#i will be thinking about this scene for the rest of my life

[solemnarration]

𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐋𝐓𝐘 𝐀𝐒 𝐒𝐈𝐍? | chapter three

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: art donaldson x female!reader x patrick zweig 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: you’ve always been content being second place to your best friend tashi duncan, waiting for the day you can quit tennis. your world is upended when you meet art and patrick, and you’re forced to embrace a life in the sport you’ve been too afraid to claim for yourself. 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 5.5k 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠(𝐬): challengers content warnings, reader wears shorts and a t-shirt, swearing, underage drinking, kissing, mentions of controlling mother, mentions of mutual masturbation (minors DNI), use of y/n 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: kind of nervous to post my version of the iconic hotel scene but i hope you all like it!! 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯 | 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭

𝐇𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐋 𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐌 𝟐𝟎𝟔. 𝐅𝐋𝐔𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐌𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐒, 𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐘𝐎𝐑𝐊 – 𝐒𝐄𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝟏𝟎, 𝟐𝟎𝟎𝟔. 𝟏𝟐:𝟏𝟓𝐀𝐌.

“I can’t believe you talked me into this,” you hissed as you followed Tashi down the corridor of the dingy hotel you were staying at. You marched behind your best friend in light blue and white striped pyjama shorts, a white fitted t-shirt, fuzzy socks, and your favourite slippers. 

“What can I say? My persuasive abilities started getting better since we became friends,” she retorted, rolling her eyes and smirking. “I guess you’re a good influence on me!”

You sighed, crossing your arms defensively and staring at the door of Room 206 once you arrived. “Tashi, this is insane,” you insisted, keeping your voice down in case Art and Patrick overheard. “They’re just going to be annoyed that I’m here. Plus, I’m going to have to entertain the leftover guy when you eventually pick one to make out with! You know how I feel about small talk with strangers.”

“You weren’t complaining at the beach,” Tashi pointed out. “Or when I was taking pictures with the trophy. And shut up, they’re not going to be annoyed you’re there, they want you to come!” She paused, trying not to laugh. “Literally and euphemistically.”

You groaned at her joke. “I’m getting a strong vibe that we’re about to star in our own horror movie. Exit, stage left!”

Your best friend crossed her arms. “Why did you come with me if you don’t want to see them?” 

“Because I’d be a really shitty friend if I let you get murdered by yourself,” you argued, naively hoping Tashi wouldn’t recognise your go-to tactic of using humour to avoid confronting your emotions. “For the rest of my life, people are going to see me on the street and say, ‘That’s Y/N Y/L/N, the girl who let beloved tennis star Tashi Duncan become a cautionary tale instead of going to those guys’ room with her. What a bitch.’”

Tashi grinned. “You like them, don’t you? You really like them.” Before you could argue, she knocked on the door four times.

You grabbed Tashi’s arm and asked her, “Are you sure about this?” 

“What’s the worst that could happen?” she challenged you, raising an eyebrow. “Think about it. Really give it a second. If they’re boring, we’ll leave. If they’re annoying, we’ll leave. If they’re being gross, we’ll leave. We have all the power here, Y/I.”

You frowned. “We do?”

As if proving her point, Tashi knocked on the door again before motioning for you to press your ear against it. You listened as Art and Patrick scrambled to tidy their room. Tashi covered her mouth so she wouldn’t laugh too loudly. 

“Y/I, they’re literally obsessed with you. Everything’s going to be fine!” 

“Wait!” a muffled cry sounded behind the door.

“Oh, shit,” a second voice added. 

You grinned, listening to their pounding footsteps approaching the door. You stepped back just in time for Art to wrench the door open. 

“Hi,” he greeted.

Patrick appeared a millisecond after him. “Hey!”

The pair of best friends were dishevelled, their hair still ruffled from hurriedly pulling on shirts, and their chests heaving slightly from the effort of a last-minute clean-up they were trying to conceal. Their appearances betrayed the frantic scramble to present a semblance of order in their room, and their efforts made you bite your lip to hide a growing smile. Most notably, their eyes were just as intense as you remembered, locking onto yours with a piercing gaze that sent a shiver down your spine. 

Breaking their entranced stare, Tashi wondered, “Can we come in?”

You were quickly ushered inside and invited to sit on the carpeted floor. With amused, slightly confused eyes, you looked at Tashi and tilted your head, wondering why they were fussing so much. She rolled her eyes, mouthing the word, whipped, and gesturing to you. Soon, the boys settled on the carpet opposite you and Tashi, forming a natural square as they opened the can of beer they promised you.

Feeling awkward, you scanned the room and registered the twin beds pushed together with interest, suspicious after seeing Art and Patrick’s state of undress. Both were in their boxers and had shirts carelessly thrown on. Patrick’s shirt wasn’t even buttoned, revealing his toned torso with pride.

“We aren’t interrupting something, are we?” you wondered, eyes flitting between the best friends with an amused smile. 

“Of course not,” Art was quick to deny your insinuation. When you spotted the shower cap covering the hotel smoke detector and frowned, he realised it wasn’t just that you didn’t smoke. You hated cigarettes and smoking. “We were just–”

“Passing the time,” Patrick filled in when Art hesitated.

“Right.”

“Exactly.”

“Did you guys go to, like, Mommy And Me classes together?” Tashi wondered, eliciting laughter from everyone in the room. Patrick took a sip of his beer, grinning. “What? You just seem like brothers.”

Their bond reminded Tashi of her friendship with you, and that was a rare feat. 

“Well, that’s what the Mark Rebellato Tennis Academy will do for you,” Art said in a musical tone, smirking at Patrick beside him. 

Tashi chuckled. “Oh. Right, right, right. You guys went to boarding school.”

“We’ve been bunkmates since we were twelve, so…” Patrick trailed off, shrugging.

“Hence the closeness,” you completed his sentence. “That’s cool!”

“Very cute,” Tashi agreed. 

“You two ever think about doing something like that?” Art asked before drinking the can he got from Patrick. 

“Boarding school?” Tashi shook her head. “No. No, no, no. We couldn’t afford it. And even if I could get a scholarship or something, there’s no way that my parents would want me coming of age in an environment like that,” she added, gesturing with her hands. 

Patrick’s eyebrows pulled together. “Why? What were they afraid of?” Tashi lifted her eyebrows and nodded, silently pointing out the obvious. “Oh, yeah. Right!” Everyone laughed at that. “What about you?”

Usually, when a group of people had their eyes on you, it made you incredibly anxious. Sitting here with Art, Patrick, and Tashi felt safe. You weren’t worried about expressing your true thoughts or wearing the protective mask you had created over the years. 

“I wish they would have sent me to boarding school,” you mused, rolling your eyes. “If my mother had it her way she would have homeschooled me and never taught me anything other than how to hit a ball across the net. I’d be a living, breathing tennis machine if it was up to her.”

“Ah.” Patrick nodded. “Right.”

“Luckily my dad convinced her that my education is just as important as a tennis career, so I got sent to a cushy private school nearby that was lenient enough to let me miss classes for competitions,” you added. “It was actually pretty great, I loved going to school. Getting into Stanford was a lifelong dream come true.”

“Really?” Art asked, grinning. He ran a hand through his curls and gave you the beer next. You were sitting so close that your bare knees brushed once in a while, sending a jolt through your body like a shot of espresso each time. 

“What? Do I not seem like the brainy type?” you retorted, passing the can of beer on to Tashi after taking a sip. 

“No, no, no–”

“I’ll have you know I was my class salutatorian, and just three months ago I gave a speech at graduation that was so beautiful it made everyone cry,” you bragged.

Art and Patrick couldn’t keep their eyes off you as you relaxed around them, your bare face free of makeup and your smile illuminating the room with a natural, effortless beauty. You were enchanting when you were at ease, making their heart swell with admiration. Every time your skin touched Art’s, it stirred something insatiable in him.

“Oh, it was heart-wrenching,” Tashi agreed. “Y/I is the only person I know at that school and I still teared up. She’s brilliant, she would’ve gotten into Stanford even without tennis.” Grateful, you leaned your head on her shoulder and kissed her cheek. 

“At least now we finally get to play on the same team,” you mentioned happily.

“So how long have you two been friends?” Patrick questioned, motioning between you and Tashi. “Did you meet through tennis?”

“We met when I kicked T’s ass when we were fourteen,” you informed them, grinning teasingly at your best friend and lifting your head from her shoulder.

“I think that might be my favourite match I ever played,” Tashi confessed fondly.

You sat up straight, looking at your best friend and gaping. “Are you serious?!” 

Tashi Duncan, the woman who lived and breathed tennis and trophies, had the most fun during a tennis match when she lost? It didn’t make sense, even to you, her best friend of four years.

“Definitely! You were the first person I met who played me and actually challenged me. I lost that game and I just thought, ‘I have to meet this girl. I’ve never played against someone who loves this game as much as me before, and there’s no way in hell I’m letting her go.’”

“Wow.” Patrick nodded, impressed. “That’s as good as the whole boarding school bond.” 

Tashi grinned, turning to him with narrowed eyes. “So, is that where you met your girlfriend?” If Patrick was going to pursue her best friend, Tashi needed to get to the bottom of his romantic situation.

“Oh, she’s not my, um…” Patrick glanced at Art as the blond crossed his arms and leaned in close, looking pleasantly smug that someone had called him out. “Yeah, yeah.”

“And you? Why aren’t you pretending not to have a girlfriend?” Tashi questioned Art, taking another sip of her beer. 

“Art’s in between ladies.”

It didn’t surprise you that Art and Patrick were popular with the girls at their school; not only were they ranked fifth and second in the juniors, but they were magnetically charming and wonderful to look at.

“Oh, no, no–” Art pointed at his best friend, resenting the tone Patrick took on– “That makes it sound like I’m some sort of–”

“Player,” Tashi suggested.

“Pompous promiscuous philanderer,” you offered an alternative. Tashi and Patrick giggled, enjoying your alliteration.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, Art does fine for himself,” Patrick added happily. “I mean, look at him–” he reached over to touch Art’s face and was immediately pushed away.

“So…” Tashi looked expectantly between the boys. “How often does this happen?” she inquired, motioning her pointer finger in a circle to indicate the situation you now found yourselves in. “Going after the same girls?”

“Not as often as you think, actually.” 

“Really?” you exclaimed.

“No.” 

“Yeah, no, we, uh…” Art grinned. “We usually have different types,” he revealed. 

“Hmm. So you’re saying we should be flattered?” Tashi teased.

You sat up, holding your hand up as if you were taking an oath. “I know I am,” you played up the ridicule Tashi had started. “The thought that two teenage boys might both be interested in me? That’s about as rare as tennis balls at practice!”

“Or sunshine in California,” Tashi chimed, referencing more common things to hammer the point home.

“Boys are too easy,” you commented. “All it takes is boobs to capture their interest, that’s it.”

Art risked a look at you and grinned broadly. “Isn’t that just because you’re everybody’s type?” he retorted. His candied gaze swept your body languidly, lingering on the boobs you just referenced. You felt your cheeks warm at the attention, equally stunned and impressed by his gall.

“Ah, yes. Many have tried and none have succeeded thus far,” Tashi reported, handing the can of beer back to you. “Y/N’s very picky when it comes to guys. They don’t tend to stick around, and not because they don’t want to.”

That caught Patrick’s attention. “Oh, really? You have a specific type, do you?” He glanced at you with a mischievous glimmer in his eyes. 

You tried not to stare at his lithe body, stretched out and perfectly on display. “Of course,” you agreed readily. “Only the best for me. Six foot one, brunet, build like a god–”

“So far so good,” Patrick mused, pleased with your description.

“Spanish,” Tashi added helpfully. At that, Patrick deflated.

You pointed at her, nodding enthusiastically. “Right, thanks! Yes, Spanish–” You paused to recall what attributes you might have forgotten. “Youngest French Open winner in history–”

At that, Art burst into laughter. “No fucking way! You’re just describing Nadal,” he accused.

Patrick groaned, rolling his eyes. “Oh, come on! I thought you were being serious.”

You smirked, shrugging and sharing a pleased look with Tashi. “What can I say, I like winners,” you teased, not meaning it. “With glorious biceps.”

“So glorious,” Tashi agreed through her laughter. 

You smiled and shook your head. “No, I don’t have a type. I’ve just never met anyone who wanted me for something other than my looks or status, so I didn’t ask any of them to stay.” Art and Patrick nodded, sympathising with you.

“What about the two of you?” Tashi inquired, motioning between the pair. 

Still smiling, Art asked, “What do you mean?”

“You know…” you nodded intentionally. “Beds pushed together, hanging out with minimal clothing. Have you ever…?” 

Patrick’s smile slipped a little, and he tilted his head, thinking it over. Art seemed startled by the suggestion. “Oh! No,” he declared. More awkwardly than you expected them to, they laughed. “No. Why? Is that surprising?”

“Not surprising,” you mused. “You just seem very…”

“Close,” Tashi implied. 

Everyone turned to look at Patrick, waiting for his input. As you observed his expression, you noticed a subtle tension in his features, hinting that he was restraining himself beneath the surface.

“What?” you wondered, too curious to hold back. 

“Well–” 

“No,” Art interjected. His smile was long gone, and a deadpan expression kissed his features. He shook his head, looking more severe than you thought the blond was capable of. Perhaps that was the real reason he was ice in their dynamic…

“I mean–” 

“No,” Art insisted. Patrick spluttered, trying to get a word in as nervous chortles escaped him. “Patrick, no.”

Still laughing, Patrick said, “Sorry.” 

“Yes,” Tashi encouraged happily.

“No.” 

“I think you need to tell us now,” she added. 

“It sounds way too good to hold back,” you excitedly agreed.

“No.” 

Patrick reached for the beer and looked at his best friend with a delighted smile. “I think it’s a sweet story,” he remarked. 

“Uh-huh,” Art agreed sarcastically, putting his head in his hand to hide his face from you. “All right.” 

“Well, let’s hear it,” Tashi exclaimed excitedly. 

Embarrassed, Art allowed it, “Yeah, no, go ahead.” 

“Uh…” Patrick and Art spluttered, dissolving into awkward laughter. “I taught Art how to jerk off,” Patrick confessed. You stared at him in surprise, not having expected that answer. “So…”

To avoid your eyes, Patrick drank his beer, and Art hid the bottom half of his face inside his grey Stanford t-shirt. As you and Tashi exchanged amused glances, a silent understanding passed between you, your eyes alight with shared delight. At that moment, the dynamic in the group shifted, and you realised Tashi had been right.

Whether or not you believed her earlier, you had the power here; you were in control. 

“I think I need a little more than that,” you admitted, testing the waters and not wanting to push them too far. 

Art’s head popped up. “Okay,” he began, making you and Tashi howl with laughter at his sudden 180. “Patrick was an early bloomer–” Art pointed an accusatory finger at his best friend, who smirked– “Okay? And I think that I was on time. And one time–” he emphasised that it only happened once– “When we were twelve, he thought I was asleep and he was, you know…” 

“Jerking off,” they chorused. 

“And, yeah… And I asked him, ‘What are you doing?’ And he told me. He’s…”

Again, in unison, they said, “Jerking off.”

You bit your lip to suppress your laughter.

“He asked me if I had ever done it before.” Art snickered as he spoke. “And I told him no. And so, he just… He showed me how.” When he was done, Art finally looked up at you and Tashi. Proudly, Patrick nodded, confirming the story.

Tashi stared. “What do you mean he showed you how?” she wondered, mimicking how Art had pronounced the words. You looked behind you at their beds pushed together and nodded, also wanting to know the specifics.

Spotting your sideways glance, Art quickly defended himself, “No. I mean–” 

“Well–”

“I mean, he did it on his bed–” Art pointed to the left to indicate where Patrick’s bed was in their room. “I did it on my bed–” he gestured to the right, purposely creating distance between their beds in the story– “We did it together, but like on opposite sides in the room.” 

“Yeah. Mm-hmm.” Patrick wagged a finger and assented with a nod. Your eyes travelled south as he adjusted his underwear, and you raised a sceptical eyebrow at the timing. 

“You know.” Art cleared his throat loudly. 

Tashi was entranced by the story, finding it more entertaining as they provided further details. “Silent?” she inquired, astonished. 

“Oh, no, no!”

“No, no!” The boys laughed.

“No, we were talking about Kat, weren’t we?” Art recalled. 

Patrick pointed and agreed, “Kat Zimmerman!” 

“Patrick said it’s always better–”

“Yeah.” 

“–if you’re, like, thinking about somebody when you’re doing it. And so I asked him who you’re thinking about, and he was talking about this girl–” 

“Kat Zimmerman,” they recited in harmony.

“And so, I thought about her, too.” 

“Wow,” you and Tashi intoned in unison, rendered speechless by their story. 

“Yeah…”

“Okay.” As the bolder of the two of you, Tashi had no problem probing them for further information, even if it was embarrassing. “And who finished first?” 

“Oh, I don’t remember–”

“I think you,” Patrick cut in.

The air crackled with tension as Patrick and Art’s gazes locked in a loaded stare, the weight of the personal revelation hanging between them.

“Is this a normal thing guys do?” you wondered, changing the subject so as not to dwell on Art’s embarrassment. “What happened afterwards?”

Patrick chuckled as Art shook his head. “I think Art was a little surprised by the whole thing,” he revealed, telling the rest of the story through unsuccessfully suppressed laughter. “He was–” another chortle escaped him; Art hid his face in his shirt again– “He was just sitting there covered in all of it.”

Tashi laughed. “What?!” 

“He looked like a kid who’d spilled milk all over his lap!”

As the four of you roared with laughter at the hilarious story, Art couldn’t help but yell, “Jesus, Patrick!”

The shared laughter unexpectedly deepened the bond between the four of you; the tension that had previously hung in the air dissipated, replaced by a sense of camaraderie and closeness thanks to the reverberating giggles. The story was rooted in innocence and exploration that made you feel at ease in Art and Patrick’s company, forging connections that transcended your brief acquaintance with them. 

It was easy to fall into place with them and feel like you belonged.

“I knew enough already at this point to have a sock nearby, right? Forgot to tell Art about that part,” Patrick added. 

“Yeah. Mm-hmm.” Art took turns burying his face in his t-shirt and letting himself laugh in the open. 

“Yeah, so…”

“Right. Okay.” Tashi grinned ear to ear. “And what about Miss Zimmerman?” She reached over to take the beer from Patrick’s grasp. “What ever happened to her? You guys…” Tashi trailed off. 

Patrick shook his head. “Neither of us… She got injured a week later and had to quit.”

You frowned a little. “Really? That’s terrible!”

To cheer you up, Patrick quickly assured you, “She wasn’t very good in the first place.” 

“No, she sucked,” Art agreed. “Yeah.” 

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, no, you’re right. That is a very cute story,” Tashi gave them her stamp of approval.

Patrick quietly laughed. “Thanks. What about you two?” he turned the tables on you. Art perked up at the suggestion.

You rolled your eyes. “You wish,” you waved them off. 

“We really do,” Art joked.

“No, me and Tashi are soulmates for sure, but nothing like you two ever happened,” you clarified. “It can’t be explained by platonic love, but it’s not romance either. We’re just…” you paused, trying to find the right words for it. “Two halves of a whole, completing each other.”

“It’s actually really crazy,” Tashi chimed in. “I was going through life thinking something was missing, and when we met I realised I wasn’t a whole person until I had Y/N in my life.”

“Wow,” Art mumbled quietly, entranced by how you and Tashi spoke about your relationship.

“Have you ever met someone and it feels like they’ve been a part of your life forever, even though you just met?” you added, hoping to paint an accurate picture for Art and Patrick. They smiled fondly, making brief eye contact and nodding. “That’s what it’s like with me and Tashi. We just click, you know? We always did. Like two pieces of a puzzle. I can’t explain it, but being with her just feels right.”

“Same here,” Tashi added happily. “It’s like she’s the mirror–” she motioned from her chest to you for emphasis– “reflecting the best parts of me back at myself. Without her, I’m not sure I’d recognise the person staring back at me.”

You smiled affectionately at your best friend, going to retrieve the beer from her but finding it empty. “Oh,” you exclaimed. “We’re out of beer.”

The boys looked at each other unsurely. “Um…”

Tashi glanced at you expectantly, and without speaking, you could tell what she was telling you. We have all the power here, Y/I. You were more aware of this truth than ever but didn’t know how to proceed. You thought to yourself, if you were as bold and confident as Tashi, what would you do?

You got to your feet, suddenly looking down at your new friends. You weren’t sure if it was the minimal beer in your bloodstream – combined with the champagne you and Tashi snuck at her party a couple hours ago – but your heart raced, palms growing clammy as nervous excitement coursed through your veins. The anticipation was almost too much to bear. Taking a deep breath to steady yourself, you gathered your courage, feeling a flutter in your stomach as you sat on their beds.

When Art and Patrick stared at you with awe-filled eyes, you smiled. “You know, it feels a little lonely up here without you–” You barely got the words out when Patrick took a seat on your left, Art joining you on your other side right after. “I don’t believe that you don’t go after the same girls for a single second,” you admitted, carefully studying the boys’ faces. “But there is something I’m curious about.”

“What?” they chorused.

“Who the better kisser is,” you revealed. You heard Patrick and Art’s breath catching in their throats and looked at Tashi on the floor with a surprised grin. “Feel like joining us, T?”

Smirking proudly at your nerve, Tashi rested her hands on the carpet and leaned back to observe. “I’m good here,” she declined your offer, preferring to watch from her spot on the floor. Tashi knew those boys were there for one girl only, and it wasn’t her. “Don’t let me interrupt.”

“So… who wants to go first?” you offered. 

Painfully desperate to kiss you, Art whispered, “Please.” It was like he didn’t realise he had said it.

You turned to him, admiring his features. Art’s face was flushed with a deep, rosy hue, his adoring eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that spoke of pure, unwavering worship. It was as if the entire world had vanished, and all he could see – all he could focus on – was you, the girl who had captivated his soul. Your heart pounded at the sight of his unadulterated emotions, wishing you could be so open with your own.

“Since you asked so nicely,” you replied, letting your eyes flit between Art’s deep blue eyes and pink lips before closing the space between you and kissing him. 

Your lips met softly, a gentle brush that made you both shiver. For a moment, Art couldn’t think; his senses were overwhelmed with the pillowy touch of your lips and the fact that you kissed him first, not Patrick. The warmth of his touch ignited a spark in you as he swept his thumbs across your cheeks affectionately, caressing you to ensure that you were real and not just a part of his imagination. The subtle scent of something characteristically Art was intoxicating, and you deepened the kiss, parting your lips slightly and shifting closer. Like they did when you sat on the carpet next to him, your knees touched, and his skin felt scorching hot. 

Getting bolder, Art ran his hands up your bare thighs, sighing against your mouth at the feeling of the warm expanse of your legs. Your cheeks and legs felt hot; it was like all the warmth in your body was flowing to the areas where Art was touching you. It was almost like a dance, and it occurred to you that kissing Art was just like meeting his eyes, unrestrained in his emotional expression and leaving you wanting more. Gently, he nudged his nose against yours, almost lazy in his slow exploration of your mouth.

It wasn’t just sweet; it was heavenly.

When you leaned back to pull away, Art’s lips chased you. You had to place your hands on his chest for him to open his eyes and realise what you were doing. For a moment, you just looked at each other, enjoying your flustered expressions and the sight of your bruised lips.

You barely turned to face Patrick when he crashed his lips to yours and collided with a fiery intensity different from your kiss with Art. Like his playing style, Patrick’s kiss was a passionate exchange that left you breathless and your skin tingling with every brush of his mouth. This kiss was raw and emotive, a stark contrast to the sweet tenderness and devotion of Art’s. Where Art relished in the slow ease of your kiss, Patrick’s swift confidence was dominating and fiery. You gasped a little when his teeth bit your top lip. He chuckled, pecking your lips before his tongue soothed the spot he bit. 

While Art had grabbed your thighs to touch more of you, Patrick nearly yanked you towards him to have you closer, almost impossibly so. From the sudden movement, Art’s hands fell from your thighs, and he stared, open-mouthed, as his best friend made you groan appreciatively. Patrick’s hands cradled the back of your head, ushering you in his direction, and you tangled your fingers in his tousled curls. The hunger and need in his kiss sent your head spinning.

He kissed you like it was his last day on earth, head tilted to one side and tongue teasing yours in a way that made you glad you were sitting because your knees felt weak.

Running out of air, you pulled away and felt your stomach flooding with heat at the sight of Patrick’s pupil-blown lake-blue eyes. You didn’t realise someone could look at you with so much desire, and it made you gasp quietly. The low orange light of the hotel room glinted off his eyes, mirroring the spark you felt jolting your body each time his lips touched yours. Patrick was warm and intense but still adoring. He was flushed but not as pink as Art. Instead, his cheeks were red, and the rest of him was almost golden. His blue-green, deep eyes stripped away your defences without any effort, hinting at the effortless understanding you had only ever felt with Tashi in the past. You were so seen, so understood that you wanted to shy away from his gaze; it was like Patrick could see the depths of your being, leaving you feeling exposed yet inexplicably drawn to him.

“I’m not sure I can decide,” you admitted as your heart raced. Your mind swirled, trying to grasp the reality of the sweet and dizzying kisses that left your lips tingling and your thoughts pleasantly hazy. There was an inexplicable lightness in your body despite the heaviness in the air. They were both perfect in their own ways, neither better than the other.

It was nothing Art or Patrick had ever experienced before.

You touched them with such care and emotion, so much want, that it left them needing more. It wasn’t just that the brush of your lips felt like perfection, but the fact that you were the one doing it made all the difference.

You had kissed them. You had made them feel this way.

They couldn’t hide their physiological response to your sweet affection and didn’t even try. For Patrick, it was visible in the heavy way his chest rose and fell to catch his breath while the tightening sensation in Art’s pants was there for everyone to see. 

“Maybe the two of you could help me decide…” you trailed off, gently closing the gap between the two best friends and encouraging their lips to meet.

Patrick and Art were so entranced – not only with you but by the effect they had on you – that they didn’t fight it. Perhaps it was because they had so many years of history, but their kiss was even more impassioned and unrestrained. They were all tongue and teeth, connected only by their mouths until Patrick tugged Art closer by the shoulder. You watched with hungry, curious eyes, noting how Patrick always seemed to need to be adjoined to the person he was kissing. Art got lost in their kiss just as he had with yours, giving everything he had to Patrick and holding nothing back. 

It was so beautiful you didn’t know what to do with yourself. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think you were falling for them.

Breath hitching in panic, you dragged your eyes away, looking down at Tashi for help.

“Well, this was fun,” she declared, effectively saving you from having to say anything. Tashi was proud that you’d gone after what you wanted, and she could tell with one glance at your face that you were ready to go. If there was one thing Tashi knew, it was that you preferred to run from your feelings than confront them head-on. “Thanks for the beer. We’re going to bed,” Tashi added, getting up and putting her slides back on.

Art and Patrick parted and turned to look at you with twin stunned expressions. 

“We have to get going,” you agreed with your best friend. Tashi pulled you up off the bed with a tender tug. 

“What about your numbers?” Patrick asked, now more desperate than ever before.

“We already told you, we’re not homewreckers,” Tashi reminded them as you placed your feet into your slippers. 

Art nearly begged, “Please.”

Tashi released a short laugh. “Um… Okay, uh… We will be watching your match tomorrow. Y/N likes winners–” Everyone’s eyes flickered over to you, and you averted your eyes shyly– “so whoever wins can have their girl of choice’s number. The other guy has to back off.” 

Art exhaled, leaning forward in disappointment. Smug, Patrick readily agreed to the terms of the bet, “All right.”

“Don’t give up before the match even starts,” you encouraged Art, wanting to take one last look into his icy blue eyes before you returned to your room. “You can beat him if you want to. I really believe that, Art.” The honeyed way you said his name only worsened the blond’s hard-on. He inhaled sharply, eyes shutting in a moment of bliss.

“Are you saying you want me to?” 

“Are you saying he’s the better kisser?” Patrick added curiously. His hooded eyes made his already dark eyes appear almost pitch-black, pupils blown wide. 

“She’s saying you’re not going to get anyone’s number if you don’t,” Tashi corrected him. 

Art asked, “But what do you want?”

“I don’t know about Y/N, but I want to watch some good fucking tennis,” Tashi said pointedly. “I’ll leave that up to you two. Good night.” She grinned and went to open the door, stepping outside and holding it open for you.

You cleared your throat and resorted to humour like you did when the tension was too thick. “Why don’t you just–” you motioned to the beds they had pushed together– “You know. For old time’s sake.” Art stared at you with huge eyes at the insinuation. When your eyes flitted to the brunet beside him, you could tell Patrick was trying not to smirk. “And don’t forget, it’s always better if you’re thinking about somebody when you’re doing it,” you quoted Patrick in a faux innocent voice, lips curving into a smug grin as Tashi shut the door behind you.

#challengers #art donaldson x reader #patrick zweig x reader #challengers movie #challengers x reader #tashi duncan #art donaldson #patrick zweig #challengers fanfiction #challengers fanfic #art donaldson imagine #art donaldson x you #patrick zweig x you #patrick zweig imagine #fic: guilty as sin?

[taegularities]

candles & flames: air | jjk (m)

bonus chapter I: air

Summary: Voices over the grapevine murmur that somebody has been yearning for you who certainly shouldn't. Jungkook is agitated to the core – reacts immediately until something far sweeter overshadows the envy and turns his and your life upside down.

➳ pairing: Jungkook x reader ➳ rating: 18+ ➳ genre: established relationship, royal!au; fluff, smut ➳ warnings: so much okay let's see; jk is jealousss, mention of a dead parent, daddy issues, pregnancy, birth (no details), kissing, insecurities that are resolved, worries and tears, somebody faints :'), 19th century culture/beliefs/society, short mention of the struggles after birth, a guest appearance!, and a cute baby 💕 jk loves the kiddo so much that his affection makes him cry; explicit sexual content: making out, muchhh teasing, fondling, biting, he loveees her tiddies, oral (f. receiving), he touches himself/masturbation, manhandling, soft dom!koo, big dick!koo, he threatens to tie her up lol, "fck me like you hate me", both hard and soft s/x moments, love spanks, delaying of orgasm, hair pulling, he's roughhhh, fingering, multiple orgasms; pls spot the lil references to the other parts hehe 😁 ➳ wc: 24.4k yay! ➳ a/n: hi hi hiiii. it's been literal months, but we're here again and sharing another piece of our soul. hope y'all like this one, whether you've just arrived here or been here for a while. love you all and as always, let me know what you think!! 🤍 ➳ a/n2: this is a bonus chapter for my mini-series candles & flames. reading the rest of the story helps!! find the mpost below <3

SERIES MASTERPOST | TAGLIST MASTERLIST | WIPs

The quiet hysteria starts with a whisper.

It echoes off the walls that Friday afternoon, seemingly insignificant at first. Most of the whispers are — a cacophony of hisses and sharp tones and hushed nodding.

Uttered between members of the staff, Jungkook catches the conversation coincidentally. He never means to eavesdrop, but these accidental occurrences have revealed one or two things to him before.

Like, what they ate for dinner last night. Or how their sons had learned to read. Jungkook would laugh at stories about neighbours, pout at tragedies of lost family members. But what he hears today is worth neither of those reactions; just mild yet growing confusion.

He wouldn’t have registered a word if he’d left his office a minute later. Wouldn’t have known if he’d opted for his meal thirty seconds earlier.

No. He had to step out now. Cross paths with the staff in this very moment as if it was supposed to happen, coming to a stand in the hallway, mind instantly whirling and eyebrows furrowed. 

The two women, startled by the sudden appearance, freeze at their spot a couple feet from Jungkook’s body. They stare at him as though met with a ghost, eyes trailing from his uncurling fist to the Lord’s unmatchable face — puzzled at the moment.

Abandoning curiosity and the hint of amusement, sudden respect spreads over their countenances, and once they have made sense of the situation, they straighten their backs. Bow a little. One of them a little deeper than the other.

Their eyes are as wide as his; the scene couldn’t be more comedic in the afternoon sun shining through the wide window. Three baffled figures fighting the awkwardness; growing by the second until one of them murmurs, “Lord Jeon.”

Her tone is timid, as if she fears he might’ve heard — which he did, alright. But they don’t dare make an attempt at asking about it, perhaps finally realising that things like these aren’t really their business.

So they only nod again, waiting for the man to react in kind, and then rush past him and down the hall. Jungkook isn’t stupid, though — he knows they won’t stop talking.

And he could confront them. Call them back and demand an explanation, lay out every word he just heard and analyse it with what they know. But he doesn’t. He lets them approach the end of the hallway, turning left at the end of it just a few seconds later.

His body’s balanced weight shifts to his left leg, and he puts both his hands on his hips, curling his lower lip inward and tracing it with his tongue. He knows better than to believe rumours mumbled in the gardens or halls of this place.

Maybe it’d be foolish to overthink just yet. Guess he’ll need to ask you yourself.

But he can’t help but replay the conversation in his mind, gaze wandering out of the window and to the blue sky above. He soaks in the summer, lowers his eyebrows, appetite forgotten as he simply voices—

“Huh.”

Existing in this world with you as the love of his life isn’t easy.

There’s magic to how you move. To the way you slip under the blanket with that enchanting smile. To how you reach for the back of your head, undoing the bow.

For a moment, he can’t keep his eyes from the locks that fall over your shoulder; how you sigh in relief as your scalp finally breathes. And when you lean against the bed frame, pulling your legs up and knees close to you, book in hand, you look endlessly cosy.

Warm and inviting, soft hands holding the novel. Your side profile is tender, lips always a perfect curve. Your mouth moves with the words you read, and you smile whenever a description delights you.

You always live in a dream. You are one, too.

Loving you isn’t easy because you’re a constant source of healthy insanity. Of the burning in his chest, the odd feeling in his stomach, and the yearning in his fingers.

But especially tonight, you evoke something he only ever experiences with you. He did it when he saw you dancing with somebody else two years ago. And feels a sliver of it whenever he catches men staring at you at gatherings.

The emotion boils green inside of him, and somehow, you’ve managed to elicit it more than once. He could swear he never knew of it before he met you. You’re truly a spell; only right now, he wishes he felt something else.

You shut the book suddenly, keeping a finger where you stopped, and look up into his eyes without a warning. He flinches just a little, as if awakening from a dream, and you laugh.

“Will you speak what’s on your mind or just keep staring?” you ask; the tilt of your head is sickeningly sweet.

He improvises — nods towards the novel and wonders, “What is it about?”

“Oh,” you look down, holding it up, “secret affairs. Princess to be betrothed is in love with someone else.”

The situation lacks so much humour that he can’t help but find it funny. He suppresses the sarcastic smirk and the shake of his head, keeping the facade upright as he admits, “That is very brave of the author to thematise.”

Your eyes narrow a little, drenched in confusion. “Well, I mean. A lot of them are. But it’s just words on pages. How many secret affairs do you think happen in actual life?”

More than you’d know. Jungkook has seen enough to understand that lovers often reunite in shadows; or that they betray loved ones when the world goes quiet.

You believe in people, though. You romanticise the world. Assume that cruelty is rare, and that most human beings strive for loyalty and flawlessness.

But he doesn’t say any of it; only shifts closer to your optimistic, angelic warmth, craving your scent. He says, “We were the opposite, weren’t we? Made everyone think we were in love when we still despised each other.”

You cock an eyebrow; he instantly regrets his words, realising how harsh they truly sounded. You might be gentle, but you can be just as fierce, too — so he prepares for some scolding, lips parted.

But you only puff out a breath, freeing the finger trapped between the pages, and put the book aside. Then, you say, “I still despise you.”

Jungkook stares, pausing for a moment, and you let him ogle for another second before you laugh. You grab the still hand on his thigh, lifting it to your lips and press the feather lightest of kisses against its back.

You keep the palm against your cheek, inquiring carefully, “Is something troubling you?”

“No,” he immediately shoots, “no. I just wanted to ask about your novel.”

“Just about the novel?”

“Mhm. Yes.”

“Hmm. Well, yes, that one,” you grace it another glance, “it’s good. A typical story about a royal princess mingling with the stable boy and rejecting the prince.”

Jungkook nods, but you think his pupils widen. Is he imagining a scenario of his own? Not enjoying the storyline? Perhaps.

Because he states, “Disloyalty is quite something. I would,” he pauses, blowing a raspberry, “die if I was the prince.”

He emphasises die with all his tongue’s strength; you huff at the dramatics of the moment, puzzled by the sudden shift in mood. In truth, this is not such an unusual behaviour.

Because more often than not, Jungkook displays interest in your little hobbies. Novels render you sentimental, and you’ve pulled him into the whirling storm of emotions that those stories made you feel before.

Like,

“They won’t accept him because he’s an artist?”

“So he decides to leave instead of fighting for her?”

“Alright, tell me about the first time he tells her he loves her.”

He’ll lean forward, turn to his side, eyes wide, indulging in the narrative. Mirroring your emotions, a sucker for tales and sentiments, albeit barely ever picking up a book voluntarily.

Just today. Today something seems off. The issue he has with the feelings prevalent in the book seem to reach far deeper — to a personal level, it seems.

You start slowly and patiently, shaking your head once before you say, “But you won’t die. I chose my prince wisely, and I do not care for our stable boys,” you pause, lifting a finger with a laugh, “wait. In such a way, I mean. They are actually very kind.”

Jungkook doesn’t appreciate your joke — your suspicion grows. Although he does turn to the side again, elbow digging into the pillow, body closer to yours.

“What about lords?”

Huh. What?

You echo your thoughts, “What?” You wait for only a moment before the space between his eyebrows morphs into a crease, and you mimic the expression. “Alright. Now you’re not making sense anymore.”

It takes another second or two for his drying eyes to blink. The movement is slow, a little frustrated; he looks to his hands. Then up to you; to the wall behind you and back to you.

Then, his Adam’s apple bops, swallowing thickly before he finally reveals, “The maids were talking about some neighbouring man. Lord Jeong or something. Would you happen to know him?”

Jeong? 

Hm…

You think for a moment.

Of course you know him. The town isn’t too far from yours, and the people around here never speak ill of him. In fact, one of your cooks was just praising him a couple weeks ago as you dined without Jungkook during his busy working hours.

The cook kept you company for most of the time, speaking of his pre-Jeon adventures in other towns, with other lords.

You hum before you respond, “I know of a Jeong Yuno. But I have never spoken to him.”

The sigh of relief that Jungkook heaves is immediate. You stare bewildered.

“Good,” he answers, “they were just…”

He scratches his scalp before the hand drops to the mattress with a dull thump. For a distracted moment, he smoothens the already flat baby blue surface, drifting from his original thought.

The light tug at the sheet creates new wrinkles; you watch intently, relaxed and calm. Only, you aren’t sure he feels the same way. Especially when his fingertips shift to the back of your hand, a ghost touch looming over your thumb.

He must have thought about this a lot.

“They were saying that a lord was spreading rumours about how he used to want you and would still not hesitate if you could be his.”

Oh.

“That’s… not a proper thing to announce for a lord,” you sympathise, gaining an instant nod, enhanced by the round, big, brown eyes.

“Yes. It is not. A very outrageous statement to give about a married lady anyway.”

“Mhm…”

You are in full agreement that the words shouldn’t have fallen out of a presumably respected man of the country. Someone as loved and cherished by a community shouldn’t comment on a married couple, even less on the wife of a well-known man.

Jungkook’s father was celebrated around towns and villages — the head of the capital.

It’s just that in this case — you can imagine what occurred. The lord in question relishes a far lesser known reputation than Jungkook. If it’s who you imagine it to be, he must be reigning over a tiny village now. 

You remember that back when you knew him, he was still young, uninterested in his parents’ legacy; seems he has made it far. Though, it seems he hasn’t quite understood the responsibilities that come with royalship.

Shit.

Jungkook notices your fog-shrouded gaze; you probably haven’t blinked in a while. He touches and taps your wrist, pulling back your attention, possibly still tense as he asks, “What?”

When you look at him, he resembles a curious, frightened puppy, trying to make sense of his surroundings. He’s pouting, waiting for an answer, lips parted. He lifts his head off the propped up hand, alerted, and repeats—

“What?”

Waving his concerns off would do nothing, right? You swore to always be transparent — and this issue isn’t big enough to be postponed. In fact, it might only grow if you do choose to stuff it in a chamber.

“You are not talking about Jeong,” you explain, carefully wrapping your fingers around his, “but Jung. Jung Hoseok.”

The curtain of relief falls and gives way to a dark, gloomy night. You know he expected this conversation to be over, for his misunderstanding to turn out as just this. But there’s more behind the maids’ whispers — and he hates it.

“Who?” he asks.

“We don’t have to talk about it if you feel displeased with it.”

“Why would I feel displeased?” Jungkook prods, slowly sitting up. “Is there a reason to?”

Absolutely not. But you also know your husband isn’t the most patient of men when it comes to envy and poison green feelings alike. You still remember the night you confronted his uncle — slivers of jealousy found their way through him even then.

“No,” you admit, “but it is absurd, and I knew you would react like this.”

“Like what? I am calm.”

That he is.

At least the rapid breathing, the voice gaining on pitch, the manner in which he squeezes your hand — they indicate a form of calm unknown to you, alright.

“Jungkook…” you mumble, wiping over the back of his hand with your thumb, trying to calm the grip.

You move on the bed, butt bumping against your book and nearly knocking it to the ground. Tired from the day, you grunt as you get on your knees, watching him follow your body before you finally straddle him.

Jungkook gets into a proper position, heaving himself up until his back is pressed to the bed’s railing. He holds onto your waist to keep your balance, and you shift properly onto his lap.

Once stabilised, your hands hurry to his face, squishing his cheeks just a little as you speak, “I shall make you wiser then?”

“You shall stop teasing me.”

The fiery eyes could throw daggers at you on any other day, but the pout he talks through just makes him look… sweet. Thick eyebrows kiss, and he pulls at one of your hands to lighten the cradling grip around his face.

You angle your head, fond of the soft care, albeit hiding behind an insecurity. There’s flattery in the way his mind created a nonexistent rival — at least, he thinks you’re worth the worship.

You surrender when he blinks, letting out an exasperated breath, “Alright. Remember when I told you I have only fallen in love very few times?”

“At the orphanage.”

His answer shoots out of him as if scripted, and you dare a subtle chuckle. Your thumb brushes against his lips and the mole underneath them; you think that despite his agitation, the gesture soothes his soul.

“Jung Hoseok was one of those people,” you say.

A few buttons of his linen shirt are open, so you see his sun kissed chest heave at the admission. You move a hand down to touch the sculpted skin, warm and immediately comforting under your touch.

“He was the only other Lord I ever dared to mess with, but he wasn’t too important back then yet. And Hoseok… he caught me at a time when I was not yet ready for bigger commitments. Despite my feelings for him.”

Jungkook’s eyes are glistening. Helplessly observing your every move and expression, lost for words as he digests yours. There’s an ego in men that you haven’t understood just yet; fragile at times.

So this piece of information must be activating a thorough thought process in him.

It’s odd. How those once roaming around town are usually the ones affected the most when they actually fall in love. Protective and dedicated to an exceptional degree.

Maybe, however, because his escapades never meant anything at all. And you… You put your heart in someone’s hands once.

“What happened?” Jungkook wonders, puppy stare intact.

You don’t think there’s more to tell — or more for him to know. But a curious mind is a curious mind.

So you tell him, “He wanted more right away. Dedication, marriage, for me to leave my house. And,” you shrug, uncomfortable with memories of a past lover; you want to keep loving and touching your current one, “I couldn’t.”

You’re not sure whether his nerves are calming at all; but you’re satisfied and relieved when he lifts a palm to the small of your back, gaze warm. You keep playing with the collar of the soft linen.

“And now I am happy I didn’t. In hindsight, we were so incredibly different. I mean, people are different, but… we didn’t match at all.”

“Were you…” His voice is so unbearably quiet. So sweet and lovely; the cocky boy from years ago has a delicate heart, and you want it pressed to yours. “Ready when I asked you to marry me?”

Ready? In fact, your skin was tingling with joy; every moment of the day.

You soothe his worries, “I would not be here if I hadn’t been. This,” you raise your fingers to his cheek again, brushing his face with their back, “you. I won’t ever want more. You’re all the dreams I’ve ever dreamt.”

Are you referring to nightly images conjured by a dreamy mind? When you’re fast asleep, barely ever tossing beside him? Because as far as he’s concerned, you follow him even into his daydreams, in your presence and in your absence.

If he told you now, he fears you’d dissipate; you’re a soul with its head in the clouds, and you’ve always appreciated a gesture of romance here and there.

You’re a force of nature, and someone to be desired greatly.

But.

Perhaps that’s what’s troubling him the most right now. And it never has before. He knows you’re captivating, and he’s proud that somebody loves him who’s easy to love, but this time… this time the whispers prevail, and they do something odd to his mind.

He matches your smile, giving into the relief you bring; yet, distressed by his own intrusive thoughts and memories of conversations he’s gathered, he can’t help but let his gaze fall. It floats over your bare neck and clavicles and then drops further to your lap.

A hand on his neck, you opt for a question — he knows by the way you suck in a soft breath, knows every of your motions and their meanings. But before your inquiry tumbles out, he murmurs, “They were saying he wants you back.”

And the worst thing is that you don’t hesitate, immediately nodding. “I heard about it. I uh… the other day I went down to the village and one of them told me her sister was part of the staff over in his town. And they heard others in his mansion say it, apparently.”

Jungkook doesn’t like the ugly, searing hot feeling spreading beneath his chest. It differs entirely from anger or disgust; pure fire burning up his insides and extending to his head.

That you talked about the still rather yearning lord with somebody else isn’t Jungkook’s favourite thought, admittedly. Worse even when you proceed, “He’s unmarried, I’ve heard.”

But what could you do with what you heard? Do you even care?

Jungkook swallows the balls of flames until the vexing sensation burns in his stomach, nearly afraid to ask, “What do you think of that?”

He shouldn’t be, though. Because you’ve proved time and time again who you stand with — yet, it feels like a wanted relief when you, with absolute certainty unmatched, assure, “Nothing. How could that affect my life? I’m here, with you.”

“I…” Jungkook tilts his head, and when he stares back up to you again, you could swear a piece of your heart detaches itself from the rest. Shoots right into his chest. “Am I being stupid?”

And how could it not if the man of your dreams, yours in this and the next lives, usually so composed, wordlessly declares you his kryptonite every single day?

Your eyebrows furrow slightly in unending adoration and worship, and you sigh, touching his cheek, wishing there was a far superior way to showcase affection and love of such tender sort.

“A little,” you admit.

“But… you’ll forgive me for it?”

“Nothing to forgive you for.” You match the tilting motion of his head, but in the opposite direction. You blink slowly. “Except maybe for the fact that you provide so much love without giving much of it to yourself.”

When he downs the knot in his throat again, it feels and looks different. Not the insecure envy from before, but rather a truth spiking his heart.

“…Darling,” he whispers, “why?”

“You know as well as I know that you trust me. That’s not why you’re afraid, right? It’s because you don’t trust yourself.” You remove a strand of dark tresses off his forehead. “We’ll change that.”

You don’t judge him for it, huh? You could. In truth, you could absolutely distance yourself from such an unwanted trait, but you don’t. Combatting it seems easier to you.

Yet, he can’t find a better answer than, “I’m sorry.”

Your husband is a jealous man, but he’s also a fragile man. You’re not allowed to leave him; not because you regard it as a duty to serve as his remedy. But because you made a vow to love him regardless, regardless of fate’s cruelty.

And.

You want to show him what you see through your eyes; what he doesn’t notice through the looking glass.

“Thank you for forgiving me, though?” he then speaks, forming it as a question rather than a statement; though he finds himself pretty soon. “Albeit, I have to say, if you hadn’t, I would’ve found ways for you to do it either wa—”

His promise is broken by your yelp when he presses you in, tickling your waist. He grits his teeth, cuteness aggression kicking in when you call his name, holding onto his face. Your nose inches close to his as he squeezes your hip.

Eyes closing before they open again and he says, “I will never let you go. Never. And let nobody ever have you but me.”

“Aren’t we a little more obsessed tonight?” you jest, watching him shrug his shoulders. “But. I would be mad if you did.”

“My princess…”

There’s something about the breathy tone, filled with growing desire, a not too subtle hint to how the night will inevitably evolve.

It’s insane, how the breathing stagnates when you’re in love; crazy at just the prospect of lips touching.

And once they do, your lungs dry out right away, and you lean back, slowly losing your grip. But he holds you and holds you tighter, eyes aflame with sheer willpower, and then holds you so tight, it hurts…

The kiss is breathtaking, in the truest sense of the word. Goosebumps covering all your flesh, you raise your shoulders, hands in his hair as his wander along the lines of your body. He moves just a little underneath you, but you feel the change so obviously.

Harder, stirring, hot and heavy. And you enhance the effect, continuing the sloppy kisses until he, impatiently, breaks away from the kiss with a quiet moan and opts for your neck.

The break between the change, he uses to focus on his hands. Raises your dress at light-speed, brushing his palms over the curves of your ass. And he doesn’t take too long before he’s snuck his digits further in this complicated position, winding his arm to find your aching heat.

You move forward a little, helping out, so his limb can wrap around you easier, digits floating to the hole. But your decision distracts him; you laugh.

“It’s amusing to you, yes? Having your tits in my face,” he teases, as shameless as ever when he bites and misses your nipple by an inch over your gown.

The free hand pushes the clothing down, freeing one side, reluctant to practise restraint when swollen lips engulf your hard nipple. You whimper immediately as his teeth gently nibble at the nerves, and you tighten your grip around him, head falling back.

“Cannot say it’s not,” you admit, unconsciously toying with the hair in the nape of his neck until you start pulling, barely noticing. He does, however, gasping with a mouthful of your tits. “Sorry.”

He shakes his head, an indicator that he doesn’t care; that he enjoys the pleasurable pain if it’s you inflicting it in a moment like this. As a masochist and a pet at times, you won’t disagree.

But you don’t hold the power for too long when he continues with his intentions, finger pressing against your pussy, desperately longing for the garment to disappear. Wanting to sink into you with all his might.

But… endurance. Patience.

You nearly suffocate him in your tits as he caresses your cunt, and then your ass again, only managing to resurface to say, “Pretty girl… weren’t you tired?”

“I was,” you tug at him, wanting him much, much closer, “make me more.”

“More tired?”

“So I sleep better tonight.”

“Sweetheart… you will. I promise you.”

It’s vows like these that stir the last stage of lust in you, so unbridled that it leaks out of each of your pores. You want his trousers off, want them to magically disappear. But sorcery doesn’t exist, and your wish will be impossible to fulfil in this position.

And he notices, reads your thoughts as if floating above your head. “Lift your body?” he kindly demands, holding you for a second until you’re inches over his crotch. He uses the moment to lower his clothing along with the underwear, suddenly half bare.

Oh so bare…

When you look down, you’re met with protruding veins, a length twitching slightly, wanting to lay against his stomach. And you don’t hesitate as you lower yourself again, dragging your clothed pussy over the hardness so recklessly—

But the harsh material of your clothes rubs him wrong, literally, and he whimpers. Should you do it again? You fucking love it when he whines and writhes… but not in such a way.

You don’t want to hurt him. So you oblige. Stop when he digs his nails into your waist, ordering, “Get off, so I can—”

You don’t know what for, but you can imagine, and the thousand possible pictures are more than enough for you to lift yourself off immediately. Carefully, you move away, expecting for him to let you know how to continue, but instead…

Within the blink of an eye, you find yourself flat on your back, flipped over and caged in. Only rising again when he aids you in doing so, just the upper body, just a little. To remove your dress, pulling it over your head and stuffing it in a corner.

You swear the time passes in slow-motion, yet simultaneously paces faster than usual. Because it’s a leisurely blur when you see him discard the last piece of your bed-attire. But a rush when he bares his golden chest and back, laying next to you and starting to kiss your tummy.

It’s so funny because…

You sigh. Nevermind.

You put your attention solely on how he kisses his way down, still next to you, further down until you only see his back and his mane, and somewhere far beneath, hands caressing your thighs. Then spreading them. And then, working up… up towards…

“You’re defeating me today…” you happily conclude, not one to reject a night with him winding under you, but also not one to decline… whatever he’s doing right now.

“You are very welcome.”

Cheeky jerk. You’d snort and roll your eyes if you had the energy and power to. Although, the latter does not stay absent after all, even if the roll of your eyes occurs backwards, mouth open when he parts your folds and touches your swollen nub.

Gauging your reaction, he throws a stare back, just briefly and quickly. He barely flinches when you pierce his skin with your nails, scratching him, biting your lower lip with desperation in your pupils.

And it’s enough for him. Boosts his keenness. You see it in his smirk, and see the desire, the devotion, the appetite in his lost eyes. 

He cocks an eyebrow at you, never bothered by your frequent love-wounds, yet sly when he warns, referring to your nails, “Stop it. I will tie you up if you keep going.”

Is that… a threat or a promise? You’re tempted to test him.

But for now, you wish to indulge further in what he’s initiating, and if you said something right now or provoked him into a pace of change, you’d lose the moment. So you remain still. Or, as much as you manage to.

Not quite when he moves over you, turning the back towards you once more, and—

Is that… oh. No doubt that he just spat right onto your clit, wet, warm and enhancing your greed. And then the damned finger. Touching your thighs as if to tease you, advancing to your cunt slowly, as opposed to the ball of frustration building in your chest and tummy.

“Could you move that up?” you mutter, barely registering how nonsensical you might sound.

But Jungkook knows you inside out, and reads your words as well as your body. Uses the knowledge to torture you some more, sneaking to your folds before he finally touches them, but doesn’t dig in.

Okay…

“Why?” you ask, not expecting an answer. “I’ve been good these days.”

“You’ve been great,” Jungkook retorts, tugging at one of your nether lips as if busying himself, “but I’m just kidding. Who am I to deny you anything?”

“In this situation? Perfectly Jeon Jungkook…”

The unsteady breathing accompanying your statement adds to the comedic aspect of the moment, and he doesn’t hold back when he laughs. Only briefly stopping when he leans down, delivering a chaste kiss to your aching bud.

And then he does the unforgivable, and lifts himself up. Away from you. Entirely.

“What—”

“It’s alright,” he ensures, nodding as if to make it believable for himself, “I am right here. See?”

He crawls — crawls! — towards you, very briefly until he reaches your lips, kissing you with the same filthy mouth that touched your intimate part just a moment ago. His mouth moves against yours just a little, then retracts and then comes back for another shorter kiss.

“Want me to do it?” he asks.

“Do what?”

“Tie you up?” The constant head tilts are killing you, not well for your heart or mind. Even less combined with the sickly sweet smile, so awfully in love. “You didn’t reject the idea and,” another kiss to the corner of your lips, “you’re being so terribly cooperative tonight.”

He says it as if it’s news to him. As if you’re not true-blue every second of the day.

Jerk wants things spelled out to him. Waits as he plays with a lock, face hovering inches from yours, and the tip of his tongue so visibly touching the spot behind his front teeth. 

As you refuse to answer, however, solely for the purpose to gauge what he might do next, he chuckles quietly, inhaling before he says, “Alright. Different idea, then.”

He gets back on his knees, straightening his upper body for a mere moment only before he opens your legs. Positions himself between them. Distances himself from you before finally getting into the desired stance. Stomach-down, hands touching your thighs, parting them with his mouth close to you.

It takes everything in you to not shut your limbs again when the warm breath mingles with your sloppy centre; and you already feel wasted when his tongue darts out. Opens up your pussy a little. Tickles you so lightly.

“Put your hands over your head,” he uses the pause for, haphazardly gesturing into your general direction with his chin, “no touching allowed. And if you endure until I’ve tasted you till the end, I’ll do whatever you want for the rest of the night.”

“Put your hands over your head,” he uses the pause for, haphazardly gesturing into your general direction with his chin, “no touching allowed. And if you endure until I’ve tasted you till the end, I’ll do whatever you want for the rest of the night.”

The image his words conjure is mesmerising. Yet, you don’t know if that’s the outcome you’re wishing for, or rather the absolute opposite, submitting to him and letting yourself go entirely for his pleasure.

There is no time to think. Your mind isn’t capable of thoughts at all.

Of course not, not if he attaches his mouth to your cunt, wrapping gorgeously soft and swollen lips around your equally soft and swollen ones. He kisses your pussy, drawing back with a smooching sound.

Goes in again, repeats. Then, slowly, adds his tongue. Swirls it around your clit, making your right leg twitch, your body react. A strong hand holds your thigh down, breath falling against you so hotly; the sensation is unlike anything else.

You don’t know how he does it; but you don’t just feel the tickling, endlessly lustful phenomenon where he causes it, but across your body. On your warm skin, in your stomach, in your chest.

You’re light-headed when his tongue flicks over your clit again, and then moves back to your hole; you curl in your toes. For the first time after a long while, you think this won’t take very long.

Digging your nails into your palms, you wet your lower lip with your tongue, uttering, “I’m almost there…”

“Mhm,” he muses with his mouth still licking you up, spreading the warm feeling all over. Then detaches himself to say, “I thought so. I can hear it.”

Knows you too well…

You recognise that he wants to take his time. Your pleasure is his sole purpose, fully focused on your reactions, your sounds, your winding body. But as the two of you deduced, you’re closer to the end than ever.

He kisses your thigh, provides little love-bites, tongue tasting your skin before he dives back in. Breathing in and out through his nose, he buries himself in you, bringing a thumb under his tongue and pushing in just a bit, but not entirely.

At the same time, his other thumb shifts its attention to rolling over your clit. Apparently, he trusts you enough now to not pin your legs to the mattress anymore, doesn’t expect you to give in and touch him, even if you want to. The way you’re holding yourself back, seeking your pleasure and obeying his orders floods pride and immeasurable greed through him.

As he French kisses you thoroughly, you notice when he smiles against your pussy. Even laughs a bit in amusement. Your body moves and lifts when his light but calculated touch toys with your nerves; he follows the insane writhing, glued to you.

And then he pushes a finger inside, pumps a couple times; moves his tongue to your clit. It’s crazy. Crazy. The saliva dripping off his chin when he eats you up, so diligent and powerful, executing this as perfectly as ever.

But it’s neither of these things that make you topple off the edge; not just the fingers or his tongue or how worryingly good he is at this.

But the damn eye contact at the end.

The immediate connection between you, the way he wants to see you, understand your reactions, but simultaneously keep going.

And all that knowledge helps you feel it all over. The contractions coming in waves; the pleasure radiating to every other part of your body. The sense of warmth and tingling experience.

Shit, and the euphoria. The profound relaxation while perceiving the increased heart rate at the same time; your glowing skin and the sweat.

And once you’re done, throat dry from not speaking, only yelling, you breathe, “That was… quick.”

“I am sorry,” he responds, still exhaling against you; you still feel the waves inside your cunt, so it’s hard to listen. “I needed to let my frustration out somewhere.”

You half-roll your eyes, as much as manageable.

“But in exchange… I’ll hold my promise and let you do anything,” he repeats, rubbing your leg and then your sides softly. Slowly moves up to you until his length presses against your heat and his lips align with your mouth. “Can I just first…”

“Love,” you interrupt, “you don’t need to. You don’t need to hold your promise, because I don’t want you to. Not tonight.”

“What?”

“I want you to let it all out,” you confess, ”claim me.”

Because frankly, you see it in his eyes. That he wants to release the beast, too. Of course ready for your ministrations, but yearning to wreck you so desperately. Already in the headspace, affected from the moment he licked you dry and wetter.

“I promised,” he tries, but you shake your head, still breathing stagnantly.

“I… So I… May I?” he still inquires permission, stuttering, so gentle, polite and tormented. “Goodness. I might die.”

You chuckle at the hyperbole, though the sound comes out weak as you still breathe through your craze. As you stare up at him, you think you recognise pure anguish reflecting in his gaze, made visible by the candlelight. Eyebrows kissing, mouth open. 

You feel similar, so you’re not one to turn down the plea.

“Yes, but… I mean it. You don’t need to submit entirely. I want you to do what you want to do.”

Because that’s when he’s the most authentic. And because the statement never poses a risk with Jungkook. Any other man might forsake you, but you could say such a thing a thousand times; even as he seeks his own pleasure, he won’t forget about yours.

And unleash all desperation on you simultaneously.

You want this. You want this.

“Fret not,” he assures, “I will. I am not neglecting either of us.”

Lining himself up, he sits up properly, starting a languid movement of the head of his length up and down your pussy. He means to tease you just a bit longer, wanting to test your reaction to the thickness rubbing between your folds.

But you see the surprise in his face when his cock threatens to slip in the moment it reaches your hole, even though there is no reason for his bafflement. Doesn’t he know what he does to you?

“Oh…” he murmurs, trying again, once again watching just a few inches disappear inside you before he pulls back. “That is… nice.”

In, then out again. Once more, in. Once more, out.

Then a tap of his heavy cock against your pelvis, stroking it in the process for further hardness, and you observe. Fully undisturbed and entirely amazed by what you’re seeing. Every single time.

You let him touch himself, and then close your eyes to listen to his sounds. But he soon leans into you again, whispering to keep them open, and when you do, he uses the proximity to kiss you again.

Harder this time. Moaning as he jerks himself off. A second longer until he brings it back to your pussy, and you raise your back off the mattress a little when he pushes the head in. Whimpering into the kiss, never having him back away.

You grip his shoulders for safety, trying not to go insane, and right before he parts from you, he nods. Asking, “Yes?”

“Please.”

“Shall I?”

“Please start.”

“Start… if you want me to fuck you numb, I will. Right until your mind is vacant of everything else. Will fuck all of me into you. Yes?” You take a shaky breath, barely nodding, but he sees and laughs quietly. “I need every lord to know to keep their hands off just by the way you walk.”

The nod turns into a shake of your head, and as he presses in further, you try to whisper, “That would be… incredibly scandalous, my love.”

“Oh? What difference does it make? The entire house always knows when I do these things with you.”

“Do they—”

“The staff always whispers. And they pay extra attention to you. Always lurking and trying to see if something changes about you. I’ve heard them, you know?”

Oh… oh, you know what he means. Of course you do. Perhaps you’re not the only one dreaming of a blooming future with him, of seeds being planted and growing into this family of yours.

The entire place must be waiting for the announcement to arrive one day.

Right…

“Then…” you start, interrupting yourself to press your lips together, muffling your moan when you feel him bottom out. “Then do not hold back now either. I want you to.”

“To hold myself back?”

“No.”

“Want what then, darling?”

“To fuck my mind numb of thoughts. And my legs of any feeling.”

Abruptly, he pulls out. Then, all of a sudden in again, all at once. You’re cross-eyed when you moan, and he more or less falls onto you as you pull him in, resisting the urge to bite into his shoulder as he nuzzles your neck.

A hand settles under your knee, raising one leg over his waist, starting to move. Messily, he licks and kisses your neck, continuing at your jawline, and then down to your clavicles. Fucks you lovingly enough to light a fire in you.

His hanging strands tickle your skin, damp from the sweat much like his forehead. His greedy sounds are crazy against your collarbones, and then decrease in volume when his lips wrap around your nipple once again.

“Sweetheart,” he mutters.

“Mhh…”

“This is not enough, is it?” No, it isn’t. He barely needs to speak on for you to momentarily shake your head, but he does, and it adds to your madness. “Not enough to disable straight walking…”

“Yes. No, yes—”

You mewl embarrassingly when he slides his cock out again; you see so much more of him outside of you than fucking necessary.

And God. God, you hate it when he presumably accidentally retracts it fully. Silently complaining, you sigh with worried eyebrows, but he finds his way back to you easily. It’d be odd if he didn’t. You suck him in effortlessly.

And he seems to enjoy it. Seems to seek an end to his goal, still keeping his previous question in mind, and then—

Your thighs quiver when he pushes in with all his power, all at once and as deeply as physically possible, and your eyes shut so hard that they hurt.

“Would you look at these tits…” you hear him say, forcing yourself to look at him again, fluttering your eyelids open.

And as sassily as your foggy brain allows, you respond, “I am looking, as well.”

At small, brown, constantly hard nipples. You want to touch them, kiss and bite them. Want to destroy him as much as he’s intending to destroy you. But you can barely move.

How could you if this time, when he returns to his ministrations, he turns entirely, irrevocably, positively merciless.

He gently falls forwards, holding you as he did before, but this time, when he hammers into you, the entire bed shakes. You raise your arm over your head, holding onto the railing for a second, inspecting how far away your head remains from it.

But Jungkook is attentive, and you only notice a second later that his palm is covering your head, keeping it from bumping against the railing. So you remove your hands from it, letting it glide over his smooth back again, sweat-covered and hot now.

He’s a monster, this man. Or perhaps, you make him a monster. You want to believe you’re the sole reason he forgets the universe like this; pounds into you, causing your body to move up and down the mattress, just because you’re the weakest spot he has.

Of course you are. Of course. 

So obvious when he confesses for the millionth time, “I love you.” Muffled, but clearer when he moves to look at you, expression beyond words as he repeats, “I love you so much.”

“And I you, my love.”

Strange. So strange how you never would’ve imagined yourself saying such a thing just a few years ago. How you avoided him, took a different path than him, never voluntarily meeting his eyes.

The words floating between you urge him to slow down for the moment; he attempts to take you in, to memorise you. Lets his eyes flit from your mouth over your nose to your pupils. Touches your cheek.

And the slower pace allows you to speak a bit more properly, even though you can’t help but feel distracted when he drops his head some to peck your skin.

“It… it has not been more than two years, has it? When we still despised each other.”

His kiss burns scars into your shoulder, hotter than hellfire. A raspy voice murmurs, “The world changes in mysterious ways.”

“Mmmh—”

It does. So does your mind. Because why is it that the most utterly sweet romance births the wildest of desires?

“And… Maybe that is what you need to unleash tonight, Kook. Perhaps I need it, too—” You shudder when he hums. His digits are still restless on your face, sliding up and down; not knowing what to caress. “What if you fucked me like you still hated me?”

“I… would that… You want that? I cannot even act as if I hate you, though.”

“Try it. I want you to.”

Jungkook remains speechless for too long, still comprehending your words, clearly torn between adhering to your wishes and worshipping you with the same adoration as you give out.

But as you so faintly mouth a hushed Please, you diffuse something in his brain. Inexplicably, because the rush of sensations, while never absent, feels new each time he touches you.

Perhaps that’s why he never gets enough of you; you hang a new star onto the sky every day, a new moon every night. Alternating every moment and refusing to leave a single one bland.

He’d be damned if he didn’t give the same excitement back to you.

Pushing his body up, he kneels above you, slipping out of you bit by bit as he grips your left knee. He shifts your limb, changing the position until you’re laying sideways, somewhat twisted.

You see the fleeting glimpse of pride as he slides back home and you mewl, soon squinting your eyes shut because shit — whatever you were doing before doesn’t compare to the tightness the shift allows. How your legs are nearly closed, allowing for much more friction.

You’re wrapped around him so fucking well, reminiscent of old key-to-its-lock-metaphors; and he feels infinitely closer to you. Possibly having a harder time than you, even.

The drag of his cock is endless as he begins, still too gentle, but effective enough. Your hands seek a place to hold onto, immediately opting for his leg; but he doesn’t seem to dig the idea as much.

“Let go,” he orders, not quite waiting for you to oblige before he’s captured your arm harshly and removed your touch, pinning it to your hip. “Same as before. No touching or I’ll stop—” The thrust he delivers isn’t quick, but relentless and hard; deep to the hilt. “—this. I don’t care if you cry or complain then.”

Shit…

He’s started. And he’s playing the act well. In your drowsy idiocy, you can’t help but wonder how the two of you would’ve fared if you’d turned your hate into lust much earlier. If you hadn’t used the time to despise each other, but transform it into this kind of energy.

Of course it is stupid to retort to such fantasies. Back then, you were disgusted by his personality, irritated by the way the two of you treated each other. There would’ve been no scenario in which he would’ve landed balls-deep in you.

But fuck, does the image prompt something in you.

You don’t bother for an answer, reckoning that the quiver of your lower lip might suffice, but… seemingly, not for him. Because he presses into your wrist harder before moving it to your back.

Yelping, you nearly stuff your face in the pillow, not entirely realising his next moves until you open your eyes again. See his mouth floating right over your ear. So close to you, pushing your damp hair back, whispering ominously, “Are you not fucking hearing me? Do you not understand?”

“I…” Goddamn it. Is he gritting his teeth? Playing his aggression so well? Or does it derive from the sheer lust he can’t contain? “I hear you. I understand.”

“What did I say?”

“No touching.”

The fingers stroking your strands back are more tender than his words, rewarding you with caresses as he continues just a tad softer, “Was that so difficult?”

He leaves you with another squeeze of your tits, moving his knees on the mattress to draw closer to your body. To bury himself further into you, leaving no spot untouched. And then, perfectly in character, claims, “Looking as pathetic as years ago, aren’t you? Probably dreamed of fucking me then, too.”

Wow—

Regarding the assignment with absolute diligence, it seems.

Even more cruel when he slips out of you so casually, so easily, despite adjusting to the position a mere moment ago. For a good purpose, however — because his digits replace his rock hard, soaked cock not soon after, testing the situation with languidly slow pumps.

They feel so different from his length; so… inadequate. You desire so much more. Back to where you were a minute ago. It’s… so hard not to touch him.

But if you begged for it now, would he give in? Or rather hold onto your previous idea?

You can try.

“Kook…” you whisper carefully, albeit immediately noticing how his breathing overshadows the word. You attempt again, “Kook.” This time, he hears. “Please. Need more? Please.”

“Asking for mercy all of a sudden… you cannot be serious.”

“I…”

“You’re lucky I do, too, you see? Need more.” Firmly, he lets a heavy hand fall to your ass, moving it up before your surprised squeal leaves you, and pushes at your back; your body flat on your stomach. “Or you’d long be sprawled over my lap.”

One of your dangerous traits is that you’re constantly tempted to test him. To act out, to follow his little warnings. Then again, he already provides enough; already at a hundred percent.

Like now, when he returns with the intent to wear you out. Wrecking you from the moment his cock intrudes again, falling in so smoothly that it’s almost embarrassing.

He starts right away. Pants a couple seconds later, matching your squeaks, probably delighted by your desperation as you hold, nearly rip the sheets. 

Tired, he leans in, chest closer to your back, and uses the nape of your neck as leverage to move easier. Wrapping a hand around it, pressing you down, hearing you whine and sniffle against the pillow.

You cannot recall the last time he fucked you this brutally. Snapping against your ass, letting all of the massiveness he sports disappear inside you. You don’t know what surprises you more — his stamina or the fact that you can take him this well at all.

But even Jeon Jungkook has his limits. You hear the approaching end in the way he sounds, breathing irregular and words incoherent. How broken his sounds are, high-pitched and absolutely unhinged. How his thrusts are slower now, indicative of his fatigue.

You know he’s close. But when he doesn’t slow down but stops altogether, you know he doesn’t want to be.

Refusing the orgasm, he pulls out for the nth time, much, much to your chagrin. With a dry throat, perspiring skin and droopy eyes, he delivers a harmless smack to your ass, and says, “Get up. Your turn to work on this.”

And with that, he means making himself comfortable against the back of the bed; letting the muscles of his arms bulge when he lifts them; using both hands to card through his hair, bringing some order into his messy mane.

Then, watching as you sit up, crawling on all fours and nearing his awaiting body.

Your gaze falls to his lap right away as you inch closer. To the shiny, wet member, secured in his fist, moving in it just a little, so as not to explode prematurely. Reserving it for you, and you only.

Such a giant. Towering. Thick enough for you to once again wonder if you can truly fit this inside you. Jungkook is gifted in every way.

And it’s not just the package he’s so proudly touching right now; it’s all of him. The golden skin, the thick thighs, the firm chest and the moles across his body. How his plush lips part further, the more your warmth nears.

Ready for you when you don’t take a seat right away but instead, steer straight towards his mouth, seeking a kiss you so hopelessly need. And for a second, he falls weak to your actions.

Only, until he suddenly yanks you back by your hair, probably reluctantly because…

Even now, his face draws to yours like a magnet, wanting more. Resisting. Extending the misery.

“Sit down,” he instructs, hitting your hanging tits. “Now.”

You do.

You do as quickly as you can; even rolling back your eyes, throwing back your head, unconsciously submitting to the reflex of gripping his shoulders. Bad idea — because he snatches your wrists, working to bring your arms behind your back again. Away from his body.

“Without this. Start.”

You try. You drag your pussy along his cock, up and then back down again; give yourself time to actually take in every little bit of him and how he makes you feel. The muscles of your legs and upper body are in full swing, exhausting your capacities.

But you’ll admit that it’s hard; not because your limbs have turned as wobbly as is usual with this beast, but because you’re awfully out of balance.

As he holds you captive, you’re struggling with the stance, even when he pulls your chest to his, melting the two of you. You don’t voice the difficulty yet, keen on observing his reactions; enduring the tremble of your body.

“So incredibly cooperative,” he repeats, “we make a strong pair, don’t we?”

Tease. Tease. Taking advantage of how much you crave praise.

You cannot pinpoint whether you’re coveting his appetite particularly strongly these days, or whether he’s just now awoken desires unknown to you so far — but his advances leave you salivating. Make you hunger for more.

Odd how you didn’t know you’d enjoy it if he gripped a patch of your hair as he is now, shaking your head, face close enough to you to repeatedly graze his lips against yours. Or that you could tighten around him like this the moment his fingers dig into your cheeks, holding you like an enemy.

“Mmmmh, you are pretty,” he hums, delivering two light slaps to your cheek. He hisses when he feels you constrict again, trapping his cock between your drenched walls, only able to whisper multiple fucked-out, “Pretty, pretty, pretty.”

His fitful breathing doesn’t allow for much interruption of his air flow; his chest is heaving and he seems far more spent than he did in the beginning. But he’s never ready to stop or wave the white flag.

Still succumbing to said hurdles when his lips dash forward, instantly blending his taste with yours as his tongue snakes around yours. His lips move against yours with ferocity and determination. Teeth bite your lower lip softly, giving his aggression a soft outlet.

And it seems to you that he might not pull his claws in again tonight, unleashing all the savage fierceness his lust and envy combine into. Perhaps this will turn into the most ruthless night just yet.

But you’re wrong.

And for once tonight, you don’t mind the 180 turn.

Because the moment he surfaces from the kiss to catch his breath, you use the pause to whisper his name. With a gentle shudder, kissing eyebrows and half-open eyes, you bring your forehead to his, and all of a sudden, he lets you go.

You don’t understand why until you look at him again. Blinking innocently, still not touching him properly, but carefully bringing your fingertips to his legs. The crease between your eyebrows vanishes, allowing them to rise, and you echo, “Kookie…?”

That’s all it takes. You might be hallucinating, but you think you see something in him break. Something shifting back into place, as if he’s going through a change, returning to himself after separating from his mind for a bit.

And he slows down. The dizzying brutality of his pounding leaving you drooling turns into something friendlier. A welcome alteration but…

The change in pace surprises you. Not even inspecting his expressions helps you understand what he might be thinking, what he might be intending to do next. He’s unpredictable in moments like these.

He might turn the tides. Or he might return to his demonic self.

What you don’t realise is how your eyes affect his thumping heart so badly; how you emanate sweetness with all of your being, and how you make this played aggression nearly impossible.

Rendered hypnotised, he understands that’s enough for tonight. This isn’t the true nature the two of you share. What was it again in simple, human words, never enough to describe the celestial feeling within?

In love. Devoted. Ready to do anything. And so, so beautiful.

Jungkook cradles your face, gently massaging the back of your head. His thumb touches your cheek as if you’re fragile, careful to keep you together now and forever. You’re tenderness personified; the object of all his desires.

The definition of a treasure to be protected. And you are—

“You’re the kind of person to kill for.” His warmth breathes into your face when his lips ghost in front of yours, words sugary when he admits, “I cannot do this like I hate you. Because I don’t.”

…If there is one thing aside from you that your husband will remain loyal to forever, it’s his feelings. Not only towards you, but everything he regards the world with.

He always claims he hid most of himself before he met you, but you’re convinced he never stopped being the person he is. That he was merely believing in what others wanted him to believe.

That’s all.

Even now, as his touch falls to the small of your back, he refuses to deny the fondness and care that has grown in his heart, right around your name sheltered in there.

You swallow thickly, touching his waist, and shake your head, “Then don’t. Do it just how you mean it.”

He nods, bringing his fingers back to yours and lifting them as he asks, “Would you like to touch me again?”

“Will you let me?”

A kind laugh meets your curious, yet genuine question. He places your hands on his shoulder, jesting, “Imagine… having the power over you to decide whether to let you or not.” 

Bringing his own fingers to your ass, he moves you a bit, and with that, his hardness inside you. “I love it when you are desperate like this, my love. But.” You moan when he urges you to move. “So am I.”

“Jungkook… I’m yours. You can do whatever you want.”

“I can, right? And— in return, I can be whatever you need me to be, too.”

Yours — that’s all. All of him.

The arms you finally touch, up to his shoulders, neck and jaw. The soft lips he’s kept parted ever since you started. The mole on his nose, under his mouth, near his jawline. The kiss he shares with you and the hands clamping at your body.

How he fucks you with a passion you’re certain is reserved for nobody in this world but you. You’re selfish like this; you don’t believe anybody loves like that.

It’s all yours; that’s what you need him to be.

You murmur his name repeatedly, and he pecks your neck dryly. Your sounds change as you near the end, feeling a bubbling sensation in your stomach pleading to be released. Impatiently, you lean back, planting your hands to the mattress, face towards the ceiling.

Jungkook uses the position to latch onto your nipples, fucking you harder now, even if not with the same craze as before. He knows your body; he knows it so well. So you’re not surprised, yet gasping when he brings a finger to your clit, hitting and touching the right stops over and over and over again.

Your body winds on top of him as the chaos inside you unfolds, your shoulders sinking, eyes in the back of your head, upper body so fucking weak. And as he massages circles onto your clit, never rough, and murmurs against your jaw, you lose your mind.

“You’re my love. Gorgeous, beautiful sweetheart. I want to see… this every night.”

Doesn’t he know he will all his life? Doesn’t he know you’ve surrendered every piece of you to him?

Fuck. Fuck—

The knot uncoils the moment he utters the last word, voice dulcet and hazy, so loving and breathy. Your arms give out, threatening to let your body fall, and you rush to find an anchor in his shoulders, holding him, embracing him within a second.

Without a single thought ahead, you blurt, “I’ll— I’ll never want anyone but you. Never.”

“You’re all I know, baby,” he responds in kind, holding you the same, a confession between each kiss to your neck, “I love you. D-did you know? I love you. Love you. Love you so much.”

And God, do you love him.

The waves crashing over you are metres-high, and they’re drowning you ocean-deep. Why does this feel new and crushing every single time? He’s helped you experience this a hundred times. Nobody ever has before.

But you never get used to this. Not to how hard your pussy tightens and loosens over and over again, how your body becomes weightless, needing to be kept upright. How your stomach feels much more free, like you’ve gone through an epiphany.

The world sparkles. You feel ridiculous, alone in your head with these thoughts, but you’re above clouds, and the stars sparkle. What the hell…

“H-how much?” you ask, gripping his black hair, dizzy. 

“You cannot ask me. I have no fucking idea,” he curses, “I wish I could measure it, you see? Wish I could show you better. Tell you. Write it in a book.”

You’re fond of books; but he doesn’t know there’s no need for him to create a story, because he’s one himself. Isn’t he? A chapter after another.

He lifts your face from his shoulder, making you look at him. Pushes your hair back, his stare fond. Crashes his lips against yours again before it’s his turn to let go.

Affected by your contractions, he moans against your cheek, closing his eyes before he’s shooting all that he kept back into you. Hot, wet and sticky, loads of it, requiring multiple pumps until he’s drained.

Then, falls back against the railing with you in tow, hiding in your chest as you keep him close to your heart. You touch his tresses, caressing his scalp, matching his breathing until your bodies wind down.

It takes endless minutes in each other’s arms until the burning sensation all over your skin diminishes.

The room has grown darker now, candles burned halfway through. When you allow yourself a glimpse of him, the shadows are dancing across his features, hiding half his face. The light is so faint where it hits him, a gorgeous weak golden that still doesn’t do his own teint justice.

You can’t believe you get to keep this for a lifetime. That this is the very being you have the honour to wake up next to every single morning. That you’re the only one holding his heart, and that he’s the only one matching your soul.

Is this what it means to share everything with someone? To indulge in something far greater than love.

Which… reminds you…

“Jungkook,” you call, and he hums quietly, smiling through it. Eyelids falling, he listens as you ask, “Kook, do you think I feel— or look different?”

There’s a pause in your hushed conversation, a rise of eyebrows. If he wasn’t so tired, he’d sound a lot more concerned, you reckon. Immediately question your thoughts.

Instead, he sounds weaker, yet confused when he mutters, “…Why?”

“Do I?”

Another break in thought. This time to take you in. To lean in just a little, regard you carefully, to let his eyes drag over your being to detect the change you speak of.

But maybe…

“I think you were quieter these days. In thoughts? I assumed it was the Jung thing. But,” he eventually says, “responsibilities didn’t allow me to be around much either. Did I… miss something?”

Were you quieter? Possibly. 

Saying you were trapped in your thoughts is an understatement; if he’s figured something out without being around, it’s this much. The utter truth, a successful deduction. But was it the Hoseok rumours?

You can’t yet say for sure. So you choose to not say anything at all.

Only, “That might be it.”

“Other than that, however…” he speaks, moving with a grunt. The hands on your hips are gentle as they instruct you to get up; and unbothered by the seed soon flowing out, he urges you to your back, face soon levitating above you. “You’re still the same.”

A creature of habit, he wipes the drying locks out of your face, kissing the tip of your nose. You’re almost entirely sure that you look like a proper mess — but it’s impossible to not believe him when he claims, “Still the same beautiful woman I fell in love with two years ago.” Another kiss to your eyelid. “Stunning darling.”

“Are you still in love with me the same?”

“No,” he immediately blurts, and if you didn’t know him so well, you’d panic, “of course never the same. Always a little more.”

“Mmmh. And I love you.” You touch the smooth surface of his back, drawing figures over the defined muscles. “So. Does this prove that I wouldn’t run away with some lord?”

He puts on the act of a thinker, purposely teasing you until you hit his bicep. Then, “Yes. But does it prove you won’t run away with a stable boy?”

“…I hate you, Jeon Jungkook.”

The laugh he emits is genuine, so different from the troubled voice you heard less than an hour ago. His old jesting self, he refers to your awkward idea before, mentioning, “I know. You surely got that across tonight. And oh, how you kept looking at me. Pure hatre—”

“Shut up. I gave myself to you tonight or you would’ve begged and whimpered—”

“Oh? How so? Tied me up, hm?” he mocks, fingers cautiously following the veins of your arms before he’s caught your wrists again. He lifts them over your head, trapping you again. “Like this?”

You laugh as his lips trace your neck, the tickling sensation not quite the same as the lust spreading before. Helplessly, you surrender, begging, “Alright. Okay. I apologise for saying that! If you keep going, I will be crawling tomorrow.”

“Is that so bad? Not having to tend to so many things?”

“You’d make it worth it, I’m certain.”

He lets you go the very next moment, sighing before he asks, “Do you feel alright? I was worried about going overboard.”

“No, I am more than alright. Dog-tired but… this was perfect. I am a little happy you got jealous. Do you feel better, too?”

“I feel extraordinarily well.” He keeps his mouth open, pondering on saying more, but as you see his mind whir, you reckon another thought has replaced his previous statement. “I was not jealous. Merely worried.”

“…You yourself have said you are a jealous man.”

“Have you got any evidence? I thought so.” Another snicker in a joyous night, setting the mood for your dreams. “But. You are loved by many, and I admire you for that. And objectively I know I will always love you the most, but… it’s scary.”

“Ah… what is, Kook?”

“Knowing that somebody might want to overtake me. To try better or make you reconsider.”

“They couldn’t. I do not have to tell you… you know me and you know I will be here.”

“Good. I know,” he assures, countless infinitesimal sparkles of yearning in his eyes. They glow even in the shadows of candlelight, even without flames. “I really want this with you.”

“What is that?”

“…Everything.”

Everything.

His thoughts are a repetition of your own. A confession of a forever. Which is why you understand so well what he means, not a single explanation necessary. Because you want it all, too.

Of all the facts existing in your realm and universe, this remains one that you could never doubt. And you’re trying to provide him with the same amount of everything, as well. You are.

Which is why the thought of disappointing him is so unbearable for the time being.

So for now, you’d rather avoid it by keeping your mouth shut just for a little longer.

For all the longing touches revealed last night, Jungkook was certain he’d meet a glowing face the next morning. Sparkly, familiar eyes, taking in all hallways despite already knowing them so well, pointing out a new detail each time as you love to do.

For all the affection revealed last night, he was sure he’d eliminated all doubts and sorrows, every piece of thought and afterthought left of the conversation about other lords and past love.

In such a sense, he finds himself cheerful in his office the following day, enduring the staff’s playful ridicules. Grateful about the comfortable atmosphere, the lightness of the morning. His humour runs off the charts and he catches himself snickering about his own jokes.

You left him bright at least. Hopeful and joyful, with a heart filled with so much love and craze that is barely comprehensible for a mortal mind.

When you stroll into his office with your hands folded, his dark gems glitter, lights dancing in his pupils. He didn’t see much of you yet, despite from the tiny moment he left you sleeping in bed, kissing your shoulder and removing the lock off your face.

Tending to his duties, only torn away from you when he was urged to do so.

“Good morning,” you say in your sweetest voice, so small and soft.

And he hears the alteration in your words, so vastly different from last night. But your eyes look somewhat swollen, sleep still apparent in them, so it’s easy to give into the first instinct and blame a short night for your fatigue.

“Good morning, my love,” you respond, silencing as he nears your body, tenderly aligning your fingers and raising yours to his mouth. As he kisses every knuckle, you ask, “Working so early?”

“Did not choose to,” he murmurs in between pecks. He concludes the gesture with rubbing a thumb ever-so-gently against the back of your hand before he leads your palm to his face. “I can come back to you any moment, though.”

You smile, but the blinking of your eyes is slow, and your reserved stance grows. He finds it odd when you hesitate, but you’re faster than him when you speak, “No, no. I didn’t want to disturb you, please do what you need to do.”

“Then… keep me company?”

“I will, but later, yes? I was thinking of a brief outing.”

It’s not unusual for you to seek fresh air or promenade along a nearby waterfront. Ever since you left town, you’ve grown even fonder of nature. The blossoming flowers, the sun, the summer rain and the rainbows afterwards match your energy.

But your usual light is missing; you don’t look quite downcast, but moreso worried about something. Your chest rises a bit too hard when you breathe in, and the nerves burn hotter when he asks, “Where to?”

“Just nearby. Picking flowers.”

Maybe he’s thinking about it too hard. Maybe you’re honestly just drowsy and opting for the crisp air, hoping for it to clear your mind. And maybe your demeanour will have changed by the time you return.

Might at least just be worth the wait, right?

So he doesn’t intervene with your thoughts, merely nodding. He leans into your tender palm, still resting on his warm cheek, and presses a careful kiss into it, as though a mistake could make you run away.

“Sure,” he concurs at last, “rush back to me. And show me the flowers you collect, alright?”

Which you don’t really oblige to, keeping a safe distance from his yearning, worried heart for an hour or two.

It becomes increasingly difficult to focus on work with you away; inquiring about you doesn’t do much, because how could the staff within these walls know more than he does? Would you confide in them but not in him?

Are you afraid of something?

When the attention drifts off his work eventually and his gaze keeps switching to the view out the window, to a path that you might be walking, he plummets into his chair. Waits. Fiddling. 

“Dojoon,” he calls, immediately met with a guard outside the room, speaking to the stiff, polite form, “has my wife returned yet? Have you seen Aza around?”

Denying his lord’s questions, Dojoon shakes his head, causing Jungkook’s chest to deflate, and informs him that no, he has neither noticed the presence of you nor of your chaperone.

Fitting, a timing so appropriate, because the guard has only nearly finished his sentence and increased Jungkook’s concerns when footsteps echo through the hallway outside. Jungkook cranes his neck momentarily, hoping for an end to his perturbation.

And at last, some deity seems to have heard his prayers, even if, in hindsight, he knows he’ll probably have nothing to worry about. You’ve been away for longer, albeit usually announcing your departure more cheerily and with less uncertainty.

Which, to his pleasure, doesn’t torture your expressions as much anymore as you finally enter the room. The hands are still folded, a shawl wrapped around your back and gracefully falling over your arms.

You’re always so pretty; so stunning that he nearly forgets the issue on hand.

That your folded fingers don’t carry anything.

Which is not too suspicious, it shouldn’t be. You might have handed the flowers to somebody, might have hastened back into his room without thinking of his prior request.

But his paranoid mind has been wreaking havoc lately, and he hates, hates, hates it — yet, can’t stop it.

So he despises the feeling in his chest when he asks, “Where are the flowers?”

“I…” you unfold your hands, inspecting your fingers as if you forgot they were vacant of said bloom. “Staff took them.”

Of course. That’s the most logical option, one he considered. So why…

He inches closer to you, nodding towards Dojoon and signalling for him to leave. As the guard exits right away, Jungkook lightly touches a strand of your hair, tucking it back as he so gently wonders, “Where did you go, baby?” 

“Just out for a while. I told you before.”

“But…” You swallow as he talks, nervous about something and suddenly fidgeting with your way too warm cashmere shawl. Only looking up when he breaks his barriers and asks, “What’s the matter?”

“What?”

“I do not know. You tell me. What’s the matter? Is it because of something we said last night? Or because of…”

There. He said it. Stupid unease that might prove wrong and oh-so-utterly and truly stupid soon.

Of course he’s had this in his mind. But somehow, he’s started to wonder… do you feel okay? Are you ill?

“What?” you echo, shaking your head. “No. What are you saying—”

“Something must be bothering you, I reckon, and you…”

“No, I think I just,” you start, pausing, tonguing your cheek until you turn your body a little. Almost facing the door. “I probably only need more rest. I feel tired and you wore me out so much, you see—”

It’s meant as a joke, and he’s sure he even recognises a smile — but the mood won’t allow for otherwise very welcome jests. Before you can even reach for the door handle, he places a flat hand on the surface of the door, ensuring that Dojoon didn’t leave it ajar even a tiny gap.

Half caged in, you look at him in disbelief, lips slightly parted as you say, “Won’t you let me go out?”

“Talk to me, sweetheart.” The genuine distress in his expression hurts you; just because you’re so fearful of disappointing him, or putting him under more anxiety. No reason, no reason. “Tell me what’s going on.”

You want to. It’s just — he’s been forlorn before. You’ve seen his lows and seen the reasons for it. Waded through parts of his pain with him. The news you want to deliver are merry and colossal, but you don’t know if he’s ready.

And fuck. You’re taking too long to answer, aren’t you?

You are. You see it in his eyes. How they start to burn, how frustration grows so apparent in them. Never replacing the care and worries, but certainly furrowing his eyebrows the way he often does when irritated.

“What’s troubling you?” he tries again, keeping himself from snarling. “Where did you go? Did you… did you see him somewhere? I apologise if I said or did something wrong last night. If I hurt you.”

Keeping himself from snapping. Because your eyes are so big, and your stare so innocent and you look so concerned for him rather than for yourself, and… and…

Other than every reason in this universe, he can’t bear to be mad at you.

“Hm?” he voices.

“No,” you finally reveal, “it’s not him at all.”

“I know… Of course I know. But what is it?”

You blow out air. “I am…”

“Yes,” he interjects when your pause proves longer than a moment, “are you ill? Oh goodness, this is nerve-wracking. I think I might fai—”

“Jungkook,” you interrupt, both hands dashing to his arms. He’s out of breath, unfiltered craze in his eyes, as if expecting the worst. So you free him of his misery, taking a deep breath, and then, outrightly, reveal, “I’m expecting.”

…The world stills.

You hear it and you feel it; are certain that all movement has ceased, that the birds have halted mid-flight. That the wind has ebbed down. That the people down in the village have frozen in whatever state they were in before.

Selfishly, you believe that the centre of the world has shifted from the sun to right where you’re standing, right where the love of your life has paused. Where he’s looking at you and you only, barely blinking, out of words, lungs as dry as yours.

“My lo—” you start at the same time as he mumbles, “What?”

So you speak on, “I have not been bleeding. I went to consult the doctor and—”

“Outside? Where?” he asks, the memory and logic in his mind so disrupted that he finds himself in a state of utter bafflement and insanity. “Why didn’t you go to the mansion’s—”

“He went to his family for the week. Do you remember?”

“Right… right. What did you… You just went?”

You nod. “Spoke to him about all the things I have been experiencing and he’s certain those are all signs for me expecting… it seems.”

“…You didn’t tell me.”

“Because I wasn’t sure. And I… I know how much this scares you, so I didn’t want to stir chaos in case it turned out to be nothing.”

Which is a truth you weren’t sure you’d be able to spell out. Jungkook has wanted children; he has mentioned it on several occasions. But ever since you fathomed his deepest fears, laying in a fatherless past and a sorrowful childhood, you’ve been careful.

He’s affected. He always has been. And perhaps you’ll see glimpses of those very worries the more your pregnancy advances; let’s see.

For now, however, they don’t seem to roam his mind.

Instead, he shakes his head, hints of an expression creeping onto his face that you know too well. The first sign of approaching tears; of a swelling heart. Of love growing so fondly and fast that it overflows.

Every single tongue-tied reaction gathers in eventual words when he summarises, “I barely know what to say.” And right there it is; underneath his eye, on the apple of his cheek. One single tear. And with it, a breaking voice. “I do not know what to say.”

But he knows what to do. And what he does is tilt his head, sighing into the stuffy air of the office, not bothering to wipe away the tears — and you can’t either as he grips your hands. Smushes them in his. Calls forth your own liquid affection, blurring your vision.

And then you’re pulled off your spot, crushed in a long-overdue embrace. Before you know it, you’re safely secured in his arms, one a snake around your body, the other hand holding the back of your head as if you could disappear.

He hides his lips in your hair, still not able to put his thoughts into words. But he cries silently against you, leftover panic subsiding and giving way to raw sentiments.

“Jung— kook—” you hiccup, and he shakes his head, possibly keeping you from sobbing; yet, not faring better. “I apologise for— for keeping it from y—”

“No. No, you…” he takes a deep breath, and you know without looking that he’s closing his eyes. Putting his chin on top of your head. “You’re the only one who’s ever cared like this. And shielded me like this. How do you care so much? No, I know. Because I do, too…”

His words turn into a murmur, and he swallows a syllable or two, but it doesn’t matter. You hear his heart, and it speaks volumes without him needing to.

You could cry all your life. And you could love all your life.

“So,” he adds, “we are finally growing, yes? You and I and another. The only another we need, right? Fuck the rest of the world.”

You nod against his chest with a broken laugh, palms wandering further up from the small of his back, and you try to hold him as tight as he’s holding you.

There is no need for words and confessions anymore. There is no need for anything at all; just this very thing. And this very touch. These tender sounds of your sobs, ongoing until they turn into a light and quiet mingling of smiles and tear-filled laughter.

“I promise to you,” Jungkook finally says after a minute, his voice calmer, steadier, “I will do anything. Everything.”

Pause. Waiting to collect his thoughts. All those of lords and kings knocked out within a moment.

And then—

“I will do so much better.”

Over the course of the one year you have spent within the same walls as your husband, you haven’t just learned how to share the same home but the same habits, too.

Some are deliberate — reading the Friday newspaper together in the morning; craving eggs on Saturdays; taking walks to wind down from the week on Sundays. They have become a reflex; unspoken activities you indulge in without the other pointing them out anymore.

Others developed accidentally — like, unconsciously counting the windows you pass in the long hallways, because you caught him doing it before. Or, not being able to sleep well unless you have bid each other a good night. Or — in such a case, seeking each other out once the other side of the bed feels too cold.

It’s not rare for Jungkook, who’s still learning to handle responsibilities, to overwork himself deep into the night. At times, you find him at the edge of the bed, still reading a document. On other days, you tap blindly along the walls of the mansion, meeting him in the library.

Tonight, it’s neither.

The place looks eerie, somewhat haunted in the dark. Still adjusting to the darkness, you stroll from room to room idly, trying to make out a light, or a shadow, a sighting of the man you woke up without.

It must be late; or incredibly early. You can’t say when he awoke and skulked off; the sky is still pitch black outside, but sunrise might break in soon.

A few minutes later, akin to an eternity, you finally push the unlocked door to the study, lit by faint flames. Jungkook flinches when it squeaks open and you step in with featherlight steps. He nearly throws the book into the air, catching it as it threatens to slide off his knee.

The gentle heart only calms once it recognises you, taking a deep, shuddering breath in. He isn’t angry; rather delighted to see your figure standing in the dark, in a long, white nightgown and big, worried eyes.

As much as he’s able to perceive from his spot, you look relieved, fingers fiddling, and he doesn’t think he could love anybody more than you, ever. Not when you’re here steering towards your goal, obviously having scoured the mansion to find him.

“You’re so light on your feet, love,” he faux-complains, tutting, “thought you were a ghost.”

“Oh. A pretty ghost?”

“One I’d let haunt me any day.”

You let out a gentle laugh, stepping closer until you’re towering over him, “They say one glows when with child.”

“If you glow any more, then…” he whispers as you take a careful seat on his lap, simultaneously securing you there with an arm and covering his eyes. Charading being blinded by the light.

How dramatic.

Shaking your head, you take a look down to his fingers, following his touch until you’ve opened the shut book to the page his thumb serves as a bookmark for. The cover isn’t particularly telling, a mere title on it too small to read.

The chapter he was reading is an advanced one, the page starting in the middle of an ongoing sentence. but as most stories beloved to dreamy poets go, kindness prevailed in the end.

You don’t ask for the content right away; rather, you wonder, “Jungkook, why are you still up? And here of all places.”

The golden candlelight highlights the fatigue in his eyes — but it makes his heart-stirring smile evident, too. A note of pride resonates in his voice as he lifts the book, holding it towards you as if that doesn’t worsen the lighting drastically.

“It has lullabies and bedtime stories,” he says. You lean in, staring at the right page, and recognise colourful, faded illustrations. “Father used to read them to me. I remember how they shaped me, so I— I wanted to practice, too.”

No matter how many arrows Cupid shoots into your heart, Jungkook always seems to outdo the beneficent god. He’s diligent in watering and growing the affection in you. Tending to your heart — just like that, effortlessly.

Despite your tired mind, your emotions are on overdrive; because of your tired mind, you, in the tone of a statement, repeat, “You were preparing.”

“Is that odd?” he immediately blurts, a little too loud for the room. When you shake your head in denial, he nods in comfort. “I was afraid I was doing too much. This book helped. There is another one on parenting, but,” he reaches for his desk with a groan, putting another, smaller piece on top of the other one, “but I feel like this advice is a given. Look.”

He flips through the pages, halting at one that outlines tips and tricks in imperatives. The first you lay eyes on is already one that proves his point, odd as you read aloud, "An affectionate household works wonders upon a young mind. Remember to, uh— cultivate a serene and harmonious family atmosphere!"

“Fair enough, is it not?” Jungkook jests, shutting the book again.

The smile he flashes, the one you never hesitate to join is a peculiar one. Utterly sweet, undeniably handsome; yet, strange, considering the history the two of you share.

You wonder once again.

When did he become this tender? The boy you knew, smirking so slyly, evil words shot towards you in a group of fellow pals — none of the damaging energy remains today. Today… sitting on this very lap, going into raptures.

Carrying his child.

Then again, people change, but never thoroughly. A basic foundation, the core that one is made of always healthily and steadily remains. Jungkook’s traits, the ones you have learned to love and cherish, were always part of him.

He just needed an outlet. Somebody to practise them on; a lifelong companion to pour the softness onto.

And things never end there. No, they go on and on, a flood of sparkly emotions. Like, when he gets into a more casual conversation now, never quite realising that his little statements are pulling you above clouds.

”I asked some of the staff about their experience with their children. Did you know some of them have young toddlers themselves?”

”Mihee gave me a list of things to be careful about once birth comes around. It sounds painful, darling. You can do it, right?”

”You can. I’ll be there, too. You can certainly do it better than I will, possibly.”

He tells you he has been working a little less these days; having struggles forming a clear thought. Informs you about his spontaneous and perhaps too early decision of planting a tree just for the child. Explains to you how to not hold a baby, the information courtesy of Mihee.

And then, he kisses your forehead, sucking in a breath as if shivering. He adjusts for a moment, never pushing you off his lap, and then eventually, quietly, admits, “It is so frightening, as well, though, isn’t it?”

“Hm?”

“This… this whole thing.” You gaze at him with gentle worry, suspecting what’s to come, but he misinterprets it for doubt. “I am not anyhow indicating that I don’t want this. Not at all. I wouldn’t want it with anyone but you.”

You nod understandingly, clarifying that you never assumed such. But he continues, “Still, I can’t help but wonder how well I will do.”

You could tell him that it’s a valid and often occurring worry. That no parent-to-be will ever dive into this with full confidence and a pure lack of insecurities. But you know why he’s saying this.

Not everyone has a dead father. Not everyone deals with an abusive household growing up. And not everyone was fed with doubts and deep-rooted issues that provoke such hesitant thoughts.

“Is that why you are reading books on parenting, my love?” you inquire, speaking slowly.

“I would guess so,” he answers, “I want to be there. I’d hate it if I had to leave… you never know what might happen, you know? Or maybe, if I was here, yet tried too hard and then failed in the process—”

“First of all,” you interrupt, “do not make me imagine a life without you. Second of all… we are thinking about it in such a theory. I reckon that… once you hold someone in your arms,” you put your head onto his, keeping him close, the free hand seeking his, “it feels more natural. Love happens naturally.”

“Does it? I have never been a father before.”

You chuckle, “So I hope! But. What was it like to love me? A process? Progress? Were you scared of loving me?”

“I was.” The answer is unexpected. Then again, it’s not. Certainly rapid, though. “You’re an unstoppable force. Of course it is scary to love you. What if one messes up? That’s nothing that can be forgiven.”

“You always speak too highly of me.”

“I am not blinded. I see it clearly and I mean every word. Loving you was frightening, but it developed…” He removes his touch from your fingers, instead tracing up the skin of your arm until his digits skim your elbow; echoing, “Naturally.”

“Mmmh. And does it ever feel like you’re trying too hard?”

“No. You’re right, it doesn’t. It just happens.”

“So,” you whisper, “who’s to say this will be different? And to tell you a secret: You’re doing so amazing loving me. If you can give this one the same amount as you give me, we will be fine.”

He hums, nodding instantly. This must boost his confidence.

He’d be a fool to ever doubt the sentiments he houses for you. He knows he loves you well, because he regards you as worth it. Because he vowed to provide to you what you deserve; the intensity of that adoration will never be subject to confusion.

“I will share another secret with you,” you clear your throat, shifting. “Can you imagine how terrifying it can be for a woman to leave home after so long? How, considering the role of the woman, the thought of living with a man can be intimidating?”

Jungkook’s head sinks in thought. Big eyes fixate on a random spot and a plump, rosy lower lip curls outward, pouting. Another hum before he does a head tilt and confesses, “I haven’t thought about it yet. But… if I had a daughter and she left, I would be scared to death for her well-being.”

“Yes. And she would be, as well. It can be difficult. But to tell you something… Despite my fears and the adjustments I needed to make here, I didn’t fear for my well-being. I knew you’d take good care of me.”

You swallow, sighing when he leans in, lips close to your chest, “And if this is what you consider your nature, Jungkook… Then I do not think you have to worry about anything.”

“Hmmm. This makes so much sense. You are such a bright woman, did you know?” he says, rubbing your arm, then your back. Buries his face in your breasts; his voice vibrates against you as he speaks, “You are everything good. And incredibly smart.”

That’s what he’s saying. The true feelings run much deeper than that; you understand.

The sudden affection that washes over one on the best days. When it overwhelms the senses and dips the air in vibrant shades of pink. Feelings of invincibility and eternal happiness.

Yet, hard, or even impossible, to grasp into appropriate sentences. What Jungkook is doing is merely spitting the most harmless of his love confessions, because his true thoughts cannot be constellated into actual words.

“I love you. I do love you. So, so much,” he mutters, scattered kisses between words a habit now, “and I want to take care of you forever. I will bring you tea. And carry you to bed. I will even cook for you, I do not care about the intensity of effort…”

He’s said that before — delivering whatever you crave, whenever you crave it. To your surprise, the royal you thought spoiled previously has a knack for bringing delicious creations to the table. You know because he gets bored sometimes. Takes some work off the staff’s overworked shoulders.

“Speaking of,” he soon inquires, just as you foresaw, “are you hungry? Are you eating well? We should sneak into the kitchen.”

You shake your head immediately, telling him that eating before sleep does not do well to the stomach. Tell him that it is far too late to hide in the corners of the mansion the way you hid around town when engaged.

That now, it might be much easier to stroll back into your room. Slip under the covers. Smile and talk and drift into sleep.

And you promise that you’re already well fed as long as he fills you with the care your dreamy youth would always read about.

But the clouds you float above dissipate and drop your body into a fall, from heaven to absolute hell.

You’re not sure what you expected from this entire affair; perhaps you should’ve known that carrying and leading a full human being into the world wouldn’t occur so blissfully as the pregnancy itself was. And yes — compared to this, the pregnancy was a bed of roses, no matter how often you whined.

Damn the society around you. The only knowledge you had of this moment came from the few books Jungkook brought you every now and then, his gentle warnings that this might hurt, and the brief conversations you had with your mother about the existence of people.

One or two comments from your doctor here and there.

Oh, it will be all good!

But that’s it, isn’t it? Women do not get informed properly; you do not fully understand the concept of such things until they finally roll around.

And the day you wake up once again with the highest expectations, you finally speak those hopes into existence. As you walk up the stairs shortly after dinner, you feel a liquid drain your legs; confused until your stomach so agonisingly twists. 

A punch to your guts.

The moment it happens, your heartbeat accelerates, its sound echoing in your ears — for the very first second, you fear the worst. Did something go wrong? Is something bad happening?

But it doesn’t seem the case, because the tumult around you suggests otherwise entirely: the royal mansion breaks into an immediate excited bustle. You don’t know how they do it, but word spreads like a wildfire.

As soon as the world starts spinning and you let out one or two groans, slowly turning into yelps of pain, you’re escorted to the empty bedroom. Barely minutes later, you’re accompanied by the doctor residing in your mansion these days.

Jungkook’s doing.

Ordered the physician Sang and the midwife Yumi — yes, both — to spend their days here because this is the time they predicted for the baby to arrive at. Nine months… plus, minus a couple days.

The skies have darkened and the seasons changed. It’s colder now, but you feel hot, tortured by your body temperature as staff members drape more blankets over your body, comfortable pillows under you, water and cloths beside you.

And among the blurring faces you perceive under the growing pain, you don’t see his.

Not now; not a couple minutes later; not even more than half an hour has passed. Have they not informed him? He went out for a stroll, but he couldn’t have gone this far.

Your pleas were whispers before, asking for him, yet somewhat ignored, as if you never uttered them at all. So when the light contractions turn moderate, threatening to worsen over time, you raise your voice, “Where’s my husband?! Are you being serious? Get him o—”

“Lady Jeon,” Yumi calmly starts; your possibly irritated mind perceives the probably neutral tone as condescending, and as such, your title makes you internally cringe. “We cannot.”

“What?”

“Husbands aren’t allowed at childbirth. But—”

“What?!” you repeat, rage redirected from the pain to the person only trying to help. You’ll feel guilty later, you know. “This is his child, too. He’s a goddamn part of th—”

The blunt curses are unlike you, and your brain understands; they understand, too, because they have seen and appreciated your true nature for the past few days. Maybe that’s why they don’t take your outbursts too personally; or maybe because they have done this before.

And you know, you know that whatever bond you share with Jungkook, you probably can’t breach society’s rules and the things it deems inappropriate. You weren’t aware that he wasn’t allowed in here; the books didn’t teach you that.

But you should’ve known.

“The Lord will be with you the moment this is over,” Sang promises, preparing whatever he needs to. You’re barely looking, only praying to the ceiling. “He won’t miss a moment with his child. Now, listen to what I say.”

You do. You are.

It just gets so hard with time; the pauses between the contractions seem to shorten and then they vanish. The intensity grows, each time a little more than before; and every other minute, you’re sure you’ve reached the peak, but you never have.

Then, everything starts spinning, your skin soaked in sweat and the little one moving inside, your vision blurring… have hours passed already?

You don’t know. You don’t care — you want this to be over.

But the warm liquid between your thighs, the urge to push, along with the midwife’s words and reassurances, indicate that you’re almost there.

And that’s when it happens. Not the end of it all. Not the appearance of whoever you’ve been anticipating for so long.

But the aggressive thump at the door, repeated and rapid. It hurls your heart from your chest into your throat, your breathing a little more arhythmic than before and you nearly cannot imagine who might be provoking chaos so close to the end.

Then again, could it truly be such a surprise?

Because when the door opens a slit, a familiar face peeking, something in you stirs so hard that you nearly jump into a standing position, pain be damned. Adrenaline rushes through you as a hand pushes you back again; you must’ve risen a couple inches, calling a name.

“You can at least tell me how she is,” Jungkook’s shaky voice inquires near the door, louder than he probably intends. His words are filled with anxiety, and you know he cried before. “I deserve to know.”

Sang hesitates; even in such an advanced state, you still hear his composed words, as calm as he’s been taught to be. “She’s been bleeding a little. We are, however, taking care of it.”

“…What is a little?”

“Bleeding is a common occurrence. It’s just…” The man clearly leans in, because you hear him a bit worse now, yet well enough to understand why your thighs feel so oddly wet and warm, and you so weak. “Somewhat more than it should be. But she’s nearly done, so it’ll be—”

“No,” Jungkook resists, “this is unspeakably stupid.”

Not the man speaking to him, and not anything about what you’re going through, what so many women a day must be going through.

But the distance — you know. And when you move your head towards the open door, meeting his eyes at just the right moment, almost hidden behind Sang’s figure, they widen. Once again, you know why.

Because he’s snapped.

“Jungkook—” you murmur, and it’s enough.

With a combination of impatient aggression and respectful care for the physician, he pushes past the arm blocking the entry to his own bedroom. Someone in the room catches onto Jungkook’s sleeve, but he shakes it off without ever averting his gaze from you.

Yumi follows her responsibilities without a moment of hesitation, nearly leaning over your body as she warns somewhat shyly even, “You are not allowed to be here, I apologise, but…”

But her message is sharply cut in the air before it even reaches Jungkook, because he finally breaks eye contact with you, instead redirecting the flaming pupils towards her.

You don’t see much else than the bottom of his jaw, but you’ve seen the stare before.

When he manages a business that irritates him. When he gets into a rare but bad argument with you. You saw it when he met his teasing friends again, way after your engagement, ready to mock you. And when he faced the idiocy his uncle committed.

Intimidated, Yumi leans back, nodding just once, probably accepting that should whatever myth about childbirth come to life, it’d be your problem. But Jungkook has always been careful; doesn’t believe in the warnings of infections and other unspeakable things that apparently occur when the husband joins the birthing process.

“You are almost ready to push. Just a bit more,” she informs you instead, taking her place at the end of the bed, taking a glimpse under the blanket over your legs.

You feel it, too. Your body is telling you to.

“This is so stupid,” Jungkook repeats, taking a seat on the chair shoved behind him. His hands seek out yours, clutching it immediately. “Hours of waiting and hoping you’re alright? Incredibly dumb, isn’t it?”

“I know,” you say, faintly nodding, only noticing how much you’re crying when he wipes away a stray tear, “I told them. It’s taking so long, Jungkook…”

“Yes, I figured it might, but… but,” he starts, waterline shimmering, bangs already damp — where did he run from to you? “It will be over and so worth it.”

“Read it in… a book?” He nods, and you chuckle as much as possible. “You’ve been reading so much.”

“More than ever! I have never read so many books before, you know?” He sniffles. “And still nothing prepared me. Do you know what happened, darling?”

He’s fighting tears until he can’t. A single one rolls down his cheek and over his mouth, his smile remaining intact, even if somewhat damaged by the profuse emotions. His lower lip trembles like yours.

You’re in no mindset to answer, but his voice, his words, his touch soothe your heart. Lessen the pain, even though in reality and in theory, they don’t.

How does any woman do this without her beloved?

“Two hours in, and I fainted.”

Immediately, your eyes shoot open, your fingers squeezing his, but before you can utter your worries, he shakes his head and continues, “They kept me in there and guarded me like a child. I was scheming how to escape… climbing out the window.”

He smiles when you laugh again, sniffling again, and concludes, “Then they told me they had heard you were struggling and that you were screaming more often. And the room was so hot, as well — it is winter, for Heaven’s sake! And I just…”

Shaking his head, he emphasises the embarrassment of the moment, aware that you cannot talk much, but guiding you through it nevertheless. Speaking his mouth wound, “You’re the one doing this. I did nothing.”

“You did,” you manage, “it is not the same, but you were there.”

“I was there. But you’re doing this, yet I fainted. I would’ve been with you so much earli—”

His soft conversation is soon interrupted when you scream again, your chin quivering, head thrown back when another excruciating contraction catapults you almost into unconsciousness.

Somebody wipes the sweat off your hot forehead for the millionth time, and finally, finally, you feel something happening.

But Jungkook can’t contain his concerns, an observer who can’t feel any of this, only seeing the love of his life sobbing, yelling, squeezing her eyes shut until they hurt. You hear him ask, “What?”

“Just… blood,” Yumi’s voice answers at the same moment as another pair of hands start massaging your stomach for whatever reason, “just…”

“Is that bad?” Jungkook wants to know, out of breath.

“It’s not great, but it won’t be fatal.”

“What? Is she…” He stops for a second, and you see him looking at you through half-lidded eyes, then back at the headless body, covered by the blanket, “God. Then do something!”

You rub a thumb over the back of his hand, fully breathless, already feeling veins pop as you push. And once more. Then say, “It’s alright. It…it will be alright.”

“I should be telling you that! Is that why they mock men? Huh?” He looks back and forth, and you want to laugh, barely managing to listen as you focus on the pushes. You hear his words faintly, but they help. “I am guessing you are feeling it quite a bit as opposed to me, yes?”

You’re crying harder when you shut your eyes again, back arching, yelling out sarcastic words, “No! N–not feeling a thing!”

Your upper body is killing you. The pressure is unbearable, the sensation burning. Through it all, as you near the finishing line, wishing to skip these minutes, he keeps encouraging, “This is so amazing. Just a little more. Almost… almost do—”

The last word is swallowed, quiet, barely spoken. Maybe because his voice is breaking, too. But maybe, because it’s interrupted by another, much shriller cry of change. Entering a world so new is surely scary.

Somebody knows it even better than you, because the first ever sounds of the baby once it finally emerges heal and break your heart. How can that be? You haven’t even touched it yet.

Then, how are you already caught by such an… odd feeling? Floating somewhere between reality and a dream, not quite realising that you’re actually hearing the crying. Isn’t a child just what you were a while ago, too?

You remember the moment you first met Jungkook so vividly. In the rain, attempting to soothe his sorrows, trying to figure out what misery had ambushed the disconsolate boy.

You were a child back then, too. That wasn’t long ago, was it? Are you really married to the same being now, sharing your all with yet another existence that is yelling away in this very room?

Overwhelmed by someone you only felt and cherished through your own skin, without ever touching, without ever speaking to it? 

“Is it… a girl or a boy?” you want to know.

Jungkook takes a stand, leaving your hand for just a moment, but Yumi and the rest are busy tending to the bloody and fresh child. Wrapping it in a blanket. Holding it carefully. Cutting off the umbilical cord — a relatively young term Jungkook told you about.

“It’s… a girl, Lady Jeon.”

A girl.

Oh God. The father’s beauty. The mother’s wit. A lion-heart and a strong-willed mind. If the two of you are combined, that’s what comes out, doesn’t it?

And all of her, all of what she is is yours. And you’re hers.

Jungkook doesn’t get to inch too close to his flesh and blood, because Yumi turns away; you’re too tired to be angry, albeit a little relieved when she lets you know extra gently, “We’ll just clean her up and get her back to you immediately. You can hold her then.”

You let your arms sink, and Jungkook comes rushing back to you. Instead of grabbing your hand again, he places a palm to your forehead, wiping at it, moving back the hair. The calming gesture helps you wind down, even though you’re nowhere close to being yourself again.

The aftermath of the pain remains, but you’re eternally grateful for the end of the contractions. For the ceasing of your screams. For the temperature coming down, your breathing calming just gradually.

And for—

“Thank you, my love,” you mutter absent-mindedly, noticing when his movements slow down. You’re so dizzy. “For being with me through all this nevertheless. I do not know how they expected me to do it without you.”

“Well… they did not know I read all those books. I mean, you heard it. I’m more or less a certified royal midwife now.”

You can’t help but let out an unexpected snicker, still too exhausted to open both eyes. You crack one of them a split apart, teasing, “My midwife fainted.”

“We have bad days, too. No?”

You hear the actual midwife’s voice jest something in agreement, widening your smile, and state, “Then. In that case, you need to redeem yourself, yes? How— about a crown for our baby?”

When you look at him properly, you see new tears emerge. He’s trying his best not to cry — but with you so close, alive and courageous, and a child weeping away a couple feet from your bed… how could he hold back?

“Well, I was thinking of a nightdress with a tiny crown print. A real crown might be a bit much, don’t you think?”

The counter-jest is already forming on your tongue, something about toys and humility and joy combined into some type of coherent sentence. But as Yumi turns towards you, holding the vulnerable, now calmer baby in her arms so carefully, you lose track of your thoughts.

Even from afar, you hear the tiny sounds. Noises of comfort, remainders of the crying. You see a miniscule hand with petite fingers curling and uncurling before they disappear close to her face, hidden behind the blanket.

You can’t see much more from down here on the bed, sinking into the mattress. You attempt to get up a little, but you still feel faint, taking it step by step until someone from the staff rushes to your side. Helps you sit up.

In that time, Jungkook has already taken upon the offer to hold her first, his stance unbearably and sweetly cautious. As if he’s holding freshly crafted glass. No… much more careful than that.

He draws a breath in, and you see the furrowed eyebrows. The shine in his eyes. How he looks at her with utter, pure, unfiltered, raw affection until he can’t bear it anymore. Averts his gaze for just a second to blink the tears out of his eyes, trying not to let them fall on her face.

His lips remain parted, focusing on breathing, cradling her. You see the knotted ball of a dozen emotions in his stare, each string made of a different sentiment.

Like a fierce protective instinct, surging through him as it does through you. Awe and wonder, marvelling at her delicate features. And a smile, a little laugh, an obvious sign of endless elation. Speechlessness.

Without words, he says—

I’ll keep you safe.

You’re so perfect.

I would die for you.

All summarised in a quiet, “I can’t believe it.”

He’s close to you, and you reach out to him, touching his knee softly with a palm, rubbing until he looks at you. Shooting a curious look, he shakes his head, barely any reason behind, before he says, “She’s curled up. Touching her face.”

“Is she… looking at you?”

“Barely opening her eyes. Just a slit, and… it’s all dark pupils and nothing else, you know? But…” His next breath is shaky, his upper body trembling; the baby with him. You wait patiently, expecting anything but what he says next. “She’s even prettier than you.”

“Shut up,” you immediately blurt, laughter mixed with relief. It’s hard to speak; there’s a clump in your throat. “Yet… it’s so easy to believe you.”

“See?”

He leans in, moving naturally, gracefully, and you widen your arms, ready to welcome her in the first embrace, and once she settles and you get comfortable and lean back again, you realise—

He’s so right.

The slight crack she opened her eyes to. And the small tongue darting out every now and then. A hand on her face, arms close to her body, as if guarding herself. No weight on your arms at all; cheeks that remind you of some fluffy pastry.

You don’t know her yet, but you already know her name. You haven’t spoken to her, but you’ve already internalised the shrill voice. And the face is new to you, but you do already treasure it.

Does she feel the same? It’s crazy… This is crazy.

In theory, you know most newborn babies look similar. You know they sound the same and act the same. You’re aware that they need to be cleaned thoroughly, and that they need to grow into more than this little bundle in your arms.

But, perhaps as a mother, you can’t deny how gorgeous she is.

You already know — already pronounce her the diamond of every season and every year to come.

They say that love opens your eyes to new colours. Unlocks a path to brighter sunrises and clearer nights. They say in every second of loving somebody another star is hung into the sky, shedding more light onto the world.

There’s utter truth to these fairytales and supper anecdotes; but they never quite mention how draining a life as a mother can be, too.

That it’d be torture to your once bright mind; that you’d wake up in pain and beg for sleep and never quite receive it. That you’d realise how mean your mind could be to you after experiencing such heart-shattering worship the moment you saw her first.

The nights are difficult, but Jungkook exerts an effort equal to yours. You’re grateful when he takes a few days off as needed. Constantly shows his appreciation for your hard work and refuses to let you do this alone.

And you both agreed. You want the nanny to interfere as little as possible; want to keep the child’s attention glued to you for the most part, but with a balance that allows her to never shy away from other people, either.

Like, when your and Jungkook’s family visited a while ago; not once did you feel like she couldn’t handle a moment without you. Was switched from one hold to another, moving towards whoever was ready to provide affection.

She’s a social butterfly. Doesn’t fear strangers. But you still help her familiarise herself with you, independent from a nanny who’d enable more of your time to yourself, but less time with your baby.

And neither you nor Jungkook urges for that distance.

It’s never easy.

You’ve cried more often than your fingers can count, on your last legs as you wept into Jungkook’s clothes. Feeling a palm wiping at your tears a dozen times. Motherhood always sounded so gorgeous, but it hurts, too.

Then again…

See, then again, it’s easy to circle back to the metaphor of the sun and the stars, the fresh start to your life that cannot be replaced by any other experience. A million little moments that wrap you into your own bubble. The three of you and nobody else.

They render each of those troubles worthless; you cherish them with an unspeakable vigour, aiding yourself as your exhaustion fades once faced with warm, sunlit afternoons as today’s.

Jungkook offered to watch over her as you wallowed in the breeze and the walk you desired for so long. It’s been too long since you enjoyed the miles outside; steep hills and green fields, accompanied by the sound of birds you yet need to study.

Then down to the village, then another stroll back up again. You sought out tranquil moments, escaping your chores. But when you come back, nothing compares to the sight that meets you.

Damn all these walks.

Because only a fool could resist such an image of your husband lying on your bed, on his back and with his legs crossed, head facing sideways and away from the window. Away from the descending sun. Suhana sprawled right on his upper body. Cheek above his heartbeat, her fingers on Jungkook’s sharp jaw.

A pocket-sized hand holding him close to her.

His proportionally large palms rest on her back and under her little butt, both of them dozing peacefully. She moves with him as his chest rises, but she looks so undeniably at peace — as if there’s no better heaven. And mouth open, like no thunder could wake her.

Suhana’s bangs have grown longer now, hair covering some of the nape of her neck and her forehead. Her lips are rosy; the same shape as his. Even if reluctantly, you have to admit that she looks a lot like him.

You act offended when people remind you of that. Because you vehemently claim you want to see more of yourself in her, and Jungkook always calms you with the forecast that she’ll grow up to be as beautiful as you.

Something he thoroughly fears, however, judging the world’s intentions.

But you must also confess that seeing two pieces of the same gentle soul makes you feel lucky.

You drape your shawl over the chair at the large, wooden desk and step closer to the royal bed. Rest your legs from the excessive walk, laying down right beside him — facing him directly.

Gently, you reach out and graze the apple of his cheek; soon repeating the action with his miniature version before you tuck your hand under your temple. Then, you wait.

She doesn’t stir — as expected. But the tickling touch you left along his face elicits a sigh out of him before he lets out a small sound. Voices something like a harmless groan, along with a quiet smack of his lips that reveals the tiny dimples at the corners of his mouth, and a barely-there crease between his eyebrows.

His hand slides over her mini-body as a protective reaction, an immediate reflex. His eyes flutter open so slowly, just a slit; and when they do, you’re not the first thing he sees. Because they drift straight to her, ensuring that she’s still right where he left her and alright.

And only once he’s gathered that she’s still asleep, he blinks into your direction. They also say that priorities change with a child, no matter the amount of love for the partner; and you can’t blame anybody for this.

He smiles when he realises your presence, only lightly nudging you with his elbow. You move closer as he deduces, “You’re back. Was it…” Loving yawn. “Was it long enough for us to fall asleep?”

“It seems so. What were you two doing?”

“Talking.” Of course. Not an absurd answer by now at all. You nod. “She was explaining to me the existence of the pillow and the sun. Pointing at them. I was listening.”

Jungkook doesn’t ever describe her curiosity as exploration. To him, she’s talking, conversing. Your heart swells as you ask, “Ohhh, yes? What else?”

“I made her toy talk and she liked it, I reckon. Giggled so much that she fell off my lap once.”

The fantasy of the moment makes you break into laughter; you have a handful of questions. Did she get hurt? Did she keep laughing as she fell? Was she out of breath as much as you are when you observe her shenanigans?

You quiet down when she moves, fingers curling in. Shushing yourself and grimacing, you shift your attention back to your husband, taking in his freshly awoken expression before you state, “Your eyes are so swollen, though. And your face is dry.”

As if liquid dried on it.

Attentive assumption, because Jungkook instantly discloses, “Uh… I might’ve cried a bit.”

Oh? Oh no. Not him, too—

You wonder, “Why did you cry, my love?”

“Because she was crying…”

“What? Why?”

“Mmmh…. She’s always touching her face, you know?” You do know. You keep her from squishing her cheeks all the time. “I think she poked her eyes at some point and I mean… it didn’t hurt her at all.” Of course not; you make sure to keep her nails trimmed. “But it was a new sensation for her and her baby brain must’ve thought it hurt. So she started crying.”

“Oh no… and then you cried, as well, huh?”

You reach out to him, clearing his right eye and temple as you swipe away the strands of hair. By now, your language and manner of talking are mixing; you feel the same protective instinct towards both.

He sighs before he continues, “The parenting books said not to. I was supposed to stay calm, so she doesn’t interpret the situation as worse than it was. But I hate seeing her sad. So stupid.”

The position doesn’t allow him to shake his head properly, so he settles with a slow blink of his eyes. Then, he says, “But that made her stop. Look how hard she’s sleeping now. So deceiving!”

“Oh, baby…”

You don’t know what it is; maybe the permanent, lingering, overwhelming fact that this dream is actually your reality. That the three of you are alive and together and undoubtedly part of each other.

Whatever it is, it looks as though he is about to cry again.

“She is so feisty. Reminds me of you,” he whispers. “Right?”

He’s not talking to you, but to her — because she’s opened her eyes and he noticed before you even saw it.

Upon hearing his voice, she moves. Tiny fists stretch out, and she starts kicking slowly against Jungkook’s stomach. Her body winds restlessly, put off by his reaction just for a second when she hits against his body again and he utters, “Owwwh!”

And then, shamelessly, she yawns. 

Coos and gurgles, croaks and caws. The sounds are small and high-pitched, sweet and tender. Curious wonder rests in her eyes as they crack open entirely, adjusting to her surroundings and you suddenly being here when you weren’t before. Not that she remembers.

And…

God, your heart jumps out of your chest, bloody and beating.

Because the very moment she sees you, she smiles in joy. She so often does. Sometimes, as you walk over to her crib at night, shining the candlelight into the space between you, she smiles with barely open eyes, too.

She squeals a little, reaching out for you, and you bring her fingers to your face for a fleeting moment before she retracts them again with a tired giggle. But when she registers her father’s breath, his voice sounding against her ear, she stops again.

Cuddling back in. Right where she wants to be.

No matter how much she loves you, she will never feel the same towards anybody in this world as she does for him. 

He settles his hands on her more firmly, and then sits up with an encouraging, “Aaaand, here we go. Let’s take a look at you.”

He stares at her as he holds her in front of him, and she laughs again, seemingly amused by floating, held by two strong hands. Meaty legs kick in the air until he seats her down between the two of you with a shielding hand on her back.

She can’t fully sit on her own yet, but she always tries. Doesn’t wiggle too much anymore, though. Hits the mattress with her palms playfully.

“I swear… I will die for her,” Jungkook proclaims, moving until he meets her eyes. She looks up in a sudden movement, snickering again when he tickles her a little. Then, he repeats through gritted teeth, “Do you know, hm? I will die for you, I will!”

Before you know it — probably even before she, with her limited attention span, knows it — she’s back at playing. Then, another shift to you; a touch to your cheek. Leaning in, almost falling onto you when you scrunch your nose and kiss the air, communicating with her silently.

As her body attacks your face, an open, amused mouth drooling onto your cheek, you protest. Sitting up, you help her into your lap, and she has the audacity to yawn again.

With a shake of your head, you declare, “Sometimes you act spoiled, alright. Haven’t acted up yet, but I think we should probably feed you now, shouldn’t we?”

“Probably before she starts crying again,” Jungkook agrees.

“Can’t have that. Or you will, as well.”

“Ha-ha. But you know what, I might as well. It was insane.” He tuts, cocking an eyebrow as you prepare to bare your chest. “But if that’s what being with this tiny little thing means, I’ll take it,” leaning in, he returns to his talk with her, “alright? Listen up.”

Somehow, she does. No matter what he says, he manages to flood happiness through her, because she coos again, inhales sharply as she perks up her ears, “I’m serious. I’ll die for you, but only if you do not grow up. Stay like this, yes?”

“Stop it. I need her to grow into a woman like me and save the world.”

“Is that right? She can’t even say Dada yet. Give her some time.”

“Or Mama.”

“Yes. But you know as well as I do what word she’ll start out with.”

Standard banter between parents, you assume. You wouldn’t want it any other way. You prepare for a counter-tease, but then you fare better. “Of course. Something distinguished and eloquent like crown princess, probably.”

Jungkook blows a raspberry, and when tiny Hana mimics the action, spitting in the process, he roars with laughter. His usual child-like, sugary sweet titter, head thrown back and a hand under his chest.

This right here.

This is worth the pain, you think. Despite the hurdles, you think you’ve settled in this job, understood its responsibilities and set goals that will probably enable the life you desire.

Nothing can break this. Right?

As if diving into your thoughts or seeing them floating at the surface of your eyes, Jungkook reaches out, placing a warm palm on your neck. You look into his eyes, half his face dark as he covers the sun falling in from behind him.

If she wasn’t still on your lap, you’d jump into his, cuddle in and stay like this until the hot ball outside sets and rises again. But instead, you keep staring until he says, “We’re doing well. Really, really well.”

You are.

You have made yourself at home with the most tender of men, have gained luxuries and a noble style of living, still sporting a kind and generous heart. Yet, you’ve never been prouder of yourself.

“We are. And you are! See?” you agree cheerfully, touching his knee briefly. “You were so worried. And now— I’m losing her to you. God, just look at this—”

Her eyes must have followed your hand when it caressed his knee a moment ago. Because she crawls out of your lap, squeaking in joy as she targets his. Climbing it until he helps her up and settles in the way you wished to do just a minute ago.

“Mmmh. I guess I’m great at this, yes,” Jungkook concurs, “seems that bad traits aren’t learned after all, hm?”

The environment might be crucial in many cases, but if one inhabits a strong heart and a solid will, nothing can sway you.

Your chest feels as warm as the weather; your mind is as fresh as the breeze. And staring at his set of cheeks as flushed as the roses planted outside, you can’t help but be flooded with inexplicable magic.

You tell him, “You got into this role very easily. And I’m happy you’re happy.”

And he, the effortlessly fitting, second part of your soul, answers without a moment of hesitation and doubt—

“You make it easy to be.”

The bright, opulent room you enter floods back bittersweet memories in soaring waves.

It has been a while since you attended a noble ball like this. They’re cosier where you live. Smaller, the names less known; differing rigorously from events in the main city, in the capital, in the centre of your country.

Your seethingly beloved lorddom where you now reside has a humble and warm note to it; but no matter how thoroughly you might seek quiet peace, it will never bring the same nostalgia your former home does. Where you grew up.

Where you come from. And where Jungkook comes from. That one connection, indicating where the two of you started; your family; the crowds. This is all your life, playing out right in front of you.

As two of the most noted royals entering the hall, all eyes flicker to the two of you. Their gazes are brilliant and their attire posh. His brother, the host of the night, invited the best of the town; or rather, his wife did.

It’s wedding season again, which means that courting and heartache, confusion and intrigue will come back in all the glory you remember. Even now, you see a sliver of all the drama already.

Because no matter where you look, somebody is whispering. Somebody is eyeing another. Mustering the courage to dance with the object of their affection, or hatching a plan how to go down as the most desired of the year.

And from an outsider’s perspective, it’s fun to watch. In hindsight, you wonder if the crowd noticed the tension between Jungkook and you all that time ago; if they tittle-tattled about you, making up rumours or silent bets on what might transpire between you.

They probably did. You don’t recall much of the reactions as much as you do the touches, gazes, the butterflies his existence brought along.

And just as well, you remember the time before — when you’d hide behind your sister as she sought out a partner. Never did you think that the two of you would come out of the season with a beloved like the ones you now cherish.

And never did you think it would be the man who’d stand near those very pillars you’re now passing, a mere boy, keeping his eyes on you, but never saying anything particularly nice or productive.

It was events like these that you attended with him after he posed the question that changed the two of you.

“Let me court you.”

Sleepless nights. Rainy evenings. Swirling on dancefloors, bonding at orphanages, teasing in carriages. Locked rooms, secret conversations, broken hearts. Unexpected secrets and reunions.

Was that your life within a few months?

When people grow bored or notice the indecency of staring, they drift back to their old conversations. Jungkook and you conclude your entry, soon moving to the side. Fearing upcoming talks with people curious about the two of you.

You sigh as you listen to the strings, stress dropping off your shoulders as you say, “I love Hana so much, but… it’s so nice being here with you again.”

“It is,” he agrees, though hesitating, mouth open as if to add something. And then he does, “I do miss her, though.”

You laugh. Of course. “I know you do. I bet she does, too.”

Of course.

She could barely contain herself from babbling constant Dadadadas before you left. And yes, she said it before she learned to pronounce Mama. An insult, considering that you were the one who tended to swollen feet and a weight hanging off your tummy. Building to the moment she’d call for you.

But no! A daddy’s girl through and through. Then again, you are, too.

You do adore her to pieces, as well, but… it’d be a lie if you said you didn’t look forward to a night without a single obligation. Thankfully, the nanny took it upon herself to take care of Suhana tonight, so you are free to roam.

Despite, she’s already two years old now.

She’s been articulating herself clearer these days, so it’s gotten a little — a little! — easier to explain things to her now. She didn’t whine much when you told her you’d be out for a bit, but come back soon.

She must be asleep already anyway. And you hope you can keep your husband’s yearning in bay, too. You understand; it’s hard to leave. Especially as she stood ogling at you before you bid her good night, muttering a teeny tiny, “So pretty,” to you as you presented your gown.

“Mine?” she uttered.

You squinted, puzzled; you spoke her language, but couldn’t decipher this just yet. “…Yours?”

To explain, she nodded, making you understand when she patted her chest with a flat palm. Eyebrows cocking, you voiced, “Ohhhh. Hmmm. Darling, shall we go tomorrow and get you a pretty new dress for the summer?”

She was unspeakably delighted.

“Do you want to dance?” Jungkook asks, a hand already lifting.

For a while, you’d rather watch. It’s custom to dance, but… you’d rather observe the world from a different point of view, see what they used to see. Besides, you don’t enjoy Galop as much, and that’s what the piano is pulling out of the guests right now.

“You want to exhaust yourself already?” you laugh as he shrugs his shoulders. “Hmm. Am I allowed to decline?”

“Well…” he starts, lightly gripping your wrist, thumb touching it sweetly. “Do you have a card that you need to fill?”

“If you were courting me, yes. But I’m already shackled to you, and can’t escape even if I wanted to.”

“Ahhh,” he draws closer, mouth inches from your ears. Acting as if forwarding gossip, but only driving you insane in reality. “So you want to escape?”

“Something’s telling me I should try and see what you’ll do.”

“I mean, go ahead. Not opposed to going full-courti—”

Your laughter overshadows his last syllable, and you push his chest away, careful not to risk a scandal after coming out here after so long. He’s unabashed and would kiss you right here, if you let him.

So you move away, still giggling, and the moment your eyes lift to the guests, you silence. Right there, among the faces, you recognise one in the distance that had long dimmed in your memory.

You haven’t seen him in such a long time. And you didn’t expect it to happen today, either.

The man must have noticed the presence of a direct stare, because he soon looks into your direction at the very same moment. Squints his eyes, the smile adorning his mouth dropping as he spots you and understands who you are. Eyebrows raise. Features always expressive.

You want to grab Jungkook’s arm and flit away, but the man excuses himself from the conversation, idly strolling towards you and not leaving a way to escape anymore.

“Oh shit,” you quietly curse, and Jungkook hears, alarmed instantly.

He widens his doe eyes, so sweet as he looks at you, fingers coming up to pinch your chin as he asks, “What happened? Are you alright?”

“Yes. Certainly, just—”

“Oh… I won’t ask if it’s you because I know it is.”

The smooth greetings are accompanied by a surprised call of your name, and when you look back at the person matching the voice, your expressions move to kindness. You don’t want to appear awkward, and you don’t, but you wonder what Jungkook might be thinking.

Smiling, too, as you observe. But this one’s definitely awkward, the friendly kind that can’t do anything else but wait until the question marks have cleared up for him. Right there in his eyes until you enlighten him.

“It has been ages,” the man in front of you chimes.

“It has been. Years!”

You turn to Jungkook, an introduction sitting on your tongue, but he beats you to it. Still weirdly smiling, as amiable as ever, he asks, “Do you know each other?”

And the man, heart-shaped lips rising back to a smile, apologises immediately, “Ah, yes, yes, yes. My manners. I am Lord Jung. Jung Hoseok.”

He bows, missing the way Jungkook’s mouth parts, eyes blinking nearly unimpressed until— his features become defined all of a sudden, jaw far sharper than usual. Akin to a razor.

He’s not liking this.

“Ah,” Jungkook mutters, returning to the sociable expression that households drill into their children for years. “I am Jeon Jungkook.”

If anybody knew him as well as you do, they’d realise much sooner than later that he’d rather switch the situation with an easier one. But you can’t say any of it yet. You only listen as your past flame says, “You settled so well.”

Of course he knows. You guess after the craze over two years ago, he soon found out what the truth really held. You only reply, “I did.”

“Married life suits you!”

“Thank you, Hoseok! What about you, have you—”

“Oh, actually I—”

He seems much more cheerful about this than you imagined. Then again, what did you think? His life has probably changed now and the sentiments his heart once tended to evaporated. Everyone moves on at some point.

And he sounds genuinely happy for you.

But that’s not how Jungkook seems to perceive it. Because to your chagrin, he interrupts the man facing you, and you immediately hold your breath, already preparing a couple warning words when he starts—

“It is rude of me, but may I perhaps interrupt?” Hoseok silences upon Jungkook’s words, listening attentively, and you ready yourself for more teeth-grinding. “I apologise for being so impudent and straight-forward, but… this is uncomfortable to me because—”

“Jungkook—” you cut, trying to save the situation.

“I know, I just do not wish to let feelings out on anyone who doesn’t deserve it.”

Hmm…

“Uncomfortable?” Hoseok repeats, watching Jungkook’s Adam’s apple move as he swallows. Ponders over the words hanging in the air, and when none of the two of you speak on, Hoseok finally understands. “Oh! Ohhhh…”

He snaps a finger, and you resist the urge to slap your face. You know you’ll laugh about it in a couple hours; in truth, you don’t care if it might get odd for you because in all pure honesty, the situation has the potential to turn into comedy gold.

But Jungkook has an envious fibre; one to occur rarely, but when it does, he doesn’t hide it. To him, you’re the most striking creature to exist; in his opinion, everybody should be in love with you.

Yet, the thought of you with someone who he might consider better than him is unbearable.

For a second, you consider lifting your frock and storming to the entrance, or a room upstairs and to squish Jungkook’s cheeks between your palms. To make crystal clear who your heart thumps for, to bring back the confidence he’s built in the marriage with you.

But you restrain yourself when Hoseok speaks, “I understand. Back then, I actually hoped to see you at some point because I know what you are talking about.”

Jungkook reacts, “You are?”

“I think so. Is it not about the shenanigans people crafted a few years ago?”

Two and a half years now, to be exact.

“Yes, I apologise,” you chime in, “they shouldn’t have spoken about you or your personal feelings. But I thought you knew I had married and—”

“No, I,” he says, flushing, raising a hand in objection, “I— this is what I wanted to explain, so the two of you never find yourselves despising me.”

Oh god.

“The thing is that,” he hesitates. If you didn’t know his heart better, you’d assume he’s teasing you. But he scratches his temple, scrambling for words. “One of my staff came to my mansion with me as we settled there. He lived in this town before as well. Like you and I did.”

He looks to the side as if he could find that friend here, but then soon lets his eyes drift over you and Jungkook again, continuing, “He had heard stories about… what we used to be.”

“Right,” you add.

“He asked me about it. And my best guess is that somebody must have heard and interpreted that I was still yearning for those sentiments. But I wasn’t. I had a secret fiancée for the longest. I never told anyone until the wedding day neared. So…”

It takes a moment. Then another.

You think back to the reactions each of you had two years ago; how it spread throughout the mansion and spawned chaos in your bedroom. In any good or bad way, and yet.

And when realisation finally trickles in, a big of course ghosting through your minds, Jungkook and you both voice a simultaneous, “Oh.”

You should’ve known. Then again, didn’t you? Didn’t both of you doubt the truth behind the rumours, yet believing what a collective of people said? You guess, once more than one person claims a thing, it becomes more plausible.

No matter that it never was.

“Please don’t misunderstand,” Hoseok emphasises, “it’s not how I felt. Certainly not. I just never thought you’d believe it, or,” God, how stupid, “as a happy married woman, care. So I never bothered reaching out. We both have our homes, right?”

His fingers touch almost shyly, another smile flashing to defuse the situation. You’ll definitely laugh about this later. But right now, you only feel heat in your face, desiring to chase your staff throughout the mansion until they tire out.

Damn it.

“We did. We do.” You put an ashamed hand to your stomach. That feels funny. Weird. “I actually have a daughter now.”

Good change to lighten the moment. You shoot Jungkook a look; his cheeks are as flushed as you expected. But Hoseok does well in playing along, latching onto the new topic effortlessly and naturally.

“Oh, you do? I have a son as well. Maybe yours and he could be friends.” You nod as he talks, grateful for his kindness. “Another’s on the way for us, and Soo swears she can feel it’s a girl this time.”

“That’s so lovely, Hoseok,” is all you need to say. You might not feel towards him as you used to. Whatever flame the two of you ignited all that time ago has long been extinguished, but you always wish the best for him. “That is honestly so lovely. I’m happy for you.”

One single nod, smile reaching his eyes. Then, no more beating around the bush, the end of the conversation already overdue when he says, “Enjoy the night. Don’t ever trust anyone but your own eyes and ears, yes?”

“Yes… you as well, Lord Jung.”

And then he walks away. Leaves the two of you in silence.

Lips tight, eyes on the ground, nearly dissociating until you nod. Then you raise your lips. And then laugh. Chuckling with a shaking head and a hand lifting hand. Touching your hot forehead as you say, “I feel stupid.”

“And I feel stupid…” Jungkook finally speaks, his first words after a while.

“Did we really argue about this years ago?”

“Well, before you reprimand me, I need to defend myself and remind you that the argument worked for us that night, not against us. Did Suhana come from it or what?”

“Do the math, Jungkook! I told you about the pregnancy already a day after. Suspected it that night, too.” You giggle again, amused by his dumbfounded expression. “You know what? Maybe I could use that dance now.”

“Ah? Thought the lady would be rejecting me tonight. That would’ve robbed much of my honour.”

“Shut up, you envious fool. Either you’ll come and sway with me or I’ll never let you forget it.”

“You won’t. Either way.”

You don’t respond with much other than another beam and an accepting palm in his. You don’t need to.

In the end, Hoseok didn’t make a difference. Guess you would’ve lived either way, just the way you are, content and in love and eternally blissful to all obstacles. The evil of the word and sorrow fear you, not vice versa.

Because it’s him. It’s you.

And her. The three of you; three pieces of the same heart.

Or perhaps— perhaps it’s you who’s doing the math all wrong.

yoooo!! it took a while, but we're finally back. as summer and vacation near, i will have a lot more time to write again, so sit tight and look forward to more content, like entertainer and cmi (ofc these two, as well). i really really hope you liked it. some parts were written under a bad migraine and exhaustion, but i hope i could still deliver the emotions well.

and love you all!! thank you for still being here with me :') and stay healthy and happy, don't overwork yourself! hopefully this one could serve as a bit of relaxation. if you liked it, don't forget to let me know as always, no matter if you just arrived here or have been here for some time. and like, reblog, comment as well! you knowww how much i cherish all the words ever sent hehe <3

#jungkook smut #jungkook fluff #jungkook angst #bts smut #jeongguk smut #jungkook x reader #bts x reader #bts x you #bts imagines #jungkook scenarios #jungkook x you #jungkook fic #jungkook imagines #jungkook fanfic #bts angst #jeon jungkook smut #jungkook #jungkook au #jungkook series

[deadbeat-motel]

ᑕᕼE��ᖇIᗷOᗰᗷ ᗩᑎᗪ ᔕIᖇᑭEᑎTIOᑌᔕ ᖇEᗪEᔕIGᑎ

The last two designs for the main cast. With these two done, I can finally work on miscellaneous characters that I've been eyeing the most.

Again, thoughts below the cut:

My issues with their Original designs:

Sir Pentious:

I thought I would only have one thing to say about him (the unnecessary eyes) since he was my favorite in the entire original cast but having taken a closer look at him for this, I saw a lot of things that bothers me.

Too many eyes. specifically the lower half of his body has too many eyes and it seems detrimental to him. It's kind of painful to think about it since I do not think we ever see those eyes close. Is he just slithering on the ground with those exposed eyes? That's got to be irritating at best and damaged at worst as he continuously slithers on them.

There are eyes on the bowtie and the hat? There are already 4 extra eyes on his hood, so why have even more? I get that the original Pentious design was basically a monsterous amalgamation of eyes but the eye thing could have been scrapped altogether.

While his palette was the least red out of the cast (More so composed of yellows), it still blends in with the rest of the reds.

The claws are an unnecessary repeating design trait (Alastor and Vox notably have them too). I don't think it would've been too big of a difference to just keep his fingers fully black.

The stripes on his suit are too thick. It's called pinstripes for a reason.

I don't like how the hat is shaped to fit the head, It's awkward.

not a point, but I just wanted to say how the blue color palette works really well with him in that last episode.

CherriBomb:

She's not that bad of a design (She's sort of bland in my opinion) but it's the little small details about her that makes her so simple and also so complicated at the same time. There are so many batches of freckles scattered everywhere, little explosion lines on her skirt as well as the X on her chest, the tattoos are a jamble of random loops and bombs, and her tattering doesn't have an easy shape to consistently draw.

The thought process for these two:

Mx. Pentious:

Pentious goes by both Sir/Miss/Mx. but uses she/they pronouns.

Minimized the actual amount of eyes on her, I kept it only to her actual eyes and those on her hood.

Gave her a butterfly-shaped hood. It's nothing deep since it stems from the fact the notches in Sir Pentious' hood almost looked like one to my bad eyesight. I decided to play more into that idea.

I read some posts where people talk about how Sir Pentious should have a snout and while I understand why and fully support people giving him one, I really didn't want to add the snout to this design. It drove me crazy since I'm not a big fan of it. I tried a compromise where her head was shaped more like Phineas.

Kept the tophat but removed its eye and mouth. If I remember correctly, Viv took that from one of her co-workers from the pilot. I decided to just have it as a regular tophat.

It doesn't have all the colors, but her design does have the Neptunic flag.

I'm not sure if this even is a real snake but I based Mx. Pentious' design on this:

CherriBomb:

Scraped most of her features in exchange for a sukeban theme. I personally have zero knowledge about the punk scene in Australia.

A majority of the suggestions I received for her rough draft had something to do with the skirt. I elongated it and gave it a slit in which the magenta from the inside is able to pop out.

Thought it would be a cute detail to have her hair explode if she's angry.

----

Apologies this took too long to be posted, Life got in the way as well as the fact I was feeling shitty about Pentious' first draft. Her skin was an awkward and ugly shade of green and seeing some posts critical of Pentious' design got me to think a little bit more about what direction I'd like to move her redesign.

You could see this in the earlier rough sketches but this was how Pentious' first redesign looked like

#vivziepop critical #hazbin hotel critical #hazbin hotel redesign #deadbeat motel mrx. pentious #deadbeat motel cherribomb #deadbeat motel redesign #//I only came back from the dead to post these Neptunic Lesbians on pride month/j // #//Happy pride to everyone btw!!//

[superprofesh]

The Five Times Colt Seavers Almost Kisses You (and the One Time He Does) — Part 2

Pairing: Colt Seavers x reader

Description: The second time Colt Seavers almost kisses you — in which he thinks he might be losing his sanity.

Rating: T

Word Count: 2.2k

Tag List: @strangedeerconnoisseur, @icantwaittoliveandlearn, @moonlightandstarshimmer

Author’s Note: As the Colt obsession rages on, I hope y'all enjoy part 2, because it certainly was sizzling when I wrote it :D This one is more from Colt's POV, and it includes some of his inner monologue (which I loved in the film). I appreciate everyone's kind words so far and would love to hear your thoughts about this chapter! Thank you all! <3

Part 1

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 

Ever since the little paint-smudging incident, Colt has been, well… off.

This never happens to him. He’s a professional, he’s been working on movie sets for years, he’s known hundreds and hundreds of coworkers. But something is different. You’re different.

As he leans against the hood of his truck after filming, one leg propped on the fender as he takes a deep breath of the midnight air, Colt can’t stop replaying the events of the day before. You painting a prop sign, you laughing at his dumb jokes, you smearing red paint across his face. The steadiness of your hands, the smile crinkling the corners of your eyes. The sunbeams luminescent in your hair. The way your hand felt for the few seconds it lingered on his cheek.

Get it together, man, his inner monologue scolds him.

Colt can’t deny that he has feelings for you. You’ve been on set together for about two months now, and he sees you practically every day. Every time he performs a stunt, you’re always there adjusting the furniture, dabbing color onto the walls, rearranging props with that magnificent touch that brings every setpiece to life. Colt is amazed by your talent in your job as a set decorator, and your skill pushes him to try harder stunts each time, to try to impress you with his own skills.

But there’s one major problem that he can’t get past — he’s just not good enough for you. Sure, Colt has all the confidence in the world when it comes to throwing himself from a moving car or flashing a dazzling smile at you across the set, but he’s destined to be an unknown stuntman for the rest of his career. Your talent and dedication promises great things for your future, and Colt has already made up his mind that he’s not going to stand in your way by coming on too strong.

He shakes his head to clear his thoughts. Even when he’s trying to be noble and keep himself from getting you distracted from your career, he’s replaying the way your eyes fluttered shut for a moment when his thumb brushed your jaw.

I’m so screwed.

Colt has just agreed with his inner monologue that he will keep his distance from you and turn all his unfulfilled feelings into protein powder when you step out of a nearby trailer, one arm over your eyes as if you’ve been crying.

All thoughts of noble detachments shatter instantly, and Colt pushes off his truck to make his way toward you. He’s relieved when you lower your arm from your face and he can tell that you weren’t crying — just so dead tired that you can barely keep your eyes open.

“Hey, Van Gogh,” he calls to you, keeping a distance of about six feet as he reverts to his usual habit of artist-nicknames. Too familiar, too familiar, abort, abort. “Too much moonshine?”

Your eyes pop open in surprise to see him standing there, but a wearied smile crosses your face nonetheless. “Too much moonlighting,” you correct him, leaning back against the art trailer with a sigh. “Gordon has been on my back all day about the props for the train station scene. I got wooden benches for a rustic vibe, but he wants metal for a grittier vibe. I painted the graffiti mural in multi-colors, but he wants it red for a sharper contrast. I spent the last week distressing the station floor so it would look lived-in, but now he wants it clean. Clean, cold, and clinical.” You bury your face in your hands, rubbing your red-rimmed eyes. “I just finished making twenty neon signs for the depot, but I don’t know if he’ll even still want them by tomorrow.”

Colt’s heart tugs seeing you so exhausted and discouraged, and he elects to ignore his previous inner monologue and take a few steps in your direction. “Sounds like Gordon is trying to direct a hospital soap opera instead of an action thriller.”

“Exactly!” You throw your hands up in frustration, letting your head loll to the side as you look at him through half-opened eyes. “I never want to see another paint roller again. Or at least not until tomorrow.”

Colt chuckles at that, taking another step closer. “It is tomorrow. It’s past midnight.” His brow furrows in concern as he watches your eyelids drift closed again. You look like you’re about to fall asleep on your feet.

“Right. I knew that,” you mumble. “I need some sleep.”

“I’d say you need a hibernation,” Colt says gently, cursing himself for the way he feels the urge to reach out and touch you. “When’s the last time you got any winks?”

Your eyes roll back in your head as you try to recall. “Uhhh… Tuesday?”

Colt shakes his head. “Come on, I’ll drive you back.”

Your eyes open at that, and you automatically shake your head, swaying a little as you do so. “No, you don’t need to do that! I’ll be fine. My hotel is just a few blocks from here.”

“Good,” Colt agrees, reaching out to put his arm around your shoulders. “Then you won’t have to pay me back for gas money.”

You sigh in mock frustration but give in when he starts leading you to his truck. He can feel you leaning on him, drawing from his strength when he knows yours is depleted. Colt has to force himself to focus on the task at hand and not get distracted by the intoxicating smell of oil paints and charcoal and wood chips emanating off your skin. He especially tries not to notice the way your head naturally falls against his shoulder while he leads you to the passenger door.

Once you’ve climbed into the seat, you immediately droop forward and rest your forehead on your knees. On an impulse, Colt pulls off his jacket — his most comfortable one: the brown one with the drawstrings — and drapes it across your shoulders. He suppresses a grin when you mumble something that sounds like “hmmk hmum” but probably was supposed to be “thank you.”

The drive to your hotel lasts all of three minutes, and he parks his truck under the portico so you’ll be closer to the door. Against the pitch black of the midnight sky, the hotel looks cozy and welcoming, street lamps bathing the sidewalk in a halo of golden light.

Colt opens the door to the passenger side, a smile crossing his lips when you turn your head from where it’s resting on your knees to peek up at him.

“Are we there yet?” you mumble, eyes fluttering between open and closed.

“Just a rest stop,” he informs you jokingly, holding out a hand to help you out of the truck. You gladly accept it, so exhausted that you can barely stand up straight. Colt feels another shimmer of worry at seeing you so worn out.

With his arm around your shoulder again, Colt walks you to the hotel door, which opens automatically to let you in. His thoughts are a jumble of worry, consternation, and elation at this situation, but he breaks out of his reverie halfway to the elevator, when you start giggling uncontrollably.

“What?” he asks, basking in the way your musical laugh wraps around him like a melody. Colt, get it together. Stop romanticizing this.

You snicker again, pressing the elevator button to your floor. “I bet the desk clerk thought I was drunk and bringing you home with me.”

Colt goes stock-still at that comment, only moving again when the elevator door opens and you enter the compartment together. Your sleep-deprived brain is so addled that you barely even register the implications of your remark, but Colt’s mind instantly starts racing with his own thoughts. Be professional, don’t make a saucy joke, just play it cool, play it cool, change the subject, change the SUBJECT—

“You should call Gordon,” he suggests, so enthralled with the feel of your head resting on his shoulder that he can barely get the sentence out. “Tell him you can’t make it tomorrow. You seriously need to get some sleep.”

You let out a dramatic sigh, one that flutters across his collarbone like an autumn breeze. He swallows and turns his head the other way, using all his willpower not to completely come undone right in front of you. You have no idea the effect you’re having on him, so sleep-deprived that you’re missing any cues that would clue you in normally.

“I have to be there tomorrow,” you insist drowsily. The elevator door dings open, and Colt leads you through the opening, his arm still tight around your shoulders as you point him in the right direction. “We’re filming the train station scene, and it has to be perfect.”

“What, at the cost of your health and sanity?” Colt quips, though he can’t deny that there’s a note of seriousness in his tone.

You shake your head stubbornly. “I’m fine. This is my job. I just have to do it.” You yawn widely, stumbling a little as you get closer to your hotel door. “I just need a few hours and I’ll be good as new.”

Colt lifts his eyebrows skeptically but doesn’t argue with you. You’re pulling your room key out of your pocket, and he’s suddenly torn between the desire to run before he violates his vow of noble detachment, and the need to confess every passionate feeling coursing through his veins right now. He knows this isn’t the right time, though, and that there may never be a right time at all.

You unlock your door with a swipe but pause before going inside, leaning your back against the doorframe so you can look at Colt squarely. “Thank you for bringing me back.” Your smile steals his breath, makes him imagine a halo of stars around your face. “I couldn’t have made it without you.”

Every muscle in his body is urging him to lean forward, to close the distance between you, to capture your lips against his so he can whisper every unconfessed feeling, every gentle passion, every overwhelming longing in this silent, dimly-lit hallway. His heart is pounding so loudly in his ears that he thinks you must be able to hear it.

“Anytime,” Colt manages, his throat so tight that can barely rasp out the word. He has to clench his hands in his pockets to keep from reaching out to you.

You reach up to shed his brown jacket and hand it back to him, but Colt stops you by holding up his hand. “Keep it,” he tells you. Shut up, shut up, shut UP— “It looks better on you anyway.”

The golden light from the street lamps outside must be playing tricks on his eyes, because he could swear that your eyes brighten at his words. Your fingers tighten around his jacket, and all he can imagine is your fingers entwined with his, your head on his shoulder again. The way it should be.

Your eyes flicker closed for a moment, and you sway against the doorway. Colt instinctively reaches out to steady you, his hand landing on your arm and holding you up for the moment it takes you to regain your balance. His skin feels like it’s on fire from this close proximity. He releases your arm so he doesn’t lose his sanity, but the touch lingers on his palm, making his heart race and his mouth go dry. His eyes flit down to glance at your lips again before he can stop them. Another moment, and he won’t have any self-control left.

You seem to feel the tension, too, lingering in the doorway when you should have said goodnight by now. He knows you’re struggling with it, and he knows it’s his responsibility as the clear-headed one to end this before it starts. His breath is rattling in his throat as he says, “Get some rest. Let me know if you need a ride over tomorrow morning.”

His voice seems to break the spell over you, and you give him a sleepy smile as you nod. “Thanks, Colt.” Your eyes linger on him for a moment more, and then you disappear behind the heavy hotel door.

Once you’re gone, Colt turns and leans heavily against the hallway wall, suddenly feeling breathless and exhausted from the intensity of what he just felt. He can’t believe he even let himself think about kissing you when you’re so dazed, but surely he wasn’t misreading those signals? Surely he felt the heat of your own gaze meeting his?

Colt sighs, trying to clear his head while he catches his breath. He can’t even entertain the idea of starting a fling with you, because his feelings have gone way too deep for a fling. He just needs to keep his distance and stop overanalyzing every moment he shares with you. He needs to get a grip on reality so he doesn’t completely ruin your friendship and burden you with any guilt. This has to stop. I’m going to stop right now, and I’m not going to think about it anymore, and I’m going to get hold of myself before it’s too late.

He hopes his inner monologue is right this time, because he knows he’s only falling harder for you.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Part 3

#in which colt questions his sanity and so do i #i am SO down bad for this man #hope everyone enjoys the sparks flying in this chapter :) #fanfiction #colt seavers x reader #colt seavers fanfiction #original #colt seavers #the fall guy #ryan gosling #ryan gosling fanfiction #the five times colt seavers almost kisses you (and the one time he does)

[clairedaring]

random msi ep 7 thoughts - joe's guilt and obligations to the old owner of his new body/life

so i did my reread of the chapters last weekend in preparation for this week's episode and one part stood out to me that i missed in last few rereads was this precious bit where joe expresses his guilt about about using his new body for sex

“Mom, it’s true. I also think that I came across such a good thing. He said that I can repay him slowly, but he’ll lend me the money first for our pressing needs. This money is really nothing to him. The money we owed, we can repay a part of it first. I’ll work hard. It’ll definitely get better in the future. So Mom, you must not have any burden. You must comply with the treatments. It’s only if you live that we can have hope, okay?” [Ing]’s voice trembled, “There is really such good people? How can there be such good people?” [Joe] smiled and confirmed the matter over and over again; only for [Ing] to feel as ease. If she knew that he agreed to such a deal… he wouldn’t dare to think about the consequences. If it was his former body, he may not feel as terrible. He is not a woman, not to mention that he had slept with [Ming] before. However, this body was not his. Although they have converged for so long, [Joe] still could not fully accept this body. Using [Ing]’s son’s body to do this made his heart filled with a sense of guilt. Moreover, when he thought of [Ming] using this body as a (substitute)……he could not describe his feelings. Embarrassed, awkward, and resentful. [Joe]’s heart is full of negative emotions. - Chapter 60, Professional Body Double by Shui Qian Cheng

And obviously since these are more of Joe's inner thoughts, I thought we weren't gonna get them. But then MSI team really took me by surprise by incorporating that bit seamlessly into this scene.

gif courtesy of @pharawee

it's a tiny detail. but one i appreciate very much to the team for having joe (the soul) remains considerate to the old owner of his body, someone he owes his new life to.

and it's actually not the only bit in the novel where he is constantly reminded by the old owner of his new body. like for example, when he first learned of ing's illness, he also considered donating one of his kidneys.

[Joe] made an arrangement with the doctor to have his kidney tested for compatibility the next time he come. This he did secretly behind [Ing]’s back. Even if his kidney is a match, the first issue is that he has no money for the surgery and second is that he’s afraid [Ing] would rather die than to agree to accept his kidney. But no matter what, he has to give it a try. At least there’s more hope to save her. Although [Joe] felt a little fearful on the possibility of having a kidney removed, he had no reason to back down. This body was not his to start with, but belonged to this youngster named [Joe]. He was just a dying person fortunate enough to have his soul hosted in this body to continue on living his life. This youngster is [Ing]’s son. On this body that hosted his soul, every strand of hair, skin and even this life came from [Ing]. He is the closest relative to [Ing]. He cannot evade nor can he be selfish. - Chapter 57, Professional Body Double by Shui Qian Cheng

and i also really like that even in as early as the beginning of the novel, since joe's woken up from his coma he's already committed to being ing's son because he's indebted to the old owner of his new body for giving him a 'renewed treasured life'.

[Joe] glanced at her. Although this woman is not his mother, he thinks that he has the responsibility to take care of her for the rest of her life because he took over her son’s body, making her lose her son forever. He, on the other hand, got a renewed treasured life. He can’t just accept that. He should also take up the responsibility that this life should have taken and complete his obligations. - Chapter 3, Professional Body Double by Shui Qian Cheng

anyhow this was not really a thoughts post, more like an excuse to gush about how much i love this novel and how well the series has been able to capture nuances that i thought would be left out due to tv constraints.

#my stand in #msi thoughts #claire opens up her goddamn mouth #my stand in the series #professional body double #usersasa #userrlana

[bri-cheeses]

| June 8th | Prompt: Illuminate | Word count: 749 | @rosekillermicrofic |

-

Barty had had a bad day.

Evan knew he would from the moment the letter arrived at breakfast, marked with his father’s seal. Evan didn’t know what Barty Crouch Sr wanted, but he knew that his words were never kind. So he had made his prediction, and it had turned out to be right. Barty had spent the first half of the day sulking, quieter than normal. And as usual, the second half was the complete opposite. Barty had acted out, heightening his personality in an attempt to distract himself from whatever his father had said.

But Barty had clearly found his own performance lacking, which was why, Evan assumed, they were now at a party, the green lighting casting everything in an ominous glow. Barty danced next to him, tipsy already, trying his best to forget his troubles. And if this was what he needed in order to do it, then Evan was more than happy to help—so long as Barty didn’t get too drunk, of course. But Evan had been watching him carefully all night. By his calculations, he should still be fine.

“Evannn,” Barty crooned, throwing an arm around his shoulders, “You’re too tense! Loosen up a little.”

Then he laughed, and despite his crazy antics, Evan couldn’t help but think he was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

As Evan smiled at him, trying not to let his emotions show themselves completely on his face, Barty’s laughter trailed off and he lazily looked back at Evan. His smile dropped.

“Why aren’t you dancing with me, Evs?” he pouted, then pulled Evan in closer. Barty’s breath ghosted over his cheek as he whispered in his ear, “You look good tonight.”

The words, the tone, the proximity—it was too much.

“You’re drunk, Bee,” Evan tried to laugh. It came out more forced than he would’ve liked.

“Just tipsy, actually. And even if I was drunk, my eyes would still work just fine.”

Evan shook his head at Barty’s insistence.

“You just want a distraction,” he said.

And it was true. Barty had been looking for one all night—all day, really, ever since receiving that letter from his father—and Evan could tell. Barty always had a certain look about him when he was hunting for someone to occupy his time, and Evan had, of course, become extremely adept at recognizing it. Which is why he had clocked in on it tonight, Barty’s eyes roaming around the scene, taking in different people and weighing them in his head. The one thing Evan couldn’t figure out, though, is why Barty had landed on him instead of just about anyone else.

“You’re being mean,” whined Barty, moving even closer.

Barty was going to kill him, this Evan was sure of.

“I’m being responsible.”

He felt Barty’s petulance before he saw it in his face, the arm around his shoulder pulling him in more as Barty’s expression became downcast.

“Can’t you just kiss me?” Barty pleaded, the green lighting illuminating the planes of his face, and really, Evan thought, this wasn’t fair. How could he say no when Barty was looking at him like that, eyelashes framing his beautiful eyes, which were burning with the desire for a kiss.

Desire for a kiss, yes, but not for Evan specifically. Not Evan.

Never Evan.

But he might be able to deal with it. He could carry this weight on his back for the rest of his life, if only he got this one chance to kiss Barty.

He could deal with the weight of it, and he would, if it weren’t for the fact that Barty was upset and drunk, and not entirely aware of his own actions. And Evan was supposed to be the one taking care of him, so Barty’s best interests came before his own desires.

Nothing different from usual, of course.

And so, there on the dance floor, surrounded by people who would never value Barty as much as he deserved, Evan turned his best friend away. He turned him away despite knowing Barty would just move on to the next person in order to distract himself. And Evan would watch from afar the entire night as he hopped from person to person, flirting and kissing and laughing with anyone other than Evan, who would stay busy making sure that Barty didn’t end up hurting himself.

It was all so painfully typical that it was almost funny, but somehow, Evan couldn’t find it within himself to laugh.

-

#rosekiller #evan rosier #barty crouch jr #rosekiller microfic #my microfics

[aziraphales-library]

Hello! It's nice work you're doing here, and as a recent victim of Good Omens 2, I am definitely going to be enjoying this.

Now, requests, was wondering if you had any angst or hurt/comfort about the magic show scene where Crowley has to pretend to shoot Aziraphale? Mostly focusing on Crowley, but either is fine. Thanks in advance <3

Hi! We recently reccomended some fics where the bullet catch doesn't go as planned here. I've got a few now, mostly set after the magic act, in which Crowley suffers some hurt/angst...

In the Dark Beside You by EdosianOrchids901 (T)

After helping Aziraphale with his magic act in 1941, Crowley suffers from nightmares. Will a trip to the bookshop let him finally get some rest?

Fire Away Like Never Before by Bazzpop (T)

Crowley had experience with holding firearms—probably not with the correct form—but he’d at least held them before he’d passed them off onto someone else over the years. That, however, was about as far as his experience with them went though. — Or the fic where I saw Crowley’s hand shaking during the Bullet Catch scene and just had to expand upon it

Lightning strikes twice with glitches in the sky by verovex (T)

Crowley remembers an evening in 1941 ending differently than Aziraphale recalls it, or so Crowley thinks. “Yes,” Crowley says honestly, but gravelly adds, “Don't make me do that again.” “Do what?” “Put me in a position that would hurt you.”

1941, or, blurring the edges by DemonToBee (E)

After Aziraphale and Crowley return to the bookshop from their successful magic trick at the theatre, Crowley asks Aziraphale to show him how he did the thing with the vanishing photograph, which leads to some angst, an apology dance performed by Aziraphale and eventual smut. Enjoy!

Aim For My Heart by midnightdragons (E)

“You could have been hurt, angel.” Crowley’s voice was near-silent, barely a whisper of a breath. It was too quiet, and it made Aziraphale’s heart sink. It was nothing like the spitfire and cocksure tone of voice that Aziraphale knew Crowley’s confidence to be so flamboyant in; it felt vulnerable, it felt uncomfortable, it felt like crossing a line that they were both too scared to step over. “My – my life was not in the hands of no one whom I did not trust,” Aziraphale responded after several long moments, wringing his hands together behind his back and biting his lip. He didn’t know how to react to this. Crowley did not seem like himself, and it was . . . scary. “I was never in any real danger, because it was you who was holding the gun.”

(Missing scene from directly after the Bullet Catch scene, to the scene in the dressing room. Aziraphale didn't realize how genuinely scared Crowley was at the prospect of hurting him, and in fear, a lot of things are said, and a lot of things are revealed. INCLUDES AN ALTERNATE ENDING THAT IS JUST SMUT.)

- Mod D

#good omens #good omens s2 #ineffable husbands #bullet catch #angst #hurt/comfort #mod d

[markantonys]

What is your ideal Gawyn show intro?

tick tock, it's gawynposting o'clock!!! i love being enabled, thank you :')

okay, so here's what i'm thinking. 3x01 focuses on catching up with our established characters and setting up the main storylines for the season. 3x02 is time for our caemlyn crew to make their grand entrance; the episode title seems to be "a question of crimson" (though this isn't guaranteed) which would be perfect for an andor & elaida intro episode.

3x02 cold open. scene: caemlyn palace nursery 20 years ago. baby elayne (there was allegedly a baby needed on the caemlyn palace set) is snoozing in her cradle with a nurse (lini cameo!) keeping an eye on her. 10ish-year-old galad is there playing with toddler gawyn. elaida enters the room and takes gawyn over to elayne's cradle and explains to him what it means to be her first prince of the sword, then makes him swear the oath we famously hear about in the books, the oath he swore over her cradle when he was just barely tall enough to look into it, "my blood shed before hers, my life given before hers". the audience goes "wow! this is a pretty fucked up thing to do to this 2-year-old" and thus we learn something about both gawyn (was psychologically fucked up at age 2 by being taught to see himself as a tool to protect other, more important people) and elaida (cares a lot about protecting the royal house of andor and has no problem psychologically fucking up 2-year-olds to do it). and there can be other stuff in the scene to tell us a bit about galad and morgase maybe, depending on how big of a role they're going to have in s3.

this is where i would put the opening credits IF I HAD THEM. (hashtag bring back the opening credits in every episode not just the finale you cowards.) now we go to present-day caemlyn, where the fam is discussing their worries that elayne is missing. gawyn in particular is upset about it and is blaming himself (and being blamed by elaida, and maybe even morgase makes some queenly Harsh But Fair remarks), and the audience goes "yep, sure enough, that 2-year-old has grown up to have Issues." and thus, right away, we've been given a point of connection with and sympathy for gawyn as well as an important insight into why he is Like That. this toddlerhood oath-swearing scene is buried in his narration in the books and i think a lot of people miss it or miss its importance, but it is THE formative moment for his character and the key to understanding why he is Like That, and i'd die if it was portrayed directly onscreen via flashback cold open.

meanwhile, elayne, nynaeve, and mat have set off for tanchico from falme, but the rest of the gang is headed for caemlyn (either as a stop on the way to the waste, or as their intended final destination but shenanigans later force them to flee and only then do they decide to go to the waste). perrin goes out and about in the city and hears rumors of trouble in the two rivers, setting him up to branch off from the group by the end of 3x02. egwene heads to the palace, having been tasked by elayne to deliver a letter to her family assuring them she's well, and rand tags along.

but the guards won't let these two hooligans in, so instead they go around back and break in over the garden wall, falling off the wall at gawyn's feet and setting off the biggest bi crisis of his life. egwene has a whole flirty meetcute with a handsome prince while rand, with whom she officially broke up in 3x01, has to bear witness to the whole thing (and this shows the audience that egwene is also moving on, thus soothing them about rand getting new love interests this season), but gawyn is friendly to rand too and defends both of them from galad's bitch ass and all the guards galad tattles on them to.

rand and egwene are hauled off to an audience with morgase and elaida, and gawyn defends them again but obediently shuts up when morgase and elaida tell him to (showing us that he has a good heart but is easily influenced by authority figures, especially elaida - seeing that gawyn tends to obey elaida is a surprise tool to help us later). whole tense convo here where egwene and rand both get to meet their mutual future mother-in-law as well as their mutual future kidnapper, and egwene delivers the letter but then elaida has her ominous foretelling of rand, which calls his and egwene's integrity and thus the veracity of the letter into question. morgase lets them go (against elaida's advice) but doesn't trust the letter (at elaida's advice) and continues to worry for elayne's safety. so, elaida sets off for the white tower to get answers, with gawyn in tow because, as we learned at the very start of the episode, protecting elayne is quite literally his life.

there we have it! a gawyn intro that sets up a ton of important stuff for him (his oaths to elayne, the way he ties his self-worth to his ability to protect people he deems more important than him, his fucked-up mentor/mentee relationship with elaida, his crush on egwene, his friends-to-onesided-homoerotic-rivals arc with rand, his relationships with morgase and galad), gets the audience to understand and sympathize with and maybe even feel fond of him right off the bat, AND doesn't violate any of the handful of tidbits we know about s3 so far. a win-win-win!

this is my ideal version. but there's a couple other possibilities, such as a) we meet gawyn in caemlyn, but rand & co don't go there, so gawyn does not meet egwene until a future season, or b) elaida and morgase have a one-on-one convo in caemlyn (both actresses were leaked to have been on that set, but no word on if the brothers were there) and gawyn isn't introduced until a later scene arriving at the white tower with elaida (and so doesn't meet egwene until a future season).

i'm leaving galad out of the white tower trip for now because i remember musing a while back how it could actually be more effective if it's an elaida-gawyn duo and galad stays home with morgase. both women are important to both brothers' stories, but elaida is more important to gawyn and morgase is more important to galad. gawyn can be alone with elaida doing all the coup stuff, and galad can be with morgase watching her start behaving strangely, not understanding why, and starting to turn to the whitecloaks (because he blames the aes sedai for elayne's disappearance, because he's afraid morgase is losing her grip and starting to do andor harm, and maybe because morgase was compelled to treat him cruelly and kick him out a la bryne* in the books and he feels he has nowhere else to turn to). gawyn/elaida/tower + galad/morgase/whitecloaks feels like two logical groupings, and in that regard keeping galad in caemlyn could allow for more efficient storytelling than sending him to tar valon. and the galad/morgase/whitecloaks storyline could be held until s4, leaving galad and morgase as just 1ish-episode characters in s3, or it could be another s3 subplot if they want to speed things along. there's also a chance galad could already be a whitecloak and is in the two rivers storyline with dain, but i would prefer that not be the case because my opinion is it's important to his character for us to see him start normal and then get radicalized into the whitecloaks. plus, galad has SO little content in the books that the show is absolutely fine to stretch his stuff out a bit, they don't need to rush to have him already be a whitecloak at the start of s3.

*i've also made these theories with bryne being cut, since i have elaida take his place in gawyn's oath-swearing and galad take his place as the big bridge burned by compelled!morgase. i have no idea whether he actually WILL be cut or not (though i'm 99% confident his romance with siuan is off the table even if he's in), but he feels like a character where it's easy to divvy their stuff up among other more important characters. mat and bashere have us covered for Great Generals, thom has us covered as morgase's ex with whom things ended badly, and egwene could get soldiers from another source (or could even have her army simply be aes sedai and warders).

#i can't believe we STILL have no gawyn casting #how much harder do i have to work to manifest him??? #wot #wot book spoilers #anonymous #answered #gawyn trakand #gawynposting

[whiteheartlight]

(An intro scene for a story I've written bits and pieces of, but might not ever post in full. About Jaller and his guilt, mostly.)

.

It was the burst of color, Jaller realizes later, that woke Kongu up entirely.

The appearance of the Toa Hagah inside the Skakdi fortress didn't register with any of them as anything other than a nuisance, as far as he knows. Hahli took Norik to the ground like she had never had any other goal in life, and the rest of them rushed hotly into battle after her. He remembers Hewkii whooping, glad to have a break in the monotony, glad to have an enemy to throw against the wall, but then Kongu put that ax into Kualus's shoulder, and wow, fireworks. Kualus was silver and pure bright white one moment, and then the next – an explosion of purple ichor splattered across himself and Kongu both, and Iruini yelled so loudly it echoed in Jaller's audio receptors for long minutes after.

“Mata Nui,” said Kongu, as Kualus crashed to the ground with a choke. “Kualus, I – I – Mata Nui. What... are we doing?”

“Kualus!” Iruini darted between the battle to get to his brother, even as Gaaki knocked Nuparu solidly out on the other side of the room. Jaller's mask warned him of the loud sounds of oncoming Skakdi, but he couldn't think to say anything about it. Two minutes ago everything in the world made sense. Now something's wrong.

“Bomonga?” Hewkii asked in bewilderment, his spear slipping out of his hand. “Why are we fighting?”

“Easy, all of you, take it easy,” Pouks shouted over everyone. “Okay, stop, you're okay. Something got in your heads. Kopaka sent us to help. We're going to get you out of this, just try to think clearly.”

Hahli shook her head hard and regained herself – she's always so sturdy like that, always so determined to bounce right back. She hurried to help Iruini with Kualus, falling to her knees beside them and trying to tend the injury. Jaller remembers pushing back from Pouks to get a better look, morbidly enthralled. Kualus was struggling to breathe. Kongu pierced him deeply, from his shoulder towards his throat.

“Jaller,” said Norik, approaching and grabbing him harshly, clasping his shoulders tight. “Jaller, look at me. We need to know who got in your heads like this. We will figure everything out, but we have to handle whoever is controlling you to get you all free.”

“Will he die?” Jaller asked instead of replying. “I've never seen Matoro bleed like that.”

Something flashed over Norik's face. “Brother, it's Kualus.”

“I tried to stop him from leaving,” Jaller tried again, sensing that they weren't understanding each other. “I would have died instead of him. Don't you believe me?”'

“Jaller – ”

“It's the – the big mutated thing with the gold skin,” Hewkii rasped, interrupting them. “Norik, there was some kind of prophecy. They combined a group of beings in energized protodermis. I don't know where the psionic powers came from, but the moment it was created, it was in our heads. We didn't even have a chance to fight it off. It will do the same to you – we should run!”

“The lot of us have plenty of experience fighting off psionic influence,” Gaaki said. “Roodaka couldn't turn us into Rahi, and this being won't turn us into servants.”

“Pouks,” Norik said. “Your mask – you'll match its powers, if only for a few minutes, and then you can make sure everyone's mind is clear. Bomonga, grow, intimidate it. Iruini, find it.”

“I need to stay with Kualus and keep him breathing,” Iruini protested.

“I'll do it, I'll do it,” Kongu said, voice increasingly thin. “I – I'm so sorry, I never meant – I'll help, I swear, please – ”

“We all would have saved him if we could,” Jaller insisted, grabbing Norik's arm. “It's my fault, not theirs.”

“Jaller, listen, you have to keep it together for your team. We're going to get you back to safety, little brother, I swear.”

Yes, Kongu came back to himself in that flash of ichor, and so did the others, he thinks, but Jaller felt so hazy, so lost, alone in that moment. Wasn't the Gold-Skinned Being in charge? Aren't things better that way? What has his leadership ever led to but Ice Toa dying at his feet? He blinked and saw purple ichor, golden fire. His brother eaten alive by the destiny he led him to.

Norik turned away from him, readying his siblings for another battle while the others tried to orient themselves or help Kualus, whose ichor was pooling on the stone floor, approaching Jaller's feet. The door on the other side of the room slammed as a pair of Skakdi came up the stairs to interrupt their reunion, and Hewkii and Pouks both charged at them together. Jaller turned away and left through the other door. He needed to get back to the Gold-Skin. That was where he belonged.

“Jaller!” someone called after him, but he didn't know whose voice it was. He still doesn't. In his memory, the next few minutes seem to pulse like a heartlight, throbbing through his head, so clear and so warped at the same time.

“Fire Toa,” said the Gold-Skin, who was coming down from its tower already. It grabbed Jaller by the arm, yanking him towards it. The second it touched him, he heard himself gasp, and he was glad he came back to it. Of course he belonged to this being. He didn't know his own name. He was just the Fire Toa who served it. Its grip on his arm was painfully tight. “Why are your siblings free?”

“There are invaders,” he managed. “They'll come to fight you too. Experienced Toa with masks to rival your powers – you should run.”

“Run? I can handle another five Toa.”

“Six,” Jaller corrected.

“Oh, yes, I forgot you're missing a piece of your set.” It pulled at Jaller again, and he resisted the urge to scream: it was gripping his arm so tightly he thought the metal might be bending. “Well, they'll destroy the fortress, I suppose, there's no getting past that. Trouble of dealing with Toa: there are always more of them. But I so love to have the elements tamed under my hand.”

“I can be useful,” Jaller said, trying to breathe through the pain.

“Yes, maybe you can. You know what a Nova blast is, don't you, Toa of Fire?”

“Yes,” he said. He's so grateful it always knows the right next step. “Yes, that would work. The others could try to stop me, but that would give you time to prepare for them.”

“Very well, then, but no room for error.” It touched his mask and he choked on a wave of power, nearly crumpling, and it let him fall to his knees. When his eyes flashed open, there was nothing left in his head but its command.

“You don't need to survive it,” it added, turning away from it. “In fact, maybe you shouldn't.”

“Yes,” he remembers saying. “I understand.”

And he did understand, very clearly. It was all he understood. The need to destroy himself.

Gold light eating him alive. Destiny is always sacrificial. He heard himself laughing. He understood completely.

He thinks Norik held him to his chest and screamed. He thinks their armor grew soft against their bodies. But it's hard to remember beyond what he's been told. Really, in his memory, there is nothing else there but the heat.

#jaller #white light writes #bionicle

[nabanna]

my piece for @voicesfortheblade :D for prompter neonyxrae on discord <3

The request was for a vampire!Phil holding freshly-turned-vampire!Techno in the nest (which I interpreted as a big coffin-shaped bed thing for the aesthetic, but then zoomed in so far you can't tell anymore lmao) while vampire!Kristin drinks from him, in a fluffy or hurt/comfort way

More detailed description/rambling under the cut uwu

Originally I was going to write a whole oneshot then switched to drawing a comic, then my computer crashed so I just focused in on the most important panel in the comic (I think there was going to be dialogue here but it was like part of the setup for a joke)

The hurt/comfort was going to come in with some comedy in the written piece with the idea that Techno is a middle of nowhere farmer whose neighbors are the Ancient Eccentric Vampire Couple (and it's ambiguous whether Kristin is like, literally the first vampire ever or maybe an avatar of death itself that happens to have very vampiric traits) and they become besties. There's an implied agreement they had to turn Techno into a vampire when he got old(tm) or in a life-threatening emergency.

Naturally I was going with the life threatening emergency!

So there's a storm and Techno goes out to save a little farming experiment he had going on near the edge of a lake, then gets struck by lightning and lands in the lake, while Philza fishes him out of.

Seeing that he's injured and might have water in his lungs, the two decide this counts as vampire time and proceed. He wakes up after the process and they have to tell him about the new lightning-caused streaks in his hair and scars on his face because he no longer has a reflection, and he's like "dang that must've been some storm, I barely remember anything after stepping outside" and goes further to assume that they tried CPR or some kind of resuscitation before going to vampire time haha

And the joke is they don't know what CPR is or that humans can be resuscitated after that sort of thing, which he makes fun of them for and swears to continue making fun for the rest of however long vampires 'live'

and the last two panels were going to be him starting a whole comedic monologue about it while Phil and Kristin make eye contact both thinking that it's weird he's stayed awake this long right after turning, then his speech bubble would kinda fizzle out because he passed out again, and it would end on them snuggling.

This was kind of a fusion of the earlier part of that scene where they're talking (and Kristin is having a sip of blood because it's the fastest way to check on how the turning process is going for him), and then the last one with the snuggling.

#me #my art #my posts #voicesfortheblade #technoblade #technofanart #technoblade fanart #vampire au #philza fanart #mumza fanart

[laughhardrunfastbekindsblog]

One of my few disappointments about Bad Batch season 3 when first watching it was how Tech's death and the aftermath is handled - namely, that his death doesn't seem to really have much impact on his family (besides creating some inconvenience when it comes to decryption). I couldn't help but think that if the season had included even just one moment of the squad (more specifically the brothers, not just Omega) actually honoring Tech, it would have not only helped drive home once and for all how important Tech was to them, but also provided some desperately needed closure and catharsis for this clone family that had already suffered so much (and, incidentally, provided some closure for the audience, too). This is especially important considering that the Batch's actions in season 3, especially at the beginning, are likely informed by Omega's capture as much as by Tech's death - and while Omega's rescue should be of utmost importance, it ends up seeming to sideline Tech's sacrifice in the narrative.

After rewatching, my view has shifted slightly, though I still firmly believe the show should have included at least one scene - even if it was at the end of the finale - of the brothers acknowledging Tech's influence and honoring him.

- Echo's story is the least impacted by Tech's death: he wanted to stay in the fight before Tech died, and he did so afterwards. He looks sadly at the empty pilot seat in "Plan 99," and he name drops Tech once in season 3. I can understand Echo having this reaction, though: unlike the other Bad Batch members, he has lost brothers before and therefore likely knows how to adjust more quickly. (You know what would have provided a nice contrast between how Echo and the rest of the squad handles the death? A moment to honor Tech: for example, a scene at any point in season 3 where Echo mentions a memory of him.)

- Hunter's decision to finally retire on Pabu comes before Omega is captured, and therefore must have been determined primarily by the loss of Tech. All through seasons 1 and 2, Hunter's desire to keep his squad and Omega safe eventually evolved to wanting to give Omega a childhood away from fighting and war, but even then he still hedged on settling down permanently on Pabu (see: the discussion between Hunter and Shep in "Turning Point"). It wasn't until after losing Tech that Hunter abruptly made the decision that it was time to stop being soldiers... And given that we never see Hunter actually interact with Tech's goggles in season 3 or mention him by name even once, I'm not convinced Hunter ever really got over the loss of his brother, even as he (very in character for him) focused on more pressing matters by (often recklessly) charging onward to ensure Omega's safety. (You know what would have tied off this plot thread nicely? A moment to honor Tech: for example, a brief scene at the end of the show where Hunter acknowledges that Tech's sacrifice made their life on Pabu possible.)

- Wrecker cries over Tech in the season 2 finale, alludes to him twice and mentions him by name once; and honestly, as little as this is, it is enough to convince me that Wrecker is and always will be grieved by Tech's death but has emotionally processed it and come to terms with it, much like Echo. His development seems to be driven more by being the last man standing between Hunter and a reckless demise, rather than being driven by the loss of Tech specifically, but... nuance. (You know what would have given us a point of comparison regarding how different people process loss in different ways? A moment to honor Tech: for example, maybe Wrecker joins Omega in honoring Tech at the impromptu memorial and insists on his other brothers joining them.)

- Crosshair's redemption in season 3 is largely driven by Omega. Looking back on season 3, I am increasingly convinced that Crosshair felt immense guilt and blamed himself for Tech's death, and therefore he avoided the subject. His "let me go on a suicide mission because I deserve it" speech in the finale only confirms my opinion on this. I guess Crosshair being partially driven by guilt over Tech's loss is one way of showing Tech's impact on his family, but I don't find it a satisfying note to end the show on. (You know what would have concluded this plot point perfectly? ... You already know what I'm going to say.)

#tech shouldn't have been killed off at all #all of them should have survived to the end of the finale #but if star wars is going to kill off a main character midway through a show i do recommend taking notes on how kanan's death was handled #the bad batch #star wars the bad batch #tbb spoilers #tbb season 3 #clone force 99 #tbb tech #tbb hunter #tbb wrecker #tbb crosshair #tbb echo

[mamuzzy]

What is considered child mistreatment in Mandalorian culture (legends)?

I was inspired by this post but I didn't want to ruin a mood with my AcKcHuYaLlY vibes so I made a separate post about it.

While I agree with a sentiment of Cuy'val Dar should have rioted seeing children being mistreated, given they are a very heavily family and child centered culture, I've just recently read a few quotes from Republic Commando which made me wonder...

what is considered child mistreatment in their culture?

Because training children to be soldiers are not one. It is a perfectly normal thing to do for them.

What you will read here about: -- Potential reasons why the Cuy'val Dar didn't refuse the job -- Relationship of a Mando parent and their child: How Munin Skirata adopted Kal and with it giving him a predetermined path of life -- Little detour to the topic of how modernday parents don't include children in the household chores -- Pav-Ti and Ahsoka -- Walon Vau and Dred Priest's approach -- Kal Skirata's approach of training -- Little about Mandos and Jedi -- Sorry (not really), people. I still love Kal. -- I won't tag this as anti/pro/critical fandom fuckery. Only a Sith deaIs in absolutes.

Rest is under the cut.

Why would Cuy'val Dar accept such assignment in the first place?

So why didn't they say no? 1. Loyalty and Respect for Jango Fett 2. In need of money 3. Needed a place to hide 4. It could be HONOUR: If a mando bounty hunter accepts a job, they won't back down from it. That's why they are the best. A mandalorian either completes the job or they die in the process (see: Hard Contact). 5. Child soldiers are nothing out of place.

But the latter is debatable, depending on which bounty hunter you ask. Kal was horrified when he was presented with the facts. Scene from Triple Zero, where Kal realizes what Jango is expecting of him:

Jango Fett indeed didn't tell them the whole truth. I'm pretty sure there would have been people who would have accept it anyway. But I'm also sure most of them were conned this way.

We even know Kal's reason of accepting the job.

He didn't have any outside ties anymore that required his physical presence, so at this point he could just accept a decade long assignment.

And when he met the Nulls, he gave himself a purpose out of this nightmare. Raising these children as Mandalorians.

But where this is come from? From Kal's own buir.

Another quote about how Munin adopted Kal.

Awfully practical people. But also, compassionate. Kal is guided by the same compassion as his buir.

Overprotected children of our modern age

Family centric and child centric views are really distorted today which is about overprotecting kids from literally everything. Even from basic household chores: a parent who is too tired and impatient for their child constantly making mistakes during learning a task, so they simply take it out from the child's hand and doing it instead, because teaching them comes with much more mess to clean up, therefor more work for the parent. Children won't learn that helping out around the house can be a quality time with the parent, because most parents don't consider being together with their children a quality time. This later leads to those awful fights between a teenager who never helps around the house on their own only when asked/ordered. Children are glorified exotic pets, one task from a bucket list or worst, investments. But part of the family? Less likely. Not unconditionally.

PAV-TI AND AHSOKA

If you think about Ahsoka's backstory in the Tales of the Jedi, her mother also brought her on the hunt and made her look when she skinned the animal. Teaching her that death is a part of life and even when they take resources from the nature, they should do it with respect. Pav-Ti was already teaching her to be a part of their small community.

I think Mando culture is the same: they involve their children in their profession from early age. Probably teaching your children how to kill for money is not exactly ethical by our earthling standards. Regardless, they do it together. Little mando'ade won't go to school, they spend their time with the family and learning skills they will need if they choose the same profession and lifestyle as their parents.

PRACTICES OF VARIOUS MEMBERS OF THE CUY'VAL DAR

So that's why I think that even if the members of the Cuy'Val Dar had seconds thoughts, training child soldiers are nothing out of ordinary. I can't speak for the remaining non-mando trainers what was in their mind.

But when Dred Priest and Isabeth Beau started their own little figthing rings in the guise of "preserving the old ways", it was really considered fucky even among the other mando trainers Death Watch couple-goals: torture children together <3. Dred Priest despised the clone cadets and they actually died under his care and this is one of the reason why Mij Gilamar killed Priest later in the books.

Walon Vau wasn't introduced to mando values until he ran away from home as an adult, but his abusive upbringing shaped his worldview on how he trained the cadets. Strict codes and harsh punishments. He had his regrets of it later.

From O66, Walon Vau to Kal Skirata

Love has many shapes. Vau wanted them to survive because he loved them. But loving them and treating them good/bad is not the same.

We know about Kal that he taught by experience. He never gave an assignment to his cadets before he first showed them how to do it.

And then we have these notorious parts of him regarding the clones which can be interpreted so many ways but often used as the evidence as child abuse:

And this one also:

(sometimes I throw my brain outtaaa windoooOOooOooOow what people call abusive these days...)

What is my stance about this particular passage? I think he didn't abuse the clones. He wanted them to survive too. He wanted to make it easier for them which was really hard considering the circumstances. He wanted to be a father to the clones like Munin was to him.

We saw the differences between Omega Squad and Delta Squad. The Delta first left Walon Vau behind because they were ordered to do so. Delta left Sev behind because they were ordered to do so. As far as we know, no one deserted from the Empire from Vau's commandos. They remained loyal to the Republic/Empire. Darman could have been with his son and with Clan Skirata but he choose to remain with Niner in the Empire. He remained loyal not the empire, not even Kal Skirata but his brother. Just like Kal thaught them.

What makes them different from the jedi and at the same time so similiar?

The Jedi seek out force sensitive children to teach them how to control this power within them and make sure, they won't use it for personal gain. And later, when they grow up, they will do the same.

Mandos take pity over war orphans (usually that's the case), take them into their clan of soldiers and they teach them a profession and one day, they can do the same.

Both faction are doing it, guided by the same principle: COMPASSION.

Jedi are practicing compassion toward every living, while Mando compassion is just much more personal on the individual level.

Dialogue from Imperial Commando between Arligan Zey and Kal Skirata. I think this baby stealing prejudice comes from that force sensitive children are separated from their parents and all this goes against the family centric view of the mandalorians where family is above all and the children are only safe with their families.

In conclusion...

My personal take after this little research that Mando trainers didn't abuse children, not in their own mandalorian standards. I say this because of Dred Priest who was condemned for actually hurting his cadets, forcing them to fight against each other, and lots of them actually died.

After the failed experiences with the Nulls, the kaminoans and trainers didn't expose the clones to live rounds and bombs until so much later, that's why the commandos and Alpha-class ARCs feel much more balanced in their phyche.

I think Walon Vau abused his cadets but he justified it with love.

Kal made them to do horrible exercises and said a lot of shitty things to the clones (though I think it's kind of like when you call your cat a whore out of affection) but overall he tried to make their suffering bearable.

#mandalorians #mandalorian culture #jedi order #star wars legends #republic commando #repcomm #kal skirata #munin skirata #walon vau #dred priest #mij gilamar #delta squad #omega squad #niner skirata #darman skirata #rc sev #pav-ti tano #ahsoka tano

[bomberqueen17]

snippet post

I'm in the editing mines, lol. But I was writing a Lu POV chapter and Morvran was acting funny so I was like ok I have to know why he's in this mood or whether I need to rewrite this, so I went in and wrote, just to throw away, his immediately-preceding conversation with Kalia, Ciri's household manager and a fellow Intelligence operative.

And this is something I'd put in earlier in the series, from Ciri's POV, but it seems relevant that Morvran is aware of it now. So I'm putting it here to preserve it, as this isn't a scene that's going to go into the main continuity anyway. And I wanted to post something as a proof of life, LOL.

Kalia considered that a moment, then snorted. “Morvran, it’s not like she’s going to marry someone else.” He glanced up at her, startled by her bluntness, and Kalia gestured widely with one hand. “You think any of the other candidates haven’t committed war crimes?” Morvran blinked, trying to determine whether he knew that for a fact or not. “Well,” he said. “Would any of them write up a report about them?” she asked. “Have any of them even made an effort to get to know her?” “Kalia,” he said, exasperated. “I’m not competing with the other candidates.” It wasn’t until he said it that he knew it was true. “I”m competing with her not choosing anyone. She doesn’t need me. She doesn’t need anyone. If she doesn’t find someone to marry she can just leave. And then we’ll have another fucking civil war.”

For a separate conversation I had to go look up the name I'd made up for Morvran's little brother and in so doing I wound up rereading most of the FFP series so I'm finding all kinds of shit I've already said in there. Ciri had the exact thought above very early on, before she even arrived in Nilfgaard I think. But she didn't say so. (And yes, i'd meant initially to have there be more suspense over the other candidates, but then I just didn't create any good characters, so that fell by the wayside. It's fine, LOL, I don't think anyone really needed that to be a side plot. There's still room for someone cool to pop up. We'll see if I get to it.)

As I was rereading, I remembered that I made a deliberate choice sometime during the pandemic: I realized that it would take longer for me to edit and cut down the story to make the pacing taut, and given the givens of what was going on in the world, I wasn't going to do that. I was just going to post the long sprawling story as it was. And I've stuck to that. So it's just. This long sprawl with all these meandery side bits, and as part of that yeah, some stuff is kind of repeated.

I know it's working for a bunch of readers, and it's working for me, but sometimes I'm like oh my god why is this so long why didn't i make myself a style sheet why didn't i edit anything down ever. So, LOL, if you've ever been like hmmmm this story is getting kind of long, well you're not the first to have that thought. I used to treat fanfic as like, "practice" for "real" writing (publishing original works), which is still a thing I'd love to do and may well someday, and I know nothing published as an original work is going to sprawl like this, and the worldbuilding would be all different, but you know, it's not like I'm not learning stuff from sprawling like this. It's been a fun ride and I'm not done yet. But that doesn't mean there won't be deleted scenes; I can't include this conversation with Morvran and Kalia simply because the pacing of the chapter works better starting with the other POV, and it's not worth trying to shoehorn in a flashback.

(This is also making me remember another decision I made in the fog of lockdown, which was that I had to stop replying to comments temporarily, because I had such limited time and realized I was spending it all in lovely conversations in the comments instead of writing more material, and while that wasn't bad per se, I really needed to tell the rest of the story. And I still haven't gone back to catch up on replying to comments and I feel guilty about that. So if you've left lovely comments and I haven't answered that's why, there's a three-year backlog at this point, and I've answered a few but it's not necessarily because they were the best, it's more that they came in during a moment when I had time, spoons, attention, and mostly, just happened to click through and do the thing and hit post. Alas.)

#my writing #snippet #fit for pearls #meet death sitting #the witcher

[blitzwhore]

That ask you got made me realize that Blitzø and Stolas both show 4 of those 5 responses at various points, which I think is very interesting. I really never thought about it before but that's actually pretty impressive bc it never seems "out of character" for them. I think Blitzø leans more towards fight tho we see a lot of fawning from him too, and I think Stolas leans more towards fawn but I guess Blitzø really did make him feel braver bc he shows a lot of fight too.

Fight: Blitzø in FM ballroom + after Striker steals the phone from Stolas + both fighting with and saving Fizz in Oops // Stolas confronting Stella on his balcony + most of his interactions with Striker in WE + most of his scenes in Truth Seekers

Flight: Blitzø avoiding Stolas once things got complicated + not giving Fizz the love letter // Stolas in FM hallway + trying to escape Striker in the café

Fawn: Blitzø to the client in Murder Family + in FM bedroom + trying to talk to Loona in Seeing Stars about her people skills // Stolas when Blitzø comments on his Ozzie's outfit + to Stella in LLL + in a lot of his texts to Blitzø post-Ozzie's

Freeze: both freeze up in Ozzie's + potentially Stolas in the FM ballroom bc we don't see him move except to flinch until the very end but that might just be him forcing himself to stop running

Listing it out like that also made me realize that those two spend a good chunk of the series some degree of scared, nervous, or feeling unsafe. These poor guys 😭😭

Yeah, once you start to think about how present their trauma is in their lives, you can't help but notice that they're both extremely traumatised and broken people. It's really sad, and really well done, in my opinion.

I really like how complex they both are and how many different symptoms of trauma they show—both survival reactions like the ones listed here, and just their thoughts and fears and how they handle their relationships.

What's really interesting and compelling to me is how similar they are despite how different their lives have been. And how the more episodes come out, the more obvious this becomes.

Like, up until now, we knew that Stolas often fawned to keep the peace for fear of being a burden or making others uncomfortable, like he did in his text messages to Blitz, and in Ozzie's when he immediately agreed to leave when Blitz said so. And we knew that Blitz hated himself, that his biggest fear was dying alone, that he couldn't even bear to look at his own face in pictures.

And then, in The Full Moon, we get Blitz going into an extremely childish and heartbreaking fawn spiral with his "I can always do better", making himself smaller, smiling, wagging his tail. And we get Stolas covering every single picture (and item) in his house, and then taking the time to uncover Via so she's visible, but not himself. And we get Stolas terrified of dying alone.

And to me, this conveys really well how no one's trauma is worse than others', how no traumatised person is more or less broken or hurt than the rest, how there's no "lesser" trauma. How traumatised people can't be neatly divided into "people who become sensitive and weak" and "people who develop thick skin". How your trauma may present differently and uniquely depending on the circumstances, but deep down the truth is always that you were deeply hurt, and you can't bear to be hurt again, and your life has become a constant cycle of trying (and failing, due to self-fulfilled prophecies) to avoid going through that pain again.

Truly, masterfully done ❤️

#helluva boss #helluva boss the full moon #blitz helluva boss #helluva boss blitz #stolitz #stolas helluva boss #helluva boss stolas #Trauma tw

[liaa--qb]

I am not mad about it but all the things I am hearing about the leaks these days👀did you ?

Alicole fucking inbetween blood and cheese; cheese bumping into Aegon 😭 and rest of the fuck.

I should say that even Aemond being daemon's son wasn't that impossible for them. I would have believed and supported that with full cause.

I am not helaemond stan . Helaena and aemond fucking each other would have been more shocking and wild surprise to me. It would have made more sense then all the leaks feeling sorry for you helaemonds😂

Please Don't ask anything to me please about leaks. I am quite I don't know..

I am just kinda... disappointed 😭 why why they did this with us. ? What was the reason for this ? Why they destroyed Helaegon in worst way in season 1 for us not to ship them ? There is our harry collett running 'Aegon abusive husband agenda' out there😂.( Bless him sweet child) and why they gave hints and provoked indirectly towards helaemond ? When they never wanted to do this.

I ship Alicole so much. Yes hot people should fuck each other but atleast it should be sensible enough according to plot. I wanted some slow development with their tension and relationship not just ' omg we getting horny n guilty, let's just fuck' I hope it's just not like that. Alicole fucking is just a wild fanfic coming out alive to me but you know you can call me biased but it very ooc for them( but ofcourse we already had alot so why not other )

But again my question ? Why not Helaena also😭 ? Sorry but if Alicent and Criston can happen then why not helaemond. Alicent and Criston are far more strict and religious. There is no excuse you can make make Alicole fuck each other while not helaemond of which they were giving so many hints !!!

I never shipped Aegon, Aemond with Helaena before show but show made me ship helaemond n there were direct hints at them. Let me tell all the couples , non canon ships pointed by series all time indirectly are now actually turned into canon which also included helaemond, now what happened idk

I do like helaegon but it's not any romantic ship n never was. There is a sympathy for this ship to me like two people who never wanted to get into this shit are now stuck with each other with worse life. That's how I see Helaegon which is very much fine. Infact I was dying to see heleagond. That threesome would have been so hot to watch

Problem is that if they never wanted to build anything for Helaemond, If they wanted to neither develop anything for helaegon also then atleast they should have done helaegon bit better in s1 , also in s2 leaks said there is just one scene of proper of helaegon which also gives short view how pain, compromising, dull their relationship is. That's it . The thing I hate most is that Helaena is having no agency in her life. We have so many chances to see Aegon, Aemond developing but why Helaena should only be shown as victim or with no one with her😖.

But yes they can show-

Alicole fucking while b&c happening

Aemond getting back to lady who assaulted him when he was a child n being vulnerable with her. ( Some leaks said it's just conversation bet them but idk )

That cheese walk passing through Aegon easily 😵 with a fuck ass dog😭

Daemon hiring two shit ass people kill to Aemond who would have killed both cheese n blood easily himself. What was daemon thinking 🤦🏻‍♀️ ? The way Aemond is more horrifying than blood, cheese 😭 n mind you outside castle there's granny vhagar who would have made fried chicken of blood n cheese and their dog

WE ARE NOT SEEING HER with Dreamfyre 😑 why ?

I am not against the changes, the of consistency in characters from S1 to s2 from what I am hearing from leaks is somewhat meh or but fast paced.

If that's what Ryan wanted to do then Can I get Aemond kidnapping Rhaena ? Because why not ? Atleast I can have rheaemond😂 and yes at this they should reveal that Aemond is Daemon's son. They can do that. It's not impossible

I am going to condal's house taking my Rhaemond story so that in s3 I am going to have Rhaemond

#house of dragons #hotd fandom #hotd aemond #helaena targaryen #aemond x helaena #helaena x aemond #helaemond #rhaena targaryen #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen #aegon the second #hotd discourse #hotd discussion #hotd season 2 #prince aemond targaryen #prince aemond

[best-enemies]

Got to season 7 on my CSI rewatch and I need to talk about the final scene in s07e11, where Grissom is saying goodbye to Sara before leaving to go on his sabbatical. I mean, look at him. Look at what he does with his hands. *Agressively* Look at himmmmm. He's just a little puppy in love. And he does this right before whispering, "I'll miss you". I'm afraid I'm not gonna make it y'all

#sadly he whispered the last line so quiet and gently the captions didn't catch it but i'm glad i did #he's SO FUCKING SWEET #can't believe i'm bawling my eyes out over a middle aged man doing cute kawaii hand thingy #i wanna marry him so bad #like i wanna put a ring on his finger and i want to have meals with him and do house chores with him #and watch tv on the couch with him until we both fall asleep but i wake up and put a blanket over him #i want to make him hot chocolate #i want to listen to him talk about bugs even though most of them gross me out #i will literally DIE if i don't marry gil grissom #“oh but he's fictional” LIKE THAT WILL STOP ME #i will be thinking about this scene for the rest of my life #how sara didn't drop everything and made out with him right then and there is beyond me #i mean they could've closed the door right. ever heard of making out at work? fuck the rules #you're already breaking one by dating in the first place #csi #gsr #please someone talk to me about the hand thingy please it's been hours i have not recovered