#(something to be said about how he does drop that assumption halfway through but still. to L he was/will be kira always and forever)

[kiyomitakada]

i was on a "thinking about ryuk" kick earlier and. i get the appeal of saying he's the only one who sees light in his entirety — it makes perfect sense, he's the one who light monologues to about his grand plans, he's the one who light stays with practically 24/7 for five years — but i don't think it's completely true?

ryuk to me has this tendency to assume that light is straightforwardly malicious (see: he thinks light was lying when light says he'll avenge his father if soichiro ever gets killed by kira, he doesn't really get why light wants to do things like reveal his location to L until light explains he wants to eliminate L entirely, he takes the "i wish i had wings" thing seriously as though it's supposed to be part of light's Master Plan instead of a little quirk that light was clearly feeling vulnerable about, he's surprised when light isn't willing to kill sayu in the second arc). like there's real fondness for light in there as well, he congratulates light for getting into college for instance, but i don't really feel like ryuk has ever. understood him fully. he's trying, he gets better at it over time, but he does have a bias.

and i think, also, that this is because ryuk has another tendency to assume that light is just like him.

which makes sense, because light is the one who offers up "i was bored, too" as a genuine point of commonality between them. and then ryuk jumps to "you know, you'd make a really good shinigami!" and "hey light do you want the eyes" and then at the end "we eased each other's boredom for quite a while." he does notice when light is acting weird and tries to adjust his viewpoint (he goes ! when light starts doing his "i've never been so humiliated in my whole life" thing) but given that he only figures out light genuinely cares for his sister when he refuses to sacrifice her, after five years of watching this whole family dynamic, i don't think he ever actually gets there.

which is. sad. it's really goddamn sad. you know you're really fucked when even the demon haunting you can't figure you out

[miswaken]

@sixsixfive asked: 🌙🔮🧪 in character development questions || accepting

🌙 CRESCENT MOON — what would you say is your current biggest dream and/or career aspiration and why?

There tend to be certain assumptions made of an artist's aspirations. Fame. Accolades. Money. Alice has witnessed firsthand what that kind of spotlight does to people, and if she'd craved it before her life with Alan, that certainly would have been enough to curtail her appetite. But that had never really been Alice's goal. She'd be lying if she said she never wanted an audience -- to create is to ask to be seen, even if it's just by one person. She meant what she said in that final, fateful video though.

"All I've ever wanted was for people to see the world like I do. For them to look at my photos and understand, for a moment, my perspective. My vision."

There were so many layers to that final exhibit, the one she never got to see come to fruition. There was the pragmatic angle, the knowledge from her last stint in the Dark Place that her work needed some level of finality for it to bleed through to the other side. If she wanted to take those images with her, they needed to be real. But more than that, some deeply exhausted and wearily triumphant part of Alice needed the world to understand what she'd lived through.

She needed people to believe her at last.

"The Dark Place -- the exhibit, not..." she gestures vaguely to the whole of creation that simmers around her. "I wish I could've been there, just for the opening night. I'll always wonder if it meant as much to people as I hoped it would. But then, if I was there, maybe it wouldn't have had the same impact."

Alice looks at the photos that litter every flat surface of the apartment -- and half the vertical ones, for that matter. Her own personal gallery. "I'd love to make something out of all of this, when everything is over. A Dark Place follow-up. The things I've seen here..." It's hard not to be impressed, sometimes. To not get excited about the unlimited artistic potential of a place that can be anything and everything and nothing all at once. It's as beautiful as it is terrifying. "I want others to see it, too. But somehow I don't think the FBC would take too kindly to that."

🔮 CRYSTAL BALL — what is a core memory from your childhood that you think defines you today?

"I didn't really date much, before Alan. I went on a few one-off dates in college, but before I met him my longest relationship was with this boy I dated for a whole three weeks before senior prom. Eric Powell. Ugh." She makes a scrunch-nosed face of obvious distaste at her juvenile life choices.

"We broke up the day before prom. He kept pushing me to sneak out so we could meet up with his friends the night before and get drunk on the football field -- and probably have sex under the bleachers. He spent days pestering me, and it was playful until he said I was being a lame prude about it. I wasn't scared of the drinking -- the sex thing, maybe -- but the thought of being out there at night, when all the lights were off... I just couldn't do it. A lot of kids already knew about my nyctophobia. It was hard to hide growing up, and rumors always get around. But people didn't always believe me, or they figured it wasn't actually that serious. I thought with him it might be different, so I told him the truth. I held his hand and told him more sincerely than I'd ever told anyone anything about how afraid I was of the dark. And he laughed at me."

It's an eye-roll worthy tale now, but at the time it broke Alice's heart. She can still remember dropping his hand and that pang in her chest when he just kept laughing. C'mon, Alice, you're not five anymore. Just admit you're too much of a princess to come.

"At least I told him not to bother picking me up for prom and made it halfway down the hall before I started crying. I promised myself right then and there that I'd never settle for anyone who made me feel lesser because of my fear. For all Alan's faults, he always took that part of me seriously." Except for that last night, in the cabin -- but then they both made their mistakes.

🧪 TEST TUBE — if you knew you were going to die tomorrow, what is one thing you absolutely have to resolve and/or do before then?

A question that has her eyes casting downward. Alice knows now that she had no other choice. The world had to think she took her own life to ensure the cleanest break from reality possible, and then Alan had to believe it so he could hit rock bottom before coming out the other side. Her preparation had been methodical, almost clinical as she tied up as many loose ends as she could without appearing suspicious. She couldn't risk anyone trying to stop her.

"When I made up my mind, when I knew that I was going to jump, I--" It's hard to talk about. Hard to even think about. Not all of it had been for show. The desperation was so real, so raw. It almost didn't matter if diving back into the lake returned her to the Dark Place. If she was right, then she was putting herself in the best position to help Alan. If she was wrong, then either way the guilt and the torment would finally be over.

"There was so much that I couldn't tell people. People I loved. Love. If I was going to die tomorrow -- really die, not just... stage it -- I'd tell the people I care about the truth. All of it. I'd tell them everything that happened to me in Bright Falls and after, about the hauntings and the years I spent losing my mind over this insane, impossible reality. I'd want them to know the real reason why I did it -- that Alan was here, that I wasn't crazy, I was out of options."

She has to blink back tears and chew the inside of her cheek for a moment to re-gather herself.

"I'd want to tell them that I tried."

[spencersscout]

Candlelit

WORDCOUNT: 2k

WARNINGS: smut, fluff, angst if you squint really hard, pwp, soft dom!reader/sub!spencer, takes place w season 4 spencer, nervousness, references to past sexual conduct, my immortal style outfit descriptions?, some boobie sucking, riding, unprotected sex, creampie, implied fem reader but gendered pronouns aren’t used

 “Doubt thou the stars are fire; Doubt that the sun doth move; Doubt truth to be a liar; But never doubt I love.” - William Shakespeare, Hamlet

***

    February is not, by far, Spencer’s favorite month of the year. It always dredges up horrible memories, ones of looking into Tobias Hankel’s glassy cornflower blue eyes and choking on his own foamy saliva. It’s only been two years since he went into that field, all alone, abandoning protocol and all common sense. It’s only been two years, but even if he doesn’t love February, he does love you. 

It’s your first valentine’s day together and Spencer is determined to make it incredible for you. He cannot afford to fall short, he must sweep you off of your feet and hopefully into his bed. He knows deep down that all he’d have to do is ask but he wants to do this romance thing properly and excite you in a way you probably haven’t been in their relationship. If you’re bothered by his inexperience, you haven’t said so and in fact, you’ve shown him over and over again that you adore teaching him how to cuddle, how to kiss, and how to make love.

You are operating under the assumption that your date is going to be low key. It will be, he knows that sparkling, dazzling restaurants with meals you can’t pronounce or pay for isn’t exactly your style. So Spencer is cooking. And it is a disaster.

Murphy’s Law states that everything that can go wrong will most definitely go wrong. So far, it has. Spencer has charred the alfredo sauce, boiled the water over onto the stove, dropped half of the pasta directly into the sink in an attempt to drain it and lightly burned his wrist for good measure. He chalks it up to his nerves. Spencer isn’t a great chef by any means, but he’s never done this badly before. Not even when you were coming over. But now it’s getting to be too late to fix it and you’re going to be here any minute and he doesn’t have any food to offer you. 

As if on cue, there’s a soft knock at his front door. He stumbles through the kitchen and flings the door open, startling you where you stand on the other side. You look incredibly gorgeous, with a silky red dress draped across your figure, really emphasizing his favorite parts of you and dipping low in the front, exposing your sternum. He takes your hand and kisses the back of it gently, as if this will make up for his shortcomings on today of all days. You smile so big that your eyes crinkle and throw your arms around his neck. He brushes his nose into your shoulder, taking a deep inhale as he takes you into his arms. Your perfume smells like his favorite candle, a mixture of pomegranate and coconut. You break away  from the embrace just enough to squish his cheeks gently between your palms. 

“Hi, handsome,” you mumble, not looking him in the eyes but at his lips and he is happy to oblige you. Kissing you feels like the first time every single time. It makes his heart stammer in his chest and his stomach do backflips and his hands get way sweatier than they should. You press your teeth gently onto his lower lip to indicate that he should open and then you swipe your tongue along the delicate skin. 

You break away and Spencer tries to follow you with his mouth, eyes still closed. He only stops when he hears you laugh, like tinkling bells, sparkling and high and pretty. You rub your thumb across his bottom lip and in response, Spencer melts into a puddle of genius goo in his doorway. 

“You gonna invite me in, Doc?”

“Oh, right, sorry,” he says, without moving an inch. 

Your left eyebrow quirks up and your right one furrows down. “You do realize that you will have to move so I can come in, yes?” 

Spencer swallows thickly and side steps so you can brush past him in a flurry of red silk, dark eyelashes and soft perfume. You slide your cardigan-is that his?-down off of your shoulders, revealing the soft skin of your back and shoulders to him. He knows there’s nothing so intimate about skin, but something about the slightly uneven bow you’ve tied to hold the dress up and the memories he has of looking at and touching you is a little much for him. 

You turn your head and catch his eye. He sees something devilish, glinting and dancing, just out of reach, and before he can say anything at all, you’re tugging on his tie and dragging him closer to you. He chose his nicest one for the occasion, burgundy, over a crisp, dark brown shirt and a cream colored vest. Penelope had helped him pick the combination out and he’s feeling a little nervous about it now, especially because it’s paired with his just-a-little-too-big khakis. He’s taller than you, even with your heels, so his neck is bent at a slightly awkward angle but he doesn’t really mind at all because your lips are brushing past his and your index finger is hooked firmly into his belt loop. 

“What do you say we skip dinner for now?” You purr, almost touching the corner of his mouth with yours. He gives an emphatic nod yes and you run your thumb over his belly before tugging by the belt loop to get him impossibly closer before running your other hand down his chest. With the tightness in his slacks increasing steadily, he latches his hands onto your waist and he kisses you again, this time even more feverishly than before. 

You gasp against his mouth as he digs his fingertips into the soft flesh of your hips, and he relishes in the sound. It’s his favorite one, soft and breathy and unmistakable and this time it’s Spencer who’s running his tongue along your lips to ask you to open without using his words. You do and he momentarily loses track of your hands until he finds them again, loosening his tie around his neck. You break away then, just to pant, “As gorgeous as you look right now, this has to come off.” 

The heat in Spencer’s belly climbs up to his chest and he knows he’s flushed pink all over from the compliment. It still leaves him entirely shell-shocked to hear that you find him just as attractive as he finds you, so his brain completely pauses every time. He starts back up when you start back to his bedroom, intertwining your fingers with his to guide him with you. 

“Wait, wait, just wait out here for just a second,” he says, as he starts to speed walk backwards. You look just a bit confused but you do as he tells you, probably more out of curiosity than anything else. Usually you’re so completely in charge of your jello-kneed boyfriend that he doesn’t even have the brain left to formulate an order. 

He only leaves you in the dark for a moment before he pokes his head out of the bedroom and beckons you in. Inside, he’s lit as many candles as he was comfortable with (four) and scattered rose petals across the floor. He gave you flowers earlier today already but there’s another bouquet on his bedside table. You jut out your lower lip just a little and give him those puppy eyes just before you all but tackle him to the bed. His back thumps against his bed just hard enough to wind him a little and your mouth is on his before he can catch his breath again. 

He lets out a whine that is higher pitched than he’d care to admit as your core grinds against the crotch of his pants. Your dress has ridden up your thighs and he can see just a peek of your panties, lacy and white and sheer and he’s trying to reach up to untie the dress so he can fully see but you pin his hands down. 

“You first, Doc.” He’s fumbling to undo his buttons-why are there so many buttons?- and somehow even though you’re both tugging at his clothes, they aren’t coming off nearly fast enough. And you’re getting a little impatient so you reach up to untie the back of your own dress and tug the front down to expose your breasts. He abandons his own clothing, vest off, shirt half unbuttoned and pants halfway down in favor of taking one of your breasts into his mouth and sucking at your nipple just to hear the sounds you make. He takes the other one in his palm to knead at the soft skin and rests his other hand on the small of your back to pull you as close as physically possible. 

You pull away just enough to tug your dress the rest of the way off and he whimpers at the sight of you, naked except for panties clearly damp with arousal, your nipples flushed. You rest your palm on his exposed chest, digging your nails into his skin just hard enough to sting but not hard enough to hurt. 

“I-I, I need you. Now. Please?” Spencer breathes and even though he normally would take his time warming you up, getting you stretched, he knows he can’t handle it right now. It’s too good and it’ll be over before you get to the main event. You tug your panties to one side and tug his waistband down to allow his cock, aching and drooling, to peek out. It hits his stomach with a light thwick but he doesn’t even have time to acknowledge it before you’re sinking down on him, hissing at the stretch.

Spencer pulls you in for another kiss, this one sloppy and breathy as you both gasp against each other’s mouths. You roll your hips and he hangs onto you for dear life, groaning so loudly that he feels sorry for his neighbors. It won’t be long. He’s close. 

“I’m close, please-” Spencer chokes out. 

“I am too, baby, it’s okay, come on,” you groan as you steady yourself even more firmly against his chest. The sounds your bodies are making together are obscene, skin slapping and sliding together. 

“I don’t, I’m gonna, we didn’t-” Spencer is trying to tell you that it’s now and he can’t stop it from happening but he’s not wearing a condom but the words keep getting lost from him, his voice thick and heavy. 

“It’s okay, I’m on the pill just,” you grab his hand, guiding him to your panties. He knows what you want, so he pulls them even farther, probably stretching them so bad you won’t be able to wear them again, and clumsily thumbs at your clit in that not quite circular motion you like. He feels your orgasm first, pulsing and fluttering around him but then he can’t pay attention to you anymore because he’s spilling over inside of you and stopping you from moving so he can hold you as tightly as he possibly can. He lets his head fall back with his eyes closed for just a moment and you take the opportunity to slide off of his now spent cock and curl into his side, placing a gentle hand on his cheek and stroking it with your thumb. 

“I love you,” he mumbles, eyes still closed.

“I love you too.”

“I burned dinner.”

“I know. Do you wanna call in some pizza while I pee?”

“Yeah, sure.” He opens his eyes to look at you, pupils blown, mouth swollen and makeup smeared, and he never ever wants to let you go. You seem to see it in his face, so you kiss his knuckles and say, “I’ll be right back. Then I’m all yours.” 

***

“We loved with a love that was more than love.” - Edgar Allen Poe, Annabel Lee

[nightingaelic]

Fallout 4 companions react to meeting Arcade Gannon?

Ever the curious neighbor, as soon as the sole survivor spotted the blonde, bespectacled man at the bar in the Dugout Inn, they drifted over and struck up a conversation. A drink or two later, the two were swapping tales about wasteland encounters, pointing at various holes in their travel clothes and pairing them up with fantastic backstories. When the sole survivor's companion finally swung open the door, they were given an inviting wave.

"Sit down!" the sole survivor encouraged them. "First round's on me. I'd like you to meet Arcade."

Cait: "Hiya handsome." Cait winked at the man in the lab coat and leaned on the bar. "I'm Cait. Never seen you around before. Where is it you're comin' from?"

"I, uh..." Arcade adjusted his glasses and ran a hand through his wavy hair. "West of here. Nowhere in particular."

"A free spirit, then? Just passin' through?" Cait looked him up and down. "Think the Science! Center might be lookin' for a new egghead, if those clothes aren't just for show."

Arcade tugged on his outfit self-consciously. "I thought it might keep Commonwealth raiders from shooting me on sight, if they thought I was a doctor."

Cait bobbed her head in a noncommittal way. "Or they might see you as an easy target. That is, if they don't spot that plasma pistol you've got in your back pocket."

Codsworth: "Hello to you, sir!" Codsworth exclaimed, bobbing excitedly. "Codsworth, at your service. Might I say, it is a fine occasion to meet someone nowadays who appreciates the importance of good hygience and care for one's appearance."

"Thank you," Arcade said, with a somewhat quizzical glance at the sole survivor. "And you belong to..."

"Well, I belong to him just as much as he belongs to me," the sole survivor jumped in to explain.

Codsworth waved them off. "Not to worry, the conventional assumptions are not unwarranted. I am happy to accompany and assist in wasteland adventures as necessary. When not necessary, I typically clean the house."

Curie: "Monsieur Arcade," Curie purred, with the special enthusiasm she reserved for introductions. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance. You can call me Curie. Have you been in Diamond City long?"

"Not long at all," Arcade replied, clearly intrigued by Curie's accent. “Parlez-vous français?"

"Oui, Monsieur!" Curie exclaimed. "Le français est si rare de nos jours. Où avez-vous appris?"

"Oh, um... des... des livres, principalement," Arcade stammered. "Books. It's not as good as my Latin, I'm sorry."

"Latin?" Curie switched gears instantly. "Etiam magis rara."

Arcade laughed. "Well, not where I'm from. Who are you? Linguists are practically unicorns, nowadays."

Curie sighed. "It is a long story. Perhaps we wait until Vadim brings the drinks, and we can compare notes?"

Danse: "Ad victoriam, Arcade." Paladin Danse shook the newcomer's hand with gusto. "Paladin Danse, with the Brotherhood of Steel."

Arcade's eyes narrowed. "Brotherhood of Steel?"

"That's correct, citizen," Danse replied proudly.

"Uh-huh." Arcade looked back to the sole survivor. "I had no idea they were in the area. Are you stationed in Diamond City?"

"Brotherhood operations are a strictly classified matter," Danse answered, furrowing his brow. "But our main base of operations is at the Boston airport, where the Prydwen is docked. You can't miss it."

"Well, that explains it." Arcade examined his drink, avoiding eye contact with the Paladin. "I didn't come in from the north. I'm sure it's a sight to see."

Deacon: "Nice to meet you." Deacon declined the handshake, instead crossing his arms and cocking his head to the side. "Nice tan. Been on the road long?"

"Too long," Arcade replied, retracting his hand and returning the calculated look.

Deacon grinned. "Alright, I won't pry. Welcome to Diamond City. Did Vadim try to poison you yet?"

"You watch it, John Doe!" Vadim shot back from halfway down the bar. "Or I call the guards, see if you actually do work the midnight shift, ya?"

"You can walk down to Danny's sign-up sheet for shifts and check yourself!" Deacon's grin grew wider. "And I'll tend bar. We'll see who can do a better job of it."

Dogmeat: Dogmeat approached the man's open hand, which he gave a good sniff. Soap, hot dust, a whiff of plasma cartridges: Nothing out of the ordinary. Satisfied, the dog opened his mouth to pant, tongue lolling, and accepted the scratch behind the ears.

Hancock: "Arcade, huh?" Hancock gave the man a winning smile and took one of the open stools. "I'm Hancock. First time in Diamond City? You're gonna love it here. Vadim and his brother really know how to knock you on the floor."

As if to demonstrate, Vadim delivered three shots of Bobrov's Best to the little group. "On the house," he offered. "Celebrating Mayor Hancock's newest business deal with yours truly."

Hancock threw his back, and when Arcade hesitated, he threw that shot back too. "Next one, buddy."

"Did he say Mayor Hancock?" Arcade asked. "Mayor of Diamond City?"

"Nah, nah." Hancock laughed. "God, wouldn't that be a riot. Ever hear of a town called Goodneighbor?"

MacCready: "Arcade." MacCready shook the man's hand warily. "Like the pre-war places that have a whole bunch of games inside them?"

"Actually, like the..." Arcade made a face. "You know what, never mind. Like the pre-war arcades, yeah."

"Oh, man." MacCready grinned. "There was this one I found once in the Capital Wasteland, mostly broken down of course, but it had one working machine in it. The Red Menace Whac-a-Commie. Someone took the whackers ages ago, but the little Red Menace guys still popped up and down. Duncan- my son- loved it."

Arcade chuckled. "Yeah, they're... they're fun. I found a Hoop Shot once, but the basketballs were all dried-up and flat."

"Gotta get yourself a Pip-Boy," MacCready replied, nudging the sole survivor's shoulder affectionately. "This one has a collection of mini-games for theirs. Atomic Command, Grognak & the Ruby Ruins, Pipfall... all the greats. Oh, I'm MacCready, by the way."

Valentine: "Nick Valentine. Pleased to meet you." Nick shook the man's extended hand with practiced warmth, giving him time to realize the metal grasp he offered was not a cybernetic, and the scar around his jawline was actually just where his synthetic skin ended.

True to form, the stranger's eyebrows shot up, his grip slackened and his mouth dropped open. "You're a... what are you?"

Nick gave him the standard line. "I'm a detective. But, if you're referring to the plastic and platinum bits, I'm also a synthetic man. All the parts, minus a few red blood cells."

"Whoa." Instead of the typical scramble to put some distance between the two of them, Nick was surprised to find Arcade's handshake tighten again at this explanation. "I've heard of people like you, but never thought I'd actually meet one. Er, well, one that was obviously living as a synth. Though I guess you don't have much of a choice, huh?"

Piper: "Arcade? Piper Wright." The reporter shook the newcomer's hand firmly. "So, what's your story? What brings you to the Great Green Jewel of the Commonwealth?"

"I uh..." Arcade looked flustered, despite Piper's encouraging smile.

The sole survivor came to his defense. "Leave him be, Piper, he just got into town," they scolded playfully.

"What?" Piper asked innocently. "Can't the town reporter ask questions around here without everyone telling me I'm being too nosy?"

"No."

"Town reporter?" Arcade perked up. "Is that your newspaper, on the way in? Public... something?"

"Publick Occurrences," Piper answered with pride. "Covering anything and everything worth hearing about that happens in the Commonwealth."

Preston: "Welcome to Diamond City, Arcade." Preston shook the man's hand warmly. "I'm Preston Garvey with the Commonwealth Minutemen."

"Minutemen?" Arcade asked, clearly unfamiliar with the term.

"We're citizen soldiers," Preston explained. "The people of the Commonwealth banding together to protect ourselves and decide our own future."

"So sort of like a free state?" Arcade straightened up. "Or do you have some kind of command structure?"

"Command structure." Preston chuckled and glanced at the sole survivor. "You're looking at it."

Strong: "Strong need to get moving," the super mutant replied, rubbing his big hands together. "Milk of human kindness not here."

Arcade took the mutant in with the air of someone who had dealt with somewhat-friendly specimens before. "I can ask the bartender if they have brahmin milk."

The sole survivor waved him off. "No, that's not what he-"

"Puny humans do not have milk!" Strong cut in.

"Wait, milk of human kindness?" Arcade looked confused. "Is that... Macbeth?"

The sole survivor sighed. "It's a long story."

X6-88: "Good afternoon." Rather than sit down, X6-88 adopted a protective stance of the sole survivor, completely ignoring the hand Arcade was offering. "I hope you know that if harm comes to this individual, your life will come to a swift end."

"Uh-huh." Arcade retracted his hand. "Bodyguard?"

"Of a sort."

Arcade turned to the sole survivor instead. "Is he always this much of a stick in the mud?"

They shrugged. "He's protective and slow to trust. Give him a bit and keep your hands where he can see them, you'll be fine."

X6-88 nodded. "Affirmative."

BONUS!

Ada: "Hello sir." Ada nodded her head in greeting. "I am Ada. I hope you are enjoying your stay in Diamond City. Did you experience any trouble getting to the stadium?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary," Arcade replied. "Sorry, you're an amalgamation I haven't seen before. Sentry bot and protectron parts for sure, but your head is..."

"An assaultron," Ada filled in helpfully. "I take it your region does not have many of these bots?"

"No, they seem to be more of an East Coast thing."

"Just don't get on her bad side," the sole survivor joked. "You don't want to be on the receiving end of an assaultron laser."

Gage: "Well hi there!" Porter shook Arcade's hand forcefully. "Porter Gage. Talked you into trying some of this swill, did they? Brave soul."

"It's not so bad," Arcade replied with a smirk.

"Oh sure, if you're lucky enough to have Scarlett bring it to you." Porter winked at the waitress, who paused in her service to flip him the bird.

"Mmm, not my type," Arcade admitted.

"Not your ty-" Porter blurted before putting two and two together. "Oh, gotcha. Well, there's always Hawthorne."

The raider waved to the adventurer in the corner, who waved back. Arcade sank as deeply into his stool as he could and blushed.

Longfellow: "Mmm." Old Longfellow rejected Arcade's handshake and took the offered seat, swinging around to face the bar. "Storm's comin' soon. Can smell it."

"Then it's a good thing we're inside," Arcade replied, his tone unsure.

Longfellow grunted his agreement and accepted the drink Vadim slid to him, downing it quickly.

The sole survivor scowled at him. "Guess he's not in a talkative mood today."

Maxson: "Elder Arthur Maxson of the East Coast Chapter of the Brotherhood of Steel." Maxson shook Arcade's hand confidently.

Arcade, on the other hand, looked like he was being violently pulled between an instinct to flee and an intense curiosity. Curiosity won out. "Maxson? Of the line of Captain Roger Maxson?"

"High Elder Roger Maxson," the Elder corrected him. "You know of him?"

"Well sure, everybody on the West Co-" Arcade stopped himself. "Never mind. What's an Elder doing in a dive like this?"

Maxson studied him intently, clearly sizing him up. "Shore leave," he finally answered, sliding into the offered seat.

Desdemona: Desdemona smiled coolly. "I know."

The answer took Arcade aback, but the sole survivor just rolled their eyes. "Dispense with the power plays for once, Dez. We're just trying to have a drink."

The Railroad leader raised an eyebrow, but she sat down. "Suit yourself. When did you arrive in town, Mr. Gannon?"

"Oh, for the love of..."

Arcade eyed her suspiciously. "I don't remember telling you my full name."

Desdemona lit up a cigarette. "You didn't. But I'm by far the friendliest person in the Commonwealth who's wondering why a Follower of the Apocalypse is all the way out here, across the continent."

[robininthelabyrinth]

Spilled Pearls

- Chapter 2 - ao3 -

Lan Qiren did some research on the rules about obeying one’s elders even when they made stupid arbitrary decisions that they didn’t explain – his brother had only said that Lan Qiren was not to spend time alone with Wen Ruohan and that Wen Ruohan was a petty person, but had indicated nothing else to explain the reason for the rule, though perhaps Lan Qiren was missing some unspoken assumption again – but sadly his research proved inconclusive on the matter. He was forced to conclude that it was better to err in favor of obedience.

Still, he felt resentful that he obeyed Don’t disrespect your elders while his brother seemed to feel free to ignore Don’t disrespect your juniors. That was the way of things, of course, and of course given the age difference between them – he was a child, his brother an adult, with nearly a ten year gap between them – the exhortation was magnified. Lan Qiren should be obedient and respectful, filial, and yet he couldn’t quite manage not to feel upset about the disparity, even though he knew he should accept the rules with equanimity and grace.

That wasn’t exactly a rule, or at least it wasn’t a written rule, but Lan Qiren had heard it often enough that he understood it to be an unspoken rule. He wasn’t that good at obeying those, even when he tried.

And of course, there were some written rules he had trouble with, too…

“Hello there.”

Lan Qiren looked up from where he was contemplating the prescribed punishment for breaking Do not be picky with food and whether it was preferable to forcing himself to consume the overcooked mushy greens currently sitting in his bowl.

“Sect Leader Wen,” he said blankly, then remembered Do not sit when an elder stands and attempted to scramble into a standing position, only to remember Do not stand incorrectly and inexpertly tried to force himself into the proper form when he was already halfway up.

Wen Ruohan caught him by both shoulders before he could fall over his own feet and helped straighten him out. “You’re a little clumsy, aren’t you?” he said with a strange smile, and Lan Qiren automatically bowed his head in acknowledgement of his error. “It’s not a physical thing, though; you’re quite graceful. Just too caught in your own head, is it?”

That was exactly it.

Lan Qiren smiled thankfully up at Wen Ruohan, who seemed a little surprised for some reason, but who released his shoulders and allowed Lan Qiren to salute properly. He didn’t stop the bow the way one of the other sect leaders might – Lao Nie, for instance, barely let anyone complete a full salute without pulling them back up, to the point that Lan Qiren sometimes wondered if he would prefer to do away with the gesture entirely – but by the time Lan Qiren had straightened up, he had a thoughtful expression.

“Is there something I can help you with?” Lan Qiren inquired. There was a rule against speaking during mealtimes, but it was one of the lesser rules. The rules of hospitality took precedence, and the Lan sect was hosting this particular night-hunt, even if the small town they were all staying in wasn’t the Cloud Recesses itself.

He was prepared to be sent away on some task – looking forward to it, even, since it meant he wouldn’t have to eat the mush – but instead Wen Ruohan shook his head.

“I could use some company,” he said, and flicked his sleeve, sitting down in the seat across from Lan Qiren. Vacant, of course, since Lan Qiren had settled himself into one of the more distant corners of the inn in an attempt to avoid his brother’s notice, and of course he was also by far the youngest person on this night-hunt, making for very unappealing company to everyone else. “Sit and finish your dinner.”

Lan Qiren sank back down a little reluctantly. The greens remained as unappetizing as before.

Wen Ruohan noticed the direction of his gaze, and the untouched dinner. “Practicing inedia?”

“I’m too young,” Lan Qiren said, which was true. Inedia at his age could stunt his growth.

“Not to your taste, then?”

Lan Qiren shook his head, but reached out and picked up his chopsticks anyway.

“If you don’t like it, why not ask for something else?” Wen Ruohan asked.

“Do not be picky with food,” Lan Qiren recited, glum, and put a bite into his mouth. It was revolting, sticky and glue-like, and he gagged, wanting to spit it out. That would be even more rude, though, so he forced himself to chew and then eventually to swallow.

It took all of his attention to do, and he was almost surprised when he opened his eyes – he’d closed them at some point, probably in order to help summon the willpower required to perform the task – and saw Wen Ruohan staring straight at him, his expression unfathomable.

“Your eyes are red,” he said.

Lan Qiren stared at him. “No? They’re light brown. Yours are red.”

Wen Ruohan’s lips curved up a little. “I didn’t mean the iris,” he clarified. “The sclera. Your eyes filled with tears, aggravating the blood flowing through them, and as a result the rims of your eyes became reddened.”

“Oh,” Lan Qiren said. He wasn’t entirely sure what to do with that observation, or if he was supposed to respond in some way. Apologize, maybe? But it was a physiological reaction…

Maybe Sect Leader Wen was just a little strange, he decided. But he obviously couldn’t comment on that, given that his brother was always saying that he, too, was more than a little strange –

His brother.

“Oh, no,” Lan Qiren said, chewing on his lip in anxiety, and Sect Leader Wen looked at him in silent question. “I should go.”

“Go? Why?”

Do not tell lies. “My brother said I shouldn’t spend time alone with you.”

Wen Ruohan laughed.

Lan Qiren stared at him, off balance. That wasn’t normally how people responded to him being rude, and he wasn’t stupid – he knew it was rude of him to say that. Rude of his brother to order it, really, but ruder of him to actually say it, even if he wasn’t supposed to lie. He’d never quite worked out where the one rule ended and the other one began; it was a recurring issue.

“Qingheng-jun is wise in identifying the issue and its solution,” Wen Ruohan remarked, seeming unruffled. “But rather foolish in his ham-handed attempts to implement that solution.”

Lan Qiren didn’t understand.

“You don’t need to be concerned, little Lan,” Wen Ruohan said, and he was smiling at him. “Sharing a meal with me won’t mean that you’re disobeying your brother. After all, we’re not really alone, are we?”

Lan Qiren’s eyes flickered around them, and he had to admit that that was true. While the corner he’d chosen was moderately secluded, it was still part of the main dining room, not even hidden by a screen or anything – he could directly see where his brother was sitting around a table with Lao Nie and Jin Guangshan and some of the others, playing some sort of game, and presumably, if his brother wished, he could look at him in return.

“Sect Leader Wen is correct,” he concluded. “The prohibition was against spending time alone with you. We are not alone, and therefore the prohibition does not apply. Forgive my rudeness.”

“Think nothing of it,” Wen Ruohan said, looking pleased. “Such an interesting child you are.”

Lan Qiren looked at him suspiciously, since he didn’t think that was true.

“Shouldn’t you be with the other sect leaders?” he asked, dropping his gaze to his chopsticks. He had taken one bite, but that wasn’t eating; he would need to take another. But it was so awfully mushy…

“I prefer games of strategy to games of chance,” Wen Ruohan said. “Meet my eyes.”

Lan Qiren looked at him.

“Very good,” Wen Ruohan said, and Lan Qiren shifted uncomfortably at the praise. “You don’t hear that often, do you?”

Lan Qiren bristled. “I excel at my studies, and at music. My teachers have never had any cause for complaint.”

“With your devotion to following rules, I would imagine they wouldn’t. Music, hmm? Music and philosophy, I’d wager. Is that how you managed to cultivate such a bright golden core?”

Lan Qiren resisted the urge to put his hand over his belly. His core had only very recently formed, at just the appropriate age – nothing like his prodigy brother who had reached core formation before the age of ten – and he was painfully aware that he was likely never to reach anywhere near his brother’s potential, particularly given the differences in their capacity for swordsmanship.

He’d never heard that his core was unusually bright before, though.

“You won’t be able to remain so untainted by worldly affairs for long, little Lan,” Wen Ruohan said. “Not as a son of a Great Sect.”

“I’m going to be a traveling musician when I’m older,” Lan Qiren told him. “People won’t need to know that I’m from a Great Sect then.”

Another chuckle, and Wen Ruohan reached out and tapped Lan Qiren’s forehead ribbon right in the center of his forehead, ignoring how Lan Qiren recoiled, eyes wide. “People will always know, little Lan, as long as you have this.”

“Fine, then let people know,” Lan Qiren said, trying to maintain his dignity. “What does it matter, as long as I can help them?”

Wen Ruohan’s smile widened. “Help people? You can’t even help yourself. Or are the bruises on your wrist from a door you bumped into?”

Bruises?

Lan Qiren looked down at his wrists, pulling back his sleeves, and, yes, one wrist was still red from where his brother had tugged him along in his wake earlier, the flesh hot and a little swollen when he pressed his fingers against it. He watched, a little fascinated, as the white imprints of his fingerprints faded back into the red, and then remembered he was among company and pulled his sleeve over his wrist again.

“It’s only swollen,” he said, remembering to meet Wen Ruohan’s eyes as he looked up. “Not bruised.”

Not yet, anyway.

Wen Ruohan’s gaze felt heavy again. It was intent and almost penetrating, uncomfortable and weighted, almost as if he could change the air pressure around Lan Qiren simply with his eyes.

“Didn’t you notice it earlier?” he asked.

Lan Qiren shook his head. “The doctor says I have reduced long-term awareness of pain,” he admitted. “Bruises, cuts…once the initial pain has passed, I adjust to it and forget about it.”

“Interesting. And yet, judging from how you sought to protect yourself from the fall earlier, you still fear pain.”

Lan Qiren grimaced. “It’s only in the long term that I don’t notice it. In the short term, my sensitivity to discomfort is heightened.”

“I see. That explains why you cry when you have to eat food you don’t like.”

“I didn’t cry,” Lan Qiren insisted. He was still looking into Wen Ruohan’s eyes – maybe because Wen Ruohan was looking so deeply into his own, his gaze fixed and unblinking, but it didn’t feel quite as unpleasant as it sometimes did with other people. Just intense. “I don’t cry over things like that anymore.”

It was just a physiological reaction to gagging, he wanted to say, but for some reason didn’t. The words felt sticky in his throat, like syrup – even his thoughts seemed a little slow, as if they had to wade through the mud before actually forming. It was almost a little calming, really; normally his thoughts felt like they were whizzing by too fast to catch, like streaks of lightning caught in his skull.

“It hurt when your brother grabbed you like that, didn’t it,” Wen Ruohan said. His voice was deep, and his eyes were very red. “More than it would hurt other people. It hurt a lot.”

Lan Qiren nodded.  

“You didn’t like that. It made you feel angry. Resentful.”

It did.

“Maybe you should do something about it. How about that? Maybe he wouldn’t do it again if only you showed him how much you don’t like it when he treats you that way.”

That had never worked before…

“You just didn’t try hard enough before. You didn’t get his attention. Why don’t you go show him now? He’s sitting right there with all the other sect leaders. Just go and push him down to the floor when he’s not expecting it. That’ll show him.”

Lan Qiren frowned. “Fighting without permission is forbidden, Sect Leader Wen.”

Wen Ruohan straightened his back suddenly – he’d started leaning forward at some point, bringing their faces closer together; Lan Qiren hadn’t noticed given their steady eye contact. “What?”

“Fighting without permission is forbidden,” Lan Qiren explained, rubbing at his eyes, which suddenly felt overly dry. He’d somehow forgotten to blink for a while. “It’s one of the rules. Plus there’s also Do not sow discord and No improper behavior, which are also really important rules. So even if I want to talk to him, it wouldn’t be appropriate to do it in front of others, would it?”

He shook his head and picked up his chopsticks – he’d put them down at some point without noticing.

“Thank you for your advice and guidance, Sect Leader Wen,” he added, trying to be polite even if he wasn’t being very sincere. He’d tried time and time again to express himself to his brother without success; he’d long ago given it up. “I appreciate your consideration.”

“And I was actually trying that time,” Wen Ruohan remarked, seemingly inexplicably and apropos of nothing, and then for no reason that Lan Qiren could determine, he started chuckling. “You have a very interesting mind, little Lan. Very interesting indeed...and more willpower than one would expect, given your age and position. Perhaps it’s eating all that food you dislike that does it, or maybe it really is those ridiculous rules.”

Lan Qiren frowned at him. The rules weren’t ridiculous. They were important! How else was he supposed to know how to deal with people - how was anyone supposed to know how to deal with people - without the rules to serve as guidance?

He was about to say so, too, when a waiter abruptly came to their table and put down a dish of freshly grilled yams. Lan Qiren hadn’t even realized they had yams available at this inn, or even a proper charcoal grill to use to cook them; it hadn’t been offered, and no other table had them – if he’d known, he would have asked for them much earlier.

“Consider it a gift,” Wen Ruohan said with a faint smirk, waiving the waiter away. He must have ordered the dish at some point when Lan Qiren wasn’t paying attention. “Something you might find a little more palatable than those greens.”

“Thank you, Sect Leader Wen!” This time, Lan Qiren was wholly sincere, and even enthusiastic.

Especially because, since it was a gift, he didn’t have to restrain himself in terms of scarfing down the food. The yams were delicious.

“Such enthusiasm,” Wen Ruohan remarked, clearly amused, but Lan Qiren didn’t object; he was enthusiastic. “I’ll leave you to your meal, little Lan. I wouldn’t want to get you into trouble with your elder brother.”

Lan Qiren nodded, distracted by the food; it was by far better than anything he’d had in the past few days. “I don’t know why he said I had to stay away from you,” he said, meaning it as an apology.

“Oh, I think it’s probably based on one of your rules,” Wen Ruohan said, standing up. He had that strange smile again. “Isn’t there one that goes ‘stay away from bad men’?”

He left before Lan Qiren could correct him – it was do not associate with evil.

[baepsaetan]

Christmas (Baby Please Come Home) - Jungkook

Summary: You miss him so much, but it seems like getting to spend time with Jungkook is going to take a Christmas miracle.

Ao3 Link: here 

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader, side Namgi

Length: 17.6k

Rating: Mature

Genre: Angst, fluff, hurt/comfort

Warnings: Suspicions of cheating, misunderstandings, panic attack, suggestive content, swearing

A/N: Oooof I am finally done my Secret Santa fic for @thebtswritersclub​ and only - *checks calendar* - too late. So sorry this is so late @jjeongukkie​! It got so much longer than I had planned, and while I had a lot of fun writing it, I did not plan it quite well enough to finish in a timely fashion. Still, I hope you’re able to enjoy a last blast of Christmas vibes and fluff and angst as you slide into 2021! Thank you for your patience, and I hope you have an awesome new year! 

I always appreciate all likes, reblogs and comments! If you enjoy reading this, send me an ask! Happy belated New Year to everyone! 

---

“You’re not coming home now?”

Even as you say it, you’re vaguely surprised you manage to get the words out. Your lips are numb with shock and disappointment, and Jungkook’s wince on the screen of your phone just makes the feeling even more jarring. More painful.

“I’m sorry,” he says, half pleading and half desperate. “It’s just, this project is so important, and we need to have it ready for rollout…”

Throat tight, the fingers of your free hand pushing into your thigh, you adjust the phone with your other before saying thickly, “You said it would be a few hours in the morning, Jungkook. It’s – it’s Christmas."

"I know, I know, I just..."

He’s still speaking, quick and anxious words about necessity and pressure, and while you’re listening, you’re thinking about the cute lingerie sitting next to you on the bed. You'd been planning a little gift for him when he got home, and when he'd surprised you with a Facetime request, you'd pulled them out of the drawer, thinking it might be a fun little tease to give him a flash of the red and black set. Now, though...

"Hey, Y/N, I'm sorry. Really." Biting at his lip, Jungkook somehow manages to look a bit pitiful, even with the dress shirt he's wearing, ironed to sharp definition. The collar of the black shirt is open, sans a tie – he’d mentioned this morning no one cared about perfect business attire while working over Christmas – and the bare curve of his collarbone just adds to the disjointed clash of his clean outfit compared to his dejected expression.

The look has your throat closing even more, and you try to force a smile. You're well aware of how stressful the new position has been for your long time boyfriend, seen the casualties of the job; late night arrivals at the apartment, distracted eyes while making and eating dinner, forehead creased with frustration every time his phone vibrates, fatigue that throws him into sleep before you and he have really even had any time to talk together. He's also been hitting the gym almost religiously lately, another outlet for stress, and while you love Jungkook's enthusiasm for staying active, two sessions a day, every day, is excessive for him. It also eats into what little opportunity is left for you two to spend time with each other.

But he's doing his best. You know that. You're sure of it. And he promised it would get better, soon.

Soon. So, you swallow the disappointment, and the thing that’s more dangerous, simmering below it and too perilously close to anger. You hitch on a smile, and hope it doesn't look quite as forced as it feels. "I get it, Kookie. I'm just sorry you have to work for so long. Will you be back in time for dinner?"

He hesitates, teeth still sawing into his lower lip as he jiggles his head indecisively and the camera frame shifts a bit. "I'm not sure but – probably?" Your expression must sink just as much as your stomach does, despite your best efforts, because Jungkook immediately grimaces, his hands making desperate little waves of abortive denial. "I mean, I will. For sure. I'll be home, okay?"

When he flashes a thumbs up, deliberately and extravagantly enthusiastic, you can't help but smile, just a tentative lift of your lips. "Just – I love you, Kookie. I hope we get to spend some of Christmas together."

"We will! Promise." Both hands are up now, clenched into eager fists under his chin, and he really couldn't look more earnest if he tried.

The smile comes a bit easier now, and you nod, feeling some of that enthusiasm reaching through the screen. "Okay." Taking a deep breath, you try to redirect the conversation, too painfully aware that sulking isn't going to help at all. "Have you eaten lunch yet? Don't miss it just for your stupid boss!"

His grin is a small, toothy thing. "Nah, I haven't. I –"

"Jungkook!"

"I was saving room for when I got home!"

"Hah! You think there's going to be food on the table for you?" This bickering is so much easier than anything else that you might say, and you fall into it with something like relief.

His eyebrows fall, nose scrunching dramatically. "On the table? Y/N, that's so unsanitary."

"So unsanitary...?"

At your puzzled look, the grossed out expression whirls away, replaced with a smirk that's so abruptly suggestive that you find your breath catching. The way his voice drops, becoming a low hum, just concentrates the effect. "I was saving room for you, of course. But I'm not gonna eat you out on the table, baby."

You huff in scornful incredulity, but it can't take back the fact that you almost choked a second ago. It also doesn't really hide the way your cheeks have heated up into a patchy red, and besides, Jungkook knows you too well. If anything, his smirk just gets even sharper, and he adds playfully, "Unless you have it on your wish list. Then I might consider it."

Fucking around with Jungkook on any surface is absolutely on your wish list, but you're too proud and currently too annoyed to tell him that. "With my luck, it would break trying to hold up your inflated ego."

"My inflated muscles, you mean," he says, and flexes. Which is just so obnoxious, and also the long sleeve hides his arms too well to be truly impressive.

"Do that again when you get home," you order imperiously, and immediately he bows his head.

"You got it, boss," he agrees, and it's that easy, sudden switch, that flexibility, that's at least part of the reason you love him so much. Jungkook is what you need him to be; he's always been comfortable with that role, and your flighty ass needs him in so many different ways. He's never failed you in that respect. Well – not much. You need him with you right now, after all.

Want, you remind yourself sternly. You want him, that's all.

Abruptly he stiffens, turns slightly. You hear someone speaking off camera, high and strained, and Jungkook replies in a confident voice, talking about something you don't have enough information on to fully understand. They have a short conversation before Jungkook says, "I'll be over in a moment, okay?"

Then he's turning back to you, the by now familiar crease back between his eyes. "I've got to go now, Y/N. I'll get out of here as quickly as I can, okay?"

"Okay. Love you, Kookie. And try to eat something."

He nods, curter now, already turning away from the camera. "See you soon."

And you're left with a call ended screen and no reciprocal "love you". The flicker of warmth that had been blooming in your stomach wilts until there's nothing but a cold tightness left. For a few minutes you scroll aimlessly through your apps and messages, fingers restless for something the phone can't give. There are too many Merry Christmas posts, too many pics of friends and family having a good time together with gifts and food, and it grows the hurt in your gut. You and Jungkook had decided not to travel to any of your families' gatherings, to save some money this year after a big and expensive move, but that had been with the assumption that you would be able to take comfort in each other. Now...

Before too long, you give up, toss the phone aside. It lands next to the lingerie, and for the time being you leave them both alone, suddenly anxious to get away from the remote device and the painful reminder both. Your apartment isn't large, and it only takes you a few steps to leave the bedroom and head to the kitchen. You spend several moments milling around there, but you've already prepped everything for dinner tonight; the only thing left to do is the dishes from this morning's simple breakfast, eaten long after Jungkook had already bolted his and left. You clean them with desultory effort, trying not to remember that you and your boyfriend had planned to make something fancy together. The restless feeling doesn't leave with the dishes done, and you check, doublecheck and triplecheck everything before you're even halfway to feeling like this part of the apartment might not need anything else.

The living room, attached to the kitchen, has been decorated with reckless abandon. You've got at least an ounce of beauty aesthetic in your bones, and so does Jungkook, but for some reason when put together it equals a pound of ugly. The tinsel – red, gold, silver, and green – is flung about the room over pretty much any surface that will support it, along with red and green lights. The Christmas decorations are a hideous mash up of whatever you and Kookie have scrounged together from your families or garage sales or cheap outlet malls, plus a few modest clay additions of your own making. Several of the larger succulents and other plants are bowed morosely under the weight of ambitious ornaments, and the cactus on the windowsill looks positively garish with a star perched jauntily on its crown.

And you love it all so much.

Remembering the absolutely wild hour or so that you and Jungkook spent together decorating the apartment – such a rare and precious moment, since you moved here – makes your eyes start prickling with unbidden tears. Jungkook's staggering workload hadn't been so bad, while you were working; acting as a long distance design consultant for a large collection of homegrown companies tended to keep you busy, and you hadn't noticed his absence in a way that demanded you address it. Now, though, with Christmas an enforced break, since none of your suppliers or other contacts will reply to emails, your loneliness curls itself up in your chest, all barbs and agitation. You’re beginning to suspect that maybe the long absences have hurt you more than you thought.

One of your projects is on the coffee table, the spread of files and print outs of possible designs covering the worn surface. You've always preferred working with physical copies for the initial stages, moving to a tablet for more detailed work. You fling yourself onto the couch, telling yourself you might as well do something productive and hoping it might provide a distraction. That lasts for about half an hour, but it's a constant fight to keep your thoughts on the papers in front of you. The unhappiness is curdling your concentration, and more and more you're aware of a simmering resentment, sharp and insistent under your sadness.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. There'd been so little conflict about moving when Jungkook got the job offer. You were already working remotely, and while the pay increase at Jungkook's new company wasn't that much, it was the promise of what could come that made it nearly impossible to turn down. Saying goodbye to your family hadn't been an issue; you were already living in a different city than them, settled there after university. It had been harder for your boyfriend, but not impossible, and despite both of you leaving friends behind, you'd left with excitement. Hope. The future opening up before you two, together.

With a sigh, you shove the papers away. Leave the living room and take shelter on your bed. Send and reply to some Christmas messages. Make a face at the snap Jin sends you, a little blurry, his flushed cheeks matching the red reindeer antler headband he's wearing. He's holding the gifts you sent several weeks ago, an adorable pair of windup salt and pepper shakers shaped like teddy bears that can walk across the table, along with a few duck-shaped strainers. The caption makes you snort. I'm bearly making it without you, sis. I'm like a duck out of water. The next snap is clearer, of him and his two roommates, Jimin and Hoseok, all making heart signs. Thanks for the gifts! Hope you have a Merry Christmas!

He's in the same city as your parents, and you know he spent yesterday with them. Looks like he's having a great time with his roommates, too. Before the affection can sour, you save the photo and put your phone down again.

Kitchen, living room, bedroom. A discontented circuit you don't know how to break yourself out of. It feels so dumb to be making yourself even more miserable like this. You should phone one of the few friends who aren't with their families, or maybe your parents – hell, you could even phone Jin, he and his roommates would be sure to talk with you for an hour or two. But the thought of admitting you're alone, Jungkook having chosen work over spending the holiday with you, has your shame rising to scalding levels. The mere prospect of hearing and seeing everyone happy while you’re alone is another hurt, one that makes you curl up more tightly on the bed, clutching his pillow to your chest like it could fill up the hollowness settled in your lungs. Just like all of the sheets, it has his scent, light and flowery and soft, and it inspires an aching, cloying feeling that isn't really close enough to comfort, but you hold it tighter anyways.

The day drags on like that, swamps of self-pity drained by bursts of frantic activity. You clean up a bit more, work on a project, watch some TV. And then the rush of drowning loneliness fills up your lungs again and you're reduced to more aimless pining.

By three, with no texts from Jungkook and the need to start cooking soon looming large on the horizon, you send him a message. Hey. Gonna be home soon?

About half an hour later, you add a ? that still gets no immediate reply, and agitated tension has you wondering if you should call him. But what if you interrupt something? Get him in trouble? Worrying the thoughts ragged in your head, you resolve to give it just a little more time. Hell, for all you know, maybe he’s on his way home now.

At around four, your phone starts vibrating. Not a Facetime request, this time, but the name that pops up is welcome all the same. You answer almost breathlessly. "Hey Kookie!"

"Hey Y/N."

Right away you know this isn't the kind of phone call you were hoping for. Jungkook's voice is gravelly and tired, more like a bruise than a sound. Your shoulders slump, and you can't find it in yourself to say anything.

Your boyfriend tentatively breaks the silence a moment later. "Y/N, I'm sorry. Things are spilling over and I'm not going to be able to leave for awhile longer."

"..."

"Y/N? Are you -"

"How much longer?"

You can practically hear the wince. "I'm not sure yet."

"Jungkook..." But once again, the words catch in your throat, trapped by just how ungrateful and immature you feel.

"Look, Y/N, I was thinking. Maybe, if I come home too late, we can move dinner to tomorrow? I'm definitely going to be home all day, so we can have a nice breakfast and dinner and maybe open our presents and..." There's nothing in the quiet between you two. Certainly not your agreement. "I know I messed up and that this isn't fair to you, Y/N, and I'm sorry. Maybe – couldn't we just... reset? Start Christmas for real tomorrow?"

"Reset?" you repeat. "Like – what, like one of your video games?" The swampy depression is bubbling now, surging with the outrage that's been building all day.

"No, that's not -"

"We can't just reset, Jungkook. This isn't a level you get to just do over!"

"I know that, that isn't what I meant, you're -"

"I've been waiting here all day, Jungkook! By myself! Just waiting here for you! Do you get how bad that makes me feel?"

Jungkook sounds choked when he replies, though it's hard to tell if it's from guilt or anger. "I know I've made you wait, and I'm sorry. But the project -"

"I don't care about the fucking project! You should have told them to fuck off when they asked you to work!" You're full on shouting now, eyes stinging with tears, the sound tearing from your throat. "This has been the worst Christmas I've ever had, and you just want me to forget about it?"

His voice doesn't get louder. If anything, it gets quieter, smaller, coiling in on itself into a tight mass. "Do you think I'm having a good time? I've been working since 8:00 on Christmas day! It's not like I asked to come in, and they barely gave me a choice! I'm the junior here, do you think they would have been okay with me shrugging today off?"

"Today? Today?" Your laugh sounds too cruel, even to your own ears. "It hasn't just been today, Jungkook! This is just – more of the same! More ditching me – ditching us – for work. For some stupid reason I thought that you might consider Christmas an important enough day to knock it off for just one fucking second. But I guess not."

"I'm doing this for us! For – I told you how much work it was going to be! I thought you'd be okay with it!"

"And I thought there might be a tiny little exception made for Christmas. I guess we were both wrong!" you spit furiously.

There's a pause, heavy with the sound of both of your staggered breathing. You're too angry to regret what you've said – or at least, to acknowledge how much you regret it – and the bewildered hurt is travelling straight to your head, leaving you dazed and disconnected. Could Jungkook really have thought you were okay with what's been happening? Okay with being left alone for what feels like months now? How can you be listening to his tense exhales and still not understand the person on the other end of this call?

"I'm sorry, Y/N." Too polite, too gentle by far. Where the hell did he get off sounding like that? You know that's Jungkook – that he's far more likely to shutdown during an argument, to close off – but it leaves you clashing against air. No opposing force to clamp down on your own anger.

Heaving in a sharp exhale, shaking your head even though he can't see it, you say, "Do what you want, Jungkook. I'm not making the dinner if you're not leaving right now."

"Y/N..."

"Merry Christmas." You hang up.

It feels horrible. The phone is a dead weight in your hand, the anger an even heavier weight in your heart. You make a fractured noise, a frustrated scream that quickly trails into a barely checked sob. If you felt bad before talking to Jungkook, it's nothing compared to the mix of self-recriminations and resentment assaulting you now. He was just - why did he have to - why couldn't he -

Why did I have to say that to him?

You know Jungkook. How hard working he is, how dedicated, how keenly he wants to do well in front of and for others. He isn't working late because he doesn't want to see you; you're sure of that. It's just an inability to say no to his superiors. And... and you really haven't told him how unhappy you are with how often he's away.

But still. Couldn't he figure it out? Did you need to spell out your misery for him to get it? Is that really what your relationship amounts to?

Another aggravated exhale parts your lips, and you start pacing faster, needing the release. The next few hours stretch in front of you with wretched promise. What do you do now? Just wait by yourself until he gets home? Have to see his ashamed, hurt, averted eyes, the way he would creep into the apartment with a shield set between you and him? And then what? Go to bed with that block between you two, wake up and somehow try to pretend it doesn't exist tomorrow?

The tears flow down your cheeks despite your hands’ furious attempts to press them away and there's no way to stop them once they've begun. You cry, the way people often cry when they’re lonely, like silence is their only companion and they're afraid of scaring even that friend away. Quietly, then, no longer trying to hold the tears back but unable to give voice to the magnitude of your pain, either. The wet, soft sobbing quickly sends you back to bed, where you curl up once again, struggling for some kind of self-control.

God, you just miss him so much. Not today, not now, not – it's a void of the little things. The snicker when you berate him for being messy. His warm, gentle hands on your neck after a day hunched over a project, massaging out the pain. A little giggle as you watch a Ghibli film together. The shoving matches when you're out shopping and competing for who can get the most stuff on the list. The quick kisses and the slow kisses and the deep, hungry kisses that always lead to you waking up in his arms the next day, far later into the morning than usual.

You miss him so much, and you just pushed him away even more.

With a muffled sob you push your face further into the pillow, hating how pitiful this is, how much you're struggling to get your emotions under control. This is so – it's ridiculous, that's what it is. Childish. It's not as if you've lost Jungkook forever, and you haven't lost all of the things you love about him, either. It's not like you never goof off anymore, or cuddle, or talk. It's just – it's just that everything has been so much more frantic, hurried, and stressful since the move. It seems like there's never a moment where you can just sit together and love each other and think of nothing else.

The anger, remorse and dejection feed off each other, first growing and prolonging the wrenching feeling choking your throat, and you cry until time doesn’t mean much anymore. The grief is so horribly thick it’s like you can’t even breathe through it, let alone do anything but lie in bed. It goes on and on and – and then exhaustion overtakes your convulsive crying. Eventually, without ever actually being filled, the hollow ache contracts into a hard pit, the tears all forced out. Nothing else, though. The guilt and resentment and sadness are still there, dulled to a grey, insubstantial mass.

But at least you can think a bit. Listlessly, with all the colours drained out of it, but you can do more than sob. Wiping at your clogged nose and tear-streaked face, you find you can actually breathe, something of an improvement. You sit up, gently set the pillow back on Jungkook's side of the bed, giving the soft material one last swipe, trying to rid it of the wet evidence of your meltdown. No luck there, but it'll probably be dry before your boyfriend gets home.

If he gets home.

The bitterness of that thought is too tired to summon more tears from the hole in your heart or your head. You shake it away, more because you're just too drained to cling to the heavy emotion than because of some angelic impulse to forgive.

You know you have to do something. Anything. Literally anything will be better than just sitting here, waiting for Jungkook to come in, getting pricklier with each passing minute. With the Christmas dinner off the table, you suppose you could just pick up something to eat. Fast-food or something... have it ready for him to heat up when he was done work... like you're some trophy girlfriend.

Once again you need to stop yourself, biting back the wave of resentment. God, this isn't doing you any good, and it's so, so unfair to Jungkook. Yeah, maybe he shouldn't have agreed to work on Christmas. Maybe he should have been more sensitive to how far you've been drifting apart because of his long work hours. But at the same time, yelling at him over the phone wasn't the answer, either. He's probably having as bad of a time as you are, and with no private room to cry in, either. He'll be totally repressing the argument now, shoving it into a locker and subconsciously telling himself he's to blame, that he's a horrible boyfriend. Trying to listen to his coworkers and do his work with those harsh criticisms running low and dark through his head. That's how Jungkook is. He takes everything onto himself, especially if you give it to him.

Running your hands through your hair at the thought, pity clenching your chest, you abruptly get up. You and Jungkook definitely need to talk, and soon. But – but there's no reason to close out this shitty day with an even more horrible evening of strained silence and brittle rebuttals. Neither of you are particularly good at apologizing, even though you're both great at feeling guilty. You just don't have the words for it. So, unless you do something – make some gesture – this is just going to stretch into an awful, prolonged fight that isn't a fight at all, both of you retreating from each other.

It's unbearable. You can't stand it. So… you're going to do something about it.

Resolved, as resolved as you can be, you change out of your PJs. The weather's been quite warm, with no snow to speak of, so it's not like you need to bundle up much. After a moment of hesitation, you choose to snag the ugly Christmas sweater. It's got a comically drawn pink bunny on the front, absurdly muscular, with a red Santa hat settled firmly between its ears, and a myriad of red and green patterns crammed into the background. It was the rabbit's expression and the accompanying phrase that had got Jungkook to laughing until he was doubled over when he'd seen it at the mall last year. A challenging, almost intimidating grin is plastered on the rabbit's face, with the words This Bun Don't Want None in cheerfully bedazzled white underneath. Your boyfriend had quite literally begged to get two and wear them to the upcoming Christmas party, and he'd been too imploring for you to say no.

Slipping it on, with the accompanying memory of his hysterical amusement, crinkled nose, and bunny grin every time he caught a glimpse of you at the party, is the closest you've felt to peace in the last few hours.

You throw on some dark jeans and apply your makeup with a thoroughness that's a little much, given that you're not going anywhere for long. You don't care; it feels good to dim the red-rimmed eyes and splotchy cheeks your breakdown has gifted you, to cover it over with something prettier. Finishing with the last of the mascara, you grab your transit pass and head out, closing the door behind you with a finality that could almost be a goodbye.

The air outside is cool, a relief compared to the stuffy apartment, at least for now. You inhale deeply, the mild cold burning your sinuses and clearing your clogged head a bit. In a while, you might regret not having a warmer layer on, but for now it’s a relief to begin to walk, to stretch both your legs and your mind from the cramped defensiveness the apartment had been inspiring. This is – this is a good idea. You’re positive about it now, and can feel your shoulders loosening, steps becoming brisker.

If Jungkook can’t come to you – well, you’ll just go to him. At least for now.

Your building isn't too far from Jungkook's work; you only have a short train ride and a shorter bus ahead of you, according to your phone. You’ve been to his work three times before, but always in your shared car, and you walk with eyes fixed on your screen, calculating the time schedules. Part of you wants to text him, send a little olive branch to smooth the way and let him know you’re coming, but a larger part longs for something romantic and cute to happen today. Fast-food might not quite cut it, but surely a surprise visit might? You won’t stay long, won’t interrupt his work, but just to see his face, confused and then quietly grateful and loudly gleeful when he realizes why you’ve come –

It seems like that shouldn’t be too much to ask.

The trip flies by; you're too anxious in your own head to notice much outside of it, and besides, there aren't many people out and about today. Probably busy celebrating with their families.

You bite your lip at the thought, and violently yank your attention away.

At this rate, you should sign up for a game of Olympic tag. Surely nothing can run as agilely as you've been doing, avoiding every uncomfortable idea.

Jungkook's work is downtown, and there are tons of fast-food options nearby. You pick a smaller chain, KTown Fried Chicken, that both you and Jungkook enjoy. It's hard to convince yourself the cashier isn't judging you at least a little bit for your weird presence on Christmas night. Or maybe she's just eyeing the sweater. That’s another possibility.

With only one other person in line, the food comes quickly, and then you're on your way. Somewhere between stepping off the bus and smiling awkwardly at the girl behind the counter, it occurred to you that you didn't know when Jungkook was actually leaving work. He obviously didn't pack up right away after your argument – he would have made it home before you left – but that doesn't mean he isn't going to be heading home some time soon.

What if you show up and he's not there? What if he shows up and you're not there? What would he think? It is entirely too much to ask your wrung out brain to decide if it would be hilarious, infuriating, or some kind of karmic justice, but you do know that you'd rather just catch him at work with this peace offering. Much simpler that way, so you hurry your steps, snugging your sweater a little tighter around your frame as you do so.

You make it to the imposing office building of Projeck at around six, which is, as it happens, when two of Jungkook’s coworkers are leaving the building. Jungkook talks about them quite a bit – actually, gushes might be a better word – and you’d met them at the office Christmas party a couple of weeks ago. Namjoon, a tall, elegant man with blonde hair currently dressed in a black turtleneck, is one of the lead game designers, and he holds the door open for Yoongi, an audio engineer. The older of the two, in an oversized, comfy hoodie markedly at odds with his companion’s attire, slouches through with a tired smile of thanks.

Both had made a good impression on you at the party (it helped that they were obviously fond of Jungkook and appreciative of his talents) and you’re a little relieved to see them. Solved the awkwardness of trying to get into the building without letting Jungkook know you were here. Both pause at the sight of you, confusion creasing their features, before a grin flashes across Namjoon’s face.

“Hey, Y/N! Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas,” offers Yoongi as well, shoving his hands into the pockets of the hoodie he’s wearing. His eyes are on your chest, a little furrow across his brow, and it takes you a second to realize it’s the bunny again. After a moment his lips quirk, quiet amusement in the expression, and it makes it easier for you to reply brightly.

“Hey Namjoon, Yoongi. Merry Christmas! Are you heading home?” The prospect makes you a little excited. If they’re leaving, surely Jungkook won’t be far behind?

“Yup,” Namjoon agrees easily. His head tilts a little, scouring over you quizzically, before his gaze finds the bag in your hand. “Are you bringing something for Kookie?”

“Yeah… He, uh, was working so late I thought it might be nice to surprise him with some food.” You say it more like a confession, shoulders tight with the knowledge that this is making you sound way better than you actually are.

Namjoon whistles, eyes widening. “Wow, that’s really nice of you.”

“I mean, I haven’t done much today so –”

“He’s not here.” Yoongi states it so bluntly that it takes you a second to process what he said.

“…not here?” you ask, dismayed.

“Nah.” As your stunned eyes fall on him, giving him your full attention, he shrugs uncomfortably. “I’m sorry. He left like… twenty minutes ago?”

“He did?” Namjoon demands, and Yoongi just shrugs again.

Clutching at the paper bag that suddenly feels pathetic and cheap, a stupid idea, you say weakly, “Oh.” You don’t know what else to say, and both of the men’s expressions are soft with a sympathy that doesn’t make you feel any less stupid. “I guess… I’ll go home, then.”

Shifting again, a movement that has him brushing briefly against Namjoon, Yoongi trails a hand up to his ear. “Uh, I don’t think he was going home? Or at least, not right away?”

"What do you mean?" Maybe he'd mentioned he was stopping to pick up dinner, too? Maybe the fast-food you're lugging around is even more useless than you'd thought? Why hadn't you texted him? Why hadn't you -

"He was asking me about the fastest way to get to, uh, the Golden Closet Gallery. I think he was dropping by there first."

"Did - did he say why?"

"Meeting someone? Maybe? I dunno, he's been quiet almost all day, and he rushed away pretty quick."

You stare at him, tired and confused and more than a little guilty at the mention of Jungkook’s withdrawn state. What are you supposed to make of all this? You know about the Golden Closet Gallery – of course you do. You and he went a couple times, early on after your move here, both of you taking a lot of enjoyment from the art displays. But – it couldn't be open now, could it? And even if it were, why would he be going? Who could he possibly be meeting? Was he trying to take a late tour to calm down? Something else entirely? And – it didn't even matter. It wasn't as though you could reach him in a timely manner.

You were just going to have to go back home, and – you weren’t sure. Certainly not eat. The thought of trying to swallow any food right now, with your stomach tearing itself into pieces of shivering disappointment, is too much. Maybe Jungkook would already be at the apartment by the time you got there. Maybe you two could just – sit together. Just be together.

You’re not sure what’s sadder; how much happiness that simple picture gives you, or how sad you are that it makes you happy.

Trying to straighten your crumpled expression, you smile. "Well – thank you for letting me know. Guess I get all of this for myself." Your laugh as you heft the fast-food bag is a small and lost thing. "Sorry to keep you guys. I hope you have a good night!"

You've just begun to turn away, aching to end the conversation before you start bawling in front of these two men, when Namjoon clears his throat, his gaze shifting to Yoongi for a moment. The other man jerks a shoulder, bobs his head, and Namjoon looks back at you. You shuffle a little, desperate to be away but not wanting to be rude to two of the few people at this company who actually seem to be lessening Jungkook's stress.

"Did you take the bus to get here? We could give you a ride if you wanted."

Your throat tightens, and you're already shaking your head before you've even thoroughly processed the offer. "No, thanks, I don't want to take you out of your way."

"Well, if you wanted to drop by the Gallery and see if Kookie is there, it wouldn't be out of our way at all. We live pretty close by." Yoongi nods in agreement, his round face scrunching reassuringly with something that's not – quite – a smile.

When you waver, Namjoon says with studied nonchalance, "Even if he's not there, Yoongi and I don't have any plans for tonight. We don't mind dropping you off."

Still, the thought of inconveniencing them because of your stupid planning – not to mention that you don't know them that well – makes awkward turmoil roil in your stomach. Reading your reluctant expression and apparently hesitant to press you, Namjoon relents. “Well, if you’re sure…”

“Y/N. Come on. We’ll save you a lot of time, and I’m sure Jungkookie would be mad if we didn’t give you the ride. He already throws stuff at me when he thinks I’m not looking; I don’t want him to start chucking shit that actually hurts.” Yoongi’s eyebrow is lifted, an inviting gesture accompanied by a smile with just a hint of gums, and you can’t help but respond, a rueful chuckle that slips out at the picture his comment puts in your head.

Jungkook had mentioned there were a few people he liked to mess around with at work, but somehow it hadn’t crossed your mind that the quiet and slightly intimidating man would be one of his targets.

It decides you.

With a sharp dip of your head, you assent. "Okay, okay. Yeah, sure, and thank you guys. It means a lot to me, and, umm, if you need gas money or something..."

Namjoon throws back his head and utters a loud, barking laugh while Yoongi chuckles. "The company doesn't pay us enough, sure, but I think we can afford to cover this trip, Y/N. Besides, Jungkook's been working overtime so often, I feel like we practically owe you for stealing him so much."

That leaves a sour taste in your mouth that you're quick to swallow. Grinning weakly, you follow the two to their car, a compact grey Honda that's seen better days. Namjoon tries to insist you take shotgun next to Yoongi, but you're far too flustered at the thought of taking his spot and practically dive into the backseat. The first few minutes are a little strained, the fast-food bag on your lap rustling every time you move. Namjoon shuffles through a bunch of Christmas songs on his phone and Yoongi hums to them under his breath, seemingly unperturbed every time his companion switches mid-note.

Eventually, though, Namjoon finds a song he likes enough to leave on, and you find yourself drawn into a relaxed talk with them. Yoongi throws in a comment here and there, and together the two of them are so – easy. They add teasing remarks about each other without pausing for breath, Yoongi praises an arching plotline Namjoon had finished storyboarding today, and when a particularly loud Christmas jangle comes on, Namjoon's already changing it before Yoongi has time to huff in displeasure. You know they're roommates – more than that Jungkook hasn't said – and there's something uplifting about listening to their comfortable conversation.

They don't leave you out of it, either. You talk about your home city. You talk about how you met Jungkook in university, when you both arrived late to a morning Intro to Computer Animation course and were locked out of the classroom as a result. (You'd whispered furiously at each other about who should knock first until another hectic student had come charging up, bleary with sleep, and literally ran into the door when it failed to open. That had pretty much dissolved the tension between you two.) On a wave of laughter from that story, you tentatively ask how the job has been for Jungkook so far.

He's always so keen to hide his stress, so anxious not to talk about it and burden you. It seems like these two coworkers might be a good way to get a better picture, rather than the stitched together portrait you've gotten from the late nights and short, hesitant answers he gives you. At the thought, you pull out your phone to see if he’s sent you anything, but you have no texts.

The laughter dwindles, and you hear Yoongi rattling the spit in his mouth loudly enough to be heard over the music as he makes a lane change. In the other seat, Namjoon runs a hand through his blonde hair. Their silence immediately winds you up, and your hand, holding the phone, falls to the side. Had Jungkook not been telling you something? Was it worse than the late hours? Was –

"This isn't a great company," Yoongi states flatly, when it becomes obvious Namjoon is still groping for something more tactful to say. "They make you feel like you owe them your finger bones just because they pay a bit above average, and if those aren't showing from hitting the keyboards enough, you're some kind of failure."

"Yeah..." Namjoon sighs. "They tried that with me, but Yoongi's been there for several years, he's the best they've got in the audio department, and he made it clear that if I left, he would too. So they pulled back a little. Jungkook, though..."

"He doesn't say no. I've told him to – told him I'll throw in for him – but he's really afraid he's gonna get tossed. Can't blame him. People get fired too easily at Projeck." His voice is disinterested, but Yoongi makes another lane change, too abruptly this time, and that, plus his tight grip on the steering wheel, is a hint that he’s not quite as untouched as he sounds.

You press your back into the seat, trying to give yourself a semblance of a spine as your whole body threatens to fold. You'd had an inkling that Jungkook was maybe conceding too easily to upper management, but it sounds like he's having way more than a little pressure to work late put on him. This – actually this sounds toxic. Crippling. And Jungkook hadn't said anything about it.

And you barely asked.

Gnawing on your cheek, you lapse into silence, struggling for something to say.

Namjoon looks back, brows pulling together at whatever he sees on your face. "He's trying to get ahead of his workload, Y/N," he says gently. "I know after today he doesn't plan on going in until after New Years. He said he really wants to spend time with you."

"He was literally moping all over the office today," Yoongi adds. "Was surprised he didn't break his computer screen, he was sighing on it so much."

They're trying to make you feel better, reassure you that Jungkook had missed you and hated being separated on today of all days. They are accomplishing the exact opposite of what they intend, but that's not their fault. After all, they don't know what you'd said to Jungkook over the phone. Part of you wonders if they'd even have been willing to give you a ride if they did know. You're pretty sure you wouldn't have been if you were them.

You might also have tried to run yourself over on the way out of the parking lot, if you were them.

Before you can pull anything resembling words from the mire of rabid guilt curdling in your throat, the car pulls into the Gallery's small parking lot. It's almost surprising to find that there are two other vehicles already parked, and with the way the night is going, it's even more surprising that you recognize one of them as Jungkook's.

"He's here!" you cry out, relief and something heavier saturating your voice.

With a pleased exclamation, Namjoon gestures excitedly, smashing his hand into the roof of the car with a loud thud in the process.

"If you fucking dent my car..." Yoongi begins, but their mild bickering slips by you.

Your eyes are straining for some sign of Jungkook. The parking lot is empty of people, and the big sign above the building isn't lit up. However, it looks like there are some lights on in the Gallery, spilling out into the dimly lit lot, and as you fix your anxious gaze on the interior through the wide glass windows, you think you see the dim form of at least one person moving inside.

He’s here. You’re literally lightheaded with the joy of that certainty. This day has stretched out with excruciating discord, but now, everything is drawing tighter, shorter, focusing into a promise of reprieve. Finally, finally, something’s going right. The blissful expectation of getting to see Jungkook is almost enough for you to forget about everything else. For this moment, you think you’d forego everything Christmas – the gifts, the dinner, the decorations, everything – just to press your face against his chest and feel him holding you.

Hand on the door handle, you keep yourself from leaping out and dashing to the building only with difficulty. “Thank you so much for driving me. I almost can’t believe we caught him.”

“It’s Christmas, isn’t it?” Namjoon replies. “Escaping from Projeck before eight was our miracle – looks like this gets to be yours.”

The three of you chuckle at that, and then you’re opening the door. “I’ll let Jungkook know you helped me. Maybe he’ll stop throwing things.”

“And maybe Santa exists,” Yoongi grumbles, but there’s no annoyance in his rasping voice. “’Sides, that’s not what I want from him. Tell him to think about what we’ve said, ‘kay?”

Assuming he means saying no to the boss more, you nod, emotional with how lucky both you and Jungkook are to have run into such kind people. ‘Thank you’ doesn’t really cover the gratitude their thoughtfulness has inspired in you, and on top of everything else you’ve been through today, it’s almost enough to set you to crying again.

Namjoon seems to sense you’re at a loss for words; at any rate, he fills in the space. “If things change for the better in the new year, we’ll see more of you, Y/N. In the meantime, take care! I hope you and Jungkook have a Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year!”

Your voice comes out husky with gratitude. “Thank you. Thank you. I – Hope you both have a Merry Christmas, too! And a Happy New Year!”

Then you’re out of the car, shutting the door carefully behind you, your jaw tight to keep back the ridiculous tears. Yoongi and Namjoon wave, you wave back, and then Yoongi pulls away, leaving you standing and waving in the parking lot until the car turns and is gone. You take a couple of deep breaths, a smile easing the urge to cry. The excitement hasn’t dimmed at all, and, clutching the fast-food bag tightly, you pivot towards the Gallery, little shivers of anticipation darting under your skin.    

You practically run to the doors, and nearly commit the same mistake that student had, years ago, when they don’t open at your touch. The thought of smacking into them and announcing your presence to Jungkook that way has a low laugh bubbling in your throat. Yanking yourself to a halt, you try pulling and pushing on the doors, to no avail; they’re locked. You give them one last jerk, just to be sure, but they remain stubbornly shut. It’s not enough of a deterrent to dampen your spirits, though you find yourself bouncing impatiently on the soles of your feet, unable to get rid of the fizzy energy coursing through your veins.

You’re okay to wait outside until Jungkook comes out – it’s still not that cold out, and how much longer could he really be? – but nonetheless you start heading to the right, circling around the building, peering into the windows on the off-chance you can catch sight of your boyfriend and get his attention. The lights are off in some of the areas, but a few are flooded in a soft glow, and you skim your eyes over all that you can see. The more you look, the more confused you are about why Jungkook would be here. There are no other customers that you can see, so clearly, it’s not some sort of special Christmas showing. You literally can’t think of another reason he might be here. And hadn’t Yoongi said he was meeting someone?

It’s a mystery you can’t solve yourself, and you keep up your roaming examination. Most of the building has glass walls, except for an area near the back, and you can see inside fairly easily, where the lights are on. The Gallery is pretty typical, all open spaces and white, dismantlable walls, the better to more starkly exhibit the art pieces scattered across the wooden floors. There are paintings and sculptures, a few more abstract works, little plaques beside most of them –

But no Jungkook.

Lips pursued, you make your way further around, until you’re on the other side of the building, ears keen for any sound of a door opening. Wouldn’t that just be typical? While you’re wandering around out here, he comes out and leaves…

You should text him. A surprise visit is one thing, but at this point you being outside is going to be surprise enough. With that thought in mind, you begin fumbling in your pockets, awkwardly cradling the fast-food in one hand as you search for your phone. Not in your back jean pockets. A horrified panic starts building, and by the time you’ve clawed all the lint out of your sweater’s pockets, you’re certain. You don’t have it.

A memory, stilted and strained, of your hand falling to your side when you’d been talking about Jungkook’s stress in Yoongi’s car. In your anguish, it suddenly becomes clear to you; you’d dropped it. Forgotten to pick it up again. It was in the car!

For a second, you think that’s going to be the breaking point. The straw on the camel’s back. Your frustration peaks, eyes stinging, hands balled into fists as your excitement is drowned in self-reproach and an overwhelming sense of despair. Why were you so stupid? Fighting with Jungkook, sulking around the apartment, this dumb idea to get fast-food that’s definitely cold by now, and now – now this. You start walking again, barely looking, just planning to get to the front of the building and maybe collapse on the pavement. The crushing unhappiness doesn’t let up. Were you cursed? Was the world out to get you? Had you kicked a puppy in a past life? Why did you end up –

Your raging internal soliloquy is interrupted by movement within the Gallery. Someone is moving inside. Someone tall and muscular, with his black shirt rolled up to the elbows, long, shaggy black hair tucked behind his ears as he lounges against one of the white walls. He’s partially turned; you can only see half of his face, and even that not perfectly because of the narrow angle, but the sharp definition of his jaw is obvious, even from here. There’s something rectangular leaning against the wall next to him, wrapped in brown packaging paper, but you barely notice it. He’s talking to someone equally as tall, their back turned to you, but you barely register them.

Jungkook. It’s Jungkook!

It is not an exaggeration to say that for a second you doubt your eyes. Everything has just been so, so shitty today that you’d almost believe he’s a hologram or a figment of your imagination before buying that your flesh and blood boyfriend is standing some twenty feet away and that all it will take to end this horrible experience will be to catch his attention.

The person he’s talking to must say something funny, because his nose crinkles, lips rising as he tilts his head back and laughs. It’s just a giggle, quickly stifled, but it’s also a needle; the second you see that laugh, your bubble of disbelief pops with a force that’s almost audible. You can’t hear him, but at the same time, you can, fully aware of the way his snicker of amusement started out low and then pitched higher in tandem with his head being thrown back. The sound that isn’t a sound but a memory and a gift and a promise altogether gives rise to something hot and aching in your chest.

“Jungkook,” you say, barely aware of the name slipping between your tingling lips. There’s a rushing sensation in your ears, through your veins, like your blood has just remembered that it’s alive and is eager to prove it. The misery of moments and minutes and hours ago doesn’t disappear, but the sight of your boyfriend is enough to lift you out of it, to buoy you above the churning waves and set you, heart alight, in the clouds.    

“Jungkook!” you call, a shout this time, and start waving. He doesn’t hear or notice you, attention fixed on the man he’s with. You still don’t recognize whoever it is, but then again, with his back to you all you can see is the vibrantly patterned orange shirt stretching over his shoulders and a fluffy bit of brown hair. However, whatever he’s saying has sobered Jungkook; from what you can see of his face, his lips have tightened, and he shakes his head now and again.  

Who the hell is that, anyways? More vigorous gestures still don’t pull Jungkook’s gaze away from the other person. You know that any second now he’s going to look over and see you, break into a silly, bemused grin, rush over to the window, if only you could just– You’re about to tap on the glass when whoever it is abruptly steps closer to Jungkook. From what you can see, the guy’s large hands are moving passionately, persuasively, and a moment later he grabs Jungkook’s wrist, other hand rising up towards his face. You can’t quite tell what’s happening, except that Jungkook doesn’t shake him off or push him away. Doesn’t push him away, even when he leans closer, their faces inches apart, and the way they’re standing, you still don’t know who it is.  

Jungkook doesn’t seem to mind that his personal space is being invaded. There’s an attempt at a scowl on his lips, but you can tell it’s fake, a laugh on the verge of breaking through. You realize your hand is still raised to knock on the window, and let it fall. Brows pulling together, you try to make sense of what you’re seeing. The other man leans in even more, and when their lips are about to touch you wrench your eyes away.

For a long moment you stare at the pavement at your feet, mouth moving silently, like you’re searching for a word that fits what you just saw happen. It couldn’t be what you thought. Any second now, a reasonable explanation is going to come to mind. You’re going to find some frame of reference that makes this understandable. There’s going to be something that changes your point of view, makes reality into fiction. Because this can’t be true. This can’t be happening.

Jungkook could not have just kissed someone else in an empty art gallery while he thought you were waiting for him at home.  

Except that’s exactly what happened. You feel yourself change. You’re not a person anymore, not a human; you’re a wound, red and open and weeping. With a strangled sob, you suddenly find your feet moving to match your reeling thoughts, and you stagger away from the warmly lit building. The disbelief is like novocaine, numbing the screaming pain of the betrayal, but it’s not strong enough to force your gaze back through the window. Back to your boyfriend and whoever he’s with. Who knows what they’re doing now?  

Stopping yourself from crumpling to your knees and curling into a ball takes almost all of your strength, and you can’t keep yourself from doubling over slightly, one hand across your middle as you stumble blindly down the sidewalk and away from the Gallery. You press on your eyes to keep back the tears, cover your mouth to stifle the high, anguished gasps you’re making, but it does little to fool anyone, least of all yourself. Each sob rips from somewhere deep inside you, opens up the injury even further, until it feels like you might very well be tearing your chest apart.

He couldn’t have. He just– he couldn’t have. You can’t reconcile what you saw with what you know, but how can they be two different things? How can your boyfriend – loving, loyal, protective – exist in the same place as that man who hadn’t mentioned he was meeting anyone, who snuck around on Christmas day to see someone else? How can Jungkook be a cheater? How? How?

How could I not have known?

Bewildered, you scrabble through your memories like they’re a pack of spilled cards, struggling to piece them together, to pick them up and put them in order after they’ve fluttered to the ground in a chaos of white and black and red. At first you can’t find a hint. Can’t find a reason. There’s warmth and laughter and closeness in your memories together, with only spots of friction and hurt. What could the memory of you throwing tinsel around Jungkook’s neck and him parading around the living room teach you about this moment? What could the recollection of Jungkook’s arms wrapped around your shaking form when you’d received news of your grandmother’s passing tell you that you should have already known? What could the shadow of his quiet admiration as you showed him your most recent design reveal to your befuddled mind?

Was the staying late the only clue? The only ace card that trumped every other moment together? Or had there been others? Did you confuse his withdrawal from you as stress when it was really guilt? Had the silence been resentment? Boredom? Was he really going to the gym? Or into someone else’s arms? Did you do something wrong? Say something wrong?

Is this your fault?

You don’t know what to do, and as your steps slow, tears still going strong, you realize you barely know where you are. It’s fully dark now, and people are passing infrequently, with the streetlights only vaguely reassuring as they spill over faces. You haven’t taken any side streets, just followed this main road passed gas stations and boutiques, offices and fast-food joints, so you’re not lost, exactly. But you don’t have your phone. How are you supposed to get home?

Home. Suddenly the ache is more real. Present. Demanding. How are you supposed to go home when you thought home was Jungkook?

What do you say to him? What can you say? The thought of facing him has you trembling with something approaching nausea. Or maybe it’s the cold. It’s late enough now that the temperature is dropping, your heaving breath misting from your mouth, and you hadn’t planned to be out so late. The sweater is doing nothing to keep you warm. The sweater…

“Oh, God…” you mumble, your fingers digging into the tacky material, creasing the bunny that had made Jungkook so happy. “What do I do?”

What do I do?

---

With a grunt, Jungkook shoves Taehyung away using a hand against his stomach, the other man’s breath spilling across his face as he huffs in surprise. The push is strong enough to send Taehyung staggering back several paces, and he nearly trips and falls. Even as he catches himself, Jungkook is regretting the violence of the motion. It’s just – he’s feeling so vulnerable right now, so strained, and his friend acting like a clown doesn’t help matters.

Rubbing at his stomach, the other man complains reproachfully, “I was just trying to show you what to do!”

Jungkook sighs, rubbing at his face. “I don’t remember saying I needed help with how to make out,” he points out.

Taehyung throws up his hands. “You’ve missed the point!” he exclaims in disgust. “Didn’t you see the concern in my eyes? The tenderness? Dude, I was stroking your face. That’s how it’s done!”  

He snorts but the irritation is already fading, replaced by the amusement he’d had when Tae first started his shenanigans. Jungkook shakes his head, clearing his hair from his eyes, and relents a little. “Do you really think I should do it like that?” A beat. “Well, I mean, not like that. Better.”

With a grand gesture at their surroundings, Taehyung ignores the insult (or misses it, it’s hard to tell with Tae sometimes) and tells him, “You’re already doing better. You’ve got her a painting from an artist she loves.” He stops, points to himself. “Courtesy of your friendly neighbourhood art dealer, who sacrificed his Christmas night and drove all this way to make sure you got it. Plus, there’s the big news – she’s going to lose her mind when you tell her. Anyways, yeah, Koo, I’m pretty sure she’s gonna forgive you, even if you don’t use my sweet moves.”

“But I still don’t know what to say.” Jungkook hates how whiny his voice sounds, how uncertain. At the same time, it feels… good, to admit how he hasn’t got a clue how to make up with you. Or– That isn’t quite right. He does know, somewhere in his gut, in the palms of his hands, in the way his lips ache to skim along your skin. It’s just turning that feeling into words that’s struck him dumb.

“Dude, say what’s in your heart.” There is no one in the world but Taehyung who could say that earnestly and not sound like a weirdo, yet there the other man is, mouth set solemnly, somehow almost making sense. “You love her, you’re sorry for what’s happened, you want to hear her opinion, you’re working to make it better… Koo, you’ve told me all of that in the last half an hour. Now you just need to say it to her.”

“But what if…” He can’t even put it into words, the fear and uncertainty and guilt. Is he asking too much of you? Does he even deserve to ask anything? And what if… what if…

Reading him like a book, Taehyung smiles, simple and brilliant. “She’s going to forgive you. You’ve already forgiven her, so what else is there? Just the getting it done.” Still Jungkook hesitates, and his childhood friend says, a little more gently, “You’re a good person, Koo. I know that, and she does too. Talk to her. You won’t regret it.”

He hangs his head, slowly running his fingers against each other, exploring their lines like they might lead him to the courage he’s searching for. The call with you this afternoon had – shaken him. Although Jungkook had been aware – painfully so – that the two of you weren’t spending enough time together, he hadn’t realized how much it was harming you, and your anger had been both shocking and hurtful. Work had just sucked, so much, and to have you yelling at him…

But after the initial defensive reaction, he couldn’t get the thought of you sitting alone out of his head. It was never his intention to leave you for the whole day, but when he broached the subject of leaving with the boss, the look he got on his face, the way he said, “Well, of course, since I assume you’re done everything you were assigned,” had just been…

You still shouldn’t have left her. Jungkook knows that, knows equally that he didn’t have all that much of a choice if he didn’t want to get fired. It was the balancing act between those understandings that had his shoulders hunched, his cheek fair game to be chewed on. He was working on changing the situation – Namjoon and Yoongi were helping – but what if you thought it wasn’t fast enough? What if you decided you had enough? How can he bear to face you with that possibility on the horizon?

Taehyung gives him space, just hums under his breath and wanders a little, examining the various pieces on display. The Golden Closet Gallery isn’t one of his usual haunts – he tends to deal with artists further up north – but he’d come at Jungkook’s hesitant request, with an alacrity that still has Jungkook wondering what he’d done to deserve such a friend.  

He’d had his eye on your favourite local artist’s website, and when the painting went on sale, he’d known he had to get it. However, Projeck employees didn’t get paid until the 20th, and by the time he had enough money to comfortably purchase it, the artist wasn’t available on short notice and wouldn’t have been around to give it to him until after New Year’s Eve. Taehyung is well known in the community, though, and the painter had had no qualms letting him deal with establishing the price and then handing the piece over. It was practically a miracle, even if Tae had only been able to slip away from his family on Christmas afternoon.

Eventually, with Taehyung’s deep baritone hum a soothing presence, Jungkook tamps his fear down. Gets it to a manageable level. At the end of the day ��� Taehyung is right. He loves you, more than anything, more than he thought he could love anyone. That’s enough. It has to be enough.

He looks up, clears his throat. “Thanks, TaeTae,” Jungkook says quietly. “I really couldn’t have done this without you.”

His friend beams. “Nah, you couldn’t have. But what else are friends for, right?”

“I’ll get you an early release copy of Urban Anonymous. I think you’ll like it,” he promises. “But in the meantime… I think I’ve got someone to, uh, speak my heart to.” For half a second Jungkook thinks he’s about to die from the sheer cringe of saying that, a blush flooding across his cheeks, but at the same time – it feels kinda good to say. Goofily so, and very embarrassing, but still.

If anything, Taehyung’s beam intensifies. “Then my job here is done! I should hit the road anyways, I wanna get back home. I promised my parents I’d make them something nice for breakfast tomorrow.”

“Sure you don’t wanna stay over?” Glancing out the window, taking in how dark it is, Jungkook feels bad to be sending Taehyung out on the road at this time.

The other man snickers. “And get in the way of a beautiful thing? Nah. Besides, you know I like driving at night, and it’s only a little over three hours. I’ll be fine.”

“If you say so…” Jungkook snags the painting off of the floor, and together they walk through the Gallery, to the doors Taehyung had locked behind them when they entered. He unlocks them now, and they leave the aesthetically pleasing space, spilling out into the chilly night air. As Taehyung locks up, Jungkook glances around, breathing in deeply. Now that he’s resolved himself, he actually feels – a little better. Steadier, as though his world isn’t about to jerk out from underneath his feet.

Their cars are parked together, and once there Taehyung flings himself at Jungkook – scrupulously avoiding hitting into the painting, of course – and they hug, Jungkook staggering under the weight of his friend. The fond affection is a fluffy, sleepy thing, and, with one hand wrapped around Taehyung’s shoulders, Jungkook repeats, “Thank you, TaeTae.” It’s not eloquent, but with Taehyung, it’s enough.

They break apart, and Taehyung is grinning, a wide, boxy affair that has the nostalgia and warmth growing. “I’ve missed you, Koo. I’m glad we got to meet up. Tell Y/N that I miss her too, okay? And that I wish her a Merry Christmas.”

“We’ll have to get together again soon; Y/N will be disappointed she missed you. Although I know she loved your blue hair, so she’ll probably be sad you changed it.” It had even surprised Jungkook a bit when Tae had first ducked out of his car. The blue had just been so… riveting, and compared to that, the darker tone really changes how he looks. Not to mention that Tae went with a curlier style this time around.

Taehyung runs a hand through his fluffy brown locks before shrugging. “I got bored. Besides, I haven’t had brown in, what? Five years? It was a nice change.”

“It’s a good look. Almost as good as mine,” Jungkook teases, and Taehyung laughs in his deep, rolling way. “Okay. Merry Christmas, TaeTae. And have a Happy New Year! Don’t drive into a ditch, but if you do, call me.”

“I’ll get you to drag the car out by yourself,” Taehyung agrees amiably. “You look like you could manage it these days, and it’d save me the cost of the tow-truck.”

He gives Jungkook’s upper arm a cheerful poke, whistles in exaggerated admiration and then dodges Jungkook’s swipe at him. “See you soon, Koo! I’ll send you a text when I get home. Hopefully you’ll be too busy to read it until tomorrow.” And with a wicked little giggle, he gets into his car.

“Bye, Tae! See you! Thank you!” Jungkook waves until the other man has pulled away, blasting an R&B version of Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas, and then he gets into his own car. Being with Tae is like inhaling a warmer version of helium, all uplift and expansion. It suddenly occurs to Jungkook, with a little jolt, that he’s excited to get home.

No matter how scared he is, scared of the future and scared of the conversation ahead, picturing you, thinking of walking into the apartment and seeing your face, is enough to drive a sharp spike of joy through his trepidation. You are the best thing in his life, and even with this fight, even with the hurt still nestled against his ribs, he wouldn’t have drawn it any other way.

It’s as he’s starting the car that he realizes he got a text from Namjoon and didn’t notice. Hey Jungkookie. Can you let Y/N know we have her phone? She left it in the car.

He stares at the words, waiting for the moment when they’ll make sense. When sense is not forthcoming despite scrambling his brains for what it could mean, Jungkook types out a reply, his fingers sweaty with sudden anxiety.  

what car? you saw Y/N today?

…Yeah? We dropped her off at the Gallery. Did she not mention it?

at the gallery?? when?

His heart is in his throat, the unease ricocheting to unprecedented levels, and Jungkook shoves open the car door, begins looking desperately around like you two could have possibly missed each other in the empty lot. When his phone vibrates thirty seconds later, he almost drops it in his haste to unlock it.

Thirty minutes ago. Around there. Is she not there? Is everything okay?

Jungkook rips his eyes from the screen to the empty parking lot and back to the screen, a bewildered trek that gives him no hints, and he doesn’t know the answer.

---

When you finally get back to the apartment, your hurt has become a cramped, flattened pressure at the back of your throat, and every breath scrapes painfully on the way out. It’s taken you close to two hours to get back. The first person you’d asked for directions had given you the wrong bus number, and while you’d realized it eventually, you’d been going the wrong way for a significant period of time.

Usually, you and Jungkook laugh at how bad your sense of direction is, but this is just more humiliation to stoke an already raging fire of shame. Your steps literally drag – you almost trip on your way up the stairs – and your fingers are tingling, almost numb. It’s gotten progressively colder as the night wore on, and by now the icy feeling has sunk deep into your bones, passed the hard exterior until its wrapped around the marrow.

You’d thought about checking into a hotel. You at least hadn’t forgotten or lost your credit card. There was something tempting about postponing the moment when you had to see Jungkook. But at the same time… If you didn’t answer your phone and didn’t come back, he might worry (would he worry?) and worse, he might get other people involved. What if he talked to Namjoon and Yoongi? Or phoned your parents or brother? You can’t stand the thought of having to explain to them what happened without any preparation – without even knowing what happened yourself.

So here you are, facing the door, empty-handed. You’d thrown out the fast-food at the first trashcan you’d come to after deciding to return. Would Jungkook be home by now? Had he finished with – was he done? Or was he still out there, still… You have to say it eventually, you try to tell yourself firmly, but your whole being cringes from making that acknowledgement, from putting it into syllables that might somehow trap it in reality. It’s not something you can manage tonight. You really don’t know what will be worse, him being inside or not, but you can’t just stand outside forever.

Forcing the key to the lock is no harder than flinging yourself off a cliff, and you approach it with the same amount of dry-mouth apprehension. Your hands are shaking so bad it’s hard to get them to align, but when you finally do, the click of the key sliding in is too loud, like its announcing that you’ve slunk back in shame to all of the apartment building inhabitants. A ridiculous notion, but you flinch anyways, heart seizing as your stiff fingers fumble with the little jiggle required to get the door to open. It takes you three attempts, your anxiety growing, and when you finally manage it, you’re so strung out with tension that you don’t hesitate. You just fling the door open and stumble through.

Straight into Jungkook.

For just a second, it feels like the magnetism you learned about in school. For just a second you fall into him like there’s nothing else in the world more natural than falling, and for just a second you press against his chest and feel dizzy with the light, clean scent that surrounds you. For just a second, as he catches your weight and closes his arms around you, calling your name with a voice of choked relief, you let yourself forget.

For just a second.

And then reality floods back in, a tainted torrent of regret and grief, strewn with rage and humiliation that drifts just below the surface. Though you’re so unsteady you can barely see, your lungs blocked and battling to heave in enough air just to keep breathing, you struggle to get away from him.

“Let go of me,” you say, dry and curt, and when his arms only tighten – more, you suspect, to keep you from pitching over than in denial of your demand – your efforts become harsher, more violent. Without room you can’t get any momentum to really push away from him, but your motions are frantic with the desire to do just that. There’s a panicked, screaming need to get away from him, to get enough space, like he’s the reason your lungs are crumpling in on themselves. “Let go, Jungkook!” you cry, your voice spiking up into shrillness, shattering the syllables of his name.

Like he’s been electrified, Jungkook jerks, his arms flying open. Instantly, let loose, you scramble away, down the entrance hallway. Just as off balance as he’d feared, you nearly trip over something long and cumbersome leaning against the wall that you’re too distraught to look at, and you have to windmill to catch your balance. A moment later you slam your shoulder into the corner of the wall as you try to take the turn too sharply. “Y/N, please, stop!” you hear, and wish you hadn’t. Barely registering the sharp throb in your shoulder, you catch yourself and keep going. Seconds later you’re in the bedroom, and you slam the door shut.

It doesn’t have a lock. Putting your back to the door, your air rattling hollowly out of your mouth – too fast, too shallow, but you can’t seem to calm down – you slide down the solid surface. Pulling your knees to your chest, you rest your forehead against them, eyes tightly closed, still gasping. Your eyes are aching, but you can’t cry against the immense pressure of overwhelming panic. There’s just a stinging sensation and a pulsing rigidity in your face, like each and every muscle there has chosen to stage a personal rebellion at the exact same time.

I can’t, I can’t, oh God, please, I can’t do this I can’t look at him I can’t I –

“Y/N?” Jungkook sounds like he’s directly on the other side of the door, but he makes no attempt to open it. “Baby, please, are you okay?”

His voice is so raw with worry that it’s red. The colour blooms across your closed eyelids, swathes of crimson and scarlet, and you imagine that it’s blood, trickling from the wound inside of you. You can barely tell where your back ends and the door begins, like any moment you might slide through it, or maybe through the floor, or through the ground, or maybe you’re already there, floating in nothing, and the red breaks into jagged pieces of black and orange and you still can’t breathe.

“Y/N? Can you talk to me? Just – say something, okay? Just so I know you’re okay.”

You can’t even manage that. Even if you wanted to. Even if he deserved to know. Throat moving convulsively, you choke out a sob but nothing else comes after. Just wheezing breaths, and you think you’re shaking but you’re somewhere outside of your skin so it’s hard to tell.

“Okay, okay. I’m – I’m gonna be here, okay? Right here. If you need me, I’m here.” Even through the hazy distortion swamping you, Jungkook’s clear, resonant voice comes through. Maybe it’s the concern, too heavy to be swept away by the raging panic. Maybe it’s the compassion, too anchored in you to be broken away by the tremendous pressure.

Or maybe you just know Jungkook’s voice so well that even your disassociation can’t make it unfamiliar to you.

“You’re doing good, Y/N. I’m still here. Just on the other side of this door.” A pause, a deep chasm of silence, and then he continues. “I think it’s a panic attack. I know it’s scary, but it’s okay. You’re going to be okay.”  

Later, you will be both annoyed and touched that Jungkook realized you were having a panic attack before you did. You’ve had a few throughout university, but none within the past year or two, and in the moment, you’d been too overwhelmed to identify what’s going on. The insight is helpful though, something to cling to and repeat to yourself. A grounding. It’s a panic attack. You’re going to be okay.  

Jungkook keeps talking, slow and steady. Nothing serious. Just words. You lean on his voice just as hard as you’re leaning on the door, and, slowly but surely, in a stretch of time that doesn’t mean anything to you, the constrictive bands across your chest loosen. You sink back into yourself. The tips of your fingers make sense again.

And you start crying.

“Y/N? How’re you feeling?”

Funny. Now, with your throat something other than a fist and pain, you still struggle to say anything. This is a softer kind of crying, not quite quiet, with little, hiccupping gasps as the tears run down your face. Possible to speak through. You just don’t know what to say to the man who just talked you, with kindness and compassion, through a panic attack. Who cheated on you. Your fingertips might make sense, but nothing else does.

“I – Y/N, baby, I get that you’re upset, but I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me.” So anguished. Why did he have to sound like that? What right did he have?

You don’t know if it’s outrage or bewilderment or grief or pity that has you answering. Is it possible to have all of them in your mouth, gritty across your tongue? At any rate, your tone is as washed out as you feel, fatigued and grey. “I saw, Jungkook,” you whisper to your knees.

There’s silence on the other side of the door. Denial? Guilt? His reply is sluggish, thick with confusion. “You saw what?”

That makes you laugh – or not really, though the tortured sound was supposed to be one. “I was there. At the Golden Closet Gallery.” Will he really keep pretending after he knows you were there? Could he really be that brazen? The Jungkook you know couldn’t. There’s no way he could carry a lie like that, holding it effortlessly in the face of the truth. The Jungkook you know would blush, shuffle, collapse like a house of cards. He’s really not good at lying.

The answer isn’t a lie, but it confuses you all the same. “I know you were. Namjoon texted me to say he’d dropped you off, but – Where did you go? I – I drove around for like an hour trying to find you, and I couldn’t and when I got home you weren’t here…” The stream of words dies out like Jungkook can’t quite find any more to say, or maybe he’s embarrassed to say them.

When your reply isn’t forthcoming, confusion churning up anything you might spit out, he continues, more subdued. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to push you after what you just went through, I just– Are– How are you feeling? Was it – did something happen while you were getting here? Is that what took so long?” Another pause that you can’t fill, that stretches on and on as you try to understand what he’s talking about. How he can apologize for that and not the actual offense.  

Abruptly his voice bursts out. “Why won’t you talk to me!?” Tighter and more uncertain than you’ve heard tonight. Maybe more afraid than you’ve ever heard him.

It rips at your heart, and you realize in a swell of furious sorrow that you can’t stand to hear him sound like that. With a sudden, unstable surge, you get to your feet. Immediately your vision falters a bit, and you stagger, but catch yourself before you fall, clinging to the doorknob. You take a deep breath, fighting away the residual nausea and light-headedness. It clears within a few seconds, and your hand tightens on the knob as you take a deep breath. You can’t just leave him standing out there. You can’t just leave this incomprehensible thing hanging in the frame between your two lives.

You open the door. Slowly. Reluctantly. But you open it.

His long black hair is a wild mess, pushed back from his forehead, strands sticking up here and there. Even as you inch the door open, he runs his hand through it, ruffling it even further. His shirt is wrinkled, only partially tucked in, one sleeve rolled to bare his forearm, the other slipped down almost all the way. With his jaw so tense it’s a wonder he’s not cracking his teeth, Jungkook stares at you, lips set and pale. He doesn’t look like someone who committed a betrayal only hours before; if anything, the anguished panes of his face speak to a betrayal committed against him.

You’re so, so tired. Too tired to grasp at the outrage that wisps at the edge of your consciousness. Sniffling to clear your throat, you wipe at your face, trying make yourself a little less pitiful. “I was at the Gallery, Jungkook. I saw you,” you repeat because it’s still so hard to think of anything to say. When his expression doesn’t change – unless his eyebrows furrow, just a little, in innocent perplexity – you exhale. “I saw you with that guy. I saw you…”

“That guy? Who do you–” Jungkook breaks off, examines you more closely, like you’ve given him something to be concerned about. “Are you talking about Taehyung?”

The name is startling in its sheer unexpectedness. What the hell did Jungkook’s best friend have to do with any of this? “Taehyung? No, I’m not talking about Taehyung. I’m talking about that guy you were with tonight, in the Gallery. The guy you–” The words catch, but only for a second. You push them through with a surge of vehement exasperation for the blank expression he’s wearing. “The guy you kissed!”

In another place, the nonplused spasm across his face would have been hilarious. As it is, it just heightens your frustration, and the way he starts sputtering does absolutely nothing to reduce it. Even when he finally gets himself together and manages to talk, your aggravation is here to stay.

Right next to your mortification, as it happens.

“I didn’t– Y/N, that guy at the Gallery was Tae! Could you not tell it was him? I know he has brown hair now, but…” Jungkook shakes his head, flipping his own hair back. The tension seems to have slipped from his jaw, at least a little, and it might very well have crept into yours. “Is that– Is that what this whole thing has been about? You thought I did something with some random guy?” His lips twitch, and it doesn’t seem like he can decide if he wants to smile or scowl, and you feel the beginning of a flush heating up your face.

“It was Taehyung! And I didn’t kiss him. I mean, he tried to kiss me but it was just to–” Abruptly there’s a wash of faint scarlet crawling up his cheeks – cheeks that are rounder than they were a second ago, as he looks down and away, gaze slipping from you for the first time since you opened the door.

“Just to what?” you demand, the challenge extra belligerent to make up for the belated shock of suspended relief that hangs like smoke over your head. Too intangible for you to catch with your hands right now, though present enough to burn your throat with its sooty possibility.

He’s still looking at the ground, the blush becoming more prominent, and he begins to shift, the rustle of his dress pants loud in the fraught silence. “Um,” Jungkook begins awkwardly, head ticking to the side the way it always does when he regrets saying something or doubts his ability to do something. “It’s just, uh… he was helping me.”

“Helping you.”

Jungkook winces at your deadpan echo. “Yeah. I, um, asked him to…” Hands drumming on his thighs, drawing your attention for a second before you snap back to his flushed face, Jungkook bounces on the balls of his feet. “Uh… This is totally not how I planned this,” he mumbles, before hauling his gaze up to meet your own. “Hold on for a sec, okay? I just want to grab something.” For all that he’s definitely lightened a bit, the request is tinged with urgent appeal, his eyes scouring your face hesitantly like he’s afraid you’re going to retreat back to the room the moment he loses sight of you.

You’re not entirely sure that isn’t going to happen, but there have been so many emotional upheavals today you’ve just about exhausted your ability to feel more defensiveness. The more Jungkook speaks – the longer you’re in his presence – the more the sheer impossibility of what you’d believed is sinking in. He’s just – he’s Jungkook. Such a focal point of light and energy, such a reserve of easily offered comfort in a form so much more substantial than words. Somehow – maybe because of his prolonged absences, maybe because of your staggeringly challenging day – you’d managed to forget just what he is, but it’s in front of you now, demanding to be seen and acknowledged against the backdrop of what you’d thought. What had seemed so possible, even an hour ago, suddenly seems ridiculous when set next to the quiet solidity of him, of everything he is.

Wiping again at eyes that haven’t ceased watering yet, you nod.

He hurries away, down the short hallway and back towards the front entrance. You hear a thump, a muttered curse, a short dragging noise, and then Jungkook rounds the corner, hefting a rectangular object covered in brown paper. When you examine it more closely, you’re pretty sure it’s what you almost fell over when you ran inside. By the time he’s standing in front of you, the unwieldy item put on the ground and balanced against his knee, you’re pretty sure you know what it is by the shape and packaging alone.

And somewhere, in the back of your mind, you’re beginning to make connections. About Taehyung and the art gallery and the thing on the ground in front of you.

Jungkook just speeds up the process. “I was gonna wrap it in something nicer,” he offers apologetically, “but I was… Baby, I was so scared when Namjoon said you should have been at the gallery and I couldn’t find you and you weren’t at home. I thought – hell, I didn’t know what to think. That you got kidnapped or something.” He laughs, that shaky sound of amusement reserved for disasters that are absurd to imagine until they actually happen, and you shift, the heat crowding your face growing.

With a slight roll of his shoulders, he nudges the brown-wrapped object. “Anyways… Tae was helping me get this. For, um, you. Because I thought you might like it.” When you make no move to grab it, his eyebrows knit together. “Y/N? I swear, I didn’t do anything with anyone else. I wouldn’t do anything with–”

“I know.” You cut him off, unable to bear the imploring tone. It’s impossible to meet his beseeching gaze with the burden of your stupidity weighing on you, and you keep your eyes on your fingers. “I know you didn’t. Jungkook, I’m…” The winded feeling is still lingering, a hollowness in your lungs, and you have to inhale deeply just to remind yourself you can. Your anger at being abandoned by Jungkook for work died out so long ago it might as well be a relic, and with the betrayed grief swept so thoroughly out of your stomach, you’re left feeling strangely empty of anything but guilt.

“I’m so sorry. I – God, I’m so stupid. I saw you two and I thought – I assumed…” All of the logic that had founded your incorrect assumption is trickling through your grasping fingers, and you don’t know how to explain in a way that makes sense. In a way that justifies how you’d leapt to conclusions.

“I’m sorry,” you continue unevenly. “I just…”

“It’s okay.” When you keep staring down, Jungkook moves closer, reaches out, tentatively puts his arm around you. Light enough that you could break away if you wanted to. You don’t. You absolutely don’t.

The contact feels like an anchor, pulling you ever closer to reality. Making the trembling relief that much more real. The embarrassment, too. “Really Y/N, it’s – I know today has been…” After a moment he sighs, faint and low, shaking his head. “Today has sucked so bad, and Christmas isn’t supposed to be like this. I get why you thought what you did. After everything that’s been happening, after I’ve – I haven’t been around.”

“That doesn’t make it okay,” is your whispered protest, still unable to look at him. “I should have just talked to you.”

“Yeah. Yeah, that would have saved us both a bit of panic. But Y/N…” He waits, waits longer, until you’re forced to bring your eyes up. Meeting the dark softness of his gaze summons up more guilt, more regret – but also a clear, undeniable relief. Light at the end of a pitch black tunnel. You’re not out of the darkness, but with those sympathetic eyes on you, you have a sense of striving. Like taking a step, and then another, is possible. And might just be worth it.

“Y/N, baby, it’s not all your fault. It’s on me too.” His arms are resting lightly on your shoulders, fingers gently rubbing across the nape of your neck. “I haven’t talked with you enough. Kept just pushing it off, pretending it’s okay.” When he laughs softly, his breath tickles your face. “Not quite okay, hey?”

Your strained giggle isn’t heartfelt, and it fades quickly. “In the car, when Namjoon and Yoongi gave me a ride, they said – It seems like work has really, really sucked. More than I thought it did.” You lean back, just a bit, his arms a steady support against your back, and search his face. He’s biting his cheek, little lines skittering across his forehead. This close, the dark circles under his eyes are more pronounced, his skin sallower than it should be. He looks tired, but he doesn’t look away from you.

“Jungkook,” you say quietly. “How bad is it?”

Something flickers behind his eyes, a shadow of his normal reserve. You can feel the tightness in his body, the slight tremor that suggests he’s about to move away. The protective distance he clings to when he doesn’t want to worry you rears up – and you kill it with your hand, trembling only slightly as you tenderly trace your fingers along his temple, down his cheekbone, to cup the strong lines of his jaw. “Please, Jungkook. Tell me.”

The admission comes, fast and breathless, like he needs to get the words out before his teeth clench over them. “Bad. It’s bad. I hate it there.”

“Oh. I–” This is a different kind of pain from most of what you’ve been feeling today. More selfless, an anguish that extends and expands outward instead of curling up. “I’m so sorry. Kookie, I didn’t know. I should have but–”

“I didn’t tell you. How could you know?”

“I should have,” you insist.

His mouth quirks, a flash of teeth showing in mild amusement. “You can’t expect me to know you’re upset, but you should know when I am? I don’t think it works that way, babe.” When your mouth opens to object, Jungkook pulls you to his chest, cutting off your protest. You sink into his embrace, boneless and aching and grateful for the support, and if the gift’s hard frame weren’t digging into your leg, it would almost be perfect.

Perfect enough.

Pressing your face against his shirt, you feel him kiss the top of your head, arms still wrapped firmly around your shoulders. “I’m glad you’re safe,” he whispers.

“I’m glad you told me about work,” you mumble into his chest, reluctant to draw away. “If I told you to quit today, would you?” You’re not really joking, even though you know what the immediate answer has to be. You don’t have enough savings for one of you to quit without any other prospects lined up.

“Actually…” There’s something restrained in his voice, teetering on the edge of anxiety, or maybe excitement.

Shock has you looking up, resisting the comforting pull of his warmth for a moment. “You did!?”

“Oh, uh, no,” Jungkook says hurriedly, biting at his lower lip. Far from pleasure, the reassurance has disappointment funneling into your heart, funds be damned. To say that Jungkook’s job was the mother of all evils would probably be both unfair and exaggerated, but if it’s making him (and you) as miserable as he says...

“It sounds really bad, Jungkook. Killing yourself trying to please a bunch of jerks isn’t worth it.”

“You’re right.” He’s smiling now, smiling completely, showing off his teeth. “I don’t know if I can keep working for them for much longer, but… Ah, I was so scared to talk about this, and here you are, making it easy!” In his excitement, he’s playing with your hair, hands restless as they dance around. For once, the mystery isn’t extended. “Namjoon wants to break off. Start a new company, one that’s not an absolute dumpster fire to work for. He’s got several other people lined up who are happy to go, and Yoongi, obviously, and he asked me if I would join, too!”

“Is that why they gave me a ride?” Even as you demand it, you can feel yourself picking up on Jungkook’s energy. Not too much – the exhaustion sucking at your bones won’t allow it – but still, the lightness in your chest is a far cry from the sodden despair that’s taken up space there for most of the day.

Your boyfriend jiggles his head back and forth. “I dunno. Maybe. But I think mostly they did it because they’re pretty nice people.” He sounds a bit awed as he continues. “We can’t start for a couple more months – Namjoon said something about getting funding from some rich guy, Bang Sihyuk – but I still can’t believe they want me to come along. I mean, some of the people are, like, the best there are, Y/N.” You can almost see stars shining in his eyes.

Your response is firm, albeit playful. “So, it makes perfect sense that they’re having you join! Kookie, you’re gonna fit in so well, because you’re one of the best, too.” And honestly, you’re not even just shovelling empty praise; Jungkook is a truly talented artist in his medium.

His smile grows, eyes thinning with happiness. “And – you’re okay with it? There aren’t any guarantees that it will work out, with it being a new company.”

The trials of the day – mostly made from your own mind, though no less difficult for all of that – pass through your head. The loneliness and anger and sadness. All of it dimmed if not gone entirely, simply because here you are in his arms, speaking to each other instead of covering your hurt up. “Jungkook, one of the few guarantees I have of anything is that I love you, and you love me. If you’ll be happy working with Namjoon, with moving companies, then that’s all I need to hear.”

With a low hum, Jungkook sweeps you into another hug, and you’re glad to give up what space is between you two. Enfolded in his arms, listening to his steady heartbeat, is about the securest place you can imagine being. “I love you,” he says, voice thick with the truth of what he’s saying.

“I love you, too. Thank you. Thank you so much for everything.”

“I haven’t even given you your presents yet. Here –” And you’re breaking apart again – although not really, because you can still feel the connection as a thin warmth snuggled beneath your ribs – and Jungkook bends down, picks up the item sandwiched between you two. “Feel up to opening it?”

“The mystery gift that almost broke our relationship? Yeah, I’m up to it.”

Nose scrunching, he hands it over, and in your haste to see what’s inside, you make short work of the brown packaging. You can’t honestly say you’re surprised with the first glimpse of the mahogany frame – you expected a painting – but as more of the brown rips away, you feel shivery awe cascading down your spine. Once the painting is completely uncovered, you clutch it with sweaty palms, well aware of how precious a gift you’ve been given. You’d recognize the style anywhere.

“Jungkook,” you breathe, “oh my God, Jungkook, this is one of Ayeong’s, isn’t it? You – you actually got one of her paintings!?”

The quality is unmistakable. It’s a detailed piece, zoomed in on a small, dilapidated house. Almost everything about the house is bleak; the colours are all dull greys, blacks and browns, the porch is crumbling, and the shutters over the windows are chipped and cracked in places. However, right in the center of the house, taking up a good portion of the painting, is a door flung wide open, and the inside is flooded with warm colours and details in stark contrast with the exterior. There are people inside, crowded around the entrance, laughing and vibrant, and they dominate the doorway with their collective presence. One person, the only one who is looking outward, has her hand raised in greeting, as though inviting the viewers in.

“It’s called Homecoming.”

Soft and reverent, the name feels like an echo, a reverberation of your hopes and fears, and against a suddenly blurry vision, you smile. “It’s beautiful! It’s so, so beautiful. Thank you, Jungkook.”

“Do you feel like opening the rest of our presents? Or should we wait until tomorrow? We can grab your phone in the morning, too.”

Your fatigue drags at you, overwhelming even your hunger, but you try to rally, lifting your chin up. “What do you want to do? Do you want to open a present?”

His head tilts as he looks you over, a quick assessment. “I don’t have to. It’ll be nice to look forward to it later.” You’re absolutely positive he’s saying that for your sake, and it makes you just that closer to crying in gratitude for what’s in front of you.

Swallowing hard, you suggest, “How about tomorrow, then? We can…” You pause, scrambling for the memory, and then grin tiredly. “We can reset. Start over tomorrow.”

Jungkook’s laugh washes over you in cozy tides of amusement. “Now there’s a great idea. Whoever thought of it is a genius.”

With a chuckle, you carefully set the painting to the side, planning on figuring out where to put it tomorrow. As soon as it leaves your hands, Jungkook is there again, claiming the free territory. His grip firm and warm, he asks you, “Do you wanna eat? Or maybe nap for a bit?”

Your panic attacks always leave you drained, and the fact that Jungkook remembers is just another fond ache to add to the collection in your chest. “Nap,” you reply gratefully. “But… do you wanna lie down with me? Just for a bit?”

He couldn’t have looked any more solemn, or any more beautiful, if he’d tried. Squeezing your hand, he says, “I’d lie with you forever, if I could get away with it.” A second later the somber façade breaks apart, leaving a blush and a squirming, quietly giggly Jungkook.

With a snort, you pull him along with you, into the bedroom, a tightness across your chest that has everything to do with just how much you love the man next to you. “Now I know you were with Taehyung.” That makes you remember, and as you both walk to the bed, you glance at him, narrowing your eyes. “Are you going to tell me what Taehyung almost kissing you had to do with helping you out?”

As expected, his blush grows, painting his cheeks with a pale pink, but he surprises you by pulling you closer. With a hand under your chin, the other arm wrapped around your waist, he tilts your head up. Meeting your eyes with a tenderness that floods you with reassurance, he brushes a thumb along your lips, leaving a tingling trail. When it comes, his voice is hoarser than before, firmer. “He was trying to teach me something I already know.”

And then his mouth is on yours, steady and certain. Your lips soften against him, and time becomes languid, moving by the count of each breath that flutters against your lips. Jungkook isn’t demanding, not tonight; he kisses you sweetly, gently, conveying everything that he hasn’t managed to put into words. His body has a gravitational pull all its own, drawing you closer, and you skim your hands against his back, relishing the powerful certainty of his shoulders and the intimate confidence of his mouth on yours.

A second later, he sweeps you off your feet, and you gasp in surprise, breaking off the kiss. Jungkook places you on the bed, stands looking down at you with unmasked adoration. You open your arms, a wordless invitation that unwittingly bares the front of your top. His eyes fix on it, and if anything, they soften.

“I like your sweater,” he comments quietly, and as you laugh, he climbs onto the bed with you.

You take off the sweater in question, and your jeans and bra, easy and unhesitant in his presence. He follows suit, and then grabs your pajamas, placed as they always are at the foot of the bed. You wiggle into them, and for his part, Jungkook just throws on a pair of loose pants. The feeling of familiarity sinks into your system like a sigh of contentment, and when he pulls you against his chest, you snuggle into the embrace.

Wrapped in his arms, the smooth warmth of his skin pressed against your cheek, you let the drowsy bliss sweep over your body, and you relax, sinking against the sheets even as you curl closer to him.

Jungkook’s voice ripples against your mind, a soothing undercurrent taking you closer to sleep. “Merry Christmas, baby.”

“Merry Christmas,” you mumble. With one last faltering effort, you say, “Jungkook?”

“Hmm?” You feel the inquiring murmur just as much as you hear it, a smooth hum on your cheek.    

“Thank you for coming home.”

[im-someone-i-guess]

@iambecomeyourvillain @black-like-my-soul @blackasmysoul @ghafa-dale @ghafascortana @sankt-nazyalensky @cressjacquine @jurdan-my-beloved @boredbookwormgirl @same-crazy-art-girl34 @alonlyfangirl   @saltyfortunes @writeforjordelia @confused-as-all-hell @moobrvoobl-moobmoob-oobmpoobroom @apple-bottom-jeansx @fatpotatosaysmoo @herondalesunsetcurve @investmentofmyheart @22herondale

The blood that glinted on Mati was the exact vermillion as Nalya’s kebaya. The blade had never looked deadlier, red staining the curves and a man lying dead at Nalya’s feet. She didn’t know the man’s name, or exactly why Babah wanted him dead but Nalya worked under the assumption that her father had his reasons and that was enough for her.

And one would call her a monster for it, the streets of Darah already do but it wasn’t much to fret about. They were superstitious people saying that death blackens one’s soul, cooled one’s heart but Nalya’s body still emitted heat, proving them otherwise. But Nalya could not say the same for her soul, she expected it to be just as stained as her kebaya.

Suddenly she was conscious of the state she was in, dried blood crusting every inch of her, accompanied with the realization that she was in desperate need for a long bath. As swiftly as she could, Nalya got rid of the body, carrying the corpse down the flights of seemingly endless stairs and burying him near the carcass of a cat. If people were to find the body, they would encounter the cat first.

But they would not stop and would eventually find the body- well bodies.

“Nalya Aafiyati binti Cahaya?”

She had thought the sun would rise from the west sooner than she heard Aryan Khajee bin Gelap ‘s rough voice, see his black curly hair or the gold of his skin. But here he was and perhaps when dawn creeps the sun would not rise from the east any longer.

“Ary?” The nickname slipped out before Nalya could think better of it. She had called him that before, years ago when she wore simple clothes, kerongsangs lacking jewels, her hair worn down in tangled strands. It was a time when blood did not stain her fingers, when Mati was not sheathed underneath her kebaya.

“Nalya, do you happen to be enduring your monthly womanly flowering,” he said it like a fact, casting a pointed gaze at the dried blood crusting the hem of her blouse. “I recalled you telling me of how it so dreadfully hurt. Shall I walk you home so you don’t faint halfway there?”

Babah would not appreciate boys walking her home, especially if she was bloodstained and furthermore if that particular boy was Aryan. He wasn’t a threat, to her or Babah’s business but Nalya supposed if he was someone of major consequence, certainly Babah would have already ordered her to murder Aryan.

“You do not have to walk me home, Encik Aryan.” Nalya hurried through the street, longing for the familiar view of her brick red rooftops. She could feel Aryan still strolling around behind her, his steady footsteps bidding off any curious onlookers. A couple walking near dawn was a more acceptable scene compared to a girl walking alone.

“You aren’t asking me questions, Nalya. Are you not wondering about where I’ve been all these years?” Aryan walked beside her now, his black eyes staring at Nalya with an amusement she did not understand. “I was sent away because of you, you know. Mother insists I cannot fall in love with you.”

And Nalya completely agreed with Puan Farhah, they were becoming an outrageous pair of lovestruck teenagers, reckless and without a care in the world. They had already committed plenty of irresponsible mistakes, almost costing both their parents a hefty amount of irreplaceable goods.

“Well, you’re home.” And she was, they had approached the most dangerous corner of Darah, the richest part of the city. Most of the houses were no longer made of wood but rather with stone, brick, and cement. The lands around them were adorned with beautiful flowers, planted with hired gardeners. They were pretty, but the arrangement was artificial.

Like the smile Nayla put on as she turned to Aryan. “Thank you Aryan. Despite my insistence in telling you otherwise, you still walked me home.” Quickly as she could, she strutted home, holding her kebaya down so no one would see the glint of Mati. There were rumours that the Shitabs were going to ban keris knives, seeing one on a young girl would even encourage that law to happen.

“Fifi?” Mother’s voice sounded ever-so concerned, ever-so unreal.

Nalya climbed her way atop the tangga, her eyes counting each petal she passed, the floral pattern catching her interest as it always has. Despite being located in wealthy Kaya, their houses were still made of wood. Father said it was a reminder to their family that despite their slanted eyes, they were still Yalams, they belonged at Darah.

“Habis tu, have you disposed of him?”

It was foolish to think Babah would start with a good how are you.

“Dah Babah, the mission was successful.” And my soul wears another stain, but Nalya said no such thing. She bowed respectfully to her father and made her way to her room.

The lamp had already been lit, multiple matches, tips blackened were scattered on the floor. It was as if a child successfully lit it only to drop the match from the alarming heat. At least the house wasn’t burnt to the ground, Yaqeen would be getting much more than a light scolding from her elder sister.

“Kakak?”

The people of Darah also insist that a stained soul was incapable of loving and if there was one thing Nalya loved, it was Yaqeen Afiyat bin Cahaya, her dear brother.

The boy was lying atop her bed, cocooned under the covers, nested by pillows. Nalya had always told Yaqeen how he was welcome to come into her room if something troubled him but it was late. He should be asleep, should at least be inside his room.

“Yaqeen, why aren’t you asleep?”

The boy emerged from under the blanket, revealing a bloody nose. His whole face was smeared with the dark red, as if he had hastily wiped it. Nalya’s bed was stained too but the bed sheets could be replaced. Money wasn’t scarce.

“I told Babah but he didn’t open the door.” Nalya knew Yaqeen was going to cry, and saw the furrow of his brows. They only appeared when he was trying to keep a straight face, when he was desperately trying to hold back his tears. “He doesn’t want to talk to me, does he not love me?”

Yaqeen got off the bed, making his way across the room to hug her. Heedless of Nalya’s stained kebaya, his shirt was already soaked with blood. His small figure relaxed and he started crying, his body shaking with each sob.

“I’m sure he does, maybe he was busy.” That wasn’t an excuse, it never was but Yaqeen’s sobs eased and his arms wrapped around her tighter. “You can sleep here okay?”

As Nalya went behind the changing screen, peeling off her bloodstained kebaya in favour of a cotton shirt and a kain batik, thoughts swirled inside her mind. She does as her father tells her to, kill those he orders her too but that was business.

Yaqeen was family and you put family first, you always do.

[thevioletcaptain]

Coals Aglow

11.4k | Explicit | DeanCas 

A years-delayed 13.21 coda, in which Cas uses his grace in ways that it is probably not supposed to be used, and gentle-doms Dean into asking for what he wants.

{i}

It’s been several hours since the rebels split off into groups—half retiring to their sleeping quarters while the others walked with purpose to keep sentry around the camp’s perimeter—and Castiel has made a point to visit every one, speaking with each of them until he understands as much of this place as he possibly can. Just in case.

Castiel supposes that he could have just asked Jack, but despite Sam’s unexpected return he’s been quiet all evening. Almost withdrawn. It makes sense, considering how Sam came to be here and who he’d been forced to bring with him, but it still makes Castiel uneasy. Even after all these years, after his slip-slide into feeling, the emotional discomfort is something he’s not quite accustomed to.

Close to one in the morning, he spots Dean sitting on a log by the remains of a fire at the center of camp, picking idly at the bag of Skittles he’d packed for the trip and referred to as “trail mix” to irritate his brother. Sam is nowhere to be seen now. Dean appears to be doing little more than quietly passing the time.

After what happened this afternoon, Sam’s absence from Dean’s side is noteworthy enough to make Castiel apprehensive about joining him, but he pushes past his reservations and powers ahead. He’d rather sit with Dean in silence than go anywhere else, and though Dean has never said so, he knows that he’s not alone in his preference for spending what little downtime they have together.

Up close, he can see that the fire has burned down to little more than coals and ash. Dean prods at the sole remaining log with a stick, disrupting sparks and dark plumes of smoke that curl up into the night.

As Castiel sits beside him, the log shifts, pressing down into the loamy earth. Dean glances over to look at him. The weak light of the embers casts him in its deep orange glow, reflecting in his eyes, bright as the long-gone sunset. Something in Castiel’s chest settles at the sight.

“You doing okay?” Dean asks, offering the bag of Skittles. Castiel can only shrug as he takes a few and pops them into his mouth.

Almost as soon as he starts chewing, they dissolve into their component parts—citric acid splitting into carbon and hydrogen and oxygen; sucrose molecules breaking down into fructose and glucose. With effort, he focuses on all of them at once and captures a glimpse of the intended taste, just for a moment, before an unfathomable number of branched chain starch molecules unravel on his tongue, overwhelming the bright flavor he’d briefly enjoyed.

He’s been working on this. Testing things, training himself to taste the sum and not the parts. It’s a work in progress, but it’s one that he’s resolved to see through until it’s an automatic process.

“Relatively,” he says, and swallows the candy before he has to taste it any longer. “How are you?”

“Relatively,” Dean parrots, folding the bag up and poking it into his jacket pocket. “What a day, huh?”

“Mm.”

“Where’s Sam?”

“With Mom and Jack. Sleeping. Don’t think he wanted to be alone while he’s in the camp.”

Dean doesn’t gesture toward the place they designated to hold Lucifer overnight, but Castiel looks toward it anyway. He imagines he can feel his brother’s cold, prickling energy down to the tips of his fingers. Like frostbite. He frowns and turns back to Dean; tries to soak in his warmth instead.

“You should get some rest, too,” he says.

“Yeah, probably. Tomorrow’s gonna be a bitch.”

“Even by our standards,” Castiel agrees.

Dean huffs, his mouth ticking up to the right, and scuffs his heel in the dirt. Castiel watches as he picks idly at the log they sit upon; the twitch in his cheek as he hisses and inspects his index finger before raising it to his mouth. The shape of his lips as he tries to suck a splinter loose from where it's buried itself beneath his fingernail.

“Damnit,” Dean mutters, pulling his hand back to look at it with a frown.

“Here.”

Reaching out, Castiel catches Dean’s wrist in one hand and his fingers in the other, expending a shimmering wisp of grace to work the splinter free. He’s not sure what compels him to make such a show of it — he could have healed the minuscule injury from where he’s sitting without touching Dean at all — but he can’t help himself.

At some point, years ago, his duty to help Dean and his desire to be close to him got all tangled up. He can no longer recall when he’d started healing him through unnecessary touch, but it’s the singular selfish thing that he does, and he’s not planning on stopping unless Dean tells him to.

The splinter falls silently to the dirt at their feet. Castiel curls the tip of his index finger against the tiny puncture in Dean’s skin, directing his grace as it knits back together.

Beside him, Dean lets out an unsteady breath, and a pulse of love stretches out from his soul to brush against Castiel’s true form. If he’s being truly honest with himself, this is another major reason why Castiel allows himself to touch him in moments like this; he knows that Dean enjoys it as much as he does.

Despite all his half-hearted blustering about personal space, Dean is a tactile person, and the moments when Castiel heals him are the moments when his heart is the most open. When he lets himself feel the way he feels without holding back, just for a breath or two. It’s enough. It’s always been enough.

But now—the feeling draws out longer than usual, shifting to something closer to hunger, to desire, and Dean’s fingers flex a little in Castiel’s hand. When Castiel starts to pull away they turn to gently grip him back. And this…

This is new.

Not the feeling—that has been there for years, poorly concealed and just below the surface—but the action that echoes it. Dean has never done something like this, and Castiel has never been brave enough to try it himself. He’s still not, he realizes as he looks down at their hands tangled together and tries to strategize a safe response.

He’s got no ideas, so he doesn’t move. Couldn’t move if he tried.

“Y’know,” Dean says, interrupting his thoughts with his voice pitched low, and Castiel glances back up to see that his pupils are blown wide. Apprehensive. Tense. Aroused, Castiel’s mind supplies, and he pushes the thought away just in time for Dean to make him wonder if he’d been too hasty in rejecting it. “I don’t think I can stand to be alone tonight, either.”

There’s a clear, deliberate weight to Dean’s words, and although Castiel recognizes it for what it is almost immediately, he hasn’t got the slightest clue how he’s expected to address it. How could he? They’ve kept such a delicate balance for so long that even this one sentence feels monumental. It’s as though Dean has casually dropped an anchor onto a scale that would have been thrown off kilter by a feather, and now he’s just sitting here, acting as though he hasn’t just thrown out the entire rule book of their relationship.

Castiel is afraid to respond at all. He wishes he wasn’t, but fear compounded by habit is hard to shake.

“I could watch over you,” he offers eventually, hating himself for taking the easy way out even as he says it, and waiting for the inevitable refusal. Dean exhales as he slowly pulls his hand away and shifts his gaze back to the glowing embers.

“Aren’t you tired, Cas?”

“I’m running a little low on grace, but—”

“No, I mean—aren’t you tired of… of this.” He waves between them with an open hand, the movement far too casual to be anything but calculated, and glances back to meet Castiel’s eyes. “We could die tomorrow.”

“You could say that about every day, for us.”

“Yeah, but,” Dean huffs. “Look, can we just—”

Pushing to his feet, Dean takes a few steps away before turning back to look at Castiel, his hands tense at his sides, clenching into fists and releasing, over and over as though he needs the movement to keep from… something. Castiel isn’t sure what. But his eyes are pleading. Begging Castiel to meet him halfway.

Castiel wants to. He’s just trying to figure out how.

“Can we skip this part?” Dean asks.

“What do you—”

“The—” Dean briefly lifts his hands, then lets them fall helplessly back to his sides. “The… I don’t know, man. The freakin’ confessions. The discussion. The… the whole what now thing. All that bullshit.” He looks up at Castiel. “Can we just skip it?”

Castiel blinks, slow.

“You mean—”

“I mean I’ve had enough, Cas. I’m tired, and I don’t— I don’t see the point in ignoring this anymore. I haven’t really seen the point in a while. Didn’t want to rock the boat, I guess, but now…”

“But now you’re tired.”

“Yeah.”

“So you’re rocking the boat.”

Dean doesn’t respond to the question directly; just looks at Castiel with a determination in his eyes that leaves no room for misunderstanding, and says, “I’m going to bed. You should come with me.”

He doesn’t wait for a reply. Doesn’t even pause to see if his assumption that Castiel understands his meaning is correct.

Castiel is surprised at his confidence. Not because he’s wrong to have it, but because even though this thing that’s been growing between them for near on a decade has been more difficult to deny with every passing year, even though Castiel has been able to feel Dean’s longing for him as sharply as he’s been able to feel his own, Dean has still never acknowledged it in any concrete way.

For his own part, Castiel has given him more openings than his pride would like him to admit, but Dean’s played things so close to his chest the entire time that Castiel has always assumed he didn’t want to deal with it at all.

He just didn’t think they’d ever get here.

There’s always been something in the way. An apocalypse, a near death, an actual death. Something. When he came back from the Empty, miraculously alive again against all odds, he’d thought to himself, it’s now or never, and Dean had barreled into him, fingers pressed to the back of his neck as they’d embraced in a dimly lit alleyway, and Castiel had felt love radiating from him like light from a star, and still nothing had changed.

So, never, he’d thought. He’d made his peace with it. Being near Dean was enough, if being with Dean was not an option.

But now—

Dean is already nearing the dilapidated mess hall he’s been set up in for the night—the camp only has so much space for sleeping quarters—and Castiel hurries to catch up. He slips through the door behind him and into the dark.

Inside, the main room is cluttered and overfull with folding tables.

A dozen or so chairs are stacked along the walls, and the faint scent of instant coffee lingers in the air. Ahead, Dean maneuvers through a tight gap between tables toward a dark red door. When they make their way inside, it’s to find a cramped storeroom, where a thin bedroll and blanket has been set out for Dean on the floor alongside several unlabelled boxes and a shelf of cleaning supplies. His backpack sits at one end like a makeshift pillow.

Near the ceiling, there’s a single narrow window, and the moonlight that filters through its dusty pane catches on the buttons on Dean’s jacket, reflects bright in his eyes as he turns to look back at Castiel.

Years ago, in a similarly cramped storeroom in the Rexford Gas n Sip, Castiel had knelt on the floor to gather his things while Dean waited outside in the Impala, and wondered if perhaps one of them would be brave enough to ask for a single room at the motel they were headed toward.

He’d known already, even then, that what they felt for each other was far beyond the limits of friendship. Had felt it for a long time before that night, too, though it had taken an abrupt fall from Heaven and a brand new soul grown under the worst possible circumstances for him to truly understand what it meant.

But just for a few minutes, kneeling in that storeroom, he’d thought that perhaps this was the night. That Dean would make his move. That he’d summon the courage to make a move himself.

The way Dean had looked at him earlier that night had him feeling recklessly hopeful, and he’d been halfway convinced that they’d arrive at the Rexford Motor Inn, and their hands would touch as they walked to the room, and some understanding would pass between them.

That they’d fall into one another before they even managed to get through the door.

He’d thought about it in sharp detail. Imagined confessing to Dean, telling him how the first thing he’d felt when the angels stopped falling was the overwhelming desire to hear Dean’s voice. To see him. To hold him. To breathe him in.

How his fledgling soul ached every day that they’d been apart; how he’d realized, finally, that this thing between them was love.

He’d imagined it countless different ways as he pushed to his feet with a plastic bag in his hand, as he left the building and locked the door behind him, as he’d gripped the cool metal of the Impala’s door handle. As Dean’s hand had settled on the back of his seat while they reversed out of the parking space, fingers brushing carelessly against the back of Castiel’s neck.

He’s lost in the memory, still trying to wrap his head around what they’re doing here when Dean laughs aloud. Castiel meets his eyes, and feels the soul tangled up with his grace sing at the sight.

“Sorry,” Dean says, and there’s a touch of wild hysteria in his voice. “Just…” He gestures loosely around them. “Kinda hilarious that this is… we’re basically in a goddamn closet.”

Castiel can’t help but huff out a laugh himself, and Dean’s gaze drops to his mouth. It’s not the first time that’s happened. It’s not even the first time Castiel has noticed. It’s different now, though.

Because this time, Dean doesn’t immediately look away. He doesn’t step back or crack a joke or lash out or deflect. He looks at Castiel’s mouth, and he keeps on looking. And looking. And looking. Castiel feels as though he might buzz right out of his body if he doesn’t just—

“Dean.”

Dean’s eyes lift to meet Castiel’s, and there’s a shade of reckless humor in them. Something devious and endlessly irritating that makes Castiel want to throttle him for making him wait, even now, when they’re supposedly not doing that anymore.

“Yeah?”

“What are you waiting for?”

The answer, as it turns out, is nothing. Dean grins, and crowds into his space, and kisses him. Just like that.

As though it’s always been this easy. Maybe it has been.

Raising one palm to rest against Castiel’s chest, Dean slides the other into his hair, thumb dragging soft against the back of his ear as he moves him into place, and Castiel lets himself be directed. Lets Dean push him back until he’s pressed firmly against the door. Lets Dean tilt his chin just so, and deepen their kiss.

The memory of Dean’s fingers accidentally brushing against his neck that night in the Impala comes rushing back full force now that Dean is holding him there so purposefully. Kissing him with a hunger that Castiel had resigned himself to thinking would never be sated.

Even now, he’s still not sure it will be. Dean is kissing him, but Castiel still longs for him as though they aren’t pressed flush together.

Castiel isn’t sure if his perception is skewed by love, but as Dean’s lips part, he decides that despite the molecules, Skittles taste better on Dean’s tongue, and it suddenly feels incredibly important that Dean knows. Not about the Skittles, but the rest. Everything.

Can we skip it? Dean had asked, but now that they’re here, Castiel realizes that doesn’t want to.

They’ve avoided talking for years, and as Dean put it—Castiel is tired.

With his hands on Dean’s waist, working under his jacket to pull him closer still even as he breaks their kiss, Castiel does what he hadn’t been brave enough to do in Rexford. He tells Dean the truth.

[keep reading on ao3]

[decennia]

anything? 🤔

any ideas for val x ernie? ernies reactions to her, the hufflepunks reaction to them, who asks who out, who kisses first, and so on???

Val and Ernie are my OTP, my ride or die, sink or swim.

Ernie only took notice of Valeria during fourth year.

He always knew of her, but he never knew her. All he knew was that she was pretty, and a Slytherin, and he figured that combination meant she wouldn't bother wasting her time with the likes of him.

The first time he noticed her — actually stopped, and sat, and took notice of her because everything he actually knew about her was based off assumptions he'd made based on previous interactions with Slytherins — it hadn't been some Great Event™ where time stood still while he watched her glide down the stone steps in her velvet gown for the Yule Ball (though when he had seen her for the Ball, his heart stuttered, and he forgot how to function his lungs for a good minute).

No, this had happened during what Ernie thought was going to be a normal Slytherin-Hufflepuff transfiguration lesson.

It was all theory that day. They were learning about... By Merlin, he couldn't remember.

Probably because he'd been partnered with her.

Or, more specifically, she'd partnered herself with him.

In an effort to strengthen house relations, Professor Sprout had suggested to all the teachers that they should implement more "teamwork" into their lessons.

Which was all well and good, only no one wanted to pair up with him.

It was no secret that Ernest Macmillan was well and truly the worst transfiguration student Hogwarts had ever seen. So, crestfallen, he watched as Althea joined Kieran Alvarez, and as Sue side eyed the Emerald Trio in contempt, before deciding Draco Malfoy had at least half a braincell to get her a passing grade.

And every other Slytherin avoided him like the plague.

And then, he was enveloped in the scent of perfume, subtle, beautiful. He looked up, curious, to find Valeria Rutherford, easing herself into the chair beside him, her bag dropping unceremoniously to the floor with a thud that might've been loud if the blood hadn't been rushing in his ears.

"I think you have the wrong seat," he managed to stammer out.

"No," she said, quite simply. She never looked at him. "I'm right where I need to be."

He struggled between openly staring, and avoiding even a glance her way the entire lesson. They worked in quite pleasant silence.

He was so nervous, he knocked over his inkwell, poor thing.

Val didn't say a word, she just handed him a monogrammed silk handkerchief from her breast pocket, and continued working.

His ears flamed, and he thought he'd pass out with embarrassment as he mopped up the ink.

No sooner had Professor McGonagall uttered her dismissal was Valeria Rutherford gone, the only indication that she hadn't been a dream being a scrap of ink soaked silk and that trace of perfume still lingering in the air.

He wouldn't shut up about her for days.

Sue had been ready to kill him after the first hour, but it took four days for Althea to crack.

Especially when he snuck into their room at five a.m., after having remembered something else about her he liked.

There was a lot.

And Ernie was observant.

"You know what else I like about Val? Her socks. Did you see them? They were velvet. Velvet socks! Who has velvet socks? Valeria does, that's who. Magical!" "ALTHEA, I SWEAR, IF YOU DON'T LET ME JINX HIM, AT LEAST LET ME GET ONE GOOD PUNCH." "Shh, go to sleep, I'll get you some earplugs tomorrow, Sue. Ernie... If you know what's good for you, leave before I find my wand."

But in spite of everything, Ernie couldn't get three words out to Valeria.

At least not without becoming a stuttering mess.

Sue and Althea — having rediscovered their better natures during their waking hours — were quite supportive of Ernie. Never pushed him to speak to Val, only gave him a subtle head's up she had entered the room so he wouldn't suddenly choke on his own tongue (you'd think that it would be quite impossible, having spent your whole life successfully avoiding it, but it happened so often to Ernie in Val's presence, the Hufflepunks developed a whole secret sign language to give him fair warning).

Val asked Ernie out first (officially).

Unofficially, Ernest Macmillan had attempted, and failed, to ask Valeria Rutherford out about fifty-eight times (Hannah had been keeping track; she shared a room with Sue and Althea, and was consequently privy to any and all declarations of love made at dawn).

He'd barely managed to stammer out the words "hello Valeria would you-?" (four words, a new record) before she smiled and said, "go to the Yule Ball with me."

It hadn't been a question.

Which was good, because Ernie wouldn't have been able to answer, he was rendered utterly speechless.

She stood, gave him a kiss on the cheek (he would later swear up and down the room that it had been the corner of his mouth, even though Althea, Sue, Hannah, and Justin had all been witness to the very chaste kiss. "Ern, it was closer to your ear." "Yeah, well, that's hot too!")

Ernie was the first one to kiss Valeria properly.

It had been the end of the night for the Yule Ball, and Ernie was walking Val back to the Slytherin common room.

Poor lad was so nervous, he was practically vibrating.

He attempted small talk, but the stutter was back. He cursed himself under his breath, he'd been doing so well that night, having managed to make it through without fucking up once, and now, there he was, dissolving in the echoey silence of the corridor. He hated the way his voice garbled and bounced around him against the stone.

He'd been so great earlier. He'd even managed to make Valeria laugh! And if he thought his crush was bad before, it was absolutely devastating now.

"This is me," she'd said. Her voice sounded nice in the echoey silence of the corridor, he decided.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," she'd laughed again, and he was prepared to defenestrate himself, because no music would ever match that sound, and nothing would ever consume him so deliciously as the way she made him feel, looking at him with a small smile dancing across her lips.

"Are you sure it's not another lap around the castle?"

Her response was a light chuckle, and then she leaned in.

For a hug, he would realize too late, as he stuck out his hand awkwardly for a handshake.

Her movements faltered, and brief confusion was chased away by humour as she accepted his outstretched hand and gave it one firm shake.

"I'll see you tomorrow, yeah?" She'd grinned.

"Yeah," he'd choked out, ears aflame. No, he thought. You will never see me again because I'm about to take on the Whomping Willow in hand to hand combat.

He'd promptly spun on his heel and began writing his will in his head. To Althea, I leave my broomstick. Sue, she'll get my Chocolate Frog Card Collection—

Valeria had been halfway through the Slytherin password when Ernest Macmillan had returned.

She'd faltered, surprised, and suddenly his lips were on hers.

He was a good kisser, which always came as a surprise to people.

His chest was heaving when they broke apart, the thrill of her thrumming deep in his bones.

"Sorry," he heard himself say. He wasn't stammering any more. "I just wasn't going to let myself ruin tonight."

He then planted a gentle kiss to the back of her hand before leaving her there, a swagger in his step, and elation fogging his brain.

When he rounded the corner and disappeared from her sight, he'd broken into a sprint, whooping for joy. He'd even hugged Professor Sprout on his way back to the Hufflepuff common rooms. Through her laughter, she'd admonished him for running in the hallways, but he couldn't hear her, because he was on another plane of existence, because he'd kissed Valeria Rutherford, the most beautiful girl in the world, and she'd kissed him back.

Sue and Althea had stayed up for him this time.

Even Hannah had groggily pulled herself out of her slumber to hear about it.

And after he was done, dopey grin on his face, he fell back onto Althea's bed.

He realized he was wrong; there was one thing that could consume him as deliciously as the way she made him feel. It was her kiss.

[perlukafarinn]

Destiel 6 + 43 :)

friends to lovers + old married couple (but “old married couple” in this case doesn’t mean literally)

They’re on their way to Sam’s apartment to pick him for dinner, Dean and Cas in the front seat, Charlie and her new girlfriend Gilda in the back. They’re already running a little late and Cas keeps trying to give Dean directions, as if he doesn’t know the way to Sam’s like the back of his hand.

“Not since construction started downtown,” Cas argues. “Most of 23rd street is closed, you would be better off taking a right by the University.”

Dean scoffs. “I know what I’m doing, Cas. You don’t even own a car!”

“No, but I took this route on my bike a couple of days ago.”

“Oh, well, since you biked-”

“Are they always like this?” Gilda asks from the back, quiet but not enough so that Dean can’t hear it.

Charlie laughs. “Not always but they bicker like an old married couple.”

Dean’s left eye twitches and he clams his mouth shut, cutting himself off mid-argument. Charlie has called them that before but not in a while and it didn’t used to sting like that. He’d rather not dwell on why.

He takes his normal route despite Cas’ protests and has to turn around halfway to Sam’s when they run into construction.  

Cas, to his credit, doesn’t say ‘I told you so’.

*

Cas forgot his lunch at home. Normally, that wouldn’t be enough to worry Dean but he’s been really busy at work lately, working later and later hours, and Dean wouldn’t be surprised if he forgot to eat altogether.

Since he’s self-employed, Dean’s got no problem taking a long break today to swing by Cas’ office with his lunch. As a joke, mostly on himself, he stuffs it in a brown paper bag and scribbles Cas’ name on it along with a crudely-drawn heart.

Cas’ secretary, Alfie, gives Dean a smile when he approaches his desk holding up the bag. Dean considers just barging into Cas’ office (he’s done it enough times) but Alfie holds up his hand like he knows exactly what he’s thinking and picks up his phone.

“Mr. Novak?” he says brightly. “So sorry to interrupt, but your husband is here with your lunch.”

Dean’s eyes widen. He can feel the heat rising to his cheeks, especially when Alfie just nods at Cas’ response and waves Dean inside - Cas clearly didn’t bother correcting him.

Cas is shuffling through some papers when Dean enters his office, phone nestled in the crook of his neck, but he quickly hangs up and puts them aside with a grateful smile when he sees Dean.

“I knew I’d forgotten something,” he says, accepting the bag from Dean’s hand and snorting when he sees the inscription on it. “Thank you, dear.”

It’s so obviously meant to be a joke, one at Alfie’s expense for making such a silly assumption, and still Dean can’t keep his heart from skipping a beat.

He plasters on a fake smile. “Hey, what kinda husband would I be if I let you go hungry?”

“Are you stopping for lunch?” Cas asks.

Dean wasn’t planning on it but he nods anyway, pulling up a chair to sit at Cas’ desk. 

*

Dean has almost put the whole lunch-office-husband thing out of his mind a week later, when Sam calls and tells him that his apartment building is being fumigated and he needs someplace to stay.

It’s a tight squeeze but of course Dean says to stay at his; Sam’s landlord is footing the bill for motel rooms but only the cheapest sort and they spent enough of their childhoods bouncing between those. Dean’s not gonna let Sam be homeless again, not even for a day.

The plan is for Sam and Dean to take turns sleeping on the pull out couch. Sam offers to take the first night and he’s still out cold when Dean gets up to make breakfast the next morning.

The coffee is ready and the bacon is sizzling on the pan by the time Cas gets out of his room. He tiptoes past Sam, still fast asleep on the couch, and sits down at the kitchen counter.

“Should we wake him for breakfast?” he asks quietly.

Dean shakes his head. “He should wake up soon anyway, I’ll reheat this if I have to.”

Cas nods. A couple minutes later everything is cooked and Dean sits down next to him with a plate for each. They eat in silence, Sam not even stirring, and Dean would be worried about the kid if he didn’t know from experience just what a heavy sleeper he can be.

His attention is snatched away from Sam when Cas reaches for his plate, snatching up one of his bacon slices. Dean grabs him by the wrist but Cas is undeterred, bending his head down to take a bite of his stolen bacon.

“Dude, get some of your own.”

“I had some,” Cas says, licking his lips and Dean is suddenly all too aware of how warm Cas’ wrist feels underneath his fingers. “I finished it and you gave yourself extra slices.”

“Did not,” Dean lies. 

Then, impulsively, before Cas can take another bite, he ducks his head and snatches the rest of the bacon from his grip. His lips graze Cas’ skin as he does so and he hears Cas let out a strangled sound.

He straightens, flushing as he sees Cas staring at him with wide eyes.

Sam clears his throat.

“Sam!” Dean says, just a little too loud, dropping Cas’ hand like a hot potato. “You’re awake!”

Sam peers at him from the couch, and Dean’s not sure if he’s suspicious or just tired. His hair is flat on one side from resting on the pillow and sticking up on the other, and any other time Dean would be laughing or getting a camera.

“I’m going to go shower,” Cas says quietly, slipping from his seat before Dean can respond. Both Winchesters watch him leave, the room falling silent as he closes the bathroom door behind him.

Sam looks back at Dean. “Are you sure you’re not married?”

Dean flips him off.

*

Those fours years that Dean has on Sam must make a hell of a difference, because Dean cannot for the life of him understand how Sam could sleep on that torture device they call a couch. 

The mattress is thin, way too soft, and lumpy in all the worst places. What’s worse is the noise it makes as Dean tosses around trying to fall asleep, the creaking springs waking him up every time he manages to drift off.

At some point in the night - Dean’s not sure when, though it’s well after midnight - Cas pokes his head out of his room.

“Dean?”

Dean licks his lips. “Yeah?”

“Get in here.”

Dean should protest, if only for the sake of his sanity. But it’s late and he’s exhausted and his back already aches from this hell-spawn of a mattress, so he gets up and follows Cas back into his room.

Cas doesn’t say another word, just crawls back in bed, leaving a decent bit of space beside him. Dean stands there staring for a moment, silently cursing whatever deity might be listening, then gets in after him.

He settles at the very edge of the mattress, leaving as much space between them as possible. His body is tense and sleep feels far off but he still closes his eyes, focusing on keeping his breaths even and not noticing the warmth radiating from Cas’ body.

Despite his anxiety, Dean must still manage to drift off at some point because he’s suddenly blinking his eyes open and it’s morning.

Cas is facing him now, lying just a couple of inches away, and not only are their legs tangled together underneath the comforter but Cas’ hand is resting on Dean’s waist. 

Dean swallows, but before he can wonder how to de-tangle himself from Cas without waking him up, Cas draws in a sharp breath through his nose. Dean is unable to move as Cas opens his eyes, peering around in slight confusion before settling on Dean’s face.

And he smiles. Dean’s heart jumps at that smile, at the warmth of it, and he finds himself returning it despite himself. Why isn’t every morning like this?

“What are you thinking?” Cas asks, his voice a low rumble.

“That every morning should be like this,” Dean answers honestly.

He only realizes what he’s said when Cas’ eyes widen, all traces of sleep suddenly gone from them. Jesus Christ, what the hell was he thinking? There is no un-romantic way Cas could interpret that! He could have reached down and grabbed Cas’ dick and it would have been a less obvious come-on.

“I didn’t-” Dean stutters. “I meant-” 

Cas gives him a pointed look, effectively silencing him. “I know what you meant.”

Then he’s leaning in, pausing just long enough for Dean to realize what’s going on before closing the distance between them, kissing Dean with such tenderness that it aches. Dean’s still barely with the program but he kisses Cas back, crowding in closer and cupping Cas’ cheek with his hand not caught in the scant space between them.

Cas pulls away and Dean’s not proud of the noise he makes then but he opens his eyes again and Cas is looking at him with such heat that it’s hard to care about anything else.

“How long, Dean?” 

“Years,” Dean admits, and it’s just one embarrassing confession after another this morning isn’t it? “Fuck, years.”

“It’s been years for me too,” Cas says. “I can’t believe - all this time we could’ve-”

Dean places a finger against his lips, cutting him off. “Then lets not waste any more.”

Cas laughs, breathlessly agreeing, and Dean leans in to kiss him again, putting an end to their conversation for now. 

They’ve got some catching up to do.

*

They’re married less than four months later. 

At this point, it’s really nothing more than a formality. 

[wonder-womans-ex]

Curtain Call

Act One, Scene Four

Wednesday morning dawns to see Sirius Black slowly open his eyes, stretch his legs and arms one by one, shove James onto the floor as payback for the previous night, and immediately begin to panic. 

Today is the day he either goes back or he doesn’t. 

In the meantime, he stomps down the hall into his bedroom to change. After all, he’s been in these clothes all last night and a good portion of yesterday, and ‘I-realistically-could-have-and-actually-did-wake-up-like-this’ is really not the look he wants. Instead, he struggles valiantly to decide between suave and drop-dead gorgeous. 

On the one hand, he could go with his personal spin on the classic bad boy: button up shirt under a leather jacket, hair carefully mussed, slim black jeans. But he knows from experience Remus doesn’t like bad boys. Remus likes him. 

Or, well, he did. 

The other hand it is, then—denim overalls with fishnets showing through the holes in the knees, his old Blue Jays shirt, and, after a good half hour spent in the bathroom, a dusting of silver eyeshadow paired with eyeliner wings sharp enough to cut glass. 

James visibly brightens when he walks back into the kitchen. “Can I braid your hair? Please? Please let me braid your hair.”

He lets James braid his hair. He always does. James is good at it, too—he only pulls Sirius’s hair hard enough to hurt once, and even that’s only because Elvendork bumps his elbow. In the mirror afterwards, Sirius turns his head to and fro and admires his friend’s handiwork. 

It’s one thick french braid tied with a red scrunchie at the bottom. He blows at the two tendrils that hand near his face. “Perfectly done, Prongs,” he says. “As always.” 

“Thanks. Now go write some books and win back your man.”

Sirius manages to not to point out that, A), he’s a long way away from full-length novels, and B), Remus broke up with him for a reason and is therefore probably not looking to take him back. James would just ignore him, anyway. He has a tendency to do that. 

This time around, he finds the Rogers lecture room without incidence. Unfortunately, he underestimated himself when it came to leaving the apartment, and he ends up already standing outside nearly twenty minutes before he’s technically supposed to be there. Someone’s inside, judging by the voices he can hear. One of them is recognizable as Lily Evans’s thick maritime dialect, and the other—

Fucking hell. 

It’s Remus. 

Sirius may not be here to win Remus back, but he never said anything about not showing him what he’s missing out on. So he strides into the lecture hall as confidently as he can, grinning when both Remus and Lily’s head turn towards him. He focuses on the latter, giving Remus the same out-of-sight-out-of-mind treatment he himself received the previous week. 

“Hi,” he says brightly. “I realize I’m a little early—sorry about that, by the way—but I’ve got time to kill and I was wondering if you need help with anything? Setting up, or…”

By some miracle, he manages to trail off in a way that is decidedly not awkward. Sirius: 1. Remus: god knows how many by now. 

“No, I don’t think so,” Lily says. “Wait actually—you know how to use a photocopier, eh?” 

“Yeah.” 

“I need you to run down to the staff room and make nineteen photocopies of this.” She pulls her backpack off and roots through it for a moment, finally pulling a slightly crumpled piece of paper out triumphantly. When Sirius takes it, flattening it out against a desk, he feels her—and, next to her, Remus—eyeing him curiously. 

“Where’s the staff room?” he asks at the same time as she blurts out, “Do I know you?”

Sirius doubts she’s talking about their brief interaction last week. He’s not entirely sure what she does mean, but at least he’s narrowed it down a little.  

“I’m sorry, I don’t think—”

“No, Lily,” Remus finally says, voice halfway between chilling and resigned. “You don’t. I do.”

Both Sirius’s and Lily’s heads turn to look at him so quickly it would seem hilarious to an outside spectator. “What do you mean, you know him?”

“He’s… well. Sirius, I’m sure you know Lily by now. Lily, meet Sirius, my ex-boyfriend.”

In the past, Sirius has heard the phrase ‘the silence was deafening.’ This silence is not deafening; it’s suffocating. 

At least, until something registers in Lily’s expression and she turns on her heel, taking a step towards Remus, who backs away. For good reason, too—she’s clearly on the warpath. 

“Sirius? Sirius Black? Sirius Orion fucking Black? That’s him?”

Remus manages one minuscule nod, eyes blown wide with fear. “And he’s here? R—” she breaks off, pausing a moment before continuing. “John Lupin, I don’t believe you.”

“Look, Lily, I can explain—”

“Explain to him. Show him where the staff room is, because he clearly knows nothing.” 

“Okay,” Sirius protests, “I think that’s a little—”

“Go. I’m going to close my eyes and count to ten, and if either of you is still here when I open them again there is going to be bloodshed.” 

There is no bloodshed, because they are not there when she opens her eyes. Instead, they are out in the hall, Remus leading Sirius towards the elevator. 

Much like with Lily the previous week, they do not speak. Even when Remus courteously holds the staff room door open, all Sirius gives him is a short, sharp nod. Somehow, without so much as interacting, they manage to work out a system: Sirius puts the initial page into the photocopier, and Remus does everything else. 

He turns away as Remus presses the buttons, and then he waits. There’s a faint beep beep and then silence except for the sound of paper being spit out of the machine. 

It is, by far, the most awkward silence in the history of silences. 

When nineteen copies have been made, Remus gathers them up and hole punches them. Someone should really say something. Remus clearly isn’t going to, so Sirius says the one thing he can think of. 

“Why’d you do it?”

The one benefit to asking this, out of every question out there, is that Remus can’t pretend not to know what he’s talking about. “I did something stupid.”

“Are you saying you broke up with me because you did something stupid, or that breaking up with me was the stupid thing?”

“I—” he cuts himself off, and doesn’t speak again for a good long time. Finally, Sirius gives up, walking towards the door. He’s reaching for the handle when Remus starts again. 

“I was at a party. I was… well, I wasn’t drunk, exactly, just a little tipsy, but… I kissed someone.”

Okay, that is a bit surprising. Sirius hadn’t exactly had him pegged as the type. But then again, he hadn’t though Remus was the type to dump someone with no explanation, either. He should really work on his assumption-making skills. 

“And that correlates to breaking up with me how? Because I think I’m missing something.”

“I thought that if you found out, you’d be the one doing the breaking up.” 

“Well, I wouldn’t.”

“Oh.”

Yet another silence. Somehow, this one is worse than the last. That was like the dream where you show up at school naked. This is the dream that you never remember, the one where you wake up crying. 

Sirius sets his shoulders. He grasps the doorknob firmly, prepared to make his escape. 

“Or maybe I would have. We’ll never know, will we? Because you dumped me first.” 

The door swings closed behind him, and if Remus says anything, he doesn’t let himself hear it.  

[all-things-skam]

Jens’ season | Chapter ten (finale)

Saturday, March 7th

They arrived late in Utrecht. Or, early.

Lucas’ father had refused to make the drive but allowed him to go and take the train if he wanted to. Jens get that they were divorced, but still. She was his ex-wife, the mother of his child. She must still have a place in his heart.

Apparently not.

Lucas had been fidgety and tense during the whole train ride, biting his lip and checking his phone every ten seconds in case there were any updates from his dad - who was in contact with the clinic -, but there weren’t.

Jens felt helpless. He didn’t know what to do or even say, having never been in this situation before. A part of him wanted to comfort Lucas, tell him everything’s going to be okay, but he wasn’t a psychiatrist nor a doctor. He didn’t know shit.

So, he stayed quiet, his head pressed against the cold window of the train, his right hand holding onto Lucas’ tightly.

When they got to the train station, someone was there to pick them up. He had blond hair and a darker beard, and seemed older than them. An old friend, Lucas said. He dropped the two teenagers at the clinic and told Lucas to call him if he needed a ride before driving off.

The door of the clinic was unlocked despite being the middle of the night. They walked in and the lady at the front desk frowned, seeing Jens and Lucas walking into the building. ‘’Hello. How may I help you?’’

‘’My...my mom’s been admitted here a few hours ago,’’ Lucas replied, his voice strained. ‘’I’m here to see her.’’

‘’I’m sorry, visits have ended hours ago. You should come back in the morning-’’

Alas, Lucas wasn’t taking no for answer tonight. He was scared and worried for his mother and wouldn’t calm down until he sees her.

‘’No! I took a train all the way here. I have to see her,’’ he insisted, hoping the woman will make an exception for him. ‘’She needs me, I- Please.’’

Still hesitating, the desk lady glanced at them, noticing the tired look on their faces and the backpack on Lucas’ shoulder and sighed, giving in. ‘’Patient name?’’

‘’Lieke Van Der Heijden.’’

She typed in the name in her computer, giving Lucas an apologetic look when reading his mother’s file. ‘’I can’t let you go in the room past visiting hours. But, I’ll call up the psychiatrist on shift and he’ll be able to give you details about your mother.’’

You could see on Lucas’ face that he wasn’t completely satisfied with the bargain, but it was better than nothing.

Jens smiled at the woman. ‘’Thank you.’’

.

Jens didn’t go in.

He waited on a couch in the waiting area of the clinic while Lucas went to talk with the doctor, not wanting to intrude Mrs. Van Der Heijden’s privacy. While Lucas wanted him by his side at the clinic, it didn’t mean Jens had to be all up in their businesses. And, if Lucas needed him, he’ll come to him.

Having nothing else to do, Jens checked his phone, seeing the group chat blowing up with unread messages and a few personal ones from Robbe, asking what was going on and where the hell he and Lucas went.

Did you guy ditch us to fuck? Moyo had bluntly asked.

In another situation, Jens would’ve rolled his eyes and laughed - maybe he would’ve told him to fuck off -, but not tonight. Instead, he he simply told them that Lucas had a family emergency and had to go home - sparing them the whole details for privacy purpose.

Half an hour later, Lucas returned and filled the empty seat beside Jens. His hair was a mess from touching them so much - a habit he picked up when he was stressed or anxious. Jens slipped his phone back in his pocket, giving his attention to his boyfriend.

''How is she?''

''Sedated,'' Lucas responded, forgetting to laugh at his own bad joke. ''Sorry.''

Jens shook his head. ''It's okay.''

‘’A neighbor called the cops. They said she was acting like a lunatic, throwing out my father's last belongings on her porch since 6am and was planning to redecorate the whole house to 'clean it from his bad energy'. The doctor said it was a psychotic episode. She hasn't been taking her meds for a few weeks.’’

Lucas's parents' divorce was messy and heartbreaking. She truly loved Lucas' father - he was her high school lover -, but the man didn't want anything to do with her after being diagnosed although he had vowed to love her in sickness and health.

‘’I don't understand. She sounded very lucid last week on the phone. I should’ve gone home-’’

Shaking his head, Jens didn’t let him finish. ‘’Don’t do that. Don’t guilt yourself for something you can’t change. You’re here, now. It’s all that matters.’’

‘’If I had been here, I could’ve made sure she was taking her medication. I always do. Sometimes, she forget...and other times, she doesn’t want to take them. When she’s off her medication for too long, things gets bad and she has psychotic episodes. Dad and I tried to have someone from the clinic to come and check up on her, but it’s really expensive and we can’t afford that. That’s what he said. Maybe he doesn't want to pay for her, I don’t know.’’

It was simply an assumption, but Jens hoped it wasn't true. If so, Mr. Van der Heijden was a very shitty person.

Feeling a wave of tiredness hit him, Jens glanced at the clock in the waiting room and then to Lucas who's head was resting on his shoulder, trying to control his anxious riddled brain.

‘’It’s late. Should we head...home? You need sleep.’’

Lucas shook his head stubbornly. ‘’No. I need to stay here. I need to be there when my mom will wake up.’’

''The clinic had made an exception for a short visit and a conversation with the doctor. You'll have to wait till visiting hours to see her. We can't wait seven hours here.''

The night had been long and stressful and Jens couldn't wait to head to bed. He understood Lucas' want to stay at the clinic, but sleeping in those uncomfortable waiting chair would only make him feel sore and shitty in the morning. Lucas needed rest. Good rest.

‘’They gave her medication. She’ll be out for a couple more hours. We’ll come back in the morning.’’

‘’But-’’

‘’We can ask the office lady to call you when your mom is awake. How about that?’’

To Jens' relief, Lucas agreed.

.

It was almost 10am when the doorbell rang, stirring Jens from his deep, dreamless sleep. He groaned, the noise keeping going again and again - unable to ignore it. Who the hell could be at the door so early? He almost yelled at Lotte to go open, but remembered he was in Utrecht, at Lucas' house.

Fighting sleep, Jens opened his eyes - keeping them open was the real challenge here - and saw Lucas still fast asleep beside him. He smiled, soft snores coming from Lucas' slightly parted lips. It took Lucas over an hour to fall asleep this morning, constantly checking his phone every five minutes to see if he had any missed calls from the clinic. Jens had pulled him into his arms and played with his hair, knowing it worked as a kid when his mom would do it.

Now, the doorbell was getting on Jens' nerves and he wanted it to stop.

Carefully removing himself from Lucas' grasp, Jens got up and searched for his pants from yesterday, not about to answer the door in his boxers. He was barely awake enough to function as he walked down the hallway to get to the door, not caring that he was looking like a mess right now. That’s what a middle of the night bus ride and falling asleep at 4am does to you.

Before opening the door, Jens checked through the peephole and saw a short girl with curly hair and a boy with darker skin and messy hair whom he recognized as Isa and Kes.

A frown formed on Isa’s forehead when the door opened, confused why someone else was answering and not her friend. ‘’Who are you? Where’s Luc?’’

‘’Erm, I’m Jens. You’re Isa, right?’’

She nodded slowly, still a bit confused until she realized who Jens was. ‘’Oh my god! You’re Luc’ boyfriend aren't you?’’

Jens nodded, eyes squinting at the brightness outside. ‘’Does Luc knows you were coming? Did he tell you about-’’ He interrupted himself, uncertain if Isa and Kes knew about Mrs. Van der Heijden’s mental illness.

Isa hummed. '‘Yeah. I figured he’d be here in the morning.’’

Jens didn’t have to invite them in, the two walking right in and making themself home in the living room.

‘’Where’s Luc?’’ Kes asked, looking around for his best friend.

‘’He’s sleeping. The night has been long.’’

Kes hummed. ‘’How is he?’’

‘’Not good,’’ Jens honestly responded as he sat down in the armchair.

The trio didn't have time to engage in much of a conversation, footsteps coming from the hallway a few minutes after sitting down. They tried to be quiet to let Lucas sleep some more, but failed. Or, maybe it was the emptiness in the bad that woke him?

‘’What are you guys doing here?’’ Lucas asked, seeing his friends and boyfriend in the living room. He was wearing Jens' hoodie, finding the comfort he lacked of when he woke up to an empty bed.

Isa stood, meeting Lucas halfway and pulled him into a hug. He hugged her back before going to sit with Jens in the armchair, unbothered by his friends' presence.

Kes, on the other hand, wasn't as nice as Isa and looked at Lucas with hard eyes laced with deception. ‘’Why didn’t you tell me about your mom? I had to learn from Isa who heard it from Liv who was talking with Ralf. We’re best friends, Luc.’’

‘’Sorry you weren’t the first thing on my mind when my dad called me to say my mom was in a clinic.''

Kes sighed, changing his tone. ‘’You know I didn’t mean it like that...’’

‘’How is she?’’ Isa asked, switching the conversation.

‘’She’s in a clinic, Isa. How well can she be?’’ Lucas responded, his tone a little too harsh.

Unhappy with the way he spoke to his friend, Jens put han hand on Lucas’ thigh, a silent way to tell him to not get worked up. Even if Isa’s question was stupid to him, it wasn't a reason to talk to his friends like that. They came here because they cared about Lucas and his mom, not to get yelled at.

''Have you seen her?'' Kes asked, blaming Lucas' attitude on stress and morning grumpiness.

''No. Visiting hours were over long ago. I'll be going today.''

''Do you need us to come with?''

Although Kes' offer was nice, Lucas already had an emotional support. ''No. Jens is here.'' He leaned into Jens' chest and Jens kissed Lucas' shoulder over the hoodie, confirming his words.

‘’Tell your mom we say hi, okay?’’ Kes said.

‘’Will do.’’

.

Sunday, March 8th

The past two days had been difficult and emotional for Lucas - and Jens, by bias.

Lucas had spent hours at the clinic at his mom's bedside, just sitting there and watching her sleep most of the time, too high on meds to stay awake. Sometimes, she'd talk to him, but never for long. She was happy that her son was here, but also felt guilty that he had to come home just because she went off her meds again. Lucas denied her wrong assumptions and promised her that he had come here on his free will, that he wanted to be with her, but she still insisted that she was disrupting her son's life and being a burden to him like she was to his father. Lucas knew it was the depression and meds talking, but it still hurt.

When Lucas left his mother's room with tears in his eyes, Jens decided it was enough for the day. Taking care of someone didn't mean allowing them to disturb your own mental health. You need to know when to take some space from them, even if it's just for a few hours.

Back at Lucas', Jens made them dinner while Lucas took a shower. He was a terrible cook so pastas will have to do - not that there was a lot of options to cook with in the pantries and fridge. Ten minutes later, Lucas came out of his shower and Jens brought the bowls of pastas to the living room.

''Talk to me. I need a distraction.''

''Okay...'' Jens racked his brain, trying to think of something to talk about when he remembered that he hadn't told Lucas about the move yet. ''My parents are separating. My mom, sister and I will be moving.''

By the look on his boyfriend's face, Jens realized he should have added more details in the first place. Now, Lucas must be thinking he's moving from Antwerp. He was supposed to distract him, not make him sadder. Well done, Jens...

He shook his head, swallowing his bite of pasta. ''I'm not changing school, don't worry. We are just moving to a new neighborhood where the apartments are cheaper.''

Relief washed over Lucas' face. ''Hopefully closer to mine.'' He smirked and Jens hummed.

They lived relatively close to each other, but they could be closer. Living closer would mean easily meeting up in the middle of the night when one of them couldn't fall asleep instead of texting or take the bus together to school.

''That would be nice, wouldn't it?''

Lucas nodded before snickering. ''As if we don't see each other almost every day already.''

Jens laughed. ''Wanna watch a movie?''

The brunet shrugged. ''If you want.''

''Any preferences?''

''No, you can choose.''

''You trust my movie taste? Be careful what you wish for. We might end up watching the Notebook or some other chick flick shit.''

A small smile curved on Lucas' lips for the first time since Friday and Jens took it as a win.

''I know I must not be fun to be around right now and this probably isn't the weekend you had planned, but I...I’m just not in the mood to do anything. All I can think about it my mom and-’’

Jens shook his head, understanding. ‘’It’s okay. I don’t mind. I like chill nights too. As long as I’m with you.’’

Lucas wrinkled his face in disgust. ‘’Ew. Don’t say that. I’m gonna vomit.’’

‘’You don’t like cheesy?’’

‘’No. Jens?’’ He hummed in response, but didn’t budge. ’’You might think that you aren’t helping, but you are. By making sure I get enough sleep, eat and don’t get stuck in my head too much. You distract me with movies and cuddles - lots of cuddles. All of this helps me a lot, I couldn’t ask for a better boyfriend.’’

''Look who's the cheesy one, now!''

''Shut up. This was supposed to be cute, but you ruined it...''

.

Monday, March 9th

Goodbyes, even temporary ones, always hurt.

Jens’ arms were around Lucas, holding him tight, dreading the moment they’ll have to part. If it hadn't been for his mother’s request, Jens would’ve stayed longer, but Fenna wasn’t too happy to learn that her son had left the country without any warnings and skipped school. She understood the situation, sending well wishes to Lucas and his mom, but still wanted him to come home.

Lucas sighed, sad blue eyes looking at Jens. ‘’I don’t want you to go.’’

Give it to Jens and Lucas to make their departures dramatic and seem like they were parting for war when it was only a couple days. They had been standing at the train station for half an hour, clinging to each other and being one of those couples.

‘’I don’t want to either, but I can’t disobey my mom. She’s already mad that I left without warning. Lucky for me, she loves you or else I’d be grounded for weeks.’’

Lucas smiled before pushing his face in Jens’ shirt, not caring that he was behaving like a baby at the train station. ‘’I’ll miss you,’’ he said quietly.

‘’That’s why I gave you my hoodie. It’ll feel like I’m with you when you close your eyes,’’ Jens explained. He kissed Lucas’ temple, his face hidden from view.

‘’I still prefer the real thing...’’

‘’Me too,’’ Jens agreed. ‘’But, it’ll have to do for now.’’

A voice echoed through the station, warning travelers of the trains that will be leaving soon and, sadly for them, Jens’ train was in the list. Lucas recognized the number and clutched the back of his boyfriend’s shirt, refusing to let go.

''My train is here,'' Jens announced, trying remove Lucas's grip from him but also not wanting to part either.

.

Tuesday, March 10th

After dinner, Jens sat on the floor, surrounded by the mess of his bedroom. He was folding and packing clothes, getting ready for the move when a text from Lucas came in and distracted him, abandoning the pile of clothes.

Lucas: I don’t know when I’ll come back

Jens: That’s okay. Take your time. Your mom needs you. I’ll be here waiting ❤

Lucky for him, his mom was there to keep her children on track with the packing. They were moving the following Friday and the whole house had to be packed up. It was a small delay, but doable if everyone helped.

''Have you started packing yet?''

''Yes.''

Fenna looked around the room and raised an eyebrow, not seeing much progress since she last came here to check - which was two hours ago. ''Quit talking to Lucas and pack your bedroom, it won't pack itself. Even Lotte has started putting her toys in boxes.''

Jens frowned, raising his eyes from his phone. ''How do you know it's Lucas I'm talking to? Why not Robbe or Moyo?''

''Because you have that smile on your face when you talk to him. Others might not notice it, but I'm your mom. I see these things.''

A light blush coated his cheeks.

Jens: Gotta get back to packing...😞

Lucas: 🥺

Jens: We'll facetime tonight, okay?

Lucas: I'll wait for your call. Love you ❤

.

Friday, March 13th

A mix of laughters and shoutings filled Jens' bedroom as the four boys battled at video games. They were in the middle of a heated competition between Jens and Moyo when the doorbell went off, forcing them to pause the game.

Jens handed the controller to Robbe, being the only trustable person out of them, and went downstairs to answer the door. A confused frown and a wide grin shared space on Jens’ face, surprised to see his boyfriend on the other side.

''What the-''

''Missed me?'' Lucas asked, a small grin on his lips, interrupting Jens.

Jens' grin broadened and he pulled Lucas into a hug after getting him inside, shutting the door behind. Lucas returned the embrace, snaking his arms behind Jens' neck, missing the closeness of his boyfriend.

''What are you doing here? You couldn’t get away from me for long, uh?’’ Jens teased instead of pointing out Lucas’ tired look, the bags under his eyes looking darker than at the train station on Monday.

Lucas rolled his eyes. ‘’Yeah, I missed your pretty face too much.’’ He squished Jens’s cheeks with his hand, making him pull a fishy face, and laughing at how ridiculous he looked.

‘’I knew it, you can’t get enough of me.’’ Smug look on his face, Jens leaned in to kiss Lucas.

Sooner than usual, Jens’ tongue pushed past Lucas’ lips and Lucas slipped his hands under Jens’ shirt, feeling the warm skin under the grey cotton, catching a soft sigh of content from the taller boy.

They hadn’t had a lot of occasions to kiss more than a quick peck since last Friday and it felt good to share a longer kiss. The weekend had been emotionally difficult for Lucas and his head wasn’t in a mood to make out despite having the house to themselves all weekend.

For a moment, the two boys almost forgot that they were standing in Jens’ entry.

Lucas pulled away, but kept his hands on Jens. ‘’I’m only here for the night, I’m going back tomorrow morning. I came to pick up a few things from my dad’s...and see you.’’

Jens hummed and leaned to kiss Lucas again when loud arguing was heard from upstairs, catching Lucas' attention and making him frown.

''You're having people over?’’ he questioned, feeling bad for taking Jens away from his guests. ‘’I can come back later if-''

Jens shrugged. ''It’s just the boys. We were playing video games. Come.’’

Lucas toed off his shoes and let Jens pull him upstairs.

As they got closer to Jens’ bedroom Lucas’ stomach knotted, worried Jens’ friend will ask questions after the way he left last week at the party. He never gave them an explanation and he was hoping Jens hadn’t told them what happened to his mom. He might be okay to share this personal information with Jens and his own close friends like Kes, Isa and Ralph, but he didn’t want everyone to know.

‘’Now we know why he was taking so long to come back,’’ Aaron pointed out when he saw Lucas behind Jens.

Jens flipped him off and went to the empty spot on his bed, pulling Lucas onto his lap, taking advantage of having limited seating space in his cardboard boxes filled bedroom.

Robbe handed Jens back the controller, ready to get back to the game.

''How are you gonna play with Lucas sitting on you like that? You can hardly see,'' Aaron pointed out.

Jens smirked, feeling confident. ''Don't worry, I can still beat your ass.''

[abigailnussbaum]

Infinity Train, S1-3

Infinity Train is a Cartoon Network animated series (now transferred to HBO Max) that premiered last year. Three seasons, each made up of ten 10-minute episodes, have aired, so you can watch the whole thing in an afternoon. The premise is quite familiar - the titular train picks up passengers (mostly, though not always, children) who are at some kind of crossroads in their lives. As they traverse cars filled with challenges, puzzles, dangers, and sometimes just nifty environments to explore, the passengers work through whatever issue brought them on to the train. Their progress towards wellness is reflected in a number that appears on their hand, and when the number drops to zero a vortex appears and returns them to their home. The train also contains native inhabitants, usually referred to as “denizens”, who sometimes help the passengers, sometimes hinder them, and are often just going about their own lives.

Like I said, the sort of premise familiar from many children’s stories, in which a character who is struggling with some important challenge or milestone is whisked off to a fantasy setting that just happens to have been tailored to help them work through their problems. The execution is pretty fantastic, with both the writing and animation striking a compelling mixture of humor and emotional depth. The train itself is a wonderful creation, vast and often surreal or even phantasmagorical, and the denizens are quirky and winning in their own right, not just as reflections of the passengers’ needs. The show also features an absolutely stacked voice cast, with guest appearances from Kate Mulgrew, Bradley Whitford, Ernie Hudson, Lena Headey, and many others.

But what I find fascinating about Infinity Train is how, almost from the first episode, it sets to work examining the core assumptions of its story template, chiefly the idea that the train is helping people, and that its kind of help is effective and positive. As someone who grew up on stories like Infinity Train and didn’t question their premise until I got older, it’s fun to watch a show that leans right into those inherent problems.

The first season of Infinity Train tells its story pretty straight. Our protagonist is Tulip, a tween who is struggling with her parents’ recent divorce. When a scheduling snafu between them leaves Tulip unable to get to a youth coding camp she’d been dreaming of, she impulsively runs away from home, and ends up being picked up by the train. There, she’s quickly joined by a royal corgi called Atticus, and a scatterbrained robot called One-One, who try to help her in her journey towards the train’s engine. Along the way, the trio are menaced by a sinister, semi-robotic figure who is destroying the environments in the train’s cars, and who seems to be fixated on One-One.

Even in this fairly basic spin on the story, a few reservations crop up: first, Tulip doesn’t actually have a real problem. Yes, her parents’ divorce has put a strain on her, but she still seems fairly well-adjusted - she has friends and interests and, apart from the ill-advised decision to run away, doesn’t seem to be acting out in dangerous ways. The things she learns over the course of her journey through the train - to face up to the hurt that her family’s breakdown has caused her, to admit that her parents’ marriage wasn’t perfect, to realize that their divorce wasn’t her fault, to ask for help when she needs it - are probably things she would have figured out as she gained some distance from the trauma of the divorce (or, for that matter, that any halfway-decent child psychologist would have helped her realize). It’s hard to justify a cosmic interference in her life, much less one that puts her in mortal danger, as the journey up the Infinity Train often does

And sure, this is a children’s adventure story, so it’s far more compelling to watch the child protagonist struggle with real danger (that is always avoided at the last possible minute) than attend a therapy session. Even if, as adult viewers, we might see the whole thing as unjustifiably risky. But the thing is, Tulip herself very quickly expresses resentment towards the train. When she realizes that the number on her hand drops when she does something healthy and good, Tulip’s reaction is anger, and for a while she refuses to cooperate with the system, covering her hand and refusing to consider how her actions are affecting her number. Even within the children’s adventure template, the child protagonist says what most of us would feel in her situation - that being kidnapped and made to jump through hoops for the sake of some seemingly arbitrary, numerical value of “wellness” is high-handed and manipulative, and encourages hostility and suspicion, rather than participation in the train’s system.

Ultimately, Tulip goes back to playing along with the train’s scheme and benefits from it. She gets her number down to zero fairly quickly, and gets to go back home. But along the way she also solves the mystery of the train’s mysterious villain, who turns out to be another passenger, Amelia, who was picked up by the train after the death of her husband. Instead of letting the train walk her through her grief and learn to accept it, Amelia tried to take over the train and use its reality-bending capabilities to recreate her lost husband. Along the way she’s committed so many acts of abuse and mayhem that her number has extended all the way to her neck. So even once Tulip talks her down and convinces her to stop hurting people, they both acknowledge that she’s never going to get off the train (oh, and by the way, the journey on the train happens in real time, so Amelia is now an old woman).

Now, it should be obvious that Amelia’s problem was significantly more complex and fraught than Tulip’s, and rather than helping her, the train gave her a venue to indulge her grief to anti-social, even psychotic extremes. So at the end of the first season, we’ve encountered two passengers. One who benefitted from the train’s system (after some initial hostility) but who also probably didn’t need its help that badly. And one who did need serious help, but instead got an opportuntity to screw her life up even more than it already was, and probably irrevocably. Not a great track record, in other words.

The second season mixes things up a bit by making its protagonist a train denizen, and giving us a behind the scenes look at the train’s community when the passengers aren’t there. MT (or: Mirror Tulip) is a character first encountered in the first season, whom Tulip helped to escape from the mirror world. She’s being pursued by mirror cops who want to destroy her, and in the process of evading them, she comes across a passenger, Jesse, and decides to help him get his number down so that she can piggyback on his exit and evade her pursuers. Jesse initially seems like he doesn’t belong on the train - he’s almost preternaturally friendly and happy-go-lucky. But it’s eventually revealed that his willingness to go along and get along is fairly indiscriminate, and leaves him prey to stronger personalities, as when he tolerates and even enables the violent bullying of his younger brother.

It’s a thornier problem than Tulip’s, not least for making it harder to sympathize with Jesse. But it’s also one that exposes the train system’s flaws, as Jesse is so passive that he doesn’t even try to move through cars and get his number down until MT lights a fire under him. And that, in turn, triggers MT’s own identity crisis, as she begins to wonder whether she has a right to exist as her own person, or whether her entire purpose is to reflect Tulip or help passengers.

That tension comes to a head when Jesse and MT encounter the Apex, a group of child passengers, led by teenagers Grace and Simon. The Apex have come up with a theory of the train’s nature that runs completely counter to its actual purpose - they believe the train is their reward, and that the system trying to bring their number down and send them back is cheating them. They strive to get their number as high as possible by committing acts of violence against the train’s denizens, whom they dub “nulls” - not real people, incapable of feeling pain.

Because S2 has been told from MT’s perspective, we know that the Apex are wrong about her and the other denizens (and in general, it’s not a good sign when someone says “this being, which exhibits all the signs of personhood and feeling, is actually not real, and is only shamming a form of suffering while feeling nothing”). But at the same time, it has to be acknowledged that this is an entirely plausible conclusion to draw from the evidence at hand. The train exists for the passeners. It has created environments and beings whose sole purpose is to interact with and affect the passengers. Why should those beings be real? Which is yet another failure point of the train’s system, because as both Tulip and Jesse’s stories show, developing connections with denizens is what spurs passengers to travel up the train and get better. The Apex have therefore interpreted the train’s system in a way that can only accomplish the exact opposite of what it was designed to do.

The show returns to Grace and Simon in its third season, in which we learn more about their history and their understanding of the train. We learn, for example, that Simon’s hostility towards denizens was sparked when the one who befriended him (The Cat, a character who appears in each of the show’s seasons) left him when they found themselves in a dangerous situation. And we learn that the Apex worship Amelia (whom they view as the train’s true conductor) and believe that the current system is a corruption of the one she intended, in which the passengers get to enjoy the train for as long as they like. In yet another demonstration of how open the train’s system is to misinterpretation, the Apex warn their new members that if they let their number get down to zero, they will “disappear”. Which is the same reaction Tulip had when she first witnessed another passenger departing, and, again, a thoroughly logical conclusion to reach given the evidence.

The season’s story involves Grace and Simon being separated from the rest of the Apex, and, in their attempts to get back to them, picking up a young passenger, Hazel, whom they try to initiate into their understanding of the train. The two teens’ interactions with Hazel shed light on the crucial difference between them. While Grace genuinely cares about the kids she’s gathered and sees herself as their protector, Simon only teaches Hazel about the train because he wants converts to his worldview, and validation for his anger at the Cat and other denizens. Once separated from the Apex and their regular schedule of destruction, Grace’s care for Hazel causes her number to go down, all the more so when she discovers that Hazel is really a denizen, and lies to Simon about it to protect her. Simon, meanwhile, only sinks further into his anger and resentment, and when he discovers Grace’s lie he sees it as a betrayal of everything they stand for. The conflict between them ultimately leads to a confrontation in which Simon is killed, while Grace reveals to the Apex that their conclusions about the train and its denizens were wrong, and that they need to come up with a new system.

So, to sum up, the Infinity Train:

Kidnaps people whom it perceives as being in need of help and holds them, sometimes for years or decades, until they achieve a predetermined threshold of wellness.

Advances this goal through a system of rewards and punishments that is so transparently manipulative, it alienates basically everyone who engages with it except the guy whose problem was being pathologically passive.

Relies for the success of this system on a community of denizens who haven’t signed on to it and who are often unsuited to the task of shepherding others towards growth.

Is so open to misinterpretation that a large chunk of the train’s passengers take the exact opposite message from it that they were meant to, which leads them to behavior that could put them permanently beyond being able to leave the train.

Sometimes kills people.

I’m pretty sure most of this is stuff I’m meant to be taking away from the show, but I also wonder how far Infinity Train is willing, or able, to take this idea. The open ending of S3, in which Grace, though headed in the right direction number-wise, is still nowhere near being able to leave the train, and also more focused on remaking the Apex into something more constructive, suggests that future seasons will get further into the question of whether the train can be reformed or made more productive. Or, conversely, the show could abandon its original premise and just become a story about the train, and the community of passengers and denizens that develops on it. I wonder, though, how much you can push against the inherent limitations of this premise - when you’ve got a story where getting better and more well-adjusted causes you to be forcibly ejected from the story, where does that leave you as far as plot progression and character development are concerned? There’s an inherent conflict to a world that is designed for a specific character (or group of characters). Infinity Train is fascinating for how it leans into that conflict, and I’m very curious to see how it handles its core contradiction going forward.

[mor-beck-more-problems]

Intro to Balancing Your Life || Morgan & Sasha

TIMING: Current

PARTIES: @sasha-r-blog & @mor-beck-more-problems

SUMMARY: Sasha drops in on a new class on campus; Morgan is only too happy to offer encouragements.

“…And who is it that determines the definition of humanity? What kind of definitions do we see offered by Victor, or Henry Cleveral, or the Creature?” Morgan asked the class. The students, while not thrilled with some of Mary Shelley’s ‘big words’ had enough preparation to offer semi thoughtful ideas. Obviously, Victor thought he could define what human means. One of her try-hard students, eager to please every adult in sight, posited that while Victor’s definition of humanity is the one that dominates the narrative, the intrusion of the creature’s perspective halfway through the book is meant to compel the reader into questioning its validity. “Yes!” Morgan tossed the kid a candy from her bowl. “The midpoint crisis here upends our expectations through thought, rather than action. It is, structurally, the center, the heart of the story, changing what we believe to be true. But, are we convinced by the Creature’s definition of his humanity? Why or why no–”

Morgan’s timer, the theme song of The X-Files, went off.

“Shit. Alright, that’s time everybody! Do your homework, do your reading, and get ready for Fan-Fiction Friday! And you–” She pointed to the newcomer sandwiched at the corner of the seminar table. “Come see me for a minute. The rest of you: glad you love each other, but please get out.” As the room cleared out she began to gather up her things. “I’ll level with you, I haven’t checked my roster, so I’m not sure if you’re a late add or just checking things out. But either way, I might be able to answer any questions you have better one-on-one instead of just looking at you across the room.”

Sasha watched the other students mingle and leave, a second of nervousness keeping her in her seat before the professor called out to her. It was hard to parse the tone in Professor Beck’s voice when Sasha’s immediate assumption at a teacher saying to “see me” was that she had fuck up somehow. But either way, Sasha walked towards the desk, dodging any curious looks from her exiting classmates.

“Um, hi. Sorry I didn’t mean to cause any trouble by sitting in.” She shifted the straps of her backpack, tugging them against her shoulders, as if the weight would somehow shield her from the awkwardness. “I’m Sasha Rodriguez. You gave me your office hours awhile ago. I uh, didn’t get a chance to visit but I saw your name on the winter session course list  and thought I’d check it out. I’m trying to branch out I guess.”

It took Morgan a few minutes to place the girl. She didn’t give out her school contact information to everyone, but it happened often enough that she had more than one name floating around her head. But the more she looked at her, the nervousness, the eagerness, the closer Morgan got to a hunch. “Oh, you’re the girl trying to figure everything out in college. I’m glad you decided to come by. If you’ve got some spare time, we can go somewhere and talk? I’d love to have you join in the spring, if you like what you’ve seen so far.” She dumped her books and laptop into her bag, and shouldered the load, handling the bulk with ease thanks to her strength. “Come on. Why don’t you start by telling me what you’re branching out from and what you thought about class today.”

“Oh, yeah, okay.” Sasha said as she moved to follow the professor. She still wasn’t used to how casual some professors could be. In high school they made it sound like professors were all strict, no nonsense, and unforgiving. And Sasha had certainly had professors like that during her first semester. But here was a professor throwing candy to students and cursing in class and talking about fan fiction. It was cool, but weird to process.

“I’m in computer science and I’ve only really taken courses in that department and math stuff. Oh, and also English 101, for the gen ed.” Those classes had been a lot different from what Sasha had just sat in on. Even the one English class she took didn’t really match up, that one having been run by an exhausted looking graduate teaching assistant who didn’t seem all that interested in teaching.

“The class was cool, though I feel like a lot of the stuff you were saying went over my head.” Sasha had a moment of internal panic, worried that came off as implying Professor Beck was bad at teaching. “I’ve just never been good at looking into books, but the class was interesting. I was surprised you mentioned fanfiction at the end. I didn’t think most professors even knew what that was.” Oh no, did that sound rude too? Sasha closed her mouth before she could say something dumb. Besides her advisor, if you could even count their meetings as conversation, and Ben, Sasha hadn’t really spoken one on one with a professor before. It still felt a bit surreal.

“Oh, that’s just because you’re coming in at the tail end of the course. I don’t throw my students into the deep end before I’m certain they can at least, you know, doggie paddle.” Morgan smiled good naturedly and lead them up to the main sitting area in the English building, setting her bag down carefully and making herself comfortable. “I can tell you that looking into books isn’t so different from the way you look into the stories in other media. Movies, TV, video games, comic books--our relationship to the stories we engage with say so much about what we envision for ourselves and the world. The more we understand and invest that relationship, the more empowered we feel to take control of our fate.” Morgan stopped herself from saying anything more and laughed, low and self deprecating. “Oh, jeez, don’t tell the other professors I said that. But, anyways, yes, the aforementioned reasons are what fan-fiction and other forms of counter-storytelling are so important. But more important than that is doing something that’s going to challenge you in positive, enjoyable ways. And making time for a little fun.” Morgan held her fingers up, like this much. “Can I ask how the rest of college is going for you, Sasha?”

Sasha followed her and sat in the unfamiliar sitting room. She gave a small smile as Professor Beck talked about stories and how people related to them, finding that she had been nodding along without realizing. She stopped once she did, somehow worried that it came off as over eager, as if a professor would ever get mad at someone being interested in what they were saying. If only the professor knew how close that hit to home for her. All those stories of kids getting superpowers, it was real. As if it had jumped straight off the page. As if Sasha had willed it into being. In the back of her mind Sasha wondered how she would have reacted to suddenly growing calls if she hadn’t grown up on comics and superhero movies. It felt like the blueprint to everything now.

Lost in her own thoughts she was a bit startled when the professor’s tone shifted. “No, no I agree, I think. I think all that stuff is important. Storytelling. I mean, I’m not much of a reader but comics and games and movies have been really important to me.” She wished there was a major in that stuff. Or crime fighting. She’d be on the dean’s list if her nightly patrols counted for credits.

“It’s been going okay. I mean, I don’t really do much outside of classes. I’ve been trying to do more but I mostly keep to myself.” It was the same thing she had told her advisor and Professor Campbell, but more and more Sasha felt silly for saying it. It wasn’t like she did nothing, just nothing related to college life. But it wasn’t like she could tell her professors she was protecting White Crest. Or at least trying to.

Morgan noticed Sasha’s interest and perked up at once. “You know, we do cover films in my class,” she said, grinning slyly. “And books. But still. It’s the same kind of thought process as with books, so it might as well be given its time and place. There’s plenty of other courses like that in this department, even a film and media studies minor. You should do what makes you happy, because undergrad coursework doesn’t matter half as much as you think it does. It’s all internships and jobs and connections and recommendations that help you get anywhere. And this place, college, has a lot of flaws and problems, but one of the best ways to make it worth it is leave knowing as much as you can about the things that matter to you most.” But that was about all the pitching she was willing to do on behalf of her class. Besides, being a student at UMWC came second to being a kid in White Crest. Morgan couldn’t help but look at the girl and wonder what this place would do to her. Morgan pushed the thought away, she couldn’t let herself focus on a big, bad future like it was some kind of unstoppable force.

“This might sound silly, coming from a professor who just tried to recruit you to their class, but I hope you do find other things besides school studies. There’s a much bigger world out there, and you should have something else in your life. At least friends and playing video games or going to Al’s at one in the morning or whatever kids your age do now. Life is for doing stuff, you know? Whatever it is you’re thinking about doing or joining, you should go for it!”

“I never really thought about taking a minor. I didn’t know they had one about film.” Honestly, more and more Sasha felt like she hadn’t planned much of anything when it came to school. Or life in general. But she supposed she could change that. If anything this talk had made her actually interested in looking into classes, something she had mostly breezed through doing in the past, simply checking off the boxes of what she needed for her degree. But if the professor was right and it didn’t matter that much... “Maybe I’ll try looking into classes for film and english and stuff like that. They seem fun. At least the stuff you were talking about seems fun.”

Maybe it would make school more interesting, instead of something Sasha went through the motions of to get to her real job. “Real job,” as being a superhero paid. As if she wouldn’t one day need a day job. College was a convenient way to pass the time and something she was told she had to do, but it would be nice to actually care about it, to feel like she was actually doing something.

“I do have hobbies...” Just none she could tell Professor Beck about. “But yeah, I should probably try to do more. I wanted to check out the library. I was supposed to help out with the comic collection there as a volunteer thing. So that’s a start I guess.” It had almost slipped her mind, but that was something she had been genuinely excited for. It was just hard to remember stuff like that during the day when she was normally up all night. Her nightly patrols had turned her days sluggish and uneventful, filled with quick naps between class and maybe some video games alone in her dorm before she put on her costume and went out again. And she loved doing it, of course she loved going out at night to keep White Crest safe. But at the same time...

“Do you ever just get really focused on one thing?” Sasha asked the question before she was thought about it, but decided to keep going, even if it was dumb. “Like, you have something you like or is important and you just focus on that and everything else just kinda blurs into the background?”  Sasha rubbed nervously at the back of her neck. “I don’t know if that makes sense. I guess sometimes I feel like that. But I don’t know if I want to change it.”

“The library is a great start!” Morgan said. “You’re going to learn so much, and probably find people who have similar interests to you when they come to check out materials. But I hope you do other stuff, not for credit, just for you. You’re only going to be young once--” Hopefully.

She couldn’t help but smile at Sasha’s notion, that hyper-focus was something rare or embarrassing. “Oh, all the time. I have some art projects that I do on the side, and I can get so lost in my carving that hours can pass by so easily. Same with baking, or cooking something really involved. It’s almost like you’re connecting to something else, outside of or beyond you. There’s you, the thing you’re doing, and this energy it gives you, right?” Morgan watched the girl’s expression to see if she was getting it right. “Even if it’s just kind of like that, I don’t think you should change it. Whatever that thing is, it sounds to me like the universe is giving you the green light to keep going.”

Sasha nodded, giving a small smile. She was happy that Professor Beck seemed to get it and not think it was weird. Sure, Sasha's focus wasn’t on crafts or cooking, but it was the thought that counted. Her mind lingered on what she said about being given a green light. Really, what was a bigger green light than getting her powers? But she knew there was more to it than that. There had to be a reason it was her. She had to be able to do something with her powers, something to really help people. It was comforting to have the professor say she was right, that the universe wanted her to do what she was already doing, but there was a pang of melancholy knowing Sasha couldn’t tell her, or anyone, the truth. How much did advice and validation matter when the person saying it didn’t know the full truth?

She shook the thought from her head. “Thanks. Sorry, I didn’t mean to ask you a bunch of weird questions when I came to sit in. I think it would be cool to try out one of your classes though if you still have room for students.” Sasha chased away the worry of struggling in a class she wasn’t used to. If worst came to worst she could always drop that class. At least it would be something new, something she might actually end up liking.

Beaming and unawares, Morgan took out a post-it from her bag and scribbled out the class information before handing it to Sasha. “Don’t be embarrassed about questions,” she said. “Questions are how we learn. You’re never going to find anything interesting if you always leave well enough alone.” She stood up, getting the vibe that Sasha had opened up all she felt like so far. “I hope to see a lot more of you this coming semester,” she said. “Hoping even more that you do something just for you, but.” She put a finger to her lips. That’ll just be our secret.

“Thanks. I’ll try to keep asking them.” Well that was one social interaction that didn’t go horribly. Wasn’t great that Sasha considered that a victory for herself but she was going to take the feeling of accomplishment anyways. “And I’ll try to do stuff for myself too.” That was going to take more work than just registering for a class, but maybe it wouldn’t be the worst. She couldn’t promise herself she would put in the effort though. Tucking the post-it note into her backpack she smiled and said goodbye to Professor Beck. Maybe a few new classes would be enough to make her college life, and her daily life, seem a bit more exciting and a bit less like time to just get through. But her patrolling White Crest at night was still more important. Professor Beck didn’t have to know that part though.

[hamliet]

Reflections of Su XiYan in Scum Villain’s Female Characters

I did not realize it was MXTX ladies week until yesterday. :( So I want to do a post/meta on the amazing women in each novel (not without critique), so let’s start with MXTX’s first one!

Scum Villain’s Self-Saving System, which while it may have more obvious narrative flaws than TGCF or MDZS (it sets up some plot points it kinda drops later, whereas TGCF and MDZS pretty much maximize every single aspect of potential), I actually think is just as rich, clever, and coherent thematically as MXTX’s latter two novels.

The plot points that are dropped, though, are actually almost entirely related to the set up the female characters as deconstructing the idea that they were just things for Original!Luo BingHe to collect. While it does do this to an extent with Su XiYan, Ning YingYing, and Sha HuaLing, it kinda… dropped the arcs halfway through for Ning YingYing and Sha HuaLing, and sets up but never really begins Liu MingYan’s and Qin WanYue’s. 

Su XiYan’s arc, though, despite it taking place in the past and being told to us, is entirely about refuting the role the men in her life ascribe to her... and all of the other female characters--all members of Original!Luo BingHe’s harem--represent a part of her. You could get, like, really Oedipal if you wanted to, but I’d rather not beyond simply saying it’s a pattern in stories that is definitely present here. Aspects of her story and character are reflected in each of the women who are love interests in Proud Immortal Demon Way. 

Our first refutation of how men treat and categorize Su XiYan is through her foiling with Ning YingYing. 

Shen Yuan notes that Shen Jiu sexually harassed Ning YingYing:

the original Shen Qingqiu had designs on Ning Yingying... [he] had dirty thoughts towards his lively and well-behaved disciples. Several times he tried to lay hands on them and almost succeeded at that.

Which is what the Old Palace Master did to Su XiYan:

He turned to focus his stare on Luo Binghe’s quietly sleeping face... nThe Old Palace Master gazed at him for a long while then sighed: “When you close your eyes, you resemble her the most. And also when you’re being cold.”

His eyes traveled over Luo Binghe’s face greedily. If he still had hands, he would have reached out to fondle as well.

However, the Old Palace Master never got anywhere with Su XiYan, because she fell in love with someone else and thereby refutes the idea that she’s his tool. In the original, Ning YingYing is rescued by Luo BingHe in the original. In the novel, Ning YingYing’s arc is about her discovering self-sufficiency. She doesn’t need rescuing from Luo BingHe; she can rescue herself, as is shown when she leads Ming Fan and the other disciples into a fight to protect Shen QingQiu’s honor after his arrest. When someone slaps her, she slaps back, twice--but Shen QingQiu gives her the energy. I would have liked (and think her arc was heading towards) her to grow to be competent on her own as well. 

Next, Sha HuaLing.  

Sha HuaLing represents TianLang-Jun’s assumptions about Su XiYan: that she was a deceptive seductress who would betray him for her own desires. However, in reality, like Sha HuaLing does in Proud Immortal Demon Way, Su XiYan betrays her race (for her, humanity, for Sha HuaLing, demons) for love. 

Sha Hualing was a pure-blooded demon, cruel and ruthless, cunning and artful, but fell irrevocably for Luo Binghe. After getting together with Luo Binghe, don’t even speak about killing for him; she even dared to do an outrageous thing like betraying the demons for him. 

Su XiYan, however, was never given the chance to fight back. In the actual novel, Sha HuaLing does much the same (betrays the demons), but Luo BingHe does not love her and she knows it. I think this is a good ending place for Sha HuaLing, assigned to fight against her father in the final battle (which she does), but we’re told rather than shown her development and we’re not told what led to this decision, which is a shame. 

Sha HuaLing is perhaps most directly foiled both in Proud Immortal Demon Way and in SVSSS by Qin WanYue. 

Qin WanYue, much like Su XiYan, is considered the perfect disciple of the Huan Hua Palace. Regarding Su XiYan, it’s noted: 

“That woman had shocking talent, was intelligent and sensitive when making decisions, and she had the aura of a tyrant. The Old Palace Master loved and cared for this private disciple. He thought of her as a pearl that should be protected in his hands and trained her to be the next Palace Master of Huan Hua Palace. No matter where he went, he would bring Su Xiyan along with him. The importance that he placed in her was abnormal.”

Qin WanYue’s symbol is a pearl that lights the way.

Luo Binghe picked up Qin Wanyue’s Night Pearl that had fallen to the ground and raised it high, as though it were a beacon. It awakened those who had frozen in place.

Not to mention in the original novel Qin WanYue loses a child in a miscarriage caused by someone else (Sha HuaLing) much like Su XiYan almost lost Luo BingHe when pregnant with him. Qin WanYue clings to Luo BingHe after the loss of her sister as something who might be able to offer her happiness. She’s not much different than Luo BingHe growing up parents and clinging to ShiZun: she who lost her sister and then clings to the person who saved her. But in her case, Luo BingHe does not return her affection, and I really had hoped/ expected her arc to end with her finding her own path.

Qin WanYue is also tasked with an action beneath her (much like Sha HuaLing): taking care of the Little Palace Mistress, the Old Palace Master’s literal daughter and hence another foil to Su XiYan. Her defining trait is her pettiness and cruelty, the latter of which Su XiYan is also said to have been capable of, as she began spending time with TianLang-Jun in an attempt to bring him down.

However, the mistress isn’t really set up with the potential for an arc like Qin WanYue is. 

From time to time [Qin WanYue] would cast a teary glance at Luo Binghe, as if expecting something...

[Sha HuaLing:] “how many times have you failed to seduce the lord yet still refuse to leave? If you don’t leave that’s fine, but you’re incapable of looking after even a single person. Her cultivation isn’t even as high as yours. You’re her senior martial sister. You didn’t stop her early and didn’t stop her late. All you did was to let her make this unreasonable scene in front of the lord. Who are you putting on this pitiful and wronged appearance for?”

Qin WanYue isn’t weak at all, but she puts on a weak act for Luo BingHe, hoping to attract a rescuer like she needed back then. I initially expected her arc to end with her accepting her strength and moving on form Luo BingHe (and from the little palace mistress). I still think it should have. 

And then we have Qiu HaiTang, whom I don’t think is set up as much for development as the others despite having more backstory on her. 

Still, Qiu HaiTang she was a woman mistreated and shamed by what had happened with her fiance Shen Jiu--just like Su XiYan was shamed for what happened with TianLang-Jun. 

“That’s right, if she hadn’t been so ill-fated as to fall for Tianlang-Jun’s wiles, she would have had such a bright and promising future and be a person of great renown today.”

“I don’t care what fantastic rewards are promised to me━having an affair with a demon and getting knocked up with a monster child is just plain disgusting. This kind of merit, I wouldn’t accept even if it was served to me on a silver platter.”

“Su Xiyan was probably too ashamed to remain, and thus ran away from the sect master.”

The thing is, all these roles--perfect disciple with great potential, brave enough to betray everything for love, endearing and caring, mistreated--none of these really capture the complexity and beauty of who Su XiYan really was... which is represented in Liu MingYan, the noted female counterpart to Luo BingHe, the main female lead. Liu MingYan conceals her face, which is too beautiful to be seen. 

Liu MingYan, like Si XiYan, remains mysterious; Shen QingQiu never sees her face uncovered, and the audience never really gets a clue as to what is going on in her head besides the mention that she cares deeply for her brother. Again, this is something I think could have and should have been developed more; she has the set-up for an arc with her conflict with Sha HuaLing being dazzled by her beauty and with her loyalty to her sect and brother, but it doesn’t go anywhere. She said to be “the number one female lead!” after all, and I think it’s entirely possible for her to maintain her aura of mystery and still... have an arc. Su XiYan did, after all, and she was dead before the novel began.

In the end, no one really can define whom Su XiYan was exactly, because she’s dead. What ultimately mattered, what defined Su XiYan’s legacy, was her final choice to save her son (and yes, it’s fair to critique that it’s again about a man, but it’s her choice). That’s why the story, in its penultimate chapter, has Shen QingQiu telling Luo BingHe: 

“Su Xiyan risked her life to give birth to you... 

“If I were in her shoes, I would not hesitate to drink [the poison for a fetus] regardless of how lethal it is. Then, after escaping from the water prison, I would absorb it all into my own body. Regardless of how agonizing and horrifying the process is, regardless of the price to be paid, regardless of whether it would be a painful death, I would never let this child suffer any harm.

“This is how I see it. You can take it as just an interpretation because there is no one who can tell you what Su Xiyan was thinking before she breathed her last. But if she really saw you as a disgrace, she didn’t need to do anything more. She could have just lowered you into the Luo River, on the coldest days of the year, in a harsh and frozen landscape━how could you possibly survive?... she also need not use the last of her strength and energy to put you in a wooden basin and push you away to safety…… You don’t even need to wait for someone to save you at all since you would have already become a wandering soul who met his freezing end in Luo River.

He’s healed, and he no longer needs to try to recreate his mother figure in over a thousand beautiful women like he did in the past. He can heal. 

Imo, it would have been even more powerful if the women then stepped out of these roles more completely, and became their own people. But I really do like all four of the main women I discussed here, and someday I’ll write more for them. 

[pachitoherrera]

Poison x Reader ii // coffee

a/n: i’m ready to hide forever in a closet!! anon i really hope this piece is what you expected, or at least that it’s alright :) i felt like a student writing a thesis, doing all this reaserch on how to write smut, so yeah,i hope you can enjoy it xx (18+)

Manizales was a beautiful city, old and new buildings aligned on steep streets creating a unique atmosphere in the city centre as you were leaning out of the window, trying to spot the famous Nevado del Ruiz volcano. It was also the main centre for the production of coffee, and either it was your mind projecting your knowledge and expectations to your senses, or there really was the sweet but bitter smell of coffee permeating the air, blending perfectly with the scent of a late summer afternoon. 

“I would kill for a coffee”, you sighed, closing your eyes and taking a deep breath in. The corners of your mouth twitched when you thought about the choice of your words. Kill for a coffee. Poison would probably take that literally. It was so easy to forget that the man next to you was the cartel’s most trusted sicario, and the second you remembered it, a sense of unease began to lift in the back of your mind. However, that feeling was quickly shushed as you reminded yourself that even though he was a ruthless killer, he was just following orders. And unless your death was ordered by Pablo – which you doubted – chances were good that you could push boundaries without receiving a bullet to your head. All these thoughts were so quickly occupying your mind that you almost jumped in your seat as Poison spoke. 

“You can’t sleep if you drink caffeine now”, he said without taking his eyes off the road. 

A chuckle escaped your lips. “Who says I’m planning on sleeping tonight?” Poison turned to look at you. Internally you were rewarding yourself for such a clever answer but you let a few seconds pass before you met his gaze with a doe-eyed expression, shrugging your shoulders. There was no change upon his face, and admittedly, it did frustrate you, but then again you could expect from the head of the sicarios to be able to hide his thoughts quite easily. 

“We are here to do a job, not to play tourists.”

“Ya sé, ya sé, it’s the highest priority. But drinking is a basic human need, isn’t it? And how can we visit Manizales without having tasted the coffee here.” 

--

With two cups of coffee in your lap – you couldn’t just buy a coffee for yourself without thinking about your companion who so reluctantly agreed to your pleading – the car came to a halt in front of a small house off the city centre. Poison was just about to get out of the car and open the garage when you held him back. “I’ll do that.” 

The cups now balancing in one hand (a skill you had acquired from your part-time jobs as waitress), you walked in front of the car to the garage gate. You knew he was looking at you, and so you made sure to bend forward slower than necessary, letting your short dress do the rest as you pulled up the gate, careful to not spill the coffees. You turned around just quickly enough to see a faint smile on Poison’s face, which was gone as soon as he pulled past you. Now it was your turn to serve the self-confident smile as you waited for him to get the bags out of the trunk. 

The rooms inside the house were more spacious than what the outside gave away, and you figured it was one of the many houses owned by Pablo that would eventually serve as a hiding spot one day. “Is it just the two of us? No additional guards?”, you asked with a raised voice as you wandered around to give yourself a small tour, noticing the lack of people with guns which were such a common sight back in Medellín. 

“Am I not enough for you o qué?” Poison was standing by the window in the living room, a soft breeze moving the curtains and the ends of his hair. He looks like a model, you thought. Walking over to the window, you handed him one of the coffees that you were still holding on to and took a sip of the other. To your surprise, the liquid was still warm. The aroma of freshly ground coffee beans spread on your tongue, so delicious that you could not suppress a slight moan.

“Depends on what for”, you finally answered. Your gaze was resting on his face, waiting for something that might give away what he thought. But just as earlier, you couldn’t read him a single bit. The silence between you was disturbed by the shrill ringing of the phone that belonged to the house, and you figured it would be someone from the cartel calling. Maybe even the boss himself, since Poison wasn’t subordinated to anyone but him. Your assumption was proven correct when he mumbled a “si, patrón”. You were watching him while you drank your coffee, not trying to hide your curiosity about the topic of their call. This nosiness was even fueled when Poison looked into your direction and nodded, even though Pablo couldn’t see his movement. “The boss wants to know whether you’re still ready for tomorrow.” “I am”, you said soberly. When it came to Pablo, you had quickly learned two rules for talking to him; be honest and don’t say more than needed. 

Eventually, you decided to leave him to it and take a quick shower. The car ride had been long and the sweat on your skin was mixed with the road dust from when you were waiting for Poison to change the tyre. An event that seemed like from a different timeline, you thought to yourself. You emptied your cup of coffee and went to the bathroom, turning on the shower. Immediately, Poison’s voice became only a subdued sound. As the water was running down your body, washing away the dirt from the day, you wondered what was taking them so long. They must have been aware that the Americans could listen to their phone calls, so why take the chances? But it wasn’t your problem, you weren’t a killer, nor a drug trafficker. Sooner or later the cartel would go down, and you were just a simple girl who had fallen for the wrong men.

You wrapped yourself in a towel after you left the shower, looking forward to putting on the fresh clothes that were waiting for you in the bedroom, neatly stuffed in your bag. There was no noise coming from the living room, so they must have finished their phone call while you were lost in thoughts. The cool air from outside the bathroom caused goosebumps on your skin as you walked through the corridor, stopping by the living room to check on Poison. Your heart made a small, joyful jump when you saw him sitting on the couch, drinking the coffee you had bought for him (which by now must have been cold). He raised his head to look at you, and this time you could have sworn to see a hint of amusement in his expression.

“Enjoying the view?” you asked as an allusion to your small road trip when these words were said by him. You could go further, just one small movement. But it would push all boundaries, was it really a good decision?

Fuck it, you thought, the inner argumentation that you had earlier in the car as to why you could do it playing in your head again. You already went through this. He wouldn’t kill you. In addition to that, your shower thoughts were still circulating in your mind. If he, or you, would get caught by the law one day, you would deeply regret not having tried. And so, eyes still locked with his, you dropped your towel on the floor, not giving him time to look at your exposed body before turning around to walk to the bedroom. 

You bit your lip, halfway through starting to regret it, when you were suddenly thrown aside, your back hitting the wall in a rather violent manner. Poison was pressing you against the wall, one hand on your throat to keep you locked in place. 

“Venga, cariño, that’s enough. I have been giving you a pass on your little theatre the whole day, do you think this is some fucking game?” You didn’t answer, you couldn’t answer with his face only inches away from yours. You felt your heart pounding into your chest, breath coming in short waves. It was not fear that caused it, neither the hand on your throat. You were exited. So instead, you just looked at him with pleading eyes. The air between you was filled with anticipation, and you leaned your body into his, bringing your face closer, his hand on your throat allowing the movement. And then his lips were pressed on yours, eager and passionate. The kind of kiss that left you breathless when he pulled away, as his lips wandered down your jaw to the crook of your neck. You closed your eyes, your skin burning under his kisses, every fibre of your body enjoying the moment. You felt his arms grasping the back of your thighs and lifting you up. A surprised cry left your lips and you quickly wrapped your legs around his waist, your tongue now caressing his neck, one hand grabbing his beautiful hair that felt so soft under your fingers. 

Poison carried you effortlessly to the bedroom where he carefully set you on the bed, with a gentleness that surprised you given the way his hand so quickly squeezed your throat just moments ago. You suddenly felt small, your naked body exposed under his eyes that were filled with desire as he watched you while unbuttoning his shirt. You crawled forward to unzip his pants, eager to show him that he made the right decision. The growing bulge was showing you that he wanted you just as you wanted him. With his help, you quickly got rid of the clothes that were in the way, shirt and pants tossed away without care, so that only out of the corner of your eyes you noticed the pack of cigarettes falling on the floor.

Suddenly, you were thrown back, his body now hovering over you. He lowered down to kiss you again, his tongue not wasting any second to enter your mouth. His hands found your breasts, his thumbs against your hard nipples making your back ache and sending a burning sensation down to your core. Poison smiled against your lips and his mouth wandered down your jaw again, to your throat, and then to where his right hand was seconds before. Being lost in the feeling of his tongue against your nipple, your hand wandered down to your burning core but was grabbed by him before it reached its destination. He pinned your arm over your head, and the second his lips parted from your body, you started to miss them. “You think I’m letting you off so easy?” You opened your mouth to say something, but your breath hitched as Poison parted your legs with his hands. “Don’t move”, he ordered with a stern voice and you felt compelled to obey.  His lips started making a path down your body, the softness of the touch leaving you shuddering. Stopping at your inner thighs, he gently placed kisses on your skin, and your body was yearning for what was to come. 

“Ah princesa, you are so excited to see me,” he said at the sight of your wetness. “Pend–” The word got stuck in your throat when his tongue flicked over your sweet point, sending sparks through your whole body. Eyes closed, you felt his hot breath against your sensitive entrance as he worked on your swollen clit, sucking and swirling his tongue. Instinctively, you tucked your pelvis up, only for his hand to press it back, his lips now moving away from your core. You opened your eyes, pleading with your gaze for him to continue. “I said don’t move.” “I won’t”, you whimpered, the rational thinking part of you angry that he got you so easily wrapped around his little finger.

His tongue was back at your soft spot, this time accompanied by his thumb, and it didn’t take long until you tensed, your legs starting to shake because of the orgasm that was building up. That is when he suddenly stopped. You looked down on him, ready to protest, but the sudden feeling of his cock sliding deep into the wet of your body made you lose all thoughts. He lowered down as he took up the pace, mouth all over your body. One of his hands found your throat again as he thrust into you, over and over. You wanted so badly to release, but the small power games between the two of you reminded you to do otherwise. “Let me ride you”, you whispered and didn’t let him answer as you moved your body up to turn him around. The surprise was written on his face as you sank down, whimpering from his full length inside you. With a smile, you slowly started rocking your hips, hands on his chest to hold him down. You couldn’t help but notice the admiration in his eyes, and you didn’t remember the last time someone looked at you like that. 

He sat up and grabbed your chin to make you look at him. “A disobedient princesa.” His wet kiss washed away the smile on your lips before he started thrusting his hips, moving rhythmically against you while his tongue was leaving hickeys on your neck. His hands moved to your waist, pressing you against him as his pounds got faster and more erratic. You tried to hold off your orgasm, lowering your head to the crook of his neck and grabbing his back with your nails. As his breathing became rapid, you threw your head back and his lips immediately found yours. Your walls clenched around his shaft and a cry left your mouth as pleasure shot through your whole body, you both coming undone with Poison shuddering and uttering your name. 

You were breathing heavily when Poison sank back into the bed and you rolled down from him with a swift movement. You wanted to stay with to him, kiss him again, rest your head on his shoulder. But in this final part of the game you couldn’t give in, not with the success you had until now. So instead, you got up, taking his shirt to cover your body. His eyes were following you as you bent down to pick up the cigarettes from the floor, thoughts wandering to the garage door earlier that day. A cigarette in your mouth, you fumbled with the lighter to light it while throwing the cigarette pack on the bed for him. Without a single word or glance, you left the room, welcoming the tobacco smoke that filled your lungs.