime that has built up throughout the day.

Shower done and teeth brushed, you pull on fresh clothes and make your way back to your bed. As you settle back down under the covers, you notice something strange on your bedsheet. A crisp scorch mark is visible against the fabric, and when you observe it more closely, you're shocked to realize that the shape almost looks like… fingers? Your heart hammers in your chest.

"Impossible," you whisper to yourself.

The sight of these burns is not unfamiliar to you; in fact, you have been the cause of such marks before. It is a common occurrence when celestial beings interact with the mortal world—remnants of their powerful energy left behind. But as you stare at them now, a sense of unease creeps over you. Could it be Jungkook? The thought flickers through your mind, but you quickly brush it aside. Why would he make himself known in this way and then vanish without even seeing you? You can't allow yourself to hope.

Dismissing the thought, you force yourself to rationalize that it must have been an accident. Perhaps someone burned it while it was being ironed. It’s easy enough to convince yourself; after all, it’s only three and a half slender marks—it could be anything. But the unease remains as you lay down on the bed, your mind filled with questions. You eventually succumb to sleep from sheer exhaustion, your dreams filled with memories of Jungkook.

The next day passes in a blur—the usual routine of job applications, food preparation, and cleaning duties. The burn mark on your bedsheet remains a mystery. You track down the volunteer who did the laundry, and she swears she wouldn't be so careless as to burn someone’s belongings. Despite her assurances, it's the only explanation you are willing to believe. You return to your bed to find that the sheet has been replaced with a fresh one, the burn mark gone as if it never existed.

You spot an older man sitting on a bed in the corner; his mouth moves silently, and the rosary beads dangling from his fingers lead you to believe he’s praying. A small, faux Christmas tree, no larger than a water bottle, stands on a box next to him. The sight stirs something with you, an uncomfortable feeling once again settling in your gut. You don’t understand his faith. How can someone continue to pray to a God that has obviously forsaken him?

You wait until the man finishes and safely tucks the rosary beads into his shirt pocket, right above his heart, before you approach.

“Excuse me?”

He looks up at you with a smile, eyes crinkling around the edges. "What can I help you with, dear?"

"I noticed you praying," you begin tentatively. Despite your personal qualms with religion, you don’t want to seem as if you are disrespecting him or his beliefs. "I hope you don't mind my asking, but how do you keep your faith? Under these circumstances?"

He doesn't seem bothered at all by your blunt question. Instead, he chuckles softly and pats the bed beside him, inviting you to sit down. You hesitate a moment before complying.

"Faith isn't about having all the answers," he starts, his voice a mere whisper in the quiet room. "It isn't about being rewarded for good deeds or punished for bad ones. It's about hope. It's about believing that things will get better."

“Hope? Still? Despite… despite being here? I mean, aren’t you upset with God?” Your voice is barely above a whisper as well, a mixture of curiosity and frustration seeping into your words.

He remains silent for a while, his gaze wandering towards the small Christmas tree on the box beside him.

"No, I'm not upset with God," he finally replies. "Man is given free will, and it is man who chooses what to do with it. Crisis, poverty… God didn't create these. They're the consequences of human choices." His words are sincere, spoken with a calmness that only comes from years of contemplation. "God doesn't promise us that life will always be easy or free from hardships. But He does promise that He will be there in those times of trouble. You see, faith isn't about expecting God to fix our problems, but about having the strength to face them."

“I envy your strength,” you admit with a hint of admiration in your voice.

“Strength is born from struggle, dear. You’ll find your way soon enough.”

“I hope you’re right.”

The conversation lingers in your mind long after the man's words have faded into silence. You sit on your bunk, staring at the ceiling, pondering them. His unshakable faith is both alien and inspiring to you. Even when you were an archangel, before any doubts seeped into your mind, your faith was nothing like his. It was a duty, an obligation, a resolute certainty that was less about personal beliefs and more about the world you were born into.

His mention of hope sticks out to you the most. You look around the room again, taking note of the different symbols of faith scattered across the room—crosses, menorahs, and even a small prayer mat in one corner. Each person in this room believes in something larger than themselves, something that gives them hope. And you? You're not certain what you believe in anymore. But maybe, just maybe, some of your anger has been misplaced.

As the daylight fades, you find yourself wandering outside, the crisp evening air bringing a kind of comfort you couldn't find inside. You walk aimlessly, your feet following the now-familiar sidewalks. You end up in a park, and you make a seat for yourself on a deserted bench.

Looking up into the sky, now painted with hues of orange and pink, you let yourself miss Heaven for just a minute. To miss Jungkook. Even the Creator. You can never go back to worshipping Him, nor do you want to, but you can't deny the connection that once was. As much as you wish everything never happened, you are grateful for how much you've grown since.

Suddenly, you’re disoriented by a bright flash of light and a shrill, piercing sound that makes your entire body jolt. You shut your eyes and cover your ears, but it does nothing to dull the pain. It's as if the noise is coming from inside your mind. You half-crawl, half-fall off the bench, curling in on yourself, unable to think anything, do anything, until it finally comes to a stop.

The world pauses around you; the birds stop chirping, the wind stops blowing, and people are frozen where they walk. A familiar feeling washes over you, and your breath catches in your throat. You can’t bring yourself to open your eyes. Even in this form, even as a human, his presence calls to your very soul. You hadn’t realized how incomplete you felt, how empty you were, without him by your side. He’s your other half, and he always will be. The realization makes you want to cry. You had hoped after the Fall, after you became human, that would cease to be true. You can’t stand the fact that you’re still irrevocably tied to him, even after all that he’s done. As always, fate is cruel.

“Y/N.”

He speaks your name with a quiet reverence as if he can hardly believe you’re there in front of him. The familiar, honeyed tone of his voice reignites your longing for him with full force, but you still stubbornly keep your eyes closed. You can’t look at him. You aren’t strong enough.

“I cannot believe you are alive.”

What?

His statement shocks you enough that your eyes fly open of their own accord, and for the first time in months, you're met with the sight of Jungkook. You're not sure if you perceive him differently now that you are mortal, but he's even more captivating than you remember.

His dark hair curls softly atop his head and is tousled ever-so-perfectly. His skin is beautifully tanned, and the way his tall figure is silhouetted against the sun makes it seem like he's glowing. His wings are obsidian, gargantuan in size, seemingly consuming the entire park with their reach. He's magnificent, so beautiful it hurts.

But it is his eyes that have you frozen in your spot—those beautiful, brown doe eyes, filled with so much emotion that it takes your breath away. He's not supposed to be able to feel unless… unless he has begun the degradation process, as you had.

“Y/N,” he repeats, his voice trembling. "I thought you were dead."

“I don't understand,” you manage to choke out, trying to sound more composed than you feel. You pull yourself to your feet, grimacing at the pain radiating throughout your body. How much of it is physical and how much is emotional, you can't tell.

He takes a step closer to you, his hands outstretched as if to ensure that you're real, but you recoil instinctively. He flinches at your reaction but still grabs your arms, grip unrelenting even as you attempt to pull away from him.

“Protective markings have been burned onto your ribs.” Hurt flashes across his features. “Were you hiding from me?”

“What? No.” You manage to break free and back up a few steps, putting some distance between you. You feel exposed and vulnerable under his gaze, remembering how he always seemed to know what you were thinking even before you did. "I didn't even know I had them."

"I need you to explain everything," he demands.

“You need me to explain?" You scoff and cross your arms over your chest defensively. "What about you?”

“Me?” He tilts his head slightly, his confusion obvious.

“Yes, you!" You take a step closer, anger simmering just beneath the surface. "After all, you’re how I ended up in this situation, right?”

“What are you talking about?”

"You betrayed me!" you hiss. “I confided in you, and you told me you understood. That you were with me. And then you turned around and proclaimed me a blasphemer!”

He doesn’t respond right away, and it’s as if you can see the cogs turning in his head as he pieces things together. “Y/N… I would never.”

His admittance makes you pause. Angels aren’t supposed to lie, though you know not everyone abides by that law. However, Jungkook has always been one of the most dedicated to the commandments.

“That’s not what Namsu told me.”

“Namsu? The Throne?”

“Yes, the Throne. The one who exiled me on the orders of up high.”

His eyebrows furrow. “You… were exiled? You did not wither?”

"Wither?" you scoff. "That's a myth, Jungkook. A cover-up to hide the fact that when angels start to stand up for what they think is right, they get cast out. And it's thanks to you that I'm here now."

"I… no." The intensity behind the word takes you aback. "I just wanted to help you; I thought you were sick. I went to one of the Cherubim for guidance—I would have never turned you in for some kind of punishment."

His words hang in the air, making your heart pound in your chest. He was trying to help you? The thought sends a flurry of conflicting emotions through you.

"Help me?" You repeat his words, mocking him in your disbelief. "Your way of helping got me exiled! Cast down and made mortal."

"I did not—" He cuts himself off, his gaze dropping to the ground. "I never meant for any of this to happen."

"Yet it did!" you snap, crossing your arms tightly around yourself as if they could somehow shield you from the pain his presence brings. "And now I'm here, and nothing will ever be the same!"

"I am so sorry." His apology is whispered so softly that you almost don't catch it. But you do, and it hits you like a punch in the gut.

Your head feels as if it's about to implode. He didn't purposefully betray you—in fact, he was trying to save you. But even so, his actions have led to your downfall, and now you're stuck here on earth, far from the light of Heaven, vulnerable and mortal, while he remains immortal and untouchable. Perhaps that's the part that hurts the most. The fact that now you are separated not by betrayal but by the very nature of your beings.

Your voice cracks as tears fill your eyes. "If all this is true, then why wouldn’t you have looked for me?”

“I looked everywhere at first, but I could not sense you anymore.” If it was possible, you think he would be crying too. “Namsu is the one who told me what happened. He said that you… that your doubt consumed you, and you did not survive.”

The information hits you like a ton of bricks. Your knees almost give out for a second time, but Jungkook reaches out and grabs you by the elbows, steadying you.

"I… I had no idea." A bitter laugh escapes your lips as you look up at him. "You didn't know anything, and I presumed the worst of you."

His fingers tighten around your arms in a reassuring squeeze. "We can always start over, Y/N."

"Start over?" you echo, incredulous. "You make it sound so easy."

"And why would it not be? We were not the ones to blame for our separation. Come back with me."

"I'm human now. The only way I can come back is… is if I'm dead."

His grip loosens, his face paling at your words. "I did not mean to suggest… Of course, I do not want you to die," he hastily corrects himself, glancing down at the ground. His wings flutter uneasily behind him, betraying his discomfort. "There must be another way."

"If there was, would it even be safe? I mean, why would Namsu do this?" you ask, staring at him. You're not sure if you're asking him or simply musing aloud. Even so, the question hangs heavily in the silence between you.

Finally, after what seems like an eternity, Jungkook speaks again. His voice is barely above a whisper when he says, "I wish I had the answers you seek, but I don't. All I know is that I will do everything in my power to rectify this situation." He turns away from you, scanning the horizon as if searching for something. "I need to return and confront Namsu. He must account for his actions."

"No, it's too dangerous. What if he forces you to Fall, too? You can't risk it, Jungkook."

He looks back at you, his expression hardening. "I will not let him get away with this, Y/N," he says resolutely. "Deception is not a virtue of a Throne, especially not in such grave matters."

"And you won't let him, but you need to go about this carefully. Going to him directly won't work—he's too powerful."

Jungkook tilts his head, regarding you skeptically. "It almost sounds as if you are asking me to be deceitful."

"Not deceitful, just… stealthy?"

He doesn’t respond immediately, his brow furrowed as he mulls over your words. After a moment, he exhales slowly, pulling back from you to pace the grass in thought. "Stealthy," he repeats slowly, his voice distant. "That would require careful planning. Secret meetings. Misdirection."

"Yes," you agree, watching him closely. "All of that."

He stops suddenly, turning to look at you. "Very well. I will do whatever it takes to get to the bottom of this."

Your chest tightens, and you gnaw at your bottom lip. His resolve both comforts and worries you. You don't want him to risk himself for you, but part of you is happy that he is willing.

"However,” Jungkook breaks your train of thought. "It sounds like I may need to be a little bit more human to pull this off. After all, none of this comes easily to angels, but mortals lie all the time."

You raise an eyebrow. "And how are you going to achieve that?"

"You will have to teach me, of course." He says this as if doing so will be the easiest thing in the world. “The degradation process has already started for me, as I am sure you are aware. It should be easy.”

"You're serious?"

Jungkook had always been so straight-laced, the epitome of angelic perfection. The idea of him playing at being human is almost laughable.

"Completely," he responds, his intense gaze never wavering. "I am willing to do whatever it takes to bring Namsu to justice and try to fix this. Fix us. If that requires adopting some mortal habits, then so be it."

"Alright," you finally concede, shaking your head in amusement. "Time for a crash course in 'how to be a human' 101."

He smiles faintly at that, the corners of his mouth tipping upwards just so. It's a small thing, barely noticeable amidst the tension still hanging heavily in the air between you two, but it's enough. Enough to remind you that the way you felt about him in Heaven, despite not being able to feel, was some kind of love. You don't know where that leaves you now or what you're going to do about it, but procrastination is another human skill you have come to love. Maybe you'll teach him that eventually.

"Lesson one," you start, pointing a finger at him in mock sternness. "Humans don't always speak so formally or in such grandiose phrases. ‘I am going to bring Namsu to justice' sounds archaic or like something a two-bit superhero would say."

His lips quirk upward into a more genuine smile this time. "I see," he replies, his voice deliberately casual. "So how would a human say it?"

"Well, for starters, you could use slang," you suggest.

Jungkook’s brows furrow, an almost comical look of concentration on his face. “Slang,” he repeats, testing the word on his tongue.

“Yes, slang. Humans don’t always pronounce every single word, and they often come up with new, shorter words to replace certain phrases. You could say something like, 'Namsu’s gonna get what he deserves.'”

He nods, repeating your words slowly. “Namsu... is going to get what he deserves.”

You burst out laughing at his attempt. The prim, stoic angel fumbling his way through human speech? It is truly a sight to behold.

"Laughing at my expense?" He feigns hurt, but there's a playful twinkle in his eyes that gives him away. "I guess that's lesson two then: humans are full of mirth and mockery."

"You're catching on quickly," you reply, still giggling slightly. “And yes, we like to laugh.”

He observes you a moment longer before finally allowing a soft chuckle to escape his lips. It's a deep, rich sound, but it feels tentative like he's not quite sure if he's doing it right.

“Laughing…" he murmurs, puzzling over the concept. “Such a peculiar expression of joy. But I like it."

"As you should," you reply, a grin still playing across your face. "It's one of the best parts about being human."

Jungkook studies you for a moment, a smile tugging at his lips. "It suits you."

"Hm? What does?"

"Being human."

"I’m not sure whether to take that as a compliment or an insult.”

"There is a certain spontaneity in humans. A vibrancy that angels lack." Jungkook’s gaze intensifies, his voice lowering to almost a whisper as he steps closer. "It makes you shine more brightly. Like the sun."

He's so close to you now that you can make out the subtle flecks of gold in his eyes. Your heart pounds in your chest as his words wash over you, warming you from the inside out.

"That—" You clear your throat, trying to steady your shaking voice. "That sounds like a compliment."

"It is," he confirms, his gaze flickering down to your lips for a brief second before rising back to meet your eyes. "But it is also an observation. A fact."

You want to kiss him. The thought shocks you—you've never kissed someone before, let alone wanted to. It must be a human impulse. You can't help but imagine what it might feel like, the warmth of his lips against yours, his skin beneath your fingertips. You want to feel his hand on your cheek, his fingers tangling in your hair. But the danger of your respective positions impedes that thought, and you push it down. He's an angel. You're not. Him being your Astrom, the connection you had before your Fall, none of it matters now.

"Okay," you manage to squeak out, trying to ignore the electricity that seems to be sparking between your too-close bodies. "Human lesson number three: we're big on personal space."

"Oh?" Jungkook raises an eyebrow but doesn't step away. "Is this too close?"

You swallow hard. "A bit."

You swear you see a hint of mischievousness cross his features before he complies, stepping back just enough to leave a sliver of space between you. "Better?"

"Now you're just teasing me," you retort, though there's a soft smile playing on your lips.

"Is that frowned upon?"

"No," you admit. "In fact, it's quite human of you. Now, it’s time for a real challenge." He looks at you quizzically. "We have to convince Naomi to let you stay at the shelter."

"Ah," he nods, understanding dawning on him. "I see. Another part of being human—negotiation."

"Exactly."

"Then lead the way." With a snap of his fingers, time resumes for the two of you and his wings have disappeared, making him appear fully human, and you head back to Lost Star.

"Naomi, please," you beg, giving your boss the best puppy eyes you can muster. "He needs a place to stay."

Naomi crosses her arms over her chest and drags her gaze over Jungkook in a way that suggests she's scrutinizing every cell of his being, from the top of his head down to the tips of his toes. "There's no extra beds, hun. I'm sorry, there's nothing I can do."

"Then he can stay with me!"

"You and him, sharing that tiny little twin bed?" She scoffs. "I'd like to see you try."

"We'll make it work!"

"It's still against the rules. One body to one bed."

"I know it's not ideal, but just for a few days until we figure out something else," you urge her. "I wouldn't be asking you this if it wasn't important."

Jungkook steps forward, interjecting smoothly, "I will respect the rules, and if you feel my presence is harmful or disruptive in any way, I will leave immediately."

Naomi looks between you and Jungkook, and then she sighs, throwing her hands up in defeat.

"Fine, but only for a little while. And you can't sleep in the main room. Take my office—the couch is a pull-out."

"Thank you, thank you, thank you!" You pull her into a hug that she returns with a loving exasperation.

"If there's even a whiff of trouble, both of you are gone, understand?"

"Yes, ma'am! I wouldn't expect anything less."

You grab Jungkook’s hand, dragging him along behind you as you lead him through the shelter. You pass through some of the busier living areas, and it's as if everyone can’t help but stare at him. You can only assume that, despite his wings being hidden, he still emits some sort of otherworldly aura that draws people in. Plus, by human standards, you suppose he's quite attractive.

Jungkook seems unbothered by the attention, too focused on his surroundings and curiously taking in every detail.

"All these people live here?" he asks, incredulous. "This place is quite small."

"Shh! Lesson four: lower your voice when you're talking about other people. The last thing we need is for someone to overhear and think you're judging them."

"Apologies," Jungkook replies, his voice dropping to a whisper. "But my previous comment was not meant to be judgmental. I’m just… surprised. I thought humans usually lived in family units, but everyone here doesn't seem to be related."

I’m. Doesn’t. He’s already using contractions—you must either be a good teacher or he’s a quick learner.

"You're right," you agree, and as you glance around, your heart aches a little. "Not everyone is fortunate enough to have that. This place is for those who have lost their families or homes."

"Lost their homes? Like in a fire?"

"Sometimes. Or maybe they didn't have enough money to pay their taxes."

"I don't understand. Are there not enough homes for everyone? Why do you need to pay for such a basic need?"

You pause, the innocence of his question hitting you surprisingly hard. Of course he wouldn't understand the complexities of human society, of money and social class, of poverty and wealth disparity. You didn't either; at least, not until you Fell and were forced to figure it out.

"That is a complicated issue," you admit, running a hand through your hair. "And not all humans agree on how to solve it. Some people think everyone should have a home, regardless of whether or not they can pay for it. Others think that if you can't afford it, you don't deserve one."

He looks so confused that you would be tempted to laugh if the tone of the conversation wasn't so serious. "That doesn't seem fair. In heaven, everyone has a place."

"Yes, well, Earth isn't heaven." There's a bitterness to your words that you hadn't intended. "And why our Creator chooses to leave things like this is a mystery to me. I mean, why not use some of His power to help?"

"The ways of the Almighty are impossible for us to understand," Jungkook quietly replies. "And it's not for us to question."

You snort in response, crossing your arms over your chest. "Well, aren't you a dutiful little angel?"

Jungkook frowns, clearly not understanding your sarcasm. You sigh and shake your head.

"I'm sorry, Jungkook. It's just hard to wrap my head around sometimes. It's why my so-called degradation process started in the first place. Look at them—" You gesture to the people huddled together around the small television in the corner of the room, others sharing a meal or helping to care for the younger children. "They're good people. Why do they deserve to suffer?"

Silence lingers between you for a moment. When he responds, he doesn’t answer your question. “Their heavenly rewards shall be plentiful as long as they keep to their faith.”

“Does that make all of this okay?" You scoff. "Why are they being tested like this? In fact, why do they even need to believe at all to be given a home in the celestial realm? If a person is good-hearted, why isn’t that enough?”

Jungkook looks away from you. "I don't like these questions."

“You don’t like them? Or you don’t like how uncomfortable they make you feel?”

Before he can even bother replying, you let go of his hand and open the door to Naomi's office, hurrying inside, eager to get some space. It's small and cramped, filled with stacks of paper, an old wooden desk strewn with an old computer and various office supplies, and a well-worn couch wedged against the wall.

"It's not much," you say. "But it's home for now, I guess."

"Home," Jungkook repeats softly, eyes scanning the room. He zeroes in the billboard behind Naomi's desk, filled with photos of smiling people, letters from those that she has helped. A smile tugs at his lips. "It's nice."

"You say that now. Just wait until you're trying to sleep and a couch spring is digging into your back."

"I don't actually need to sleep," he reminds you.

You roll your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest. "Right, I forgot. At least we won't be fighting for the blanket."

"I can pretend to," Jungkook offers, a spark of amusement in his eyes. "The idea of laying next to you is not unwelcome."

You blush, taken aback. "W-what… you…" You take a deep breath. "No, that won't be necessary. And lesson five: don't flirt with people unless you mean it."

"What is 'flirt’?”

"Flirting," you explain, trying to keep your blush under control, "is when people say or do things that suggest they're attracted to each other."

"I see." He pauses for just a moment before asking, "And how do I know if I'm attracted to someone?"

You sigh exasperatedly. Who knew teaching an angel to be human could be so tiring?

"It's… well, it's kind of hard to explain. Especially because, as an angel, you don't really feel, at least not until the degradation process is nearing its end. But basically, it's like you have an inexplicable urge to be around this person a lot. You think about them often, their happiness makes you happy, and you want to be closer to them, maybe even touch them or hold them. Some people also might feel their heart beat faster, or a fluttering in their stomach."

As you speak, Jungkook’s eyes never leave yours. They gleam with curiosity and understanding, drinking in every word you say. He seems to be processing the concept, and then he suddenly smiles. "So, like how I feel about you."

Caught off-guard, you blink at him, speechless for a moment. And then the panic seeps in.

"No, Jungkook, that's not correct," you insist, your words tumbling out in haste and denial. "You can't… we can't… you're an angel. I'm—" Fallen, you want to say. Human, you need to say. But you don't.

"Why not?" he asks simply, his gaze steady.

"Because!" You scramble for an explanation, desperate to avoid the truth of your own feelings stirring within you. "Because angels aren't supposed to feel that way."

"But I am no longer a pure angel," Jungkook counters. "The degradation process has begun. We discussed this already."

"But that doesn't matter! The whole reason we are doing this is so you can learn the skills you need to figure out a way to stop Namsu from forcing anyone else to Fall. Once you do, you'll be able to stay in Heaven because withering isn't real." Before he can say anything else, you open the door. "I'm gonna grab my stuff from my bed. I'll… I'll be back in a second."

You slam the door behind you, leaving Jungkook alone in the room. It's a struggle to keep your composure as you head towards your bed. All you can think of is his words, the nonchalance with which he said them. You can feel your traitorous heart yearning for him, but you can't let it sway you. Whether it was an accident or not, his betrayal led to your Fall. Led to you being human. And he's an angel. No matter what you feel or what he thinks he feels, nothing can happen between you now.

As you gather your meager belongings, the man you spoke with earlier approaches you with a sympathetic expression. "You alright, dear? You didn't get evicted, did you? I'll give Naomi a piece of mind if that's the case."

"No, no," you quickly reassure him with a forced smile. "My… my friend needs a place to stay for awhile, and there's a one body to one bed policy. Naomi was kind enough to let us use the couch in her office for a few days until we figure something else out."

"Your friend, hm?" His eyes twinkle mischievously. "That fellow you walked in with? Can't say I blame you. He's quite a looker."

"It's not like that," you blush, hurriedly stuffing the rest of your belongings into your bag. "Anyway, don't worry. You'll still see me around."

The man grins and gives you a friendly pat on the shoulder. "I'm glad to hear it. This place would be much drearier without you."

You bid him goodbye with a wave and make your way back to Naomi's office, feeling like you're walking towards the edge of a cliff. As you open the door, you find Jungkook staring out the window. The streetlight spills in through the gap in the curtains, bathing him in a soft glow. He turns as you enter.

"Gathered your belongings?" he asks, his voice calm as if the previous conversation never happened. For a moment, you feel robbed—does he not understand the gravity of what he said? But you suppose it's better this way. Easier, at least.

"Yes," you respond, a bit more brusquely than intended, setting your bag down on the floor. He's still staring at you, and you flush under his gaze. "I'm just going to set up the couch. And stop staring at me so intently. Humans get nervous about stuff like that."

"Another lesson," he remarks. "Understood." Jungkook watches you for a moment longer, then turns back to the window without a word.

You get to work, unfolding the couch and covering it with your bedding. The silence between you is thick; you can feel the tension radiating off of Jungkook despite his apparent calm. Your heart pounds in your ears as you busy yourself with smoothing out some wrinkles in the sheets, a futile distraction.

With a deep breath, you break the silence. "Alright, I'm done."

Jungkook turns to look, and his eyes scan the makeshift bed you've prepared. "You've made it look inviting."

"Should be okay for a few nights," you reply curtly, avoiding his gaze. "I'm, uh, gonna go ready for bed. I know you don't sleep, but feel free to sit at her desk or something. Make yourself comfortable."

You exit the room and head down the hallway to the bathroom, leaving Jungkook alone with his thoughts. You can’t shake off his confession and your own rush to deny him. The truth of your feelings, or rather the depth of them, is something you aren't ready to face.

After getting ready for bed, you hesitantly return to Naomi's office. The door creaks upon opening, and Jungkook turns from where he's seated at Naomi's desk, looking up at you with his intense gaze.

"Goodnight," you say softly, trying not to let your voice betray how uneasy you feel.

Jungkook nods. "Goodnight," he replies, and his voice is gentle, concerned. You feel a pang of guilt at the distance you've created between the two of you but say nothing more, falling into a fitful sleep.

Sometime during the night, Jungkook figured out how to work Naomi's dinosaur of a computer and discovered the wonderful thing that is the internet. When you wake, he flocks to your side like an excited child, eager to share everything he has learned about humans, their emotions, and their behavior.

"Slow down, Jungkook," you chuckle, holding up a hand to halt his barrage of words. "I can't absorb all of that at once."

"Oh," he says, blinking in surprise. "I forget that human minds process information more slowly. Should I take this as another lesson?"

You shrug, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. "Sure, go for it."

Despite the tension last night and everything unsaid between the two of you, you find yourself falling into an easy rhythm with him. He's eager to learn and keen on understanding humanity—your humanity. Throughout the day, he continues his studies, glued to the computer screen as you complete your daily volunteering. He takes breaks every once in a while to come find you and ask questions.

"I've come across some terms that are perplexing," he says, leaning on the front desk as you catalog some information. "'Memes' and 'emojis' appear prominently in human interactions online, but I don’t really know what they are or how they’re used.”

You answer question after question until you realize you aren’t getting work done, so you have to come up with a plan B. Leading him back to Naomi’s office, you pull up Netflix on the computer. Jungkook watches the screen in fascination as you explain streaming and scroll through all the shows.

"Let's try Friends," you say, clicking on the thumbnail.

You leave him to watch as you finish up your tasks for the day, checking occasionally to see that he’s still engrossed in the show. Instead of constantly badgering you with questions, he writes them on a notepad you provided and waits until the end of the day to go over them with you. You answer each one as best you can, completely endeared by him.

It's during one of the show's more depressing moments that he asks you about lying and betrayal, echoing the heavy undertones from the other day. His question takes you by surprise, his gaze focused intensely on your face as he waits for an answer.

"Lying is a tough one," you say, trying to keep your voice steady. "Sometimes it's out of fear or selfishness. Sometimes people lie because they're trying to protect themselves."

"And betrayal?" Jungkook asks, his voice unnaturally calm.

You sigh, looking down at your hands. "Betrayal… it's when someone breaks your trust. It hurts, Jungkook. It hurts a lot."

He watches you for several long moments before finally speaking again. "I see," he says softly. "And that's what you thought I did to you?"

You swallow hard, feeling the knot in your chest tighten. "Jungkook," you start, but falter, not knowing how to put your feelings into words.

"I did not mean to betray you," Jungkook continues. "I realize that my actions may have led you to believe that I deceived you, but it was not my intention. I'm sorry."

"I know." You believe him completely, but the wound is still so fresh that you can’t bring yourself to fully trust him again. Not yet. "I know you didn't mean to, but an apology doesn't fix everything. Consider it another lesson—trust, once broken, isn't so easily mended."

Jungkook plays with the skin around his nails, an anxious habit he seems to be developing the more human-like he becomes. After a moment, he says, "I understand. I will try harder."

"Try harder doing what?"

"To understand you better. To understand all humans more, their emotions and their beliefs. Maybe understanding what trust really is will teach me how to earn it back and make up for my mistakes." He's so earnest, so genuine, it almost brings tears to your eyes. "I think I want this as much as I want Namsu to answer for his crimes, if not more. And maybe that makes little sense, but maybe… maybe that's quite human of me."

"And maybe that's progress," you say softly, looking at Jungkook with newfound hope.

Your new normal is spending your days with your time split between performing your volunteering duties and teaching Jungkook all about human life.

Christmas is only a week away now, and everyone around you seems to be buzzing with excitement. At this point, even the inside of the shelter has been decorated. The hallways are lined with lights and garlands, and the common areas even have a few trees set up with donated presents underneath. And, as much as you have dreaded the holiday, you can't deny that watching Jungkook experience it for the first time makes you hate it a little less.

Despite the initial stiffness that comes with being an angel unfamiliar with human life, he has quickly adapted to life at the shelter. He's kind and patient, and he’s always eager to help out where he can. The children, in particular, have taken a liking to him. He's become their favorite storyteller and always has the kids hanging onto his every word.

One afternoon, you find him sitting with them, singing a song in an ancient celestial language. Everyone will assume it’s some gibberish language he’s made up for one of his stories, but it reminds you of home. His voice is beautiful, melodic and soothing, with a honeyed quality to it that would make anyone stop and listen.

You stand in the doorway and watch, a smile tugging at your lips. He catches your eye and winks, the action so human and unexpected that it startles a laugh out of you. The children turn to see what's so funny, but you just shake your head, telling them to continue listening.

He comes to you when he finishes, smiling brightly. "Did you enjoy the song as well?"

"I did," you reply truthfully, your heart fluttering at his attention. The feelings you have been trying to resist are becoming increasingly persistent the more time you spend with him.

"That's good to hear.”

Suddenly, the kids clamor over to you both, giggling and pointing at something above you. You look up, and all the color drains from your face. Mistletoe. Who the hell put it here?

Jungkook looks between you and the mistletoe, obviously confused. “Why are you angry with that plant? It’s quite beautiful.”

“It’s a tradition, of sorts.” You say the word with disdain. “When a couple—not that we are one—walks under the mistletoe, they’re supposed to kiss.”

“Kiss?”

“We don’t have to, it’s stupid—”

“No, let’s do it. It's a part of the human experience, right? Let's consider it another lesson."

Heat rushes to your face, and you stutter incoherently, looking around the room for a way to escape. But the children are watching expectantly, their eyes wide and eager. You swallow hard, your heart pounding in your chest.

"Alright… close your eyes," you tell him.

He listens obediently, his eyes fluttering closed. You had never noticed just how long and pretty his eyelashes were until now. Bracing yourself, you take a deep breath and lean in, placing a soft kiss on his cheek. When you pull back, you're greeted with a perplexed expression as he opens his eyes.

"That was nice," he says after a brief pause. "But that’s really what a kiss is? In the show, they did it a bit more like—"

He leans in to demonstrate what he means, his lips brushing against yours. It's soft and a bit awkward at first, but he quickly gets the hang of it, pulling you closer. Against your better judgment, you let him, allowing yourself to get lost in the moment. His lips are softer than you would have expected. His fingers lightly squeeze your waist, sending a jolt of electricity through your body, and it's not until you hear some of the children giggling that you are reminded you have an audience.

You quickly pull away, breathless and flushed with embarrassment. Jungkook, however, is grinning from ear to ear. "That," he says. "That is how they did it."

"Again! Again!" one of the kids shouts, pulling at your arm.

Jungkook chuckles at his enthusiasm. "I think we should get back to our story," he says, ruffling the boy’s hair lovingly. Then, turning back to you, he murmurs, "Thank you. For the lesson."

You can barely speak coherently, but you manage to squeak out a small “you’re welcome” before rushing out of the room. How on Earth are you supposed to get your tasks done now? It's impossible to focus, your mind running in circles over his touch, the feel of his lips against yours.

When you return to Naomi’s office later that night, you’re relieved to see that Jungkook isn't there yet. You take a moment to sit on the edge of the bed and process your thoughts, your fingers tracing absentmindedly over your lips. A shiver passes through your body, a heat blooming in the pit of your stomach. You drop your hand, clenching it into a fist to stop the trembling.

"Nervous?" a voice asks, startling you out of your thoughts. Jungkook is standing in the doorway, watching you with an unreadable expression.

"I… no," you say.

"Don't lie," he chides gently, sitting next to you on the bed. “I can tell when you do that now, you know.” He keeps to a respectful distance, but he turns his gaze to you. “I think I'm starting to really understand this human thing. Emotions and all that.”

"Is that so?"

"Yes. They can be painful sometimes but also quite beautiful."

You watch as he turns his gaze back towards the room, and silence stretches between you again. However, it’s different now from how it used to be; it's not awkward or unsettling, but comfortable. His vulnerability makes you want to be honest, to admit to the way you feel.

Just as you’re about to say something, he continues, "But now it's time for me to learn about something else. I need to start strategizing for the coming confrontation."

"Right, Namsu," you say. You almost forgot about Jungkook’s original intentions. You clap your hands and get up, heading to the computer. "Alright. Let's research."

With Jungkook sufficiently prepared, the time soon comes for him to return to the celestial realm. However, he insists on leaving at night, so he can spend the day with you. He referred to it as "a date," and you practically tripped over your own feet, much to his enjoyment. He has certainly developed a penchant for teasing you.

You decide to take him into the heart of the city, so he can observe people in their natural element. There seem to be even more decorations than you remember, and people are bustling about to finish their last-minute shopping. However, you find yourself handling the chaos a lot better with Jungkook by your side.

He hasn't let go of your hand since you stepped out of the shelter, his thumb lightly rubbing circles over your knuckles. Every once in a while, he squeezes it lightly, a silent assurance that he’s there. Whether he notices your nerves and is doing it to comfort you or is doing it because he wants to, you're grateful for it.

His doe eyes dart this way and that, eagerly drinking in the scenery. You try to explain what everything is—the office buildings, luxury apartments, and tiny shops buried in alleyways—but he's more interested in the people. It isn't until you stop in front of a Hindu temple that his attention is finally captured by a building. He cocks his head to the side, eyes wide in wonder as he takes in the sight of it. The temple is a beautiful structure, with elaborate carvings and statues lining its walls.

"What is this place?" he asks, his voice full of awe.

"It's a place of worship for those that practice Hinduism," you explain.

His eyes sparkle with interest as he takes a step closer to the building. "Can we go inside?"

You glance at him, surprised by his request. But something in his earnest gaze breaks down your hesitation. "Sure," you say softly, leading him inside.

The inside of the temple is even more impressive than the outside. There are vibrant murals depicting different gods and an intoxicating scent of incense that fills the air. You gesture to the bell at the entrance. “Would you like to ring it?”

“What’s it for?” he asks, picking it up gently.

“It’s supposed to be a way to announce your arrival to the deities.”

Jungkook shakes it, the twinkling of the bell echoing in the large room. “Pretty,” he remarks as he places it back where it belongs.

He then follows your lead as you move towards the main shrine, your heart pounding in your chest as you realize what you're about to do. An angel of the Christian God at the altar of a different one? You're almost afraid you'll be struck down where you stand.

He takes in the offerings with a small smile. "It's all quite beautiful," he remarks. "It's a shame that their gods aren't real."

You know Jungkook means no harm and that it is what he has been conditioned to think for thousands of years, but you still bristle at his easy dismissal of their beliefs. “We’re real. Our God is real. Who’s to say the gods of their religion are not?”

"There is one God. That is what we were taught."

"Yes, it is. But we were also led to believe the withering was real. Just because it is said does not mean that it is true.”

Jungkook is silent for a moment, eyes still fixed on the offerings. Then he turns to you. "You truly believe that?"

"I don't know," you confess, feeling a little exposed. “I don't know what I believe anymore. I'm just… questioning. It's complicated."

"You have given me a lot to think about," he admits, his tone quiet. “For all I know, you might be right. I shouldn't have dismissed their beliefs so easily. I apologize.”

You stare at him in surprise; you hadn't expected him to back down so easily. "It's okay," you reassure him. "I'd say being open-minded is another lesson, but unfortunately, not all humans are."

You continue to walk around the city, introducing Jungkook to as many things as possible. Everything he does fills you with affection, whether it be him trying hot dogs from a street vendor and declaring them divine, or joining some kids who were playing soccer in a park. At one point, he kicks the ball so hard that it lands in a tree branch, and you can’t help but laugh as he clumsily climbs up to retrieve it.

When night falls, you end up at the pier, watching the shimmering water beneath the stars. Jungkook is oddly quiet, looking out at the horizon with a distant expression. The silence isn't uncomfortable, but it does leave you feeling a little uneasy. You reach for his hand, and he startles slightly before turning to look at you.

"Penny for your thoughts?" you ask.

He smiles slightly. “I’m guessing that’s some sort of human expression, and you’re not actually going to give me a penny.”

“You would be correct.”

“I’m thinking about a lot of things.” He exhales as if letting out a breath he has been holding. "You, for one. But I'm always thinking of you so that much isn't a surprise." You blush and swat at his arm. "But I’m also thinking about my beliefs."

"What about them?"

He takes a moment to get his thoughts in order, grabbing your hand more tightly as if you're his anchor in a stormy sea. He answers your question with another. "What if everything we have been taught is wrong? I mean, we have never spoken with the Almighty directly. Angels, apostles, they can all take His words and twist them for their own purposes. We've seen it in action with Namsu, and with how the Bible has been changed to promote hatred."

You're taken aback by his frankness, the depth of his vulnerability. You have no answers for him, but you can relate to him and offer what little understanding you have come to have.

"So maybe it is wrong, and things have gotten taken out of context or changed as the years have gone on. Like you said, we cannot talk to Him, so we can’t ask for the truth. Or, maybe it is all part of a bigger plan, and unwavering faith is the answer.” You pause, steeling your resolve, before continuing, “But it isn’t for me. I can’t live that way. But how you decide to live is your choice. Who you are is your choice. I cannot decide that for you, and neither can He.”

He frowns. "I don't know how to make that choice. Who even am I? What am I without my purpose? Without Him?"

"Perhaps we're not defined by a single purpose we've been given," you answer quietly. "Maybe we're more than that."

"More than our purpose?"

"Yeah," you say, a soft smile tugging at your lips. "Maybe we don't need a purpose. Maybe it's okay to just exist."

Jungkook’s gaze turns thoughtful, considering your words as if they are the most precious thing in the world. "Just exist," he repeats, his voice barely above a whisper. After a moment, he stands up, looking at you with a newfound fire blazing in his eyes. "I need to return. I will talk to some of my confidants, gather information, and then confront Namsu."

You knew it was coming, but your stomach still drops. You're scared for him, for what will happen when he leaves. But you see the determination in his eyes, the steel in his gaze. You know better than to try and stop him now.

"You'll be careful, right?" you ask, your voice shaking slightly.

"I will."

He pulls you up and envelops you in his arms. His embrace is comforting, protective, and for a brief moment, it makes you forget about all your worries.

"Promise me," you whisper into his chest.

"I promise," he says, his hands rubbing soothing circles on your back. He pulls away after a moment, but not before brushing his lips against your temple. "I will return. For you."

His words weigh heavy in the air as he pulls away fully, breaking the physical contact between you two. His gaze lingers on you for another moment before he turns away and disappears into the night. You're left standing on the pier alone, the cold wind making you shiver. Wrapping your arms around yourself, you head back to Lost Star, where you have nothing to do but wait.

It’s Christmas Eve before you know it. The holiday you have been dreading feels even worse with Jungkook’s absence, and frankly, you don’t know how to handle it. You plaster a smile on your face for the sake of the children, playing along with their excitement over what presents they are going to get and stories of Santa Claus. But every time someone brings Jungkook up, wondering where he is, you feel tempted to run to Naomi’s office and hide.

Speaking of Naomi, she has been keeping a close watch over you, mothering you as per usual. You know she can tell that something has happened. Once you step away from the festivities to do some of your work, she pulls you aside.

“Honey, what’s going on? These days you seem so out of it; you’re just flitting around room to room, acting like a ghost.” When you don’t answer, she frowns. “It’s because of that boy, isn’t it?”

"He… he needed to go home. He had some things he needed to figure out," you manage to say. It's not a lie, just an oversimplification of the truth.

She wraps an arm around you. "He's going to come back. I saw the way he looked at you, and you at him. And if he doesn't, well, screw him."

"Naomi!"

"Sorry, sorry. He was sweet and all, but you're my girl. I'll always have your back." Naomi declares, patting you on the back.

You accept her comfort, fighting back your tears. If only she knew your fear didn’t revolve around him coming back—of course, part of you is scared that something will happen to him, but the rational part of your brain, the part that knows his strength, has no doubts he'll be alright. In actuality, your biggest fear is that he won't be able to stay with you, and you’ll have to go through the pain of losing him all over again.

He's an angel. You're human. There's no future there. Your traitorous heart made you fall harder and harder for him without sparing that a moment's thought, and now you have to will yourself to accept that you'll always be in love with someone you cannot have.

The rest of the day passes in a blur, nothing but forced cheer and mindless chatter. Naomi sticks by your side as much as she can, making sure to redirect everyone who asks you questions about Jungkook. You're grateful for her presence, her constant support, and now more than ever, you realize how lucky you truly are to have her in your life.

As soon as everyone is in bed and your tasks for the day are done, you seek out the solitude of the pier once again. You've been coming here daily since he left. A sentimental thing, mostly, since it was the last place you saw him. But you also hope each night will be the night he returns.

The wind is strong tonight, the kind that chills you down to your bones, and the stars are hidden behind the clouds. You wrap your scarf more tightly around yourself, gazing aimlessly at the turbulent water. Suddenly, there's a bright light and a shrill noise. You aren't scared this time, and it's not nearly as overwhelming as it was. He must have tempered it somehow, made it less painful for you.

The light fades, leaving behind a figure that is unmistakably Jungkook. The sight of him fills you with such relief and happiness that you rush forward, throwing your arms around him. He envelops you in his arms, his wings folding around you, a sigh of contentment escaping his lips as he buries his face in your hair.

"I missed you very much," he says, breathing deeply.

"I missed you too," you whisper, tears prickling at your eyes. "I knew you'd come back."

"I said I would, didn't I?" he teases, pulling away just enough to look at you. "And I have news."

"What happened?"

You stay locked in his embrace as he speaks, bringing one of your hands to his face to stroke his cheek, to follow the line of his jaw with your fingers. He lets you, as eager to feel your touch as you are to feel his.

"I confronted Namsu," he begins. "But I wasn't alone. There were other angels who had started the 'degradation' process, those who were too fearful of retribution to say anything. I told them everything, and we confronted the other Thrones about Namsu and everything he had done. They didn’t approve of his actions, and they punished him for it."

"Really?" You ask, eyes wide with surprise. "Just like that? They believed you?"

A soft laugh bubbles up from him. "It wasn't quite that simple. There was plenty of arguing, plenty of disbelief. I’d never seen anything like it. But in the end, Namsu was banished from the celestial realm."

Relief washes over you at his words, the tension you hadn't even realized you were carrying leaving your body. "That's incredible.”

Jungkook shrugs slightly, but there’s an unmistakable look of pride in his eyes. "I’m just glad he has gotten what he deserves. Now you have justice." He places a gentle kiss on your forehead.

"And what about the others? The ones who have started to degrade?" Your heart clenches at the thought of them being punished for something beyond their control.

"They're safe," Jungkook assures you quickly. "The Thrones have promised to take care of it all. They're going to convene with Him, to see if the Heavenly teachings can be altered. Things are changing up there; I think it's all going to be alright."

You're overwhelmed with emotion, both relief and dread tugging at you simultaneously. It is good to know that things will be changing, but what is done to you has been done. And now, Jungkook has no reason to stay with you. You take a step back from him.

"What about you?" you ask quietly, barely daring to meet his gaze.

"What about me?"

"You have no reason to stay anymore. You can return to your normal duties. You did what was right, and everything is fixed."

"I did what was right, yes, and I'm sure things will be much better from now on," Jungkook agrees. But he steps forward, taking your hands in his and looking deep into your eyes. "But now, I need to do what's right for me."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, my star." Your heart stutters at the endearment. "I'm not going anywhere. I want to be with you."

"But… you can only do that if you're—"

"Human, yes," he interrupts.

"Jungkook! You can't! You can't Fall for me," you half-shout, half-whisper. "You're a good angel, you—"

"Y/N." The force behind his voice stops you. "Even before you showed me the beauty of being human, before I knew how to feel, before I even knew what love was, I would have done anything for you.” His confession takes your breath away, and you wobble on your feet, moving a few steps back from him in your shock. “If you had simply asked it of me, I would have stood with you in the fires of hell for all eternity and still been grateful for each moment spent at your side."

The tears you were holding back begin to fall. "You would have?"

“I would. I can. I will.” He moves closer to you with each beat between words until he stands directly in front of you, only a hair's breadth away. Gently, hesitantly—as if for the first time—he takes your hand and presses it to his chest right above where a human heart would be. “Just say the words, and I will fall for you. I will forsake myself and turn my back on Heaven. The pain of losing my wings will be inconsequential compared to the pain of having to be without you.”

"W-what words?"

He smiles, eyes crinkling at the edges. "You know what I want to hear. Be honest. Even better, be selfish, like a human. Tell me what you really want, and I will oblige."

You hesitate. You have been fighting your feelings this entire time, so sure of the fact that Jungkook would choose to continue his life as an angel. You never wanted him to Fall for you, to be torn away from the life he has always known the way you were. But he deserves to make the choice himself. If he wants your honesty, you will give it to him.

"Speak, Y/N," Jungkook urges, his gaze never leaving yours.

"I want…" You begin slowly, your voice barely a whisper. "I want you. I want you to stay with me." He grins, relief clear in his eyes. "Then I will."

"But you shouldn't have to Fall!"

"Fall or not, it won't change anything," he assures you. "I chose this path before even knowing there was a choice. I chose you from the second we were created.”

"Even if that means giving up everything?" you ask.

Jungkook’s expression softens. He reaches up and tucks a wayward lock of hair behind your ear. "Does it seem like I’m giving up everything?" he muses aloud, his eyes never leaving yours. "Because from where I stand, it seems like I’m gaining everything.”

"Smooth-talker,” you laugh, a tear slipping down your cheek. He brushes it off with his thumb, his gaze softening even further.

For a moment, you just stand there, looking at each other. It's quiet except for your breathing and the sound of waves crashing against the pier. You have been so afraid of asking him to make this choice, and yet he seems so certain about it, as if it was what he wanted all along.

"Are you sure about this?" you ask him one more time, seeking reassurance. "Once done, there's no going back."

His answer is immediate, "I've never been more sure about anything in my life."

"This will change everything," you say again.

"I know," he replies simply.

"Come find me when it's over," you whisper, placing a gentle kiss to his lips. "I'll be at the shelter."

As you go to leave, you can't help but glance back over your shoulder at Jungkook, taking in the appearance of him and his wings one last time. He's still standing there, watching you go with love evident in his gaze. It quells some of your worries. And then you blink, and he’s gone.

The hours that creep by feel like days. You busy yourself with meaningless tasks, cleaning the office, flipping through an old book left on the table, scrolling TikTok. None of it does anything to dull your anxiety, and you're weighing the pros and cons of tearing your hair out before you finally hear a knock on the door. You shoot up to your feet, heart pounding in your chest. Slowly, you open the door, and there he stands. "I'm here," he says simply. "As I promised."

You pull him into a hug once again, burying your head into his chest. You can hear the beat of his human heart and, unable to stop yourself, you burst into tears. You know the pain he just went through, can remember experiencing it yourself like it was yesterday, and you can hardly believe he went through something so awful to be with you.

"I'm sorry," you whisper, tightening your hold on him. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't be," he coos, gently stroking your hair. "This was my choice."

You swallow hard and pull back from him so you can look into his eyes, searching for any sign of regret. You find none.

"Are you okay?" You ask anyway, your heart aching at the thought of what he has given up.

"I am," he assures, his voice full of conviction. He leans down, pressing a soft kiss against your lips, and when he pulls away, he's smiling. "I wondered if doing that would feel different now that I'm fully human."

"And does it?" you ask, smiling back up at him.

"Yes," he admits, tracing an invisible line down your cheek, your neck, your collarbone. You shiver at his touch. "It feels more real. Stronger somehow. It's like you're the break of dawn after a long night."

Your breath catches in your throat. "Being human certainly hasn't changed the fact that you have a way with words."

"Only when it comes to you," he replies, his fingers never ceasing their journey across your skin. They make their way back to your waist, where he plays with the hem of your shirt. "There's one lesson we never covered, you know."

"A-and what would that be?" you squeak as his fingers caress the smooth skin of your stomach.

His voice drops lower, and he tugs you closer by your belt loops. "Human intimacy."

You flush at his audacity but don't pull away. "And what would be the best way for me to teach you about that?"

"Hm…" He leans down so that his lips hover over yours, and you can feel his warm breath with each word he speaks. "I think I would respond well to some hands-on practice."

Your heartbeat thunders in your ears as his lips press against yours in a slow, searing kiss that turns your knees to jelly. He takes his time exploring your mouth, his lips moving delicately against yours. His hands are warm on your skin, trailing up and down your back as he pulls you closer.

"Then I suppose we should get started," you manage to whisper when you finally break apart, breathless.

Jungkook moves into the room, closing the door behind him, and sits down on the edge of the pull-out bed. He stares up at you, his once-innocent doe eyes now dark and hooded with desire. You float towards him as if being pulled by a magnet, and he pulls you down so that you’re straddling his lap. Your hands rest on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under your touch.

"I think I should warn you," he says, hands sliding down to rest right above the curve of your ass, "I might be a slow learner."

You roll your eyes, a short, playful chuckle escaping from your lips. "I think I can handle that."

The room fills with an easy silence as you continue to explore each other, experiencing sensations new for the both of you. His hands trace every curve and dip of your body, his touch curious yet surprisingly confident. Your fingers trace the lines of his face, his jaw, his chest, and then find their way under his shirt to the newly-formed scars on his back. They are rough against your fingertips, a stark contrast to the rest of his smooth skin.

"You aren't in pain?”

“No,” he assures you, his hands sliding to a similar position on your own back. "Were you for long after?"

"No, but I'm still worried," you smile sheepishly.

He laughs and kisses your nose. "Don't be. Don't feel like you have to be gentle with me. I won't break."

You laugh in return, your eyes twinkling with delight and a touch of mischief. "Is that a challenge, Jungkook?"

He hums in response, his gaze never leaving yours. "Maybe."

His teasing reply only spurs you on. Rising to the bait, you lean in to kiss him, this time with a boldness that leaves him momentarily stunned. But he recovers quickly, matching your fervor and deepening the kiss. Your hands weave into his hair, pulling him closer, and his hips jut up against you almost involuntarily. You moan at the sensation, and he stills.

"What was that?" he asks.

"That," you breathe out, "is what human intimacy sounds like."

"I want to hear it again."

His lips find yours again and this time it's deep and demanding, all teeth and tongue and the promise of what’s to come. His hands grab your waist, forcing you to grind down against him as he once again lifts his hips up to meet your core. Another moan escapes your lips, the sound quickly swallowed by his hungry mouth. He tugs at the hem of your shirt, his fingertips skimming against the skin of your lower back. Eagerly, you lift your arms, and he pulls it off over your head.

"Jungkook…" you whimper, clutching at his shoulders. He responds by nuzzling into your neck, his hot breath making you shiver with pleasure.

"You're so beautiful," he murmurs against the curve of your neck, his lips tracing the column of your throat, down to your chest.

He places a gentle kiss above each breast before descending lower still, sucking one into his mouth. His lips and tongue move expertly, drawing gasps from you as your nerves ignite with pleasure. His hands are firm on your waist, holding you securely against him as he devotes himself entirely to exploring the new terrain, and you grind against him wantonly. You can feel that your panties are soaked with the proof of your desire.

"Jungkook," you say again, your hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. His name is a plea, a prayer. "I need more."

He pulls back, his lips swollen from his ministrations. "And so I'll give it to you."

You eagerly crawl off of him, shimmying out of your jeans, before settling with your back against the pillows. You grab at the air, beckoning him closer. He does the same, now only in his boxers, and slots himself on top of you, his bare skin against yours intensifying the burning desire coursing through your veins. His hard length presses against your core, and you whine.

"I don't know what I'm doing," he admits in a low voice, his hot breath fanning against your face as his eyes search yours for assurance.

You reach up, caressing his cheek. "It's okay," you soothe him, your hands then trailing down his back to rest on his hips, encouraging him closer. "We'll figure it out together."

His lips find your neck as his hands explore every inch of you, his rough fingers exploring the softness of your flesh. He slides one down over your stomach and lower still, feather-light touches teasing you until you're gasping beneath him. His fingers trace the edge of your panties before sliding the fabric down. You lift your hips, aiding him in removing the last barrier between you. He tosses them aside before returning his attention to you, his fingers skimming along your trembling thighs. His fingers move gradually, inching steadily upward until he's touching you where you're most sensitive. You let out a soft gasp, gripping the sheets.

"Is this okay?" he asks. You nod eagerly, unable to get the words out, and he chuckles, placing a gentle kiss at the base of your throat. "Good."

Always the over-achiever, he slides down your body until his face is level with your core, focusing intently on his work. His fingers move with a slow, calculated rhythm that quickly has you dripping for him. Eventually, he slips one of his fingers inside of you. Your breath hitches, your hands clutching at his shoulders for support.

"Am I doing this right?" he asks, uncertainty creeping into his voice as he looks up at you from between your thighs.

"You must be," you gasp out, encouraging him with a roll of your hips. "Don't stop."

Grinning, he adds a second finger, working you open until you're panting and squirming beneath him. Your back arches off the bed as his fingers work their magic, curling in just the right way that has you seeing stars. Praise tumbles from your lips, but you're sure that it just sounds like nonsense, your thoughts too muddled to form coherent words.

"You're so wet," he murmurs in a low, gravelly voice that only adds fuel to your desire.

Without warning, he lowers his mouth to your core, his lips and tongue joining his exploring fingers. The sensation is electric; your breath hitches, and an animalistic moan escapes you. He takes it as a sign of encouragement, doubling his efforts. Your fingers find their way to his hair, threading into the dark strands, seeking purchase. You can't help but pull, and he moans against you, the vibrations only furthering your pleasure.

"Jungkook," you warn, "I'm—"

A coil of white heat tightens within you before snapping. His name slips from your lips as you climax, sparks dancing behind your eyelids as he continues to pleasure you, eagerly lapping up your release. He doesn't stop, not until you physically pull him away from you, body shaking with overstimulation. He climbs back up your body, his lips finding yours in a gentle kiss. You can taste yourself on his lips.

"You okay?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

His pupils are blown out with desire, his hair slicked back with sweat, and he's so attractive that just the sight of him has you clenching your thighs together.

You nod, cupping his face in your hands. "More than okay," you assure him. "That was amazing. Now," you slide your fingers down his chest, sliding over the waistband of his boxers. "Let's see what we can do about you."

You hook your thumbs around the fabric and pull them downwards, and he does the rest of the work, kicking them off. You reach down, your fingers tentatively wrapping around his cock. He gasps, his head falling forward against your chest as you begin to stroke him with a slow, measured rhythm.

He nearly whines, his grip tightening on your hips. "That feels… I can't…" His words dissolve into soft, broken moans as you continue to work him over.

Suddenly overtaken with need, you stop, pulling him in for another searing kiss. "I need you inside of me, Jungkook," you gasp against his lips, "Please."

Your hand guides him back to your core, and his breath hitches. “Are you ready?”

Nodding, you lift your hips to meet him. He pushes into you carefully, slowly, each inch an intense sensation for both of you. Your body clenches around him as if welcoming him home, a strangled moan escaping your lips. One of his hands clasps yours, bringing it to rest on the side of your head while he buries his face in the crook of your neck, his heavy breaths fanning your skin. He's shaking against you, and you feel just as overwhelmed.

You squeeze the hand that's holding yours, urging him on. "You're okay," you whisper, "I'm okay. Move."

He nods, pulling out almost all the way before thrusting back inside of you. Your body jolts at the sensation, gasping his name over and over.

"You feel incredible," he breathes out, the statement more for himself than for you. “So perfect.” Your fingers thread through his hair once more, pulling him down to meet your lips.

His hips set a steady rhythm, filling the room with soft sounds of skin on skin and heavy panting. He lets out a low groan as he adjusts his angle, hitting a spot inside of you that has you crying out and grabbing at him wherever you can reach. You wrap your legs around his waist, throwing your head back against the pillows.

"That's it," you whine, "Right there. It feels so good—"

Your words cut off into a choked moan as he thrusts into you at that exact spot again and again, his movements becoming more erratic. He's close—you can tell by the way his body tenses and how he gasps desperately into your mouth.

"I'm… I'm—" he stammers out, breath hitching between each word.

"I know," you gasp out, meeting him thrust for thrust. "Me too."

You pull him as close as possible, holding him to you as you both chase your release. Your eyes squeeze shut, and your nails dig into his skin as a wave of pleasure crashes over you, even more intense than the last. You moan his name as you come, shuddering beneath him. He moans into your neck as he follows you over the edge, his hips bucking uncontrollably as he buries himself deep inside you.

He collapses on top of you, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his heavy breathing tickling your skin. He stays there, nestled inside of you, his heart pounding against your chest, matching the rapid rhythm of your own. You feel dizzy, your senses overwhelmed by him—his scent, his taste, the feel of him on top of you and within you. You caress his back, slowly tracing the contours of his scars with gentle strokes, the action soothing for both of you.

Eventually, he shifts, carefully pulling himself out of you and collapsing onto his back next to you. His hand searches blindly for yours, lacing your fingers together once he finds it. He brings your joined hands up to his lips and places a soft kiss on your knuckles.

"Is… are you…" He lifts his head to meet your eyes, unable to form words.

"I'm more than okay," you assure him softly, brushing a stray lock of hair off his forehead.

"Good," he whispers, a contented sigh escaping him.

His eyes roam over your face once more before closing, his grip on your hand tightening ever so slightly. Together, you lay there under the sheets, and the silence goes on for so long that you almost think he fell asleep.

Then suddenly, you hear him say, voice barely above a whisper, "I love you." You look over to see him staring up at you with adoration in his gaze and a soft smile on his lips. "I know I don't have to say it since surely there can be no doubt that everything I have done for you is out of love. But I want to say it anyway. I want to continue saying it for the rest of my life. I have loved you since before I even had the capacity to feel it, and I will continue to love you until time ceases to exist."

His confession leaves you breathless, and you can do little but turn on your side, grab his face, and place a gentle kiss on his lips. Tears prick at the corner of your eyes, threatening to spill down your cheeks.

"I love you too, Jungkook," you whisper against his lips, "So very, very much."

He lets out an audible sigh of relief as if he had been holding his breath, waiting for your response. His free hand reaches out to caress your cheek, wiping away a tear that had managed to escape. "I knew you would say so, but I'm happy to hear it all the same."

The two of you get ready for bed, and, for the first time since commandeering Naomi’s office, you fall asleep together in each other's arms.

The day you have been dreading has arrived—Christmas. Despite your initial hatred, however, you find yourself actually participating in the festivities around the shelter. Just like as many others do, you aren't going to consider it a holy day. You're going to use it as an excuse to be happy and spend time with your loved ones.

You join the group of children who sit by the pile of gifts, their excitement palpable as they eagerly wait for Naomi to declare it time to open them. Small hands tug at Jungkook’s sleeve, pulling him down to their level as they bombard him with questions about where he's been. He settles down amongst them, answering their questions as honestly as he can. His eyes meet yours over the sea of eager faces, and he stretches out a hand towards you, inviting you to join him. You sit right on his lap, making some of the kids giggle.

"Alright, everyone, it's time!" Naomi's voice echoes through the shelter, immediately quieting the children down.

As each name is called out and the kids scramble to collect their gifts, you can't help but smile. The pure delight on their faces is infectious. Noticing your happiness, Jungkook pulls you back so that you’re leaning against his chest, his arms wrapping around your waist.

He places a gentle kiss on your neck, murmuring, "You seem happy."

"I am," you say, placing your hands over his. "The holidays aren't so bad with you around."

"I'm glad." He turns your head so he can place a quick kiss on your lips, one that is light and soft and sweet, full of love. "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, Jungkook," you echo, smiling brightly.

Later, Naomi corners the two of you, pulling you aside. "I've been thinking about what to give you," she says. "I—"

"Naomi, you don't have to give me anything!"

"Don't interrupt me," she scolds, but there's no bite behind it. "Like I was saying, I was thinking it over, and I realized that the best gift I could offer is not anything material. From tomorrow on, you will officially be a supervisor. A paid supervisor."

Your eyes widen in surprise, and you glance at Jungkook, who is beaming at you with pride. You turn back to Naomi, stuttering out a response.

"B-but Naomi, I couldn't possibly—"

"Yes, you can," she interrupts, her tone firm. "From the day you arrived here, you have been working as hard as any of us. You deserve this." Before you can argue any further, she thrusts a small envelope into your hands. "Consider it an early Christmas gift and your first paycheck. And my office? It's yours."

"Thank you, Naomi," you manage, your voice choked with emotion. You pull her into a hug, hoping it can express everything you don't know how to say.

She pats your back, chuckling. "If anything, it's an excuse for me to take some time off. I'm getting old and need to start sharing the burden. Don't expect it to be a walk in the park!"

You pull away, wiping a stray tear from your eye. "Of course not. I'm ready to be worked to the bone, ma'am."

"That's what I like to hear," she comments, her voice carrying an undertone of pride. She turns to Jungkook, her gaze soft but words sharp. "Take care of her, will you?"

"Always," he replies without a moment's hesitation, which earns him a small nod from Naomi.

Eventually, the celebrations wind down and people start to retreat to their beds until only you and Jungkook remain. Instead of doing the same, you decide to return to the pier and watch the water for a bit, not ready for the day to end. The two of you walk in comfortable silence, hands linked tightly as if promising not to let go.

Sitting at the edge of the pier, Jungkook wraps an arm around your shoulder, pulling you closer to him. His body heat seeps into your skin, fighting away the cold, and you rest your head on his chest, letting his strong, steady heartbeat lull you into contentment.

"Who would've thought we would end up here?" you reflect, staring out at the ocean.

Jungkook laughs softly, his chest rumbling beneath your ear. "I don't think either of us could have predicted this."

"I never thought I would be happy that any of this happened, but I am. Are you?"

His gaze softens as he takes in the sight of you. "More than I could possibly put into words," he admits.

"Will you miss it, though? Heaven?"

"I thought I would," he says, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. "But Earth has its own kind of heaven. You're here. Naomi is here. The children are here. I have so much more yet to discover, to experience." His gaze returns to you, eyes soft and full of love. "How could I miss anything when I have all of this?”

Your heart swells at his words, his declaration warming you like nothing else could. You reach up to cup his face, your fingers lightly brushing his lips. His eyes flutter shut for a moment at your touch before opening again to hold your gaze.

"You're right," you whisper, your voice barely carrying over the sound of the waves. "This is our heaven. Here, with each other. And who knows, maybe we'll end up back there someday."

"You think?" Jungkook asks, raising an eyebrow. "I must say, I'm a little surprised hearing that from you. I didn't think you had faith anymore or wanted it for that matter."

You shrug. "Honestly, I don't know. I don't have my original beliefs anymore, that's for sure, but I don't resent it all like I once did, either. I think I've just found a new kind of faith. A faith in myself, in people, in goodness, and in love. There are so many different kinds of religions out there, and at their core, they're all about trying to understand the world around us, trying to find ways to cope and move forward. I think that's what I'm doing now, in my own way."

"That's beautiful," Jungkook says, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "Somehow both simple and complex. Just like life itself, I suppose."

"And what about you, Jungkook?” you ask, pecking him on the lips. How will you move forward?"

"Honestly, I'm not sure, either. But I think I'm happy to find out, as long as it's with you."

You hold each other close, each hoping your touch can express what no words could possibly convey. Love. Gratitude. Hope. The promise of a shared journey. What more could you possibly ask for?

TAGLIST: @yessa-vie

#jungkook x reader #jeon jungkook x reader #jungkook angst #jungkook fluff #jungkook smut #jeon jungkook angst #jeon jungkook fluff #jeon jungkook smut #jungkook imagines #jungkook scenarios #bts imagines #bts scenarios #bts smut #bts angst #bts fluff #bts au #jungkook au #my fic #collab

931 notes · View notes

bubble-dream-inc · 1 year

Text

i walk the line.

You had joked with Ghost before about getting married, never with a tone serious enough for it to be taken into account, even if it was something you dreamed about whenever you were alone with your thoughts. What you hadn’t expected was the question to come up at such an inopportune time.

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x Sergeant Reader

rbs greatly appreciated!

WC: 2.1 K

a/n: i hate giving my fics titles so just assume the song in the title is the vibe i want the fic to have lmao. also this is unedited and not beta read so beware of typos and shit

warnings: estabilished relationship, profanity, whump, description of wound, mentions of death, badly timed marriage proposal, medical inaccuracies, fluff, happy ending

It’s cold.

No, scratch that. It’s fucking freezing.

God, you hate the cold. Considering how much you despise it, it amuses you to think you might have been a desert creature in another life. A lizard, maybe. The types to scurry really fast and eat small insects all day. What a life.

You’re lost in your musings but you think there are a few very faint voices calling for you. Where are they coming from? Above? Seems like it. First, you hear their voices getting clearer, and recognize a word. It’s your codename, meaning, it’s your teammates voices. But why do they sound so agitated? Next, you feel pain. Quickly rising, scorching hot pain in your abdomen.

Oh, that’s right. You were shot.

A scream echoes out wherever you are and only later you’d recognize it as your own, in the same moment you recognize Ghost’s own booming voice frantically calling out for you, and the heavy weight of Soap’s large hands holding you down so you wouldn’t trash as much. It had been ironic, really, how much the mission went smoothly, 99% of it being completed without a hitch, but right as you were about to celebrate success, some fucker neither of you had seen before had decided to put a bullet in you - any of you - blindly, and it so happened it would hit you. The offender was long gone, a throw knife lodged in his skull as quick as a blink of an eye in the split second after the gunshot was heard, but the damage was already done. A few seconds before it happened, you had groaned how much you couldn’t wait for evac to come so you could take a hot shower and sleep, since your bones were aching, and Gaz had laughed and called you old-spirited. So much for that shower, you think as you take in the surroundings of what you could see of the abandoned safe house from your position on the blood stained table. It was painful to think about if that same table was used in the past for a family reunion or to gather folks around for good news, before hell broke loose and war tore apart the people, so you didn’t think about it. Ghost called your codename again and you cast your eyes downwards to look at him, the fear in his eyes sending a chill down your spine.

“Hey! Talk to me, don’t you dare close your eyes!”

You had screamed as he was removing the projectile from your flesh, you realized. Was not your first rodeo, a thought that made you want to laugh bitterly, but just the idea of laughing made you wince in pain. His hands were currently trying to stop the bleeding, and after taking one look at the wound, you suddenly felt at peace.

It was pretty shitty you were going to die in an equally shitty safehouse, but that’s the life you chose. So, against your better judgment, you chuckle lowly and decide to follow your superior’s orders.

“Keep talking, eh? Alright.” You groaned once more when he applied more pressure to your gaping wound. “L.t, do you- do you remember when i told you…I wanted to retire early and - fuck - get to the countryside and get a big ass dog?”

He looked up at you briefly, glad you were talking but clearly wondering where you were going with this. You knew he hated when you spoke of the future as if you were going to die - which, right now, you were pretty sure it was really happening this time - but you couldn’t help yourself. Of course he remembers that conversation, it was in the beginning of your secret-not-so-secret relationship. You had asked him what he would do if he wasn’t a soldier, and he had given you a very cryptic and vague answer that resembled a lot like nothing. In turn, you told him your wishes half heartedly, as if thinking of living for 10 more years was a very distant dream.

The relationship between the 141’s Lieutenant and one of its Sargeants was a sort of urban legend going around. People knew it was happening, but didn’t dare speak of it, and no one had ever really seen any proof of it, so, it was best to avoid prying into Ghost’s private matters as to not risk being at the receiving end of his annoyance, and, in turn, you both found solace in having something that only the two of you knew about. It never hindered your professionalism and it had been going on for a few good years now, so it became somewhat naturalized between the folks coexisting in the same space as you and Simon after a while. However, that never stopped the natural curiosity to flourish in a few people - namely, your comrades, who always knew there was something going on given the fact you’d literally look at your superior with hearts in your eyes - so you had to ignore Gaz and Soap’s expectant eyes on you as you spoke so tenderly, the intensity of witnessing the start of what seemed like a very intimate talk momentarily sharing space with the worry they were feeling over you.

“...Yes. I remember.”

He never forgets the things you say, even if you think it’s not important at the time. You hummed, ignoring the pain that came with it.

“Big dogs were never really my thing. I just-” A cough ripped out of you, and you didn’t need to look to know there was blood in it. “ I just thought it was the kind of thing you’d want. Big dogs fit you. It felt less scary to think about retiring once I added you in the equation.”

You were slurring your words and you knew it. As you regained your breath, you briefly saw a very wide-eyed and angry looking Price curse into his comm asking where the fuck was the goddamn chopper. Your codename being barked alongside the word “WIA” to a poor fellow soldier on the other side of the line left you with a bad taste in your mouth. You hate how scared Ghost looked, your big, scary, stoic Ghost, and you can’t help but feel selfish for leaving him, even if being shot was not your fault and wasn’t really in your plans when you left the base that morning.

“Stop talking like you’re fucking d-”

“We could have done it, you know?” Your laugh is, once again, bitter, and you’re acutely aware of the tears streaming down your face. Death has never scared you, but now that you got a reason to stay, you’re terrified. “Could’ve gotten hitched somewhere nice. Can’t really imagine you in a suit, though.”

The pain doesn’t stop, but it gets duller as you feel your consciousness slipping away, and you never fought so much to stay awake in your entire life. Simon yells something to Soap among the lines of getting something from somewhere so he can continue trying to save you, but you don’t register his words. His tone softens once his eyes are back on you.

“I’d wear a suit if you asked me to, sweetheart.”

“I know. I wouldn’t ask, though.”

Not caring there are other people in the room, you smile at him, well aware it must be uncanny to see Ghost be so tender towards another person, but again, you were the lucky one who got to see it every time it was just the two of you, so you got used to it with time.

Your vision starts spinning more and more, and your eyes start to close the moment you hear the familiar, faint sound of a helicopter getting closer, Simon’s big hands suddenly on your face to try to keep you grounded, and he sounds even more exasperated than before. He calls your name - not your codename, for once.

“Stay alive, do you hear me?! You gotta stay the fuck alive so i can take you to the bloody countryside and get bloody hitched-”

“You askin’ me to marry ya’ in my deathbed, sir?” You manage to slur out, your smile growing despite the panic you don’t have the energy to express settling in your bones, and Simon’s eyes widen even more behind the mask.

“Yes, I am, so stay with me, that’s a fucking order-”

You chuckle, closing your eyes as the frantic sounds around you all blur into a garbled mess. Faintly you feel your body being moved around, a strong wind on your blood and dirt caked hair, hear some more shouting, but then,

Silence.

——————————

Feels like the thousandth time you have woken up, and the feeling of coming in and out of consciousness is unbearable at best.

The first time - or the second, you don’t remember - there was a strong light above you, but you had no energy to open your eyes, so it lasted a measly second before you were out again. Later, you heard an unfamiliar voice saying something about an induced coma for a few days for a better recovery. You wondered if they were talking about you (they probably were). This happens a few more times before you actually feel your consciousness coming back for good, and, before you open your eyes, the first thing you notice is how warm it is, and, if you could, you’d smile. The spring air smells good, and you think you catch a whiff of cleaning products while you inhale, suddenly aware of how empty your lungs felt. The third thing you notice is the weight on your hand, and once you open your eyes, you find a familiar set of skeleton gloved hands on top of your own. A few years back you had told him with a laugh the print was very 2000’s, and he had just brushed you off with a scowl, but you’ve never been so glad to see the tacky thing. His thumb caresses your skin as he patiently waits for you to become more aware of your surroundings, and you instantly smile when you finally meet his gaze, which looks extremely relieved.

“Hi.” Your throat feels parched, voice straining as if you’d swallowed a kilo of sand, but Simon thinks your voice never sounded so sweet to his ears.

“Hi.”

It hurts to move, but you do so anyway, slowly sitting up despite Simon’s protests just so you can see him more clearly and grasp his hand a little better. While you are busy cringing at the dull pain in your stomach from the stitches, he extends a glass of water for you, to which you grab and gulp down immediately, quenching your thirst and looking over at your partner with such gratitude an onlooker would have thought he was a literal godsend.

“How bad is it?” Your voice still felt rough from disuse, but at least it sounded a bit more familiar to your ears.

“Pretty bad.” He doesn’t bother you with details; he knows you were never a fan of hearing about your wounds descriptively. “But you’ve always been tough.”

You flash him a grin that has him silently flabbergasted both with how beautiful you are and how quickly you seem to bounce back from a near fatal injury. Suddenly, you remember your last words before you blacked out, and your smile turns shy as you cast your gaze down to where your hands meet.

“...Did you mean it?”

Simon has always been extremely observant and smart, he knows what you are talking about immediately, and you like to think he is smiling under the mask as he goes back to gingerly caressing the top of your smaller hand with his thumb.

“I did, sweetheart.” His voice is low, and every time he calls you a pet name it has your heart doing somersaults. “I’m sorry I don't have a ring yet and I don't know when we would have some time off to have a ceremony, but I want to marry ya’. If you’ll have me, that is.”

Feeling like your smile would grow so big it would rip your face, you beamed at him, acutely aware of how you must have been looking like a mess with a - hospital - bed head and tired eyes, but you’d hoped he could notice the hearts in your eyes as obviously as you felt them. Things always seemed to fall in place with Ghost; no need for extravagance or huge acts, and the fact that your marriage proposal was exactly that, made you fall even more in love with him. You watched lovingly as he raised your hand to press a mask covered kiss on the top of it, and shook your head, laughing gently.

“Of course i’ll marry you, Simon.”

#capy.writes #cod #cod mw22 #cod mwii #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare 2 #cod modern warfare #cod modern warfare 2 #simon ghost riley #simon riley #ghost #ghost cod #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reade #simon riley x reader #cod ghost x reader

5K notes · View notes

azsazz · 4 months

Text

Little Sneak

Daddy!Azriel x Mommy!Reader [Zuzu Centric]

Summary: Anon Req: What about a part 2 to Sticking Together where all the children are older and Zuzu is upset about not being able to go to the camps like her brothers and cousins. Maybe she ends up sneaking off and gets hurt or something. Some lovely angst would be appreciated. Only if you want to of course, pls and thank you.

Warnings: Angst, suggestions of a child going to be harmed (child is not actually harmed)

Word Count: 2,357

_________________________________________

“Why must all my children defy me?” Azriel questions, pacing the length of the room. You’re almost dizzy with it, how long his strides are and how short the path he’s making is. He’s nearly turning in circles now, wings flared with agitation, growing larger and larger the more he works himself up. When he nearly knocks a lamp burning low with a single faelight over, you slip from the bed.

You halt your mate with a soft hand to his shoulder. His wings tuck in tight, not because you’re going to touch them, because his body automatically moves to give you room. You take it, curling yourself against his chest, hands snaking around his waist and thumbing soothing patterns across the dip of his back.

You can feel his muscles contract as he shifts his wings to cocoon the both of you. Darkness shrouds you, but the light casts red through the membranous skin.

It’s a safe place for the both of you, tucked away from the rest of the world without actually removing yourselves from situations where you’re needed. You and Azriel had found yourselves in this position many times—when you first found out you were pregnant with Wren and Azriel was worried you’d have trouble delivering a babe with wings, when Baz nearly burned his hand on an unattended fire. When you had found out that Knox wasn’t going to be able to speak, and when your eldest sons wanted to be allowed to train in the Illyrian camps.

It’s funny that you find yourself here for the exact same reason. Your daughter, Zuzu, Mother bless her, yearns to join her brothers. Both Wren and Baz have completed a year, along with Nyx and Gideon. The four have formed a group just as their fathers had, not taking anyone’s shit no matter how much larger in size they may be. With the High Lord on their side, the young boys got away with much more than they should, though Rhysand does his best not to stick his nose into matters that should be left to camp leaders.

They’ve found their places as young warriors, and though they often get into trouble, you and Azriel are able to spend more time in Velaris, working on a schedule with both Cassian and Rhys, so that one of them is always staying in the family cabins when the boys are in training.

The beat of Azriel’s steady heart is strong, comforting, even though you know he feels as helpless as you do. Each and every one of your children are as stubborn as their father, even the more stoic of the six, like Jax and the twins. Malos could hold a grudge for ages, even against her own siblings. And poor Azriel refuses to admit that it’s a trait he’s bestowed upon the shadowsinger clan.

You squeeze your mate tighter, breathing in his comforting scent. Night-chilled mist from the long fly he’d had to take when Zuzu had told him the news. He hadn’t wanted to hear any part of it; his firstborn daughter wanted to train with males in the camps that will do nothing to look after her well-being. They won’t care if she’s beaten into the snow until she’s unable to move, if she can train as hard as the males, if she can do aerial maneuvers better than them. All they’ll see is a little girl who should be put in her place by the only means they know how.

The females won’t take kindly to her either. They’ll likely be jealous of the girl who’s wings are in perfect shape, who has the ability to fly and train and doesn’t have to spend back-breaking hours washing or cooking. No one but her brothers and cousins will be nice to her.

But she’s determined and headstrong. She’d confided in you first, and while you’d tried to talk her into joining Valkyrie training, she insisted that if there were young girls here willing to fight and join such a cause, why wouldn’t they extend the opportunity to those in the mountains? Your heart aches for your little girl, who wants to see the best in people, give them the chances they’ve long since needed. If she can encourage a single girl in the camps to join them as warriors, she will be proud.

“She means well,” you sigh against Azriel’s chest, hugging him tighter.

“Does she have to mean this well?” he asks, exasperation lining the frown on his face. He rubs your back in a soothing motion, and you know it’s helping him as much as it helps you. His chin rests on top of your head and a moment of silence stretches on as his shadows crawl from the walls, whispering in his ears, reporting back to him on how all of his children are under one roof, sleeping peacefully in their beds. “In a few years, Asteria will want to follow, and I think Rhys will actually kill me.”

“I won’t let him,” you grumble stubbornly, but it doesn’t carve a smile on Azriel’s face like it normally would. “And neither will Zuz.”

All your mate can do is sigh and hold you closer. “I hate that they’re growing up.”

“Me too,” you answer sadly, rocking in place with Az. He caresses the nape of your neck, tilting your face to meet his sad, hazel gaze. “Why didn’t anyone prepare us for the part where our children start growing up?”

Azriel shakes his head, dipping down to kiss you softly, tenderly. You are always his rock in the storms of his life. Always will be.

“I don’t know,” he pecks you on the mouth again, and there’s a glint in his eyes that has your body growing warm. “I do know that we can have another. Then we’ll have a little babe. It will make me feel like I’m not so old, that our youngest aren’t five-years-old.” He says it with a grimace.

The time is flying by, watching your children grow. Wren is a teenager now. A teenager, Mother help you all. And Baz is only growing rowdier with age. Zuzu wants to join her brothers and cousins in the camps, and Jax is still the stoic little boy you’ve ever seen, focused on working through his powers daily. He still struggles sometimes, needs to cuddle up with his father or you for a moment's peace, and he hasn’t shown any interest in being a warrior like his elder siblings, though if Azriel allows Zuzu to join, you’re sure he won’t be far along after. The twins are as inseparable as ever, stirring up mischief with their pesky little shadows. It’s nice to have them all still so close, but you know it won’t be that way soon.

“Can you imagine another one?” You ask, amused at the thought. More chaos, and you’re not entirely sure how your six children would react. You already have so many, what would they think?

“Yes,” Azriel answers, tone heated. He presses his hips more firmly against your own and you can feel the hardness of his cock in his pants. It makes your thighs go molten, especially when he’s looking at you like that. Like he’s going to both devour and worship you all night long. “Let’s put this conversation on hold.”

You can’t disagree with that.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•

His shadows wake him up.

Azriel has gotten used to their presence, but his body is accustomed to them, awakening at the slightest sort of unease from them. Like right now.

He bolts from the bed, awakening you in the process. He almost feels bad at the hammering of your heart he can feel echoing in his chest, if it weren’t for the fact that he’s been alerted that one of his children is currently missing from his home, and she hasn’t been located in the darkness of the camp yet.

“What’s going on?” You’re alert now. There’s something seriously wrong, by the look on Azriel’s face. The way that it’s set in stone yet his brows are furrowed with worry. Not the kind of worry where something is amiss in Velaris, but it looks like he had when Knox had been taken from you, the horror riddling his hazel gaze makes your stomach plummet.

“Zuzu isn’t in her bed,” Azriel answers, and he’s already dressed and heading out into the cold. You don’t expect him to wait for you, the both of you have a way of attacking these things as a team now, and you’re safer here with the rest of the children, anyway, and he curses himself once again for allowing his children to train at the Illyrian camps.

He doesn’t know how she’s managed to evade his shadows this time. His children are sneaky, quickly learning and testing how to keep from his radar, but Azriel is 500 years old and prides himself on his alertness.

Up until now.

He doesn’t even know where to begin. His mind is a mess with ‘what if’s’ and he can’t allow himself to begin pulling at that thread or he might very well decimate this entire camp.

He very well might, anyway.

Azriel’s already reaching out to Rhysand, waking him from his deep slumber and alerting the Inner Circle. He knows the High Lord will be here within minutes on a plume of black that no one wants to see. Zuzu has been Rhysand’s favorite from the moment she decided to toddle behind him into the longest meeting he’s ever had the displeasure of attending. But Zuzu had made it bearable, sitting in his lap and cuddling up in his arms like he wasn’t discussing convicts in the Prison nor how his armies might be able to help Springs.

A soft yelp is carried on a wisp of darkness from his shadows, his head whipping to where they’re alerting him. It’s Zuzu, and she’s whimpering a little as sharp nails dig into her coat, despite the thick jacket she’s pulled haphazardly around her shoulders. Her boots are untied, and the powdery snow is downtrodden with her footprints.

Azriel moves as quick as the night. He’s known for being undetectable, a whisper of a chilled breeze chasing through the trees. Tonight, though, he doesn’t mask the crunch of his boots in the snow, doesn’t smother the bright blue beaming from the seven stones adorning his armor. His knives are unsheathed at his side, steel singing for the promise of blood.

There’s a soft sound, like his daughter's cry has been muffled, and it fuels his anger, letting his body fill with black ink. It spills off of Azriel in waves, a death god come to seek his vengeance.

The clearing is a circlet of trees and fresh snow. The moon drips down into the open field, where Zuzu scratches at her captor. The female trying to pin his little girl to the ground hisses as her skin breaks beneath Zuzu’s nails. Azriel’s heart swells with pride as his daughter fights back, but this moment alone has made him realize that she does need proper training, and if she wants to join the ranks with her brothers and show all of these Illyrian swill what she’s made of, she will get that.

Azriel doesn’t recognize the female as he rips her away from his daughter by a fistful of hair. The female yelps in surprise, then screams in fear as she topples backwards, the avenging shadowsinger towering over her.

As if she thought she could get away with attempting to harm one of his children.

He feels the night air shifting behind him as he makes sure that his daughter is okay. Rhysand and Cassian appear before the female can gain her footing and take off, Cassian planting a foot in the middle of her back to keep her pinned to the frozen ground while Azriel consoles his daughter. Zuzu’s sniveling, fat tears rolling down her red cheeks as they escape. She doesn’t want to cry, she doesn’t want to show her father that she’s scared, but they fall without her permission anyway.

“I’m sorry, daddy.”

Azriel’s heart cracks a little, molten lava of anger filling the cracks. This female won’t last the fucking night. And if she does, it’s because he’s going to make her death last as long as possible for even thinking of touching his daughter. For making her cry.

He hushes her, a soft noise that makes her clutch onto his shoulders tighter. Azriel’s not wearing a coat, but he’s used to the temperatures, and the adrenaline rushing through his veins helps quell the bitter chill. He sends a reassuring feeling down the bond to you and your relief flushes his body tenfold, his shoulders dropping slightly.

“Are you okay, my love?” Azriel asks her, wiping the tears from Zuzu’s eyes. He swings her up into his arms, pressing gentle kisses to her forehead as he pins the female to her spot in the snow with furious golden eyes. “Are you hurt?”

Zuzu shakes her head and his knees nearly give out with relief. He sways them back and forth, whispering reassurances into Zuzu’s ears until she’s calmed down, before passing her off to Rhys who holds her just as tightly.

“Uncle Rhys is going to take you back to mommy, okay, Zuz? I’ll be back in a little bit.”

She agrees, blinking up at him with her big eyes. Azriel watches her try to look over her uncle's shoulder to see the female spitting vitriol at Cassian. Rhys doesn’t allow her gaze to see what’s going on over there, instead drawing her attention to him, shifting her so she can’t see, and disappearing into the night to bring Zuzu home.

Cassian crouches down to the female, grinding her face into the snow to stop the comments spewing from her lips. He whispers something so low that makes her entire body freeze, then thrash as if she actually has a chance of escaping.

Azriel steps up to her, a murderous look in his eyes, and he lets his blades do the talking.

#azriel x reader #acotar #azsazz #acomaf #acowar #azriel #azriel/reader #daddy!azriel #azsazz zuzu

491 notes · View notes

peachesofteal · 7 months

Text

Happy Hunting

Simon Riley masterlist

Simon Riley/female reader 4.1k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ MDNI. Consensual non consent. Explicit sex, creampie. Predator/prey, hunter/hunted. Use of restraints, a gag. Blood, violence. Dirty talk, size kink, praise kink. Feelings of fear, anxiety. Horror-ish. Horror media references/influenced. Tags are for your health, not mine. “Passion has little to do with euphoria and everything to do with patience. It is not about feeling good. It is about endurance." - Mark Z. Danielewski, House of Leaves

It was the porch light, that cost you everything.

The porch light that flickered through the brush with strokes of silver moonlight, the porch light that cast a wan, yellowed haze out from its warped wooden and stone host. The porch light, that shone like a lighthouse, calling you home, calling you to safety, security. To sanctuary.

You spotted it from a distance the first day, once you had already changed course that morning, tromping across a stream and shimmying through a nasty spool of barbed wire. You hunkered down next to an outcropping of rock, peering through the morning fog, searching for your hunter, watching for the tell tale signs of his presence, a wide path cut through the forest by his broad body, punctuated by trampled underbrush, damaged petals and leaves. The house stood on the hill in the distance, rising just above the tree line, the shimmer of the little yellow light drawing you in, making you curious, filling you with an urge to look closer, as the hair on the back of your neck rose in warning.

The rocks were a perfect natural shelter, a good place to take a nap, if you wanted, if you could. It would be easy to bed down in the soft dead-fall of the leaves, sink into the earth, into the heavy mist that had lingered past dawn, but you couldn’t risk closing your eyes. Not even for a second. Not when you knew he was so close, when you could hear his breath, feel the pads of his fingers on your skin, reaching, stretching, desperate to snatch you away forever. If you held your body still, you swore you could feel the vibration of his feet in the forest, rustling against the brush, covertly honing in on your location, stalking closer and closer to his target. His victory.

Even if you never saw him, you knew he was out there, watching patiently. Waiting for you to make a mistake, for you to miscalculate.

You told yourself the house was not an option. Even when you got a good look at it on that first day, something about it stuck low in your belly, an off feeling, a warning. You opted to circumvent the entire thing, giving the long overgrown driveway, endlessly black windows and snarled thicket that grew thick at its foundation a wide berth.

Old stone mansions left abandoned, remnants of old families, old money left to rot, were not unheard of in this area. You had spent your youth crawling around in them and knew them well, knew their warning signs, understood what it felt like when they might give way on you. You knew how to unlock their secrets, knew how to read the gothic stories that had settled into the crumbling, peeling wallpaper. They spoke their own languages, histories spiraling out from their nooks and crannies, trauma and laughter etched into the joists and support beams, sagging with the weight of their own age. They could be easy to read, easy to listen to, if you knew which doors to pry open, and which to leave locked shut.

Still, it was too convenient. Too much of a risk. Too much confinement. There was a zero chance of you besting him in a physical fight, and you had to depend on your speed for survival, your aptitude, your skill to ensure your success. Pigeonholing yourself in a mansion with god knows what inside did not allow you to excel at the things you were good at.

You felt confident in your decision to avoid the house. You felt good about it.

The storm rolled in with tenacity. The rain was frigid, wind howling through to your bones, chilling the blood that pumped in your heart. It's strength pulled at your resolved, ready to tear you to pieces, to force you to your knees. It pushed you off course, away from the rushing water of the creek, and up the hill of water soaked leaves.

You lost your bearings for a moment, and that’s all it took for you to slip up, all that was needed for you to catch the sight of his grim shadow from the corner of your eye, the crack of a branch breaking beneath his boot shattering across your brain like a gunshot.

You tore through the woods, gait bogged down by the water logged earth, by the thick of the mud, chased by the sound of his voice, calling for you through the forest over the raging fury of the storm.

"Happy hunting, little dove."

You narrowly escaped, but the skull mask watched. He waited. He tracked.

He hunted.

It’s too dark.

Too dark to see anything, too dark to see your hands that are spread out in front of your body, hands that desperately try to act as your eyes, feeling, touching, scraping across surfaces to keep you from bumping into things. Doors. Walls. Whatever could be lying in wait here.

The weight of your wet clothing irks you. It hangs heavily on your body, and you wish you had chosen better layers, shivers working up and down your spine, goosebumps rising against the soaked chill of your shirt. It could be pneumonia that gets you in the end, if he doesn't catch you first, you muse bitterly, wringing yourself out as well as you can, water droplets pattering against what you believe sounds like a wooden floor.

The lack of light is unnerving. You'd expected it, knew the chances of there being anything working in here slim, but you still hoped that maybe the lone flickering porch light meant there was something still left inside these old bones, a spark, a connection feeding a light switch or a lamp somewhere. The dark of the house is endless, and your mind works quickly to imagine the worst case scenarios, the potential that this tenebrous pitch may drag you below forever settling heavily in the back of your mind. It's deep, the darkness of the house, like you could fall into it and drown, never resurfacing, never to see the sun again. You move slowly, hands in front of your face, body and feet making contact with as much of the wall as you can, trying to paint a picture with touch. The dark, combined with the new and unfamiliar territory, is enough to unsettle your usual steady demeanor.

The combination is a lethal one. It’s one that leaves you hesitant. Unsure. It’s one that keeps you off balance, spine ram rod straight, nerves alight with fear.

It wasn’t so bad, in the woods. The silver glow of the moon illuminated the lay of the forest, sprawling swaths of brush and low growing thistle, tall trunks that stretched to the sky, stout shrubs with thorns that scratched at your clothes. That was easier, than this.

Easier than this maze called a house. Easier than these hallways that morphed into a labyrinth that stretched for miles and miles, twisting together into a Fibonacci sequence of pitch-dark terror.

No. You swallow. You’re not afraid. You’re fine. You’re going to be fine. You're going to win.

But even as you repeat it to yourself, even as you coach your reserve, you can hear his voice. Can hear the grit and gravel of the Manchester accent, can smell his skin against yours, lips rough on your mouth before your cheeks were pinched between a thumb and forefinger.

“Want to play a game?”

You work forward in a half crouch, staying pressed to the wall, form as tight as you can manage, unobtrusive. Your hand stays projected in front of your body, the other along the wall, waiting to feel an angle, an edge, a door, a window… anything.

You shouldn’t have come in here. You walked right into a trap, you're sure of it now, fairly positive after feeling the way the corridor twists and turns away from the front. Walked right into a confined space and now you’re lost, stuck, like a fly in a web. Waiting to be devoured. Waiting for your end to be delivered by a spider who lurks just out of sight.

But you did it for a reason, didn’t you?

You’re so, so close to the finish line. So close you can taste it, the trepidation beading into sweat that drips down your back, cold and unwelcome against the damp of your shirt. It’s already been two days. The morning of the third day is just on the horizon, sun due to come up, you think, within a few hours. Your mouth salivates at the thought of it, the idea of sinking your teeth into sweet, sweet victory. Of winning. Of beating him.

You take a moment to stop and reassess, swiping your palms along the wall and floor, working on controlling your breathing. It’s becoming jagged, anxiety spilling out through your lungs with each step you take, fear moving through you like ice freezing in your veins, creeks and streams being lost to the winter’s chill, a disease slowly spreading towards your heart.

You use it to focus. You cannot see, but that doesn’t mean you've lost, and it doesn't make you weak. It makes all your senses stronger, your hearing, your ability to smell, your translation of touch into sight. The wall turns here, the floor dips there, does that feel like a ledge? You crawl in your crouch, lips sealed tight against soft whimpers that threaten to expose you over the little pieces of wood that get lodged in your palms.

Splinters. Unfinished lumber.

It confirms your theory. The mansion itself is old, stuck up on this plot land, nestled in the thick of the forest, abandoned, nearly completely forgotten about by all… save for one. One, who’s been building inside of it, one who’s been creating in its guts. Hollowing it out and remaking it into something new, a hellscape of hallways, a complicated vision executed by someone who’s running from the same demons, the same nightmares that you are.

Your heart sinks past your stomach, down into your knees. Continuing to run this rat race is foolish. He built it. He knows it. He pushed you here, urged you over the hill, across the stream, beneath the barbed wire. He dictated your path, forcing you into the light of the porch, herding you closer and closer because he knew. He knew you wouldn't be able to resist it, in the end. He knew you.

Find a different part of the house. Escape. Hide, until sunrise.

You keep going, carefully, creeping along the walls, navigating lefts and rights and forks in the labyrinth until your fingers tap silently across an empty door frame, nothing on the other side except the continuous black void of darkness.

Your feet slide forward, boots sliding until the floor disappears. A drop off? There’s more, a flush piece, a curved groove.

Stairs.

You blink, even though it will do you no good, it won’t clear your vision or make the lights in this decrepit place suddenly flicker on. Your hands are your sight, and you run your fingers along the curve of the top step, until you feel the next, and the next.

You take them half on your belly, half on your knees. It’s slow, achingly so, and puts you in a vulnerable position, but the fall, if there were to be one, would be much, much worse if you risked attempting them fully standing. It takes forever to get to the bottom, and you feel a small tug of relief when your palms rub across a cold concrete floor.

There’s a noise. It’s a banging, of sorts. Like a door swinging, and you jolt, reaction fueled by adrenaline, barreling forward into the dark, slamming into the wall with your hip. It stings, the slap of concrete zinging across your skin and you hiss instinctively, before clapping a hand over your face to muffle the sound.

You curse yourself. That was too loud.

A floorboard creaks above your head. The acid in your stomach rises.

You hold yourself as still as you can, palm still pressed over your mouth, body bent low. You keep contact with the wall as much as possible, shoulder, thigh, part of your back. Stay low. Stay small. It’s an advantage you have, your size versus his. Even if you aren’t particularly petite, you’re nimble, graceful and quick. Something you’ve been using for the past two days to stay one step ahead, something you used earlier to orchestrate your narrow escape in the woods. You use it now, to find a corner, a little nook of rough cement, and squeeze your body inside.

Heavy feet take the stairs slowly, step by step until you see the bright white beam of a flashlight sweeping across the floor methodically, back and forth, back and forth. It moves across the room, around the stairs, opposite of the corner you think you’ve tucked yourself into.

Just hold your breath. Stay quiet. You can still win. You can still make it.

The flashlight flicks off with a dramatic click. Your teeth sink into your bottom lip so hard it draws blood.

Maybe he didn’t see you. Maybe he doesn’t know you’re even here.

Seconds drag into minutes, and you think you hear heavy footfalls upstairs. Or possibly on the stairs. You can’t be too sure. It’s too dark, and the pitch is disorientating. It’s hard to tell right side up, up from down.

This could be heaven. It could be hell.

You stay burrowed in that corner against the cinderblock for what you believe must be at least fifteen minutes, if not longer. Your body aches from being pushed in on itself, and you blink in the dark, breathing slower than a corpse, listening. Waiting.

Your boot slides across the concrete. Seeking. Touching… bumping into solid mass. You realize it a second too late. Time freezes, and you with it, heart encased in ice. Your eyes slam shut, and a whimper builds in the back of your throat.

A hand wraps around your ankle, and you screech, curling forward with your fingers bent like talons, flying towards what you hope is his face, desperate to sink your nails into his skin and tear, rip him open so you can get away. He grabs your arm, stabilizing your contact, the strength in his grip that of more than two men, at least, and drags you across the floor, iron bar of his ulna holding you still and steady.

A piece of metal scratches against wood. A flick, a flicker, and then-

A wash of orange-yellow light. You’ve been in the dark for hours at this point, and your sight struggles to refract, pulling back behind half shut lids even though the light itself is not that bright.

You tilt your head back and look up.

String lights. He’s hung string lights up down here, little bulbs on black wire stapled to the rafters like you’re in some romantic comedy. Like there should be a two top table here with a pile of spaghetti and meatballs, carafe of wine and checkered tablecloth.

“Hung these just for you, dove. Knew you’d like ‘em.” His breath is burning hot against your face, and you twist, swinging your entire skull into his chest and trying to dig your heels into the ground for leverage. You catch a glimpse of his face, maskless, the twice-healed broken nose, cheek scar and sharp edged jaw unmistakable, even with your fogged vision.

“Get OFF me you FUCKING FREAK, I-“ His thigh presses against your knee and then you’re swooping, thrown off balance in a second thought with a scream, free hand ripping across into his hair and yanking with everything you have.

It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t flinch, wrestling you to the ground with ease. You don’t have much fight left in you, after two days of hiding, running, trying to be smarter, be faster, and you’re spent on all ends, this last little spat the end of everything you had. He knows it.

Still, when he fish hooks his thumb into between your lips, you bite down with all your might, sinking your incisors into his skin in hopes of drawing blood.

He laughs, and your mouth fills with the mineral-metallic liquid, his thumb swirling inside your teeth and across your gums.

You know you’re well and truly fucked.

The knife makes quick work of your shirt. Your tac pants, the good pair, go next, along with your boots. He lurks above for you a long moment before he cuts your bra away, your nipples tightening in reaction to the temperature, to everything that’s happening in this moment, in this basement.

“Gave me the slip in the woods earlier, little dove. Very clever.” He praises you, bending your arms behind your back and then working a rope around your wrists, knotting it securely, but not too tight. “Almost made it. Think you might’ve, if you hadn’t come in ‘ere.” Your underwear rips away without pretense, without hesitation and you swallow, mouth gaping wide, teeth trying to cut over the gag. “But I know why you did. I know you wanted to get caught.” You shake your heard furiously, and he clucks his tongue in mock sympathy, soothing a warm hand up and down the outside of your thigh. “Come on dove, let me see.” He pries your legs apart, baring you wide, where you drip for him, slick with arousal, with heat. He hums something to himself; two blunt fingers stroking down your seam and then back up around your swollen clit. You buzz with his touch, muscles reacting on their own, spine curving just a little, hips twitching. He stays there, on his knees between your thighs, an immovable force, keeping you from closing up around him or blocking his touch, and his thumb rubs your clit in a circle. “What a good girl. Gettin’ all wet for me.” You shake your head, and he tips his head back and laughs. “Don’t lie. Pretty little cunt here loved bein’ hunted, eh? Look at how soaked she is. Practically dripping.” He presses a finger inside, the depth of his reach enough to punch your lungs out, body seizing up around him as he strokes upwards, thumb slicking across your clit until you're writing underneath him. You’re going to cum, you’re going to cum on this dirty fucking floor like a- “Ah, ah. You know the rules.” He rasps next to your ear. “What do you need to do?”

“Nnrgh!” you spit through the cloth, and he sighs long and loud, like he’s emptying himself of all his breath with exasperation, fingers smearing your own fluids over your face as he pulls it free. “Please.” You gasp. It’s barely a plea, something more venomous, more spiteful, but it’s enough for him, and he nods, placing the fabric back into your mouth with a pop of his wrist. You don’t want to, you don’t want to give in, let him win, let him have this, make it so easy but he's playing your body so well, expertly, making you sing for him from behind the gag, and you cannot stop the tidal wave that swims over you, your orgasm breaking you apart, smug grin scrawled across his face with pleasure.

When he takes his cock out, dragging his briefs and pants beneath his hips, all while keeping a single hand pressed to your belly, your eyes widen. He’s huge, thick with a fat red tip, dribbles of pre cum leaking above where he’s got you splayed open. He’s going to tear your apart.

“You put up such a good fight, dove. Made me wait so long, hid so well.” The heat of his cock sears against your thigh, and you grunt, brows furrowed, mouth dry behind the gag. Your tongue pushes against it helplessly, fingers fisted tight in the binding beneath your lower back. It’s not particularly comfortable, but the position bares your breasts to him, and keeps you off balance enough that he can manipulate you as he sees fit. “But you still lost.” The gleam in his eye is wild, wicked enough to make your toes curl, hair on the back of your neck standing straight up. Is this a man? Or a monster? Or both?

He presses inside and you see stars, you see the whites of your own eyes, see the currents of electricity in the air. It hurts, a gnawing bite that spreads to your cervix, magma spilling forward and scorching along your walls. He doesn’t slow either, doesn’t stop, just thrusts all the way through, deeper and deeper, splitting you open on his cock just how he likes.

“Ffuumph-“ You moan, and a plate sized palm pats your face soothingly, your knees pinned back towards your ears, his chest against yours. He knows it hurts. Knows it stings, his hips stuttering with his strokes, tongue hot against your neck, mopping up the tears that leak from the corner of your eyes.

“I know, I know. Be good." He licks your cheek before taking it between his teeth, and you keen, clenching around him the heat of his cock without a thought. It’s wild, and violent, like you’re being ripped open raw, torn apart by the weight of the end of it all, the consequences of your loss, of getting caught. “Is this is what you needed? What you begged me for-“ You sputter a refusal, a wail of nonsense but there’s no denial of your body’s reaction, the way you tighten around him, the way your body goes gooey for him, cunt glossy with it.

He thumbs your clit, and you moan, half agonized, half delirious, stuffed full, neurons firing across your brain, cunt spasming in time with his thrusts. "So proud of you. Did so good, dove." Your back arches involuntarily, legs trying to snap closed, burn in your belly growing and growing to a precipice, a reckless edge that you know you’re going to be thrown over in a matter of seconds. He reads it, reads you, and plucks the gag free, swooping low to replace it with his mouth, holding your jaw steady, the kiss long and lingering. He gives you more and more, spearing you with his cock, dragging in and out of your pulsing cunt, cooing in your ear over the sound of your moans. "That's it, that's my girl. There you go, come- come on." Your muscles tense and you explode with an orgasm, body melting with a shudder. You turn to liquid, practically putty, all soft and malleable in his arms and he fucks you deep, frantically, chasing after his own release, dragging his nose into your hair with a groan of something unintelligible. You're still clenching around him, wired tight, little explosions of fireworks reverberating through your cunt as he takes his victory, notching himself to the very depth of your body and flooding you with come.

“Knew you wouldn’t be able to resist it. The house.” His arms cradle your limp body, nose skimming up your jaw.

“It was a nice touch.” The words come out as a yawn, stretched out and spent, like your body. Like your mind. Just how you like it.

“You lost, dove.” He murmurs and you nod pathetically. “Want to try again?” He works his touch in the wet mess between your legs, flicking through his own come, your slick and you mewl in his palm.

“Yes."

“I think I should get more of a head start this time.” Simon raises an eyebrow, a shadow of greed, of hunger arcing across his irises before his arm is curling around your back and pulling you into his chest.

“Don’t I usually give you enough of a head start, love?”

“You do, but… Si. Come on. It’s hardly fair.”

“You’re faster than me.” Lips press tenderly against your temple. “Beat me every time in a foot race. Besides, I have something… for you. A gift.” Your head spins when you think about that word, gift. It frightens you. It electrifies you.

“I know but… I want to build it up a little more.” Still, you have to protest a little. You want a longer chase. Need it. Crave it.

“Alright.” He concedes, head tilting to the side, eyes half lidded. “And the prep-“

“Not too much.” You tip back your glass of wine, drop of red leaking from the corner of your lips, tannins blooming across your tongue as he laps it up. “I want it to hurt.” You murmur it into his mouth, rolling the rich liquid from behind your teeth until he’s working you open and it spills forward, drowning the two of you in red cherry and oak until you’re falling to the floor, and he’s kissing your breastbone with a whisper.

“Okay, dove. Not too much.”

#tw dark and twisty #tw dark themes #peaches writes #dove x simon #I really like these two #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #cod ghost #cod x reader #mw2 #ghost cod

741 notes · View notes