#but 40% of the time he simply refuses. bad practice

[parameddic]

mmmmmmmm vibrating. wanna do more TK as a paramedic things also want to emphasise my medical knowledge ends at advanced first aid training and some (some) urology jargon

#aster talks #(i work for a surgeon who does a lot of urology and i type his doctors' notes) #also! TK is not qualified to reduce limb dislocations without supervision he's a relatively new paramedic #and entire limbs can be really Weird to get back in and esp legs can compromise arteries #there are things he just. can't do in sensible professional practice and 60% of the time i am happy to let him do those things anyway #but 40% of the time he simply refuses. bad practice

[scarletevening]

golden syrup [ john price ]

i had a vision, i also want money

cw: suggestive [not any nicer than with könig] , foul language, age difference [hes like 40 or smth], objectification?, typical confusing sugar daddy behavior, toxic relationship, fem! reader.

Sugar Daddy! Price, always buys you chocolates when he gets back from work, no matter how much you complain about it being unhealthy or bad for you it is, he just holds your waist and whispers in his gruff voice, "I love you."

Sugar Daddy! Price, who buys you a pretty dress for each military ball, amused by your adorable shyness, clinging to his arm as your hips sway besides his, the bespoke dress making you irresistible to look at. Luckily, the Captain is intimidating enough to glare down any pathetic, greedy man away.

Sugar Daddy! Price, who is too focused and stressed by work to realize how needy for him you are. Even when you stand beside his desk. Confused by all the military mumbo jumbo, you simply rubbing your knee against his thigh, leaning down to smell his hair, as you trace your hands across his shoulder, looking for him to turn his focus. But he doesn't, simply handing you his black card and shooing you with his hand, making you pout, pulling on his sleeve, but he doesn't turn. You were his relief, not his lover.

Sugar Daddy! Price, who comes out of his office in fury, a mess made by someone or another, as he grasps your arm, ignoring the pout the sat on your pretty plush lips from earlier, yanked you over to the nearest surface, bending you over as he practically tears your clothes off, letting you moan into his hair and neck as his lips taste your sweet skin.

Sugar Daddy! Price, who loves to take you on dates, loves when you prance in front of him in the clothes you're trying on, loves to buy you every piece of clothing you fawn over, let alone glance at, loves when you let him tease your clit in the dressing room of a lingerie shop.

Sugar Daddy! Price, who always buys you pretty jewelry with any diamond, gold, silver, or gem that you want. His favorite pieces being first, the diamond medallion he gifted you the first day he fucked you, and the second, being the thin, delicate anklet with his name, adoring the way it dangled over his shoulders every night, kissing the hot metal to soothe you as his he fucks you dumb.

Sugar Daddy! Price, who always sends you more money than you two agreed on, knowing you'll never deny him. Always has an extra band ready for you, a, as he liked to call it, "little" reward for the times he liked to make his little sugar baby into a sobbing mess.

Sugar Daddy! Price, who couldn't fathom the bubbling venom growing in the pit of his stomach, watching you laugh and giggle with another man, knowing exactly the name of this bitterness, refusing to summon the devil. He rushes towards you, towering over you as he looks as both you, and the man he recognized to be a new recruit. "Not for much longer." He thought to himself, grabbing your hand slowly, his movements controlled as his fingers constricted around your wrist like a snake. Lucky for you, his extra band came in handy.

Sugar Daddy! Price, who was merciless that night, not to be confused with his usual roughness, adoring the blush that adorned your round ass, the flesh burning from the searing hot strikes of his hand, each movement after the next making your mind melt, your little messy cunt squeezing desperately for him. He laughed, laughed at the way you squirmed, laughed at how you reacted when he teased you, he was laughing at you, his cute little stress reliever.

Sugar Daddy! Price, who never pulls out, "might as well get my moneys worth, yeah, little girl?" treating your shoulder like a jawbreaker as he bites down, teeth sinking into you plush skin, ensure that pathetic recruit would never dare to lift his eyes again. The smell of his intoxicating cologne, combined with the smell of the cigarette still lit in his left hand, making you only mildly capable of babbling his name as he buries himself within you.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

this was so exhausting to write but it was soo worth it.

also i cant be the only one that thinks price lowkey looks like a puppy, yk? i think its the mustache.

directory

#price #price x reader #captain price x you #ao3 #suggestive #ao3 author #captain price smut #captain john price #captain price #captain price x reader #price smut #cod smut #mw2 smut #sugardaddy

[crookedkryptonitebeliever]

Best and Worst of Both Worlds (part 40)

Tw: like really bad sickness, doctors dismissing symptoms, general themes of hopelessness, shorter chapter than usual

Part 41

You were woken up by the feeling of fingers running through your hair and a presence right beside you.

You know it's Yves, so you snuggled deeper into him. Which earned you a kiss on the crown of your head.

"(Name)." You cracked open an eye and looked up to see Yves's kind eyes. Yves has changed his clothes that fit more into his usual style; a simple turtleneck and a pair of smart palazzo pants.

"It's time for you to eat, my dear." You struggled to sit up, but the pull of sleepiness proved too much for you. So, you flopped back onto him, latching onto his chest. Yves wrapped his arms around you again and buried his face in your hair.

You groggily told him that you're not hungry and you simply wanted to cuddle some more.

"We could do that after your meal." He mumbled, closing his eyes in bliss as well.

You said no, you wanted to bask in his touch now. Vibrations can be felt when he hummed in response.

"How spoiled." Hissed Yves with mock distaste. "But, I wouldn't have you any other way." He continued, softening his tone.

You grinned, feeling his hands rub soothing circles on your back.

"I will give you ten more minutes. Then, you must eat. Did I make myself clear?" You nodded, pressing your face against him. A chuckle reverberates through his ribcage.

You relaxed even more, and enjoyed the attention you were receiving. Whereas Yves had a lot on his mind.

It's been a day since he last stepped foot into the courthouse or prison, and he should be discharging you today.

Your family back in your home country still doesn't have an inkling of any idea about what you went through. While Yves is pleased that you're completely relying on him, it also worries him that your support system is practically non-existent.

Despite being possessive over you, he also knows that you're still young and a human, you need the presence of other relationships to develop healthily. Yves wouldn't want to shorten your life expectancy nor would he want to fry your neurons just because he was selfish during your formative years.

He also wanted that domesticity where you would introduce him to your parents, and it becomes his duty to charm them. Not that it's of any challenge of him to do so.

He twirled your hair around his fingers as he pondered the reality around him. He stopped when he heard a change in your breathing. You fell back asleep.

Yves sighed and rested his hand next to your head, Checking the clock in the room.

You're not physically starving, and neither is this a sign of some serious underlying cause. Why not let you rest against him a little longer?

He pulled the blanket to your shoulders before snuggling closer.

__

Mr. Jones lost almost everything when Evangeline let her mask slip that day. He lost his daughter and his wife; they fought and fought over the matter, where Mr. Jones mostly defended his little girl's actions. She refused to acknowledge that she was partially at fault as well, for not paying attention to Evangeline's behavior.

His wife demanded to get a divorce, and they were still living together in the same house. But sleeping in separate rooms. She would have moved back into her mother's home, but they had no space for her. Seeing that Mr. Jones is unlikely to hurt her out of rage, she stays until she can afford to start the process of separation and get her own place.

The legal fees for Evangeline devastated their combined savings, and both of them had to take up extra hours of work just to put food on the table. It's for the best, this limits the interaction between them at home.

Mr. Jones undoubtedly loved his wife, so it felt like his world was crumbling when she started looking away. He missed their morning talks, the love between them and their daughter. Tears were shed, but he had to keep them under control if he wanted to keep his remaining clients. Customers started dropping him after learning about his daughter's deeds, not wanting to associate themselves with a relative of a depraved criminal.

The ones who stayed are either clueless or not as concerned about their reputation. The company that hires him to work as a professional chauffeur is notably withholding customers from him, most likely due to them hearing about the case too.

The couple disagreed on everything after that fateful day, there were verbal fights daily and unbearable tensions between them. The house felt more like a concrete box with no air holes, so there were days Mr. Jones would even sleep in his car.

However, one day, there was something that they could finally agree on. And that is a beautiful gift hamper addressed to the Jones family.

It was from Yves, containing expensive wines, luxury chocolates, imported perfumes, an exquisite, living room display piece, a set of crystal glassware, and shiny jewelry. This sympathy gift was surely not cheap nor easy to put together, the items are either rare to come by or custom-made.

There was a sealed envelope inside, it made both husband and wife cry upon reading his printed letter with his name embossed onto it.

It said,

It has been a tumultuous time for all persons involved. I can only imagine the anguish you must have felt as parents. There will be differences between the two of you regarding this, conflict is to be expected. Despite what Evangeline has done, she deserves a whole and loving family. Please accept this as a gift of sympathy. Wishing you strength and understanding, with the courage to overcome the turbulence as a team. -Yves.

They embraced each other, forgiving for each other's transgressions and apologizing for their mistakes as well. Mr. Jones's wife retracted her request for a divorce and expressed regret for even bringing that up. Yves is right, they have to stay together for their daughter. Evangeline needs them more than ever, they cannot let the family fall apart.

Both of them felt the weight of their guilt crushing their bones. Yves is such a kind man for caring about their wellbeing although his partner is a victim of a horrible crime done by their child. It was such a nice gesture, they thought he had a heart of gold that withstood the blows of the steely mallet of cruelty. They wished so badly for this to never happened, they wished to make it right but they couldn't afford to. They had no idea how to. Especially when Yves filed for a restraining order against them shortly after.

So they carried on. Appreciating the goodies and savoring them. Among the pristine jewelry, there was a suncatcher with charming little gems woven in intricate patterns. Mr. Jones found it quite nice and decided to hang it on his rear-view mirror. It garnered quite a handful of compliments from his clients and friends alike. There is a gorgeous necklace that pairs well with all his wife's outfits, so she would wear them regularly and receive praise from her coworkers.

The piece of decor really helped to bring the living room together, the couple would catch themselves smiling at it, as the item reminded them of Yves's goodwill.

The glassware made the gifted wines taste better by elevating their appearance, they sounded delightful too when clinked together.

Eventually, his wife moved back into the master bedroom, the lit candles from Yves's basket smelled heavenly and relaxed their nerves especially when they had rough days at work.

They were enjoying them too much to connect the dots.

They thought the clumps of hair that fell in the showers were due to stress with all the legal shenanigans going on. The frequent headaches and strange sores that appeared around the chest of Mr. Jones's wife, and Mr. Jones's forehead were probably due to the immense pressure they were facing due to financial instability.

They worked long hours every day, so it made sense to feel fatigued and dizzy sometimes. Except it isn't normal to feel it almost daily.

The frequent vomiting and diarrhea must have been due to stress. It couldn't be from the chocolates, that were eaten weeks ago! The doctors told them that their weakened immune system from overworking made them susceptible to the most rudimentary of diseases. They're just unlucky to have caught a stomach bug from somewhere.

That explains the frequent fevers too, they're hindering their ability to work. Mr. Jones kept losing clients because they also fell ill with similar symptoms. He was double-masked, but nothing seemed to stop the spread of this mystery virus.

The tests showed nothing out of the ordinary for them, except the bacteria or virus of the illness they were suffering at the time. They felt horrible for thinking Yves had tampered with the food, especially after sending it to a lab for analysis to come back negative for any poisons or biohazardous materials.

They had their house tested for mold. Nothing. The husband and wife had to spend a weekend off to try and locate whatever was causing their prolonged sickness. They cleaned everything, from top to bottom, and eradicated every particle of dust in their home. Still, it persists.

The couple couldn't smell, hear, see, or feel anything out of the ordinary, it is making them go insane. They couldn't figure out for the life of them, what is slowly leading them to their death?

They're tired. Too tired to wonder why their electronics are glitching out and sometimes even shutting down randomly. Their cameras are weirdly taking fuzzy pictures, this is especially annoying to Mrs. Jones, when she has to scan a photo of a document only to come out distorted and illegible.

They're exhausted. Too exhausted to question the doctors who kept telling them that they were fine, they must have been simply too stressed. The only remedy was to stop working as much and worrying too much. Fully believing the couple would bounce back to full health when they heed their advice. Thinking that their immune system would regain strength to fight against the constant infections. The professionals were too busy, too apathetic to look a bit closer. To peek into the microscope once more.

They would have found unusual alterations in their red blood cells' DNA and white blood cell count. But they didn't, dooming the Jones to a terrible fate.

Mr. Jones kept forgetting his routes, stumbling over his words as he would experience bouts of confusion. Mrs. Jones would misremember where she put her important documents or the agreed time when she had to meet her supervisors.

The couple has lost a substantial amount of weight, they were ghoulish and sickly, finding it a challenge to even handle their own body weight. They're in constant agony every minute, and neither can sleep it off or ignore the pain, there isn't much they can do without knowing the cause of their misery.

But they kept going on. They have to for the sake of their family. For the sake of Evangeline.

The Jones only has a couple more weeks to find out what is causing these before it's too late. However, being this severely mentally and physically incapacitated led them to miss a laughably straightforward solution of buying a Geiger Muller Counter. Especially when Mr. Jones knew Yves has a strong background in mathematics and physics.

Mr and Mrs Jones held onto each other as they closed their eyes after retiring early for the day, praying that this wouldn't be their last night in this world.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere oc #yandere male #oc yves #yandere concept #tw yandere #yandere x you #yandere oc x reader #male yandere oc x reader

[lifeofkaze]

A Search for Balance

CHAPTER 41 : SKYE'S SURPRISE

Find the masterlist with all chapters of this story here, the previous chapter here, and the next one here.

FROM THE QUIDDITCH PITCH INTO THE WORLD CUP STANDS

Rita Skeeter recaps the breathtaking season finale of 1993/94 and talks World Cup rumours, favourites and broomstick lengths of the world’s finest Quidditch players.

The dust has only just settled on the Montrose Magpies’ championship win, but already, the eyes of Quidditch fans all around the world have turned to Dartmoor, where the national teams participating in the 422nd World Cup are gearing up for the preliminary rounds (read about tournament placements ranked by looks in collaboration with Witch Weekly on page 37).

The pitch of the newly built Trillenium Stadium won’t be the only place to watch, however. The list of illustrious guests expected to attend is long, including a plethora of Ministry associates, social butterflies, and League players who didn’t make their national rosters (stay informed by subscribing to the Daily Prophet’s immediate World Cup news service, more information on page 40). 

Will former Wanderers star Elizabeth Jameson - last season’s biggest guarantor of drama - show her face in Dartmoor, too? Is her sudden absence from the limelight due to her crushing shame at sacrificing her integrity on the altar of success? Or was her failed shot that cost the Wanderers the championship just a pathetic pass rather than cold calculation? Have the Magpies truly gained an asset in her, or will she turn out to be nothing but a bad egg in Montrose’s nest?

The summer break was well underway, and the impending start of the Quidditch World Cup all magical Great Britain seemed to talk about. For once, Lizzie didn’t have a mind to join in the excitement. While her friends and teammates were gearing up to either play or watch the tournament, she had used her time to pack up her old life in Wigtown and settle into her new one in Montrose. 

Most of her new colleagues were away for their annual leave, but those who’d stayed, Lizzie had joined in a couple of casual practice sessions already. The Magpies were a good team, the mood between the players great, but somehow, Lizzie struggled to connect with them. 

Having to say goodbye to Skye and the rest of the Wanderers had been tough, worse even than she had imagined. She did well enough during the days, but the nights were a different matter altogether. When she lay in bed, moonlight filtering through her window and Mouse warm against her stomach, the thoughts of Orion refused to be kept at bay any longer.

They hadn’t bothered with a big goodbye. Both of them had known what lay ahead when Skye had escorted them from the stands and back to the changing rooms, and putting it into words would have hurt more than necessary. When the party had begun to dwindle out, Orion had simply slipped away, a slight incline of his head and a smile on his lips as he stood in the doorway.

Lizzie was glad they hadn’t drawn it out, but the moment he’d turned away, a door inside her had fallen shut, which she had tried to keep closed ever since. In the first few weeks after her departure, they had exchanged a couple of letters but had eventually stopped. There were too many unsaid things between them, too many regrets and could-have-beens. 

It was early August, and shaping up to be another beautiful summer day. Lizzie had stayed up late tending to her broomstick and gear, so when a rigorous knocking sounded on her front door shortly after sunrise, she almost fell out of bed in her hurry to answer it. Stifling a yawn, she blinked into the morning sun as she opened the door. All at once, her tiredness was blown away.

“Morning, Jameson.”

“Skye?” Lizzie said in astonishment. “What are you doing here?”

Skye’s grin was as wide as Lizzie’s eyes. “Dragging you from bed, it seems.” Her eyebrows rose curiously. “Eager, are we? Wearing your jersey already?” 

“I’m not,” Lizzie replied curtly, pulling her dressing gown tighter over the old Magpies jersey she had taken from her keepsake box. Thankfully, Skye didn’t push the topic further. 

“So, how is it? Tough business, being a Quidditch champion?” 

“Not if you’ve seen one of your dad’s boot camps.” Lizzie stepped aside to let Skye inside. “Speaking of it, isn’t that about to start soon?”

“Got postponed until after the World Cup.” Skye cast a curious look around Lizzie’s new home. “Not bad, I gotta say. For Montrose, that is.”

“I like it,” Lizzie shrugged as she made her way into the kitchen. “The company’s not quite as illustrious, but the quiet is divine.” 

“You can just admit you miss me.” Skye must have seen the look on Lizzie’s face because her teasing grin disappeared. She sighed. “Come on, don’t look at me like that. It was a joke, wasn’t it?”

Lizzie only hummed in response. A thought striking her, she paused, her spoon loaded with sugar still hovering over the cup of coffee she had been preparing. 

“I never gave you my address. How did you even find me?”

Skye scratched her nose. “McNully gave it to me.”

“What are you writing to Murphy for?”

“Stuff,” Skye shrugged, taking the two cups and a bottle of orange juice from the counter and carrying them to the table. Pulling a chair out for herself, she nearly dropped everything when Mouse came into view, hissing loudly before scurrying away into another room.

“Miss you too, you fleabag,” Skye muttered, sitting down on Mouse’s chair. She waited until Lizzie had joined her before she spoke again. “How’s your first few weeks here been? No one’s heard much from you.” 

“I’ve kept busy,” Lizzie mumbled, rubbing her thumb over a crack in her old Hufflepuff mug. “Settling in, and all.”

“Sure thing,” Skye said and raised her eyebrows. “So busy you didn’t even have time to write? Not even to Orion?” 

Lizzie stiffened. “That’s different.”

“Is it?”

“We decided to just leave it be. It’s hurting enough without us picking at the wound, too.” She was silent momentarily, fiddling with the ends of her plait. Then, she asked quietly, “How is he?”

“Not good,” Skye said grimly. “Turned even more broody and cryptic than usual, and that’s saying something. He’s at McNully’s for the season break, maybe the blathering will cheer him up a bit.” She gave Lizzie an innocent look. “Wouldn’t hurt to pay them a visit, I’d wager.”

Immediately, Lizzie shook her head. “Absolutely not.”

“Why? Bet my new Comet Orion would be happy to see you. And it ain’t like anyone would tell.”

“Tell what? Forget it, Skye. I’m a Magpie now, and he’s a Wanderer. It is what it is.”

“But -”

“Let it be. Please.” 

Awkward silence filled the kitchen. Skye’s eyes trailed to the window, her face lighting up upon spotting a brown owl sitting on the window sill. 

“Looks like your post is here.”

Letting the owl inside, she dropped the coins Lizzie handed her into the pouch on its leg and received the rolled-up newspaper in turn. Not bothering with giving it to Lizzie first, she was already rustling through the Daily Prophet’s pages as she returned to her seat. 

“Rita Skeeter’s spouting her nonsense again. Thank Godric she’s going back to her gossip once the World Cup’s over.”

Lizzie grimaced. “What’s she writing this time?”

“The usual bollocks about the latest conspiracy theories, why the last preliminary game was definitely rigged, why Bulgaria’s Seeker is a hottie…”

She snorted, making Lizzie giggle. 

“Anything else?” 

“Yeah, she did another section on…” Skye abruptly closed the newspaper. “Nevermind.” 

“What? Let me see.”

“It’s just nonsense,” Skye said quickly, holding the Prophet out of Lizzie’s reach.

Lizzie arched her eyebrows. “Skye? What is it?”

“Told you, nothing.”

Staring at each other, Lizzie reached for the Prophet again, Skye trying to keep her away from it all the while. They grappled shortly before Lizzie managed to wind the sport’s section from Skye’s hands. Her feeling of triumph faded as she read through the article.

“She can’t be serious,” she whispered. “She can’t really think I missed that shot on purpose, can she?”

“No one thinks that,” Skye said hurriedly.

“I’d never,” Lizzie shook her head, pacing up and down the kitchen. “I misjudged my throw. It happens. It could have happened against the Cannons just the same.”

“Hardly,” Skye muttered, but Lizzie paid her no mind.

“She only says that because the story about me and Matthew blew up in her face. Does she even know what she’s doing there? What if anyone believes her?”

“Jumping Jarveys, Jameson!” Skye almost shouted to be heard over Lizzie’s increasingly agitated muttering. “Hold your Hippogriffs, will you? No one believes that Skeeter witch.”

Lizzie sniffed. “Are you sure?”

“Sure as a Quaffle’s red. And even if someone did, who cares? The team knows the truth, and they’d tell it to anyone who’s doubting you.”

“Even now that I’ve left?”

“Especially now that you’ve left.” She elbowed Lizzie in the side. “Once a Wanderer, always a Wanderer… That’s what the team is about.” 

“Thank you,” Lizzie smiled weakly. Pulling herself together, she asked, “How’s the team, anyway? Has your dad recovered from being runner-up two years in a row?”

Skye snorted. “If you knew what he has in store for next season… not like I’m gonna tell you, of course.”

“Of course.”

“But we’re in for some serious work. Gotta suss out the new dynamic now that you’re gone. We’re not yet sure who’s gonna replace you for good, but so far, Yarwood’s been doing quite well.”

Lizzie had expected as much. She had thought she’d feel bitter about it but was surprised to find she didn’t. 

“Good for her. Morgaine deserves a shot at being a regular.” 

Skye made a derisive noise. “Not sure I’m as chuffed for her as you are.”

With wide eyes, Lizzie listened to Skye’s recount of how Morgaine had approached her before their first practice after the final. How she had admitted that Matthew had played on her frustration at constantly standing in Lizzie’s shadow, and how he had, bit by bit, made her believe that, if Ethan was too blind to recognise Morgaine’s talent, she would have to make him see sense another way. 

“She took your necklace from your bag the day you wanted to break up with McRae and then watched us tear each other apart,” Skye said glumly. “Couldn’t believe it when she told me. Lucky for her, Tweed and Docherty weren’t there to give me their bats.”

Lizzie shook her head. “I would have thought a lot of her, but never that.”

“No, me neither. Gave her a good earful about it, and I think she came around. I won’t have no traitors on my team.”

“Did you tell your dad about it?”

“No. Yarwood messed up alright, but at least she had the guts to tell me. In a way, she got played by McRae just the same as we.”

“She wasn’t the first to fall for Matthew’s tricks. Sadly, I don’t think she’ll be the last one, either.”

Skye looked revulsed at the sheer thought of Matthew. “Have you ever heard from him again?”

“No, he has wreaked enough havoc in my life.” Lizzie sighed. “The only downside is the World Cup. He’d gotten us tickets, but I can obviously write those off now.”

Much to Lizzie’s surprise, Skye’s mouth curved into a smirk. “About that…”

She reached into her rucksack and produced a large scroll of parchment, which she tossed to Lizzie. When Lizzie saw what it contained, her eyes widened. 

“Where did you get this?” she almost squealed. “The World Cup final has been sold out for months!”

“I’m a Parkin, am I not?” Skye grinned. “If we want Quidditch tickets, we get them. Jokes aside, Lewis was going to bring his girlfriend, but she ditched him a little while ago, so I asked him if I could get her ticket for you. Can’t let you miss the World Cup, can I?”

“I don’t even know what to say. Thank you so much!”

“Don’t go all mushy on me, it’s a win-win for us both. Never liked Lewis’ girlfriend anyway. She was a Falcons fan, can you imagine?” 

Lizzie stifled a giggle. “What was Lewis thinking?”

“My words exactly.” Skye leaned forward, excitement flashing in her eyes. “Wait and see, Jameson. This final is gonna be one for the ages.”

#hphm #hogwarts mystery #harry potter hogwarts mystery #quidditch #orion amari #orion amari x mc #lizzie jameson #skye parkin #balance series #search for balance #sfb

[scarletwritesshit]

Yosuke Hanamura x F!Reader ❀ Town of Blossoms ❀ June 2nd, 2013

The temperature had cooled off slightly from the day before, but the blistering heat was still beyond intolerable. Still didn’t feel cool enough to safely step outside of the house, that's for sure. The windows in your room were being kept shut for the day. No point in being counterproductive and letting the heat into your house, as the refreshing wind had unfortunately subsided.

It was only two days into June, and the summer season was far from officially starting. The heat wave was already overwhelming the residents of Inaba, and all of Japan was soon to be at the mercy of Mother Nature.

You decided to tune into the local weather channel to get an idea as to how the week would play out. It bought back memories of the days the Investigation Team was still together, hunting down the murderer practically around the clock. It was both traumatic and nostalgic, in an odd sense.

The forecast for the next seven days showed sunlight, sunlight, and more sunlight with even worse temperatures...basically just the usual blazing June heat with some added spice on top. In other words, this season was going to be absolutely miserable.

At least fog was nowhere in the foreseeable future. Those nights were always the most painful to endure, even if dead bodies were no longer being found hanging from telephone poles.

With the purpose of you watching the weather channel finally fulfilled, you turned the television off, as no cable tv shows could possibly entertain you on a day dragging on this horribly.

The fan was failing to properly cool you off, so you decided to head to the freezer and acquire an ice pop. Considering the extent of the heat, the ice pops had been quite a hit in the household, causing warehouse sized bulk packages to be burned through in mere days. Opening the freezer, you were in luck, as one ice pop remained shoved off to the side, perfectly out of sight for an emergency like this.

Problem is, now you had no ice pops left for later. With the heat absolutely refusing to let up, this could spell bad news for your survival over the course of the season. Ironically enough, it was the perfect reason for you to brave the heat with a greater goal in mind. A restock on ice pops was just the excuse you needed to head down to Junes.

Why would you need an excuse to go to Junes, exactly? Well, a certain friend of yours spends at least 40 hours a week there, and it was the perfect opportunity to catch him during his break period for a quick talk.

Of course, you could always simply barge into the place with no real purpose other than to see him, but after a while, it would begin to feel a bit weird. Maybe even creepy if he took it the wrong way. You two were close friends though, perhaps all that each other had at this point. Unfortunately, it didn't make things any less awkward. It arguably made it worse, in a sense.

At least this time, you were desperate for some ice pops. But not desperate enough that they couldn't wait another day. After all, tomorrow was going to be two whole degrees cooler. Makes sense to go on the cooler day…right?

You weren't fooling anyone, not even yourself. You very strategically planned your trip to occur during the time Yosuke was on his break, just so you could spend the majority of your time there talking with him. It would turn an otherwise 15-minute trip to acquire sometimes simple and small into an hour-long commitment.

Well, you're there, so why not make it worth the trip and hang out with your closest friend, right?

No matter how you attempted to justify it, you couldn’t run from the truth of wanting to grow even closer to him.

With a plan finalized to head down to Junes tomorrow afternoon, you kicked the blankets off of your bed and rotated your fan in your direction. It wasn't even rotating in an attempt to spread what little cool air you had throughout your room; the cold air was all being directed towards you and you alone. You laid down on your bed, as the heat had drained you to the point of being unable to sit up properly. Too hot to take a nap, too hot to go outside, and still too hot to meet up with anyone. This year's summer season was going to be arguably as bad as being thrown into the eternal flames themselves.

And you had just eaten the last ice pop too...

You turned your head slightly to look out of the window, yearning to get out of this prison that was unfortunately your only protection from the merciless sun. You glanced at the pink flowers, which were quiet and still as the wind from yesterday had completely died out. However, what caught your attention was a small batch of purple hydrangeas in the midst of the sea of pink blossoms. You focused on them for a brief moment, and wondered what meaning this could possibly hold.

Considering the flowers themselves, this usually signaled different soil conditions. What was most unusual, however, was the seemingly random but strong standing patch of purple in the midst of all of this pink. Though, why should this matter to you? They’re just flowers, aren’t they? You’ll forget about them once their beauty fades away for the season, and something more eye catching is bound to replace any memories of them that may still linger.

The sun was beginning to take a toll on your eyes, so you looked away from the window and instead directed your attention to the nightstand. It was at least clear of the countless empty water bottles that previously cluttered the space. The picture frame that stood next to the lamp, however, caught your eye.

Kanji, Souji, and Yosuke standing tall and proud in the back with Teddie, Rise, Yukiko, Chie, Naoto, and yourself in the front was quite a sight to behold. Arguably, the only normal one in the entirety of the image was Souji, but even then, his normally calm and collected nature seemed downplayed by Rise attempting to inconspicuously push herself as close to him as possible. Naoto stood proudly showing off her longer hair, while still wearing her trademark detective outfit. Yosuke appeared rather pleased to have both you and Naoto standing so close to him, as he was unable to resist the company of almost anyone female. With Souji standing directly beside him, he looked as if he couldn’t possibly be happier.

Teddie was not very photogenic. Despite being stuck in a television for almost the entirety of his life, he sure wasn’t exactly the best when it came to posing for the camera. He was lucky to get in the frame, as Chie was shoving him to the side out of annoyance for his disregard of personal space. Yukiko was attempting to take the group shot seriously, but if you looked close enough, it was clear that she was holding back a massive grin.

You were able to recall Yukiko bursting out into a fit of laughter after the shot was taken. As a group, you all agreed that there would be no use in getting a “perfect picture,” but perhaps this was how things were meant to be.

Well, if things were meant to be this way, then you all wouldn’t have drifted apart in such a fashion. To your knowledge, the majority of the team no longer spoke to each other. At least you still had the occasional conversation with Souji, and much to your surprise, Naoto. Other than Yosuke, everyone must’ve decided to walk their own path in life, alone.

Or perhaps they decided to move on with each other, just without you. That thought, although unlikely, pained you to even consider. You could only begin to imagine was Yosuke was feeling with the dissolving of the Investigation Team’s bonds. You knew that he struggled with loneliness frequently, even with a tight knit group of supportive friends, and you couldn’t help but worry about how he really felt about all of this.

It seemed as if history was once again repeating for him. His old friends from the city never once dropped him a line, but the Investigation Team gave him hope. For a fair bit of time after the case was solved once and for all, you were able to recall him laughing at texts sent by the now former Investigation Team. That joy faded away quickly, unfortunately, and you were able to understand why when one day he admitted that hardly anyone bothered to speak to him anymore.

These days, it felt like you two were in the same situation, desperately clinging to each other for any form of companionship. It was a fact remaining unspoken, but you two were practically impossible to separate. In addition to this, there were clear signs of a deep bond between you two forming back in the days of the Inaba murders, and the implications held up over time seeing as how you two could stand each other long enough to text into ungodly hours of the night.

So why didn’t either of you bother to confess any sort of feelings? The answer was simple; the fear of losing a important friendship. At this point, though, if both of you were as close as you acted, then it wasn’t hard to assume that you were dating…

The weight of your feelings was becoming impossible to bear, especially at a time like this. You cared deeply for him, willing to make sure that he would always have someone by his side, no matter what life threw at him. It pained you to see him slowly lose spirit and return to the same forced smile that he had to mask himself with before he had managed to become close to anyone on the Investigation Team.

A tough situation for both of you, really.

Regardless of the lingering risk that came with a confession, you still wanted to tell Yosuke exactly how you felt. It was unlikely that it would cause any direct harm to your bond as a whole, as he seemed to be quite a fan of romance and companionship himself. Or so you hoped.

Even if he had no interest in pursuing a romantic relationship with you, at least he would be aware that someone does care for him and didn’t plan on leaving him behind in the foreseeable future. The goal here was to remain lifelong partners, one way or another. As long as both of you could smile together, somehow, then the ending would be satisfactory.

You debated this throughout the entirety of the afternoon. It seemed like it would be easiest to go ahead and tell him, freeing your mind up of the burden right then and there. That, was arguably the worst move that you could possibly make, though. If Yosuke was that special to you, shouldn’t you make a confession actually feel special, for both you and him? A text message just wouldn’t cut it.

A proper confession would have to wait, which meant no rushing into it today. Or tomorrow, even.

When the sun had at last set, you were finally spared from both the light and some of the agonizing heat. Despite not doing much at all today, you felt drained, both physically and mentally. The heat truly sucked the life out of you, and dragging around the weight of loneliness sure as hell wasn’t helping either. At least some mercy would be shown towards your drained after the air cools off a little in the middle of the night.

One task remained, however. All day, you and Yosuke had neglected to text each other so much as a simple greeting. It wasn’t the end of the world obviously, but he had been occupying your mind for quite some time now, and would hurt to leave him in the dark any more than he has been lately.  

You stretched your arm over to grab your phone while attempting to move as little as possible. The lights in your bedroom were already out, making the phone screen an unpleasant flashbang for your eyes. You had become numb to the lack of recent texts present in your contacts, but in the back of your mind, it really irked you to not check in on someone you constantly worried about.  

Maybe you were exaggerating, but you didn’t wish for Yosuke to fade from your life in the same way that vibrant blossoms disappear at the end of a season.

I’ll see you at Junes tomorrow, okay? I need to stop by anyways.

Good night.

You were about to tack on a “dear” at the end of that statement, but you didn’t allow yourself to in this brief moment of vulnerability. 

#persona 4 #p4 #fanfiction #fanfic #fluff #yosuke hanamura #yosuke hanamura x reader

[madmanrambler]

I am trying to spook a small lizard off my car. My grandmother is watching, with patience but not patiently, as she needs to be taken to the doctor for a procedure. (It is not a surgery. Removing the port that once helped carry chemo drugs into her is not a surgery. It is not scary. I know it is not scary. She does as well. We ignore how we feel.) We are leaving 40 minutes before our arrival to a place that is 20 minutes away. (do not think about my father and how his chronic tardiness made me chronically early. I do not need to delve. It is simply written on me. I do not need to read it.)

I could simply leave the lizard, trust that he will run off as the car rumbles and begins to move. I do not want to risk this poor lizard being caught in something and hurting or dying. My grandmother knows this, which is why she is waiting with patience. I can't find the shock of green under my car anymore. (My favorite color is green. The lizard was a jolly green. I called lizards wizards when I was first learning words and grinned when I said it.) I eventually sigh and get up, unable to find him and aching from a workout the night before. I will have to trust the lizard made the right choice.

We drive in quiet. My music is set to random and played low enough I doubt my grandmother can hear more then white noise. (She is near deaf and refuses a cochlear implant. I have quietly wondered at how I would handle not being able to hear in the manner she can't. It would be survival, but I'm not sure how happily I would live without a cochlear.) We talk, occasionally discussing things. The city we're driving through, it's history and our memories of it. (Do not think about us moving.) We pass a basin that floods every major rain. It is flourishing with wild grass and beautiful trees that stand through floods. (We are moving in the end of the month. Everyone in the family is observing. I am the only one here the make decisions about the move. That does not mean I am the only one allowed opinions [do not think about the move right now] I have been grateful for advice, knowing it is all well intentioned).

We arrive at the appointment. Neither of us remembers the building. I argue that it was during a whirlwind of cancer treatments. She laughs and admits neither of us have ever had the head for remembering places. (We are 15 miles from the house. A massive distance for a small garden lizard. If the lizard is still aboard it has traveled so far, gone miles [do not think about the move] to places it has never seen before.)

I walk my grandmother up to the appointment. The practice has old fashioned chairs, all velvet and wide angled. My grandmother sits in one and sighs. I enjoy her enjoyment quietly. (This has always made our lives livable. This enjoyment of enjoyment. [When was the last time you enjoyed something purely and deeply |DO NOT THINK ABOUT THE MOVE| with your whole heart?] I are happy I can enjoy someone's enjoyment, regardless of how much this has asked of me.) You have to stay in the front while they take her back for the procedure (it is not a surgery, it will be totally fine.)

I sit, and I wait. My music keeps me company as best it can. Others walk in, and settle, and wait. They chat in other languages. (Will the new town have that pleasure of multiple cultures and languages and divergent thoughts all sharing in life? [Is this a safe place to think about the move? All alone. Don't think about it.] I hope I can find those that think differently, no matter how small the town.) I keep my music low, not to listen to their words but to their cadence, their emotions. The tones and colors of their life. The complexities of life that brings you to a vein specialist, all the good and bad.

I sit in this moment, and I think about poetry. About how I love to write it but rarely do. About how I constantly return to the image of my chest filling with blood from a leaking heart. Maybe I'm just a melodramatic little thinker, I think to myself. I curl up in the chair and think about poetry and life as I wait for my grandmother to exit. I suppose I should think about lunch too.

#mad man ramblin #poetry I guess #or just a story #more a vibe

[raffertydemant52]

Silent Signals The Gesture For The 21St Century

In all spiritual traditions meditation is amongst main practices to get connected with God, Spirit, Oneness. The habit of smoking of meditation is a basis for all real comprehension. Later that evening, the two men, backed by the choir, stood in front of probably the most important altar in St. Nicholas Church (Nikolaus-Kirche) in Oberndorf and sang "Stille Nacht! Heilige Nacht!" for the first time. beyond compare Registration Key could hardly imagine effect their composition would placed on the sector. It tells you that your sex partner uses treatment. The silent treatment is punishment. Individuals meted out in response to something that you simply did or did not do. May meant to help you be fear your partner's a reaction to you that means you will be a little more careful in the future. Your partner didn't like your behavior and its refusing to activate with you in order to teach you to not do it again. Your family believes that he/she includes right to punish . This implies a parent-child relationship which your partner feels he/she has the authority to discipline you as your superior. In addition, it tells you that your partner is prepared hurt an individual. Healthy people don't purposely hurt each other; instead they locate ways so as to avoid it. The thing about this particular sequel is that viewers could watch it without seeing the first film without being be lost at all in the situation. As stated earlier, the earliest 40 minutes of this film usually a presentation of its forerunners. I do understand that even though for Silent Night, Deadly Night Part 2 is less compared to typical movie would be but one must look at successful movies of the past, like Rocky. Their budget was so small, those involved the particular film actually had to gain access to some of the matters needed for production. Look what evolved as the result! Adolescents discuss a stage where they develop a make of contempt loved ones living-and they show it. Teens who are better-behaved personal computer passive regarding it. Often they'll shrug, roll their eyes and say "whatever." They are certainly not really being aggressive or abusive, however are not engaging with you, either. If you have had an adolescent who is acting method but to get complying while using house rules, I recommend that you just leave it alone. The idea of replacing certain thoughts online websites may sound a bit mystical at first, but it is practical bad particularly harder. However, it is not automatic. It has to be practiced. Otherwise, when you execute some secret action, before concerning it, a notion about this action will be found in your view. But if beyond compare Activation Code Free practice, while seriously concentrating, to supplant such thoughts with presentational ones, eventually the divorcing of secret actions from opinion of them will become easier and simpler. If the film transfer lab provides add background music at no charge, make it happen . Should decide job like the music, you are able to always mute it. Though chances are that the lab uses time-tested music choices an individual also will enjoy watching your old silent films along with a emotion-evoking background music. If you decide to transfer you home movies onto a working computer hard drive (as quicktime or avi files), then do not add music. This is because the majority of customers who transfer their 8mm, super 8 or VHS films onto your personal computer HD do this in order to edit the clips. The purpose of editing can be to trim out some sections, add titles or transactions. In that point, you can add background music of selecting.

#SILENT HUNTER

[samuel-de-champagne-problems]

Though I Can't Recall Your Face, I Still Got Love For You

Summary: Spencer’s always been ambivalent about his birthday, but self proclaimed lover of birthday’s Y/N attempts to change that.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female Reader

Warnings: Spencer’s kind of a sad bitch. Question: Why do I like writing sad Spencer?

Word Count: 2.5 K- ish

Author’s Note: prompts come from here this one is 4,8,25 from @shemarmooresfedora !! please go check out her blog on here and on Ao3!! Also, I’m stilling taking requests for numbers. I’ll update for which ones have been taken 💕

Though I Can’t Recall Your Face, I Still Got Love for You

Birthdays were always hard when all you had to do is go home to an empty house. No sounds of friends crowding the dining room table, no laughter from family members, no well wishes or pats on the back. All there is, is the stillness of silence and the emptiness of solitude. Spencer thought that he was used to it. He remembers the way the sun felt on his face the morning he woke up on his 18th birthday. His first thought wasn’t it’s my day, but it’s the day I put my mom away. The day Spencer became a man, was the first day he really wished he was a little boy again.

Ever since then, birthdays have always been a sore spot for Spencer. They just bring up sour tasting memories of his mother refusing to get out of bed or his father staying late at work to avoid coming home to a wife who doesn’t remember her own husband or a son who he can’t seem to understand. Birthdays, for Spencer, have always been just another day. Or at least, that’s what Spencer tells himself on the long ride up the elevator to the 6th floor of the BAU.

The bullpen is dark when Spencer walks out from the elevator. Paperwork and manila folders clutter the desks. Even Spencer’s workspace seems to reflect himself: frozen in time. He sits at his desk, a photograph of him and his mother placed at the right corner smiles up at him. A newer photograph, one of him and Y/N, sits right next to the one with his mom. There’s one with Derek and Penelope, one with him and Gideon at his Academy graduation, and one with him and JJ, who’s holding Henry. One of him and Luke at a bar, Penelope in the background drunk and singing.

Spencer loves photographs, but recently he’s been obsessed with them. Ever since his mother’s diagnosis, the fear that would ever forget the faces that find a home in his heart paralyzes him. These pictures may very well one day tell a much more older, much more grayer Spencer the story of his life. Today, in his mind, is another day closer to his fate.

His birthday means he’s another day closer to forgetting the way Y/N eyes sparkle when she drinks too much rose, or Henry’s laugh at Spencer’s magic tricks, or feeling when Derek calls him his brother. No one, not even Y/N, knows that Spencer has a drawer filled up of photographs he’s collected over the years. He can’t deal with forgetting the principles of electromagnetism, but forgetting his family? Spencer wouldn’t have anything left, but the smiling faces of familiar strangers, whose names are just out of reach.

Spencer rubs his eyes with the ball of his palm. He knows he’s not going to get work done. Spencer spins in his swivel chair and he’s nearly startled out of his quiet thoughts when his phone rings.

“Dr. Spencer Reid,” he says, swallowing his emotions as he shuts the drawer on the shiny faces.

“You really need to start checking your caller ID, Spence,” Y/N says, with a chuckle. Spencer can practically feel the way she’s smiling. For some reason, her teasing never made him feel bad.

“Well, what do I owe this pleasure?” Spencer asks. He drums his fingers on his desk, waiting for Y/N to respond.

“It seems like we have a missing person case,” Y/N starts, “6’2 male, brown hair, some say his eyes are green and some say they’re brown, so we’ll go with hazel, and he’s like ridiculously smart, but also kind of dumb for avoiding his girlfriend on his birthday,”

Spencer sighs as he launches himself into a long spin in his chair. He’s not surprised that Y/N is calling him; she’s always loved birthdays. She’s always been someone to someone. It’s taken some time to adjust to the fact that Spencer is Y/N’s someone.

“Are you coming to rescue me?” Spencer asks sheepishly. He leans back in his chair, watching the elevator. Y/N might think she’s slick, but Spencer’s sure he knows her better than he knows geographical profiling.

“Maybe, can you tell me how fast elevators can travel up to the 6th floor?”

Spencer opens his mouth, ready to fire statistics on top of statistics, but is silenced by Y/N’s arrival. Spencer tries to remain neutral, remain ambivalent about this day being something more than any other day, but Y/N makes it difficult.

As soon as her feet leave the elevator she launches herself at Spencer, not caring that he’s less than capable of catching anything. In a tangle of arms and legs, Y/N manages to sit herself on Spencer’s lap. His hand snakes around her waist; he holds her so tight that it’s almost like he’s afraid she’s going to get blown out like birthday candles on a cake.

“I can’t believe you thought you could sneak out and come to work, on your birthday of all days,” Y/N says quietly, she threads her fingers through Spencer’s hair. She likes how long it’s gotten and his curl pattern is almost fully restored to their original health from before he went to prison.

“How’d you find me?” Spencer asks, thinking that birthdays might not be so bad if they all involve Y/N sitting in his lap and trying to braid his hair.

“Do you seriously have to ask that? Only the Oracle of Quantico,” Y/N teases and Spencer rolls his eyes, thinking he should have known that Garcia would be the one to track his location for Y/N.

“It’s vaguely illegal for a federal agent to tap into those databases, especially for a civilian,” Spencer counters. Y/N, smiling at him, dips her head down to press light kisses on his eyebrows and down the bridge of his nose.

“So’s an ex-Army Ranger giving me his key card to sneak into the BAU,”

“Luke’s in on this too,” Spencer tries to sound upset, but his heart swells at the thought of Penelope, Luke, and Y/N all instigating for his birthday.

“Of course he is, I had to bring out the big guns for my Spencer’s birthday,” Y/N quips. Her fingers climb up Spencer’s sides, tickling him. She likes the kind of laugh that he lets out when she tickles him. It’s a laugh that’s unguarded and full of life. It’s a laugh that doesn’t hold anything back. It’s a laugh that relieves the pressure that festers deep inside him.

Y/N’s hands may make him laugh, but nothing makes him beam more than hearing Y/N call him “my Spencer”. She says it so simply, like my doesn’t even exist, like it’s an involuntary muscle being flexed. For Y/N, loving Spencer came as easy and effortless as breathing.

“You do love birthdays,” Spencer says, looking up at Y/N. He spins them around in his swivel chair, giggling as she lets out a gleeful squeal. Spencer grows dizzy, but he thinks he’s dizzier from Y/N’s love than from spinning in his chair.

“I love your birthday more than any other day, even my birthday,” Y/N says, getting up from Spencer’s lap to pick up the canvas grocery bags she brought with her.

“I was never one for birthdays,” Spencer says quietly. Y/N, more than anyone, knows Spencer’s challenging past. She knows his fears and she knows his dreams. She haunts his every waking moment; somehow a mercurial threat and a constant promise at the same time.

“I know, but I’m sure I’ll make you grow to love them,” Y/N says, “I wasn’t sure which flavor you wanted so I got all of them. Wawa has a surprisingly good selection of Turkey Hill,”

She takes out three gallon sized cartons of ice cream. One coffee with chocolate chips, one butter pecan, and one Moose Tracks. She hands Spencer a spoon and a napkin before sitting down on the floor and opening a carton of the ice cream.

“I do love dairy,” Spencer says, eyeing the ice cream, but considering the consequences of eating the creamy desert. Spencer shoves the statistics about the effects of dairy on a 40 year old with lactose intolerance down and takes his spot next to Y/N on the floor.

He goes to open his carton of ice cream, coffee with chocolate chips, but before he can dig his spoon into the tub, Y/N grabs his wrist.

“No! Spence, wait. Here, take these. And you need to light it,” she says, plopping a couple lactose pills in his hand and digging out a pack of candles and a lighter from her bag.

“Y/N are you out of your mind! We can’t light something in the BAU, god, Emily will kill me,” Spencer says nervously.

“Spence, do you really think Emily Prentiss is going to give me shit for lighting a candle for your birthday in the middle of the office. That woman lives on the edge,” Y/N waves him off and lights a single candle.

Spencer, staring at the lit candle, listens as Y/N sings “Happy Birthday” to him. Sitting criss cross on the floor of the BAU, he watches as the candle light illuminates Y/N’s face. She looks almost ghostly in the dark with the flickering light making her eyes glow. Y/N wishes the song and grasps his hand and squeezes hard.

“Make a wish, baby,” Y/N tells him. She really believes in wishes. Spencer wishes he could believe in wishes. He desperately wants to believe that Clotho, Lachesis and Atropos are somehow tying knots in the places where his string has been cut.

But more than anything, Spencer can’t bear to forget the face of the women across from. He can’t bear to one day not recognize the way her hand feels in his. He can’t accept the possibility of Y/N being anything less than the person he knows best in this world. Spencer doesn’t particularly care for the metaphor of the light going out. But his fears are put at bay when Y/N leans over and pecks his cheek. He can feel her grinning against his skin and like some virus contracted through touch, it’s contagious. Y/N breaks apart from Spencer and motions for him to eat some ice cream. They sit, shoulder to shoulder, against the front of Spencer’s desk eating their ice cream.

“Thank you, for making my birthday special. It’s been a hard year,” Spencer says, letting the tension in the air speak for itself, “my mom didn’t remember me the other day. I hate seeing her like that,”

“I know, sweetheart. You’ve been through so much. That’s why you need to tell me these things,” She says, setting down her ice cream. Y/N places her hands on Spencer’s shoulders, guiding him to place his back against her chest. His head rests in the crook of her neck. Spencer can feel her steady heart beat against his back. It’s a constant, patterned drum amidst the chaos of his mind.

“Can we take a picture, you know, just to remember this day,” Spencer asks, his voice laced with trepidation. He can feel Y/N nod, and move to grab her phone from her pocket.

Spencer sits up and scoots over to open the bottom drawer of his desk. He pulls out an old camera, one where you have to wait for the picture to appear on the print out. He likes the charm in older things, you really have to work for it. He likes the effort that you have to put into getting the picture made.

“Going old school, I see,” Y/N teases as she catches sight of Spencer’s old camera. He returns to his spot, snuggled against her back. Their legs stick out on the floor, his much longer than Y/N’s. Her arms snake around his torso, holding him tight. Spencer holds the camera out, facing them to capture their faces in some archaic selfie style.

The light flashes before Spencer’s eyes, and Y/N’s kiss on the top of his head burns a hole that instantly leaves him craving more. He’d let her draw any pattern she desires, as long as her kisses are the medium and he is her canvas.

“Can you tell me what you wished for?” Y/N asks, her voice low.

Spencer, looking off into the distance, makes a disgruntled noise. He can feel Y/N’s fingers crawl up his sides and her arms encasing his body. She’s shielding him from his demons, but little does she know that the most menacing foe is his mind.

“You’re really not supposed to, but considering you’re my wish I think you have the right to know,” Spencer offers, “I wished that I’ll never forget you. Never forget this life we made together,” He feels his chest constrict. Mentioning his fear makes it seem more palpable; more real.

“Spencer, have you felt that way for a long time?,”

Spencer takes a deep breath, letting the floodgates open.

“I’ve felt like this my whole life, Y/N. I’m terrified to forget you. To forget our children that I haven’t even met yet. Forget who I am. I’m terrified that I’m going to leave you behind in a murky past that I can never remember,” Spencer says. He chokes back the pain. He doesn’t want Y/N memories of him to be marred by fear and darkness.

“This is about your mom, right. Spencer, listen to me. I’ll love you even if that comes true. I don’t need you to recall my face to know you still got love for me. And you're not leaving me behind. I won’t allow that. I’m not leaving you behind, baby,” Y/N says, her voice the most soothing cure.

She’s a power mixture of biochemicals and neurotransmitters. She heals him at an epigenetic level and restores him piece by piece. Her medicine is love.

Or maybe her love is his medicine.

“I’ve never been this scared of losing something, because I never had someone to lose,” Spencer mumbles, he twists his head so his breath is warm against Y/N’s neck. Somehow in this twisted position, Spencer has never felt safer.

“You can’t lose something that can’t be lost, my Spencer. I’m not going anywhere,”

“I love you to the moon and to Saturn,” Spencer says kissing along Y/N’s collarbones.

Like the pictures in the drawer, Spencer tucks away the fears of the future. He swallows the threat of forgetting everything because the promise of love swallows him whole. He craves a future with Y/N with the possibility of forgetting who she is over the life he’d live if he left her behind.

She said it best, even if one day he can’t recall her face, he’ll still have love for her.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

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[doiefy]

blue // na jaemin

“The winter has passed and the spring has come We have withered and our hearts are bruised from longing”

- blue, bigbang

In which one ceases to age until they find their soulmate, with whom they then grow old. In which everyone has moved on without you.

genre: soulmate!au, fluff, angst, slow burn

pairings: jaemin x female reader (written with a female character in mind, but it can easily be gender neutral!), features relationships with other dream members, briefly mentions haechan x jeno

word count: 11.6 k

warnings: language, mentions of alcohol and smoking, mentions of war, mentions of death, discussions of Korea under Japanese occupation, some of the historical references may be inaccurate.

taglist (DM, comment or Ask to be added): @simplicitysbabe Big thank you to @neojaems​ for beta reading this for me !! <333

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Your test comes back blue.

When you rip open the envelope containing your results, you find the little coloured square hidden between pages and pages of lab protocols, testing procedures and other nonsense you know no one actually has the time to read. Then there are the stupid pamphlets, the ones with overtly bright and bubbly messages reassuring people that they’ll find their “special someone” soon, slogans most likely written by people who found their soulmates before they even turned twenty. You scoff, shoving the useless papers back into the envelope and recalling the first time you tested back in 1945, right after the war. The receptionist wrote your results down on a piece of paper and nonchalantly told you to have your emotional breakdown outside.

Now you stare at the blue marking on your paper blankly. It simply means you haven’t aged biologically in ten years, but when you haven’t aged in decades, it means nothing. While the world progresses, you remain frozen in the same body, playing a cruel game with fate. And as with any game that one cannot win, you’ve slowly become bored with it, allowing it to take its course while you sit idle nearby. You feel only disappointed, and not even perplexed or surprised in the slightest. Something about meeting Jaemin just seemed too good to be true; after a lifetime of misfortune and failure, something about the bad news feels… expected. Inevitable. As if unconsciously, you knew he wasn’t the one.

Na Jaemin is not your soulmate. And you spend the walk home contemplating how you’ll tell him this.

When you unlock the door to your shared apartment, you know he’s already home, and earlier than usual: his shoes are placed meticulously on the rack by the door and his jacket is hung up next to the messenger bag he takes to work. The living room smells faintly of the pine and vanilla candle you bought last month, and you smell traces of shampoo and bodywash from the bathroom.

“I’m home!” you call out as you kick your shoes off and put them neatly next to Jaemin’s. There’s a muffled response of your name before the door to your room opens. Then his arms are around you, his face buried in the crook of your neck as he mumbles a tired greeting.

“Bad day?” You ask softly, pushing all your other thoughts to the back of your head. He looks exhausted. His hair is tucked messily under the hood of his navy sweater, still damp from the shower he took earlier. His eyes lack the usual brightness you often find yourself so immersed in, replaced with the fatigue and weariness he almost never brings home.

“I hate this company,” he sighs as you run your fingers through his hair. You feel him relax in your arms a bit. “My boss is a dick, everyone in my department hates each other and the coffee tastes like actual ass. Maybe I should just quit while I still can.”

You frown. “Jaem, you’ve been with them for literally a month. You can’t possibly be thinking about quitting already.”

“A month! A month in and I’m already having mental breakdowns under my desk at lunch. Imagine what will become of me if I spend a year there,” he scowls, but his expression softens when you kiss him reassuringly on the cheek. “Alright, alright, fine, maybe not quit, maybe I’ll just take a long, long, vacation and then retire… Move to the countryside with you…” He trails off dreamily and for a moment, you lose yourself in the fantasy he’s painted for you. The mental image of a quaint house by the ocean is quickly shattered when you remember the test results hidden in your bag. The sunflowers you envisioned surrounding the cottage are blown away in the wind, their bright yellow petals swallowed by the blueness of the sky.

“Oh, you wish,” you laugh, quickly pressing your lips to his in hopes that he won’t see your expression, that he won’t see the sadness and regret you’re fighting to suppress. “Maybe, baby, maybe one day we can do that.”

“Maybe,” he laughs, his face lighting up with the energy and liveliness that has been missing. “But enough about me. How was your day, love?”

“Mm. The same old,” you say, pulling out of his arms so you can finally take your jacket off. You crash into the couch where you fold up your scarf and toss it aside. “Stressful.”

He stares at you for a hard moment, visibly concerned as if he can tell there’s something troubling on your mind. “Is something the matter?” He asks carefully, sitting down next to you. He holds you at arm’s length so he can look at you properly. “Is this about the test?”

“What? Oh, no, not the test. I doubt the results will come in until sometime next week.” The lie slips out easier than it should, and you feel guilt slowly start to twist your insides. Just a white lie, you tell yourself. It can’t hurt anyone but yourself. He’s been through enough today. He’s tired. Not tonight. It can wait. “I’m just tired,” you shrug. “I need some dinner and a nap, then I’ll be all good again. Do we still have anything in the fridge or should we order takeout?”

“I already ordered chicken from Yong’s. I had a feeling that today would be a bad day for the both of us,” Jaemin grins. His smile is smug at first, then endearing when he sees your shock.

You practically pounce on him in excitement, and the two of you go crashing into the couch cushions until you have him pinned beneath you. “Oh my god, I fucking love you, you know that?”

Jaemin groans, curling into himself as he gives you a wounded look. “And that’s how you show your love? By trying to break my bones?”

“Besides the point,” you huff. “You aren’t going to say it back?”

“Yes, of course. I love you too.”

Unsatisfied with his answer, you lower your face so your lips are hovering just inches above his. He looks up at you starry-eyed, his fingers ghosting over your cheeks; you can’t help but notice the way his gaze travels briefly to your lips.

Then you realize how dangerous this is. You know that he’s not the one. You know that you’ll eventually part ways with him when he finds out, no matter how reluctant you’ll feel. Every moment you spend with him like this will come back to haunt you when he’s gone. It will become another reminder of what you’re about to lose, yet here you are, falling deeper into his embrace, intoxicated by his scent and lost in the depth of his eyes. You are only tying more strings between the two of you, strings that will need to be stretched and snapped. You are only making it more painful for the both of you.

But for tonight, you don’t care.

“Say it like you mean it,” you whisper.

He holds your face gently, and those sparks you felt upon your first meeting with him are still there, igniting each time he looks at you, blazing into an open flame when he tells you, “I love you.”

You kiss him with more urgency this time, your lips meeting his in a clash of teeth and tongue. He puts his hands around your waist and pulls you impossibly closer to him. For just a moment, you’re focused on only him and his presence. For just a moment, you forget about everything; the sheet of test results is just another piece of paper in your bag, the blue mark just another colour. Because tonight, he is all that matters to you.

You met Na Jaemin almost three years ago.

Though the details have faded with time, you remember your first conversation well. It began at a friend’s art show beneath the golden glow of the studio lights, the two of you surrounded by brilliant splashes of colour and bold strokes of texture. Renjun had insisted on introducing you to Jaemin before you even arrived at the gallery, and you couldn’t have possibly refused. Your friendship with Renjun goes way back to the 40s, and you often think he knows you better than you know yourself. “I think he could be good for you,” he told you quietly just before leaving to speak with his other guests.

At first, Jaemin seemed timeless. It was as if he didn’t belong to any particular time period, as if he had lived to see several generations rise and fall, but had never risen or fallen with any of them. Dressed elegantly in a fitted turtleneck and a wool coat, he appeared youthful and contemporary; yet the way he spoke hinted at a certain maturity, at wisdom and sagacity. There was something charming about him too, something about the way he recounted events of the past and drew you in with only his words.

Next to a breathtaking oil painting of the sea, you discovered your commonalities. He was almost two decades younger, but like you, had spent his entire life searching for a partner without much success. You were delighted to learn that he had also worked in teaching—though he mentioned changing careers frequently whenever things became too mundane. He was effortlessly intriguing, and every word he spoke was lively and animated. He infused your conversations with colours, painted everything in bright yellows and aquamarines that matched the swirling paint strokes of the artworks around you, left you wanting to know more without even trying.

You left the gallery that night with his number in your coat pocket. Needless to say, Renjun was thrilled.

Weeks passed before you saw him again. Your busy schedules always managed to get in the way of your plans, but the two of you still kept in touch, chatting late into the night and well into the early hours. As the months went by, you dared to hope that maybe he was the one.

You immediately scolded yourself for being naive. With all your past partners, you had been hopeful in the same way, only to be let down in the end. Your test when you were with Donghyuck came back blue, as did the one with Mark. Both have since moved on, found their soulmates and written their happy endings. Even if you still stay in touch and meet up for an occasional coffee, you know that you are only a distant memory to them in some way or another.

The prospect of the same thing happening with Jaemin had never occurred to you—you’d been so caught up in getting to know him, so blinded that you’d completely forgotten. And then you saw him differently. As if he were a flame that could be snuffed out in an instant, a feather that could be sent flying with the slightest breeze, the slightest breath. You mulled over it for weeks and always did so silently, until it finally came up in conversation.

Almost a year had passed since you’d met him. With the summer coming to an end, the two of you had driven down to the Han River where you sat in the open trunk of his car, sharing a can of cheap beer from the convenience store. There were no words, only the faint melody of an old pop song buzzing from your phone and his hand around yours.

“Move in with me,” he said at last, glancing at you expectantly, trying to gauge your reaction. It wasn’t completely out of the blue—you’d been searching for a new apartment for weeks—but it still took you by surprise. “Too fast?” He asked when he registered your shock.

“No, not at all,” you shook your head and squeezed his hand. “Don’t get me wrong Jaem, I’d love to. It’s just, I don’t know about any of this. About us. If we’re actually…”

He hummed a quiet response, his brows furrowing slightly in contemplation. “Soulmates,” he said with a melancholic sigh. “You don’t want to go any further before we know for certain. I understand.”  

You nodded. “It always hurts, you know? You think you’ve finally found them only to realize you’ve been completely wrong the whole time.”

“I know,” he said, and his empathy flooded you with warmth and reassurance. “You always think you’ll be prepared for the next time. You always think it will hurt less as time goes by. But it doesn’t.”

“Exactly.”

You tipped the last of the beer into your mouth; it tasted faintly sweet on your tongue before dissolving into a pleasant bitterness that hit the back of your throat. When you were finished, Jaemin took the empty can and fiddled with the tab, bending it back and forth until it snapped off.

“I want it to be you,” he told you after a few minutes of silence. “I want it to be us.”

“And if we aren’t?”

He kissed you, hard enough for you to see stars. It wasn’t desperate or longing, but it seemed to convey a hundred different thoughts all at once, a hundred different emotions for you to decipher. When he finally pulled away, his voice was thoughtful and he was seemingly lost in a pleasant daydream. “Oh, love, the universe has already cursed us to search eternally. We may as well spend eternity together.”

“Seriously, Jaemin, what if we aren’t?”

The tremor of your voice snapped him out of it. The glimmer of hope disappeared from his pupils and the dream slipped from his hands.

“We’ve been alive for so long,” you continued, trying to keep your voice steady. “I don’t think I can go on like this. What if we aren’t meant to be? What will we do?”

You didn’t regret your time with Donghyuck or Mark or Jungwoo or any of the people you were lucky enough to have met, but you’d watched all of them from afar, watched them grow while you stayed frozen in time. Each new generation that came along was only a reminder of your loneliness. You felt a certain emptiness each time you invited new people into your life, one that deepened when they eventually left you behind. Or worse, when they gave you their pity. You couldn’t stand it when people told you that it was unfair or that you deserved better, all while they lived comfortably with their soulmates. You weren’t jealous, nor could you ever be angry at them for something beyond their control. Your anger was directed at the invisible forces that toyed with the world, the mischievous hands spinning the universe in some strange direction that left only you disoriented.

His expression took on a faint sadness and when he spoke again, his voice was calm, barely a whisper. “Then so be it. If you need to move on, it would be selfish of me to stop you from doing so.” He stared out at the waters wistfully, at the yachts sailing downstream. “And besides, you’re right. Maybe it’s time we settle down… even if it’s not with each other.”

Your birthday came a few months after that night, but you held off on testing. The bus you took home from work passed by one of the labs, but you never got off at the stop, always watched the doors open and close from your seat. The test isn’t that accurate anyways, you told yourself; it could produce only an approximate biological age, so maybe the longer you waited, the better.

But in the end, it was simply an excuse to escape reality, to avoid your confrontation with fate itself.

You moved in with him just before the end of the year.

New Year’s Eve wasn’t a big deal for you (you’d lived through too many for it to be exciting), but you spent the last minutes of the year with him, surrounded by cardboard boxes waiting to be unpacked. Jaemin had still made some sort of effort at festivities despite your indifference: pale pink and gold candles lit around the living room, golden champagne in delicate glasses set on the table.

You were almost asleep when the clock struck twelve, wrapped up in one of his oversized sweaters and a white throw blanket. The celebratory music blaring from the TV was muffled in your ears, a pleasant symphony that lulled you deeper into sleep until Jaemin awoke you with a kiss.

“Happy New Year, Y/N.”

“Happy New Year, Jaem,” you mumbled, a smile ghosting your lips as you focused on the comfort you felt in his arms; on the new year, on your new home, new hope.

You know something’s wrong.

Jaemin doesn’t come out to greet you, even after you announce your arrival. He’s home—his shoes and coat are put away neatly like any other day—yet it’s deathly silent, terribly still. No music playing in the living room, no voice down the hallway. Only the occasional chirp from your broken smoke detector, which you’ve been meaning to fix for weeks. As you bend down to unlace your boots, you can’t help but worry.

You find him in your shared bedroom, sitting cross-legged on the comforter. The sun has almost set and the shadows stretch across the room, blanketing him in darkness and masking his expression with ambiguity. He doesn’t move when you turn on the lamp on the bedside table. He doesn’t move when you sit next to him.

There’s a familiar sheet of paper in his hands.

“Jaem, I…”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

It isn’t accusatory or hostile; his voice is laced with nothing but sadness, yet you feel so much guilt, guilt that closes around your throat and squeezes the air out of your lungs, leaving you breathless. You kept it from him for days, and now this is the way he must find out about it. From a piece of paper you were careless enough to leave where he might find it. From a piece of paper detailing the DNA extracted from a sample of your blood. You should have told him.

“I didn’t know how to,” you let out a shaky breath. “I didn’t mean to.”

“Are you serious?” There it is, the cold edge that begins creeping into his voice as he stares down at you. He flicks a finger in the direction of the date printed at the top of the paper. “It’s been a week, Y/N. You kept this from me for a week. Why?”

“I just couldn’t bring myself to tell you, okay?” It comes out sharper than you intended; you immediately begin to drown in guilt as soon as you see Jaemin’s expression fall. You didn’t mean to lash out, and now you make up for it by taking his hands in yours. They're ice cold. “Look, the day I found out, you were already tired from work. I didn’t want to bring it up and make everything worse—”

“So you lied. Said the results hadn’t come in yet,” he says flatly and you rush to defend yourself, only to realize that he’s right.

“I’m sorry.”

The rest of your words don’t come. With a tired exhale, you bury your head in your hands, too overwhelmed to say anything else. You can only hope that he’ll understand, that he’ll empathize and that he’ll forgive you, even if you don’t exactly believe you deserve any of it right now. You hold back the tears. Only when he pulls you into his arms do they fall. He takes your hands, gently pulling them away from your face so he can wipe your tears despite your protests. There’s no coldness in his expression now, only concern.

“I needed time to process everything,” you continue, but you choke on the words. “I couldn’t even accept it myself, I couldn’t—”

“I know, love,” he says quietly as his thumb brushes against your cheek. “I know. It’s alright.”

Your silent sniffles turn into unrestrained sobs as he pulls you into his embrace, your pent-up emotions finally released in the form of silvery streams on your cheeks. You aren’t sure how much time passes. The sun meets the horizon in a hazy line of faint pink and orange. The sky darkens. Outside, the city lights up in a multitude of hues, the amber light from the street below seeping into your room. The minutes go by, but Jaemin never lets go of you until your tears have run dry.

“Better?” He asks, albeit his voice is shaky, his gaze trembling when he looks up at you. You nod.

“We’ll figure this out,” his eyes seem to say. You can tell he’s just as terrified as you are, just as unsure and as lost. Though for now, you simply hold each other. You say nothing about the paper that lays discarded on the floor or what it entails, even if you both feel the need to address it, to face its implications. In this moment of brokenness, neither of you have the strength to do so.

You eventually collect yourselves. You make dinner and force yourselves to eat before passing a meaningless hour in front of the TV. You clean up, wash up. Sleep early in preparation for tomorrow. Jaemin never leaves your side.

“Where do we go from here?” You whisper into the darkness of your bedroom.

“Tomorrow, love,” you hear him say just before slipping into unconsciousness, into restless sleep.

According to Lee Donghyuck, the chances of meeting your soulmate are 1 in 10 000. Or at least, scientifically. Theoretically. Donghyuck was a man of logic and reason, and had your lives not revolved around soulmates like the earth revolved around the sun, perhaps he wouldn’t have believed in fate at all.

“Remove fate from the equation,” Donghyuck mumbled to himself thoughtfully, jotting a few numbers down on a paper napkin. “And let’s assume your soulmate is around your age.”

“Can’t you rule that one out too?” You pointed out,  but he was too busy, already lost in his thoughts.

“If your soulmate is determined at birth and instantly recognizable at first sight… And they’re actually alive somewhere in the world…”

You watched the quick movements of his blue pen with intrigue. He spun the pen restlessly, allowing its barrel to cross over and under and between his fingers, at times so quickly that it became nothing but a blur of colour. Finally, he scribbled a final verdict and inked two definitive circles around it. “If fate hadn’t been so kind, the chances would have been one in ten thousand. One lifetime out of ten thousand.”

“That slim? Ten thousand lifetimes, that’s nearly impossible,” you said, skeptical but amused at his train of thought nonetheless. You took the napkin from him and looked over his calculations, though some of the numbers were too big for you to check without a calculator. You trusted that Donghyuck had done them correctly though. “You know, if you told that to someone who’d spent a century searching for their soulmate, they’d probably beat you up. You’re lucky I like you.”

He giggled. “We’re lucky it’s only hypothetical.” He took the napkin from you and crumpled it, smudging the neon blue ink on the tips on his fingers.

With Donghyuck, things were simpler. He was young, young enough to not be in a hurry, young enough to speak his thoughts so freely. He never pitied you or worried about offending you, and he never treated you as if you were out of place among the new generations. He offered you perspective. You knew that you weren’t meant for each other, but you were still content to spend your time with each other. To wait together.

“So… I might have found a new place.”

You don’t miss the surprise on Jaemin’s face when you tell him over dinner. His eyes widen a bit in curiosity, his brows arching upwards and his mouth falling slightly agape. He sets his fork down against his plate, folding his hands together the way he does when he’s deep in thought.

“Already?” He inquires. Maybe you imagine a hint of disappointment in his voice, a slight dip in his tone. He looks at you with a sort of sadness, as if trying to imagine what it would be like with you gone, to come home to an empty apartment every night. “Seriously, Y/N, you’re welcome to stay if you need to. We said we would take the changes slowly.” His words aren’t just out of consideration for you.

More than a month has gone by silently, and within that time, the frigid cold of winter has finally given way to spring. Nothing has really changed when you think about it, as if your test results are meaningless. And you suppose that they have become just that, a meaningless scrap of paper at the bottom of the recycling bin in the kitchen. Jaemin still holds you the same way, though his touches are just a little bit more fleeting. Your conversations still extend late into the night, though they feel just slightly melancholic. You hang onto his every word even while telling yourself not to, that maybe there is no point in doing so when everything is already coming to an end.

“I don’t know if I’ll take it… at least not for sure. And even if I do, I won’t be moving in until April. I just thought I’d tell you ahead of time,” you tell him, reaching across the table to take his hand. “I mean this in the nicest way possible, but I think I need some time alone. So I can adjust to all of this.”

���No, I understand. It’s just a little jarring, you know? Don’t know what it’ll be like without you here.”

“It’s literally only a block away,” you giggle, and he smiles. “I’ll still be here.”

After the coolness of February comes grey skies and a drizzly March, heavy rainfall washing the white snow to grey slush. Eventually, the clouds part across the sky for the sun, allowing the brilliant blue of the sky to peek through. April comes sooner than expected, producing blooms of yellow and white in the flowery courtyards of your new apartment complex, bursts of bright colours along the cobblestone paths.

You stand surrounded by boxes in the middle of your new studio apartment, watching the people pass by on the streets below. The windows are cracked open for air and you can hear the bustle outside, the yells of the street vendors, an occasional shriek of a child’s laughter. The new bedframe and mattress you ordered stand leaning against the wall in the corner, waiting to be assembled. Jaemin stumbles through the door with another box and sets it down before dusting his hands off on his jeans.

“That’s the last one,” he says. He collapses on the couch that the previous owner left behind, out of breath. You sit down next to him, allowing him to rest his head on your lap. He finally looks around, then at you. “Everything you hoped for?”

You nod happily. “I’ll miss having you around though,” you chuckle, playing with the soft strands of his hair, freshly dyed—after losing a drunken bet to Renjun a week ago, he reluctantly let the latter bleach and tone his hair bright silver. But you think it suits him; it accentuates the darkness of his eyes and paleness of his skin, gives him a cold and chic edge offset by the gentleness of his smile.

“I’ll still be here,” he repeats your words from two months ago. “And you’ll be much closer to work, right? No more crazy subway routes and early mornings. At the cost of me being your personal alarm clock, of course.” He grins, and you smack him with a red throw pillow.

“I won’t miss that,” you roll your eyes teasingly.

“Whatever you say, love.” He lifts his head off your lap to press a kiss against your cheek.

You spend the rest of the afternoon with him, unpacking boxes, hanging up clothes, building the bedframe and fitting the mattress with clean sheets so that at least you’ll have somewhere to sleep tonight. When the sun sets, everything is lit in an ethereal glow, and you stare out the floor-length windows, admiring the sky. Jaemin joins you after a moment, wrapping his arms around you as the two of you rock back and forth to the steady rhythm of the music playing from his phone.

When he leaves in the evening, he gives you a final hug, jokingly telling you not to miss him too much. When he’s gone, you find yourself staring out the window once more, at the blocky silhouette of Jaemin’s building a few blocks away. He pointed it out earlier, thrilled that you could see so far from this high up.

You quickly learn that on cloudy days, it is nothing but a smudge of grey in the distance.

While Donghyuck always tried to ease your worries with reason and strokes of pen ink on his skin, Mark took you on long drives around the city, hoping that the wind blowing through your hair would clear your mind.

On late nights when you couldn’t sleep, you often found yourself in the passenger seat of his 1975 Hyundai Pony, listening to static-laced 80s rock music while he drove you around the streets of Seoul. He would always roll the windows down in the summer and watch the contentment on your face, one hand around yours while the other guided the wheel.

Mark Lee was even older than you—and with all the wars and tragedies he’d lived through, he understood what it felt like to be kept awake by the nightmares. To be kept awake by thoughts of loved ones being blown to bits, to be haunted with memories of the past. With how long he’d been searching for the right person, he knew the urgency you felt and the longing to finally settle down with a soulmate. He understood.

The stories he told you were woven between puffs of cigarette smoke and gentle kisses on your forehead. He told you about Canada and the mountains that surrounded Vancouver, where he’d spent some time in the 40s. He told you about his family, about his brother’s grandchildren who looked older than he did. It was strange, he’d admitted with a small laugh and sadness in his smile.

The two of you often pointed out buildings along the side of the road, reminiscing what stood in their place before the bulldozers and big trucks rolled in. Just down the street from his apartment, the old drive-in cinema was being replaced by an upscale theatre. Next to it, a park was being cleared for a new shopping centre. Even the studio he’d rented out last summer had been demolished so a new entertainment agency could build its empire. Once in a while, he would drive by and stare ruefully at the construction site—the classical compositions he’d once recorded there were being replaced by a new type of music, with catchy beats and pretty pop stars dressed in shiny outfits.

His music had been drowned out by a new industry, and likewise, many of the things you remembered from your childhood have been lost to time. Talking about the past with him helped you remember. It was a sort of reassurance even as you moved on.

Mark eased a bit of your pain, staying out with you until the early hours of morning to make sure that you were alright. The next morning, he would almost always call to ask if you’d slept okay, unless there was an issue with the old landline phone in his office. All concept of time disappeared when you were with him, along with your memories and the demons haunting your dreams. But eventually, he would drop you off at home and bid you goodnight, leaving you to watch him drive away. Eventually, the night came to an end.

He couldn’t stay with you the whole night, nor could he stay with you forever.

Your evenings are often interrupted by Jaemin’s messages asking you to come over. Sometimes he says that he misses you, or he wants to see you for dinner. Other times, he kisses you breathless against the closed door as soon as you’ve stepped inside, always with an unmatched fervour and urgency as if you might slip right through his grasp and disappear.

Tonight, however, it’s neither.

It’s half past midnight when your phone is set off in a series of quick vibrations. Wrapped in nothing but a towel with your hair still dripping, you type in a reply, hesitate, press send. You get changed, slipping into a pair of jeans and an oversized T-shirt before grabbing your keys.

Jaemin is uncharacteristically quiet when he opens the door for you, his gaze downcast so you can’t see his expression. He’s deteriorating; you can see it in the way he turns his back to you after locking the door, the way he walks inside with a halfhearted invitation for you to follow.

“What’s wrong?” You ask when you’ve sat down across from him.

“I think I found them,” he mumbles and you notice how he averts your gaze. “My soulmate, I mean. I think I found her.”

“Wait, then why with the long face? Jaem, that’s great—”

He cuts you off with a sharp bark of emotionless laughter. His expression turns bitter when he pulls his sleeve up to reveal a mark along his wrist: two linear streaks of dark purple that twist together like the centre petals of a rose. He stares at it, almost with contempt. Apart from the standardized DNA tests, markings are the only other way to identify soulmates, though they almost never show. No one has any proper explanation for them and you have no explanation for why Jaemin has one now.

“Don’t get me wrong, I think she’s great. She’s smart. She’s funny. We have the same mark so I know it’s her,” he says shakily. “But god, I must have really fucked up in a past life to deserve this.”

You feel dread. It hits you all at once, because the way Jaemin speaks is so distant and unnerving, as if he’s lost himself in a trance and forgotten all about you. You’ve seen this dazed look before, only twice, when he was truly distressed and truly lost. This isn’t like him.

He found her. He should be happy. You should be happy for him. He should be happy.

“What is it?”

“I think I’m broken. Something’s wrong with me.”

“What do you mean?” You ask, and you try to keep the urgency out of your voice for his sake. He doesn’t say anything. “Jaemin?”

“I don’t feel anything when I’m with her. Nothing.”

You don’t register his words. They don’t make any sense to you. They are barely coherent. No, you think. That can’t be possible.

“Maybe we rejected each other in a past life and then both offed ourselves. Or maybe this is just the universe’s way of saying ‘fuck you.’ Maybe—”

“Stop that,” you tell him firmly. “Whatever this is, there has to be an explanation for it. Marks don’t just appear out of nowhere, right?” You pause to take a shaky breath, suddenly realizing that your words aren’t meant to comfort only him. “We can look into it. We can figure out what’s going on. This is the 21st Century, remember?”

“But what am I even supposed to tell her?” He demands, his tone exasperated and his brows furrowed together. “‘I know you’ve been looking for me for your whole life, but I can’t see you as anything more than a friend, sucks for you’? What do I do, spend the rest of my life drowning in guilt and self-pity because I couldn’t love her the way she wanted me to? Because I could only pretend?”

You have no answers for him. Perhaps he hasn’t felt anything for her because he hasn’t let go of you. Perhaps it really was a mistake, a freak accident in the cosmos that put the wrong marks on the wrong people, designating a pair that was never meant to be. Your thoughts run wild, but you can’t put anything into words for him. Even if you could, you don’t think you would have the strength to say anything aloud.

Instead, you hold him in your arms, wiping away the tears of frustration that have formed at the corners of his eyes, running your fingers through his hair. You can only hope that his soulmate will do the same for him some day, perhaps in some future where the cruel forces watching over you cease their endless games. Genuinely, you hope.  

The tone goes off a third time. You glance at the clock across the room: 11 AM. He has to be up by now, you think to yourself as your fingers continue drumming a repetitive rhythm onto the kitchen counter.

“Hello?”

Just before the automated voice can tell you to leave a voicemail, he picks up. Donghyuck’s voice is groggy, as if he’s just woken up—or maybe he’s just about to go to bed. With his disaster of a sleep schedule, you can never be sure.

“Hi, it’s me.”

“Oh hey, you, I know you.” You hear him chuckle on the other end of the line. “How are you, Y/N? I haven’t heard from you in ages.”

“I’m alright, the usual, I guess. How about you? How’s Jeno?”

“Jeno adopted another cat because he’s fucking insane, so now we have three little furballs running around the house. But yeah, it’s going great! So great,” he drawls with a familiar bite of sarcasm. You smile to yourself. “If he brings home another one because ‘Oh Hyuck, look it’s so cute, can we keep it?’ I will literally choke him in his sleep. Anyways, what’s going on? You never call me.”

“You never pick up,” you huff, earning a small laugh from him. “Okay, I wanted to ask you something. What do you know about soulmate marks?”

Thoughtful silence. “Not much. I mean, I’ve got my theories, but nothing has really been proven. Why, did you get one?”

“No, not me. Jaemin.”

“Oh, Y/N… then that means…”

“It’s alright, don’t concern yourself with me, Donghyuck. I’m more worried about him, honestly.”

“Hm?”

“He found his soulmate recently, but it’s not exactly… it’s not going as expected, let's just say that. He said he feels almost nothing when he’s with her, and to make things worse, apparently now it’s mutual. God, Donghyuck, they’re so awkward with each other, it physically hurts me.”

Donghyuck is silent again, and you hear the faint clicking of his keyboard. You can almost see his contemplative gaze and the soft blue glow of his computer screen lighting his face. “Did they know each other at all before the marks appeared?”

“Yeah, they were coworkers.”

He hums. “Okay… that could be why. Marks have a tendency to appear if soulmates have been around each other for extended periods of time without realizing it. It’s like nature’s way of telling them that the person they’re looking for is right in front of them. As for why they haven’t felt anything for each other? I dunno… reincarnation can really fuck with people. Any previous sentiments for your soulmate stick with you as you pass on, even if you’re both reborn completely different people.”

I must have really fucked up in a past life to deserve this. Jaemin’s words echo in your head.

“Obviously, there’s still opportunity to fix things,” Donghyuck adds quickly before you can get too lost in your thoughts. “It just takes time. Honestly, I wouldn’t be too concerned”

“I know, I know,” you groan. “I’m just upset that after everything he’s gone through, this is the shit he has to deal with.”

“Yeah. I can’t even imagine.” He pauses. “You know, a lot of people would just run off if they were in the same situation. He’s lucky to have you.”

You give a breathless laugh and shrug. “I feel like it’s the least I can do.”

“You never give yourself enough credit,” Donghyuck says, a hint of melancholy to his voice. There’s a sudden noise in the distance that cuts him off, and he curses beneath his breath. “Shit, the new cat’s not trained yet and I think she’s doing something stupid in the kitchen. Jeno will kill me if anything happens to her.”

You suppress a giggle. “Go ahead. We can catch up some other time.”

“Of course. See you, Y/N.”

The line clicks.

If Donghyuck taught you to be hopeful and Mark taught you to be strong, Jungwoo taught you to be brave.

Kim Jungwoo was your first love, and in many ways, you consider him to be irreplaceable. Perhaps it had simply been the result of young naivety back then, but you thought he was unlike any other person you’d ever met. In hindsight, he was different. A bright light dancing his way into your life when you were only a child in the 30s, a free-spirited boy who went where he pleased despite living under such an oppressive regime.

The Kims lived only a few doors down. You frequently saw the boys in their front yard kicking a beat-up soccer ball back and forth between them. Jungwoo was the middle child, and he sat right in front of you in class, his back always perfectly straight against his wooden chair so as to avoid the teachers’ chastisement. He was a quiet boy, and he never said a word unless it was to answer a question. But even then, his voice was small—not exactly shy or scared, just quiet. He quickly learned to raise his voice when the teacher hit him on the back of the hand with a ruler and demanded he speak up, when the wood scraped apart the skin of his knuckles.

At the time, when Japanese was all too foreign on your tongue and you struggled to understand anything taught in class, you thought he was a genius. He always had the right answers when he was called upon and there wasn’t a trace of an accent in either of his languages. Not that you heard him speak Korean much; you didn’t dare speak it unless you were hidden in your own homes, where your parents could discuss the uprisings without having to worry about the police roaming freely outside. Though, they still spoke in hushed voices as if anyone could hear them, as if terrified for what could happen if someone did hear.

The first time you spoke to Jungwoo properly was in middle school. After a humiliating incident at school that left you in tears, he ran to catch up with you on the way home and spoke to you in timid Korean, offering to help. You were still teary-eyed and beyond upset, but you let him guide you through your homework. He rambled to you about the Japanese grammar you couldn’t understand and explained the mistakes you’d made for your teacher to lash out at you the way she had. It didn’t stop you from making the same mistakes the next day, but at least he was patient, unlike the adults at school.

“You’re not stupid,” he told you one afternoon on the way home. Again, you were in tears.

“But the teachers think I am,” you grunted. “And I feel stupid. I can’t understand a word they say. I never have the right answers. Everything I say is wrong. If that’s not stupidity, I don’t know what it is.”

“Y/N, all we do at school is memorize meaningless facts that don’t really matter,” he replied with a shrug. “Just because you can’t shove all that information into your head doesn’t mean that you’re stupid. Look at Doyoung. He was failing school but he’s still one of the smartest people I know. He just… learns differently.”

“So? That doesn’t make me smart either. They still think—”

Jungwoo scoffed. “Who cares what they think? I think you’re wonderful, and they’re the real freaks. Miss Ito, especially.” He wrinkled his nose. “She smells funny.”

“Hey, be nice, Jungwoo,” you chided, but you were laughing. He was effortlessly funny and it was such a pleasant contrast to the way he acted at school. He was always so disciplined and perfect when the adults were watching, but he seemed to let loose around you. It made you feel… special, in a way. Validated, accepted. Something you never felt at school.

You walked home with him almost everyday from then on. You became inseparable, even when your school shut down and sent all the students to gender-segregated schools, even when your parents worried that you were spending too much of your time with him instead of studying. Even when war arrived.

The Second World War plunged your lives into darkness; Jungwoo quickly became the only light to guide you. He was there for you while your parents were away, while they laboured in the factories making helmets and guns and bullets so that they could at least put food on the table. He was there when the light at the end of the tunnel went dim, though he was miles away from home.

Jungwoo had never struck you as a fighter or rebel, even if he had the physique of a soldier. He had the drive and the courage and the steel to fight, but you only saw gentleness in his monthly letters to you. The last letter you received from him still sits in a drawer somewhere, the last words he wrote sealed in a plastic envelope so that they won’t fade away.

You took the test a few months after the war ended, only because he had pleaded with you to do so. Even if I don’t make it home, he wrote to you in the same curving script he’d used to teach you years ago. Promise me.

When the receptionist gave you a piece of paper with an X marked next to your name—there were no colour indicators back then, only X’s and hollow circles—a part of you felt relief that you couldn’t quite explain. Another part of you was disgusted, convinced that you were being selfish and apathetic. You thought that maybe you had no regard for him; that you only cared for yourself and a stranger you were still searching for. He’d risked his life to join the rebel army, fought on the frontlines with the Allies, and you repaid him with nothing.

It would take you years to come to the conclusion that your reaction was only natural. It would take you years to heal and start seeing other people. In due time, you would stop frequenting the church in your hometown and your fingers would cease to brush against the memorial stone in the yard, upon which his name was carved. Just one name among many.

Jaemin’s hands are all over you: in your hair, around your throat, pushing you against the wall as he kisses you. His fingers tangle into your hair and he pulls on the strands, forcing your head back a bit so he can continue trailing his lips over your neck and collarbones.

“We can’t be doing this,” you tell him when you manage to pull away. His arms come around your waist anyways and he buries his head in the crook of your neck. You can smell the alcohol on his breath, and you glance behind him to see empty soju bottles on the kitchen counter.

“I’m not with Jieun,” he snarls. “Besides, like I said. I think we’re fucked. We aren’t meant to be.”

“Don’t say that,” you hiss, taken aback by his sudden coldness. “This isn’t fair to her.”

“It’s mutual, remember? I bet she’s out there doing the exact same thing with some other guy. She doesn’t need me.”

“Jaem—”

“We’re fucked. She told me she doesn’t need me, and I told her the same.”

You’re horrified. “You did what?”

“Hilarious, isn’t it? We had our first fight, and we aren’t even together yet.” He scoffs, pushing a hand through his hair in irritation. “Some type of soulmate.”

You’ve never heard him talk like this. He’s out of his mind. He’s lost it. “Fuck, Jaem, how much did you drink?”

“Not enough to feel better, clearly,” he snaps.

“Alcohol and whatever this is between the two of us isn’t going to make you feel any better. This isn’t going to fix your problems.”

“Then what do you want me to do?!” His words are sharp, his expression hard when he glares at you. “You tell me to move on and to give her a chance and to stop doing whatever—” he motions frantically. You’ve never seen him so wild, so out of control, and you’ve almost never seen him lash out at anyone like this. “—whatever the fuck this is, but do you even know how it feels? Do you even care?”

A sharp intake of breath, and then the world is crashing down around you.

The feelings you fought to suppress re-emerge, rising up to crush you and force you into relapse. Doubt. Regret. Guilt. The little voice in the back of your head is a raging monster now, and it shouts at you, screaming at you in a blind rage. Telling you that you’re heartless and self-absorbed and indifferent, everything you believed you were when Jungwoo died. Reinstating what you know isn’t true. You know he doesn’t mean it. You know that it’s just alcohol fueling the words spewing from his lips and nothing more, but they still bring back unpleasant memories, a sense of dread you can’t shake.

He realizes, albeit a bit too late. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

If you knew how much it hurts me to watch you do this to yourself. If you knew how much it hurts me knowing that there’s only so much I can do for you. “Don’t. I get it.”

For a few seconds, the room is silent, save the ticking of the clock behind you. It reminds you briefly of a memory that you can’t quite grasp, like a flash of deja vu before you spiral back down to the present reality where you stand in cold, frigid silence. The broken smoke detector chirps.

“I should go,” you say at last. You go to grab your keys from where you left them on the counter but he quickly stops you, his hand coming around yours. You look up at him in irritation, pulling away sharply.

“It’s late,” he says shakily, almost pleading. “You shouldn’t walk home at this hour. Not alone.”

“I’ll call a cab,” you shrug before slipping into your sweater and pulling on your shoes. You bid him goodnight and leave him dumbfounded in the living room.

You return home to a sleepless light and endless thoughts in a cold bedroom. A broken record replays his words in your head again and again, until you see Jungwoo’s face floating above you in the darkness. His features are faint, like wisps of smoke that loosely form sad eyes and lips pulled downwards in a frown. And then he’s the one asking, “Do you even care?”

You have no answer for the annoying voice in your head. You stare at the lines of light drifting across the expanse of the ceiling, wide awake as the sky brightens outside.

“How long will you be gone?”

It was the 3rd of August 1995. You knew because the next day would mark 50 years since Jungwoo’s death. The next day, you would be going back to your hometown and laying flowers on the altar in the Kim family home, revisiting the memorial you’d left behind when you moved to Seoul.

You shrugged as Mark passed you his lighter. The old zippo produced a small spark between your fingers, and then the sting of smoke was filling your mouth and nose. You didn’t smoke regularly—you’d stopped years ago—but you sure as hell felt like you needed one tonight.

“I dunno,” you said, taking a long drag from the cigarette. “A couple more days after the ceremony? If I stay any longer, Doyoung might get upset.“

“Upset?”

“He doesn’t like seeing me. Said I bring back bad memories. I think I remind him of Jungwoo too much.”

Mark grimaced. “Well it’s scary, seeing a childhood friend who hasn’t aged in fifty something years… Must he like seeing a ghost.” He paused, tucking a stray piece of your hair behind your ear so that he could see your face. “My nephews feel the same way about me.”

“You remind them of something?” You asked.

“Their father, I guess,” he explained. “My brother… wasn’t the most understanding of them when they were younger. Whenever they see me, all they can think of is their childhood and his abusiveness.”

“Doesn’t it bother you?”

He took a moment of contemplative silence “No, not really. I mean, maybe it did at first. But it’s not like I go out of my way to avoid them just because of the memories they associate with me. That would be unfair for me.”

“It would be,” you agreed.

“So then why avoid Doyoung? What he thinks of you is beyond your control. If you remind him of painful memories, that isn’t exactly your fault.”

You sighed. “I don’t know. I just feel like staying out of his way might help him heal. Maybe it’ll help him move on from everything he’s trying to forget.”

“Oh, Y/N.” Mark took your hand with a breathless laugh. His smile was both sad and endearing, as if he were in awe of you—what for, you weren’t too sure until he murmured, “You’re too kind sometimes.” He paused to exhale, smoke escaping his lips and bleeding into the atmosphere, dispersing into the starry sky. He stared into the sky for a few moments, silent.

“But it’s not always up to you to heal their wounds. At some point, they have to learn to heal themselves.”

“What the hell happened to him?”

Jaemin looks like a mess. His hair is disheveled and swept messily all over the place. His skin is unhealthily pale, unusually warm to the touch beneath your fingertips. You can tell he’s had a little too much to drink; he sits on the couch in a daze, his eyes fixated on an invisible point in front of him as if searching for something that is no longer there. He yelps in pain when you wipe at the cut on his lip.

“We bumped into a couple guys at the bar. One of them took a swing at him,” Renjun explains as he passes you the bottle of disinfectant. You carefully apply a drop to a cotton swab. “And it didn’t help that he was also drunk. Thank god Lucas was there to break up the fight.”

“I wasn’t drunk,” Jaemin groans in protest. “Just tipsy.”

“Tipsy? You couldn’t even tell me Y/N’s number.”

“I don’t remember anyone’s number.”

“Well, you couldn’t tell me your own name either. Got any excuse for that one, smartass?”

You ignore their bickering and continue cleaning the cut on Jaemin’s cheek, holding him firmly by the shoulder so he doesn’t move. The cotton quickly turns light pink between your fingers. You briefly examine the red marks along his jaw where he’d been hit, frowning. Jaemin has never been one to get into fights and especially not while under the influence, but the bruises on his cheek and his knuckles suggest otherwise. Hell, he rarely even gets drunk, but it’s becoming more and more frequent, to the point where Renjun makes sure to watch over him whenever they go out together. He’s derailing, you think to yourself as you brush his hair into some sort of order.

“Okay, let’s get you to bed.” You put his arm around your shoulder and help him up to his feet, nearly staggering beneath his weight. Renjun rushes over to help you move him into the bedroom.

“You should probably go home. It’s getting late,” you tell him when Jaemin has been settled in bed. You glance at the clock hanging in the kitchen as you clean up the first aid kit on the table: almost 2 AM. “I’ll stay with him… make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.”

“I really tried to keep him away from the alcohol tonight. I swear I turned away for only a second to deal with Yangyang and he— Ugh, I’m so sorry,” Renjun apologizes again, shaking his head. “This whole soulmate ordeal is really getting to him. I’m worried, Y/N.”

“You know how he is. He always figures it out one way or another” you reassure him. “I’ll talk to him again though. Maybe he’ll actually… listen this time.”

“Well, call me if anything happens. I probably won’t be asleep anyways.”

“I will. Thanks, Jun,” you nod appreciatively.

By the time Renjun has gone home and you’ve finished cleaning up, Jaemin is already asleep. He stirs when you switch off the lamp and reaches out for you in the darkness, fingers intertwining with yours. “Stay,” he mumbles, pulling you a bit closer.

“I’m not going anywhere.” You say as you admire the way the moonlight filters in through the windows and draws pale lines across his cheeks. Despite the cuts marking his skin, he looks so much softer now, innocent, in a way. Again, you’re reminded of the Jaemin you met at the art gallery. He was none of this. None of this pent-up frustration released in empty beer bottles, none of these crimson bruises marking his otherwise smooth skin.

“You have to stop doing this to yourself,” you murmur. There’s no reply at first, and you wonder if he heard you at all.

“I’m sorry,” you finally hear his voice: small, feeble in the darkness. His words become more urgent as he keeps speaking, spilling from his lips uncontrollably. “I shouldn’t have said those things about you. I wasn’t thinking. You know I could never mean it.”

You hush him, wrapping him in the security of your arms. A single tear brushes against the back of your hand, then another. “It’s alright,” you assure him as you rub soothing circles against his back. “You were going through a lot. I understand, okay? It’s okay.”

He shakes his head frantically, his tears falling in steady streams now. You let out a low hiss when you see them stain pink with the blood from the wound on his cheek. “Still, that shouldn’t be an excuse. I’ve managed to fuck up everything since all of this started. I hurt Jieun, I hurt Renjun, I hurt you. I can’t even go to work and look at Jieun without feeling like such an idiot and getting mad at myself for being such a child. Without feeling like maybe I deserve this.”

Your heart drops, then shatters into a million pieces at the bottom of a dark abyss.

“Look at me,” you plead as you take his face in your hands. “Look at me, Jaem, please.” He finally lifts his head, his eyes meeting yours in the stillness. All you can see is brokenness, defeat and regret, a look you knew well. It’s an expression that once followed you around for years, appearing in every mirror and reflection you passed by. An innate, intimate part of you that you despised so much until you came to accept it. “Listen to me, Na Jaemin. You are one of the strongest, bravest and kindest people I’ve ever met, and nothing will ever change the way I see you. You don’t deserve any of this bullshit. You don’t deserve this.”

“If you knew what I told her, Y/N,” he lets out a shaky breath. “If you knew what we told each other when we found out neither of us had any feelings for each other… maybe you would think differently of me.”

“If that’s truly what you believe, fix what you broke,” you say firmly. “Apologize to her. Make things right between the two of you, unless you want to go through this all over again in another life. Things will only get worse if you don’t address them now.”

“And if I can’t?”

“If anyone can do it, it’s you, Jaem.” Trembling, you press your lips to his temple. “Whether or not you end up with her, whether or not you think you deserve this, I love you. And that will never fucking change.”

He leans forwards, his forehead touching yours, his nose brushing against yours and his lips just inches from meeting yours. But he never comes any closer, and you feel no urge to close the distance either. Perhaps it’s a sign that both of you are already starting to let go, to drift apart; this moment is nothing romantic or lustful, nothing more than comforting each other in your brokenness. Nothing more than trying to help each other numb the pain.

“I love you.” His voice trembles, but his words are steady, deep-rooted in sureness.

“Then promise me you’ll try, Jaem. You’ll try to set things right, for both our sake.”

“For you, love,” he murmurs, so quietly that you can barely hear him. His voice is lost to the faint rumbling of the air conditioning unit somewhere outside and the distant noises of traffic. “For you, I would do anything.”

You wonder if he’ll remember any of this in the morning. You wonder if he’ll take your words to heart, or if they’ll simply be enveloped in dreams fueled by drunkenness, reduced by sleep to nothing but a blur.

...it’s not always up to you to heal their wounds. At some point, they have to learn to heal themselves

You’ve done everything you can for him, you decide. Even if you continue to walk by his side, the rest is up to him.

One Saturday morning, Jaemin shows up at your door dressed in black jeans and a button-down shirt, his hair swept up neatly. There’s a kind of brightness to him; it’s not necessarily hope or excitement, but certainly a change from what you’ve seen the last couple of weeks. He’s meeting Jieun for lunch, he tells you nervously. He wants to see you before he goes. You tell him you’re proud of him. That genuinely, you admire him.

The next time you see him, it’s at a floral shop. He’s in the middle of picking out flowers, and he flushes when he sees you. A single rose seemed too cliche, he tells you sheepishly, and asks your opinion. He thinks she’ll prefer something a bit more unique but equally tasteful, equally elegant. You recommend orchids or gerberas. They last longer than roses, but they convey the same message. When he’s gone, you buy a small vase of irises for your apartment; your living room needs a bit of colour.

Weeks later, you find a small package in the mail: a parting gift, you realize when you tear open the padded envelope. It’s nothing too special, nothing fancy or expensive—just a piece of blue glass wrapped in silver accents, attached to a delicate chain that you loop around your neck. When you hold the pendant up to the sun, its blue tint shatters into infinite colours, tossing specks of luminous yellow and orange all over your bedroom. More than just a singular colour, it reflects the other hues around you. And for just a brief moment, you think you see your own reflection.

You watched Jaemin move on just as you’d watched Mark and Donghyuck: from afar, with reserve but at the same time, excitement. Close enough for him to know that you were still there for him, but allowing some sort of distance that grew as the days melded into weeks and then months.

For the most part, he seemed to be alright. His texts were always cheerful, covered in happy emoticons—he used them when he was too giddy with excitement to type actual words. “We figured things out,” was all he said one night, and it was all you needed to hear to know that they’d be okay.

You started to notice the fondness he’d developed for her; it was subtle at first, just a hint of affection in his voice when he told you about her over the phone. Though slowly, it developed into something more. It was just as Donghyuck said: time had forged a relationship out of nothing, out of empty words and empty emotions, growing a garden from a barren piece of wasteland.

The first time you spoke to Kim Jieun, it was over the phone during one of your calls with Jaemin. She’d chimed in on your conversation at some point to say hi, and the way she spoke almost reminded you of Donghyuck: bright, cheery, a little sarcastic in a playful manner. You quickly learned that she was easy-going though brutally honest at times, well-mannered yet well-humoured. Most importantly, she wasn’t judgemental, and she didn’t treat you any differently from Jaemin’s other friends just because you’d been with him previously.

Of course, there was still a sense of yearning, a bittersweetness whenever you saw the two of them together. Your fingers always danced fleetingly along the screen of your phone before pressing like on the photos he posted to his social media. You saw him less and less, only occasionally running into him at the bakery you used to frequent together or at a friend gathering. For the most part, you let the past stay in the past. He seemed happy. And honestly, you were happy for him.

“I told you he’d be fine,” Donghyuck murmured to you at one of Jeno’s rampant parties, once most of the guests had trickled out for the night. The two of you sat on the balcony, watching everyone stumble around in their drunken stupor: Jeno was passed out on the couch with two cats sitting perched on his chest. Renjun was trying to braid flowers into Jaemin’s hair, which he’d recently bleached yet another shade lighter to match Jieun’s platinum locks. Out of the corner of your eye, you watched Chenle and Jisung exchange a few bills and bicker over a bet—Chenle was still in denial that Jisung had won, apparently.

“I didn’t doubt you for a second, Hyuck.”

“But you were worried,” he grinned smugly.

“Why wouldn’t I be worried?” You sighed and knocked back the rest of your wine before motioning for him to pass you the bottle. You swiftly poured yourself another glass. “If I couldn’t have my happy ending, at least I wanted him to have his. As… cliche as that sounds.”

Donghyuck raised a brow at you. “What’s to say that you won’t get yours too? They can’t keep you waiting forever. The longest it ever took for someone to find their soulmate was 241 years.”

“Goddamn, are you trying to make me feel better or worse?”

“Better, of course! Okay, what I’m trying to say is that it’s rare for anyone to wait longer than two centuries. If everyone lived for up to three hundred years, we’d have a lot of dictators and other crazies running the world. The universe would spontaneously combust.”

“I know I’m barely even halfway there, but come back to me when I set a new world record,” you rolled your eyes, to which he responded with a small chuckle.

“So what now?” He glanced at Jaemin, who sat across the room with his eyes half-closed, an empty red solo cup in his hands. Jieun had her head on his shoulder, rambling drunkenly about something to Renjun. If you hadn’t known any better, you would have thought she’d been a part of the group all along; she fit in so seamlessly, and it warmed your heart to see her getting along with everyone.

“I don’t know,” you shrugged. “Nothing for now, I guess. Just waiting.”

“Whoever it is, I’m sure they’ll be worth it,” he hummed in reply.

“You think so?”

“People say that the longer you wait, the better. It’s all in your head, of course, but they have a point.”

You sighed, lifting your head to gaze at the stars hanging overhead. “I suppose they do. Maybe someday I get to find out.”

He patted you on the shoulder reassuringly. “You’ll figure it out. You always have.”

Donghyuck left a little later to get a drunk Jeno to bed, and then you had only the quietness of night to keep you company. Your mind drifted and you contemplated his words, repeating them silently to the wind. The night sky replied with nothing but a gentle breeze against your skin.

You could be patient, you thought as you watched the others inside. You fished the pendant out from beneath your shirt and stared at the reflection in the glass. It was as if you were grasping a piece of the night sky between your fingers: the stars and a crescent moon captured in a single, translucent oval. In the dark, the pendant appeared deep indigo, not too different in hue from the four coloured markings you’d acquired over the years.

But the sun would rise in due time, you thought to yourself mirthfully. Beneath the brightness of morning, you’d hold a different colour in your hands. You tucked the necklace back into the fabric of your shirt. You could wait.

read the epilogue, yellow

#nct #nct fanfic #nct dream #nct dream fanfic #nct jaemin #jaemin #na jaemin #jaemin fanfic #nct angst #nct fluff #jaemin angst #jaemin fluff #the longest shit ive ever written hoLY SHIT #cznnet

[writing-in-april]

Star Wars vs. Star Trek

Spencer Reid x Female Reader

This is my entry for the secret fic swap that was organized by the ever amazing @imagining-in-the-margins 

The person I got was-  @sunlight-moonrise  who is an amazing little bunny that I love

Thankies all around to my lovely helpers @definitelynotkatesblog , @clean-bands-dirty-stories​ and @httpnxtt  Plus I was inspired by all the asks that @reidscardigan​ gets, it fuels my smutty thoughts!

Warnings: Jealous!Spencer, Rough sex, Impact play (on the heavy side), Face fucking, Light degradation, Choking, Bruising/Marking, Hair Pulling, Unprotected sex, and Orgasm Denial

A/N: I had a great time writing this I think its one of my best works! Feel free to drop a request in my inbox if you have a request (No duplicate requests please)

Word count: 3.6K

Masterlist   

  Spencer and I finally have some vacation time, and my god it feels like it’s been forever. We both worked ridiculously hard at the BAU, so Hotch had finally determined that it was time for the team’s mandatory two-week break this year.  

As soon as we got home the both of us stripped of our work clothes and cuddled up on the couch to watch some movies. Spencer had the remote in his hand scrolling through to find a movie, the cursor landed on Star Trek. I could feel his puppy dog eyes looking up at me through his glasses that he only wore at home trying to convince me into letting him choose it. “Noooo Spencer, we watched it last week” I groaned. Sometimes it felt like your relationship was Spencer and Spock, and you as the delightful third wheel. “Ok what about a different one? We don’t have to watch any of the vintage ones, the new movies aren’t my favorite but they’re still extraordinary pieces of film art!” he ranted enthusiastically. “No, why don’t we watch Star Wars?” I begged, he knew it was my favorite but still insisted that Star Trek was better. “No, because I know you’ll ask to watch the sequels and I don’t like them, the story is just a repeat of the originals.” his eyes rolled and I was surprised they didn’t get stuck in the back of his head. Spencer and I have had this argument many times. The back and forth on which series was better was exhausting but so exhilarating. “Star Wars looks better, has better music, and better plot lines overall!” My voice slightly raised, I hated it when he tried to prove me wrong about this. Star Wars was my cemented favorite just as his was Star Trek. “Star Wars has straight up inaccuracies while Star Trek has improbabilities, not outright errors.” Spencer snarked back. I could tell neither of us were going to win this debate anytime soon. We always ended up in a shouting match about  why we thought our favorite series was better. “Fuck you! I’m right, Star Wars is so much better! I mean look at Kylo Ren, he’s so much better then Kirk or Spock!” Spencer’s face turned into an expression mixed with jealousy and rage. “And look how good he looks during that interrogation scene!” I continued. “You think he’s hot?!” He accused profiling the look I had on my face as I was talking about Kylo “What are you jealous of a fictional character?” I asked mockingly, a knowing smirk adorning my face. Maybe I could get him riled up enough to get something else out of tonight. “N-no of course not that’s absurd!” He squeaked out, giving away how he truly felt. A coquettish smirk grew on my face as I got an evil idea. I deftly snuck my hands into my sleep shorts, slipping under my cotton panties and started to rub soft circles on my clit, not fully giving myself the stimulation that I desired. Spencer’s eyes bugged out of his head getting whiplash from the conversation switch. “Kylo” I moaned out with a simper, gathering my slick arousal I slid down my folds, pushing a finger inside, immediately crooking the digit to locate my g spot. I wanted to push Spencer to the edge of jealousy till he snapped. He got practically feral if I worked him up enough. I continued my descent into a selfish climax- adding another finger, as I picked up the speed of my thrusts into my dripping heat. My mind was so lost in the pleasure I forgot Spencer was there- until my hand was violently jerked from my pussy by a tight clasp on my forearm, just before I was about to fall into bliss. “What do you think you're doing?” Spencer spat.

That voice was usually reserved for unsubs, which served to further dampen my panties, his mind had switched into his dominant persona that was prevalent in the bedroom. “Just indulging myself, Spencer, since you won’t.” I bit back, irritated I’d been brought back from the edge of toe-curling bliss. He shot me a harsh look and tightened his grip on my arm, a warning if you will. I could tell I had just gotten myself into deep trouble, but that didn’t stop me from wanting to rile him up further. “Get in the bedroom and strip. You’ve earned yourself a punishment, brat.” His tone had gotten down right deadly at this point, but I didn’t let that deter me. I was on a mission. I decided to further dig myself in a hole by ignoring his order, simply crossing my arms and turning my head away. I could feel his bitter gaze boring into the back of my skull as I continued to defy his order, my excitement pooling in anticipation for the brutal punishment I’d surely earned. We sat like that for a while- refusing to break out of my sass, and him making sure that I was really ready for what he had in store for me. My legs started to squirm, the tension was almost unbearable. Just before I was about to give him another smart remark his other hand shot out to my leg, holding it firmly so I was no longer moving. A surprised squeak escaped my lips as Spencer  flipped me onto my stomach, my knees coming to rest on the floor and my chest pressed into the couch. I tried to regain my balance in an attempt to crawl away from him but he quickly moved to hover over my form, boxing me in with his arms. “Are you trying to get in more trouble, Dolly?” he asked, his tone dark and condescending. A pathetic little whimper escaped my throat. When I failed to reply quick enough by his standards, a large palm came down on my backside, forcing an answer out of me.

“Yes! I’m sorry Sir, I was trying to get in t-trouble.” “Tsk tsk. Only bad girls like punishment, Doll.” He sounded disappointed. I dug my nails into the plush and hid my face into the cushion, trying to escape from under his heavy gaze. He pulled my hands to rest behind my back, tying my hands with what felt like a drawstring from sweatpants. He’d learned to improvise during our time together; had he left to find more appropriate rope, there was no guarantee I’d be in the same position he left me in by the time he got back. He snaked his hands through my hair, yanking hard to pull my body flush against his own. “Color?” He asked quickly, checking in with me, which only made the situation hotter-what can I say? Consent is sexy. “Green” I replied with a grin. Being disciplined was always exhilarating. “What’s my punishment, Sir?” He let go of the grip on my hair, his hands swiftly moving to remove my shorts and now soaked cotton thong, revealing my bare bottom to him. I rubbed my legs together trying to get some sort of friction but was interrupted by Spencer wrenching my legs apart. “You do that again I’ll add 20 more and you’ve already earned yourself 40- plus a little extra something.” His words hummed against the shell of my ear, sending a shiver trickling down my spine. I groaned in protest and tried to wiggle myself away from him, his hand coming down onto my left cheek in response. “Doll-“ He warned sharply. “If you keep this up I won't let you cum for a week.” His words shook me to my sassy core; I was greedy and there was no way I was going to get myself in more trouble. “I’m sorry...” I muttered into the couch cushion. “Say it louder, Dolly.” The sing song tone/cadence of his voice felt like a trap- contrasted to his previously dark tone and warning smack brought down on my backside. “I’m really sorry, Sir!” I shouted. With my cry, I gave up control to Spencer entirely.  He loved when I acted like this, no matter how angry he pretended to be. “Do you mean it this time?” I could hear the devilish smile on his lips. “Yes!” I confirmed on a shaky breath. I was done fighting him. “You’re so good to me a-and I shouldn’t have tried to make you jealous.”

Although he couldn’t see my eyes, I put on my biggest, sweetest set of puppy dog eyes to really drive my point home.

“So you’re going to sit pretty and take your spankings like a good girl, right?”

I nodded sheepishly, secretly hoping that maybe, just maybe if I was good enough that I might get to come tonight. He let me stew in my thoughts for a minute before resuming his assault on my behind. His hand gripped both cheeks into his palms, kneading the tender flesh that was about to be covered in black and blue handprints. As the first strikes landed on my right side, he grabbed a blanket for me to cuddle into as he landed each smack, his full strength being used in each one, exhibiting just how much I pissed him off. My nerves were prickling, my ass had already started to sting and he hadn’t even reached the 10th strike. I’d definitely be able to feel the pain for the next week- maybe longer. Teardrops started to coat from my lashes onto my cheeks as he switched to the left cheek. By the time he’d reached the halfway mark, the blanket had become soaked by my uncontrolled muffled sobs. His rhythm never faltered as he continued to pepper the now-raw skin of my bottom with more punishing blows. “What are you?” He finally spoke as he was nearing the end of his count, my fingers digging into my palms to help me get through the last few. “I’m a bad girl, Sir” I pathetically whimpered into the blanket.

A brutal THWACK landed against my backside, letting me know he was looking for me to use my big girl voice.  A sob raked through my chest, sending more tears down the blushed apples of my cheeks. “I’M A BAD GIRL, SIR!” My bruised bottom felt like it had been burned by hot coals with welts forming as evidence, as Spencer drew out the last few at a languid pace. When he finally finished, he dropped his head down to plant kisses on each injured cheek, a sign of appreciation for behaving. “You dirty girl, you're getting off to this ” He said matter of factly, moving to run his finger through my drenched folds, his fingers probed my entrance trying to get me more worked up. Surging forward, he replaced his fingertips with his tongue stirring a fire deep in my belly, placing delicate kitten licks along my folds. My body writhed against his touch and for a moment, I thought I might get off easy. Until, again, he pulled away just as I was about to shatter into a million pieces. “Sirrrrr, please?” I begged, my clit was throbbing in tandem with the blood pounding under the skin of my raw and tender bottom. His threat from earlier became evident- he wasn’t going to let me cum easily. “No, Doll, you still haven’t proven that you’re sorry enough.” He roughly yanked me off the sofa, positioning me on my knees in front of him, his clothed cock sitting right in my eye-line. The sweatpants that he had dawned were taken off quickly, I drank in the sight of his hard cock through tear-stained eyes. “Color?” He asked while cradling my jaw. The realization hit me, and I became blissfully aware of one thing: he was about to fuck my face. “Green.” I was always happy to give Spencer pleasure, and to see all the power just my mouth had over him was insanely erotic to me. He gripped his cock in one hand, pulling my chin down to open my mouth with the other. I stuck out my tongue for him and leaned forward, wrapping my lips around the head of his erection to begin gently sucking. Precum filled my mouth as I started to bob my head, working my way farther down his length each time until I reached the base of his cock. I choked slightly, my nose nuzzling against the hairs of his waistline. He gripped my hair on both sides with each of his hands and did a shallow experimental thrust forward, giving me a taste of what was coming. My eyes screwed shut as he set a fast pace, his tip hitting the back of my throat, tears starting to prick at the corners of my eyes again. The hardwood grinding against my knees sourced a new pain, but all I was focused on was the cock  being shoved down my throat and pleasuring the man it was attached to. “Open your eyes, Doll. I want you to see what you do to me.” I glanced up with my glassy red rimmed eyes to gaze at the beautiful sight of Spencer, his head was tilted back, sweat coating his ruffled curls, with his mouth hung open in a silent gasp. Even through my tears I could see this man was an angel.  I groaned, somehow I was even more turned on, so much so that I could feel a pool forming on the floor from my arousal. He rutted harder into my mouth signaling that he was close to his release, drool was now dripping from the sides of my mouth, wetting the thin material of my pajama top. Hot spurts shot down my throat with a strangled cry from him. Tasting his salty release on my tongue, I drank him in, savoring every last drop he had to give me. As he pulled himself out of my mouth, the string of spit connecting my lips to the head of his cock snapped, falling down my chin. Saltwater still cascading down my cheeks met with the mess on my chin, creating  a messy mixture. Spencer pressed a thumb to my cheek, pushing the few drops of cum that escaped along with some spit into my mouth. “You being a cry baby, Dolly?” he cooed condescendingly, wiping away the drops that accumulated onto my cheek bones as I sent him a little pout. “You should’ve thought about the consequences before you broke the rules, Doll.” Turning me around, he pressed my chest into the coffee table across from the couch. Though I still had on my shirt, the cold surfaces rubbed against my sensitive nipples making them harden to a peak. He hadn’t done anything for a minute, so I tried to turn my head to see what he was doing. I was met with a harsh tug at my jaw forcing it to prop up facing the tv. The television flicked to life flooding the screen with the Disney+ logo I tried to glance back again to shoot him an incredulous look, but again I was repositioned roughly to stare at the screen. He clicked through until landing on the Force Awakens. My brows furrowed, but I decided not to push my luck by asking any questions. He pressed play and started fast forwarding until he landed on the scene I had been referencing that got in me trouble in the first place. Kylo Ren graced the screen, starting his interrogation with Rey. Was he going to sit here and make me watch it? Was he going to let me cum? Or was he going to edge me the whole night and hang me out to dry? I was snapped out of my thoughts by a tug at my neck, his palms wrapping around like a necklace, pulling my torso up so that my eyes locked perfectly to the moving figures on the screen. “You think he could fuck you better then I can, Doll?” he ground out. “That pathetic boy compensates with his saber, yet you have the whole package right here sweetheart.” I gasped and wriggled at his words, becoming down right desperate to have him do anything to me. He finally relented, dragging his free hand up my folds, still just barely touching me- ghosting around my clit. He sucked dark bruises into my neck, and as his teasing touches continued, I impatiently whined. “Please, Sir I need you.” “Why should I? You have Kylo don’t you?” “I already said I’m sorry, Sir! And I mean it really!” My begs filled our apartment, loud enough to completely mask the sound of the movie. I had been completely ignoring the film, focusing solely on trying to gain some sort of pleasure from the man endlessly denying it. “Ok, Dolly but only if you promise to never do it again.” I tried my best to nod against  his vise grip on the column of my throat. He deftly snuck two fingers into my pussy, fitting snugly inside of me causing my body to unconsciously move my lower half against him. He started to pump and curl them, expertly hitting the perfect spot each time making stars appear behind my eyes. Suddenly he removed his fingers, quickly replacing it with something far more satisfying before I could complain. His cock bottomed out, filling me to the hilt eliciting a surprised squeak from me. He always made me feel so full-it felt like heaven. His hips propelled forward starting a rough rhythm that left almost no room to breathe, the movie had been completely muffled by our moans and sounds of slapping skin, a heavy dose of sex lingering in the air. His thrusts were irritating the already brutalized flesh off my ass, but the stinging sensation just aided in ecstasy that flowed through my veins. “You look so much prettier with these bruises.” He grunted as I tried to arch my back to a steeper angle so I could take him as deep as possible. “It shows everyone who’s mine, even if they are a fictional character.” Spencer was repeatedly hitting my g spot sending me closer and closer to the edge, but I knew I had to ask permission before I came. “Please, Sir, Please! I’m so close! Can I cum?” “Why do you think you deserve to cum Doll?” He asked, I should’ve known he was still going to throw one last tease in before letting me orgasm. “Because- I - I don’t know I just need it!” I let out a frustrated sob as he continued to thrust with reckless abandon. “Ok. Doll. Let. Go.” he said, accentuating each word with a sharp rock with his hips. My eyes rolled far into the back of my head as I was sent careening into pleasure, the coil that sat deep in my belly snapped, sending me into violent waves of pleasure. As I rode out my delicious high, Spencer’s hips stuttered and the grip on my neck was tightened as he shot ropes into me, stuffing me to the brim. He let go of my neck letting me relax my head onto the table. I’m sure I had a messy, freshly-fucked look on my face but I couldn’t be bothered to care.“Have you learned your lesson?” He asked once he had caught his breath. I nodded meekly, knowing full well I’d be back on my brattiest behavior as soon as these bruises faded. We both groaned as he slipped his softening cock from out of my folds. He slowly padded away to grab his items for aftercare-my favorite part. I had never had a partner show so much care for me like Spencer had. He came back with everything he needed and got to work, starting by cleaning my folds with a washcloth, then switching to a fresh one wiping the tears and spit away from my face. Aloe that he had made sure to warm up was then squirted onto my cheeks, he rubbed the liquid in softly massaging the abused flesh with gentle care. My limbs still felt like jello when it was time to stand, so Spencer helped guide me into new clean pajamas, he even made sure to pick out the velvet ones I liked, they always felt like little soft caresses were being peppered against my skin when I wore them. “You ok, Doll? You haven’t said anything.” He whispered gently, as if afraid he’d startle me. “Yeah” I croaked.My voice had been thoroughly abused throughout the night making rasp harder than normal. “Just feel a little woozier than normal.” He quickly enveloped my form into a hug, drawing me in close so I could smell the cologne that made itself a part of everything he owned. Sitting us both down on the couch, he found as many blankets and as possible making a little fort of warmth around us.

“I’m sorry I was harsh, Doll.” “No no, I liked it, it was just intense.” My scratchy voice obviously made him cringe. “So you are jealous of a fictional character?” I cheekily quipped to try and cheer him up. He let out a chuckle in response and started to ghost little butterfly kisses all across my face.

“I love you,” he whispered between kisses. “Sing to me?” I asked softly. I cherished his horrible singing with all my heart, it made me  soft and mushy on the inside. “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happy when skies are grey. You’ll never know dear how much I love you, please don’t take my dolly away.” I started to drift to sleep even though I was fighting to giggle at Spencer’s croaky singing. Despite his god awful singing in my ear, sleep found me, whisking me away to the land of sweet dreams. I drifted off in his arms, knowing I was his good girl- knowing he would love and cherish me until the ends of the Earth.

#spencer reid #spencer reid smut #spencer reid x reader #Criminal Minds #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds smut #Smut #fluff #aftercare #spencer reid fluff #comfort #criminal minds fanfiction

[junicai]

boil over.

| summary | Aria gives Jaemin some tough love (and then hugs)

| word count | 2.1k

| warnings | 1 (one) curse word

| era | circa. 2017, Jaemin’s hiatus

29. “NO! You can’t get up, you’re my prisoner for today.”

40. “Get out.”

a/n: anon i am so sorry. u said it would be funny i - it took a turn and i couldnt save it im so sorry

“Nana?” 

Aria knocked gently on Jaemin’s closed bedroom door with one hand, rapping her knuckles against the dark wood while her other hand balanced a plate in her palm precariously. 

There was no response heard through the door, and Aria frowned. She raised her fist again, knocking once again. “Jaemin? You asleep?” 

A low groan sounded this time, and Aria could hear the rustling of his bed sheets. 

“Can I come in?” 

“No.” Jaemin’s voice was rough with unuse, petulant to the point where Aria could hear the pout she knew he was donning in his tone.

“Too bad,” Aria shrugged, hand pressing the door handle open regardless, “Please don’t be naked.”

A spluttered sound came from inside the room when Aria pushed open the door, eyes trained on the ground. Stepping inside, the door closed behind her with a soft click and she heard the tell-tale rustle of Jaemin’s bedsheets that he was trying to adjust himself into a sitting position.

“Nana,” Aria scolded, turning briefly to place the plate down on the desk on the opposite side of the room before crossing the floor in three quick strides to make it to Jaemin’s bedside. Her hands reached out to help him lift himself but stopped in mid-air when a glare was sent her way.

“Get out.”

Aria could tell the words were meant to be cold, but they just came out petulant when accompanied by the slight whine Jaemin let out immediately following another attempt to push himself upright. 

“Oh shush,” Aria muttered, hands slipping underneath the sheet to place one on the small of his back and using the other to press his shoulders up. Slowly, Jaemin shuffled into a more sitting-like position, back pillowed up by several pillows that had been gathered onto his bed from around the dorm.

The Dreamies had banded together and collected what pillows they could spare - Jisung offering both pillows from his bed until Jeno reminded him that he actually needed one of those if he didn’t want to have neck pain every single morning for the foreseeable future. 

Stepping back from Jaemin, Aria placed her hands on her hips, eyebrow cocked at the boy who laid sheepishly in his bed, covers tucked underneath his chin.

“How’re you feeling?” Aria asked.

“I’m alright,” Jaemin said, dismissing her with a shrug. 

“So. Do you want to explain why you’ve spent the last two weeks moping in your bedroom and I had to find out about it after coming back from practice today? Or shall I find Injunnie and let him explain?” Aria said, head tilted to the left. 

Jaemin’s eyes fell away from Aria’s face, suddenly finding interest in the pattern-less sheets that covered his bed. His fingers played with the off-white material while his teeth nibbled on his bottom lip. 

Aria let out a sigh, moving to sit on the edge of his bed. It sank slightly underneath her weight, and Aria shuffled backwards so she was sitting comfortably. 

“Nana, it’s ok. It sucks. I know.”

“Do you?” 

Aria looked up surprised, eyebrows furrowing as she looked at Jaemin’s face. There were deep purple rings beneath his eyes but his skin was clearer; the lack of make-up was doing him good. Slightly thinner - the look all of them get when they’d been too busy to find time to eat a meal. By the plate on the floor beside his bed, still with a good deal of food on it - Aria wasn’t sure if it was the lack of time or the lack of desire.

 He looked tired, but also ticked, like something she’d said had rubbed him the wrong way.

“I don’t think you do.” Jaemin’s voice wasn’t angry, but his words held weight to them regardless.

Aria sat back slightly, taken aback by the sudden change of tone. “What-”

“I don’t think you understand this at all,” Jaemin interrupted her, pushing himself further upright with another small wince. “I don’t think a single person understands what its like to be told, a year after debuting that I’m going to have to take a six month or more hiatus. I don’t think you understand that I’m sitting her, watching you all go to practice and learn new dance routines and promote; and I’m being left behind. I don’t think you get the fact that it feels like I’ve been gut punched, and then told to walk it off!”

“Nana no that’s not what’s happening-”

“It is! It is what’s happening and you’re lying to me when you say it’s not. Its like trainee days but worse because I can’t even go to the practice room. Hell, I can’t even go home because the company doesn’t want me seen outside. So I’m stuck here, alone, no one else in the dorms for the most part of the day, can’t go see my family like you normally can on a hiatus, can’t do anything except sit here and be useless! Do you know what that’s like? I can’t see my parents, I can’t practice, I can’t do what I trained to do for years and you’re telling me that you understand? Bullshit.” Jaemin was yelling now, all the words that had been building up exploding on the wrong person.

Aria felt her teeth break the skin of her lip. 

“So,forgive me, for staying in my room all day. I just didn’t fancy having to drag you all away from practice to make sure I didn’t fall over myself on the way to the bathroom.” With a resounding bite in his words, Jaemin settled himself against the pillow again. 

It seemed like the conversation was over, Jaemin with his gaze fixed downwards on his extended legs. Aria kept her eyes upwards, blinking rapidly. But the fact that they were both still sitting in silence made the atmosphere fill up with tension like a bubbling pot that was half an inch away from an overflow. 

Jaemin had his hands folded in his lap, fingers toying with the unravelling string on the hem of his t-shirt as he refused to look back up. 

The pot boiled.

“I’m sorry.”

That, was not what he was expecting. 

“I’m sorry, that was insensitive of me. You’re right, I don’t know what it feels like.”

Suddenly, Jaemin was simultaneously infinitely grateful and incredibly disappointed that it was Aria whom he was having this conversation with. 

Had it been Donghyuck, he could only imagine the screaming match it would have turned into. Donghyuck was always quick to lose his cool when someone was being uncooperative, and Jaemin was looking to get a rise out of someone. It wasn’t even that Jaemin was unwilling to talk to them anymore, it was the fact that he insinuated the fact that they didn’t care about him? Donghyuck would have brought the walls down; and Jaemin doesn’t know if that’s something he craved at this moment or not.  

Renjun would have simply turned around and left the second Jaemin got huffy - the older boy had minimal patience for things like this, and liked to remove himself from the situation before he said something he would regret. 

Aria, on the other hand, would sit there and let Jaemin yell at her for however long he needed to with her head bowed and hands in her lap. She wouldn’t yell back, wouldn’t rise to meet his anger but would sit there calmly until it fizzled out like a candle wick burned down to the end, wax spilling over slowly until it hardened and became stagnant once more. 

Jaemin didn’t think he really wanted to yell; not anymore. 

Aria still wasn’t looking at him, choosing instead to focus her gaze on the top of his headboard. Her eyes were darting back and forth slightly, like she wanted to look down at him but kept thinking better of it. 

“I don’t know what it feels like, but what I do know is that it’s not going to get better if you hole yourself up in a room for six months,” Aria explained, hands curling into fists.

“The only thing you’re doing is making it worse, Nana. So so much worse for yourself - we don’t care about having to help you do things, we don’t care about being a few minutes late to practice because you needed something from the kitchen and just couldn’t face getting up again; we don’t care. And I need you to look at me right now and tell me you understand that.”

Jaemin looked at her. 

“We don’t care,” Aria spoke softer now. “What we care about is the fact that you’re in pain right now, and we care about what we can do to help you fix that.”

Jaemin let his face scrunch up, a retort forming on the tip of his tongue. 

“There’s no shame in asking for help, Jaemin.”

Jaemin sunk, boneless, into the pillows supporting him - a crack being multiplied by ten and suddenly shattering. The pot boiled, spilling over the sides and splashing down. Tears spilled over Jaemin’s cheeks, shoulders shaking as a fist was shoved into his mouth to stop himself from making a sound. 

“Oh, Nana,” Aria’s voice was saddened, a deep blue colour as she moved to lie beside Jaemin on the bed while being careful not to jostle the boy. “Please don’t cry, it’s okay.”

Jaemin only cried harder, teeth making indents in his skin until his hand was puled gently but insistently from his mouth and was being held in Aria’s hands. With no muffler there, a sob ripped itself from his chest and he choked at the force of it. 

Aria only moved closer, pushing herself up the bed slightly to allow Jaemin to hide his face in her chest as he cried. 

Jaemin shook through his cries, Aria running a hand through his hair the entire time. It was knotted, like he hadn’t brushed through it in a few days and she made a note to bring in one of their hairbrushes later on when he was asleep. 

Slowly, his sobs petered out into small sniffles, Aria’s shirt soaked through but she paid no mind to the wet material sticking to her skin. Her back ached slightly from the odd position she had forced herself into to ensure that Jaemin wouldn’t be twisted uncomfortably.

Jaemin’s breaths evened out again over the next ten minutes or so, eventually to the point that Aria was sure that the boy had fallen asleep until he shifted slightly to look up at her from his position lying on her chest. 

His red eyes were stark against his pale skin, and Aria never thought she’d be jealous of how prettily someone cried and yet here she was. 

Jaemin rubbed at his nose slightly with the corner of his sheet, sniffling and then sneezing when the loose ends tickled his nose. He let out a watery laugh, throat clogged slightly and he cleared it when Aria began to smile despite herself.

He choked out another weak laugh before pressing himself back into Aria’s side. 

The air stilled around them, the pot taken off the heat and now cooling in the aftermath. 

Aria kept her hand carding through his hair, letting her other hand move to rub gently at Jaemin’s ear in a soothing gesture now that she didn’t need to keep herself elevated slightly. 

Her arms ached, but she paid no mind to it, instead choosing to delicately open their little pocket of serenity. 

“You’re so important to us, Nana. You can’t forget that.”

Jaemin declined to respond, instead choosing to hide his face further into the material of Aria’s clothes. 

“Even if this hiatus takes seven, or eight months. Or a year. There’s always a place for you in Dream. Always.”

This time Jaemin sniffled, still refusing to speak but let his hand come up from underneath the sheets to intertwine with Aria’s. She squeezed it lightly, holding it tight in her grasp. 

They stayed that way for another while, Jaemin slowly falling into sleep while Aria pet his hair. 

“Nana,” Aria whispered, moving closer so that he would hear her.

Jaemin made a small hum in acknowledgement. 

“I have to go prep dinner for the others, they should be back soon.” Aria apologized.

There was nothing for a second, and then Jaemin was craning up to look back at Aria; eyes wide and sparkling. 

“Stay?”

Aria stayed.

#*aria.writings #hi this was meant to be fluffy and ive just made myself sad #nari everybody #*claps* #nct 24th member #nct 22nd member #nct dream 8th member #nct additional member #nct #nct 127 #nct dream #wayv #superm #kpop!oc #kpop additions #kpop #kpop addition #nct female member #nct female member au #nct female oc #nct extra member #nct addition #nct additions

[chipper9906]

Maybe

WARNING: SPOILERS FOR LOKI SEASON 01 EPISODE 05: ‘JOURNEY INTO MYSTERY’ AND SEASON 01 EPISODE 04: ‘THE NEXUS EVENT’

Pairings: Loki/Sylvie

Rating: General Audiences

Word Count: 4,124 

Status: One Shot - Complete

Chapter Preview:

He had meant for it to come out more as a question, an offering. A possibility for the both of them. But what it really sounded like was a… well; a sincere, hope-filled attempt to keep hold of… this. Whatever this was, he knew he wanted it. However things went, he knew-

He wanted Sylvie in his life.

His heart was racing in his chest, pounding almost as hard as it does in the midst of battle. In the unlikely event he’s a free man after all of this over, he’ll have to go and find his brother - if he’ll even talk to him, that is - and apologize for the harsh insult he used; for berating his older brother over his affection for that Earth woman.

He understood now.

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Author Note: 

Oh Boy, here I go again, getting sucked into yet another ship. Basically, this is a dive into Loki's thoughts during the blanket scene in Episode 5 "Journey Into Mystery" because man, I sure do love getting into a character's head and breaking down their thought process.

P.S. No joke, I think I re-watched the blanket scene like... over 40 times I counted, roughly. Wanted to make sure I got every detail right lmao.

Oh wow, would you look at that - yet ANOTHER fic based on the blanket scene? I'm sure this hasn't been done by many different people ever since Episode 5 aired! Nah, I'm sure this is purely original stuff.

(Listen, this scene and - consequently - this fic got stuck in my head and I just had to write it down and... well here we are.

* * *

This was, as he had said, new for him.

It was… strange, to say the least. Not just because the woman who was sat next to him was, technically, on some sort of level, himself. And yet… not. Sylvie was her own person, that was for sure. And the only Loki, from who he’s met, who refuses to be called Loki. She had chosen her own name, and was currently choosing – or carving, was more accurate – her own path. A way out of the never-ending, self-sabotaging, “only use is for improving others” apparent destiny they’ve all found themselves in.

She had lived an entirely different life from him - and the use of the word ‘different’ here is strongly applied. It makes him a little uneasy when he dwells on it for too long if he’s being honest with himself. Yes, there may some similarities between them, as to be expected, but Sylvie had lived her own set of experiences different to his. Differences that had shaped her, made her see the world… universe… timeline? All of that, in a different way to him. Learning of the things she had gone through, what she’s trying to accomplish… it made his “glorious purpose” of ruling over “Mid-guard” seem like a spoiled boy's desperate attempt to feel important.

Everything with Sylvie and the TVA had shut down that ideal very quickly. Or, at least, has changed his view of his “Glorious Purpose”. The one change that he hadn’t seen coming, that Sylvie herself had told him; the very first words she had actually said to him:

“This isn’t about you.”

No, it wasn’t about him. Not just him, anyway. It was… it was all of him. Every version of himself out there, and every other variant of... Of everyone to have ever existed. Those, just like him, who are punished for stepping out of their pre-written timeline. Those that, when they try to change themselves, to be the person who those that loved him did everything in their power to guide them to be, were snatched away by the TVA and sent here to this pit of unwanted, broken things; left with nothing but unforgiving and dirty survival, only to lead to their inevitable death. 

And it’s cold.

“Mobius isn’t so bad.”

Sylvie breaks the comfortable lull of silence they had found themselves in. They were, technically, supposed to be ironing out the details of this plan to enchant a creature much, much larger than them, whose only desire is to eat everything that enters the world they’re currently in. Which is why, perhaps, they had taken the moment to just… breathe. A moment of rest, side by side. Whilst it was true that his plan of killing the gargantuan cloud thing was near suicidal, it would be fair to say that Sylvie’s plan was equally as dangerous. Then again, what did he expect? Seemed that every type of Loki out there isn’t the best at creating plans…

“Or so good,” Loki counters. It seemed almost cruel to say, but… it was also true, wasn’t it? Sure, Mobius had done the things he’d done because he thought they were the right things to do – but that didn’t take away from the fact that he’d done them. How many variants, not only of him, but of so many other poor souls had been doomed to this place because of his work? Still, it wasn’t like Mobius had the full picture with everything. Mobius had been lied to just as much as he had. “I think that’s why we get along.”

A small smile pulls at Sylvie’s lips. She takes a deep breath in, staring out to the horizon where Alioth awaits prowling his territory. “He cares about you.”

That catches him off guard. He supposed that she and Mobius must have had some type of conversation in however long they’d spent driving to reach them. Apparently, the topic of conversation must have steered towards him at some point. And somehow, through that, Sylvie had deduced that Mobius… cared about him?

There’s a soft, knowing smile on Sylvie’s face as she catches sight of his reaction. It was probably the closest similarity they shared: friendships… didn’t quite seem to happen for them. 

But there’s something else there in Sylvie’s expression as she looks to him. Almost a twinge of… of sadness. It sends an aching sort of pain through his chest as he sees it, coming to a sudden realization in his head. He knew that, deep down, the reason for his own loneliness was all due to himself. He knows now that there were plenty in his life that loved him, that always treated him like family even when, genetically, he wasn’t. But he had been blinded by jealousy and hatred, hatred that they had kept the secret of his true nature quiet for so long. It was because of this; this stubbornness and this selfish, false ideal that he deserves more, that he had made himself alone. 

But Sylvie…? She had been well and truly alone. From such a young age, an age where his mother had barely begun teaching him the basics of magic, she had been snatched away from her life. Everything she ever knew and loved had been wiped away, the timeline dumped here just like everything else the TVA – or whoever the hell is actually in charge of the damn universe and its multiple timelines – decided was too much of a threat. Ever since then, from that very same day she had managed to escape their clutches, she had been running alone. All those years, fighting to survive, completely alone, existing in one apocalypse after the other. Even if she did try and interact with the people in those timelines, what would be the point? They were doomed to die, anyway… 

Her words echo in his head for a moment, her sad smile seemingly etched into his memory. A part of him, that strangely soft side he didn’t know existed that had been growing stronger and stronger these past few days, burst with the need to do something, to remove the pain she was feeling. For just a split second, he nearly gives into it. He nearly says the words that were forcing their way to the forefront of his brain. 

‘I care about you.’

But the words stay safely locked away in his head. Sylvie looks away from him, and the moment passes. He didn’t know if she had been expecting for him to say anything, and he certainly didn’t know what it is she might have thought he would say. His mind clambers for something, for anything to try and bring the moment back.

A strong gust of cool wind blows over them, sending chills across his pale skin - despite the long-sleeved shirt he was wearing. He knew that, if he really wanted to warm himself up, he could shift into his true form. Except, he didn’t see it as his true form. He has been an Asgardian as long as he can remember, and for all intents and purpose, this is who he’s meant to be. He is the son of Odin, son of Frigga, brother to Thor, an Asgardian, and he’s proud of that. 

And that’s when the idea pops into his head.

“It’s cold,” Loki states the obvious to Sylvie with a shiver of his upper body, glancing over to try and catch her reaction out of the corner of his eye. For a moment, he wonders if Sylvie has the same views on their true heritage as he does, considering that, in her timeline, she was told she was adopted much earlier than he was. 

She doesn’t mention anything about it, though. Instead, she simply agrees with his statement with a hum of “Mmm-Hmm,” but it’s exactly the kind of answer he’s looking for.

From the outside, it looks like an easy twirl of his fingers and a burst of lime-green light, but in reality, it’s years and years of practice, both by himself and… and with his mother. The weight of the blanket - though light - is comforting as it wraps around his shoulders; silky smooth to the touch and of a darker green than the light of his their magic. 

The burst of color gets Sylvie’s attention, looking over to Loki again to see the new blanket he had materialized out of seemingly thin air - which… he did. 

“I could conjure one for you, if you like?” Loki offers.

Sylvie smiles for just a split second, enough for Loki to believe that she might just say yes. But then her nose scrunches as she comes back to herself, and the belief is gone. “Tell you what, you could conjure me a new outfit,” Sylvie says off-handedly, pulling at the tight collar of her outfit. “You have no idea how uncomfortable something like this is.”

It’s a deflection. He knows that all too well, because… because it’s something he’d do. Not that he can blame her in the slightest. As he had said, just before he was pruned through the heart and sent here - this was entirely new for him. Sure, he had had his fair share of flings back home. Rare occasions when he would give in to temptations, let himself experience a slice of normality. But it was never real. He did not doubt that those that fell into his bed did not do so because they felt a connection, or saw a future. And neither did he. He was a prince, a God, and for most, saying you were able to seduce a prince was an achievement. And for him? Well, it was an easy means to an end, he supposed. 

But this? This felt real. It was strange, it was something he had never experience before, and quite frankly, it scared the ever-living God’s out of him. So sure, he knew how to flirt… somewhat. But with this, with Sylvie? Everything was different, and he had no clue whatsoever what he should do.

“So…” Sylvie breaks him out of his thoughts. “Mobius, and his theory about…”

Oh. Well, he certainly hadn’t been expecting for the conversation to go there. Really, he had thought she might try and pretend to have never heard what Mobius had said. 

“Right, right. About our Nexus event-,”

“Total rubbish, right?”

He’d be lying if he said that didn’t sting a little bit. “Absolutely,” ‘Liar’, a voice in his head hisses. “Of course, I mean-,”

“I don’t mean that it wasn’t a nice moment,” Sylvie hurries to say, and it lessens that sting just a little bit. 

“No, it was great! It was really nice.”

“It just… sounds like another TVA lie.”

Which... Yes, when he thinks about it, could you easily have been a lie. Not that he thinks that Mobius would lie to them about this, no, but that someone else within the TVA had fed Mobius the lie. For what reason, he's not entirely sure. To throw them off the scent perhaps? Keep them from figuring out what can really cause a Nexus Event so powerful that it could conceivably take the TVA down. 

Or, perhaps they just enjoyed lying. More than him even - and that's saying something. 

"A hundred percent. I mean totally, yeah."

And oh, what was this? Loki tries to meet her eye, expecting her to nod her head vehemently in agreement to his statement. But... She won't look at him. She gives a somewhat strained-looking smile, more like a grimace than anything, and if he looks hard enough - by which he means projects his own feelings onto Sylvie and hopes she feels the same - he could almost imagine there was a flicker of disappointment there, too. 

"I don't know how to do this," Sylvie says, an admission he didn't expect. She looks about as awkward as he feels, eyes fixated on her fingers as she plays with them. 

"I don't even know what we're doing," Loki returns, and dear oh dear did he genuinely mean that. One moment he thinks he should take that step, say something, anything. And then the very next moment it becomes the wrong time, the wrong thing to say, and he's back to square one. 

It was frustrating, to say the least.

"I don't have friends," Sylvie carries on, and it's another dagger through the heart. Yet another thing that was so similar, yet so, so different. He had been given so many opportunities for companionship, for friends, but he repeatedly threw them all away. But Sylvie? She wasn't even given the chance. She truly had-

"I don't have..." Sylvie trails off, a long gap where she struggles to find the right word to use. Her eyes had locked onto his, and he knew that nothing less than Alioth appearing right above their heads would get him to tear his eyes away.

"... Anyone." 

"Well, there are more important things, right?" Loki desperately grasps for something to wipe away the blank, dejected look that was etched onto her features. 

"Right? Yeah, like bringing down the TVA." 

For once, one of his plans was going well. "Saving the universe, even."

"Well, there's no need to be dramatic - but yeah, kind of!" 

Then there it was again - a particularly strong breeze pushing up to the little hill they were sat on. Sylvie gives a little shiver as it washes over them, a barely noticeable shuffle in an attempt to get warm, and Loki jumps at the opportunity. 

It only takes one small adjustment, a brief push of magic, and then the blanket is growing, wrapping itself around Sylvie's shoulders in a motion so smooth, you'd think he'd done something like this hundreds of times before. Loki smiles gently to her when she notices the change, and his smile only grows more as Sylvie pulls the blanket tighter around her shoulders, shuffling closer to him by just the smallest of movements. Yet another plan he could now say was a success. 

"It's not very snuggly."

Or, maybe not. "Okay," Loki manages to get out through a surprised laugh, but he does get some sort of gratification in seeing her smile at his response. 

"Is it a tablecloth?" 

"No, it's a blanket," Loki finds himself strangely defending his materialized choice of cloth. 

There’s a pause, the quickest of glances up to him. He sees a brief flash of pink as she pokes out the tip of her tongue between her lips, wetting them as she struggles to get out her next words. “Thank you.”

Loki gets a strange feeling she doesn’t get to say that all too often. Whether that be because she chooses not to, or because she’s never had the opportunity to. When was the last time someone did something nice for her…?

“My pleasure.”

Sure, this was all new, and all types of scary. But, as he sat here, shoulder to shoulder with Sylvie, looking out to the dreary yet oddly beautiful landscape scattered with remnants from pruned timelines, he can't help but feel that this moment right here? It was… nice. Despite the TVA, despite Alioth, despite the fear of imminent death he’s had to live through nearly every moment since the Tesseract flung him into that desert in Mongolia, he had managed to find himself some semblance of peace. 

And it was because of the person next to him.

“How do I know that, in the final moments, you won't betray me?”

Now, this was a conversation he had been expecting. How can he not? It seemed that nearly every single person he’s ever come across, who he hasn’t immediately tried to murder, wonders the exact same thing. The ‘inevitable’ betrayal every Loki seems incapable not to carry out. 

And he couldn’t blame them, just as he can’t blame Sylvie for wondering the same thing. Really, he had thought the whole reason she had wanted this moment to talk to him was to have this very conversation. It was… it was something he had thought about himself, ever since being dragged in by the TVA. It was Mobius that had shown him his consistent deceitful nature - quite literally, by showing him film of every moment in his life where his flair for dramatics and affiliation for backstabbing was apparently used for ‘the bettering of others’. 

It had become deeply ingrained into his nature. It became what he was known for, what his family knew him for. He supposed it gave him some sense of… satisfaction, perhaps? A false sense of security, that he always has the upper hand when need be. It was almost like a trial, opportunities to prove to himself that, when the time comes, he can do what it takes to claim what he, false-fully, felt he was owed. He was certain that the only path to being a rightful ruler was one filled with betrayal. 

And now, after only a few days with Mobius - and an even shorter amount of days with Sylvie, his previous ambition he’s been working towards for so long suddenly wasn’t as important. Things had changed. 

He had changed. 

And that was part of the reason the TVA wanted him dead. 

“Listen, Sylvie, I…” Loki starts, but then stops. He sighs deeply, wanting to find the best way to get this across to her. He needed her to understand. “I betrayed everyone who ever loved me. I betrayed my father, my brother… my home.”

He at least had her full attention now. No more awkward glances at one another, unable to maintain more than a few seconds of eye contact. This was important, and they both knew it. “I know what I did. And I know why I did it. And that’s not who I am anymore. Okay?”

There’s nothing on her face that he can read, nothing that says whether she believes him or not. She had been expecting him to say this, he supposed. “I won't let you down,” Loki says, and he says it like a promise - one he fully intends to keep. 

“You sure?” Sylvie asks, and he nods his head straight away in response. “ ‘Cause if we make it, and the TVA is gone, there might be a timeline for you to rule.” Sylvie continues with a challenging - yet slightly teasing- narrowing of her eyes. 

“Ah,” Loki says wistfully, looking out to the horizon as if dreaming of such an event. “And then I’d finally be happy.”

Except, he wouldn’t. He only has to look at his older self to know that. The only one of himself that had beaten the one event that’s supposed to define their lives. He had tricked the mad titan himself, found himself a little corner of the universe to live out his life in peace. No more people he has to challenge, no more opportunities for betrayal - by him, or to him. 

And he looked… miserable. 

Now, though? Right here and now, he wasn’t miserable. He certainly wasn’t relaxed, that was for sure, but far from miserable. He had ended his little exclamation with a rare smile that wasn’t a smirk - or forced- and miraculously, Sylvie returned one just as wide as his; wide enough even for him to see the little laughter lines crinkling at the corner of her eyes.

“What about you?” Loki asks. “What will you do when this is all over?”

Sylvie takes a moment to think, tucking an unruly strand of hair away from her face. “I don’t know.”

He couldn’t even begin to try and put himself in her shoes. Sylvie had spent… hundreds, perhaps even a thousand years of her life just running. Surviving. Doing whatever it takes to make sure she wasn’t wiped off the board by some mystery figure, or group, that had deemed her too dangerous to the timeline. And for what? Some kind of sick desire to have control over every single living thing in every type of Universe to ever exist?

Which… which sounded an awful lot like himself, now he thought about it. Maybe whoever was in charge of the TVA was another variant of himself…

“I don’t know either,” Loki said, and that added to the tally of growing truths he was admitting to people - perhaps the most in his life. 

At some point, this all had to be over. Whether… whether it ends in his death once again, another defeat by a power-hungry being, or with their victory. No more TVA. No more pruning of variants. No more control. Sure, Sylvie had made that joke about him ruling a separate timeline, but… what would he do once this was all over, assuming her survives it? What did he want to do?

What does he want? 

‘Look at your eyes! You like her!’

‘What?’

‘You like her! Does she like you?’

‘Was she pruned-’

‘No wonder you have no clue what caused the Nexus Event on Lamentis; both of you are swooning over each other!’

‘Tell me the truth-’

‘It’s the apocalypse! Two Variants of the same being, especially you, forming this sick, twisted romantic relationship - that’s pure chaos! That could break reality, it’s breaking my reality right now! What an incredible, seismic narcissist - you fell for yourself!’

‘Her name was Sylvie’.

Mobius had truly tricked him there. At least now he knew how cruel it was to be on the other side of such a bluff, he supposed. He had always prided himself on his acting abilities, his innate way of lying to others. Yet, apparently, when it came to Sylvie… he puts his full emotions on display. He had become too overcome with emotions at the mere thought of Mobius telling the truth, that Sylvie was well and truly gone, and he had snapped. He was…

Yes… That was the word. 

He was heartbroken. 

‘You conniving, craven, pathetic worm. I hope you know you deserve to be alone and you always will be.’

‘Do you really think you deserve to be alone?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Well then you better figure it out quick, because the Nexus Event the two of you caused, whatever that connection is, can bring this whole place down.’

Maybe, just maybe… Mobius was onto something there. Maybe Sif, even in that small, once insignificant memory buried in his mind, was wrong. 

Maybe he didn’t deserve to be alone.

Maybe he didn’t have to be. 

“Maybe…” The words get caught in his throat, spoken softer than he intended to. He involuntary finds himself leaning closer to Sylvie, to the warmth radiating from her, trapped within the blanket wrapped around them. “Maybe we could figure it out... together.”

He had meant for it to come out more as a question, an offering. A possibility for the both of them. But what it really sounded like was a… well; a sincere, hope-filled attempt to keep hold of… this. Whatever this was, he knew he wanted it. However things went, he knew-

He wanted Sylvie in his life. 

His heart was racing in his chest, pounding almost as hard as it does in the midst of battle. In the unlikely event he’s a free man after all of this over, he’ll have to go and find his brother - if he’ll even talk to him, that is - and apologize for the harsh insult he used; for berating his older brother over his affection for that Earth woman. 

He understood now. 

He almost misses the slightest of reactions as Sylvie looks up to him - and what he knows is an earnest, vulnerable glaze in his eyes. It’s the smallest of things, almost impossible to see, but there’s a slight pull to the corner of her lips as she looks to him. Almost as if she was fighting back a smile at his proposition. 

“Maybe,” She whispers back to him, just as quiet and tender as his own words. It’s not a yes, not in the way his frantically racing heart was hoping to hear, but it was a start. It was Sylvie’s own returning of a proposition, her own olive branch. The possibility he had given that she was extending right back to him. 

Maybe. 

Maybe.

Maybe.

Yes… Maybe they’d survive this. Maybe he and Sylvie would bring down the tyrant who oversees ‘the sacred timeline’. Maybe he’ll find Mobius again, alive and well, having turned the entirety of the TVA’s workforce against the organization they devoted their lives to, and burn it to the ground. 

Maybe Sylvie will let him stay by her side. 

Maybe, he’ll carve that new path in his life - with Sylvie’s intertwined with his.

Maybe he’ll find that new Glorious Purpose.

Maybe he won’t be alone. 

Maybe he’ll be happy. 

Maybe…

You know what? He was starting to like that word. 

#sylki #pro sylki #sylki fanfic #sylki fanfiction #loki/sylvie

[i-am-dead-inside-666]

Apologies

Steve/Tony(+Bucky)

Summary: Steve and Tony make up and a cute stuckony moment. Wow that’s a crap summary.

Warnings: some angst I guess but mostly fluff. Bad language.

Please don’t post this on other platforms without my permission. Thanks 😊

Nobody cared. Tony knew that, he'd been hiding in his lab for six days now, not coming up for showers or to sleep, barely eating. The only regular schedule he kept to was the hourly coffee renewal. Cold coffee reminded him too much of lazy mornings with.. Steve... soft cuddles and whispered nothings, mugs forgotten on their side tables.

He hadn't seen another human in over a week. He'd passed out in the lab several times, from lack of food and drink, or just pure sleep-deprivation, he didn't know.

Nobody had been to check on him, because that had always been Steve.

He'd always been there to pick him up, striding into his lab with confidence that only Captain America could hold. Sweeping Tony's exhausted body against his chest, he'd carry him up to their bedroom, where he'd hold him tightly in his arms until Tony felt a little bit less broken than before.

But Steve wasn't there anymore, no one was.

So he huddled in the tiny gap under his desk, his stomach twisted into so many knots that he could barely breath. His hands pulling at his hair, as though they had a mind of their own, his nails clawing painfully at his scalp.

His chest was hurting so badly, and he wasn't sure whether it was from where Steve had slammed his shield through the arc reactor, or the fact that it was Steve that slammed his shield through the arc reactor.

He loved Steve so much, and the pain at him abandoning him, like everybody else in his life, it made him feel completely worthless.

A low whirring noise dragged him from his thoughts, forcing himself to relax his hands, he loosened the grip he had on his hair and looked up. Through teary eyes, he watched as Dum-E nudged his chair out of the way and rolled closer to him.

"hey Dum-E." Tony managed to whisper, a small smile stretching his cracked lips. The robot cocked his claw, almost like someone would do when they were confused, then he pushed forwards until Tony reluctantly lifted his arm up and let the robot nuzzle against his side.

"...I know.. I miss him too." His trembling voice was barely heard audible over the blaring music that he was definitely not using to try and drown out his self-destructive thoughts.

Squeezing his eyes shut in an attempt to stop anymore tears from escaping, he twisted his fingers back into his hair and tucked his head back between his knees.

————————————————————

"I don't want to be here long, I'm just grabbing some stuff." Steve muttered, more to himself than to Bucky as he hurriedly grabbed clothes from the wardrobe he and Tony used to share.

"Yeah whatever punk." Bucky answered, absentmindedly glancing around the room. His gaze settled on the neatly made double bed, too neat. His brow furrowed and he stepped forward, Steve was too busy rummaging through something to notice him.

He let his metal fingers trail lightly over the bed covers, concerned at the layer of dust that had accumulated there. There were two bedside tables, one on each side of the bed, in various states of disarray.

The one on the opposite side of the bed must have been Steve's, as he could see several half finished drawings scattered by the base of the lamp.

However it was the one nearest to him that drew his attention, it was much much messier than Steve's. There were several coffee stains on the surface, and Bucky couldn't help but roll his eyes, coffee was apparently the only thing the genius ever drank.

He was vaguely aware of the other objects cluttering the table, but his gaze was fixed on the nondescript flip phone, placed with almost inhuman precision so that it lined up perfectly with the frame of a picture.

The frame was facedown on the side table so that the picture it contained couldn't be seen. Glancing over his shoulder to check what Steve was doing, he had practically climbed half way inside the wardrobe, making Bucky grin despite himself.

Turning back to the bedside table, he ever so gently lifted the frame up, gasping softly at the beautiful scene captured behind the glass.

Steve and Tony, both in perfectly tailored suits, posed for the camera, the former holding the latter bridal style with ease. Bucky's heart fluttered at the dopey smile on Steve's face as Tony planted a firm kiss on his cheek.

Both of them had their left hands thrust towards the camera and Bucky's breath caught in his throat, matching silver bands glinted on their fourth fingers. Steve never told him he and Tony were actually married.

Confetti rained around the happy couple, a mix of red, blue and gold, celebrating the colours of the two superheroes. The confetti was suspended in the air around the two, reminding Bucky that that's what this was, a special moment from the past, from a happier time.

His ears pricked suddenly, detecting the slight increase in Steve's breathing, decades of living as the Winter Soldier had given him unparalleled senses.

He turned, the frame still clutched tightly in his new metal arm that had been anonymously delivered to him and Steve's hideout. The moment Steve had opened the package, he'd burst into tears and refused to leave his room for three hours. Yet he still insisted that Bucky use the arm, even if his smile strained slightly every time he set eyes on it.

Steve's face was almost as pale as Bucky remember it from the 40s, coupled with his wide eyed stare and trembling hands, he could almost believe they were the same person.

"I'm sorry I- I was just- looking." He anxiously tried to explain, gesturing half heartedly towards the messy side table.

The blonde blinked slowly, as if pulling himself from the depths of a dream, "It's.... fine." He waved away Bucky's poor attempt at an explanation, trying to hide the way his voice cracked.

"No it isn't." Bucky replied in a much more measured tone, gauging his friends reaction. Steve's jaw went from slack to so tight that Bucky was afraid he heard his teeth crack.

"Everything is fine." He ground out, stiffly turning back to his suitcase and aggressively beginning to stuff everything he'd pulled out of the wardrobe into it.

"You didn't tell me you guys were married."

The only response he got was a shrug and a murmur he could barely make out. "wasn't important."

Bucky sighed, gently placing the picture back down, upright this time. He made his way to the end of the bed and perched there, softly tugging on Steve's shoulder until he huffed and joined him, falling heavily onto the bed.

Back in the tower, back in this room, back on this bed, all the memories Steve had been suppressing came rushing back to the front of his mind. Almost without thinking, he leant his head down to rest on Bucky's shoulder.

He couldn't help but miss the feel of Tony's, softer and lower, Buck's were.... harder, tough cords of muscles beneath his shirt. Both were comforting and familiar, but he couldn't have both... could he?

The former Winter Soldier was momentarily taken aback by the sudden contact, and he stiffened. He couldn't help it, seventy years of being conditioned to fear human touch.

A pang of guilt shot through him, as he could tell he'd managed to make Steve feel worse because as soon as he realised he'd tensed up, Steve had bolted upright, like a child caught doing something wrong.

Quickly wiping his tears from his cheeks, he mumbled, "M'sorry, I shouldn't have brought you here Buck, we can leave.. I'll send Nat to grab my stuff later."

Knowing he'd crossed some sort of line, Bucky simply nodded, watching from the bed as Steve returned to rooting through the chest of drawers.

Finally, curiosity got the best of him, "Watcha looking for now?"

"My dog tags." Steve muttered, slamming his fist on to the drawers, wincing at the audible crunch. "I- I gave them to Tony." He swallowed thickly, "But they aren't here."

"Where else could they be? The kitchen? The-"

"Lab!" Steve exclaimed, finishing Bucky's sentence for him. "Fuck." He swore, clenching his fists tightly to stop himself from punching something, anything.

"Then go get 'em." Bucky prompted, unable to stop himself from rolling his eyes as Steve's jaw practically fell open.

"Wh-what?!" He spluttered, "You- want me- to go up to my husband who I left and- and- say hey, uh- yeah, sorry to intrude, but you know that really important meaningful thing I gave you- yeah- I want them back." Steve raised his voice to a dramatically high pitch, earning another low sigh from his exasperated boyfriend/friend whatever they were.

"Do you love him?" Steve's eyes practically fell out of his head at the question, shifting slightly on the bed Bucky continued, "Lemme rephrase, do you love him more than you love me?"

"I- what?!"

"I see the way you look at him. You.. you don't look at me like that." He continued, wincing as Steve's features contorted in pain.

"Buck I-"

The brunet stood up so that the two were eye level, even that jarred Steve for a moment, his words dying in his throat, he was so used to looking down....

"-don't feel bad," Steve frowned, forcing himself to stop thinking about Tony, to focus on Bucky's next words.

"I- I've been wanting to talk to you about this anyway.." Bucky trailed off, thinking about how to phrase his next sentence, "I know we used to talk about us back in the forties, and- it really is a dream come true that we got a chance to figure- this-" he gestured between them, "out, but- you aren't- you aren't happy with me.."

Glancing sadly back at the photo, he couldn't help the low sigh that left his lips, "You love Stark- Tony." He corrected himself.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Steve pressed his palms against his temples. "You're right!" He yelled, "But you're also wrong! So fucking wrong!"

The vein in his jaw twitched as he gritted his teeth, alerting Bucky to just how annoyed he was. "I'm... wrong?" He asked hesitantly.

"Yes I love Tony! But I also love you! And- and- I can't choose!"

"Well maybe you don't have to.." Bucky thought out loud, Steve's gaze snapped towards him.

"What?"

Bucky shook his head, "Nothing, it doesn't matter, just- go talk to him you punk."

A bittersweet smile creep crept up Steve's face, "Shut up jerk." He retorted, making his way to the door, he paused for a moment in the doorway, hesitating. Impatiently, Bucky waved him away, ignoring Steve as he rolled his eyes.

Thoughts raced through Steve's head at a million miles an hour as he walked down the hall, what if Tony didn't want to see him, what if he was mad at him, hell, if Steve were him he'd be mad at himself-

He was at the doors to the lab way before he was prepared, he could already hear Tony's music through the doors.

Steve didn't realise his fists were clenched until he forced himself to relax, exhaling sharply as he examined the crescent shaped indents in his palms.

Taking a shaky breath to steady himself, he cast his eyes towards the ceiling, an old habit that he could never shake. "Ja- Friday? Could- um- could you let me in please?"

"I'm sorry Captain Rogers, Mr Stark has removed you from the system. I am unable to grant you access to the lab."

Steve's frown deepened, what could he do now? Break the door down?

Friday's smooth voice interrupted his internal monologue, "Although, if the door to the lab was accidentally left unlocked, technically I wouldn't be allowing you access."

A small grin lit Steve's face up, "I knew I liked you." He chuckled under his breath, tugging on the door which slid open with ease.

"Tony? Are you here?" Steve asked hesitantly, as he stepped into the room, his words nearly inaudible over the music.

His gaze swept over the empty room, he waited a moment before moving towards the bombsight of a desk opposite him. He subconsciously kept his footsteps light, a habit he'd picked up trying not to wake Tony if he'd fallen asleep in the lab.

He reached the desk, glancing over the papers scattered across it, he paused as he recognised the blueprints for Bucky's new arm.

Tearing his eyes away, he was almost ready to pack it in and leave, but as he turned, his enhanced eyesight caught the sliver of steam rising from the coffee mug.

The line between his brows deepened and he let his knuckles drag across the porcelain, nearly hissing at the heat. Since when did Tony drink his coffee that hot?

Then it hit him. Hot coffee, Tony must still be here, he wouldn't have been able to sneak past Steve. A low sigh slipped through his lips, he knew exactly where Tony was.

Rounding the desk, he gently pushed the chair to the side, crouching down to peer into the foot space beneath the desk.

What he saw made his heart shatter and his eyes well with tears. Sure he'd seen tony like this before, huddled beneath his desk, shaking, crying, pulling his hair hard enough to keep him grounded.. and every time he saw him like that, his chest ached, but this time, this time he knew that he had caused this, Tony was in pain because of him, and that hurt.

Tony's grip on his dark locks loosened, and he turned towards the sound of Steve's voice, his watery eyes widened, "Steve?"

Hearing Tony's broken voice was the last straw and the tears he'd previously managed to hold back fell from Steve's baby blue eyes, spilling down his pale cheeks.

"You're not real." Tony finally mumbled, pressing his palms over his eyes and shaking his head. Steve barely heard his whisper, but he did, and his hand tightened, his fingers pressing dents into the desk where he gripped it.

"Friday. Pause the music." He growled, anger at himself seeping into his tone. Tony looked up at the sudden silence, his stare blank as he seemed to look straight through Steve.

His gaze sharpened suddenly, bloodshot eyes meeting Steve's with such intensity that the super soldier nearly flinched. "I know you're not real!" He snapped, "Now get out of my head."

Tony waved his hand in dismissal, mere centimetres from Steve's nose. He made an attempt to crawl out from under the desk, nearly tripping over Dum-E. Steve quickly moved backwards out of his way, watching Tony as he stood up and attempted to straighten his clothes.

The brunet refused to look in Steve's direction, he simply offered a small smile to Dum-E. Steve jumped up as Tony turned to walk towards a separate bench, picking up a small and hunching forward over a delicate piece of machinery.

"Tony- please.. I really am here." Steve tried again, desperation creeping into his voice. Tony hesitated, sure, he'd hallucinated seeing Steve before, but never like this, it never hurt as much as this.

He turned slowly, screwdriver still clutched tightly in his fist, his fingernails pressing deep enough into his palms to draw blood as he cautiously stepped towards his husband.

He was on edge, waiting for this hallucination of Steve to turn on him, slam his shield into his chest, say something horribly hurtful and horribly true or simply wait until he could almost touch him, and then vanish.

Steve's eyes flicked between the sharp object Tony was gripping like a lifeline, and his face, so full of pain and hurt that Steve's stomach twisted with guilt. Not wanting to scare the skittish engineer, he froze.

Tony bit his lip as he edged nearer, taking in Steve's rigid posture, neither of them even dared to breath.

The hand that wasn't gripping his screwdriver moved, almost subconsciously towards Steve's face, trembling as his fingers followed the sharp line of his jaw. A frown creased his brows at the rough stubble there, the screwdriver slipped from his hand, clattering to the floor, although neither of them acknowledged it.

"You're really here?" He asked, uncertainty making his voice waver slightly. Steve nodded slowly, searching Tony's deep brown eyes for any hint of forgiveness or understanding, "I'm here Tones."

"Don't. Call. Me. That." Tony hissed, withdrawing his hand suddenly. He tore his eyes from Steve's, his gaze dropping to the floor. "I don't care if you're really here! Get the fuck out of my lab!"

"Tony-" Steve corrected himself, "Don't push me away- I swear I feel so bad about- about Siberia-" he cringed as soon as the word left his mouth, leaving a bitter taste in its wake.

Shivers shook Tony's body, spreading out from between his shoulder blades as every single memory he'd been struggling to repress came flooding back.

His parents. He was looking at his parents, after so long, he'd nearly forgotten what they looked like, how beautiful his mum was.

He knew what was coming, but he couldn't help but flinch as the car careened off the road, smashing into a tree.

He watched, barely breathing as The Winter Soldier ripped his life apart. Hatred burned like acid in his stomach, but not towards Bucky, not even towards The Winter Soldier, but towards himself.

For nearly thirty years, he'd hated his father, hated him for every time he was 'too busy' to spend time with him.

Hated him for every time he compared him to Steve.

Hated him for drinking that little bit too much and slapping him around.

But all that blame for his mother's death, was completely misplaced. Tony's heart ached as he recalled his fathers last words from the video.

"Maria- my wife- please help my wife..... Sergeant Barnes?"

"-ny- breathe- come on- follow my breathing." Steve's voice cut through Tony's panic and he realised that he could feel the steady thrum of a heartbeat beneath his fingers.

Biting back sobs, Steve pulled Tony's body against his chest, moving slightly so that Tony's head could rest against his broad shoulder.

"Come on Tony, I'm sorry- you're in the lab with me. Remember. Follow my breathing." The feel of Steve's warm, familiar shape wrapped around him comforted Tony as he struggled to control his erratic heart and heavy breathing.

"I'm sorry- please don't leave me- stay please- I don't wanna.. don't wanna be alone-" Tony mumbled, eyes still unfocused and slightly glazed.

"No- I'm sorry Tony. I- I screwed up big time." Slowly, Tony's breathing evened, but he let quiet, listening to Steve's explanation.

"Me and Buck weren't exactly accepted in the 40s. So we stopped ourselves, pretended we didn't have feelings for each other. And then I went into the ice and I thought I'd never see him again."

He sighed heavily, subconsciously running his hand down Tony's side, "I really love you baby, I swear I thought I'd completely moved on. But then he came back." Steve's face twisted into a grimace, "And all those old feelings came flooding back- an' I couldn't lose him again-"

His voice broke at the end, and he dropped his head into the crook of Tony's neck, his shoulders shaking.

"I'm sorry." He cried, tears soaking through Tony's T-shirt. Blinking back his own tears, Tony carefully extricated himself from Steve's tight embrace. He didn't pull away entirely though, simply twisted himself in Steve's lap until they were facing.

He carefully cupped Steve's jaw, tilting the soldiers face so that their equally teary eyes met. His thumb rubbed small circles over the rough stubble as he contemplated his next words.

"I understand why you did it.... which makes it even harder I guess, 'cause I know I'd do the same for Rhodey." Tony sighed, "I can't forget about this, not yet... it still hurts too much." He rubbed at his chest slightly, his gaze softening when Steve's face fell.

"But I can forgive you." He finished, blue eyes meeting brown as though they were seeing each other properly for the first time.

Steve was rendered breathless for the second time in less than half an hour, as Tony's hand snaked round the back of his head, fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck.

Neither of them moved for several long, tense moments, they simply stared into one another's eyes, mapping their faces out in their minds as they recalled every reason why they fell in love in the first place.

Then Steve moved, leaning forward to capture Tony's lips in a slow and cautious kiss, his large hands sliding up Tony's side, rucking his shirt up and tugging him closer to his chest.

Relaxing into Steve's arms, Tony's eyes slid shut and he melted into the familiar feeling of Steve's lips against his own. He smiled into the kiss as Steve's tongue swept along his bottom lip, easily working its way into his mouth and pushing between his teeth.

They kissed until they ran out of oxygen, breathing heavily and in sync as they pulled away.

Tony tilted his head forward so that his forehead rested against Steve's, his eyes still closed as he caught his breath.

"I missed you." He confessed, peering through his lashes at Steve, "And I'm sorry for screaming."

The blonde chuckled softly, "I did deserve it." His face turned serious again, "I am sorry, Tony."

Just as a smug grin crept up his face, Tony chose that exact moment... to faint.

Panic gripped Steve's chest for a moment as the brunette slumped against his chest, then he heard Tony's stomach grumble loudly, and felt the ribs poking through his shirt.

"Oh Tony." He sighed, rolling his eyes as he easily scooped the shorter man into his arms and striding out of the lab.

"Wh-" Tony's sleepy mumble made a smile tug at the corner of Steve's lips, even as he had to tighten his grip when Tony attempted to wriggle out of his arms.

"M'fine- gerrof!" He growled, pushing against Steve's broad chest, "S'fine you apologised, you can go now- put me down!"

So Steve did, dropping Tony onto one of the kitchen stools so that he was sat at the island, facing Steve as he started pulling ingredients out of the cupboards.

"What are you doing?" Tony groaned, placing his chin in his hand to stare at Steve.

Steve ignored the question, asking one of his own, "When was the last time you ate?" Glancing over his shoulder, he sighed in exasperation as Tony shrugged, mumbling an off handed, "I dunno."

"Jeez Tones, have you thrown all my food away? He complained, throwing his arms up in annoyance.

Tony shrugged again, "I don't like your rabbit food." He fastened his gaze on the floor, "And it reminded me too much of you."

Steve tensed at Tony's mumbled statement, turning around to stare at him as he continued, "Didn't know if you'd be coming back anyway."

"Tony-"

The brunet sighed, "Don't, I told you, I get it." He muttered, half way off of the stool before a large hand landed on his shoulder, pushing him back down.

"Sit. Down." Steve snarled, "We are not discussing this now. I am making you some healthy, nutritious food. Then you are going to brush your teeth, get in the shower and go the fuck to sleep. Cause no offence but you look like shit."

Tony rolled his eyes but remained seated, brushing Steve's hand off his shoulder, "Language." He mocked, trying to lighten the mood.

A low chuckle left Steve's throat, and he moved back towards the stove, cracking several eggs into a bowl and beginning to whisk them.

Tony stifled his own giggle, glancing around the kitchen as his stomach growled again, his eyes drifted over the door and he stiffened.

Watching Tony's eyes widen in fear, Bucky felt guilt settle on his shoulders. He edged his way out of the doorway, avoiding eye contact with Tony as he cleared his throat quietly.

Steve whipped round at the noise, "Uh- Buck- I.. we were just..." he gave up when he saw Tony's judgemental stare from the corner of his eye, he gestured awkwardly at the omelette, "Food."

"Right, do you want me to go? Natasha sent the quinjet over." Tony's face crumpled at the mention of the red headed spy's name, remembering the sharp sting of betrayal that stabbed his chest every time he thought of her.

Steve glanced worriedly at Tony, "Ah- no. It's fine," he slid a plate across the island and Tony frowned in disgust, trying to ignore the super soldiers presence somewhere behind him.

"Steve- it's green." He pointed out, prodding it suspiciously with his fork. Steve rolled his eyes, dropping into the seat opposite Tony, "It's got spinach in it you baby, just eat it."

"Keep rolling your eyes and you might find a brain somewhere back there."

"Shut up. Not all of us are geniuses ya know," Steve shot back, his Boston accent creeping into his voice.

"Evidently." Tony snarked, stabbing his omelette again. "Oh for fuck sake!" Steve cursed, trying to hide his grin as he yanked the plate towards him and snatched the fork out of Tony's hand.

Bucky smiled at how quickly the two of them fell into what he assumed were old habits, trading sarcastic comments like sweets at Halloween.

"I don't need you to cut my food up. I'm not a baby Steve. And watch your language."

Steve frowned, shoving the plate back towards Tony with his omelette now in bite sized pieces. Tony pulled another disgusted face, but grudgingly started eating anyway.

"Buck do you want one?" Steve asked, standing up and grabbing a couple more eggs, they were large ones, but still sat easily in the palm of his hand.

Bucky hesitated, decisions had always been difficult for him after... hydra, but this one was the worst he'd ever faced.

Sure Steve, why wouldn't I wanna sit down to a nice meal with you and your husband, oh yeah, your husband, you know the guy you cheated on with me and then left half beaten to death in a freezing bunker. Could this get any more awkward?!

"Um-" he hummed, silently hoping that someone would make the decision for him. Steve smiled tightly, noticing Bucky's discomfort, he pointed at the seat next to Tony, "Sit down, I'll make you one.

Apparently it can get more awkward! Why, why would you sit me next to him, it's not like we tried to kill each other like a week ago. Bucky felt like face palming, was Steve really an oblivious asshole or was he actively trying to start a fight.

He cautiously moved towards the stool that Steve had gestured at, trying to ignore the way Stark shifted away from him, shoulders tensed.

Measuring his breathing helped calm him slightly, in, out, in, out, four even breaths later and he was sliding into the seat next to Tony.

They sat together in silence whilst Steve finished cooking another omelette, sliding it onto a plate and across the island.

"Eat up ba-" Steve blushed, cutting himself off as Tony's grip tightened around his fork, the metal grinding against the porcelain of the plate. "-ucky. Bucky." He tried to save himself, his face redder than a beetroot.

A loud yawn broke the silence that followed, and both Steve and Bucky turned to stare at the sleepy engineer. When he noticed their stares, he shot them both a cold glare, "What? I'm tired ok." He snapped.

Steve grinned, "Come on, let's get you to bed."

"Stop treating me like a baby Steve. I can take care of myself." The blonds eyebrow quirked at Tony's statement.

"Really? When was the last time you actually slept in your bed?" Tony flushed, "You used to pass out in the lab, quite often if I remember correctly."

"Is this your long winded way of getting me into bed? Cause I hate to tell you, but you might wanna up the romance a bit." Tony sassed, sliding off his stool and stumbling towards the door.

Steve laughed, "Gimme a sec while I put this stuff away." He scooped the eggshells off the side of the counter and moved to put them in the bin. Whilst he was busy cleaning up, Tony continued to stagger away from them.

He'd barely made it three steps before his knees buckled and the ground rushed towards his face.

Suddenly, strong arms were wrapped around his torso, pinning his arms to his sides, caging him into a broad chest. Tony gasped softly, his nose inches from the floor, "Thanks babe." He mumbled, twisting in the tight grip so that he could look up at- BUCKY?

Tony felt heat rise up his face, "Uh- I thought you were Steve?" He squeaked, sounding more like a question than a statement, he smiled weakly as he met Bucky's deep brown eyes.

"Hmm, you're cute when you blush." Bucky muttered without thinking, staring down at the small man trapped between his body and the floor.

"Um- do you two want me to leave? Give you some privacy?" Steve cut in, sarcasm dripping from his tone.

Bucky jumped as though he'd forgotten Steve was in the room, he glanced over his shoulder, ignoring Tony as he wriggled between his arms.

"Um sorry that bambi here hasn't figured out how to walk properly yet." He stated, a teasing edge to his words, before Tony could even blink, he was cradled like a baby into Bucky's chest.

There was an arm hooked beneath his knees, and another on lower back which held him steady, the metal cool against his hot skin, even through the material of his shirt.

Tony could hear Steve's heavy footsteps follow them as he was carried into the bedroom and dropped unceremoniously onto the bed. He bounced onto the soft mattress, a low uff pushing past his lips at the shock. Bucky couldn't help but grin, pushing a stray hair out of the billionaires face and tucking it behind his ear.

Steve smiled softly at the two of them, pulling the corner of the duvet back so that Tony could snuggle beneath it.

Without thinking, he leant forward and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead. Lingering for several moments, he eventually pulled away, opening his mouth to ask Bucky whether he was ready to go, when a hand circled his wrist.

Tony blinked up at him sleepily, "Please stay." He whispered, tugging the super soldier back towards the bed.

Steve shot a wary glance at Bucky, who was laughing silently at the confusion on Steve's face. "It's fine jerk, I'll go meet 'tasha on the quinjet."

"Nah uh." Tony's childish pout was directed at Bucky, making the assassins heart melt at the pleading looks in his doe brown eyes and sulkily stuck out lip.

"You... want me to stay?" He hesitated, surely this was overstepping at least 100 boundaries.

"Please." Tony whined, his eyes seeming to get wider and cuter the longer they were fixed in Bucky's.

Steve chuckled, "Oh dear, you've made the mistake of looking into his puppy dog eyes. He knows they get me every time." Bucky finally managed to tear his eyes away from Tony's, to realise that Steve had stripped into his boxers and was sliding in to the bed next to Tony.

The two stared at him expectantly and he shuffled, rubbing the hairs at the back of his neck, "I dunno, is there even enough room in the bed? I-"

"I'm not going to sleep until you join us." Tony sulked, folding his arms across his chest.

Bucky sighed dramatically, his hands awkwardly fumbling as he yanked his hoodie over his head along with his T-shirt. He opted to leave his sweatpants on, and slowly edged under the covers.

The bed was plenty big enough for all three of them, with enough room for Bucky and Steve to be able to comfortably stretch out. Tony sighed in satisfaction, nuzzling his head int Bucky's chest as Steve curled around him.

Cautiously, Bucky brought his metal hand up from where it rested against the covers, he loved his new arm and he made a mental note to thank Tony for it tomorrow. He'd been working especially hard on learning to control his strength.

Now wanting to scare Tony or himself, he moved at the pace of a snail to rest his fingers in the engineers thick locks. Amazingly, he could actually feel the hair against his hand, and ever so gentle, he began to play with the soft brown hair, smiling at the content hum it earned him.

Bucky stayed awake for much longer than both Steve and Tony, the latter passing out minutes after Bucky had started playing with his hair. Steve took longer to fall asleep, but as Bucky lay perfectly still, he listened to the blonds breathing get slower and steadier.

Looking down at the two men cuddled up next to him, he couldn't help the warm feeling of hope that spread through his chest. A small smile curling his lips, he let the soft exhales of his friends lull him to sleep.

#Steve Rogers #Tony Stark #Bucky Barnes #Steve/Tony #superhusbands #stuckony #stucky #CACW

[jusvibbbin]

Act like a Human

Phlox x Reader

//For my friend yet again @the-sleepy-sheep​

//Read her work @starfleet-jelly

Life on the Enterprise was often full of excitement and adventure. But even out in the final frontier, there were mellow days. On one such day, you were heading towards sick bay to visit your resident Denobulan. It had been a few days since you had seen him, and from what you heard he’d barely left his work space. You often assisted with his animals, being the xenobiologist you were but he hadn’t called to see you in quite some time. Your curiosity was beyond peaked as you got closer to sickbay.

The doors swished open when you pressed the button, and the sound of waltz music drifted out into the corridor. You looked around and not seeing the doctor, you walked behind the wall built in the middle of the room. The music was coming from the console on the counter and as you rounded the corner, you were greeted with a spectacular sight.

The renowned Doctor Phlox was dancing. It looked like a traditional waltz, only he was completely alone. You only had a few seconds before he turned to face you and hastily shut off the music. You stifled your chuckle with a cough and walked back around the wall. After a moment Phlox appeared, looking more than a little embarrassed.

“Ahem, (Y/N), I would appreciate your utmost discretion with what you just saw,” Phlox said quickly.

You smiled at him saying, “Of course, doc. But why were you dancing?”

His eyes refused to meet yours as his hands fidgeted awkwardly. You waved your hand and started to walk out.

“That’s alright. I don’t want to pry into… whatever it is you’re doing.” You pressed the button to open the door and strolled out. This was far from over.

--

A couple days later you saw Phlox sitting with Hoshi in the mess hall. You grabbed your tray and took a seat at their table. Hoshi continued their conversation, barely giving you a wave as she prattled on about something. 

But the doctor looked immediately uncomfortable with your presence and started to eat faster so he could leave. There was a small pause in talking so you jumped in.

“Doctor, I would love to hear more about your experiment,” you said, a smirk on your face. Phlox’s eyes went wide and he was about to say something when the Captain’s voice interjected from above.

“All senior staff to the bridge.”

You heard Phlox mumble, “Saved by the bell,” and he and Hoshi took their leave. As they walked away, and you started to eat, you heard Hoshi question the doctor on his experiment. He shot a look back at you before they disappeared into the corridor.

--

You had messed with the doctor before. He was easy to joke around with and was often carefree when they were sometimes at his expense. But this time he really did seem offended when you poked fun at him. You felt bad.

So to make up for it, you snuck into the kitchen and made him one of your favorites: Tres Leches. It took about two hours but your hard work paid off. It looked delicious. You had finished pretty late but you knew Phlox would be up. 

You carefully walked to sickbay, thankful there were less people to run into than normal.

You walked into the mostly darkened room, the only light coming from a few of Phlox’s pet cages. You set the dessert on a table and looked around for the doctor. After a moment, he came out from where his private quarters were, jumping slightly when he saw you.

“(Y/N)! You scared me,” he chuckled as he walked over. His eyes fell on the Tres Leches and he looked at you confused.

You rubbed your arm and avoided his gaze.

“I just wanted to apologize for, sort of, bringing up what I saw the other day. I didn’t realize how important it was to you so I’m sorry.”

Phlox looked surprised and you felt more and more embarrassed.

“Well, enjoy!” you said, quickly turning and walking to the door.

You were halfway out when Phlox called to you.

“Wait, maybe you can help me with my… experiment.”

You turned back to him and he gave you a slightly more relaxed smile. You walked back over to him and he handed you a PADD with a list on it. You read it, occasionally looking up at him with confusion.

“What’s this for Phlox?”

He smiled sheepishly. “I’ve noticed that the crew here seem to be much more comfortable with my presence than some of my colleagues in San Francisco. I figured it would be good to learn some more human activities, customs and history.”

“And you want my help to check off this list?” you asked, smiling at some of the things he had written.

“If you wouldn’t mind. Some of them are a bit difficult to do alone,” he said, a small blush appearing on his face. At least it looked like he was blushing, you couldn’t be sure with alien physiology.

“I’d love to! What’s first?”

--

The next few days your off-duty hours were spent with the ship’s doctor. You cooked some authentic earth foods (pasta, burgers, pizza, you name it!) in your quarters, occasionally swiping from the kitchen. Once each meal was cooked, you watched some classic earth cinema. While Trip’s movie nights were fun, he didn’t really deviate from movies he enjoyed. So you compiled a list of movies that were beloved at the time of their release. Everything from the Matrix to Snow White, and Phlox liked almost all of them.

But the most fun you had was when you spent an evening trying on earth clothes from other eras. The 40s suits, the 70s hot pants, and the 90s denim on denim; all of it looked ridiculous on the hanger and on the two of you. The amount of laughter that echoed through your quarters was immeasurable.

You showed Phlox lots of weird earth sports and the odd things humans did in greeting, passing or in celebration. He found the high-five to be particularly strange, but by the end of the night you two had a secret handshake.

The list had gotten incredibly small and you soon found yourselves back to what started your odd little hangouts.

Dancing.

Phlox had told you that while the Denobulans had many lovers and were a tight-knit race, they did not usually show appreciation for one another with physical affection. The idea of dancing was completely foreign to him.

“Dancing is just, dancing,” you said. “I don’t know how else to think of it! You just kind of feel the music, you know?”

He looked at you, quite puzzled.

“I’ll show you,” you exclaimed as you looked through the computer to find a playlist of yours. Once you found a song with a fast enough beat, you began to dance. You weren’t good or bad, more so focused on the feel of it than the technicality. Phlox simply watched in fascination as you bumped along to the music.

When the song started to change to another one you said, “Try it!”

He looked a bit uncomfortable but he moved over to the open space you had made in sickbay and attempted to copy you. You laughed and he soon joined you, realizing how silly you both looked. After a couple songs you were both exhausted from dancing and laughing at one another.

The song changed once again, to something slower and softer. A waltz. You looked over at the Denobulan and smiled, offering your hand.

“How would you like to try it with a partner?”

You were surprised when he grabbed your hand and quickly pulled you flush against him, positioning both your hands to make the frame. He seemed to shock himself as well since he paused after doing so, looking at you, searching for some kind of objection. He found none.

Gently you both began to sway to the music, eyes never leaving each other. 

His box step was pretty good from all that practice and he was amused every time you stepped on his feet. The song ended all too quickly, but neither of you let go.

You put your hands on his chest and leaned your head against his neck. Phlox ran a hand gently up and down your back. His other hand came up to lift your chin.

“May I?” he asked gently.

You nodded and he quickly captured your lips. You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him closer. After a moment he pulled away and you looked up at him, smiling. You touched his cheek softly, and he smiled at you.

“This is my favorite human custom,” he said as he kissed you again.

Tag List: @elen-aranel​ @livenerdyandprosper​

#star trek #star trek enterprise #star trek ent #phlox #dr phlox #phlox x reader #request #oneshot

[gallavictorious]

Once again the fandom coming together to daydream about Mickey helping Ian out and seeing him back on track to become an emt again but why is that on Mickey? Why does he always have to do things to make Ian happy when Ian's usually nothing but annoyed by Mickey and does nothing to make Mickey happy? Truly shows which character y'all care about more.

This got absurdly long, because I am who I am and did take the opportunity to go off on a tangent about valid conclusions and what not, so I put it under a cut. Read at your own risk! Oh, and I also do address the actual question about whether or not Ian's career is on Mickey, and whether or not Ian never does anything to make Mickey happy. ;)

For the sake of clarity, I got this ask in response to this post.

And I gotta say, nonnie, getting this ask perplexed me to the point of running off to Trusted Fandom Friends, demanding to know how my undying love and loyalty for Mickey could ever be doubted. Had to laugh at myself a little, actually, and the strenght of my befuddlement. It reminded me of the time I went on a trip with people from the 501st (cosplayers dedicated to the bad guys in Star Wars) and Rebel Legion (cosplayers dedicated to the good guys in Star Wars) and a lot of people assumed I was a Rebel sympathizer simply because I had friends in that group and those were the people who had invited me. Excuse me, I didn't yell, I have like 30 Darth Vaders in my damned home, how dare you question my allegiance? I was so used to always being known as a diehard Vaderkin fangirl that the mer fact of strangers failing to recognize me as such genuinely fucked a little with my sense of identity. My love of Mickey isn't anywhere near as deeply ingrained into my sense of self, since he's only been an occasional presence in my life since 2016 while Darth Vader's been my main man since 1994, but it was still a little jarring to suddenly find myself (mis)identified as an Ian stan.

Being a fangirl is strange.

And I want to make it clear that I do love Ian. He's a fascinating character and, to me, he's a character that's often much harder to understand than Mickey. He rewards careful analysis and discussion, though, so I guess I tend to talk a lot about him? I don't need to spend as much time considering Mickey's feelings and motivations because they are (almost) always pretty obvious; I don't need to tease them out. But at the end of the day, Mickey is my favourite. (Though I'll always love Ian and Mickey together more than I love either of them on their own. It's like fresh cilantro and mint – each perfectly lovely in their own right, but the combination of them creates a flavour that's just out of this world.)

Now, you might argue that you don't follow me and so have no idea who I am and what I like to post about, and that going only by that single post (which, in fairness, was tagged with 'i just want ian to be happy okay?') I give off the general impression of an Ian stan. And that's fair enough; I'm an obscure blog in a decently big fandom and you're not required to keep track of anyone. However, if you want to throw around passive aggressive accusations of caring more about one character than the other, I will ask you to do your research first. Reacting to one single piece of data without considering the context is a common but highly unfortunate practice that needlessly complicates meaningful conversations, and we'd all do well to abstain from it.

Oh, you don't want to spend a lot of time and energy on consdering every single thing a specific Tumblr blog has ever said on a specific topic just so you can draw a valid conclusion about their stance? That's perfectly understandable, nonnie, and easily sorted: refrain from making unsubstantiated claims about what other people think or don't think and you won't have to. Ask them, if you wonder. If you see a tendency in fandom to put the responsibility for Ian's wellbeing and career or Mickey's shoulders and want to discuss that, that's totally cool! I am game (and will address that question below)! But it's very possible to do that without somewhat rudely ascribing perferences and opinions to other people, and you'll get better answers for it (for instance, you won't have to wade through me rambling on about valid conclusions and my memories from other fandoms... ).

It seems to me, though, that this touches upon a long-held frustration of yours. If I interpret your ask correctly, you think the show gives us an Ian who is mostly annoyed with Mickey and doesn't do anything to make him happy, and you think that the fandom responds to this by relegating Mickey to the role of Ian's caretaker, whose sole purpose is to serve Ian's needs without any regard for what might Mickey himself happy. Have I got that right?

If so, it should be noted that I don't agree with either of these takes: I don't think that's the Ian the show gives us (a point I will return to below), and I don't think that fandom at large only cares about Ian's happiness, and I particularly don't think that my post can be used a evidence of the latter.

For instance, when you sent me this ask the post in question had all of 40 notes. As I write this, it has just over 70. ”The fandom coming together” seems to be slightly overstating the case, don't you think? There are certainly fans who care more about Ian and only see Mickey as valuable as long as he contributes to Ian's happiness, just as there are fans who care more about Mickey and only see Ian as valuable as long as he contributes to Mickey's happiness - but this single post with less than a hundred notes does not support that either of these stances would be predominant within the fandom. (And, while on the topic, I'd like to state that I don't actually see a problem with either of those stances; these are fictional characters that exists for our entertainment and we don't have any moral obligations to treat them equally and fairly. Don't ruin other fans' fun by dumping on either of them in the character or shipping tags or on character and shipping posts and this is not a problem. It might be a somewhat unpopular opinion, but I don't think you have to love or even like all characters in a ship to ship it: I refuse to drink plain tea because it's nasty but put a splash of milk in it and its my favourite thing ever. You can love a combination without loving all the seperate pieces on their own. And yeah, I do revert to food metaphors a lot. I like food.)

Secondly, whether or not the post can be said to represent the feeling of the fandom at large (it cannot), I think that reading a post specifically about ”Mickey helping Ian out and seeing him back on track to become an emt again” and then extrapolating from that that Mickey ”always have to do things to make Ian happy” is a little wild. The very first thing I wrote for this fandom was a vision of Ian offering Mickey comfort, goddammit. (Ian giving Mickey a hug is so high on my list of desires, you can't even imagine)

As for your actual question (and, ah, imagine how much shorter this post would be if you had just left it at that) – of course that's not on Mickey. That much, incidentally, I've actually explicitly stated in another post. Ian might have his issues but he's still an adult and responsible for himself. That being said, I don't see it as particularly strange that someone would go out of their way to help their partner when they see them struggling? If I realize that someone I care about is unhappy and there's a way for me to help, I would want to help because I love them and want them to be happy, even if it's – ethically speaking – not my responsibility to do so. Pretty sure Mickey, who is action-oriented and so very protective of the people he loves, feels the same way.

Of course, if it's a one-sided thing – if one partner is always the one to do stuff for the other and never receives any support in return – that's not a healthy relationship, and I assume that this is what you're seeing in the show and taking exception to?

Only... I can't help but wonder who this Ian is, this uncaring, selfish version you see – because I don't quite get how it can be the Ian who emptied his bank account for Mickey, or the Ian who was ready to throw his parole and stay in prison for Mickey even when they were in the middle of a fight specifically because Mickey said it would make him happy, or the one who kept trying to talk to Mickey and win him back after Mickey punched him in the face, accidentally broke his leg, and took off with a new lover (I'm not taking sides in this one, btw – I have a lot of sympathy and understanding for both of them and their actions throughout this whole sorry affair), or the Ian who immediately wanted to marry Mickey protect him from the consequences of a murder Ian thought he had actually comitted, or the Ian who went along with arranging a real wedding even though he initially didn't at all understand why this was important to Mickey and who had someone come serenade him once he did, or the Ian who chose At last for Mickey to walk up to the aisle to, or the Ian who keeps trying to reach out to Mickey and to touch him and discuss their issues in a mature way even when he's (justifiably) upset about Mickey using all their wedding money without telling Ian. (Though Ian deciding for both of them that they're saving the money isn't great either.)

I mean, Ian's absolutely done shitty things, as has Mickey. They're human, and they're the products of a chaotic and often hostile enviroment. They do mess up a lot; they've hurt each other rather badly over the years. Depending on your perspective and preferences, you may think one or the other have behaved worse, but as far as I can see, the claim that Ian never does anything to make Mickey happy is simply not supported.

Ian has seemed unusually annoyed with Mickey this season, I'll give you that, but while that's not always the most fun thing to watch and I strongly sympathize with the wish to just see Ian look at Mickey with that fond look again, I don't find him being frustrated right now all that weird, given the circumstances. I'd argue it has less to do with Mickey and more to do with a general frustration over thwarted ambitions and not being able to hold on even to a really shitty job, though Mickey's attitude doesn’t exactly help (which is not to say that I think that Ian's the one in the right here, becasue Ian's way of handling things hasn't always been been stellar either). However, I do have faith in them sorting this out – because even though they fight and bicker and get annoyed with each other, there's never any indication that they're not both committed to making this marriage thing work. They certainly stumble, they misunderstand each other and lash out, but they calm down and go to sleep in the same bed and compromise and keep trying. Every day, they – both of them – choose each other.

I'd like to finish this off by noting, even though it's not entirely relevant to my argument, that that the number one thing that does make Mickey happy is being together with Ian, and even when Ian is pissed at Mickey and withholding sex (which was very ill-advised but says a lot of interesting things about his character, I think!) no one's sleeping on the couch, there are no nights away from the house and each other, and even in the middle of an argument they sit and stand next to each other. I think that's pretty telling of Ian's dedication, especially given his propensity for running away from his problems.

Phew. Okay, nonnie – though we don't agree and I doubt you'll find this answer satisfactory, I hope you see that I have done my best to understand your point of view and treat your arguments fairly and give you a thoughtful response. If you'd like to get back to me and elaborate on your stance, I'd ask that you show me the same courtesy. :)

#asks #i don't even know what to tag this i spent five hours writing it and my brain is mush #meta #i guess?

[bellatrixobsessed1]

From Chin To Yon Rah (Part 40)

Sometimes she doesn't recognize herself. Especially not these days, not with her hair still shorter than usual and her belly so swollen. Not with the clothes she now wears and the makeup that she doesn't.

She has felt this so many times before but she hasn't done so in such a long time. And, spirits, the disconnect has come back with a vengeance. For some reason it is more noteworthy today. Maybe it is a product of silence and too much time to think while Atsu is in school and Hajime is at work. Maybe she should go into town and find something to do, someone to talk to instead of dwelling on the disjoint between her body and her mind.

Maybe she should set off to find something that reminds her of the old her. But then it becomes a matter of balancing--finding something that takes her back to herself but without dragging up the demons she has been fending off for so long. She lays against the pillow with a long and drawn out sigh, her fingers absently brushing over the bump. Not for the first time she wonders just who the hell she is; she wonders if Azula and Rikka truly are one and the same or if she has severed Azula away. She wonders if it would be a bad thing if she had--Rikka is significantly easier to love. Rikka hasn’t any past to feel or misdeeds to regret. But Azula has plenty. And sometimes Rikka feels the pains of them. There is no severance, not even the possibility of it, she decides.

Decide as she might, the disconnect still lingers in her mind, even when logic has already deduced that Azula and Rikka can never be separate. Even when logic deduced that they share not just a face and body but one mind no matter what name she puts to it.

She wishes that logic could be enough to ward off the feeling. She sits herself upright, if she lazes around any longer, the baby will begin its restless kicking. It always does. But swollen ankles and feet don’t exactly inspire her to get up. She sighs and pushes herself up anyhow.

She had every intention of going out for some fresh air but she finds herself sitting in front of the mirror. It should have been only a brief thing, a simple task. All she had to do was run a brush through her locks and dress herself. She gets as far as taking her sleep shirt off and reaching for her day clothes.

She should know better than to get anywhere near a mirror when she feels any manner of a disconnect and yet she had trusted herself to stand before one. Her grip on the shirt slackens. This time she is alone in the reflection. This time she can only lock eyes with herself. This time she will hold that stare until she has forced the disconnect away.

She finds that staring just doesn’t cut it and so she holds up her hand, if only to make sure that her reflection will do the same. Not that it hasn’t given a perfect imitation of her every gesture so far. Of each twitch of her hand and each flicker of an expression.

She touches her hand to the mirror, meeting the fingertips behind the glass. And when simply seeing the motions imitated does nothing to bridge the disconnect, she touches her cheek. Her reflection does the same. She brushes her fingers over the opposite hand, runs them through her hair.

She feels along the bump, she thinks that she can feel the baby stir. She thinks that she can feel reality slipping more securely back into place. And so she feels for her pulse. Holds her fingers there for the longest time just breathing. Inhaling and exhaling until security returns. And in the steady rhythmic beat, she does come back to herself.

It isn’t just logic that tells her that she and Rikka are not separate. It isn’t just logic that tells her that Azula isn’t an invader in Rikka’s body. She can feel it now, her mind does belong to the body it inhabits.

She is glad that Hajime and Atsu aren’t there to catch her standing topless and seemingly pointlessly in front of the mirror. Granted, Hajime has grown used to some of her more disorganized behaviors.

Azula finishes dressing her body and brushing her hair. Finishes grooming herself. There is no Rikka and Azula. There is only Azula and the false name she had applied to the the real mind and person behind it.

She double checks that the house is locked before slipping quietly out the door and into town. It would do her well to talk to a stranger every now and then.

That day she learns that she can help herself.

.oOo.

"Dad and I are going hunting, come with us?"

In less than ten words her life changes again. She hadn’t realized that things can change so startlingly fast. She is used to the much more gradual sort. Regardless of speed, she doesn’t know how many more changes she can take. How many changes like these.

She is cold, so very cold…

She still struggled to stuff herself into so many layers of clothing. One large sweater and a first coat are easy enough but Sokka always had to help her tug on the overlaying parka and that morning was no different. She thinks that he enjoys doing so, he always ruffles her hair before flipping the hood over too far over her head. As she had done every time before that she had pushed the hood out of her eyes and swatted him with all of her might--it was ineffective between the padding of her own gloves and the layers that Sokka was buried under.  He had laughed so hard and she thinks that Katara might have even stifled one before going back to scorning the firebender’s very existence.

She wonders if Katara is as worried about her as she is worried about her father and brother. At the very least, if she is worried at all. Even slightly. Sokka hasn’t laughed in a while…

Hakoda had placed a spear in her hand. “It’ll be easier than taking your gloves off every time you want to firebend.” She respected his sharp thinking. At least she knew that she wasn’t hunting alongside an incompetent man. But sometimes all the competence and quick thinking in the world isn’t enough to trump circumstance.

The goal was to sack a few arctic hens and maybe a puffin-seal or two. “You bag it, you skin it.” Hakoda remarked at the end of his lesson in spear throwing. She couldn’t imagine that it would be too much harder than aiming lightning. She remembers wondering if the man was joking about making her skin her catches. “I’ve skinned an animal before when I was in the grasslands, I can show you how if you’d like.”

Her jest was well received. The man had given her a sturdy pat on the back, a gesture not unlike Sokka slinging his arm over her shoulder. “I think that you’ll be a great help today.” The man had nodded. “We’re going to be hunting for the whole village. Us and Bato and his crew.”

And with those words they had bid Katara a goodbye. With those words they had begun a hunt that should have been successful. A hunt that was in the beginning.

She is bleeding so much. Or she would be, had the cold not sealed her wound by freezing the blood. Sometimes her life replays itself in her mind. She supposes that, in the end, she had shaped herself into a decent person. The sort that will be missed...

Between the three of them they had taken down seven arctic hens and one puffin-seal. Sokka carried four of the hens and she three. At least until the puffin-seal fell. It had been her shot, her killing blow and she wanted to carry the thing. “Firebender pride is one mighty force.” Hakoda had rolled his eyes. She thinks that she had earned a certain respect in lifting the creature. It was heavy without a doubt, heavier than her by some ten pounds. Maybe fifteen. But her determination had a weight of its own, a significantly heftier one.

Her arms still ache from the endeavor. She would have let Hakoda carry it if she had known that she would need her energy to carry Sokka. She wonders how much respect his father would have had for her if they hadn’t gotten separated.

Truth be told she wishes that she hadn’t taken the seal down so fast. They wouldn’t have had any extra time if she hadn’t. Sokka wouldn’t have been able to make his proposal if they had hunted even a few minutes longer.

“There’s a glacier that I’d love to show Azula, can we go dad?”

“I don’t think so, Sokka. Not today.” He had pointed to the sky. Azula thought that the world looked somehow dimmer. Dimmer in the same way that fog mutes a landscape.

“We still have a few hours.” Sokka had insisted. “I think that she would really like the glacier.” He turned to her. “It’ll be the second prettiest thing you see in the tribes--third if you count me! You’ll love it I promise.”

And maybe she would have if she had gotten to see them. She wishes that she would have been more adamant in her refusal.

They had made it to the glacier. “I’ll wait for you out here.” Hakoda had propped himself up at the mouth of the icy architecture. Mistake number two.

She wonders if the man had entered the glacier to look for them. To warn them to stay put until the storm passed. Maybe that would have been smarter but she had dreaded the idea of getting sealed away in there in the Water Tribe equivalent of a cave in. Dreaded the notion of being trapped under miles of snow and ice. She had practically dragged Sokka out into the open of the tundra. Mistake number three.

She had been such a fool to trust her inexperienced, fear-driven instincts over Sokka’s decade of experience and the knowledge that had probably been passed down to him since birth.

All those years ago, the tides might not have commanded her ship, but the frosty winds certainly command the tundra and everything that walks within it.

_________________________

For those of you wondering how Azula carried a seal, we will pretend like puffin-seals are like subantartic fur seals which, on average, weigh around 110 pounds. Azula is a strong lady, I firmly believe that she can lift that much. Fight me if you disagree. (ง'̀-'́)ง

#Avatar The Last Airbender #Azula #Sokka #Sokkla #Fanfiction