#in my mind if it became a longer series I imagine it'd be a bit like mushi/shi... like standalone stories of a wanderer

[gardenofnoah]

for everything I know you wanted

my submission for the nothing breaks like a heart collab (courtesy of @tojiphilia and @arozaur, thanks for doing this <3)—this was a bit of a challenge! jean is very much my comfort character and i couldn't bear to leave it without a ~little~ bit of resolution, but the angst is here to party. wc: 3.2k cw: mentions of drinking, jean and reader are Big Sad, aftermath of a break up

It'd been a year.

A year since Jean forced himself to walk away from you—forced himself to look away from the expression on your face that had haunted his sleep every night since then. He remembered very little of what came after. His body had propelled him through the following 365 days that, to his mind, blended together in the same insignificant, aching dream that he couldn't quite wake up from. He felt like a zombie— looked like it, too, if Connie and Sasha's exchanged glances of concern were anything to go by. He didn't bother to defend himself. There was nothing to say.

His alarm—one in a series of several he'd taken to setting, a new bad habit he picked up—blared next to him for long enough that it became impossible to ignore. He heaved himself up from his mattress and surveyed the room. You'd be disgusted with him—there was no longer a discernable path on the floor leading to an exit. He'd done it on purpose—he had found your belongings among his own one too many times, and his solution was to make it so he could never find anything, which actually felt better, if he didn't look at the mess for too long. He didn't dare let Connie and Sasha see it. Not that they hadn't been imagining something similar.

He pulled himself to a standing position, groaning a bit at the movement. He didn't bother changing, didn't bother risking a glance in the mirror—he just stepped clumsily through the piles until his palms met the wood of the door. He rested his forehead against it for a beat, trying to rouse up the courage to face the company he knew he'd have in the living room when he opened it. It didn't work—it never did. They'd see right through him anyway.

"Hey, man," Connie greeted him from the couch, looking up from the video game he'd been playing with Sasha. Jean didn't bother asking how they'd gotten in—they'd been accomplishing soft break ins for the better part of the last year. He started leaving the door unlocked—it was easier that way. Sasha smiled at him gently, like she was afraid that anything more would break him. She was probably right. She held out a cup of coffee as an offering.

"Hey," Jean grunted out, taking the cup from her and leaning against the couch, watching over their shoulders.

"Any plans for the day?" Connie asked, and Jean wanted to scoff. Connie knew the answer already—a resounding no. He'd pretend anyway, for the sake of the delicate dance they all insisted on performing.

"Might go down to Green's, watch the game," he answered, and it was a half life. The bar down the street had been a small reprieve on the nights it'd gotten a little too hard to breathe around his grief. But those were most of them, and he knew to call it anything but a crutch would be a lie. Connie and Sasha looked at each other briefly, and Jean started to feel like a fox caught in a trap. Tired, scared, and angry at the inevitable. Poised to lash out in vain. It was only a matter of time.

"Listen, Jean—"

"Maybe we could all go!" Sasha exclaimed, loud and nervous, shooting a pointed glare at Connie, "that could be fun. We haven't all gone out in a while, it'll be like old—"

"No," Jean cut her off, and it was silent, then. He read the barely-concealed, startled expressions on both of their faces and tried to backtrack. "I mean, I appreciate it, but I think I'll go alone. Next time, yeah?"

They hesitated, glancing at each other again. Sasha smiled, and it was strained. "Sure," she said, but her eyes betrayed her, "whatever you want to do."

He moved through the rest of the day on autopilot and barely registered when Connie and Sasha saw themselves out. He realized it was 8 o'clock then, and he tried not to think about where the last 12 hours had gone as he pulled himself together just enough to pull one of his last remaining clean T-shirts and a stray pair of jeans on. He studied himself in the mirror for only the amount of time it took to confirm that he looked enough like a human being to be in public.

The air was cool, and he could admit that it was pleasant against his skin. At least it was, until it reminded him of you, as most things did. The reel in his mind replayed visions of you, the memories he kept tucked away for safekeeping—you stumbling a bit in front of him on the way home from the bar, his jacket half on your body and a declaration of love on your lips, aimed to gore him right through the heart. And you never missed—not even at the end.

He knew he hadn't been able to give you what you needed from him. He didn't miss your family's disapproving glances or under-handed jabs when you'd continuously shown up without a ring on your finger or a big announcement of a plan for the future to gush over at get-togethers. You'd been together for years, and it wasn't as if he'd never thought about it—it wasn't that he didn't fantasize about coming home to you everyday, or pressing kisses to the band wrapped around your finger, or hauling up a tiny human that looked like the best parts of both of you over his shoulders. He certainly had. But he was selfish, and he was too comfortable with the way you were together to interrupt it for something bigger. So he cut you loose, and had regretted it everyday since.

He went no contact with you after that, and there'd been nothing else in his life that had ever made him feel like a bigger coward. He couldn't read your messages, couldn't answer your calls, couldn't answer the door when you'd stood on the other side of it. There was no relief when you stopped calling, stopped texting, stopped knocking—there was just a void. It started in his chest and grew every day, like a poison that crept through his veins and rotted his soft tissue. He imagined the pain was similar.

He walked through the door of the bar, making a bee-line for the stool against the wall at the counter. He kept his head down—it was seldom that he saw anyone he knew here, but he did his best to lower the chances. He didn't need company to his own misery—even in his grief, he knew it was best to keep the fated lovers apart.

He ordered the cheapest beer on the menu and nursed it there in his corner, eyes straight ahead. The game was playing on the TV on the wall, but he didn't have the energy to watch. He just sipped and let the alcohol warm his insides until his body was weighted and numb. One less thing for him to feel.

He'd barely registered a presence next to him until the voice it was attached to injected itself directly into his nervous system.

"Whiskey neat, please."

He was frozen, bottle half-raised to his lips. It was several seconds before he could get himself to turn, knowing exactly who he'd find. And when he did, he wished he had never.

"Hi," you breathed, reflecting his own shock back at him.

It was all he could do to blink back at you, not quite understanding how you were there and real and still so heartbreakingly beautiful, standing next to him. His mind screamed at him to say something, to say anything, because he saw the beginnings of an emotion he was too familiar with on your face at his extended silence and he couldn't bear to relive that—

"Your hair," it came out strangled and he masked the grimace as best as he could, "it's longer."

The disappointment on your face punched him in the gut.

"Yeah, Jean," you sighed, looking down at your drink with a ghost of a smile that he never wanted to see again, "a lot changes in a year."

You both sat in silence then, you with your long hair and he in his guilt that ate him alive behind his bottle.

"How are you?" you asked, and he wondered if you really wanted to know.

"'M doing fine," a lie. You hummed, and he didn't know if it was out of doubt or in agreement. "How are you?"

There was a pause. "I'm drinking liquor on a Wednesday night by myself."

He felt sick at the hope that blossomed in his chest. His heart told him there was a chance you felt as he did—stuck in your grief, drowning it every night. But then he was just guilty, because if you did, then he put you there. So he stayed silent, eyes trained on the bottle in his hands.

"Can I ask you something?"

It startled him a little, but he nodded anyway.

"Why wouldn't you answer me?"

He looked at you then, and he saw it—saw the way you'd been mourning him, alone and angry and so tired. You were closed off to him but your eyes gave you away—they always had. What your body had locked away your eyes could never, and he winced, because it felt invasive—he was the cause of it, and here he was, looking too deeply into you. He wanted to apologize, and he wanted to tear himself open and pull out all of his pain and watch you cradle it in the palms of your hands. Just so you could see that he had tried to do right by you. So you could see how your ghost clung to his back and he hadn't even asked you to let go.

"Do you want to take a walk with me?" he asked after a moment of silence, and to his amazement, you nodded. You threw the rest of your drink back, face unchanged as you set the glass down on the bar. He felt the bile rise up in his throat at that, because you'd never been able to stand the burn of liquor before. But you'd told him things had changed. He was scared to know the ways in which they had.

It was dark out now, and considerably colder. You were silent as you walked, and he listened to the click of your boots against the pavement. You carried yourself differently, he noticed—there was a cold confidence to the straightness of your spine, and it made his heart ache. The hardness on your face felt so foreign. He took a deep breath.

"I thought it would be better," he started slowly, and it was as strained as it was cautious, "if I left you alone."

You stopped in your tracks at that, turning to look at him with such anger and such hurt that he fought the instinct to recoil.

"You thought...it would be better." You ground out, testing the words in your mouth, like you weren't sure if you wanted to spit them back at him. He nodded. You let out an incredulous laugh.

"So after years of being together, after years of loving you, you thought it would be better for me if you just up and left. Just like that."

He didn't have anything to say to that. He knew it was illogical, and cowardly at best. And at worst, well—he didn't have to ask to know what it was.

"Okay," you breathed, "so let me ask you this: was I a fucking joke to you?"

His eyes widened at that, because no, nothing about this, or you, was ever a joke to him—there was nothing funny about the way he'd been barely alive for the last year, sleeping only when he had to, because he couldn't stand to see you when he closed his eyes. Nothing funny about how the last pieces of him had bled out from his body, or how he watched them drip down the drain from a distance, wondering if it was better wherever they were going. Better than being tethered to him where he was.

"I mean, did you just get bored? Was I not enough for you?"

And every word broke him, because he couldn't stand how wrong you were, and he couldn't stand that you'd carried this version of your break up around with you for the last year. Couldn't stand that it was him who had made you do it.

"No, wait—"

"Was it really that easy? To just toss me aside like trash?"

"Please, let me—"

"Let you what? Tell me: what could've possibly been so bad that the best option was to leave me like that?"

It was startling, the rage that radiated off you in waves— or it would've been, had he not known the way he deserved every bit of your fury. He wondered if this had been a mistake—if it would've been better to end the conversation at the bar and walk away from you again. To choose not to hurt you like this. But he was a weak man, and he'd hurt you again, now. The knot in his throat left barely any room for an explanation, but he was resolute to try.

"I couldn't give you what you needed," he told you, and it was barely a whisper. For the first time, he couldn't read the expression on your face.

"What?"

"I couldn't—" he took a deep breath, and it shuddered, "give you the things you wanted. When we went home, I know it upset you—all those questions about marriage and kids. I didn't have an answer for 'em," he paused, looking down at his shoes, "I wanted you to be able to have the life that you deserved."

He couldn't look at you then, and the silence was deafening. He braced for something, for anything, but his head still snapped up when he heard the indignant laugh fall out of your mouth.

"Are you kidding me?"

He scanned your eyes, suddenly incredibly unsure how to proceed. He opted for silence.

"So you thought that I wanted marriage and kids, and that's why you left?"

He winced at the simplified version, like it hadn't been the hardest decision he'd ever made. But you were right, and he nodded.

"Jesus fucking Christ," you laughed, and it was pained. You tipped your head back, letting out a deep sigh. Then your eyes were back on him, and the shame told him to look away, but he couldn't.

"Jean, did you ever ask me what I wanted?"

And his heart dropped, because no, he hadn't. His silence was all the answer you needed.

"I wasn't upset, I was uncomfortable—uncomfortable, because I was also not ready for the things they were asking of us."

He was frozen. Helplessly, uselessly frozen.

"I knew—at least, I thought I knew—that I would marry you someday," you kept going, kept shredding his insides, "but that was so far removed from any list of priorities I had." You looked at him, and looked away.

"I just wanted you," you said quietly, and it shattered the last piece of him that had been holding on, "I was happy. I had what I'd needed."

He felt himself start to shake and he kept his eyes on the ground, because if he looked up, he would lose everything. Every bit of composure he'd been holding onto—the reasoning he'd clung to to justify the ways he'd hurt you—all of it was as flimsy as he was, and it frayed at the seams as his fingers grasped at it. The words tore up his throat before he could stop them—before he could think about the damage they would surely cause.

"Haven't been doing well," and it was the understatement of the century. He hoped you heard what he wanted to say. I love you. You've been haunting me. I know I deserve it. Your face pinched for a fraction of a second, and then it was blank again.

"Yeah," you scoffed, "me either."

The breeze kicked up and you shivered, and out of muscle memory he shrugged off his jacket, reaching over to drape it over your shoulders. He'd only realized what he'd done when he heard your sharp inhale.

"Oh," he said, reaching back for it, "I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking—"

"No," you gasped out, stepping out of his reach and pulling the jacket into you, "don't."

He paused in his movement when he realized what was happening— you were buckling under the weight of this, too, and he didn't know whether to push forward to help you lift it, or take it away from you entirely, freeing you from this—from him. He thought he’d be an idiot to decide that for you, though, so he stayed where he was, caught in the most devastating stalemate as he waited for your next move. You blinked rapidly, looking away from him as you pulled the jacket closer still.

"Did you love me?" you asked, and the wave of devastation that washed over him nearly did him in. He was irate that he'd ever made you question his love for you. He wanted to knock himself out. He wanted to do worse than that. Instead, he took in a shuddering breath, and took a small step toward you.

"I love you more than you will ever know."

Wide, watery eyes met his, and he fought the urge to reach out and pull you to him. His heart knocked against his chest at the tentative step you took forward.

"Don't," you told him, and it was broken, "don't say that if you don't—"

"I mean it."

Your eyes searched his face for a minute more, and then another, and he braced himself for the exit you'd sure be making. He wouldn't have blamed you. He was being cruel—crueler than he had ever been, and it was far too late. He couldn't undo the damage he'd caused.

There was nothing that could've prepared him for the way your body collided with his.

Instinctively, his arms wrapped around you, fingers weaving themselves in the hair at the back of your head. His eyes burned as he heard the way you choked out a sob into the fabric of his shirt. Jacket long forgotten on the ground behind you, you grabbed for him like he was a lifeline, and he held you tighter.

"M'sorry," Jean gasped out, pressing kisses to the top of your head, "I'm so sorry."

You let out a whimper that tore him apart. He couldn't believe he'd been so stupid—to have honestly felt that a life without you was one he could stomach, even if he thought it was for the best. He told you exactly that, whispered into your skin between kisses to your hairline as you cried. You both stood there in the street and he held you to him, rocking you gently. When the sobs that racked through your body subsided, you were silent save for the staggering breaths you took in, and you rested your forehead against his collarbone, hands fisted in his shirt. You breathed him in for the first time in a year, and your eyes burned again.

"I don't want to do this anymore, Jean," you whispered, and his arms tightened around you.

"What do you want?"

"You."

His heart constricted at the way you didn't have to think about it. It was the same answer he’d thought to himself everyday for the last year. That one word was the thing that pulled him over the edge of the cliff he’d been climbing. He tilted his head back, and felt the tears spill over. He felt the serrated edges of the rocks at the bottom pierce him from every angle.

"You have me," he croaked out, "you always will."

this fic belongs to me (@b-writes-things). i do not allow anyone to repost, edit, or reproduce this work.

#jean #jean kirstein #aot jean #jean angst #jean x reader #jean kirstein x reader

[sugalattaes]

❛ you were ringless ❜

✦  VALIANT  ✦  CHAPTER ONE  ✦

pairing: kim seokjin x reader

genres: angst // fluff // prince!seokjin // bodyguard!reader // european medieval setting

warnings: infidelity // jin with a mommy kink // eventual smut in series

word count: 2,697

summary: months of professionalism is thrown out through the window as the Prince appeals himself in a vulnerable way to you

Grimacing, you followed the Prince into his quarters, glancing over your shoulder warily. If anyone were to see this they would think so wrongly of the Prince, but especially of you. You were already aware of the foul words thrown at your back by the other female guards at the castle, all along the lines of infidelity.

Your eyes snapped open to the low inquiry of your Prince, “Why don't you look me in the eye, (Y/N)?” Jin's voice was a melody, a soothing breeze that wore down your worries and blanketed you in warmth, but you were diligent enough to shake off the cozy feeling. Stubborn enough to deny the obvious effect he had on you. When the Prince heard no response from you, he sighed loudly, “Am I a chore to you, (Y/N)?”

The door clicked shut as you turned to face the Prince, head tilted down as no guard dared to lay their eyes on the royalty. You watched his shadow slowly slink away from you, only to return soon with its owner dragging a plush chair of velvet in tow.

“At least take a seat,” Jin gently coaxed, pushing the chair against the wall.

You bit your lip, despite your defiance to his questions and acts of kindness, you couldn’t go against what he requested of you. So you pulled the baton at your hip out and set it on the floor to sit in the chair comfortably, eyes still trained on the smooth tile floor. “Are you ignoring me?” Jin complained, his words articulated in a cute manner. “Before you would at least lift your head..”

The tall man wasn’t even close to you, yet you could pick up his musky and woodsy scent from where you sat. You donned yourself in mint when he was around in hopes of staying undistracted and unbothered around him.

His feet came into your view, his toes that poked out of his slippers almost against yours. And with a sudden plop, Prince Kim Seokjin himself was on his knees in front of you, a position that forced you to look at him. Your eyes widened, “Prince, what are you doing?”

Jin dismissed your rational question, returning a small smile with his pursed plush lips, “I heard you have a child, how come I never knew?” You inwardly groaned, his tendency to prod about your personal life became something you had grown used to blocking out. But his innocent gaze made it harder this time.

It was like he was out to get you into trouble. The amount of torture the royal court would put you under if they saw you, a mere guard, in such close proximity with the Crown Prince. And to think of your child, what would happen to your little tyrant, Chenyoung, if you were punished?

“She's two, right? What's her name?” Jin persisted.

You lifted your head up a little, your eyes boring into his sweet, espresso ones. “My shift ends in thirty minutes,” you simply answered.

You were here for pay, not to befriend the Prince. They appointed female guards inside the palace for male royalty so that not only would the Princes be protected from harm but unwanted courtship from the women of the palace. It worked vice versa for female royalty. However protocol dictated explicitly that guards were to stand outside the door until the sun disappeared and to return to their manor house to exchange places with a guard who worked at night. Instead of allowing you to guard outside his door, Jin had other ideas, insisting you to sit inside his room. He tried to figure out what you liked, where you came from. You couldn't help but wish he would just fuck off.

As a married woman, with a child you weren't easily swayed by his charming looks. No matter how many times you saw him catch his bottom lip between his teeth, you found yourself waiting to leave the Prince's quarters.

“Oh, come on, (Y/N),” Jin whined, forming a pout. “I asked to see your child and the ladies told me you specifically asked them to not let me see your child! Are you purposely pushing me away from you? After I have doted on you for so long?”

Jin let out a huff, his scent making you shift. You could feel his fingertips gently pressing at the feel of your foot to keep your attention, but all you could think of was the amount of affection he held and how he was a complete contrast from your husband at home.

Your husband was a harsh man with one useless arm and another that only held cigarettes. All he did was ask for a quickie and money for change at pubs. He gambled and smoked. There was no reason for infidelity though, he gave you a roof to live under and a child you loved. But Jin made it impossible to not fall for him as he became a vulnerable heap at your feet.

No, you wanted your child far away from Jin. You refused to see Jin in a state where he'd look like the perfect father and husband. You refrained from daydreaming of Jin and your child’s laughter mingling on a warm day. You refrained from imagining Jin's surname alongside your childs. Kim Chenyoung.

You could practically see your child jump in excitement as she was being loved by a father who gave her attention.

Your thoughts were interrupted as Seokjin repeated his inquiry. “You'd like it, wouldn't you? If I asked for another guard? It'd be easier for you, I can request any other royal male to be your next appointment so you wouldn’t have to put up with me.”

He looked up at you, by now your eyes were searching the intricacies of the ceiling. “Look at me,” he leaned closer. You carefully allowed your gaze to meet. He looked so domestic with his silk tunic stretched across his large chest and his raven locks covering his brow. You resisted the temptation to cup his cheeks which were plump and rosy. The best description you could give on Prince Jin was that he had the head of a Samoyed and the body of a Doberman, a silly way you came up with the say he was a soft child in the body of a built man.

“No, Prince, I don’t mind,” you replied, looking away. “Twenty more minutes.”

“You're manipulating me, darling, that felt like five minutes not ten,” Jin retorted, wrinkling his nose slightly. He gently allowed his hands to sidle their way up from your heels to either sides of your thighs. You didn’t allow yourself to bite your lip or tense up, it was unprofessional to hint at being bothered.

“Fine, twenty five minutes,” you agreed half-heartedly.

Maybe three minutes of silence passed, your eyes scanning over anything and everything except Jin. A fourth minute passed by, marked by the way he gently set his chin onto your lap, his legs folded underneath him. His broad shoulders were an expanse that you wished you could hold. You couldn’t help but envy the thought of his future wife who would have the ability to relax in his comfort.

You caught his fixed stare, your anxiousness peaking. The thought of someone coming into the room and seeing this scene was terrifying.

“Prince, get up,” you insisted. In return you got a shake of the head and silence. “What play is this? At this point I may as well walk around saying I have two children.”

“Would you, Mommy?” he dully rebuked.

You raised an eyebrow at the term of mockery. “Eighteen minutes, honestly it should be sixteen since I have to do rounds in the hall before I leave. Come on now, Prince, get up. It's the least you could do for me.”

“The least?” he glanced up at you, not moving his head from your lap. “That's a lie. The least I could do is give you comfort, yet you push me away everytime. Look at you, you have me at my knees.”

You furrowed your brows, “Prince-”

“Half a year, half a year you've had to follow me around in the palace and you still call me Prince. Jin. My name is Jin.” His voice seemed curt now, giving you the glare of a wounded animal.

“Prince,” you murmured, “Don't give me angst.” You gently slid your fingers underneath his chin, attempting to lift his head from your lap. You succeeded, only for him to rest his elbows on top of your thighs instead. Your breath hitched slightly, becoming acutely aware of the lack of proximity between the Prince’s chest and your legs.

“It's not like you'll attempt to discipline me, Mommy,” his voice was now teasing, deliberately letting his breath warm your fingers.

“Your r-right, fourteen minutes,” you stuttered, you tore your focus from him and glanced at the door as your ears slowly became a dark shade of pink. Had he noticed your voice give away?

Maybe it was the way he ever so slightly traced the seam of your black pants with his forefinger. Or the way his smile was so lopsided, you could practically read his intentions. “Please, Prince, now is not the time to be…” You trailed off, not wanting to say anything out of line.

“Be what?” Jin pushed mischievously. “You seem so confident with that baton of yours while walking behind me. Why does it dissipate when you're in front of me?”

Your hands began to shake slightly, not from the weight of his head, but from the tension that you could no longer ignore. This is why you were supposed to be stationed outside of the door, so incidents like this wouldn't occur. You didn't know how to respond, simply hanging your head as you dumbly observed the way his large hand enveloped your thigh.

You started to get even more anxious, paranoid that someone would open the door. Your concerns were confirmed as you heard the footsteps out in the hall. “Jin,” you looked at him with a pleading voice, you practically whimpered, “This isn't appropriate, Prince.”

“That makes it even more exciting,” Jin whispered in return. Your heart pounded as the footsteps became louder, closer. “Do you mind if I touch you?” Jin slowly slipped his hands up to your hips, lifting himself ever so slightly.

“I don’t- I shouldn’t,” you stumbled over your words, “Prince someone is coming-”

“So you don’t mind if I kiss you, Mommy?” 

The door slammed open, but Jin was faster, getting up on one knee, cradling your cheek with one hand, and pressing a light kiss to your lips. Your blood froze, closing your eyes so you didn't have to see the intruder.

“What is going on here? Prince?! Are you alright, Prince!?”

Your shame quickly ebbed away as you felt his smile against your lips. You parted your mouth allowing him to kiss you deeper.

“Prince!? Are you drunk?”

Jin growled, addressing whoever had burst into the room. “Get. Out.”

When you heard the door hesitantly close, Jin's lips returned to yours. You sat there, pressed into the chair, with awkward hands. As if to guide you, Jin lifted up your hands so they rested on his shoulders. Kissing Jin was like falling into a pit of fluffy pillows, how long had been since you kissed someone? Your husband never asked for kisses or gave any for that matter.

But soon, reality settled into your stomach and you felt the shame and guilt crash upon you, cheating was below you. To your own disappointment, you slid yours hands to his chest. Pushing him away from you, when there was a gap between your faces you ducked your head down, “S-stop, Prince.”

He looked at you with a soft frown, his hands still cupping your face. “Did I make you feel uncomfortable?”

You couldn’t bear to look at him as your hands fell from around his neck. “I'm still a married woman, Prince.”

His glossy lips formed a ‘o’ and you shamefully thought how good his lips looked with your saliva on them. You squeezed your eyes shut, erasing your sinful images and pushed Jin again, in order to stand up.

Jin stepped back, his slippers sharply skidding on the tile. “You didn't have a ring, (Y/N), I thought..”

He didn't know himself what overcame him. You were so exotic to him, such a young beauty who was so charismatic with a baton in her hand and a child at her hip. He hadn't thought to ask if you were married, thinking that your ringless fingers were enough to make a move. His cheeks were burning, his neck a shade of cranberry. “I'm sorry, I.. Understand if you wish to leave...”

You couldn’t bear to lift your head and acknowledge him, so you just reached for the doorknob, “Mercy, Prince. Sleep well.”

“Wait- ! Could you tell me about your child at least.. Her name perhaps?,” Jin bit his lip and hung his head. Kicking the floor and holding his hands behind his back, he resembled a child who received scolding.

“Chenyoung,” you gave in, twisting the knob.

You didn't understand his troubled expression as he looked vacantly at your feet. “Do you not wear your ring?” he asked softly.

You shrugged, “I don't have a ring.” You noticed the way his shoulders slumped. “Don't, Prince, it would be in my way of my baton, anyway,” you continued nonchalantly.

“I was teasing you before, I respect you, really. I didn't mean to call you M-” he turned around, his vast back hiding his embarrassment “-It was aslip of the tongue.”

“It's fine, Prince,” you said dismissively.

“I wasn't teasing when I told you to call me by my name though,” he said in a quiet tone. “It’s suffocating, hearing ‘Prince’ from everyone makes me feel vain.”

“Fine,” you went back to kneading your hands. You still felt the warmth that Jin had left on you.

“Fine, what?” he gently asked.

You nodded, “Fine, Jin.”

To some degree, Jin felt like he had won. Hearing his name fall from your elegant lips was all he could ever want and more, it was a stroke of luck that he was able to kiss you, able to be so close with you. In all honesty, Jin knew everything about you, your child's name, your lame husband. It was his job to know about people, he could remember you from two years ago. Jin wondered if you thought that he had forgotten about you.

You wore burlap pants, then, and you had no child at your hip. Tears threatening to fall down, you had scratches on whatever skin was exposed. “Prince, can't you give me a job.” Jin had you go to a speaker so you could flush out your problems, when reporting to Jin to speaker the horrible things that you had gone through.

Now he could not see the face of the woman who had pled for help in the stoic statue that was now you. Your change was shocking, Jin hadn't even recognized you for a while. You had been hiding your hair in the uniform's hat and the black uniform was a stark difference from the burlap pants he had seen you in. And the child.

Before he would think Chenyoung was adorable, but he slowly got envious. Someone as dismissive as your husband shouldn't have been able to give you a child, nonetheless, he was fond of your kid. He told nurses to give Chenyoung rock candy in the afternoon and would deliver sweet buns to the nursery himself so that all the kids could have soft bread.

You solemnly bid him goodnight again, “Goodnight, Jin.” You didn't bother to listen to Jin's response, gently closing the door behind you as you left.

Jin groaned, smacking his head against the wall. “Fuck, what have I done.” Jin hated this, he hated that he was able to get frivolous nothings, but when he wanted something so dear he couldn’t. He was ready to give up anything for you.

#bts reactions #bts scenarios #bts imagine #bts x reader #bts angst #bts fluff #seokjin fanfic #seokjin imagine #seokjin fluff #jin imagine #jin fanfic #jin fluff #bts fanfic #fic: valiant #repost

[theangrypokemaniac]

I'll state from the beginning that the images below display the sort of sweet synchronicity to which only love can give life:

MaAndPaShipping is the best ship, and here are five reasons why:

1. It Made James

Like the boy do yer? Ever felt the slightest tingle of warmth at the mention of his name?

Well get down on yer knees and give thanks to his mother and father for gifting him to the world!

Where would we be without their remarkable commitment? Could James have grown into the dandified dream boat of your desires if deprived of the safety provided by his parents?

Had they not brought him up, he'd be dead, The Dog of Flanders fantasy made reality. If miraculously he survived, foraging in the wild is not conducive to a foppish personality.

Is that to yer fancy? No? Then let's have a little respect. The luxury Ma and Pa gave enabled his macaroni tendencies to reach such heights.

Their love created him! How can it not be celebrated?

You lot would ship Jessie's parents but you can't, because she has no dad, and I don't suppose you'll ever assent to his obvious identity of Windy Miller, although 'Jessie Miller' has a wonderful ring to it, so what can be done?

Should a Pa Jess be conjured for the purpose, he still buggered off, didn't he? Where's the allure in a faithless git?

I can't comprehend the obsession with Ma Jess. As soon as here she's stiff, and what is there to remember but coercing her daughter into eating snow?

Hey, I named her. What more do you want from me?

I'd rather have the living, visible ancestors, if you don't mind.

Yeah, says the history fanatic.

Why not make the most of the chances offered, and follow a devoted couple whose love made a difference to your existence?

2. Canon!

There are many ships which I find repulsive for involving depravity, or absurd as the subjects haven't met, or don't inhabit the same fictional universe.

Video et taceo: I see and I say nothing.

Neither does anyone. Forcing decent folk in to incest, bestiality etc. is quite alright.

Perverted ideas are left alone, but woe betide a Rocketshipper, because that's offensive.

It may be the only original ship left standing, with proper evidence and sanctioned by Nintendo, but no, it's fair game for undermining. People pick at your arguments, quibble constantly and NEED to register their objections NOW. You MUST be made aware of opposition. You're not to be permitted your views the way those with twisted tastes are indulged.

Why, out of tens of thousands of combinations, does making Jessie and James an item provoke hostility?

The strength of negativity actually serves as validation, for why be so concerned if it's an impossible relationship?

However sick they are, I'm not anti any ship. I can't muster sufficient interest to do it, and if I scroll on, I forget. I certainly don't attack those responsible.

Anti-Shipping is inherently nihilistic for promoting loneliness. They aren't against Rocketshipping through wanting Jessie and James to be with someone else, as an alternative is not readily available, so the outcome of it is neither finding a companion.

MaAndPaShipping attracts no sourpuss silliness, for 'tis canon beyond question. There's nothing about being 'just friends' when married with a son.

How's the state of your O.T.P.? Not looking too clever I expect, and what's your contribution: wishing, and hoping, and thinking, and praying?

Cast it off! None of that longing is necessary in these quarters, as MaAndPaShipping is a fait accompli.

Hallelujah! Wallow in that Love!

Don't you yearn for at least one ship that all of us accept by default, to the extent these aristocrats are spoken of as a single unit?

Across the internet, Ma and Pa are bracketed as 'James's parents', never 'he' and 'she', always 'they', barely counting as distinct characters. That's how undeniable the love is between them. Sheer indifference has awarded it a blessing from everyone.

MWAH-HA-HA-HA-HA!!!

Of course, now I've drawn attention to it the moaning will start, but we all know a spoilsport when we see one.

If they had any legitimate complaints they ought to have mentioned 'em before this piece highlighted the marriage!

Except it won't have occurred to 'em previously, proving the eternal, indissoluble quality of MaAndPaShipping.

You get good value with this one.

Find a post referring to Ma and Pa as individuals and I'll have written it, for that's what you call ironic.

3. It's a Fine Rocketshipping Proxy

I was at primary school when Pokémon hit the West like the bright, bearded meteor it is, atomizing all competition for a child's attention.

I have shipped Jessie and James before I knew anyone else did it, unaware shipping was even a thing.

There are other pairs where I think: 'That seems to fit', but it's incomparable to what I feel for them.

It is part of me. I bleed it.

I have shipped it longer than most Tumblerries have dwelt upon the earth.

I used to believe, what with the hints and manga finale, that this resolution was  inevitable, and all I had to do was wait.

Well I've been patient for two decades now, thus when I look at the modern incarnation, and realise it's no nearer to that goal, and instead is further away, waiting starts to wear a bit thin.

I resent the lack of appreciation shown to the fans by the cretins in charge, how any meagre shippy inclusion is done not with an interest in deepening bonds, but with the blatant cynicism of moulding us into performing monkeys dancing to their manipulative tune.

I dislike being treated like a sea lion, expected to clap me flippers at the wave of a fish, or as a panting dog begging at top table, where, because they're desperate to maintain the status quo, every scrap flung down from above now comes with an Anti-Ship kick in the teeth, just to be sure nothing progresses. Not whilst the franchise can still be milked for all it's worth.

I have lost faith Rocketshipping will happen. What passes for Pokémon today carries not the remotest indication of any intention on the so-called writers' part to finish it that way.

Even if it did, it's not my Team Rocket, it's those skeletal, gargoyle bastardisations. My Jessie and James never got the reward they deserved.

I'm somewhat in the market for a replacement. Beneath this loathsome carapace of acid and ice beats the tender heart of a true romantic, and it must have an outlet!

Shipping Ma and Pa provides a certain spurious relief, because it's as close as you can get to Jessie and James without it being them, both biologically as his parents, but they're so similar to the duo it counts as proof in itself.

Holy Matrimony! is prime Rocketshipping territory, not merely the balloon lift, but many slight additions are as important, like the haircuts matching.

Ma and Pa are therefore Jessie and James in the past, present and future:

The past for representing Jess 'n' Jamie gone Victorian, and we've all wondered how that'd turn out.

The present as it's there right now, absent of suffering the shameless whims of morons to get what you want. 'Tis yours to savour.

The future as a glimpse of Jessie and James once married with children, and they agree:

That's how they play it given the opportunity!

What, James in blue, for his and Pa's hair, and Jessie wearing purple, like Ma's, with a red shawl for her own, and Ma Jess's orange earrings to copy the beads?

• Money!

• Bun!

• 'Tache!

• Classy pad!

• Fancy gear!

• Pampered pet!

• Identical cups of Earl Grey!

4. Original Blend

Ma and Pa have only got two fans! We care more than the entire fandom has in twenty years!

Rocketshipping art is ten a penny, so why not display a pioneering spirit, sharpen up those pencils and be inspired?

Let your mind expand and marvel at the possibilities of these unchartered territories, and I'll reblog it if it's nice.

Pay attention to the condition of it being nice. I'm not putting up with any old toss.

Real Ma and Pa is what I want too, not those Sinnoh coffin-dodgers.

It's never been done! Every drawing breaks new ground!

I don't like fan fiction, but I wouldn't say 'no' to that either. Recall the 'nice' stipulation again.

Come on, be the first amongst your friends and get ship shape!

5. It Gives Us All Hope

Suppose your favourite amour one day became canon: you imagine that's the end of the matter?

Well it ain't.

Between Ash, Misty, Brock, Jessie, James, Gary and Tracey, there are three-and-a-half out of fourteen parents (Flint doesn't count as a complete man) and one out of twenty-eight grandparents, and that's not enough!

If the series drew to a close with your beloved couple apparently walking into the happily-ever-after, there's no guarantee it'll endure. In fact, the odds are they'll split up within a few years and leave another generation to fend for themselves or starve.

That's right, so don't presume the final episode is all you need to worry about. Can you rest easy knowing it'll go pear-shaped once the camera stops rolling?

It's futile soothing one's worries with:

Oh, but they know what it's like to be alone. They'd never inflict such stress on their children.

Oh really?

Look at that poor showing of grandparents. Either Pokémon has a system reminiscent of the sci-fi film Logan's Run, where everyone over thirty is vapourized, or these disappearing maters and paters were themselves victims of abandonment.

I bet when they settled down, they thought it'd be different for their kids, they'd make sure of it, but no, off they went down that same route of feckless self-indulgence, and that's being kind assuming they intended not to repeat history.

Depressing eh? What's the good in any of us surrendering to romance, real or otherwise, if love is but a mayfly of emotion, and all dreams are doomed to die?

Then Ma and Pa arrive, and suddenly the storm clouds part for a ray of heavenly light.

It's not only that they made the effort in what was probably an arranged marriage and have stayed together from youth, it's that they've stayed together when no one else has, which augments its value.

When separation is commonplace, sticking it out becomes rarer and rarer as any belief in the sanctity of wedlock erodes with every failure.

If they didn't bother, why should I? What's the use when it won't work?

Once that idea enters your head, it's over, and your gloom-laden attitude fulfils itself.

Society is collapsing about Ma and Pa's ears, but they persevere nevertheless, refusing to buckle under the turgid malaise engulfing the arrogant and weak.

It's bloody beautiful, man!

You may suggest an environment of supreme wealth erases normality, and to their class and time period divorce is still taboo, so they don't really have much of choice but to remain wedded.

Ah, but it's not as if they simply tolerate one another for appearances, or carried on for the sake of their son (which is more than anyone else did besides), not when he walked out on them.

They've been married longer than James has lived, so at least eighteen years (don't all squeal at once), and they're still blissfully contented!

They hold hands!

They use terms of endearment like 'dear' and 'my precious'!

They were made for one another!

They work as a team!

They want the same thing for James!

It could bring a stone angel to tears it's so beautiful!

See what success can be achieved when you try? When you endeavour to love the one you're with and make yourself worth loving in return?

Better that than chucking 'em at the first sign of trouble.

Ma and Pa is such an irrevocable union even the despair of losing their only child failed to tear 'em asunder, and that'd defeat many, but not this husband and wife.

Be grateful, for it means all is not in vain.

It doesn't have to be misery and pain: love can last despite the pressure of a wretched, hollow culture bent on self-destruction. Your ship might just succeed too.

God bless 'em for keeping the magic alive!

...

Why do I have the presentiment that I'm going to regret encouraging support?

#maandpashipping #team rocket #ma james #pa james #ma and pa james #james #jessie #james's mom #james's dad #james's parents #rocketshipping #kanto #holy matrimony!