#AND I SWEAR I WILL WATCH THE ENTIRE THING BECAUSE EVEN THOUGH THE ERROR INK FRESH FIGHT WAS COOL

[chasmbreach]

AYO? :0 #12 ON TRENDING?

[juleswolverton-hyde]

Confessions of a Coffee-Eater | 02

Genre: Smut, College/University AU

Pairing: Student!/Poet!Namjoon x Student!/Poet!

Warnings: sub!Namjoon gets a handjob in the classroom during a lecture, allusion to smoking

Summary: It is in hard times beautiful things can occur and the addiction of primal instincts be suppressed in their proximity. However, when two souls from different social worlds meet in a poetry class, any former urges gain a new direction.

Some of which are sensual in emotion.

And may not be reciprocated.

Masterlist

Previous part / Next part

There is a lyric which dictates that “sorry” seems to be the hardest word and last night while pondering a way to offer sincere apologies for the unintentional harassment the true meaning came forth as the song played on the radio. Replayed itself again and again as a pen twisted between fingers free from the engraving ink on skin, waiting for any potential customers. The last of the twilight cigarette smoke dissipated before settling into the corner of the back office to catch a few hours of sleep since the last hours of the night shift are dead in business.

The sole idea is offering a cup of anything but fantastic coffee from one of the machines spread around the building and hope a listening ear will be given to a remorseful poor man from Ilsan. A concept that becomes more and more terrifying with each step advancing towards the university building outside the city centre that both students and professors complain about, especially with having to attend and give morning lectures.

The cafeteria is bland like the rest of the dated interior which makes one think more of a high school than a proper academic environment, the only attempt at enlivening the area being the crisp white picnic tables standing in a neat row against an ugly brick wall between the stairs and the guard’s booth. Across from the still empty benches sits the wronged woman, engrossed in noting something down and thus not paying any attention to the anxious onyx beanie passing by towards the tiny coffee corner.

Ignorant to the split second of stopping to simply gaze for a little bit at how flowing hair falls over the shoulder clad in nighttime fabric, the outfit of the day not out of place in an office as the blouse on top of monotone pants and made more interesting with golden accents in the form of a belt and watch radiate a chic mood.

She’s way out of my league. But still, I have to apologize.

Bearing the thought in mind, begotten in that instance of allowing romantic fascination without perverse intent to overtake body and soul, the debit card with little money on it is used to pay for two cappuccinos. Fortunately, last night’s tips make up for the expense so some groceries, later on, will have to be paid for in cash.

The coffees in hand, slowly the table at which Y/N is still working on something is approached while trying to keep breathing under control and composure steady. Notwithstanding, it crumbles to reveal a hint of panic when the busily scribbling pen is put down and eyes look from the page to the steaming cup of caffeine to a well-meaning man in a denim jacket beneath a grey vest with a brown collar.

A slim finger points at one of the bright yellow cups on the table. ‘Is that for me?’

‘Y- Yeah.’ A hand automatically rises to rub the back of the neck, gaze slightly averted to hide cheeks burning as the temperature inside seems to rise. ‘I want to say sorry. For yesterday, because what I- I shouldn’t have done what I did bu- but I couldn’t-’

‘Namjoon. That’s your name, right?’ The inquiry halts the apologetic stammering waterfall likely leading nowhere, a brief nod confirming the assumption. ‘It’s fine.’

‘But I looked at-’

‘Really, it’s okay.’ A welcoming hand gestures casually at the chair of which the back has been unconsciously gripped tightly, knuckles turning white. Strangely, though it could have been due to still being half-asleep, the same motioning fingers appear to want to reach out but can barely withhold themselves. A silly idea, judging by the even voice continuing to speak. ‘Have a seat. We still got a bit of time before we need to go. If you want to, of course.’

Without a second thought, any outerwear is draped over the offered seat before rapidly plopping down. Apparently doing so with much eagerness for a stunned breathless laugh escapes the girl about to take a sip of the peace offering. ‘Thank you, Miss.’

‘Miss?’ An inquisitive eyebrow raises, the unconsciously made mistake only realized too late.

Lips part in panic, wanting to protest yet all words fail to string themselves into a proper excuse. ‘I- I mean- I didn’t mean to- Y- Y/N, I swear I-’

‘Namjoon,’ kind digits wrap around the nautical map covering tensed muscles bared from beneath denim, ‘take a deep breath. Like that. There you go. Good b- Good.’

The slip of the tongue is laughed off, locks shaking slightly in unjust embarrassment fueling a heart truly wanting to shrink before vanishing from the earth entirely. 

Or so it did want to, the warmth in the chest now spreading its rosy glow throughout while repeating the error over and over mentally.

I’m pleasing her. She wanted to say I’m her good boy. I can be. I am. I am your good boy, Y/N.

‘Uhm, are you alright?’ The digits that retracted in a fashion wrongly perceived as trembling reach out again, slightly shaking the feather resting eternally on skin. The warmth of the palm perfectly enveloping it is comforting, a steady beacon guiding consciousness back to reality. 

Away from the perverse thought of that same hand pinning an absent-minded poor soul to the mattress in the same manner. Henceforth, albeit with a suppressed jolt of surprise as if waking from a dream, sight gradually focuses on the beautiful woman wearing a concerned expression. ‘Huh, what?’

‘You were spacing out.’ A whimper can barely be silenced before being made audible at feeling the light squeeze asking for attention, fast-beating heart skipping beats. Once again distracted by the contact and the lips that want to be experienced from up close instead of far away. 

Yet sharply sane enough to muster a half-hearted excuse blaming the morning for the ridiculous behaviour. ‘Oh, ehm, yeah. I’m fine. It’s early.’

What am I doing? She doesn’t know me and I don’t really know her. I need to get a grip on myself.

‘Fortunately, there’s coffee to wake us up.’ The worry melts away into gentle kindness, leaving digits creating a cold wake as they wrap around the bright yellow cardboard cup bearing the university’s logo. But not chilling the honest man turned into a lovesick puppy mimicking the normalcy of drinking coffee while ignoring the pooling heat below.

We still have some time and I can’t move until I’ve calmed down. She shouldn’t know what she does to me, not yet. Not... ever.

‘Can I ask you something?’ To keep the conversation flowing, an innocent desire appears to form the lead to follow. Awkwardly shuffling to hide the strain in jeans, voice is kept as steadily as possible regardless of shyness overtaking demeanour slowly. 

‘Sure. Fire away.’

‘What were you penning down earlier? I- I saw you... uhm, just now- I saw you write something in your notebook.’

Why did I stutter? Why is she looking like that? Oh God, what do I do?

‘And you don’t suppose it actually has to do with the course?’ The sarcastic chuckle on the rim of the cup has a strangely flattered undertone, almost to be called endeared. 

Withholding innermost personal emotions. 

That circulate beneath the indecipherable surface of breathtaking affectionate irises locking gazes with genuine curiosity. ‘Why would it at this hour? It’s just a random thought more than a poem but then again, so is all my poetry. If it can be even called that.’ However, all playfulness fades into under-the-breath muttering as melancholia takes over and Y/N’s focus moves away to finish the cheap warm drink. ‘Just an amalgamation of thoughts.’

A loathsome sight to a boy with love for a woman whom he barely knows yet wants to ensure the happiness of. 

Without being aware of it, a hand glides over the thigh clad in obsidian as speech becomes urgent. ‘Hey, don’t talk like that. I’m sure it’s good.’

And moves away as if burned by fire when the intimacy is noticed thanks to a tilt of the head, enchanting eyes leaning to the side in rather odd fascination. ‘Oh God, I’m so sorry. Still, may- No, what am I saying? Y/N, I didn’t-’

‘Namjoon, it’s alright.’ Softly smiling fingers brush over shivering honey skin, gliding over it and drawing intricate calming patterns over inked stories to still the panic. ‘I don’t mind.’

‘Y- You don’t?’

‘No, I don’t. Please, say what you wanted to say.’

The bottom lip is briefly worried between teeth, a sigh rolling off the tongue when deciding to speak up at last in spite of wanting to disappear, be swallowed whole by the onyx beanie hiding earthly brown locks in dire need of a cut. ‘May I read it?’

‘Promise you won’t judge? You seem to know a great deal more than I about the genre.’ Mayhaps unaware of it, the palm resting on the place formerly deemed forbidden is enveloped as much as possible by a smaller one as a tiny thumb caresses the back of it.

Thus for a few seconds stretching into moments we sit, newly met strangers already of a bond with one another that does not touch grounds with that of lovers nor mere friends. It is of a different indescribable nature, testing the waters of uncharted territory.

But it feels safe.

Trusted.

Like a safe haven the map on the arm leads to.

She is my anchor. 

Which is shown by flipping the tables enough that Y/N’s hand rests between those of a poor sod from Ilsan on foreign soil. And it takes all inner strength to not put it on the cheek, to bask in the kindness. ‘Tell you what, I’ll let you read mine if you let me read yours. ‘Fair?’

The last sip of coffee is quickly gulped down before answering with the same confidence that shines bright in illuminated irises. ‘Fair.’

That dim when noticing the time. ‘We have to go.’

For nine o’clock on a September Tuesday will always be too early to analyze poetry.

But never too soon to see her.

‘Let’s go.’

Nine o’clock on a September Tuesday will always be too early to analyze poetry.

But never too soon to see him.

To lean against the deep-voiced mixture of nicotine and cologne wearing glasses with a thick black frame that others shun, ignorantly afraid of the person they deem a delinquent. However, they cannot see the gentle soul beneath a prejudiced exterior, not feel the fast stiffening of muscles that melt away at a pleased hum.

‘Are you still awake?’ A low giggle resonates in the baritone inquiry, having a chance to talk in a short ten-minute break after processing a ton of poetical and theoretical analysis. 

Judging by the sloth-like sensation spreading throughout, the information might not be committed to memory until notes made on the automatic pilot are read through. ‘Barely.’

‘Want to get another coffee?’

‘Mhm, I’d rather sit here.’ A pleased smile naturally carves itself into lips. An odd thing to happen, but there is something in the subdued scent of soap beneath the heavier aromas of musk and tobacco or perhaps the combination of the three that creates a small piece of happiness. ‘Thank you.’

‘For what?’ Regardless of not being able to see Namjoon’s face, lashes fluttering shut, the quizzical look can vividly be imagined behind closed eyes. And it enhances the sense of kind joy, glad to be in the company of a good friend.

Or more. No, less. What are we? What do we mean? Hm, doesn’t matter now. Gods, should have drunk another espresso before heading out the door.

‘For letting me lean against you like this.’ As a sign of honest appreciation and to be more comfortable, the warm tribal jungle of aquatic blue and emerald green is further snuggled up against. ‘I like it.’

‘Don’t fall asleep, though. We’re halfway there.’ For a split second, there is the curious wish or, rather, expectation for the statement to be sealed with a chaste kiss on the top of the head. Withal, to unjust disappointment, it does not come for. It would have been absurd if it had, of course.

And yet the desire keeps gnawing on the inside. 

‘If I do, please wake me up before the professor sees.’ Fortunately, inner sensations can be suppressed by taking on a playful tone barely shy of badly lying. Nevertheless, a sudden memory of a promise erases the thought of being like this outside of the university, huddled together on a couch.

Or between the sheets.

The timid giant spent in the arms of a girl turned weirdly mischievous as of late.

Eyes languidly open, brought back from the equally as sudden and vibrant recalling of the awkward shuffling to apparently hide the endearing hardened shape in jeans. Voice remains even, luckily, when reminding the buff sweetheart of what is due to him as well. ‘Oh, right. I promised I’d let you read my new poem. Hold on, let me grab my notebook.’ 

Perhaps thanks to the fear of being caught red-handed with furiously blushing cheeks, locks immediately duck under the table to rummage around the backpack that is hardly filled with anything. Notwithstanding, the opposite is acted out until the rampant thoughts of a racing heart have calmed down. 

Only to almost start anew when bumping into Joon’s hand upon rising from beneath the piece of furniture.

‘I- I didn’t- Just making sure you wouldn’t get hurt.’ Swiftly, composure crumbles appealingly into haphazard helplessness as the shield against injury is retracted while actively trying not to stutter. 

‘Much appreciated. Truly.’ To quiet the doubt in the fellow poet’s behaviour, an assuring tone naturally slips into soft-spoken smiling speech. And works effectively as a rapidly breathing chest falls slower. 

Once more, comfort is sought by leaning against the jungle-shaded arm, leafing to the correct page before closing eyes again with the risk of falling asleep. ‘Here you go.’

Without waiting for another cue, Namjoon starts reading the poem in the only manner one should read poetry.

As much shame as it may cause.

It has to be done out loud.

‘Youth shouldn’t think

About Death yet it

Contemplates its very

Existence and the relation

Between them.

Why fear something distant?

Distant.

But incredibly close.

Lurking in effervescent ever-

Present shadows.

Waiting patiently.

For Age.

For Chance.

For Fate. 

For Opportunity.

For Time.

For Me.’

A breathless laugh attracts the tall man’s attention. ‘What?’

‘Nothing.’ In spite of partially meaning to mock oneself for the quality of the writing, the sudden outburst is mostly due to the surprising effect a voice, Namjoon’s voice has on the piece of writing. A hand unconsciously comes to rest on a muscled thigh, basking in the warmth and the slight movement leaning into the touch by pressing it against the one secretly wanting more. ‘I just like the way you read poetry. You have a good voice for it. It’s nice to listen to.’

‘Y/N,’ breath hitches in a beautiful whimper when the palm moves slightly upward, ‘people are looking.’

A shrug dismisses the worry, not bothered whatsoever by the ones who have silently cast a peer out on grounds of appearance. None would admit this outright, of course, but it is obvious in behaviour during seminars and lectures. ‘Don’t care.’

‘What if they think we are... you know... together?’

‘We’re all adults here, grownups with a sense of what a relationship entails. Besides, does it matter? Let them think whatever, Namjoon.’ As languidly as a cat, eyes open again to blink a few times before looking up at a flustered tanned face. Mayhaps a misperception, but it seems closer than before. 

He looks adorable. No, what am I doing? Focus! He read your poem, so this is not the time for fantasy.

Moving away a little bit from the intoxication caused by the combination of musk and tobacco, enhanced by the sensation of a big palm enveloping the one wandered more towards the inside of denim, speech is endeavoured to be made steady. Nevertheless, the attempt only succeeds in part as careful guidance testing the waters beneath the table leads to an intenser heat. ‘But what did you think of it?’ 

And ends in boldly being spread out across clothed hardened skin of which the ego rapidly grows breathless. Especially more so when willingly applying pressure, thoroughly enjoying the parting of plush lips risking being heard and expression contorting into laboured concentration. ‘Come on, don’t be shy.’

‘I- Is this what you, ah, ehm, think about in the morning?’ Hips slowly rock against the offender, seeking the desperately needed friction as skin begins to pass the state of glowing and grows dewy.

‘“I was a woman who thought of dead things. All the time. I couldn’t help it.”’ Enough mental stability can be gathered to manage a blank stare signifying ignorance as to where the applicable quote stems from. Forcefully, the ability to pay attention is compelled to be enhanced as the waist is suppressed with a smirk into sitting quietly on the chair. ‘Ah, ah, ah. Sit still before someone catches you. Lidia Yuknavitch said this in The Chronology of Water: A Memoir. And I’ll be honest, I got that quote from Tumblr.’

‘D- Don’t stop.’ All attention is returned to the movements below that have not stopped in the meanwhile, teeth biting down on the lower lip succeeding in nullifying the groan that wants to become audible. 

‘Break time is almost over.’ Time for contact is running out, the chatty professor pacing back towards the lecturer with a steaming cup of cheap coffee. Every second ticks away faster, but the steps in the race towards craved oblivion are too little. On the other hand, it would be a just punishment for the public brashness. 

‘Could we- Can we g-get lunch? Together?’

‘Is that what you want? What you think about?’ The absurdity evokes an amused low chuckle, truly finding joy in seeing the tough yet submissive poet struggle. ‘We just met, Joon.’

‘Y- Yet you let m- me do this, Miss.’ Digits free from tribal ink wrap around the wrist, willing it to remain out of sight beneath the table without stopping. 

What are we doing? We’re basically strangers. But... he held my hand and now we’re doing this. We both want this. This is ridiculous and yet, with the way he calls me that, the power is intoxicating.

And held onto a tad longer, mischief triumphing long enough to find pleasure in the whine at being left hanging high and dry after the squeeze that could have invoked embarrassing euphoria. ‘Not for long, bad boy.’

‘Alright, so! Where were we? Ah, right, why rhyme pleases.’ The professor has returned from the momentous coffee break fully, yellow cup empty and the little caffeine forming enough fuel to make it through the last three quarters filled with poetic analysis. 

Forty-five minutes of swatting away secretive undecorated hands trying to find release, as shameful as it is, by themselves.

To, perhaps, play the part of the devil to the end.

And maybe, just maybe admit to something.

To desire bordering on young love.

To a tribal jungle and nautical map on muscled buff arms.

To him who is clearly struggling.

To Namjoon. 

[asknightmareanderror]

Armageddon

LAST PART. What a ride, huh? (Not really but I’m glad you all enjoyed it so much!)

(Excessive time jumps...again, because...*explanation* *explanation*...and because I’m lazy and can’t write every day go by.)

Contains swearing, cuddles and a few topics some might not enjoy too much.

“I’m proud, I’m proud, I’m proud, I’m proud, I’m proud.” He jumped up and down on the spot, sitting on the mattress, staring at the small being in Error’s arms.

He could have been squealing the castle down, adoring it, giggling away happily. Error only watched, tired, but not as exhausted as he had been. A little wary, he held him out to Nightmare, unsure about his excitement. The oil monster halted, glancing at Error, taking the being out of his hands.

His eye glowed dimly, gazing at the creature, intrigued. He suddenly froze, uneasy about it, and Error could easily read the worry on his face. He gave the kid back to the glitch, wary, his mouth twitching anxiously.

“...what’s wrong?”

“I just...” He bit the lower part of his mouth, thinking. There was no real reason to be afraid of the child, yet he couldn’t help it. Something felt wrong. “...what if the others see it?” He chose to lie about what he was feeling, though he was also worried about what the rest of the destroyers would do if they knew of its existence.

“...him...Night...” Error corrected him “And...I-I don’t know...”

“...Killer already knows but...the other three...they reacted horribly when they realized that me and you were...” He trailed off, staring at Error, soon to turn his gaze back to the kid.

“...keep him...hidden? Until they’ve...properly calmed down...?” The glitch suggested, Nightmare sighed, shrugging a little, uncertain.

“...I suppose it would probably be our best bet.” He grimaced “We can always have Killer look after him every so often...as long as we can get him away from Dust for a period of time...”

He faltered, immediately feeling guilty at the sudden stir of thoughts in his mind. He said nothing about it though, knowing Error would hate him for it. So, he sat down beside him, leaning into his shoulder gently.

“...I...don’t have any idea how to look after a kid, y’know that, right?” Error grinned at him, he let out a laugh, amused.

“...of course, you don’t.” He rolled his eye “What a suprise.”

“...shut up...” The glitch nudged him, listening to him chuckle more.

“...just saying.” Nightmare replied “But that’s no problem...” Error looked at him, bemused. “...we’ll just learn.”

~~~

His eyes flickered, hugging Doomsday closely, wary as he followed the oil monster through the dark hallways.

“Night...you coulda just let me stay in the room, y’know? It would’ve been a lot more...safer...” He spoke, feeling a tendril move around his back, pushing him forwards slowly.

“...well, I thought he’d want to see a kitchen.”

“...he’s like...two weeks old, Night, he won’t get it...” He grimaced, Nightmare only chuckled, steering Error into the kitchen.

“Besides he needs to have breakfast.”

“...he’s eating my magic.”

“...stop being a killjoy...let the kid try some food, alright?”

“Yeah but...how d’you know what he’s allowed to eat? What if he can’t absorb food?” Error grew hesitant, unsure about Nightmare’s lack of concern for Doomsday.

“...he’ll spit it out, it’s not like he can choke.” The oil monster assured him, but he couldn’t help but feel anxious.

“...what are you gonna--...?” He paused, watching Nightmare as he pulled out a jar of apple sauce. “Oh...”

“Just so he can taste something...” He told him, taking a teaspoon out from a drawer. “But...Christ, he’s gotten big, huh?”

“Yeah...I...I don’t know if that’s...normal...” Error mumbled, Nightmare shrugged, smiling calmly.

“Killer says they grow quicker than humans, so...I suppose it is.” Cautiously, he slipped the spoon into the kid’s mouth, watching him flinch in surprise.

He bit the spoon, gnawing on it as Nightmare attempted to drag it back out. The oil monster sighed, pouting a little, and Doomsday growled back. He paused, watching the child glitch, frustrated, his sharp teeth only sinking deeper into the utensil.

Eventually, the spoon was released from his teeth, Nightmare grimaced at the holes in the metal. He tapped it off Doomsday’s forehead lightly, with the kid jolting again in surprise.

“Do you need to bite something?” He queried, watching Doomsday bite the insides of his cheeks. “...I’ll take that as a ‘yes’.”

~~~

For the first time, he had a tantrum, and neither of them knew how to handle it. Why was Doomsday having a tantrum? Neither of them knew why, he just did.

Being at four weeks of age, he could stumble around on his two legs and understand certain words, but it came to a shock to them with how much magic he had pent up inside himself.

It came crashing through the side of the castle.

A meteor, and it almost took the entire castle down with it. Three of the destroyers, Cross, Horror and Dust didn’t have a clue what was going on, whilst Killer checked them over, and then left them.

The first thing he heard was the screaming, endless waves of static, the wailing of the kid, and then, as he drew closer, the cries of agony. Blue threads had tangled around the meteor, trying to pull it away, off of the oil monster’s tendrils trapped beneath.

Doomsday, however, was sat on the floor, bawling his eyes out, shaking uncontrollably. Killer immediately went towards him, picking him up, holding him with one arm as he raised his left hand.

Bones shot out of the floor, against the side of the meteorite, attempting to push it off. He jolted slightly, feeling a set of sharp teeth enter his right shoulder, instantly realizing that he was being bitten.

“...is that really what’s wrong?” He asked warily, listening to the kid settling down a little. “Nightmare?” He looked down at the oil monster, who was unable to melt away, due to his tendrils being so far under the rock.

They would be torn off if he tried, which would only cause more agony for him. With enough bones, however, the meteor began to shift, yet only slightly. The strings tugged more, and it moved more.

Soon enough, Nightmare was able to begin moving his tendrils out from under it. As desperate as he was, he moved cautiously, not wanting to tear them apart. Little by little, he was soon freed from the meteor, which rocked back into the crater once released from the strings and bones.

“...are you okay?” Killer enquired him, scanning over his tendrils, watching the oil pool off them. Nightmare only shook his head wearily, reaching towards Doomsday, touching his back lightly.

The kid flinched at the contact, quivering, and the oil monster backed off.

“...Doom?”

“...Error...leave him be...please...” Nightmare mumbled, hesitant, only for Error to take Doomsday from Killer, holding him closely. “E-Error...”

“...he...Killer warned us, right? That he’d be unstable...and we still decided to keep him...”

“He could’ve killed you...”

“He...he didn’t mean it...”

“...he could’ve killed everyone here, Error.”

“...” Error stared at Nightmare, whilst Killer watched them, concerned. “...I...what do you...want to do then?” The oil monster bit his tongue sharply, worried for simply thinking the thought.

“...g...give him to...s--”

“He didn’t mean it, Night...y-y/ou know that...you can’t just get rid of him like that...” He edged away from Nightmare, his strings reappearing, gently tying around Doomsday.

“I...know...I-I just...don’t know what to do...” Nightmare fiddled with his jacket a bit “...I...m’gonna...get Ink to repaint...everything...please...hide him.” Error nodded slowly, as Nightmare jumped universes, leaving him with Killer.

“...he’s...stressed, you realize that, don’t you?”

“...I don’t want to get rid of Doom...he...he’s sweet...”

“...that was all because he was teething...” Killer told him “I’d be...wary of what you do with him...okay?”

“...yeah...I-I know...”

“...if it happens again, I don’t think...you would have a choice in the matter...” He lowered his voice a little, and Error could only stare at him, hugging Doomsday even closer.

~~~

For the next month, Error let Doomsday chew on a teething ring, with the faint taste of chocolate on it, to appease him more. The castle had been returned to its original state, and everyone was alright. Yet, something else set Doomsday off, and Error was quick to flee with him, into the anti-void.

Though, Nightmare soon sensed it, able to track Error’s trepidation throughout the multiverse. It led him straight to the glitch, who was trying to settle Doomsday down as quickly as possible. However, nothing seemed to be working.

No matter how much he hushed the kid, hugged him, whispered to him, Doomsday wouldn’t calm down. One thing Nightmare didn’t expect was for Error to run away from him, carrying the kid in his arms, worried for him.

“Error...” He simply slipped a tendril around Error’s midsection, hauling him backwards, to him. He froze up, pulling Doomsday closer, trying to muffle the kid’s sobbing.

The anti-void’s floor began to rock, cracking slightly as the earthquake intensified. The oil monster swayed a little, staring at Error, concerned.

“...we don’t have a reset button...if he kills anyone here, or in my universe...that’s it...it’s done, we cannot go back.” He explained “You can choose who he goes to...I just don’t want to risk losing anyone because of his lack of self-control.”

“...but he’s only three months, he can...he can learn...”

“...but how long will that take, Error?” He touched his arms lightly, feeling him flinch a bit. “...it could take months...perhaps even years...”

“Y-yeah? And he’ll get it one day, m’not--”

“I can’t keep asking Ink to repaint the castle...he will get suspicious, and so will the others...” Cautiously, he gripped Error’s sleeves, tugging him closer. He pulled him into a hug, letting all four of his tendrils move around the glitch, holding him still. “Please...you can choose who’s best..okay?”

“...”

“...please...?”

~~~

First | Previous | The Next Story

~

So...that’s it. That’s the end of Armageddon...

A bit of a cliffhanger, yeah, but most people should know what decision Error makes anyways, especially if they know of Doomsday.

Anyways, I had a lot of fun writing this story and I’m sure the next one should be a lot of fun, too! Keep an eye out for it. <3

The next storyline will follow Doomsday and, even though I don’t know if you lot love him or not, I hope that you’ll enjoy all of his hiccups and antics (and his straight-up purity) .

See you soon. ;)

[moonbelt]

»if by chance

↳ soulmate au | college au

⇢ pairing: mark tuan | reader

⇢ genre:  fluff + soft angst 

⇢ word count: 8.825

author’s note: uh, so it turns out i’m a sucker for soulmate aus. thanks anon for requesting! hope this is as fluffy as you wanted!!

It was a stupid idea, you admit, to have a random name permanently inked on your wrist just because you wanted to dodge the bullets that came with not having a soulmate in modern society. It also didn’t help that the name you’d chosen had little to no importance to you and every time you thought of it, it seemed to be mocking you.  

Like right now, as you hastily type the concluding lines of your final lab report and flip through your notebook to find a sentence you planned to quote, it sat there in full black swirling letters.  

Mark, you didn’t even know a Mark. The only Mark you’d ever known was back in fifth grade, and you were sure he wasn’t your soulmate because for whatever it’s worth, the both of you had hated each other. Before he moved across states the day of your birthday, never to be seen again. Even though you were skeptical to this whole soulmate for life thing, you were absolutely sure that the system wouldn’t pair the two of you together.  

You'd picked the name on a whim — it was the first thing to filter through your mind. The tattoo artist had asked you, repeatedly, if you were sure you wanted it but it felt wrong to choose anything else. So you walked out of there with your first ever tattoo.

Raising your head to examine the work you’ve typed up you’re met with a blank screen with a small loading signal as the computer begins the process of shutting down. Frantically, you bang your fists on the keyboard praying to a higher power that what you think is happening is not.

“No, no, no!” You watch as the device completely shuts down, dragging your unsaved hard work along with it. “You can't do this to me!”  

But indeed it does, and for the second time in the span of ten minutes, your eyes fixate on the writing on your wrist. Again, Mark seems to be sneering at you. Your face falls into your palms, just the thought of redoing your report is enough to bring you to the edge of tears. You’d already forgotten to do the last online quiz, so this was supposed to bring your grade up to your standards, but it looks like the Universe was conspiring against you.  

You don’t realize when the first round of waterworks start to fall from your eyes until they land on your hands. God, you’d just dedicated two and a half hours of your life to this lab and to be honest, you’re still in shock that the computer crashed. So here you are, seated at one of the computers sparsely stationed around your dorms study lounge, crying yourself out.  

It is times like this that you wish you had a soulmate that you were inexplicably attuned to. The stories your friends had relayed down to you about theirs always seemed to borderline with them balancing each other out. How if one of them was sad, the other could always find ways to lug them out of their slump. You harrumph at that. What an absolute lie. There was no way someone like that existed, especially for you. When everyone else was busy getting stamped with names on their hands, you got imprinted with static silence.  

High school had to have been the worst four years you could’ve endured. Being embarrassed that you were the only person you knew to not have any sort of mark on your body that tied you to someone else, you remember actively wearing sweaters that covered your entire arms. And it had worked, at first, but then mistakes happen. Suddenly, you were serving as the token soulmate-less in your classmates jokes.  

The recalling of these events brings you to the second round of waterworks. Ah, you hate this. On a good day, you aren't a crier, but you believe it to be justified at this point. Just thinking about the number of words you have to re-write is enough to send you into a fit of madness. At least the study lounge is empty, and no one can see as you break down.  

"I'm sorry but, are you okay?"

Your head whips up from your hands, and through your blurry vision, you observe the person standing in front of you. It's a guy, you think. Your mind is in such a state of disarray that nothing particularly makes sense.  

"Oh my god..." You choke out completely mortified by the turn of events. Great, it was bad enough that you were crying in the study lounge, but it just had to be the icing on the cake that someone would walk-in on you while doing it.  

You're sure he feels awkward by the situation as well, and your thoughts are reaffirmed by the little glances he keeps taking around the room. "Are you okay?" He clears his throat, repeating his question.

"I'm fine. Great actually," you say forcing a smile into your voice. Lifting your hands to your face, you furiously wipe the strains of the tears off, but they keep coming against your will. "I'm not usually like this," you offer a justification. 

He chuckles nervously, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "You don't look too good though. Did the computer crash?"

"How did you know?" Your eyes widen in surprise, and you practically jump in your seat.  

"Two days ago, I was the same situation," he says softly. "Did you save what you were working on?"

You shake your head, sniffling from the aftermath. "No. I was so stupid; trusting technology."

"Eh, don't beat down on yourself. It happens to the best of us." The boy offers you half a smile as he reaches behind him to produce a canned coffee and a packaged granola bar. "I don't know if this would help but here you go." He passes the snacks to you.  

Gratefully you accept them but don't tell him that you're not a fan of caffeine, but you appreciate his efforts. You smile at him, a lesser strained one than earlier. "Thank you. You really didn't have to get this for me though."

He shrugs, his smile widening a bit. "It's no problem. I couldn't just leave you to cry all by yourself  — I was raised better than that."

There’s a pause as you take in his appearance, now without blurry tears clogging your vision, and you’re thrown aback by the faint recognition like maybe you've seen him before ages ago. A red bandana tied around his forehead, a pen planted behind his left ear. You have the insane urge to stretch out and touch him. Check out for yourself if his hair really is as soft as it looks. Shaking your head, you scatter the thoughts away and blame your feelings on the lack of sleep.  

"Thanks," you place the drink to the side of your notebook. "I would have preferred if you didn’t see me cry at all.”  

He waves your gratitude away as he slinks into the computer station next to yours, a grin still gracing his face. "I can pretend I didn't if that's what you want."  

"Do what you like. I doubt I have a say in your actions." You say seriously, pushing the power button on the Computer.

"True," he replies as he cocks his head to the side. "You remind me of someone I used to know."

"Isn't that a song?"

"Yes..." he laughs through his sentence, and you find yourself joining in. "But I swear you do remind me of someone. Don't remember who exactly, but someone."

You flex your shoulders, releasing pent-up tension. Maybe the cry fest you just had was a needed evil. "If you don't remember them, then they're probably not important." The computer screen lights up to the login page, and you quickly type in your credentials.  

There's a slight pause as he logs in to his computer before turning his attention back to you. "Not necessarily. But I guess I see your point."

Ripping the granola bar open, you take a bite of it and relish in it. It had been hours since you'd eaten anything, focusing all your energy on completing semesters work in a few hours. And now you had to rewrite a whole essay in an hour, you didn't have the time to sit around thinking about how much time you'd already wasted. So you crack your knuckles and pull open a new file to begin working on.  

He must sense that you're in no mood for small talk because instead of continuing the conversation, he allows it fall into comfortable silence. Choosing to rather drag his phone from his pocket and resume playing a racing game. Sticking by his promise to keep you company for the next hour. You're not sure why he feels the need to do it, but at the same time, you can't find it in you to complain.  

The both of you spend your time together majorly in silence that’s decorated with your occasional screams of agony every fifteen minutes when you check the time. He laughs every time but still manages to get you to calm down, you don’t know why but his unblemished honesty and somewhat witty humor does the trick.  

As it turns out, he's an English major — something you don’t expect because for some reason he doesn’t look like one. To that, he asks "what is an English major supposed to look like?" And even though you're tempted to tell him you'd always pictured your high school English teacher as the standard, you instead bite your lip before steadily going back to your work.  

When you finally finish the paper, three minutes before it's due and still bedridden with grammatical errors you're too tired to realize exist, you jump up from your seat with hands raised to the heavens.  

"Yes!"  

The boy jumps alongside you, you find yourself grasping his arm and jumping ecstatically unable to hold in your happiness. Your semester isn't ruined, your hard work wasn't for nothing, and most importantly you'd completed the damned lab.  

"It's done, it's actually done." You say, still in a state of shock. "I'm not gonna fail."

"I doubt you'd ever fail but, it is amazing that you finished within the hour." The smile on his face, if possible, widens. "Somehow I feel proud of you. I could never do that."

"Given normal circumstances, I wouldn’t be able to either. I guess you're like my lucky charm."

He scoffs at that, a look of disdain crossing his features. "Nah, that title is reserved for your soulmate. Is it not?"

Your train of thought falters at his words, and you're tempted to scoff back at him. Maybe the title would be reserved if you had one. The system had fucked up, and you knew better than to hold out hope for someone that wasn't going to appear. Unconsciously, your fingers wrap around your wrist in an attempt to hide Mark. From the boy or from yourself, you don’t know.  

"Not really," you mumble. "I mean who does that? Reserve stuff for people you don't even know?"

"You'd be shocked," he offers you a small smile. "Anyways, it was nice meeting you. Hopefully, if we meet again, it wouldn’t be with you crying."

"Don’t you ever get tired of being honest?" You refrain from scoffing at his bluntness by grabbing your backpack from the floor and throwing it against your back.  

Shrugging, he stuffs his hands deep into his pockets. "Not really. If you're honest about things, people know what to expect from you."

"Bet your soulmate loves that." You say with laughter in your voice. Bending down a bit, you log out of the computer and click the restart icon.  

"Mm, maybe..." His voice trails off. "Anyway, I'll see you around," he says, turning on his heel and starting the walk to his room.  

You have no idea why you reach out and latch onto his arm with a sort of vigor you don’t recognize. But once you’ve done it, you can't remember why you decided to hold him back. You stutter a little before the words fall out, beginning and ending with one another.

"Thank you for staying with me. I really do appreciate it."  

"Don’t sweat it," he flashes you a lopsided grin. "Like I said; I was raised with basic manners."  

Prying your fingers from his forearm, you let out a nervous laugh. He cocks an eyebrow at you, maybe he can tell that you still have something you want to say? Whatever it is — that look in eyes — pushes the question out.  

"If you don’t mind me asking. What's your name?"  

He's not expecting such a mundane question, and if you're honest with yourself, you don’t quite understand why you have the overwhelming urge to know what it is. The universe isn't your best friend, it never has, so you can't fathom why all of sudden it feels like the strings of your safely created world are in his hands.

Just as he opens his mouth to answer you, his cell phone lights the room with a ping! And on cue, he pulls it from his back pocket to examine the text message. Quickly he types his reply, and you move to stand at the side wondering what exactly, in the name of all hell, are you doing? This isn't you. Well, to be frank, nothing that has happened so far is you. You don’t cry in the study lounge, you don’t allow someone you don’t know keep you company, and most importantly, you don’t go around asking people for their names because they bestowed one act of kindness on you.  

When he finishes the conversation on his phone, he angles his body your way. An amused smile on his face.  

"Mark."

Now you’ve had your fair share of heart-stopping moments. Once in fourth grade when you fell down a flight of stairs and broke your jaw. Another was in seventh grade when you accidentally mailed your love letter to everyone in your class instead of the one person that mattered. But none of that could compare to right now. Time becomes an inexplicable concept because regardless of how much rationality you have, it stops.  

He doesn’t give you the chance to say anything, not that you have the words anyway before he's waving at you and rushing out and down the hall. Leaving you alone with your thoughts, Mark, and an empty study lounge. Your mind must be in a delusional state because for some reason Mark seems to heat up. You don’t know why you don’t know how. But for everything you do know, you don’t want this feeling to stop.

"I know you said you don’t like parties, but I'm begging here," Jackson says as he pulls you into a hug from behind.  

"If you know what I said why are you making me repeat myself?" You roll your eyes, reaching above your head to the cupboard and pulling out a pack of microwaveable popcorn. "I hate parties Jackson, you know this."  

He pouts, resting his head on your shoulder and tilting it up at you. "But if you don’t come with me I'll be all alone. Is that what you want?"

"You have other friends," you don’t want to laugh at his words, but you do. "Yugyeom would love to go with you."  

"It's different. You're my best friend [y/n]. What kind of friend would I be if I allowed you to wallow in pain alone on a Friday night?" He doesn’t wait a second for your reply. "A bad one, that’s what."  

"But today’s movie night."

"We can have the movie night tomorrow," Jackson releases you from his death grip to flip your body to face him. "But today is the last party of the semester."

You wave the popcorn sachet in his face. "You want me to choose a party over Moana? Do you not know me?"

Sighing, he rolls his eyes and moves closer to the counter to pick up his glass of water. Ah, you know what he's doing. A master of guilt-tripping you into doing stuff you'd never do otherwise. You can already imagine what his next words are going to be.  

"What if you finally meet your soulmate there? You act like you don’t care if you find them, but I know you, and I can tell that you want to."

That’s not quite right. You despise the fact that you haven't told your best friend the truth about the name on your wrist and how it was all made up, but you think you’ll despise his pity even more. The whole reason as to why you got it inked in the first place was because everyone always looked at you some way when they realized that you didn’t have a soulmate. It wasn't quite prejudiced but more 'thank God, that’s not me.' And even though you've had Mark for two years already, you know better than to think it to be the same as the real thing.  

"Plus even if you don’t find them, you get to spend the night with the actual love of your life; me." He says with a smug look as he tosses the empty cup into the sink.  

Throwing the sealed popcorn paper bag on the counter, you admit your defeat. "I'm only going because I know you're gonna get drunk off your ass and call me to drive you home."

He nods his head in mock agreement. "Yes, yes. Thank you for being amazing."

Parties have always had a weird imbalance in your heart. Most times you thought them to be ridiculously loud and all people used them for was to justify why they hooked up with the resident bad boy on campus. On the other hand, it did give you access to free booze and give you a window to human interaction. Albeit a slurry and impaired one.  

And today your body is leaning towards the first half. On a good day, you’ll mingle a bit and get slightly buzzed, but the music is throwing you off. You can’t stop thinking about how your man-made mark had reacted, slightly, to human Mark. The rational part of your brain knew it was simply an illusion but the fanatical part of you was clinging to it like it was the key to life.  

You groan as you grab a solo cup from your friend’s hand and down it in one gulp.

“Whoa, slow down tiger.” Naru laughs as she rubs your back lightly. “I thought you said no drinking tonight.”

Wincing as it goes down your throat, you hiss out. "I thought so too."

She snickers at you, taking the empty cup from your hands and placing it neatly on the table next to her. "Jackson owes me 10 bucks."  

"You guys bet on me?"

"Of course. How long before [y/n] cracks? I said 30 minutes, Jackson said not at all."

You twist your lips up at her. "Really Naru?"

Naru shrugs at you, a smile still on her lips. "What? You looked stressed out. Do you have a crush or something?"

"No..." You don’t exactly know what it is.  

"You do, don’t you?" Naru pipes up with interest. "Did you find The One?" She nudges her shoulder against yours, wiggling her eyebrows.

You shake your head. "Not yet."  

At this point, you’re willing to crawl down a hole and die. No, scratch that. You want to hurl yourself at the sun. You’re ready to go play beer pong, which you suck at, in hopes of getting stupidly drunk, so you don’t have to remember anything for the next hour or so.  

“I need a drink. Do you want any?” You change the topic as you push yourself off the wall. Turning your gaze to the crowd of people littering between the living room and kitchen.  

The place isn’t packed from wall to wall, but there are still enough people around that it makes you feel queasy just thinking about the struggle to get there.  

Naru shudders at your offer. "I feel like I'm about to pass out so no." After a beat, she adds. “Do you know where Jackson disappeared off to?”

"Beer pong, I think."  

She pats you on the shoulder and shoots you a wink as a goodbye before she’s weaving her way down the stairs and into the basement. You take a deep breath before you dive into the swarm and begin navigating your way, avoiding as many elbows as you possibly can.

It takes you more than six minutes to get to the kitchen, and you’re immediately reminded that this is Jaebum's party. He’s the center of attention, bickering with a group of people. Some you recognize from hasty glances in hallways, some you don’t. You catch his eye on your way to the cooler station at the back, and he gives you a small nod of acknowledgment.

You’ve been to a handful of Jaebum hosted parties all because of Jackson’s friendship with him, but you’d never actually hung out with him. Now that you think about it, you never really spent time with any of Jackson’s other friends. Mainly because the few first times you’d met them it had been so awkward that you willingly uninvited yourself to other events they planned.  

Waving at him, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Maybe you should’ve connected better with Jackson's friends, perhaps then you wouldn’t be stranded in a house party with such a weary way out.  

“Well, don’t you look bored,” the voice comes out in a drawl. “Let me guess Jackson dragged you out again. You’ve got to learn to say no [y/n].”

You roll your eyes as you reach past Yugyeom to grab a canned drink from the cooler. Yugyeom is a friend. You aren’t that close to him, but whenever you stayed over at Jackson’s apartment, he always seemed to be there. Filling up space. He even dragged you along to a dance practice once because he didn’t want to be alone and Jackson had been busy doing… stuff.  

“I did say no. For the past two months actually,” you answer as you pop open your can and take a swig.

He doesn’t say anything after that. Instead, the two of you stand in solidarity and drink. After a while when you’re more than considerably tipsy, the both of you engage in small talk which continues until a guy across the room beckons Yugyeom over. After a minute’s indecision, he obliges. “Anyways, I’ll see you around. We should hang out more often.”

Since you don’t disagree with the idea, you make sure to smile extra wide, so it doesn’t seem like you're faking it. “Sounds good.”

Once he’s slipped past you and gone over to his group of friends you are thrown back to reality. The bass music is pumping at a deafening volume, you wouldn’t be surprised if the cops showed up to shut the party down. People are everywhere. Bumping into you, giggling, dancing, hooking up. You start to feel insignificant compared to everyone else here. All these people trying to make moments in their life while you’re standing in the corner of the kitchen right next to the trash can.  

Your feet have begun to ache. The time on your watch reads 12:04 AM, you let out a strained sigh. You know for a fact that neither Jackson or Naru will be leaving until at least 1 AM. Turning on the heel of your foot you make your way out of the kitchen and try to find the back door. You’ve been to Jaebum’s house enough times to know that his parties never extended to the backyard. There really wasn’t any space there anyway, and you guess it made it harder to manage if people were everywhere.  

Outside the air is fresh and frigid against your skin and you’re tempted to call it a night and just head back to the dorms on your own. You’re so focused on the weather that you don’t notice the figure sitting a good foot from you. Your feet are planted steadily on the back porch, you feel somewhat elevated. Maybe you could just waste time here until you had to leave.  

You plop down on the porch’s steps with a thud and then a scream as you come face-to-face with the one very thing you’ve been trying all night to forget. You're thrown away by how different he looks up-close and with a spark in your system. Almost like you’re staring at a painting. The urge to run your hands through his hair has returned, you thought you had won that war in the study lounge, but apparently, you had not.  

“W-what are you doing here?” It’s a miracle that you don’t fumble your words.  

Mark offers you a slight smile, takes a long gulp of his beer, coughs a little bit before he raises his hand up and waves a little. “You look awfully familiar. Have we met before?”

You try to return his smile, but in the back of your mind, you’re positive that it most likely comes out as a grimace.  

“Uh, yeah we had —” Your sentence is cut off by Mark snapping his fingers. He reminds you of a light bulb with electricity constantly flowing in.  

"You're the crier, aren't you?" He seems pleased with his answer. "It's been what? A week? Since we met, how you holding up?"

There's a stone wedged in your throat at his nickname for you. Fuck, why did it have to be crier of all things? It brings back a memory you had almost forgotten. The Mark from fifth grade had incessantly called 'crier' day in day out. All because you had tripped on air, fell down a set of stairs and broke your jaw. You were pretty sure if you ever came across the Mark from that time, you were going to blow a major blood vessel.  

You nod, not trusting your voice as another breeze sweeps past and you drag your arms closer to your chest.

He sighs as he leans back on his arms and raises his face to the stars. “So, what are you doing out here?”

“Nothing really. I’d just rather be out here than in there.”

Nodding in agreement, he finishes the rest of his beer before he crushes the can to half its size. You look down at your folded fingers. The silence cascading around you is comfortable, and you don’t feel the need to make conversation. It dawns on you that the silence you experience around him has never been awkward.  

“Ah, this feels nice,” Mark breathes out. “Still. Quiet. Sometimes everything just gets so loud, and I can barely think.”

“To be fair, you are at a party.”

He grins at that. You can tell he’s drunk by the asymmetrical smile on his face, but regardless, you can’t help but smile back. “True. Promise not to tell anyone, but I hate these parties. I only show up out of obligation.”

You raise your drink to your lips. “Relatable. Honestly, I came for the booze.”

His laugh is honestly like a barricade of brick walls crashing into each other. So profound and sonorous it makes the hairs on your back stand up straight. You catch yourself laughing along with him. You don’t want to, but you tell yourself to slow your roll, after all, Mark is the epitome of a nice guy. He most likely laughs at all his friends jokes — out of obligation.

“So that’s why you’re here? Not because my sparkling personality drew you in?”

You realize that although Mark is a man of refreshing candor without alcohol lighting his system, he's more if it were possible, honest to a fault with it.  

“I didn’t even know you’d be here.”

The back door swings open right at that moment and a girl stumbles out. Hair wild and untamed. She’s smiling broadly but at the same time looks confused. You watch as her eyes illuminate as soon as they fall upon Mark. She reaches down and flicks his forehead with her forefinger and thumb.

“Have you been here all night?” She rolls her eyes to all heavens. “C’mon, we gotta go.”

In the midst of this, Mark doesn’t lower his focus from you. He seems, for the most part, bent on pretending the girl behind him isn’t here. You drop the empty can from your mouth and place it gingerly beside your foot. With a grunt, Mark lifts his head up and squints his eyes at the girl, you assume to be his friend.  

“Why? This party is finally getting fun. You’re ruining it.”

She scoffs, flipping her hair. “Uh-huh. You’re having so much fun, I’m jealous,” her eyes cast sideways to you. “Jinyoung’s drunk off his ass and keeps asking for you.”

There’s a moment of hesitation before he pushes himself up on the balls of his feet. His gaze is unwavering. It feels surreal just being near him, you don’t know if this feeling comes from how many drinks you’ve had or if it’s something deeper. But you don’t want to question it.  

“In case you don’t remember, I’m Mark,” he says, and immediately you forget the girl behind him. He smirks down at you.

“[y/n],” you quickly stand up as well. All your choices this night catch up to you, and you waver a bit, his hands reach out to stable you. You can feel embarrassment creep up your neck by the second.

"[y/n]," he airs your name out.

He licks his lips, you’re sure he’s not doing it sexually however that doesn’t stop you from interpreting it that way. “I would ask you for your phone number but my phone died,” Mark says, running a line through his hair vigorously with his hands. It falls down in waves over his eyes which hold a semblance of confusion.  

You’re about to offer your phone and get his number instead when he snaps his fingers. Eureka! He has a knack for snapping his fingers when he's drunk, you observe. He reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and brings out a blue pen. Handing it to you he says, “would you do the honors of writing your phone number down?”

“Where?”  

The girl — his friend — is becoming more agitated as the minutes tick on. She keeps tapping her foot and muttering incoherent words under her breath. You focus your attention back on Mark. You don’t know her, and you don’t want to. You cock your eyebrow at him. He chuckles, thrusting his palm forward. Carefully, like maybe he’s glass, you hold his hand and fastidiously write down your phone number. His fingers are slim and long, you kind of want to trace it with yours, but you control yourself.  

Once you’ve finished, he beams at you. Your eyes fall on his lips. You are curious about how they would feel on yours. They look like they could crush you, and you feel like maybe you’d like it.  

“I promise to call you,” his words are almost drowned out by his friend dragging him by the arm.  

“Let’s go, Mark! What am I? Your babysitter?!”

He puts one foot through the door. “Guess, I’ll see you around [y/n].” His grin doesn’t slip away from his face, but it does shift into something smaller.

Before you can even find the words to say the door slams shut and you’re thrown back into the dead air. Confounded, you sit down on the steps once more. There’s a giddy feeling in your chest. Actually no, it's something more. Something you don’t know how to explain. It feels like you’ve reached the peak of a mountain. Exhilarating but scary. A compulsion to run straight through the party and relay everything that transpired back to Jackson and Naru runs through your veins.  

You cover your face with your palms. The smile on your lips threatens to crack your cheeks open. Time seems to, again, have stopped. Your heart beats so loud you wouldn't be surprised if it were louder than the music thumping through the house. For the second time that day you want to crawl in a hole, but it's for an entirely different reason. This time it's because you're afraid, afraid you wouldn't be able to hide how bubble-headed and flustered you feel.

Winter break comes and goes without human Mark calling you, and Mark smirks smugly every time you hold your phone out and wait. You try to push the situation to the farthest point of your mind by drowning yourself in books. But even then, you find yourself researching on the soulmate-less. From what you know, and from what you gather, the population without soulmates is a rarity. And contrary to what your high school peers had told you they do not, in fact, die alone.  

However, that does nothing to lift the weight on your chest and you must not be doing a good job of hiding your emotions because Naru decides, after days of deliberating, to lay down the truth. 

"Are you still worrying about your crush? [y/n], come on, it's a crush it'll fade away." She says now as the two of you move the last of your boxes into your dorm.  

"I'm not thinking about him." 

"Yes, you are. I know you." 

"Honestly, Naru. I'm not," you lie. "I'm just thinking about all the work I'll have to do this semester." 

She rolls her eyes at you as she dumps a box near your bedside table. "Whoever this crush of yours is, it will never compare to the name on your wrist. So, don’t get invested." 

You mutter under your breath while you squat down to tear open one of the boxes. "I'm not." 

"Whatever you say," Naru raises her hands up in surrender and lets the conversation go. "You hungry? I am." 

Abruptly you stand up to your full height, thankful that Naru can read how awkward you get whenever someone brings up this whole soulmate business. You grab your wallet from the table. "I'll go to the vending machine and get something, yeah?" 

Naru flops down on your bed. "Can I get a Cheetos?" 

You nod your head before you're dashing out the room and out to the hallway. You won't lie. The more you hear the word soulmate, the more the weight on your chest seems to cave in. You take a sigh of relief when you realize the pathway is empty and begin making your way to the Laundry room where the vending machine is located.  

It's when your debating what item you want that the door swings open and in comes Mark. He looks stunned to see you there in your Spider-Man shirt and jeans and then he looks quite happy to see you. For reasons, you don’t know. The smile on his lips is full on frontal, and you have to remind yourself that he probably has a soulmate out there and whatever this is between the two of you isn't going to last.  

"Oh God, you're not ignoring me are you?" 

"W-what?" You stutter a bit.  

He moves a little closer, still smiling but wary at the same time. "I don’t know if you didn’t get my messages, calls or if you’ve been avoiding me. So I'm giving you an out if that’s what you want." 

"Well, I did not get anything from you. I thought you were ignoring me," your sentence ends with your nervous laughter as you grab the nape of your neck. 

"Do you think maybe I was texting the wrong number?" The reality of it settles in, and he lets out a wimpy sound. "They probably think I'm a weirdo. Oh God." 

You laugh at his antics as you make a random decision on the vending machine, clicking the first thing you see. "What did you say?" 

He sighs, devastated. "I basically asked you out on a date and got turned down by radio silence." 

You choke on air. "You what?" You give up on trying to constrain your laughter, opting to allow it flow out to the point it brings tears to your eyes.  

"Hey, I made a promise to call you. Even as a drunk, I wouldn't make a promise I can't keep." 

"Honest to a fault." You say as you bend down to grab your paid item only to find an empty slot. "Did it just eat my money?" Hastily you stand up, scoffing at the machine. "Really?" 

"Try hitting it?" Mark offers his suggestion, and soon enough the both of you are frantically smacking the life out of the inane vending machine that refuses to give you your money's worth and laughing so loud that you forget that you're in a laundry room in a dorm housing three hundred other people.  

Once you've let it all out of your body a vertiginous feeling washes over you as you take a deep breath. You don’t know how it happened, or maybe you do, but without warning, you're beyond close to Mark. So close you can feel his little releases of breath that fan against your skin. Your eyes latch onto his lips and for a second time you know he probably doesn’t mean it to be sensual, but regardless your body reacts to it.  

The person to break the silence is him. "Would you find it highly inappropriate if I kissed you right now?" 

"I don’t think I have a problem with that... but your soulmate might." 

"I doubt that," he bites his lower lip and you watch as his eyes light a fire you can't contain. "I don’t believe in assigned soulmates. Some higher power shouldn't tell me who to love." 

You agree, closing the space between the two of you by etching forward. "Right. We should be able to decide who we love and who we don’t." A burning feeling chases up your arm, and even though it stings, it feels strangely calm. 

"I think I'm probably going to scare you away." 

"How?" 

"Because it scares me, how attracted I am to you. It's not even a crush, maybe it is, I don't care. All I know is that life is too short to be classifying the way someone who likes another person into categories. I just want to be around you and make you smile. Maybe I'm exaggerating and giving you too much credit, but it scares me how the most trivial things around you don’t seem that way. It scares me how my body responds to you. It's really fucking scary." 

You can hear the unrhythmic beating of his chest. You can feel the heat emitting from his body. You like the feeling of his heat hitting your skin. And with the expression on his face, you wish for a moment that you could tell him the truth behind your predicament. 

You clear your throat. "If you're gonna kiss me and then say you just want to be friends, get it—" 

Without a second thought, he puts his hands on either side your face and your heart spikes up as the rest of the room fades to dust.  

And when his lips come crashing down on yours, you forget how to breathe. He tastes like butterscotch and mint, and you never knew those two were the best concoctions the universe could've created. He traps your waist in his hands and squeezes once, twice, and sets your lips apart and ablaze simultaneously. It became an urgent need to feel him. You clamp onto his hair and get taken aback by how soft it is. It feels like you're being burnt alive. Butterflies set a nest in your stomach and flutter up to your neck before they break out from your mouth. He feels like the ocean; calm, gentle and serene yet deadly like it could sweep you off into the distance at any time. There's a silent gasp as the two of you broke up for air. 

You're breathing so loud the ramifications hit your skull and fizzle back to your toes. Contrary to other kisses you’ve had, your eyes aren't dazed. No, they are alight. Sparked up with a new flame. You swear to yourself that even soulmates can't feel something like this. And for the first time, you're not hung up on finding that non-existent person. You can't get your heart to stop pounding, and by the look in Mark's eyes, you don’t doubt that he's doing the same thing.  

"That was... interesting," you finally say when you've caught your breath. You remember now that Naru is probably wondering why you haven't returned from war and you burst out in giggles. 

"Wow, you really do remind me of crier," Mark says joining in your laughter.  

Something dies in your throat. "Crier?" Your mind goes back to weeks ago when you'd first met him. "The person you said you couldn’t remember?" 

Running a hand through his hair, he grins at you. "Yeah. We were best friends for two years but I had to move without notice, so I'm pretty sure I'm hated now." 

"What year was that?" 

He upturns his head in thought. "I left after eight grade." 

Your eyes widen in alarm and not from the all-time high that you're on. Your chest fastens up again. "Did this crier trip and break their jaw?" 

"Yes," he snaps his fingers. "And once they even mixed hot sauce in my ketchup. I kinda wonder if I'll ever meet crier again." 

"A-are you Mark Tuan?" 

As much as you don’t know how to feel about this turn of events, you can't deny that a little part of you hopes it's real. It's now when the air seems electrified that you fully recall the details that led to the Mark of fifth grade leaving town.  

You hadn't always loathed him, of course, you hated his nickname for you, but he had been one of the few friends you had back then. And you'll be honest, you did cry a lot when you were younger, and kids made fun of you for that. The Mark from that time had always stood by you, during lunch every day, the two of you walked home together almost every day. Every day had become slightly better with him on your side. 

Then one day, he was gone. Suddenly your birthday that you'd been looking forward to became one of the worst times for your 15-year-old self. You'd decided then and there that you’ll hate him, forget about him, do anything in your power—

"Do you remember me now?" 

"I thought you left," the words come out in a whisper.  

He takes a step back from you, casting a downward look to his converses. "I'm sorry. I shouldn’t have disappeared like that, but I didn’t know I was leaving until the day of. I--I tried to call you but it never went through, and when I finally came back, your family had already moved someplace else..." 

"What about now? Why didn’t you tell me who you are? If you knew who I was why did you hide it?" Your tone is accusatory, but your mind is running laps against each other. Nothing is making sense. And despite the fact that you don’t blame him for what happened or how you handled the situation, you still very much feel... cheated? 

"Because you didn’t even remember me [y/n]," Mark lets out an exasperated sigh. "We had a History class together during Freshman year, and you didn’t recognize me—we sat next to each other. I called out to you in the cafeteria once, maybe you didn’t hear me. Who knows. I thought you were ignoring me and then I saw you crying in the study lounge and—" 

"—and the cycle started all over again." 

Are you okay? 

The possibility of crying is becoming a more likely outcome as the second's pass on. And the more you blink your eyes to keep them at bay, the more your eyes start to glisten.  

"Were you never gonna tell me that it was you?" 

"I wanted you to like me for the me now. Not the me that was your best friend years ago. I've changed, you've changed. I just wanted you to not like someone that may never come back."

You scoff at that. "What's the difference between the two?" 

Mark finally looks up to connect his eyes with yours, and the impression on your chest breaks way. "Me then had a soulmate. Me now does not." 

Scrunching your eyebrows, you cock your head at him. "I don’t understand." 

"I had one, but it didn’t feel right. I had already met you, and they couldn’t compare to it. Not even a little. And I guess when I decided that I could never love them like how I do you, the mark just faded. Everyone acts like predestined soulmates are the best thing but, sometimes they are not. I haven't got a new one since then, so I guess that means the system accepted my begging." 

You throw your arm out and show him Mark. The Mark that you created on your skin. It wasn’t given to you by the higher-ups. Instead, it was something you unknowingly had wanted.  

"I got this done two years ago. I never knew why but it seemed like the only thing I would like permanently."  

He tries to hide the shit-eating smile on his face, but really he can't. It's such a broad smile that you kind of wonder how his cheeks survive the expansion. "Maybe the universe is actually on my side." 

"You think I got this because of you?" You ask incredulously as you fold your arms across your chest.  

Mark shrugs. He doesn’t particularly care why you have his name tattooed on your wrist, the truth is he's beyond ecstatic that his prayers, by some miracle, have come to life. "I pleaded to a deity that you and I get matched up. I don’t need a stupid mark to tell me who I love, but it feels great when you see it stamped in concrete." 

"So what, were you planning on getting my name tattooed on yours? Are you insane?" 

He grins slyly at you as he pulls up his shirt's sleeve to show you his wrist, wherein medium sized letters your name sits proudly. "Maybe so. I got this two years ago too before I started college, and then I met you." 

"You're so fucking insane." 

"So are you. Crier, you got my name on your wrist. I don’t know about you, but I'm claiming you as my soulmate."  

"We're gonna have to start from scratch, you know. Sure we have physical attraction and what not, but that fades away. You have to actually love me. To put in your words: not the me from then but the me now. If I'm taking you as my soulmate, then I don’t want to let you go. Ever." 

In your head, you can list all the problems that come with this. It's a game of tug of war. If you pull too far, then the other person lets go. If you don’t pull at all the other person still let's go due to lack of effort. Either way, there's no winner and— 

Mark moves closer to you. "If you have me now. You have me forever, I promise. I'm willing to change fate with you [y/n]. If that’s not soulmate material, then what in this world is?" 

Change fate, he says. You realize you've started crying when he reaches up and uses a thumb to erase the path the tears are making. But it keeps coming. This is why you hate crying, once you start it just doesn’t stop. Like a waterfall, it pulls and pulls. Mark chuckles at you.  

"What's the thing you're doing right now, crier?"  

You want to punch him. Strike him so hard he feels all the misplaced but warranted hate you harbored towards him for years. How dare he just waltz into your life and try to reclaim the very thing you didn’t want anyone to have?  

"Screw off." 

"I know I've made some mistakes. I thought it over and I want to make it up to you by being honest. I love you [y/n] even if it's a little spark right now, I love you. And our marks might be human-made, but I'd do anything for you."

"Anything?" You ask, looking at him through blurry glasses.  

"Anything." He reaffirms, resting his forehead against yours. "We'll work through anything. I already cheated the system once to get you, and I'll do it again and again and again as long as it means I'll get to spend my better part of forever with you." 

A/N: oh my gosh, i hope people like this and tell me what they think. thank you very much for reading! ahh, please do tell me if you liked this :)

⇢ masterlist

©️ 2017 kai, high-on-food. 

[emmybluefire]

Memoirs of a Distant Past

Dalaran’s Archives were vast. A maze of wood, leather, and parchment. All shoved inside a hundred level tower. The largest in Dalaran, and the center of it’s entire government. The Violet Citadel. A tower that to the untrained eye... might seem much bigger on the inside. A massive pocket dimension specially made for the storage of knowledge. In reality, it was just a tower. One neatly arranged to maximize available space.

The smell of dust, and old leather would waft into your nose. The scent becoming evermore potent, the further you went up. At around level sixty, the aroma, to some, might become overwhelming. Dizzying your mind, and muddling your thoughts. But for those who’ve spent their entire lives with their noses in a book? Well, they needn’t worry.

Traversing through here means you need to keep one eye up, as the millions of flying books have a habit of bumping into the back of your head when you aren’t looking. And at the top of it all? Atop the illusionary vines and waterfalls. Atop numerous marble pillars. Atop the over-tall ladders and balconys. Atop the dozens of floating lights and piercing quills, atop ALL of that, The Hall of the Guardian looms, ever watchful. It was the place where the first mage council was founded. And now? It’s one of the only things standing in the way between the legion, and total annihilation of our world. Only the oldest, and most influential literary works were stored here. And... as far as humanity was concerned? It was the seat of knowledge’s power. 

It was here, that one Emmy Bluefire, had been spending much of her time.

The half elf’s nimble hands ran across the spines of many, showering the marble tiles below with dust. She was searching for something urgent, though the longer she stayed the more she shuddered with delight. These were Historical Artifacts she was touching... it took all of her self control not to squee. Not to get sidetracked from her purpose. Aegwynn, Manawraiths. Aegwynn, Manawraiths. Alu’neth, Manawraiths, Aegwynn. She repeated those words endlessly in her mind. Centralizing her focus. Yes, that was her goal here. She needed information on Alu’neth, and the ritual which Aegwynn used to bind him. Not just for her own personal studies... but also because she believes she’s gained the resources needed to preform it. Including a powerful arcane entity, aptly named Lun’altesh. Yes... it would be a challenge; but she was never one to stray from them.

Seconds, minutes... and hour went by, and the unsettled dust reached such a quantity that it was filling her lungs. Her efforts though, weren’t in vain. She found something useful. A detailed historical record of Alu’neth himself. Buried within the late chapters of “Ancient Magic, and How to Wield It Without Destroying The World”

“Yes! There it is!” she whispered excitedly to herself. Without hesitation, she clambered up the ladder. Her arms though... weren’t quite long enough to reach. 

She grunted, shifting herself upon the ladder. Body leaned so far one would be surprised she didn’t fall. “Oh... come on. Come oooonnn.” with a sharp breath inward, she loosened her left hand’s grip on the ladder and hastily grasped the large book with her right. A grave error.

“Wha- Uh, uh...” She realized it all to late. In a desperate attempt to defy gravity; she managed to grasp the bookshelves’ ledges. 

Her hand slipped.

“OWHAAAH!” she squeaked, the bookshelf shuddered violently, jostling many of it’s books from their places. Emmy being the first to hit the ground. And when she hit, she hit with a loud thud that echoed throughout the tower. People on the lower levels looked up, and people on her level jus- stared. Shaking their heads with disappointment. Thankfully, the fall wasn’t that far.

“I- I’m okay!” she assured everyone around, a tiny thumbs up pushing it’s way through the pile of books that entombed her. Soon followed by the rest of her structure.

Dazed and confused, Emmy lifted a hand to scratch the back of her head... only to jostle one more book from it’s place. An old research journal... resting on her head. It fell open into her lap, ink faded... but well preserved. It’s parchment was yellow, and frayed around the edges. The dark leather making up it’s cover was surely aged, but somebody had been taking care of it throughout the centuries.  Many of the embroidered designs were a bit worse for ware though. Some disappeared entirely, leaving behind only the coarse cowhide beneath it’s formerly clean finish. The more Emmy examined it, the more the handwriting stuck out to her. It was... familiar. Eerily so.

“Huh?” she tilted her head and folded the two covers together. A thick blanket of dust covered many of it’s features; but she could swear she recognized the designs. “Is that-” she looked up. No, she couldn’t say that. Nor could she hardly believe her eyes. Her visual sweeps across the room put her face to face with Old Filmaff. The Tirisgard librarian.

“Er... Filmaff!” she gestured the old man over. “What’s this?” She inquired, holding it up for his failing eyes to see.

The undead took a moment to respond... but finally, he scratched his head and coughed. Groaning, he leaned in... almost uncomfortably close to the book. A hand moved up to readjust his monocle, bony fingers moaning in response. Even such minimal stress was too much for his ancient bones to handle. His time had come long ago, yet he remained. Silent as death. A silence broken when he unleashed hacking cough.

“Ah! Lady Bluefire. That is... a very old research journal... Dated back to the troll wars. Or...” he cleared his throat. “Thirty years after them, approximately. A guide to transmutation... back when the polymorph spell was just a theory.”

Emmy could hardly believe her ears.

“Insightful mage that one.” he groaned again, dried bones creaking in his bodies readjustments. “I... would have loved to meet her myself if I could’ve.” he sighed “It’s a good read though. I highly recommend it.” And with that, he pulled away. Using his cane to Sluggishly tap-clop his way back to what he was doing before. forgetful of the fact that there was still a pile of books on the ground. Out of place, and needing to be returned home.

Delicately folding the fragile cover back, Emmy ran her fingers over the first page, tips lingering on the author’s name.

“First Arcanist Sorviea Stardancer”

A high elven name all to familiar to her. She wasn’t just starring at a book... she was starring at a memory. Had it really survived all this time?

This journal belonged to her. They were her research notes... From two thousand years ago.

[patrickube-blog]

(h x r)

[i honestly feel really strongly for this piece of writing i did about two years ago, it never fails to make me emotional. a lot of the stuff i wrote in the past has identifiable influences – like a movie i’d just watched, a book i loved, a game i just played, or some real life personal thing that happened to me. this story bemuses me because i don’t remember how i even came up with the entire idea, or the weird structure of it. but i think it’s quite lovely and skeletal, so, i hope this gets you feeling something as well,  my nonexistent followers!]

–

The Beginning

We had English after lunch. All of us were caught in a mad, exuberant flurry of motion, scuttling around like schools of fish to finish our essays on Romeo and Juliet.

The sun was smoldering, the clouds whisked briskly into hiding, the breeze faint and whispery. We sat in our customary, rickety red bench, the table-top scrawled with adolescent blather. There were lyrics to hit songs; prancing stick figures; crude swear words; male genitalia of different sizes; names etched inside swollen, crooked hearts, then scratched out and blotted with angry ink.

There was five of us then. We grew together, then grew apart. I remember Travis, always joking, always coy. I remember Lila, sharp as a tack, harsh, slim from weekly track meets. I remember Henry, foppish and vibrant, good-hearted. As for Rose, was the smartest in our group. Naturally we sought her assistance that day. She glowed under the attention. She set about patiently correcting grammatical errors, pointing out muddled sentences, indicating softly which areas needed elaboration.

I noticed Henry was sitting alone during this time, scratching his head, furrowing his brow, staring at his essay in concentration. Travis was teasing him.

And then, like a guardian angel come from the golden gates of heaven, Rose left her gaggle of students and sat beside him. Henry smiled. Nervous, tentative sweat slicked his forehead.

We laughed about it then, me and Travis and Lila, but deep down we were jealous that the inevitable shifting of our group’s dynamic had taken place, and none of us were a part of the equation.

The Middle of the Beginning

“I think I like her,” Henry said frequently afterwards when it was just me and Travis with him. “I think I do. A lot.”

We sniggered collectively, played along. It became a game. “What do you like most about her? Are you gonna marry her?” we would ask with false sincerity.

“Everything about her, I like,” he’d reply importantly, “And, yeah. Maybe I will marry her.” We all laughed. There was no doubt in our minds then that poor, hapless Henry was dreaming up this big romance, borne from Rose’s simple kindness.

“I’m going to ask her to dance,” Henry said one day, out of the blue. “Tomorrow, I’ll ask her.” We grinned. Travis nudged his shoulder boyishly. Someone else who happened to be sitting with us that day made up a bet on whether or not Henry would pull through. I just smiled. Poor, hapless Henry mistook our amused, youthful mockery for pride.

The following week, the dance took place. We gathered in our little group excitedly, flashing smiles, pretending that we couldn’t care less. The gym was bedecked in fluorescent neon lights, strips of flashy, glittery gold paper wrung from the ceiling, music pumping from the domed roof. Lila bragged about how much of it was all thanks to her creative ambition, since she was a part of the dance committee. The girls were resplendent in their skimpy dresses. We wore our flashiest, priciest clothes.

Henry showed up late with Rose in tow, causing quite the fuss. His brown eyes were bright. Rose’s smile was small and shy, her honeydew hair glimmering amidst the neon lights. We stared, pointed, bobbed grins and cheeky laughter across the hall. Travis spat out his drink. Lila arced an eyebrow. We were collectively in awe. Hapless Henry had turned a new leaf.

The girls fawned all over them; we resorted to a thumbs-up.

The Ending of the Beginning

Henry went to a different high school than the rest of us. He moved house early in the year we all started a new chapter in our lives. I wasn’t to see him for years. I was too caught up in the difference of high school to contact him.

In my second year, I dated Lila. She was vivacious, a fresh breath of air from the old days. We laughed about our middle school-selves. I asked her constantly if she knew anything about Henry and Rose, whose quiet popularity in middle school devolved into anonymity. She frequented the library and acquired a new circle of friends, long-legged girls with swathes of hair. I only had to glance to know they took her for granted, accepted her only for the gleam of her blond hair rather than the understated perception of her mind. Lila told me that the last she’d heard, she and Henry had split. I felt duly crushed. Those two were akin to glowing, golden idols from a better, simpler age. Like the rest of us, they’d succumbed to change and rust.

Three shitty parties, one pregnancy test, and two ‘break ups’ later, Lila and I split. “All you ever talk about now is ‘those old days’ as if they were years ago, as if they were amazing all the time. They weren’t. God, get a grip on yourself, you’re pathetic,” she’d said at the argument that ended it. After that, brilliantly angry and youthfully, foolishly bitter, she spread the rumor that I carried STDs. I remember Travis laughing in my face the day after. He made a quip about girls being bitches, about how he was taking Maria Henderson to a party that weekend, about how I should come and use the STD-thing as a sob story to get laid.

I skipped school for a week, pleaded sick to my blank-faced parents. Days were spent staring up at the billowing, far-away clouds from my bedroom window, lost in thought. Escapism. All I wanted was to envelop myself again in the golden warmth of the before, not the now, with stressful deadlines and assessments and new social pressures and angry ex-girlfriends.

The Beginning of the End

-During my final year of university, an unregistered number called my phone while I was walking to a class.

It was Henry, though I still didn’t make the connection when the voice said, “it’s Henry, hey, it’s me.” He had to awkwardly introduce himself twice more. He sounded tired. He asked how I was doing, what I was up to, what university I attended, inquired about assignments, deadlines, and my parents. He confessed, with sheepish laughter, that he’d gotten my number off of Lila, who Rose still saw every now and then. He added in serious undertone, that he never for a second believed those old, filthy rumors.

I had a multitude of questions clamoring in my head. For one thing, I did not appreciate him bringing up the STD-drama. Also, what was he calling me for? After years of silence, hearing him speak while I weaved through other students staring into their phones was a surreal experience.

There was a new, tense quality to Henry’s voice that I’d never heard before. He suddenly apologized, for falling off the radar, for being too busy to keep in touch. Things with Rose were rocky, he admitted quietly, in a resigned sort of way. Before I could ask when they’d gotten back together, he quickly slipped in that he loved her. A lot. They’d gone on-and-off a number of times.

“Look, I know this is…weird, since we haven’t spoken in years,” Henry said shakily. “But you were always the most considerate of the guys. I know that you’ll help me.” There was a long pause. I waited. “Rose is pregnant. We didn’t plan it. She’s totally against, ah, abortion. And, I mean, so am I! She says we have get married…quickly. Fast. She doesn’t want the kid to be labeled a bastard, and I guess she just…” Henry trailed off. “I think she just doesn’t want to be alone.”

He sighed, sounding older than he really was. I didn’t know what to say, or what exactly he was calling me for. “Please,” he went on. “I need your help. Her parents hate her for all this business, and my dad…you know how he is, ever since we were kids, always just…sorry. Ah, when are you free next?”

The Middle of the End

I helped arrange mostly everything. I found a reception hall in town. It was a small, humble, exquisite building that didn’t make a big deal of itself. Henry, Rose and I went down there a few days after he called. I skipped my afternoon lecture.

I did most of the talking. Henry was taller, a bit leaner, though jittery, his smile nervous. There was a new tentative energy in him, the sadness in his eyes never quite going away. Rose, though, was very lovely. Refined, cool and calm. The gaggle of loud, unappreciative girls that used to surround her in a stifling circle were nowhere to be seen. I wondered where they’d gone. Her belly swelled under the blue blouse she wore.

They chose a day, a time, talked over some meaningless technicalities. We had coffee afterwards. It seemed like the decent thing to do, though I could tell both of them just wanted to go home, retreat back into whatever form of shelter they had built for themselves upstate. I felt out of place meeting these two old friends I didn’t actually know anymore. My brain was momentarily confused, attempting to re-arrange itself; I remembered Henry as a flushed, messy-haired youth with gangly arms and a hapless grin. On the last day of school, he’d hugged me tightly and rather desperately, only letting go when Travis shoved a pencil up his ass. The day before he moved, we hung out in the arcade and then the beach. After everyone had gone and the sun began to vanish in the horizon, my mother had dropped off Rose first, then Henry. The three of us sat in the backseat, making small talk, and as we neared Rose’s house, Henry had grabbed both our hands without preamble. Even after Rose left his hand kept clutching mine.

Now he was suddenly taller than me, dressed in a modest suit-and-tie. He had never been solid and leery like Travis, always floppy, but sitting in that café, there was a solidity about him.

The youthful vivacity that was in Rose once was gone; it was replaced by a wide void, reduced as she was to a politely-smiling, well-mannered, chagrin adult. She used to get all the boys’ attention, even in high school. Mature and level-headed, Rose hardly ever went to parties, but when she did, she always vanished upstairs, swallowed up by the inky darkness of the stairwell. I always assumed she and Henry’s split was official. Their hastened marriage date said otherwise.

The café was small, but busy, bustling. Its homey interior and cream walls watched as we slowly took a sigh of collective relief, our stress and tension melting away gradually, mingling with the steam of mochas and lattes.

Henry sincerely apologized for all the sudden fuss, asked again what I was majoring in and when I’d graduate. He asked after my parents and what they were getting up to. He shared some funny stories, but Rose never laughed, she only maintained her frozen little smile. She herself congratulated me for my academic successes, sympathizing with me on how Lila acted all those years ago, affirming she was different now and still asked about me, sometimes. I told them how well they looked, how happy I was for them, what name they were considering for the baby, and did they know yet if it was a boy, or a girl? I didn’t get to pose the questions I really wanted to ask, since I could tell they were both terribly tired of things. Whether it was from work, or each other, or the baby bombshell, or all of the above, or some hidden factor they kept to themselves, I still do not know.

What I knew: they were only alive by the love they shared, weakly binding them together. It was quietly, tragically beautiful.

The End

-Their wedding day fell on a midsummer, lukewarm Friday afternoon.

Henry and Rose invited only a few people, less than a handful: Geraldine was the bride’s sister. Carlton was her boyfriend. As for Lila and I, one could say we were close in school, but Travis wasn’t invited. Was Lila merely a sop for me? Was it a feeble, girlish, chick-flick attempt to get us back together? Was Henry and Rose’s social circle just that closed-off? Were they afraid and ashamed of others knowing about their marriage and Rose’s pregnancy? Had they alienated themselves that much? Like many things about them, I don’t know.

Geraldine picked up the girls, while Carlton and I were put in charge of Henry. It was quite a beautiful day. Sunlight dappled the trees lining the sidewalk, while buildings reached up into the unfathomable sky. There was not a cloud in sight.

We got to the reception hall first. Henry, in a sharp blue suit, paced back and forth erratically in one of the rooms the kindly receptionist directed us to. I had helped him get ready in my flat. Carlton could tell we had history and he was destined to be a mere footnote, so he politely complimented Henry, made some light jokes which we responded to politely, and then he left before we did, saying he’d meet us at the hall. His car was parked in the lot, four spaces from mine. He was browsing through his phone when we pulled up. I thought it prudent to wait for Geraldine to arrive before calling out to him.

While Henry paced, I mused aloud how the girls were faring. Perhaps Rose had cried a little, then switched to happy laughter while her hair was done up artfully.

He was implacable, in that small window of time when it was just us two. I attempted small talk: why his father or her parents weren’t invited (the look he shot in my direction was, I guess, the only answer I needed.) Did they not want anyone else to come, any other friends? That didn’t provoke a response, but I filled the silence with noise anyway. I spoke wistfully of the increasing difficulty of my university assignments, about Travis, about the beauty of the afternoon. Henry was unresponsive, curt. It took me awhile to accept that I simply did not understand the entire situation, and I left him alone with his own thoughts for a bit. Happy nervousness leaked from his every pore as he walked back and forth, back and forth.

He wouldn’t stop pacing. Without a word, I placed a hand comfortingly on his shoulder. The effect was electric. Henry spun around, looked at me with wide, trembling, damp eyes and kissed me. I only began to respond when he drew back again, as fast as he’d leant forward. He was flushed. “I doubt the baby’s mine,” he said abruptly, absurdly. Then, “I love you. Thank you for being here. I mean it. I love you.”

There was a knock on the door, and Geraldine asked how things were coming along. I could have addressed what Henry had just blurted out and the way he’d kissed me, but I didn’t. His eyes met mine, and without flinching, I told Geraldine we’d be right out and that Carlton was in his car. Her heels faded away into the warm afternoon. Before we left the room, Henry kissed me again. I let him, not reciprocating this time.

Rose was a vision of loveliness, a divine apparition. Her back was facing us as we walked up. Daisies were wrung prettily in her hair. When she turned, her face wore an expression that I couldn’t read. The corners of her mouth were upturned, but I wouldn’t say she was smiling. I saw her rounded belly, remembered Henry’s suspicions, his desperate kisses. But I could not harden my heart against her. How could I, with her standing there, her white dress whispering as it danced across the floor in time with the wind?

Geraldine walked in with Carlton and Lila in tow.  “Shall we?” Lila announced with theatrical grandeur. She shot me a glance. The lot of us had dinner a few nights beforehand, a perverted version of the five our original group had, plus Carlton, very handsome, very respectful, shaking my hand firmly over glasses of wine. Geraldine, I knew slightly growing up, a stately, assertive girl who had none of Rose’s subtlety. As for Lila…she was much the same. Harsh green eyes, a smirk instead of a smile. The only thing of note was a tattoo of a pale lily on her thigh. I told her that it was really clever and witty, when we had sex in my flat that same night. She said that I’d gotten myself a nice pad, and allowed that she missed our middle school days sometimes, especially the science lessons where we were partners, fucking up all of our tests. I took that as her apology for the STD rumors. We didn’t mention it.

The sunlight spilled in from the doorway and doused Henry in soft brightness as he stepped forward and took Rose in his arms. She was crying. Her small shoulders trembled demurely. He whispered words to her that the rest of us didn’t hear. Geraldine patted her back. Carlton shifted in place. Lila linked her arm with mine.

There was a small wait inside a depressingly-clean room where no-one really said anything. Shortly, a middle-aged man donned in priestly garb approached us, calling for “Mr. Henry and Ms. Rose.”

It happened so fast. The designated room was jarringly empty. Geraldine, Carlton, Lila and I crowded the front seats, the chairs behind us devoid of any life. The girls had, in an attempt to spruce the state of things, blown up a few listless balloons and scattered a handful of daffodils on the aisle. It was beautiful in its own doomed, sad way. I imagined the lily on Lila’s thigh blooming open for me. Sunlight alighted on each flimsy white petal of the flowers in Rose’s hair.

When Henry and Rose kissed as man and wife, melting into one, trembling, Geraldine let out a sob. Carlton clapped earnestly, then hugged his girlfriend with one arm. Lila touched my shoulder. Her eyes leaked mascara-stained tears. My throat became constricted with emotion.

“I never saw this coming. Never. I mean…not like this. Did you?” she asked me, her green eyes softening, causing me to almost fall in love with her all over again.

The makeshift priest watched as the six of us left, Henry and Rose leading the way with damp cheeks. His sad eyes were full of hopeless love, and he’d given me a look pregnant with apology and confusion as he walked past; he reached out as if to touch my cheek, but instead clasped my arm. The bride’s honeydew hair was aglow, blinding us all.

In the parking lot, Henry and Rose leaned into each other and so did Geraldine and Carlton, shadowing them. Lila kissed my cheek, and I remembered Henry pressing his lips into mine, not once but twice, his suit clinging to his slim frame, his shoulders set. It seemed to have happened a million years ago. I like to think that we were all, in that moment, happy. The waning afternoon sun embraced us and congratulated our exit.

But I suppose that deep down I knew it was temporary.

X

-Lila called me well over a year later.

We’d kept in touch after the wedding, making half-hearted attempts to reconnect, to start over. We had sex two more times afterward, but the second time, I made the mistake of asking her why she did it, all those years ago in our second year of high school. When she feigned sleep, I touched her lily tattoo and waited until she was actually slumbering. We were in her flat, so I left. Taken away from the pale, sentimental magic of that reception hall, I noticed that her green eyes had hardened again. I realized: I did not love her anymore, if I ever really did. I didn’t bother maintaining contact, and neither did she.

We were there, however, for the sake of appearances, when Henry and Rose left on their honeymoon to Florida. I remember Rose waving a lavender handkerchief at us as Henry drove them away. Carlton took me home, doing the same for a friend of Rose’s who’d been invited, some girl co-worker. He asked how things were going with Lila. I said that things were definitely going. He shook my hand when we reached my flat, and I wondered what he would do if I kissed him in the semi-darkness of his car. Later that night I hit up the girl co-worker whose number I’d procured at some point, and drove to her place and had sex on a pull-out bed. She was ensconced at a friend’s for the moment because of personal issues I did not care to divulge in because I had enough of my own, enough of Henry’s, enough of Rose’s, so I fucked her again before she could open up.

I wasn’t present when Rose gave birth five months after, but I was at their infant girl Victoria’s one-month celebration. She was an exhilarating, lovely thing, but she had brilliant blue eyes. Neither Henry nor Rose had blue eyes.

Lila was there, too, but she didn’t look at me once. The girl co-worker arrived late with a guy who I thought at first was Travis, and I was so shocked I dropped the small sandwich I was eating into Victoria’s crib. Carlton told the guests about the promotion he’d received, and Geraldine gushed over her niece, imploring to her in sickly-sweet coos that the girl would have a cousin in due time. Henry never left Rose’s side once, and when I said goodbye, his hand was sweaty. He lingered a second too long, just like at our last day of school, his scrawny arms nearly suffocating me.

When Lila called almost two years after, she did so with a dead voice. Henry had shot himself in the mouth, in the upstairs bathroom of the Victorian-style house he and Rose had bought a year prior.

Lila told me Rose had come home to hear Victoria’s wail of irritation and hunger from bedroom on the second floor. She’d rushed up the stairs, and saw the bathroom door closed. Blood leaked from the space underneath, staining the fresh carpets. And, somehow, Rose had known. I asked what Lila meant by that, but she stuck by what she said. Somehow, Rose had known.

So, she went back down and sat in the living room, called her sister to come over as soon as she could, and remained in the couch for almost an hour, listening to her child’s pitiful, escalating wail, letting her dead husband drown in his blood in the upstairs bathroom.

When Geraldine arrived, everything came undone.

I hung up after telling Lila I’d make it to the wake.

I remembered his warm and perpetually melancholic brown eyes, the lovely honeydew of her hair, the way he kissed me twice in that warm, fuzzy, almost pastoral waiting room with dust dancing in the space between us. I remembered how their initials were etched onto the red bench outside our old classroom. “HxR.” There, forever. ♦

[quiddy-writes]

Details

Hey, it’s Sunday and there’s no new Good To You. Because I’m the worst. So, here’s some Priestly for today and the next bit of Good To You will come by one day this week (probably Tuesday at the earliest), but this is to, hopefully, placate y’all.

But, basically, my friend at work just watched the movie and he was like, “So, you got me to watch Supernatural and now Ten Inch Hero…dude…I think I’m in love with this guy.” So, yeah, Priestly feels. :D

Finally, shout out to ElRoy for reading over this for me! :D You’re the best, sweetie!

Fandom: Ten Inch Hero Pairing: Priestly x Reader Inspiration: ElRoy’s marvelous imagine (and the other one, too) Words: 1,176 Warnings: Swearing, terrible puns, and sass Previous Parts: The Kilt Is Sexy - Getting Inked – Happy Halloween - Beach Day

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Priestly had awoken this particular morning with a sleeping Y/N resting on his chest. Her mouth was open and she was drooling slightly, with one arm trapped between his back and the back of the couch. Her other hand was hanging limply off the side of the couch. His left arm was wrapped around her, the other resting under his head. Their legs were a tangled mess and barely fit on the loveseat they were cuddling on.

He smiled, tightening his hold on her and bringing his other hand down to wipe some hair from her face. She grumbled quietly and buried her face deeper into his shirt.

Y/N was definitely not a morning person.

“Wakey wakey, Y/L/N,” Priestly nudged her.

She answered with a groan. “No…”

“You’re meeting Shannon in a few hours.”

“Shannon’ll be fine.”

Priestly let her rest a minute more, not in too much of a hurry to get up either.

She had spent the previous night at his place, going through another movie marathon interspersed with making out. This time, she’d been able to pick the movies, so they watched a bunch of her old favorite black and white movies, like Rebecca, The Haunting, and Shadow of a Doubt. Priestly admitted to liking them all, but still preferred his movies. She accepted this answer.

Finally, Y/N sighed heavily and pushed herself up, resting her hands on the couch. With barely open eyes, she groaned, “You’ve got work today, don’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck…fine,” she grumbled, awkwardly climbing off of her boyfriend.

Once standing, she stretched her arms above her head, arching her back like a cat. She then rubbed her eyes before holding her hands out to her boyfriend. “C’mon, let’s get going.”

Now the dawn had come and Y/N had the day off. Priestly planned to drop her off at her dorm then head on into work. She bemoaned her fate: studying for her upcoming finals.

However, their plans were changed when Trucker called Priestly that morning, asking for supplies.

Y/N was in her sweatpants and tank-top from the night and was shrugging on one of Priestly’s hoodies. When he hung up, he gave her a playful glare before she simply said, “I’m your girlfriend. I’m entitled.”

He’d answered that with a soft kiss to her temple. “C’mon, I’ll drop you off before I go shopping.”

“Nah, that’s stupid. I’ll go with you. What if you need to buy tampons?”

Priestly rolled his eyes. “Do they have to tell you everything?”

“Stop being so adorable and they’d stop telling me these stories.”

He threw an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into his side. “I wish you weren’t all so close.”

She frowned, letting her head fall against his chest. “Is it weird for you that Tish and I get along?”

“No,” He shook his head. “I mean, Tish and I were never gonna last, and we ended things well enough…”

“If it helps, she hasn’t told me any horror stories from dating you.”

“That’s because I’m an amazing boyfriend.”

“This is true,” she leaned up, grinning wildly as she pressed a quick to his lips. “C’mon, we don’t want you to be late.”

“They’re used to it,” he mumbled, leaning down to deepen the kiss.

“C’mon,” She pulled away regretfully. “We need to go or we’ll never leave.”

He sighed, grabbing his keys and her hand before heading out.

Priestly pushed the cart around as Y/N grabbed things from the shelves of the nearby bodega. He was leaning against the handrail as she threw things from the shelves into the cart.

“Any brand preferences?” she asked.

He pointed it out, and she grabbed a few loaves. They were unceremoniously dropped into the cart, and they moved on.

Y/N began speaking to herself quietly, trying to make sure that she didn’t forget anything.

Priestly just watched her. He watched the way her hair, thrown up into a messy bun that was quickly becoming unraveled, was shining in the shitty lighting; the way his hoodie made her look like she was drowning in cloth; the way she pursed her lips in thought; and even the way that her half-broken flip-flops slapped the floor loudly with every step.

She turned to him, her eyebrows raising in question.

“Sorry, what?”

“Welcome back to Earth,” she teased. “Did you enjoy your trip?”

“It was awesome. Missed you, though,” he shrugged.

“Ah yes, it was a hard six seconds to be without you too,” she rolled her eyes. “I said I think we can go, we’ve got everything.” She then walked up beside him to wrap her arms around his waist. “After you, my good man.”

Priestly grinned as he pushed the cart towards the front. Y/N nestled herself slightly more into his arms, and he even let go of the cart to wrap an arm around her shoulders.

As they rolled up to the cashier, there stood two boys, each holding boxes of tampons and doing the silent “how you doin’?” to every woman who walked past.

Then they honed in on Priestly and Y/N.

Their eyes widened comically.

Y/N cocked her head to the side and awkwardly waved, unsure of what to do.

They looked at her and back to Priestly as though he was a mythical figure, like they couldn’t believe what they were seeing.

It took Priestly a long time to remember them, and he laughed breathlessly when he did. He pressed a long kiss to Y/N’s temple, hugging her closer than before.

She giggled like a schoolgirl before pulling out of his grip. “C’mon Casanova, focus.”

Priestly then focused entirely on her, helping her put everything on the counter to be rung up. He watched her speak pleasantly with the cashier, a polite smile on her face—not the one he’d seen that morning when they’d kissed, nor the one that she’d donned when he had hugged the life out of her during the scene with Eleanor and Theo watching their bedroom door the night before, but one she pulled out to be nice and to make things go easier.

They were done quickly, and, their arms full of bags, began to leave.

Priestly stopped in the doorway, letting Y/N walk out ahead of him. After taking a few steps, she stopped and turned to see him not moving.

His green eyes were taking in every inch of her in that moment. He gave a soft smile, which she answered with a confused one of her own.

Then he looked back into the market, back at the two “men” standing in their corner with eyes as big as dinner plates.

He then shouted “Peace!” and awkwardly threw up a peace sign without dropping a bag. It then flipped into his middle finger as he walked out.

Y/N laughed as her boyfriend joined her. “What the fuck was that?”

He shrugged. “Tish left out the best part.”

“How dare she. You must, of course, fix this grievous error.”

“Of course, milady,” he nodded, heading towards his car. “Happy to be of service.”

Priestly Tags: @wayward-marvel-and-more @jotink78 @loverose14impala @creatively-charlie @vaisabu @smoothdogsgirl @marvelfanuniverse @bunny-the-lifeguard