#preserve as many happy memories as possible because the next moment they might not be there anymore; that part was kinda fucked up

[imarvelatthestars]

III - Vencuyanir

masterlist

Series Pairings: f!reader x Tai, Commander Appo, Captain Vaughn, Sergeant Fox, & Sterling [no cl*necest!]

Chapter Pairing: f!reader x Captain Vaughn

Content: 1st date shenanigans and awkwardness, fluff, light angst, reference to the presumed death of canon characters; also Aurea is basically space Aotearoa (you can pry this headcanon from my cold, dead fingers)

Notes: I may also have taken this as an opportunity to integrate Māori culture into SW again. It's may way of honoring Tem's heritage and trying to make room for Pasifika fans in the fanfiction world. I'd recommend looking up tukutuku and whakairo artistry, as well as the tangihanga mourning tradition, to get a better visualization of what I mention in this chapter.

vencuyanir [v., ven·koo·yah·neer] - to sustain, keep alive, preserve

The war had taken a lot, not just from Vaughn, but from all of his brothers, the entire diaspora of clones. Too many had been lost in a fruitless battle, too many left damaged beyond repair once the fighting was done. He thinks on it every day. It fuels the ache beneath the pitted scar on his chest, the one piece of him that’s never fully healed. Even now, on a day that should be a happy one, he feels the possibility of what could have happened, what his fate might have been had the galaxy chosen to revel in its cruelty – at least, more than it already had.

These are the ruminations that take him to the alley he knows better than any other in the city. He runs his fingers over the paint-caked bricks, checking for patches that need touching up and noting them in the back of his mind. The whites and grays look the worst, being both sun-bleached and dirt-stained with the grime of the city, although there are some blues that might need his attention.

He pats his palm flat against the wall. “I’ll see you later, Commander. I’ve got a surprise for you.” His face burns with the effort of smiling, or maybe that’s just the sting of his tears. “You’ll like her. Promise.”

They’d drawn straws and Vaughn had been the one to draw the longest. That makes today his alone, unhindered by previous outings or expectations. While you still can’t help devolving into giggles at the prospect of a date with you being left to the chance of the draw, more than anything you find that you’re grateful they hadn’t asked you to choose for them. In no galaxy would that have ended well. And doing so would only have felt like picking a favorite, which you refused to do not only because those were the ground rules Appo had laid out, but because you never wanted to make any of them feel like they were less than. It’s been tricky, though, navigating that fear in a relationship with five brothers all keen on spending time with you.

In the span of a week, you’ve discovered that Fox isn’t the only one eager to bask in your presence, or to steal a kiss when the others aren’t looking. It had started with Vaughn the morning after the agreement had been made. He was preparing to leave for work, pulling on his boots and settling his coat over his shoulders, when he saw you shuffling out of the bathroom post-early morning pee break and came down the hall to ask if he could kiss you. (He had done so with such care, so intently and tenderly that the mere memory of it still makes your knees weak.) Next had been Sterling, pressing his own farewell kiss to the side of your temple before then tilting your chin up and stealing another from your lips in the moments before he stumbled out the door. And though he hadn’t yet bridged the gap between friend and partner just yet, Appo had begun... hovering, watching, not daring to take what you hoped he wanted, but still allowing himself tiny moments of almost somethings – his palm flat in the small of your back when he passed by, the stirring of his breath on your skin when you turned to pass him his dinner plate and your hand caught in his, and of course, the intermittent fielding of Fox’s eager attentions when Appo considered him overly zealous, which had only led to more playful bickering between the two and a noted increase in mischievous Fox behavior, including the frantic flurry of kisses and whispers in the hours after he returned from work and before the commander could finish his shift, which you hate to admit continues to warm you from your belly up even now.

Tai, on the other hand, has remained distant. His brothers have privately encouraged you not to take it personally. There are battles he’s still fighting, ones that can only be fought in the recesses of his mind and are only ever won with a streak of hope. Apparently, that streak of hope is you. You offer your companionship when you can, a hand to hold in the darkness and uneasy quiet, and to his credit, Tai allows it. You only hope he’ll find his way in the war he’s waging now, back to you or his brothers, it matters not, so long as he comes home at the end of the day.

“Hey,” comes the gentle rumble of Vaughn’s voice as he seeks out your hand. His fingers squeeze around yours as you come tumbling into the present. “Think I lost you for a second there.”

You maneuver your hand around to return the squeeze, finally blinking out of the unintentional trance you’d fallen into to properly focus on him instead. “Sorry. Just thinking.”

“Anything important?”

Rather than pass it off as nothing, you decide to indulge in a moment of vulnerability, to enjoy the fact that Vaughn is no longer a friend kept at a polite distance. He’s someone you can open up to now, who you can confide your more private thoughts to. You hum thoughtfully. “A lot’s happened this week.”

“That bad?”

“I didn’t say that.”

He returns the smile you flash him, and you soon find yourself tugged closer by your joined hands. So far, you have the exact opposite of an idea of what this date is going to contain. You’re dressed for a day out in the Aurean winter, more mild this year than it has been in years past and so only requiring a double layering of clothes to keep warm, but you have no foundation for what to expect.

The first clue comes when your initial walk from the flat takes you to a small food court area, one you’ve not visited before. “Hungry?” Vaughn asks, though it’s more of a nicety than a true confirmation considering he had told you to bring your appetite with you today.

You stuff your hands into your coat pockets as you peruse the menu projected from the side of the food cart. Some of it you recognize, but the majority of the dishes listed are ones you’ve never even heard of, let alone tried.

“What’s good?” you ask after expressing your confusion on the listings.

“Fried nyork’s pretty good, or the silverfish sourfry. Depends what you’re in the mood for.”

It hits you in an instant, seemingly out of nowhere. One minute you’re debating on your lunch options, and the next you find yourself gazing at Vaughn as if he were the one the put the stars in the sky himself. It’s so casual, this moment, so ordinary, but to see him standing beside you, knowing this is only happening because this is a date, because he wants to be with you, because he’s chosen you above everyone else he might have had, it suddenly strikes you just how much you already love him.

You barely make it through your order (which he insists on paying for no matter how you needle him) before you all but throw yourself at him, curling your fingers around the lapel of his leather jacket to tug him down to your level and kiss him properly. It isn’t shy or restrained, there’s no shame or uncertainty now. All the things your heart feels but cannot say just yet are poured into this kiss. And you tremble at the touch of his hand on your cheek, your waist, tugging you in, seeking, grasping, wanting.

“What, what was that for?” he asks once you finally pull back, though he doesn’t let you go far. He keeps his hand at the back of your neck, and it anchors you into place.

Your teeth worry at the inside of your cheek. “Was that alright?”

He laughs and his smile is dazzling. “Fuck, are you kidding? Of course it was,” and then he’s kissing you again, smiling too broadly for it to work right but refusing to quell his excitement. “Just wanna know what I did so I remember t’ do it again.”

Hands smoothe over wrinkled clothing and noses rub together as you both attempt to regain some decorum.

“Vaughn, you can kiss me whenever you want to.”

That lights something impish in his eyes that prompts him to lower his mouth to yours a second time, this one much less chaste and much more lingering. “I can do that.” A peck this time, short and sweet. “Kar’ta.”

Something in your chest flutters. “What’s that mean?”

“Mm, ‘s Mando’a,” he mumbles as he leans in and kisses the bottom corner of your jaw. “You like it?”

Flutter-bys are starting to rustle about in your stomach now. It’s not that he’s touching you in any way that could be considered inappropriate, or being particularly lewd in the type of kisses he grants you, but after a year of pining and two years of noticing, after all that time of knowing only your own touch in quiet of the evening or the chill or your shower, it’s enough to make your entire body come alive.

A shiver runs through you when he stops, though he doesn’t drift too far away. The scar on his cheek wrinkles when he grins at you.

“I do. I don’t understand it, though.”

“That’s alright, love. You’ll learn it soon enough.”

Hm. Curious. “Will I, now?”

The Pantoran minding the stand calls out the number of your order by that point, which takes Vaughn from you before he can answer, though you’re not entirely certain he had intended to give you a real answer in the first place. He’s suddenly very coy. It’s cute, if not intriguing, so you decide to play along for now. Maybe you’ll download a Mando’a application to your comm and find out for yourself.

Lunch is a simple affair, interspersed with fumbling, awkwardly confident attempts at finding a rhythm between you. He cracks a joke, you crack another, both are absolutely terrible, and both send you into a fit of giggles.

“So, I was thinking.”

“Oh, that’s never a good idea.”

Vaughn narrows his eyes at you in a poor imitation of a scolding expression. Its effect is completely upended by the settling of his hand upon your knee where his thumb rubs softly into your thigh. “I was thinking,” and when you don’t interrupt him again, he continues, “I’d like t’ show you something.”

You flick the leftover wad of foil from your meal until it smacks harmlessly against his chest and tumbles back onto the table. “What is it? Or is that a secret, too?”

He shakes his head. “No secret, just… I’ve never shown you my work before.”

“Your work?” You think at first he means his job at the mechanic shop, which you have indeed never seen before, but that seems like such an odd choice to make for a date. Then you notice the bag he brought with him, his paint bag. You hadn’t thought much of it when you left the flat, but now you’re realizing he’s brought it for a reason. “You mean your art.”

“Thought it was time I finally showed you. Except, there’s a catch.” His mouth wrinkles into a smile that looks rather embarrassed, followed by the dipping of his eyes to a spot somewhere on your shoulder. “I want you t’ guess which one’s mine.”

Now this is something you hadn’t anticipated. Vaughn isn’t exactly the type to keep to himself, nor is he so loudly outgoing that he’s overeager to share anything and everything that he pleases. He’s always fit somewhere snugly in the middle, sharing what he chooses while keeping most thoughts to himself. You’ve known for some time that he has a proclivity for street art, mostly by picking up on the unintentional context clues he leaves behind in brotherly chatter and smudges of paint on his clothes and hands, but not once have you ever pushed him for it. You wanted him to be the one to take that first step in sharing.

The understanding that he finally feels ready to do so urges you to kiss him. With a hand still cupping his cheek, you smile. “I’d love to. In fact, I’d be honored.” His head tilts in your hand as he pecks the inside of your palm. “But what if I get it wrong?”

“You won’t,” he assures you.

His faith in you is encouraging, but you can’t help worrying that you may inadvertently offend him if you do guess wrong.

The first spot he takes you is no more than a block from the food court, still in the main hub of the city. The side of a business building has been painted in the typical Aurean style, a style so ancient that no one quite knows when and where it first originated other than the particular archipelago your island is a part of. A patchwork of red, black, and white tiling has been sprayed onto the building, meant to replicate the tukutuku pattern of the ancient ones. Atop the finished pattern is a crude rendition of a stormtrooper helmet that’s been painted over with a red slash – a wordless declaration of the planet’s hatred for the Empire and its lackeys.

“What do you think?” he asks.

Your fingers trace over some of the paint as you tilt your head back and admire the highest reaches of the piece, a good dozen meters tall. Someone put a lot of time and effort into this. It wouldn’t surprise you if Vaughn had crafted this one, but the choice to use tukutuku tells you it likely isn’t his.

“It’s very beautiful. And big.”

He chuckles. “But?”

“My vote’s on a native Aurean artist, if I’m being honest.”

Vaughn seems pleased by this, and nods to affirm your theory. “Told ya you’d be fine.”

You smile as his arm comes to settle upon your shoulders. “There’s not going to be a trick mural, is there?”

“No.”

“Am I being graded?”

Vaughn’s mouth curls into something smug and teasing as he side-eyes you for a moment. “D’you wanna be?”

“Oh, I dunno,” you shrug as casually as you can, pretending that your heart isn’t about to beat right out of your chest just from teasing him. “I’ve always wanted to be a teacher’s pet.”

“Really?”

It happens in an instant – the sudden touch of a hand on your chin, fingers grasping, tugging just enough to make you turn into him, the dropping of his eyes in the instant before his mouth lands upon yours and a flurry of fireworks and flutter-bys erupts in your belly. It’s quick, this kiss, but dank farrik, it’s enough to make your knees weak. And Vaughn is grinning when he retreats, eyes heavy-lidded and his lips damp.

“Cheeky.”

Your eyelashes flutter rather prettily in his direction. “Who, me?”

He squeezes his arm about you before withdrawing it, choosing instead to reach for your hand and hold it firmly in his. “Just what am I gonna do with you, huh?”

You grin. “I don’t know, but I can’t wait to find out.”

The second mural is a few blocks away. It’s mostly stylized aurebesh with a couple of local flowers painted around the edges and corners. There’s nothing particularly compelling about this piece. It’s simple, although still impressive, but ultimately lacks personality; it looks like every other mural in Pā City. You really hope this one isn’t his.

“Well?” he asks after a minute, nudging you with his elbow to prompt you further.

“It’s nice,” you start, but your voice wavers a bit and you know it’s written all over your face how unimpressed you are.

Vaughn snorts. “Liar. Good thing this one isn’t mine, love, or I might be offended.”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“Yeah, well your sabacc face is shit.”

It’s true. At least he’s not offended, which was your sole concern, so he can tease you about it all he wants. Especially when he smiles like that, all teeth and dimples.

You kiss him again. You could kiss him for a lifetime, and it would never be enough. “You’ll have to help me work on it, then,” you say as you rub your nose against his.

“Mine’s shit, too.” And he presses you up against the wall and presses his lips to yours until you’re breathless.

You’re not entirely sure what you had anticipated when this arrangement first began, but you hadn’t thought that any of the men (apart, perhaps, from Fox) would be too keen on extended boughts of physical touch. They’re often touching each other with a clap on the shoulder or other casual shows of brotherly affection, but it never lingers. And with two years of mostly chaste behavior from the entire flat, you’d simply assumed touch and public displays of affection would be off the table. Restrained, at the very least.

You certainly don’t think that now. Even when he’s not kissing you within an inch of your life, Vaughn’s hands are everywhere. He can never seem to stop touching you. He’s always eager to hold your hand, to squeeze his fingers around yours or intertwine them and then flash you his signature grin when you spare him a glance after, but he’s just as enthusiastic about tucking your arm through the loop that his makes, or to rest his hand on your cheek, your waist, the curve of your shoulder blade.

Now that he’s got you right where he wants you, it seems his hands are wandering even more. His lips still and hover above yours, but Maker above, his hands! They press firmly into the dips of your waist, not enough to hurt in any way, but enough that the weight of his presence is undeniable.

“I’m not kissing you too much, am I?” he huffs as he eyes you warily.

A breathy “uh-uh” and a quick shake of your head is all you can manage.

“You’re sure?” His fingers curl into the fabric of your blouse, then unfurl and smooth out and down over your hips. Vaughn’s gaze flickers all over you and his breath clouds the air between you. “I don’t wanna overwhelm you. You’re just so kriffin’ beautiful, I don’t wanna stop.”

One of your hands shifts to cup the back of his neck. His hair is cropped close to his scalp in a high and tight cut, but you rub your fingers over the tiny strands anyway. It’s a shame there’s nothing there to grab onto to. You fix him with your flirtiest smile. “Then don’t.”

“Fuck.” His forehead drops against yours and suddenly, there’s a whole body pressing into yours, a knee slipping between both your thighs. “You’re dangerous.”

“I try.”

“You succeed.” He’s trying to laugh, but it’s stilted and unsure, hesitant. “A little too well. Are you trying to make me jump you in a filthy alley?”

It hadn’t been the plan, but you wouldn’t say no. Not to him. “I dunno, is it working?”

“Kar’ta,” he hisses. “Playin’ with fire, mesh’la. We still have half a date to finish and I’m already-.”

He cuts himself off so quickly that you worry for a second there’s something wrong, especially when he suddenly starts to remove himself from you and readjust his shoulders, his jacket, his entire stance. The words are nearly out of your mouth when you happen to look down and you see- well, you see a lot. Just one thing, really, but there’s a lot of it. The source of his sudden awkwardness.

“I’m sorry.” But only a little.

Vaughn just shakes his head. “’s alright. I, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have-”

“I liked it,” you blurt before you can think better of it. A hand settles upon his arm. “I like you, silly. And I’m flattered.” You turn your hand over so it’s palm up, then wiggle your fingers as a silent offering. “I feel the same.”

He blinks. “Yeah?”

“Very much so.”

There’s only so many ways you can say “please please please, never stop kissing me like that ever again, that was so hot, I want you in so many ways that it’s embarrassing” without actually verbalizing it like that. You’re not sure you’re ready to admit all that yet. But you think he understands you, and that’s enough.

“Date?”

You nod. “Date.”

“Can I kiss you?”

“Always.”

This street is no different from any other. The buildings are dirty, and a few have sprouted ferns and moss from the constant wet of rain and ocean winds battering the city. It’s the mural sprawled across the brick wall of an old finance building that makes this street stand out.

A burst of black color dotted with stars and blaster fire serves as the background. At least a dozen men in personalized plastoid armor have been painted in a semi-realistic style, each one sporting a blue design on their bodies and a vibrant orange and white on their helms. One helmet looks remarkably familiar, not because the paint job is any different from the others, but because of the visor and attached antennae that his fellow soldiers lack. It looks identical to Vaughn’s.

Standing in the center and twice as tall as the others is a young Togruta woman. Her skin is the same orange color that marks the clone’s helmets, and the markings on her forehead match the patterns on the armor. It’s hard to tell just how old she is, but she looks fierce and brave. Her eyes somehow manage to gleam as if she were alive. You get the feeling that she may not be.

At the very top of the mural is a phrase written in Mando’a.

Perhaps he’s woven magic into his mural. All you know for sure is that it inexplicably draws you in until fingerprints touch paint-layered brick, and your eyes are stinging with unshed tears, and your heart aches.

Oh, Vaughn. You make an effort not to speak it aloud. You don’t want him to mistake your grief for pity, though it would be a lie to say you didn’t pity him and his brothers to some extent. Not when they’ve lost so much.

“Who is she?” you ask instead.

“Ahsoka Tano.” There’s so much reverence in those two tiny words, it nearly knocks you off your feet. “She was our commander. Got us through quite a few battles that wouldn’t have been won without her.”

“She’s beautiful.” And she is. Her eyes are a brilliant blue and her montrals are gorgeous. You can only imagine how remarkable she would have been in life.

“She saved my life,” he says after a moment. You turn then and see him rubbing a spot on his chest, just to the left of his sternum. It’s a spot he’s worried at a million times before when the weather’s too harsh or he pushes himself too far. All this time and you never knew.

You’re not sure what to say. Should you say anything at all? This moment feels too vulnerable to let it pass by without a more concrete sign of your recognition and respect, but you worry that opening your mouth now will end up being the equivalent of tripping over yourself at a wake.

Dark eyes meet yours. They’re red-rimmed and wet.

“Hey.” There’s a lot communicated in those three letters: “are you okay?”, “can I help?”, “I’m so sorry”, “it’s gonna be okay”.

Vaughn attempts a smile, but it’s so fragile that it crumbles under its own weight. “Hey,” he quivers.

Hands find each other as you draw him as close as he’ll allow, then your lips find his cheek, and his heart finds yours. “Thank you. For showing me. I know this means a lot to you.”

“Yeah. Figured it was time to, uh, introduce you two now that things are official.”

“I’m honored.” Your head finds the crook where his shoulder meets his neck while his arm finds your waist. “I wish I could’ve met her.”

“She would’ve loved you,” he says, and there isn’t a single second of hesitation before he does. It comes out of him as quickly as any other truth might. “She was smart and strong. Cheeky, too. Bravest Jedi I ever met.”

Two years isn’t a long time, but it had felt so long when you were living it. The chaos of inviting a group of men into your home, then rewiring your life to fit around theirs had made the days fly by fast but the weeks tick by painfully slow. And then you’d gotten to know each of them, they started laughing at your jokes and relaxing in your company, and you started to believe that you truly knew them. In some ways, you do. You know their moods and their favorite drinks, you know what makes them smile and what makes them hurt, but you forget sometimes that you don’t know them nearly as well as you think you do, as well as you would like. They’d been fighting in your war for years before they ever met you.

You want to know more. You want each brother to know that they can find their new homes in you whenever they grow weary, that they’re always welcome to drop their burdens with you.

“What does the Mando’a say?”

You think you see a glimmer of the soldier he once was in the way he stands now, the upward tilt of his chin, the stern set of his jaw. “Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la. ‘Not gone, merely marching far away.’ We say that for all our lost vode. Brothers,” he adds when he sees you frowning in confusion. “Siblings. The commander was as much a part of us as any clone.”

“Then she was very lucky.” You rub the palm of your hand over one of his pecs in what you hope he finds to be a comforting gesture. “Will you tell me more about her? It, It doesn’t have to be now if you don’t want to, but I thought. If you wanted to… I’d love to hear more about your brothers, you, anything.”

“It’s not all good,” he says, and there’s a warning in his eyes that looks terribly haunted. It’s not something you often see from him.

Regret prompts you to backtrack as delicately as you possibly can. “I understand. I didn’t mean to push you-”

“No. No, I know.” He sighs, and his attention finally refocuses on the mural, on the commander. “War’s never easy. Some of us wear our scars better than others, but the pain still lingers.”

There’s another heartbeat of that pain as it permeates the air around you both, seeps through his clothing and into your skin, and it tastes the way you imagine blaster fire would. And then he blinks, and Vaughn is his usual chipper self. His smile slides into place and the corners of his eyes crinkle, and you realize that you may indeed know much about him, but you might be more familiar with the mask he wears than the man beneath it.

“Well, I didn’t bring you here just t’ mope at you. I had somethin’ else in mind.”

Before you have a chance to ask, Vaughn slings his paint bag off his shoulders and starts pulling out cans. One is extended to you. It’s tall and silver on the outside, no labels or brand names except for a hastily written color name in permanent ink. Yours is white, though you could have discovered that for yourself just by glancing at the dried paint dribbling down the sides.

Spray art is an underappreciated talent. So often, it’s considered as something easily learned and easily performed, a quick tossing together of shapes and colors that anyone can make on their own. It doesn’t help that it’s often looked down upon by those clinging to their ideals at the high end of the social ladder. You’ve misjudged it yourself many times and only started broadening your opinions on the matter once Vaughn came around. With him, though, you learn that it’s so much more.

Before you even begin your piece, you have to know how to paint. You can’t simply point and spray. The way you hold the can, the angle you point the nozzle in, the amount of pressure used, all of it affects the finished piece. Then comes the art itself. Do you know how to stylize your letters? Are you creative enough to work around your mistakes? Do you know how colors complement each other?

However artistically inclined you thought you might have been beforehand, it pales in comparison to Vaughn’s talents. He is, of course, infinitely patient with you and encouraging whenever you get flustered or upset. He shows you all the beginner’s tips and tricks he knows, and after an hour you’ve found that you’ve improved, though your patchwork touch-ups look more like childish scribbles when compared with his. Still, you’re happy he wanted to teach you, that he chose to share something so important to him and his brothers with you, to even let you add your own paint to the memorial.

It's a big show of both trust and respect, and you take neither lightly.

Dinner is a picnic at the top of the nearest hill that shapes the valley of the city, made up of sandwiches and drinks bought at the tram station. You settle on a park bench at the base of the reserve water tower, whose walls have also been sprayed, though not by Vaughn’s hand. This mural is a lovely display of ancient Aurean carving motifs and the imagery of an indigenous Aurean man overlooking the area. The sun is starting to set and has cast the city, the hills, and the lake into shades of orange, yellowish-white, and blue; a sherbet sky in the colors of the 332nd company.

“Thank you,” you tell him, “for sharing that with me. I loved every minute of it.”

“So did I.” There you stay until the first stars begin to peek out from behind the clouds. And even then, you stay out far later than you should, watching the sky transform. Vaughn presses the cold tip of his nose into your neck and your equally cold fingers find comfort in the warmth beneath his arms, and you laugh, and kiss, and are the happiest you’ve been in a long, long time.

He returns to the mural later in the week, unable to shake the sudden onslaught of memories that have overwhelmed him the past few rotations and hoping that if he can just look at the commander for a minute, remember her how she was rather than lose himself in what she’s ceased to be, he can find some peace. What he doesn’t expect is to see an e-lantern propped against the wall, flickering softly in the fading light of the early evening. A green kawakawa leaf and a white flower have been pinned beneath the lantern.

He forgets how to breathe. Aurean tradition dictates the use of such plants for mourning rituals, most often in the form of wreaths worn by the deceased. In a flurry of tears and fumbling fingers, Vaughn whips out his comm and sends you a message.

You reply a few heartbeats later: yes, i hope that’s okay?

Vaughn inhales so sharply that it hurts deep in his throat. It hits him all at once. He loves you. Kriff the Empire, kriff the galaxy, kriff anyone and anything that isn’t you (or his brothers), because literally nothing else in this life will ever compare to the wonder that is you.

His comm chirps about a minute later: i love you too 💕

It’s the first time either of you have said it aloud, though he’s certainly thought it before. Vaughn rushes home soon after. He wants to actually say it to you. He wants to see your face when he does. He wants you to know just how much it means to him that you remembered his sister, his brothers, and honored them the way you would honor your own dead.

#captain vaughn x reader #captain vaughn x you #captain vaughn #tcw #star wars #x reader #clone trooper x reader #labyrinth of my mind

[lostsoulaltair]

OnS Theory & Analysis - The Resurrection

Hello everyone, this is the first topic of the surprise linked to another theory, thereofre, you might wonder, what it’s so surprising about this, but in fact, there’s more to dig in such a single word despite being simple. Therefore, let’s begin!

P.S: Theories are held within a neutral view and ships are excluded

So far we know the resurrection of humanity is a process on which the corpses of whoever knows how many humans were gathered and ultimately were kept in a huge storage which was displayed in early chapters:

Image taken from Chapter 55

And in the recent chapters, it was revealed what happened to other bodies that were thought to be gone:

Image taken from Chapter 114

Though, why do I question the resurrection if it’s plain easy which is as it was explained, it is just needed to fulfill the requirements in order to trigger it:

Image taken from Chapter 114

Have you guessed my dear readers? 

First of all, the resurrection alone is applied to humans. It has never been displayed that a resurrection for a vampire and much less a demon was possible; but why? Wasn’t Shikama aiming to resurrect his son?

The difference relies that Shikama had his son’s corpse, ultimately, it is unknown whenever the corpse ceased to exist or is kept into the depths, but why do I talk about the depths?

One of the things that I find intriguing is that no matter how the story is handled, it always goes back to the main root where evil spread, and that is exactly around the cities that the Hiragi Family once controlled.

But focusing on the main point for now, here goes the main question:

Why are there issues or uncertainty with the resurrection?

We know that the resurrection means waking the dead from the eternal slumber, it means bringing their souls back to their bodies so they can once walk on Earth; alas, when it comes to the demons, how would such process even take place?

What do I mean?

Demons alone might be complex beings to explain, but despite that, they have something a corpse does not, and that is the very fact that they do harbor their respective souls despite not having a normal physical body like vampires or humans do; their physical manifestation relies a lot on a human they possess or make a contract with.

To some degree, it makes sense why Guren stated that resurrecting Mikaela would take the very same process they needed to resurrect humanity; because in order to bring back a person from zero with no phsyical body, with nothing left that made him exist on Earth, it’d be removing those shackles that bounded him or modified his entire being that made him a demon.

Furthermore, how exactly would they appear like? What do I mean?

Correct. When it comes to returning to Earth as humans with blood and flesh, there’s no doubt that if we were discussing about humanity in general, they’d preserve their physical appearance as they died long ago; but when it comes to demons whose appearance relate to their best moments of their lives or in the contrary like how Mikaela changed shape due to him being happy with both part of his childhood and finding Yuu again, the question would be:

-Will he return according to his age?

-Will he return from zero, as a baby or as a child?

-Will he have memories of who he was or will those memories fade?

At first glance, indeed, resurrecting everyone seems pretty easy, even how Guren paints it seem like it’s just bound to be that, but definitely, there are things that are left to the unknown and hopefully, time will reveal them.

What do you think dear readers?

Let me know!

P.S: The next surprise I hope it turns a bit mindblowing

#owari no seraph #seraph of the end #sote #ons #ons theories #ons analysis and theory #ons chapter 120 #ons chapter 114 #ons chapter 55 #ons resurrection #mikaela hyakuya #demon mikaela hyakuya #yuichiro hyakuya

[flameohotwife]

Fanfic writer ask game: 5, 7, 12, 37!

Happy fanfic writer appreciation day, friend!!!

5. Share one of your strengths. Northern asked the same question! hahaha I dislike listing my strengths why must you do this to meeee. I said characterization for northern, for you I'll say dialogue. I have a lot of fun writing dialogue, and have been complimented on it before so I think it comes off well, at least for the characters I know the best (Aang and Katara).

7. Share a snippet from one of your favorite pieces of prose you’ve written and explain why you’re proud of it.

Aang’s grief was ever present. Sometimes it pressed in from all sides, suffocating him. Sometimes it just sat on his shoulder, reminding him through every council meeting that he was alone. The only one wearing orange and yellow. The only one with arrows. The only one. 

He had lost so much; nobody would really blame him if they knew. However, Aang carried his burden quietly, behind a mask of joviality and gentleness. Not that Aang wasn’t jovial and gentle, but so many saw this and forgot about the heavy sadness sitting just under the surface. Only his closest friends could see the slips of his mask. The clenched fists under the table in response to an insensitive comment, the twitch in his eye from losing sleep trying to somehow preserve his lost Nation, the momentary disappearance of his signature grin when a memory of them broke through, reminding him that they should still be here. That it was his fault they were gone. 

This is the beginning of my fic Hopeful Again (rated E), and my biggest Aang's-grief exploration to date. I am proud of it because it really sets the stage and the emotional threshold for the rest of the fic. I poured so much into this fic and I'm still really happy with how this whole fic turned out.

12. Is there an episode above all others that inspires you just a little bit more? Ooooh this is a good one! Does the whole first half of book 3 count? hahaha. The Awakening, The Headband, and The Painted Lady have SO MUCH good character development that I draw from repeatedly in my writing. I guess, though, if I have to pick just one, I would pick The Serpent's Pass from book 2, because I have written entire FICS based on that scene of Aang and baby Hope and his and katara's conversation afterward, so... hahaha.

37. Talk about your current wips. Oh, friend, there are so many (sobs in open, unfinished google docs). I have 7 open wips at the moment, ranging from zero words of prose/just the base idea to multiple unpublished chapters written. The big one is obviously Unspoken, Undeniable (rated T)--my multi-chapter fake dating kataang AU. I also have the next segment of Explorations (rated E) in the drafting stage, an almost-finished smutty labor induction fic I promised sometime last year, a kainora and katara fic/ficlet idea, the mixed-race cloudbabies fic, awkward museum fic to fulfill a @kataang-prompts idea, and a part 2 to A Noble Predicament (rated T) in which Aiza and Katara meet in person. There are too many to talk about hahaha but I will say that you will definitely like the next chapter of Unspoken, Undeniable when I post it next week, since we'll be getting ready for and going to the birthday ball! I also might need to start differentiating the fic between ffn (rated T) and ao3 (rated M, possibly, for now) because of a couple sentences of implied solo activities... Still nothing explicit so I haven't decided if that is where the line is or not. There WILL be a bonus spice chapter at the end on ao3 that won't be included in the ffn version, but... yeah I don't know, hahaha.

Thank you so much for the ask, choco!

40 questions for fanfic writers

#fanfic writer ask game #chocomd #asks #happy fanfic writer appreciation day! #kataang fanfic #spicy kataang in the links

[softykooky]

the habits of a broken heart.

☾ genre : soulmates au, unrequited love, art student!JK, english student!Y/N, angst, fluff, subtle enemies to lovers

☾ pairing : jeon jungkook x reader

☾ summary : jungkook and you are soulmates. so says the matching crescent moons on both your wrists. however, things are never as easy as they seem, and you are quick to learn that falling in love with someone who does not believe in love is a one-way ticket to heartbreak. 

alternatively,

“You still are, you know. Worth it.” You release a shaky breath. “But I was stupid to think that I am too.”

☾ word count: 26.3k (my biggest one yet!)

☾ author’s note: this took forever oh my gosh! i really hope you like it! it’s my first time writing such a big single piece, and trying a different style. thank you so much for your support, always! please let me know what you think ♡

The first time he had his heart broken, Jeon Jungkook had been 13 years old. He was fresh out of middle school and so ready to face his freshman year with an impressionable mind and plenty of voice cracks to earn him months worth of teasing. You see, at the age of 13, Jungkook wasn’t something to swoon over. He had yet to grow into his ears and Dr. Park assured him that his braces would be off as soon as she could get them. He was a little lanky and a bit too reticent to be considered social. So when a girl in his grade comes up to him, nervous and stuttering, and asks him to go to the heavily romanticized homecoming dance, Jungkook has already come to the conclusion that she might be his soulmate, even if he was far too young to get his mark yet. 

Her name was Mina, and Jungkook is confronted with this memory every time he visits home and his mother makes the family flip through the photo albums dating back to his high school years. He grimaces every time he sees the picture of them together. Him in a pink button-up to match her offensively ugly ruffled taffeta dress. 

Mina broke up with him three months after that picture was taken, through one of her friends no less and in front of his entire gym class. Jungkook couldn’t remember how long he cried for while he felt the pain from his first heartbreak would never go away, regardless of how much time passes. He held onto his mother and sobbed out the agony and humiliation of Mina not wanting to be his girlfriend anymore, and how he had lost his soulmate before he even knew it was her. His mother assured him that without the mark, there was no way to be sure and that there was hope. But back then, all Jungkook could think of was ways to avoid Mina the next day, especially when they sat next to each other in 3rd period biology.  

At 13 years old, Jungkook thought he would never find love again. 

He is 18 when he stands alongside his parents in a pale examination room and awaits his destiny. He’s leaving for college the next day, yet the only thing that’s making him nervous is the mark that will inevitably appear on his wrist in the next few minutes. The same one he would find on his soulmate’s, and Jungkook wonders if there is the possibility of scaring everyone away when the first thing he’ll ask on a date is: can I please see your wrist? 

To say the least, Jungkook is petrified. Because that mark on his wrist is going to serve as a constant reminder of his missing piece, and Jungkook knows he’ll always feel lacking until he finds them. It’s a crescent moon. Small and black and nestled comfortably on his skin. He knows many times the marks don’t have any correlation with the couples, but Jungkook wonders if you are an astrologist. Or an astronaut. Or just had a weird affinity for the moon. He smiles when they congratulate him and can’t stop himself from thinking that he might be in love with you already. Wherever you are. When he leaves for university, he feels less lonely when there is a crescent moon to accompany him. 

Contrary to the beliefs of his 13-year old self, Jungkook does fall in love again. Hard. This time, it was a girl with brown hair and big eyes and a smile so pretty he could see it from across a crowded room. She was a grade below him; a frazzled college freshman with no clue to where her lecture hall was, and he: a sophomore who had a compulsion of changing his major every other month. When he met her, it had been chemical engineering and three weeks before that was film composition. Her name was Yoojung, 18 years old while he was 19.

 Her soulmate mark is a single star, and even though he knows she is not his soulmate, he can’t help but to think how perfectly their marks complement each other. How they would make a perfect night sky. 

They had met at a frat party, no less, and the combination of cheap booze and bad hiphop music had made her look so incredibly gorgeous under the dim lighting. They had their first kiss in a random person’s living room, highly intoxicated and much too irresponsible and Jungkook had barely even remembered it in the morning until she showed up at his doorstep and invited herself in. Yet it wasn’t too long before he made a perfect space for Yoojung in his life.

 Each day after his physics lecture, he’d go to her dorm and they’d chat over breakfast until she had economics at 10 o’ clock. After she was done, he’d insist that they go get a greasy hamburger at the joint his friends took him to when they got high and, she’d end up dragging them both to the health food restaurant that prided themselves on only using organic. Leave it to Jungkook to find himself a vegan girlfriend. 

Sometimes though, when he looks at Yoojung, his mind drifts to his actual soulmate and a little flower named guilt blooms in his chest. But he is so young and his other half could be anywhere in the world, so Jungkook thinks there is no harm in allowing himself to indulge in a little affection. These days, it wasn’t completely abnormal for soulmates to part ways, and when Yoojung is in his arms, Jungkook likes to think that his soulmate would understand. They would want him to be happy. In the middle of synchronizing their busy student schedules and sneaking in quick kisses through cramming for finals, he had found it unnervingly easy to fall in love with her. 

Deeply and blindly in love. 

Yoojung brought him home to her family on fall breaks and the occasional winter vacation and Jungkook had melded perfectly into their dynamic. The son I never had, her father would tell him over the dinner table while her mother constantly made sure his plate was piled high. Her little sister was visibly in love with him, and would ask Yoojung where he was every time she came home from university, yet avoiding him at all costs when he was there. 

Jungkook’s own family, however, was a different story. To put it delicately, they had liked it more when he came home by himself and left her at school. It had put a strain on their relationship sure, but at the end of the day, Jungkook loved her. A simple love. 

Every day he remembers that their marks do not match. But if this is love and he feels like he is on cloud 9 with every moment they are together, Jungkook begins to doubt if the universe’s will is truly divine and successful. Maybe Yoojung was his soulmate and it did not matter what was on their wrists. 

He loved her intensely, and she did him. She was the first thing on his mind when he woke up and manifested in his dreams when he slept at night. To Jungkook, Yoojung could do no wrong. Like some sort of divine being or angel that the heavens sent just for him, and he found himself thinking maybe he wouldn’t mind spending the rest of his life beside her. 

But he would come to learn that the higher the climb...the harder the fall. 

Jungkook and Yoojung were together for the better part of 4 years before she cheated on him with a guy that she’d supposedly met a couple weeks ago. When Jungkook screams at her asking why she had been disloyal, Yoojung shows him her wrist. Her single inked star. 

“I found my soulmate, Jungkook. And I love you so much, you know I do. I didn’t know how to tell you so I…”

The rest of her words fade into white noise and all Jungkook can do is look at her and commit every detail to memory as he feels her fade farther away. Her teary and remorseful brown eyes. Her plush lips. The fan of her eyelashes and the mole on the side of her temple. He’ll never get to see her like this again. 

“I was ready to be with you, soulmate or not. I know it’s not fair but I wanted the same from you”, he whispers, falling down on the couch and burying his face in his hands. 

“Soulmates be damned, the universe was wrong. I was so hideously in love with you. How could you not at least tell me when you met him?” Jungkook feels his heart collapsing in on itself with every word of resignation. Of burgeoning acceptance. Yoojung can only mirror his desolate expression and stares down at the star on her skin.

 Jungkook wishes it were a moon. 

“Just go, Yoojung.” 

It would have hurt less if it was only a one night stand with a stranger she did not know the name of. He was in love and spineless enough to move past a one night stand. However, Yoojung had found her soulmate and fallen in love with him. Jungkook had merely acted as a placeholder for the real deal to come along and sweep her off her feet. 

This time he doesn’t cry. Just stares out the window of his living room and wonders what it would be like to disappear altogether. When the door is slammed shut, and he is left to nurse his aching soul, Jungkook apologizes in advance to the person that shares the same mark on their wrist as him. He no longer believes that soulmates exist. 

When Jungkook looks back at his 13 year old self with the innocent construct of what heartbreak feels like, he wants to laugh and maybe slap that stupid boy upside the head. Yoojung had destroyed him. Destroyed the innocent and starry-eyed person that he’s tried so hard to preserve. Destroyed his vulnerability and bright outlook on life and in their place, cultivated walls of rock and steel meant to keep everyone out and him safely tucked inside. In her wake, Yoojung left behind a shell of a man who pushed his emotions so deep he became numb and forgot what it was like to feel. 

So Jungkook does what he always does to push away the hurt. He changes his major; to art history this time. He stacks up bracelets on his wrist to forget the mark of a moon. He scrapes up his rainy day money and treats himself to the most expensive pair of Saint Laurent boots he’s ever worn. He tests the limits of the human liver, and takes advantage of the biceps and jawline he’s acquired since high school to establish a reputation. 

To his friends, Jungkook remained raucous and always down to order infinite rounds of shots until he couldn’t see straight. To those that looked even closer, Jungkook was so completely shattered he didn’t even feel it anymore. 

The second time he had his heart broken, Jungkook was 23. He promised himself he wouldn’t let it happen again. 

◐

“For the last time, Jimin, I’m not going to give you a blowjob so you can pay for my student loans.”

You don’t know how many times you’ve had this conversation with your roommate. Most of the time, it was convenient to have a roommate whose parents were loaded and sent him monthly installments that looked more like small loans than allowances. You knew he just wanted to help. Heck, he probably would be willing to pay them off for you without the promiscuous favor, but you had made it clear to Jimin that you wouldn’t be riding off of his charity. 

“Ugh, Y/N you’re really no fun”, he sighs, falling backwards onto your twin-sized bed and feigning devastation. You reward his melodrama with a giggle, ruffling your hands through his fried hair. Jimin had a knack for changing his hair color as quickly as his mood. 

You look at the bill that’s staring back at you from your computer screen, and it feels like it’s just reached out and punched you in the face. “Hey do you think it’s a common mistake for bank tellers to add a few too many zeroes?” 

“Y/N.” 

“Yeah, you’re right. I’m rationalizing as a self-defense mechanism.” Sometimes it was annoying that your roommate had a degree in psychology. Then again, Jimin was making more money than you and your degree in English. 

You sigh deeply and look up at the ceiling in attempts to quell your tears of frustration. And also because it is a plea to whoever is up there controlling your destiny: please I’m begging you. Melt my debt away. 

You and Jimin sit in comfortable silence and he plays with the hem of your worn comforter while you scroll through the emails you have been ignoring in your inbox. You want to smash your head in at all the deadlines. Times like these, there is one thing that brings you comfort and always has since you turned 18. 

The quaint little crescent moon that sits right atop your radius. 

You had a habit of pressing your thumb against it and feeling your pulse against the mark, stupidly wondering if your soulmate’s heartbeat has synched up with your own. If he was out there somewhere, touching his mark and wondering the same about you. He was taking his sweet time, that’s for sure. Jimin sees your nervous tic and sighs again.

“You’re so hopelessly romantic it makes me want to barf, Y/N.” You scowl at his words and chuck a pillow at his unsuspecting face. 

“I don’t understand you, Jimin. Your soulmate is out there and you’re not the slightest bit curious? You don’t want to do anything extra to find them?” Jimin looks at you with a knowing smile.

“That’s exactly it, though. I know they’re my soulmate and I’ll find them when the time is right. So why worry about it? It’s better not to force anything.” His statement is followed up with a grin and his fingers reach out to pinch your cheeks. This was the dynamic of your friendship. He is easy-going and flows like a careless river. You’ve read one too many books to not vie and daydream for the moment you lock eyes with your soulmate. 

Your mom always said that you’ll know just from a look. It’s like getting hit over the head with a ray of sun, she said. Like suddenly their eyes are the only eyes you ever want to look into again. Since then, you’ve dreamt for the day you find someone with that same moon on their wrist. For now though, you had more immediate concerns more along the lines of crippling debt. 

“What do I do, Jimin? Should I be a stripper?” He laughs and the thought makes you groan. You couldn’t even walk in heels, much less try to dance or look like you didn’t have two left feet. Stripper life just wasn’t for you. 

“Hm...I could call in a few favors for you at the office. Get you an internship or secretary position.” 

“Maybe. Too much nepotism. Your father owns the office you work at”, you remind him, and his eyebrows crease further in thought. God, maybe you do have to be a stripper.

“Wait!” Jimin yelps so suddenly you almost fling the computer off your lap. 

“I think I know someone. He’s been looking for a model for his art portfolio or something, and he said he’s willing to pay.” Jimin reaches for his phone and his thumbs type up a storm while you watch from the sideline. 

“I think he mentioned it’s about a month-long project. You’d just have to be on call whenever a stroke of genius arrives.” 

“That sounds great! I’m an amazing model!” you crow, to which Jimin giggles again.

“The several candids I have in my camera roll tell a different story, Y/N.” Naturally, he receives another pillow to the face. But you follow up with a cheery kiss to his cheek as you rejoice in the new opportunity for cash flow by a celebratory dance, which looks more like a wiggle when you remain seated on your bed. 

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!”, you chirped, “I owe you one.”

“Hey...I know how you can repay me.”

 When you look towards him, his eyebrows are raised inquisitively and there’s a devilish smirk on his lips.

Jimin gets a third pillow to his face that day. 

◓

Jungkook’s favorite type of arguments to get into is whether Neo-classicism or post-impressionism had the most impact on European art and architecture. Call him a snob, but he loves to prattle on about Degas and Caillebotte until his opponent tires or concedes out of pure exhaustion. Jungkook regards it as a battle strategy: bore your enemy so that they stop fighting. 

He’s in the middle of a heated debate with his classmate from graduate school when he receives a phone call from Park Jimin. Now, Jungkook has no idea how or when Jimin became an installment in his life, or how he’s roped his way into his inner circle. He just remembers waking up one day with a killer hangover and finding that there was a pink-haired stranger lying on his floor. When he tried to shoo him out, the stranger shoved a wad of money in his shirt pocket, muttering “just five more minutes”, and Jungkook was in no position to deny easy cash. Jungkook now considers Jimin one of his close friends. 

“What’s up, Jiminie?” He laughs into the microphone. 

“I told you not to call me that, you brat. I’m older than you.” 

“I’m taller than you.”

“My dick is bigger.”

“I-okay fine you got me there.” He hears Jimin wheeze over the line as he tries to rein himself in to say what he needs to say. 

“In all seriousness, though. I have a proposition for you.” Jimin lilts in a mischievous tone, which makes Jungkook nervous enough to get up from the café table he had been sitting at with his friend and careen to a quieter corner. 

“Shoot.”

“Okay, so you know how you were telling me about your portfolio for the gallery. The one you have to submit by the end of the season? How you needed a model on call 24/7 in case inspiration struck?” 

Jungkook wants him to spit it out because he has been searching high mountains and low valleys for someone that would be willing to be his muse for a month or two. Constantly at his beck and call so he can finish this damn portfolio and get his name out there in the art world. Maybe start debating post-impressionism with the cream of the crop. 

“I think I’ve found someone to do that for you.” Jungkook exhales in relief at his words.

“She’s my roommate and she’s super low on cash and unemployed with a bachelor’s in English literature, so she’s got time to spare.” Perfect. That way, Jungkook can call her whenever he needs to.

“That’s amazing, Jiminie. Can she meet me at the art building tomorrow at noon? We can start right away.” Jungkook breathes through the phone, a small weight coming off his shoulders now that another thing had been accomplished. One less thing he had to worry about on the journey to his goal. Jimin confirms the plans and they exchange pleasantries before Jungkook hangs up as the man on the other line starts screaming about his burning lunch on the stove. 

Jungkook catches sight of the mark on his wrist when he looks down, and quickly rearranges his bracelets so that it is once again covered to his eyes. Out of sight and out of mind. 

The gallery portfolio had been a thorn in his side. It had been months in the making and if he allows himself to reminisce, Jungkook remembers the nights he and Yoojung stayed up until dawn and talked about his blossoming interest in art. How he wanted a space of his own to display his works. Back then, she listened to him with stars in her eyes and basked in the afterglow of post-coital cuddling, promising that she would help him achieve it. 

His heart sinks at the memory of the imprint of her tresses of hair spilling on his bedspread. He burned those sheets the second she left. 

Jungkook represses his intrusive thoughts about Yoojung and wills her to get out of his head. He forces it down until it feels like he’s just dumped ice water over his heart and vomited out any semblance of emotion. He makes his way back to the cafe table with a sly smile that hides the internal ache he’s promised himself to never let anyone suspect of. 

“So what were you saying about Renoir’s Moulin de la Galette?”

◑

The art building is situated besides a library, with a bakery flanking its left. Two years spent at the university, and you’ve never once stepped foot there. Maybe it was the daunting abstract sculpture on the front lawn or the prejudices you held against annoying art snobs on their high horses, but you often found yourself subconsciously avoiding the space in intimidation. 

“Okay, Y/N, you’re going to do this so you can pay off your loans”, you whisper under your breath, words meant for your ears and no one else’s. “And if he asks you to pose nude, you run the opposite direction.” 

It was easy to get lost in the building. For art students that know how to draw, they really took advantage of abstractionism to make the most confusing map you had ever seen in your life. Luckily, with some direction from the vapid front desk secretary and some intuition, you were able to to find room 62B. You don’t think you’ll be able to forget the number 62B if you tried, Jimin had screamed it to you so many times as you left the apartment. 

The door soundlessly opens with a nudge of your hand and you stick your head inside.

“You know when Jimin told me he found me a model, he didn’t mention her lack of punctuality.” His voice is calm and subdued with no lingering annoyance, even if his words are uncourteous. You whip around to him and the first sight you see of Jeon Jungkook is merely a tuft of brown hair behind a vast canvas. And some expensive looking leather boots that anchor his feet to the ground. 

You clear your throat and approach with an outstretched hand and the shiniest smile you can muster. 

“I’m Y/N. Jimin’s roommate. It’s nice to meet you.”

“You can call me Jungkook.”

It is when he steps out from behind the canvas that you finally understand what your mother meant when she said meeting your soulmate feels like getting hit over the head with a ray of sunshine. You can’t describe it any other way, but that’s exactly what it feels like. Like the air becomes so sweet in your lungs it turns to viscous honey. Like suddenly the person standing in front of you is Valentine, encapsulated. 

You know he feels it too, yet you don’t know why he forces himself to remain blasé, and if you hadn’t seen his widened eyes and heard the gasp from his lips you would have never suspected anything at all. Stranger courtesy is abandoned and you forcefully grab his wrist, turning it over to find his mark while pulling up your sleeve to reveal your own. 

A little black crescent moon.

Right on the pulse point.

Just like your’s. 

When you finally muster up the nerve to look into his eyes again, you wonder if it is healthy for the human heart to beat so fast and so thunderously it feels ready to jump out of your chest. Jungkook, however, still wears that same expression on his face. Flat and cold, not even a glimmer in his eyes. He stares at you disinterested and wrenches his wrist from your grasp. 

“Wait, Jungkook...aren’t you….”, you sputter through a desperate smile, “aren’t you happy?” He stays silent and trains his attention on the canvas in front of him, but you can see the conflict that swirls in his iris. 

“I’ve been looking for you for so long! And I’ve finally found you. In the art building no less, just my luck that-”

“Y/N, I don’t know what you expect from me but I’m not looking for anything right now.” 

There were no objectively ugly words. But you think the ones that have just spewed from Jungkook’s lips come pretty close. They stoke a fire in your chest.

“What do you mean? We’re soulmates”, you faltered, sinking deeper into confusion as you stare at the unaffected man in front of you, whose only concern is the conglomerate of paint on his palette. 

Jungkook sighs monotonously. Almost as if he had better things to do than be here.

“It’s only a mark on your wrist. And we just happen to have the same one. Amazing that you still think somehow one single person was made entirely just for you.” His words are bored and he doesn’t even have the decency to look you in the eye when he speaks. You think you might want to punch him if you weren’t so speechless.

“Look”, he sighs as if you were inconveniencing him, “I’m not going to sugarcoat it and tell you that I’m the one you’ve been looking for this whole time. We have the same mark, but...I’m not the guy you want.”

“B-But...I’m your soulmate. We-we’re made for each other.”

Jungkook scoffs harshly, and you want to sink into the ground. “That’s just a silly myth.” 

“So you don’t...believe in soulmates?” The words felt wrong to say when all your life, finding your soulmate felt like the ribbon at the end of the finish line. But here he was now, and you felt so small under his gaze. Like you weren’t meant to be there and standing in the same room with him was a concoction for heartbreak.

“No.”

Jungkook’s syllable pangs in your ear, and you think it might be your least favorite sound. Then you leave. And if it was hard for you to meet your soulmate - the person who you’re destined to be with - who doesn’t believe in you, then walking away from him was a different cross to bear. 

You take the bus home and ignore the glare of strangers when you burst into tears at a red light, and cry the rest of the way back. Your mother hadn’t described this. She prosed on and on about the feeling one gets after finding a soulmate but never mentioned to you how it feels when you find out they want nothing to do with you. What do you do when you realize the person you’ve been chasing for forever has been trying to run away at the same time? 

Jimin holds you together that night on your bedroom floor, while you break apart and scratch at the moon on your wrist until your skin breaks. He listens to the words you sputter; as much as he can decipher when they are drowned out by the painful sound of your sobbing. Jungkook’s beliefs bleed into your consciousness. Perhaps he is right and perhaps there is no such thing as true soulmates, and the marks are obsolete. 

However, when you fall asleep in your friend’s arms from the physical fatigue of violent crying and the sheer mental exhaustion of meeting Jeon Jungkook, your mind comes to a more painful conclusion. 

A more truthful conclusion.

Your soulmate only needed to meet you to decide that he did not want you.

◒

Jungkook doesn’t believe in soulmates. He thinks they’re a stupid coy to give people false hope. An illusion to feign happiness and to take Yoojung away from someone she genuinely loved. Though in the hours of the night, when he is by himself and the bed feels too big for one body, Jungkook wonders if there is truly a reason why someone has an identical moon on their wrist. But he is still so broken and unhealed from the wounds Yoojung left behind.

 So instead of soulmates, he thinks about what she must be doing. If she’s eating well. If she’s moved in with her own soulmate and if they’re happy together. Jungkook is an involuntary masochist and he pays for it with every pillowcase that becomes stained with his tears. 

He sighs out an expletive after downing a shot of whiskey, relishing in the familiar burn as it slides down his throat. Alcohol doesn’t seem to be working efficiently, though. He’s only barely tipsy after years in college building tolerance, and he can still see your face each time he blinks. Like you are imprinted on the back of his eyelids. Jungkook wonders why Jimin had cancelled on the group tonight. 

There is a little devil called remorse and it stands atop his shoulder, unseen by everyone but him, and Jungkook decides he will get rid of it by calling another round of shots. From his seat in the dirty booth, he can see Min Yoongi and his soulmate practically dry humping on the dance floor. If anyone asks him if he ever gets jealous seeing soulmates happy and in love, he’ll laugh in their face and tell them he pities people like that. People that are so blinded by the system. But loneliness is a stern mistress and it makes him think of you. How lovely the moon looks on your wrist. How your hand felt so warm when it caressed against his skin. 

He tips his head back again. Vodka this time.

“Dude, are you okay?” 

To his right comes Kim Taehyung, designated driver extraordinaire, and he looks at Jungkook with friendly concern laced with amusement. Jungkook nods contentedly. 

“Soulmates are so bullshit, Tae”, he snickers, fingers tracing the rim of the shot glass and smirk on his face to mask the bitterness of both the alcohol and his heart. Taehyung spares a knowing glance, resting a hand on his friend’s shoulder with the weight of knowledge of Jungkook’s past. 

The night is young and so is he. He drinks until he can no longer taste the liquor and forgets altogether about what had happened only a couple of hours before. Until the crescent mark on his skin just looks like a shapeless black blob, and it makes him smile. He thinks he likes it better that way. 

Taehyung drops him home and personally tucks him into bed while he is still in jeans and his shirt smells like the bar. His sleep is dreamless that night. When the morning comes and his friends tease him about how he begged Taehyung not to leave, Jungkook will laugh and blame the alcohol for his foggy memory. He won’t tell them that he does remember, and that he was only grasping at any warm body to soothe his aching loneliness.

◐

Usually when he first opens his eyes in the morning, Jungkook is thinking about the next class he has to attend and if he is late (which is usually most of the time). This morning, albeit morbidly hungover, Jungkook thinks of the apple strudels they sell at the bakery next to the art building. Mrs. Kim always gets the pastry to filling ratio just right. But when he opens the door with a jubilant smile on his face and the scent of baked goods already in his nostrils, Jungkook has a feeling apple strudels will have to wait. 

There you are. In all your messy-haired glory, huffing like a caged bull in the doorway of his apartment, fiery gaze directed completely at him and all he can think to say is:

“How do you know where I live?” Jungkook schools his face expressionless in your presence. He hopes this will discourage you, but it only makes you angrier. 

“Park Jimin”, you snarl. 

Of fucking course, it’s always Park Jimin. Jimin who drunkenly sleeps in his bedroom and now Jimin who is leaking his address to any stranger.

“Um”, Jungkook stammers and takes a step back, “what are you doing here? Didn’t I get my point through yesterday?” He can see the statement catching you off guard, and the fury in your eyes dwindles to dejection. Only for a millisecond though, before you are aiming your wrath at him once again. 

You take a deep breath. “What is wrong with you?” 

Jungkook can think of a lot of answers to that query. He opts to interpret it as a rhetorical question and keep his mouth shut. 

“You just...found your soulmate! I’m your soulmate! And you don’t even want to get to know me? At all?”, you scream exasperatedly. Jungkook catches the gaze of a middle aged lady who is not-so-discreetly staring at the two of you, and pulls you inside his apartment by your arm. If you weren’t so frustrated, you would have been flustered at the physical contact. 

“Listen. Soulmates don’t end up together all the time. I’ve told you I’m not really interested in anything right now and it’s not a priority”, he takes a breath through his passionate monologue, “and I’m sorry that that’s not something you expected, but I….don’t want a soulmate.”

Maybe...he just doesn’t want you. 

When he says them out loud to a living breathing person, Jungkook realizes how cruel it sounds. He can see it in the way your eyes have become glossy under his living room lights and the way you shrink into yourself as self-defense against his blows. He rationalizes that he’d rather tell you the truth than lie to you now, only to hurt you later. Really, he’s doing you a kindness. Right?

You turn your back to him to gather your thoughts, and wipe the tears that you refuse to let him see. The salty drops sting the raw skin of your wrist after last night, and you are brutally reminded of the current reality. His brutal honesty makes you want to abandon all hope, but you were a woman with a plan. You came here for a reason, not to just lose your temper in your soulmate’s apartment and tell him what you really thought about him.

“I have a proposition for you”, you asserted calmly, staring Jungkook in the eye as he remains unbothered. 

“Now I reckon something’s happened to you to make you lose all your faith in soulmates, so I’m not forcing you to do anything you don’t want to do.” Your eyebrows furrow when you speak focusedly.

“We don’t have to be together. That’s your will. But…”, you hesitate, pushing past the uncertainty and fear of another rejection from Jungkook, “will you let me at least try? You don’t have to promise anything. Can we just start as friends?” 

Naturally, Jungkook wants to shoot down your offer, kick you out of his apartment, and pretend like he never met anyone by the name of Y/N. Call it divine intervention but when he looks at you, pleading for any semblance of connection, he feels a tug at his heart strings. So Jungkook makes another promise to himself. He would let you “try”, whatever that entails. But there was no virtual possibility of letting you any closer than necessary. 

You both stand in contemplative silence before he lets out a resigned sigh. “On one condition”, he responds slowly, but there is already a premature grin growing on your face and you don’t think you could stop it even if you tried.

“You still have to be my model for the art portfolio.”

You agree before he even gets to take another breath. 

“Deal.” 

When you finally make your way out of Jungkook’s apartment, parting ways with an awkward number exchange and a ‘see you later’, there is a simultaneous feeling of hope and desolation. The optimism for Jungkook combines with the insecurity that perhaps you, just as you are, is not nearly enough to make someone fall in love. Especially someone who disregards their soul connection to you. 

You walk back to your apartment with a heavy heart that warms with embers of determination. Jeon Jungkook was an enigma. A Bastille fortress of self-defense mechanisms and destructive tendencies, and you know that there is unresolved pain. Call it a soulmate instinct or something, but you see it in his eyes. You see it in the way his face begs to show emotion but his mind refuses to acknowledge. 

You know Jungkook is not obligated to accept you after the dust settles, much less fall in love with you. Under the peach blossoms of the campus sidewalk, you make a promise anyway.  To yourself and to your soulmate and the silly little mark on the inside of your wrist. Even if he does not love you, you vow to help Jungkook learn to love himself.

◓

When you are harshly woken up at 5:30 in the morning, the last person you expected to be blowing up your phone was Jeon Jungkook. If it weren’t for the pure exhaustion seeping through your bones, you would have been excited about your soulmate calling you. Alas, slumber was your soulmate now. Jungkook would have to step down. 

On the other side of the paper thin wall, Jimin is frustratedly banging from his room, your ringtone reverberating throughout the entire apartment. You pick up his call without even opening your eyes.

“Hello?” 

“Y/N I need you to come to my apartment as soon as you can.” There is no sleepiness in his voice. Just clean and cold like it always is and he has hung up before you get the chance to scold him for waking you up at this unholy hour. You’re about to give him a piece of your mind but you remember he is paying you very handsomely for your efforts, and reluctantly drag yourself out of bed to call an uber. Thank god he doesn’t live too far away otherwise you’ll stick a foot through his canvas for the transportation bill. 

The front of Jungkook’s apartment door is strangely therapeutic, and you find yourself falling asleep standing up after you’ve rung the doorbell. Either time passes too slowly when you are sleep-drunk or Jungkook moves to get the door as quickly as your grandfather does. Whatever the case, you are about to pass out on his doorstep if he doesn’t come soon.

“Y/N, why are you just standing there? The door has been open.” 

“Jungkook. Why are you making me do this so early?”, you yawn, pushing inside the apartment. 

Jungkook takes in your discombobulated appearance, and almost wants to laugh. You were still in your pajamas, and the bun on your head now looked more like a heaping blob that drooped down your temple. It was obvious that you had just rolled out of bed and he almost feels bad for disturbing your sleep, but he does not decide when his strokes of inspiration spontaneously appear. 

The living room is bombarded with Jungkook’s art supplies and stray canvases, and you take note of the clay sculpting table that blends in as furniture next to his kitchen. You plop yourself down on the stool across from Jungkook’s easel, eyes still half closed and impossibly tired.

 In this moment, Jungkook wipes the fact that you are his soulmate from his mind. He needs to do the portfolio. That is all he’s keeping you around for, and the only reason he agreed to your plan was so that you would remain his art model. 

In the silence of his makeshift art studio, Jungkook paints whatever comes to his mind, referencing your figure on the stool for the curves he can never get right without a model and need for a human presence to translate onto his canvas. You become more lucid as time goes by and the sun starts to rise from outside his window, sitting up straighter and paying more attention to his concentrated face as Jungkook pours himself into his creation. 

Looking at him in this light, you realize that he is beautiful. And not just because he’s your soulmate. Jungkook’s hair is scruffy and stubbled, undereyes sporting impressive dark circles. But the way he caresses the paintbrush and the way his body moves to the beat of the painting is poetic. He glances at you sporadically, eyes darting to and fro to capture as much as he can before the creativity burns out. He is beautiful and it makes your heart ache to know that he does not want you. In spite of the bond the universe has created. 

You wonder if in his focused hazed, he notices the new glaze across your eyes and the silent sound of your soul calling out for his. You wipe away the first dripping tear as quickly as it came. You know Jungkook sees, but does not bat an eye and you can’t tell if you’d rather prefer him to acknowledge it. 

It’s 8:00am when he puts the paintbrush down, takes a step back, and surveys his work. His eyes trail over each organic line and areas where he decided to use burnishing instead of cross hatching. It’s far from perfect, but it’s enough. 

“Okay. You’re free to go”, he announces, plucking the painting off the easel and resting it against the wall, hidden from your eyes. 

“W-What? That’s it?”, you sigh disappointedly, “you’re not even going to let me see it?” Jungkook shrugs. His detachedness makes you want to rip your hair out and sob into your pillow at the same time. You don’t understand how a person could be so unfazed. 

“S’not ready for debut. Thanks for showing up, though.” He doesn’t spare you another glance. Just goes back to cleaning his brushes and dumping out the glasses of murky paint water. You ignore the twinge of hurt in your chest and slide off the stool. 

“Okay, fine. Now it’s my turn. Would you like to go have some breakfast?”, you smile expectantly to Jungkook, who stares at you with an indifferent gaze. His first instinct is to make up a half-assed excuse to get out of this, eager to detach himself from you as much as possible and avoid any more interaction. However, he was insanely hungry, and the glimmer in your eye just looks so hopeful even Jungkook couldn’t bear to shoot you down.

He sighs with resignation. A little breakfast couldn’t hurt, and he wasn’t going with you necessarily. You were just...going to the same cafe in the same direction as him and likely sitting at the same table. Yeah, that’s it. 

“Hurry up, I’m hungry.” 

“Wait...actually?”

You blinked in shock at his lack of resistance. 

“Yes. Now come on. I know a place with really great apple strudels.”

You weren’t aware that by ‘breakfast’, Jungkook actually meant sitting in complete silence and wolfing down food like your life depends on it. You want to be grossed out when he inhales 3 apple strudels in less than 10 minutes, crumbs flaking on his shirt without a care in the world. Yet you just feel endeared. The sight makes you smile. And maybe if Jungkook did not detest you, you would have leaned over and kissed the cinnamon sugar right off his lips. 

“So….”, you sip on a sweet coffee, “Jimin told me you’re going for a masters in art history?” 

Jungkook nods halfway through a bite of his pastry. “Yup.” 

“Is it something you’re really passionate about?” you inquire, desperately wanting the conversation to delve into something that wasn’t so surface level.

“Uh huh.”

“What are some other things you’re interested in besides art?”

“Totally.” 

Jungkook is completely clueless. He only spares glances to the windows and occasional looks to his oh so precious breakfast treats. You want to slap him and be angry, but you only sigh. It shouldn’t be so hard to talk to your soulmate, yet it felt like trying to pull teeth when he was so completely disinterested in you. You wonder if this is worth it.

You look up at him from your steaming cappuccino cup and use your wildcard. 

“In my opinion, Botticelli’s Birth of Venus did little for the Italian Renaissance movement.” 

Your statement almost has Jungkook falling backwards in his chair and choking on a piece of fruit filling, eyes growing as wide as saucers when he finally processes what you just said. A flaming insult to the entire art historian community. 

“What do you know about Botticelli?”, he sneers, and you internally celebrate for this is the most emotion Jungkook has shown since meeting you. 

“I know that his work supposedly epitomizes the spirit of the Renaissance”, you swirl the coffee in your cup nonchalantly, lips curving into a knowing smirk. “But if you ask me, Bellini’s San Giobbe Altarpiece did much more to encapsulate the values of 15th century Italy.” 

Jungkook’s speechless expression is one that you want to take a snapshot of and frame it to your wall. It is glorious, and arguably more artful to you than Botticelli himself. So what, you had conveniently forgot to mention to him about the class you took junior year of college, with a professor that made you engrave the fundamentals of Italian painting in your brain. It’s so much more gratifying to see him stunned silent. 

Across the table from you, Jungkook feels a warm smile itching to display itself. Before it can appear, he disguises it as a cold smirk. He feels something akin to a butterfly at the pit of his stomach, but blames it on indigestion and the inhuman pace at which he devoured his breakfast. Yeah that must be it. There was no way he was feeling butterflies. 

He cracks his knuckles, raises his cup to gulp down a lukewarm green tea, and rests his elbows on the table separating the both of you.

“I don’t suppose you could tell me your thoughts on the influences of neo-classicism in the 18th century?” 

◑

“No, Y/N, turn to your left a little”, Jungkook frustratedly sighs behind the camera lens.

“Your left or my left?”

He pauses. “....left.” 

To any outside eye, you and Jungkook look like two buffoons trying to take pictures on what might possibly be the windiest day of the season, under the peach blossom trees. Jungkook had called you earlier that day and stressed about how he needed mixed media in his beloved portfolio, and photographs were the next topic of interest. Though you couldn’t understand why he couldn’t just set out a fruit bowl on his windowsill and call it still life photography.

Jungkook stares down at his camera, dissatisfaction clear on his face. You almost want to apologize for your abhorrent modeling skills but hey, he was the one that chose you. 

“Hmm...try staring at that boat in the distance”, he dictates, standing beside you and aiming the lens at your side profile. You do as he asks, but don’t hear the shutter of the camera. Jungkook sighs again and leans forward, so close you could feel his warm breath hitting your skin. You hope he doesn’t notice the beet blush on your cheeks.

Jungkook’s hands meet your chin when he uses it to slightly tilt your face downwards. He positions you in the way that he wants you to pose and you finally understand why photography is considered an art. Because it’s almost as if Jungkook is molding you like clay, to get the silhouette he wants to capture with his camera lens. The day is brisk, but his skin on your’s lights you on fire. 

“Okay, that’s…..that’s perfect”, Jungkook breathes, hurriedly picking up the camera that had been hanging onto his neck by the strap and angling it. At the moment his index finger presses down on the button, there is a gust of wind that surrounds the both of you.

The breeze loosens a strand of your hair and it falls into your eyes. You let your eyes drift close for a second, smiling into the cold air that tingles on your skin. Jungkook’s breath catches in his throat and he thanks the skies for the howling wind so you wouldn’t be able to hear his thumping heartbeat. But surely it’s only because it’s cold. And absolutely nothing else. Jungkook coughs inconspicuously to snap himself out of his trance, sighing in relief when he realizes your eyes are still closed and that you hadn’t noticed his internal struggle. 

He drags you to a bridge next and makes you lay on the cold wood to which you vehemently object before you remember that he’s paying you and that you want him to fall in love with you, not dislike you more than he already does. After the bridge, Jungkook makes you kneel beside the park pond and dip your hand in the icy water and you find yourself wanting to do the same thing to his precious camera. 

Before the two of you have realized, the sun sets into the horizon and tinges the sky in a combination of purples and pinks that Jungkook himself has a hard time replicating on canvas. He aims his lens at the clouds and takes a picture that he knows won’t make it into his gallery. He just felt the need to have something to remember this day by. For no reason in particular…

A buzzing coming from your coat pocket alerts you both of the time that has passed and how the sky has considerably darkened since you began the session. When you fish your phone out, Jimin’s contact photo is staring back at you while the marimba ringtone continues playing. You put the phone on speaker.

“Hey Jiminie”, you smile and Jungkook catches a glance of it. And the discomfort in his chest is definitely, 100%, not jealousy. Not at all.

“I told you not to call me that! What is with you younger people and your disrespect for the elderly?” The corner of Jungkook’s lips twitch into a subtle smile at the similarity of your’s and his conversations with Jimin. 

“Okay, okay, grandpa. What’s up?”

“Can you come home ASAP? I may or may not have broken the stove trying to make soup.” 

The redundancy of his confession makes you sigh, as Park Jimin desecrating your shared kitchen space was not a rare occurrence by any means. 

“I’ll be right there”, you chided through the line, “please do not cook anything else before I arrive.” 

“Thanks Y/N-ie, you’re the best!” Jimin’s voice is far too cheery and you make a mental note to nag him a little extra when you get home. The phone call is ended promptly and you turn around to Jungkook, eyes widening in surprise when he has already packed up all his photography gear. The sky had turned dark and the streetlights had been turned on to illuminate the park. If you had craned your neck upwards, you would have noticed the stars that awoke again to shine down upon the city. But you didn’t. You only saw the stars that were twinkling in Jungkook’s eyes. 

“Uh”, he stammers, “I’ll walk you home. It’s late.” 

“Oh! Uh...Thanks.” Though he was still cold and indifferent, your heart jumped in elation. Perhaps this could be considered baby steps. 

The trip home is quiet, only the sounds of your tandem footsteps on pavement and the rustle of a breeze through tree leaves fill the space of silence. But the quiet is not uncomfortable. Just a bit awkward as you two try to figure out how to be around one another. Jungkook’s hands are shoved in his pockets and your fingers itch to intertwine themselves around his own. To press your soulmate marks together and feel them calling out to each other. But you and Jungkook are anything but normal soulmates. For you are already head over heels in love with him and he is adamant on not sparing you a crumb of affection. 

To your disdain, the apartment was closer than you thought and the short walk with Jungkook ended before it really even began. You could practically hear Jimin’s impatience emanating from the third story of the building. 

“So I’ll see you later?”, you smile meekly. Jungkook readjusts the strap of his camera bag before nodding. He is walking away before you turn around to enter the apartment building and even though it was something small and mundane, you wished he would have waited to see you get in safely. You make your way inside, more downcast than you had been before.

You don’t see when Jungkook turns around. You don’t feel the reassurance that washes over him when the door shuts safely behind you. 

That night, Jungkook is reminded far too much of Yoojung. When he goes to make his usual chamomile, he finds her mug at the very back of the tea cabinet. She must have forgotten it when she packed up her stuff. When he spoons in the sugar, he remembers how Yoojung drinks her tea with honey instead. And when he feels himself start to fall apart, he remembers how Yoojung is not there to keep him together. 

Jungkook pushes away his pain, abandons the lukewarm mug of tea, and opts for an early bedtime to sleep away the ache. The camera sitting on his nightstand, though, beckons him to look over the photos you both had taken that afternoon. 

In the moment, he had been dissatisfied with the pictures, always thinking there must be a better angle or a better position you could shift into. However when he looks down at his camera now, in the quiet and solemnity of his bedroom, Jungkook can’t help but to think they are absolutely perfect. 

He doesn’t know whether to credit his own artistic skill or you; for breathing life into his photographs. It’s the lines of your hands, the slope of your nose, and the stray strands of your hair that makes his pictures more human. 

The ones he ends up picking though, are not perfectly  staged and not the ones where he made you change the position of your stance for 10 minutes. No, the best pictures were the ones he took without you noticing. When you had just been enjoying the cool breeze or admiring the beauty of peach blossom season. When you point out a cool looking bird and when you stared annoyedly past the cameras lens (at him no doubt). 

Yoojung is gone from his mind for just a tiny fleeting moment. For little reason at all, Jungkook finds himself smiling. And there is only the company of the moon to see it. 

◒

 It is ten o’ clock in the morning and Jungkook comes to a realization that in the couple weeks since he has met you, he has sighed more times than he has in the past 23 years of life. Jungkook sighs when you text him first thing in the morning about the dream you had the night before and describe it in painfully vivid details. He leaves them unanswered. Sometimes he wished you would just email him the google document instead. He sighs when you fidget in your seat when he’s trying to paint and keep focus, but you are only interested in asking him the snacks he has in his fridge or when he’s going to finish. He sighs when you and Jimin collectively trash his art studio by spamming his $1,000 camera with ugly face pictures and sword fighting with his sable paint brushes. Jungkook often has a hard time believing that both of you are in graduate school. 

Today, he sighs when you bombard into room 62B of the art building; what is supposed to be Jungkook’s completely zen and peaceful creative space. You are tiptoeing around him as you always do, scared that you’ll do something to set him off and your soulmate will disown you for good. He glances at you once, eyes quickly darting back to the sculpture he is molding on the clay table and saying nothing. 

“There’s a new cafe that just opened right across from the apple strudel place”, you gulp tensely. “I was gonna go check out the competition.” Your words seem deaf to Jungkook’s ear and he only furrows his eyebrows, fingers fussing over the mass of clay. There was just something he couldn’t get right. He didn’t know what it was. 

Jungkook pushes away the sculpture frustratedly, wipes his hands on his apron, and finally looks at you. Maybe he did need a break and come back to it with fresh eyes. That’s all it was, though. A break. He wasn’t going because you asked him to. 

“They better have blonde roast otherwise you’ll be compensating me for my time.” Jungkook is as ruthless and blunt as ever and you decide to look past it as you always do. Him agreeing to go with you was a mini success. 

“Welcome in! You’ve stopped by at the perfect time. The strawberry scones have just been taken out of the oven!” The cafe employee is far too enthusiastic for receiving minimum wage and greeting grumpy people off the streets who just want to be caffeinated. His name tag reads Jung Hoseok. 

“Oh, strawberry is my favorite”, you whisper, the statement only meant for your ears but Jungkook picks up on it anyway. He declines to tell you that strawberry is his favorite as well. Hoseok’s eyes light up when you and Jungkook approach the entrance, like he finally succeeded at luring a customer. 

The cafe isn’t anything special. A bit more modern compared to the one across the street and you think you prefer the latter because this new one doesn’t have the owner’s handsome son standing at the cash register. He may not be your soulmate, but even you had to admit Kim Seokjin was a beautiful man if there ever was one. However, this cafe is warm and has ceiling length windows that let in an obscene amount of sunlight. Jungkook makes a mental note to try some pictures here in the future. 

Jungkook’s phone buzzes in his pocket and you are already leaving him behind in the dust, walking straight to the counter and peering up at the menu deep in thought. You turn around to see that he is immersed in mysterious conversation, and take it upon yourself to order him a drink. 

“I’ll have a matcha latte. And uh…”, you decide, trailing off as you wonder what kind of drink Jungkook would enjoy. “And an iced vanilla mocha latte, extra whipped cream, extra chocolate syrup. Do you guys have rainbow sprinkles?” 

A little sugar never hurt anyone. Especially someone so often bitter like your one and only soulmate. 

When Jungkook hangs up and makes his way to the corner table where you are situated, the sight of the concoction on the table is enough to give him an instant cavity. You hide your smile behind the mug of matcha. He grumbles and sits down swiftly, sticking the straw past his lips in defiance and you can only watch expectantly. 

“Well…do you like it?” 

This is when Jungkook realizes you didn’t order this to spite him. You just had completely zero idea what he liked and disliked and chose the first thing you thought was best. As cold as he is, he doesn’t have the heart to tell you that when he drinks coffee, he likes it black. No cream, no sugar, and the darkest roast with the most caffeine to push him through those nights spent in front of a canvas or over a clay table. 

Jungkook fights to keep steady from the ambush of sugar and wills himself to swallow it down. There is sticky chocolate syrup on his hands and it feels cosmically more uncomfortable than paint. But Jungkook manages to look up at you and nod, to which you reward with a smile. 

“I knew you would like it”, you say smugly, giving yourself a mental pat on the back. “You look like you have a giant sweet tooth.” There is a mellow giggle that follows your statement. Jungkook feels a flutter at the bottom of his stomach, and convinces himself it’s only because it sounds so much like Yoojung. He catches sight of the moon on your wrist, and pushes the feeling away even farther. 

The two of you spend the rest of the midday there, tucked away in a corner of a cafe and losing track of time as you always do. Jungkook finds himself forgetting about the mountains of work he has to do to finish his art gallery portfolio, and the unfinished sculpture back at the studio that’s just not right. 

Today, he allows himself to enjoy your presence and get to know you more. Your favorite color is yellow. You had a dog named Benny when you were a child. You detest beer with a passion, but enjoy a nightly glass of pinot grigio. Jungkook barely notices when the entire cup of coffee has disappeared. Every last rainbow sprinkle.

On second thought, he feels that maybe there was something sweeter than his unexpectedly delicious iced vanilla mocha latte with extra whipped cream. Maybe that something was sitting right across from him, rambling about the fundamentals of English literature with unexplained vigor. 

Jungkook’s soul feels lighter when he goes to bed that night. And when he finally succumbs to Morpheus, his last lucid thought is of you; sun beams coming from the large cafe windows that comb through your hair. He looks at you through his mind’s eye and all he can see is the potential heartbreak you have the power to put him through. The fan of your eyelashes. The curve of your smile. The plush of your lips. All he can see is Yoojung as she crushes his soul in her bare hands. 

Yet in the midst of his internal conflict, Jungkook’s subconscious allows him to fall in love with you a little bit. Perhaps not love just yet, but affection. Like a toe dip in uncharted waters or sticking his finger in a bowl of creamy cake batter just for a taste. The walls he has built are still there, strong as ever, but perhaps a couple bricks look a bit askew. He doesn’t know, but his soul calls out to your’s through the fortress.

◐

“Y/N I don’t know why you thought this was a good idea.”

“Oh hush, just close your eyes and point where your heart tells you to.”

In the lobby of a train station, facing a map and an ETA board is where you and Jungkook will be embarking on your next “date but not really because you don’t believe in soulmates so let’s just hang out”. It had taken a good two hours of nagging and whining on your part to convince him to abandon his portfolio for just a little bit to go an outing. Now standing here, with you excitedly bouncing next to him and a mystery destination, Jungkook feels something akin to utter regret. 

“What if I choose somewhere that’s a thousand miles away? Or just in the middle of nowhere?”, Jungkook groans, still putting up an unbothered and cold front. 

“Well then we will go somewhere that’s a thousand miles away or in the middle of nowhere”, you quipped back at him. Jungkook had a feeling he wouldn’t be able to get out of this one. 

He reluctantly places a hand over his eyes, sighing with resignation before pointing to a random spot on the map. There is a giggle that sounds to his left and Jungkook finds himself wanting to hear more. 

“Wonderful choice”, you smiled, “couldn’t have picked it better myself.” 

Jungkook peeked his eyes open one at a time, scared of seeing what his intuition has chosen for your guys’ spontaneous destination. He breathes out a sigh of relief when he sees that his fingers landed on a town on the outskirts of the city, 20 minutes away from the university. He silently thanks the universe for not sabotaging his wallet and time. 

“We’re never doing this again, Y/N”, Jungkook speaks as you are in front of him, skipping happily to the front desk to buy two train tickets. 

“Wasn’t it fun, though? The thrill?”, you chuckle at his demeanor, to which he only shakes his head vehemently. You note the newest thing you’ve just learned about Jungkook: he has an aversion to uncertainty and spontaneity. 

The train ride was as brief as it was uneventful. You spent the time rambling to Jungkook about all the quips and quirks about yourself and he only listened. Though he kept quiet, his face was free of any annoyance or indication that you were speaking too much. Jungkook only stared at you and unknowing to you, he soaked in every bit of information like a sponge. If anyone asked, he could tell them what foods you were allergic to, what colors wash you out, and what vegetables you hated the most. 

“Wow you didn’t have to pick somewhere so far away, Jungkook.” You muse as the two of you step out of the train car. So far away in fact, that if you were to crane your head up enough, you would be able to see the university from a distance. 

“Hey, you were the one who made me choose”, Jungkook spares a rare smile, “Would you rather we have shelled out our wallets to go on an 18-hour train ride?”

“Okay, fair point.”

The city was as abundant as it was big, and the both of you walked aimlessly from avenue to avenue, stopping occasionally whenever you see a dog you just can’t help but to pet or whenever Jungkook complained about his sore feet. As cold and indifferent as Jungkook made himself out to be, you’ve quickly come to realize that he’s actually a big baby. He still hasn’t let you in or even lowered his walls by a tiny centimeter, but you like to think that even agreeing to go anywhere with you could be considered significant progress.

Jungkook doesn’t notice the pounding of his heart whenever his hands graze against your’s, walking side by side so close he can feel the heat emanating through your coat. He doesn’t notice the peace he feels, just the synchronicity of his feet as he places them on the pavement. 

The fraught wind that blows straight at Jungkook’s face prompts him to look up from where his eyes were cast on the ground. He almost staggers at how strong it is, but finds himself weak in the knees for a completely different reason.

Of course.

Of all the days, of all the times, of all the people in this entire city.

Of course she had to be the one that was currently staring at him from across the intersection. 

The red light seems to go on forever. Either that or time has just spontaneously frozen, Jungkook can’t tell. But his eyes are fixed on hers and his feet bolster him to the concrete when all he wants to do is sprint the other way and forget he ever saw this ghost from the past. 

Yoojung looks as beautiful as the day she left him. 

She’s gained some weight and her cheeks have filled out, but it looks healthy on her now (Jungkook always chided her for forgetting to eat). She stares at him with a combination of shock and guilt and something he wants to overthink into affection but he won’t give himself that satisfaction anymore. She dyed her hair. Light brown looks good on her. 

She looks...happy. As happy as anyone can look when they’re rushing through thick crowds of a city, traffic horns blaring like a dilapidated symphony. 

In the heat of it all, it’s impossible for you not to notice Jungkook’s sudden change in demeanor or the way he has suddenly stopped breathing. When you follow his gaze, there is a girl on the other side of the street that shares the same starstruck expression and even from the outside looking in, you can feel the weight of something painful in his eyes. In her stature. 

When the lights turn green, the throngs of city dwellers migrate across and you stay beside Jungkook when he doesn’t move a muscle. Not even a finger twitch. But she does. And he can only fight to keep the ache away when Yoojung gets closer with every millisecond. Until she is standing right in front of him and he can smell her familiar vanilla perfume. 

“Jungkook”, she speaks, apprehension in her voice. “It’s been a while...how are you?” 

Yoojung only spares you a side glance while keeping attention on Jungkook and you only grow more curious as to who this strange woman is. 

He wants to speak so badly but his tongue remains frozen. He turns to you with flabbergast in his eyes and shakes his head to snap out of the daze of confusion. Of seeing the love of his life again. Or who he thought was the love of his life. 

“Could you give us a minute, Y/N?” 

You didn’t know why but the words that came from his lips made you feel disappointed. Perhaps you were just stupid for thinking he would introduce you. Tell her that you’re his soulmate and scream it at the top of his lungs with sheer pride. But your imagination has hurt you countless times and you had a feeling this one wouldn’t be the last. You manage a curt nod and push away the twinge in your heart. There was a boundary between you and Jungkook and today was not the day to cross it and introduce yourself as his soulmate to any random stranger. 

Once you are out of vicinity and have found solace in a bookstore 10 feet away, Jungkook allows himself to breathe in Yoojung’s presence. 

“I didn’t know if you were still in the city”, he falters, voice coming out quieter than he would have liked it to. But what was he supposed to sound like confronting the supposed love of his life. 

“I never left, Jungkook...my entire life is here.” She sighs, smiling lightly with eyes seeping with guilt. 

He scoffs. “I don’t know Yoojung, you seem to leave behind important things pretty easily.” Jungkook feels himself getting angrier and resentful by the second, and though he knows it is unfair of him, Yoojung’s mere presence brings back all the wounds he never truly healed from. 

Granted, on a concrete sidewalk next to a traffic light pole was not the best place to have a heart to heart about failed relationships. But when has the universe ever given Jungkook the best things in life. He is devastatingly cynical for someone who dedicates his career to art. 

Yoojung wears a frown on her face, but there is no vindictiveness there. Just an overwhelming sense of remorse that Jungkook communicates as pity. 

“I don’t know how else to say that I’m sorry”, she sighs, eyes falling to the ground. Jungkook wishes it would just open up and swallow him whole. 

“Then don’t say anything.” He turns to walk away.

“Wait! Jungkook can we...can’t we catch up or something? For a couple minutes?” Yoojung is visibly desperate, and her hands are outstretched as if wanting to touch him but keeping herself from overstepping the line. 

Jungkook glances through the window of the bookstore, and you are situated on a chair, already nose deep in a hefty book. He wants to smile and tease you for being such a nerd, but the weight of Yoojung’s presence makes him reinforce those walls of indifference tenfold. 

He exhales frustration and inhales temptation, looking back into Yoojung’s familiar eyes and nodding. Jungkook walks to a nearby bench and sits down with no words exchanged, looking forward coldly even when he feels her warmth next to him. A couple months ago, Jungkook would have set all his canvases on fire to feel her beside him again. Now, he’s not so sure.

“So…”, she starts, “who’s that cute girl you were with?” 

“No one.” He shoots out a little too soon with no hesitation. Yoojung gulps.

“You know Jungkook, it’s okay to find someone. I-I know I hurt you, but I’m glad if you’ve found someone who doesn’t.” Jungkook doesn’t say anything so she continues.

“I’m really happy for-”

“I never really forgave you Yoojung.” He stares blankly at the passersby and tries to ignore the ache in his bones. The one that’s been there the day she left and took a piece of his heart with her. 

“And I don’t want to blame you for my decisions but I want you to know that I push away a lot of people because of you. People that don’t deserve it.” From the corner of his eye, he can see her nod solemnly to his words and fidget with her hands in her lap. Part of him feels guilty for unloading on Yoojung. Part of him feels like maybe he deserves to. 

“What you did was really shitty. Astronomically fucking shitty. And I’ve spent the past eternity hating you and maybe I still do, but…”, Jungkook takes a deep breath, “I want to forgive you now. If not fully, then partially. I hope you can understand that.” He finally tilts his head to look at her and though the smile on her face is as beautiful as he remembers it to be, Jungkook no longer feels the longing. No longer feels the sting that he usually does when his thoughts take him back to the years they spent together. 

Jungkook doesn’t want to call it closure, not yet anyway. Sitting here on the bench, he still wants to scream and yell and tell Yoojung of all the nights he’s spent alone since she left. He still wants to drag her back and wonder if she could love him again like she used to. 

But he doesn’t. He listens when she tells him about her new job and her new apartment right by the lakeside. They share snippets of their separate lives. Just deep enough to rekindle something warm but shallow enough to not invite anything else in. 

When he walks away from the bench and into the bookstore, Jungkook stills feels the walls that he has built around himself. He is still scared of opening up and being vulnerable but the anger held for Yoojung for so long is no longer a raging fire. More so a wickering flame. 

When he spots you, though, he remembers why he built those walls in the first place. He remembers how easy it used to be for him to climb a high peak and fall to his demise. Your eyes widen when you catch sight of him, lips curling into a wide smile and clear excitement in your expression. The book in your hands is tossed aside and tunnel vision reserved for him and him only. Something blooms in his chest and he can’t remember the last time someone’s been so elated to just simply see him...aside from his dog. Jungkook reminds himself to act uncaring. If he pretends long enough, he’ll start to believe it himself. 

◓

The train ride home feels longer than the one there. The minutes drag by and perhaps it is because of your drooping eyes or the way Jungkook is looking at you with a different tenderness than he has been before. His stare is not harsh. It’s soft and sweet, but subtle enough for you to wonder if you are just imagining it. The night has always been unforgiving and cold even in the spring, but perhaps all that’s needed to breathe some warmth, is a 15 minute train ride and a wrist with a crescent moon.

Yet every time you become more smitten with Jungkook, there is a harsh reminder that follows you everywhere like a designated storm cloud. 

Jungkook does not love you. And you are trying and you will continue to try but his eyes tell you something he is too courteous to say. You see it now as he sits across from you and admires the skyline from the window. It makes you wonder if it is soulmates he doesn’t believe in, or if it is just you that he can’t bring himself to accept. With every cold glance and wall that he puts up, you start to convince yourself that it is the latter.

“We’re here, Y/N”, Jungkook speaks quietly, interrupting your drifting thoughts. He turns around and leaves the train car with hands tucked in his coat pocket. Did you expect him to escort you out and hold your hand? Of course not. But you were tired of Jungkook being so indifferent to your existence. 

You follow him glumly out the doors that slide close after you step through. Then it zips off again and you wonder where it would have taken you if you just stayed in your seat. If Jungkook would have even noticed that you hadn’t followed him when he left. 

You sigh into the night air and wish it was winter so that your breath could be visible as a white cloud. Maybe then Jungkook would notice that you were a living being beside him. 

“Who was that girl that we met back there?”, you murmur hesitantly. Jungkook nearly chokes on air. 

“No one”, he responds curtly, effectively cutting off the conversation then and there. It makes your heart sink. She must be important and all you want to do is know every single detail about their relationship, but the look in his eyes warn you to not pry. 

You don’t think you can forget the way Jungkook looked at her from across the street. Like he had been lost this whole time and she was the North star. You saw the way his eyes twinkled in the midday sun and sparkled even more when she came closer. You wonder if you’ll ever be able to have that effect on him. 

“Hey, next time you should pick a place you and I both do not live in”, you giggle, nudging his shoulder with your own. It makes him smile and even though your heart feels heavy in your chest, Jungkook looks so beautiful when he smiles. 

The two pair of feet subconsciously carry you both to the front door of your apartment building and the scene is too familiar from the last time. You expect him to turn around and whisper a hushed goodnight under his breath, and you’ll have to watch the back of his head disappear down the street. But he doesn’t. Just stands across from you quietly and waits for you to say something. So you do. 

“Jungkook, I’m sorry if I brought up something you didn’t want to remember. I don’t really know your story but it seems you two have a lot of history.” You want to tell him how hard it is for you to be his soulmate when he is so clearly vying for the warmth of someone else. Someone who didn’t have a crescent moon on her wrist. 

“I know you’ll tell me whenever you’re ready, and if that’s never then I’ll keep waiting until forever. But I’m here if you want to talk or unload and I already know I can help because…” you fidget with your hands and look around nervously. 

“Well, because I’m your soulmate.” 

When you say it loud and explicitly, Jungkook thought the statement would have made him recoil. But it doesn’t. It just seeps through his consciousness and feels warm when he thinks about the weight of those words. You are his soulmate, regardless of if he believes in such a thing or not. You carry the same mark as he does on your wrist and somehow, by some intangible factor, the universe had decided that you were created for him and he for you. 

And when he looks at you. Really looks at you. When Jungkook processes your sincere words and how you manage to deal with his insurmountable boundaries even when you barely know him…

Jungkook has never wanted to kiss you more. 

So he does. 

Your lips taste like mint chewing gum and the ghost of words you wish to tell him but can’t. He feels you stiffen until you completely melt in his hold, and Jungkook cradles your face with both his hands, pulling you closer to him until there is no barrier between you but the clothes on your back and the emotional distance. You feel so far away even when you’re this near. Was it a trick of your imagination when you felt the moon on your wrist tingling? 

It doesn’t last as long as you would’ve liked it to. Jungkook yanks his hands from you like your skin scalded him and takes several steps back. His chest rises up and down violently when his breath comes out ragged, posture stiffening as the gravity of what just happened finally absorbs. You’re there, he knows you’re there and standing in front of him. So why is it he can only see Yoojung. Yoojung and the star on her wrist and apologies on her lips. Yoojung and the tears in her eyes when she walks away. 

You can only stare confusedly when his body goes rigid, and a sudden coldness envelops you both. 

And in the haze of post-embrace, like any two normal lovers, you catch something in his eyes that sets a heavy feeling in your stomach. Before you can confirm if it’s just a trick of the light, Jungkook is already running in the opposite direction and you can only see a shadow of sullen love that follows him. He is gone and you are standing alone, wondering how moonlight could feel so cold even on a spring night. 

You don’t get any sleep that night. Every time you close your eyes, there is only the sight of Jungkook’s disgust and regret to lull you to dreams. 

20 minutes away from your apartment, there is a boy who doesn’t sleep either. He won’t text or call to tell you that he can’t shake off the feeling of your skin on his and your breath fanning his cheek. He won’t admit to himself that tonight, when he looked at you, he felt the possibility of falling in love. He won’t tell you that the moon on his skin longs to be traced by your hands. No, he just shares those secrets with his pillow as its linen soaks up his tears. 

In the midst of it all, there is one verdict that becomes clear to him.

Jungkook wishes he had never told Jimin he needed a muse.

◑

The next three weeks is dedicated to trying to get in touch with your soulmate. Through the whirlwinds of utter confusion and desperation, you try texting, calling, emailing, even showing up at his art studio and apartment to no avail. It seemed he had a talent for avoiding soulmates. 

It hurt, to say the least. That he left you high and dry after giving you the most intense

kiss of your life and doesn’t even have the decency to let you know he’s alive. The feeling of his lips still burns on your skin and you wonder if you are a complete fool for being so smitten with a person who, quite possibly, hasn’t spared you a single thought after that night. You just want - no you just need some clarity. 

Jungkook makes you wait another week before replying. 

It is an impossibly sunny day when you wake up. Your neck is stiff from sleeping like a contortionist and your heart aches even more than your muscles with every passing morning with radio silence from your soulmate. You want to call him and tell him you’re sorry. That you’ll forget anything ever happened. It hurts to even think about it, but for Jungkook, you would go through a little more pain so he would let you into his life. 

Outside the hall, Jimin is singing along to a familiar melody of a song you don’t know the name of and judging by the aroma that wafts through the cracks of your door, he has successfully made a pot of coffee. He has been an anchor throughout this whole thing, and sometimes you make a secret wish to the stars that Jimin had been the one with a crescent moon on his wrist instead. Perhaps that way, you wouldn’t have to go through the agony of chasing love that is constantly sprinting away from you. 

Your phone lays on the bedside table and buzzes innocently to start the morning. When you reach over and scroll through notifications routinely, there is a name there that makes your heart pang. Makes you want to throw up and celebrate at the same time. A text from Jungkook. Your fingers shake as you open it. 

I no longer need a model for the portfolio. Thank you for your involvement. Compensation will be provided promptly. 

The day you met him, you already knew that Jungkook was cold. He never dawdled around a painful truth or toed the line between bluntness and sparing feelings. Jungkook spoke his mind, collateral damage be damned. But this is a different type of cold. This one feels more like dry ice on warm skin. Like the numbing chill of a fading hope. Like winter’s first snowfall when autumn had promised you it would forever stay. 

Phone in your hand and tears threatening to drip down your cheeks, you wish you would have waited a bit more before opening his text. Perhaps that way you could have spent the rest of your morning basking in the spring sun, drinking Jimin’s inevitably bad coffee, having hope that Jeon Jungkook would grow to care for you. Perhaps if you hadn’t opened it so soon, your soulmate would still seem in reach. 

Jimin’s mug nearly drops out of his hand when the door of your bedroom is slammed open. He flings it to the side when he notices your red-rimmed eyes and the shaking hands that clutch onto a cellphone. You scream and sob at the universe, at anyone, asking why it was you that had to experience the chaos of longing. Jimin was there to hold you, as he always is, and helplessly listen to the sound of your heart breaking once again by the hands of Jungkook.

◒

Room 62B of the art building is a place you hope to never have to visit again. Though it’s walls contain memories of you and Jungkook, and the evenings navigating his gallery portfolio along with your convoluted relationship, the wallpaper bleeds with a longing ache. A yearning pain. And if those walls could talk, you don’t think you would want them to say anything at all. They would only murmur what you are slowly accepting to be true.

Jungkook, your soulmate, wants nothing to do with you. 

When you hesitantly rap on the door with a fisted hand, the sound of him rustling from inside makes you want to run the opposite direction. It opens before you get the chance to change your mind and the sight of him nearly takes your breath away. He is beautiful as he always is, hair ruffled and mussed from undoubtedly running his hands through it compulsively. His lips are pink from biting on them and the dark circles under his eyes tells you of the dreams he has deprived himself of. 

Jungkook is painfully gorgeous and painfully not yours. 

“Y/N...I sent you a text earlier.” His voice is saccharine but the words taste so bitter. 

“I know. I read it”, you murmur, shrinking in on yourself. 

“I....Can we talk, Jungkook?” 

His eyes dart around nervously at your question, chewing on his bottom lip and tapping the toe of his shoe as if he was impatient and you were bothering him. And you have known that simply being around Jungkook hurts but the light at the end of the tunnel only continues dwindling. 

You understand why he is acting so restless when your gaze drifts past him and into the room. There is a girl perched on a stool, across from a canvas and easel that you know awfully well. You don’t recognize her but it’s only in your nature to begin comparing every aspect of yourself to this stranger. She sits on her hands and swings her legs back and forth, head in the clouds and eyes trailing the ceiling. She isn’t aware of the weight of her presence in the studio, nor the turmoil she has brought to you, who is standing just outside the door. 

The oxygen in the hallway thins and the breath you’ve been waiting to release since knocking catches in your throat. Coming here, you prepared yourself for a long and inevitably heart-wrenching talk with your soulmate. But you hadn’t prepared for the possibility that he had replaced you overnight. 

The only thought that blares through your mind is that this is your fault. For letting yourself think you were worth more to Jeon Jungkook than any other stranger. You can no longer find it in yourself to be angry at him. Just yourself. 

“You…”, you gulp down a whimper, “you replaced me.” 

Jungkook follows your vacant stare past him and sighs, realizing you had most likely deducted what this scene looked like. You would be right. Between the weeks of trying to understand what you were to him and the impending due date of the portfolio, Jungkook was sure the best way to move past this confusion was to just speed full steam ahead. That meant finding another muse. You were no longer an option.

You only stare down at the floor, but Jungkook begins speaking anyway. 

“Y/N, I…I’m sorry.” You scoff at his words, feigning anger when inside, you truly didn’t know if you could piece yourself back together this time. 

“Look, Y/N. It’s not you. It’s just that…”, he breathes deep, not knowing why it was so hard to say. “I’ve stopped believing soulmates were truly a thing a long time ago. I’m sorry.” 

It’s not the first time you’ve heard these words but it doesn’t mean they hurt any less.

“I didn’t want to initiate anything, Y/N, but you did and I let you and that was my fault to let anything start. I shouldn’t have when I knew nothing would come of it.”

It was a fault to him. It never should have happened. 

“So you just thought you would kiss me and decide that I meant nothing to you afterwards?”

“It was a mistake.” It was painful to think it but when you hear Jungkook say it, you experience a new kind of ache. A humorless chuckle bubbles past your throat.

 “I really thought you would grow to love me. Now I know it’s not your fault that I’m a complete fool. To fall head over heels for my soulmate who wishes he had never even met me. Much less share a mark.” 

You can see Jungkook’s eyes widen at your confession, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. It was the truth. He deserved to hear it. 

“You shouldn’t. You can’t.” He reaches up to pull at his hair frustratedly.

“Can’t what, Jungkook? Love you? You think I want to be in love with someone who wishes I didn’t exist?” You hate your voice for breaking, but its impossibly painful when he does nothing to deny your statement. 

“What do you want me to say, Y/N? What can I say to make this better?”

Try: I love you too.

“I don’t need you to say anything you don’t mean, Jungkook.” 

“Then shouldn’t you leave?”

Jeon Jungkook is cruel even when he doesn’t mean to be. There is oblivion in his gaze, and his question is one of genuine curiosity. But it still stabs you exactly where your heart is most tender. Yes, I should have left. 

“I guess I thought you were worth the pain, Jungkook. When you pushed me away and wanted nothing to do with me, I thought you were worth hurting for just to try a little more. Worth the uncertainty of being around you but never getting to actually be with you”, you numbly mutter, uncaring about the rivulets of tears down your face. Not like it wasn’t something he’s never seen before. There is more to come on the tip of your tongue, and Jungkook stays quiet to let you speak. There is conflict in his vision, but you don’t want to give yourself the false hope that he cares for you. 

Look where that has gotten you before. 

“You still are, you know. Worth it.” You release a shaky breath. “But I was stupid to think that I am too.”

Saying the words are revelation for you as much as it is for him. All this time, you’ve been running away from the truth in the pursuit of your soulmate. You hadn’t realized that the chase led you astray. 

“And I know that loving me is not easy. I’m…”, you force the words out so he can at least hear your turmoil by his hands. “I’m never really good enough for anyone. Why did I expect that I would be good enough for you?” 

Jungkook’s expression crumples into a frown. “Y/N, no, that’s not what I mean-”

“You don’t have to tell me what you mean, Jungkook. I meet you and the first thing you say is that you don’t believe in such a thing. I try to get close to you and all you know to do is push me away. And I try so hard to be enough but how can I when Yoojung still has your heart? So you don’t have to say it. I know what you mean.” You’ve stopped crying but the ache relents, and you can only look desperately at the boy who’s slipping from your grasp with every passing second. 

“I’m sorry.” The message is redundant.

“I can’t…” Rip off the bandaid. 

“I just can’t love you.”

The words make their way past his lips before he can stop them, and they shoot through your core ruthlessly. A sharpened dagger to soft flesh. It manifests itself in a physical pain that reverberates across your chest, and when the last strength left in you is used to stare at Jungkook through a pained and teary gaze, you are deaf to everything but those four words.

I can’t love you.

I can’t love you. 

I can’t love you. 

You’re not sure what he is sorry for at this point. If Jungkook is apologizing for not loving you, you don’t blame him. If he is sorry for entertaining the possibility, you don’t blame him. If he is sorry that you are the one with a crescent moon on your wrist, well...you don’t blame him either. All your life you cherished it like some kind of gift from the universe. Now, nursing your crumbling soul in front of Jungkook, you wish it had never appeared in the first place. 

You shake your head, tucking your lip in between your teeth to stop the sob in your chest from escaping. Through the crack of the door Jungkook hadn’t shut fully, the girl was still there, patiently sitting where you were supposed to and making herself scarce after inevitably hearing you bare your heart to a boy who had no interest in it. 

Humiliation goes hand in hand with heartbreak, and the embarrassment that comes with confessing your love and insecurity urges your feet to run home. But even you cannot deprive yourself of looking at him one more time. 

His wavy head of hair. The scar on his cheekbone that makes him look even more beautiful, if that were possible. The gloss in his dark brown eyes, and the way he looks at you through stone cold walls. You commit it to memory, however painful, before you walk out of his life. 

“Be happy, Jungkook.” 

You truly mean it. 

◐

 The sound of your footsteps getting farther away from him is a sound Jungkook thinks he’ll remember for a long time. It almost prompts him to run after you, cradle you to his chest, and profess how sorry he is again and again until you can truly feel the sincerity. But he doesn’t. Only remains behind the self-procured walls and watches when your figure disappears down the hallway. 

Cold. Unbothered. Indifferent. That’s what he had always told himself when it came to you. But the hallway feels so lonely and the ghost of your presence feels even lonelier, and Jungkook wonders if he had been wrong. 

He walks back into the studio, permanent frown on his face and shoulders hunched over in stress. The paintbrush feels like a stranger rather than an extension of his arm, as it always does, but Jungkook begins painting anyway. Looking at the girl in front of him, he is reminded of the look on your face when you realized he had replaced you completely in the span of three weeks, without even giving you a notice. Her presence in his art studio suddenly feels entirely suffocating. 

“Mina, Get out.” 

“What?”

“Get out of my studio. I don’t need you as a model, anymore. Thanks.” His voice cut through the tension of the room, like a hot knife to butter. He recognizes it as the voice he always forces himself to use around you, and grows even more aggravated. 

The girl scoffs annoyedly, snatching her handbag from the floor and rushing out of the room. Obviously she had thought something more was to come from Jungkook’s art arrangement. He made sure to let her know that was not the case. 

There is a gnawing in his chest. Deep and subtle, but it becomes more prominent as the window view from his studio turns from blue to black. He ponders about spending the night in here, instead of going home to his bedroom where he is forced to consult with the agony of solitude. On top of everything today, Jungkook doesn’t think he can handle that. 

Every time he closes his eyes, he sees the pain in your face when he tells you that he can’t love you and he hears the shaking in your voice when you tell him the things that weighed on your soul. He thought the word “wither” was only reserved for flowers. Jungkook didn’t realize a person could wither until he saw it right in front of him. 

In truth, he didn’t know. He didn’t know if he could love you or not. And to Jungkook, that was already a feat in itself. He’s spent so many months convincing himself that his emotional fortress was impregnable. So many nights over whiskey bottles telling himself that love was only for fools and pretenders. To be uncertain about love, now, well...that’s something he is not yet ready to admit to himself. Much less admit to you. But letting you any closer was a fatal game. 

Being uncertain about love means being uncertain about getting hurt. Jungkook has a feeling he wouldn’t make it out in one piece if his heart fell into wrong hands. 

He does end up returning to his apartment that night. But the walk feels far too long and the air feels far too frigid, or perhaps is it because he can’t hear the tread of your footsteps beside him? 

Whatever the reason, tonight feels more lonely.

The stars tell him it’s because he does not like the person he’s alone with. 

Back in room 62B, there is an abandoned painting on a rickety easel. He hadn’t even had the will to wash out his paintbrush, and he’s sure he’ll pay for it the next day. Looking at the piece now, his professor would tell him that there’s too many colors. Too much contrast and nearly not enough depth in his strokes. But what was he to do when he had kicked out his new model and couldn’t get the image of your visible heartbreak out of his brain? 

A familiar wrist with a quaint crescent moon sits on the canvas, and he sure as hell didn’t use Mina as the inspiration. Jungkook reminds himself to throw out the painting tomorrow morning. 

◓

The grease on Jimin’s skillet pan is always so hard to clean. The dish soap never truly cuts through the oil, and no matter how much you rinse it over with scalding water, it still feels soiled. On a normal day, it wouldn’t frustrate you so much. Today, a month-and-a-half after your soulmate made it clear to you that you had no place in his life, you want to throw the pan out the window and cry on the kitchen floor until it collapses with the weight of your tears. 

You settle for throwing down the sponge and making Jimin wash his own dishes.

The phone-that you usually now tend to ignore-buzzes on the counter, and you groan at your complete lack of desire to answer it. But the screen lights up with your roommate’s name and you hit the green button. 

“Y/N! How are you feeling, lovebug?” Jimin’s cheerful tone on speakerphone makes you want to cry. You can only imagine how terrible it is for him to be your roommate when all you know how to do now is mope and cry about a boy who probably hasn’t thought about you since. But he’s been holding you through all your breakdowns, and even sets up the air mattress on the floor of your bedroom when some nights are a little bit harder than most. 

“I’ve had better days”, you glare at the pan in the sink. “What’s up?’

“So I have a friend…”

“Jimin, no.” 

He sighs over the phone understandingly, but still not satisfied. “I know it’s only been a month Y/N, but it doesn’t have to be anything. He’s not looking for anything serious either. But maybe it would be good for you to take your mind off things.” 

It’s been a month. Four weeks. Roughly 31 days, and you still remember every word he said to you in the hallway of the art building. Every pause and quiver of his breath, and the way he looked so completely indifferent to your pain. Was one month enough for you to let go even after finding out Jungkook never planned to hold on in the first place?

“Look, you don’t have to decide now. I’m sorry for pushing you if you’re not ready.” His mumbling is apologetic and it makes you realize that Jimin genuinely means well. Maybe you weren’t ready to move on from Jungkook yet. Maybe you never will be. He was your damn soulmate, after all. But maybe a distraction couldn’t hurt.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I’ll do it.” 

You can practically feel him smiling like an idiot over the phone. “Really?!” You sigh into the speaker and Jimin knows better to continue talking before you change your mind.

“His name is Namjoon, he works with me at the office. Super cute. Super hot. Super smart. Checks all your boxes!”, he rambles on about the nitty gritty details and though a part you is proud that you’re making the decision to move on with life, you can’t help but to realize that no one will ever be able to “check all your boxes”.

Not if they’re not Jungkook. 

“He sounds great, Jimin.” Anyone can tell your happiness is disingenuous, even through the phone. Jimin tells you that he had already planned a date (without your knowledge), and sends you on your way with a quick goodbye when his taxi arrives. The silence of the apartment after the conversation leaves you feeling even more weighted, but hopeful for the possibility of a distraction. You had a feeling you won’t be able to forget the likes of Jeon Jungkook if you tried. But, if only for a night, you were to forget the pain of loving him, you’ll take that chance. 

◑

“What do you mean they all ‘feel the same’?” Jungkook is exasperated. He had drafted a complete version of his portfolio, working through the nights by the sweat of his brow. Now his professor was telling him that all his pieces felt the same and Jungkook thinks he might commit arson to the art studio.

Professor Sejin sighs contemplatively, taking off his glasses and throwing them on the table, all too familiar with Jungkook’s periodic art tantrums. 

“I mean that your pieces lack any variegation. The portfolio is well done and coherent, but the completed package is one-noted. It’s consistent. But too much so.”

Professor Sejin’s words make him fall back into the chair dejectedly, shoulders slumped and disappointment in his eyes at the critique of his art. Though it is hard to hear, Jungkook always welcomes productive criticism. The older man sympathizes with his downcast eyes and the visible stress on his back. 

“Look, Jungkook”, he affirms sincerely, “you just need to find some dynamic. Something to make people know that you can do more than one tone of art.” It’s obvious that the professor has a soft spot for the boy in front of him, who looks like his entire world is collapsing. The portfolio folder is handed back to him and Jungkook has the urge to burn it and not hear the word “gallery” again in the next decade. 

“I have faith in you. You’ll figure out what it is that you’re missing.” The smile on the man’s face is congenial. Genuine. And even though he has an ambitious amount of work to do, Jungkook finds the will to nod, haul himself off the office chair, and begin the trek back to his studio. 

The pinnacle of spring is approaching and the sun shines brighter with each morning. Not that he would know or care. He’s spent the last month locking himself inside, dedicating every fluid ounce of energy towards completing his project. It’s been surprisingly easier, and Jungkook finds himself finishing paintings, sketches, and sculptures with ease. Like untapped inspiration had revealed itself to him suddenly. Yet it still wasn’t enough...at least not according to Professor Sejin. 

Headphones drown out the cacophony of hustlers and bustlers with the laughter of children as accompaniment. He doesn’t allow himself to enjoy the music of the city. Not anymore. It gives him too much space to think, and Jungkook has a feeling that’s not good for anyone and definitely not good for him. 

The sight of a familiar bakery with particularly delicious apple strudels is enough to stop him in his rush, feet winding down until he is standing outside, staring at the door and wondering if he could go in without being reminded of you. Well, it might be too late for that anyhow, but further signs of protest are halted when he hears his growling stomach. 

Jungkook had morbidly underestimated your presence in the memory of his favorite cafe. You are everywhere. He sees your smiling face when he looks up at the chalkboard menu, soul vying for you to be next to him and excitedly choosing a new fru-fru drink that would undoubtedly have excessive sugar. He hears your giggles ruminating through the cafe while the other patrons only hear the music over loudspeaker. He practically feels you near, but that doesn’t matter now. It’s better this way. No one gets hurt this way. 

Jungkook plops himself at a corner table and buries his face in his hands, fingertips soothing over his pulsing eyebags and wrinkles he’s gotten from sleep deprivation. He desperately needs an espresso shot. Or five. 

“Hey…”, a voice makes him snap his head up. Jungkook recognizes the stranger as the owner’s son, who always stands guard at the cash register. The tag on his lapel reads Kim Seokjin, and Jungkook has a distant memory of you gushing over how nice Seokjin’s hair was. He had acted unbothered back then, but Jungkook would die before telling a soul that he was annoyed and jealous when you thought the cashier was cute. 

“Jungkook, right?”. He has a kind smile and a natural air of invitation. Jungkook nods. 

“I’ve seen you around a lot. Where’s that girl you always come here with?”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business”, he nearly hisses, antsy at the mere mention of you. He instantly regrets it though. Seokjin looks like he’s been cornered with a blunt weapon, and it makes Jungkook sigh at his own asshole-ishness. 

“I’m sorry”, he mumbles, “just not a good day. At all.” 

There is a pause and hesitation before the boy speaks. “Do you...wanna talk about it?” Seokjin’s question is met with silence. 

There is a predictability about Jeon Jungkook. He doesn’t open himself up to anyone. He pretends that he doesn’t have problems so well, people start to become convinced. He avoids new connections like it’s the plague. But there is something so idiosyncratic about Kim Seokjin that makes him want to talk. Makes him want to trust a complete stranger. 

So Jungkook nods, depositing his black backpack besides him and lets himself breathe deep. 

“Her name is Y/N….”

In the lukewarm air of the café, Jungkook tells Seokjin about you. About the tiny crescent moon on your wrist that identically matches his - even unwraps his cloth to show it - and how he pushed you away hard enough to put an ocean’s worth of distance between the two of you. He tells Seokjin about Yoojung and the stars on her skin that have been plaguing him since the day she left. He tells him about that damn portfolio that refuses to be finished; one that he apparently has to start over because Professor goddamn Sejin says it's too boring. He allows himself to unload, and wow is it easier to breathe when you talk about your feelings. Jungkook reminds himself to do that more often. 

The “conversation” seems to stretch for hours (if a conversation can be considered one person unleashing all their hidden baggage on the other while they sit in silence). Jin listens intently through the entire ordeal, offering occasional nods and encouragement for him to continue. When Jungkook finally finishes with a deep breath, falling back on the chair looking completely worn out, Jin fixes him with a hot tea before speaking.

“The portfolio is important to you, Jungkook. If it’s important to you, you’ll find a way. Something tells me that you’re not one to give up so easily”, he quips with a playful lilt in his voice. Jin’s genuine faith in him makes Jungkook believe in himself.

“And as for Yoojung, well, I can’t speak on your pain. You are the only one that narrates your experiences but as much as she seems like a villain in your story, perhaps she has opened a door.” Jungkook thinks his voice sounds far too wise to be coming from a guy in his 20’s.

“Would you have known how to nurse a broken heart had it not been for her? I’m sorry she did that to you, Jungkook, but..Yoojung is your past. And I see so much in your future.” 

Jungkook only stares into the abyss of his tea cup. The reflection that stares back is someone he desperately wants to learn to love. When he looks up again, there is a sad glimmer in Seokjin’s gaze. Something so despondent that he feels second-hand pain. 

Jin pulls up the sleeve of his knit sweater. On his wrist sits a faded marigold, so blanched it almost blends in with his skin and makes him wonder if it will just disappear one day. Jungkook feels his blood run cold.

“It’s been two years since she died”, he stares solemnly at his skin, “I don’t think a day has gone by that I haven’t thought about her.” 

Jungkook’s thought about his soulmate mark disappearing before. Even hoped and prayed for it the days after Yoojung left. But now, when he sees it up close on Seokjin’s wrist, Jungkook doesn’t want to wish that loneliness upon anyone. 

“She was so damn...persistent”, Jin laughs, fondness dripping in every word. “Like your Y/N in that way, I suppose. She had a goal and was hell-bent on achieving it. She was so kind and strong and much more of a badass than I could ever be. I loved that about her.” There is sorrow in his voice when he uses the past tense, and Jungkook feels even worse for pouring his heart out about his very alive soulmate. 

“She was studying to be a doctor, you know? Ironic that even the best doctors couldn’t have saved her in the end.” His sentence trails off and he loses focus gazing out the window, fidgeting with the ring on his left hand with a faraway look in his eyes. 

“I don’t mean to ramble about my dead soulmate for no reason, Jungkook. And I’m in no position to tell you what you should or should not do regarding Y/N. But if I could restart this life with my soulmate, there wouldn’t be one second I would waste not at her side.” Jin’s tone is not accusatory or convicting. Just honest.

“It’s normal to be scared and apprehensive. Hell, I would be more concerned if you weren’t going into it with a shit ton of skepticism. I was terrified. Yet out of the billions of people that could’ve had my mark on their wrist, just knowing that she was that one was enough for me to love her.”

The cup of tea has long gone cold. Jungkook only manages to stare at the mahogany table, thoughts too heavy to voice aloud, so Jin continues. 

“I think I would give anything to know that such a person still exists for me. Someone out there that was chosen by an unknown, cosmic force for an unexplainable reason just for me. To see a mark that matches my own. Well…”, Jin breathes deeply, tears welling in his eyes but not falling, “I think that must be the most wonderful thing in the entire world.”

◒

Seokjin’s words stick with him long after he has departed from the café. Long after the tea has settled in his stomach along with the weight of what a soulmate means to this stranger whose life story he has learned in the course of an evening. 

Even so, Jungkook’s not sure what he should feel. The fear of vulnerability still feels like a designated thundercloud above his head, and the thought of letting you past his walls makes Jungkook want to run the other way.

At the same time, the trepidation doesn’t feel so heavy anymore. It’s still there, and he can’t pinpoint exactly what happened but when he sees your smiling face behind his eyelids, Jungkook doesn’t feel scared. When he focuses on what you look like under sunlight, or your eyes staring at him through a camera lens, there is no fear of the broken heart you could leave him with. Just something warm. Something that feels an awful lot like...love?

 But what does Jungkook know about such things? 

He shrugs it off his shoulders, and readies himself for a night of inevitably restless sleep. He blames it on the impending due date of his beloved portfolio, but really, it is you. You and your insistence on trying every single coffee shop in the city. You and your convoluted idea of a date; letting your partner choose the location with their eyes closed. You and…

Just everything about you. 

He falls asleep well into 4am. The thin strap of cloth sits on his bedside table. Even if it is only for the night sky to see, Jungkook lets his soulmate mark breathe. 

◐

It’s been so long since you’ve dressed up or cleaned up to go out anywhere, the reflection that stares back feels like a stranger. You’ve opted for a bold red lip, meticulously applying your makeup so that even the wing of your eyeliner was sharp enough to kill. Jimin forced you to curl your hair too, of course. The girl in the mirror looks beautiful. You know that she is beautiful.

So why is it that you can only see the face that is not enough for Jeon Jungkook? A person that he is unable to love. No, not even foundation can cover the face of longing.

“Y/N”, Jimin sing-songs, “hurry! You don’t wanna be late do you?” No, you don’t want to be late. You want to not go. Maybe retreat to your bedroom and cry the night away again. But you won’t tell him that when he is so clearly ecstatic that you’re spending a night out for the first time in months. 

The restaurant looks like it is entirely out of your budget. Well, you reckon any restaurant is out of your budget with all the debt that looms overhead and your painfully apparent unemployment. Waiting for Namjoon is less than exhilarating, and you spend the time fiddling with your bracelet that conveniently covers the crescent moon. These days, you can’t bear to look at it anymore. Your eyes are glued to the little mark, before a voice sounds from across the table.

“Sorry I’m late, traffic was insane. You must be Y/N, nice to meet you.” You weren’t sure what you expected Kim Namjoon to look like but were pleasantly surprised. Namjoon looks like he takes care of himself, neat and clean and sporting a very shiny watch that looks like 4 months’ worth of rent. 

“And you must be Namjoon. Likewise.” 

When he pulls out the chair to sit down, you can’t help but to notice the cloud on his wrist. It was smaller than yours but you had no doubt it felt just as heavy. If Namjoon felt your gaze on his skin, he did nothing to show it. 

“Hey, I know I just got here but…”, he sighs and takes a look around the room, “do you wanna get out of here? Find the cheapest and greasiest food we can?” His request makes you smile, and you grab the purse that rested on the table. 

“Namjoon, I think that’s the best idea you’ve had yet.” 

You and Namjoon manage to find a diner that wasn’t far from the fancy restaurant, and you thank the skies that you didn’t have to pay $50 for a salad tonight. Just some pocket change for quite possibly the best and oiliest hamburger you’ve ever had. 

By conversation that happens through mouthfuls of food and faces smeared with milkshake residue, you come to learn that Namjoon is an unsurprisingly nice guy. He studies poetry, but is working as a secretary at an office, hence his connection to Jimin. He loves to garden and talks about his bonsai plants to you like they’re his kids, even pulling up pictures on his phone and gazing down at them fondly. It makes you smile. He plays the piano, and likes to take long bike rides when the weather permits. 

It’s nice to have someone reciprocate your effort. It’s something you haven’t experienced in a long time, all credit to one Jeon Jungkook. Namjoon is warm in all the corners where Jungkook is cold. 

In a word, he is pretty damn perfect. And if he had a crescent moon on his wrist, you probably wouldn’t bat an eye or have a lick of doubt in the universe. He encompasses everything you want, so alike you in so many aspects it makes you wary. If Namjoon had your matching soulmate mark, you would already be in love with him. 

But he doesn’t. And that thought alone keeps you from feeling anything but platonicity. He is not Jungkook. You don’t think anyone can make you feel the way Jungkook does. You want to curse the stars for making this so. 

It’s well into the night, and you both remain planted in the diner booth, chatting and chuckling over a plate of french fries. It’s when you drift off while he’s talking about his latest attempt at focaccia that Namjoon sighs and sits back in the seat. 

“What?”, you confusedly ask after he suddenly stops speaking.

He smiles. Stays silent for a couple seconds. Then speaks. 

“So what did your soulmate do to you?”

His question catches you off guard and you can only stare at him, frown on your face and words lost on your tongue. 

“You’ve been staring into space every 5 minutes this whole night, and fidgeting with your bracelet so much I’m surprised it hasn’t fallen off”, he explains, tenderness and sympathy in his tone. 

“Every time I speak, you have this sad look in your eyes and I have a feeling you’re imagining someone else’s face, Y/N. I’ve enjoyed talking to you...a lot. But I can tell you want to be somewhere else so”, Namjoon places his elbows on the table and gazes at you endearingly, “tell me about your soulmate.” 

You stare at Namjoon through shocked eyes, glistening with the onset of tears that you manage to keep from escaping. Gosh, you were pathetic. Already wanting to cry at the mere mention of him. Or maybe the fact that someone could see through your facade. You take a deep breath. 

“His name is Jeon Jungkook.” Your voice quivers, and Namjoon continues listening intently. You are reluctant to continue because you know that once this conversation begins, there is a chance you might have to confront yourself again with the pain of loving someone who doesn’t want love. You internally apologize to Namjoon in advance, for you might cry on this first date. 

“I…I’m completely head over heels in love with him  but after everything, I’m not sure I have the slightest clue what love is. Because what sane person can fall in love with a person who has made it clear that that love wouldn’t be reciprocated from the get go?”

You fiddle with the plastic straw in your milkshake, searching for the courage to go on and tell him about every thought that you have denied yourself the satisfaction of verbalizing. 

“He loves apple strudels, you know. Eats them every time like they’re the last apple strudels he’ll ever have and he doesn’t give a damn who’s watching”, you chuckle, gaze drifting off to space. There is a fondness in your eyes as you speak, and Namjoon does not miss it. 

“He’s as punctual as the day is long. One time I was late to a photoshoot and he almost made me cry lecturing me about the importance of being on time. But now I’m never late.” 

The memory makes you, as well as Namjoon, smile. 

“He paints like his life depends on it, and he’ll get oil paint on his face without noticing and sometimes I just want to reach out and wipe it off. But I think he’d murder me on the spot.”

“How come?”, Namjoon offers his first words in the midst of your monologue. You’re not sure what to say next. 

“Well...I think Jeon Jungkook might be the coldest person I’ve ever met”, you dejectedly sigh. Reality tastes bitter even with remnants of whipped cream on your lips. 

“Every time I was around him, it felt like I was willingly breaking my own heart just for the chance to know that he was next to me. That in this entire world of billions of people, the one with the same moon on their wrist was next to me. And...I guess I didn’t really need him to love me yet”, your gaze locks onto Namjoon and you find he is already staring at you with utmost curiosity and subtle pity. 

“Jungkook alone was enough. I just wish he could have felt the same about me.” 

Perhaps the reason why the truth is so painful to speak is because people have a tendency to run from it. Then when it catches up to you, it’s a harsh trip and fall to the rocky ground. There is no cushion when you land. 

Namjoon doesn’t offer advice. Doesn’t dish his own experiences to relate to your own or even make any comments from his perspective. He just sits and listens in silence, but it doesn’t feel like he is disregarding you. No, his eyes tell you that he soaks in every word. You hope you’ll get the chance to do the same for him...if he ever decides to share his story with you. 

The two of you leave the diner with a prospective to be friends, and no plans of a future second date. You had a strong feeling that spending the entire evening talking about your unrequited soulmate love had something to do with that. Nevertheless, though Namjoon didn’t work out as a distraction, you were glad to have met him. It made you realize something.

Even if Jimin thought you were ready to move on. Even if you thought you were ready to forget. It might be a lifetime before you finally let go of that boy.

◓

The morning reeks of rain and dew, humidity nearly clawing its way through his window and turning his apartment into a swamp. When he wakes up, it is not to his blaring alarm clock, but the uncomfortable sensation of a sweaty shirt sticking to his back. Jungkook groans, already tired of this day. It seems hopeless from the beginning. 

As much as he wanted to stay home and crank up the air conditioner so much that his landlord would come running, Professor Sejin’s voice reverberates through his eardrums.

You art is too one-noted, Jungkook.

Be better, Jungkook.

You’re talentless and will never succeed, Jungkook. 

Of course, these are not Professor Sejin’s verbatim, more so Jungkook’s own mind that twists his teacher’s constructive criticism into something else. He is a master at feeding his insecurity.

Jungkook chugs down a lukewarm cup of black coffee, and his stomach growls for something with a little more sugar and maybe a dash of rainbow colored sprinkles. He guesses he has you to thank for that. The art studio is always a daily destination, and this day is no different. Jungkook has a plan to dedicate himself to fixing his portfolio and maybe finish that clay piece he never got around to. 

The studio is too cold for his liking; Jungkook can’t remember how many times he has begged the superintendent to lower the AC. The cold he can deal with. The loneliness, however, is a different story. Jungkook is always alone. Alone when he’s in his apartment. Alone when he’s in class. Alone when he’s in the art room. These days, aloneness feels more haunting when he knows he had the option to escape it, but chose to stay. A part of him is ready to admit that it’s because of you. 

Jungkook hums a random melody that had been stuck in his head since the morning, fingers gliding over the slick sculpting clay. The days are easier now. He doesn’t think about you so much when the sun is out and there is the bustling of the busy city to distract him. The nights, however, are just as difficult as they have been. Jungkook’s last drifting thought is of you, and your face torturously carries over to each dream. Like his entire being misses you but he refuses to accept it. 

He takes a deep sigh in relief once the sculpture feels finished. Professor Sejin wanted something more dynamic, so there: his very own realist clay piece drawing inspiration from Praxiteles’ sculpture of Aphrodite. He sits back in pride, admiring his own handiwork and giving himself a mental pat on the back. It looks great. Perfect even. It looks….

It looks like you. 

Jungkook pales at the realization as the clay face stares back at him. No, this was supposed to be Aphrodite, the goddess of beauty and love, inspired by the ancient Greek artist that sculpted her. Then why does she have your nose? Those eyes are definitely your’s and even those cheeks are identical. Jungkook hadn’t even realized that in the rhythm of his art, he got lost and accidentally sculpted your face instead. 

He walks away from the clay table and hurriedly yanks off the soiled apron around his waist, confusion swimming in every cell of his body. How had he just...made a sculpture of you? With no knowledge that he was doing it?

Jungkook leans with his back against the sink, staring down at the floor with furrowed brows and a thundering heart. With a sudden epiphany, Jungkook leaps from his position and pulls out all the canvases, printed photographs, graphite drawings, and clay pieces he’s made for the past few months. Everything he can grab in the small studio space. 

It is then that he comes to the daunting realization:

Holy shit.

Professor Sejin was right.

 Everything feels the same. His whole portfolio has one note and no dynamic or diversity because...well, because all of his pieces are of you. Not you, necessarily, but your breath has come alive on his art in some way, shape, or form. 

The multimedia painting he made two weeks ago using polystyrene sheets was supposed to mimic sunlight through a stained glass window, but Jungkook hadn’t even noticed he'd drawn the window of the café you dragged him to on its opening day. And the colors of the glass is just the twinkle of your eyes when they stare back into his. 

The photoset he spent hours taking around the city, after taking a 15 minute train ride, were just repeats of all the places you two went to that one day. The book store. The park. The streetlight where Yoojung stopped him. He hadn’t even realized he only saved the photos associated with a subconscious memory of you. 

Jungkook can’t explain it, but he feels you in every single picture. Every piece of art that his hands have manifested since you walked into his life, stupid smile on your face and that little moon on your wrist. He feels it...and call it artist’s intuition or something but perhaps that’s why Professor Sejin could feel it too. 

Even though he stopped making you his muse months ago, you are still the root of inspiration for whatever he’s produced since. And if that’s not enough to finally tell him what he needs to hear. Finally make him realize that he’s fallen in love with you without even knowing it, the universe doesn’t know what will. 

The minutes it has been since he realized your place in his life melts like slow dripping honey, feeling like an eternity when it is mere moments. Jungkook regains his focus in the haze. He knows what you mean to him now, but there was something he had to fo first. 

He swipes all his paintbrushes and palette knives to the side, sweat on his brow as he furiously rearranges his portfolio. He takes out the pictures of Mina - no one would miss them anyway - and trashes all the photos he took before he met you. He only uses the art he’s created post-Y/N and tucks them in the manila folder so rapidly, there’s paper cuts on his fingers. But he doesn’t feel them. Jungkook has only one objective. 

He snaps a picture of the new clay sculpture he’s just finished. The photo goes into the portfolio with the name ‘Aphrodite’, but Jungkook knows better about whose face that truly belongs to. Not that anyone would bat an eye. He thinks you are as beautiful as the goddess herself. 

The trip to Professor Sejin’s office is short, unsurprising though, since Jungkook sprints the whole way there. When he arrives, and the professor can only stare as he’s bent over and huffing violently trying to catch his breath, Jungkook reminds himself to spend less time at the studio and more time on the cardio. 

He throws the portfolio onto the man’s desk unceremoniously, nearly collapsing on the chair across from him and not ready to speak yet. Professor Sejin confusedly rifles through the folder quickly, too quickly, and sighs, ready to offer Jungkook yet the same critique again. 

He opens his mouth, but Jungkook cuts him off. 

“Before you say anything…”, he gulps, finally ready to admit the truth to himself. 

“I want you to know that I’ve met my soulmate, a-and there’s a reason why you feel that my portfolio is all the same. There’s a reason why you feel it’s all one-noted or that there’s no progression.” Jungkook takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, and you are there behind his lids. 

“It’s because she sowed the seeds for all of them. Everything. Those paintings and photos and sculptures are just symptoms of what I’ve been feeling this whole time after meeting her. She’s practically the artist, not me.” Professor Sejin stays silent at his monologue, gaze unreadable but eyes sharp and trained solely on Jungkook. 

“Maybe...Maybe art doesn’t need to be super variegated all the time. Maybe it’s supposed to be a cohesive unit and the pieces should string to each other. Maybe paintings should have a relationship to photos and them, to sculptures. Maybe you’re just...wrong.” 

He is exasperated and passion flows out of him through every pore. Jungkook looks expectantly at his professor, who has the open folder in his hand and still in the process of taking in his words. When the adrenaline starts to fade, he realizes that he just dissed his venerable teacher. 

“With all due respect…”, he coughs, “sir.” 

Professor Sejin lets Jungkook spend the next couple minutes in complete torturous silence so that he can finish reviewing his portfolio. The tension is cut with the sound of the man’s hands slapping together as he closes the folder. Jungkook prepares himself for a stern lecture.

However, when he looks up, there is a smile on the man’s face. There’s no malice there, or even disdain. He pulls off his glasses, sets them on the table, and sits back in the office chair, arms folded over his chest. Jungkook can feel his heart threatening to pound past his rib cage. 

“Jungkook…”, Professor Sejin declares, “I think you’ve got a contender for the gallery spot.” 

◑

If someone had asked you what Jeon Jungkook meant to you, you would look them in the eye and tell them that he meant nothing. Because it’s easier to pretend that someone does not mean anything to you after they pretend that you do not exist. That the universe had not given you both matching marks and deemed that your souls were meant for each other. Jeon Jungkook is a stranger to you. One that you wanted so badly to love. But you’ve come to learn that no matter how hard you try; you can’t love someone who doesn’t want to love at all.

So the days trickle by as they usually do. Painstakingly slow and viscous with memories of a boy named Jeon Jungkook and the way he has hurt you enough to last a little bit over forever. 

“I understand why you don’t want to go, Y/N. But aren’t you the least bit curious? Especially after that fancy invitation in the mail?” Jimin’s query is innocent. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t make your blood boil. 

“I don’t know...the thought of going to my soulmate’s grand art gallery when the last time we spoke, he told me he can’t love me, just doesn’t seem appealing Jimin”, you snark, burying your face into the bowl of cereal you are now spooning far too aggressively. 

“But...it’s been months. And he wouldn’t have sent you an invitation if he didn’t want you to come.” 

This conversation has happened too frequently since that red envelope arrived at your apartment. You cried your eyes out when you opened it, both out of pride for Jungkook and the fact that no matter what you did, the universe found a way to keep you from moving on. 

A sigh heaves through your chest, and the cereal is abandoned by your loss of appetite. “I’m not going to show up there and have him tell me again all of the reasons he can’t be with me. I barely survived it last time.” 

“But what if, Y/N?”

There is a glimmer in Jimin’s eye and he radiates so much hopefulness for you, you can’t help but to feel it too. 

“Isn’t the what if already enough? You used to tell me that Jungkook was worth anything. Isn’t he worth the risk this time too?”

You don’t have anything else to say after that because as much as you hate to admit, perhaps Jimin is right. Jungkook is worth going through anything for, even if he wants to stay as far away as possible. Call it a fluke in the postal system that the invitation to his gallery landed on your doorstep, but can you allow yourself to read between the lines and dare say that he sent it himself? Can you put yourself through such a perilous thing like optimism?

Jungkook has left you battered and broken for the past months. But you would give your heart to him to break all over again if he asked. 

◒

To say that you did not fit in with those dawdling around the art gallery was a gross understatement. You didn’t just not fit in. Your entire presence and aura defied every expectation, and suddenly, watching the upper echelon of the city mingle with champagne and gaze critically at Jungkook’s art, makes every breath feel like an insecurity. 

The boy in question was nowhere in sight, and you now regret not dragging Jimin with you. The invitation had specifically prohibited plus one’s, and though Jimin whined to no end about his hurt feelings and emptily promised never to talk to Jungkook again, you managed to keep him home. Now, you wish you were back at the apartment with him.

The pieces were, in short, completely breathtaking (to no surprise, of course, this was Jungkook you were talking about). Though you knew he always held doubt in himself, in the short time he allowed you to be in his life, you had never once thought he was anything less than spectacular. Yet you could not allow yourself to completely enjoy them. Each brushstroke and paint color you remember from his palettes, or the filters on the photos that you helped him with, was agonizing to look at. 

You are standing in front of a canvas titled “Windowlight” when a man comes up beside you. He nurses a flute of bubbly champagne and makes no move to gain eye contact. Unknown to you, Professor Sejin knows exactly who you are. He’s seen your face in his student’s portfolio one too many times. 

“Artful use of mixed media, isn’t it?”, he mutters.

“I suppose so.” 

“He’s quite the prodigy. Have you met him yet? I’m sure he’s lurking around somewhere.” The man takes a sip from his glass, smirk on his lips hidden from your eyes that still blankly stare ahead.

“Yes. He’s a...friend.” We share a soulmate mark. He hates my guts. 

He hums a sound of affirmation and you ignore the weird feeling it leaves in your stomach; one that tells you this stranger sees right through you. 

“Ah, how rude of me. Professor Sejin. Arts director and senior advisor.” He spares you a brief glance, but you make no move to shake his hand or pretend to be courteous. You don’t have the energy for it tonight. Just being in this building, surrounded by everything Jungkook has touched, makes you want to collapse into yourself. 

“It was nice to meet you, Y/N.” He speaks nonchalantly, and you almost miss the fact that you never told him your name. Your brows crease in confusion and you are ready to turn and interrogate the stranger, but he is already walking away, gliding smoothly across the gallery. Before he gets too far, though, Sejin cranes his neck and makes eye contact. 

“Oh, and be sure to visit the one called ‘Moon’. It’s upstairs, next to the Aphrodite sculpture on the second level exhibit”, he entreats, a suspicious lilt in his voice.

“Something tells me you’ll appreciate its…sincerity.”

Honestly, you’re not sure what you expected when you came to Jungkook’s art gallery tonight. But to be approached by a stranger who already knows your name, who dubiously instructs you to seek out a mystery art piece, was not on the list of expectations. Still...Professor Sejin’s words made you curious. 

Through the night, your eyes subconsciously seek out that familiar head of fluffy brown hair and a tall gait that always seems to stick out, even in a large crowd. It was as if Jungkook versed himself in complete camouflage, so much so that you began to doubt that he was even in the building.  

The traipse through the gallery is done in silence and solitude, and you tune out the sounds of popping champagne and raucous laughter coming from the second floor, as the patrons undoubtedly banter over which piece to auction off. You hope he keeps them. You’ve never seen someone appreciate art the way that Jungkook does. 

You catch sight of a few pieces that you recognize, ones that you remember him showing you when he had finished. You always excitedly told him every single one was a masterpiece, and Jungkook only rolled his eyes and made minimal effort at hiding the blush on his cheeks. Your steps falter when you come across a set of photographs in black and white, set in consecutive frames next to each other and it feels so warm despite the lack of color. Jungkook just had that special talent when it came to photography. 

It’s the bookstore. In the city during the impromptu train ride you had coerced him to take. Your heart catches in your throat as you recognize all the other ones immediately because well...you’ve been to all those spots. A familiar pressure builds in the back of your eyes, and you swallow down a whimper of pain. 

The urge to leave becomes too strong. But not strong enough to quell the slow burn of curiosity from Professor Sejin. There is a chance that you might not run into Jungkook at all tonight with the vast space and people bumbling through the corridors. It hurts to think that you might never see him again at all, but you’ll allow yourself another indulgence. Something is calling you. 

Moon. He titled it Moon? You grip onto your wrist reflexively and run your thumb over the mark, like you did when you were younger and still had hope for soulmates. The pulsepoint there beats under your finger and lets you know how alive you are. Compels you to give into your curiosity, even if it might decimate your already crumbling heart. The stairs that lead up to the second floor are short, but the trek feels like it knocks the wind out of you, or perhaps that was just the anticipation of what was waiting for you on the other side.

You were right to be scared. Because right in the smack dab center of the circular room is where you see it, and your gasp is one that can be heard from each wall and corner. 

A painting of you. A portrait from the waist up, with oil paint and so much detail, Jungkook has even managed to line the shallow wrinkles by your eyes when you smile. You have never considered yourself beautiful in any sense but the way he has captured you on canvas starts to make you believe that you truly are. You feel Jungkook in each streak of the brushstroke where he hadn’t spread the color evenly. It is as if the painting is alive, and though you are staring at yourself, it doesn’t feel like the way it does in the mirror. Doesn’t feel like a reflection. 

No, this feels like looking through Jungkook’s eyes. It is what he sees in you, rather than what you see in yourself. And what he sees is beautiful. Through the haze of shock and confusion as to why he chose this as the centerpiece, you don’t notice the warm presence that lurks behind you. The one that has watched your every move since you walked into this building. 

“Yeah, that’s my favorite one too.” 

You whip your head around so quick it nearly gives you whiplash, but the sight of him is the nail in the coffin. Jungkook is cleaned up in a black suit, and an unfamiliar smile on his lips he rarely lets you see. A genuine one that he’s tried to hide so many times but now that it’s clear and up close, you resent him for keeping it from you. 

Jungkook is just as gorgeous as the day you lost him. 

But looking at him hurts. You don’t know why you’re even here, and why he sent the invitation, or why he was standing in front of you now and there is not a sliver of antipathy in his eyes. You don’t know why your face is plastered in the center of the gallery. Most of all, you don’t know why you are still weak in the knees for Jeon Jungkook. 

“Although, I have to say, it was a close race between this one and the pictures I made you take at the lake, when you nearly dunked me in the river because it was so cold”, he breathily laughs but you aren’t able to get through the shock just yet. If Jungkook notices your starstruck state, he doesn’t let it affect him. 

“And I definitely have to give some credit to the one I painted after you told me about your dream”, Jungkook prattles on, “where you were a mermaid who planted peaches under the sea, remember? That’s an honorable mention.” 

These memories make you want to smile but in this moment, the best you can do is try to hold yourself together when your eyes begin to warm with tears. Jungkook stays silent when you do. He notices you haven’t said a word and your gaze refuses to meet his. 

“Why are you doing this, Jungkook?”, you curse yourself when your voice cracks. “Why are you telling me these things? Haven’t you hurt me enough?” Jungkook’s smile drops off his face, and for once, you can see your own pain reflected in his eyes. 

He takes a deep breath, hands hanging limply at his side that itch to wrap themselves around yours. To feel your skin. Feel your mark. 

“I…”, he hesitates in his words, “I remember that day every night when I go to sleep, Y/N. Every time I shut my eyes, I just see your face when I told you I can’t love you, and I don’t think I’ve ever felt such aching before. Not even when she left me.” Jungkook’s voice is tinted with desperation but it just makes your walls rise higher. 

He’s lying to you. Your tongue wants to protest, but he continues. 

“I see you in everything”, Jungkook breathes out, like he is also admitting it to himself. 

“The paintbrushes I can never put down to the black coffee I force myself to drink nowadays because the ones I actually like, the ones with too much whipped cream and vanilla syrup, just reminds me of you.” His brows are knitted, and his feet vie to step closer to your quivering form. But you look like a caged animal about to bolt at any moment. 

“And when I’m reminded of you, I am reminded of…”, he gulps down the fear, “I’m reminded of how I am utterly in love with someone who deserves so much more than what I have put them through.”

The blood that runs through your veins drops to subzero temperatures, and you swear in the split millisecond that you have absorbed what he’s just said, your heart ceases its beating. The world stops turning, and the waves still for a brief moment. You can’t find any words just yet, but Jungkook can see straight through you and your stupefied expression. 

“Y-you’re lying to me, Jungkook. Stop lying.” 

“I’m not lying, please…” Jungkook knows he’s losing you by the second, but he’s promised you he would persist. He just wants you to listen. Wants you to feel how sorry he is, and how his soul screams to be next to your’s. 

“I can’t explain how it happened. Like it was an epiphany. Like someone has been screaming at me and I had been ignoring them, and that someone was my own heart.” Jungkook doesn’t stumble over his words once. He does not stutter because it is the plain white truth. 

“Stop, Jungkook.”

“It’s been knocking on the door of my chest and when I finally let it in, it just yells and shouts ‘oh my god, you’re in love’ and then I realized oh my god, i’m in love. In between painting you and convincing myself that soulmates meant nothing to me, I’ve completely and unquestionably fallen in love with you, Y/N.” 

Jungkook can’t decipher the look on your face. Something between the lines of disbelief and heartbreak, and it makes him want to split at the seams at the pain he’s put you through. How he’s convinced you you’re impossible to love. He vows to make it right again.

“Jungkook-”

“And you’re wrong, you know. You’re not hard to love. Hell, I was dead set on never loving again and you managed to make me so smitten, I can’t paint or draw a damn thing without including some aspect of you in it.” Jungkook steps back and gestures to all the canvases and photos that hang on the wall. 

“Take a look around, Y/N. It’s all you. Every piece.” Once he says it, you finally notice Every piece of art in this room can be traced to you, or a memory you two share. It’s so clear, you don’t know how you missed it before. You feel yourself in the art Jungkook has poured his soul into. Instead of making you feel elated, these words that you’ve been waiting your entire life to hear just ignites the sting. 

“Just stop. Please.” It is only a weak whisper through your lips, and he ignores it. 

“If you can’t forgive me, I get it Y/N. I can’t forgive myself either. But can you just know that you are enough. You are more than what I deserve. And I know you told me to be happy, but there is no way I can possibly do that without you.” 

When your gaze falls to the floor, you notice that his wrist is clean of any bracelets or watches. Come to think of it, this is one of the first times you are seeing it clear and in the flesh. Jungkook doesn’t tell you, but nowadays, he doesn’t allow anything to impede on the sight of the crescent moon.

When your guard is down and you are distracted, he finds the perfect time to finally reach forward and take your hand in his. His touch is gentle when it wraps around your wrist, tugging off the ribbon that circled it, and revealing the matching mark. Your pulse jumps under his fingers, and skips a beat when he runs a thumb over the moon. You are already melting with such simple contact, and you almost allow yourself to succumb. Almost.

It’s as if suddenly his skin was scalding, and you snatch your wrist from his grasp at lightning speed. The tears that have strayed down your face are wiped away as quickly as they came. The surprise on his face is missed by your eyes because before he can comprehend what is happening, you are bolting down the staircase and out the glass doors of the gallery. No, you cannot forgive him yet. What would you do if he hurt you again? You don’t think you would survive. 

You ignore the pain of seeing his art pieces as you run, now that you know you are the muse behind them all. The only noise is the sound of blood rushing in your ears, and you are oblivious to the racket of Jungkook’s shoes clapping against marble flooring as he chases after you, expertly dodging the other patrons and butlers holding trays of champagne. 

And Jungkook? Well, he is oblivious to the complete turmoil that runs through your every nerve. He only sees your back, and not the way you bite your lip painfully to keep the sobs from escaping. Not the way your pain is exhibited clear as day in the crease of your eyebrow and the wrinkle of your nose. 

The air outside is so cold it bites at your nostrils, but makes it easier to breathe. The wind calms the thundering heart in your chest.

He must be lying. There was no way he had a change of heart now, not when he was so rooted in his belief before. There is no virtual possibility, on any plane of existence, on any dimension where Jeon Jungkook has fallen in love with you. 

Right?

The hand that circles around your wrist tightly to keep you from getting any farther tells you that you are wrong. He did come after you. Jungkook’s strength forces you to stop running, but you can’t find the courage to turn around and face him just yet. But you don’t make an effort to pull away, and he takes it as progress.

“You can run if you want, Y/N. You can walk away from me and from us, but don’t doubt that I’ll always be chasing after you. For as long as it takes.” He is panting and speaking through heavy breaths, but you hear him. Loud and clear. 

“I won’t let you leave again. Not like last time.”

There is no malice. No coldness, and for the first time since you’ve met him, his words feel like warm honey instead of monotone ice. He is utterly distraught when you turn around slowly, hesitant like you’re afraid he will break your heart right then and there. 

His heart shatters at the wetness at your waterline, and the way you look up at him; completely vulnerable and scared. 

“Do you promise?” 

There is a lot of weight in your three-word question. It’s not as innocent as meets the eye, and Jungkook knows it. He feels it. When you ask him if he promises, it is an invitation back to you. You are offering him your heart, which he has already broken and bruised, and trusting him to be careful with it this time around. Jungkook already knows he loves you. And if you let him, he’ll spend the rest of his life making sure this promise remains unbroken. 

“I promise.” 

It’s a commitment. One he used to be terrified of making, but it seems so easy when it’s for you. 

And when you fly forward to wrap your arms around him, Jungkook feels like home. Like the stars twinkle a little brighter and the earth stops spinning for a mere second, just for the two of you. You feel him squeeze you closer, just as tightly, and Jungkook wants to kick himself for depriving you both of a simple thing called love. 

You are here, souls and now bodies intertwined, and Jungkook lets the pain of past hurt fall away. Pain is so miniscule when you are by his side. When you pull back, Jungkook frowns at your red-rimmed eyes, and the tears that still persist. He wipes it away oh so softly, as if you were delicate clay and he, a sculptor. 

“Please don’t cry anymore, princess, it breaks my heart. I’m so sorry.” It is the softest, most sugary tone you’ve ever heard out of him. But hearing affection from his lips makes you feel that perhaps all of this sorrow, this longing, has been worth it. He has been worth it. He always has. 

“I love you, Y/N.” Jungkook’s words are almost as beautiful as he is. 

His lips are familiar when you lean forward and kiss him. Yet they are different. This time, the hands on your waist hold you a bit more carefully, even closer if that were possible. You can feel his thudding heart as it beats against your own, learning to match rhythms with each other, and Jungkook cradles your face in his hand like you are the only artwork he has truly been proud of. 

And it’s true. All the canvases and paints and camera film seem wasted now. Nothing he ever makes will be quite as alluring as the art he holds in his arms in this moment. 

“I love you too, you goddamn idiot.”

You meant it all those months ago, and you mean it now. If Jeon Jungkook was the sun, you would gladly change your name to Icarus. If Jeon Jungkook was the moon, then you are the tides that he pushes and pulls. If Jeon Jungkook belonged to you, well...you don’t have to imagine that anymore. He is your’s, as you are his. 

Old habits die hard, but they are not immortal. They wax and wane, and remind you that in the cosmic vastness of things, you are only human. Humans whose hearts beat in tandem and souls made to complete the other. Humans with identical crescent moons, lost but now found.

Old habits die hard. But you have learned to fix those of a broken heart. 

☾

#btsguild #jeon jungkook x reader #bts angst #bts fluff #jungkook angst #jungkook fluff #jungkook fanfic #jeon jungkook #bts fanfiction #bts soulmate au #bts enemies to lovers #bts reader insert #thoabh #bts imagine #bts scenarios #jungkook imagine #bts one shot #jungkook one shot #jungkook soulmate au #jungkook reader insert #jungkook x you #jungkook x reader #jungkook fanfiction

[thefanficmonster]

will you do an oompaville x reader.? like maybe one where you’re at a wedding with him and he asks you to dance.?

Omg an oompaville request!!! I'm so grateful dear! Thank you so much for your lovely request, please enjoy the one-shot 🥰

Perfect Sync

Pairing: Oompaville (Caleb) x Reader (Gender Neutral)

Warnings: None

Genre: FLUFF, RPF (Real Person Fic)

There are certain pros and cons to being so distanced from your extended family. And I mean DISTANCED, in all capitals. I actually live in a completely different state on the completely opposite side of the US and yet I still somehow got an invitation to my cousin's wedding. To be fair, it's not that surprising, seeing as how she's the only cousin I have comprehendible memories with from my childhood. She's a really sweet girl - no, woman - and it kinda sucks that we haven't had the chance to catch up in so long.

Among the many other cons is the fact that I don't know a single person at this wedding. Not. A. Single. Person. Sure, there have been several elderly and middle aged couples who've approached me, claiming they know me and given me a huge hug, asking me how my parents were doing. Speaking of my parents, they are a pair of sneaks who avoided coming to the wedding themselves saying they were stuck with a stomach virus while they're actually vacationing in Canada. How wonderful of them, don't you think?

They are chilling in Canada and I'm over here boiling and sweating over my third, possibly forth glass of champagne of the evening, not to mention the wedding hasn't even properly started yet. Count on me switching to whiskey when it does.

Sitting at the table I was pointed to upon arrival, I let my gaze skim over the immense garden decorated with beautiful flowers, fairy lights and handmade décor pieces. Each table and bar is under a white tent, just like the one I’m currently sitting under. It’s a beautiful sight and I can only imagine it’s only gonna get even prettier when the sun finally sets completely and all these fairy lights come on. That’s one of the few good things about my attendance at this event today. The ‘good’ things have been so little in number I can probably count them on the fingers of one hand: 1.I briefly saw and chatted with my cousin who was practically trembling out of excitement, anxiety and happiness. Good for her; 2. I’ve downed so many drinks that would probably cost me a fortune at a club or bar and I’m decently buzzed. Very cool; 3. I made friends with one of the bridesmaids because I had time to kill - turns out she wanted to be at this wedding as much as me: not at all; 4. I caught a whiff of the dinner which was still being cooked and damn am I excited about it; 5. The garden is absolutely breathtaking and it’s a sight worth sticking around for. See, as I said, few enough good things to be able to count them on the fingers of one hand.

And what about that cute guy from earlier?, my subconsciousness nudges me teasingly, causing me to almost evidently roll my eyes.

The hot guy being referred to right now is the one I damn near ran over when I was pulling up to this fancy estate. In my defense, I’m still getting used to the rental car I got when I landed in Texas two days ago, and plus he came out of literally nowhere. Luckily, he wasn’t mean or upset about it, took it quite lightly which was relieving and surprising. 

Not gonna lie though, he was really cute.

I see the people all over the garden hurriedly take a seat when it gets announced that the newly weds are about to have their first dance. I cross my legs, finishing the champagne in one go before I can focus my attention on the lovely couple that’s just stepped out of the mansion-like house and onto the soft grass of the lawn, slowly making their way towards the center where they’re supposed to have the dance - aka where everyone will be dancing afterwards too.

Everyone but me, I’ll be busy chilling by the bar, hopefully in the company of that bridesmaid who I can crack jokes with without feeling guilty.

The two dance in perfect sync, their movements almost mesmerizing to the human eye. I’m no professional dancer but I don’t have two left feet either, yet I’m still amazed by this perfection before me. I bet all the cash I took with me from New York - which is a lot, I expected to spend a lot - that they’ve practiced this more than once. Or at least I hope they have as to make me feel better about my own skills - or the lack thereof.

“I take it you’re a lot less dangerous when you’re not behind the wheel.“ A quiet comment emerges next to my ear, loud enough for me to hear but hushed as to not disturb the couple nor the mob of people watching them in awe.

My eyebrows shoot up. I’ve maybe heard that voice only once before but that teasing tone made me blush like mad earlier and that’s hard to forget. I have a hard time forgetting embarrassment.

Biting my lip, I slowly turn to face him, “I can’t guarantee, there are plenty of sharp objects around after all.“

There’s that same wide smile I saw earlier when my entire life flashed before my eyes. His probably did too but unlike me, he didn’t show it. “Some luck I have sitting next to you then.“ He chuckles, handing me a glass of whiskey. I take it hesitantly, giving him a suspiciously raised eyebrow. “You look like you could use one.“ He shrugs, taking a sip of his own. When my expression doesn’t change and I don’t make a move to ingest the beverage, he rolls his eyes, “Yeah I’m someone you’re seeing for the second time in your life, and yeah you might think I could want revenge for my nearly damaged health, but I don’t. And if you don’t want the whiskey...” he reaches to take it back but I quickly put it up to my lips and take a long sip, causing him to smile. “There you go!”

Oh boy does the taste of whiskey hit different after sipping on champagne for hours. I nod to him in gratitude. “Thanks, I strongly appreciate this.”

He nods back, his smile now a smaller one but still preserving the same amount of joy as when it was a full-blown grin, “I’m Caleb, by the way.”

“Y/N, nice to meet you.“ I reply, feeling the tension in my shoulders easing and the embarrassed blush fading. This guy just has such a chill aura, it’s nice being in his company. Hell, I’ll even go as far as to say if I simply had to almost hit someone with my car today, I’m glad it was him.

As more and more people emerge from their seats, heading hand in hand to the dancefloor to join the newlyweds, I finish my whiskey and am contemplating on going to get myself another but before I can decide, Caleb arises from his seat as well. He takes a stand in front of me, offering me his hand, “Well, there’s very little damage you can do you me out on the dancefloor, right?” He chuckles when he sees he’s made me blush again - third time today, damn it - but then he assumes a more serious facial expression, his smile never faltering though, “Care to accompany me for a dance, Y/N?”

I pretend to think the offer over, weighing my options and its pros and cons when in reality I dam near accepted the same second he asked. “Hmm, ok...“ I say finally, resting my hand in his, “That is, if you promise not to step on my feet. These are some expensive shoes I’m wearing.“

He lets out a genuine laugh as he leads us to the dancefloor, one that I’ll admit is hella contagious, “Says the person who almost ran my ass over earlier. Am I not expensive, huh?”

I give him a confused look, hiding fits of laughter, “I don’t know, Caleb. Are you?”

He shakes his head, “Nah, best offer you’d get for me on Craigslist is like, a dollar? Two if you’re lucky.”

And that’s all it takes to break the dam holding back my laughter, sending me in fits of giggles as we start dancing. My laughter ends just as quickly as it starts though when I realize how in-sync our dancing is. Perfectly synchronized. 

Huh, wonder why, that annoying voice pokes at my peace again. But I don’t let it get to me. Not now at least. I’m just gonna enjoy this moment, dancing with a practical stranger, gazing into his warm and welcoming eyes.

Suddenly I need another hand to count the good things about this wedding since I have to add three new points: 6. Almost hitting Caleb with my car; 7. Officially meeting Caleb; 8. Dancing with him.

Dancing with him in perfect sync

Oh, shut it, I don’t wanna start blushing again.

#oompaville #oompaville fanfiction #oompaville fanfic #oompa #oompaville fic #oompaville fluff #oompaville imagine #oompaville x reader #oompaville x you #oompaville x y/n #fic #fanfic #fanfiction #fandom #fan #fluff #x reader #request #reader #requests open

[kiki-shortsnout]

Do you angsty Loki/Tony/Stephen HC? Like during and after battle?

‘On a scale of one to ten, where is he?’

‘In terms of being angry? Oh, he’s definitely in the triple digits,’ Stephen answered, lifting Tony’s chin so he could see the gash on his forehead better.

Tony clenched his hands on the bathtub, hearing his fingertips squeak on the plastic as he gripped it, throbbing shards of agony streaking up his arm.

‘Hey, don’t do that,’ Stephen whispered in a low voice, reaching out to clasp Tony’s wrist. He tugged gently until Tony relinquished his grip, settling the hand into Tony’s lap, careful not to aggravate the bruised, damaged fingers.

Tony bounced his feet on the floor, curling his toes on the bathroom mat, focusing his gaze on it as if that could somehow settle his frantic thoughts. ‘It wasn’t me being stupid,’ he seethed, the venom coated words seeping out from his clenched teeth.

Stephen chose not to answer, the intricate lattice of his mandalas appearing around his wrists. He gestured down to the sterile needle and thread he’d left on a tray beside the bathtub, the inanimate objects floating into the air towards Stephen’s hands.

‘Where are you on the scale?’ Tony asked, trying to blink away the blood dripping into his eye as he watched Stephen thread the needle, his hands unusually steady from the help of his magic.

‘Double digits,’ Stephen’s voice was curt as he lifted the needle up to Tony’s face. Some of the furious anger making the muscles tight in his face bled out as Tony flinched. Grinding his teeth together, he tried to hold himself still as he fought against the panic creeping up on him, desperate not to make Stephen angrier than he was.

His gaze focused on the Cloak floating beside the bathroom cabinet, ready to pass Stephen anything else he needed. He hated this, hated that both his lovers were furious with him, that the happy memories of the time spent in the Sanctum bathroom were now becoming tainted with his bad decision. This was a place where he shared early morning showers with them both, indulging in soapy giggling as they washed each other, steam fogging the glass from their intimate times. Even this tub he was sat on served as a treasured memory, a place for hot baths and whispering affections, lingering hugs after battles, reassurance as the warm water soothed the aches and pains away.

‘Why not get magic to sew me up?’ Tony asked, chuckling to try and break the tension, wincing at the pain in his ribs.

‘Because my hands are more precise,’ Stephen muttered, distracted.

He knew better than this, he really did. Pepper had chewed him out enough over the years about it. It had been one of the pivotal reasons they’d ended their relationship years ago, her citing his reckless behavior, his no sense of self-preservation. Even Rhodey had spent countless hours over the years screaming at him about it. Tony couldn’t help it, there was something ingrained in him after all his years of being Iron Man.

In the heat of battle his entire world had condensed down to one thing.

Loki.

His lover had been distracted, not seeing the blast of energy hurtling towards his back. Tony had. He had seen Loki’s broad, defenseless back, had already seen the civilians who had succumbed to the villain’s weapon, people they couldn’t bring back. In that split second, Tony had seen someone he cared about, someone he loved in danger.

And he had acted.

‘You really should go to the hospital for all of this,’ Stephen said, finishing his stitches. He stood up and took a step back to examine his handy work.

‘No! No-’

‘I know, no hospitals,’ Stephen appeased, seeing the grip terror had upon Tony at the mere mention of the word. He hated hospitals, needles, he was only just tolerating Stephen’s care because he trusted the man.

Trust Tony had probably shattered with his impulsive decision.

‘Let’s take a look at the rest of you, arms up please,’ Stephen ordered, tugging at the edge of Tony’s t-shirt.

Without thinking about it, he did as he was told, anxious to at least have one of them not mad at him. He was able to bite back the scream of pain as he lifted his arms, but his grasp over his body wasn’t as strong, his vision blurring around the edges as he pitched forward. Stephen leapt into action to catch him, and the panicked yelp of his name allowed Tony to shove aside the unconsciousness threatening, concentrating on the here and now.

Keep it together.

‘Are you alright? Sorry, I’m still in doctor mode…I forgot I can…just stay still, I’ve got you,’ Stephen whispered. Tony felt a ripple of magic and then his t-shirt was gone, cold waves of air licking at his skin. Stephen’s touch was gentle as he probed the enormous blackening bruises on Tony’s side, but he couldn’t help the wounded yelp escaping as Stephen brushed against something painful, the noise amplified by the bathroom walls.

They both heard something crash to the floor outside, and Tony saw a flash of green magic illuminate the space under the bathroom door before footsteps stomped away.

‘None of your ribs are broken, or fractured, but it’s going to be very painful for the next few days. I’ve got something that can help ease the pain,’ Stephen murmured, his eyes narrowing as he examined Tony’s fingers.

Despite trusting Stephen, he flinched away, holding his arm close to his body, afraid to let Stephen near it. He’d had so many injuries to his left hand over the years that it was now sensitive, a vulnerable part of himself that he didn’t like others touching.

‘Tony, sweetheart, it’s alright, you can trust me. Let me see it, please,’ Stephen begged, and Tony couldn’t work out why he was upset, why he had anything to be upset about.

Am I going to lose them over this?

Pepper had already ended their relationship with him because of this, and he hadn’t learnt, couldn’t control his impulses. If anything, he cared about these two stubborn assholes more, couldn’t bear to think about them leaving because of the same reason.

I’m sorry.

‘No breaks here either, a torn ligament possibly and a few stretched tendons, I’ll wrap it up later, don’t use it for a few days.’

Stephen stretched his hand out to the Cloak, taking the adhesive gauze pad it was holding. He gave Tony another once over before bending down on his knees, brushing back Tony’s bangs so he could apply the pad, sealing the wound.

He caught Stephen’s wrists as his lover went to move away, clutching them as hard as he could, even as his fingers pulsated with pain.

‘I’m sorry,’ Tony blurted, closing his eyes against his angry tears. ‘I saw he was in danger and I…I just-’

‘Look at me, Tony.’ Stephen brought his hands to Tony’s face, encouraging his damaged hand back down. ‘For a split second there, I thought I’d lost you,’ Stephen murmured, hand cradling Tony’s jaw, the tremor back in his grip now his magic was gone. ‘You were just lying on the ground, not moving. We heard your body hit the floor, heard the…’ Stephen couldn’t finish his sentence, closing his eyes as he swallowed thickly.

He surged forward, seizing Tony in a hug, cradling the back of his head as he held him close to his body, quivering with his pent up fear, his anger at Tony, his relief.

‘Jesus, Tony. I don’t think I’ve ever been so scared in my life.’

‘I’m sorry, I just…I saw him and-’

‘I know, sweetheart, I know. I would’ve done the same, for either of you,’ Stephen swore, stretching back so he could rest their foreheads together, inhaling shakily. ‘I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you.’

‘Me neither, but I know I’d always do everything in my power to save you both, even if that means flinging myself in front of some intergalactic laser beam from some wannabe villain,’ Tony joked, his own tears falling as he saw tears squeeze out from Stephen’s clenched eyelids.

They clutched each other, reassuring themselves that the other was alive and well, that despite Tony’s damaged and bruised state, they were both alive to fight another day.

‘Go talk to him. I can hear him pacing from here,’ Stephen murmured, leaning down to peck Tony’s lips with his own, careful of his split lip.

‘Alright.’ Tony got off the edge of the bathtub as he took a deep breath. He knew he had to face Loki, had to say sorry somehow, but suddenly the bathroom floor was looking like a great place to sleep on.

‘Tony?’ Stephen’s voice sounded like it was far away, and Tony tried to reach out for him, his arms feeling like they were wading through treacle. ‘Hold on, I’m going to put you in bed-’

‘No! I’ll never hear the end of it if he thinks I’m bedridden. Let me explain to him I’m fine and then we can go from there.’ Tony gritted his teeth as he hobbled out of the bathroom. He could do this, he’d defended the Earth against all sorts of threats, had been stabbed by Thanos and still managed to stand, he could make it to Loki.

The Sanctum hallway wavered for a moment, splashes of ruby from the rugs blurring together with the dark wood into a dizzying kaleidoscope of color and pain that Tony was victim to. A hand on his back centered him, forcing the world to stop spinning.

‘I thought I had to talk to Loki, alone?’ Tony questioned.

‘And last time I checked I was with you both? I might be mad at you too, but I’m not going to let you struggle all the way there,’ Stephen promised him.

Loki was pacing beside the oddly shaped window of the Sanctum, his arms clasped behind his back, his expression unreadable as he stamped.

‘Actually, the funhouse corridor is looking like a better option,’ Tony whispered, taking a step back into Stephen’s body.

‘I’m glad to see that you are in fact alive, despite my earlier conclusion,’ Loki snapped, coming to a standstill, his back to Tony.

‘Loki…I’m-’

‘Sorry? Sorry for putting yourself in danger? For not trusting me to watch myself in battle?

For making me think I’d lost you!’ Loki shouted, whirling on his heel and glaring at Tony. He could see blood staining Loki’s leather, knew it was his, could remember the terror on Loki’s face as he carried him away from battle, the way he frantically called his name.

Anthony! Please, Norns! I cannot…Stephen! Help me!

The words ricocheted around in his mind, Loki’s despair, his overwhelming fear of a few hours ago still potent in his memory. He met Loki’s gaze and any humor, any of his usual cocky brashness evaporated under the sheer fury radiating from Loki’s posture.

‘It was foolish of me to put my trust in you,’ Loki spat, his hands tightened into fists at his side, furious streaks of red straining his pale cheekbones.

Despite his shame, the pain coursing through his body like glass shards pumping through his veins, Tony took a challenging step forward, holding his ground even when he couldn’t quite see Loki clearly.

‘What did you want me to do? Stand there and let it happen?’

‘I expected you to trust me!’ Loki hissed.

‘And I do trust you! But in that moment, all I could see was that you were in danger! Someone I loved was in danger and I acted. I’m not sorry Loki, I’d do it again, a thousand times over if it would keep you safe!’

Loki’s frustration exploded from him in a blast of green energy. It washed over Tony and Stephen leaving them unaffected, but the glass cases of the artifacts shattered, flinging glass on the floor.

‘I did not ask you to sacrifice yourself like that for me. How do you think that would make me feel, how it would make Stephen feel if we lost you in such a way, you infuriating mortal!’

Tony tried to take another step forward, his brain trying to come up with a counterargument even as the world was pitching sideways, nausea scrabbling up his throat. It was all too much, the pain, the implications, and while he never backed away from a fight, Tony found that he couldn’t do it anymore.

‘Listen, I know you want to shout at me some more, hell you can punch me later if you want, and I know you’re trying to teach me a lesson right now, but could you please heal me? Can’t you take your anger out on me some other way?’ Tony begged as he crashed to one knee, sweat dripping off his body as he fell forward onto his uninjured hand.

‘What happened? I thought you said you could heal him! I knew I should’ve taken him to the healers at New Asgard!’ Loki shouted, suddenly beside Tony. He was rolled over onto his back, both of them looming over him with pale, waxen faces.

‘He needs rest Loki, he’s exhausted.’

‘Then why is he not in a bed!’ Loki demanded.

‘Because I’m sorry,’ Tony croaked, trying to rub his head against Loki’s leg, his limbs trembling as his body began to succumb to his exhaustion. Stephen lifted him, handing him over to Loki as he went to talk to the Cloak, barking instructions at it. Drained of any sort of fight, Tony went lax in the arms holding him, the jostling of Loki’s chest against his as he walked creating enough pain to keep him conscious, and he was ashamed of the guttural whine that escaped his mouth.

‘Put him down carefully and don’t aggravate him any further. You can shout at him later,’ Stephen instructed Loki, ready to chase the Asgardian out if he needed to.

Tony just wanted to sleep, wanted to burrow down into Stephen’s mattress and blankets and pass out, just so he could escape the pain and their wrath for a few hours. Cracking open his eye, he watched Stephen shut the blinds to his room, searching through his draws for something.

Loki made an intricate gesture with his fingers, and a ceramic pot fell out of thin air and into his palm. Opening the lid, a pungent smell pierced the air, a woodsy mint tang, almost like eucalyptus. Tony sucked in a sharp inhale through his teeth as Loki smeared the white salve over his ribs, his gaze flicking up in a tormented expression as Tony struggled to hold himself still.

‘You really thought… Anthony…you really believe I would punish you in such a way, that I would not heal you if I were able?’ Loki asked, fingers feather-light over his skin.

‘You’re really mad at me,’ Tony gasped, tossing his head back against the pillow at the flash of heat settling into his skin.

‘Loki’s magic doesn’t work in that way, he’s not a healer,’ Stephen explained, carefully settling on the bed on Tony’s other side, running his fingers through Tony’s hair.

‘No matter my anger, I would not punish you in such a way. Do you not think it pains me to see you like this, to know I did not do enough to prevent it, to be reminded of just how fragile you are!’ Loki angrily muttered. ‘Give me your hand.’

Just as he had with Stephen, Tony initially refused, wrapping his free arm around his elbow, hiding his hand away from them both.

‘Anthony…’ Loki gasped.

‘Loki, sweetheart, Tony’s had a lot of serious injuries to that hand, still suffers from some of the mental trauma. It’s not that he doesn’t trust you.’

‘Anthony, beloved, you can trust me. Listen to me, focus on your ribs, you must be able to feel the clutches of agony loosening their hold on you.’

Tony could, his breathing was easier, but he still held his arm close, his fear mingling with the old horrors of previous betrayals.

‘Tony?’ Stephen questioned.

‘Don’t leave,’ Tony whispered, ‘I’m sorry for what I did, for being who I am, but-’

Loki silenced him with a fierce kiss, holding Tony’s face in his hands, waiting until their gazes locked.

‘Nothing is worth your life, especially not mine,’ Loki told him viciously. ‘I am honored by the depths of your love for me, touched that you find me worthy, but I am more resilient than you, stronger because of my heritage. There is not much in this universe that can harm me, but there is so much that can harm you,’ Loki told him, his eyes going filmy wet.

‘I can’t lose you, Lokes, can’t lose either of you.’ Tony stretched forward to kiss him again, tentatively offering his hand for treatment.

Loki took it, his touch tender as he applied the salve. Tony didn’t watch as he worked, nuzzling his face into Stephen’s chest, breathing him in, inhaling the lingering scent of battle and sweat.

‘Ah, took you long enough. Tony, I need you to sit up for a second, come on.’ He reached a hand beneath Tony’s head, encouraging him to sit up, supporting his weight. The Cloak dropped something into Stephen’s hand, draping itself over Tony’s legs, its collar fluttering at the bruises on Tony’s chest. ‘Open up, sweetheart.’

Tony did as he was asked, grimacing against the bitter pills placed on his tongue, fighting the urge to spit them out, glaring up at Stephen.

‘They’ll put you to sleep but they’ll help, I promise,’ Stephen swore, holding a glass of water to his lips.

‘Sorry,’ he croaked again once he finished drinking, scrunching his eyes up as Stephen lay him back down.

‘No, I am sorry for being angry, for fighting with you while you were injured, for making you believe that I would allow you to suffer in such a way. I wish I were a healer, that I did not have to watch you endure this alone.’

Tony flexed the fingers of his injured hand, laughing a little in relief as the pain receded to a dull ache. ‘Come lay down with me, I think I need sleep,’ he requested. He usually grumbled at how soft Stephen’s mattress was, preferring a firmer mattress, but right now it felt heavenly. He wriggled down further into the blankets, sighing loudly as both his lovers flanked him.

‘Sorry again,’ he whispered, holding back his tears as he felt twin kisses on his forehead.

‘Sleep beloved, we will watch over you,’ Loki told him, the edge of his finger stroking over the bridge of Tony’s nose.

‘We’ll tell you off when you wake up, douchebag,’ Stephen added, snaking an arm cautiously over Tony’s shoulders.

Despite the feeling of his battered body, Tony found himself falling asleep quickly, the sounds of his partners whispering, the soothing strokes to his body and the medication all sending him into a dreamless sleep.

#frostironstrange #Loki #Tony Stark #Stephen Strange #writing prompt #Ask #answered asks

[robininthelabyrinth]

Unfettered (aka NHS goes feral) - part 3 - previous parts: on ao3 or tumblr pt 1, pt 2

-

Lan Xichen had the strangest feeling that something was going to happen.

He wouldn’t pretend that he had a touch of foresight – life had shown him the hard way how completely he lacked any sorts of skill in that direction– and there was nothing altogether unusual about anything that had happened in the past few days of the war. Lan Xichen was helping with so much more now than he had during the Sunshot Campaign, when he’d been able to be a little above it all as a mere courtier or a single but powerful scouting force, thanks in large part to his sect’s then-existing weakness and Nie Mingjue’s utter brilliance. Nowadays he had to deal with the endless drudgery of war administration: the clean-up before and after battles, the mechanics of feeding and supplying all the cultivators in their front lines, planning their next move and the next after that…

Nie Huaisang had received a message and stormed out, looking annoyed, but that wasn’t new, either.

There were many demands on his time, after all. Nie Huaisang might not have much experience at war on a personal basis, having largely (and willingly) been sidelined during the Sunshot Campaign, but he was a sharp study and an excellent judge of people. He managed their generals – selected for merit without any attention to what sect they were from, if any – with an iron fist that rivaled his control over his own disciples, and on top of the war there was also his extensive network of spies, his constant scrutiny of their supply lines, his supervision of internecine disputes between the sects…

The divisions between us will be the first place Jin Guangshan strikes, he had said – snarled, rather – at the last meeting between sect leaders, taking to task men twice his age without so much as the blink of an eye. I want this petty bullshit between you resolved, now, and I don’t care how many generations you’ve been fighting over it. If you don’t fix it, I’ll fix it for you, and I assure you that neither of you want that.

They’d resolved it.

After all, Nie Huaisang was right: no one wanted him to step in.  

It was a little ironic, Lan Xichen thought. The entire war had started because of Jin Guangshan’s lust for power, his desire to be called Chief Cultivator – a term Nie Huaisang denounced, as Nie Mingjue had before him – and now it was Nie Huaisang to whom the cultivation world deferred without question.

People were afraid of him.

It still seemed a little ridiculous to Lan Xichen, as if at any moment someone would step in and say that it was all a joke that they’d all been taken in by. That Nie Huaisang was still the excitable little roly-poly puppy he’d always been, Lan Xichen’s good friend’s little brother: stubborn and cute and smarter than he pretended to be, interested in nothing but his art and his fans and his clothing, lazy and indolent and unabashedly happy in a way that had brightened Lan Xichen’s day to see, every time.

He wasn’t, though. And it was Lan Xichen that had helped make him into what he was now.

During his travels, he’d heard cultivators in the field referring to Nie Huaisang as the Pallbearer, obliquely calling him the virtuous mourner as if he were a death-god whose name should not be directly uttered lest it draw his attention – it wasn’t anything Nie Huaisang had accepted as a personal title, utterly inauspicious as it was, but if he didn’t take one soon, he’d be stuck with it. If he wasn’t already.

People were simply uncomfortable calling him Nie-er-gongzi the way they had before, and Lan Xichen didn’t blame them one bit – the Nie-er-gongzi of the past was unrecognizable in the man of today.

But neither could he blame Nie Huaisang for refusing the title of Sect Leader Nie as long as his brother still had a single spark of life in his body.

Nie Mingjue…

Lan Xichen missed him terribly.

He knew he didn’t have the right to – Nie Huaisang had made that clear enough – but he did. He missed his old friend, with his confidence and his kindness and his goodness. He missed having a confidant who esteemed him and who trusted him, who shared everything with him without a moment’s hesitation, who always tried his best and honored those who did the same.

He’d once, and only once, caught a brief glimpse of Nie Mingjue after everything had happened: he’d been in bed, pale as death, face quiet and slack and peaceful in a way it never was, with doctors surrounding him. At the time, they were working furiously to save his life as Nie Huaisang paced furiously outside the door, refusing food and only drinking enough water to replenish the tears that streamed endlessly down his face.

That had been early on, before they’d realized Nie Mingjue had lapsed into a deep coma from which there was no telling when or if he would awake and, even if he did, in what state he would be left in. That had been before Nie Huaisang had banned Lan Xichen from the Unclean Realm…banned everyone, really, hosting them anywhere else he could rather than allow them anywhere near his brother when he was vulnerable.

Before he’d slowly started giving up hope. Before they all had.

It’d been years, after all. Surely if Nie Mingjue’s indomitable strength could heal him, it would have done so by now?

Of course, even if Nie Mingjue did eventually wake up, it wasn’t as if Lan Xichen would get his friend back the way it had once been. Nie Mingjue had always been righteous to the point of rigidity, willing to make the hard choices to punish those who had done wrong no matter their identity, and Lan Xichen had failed him so thoroughly, so completely…

Guiltily, too, he knew that if Nie Mingjue woke up, he’d undoubtedly step up as general once more, coordinating everything the way he had during the Sunshot Campaign – and that meant they wouldn’t need to rely on Lan Xichen’s assistance anymore.

Nie Huaisang had made that clear, too.

Whoever had raised his ire by sending him that message that had pulled him away from their work together…well, they’d better have a very good excuse. Nie Huaisang hated to be interrupted, his temper as short as anyone in his family’s had ever been, and his tongue was more poisonous than Jiang Cheng’s.

Lan Xichen would know, being its most frequent target.

Nie Huaisang had never forgiven Lan Xichen in his part in preserving Jin Guangyao’s life, and lacking the actual assassin to rend to bits, he had grimly decided to make do with the accomplice. He needled Lan Xichen at every instance, taunting him with his failures and deficiencies, making nasty jibes and underhanded remarks that cut deep – and Lan Xichen deserved every single one of them.

Back then, it had been Lan Xichen who had hesitated, refusing to believe the truth. Refusing to believe that his then (and, perhaps, still) beloved A-Yao could ever do such terrible things of which he had been accused, either at his time in the Nightless City or the assassination of Nie Mingjue – he had pushed back, prevaricated, insisted on investigating more, finding out more…in the end the truth had come out in all its ugly wretched filthy glory and the only thing his foot-dragging and indecisiveness that he’d pretended was a devotion to justice had gotten him was Nie Huaisang’s endless disdain.

The worst of it, though, wasn’t the humiliation or the insults, nor his feelings of failure and guilt.

No, it was the way his foolish heart raced at how Nie Huaisang looked now, with all restraint a distant memory – the sharp Nie features on his delicate face turning from blurred to clear as the childhood fat on his cheeks melted away; the intelligence that flashed in his eyes, now unhidden by any pretense or indifference; the utter brilliance in the casual way he rattled off orders, effortlessly taking command without permitting any backtalk; the way he moved, a mixture of the martial general and a dancer’s grace; the way everything about him perfectly fit to Lan Xichen’s taste –

He really was a fool.

He had a crush on you for years, Lan Xichen reminded himself. Nie Mingjue even told you about it, he’d even approved of it back then if only you were interested, and yet you pretended you knew nothing. But now, now when he hates you, despises you, sees you as little better than a worm to crush beneath his heel, now is when you finally choose to see what’s always been there?

He hadn’t said anything to Nie Huaisang about it, of course. There wasn’t any point when Nie Huaisang already thought of him in the worst possible terms – weakling, willfully blind, murderer – and he could easily imagine how it might go, if he ever tried anything.

(“I heard some soldiers say that I resemble Jin Guangyao,” Nie Huaisang had mused one day, his hands locked behind his back as he looked down at their troops training in the field. His voice was cold as ice and sharp as a blade. “Though there’s some disagreement as to whether it’s my face or the devious turns of my mind that bring up the comparison. I thought I’d ask you, Zewu-jun, you being the expert and all – am I a good replacement? A suitable stand-in? If I smile at you enough times, will you do whatever I say without question, the way you did for him?”

I would already do anything for you, Lan Xichen had thought at the time, full of sorrow. In a way that goes well beyond what I felt for him. But even if I told you, you wouldn’t believe me, would you?)

No, it was clear enough to Lan Xichen that his father’s blood ran strong in him, dooming him to only love where he was not loved in return, and to finally realize the strength of that love only when it was too late.  At least it seemed that Lan Wangji had escaped that fate with Wei Wuxian, their earlier misunderstandings aside.

A moment later, as if summoned by his thoughts, the man himself appeared.

“Oh, Zewu-jun, there you are! Have you seen Nie-xiong?” Wei Wuxian asked, popping his head in through the door. Lan Wangji was a few steps behind him, waiting patiently as he always did – he was always patient with Wei Wuxian, gentle in a manner that reminded Lan Xichen of the way he sometimes cared for the wild rabbits back at the Cloud Recesses.

They hadn’t spoken much, of late. Lan Wangji had understood Lan Xichen’s weakness and had not held it against him, but that didn’t mean Lan Xichen had forgiven himself, nor did it lessen the sting of shame he felt over events he felt must have lost him the respect of his younger brother, no matter how Lan Wangji denied it – it was easier to focus on matters of war.

“He was called away suddenly, I’m afraid,” Lan Xichen said. “He left a few shichen ago, but he said he’d be back in time for dinner.”

“Dinner has already passed,” Lan Wangji said, his voice neutral – an obvious reprimand for Lan Xichen for having not noticed, shaded with concern over the way Lan Xichen didn’t always eat the way he should. He wouldn’t be hurt by it, he practiced inedia the way they all did, of course, but that didn’t mean he should miss meals if he didn’t have to. “He has not yet returned?”

“Not that I’ve noticed. But if it’s that late, he should be back soon. Do you need him for something urgent?”

“As urgent as anything else in this war,” Wei Wuxian said with a shrug. “If you see him, let us know.”

“Why do you assume I’ll see him first?” Lan Xichen asked, a little amused, but Wei Wuxian blinked at him as if he’d said something foolish.

“He always comes to you first,” he said. “Hadn’t you noticed?”

Lan Xichen’s breath caught briefly – no, he hadn’t noticed, and his mind immediately started to race, his heart growing warm…but no. He only was being foolish again. As the army’s courier, its administrator, Lan Xichen was the obvious person for Nie Huaisang to contact if he wanted to get his plans spread out to everyone as soon as possible.

There didn’t have to be anything more to it than that.

“So when he arrives, if you could just tell him –”

“No need,” Lan Wangji interrupted. “He is approaching.”

A few moments later, and it was clear from the footsteps that Lan Wangji was right, as always – when Lan Wangji was younger, Lan Xichen used to tease him about having the ears of a bat, capable of detecting everything, and sometimes he really thought it might be true.

They waited, and the door opened, and Lan Xichen instinctively turned away as Nie Huaisang let himself in, not wanting to see those hard eyes turn even harder, the instinctive sneer that rose to Nie Huaisang’s lips at the sight of him that it always took him an extra moment to suppress.

“Nie-xiong?” Wei Wuxian asked, his voice rising a register in his shock. “What happened?”

Lan Xichen turned back at once, suddenly cold all over in terror. Had Nie Huaisang been injured? Some ambush, some attack, or worst of all a garrote made of guqin string the way he’d so foolishly taught A-Yao – but no, when he examined him with his eyes, Nie Huaisang looked hale as always, but for the redness and swelling around his eyes.

He looked for all the world as if he’d been –

Crying?

And yet Lan Xichen knew that Nie Huaisang hadn’t wept in years. One could probably accurately say that Nie Huaisang hadn’t had any expression in years, nothing that wasn’t a sneer or a grimace, maybe at best a smirk. What could have caused him to do so now…?

Nie Huaisang shook his head and unexpectedly – smiled.

A real true smile, his eyes curving into crescents and wrinkling at the corners, his cheeks glowing pink and his teeth flashing just like when he was younger and more innocent and smiled like that all the time. A smile of the sort that Lan Xichen hadn’t appreciated when he had it, the sort he’d thought was lost forever.

Lan Xichen’s heart stopped in his chest.

He wished he could stop this moment, too, to keep it with him for the rest of time.

“It’s da-ge,” Nie Huaisang said, beaming. “He woke up.”

Oh, Lan Xichen thought. Oh.

Oh no.

#mdzs #lan xichen #nie huaisang #wei wuxian #lan wangji #my fic #my fics #unfettered #xisang

[got-any-references]

What are your fav beetlebabes headcanons? Also, love your stuff <3

Thank you <3. And thank you for the wait cause oh boy if I don’t answer this ask with a ridiculous amount of art how will I live?

*Digging out the dust covered manuscript that is my nonexistent Beetlebabes fic from under the floorboards* It’s showtime.

So...Lydia is the one who falls first. She is about 17 or 18 at the time, so this is very much an “I have a teen crush on someone I am not supposed to” type of deal. Honestly they fell in love with each other way before that but like, platonically 

Beej is...horribly oblivious XD. Honestly its for the best because Lydia spends the better part of her pre-college summer freaking about because any time her best friend walks in the door her heart wants to go bull-riding in her chest and if she actually has to confront her feelings she might just explode.

Then, just before Lydia was supposed to go away to college, Beetlejuice...disappears. He leaves a note, saying he’ll be back, but weeks turn into months, months turn into a year, and no one either in the living world or the netherworld has seen a hair of him. Lydia goes through college without really knowing what to do with herself, missing what was probably the closest person in her life. She graduates with a journalism degree and a minor in photography. She works for a newspaper as an investigative journalist before breaking off over less than great circumstances and going off on her own.

She’s 25 when she establishes herself as a pivate eye, with an enormous amount of anonymous sources being dead people. Also, this takes place in New York City.

(Yes she absolutely does exorcisms on the side).

She’s following a rather stange missing persons case when one of her sources points to a run down establishment that is 100% totally haunted. Except when she goes there she doesn’t find any ghosts, but rather

Beetlejuice. And he looks awful. And very much human.

Lydia: You look like hell.

Beej: Yeah, I just got back.

...

Beej: Also I’ma pass out now so you better catch me.

So he crashes at Lydia’s place, and the whole thing turns into solving the crime as well as Beej’s  mysterious aquirement of a beating heart and working lungs. He doesn’t remember how that’s happened, only now everything is Too Much with Too Many Feelings. Speaking of feelings, you bet your ass there is PINING. SO much pining. Lydia’s best friend comes back and suddenly those feelings she’d dismissed as a stupid teenage crush come FLOODING BACK. 

While Lydia’s internally feaking out over her feelings (it's totally normal and platonic to wanna kiss your best friend while he sleeps, right??), Beetlejuice is, you guessed it, totally oblivious! To his own feelings especially! All he knows is that it's his best friend only now she seems like a completely different person, and hot. She is now hot. His mad respect for Lydia makes him bury that thought deep, deep down. Also the whole marriage deal is a source on bad memories for both of them and he doesn’t wanna ruin the only good thing he’s ever had and-

Anyway, more pining:

Lydia’s feelings bring out resentment, too. She hates that Beej calls her kid, because that means he still sees her as one, and her ego and her desire for him make her want him to see her, the woman who's seen some real shit in the name of finding the truth, who can take care of herself, and who is very different from that angsty 15 year old girl on the roof. 

It all comes ahead to a big confrontation where Lydia is shot, and Beetlejuice has to drag her to the hospital without any knowledge of how human bodies work and he has no magic so he can’t help her-

The hospital needs to know his relationship to her when they take her away, and Beetlejuice knows they wont let him in unless he’s close family so he is blurts out: “Husband. Yeah, I’m her...husband.”

Lydia wakes up with a patched up hole in her side and Beetlejuice clinging to her hand. She’s happy she’s alive, but also angry, because she could have avoided all of this. She was competent enough to not need anyone to rescue her. 

She wants to get back on the case as soon as possible, she found the key lead, but Beej doesn’t wanna hear it, cause he saw way too much of her blood and he’s not big on how human bodies work, but he's pretty sure that shit’s supposed to stay inside. They’re arguing when the nurse comes in and adresses him as “Mr. Deetz.”

Lydia snatches the clipboard away, sees that he’s told them she’s his wife, and is livid. Because crush or not the wedding thing had a whole lot of baggage she does not want to unpack. She has to confront the fact that her feelings are for someone who manipulated her into marriage at 15 and who she’s not supposed to see in that way but she does anyway.

And Beej, a dumbass but also angry cause she almost died out of a stupid reckless mistake is like: "Why are you all mad? It was a green card thing. It's not like it means anything." And that gets Lyds even more upset, with him cause he's an idiot, and with herself because she's still pining for someone who, she thinks, still sees her as a child. 

Lyds, getting her coat: "Fuck off." 

BJ: "Kid-"

 Lydia: "Stop calling me that! I haven't been a child since my mother died. I haven't been a child since you showed up! I haven't been a child since I've started this, since I moved here, since the first asshole tried to kill me. I've been through literal hell and I've had to pull myself out of it all on my own because I was still here and you left."

There's a beat of silence as Lydia realizes what she just said. 

Lydia: "And that's fine. Because I don't need you. I don't need anyone. You taught me that, at least." She yanks her coat onto her shoulders and turns to go.

 BJ, quietly, but its clear he's angry: "Do you think I wanted to leave?" 

Lydia: "I don't know what you wanted. Do you even know what you wanted?" She pauses at the door, turns to him. "Do you know what you want, Betelgeuse?" 

BJ: "I-" 

He stops. He can't look her in the eye anymore. You. I want you. Lydia scoffs, turns to go. 

BJ: "Lydia, wait-" 

Lydia: "Fuck. Off."

She leaves, and he just stands there, floored by his too little too late realization. Lydia thinks the best thing to do after leaving the hospital with a bullet hole in her side and hopped up on painkillers is to go get drunk! Self-preservation? None

Beetlejuice finally finds her drunk off her ass and suddenly in a great mood. He grabs her under the arms like "Whelp. Time to go." 

Lydia: "Nooo come on-" 

BJ: "Aren't you on hospital drugs? Doesn't that shit kill you breathers if you mix it all up?" 

Lydia: ":D I stopped taking them :'D it hurts like a bitch." 

BJ: "I guess I have the shared braincell now. Okay, time to go."

He manages to get her in the car without incident, but when he gets in the driver's seat suddenly Lydia's all over him.

BJ, with a lap full of drunk Lydia: "What. What are you doing." 

Lydia: "Beeetlejuice." 

BJ: "Yeees?" 

Lydia, smiling all dopey as she cups his cheeks: "Beeetlejuuuice."

BJ: "What" 

Lydia's finger hovers over his nose, as if to boop him. He closes his eyes. And suddenly her lips are on his. She tastes like alcohol and hospital food and as she pulls away he can't think. Then she starts laughing. "Ha! Gotchaaa! Classic Bait and Switch!"

And he’s pissed.

BJ: "Ha. Ha. Good one, Lyds." 

He dumps her out of his lap and into the passenger seat. Lydia blinks in confusion. Now she's cold. She wants to ask, but her mental faculties aren't all with her at the moment. He drives them home and helps her up the stairs before dumping her onto her bed. "Well. Bye." Lydia scrambles up the bed. The car ride gave her enough time to be at least a bit sober, and everything before getting here is blurry. "Where are you going?" Beetlejuice turns around, the widest smile on his face. She's confused for a moment before she realizes he's vibrating with rage. "Ya said you want me gone? Great! You don't need me, you can do your weird little suicidal quest thing yourself!" Lydia looks lost. They had a fight but she'd rarely seen him this angry. "If its about the thing at the hospital, I didn't- I didn't mean it-"

Beetlejuice: "Really? You'd think you'd be glad to have me gone. Why would you want a creep like me around? The whole marriage thing didn't just disappear, after all! Great to know you can still pull one on me, huh?"

Lydia: "Pull what, Beetlejuice-"

She remembers, hazily, the car ride.

They stare at each other for a moment Beej is breathing heavily, he's not used to living person emotions, ones you can feel with your whole body instead of just as an abstract thing, but its clear he's holding back

Lydia: "I wasn't-" 

Beej: "You weren't what?"

 Lydia (quietly): "It wasn't a joke."

The angry grin slips off Beej's face. He suddenly looks very, very tired. She might have believed just now that he'd lived for millennia. 

 Beej: “Why are you doin' this, Lyds? Did you know the whole damn time? It's not like I was gonna do anything, I just thought- I just-”

Lydia suddenly realizes that they are having two different conversations. And something else. She looks away, trying to wrap her head around it, and Beetlejuice doesn't read it correctly. He turns to go. 

Lydia: “Wait!”

 She jumps off the bed, feeling the whole world tip over slightly, still drunk, and stumbled over to him. He catches her instinctively as she grips his forearms for support. 

Lydia: “Beej. Beej, look at me.” 

She takes his face in her hands, and turns it toward her. He looks so lost, like one word from her might actually break him. She'd only seen that look on his face once before, and she never wants to again.

Lydia takes a breath. 

Lydia: “Beetlejuice, I-”

Aaand then she throws up all over his shoes.

She doesn't quite remember what happened next, only that she was in the bathroom, leaning against the door, the toilet was flushed, she was sweating, and he wasn't there. 

Lydia: “Beej?” 

Beetlejuice (through the door): “...hi”

Lydia: “What-”

BJ: “-happened? Well, that's a story!” 

His voice sounds cheerful, but it’s shaking slightly 

BJ: “First ya threw up all over us both! then that little experiment of yours with mixing the meds went off, and you started babbling about...rocks? Then we got here, you heaved out the rest of your insides, and then ya kicked me out and said you were gonna shower, and now we're sitting here, so, yeah”

Lydia: “...Are you still covered in puke?” 

BJ:”...yeah”

Lydia: “...sorry?” 

BJ: “Pshh, what's a best friend if ya can't throw up on 'im a couple times.”

They both fall silent

Beetlejuice (quietly): “Lyds, do ya still want me here?”

...

 Lydia takes the time to find the words. Want him here? After everything, he was still asking that question. Did he still think, after all this time, that she'd throw him out at the smallest inconvenience? Would he ever stop thinking that way? Why did he think so now? Was it because he- Because he-

Lydia: “I love you.”

The other side of the door is silent. 

Lydia: “I love your stupid laugh. You sound like a fucking cartoon villain, its so fucking obnoxious. I love your jokes, all of them, even the shitty ones- you always look so god damn proud when you say them.”

Is she crying? She tries to wipe at her face, but the tears keep coming. 

Lydia: “I loved you since that last day on the roof, and when you left-” 

Her throat closes up. She chokes back on her tears, she has to finish it, he has to hear it. 

Lydia: “When you left I thought I might die again.” 

Lydia: “I kept seeing things, dumb branding on cereal boxes, that shitty college play I went to, my first client, and I kept thinking aw, Beej would have a field day with this one. I thought about what you'd say. You were like a voice I couldn't scrape out of my head, I thought I was going crazy, I thought I'd imagined it all, some lonely little girl with no life or friends, needing someone to talk to- But you'd been real, and then you were just gone- “

The words dissolve in her throat as she sobs, pulling her knees up to her chest. She feels like a child now. She feels more childlike than she had at 15. She’s clinging to a scrap of hope she doesn’t have a right to demand from him. And yet he'd said- 

Lydia: “I love you. Please, don't leave.”

They sit is silence for a while. Lydia tries to stop crying. Then, quietly from the other side of the door:

BJ: “You know what I thought when I first saw you?”

Lydia: “Here’s a suicidal teen haha what a riot?”

BJ: “What? No, not then. Like now.”

Lydia: “Oh. What?”

BJ: “I thought wow, who the hell is that and why is she so dang hot?”

Lydia laughs.

BJ: “And then I thought oh God that’s Lydia.”

Something in his voice makes her pause. Maybe it’s the strange fear that she feels coming from him.

BJ: “It’s like, you’re Lydia, and I don’t know shit about you! You’re the same person, but you’re a stranger to me. Lyds, do you know how fucking terrifying that is? You’re someone I never got to know because of a shitty decision I don’t even remember making.”

he falls silent. She can hear the pain in his voice. And something else. Longing. 

Beetlejuice: “I’d like to.”

Lydia opens the door. Beetlejuice scrables up, only for her to throw her arms around him. 

They figure it out. It’s a slowburn 200k fic that I’ll never write so it takes a while for them to actually kiss, or do anything more, but they get there. 

This turned out...ridiculously long XD. I don’t know what you meant by “headcanons”, exactly, but have this instead.

Thanks for the ask! 

#beetlejuice #beetlebabes #beetlejuice the musical #beetlejuice musical #lydia deetz #betelgeuse #beetlelyds #here it is #the phantom 200k slow burn mutual pining fic #in post format #i spent...way too long making this #if some stuff is formatted differently its because i copy pasted off a discord server #my art #fan art #tw: vomiting #seems like a good one to tag #edit: love how i tagged vomiting but not suicide mention #though with this fandom its not exactly a shock #tw: suicide mention #vee's art

[masonyin]

01 BEETHOVEN THE TITAN

   Ludwig van Beethoven was born in Bonn, Germany, on December 16, 1770, the son of a court musician. His father was determined to make him a child prodigy and trained him vigorously.

   Once the young Beethoven played for Mozart and afterwards Mozart commented, “Mark that young man, he will make a name for himself in the world.”

   Beethoven eventually became one of the greatest musical geniuses ever lived and was best known for his nine symphonies. He played an crucial part in connecting the Classical and Romantic styles of Western music.

   His life was heroic but at the same time tragic, much like his music.

03 CONVERSATION IN A CAFE

   From 1818 onwards, Beethoven started carrying blank “conversation books” in order to communicate with friends and acquaintances. They would write in his conversation book, to which he would reply.

   In 1823, once when Beethoven was visiting his favorite coffee house, a stranger suffering the same hearing condition as Beethoven approached him and sought his advice, to which Beethoven replied:

“Baths [and] country air could improve many things. Just do not use mechanical devices [ear trumpets] too early; by abstaining from using them, I have fairly preserved my left ear in this way…When possible, [conversing] through writing is better; the hearing will be spared.”

04 SIXTY COFFEE BEANS

Beethoven’s secretary Anton Schindler recalled: “For breakfast, he drank coffee, which he usually prepared in a glass coffee-maker…coffee seems to have been the one indispensable item in his diet, and he was as fastidious as an Oriental in its preparation. He estimated sixty beans to the cup and would often count them out, especially when guests were present.”

05 BEETHOVEN’S MENU

   Beethoven loved fish and especially sea bass and codfish. He also loved his coffee in the morning and when friends came to visit, he would make them his other favorite dish, macaroni with butter and cheese. He also enjoyed soup with twelve drowned eggs. When it came to beverages, Beethoven preferred flat water and light Austrian wine.

06 FÜR ELISE

   Beethoven’s ‘Für Elise’ is most likely dedicated to Therese Malfatti, a woman to whom Beethoven proposed in 1810. Malfatti also had the original ‘Für Elise’ manuscript in her possession.

   Beethoven once wrote to Malfatti: “Bear me in memory—no one can wish you a brighter, happier life than I—even should it be that you care not at all for your devoted servant and friend, Beethoven.”

   ‘Für Elise’ is especially well-known in Taiwan because it is the music that accompanies garbage trucks. The trucks were imported from Germany and the piece ‘Für Elise’ was already installed in the trucks before they were imported.

07 IMMORTAL BELOVED

   A passionate love letter was discovered after Beethoven’s death. It was never mailed and the addressee of this “immortal beloved” (Unsterbliche Geliebte) remained unknown.

   Beethoven had four great loves in life: Therese Malfatti, Julie Guicciardi, Josephine von Brunsvik and Antonie Brentano. Historians can never be sure to whom this letter was addressed.

   The letter remains one of the most famous love letters ever written in Western history. Deep down inside, Beethoven was an rebellious soul waiting to be passionately loved:

“My angel, my everything, my very self… Wherever I am, you are with me… Your love makes me at once most happy and most unhappy… You - you my life – my everything - farewell - oh continue to love me - never misjudge the most faithful heart of your Beloved

Ever thine   Ever mine Ever us.”

08 THE WORLD CAN’T BE HEARD

   Beethoven first noticed he was gradually losing his hearing when he was 28, at the height of his early fame. By 1802, his hearing only worsened but the proud Beethoven did not want the cultural circle in Vienna to find out about his defect, so he often withdrew from social life.

   In the Heiligenstadt Testament, a letter written by Beethoven to his brothers Carl and Johann, Beethoven described the despair he felt about slowly losing his hearing and how he even contemplated suicide:

“If I apporach near to people a hot terror seizes upon me and I fear being exposed to the danger that my condition might be noticed…I would have ended my life—it was only my art that held me back. Ah, it seemed to me impoosible to leave this world until I had brought forth all that I felt was within me…”

09 SYMPHONY NO.5 ‘FATE’

   The premiere of Beethoven’s 5th Symphony took place in Vienna’s Theater an der Wien on Dec. 22, 1808, conducted by Beethoven himself.  Although the premiere did not garner immediate success, later writer/music critic E.T.A Hoffmann praised the symphony with this imagery:

“Radiant beams shoot through this region’s deep night, and we become aware of gigantic shadows which, rocking back and forth, close in on us and destroy everything within us except the pain of endless longing—a longing in which every pleasure that rose up in jubilant tones sinks and succumbs, and only through this pain, which, while consuming but not destroying love, hope, and joy, tries to burst our breasts with full-voiced harmonies of all the passions, we live on and are captivated beholders of the spirits.”

10 THE LAST CURTAIN CALL

   Beethoven’s Symphony No. 9, also known as the Choral Symphony, premiered on May 7, 1824 in Vienna, and was an immediate success with the audience. Beethoven was almost completely deaf at this point and couldn’t possibly conduct the orchestra himself, so he stood alongside the “official conductor”, Michael Umlauf. Violinist Joseph Böhm recalled,

“At one moment he [Beethoven] stretched to his full height, at the next he crouched down to the floor, he flailed about with his hands and feet as though he wanted to play all the instruments and sing all the chorus parts.”

   According to the critic for the Theater-Zeitung: “the public received the musical hero with the utmost respect and sympathy, listened to his wonderful, gigantic creations with the most absorbed attention and broke out in jubilant applause, often during sections, and repeatedly at the end of them.”

   The audience was ecstatic, they gave Beethoven five standing ovations, and threw handkerchiefs in the air, hats, and raised hands to show the nearly deaf Beethoven their undeniable excitement.

11 LIGHT IN A DARK PLACE

   Beethoven passed away on March 26, 1827 at the age of 56. His friend Anselm Hüttenbrenner was present when Beethoven passed and recalled during a thunderstorm, as a flash of lightening stroke:

“Beethoven opened his eyes, lifted his right hand and looked up for several seconds with his fist clenched … not another breath, not a heartbeat more.”  

   About 10,000 Viennese attended Beethoven’s funeral procession on March 29, 1872. Franz Schubert was one of the pallbearers. The world is not alone anymore because Beethoven had left his greatest legacy for us to enjoy for centuries and paved the way for the Romantics. His music offers us not only passion and despair but also hope, strength, and consolation.

#Beethoven

[saphirered]

Hey! I hope you’re doing well. You’re writing is always great and I get excited when I see you’ve posted something new. Would you consider writing a little something with platonic Caduceus and reader where they have similar personalities and interests, but different backgrounds? Maybe the reader doesn’t have any family to speak of? I’m open to any character class or race :) thank you!

I’m doing well. I’m glad you like my writing and thank you. It’s really nice to hear people get excited when I post new things. I never expected people to like it at all 🙈.  I hope you like the way this one turned out 😘

You were typical city folk. Born and raised in the heights of civilisation; the pride and joy of the Law Bearer Erathis herself. Raised at the temple of the Raven Queen as a foundling the clergy were the only parental figures you knew and they were hardly parents. Your relationship with them is less of a parent-child dynamic. They were your caretakers and supported which is more than a lot of people can say but you missed out on parental pride, love and the ability to confide in someone in such a way. You missed out on the relation with siblings. No running around the hallways of the temple, no secrets between just you and them, no protective older sibling or a younger one that gets away with everything. You had no weird aunt or uncle to tell you ridiculous stories or take you on adventures every so often like the books you’d read as a child. 

Your childhood never bothered you because it was good and happy, just in a different way. You found a mother figure in the Matron. You’d get dreams sometimes, waking up with a single black feather on your pillow. She gave you an appreciation of all things living. Death is a sacred thing but it’s the life that counts. You made it your goal to nourish that what needs a little extra attention and preserve what can be saved before its time, conforming to the natural order. The Matron of Ravens taught you death is just as sacred as life and so you valued it and vowed to upkeep her commandments and preserve that natural order of life and death. 

As a child you spent much time within the public parks and gardens. You had an affinity unrivalled. Making flowers blossom in spring and keeping the branches and roots healthy during the colder months, curing diseases, healing ailments as well as returning to the earth what once came from it upon the passing. When you were old enough these habits carried over to ‘living things’; a term you had to disagree with because all that grows lives. You became part of the clergy and continued your life within the temple of the Raven Queen. 

You were never confined to the temple life. Your work took you far and wide, your expertise wanted by the many. You had tended to the ailments of kings as you had commoner, treating no different. You had tended to the pristine gardens of royalty as you had the fields of a farmer. In the eyes of the natural order all lives are equal in the end and so you treated them in life. 

When a group of strangers came knocking at your door looking for an expert you were surprised by the colourful bunch on your doorstep but heard them out regardless. You were faced with the story of a cursed forest, a sanctuary of the natural order to be disturbed, a family missing and a new one found. A story of beacons of endless stars, possibilities and souls of the preserved to be reborn, conflict, war and death. Stories of salvation, resurrection, a fight to preserve the natural order and save the lives of the many. Stories far and wide yet to be told.

You were needed. Your expertise was needed and when a raven landed on your windowsill staring at you, studying you and awaiting your response you knew it was time to leave behind the life you knew and venture into a strange new world of adventure and the unknown. How could you turn them down? Your help was needed and while the venture might be a bit longer and much riskier than your usual ones, the task remained the same. You’d travel with the Mighty Nein for a while and aid them for however long they needed you. 

You grew to love the Mighty Nein like the family you never had but you have to say from the very beginning you felt a natural gravitation towards the colourful firbolg, a radiance akin to that of the life you vowed to preserve. Caduceus did not hide he felt a same sort of gravitation towards you. The two of you were often paired together on watches or went out together to stock up on supplies for the road, spell components and the likes. The two of you while at first glance are day and night, as your respective deities are when compared, but those who look closer know you are in a way, one and the same. 

You’re sitting on the jungle floor eyes closed listening to the nocturnal critters make their way through, searching for food, hunting and finding their hideouts, burrows and nests before the sun rises and morning comes. A smile on your face, as you take everything in over the soft snoring and slight twisting and turning of some of the Nein. You hear someone sitting down next to you. 

“Good morning.” You say peaking through one eye seeing the pink haired firbolg cup of tea in hand. The two of you had always been and probably always will be the early risers of the group. Old habits? Perhaps so.

“Ah, it is, isn’t it?” He offers you a cup of tea. You take it with a quick thanks blowing away the steam and cool it down a little before you take a sip. A good cup of tea never fails to wake you up properly. 

“How are you feeling? Getting closer to where the Wild Mother has been sending you?” The two of you look out seeing the first light barely bleed through the trees. Caduceus waits a little before speaking, contemplating his answer. His brow furrows. 

“I’m unsure.” Caduceus mentally retreats just a little bit, watching his expression you can see the thoughts rush through his head. You know he worries for his family and how you might find them. A lot is unsure at these times. You can only hope for the best and prepare for the worst but you have faith. 

“You’re worried, for your family. For what might have become of them?” He gives you a bit of a smile and nods. It’s clear Caduceus hasn’t directly been faced with the notion of mortality in this sense close to home whereas in any other situation he’d be fine. 

“I’ve been waiting to see them for a long time. While I trust the Wild Mother’s path, I can’t help but find myself doubting if they are well.” You try to find a way to best approach his concerns and ease his mind. The words of comfort either of you would offer to those coming into your respective places of worship do not apply to this situation nor would they be particularly helpful. You’re not dealing with the dead, just the possibility of death of loved ones. 

“You trust her path and you believe she’s at your side?” You ask deep in thought as a light breeze rushes through out of nowhere. The Wild Mother must be listening. Caduceus relaxes a bit more knowing she’s there. Despite what some may think, the breeze may just tell you what you need to know.

“Yes. I believe so.” He smiles watching the leaves blow, the breeze being carried away into the distance of the early morning jungle, a couple of birds scattering as it comes along. 

You take a moment, close your eyes and reach out your senses sending a little prayer to the Raven Queen. You’re met with a sense of warmth, a soft cawing of a raven flying away and a small light in the darkness. 

“Then they’ll be alright in the end. I don’t sense my Matron’s presence in relation to you. You’ll be reunited with your family once more.” You interpret the signs she shows you. While they might not be a certainty you have faith she would not let you down.

“That’s nice.” You return to staring into the jungle in comfortable silence for a while. 

“What do you miss the most? About home and your family I mean.” You ask a bit out of the blue but you couldn’t help yourself wondering with everything drawing closer and the uncertainty of how you’ll find the Stone family, and what you’ll encounter there. 

“Old habits. The people. The simplicity of life. I’d say the piece and quiet but that wouldn’t be entirely true. Just different kind of noise. You know what I mean.” Caduceus reminisces, dopey smile returning at the memory of his family. You’ve heard some of the tales of his shenanigans when it comes to his siblings. He’s confided in you and you vowed to keep those a secret. Who knew Caduceus could be quite the prankster?

“I don’t actually. I never had a family like yours. The Mighty Nein is the closest I’ve ever gotten to the meaning of a family.” You look over to the sleeping shapes. You wouldn’t trade them for the world but can’t deny it’s still not the same. The others can attest to that. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I apologise if I offended you.” You smile at him. You’d stated before you loved your found ‘family’, the clergy but they were never your real family. It just hadn’t come up your dynamic with them was not the same as a more typical even dysfunctional family. 

“It’s quite alright. I never knew my birth family. I knew the clergy at my temple and that’s alright. I always wondered what it would be like to have parents to confide in, siblings to spend time with, perhaps even share interests with and people who love me unconditionally, people like me but also not. Do you get what I mean?” Caduceus nods in agreement and thinks for a second.

“I understand. Though you might come to take back the part about wanting to spend more time with siblings. They’ll grow on you like ivy in places you don’t want it.” He laughs a little and you join him. 

“They can’t be that bad.” You joke the both of you laughing as quietly as you can trying not to wake the others up. 

“I’d love to meet your family. From what you’ve told they’re wonderful.” 

“They are, in their own ways but don’t tell Calliope I said that.” Caduceus bumps your shoulder and you bump back finishing the last of your tea. You’ve heard enough tales of Calliope to know you better not tell her or she might never let Caduceus forget he admitted it so openly to someone else outside of the family. 

“I’m sure they’d like you too. If you wanted to you could come back to the Blooming Grove with us one day. Clarabelle always wanted another sibling. She thinks Calliope is a bit too stoic. The two of you would make great friends.” Caduceus finishes his tea and you’re a little taken aback. You look for any kind of jest. He must be joking right?

“You’re serious?” Caduceus laughs a little at your reaction. 

“Unless you don’t want to. I think you’ll fit in right along. Our ancestor used to be a champion of the Raven Queen. She might appreciate the return of a new Clay. Not by blood but by heart.” You recall the story he once told about the champions Stone, Dust and Clay of the Matron. You feel a pull in your heart out of nowhere and swear you hear a raven’s caw in the back of your mind. She’d be satisfied. 

“I’d like that very much if they’ll have me.” With Caduceus reassurance his family would very much like you and get along with you you’d see where this would go. Perhaps you would become an unofficial Clay. Your friends are just your chosen family after all so why should it be different? 

You’ll see where your path leads and you’ll stick with Caduceus until either of you grow tired of each other. Not that either of you see that happen. You’ve grown thick as thieves to the point where you could call yourselves siblings. If the two of you claiming yourselves siblings extends into his family then you’d love nothing more. 

A place. A purpose. A home. You’ll have to put the world back into tune first but once the Matron and the Mother call you both home you’ll stick to the path until homeward bound you both be. Both of you lost in thought come to the same conclusion. Caduceus pours the both of you some new tea, cooling it down a bit you both take a sip.

“That’s nice.” You say in unison watching the nocturnal critters go to sleep and the early risers come out and go about their daily business. 

#critical role x reader #mighty nein x reader #critrole x reader #caduceus x reader

[random-mha-thoughts]

Kiss of Death (Todoroki x Reader)

Pairing: Todoroki x Reader

Genre: Angst

Summary: If the Angel of Death came upon you but you had half an hour, what would you do?

BGM: Ateez “Inception” slowed + reverb

Word count: 1,639

Warnings: Character death and preparation

Tags: @rintomoj​ @yuki-osaki​ @yamichxn​ @lonelyfangirl453​ @cyanide9602​ @liviitehe​ @iamsoftsodonttoucheume-blog​

a/n: Really proud of this one, I really like it and I hope you guys do too.

The figure looms over you, its shadowy silhouette casting the room in darkness against the moonlight streaming through your window.  At first, you figured it was a thief or murderer breaking in; anyone else would have concluded the same judging from the dark clothes and intimidating demeanor.

That is, until you realize the massive shadow blocking out all the light is due to a pair of overarching, feathery wings.

Your mouth can't help gaping open as you jolt up in bed.  There's a supernatural creature visiting you at what you assume is an ungodly hour of the night.  The thick grey wings retract into their back, allowing you view of their entire physique as the moonlight rushes back into your room, no longer restricted.

The figure appears human, their white cloak's hood settles over squared shoulders and hips of roughly the same width.  Their hair cropped short and the rest of their features remain androgynous.  You should be scared of the intruder, but something about their serene expression and inexplicably calm aura dispels any tension in the room.

"My child, forgive me for disturbing you," their airy voice is just as serene as their appearance, a gentle fingers barely ghosting your cheek, "But I'm afraid your time has come."

Your eyes widen.  "M-My time?  As in..."

They nod slowly, the hand cool hand trailing down to gingerly take your hand.  "It is sudden, but to compensate, you are allowed half an hour to do as you please."

It's expected that being told you're going to die would send cold down your spine and threaten your entire being, your body shivering as your mind tries to comprehend what exactly it means to cease to exist.  While it does happen, you're calm and collected, smiling at the messenger.  "I'm thankful for the warning.  At least I won't have to leave without preparations."

Your mind is surprisingly rational in the face of an earth-shattering reality, you're unsure if it's because of the influence of the angel or your complete blind acceptance of fate - you hope it's the latter.

You begin your preparations.  The first thing you do is gather as many letters and envelopes as you have in your room.  Each one is addressed to those dear to you: to your closest friend and loving family members.  Pouring your most genuine feelings out into each of these makes your only slightly regretful that you might not have showered them with enough love in your life this far, but at this point you can only hope your affections shine through in your last moments, and that the thought of you writing your last words to them in your dying breaths will hold more weight.

Next, you pull out your bank card and all the money you have stashed in an extraneous corner of your sweater drawer.  Dividing it into two even piles; one goes into the envelope for your parents and the other for your closest friend.  In the envelope for your parents, you also include your bank card and the PIN, along with the trust that they'll know how to divide the money in the bank - though you very strongly suggest the idea of them taking much needed vacation for themselves.  To your friend, you also include a list of all your social media and email accounts connected to friends you can only talk to and not meet face to face, mandate that they split this money between the other friends who need it most, that you trust their judgment, and also to spare some for themselves.

Finishing all the writing, the weight on your shoulders slowly lifts, as if releasing all your affections on paper is a much needed therapy.  You try not to think of the possibility that it might just be your soul slowly disconnecting from your body.

"What will they think I died from?" you ask curiously, placing the envelopes face up on your desk.

The angel - who has been patiently watching your tranquil planning from afar - blinks.  "They will think you simply died in your sleep.

"I see."

The only remaining preparation in your home was to leave your apartment key under the mat in front of your door.  You send a text to that same closest friend to come by in the morning to help clean, and if you didn't answer the door to use the spare key under the mat.

All of this took up a 25 minutes of your remaining time.  However, there is one more person you couldn't stop thinking about as your time of expiration looms closer and closer.  You turn to your companion.  "Would you mind teleporting me somewhere?  There's one last person I need to see."

~

Three raps on the balcony door was all it took for you to see movement in the bedroom.   The lump rolls over, a head peaks out from under the blanket, first checking the time then lifting up to face the window.  Bicolored hair is illuminated as the figure slowly retreats from the bed, clad in nothing but dark sweatpants.

Your heart pounds and your stomach churns, the normal reaction that he elicits out of you whenever you're near him.

The boy rubs his eyes and blinks the sleep away, focusing on your waiting figure.  He opens the balcony door full of confusion.  "(Y/n)?  Why are you here?  It's 3 am."  His voice is as gravelly as you've only imagined hearing it being, thought you usually picture him greeting you in the morning after sleeping next to him.

Anticipation wells up inside you.  Up to this point, you had no problem spilling your deepest thoughts to your loved ones, but something about him had always made you think twice before showing any sort of affection.  Call it a force of habit, but you've never wanted him to know about your crush on him since you wanted to preserve your friendship and keep your relationship from becoming awkward around your mutual friends.

But you have nothing to lose at this point; might as well cross this final what-if off your list in your last few minutes.  "I know it's late, Todoroki, but I have to tell you something  It can't wait until morning."

He sighs heavily and leans against the door frame.  "I'm listening."

You use the ever-lightening weight you feel unraveling within you as strength to call upon.   "I have feelings for you."

The boy's expression doesn't change after you've ripped the bandage off, his stoic expression still in tact.

You can't help but let out a puff of laughter.  "You're the only person I've met who I can confidently say I've imagined waking up next to.  I always thought we would've been compatible as a couple, we would've been happy together.  Your calm nature, your quiet power and charisma, your heart, I did fall for all of it.  And... I didn't want to leave without finally saying this to you."

This is your first confession.  Every other crush you had, you let pass you by without so much as a word or hint.  But now, you've run out of time to hide it.  In a way, you're grateful for the pressure to finally overcome your fear of rejection, but only regretful that it came under these circumstances.  If he rejects you now, it doesn't matter.

But Todoroki's response was unreadable, the only display of feeling being his slightly widened eyes.

Your face gets hot and you laugh to cover it up.  "Yeah, I came at 3 am to confess to you, I'm sorry."  Your eyes flicker to the clock on his bedside table, the time telling you that you have barely two minutes to wrap this up.  Behind you, the angel makes its presence known by gingerly touching their hand to your shoulder.  "I need to be going now."

You're about to leave the balcony when another stroke of bravery crosses your mind.  Squarely facing him, you grip his neck and tug him closer until your lips meet gently as you've dreamed of on many occasions, though the burst of electricity that erupts between you two is indescribably better than what you've imagined.

Todoroki's hand reaches to meet your wrist just as you pull back to rest your forehead against his.  You want to laugh; such a blissful feeling was waiting for you this entire time where you could've had endless kisses like these, but you have to be satisfied with just the one as it's the only one you're getting.  You almost forgot that you have to part ways with him forever now.  Still, it's a perfect way to die, you think in bittersweet parting sorrow.

You step away from him for his tether on your arm to keep you still.  He finally exhibits emotion: desperation and hunger for another one, mixed with fear as he acknowledges there must be something amiss.  "Don't go," he pleads, as if this is the last time he sees you.  Little did he know it would be.

You give him one last smile.  "Goodnight, Todoroki.  Thank you."  Your body is feather light now, your time whittling away to the final seconds.  Without a second thought, you let go and fling yourself off the balcony.

In the blink of an eye, you're back in your familiar room, laying in your bed.  The conflicting sensation of a heavy body but weightless inside overtakes you, and you know it's time.  The lingering aftermath of your final kiss still on your lips, you smile to yourself.  If your soul can remember memories, you hope this feeling remains permanently engraved in them.  "I'm ready to go."  Your eyes flutter closed and you breathe out, your terminal exhale coming with the tingle of a thin thread gently unraveling its last fibers.

A faraway caress is your final feeling.

"Rest now, my child."

.

Part 2

#todoroki x reader #todoroki shouto #my hero academia #boku no hero academia #todoroki angst #todoroki imagine #todoroki scenario #gender neutral reader #mha todoroki #bnha todoroki #mha x reader #bnha x reader #mha fanfiction #bnha fanfiction

[ravenadottir]

fluffly alphabet: tai

A = Attractive (What do they find attractive about the other?)

first impressions have a big impact on tai. he’s mostly attracted to your eyes, where he believes sincerity and connection reside. a smile that reaches them will definitely win his attention.

beautiful eyes and smile is what catches his eye, but fun and spontaneity is what makes him stay. someone that isn’t afraid to scream laugh or how they look like when they do.

B = Baby (Do they want a family? Why/Why not?)

he wants a big family, at least three kids. of course he understands the responsibility of becoming a parent and that is part of why he wants to give his parents a lot of grandchildren.

he can picture himself throwing a ball with them on a lazy saturday or sunday afternoon, after a late lunch. participating on their lives by helping them with homework and making sure they’re learning the good values he was once taught.

C = Cuddle (How do they cuddle?)

he’s the big spoon in bear hug. full embrace with those massive arms, and it’s amazing to imagine he’ll pick you up from where you are “for a just minute” of cuddling, whether on the couch or bed.

you can find shelter on his chest while he rests his chin on the top of your head, caressing your arms and holding you close to his body.

of course, from time to time he feels safe in your arms, even if you look like a backpack while spooning him. he loves feeling your warmth and won’t let go of that privilege.

there’s always a smile after a deep breath and i think that’s my favorite part about his cuddling.

D = Dates (What are dates with them like?)

fun!

tai knows how to be romantic and amorous once the occasion calls for it, but his forte is definitely focusing on the fun part of a date. expect water parks, paintball, laser tag. anything that gets physical and you both laughing, chuckling and having the time of your life.

if a date is supposed to be quality time, then having innocent fun with his partner is definitely what moves him.

if you surprise him with such plans, you can actually make his face hurt from smiling.

E = Everything (You are my ____ (e.g. my life, my world…))

“you’re my best shot.”

F = Feelings (When did they know they were in love?)

there’s a moment a person realizes they’re in love and keep it to themselves, but for tai, he couldn’t hold it in any longer than a day. it happened the moment he realized you were just like him. all he needed to find was someone that understood size doesn’t matter, fun has to be a part of your relationshp and caring about your friends are one of the most important things.

when he realized he was in love, he almost bursted with the words. and even though he can be impulsive at times, he knew how this particular moment was important, so he planned and rehearsed it a little bit.

just enough to not stutter while telling you how he feels. but he couldn’t wait any longer, and wanted to see how happy you would be knowing there’s someone in love with you.

G = Gentle (Are they gentle? If so, how?)

very! due to his size he can’t risk being too rough. he’s used to having a light touch ever since he found out how dangerous he can be if he’s not careful. you’ll notice it when he plays around by putting makeup on you.

he loves spending some light time doing that, and he’s the kind of gigantic guy that you catch yourself wondering how can someone be so big and so delicate, at the same time?

a very gentle touch when he grazes his thumb on the side of your face while kissing you, or when he’s stroking your arm during a cuddle.

H = Hands (How do they like to hold hands?)

fingers twined, always. tai thinks that gesture truly represents how entangled you are with each other, and it represents intimacy to him.

he also loves caressing your knuckles with his thumb, and sometimes brush his lips on the back of your hand.

he might even make a comment about how small yours is compared to his, and put his palm against yours, to measure.

I = Impression (What was their first impression?)

when he saw you walking in that tent, he already knew the damage was done way before. like he said once, your voice had a huge impact on him, and your personality and way of handling yourself were positive first, adorable second, sexy third.

he knew he had to take a shot and it paid off. “my instincts are never wrong. i knew it had to be you.”

and to himself, he thought “damn it, they’re even more beautiful, live. alright, be cool, tai. don’t goof around right away.”

J = Jealousy (Do they get jealous?)

mildly jealous. not trusting of others around you, especially when they make advances that would make you feel uncomfortable. but if a boy hits on you and your response is negative, he’s proud of the person he has next to him.

tai has eyes and he can see how energetic and vibrant you are. it’s natural for people to feel attracted to someone so interesting. he wouldn’t be with you if that wasn’t true.

other than that he has no reason to be jealous. the bond you have is the most stable thing he has and he wouldn’t doubt it. in fact he loves walking around with you, holding hands, so people around know you’re together. he’s proud of you.

K = Kiss (How do they kiss? Who initiated the first kiss?)

he has a way of kissing you that makes the world fade into the background. it’s not only his lips or his tongue. it’s his arms snaking their way to your back, his hands gliding on your neck, hair and face. the heat that emanates from him whenever he suppresses a grunt. it’s in his touch when he’s deep in.

it was mutually started but on his end, he was stunned. he didn’t expect to see so many sparks fly, despite of being entirely enchanted by you. 

and when you pulled away from that first kiss, tai simply couldn’t manage how gobsmacked he was. he already felt a strong connection with you in that date, the conversation going so well.

but he was afraid to crush so hard on you if your kiss was that amazing. and it was. and he did.

L = Love (Who says ‘I love you’ first?)

he does.

tai is not afraid of letting you know how he feels, at all times. he has so much appreciation for you, he can’t hold back at all, and letting you know was one of the most nervous moments he’d ever had.

he’s the type to dive in without thinking too much, even if it means he might get hurt because of the impulsiveness.

he has no regards for preserving himself when it comes to love. taking a risk has always been part of his agenda, and you were worth it.

M = Memory (What’s their favourite memory together?)

in the villa, sharing a bed together for the first time.

the waterfall was rushed and spontaneous, and you both had a lot of fun, but the feeling of having you protected by him, in such an intimate scenario is what he cherishes the most.

outside of the villa, the first real date you had, where he could show you what a good time actually means while with him. he loves remembering your laughter followed by your playfulness. nothing stays with him more than you having fun together, and it’s his favorite memory.

N = Nickel (Do they spoil? Do they buy the person they love everything?)

tai is not the type to buy everything and spoil.

there’s not a lot of thought behind store presents, according to him. he’s the kind of boyrfriend to give thought out presents, something that can represent an inside joke or a moment of importance between you. he will though bring you some items he makes at pottery class.

i believe one of the first things tai would ask you, on the outside, is about your favorite animal, so he can make one out of ceramic and give it to you, sort of as a lucky charm so you can remember him every time you look at it.

he just knows how much work goes into making one, and he would like to show his love and appreciation through that gesture.

O = Orange (What colour reminds them of their other half)

he would probably say orange or yellow. a shade or tone that he says it represents happiness and cheerful energy. that’s how he sees you and if he could attribute a color to you, they would have to have the same meaning.

P = Pet names (What pet names do they use?)

‘babe’ is a given, being the most commonly used.

but “beautiful” sums up everything he loves about you, beyond your looks. to him, you’re beautiful on the inside as well, so he likes to remind you of it.

he’ll call you that at all times, and it becomes a habit that he loves. he might even save your number under this pet name.

Q = Quaint (What is their favourite non-modern thing?)

vintage rugby cards.

there’s something about cards that throws him back to when he was a child, aspiring to play rugby as a professional career, but it was impossible to actually see himself in that scenario.

the cards remind him anything is possible, and he shouldn’t ever let go of his dreams, as absurd as they might see, to other people.

R = Rainy Day (What do they like to do on a rainy day?)

takeout. couch. movie.

it’s just the killing combo tai loves so much. snuggling closer under a blanket, while comfortable on the couch, food in hand and remote on the other. i even think tai has some “rainy days” favorites to watch, that he reserves just for those moments.

also, i have a feeling tai likes baking cookies, specifically, so your place smells like fresh baked goods while the rain dashes outside.

spa afternoon.

goofing around in the bathroom while putting face masks on, and taking ridiculous pictures, might be part of his schedule for a rainy afternoon as well.

like i mentioned before, tai has a delicate hand and it’s not farfetched to imagine he likes painting your nails, or toe nails, or both. he takes extra care to not smudge it, and admires his work from afar when it’s done. he focuses very hard, trying to deliver the best work he can.

S = Sad (How do they cheer themselves/others up?)

tai definitely believes in the power of laughter and clownery. but also, if he can have you talking to him about what happened, he would love to help. being a good listener is one of his many talents, and he’ll insist you vent about what made you saud.

tickling you until you give him information is very possible as well.

he might take your hand and lead you for a walk, while you tell him everything, and when back home, tai might cook. he knows comfort food is one of the best medicine to cheer someone up.

drawing a bath so you can relax is definitely part of his agenda too.

as for him, he goes for a run, alone. he prefers to exercise by himself when he needs a pick me up. however, if you want to make him smile when he comes back, try to make something out of ceramic. if it looks good he’ll be impressed, and if it looks bad, he will lie, saying it’s amazing.

having someone that cares so much, to the point of trying pottery is the reason why he feels better.

T = Talking (What do they like to talk about?)

everything! he loves hearing what you have to say about several subjects, no matter what they are.

he likes learning new things and having your input on matters that a couple wouldn’t talk about, usually. at times, he might sound weird by asking you something completely random, but he wants your insight on whatever it is, because he finds you so interesting.

you’re also the first person he tells good news, and the one he avoids when they’re bad.

U = Unencumbered (What helps them relax?)

from you? getting his shoulders and back massaged. if you’re a gifted singer, he also likes hearing your humming while your hands rub down the tension on his muscles.

by himself: pottery. there’s a reason it became more than a hobby. he does it to stay sane, and would love to share that particular interest with you if you want. but whenever he sits down, ready to turn the pottery wheel on, he already feels much better.

V = Vaunt (What do they like to show off? What are they proud of?)

tai is no stranger to show off his muscles. he definitely does it playfully, and often goofs around about it, but he’s proud of his achievements, body wise. it’s hard work and he won’t shy away from displaying them and be proud.

he also likes showing off what he has accomplished in pottery. there’s no denial someone so big would be a disaster in this scenario. usually, anyway.

he likes being the exception, and the praises people give him. it’s not vain, it’s just a reason to be proud of himself.

W = Wedding (When, how, where do they propose?)

his proposal is not as elaborate as his speech to ask you is. his ideal location would be an empty field, after hours. he would probably slip someone some bribe so you could “jump the fence” and enter the place, having you thinking you’re invading.

i imagine he would warm up to the subject, and when he’s getting to the moment he so desperately wants, the lights will go on, illuminating the whole lawn.

while you’re busy, being shocked and looking around you, he’ll quickly kneel and whip a small box from his pocket. his words might make you chuckle among tears, but that’s how he wants to propose.

as for the wedding, a simple ceremony somewhere sandy and sunny. close friends and family, and food that the guests will remember forever as being the best they’ve ever had.

he won’t settle for less but won’t ask for more.

X = Xylophone (What’s their song?)

there’s a colorful song that reminds me of him, "groove is in the heart” by dee-lite. the energy that goes into that tune has tai written all over. upbeat, fun and always the heart of the party.

and he grew up in the 90′s, so i like picturing his parents dancing in the living room to this type of music, pulling tai by his hand, goofing around together while the colorful videos were on.

but a couple of songs i love to picture him listening to, chilling with someone he loves, carelessly, is “over the rainbow” by israel kamakawiwoʻole. it’s such a chill and hopeful song, but has a light tone to it, and iz’s voice is just so suiting.

or tai being his adorable self, dancing by the sound of “finesse” by bruno mars ft. cardi b.

Y = Yes (Do they ever think of getting married/proposing?)

yes. he definitely will pull out some stops to make the proposal happen. he can’t wait to make it official and start a life with you.

he’s a romantic at the core of his heart and can’t wait to call you his spouse.

Z = Zebra (If they wanted a pet, what would they get?)

dog! dog! multiple dogs! 

one at a time, but the bigger the better!

tai is very charitable and would like to rescue a dog. one to start. he can already picture your weekends and afternoons during quarantine.

frisbees, sticks, balls, you name it. he went to the pet shop and bought a bunch of them, to train your new companion.

that’s why i also picture him in a house, not a flat. eventually he would want a backyard where he can play with the dog, and in the future, your kids.

#litg tai #litg s3 #litg season 3 #love island the game #litg #fusebox #fusebox games #queue #alphabet

[thecagedsong]

Forgotten Light: Chapter 5

A/N: Hi everyone, next chapter here. Back to Seth. You might recognize some bits from a Knox & Seth bonding fic I posted some months ago, but it’s different in the story and I still really like it. Enjoy!

1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8 / 9 / 10 / 11

Chapter 5: Agitated

Have to take care of the sanctuary. Have to take care of the sanctuary. Have to take care of the sanctuary.

Seth’s mantra had stopped meaning anything ten minutes ago, but mantras were all about repetition, right? Maybe if he said it enough times, he would actually believe it. Because what he wanted, what he needed to be doing, was going after Kendra. And he was pacing at the top of Seth Tower to keep himself from doing something reckless without a plan. He could feel the elements of a plan buzzing in his head, and his last couple hadn’t turned out too badly. If only he could put them all together. It had been twelveish hours since they lost Kendra, he needed to get it together soon.

They had dealt Celebrant three deliberate blows: claiming their staff (complete with Kendra telling him off and Seth rebuilding the Keep), having the Somber Knight survive striking him in his own castle after taking away his title of caretaker (Wonder how the dragonslayer was doing? Probably suffering), and finally, denying him the Wizenstone. If the dragon king was smart, he’d take some time to lick his wounds.

Which meant Seth wasn’t needed here. 

He didn’t have enough proof for his grandparents, but he knew Ronodin was behind Kendra’s kidnapping. It didn’t matter that the Sphinx was likely the one who took the barrel at Fablehaven, only Ronodin knew Kendra had lost her memory. Kendra was more vulnerable than she had ever been, fairykind or not, and Seth couldn’t watch over some butt-hurt dragons when his sister needed him.

If Seth had been the one kidnapped, Kendra would never give up on him. But she wouldn’t abandon her duty as caretaker either. What could he do? What would she do?

A red-maned dragon reared its head over the inside walls of the keep, and Seth’s muscles seized into place.

“I’ve come to alert you about a message from Stormguard,” Marat said. “It is addressed to the Caretaker, and your grandparents are waiting for you to open it.”

He couldn’t be the caretaker, not alone, not if he still seized up like this. It was ridiculous. When he first encountered dragons, he didn’t feel scared, but his mind was mesmerized by the dragon, and he couldn’t think. Kendra cleared up his head, he cleared up her fear, and together they were a single dragon tamer. Since then, even without Kendra, he got to the point where he could keep his thoughts clear, and he wasn’t scared, but it was like his body wasn’t getting the memo.

“You have to get past this Seth,” Marat said, shaking his head.

He couldn’t be caretaker, not without his sister. He was the only caretaker; he couldn’t leave to find his sister.

Seth was the only caretaker.

Celebrant didn’t have a veto anymore. He could give the job to someone else, and go after his sister. Marat started to move away, but he needed to know now. He was one answer away from being able to go after Kendra.  

Inside his chest, he felt surge of control spread over his muscles “Marat, wait!” Seth said, and something settled over him, something that made him stand a little taller. Marat turned back, and drew his head closer, curiously. Seth grinned, “I’m the last Caretaker. Celebrant was stripped of his title. The treaty is back to its foundations. Can I turn being caretaker back over to you, and go after Kendra?”

“Well done Seth,” Marat said, then took a moment to think over Seth’s plan. “I do believe that is possible. The provisions of Celebrant’s veto were very specific to the amendment making him co-caretaker. Agad will be arriving soon, we will ask for his advice, but I see nothing wrong with that plan at present.”

Marat shapeshifted back into a human, alighting on the rampart beside him, “A shame that your loyalties take you elsewhere the moment you become a full dragon tamer,” Marat said casually.

“I did it?” Seth asked, “I did!”

“Yes, it seems your sister being in danger was enough for you to push past the final effects, just as the threat of Celebrant to your family was enough for Kendra.”

“Marat,” Seth said, “I know things are a mess, would you be able to keep things under control on your own?”

“Let’s see,” Marat said, holding up a hand, counting off his fingers, “You have already dealt with the Dragon Feast. There will not be another festival night for a quarter year. We have the staff and the amulet. The curse on Stormguard is lifted, and more Fair Folk generally heralds greater opportunities for peace. Celebrant will not be happy, nor will he give up his machinations. However, I do believe I would be able to manage.”

“You can call me back, in case you need any of my specific…expertise,” Seth grinned, and Marat smiled wryly. They both remembered how reluctant literally everyone was to give him the job. With Kendra missing, the risks were really nailed home, but no one could doubt their skill at keeping preserves functioning. First Fablehaven was the only one of the five secret preserves to hold itself together, and now Wrymroost, against the King of Dragons himself, was functioning better than ever.

“I believe I will try to reserve your assistance for true emergencies,” Marat said drily.

“Let’s keep our plan quiet,” Seth said, quietly, “At least until Agad tells us if we can do it and how. I know the staff was safe when we got here, but things have changed pretty quickly.”

Marat nodded, and they entered the interior of the keep. They approached their…War Room? To be honest, he hasn’t spent nearly enough time at his Castle to learn all the stuffy old names for everything. The room with lots of maps and chests. Since he was going to give up caretaking this place, this might be the last chance to name them himself.

Marat opened the door for him, and Seth walked in, shoulders squared.

“All right, I see everyone has gathered in the War Room. What have we got?”

Grandpa and Hendrick held back sniggers, Grandma rolled her eyes, Newel gave him a thumbs up. Grandma held out the letter.

Seth took it, cracked open the old-timey wax seal, and pulled out two pieces of paper. The first one had letters that were so old-timey they were basically illegible. He wasn’t even sure it was English. The second letter was written by Tanu.

Dear Sorenson’s,

We are safe. We have rested and celebrated the restoration of Stormguard Castle, and updated them as much as we could on the current status of the rest of the world. Knox was unfortunately blunt, and they will be holding with their neutrality. They are giving us a ride to Blackwell keep by flying carriage, don’t panic when we arrive. We look forward to understanding what occurred after you were separated from Lomo.

Regards,

Tanu.

Seth let out a sigh of relief. He hadn’t thought his friends were in danger based on Lockland and the Fair Folk’s general determination to stay as far away as possible from anything remotely interesting, but it was good to hear all the same.

“It’s fine. Stormguard is sending a carriage with Tanu and Knox. They already took him out of the quiet box it seems, and the first thing he did was stick his foot in his mouth,” Seth looked around him, “Any possible allies in Quiet Boxes here?”

“Oh, don’t you act like you didn’t mouth off to the Fair Folk about their neutrality the first chance you got,” Grandma said, as Seth handed her the letters. “And we are not sticking Knox in another quiet box. It’s not healthy for a growing child.”

Seth gave a put-upon sigh, “All right, fine. We’ll find somewhere to put him. Isn’t it a little dangerous to go flying around right now?”

Marat shook his head, “One of the benefits of the neutrality you so casually mock is that the carriage of Stormguard has full immunity for diplomatic missions under the treaty. They have as many, if not more, protection on their journey than we do at the castle.”

“Safe transport is a boon that should not be taken lightly,” Grandma Sorensen said, “Knox has already likely ruffled feathers, but they owe Seth and Kendra much for freeing them. Debts hold with Fair Folk like they do everyone else in this world, though their aid is limited in scope. Everyone on their best behavior. The official letter says much of the same”

Seth made a face, but didn’t argue because she was probably right.

An hour later everyone was gathered in the courtyard as the Carriage landed lightly in front of them. It didn’t even kick up dust. Never leaving a mark, just like the people that owned it.

Knox, Tanu, and Lockland exited the carriage.

“Glad to see you guys,” Seth said, giving Tanu a hug and punching Knox on the shoulder.

“I’m afraid we don’t come with good news. While everything is fine at Stormguard, we stopped off at Terrebelle to retrieve Tess and Doren,” Tanu said, “They weren’t there and no one knows where they went. Lord Dagorel’s daughter was missing as well.”

Well, that was rude of them. Who did they think they were? Wandering around a dangerous preserve like Wyrmroost the day after a festival night and in the middle of a dragon war? Now he was going to have to track them down himself and make sure no one gets eaten. How irresponsible — Oh no, Seth was turning into Grandpa.

“They have the cloak of innocence,” Knox assured them, “So they’re safer than us. But we should still find them.”

Seth rubbed his forehead, “Great. Yeah, we’ll get Henrick on it, see if we can track them down. And whatever else we can do. I’m guessing you guys want Eve back at Terrebelle too?”

“Lord Dagorel would appreciate your consideration,” Lockland said with a bow. Well that was a little much, Seth wasn’t going to be the one giving the order to send Eve anywhere. She could do what she wanted, as far as he was concerned, it was Tess that didn’t know anything about this world he didn’t want wandering around. Probably better not to mention that.

Lockland came up from his bow.

“Hey, none of that.” Seth said, giving a tired smile, Lockland was one of the better Fair Folk after all, “Thanks for helping back there. We literally could not have done it without you.”

Lockland shook his head, “Your sister is the heroine, towards the end the only help I could give was that of one mindless puppet not trying to capture her,” he looked around, “Where is she? I’d like to know that she’s alright for myself if that’s okay.”

Seth’s throat grew thick, but no tears came. He’d cried himself out that morning before Grandma passed him one of Tanu’s calming potions, finally allowing him to get some sleep.

“Kendra…lost her memory,” Seth said, looking at the ground, not at the horrified faces in front of him.

“The key of forgetting,” Lockland said. It must have been mentioned in one of the riddles that he heard. “Seth, I’m so sorry —”

“What the heck Seth Breath?” Knox said, “You’re supposed to protect your sister!”

“I have the authority to send you to the dungeons,” Seth threatened back, “I know what I was supposed to do, but she stole the key from me and wouldn’t listen.”

“Can I still see her?” Lockland asked, “I don’t have to talk to her, just make sure that she’s okay. I feel terrible about not being able to do more before you guys came.”

“Sorry,” Seth said tightly, more than ready to shift the blame to the Fair Folk, but Grandma’s warning made him pull back, “But that privilege is reserved for allies and friends, not neutral diplomats. I only told you about her memory because Celebrant already knows what happened and you helped us. You aren’t getting any more information from me until I know you won’t give it up to the dragons for a perfectly neutral reason.”

Lockland flinched back. He had spent the past several hundred years as a human in a competition, it had probably been a while since he’d dealt with the drawbacks of neutrality. If he had ever dealt with it before. After meeting the royal children of Stormguard, Seth wouldn’t be surprised if their parents kept them under lock and key and only taught them untested morality anyway.

“Seth,” Grandma Ruth hissed. She turned to Lockland, “I would like to apologize for the Caretaker’s current temperament. The loss of his sister’s memory, due in part the schemes of Celebrant and Ronodin, is still a fresh blow. Thank you for returning our friends to us.”

Subdued, Lockland nodded, “I also came to inquire about what happened to my brother Tregain. As you are mourning the loss of your sister’s memories, surely you won’t begrudge me knowing the fate of my brother. Enemies though we were, he is family.”

Seth felt a pang then. He wasn’t being fair. It wasn’t like Lockland hadn’t suffered under the curse. And with a memory-less Kendra captured by Ronodin, Seth might be fighting his sibling in the future. Oh God, he might have to fight Kendra.

He shoved those thoughts aside, he needed to get through this, “Tregain died, so did Obregon. There was a final trap for the Wizenstone, anyone who touched it…turned to ash. The only thing I could do was send the stone away with the Rod of Banishment. It was…it was never winnable in the first place.”

Lockland was still and silent, then he nodded. “We were playing a dangerous game with the greatest prize. That those two were the only deaths is…nicer, than what other competitions for magical items are like. The business of the Fair Folk is concluded. Farewell, Caretaker Seth Sorenson.”

Lockland stepped back into the carriage, but before closing the door, turned back to Seth, “I know what we all have to do in war, but believe me when I say I can never thank you and your sister enough for ending the curse. I hope you succeed, and I hope for your safety. If Kendra is willing to give up her place in the war, now that she has no memory of what she is fighting for or how to fight, she will be welcome at Stormguard to wait in neutrality as others take her place in your battle.”

Seth didn’t know what to say. No witty comebacks, no apologies, nothing came to mind.

“Thank you for this extension, we will consider it and offer it to her when we see her next,” Grandpa Sorenson said with a bow, “Please return with the knowledge that Blackwell Keep rejoices in the freedom of you and your people.”

Lockland nodded, acknowledging Grandpa’s words, and closed the door. The carriage took off.

Grandma put a hand to her head. “Seth, I am terrified to know what you said when you and Kendra visited Terrebelle.”

“It wasn’t so bad,” Calvin’s voice piped up from Tanu’s pocket, “Lord Dalgorel’s children were quite accommodating and understanding. Kendra did most of the talking.” Tanu lifted the nipsie out of his pocket and handed Calvin to Seth.

“Calvin, we left you with Patton!” Seth said.

“As soon as dawn hit, I went to test the barriers and found them undone,” Calvin said, “Patton will be making his way back with the flying mounts soon.”

“Forgive me,” Tanu said slowly, “But if Kendra truly has lost her memory, letting her claim sanctuary with the Fair Folk sounds like a good temporary measure. Her abilities are extraordinary, and easy to be misused and misguided.”

“Come inside,” Grandma said, “We have to catch each other up.”

“Hey, I’m sorry for snapping at you about Kendra,” Knox said, walking beside Seth, “I know both of you, and Kendra’s stubborn as a rock. And its not like I did any better protecting Tess from danger.”

“I would say sorry for threatening to put you in the dungeon,” Seth replied, “But I’m not. You’re making me realize just how much Grandma and Grandpa were trying to protect me when I first learned about this stuff, it sucks.”

“I bet Kendra was always trying to protect you too,” Knox said, “How long do you think it will be before she’s back at that? At least she doesn’t have the grounds to nag you when she doesn’t know what’s going on.”

“Shut up,” Seth said, slamming the keep door shut. “I don’t know. I don’t know if she’ll ever talk to us again. I don’t know if the next time she sees me, she’ll try to kill me. Ronodin kidnapped her, and she is somewhere, right now, being convinced that she’s Ronodin’s girlfriend and would do absolutely anything for him.”

“Did I hear right?” Tanu asked, turning back. Grandma sighed.

“Yes, and I think we could all use some tea right about now.”

Seth glared at his teacup while his grandparents caught everyone up. Newel had gotten the task of brewing, snagged on their way back to the War Room, and he was sure Newel slipped a little bit extra in for the adults. Seth knew, because they had caught eyes as he was about to slip something from an unidentified bottle into Knox’s tea, and Seth shook his head.

“Agad will be here in the morning, to follow up on what leads he can,” Grandpa finished.

“I’m telling you, it was Ronodin,” Seth said, “The sleezy jerk was all over Kendra, trying to make her blush and calling her ‘Love’. It’s going to be Gavin all over again.”

“Then perhaps you can take some faith,” Tanu said gently, “Kendra’s heart is good, and her abilities meant to help and heal. Our enemies will have a long ways to go to convince her to do harm. And do not forget who else Ronodin is holding captive.”

Seth blinked, then smiled, “Bracken. If anyone can convince her that she’s better than that jerk, its him.” Seth turned to Knox, remembering that Knox didn’t know who Bracken was, and saw his cousin staring into his cooled cup of tea. Seth nudged him with his shoulder, “Hey, no spacing out in the War Room. Bracken is Kendra’s unicorn boyfriend. They’ve done the prison spree thing before. It only took them five-ish hours, I think. It will probably take a little longer with Kendra’s memory gone, and we’ll have to give them a hand, but that’s good news. As good as it gets anyway.”

“Yeah, uh, I’m a little off, I think I’m going to get some air,” Knox said, putting down his teacup. He left the room, heading inward instead of towards the outside.

“Did something happen at Stormguard after they let him out?” he asked Tanu, frowning after his cousin.

Tanu shook his head, paused then said, “A pretty girl was invited to dine with him. Like most young folk, he couldn’t resist the urge to brag about what appeared to be an unconditional win. Between understanding that it was not the win he thought it was, and likely feeling remaining guilt over the stolen barrel. I believe, given time, he will work through his problems.”

“He likely also thinks that you blame him,” Grandpa Sorensen said, “Please try to keep your temper. You are in charge here, and your attitudes and temperaments affect everyone. The situation with Kendra is bleak, and you must hold together.”

“In better news,” Marat said, “Seth has managed to conquer the last hold of Dragon fear. I found him as a dragon, and he spoke to me clearly.”

Grandma brightened, “Oh, that’s wonderful Seth.”

“It feels kind of an empty victory,” Seth admitted.

Grandpa smiled, “One more dragon tamer in the world is a victory all the same.”

Seth looked around, “When was Henrick supposed to be back?” Maybe the Alcetaur would have something for him to do to whittle the hours until Agad showed up. There wasn’t anything they could do from their end except guard the barrel.

“He’ll be back in the morning,” Grandma said. “I know it’s frustrating, but the wait is short.”

“What if we tried to establish communication through the barrel?” Seth asked, the idea popping into his head.

Everyone blinked at him. “It’s a shared space, right? Coulter showed us how it worked with coins and tin cans,” Seth said, “It doesn’t just move people. If we put in a letter, asking for Ronodin to tell us what he wants in exchange for Kendra, maybe we can work out a trade.”

“Classic,” Newel said, “All the crime shows agree, the first thing you do with a kidnapper is keep them talking. Then you do a little give, a little take, until you’re negotiating for the right stuff. Once they trust you, Bam! Hit them where it hurts.”

Grandma and Grandpa shared a look, “It wouldn’t hurt.” Grandma said. “It will let us track activity with the barrel, if nothing else.”

“I’d feel better waiting until we have Agad’s approval,” Grandpa replied, “But I can’t see any harm, and the longer Kendra is in their grasp, the worse it will be. Could you write the letter?”

Grandma nodded, standing up. “Just to explain that we are open to negotiating for the return of Kendra. Hopefully their reply will contain clues as to where they are, even if they ask for something we can’t give.”

“I have a feeling we will not get peace enough to brew for a while yet,” Tanu said, returning his teacup to the tray, “And my ingredients are most potent fresh. We slept a while before the celebration at Stormguard, I will be brewing in my room, if you need me.”

They both left. “That was a smart idea, Seth,” Grandpa Sorenson said. Seth slumped, “Yeah, but there still isn’t anything I can do.”

“I have the feeling you’ll have the chance to do plenty,” Grandpa said, “Tess and Doren are still at Terrebelle. Agad is coming. If you like, we can do something active. How about a sword-fighting lesson? See if these old bones remember anything.”

He let Grandpa get him into a sword fighting lesson. He didn’t use Tregain’s sword, as the goal was to be seen and fight, and instead practiced as many moves as he could remember Warren and Vanessa teaching him. Grandpa showed him a few as well, from back when he learned.

Grandpa was much more of the “best way to win was never be hit, and you don’t get hit if you’re never there” camp. Instead of Warren and Vanessa’s focus on attacking, counter attacking, and movement economy with broad swords, Grandpa had him dodging in circles, keeping out of striking range by positioning himself on the outer side of the blade.

When Seth complained about not having a good position to attack, Grandpa proceeded to disarm him seven times in a row, attacking from that exact angle when Seth was too slow to move. It was safe to say that ‘the best way to win is to not be there’ was beaten into his arms by dinner.

Knox still hadn’t come back, so Seth took a plate of food and started asking around to find his cousin. Grandpa and Tanu had both suggested giving Knox space, but they didn’t know him. Grandpa wasn’t related to Knox, and Knox was the kind of person that needed someone to show off to in order to be a person at all.

Eventually a dwarf pointed him towards the room at the very top of the central structure. It wasn’t really a room, since it had no walls, just a couple of pillars holding up the roof. A sort of small pavilion.

“I see you’ve found the High Judgement Court,” Seth said, rounding the top of the stairs.

“That what this place is called? It was empty, I figured I wouldn’t bother anyone here, but I suppose it’s a fitting place for me,” Knox said.

“You missed dinner, I brought you some food,” Seth said.

Knox waved it away. “I ate my fill at Stormguard.”

Seth set down the plate of food by him anyway, “You know, we’re taking turns being an absolute wreck about Kendra. I had first go before sunrise, Grandma and Grandpa went while I was sleeping. Thought I should warn you that your turn is almost up.”

“I can’t believe you’re still cracking jokes while Kendra’s kidnapped,” Knox said, clenching his fists. “And with the person whose fault it is.”

“Ronodin’s not here,” Seth said, “He’d be getting a sword to the gut if he was.”

“It’s my fault Kendra was kidnapped!” Knox yelled. “Everyone knows it, they’re all angry and just trying to spare my feelings. It was making me sick. That’s why I am up here. Now leave.”

“Knox, you screwed up,” Seth said, “Everyone does it. No one blames you. We’ve fought tricky enemies before, and we’ve all figured out how to put the blame where it belongs, on the bad guys. You’re the only one who hasn’t yet.”

Knox snorted, “Maybe everyone makes mistakes, but not everyone gets people kidnapped on their first go.”

And it clicked for Seth, in a weird moment of vague empathy. Looking at Knox, he remembered a rushed salt circle, clinging to Kendra, trembling as ghastly noises raged through the house.

Seth regretted not coming sooner.

“No, you’re right, some of us wait until our second mistake to get our family members kidnapped and threaten the whole world,” Seth said. Knox jerked to look at him, but if they were going to have a feeling-ish touchy heart-to-heart, Seth was going to be looking over the preserve.

“You can’t mean —”

“We haven’t had any time between dragon feasts, cursed tournaments, and everything else,” Seth started, “But you’re a couple of important hours late to the magic party. Back when we went to Grandma and Grandpa Larsen’s funeral, all our parents went on a cruise, remember?” Knox nodded. “Kendra and I were sent to stay at Fablehaven for two weeks.”

“That’s when you found out about this stuff? You’ve only known three years?” Knox asked, looking a little perplexed, “I thought you guys had been doing this way longer. How’d you get to be in charge?”

“Longer story,” Seth said ruefully, “We knew things were a little odd, back then. Grandpa kept telling me to stay out of the woods for more and more dangerous reasons, while Kendra played riddle games in the attic of the main house. Grandpa had set up clues for us, to see if we were curious enough to be open to the secrets. Kendra figured out about the milk, she used me as her guinea pig.

“My first mistake? I wanted a pet fairy. A fairy trader had come to visit, and I thought I could catch one too. He was a real adventurer, you know? But I didn’t know the rules, like you didn’t know not to trust the dungeon goblins. I caught a fairy, and kept it in my drawer overnight. Doing that turns the fairy into an imp. Dark, scaly, multiple fangs and eyes, angry. A butterfly into a spider. She had pleaded and begged me from inside the jar not to keep her trapped, but I knew so much better than her, I was going to release her in the morning.”

“Woah,” Knox said, “Tess would hate you forever for that. Could you undo it? With your shadow stuff?”

Seth smiled ruefully, “Me? No, no one can undo that. And the shadow stuff came later. So the fairies got their revenge. You made it to Terrebelle because Tess is like, the most innocent person ever, right? That day was when I lost my innocence protection under most treaties. The fairies came and attacked me. The next part’s a little fuzzy, Kendra said I was some kind of malformed, fleshy walrus. It hurt, my senses were all mixed up, I was breathing through my back, and Grandpa and Kendra fixed me by making a deal with a witch. So yeah, my first mistake didn’t get anyone kidnapped, but it wasn’t a small deal either.”

Knox hesitated, and Seth waited.

“And… and your second mistake?”

“The third floor of the main house is meant for children, and when only children are in it, they have extra protection. You saw how everything went crazy last night?” Seth checked, and Knox nodded, “That’s what happens on the summer solstice at every preserve. Part of the treaty says they can party without boundaries on solstices and equinoxes. The boundaries of the actual buildings at Fablehaven stay secure, but the creatures can party around the yard and all the way up to the window.”

Knox shuddered, “Dude, you’re making this sound like a horror story.”

Seth gave a weak smile. The sun was finally starting to touch the horizon, on the longest day of the year. “Dude, because it was. Over and over they told me not to go near the windows. Don’t look. Phantoms can take any shape, and wraiths were waiting to suck the life out of you. But that just sounded so cool. A little peek wouldn’t hurt anyone. Looking never hurt anyone.

“I peeked. Kendra scolded me the whole time. Fairies were lighting up jack o’lanterns outside the window, keeping the worst of the monsters away so I didn’t see anything good. They saw me though, and the fairies couldn’t ditch me fast enough. They hadn’t forgiven me for turning their sister into an imp. They flew away, Kendra dragged me back. Creatures got right up to the window and started playing out horrible things. It was the wolves eating toddlers that got me, and I opened the window, worried for the kid. That let them in the house. We managed to get the creatures out of the attic, and nothing could get back in with the extra protections. The ones I let in though, they let in all their friends to the rest of the house.”

“No,” Knox said. Seth looked over and saw the appropriate look of horror.

“Yep, I clung to Kendra like a baby the whole night. When it was over in the morning, Dale was a statue, Lena and Grandpa were abducted, Hugo gone. See, it took my second mistake to really mess things up. You were able to do a lot of good before your big screw up. You helped with the scepter, which, no joke, saved Wrymroost. And we wouldn’t have found Lockland, who gave us the glove to go forward, if we didn’t put you in the quiet box.”

“They couldn’t attack me because of the whole innocence thing, right? How did you guys get out of it? How did you fix your mistake back then?”

The memories replayed in his mind.

“Err, I have the feeling you’re not going to believe me if I told you,” Seth said with a small grin.

“Really dude?” Knox protested, “I was turned into gold last night, flew back here in a flying carriage, your sister was kidnapped by a wooden puppet after loosing her memory, and waiting out there are a bunch of dragons ready to kill us. I think I can take whatever you did at Fablehaven to rescue your grandparents.”

Seth stood up, “I’ve pulled you out of your slump. No one blames you, because mistakes happen, and what’s important is working to fix them. Come on, it’s time to turn in.”

“I’m not leaving until I get the rest of the story,” Knox said, “You can’t leave me hanging like that.”

“Fine. Well, first off, Grandma Sorenson hadn’t been captured because she had been turned into a chicken…”

#Forgotten Light #fablehaven #dragonwatch #seth sorenson #Really like this one #Seth feels like Grandpa #Am I using Tess and Knox to grow Kendra and Seth as teachers/mentors #could be

[wlw-lovestruck-fiction]

bless us with your thoughts on Helena and "I thought you didn't want me" from the Super Sappy Lines prompt?

Written by @evoedbd

Her lips trembled as they framed the scar, tip of her tongue tracing the line of a shooting star across infinity. Smooth. Warm. Alive beneath her touch. Tamed only by the desire to be seen, for a goddess to gift herself to her directionless devotee. Kya’s lips lifted, leaving the damp imprint of her kiss to echo across Helena’s senses. Gods, it hurt. To part even that little bit pierced Kya’s heart so suddenly she whimpered. Only Helena’s calm breath guided her pace, allowing Kya to remain gentle as she dipped down to the Mage’s shoulder blade. A slice, the line stars had travelled, a new mark across the constellation, one which birthed a love story to echo for the ages. A story that bypassed the borders of reality, which overcame the challenges of the Universe and defied the very concepts of reality. Their story.

Kya’s lips lingered, drawn by Helena’s very soul to pay homage. The concept of a kiss or the flick of a tongue faded. Kya’s lips framed the old wound, caressing it between focused pecks. She knew there were so many scars to tend to, old wounds to soothe, yet that required her to break contact. The thought had her fists clenching, gathering the white sheets between snowy knuckles. Never had she felt so torn, even during the war. She craved the feeling of Helena’s muscles twitching beneath her touch, the sounds of contentment she could draw from her Mage… yet to do so meant she had to stop touching momentarily.

Her lip curled upwards, leaving her teeth grazing across Helena’s flesh. Her lip left a trail of delightful warmth, dragging down to the next scar before Kya’s bottom lip joined to deliver the next kiss. No longer could she let her mouth break away, not even to move to the next scar. With her eyes peacefully closed, she drifted on the tides of her memory, dragging her lips and tongue across the space between until she was positive Helena’s back would have been turned into a pool of residual saliva, if not for how swiftly each kiss dried.

“Mhhhmm…” Helena practically purred, the sound of her contented moan rumbling in her chest. A shiver worked its way down her limber body like wave, causing her to arch up into Kya’s loving attentions. The Sorceress felt her lover’s smile against the small of her back, just as she felt the heat of Kya’s breath turn her last kiss chilly for just a moment. Temperature. It was so… Helena was quite aware of it, even when she had no need to be. For so long, the feeling of a subtle chill on the air was enough to warn her to silence herself. To shrink from the Queen’s abuse, or beg for her attentions to avoid something less predictable. Now, Kya used that knowledge in such small ways. Ways most wouldn’t think about. Like how a kiss could become cold, then warm, then cold again within a single tick of the clock. How Helena could feel the patterns of scattered kisses or licks to paint a tapestry. Sometimes, it was the beauty of the scars across her back, the unique constellation Kya had begged to lay claim to like a deity of legend. Other nights it was messages, words of encouragement driven into her flesh in ways that would never mark. Never hurt. A quick peck could dot an i, whilst a slow, sensual curl of the tongue might carve hearts over the wounds of old.

“Enjoying yourself?” Kya questioned; tone laced with a smugness that Helena couldn’t help smile at. It was THEIR smugness. Kya’s inability to hide her own pride in what she could do to the tortured soul beneath her. And why should it be hidden? None had ever given Helena a reason to feel valued as even a human being, yet Kya made her feel all powerful. Helena knew her magic could destroy worlds, yet that was so insufficient when held to Kya’s love. Kya’s giving was more power than Helena knew how to handle. It burned and consumed her, until she had to touch lest the fire destroy her mind.

“As always, my Gentle Heart, you touch my soul.” Helena’s gentle, earnest praise drew heat to the tips of Kya’s ears, flooding from the deepest regions of her racing heart. Lord, Helena wasn’t even trying, and she took the wind from Kya’s sails. She locked the poor American in a place between fantasy and reality, where a blink could be a thousand years of the most romantic of memories, or the most heated of encounters. Where possibilities and everything Kya wanted to do were laid out, paved roads for her to speed down if only she dared pick her route. Instead, she froze, gaping, jaw flapping like a fish at the view before her.

Helena’s bare back almost glowed in the moonlight filtering through the window. Pale skin, scarred beyond reason, held such unspeakable vulnerability. Her body swelled with each deep breath she claimed, each a defiance against a lifetime of abuse. Her muscles shivered and twitched, reminding Kya of the waves of the ocean at night, crested by the gleam of lingering kisses and smoothed scars. Hair of winter gold was gathered to the side, spilling across the pillow in a glimmering pearlescent stream. The darkness of shadows embraced every curve of Helena’s body, delicately shading the swell of her partially obscured breast, the dips of definition in impossibly powerful arms, the exposed line of a once ravaged throat.

Kya felt hers constrict.

Trust. This is what trust truly was. A back exposed freely, a sleepy body offered, laid prone, without any trace of tension despite a tapestry of reasons to be fearful. Here, with a Siren lounging so comfortably in her bed, a vision of realistic perfection and dreamlike seduction, Kya was elevated to the clouds by the simplest of truths. Helena trusted her completely. Every image of lust Kya could summon to her mind felt pale in comparison, like the ghosts of true and lingering emotions. Here, she had every chance to take, to sate whatever desire could come to mind. Helena’s silent offering was not merely a chance to indulge, it was an offering of her entire self. She did not shy from Kya’s gaze, did not conceal a single weakness. To hide had been beaten into Helena, yet she so boldly defied every harsh lesson when it came to Kya. The realisation made Kya cling even tighter to the sheets bunched around Helena’s plentiful hips. Her fingers itched to reach out, to trace the lines she had just soothed and once more learn the constellations of her galaxy. From the dotting stabs and grazes, down to the savagely delivered whip lashes, and lower. The wounds she knew existed only because Helena had given her those stories, had let Kya see beyond the walls of General Klein. A gash down the inside of her thigh, delivered twice. Once with a knife, once with a curse. The thousands upon thousands of burns down Helena’s ankles from where she had fought, or where the Queen had bound her too harshly. Alchemy and magic had preserved the image of flawless skin, yet Kya could not help but question the purity of such things. The scars no longer existed, yet all that did was erase the crime from the world. The deed only existed in murky depths. Tangles of traumatic flashes across Helena’s memory. Had they ever happened at all? Were they just a night terror? Their only acknowledgement was the words Helena gave when her shoulders caved beneath the pressure of horrific memory. Worlds might forget, yet for Helena the deed still stood so stark, still drove her mind to the depths of conceivable hell. To places where communication was screams and pleading for mercy, and mercy was merely a more violating touch.

Never. Again. Kya’s body thrummed with the silent declaration, as it did a hundred times a day. Never again would Helena’s trust, body and soul be violated. God, she had somehow earned this beautiful woman’s trust, and she vowed to protect it until her dying breath. Never would she stop striving to earn the blessings Helena gave, or stop appreciating everything that Helena was. How two worlds could miss it, she had no clue. Helena was a goddess, and Kya was all too happy to offer her soul in devotion.

“You’re… I don’t have the words, Helena.”

That was true. What words could ever sum up everything Kya could see painted across a single body? Ten thousand words may compose the weight of Helena’s crimes, yet a million could not begin to grace the essence of her. What words could explain a young girl growing from an abused daughter to an abused possession? What words could bare the weight of how Helena had been tortured, twisted into an image so terrifying that nations whispered in fear? Could anything explain the gravity of Helena’s fight? Of every defiance torn from her humanity? Of how she had continued, spent over thirty years fighting just to be seen as a human? What words could sum up her gentleness? How tenderly she touched despite the power of pure destruction running through her veins? Kya knew no way to express the simplest of things any more than a traumatic story. The mischief twinkling in sapphire blue eyes. How she possessed both the grace of a dancer and the power of a stallion whilst also withholding the gentleness of flower petals. How, even holding Kya’s hands down, Helena’s grip never became too tight. How her thumb would always seek out Kya’s pulse, as if reminding herself that the war was over. That Kya was alive in her grasp. The relief Kya often saw flood Helena’s eyes when their gazes met. Admiration for Helena’s struggles continued to claim Kya’s breath, even as she watched the Sorceress lift her head.

“You’re crying. Hav-“

“No!” Kya interfered, refusing to let the words of self-blame escape Helena’s lips.

“Helena, Christ, no. It’s just, sometimes everything you’ve been through just hits me. Its… I am so fucking furious for you, like I could go and bomb the Queen’s castle. But I’m also so insanely proud of you! How you fought, how you managed to face everything you’d endured.” Kya confessed, letting her forehead fall back to the small of Helena’s back for a moment. She couldn’t resist leaving another loving kiss to the bump of Helena’s spine, followed by another, and another, all as her tears fell.

“You are so beautiful, Helena. I love you so much my body can’t always contain it.”

“To think,” Helena began, pushing up onto one of her hands so she could turn enough to gaze down at Kya. All at once, the Sorceress’ breath caught in her throat, stolen by the sincerity in Kya’s otherworldly eyes. Grey, but not the type of grey that mimicked storm tainted clouds, nor the type of greys reminiscent of steel. No, Kya’s eyes were the grey of of stone, flecked with little slithers of blue which reminded Helena of diamonds before they were cleaned. Always, the images were of Earth. Grounding. Afterall, Kya was the grounding force in her life, the bedrock she had rebuilt herself upon. Kya had moved her to defy the Witch Queen, to embrace her own fears and rediscover who she was as an individual. Kya had moved an entire world, shown them one of the most horrific figures in their history, the fearsome General Klein, then made them see a hero. The Curse breaker. The slayer of the Witch Queen. Made them see Helena Klein in lights none dared dream.

“there was a time I had been convinced you could never truly want me. That it was my obedience you truly craved.” Helena’s confession earned a quiet yet sharp hiss from Kya, along with a literal flinch. Kya understood, boy did she ever, yet her body rebelled against the notion. She attempted to press closer, scattering more patient kisses up Helena’s back. How? How could any power that be, any god which may exist allow such a beautiful soul to be tormented to the point of worthlessness? The injustice of it all was a fire in her heart, causing her to tremble with the effort of keeping those flames contained.

“I hate that you ever felt I did not want you. I never wanted to force my wants onto you, but, Helena… have you seen yourself? Before I even knew your name, I was imagining things.”

“Things?” Helena enquired; brow arched playfully.

“You. Me. A bed. Alone and safe. How your arms around me would feel on cold nights, holding me close. How comfortable your chest was to lay my head on when you first hugged me. How that would feel to sleep on every night.” Kya’s response drew a rare flush to Helena’s cheeks.

“Then, I got to know you. The more I got to see, the more I wanted. I got to see a woman who is the best artist I have ever met. A woman built for peace, not war. A woman who has the element of destruction in her veins, but the power of endless growth and love in her heart. Not to mention the things just looking at you does to me. I could watch you draw for decades and never get tired of it. You make me appreciate the little things in life, even when I miss them because I am too busy watching you enjoy them. I don’t think I’ll ever stop wanting you, I doubt I even could.” Kya spoke clearly, leaving no room for misinterpretation. God, she already knew she would never stop wanting Helena. It was carved into her soul by carpenters of universal renown. Yet, it was only a shallow mind who would associate Kya’s desires to something carinal. Lust was simple, easy. What Kya wanted was so much more; a mountain compared to a pebble made from the droppings of a rabbit. After all, lust could be so fleeting, an experience of touch and taste to drive someone to the brink, then watch them drown and plummet beneath waves of momentary bliss. Sensations which would fade before a turn of the sun. Kya’s desires were so much more than that. Already, she welcomed the pain of overworked hands, even as she moulded each brick from the clay of understanding and sincerity. Her own blood played the mortar she offered as she tried to help Helena piece herself back together. The tower of Babylon, possibly, yet Kya was committed to continuing to build. To rebuild and repair, each time sturdier and aiming higher. Did Helena even have limits? If so, Kya wanted to help her find them, to reach the stars she’d always looked towards. Then, to shatter the ceilings of what ancient civilisations considered Heaven. The moon. The sun. Blackholes galaxies away. All challenges Kya believed Helena could conquer.

“Kya…” Helena couldn’t force more than the most reverent whisper past the lump in her throat. She felt the truth of Kya’s words, just as she felt everything Kya never voiced. Sheets tickled the swell of her hip, prickling along erased wounds and violations. Helena couldn’t help but feel how Kya trembled, only allowing her dark hair to brush Helena’s skin. A dry brush whispering across a plain canvas, held by an artist who was pleading to birth delights for the world. Even driven by such powerful emotions, Kya held herself back, silently waiting for invitation. Such power brought a smile to Helena’s lips. If she were water, she knew Kya would die of thirst before claiming a single droplet… And oh, she felt Kya’s thirst. It shouldn’t amuse her as it did, to feel how desperate Kya was to touch. To love. Even now, it was mystifying how Kya could love her. She was a murderer, a general of a genocide, something more dangerous than any creature within any world of fantasy or reality. No dragon could destroy the world on a whim, not as Helena could, yet Kya approached her as if she were a lost kitten. Where the Queen’s hands had tortured Helena into a weapon, had tried to erase her imperfections, Kya longed only to feel them. To understand.

“I would not mind… more…” The Sorceress finally admitted, her mind clawing for the words she so desperately wished to say. A small smile dawned at the small whimper which escaped Kya. It was a sound Helena now understood meant Kya was holding back her tears, drowning in emotions too pure for Helena to touch. Yet, touch she would. Again, and again, until the concept of individuals faded. If magic could not combine them, then Helena was greedy enough to claim every other closeness… and Kya was too.

“Helena… please. Can I touch your back?” The level of desire in such an innocent request punched the breath from Helena’s lungs, tore the concept from her body, just as it would tear her heart to refuse.

“Touch as you desire, Gentle Heart. I surrender myself to you, for tonight.” She granted her permission with a soft sigh. Her head sunk to the pillow once more, eyes closed. She waited, searching for the feeling of dread that often swelled beneath her breast when she invited such things, gave such power to another, yet it did not come. Worlds did not collide within her head, nor did her heartbeat begin to wage war against her veins. Instead, there was unity. The way her breath picked up fell in gentle pace with her heart, with Kya’s heart. She felt Kya’s body trembling above hers, skin whispering across her own as Kya audibly swallowed. Then, fingers, the lightest touch against her shoulders. A soft sigh of wind over fields of peaceful wheat. Loving rains over meadows green. Kya’s fingers were so careful, so gentle, so… reverent.

“I’m just going to touch your shoulders, maybe lay over you, ok? You have complete control, even with my weight on you, I promise, if you don’t like this, I’ll stop.” Kya whispered; voice thicker than molasses. Helena only hummed in response. Kya’s promises were branded into her soul, then upon the world as Kya birthed them to reality. The Sorceress trembled, allowing herself to feel every touch. Lips had branded every scar, time and time again. Every disgusting moment she could recall, and many she could not, had thrown themselves against Kya’s reassurances; foot soldiers laying siege to a temple. If pain acted the aggressors, then Kya’s words played the role of Goddess.

“I want you to enjoy how I love you.” Kya’s words were the fires she cast upon shame. Helena sighed softly, feeling that unique, unspeakable fire beginning at her core. It was an ember, a brief spark, nothing as shocking or frightening as the Queen made it. This was so very different. Kya was different. With the Queen, if Helena did not offer flame, she was punished. She was trapped, burning too brightly, too painfully for her soul to endure unscathed. She was made to destroy in order to survive. The Queen had tried to take that ember and destroy the world with unholy fire. Kya held that ember within her cupped hands. She spoke gently, sacrificing her body to shield that little ember from a world of storms and rain. Kya fed that flame with gentle words, coaxing and praising with nothing but the purest of intentions and utter patience. The Queen had set that flame across the world, only to punish it for burning. Kya sought only to see that flame grow as it would, to revel in it’s beauty without turning it to her own whims.

Above the Sorceress, Kya flushed brilliantly, the goofiest of grins forming across her lips as she slowly moved to lay herself across Helena. The way her hand touched Helena was nothing short of worship, tracing the lines of her muscles with delicate fingertips and gentle palms. The weight of Kya’s body over hers did not intimidate, even when Helena felt Kya’s hand push that little bit harder. Instead of fear, she was flooded with a sense of contentment. This was warm. Safe even, despite being so unknown. Her brows furrowed in curiosity for what Kya had planned. She had been taken like this before, punished by strap and spell, or a third party to entertain. She had accepted this position in exchange for food when she had been weak and starving. But this wasn’t them, this wasn’t a violation from her hideous past nor torture for her crimes. This was Kya. Gentle, caring Kya who had nothing but smooth skin pressed to Helena; hips rocking slightly against Helena’s rump. No, not rocking. Fidgeting. Wiggling. Trembling.

Kya was trying not to apply pressure, even at the sacrifice of her own comfort. That made the warmth in Helena’s heart intensify. It radiated through her muscles, soothing her until she allowed herself to give in. On a soft breath, the Sorceress released the tension in her body and finally allowed herself to melt into the mattress.

Kya waited, watching the pinch in Helena’s brows, searching for anything beyond curiosity. Helena remained calm, her cheek pressed into the pillow, lips parted to take small gulps of air. Beautiful blue eyes were closed, relaxed, save the occasional flutter of eyelids. Unable to resist, Kya allowed herself to fall forwards, only to catch herself on an outstretched hand lingering beside Helena’s. Kya’s free hand came to Helena’s brow, light fingers tracing each delicate line of Helena’s expression. Her curiosity. Her contentment. Her smile. Oh, how that gentle curve of lips could undo Kya a thousand times over. It was strange, feeling such pillowy softness beneath her thumb when she knew lips had a thousand grooves, each leaving a unique print behind to mark a kiss. It was a gentle kiss to the pad of her thumb which drew a soft gasp from Kya, even as the Sorceress beneath her let out a soft yet playful hum.

“You seem relaxed. Is this ok?” Kya questioned; her tone filled with tender concern as she let a little more of her weight rest across Helena’s scarred back. She watched, trying to decipher the slow blinks and twitch of Helena’s brow.

“I am completely at ease, Kya.” The realisation that her words were entirely true was enough to make Helena’s heart swell. She reached into herself, scouring the further most regions of her conscious in search of her fear, only to find nothing save contentment and passive curiosity. Not only did she not fear Kya’s touch, she welcomed it. Helena longed for such gentle contact across her wounded body, across every foul memory. Kya could wash away the shame Helena had carried for her entire life. Kya could wash away the ugliness of abuse. Kya. Kya was everything Helena wanted, every salacious desire and tender comfort she could comprehend. Acts which she knew brought her shame and agony suddenly intrigued her when paired with Kya. Situations that had left her scarred were now potentially enjoyable and safe, if Kya was there. If Kya was the one leading. Surely, if it was Kya behind her, she was safe.

“I can feel that.” Kya breathed; voice strained. Thick, like molasses and honey dripping through a sieve.

“I can… gods, Helena.” Kya’s voice broke, hitching on an all-encompassing sob that rocked her entire being. It was true, she could feel the honesty in Helena’s words. Helena was just so soft. So warm, so close and so relaxed. The Sorceress was liquid muscle beneath her, as if lacking a skeletal structure. It was enough to have Kya’s eyes stinging, for tears of pride and joy to flow down her cheeks and onto Helena’s skin. The raven-haired woman rested her forehead between Helena’s shoulder blades, sobbing softly as she wrapped an arm underneath Helena’s torso. Kya squeezed gently, cuddling Helena as close as she could. She lost herself in Helena’s scent, earthy and magical. Parchment, herbs and a unique smell no human could categorise. Nobody was ever allowed close enough to Helena to notice that little underlying note.

“I’m so proud of you. I love you so, so much. I wish you could feel how full my heart is.”

“Show me.” Helena found herself whispering. Pleading, even. It shocked her. How her body reacted to Kya’s mere presence, the weight and warmth plastered across her back. Lust had always been stoked, something brewed with intention. It was Kya who’d shown her spontaneous, yet even those situations had a logical formula Helena could follow. This… this was something entirely different. It was not the roaring inferno, or even the trickle she was used to. It was a sudden yet gentle warmth. Something spilling from her overflowing heart that slowly warmed her veins. A radiant glow peaceful bliss.

“I surrender myself to your guidance, my love.”

“In that case…” Kya began, voice wavering beneath the weight of Helena’s words. Thunder echoed in her chest, rocking her overflowing heart to the very last molecule. Suddenly, there were immense possibilities, many of them mistakes. What if her touch inspired fear? What if she scared the Sorceress with her eagerness to please? Or worse, if she tempered her desire, would it seem as if she did not appreciate the gift so lovingly offered? A gentle kiss placed to the curve of Helena’s shoulder bought Kya a few moments to collect herself, to remind herself that this was her Helena. Helena was not her destination, not a goal to reach or an objective to meet. Helena was not a journey to take, nor was she an adventure to best. Helena was the path. Even when there was no clear trial to follow, Helena was the direction Kya took. She was the golden pavement and gravel both. She was oceans and forests, storms and sunshine. Helena was everything. The fact Helena trusted Kya with her physical self was just a sweetener to the fact Helena existed at all. Kya could do no wrong, not if she followed as she always had. If she was honest, if she loved as she wished to be loved in return. Whether the night unfolded into seduction or laughter, it was with Helena. That was all that truly mattered.

Reassured by her realisation, Kya leaned closer, allowing her lips to skim the shell of her Sorceress’ ear as she whispered the first of many less wholesome requests for the night.

#Anonymous #lovestruck #women of lovestruck #helena klein #helena x mc #lovestruck helena #love and legends helena #love and legends #fluff #scatterday

[anemonenemerosa]

The Spare - Chapter 7

Hello again,

here we go with the next chapter.

The fic is still inspired by the lovely @lumosinlove

TW for mentioned homophobia, past (and present?) abuse, mental health issues.

Chapter 7

Regulus quietly eased himself down on his bed, not making a noise, struggling to grasp what he just overheard. And it was a lot. His brother was, erm... dating the person he called after dinner. The voice on the phone was somewhat unintelligible but clearly male... named Remus. Sirius is dating a man. He was gay... playing in the NHL. Holy shit.'

After a moment of comprehension, Regulus pushed the newly found insights in his brothers’ sex-life aside. There was so much more. Sirius did not just go and found himself a new family six years ago. He felt as abandoned by his family as Regulus felt by Sirius. He feared their parents. Was the brave attitude Sirius would show Regulus just to keep him calm and happy, to protect his little brother? The beatings didn't end when Sirius was fifteen, as Regulus was always made to believe and he was going through therapy because of the psychological damage it caused. All the time Sirius told him he did not understand, Regulus drove him further away but his brother was right all along. Regulus did not understand, and he could kick himself for not getting this earlier.

But Sirius left Regulus there instead of explaining to him what he did not understand.

“I wouldn’t trade places with him though. I wouldn’t give up the Lions for anything.” His brother had said. Regulus wouldn't want to trade places with himself either.

This made clear that Sirius had no idea how Regulus' life went and how leaving him alone did not ease the pressure off of him. On the contrary. Do other families actually talk about such things? Probably, but we did not talk and now the damage is done.

Then, another aspect of the conversation demanded attention. Sirius had found someone. A team, some kind of family he actually wanted to spend time with and not just showed up out of sense of duty. And this Remus, who seemed to deeply care about him. Him, not his career, not his status. That man might even love him.

Regulus felt his eyes burn. He hadn't cried in years but the bare idea that relationships existed where people cared for each other like that, without expectations, showing support and giving comfort, left him longing. He remembered the feeling of being cared for by Sirius when he was young and realised that he was secretly craving it. Envy mingled with the burning the remorse of all he ever did to his brother while tears ran down his face.

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The next day went by in a blur. Regulus was confused and hurting. His carefully maintained walls broke down yesterday and he was struggling to get them up again. He still couldn't look into his brothers’ eyes, he was off kilter and felt too exposed. But he knew he needed to get a grip, needed to talk to his brother before he left the next morning.

Regulus wandered around again at night but not in the house. He couldn’t walk past Sirius room again before he was ready. Instead, he put his running shoes on, climbed out of his window and started off along his favourite path. He'd run it so often, it didn't even make a difference that is was dark. He put Sirius' sexuality on the back burner, deciding that it was more important to get a concept of how he felt about his brother after all the input from last night. Letting the call replay in his head, Regulus tried to make a note of the feelings that surged through him. It hurt horribly but he pushed through and began to classify his emotions halfway through his second laps.

He felt sorry for his brother. Sirius was abused, felt just as abandoned as Regulus, stood under enormous pressure from the media already and oh, he was a closeted gay NHL-Captain dating his teams' -almost professional NHL-player- PT. The name Remus stroked something in Regulus' memory and he had looked him up earlier that day. Somewhat typically Sirius: Never one to do things by halves. But back to the feelings-endeavour.

There was shame, quite a lot. Regulus was being big-headed, naive and too eager to please his parents, the Snakes, too eager to escape Sirius' success pressing down on him until he couldn't breathe. He had let himself get blinded.

Despite the re-evaluation of their last years, Regulus still felt abandoned by his big brother and unbearably hurt. Although he began to fathom why Sirius put so much distance between himself and the family, he promised Regulus to always be his brother, to be there for him. And then, he wasn't. This wasn't all Sirius' fault of course, there were so many layers to their relationship that his head spun and he didn't even know everything that happened to his brother.

Regulus took a short break from running and feelings before he began his fifth laps, wishing he had thought of water.

Envy was the next feeling on the list. It was a not a knew occurrence but while it usually focused on his brother’s career, he now envied Sirius for something completely different. For having friends as close as a family, a team that supported him and seemed to genuinely like him as a person. Jealousy threw itself into the mix with a pang. All these people were in company of the Sirius' happy and caring side. The side that once was reserved for Regulus only. But maybe, it was possible to deeply care for several people. That Sirius finding real friends didn't mean he had nothing left for his baby brother. But Regulus drove him away and lost his claim. As quick as the jealousy came, it was overshadowed by longing for true affection and loss of how close he once was to his brother.

Remus. The name sprang up in Regulus' mind. Sirius hadn't just found a home, he found love. Something, Regulus grew more and more aware that he himself was undeserving of such strong affection. Any affection honestly. After all he had done, no one could possibly like him. The realisation just increased the longing and gave it a painful twinge.

 As if it wasn’t bad enough already.

Regulus gave up running after the fifth laps and settled on lying on a park bench in the middle of nowhere instead, like a proper creep.

Maybe I could do with a bit of therapy too, at the very least to sort through this mess, he thought dryly.

Then, there was the sexuality part. His brother was gay. This thought should have evoked repulsion in him but it didn’t. He briefly considered the common slurs and dirty jokes in the locker-room and on ice. Regulus was not sure how much of it was supposed to be harmless chirping but without doubt, it would become ammunition of certain players, if they knew it was actually true. And his parents made decidedly no effort to sugar-coat their opinions.

                                 ......................................................

"Sports is stooping lower and lower these days!" Regulus remembered his father’s agitation during the Olympic winter-games in Sochi.

Tim Stevenson, a Vancouver City Councillor, urged the International Olympics Committee to add "sexual orientation" to the Olympic Charter. The politician was openly-gay and married to Gary Paterson, the equally openly-gay moderator of the United Church of Canada.

"They shouldn't have allowed that in the first place" Orion hissed while succumbing into a rare fit of rage.

Regulus, of course, couldn’t remember the marriage in 2004 but his parents would never fail to show their distaste and indignation.

                                   .................................................

Regulus had always believed blindly what his parents told him, once out of naivety, later out of self-preservation. A mode of action he began to question deeply by now. The blind trust towards his parents was crumbling quickly, and Regulus felt himself uncertain of what to do now that his moral concepts and alleged knowledge were dissolving at an alarming rate. But as many tumultuous hard feelings as he allowed himself against Sirius for abandoning him and escaping, he did not think that being gay changed something about his brother...

Wasn't sexuality something you can’t help? That has always been like this? Then, hadn't he always been gay and knowing about it did not make him a different person. But Regulus hardly doubted that most of the NHL shared this train of thought, let alone their parents.

This can ruin Sirius' career... but isn't hockey supposed to be about the game and the game only? His mantra came back from the dead.

Why should it be of any importance for his game where he put his dick, or let other people stick their dick, for that matter? Regulus shuddered at the thought that his brother had a sex-life but he found himself not cringing at the idea of Sirius liking men. It was more the fact that he had sex in general. He denied that brothers, just like parents did this at all. Being the living proof that his parents had definitely had sex, was irrelevant.

Regulus decided to keep his brothers secret. He would not hurt him any more than he already had.

Coming home, around three in the morning, tired but much more at ease he found himself able to really sleep for the first time in what felt like years. Come next morning, he would grow a pair of metaphorical balls (he already had actual ones, thank you very much) to tell Sirius about the Interview and apologise. He would not talk about his brother’s sexuality, didn't want to intrude. It was not Regulus' business after all.

Regulus never overslept but this very day, he did. When he woke up, his brother was already gone. Thats that. I hope you liked it :)

Stay safe and channel your inner Hufflepuff

#the spare #Sweater Weather #lumosinlove #regulus black #Sirius Black #sirius and regulus #Remus Lupin

[blushing-starker]

For my Gracie dear. What would I do without you in my life? Merry Christmas darling. @vaguekiwi

"Well, you wouldn't really be in this position if you had accepted my proposal, baby cheeks. In fact, I'm practically drooling over the thought of you saying fuck it and coming to visit with a few surprises beneath that second skin you're rocking." Two sentences, two very different tones of voice, both trying to coax him in. Reprimand and flirt, the only possible courses of action for Wade when it came to them.

"So I guess it's true what they say; chivalry died when you were born, Wade. Every single conversation between us is proof and the world knows it." He grinned as soon as he heard the exaggerated gasps over the landline, always loved these tennis matches with his partner in crime.

Sure, the 'red devil' of Cliffwood often threaded barely subtle, often outlandish innuendos into their interactions and never denied the neighborhood a chance of seeing him draped over Peter, but it was, God forgive him, fun. Exciting and a little thrilling.

And also past their bedtime. So to speak. "I gotta go and I know Wanda likes to cook late. Go help her in the kitchen, Mr Gifted Hands. Vision might give me an A in the next exam if I told him I encouraged you to make his favorite lasagna." It won't happen, obviously. The Maximoffs, because Vision had adopted the name on his second date with Wanda long before their wedding, were usually chaotic neutrals that tried sticking to the right side of the law. Hopefully, Mr Maximoffs' morality would at least allow the man to add a five point bonus on Peter's next physics test.

"Oh, you finally admit my hands are gifted, Mr Parker? How forward of you." If there was one thing that he loved about being friends with the incorrigible Wade Wilson, it was how the man oozed sex like it was nothing. His surety in it, in flirting, in courting and joking made Peter feel at ease. Most people, even those like Mr Rogers with his slightly conservative views, enjoyed Wade's antics because they were harmless.

Most of the time. The guy had slept with two thirds of the town, after all.

"I'm not sleeping with you, Wade. What would Vanessa say of-"

"Please, the woman basically throws me at people in the hopes of watching me sleep with them."

"you being with me before her?"

"..."

Peter squinted at a shiny red nail, worried he'd somehow messed up Morgan's job of decorating him in the Christmas spirit. The lamp next to the couch is a tad dimmer than usual, right, he has to swap the bulbs. He'd completely forgotten in the midst of playing with Morgan and Rocky, baking them brownies, battling the upstairs shower mold, decluttering the toy boxes and throwing something semi appealing for dinner. There was a spare light in the, was it the garage? No, his memory had been reduced to physics laws and the kids' allergies, but Peter's sure he would have noticed. Maybe Morgan had hidden them in the office, Rocky liked chewing on light bulbs so it's not too unlikely

"Shit, Parker, now I'm thinking about that, Jesus. Christ on a bicycle! Hmm? It's nothing, Wanda, just Peter being a brat and a tease."

"Hey, I'm not a brat!"

"Says you. I bet a certain member of the awesome facial hair club could evidence the opposite. Actually, I'll go right over and ask, hey!" The sound of Wade distinctly face planting onto the Maximoffs couch sent Peter into enough hysterics he could barely make out what Wanda was saying.

"I sincerely apologize for the little devil-"

"I'm almost two heads taller than you!"

"that can't seem to mind his manners no matter how many times we try to teach him how to be human."

"It's," God, he's wheezing like a freshman first day of gym with Coulson, "perfectly alright, Miss. I'm the one that should say sorry for keeping him up so late, I know he has chores to do around the house. Lovely Christmas lights, by the way. I think you guys might win the competition again this year."

There's a tiny worm of guilt crawling up his throat; how could he distract Wade when Wanda had her hands full with an energetic baby ready to sprint out of the house at any moment?

"Oh sweet Peter," she drawls out the vowels, like they're honey and she's trying her best to stretch them out, savour them, "you really think so? I thought the yard looked perfect, but Vision insisted on decorating the roof to 'ensure our win against my dear brother in law'. And please, a happy Wade that's finished his teasing for the day is wonderful for us. He cleans faster and doesn't kiss my cheeks as much."

"Wait, you did the roof?" He knew the Maximoff siblings were intense, had witnessed Pietro stabbing flamingos into Clint's lawn just to add some color to his already bright remodeling a weeks ago.

"You haven't seen it? Tell Morguna's father to take you outside to see it while the kids are watching television. That way you can go back with an excuse if you get too nervous with him."

Peter spluttered, ignored the fact his cheeks were flaming, pretended he couldn't hear Wade's howling through the phone. "I don't, I wouldn't, it's not like, I mean. The, the kids will probably sleep early tonight."

"Perfect, you won't have an excuse and he'll finally kiss you. Oh, Vision. Hello, dear, I'm saying goodbye to Peter. That idiot might kiss him tonight."

"Hello? Hello, Peter. I'm very happy for you both; but may I request you kiss after midnight? I'm afraid I made a substantial bet regarding that kiss and was hoping to get Clint back over Banner and Natasha."

Great, he'd died and entered a hell where the only thing he could do was stutter and flush crimson. Typical Parker luck, really.

"SurebyeMrandMrsMaximofflaterWade."

He slammed the phone back on its pedestal, dove into the leather couch and screamed until his throat ached.

--------

"Daddy? Peter, daddy's here! Don't let him go to our room until we're done with the Christmas card, please!" He yanked his head from under the cushions, scrambled to the door, tripped over Morgan's race car, narrowly avoided the destruction of Rocky's Lego chop shop, hastily stashed a pink apron in the drawers by the door, failed to straighten his sweater (a gift from the kids' grandmother) and took all of ten seconds to fix his hair before opening the door. In the exact moment the owner of the house leaned against it to enter.

There's a second where realization kicked in, worry is splashed over both their faces, he darted forward to help so the man's heart didn't shut down on them right then, said man wanted to preserve such a young, healthy body; they tried to control the damage.

They failed. Spectacularly. Crashed into each other, somehow elbows and knees sunk into bad spots, bone snapped, ligaments wept in pain, a chest became winded, one of them got a black eye and the other a constricted throat. This was, of course, before it started raining and two idiots got drenched while piled up on the front door.

Peter gasped, wasn't sure whether it was better to lie under his dream, his wet fantasy, his goal in life or allow his brain some oxygen.

To be fair, this would only happen the once. He could breathe for the rest of his lonely life.

"Uh, welcome home, Mr Stark. How was work to, today, sir, that's not my thigh." Wade would know. Jesus, Wade would find out Mr Stark touched his dick for the first time and it wasn't even on purpose.

"Kid, I'm so sorry. Here I was wondering if I could give you your Christmas gift without ruining the box and now look at me. Peter, you don't have to come back to work if you don't want to-"

"Wait, you got me a gift, Mr Stark?"

"I will pay you for this whole month, obviously." The man shuffled back, attempted to shakily stand up like a foal and immediately slid down onto the sleek young man.

"Not come back to? Mr, ow, Tony, I'm not going anywhere. Not on Christmas, not ever. Look at me." Don't look at what's between my legs, Peter prayed, don't look at how you are between my legs, don't look.

Tony Stark glanced down, inhaled sharply and snapped his gaze to the au pair's. He may have leaned against what he hoped was his Christmas gift. Maybe.

"I'm not leaving, Mr Stark." The rain kept drizzling into the house, his throat continued to ache, the distance between their two bodies remained the same. But there was something in Mr Stark's eyes now, yes indeed, something Peter had resolutely ignored for the past six months while working with the sweetest family he'd ever known. It was the same something Wade yelled about when talking about his best friend's employer's face as it regarded the au pair.

"I think Wade might kill me if -"

"Rhode's is gonna choke me out if-"

"Are you two gonna kiss or not?"

They risked whiplash to peer right at, or, in Peter's position, upside down at Morgan and Rocky who unflinchingly stared at the ridiculous site their fathers made. Rocky even shook his head the way Tony did when he was disappointed. Little Morgan criss crossed her arms and Peter thought he'd sob because that's just how he taught her.

"We were going to put mistletoe on the door when you came in; we finished the holiday card months ago so that was the one thing left on the to do list."

"Months ago? I helped you two make one last week!"

"Oh yeah, how were you going to hang up mistletoe, daughter mine? There's no nail." A soft thwump over the doorway. It seemed Clint had given Morgan her own bow. And she knew how to use it.

They collected their courage, scraps of reduced pride, some drool and a tiny drop of sweat before turning to the man they'd been waiting for for so long.

"Mr Parker, will you do me the honor of bestowing a kiss upon an old man with creaking bones and heating hair?"

Oh. Oh, this was happening.

"I love your hair and I'll get you a walker that has a cup holder for water and a few pain pills. Mr Stark, will you kiss a kid from Queens who's so into you the red devil of Cliffwood himself doesn't dare sleep with either of us and get in the way?"

"Well, first of all. A walker, really, am I that old. Second, nice call on the pain pills, very good save on the hair. And please. He'd never get in the way of us two-"

"Great, are you gonna kiss me?"

"Why, Mr Parker. Don't mind if I do." It was a soft statement he would otherwise confuse as a plea.

"Fucking finally." That was a bit more of a pained gasp instead of a sigh of relief, but Morgan and Rocky were doing enough sighing for the both of them afterwards.

Afterwards though, when the blood is finally distributed to the right places

"Yeah, I think I broke my wrist and you should get that throat checked. I'll get the car."

"Tony, it's the fifties. I can get the car while you call Bucky to look over the kids. Anyone talks to me and they'll think you had something to do with my throat."

"That is a fantastic idea, sweetheart. Save it for later, maybe raincheck?"

"Get the car, Tony."

"Yep. Come on, you rascals. Help an old man out."

----------

Wade can't look at Tony without howling, mutters something about a limp wrist while Vanessa sighs and apologizes, compliments Peter on surviving life with a ridiculous best friend by his side. He says it's ok. Wade's his go to guy for whenever Peter has to get his head in the game and his lips on Tony's.

#Merry christmas darling #gracie dear #👑 #starker #peter parker x tony stark #tony stark #peter x tony #ironspider #i am sleepy #soft!starker #idiots in love #theyre just #vaguely waves #theyre idiots in love ok #im so sorry its not the squirrel fic #ill get right kn that #my writing #*wandavision* #*background ship* #*wade wilson* #*side character*