#If I end up going to university in this sick and twisted country I might just die

[twelve-kinds-of-trouble]

why does the economy hate girls who hate maths </3 I am sorry but I am so so stupid

[copperbadge]

I'm sure I'm not being original, but surely there is an au where the King and Queen Emeritus court Jes Demos together? Given that the Queen had, uh, gal pals in their shared bed.

I think you're the first to suggest it actually!

(Honestly if I knew how much I'd expand this universe I would possibly not have had Miranda die, but that would have changed the series a lot and it's a trouser leg of time we won't go down.)

I can definitely see an AU where Miranda never got sick, and Michaelis and Miranda retired similar to the time frame in the books but found themselves still a little at loose ends the way Michaelis did in canon. I think Miranda, who could be imperious at times, might have been rather offended that Jes didn't do them the courtesy of notifying the palace they were doing the podcast about the country; she might very well have marched down to the recording studio to give that Deimos a piece of her mind not because she didn't like the podcast but because she felt it would have been polite to inform them.

I think a fight between her and Jes would have been fucking epic ("It's common courtesy!" "Are you attempting to curtail the freedom of the press?" "Are you delusional??" etc) and also extremely hot. And then Miranda would vent to Michaelis, who as a diplomat would attempt to smooth things over by inviting Jes and Lachlan to dinner on neutral ground and negotiating the Pax Podcastrum.

After which Lachlan would undoubtedly be like "it's a good thing you're bi because they both want a turn" which Jes scoffs at but also finds intriguing, and we go from there. It does add some twists and turns since Miranda would probably be the one more overtly interested, and Michaelis might just be like "If you like them, that's enough for me," but take a while to warm up to Jes.

In the canon, and this will pop up at some point, Miranda and Michaelis didn't have an open marriage (not that I thought you implied that, just clarifying generally) -- they had one close, intimate friend who wasn't around very much but basically was their booty call when she visited. I plan to have her show up eventually and be delighted by Jes and the positive change they've made in Michaelis. In this possible AU scenario I can see Michaelis and Miranda discussing the idea of perhaps a more permanent and stable arrangement with Jes. It'd be an interesting story to write, I think. The Emeriti Take A Young Lover. :D (I mean Jes is younger than they are...)

Fascinating to consider what they might tell Gregory and Noah. Not to mention whether the press would eventually get wind of it. I remember listening to one of my regular podcasts and one of the hosts speaking openly, but somewhat suddenly, about her polyamory, and my eyebrows shooting up. Not in judgement, I have no problem with polyamory and a lot of poly friends, it was just unexpected to hear someone being that upfront about it in a public forum that wasn't explicitly about the topic. I suspect the general reaction of the populace would be a) what and b) yeah if I could take any two of those people to bed I would too.

Be especially funny if at first everyone thinks it's an affair but can't figure out which one of them is cheating. Miranda would enjoy herself hugely. "We can finally have a sex scandal after forty years of marriage, my love. Let me at least bask in it for a week or two."

[smoochkooks]

— lost stars, part 1 (m.)

⟶ pairing: jeon jungkook/reader

⟶ genre: smut, angst, (troubled) idol au, childhood friends to lovers

⟶ word count: 20k

⟶ summary: in dead hours of the night he stumbles upon the bars, reaching, searching, trying to feel something, for once forget about consequences and taste the bittersweet freedom. between sips of addiction and faint touches of nameless lovers he finds you again: his own long-lost star on a blackboard sky.

⟶ warnings for part one: explicit sexual content, dom!jungkook, rough sex, oral (m receiving), fingering, dirty talk, degradation, light breath play, unprotected sex, infidelity, mentions of mental health issues, smoking, drinking etc., this is sad im sorry

⟶ music: lost stars, young god, the hills and more here. 

PART TWO (FINALE): HERE!

Jungkook can’t sleep.

Moonlight is gradually slipping through the unveiled curtains that he hasn’t even bothered shutting out for the night, letting the silvery luminescences gleam over the expanses of his room callously. It's the first full moon of the month, an argent king on the cloudless sky preventing many people that particular night from falling asleep.

Jungkook lays on his bed, long body slumped on unmade, messy sheets. Brightness illuminates over his features, making his skin glow in porcelain white. Every edge of him is chiseled. From his thin lips, through the slope of his nose and paleness of his forehead, Jungkook might be a beautiful imitation of a marble sculpture. Although he isn't, heaviness of his limbs and suffocating pressure weighting down on his chest like tons of rocks make him feel like one.

Digital clock on his bedside table reads midnight, four red zeros signaling change of the date. It's so painfully silent in the confines of his room, yet Jungkook doesn't sleep. And it's not because of some scientificly proven theory connecting insomnia to the full moon. He hasn't shifted on his bed since he laid there an hour or so ago. He stares blankly at the ceiling, inhaling the chilly air of March flowing inside through the open window. There is without a doubt too cold to lie uncovered like that, with bare legs and thin t-shirt thrown on, but he doesn't seem to care, not when shivers run down his arms, not when the sudden puff of wind blows the strands of raven hair off from his forehead. He stays like that, hands folded on his stomach, eyes glued to the silver lights on the ceiling, and time ticks.

Jungkook doesn't remember when was the last time he has gotten some good amount of sleep in the night. Perhaps it was a year or two ago, when after particularly hectics days it took him only a few seconds to fall into the peaceful slumber as soon as his cheek met the cool material of his pillow. A lot of has changed since that; it's bitterly oblivious he has changed too. His insomniac tendencies are only a small part of the whole spectrum.  

Jungkook doesn't wish the sleep to come and cure him. He has stopped a long time ago, when he realised it's just pointless. There are times when it gets better, when he doesn't need to nap uncontrollably during the day instead of doing that while it's dark out. Tonight seems like one of those dead end situations. Maybe after a few hours his eyes will tire out enough to flutter shut on their own accord and bring him the awaited couple of hours of mindless numbness, and the sun will raise again, as it always does.

However, that night, like many of them before, Jungkook doesn't wait helplessly.

A sigh and a minute later, he kicks off the sheets and stands up from his bed, walking to the nearby closet. He puts on the first pair of black jeans he manages to find and replaces his worn out t-shirt he wears to sleep with a new, fresh one. He flicks the lights on for a brief moment to examine himself briefly in the mirror. He needs haircut, loose strands are falling on his forehead and he swamps them off, running his fingers through the black locks. He looks even more tired in the artificial lighting of his room, definitely not like the marble sculpture, certainly not like the spot-on idol this country loves and admires. The skincare products his stylists have given him to put on his face everyday are doing a quite good job, but not good enough to fully hide the bangs underneath his eyes. This kind of magic only stage makeup can provide.  

Now, Jungkook looks painfully ordinary. He isn't Jeon Jungkook of BTS, he doesn't want to be during nights like this one. That's why he fishes out of the drawer his black mask and puts it in the pockets of his denim jacket. There is probably too cold outside to go out dressed like that, but Jungkook doesn't falter.

He doesn't falter opening the door to his room and stepping into the dark hallway of the dorm. He doesn't falter putting on his shoes as silently as he can. He doesn't falter reaching for the knob to the main door and twisting it. Even if he has promised he won't do that again, that the last time when he came home at ungodly hour, smelling of sleazy bars and cheap alcohol, with faint reminiscences of the touches of nameless lovers on his skin, was truly last.  

Even if the pang of guilt is still there, at the back of his head, when he exhales the air of the night, it fades away.

If someone ever asked Jeon Jungkook to describe freedom, he would say it smells like Bongcheon Underground Station.  

He’s never been there before or at least he doesn’t remember doing it. The sign indicates it’s the line number two, a green one to be more exact. He doesn’t know in which part of the city he is, maybe half an hour away from the luxurious housing estate he lives in with the rest of the boys, maybe further. At some point during the train ride he's lost the track of time.  

It’s probably irresponsible, careless, unwise and stupid to be a widely-known figure using public transportation in the middle of the night completely alone, but this run-down underground station in Jungkook's head is his own manifesto of mock freedom, consequences to be damned.

Jungkook knows he's risking a lot right now. The sick thirl is already there, boiling the blood in his veins. This is all he has; the mirage of liberty, his own revolt against the unfairness of the world. His testament of lost youth.

Before someone will see him standing on the platform and staring ahead of himself with blank eyes like a mad man, he decides to walk out of the station.  

A young couple around his age passes him on the stairs and he can’t help but spare a glance in their direction. They aren’t aware of his presence, holding onto each other and giggling drunkily. Something squeezes in Jungkook’s chest at the sight. It’s not any kind of jealousy, no. He’s grown up from being a rebel teenager. He’s grown up from the dreams of college parties, going on dates with pretty girls and having late-night snacks with his friends after gaming sessions.

Now Jungkook is just angry. Someone may say he doesn’t have the right to, he has everything an ordinary twenty-two year-old can desire. Yet, Jungkook is the one calling the world unfair while being on top of it.

There is a poster with his face hanging just above the entrance to the station. He stops in his tracks, scoffing cynically. Poster-Jungkook, spot-on idol from the biggest boyband in the country smiles at him, showing a row of blindingly white teeth. He has a face cream in his right hand, the softness of his photoshopped face and boyish glint in the eyes trick thousands of people into buying whatever he recommends.

What would Poster-Jungkook say seeing him now, Jungkook wonders. Barefaced, with mask covering half of his features, ruffled hair that he should have hidden underneath a cap. Poster-Jungkook probably wouldn’t like to make friends with someone like him. Poster-Jungkook is here to sing his heart out, to entertain fans and make his parents proud. Poster-Jungkook has never been at Bongcheon Underground Station.  

With one last glance, Jungkook exits the station, stepping into the streets of Seoul.

The clock on his lockscreen reads 1am, Saturday, March 21th. He reaches to his face, pulling the mask down a little to inhale the chilly air. The smell of nearby Chinese restaurant reminds him it’s definitely a terrible idea to drink on an empty stomach but he shrugs off this thought, walking ahead of himself, with no plan in mind.

It’s not everyday he uses underground to travel around the city like most citizens do. Ironically, this mundane thing is a luxury he normally can’t afford. But nighttime has it’s own rules.

Using his car isn’t a debatable option when he knows he's going to distract himself with numerous sips of alcohol later. He cannot use taxi as well. Not when he hates having small talks with middle-aged men while being half-wasted, half-asleep on the backseat, head buzzing, world spinning. In worst case scenarios, the said taxi driver might be a dad of one of his fans.  

(Yes, it happened before. It caused a lot for Jungkook's intoxicated brain to make up some silly story and convince the poor man he was coming home from his friend's birthday party, not running away from his one night stand's place.)

Asking one of their personal drivers to lift him up somewhere won’t do any good too because one: it definitely isn’t an emergency situation, although Jungkook would most likely argue it kind of is and two: going out in the night is too risky and most importantly, strictly forbidden for him since the last time Jimin found him unconscious on their doormat.  

He wants to laugh at himself, remembering the very first time he tried to sneak out of the dorm without permission.

He was merely eighteen back then and his friend from Busan came to Seoul to celebrate his acceptance into the university. Of course, teenage Jungkook had asked for approval like the well-raised young man he was. That’s impossible, Jungkook, was the answer and I really hadn’t seen that friend for a long time, please, wasn’t enough to change minds and melt hearts. And that was when eighteen-year-old Jungkook decided it was the final straw. He had enough of watching snapshots from his friends, living their teen years to the fullest. He wanted to live too.

He had planned everything in details. Namjoon and Yoongi were at the studio, Hoseok was visiting his family in Gwangju, Seokjin went to sleep early, Jimin and Taehyung were playing video games in their room. All occurrences seemed to be on his side. Until they weren’t.

He announced to everyone he wasn’t feeling well and locked himself inside his room. He waited for the right moment, then opened the door and peeked his head out. It was dead quiet, beside muffled bursts of laughter coming from the other end of the hallway where Taehyung and Jimin were still playing. Holding his breath, Jungkook tiptoed to the entrance.

It felt so electrifying back then, when he took the handle into his hand and pushed, doing something that he wasn’t supposed to. When he found himself taking the cab to his hyung’s place, fingers drumming the unknown rhythm of excitement on his jean-clad thighs.  

It doesn’t feel like that anymore. There’s a rush of adrenaline but not the good kind. What was once a silly rebellion of a boy with romantic soul, is now nothing but a routine.

That night didn’t turn out as he wished. It ended with him getting wasted to the point he had to call Seokjin to pick him up. He still remembers the furious scolding the older one gave him. He remembers how he promised it was a one-time thing, how he regretted his childish actions and irresponsibility.

But it happened again and again. And it got only worse over the years.  

Jungkook keeps marching ahead of himself, looking around the unfamiliar neighborhood. It's a more industrial part of the city; it doesn’t look like leafy, peaceful area he lives in. He can only imagine how the flats inside those buildings look like - cramped, cluttered. Maybe they look just like their old dorm when he was merely sixteen, with head full of dreams, sleeping every night on a bunk bed underneath Taehyung.

Upon seeing a fluorescent, red neon sign, he stops in his tracks. The club looks nice from the outside and even though it stopped being an indicator for Jungkook some time ago, he decides to step inside with the same goal in mind as usual: get drunk and then leave.

Loud, thumping music fills his ears as soon as he enters the building. He passes the mass of nameless silhouettes, heading straight to the bar and slumping down on one of the stools.  

“What can I get you?”  

Jungkook looks up, meeting the eyes of friendly-looking bartender who seems not to recognize him or just doesn’t give a fuck. Both options are more than anticipated when you’re a well-know celebrity who decided to get drunk on a Friday night.

“Doesn’t matter. Just give me something strong.”  

Bartender nods in understanding and Jungkook sees him reaching for the bottle of whiskey and pouring the substance into a glass already filled with ice cubs.  

I don’t even like whiskey, Jungkook realizes. But at the same time he knows he hasn’t come here to sample. He’s here to let loose, to taste the bittersweet freedom this umber alcohol provides and represents. Each sip burns his throat stronger, yet it’s always welcomed.

After the third glass, his head starts buzzing. The world spins a little when he closes his eyes; everything becomes a blurr of colors, shapes and sounds. It’s should be a sign to slow down but Jungkook automatically raises his hand to bartender, ordering another glass.  

He hasn’t even registered he’s not alone by the bar anymore.  

She’s pretty. Maybe not exactly his type, whether he has one or not, but he can’t help but spare a glance anyway. Even in his drunken state he notices she’s a foreigner; blonde locks are cascading down her back and shoulders, milky skin glowing in the fluorescent lights. He doesn’t see her face clearly yet, but he observes in the corner of his eye as she bites her plump, cherry-coloured lips, while staring down at her empty glass.  

Then, his eyes wander lower, to the smooth column of her throat, her provident collarbones and rich  décolltage. Her black dress doesn’t do quite good job covering her cleavage and Jungkook has to swallow at the sight.  

He’s fucked, buzzed and that irritating, tiny voice at the back of his head is telling him to get his shit together but every rational thought is wiped off his mind when the girl whirls around and faces him fully now. She smiles at him, or his blurry eyes are deceiving him already. Nevertheless, he smiles back at her dumbly, doing his best to maintain the enigmatic façade.

“Hi.” he says.

It’s not the first time he’s hitting on a foreign woman. It’s very much asshole of him, but he thinks it’s easier to get laid that way. In most cases he’s not the one to start a conversation, yet this time, here he is.  

“Hi, stranger.” she answers and licks her lips languidly. The raw eroticism dripping from it makes Jungkook shift on his seat. If she wants to play this game, he’s ready to make another move.  

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asks. It’s so goddamn blunt and brusque, but always works. Something about his flat English and the way he subtly smirks saying it makes women intrigued.  

She contemplates for a moment, batting her eyelashes at him until she eventually agrees. “Yes, sure.”  

He waves at the bartender, slurring his words a little. He hears the girl giggle and somehow, his next words leave his lips without a second thought.

“You like Korea?”  

She’s very talkative when she’s drinking, Jungkook notices. The question seemed to elicit something in her and she started babbling, spitting her words so fast he couldn’t catch up even if he wasn’t drunk (and knew English better). All this time he smiles at her, nodding his head and occasionally muttering “yeah” and “oh” whenever he feels like it’s the right moment.  

At some point his eyes wander to the other part of the club, where the sign shows the way to the bathroom. The girl takes a sip of her drink, showing a row of her perfectly white teeth when she catches him staring at her. And at this moment, Jungkook decides is time to interfere.

He leans closer to her, his hand ever so slightly brushing the place where the material of her dress meets her thigh. She bites her lip, waiting for his another move. Jungkook is now mere inches from her face, lust swimming in his orbs when he whispers, “You’re so beautiful.”  

She says something to him but he doesn’t register it. His hand is now fully placed on her thigh and when he opens his mouth to ask if she would like to dance with him, he feels a pair of strong hands placed firmly on his shoulders, pulling him away from her.  

“What the fuck, man? What are you doing with my girlfriend?” He hears a male voice saying behind him in English.  

Jungkook blinks, trying to comprehend what have just happened. His head spins from the sudden motion and he feels like throwing up any second. He lifts his head, meeting the terrified expression of the girl he talked to just seconds ago.  

“Are you deaf or something? I’m talking to you.”  

Someone pushes him forcefully again and that’s when he turns around with reluctance, standing face to face with very much pissed off white guy. He’s taller than him and the deep furrow of his brows tells Jungkook he’s in for a trouble.  

“James, it’s okay. We were just talking.”  

“Well, it didn’t look like that!”  

“Just let him be. He’s drunk.”

Jungkook feels like his soul has left his body and now he’s staring at the whole scene from the side. The muffled voices reach his ears but he cannot fathom anything. He pinches the bridge of his nose and squeezes his eyes.  

Another shove at his shoulder coerces him to regain his senses a little.  

“I’m not letting that fucker go that easily until he apologies. Hey, shithead!”  

Jungkook feels hands grabbing him by the lapels of his jacket. And then, when he thinks this is it – Jeon Jungkook of BTS is going to get hammered in some sleazy club by a foreigner because he couldn’t keep his hands to himself, because he’s useless peace of shit instead of the It Boy of his country, everything stops.

He knows this voice. Maybe his drunken brain is deceiving him, maybe he’s hallucinating or dreaming because he’s already lying bruised on the floor and unconscious. But he hears you and feels you, touching his arm and saying, “It’s alright, sir, he’s here with me. He doesn’t feel well. I apologize for his behavior.”  

Your grip is stronger than he remembers to be. It hurts like you’re mad at him. But is it really you, dragging him across the room, away from those people through the crowd of sweaty bodies? He squints his eyes, focusing them on your silhouette, but what he sees is merely a blurry sideprofile of a young woman.

“I can’t believe the first thing I do after not seeing you for three years straight is saving your ass.”  

There’s a wave of fresh air hitting his face. He inhales it greedily, hands extending to stabilize himself until he feels the rough texture underneath fingertips. He leans his head on the wall, eyes squeezed shut. Seconds pass, maybe even minutes, until something nudges him on the side.  

“Do you feel better now?”  

To be completely frank, Jungkook is scared to open his eyes. His sanity is slowly coming back to him and he hears you now loud and clearly. Maybe he’s really dreaming but if that’s true, why does he feel like he has a full control on his next move?  

It’s really you. Three years older than he last saw you, arms crossed over your chest and evident frown on your face. He doesn’t know why but he wants to smooth the crease between your brows. It doesn’t suit you. Your hair is shorter, your features sharper and more mature.  

You’re definitely not dream-__. His dream-___ would have scratches on her knees and some fantasy book in her hands. She sometimes visits him at dead hours of the night, asking why he hasn’t answered her calls and messages. Sometimes she stares at him from the photograph he carries in his wallet because he cannot bring himself to get rid of it.

He probably should hug you, run into your arms and thank for saving his reputation. He should hug you because it’s been three goddamn years and you were his best friend once. One of the most important people in his life, his partner in crime (and professional math tutor in primary school). God, you were his first, silly crush when you were merely ten, hair braided and pimples on your cheeks. His shoulder to lean on when he needed to cry. The girl who played football with him because there was no boys in your neighborhood with whom he could do it.

Instead, he asks, “Did you cut your hair?”

The first thing you do is raise your eyebrows, as if you’re genuinely confused he’s able to form full, coherent sentences. Next, you scoff. “Seriously? We meet for the first time in three years in a club where I work because I need to save your ass since you’re completely pissed and tried hooking up with taken woman, and that’s the only thing you have to say?”  

He doesn’t like how you sound already. Your tone matches your expression, stern and slightly irritated. But at the same time, he’s not surprised you’re acting like this.

“I’m sorry, I’m just…” he hesitates. He’s just what? Pathetic? Stupid? Reckless? Or maybe–

“Crazy?”  

He smiles sheepishly. “Yeah. That’s a good word.”

You take a step closer, standing right in front of him. “So are you going to tell me what are you doing in this part of the city, getting drunk while being a freaking idol?”  

“Isn’t it what all celebrities do?” he asks sardonically.

You roll your eyes at that, and he takes a moment to look at you more carefully now. Your cheeks are rosy from the cold and he notices a smudge of mascara underneath your left eye. And there’s another thing he remembers about you; the weird habit of staring at him intensely whenever he wasn’t aware because you were terrible at keeping eye contact.  

But it seems like a lot of has changed in that department and now you’re meeting his eyes without a hint of shyness.  

“Yeah, maybe they do. But not when they have a reputation to take care of.” you counter.  

Jungkook sighs, closing his eyes for a second. It’s still hard for him to produce logical thoughts but he knows he’s slowly sobering, the chilly air clearing his mind. You hug your coat tighter against your body and he wonders for a moment if it’s really that cold outside and he just doesn’t feel it because of the alcohol swimming in his veins.  

He’s not capable of having this kind of conversation with you under those circumstances. While you’re outside of some niche club in a part of the city he doesn’t know, reunited after three years of silence.  

You have that look on your face, the one you used to wear every time he got on your nerves and he was in for good scolding. His head pounds too much to bare with it now.  

He needs to smoke a cigarette.

He fishes a pack, placing one between his lips. He feels your eyes on him the entire time and after taking the first drag, he offers you to light up one as well.

“I quit.” you say curtly.  

“Okay.” The smoke swirls around his features and you take a step back, cringing. You never really could stand the smell.

“Is smoking even allowed for you?”  

He snickers, shaking his head. It’s funny, how you’re asking him this now, when you were the one he used to smoke occasionally with at the docks every time he visisted Busan. Eighteen, listening to Arctic Monkeys and Coldplay on his old iPhone and watching the sky burning when sun was hiding behind the horizon.

Jungkook smirks. “Out of sight, out of mind.”  

As a matter of fact, he doesn’t smoke often. It’s more like a sporadic trespass when he’s out for the night than a regular craving. Leaving aside his favor for cigarettes, he shouldn’t let himself become addicted, not when it might easily influence his lungs capacity. And Jeon Jungkook's velvet voice can’t have a hoarseness to it.

“So, you work here?” he opts to ask you, avoiding the set of questions probably already itching to leave your mouth all at once.

“I do. I actually ended my shift few minutes ago. I had some work to do at the storage room and when I walked out, I saw that guy ready to beat the shit out of you,” you say, grimacing. “To be honest, I didn’t recognize you at first. You looked… different.”  

“I guess that’s what they call the magic of stage make-up.” he jokes but his comment doesn’t make you laugh. If anything, you look even more puzzled.  

Then, his phone buzzes in the pocket of his jacket. He pulls it out just to be met with tens of notifications, mainly texts and unanswered calls from Jimin. He must have found out somehow he’s been gone.

“Fuck.” Jungkook mutters under his breath, locking his phone.  

“Something’s wrong?” You always could read him like an open book. He wasn’t very talkative kid back then and you, somehow, found a way to communicate with him on non-verbal level.  

Jungkook scratches the back of his head, smiling lopsidededly. “You’re going to laugh at me,” he sighs.

“No, I’m not.” you promise. There’s sincerity in your voice but he knows better. You’re definitely going to.  

“I’m scared to come home.” Jungkook says, entirely serious. His doe eyes widen for emphasis and you’re sure he’s shitting you yet you decide to play along.  

“And why is that?”  

He leans closer, smelling of cigarettes and his musky cologne and you almost wince. “Because I’m gonna have my ass whipped.”  

He waits a moment, and then breaks into a grin. It’s his drunkiness still speaking through him and maybe a tiny bit of curiosity how you were going to react.

You snort loudly. “That was terrible.”  

“You smiled. I saw the cornes of your mouth moving.”  

“You’re wasted, Jungkook. I’m surprised you’re standing on your own feet right now,” He pouts and you sigh, shaking your head. “So are you going to tell me what is it really about?” you ask.

He shrugs, blowing out the fume from his cigarette. “I just don’t wanna go home drunk. It will be worse than coming back in the morning, believe me. I’ve been there before.”  

Something flashes across your face hearing his last sentence but it quickly disappears, replaced by your usual, unreadable expression. You seem to think about what he has said, until you exhale loudly, making him look at you with raised eyebrows.

“Fine. You can crash at mine.”  

Jungkook knows he might have misheard you. But you’re still staring at him as if you’re waiting for him to respond. He feels dumbfounded.

“What?”  

“I saved your ass today once, I can do it again. That’s what friends are for, right?”  

He hates how bitter it sounds coming from you. He knows it’s very much what he deserves. You don’t own him anything after all he’s done to you yet here you are. Offering him help even though you don’t have to do anything.

You’ve always been too good for him.

You cock your head at him, a small smile dancing on your features he wishes was genuine. Maybe you still have a sentiment for him, after all. “You coming?” It’s what you ask, and he tosses the half-burnt cigarette, following you without a word.

And that’s how your story starts again, with reckless decision, cigarettes and underground stations.

Ironically, Jungkook ends up at the Bongcheon Underground Station for the second time that night.  

You led him wordlessly out of the building, taking a turn into direction he was familiar with. On the whole ride back to your home, you were silent. You didn’t utter a sentence to him, even when you reached your stop, you just stood up from the seat and he followed you like a lost puppy.  

Walking from the station to your flat, Jungkook decided he’s had enough of this awkward silence, breaking it first.

“So, how have you been?”  

It’s such a stupid question to ask someone you haven’t talked to for such a long period of time. Of course you can’t catch up all that have happened in last three years during ten minutes-long walk. Jungkook bites his lip, peeking at your side profile.

“It’s actually funny you’re asking this now. I’ve been good, and you? Or actually… wait! You don’t have to answer that because I know you’ve been good too, thanks to your mum who is updating mine about everything what’s going on in your life,” you say sarkily. “Oh, not to mention I also have Internet and it’s really hard to avoid news about nation’s favourite boy group, right?”  

Your harsh words make him grimace. He knows he fucked up royally and your bitter attitude towards him is the effect of his wrong doings. Yet, he can’t help but feel a little bit irritated.

“You know I’m sorry.” he mutters under his breath.  

“Oh, are you? Was it really that hard to call an old friend once in a month?”  

Jungkook looks up at the sky, as if he was wishing it could give him strenght and fill his mouth with words that will make your stony façade break just a little. “I was busy,” he answers, regretting it as soon as it slipped of his tongue.  

He hears you scowl. “Busy? Doing what? Drinking and hooking up with women?”  

Now it’s his turn to roll his eyes. “Are you really patronizing me right now? We just came across each other and I’m trying to be civil here. We’re not thirteen anymore, loose up.”  

You stop in your tracks abruptly. “I see. You don’t need my help anymore and you’re okay with sleeping under the bridge, fine.” you spit and turn your back on him, quickening your pace.

“What? Wait!” Jungkook calls after you because one: you might be not joking and two: he’s too startled to react in time and now he has to jog up to you. “You aren’t serious, right?” he asks after catching up with your hurried movements.  

You sigh, taking another turn. “God, I can’t believe you’re still that childish.”  

Jungkook frowns. “What does that suppose to mean?”  

“You know damn right what I mean.”  

You’re now walking through a typical, industrial looking neighborhood. He used to live with other boys in an area like this, back when their name meant nothing to the world and industry, when you used to talk practically every single day on the phone.  

Suddenly, you stop in front of one of the buildings, digging in your purse and pulling out the keys.  

Jungkook silently follows your figure when you enter the tenement house you’re living in. He squints his eyes, trying to remember the street name and building number. For some reason he feels like this information might be useful for him sometime in the future.

You quickly climb up the stairs until you reach the forth floor, Jungkook running out of breath with mouth hang open, and that’s when you turn around to face him.  

You don’t say anything to him. You just stare, expression stern yet unreadable at the same time. Your gaze is challenging but eventually you give up, sighing and opening the door to your flat, letting him in.  

The first thing he notices is that your flat is tiny.  

There’s barely enough space for one person in the hallway when you hang up your coat without a word, bumping into his unmoving figure when you’re trying to walk into what is probably the smallest kitchen he has ever seen.  

You pour yourself a glass of water, chugging it greedily while he still stands dumbly three meters away from you, fully dressed, unsure of what to do.

He jumps, hearing you put the glass on the counter loudly. “So, welcome in my humble abode, I guess,” you say. “Are you going to stand there the whole night?” You cock your head into his direction and Jungkook shakes his head, shrugging off his jacket and kicking off his shoes.  

“I know it’s small but the rent is cheap,” you add, referencing to the size of your apartment. You don’t need to explain, he wants to tell you but he doesn’t. Instead, his eyes wander to the other part of the flat where your bedroom is, as he assumes.

“Ah, yes, that’s my bedroom. And living room, and bureau,” you confirm, voice laced with apparent sarcasm. “Make yourself comfortable.”  

Jungkook hesitantly enters the room. There’s nothing much there beside your bed, wardrobe and a small desk with your laptop and other belongings on. One thing he realises is that you keep everything clean and tidy, despite the limited space you have here.  

“But the view is nice, isn’t it?” you ask suddenly, startling him a little. Jungkook, encouraged by you, glances out of the window and he has to admit that yes, indeed, the view is beautiful. You can see the city quite clearly from the forth floor. “I’m still surprised when I look out of the window and see rooftops instead of brick walls. I guess I’m kind of lucky.” you chuckle.  

That’s when he realises just how much more you deserve than you have. It hits him how privileged he is now, living in a luxurious area for rich snobs and celebrities who look out of their windows and see green hills. And one more time, his anger for the unfairness of this world only boils stronger in his veins.

“I gotta go the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”  

You leave him alone again, and now he has an opportunity to look at the corkboard you have above your desk. There is plenty of photos and polaroids pinned to it and he finds himself examining them without a second thought.

It seems like you have them organized chronologically. They start with you as a little kid standing in front of your house in Busan, front teeth missing and clutching your favourite doll. Next, you’re in school and surprisingly, he finds himself present on most of these photos along with you. Playing football at the backyard, eating ice cream at your favourite parlor (he has smudges of chocolate on his chin but he smiles to the camera like it means nothing). He recognizes a photo he took of you when you where in middle school, dressed as Anne Boleyn for some history project he doesn’t remember what was exactly about.

As years pass on your polaroid timeline, his face is slowly disappearing from your captured memories. He smiles when he sees his favourite photo of you, the one he also carries snuggled deeply in his wallet. It was taken by your mum on your seventeenth birthday. You went on a picnic by the sea and Jungkook surprised you with an unexpected visit, coming home back from Seoul. He gifted you a bracelet bought with the first money he had earned in his life.  

He wonders now if you still have that bracelet somewhere, hidden among many other things reminding you of your past together, just like the creased photo in his wallet he still hasn’t thrown away.  

Then, Jungkook eyes land on the most recent picture. You’re grinning to the camera while being hugged from the back by a man he doesn’t know. He presses his lips to your cheek in a fleeting kiss. An affectionate one.  

“I see you’re enjoying yourself.”  

Jungkook jolts a little hearing your voice. You come up to him and he notices you have changed your clothes for something looking much more comfier. “Remember this one?” you ask, pointing at the photo of you sitting on a beach next to the sand castle you built.  

Jungkook smiles apologetically. “Yeah.”  

“Ten seconds after taking this photo, you decided to ruin my sand castle and made my cry.”

He can’t help but share your grin when your eyes lock. There’s the same sympathy in them he’s grown to known. It feels familiar, almost domestic. He likes it.  

“So,” He nudges your side, pointing with his chin at the corkboard, “care to tell me who is this guy?” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively and you roll your eyes in response at his antics.

“That’s my boyfriend Minho.” you answer.

Jungkook doesn’t know why but for some reason, he feels uneasy now. He’s mad at himself he’s been really missing out what’s going on in your life. He shakes off these thoughts quickly though, mastering an amusing attitude.

“That was a very poor introduction, ma’am. Come on, you can do better than this. Tell me more about him.” he teases, making you sigh loudly.

“Minho is five years older than me. He’s working as a police officer. We’ve been together for almost a year. Are you happy now?” you grumble.

Jungkook smirks. “Very much.”  

“He doesn’t sleep over here so I don’t have any of his clothes you can change into,” you add awkwardly.  

He furrows his eyebrows. What are you talking about now?  

You shift on your feet, turning to face him properly and now he realises why did you say it. The clothes you have on are actually your pyjamas. Right, it’s almost two. You’re probably sleepy after your night shift and he’s keeping you up. And you’re kindly reminding him it’s time for him to rest as well.

“It’s okay, I can sleep naked.” Jungkook says. Your eyes widen almost comically at that. “Relax, love. I’ll stay with my boxers on. Unless you want to see my without them.” He raises a single brow in question.

You grimace. “Jesus, Jungkook, you’re still drunk. Go take a shower. You can use the blue toothbrush and white towel.” You slump down on your bed  and he leaves the room without another word.

Jungkook has been in many bathrooms in his life but yours can only be describe as microscopic.

He feels almost claustrophobic when he’s standing underneath your shower. The water is splashing on everything and he panicks for a moment if you will be angry at him for the mess but then he realises it’s practically impossible to keep everything around dry when he’s showering without any curtain or glass door around him.

He uses your shampoo and body wash, cleaning himself as fast as possible. They smell nice, flowery and exotic and somehow like you. Quick shower definitely has drained him from most alcohol he has in his system. He can now think through the situation he’s in with clear mind.  

After drying himself up and putting on his boxers, he stands in front your sink. He wipes off the moist on the small mirror, just to be met with his blank, tired eyes staring back at him. He really should use some good sleep. He uses the blue toothbrush just like you told him to and in the middle of the second round of brushing, he chuckles to himself at the surrealism of this whole situation.

He’s met you for the first time in three years after not speaking to you at all. You don’t own him anything and here he is, already having enormous, unpayable debt because you saved his life from the embarrassment and possible scandal.  

You were always like this, ready to put on your superhero cape and save him. Just like years ago when you stood up from your seat in math class and told the teacher you didn’t feel well right before she was about to check his homework, or rather the lack of it which was going to result in another low grade on his account. You, scaring off his fifth grade bullies. You, paring up with him for every school project and doing most of the work selflessly and without a word of complaint because you’ve always liked working alone.  

Jungkook spits the rest of the toothpaste and water mixed together to the sink and splashes his face. He really doesn’t know why he deserves you.  

The question is simple. He doesn’t. Not after being a total prick to you. But in some strange way, you took him back again, like nothing ever happened.  

When he exits the bathroom, he sees you kneeling on the floor and putting a bunch of pillows on the carpet that lies next to your bed.  

Jungkook frowns. “What are you doing?”  

You look up at him. Your eyes widen visibly when they land on his exposed chest but you quickly compose yourself. “What does it look like? I’m setting up a bed for you.” you reply, patting the pillows, still refusing to meet his stare.

“Am I not going to sleep with you on the bed? We slept together before and it wasn’t a problem then,” he says with furrowed brows.

“Are you kidding? My bed is for one person only! And you’re… you’re–“  

“I’m what?”  

“You’re big! Bigger than you used to be.” you breathe out, standing up from your kneeling position and sitting on the bed instead. There’s a tingle of barely noticeable rednees on the apples of your cheeks and he fights an urge to tickle your sides just to see you trying not to break into laughter so he could get away with your stubbornness.

“Okay, Miss Grumpy,” he grumbles, kneeling on his make-shift bed. Upon hearing that, you freeze on your spot and then he realises what he has just done.  

He called you the old nickname he’s made for you. He hasn’t done that in years.

You bite your lip, acting as if it hasn’t affected you even the slightest. Clearing your throat, you reach for the lamp on your bedside table and switch it off.  

Twenty minutes after that, Jungkook finds himself lying on his back in complete silence and staring at the ceiling. You have a few fluorescent stars attached to it, the ones that shine when it’s dark. You had probably ten dozens of them in your old room in Busan, too. A whole constellation.

Jungkook won’t lie, it is a little uncomfortable to sleep on the floor. He tells himself he’s fine with that, though. It’s what he deserves for being an absolute asshole to you. The sleep will come eventually.  

Another minutes pass and he’s still very much awake. Then, Jungkook thinks ‘fuck it’ and decides to shoot his shot.  

“___?”

You hum sleepily in response after a short while. “Yeah?”  

“I cannot sleep.”  

“Not my fault.”  

He bites his lip. “Can I sleep with you?”  

“Jungkook…”  

“Pretty please?”  

There’s a long pause before you say, “Fine.”  

He hears you shifting on the mattress, making a room for him. The bed creaks under his weight when he places himself right next you, back to your back. He wonders if he isn’t squishing you to the wall right now.  

“Are you okay?” he asks, just to be sure.

Your comforter ruffles when you try to move but there’s no use for it, not when he’s practically pressed flush to you. “Yeah. I’m good. You’re just really hot.”

“Thanks, love. No need to flutter me like that.” Jungkook murmurs, a hint of smug smile on his lips you cannot see.

“I was taking about four freaking body temperature!”

“It’s okay. You don’t have to pretend you didn’t mean it.”  

“Go to sleep, Jungkook.”  

There’s mute between you for a while. Nothing but deep exhales and inhales and occasional sounds of cars or wind coming from outside of your window.  

It’s been really a long time since he’s slept in the same bed with other person. He's not the type to stay over after casual fuck, he’s never done that. But when he lies next to you, he can’t help but longe for someone to just hold him; nothing more, nothing less. He wonders what would you do if he turned around and snuggled into your backside. Would you yell at him? Kick him out?  

But you used to be so close together once. He won’t find out unless he tries.

Carefully, with limited space, he changes his position, mattress protesting under his weight but he rolls to his other side anyway, until he’s facing your back. He feels your body tensing a little when his breath fans over your neck but you don’t say anything, letting him cuddle up to you.  

It feels intimate this way, perhaps even too intimate for both yours and his liking but Jungkook can’t help but relish in your close proximity. When he senses you’ve relaxed a little, he shuts his eyes tightly.  

“___?” he murmurs. It's barely a whisper but you heard him loud and clear.

“Mhm?”  

“I’m sorry for ruining our friendship like that.”  

You’re silent for a moment and he thinks you might have fallen asleep but then, you let out a long sigh that sounds awfully audible in the small space of your bedroom. “You still have time to fix this, Jungkookie.”  

You haven’t called him that in three years. It’s good to hear that again.

He smiles to himself, burying his face in the crook of your neck. You don’t protest. If anything, he feels you breathe out with relief.  

Next morning you wake up feeling like the temperature in your room has risen to fifty degrees. You’re still wrapped tightly in your comforter and facing the wall, which means you haven’t moved even an inch in your sleep. The cause of it being a very much large, male body practically crushing you with its weight.  

You let out a shaky exhale. Jungkook’s front is not only pressed flush to your back but somehow, his muscular leg is thrown over yours, successfully trapping you in.

You wiggle, trying to free yourself from his hold but when you hear his quiet groan, you abruptly stop your movements. And then, you feel it. An apparent hardness poking your backside.  

You can’t help but blush, reminding yourself not to make this situation even more awkward than it already is. It happens sometimes, you tell yourself, it’s completely normal for men to pop a boner when they’re in such close, intimate position with another warm body.

But when you feel Jungkook unconsciously seeking friction and pressing himself even firmer against your bottom, you can’t help but yelp in response, throwing off the material covering your body and elbowing Jungkook's unsuspecting face in process.

“Fuck! What time is it?” he mumbles groggily, narrowing his eyes when they’re met for the first time with the sunlight gradually slipping through your unveiled curtains.  

“Quarter past your dick poking my ass!”  

Jungkook furrows his brows but when his eyes land on his crotch, he smiles sheepishly at you. “I’m sorry,” he mutters. “It’s just been a really long time since I slept next to someone like that.” His cheeks are flushed in pink and he rubs the back of his head in a bashful manner.

“What about your one night stands then?” you can’t help but ask.

He shrugs in response. “I never stay over.”  

“Oh.” You don’t even know why you’re strangely surprised. Maybe it comes from the fact that you’ve always pegged Jungkook to be the rather romantic type. People change, they say. Or sometimes your assumptions about someone you thought you know like the back of your hand happen to be wrong.  

You clear your throat. “Anyway, get up. It’s time for breakfast.” you say and disappear from his sight but he still hears you fumbling in the kitchen, popping the kettle on.  

He raises from the bed with reluctance, bending to lift the puddle of his clothes he left on the floor last night.  

“Hey, what do you want to–“ you begin but your voice involuntarily trails off, seeing him in rather exposed state now in broad daylight. “–to drink?” you finish almost breathlessly.

You’ve been aware Jungkook's good looking. He’s started attending gym long before you stopped keeping in touch with each other. You just didn’t know he is that ripped. It’s not a surprise that his fans go nuts every time they see even a small glimpse of his muscles.  

You really shouldn’t be staring but it’s too late when you see a sly smirk on his face. “Like what you see, buttercup?” he asks like the cocky bastard you didn’t know he’s capable of being. “I would like a black coffee, please.” he adds.

There’s a roll of your eyes in response to his teasing tone. “Oh, stop with these nicknames.”  

Jungkook grins. “Why? Hyung used to call you that and you blushed every time.”  

“Because I had the biggest crush on your brother when I was eleven, dumbass.” you scoff, shaking your head. You leave him, heading back to the kitchen to finish preparing food.

“I know you had a crush on him,” Jungkook shouts after you, putting on his pants and t-shirt. “I’m just curious why him, not me.”  

“Seriously? You had emo fringe and pimples back then!”  

He laughs, making his way to the kitchen where you’re standing by the counter and mixing something on the frying pan.  

“Hope you don’t mind eating scrambled eggs,” you say, sparing him a quick glance. “It’s probably the only edible thing in my fridge right now beside instant ramen.”  

Jungkook settles himself on the stool by the small, wooden table situated right by the window. This time, the view is a greish wall of another building. He takes the coffe cup from you and adds a generous spoon of sugar. “I don’t mind. It smells really nice.” he answers, calming your concerns. “So, am I not crushable in your eyes?” He takes a sip of his drink, peeking at you curiously.  

You take out the plates from the cabinet and start putting the food you’ve prepared on them. “What kind of word ‘crushable’ even is? Beside, you have millions of fans gushing over you, I’m unnecessary in this equation.” you say, placing the plate in front of him.

“But you aren’t saying no,” he counters.  

“Jungkook.”  

“I know, I know,” he chuckles. “I’m just teasing you.”  

You look at him then, observing thoroughly for the first time since you saw him last night. He’s indeed handsome, there’s not a hint of doubt about that. His features are more mature, the baby fat on his cheeks gone and replaced with chiseled jawline. But if there’s one thing which stays the same, it’s his eyes. Still gleaming with misheviousness when he laughs and holding starry skies in them when he’s astounded by something.  

“Didn’t know you were such a great cook, ___,” Jungkook’s voice brings you back to the reality. He sends you thumbs up with his mouth full and you can’t help but crack a smile at his goofiness. Old habits die hard, they say. “Aren’t you eating?” he asks, staring at you with wide eyes.

You glance at your untouched eggs and opt for taking a sip of coffee instead. “I’m not that hungry.” you respond. He shrugs his shoulders at that, taking a bite of the toast.  

You nip the inside of your cheek, hesitating, before asking him a question that have been sitting on the tip of your tongue since last night. “What are you going to tell the rest of the guys when you come home?”  

Jungkook's expression immadietly shifts after registering your question. “The truth.” he says like it’s the simplest thing in the world.  

You don’t even try to hide your puzzlement, repeting after him, “The truth?” in bewildered tone.

“They aren’t going to buy that anyway. But believe me, it’s better if I came back in the middle of the night completely wasted.”  

Something’s telling you not to dread that conversation longer so you don’t press him about it any further, instead focusing on changing a topic. “Do you have anything planned for the rest of the day?”  

He nods, swallowing. “We have a dance practice later.”  

You raise your eyebrows. “New comeback?” you smile teasingly and he sends you a wink.

“That’s a secret I’ll never tell.”  

“Oh, come on. You know I can keep my mouth shut,” you pout.  

He rolls his eyes at first but then a small smile appears on his lips. “I know you can. You’ve been covering for me in school all the time.” he murmurs. At that, something warm spreads in your chest. “Come on, buttercup, I’m not spilling anything until you start eating.” he warns, pointing at your untouched food.

When you grin at him and he reciprocates the gesture, it feels like you’ve turned back the time.

“And... five, six, seven, eight!”  

Jungkook doesn’t know how many times he has repeated the same sequence of movements but he feels like passing out anytime soon. He asked Hoseok to help him practice but it looks like his older friend is in rather bad mood today and he seems to lose patience even quicker.  

“...and spin–no! Jungkook, you’re not supposed to do it like that.” Hoseok sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.  

Jungkook grimaces, collapsing on the floor. “Give me a few moments, hyung. I’ll do better, I promise.” he mutters.  

Hoseok crunches down next to him for a moment, patting him on the shoulder reassuringly. “You did good, Kook-ah. We can call it quits for today.” he says.  

Jungkook doesn’t even have strength to answer him verbally. Instead, he shuts his eyes tightly and nods. He hears Hoseok walking away and talking in the distance with Namjoon about something.  

“Are you okay?”  

Jungkook cracks an eye open. It’s Jimin this time. He kneels on the floor, observing him with worried look on his face.

“Yeah. Just need a minute to catch a breath.” Jungkook responds.

Jimin nods but Jungkook knows him well enough to sense that there’s another question at the tip of his friend's tongue. And he’s not wrong.

“Jungkook, you know you should stop doing that.”  

Jungkook sits up, turning his head in Jimin's direction, eyes narrowed into slits. “What, hyung?” he asks, not hiding is irritation. He’s heard it too many times not to feel it already blubbering inside his chest.  

“You know exactly what I mean. Partying, getting drunk, sleeping around like a–“ Jimin stops himself in time, seeing Jungkook's expression.

“Like who?” Jungkook scowls. “Come on, hyung, end the sentence.”  

Jimin shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. I’m just worried about you. We all are.” He puts his hand on Jungkook's shoulder and squeezes.  

“No need to. Besides, you’re the last one to lecture me about smart life choices.” Jungkook spats harshly and gets up, leaving Jimin staring at his disappearing figure with defeated expression.

Back in the confines of his room, Jungkook finds himself lying on his bed again. At some point, his thoughts wander back to you. He had to leave your flat quicker than he wanted because of the scheduled practice (and the hint of guilt he felt for his hyungs).  

He wonders if you can still be friends together, just like the old times. He needs it. Needs you by his side. He didn’t even know he’s been craving it unconsciously. But then he realises he didn’t even ask for your phone number. Maybe you still have the same one?  

He reaches for his phone and unlocks it, searching through his contacts. He has you saved under ‘Miss Grumpy'. It makes him smile involuntarily. His thumbs hover over the screen before he starts typing.

[21:08pm] me:  

hi, it’s me Jungkook. I don’t know if that’s still your number but I decided to give it a try. I wanted to say thank you once again for yesterday. and today’s breakfast. 

Few minutes later, his phone buzzes.

[21:11pm] Miss Grumpy:  

you’re welcome, buttercup  

Seven days later, Jungkook is at Bongcheon Underground Station again. This time, it’s not his recklessness and cynicism that led him here. He climbs up the stairs and walk into the half-asleep streets with purpose in his mind.  

He remembers exactly the path to the club you’re working in. Now he can only hope you have a shift tonight as well. 

You haven’t talked a whole week. He felt too insecure and scared to call or text you. What if you don’t want him to keep in touch? What if your last meeting and sleepover at your flat was just a favor for old times’ sake?  

That’s why he needs to see you in person. He thought about visiting you in your flat but his intoxicated brain betrayed him and he couldn’t recall your address even if he tried and he did, sitting in front of his laptop and wandering through the streets on Google maps.  

When he enters the club he’s met with the familiar buzz of electronic music and the smell of sweat mixed with nicotine. It looks like it’s his lucky day though, because here you are, talking with a client behind the bar.  

Jungkook can’t help but smile to himself. He observes you for a while from afar, watching you listening to someone’s tipsy rambling with a polite, yet forced sympathy. He decides to save you from the uncomfortable situation, marching to the bar and sitting on one of the stools.  

He sighs to himself, remembering the pieces and bits from his memory of the last time he was there, making a total fool of himself. If it wasn’t for you, his foot would never step here ever again.

You excuse yourself and leave the drunk man, just to be met with Jungkook's smiling eyes. Somehow, his brain short circuits and he sends you a wink.

You roll your eyes, approaching him. “What can I get you?” you ask. “Although after last time I suggest a glass of water.”  

He chuckles, pulling his face mask down. “When do you finish?”  

Sparing a glance at the watch you have on your wrist, you answer, “In forty minutes.”  

“A beer it is, then.”  

You hesitate, reaching for the glass. “And you’re just going to sit here the whole time, waiting for me?” you ponder with a surprised expression, just like you’d never thought he could do something like that.  

Jungkook only grins in response.  

For the next half an hour he watches you work; serving drinks to clients, polishing glasses, occasionally giving a love advices to some teary-eyed girls in a short, black dresses. Just when he’s chugging the last sip of his beer, you come up to him.  

“I’m done for tonight. You can wait for me outside.” you say.

When his in front of the bar, he pulls out his cigarettes and lights up one to pass the time. He wouldn’t call himself addicted. He smokes rather sporadically, mostly when he’s out getting wasted or when he’s stressed about something. Or just like now, when circumstances are conducive.  

Few minutes later you appear by his side. He takes one last drag and whirls to face you. “So you really quit, huh?” he asks, making you nod curtly. “And you don’t smoke even when you’re on a party?” He's almost astonished.  

“Nope, even then.” you confirm, hearing him mutter a ‘Wow’ under his breath. “Well? What now?” You cross yours arms over chest, eyebrows lifted in question.

He tosses the cigarette to the ground and tramples it with his foot. “I thought we could go to your flat, eat late night ramen and just talk.”  

“So we're hanging out now?” There’s a slight sarcastic lilt to your voice and he worries for a moment you are going to tell him to fuck off but then, your features soften. “It sounds nice but I know a spot not far away from here when we can sit and talk. If that’s okay with you.” you say.

“Lead the way, then.”

You didn’t lie when you said the place you were taking him wasn’t far away. What you didn’t tell him though, was that getting there meant climbing up the fire escape all the way to the rooftop of a run-down tenement house.  

“Care to explain me how do you know about this place?” Jungkook asks once he’s seated comfortably on an old, emerald sofa next to you. It’s a mystery to him how this peace of furniture was brought here but nevertheless, it was someone's good idea.

You were right. It is nice here. You have a full view to the city from up there and he’s sure it would be easy to see the green hills in daylight or watch how the sky burns during sunsets.

“Minho took me there first,” you explain, answering his question. “His police department is few blocks from here. One day they got a call from some angry, old lady, saying that someone was playing music very loudly nearby. When they arrived, they found out a group of teenagers had organized a party on top of the rooftop.”

Jungkook hums. “He’s quite romantic,” Upon seeing your clueless expression he adds, ‘’Your boyfriend, I mean.”  

“Ah, yeah,” You crack a smile, although he thinks it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “He is. Sometimes.”  

He decides not to press you about it any further.  

He leans his head back, closing his eyes for a brief moment and inhaling the chilly, pre-spring air. Then, he feels you nudging his side. “So, what do you want to talk about?” you ask, staring at him in anticipation. Jungkook lets out a groan in response and runs his hand down his face. You chuckle, “Hey, we didn’t come here to sit in silence. Entertain me a little, would you.”  

He sighs your name. You aren’t prone to giving up easily, he knows it. You’re probably the most stubborn person he’s had a chance to encounter and that is also one of the main reasons he came up with the ‘Miss Grumpy’ nickname when you were in fifth grade.

“I’m pretty sure the golden maknae of BTS has more interesting life than me,” you snicker and he knows it was meant to sound playful coming from you, but he feels something heavy in his chest hearing your remark.  

He musters up a small smile. “You would actually be surprised if I told you that my life isn’t as exciting as it may look.”  

It hasn’t missed your eye how tired Jungkook seems. No matter how much he tries, he can’t possibly hide fully the bangs underneath his eyes or the greish complexion of his skin. It’s weird seeing him in person like this; without stage make-up and plastered smile reserved for the fans. Seeing him so humane.

For the last three years, you only watched him on your phone's screen. But it wasn’t really him. Your Jungkook is sitting right next to you and silently observing the city during the night. Your Jungkook smoked cigarettes with you by the beach in Busan and got you an autograph from one of your favourite artists he had met personally at the backstage after some award ceremony.

Your Jungkook would never got himself drunk to the point of unconsciousness, risking his reputation. But again, you might only think you know him.

“Let’s talk about you instead,” Jungkook says suddenly, pulling you out from your thoughts. “What do you do beside working in that club?”  

You sigh. “You know I don’t like talking about myself either,”  

“I know, but we haven’t seen each other for so long. I need to catch up with you.” 

You fight an urge to scoff, “And whose fault is that?” but you’re not in the mood to argue. Nor is Jungkook, as you suppose. “I’m studying journalism. Bartending is my part-time job. I had to start working because I couldn’t afford to pay for rent just from my poor scholarship. Prices have increased so if I wanted to stay in Seoul, I needed to work, whether I wanted or not.”  

Jungkook knows there’s no words that could somehow lessen your struggles. It’s been a long time since he worried about money. Now, he can have everything he’s ever wanted yet something’s always missing. And he still hasn’t discovered how to fill that void.  

“You’re still writing?” he asks instead, referring to your hobby you’ve picked up when you were kids.  

“Yes, I am. That’s actually what most journalists do, Jungkook. We write.”  

He laughs boyishly, high-pitched and you recall that pleasant sound from the back of your memory. He used to be embarrassed of it when he was younger and often hid his mouth behind his hand to muffle it. You’re glad he doesn’t do that anymore.  

“What’s so funny in that?” You sound slightly irritated, although you’re trying hard to stop yourself from smiling too. It just comes naturally when you’re around him.

He takes a deep breath and then says, “Nothing. I’m just thinking,”  

You raise your eyebrow. “Thinking? About what?”  

“Remember how you’ve always dreamt about becoming a writer when we were teenagers?”  

You nod. That’s still very much your goal. Albeit you’re aware it might as well not come true, sadly. “I do. And what about it?”

Jungkook doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he places his arms behind his head and leans back on the couch with a coy smile. “Maybe you will write my biography one day.” he says after a moment.  

“Only if you pay me shit tons of money for that.”

“Agreed.”  

You find yourself coping his position and slumping on the couch as well. His eyes are closed, and you watch him from the corner of your eye. Despite the dim lighting, he seems glowing in the darkness like a single, silver spot on the noir sky.

“I think I know how would it be called.” you say suddenly.

“Hmm?”  

“Your biography. I came up with the title.” you clarify.

“What is it then?” Jungkook hums with his eyes still closed.

You take a moment to answer, looking up at the blackboard night sky above you. Smiling to yourself, you reply. “I would call it ‘Lost star’.”  

His brows furrow slightly. “Why is that?”  

“That’s my secret for now.”  

“I don’t know. I think this song needs something more.”  

“It’s fine for me, Namjoon-ah. The bridge is great, stop worrying so much. We still have a lot of time before the deadline.”  

“Thanks, hyung. Jungkookie, have you spoke with Hyowon-hyung about your solo?”  

“Kook-ah? We’re talking to you.”  

“Jeon Jungkook!”  

Jungkook looks up from his phone at the sound of Seokjin's harsh voice. He sends his older friend a clueless look. “Hmm?”  

Namjoon sighs. “I asked you a question, Jungkook.”  

Jungkook puts away his phone. “I’m sorry, hyung. I wasn’t listening. Can you repeat it?”  

“Of course you weren’t, you’ve been staring at your phone for the past twenty minutes instead of paying attention to us.” Seokjin scoffs, digging his chopsticks in the kimchi he's eating.  

It’s a little past seven and they are having late dinner at their dorm after a whole day of schedule. Jungkook doesn’t even know what type of commercial they were recording. He just kept reading everything from the monitor behind the camera as he always does, trying to make it seem as unnoticeable as possible.

Truth to be told, Seokjin's right. He hasn’t been paying attention to their conversation, although he definitely should have. Telling them he was texting you this whole time is a pathetic and dumb excuse, he knows that. He doesn’t want them to ask him questions about you. Not yet.

“I asked if you talked to Hyowon-hyung.” Namjoon repeats after a moment.  

A hint of realization crosses Jungkook's face at that. “Yeah, I did. He played me the first draft and told me to work on the lyrics.” he says, reaching for his chopsticks.

Namjoon nods, humming. “Do you want me to help you with that?”  

Jungkook shrugs. “No, you don’t have to. I’m just waiting for the inspiration to kick in.”  

And he hopes it’s going to enlighten him soon. He has a few songs written on his own but creating music for an album it’s different. The standards are higher, expectations bigger. Restricted time always makes him jittery, too.

Taking a mouthful of his bibimpap, a smile flashes across his face. He glances if anyone is looking at him now but his friends are busy talking about something regarding the next release. He reaches for his phone and writes a message to you.  

[7:16pm] me:

do you remember the time when you cooked a bibimpap for my goodbye dinner at home?

Not even a minute later, he receives a response from you.  

[7:16pm] Miss Grumpy:  

yeah I do  

why are you asking me this tho

[7:17pm] me:  

I’m eating it know and it reminded me of that day

sorry but god, it was awful

[7:16pm] Miss Grumpy:  

excuse me????

He remembers probably every second of that day. His mother’s tears, your extremely undercooked meat and his father’s affectionate hug.  

Smiling to himself, he taps another sentences.

[7:18pm] me:  

I couldn’t tell you that. you looked so proud of yourself  

I just ate everything like it was the most delicious course on this planet

best acting of my life  

[7:19pm] Miss Grumpy:

you asshole

i poured my heart into this

you’re right, that was your best acting. definitely better than war of hormone playboy jungkook  

He rolls his eyes. The amount of times you joked about this particular moment of his career is neverending.

[7:19pm] me:  

can you please stop  

[7:20pm] Miss Grumpy:

fuck off. of course I won’t  

how was it?  

ah I know.

I’m a bad boy so I like bad girls

showstopping. truly

He tries to muffle his laughter but there’s no use for that. He snickers under his breath, hoping no one have noticed but he was oh, so wrong. Because as soon as he looks up from the phone screen, all eyes are on him.  

Namjoon clears his throat. “You’re not eight anymore, Jungkook, so I won’t lecture you like a father but please, don’t use your phone while we’re eating.”  

“Who are you texting this passionately anyway? You never put anything before food.” Hoseok adds, frowning.

“My hyung.” Jungkook answers casually.  

In the corner of his eye he sees Taehyung leaning to whisper something in Jimin's ear and they both giggle quietly. Jungkook sends them a glare.

They stop but few seconds later, Taehyung breaks into his signature boxy smile.

“What is this, Taehyung?” Namjoon asks, frowning.

“It looks like our Jungkookie is lying.”  

Jungkook grips the edge of the table tightly. He searches for Jimin's eyes but he looks away quickly, as though almost guilty.  

At the other end of the table, Yoongi puts away his chopsticks and wipes his mouth with a napkin. “Care to elaborate on that, Taehyung-ah?”  

“He isn’t texting his brother. I think Jungkookie might be in love,” he sing-songs, giggling to himself.  

Jungkook’s first instinct is to smack his friend's in the head. And so does he. “What the fuck, Tae?” he snaps.

“Language, kid!” Seokjin says automatically.

“I'm twenty-two!”  

“And I’m twenty seven, so shut your mouth and listen to your elders. What is Taehyung speaking about?”  

Jungkook shakes his head. “I have no idea.”  

“Oh, stop bullshitting us. I looked at your phone screen when it was lying on the table. You don’t call your hyung ‘Miss Grumpy'.” Taehyung says, his fingers doing the quotation mark in the air.

“You’re not supposed to look at my phone! It’s called privacy!” Jungkook exclaims, however it’s pointless. Everyone now is focused on him and you.

“Can someone tell who the fuck is ‘Miss Grumpy’?” Seokjin asks, looking around the table.  

Jungkook runs his hand through his hair in a nervous manner. He screwed up, and now they won’t let him breathe for at least five more days. “Her name is actually ___. She’s my childhood friend from Busan.”  

He hears Taehyung chuckling next to him. “Oh, come on. You can tell us you’re sexting her. We won’t judge.”  

“I’m not!”

“Shut the fuck up, all of you!” Yoongi says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Can’t we for once eat in peace? Jungkook, please, kindly explain us who this girl you’re texting with is.”  

Jungkook pursues his lips. “I told you. She’s just my old friend. Why would I lie to you?”  

Seeing their uneasy expressions, he realises he said the wrong thing. He has lied to them before about many things. It isn’t anything shocking that they doubt his words now. They have all rights to do it.

Namjoon is the first one to break the uncomfortable silence. “Jungkook, you know the rules. We can't freely date like we would like to. I suggest you should end things with this girl, whatever you're both doing, before it escalates into something more serious. Before you hurt her and yourself in the process.” he says.

Hoseok nods at his friend’s words. “Namjoon is right, Jungkookie. Serious relationships are just going to make everything more complicated.”  

Jungkook grits his teeth. “We aren’t dating.” he spats.

“Sleeping together also isn’t a good idea.”  

“We aren’t having sex,” Jungkook's eyes narrow. “Why didn’t you tell the same thing to Yoongi-hyung when he was seeing that blonde girl? He sneaked her into his room one day and I’m pretty sure he wasn’t just playing her his music.” he scowls, shaking his head.

“Hyung's older than you. Besides, he ended things with her some time ago.” Namjoon counters.

“It’s true, Jungkook-ah. Namjoon is right. No matter what you’re doing with her, you should always be careful.” Yoongi adds.  

Something breaks in Jungkook at that. All of the pent-up frustration seems to leave his body at once. “You know what? Fuck off, all of you. I’m not a kid anymore. I can make my own decisions and they are none of your fucking business.” He stands up from the table abruptly.  

“Jungkook, wait. Let’s talk without fighting now,” Namjoon pleads but he isn’t listening to him anymore.  

Jimin, who was silent this whole time, puts his hand on Jungkook's shoulder. “Jungkookie–” he starts but his immadietly cut off by Jungkook's harsh tone.

“Stop calling me that!” Jungkook snaps and walks away, slamming the door to his room behind himself.

There’s a knock to his door an hour after.  

This pattern feels familiar. He messes something up, they give him some space to think and reflect about it on his own and then, it’s time to sit together and discuss it openly almost like a peace treaty. Jungkook says sorry, promises he will be a better person and everyone moves on.

He doesn’t bother getting up until he hears a voice behind the door speak up. “It's Yoongi-hyung. I’m not here to force you to apologize. I just want to talk.”  

Jungkook's brows furrow. He stares at the door, imagining Yoongi standing behind it with his hands in pockets and eyes glued to the ceiling. He debates whether he should open the door and let him in or keep sulking just a little more until the atmosphere will loosen up on its own.

Somehow, his thoughts wander to you. You would probably tell him that communication is the key to solving problems, or something along the lines. That he can’t shut himself from the world because he feels like no one really gets him. You would also call him childish but he doesn’t dwell on that more.

“Jungkook-ah? Please, open the door. I promise I won’t patronize you.”  

He exhales loudly and gets up from the bed. If there’s one person in this house whose words he can trust wholeheartedly, it’s Yoongi. He twists the handle and walks back to his bed.  

The door clicks shut a few moments later, mattress dipping where Yoongi makes a room for himself next to him, clearing his throat.  “Listen,” he begins but Jungkook cuts him off with a scoff.

“I thought you said you wouldn’t give me patronizing ted talks.”  

“Yeah, I did. But I won’t stare at the wall in silence either,” Yoongi says. Few deep breaths later, he continues. “Jihye was a nothing but a good friend to me with whom I had sex sometimes, no strings attached. Until one day I realised our relationship stopped being solemnly based only on physical attraction. That’s why I decided to end things with her.”  

“Did you fall in love with her?” Jungkook asks.  

Yoongi shakes his head. “No, I didn’t. But I could. And that’s what scared me the most.”  

“Why?”  

In the corner of his eye, Jungkook sees him smiling sadly. “It's simple. Because being together would only lead us to heartbreak. I cared about her too much to make her hurt like that due to my selfishness.” he says. “This is the same reason why Jimin didn’t continue his relationship with our make-up noona even after she left the company. And that’s exactly why you shouldn’t get any hard feelings involved with that friend of yours.”  

Jungkook pursues his lips. He understands Yoongi's concerns but his situation is different. Jimin was in love with that woman. He was ready to buy an apartment for them and move out from the dorm. If someone from the company hadn’t found out about their secret relationship, he would have still been sneaking around with her.

Jungkook though, doesn’t have any feelings for you. He’s gone past his silly crush when you were younger a long time ago. Besides, you have a boyfriend and he doesn’t chase after taken women. At least not intentionally.

“She’s just a friend, hyung.” he says finally but it sounds more like he tries to convince himself, not Yoongi.

Yoongi pats him on the shoulder. “I know. Just be careful, okay?” And with that, he leaves Jungkook's room.

Jungkook knew it was a bad idea as soon as he stepped into the club and loud, thumping music filled his ears.

He knew it when he ordered a round of shots and gulped them down one after another. When he found himself in the middle of the crowd of sweaty bodies, head buzzing and arms around a nameless brunette, his tongue between her lips.

And he knows it right now, when he’s sitting in a booth, her ass placed directly over his crotch where he’s already sporting a hard-on. The girl (Eunbi? Or maybe it’s Eunji? He hasn't registered when she shouted it to his ear because he was too busy staring down at her cleavage) grinds herself with eagerness against him and he lets out a groan, leaning to plant kisses on the side of her neck. And in that exact moment, when his chapped lips meet the porcelain skin of her throat, he locks eyes with you.  

(And he’s once again reminded how stupid it was to go to the club where you work.)

After his conversation with Yoongi he felt like he needed to prove something to himself. That he’s not the one to fall in love impulsively, that he can fuck and not get feelings involved. He could have gotten himself drunk in in any other place yet here he is, a random girl straddling him while he blinks his bloodshot eyes at you.

Your gaze trails down from his face to his palms splayed on brunette’s bottom and you scoff to yourself, averting your attention somewhere else. If he’s disappointed, he hides it pretty well, sucking yet another purplish mark on the girl's neck she accepts with another roll of her hips.

Whimpering into his ear, she moves herself faster against his hardness but he doesn’t pay mind to her anymore, not when he catches you looking at him again in the corner of his eye.  

The girl leans to kiss him and he obliges, tongue darting to lick into her mouth but his eyes remain trained on you the whole time. You see him slipping his fingers underneath her skirt and smirking when he feels the evidence of her lust between her thighs. He wants you to watch him making her come undone on his lap, he craves to relish in the sick thrill of having you witnessing what he’s capable of doing. But when he’s about to pull the girl's lingerie to the side, you’re turning away and disappearing from his sight.  

His fingers stay pressed to the flesh of brunette's thighs, unmoving, until she purrs into into his ear. “Oppa, please. Want you so bad.”

Jungkook tsks to himself, rolling his eyes at her saccharine sweet, high-pitched voice. “Not here.” he mutters.  

Minutes later he’s in the club's bathroom, his head thrown back and grunts escaping his lips. He looks down at the mop of her hair as she swallows around his cock, bringing him closer to the release. She peeks at him from between her eyelashes, teary-eyed and already fucked-out.  

He threads his fingers through her hair and pulls hard, until she moans around him. “That’s it, baby. Gonna fuck your mouth now.” He pushes himself deeper, feeling her choke. She welcomes the pain without complaint, tears flowing down her cheeks and palms pressed obediently on his thighs. Jungkook clenches his jaw, focusing on his pleasure until he groans lowly and comes down her throat.  

He pulls away from her mouth, tugging himself back into his pants. She stands up from her kneeling position on wobbly legs and wraps her arms around his neck. “What about me, oppa?” she giggles, pressing a kiss to his lips. “Won’t you fuck me now?”  

He sighs, staring down at her. There are smudges of mascara underneath her eyes, her cheeks are wet with tears and her lipstick is smeared. He reaches with his thumb to wipe it, and she leans into his touch.  

He feels guilty telling her to be quiet and hiking her skirt up. He feels it when she climaxes around his fingers with a cry of his name on her lips. He feels it too even stronger, cleaning her up and leaving to fix her make-up in front of the blurry mirror, but that’s all he can do. That’s everything he can provide.  

Later that night, when he's finally in his own bed, your face flashes behind his eyelids. He's sick of himself, of his actions, that he let his weaknesses got best of him again.  

Before he could even think of it, he types a message to you.  

[3:45am] me:  

I’m sorry. I was drunk and couldn’t think straight  

Few bits of silence later, his phone buzzes.  

[3:47am] Miss Grumpy:  

I know you were  

Did you at least thank her?  

He scoffs to himself, thinking about proper words to answer you but strangely, he recalls your wide eyes transfixed on him and the way you held his challenging gaze when his lips kissed another woman. He’s never seen you looking at him like that before. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t affect you even the slightest.

[3:48am] me:  

don’t worry. she had a good time  

[3:48am] Miss Grumpy:  

goodnight, jungkook  

[3:49am] me:  

sleep tight, ___.

There’s something apprehensive in the perpetual ticking of the clock when it's silent in the room. It almost feels like the sound keeps getting louder and louder as the time passes by, as if it’s expecting a storm to occur and shatter the calm.

“___?”  

You’re brought back to the reality from your thoughts by Minho's voice. He has a questioning look on his face, watching you with raised eyebrows.

“I’m sorry,” you say sheepishly. “I was lost in my thoughts for a moment.”  

“I could see that,” Minho reaches for his tea cup and takes a sip. “Is everything alright?” he asks, but you shake your head with a smile.

“Just university stuff.” you say vaguely and he doesn’t press you about it any further, nodding in understanding.  

Minho left his work earlier today, coming straight to your flat. It’s Wednesday and Wednesdays are dedicated to spending your time together on dates. Today, you’re going to the cinema and to your favourite sushi bar. For the second time this month.

“I’m going to use the bathroom now and then we can head out, okay?”  

You answer him with a nod. Standing up, you gather your cups and place them into the sink but right when you’re about to wash them, you hear Minho's phone buzz with single notification.  

You bite your lip. You know you shouldn’t look but you push it to the back of your head for now, sparing a quick glance at his lockscreen.

Sooyoung: when you will be free next time?  

You frown. You’ve never heard him taking about any woman from his work with a name like this. The message sounds ambiguous but it doesn’t have to mean anything to worry about at the same time. You just have to ask to be sure. That’s what couples do, right? They communicate.

Taking a deep breath, you wait for Minho until he comes back from the bathroom.  

“Are you ready to–”

“Who’s Sooyoung?” you cut him off before you’ll lose your courage and let the anxious thoughts consume you without asking him first.

He furrows his brows but then his eyes land on the phone lying on the table. He pursues his lips. “You’ve been snooping through my phone?”  

“I didn’t have to snoop. I just looked at the screen when you got a notification.” you say as calmly as possible, trying to hide your nerves. “I just thought it’s a little weird that some other woman is asking you when you will be free next time.”  

Minho's eyes narrow. “What are you insinuating?” he asks.  

“I’m not insinuating anything. Just tell me who she is, it’s simple.”  

He looks uneasy, tongueing the inside of his cheek but nevertheless, he’s still as composed as ever, gauging you with tentative expression. “Sooyoung is my friend from work. She’s a new recruit and we go to the shooting range to practice once a week,” he explains. “And before you will ask: we aren’t there all alone. Kihyun accompanies us. So you don’t have to worry about anything. Can we go now, honey?” 

You lower your eyes to the ground, nodding. When you try to move past him, Minho catches your wrist. “Do you have anything more to add?” His voice is stern and you gulp.  

“I'm sorry.” you almost whisper.  

“It’s okay. Just don’t jump into conclusions next time, okay?” he says, hand still wrapped tightly around your hand.  

“Okay.” you repeat and he releases you.  

A smile appears on his face after that, and he cocks his head at you. “Let's go.”  

You exhale a shaky breath you didn’t even know you were holding and follow him.

There are some things in our lives that we cannot predict.  

Like the heavy traffic on the way to work because of the car crash happening somewhere in the city or meeting your ex you’d rather forget about in a shopping mall months after break up.  And when they do happen, we can only confront what the faith has in store for us, no matter how much we resist.

You certainly couldn’t predict that after sending a ‘god I want to get drunk so bad’ message to Jungkook he would actually appear hours later on your doorstep with grocery bags in one hand and pizza box in another, grinning broadly when he saw your genuinely surprised expression.

That’s when the surrealism kicks in, when you’re sitting on the floor of your bedroom, one empty bottle of suju on your account and the second almost drained to the half. When Jungkook is right by your side, tomato sauce on his chin you wipe out for him with a grimace, talking about some dumpling incident that caused a huge fight among his friends.

But no matter how much you try, how much alcohol you pour into your system, you’re unable to fully get rid of the anxious thoughts sitting at the back of your head.

It’s been a while since your argument with Minho and even though you want to believe him, the creeping feeling that something’s off won’t leave you. It’s easy to say to always trust your intuition, but what if it prompts you scenarios you wouldn’t like to become real?  

Jungkook must have sensed that something doesn’t feel right because he stops his rambling mid-sentence, clearing his throat. “Are you even listening to me now, buttercup?” he asks.  

You snap out of your thoughts at that, mustering an apologetic smile. “Sorry. I was but–”

“But you zoned out for a moment,” he finishes. “It’s okay. I know you since we were kids, I can tell when there's something bothering you. It’s all in your eyes.” he says, making you furrow your brows in confusion.

“What’s in my eyes?”  

“They look sad.”  

You shy away from his piercing stare, looking at your lap instead. You’ve always proud yourself that you can read people like an open book. That’s why you can so easily hide your true emotions at bay before the whole world. But if there’s only one person who is capable of seeing through you, it’s Jungkook.  

You can open up to him, you remind yourself. You’re safe, he’s been your friend for such a long time, he won’t hurt you.  

You take a deep breath and say, “Minho and I have some trouble. I mean, it’s nothing serious but he’s been acting weird lately and few days ago we got into a fight, so yeah. I’m just... a little stressed, that’s all.”  

“Should I kick his ass?” he suggests and knowing him, he might as well be serious so you brush it of with a chuckle.

“Maybe not yet.”  

You reach for the empty pizza box between you, putting it to the side. You debate taking another shot of soju but eventually you refuse, placing the bottle next to the carton. You’ve had enough alcohol for tonight anyway.  

“Are you happy with him, ___?” Jungkook asks suddenly, and you feel like all the air in the room has been sucked off.  

You turn to face him, heart rickocheting faster in your ribcage. If you’re truly shocked he’s had an audacity to ask this, you hide it pretty well. Something in your head is telling you that the best defence is attack, so you aim.  

“Are you happy?”  

Your question stirs something in him. You don’t know what you expected but you could never imagine him actually catching the bait and answering you with honesty. Yet he does.

“You know, I’ve been asking myself the same question a lot lately,” he says, smiling lopsidedly. “There are days when I’m the happiest person on this planet, when I feel like I can do everything. But sometimes, when I step down the stage and lights go out, it just gets harder.” There’s a slight crack to his voice at the end and when you look him in the eyes, they’re glassy. “If I knew it could be so lonely, I wouldn’t have signed up for this. Ever.”

Some things in life we are able to predict. We know the road leading to success and accomplishment might be bumpy, yet we cannot truly be prepared for the outcome of all the difficulties we come across along the way. Jungkook was aware of the consequences his popularity may cause in the future, but he simply didn’t think it could be so overwhelming.  

You scoot closer to him, your hand finding his amid your bodies. He looks down and intertwines his fingers with yours with a hint of smile in the corner of his lips. “You have all rights in the world to feel the way you do, Jungkook, remember that. But you’re not alone in this. I’m always here, okay? I’ve been for the past three years and I’m not going anywhere soon.” you say firmly, closing the distance between you.

He accepts your hug with eagerness, wrapping his arms around your frame with desperation, pulling you closer. It’s been so long since you’ve talked like this, since you’ve comforted each other and shared deepest fears.  

Jungkook buries his face in the crook of your neck, where you feel him breathing out shakily. He rests his palms on your back, tracing soothing patterns over the material of your hoodie and that’s when you realise he wasn’t the only one who needed to be held like this, even just for a moment. It’s exactly what you’ve been missing, the sheer intimacy of a simple hug.

“Sometimes I just wish it was different.” he whispers into your hair and you close your eyes, swallowing the lump in your throat.  

“Me too.”  

Somehow, it seems like the most honest thing you’ve said.

Even when you pull away, you’re still mere inches from him. You feel his breath on your skin, his hands travelling from your backside to your hips. Jungkook's eyes are focused on your face but there’s no sadness or melancholy in them now. In his deep brown orbs you recognize something akin to longing.  

And maybe the alcohol running in your veins is deceiving you, but when his gaze drops to your lips, you can’t do anything; you’re paralyzed, barely breathing. It’s electrifying, crawling in your skin. His right palm finds the apple of your cheek, thumb stroking your bottom lip until he releases it and tilts your chin. The moment your eyes meet his comes with realization that maybe you were right - you see the yearning in them. But it’s mixed with desire.

The first touch of his lips on yours feels almost exploratory. He kisses you so softly and carefully you might believe it’s his first kiss, but you know this is only a false inkling. Truth to be told, his experience in this area is incomparable to yours. With the shy press of his lips on yours he’s only testing the waters, sensing if you want to push him away. Yet you don’t.  

You succumb to the way his chapped lips move against yours, like they’ve always belonged there. You want to be as close to him as possible, feel the heat radiating of him on you. Nothing else matters beside you and him right now, the reality outside doesn’t exist as long as you’re in the confines of your small bedroom, lips colliding and rational thoughts gone.

When your fingers almost hesitantly thread into the locks at the back of his head, Jungkook deepens the kiss. Your body is moving on your own accord, knees sinking onto the floor on either sides of his thighs until you’re straddling his lap. You taste the desire on his tongue as he runs it through the seam of your lips, seeking entrance you provide.

His hands find purchase on your hips and when he nips on your bottom lip you let out a silent moan, leaning your forehead on his. “What are we doing?” you whisper, breathing heavily down his flushed cheeks and parted mouth. You’re trying to grasp the meaning behind all of this: of your quickened heartbeat, of the evidence of his desire where you groins meet.

“Something we are going to regret later.” It’s the answer Jungkook gives, connecting your mouths once again in a searing kiss.

Everything seems to crush around you. Erupting volcanoes, cascading waterfalls, tsunamis consuming the land. It’s dangerous, Jungkook thinks to himself, kissing you like that, nibbling on your bottom lip and eliciting a moan. But he can’t help but drown in it.

You’ve never felt quite like this; consumed by the flames of forbidden desire, ready to burn into ashes. Jungkook’s palms shift underneath your hoodie and you’re surprised how warm they feel against your skin, caressing your stomach and underside of your breasts. He’s touching you with ardour, like he doesn’t believe you’re in his arms, like you’re going to disappear the second he lets go of you.

You place sloppy kisses on his cheeks, jawline, down his neck, relishing in the way he seems to be affected by your caresses, tightening his grip on your waist with every press of your lips on his skin. He grasps the hem of your hoodie, looking for any sign of discomfort in your eyes but when you nod your head, he doesn’t hesitate to lift it off you, uncovering your bare cleavage.

Biting your lip, a sudden wave of insecurity washes over you but it quickly vanishes as soon as his palms engulf your breasts almost roughly, thumbs brushing your nipples until the peeks harden under his ministrations and you can’t help but gasp. He trails kisses down your throat, teeth grazing your skin almost feather-like and you know what’s that for. He doesn’t want to live a visible mark there.

In one, swift motion, Jungkook puts his hands underneath your thighs and stands up from the floor, lifting you up with ease and placing gently on your bed. He hovers over your half-naked figure, eyeing you with the carnal hunger that makes your chest raise and fall with heavy intakes of breath, core pulsing with want.  

He takes off his shirt and tosses it somewhere on the floor, and now you understand why all these girl are so drown to him. Jungkook's probably the most good looking man you’ve ever laid eyes on. Everything in him is crafted with perfection, from the prominent outline of his jaw, through the column of his throat and collarbones, to the sculpted expanses of his chest and abdomen.  

Your fingerstips are itching to map every ridge and deep of his body but you remain still, anticipating his next move with rapidly beating heart. Dominance and power radiating of him nearly make you squirm underneath his scrutinizing stare. His dark eyes are telling you to obey him, and you give yourself to him without resistance. You’ve never felt this way, not with anyone. Yet here you are, stripped from the innocence and bared to the pleasure.

Jungkook reaches to the waistband of your leggings, pulling them down and leaving you with nothing but your underwear on. He straddles your thighs, his palm pressed flat to your stomach until he slides it lower, to the dip of your body where you drip with the need of being fucked until you forget your own name.  

The first press of his fingers on your pussy makes your limbs jerk uncontrollably and he smirks at your reaction, seeing the material of your panties dampening with his small, teasing strokes. It’s almost embarrassing how quickly it wounds you up, blame it on your uncontrollable celibacy or maybe something else entirely.

“What do you want me to do, doll?” His question makes you whine, hips raising to feel more of his touch on you but he only chuckles at your apparent eagerness, patting your folds in reprimand.  

“Anything,” you breathe out in response, looking at him with frenzied eyes and hoping he will be merciful to you.

Jungkook tsks, his fingers leaving your cunt and grasping your jaw tightly. “Be a good girl and use your words.”  

You gulp, a humiliating blush reddening your cheeks. You’ve never really been a vocal person during sex, nor were people you had slept with but you can’t deny how much of a turn on is Jungkook's commanding voice.

“Please, Jungkook. Want you to touch me.”  

“Where?” His other hand wanders down your body until he cups your center. “Here?” he asks in a mocking tone, making you nod silently. “You want me to touch your pretty pussy with my fingers?”  

“Yes, please.”  

He grasps your underwear and shruggs it off your legs, smirking when he sees you so affected by his words. He then shoves his index and middle finger into your mouth and watches as you obediently lap your tongue around them, looking at him with hooded eyes.

“Fuck.” he curses, pulling his fingers out of your mouth.  

You look so pliant and submissive lying naked underneath him, so willing to let him do with you whatever he pleases. His cock throbs in his pants at the thought. He’s had girls at his beck and call before but it’s a different kind of lust with you. A strong yearning, consuming him from the inside, a desperation to be as close as two humans being submerged into carnality possibly can be.

Your back arches when his calloused fingers finally make contact with your bare pussy, slipping between your folds to gather the wetness dripping from your hole. You gasp at the feeling of his thumb circling your clit, biting your lip until you taste iron. He easily finds the right way to make you moan, to make your legs shake with want.  

You cry out his name when he pushes the first digit inside. He swears under his breath when he feels your warm walls flattering around him. “M-more,” you whimper, hips lifting of the mattress and seeking friction.

Jungkook smirks at that. “You’re so wet, baby. You like it, don’t you? Such a greedy slut.” You’re mewling at his words, grasping his wrist when he roughly plunges another finger into your cunt and starts shoving them in and out, not sparing even a second to let you adjust to the punishing pace he sets.

He leans his body closer over yours, eyes focused on the way your face writhes in pleasure while his fingers are abusing your pussy. You’re dripping, your arousal coating the his palm and the insides of your thighs. When he sees you reaching to squeeze your breasts, he swears he’s never seen anything sexier than this in his entire life.

“Jungkookie–nghh, please,” You’re a blubbering mess, moaning incoherent sentences. You could sense your orgasm approaching, you’re feeling it warming your body from the tip of your toes all the way to your core where you’re gushing around his long fingers.  

“Come on, doll. Be a good girl and cum for me.” Jungkook murmurs. With his words and his thumb flicking your bundle of nerves with practiced ease, you’re pushed over the edge, tears spilling from your eyes and coating your cheeks. He watches with parted mouth as you come with his name on your lips, your velvet walls deliciously tightening around his digits. He gives you a moment to ride out your high, stroking your side with his palm soothingly.  

Pulling out his fingers, he places them in his mouth, humming lowly at the taste of your arousal on his tongue. He wants nothing more than bury his face between your thighs and lick you clean but right now, he needs to fuck you.  

He stands up from the bed, taking off his pants and boxers along with socks and catches you peeking at him from the corner of your eye. Your chest is rising with laboured breaths, lips swollen from the way you’ve been biting them to stop yourself from letting out any loud noises that could potentially be heard through the thin walls of your apartment.  

He digs one knee on the mattress, his other hand wrapped around his thick cock. You lick your lips at the sight, nails digging crescent moons into your palms.

“On your fours, baby.” Jungkook commands and you oblige with flushed cheeks, maneuvering your body onto your hands and knees. You feel him behind you, his palms stroking the skin of your bare ass. A sick thrill runs through your body at the prospect of being taken in such a humiliating position.  

Groaning, Jungkook rubs the mushroom head of his cock through your folds, collecting the juices spilling out of you. That’s when you come back to your senses and your whole body stiffens. “Wait,” you call out, making him pause. “We need a condom.”  

“I’m clean. Besides, I never fuck anyone else without protection.”  

“Fine, just–” Closing your eyes, you release a shaky breath. “–you need to pull out, okay?”  

Jungkook leans over your body, placing a kiss on your shoulder blade. “Relax, ___. I won’t do anything you don’t want me to.” With one hand on your waist and the other on your hip, he positions the tip of his cock at your entrance and pushes agonizingly slow inside, making you moan at the stretch. You’re grasping the sheets underneath between your fingers, knees threatening to give away after another measured stroke that leaves your heat pulsating.

“Fuck, you’re so tight. When was the last time he fucked you?” he grunts, digging his fingers into your flesh. At the mention of Minho, your body tenses. You breath heavily, trying to push the unwelcomed thoughts aside.  

“A m-month ago?” you utter, recalling the last time you had sex. Or rather when you sucked him off and he didn’t bother reciprocating the favor.  

Jungkook shoves his cock deeper, scoffing to himself. “His stupid for not appreciating this enough.”  

You bite your lip, focusing on the feeling of him inside you. His words sound affectionate, too affectionate for your liking and you don’t want to think about this moment like it means more than what it is. Your hands tremble and lose balance when he fucks into you harder, until he’s filling you to the brim. You’ve never felt so deliciously full. A few bits of ragged breaths later, you mumble, ‘’You can move.”

He tightens his grip on you, bottoming out. He sets a steady pace, fucking you slowly but deeply, making you cry out into the pillow at the sensation of his cock dragging through your walls, making sure you feel every inch of him. “You feel so good, doll. So wet and tight. I’m gonna make a mess of your pretty pussy.” he says lowly.

The sounds of skin slapping against skin echo through the room with the promise of merciless fucking. Jungkook is relentless, pounding into you faster and faster, like he wants to ruin you, imprint himself on your body to make you remember how easily you can give into vulnerability. His hand slips underneath you and he lifts your upper body up, pressing your back into his chest. The new found angle causes him to hit the spot inside you that has you putty in his arms.

“Don’t–nghhh–stop, fuck!”  

He grunts into your ear in response, sweaty bangs ticking the side of your neck. He sneaks his other hand around your throat and you gulp. “Is this okay?” You hear him whispering and you’re nodding, tears gathering in your eyes from the immense pleasure he is bringing to you with every snap of his hips that threatens to make you lose it on his cock.

His fingers apply a slight pressure against your neck, enough to make you lightheaded with unfamiliar yet ecstatic feeling. He overwhelms you in every way possible and you’ve never felt like this; so powerless yet alive at the same time.  

Jungkook releases the grip on your throat but he’s hand still remains there as if in warning. “Look at you, taking my cock in your slutty cunt. You’re close, aren’t you? Gonna cum all over me?” he growls, fingers rubbing your clit in fast circles until tears are spilling down your cheeks and you’re keening.

“God–yes, fuck! Please, I want to cum so bad.” you whimper, squeezing your eyes shut. You’re on cloud nine, trembling in his arms. He tightens his hold on your throat again and with one last, final flick of his digits on your pussy you’re reaching your second orgasm this night.  

Jungkook releases his hold on you, helping you lay down on your back after riding out your high to the brick of oversensitivity. His palm caresses the length of your body soothingly, calming you down. You’re eyes are still closed when he bends and kisses you. Surprised by his sudden gentleness, your breath hitches in your throat. He coaxes a small moan out of you when you finally relax, wrapping your arms around his neck blindingly and pulling him close.  

You break away the kiss, feeling his stiff length pressing into your stomach. His cock is covered in your slick, thick and hard against his toned abdomen. Biting your lip, you sit up and enclose your fingers around his sex. Looking up, you're met with his dark orbs watching your movements. With his raven hair falling down on his face and sweaty chest, Jungkook looks painfully beautiful.

He lets out a hiss when you lean down and take him into your mouth, swirling your tongue around his velvet tip. “Fuck, just like that.” he murmurs. Gathering your hair in his hand, he makes a makeshift ponytail and stares down at you bringing him closer and closer to the edge with every drag of your pink muscle on his cock.  

Feeling him twitch in your mouth, you take him deeper, ignoring the ache in your jaw. “Gonna cum.” Jungkook grunts and moments later he releases his seed down your throat. You swallow the bitterness of his arousal, lapping your tongue around his tip until he pulls out of you, wincing with oversensitivity.

Silence takes over the room. You don't dare looking at him, staring at your naked lap instead, thoughts screaming in your head. You know you’re going to feel the aftermath of your rough fucking tomorrow, and it won’t be only physical pain. You sit up, ready to go to the bathroom but a hand on your wrist stops you.

“Wait, I’ll do it.” Jungkook murmurs and you nod absentmindedly.

He gets up from the bed and disappears in the bathroom. Unsure of what to do, you force your muscles to move, sitting at the edge of the bed. Jungkook comes back a minute later, carrying a dump towel.

Your head drops to the ground immadietly. He kneels before you and you desperately avoid his eyes. You notice he’s put on his boxers already and now he’s cleaning you gently off, removing evidences of your sins from your skin. You will take a shower later, the water will wash you off from each other’s scents and lingering touches. Love bites will soon disappear, bruises on your hips fade. Yet the scars you left on your hearts won’t heal that easily.

Jungkook puts his hand on your knee and you bite your bottom lip. He takes your hoodie lying on the floor and puts on your naked, marked body. Your heart clenches in your chest at the simple gesture.

“___,” he calls your name. At that, you finally look up at him. He seems worried, you must tell, millions of thoughts crossing his mind at the moment as well as yours. “Let’s go to sleep for now, okay? We will talk about this in the morning.”  

You don’t say anything, nodding at his words. You crawl onto the bed, trying to create as much distance as possible between your bodies but it’s pointless. You feel his breath on your neck and you're sure his itching to hold you, but he doesn’t know if he should, so he stays mere inches from you, until you both eventually fall asleep.

Jungkook wakes up hours later with a raging headache. He grunts to himself, rubbing his face with grimace and making another meaningless promise about drinking less alcohol. When he open his eyes, he realises he’s staring at the fluorescent stars attached to the ceiling. Your ceiling.

When he turns his head to the left, he finds the other side of the bed empty. It’s almost bright in the room, which means he’s stayed overnight again. And he didn’t do just that.  

Bits of memories flash behind his eyelids: him coming to your flat to hang out, your conversation, the kiss that led to naked bodies and breathy moans. He fucked up royally this time.  

Throwing the comforter off his body, he feels a sudden rush of coldness raising goosebumps on his skin. Frowning, he picks up his discarded clothes from the floor and starts putting them on. The door to your bedroom are cracked open, just like you haven’t closed them to not wake him up.  

Jungkook raises from the bed once he’s fully dressed, and pushes the door. He finds you standing by the fully opened window in your kitchen, staring outside.

He understands now why there was so cold before. The fluffy, blueish robe wrapped around your body is probably doing little job at providing warmth, but you don’t seem to mind it at all. You don’t see him yet, your back facing him until he takes another step and the floor creaks underneath his weight.  

He sees your shoulders raising and falling, as if you’ve just let out a sigh. Then, you turn around cautiously, a greish puffs of smoke swirling over your features. Jungkook raises a brow.

“I thought you said you had quit.” It’s the first thing he says, his voice still groggy from sleeping.

You shrug at that, averting your gaze to the view behind your opened window again. “I always smoke after making a bad decision.”  

It sounds bitter coming from you. A testament of your recklessness and weak hearts. He could read the regret straight from your face. It’s all in your posture: you look broken. And he is the reason why you’re hurting. The guilt is almost eating him up from the inside. He needs to try fixing this before you will push him away and he’ll lose you again.

“I think we should forget about that.” you speak after a moment of silence, still refusing to meet his eyes. Your voice trembles and he feels it stabbing him right in the middle of his chest, depriving him of hope to make things good between you. “It’ll be for the better for of us if we act like nothing ever happened. We got drunk, we let our emotions get the best of us. That’s all.”  

You and him both know it wasn’t just  alcohol which made you let him touch you like that, fuck your worries away for a few bits of pleasant oblivion. It meant so much more but you’re too afraid to confront this. You aren’t ready yet.

When you close the window and finally look at him, Jungkook's shoulders are slouched. Defeated. Something aches in your heart at that. “I’m sorry. For everything,” he tells you. He’s clenching his fists by his sides and you know he’s hurting too, more than he could ever let anybody realize. “I should get going then.”  

He exits the kitchen with one last, small smile reserved only for you. You didn't mean to handle the situation like that, like you’re quickly ripping off the band-aid, but you couldn’t think of a better way. Closing your eyes, you let your emotions decide once again. “Wait,” you call out after him, stepping into the hallway. “Maybe you will stay for breakfast.” you propose and Jungkook shakes his head.

“No. It’s okay. I don’t want to keep you busy.” he says, putting on his jacket. Reaching for the handle, he turns to you and smiles. “Take care, ___.” When the door close behind him, you let out a long exhale.  

What Jeon Jungkook couldn’t predict, is that he will be the one doing walk of shame out of your flat.

[ladyseaheart1668]

Endless Summer Book 4: Daughter of Vaanu (Chapter 56)

Description: The Catalysts attempt to return to their lives as River Skye finally comes home.  tagging: @endlesshero1122 @mysteli @feartheendlesssummer @whatmcsaid @tigerbryn11

Chapter 56: Not Over

Alodia

I almost can’t believe how quickly I start to feel better once the fever breaks. The pain, which had felt like some hellish demon with teeth made of red-hot iron gnawing at my lower back, begins to recede within hours. 

“That’s how it tends to go with an infection like this once we find the right antibiotic,” the doctor tells me. “You are fortunate, though. These days, a lot of bacteria have developed resistance to antibiotics. But the infection is responding well to treatment, and all your vitals and your blood work look good. And your daughter appears as healthy as a baby horse. ...I would just like to take a quick look at how you’re healing from the birth if that’s okay.” 

I nod, turning onto my back with Jake’s help as the doctor draws the curtain around the bed. Improved as I am, I know I’m not at full strength yet, because moving still hurts. I guess I must have winced, because the doctor raises an eyebrow in concern as she pulls on a pair of gloves.

“You okay there?” 

“I think so. Guess I’m still pretty sore.” 

“That’s to be expected. You probably won’t feel one-hundred percent for another week or two at least.” 

I draw my knees up and part my thighs while the doctor pulls up a stool at the foot of the bed and lifts the blanket. I keep my attention focused on Jake’s face above me and the pressure of his hand on mine as the doctor carries out her checks. Occasionally, I let my eyes wander around to the multiple bouquets and mylar balloons that have built up over the past couple days, gifts from the Catalysts, Tahira’s team, my aunt and uncle, and Jake and Diego’s parents. 

“Everything is healing beautifully. Stitches should be dissolved by next week. You’re probably going to be feeling pretty tender for a while though.” 

“Yeah, we had the whole tearing conversation with my OB in California some time ago.” 

“Good. If you have any pressing questions regarding the birth and recovery, you can of course ask me, or one of the maternity staff. We can also forward your hospital records to your regular OBGYN.” 

“How long do you think it will be before we can go home?” Jake asks. 

She pulls the blanket back down and stands, peeling off her gloves. “Well, the fact is, we want to get her and your baby out of here ASAP to lower the chances of either of them picking up a secondary infection.” She smiles at me. “Now that the fever’s gone, we’re gonna get you off the drip and onto some oral antibiotics, and we can pretty much start the discharge process immediately.” 

“So soon?” My own question surprises me, but it’s out of my mouth before I realize it’s on the end of my tongue. 

“Believe me, it’s better we get you both out of here.” 

“I know. It’s not that I want to stay here. It’s just...thinking about how we’re going to get home...how soon we can get home…” 

“That’s all taken care of, Princess. Aleister is having Castor and Pollux deep cleaned, and he and Grace are gonna put us up for a few days until Mike gets up here from Santo Domingo. Diego and Varyyn are with Estela and Quinn, and your aunt and uncle basically paid for hotel rooms for everyone else.” 

His infodump has my head reeling a little, but there was one particular tidbit I find myself fixing on. 

“Why is Mike…?” I trail off as realization crashes down on me in an icy wave. A bit of information I had nearly forgotten in my struggle to bring my baby safely into the world while fighting a fever. Jake wasn’t worrying about me for all that time from the safety of our home in California. I don’t know the details, but I have a sinking feeling that has something to do with the reason that Mike isn’t here with us now. 

Jake folds my hand between his palms, glancing at the doctor. “Hey...do you have everything you need? I’d like a few minutes alone with my wife, if that’s okay.” 

“Of course. I’ll get the ball rolling on your discharge.” 

I wait until I’m sure she’s well clear of the room before I reach to stroke Jake’s cheek. “...I know Lundgren got his filthy hands on you. ...Fiddler told me. ...I’m guessing he got a hold of Mike, too.” 

He leans into my touch. “...And Sean and Michelle. Nabbed us all as I was bringing ‘em back from the island.” 

“I don’t know if she told me that. That conversation got swallowed up in worrying about you, and then I got sick and River started coming, and…” I swallow, running my thumb along the fuzzy ridge of his cheekbone. “...Did they hurt you? Any of you?” 

He shrugs, not meeting my eyes. “Knocked us all around a little. Michelle’s the smart one, of course, so she escaped the worst. ...Mike’s in Santo Domingo having his prosthetics repaired. Lundgren ripped them out ot torture him.” 

I shudder. “Oh, god...Oh, Jake, I’m sorry...I’m so sorry…” 

I’m crying before I realize it. And as soon as I do realize, it turns into sobbing. Jake reaches down to gather me in his arms and cradle my head against his shoulder, rocking me tenderly. 

“It’s okay,” he murmurs into my hair. “It’s okay. He’s gonna be fine. You’re gonna be fine. In a few days, we’ll be home with our baby.” 

“I w-wanna be home,” I hiccup. “I wanna be home with River, but I’m scared of leaving everyone again. I just wanna bring them all home with us…” 

“Well, it’s a very big house. ...On the other hand, you cram us all into the same house long term, it might start to feel less big. Plus, it would mean a brutal cross-country commute for some of them.” 

I can’t help chuckling a little bit, which makes the sobs start to die down. Jake gives me a moment to get myself under control before he speaks again. 

“...How are you feeling, Princess? Really?” 

“Physically?” I pull back gently to lie down on the pillow again. “Definitely better. My head is clearer, and I don’t hurt as much. But I’m still worn out. And by the way, you’re gonna have to make due with blow jobs for awhile, because it’s gonna be a long time before you stick that thing in me again, if ever.” 

It’s his turn to laugh, and he bends to kiss me. “Princess, I will tug it for the rest of my life as long as you’re still a part of that life.” 

“I will be a part of your life as long as the universe allows,” I promise. “...But Jake, we both know this isn’t over.” 

He sighs, and I see his forehead crease before he presses it to mine. “I know. I know you’re right. But for River’s sake--and mine--will you let the others take care of that for now? I ain’t saying don’t worry, because I know that’s impossible. But River and I need you healthy. Can you stand to let yourself be looked after for a while?” 

I feel a rueful smile tug at one corner of my mouth. “Am I to assume that arguing is pointless?” 

A tapping at the open door to the birthing suite distracts Jake from answering. We both look up to find Raj and Diego hovering in the doorway, Raj with a paper bag in his hand, and Diego with his right arm in a soft blue sling. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since River was born, and I sit up a little straighter as he hesitantly steps over the threshold. 

“...Are we interrupting?” 

The baby has started fussing, and Jake eases off the edge of the bed to go pick her up. I open my arms to Diego. Just before he rushes into them, I see his face twist with anguish. And as he falls against me, his one-armed grip is surprisingly strong. 

“Goddammit, Allie,” he whispers quiveringly. “Goddammit…” 

“...Did I scare you?” 

He pulls back sharply, enough so he can look me in the face, but he keeps a grip on my shoulder. “Did you scare me?! You had me on my knees saying the Ave Maria! Do you know how long it’s been since I said the Ave Maria?!” 

There isn’t really a lot I can say to that, but I smile ruefully. “...Thanks for staying with me.” 

“What, you thought I’d bail?” 

I snort. “God, no. But I can still be grateful.” 

“...You’re really okay?” 

I nod. “I’m fine. The fever is gone, and the wound doesn’t really hurt anymore. I’m still pretty sore down there, though.” 

A smile finally starts to play cautiously around his mouth. “...Well, that part’s Jake’s problem.” 

“How about you?” I ask, gingerly touching the strap of his navy blue sling. 

“That’s nothing serious. It was dislocated, but they popped it back in. Just got to wear this for a few more days, and take it easy once we get back home. ...Raj brought food, by the way.” 

“Oh!” I pull back a little to smile at Raj. “Sorry, big guy. I didn’t mean to ignore you.” 

Raj chuckles. “We’ll blame it on the new mommy brain and leave it at that. Speaking of which…” He shoos Diego back enough that he can drag my bed table over across my lap, and sets an insulated lunch box on top. “I figured you could do with something better than hospital fruit cups and oatmeal, so I brought you a special Raj lunch. Michelle supervised its creation, and it’s full of stuff that’s supposed to be good for new moms.” 

“What is it?” 

“So glad you asked!” With a flourish, he opens the bag, and pulls out each item in turn, presenting them like a game show prize lady. “A sandwich of salmon, spinach, and poached egg on whole wheat bread with a garlic white bean spread; in case you are extra hungry, a side of gourmet trail mix made from an assortment of nuts and dried fruit; and to drink, a pineapple-orange-banana smoothie with extra protein powder, and just a few extra leaves of spinach!” 

I can’t help but be uplifted by his enthusiasm, and hold out my arms for a hug. “I must be the most spoiled new mother in the world.” 

Raj embraces me lightly over the table. “As you should be. You know in some Asian cultures, a new mother spends a whole month resting while her mother-in-law takes care of her and the baby.” 

“Oh yeah?” I look at Jake. “Think your mother would spend a month taking care of me?” 

“Honestly, I bet she would. The problem would be getting her to ease up and let you start taking care of things after the month was up.” 

“Hmm...probably best not to give her ideas then.” 

“Probably. We’ll have my folks over in few more months, when we’ve had a chance to get settled.” 

“...But…” Raj says, “in the meantime, do you think you guys will be needing any extra help? I know it’s going to be a pretty full house as it is, but Diego’s going to want to take it easy with lifting and stuff for a while, and Michelle says Mike will probably need time to recover, too. If you need a couple extra pairs of hands and someone to do the cooking, I have some downtime, and I know Lila would be happy to come along.” 

I look questioningly at Jake, who shrugs. “I don’t have anything against that. It’s a big enough house. And if Varyyn and I are gonna be the only ones at full strength for the time being, I wouldn’t say no to a couple extra pairs of hands.”

“And probably better those hands be Raj and Lila than anyone’s parents,” Diego adds. “I bet Varyyn would prefer not having to wear his disguise twenty-four-seven.” 

“Yeah. And,” Jake adds with a sigh, shifting River to rest against his shoulder, “it’s probably preferable not to involve anyone who ain’t already involved in the bigger picture. ...Like you said before, Princess, this ain’t over.” 

“But for now, we’re all safe and sound, and Allie has a lunch to eat.” Diego smiles encouragingly as he pushes the tinfoil-wrapped sandwich toward me. “Go on. Dig in.” 

Jake

I gotta admit, it does my heart good to see my wife savoring the meal Raj brought her and enjoying our friends’ company. She seems almost back to her old self as she talks and tells jokes and teases with them. Although, as I put River in her arms, I can’t help but be reminded that she’ll never be exactly like her old self again. Not now that she’s a mama. Not like I’m ever gonna be exactly like my old self again either. I’m a daddy now. That’s gonna change me forever. The thought scares me, like it has a lot over the past nine months. But just a look at that precious little face is enough to reassure me that I am never gonna regret it. 

Diego and Raj eventually leave us on our own again. After nursing and burping, River sleeps just long enough that we can fill out her birth certificate, nestled side-by-side on the bed. From there, it’s not more than an hour or two before they’re wheeling Alodia toward the hospital exit with River in her arms again while I walk at her shoulder, a baby carrier in the crook of my elbow and my arms laden with flowers and mini mylar balloons. Any staff we happen to pass on the way out smile and wave or give us their congratulations. I have a feeling that in a hospital, any chance to see a patient off happy and healthy is a cause for celebration, and that probably goes double for a new mama leaving with a baby. 

Grace is waiting in a car for us at the curb outside the hospital. One of Reggie’s old carseats is in the backseat. Grace settles the baby in the carseat while I help Alodia into the seat beside her. 

“There’s a surprise for you guys when we get to our place,” Grace informs us as I circle around the car to get in on the other side of River. 

“Nothing too strenuous, I hope,” Alodia quips. “I am not up for a party yet.” 

Grace chuckles as she starts up the car. “Oh, believe me, I realize that. No, everyone is pretty sure parties are off the table for you for the time being. ...But you do know that everyone is going to want to see you before you leave, right? You gave us a scare, and no one wants you to go before we all know you’re okay. ...Plus, everyone wants to see River.” 

“I am not opposed to visitors,” Alodia assures her. “Just...only a few at a time.” 

“Absolutely. We won’t let you get overwhelmed.” 

“River, either,” Alodia adds, stroking our sleeping daughter’s downy hair. “Poor thing is probably overwhelmed as it is, suddenly coming into all this noise and color and light.” 

“Birth is the craziest thing that ever happens to us, and none of us remember it,” I remark, letting the blade of my forefinger run gently back and forth across the soft back of River’s tiny hand. Her little fingers twitch just slightly, and the base of her pacifier rocks back and forth across her lips, but she doesn’t wake up. I don’t expect the quiet will last. 

River does sleep throughout the half hour or so it takes to drive to Aleister and Grace’s luxury Northbridge apartment. As we pull up to the curb, I realize what our surprise is. 

“Mike!” 

I must have been a little louder than I thought, because River wakes up with a cry that can only be described as irritated, but it doesn’t fully register until I have already launched myself out of the car towards Mike. He’s balancing on a walker, so I at least have the good sense not to jostle him, but I can’t hold myself back from grasping him firmly by the shoulders. He grins, carefully removing his hands from the walker one at a time to grasp me back. 

“Good to see ya, Grandpa.” 

“Shit, you too! We weren’t expecting you for another couple days! How are you feeling?” 

“Well, as you can tell,” he says, nodding at the walker, “I’m not quite ready to run a marathon yet. But my new legs are healing up nice. ...Good to see you, Goldilocks.” 

His gaze shifts over my shoulder, and I turn to look back at my wife supporting herself on Aleister’s arm while Grace bounces River in her arms. Alodia smirks at me, her eyes twinkling mischievously. 

“I feel like I should make a joke about you abandoning your wife and child in the car to go hang out with your buddy,” she drawls. 

I grin sheepishly as Mike carefully returns his grip to the walker. “Sorry about that. Let me make it up to you.” 

I lunge and sweep her up bridal style, and I have the pleasure of feeling her arms twine around my neck. 

“Mmm, much better. However, unlike your daughter, I am actually capable of walking.” 

“But you don’t have to. Not right now, anyway.” But I do return her to her feet after capturing her mouth in a kiss. I don’t entirely take my hands off her yet, though. After her ordeal, I don’t think she’s really that much steadier than Mike right now. Her grip as she slips her arm through mine confirms my concerns. 

I’m standing between my wife and my best friend, and neither of them are fully able to stand under their own power. I’m starting to feel that much more grateful to Raj for volunteering to help us out for a while. 

I think Mike notices Alodia’s weakness, too, because his forehead creases just a little. “You all right, Goldilocks? From what I hear, you gave everyone a real scare.” 

“It was pretty scary on my end, too. But I’m fine now. How about you?” 

Mike shrugs. “Ahh, you know. A few weeks of rehab, I’ll be a six-million dollar man again. In the meantime,” he adds wryly, stroking the frame of his walker, “it’ll be hard to call Jake ‘Grandpa’ when I’m dottering around on this thing.” 

“You just called me ‘Grandpa’ two minutes ago.” 

“And I cannot tell you how hard I internally cringed. Seriously, if you could have seen my internal expression, you’d have thought I was sucking lemons.” 

I am morally obligated to reach out and swat him for that, but before I can, Alodia abruptly steps forward to wrap her arms around his shoulders. It’s an awkward embrace, encumbered by the walker and both of them still being weak, but it’s a sincere one, and Mike leans into it gratefully. 

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Alodia murmurs. 

“You too,” Mike says softly, reaching up to pat her shoulder with one hand. “But can we go inside? I wanna properly meet that baby you’ve been carrying around for the past nine months!” 

***

The Catalysts come by in shifts throughout the afternoon and evening, apparently having planned it all out beforehand. No one stays more than an hour at a time, which proves to be a good thing, since Alodia is clearly worn out by about eight in the evening. We’re set up in the guest room of the Rourke apartment, with River in a bassinet beside us, and Mike on the foldaway bed in the living room. 

Alodia nurses River and rocks her to sleep before lying down herself. At first, I curl up beside Alodia in bed. She’s asleep within minutes, but I’m not as quick. And after an hour, it’s pretty clear that I’m not on my way to dreamland any time soon. I don’t want to leave Alodia or River. I never want to leave Alodia’s side again. But I’m restless. Anxious. And eventually, the desire not to disturb what precious little sleep my wife might have before our daughter wakes her up again wins out over my irrational need to pace back and forth between them. I check the windows, making sure they’re locked, then I slip out of the room as quietly as I can, heading back out into the living room. 

I find Mike, Aleister, and Grace all seated in the living room. On the coffee table are four short, round glasses and a bottle of golden red liquid that I’m guessing is some kind of whiskey. 

“We were starting to wonder if you had also fallen asleep,” Aleister says. He gestures to the glasses. “We thought you might like to wet your baby’s head.” 

“Kind of a weird expression,” I remark. Nonetheless, I pick up the bottle and take a seat in an armchair to read the label. “Ooh, Irish Mist. Fancy.” 

“It is not every day that one becomes a father. The night Reginald was born, Diego, Varyyn, and I toasted his birth with Irish Mist.” 

I crack open the bottle, and lean forward to fill each of the four glasses about halfway. I set down the bottle and raise my glass, the others following suit. 

“To River Skye McKenzie, my beautiful angel. And to her mother, my better half, who is truly the best and bravest of us.” 

“Here, here!” Grace says. We clink glasses, and I take a long, deep drink, savoring the sweet notes of honey and spices riding atop the alcoholic burn of whiskey. I return my glass to the table empty and lean back in my chair. 

“When my sister and I both were born, my grandpa had my dad and the men of the neighborhood over to smoke cigars on the porch.” I chuckle a little. “Rebecca remembers helping our grandma in the kitchen, and seeing all the men outside smoking. She says what she remembers most about the day I was born was our dad coming in from outside to give her a hug, but she pushed him away and said, ‘No, Daddy! You stink!’” 

My story prompts the expected laughter. 

“I am afraid Irish Mist will have to do tonight,” Aleister says. “I did not think to buy cigars. Nor would I know enough to ensure I was purchasing a quality product. As I understand it, Cuban cigars are the best, but those are illegal.” 

Mike shudders. “Honestly, I think the smell of a Cuban would be enough to give me flashbacks. Lundgren used to smoke contraband Cubans.” 

“Same here,” I agree. “I mean...there was that one time…” 

“...That one time what?” 

I chuckle a little, rubbing the back of my head. “Okay, no one currently in this room was there when Zahra blew up MASADA…” 

“What’s that got to do with Cuban cigars?” 

I sigh, but in spite of myself, in spite of how literally everyone else in the room with me was in some kind of bad situation at the time, I feel a smile playing around my mouth at the memory. 

“Okay, so it’s me, Alodia, Sean, Quinn, Estela, Craig, and Zahra trying to find another way out of the complex after the gondola gets severed, and when we go through a control room, Zahra gets the idea to blow the whole thing up. We figure it’s worth the couple extra minutes, so we let her do it. And while she’s rigging the system, I find one of Lundgren’s Cubans somewhere on the floor. ...And I light it up. But only to spite the bastard.” 

“But did you enjoy it?” Mike asks. 

“Hell, yeah! The hype ain’t a lie, buddy. Not saying I’d do it again unless it were one of his personal stash, but that was a real good smoke. ...Still...it wouldn’t be right to celebrate River with Cuban cigars. Lundgren and Rourke did enough to taint her birth.” 

“Nothing has been tainted,” Grace says firmly. “She and Alodia both came through it well and healthy.”

“I ain’t losing sight of what’s important,” I assure her. “But I can’t let my guard down, either.  ...We all know this ain’t over.” 

Grace sighs. “...No, you’re right. It isn’t over. ...Which means...I should probably tell you what I learned in Ireland.”

Diego

I knew that the Catalysts wouldn’t have sat on their hands while any of their own were in danger, but I am surprised to learn just how busy they were during the time that Allie and I were in Arachnid’s claws. I’m even more surprised--and frankly unsettled--by some of the things they learned. Yvonne might be alive. Lundgren flew the same plane that killed Allie’s parents, even though the twisted wreckage of that plane is the property of the NTSB. The whole mess with Allie’s mom, that weird AI message from a program made by Allie’s mom. It all leaves us with a lot more questions than answers. 

I told the police everything I felt like I could safely tell them. I went so far as to tell them that I think Everett Rourke might be alive because that’s who our kidnappers claimed they were taking us to. I don’t know if they believed me. I don’t know if the future of the Vaanti is safe. A part of me hopes that they lose interest in the case since everyone who was abducted has been recovered safely. But I also know that none of us are really safe until Rourke is either back behind bars or dead. 

Aleister and Estela make all the travel arrangements for those of us going back to California, including my folks and Allie’s. Castor carries me, Allie, Jake, Varyyn, Mike, Raj, Lila, Rebecca, and River. For once, Jake and Mike aren’t going to be flying. Pollux is taking our families. A third plane, smaller but no less luxurious, takes Jake’s parents back to Louisiana. They’re reluctant to leave him. They don’t want to be apart from their son, or their daughter, or their granddaughter. He assures them they can come visit soon, but that their daughter-in-law needs some time to recover first. 

At the airport, Allie’s aunt and uncle hesitate to part from her on the tarmac. Allie stands with River in her arms, patiently enduring as Molly smoothes her hair and kisses her forehead, asking if she’s sure Allie doesn’t want her and Rob to wait at the airport in California to drive her home. When Allie insists she’s sure; that Molly and Rob should go ahead and get home so they can rest. Rob says they’ll make sure there are cars waiting for us to take us all back to the house in Laguna. 

My parents board the plane before I arrive at the airport. On board the plane, I nestle up with Varyyn on one of the double-width leather seats. I wind my arms around him and bury my face in his shoulder, inhaling his scent. He kisses the top of my head. 

“Are you alright, my love?” he murmurs. 

“...I’ll be fine,” I assure him. “I’m just...disappointed. I knew my parents weren’t ready to meet you. But I had hoped...I don’t know. I had hoped it wouldn’t be like this. Even if I knew it probably would be.” 

Varyyn sighs, bringing a hand up to stroke my cheek. “They may yet come around. Or they may not. In the end, it is up to them. All I can promise is that I will love you regardless of their decision.” 

“...I love you, too.” 

“You guys all set?” Raj’s voice makes me look up. The others are boarding behind us and finding their seats. Jake helps Allie settle in and get her seatbelt on, River still cradled in her arms. 

“Are you sure a plane is really the best way to travel with a newborn?” Lila asks. 

“When the choices are between a rental car, a train, or a private plane for a cross-country trip, a private plane is hands down the best option,” Rebecca declares. “I mean, if we were on a commercial plane, I’d think twice, since those things are basically flying petri dishes. But this plane has been deep-cleaned, unlike the train. It’s more comfortable than a car, and faster than both the car or the train.” 

“Yeah, but what about her little ears? All the pressure?” 

“The doctor says that if I nurse her during take-off and landing, that should keep her comfortable. Besides...I just want to be home.” 

Home. The word washes through me in a way that comforts me even as it makes me want to cry. Images flash through my mind of the house I share with my husband, my best friend, her husband, and his best friend--and now, my little niece and goddaughter. Watching movies in the living room with Allie. Sharing dinner around the table or out on the balcony. Cuddling with Varyyn in the hot tub in the evening, letting the warm, swirling water sap the energy from my body, and then sliding into bed beside him and drifting off to sleep in his arms. At home, I don’t have to hide. I don’t have to walk on eggshells or worry about losing anyone’s love. At home, I’m safe and free. I meet my best friend’s eyes, offering her a tired smile. 

“I’m with you, Allie. Let’s get home.” 

Raj

Nothing but the best for my friends, that’s my motto. I came to the house in Laguna Beach to make sure that my friends would have the best care while they needed it, and I waste no time in getting down to business. Alodia, Diego, and Mike need space to convalesce. But with a new baby in a huge house like this, there is a lot to be done. Jake and Varyyn can’t be expected to do everything, and that’s where I and Lila come in. 

River is constantly monitored. Whenever she cries, someone is ready to come running to change her diaper, or to bring her to Alodia for feeding. I prepare meals ahead of time that can be easily heated and served, so no one goes hungry. Lila helps me cook and keep the house clean. Alodia’s aunt and uncle attempt to send cleaning and catering services to her at one point, but they end up being politely refused. Lila and I have everything under control, and none of us want strangers poking around here. 

Alodia is occasionally moody, snapping at everyone to stop fussing over her, and she can’t wait to be free of this gilded cage and go back out into the world. This is usually followed by tearful apologies, with all of us assuring her that we don’t take it personally. She just had a baby, she’s allowed to be moody. Besides, the moment someone places River in her arms, it seems like everything is right in her world, and everything is right in our world, too. 

...Except it’s not. Not entirely. 

River is happy and healthy. Alodia is getting her strength back. Diego gets rid of the sling, and Mike starts to get around without the walker again. But underneath the surface, there is still trauma. There’s still fear. 

“They’re having nightmares,” I tell Lila one morning as we’re preparing breakfast. She pauses for a moment with a knife poised above an orange before swiftly slicing it in half. 

“Is that so surprising?” she asks. She doesn’t look at me as she speaks, but concentrates on making sure the thick, white heart of the orange half in her hand is positioned properly on the cone of the juicer before she presses down and begins to twist. Bright yellow juice splashes down into the container below. 

“Well, no. But it is sad. Jake and Alodia especially should be concentrating on enjoying their new baby, not having nightmares and worrying about whether Rourke’s coming back for them.” 

Lila pulls the now-deflated orange rind off the cone of the juicer and tosses it on the countertop. Ribbons of tattered orange flesh cling to the inside of the rind. She picks up the other half. 

“...Do you ever have nightmares from Mr. Rourke?” she asks softly. 

“Of course,” I reply. “Not as much as before, but I think we all have them sometimes. After what we all went through, I think I’d be more surprised if any of us didn’t.” 

The twisting of the orange on the juicer slows just slightly. The toaster pops behind me, and I pluck four pieces of perfectly browned bread from the slots to toss onto a plate. 

“...I have nightmares, too.” 

The butter has been softening on the counter, and my knife slides easily through it. The heat from the toast softens it further, and it spreads cleanly. 

“...You want to talk about it?” 

Lila shakes her head, picking up her knife and another orange. “No. Not now. They don’t really matter anyway. They’re about things that happened in the past. I’m less scared of them than I am of what happens in the future.” 

“Do you mean Rourke’s next move?” 

“Of course that scares me. ...But more than that, I’m scared of him trying to use me against all of you again.” 

“We won’t let that happen, Lila. You’re safe with us.” 

“...But are you safe with me?” 

I pause a moment before putting down my knife. I turn to Lila, put one hand on each of her shoulders, and turn her toward me. 

“Lila...look at me. ...Has Rourke approached you at all since you’ve been with us again?” 

Her eyes widen in what looks like genuine surprise. “What? No, I...that isn’t what I meant!” 

I relax just a little. “...Okay.” I slowly take my hands away from her shoulders. “...You’d tell me if he had, wouldn’t you?” 

She nods. “Of course.” 

“Good. ...Because if he approaches you again, we can help you. We can help keep you out from under his thumb. ...We’re not gonna let him just have you back.” 

A weak smile lifts the corners of her mouth. “I believe you.” She hastily turns back to the oranges in front of her. “You should...um...finish buttering before the toast gets cold.” 

Overhead, the sharp, piercing cry of an infant rings through the air. I smile. Another morning blending into another day. It’s not perfect. We’ve got reason to worry. But for now, all is well. 

Diego

I keep my head down as I move through the halls of my high school, clutching the straps of my worn-out backpack. It’s the same shabby gray one I’ve been carrying since freshman year. I’m a junior now, and the corners near the bottom are starting to fray where the sharp corners of paper-bag covered textbooks have dug into them. 

My stomach growls. I skipped lunch again today. My parents were gone to work early again, and I didn’t leave myself enough time to make myself anything this morning. I barely had time to scarf down a banana for breakfast. I didn’t have enough cash for a cafeteria lunch, either, and besides, I preferred spending my lunch period playing on the computer in the library to sitting by myself at the end of a table filled with noisy strangers anyway. 

If I can scrape together enough change from the bottom of my pencil case, I might have enough to get a bag of chips from the vending machine before I have to go to my after school job. But for now, my hunger isn’t all that sharp, and I am heading towards English Lit, the only class I currently look forward to. 

The class is taught by Mr. Hunter. He also teaches the film-making class I want to sign up for next semester. He’s in his early fifties, and not handsome. He is tall and lanky, with gray-green eyes and a dark helmet of slicked back hair that sits atop a rectangular face. He has one of those mustaches that seemed to be popular in the 1970’s that always make a man look a little sketchy. He wears paisley shirts and slacks, and his voice reminds me of Bert from Sesame Street.

Mr. Hunter is the best teacher I’ve ever had at this school. When we studied Romeo and Juliet, he started off by giving us all a printed-off list of Shakespearean insults. When one girl tried to mumble her way through a line-reading, he shouted, “Put some feeling into it, you saucy wench!” 

Mr. Hunter is also gay, and he does not attempt to hide this. When my parents ask about my teachers and which ones I like best, I leave this fact out. If they knew, they would make me switch to another class. Mr. Hunter has a picture of himself with his boyfriend on his desk. I’ve seen it when I’ve gone up to hand in assignments. His partner is bald and ruddy-skinned. He’s not handsome, either, but he has an open, friendly smile. Sometimes, I imagine them kissing. I worry that I have a crush on Mr. Hunter. 

On the post of every classroom door is a laminated pink triangle, with a message proclaiming that this is a safe space for LGBTQ students. These triangles are mandated by the school district. Not every teacher honors them. One teacher actually tore hers down and refused to put it back up. She was fired. Last year, two girls were voted “Cutest Couple” in their senior class. I look at the triangles, prominently displayed as I walk into each classroom, and I don’t feel particularly safe. I feel safe in Mr. Hunter’s classroom. 

Inside Mr. Hunter’s classroom, two boys from the football team act out a love poem with one of them in a curly blond wig and the bottom of his shirt tucked into his collar to create a crop top. They end with a flourish, with the boy in the wig jumping into the other boy’s arms and goosing him. Everyone applauds their performance, including Mr. Hunter. 

Outside Mr. Hunter’s classroom, guys of all stripes growl “faggot” in my direction, and even the girls who are nice to me seem pitying more than anything. There’s a Pride club that meets after school two days a week, but I don’t dare join. I’m slowly realizing I can’t deny the truth anymore, but that doesn’t mean I can just announce it to the world. 

I have just enough change to buy a bag of chips after school. I put it in my backpack as I make my way toward the library where I work for a few hours each day. I see Sam Dzugan eyeing me as I pass through the main doors to the school, and feel dread so familiar that it’s almost dull. Of all the bullies at this school, Sam is the worst. He also knows where I work. If he’s bored and hungry for a power fix tonight, I’m in for a rough walk home. 

But he doesn’t follow me to work. At the library, I set to work filing back the books from the return cart. As I do, my mind wanders to the same place it always does: Alodia. 

Alodia. My ideal friend. I conjure up an image of her beside me. She would be pretty, like all the most popular girls at school. I summon a small, pale figure with blonde hair, big blue eyes, and rosy cheeks. I talk with her in my head as I wander the aisles of the library with the return cart. I can picture her cheeky smile as clearly as if she were really beside me. I have spent many years getting the details of her perfect. Early incarnations of her were dark-haired. Green-eyed. Taller. I drew pictures of her. I wrote down her description in a private notebook that I kept under my mattress. But she never felt as real as when I wrote her with golden blonde hair and sapphire eyes. 

She laughs at all my jokes as I work the rest of my shift. I forgot to eat the chips I bought, and I’m hungry enough now to start feeling dizzy. ...Alodia would invite me to dinner at her house. A huge, fancy house with a pool, where a chef would have prepared a gourmet meal. 

“Don’t worry about Sam,” she would say. “If he gives you any trouble, I’ll fight him off.” ...Because Alodia would be fierce. A fighter. Alodia was a hero. A hero who loved me unconditionally. 

Alodia was never meant to be my lover. I wasn’t looking for a lover when I first dreamed Alodia into existence, which is probably why I always imagined her as a girl. I could scarcely imagine having a lover before I had a friend. That was what Alodia was to me. A friend. A friend who would always love me. A friend who I could tell my secrets to without judgment. A friend to fight for me and protect me, who saw value in me, and needed me back. 

But my friend is a fantasy. And when I leave work and Sam corners me in the encroaching darkness, Alodia vanishes…

...I wake up with a gasp, bolting upright in the darkness of my room. Beside me, Varyyn grunts in his sleep and rolls over, the moonlight reflecting off his blue skin. I stare at his sleeping form for a moment, trying to take stock of myself. I’m shaking. My pajamas are damp with sweat. I feel cold. I feel sick and empty with fear. I don’t exactly remember what I was dreaming about, but one thought keeps echoing in my mind: Allie. I have to find Allie. 

I slip out of bed as gently as I can while I’m still trembling. I don’t want to wake Varyyn. As I slip into the hall, motion-sensitive lights plugged into the sockets near the floor illuminate my path. My dream is still hazy, but bits and pieces trickle back as I shuffle down the hall with my hand on the wall. I was alone. Allie didn’t exist. It was a timeline that I have all but forgotten, and it felt entirely too real. 

I need to find her. Or at least evidence that she still exists. The door to the nursery is slightly ajar, enough that I can see the soft glow from the lamp on the bedside table. I peek through the crack in the door and relief floods through me. Allie, bundled up in her robe and slippers, sits in the rocking chair with River in her arms, gently rocking back and forth. I exhale slowly. I should go back to bed, but I am not ready to let her out of my sight yet. I start to push open the door. She gasps a little, looking up sharply. 

“Oh, Diego!” She smiles at me, settling back into her chair. “You startled me.” 

“Sorry,” I whisper back. “...Did I wake up River?” 

“No. I just fed her, so she’ll probably be out for an hour or two.” She looks up at me as I come to settle into the armchair across from her. “...What are you doing up?” 

“...Bad dream,” I admit. “...About...about you. I had to come check on you or I was never going to get back to sleep.” 

I half-expect her to joke about me being a creeper watching her while she sleeps, but instead she sighs. “...I kinda know the feeling.” 

“Yeah. I bet you do.” 

“You wanna stay up with me for awhile?” 

“Yeah. But I feel like I should be telling you to get some sleep while you can.” 

“I probably should be sleeping,” she admits. “...But I don’t really want to let her go.” 

There’s not really much I feel like I need to say to that. I understand. I don’t think there’s anyone in this house who doesn’t empathize with that feeling in one way or another. Especially now. 

“...Diego…?” 

“Yeah, Allie?” 

For a long moment, she doesn’t say anything, though her mouth opens and closes a couple times. Then, she swallows and takes a deep breath. 

“...I love you. I love you, and I love Jake, and Raj, and all the Catalysts…” 

“We love you, too, Allie.” 

“...When you imagined me. In that other timeline. When I didn’t come to be until the Island...did you ever imagine my future?” 

I can’t help flinching. Her words feel like a cold pinprick at the top of my spine. “...Allie...I...I don’t really remember that timeline…” 

“I know. I know. But...it happened. It existed. I was once born to be what you needed. What all the Catalysts needed. ...But now...now I have River. Someone new who needs me. She needs me more than any of my Catalysts.” 

“I...I think that’s true,” I say slowly. “...We all love you, and we want you with us. But River is your child. She’s helpless and new. She needs your love and your care and your guidance to survive.” 

“...I’m scared, Diego. I’m scared by how much I love her. I’m scared by how much she needs me.” 

My earlier fear is being replaced with concern that is entirely for my friend.  “...Allie...are you okay? Is this some kind of postpartum depression?” 

“I don’t know what this is, Diego. I know that I love River more than I ever thought I could love anyone alive. I would have torn myself apart for my Catalysts without hesitation. I gave up my existence to give my Catalysts the world. ...But I can’t consider that anymore. Because River needs her mother.” 

“Oh, Allie. That’s not a bad thing. None of us want you to tear yourself apart.” 

“I know. ...But I am afraid of what happens if the world asks for it. ...If I end up at the Threshold again, or a new Raan’losti…” She looks up at me. “...Diego...I think I have to face what’s in the pool shed.” 

I feel my blood run cold. I know what’s in the pool shed. The collection of objects that were left for us in the Crystal dimension when we went to rescue Tahira. Including…

“...Are you sure?” 

She nods. “...It was left for me to find for a reason. I have to touch the Andromeda idol again.” 

[noonmutter]

Revelation pt. 3

Daily Writing Challenge 2021 Day 18: Precognition/Collapse

Flecks of gold plumed up and curled into ashy powder in his wake as Terry's exposed flesh went up like kindling. The fine dust was caught up by a draft that he couldn't feel and disappeared into the ether. Immolation felt surprisingly peaceful, once the initial, horrifying agony had reached critical mass and he simply stopped processing it. This felt rather more...floaty?...than shock, even.

With monumental effort, he raised his right hand, and was surprised to find a hand still there. Not his hand, obviously--his hands didn't glow like this. It was almost like trying to see the shape of the sun: staring at it longer made it both easier and harder to pick out the edges and boundaries of his fingers, and even more so to tell if they were moving. It occurred to him after a moment that his hand was also much too big. He could probably crush his own skull with this meathook.

Do you hear me now, outspoken child?

His mind was trying very hard to ...not shut down, shutting down was too abrupt, and still a function. His brain was simply trying to stop. It was tired; he was tired. And more and more of his body was going all... glowy. The sensation was oddly comfortable, like slipping into warm bathwater after a long day, a stark contrast to the searing nightmare that had happened moments ago. It was impossible to speak, and thinking was another herculean trial.

...e...on...ar?

He was immediately awash in warmth and the inexplicable scent of a summer breeze that would have brought homesick tears to his eyes if he'd had the ability. There was also the intense urge to climb a tree that wasn't there. That one was familiar enough that he let out another weak huff of a laugh, at once relieved and resigned. Finally, something that wasn't out to kill him.

No, my ally. I am most certainly not here to kill you.

It was impossible to be certain, with the mass of Revendreth immense in his vision and badly blurred, but Terry thought he'd stopped falling. Or drifting. Or whatever the right word was. Everything was either grey or black and, immeasurably far up above him (and just below his chin), gleaming gold.

Why..?

You called for me. I came.

I called? ... I did... yes. So long ago. Where... Terry couldn't quite muster up the strength to be furious, only heaving the question like a great mental sigh. Where were you?

Your enemies are...very dedicated to keeping you to themselves. I heard only that plea, and tiny remnants of others. I could not see, and could barely hear. I am sorry for the way I found you. It is never my wish to cause pain.

He could feel himself squint. ...the elementals? That was you?

Yes. It was the only way to bring you into my sight.

There was a pregnant silence where he would have been laughing if he could. When he actually did hear himself bark aloud, he startled himself. The exhaustion was still there, but some of the rawness... he felt a little less like a fragment of himself. And as he had that thought, he noticed that he could feel pain again. As much as he would have preferred not to, he knew that that was an improvement, not a punishment.

What are you doing?

To Terry's puzzlement, there was another pause, a feeling that the Lifebinder was hesitating. I had intended to save you. But I realize... this was not our agreement.

Terry closed his eyes, now that he knew he could and it would matter. It was nice to actually see darkness, instead of seeing nothing or not being able to change his view at all.

You are so tired, child. She sounded very much like his mother in that moment, and he found comfort in that without fighting it, for a change.

I am. ...Will I get to see them again?

No. But that is not your fault.

Instantly, his eyes flew open. What does that mean?

You have gone where you were likely destined to go, as you were. But had you gone there the proper way--at the end of your part in the cycle--you would not have ended up there.

Before he had a chance to get cross and tell her to stop talking in circles and riddles at him, Terry felt himself shifting around, rolling over until he was no longer looking at the rocky underside of Revendreth. Instead, he faced a gaping, awful hole like a collapsing star that would consume entire galaxies, and the warmth in his body suddenly disappeared. The longer he stared, the easier it was to make out the constant flow of countless little specks disappearing into the gaping gullet. Raw dread filled him when he figured out what the specks were.

The balance is undone. You, as they did, would have ended up in this consuming pit called the Maw.

What?!

Forgive me, child. There is chaos in the fabric of all things. I could not see.

His heart sank to the same depths as the day he'd woken up in Darnassus and learned that not only had his parents died, his country had too. At the same time, his jaw clenched, and he was warmed again by his own boiling blood. Maybe he might have deserved whatever the Maw was, but his parents sure as shit didn't.

But I see now. And I return to the bargain we made.

Terry was turned over again, and he couldn't decide whether it was better or worse to look away from the hole in the universe. At least he felt less hollow inside this way. A new wash of exhaustion rolled over him, and he closed his eyes once more. When did it end? Was there always going to be something worse waiting in the wings?

I have already borrowed your strength, and it served me well. I have returned it thus. But... it seems to me that I must offer you the choice, before I lend my own.

...How do you mean?

You are tired, and it seems to me, deservedly so. I can end your suffering, and usher you to the fate you would have properly earned if you so wish. Revendreth would likely have been your proper destination. This time, you would encounter it as a soul, rather than a man.

He frowned a little. And the alternative?

I can finish what I already started, burn away the twisted shell that contains your essence, and build it anew. You would return as a living man to Revendreth, and from there, seek a remedy for this sickness on the cosmos. There will be great suffering in this endeavor, as all battles create. You might not return to your mate or offspring for a very long time. You might not return at all, and die, and be condemned to the Maw regardless.

You are a terrible salesman.

You demanded honesty. She was being cheeky. He appreciated that. I now ask you to place your trust in me, and accept the mantle of champion.

Either way, he wasn't going to see Dwyn or his children again. Not for a while, if at all. He'd already thought it impossible a dozen times over, all the way back in the desert on Azeroth. It was hard to hold out hope in the face of that; harder still to do it after that, and being stolen away to what turned out not to be Hell, but Purgatory. He'd clung to determination, to stubbornness, instead; he could accept those in place of hope. He would see them again because he swore that he would, not because things had to turn out okay somehow.

And his parents were down there, somewhere, too. Was that going to happen to the rest of his family? To Leon? To Vember? Alynore? Ansul? Pin? Jia?

What good was his oath if he didn't try everything to follow it, even blind, mad, dangerous faith?

What did he have left to lose?

If ever there was a worthy price for his free will... this was it.

All right. I guess I'm storming Hell.

( @daily-writing-challenge​ )

[we-are-inevitable]

new javid au?? you bet!!

hi ok so i thought of an au. basically a stereotypical hallmark movie but make it javid. this au featuures: jack “i was raised on a farm and practice saying important conversations to my cows” kelly and david “i went to college in a big city because i’m built different” jacobs

i might eventually write this out into a fic !! soooo,,

FOR YOUR CONSIDERATION:

the jacobs family lives in a small town in a southwestern state.

david jacobs is, of course, a bit of an outsider in the town. he's not interested in farming or country things, he's more into the Big Outside World and wants to study something that isn't very "traditional" for his area (i'm thinking comparative literature or journalism (with a minor in queer studies that he Does Not Talk About because Hello, Small Town!)

anyways he has a devoted friendgroup that he spends a lot of time with:

sarah (david's twin sister, who isn't afraid to get into trouble and has never been very 'ladylike'; plays softball and runs track with tony)

jack (latino farm boy with a heart of gold, a shitty father and a hidden artistic talent; basically the glue that holds the group together)

katherine (a girl who constantly feels trapped in a close-minded small town and wants to get out; also into journalism)

tony (who they call racetrack because he's an all-state cross country runner; biggest dumbass but can solve any math problem ever)

sean (he's basically a god on the football field; extremely intelligent, can play at least 6 instruments; called 'spot' bc Freckles)

charlie (Literally The Best Human Ever; student council president, National Honor Society president, also in drama)

and albert (probably a stoner but he's chill and legitimately the funniest person; troublemaker but also a literal golden retriever)

there's more of them that float between friend groups, but, of course, Davey, Sarah, Jack, Katherine, Tony, Sean, Charlie, and Albert are the "core" friends.

but. surprise: davey is the only one who goes out of state for college.

the rest split up, but stay in state. Jack goes to a trade school (he takes welding courses at the local vo-tech), Tony and Sean end up going to a community college together about 30 minutes away from home, albert goes straight into the workforce under a relative's wing, and charlie, kath, and sarah all go to a big university about 3 hours away from home.

but not davey. no, davey goes to a school in new york, just because he needs to get away from everything.

because davey goes to school on the other side of the country, he rarely gets the chance to come home. this, of course, means that he slowly drifts away from all of his high school friends- aside from sarah, obviously, because he still sees family a lot, but he doesn't talk to anyone else that often... especially jack.

now, jack and david were never a "thing," but there was always some underlying tension. longing stares, late night talks on the roof of jack's barn, hangouts at the diner in town. they were inseperable, pretty much. by far the closest friends out of the group... until jack and katherine started dating. and, yeah, david is happy for them. he's so happy for them- he jumps up and down and screams and shouts when kath and jack show up to school one day holding hands- because jack and katherine have been his closest friends for YEARS. they’re their own little subgroup- Jack, Kath, and Davey- and they go pretty much everywhere together. sometimes sarah tags along too, so david isn't third wheeling, but most of the time it's just the three of them.

but it hurts so much, because david likes jack. but jack is apparently straight. so david goes away. goes to a school across the country instead of, yknow, facing his feelings.

FAST FORWARD TO ABOUT TEN YEARS LATER!!!

david is a successful 28 year old. after graduating from college (where he ended up double majoring in english and journalism, with a minor in queer studies), he works for a publishing company and has a pretty cushy job as an editor or something, idk yet, and he's doing really, really well for himself- until one day, he gets a call from his mom, Esther, and finds out that his father is sick. sicker than he should be, really, and they're just now convincing him to get checked out.

of course, after hearing the news, David is torn. his family is from a small town, so job opportunities are hard to come by... but regardless, within a little over a week, David has moved back home to help take care of things.

pretty soon, david has a job. thanks to his background knowledge in journalism and his writing ability, he's able to score a job from Joseph Pulitzer, who runs a few newspapers in their town and others in the surrounding area. he feels like he's gotten a whole new start from the past he disliked so much, until it all comes back to bite him in the ass when he runs into Jack Kelly at the co-op. 

"Davey?"

"Wha-- Oh! Jack?"

"Good to see ya, man! What are ya doin' back?"

"I moved back a few weeks ago. Missed home, you know?"

"Just couldn't stay away, could ya?"

"Guess not."

they talk for a few minutes, but eventually have to split apart- jack has to get his feed back to the farm before his girls, aka: his cows, get angry, and davey has to get the chicken scratch back home before esther maims him. they exchange numbers, though, and promise to catch up sometime soon.

after that encounter, Jack Kelly ends up showing up a lot more often. davey sees him all the time without meaning to. in line at the grocery store, at the co-op, stopped next to him at the one stoplight in the middle of town- everywhere. they're never able to talk, though; not until one evening, davey gets a call from jack. 

at first, conversation is a bit tense- but only because it's been so long since they've talked. once the ball gets rolling, though, they're laughing and carrying on like they never stopped talking. when the conversation calms down a bit, jack asks davey if he'd like to come over.

"i'd love to, if your wife doesn't mind having a guest, of course."

"i... actually don't have a wife."

"oh-- oh, i'm sorry, i just assumed-"

"nah, it ain't nothin' to twist yourself up about. you know where i live, yeah? swing by 'round seven."

"sounds like a plan." 

and that's how davey finds out that jack owns the land that his father's farm was on. the house, though, is different- and he soon realizes that jack has completely remodeled. the porch isn't rotting anymore, and the yard is green and trimmed, and the pond out in the back yard doesn't look god-awful anymore, much to davey's delight.

dinner goes off without a hitch. everything goes right, just like old times. they swap college stories. jack tells davey about inheriting the farm and making it his own (likely to scrub every piece of his father out of his life), while davey tells jack about the big city and how different it is being home. it's nice. comfortable. familiar.

jack and davey try to meet up as often as they can after that night, which is difficult considering their schedules, but they somehow make it work. they make it really work, in fact- they have dinner twice a week (usually with some old friends), they fish together (read: jack fishes while david sits on the back of his truck and talks to him), and they even go to rodeos and football games together (to look back on they're youth, of course). 

one night, about a week before jack's 29th birthday, they meet up at the bar in town and spend hours drinking beer and whiskey and talking about life. once they make it back to jack's house, they continue talking on the couch, but talking turns into cuddling ("just for old time's sake") and cuddling turns into confessions ("i only dated those girls because i thought it would help me get over you") and confessions turn into tears ("when he found out, he kicked me out of the house") and tears turn into promises ("i loved you then, jack, and i'll love you now") and promises turn into more. 

eventually, more turns a knee on a ground and a ring on a hand. eventually, a ring on a hand turns into a wedding. eventually, a wedding turns into memories, years down the line, while sitting on an old porch swing and watching grandchildren play in the front lawn.

the end !!!!

[finitepeace]

my this week’s reading

Syzygy (a Kludged Together remix) by Mizzy 

Summary: When Tony Stark cut Steve Rogers' morning jog short to join him on a reconnaissance mission off the East Coast, Tony sure wasn’t expecting to end up stuck on a life raft in the middle of the ocean, Steve's hand knuckle-deep in his chest.

13k+ words, arc reactor problem, steve & tony on an adventure together, all these cuteness.. 

The Butterfly Effect by itsallAvengers 💙

Summary: While fighting with Loki, Steve Rogers from 2012 hears the two simple words: "Bucky's alive."

And the whole universe ripples with the aftershocks.

20,5k words, endgame fix-it, stony in alternate reality 

Down in Lonesome Town by resurrectedhippo

Summary: “Why do I always find my way back to you?”

Maybe Tony didn’t necessarily return to Steve, but fate is a funny little thing, and after living a life of loss, Steve wants something that’s his to keep.

After the universe is restored, Steve is lost without any direction. Retiring from the Avengers, he moves across the country and ends up building a house by a misty blue lake. Across the bridge is Tony Stark’s new workshop.

79k words, post endgame, stony mending their relationship while living in countryside (so fights and anger are there) featuring morgan and peter! 

you'll wait a long time by nanasekei

Summary:

Steve and Tony share a moment during a wedding. Things escalate from there.

-

Alternatively: Four weddings, a funeral, and one very emotionally stunted idiot.

16,5k words. post end-game but everybody lives (and getting married). steve being frustrating with his feelings lol, tony flirts 

Second Chance Lives by raeldaza 💙

Summary: Tony's gonna die of palladium poisoning anyway, why not join a pointless expedition to recover Captain America’s body? And after, well, why not dedicate his last few months to making sure an American hero settles into his new life? What else is he going to do, get drunk at parties?

44k words, Iron Man 2 but stony, Tony found Steve on ice and took him in, 

Haste by Veldeia

Summary: With Captain America seriously injured and a bomb attached to the Quinjet, set to go off at any change in speed or altitude, this is not the best flight the Avengers have ever had.

7,5k words, avengers on mission, injured steve and self-sacrificing tony, SPOILER: gnidne yppah 

'Til Death Do Us Part  by itsallAvengers

Summary: Steve goes on a mission. Steve dies on the mission. Or at least, SHIELD make everyone think he's died on the mission. In reality, he's alive and well, and still kicking ass.

If only someone had let his husband know that.

15,5k words, fake death so... angst for tony 

Unshattered by erde (orphan_account) 💙

Summary: It's really a split of a second, but for a moment there both of them remain in silence staring at each other, and it's a throwback to that moment in Siberia when a truce seemed more likely than shit hitting the fan.

Steve picks up the pieces from their relationship and tries to make them better. As the official tinker of things, Tony isn't happy with Steve's shoddy work. At first.

127k words in 19 chapters, civil war fix it continuing to IW and endgame, SPOILER: tony get shot,  gnidne yppah

Unveil My Unsightly Heart by Mizzy 💙

Summary: Looking over an old prototype helicarrier for its future viability as a base for the Avengers should have just been a routine day full of bickering and non-adventure for Steve Rogers and Tony Stark.

But when they're catapulted into an alternate universe – where their alternate selves are married and battling with a mysterious threat – the two are forced to get over their differences in order to figure out what's going on, before it's too late.

Because there's more going on than meets the eye, and Steve and Tony falling in love might just be the most dangerous thing that can happen. Not just for one universe, but for all of them… [Iron Man 3-compliant.]

43k words in 3 chapters, stony journeyed to alternate reality where they are VERY MUCH in love and married, angst but SPOILER  gnidne yppah

Lost in Transcription by Veldeia

Summary: In a world recently turned upside down by the discovery of genetic markers for soulmates, Steve and Tony struggle to come to grips with their unexpected, unasked-for match.

25k words, story spanning from steve in ww2 to civil war so.. a bit of civil war fix-it?, heartbroken tony 

For You, Sir, Always (The Fairy Godfather Remix) by Veldeia

Summary: Unable to find a replacement for the toxic palladium core of his arc reactor, Sir has gone into cryostasis to wait for a day when science has advanced enough to provide a solution. While he is indisposed, it is my all-important task to decide when that time has arrived, and to select the person who shall bring him back to life.

9,4k words, Jarvis POV, Jarvis being super loyal, steve is not captain america when stony met. 

Presenteeism by Veldeia

Summary: Tony thinks piloting the armor remotely while letting the others believe he’s wearing it is a good plan, until he realizes he’s not hung over, but actually quite ill.

Steve thinks something’s off with Tony today, but he has no clue what that might be, and since Tony says he’s good to go, they’ll proceed with the mission anyway.

(Basically, that trope where Tony is sick but is too stubborn to admit it, with a slight twist. Fill for my Stony bingo prompt “armor”.)

9,5k words in 2 chapters, it’s all in the summary. 

[star-sky-earth]

dropstitch (1489 words)

bellamy/clarke, rated PG

warnings: ambiguous ending

Inspired by everyone’s favourite bellarke modern au picture, and this post.

The painting is beautiful. Large, stretching from floor to ceiling in a riotous mass of colour, taking up the entirety of Clarke’s vision as if she were standing on the precipice of an entirely new world. As if she could step forward, lift her foot over the boundary wire and walk right into it, her body melting into the paint. This close, the image blurs, the paint lying thick on the canvas, and she has to fight the urge to reach out and touch it, to feel the textured surface under her fingertips, trace the path of each individual brushstroke.

She is staring, absorbed, when she senses movement at her side, the quiet shuffle of someone coming to stand next to her. The painting is 13 metres long - it takes up the whole wall, plenty of room for everyone - and she feels a prickle of annoyance at the intrusion, the shattering of the illusion of privacy. As if she had been walked in on while undressing, or singing loudly in the shower, some small private part of her exposed that she would rather have remained hidden. It is always like this, she thinks, with men.  

She turns to face the intruder, mouth already opening on a snide comment, and there he is.

It is not her fault, she will tell herself later. He is close, too close really, for such a large open space, and how could she have known? That he would be there, right there, and that their eyes would meet, instantly, and hold, and all the breath leave her lungs, the connection hitting like a perfectly landed blow.

The bright overhead gallery lights are unforgiving, sparing no detail, and despite that he is beautiful. Because of that, even. His eyes are a warm brown behind a pair of thick-rimmed black glasses, the skin around them etched with feather-soft lines, and there is a small scar bisecting the curved line of his upper lip, standing out stark white against his tan skin. His hair is unbrushed, dark messy curls, and he is dressed casually, in a wrinkled beige button-down, the sleeves pushed up and rolled around his elbows. One of the buttons is coming loose, and it trails a thin line of dangling white thread.

She imagines painting him. She can’t help it - she is an artist, after all, and then there is where they are, and context is important in these things. She imagines what it might be like, the process of having him sit for her, deconstructing each feature into its most basic parts, his own personal geometry - the arch of his brow, the angle of his jaw, the exact position of each individual freckle on his skin, like mapping constellations - until she could draw him with her eyes closed, his body captured, written into hers like muscle memory. And then, because she really cannot help herself, because she may be an artist, but she is also a woman, and lonely - she imagines waking next to him in bed, watching in the early dawn light as he sleeps, tracing each relaxed line not with the eye of a painter, but a lover. Memorising not just the sight of him, but the smell, the taste, the weight of his body on hers. Absorbing him entirely, until the boundary between their individual bodies fails, collapses into a question of mere semantics, a philosophical problem.

It is both a very long time, and just a few seconds later, that she collects herself.

“I - ” she stutters, and hates herself. “Um, the painting,” she says, gesturing behind her as though he might not have noticed it, somehow.

“Yes,” he says, his voice surprisingly deep. The corner of his mouth twitches, as if he is holding back a smile.

She turns back to the painting, and now they are side by side. He smells good, his cologne rich but not over-powering, and she realises that she is wet, and shifts uncomfortably, squeezing her thighs together underneath her long skirt.

“Beautiful,” he says, after a pause, but the side of her face burns under his gaze, and he is not looking at the painting as he says it.

They stand together, looking at the painting. No, not together, but, also. Together.

The gallery was noisy before, the large space echoing with footsteps and the low hum of whispered conversation, but now it seems to quieten, so all Clarke can hear is her own breath, the thundering of her heartbeat. Her phone vibrates in her shoulder bag, but she ignores it. Her mom, probably, sick of playing with Madi in the Children’s Zone, wondering where she is. She was never that kind of mother. Or grandmother, it seems.

Clarke ignores it.

She risks a glance at his face, but his expression is relaxed, giving nothing away. She’s got her right hand on her shoulder bag, holding it close to her, but her left hand hangs loosely at her side, only a few inches from his. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the distance between their hands seems to lessen, and out of the corner of her eye she notices his hand twitch, his little finger flex, as if he might close the distance. She holds her breath.

“Bellamy!”

The shout rings out across the hall, and she jumps at the sound. Their fingers touch, for an instant.

She looks up at him. He looks as startled as she feels, but there is something else in his expression too. Guilt, and the sight of it wrenches her insides, like someone has wrapped their hands around her intestines and twisted their fists in opposite directions.

“I have to…” he says, his voice trailing off. He takes a deep breath, and then nods in the direction of the shout.

“Of course,” she replied. “Nice meeting you.”

“Yes.” He nods, and then opens his mouth as though he is going to say something else. Closes it, as if he has thought better of it, whatever it was. And then he is moving.

Leaving.

Gone.

Something painful catches in her, a sharp pain just under her ribs and suddenly she’s crying. Like when you stub your toe in exactly the right(wrong) spot and tears spring to your eyes before the pain even registers, someone rushing over to ask if you’re okay. Except she is alone, and when she looks over to the doorway she sees a woman waiting for him, tall and graceful. Brunette. Beautiful, and nothing like Clarke.

The woman looks up, and their eyes meet across the room for a split-second before she is looking away again, he gaze skipping disinterestedly over Clarke.

“Momma!” she hears then, and turns just in time for Madi to run headlong into her, wrapping her skinny arms around her thighs. Clarke bends down and scoops her up, hiding her wet eyes in her daughter’s hair.

“Who is that?” her mother asks, reaching them a moment later. “Do you know him?”

Clarke turns back towards the doorway, still holding Madi. He - Bellamy, she knows his name now - is watching her, his expression unreadable. His eyes flick to the child in her arms, and then back to her, and then the woman next to him tugs on his hand, and he turns away.

Was it her imagination, she will think later that evening, lying in bed with Madi snuggled tight and sleeping against her, or did he hesitate, just for a moment, before he walked away? Did something in his eyes flicker, a muscle in his sharp jaw twitch, before he turned, slow and reluctant? Did he pause, his feet suddenly heavy, almost too heavy to lift, a struggle to make himself walk away?

It would be unreasonable to expect the universe to work perfectly all the time. It is a large machine, after all, with so many small and moving parts, and well out of warranty, held together with little more than tape and super glue, and a good dash of hope. Everyone crossing their fingers and holding their breath, hoping that it won’t sputter and fail and grind to a halt, like driving an old car down a country road, ready at any moment to have to get out and push. If there is anyone in charge - and that, Clarke thinks, is doubtful in itself - they have proved themselves to be an entirely incompetent creator. It is only natural to expect a few hanging threads, a few loose screws, rifling frantically through the instruction manual as the whole thing wobbles dangerously in front of you, threatening to collapse at any moment.

A few dropped stitches.

Clarke smiles brightly at Madi, hoping that her eyes don’t shine too brightly under the gallery lights when she turns back and replies to her mother.

“No.”

[aion-rsa]

Endeavour Theory: Has Morse Already Crossed Paths With Nemesis Hugo de Vries?

https://ift.tt/3ivQyUa

Warning: contains spoilers for Endeavour Series 7 and Inspector Morse episode ‘Masonic Mysteries’.

There’s a beauty to mystery that could hardly be lost on fans of Endeavour, a series with playfulness in its bones, as evidenced by its regular tips of the hat to pop culture and Morse creator Colin Dexter. The show’s viewers understand that ambiguities deliberately positioned as such should be allowed to stand, unaccosted by any fun-sucking need for certainty. We’re not here to unweave rainbows or clip angel wings.  

That said, Endeavour does love a game, and its fans love to play along. So while appreciating that some things are destined to rightly remain in the hazy hinterland of maybe, let’s play. The name of this game? Find Hugo de Vries!

Played by Ian McDiarmid in Inspector Morse Series 4 episode ‘Masonic Mysteries’ (1990), Hugo de Vries is a fan-favourite villain in the world of Morse. Erudite and cultured with a love of classical music, he has much in common with the detective, as is fitting for any two nemeses. A great difference of course, is that de Vries is a diabolical killer utterly without conscience. 

Ian McDiarmid as Hugo de Vries in Inspector Morse Series 4 episode ‘Masonic Mysteries’

In de Vries’ one and only Inspector Morse appearance, Morse finds himself framed for the murder of a woman from his choir, which is staging a production of Mozart’s The Magic Flute. After the murder, Morse finds almost £100,000 transferred to his bank account from the charity administrated by the victim. Morse’s personal file on the police computer is hacked to insert a fictional past event in which he supposedly attacked a woman, and his guvnor – McNutt at the time – covered it up. His home is set on fire, he’s pulled over and breathalysed after an anonymous complaint is made about his erratic driving, his Jag is vandalised with masonic symbols and McNutt’s dead body is discovered in his bathroom. All of it, realises an increasingly unhinged Morse, is the work of de Vries, who’s borne a grudge against Morse since his sergeant days.

Endeavour being the story of those very days, Inspector Morse fans have been watching the prequel closely for a cameo by the younger Hugo de Vries. After another ‘Masonic Mysteries’ character, Marion Brooke, turned up in Series 3’s ‘Arcadia’, Endeavour writer Russell Lewis was asked in this 2017 interview whether Endeavour would one day bump into de Vries. Lewis replied, “Each thing in its season. I shouldn’t be surprised to see him sooner or later.”

Jump forward four years to a post-Series Eight finale exchange on Twitter when Lewis is asked the same question. The writer’s answer this time is more playful. “Ah, Hugo. Who can say if he hasn’t already crossed our path? He might well have done, of course. On the other hand… ‘Now you see him, now you don’t. That’s de Vries all right’.”

Ryan Gage as Ludo Talenti in Endeavour Series 7

In the spirit of investigation, let’s assess the evidence. Is Lewis just teasing or has Hugo de Vries already crossed our path in Endeavour, namely in the form of Ryan Gage’s Series Seven villain Ludo Talenti?

That name alone may contain all the clue we need. Not only do Hugo and Ludo bear more than a glancing resemblance, but the latter in Latin is the first person of the verb ‘to play’. ‘I play… many talents’ would be an inelegant translation. A better one might include the possible allusion to Patricia Highsmith’s famous conman Tom Ripley, given the epithet ‘Talented’ in his first appearance. Like Ripley, both Hugo and Ludo are master manipulators who charm and inveigle their way to wealth, leaving a trail of bodies in their wake. 

To jog the memory, Ludo recurred throughout Series Seven, initially presenting himself as a university contemporary of Morse’s who ran into him after Morse’s wallet was lifted at a garden concert (almost certainly a ruse designed to engineer the ‘accidental’ meeting). Ludo befriended Morse and the pair bonded over a shared love of opera. Ludo’s family is in shipping, he tells Morse, and he travels around raising money for their charitable fund, driven by a pursuit of music and beautiful women. 

Read more

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Endeavour: the Series 8 Finale’s Easter Eggs and Homages

By Louisa Mellor

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Endeavour: The Beautiful Poignancy of Series 8’s Last Lines

By Louisa Mellor

When Morse asks him which country he’s from, Ludo is coy, preferring to say he is a “man of the world.” He later tells a childhood story about life during Nazi occupation, which throws up various suggestions but like so much Ludo says, that could well be fiction. For what it’s worth, the saying he cites as from his country, “Do not praise a day before sunset,” is Polish. And what of Hugo de Vries’ nationality? Ian McDiarmid’s accent in ‘Masonic Mysteries’ is difficult to place, though the name is Dutch (borrowed from a famous botanist), and he faked his death in prison in Sweden. (Ludo incidentally tells Morse that he posed as a Swedish policeman on the phone once to track the detective down.) Ludo’s name, it’s revealed in the Series 7 finale, was taken from the gravestone of a 16th century priest on Venice’s San Michele cemetery island.

Ludo Talenti’s priest namesake revealed in Endeavour’s Series 7 finale

To tot up the similarities so far, that’s two criminals, of indiscriminate European origin, around Morse’s age, fluent in the language of classical music and opera, living under assumed names. Both also share a snobbish disdain for the police. Ludo expressed surprise that a man as cultured as Morse would be “a lumpen, plodding petty official” while Hugo sneered at Morse’s colleagues going about in pairs “like low comedians.” They also share a similarly rarefied, Bond Villain-ish way of speaking (Every man has his price, every man, I shall make it my life’s business to find yours,”), and express the same nihilistic attitude. “Life, death, rich, poor, it’s all a roll of the dice, Morse, there’s no reason to any of it,” says Ludo, foreshadowing Hugo’s words when he forces Morse to his knees at gunpoint in ‘Masonic Mysteries’. “He was clever, you see,” Inspector Morse tells Lewis in that episode, “he took one look and knew your weakness right away.” In Series 7, Ludo jokes to Morse that he will find his weakness and exploit it without mercy to his own ends.

What else? The nature of their crimes. In ‘Masonic Mysteries’ Morse tells Lewis that his past encounter with de Vries saw him con Oxford University out of millions of pounds. His scam had a kind of poetry to it – posing as the heir to a Swedish armaments manufacturer, de Vries proposed the building of an institute for peace studies. His later scheme involved stealing money from Marion Brooke’s charitable foundation to frame Morse. 

Paperwork from Ludo’s life insurance policy scam. Note the signature.

Ludo’s Series 7 scheme was less poetic, but of a similar flavour. He bought up life insurance policies of people looking for a quick pay out, killed them, cashed in, and disguised the deaths as freak accidents. One such victim was poor Carrie Bright, the cancer-suffering wife of ACC Bright. (In a rather baroque twist, the initials of the locations for each murder spelled out the name L.U.D.O.). Both men wore disguises to do their evil work – de Vries posed as a homeless man to murder Morse’s former guvnor McNutt, and Talenti posed as a healer to gain access to the Bright home and sabotage their Christmas lights, causing Mrs Bright’s death by electrocution. Note in the image above the name of the Executive Director of Ludo’s fake company ‘California Amenity Redemption and Disbursement’ (or C.A.R.D, perhaps another game-play reference…) in the signature on one of his victim’s letters: E. De Vere?

Hugo and Ludo didn’t work alone on their devilish schemes, they each had a female accomplice. Hugo’s was the aforementioned Marion Brooke, a devotee who shared his revenge obsession (Hugo’s the kind of man who makes women kick off their shoes and men open their chequebooks when he enters a room, Morse once told Lewis). Ludo’s was Violetta (played by Stephanie Leonidas), who started a passionate affair with Morse during his holiday in Venice. In the Series 7 denouement, Ludo says that he picked Violetta from the streets when she was 15 years old and “gave her the world,” forcing her to become his co-conspirator in the life insurance murders and the plan to make Morse his “pet policeman”. 

On the subject of having police officers in your pocket, Hugo de Vries’ association with Morse’s longstanding adversaries the Masons mustn’t be forgotten. De Vries taunted Morse with his masonic connections, through Mozart’s freemason-themed opera The Magic Flute. There’s no evidence that Ludo Talenti was involved with the freemasons yet, but Endeavour viewers know that they’re in full operation in Oxford at the time. 

Endeavour Morse attends ‘The Demon’s Wife’ opera in Venice

Endeavour and Violetta met at a performance of ‘La Sposa del Demonio’ in Venice, an operatic work by Endeavour composer Matthew Slater, which translates fittingly as ‘The Demon’s Wife’. Demons come up a great deal around Talenti and de Vries. “There speaks a devil sick of sin,” Ludo says to Endeavour. “There may not be a devil, but there’s devilry alright, and de Vries…” says Inspector Morse, walking away from Hugo’s burial and doubting whether or not he’s really in the coffin. (De Vries’ name, cryptic crossword fans can’t ignore, shares its first three letters with ‘devil’). And perhaps it just suited his complexion, but Ludo wears deep red numerous times in Series 7, perhaps in echo to de Vries’ burgundy shirt in his sole appearance. 

Speaking of that Venetian denouement, did Ludo not die after being shot by Fred Thursday and falling into a canal, putting the kibosh on the ‘Ludo is Hugo’ theory? Well, he was certainly shot, and he certainly did fall into the canal, but did he die, or did that devil live to return and torment Morse under a new name in future adventures? You’ve heard the evidence. What’s your verdict?

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Endeavour Series 8 is available to stream on ITV Hub and Britbox.

The post Endeavour Theory: Has Morse Already Crossed Paths With Nemesis Hugo de Vries? appeared first on Den of Geek.

from Den of Geek https://ift.tt/3a8Y9mQ

[a-student-out-of-time]

Let’s kick Mavedick!

You see? There it is. Violence: the universal language.

The only way your beliefs can stand up is by denying the real world: someone wants you gone.

...Look, if you brought me here to kill me-

And make you a martyr? Don’t be ridiculous.

...This...This doesn’t prove anything. You could be lying to me, just trying to gauge my reaction.

Just like I know you’ve been gaslighting Kana.

Oh? You still won’t accept she’s your sister?

That I can accept. What I won’t accept is you saying my Dad cheated on my Mom. 

What makes you want to believe in them so strongly? I thought they were hardly ever around for you.

That might be true, but I know them. My parents love each other. They’re good people, and I know they care about me. There’s no way my Dad would ever cheat on her, and there’s no way he’d abandon Kana.

So where did Kana come from then? Hm?

Why do you even care so much about her? You didn’t even know she existed a week ago.

I believe in them because I want to believe in them.

Interesting.

*He sits back in his chair*

Just out of curiosity, what are you intending? I don’t imagine you have it all planned out yet, but are you going to introduce Kana to your parents? Ask how she’s related to you?

You’re putting a lot of faith into something you have no proof of. For all you know, you’d be the one destroying your parents’ marriage by introducing them to Kana. Wouldn’t be the first time you and your friends screwed something up with your “good” intentions.

...

I didn’t brainwash them or hypnotize them, you know. Kanon, Damian, Yuki, Kana, Kizuna, they all came to this island because I offered them the chance. Your actions gave them that little nudge toward it.

And be real, Nanami-san. They were the ones you came for. You don’t really care much for the other people on this island, do you?

That’s...o-of course I do!

Do you know anyone else’s name?

...

It’s funny too, you know? You and Kasugano made that big spiel about how you were going to change all of Japan, but what have you done, really? You’ve saved maybe a handful of people, put a serial killer away and got another one killed.

Or did you quietly dispose of Genocider Syo alongside Otonokoji Kanade?

...

Ah. I see.

But be honest, now. Did you know them in a past life or something? Is that why you got rid of them quietly? Didn’t wanna make it a big deal?

Syo’s not part of this anymore. You don’t need to worry about it.

…So, this person slices up a bunch of guys, crucifies them and writes “Bloodbath fever” in their blood and you’re protecting their identity. But when someone like me or Otonokoji Kanade comes along, we’re irredeemable?

It’s not the same thing!

Jeez, no need to get angry. I’m just asking simple questions.

Maybe it’s just that you want to protect your friends?

…Why are you doing this?

What? It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I mean, realistically, the human brain can only handle a certain amount of information at a time.

Truth is, we all care about our own communities and our own groups more than we do the rest of the world. People will talk about what’s good for the world, but they can’t comprehend how big it is or what every single person out there needs or wants. Nor should they, really.

You wanna know what’s been happening out there in the world at large? Just earlier this month, people all over the world started protesting an Islamophobic movie. There were protest, riots, arson and even murders. I think the death toll’s over 50 and almost 700 people were injured.

And back in July, there was that guy in America who shot a movie theater, calling himself “The Joker.” Did you hear about that?

There was a plane crash in Pakistan that killed almost 300, the largest power outage in human history, the last member of a species of Tortoise died, a whole bunch of countries severing diplomatic ties with each other...

Not to mention the ongoing problems in so much of the world, like poverty, disease, war, corruption, oppression, crime and who knows what else. Yet here you all are, trying to be the big heroes for saving these people. These people you know just enough about for them to matter.

I assure you, these people are already safe. The end is coming soon, and this island’s gonna be one of the few safe places on the planet.

With you in charge?

Naturally. Who else?

Unlike most people out there, I actually understand how people operate. What they really need is a guiding voice, a handsome face and a gun to keep them in line. To keep them from killing each other.

Do you really think you’ll be saving anybody? Dragging them off this island when they clearly don’t want you to and throwing them into a furnace that’s about to be lit?

So what about their families?

Well, I’ve made arrangements for them as well. As long as certain conditions are met.

What conditions?

Let’s not worry about that. This isn’t about me, this is about you.

Do you really think you have what it takes to stop the end? You really think you can save anybody?

You’re not gonna trick me! I know what I’m doing is right!

Jeez, I ask simple questions and you flip out on me.

I’m sick of talking to you. I’m sick of hearing about all the pain you’ve caused these people. And I’m sick of this island.

Did you forget? They’re only here because of what you and your friends did.

I mean, did you give any thought to this before you joined up? Was this always about the world or just your friends?

...

____________________________________________________

Hajime, there’s no way you can solve this all by yourself, and I can’t let you knowing what I know now, especially not when you have a twisted ankle.

And there’s no way I can just let any of this happen to our friends. Not when there’s something I can do.

So I’m in. I’m gonna help you.

____________________________________________________

Did you ever think you were in a position when you could make any kind of choices you wanted?

____________________________________________________

Oh, are you flirting with my boyfriend, Nijiue-san?

N-Nanami-san! Umm, I…I- uh…n-no, not at all!

Aww, no need to get so embarrassed. I think it’s cute.

____________________________________________________

You all point the finger at me for breaking the law, but what about all the laws you’ve broken? All the other people whose lives you’ve impacted for your own plans?

____________________________________________________

Is everything clear on your end?

*In the Mall’s public announcement room, where both doors are held shut with chairs*

*Chiaki pulls her bluetooth away from the mic and puts it back on*

It all went through. I think everyone heard it.

Now I gotta hurry before security shows up!

____________________________________________________

Chiaki…everyone…

No. Please just…don’t, okay?

We all made our choices, and if this is what you all think is the best option, then okay, we’ll go through with it. I’m just really tired of talking about at this point.

What’s important is we still have a bunch of criminals running around on the streets that we need to catch. We need to get to that right away, and being angry and petty about this isn’t going to fix anything.

____________________________________________________

And even with your “good” intentions, haven’t you seen some terrible things?

____________________________________________________

I could’ve had so much, and I was so close this time! All I had to do was wait for Kotoko to hit puberty! Can you imagine what some people will pay for a sexy little bitch like that?! They offered 50,000 yen just for the pictures I sent them!

You sent them pictures of your own daughter…

Why not? I’m her father, I can decide what I want to do with her. She’s my responsibility.

____________________________________________________

What about all the horrible things happening in the world? You know they’re up in arms over my announcement, and some of them are calling for your heads. But it goes beyond just that: what about all the horrible things people have said and done to you?

____________________________________________________

I-I didn’t mean to cause any trouble, I just-

“Nobody wants you here, rich girl.”

“Aww look, it’s muffintop!”

“Pick up a real game for once.”

“Stop acting like you’re a real gamer, bitch.”

“What, you won’t look me in the eye? You think you’re better than us?”

“All you do is sit there playing that stupid game. You’re useless.”

____________________________________________________

...

You see now, don’t you?

There’s nothing worth saving, and you’re hardly the kind of person who could make a difference. Stop this pointless struggle, and just let the world die.

[xpedropascal]

To Be So Lonely [Maxwell Lord x Reader] Part Two

Summary: After being struck by a family tragedy, Maxwell Lord finds his legacy in taking over his father’s business, Black Gold Cooperative. Cold and shut-off from the world around him, he decides he does not have time for anything other than his work and cares only about pushing his company to success – but how difficult does that become for him when you enter his life as a ghost from the past?

Pairing: Maxwell Lord x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2.6k

WARNINGS: stalker-ish behaviour, mild sex reference

PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE | PART FOUR [coming soon!]

MASTERLIST

KO-FI

AUTHOR’S NOTE: yay! chapter two! :) flashbacks can be identified through use of italics. To Be So Lonely will have themes of hurt/comfort, angst, fluff etc. i plan on it being a whole exciting ride. there will be connections to the DCEU and certain characters will making an appearance... however, for story-telling purposes, this will be in an alternate universe to Wonder Woman 1984 just because the movie has yet to be released. the main bulk of the story will be set in the 80s, with the occasional childhood flashbacks. please let me know if you want to be added onto a tag list!

♡♡♡ TWO ♡♡♡

Gotham was a bustling city, and practically lead by none other than Bruce Wayne, CEO of Wayne Enterprises and on-going rival to Maxwell Lord. Wayne Enterprises, as an international conglomerate, was taking the world by storm under Bruce’s reign. He had shares in railway, aerospace, technology, food, and more recently; oil. Much like any other successful CEO, Bruce Wayne would do anything to see his business thrive, but at the moment, he had his eye on something very particular. He was a man with a plan. Bruce Wayne was fearless, but he knew when to be concerned, as across the country, Maxwell Lord led the biggest oil extraction company, Black Gold Cooperative.

“Mr Wayne,” his assistant, Gemma, dropped a file on his desk. A file with your name on. “Everything is here, as requested.”

Bruce Wayne flicked through your file momentarily, taking in the glossy images of you that he’d had someone take on your route to work. The file contained everything about you. From your date of birth and address, to your national security number. “Excellent,” Bruce smiled. “I will have Jeeves drive me to…” he pulled out a map that highlighted the route you took from home to work. “…Cocoa Coffee.”

“I believe she finishes at eighteen hundred hours, sir.” Gemma piped in. Bruce checked the time on his wrist watch and cursed under his breath before standing up and grabbing his coat.

“I best be on my way then.”

A lot had happened since the days you spent living in the Lord family guest house. You were now, a lot older – a young adult with ambition, but stuck working as a part-time barista in one of Gotham’s favourite coffee shops, Cocoa Coffee. You and your mother had returned to Gotham four years after moving to DC; and looking back, your time spent with the Lord family had been tainted by the day you were forced to leave.

♡

Every day was the same. You would come home from school and throw your bag on the sofa before changing into your play shoes and heading out to the gardens to see Maxwell. For him, it was similar. At 4PM sharp, he would drop whatever he was doing to come see you. His mother hated you, that much was obvious. Naomi Lord constantly scolded her son for playing with you. “The Lord family do not associate with people like that,” she would tell Maxwell. But he didn’t care. He was your best friend and you were his only friend. He went from wanting to be a successful businessman like his father, to wanting to be as free-spirited and happy as you. You inspired him and made him feel like a better person.

On the evening of Maxwell’s sixteenth birthday, you had something special planned. You wanted to lay with him in the gardens and show him the beauty of star gazing while you stuffed your faces with cake and told each other the craziest imaginative stories. At 4PM sharp, no different to usual, you slung your bag down on the sofa and slid your feet into your play shoes, and just as you were about to leave the guest house, your mother extended her arm across the front door, stopping you in your tracks.

“Sweetheart,” your mother said sadly. “Maxwell can’t play with you today.” You looked up at your mother, doe-eyed and confused. Your mother had never stopped you from playing with Maxwell. Before you could question her, she opened her mouth again. “I’ve lost my job.”

Your jaw dropped. “You- what- mom… what happened?”

Your mom shook her head, avoiding eye contact. “I’ve packed all your things. We need to leave right now.”

If you’re mother wasn’t prepared to tell you why she had been fired, the least she could do was allow you to see your best friend once more on his sixteenth birthday. “At least let me say goodbye to Max-“

“No you can’t.” Your mother’s voice grew stern. You knew, in that moment, something serious happened. “We are leaving, now.”

“But Max-“

Your mother raised her voice, barking your name angrily, and making you flinch. The tension in the room could be cut with a knife. “Something awful has happened, and Maxwell… I just know the poor boy will have a lot on his plate right now. More than anyone could ever imagine. You and I… we might not have much, but we’re lucky.” Your mother’s tone of voice softened. She was clearly sad. But you became increasingly frustrated at her secrecy and not allowing you to say a final farewell to your best friend.

The sky fell dark fast, and as you left the guest house with your bags and walked down the drive way, Lord Manor was busier than you had ever seen before. An ambulance, police cars, vans from not only local news stations, but national news stations too. Flashing lights blinding you from the paparazzi cameras. Your mother dragged you into the shadows, ensuring the press didn’t see you both leave. You couldn’t help but stare, and walked on your tip-toes, trying to look over the heads and see what was going on.

There, standing outside the front door of Lord Manor was Naomi Lord and her sixteen year old son, Maxwell. Naomi was sobbing into a silk handkerchief, her hair no longer in perfect curls and her makeup smudged with tears. Standing forward slightly, all suited up, was Maxwell Lord IV. On his sixteenth birthday.

You knew this would be the last time you saw your best friend; but you wished you hadn’t seen him at all. All colour was drained out of his skin and he stood there, frozen. You whispered his name to yourself as your mother dragged you to the gates, and you felt tears brim your eyes. You didn’t want to leave him. Not without a goodbye. Maxwell looked sick. Despite dressed in one of his best designer suits, hair perfectly styled – he looked ghostly. The closer you got to the gate, the more you heard paparazzi endeavour him with questions. But it was so loud and overwhelming you could barely make out what they were saying. Gone, was the happy smiley boy you played with in the gardens. It may have been Maxwell’s sixteenth birthday, but that day marked the end of his youth. No more time for games.

♡

“Life is good, but it can be better… I’m Maxwell Lord and for a low monthly fee…” Hearing his name snapped you out of your daydreams. You looked over at the small television in the corner of the staff room, your co-worker, Theresa, smacking it with her hands in frustration.

“Remote not working again?” You sighed, putting a hand on your hip and watching her struggle to change the channel. You couldn’t help but smile as she let out an exasperated groan.

“Welcome to Black Gold Cooperative! The world’s first oil company run for the people, by the people. You can own a piece of the most lucrative industry in the world. And every time we strike gold, you strike gold.” You felt your lips twist in disgust at how artificial your childhood friend was sounding. You couldn’t even bare to look at him. His face was everywhere.

“Every time we strike gold, you strike gold,” you badly mimicked his iconic line. It was the company slogan. Rolling your eyes, you walked out of the staff room and to the front-of-house. You heard Theresa throw the remote in frustration and suddenly, Maxwell Lord shut up. You smiled as Theresa followed you behind the bar. At least she had managed to turn the television off.

“You really don’t like him, do you?” Theresa asked almost rhetorically. It was true, you didn’t like Maxwell Lord. Simply because he wasn’t the little boy you played with in the gardens of Lord Manor. You knew you shouldn’t have held resentment. Everyone changes as they get older – but Maxwell Lord was just so easy to hate. Max’s carefree spirit died the day you left, and the smarmy salesman Maxwell Lord IV was not someone you cared for. For months after you moved back to Gotham, you waited for some kind of communication from Max. But nothing. And it became clear that Maxwell was happy enough to throw away the four year friendship you had shared together. Your silence prompted Theresa to continue. “He’s handsome though, in a way.” You spluttered at her sudden confession and Theresa just laughed. “Rich…powerful…” she went on.

“He’s an asshole.” You stated, as blunt as ever.

“You know him?” Theresa quizzed. “Hmm?”

“No but-“ You stopped yourself. “I know enough about him.”

“His fiancée is a lucky gal,” Theresa sighed, and you found yourself completely taken aback.

“Wait. Fiancée?” There was no way.

“Do you even read People Magazine?” Theresa scoffed, shaking her head as if this was common knowledge. You spent every living day trying to avoid Maxwell Lord after the way he and his family had hurt you and your mother. But of course, his presence followed you everywhere. Whether it be his enormous head hanging over the highway on bulletin boards or his infomercials that were broadcasted on every channel, at the same time, every evening.

“You got this information from a tabloid?” You rolled your eyes.

“Why do you find it so hard to believe that Maxwell Lord has a fiancée?” Theresa made a point. Sure, Maxwell Lord was charming… but in a cold, sick and twisted kind of way.

You took a deep breath. “I don’t it’s just-“

“Oh shoot, look at the time! I gotta pick the kids up from school. They’re at an arts club, you see. Would you mind tidying and closing the shop tonight?” Theresa gasped, although it wasn’t as much a question as it was a statement. She thrusted a sweeping brush into your arms and in a frenzy, was out of the coffee shop within a minute.

It was the hottest summer you could ever remember. Golden rays of sunlight beamed through the large windows, the heat making your hair stick to your forehead as you puffed your cheeks out. Tiredly, you loosened the ribbon that was holding together your apron and continued to sweep the floor and wipe down the tables. It had been a long day, but the end of the month meant you were getting your pay check. Just as you were about to close-up Cocoa Coffee, you heard the bell jingle as the front door opened.

“Oh I’m sorry we’re clo-“ you said before stopping and taking in the sight that was Bruce Wayne. If Theresa was still here, she would’ve lost her mind. Not quite Maxwell Lord, but another rich businessman; seemingly, just her type. The CEO of Wayne Enterprises. He was a black silhouette, standing in front of the setting sun, but despite being hidden by a casted shadow, you could recognise him anywhere. During your time at Lord Manor, you had grown up hearing a lot about the Wayne family. You froze, staring at him with anti-bacterial spray in one hand and a cloth in the other. Bruce took a step forward, grinning at you. “Mr- Mr Wayne…” you found yourself stumbling over your words. “How may I help you?”

“I’ve been watching you for some time now,” Bruce said darkly, breaking any distance between you both. You looked up at the businessman feeling somewhat intimidated. “You’re the girl who has been making my lattes every day for two years.” Like the flick of a light switch, his tone of voice changed to be more cheery, but you were still taken off-guard.

“I- I have? I’ve never seen you before.” You replied, bewilderment dripping from your tongue. Sure, you had seen Bruce Wayne make headlines but you had never seen him in real life before. “I mean. I’ve seen you. On uh, Forbes right? Front page?”

“Not this year,” Bruce sighed, and removed his sunglasses. “Some other scam artist took my place.” Immediately you felt a sense of dread, and you hoped you hadn’t done anything to piss him off. Bruce turned around and pointed to a black car with tinted windows, parked outside of the coffee shop.

“I’m sorry.” You bit your lip awkwardly. Bruce just shook his head, a light chuckle escaping his lips as he went to continue on his opening statement.

“I sit in the front seat while my assistant grabs my coffee,” Bruce explained, still pointing at the car outside, and you breathed out a little ‘ah’ whilst nodding somewhat understandably. You did not want to get on Bruce Wayne’s bad side, that’s for sure. “And I must admit, not a day has gone by where I haven’t been mesmerised by your beauty.” You felt your cheeks flush with heat at his compliment. You couldn’t help but remain silent, thus prompting Bruce to continue. “See, I’m actually a shy guy,” Bruce said, but his charm and fluency made you feel as though he wasn’t entirely being truthful. There was no way you could question the multi-billionaire. “And after a lot of persuasion from my assistant… well, I’m here to ask you out.”

You blinked, completely taken aback. You were just about to end your shift playing barista for the day when the Bruce Wayne had come into Cocoa Coffee saying all these nice things. No matter how hard you tried, you just couldn’t make sense of it all. Had he gotten the right person? He recognised you, so he really must be wanting you. So many thoughts raced through your head. Something felt off immediately, but you knew you could never deny Bruce Wayne a date. “I- uhm-“ you stumbled on your words and found Bruce looking nervous, awaiting your response. “Okay.” you accepted his proposal, and his worried frown turned into a beaming smile.

“Great!” He cheered. “I will have someone pick you up on Sunday afternoon. Don’t worry, I know where you live.”

Brushing past his comment about knowing your address, you raised a finger. “Uhm, where will we be going?”

“DC.” Those two letters made your heart sink into your chest. It had been years since you had last step foot in DC and you didn’t exactly associate the capital city with the fondest of memories. “I have business there. That’s not an issue, is it?”

Was it?

“No, of course not Mr Way- I mean Bruce.”

“Great, I will see you Sunday. Dress formal. I know the most amazing restaurant we can go to. They do the best martinis.”

♡

Maxwell Lord IV zipped up his pants and sunk into his office chair, regaining his breath. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and fixed his hair the best he could, before looking down at his secretary who was still on her hands and knees under his desk, looking up at him, waiting for his next instruction. Maxwell simply opened his desk drawer and threw her a silk cloth to wipe away the mess he had painted her face with. “Same time tomorrow.” He said, not even bothering to make eye contact with her. “Wear that same lipstick too.”

“Yes sir.” She replied, shakily standing up.

“You are free to leave now,” Maxwell told his secretary. “What do you say?”

“Th-thank you sir.”

His secretary scurried out of his office and once more, Maxwell was alone. He spun around in his chair and looked at the framed magazine cover, hanging on the wall behind him. There he was. He had made it to the front page of Forbes. Richest man in the world. He was loved. He was feared. He was Maxwell Lord IV.

♡♡♡ TAGLIST ♡♡♡

@mrschiltoncat​

[anthonyed]

Finding Bucky : stevetony for @stonyweek day 1, universe:mcu (Ao3)

They win the battle. They lose the tesseract.

“I was having a heart attack,” Tony points out when Fury glares. “What’s his excuse?”

Captain America stands, head hung and silent, he looks far away from this world, stripped off of his title and for the first time, he looks like a Steve Rogers.

Tony pointedly looks away, something coiling akin to guilt in his gut and he chases that away. “What’s the plan?” He asks Fury.

“For you people? Nothing,” Fury spits. “SHIELD will handle this from now on. You can help with the clean up.”

“Not a janitor,” Tony takes his leave, marching out of the office and he soothes at the loud slam of the door at his departure.

He taps away an assuring text to Pepper and Rhodey each, steps into the elevator blindly and right before the door closes, someone catches him by his shoulder and he startles so badly that his chest aches, reminding him of how fresh the attack was.

“Mr Stark,” Rogers starts, looking harried yet sounding composed. “I need to look at the surveillance footage.”

“I thought we did. Six times and they’re still running it somewhere in here for SHIELD cretins to catch what we didn’t. So you can go join them.” Tony rattles off dryly, rubbing his chest with one hand while he jabs the button for lobby with the other.

Rogers doesn’t bother, making it clear that he’s only in here because he wanted to corner Tony. “Do you have another copy?” He asks, glancing at the shifting numbers as the elevator moves and he turns to Tony urgently, “The other me. He said something and I -,” he pauses, blue eyes bright and searching and Tony tries hard not to blink, as surprised as he is by this new information.

“You said he was taunting you.”

Rogers looks sick for a second, jaw working tightly and he mutters low, “I may not have told everything.”

Tony blinks. Well, will you look at that, “Captain America; the paradigm of virtue. Did you just admit to lying?”

The elevator pings. Tony steps out, the prickling in his chest now a growing burning sensation, travelling from gut up to his mouth and he swallows with a shudder.

“Are you coming or not?” He glances over his shoulder. Rogers barely hides his surprise before he follows.

Tony’s body demands medical attention and vasodilators with an extended leave from physical duty but the six years old Captain America fan in his head is thriving from this attention. He might as well risk another attack if he could be of use for Cap.

-

“You sure about this?” Steve asks, two months after the New York battle. He desperately needs a stylist, Tony keeps telling him. But the man is stubborn and irrationally fond of dull checkered shirts that make Tony run in the other direction.

Maybe that’s why I wear them, Steve had shrugged casually, when Tony asked him about it and that’s when it properly cemented in Tony’s brain that Steve Rogers is not that much of a stick in the mud. Guy can joke too, apart from looking like the pinnacle of perfection. Not Fair.

Two months later, they’re what Tony begrudgingly (and Steve, with fond exasperation) admits are friends and that’s that.

“I don’t trust them.” Tony murmurs, tapping away at codes, infiltrating yet another layer of security in the SHIELD’s dark system. That’s what he dubs it based on its unusuality and how discretely it was hidden. At least, before Tony spotted the layers and started digging.

“What does that have to do with Bucky?” Steve asks from where he’s sat on the couch, flicking the top end of his New York Times to look at Tony.

Tony minimises the window and pulls out another, zooms it out and crooks a finger at Steve, calling him in.

“Look at this,” he says, pointing at the virtual webs of connection he’d spun out of all the datas he’d gathered. “All these people. I know SHIELD is not squeaky clean but some of their connections are concerning. This one,” he jabs at Senator Stern.

“Tried to take away my suit two years ago. Wanted to make it government property to ensure safety. Personally, I think the government gives shit about people’s safety so I dug up and found he’s had a standing appointment with Obadiah Stane before his passing. Had a few before and one of it was about the secret project Stane had brewing in SI’s basement; trying to replicate the Iron Man armour. They fixed a deal under the table. No government overlooking it.” Tony sinks back in his chair, arms across his chest and surprise flicks across his face when Steve holds out a water bottle for him.

“Thanks,” he says dubiously, screwing open the cap. Steve grunts distractedly, eyes dancing across the screen, studying all the details. He waits until Tony’s done drinking to ask, “What’s that?” He points at a different folder, on a different window. Tony sits up, holding out the bottle which Steve silently accepts and he taps on that folder. “An algorithm,” he states.

“For what?”

“That,” Tony leans back, taking in the list for the umpteenth time. “I’m still trying to figure out.”

He follows pages as Steve scrolls down, stopping at the end and he takes a step back, standing next to Tony. “All the Avengers are in there.”

“As well as a disturbing number of children.”

-

Six months after the New York Battle, Tony gets a call from Fury which he promptly dismisses. And another and another and - “Mute.”

He asks Jarvis for his email folder and finds a bunch from mariahill@shield.com. He clicks on the latest one and it’s a clipped paragraph demanding him to consider a proposition. He clicks on the attached folder and it’s the Hellicarrier’s engineering plan with its flight system replaced by what looks like a resized repulsor tech. Tony stares at it for a minute before exiting.

“Tell Happy I’m on my way, J.”

-

He brings it up to Steve, over fish chips in the heart of London and he regrets their pick.

“Should have known to not trust the brochure,” he sighs, giving up on the fries that are too limp to be saved.

“I’m hungry,” Steve mumbles, shoveling another forkful of the equally limp fillet and Tony makes a face at that. “Had worse,” Steve grins.

“Not on my watch,” Tony grumbles.

“So what did you say?” Steve asks, leaning back in his chair once he’s done demolishing both of their orders.

“To what?” Tony hums, scrolling up his inbox and shooting a quick reply to Pepper.

There’s a part of him that shrivels when he thinks about her while sitting with Steve, across the ocean. It’s been like that lately. Ever since she walked in on them playing FIFA one evening and quietly reminded Tony that it was supposed to be their date night before she turned away, leaving Tony hugging a pillow to sleep.

“To Hill.” Steve says, “Come on, let’s go.” he catches Tony by his elbow and pulls him towards the exit, Tony’s coat is already in one hand as he holds the door open with the other.

“We haven’t paid,” Tony tells him, louder when the outside air hits and his voice gets drowned by London traffic.

The door snaps close with a jingle and Steve hops down onto the pavement with a grin, “I did,” he tugs urgently.

“Slow down, eager beaver. She’s not running away. In fact, I don’t think she physic-,”

“Please don’t complete that sentence.” Steve warns lightly.

Tony shuts up, puts up his hands in apology and chuckles when Steve shakes his head.

It’s barely a walk to their destination. Steve stops by at one of the fruit stalls to buy some apples and oranges and,

“Blueberries?”

“They’re yours. You didn’t eat your lunch,” Steve hands the box to him, and a bottle of water. “Wash them first.”

Tony wrinkles his nose, “The hassle… I much prefer bananas,” he sniffs, pouring the water over the berries and he shakes them a little.

“C’mere,” Steve snags them. He holds out the other fruits wordlessly and Tony takes them, watching him march towards the vendor again and for the love of God, he purchases bananas just because Tony asked.

“You’re scary,” Tony tells him when Steve demands he finishes both blueberries and a banana before their journey ends.

-

Peggy Carter is lucid. Sometimes, not so. But she recognizes Tony and twists his ear for missing her birthday.

“I was busy pulling out your Steve,” Tony lies. He doesn’t say he was flying a nuke into the space and almost died from a heart attack that day.

She forgives him for Steve. He leaves them be for an hour and a half before Steve peeks out of the door and says she’s asking for him.

“Your father and I founded SHIELD,” she tells them, wrinkled hand in Steve’s careful grasp and she looks adrift as she recalls. “Colonel Phillips was in it because the government needed an insight and what was better than the entire military.”

Tony suspects Steve must have brought up their private little investigation, and he’s miffed, but he nods along.

“We made a lot of adjustments along the way. A lot of compromises,” and she pauses, placing another hand over Steve’s. “Some of them, you wouldn’t approve, but Howard had his reasons.”

Tony’s breath stutters. Starks seem to fuck up through the history. “It must be the gene,” he mutters blithely.

Peggy turns to look at him and she blinks. Something shifts in her eyes and the next second, she’s slapping him hard across the face.

“Ow,” Tony cries.

Steve splutters their names, grabbing onto Peggy’s hands and he asks concernedly if Tony’s okay.

“Tough smack right there, Auntie,” Tony grins.

“Steve Rogers dedicated his mind, his body, his life to the SSR and to this country. Not to your bank account.” Peggy snarls, her shaky voice breaking in anger even as she holds composed under Steve’s hands.

Tony stares at her, unblinking. “Peggy?” he calls faintly, blood sizzling up his veins, and he clenches his fists, sitting straight in his chair. “Peggy, it’s me. Tony.”

But Peggy Carter is lost. Somewhere between old memories and contained anger, and she sniffles, “I will not let you replicate the serum.”

-

No. He sends to Hill.

No. He receives from Pepper when he asks if she wants to go on an impromptu vacation with him.

No. He tells her when she asks if he’ll ever put down the armour.

No, he tells her when she asks if he wants to have a kid one day.

“White picket fence is a fairytale, babe. Howard fucked me over seven ways to hell. I wouldn’t be a good father or a husband.”

“You have potential,” she murmurs, brushing his hair back, manicured nails scraping soothingly over his scalp and Tony sighs. He leans back into her and she secures her hold around him. “I love you, you know that?” She asks softly.

“Love you too,” he breathes, sinking into the mattress and the pillow and he’s so warm and safe, he’s tipping out of consciousness.

“I know,” she says, one arm around Tony’s midriff tightening before it loosens. “It’s not working is it?”

Tony stops breathing. Pepper’s fingers don’t, sticking to their rhythm and she’s so strong, she’s lending her strength for him. She presses a kiss over his head and she tells him gently, “We’re not working.”

“We want different things,” Tony works his mouth. Sleep lost to nerves and the cruel ache in his heart.

She says, “I want a kid, or two. I want a family. I want to settle down when I’m forty.”

“I want to save the world,” says Tony.

-

Tony stares at the text, Saturday morning bright as the Sun beams from over the adjacent building. Rays spilling in rainbows over the white tiles of his living room as he sits gloomily at the dining table.

Did you find out?

He discards his half-written reply, taps back, eyes catching Fury’s 21 unreplied texts and voice messages and he ignores them all.

“Call Rhodey.”

The dial tone goes; on and on and on and -

“Hello?”

“Can you come over?”

A short pause, and then, “I’m not in the States, Tony.”

Tony taps twice over the table; two fingers up and down and up and down, a little over the edge and he says, “They were murdered.”

“Who?”

“Howard.” Tony stops. “Mom and him. They were murdered. It wasn’t a car crash.”

There’s a beat of silence down the line. Longer than before. Strenuous and Tony can hear when Rhodey pulls in a breath.

“How did you find out?”

Long story is, he started looking into super serum replication. Found the connection between Peggy’s accusation and his dear old father and Tony latched onto until the report ended at Howard Stark’s successful experimentation in 1991. He dug deeper and he recovered filth.

Short story is, “I hacked into SHIELD’s server.”

There’s an exasperated sigh on the other end but Rhodey doesn’t follow through. “I’m sorry,” he says instead. There’s a slight hesitation and he adds, “I’ll be over next weekend.”

“You don’t have to,” Tony says. “I’m fine.”

“Like hell you are.”

The truth is, Tony cannot hold it in until next weekend.

He calls Steve.

-

“How did you find him?” Steve asks, half in awe, half in agony.

“Easy,” Tony says, pulling out the file JARVIS has picked up for him. “When you dig at the right spot, you’ll find what you’re looking for.”

He takes a step back and watches every flicker of emotions that flit across Steve’s face; from relief to horror to determination.

“They brainwashed him,” Tony briefs, “Electric shocks to meddle with his memories and they groomed him to be their weapon.”

“He doesn’t look a year old,” Steve sounds faint, sick to his bone, and he shakes minutely when he reaches to touch the image. “I went back. I swear. I went back.”

“I’m sorry,” Tony says. He is. Truthfully, he is. But it’s largely polluted by his boiling rage. The need for retribution.

He grips onto the logical part of his brain and he turns away. Dum-E nudges his elbow, holding out a wrench and Tony is not working on anything that needs it but he grabs it for the desperate need to ground himself. Channel all the vengeance into the metal and he’ll fling it later; hard and swift and it’ll break all of his glass panels and he’ll be satisfied for a bit.

“How did you find him?” Steve asks, rough edged and unaware.

“I was looking for my parents’ murderer,” Tony tells him.

-

There’s a period between Steve’s departure and Rhodey’s arrival that Tony feels slightly unhinged. Prone to stupidity more than usual and he refuses to call Pepper because she deserves better.

They just parted, he knows she loves him, and he knows he loves her. But he’s too fragile for her. If she touches him, he’ll shatter and she’ll break her skin and bones trying to hold him. He told Steve to leave - “I need some time to digest this” - and he waits for Rhodey to arrive to get drunk on whiskey, rum and too much skittles.

They puke rainbow the next morning.

“I’m never doing this,” Rhodey swears, but he’d broken that over ten times going steady. Tony grunts at him and wipes his face. They have brunch in front of the TV and Tony grunts from his hangover headache, “I think I have feelings for Steve.”

Rhodey chokes on orange juice, spits it all over the coffee table and Tony groans in disgust. “Exactly,” Rhodey says. “You’re emoting what I feel.”

He piles plies over plies of tissues over the spill and turns to Tony. “You’re serious.”

“Don’t,” Tony says. He doesn’t know where he’s going with that. He sighs. “I guess.”

Rhodey chews on his cronut thoughtfully and makes a face. He switches the cronut with a strawberry sprinkled donut and asks, “Does he know?”

“No!” Tony seizes, his own big bite of the chocolate sprinkled suddenly dry and lumpy in his esophagus. He swallows painfully and shrugs, “I don’t know? I didn’t tell him.”

“Are you going to?” Rhodey asks, not missing a beat.

“I don’t know,” Tony snaps. “What is this? Make Tony feel bad Sunday?”

Rhodey flicks a sprinkle at his face. “You brought it up first,” he says, facing back the TV, and he switches the channel. “I was trying to enjoy my hangover donuts in peace and you ruined it.”

Tony grumbles something under his breath but otherwise he lets it go.

-

“Let me know if I have to give a shovel talk,” Rhodey says conversationally, stepping into his War Machine armour.

Tony punches his fists into his pants’ pockets and leans against the rail, “Not happening,” he tells him.

“Don’t drink without me.” The helmet closes, the eye slits come to life.

Tony grins at him. “I thought it’s not happening again.”

“It’s not,” comes the mechanical voice. Rhodey takes a step closer and ruffles his hair with a gauntleted hand.

Tony swats at it, hurting himself more than the other and he hisses, glaring at the mechanically cackling Rhodey.

“Take care.” Rhodey says before he shoots up into the night sky, like a blinding star, growing further and further out of reach and Tony whispers a thank you after him.

-

Two days later, someone disengaged JARVIS and tried to break in.

“They must have found out about my SHIELD servers’ break ins,” Tony groans, scrubbing his face as he paces.

JARVIS had sent out a help signal to Steve’s phone before he was shut down. Tony was awake during the attempt so he managed to not only stop it but garner evidence in the process as well.

“Do not come,” he tells Steve over the phone. “They don’t know your involvement. Let’s keep it that way.”

Thirty minutes later, Steve’s in the elevator.

“Let him in,” Tony permits weakly. The door opens, and Steve walks in, calm and composed. His eyes however are a whirlwind of storms brewing up an apocalypse.

They study Tony from head to toe and all over until satisfied, and he nods, “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Tony exhales, turning towards the kitchen. “There’s no need for you to come.” He fetches a glass and fills it with water, holding it out for Steve. Once taken, he fetches another and repeats the process, draining the content in a second. Steve offers his for taking and Tony chugs that down too.

“How are you?” Steve asks.

Tony leaves the glasses in the sink and moves to the living room. “I’m fine. Startled. But, fine.” He insists. “Are you staying over?” There’s a lilt to his question, an accidental giveaway; hopeful.

“Yes,” Steve says. Period. No place for arguments and it’s definite. I’m staying. Whether or not you like it.

Tony glances at him over a shoulder, “You know where your room is. I’ve got some work to do, I’ll be in the shop.”

Steve follows him instead. Sits on the couch and reads a book while Tony does his work. When the Sun comes up, he excuses himself to freshen up and make breakfast. When he returns, Tony’s face down on the couch, drooling into Steve’s jacket.

-

Steve stays.

“I’m not running a free bed-and-breakfast,” Tony tells him on day seven.

“Nope,” Steve agrees. “It’s bed, breakfast, lunch, dinner and snacks,” he crunches pointedly on the Cheetos. Tony glares at him.

The alarm blares. The lights shut down. JARVIS is unreachable again. Tony’s insides clamp down painfully and he shoves the sickening feel away to retrieve him.

Before he could move, he’s shoved down hard behind the couch and something shatters in the near distance. Once, twice and then several times.  

He grappled for Steve but couldn’t find him. He tries not to worry about JARVIS, confident he’ll find his own way back but -

“Steve,” he hisses into the darkness, temporarily blinded and he’s shivering from fright. His entire core is shut down; from electricity to the armour’s response signal. He feels as naked and vulnerable as he was in that cave in Afghanistan but this time, it’s in his own home.  

“Steve?” he calls again, crawling blindly. Something breaks the window and lands next to him and hits his toe. Barely a time to react, and he’s flung across the room and he only remembers a clean thud to his skull before he blacks out.

-

He wakes up with JARVIS’s name on the tip of his tongue and an irritating beeping sound surrounding him. He swats at it. Someone catches his hand.

“He’s fine,” They say. It’s Steve. “Natasha fixed him.”

Tony probably scrapes his throat trying to swallow dryly and rasps out, “He doesn’t need fixing.”

“Of course,” Steve hums, holding out a glass of water and Tony struggles to take; hand shaking like a leaf. He curses and Steve stands, tipping the glass closer to his mouth, placing the end of the straw in between his lips and he casually confesses, “I thought I’d lost you,” while Tony sips.

“Thought I killed you with my own hand.”

“There was,” Tony pauses to cough, “A grenade,” he finishes exhaustedly.

“I threw you across the room,” Steve informs in that same disconnected voice. Tony catches his free hand and gives it a squeeze, albeit weakly. Steve’s hand starts to shake.

“How long?” Tony asks.

“Two days,” Steve exhales, his head falls, forehead hits the edge of the bed and there’s a shiver that wrecks through his spine as he holds onto Tony’s hand through it. “Fuck,” he swears airily.

Tony shifts a little so he could card his other fingers through Steve’s hair and pets him idly.

“It’s him, wasn’t it?” He asks.

Steve nods, “We caught him.”

-

Turns out, Fury had Tony tracked without his consent and Natasha was strategically there to shoot Bucky Barnes in the abdomen. Two bullets through and through; both in the right hypogastric region and Steve got there just in time to knock him unconscious.

“Sorry, I don’t really know where to keep him,” Steve says abashedly, explaining why Bucky Barnes is now in the tower in Hulk’s containment, being treated by Bruce and Helen Cho.

“Where else would he go?” Tony shrugs, adjusting the strap holding his broken left arm for the nth time. When he looks up, Steve’s staring at him with some skin to bewilderment and fondness. He doesn’t know where he falls in between those two emotions so he huffs disgruntledly and tugs again at the strap. “I hate this.”

“Leave it be,” Steve’s voice is soft, his fingers gentle when they pry away Tony’s. “I know what you’re doing,” he tells him.

“What?” Tony scoffs.

Steve’s eyes are a brilliant shade of blue and they stay fixed on his as he fixes the strap, Tony’s collar and he says, “Sometimes when I look at you, what I feel shows and everytime you catch that instance, you look away. You change topics or you do something absurd to burst the moment. Either you choose to pretend that you don’t know how I feel for you or you don’t feel the same so you’re trying to be polite for my sake.”

Tony’s throat runs dry. This time, he can’t look away. Try as he might, his breath catches and his heart stutters. “The former,” he confirms shamefully.  

Steve’s hand over his chest stills, plastered over his breastbone, fingers tickling the edge of his collar and he asks, “Why?”

“Because I’m terrified of the idea that if I tell you how I feel, you will reject me.” Tony pauses. And then, because he’s got nothing else to lose, he adds, “There’s also the fact that you deserve so much better than me.”

Steve swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing along his throat and Tony glances at it distractedly, promptly snapping back to the sea of blue; now bleeding black, inside out.

“What if I want you?” Steve licks his lips.

Tony follows that motion, eyes zeroing in on there. Longing and lust all melting into something warm and thick and he rasps, “Then you have me.”

-

“This is so not how I imagined it.” Tony pulls away. He wastes two seconds glaring at his useless left arm and goes back in.

Steve’s chuckle breaks into a gasp when Tony yanks at his hair hard, nips at his lips, licks into his mouth and kisses him stupid.

“This is so not how I imagined it.” he groans.

-

“How’d you imagined it?” Steve asks, pressing the elevator button up and he turns to face Tony. “Do you imagine making out with me often?” There’s a leer to his smile, hidden behind mischief and pure Steve-ness and Tony leans in to taste it. “I imagine doing a lot of things to you, Rogers. Kissing is just the tip of the iceberg.”

-

They step out of the observation room; Barnes still drugged up to the gills until his bullet wounds heal and Bruce kindly let Tony know that his penthouse is destroyed while Steve winced.

Tony enters the elevator and he’s lost for a second before Steve follows in and presses the button to his guest suite. He takes Tony’s uninjured hand and kisses the inside of his wrist. “In your imaginations,” he asks, still not letting up and Tony snorts at him. But Steve persists, “Am I getting fucked or are you?” He’s a little flushed in the cheeks and that’s all there is to give away his abashment.

Tony hums, deliberately stalling. “How about I show you?” he offers impishly.

Steve stares him down, full Captain mode, sending shivers down his spine. “You’re not doing any strenuous activities until you heal.”

Tony stares him back, “Pretty sure, sucking your cock doesn’t fall in strenuous activities. Or laying there, letting you fuck me,” he taps at his chin thoughtfully. “Although, riding you would probably have to wait.”

Steve shudders. The elevator door splits open and Tony steps out.

-

Steve wasn’t kidding about the celibacy. Tony looks at him gravely and declares, “I am injured and horny and you are making this especially difficult for me.”

He receives a soft shirt to his face and a towering Steve who orders, “Stay still,” while he methodically helps Tony out of the arm sling and his t-shirt and into a new one. “I’m not doing your pants,” he draws the line.

Ten minutes later, Tony climbs onto the bed and shuffles closer to Steve. “I’m holding you accountable for this,” he points at his half-erection. Steve rolls his eyes and coaxes him into a prone position; tucks his broken arm safely out of the way and Tony’s body snuggly into his curves. There’s a hard line pressing into Tony’s ass cleft and he digs his fingers into Tony’s hip when Tony tries to rub up.

“Stop,” he warns, lips brushing over Tony’s nape. Breath hot and wet and something clench and shiver in Tony’s chest. “Once you’re healed, I’ll fuck you so hard you forget your name so, be patient. For now.”

“Fucking tease.” Tony growls into his pillow. Steve’s thumb over the arch of his hip bone rubs a circle and he nips at Tony’s lobe, “I know.”

There’s a war coming on; it’s somewhere near the horizon and Tony can almost taste it on his tongue, his bones ache from the revelations. There’s a prisoner of war two floors below who needs more than regular healing. Upstairs, his penthouse is in crumbles but that’s for next morning. Along with the calls he has to make to Pepper and Rhodey to elaborate what short-sentenced assurance Steve has given them when he was out of it.

For now, he’s right where he wants to be and he savours the feel; grabs onto Steve’s arm around his chest, sinks closer into his hold and he falls asleep to the pulse of Steve’s heartbeats.

[lady-plantagenet]

What are your thoughts on Jaime x Cersei, Jaime x Brienne, Tyrion x Tysha, George x Isabel, and Henry VIII x Anne Boleyn? (Sorry for the long list!)

Glad to see someone else feeling charitable and letting me vent my unsolicited opinions 😂. Saved the George x Isabel for the last cause I’m sure it will be the longest lmao!

Asked Via: Send me a ship and I'll give you my (brutally) honest opinion on it: https://lady-plantagenet.tumblr.com/post/627331607624302592/send-me-a-ship-and-ill-give-you-my-brutally

Jaime x Cersei: Despite it’s fundamental flaws, it is... titillating to read. The idea of people falling in love with their own other-gender counterpart is twisted yet so intriguing. I must confess that I am not as disgusted by incest as most people, so bear that in mind. The thing is, Cersei is definitely a narcissist with a lot of internalised misogyny and this ship just feels so justified to her character.

The issue is, and as the books go on, it becomes quickly clear that Jaime’s love is not as deep and as his appearance changes, and they no longer look identical Cersei’s own mental image, Cersei’s love also wanes and then you’re hit with how shallow it was. So I ship these two... but I also don’t because they’re toxic? Honestly, book-wise I am intrigued to see what will happen, if they end up together... or they don’t... either way I’m sure it will be quite a ride. You see, I’m not emotionally invested.

Jaime x Brienne: Oh the Sapphires... Obviously anyone who cares for Jaime’s wellbeing would want him to end up with Brienne as opposed to Cersei. I read this interesting theory recently on how these two don’t actually love each other but confuse their strong platonic feelings of affection for romance. You see, that’s also an interesting take as both characters are quite bereft off opposite gender friendships.

However, I strongly ship them romantically as well, Book!Brienne (hey show as well!) is truly admirable because based on her choice in men e.g. Renly, you can see how she had still not given up on her maidenly fantasies and I just love her for that, because true love isn’t something to which only pretty women are entitled. She in many ways represents salvation for him as she being a true knight in spite of her gender, can veer him back into the path of chivalry. He is most chivalrous around her, I mean, not only because her good conduct influences but also because he performs some of the most knightly deeds by cause of her e.g. rescuing her from the bear pit. I like this ship, it’s a good trope subversion.

Tyrion x Tysha: I find this one of the more heartbreaking ships of ASOIAF, because to me it represents Tyrion’s loss of innocence.

She is a haunting figure because of how small remnants of her memory were enough to pull Tyrion into the toxic relationship he had with Shae e.g. she too hard dark hair and there was music around when he met her. Its one of those weird (as @omgellendean put it in her brutally honest ask tag answer - a character who consists of only a name), but unlike Ashara Dayne, she is not idealised and given this over-the-top tragic story. So this elusive Tysha is an entity by what she symbolises: foregone youth and a sweetness that has no place in the ASOIAF universe.

Henry VIII x Anne Boleyn: As I said in my last ask. I cannot tolerate the romanticisation of infidelity, and that is especially when the male’s spouse is a wonderful woman fit for him and has done nothing wrong. I don’t have strong feelings against Anne Boleyn herself, as I prefer to see her as ‘Anne the Educated and Sophisticated Reformer’ as opposed to ‘Anne the Seductress’. Ugh let me just say... rule of thumb for whether it’s a good pair: Do thousands have to die for your selfish desire to be together? Yes? Then probably not meant to be. Just a thought.

I think Anne knew her own mind and I like to think her strong beliefs influenced her decision to breach this marriage (no I didn’t think she was her father’s pawn gah I’m sick of that term), but they were ultimately unsuited in everything and it was a passion brought about by Henry’s caprice. My heart breaks when I think on how Anne could have been happily married to Henry Percy. I’m also tried of this whole ‘master manipulator of men’s hearts’ reputation Anne is getting. You do realise refusing to be a mistress was not being a tease as much as it was just being a conventionally virtuous woman..? The girl knew her worth.

George x Isabel: Oh god. I promise to not start writing an essay. As weird as it is to ship dead people, they are my OTP, the main characters of my main historyfanfic, and frankly the most unsung couple of TWOTR. The fact that there are no records of letters or any particularly over-the-top romantic gestures by either of them, just intrigues me more because it was very much a relationship defined in subtle deeds. If you peruse the more academic TWOTR literature you can see all the fine but conclusive evidences of a devoted relationship: He posthumously enrolled her in a guild when he stayed there with his children (months after she died), he was buried together with her and her ancestors not his, how during 1470 he sent her to Exeter for her safekeeping while her mother and sister remained at Warwick and when a siege broke out he (and his father-in-law) immediately rode south to lift it and the amount of expenses and care he put into her funeral. Not to mention, the hassle it took for them to get married: years of trying to get a dispensation underneath the king’s nose culminating in them having to cross the channel.

The thing is, it had a lot of politics behind it and to be honest I don’t find that less romantic. It was one right for both of them: for the wealthiest heiress in England and the handsome younger brother and heir of King Edward - truly no one else would do for any of them. One of the things that grabs me is the medievalness of it all, how they were bound together by what was essentially a plan to reverse the country’s inevitable transition out of ‘bastard feudalism’. You also get a sense of how this marriage despite the ultimate failure of its purpose (to make George King) brought George the chance to establish himself as a major magnate through his wife’s lands which ultimately became his main source of power as opposed to his royal status. The relative peace that ensued after 1472 shows that his status as Warwick’s political heir (as Christine Carpenter put it) did something to placate the disapointment of not becoming king. So the way I see it, Isabel’s death took from him any of the satisfaction and peace she brought with her lands and persona as he once again reverted to his old (even more than before) reckless self. Not to mention the people he executed after her death in his grief believe in her to have been poisoned (most historians believe that’s unlikely).

Aside from that, in a society where pretty much everyone strayed (even Anthony Woodville had a bastard daughter), it is quite heart-warming how the man known for his treachery, happened to be one of the only ones loyal to his wife: no bastards or women were ever linked to his name not even in rumour. As for Isabel, she is quite a shadowy figure but you get the sense she was intelligent because of the care her father took in preparing her as his heir, because of her wealth you get this sense of majesty and significance about her. The two times we can deduce anything about her personality is a true supporter of her husband: once, when deciding to treat with the Yorks behind her father’s back to reconcile George to them, second, remaining steadfast to George when he tried to squirrel her sister Anne out of her inheritance. Based on the homage she paid to her ancestors, she seems proud of her ancestry so it’s quite intriguing to think why she made the aforementioned two choices, endangering her father and sister in favour of her husband. And oh god I’m rambling, I can say even more if you can believe it but I shall stop. Overall, one might think I’m wishful thinking but frankly Anne and Richard are touted as star-crossed lovers all the time and with even littler evidence to support it (not that I don’t ship them, I do). I might be subjective, but the story of George and Isabel’s life is just so compelling...

[titusmoody]

It’s the end of the first quarter of 2021. Here’s a brief review of the things I watched/played/read.

Games

Donut County- pretty charming, very easy, fairly satisfying to play. I’d recommend Untitled Goose Game over this, though.

Heaven’s Vault- If you only have room in your life for one space archaeology game, play Outer Wilds instead. However, you get to translate alien writings yourself (in a simplified game way) in this one, so I’d recommend both. 

Donkey Kong Country 3 103%- so many fun level mechanics in this one. The difficulty of finding and completing everything in the game was spot-on for me.

Donkey Kong Country 2 102%- Each level mechanic in this one is explored and used in far more interesting ways than DKC3, though I honestly had more fun with 3 this time around. This one is the “dark, edgy” one aesthetically which is extremely dumb. Also, there was a lot of guesswork involved in finding some of the hidden stuff, which I didn’t enjoy.

The Room 4- I like escape room games. This one was good. It continued 3′s trend of trying to shake up the format a little, which is fine (better here than in 3, I think) but I wouldn’t have minded if all 4 stayed exactly the same, just with new puzzles.

Spider-Man: Miles Morales- Everything about it was competent. Not only was each gameplay activity fine-tuned to feel good, but the structure of the game also kept kept you experiencing a good variety of each activity. PS5 graphics are good, too. Nothing about it really got me excited to play it, it was just a good after work unwinding thing.

Cyberpunk 2077- Exactly the opposite of Spider-Man in terms of quality consistency. There are aspects of this game that are amazing, horrible, and every step in between. However, I’ve thought about it quite a bit and will probably continue to think about it for both good and bad reasons.

Yooka-Laylee and the Impossible Lair- Donkey Kong Country has better level design and controls. Well, the best levels of this were every bit as good as the best DKC levels, and maybe I’m just so familiar with DKC levels that I zone out a little during the boring bits, but had to pay attention to every moment of this game. Still, I didn’t have as much of an overall good time as the DKC games I played earlier.

Hue- Good 2D puzzle-platformer. I’m no longer surprised by these, but I still appreciate them, much in the same way as I like playing escape room games. I was under the impression for a few years that because I understood the potential of puzzle platformers, it meant I wouldn’t want to play any more of them, but that’s simply not true. I had a good time with Hue.

Shows

Gravity Falls- It’s fine. Pretty entertaining. I wish there were more low-stakes kinds of episodes, just to get more familiar with different sides of the characters. It would have made the characters and setting feel more rounded.

Cowboy Bepop- I didn’t get the hype for this show when I first watched it at 21, and now I can say that it’s simply not my kind of show. I have much more appreciation for it now than I did the first time, but it doesn’t hit me emotionally the same way that it seems to hit so many people. 

Seinfeld- It’s Seinfeld. There was precisely one episode that I had never seen before, plus confirmation that I didn’t dream the episode that’s told in backwards chunks like Memento and is set in India.

Paranoia Agent- While it was disappointing that this ended up being a more simple morality tale than every Satoshi Kon movie I’ve seen, I still enjoyed watching this a lot.

Aggretsuko- I liked the mundane, every-day storylines like a modern, more empathetic Seinfeld. Unfortunately as the show went on, there were more and more wacky situations that no one actually gets into. I might watch the upcoming season if I hear that it’s less ridiculous.

Over the Garden Wall- This was really cool and I’m glad it exists. It’s ten episodes long, which is perfect for it. I thought it was at its weakest during the more lighthearted or humorous moments--precisely the opposite of Gravity Falls. The word “classy” comes to mind to describe this show. 

Beastars- Really good when it isn’t falling into anime plot and dialog cliches. A lot of this first season is dedicated to introducing characters and the setting, which I thought was very well done. I’m curious to see what Season 2 is like.

Movies

Scott Pilgrim vs the World- It’s a fun movie to watch. It definitely makes many of the characters’ flaws seem like more fun than it probably should, but I’m more bothered by the criticism I hear that boils down to “it’s a bad movie because the characters are bad people” which I suspect is an impression you only get if you lack both empathy and media comprehension.

Big- Kinda bad. It has iconic moments that are only possible with its weird premise, but it’s just not a premise that supports an entire good movie. 

Phantom of the Opera- Way better and way worse than I remember. Has the precise right amount of horses.

Knives Out- Not really a movie I needed to watch a second time, but it sure is good.

District 9- I didn’t remember most of this movie and unfortunately I zoned out for most of this rewatch, so I still feel like I don’t know what it’s about.

From up on Poppy Hill- Not one of the top tier Ghibli movies, but still really good in a down-to-earth way that I like from Ghibli. 

Enter the Dragon- I knew to expect everything to be turned up to 11, which is good because it really is a lot. I liked it, though.

Shutter Island- I have never actually liked this kind of twist-reliant movie. I thought I would for many years, but I was always disappointed. At least now I am aware that it’s not what I’m into.

Soul- The premise is much too convoluted, but it does have an excellent moment near the end.

Onward- I liked this one a lot. Why don’t more people talk about this one? It’s definitely better than Coco, which itself was really good.

A Silent Voice- The kind of movie that reminds me that sometimes Japanese storytelling is more to my taste than Hollywood style, in that scenes can be more emotionally ambiguous. 

Tangled- Good in exactly the same way as Frozen and Moana. I can’t really complain, but this isn’t the same situation as puzzle platformers or escape rooms. In this case, I do get a little sick of being completely unsurprised. This movie was made first, so it’s only by chance that this is the one that I saw last.

Monsters University- A good movie, but it really doesn’t have to be about the same characters as Monsters Inc. 

Monty Python and the Holy Grail- Still funny

The Departed- Good if you want an enjoyable crime thriller to watch, bad if you want a Scorcese movie.

Titanic- Getting very drunk and watching this with Brittany might be the best time I had in the past three months. Maybe I won’t think too hard about why a movie about the overdue, violent death of a social order resonates with me right now.

Prince of Egypt- Impressive and grand, but I didn’t really care about the characters or story.

Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan- A good but not great (by TNG standards) concept for an episode that was made extremely enjoyable by the added budget and longer runtime of a movie.

Star Trek III: The Search for Spock- Not as good, but still watchable.

Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home- The kind of ridiculous concept you’d only make when you’ve already had three successful movies and are confident that you’ll be able to make at least another couple. The gang go back to the 1980s (present day to the original audience) and save the whales. It’s apparently exactly the right movie to watch if this is the third consecutive Star Trek movie you’re watching.

Mamma Mia- A lot of fun, but has weird problems that seem like they would’ve been easy to solve at the script level. Maybe if the conflicts had been introduced early on instead of dragging the whole pace of the movie down for much of the last 20 minutes, I would’ve enjoyed the whole thing.

Books

The Well of Ascension- The second book of a trilogy. Very competent. Introduces a whole lot of minor conflicts that really keep the momentum going and give the characters short-term goals that contribute to the overall plot and their arcs. 

The Hero of Ages- The final book in the same trilogy. Equally competent. I wish there had been more long-term payoffs, which is the trade-off you make by stuffing the books full of those short-term conflicts. Spoilers ahead, but not ones that I think ruin the experience of reading. It’s very odd that of three of the central characters, one dies, one becomes a god and then dies, and one becomes God. 

Check Please- About as pleasant as it gets. Full of the type of minor character that sitcoms end up running into the ground because they’re too one-note (Creed from The Office, for instance) but in a series with a pre-planned length, there’s no chance for it to get stale. Plus, I really liked both of the lead characters.

Milkman- Good book about “The Troubles” in Ireland. Very odd collection of characters, but the narrator had an extremely enjoyable voice to read. 

And Then There Were None- Classic mystery story for a reason. Feels more like a Hitchcock movie than Sherlock Holmes. I read it in one day both because the prose was easy and I wanted to know what happened next. Not much substance to it, unfortunately.

Homegoing- Extremely ambitous book where each chapter is narrated by the descendant of a previous chapter, alternating between two branches of the same family. I liked it quite a bit, though because I only finished it yesterday I don’t have much reflection done yet so my opinion has yet to solidify.

[moonscarsandstars]

guess who’s starting a two (maybe three?) part fic on tumblr despite my multiple WIPs screaming at me from their graves? this gal! 

Prompt: “Hate me all you want. I know I’m right.”

tw; suicidal thoughts, self-hatred, depressing thoughts.

~~~

The moon was just a silver thread away from full, like a crystal orb hanging in the sky, waiting to unleash its power over him.

Remus hugged his knees tighter, trying to erase that sinking feeling that just kept worsening.

Something was prickling under Remus’s skin. Tiny blades were carving their way through streams of blood flowing through him so heavily that it made him sick. The sickness was pooling in his stomach, hitting him in waves.

But that wasn’t the worst of it. 

The guilt was eating him up from within. Sirius was peacefully sleeping on the other side of the dorm. Something inside Remus missed the warmth of Sirius’s body next to his. But if Sirius knew what was good for him, it’d be one of the last times they’d ever wake up in the same room. No matter what Sirius and James kept trying to convince him, he knew better.

Remus knew he wouldn’t survive this war.

Not as a half-blood werewolf.

But what Sirius didn’t understand was, there was a reason he wanted to end all they had the second they stepped out of the castle, the second the trace was broken, the second they were finally exposed to this war.

It wasn’t self pity, nowhere near it. It was being wise, and peacefully ending what Remus didn’t want to shatter into pieces one day.

Remus loved Sirius more than he loved himself. Sirius had been there to hold the shards of Remus when he was falling apart, crashing to the ground. Sirius had been there to keep away the ghosts that surrounded him, always gaining on him at the worst possible moments. Sirius had healed the wounds Remus carved unto himself, with just the soft touch of his fingers.

Remus would loathe himself if he dragged down an angel like Sirius to the depths he belonged to.

But an angel like Sirius refused to leave. Sirius didn’t know how dark this path would lead to be. 

Remus knew Sirius would never understand. 

But he wasn’t going to give him a chance to.

He reached for his wand, a quill, and tore a piece of parchment. The words came easily to him, flowing through like a river.

It was almost like cleansing himself of the thoughts, the feelings, almost like washing them away. Though there was still something he couldn’t name, still tugging at his heart. A voice he suppressed deep inside, screaming not to do it.

But as Remus left the note by his by the bedside opposite him, he was overcome with the sudden urge to run.

To run as far away from here as he could, because he didn’t want to see Sirius wake up. He didn’t want to see Sirius’s face fall, as his eyes skimmed over the words. He didn’t want to hear Sirius screaming that he’d had enough.

So Remus ran as far as he could, til he couldn’t breathe.

~~~

Sirius’s dreams were submerged by the sound of muffled footsteps. He wearily sat up in his bed, rubbing his eyes. And though every inch of him was being dragged back to a blissful state of sleep, his stomach twisted in a way that kept him awake.

He didn’t know what it was that made him so uncomfortable, but whatever it was, it twisted his insides and pulled at his heart in a way that made him sick.

Feeling his way around, Sirius climbed out of the bed, walking silently, only on tiptoes, towards Remus’s bed. 

Remus was really the only one, besides Euphemia, who knew how to cal Sirius down. Especially when flashbacks and panic attacks struck him, or he was drowning in one of his nightmares again. Remus had always been the light at the end of the tunnel.

He approached Remus’s bed, which was on the other side of the dorm, and a small wave of comfort fell over him.

But Sirius didn’t know why his heart dropped dead when he saw in the faded moonlight that Remus’s bed was empty. It was Sirius was being submerged in icy water, and he was struggling to reach the surface. He needed to know where Remus was. The overwhelming feeling that he could stop something bad from happening to him blurred everything else out.

Sirius struggled on his shoes, and grasped his wand from his bedside table, but felt a slip of paper under it.

He blindly reached for the paper that had fallen on the floor, and once he’d retrieved it, muttered a lumos, illuminating the hastily scrawled words in Remus’s messy cursive.

Sirius almost screamed.

Dear Sirius,

Trust me, this wasn’t easy to write. I swear, if there was another way, if there was another universe, you and I would be sailing through it together.

But it isn’t like that. 

You have no idea what’s going to happen to me when we leave Hogwarts. Yes, I know we’ve had this discussion countless times before, but you just don’t understand. I know you keep saying we’ll work through this war together, but I’d only be dragging you down from your chance to get out of this alive.

If anything happened to you from my side, I’d loathe myself forever. I can’t have that risk lingering over our relationship.

Dumbledore has talked to me about plans. Plans he had. Plans that are absolutely vital for our side to triumph. I’m not going to tell you, because I know you’d disagree. All I’m going to tell you is, I’m not going to make it out alive.

Sirius, I’m not going to make it out of this war alive.

I’m so sorry, but I’m going to spare you the pain. We’re over. You heard that? I’m breaking up with you. 

Please, for my sake, sleep with as many people as you’d like, go to every bar in the country, go meet someone who’ll fill your heart with as much love as I wish I could. Just don’t let your thoughts linger on me.

I can’t help it Sirius.

I know this may be way too forward, and many might say I’m too young to say this, but, you’d better know.

I love you.

It’s true. And I can’t hold on to that glimmer of hope that sometimes arises. So goodbye, I suppose.

Remus.

[raysreads]

Fractured Gravestones

The best stories are made of shattered glass.

They’re beautiful, they’re tragic, they’re sad, they’re hopeful, they’re so very bittersweet.

Whenever I experience a new story I always focus on the tragic side of it. Not because I like the despair, though that does play some distant and twisted role, it’s because of what the tragedy brings out in the characters. I love following their path, how they start as innocent children and slowly come to the horrific realization of what sentient beings can do. How even with the darkness they still fight, they still love, they still bleed...all for what they believe in, because they won’t just give up. 

No. 

They fight for life and freedom because it is right, and because no one else will. 

Maybe that's why my favorite stories are so sad sometimes.

An alien who travels across time, galaxies, universes and multiverses. Who has loved and lost more than anyone should. Who cannot be alone because he might become exactly what he fights. Who fell in love with a woman who became trapped and married a woman he met completely out of order and died upon their meeting. A man who saves and sacrifices and hurts and bleeds and asks for nothing in return. When will his time run out? When will it stop being ‘one last miracle’?

An Ice cold detective and his doctor, who run around solving crimes that no one else can. A genius who feels so fiercely that he shuts off all emotion to avoid getting hurt - again. A soldier who came home empty and is horrified to find that he misses the war. He faked his death once, who says it won't be real next time?

Two brothers and their angel who travel across the country in an old impala, fighting things of nightmares that most believe to be myth and legend. Going against all odds, against their own people, for what they believe is right. An angel always willing to bleed for them, family that would end the world for each other. They’ve died many times. when will it be permanent?

A boy drafted into a war before he was even born, who had a lightning bolt scar and a destiny he couldn't fight, and blood on his hands before he was twelve. One who grew up too fast and learned too quickly that magic wasn't always the stuff of childish dreams. His best friend who thinks he's not enough, youngest of 6 brothers who feels like his achievements don't matter. And the Brightest witch of her age, quick as a whip who saved her boys again and again. They are all drowning in blood before they are legally adults, red-stained hands leaving sticky smears in their wake, staining everything they touch. They were child soldiers, willing or not. When will the nightmares stop?

A hero of godly parentage who went to war at 16 and then was put through another before he became an adult. A boy with a loving mother who never gave up on him, an amazing half-goat best friend who would face the worst of his fears to save his life, and a girlfriend who he would bend heaven and earth for. He’s faced gods and monsters that grown men would fear, killed things that have devoured men thrice his age, bested those terrifying things repeatedly. When will the Gods leave him alone?

A group from the FBI who have been shot at, cut, imprisoned, isolated, blown up, and tortured. A genius who became addicted, a media liaison who lost a child, an ex-lawyer who lost a wife, an author dragged from retirement, a man forced to confront his traumatic past, an interpol agent made to fake her death, a bright and happy technical analyst made to see horrors before her screens every day. They are beaten, bruised and broken. How many horrific ways can someone think of killing. Why must their lives be paved with the bodies of victims never saved?

The MCRT from NCIS who have been betrayed, manipulated and hurt. Who have seen teammates die and families burn. A marine whose wife and child were murdered, an agent with a frat boy mask who almost died from the plague, an ex-mossad agent of a cracked family, an MIT graduate who was woken to real life too soon, a peppy forensic scientist whose optimism became dull, a medical examiner with a sick mother and his insecure assistant. How will they move on if everything they love keeps withering away?

A team of enhanced human beings; some with magic, some with power, some with pure skill; who help people. The universe was full of aliens and monsters and horrors untold. They kill them and incarcerate them and save the earth again and again and again from people much smarter, stronger and way more powerful than themselves. How much luck do they have? When will they go on a mission and not come back?

A Demon and an Angel in a bookshop in Soho who prevented the apocalypse. A Demon who loves plants and stares at galaxies that he helped create, never able to visit again. An angel with a love of books and food who must ‘always obey’ ‘never fail’. Two celestial beings who gave up everything for humanity and each other, and would do so again in a heartbeat. When will that not be enough? When must they let go?

There are many more stories; some popular, some obscure; but it always comes down to loving something or someone so much that you would sacrifice anything, even your own life, for it. 

And I love that.

Sure it’s sad, Kids killed. Dreams squandered. Hearts shattered. Souls bruised. Hope broken… But it has a sort of beauty, the fact that they keep fighting and loving and dreaming and helping despite that, because of that. 

Because no one deserves to go through the same pain they did.