#guy who is so scared of his own mortality that he spent his life looking for a way to avoid it...........

[dungeons-and-dragon-age]

👀👀.

[itsabouttimex2]

Here's a challenge: platonic x reader who hates monkeys with a passion (you could do it with phobia or irrational hatred). With Wukong, Macaque, and Mk.

Pithecophobia

Yandere MK, Sun Wukong, Macaque

(Fun fact 1- prunes are not their own fruit! They’re just dried plums.)

“I’m just saying,” he starts with a scoff, “it’s really silly that you’re expecting me to play along with this. Especially when I don’t get anything out of it.”

MK turns around to face the demon monkey, frowning. He folds his arms and walks backwards to keep eye contact, hoping that his mentor would watch his steps for him.

“Uh, you are getting something out of it, though? Y/N spent all day cooking for us so we could celebrate the new year together! They even made extra in case we wanted to bring someone else! That’s like… super nice of them!”

“Oh, I might get some maybe decent food, is that it? And all I’ve got to do is pretend to be a powerless mortal all the way through a probably mediocre dinner, huh? Just because this weird friend of yours is scared of monkeys?”

Sun Wukong; who had eyeing the sky for early fireworks more than he had been looking out for his student’s safety, finally chimed in. “To be fair, I think that mug of yours would scare anyone away!” A second later, he ducks down to avoid Macaque’s incoming tail, leaving MK to take the brunt of the relatively harmless blow.

MK stumbles backwards and almost into the street, only stopped when his mentor’s tail wraps around his waist and pulls him back onto the sidewalk. “Whoa,” the Great Sage mocks, setting MK safely back down, “someone’s in a bad mood today! Maybe… you’re just mad cause no one except us wanted you over for the new year?”

Macaque snarls and lunges at Wukong, ready to brawl. It’s only when MK swiftly moves to stand between them that the near fight is averted. “Guys, come on! Can’t you get along for just one day?!”

The “NO!” that they shout in perfect unison is just about what he was expecting, but he’s still a little disappointed about it. They both try to move past him to grab at one another, barely impeded by his physical position.

A thunderous bang echoes across the sky, a brilliant bloom of sparkling red painting the blue horizon. Macaque hisses and recoils, his arms quaking as he moves to clap his hands over his ears. At the exact same time, Wukong jumps up in delight, cheering and hollering at the sight. MK takes his chance to separate them, hooking his arm around Macaque’s, pulling the pained monkey demon along much quicker than he was moving before.

“Come on, come on! The food is gonna get cold if you two don’t hurry up! And! Y/N told me that there’s something special just for the two of you! Cause, y’know… when I asked if I could invite you both, they asked me what sort of stuff you liked, and I told ‘em about the whole ‘peaches and plums’ thing…”

Bringing up food seems to have been a decent enough distraction, as both of them choose to start moving along instead of fighting. Your house is already on the horizon. Now he just has to hope that another fight doesn’t break out between the rival demons.

As usual, life dashes his hopes of peace being anything more than a temporary lull.

“Yeah? Like how peaches are just about the best thing ever? And how everyone that isn’t crazy likes ‘em one way or another?”

“About how sweet-toothed meatheads can’t help but shovel them down whole? Those sort of people don’t have the brain to enjoy plums. Peaches are just sweet. Plums have a subtle astringent skin that mixes well with the flesh’s mellow sweetness.”

“Sure thing, old man. Go home and eat your prunes if ya like ‘em so much.”

“They are NOT-“

“Guys! We’re here!” Before they can argue any further, MK releases Macaque’s arm and rushes up to the door of your house. “Hurry up and come inside!”

He takes a moment to consider knocking, then grabs the doorknob and impatiently starts rattling it instead. To his delight, it’s already unlocked. A quick glance over his shoulder shows that both of his companions remain in their transformed state, tails safely tucked into their clothing.

He throws the door open and races inside, leaving the monkeys in the dust.

Just barely remembering to take off his shoes before he tears through the halls of your house without hesitation, he throws them aside near the door in a still-tied heap.

He follows a practiced path straight into the kitchen, finding you just as you remove a plate of pork-stuffed spring rolls from the oven. You set them down on the countertop to cool, then turn to face the very-expected intruder. You might’ve been surprised, if it wasn’t for his excited footsteps echoing through the house.

MK runs into your arms before you can even pull the oven mitts off, wrapping you up in a warm hug. For just a moment, it gives you the same feeling as coming home after a long day, cozy and inviting.

Then, his grip grows tight.

“I missed you,” he says, his voice quiet and low. “Invite me over more often. Or come to Pigsy’s and visit me, at least. Please.”

His grip tightens further.

And then he lets go of you, turning to face his two companions, neither of which you recognize. He waves them into the kitchen and moves to set the table.

Politely, you offer the first one your hand. He’s decked out in shining gold and exuberant red, like a brighter and flashier MK. “It’s nice to meet you! I’m glad you came to celebrate with me. Come and take a seat!”

He snags your hand between both of his own, giving it a firm pump. “It’s great to meet ya, bud! Thanks for having us!” He heads to the table and bounces on his heels, snatching up a seat for himself before anyone else gets the chance.

You smile and turn to MK’s other friend, the one dressed in a billowing black and red shroud that concealed most of his face and body. You offer him your hand as well.

He shrugs and walks right past you, sitting down at the opposite side of the table- probably to keep away from his colorful and loud companion.

MK frowns at his friend’s behavior, but turns back to you with a wide and rather forced smile. “Don’t worry about him. He’s just… not used to this.” His voice drops to a low whisper as he adds: “And his ears have been hurting all day. I think he’s getting grumpy.”

“I can hear you, kid,” the irritated man says from beneath his shroud. “There’s a reason that I’m called the S-”

“The SUPER SENSITIVE hearing guy, I know! The thing that all of your friends call you,” MK clumsily tries to lie, his ears and cheeks darkening to red with his poor attempt at deceiving you.

But before you can question him on it, his golden-clad friend pipes in with a snide: “He’s certainly sensitive, I’ll give him that.”

Outright chaos is only abated by the sharp click that sounds when you set a porcelain tray on the polished quartz surface of the table.

“MK told me about your favorite fruits, actually! So I stayed up late to make these for all of you,” you cheerily announce to the trio, lifting the delicate lid to reveal three plates of sticky-rice pudding. Each one is delicately drizzled with syrup sugar and studded in tiers with sweet fruits.

Your friend jumps forward, his palms hitting the table as he stares at you with wide-eyes. “Y/N! You made Eight Treasures Rice for us?!”

“Well, it’s more like ‘One Treasure Rice’, haha. It’s really only got the fruit in it, actually. I didn’t wanna put anything you guys didn’t like in there, so I decided to play it safe. I hope that’s not disappointing!”

“Not at all, bud! Not at all!” Several of his aureate accessories glint in the light as the man reaches eagerly for the peach-filled rice pudding.

You pass it to him with a smile, then give MK his own, stuffed full of tangerine slices. With only one left, you push the plum-packed dessert to the shrouded stranger, who seems to slightly brighten up at the sight of it.

Before anyone can say anything, you remove yourself from the table and hurry around the kitchen, gathering plates and utensils for the trio. You put them out quickly, then pile all the dishes you made in the morning onto the table.

“Good kid,” Wukong whispers to Macaque, picking bits of peach from the pudding as you arrange two plates of dumplings on the table. “And good food. Still regret coming, ‘Super Sensitive’?”

“…the kid’s alright. Jury’s still out on the food, though.” He pauses, taking a quick moment to think of something to criticize Wukong for. “And keep your tail under control. I can see the tip flicking back and forth in your pant leg.”

“Whatever you say, bud.”

A tray with a whole braised chicken is set between them, and a platter of steamed rice flour cakes after it. Finally, you take your own seat, next to the shrouded man and across from MK.

It strikes you then that you haven’t even learned the names of your guests.

“I’m Y/N, by the way! I’m sorry for not asking your names earlier! What should I call you?”

“The name’s Sun, bud! And that’s Mac, sitting in the edgy robe.”

“I like the robe,” you compliment politely, looking at the concealing garment. “The cloud embroidery is a nice touch.”

“It’s a cloak… and thanks.”

MK jumps forward in excitement and strikes his palms against the table, rattling the bowls and dishes.

“C‘mon! Let’s eat, everyone!

———————————————————————

“I think everything went well, today. You think so too, right?”

You set the knife down, turning to face ‘Sun’. As you cut up the leftovers, he’s sorting them into separate containers for everyone to take home. (And giving himself larger portions when you weren’t looking.)

“Definitely! I think my, uh… friend was pretty impressed. I hope we can do this again, Y/N! I don’t really have anything scheduled this time of year…like, ever.”

Except for watching fireworks from the top of his mountain, far away from company and civilization. Again and again, over and over, thinking only of his long-passed friends and companions.

“…we are going to do it again, right?”

“Oh, um, sure. I don’t see why not. My family doesn’t really come and visit, so I’ll probably have the house empty again next year. So, um… yes! I’d be happy to have you over!

He hums softly, nodding his head to your words.

“Sounds good, bud. I’ll be there. And… I’ll see if I can wrangle Mac into coming, too. Maybe just to see him jump at fireworks again, though.”

“He seemed interesting,” you graciously offer of the cloaked man, in spite of his admittedly poor behavior through dinner. “I enjoyed his stories.”

“Pfft! I could’ve told them better- I was there for most of them!”

“Well, the two of you should come again- MK seemed happy- more than usual, even. Honestly? I think he’s been stressed out lately… I’m glad he could have a day to relax. I really do need to visit him more often.”

“Huh. Guess it must be a little hard living so far from the city, bud. Any reason you’re this far out?”

“Oh, that’s… I inherited this house- and the orchard outside- from my parents, actually! I take a lot of pride in it, really. I wouldn’t trade it for the world, even if the work is a little lonely.”

“…I think I will come visit, then. And I might sample a few of your fruits, too,” he teases, lightly elbowing your side. “You think you can handle that, bud?”

“…you know what, Sun?” Sun, what he had informed you his name was. It fits him well. He’s bright and exuberant, and never stops smiling. He seems like he’d be a good friend.

“That- that sounds really nice. Come by anytime you’d like.”

Your words sound kind right now. They feel right to say. The Great Sage thinks so too.

And he’s certainly not going to forget about them. Neither will Macaque, listening in from the shadows beside your tangerine trees.

Why would they ever let go of this kindness?

[estinininininen]

Varshahn:

Estinien:

Varshahn:

Estinien: . . . So, those are dragon scales.

Varshahn: yeah what about it HUH

Estinien: Did y'all . . . ?

Varshahn: . . . imprison or kill a dragon to get them like SOME countries would? No.

Estinien:

Estinien: ok cool

Varshahn: cool

Estinien: Good.

Varshahn: Good.

Estinien is then kidnapped by the Thavnair alchemists, complaining loudly the whole way, and no one knows if he's putting up with it cause Scion duties and this is just how he plays nice - he bitched all the way to Hraesvelgr, after all - or if he genuinely just forgot he could jump

Meanwhile, in the meghaduta

Vrtra: hey Ahewann cancel DEFCON 1, this guy is cool. Total softy. Also kind of a dumbass. Of course I'll be glad to help clean up, I'm not going to make the maids clean up dragon piss. Ahem. Did I ever tell you about my brother Nidhogg? Yeah, the one I've avoided answering for a thousand years. Uh, well, yeah the dramatic asshole who went off the deep end, yes. Him. Too be fair it was about our sister, Ratatoskr - yeah, oh I'm actually really glad you remember what I said about her! She was a lot like . . . No, it's fine to interrupt, I got lost in memories for a second there. Ummmm, yes, I suppose it has influenced why I . . . hestitate telling everyone I'm the satrap. But Nidhogg took it way too far, yeah. He used to be a cool big brother, I swear. Knew how to get under everyone's skin, didn't put up with bullshit, but let kids climb all over him if it made them happy. Whenever I visited he was always swarmed by his own kids and all his niblings, and teaching them how to hunt and defend themselves against morta - Oh, but that was a couple Astral eras ago, sorry. Turns out Tiamat and Hraesvelgr weren't joking - yeah my other sister, Tiamat, the one who went into battle recently with this guy against, uh, yeah, the corrupted image of another brother of ours. Bahamut, yeah - yeah. The one who almost destroyed a continent, yes. Hraesvelgr? Hraesvelgr's our other brother who lived with Nidhogg for a long time - yyyyeah yeah you heard right, last time they met Nidhogg did call his dead mortal wife a whore and tore Hrae's wing off. Anyway! Anyway they were right, this guy really is like if you sucked all the filling out of a Nidhogg donut and tried to squish it into an Elezen. Yeah, sorry, that is the closest I can get to describing dragon aether stuff. Is he . . . yeah he's the guy who technically killed Nidhogg and spent his whole life training to kill dragons but like I just said, Nidhogg smooshed the two of them together. He's all but a dragon walking around in a mortal meat suit and seems mostly just embarassed by it. Kiiiinda looking forward to messing with his head more, honestly. Let's get the curtain ready. Ahewann, why do you look so scared?

[zapreportsblog]

Reader had always had a crush on Randy. She knew he had a crush on Sidney, and would rather have him in her life as a friend than not at all. After the massacre, she went to the hospital, scared that he was mortally wounded. After he came out of surgery she sat by his bedside until he woke up. Without thinking, she kissed him in relief, expecting him to be upset and for things to be awkward.

❝wounded❞

✭ pairing : randy meeks x reader

✭ fandom : slashers

✭ summary : (y/n) has a crush on Randy who likes Sidney which makes their friendship dynamic complicated, but after the massacre that had taken place at Stu’s party  only than does (y/n) confess

✭ authors note : honestly I’ve been too high these past days to write lol

✭ slashers masterlist

(Y/N) had always been a quiet, observant person. She spent most of her time buried in books or lost in her own thoughts. But lately, there was one thought that had taken root in her mind and refused to let go - her crush on Randy Meeks.

Randy was the kind of guy who could make anyone laugh with his quick wit and movie trivia knowledge. He was the heart of their little group of friends, and (Y/N) cherished every moment they spent together. There was just one problem - Randy had his eyes set on someone else, Sidney Prescott.

Sidney was the epitome of beauty and brains, with her stunning looks and sharp intelligence. It was no surprise that Randy had fallen for her. They would often engage in animated discussions about horror movies, and (Y/N) couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy every time she saw them together.

Despite her own feelings, (Y/N) couldn't bring herself to admit her crush to anyone, not even her closest friends. She valued her friendship with Randy too much to risk ruining it by revealing her true feelings. So, she kept her emotions hidden, locked away in the depths of her heart.

One evening, as the group gathered at Stu's house for a movie night, (Y/N) found herself sitting next to Randy on the couch. Her heart raced as he leaned in to whisper something about the movie they were about to watch, his warm breath sending shivers down her spine.

She smiled and nodded, trying her best to focus on the film. But with Randy so close, it was nearly impossible to ignore the turmoil of emotions swirling inside her. She stole glances at him when she thought no one was looking, savoring every moment of their shared company.

As the night wore on, (Y/N) couldn't help but wonder if there would ever be a chance for her and Randy. Would he ever see her as more than just a friend? Or would she forever be relegated to the shadows, silently nursing her unrequited crush?

For now, (Y/N) was content to keep her feelings hidden, choosing to cherish their friendship and support Randy's pursuit of Sidney from afar. But deep down, she couldn't help but hope that one day, the stars would align in her favor, and Randy would see her in a different light. Until then, she would continue to hide her heart, a secret love she dared not share with anyone.

The days passed after the movie night at Stu's house, and (Y/N) found herself in a constant battle with her own emotions. Her crush on Randy Meeks seemed to grow stronger with each passing day, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to hide her feelings.

One sunny afternoon, (Y/N) received a text message from Stu. It read, "Hey, party at my place this Saturday night! You in?" She stared at her phone for a moment, excitement and anxiety warring within her. A party at Stu's house was always a blast, but it also meant facing the reality of seeing Randy and Sidney together.

She sighed and typed back, "I wish I could, Stu, but I've got to work late that night. Have fun though!" It was a half-truth. While she did have a job, (Y/N) could have easily rearranged her schedule if she wanted to attend the party. But she couldn't bear the thought of being there, watching Randy dote on Sidney all evening.

The response came quickly, "Aw, too bad! We'll miss you. Next time then!" Stu was always understanding, and (Y/N) appreciated that he didn't press further.

As the weekend approached, (Y/N) couldn't help but feel a sense of regret mixed with relief. She knew that attending the party would have been a chance to spend more time with Randy, but it would also have meant witnessing the affection between him and Sidney up close. The pain of unrequited love was something she wasn't ready to confront just yet.

On the night of the party, as (Y/N) worked late, she couldn't help but wonder what was happening at Stu's house. She imagined the laughter, the music, and the joyful chaos that always accompanied their gatherings. And, of course, she couldn't help but wonder if Randy was making Sidney laugh, sharing popcorn, or discussing their favorite horror films.

As the hours passed, (Y/N) focused on her work, trying to distract herself from the party she had chosen to miss. Deep down, she knew it was the right decision for now. She needed to protect her heart and maintain her friendship with Randy, even if it meant sacrificing her own desires.

Little did (Y/N) know that the events of the party would have far-reaching consequences, ones that would change their lives in ways they could never have imagined.

The morning sun streamed through (Y/N)'s office window, casting a warm glow on her desk. She had spent the previous night working late, oblivious to the unfolding tragedy at Stu's party. As she sipped her coffee and scrolled through her news feed during a break, her heart plummeted at the shocking headlines.

"Massacre at Local House Party - Multiple Dead, Killers Identified"

Her trembling fingers clicked on the article, revealing a gruesome tale of terror. It described how two masked figures, later identified as Stu and Billy, had gone on a killing spree during the party, dressed as the infamous Ghostface. The article listed the victims, many of whom were her friends.

Panic and grief overwhelmed (Y/N) as she read on, absorbing the horrifying details of the massacre. Sidney Prescott had miraculously survived the ordeal, having faced down and defeated her attackers. Tears welled up in (Y/N)'s eyes as she realized how close she had come to being at the party.

Without a second thought, she abandoned her work, frantically grabbed her things, and rushed to the hospital. She had to know if her friends were okay, especially Randy, who had already occupied a special place in her heart.

Upon arriving at the hospital, (Y/N) found herself in a sea of chaos. Worried family members and friends congregated in the waiting area, all seeking information about their loved ones. She approached the reception desk and inquired about Randy Meeks. The nurse informed her that he had undergone surgery but was in stable condition.

With relief flooding through her, (Y/N) rushed to Randy's room. Her heart pounded with a mixture of emotions - fear, relief, and an overwhelming urge to see him safe and sound. When she entered the room, she found Randy lying in a hospital bed, his face pale and bandaged.

"Randy!" (Y/N) exclaimed, unable to contain her emotions. She rushed to his bedside, her eyes brimming with tears of relief.

Randy turned his head toward her voice, a weak smile forming on his lips. "Hey, (Y/N)," he whispered, his voice hoarse from the surgery. "I didn't expect to see you here."

(Y/N) couldn't hold back any longer. The fear and worry, the relief of seeing him alive, and the pent-up feelings she had hidden for so long all surged to the surface. Without hesitation, she leaned in and kissed him, taking him completely by surprise.

Randy's eyes widened for a moment, and then he responded to her kiss with a gentle warmth that mirrored her feelings. It was a kiss filled with relief, gratitude, and the revelation of their true emotions.

As they pulled away, (Y/N) looked into Randy's eyes, her heart racing. "I'm just glad you're okay," she whispered, her voice trembling.

Randy smiled, his fingers gently brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Me too," he said, his eyes filled with a newfound understanding.

In the wake of the tragedy, amidst the horror and chaos, (Y/N) and Randy had discovered a connection that ran deeper than friendship. Their unspoken feelings had finally found a voice, and together, they would face the challenges and uncertainties that lay ahead.

[basilthesnakingthing]

Woah, okay, that’s a lot! I love it! I actually like to think that Romeo didn’t have a terrible home life but his parents didn’t exactly know what to do with him all the time? I just think that he clearly has Narcissistic Personality Disorder (maybe bipolar too, now that you mentioned mood swings? I don’t know the symptoms of that one well enough to say I think so) and realistically, you get that from a general lack of validation that leaves you anxiously trying to fish for it out of anyone you think you can, which leads to the other things. Cartoonishly abusive parents and everything would be a great source of angst in some circumstances, but here it kind of comes across as trying to justify his behavior with ‘sad backstory go brtrrr.’ Not that I’m saying you’re trying to do that.

I actually headcanon the opposite about his size and stuff! I don’t even hold back. He is short. Almost as small as Jesse who often gets mistaken for a child from behind! But he also does have muscles. Like, have you ever watched Technoblade’s MCSM 2 run? That man has all the same opinions as Romeo, the whole time Techno was saying that the Admin’s takes on everything were super based. That is the kind of person who comes to the conclusions that Romeo has. I like to think that - at least when he was mortal - Romeo actually did have what it would take to be his own champion. The type of guy who can take five people, almost at once, armed with only a pickax. I don’t know about now that he’s been an admin for milena, but the fact that he made level six hundred of the thing back in Romeoburg suggests that he still like - keeps up with doing that sort of thing.He looks really . . . capable in my art of him. I agree that without having felt gravity for so long, he definitely has atrophied tho.

Back before when the underneath was not underneath, he didn’t really pay all that much attention to Romeoburg. He prefers smaller groups of people where individuals can give him attention in more focused doses. This is where the champion thing came from! He would hold a competition in Romeoburg every few months where anyone who wanted to could vie to become his little human friend. There would be trials and puzzles and it was super fun, like a cultural festival thing they had. And whoever won would be the little Guy that Romeo personally trained and sent on quests. At first it was really popular and even people from the Oasis and Fred’s Keep would travel to be a part of it! But then as time went on, Romeo started to get more aggressive with his champions. Some of them would get killed. He didn’t treat this as nearly a big a deal as he should have according to the citizens, and this caused him to lose popularity. But people were scared of him more and more, so they tried to act like they weren’t. But he could tell something was wrong and it began to agitate his insatiable insecurity. This is when he begins to realize that he hasn’t spent time with the other admins in a while. They have their own problems, they’re drifting apart. He’s scared, like “cornered prey animal” flavor. But that would be an affront to his dignity to see himself that way, and instead he plays it that he’s angry.

Cut to like, two years later, and he’s been causing problems for attention and generally being a nuisance because he is a whole twelve year old in an admin’s body. Probably ADHD too, I didn’t mention it earlier cause it’s genetic, not a thing you get from trauma. Fred - the mature one - suspects the reason for this and doesn’t hold it against him. He decides that he’s going to try to reconcile with him, but if that’s not possible, Romeo’s behavior is not acceptable. He can’t be trusted with power if he’s going to act like that.

But Romeo is still in self defense mode. They get into an argument. He starts making threats. I like to think that Fred did everything right in this situation, there was just no way that it was going to turn out well. Fred gets ready to use the golden gauntlet, but Romeo gets a hold of it first. Now Fred doesn’t have powers anymore. A lull happens. (This might seem very specific, but I had a vision.) Fred tries to speak, and Romeo - forgetting that he would be fragile now and can die - throws him against a wall. That’s how Fred dies. It’s an accident. He didn’t mean to. He realizes what he’s done and has a panic attack. He can’t fix it. He didn’t mean to. He didn’t mean to. Xara walks in on this and is horrified. Romeo tries to explain that it was an accident, he didn’t realize, but she attacks him anyway. It’s not okay that he did this by accident, do you understand? That doesn’t make it better. And so he takes her powers too, in panicked self defense. He grabs her - but Fred’s death forced him to see the gravity of how he’s acting just a little bit. He uses that little bit of lucidity to refrain from hurting her and just teleport her away. He makes a memorial for Fred in the garden by the old cabin. The cabin that he could never fully move away from. He breaks down sobbing there and manages to calm down a bit. But then he remembers that consequences exist. He’s going to have to face Fred’s people. He’s going to have to face Xara. He can’t do it, he can’t go and explain what happened, he can’t look her in the eyes, he can’t. So instead he just makes a new world on top of the old one, locks Xara away, and never looks back. He doesn’t have to think about it. It’s fine. I’m making an animatic about this!

Losing his powers basically just forced him to face the gravity of everything he’s done again, but without the safety net. He can NOT run anymore. And he gets exactly what he needed this whole time: accountability. Part of having narcissistic tendencies is having a tendency toward self hatred. (Hence the extreme need for praise and admiration constantly.) The whole “empty worthless cake” bit is exactly in line with what you would expect. He never had confidence to begin with. If he does have a positive arc going forward, it would be about learning how to convert guilt into action. Like Jono from Cinema Therapy always says! Your guilt either needs to have a goal, to fix a relationship or to fix something, or you need to let it go and stop pushing yourself. That doesn’t help anyone. I’m honestly so invested in that arc that we’re never going to get to see.

I’ve also always loved the headcanon that after he lost his powers he would have a sketchbook full of fantasy mobs that he comes up with, or ridiculously ambitious plans for mini games he would build and landscapes he would terraform if only he had the resources and patience. If you wanted to hear my headcanons back

And on another note, please ramble about my favorite character Romeo and any headcanons you have about him

The silly Bri'ish man? Well, better strap in, imma ramble your ear- no, that doesn't make sense... imma ramble your eyes out??

Whatever, god. Where do I start?

TW for an abusive family near the end. if that makes you uncomfortable, don't read it because I don't want to make anyone uncomfortable. I will put a "keep reading" tab to make it easier to avoid.

I do see Romeo as a little skinnier than Xara and Fred, purely for the sake that he definitely relies on his powers a little too much. I mean, we see that in the game, he rarely isn't flying around and using teleportation. So with that, not only would I imagine he is thinner but also most definitely has very soft hands, and hands that are quite small compared to his partners, Xara and Fred. Though he kinda looks like a twink when I draw him with his cunty little poses and clothes, which was NOT intended. Sorry, Romeo..

I definitely think he hates feeling small. He isn't short in my head, compared to most characters, he is an average height, taller than most. But when it comes to taller characters like Axel, Aiden, Mevia, Xara or Fred, he looks small and he hates it. Especially compared to Xara and Fred because he only comes up to their shoulders. It's why I imagine he flies all the time, so he can be higher above people and feel big. Though there is a "good" small, as I would describe it, which is specifically when he is cuddled up against Fred and Xara. Feeling small in a more protected and loved way rather than a weak and vulnerable way.

I do imagine he is a bit insecure, which is related to his shit family, and will get defensive and snappy when someone points it out. He would probably struggle with saying "sorry" too, especially with the ego he has to almost protect himself. Romeo has this strange thing where he wants people around but also tends to push them away at the same time, which only further affects his mental state.

Like, you can't tell me Romeo is perfectly mentally well, he is quite unpredictable and definitely has mood swings all the time. Kinda like a cat but worse, he might be grumpy and not want to be touched but all of a sudden, he's draped over Fred and Xara, demanding cuddles. Though I imagine he can be a bit of a tease too, finding fun in playing little games.

After losing his powers, he definitely lost his confidence too. After all, he felt that his powers were all he had and was all that was important about him, which creates the little wet pathetic mess he becomes. But he doesn't stay like that, after a lot of time and healing, I'd imagine that confident, very close to arrogant personality of his would come back but not so... horrible? Is that the right word? I'd imagine Xara wouldn't mind putting him in his place though if he tried anything stupid. In my mind, I have an Admin oc called Amy who helps revive Fred, so the three are back together and healing with each other.

But like I said, even after they rebuild their relationship with each other or how much they love each other, she wouldn't hesitate to suplex him if he acted up. Then again, she would have done that before!

Gotta love him, even though he definitely does have tantrums. But for some reason, it works so well with a power hungry Admin who definitely has a problem with being too controlling. Which I created a whole backstory to explain why he feels the need to be in control. I'll get into that now.

I wrote about this in an AO3 fic but not in lots of detail. I see him as someone who was born into a family with brown hair and green eyes, so his unusual red hair and blue eyes are quite strange. But his family, instead of being normal and just going "Oh, cool. You have bright hair and eyes" they are dicks instead, using his differences to call him a disappointment or a freak. Though his family aren't the best, if it wasn't apparent. The parents are quite controlling, which is where I derive his need to be in control from. Trauma, put simply.

And, unfortunately, most of his relatives let themselves be basically molded into carbon copies of his parents and are quite horrible towards him, going as far as forcing his head under water before laughing at him when they let go. Though a young Alex and Steve protects him a few times when they saw it. His parents tried forcing him to dye his hair and wear contacts, which at first he refuses but eventually, once broken down, yields.

Upon seeing this, Alex and Steve are worried and Alex, being the hothead she is, goes to shout at the parents though Steve manages to calm her and instead get him away from the family, offering him a place to stay with them. A least a year goes by, and he'll be around sixteen and his red hair has grown out again. His parents find the place and the confrontation leads to him running away and meeting Fred and Xara.

[inkheartedwanderer]

please, let me get what i want || e.m.

(lord knows it would be the first time) 

in which the wounds of the heart hurt more than those of the flesh, but they’re easier to fix

based on this song

eddie x reader.

content: post S4 (super minor spoilers), eddie survives, mentions of death and blood, this is mostly eddie’s headspace, i guess? pining, jealousy and insecurities. i just really want to give this guy a hug.

word count: 3k

Eddie Munson doesn’t consider himself a religious person. He’s dealt with too much shit in his short life to really care about whether there’s a higher power somewhere in the universe or not. If anything, he’d say he’s always been left to his own devices, so fuck whoever’s supposed to be looking after him. Theological matters are not something he’s ever been particularly concerned about, anyways. 

Having spent the last ten days bound to a hospital bed, however, Eddie’s had plenty of time to reflect on his pathetic existence and the string of unfortunate events that have led him to this situation. In these ten days, he’s thought about his parents more often than he has in the last ten years -his father leaving for good after being in and out of prison for months, his mother’s untimely passing when he was too young to understand she was never coming back, and the sharp pain that floods his chest if he dwells on the thought of them for too long. He’s thought about Wayne, constantly taking extra shifts at the plant so he could put food on the table, and how he’s repaid him by failing senior year once, and then a second time. A triple-senior loser drug dealer, always being too much -too loud, too weird, too freakish-, but never enough. Not attractive enough, not smart enough, definitely not rich enough.

He’s also thought about death, and how closely he tasted it. The harrowing tangibility of his own mortality, sticking to his skin until he was coated in it, until he couldn’t breathe, washing over him like a tidal wave. He’s thought about Chrissy, and Patrick, and Nancy’s friend Fred, who weren’t as lucky as him. About how scared he was when Dustin found him, choking on his own blood, scared of dying, of dying alone, scared of what was waiting for him, scared that he wasn’t seeing any holy light amidst the darkness and he was supposed to, right? 

And all he feels right now is guilt, because he’s thought about all of that and still, the main object of his musings the last ten days has been you. That’s why he’s considering that surely there must be some kind of deity, that there must be a heaven somewhere, because you’re an angel.

Soft in the way you speak and in the way you move, delicate when you touch him, Eddie still can’t believe that you’re not a figment of his imagination. In this aseptic limbo, the best part of his dreary days is getting to spend time with you. You, sweet as sugar, lovely as can be, arriving with the early morning light and leaving at nightfall when someone else forces you to go home and get some rest. 

You didn’t even have it in you to pretend to be mad at him when he woke up, disoriented and confused, covered in bandages, every inch of his body sore and in pain. “You scared me half to death, Munson,” you’d said, looking at him through teary lashes, “don’t ever go playing the hero again, please.” It was a whispered imploration, so gently spoken that he could only nod his head yes.

He’d do anything you asked him to.

Ever since he met you, there’s a strange new feeling nestled in the pit of his stomach, or maybe just above, by his heart, and Eddie can’t quite put a name to it, can’t make sense of it, because he didn’t know who you were two weeks ago.

The feeling is warm and light, a comfortable weight in his chest that blooms in flowers and vibrates through his bones when you walk in the room, when you sit by his side and quietly start talking to him. About nothing, about everything -news about Max, who’s doing better by the day; a book or movie or song you like and think Eddie will enjoy too, the puppy that came up to you that morning on your way to the hospital-, whatever crosses your mind is good. And he listens willingly. He likes hearing your voice and its cadence, he likes how everything you say seems deliberate and how your smile shines through your words.

He felt it first in the cold, humid boathouse, as you sat side by side on the wooden floor for two days, your leg pressed against his and both of you scared to death. Eddie found solace in your company, in how you chose to stay with him even though you had, quite literally, just met him.

“We’re not leaving him here alone, Steve.” You’d said, an unexpected determination settling in the frown between your eyebrows.

And you didn’t, even though Steve tried to dissuade you and Max and Robin shared a worried look. You stayed, and told him things would be alright. You sat down next to him and let him hurt in silence when he needed to, and vent when his thoughts became too much. 

You stayed, you sat and you listened to him without judgement, and suddenly you were looking out the window as the sun set outside, and your face was painted in shades of gold and lilac and Eddie had never seen anything quite as beautiful as you.

Minutes blended into hours and lighthearted comments turned into lengthy conversations inside that boathouse. In the rare times Eddie felt safe enough to let his guard down, his usual playful demeanour surfaced. Somehow, you found his knack for the dramatic hilarious, and countered his witty remarks with your own, good-natured and sprightly, with just the right amount of mischief to keep up with him.

The feeling blossomed in his heart and took shelter between his ribs, a nice kind of ache, one Eddie wasn’t used to, but that felt strangely familiar, as if he had been born to feel it, to find you, to know you. Damn his fantasy books and their promise of adventure and true love, and damn those metal songs for tricking him into thinking freaks like him could find the one, too.

But it grows heavy sometimes, a lead blanket that weighs him down and makes him feel vulnerable, minuscule. When his insecurities take over, it’s easy to believe the darkness that clouds his brain, his own voice humming harsh cruelties, reminding him of everything that he is -loud, weird, a freak- and everything he’s not -not enough, never enough, and not Steve fucking Harrington.

How could he ever compete if he doesn’t even compare?

Although you’ve mentioned before that Steve’s like the brother you’ve never had, it’s hard for Eddie not to read too much into the way he looks at you, or how easy it is for him to reach out and touch you, how easy it is for you to lean into it, and just how fucking much Eddie wants to be the one by your side… well, at all times.

Like right now.

It’s late. Eddie’s not sure exactly how late, but the sky outside is the colour of dark blue ink, splattered with stars, and the rusty orange glow of the streetlamps is casting shadows across the floor of his hospital room. He’s just woken up from a long nap, one of the many his body demands every day (who knew that almost dying would be so exhausting?) and the chair beside his bed is empty, your jacket draped over its back, your perfume lingering in the air.

He sighs deeply, eyes closed, sinking against the pillow. There’s an ache in his bones that doesn’t seem to go away despite all the painkillers the doctors have put him on, and it clings to him like the cold in the room. He’s tired and he’s cranky, it’s hard not to be when inhaling feels like breathing fire and he’s only allowed to get out of bed to go to the toilet; even harder when he looks out the ajar door and sees you, leaning against the wall next to Steve, eyes closed, your head on his shoulder.

The boy’s hands are respectfully tucked between his legs, and his gaze is trained on the floor. You are muttering to one another in low voices that Eddie can’t make out, but you look exhausted. Harrington, of course, looks straight out of a magazine with perfect hair and fancy clothes.

Eddie stares forlornly, eyebrows furrowed and pouting lips. He wishes more than anything to be the one to ease the worry on your face, the one you go to for support, for company, for advice. Still, the weight in his ribcage and the lump in his throat are too heavy to call your name, tell you to come and sit, tell you that he’ll let you rest your head on his shoulder and he’ll even hold your hand, ask you to please let him.

It’s a sensation he knows all too well, the bitter resentment of feeling like the second, third, last, worse choice. He’s good at pushing and pushing it down until it becomes nothing but a dark smudge at the back of his mind. This time, though, it poisons him from within until it’s all he tastes in his mouth.

And the worst part is he can’t even hate Steve. He’s been kind to Eddie. He helped him get out of the trailer park alive, he’s come to keep him company every other day, and he’s actually a pretty nice dude. Could he really blame you if you fell in love with Steve? He doesn’t believe so, but his throat constricts at the thought.

But as if you could read his mind, you open your eyes and find his gaze with yours. Suddenly, the sullen expression is gone from your face, the corners of your mouth are curving upwards and you're moving away from Steve and into the room.

"Hey, you're awake!" Your voice is soft, barely a loud whisper, and the dim light from the hall obscures your silhouette for a fraction of a second as you rush through the door and plop down on the worn-out chair by his side.

Eddie doesn’t miss the way your hand falls to rest on the bed, close to his own, twin sets of fingers twitching, tips tingling, eager for contact. He doesn’t dare move, but he looks up at you and you’re wearing the sweetest smile he’s ever seen in his life, the type of smile he’s never felt worthy of receiving.

His voice is hoarse with sleep and stuck emotions when he mutters, “Yeah, hi. You’re here.” The boy gasps when he feels the gentle touch of your fingers on the back of his hand, drawing circles and waves that ripple through his blood and tint his cheeks pink. Your smile widens, becomes softer, and your eyes mirror the look in his, shiny with unspoken affection.

“I’m gonna go see Max and then I’m out.” Steve, leaning against the rails of the bed, throws a thumb over his shoulder and nods his head at you. “You sure you don’t want me to drive you home?”

You shake your head no and tuck your hand in Eddie’s, and he swears he sees the sparks flying where his skin and yours touch. “I’m staying here tonight if that’s alright with you.” A gentle pressure of your fingers brings Eddie’s attention back to your eyes. “Is it?”

He nods, the most subtle movement, almost a blink-and-you-miss-it gesture, but enough for you to chuckle and tell your friend to go.

“Alright then,” Steve pats Eddie on the shoulder, more gently than anyone would expect from him, that fervent need to look after people shining through, so characteristically Steve, Eddie has learned, “you take care of each other, yeah? I’ll swing by tomorrow.”

And, with a soft smile, he leaves without waiting for an answer, leaving you two alone. A comfortable silence fills the room, one you’re both used to by now, as you stand and move around the space, placing your backpack on the windowsill, getting ready to spend the night by Eddie’s side. His skin still feels the ghost of your hand over his, its absence an emptiness that he yearns to fill again.

"You don't have to stay, you know that, right?" He whispers, the remnants of his jealousy still burning on his tongue, words fighting against his own willpower when he speaks next. “You should go home and get some rest. Go find Steve, go home.”

“Don’t be silly,” you reply, mirroring his tone but softer, sweeter, oozing a kindness Eddie’s not sure he’s earned. “I want to stay. Plus, I had a great nap earlier today.” 

Eddie doesn’t understand why you’re so nice to him all the time, but he’s not about to argue. He falls silent, looking up at the ceiling as you sit down, bend your arms and lean on the edge of the bed. He can feel your eyes studying his face carefully, blinking slowly, and your lips turning upwards.

“Do you remember when we were hiding in Skull Rock?” You say, sitting down and bringing your knees to your chest.

“Yeah.” Eddie frowns. The memories of his days on the run are the most unwelcome ones.

Soaked and tired, covered in mud and sticky leaves, you sat side by side under the solid protection of the rock. Eddie was trying hard not to cry, not in front of you. It would’ve been the cherry on top of the cake, and the last thing he needed was to embarrass himself further.

He leaned his head against the stone and willed himself to calm down. He then looked at you through pinched eyebrows, calling your name softly. “I’m sorry.”

You rubbed your clammy cheek with the back of your hand and shrugged. “This is not your fault, Eddie.” It hurt to see the pained expression on the boy’s brown eyes, their usual sweetness replaced by pure despair, their spark gone.

“But it is.” The boy shut his eyes tight and ran a dirty hand through his hair. It felt gross, messy and knotted. “I’m sorry that you’re stuck with me. This sucks. I’m sorry.”

A cold hand wrapped around his, pulling it away from his face, and you were looking at him with so much resolve he almost fell backwards. “Eddie, I said I’d stay with you and I meant it. And I’d do it again, alright? I’ll be damned if I let you go through this alone. Okay?”

Eddie blinked and you blinked back at him. Your next words cut through the cold air of the early dawn like a knife, an arrow straight to his heart. “I’m not going anywhere, I promise.”

Your eyes now are softer than they were that night, but the conviction shining on them is just as firm, exuding reassurance and affection just for him, an affection you’ve never felt for anyone before but the boy in front of you earned in a matter of hours. “My word still stands.”

No, Eddie Munson is not a religious person, but later tonight, when he wakes up after a vivid nightmare, he looks at your figure, curled up on that ugly, uncomfortable chair, so close to him that he can hear your soft breathing, so close he could caress your cheek if he reached out; and then he looks at the clear dark sky behind you, and the million shiny stars that frame you, rings of diamonds with you at the centre, and then Eddie whispers a quiet prayer, a humble plea, a wish for only him and the quiet of the night to know. 

He asks for you to stay, once again, to stay as you have before, like you said you would; he pleads to keep the one good thing that's come out of this nightmare, the best thing that's happened to him in a long time, maybe ever. 

Eddie Munson calls to the gods, the ones people talk about on the street and the ones he knows from his books and his games, and he confronts them -his life is a mess, where are they, where have they been all this time- and bargains -they owe him, they owe him this one thing, this wish that's hidden like a secret in his heart-, and whispers your name like a sacred prayer, very low and very carefully, cherishing every letter, kissing them as the air leaves his lips.

And he truly thinks you can read his mind, there must be a connection between you two, because your eyes flutter open, and they gleam in the faint light that creeps under the closed door when you look at him, and your mouth curves upwards in that sweet way you save for only him.

You look so lovely, with your hair tousled and your cheeks apple pink, so sweet in your big clothes that seem to swallow you whole -in his sleepy state, it takes him a second to realise you’re wearing an old black hoodie of his-, that Eddie feels his heart skip a beat, and two and three. It’s overwhelming, really, how much he likes someone he’s just met, someone he barely knows. It’s worse when he notices you’re looking at him the way he’s looking at you.

The chair scrapes the floor when you pull it closer to his bed, and you lean your head on the uncomfortable mattress, your temple against his shoulder. Your hand travels down his arm until your fingers can wrap around his, warm and soft against his calloused digits. 

Eddie blinks back the tears that threaten to fall from his tired eyes. You’re real, and you’re there by his side, looking up at him through your lashes like he’s the only other person in the world. 

He squeezes your hand. You squeeze back. Your twin giggles break through the silence of the hospital room. Maybe for now, this is enough.

The stars outside twinkle when he looks out the window again, the words dying between his lips. Thank you.

                                                 🌷 🌷 🌷

a/n: thank you for reading if you’ve made it to the end, I hope you liked it. I had the song on repeat for hours when I started this one, and it’s both very sad and very beautiful, I had to write something. Likes, reblogs and comments are always welcome and appreciated. Much love!

[movie-theater-butter]

"Puss in Boots: The Last Wish" Review

After a stressful ass year surrounding my pet's health, I needed a feel good movie surrounding a cat and his friends. Luckily, Puss in Boots: The Last Wish was precisely what I asked for. Spoilers to follow!

A few content warnings I want to put out there for any curious viewers:

As it is one of the central themes of the movie, there is discussion of death and mortality.

On screen character deaths, usually played for laughs - for example, one side character is eaten by a plant and only their bones are left behind.

Puss has a panic attack partway through the movie after being chased through a forest.

Lots of fighting sequences with clashing swords, causing a small strobe effect.

A very bright and colorful movie, may cause eye strain with some.

The plot of the movie is fairly straightforward: Puss has spent his eighth life, and retires in an old lady's cat shelter. There, he learns about the Shooting Star and its ability to grant one wish. He comes out of retirement to track down the Shooting Star, and wish for his nine lives back. He's pursued by the Wolf, a bounty hunter looking to claim Puss's bounty dead or alive, Goldie and the Three Bears, and Big Jack Horner. With the help of his friends Kitty Softpaws and Perrito, Puss is able to reach the Shooting Star, and get what he needs.

Of course, there's more to this movie than just the simple plot. The Wolf is later revealed to be Death (not metaphorically, poetically, figuratively - Death, straight up) and he's coming for Puss to get his last life. Throughout the movie, Puss is pursued by Death, who taunts Puss with his own song he performs at the very beginning of the movie. Puss for the second time in his nine lives is terrified of what lies ahead. The only other time he was this scared was when he left his lover, Kitty Softpaws, at the altar on the day of their wedding. Puss is able to face Death, and best him in combat. Death decides to let Puss live out his last life with his friends.

Everyone in this movie gets what they wished for, without a shooting star to grant it to them. Goldie wanted to wish for a normal family that she felt was "just right" without appreciating the Three Bears as her family. Kitty wanted to wish for someone in her life that she could trust after a lifetime of betrayal. Big Jack Horner is the only true "bad guy" in this movie: he wants to wish for absolute control over all magic, so he can be all powerful. In the end, everyone is able to band together and prevent Jack Horner from making his wish, killing him with the collapsing Shooting Star.

This movie had incredible visuals (just look through the Puss in Boots tag for all the gif sets!) and one of the most entertaining scores I've heard in a kid's movie. The themes of the movie and the action are enough to keep kids and adults entertained and mentally stimulated, and it treats the audience with respect and maturity. All in all, Puss in Boots: The Last Wish is an incredible movie, and you should watch it when you get the chance.

[1kook]

viki & hickeys

the 8th installment to netflix & chill :~)

SUMMARY Just like in those Viki dramas Jungkook likes, the world around you is enveloped in shades of pink and red, kisses and hearts, so many goddamn roses it makes you sneeze. It’s absolutely perfect— nothing could possibly go wrong when there’s so much love in the air.  WARNINGS a little hurt + a lot of comfort, mentions of cheating!villain!jin, insecure!kook, emotional breakdowns, mentions of jk’s lonely past, jk cries :( smut in the forms of making out, eating out, fingering, clit play, hickeys, jk likes cum, double orgasm, squirting, tiny praise kink, blindfolding, rough + unprotected sex, doggy style, choking!!!, breeding/impreg kink, JEALOUS KOOK, mini hand kink, a lil bit of spanking, degradation, he gets progressively meaner lol oc cries MISC there’s a lot of fuckin plot omfg -_-, it’s Valentine’s Eve!, doyeon makes Some Points, mentions of park seojoon juicy ass, they go on a d8 😳, oc like rlly wants to marry him, oc commits double phone homicide  RATING m (18+) WC 16.3k !!!! ik its fckin LOOOONG

NOTES (!) in true Viki fashion, here’s an nc fic where there’s like 3 different plot lines n a hot male antagonist <3 this series started off as just me wanting to write smut n it still is! now i just like to infuse different levels of angst into it as well </3 as always, lemme know what u think!! i proofread it twice but one of those times had been at 4 am so if u see a typo no u didn't. also here’s a gif  of jungkook crying during a dolly parton performances and here’s another gif of jungkook crying bc it’s scary how pretty he looks

Being evil and hot does not come for free. As you’ve long since learned in the past twenty-three years of your life, you truly can’t have it all. 

There is always some deliberating character flaw the universe must bestow upon you in order to level you out, make you fall onto the same plane as all the other mortals. Everyone has one, no matter how small or insignificant. Doyeon’s is that she doesn’t know how to work a straightening iron. Namjoon's is that he can’t tell the difference between water and liquor. Jungkook, despite all his tech-y nerdiness, doesn’t know how to do his own taxes. And yours? You don’t know shit about romcoms. 

Your knowledge on the romantic genre is what leads to this predicament now, the ring on your finger heavy as Doyeon regards you with what is perhaps the most unimpressed look known to mankind. “This is a promise ring,” she says bluntly, the bustling sounds of the coffee shop around you the soundtrack to your sudden realization. 

“No,” you deny, even though you know she’s right. “It’s an engagement ring.”

Doyeon rolls her eyes. “Babe,” she starts slowly, talks to you like you’re a dorky high schooler with her first boyfriend, “did he ask you to marry him?”

The truth is, the timing had been weird. It had been a few days after you’d rocked Jungkook’s world so you understand if he felt the sudden need to pop the question. But you were also sick as fuck that day, had only vaguely remembered the events because you were too busy with the snot up your nose and the raging fever you were battling. Had Jungkook asked you to marry him? 

You’re not so sure. 

It’s been a little over a month since then, and sure his lack of proactive wedding planning was a little weird, but you had always assumed Jungkook was one of those people who liked long engagements. Liked to drag out the last few months as a bachelor. Maybe he was waiting until you were both financially stable or something, who knows. 

Doyeon had been on some soul-searching journey around the country, so she hadn't been home for a while, had only heard of the ring through a two-second snapchat. This is the first time she’s seeing you and it in person; you can tell by the expression on her face that she’s rightfully disappointed. 

“Have you no shame, woman?” she tuts, arms crossed over her chest. “You have me parading around the world bragging about your engagement— just for this?”

You knock your forehead against the table, know it’s dirty and icky, but you deserve it. “Listen,” you huff. “I’ve only seen The Notebook, like, once.”

She scoffs. “I can tell. This is so embarrassing, don’t tell me you’ve brought it up to him?”

At her words you startle, nearly send the drinks flying across the floor. “No!” you shout, mindlessly reaching to twist the ring around your finger. It’s become a habit these past few weeks, a comfort to feel it around you. Granted, the feeling is a little muted now. “Of course he’d get me a promise ring,” you grumble, gaze flickering down to the silver band on your ring finger. “Jungkook loves all that cheesy corny stuff.” He really did. 

You’ve had enough of Doyeon’s disappointment, decide this coffee date has brought you enough three am anxiety material for the next year and a half. You conclude your date by taking a walk around town, arms locked together as you laugh at people who pass by because you’re both a little mean. 

“Maybe it’s for the best,” she says, and you agree. Well, a promise ring certainly meant something. It was, essentially, a pre-engagement ring. And the engagement ring that followed was a pre-wedding ring. And a wedding ring was, well, a wedding ring. Your heartbeat thunders at the thought. “You’re busy right now anyway,” she points out, snapping you out of your bumbling thoughts. “Aren’t you getting promoted at work soon?” 

Oh, you certainly were getting promoted at work. After many grueling months of hard work and dedication, the fruits of your labor were finally being recognized. Gone were the days of useless desk work, intern-like errands that barely required the use of any higher-order brain functions. You had worked hard these past few months, proved your worth over and over again, until you were here. Getting promoted into a new branch at your company— one where your talents were actually needed. And truth be told, there was one man to thank for that. 

Your friend and superior, Kim Seokjin. 

Seokjin is a great boss. In fact, you could argue he’s the best in the entire world and that, if it wasn’t for him, you would have quit this job that first month you started. But you had him to push you along, friendly smiles and encouragements that kept you going until this point, where you’re being promoted up into a branch where your degree finally matters. And it was all thanks to him! What Kim Namjoon was to Jungkook, Kim Seokjin was to you. 

So what if he cheated on his wife and flirted with the secretaries— Seokjin was practically a god in your eyes. 

And what Seokjin did in his free time was frankly none of your business anyway. You were colleagues at work, got along fairly well, but outside of work you were practically strangers. He was your beloved work colleague, someone Jungkook teased you about endlessly despite never having met him, and you were immensely thankful for him. “Should I be scared he’ll steal you from me?” Jungkook had joked one night, standing behind you as you scrolled through your company profile page. “He is a little handsome.”

You had pinched his side, smiling at his feigned concern when he pressed his lips to your temple. “You’re right,” you had joked back, “he is sooo cool.” And Jungkook had bitten you on the shoulder, laughed that pretty laugh when you yelped in surprise. 

Anyway, Kim Seokjin was a god, Jungkook was on his way to maybe, hopefully, one day, being your husband, and all was well. 

To honor this moment in time, you decide to swing by Jungkook’s place after your date with Doyeon, finding him lazily sprawled across his living room couch while What’s Wrong with Secretary Kim? plays on the Jumbotron. He’s in between projects right now, so he’s spent most of his time relaxing and catching up on all his favorite shows. 

Which brings you back to that deliberating character flaw of yours: no knowledge of the romantic genre to utilize in your everyday life. Your love language has always been blunt words, teasing jabs, the raw and unfiltered type of love. Emotions? Impossible to figure out. You’ve gotten pretty far in life reading verbal and physical cues; with Jungkook, you always know he’s upset when he does the little tongue-against-cheek thing, and it has saved you from many potential arguments. 

On the other hand, it is so obvious what Jungkook’s love language is when he spends fifty percent of his time on Viki, home to some of the most cheesy kdramas in existence. Most guys spend their weekends watching sports or dramatic action movies, but here was Jungkook. Watching some guy try to court his secretary. 

(Okay, he does watch sports and action movies too, but that’s not the point!)

“Hello, sweet boy,” you greet, plopping down beside him. Jungkook smiles back softly. He’s serving absolute pre-pre-husband deliciousness right now, cute glasses, fluffy curls, plaid bottoms that make him look so comfy. God, you were going to suck his dick tonight. 

Jungkook slots his mouth against yours, tastes like the chocolate cake you specifically told him not to eat without you. He blindsides you before you can scold him, pulls you onto his lap where the swell of his cock nudges against your thigh. Oh, you were definitely going to suck his dick and ride him well into the sunrise. 

“What’s my pretty girl doing here tonight?” he asks, cutely looping his fingers through yours. “Thought you were with the Wicked Witch of the West today?”

You roll your eyes, reposition yourself in a laughable attempt at pretending like you’re actually interested in the show. “We just went out for lunch,” you explain, watching the hot lead saunter across the screen. Juicy ass, but nothing compared to Jungkook’s. 

There’s a question lingering on the tip of your tongue, Doyeon’s explanations mixed with your worries, and you hold it for exactly ten seconds before you’re turning to face him head on, eyes going a little crossed from how close he is. “Hey,” you say bluntly. “Is this a promise ring?” you ask, wiggle your finger in his face. 

Jungkook blinks, once, twice, and then his face shoots up in flames. “Maybe,” he mumbles, lips pursed as he tries to avoid your gaze. He was adorable. You laugh, endeared by the red flush that crawls over his cute little cheeks and up his ears. Unable to stop yourself, you squeeze said cheeks between your hands, cooing at the annoyed expression that consumes him soon afterwards.  

“Aw, you want to marry me,” you tease, but it’s secretly a leading question for him to confess that yes, he does want to marry you. For as hot and confident as you are, you too are plagued with doubts. Doubts that can only be smoothed over by hearing it straight from Jungkook’s mouth. 

He rolls his eyes, trying to break free from your hold. “We’ve talked about this,” he murmurs, all embarrassed. But like always, Jungkook knows exactly what you want so he doesn’t deny it, and that’s good enough for you. He’s too flustered to look you in the eye now, childishly craning his head away from you when you try to force him into a staring contest. “Can I finish my show?” he whines, slightly not as hard now that you’ve reduced him into a shy, bumbling mess. It was a nice change of pace from his usual, composed self. 

But you relent, sliding off his lap to sit against his side, classic octopus hug around his waist. The episode is in full swing, not that you know anything about it. Like you said, romantic shows and movies were the least of your concerns. Jungkook, however, eats this type of shit up. “He still trying to fuck her?” you ask, not the least bit interested, but if you’re planning on sucking his dick tonight you have to listen to a few minutes of him rambling first. 

Jungkook sighs. “Yeah,” he says, “I don’t get it.” You hum, trail your hand over his abdomen teasingly. He feels so warm and lean beneath your palm, you were getting hot just thinking about it. “Why would anyone agree to dating their boss?”

You know that Jungkook’s boss is some old Facebook fart, pioneer of something on the site that neither of you two care about. So it makes sense that such a notion disturbs him. You shrug anyway. “Everyone wants to sleep with their hot boss,” you offer. “It’s like, the power dynamic, I guess.”

His frown deepens. “Would you?” Your boss isn’t exactly an old fart; the reason Kim Seokjin was such a renowned playboy is because, well, he had the looks to pull it off. Still, he had become a sort of respectable figure to you and the idea of sleeping with him doesn’t really sound appealing as much as it would to any other random bachelorette, which you admittedly were not. You glance at the screen, where Park Seojoon swaggers around in those tight slacks and fitted button-ups. 

“Hm,” you ponder, “maybe.” 

Jungkook laughs. “You’re supposed to say no, you idiot,” he says, knocks his forehead against yours softly. You can’t help but chuckle too, enamored with the happy glint in his eyes and the way his smile eats up his features. 

Oh, you loved this man. 

Because he was so sweet and good on Christmas, you let Jungkook make the plans for Valentine’s Day. After all, it’s his favorite holiday (“Why? Well, because it’s a day all about you, and me, and us,” he had sighed dreamily in the bathtub one night, hair adorably pushed back to showcase that handsome face of his. Bubbles clung to his chest, had made you dizzy with every breath he took.), so it’s only right that he gets to make the itinerary for the day, fill it with all his favorite things. After all, cheesy romantic stuff like this was right up his lane. 

He reserves a spot at the fanciest restaurant in the city, the one that has a months long waiting list. It sounds perfect, and the closer it gets to February 13th, the more excited you become. You say 13th because the 14th is a Sunday, and as much as you would love to get on your knees and praise Jungkook’s body until the wee hours of the next day, you have work. So Sunday is off the table. And it’s better this way, you tell yourself. Everywhere would have been packed that day anyway. 

It seems like everywhere you go, the entire world is gearing up for the holiday; from the fast food drive-thru to your favorite lingerie shop, there’s Valentine’s Day specials everywhere you look. Just like in those Viki dramas Jungkook likes, the world around you is enveloped in shades of pink and red, kisses and hearts, so many goddamn roses it makes you sneeze. It’s absolutely perfect— nothing could possibly go wrong when there’s so much love in the air. 

But what good is a lovey-dovey holiday without your own lovey dove himself? 

One glance out your window and your knees feel weak, because there he is. Dressed in a loose satin button up, shoulders broad, chest defined. He’s got on these fitted dress pants that accentuate his tiny waist too, thick thighs bulging beneath the fabric. There’s a coat hugging his frame, something to shield him from the cold while he waits out on the curb, does this cute little shivering dance in an attempt to warm up his muscles. Your heart feels like it’ll explode at the sight, and you can practically hear the corny, overused romantic song playing in the background of your thoughts, so you hurriedly distract yourself by slipping tonight’s dress on. 

It’s cold outside, but the sight of Jungkook makes you feel warm and fuzzy everywhere. He’s so hot it makes you dizzy, and the sap knows it when he meets you on the sidewalk. Instinctively, his hand reaches out to tangle with yours, the other slipping around your waist. “Hi, gorgeous,” he greets playfully, kissing your knuckles. His hair has grown out a little, curls up cutely when he lets it air dry and tickles your skin when he gets too close. “Lookin’ like Secretary Kim.” 

“Oh? So does that make you my hot boss?” you tease as you make your way to the car. 

As always, he opens the door for you first, flashes you this dorky little wink as he rounds the front of the car. “If it means you’ll sleep with me tonight, then sure,” he says, buckling himself in. You roll your eyes at his claim. You don’t get to see the proud little smile on his face; by the time you’ve composed yourself, he’s already pulling off in the direction of the restaurant. 

It’s a classy thing, a restaurant and bar in some insanely tall skyscraper. Of course your seats are right beside one of the huge floor to ceiling windows, overlooking the beautiful, glittering cityscape. “Fancy,” you murmur as you sit down, catching a glimpse of the eye roll Jungkook gives you. 

“You say that about any place that serves wine,” he chuckles, reaching for the bottle on the table to pour you a glass. 

The wine tastes like perfection, aged for the perfect amount of time. Whatever that was. You don’t really know, but it tastes amazing! Still, amazement aside, you manage a scoff. “I didn’t say that about your house on our first date,” you huff anyway, throwing him a playful glare over the rim of your glass. 

Jungkook laughs, full and real this time. It’s a little too loud for the classy establishment you find yourselves in, drowns out the jazz music for a second. “That’s because it was a house,” he says, wearing that big, shiny smile you adore, “and we were watching Transformers.” An amazing date, the mere memory of it makes your toes curl. He had been so dreamy— nearly two years ago now! —and had retained that aura up to the present day. You don’t think you’ve ever been so in love with anyone or anything in this world before, as cheesy as it was to admit. 

As if sensing your sudden wandering thoughts, Jungkook nudges your ankle under the table. “Hey,” he says so softly you could melt; his voice was so silky and sweet. “Everything okay?” he asks. 

A sigh, chin in your palm. You had to have been abducted by aliens or something— there was no way this was your life, this disgustingly romantic date with this disgustingly handsome man. An episode of Black Mirror maybe? One where you get forced to live in a romantic Viki drama with the man you love, every single day for the rest of your life? Maybe. 

Dramatics aside, you could practically feel that sticky sweet, sentimental monster begging to crawl to the surface, unleash the entire Shakespearean collection of lovesick sonnets on your unsuspecting boyfriend in the middle of this restaurant. But the weird ones, were you accidentally dedicate an entire six lines to the bulge of Jungkook’s thighs in his workout pants or the heart-shaped mole on his shoulder. Those kind. Before that can happen, you settle on an equally as gentle, “I love you,” murmured for only him to hear. 

Across the table, Jungkook smiles. One of those thin ones when he’s trying to keep his composure but is actually quite flustered, his subtle bunny teeth nibbling at his lower lip. “Thanks,” he responds, still trying to play it cool, but then he almost knocks his glass down and you’re reminded just how perfect he was, flaws and all. “Me too.”

You jab the pointed tip of your stiletto against his shin. “Say it back,” you warn and he laughs. 

“I love you,” Jungkook says like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Straight out of a romantic drama, like the ones on Viki that require a minimum of four different story arcs just to get to this point. But with Jungkook, it takes a few shy smiles and maybe a kiss. It has a scorching heat rising on your cheeks, one you ward away with a hurried sip of your drink while Jungkook reaches for your hand, thumb rubbing over your promise ring as if for good luck. 

That singular phrase makes your world pause, its axis stalling while you deal with the overwhelmingly soft and gooey feelings in your chest. Oh jeez, you had to rock his world tonight. It was only right. He deserved it for making you feel like this— this silly and ditzy, like a middle schooler with her crush. 

Anyway the food gets to your table after a millennia. Jungkook orders some fancy lobster dish, one that you're pretty sure costs more than the purse you brought along tonight (to be fair, you’re a cheap buyer), and still has the audacity to poke around at your plate too. He eats enough to feed a schoolhouse full of children who’ve just come off recess, practically devouring the table cloth before you stop him. And then he doesn’t let you see the bill; “baby, don’t worry about that when you’re with me,” he purrs, warm breath fanning against the skin on your neck, drunk off pure love and strawberry lemonade because he was driving tonight. The hostess is a blushing mess, fumbling for his change as Jungkook practically gropes your ass in plain sight.

You swear he’s spending too much time on that Viki streaming service, because then, as if the romantic dinner date wasn’t enough, he whisks you off to an even more romantic walk along the river. 

If there was ever a world record for “Number of Times you can Make your Girlfriend Swoon,” you’re positive Jungkook had broken it in the span of a few hours. You feel so light-headed and in love by the time you reach the river. 

“You know,” you tell him as you walk, the serene sounds of the flowing water beside you the soundtrack to your date. Jungkook swings your joined hands between the two of you. It’s chilly but you’re so full and happy that you don’t let it bother you. “I was gonna throw wine at you when we first met.”

He cackles, that loud, airy sound again that he only lets you hear, with his head thrown back. “What?” he gasps, smiley and pretty, your pretty boy. “And why were you going to do that?”

You huff, feeling slightly embarrassed now to admit such a thing. But aside from Doyeon, no one else has ever heard this classified tale. And well, you’re feeling extra emotional tonight. An abundance of emotions in one night usually ended with you crying like a little bitch at some point or another, so you’re trying to push that off for later. “Because,” you sigh, squeezing his fingers, your lone promise ring versus his assortment of fashionable rings. “You sounded like an absolute fuck boy when you first texted me!” 

Jungkook scoffs, playfully scandalized. “Me?” he squawks, pausing to stand in front of you with wide eyes and a ridiculously huge smile, the kind that has his brows raised high, lips going thin, practically displaying every tooth in his mouth from how wide it is. 

“Jungkook,” you say calmly, shoving one finger against his chest. “You asked me to Netflix & chill for our first date.” 

He groans, using your entwined hands to pull you into his arms for a suffocating hug. “I already told you,” he laughs, patting the back of your head while you get in a few lighthearted punches against his sides. “I didn’t know what it meant.” 

“Whatever, you sleaze,” you say anyway, eventually melting into his hands. “Bet you tell all the girls that.” Jungkook makes another scandalized noise, but settles when you wrap your hands around him. He smells so good and familiar, comforting even. Like home and safety, a refuge for your heart. When you’re this close, you can hear the light beating of it beneath your ear, a steady rhythm that has you closing your eyes when he begins humming your favorite song. 

He gets about two verses in when your phone suddenly goes off. 

Everything in your body says to ignore it, to continue basking in the comfort of your boyfriend’s embrace and this absolutely perfect moment. But it’s the stupid ringtone you set for all your work peers when you first loaded the entire company contact list onto your phone, so the sound alone lets you know it’s a work-related call. And for work to be calling you on a weekend was definitely not a good sign. 

“Give me a sec,” you tell Jungkook, pulling away from his arms. He frowns but lets you go, staying close as you dig through your purse for the offending device. 

It’s Kim Seokjin calling at this peculiar hour, a fact that confuses the hell out of you. Jungkook’s bouncing on his heels in an attempt to fight off the chill, giving you his beautiful side profile as he glances down the winding sidewalk that follows the river, and then at his watch. His nose is a cute red color that you want to kiss so bad. But work calls, so you tighten up and let that dream go for now. You swipe your thumb across the screen. 

“Hello, Mr. Kim,” you greet, trying to keep the confusion out of your voice. “How can I help—“

“__, my love,” he beams through the phone, so fucking loud it has Jungkook glancing over curiously. You give him a tight-lipped smile, one he returns as he shuffles closer, trying to steal your warmth like a penguin. You let him snuggle close before turning back to the droning voice of your superior on the line. 

“Hello,” you repeat again, slowly. Jungkook takes your free hand in his; when he squeezes, the band of your promise ring digs into your skin just the slightest. “Was something the matter?” 

Seokjin laughs, loud and clear. There’s a lot of other noises filtering in through his line. Briefly, you remember that there had been some work-related party for the higher ups tonight so you write it off as that. “Does there need to be a problem for me to call you, love?” 

You falter. Beside you, Jungkook’s brows furrow together, his devilishly handsome features even more pronounced. He’s obviously heard the other man on the line. “Um,” you flounder for a second, “well, usually yes.” 

Without missing a beat, Seokjin carries on with a playful tut that you’re almost certain has him lifting the receiver up to his mouth, because it’s so goddamn loud it has you flinching away from your own device. “My __,” he says, sweet and… slurred? 

He’s never used this tone of voice on you, only on other women at the office. Something about his broken marriage and needing to heal a wound, you don’t fucking know. You can’t even begin to truly understand that logic, which is why you’ve always just ignored it. Still, in the last few months of knowing Seokjin, he has never made a pass at you. Until now, that is. And until now, you had kind of convinced yourself he saw you in a sisterly way. Which sure, was worse than being friendzoned. But this was your boss you were talking about. Whether you got sister-zoned or not by him was the least of your concerns. So what was going on? What had changed over the span of a few days that had him suddenly reaching out to you on a weekend? 

Beside you, Jungkook doesn’t look the slightest bit impressed, tongue prodding against his cheek as Seokjin rambles on the line. You wish you had lowered the volume before answering, but doing so now would appear suspicious, even you could admit that. “You’re amazing, you know that?” Seokjin praises. You nod, remember he can’t see you, and settle on a blunt thanks instead. Jin laughs. “You’re different from the rest,” he hums, voice soft and weirdly intimate. 

Jungkook’s frown deepens. “What does he want?” he murmurs, somehow managing to keep his voice calm as always. The deep furrow of his brows and the tongue-against-cheek motion he had done just a few seconds ago all indicate he’s annoyed, that much you can tell. 

You shrug, eyes wide as you hurry to get to the reason for the phone call. You’re almost certain it’s just Seokjin being drunk— many people drunkenly dial their friends and family to tell them how much they’re appreciated, this wasn’t anything weird! 

Is what you try to convince yourself, but then Seokjin’s voice is dropping an octave by your ear. “Did you get my gift?” he murmurs, voice nearly drowned out by the sounds of the event he’s at. 

“Huh?” you stammer, quite stupidly if you do say so yourself. Jungkook shifts closer, obviously trying to hear. A breeze ruffles his hair, his cologne wafting over you. “What?” 

A sigh over the line. “My gift, love,” Kim Seokjin says, loud and proud. Jungkook exhales, hard. “I had it sent to your house this evening. Something pretty for a pretty girl— don’t tell me the postman fucked that up,” he jokes and Jungkook huffs, practically breathing fire through his nose when he hears the words. 

You fidget. There had been no gift when Jungkook picked you up around sunset, not like you had expected anything to begin with. And aside from Jungkook and maybe your parents, there was no one else on this planet you wanted to receive a Valentine’s Day gift from anyway, especially not from your boss of all people. “Um,” you mumble, acutely aware of the way Jungkook’s face is nearly pressed to yours now in his effort to listen in on your phone call. “I— um, haven’t been home, Seokjin.”

Jungkook scoffs, spits out a particularly unimpressed, “Seokjin?” 

Said man doesn’t hear. “Oh, of course,” he says, almost sullenly. “I forgot you had that little boyfriend to entertain tonight.” 

It’s the breaking point for Jungkook, who leans back to glare at the phone with the heat of a thousand suns. You press it against your chest before he can hear anything else. “I’m sorry,” you rush out in a hurried whisper, eyes flickering over his face, trying to gauge the intensity of his emotions. “I think he’s drunk— he’s never said things to me like this before,” you stammer, feeling like you have to defend yourself for some reason. “I’ll- I’ll take care of it, okay?” No answer, just an aggravated shake of his head, like he’s trying to calm himself down. “Jungkook?” you say, can feel the panic begin to lace your voice when his eyes flutter shut. 

He calms your worries with a gentle head butt that has you gasping in surprise, one hard exhale fanning over you. “Okay,” he says, teeth clenched. “I’m gonna go sit.” And then he stiffly walks over to one of the many benches lining the pathway. He sits, just like he had said he would, and glares down at his hands instead. 

The sight makes you anxious, unsure of how to diffuse the situation because, like you’ve said many times before, dealing with emotions— especially someone else’s emotions —was hard. Your eyes refuse to leave his figure as you draw the phone back up to your ear again. “Hello?” you call, voice trembling when Jungkook finally looks your way. The soft look he had given you all night is nowhere to be found, replaced with this rather unreadable expression. Something between annoyance and confusion if you had to guess. You don’t know, and the fact you don’t know makes you panic. Your chest feels tight when Seokjin begins speaking again. 

“You know,” he says, “you’re quite something, __. Strong, confident. Beautiful.” Had you been anyone else, you might have been flattered by Kim Seokjin’s remarks, maybe would have swooned. He was, objectively speaking, a handsome man with a hefty bank account. 

But if that was the criteria for a man to make you swoon, then the man on the bench in front of you checked all the same boxes three times over. The man who’s brows draw closer and closer together the longer you linger on the phone. Jungkook’s foot does one agonizing tap against the concrete and you find yourself stammering into the phone. “I think you’re drunk, Jin.”

A scoff. “I am,” he agrees, and doesn't even bother to hide it. “But you remind me of her, you know that? I like that.”

It’s like he knows something is going on on the line, because Jungkook visibly bristles when you sidestep in surprise. What was going on, your brain screams. Having your superior compare you to his infidel wife was definitely not something you saw coming tonight. “Uh, okay?” you say, “listen, Seokjin— Mr. Kim, I’m... I have a boyfriend. And I really lov—“

He cuts you off. Jungkook bristles at the sudden stop of your sentence. “Yeah, yeah,” Seokjin drawls, and you can feel the sheer terror of accidentally jeopardizing your relationship with Jungkook step aside for the briefest moment to allow some annoyance to seep through. Annoyed with Seokjin and his audacity, his tone, his voice. “Mrs. Kim used to say that about me,” he chuckles humorlessly, “I love you, I love you, I love you.” A long pause. You’re unsure of how to respond. “It’s not real,” Seokjin says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the entire world. “Love, that is.”

You clench your jaw, gathering your thoughts to respond when Seokjin beats you to it. “But you know what, love?” You don’t respond. Seokjin pushes on anyway. “Someone’s gonna cheat sooner or later— why not beat him to it?” 

Your body reacts first, a startled gasp inhaled through your lips at his disrespectful preposition. Your phone slips out of your grasp. It bounces twice, lands on the ledge that gives way to the river, and you almost kick it in when Jungkook comes up behind you. “Hey, hey,” he says sternly, tugging you away from the phone you almost killed. “What’s wrong— what did he say?”

You exhale, face warm from the discomfort sitting heavy in your chest. “Nothing,” you huff, mind slightly foggy as you try to process that awkward conversation. “It’s— it was stupid,” you spit, pressing the heels of your palms against your temples, the raging anger and confusion making your head pound now. 

You had always known Kim Seokjin wasn’t the most faithful man, that the infidelity ran both ways in his relationship. But you had never imagined he would ever compare you to her, his cheating wife, in an attempt to win you over. Furthermore, you’re downright disturbed by the fact he would even try to hit on you after all the mentoring he’d given you, all the polite smiles he’d flashed you, all the praise you had bestowed upon him to Jungkook. 

Jungkook, whose jaw twitches as his hands graze your forearms. When you look at him again, you feel an immense wave of remorse wash over you at the way his own irritation is clouded by his worry for you. He had been wronged as well— disrespected just like you —but here he was, pushing his own emotions aside for your sake. He doesn’t want to see you upset. He was so good at dealing with your emotions, knew just what to do when things became too much. 

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, lips pursed together. “I don’t know why— he’s never— I wouldn’t do that,” you settle on, voice wobbling when Jungkook’s jaw clenches. “Jungkook,” you frown, reaching for his hands, “I wouldn’t—“ 

He shushes you with another one of those gentle forehead bumps. “Calm down,” he says, voice deeper than usual. “I know you wouldn’t.” 

Weirdly, it feels like you’ve committed a grave sin against your boyfriend. A crime. “I’m sorry,” you blubber anyway, heart thundering in your chest. “That was horrible,” you huff, desperately blinking away the stinging sensation behind your eyes. “You didn’t deserve to hear that.”

“Don’t cry,” Jungkook says, so soft and comforting; stable. You want his composure, his ability to process and understand things so quickly— his maturity. Sure he had been put off by Seokjin, but he had processed it all so quickly; adapted to the situation and stepped in to save you. Meanwhile, you nearly committed cellular murder because you couldn’t handle yourself. “He’s a weirdo,” he says, for both your sakes. “You didn’t do anything wrong, sweetheart.” 

Still, you sniffle. “I’m sorry,” you say again, the heavy feeling in your chest lightening just a little bit when he pulls you into his arms. 

“Crybaby,” he teases softly, a kiss on the crown of your head. You pinch his side. “Second phone you broke in a year.”

The mood for the riverwalk is off after that, and you only walk a few more meters before Jungkook decides it’s enough. “We can still enjoy ourselves at home,” he reassures you, and the way he tries to salvage that soft, fuzzy feeling from before is admirable. So Jungkook takes you home, holds your hand the whole drive back to your place, like he knows you’re still fragile from that extremely uncomfortable interaction, need him to hold you together. Jungkook’s emotional stability guards you like a shield, covers you in a wave of comfort as you calm down. You tell him about Seokjin’s preposition and he bristles. “Prick,” he murmurs beneath his breath, grip tightening just the tiniest bit. Your ring pinches against your skin a little painfully, but you say nothing. 

There’s a box of flowers on your doorstep when you arrive, one that makes Jungkook pause at the sight. “Wonderful,” he drones, picking it up for you as you unlock the front door. It gets left on the coffee table, practically mocking the two of you as you remove your shoes and coats. “That’s your favorite flower,” Jungkook notes. 

You glance at the expensive bouquet. “It is.” 

Jungkook drops down onto your couch, eyes flickering to the meticulous arrangement in front of him. “You told him?” Not really. But back when you had thought Jungkook and you were engaged (read: last week), you had spent days looking at different floral shops that specialized in this flower, frequently leaving the tab open on your work computer. Seokjin must have seen it then. At your extended silence, Jungkook says, “nice.”

You frown, setting your heels on the shoe rack. “Baby, I didn’t,” you tell him softly, reaching for the zip on the back of your dress. It comes down, and after clearing your hips, it falls to the floor in a dark heap you pick up quickly. It leaves you scantily clad in a black lingerie set. Meanwhile, Jungkook drops his head back, glaring at your ceiling. Tentatively, you step over to him, toying with the fabric of your dress in your hands. “You said it was okay.”

“I know,” he sighs, an unexpected confession from him that makes you pause. Despite all you’ve been through, he still rarely highlighted situations that upset him. “It’s just,” he says, turning his head to look at your form again, eyes not drinking you in like you hoped he would. “It’s scary.”

The couch cushion dips beneath your weight when you settle beside him. “What is?”

Jungkook shrugs, avoiding your question by reaching for the TV remote on the coffee table, right beside the box of flowers Seokjin had sent. He opens up the Viki app in a flash— the one linked to his account —and has even loaded up the next episode of Secretary Kim when you question him again. “What’s scary, Jungkook?” you repeat. 

On screen, there’s a beautiful scene on a bridge, the two leads happily conversing. It’s serene, something neither you nor Jungkook feel at the moment. 

Eventually, he says, “you could leave.”

You pause. “What do you mean?” Leave? Where on earth would you leave to when this was your home? He doesn’t meet your gaze. 

Another scene passes by on screen, some cheesy line and an even cheesier promise. Jungkook’s foot taps against the floor, the sound dull against the plush rug beneath you. It’s a nervous tick you’ve only seen him do at the height of truly stressful situations. Weird because just half an hour before you had dubbed him as the epitome of calm and collected at the river. 

“I thought he was cool before.” 

He did. But the word ‘cool’ didn’t always have the same meaning for Jungkook as it did for you. 

In the past, Jungkook had frequently joked about having to meet Kim Seokjin and thank him for all the help he’s given you at work. After all, up until now, you had only ever had good things to say about the man, raving about his cool demeanor and respectable work ethics. Now, the memories paired with the conversation from earlier leave a bad taste in your mouth. 

You’re a little confused with Jungkook right now; part of you had convinced yourself that whatever happened on the phone earlier with Seokjin was put behind you, marked off as an anomaly in the evening. After all, Jungkook himself had said it was okay. Park Seojoon appears on screen, and you can’t help but glare at the character, residue emotions from the river pushed off onto this innocent actor. 

Still, Jungkook surprises you. “It’s just that—“ he sighs. And then, “what if you leave?” 

You blink, eyes trained on his side profile and the way he’s nervously chewing through his bottom lip until it tints a red shade, gives way to sensitive skin when he bites too hard. “Why would I leave?” 

He says nothing. On screen, Park Seojoon says something so cheesy and romantic that it would have otherwise made you cringe, made Jungkook soft. But he’s stiff as a board beside you instead. You almost think he’s going to disregard the entire conversation when he finally speaks again. “Well.” You perk up at the sound of his voice, overly aware of the way he’s started picking at the skin around his thumb again, another nasty habit you’ve been trying to help him get over. “He’s cool. Rich.”

“And so are you,” you offer, covering his hand with your own. 

Jungkook ignores you, releasing a long, shaky exhale. Somehow, he’s exuding a similar energy as before; discontentment mixed with understanding. Like he’s greatly conflicted but forcing himself to remain calm. Another trembling inhale, and then Jungkook quietly recites, “everyone wants to sleep with their hot boss.” 

You recoil just the slightest, brows pinched together at the absurd conclusion he’s drawn. “Baby, that was just a silly conversation,” you say slowly, slipping your hand into his. He squeezes so tight you’re afraid he’ll break your bones. “And we were joking—“

“I know!” he exclaims, enveloping your significantly smaller hand in both of his before bringing them up to his face, lips pressed against your knuckles. It’s not a kiss, more so a desperate need to feel you against him. Eyes wide, you can’t do anything but watch as that collected exterior slips away, revealing a whirlwind mess of emotions. It’s a rather unexpected show from Jungkook. “It was a joke. We were joking. But I’m—“ his jaw clenches. His voice is so tiny when he speaks again. “I get scared sometimes, __.” 

His emotional outburst renders you speechless, watching as he squeezes his eyes shut, jaw clenching, hands trembling. 

It’s a stark image change from the cool Jungkook that had comforted you at the river, had patted the back of your head when you had been so distraught. His chest heaves for air and you don’t know what to do; it’s always the other way around, him comforting you, that when it comes down to this you find yourself at a loss. It makes you feel like you don’t know enough about yourself or him or your relationship in general to help him, always so lost when things like this happen. 

Jungkook has never been good at expressing negative emotions, always preferring to bottle them up and only show you his very best side. Granted, he’s been getting better at letting go lately, has whispered his doubts to you in the dead of night after a particularly grueling project, an uncomfortable social meeting. But he always waits until you’re half asleep and in the dark to tell you how he feels, hushed worries that you barely remember the next morning. And by then, Jungkook’s moved on from them anyway, flashes you a pretty smile and purposefully guides you away from that conversation. You know he’s started keeping a journal recently, but aside from seeing the blanks pages when he’d first gotten, you don’t have a clue what happened afterwards. It’s probably hidden away somewhere, his feelings locked up in a cupboard or a box, the secrets it holds never to be spoken of aloud. 

He doesn’t like talking about his more personal problems, hoards them until you’re forced to intervene. Find him slumped over at his dining table with bags under his eyes, the skin on his lower lip bitten beyond belief. 

Rarely does he sit down and express himself like this, lays his heart out carefully for you to see. Had he not said so right now, you would have never known Jungkook struggled with such doubts about you and your relationship. 

(It makes your heart ache at the realization.) 

Jungkook always acts like everything is okay, always forces himself to hold it together for the sake of you and, quite frankly, everyone else. He’s there when Taehyung breaks up with his girlfriends, pats him on the back and lets him run through every video game he has on his PS5. He’s there for Namjoon when his thesis becomes too much, proofreads it even though he doesn’t understand a word just for the sake of giving his best friend another perspective. Hell, he had even been there for Doyeon when her new landlord had tried to overcharge her, had carried the bulk of your argument when you ran off to try and fight with the old man. 

(“He’s too nice sometimes,” she had murmured the next morning at her place. After the shouting match the night before, you had crashed with Doyeon on her new bed, your sweet boyfriend taking up her couch. Somehow, you and Jungkook had managed to knock a clean seventy-five bucks off her monthly bill. It wasn’t much, but for an apartment in the city it sure felt like a lot. 

You had hummed, patting the top of his head on the way to the kitchen. “He’s a good boy,” you had said, heart thrumming when he instinctively pushed closer to your hand, nuzzling into you even in his sleep. “He cares about everyone a lot. Worries to death about his friends.”

The state of their relationship was weird; they were always fighting about one thing or another, ‘eternal enemies’ as Doyeon liked to claim. 

But for the first time, she hadn’t denied they were, in fact, friends. Instead, she had quietly stood at the breakfast nook overlooking the living room with a somber look on her face that was completely unlike the Doyeon you knew. She didn’t respond with her usual backhanded compliments, didn’t even call him a gremlin either. 

“He even worries about you, Miss Wicked Witch of the West,” you had teased, reaching over to pull Jungkook’s shirt down where it had ridden up, exposing his cute belly button to the cold apartment. She had sipped at her mug of coffee, eyes foggy and distant. “It just takes him a while.” 

“He’s always cared about you though,” she had murmured then, and you had marked it off as her being half asleep. But Doyeon had given you this look, a look so profoundly wise, as if she was saying, “more than you’ll ever know.”) 

Most importantly, Jungkook is always there for you. He holds you in his arms, strokes your back comfortingly whenever something goes wrong. Listens to your concerns and offers you advice, learns new things for the sole purpose of helping you out. Lets you make stupid decisions and always saves you at the last minute. And you want to repay him for all that, want to look after Jungkook like he does for everyone else. But it’s hard, it’s so fucking hard, when he doesn’t let you in, when he holds his emotions at bay for the sake of protecting yours. When you don’t even know where to start sometimes. 

The beating of your heart is accompanied by a dramatic orchestral ensemble on screen, violins and flutes as the two lovers reconcile some issue with a kiss. Beside you, your own lover is one second away from falling apart. “Hey,” you say quietly, slipping your hand out of his to hesitantly place on his back instead. With your release, Jungkook uses his empty hands to drag over his face, hide himself from you. “I’m not going to leave you, Jungkook,” you try and comfort, “I love you.” 

He shakes his head, dark locks bouncing around. “I know, I know,” he sighs, but it doesn’t sound like he believes you. It sounds like he’s forcing himself into composure again, jaw flexing as he shakes his head. “But— what if—” another aggravated huff, his thighs jumping anxiously. “You’ll get bored.” Not a question, but a statement. 

“Of you?” you ask anyway. He nods. “I won’t.”

He sits up so suddenly you have to move away to avoid bumping into him. “You will,” he urges, finally looking at you, distress painted over every inch of his face. “That guy, that Seokjin, he sounds more interesting than me. He sounds cool and put together, like the world is his oyster and,” he rubs the heels of his hands against his eyes. “You talk about him sometimes and... and you call him a god, __,” he stresses, doesn’t leave room for you to object. “And I know you’re joking, but—“ a sharp inhale, and then, quietly, “everyone gets bored of me, __.” 

Your frown deepens. “But I won’t,” you argue, confident in your claim, shifting onto your knees beside him. Your dress is thrown over the armrest of the couch, and the draft in your apartment makes goosebumps rise on your bare flesh. “You’re not boring, Jungkook,” you tell him, voice softening when his features pinch up, nose wrinkling as he wards off the stinging behind his eyes. 

It’s teenage trauma. Jungkook had told you at least that much before, this crippling sense of loneliness and an inferiority complex that hindered him during an influential growth period of his life. It’s why he’s so quiet when he has so much to say, why he brings you along to every party he gets invited to; he’s never felt like he was enough by himself. 

Sometimes, it leaks into his confessions. “I don’t deserve you,” he says frequently, but some days you want to hot glue him to a chair and force him to listen to every reason why he does and always will deserve you or anyone for that matter. “You make me better,” he claims, but he does that all on his own, lights up the world with his smile alone. 

He’s gotten better, that much you’ve learned from Namjoon and Taehyung. And even you’ve noticed it on your own, watched as he animatedly talked with his friends and his coworkers, drew people naturally to him with his warm aura. 

Even still, there’s moments where he relapses. Moments like this. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs beside you, “I know I’m a handful—“

“You’re not,” you interrupt, cupping his soft cheek in your hand, turning him to face you. Jungkook leans into the touch, and your heart breaks in half when a tear escapes over his waterline, pretty eyes brimming with tears. “You’re not a handful, Jungkook,” you tell him, shuffling closer until you can press your forehead against his. The truth is, you don’t know how to comfort him, but this is how he’s always comforted you; it feels nice when he does it for you. “You’re just enough,” you say, voice soft because it feels like your precious boy is about to fall apart in your arms, his shallow breaths rivaling the volume of the television. “You’ve always been enough.” 

He sniffles, and another tear tickles the side of your thumb, catching the light. “I’m sorry,” he repeats anyway, a disbelieving chuckle tacked on at the end. 

“Don’t be,” you shush, pushing away a strand of hair when he leans closer. His frown is still prominent, pink lips red and soft under your thumb when you tap your finger against them. “You can tell me when things worry you, you know,” you inform him, heart swelling when his eyes fall shut and he leans into your touch. He’s so handsome, the cute little mole beneath his lip begging to be kissed. “I’ll always listen.”

Jungkook hums, breathing evening out. “I know you will,” he says. “But I like listening to your voice more, and I can’t do that when I’m talking.” 

You snort and Jungkook finally lets a tiny smile slip. “Don’t flirt with me so soon after your meltdown,” you mumble, kissing his cheek softly. 

Jungkook chuckles, real this time, and sniffles right afterwards. “I’ll flirt with you whenever I want.” And, because he’s just so full of surprises tonight, he sniffles once more before he’s unceremoniously tackling you back onto the couch. You squeal, the TV remote digging into your back painfully. It has the volume accidentally skyrocketing, startling the both of you with an ear-shattering orchestral piece at the height of some emotional scene. Jungkook scrambles to free the device and lower the volume before your eardrums burst. “I didn’t even know your TV could go that loud,” he says, and he’s speaking normally but the deafening violins are still reverberating in your head, making him sound quieter than he really is. 

“Come here,” you say instead, and he obeys, crawling into your arms, mouth hovering just over yours. “You feeling better?”

Jungkook nods, dark hair bouncing. “You make me better,” he tries, but after tonight’s realization, you respond to his corny words with a pinch against his doughy cheek instead. 

“Don’t say that,” you frown, toying with one of the earrings decorating his ear. The tip of his nose is flushed red, the exertion from crying catching up to him. His lashes are dark, probably feel so heavy with the residual tears that cling to them. 

Jungkook repositions himself, guides your legs around his waist. “Why not? It’s true.” He glances at your mouth. “You make my life better.”

“Wrong,” you say bluntly, brushing his hair back with your hands. “Your own perception and understanding of your experiences makes your life better. I just happen to be in it.” Jungkook looks the tiniest bit surprised at your suddenly logical argument. “Trust me, I saw it in a documentary the other day.” 

At that he laughs, full and loud, pecking your lips once with a sweet smile on his face. “Now I know you’re lying,” he grins, gently nudging his nose against yours. The drama on the TV is but a quiet hum compared to the pounding of your heart in your chest when he looks at you like that. “Because you don’t even like documentaries.” 

You kiss him softly, holding his hair back for him. He tastes a little bit like the chocolate cake he had at the restaurant and the lemonade he drank (he didn’t indulge in the sweet wine with you because he needed to drive). His lips mold perfectly against yours, and he sighs softly when he finally draws back. “But I like you,” you purr. 

Jungkook’s eyes darken, one heavy exhale fanning across the lower half of your face. You readjust the leg around his waist, pull him closer just the slightest bit. “Don’t flirt with me so soon after my meltdown,” he repeats, lips brushing against yours. You chuckle. “You don’t know what that means to me.” You can roughly guess, but that opportunity is taken away when Jungkook slots his mouth against yours, soft lips molding to yours. His tongue swipes across your bottom lip, wastes no time slipping in when you open for him, hot and wet. 

Jungkook’s fingers are just as warm when he trails them up the back of your thigh, pulls you impossibly closer until the buckle on his belt is pressed flush against your mound. A tiny whimper escapes your lips, chest jumping just the slightest from the pressure. It makes Jungkook pull away with an easygoing grin, chocolate eyes half-lidded. “You okay?” he murmurs, breath a little shaky from the kiss. You nod, tangling your fingers behind his head and pulling him in close again. 

He evades your puckered lips, ducking down to press his own against your throat, right beneath your jaw. “Ugh,” you groan, digging your nails into his back through his satin shirt. “I wanted a kiss.”

Jungkook nips at your skin, this tiny gesture that couldn’t hurt even if he tried. “You always want a kiss,” he retorts softly, the quiet smack of his lips filling your ears as he bestows a series of smooches against your skin. And it’s so devastatingly tender how he handles you, like you’re made of glass and will break at a moment’s notice, like he wants to treasure your body for the rest of his—

Jungkook chomps down, hard, and you hiss. “Sit still,” he orders, soothing over the bite with one broad lick of his tongue. 

You whimper. “That hurt.” 

“And it’ll hurt even more if you keep moving,” he warns you, and before you can ask what that even means, he’s leaving another stinging bite just further down. It’s at the midway point of your neck, right in front, and you can feel your heartbeat in your throat when he sucks a painful mark over it. “There,” he says, mostly to himself. “All mine.”

Your legs tighten around him, and you fight down the wave of heat that threatens to consume you when he places one final kiss over the second mark— the hickey. 

Jungkook doesn’t usually leave them. In fact, you can rarely recall a time where he had purposefully gone out of his way to mark you up like this. It was always accidental, always unplanned, because he knew how troublesome it was for you to cover them up for work the next morning. Work, where your coworkers and your bosses and Seokjin could see. 

Brows pinched together, your brain begins to draw a connection, one that Jungkook is soon confirming himself. “Everyone will see that now,” he hums, kissing a trail down your neck. 

Of course. 

You pat the back of his head in amusement, hiding a smile against his soft locks. Before you can say anything more, maybe tease him for being so cute, there’s a hand on your hip that snaps you out of your scheming. Jungkook lifts his head, does that endearing little head shake that pushes his hair out of his eyes, before leaning in for another languid kiss. 

It’s even slower than the first, mostly because he’s a little too preoccupied with running his hands over your body now. It starts at your shoulder, teasingly snaps the strap of your bra as you push your tongue down his throat. Jungkook whimpers, that pretty sound that makes you desperate to hear more. It’s the same sound that he always makes when he wants to be pampered, wants you to kiss his entire body while he lays there and takes it. 

And you’re all too ready to act on it. 

Duty calls and you’re there to answer, tilting his head for him with your hands against his cheeks. He sighs against you, breath trembling as it tickles across your skin. That soft and tender way that makes you melt because he’s just so precious, so dreamy. 

But you’re too caught up in your plotting to remember the hand he’s got on your hip, the one that teases the waistband of your panties with one lone finger. It’s only when Jungkook pulls away from your inviting mouth, his other hand holding you down by your shoulder, that you’re snapped back into reality. His lips are swollen and red, slick from your tongue, and so tantalizingly kissable. He huffs out a breath, eyes flickering over your face. “Can I touch you,” he husks, and gives into the temptation to press a kiss against your jaw. 

“Yes, please,” you shiver, hypnotized by his hungry stare. 

Jungkook wastes no time, pressing another kiss against the bruising mark over your throat that dissolves into a series of lighter smooches he trails down between your breasts. His hands come up to cup your boobs over your bra, giving them one harsh squeeze that has you releasing a long exhale as he moves between the valley and down your tummy, over your belly button. “Open,” he says at your pubic bone, carefully guiding your legs apart until you’re spread wide for him. 

The dark panties you’re wearing tonight— the super expensive ones you had spent an hour measuring your body for the exact sizing —receive one light kiss over the front. “Always so pretty for me,” Jungkook murmurs, tracing one lone finger down the middle. Your stomach contracts when he nudges it against you, the soft material of your panties just barely pushed between your folds. 

As his hand occupies itself with some relatively light foreplay, Jungkook tasks himself with leaving another tingling mark against your skin. This time, it’s on the inside of your thigh. He starts it off slowly, a few littered kisses against the skin until he deems one spot worthy enough and abruptly sinks his teeth into you. “Not so hard,” you whimper, reaching down to bury your hands in his hair. 

Jungkook lets it go, sloppily licking over the area. “You like it hard,” he husks, meeting your gaze as he licks one, long stripe over the tender skin. “Don’t you?” You nod demurely, pressing your knuckles against your lips to hold back a tiny moan from slipping past your lips. 

With that new mark blooming over your skin, Jungkook transfers his attention to your pussy, hidden beneath the soft material of your panties. One finger hooks under the hem, tucking them aside until he can see you in your entirety. “Fuck,” he groans, pressing one light kiss over your clit that makes you inhale sharply, fingers digging into his scalp. Jungkook throws one final glance your way before letting his tongue slip past his lips, the very tip flicking against your clit. 

Your breathing becomes shallow, anticipation building in the pits of your stomach as he slowly but surely begins playing with you. His tongue is so warm and wet, nudges your throbbing clit, nose pressed against your mound. “Mmm,” he moans, eyes fluttering shut as his mouth works wonders. 

“Ah,” you gasp, whiny and high-pitched, when he dips one finger past your wet folds. The entry is seamless, his pointer finger sinking into the velvet walls of your cunt as his tongue swirls against your hardened bud. “Jungkook,” you mewl, knocking your heel against his shoulder. Jungkook huffs, suctions his lips around your clit. The cold metal of the rings he always wears— the duo set from that Chrome Hearts brand he likes so much —presses against the trembling lips of your pussy, makes your back arch when he twists his finger inside of you. 

He’s so precise with his tongue, knows just how long and how hard to lick against your pulsing clit until you’re trembling, thighs quivering. Briefly, he pulls away, flicks his hair to the side in one suave motion that lets you see his dark eyes when he glances back up at you again, covered in a thick sheen of lust that makes them appear almost black as opposed to his usual warm brown. His hands reach for the waistband of your panties, tug them off with one fluid pull. 

“So pretty for me,” he murmurs, the end of his words laced with a slight rasp that makes your hips jump. “All for me,” he says, roughly pushing his finger into you again. The harshness makes your entire body tighten up in surprise, eyes fluttering shut when he slips his middle finger alongside his pointer this time around. 

“Baby, wait,” you whimper, walls fluttering around the two digits. Jungkook leans back in, presses a chaste kiss against your clit that makes your breathing stall as he thrusts his fingers into you. 

He ignores your cries, locks his lips at the juncture where your thigh meets your body, sensitive skin that bruises all too easily when he sucks against it too hard. “Only for me,” he sighs, all pretenses discarded as he begins rapidly and roughly fucking his fingers into you. It’s intense, has your thighs quaking as he speeds them up. 

The coil in your stomach tightens, and you have to bite down on your knuckles to stop the litany of whimpers from slipping past your lips when Jungkook ducks down again. He bypasses your quivering clit, warm tongue licking at the warm, wet folds around his fingers instead. The proximity makes the tip of his round nose brush along the length of your cunt, a sight and sensation that makes you moan, his bangs harshly tugged away from his forehead to give you the perfect view. 

It’s with a particularly hard shove and twist combination of his fingers into your clenching walls that you cum, a gasp caught in your throat as your hips push toward him, chasing the feeling Jungkook bestows upon you. Your breathing is a mess, inhales too short, your exhales inconsistent, as Jungkook slows the speed of his fingers inside of you, lets your cum ooze out around them, coat his fingers and his rings. 

“No,” you cry, watching that look come over his face when he withdraws his hand, the look that usually follows him sucking your cum into his mouth. “Jungkook, you don’t have to do that—” you whine, reaching for his wrist and yanking it towards you. 

Jungkook follows, crawls back up beside you as he chases his own sticky fingers. “It’s mine,” he urges, has this weird look in his eyes you don’t think you’ve ever seen before. And just as quickly as it crosses his features, he’s lurching forward to catch his own fingers in his mouth. It’s lewd, the way his tongue wraps around them, leaves them sleek under the TV glow, tattoos and rings glistening. He has the audacity to moan, eyes fluttering shut as his devious tongue slips down between his fingers, so long and precise. There’s a tiny noise that tears itself from your throat, one that has him flickering his clouded gaze up to you as his fingers are released from between his own lips. “You like that,” he murmurs, wet fingers trailing down your cheek, capturing your chin to turn your face his way completely. 

His tongue is sinful as it slips past your lips again, the tangy taste of yourself clinging to him. His breathing feels hot, suffocating. But his kisses are so good, make your mind go blank. So blank, that the fingers that rub at your clit surprise you completely. “Kook,” you gasp, breaking away from him in surprise. 

Jungkook doesn’t let you get far, capturing your mouth with his again. The two fingers you had felt on your chin are gone, firmly pressed against your swollen clit, experimentally rubbing against it. Never mind the fact you were still sensitive from your first orgasm, thighs quivering when he drags them against the wet, soft skin. It makes you shudder, breaking away from him a second time for a desperately needed inhale of fresh air. Jungkook follows behind closely, pressing kisses over your jawline, your chin, as his fingers continue moving against your clit.

He has them pressed together, rubbing at the front of your slit where that bundle of nerves is hidden. It makes your stomach contract, hips jerking forward into the touch in an effort to match him, to speed up the process. “You were made for me, pretty girl,” Jungkook huffs against your cheek, nose pressed against your skin because he’s just so close, practically molded into your side as his fingers send rhythmic shocks of ecstasy up your spine.

Your mouth drops open, stuttered gasps filtering through your lips as Jungkook takes advantage of your sensitive body to draw out another orgasm. But there’s a weird sensation that builds in your stomach this time, one that brings with it a sense of panic. “Wait—“ you gasp, fisting the silky material of his shirt beneath one clenched fist. “Jungkook,” you warn, toes curling.

He responds with a harsh nip against your lower lip that makes you whimper. “Go ahead,” he purrs, rubbing his fingers over you at an insane speed, one that has your juices sloppily spread over your pussy, makes you buck into him and moan against his mouth. 

The feeling grows, an intense, unfamiliar thing that you rarely recall ever feeling before, gasping for air as Jungkook’s fingers caress your clit, pressing down hard. “Fffuck, fuck,” you sob, mouth opening in a silent scream, eyes rolling backwards as you feel your pussy lips contract harder than ever before, thighs quivering as your juices squirt out of you, lower body reduced to jello as Jungkook quickens his movements, wrists jerking back and forth as your pleasure sprays out of you. “Ju— Jungkook,” you wail, forcefully slamming your thighs shut when he doesn’t stop, the pleasure seemingly never-ending under such a torturous touch. “Stop—stop,” you beg, eyes filling with tears that spill over when his trapped hand manages one final rough rub against your clit accompanied by a final gush of wetness. 

Only then does he stop, leaning back on his knees to drink you in with dark eyes that make you quiver. There’s no trace of his usual post-orgasm cockiness, the smile he’ll flash you, the teasing jabs. Nothing, just a frankly terrifying gaze that has you self-consciously pressing your hands over your chest. 

Jungkook doesn’t take kindly to it, roughly snatching one of your wrists up until you’re sitting up, the traces of your own orgasm present in the damp couch cushions beneath you, inner thighs coated in a thin sheen of your own pleasure. Jungkook leans in close, nose bumping against yours. “You came like that for me,” he says quietly, chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. You nod, eyes wide and teary when he reaches for the front of his shirt, giving it the same treatment he usually gives yours; two hands at the front, yanking it apart until the buttons are torn from their stitches and bouncing across your floor. 

He throws it off to the side, his tan skin highlighted by the cool tones of the television, the dark sleeve of his tattoo especially prominent. The black ink almost looks blue under this light. You’re so distracted by the perfect swirls and doodles on Jungkook’s skin that you don’t realize that same hand is reaching for you until it’s too late, long fingers wrapping around your throat to jerk you forward, head tipping back to look up at him. “Say it, sweet girl,” he murmurs, eyes half-lidded. “Tell me you’re mine.”

The fingers around your throat squeeze once and then slowly begin tightening. You gasp, meeting his hooded gaze with yours, lips quivering for a response that’s stuck in your throat, trapped by your own surprise and tightening airways. Frantically, you reach for his wrists with both hands, not to pull Jungkook’s hand away, but to ground yourself from the hazy cloud of lust the moment evokes. 

Still, your body isn’t as strong as you thought, and once Jungkook reaches a certain tightness around your throat you find yourself coughing. Instantly, he loosens his grip. But not too much. “I- I’m yours,” you rasp out, gasping for air. 

For now, it satisfies Jungkook enough for him to release you. And while you’re grateful for the rush of fresh air that fills your lungs, the phantom ghost of his grip around your throat sends a new gush of wetness between your thighs. One that grows tenfold when Jungkook reaches for his belt, undoes it easily. It comes off with one fluid motion, carelessly shucked off to the side as his attention moves to the front of his pants instead. 

He doesn’t let you sit around uselessly. “On your knees,” he says, so quietly you almost don’t hear it. “Sit on your knees facing the table.”

You blink slowly, the dry tears on your cheeks leaving stiff trails against your makeup. It takes a moment for your brain to process his request, one long second that has Jungkook pausing in his movements, leveling you with one solemn glare that eventually has you springing into action. You hastily slip off the couch, shuffling toward the coffee table between it and the television. The rug is soft beneath your knees, a luxury you can’t enjoy to the fullest because there’s a ball of excitement and fear stuck in your throat. (Right beneath your bruised skin and recuperating windpipes.) Sitting back on your calves, it feels like every nerve is standing stiff as you await his instructions. 

“Bra off,” Jungkook says from behind you, and you’re startled by the sudden ripping of stitches behind you, almost turning to look at him. He stops you with one hand around the back of your neck, drawing a surprised gasp from you. “Sit still,” he commands, your back stiff straight, eyes focused on the screen. After a beat, Jungkook lets you go, pats the back of your head gingerly. “Good girl.”

A whimper catches in your throat at the praise, and you barely manage to bite down on it in time, hurriedly reaching behind you. Your hands fidget over the clasps on your bra, and you nearly jump out of your skin when one lone finger traces down your spine, undoing your bra for you. You don’t know why, but you say, “thank you.”

The television changes scenes in front of you, the bright colors a stark contrast to the darkness of Jungkook’s eyes. Your hands tremble in front of you, fingers anxiously tangling with each other. A few inches beside you, there’s a dark red box filled with the flowers from—

Suddenly, your vision goes dark, hands instinctively reaching up to your eyes. The pads of your fingers come in contact with a soft material, smooth and silky. Just like— “Is this… ?” you murmur, hands sliding across the makeshift blindfold Jungkook’s made for you, the same texture as his shirt had been. 

He doesn’t grace you with an answer, just a hand against your hip as he, presumably, settles behind you. “Does it matter?” Jungkook says instead, voice all too close to your ear. Your entire body locks up, hands quickly returning to their spot against the coffee table. 

Just as you’d suspected, Jungkook is all too close now, hands crawling over your body. They start at your waist, massage the skin tenderly, lovingly, before gliding up to cup your breasts. You shiver, a quiet exhale escaping you as Jungkook rubs his palms over your boobs, trapping your stiff nipples between his fingers. A sound threatens to escape you, and you trap it behind a bitten lip, fists clenched against the table before you. “You know,” Jungkook says conversationally, like he’s not pinching your nipples enough to make you squirm. “Who else do you think can make you come like this?”

You brain lags. “W- What?” you stutter, thighs pressing together to ward away the arousal. Not like they’re already sticky from before, from when Jungkook had made you squirt. 

Jungkook doesn’t miss a beat, pressing a kiss against your shoulder that he trails up to your ear, nibbling at your earlobe. “Who else,” he says slowly, “can make you come like this?”

It’s not a trick question— no one could. You tell Jungkook as much. “I— no one,” you answer, rolling your lips in when he kisses the tender spot beneath your ear again. 

His kisses feel loud, but not as loud as his voice when he says, “exactly.” You swallow, gripping at the edge of the coffee table when he releases your boobs, trails one hand between your thighs, the other around your throat to pull you backwards against his chest. It makes your hands flail, landing against the tops of his thick thighs. 

Jungkook holds you close, fingers tightening around your throat teasingly. “No one else can please you like you want,” he exhales, letting his fingers trail over your skin. “Not the guy on tv, not your exes, not the fucking loser at your job,” he hisses, lips against your ear. “No one,” he reiterates, voice softer now as he presses a kiss against you. “No one but me.”

And it’s true. 

You can’t even muster your usual mouthy, bratty attitude when Jungkook serves you cold hard facts like this. Not when you can feel his aching member press against the small of your back, rest perfectly in the slight dip between your ass cheeks. “Isn’t that right, sweet girl?” he murmurs, voice low. 

You nod, tummy tightening when he uses the hand between your thighs to spread them apart. “Only you,” you agree, voice feathery.

Jungkook hides a grin against your skin, a mean chuckle escaping him when he rests his forehead against your shoulder. “Fuck,” he says, releasing your throat. “Such a good girl,” he praises, hands on your hips again. He uses them to encourage you up onto your knees, hips bumping into the edge of the table as he shuffles you forward. “Bend,” he says quietly, palm flat on the center of your back, pushing you down until your belly button is pressed against the cold wood, boobs swinging forward just the slightest. “Perfect.”

Jungkook shuffles up behind you, soothes a hand over your hip when you flinch at the first press of his cock against your folds. “You’re okay,” he comforts, voice like honey as he lines himself up. Your folds are slippery and wet, loose from your arousal and the two orgasms he’s already given you. 

Despite all that, the first push of his engorged cock past the tight muscles makes you gasp. “Baby, that’s,” you moan, nails scratching against the coffee table to make a sound that you would otherwise find uncomfortable. “I—“

Jungkook pants behind you, cock sinking further and further in. “I’ve got you,” he husks. His voice is like the light at the end of the tunnel, your dark vision forcing you to rely on him entirely as he guides you through the motions. “Made for me,” he repeats, voice airy.

You nod jerkily, arms trembling as his cock plunges deeper inside of you. “Made for you,” you gasp, head falling forward, forehead pressed against the cold surface in front of you. 

He moans, and there’s one deafening moment of silence when he finally reaches the hilt, soft pubic hairs at the base of his cock brushing against your folds. It’s a familiar sensation, having him buried inside of you, but it’s always different when he’s doing it from behind. He always feels fuller, bigger, mushroom tip practically kissing your cervix. 

“Kook,” you whimper, walls unintentionally contracting around him when he lingers a second too long. “Move.”

“Fuck, fuck,” he curses behind you. “I know, it’s just—“ he pauses, squeezes your hip so hard, you’re certain it’ll bruise. “I wanna… y’know,” he groans, dropping his head against your back, warm breath fanning across your slightly sweaty skin. 

It makes something in your stomach click into place, shifting back just the slightest. The small drag around your lips makes you brave. “Then do it,” you urge, desperate for any sort of friction. 

Jungkook practically growls, bucking into you once. “No,” he says, like he’s battling with himself, faced with a mental hurdle he can only cross alone. “You don’t understand,” he sneers, suddenly snapping back into position behind you, pulling you flush against his pelvis once more. It makes you whimper. 

“I kinda do—“

“You don’t,” Jungkook hisses, forcefully thrusting his hips into you enough to make your hips knock painfully against the edge of the coffee table, a startled moan falling from between your lips. And from there, it’s like you’ve unleashed a beast, because Jungkook shows you no mercy as he begins fucking you, his fat cock slipping in and out of you, his angry head flirting with your entrance. “I wanna fucking breed you,” he sneers, fingers digging into the skin around your waist to hold you still as he bucks his hips forward.

His vulgarity makes your skin heat up, the warmth probably tangible over your sloppily made blindfold, eyes wide despite the fabric that covers them. “That—” you gasp, thighs trembling with each powerful thrust. 

“It’s too much, I fucking know,” he huffs dryly, releasing one hip to press against your shoulders, roughly shoving you forward until your breasts are pressed against the surface, arms bent up beside you to stop yourself from hitting your head. “But— But,” he shudders, suddenly stopping his thrusts to grind his cock against you instead, pussy lips quivering around his girthy member. “I wanna,” he pants, “wanna see you so fucking full of me, because— you’re mine, __,” he seethes, “right?”

You nod blindly, dumbly, brain too flooded with the stimulation he’s bestowing upon you to think properly. “I- I am,” you confirm, gasping for air. “And you’re mine,” you manage to get out, one hand slapping down against the coffee table when he draws his cock out, slams himself back into you quickly. 

“I’m yours,” Jungkook slurs behind you, slowly picking up his pace again. The hand on your back lets go, and it’s with trembling arms that you manage to push yourself back onto your forearms, one hand blindly reaching for the hand he’s got gripping at your hips. 

“Oh my god,” you whimper, the sounds coming from your connected bodies so lewd and obscene, disgustingly wet when Jungkook slips back inside. He surges forward again, and you try to catch your balance, knees quivering underneath the force of his thrusts. Your hand slides over the tabletop in a feeble effort to hold onto something, anything. You can’t see, and even if you could there’s not much to hold onto on a flat surface. 

Except the box your hand knocks into. Your confusion lasts for only about a second because then Jungkook is ramming his cock into you, over and over, until you’re certain your hips are going to bruise and your knees are going to give out. Jungkook’s moans are soft and feathery, sighs that fan over your shoulder and make your back arch, eyes rolling backwards for the briefest second as if you were possessed. 

“Mine,” he whimpers, desperate and needy, fingernails digging into your skin as he pushes on. “Gonna be mine forever,” he growls. “Gonna— Gonna be so pretty and big,” he moans, “tits so fucking full.” The image he puts in your mind makes you dizzy. 

You nod dumbly, knuckles bumping against the box a second time. “Jungkook,” you choke out, fingers blindly nudging the box aside. But there’s no strength behind it, your entire body feeling weak and useless, all the energy concentrated in the coil in your stomach, the one that grows and tightens with every entrance of Jungkook’s cock into your pulsing walls. “There’s— There’s something,” you gasp, pinky finger tapping against it.

Behind you, Jungkook stills, harsh breaths deafeningly loud. Louder than the television and the corny music that plays, the mindless chatter of the characters you couldn’t name even if you tried. “Why would you...” Jungkook huffs, irritation lacing his words.

You don’t get to question it, because a second later his finger is tucking itself beneath your blindfold, yanking it off carelessly. It makes your head crane backwards, a tiny yelp torn from your lips as the blinding glow of the TV attacks your poor eyes at full force. Jungkook’s long since stopped his rapid thrusts, and it’s only when you glance off to the side that you realize why. 

It’s the stupid box of flowers Seokjin had sent you, the one Jungkook had placed on the coffee table when you first got home. 

Behind you, Jungkook releases one long exhale, both of you looking at the arrangement with various degrees of discomfort. “Did you like them,” he murmurs, cock throbbing inside of you. 

You shake your head, a soft, “no,” falling from your lips. The muscles in your thighs quiver like mad. 

Jungkook says nothing, but you watch as one inked arm stretches out from behind you, the movement of his hips pushing his cock deeper into you. A tiny whimper catches in your throat, watching as Jungkook hooks a finger over the lip of the box. One swift tug has it gliding over the tabletop, coming to a stop right beside your forearm. Jungkook leans back, the silence terrifying. 

“Did you think they were pretty?” he asks, tracing one finger down your spine. Your lower lip trembles as your eyes scan over the bouquet, at the pretty color selection and lovely scent that joined together to overwhelm your senses. 

“No,” you say, but it feels like a lie.

And Jungkook thinks so too, wrapping one hand around your throat and pulling you back forcefully. It’s the same as he did earlier, but with his cock deep inside your pussy, it sends a shock throughout your entire nervous system, a sob tearing itself from within you as he unintentionally pushes himself deeper inside. “Did you,” he says a second time, practically seething, “think Seokjin’s flowers were pretty?”

Your eyes flicker nervously across the screen in front of you, but everything is a blur, Jungkook’s harsh breathing against your ear. “Yes,” you confess, whimpering when his fingers tighten around your throat, press down against your windpipe as he inhales sharply. “But they’re just flow—“ He squeezes your throat so hard, your eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets, mind growing fuzzy. Eventually, he lets go and you dissolve into a fit of coughs, bent over the coffee table again as Jungkook slips his stiff cock out from within you. “I’m sorry,” you sniffle, throwing a teary-eyed look over your shoulder.

What you’re not expecting is for Jungkook to grab that same shoulder and roughly push you onto your side away from the coffee table, falling onto the fluffy rug as he shoves you down. “Something pretty for a pretty girl,” he sneers, biting down a frankly maniacal grin.

“What?” you exhale, probably looking at him with the same maniacal look in your eyes. 

(You were made for each other, so crazy and in love.)

Jungkook stretches one toned arm out, and you flinch when he uses that same beautiful arm to send the box of flowers flying over the edge of the coffee table, a hard thwack resounding throughout the room when they land face down on the other side, petals against the floor, water dripping out from inside. 

With those out of the way, Jungkook wastes no time flipping you over, face shoved down against the soft rug as he angles your hips up. “Thinking about someone else when I’m right here,” he growls, ramming his cock back into you with no warning. You sob, clawing at nothing as he bucks forward. “What a mean girl,” Jungkook scolds. 

“I- I wasn’t,” you defend weakly, shivering as he snaps his hips against you, the rug irritating your cheek when the motion sends you forward. Jungkook uses the hands on your hips to pull you back, your skin clapping together loudly. 

“You think Seokjin would— would fuck you like this?” he spits, using you like a toy as he fucks basically for himself, cock sliding in and out of your squelching walls. “You think he’d push you down and—and call you a stupid girl?” 

You shake your head, eyes squeezed shut to fight the wave of tears threatening your waterline. Truthfully, it doesn’t make much of a difference, especially not when Jungkook yanks your hips back again, your entrance sensitive from all the friction. “No, no,” you sob. ”He wouldn't.”

Jungkook scoffs, not bothering to slow his pace down. “Of course he wouldn’t,” he spits, and then, strikes your ass. Two hard cracks of his palm, rings and all, against the globes of your ass. You wail, unconsciously jerking away only for Jungkook to drag you back. “Stupid girl,” Jungkook sighs, cock twitching inside of you. You can feel the beads of precum oozing out from the tip of his cock inside you, their warmth making you shudder. 

Your other ass cheek receives the same treatment, two harsh smacks that leave the skin tingling, blood rising to the surface. “Stupid, stupid girl,” he repeats, palms rubbing over your cheeks for a brief second, only to strike down again. “Aren’t you?” You nod, fat tears dripping out of the corner of your eyes and down onto the fluffy rug beneath you. Your behind stings, pain blossoming over your skin. But it’s the good kind, the one that has drool escaping from the corner of your lips from how overwhelmed it leaves you. 

“I- I’m a stupid girl,” you agree, your words punctuated by a series of tiny sobs and sniffles. Your walls feel sensitive, raw, from his thrusts. You’re ready to come, trembling hands slithering down to reach for your clit. 

“Don’t,” Jungkook warns, snatching your arm up and twisting it behind you. 

You cry, tears and drool against the rug. “I wanna come,” you whimper, trying your other hand only for it to meet a similar demise. “Please,” you sniffle, turning your face the other way as if the angle will somehow be different. 

“You don’t come until I say so,” Jungkook hisses, using his grip on your wrists to tug you onto his cock. You moan, choke on your own saliva from the force, the tip of his cock kissing your cervix for real this time. It renders you stupid, just like Jungkook had called you, chin trembling as your eyes roll backwards. Behind you, Jungkook grunts something deep and raspy. “Fffuck,” he spits, pistoning his hips into your inviting heat. “You were doing so good tonight—“ a particular brutal buck of his hips, a loud moan torn from your lips “—but first those fucking flowers and now this?”

The rhythm of his deep thrusts cut your moans into stuttered little cries, your words broken with every ram of his cock inside of you. Your walls feel worn, every brush sending a tingling shock up your spine. “I- I’m sorry,” you weep, shoulders shaking from your own tears and the rumbling orgasm that’s just about ready to snap. 

Jungkook says nothing, too busy shoving his cock inside of you to grace you with a response. Instead, you’re subjected to his relentless thrusts, sharp gasps from his pretty mouth. “Fuck,” he pants, releasing your wrists after one particular thrusts, your walls clenching around him painfully when he draws his cock out. 

“I can’t,” you sniffle, knees giving out before he can catch you, sadly sinking down onto the plush rug. “Kook, I—”

Jungkook makes a sound, something between a growl and a roar in the back of his throat as he follows behind you, planting two firm hands on the sides of your head to use as leverage to fuck himself in. With your thighs pressed flat together, the squeeze is tighter than ever before, and your eyes roll backwards as he gets to work, walls fluttering from the overstimulation. 

“I’ve got you, sweetheart,” he pants, all games thrown aside as he begins pounding his cock past your folds, deep into your contracting walls, until that tight spring in your stomach gives out and you’re clenching up beneath him, entire body going stiff for one long beat. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you weep, thighs quivering as you cream his cock, make his movements so slippery and wet, almost dangerous when he’s going this fast. His name falls from your trembling lips, every nickname and pet name you’ve ever given him mindlessly blubbered through your orgasm. Jungkook pays you no mind, thighs tensing up as he chases his high, short breaths and moans filling the space as he fucks himself into you. Until, finally, a few deep strokes later, he’s coming with a shuddered cry of your name on his tongue, collapsing over you, forehead pressed to your back as he catches his breath. 

“Fuck,” he groans one last time, body going slack very quickly. He slumps down beside you, softening cock slipping out of your tender folds. 

The floor between the coffee table and the couch is dark, the television glow not reaching down here. Even still, the sweat clinging to Jungkook makes him look like a sparkly Twilight vampire, the dip between his pecs collecting the smallest pool of sweat. You can’t stop yourself from running your pointer finger along the skin, over his nipple. His pec jumps deliciously under the attention. “Stop,” Jungkook sighs, catching your wrist in his, pressing his lips to your knuckles in an attempt to distract you. “Or I’ll really get you pregnant next time.”

You push yourself onto your elbows, pinching his doughy cheek. “You won’t,” you tease. Jungkook flicks his hair away from his eyes to level you with a look you’ve never seen before, not a trace of his usual post-sex playfulness to be found. It has you retracting your hand, eyes wide when he doesn’t stand down. Still, you can’t lose. “...No you won’t,” you repeat, quieter, almost unsure. Almost a question. 

Jungkook rolls his eyes, tugging you into his arms. He’s all sweaty and sticky, just like you. He’s lucky he doesn’t have four separate loads of cum— three from you, one from him —sticking between his thighs. “Keep telling yourself that,” he pants, so smoothly. Too smoothly. It makes you clench your thighs, something Jungkook doesn’t miss. “Stop it,” he warns a second time.

“You’re just so dreamy,” you whine, sitting back up to play with his hand. “Like, when you made me squirt?” He chuckles softly, eyes fluttering shut. “Not gonna lie, I thought I saw the answer to the universe for a second.” 

He’s worn out today, more than usual, that he doesn’t bother gracing you with a response. But it had been a long day for Jungkook; from planning an entire date, to the Seokjin debacle, to the crazy hot sex he’d gifted you. It was only reasonable. You reward his efforts with a soft peck against his cheek that makes him smile, a light blush painting his cheeks. “You did good today,” you hum, patting chest comfortingly. 

“Felt like I was in a Viki drama,” he confesses after a moment, has that tiny smile on his face that makes the apples of his cheeks especially round, especially cute. “The kind that have twelve plot lines going on.”

You laugh, snuggling beside him. The rug feels dirty, but so do you so the feeling is cancelled out or whatever. “You’d be the Park Seojoon of any Viki drama,” you tell him, and Jungkook laughs.

That loud and airy one he reserves only for you. 

epilogue

Namjoon calls Jungkook’s phone a little after eleven, talking your ear off about some date he’d gone on while Jungkook is in the shower. You tell him about what happened with Seokjin and like all respectable college mentors, he just about flips. “You can sue him,” Namjoon hisses, furious for you. Not that you aren’t anymore, but in a weird act of impulsiveness, Jungkook had gone outside and ran the stupid box of flowers over with his car as you watched from the open window of your apartment. It was weirdly cathartic. 

He’s in the shower now, humming the lyrics to one of the songs from Secretary Kim, a song called It’s You by Jeong Sewoon (thank you, Shazam), that makes every inch of your body overflow with adoration when he hits that long note. Anyway, you’re perusing the rest of the streaming service for a movie to watch. Jungkook said you couldn’t watch Train to Busan tonight, something about it ruining the mood. So now you’re debating between a historical romcom or a modern romcom. 

Over the line, Namjoon is doing all the raging for you. “Men are trash,” he huffs one last time, before eventually letting it go. (For now.) “Hey, do you know how to cover up hickeys?” he asks suddenly, just as Jungkook reappears in the living room. His skin is glowing, looking like the hottest man alive. The window is still open, a feeble attempt to air out the smell of sex in the room, and the draft makes Jungkook shiver because his hair is still a little wet. 

“Hickeys?” you repeat, stretching a hand out for him as he rounds the couch. Jungkook takes it, places a soft smooch against your knuckles, close to your promise ring. Your heartbeat stutters just as Namjoon hums. 

“Yeah, this girl,” he says, cutting himself off with a laugh. One you recognize all too well because it’s the same one you let out when you talk about Jungkook to other people. Said boy settles close beside you, leans his cheek against your head when you snuggle into his neck. As soon as he’s there, you lose all rights to the remote, watching as Jungkook completely disregards all your searching just to click back onto Secretary Kim. He had missed a whole episode. “We went a little crazy tonight—“ you gag at the image Namjoon places in your head “—and Doyeon bites kinda hard—“

“Doyeon?” you interrupt, all mental processes coming to an abrupt halt as the name bounces around your mind. Jungkook, having mastered the art of listening in on your phone calls by now, freezes beside you. “You know a Doyeon?” 

“Yeah!” Namjoon says excitedly as you sit up. Jungkook meets your gaze, big Bambi eyes giving the performance of a lifetime, and gives your this overly innocent shrug of his shoulders that tells you more about what he does know than what he doesn’t. “Kim Doyeon. She went to your school— actually, she graduated with you and Kook.”

The world comes to a complete stop as you glare at Jungkook, his panicked features cueing you in to the fact he was aware of this, as you’d suspected. “Namjoon,” you say slowly, fist tightening around Jungkook’s phone. “Are you aware you’re fucking my best friend?” 

There’s a long silence on the other end, Namjoon presumably processing the information while Jungkook tries to calm the boiling anger within you. “He didn’t know,” Jungkook whispers, big pretty eyes on you as he tries to save Namjoon from you. 

All his efforts are in vain when Namjoon clears his throat and so eloquently says, “and you’re fucking my best friend?”

epi-epilogue

The Best Buy employee doesn’t ask questions when you and Jungkook go in to get your cracked phone screens repaired. He does, however, give Jungkook an over-exuberant sales pitch on a brand new line of computer monitors that are almost as big as the television at your house. 

You try to save him from the dangerous hands of capitalism, but the Hello Kitty bandaids decorating your neck are itchy, the skin still so tender, so sometimes it’s wiser to let him waste his money than argue otherwise. 

“Good girl,” Jungkook says as he swings your arms back and forth on your walk to the car, impressed by the fact you didn’t argue with him in a Best Buy today. “My perceptions and understanding of you in my life make me happy,” he beams, too smiley as he unlocks the doors. 

“Shut up,” you glare, painfully tearing the stupid bandaids off your neck as soon as you get in, brandishing the blossoming hickeys Jungkook had so graciously given you last night. At the sight, he bites down a smile. “You’re about to perceive and understand these fists.” 

And Jungkook smiles— he always smiles —as he leans over the center console to press his mouth against the darkened skin at the front of your neck, mindlessly rubbing his thumb over your promise ring. “Perceive this love,” he says, so cheesy it makes you gag. 

“Goddd,” you groan, pushing him away before he can see the smile on your face. “Someone get this man a Viki deal.”

Copyright © 2021, 1kook on tumblr. absolutely NO reposts allowed.

[rosafione]

"Come Closer."

title; How Far Will I Fall, 'Till You Catch Me In your Arms

pairing; xiao x reader

desc; you never really lacked the guts for these kinds of things, but before everything else, you valued his feelings, and most of all, his consent. in the end, it still takes two to tango.

a/n; xiao drabble xiao drabble xiao drabbleee now, he might be ooc, im not sure, but this is mostly just an hc if you guys are close— to an extent muahahahahaha

Time was at a standstill for a certain young adeptus.

For someone who's lived a millennia, you'd think two months would only feel like a second. Before, Xiao would not deny the frequency of those moments— of loneliness, and melancholy; Of time spent watching the Guyun Stone Forest and awaiting his time to strike.

Every day that passed was one spent with his guard high, back then.

And yet now, those moments seemed as if they existed in a far different time. A time before the Traveler plunged Osial into the ocean, stripping them of their adeptal duties and eliminating a cause for Liyue to seek their guidance.

Though possibly the greatest disparity from that time could be that.. It was a time before you— before he had you by his side.

You were a mortal, one he considers to be above average, yet a mortal, nonetheless. You still had times where your humanity catches up to you, and you are left vulnerable in the hands of the evil that lurks among the lands of Tevyat.

Xiao met you at your weakest; But he watched you grow into your shell.

It wasn't as if he regarded you with any special fondness. At first. You were no different from any other mortal that walked Liyue— a fragile creature he was tasked to protect, and a being he needed to steer clear off, lest he harm you with his adeptal energy. (Death from the sheer force of it was no stranger to him. He does not want to carry another human's death on his shoulders.)

Xiao had a complicated relationship with the mortal realm. It was not disdain he harbored for humans, only vigilance and curiosity.

Their realm and the adepti's were two worlds apart.

What differed you from the mortals is that you crossed that distance. And somehow, you stood before him, right in the in between.

He wonders how you do it; You've always been unyielding in his presence. He knows you are aware of his prowess, but every time he looks at you, there is nothing but fondness and adoration he sees in your ancient gaze.

You offered him Almond Tofu almost every day. It makes him anticipate your troubles, yet you do no else other than indulge him in small chats, and silly escort commissions into the mountains or the forest. At times, you'd just watch him feed on your offerings.

He knew it was a bribe, the Almond Tofu. You did it almost everyday— Until you didn't have to.

At some point, Xiao stopped denying your presence. He's warned you enough— He respected you enough to know that you were an adult, and you could think for yourself. And though the moments you'd offer him were memories worthy to look back on, he dares not seek you out.

But he didn't have to. You always came to him first.

His relationship with you only grew from there. It was no earth-shattering occurrence, that's for sure. It was a parasite that he didn't know had been rooting itself into his being so deeply that he cannot bring himself to part with it.

Though if not a shocking event, it was still a crushing revelation.

"Good day, Xiao."

The lady-in-charge, Verr, seemed to be searching for something before her gaze flitted back to his. "No Y/N today?"

"Y/N is off to the harbour for a few days," he'd answered instinctively as he walked to the usual table prepared for him near the kitchen.

"And you didn't come with?"

His slit brows raise in confusion. "Why would I?"

"Oh dear, my apologies. I just figured—" a bashful chuckle leaves her— "Since I see you guys together all the time."

He frowns at the memory. It was a realization that started his resolve to put some distance, yet it was also the beginning of your.. lengthy travels.

When your few days became a few weeks, his resolve easily yielded to his eagerness in meeting you once more.

-

Time used to pass by swiftly, but nowadays, a year spent with you feels as if he had already spent half of his life.

He sighs, shaking his head at himself. "Reduced to just standing around. How absurd."

"If you think standing around was such an absurd concept then why do you still reject the idea of travelling with me?"

The familiar voice wills him to rip his gaze away from the scenery.

He knows it is yours— your steps, your scent, your weight, your presence. Xiao feels you the moment you stepped into the inn. Yet he does not move, run, nor show any sign of the buzz that vibrates from inside his chest.

Yet when he sees you, you are beautiful, safe. Ephemeral.

He forgets every aching minute he's spent in the eight weeks you were not in his vicinity.

Time runs again.

Still, everything about you is slow; The way you walk carefully to his side, the way you drag your fond gaze from his, to the scenery before you.. The way your hair flows and dances with the evening breeze.

He knows. The wind has always favored you.

"Ever since meeting the Traveler, all you've talked about is travelling," he chose to say.

"With you."

"What?" he frowns.

"I mean that yes, all I've talked about is travelling—" you chuckle bashfully, averting your eyes away from his— "That is, travelling.. But with you."

His eyes widen, then hardening with a purse of his lips, before he turns to glare into the distance. "My answer will not change. I cannot leave Liyue."

"And my reply is the same," you sigh. "The place does not matter. As long as we'd be together."

It is a sensitive topic, and an inevitable taboo.

There was a line neither of you should ever cross— a line he's put there himself, and one he disdains all the same.

Silence ensues. It is a frequent occurrence, ever since you first brought up the prospect of adventuring. Stubborn and troublesome. Xiao finds himself needing to track back in conversations just to figure you out.

Mortals were such complex creatures.

And yet it was so easy for you to read him like an open book. Or so he assumes. You always knew how you'd deal with him. Even Xiao knows that it is no easy feat.

"You're always like this," he grumbles.

You do not answer, and he settles for the tranquility, all the tension leaving his body; And for once, after two months, he felt as if he could actually breathe.

He wonders how much longer he'd be stuck in this area of torment and bliss. Wonders how much longer he'll continue to drag you into it.

Wonders when you'll snap and just leave him all together.

He frowns grumpily at the thought.

-

"Can I?" you ask.

Xiao looks into your eyes— swirling hues that didn't return his gaze, far focused on a lower part of his face. His lips, he realizes. Your gaze had been focused on his lips.

The epiphany wills a streak of crimson to rise to the tips of his ears, and his own focus is stolen away by the pink appendage that wets your lips.

"Your question is incomplete," he says instead, feigning ignorance.

Shaking his head, Xiao crosses his arms and forces himself to concentrate on your eyes. Only on your eyes.

Maybe then, he wouldn't get so distracted.

"Regardless of how your question would go, I don't understand why you need my opinion," he huffs, grumbling. "It's your body. You would know it best."

You press your lips together. A gentle, bashful smile spreading on your face as a fond look emerges in your eyes. "My apologies," you chuckle. "It was the wrong question to ask."

He faces you to narrow his eyes at your suspicious behavior, but he's far too distracted by the way your hand lifts, trailing from the side of his neck to gently cup his cheek, and his breath hitches, eyes widening.

Warmth radiated from your touch. Xiao knows better than to reject such touches any longer when with you. So he leans into it, presses his head closer to your palm, closing his eyes and exhaling in surrender.

"What i meant to ask was," he opens his eyes to look at you.

Your gazes clash. They meld and melt into each other as you slowly raise yourself closer and closer — or perhaps it was him who'd been leaning down.

The hand that traces the tattoo on his right arm, as well as the other that caresses his face with an aching gentleness, reels him in. enthralls him. It lures him into succumbing to your presence, and his body goes through that familiar feeling of softening under your touch.

"May I?" you whisper.

Suddenly, you are leaning in more eagerly— more determined, as if with a clear intent in mind. He thinks he understands your words enough now, swirling in his mind, goes through consideration, and the one practical response he could muster with his focus in a jumble is to deny you permission.

He gulps soundly; He can't bring himself to.

Xiao thinks this is it, watching you move in as he struggles to keep his eyes from fluttering shut. He thinks it would be this moment— this moment in which he dooms the unspoken rule between mortals and adepti. Dooms the contract he's worked so hard to fulfill in service of Lord Morax, now Zhong Li. He'd doom your friendship, or whatever it is you've offered him up to this point.

Yet even then.. Even then, he doesn't say no.

He stays quiet; Waiting. Wanting.

It's funny— the mortal language, how one could switch out a letter, and a word would seem that much different.

It was true, nonetheless.

Xiao waits. Xiao wants.

He wants the closeness, the intimacy— the affection you provide. He wants your lips to meet his just to know if it is as soft as the rest of you is. He wants to see if a kiss— curious, like a child— truly lives up to the countless tales told by the experienced. He wants to know.. If you will give him those answers.

His amber eyes meet yours. He does not breathe, as if doing so would scare you away. As if doing anything would give you a response he does not want to give.

It is enough. Your noses bump for a second, his eyes fluttering closed; Your scent wafts from beneath his nose, crisp burning incense, molded into the fresh smell of the forest that is brought about by the wind.

He curves into you, a single thought shaking him to the core, making him tremble - so utterly pathetic.

'Please..'

Your lips do not meet.

And suddenly, there is too much air between you and him.

Xiao opens his eyes to see you trailing back, fidgety— you looked like a walking contradiction, twitching fingers trying to cross the distance, gaze darting between looking away or staring regretfully at his lips.

There was a crimson hue staining your cheeks, he noticed.

"Why.." he whispers, then catches himself.

The inside of his chest strains from all the emotions he has to keep hidden— all the emotions he has to keep denying.

Disappointment. Loneliness. Exhaustion. Desperation.

Xiao wants.

-

You couldn't believe you almost kissed him.

It was a heavy violation of contract— not that you two had ever agreed to one, but it was an unspoken compromise. It was a truth you both knew, yet continued to ignore.

So that this— whatever this was, could survive.

Archons, you almost laid it all to waste!

(Either way, any decision would still leave you with regrets, had you continued or pulled away.)

"Ah, would you look at that!" you laughed out loud in a panic, perhaps to cover up the tense atmosphere. "I did it again! I asked a question without completing it, yeah? Guess it's a really bad habit on mine!"

Xiao does not answer. You spare him a look. And you wish you hadn't.

He looks dejected, disappointment and frustration showing through his slit eyebrows and wide eyes.

As if your choice was a surprise to him.

As if he wanted you to continue.

As if.

You couldn't deny you wanted it, too. Whatever he could give you. And, more.

You mentally scold yourself, knowing you're already stretching Xiao's patience with your friendship as it is.

You have to remind yourself that Xiao is immortal, and no matter how humane he may seem, you cannot trouble him with matters such as the turmoil in your heart.

It's really hard to say anything, when all the thoughts that circle in your head is how wonderful he is. How amazing he makes you feel. How he is all you've ever wanted for the whole year since you've realized you'd developed a certain affection for him.

"Sorry, Xiao," you say, throat tightening with bubbles of emotions threatening to spill. "I should.. Go away, for some time."

( And the first thing Xiao thinks is to dejectedly reply 'Again.?' )

"No," he says all too quickly, detaching from the banister.

"No?" you echo, confused. "N-no what?"

"Stay," he says, but it is not a command. Not from the adeptus. It is a soft request; A wavering plea that reaches to you soul.

"Where?" you ask. 'How far?'

"Here," he whispers now. "With me."

You push your luck, craving just a bit more patience from Xiao.

"Close?"

You could see Xiao consider. His eyes showing his heart, but his silence showing his mind.

He gives in.

"Close."

That day was the nearest you've peered, held and embraced Xiao's soul, moving closer, and softly leaning your forehead on his, clenching onto the white fabric of his shirt as he loosely wraps an arm around your waist— under the watchful eyes of the night sky.

There is still a distance that Xiao dares not cross.

And for now, maybe it's enough.

[backtothefanfiction]

WHAT BENNY DOESN'T KNOW | Chapter 6

A TRIPLE FRONTIER STORY

Summary: Things get heated on the mountainside then five months later Santiago knocks on your door asking for a favour.

Warnings: Language, mentions of sex.

Word Count: 3997

A/N- Hey guys thank you so much for your love on this series, after the heaviness of the last chapter this one is more story development for how we ended up at chapter 1. It's split into three parts; the boys interaction on the side of the mountain, Santiago coming to your flat to ask for a favour and you meeting with Frankie in a diner to collect on that favour for Santi. This is the second to last chapter and I am currently working on the final chapter so we can end this story and Friday on a high! In the meantime I hope you enjoy.

PART SIX | TRIPLE FRONTIER

Without you, the mission had become a shit show. Five days full of reckless testosterone clouded decisions that had lead to them trekking across the Andes, millions of dollars literally being lost over the side of a cliff, three different gunshot wounds between the group and multiple dead bodies; including Tom's. The sun had almost fully set now, just a dull hazy glow on the horizon as Santiago, Will and Frankie lay back against the bags of money, waiting for the younger Miller to return. The tension was thick between them and not just because of the multiple fuck ups or the fact they had lost a friend.

Each one of them had brought up your name at some point during this trip, wondering if things would have been different if you had been there. A strong team of six instead of five. Santiago had watched Frankie subtly flinch, every time he heard your name and although he himself wished you had been there, he could clearly see now why you had said no. He still didn't completely know what had happened between you and Frankie other than what he found out that one night in Italy; but he knew if you had been on this mission with them right now, the team would be even weaker, not stronger.

“I'm gonna say something. Are you listening?” Frankie's voice said strongly, breaking the stoic silence that had befallen the three men since Benny had left their company.

“Yeah.” Santiago murmured, acknowledging the statement.

“We gotta get back on our game.” Frankie said. “Enough of this. It stops now. You Understand?”

“Copy that.” Santiago replied.

Frankie had ended up spending more time than he thought he would thinking about you these last few days. Even with everything that had happened between the two of you, it felt odd to him doing a job like this without you. Over the years and countless missions you had all worked together, you had become a partner to him. His co-pilot, the one who always had his six. The absence of you only served to remind him of how fucked up things were between you now. He felt himself tense anytime one of the boys said your name. He spoke with a venom, anytime he was dragged into a conversation about you. That was until he lost a mule over the side of the mountain.

The rocks had given way bellow the animals feet and he had watched helplessly as it fell to its death, bags of money exploding as they hit rocks. His own mortality truly hit him then. His mind raced to images of his daughter and Laura but then they turned to you and that's where they stayed. Tom's death a day later had only reinforced those thoughts more. If he died on this godforsaken mountain before he had a chance to talk to you and sort everything out, it would be the biggest regret of his life. He needed them all to get back on their A game. He needed to get back to you.

“Why did she say no to the job?” Will's question permeated the silence. It was a question that had been on his mind since the very beginning and one Santiago had tried to avoid and work around the whole mission. Santiago remained quiet, trying to work out the best way to respond.

“Because of me.” Frankie's confession rang out. Will sat up then, looking at Frankie confused, silently asking him to elaborate. Santiago's gaze had also turned to Frankie, but it was a soft look, one of pride that his friend wanted to face up to his demons instead of run from them. Frankie's look back to Santiago was a desperate cry for help. Although he knew they all needed to get this out in the open so they could work better as a team, he also was struggling with how to say it.

“He was sleeping with her.” Santiago tried to say as gently as he could. Although he knew the relationship between you and Frankie had been fucked up, he also knew you were both hopelessly in love with one another, which was what had made things between you so much more complicated.

“Wait. What?” Will stuttered out in shock. “When?”

“About 11 months ago.” Frankie quietly confessed. Will gave Frankie a hard look as he realised he was telling him he had cheated on his partner with you. “Look, I know.” Frankie said in response to the stare, “It wasn't exactly my finest moment.”

“How long for?” Will questioned.

“A couple of months. She broke things off when she found out Laura was pregnant. That's why she took that job in Italy.” Santiago's mind raced as he remembered back to the night he spent with you in Italy, his head dropping sheepishly. He thought if he kept his head low, he'd get away with not having the Italy conversation with Frankie but he was wrong. Frankie had recognised the look on Pope's face and the fact his was currently staring away from them at the rock in front of him, just told him how guilty his friend felt.

Will had watched the exchange, analysing the looks between the two men before him. “What happened in Italy?” he asked, suspecting there was something about your time over seas that they were both privy to and hiding from him.

“Why were you in Italy with her Pope?” Frankie doubled down.

“I went to her first to talk about the job.” Santiago said, only giving half the truth. Frankie fixed him with a hard look, forcing him to elaborate. He wanted to know how that fucking phone call had come about. “Look she wasn't answering my messages so I got on a plane, went over there and-” his sentence hung awkwardly in the air a moment as he tried to decide how to carry on. “Look, I thought that if I got rid of the guy she would be free to come back with me and do the job, but she got mad at me.” Frankie and Will listened intensely as Santiago continued to babble. “Look I did some things and she said some shit to get back at me. Look man I didn't know.” He looked desperately to Frankie.

“But even after you did find out you still fucked her, right?” Frankie's voice bit back. It was more of a statement than a question.

“I'm sorry man, but you should have seen her face.” Santiago felt his cock twitch just at the memory alone. “She freaking begged me Fish.” Santi's voice pleaded, trying to get his friend to understand. Will scoffed in disbelief over the conversation they were having. “Hey.” Santiago said rounding on him, “You would have done exactly the same thing if you were there. You're just bitter because you only got to fuck her the once.”

“HEY!” Frankie's voice cut across Pope.

“No, you don't get to act like you're her knight in shining armour right now and defend her honour, not when you used her like you did.” Santiago snapped back at Frankie.

“I didn't use her.” Frankie attempted to defend himself.

“You fucking snorted coke off her body, fucked her, then went back home to continue playing house with your actual girlfriend. If that's not using her-”

“I told her I fucking loved her and that I wanted to leave Laura, that I was gonna get clean for her and she fucking cut and run on me man.” There was silence as the weight of Frankie's statement hung in the air between them. When Frankie spoke again, breaking the silence, his voice was softer, curious. “Did you make her?” He didn't want to ask but he needed to know. The 60 second phone call had played continuously on a loop around his head ever since it had happened, the words haunting him.

“Yes.” Santiago's voice was timid and he struggled to look at his friend. “If it helps, she really tried to fight it man. I think she liked that it had been your thing.”

“What?” Will questioned, confused by the ambiguous conversation his friends were having in front of him. “What did you make her do?” His voice was worried, protective. Both Frankie and Santiago struggled to meet Will's eyes. “What did you make her do?” he asked again his voice demanding an answer.

“I'm sorry man.” Santiago said.

“He made her squirt.” Frankie said at the same time. Will's expression was one of reserved surprise.

“Wait you both?” Will asked, looking for clarity.

“Yeah.” Santiago said. There was a silence again as the information set in.

Something Santiago had said was weighing on Frankie. “What do you mean she begged you?” Frankie asked him timidly.

“She's been torturing herself man. She feels so guilty about everything that happened, she's just looking for a way she can live with herself.”

“What did you do?” Frankie asked, he was scared of the answer but wanted to know, his own form of punishment.

“Tied her to the bed and edged her to within an inch of her life.” Santiago's statement was slightly rushed and guilty. Will fought to remain silent as he began to picture the scene in his head.

“Did it help? Did it make her feel better afterwards?” Frankie continued to question.

“She's in love with you man.” Santiago said softly. “Those feelings aren't just gonna go away. She's gonna be carrying them around with her for the rest of her life. She's always gonna be stuck wondering what would have happened if things were different. Wondering if there ever would have been a way for you guys.” Santiago's statement left everyone silent once more. None of them brought it up again, but they couldn't stop thinking about it.

---------------------

It had been 5 months since you had come home from Italy. 5 months since the boys came back from their trip to South America. Will and Ben had escorted Tom's body back to the states and broken the news to Molly. They stayed with her as she broke the news to her girls and made a point of being there for them whenever they needed.

For 5 months, Will and Benny were the only company outside your family that you saw, but even then you didn't see them as often. None of you met up as a group again. You hadn't even heard from Santiago, that was until he showed up on your doorstep late one Saturday afternoon. “Hey Querida, I need your help.”

You reluctantly let him in, ushering him inside your small apartment. “What do you want Santi?” you asked as you continued to hover near the front door.

“I've got this job-”

“Nope, no way.” you quickly cut in. “After what happened in South America, I don't think so. Besides I thought that was supposed to be your last job. You said you were retiring.” you folded your arms across your chest defensively.

“I know, I know. But this isn't like that job.”

“Are you determined to burn every friendship you've ever had?” you spat at him, a warning to choose his next words very carefully. Will and Benny had told you everything when they got home. Both of them were shells of the men they once were, it almost pained you to be around.

Santiago collapsed onto the sofa, his head hung in his hands. “I know I fucked up.” he said slowly. “It was a shit job. I wanted to be able to just let it go and move on but I can't. I can't let that be the last job I did. The last thing that defines my career for me.” You softened at the broken man's words.

“What's the job?” you tentatively asked him.

“Corrupt cop.” he said, finally lifting his head from his hands.

“What?” you questioned slightly shocked. You had not been expecting that but you were immediately invested and Santiago knew it.

“He's based along the border between Columbia and Brazil. Been taking bribes and working with the cartels down there for years. With Lorea out of the way he's kind of stepped up to the plate behind the scenes, but he's nothing without his money.”

“So it's just getting the money, then getting back out.”

“Yes.”

“I'm assuming because he's a corrupt cop this is all gonna be done off the books.”

“That's why I need the team. The whole team.”

“They'll never go for it. Not if it's coming from you.” Santi looked at you then, his eyes pleading. You could read his mind without having him say it. “No.”

“They'll do it for you.” he said getting up.

“No, I'm not lying to them.”

“Please.” he said placing his hands on your arms. His eyes were desperate, “I need this.” You couldn't help but look at him with pity. He was far from the man who had teased you in Italy just a few months back. You could see the effects of his last failed mission clear on his face and his body. The dark circles under his eyes from nights of restless sleep. The extra patches of grey scattered amongst his dark curls. All he wanted was one last good job so he could rest in peace and think back on the glory days with fondness. He needed an excuse to make things right with his friends.

“Fine.” you reluctantly agreed. “But if they are gonna believe this is my job, you are gonna have to really let me take charge of this. You gotta give me everything you know.”

------------------

Getting Will and Benny to agree had been easy. You had brought it up over beers one Sunday afternoon. They hated corrupt cops as much as you and Santi and although they had been a little apprehensive when you told them Santiago was also going to be on the mission, they still agreed to go anyway for you. Frankie on the other hand was probably going to be a little trickier.

You asked him to meet you at a local diner on a Saturday morning. The sun was streaming through the windows onto your little booth. You couldn't tell if it was just the heat from the sun, shining through the glass making you feel like you were in a green house or just your anxiety at seeing Frankie for the first time since he had told you he loved you, but you felt like you were suffocating. You were contemplating abandoning this whole thing and bolting for the door when he finally walked in, the little bell ringing out, drawing your focus to him.

He looked good. He was wearing his favourite t-shirt, an unbuttoned shirt thrown over the top, the sleeves of which were rolled up, showing off his muscular arms. You became aware you were staring and quickly dropped your eyes to the half full cup of coffee, that now sat cold in your hands in front of you.

“Hey.” he said as he approached the table. You looked up at him, your nerves clear on your face.

“Hey.” your voice came out unsure. You wished you could just put on a fake smile and pretend like everything was okay, but the guilt monster that had grown attached to you since you last saw each other wouldn't let you.

He shuffled into the booth across from you as a waitress came over with a pot of coffee. You eagerly held out your own mug for a top up while Frankie flipped over the cup in front of him. “A stack of blueberry pancakes and a side of bacon?” the young girl questioned Frankie as she poured coffee into his cup.

“Actually no, I already ate.” he replied shooting her a forced half smile.

“Very well.” the younger girl said. “Anything for yourself sweetie?” she turned to ask you.

“Umm, no thank you, the coffee's fine.” you said, raising the cup in your hand as you said it.

“Very well then.” the waitress said with an exaggerated smile.

“Thanks Candace.” Frankie said as she walked away.

“Candace? Blueberry pancakes and bacon?” you questioned Frankie once she was out of earshot.

“Yeah. I got in the habit of coming in after early NA meetings.” he told you, his fingers twisting the mug of coffee in his hands as he waited on your response.

“You look good Frankie.” you said, finally being able to find a smile for him. His eyes met yours, they were hopeful, soft. It made you wonder what had happened to him in South America that had him come out of the trip looking far less scathed than the others. You assumed it had something to do with coming back alive for his little girl, a reminder to live the best life he could with her.

“Thank you.” he said. “You look good too.” you could tell by the way he said it that he meant it, even if you didn't feel like it. “So what was it you wanted to talk about?”

Frankie had smiled fondly when your name had popped up on his phone asking him to meet you. After everything that had happened in South America he had been eager to contact you but he had a few things he needed to deal with first.

He had broken things off with Laura as soon as he'd gotten home. They had sat down and had a long conversation, Frankie coming clean about all of it. He expected her to be furious, to scream the house down, throw all of his stuff out onto the front lawn and tell him he couldn't see their daughter ever again; but she surprised him when she told him she had known he was in love with you all along. He moved into the spare bedroom while he looked for a place of his own and made an effort to regularly talk and work out the situation. He was so grateful when she told him he could see Lilah as often as he wanted and he ended up spending a lot of his free time at the house with her, not wanting to miss a single moment as she continued to grow.

“I know after the shit show that was Santiago's job you'll probably want to say no, but I need your help on a job. They other guys are already in, I just need my pilot, my mission partner.” you said trying to lay it on thick.

“I'm in.”

He had said it without hesitation. He'd do anything for you, even if it meant trekking across the Andes again. “Wait, you don't want me to tell you what the job is?”

“It doesn't matter. You need me, I'm all in.” he said leaning back into the booth. “Besides if you've gotten the other guys to agree...” he left the statement open as he brought his coffee cup up to his lips. A silence fell between the two of you. Now you had gotten out all you had to say, you didn't know how to proceed in conversation.

“How old is she now?” you found yourself asking. It was more torturing yourself actually.

“Just over 7 months.” he replied. He held up a finger to you, instructing you to wait as he reached into his pocket for his wallet. He pulled out a small photo of her that was tucked into one of the slots, handing it across the table to you.

You tried to keep your fingers steady as you looked at the picture. She was beautiful and definitely Frankie's kid. “She has your eyes.” you found yourself saying, softening at the image of the little girl who had changed everything.

You couldn't help but wonder, if things had been different, if you and Frankie had gotten together all those years ago. Would you have your own baby by now? Would they have inherited his eyes like this little girl in the picture had, or would they have gotten yours? Then you wondered, if you hadn't run away when Frankie had told you about her, would you have been able to stick around and love her? To be her second mom and raise her with Frankie and Laura.

You quickly handed the photo back, no longer able to look at it or deal with the thoughts that were now swimming around your head. “Yeah, I'm just grateful she didn't get my nose.” Frankie said as he slotted the photo back into his wallet with a fond smile.

“Is she crawling yet?” you asked.

“Oh that girl is such an over achiever.” he chuckled fondly. “She was trying to stand at 3 months, even though her little legs were no where near ready for that. You'd have to fight to get her to relax them to feed.” You couldn't help but smile at the image of Frankie trying to wrestle a fussy baby to sit in his arms properly so he could feed her.

The way he looked at you changed then, like he was sad you hadn't been there, like he had really wanted you to be there with him. He had. There had been so many late nights he'd spent up with his little girl in his arms, wishing you were there. Wishing that she had been yours. He was about to open his mouth and try to tell you everything he had wanted to say since being on that mountain, but you became distracted when your phone buzzed, the screen lighting up, telling you both you had a text message from Santiago.

You reached for the phone and Frankie's chest sagged, it felt like a hole had just opened up in his chest and was suddenly being filled with all his self doubt. 'He'd waited too long. You and Santiago were probably a thing now.' were the main two thoughts that began echoing through his head. “I'm really sorry, I've got to head off.” you said, rooting around in your bag for your purse so you could pay for your coffee.

“Oh okay.” Frankie said back, slightly defeated.

“Umm, I'll send you over all the information for the job.” you said quickly as you climbed out of the booth while trying to send a quick reply to Santiago to let him know you were on your way.

“Yeah of course.” Frankie said also getting up, to see you off properly.

His action caught you off-guard and you almost walked into his chest as you looked up from the phone in your hand. You both froze. You softened as you looked up into his eyes, then slowly let them wander down to his lips. You really wished you could lean forward and kiss him right now. You came to your senses, clearing your throat and taking a step backwards, blushing.

“It was great to see you Frankie.” you quickly said. “Oh and thank you for saying yes to the job.”

“Uh yeah, no problem.” he said, hooking his fingers into his pockets. He wanted to touch you, to hug you or something, anything, but the way you had stepped back from him, made him feel like he couldn't. You both stood there awkwardly for a moment, unsure of what to do next.

You felt your phone buzz in your hand. You looked down at it, another message from Santiago. “Umm, I've got to go.” your voice was barely above a whisper. Before you realised you had done it, you leant forward and placed a light kiss on Frankie's cheek. You felt the corner of his mouth turn upwards as he began to smile, but you couldn't bring yourself to look. You knew that if you did look, it would remind you of everything you missed out on with him. Instead you did the same thing as you did last time you were with him, you walked away and you didn't look back.

---------------------------------

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[legoselfshipper]

the truce part 2

As Wukong and Macaque made their way to the inner workings of the jade palace MK was doing his best to fight off the armed forces that the jade emperor was sending him his way.

It was wave after wave of the celestial army coming at MK but he held his own just how monkey king did all those years ago and he was doing well but even with all the training that he has done with Wukong, he just didn’t have the stamina like his teacher did and slowly his strength was waning.

“Soon your energy will be depleted and then we can get rid of you and those pesky stone monkeys once and for all!” The emperor roared at MK as he watched the fight, he will admit this human boy was doing quite well on his own.

but he can not just ignore when a human comes into his palace, steals the peaches of immortality, the pills and the eight trigram brazier, if he was anything like wukong this human might be an immortal now so they need to get rid of him and fast before he became a problem in the future.

As he watched the spirit of Venus watched with him as well, he was feeling sorry for the boy and the punishment that he has to endure just being associated with the sage, he tried his best to reason with the emperor but he was hearing none of his suggestions.

making MK part of the heavenly court, Have him tend to the stables or even train with the royal army just to keep an eye on the boy, but nothing he said this time could calm the ruler’s anger.

And now here he is watching a young mortal boy fight for not only his life but the lives of his two mentors. “My king maybe we shoul-'' before the spirit could say anything more there was a commotion at the entry hall where soldiers entered from, at first it was a low rumble with sounds of fighting but it got louder and louder till the two stone monkeys broke into the arena.

Hearing the sound of metal and stone crumbling, MK looked over to where the sound came from and his face lit up when he saw the two. Wukong and Macaque looked like they had been to hell and back, their clothes ripped in paces and their capes were completely gone Or were torn off of them. With the army now distracted MK tried to take that as his cue to sneak away over to the two, but before he could move the armies were being tossed aside by the two just to get to him.

When the last solder was tossed away Macaque was standing in front of MK his signature smirk on his face as he crossed his arms. “Hey buuud” he said as MK lunged at him Surprising Macaque when MK hugged him tightly, laughing a bit Macaque hugged him back and gently rubbed his back. “I'm so glad to see you!!” He said trying to hold back tears. Macaque could feel MK shaking against him as he hugged him tighter. “I’m glad to see you too bud”.

Macaque said as he looked over at Wukong and before he could say anything he stopped and held MK close to his chest so he wouldn't see what he was seeing. Wukong was fighting people left and right but not with his staff but with his claws, he was laughing like he used to back In the day and he was enjoying the fighting that was going on.

But this scared even Macaque as he watched Wukong toss a soldier away with his claws in the poor guy's stomach. “Mac…?” Mk asked worriedly as he kept his face in Macaque's chest. “W-what’s going on..? Why is monkey king laughing like that..?” He asked as Macaque wrapped his tail around MK’s waist and put his paws over the young man’s ears. “Just focus on my heart beat alright.” Was all he said as their shadows stretched and fanned out from under them making Shadow copies of Macaque.

Hearing the sound of the shadows being formed Wukong looked over at the two, his once golden eyes now blood red like the true demon Wukong is. Turning his back to Wukong for a second Macaque handed MK off to a few of his shadows who pulled him close. “Get him out of here.” Macaque ordered as he turned to Wukong who was now rushing towards them. “Macaque!” Mk yelled as the shadows dragged him away from the fight.

Looking over his shoulder Macaque flashed MK his signature smirk. Seeing that smirk filled MK with nothing but dread, he started to fight against the shadows holding him but his energy was spent on the fight beforehand, with tears falling from his eyes MK as he took in a deep breath “Don’t leave me!! You both said you would stay by my side Like a family!!” Mk screamed at Macaque who just sighed a bit before he faced Wukong just in time to block a punch with his staff. “I don’t think I can keep that promise kid.” Macaque said under his breath before shoving Wukong off of him.

[lokilickedme]

The Way

I’m writing horror again.  I guess it’s that time, you know, that time that has nothing to do with Halloween or the seasons or whatever, that time when it just hits me for some reason.  And just like I always do, I’ll say I don’t know why.

Even though I know why, and you know I know why.

Because the truth is always so much weirder and worse and more disquieting than any excuse I could make up for it, and sometimes I just feel the need.

Today I felt the need, and I couldn’t make it go away.

And so I sat down, and words I didn’t want to write were written.

.

8592 words I would rate this Mature 18+ if it was a fic, strictly because of the subject matter.

Warnings: Death, mostly.  Religious trauma, brief descriptions of abuse, mentions of mental illness, domestic violence, grief, familial dysfunction, religious abuse, emotional abuse, medical conditions, brief mentions of drug use/abuse, mild gore in reference to corpse decomposition, psychological unease and mild terror, child abuse (mental/emotional/psychological), brief allusion to physical child abuse, cult references, loss of faith, attempted murder, possible actual murder.

A Note:  I love you guys, you’re always so quick and willing to be helpful and offer advice and suggestions and such, and I adore that about you.  But on this piece of work I ask that nobody offer any theories about what happened to my brother - medical, criminal, or otherwise - and please no suggestions on things we could do to pursue investigation, that ship has long sailed.  It’s been 23 years and he’s a cold case.  We spent years trying to sort it out but in the end it’s just something that happened, and we moved on because we had to.  There are a lot of open ends, a lot of question marks, a lot of suspicious details that never connected to anything - and we tried, we truly did.  If anyone out there knows the truth, they’ve never shown themselves to us.  We do have our theories, but my brother was a secretive person living a life none of us knew about, and the people he knew weren’t people we knew.  Everyone involved is either dead or moved on or got away with whatever it was they did, and there are only three of us who still care.  It’s over.

Until today, I’ve never put these events into words.

It was something I needed to do, finally.

This is PART ONE.  There may not be a part two, unless doing this ends up making me feel better.

Please feel free to comment if you wish.  As you can see, pretty much nothing triggers me.  I just ask that you please refrain from the type of comments noted above.

And thank you.

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This is, regrettably, a true story.  Nothing has been changed but the names, because the dead don’t like being talked about, and James was just enough of a shit to haunt me for it.

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They made up their minds And they started packing They left before the sun came up that day An exit to eternal summer slacking But where were they going without ever knowing the way

They drank up the wine And they got to talking They now had more important things to say And when the car broke down They started walking Where were they going without ever knowing the way

Anyone can see the road that they walk on is paved in gold And it's always summer They'll never get cold They'll never get hungry They'll never get old and gray You can see their shadows wandering off somewhere They won't make it home But they really don't care They wanted the highway They're happier there today, today

Their children woke up And they couldn't find them They left before the sun came up that day They just drove off and left it all behind them But where were they going without ever knowing the way?

Anyone can see the road that they walk on is paved in gold And it's always summer They'll never get cold They'll never get hungry They'll never get old and gray You can see their shadows wandering off somewhere They won't make it home But they really don't care They wanted the highway They're happier there today, today

You can see their shadows wandering off somewhere They won't make it home But they really don't care They wanted the highway They're happier there today, today

- The Way, Fastball, 1998

.

That was the year James died in his sleep.

Or that’s what they say, anyway.  Asthma, the likely cause based on his medical history, our first and least disturbing assumption.  Undetermined, the official determination based on the hastily scraped-together autopsy, the best that could be done under the circumstances.  We tell people he had breathing problems, and they nod their heads and agree because they knew he did, and now he’s been gone so long that nobody asks.  Most of the people who ever met him have long moved on or disappeared or died themselves, or just remember him as the enigmatic middle son from the Keithley family that nobody really knew very well.  You know, the odd one, the one that showed up at meetings maybe once a year and smiled nervously but didn’t really talk to anyone and always seemed anxious to leave?  The one who died under mysterious circumstances?  That one.

He left the way he always came in.  Quietly, unexpected, without anyone being aware of either his entrance or his exit.

But me and mom know some things, and she’s not talking.  She probably never will.

So maybe it’s time I did.

December 1998.  I’d gotten married two years previous and moved back to the family land with my new husband.  He hated it there, but we had an affordable place to live.  It wasn’t bad.  He’d tell you otherwise.  The land never sat right with him, but I’d lived there too many years to see it.  I’d been fifteen when my father uprooted his large family from the city and hauled us out to the great back door to nowhere, and even though I’d left several times to wander elsewhere, I always came back.

I didn’t realize why at the time, at any of the multiple times.  But now I know.  That place gets you, and it holds you, and unless you’re goddamned devoted to staying gone you will always be pulled back.  It took me till I was 49 to funnel the necessary amount of devotion away from the religious dedication I’d had jackbooted into me and turn it toward getting out, but against a great number of overwhelming odds I finally did it.

But this isn’t about that, not yet anyway.  This is about my brother James, and how he went to sleep one night and found his own way out.

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It was snowing, had been for days, a bit unusual but not unheard of.  The part of the state we lived in was notorious for extended ice storms and we knew a bad one was coming, but until it hit we played in the snow like it was a gift and we were deprived children who knew it was all going to be taken away soon.  My brothers and I were adults but you wouldn’t know it, watching us sneak around in the woods staging elaborate commando attacks on each other.  James was the best of us, a stealth king who could stand in the middle of a room for an hour without a single soul seeing him.  Perception bias, he said.  Your brain ignores me because I obviously don’t belong, like those puzzles where you circle what’s wrong but it takes you forever to find them.

He crept around in the forest scaring the shit out of people, dropping his long tall self out of trees, appearing from nowhere to administer a well aimed snowball to the face of whoever happened to cross his path and then disappearing just as quickly.  We called him a wraith and it wasn’t a good natured jibe.  We meant it.  He made people nervous.  He was the stealthy kind of quiet you associate with danger, and he knew how to do things an average person doesn’t ever have any need to know.  It was a quiet cool that we admired him for, because none of the rest of us had it.

The religion we were raised in kept a tight lid on us, but me and James, we never really let it get into our bones.  We were the smart ones, in retrospect.  I went through the motions by force of habit and a sense of self preservation, doing what was expected and demanded of me, following the rules and making myself a perfect example of a young member of the church so I wouldn’t bring shame on the congregation and my family.  But mostly the congregation.  It was always more important than anything else.  And I had behaving down to an art form, but mostly when people were looking.  Usually also when they weren’t.

But sometimes, not quite.

And then I prayed for forgiveness about it later because God was supposed to forgive you if you asked him to, right?  The tenet of willful sin being unforgivable never took root with me even though that was what the church conditioned into us through fear and constant repetition.  They said it from the stage two nights a week and again on Sunday to hammer it home.  Two nights a week and again on Sunday my head silently disagreed.  God’s not like that.  And then I did the praying for forgiveness thing even though I knew I was right, because I was disagreeing with the church, and the church was God’s channel here on Earth, wasn’t it?  I committed a mortal sin at least three times a week on that subject alone, and though the dread of divine punishment was hardwired into me, I never could reconcile the concept of a loving and forgiving God destroying me simply for knowing better.

I’m not sure the comprehension of an overwatching deity ever actually established itself in James’ brain.  A moral code, yes.  But isn’t that what God is, really?  Maybe he understood more about God and forgiveness than the rest of us.  But he was considered an unapproved fringe member of the church because he couldn’t suffer people and noise and being looked at and he refused to preach, and he was soft-shunned as a result.  Because if you weren’t all in to the point of being willing to die at any moment for your faith, you were as good as faithless.

And faithless meant condemned.  And the congregation couldn’t be bothered with condemned people, regardless of their reasons for not having both feet in the water.  The first and only option on their list was to put the person out and let them find their own way back once they realized they had nobody left in the world who cared about them.

James escaped that somehow.  He was supposed to be shunned whole scale, but he wasn’t trying to convince anyone to leave the faith and he presented no threat to anyone’s strength of belief, and so far as anyone knew he’d committed no grave sins other than disinterest.  So the rule that dictated we cast him out was bent enough to allow him to remain living on the family land, though at one point during a fit of overzealous righteousness my mother had tried to have a family meeting to vote on whether or not we were going to let him stay.  I refused to vote and when I walked out of the house the meeting fell apart.

I’ve never forgiven her for that.  Her son’s life being put to a vote with her presiding over the proceedings, vengeful and unfeeling and devoid of compassion on behalf of God himself.  It takes my breath away, the anger, still to this day.  The only thing I ever truly learned from my mother about parenting was a long and intensely detailed list of what not to do to my own children, and I suppose I should be grateful for that.  It’s a bitter thank-you to have to give, but it’s something.

We knew James as much as he would allow us to, and not an inch further.  Which meant the extent of our knowledge of him pretty much stretched to include the singular fact that he was different.  What that meant, I still don’t really know - but it was there from the day he was born, that slight off-ness, the oddly off center calibration that you can’t really see so much as sense in a person.  I know now he was likely on the autism spectrum and he walked through life seeing and reacting to everything differently than most of us, but that wasn’t a thing back then.  You were just weird, or you weren’t.  And I’m not convinced that was a bad thing for him, strictly speaking.  But in the confines of our religion and our family’s devout and sometimes violent dedication to it, it took its toll almost daily.

He stood out, and he was very much a person who didn’t want to.  He wanted to fade into the background, to not be seen, to not be known.  And our religion didn’t tolerate that kind of nonsense, because we were commanded to be bold bearers of The Word Of God, and no exceptions were made.

None.

I’m going to stop calling it a religion now.  I beg your indulgence as I shift to calling it what it is, because calling it a religion is an insult to actual religions that don’t destroy peoples’ lives with callous indifference and murderous glee.

We were raised in a doomsday death cult.  There’s no other name that fits.

And we were trapped in it and its ugly cycle of neverending mental and emotional manipulation and abuse until we were adults, and some of us are still bound to it.  My oldest brother worked his way up to the upper levels of oversight in the local congregation and was solidly entrenched in it until his death, which is a story for later.  My youngest brother, the last remaining living blood sibling I have, is still deeply in it to this day and will likely never leave it.

I took the hard way out, three years ago, by walking away.

James, though.  He took the easy way.  He simply closed his eyes, and he was free.

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December 22, 1998.  Three days before Christmas, though that meant nothing to us.  The cult told us Christmas was a filthy demonic pagan ritual that was condemned by God, so to us the season was just a nice chilly time of year with lots of time off from work.  We’d had an unusual amount of snow, the most we’d had in years.  The roads were impassable and everyone was home except my husband, who worked close enough that his boss at the glass shop came and picked him up that morning with chains on his tires.  Lots of windshields had shattered from the sudden violent cold that had struck the previous night and Scott had the only glass shop for sixty miles.

I think it must have been around noon, and likely my mother had sent my dad up the hill to see if James wanted to come down for the lunch she was making.  He and his wife had split up against the strict rules of the church after a few years of suffering through an ill advised marriage, an important detail to this story that will come into the tale later, and he was alone up there at the top of the hill a lot.  Sometimes he forgot to eat, or he got so busy that he just didn’t bother, so our mother always made something for him because even though he was in his 20′s he was still a kid who needed looking after and her zealous fervor against him had died down with time.  I think he let her believe he was helpless because it worked in his favor and there was always lunch waiting for him in her kitchen as a result.

He was different, he wasn’t dumb.

We all lived on the hill back then with the exception of our youngest brother.  He’d moved to the city with his new wife not long prior.  The locals jokingly called the place a commune, and I guess they weren’t completely wrong.  Thirty-eight acres of wooded land far beyond the city limits that we’d painstakingly spent years carving a livable space into, with five houses, all built from the ground up and inhabited by an extended family of well known culties from a well known cult.  It’s almost comical, looking back on it, knowing now how they kept an eye on us for years to make sure we weren’t doing anything weird up there.

They should have run us off with pitchforks and burning stakes at the very beginning.

Things might have ended differently for us if they had.

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My grandparents lived at one end of the property, an old couple as simple and solid as salted soup, devoutly religious and devoted to the cult and very much cut from the can survive anything and probably will cloth like so many old country folks of their generation.  They were waiting out the end of days up there in their little wooden house, expecting the final hour of this old system to come long before their own demise.  I liked my grandmother, she had a sweet smile and fell asleep every time granddad started talking about the Bible and she paid me five dollars every Wednesday to drive her into town to get groceries, and years later, when she was dying, she told me she’d had a dream where she met my unborn son.  I was four months pregnant and didn’t know yet that I was having a boy.  She died before he was born, but to this day, fifteen years later, he tells me he’s sure he met her, he just can’t remember when.

I was scared of my grandfather.  Not terrified, but there was nothing grandfatherly to him and I always suspected he never actually liked kids much.  He’d once told us a story about the great Fort Worth flood that wiped out most of the city when my mom was a baby, and how he had told my grandmother to let go of my 2-year-old mother while he was struggling to get them across a rushing flooded creek in water up to their shoulders.  My grandmother couldn’t swim.  We could make another Ruthie, he said.  But I couldn’t get another ‘Nita.

He said it proudly, like he was to be admired for his choice.  I was young when he told that story, but it settled into me that this was evil.

Even when he was old as dirt and dying of a brain tumor in hospice care, he made me uneasy.  I was never close to him.  But for some reason, in his final days, he forgot who everyone was except me.  I had been living in another state for years and he hadn’t seen me since before the tumor started taking his life.  But when I walked into the room he turned his head and looked at me, and he mouthed my name.

He couldn’t speak.  I don’t know what he was trying to say, struggling with words that nobody could hear.  And I felt bad.  I didn’t want to be the last person he recognized.  My cousins adored him and had spent the last few years constantly at his side, and they were angry, maybe justifiably, that I was the one he reached for.

I didn’t want that at all.

I don’t believe he was a bad man, but he never spoke of anything except the cult���s interpretation of the Bible, and it was as tiresome as it was terrifying.  Granddads are supposed to be fun.  Ours quoted doctrine at us in a deep loud commanding voice that you couldn’t interrupt and you couldn’t tune out, and once he got going you had to just settle in and wait for him to run out of zealous steam.  And then he would suddenly stop and command grandmother to turn on a John Wayne movie and bring him some ice cream, and it was over until the next time.

I know my mother resented him.  She knew grandmother was the one that had refused to let her go, the one that had held onto her even though she almost drowned by the simple act of holding on.  She knew her father had been willing to let her wash away and drown.  That he thought she was interchangeable with whatever baby they would have next.  How she could spend her entire life with that knowledge and not be deeply affected by it was something that never made sense to me, but now, when she’s in her 70′s and I’m in my 50′s, I finally understand.  It affected her.  She’ll just be damned if she’ll let anyone see it.  And she had stood there in that hospice room watching him mouth my name with resentment burning in her eyes, though she would have rather died than let anyone know what it was for.  He’d forgotten her weeks ago.

The house in the center of the hill was mom and dad.  The homestead.  The house we’d all lived in together, that we’d built with our own hands, the first thing that marked that wild overgrown hill as a place where people actually lived.  A long path through the woods connected it to the grandparents’ house, and it was the epicenter of everything in our lives.  James and I had lived in the upstairs rooms of that house until we both moved out and married our respective mates years later, a reprehensible act on our part that was never okay with my mother and that she never forgave either of us for.  She’d wanted us all to stay.  We can all live here together until the New System comes, she always said.  That’s how the Bible says it’s supposed to be.  We can all keep each other safe and on the right path until the end comes, and then we’ll all be here together forever.

A decade later when I sat up on the hill watching that house burn to the ground, there was as much relief as grief billowing into the sky with the black smoke.  It was the end of an era, and it was far beyond time for it.

Nobody saw it but me.  James was dead, had been for years.  Robbie was dead now too.  Dad was gone, so was granddad.  Me and my youngest brother David were the last two left of the kids, but he had moved to a neighboring city when he got married and he has never seen things the way I see them.  We were of different generations, we weren’t raised the same way, and he’d never experienced the abuse I lived with for the first half of my life.  And he had dedicated his own life to the cult with all the honesty and lack of guile that I didn’t have when I’d made my own dedication vows at the too-young age of sixteen.

It was the end of an era, but apparently only for me.

James’ house was up the hill, past a clearing where my dad used to keep old cars that he cannibalized for parts.  Our oldest brother Robbie, long married with kids of his own, lived at the bottom on the farthest corner of the land.  And my house was on the slope to the west, built on the spot where we’d cleared off an old half-fallen homestead from the late 1800′s, dutifully paying no mind to the fact that a grave was nestled into the slope, right where the yellow daffodils grew.  The cult told us superstition was tied up with the demons and false religion, so we didn’t have the built-in human instinct that tells most people to stay the hell away from certain things.

We just pretended it wasn’t there, and put no importance on it.  It was just an old grave.  The soil was good and the garden I planted next to it did well, though those strange daffodils always wound themselves through everything I put in the ground.  My husband said something wasn’t right about it, but I didn’t pay any attention to him.  He hadn’t been raised as devout as me.

My dad knocked on my door around lunchtime and I opened it.  He backed up, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket, the fancy leather coat the dealership had awarded him when he was designated a five-star Chrysler technician and given the state’s first and only license to work on the new Vipers that had recently rolled off the prototype line.  It was a cool jacket.  Made him look like the old pictures my other grandmother had shown me of him from the early 1960′s, when he was young and very much a product of a fancier era.  He’d never stopped greasing his hair back and was still so thin that he and I wore the same size jeans.

I’ve never understood the look on his face when I opened the door.  To this day I can’t sort it.  It wasn’t a blankness like so many people who’ve seen death wear without awareness.  It wasn’t grief.  It wasn’t even shock.

He was sorry.

Those were the first words out of his mouth.

I’m sorry.

I stood there, not knowing what he was sorry for.  It was cold.  I couldn’t push the screen door open very far because of the snow blocking it.  And my father was standing at the bottom of the steps James had helped my husband build, his hands shoved down far into his pockets like a penitent child about to get in trouble, telling me he was sorry.

James is dead, he finally said.  He’s in his house.  I went up there and he’s dead.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but I do now - just now, this very moment in fact, I know that I was the first person he told.  He came straight from James’ house to mine and told me my brother was dead.

I don’t know what I said back to him, I just remember sitting down on the top step and feeling the cold bite of the snow through my pajama pants.  There’s a vague recollection of putting my face in my hands, and the embarrassing knowledge that I did that simply because I didn’t know what else to do.  And dad just stood there, nervously stepping from foot to foot in the snow, because he didn’t know what else to do either.

I think I asked How at some point.  He said he didn’t know.  He had something in his pocket but to this day I don’t know what it was.

I don’t know if it was important.  Something tells me it was.  Or maybe it was just the eternally present handkerchief he always kept on him.

I’m sorry, he said again.  He seemed to feel like it was his fault somehow.  I’m sorry.

What do we do?  I asked him.  I’ve never felt more blank.  What are we supposed to do?

I don’t remember what he said, other than he was going to get my older brother.  I remember thinking that was a good idea.  Robbie would know what to do.  He always did.  Brash and blustery and bigmouthed, he got things done while other people stood around debating how to do them.  He would get on it, whatever needed doing.  He would figure it out.

I went back in the house and dad walked away, headed down the path through the woods that connected my house to Robbie’s, hands still shoved deep in his pockets, the big retro vintage Chrysler emblem on the back of his jacket the last thing I saw before I pulled the screen door shut.  I stared down for a minute at the mound of snow it had scooped into my livingroom, still with no clue what I was supposed to do.

No clue at all.

I kicked the snow back outside and shut the door.

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It’s an odd thing, watching the coroner’s van drive away with someone you know inside it.  Someone you saw just yesterday.  Someone who was alive.  Someone who should still be alive but isn’t, somehow.  And since there’s really no way to earn a ride in a coroner’s van without dying, there’s an awful unsettling sensation to it that you can’t get away from.  The last time I saw James he was laughing that devious little laugh of his, his eyes red and bloodshot from the ever present asthma he’d suffered with his entire life.  I don’t count the sight of the coroner’s van leaving the hill via our long steep driveway with his cold corpse tucked into a black zippered bag, because I didn’t see him.  I never saw him.  I didn’t see him dead in his house and I didn’t see them carry him out, I didn’t see them put him in the van.  I didn’t see him later, when it was all over with.  And if I try hard enough I can imagine that van empty, with that long black bag tossed crumpled in the back without a body in it, and James somewhere else living his life however the hell he pleases.

I hold onto that.  Some days it helps.  And some days I think I see him, walking by the side of the road or getting out of a car in the post office parking lot, and it makes me happy thinking he escaped.  I see him in every hitchhiker, in every wandering traveler making his way down the interstate, in every tall thin man I glimpse from the corner of my eye as I go about my business in town.

He’s out there.

I hope he’s happy.

The ice storm hit the next day.

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For the next two weeks we were stuck on our hill.  Power out, no electricity, no heat, no lights, roads iced over and impassable.  We all piled up in mom and dad’s house, quietly grieving James, trying to stay warm.  Most of the state lost power for days, including the city 150 miles away where his body had been taken to the state coroner’s office.  There was no apparent cause of death, so the state ordered an autopsy.

His body had just been placed into cold storage to wait its turn when the power grid went down.  And then, by some unholy stroke of nightmarish luck, the facility’s generators failed.

Nobody could make it in to work because of the ice.  By the time someone finally got into the morgue the cold storage had been down for four days.

Six bodies melted, including James.

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No viable autopsy could be done, though they tried their best I suppose.  The end report was obtained two months later.  It was mostly inconclusive due to the long delay and resultant decomposition of tissue.  There was apparent scarring on James’ heart, but it was old scarring and had nothing to do with his death.  His lungs were scarred as well, but that was no surprise, he’d had severe asthma his entire life.  There was no determinable cause of death, no inflicted trauma, no presence of illicit drugs as far as they could tell from the limited toxicology report they managed with what they had to work with.

No reason.

He’d simply died.

It seemed fitting, to me at least, that the end of him be enshrouded in an unsolvable mystery.  He was a secretive person, intensely private.  He would have loved knowing nobody had a clue what happened to him.

And so we drew our own conclusion as a family.  He’d had an asthma attack in his sleep.  There had been an inhaler next to his bed, but it was new and still in the box.  He simply hadn’t woken up to use it.  Dad didn’t participate in the drawing of this conclusion, his input kept stoically to himself, like he knew something the rest of us didn’t.

We pretended not to see it.

He and mom braved the last of the ice a few days later to make the 150 mile drive to see James one last time.

They came back different.

You couldn’t tell it was him, my mother said.  He was melted, literally.  It was like one of those science fiction movies where they melt you with a laser beam and you turn to goo.

Dad had nothing to say.  He went to bed and stayed there until the next day.

You can go see him, mom told me.  I’ll go with you if you want to go.  But I don’t recommend it.

I decided not to go.

And so I never saw my brother dead.  I never saw any proof that he was gone.  He just wasn’t there anymore.  There was no funeral, he was cremated and his ashes were sent home weeks later, and I went on with my life with the image in my head of James, alive, somewhere else.

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Dad was different from that day on.  He’d always been stoic, terse, strict.  My childhood had been spent in fear of him, an eternal dread of making him mad and feeling his temper erupt keeping me from showing any hint of a personality during my formative years.  The cult had forced him to abide by the violent tenet of Spare the rod, spoil the child and there was never any risk of me being spoiled.

James being gone flipped a switch in him.  He was nicer suddenly.  Mellow.  Kind.  After the trauma wore off his humor discovered itself and he was funny.  The dour angry demeanor fell off and revealed a man that I was sad never to have known before.  He and I became friends.  I could sense in his new attitude toward me that he regretted how he’d raised me and respected the way I’d always stood up and been my own person despite it.  But my mother was falling off the deep end and for all the newfound easygoingness of my father, she counterbalanced it with an extremism born of the religious fervor of a mother determined to gain enough favor with God to see her dead child again.  And she was going to make sure the rest of us did too.

We all had to get good and straight on the path, get completely right and stay that way, or we’d never see James again.  He’d be in the New World and we wouldn’t, and how would she explain that to him?  She and I worked together in a law office at the time and as she became more unhinged and unpleasant, I reacted by becoming more outgoing and accomplished.  Our boss changed my work designation from receptionist to Executive Assistant and started teaching me how to do everything from filing papers at the courthouse to photographing accident scenes.  I no longer answered to my mother, the office manager.  I answered directly to the boss.

That didn’t go over well.  She was a control freak with heavy untreated trauma, and the one person in the world she felt the most obsessive need to control was suddenly no longer under her thumb in a workspace where she considered herself the supreme authority.  She countermanded every order the boss gave me and tried to load me up with general office chores that left me no time to do the important assignments he’d given me.  I had no choice but to tell her she wasn’t my superior anymore.

She chose that day to have her nervous breakdown over James, jumping out of my car at a red light on the way home and storming angrily through a shopping mall with me trailing frantically along behind her, yelling for security to arrest me while I tried to get her to calm down.  I ended up telling her she wasn’t the only person who lost James but that none of the rest of us were allowed to experience our own grief because we were too busy catering to hers.

She sat down on a bench outside the sporting goods store and glared at me with a cold hatred I’ve seen on very few other faces, ever.

I knew it would be you, she hissed at me.

That moment changed our relationship forever.  It changed me forever.  That was the day I decided my life was my own, that she not only didn’t have authority over me at work, she didn’t have authority over me anywhere else either.  She could no longer dictate my actions, my behavior, my thoughts and feelings.

For this she disowned me.  It was the first of several disownings over the next few years.  I got used to it.  We went to work the next day like nothing had happened, and I didn’t do a single thing on the task list she slapped down on my desk.  It was a metaphor for the rest of my life, but I didn’t know it yet.

My husband and I moved out of state a couple of months later, away from that hill, away from her increasingly controlling paranoia and bitterness, the first of many small steps toward freedom.

As we were driving away with our trailer full of personal belongings behind us, he said one thing that I tried to argue against, but that somewhere deep inside I knew was probably right.

That land is cursed, he said.

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A few weeks before we moved my youngest brother came to town and we went into James’ house together.  It was exactly like it had been the day my dad found him.  The only thing that stood out as different was the bare mattress on the bed - the men from the coroner had wrapped him up in the sheet he’d been laying on and took it with them, leaving just the naked springform mattress James had bought for Jessica right before her final breakdown and their subsequent separation.

It took me a while to go in the bedroom, but I knew from the moment I walked into the house that I was going to end up there.  I needed to see it, the place where James had closed his eyes and left us.

There was a small puddle of dried blood near the foot of the bed, brown and stained into the fabric.  James always slept backwards, with his head at the wrong end.  The blood had come from his nose.

I touched it.  I don’t know why.  It was dry.

He was gone.

----------

David and I laughed a lot that day.  James had been funny in a way that was distinctly him, quiet and of few words, but those words had always counted.  And as we sorted through his things and talked about him and moved some of his stuff into boxes to be stored away, I felt as much awed respect as befuddlement at what was around me.  He’d never been a conformist, which I knew was why the cult had never gotten a firm grasp on him.  He was unknowable and therefore unbindable.  But his house was proof that he didn’t conform to any human expectations either, and nothing in it made sense unless you’d spent time around him.

There was an engine in the bathtub.  I’m not sure what it went to.  Another engine, in the beginning stages of disassemblage, rested on a blue tarp in the center of the livingroom floor, obviously the last project he’d been working on.  There wasn’t much furniture - his wife had taken most of it when she left and it would have never entered his mind to replace any of it.  Jessica’s cookware was in the kitchen cabinets, unused, some of it still in the original boxes, some not even fully unwrapped from their wedding shower years before.  Jessica didn’t cook, she microwaved.  David asked me if I thought it would be okay for him to take a glass Pyrex measuring cup because he’d broken his.  I told him to take it.  It had never been used.

I didn’t want anything, but knew I needed to take something.  One of my husband’s solo CDs was sitting on the entertainment center and the cover, the cover I’d designed, caught my eye and brought me to the CD player to pop the tray open.

Inside was a CD single of The Way.

It was the only thing I took.

----------

My husband told me some time later that my dad and older brother had altered the scene before the police arrived.  After the phonecall from me his boss had rushed him home and he’d gone up to James’ house without my knowledge.  He’d thought it strange that he’d had to step around at least a dozen empty compressed air cans scattered haphazardly around the place as he entered, like they’d been used and tossed aside one after another.  There had been several more on the floor around the bed.  My father had told him to go back down and see how mom and I were doing, and when he returned to James’ house after the coroner’s departure, the cans were gone.  Other than that he said things seemed different, but he couldn’t say quite how.  Just not the same.

He told me my dad didn’t call the police until after he and Robbie had been in there at least an hour, alone with the body.

It’s not something we’ve talked about often, because there’s no satisfactory explanation for it that either of us can come up with.  My mother says they probably didn’t want the police to assume the cans meant he was huffing compression fluid and accidentally killed himself, because Look at the shame and reproach that would bring on the congregation if anyone thought such a thing!  We all knew he used the compressed air to clear the valves on the engines he was working on, all mechanics do, it’s common.  Wouldn’t the police have accepted that explanation?  Dad was the only one that spoke to them.  They wrote down whatever he said, and then they left, and then the coroner came and took James away and that was that.  My father, the most upright straight-and-narrow devoutly dedicated man I’ve ever known in my life, misled the police for a reason that he took with him to his own grave.

The only other person in the world who knew the truth about it took it to his grave too.

At the same time.

In the same car.

Four years later, on October 18, 2002.

----------

The big garbage bag of empty air cans and whatever else that was removed from James’ house that morning had been stashed in my dad’s garage and stayed there until a few weeks after he and Robbie’s joint funeral, when my mother asked my husband’s old boss to come and dispose of it.  Scott was a man who knew people who could do things.

The evidence, whatever it was evidence of, vanished.

----------

The mystery around James never dissolved and eventually no one talked about it anymore, I guess because there was no way we could ever truly find out what happened without him here to tell us.  There were a lot of details that we could never find a way to weave together into anything that made sense and a lot of it was probably inconsequential anyway.  There was a girlfriend that he’d tried to keep hidden from us, a woman that was quite a bit older than him who wasn’t a member of the cult and therefore needed to be kept a secret.  In the end she had convinced him to stop hiding their relationship and he’d bought her a ring.  We met her all of twice before he died, and within days of his passing she left town with her brother and never came back, taking whatever she might have known with her.

James’ ex Jessica had sneaked onto the hill and broken into his house to put a dead raccoon in his kitchen sink a few days prior to his death.  We were shocked when he told us she trespassed on the land often without anyone knowing, and my mother made my father fix the electric gate down at the road so that it wouldn’t open without one of three clickers in the possession of herself, my father, and me.  James would have to come to her house and get hers any time he needed to leave the hill, an arrangement he agreed to because Jessica stole things from his house all the time, she would absolutely take a gate opener if she saw it.

He told us the gate wouldn’t keep her out though, and that she didn’t come in that way anyway.  The only way to protect ourselves from her was to lock her up and he doubted even that would do it.

He died less than a week later, and twenty three years later we still don’t know how or why.

----------

We never felt safe on the hill again.  Jessica was deranged in the worst possible way, we’d known it for a while, and James was her obsession.  She’d threatened to kill him multiple times and had tried twice.  We hadn’t known this, because James, big strong stoic Clint Eastwood type that he was, wasn’t about to tell anyone he was violently abused for years by a skinny little woman that everyone believed was not much more than a meek dormouse with shyness issues and a case of painful awkwardness.  But we knew she was evil.  We just didn’t have any proof.

The first thing my mother said after the initial emotional breakdown of finding her son dead was Jessica did this, I don’t know how but I know she did it.

I believe she was probably right.  But if Jessica was anything she was wily and devious with a strong survival instinct and an uncanny ability to lie convincingly and draw sympathy onto herself.  She’d convinced us for years that she was the perfect combination of sweetly harmless and endearingly clueless, but that only lasted until the day she called 911 screaming that James was beating her and then threw herself face first into a tree in their front yard and sat, calmly singing and coloring in a coloring book on the porch with blood running down her forehead, waiting for the police to arrive.  The act she put on when they got there was one for the Academy, but the officers didn’t buy it.

James calmly rolled up his sleeves and showed them his scars where she’d burned him and slashed him with a kitchen knife.  He pulled up his shirt and pointed out the marks she’d left on him with her teeth and nails.  He hooked a finger into his mouth and showed them the empty hole where she’d knocked one of his teeth out with a baseball bat.  One of the officers asked him why he hadn’t killed her and buried her somewhere on the land already.

She left in the back of the squad car, and my mother took James to the courthouse to get divorce papers started two days later.

Jessica came to his memorial service when we finally had it, several weeks after his death.  She wasn’t invited but we couldn’t keep her from coming.  She wore black like a widow and created a dramatic disruption complete with loud wailing and declarations of undying love, and afterward she stood to one side of the room, smirking at us with the kind of icy malice that you only see on the dangerously deranged, and then usually only in the movies.  Several people commented in hushed voices, asking why she’d been allowed to come.  At one point she started wailing They killed him!!, but everyone with the exception of her mother ignored her.

Her mother, who was still in our congregation, flitted around the room chatting with everyone, sobbing her heart out like it was her own son we’d just memorialized.  She was an ER nurse and had been famously fired from her job at the hospital for taking locked-cabinet medications home by the purse load.  She claimed she put them in her pocket to use on her shift and forgot to return them to the cabinet before leaving.

Jessica had been staying with her for a while.

----------

We fed the crowd at mom’s later that afternoon with my husband and his boss guarding the gate, making sure she didn’t try to come into my mother’s house.  The police were called preemptively, and because this was a town of 300 with not much of anything else to do, a squad car was dispatched and stationed near the inlet to the main drive.

Jessica showed up not much later, like we knew she would.  She drove past the police and parked a few yards down from them in plain sight, just sitting there by the side of the road, far enough away from our property that we couldn’t legally do anything about it.  The officers got out and talked to her, warned her not to cause us any problems, and she fed them a woeful tale about being banned from her beloved husband’s memorial service and denied the right to say goodbye to him.

The officers knew there was no body at that service to say goodbye to.  They also knew her.

My husband came up the hill and told us she was down at the road and that Scott was blocking the driveway with his truck to keep her out.  I told my mother it was time to file a restraining order against her.  She was living in fear and Jessica was known to be trespassing on our property frequently.  No, she told me with tears in her eyes but not a sign of distress on her face.  It was a look I knew, because my mother rarely showed emotion unless she was angry and the rest of the time it was this cold detachment.  That would bring reproach on the congregation because everyone knows what we are.  I can’t do that.  I won’t let her win that way.  I won’t let her cause us to bring shame on God’s name.

God’s name.  I took it in vain that day.

More than once.

I was leaving in a few weeks, moving a thousand miles away.  My husband and I weren’t going to be there to help her keep an eye out, and thirty eight acres of heavily wooded land is impossible to protect and easy to sneak onto from a hundred different directions, James had shown us proof of that.

God will protect us as long as we do the right thing and leave it to him, she said.  He knows what she is.

I think it was just a coincidence that nothing terrible happened in the following weeks, because my faith was getting tenuous and a lot of prayers were going unanswered.  But Jessica quietly disappeared back to her own world after a couple of infuriating weeks of putting herself in our paths every chance she got, and not long after that my husband and I moved away, and as we left the driveway for what we thought would be the last time he sighed and shook his head with the exasperation of a man about to say I told you so.

“That land is cursed,” he said.

I tried to disagree, though I don’t know why.

----------

Less than a mile up the road we passed a man walking.  He was tall and thin and covered in the dust of a long journey with a ratty backpack strapped to his back, and as we passed him I caught his reflection in the side mirror.

It was James, I knew it in my heart every bit as strongly as I knew it couldn’t be.

He was walking away from the hill, toward the west.  The way we were going.  And I swear on whatever holy relic you wish to place under my hand that he raised his head and met eyes with me in the mirror, and he smiled.

.

Anyone can see the road that they walk on is paved in gold And it's always summer They'll never get cold They'll never get hungry They'll never get old and gray You can see their shadows wandering off somewhere They won't make it home But they really don't care They wanted the highway They're happier there today

.

[wolvesandpetals]

Loki x Sylvie Post-Finale Fanfiction (Angst, Rated Teen) Part 2 of 2

Part 1 is here:

She never knew it would hurt this much when the person she loves is right in front of her, but she can't reach out and touch him; when she is still her, he is still him, but everything else has changed, like an invisible lever in an old theatre changing the scenery in the background, bringing them both to the part of the play where they are hopelessly lost.

[[MORE]]

All it took was one single moment, one single decision, and everything feels irrevocably broken now. It makes her contemplate on the true nature of relationships, how fragile they are, and how easy it is to shatter them- and her.

The smoke is slowly clearing, and all that seems to be left is a man who is doing his best to keep his distance from her, physically and emotionally.

She can tell from the way he stands with his arms crossed, or his fists clenced when his hands are by his side, that he really doesn't want to hold her hand. How can something so simple as the touch of his fingers be so vital to her existence that it feels like something has been ripped out from inside her?

She wants to reach out and touch him, but she is scared that if he pulls away outright, any hope of reconciliation that she still has left will shatter into pieces.

And she really needs this hope. It's the only thing she still has left. It's the only thing that keeps her going.

---

He looks like a man with a mission.

They spent quite a long time together, running from the TVA, running towards the citadel at the end of time, hoping to achieve their goal of bringing down the one behind the curtains.

But that was her mission, and he was there for her. She was the one behind the wheels, he was the one keeping the sails afloat.

Now it's different. Now he has a defined goal, a glorious purpose.

She's seeing him in a whole new light now, and not just because he has switched to Asgardian leather and metal armors.

As far as she is concerned, she is better off doing it all alone. One woman army, nobody to get in her way, nobody to screw up her plans. Nobody to blame her if it all goes to shit.

Or so it was, until two months ago, when Mobius decided to enlist her help in fixing the multiversal madness.

She has never really worked with people before, and it's weird, to say the least. She never considered herself a team player, but she is finding herself hating the idea less and less lately.

And she swears it has nothing to do with him. Not the fact that they are working together, and seeing his face first thing in the morning brings her a sense of calm that she quite can't explain. Or the fact that their rooms are next to each other and it makes her feel secure enough to finally get some rest at nights. Or that this whole arrangement has kept them on talking terms, when they had gone their own separate ways otherwise.

Nothing to do with that at all.

---

Humans are stupid, and the biggest evidence of this is how they decided that two extremely powerful Gods skilled at magic, enchantment, and defeating an evil extra dimensional cloud that swallows everything it touches, should be delegated to the role of research. "You're clever. You're good at reading people. You can put yourselves in the shoes of the bad guys, no offense", they said, but really, what they meant was, "We can't trust you out in the field much." She knows it, he knows it. She just doesn't know why he's complying.

That's how they find themselves researching every single day.

She likes to think he's not the only reason why she's studying in the library instead of in the comfort of her room, but that'd be a lie.

At first, he chooses to sit at a separate table. But she keeps going over to his to "get his opinion" on something in the file she's reading, and finally, he gives in. Their current arrangement consists of him sitting in the chair in front of her, to the left, prim and proper, while she hoists her feet up on the table.

He falls asleep on the desk one night, face smacked against a file, the tiniest bit of drool forming at the corner of his mouth. It would be a hilarious sight, if her heart wasn't feeling what she can only describe as longing.

They should probably talk about it, like mature adults, but neither of them know how to do that.

All she can do right now is gather the courage to run her fingers through his hair. The touch is hesitant at first, as if one wrong move would make him wake up and push her back to square one. Slowly, she relaxes, letting her fingers dance on his scalp.

He stirs in his sleep. "Please Sif. I'm sorry. Don't cut off my glorious locks, please."

Now this is a story she must hear when things are better.

If things are better.

---

Doctor Strange joins them very briefly, very rarely, but the tension between him and Loki is hard to miss. It's worse than the current situation with her, and that's saying something.

"You don't really like Stephen, do you?"

Something inside him seems to shift, but he masks it behind a non-chalant look immediately and just arches an eyebrow at her. "He's Stephen now, is he?"

"Well, that is his name." She shrugs. "What do you call him?"

"Strange", he spits the word out with an amount of irritation that indicates there definitely is a story there. "That is his name", he mimics.

She can't help the smirk that spreads across her lips. "What did he do to you?"

"Nothing", he lies, ignoring the horrifying flashbacks of thirty minutes of endless falling. Not a single soul must ever know a mere human got the best of him. "What can he do to me? I'm a God among those mortals. He just irks me because he is so pompous, and arrogant, and he ceaselessly uses magic to toy with others."

She pretends to think deeply. "Now where have I seen that before?"

He scoffs. "You mock me, but I am nothing like him. For one, I am not rude."

"He seems fine to me", she declares decisively.

It's the first time in months that he gives her a cheeky grin. "That's because you're rude too."

---

They are still just containing the threats to their world, instead of finding a way to fortify the barriers between worlds and stop the threats from coming.

"Shouldn't we have a plan to seal off the other worlds from ours?" She asks him one day.

"They are working on it." He tells her, and then with a look of worry, adds, "I hope."

There are debates on what to do at the Avengers tower and at the TVA. Nobody seems to agree on what the best course of action is, but everyone seems to be following the general instructions of Doctor Strange.

During one such meeting, a Minuteman makes the mistake of voicing out loud how she wondered if things would be better if they were running according to their old boss's plans.

Sylvie feels the guilt wash over her once more.

"No", Loki tells them all firmly. The determination in his voice takes her completely by surprise. "Evil is evil. Lesser, greater, middling, makes no difference. The degree is arbitrary. The definition’s blurred." She catches him steal a glance at her direction. "We couldn't have left a dictator in charge just because it's convenient. Listen, I'm the bad guy. I've done horrible, unspeakable things. I thought humans needed to be ruled. I wanted to rule. But even I know that it's not right to take away a person's life completely. These are innocent people. You are innocent people. You have families back home, parents, children", a pause and a softening of his features, "-love. A whole past, a whole future. That man had no right to take it away from you."

His powers of persuasion are foreign to her, and it's mesmerizing to watch. Her enchantments cannot hold a candle to how he is able to just talk people into doing what he wants, thinking what he thinks, seeing what he sees.

"He who remains had a plan. One, singular plan, from one, singular man." There is absolute conviction in his voice. "It's not the only way. We'll find another way. A better way."

She has never known what it is like to have someone see you for who you are- broken and flawed, and defend you- even your well-intentioned actions that yielded different results than what you expected and hurt them in the process. She suspects it has been the same for him, a lifetime of not having anyone have his back.

The warm feeling inside her is brand new. What is the name of this? Comfort? Relief?

Happiness?

---

This will be their first time out in the field in a long time, and she feels a little sick to the stomach.

He notices. "Are you alright?"

The concern in his voice tugs at her heartstrings. She nods. She has faced way worse, she shouldn't be so nervous about this, but she is. "I've never done this before."

"We can always just kill him and blame it on the Chitauris", he suggests with a serious face.

"I heard that", Peter yells from the other room, where he is doing whatever it is that teenagers do to prepare for battle.

She shakes her head in disbelief. "I can't believe we're babysitting."

"I've done this before", he assures her, and it surprises her to picture him being entrusted with such a serious task. "The trick is to conjure up illusions that keep them distracted enough to not cry."

She laughs. "You're thinking of infants. This one is a little older."

"I'm over a thousand years old, Sylvie. They're all infants to me."

Peter joins them, mask covering his face so that he doesn't reveal his identity. "So what do I call you? Loki and Loki? That's confusing. How about Loki and Lady Loki? Or is that offensive? I'm not suggesting women are inferior, because they're absolutely not..."

"Does he come with an off switch?" She whispers in horror as Peter rambles on.

Loki grins. With one wave of his hand and a flash of green, Peter's own webbing shoots out and seals his mouth shut.

---

Things are fine but not fine at the same time. He's right there beside her, but not there at all. They have their banters, they have their stolen glances, but they haven't had a meaningful conversation since that first day when she got back. She's been putting it off for a long time, but she knows they really do need to have the talk.

She corners him in his room one evening while he's tinkering with a temporal collar. She takes a seat in the chair next to his bed and rests her hand on the table, leaning her head against her palm, before switching position and crossing her arms and legs. Everything about her posture screams uneasiness. If he notices- he probably does- he doesn't say anything.

"You defended me that day."

He briefly looks up from the task at hand and gives her a soft smile. "Of course."

She blinks. "I don't understand." Her hands involuntary rise up to rub her temples. "If you can justify my actions to them, then how can you still be mad at me?"

"I'm not mad at you", he says without missing a beat.

"Rubbish", her words come out angrier than she intended. This frustration is the result of the months of status quo they have had. She has to know now, one way or the other. "You're distant. You're guarded", she accuses. Then her voice breaks, as she feels a part of her break all over again with her next words. "You don't hold my hand. Why? Tell me."

He abandons the collar and focuses his full attention on her. Staring straight into her eyes, he answers her. "You know why."

"I wouldn't be asking if I did. Look, if it's because I chose the mission over you-"

"-Of course it's not that." He says decisively. Then a sad smile clouds his face. It's the same look he had when she accused him of conning her to gain the throne. "Do you think I'm the type of man who would want a woman to abandon her life-long ambitions just because she has met someone?"

She knows he isn't. But it still doesn't answer why he is so cross with her. "What is it then?"

He pauses for a moment, trying to decide whether he wants to bare his soul out to her once more or not. There are two ways he can go from here- choose to not let her in again and save himself from the hurt, or trust her again and open himself up to potential pain.

Who is he kidding? Pushing her away- keeping her away- doesn't hurt any less.

There were a thousand things that had to go wrong to bring two Lokis from two universes together. A connection like that, it doesn't just happen.

And it doesn't just go away. The pain is constant, it's a part of him, pounding like a second heart every second he has to stop himself from reaching out for her hand.

This has to come to an end.

He takes in a deep breath, bracing himself. "You didn't have to send me away, Sylvie. I wanted to stop you from making the same mistakes I did. But in the end, I didn't care what you chose. I just wanted us to do it together."

She never even imagined this could be the reason for his hurt. All these months spent thinking he hates her for her choices, and now it turns out he is hurt simply because she chose to do it alone? "I'm sorry." She says sincerely. "I just wanted you to be safe."

"And I just wanted to be there with you till the end." He confesses. His eyes shimmer with the emotions he has kept bottled in for so long. "You go, I go."

She doesn't know what to say to that. She has never been good at articulating her feelings. Tears stream down her cheeks at the realisation that even after everything, he is still there for her.

She didn't cry even back at Lamentis when they thought they were going to die. She doesn't let anyone see her cry when she is sad or scared. That's all she has known her whole life. She's used to it by now.

This is new. These are tears of relief. Comfort.

Happiness.

Tentatively, she crosses over to the bed and sits by his side.

It's quiet for a few minutes. But unlike the months of tension so thick she could cut it into splices with her daggers, this is comfortable silence. The kind they had before it all went wrong.

"Did you even miss me?" He whispers.

"What kind of silly question is that? Of course I did." Her shaking hands grab his, and oh how she missed this.

He intertwines their fingers. His eyes draw closed. Bliss. That's the only word for this feeling.

He opens his eyes again and studies her. She's staring back at him, teary-eyed, but with a hopeful smile. "Really? Because you have a really unique way of showing it. You didn't even come looking for me."

"I didn't know how to face you", she tells him honestly. No tricks, no enchantment, no treachery. Not with him. "I didn't know if you even wanted to see me." Her voice grows quieter, dropping to a timbre that perfectly encapsulates her deepest fear. "I thought you hated me."

"Hate you?" He is shocked that she thinks that is even possible, specially after seeing him these last few months. "Sylvie, I'm working with the Avengers. The Avengers. Do you know how much I hate them? They are my nemesis. They're self-righteous, condescending, and so completely dull. Every second with them makes me want to rip their hearts out. Why do you think I'm here with them?"

She thinks she knows. But she needs to hear it anyway.

"It's because of you." He lays it all out on the table. All cards on deck, win or lose. "You've been running away. I have been the one who has been here, trying to hold down the fort, working to fix everything. Because that is what one does when one loves-"

Shit. The word slips out before he realises it.

Their eyes go wide in unison.

"Sylvie, I-"

"-Don't you dare take it back now." She warns him. "I-" She doesn't know how to say it either. They make such a great pair, both equally daft at saying how they feel, like they are teenagers, not Gods who have lived for centuries. "I've been running because I didn't think I could bear the burden of knowing I found you and then I lost you. I don't want to lose you. Not now, not ever."

He kisses the back of her hand, before letting it go. He cups her face, gently caressing her cheeks with his thumbs. "I don't want to lose you either."

She leans in closer, until their foreheads touch. She can feel his breath on her face, warm and soft. That is exactly how she feels inside. "You won't", she promises. "You go, I go."

---

(Quote on Lesser Evil from The Witcher. Thanks for reading!!)

[wickedpact]

A ranking of all the TTT stories in order of how much I liked them.

(Oh god this is so long)

1 My Mother's Axe

BABY ANDYYYYYYYYYYYY. Honestly this one had the trifecta of developing a character's motivations, developing a character's backstory, & developing their personality. The story starting out with Andy teaching Nile to use the axe was so charming and fun, and you could feel that chemistry they had in Opening Fire, the way they teased and bickered with each other so naturally. I loved the wedge between them on the subject of the axe, how Nile was perhaps a little too young to understand Andy's feelings about whether or not its the 'same' axe. I also love how the axe is obviously the symbol of the franchise and hugely important, but you never get a sense of exactly how important it is to Andy until you read the story.

I love the entire Ship of Theseus theme, and how it feels so natural that for Andy she has to get attached to the idea of things rather than the things themselves because she'll always outlive the things themselves-- the axe is symbolically her mom's axe, even if physically it isn't. And I love how she clearly clings to that concept so tightly. "This is the labrys she held in her hands...." IT GETS ME.

And the fact that this sense of BELONGING, of FAMILY, of CULTURE is so important to Andy that she clings to it (figuratively and literally) with both hands. And of course it's important to her, she spent so long alone that the woman doesn't even remember her birth name. That axe (or the idea of that axe) is all she has left of her mother and that family/culture she was born into.

PLUS on that note I love how Andy doesn't remember if her mom was her actual biological mother, but it doesn't matter to her. This woman was her mother in all the ways that counted. And how her mom BETRAYED AND KILLED Andy but Andy loved her so much that she avenged her and carried her axe for thousands of years. THOUSANDS OF YEARS!!!!!!

I also loved how the story transcends the timeline of the whole franchise and seeing Andy through the years. Loved seeing her with the varying squads and with varying axes. Also baby Andy was so cute. It was cool seeing her so young. like holy fuck. Andromache The Scythian, Immortal Warrior (but smol). Love that.

Also I think this one is one of the few ttt stories that doesn't suffer from length problems.

tldr: goddammit greg you've done it again.

2 Zanzibar and Other Harbors

Zanzibar my beloved. I've said before, but it's downright comedic how little regard there was for Joe and Nicky's character designs in this story. The same person who does the colors for the regular comic did the colors for this one too, and you can tell, every panel of this story was Beautiful.

Ik there was A Lot of criticism of this one (lmao @ how the fandom had no idea what was to come) but I thought a lot of The Discourse was a bit dramatic. I did think Nicky came off as a little oblivious to Joe's feelings in this story, but I've said before, I honestly think that was a 'tone not translating' thing. It felt like Nicky was nagging Joe for [checks notes] saving innocent people, but Joe was so amused by Nicky's complaints I really do think it was supposed to come off as teasing.

Plus I know the 'Joe running off into danger and Nicky reluctantly following' dynamic wasn't popular (I'm a pretty meh on it meself) but I did love how Joe's impulsiveness (if you want to call it that) was interpreted as heroism and not hot-hotheadedness. All of the examples Nicky and Joe talked about included Joe explicitly saving people. (and it also took A Lot for the nazi to actually provoke Joe).

I also feel like their characterization here was closest to the movie canon-- the bit where they hear the woman scream and Joe goes running in to save her while Nicky swoops in on Joe's heels to comfort her while Joe and the nazi were fighting reminds me of the train car scene. Joe had suggested First that they go find Nile because she needed to be protected, and Nicky later added that Nile probably also needed emotional support. Similar reactions.

But it was So Good, the themes of queer community and the enduring nature of queer culture are Not themes you see in media that often and it was such a delight how it was done. Also it's one of the few more modern TTT stories that has a completely valid excuse for taking place when it did. Chef's kiss.

3 Passchendaele

I love the Duality between seeing baby Andy and then seeing Mama Andy in the very next issue. This story doesn't have a ton of meat to it, but the entire concept of Andy adopting a war orphan straight off the battlefield PLUCKS MY TENDER LITTLE HEARTSTRINGS, and I think it's especially poignant for comic!Andy. I think most people wouldn't think twice about movie!Andy doing something like that but comic Andy is so hardened and almost cruel sometimes, and seeing that even for her the world hasn't beaten all of the compassion from her yet is SO!!!!!!! this woman contains MULTITUDES okay, she's violent and angry and tired and Done but she's also so kind and compassionate and THE STRENGTH OF HER!!!!! Also the idea of her and Yitzhak co-raising a kid together is so damn cute. It was #mysterious pre-Yitzhak-story but now it's cute. holy fuck. It's cute.

& the headbonk panel of her and Zeus lives in my heart. anyways.

4 Many Happy Returns

I Know people weren't thrilled about Booker being in this one, but I've developed a pet-peeve about that: this story was *not* booker-centric. Booker only exists in this story to the extent required to explain the importance of the gesture Nile makes towards him. If there was a story about Booker making some grand gesture of kindness to Nile no one would be saying it was Nile-centric. bc it wouldn't be! Booker exists in this story to explore Nile's kindness, its not about him. I saw that a couple times and it bothered me. anyways.

AAAAAAAAAA I loved this one, the art was beautiful, I loved how Andy Nile and Booker were drawn (like their comic selves but.. more looking like actual people). I loved Andy and Nile's Bants, how Andy wanted to jump right in and Do Violence but Nile was basically telling her to hold her horses.

I feel like I'm just repeating the post I made on this story a few days ago, but I LOVED how Nile's plan revolves not around violence or Cool Mercenary Skills but on Nile's own life skills (as she canonly did a lot of minimum wage job-hopping before the marines in comics canon). Her plan used her skills, not the skills of an immortal warrior, and HER SKILLS were in fact more useful for the situation! lov to see Nile's resourcefulness and planning skills.

AND HOW NILE WAS PROBABLY WATCHING BOOKER??? it's so Much bc 1.) nile knew booker A SINGLE DAY and yet he made such an impression on her emotionally that she had to keep an eye on him and 2.) she said in the movie she wanted Booker to get off free with an apology. Yes she's a member of the team but that doesn't mean she's necessarily going to follow orders like a good little soldier. I also love how she convinced Andy to go along with it. her HEART, her KINDNESS, her THOUGHTFULNESS, UGH.

5 The Bear

Honestly I have like no negative things to say about this one other than a.) character design issues which is less about the story itself and is more of a 'tog comic in general' criticism and b.) too short, but it was supposed to be a tease, so.

But I loved Yitzhak, I wasn't expecting to really like him at all but like I said in my other post, he tickled me. I love characters who are Kind™, especially if they have little reason to be so given their backgrounds. Chef's kiss. Lov him.

6 Bonsai Shokunin

I know this one was a little controversial bc of the outsider POV but whenever I see people upset about that they never point out that the Outsider Guy (the samurai) existed as a reflection on Noriko. His ideas are explained in the text to develop hers. The whole story follows how she gave mercy to a scared young man and in response he murdered Noriko, repeatedly! Who gave him the right to inflict such pain and suffering on the world? In his opinion, the lack of response from the gods was his permission. And for Noriko-- over and over again she dies and suffers because she gave mercy, which lines up with her ideas in FM about how it's their fate to rule mortals and if they don't align with that plan/fate/whatever then they suffer. It shows some background to those ideas and how they developed in her mind outside of Ocean Madness™. Additionally, his idea of 'the Gods have done nothing to strike me down so it's fine if I do these things' kind of explains how Noriko may justify her own morally corrupt actions-- she's died so many times and it's never stuck. Maybe if she did die any of those times, or while she was in the water, maybe that would've been a sign she was doing something right, or at least doing something normal. But she hasn't died. Fate isn't done with Noriko yet. And maybe there's a reason for that. In her mind, it's just not a very pleasant reason, is all.

There were things I was kind of meh about tho. I did kind of wish we saw something of Noriko and the team, or smth explaining the way she was before her dip in the pool-- personality, likes dislikes, etc. but it wasn't bad or anything. It was super vague tho, I had to read it a few times before I got what it was going for. Liked the art. Liked the bonsai metaphor. And of course I Respect the decision to use the 1300s (1200s? I don't remember off the top of my head) rather than using the last 200 years.

7 Strong Medicine

Honestly looking back, this one made me kind of sad because both this one and Bonsai Shokunin explored character's ideas on Fate and The Divine and how that intersects with immortality and I totally thought that theme would be continued, especially with Love Letters. But Then It Wasn't™.

Admittedly.... I had to re-read this one to remember most of it. I liked Booker's ideas on God, 'The conductor of the symphony just may not be very good at his trade' but the plot itself was kind of forgettable. Some fuckin cowboys try to kill a doctor (their second) because he couldn't save their sickly brother. Book tries to stop them, gets killed, and then comes back and kills them all before they get the doctor. Alright. I liked the artstyle because the characters were ugly in a similar way that leandro's are, but way more bearable.

I love the Irony of Booker concluding that there is no such thing as fate or destiny and nothing has meaning, AS HE UNKNOWINGLY SAVES MERRICK'S GRANDFATHER FROM BEING KILLED. Booker getting fucked over by life/god/destiny yet again. It also kind of explains about where the fuck hell Merrick's interest in immortal mercenaries even came from.

I originally had this one a lot higher and then I thought about it and moved it down like two spots.

8 Never Gets Old

I liked seeing Booker interact with his kid. And we got a name for the kid! Philippe was a little bitch though, he was a little obnoxious. I liked how Booker was so thrilled to experience a restaurant with his kid (and since we know he was there before, it can be assumed he went with all of his kids and yet he was so charmed each time). It fits with his line to Nicky in the moon landing story about how you don't appreciate beautiful things 'unless you have someone to share them with'. It was charming to see Booker interact with his kid, and to see him so happy. Also lmao @ Booker's big fat Ye Olde Crush on Andy.

However at the same time it was like.. of all the things to write about,,, I guess? Booker's Night Out...... alright. Especially since Book had so many stories.

I don't know, it was alright. The old man killing him really came out of nowhere, (but the 'Salut, asshole!' panel was funny tho).

9 How To Make a Ghost Town

I've hit a point where talking about these stories has gotten less fun. I liked this one but I felt like Achilles getting lynched was not really necessary for a story that was already tragic (a story that already involved Achilles doing a lot of suffering at the hand of bigots). When we first got the blurb for this story I thought it would be about Andy returning to the squad and making friends with Booker after losing Achilles and them butting heads on the idea of family and when to cut off ties. So a little bit of my underwhelmedness about this one might be just my expectations being different.

Honestly I was pretty interested in Andy and Achilles' relationship and I would've liked to see more of them-- like, what was their dynamic like? What did they love about each other?

But anyways Andy leaving and Achilles getting killed anyways feels so pointlessly tragic (which I suppose is the point..... I don't like tragedies) she left to save him and yet people killed him anyway. Meh.

I did love the bits about Andy wanting to have a domestic life (Andy and her multitudes again) and the little detail about how she buried her axe near the road but he buried his guns under his bed-- he was an escaped slave, he never had the luxury of assuredness like Andy did. It was a sad story.

10 Lacus Solitudinis

'You put this one above love letters crim??? how could you???' easy, lmao.

There was stuff in this one I liked. But to talk about stuff I didn't like: (I'll keep it brief, I know ragging on this story has been done time and time again)

UH, setting aside the 6 year cold shoulder between Joe and Nicky, I thought their chosen method of conflict resolution was... bad at best. Nicky's inability to talk about his feelings was also annoying, especially since the entire point of this story is a fight Joe and Nicky had, and yet we don't get both sides to the story, which is...... important? That fact is especially annoying bc in the absence of Nicky explaining his side of the story, it's absolutely a possible (and admittedly probably unintentional) interpretation of the text that we do get that Joe routinely resolves conflict between him and Nicky by simply cutting Nicky out of his life entirely until Nicky just. caves? Even if it takes years?

WHICH i could get into that interpretation and how fucked up i find it. but im not going to. out of restraint.

I don't know, I think there are a lot of interesting ways to go about this conflict but 'Nicky wants to kill a guy and Joe refuses to acknowledge his existence until he stops because he thinks Nicky is too much of a Good Boy to get his hands dirty like that' ('I wont watch as the world turns his (...) compassion into something ugly'. ) wasn't.. how I would've done it. (I mean you know Joe doesn't give a shit about what Nicky is doing in a moral way, because Joe doesn't even care or mention that Booker is killing those cops too. Joe only cares because he doesn't like the idea of Nicky changing in a way he finds undesirable.)

admittedly I've said before, I do like the emphasis Joe's reaction puts on Nicky's kindness. Joe has a complete inability to cope with Nicky simply Not Being Kind. It speaks to the steadiness of Nicky's compassion all those years. but still that fact doesn't make it the conflict feel worth it

hm. I said I would be brief and I wasn't.

oh well. basically I thought there was interesting conflict potential there but it wasn't done the way I would've liked, and the way it was done leaves a lot of disturbing (and again probably unintended) interpretations to lie.

What I did like? Andy and Joe having that pessimist/optimist dynamic. Joe nerding out about science. Andy not being impressed by The Achievements Of Man. I loved Booker needling at Nicky about his outdated slang and also trying to give him Older Brother advice practically in the same breath. I loved Booker giving The Worst relationship advice ever and Nicky being like 'I Will Not Do That, Ever, Thanks.' the family vibes were so good. The Joenicky vibes left a lot to be desired tho.

11 Love Letters

I talked about my problems with Nicky in this story (and Lacus Solitudinis). I don't know, the story isn't bad but I do hold a little bit of a grudge towards it because its very existence begs the existence of a solo Joe story and we didn't get one. If we never got this story, then we could happily count Lacus Solitudinis and Zanzibar as The Joenicky Stories™ and move on with our lives. sigh.

I remember when we first got the blurb for this story I was really curious about why Nicky specifically + the setting, and the answer kind of feels like 'the author had an idea for a story like this and saw ttt as a good enough place to utilize that idea'. Plus I was really underwhelmed by the Romantic Sentiment in the letter. If you look at it line-by-line, the majority of the letter is actually Nicky talking about how lonely and disturbed he is, rather than actual,, yknow,,, Romantic Sentiment. I mean, compare the van speech and this letter and this letter is just kind of meh in comparison. I liked nicky calling joe wise! and I liked the brief sun/moon metaphor! and otherwise it was eh. It didn't even have cute squad banter, which is why Lacus Solitudinis is above this one.

12 An Old Soul

Nun orgy. Nun orgy?????? Nun orgy.......

The whole story felt like a setup to have a nun orgy. Why did Booker have abs? Why did they do that to Andy's nose? ?????? the art was good at least.

nun orgy.

[reinerispretty]

rotations. (zuko x f!reader) pt19

hello hello hello! i hope you guys liked that last chapter :) thank you so much for reading and i hope you have a great day!! pls share if you can :)

pt1

pt18

pt20

(Y/N) hugged each and every one of her friends as tightly as she could. What they had all been preparing for over the past year had finally been achieved. There was still more work to do, but it made her heart swell knowing that they had each brought fantastic change into the world. 

The sun shined through the tall windows, rousing (Y/N) from her slumber. She groaned and turned over in her bed, throwing her arm over her eyes. A knock came from outside of her door. 

“Miss (Y/N)!” One of the servants called. 

“Five more minutes,” (Y/N) grumbled, sinking further into the comfortable sheets and pillows. After sleeping on the ground for almost a whole year, she found it nearly impossible to get out of her bed in the mornings. 

“You instructed me last night that if you said five more minutes, I shouldn’t back down. Today is Prince Zuko’s coronation day.” 

(Y/N) eyes popped open and she sat up quickly, sliding out of bed. She threw on her robe and stumbled over to the wardrobe. “I’m getting ready now, I’ll be out in a bit! Is the prince up yet?” 

“No, Miss.” 

“Fantastic! I’ll wake him up today, alright?” 

“Yes, Miss.” She heard the servant’s footsteps travel down the hall. (Y/N) flung open her wardrobe to pick out the outfit she had chosen for this day. It was a traditional formal Fire Nation outfit: a maroon colored dress with dark, pointed shoulder pads. She dressed and tied her hair back in a topknot, letting the rest flow down her back. Her arm bandages only barely peeked through the sleeves of her dress. 

She exited her room and walked down the hall. It had been a few days since her fight with Azula and it was surprising how different everything already was. The last time (Y/N) was in the Fire Nation Royal Palace, she was a young girl. She had been in Zuko’s room, begging him not to partake in his first Agni Kai. Back then, the walls had been filled with anger and secrets. Now, as she walked through the halls of the palace, everything felt oddly new. It was like the end of the war had changed the entire atmosphere. 

Since her return to the Fire Nation, (Y/N) had taken on the role of being Zuko’s chief advisor. After the defeat of Ozai and Azula, both she and Zuko weren’t quite sure who in the Fire Nation they could really trust. So, (Y/N) had decided to take matters into her own hands. She had been to the palace frequently enough over the past few years to be able to pretend that her presence required respect. When Zuko had too much on his plate, she was there to make the decisions that reflected his and the nation’s best interests. It made her happy to know that she was making a positive change, especially when her best friend was at her side. 

She walked all the way across the palace, to the Fire Lord’s chambers. She knocked loudly against the door and waited for any sounds. When she heard nothing, (Y/N) pulled open the heavy wooden doors and found Zuko still fast asleep. 

“Up and at em! It’s coronation day!” She shouted, taking a pillow from underneath his head and hitting him with it. Zuko groaned in protest, flipping over on his stomach to hide his face. 

“I don’t think this is the way to treat a Fire Lord,” he grumbled into his sheets. (Y/N) began pulling at his legs. 

“Well, it’s a good thing you won’t be Fire Lord until later today.” She pulled again, letting out a grunt before giving up. “You ask me to stay in the Fire Nation with you to help you bring back peace and now you won’t even listen to me when I try to do it!” 

“How is waking me up early bringing back peace?” 

“It brings peace of mind to me knowing that you won’t sleep through your coronation.” She placed her hands on her hips. “I don’t have all day but I’ll cancel whatever I have to do in order to get you out of bed. Would you like me to sing you a song?” 

Zuko sat up quickly, holding his arms up in defense. “That won’t be necessary! You can leave now!” (Y/N) grinned and walked to the door. 

“Happy coronation day, Fire Lord Zuko,” She said softly. He returned her smile and with that, (Y/N) left to ready the palace for their guests.

Her first stop was the kitchens to ensure that they were preparing enough food for everyone they would be hosting. Representatives from each of the four nations would be coming to celebrate Zuko’s coronation and it was absolutely crucial to both Zuko and (Y/N) that unity be at the forefront of everything they do. So she had invited chefs from the nations to recreate some of their most popular foods. She was sad that she could not invite anyone from the Air Nomads, but she was assured by her chefs that they would try her best to make the culture’s most traditional foods. 

(Y/N) passed by the pots in the kitchens and gagged as she smelled the sea prunes steaming. She absolutely hated them, but she knew they were a Water Tribe delicacy. She just hoped that no one would offer any to her. 

After she stopped by the kitchens, she walked the servants through the timeline of the nights’ events. They would begin with Zuko’s coronation, then the courtyard would quickly be turned into an outside dining area so that everyone could mingle and enjoy themselves. Afterward, she and her friends would have a private celebration with Zuko to celebrate him and his accomplishments. 

“Are you doing my job for me?” (Y/N) paused as she laid out the courtyard blueprints for one of the servants. She turned around and smiled when she saw Zuko, fully dressed in his royal garments. He had pulled his hair back into a topknot that (Y/N) considered to be the cutest thing ever. 

“Someone has to do it while you’re sleeping the day away.” She dismissed the servants, leaning against the table of the meeting room. “What’ve you been up to?” 

“Some council meetings with leaders of the other nations.” Zuko sighed, leaning beside her. “We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us.” 

“We do. But we’ll do it together.” She leaned on Zuko’s shoulder and closed her eyes as he leaned his cheek against the top of her head. Much more had changed than just their place of residence. (Y/N) realized that while she had fought Azula so furiously because of what she had done to Zuko, there was also a deeper reason of why she was so angered. As she watched Zuko lying on the ground, practically dying, she realized that everyone had been right. The feelings that she felt for Zuko surpassed friendship. She loved him and she had loved him for a very long time. 

It was unfortunate that it had taken her until he was mortally injured to realize it, but better late than never, she supposed. 

She was scared to tell him though, which baffled her. She had fought for her life on multiple occasions, survived prison, and defeated one of the most powerful benders in the entire Fire Nation...but she still couldn’t tell her best friend that she was in love with him. 

“Wanna come out to the courtyard with me?” Zuko stood. “Everyone should be arriving soon.” (Y/N) nodded and followed him through the palace and to the steps of the main courtyard. Just as they walked outside, Appa landed in the middle of the courtyard with Aang, Sokka, Katara, Toph, and Momo in tow. (Y/N) and Zuko wore bright smiles on their faces as they waved to their friends. The last time she had seen any of them was the day of the comet. While that had only been a few days ago, this was the most time she had spent apart from her friends in a very long time. She ran to the courtyard to greet them as they stepped off of Appa, with Zuko trailing behind. 

(Y/N) hugged each and every one of her friends as tightly as she could. What they had all been preparing for over the past year had finally been achieved. There was still more work to do, but it made her heart swell knowing that they had each brought fantastic change into the world. 

“You look so different,” Sokka exclaimed, admiring her traditional Fire Nation robes. (Y/N) beamed up at him. 

“I used to dress like this all the time before I ran off with you hooligans. Do you guys want a tour? I can’t wait to show you where Zuko and I grew up!” 

“Maybe a little later,” Zuko cut in. “Aang and I have an important meeting to get to.” He gave her an apologetic look. 

“Oh, right,” (Y/N) said, but the excitement didn’t fall from her face. “Very important Fire Lord and Avatar stuff.” She turned back to Sokka, Katara, and Toph. “How about you all come with me to the kitchens? You can taste the food we’ve been preparing and let me know if it’s good enough to serve.” 

“Sounds great!” Toph cheered. “I’m starving. Someone ate all the seal jerky on the way here.” 

All three girls looked at Sokka, who shrugged. “I’m a growing man!” 

(Y/N) led them into the palace. They marveled at the ornate architecture on the inside, and at the portraits of past Fire Lords. Katara halted the group to look at the blank space on the wall of Fire Lords. “What happened here?” 

“We took down the portraits of Sozin, Azulon, and Ozai,” (Y/N) explained. 

“Why?” Toph asked. 

“Zuko and I agreed that we didn’t want our nation to forget its history, no matter how horrible it is. But we also didn’t want to honor those three when all they’ve done was cause pain and suffering.” She pursed her lips as she stared at the empty space. “I’m working on hiring a painter for Zuko, but he’s always so busy.” 

“Are you like Zuko’s assistant now?” Sokka questioned. (Y/N) shrugged. 

“I do the things he doesn’t necessarily have time for, so I guess. Really I just consider myself his friend.” 

“His friend?” Katara asked, smirking and raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, Katara, his friend,” (Y/N) said, but the two best friends exchanged a knowing smile that told Katara everything she needed to know. (Y/N) turned quickly on her heel to lead them down to the kitchens. They ate to their hearts content and only barely left the kitchens in time to make the coronation. 

Katara and Sokka stood at the front of the Water Tribe guests with their father. Toph stood at the front of the Earth Kingdom guests with Haru, the Mechanist, and other friends from they had met. (Y/N) stood at the front of the Fire Nation guests, exchanging smiles and greetings with the nobles who were willing to hear Zuko out. 

If she squinted, she could see Zuko standing inside the palace. He looked hesitant, as if he were scared, and (Y/N) cursed herself for not being up there with him. She could have coached him through this or cheered him on. He paced back and forth as he waited to be called out by the Fire Sages. (Y/N) felt herself smile at how nervous he was. Zuko was confident, but never cocky, and it was one of the things she loved most about him. 

Right before it was time for Zuko to walk out, (Y/N) watched as Mai walked up to him. The two exchanged a kiss, resulting in the biggest smile being put on Zuko’s face.

(Y/N) looked over at Katara, whose wide eyes and open mouth let her know that she was just as shocked. But she had no time to react. She swallowed her feelings deep into the pit of her stomach and cheered like everyone else did as Zuko walked out to be crowned Fire Lord. 

---

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[phantaloon-books]

(some) Riordanverse characters (bc I never read TKC) and which Hogwarts House I think they would be in

Warning: this is a long one

Nico: the dude is definitely Gryffindor without a doubt. Like Sorting isn't about some traits and some characteristics, it's about core personality. He may have gone through some of the roughest stuff when he was 10-12, and he was resentful and bitter, but he was brave and bold af throughout everything he did. From learning about his powers, to using them relentlessly despite knowing how exhausted he is afterwards, to his willingness to do whatever is necessary to do what has to be done, because it has to be done. You can't change my mind that he's Gryffindor lol.

Grover: Do I even need to explain why he's Gryffindor? He's a satyr, and even if we're shown strong satyrs, they're not really supposed to be brave fighters. Yet he is one of the strongest, bravest nature spirits we've ever encountered in the Riordanverse, and one of the bravest in general. Like he's so passionate about doing what is good, he's a hero, and the only thing he doesn't match with common Gryffindors is that he's humble and as far from arrogant as could be possible, but it doesn't take his courage away.

Hazel: She's Gryffindor, and core personality-wise, she and Nico are very much alike. They don't ever think about themselves, like Hazel really always does what has to be done, no matter the cost, I mean she literally died preventing Gaea to rise the first time, and she freed Thanatos while believing he would take her back to the Underworld. She's brave af, and she has one of the most strong willpower we've seen in the Riordanverse. She's a passionate hero, and she's the closest thing to a real knight in shining armor.

Lester: I'm gonna place him in Gryffindor because I don't think he fits in in the other houses lmao. That said, as Apollo he's very shitty, but as Lester, he's one of the most courageous people. He's grown so much, he's so willing to actually do stuff now, and sacrifice everything to do what's right, including his life, even if he doesn't know he's gonna survive. Hell, he really went most of TTT with an incredibly painful wound that nearly turned him undead, and he cared more for the future of Camp Jupiter than his own life. Additionally, he's a bit arrogant and cocky, but he truly means well, I love Lester so much.

Clarisse: Look look, all I have to say is that no one could have pulled off less than half the stuff Clarisse has done, she's so Gryffindor it hurts. She's reckless and impulsive, but she's driven by her passion to do good, even if she's the daughter of war, and was bullied by her own father. She's daring, she's bold and she is the hero. She's also arrogant and thinks she can solve everything by herself, something characteristic more of the canon Gryffindors in the books, rather than what the fans have shaped. In fact, she's very much like Gryffindors in the books, who are actually very rude to other houses and think they're the best. Still, at heart, she's in this house.

Alex: I'm in a huge dilemma about where to put them, but I reckon they'd fit pretty fine in Gryffindor. Not only are they daring and courageous, they're proud of who they are, but not in a too full of themselves kind of way, rather in a 'I am who I am, and if you can't accept me, fuck off' kind of way. They can get carried away rather easily though, and very arrogant, thinking they don't need anyone else, when they do in fact need some company. They are one of the kindest and at the same time most ambitious characters we've met, but they are brave beyond understanding in a very personal way, thus, Gryffindor.

Percy: I think it's fair to say he'd be Hufflepuff, because loyalty is literally his fucking fatal flaw, and he is the kindest sweetheart to all those who deserve it, he goes out of his way to help those who need help, whether that be mortals, halfbloods, gods, magical creatures or even his own enemies. He's too good for this world, and even if he's grown a bit bitter, he always looks to fight justly for what is right, and never loses faith in others. That, and the fact that he turned down immortality so that the olympians were more inclusive of minor gods, and their children were treated better. He's just a lovely soul, he's like 80% Hufflepuff so that's enough for me. All that and he's stubborn as hell.

Jason: Hufflepuff. Just, undoubtedly Hufflepuff. Like he seems to be this cold and self centered hero with a superiority complex (bc of all the son of Jupiter stuff) but he's the softest guy there is. Not only is he hardworking, open minded and kind, he appreciates justice but he doesn't seek for revenge or anything, he makes sure people are treated fairly and wants everyone to be accepted. Proof of that is how he continued Percy's job of including more gods, and made sure Nico felt comfortable with who he was. He truly has a heart of gold. (He deserved better btw)

Meg: God I can't decide between Hufflepuff and Gryffindor, but I think I'll go with the former. She's so strong, my baby, she's faced so much wrong, but she's still so kind and understanding of others, especially those who deserve kindness. She puts up such a hard facade, but she's so patient and warm and inclusive. She's brave and strong (as strong as the big three kids, if not stronger), but she's also so loyal to her beliefs despite how she was forced someone else's beliefs for years, so I'll keep her in Hufflepuff. Also, she's stubborn af, and she can be lazy, so that settles it.

Will: I KNOW some people will say Will could be in other houses that are not Hufflepuff, BUT I won't have it any other way. Will is literally the warmest person ever. He is kind and sympathetic and enthusiastic and patient and inclusive. Like Helga Hufflepuff would take one look at him and lose her shit screaming "mine". He's the guy who saw the son of Hades so many people were scared of and immediately grabbed his hand and transfered him some warmth and didn't let him go ahead and get himself killed. He's also the one who everyone loves and likes, so much that Clarisse gets along with him and he can calm her down. He's the ideal Hufflepuff, you can't change my mind.

Magnus: I mean, what else can you expect from the son of the god of summer? He's literally a guy who heals others with warmth. He's also the guy who spent years on the street with the most difficult situations, and accepts every single person the way they are. He's inclusive af, and tolerant of everything. He's the guy who's closest include a deaf elf, a Muslim valkyrie, and a black dwarf, and he's dating a genderfluid person. Yes he's brave, and he's kinda smart, and he's ambitious, BUT none of those qualities overpower his Hufflepuff nature.

Piper: Kinda debated whether Gryffindor or Ravenclaw fits more, but in the end I went with Ravenclaw. Even though she isn't a fighter, she's very very brave, yet her bravery isn't compared to her wits. Like others in the PJOverse, she wins her fights by outsmarting her opponents, but unlike others that's one of her strongest traits. She's witty and creative and a little on the negative side, she really struggled to work in a group rather than by herself. On another note, she's able to keep calm in crazy situations and come up with the craziest most unthinkable solutions (I'm talking borderline ridiculous) that always somehow work. She's not booksmart, but she knows so much about everything, and she's lifesmart you know?

Reyna: Why are some of these so hard? Deeply debating whether she'd be Ravenclaw or Slytherin. In the end I'd go more for Ravenclaw though. Reyna's smart as hell, she's strong and sharp, and she always sees the best way out of a situation. She's witty and observant, being able to keep her cool in battle and lead others in the best direction. She's always looking to grow, and she prefers to do things on her own, but she's a great leader. She has some Slytherin qualities, and she's not learning as learning oriented as others, but she's definitely Ravenclaw.

Sam: Let's face it, Sam has the only active neurons in all of MCGA, she's definitely Ravenclaw. I'm gonna be honest though, I've only read MCGA once, so I can't remember much of their personalities, but Sam is witty and clever, pretty much the only one who can come up with competent plans, while the others rely mostly on luck and whatever plan they can cook up in 5 seconds. She's loyal and true to who she is, and she's extremely courageous and proud of who she is, but her sharpness is what she stands out for me, which is why I put her in Ravenclaw.

Annabeth: I know the obvious option is Ravenclaw, but I genuinely think she's also Slytherin. Yes she is booksmart and wise like Ravenclaw, but her personality matches Slytherins' ambitious, cunning and resourceful nature. She's smart as fuck, but she's calculative, she always finds a way to end up winning, and while she does so by outsmarting her opponents, she wouldn't need to outsmart them if she weren't so competitive. I feel like there's this 40/60 odds on Slytherin rather than Ravenclaw, but it's that small difference that counts. Plus her leadership skills are so powerful that people don't ask, they just know she's the boss.

(Also just picture the sweet and loyal Hufflepuff boy with the strong and cunning Slytherin girl, like it should be as opposite as it is with Poseidon and Athena, but they're so cute)

Leo: Idk what you can expect that's not Slytherin. This boy is the embodiment of ambition and determination. Reminder that not all Slytherins are bad btw (I'm slytherin myself), but like he's life smart and cunning, and he can analyze situations faster than anyone else. He's charismatic and talented, and there's no one to stop him from triumphing. I don't have much to say, I just know he'd be in Slytherin.

Rachel: She's kinda a difficult one, and I struggle between Gryffindor and Slytherin, and tbh I'm still not sure. But I think I'd place her in Slytherin, because even if she's brave af (especially since she was a mortal fighting in a war out of her power), her main trait is her determination. When she's set on something, she gets it done. You can't tell her she can't do something, because she will find a way to do it. She's kind, and she's only a mortal, but she still has incredible power unlike any other. I don't think I can really name it, but I think she'd be put on Slytherin with much difficulty from the Sorting Hat.

Luke: Where else could Luke possibly go? On the meaner side Slytherins have created themselves, Luke would be part of those misled by who preceded them, by those who want to take advantage of their mistreatment (bc let's face it, Slytherins are mistreated by both students and Hogwarts staff), and turn them cold and bitter. Luke is ambitious and manipulative, being manipulated himself, and it comes easily because of his natural charisma and talent. He's very freaking determined and cunning too. He'd fit right into Slytherin, but he'd be viewed as one of the rotten lot.

Thalia: I don't have much to say about this, but Thalia is the girl whose fatal flaw is their desire for power (or smth along those lines), just like most Slytherins. She's ambitious, she's smart, she's truly talented, she stands out between the rest, and she knows it, and she actually kinda likes it.

(Also I put Annabeth, Thalia and Luke in the same house because they're all kinda similar, even if their beliefs and postures are different.

Frank: Ngl I'm having more difficulty with Frank than anyone else. I'm kinda torn between Gryffindor, Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw. I literally can't choose. He'd fit perfectly in any of them lmao, I just can't decide where he'd go. You decide this one yourself.

Please keep in mind, this is my personal opinion and my take on the characters, and not all of you will agree, and that's fine! You can let me know what you think (kindly please, don't come at me), and if you want to, send me an ask on a character you want me to do the same as these (as long as it's not TKC, I'M SORRY I haven't read those) go ahead, don't be shy!