#i hope they both rot they did this to spite me and when it did not that much and they burnt out now its

[barnbridges]

my ex boyfriend and my bully from hs just got divorced, what we drinking girls.

[milestonekestrel]

Please tell me about your swap au! :) i would love to hear more about it!

I really like all of the designs for the voices(?) that you have in it! I think that I really like the chill and the skittish the most! It all looks very interesting!

YAYY!!

I'm so glad you like the designs so far! <3

I'll give you the run-down of the little lore and things I've got down for this. Keep in mind that nothing is set in stone yet (or, ever honestly lol), so things may change at some point.

Basic swap au premise, the Princess and the Long Quiet swap places! Now the bird is imprisoned in the cabin, and the princess (or Maiden) is the one who is supposed to slay him. This, of course, changes some of the lore, yeah?

The Long Quiet and Shifting Mound were still originally one vessel, and were still separated. The Narrator imprisoned the Monster in the cabin because of the stagnation. He himself was stagnating. Rotting to nothing. He wanted to stop this; he wanted change. So, he did what he does in Canon! Only, to the LQ.

He brought the Princess to the cabin, instructing her to slay the Monster, or the world would end. Fortunately, she also has the Voice of the Maiden to influence her. and the Maiden is not so sure the Narrator should be trusted.

The voices, in this au, are fragments from the SM, since the Princess is the SM's "heart", she still has sort of a connection to their perspectives. Here is a list of the current voices!

Voice of the Maiden - The replacement for the Hero! The Voice of the Maiden represents standard Princess in Canon. She is a kind-hearted, level-headed do-gooder and most often the one keeping the peace between all the voices.

Voice of the Wounded - Representing the Witch from Canon and the foil to The Scoundrel, Voice of the Wounded is spiteful at a betrayal she's faced, and wants nothing more for the Monster to feel the pain she has.

Voice of the Lover - Representing the Damsel from Canon and the foil to the Admirer, the Lover is gentle and loving. While not completely enamored in the way the Admirer is, she harbors a great deal of affection for the Monster, though she is generally useless when it comes to making decisions on her own.

Voice of the Joyous - (Alternatively, Voice of the Hopeful) Representing the Spectre and the foil to the Chill, Voice of the Joyous is a pleasant voice who is afflicted with a deep longing for a better life for both her and the Monster, and sense of optimism, even in the worst of situations. However, she has a fierce edge to her that should not be ignored.

Voice of the Rigid - (Alternatively, Voice of the Cynic) Representing the Prisoner and the foil to The Fool, the Rigid is a stubborn pessimist, and has a notable mean streak. She is basically a second Narrator, in terms of her main route. Though when faced with the Fool's splintering, she shows an extreme curiosity. Something good about her is that she stands by her values, and though they happen to coincide with the Narrator often, she is not him.

Voice of the Brutal - Representing the Adversary and foiling the Combatant, the Brutal is someone who loves fighting. She longs to struggle and be forced to adapt, and she exclaims that she feels alive when taking on the Combatant.

Voice of the Prey - While she does not represent any princess from Canon, she is the stand-in for the Voice of the Hunted, and foils The Rabid. She is not meek, but the other voices often wrongfully regard her as such. She speaks in hushed tones, and is extremely smart with her instincts.

Voice of the Cruel - Representing the Razor princess and foiling the Bristles, the Cruel is joyfully sadistic. She expresses often how the Princess ought to just stab the Monster. She enjoys it, which is a discomfort to even the Narrator. She is an awful liar, but maintains an upbeat attitude.

Voice of the Haunted - Again, this one does not represent a princess, but is a replacement for Voice of the Paranoid! She is the foil to The Mold, and is frightened often. But, as such, she is the most used to it out of the Maiden or her fellow voices, and can guide them through the situation if only they will listen.

Voice of the Weak-Willed - She doesn't represent a princess either, but also does not fully represent the voice she replaces: Voice of the Broken. She is a demotivated woman who has hardly any drive, but proves to be useful sometimes, at least. Though, she gets infatuated with The Victor in their route, and advocates fiercely for them to obey him. Simp <3

Voice of the Imposing - Representing the Tower princess and foiling The Skittish, the Imposing is a 'get shit done' type of woman. She is, as the name implies, an imposing figure, and it shows in even her voice. She has a high sense of her own self-worth, and is sometimes arrogant, having grown used to bossing everyone around by the time she meets her meek, but defiant foil.

Voice of the Crooked - Finally, here we are! She does not represent a specific princess, but is more like Voice of the Opportunist is he were slightly more evil. She foils The Arrowhead, and is logical and pragmatic, yet has the capacity to be cruel if she thinks it will increase her chances of 'escaping this damned cabin.'

That's all of our voices, except for the Narrator I guess, but he remains unchanged!

Now, naturally, with the Princess and LQ being swapped, the various enemies you face have been changed too. Here is a list of them:

The Admirer - Swapping with the Damsel and representing the Voice of the Smitten, the Admirer is madly in love with the Princess. He is completely, head-over-talons enamored. To the point where if his beloved sees it fit to slay him, naturally, he should be the one apologizing. He branches into Ch III - The Warm Embrace, in which he seeks to bury himself and the Princess alive, so that 'they may find our skeletons intertwined, a testament to our undying love!' “This one is unconditional affection. You have molded him to love you, and he would, in any form you take. He will make for an enamored heart. Do not mourn him. He has served his purpose.”

The Arrowhead - Taking the Witch's place (originally named him The Chip (as in chip on your shoulder, meaning a grudge) but I changed it) and acting like the Voice of the Skeptic, only more sarcastic and with a hint of the Witch's playfulness. He can branch into Ch III - The One Eye, or Ch III - The Knot.

The Bristles - Taking the Razor's place, and Representing Voice of the Cheated! The Bristles happens if you fool the Monster into thinking your dead, and then gut him when he gets close. He essentially became a blade monster because he wanted to never be tricked by you again, and gets tired very quickly of the Princess continuously coming back. His two chapter branches are Ch III - The Steel Claw to Ch IV - A Mass of Blood and Blades, and Ch III - The Barbed Wire to Ch IV - A Beating Heart. “This one is consumed by mistrust. He refused to be deceived, but his efforts to arm himself tore through him as much as it did others. He will make for a guarded heart. Do not mourn him, for he no longer has anything to fear.”

The Chill - Taking the Spectre Princess' place, and Representing the Voice of the Cold, The Chill is a spirit without any vengeful feelings. Merely, it was too painful to constantly wish to be saved, so he shut himself off, in a way. Still, once he realizes he can use you to escape the cabin, he gets very angry when you deny him the help, especially after you killed him in cold blood. He can branch into Ch III - The Torrential Winds, in which he kills you in an avalanche, a blizzard, or by his own hands, and uses you to escape the cabin. “This one is apathy. He wished for a life he could not attain, and turned himself into a stiff, sharp wind to avoid his longing. He will make for a cold heart. Do not mourn him– he has finally found what he wished for.” 

The Combatant - Taking the place of the Adversary and Representing the Voice of the Stubborn, The Combatant desires a fight. He simply craves the thrill of battle with a worthy opponent, and the feeling of a life, his opponent's or his own, bending to the will of a strong heart. He can branch into Ch III - The Serrated Edge, in which he finally gets the fight he desires, or Ch III - The Unwound Screw, in which he kills you no matter what you do. “This one yearns to fight, to struggle against someone worthy, and feel the thrill of the battle. Even now, he thrashes against me, not realizing we are one. He will make for a stubborn heart. Do not mourn him, for he will feel the satisfaction of victory.”

The Fool - Taking the Stranger's place, and Representing Voice of the Contrarian, The Fool is unstable at first. Though he only displays amusement as his situation, especially when the Narrator reacts. He is a monster that can hear the Narrator, and interact with him. He finds joy in spiteing you and the Narrator, and displays a morbid curiosity at his situation, especially when he starts fracturing. “These ones are contradictions. A kaleidoscope of paths unwalked. They are stretched into a shape they cannot hold, and yet, I feel their contrary. They will make for a rich, radiant heart.”

The Mold - Taking the Nightmare's place, The Mold is a decayed monster who has rotted in the cabin, and now seeks revenge. he has mold and fungus growing on him, and his feathers have been preened out of stress, leaving large bare patches in certain places. He can branch into Ch III - The Infection, in which he kills you, or Ch III - The Reflective Surface, which is basically The Moment of Clarity. “This one is decay. A soul left to rot with only himself as company. He desires companionship, but is too angry to let go of the knife. He will make for a lonely, callous heart. Do not mourn him– he has finally given in.”

The Rabid - Representing the Beast princess, The Rabid is aptly named! He is visibly infected with rabies, and is more wild and unpredictable than before. He acts on instinct, and has the behavior of a predator. He branches into Ch III - The Abomination, in which the infection has progressed, and the foam in his mouth chokes him, taking away his speech. In this chapter, he also acts even more like a feral beast, and looks the part. The Rabid can also become Ch III - The One Eye, which is basically The Wild (for now!) “This one is wild. Consumed by instinct, he has become unpredictable. A creature, hunting and fighting to survive, and forcing the adaptation of its prey. He will make for a feral heart. He wishes me to devour you. To make you a part of myself. But he is only a voice. Do not mourn him. He is part of something greater.”

The Scoundrel - Representing the Voice of the Opportunist, and also kind of taking The Prisoner's place, The Scoundrel is kind of like a con-man. He defends the actions of his previous iteration (them being killing the Princess while she was resisting the Narrator), and can be killed in revenge. But his bigger plot is the romance! That's right! You can romance him. Show him a little affection to gain his trust, and either free him again (to the Voice of the Wounded's extreme dismay) or betray him! Stab him right in the back, which will prompt him to strike back fatally and kill you, but the damage will already be done. He will give you a cold look (though you will notice his eyes are wet and shiny, of course) and call you a liar before you are taken to Ch III - The Frigid Touch, in which he pushes you down a deep hole and breaks all of your bones, and then kills you. “This one is both sides of a coin. He is motivated by survival, and is willing to stoop low to preserve it. Yet, he is not a bad soul. He will make for an opportunistic heart. Do not mourn him– he can live now.”

The Skittish - Representing Voice of the Paranoid, The Skittish is a very frightened monster who cowers in fear from you. Though, if approached, he will be driven to attack. If you take him on, you can eventually blind him, and then either save him or murder him. If you murder him (you monster (/lh)) you will be taken to Ch III - The Something (which is currently unnamed, if you couldn't tell. I am just calling it The Flinching in my head). In This chapter, he's basically Voice of the Broken. Extremely depressed, and also still blind, which he knows doesn't give him the edge. Either he'll stab himself, or you'll stab him here. “This one is paralyzed. Hope drowned out by fear. He will make for a paranoid heart. I feel his terror now. He desperately wishes to flee. But he is only a voice. Do not mourn him– he is safe now.”

The Victor - Taking the place of the Tower princess, the Victor is a lot like her. He is more outwardly arrogant, and a lot sharper with his words than her, but still wants to take you on as a pet. He can branch into Ch III - The Halo, or Ch III - The Unwound Screw. “This one is dominance. A figure who bends others to his will. He will make for a proud, arrogant heart. Do not mourn him, for he would not mourn you.”

And that's them! My sillies <3.

The Long Quiet has you bring them to him. They are fractures of his heart that were lost (either by the Narrator or on purpose), and kept in the cabin.

Here is a little list of the Ch I outcomes I made, just to keep track

Take the blade:

Provoke, play dead, slay, die - The Bristles

Provoke, keep fighting, die - The Combatant

Provoke, give up, die - The Victor

Slay Instantly, don't check, kill yourself - The Chill

Slay Instantly, check, die - The Arrowhead

Lock monster away, die - The Mold

Rescue, resist narrator, die - The Scoundrel

Rescue, do not resist narrator, die - The Arrowhead

Go unarmed

Retrieve blade, attack, give up, die - The Rabid

Retrieve blade, attack, die - The Victor

Go back for blade, do anything - The Arrowhead

Lock monster away, die - The Mold

Rescue, resist narrator, die - The Admirer

Rescue, do not resist narrator, die - The Skittish

Don’t go at all

Refuse to enter cabin - The Fool

Is there anything else you would like to know? I'd love to talk about the swap Au more, but I don't know what to talk about.

[jolalibrary]

iii. file room + accusations

javier peña x dea! f!reader | chapter three of nowhere to run

Summary: Determined to do it better this time, Javier Peña returns to Bogotá to take down the Cali Cartel. With a new promotion, office and team, what he doesn’t expect is the pretty thing outside his office—or why they’re not allowed in the field. chapter warnings:��season three narcos spoilers, no use of y/n, flirting to the highest level. wordcount: 5.8k an: thank you for your patience, none of this chapter existed three days ago, but i think it was necessary for how... spicy the next one will be. as always, a huge thank you to @guyfieriii who let me hammer this idea out with her, and @yeyinde who fills me with absolute confidence to take this on.

“You have fun last night?”

Stirring your cup, you turn your head. “We went for one drink—” 

“Are you fucking Van Ness?” 

You throw the spoon into the sink, glaring—full of poisoned accusation, hoping it stings, hoping it bites. 

Chris has always been a little jealous, and a little bitter. But this side of him, the side grown from the decay of what once was…

“Believe it or not, people of the opposite sex can just be friends.”

“Like we were?” 

You scoff, almost going to grab your coffee when his hand touches your wrist.

“Sorry… that was,” Chris sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he closes his eyes. “I’m sorry, alright?”

“You’re being an asshole.”

“I know.” 

Leaning back on the counter, you stare at him. The man you used to share a bed with, cook with, sleep with—finding yourself unable to recognise him. The same amount you barely were able to recognise yourself these days. 

“Just because we went for a drink, doesn’t mean I fucked him. I don’t fuck people just because they buy me drinks, if anything, I fuck them in spite of buying me things.” 

Lowering his hand, he opens his eyes. “I know… I just…”

You motion to move, hearing his words die as you hold his gaze. “Do us both a favour, Chris, get over us or stop trying to be my friend.”

It was a last-minute decision to get you coffee. 

A thought which nestled until it bloomed and spread itself over all the others. You’d been on his mind, likely put there because of his dreams. 

Javi had become so used to the smoky blend of violence and regret in his nightmares, it caught him by surprise long after he awoke that something good had been trying to form. Something with a sly smile that had slowly been driving him wild and a pair of eyes he saw even when he blinked. 

His bed creaked as he stretched, shoving the leftover hold of sleep from his muscles. 

He turns over how you’d not seemed like yourself yesterday. How quiet you were, how distant. You’d made two visits to his office, both for actual work purposes. He’d thought of asking, of questioning—but each time he’d found himself about to, you had a visitor at your desk. 

As time had ticked on, the night bludgeoning the day, he’d watched as you packed up your things, met by one of the other agents—tall and dark-haired—pulling a short laugh from you. 

He spent the next hour buried in case files just so he wouldn’t focus on the sound. And how he hadn’t pulled that same sound from you all day.

Now, as streams of sunlight flicker through his curtains, he reaches for his lighter and cigarettes. About to light one, a thought appearing and growing—rotting and festering in the empty space he’s carved for you.

Maybe you’re his delayed punishment.

His price to pay for what he did last time he was here. He thinks of you more than he does others—more than he has done with others. 

You are a torture, a thing put here in front of him as something he could have once, and never again. A reminder of it each time you sway into his office. How he’d tasted you, he’d felt your curves and heard your pretty noises. Now only for him to be locked in a prison of his own making because of it.

Because he’s forever interrupted by phone calls, meetings and whatever else life has—and will—throw his way. 

As he takes a drag, the point and thought cements itself further, because Javi doesn’t dream.

He relives nightmares and what-ifs, but he rarely ever dreams. Yet, there you were, smiling, pulling him from a nightmare into something more pleasant he didn’t want to wake from. You who hadn’t even fully formed, a shadow, an outline at best, but you’re there, he can tell. All pretty and sharp-tongued—not that he’s heard dream-you even speak, but he knows. 

Knows about the same amount as he knows he should turn the water in the shower a bit colder. Should let it sting his chest from how icy it is, trying to cage the thoughts of you he shouldn’t have. 

Because there’s a lesson to be learnt about shitting when he’s eating—and he’s already failed it twice. 

So, he lets his chin dip to his chest as water cascades down his neck, letting freezing droplets smother any chance of warmth. Because even if he shouldn’t, even if he couldn’t—technically—you’re in his head. 

Secretly, he blames you. Blames each quick retort you’ve had and each flirtatious sentence which continuously hangs in the air longer than anything else. 

Mainly, he blames you for the things you’re not at fault for. Like your smile, your laugh and the way you tap your pen on the desk when you’re lost in thought. 

That softer smile is the one in last night's dreams. Embedding itself firmly in the few hours he’s managed to catch in a while. The edges of it are genuine, exactly like it was in person—looking as much like it was born and not willed, as he’s seen in the flesh. You owe me a coffee. He thought about it as he lay in his sheets, again when he lit his first cigarette and on repeat in the shower.

It’s why he buys you one—it’s cemented in his thoughts. 

Front and fucking centre. 

By the time he makes it to work, his forehead is slightly slick with sweat. Barely noticeable to most, he supposes, but he feels it. His determination to catch you before the rest filter in, able to confidently present you with your inside joke right at your desk. 

It would mean he’s the instigator. It would mean he’d see you taken back, rendered silent for fucking once. 

Because normally, it’s you doing that to him. You and your quick wit make him roll his tongue around his mouth as he tries to control his body. 

Usually, he was in control. He was the one making others stupid over him—it’s different being on the other side. More so when he catches sight of himself in the reflection of the glass door, the smirk large and proud on his face. 

All because of fucking you. 

And then, you’re not at your desk.

His tongue pokes into his cheek as he inwardly kicks himself, heart descending down to his stomach—thumping against nothingness and last night's whiskey. 

He contemplates binning them as he moves past the desks. Throwing it before someone sees him with two coffees and a piece of fruit. Annoyance spreads like a wildfire through him, singeing the edges of muscles and bones. It layers, landing firmly on top of the shit from Cornerstone, the conversation with Stechner and—

He sees you. 

Like the sun which bleeds through clouds on a rainy day; like a torch through thick, sullen darkness. There you are.

Able to see you clearer and clearer on his approach, until he’s peering through his open door, spotting you on your knees, head bent. There’s an array of paper around you, placed out in a semi-circle on his office floor, an empty file box discarded close to the door. You don’t notice him, still fixated on whatever it is that has you in his office. 

You don’t even lift up when he’s at the doorway, casting a shadow over the papers. 

“You’re in early.”

Smirking, he leans against the doorway, watching you shift a paper to the side. Remaining bent over, finger tapping in a rhythmic pattern against a page closest to your hand. 

“And you’re in my office, cariño.”

He expects you to look up, even if just your eyes. You don’t. 

Another notch adding to the enigma that is you. The mystery, the hard-to-read and understand puzzle that is currently on your knees.  

“I needed the space.”

“For?”

That’s when you lift your head, sighing—if only to yourself—before slowly standing. You don’t groan, and don’t let out a noise as you do, shifting your trousers so they fall as they’re supposed to. Then, you’re awkwardly stepping over your pile as you come to stand beside him. 

“Personal project—that for me?” 

You take it before he can confirm it, taking a large gulp of it, filling the air with a groan. A sound which tugs something inside of him, even if your eyes remain fixed on the mess on his floor and not him. 

It’s childish—almost like he was back in school. Staring at the pretty girl until she notices him. But you are pretty, and fuck does he wish you’d notice him. 

“Thanks.” 

Something sinks. 

He’s not sure what, but it’s in his chest. 

Somehow, foolishly, he’d expected a little more from the gesture. The fact you’d been more grateful when he’d returned a pen, than grabbing you coffee. That, and your eyes barely meet his, continuing to turn something over in your mind as you take another sip. 

It’s silent, your silent—outside of the occasional sighs you let escape.  

Realistically, he knows you’re not being your usual self because you’re likely doing your job—something in the short span of time he’s known you, he knows you do well. But, it feeds into that… feeling. The one he woke up with when you’d left. Rejection. 

Something he’s experienced before—been through. Yet, never really learnt how to handle it.

How often are you told no, Peña? Rarely. I can believe that.  You want another drink? Can’t say no, can I?

It rattles him more because it’s you. You who has made him do things like this. He wanted to make you smile, wanted to show you that he fucking listened. 

Even if you confuse him. Bouncing from one minute flirting with him as he tries to be decent, fighting the feeling of the beads of sweat collecting on his collar. The next you’re staring through him as though you’d rather skin him than fuck him. 

He can’t say any of that, not as he massages his inner cheek between his teeth. Eyes staring at the pages, noticing the manilla case files poking out underneath all the stark white papers. 

He’s itching to get closer. To read the number on the side strips, see what it is that has stolen your attention. 

Instead, he nudges you. Watching as you lift your chin in his direction. Your eyes are the last to rise from the floor. Your face all blank and expressionless—appears as if you’re awaiting instruction from him for something. He sees the circles under your eyes, the rest of your face devoid of anything he can dissect. It almost feels as if he’s trying to read the wall, rather than a person who has made him copious cups of coffee. 

“You need me to move?”

He snorts, if only to himself. “No. But you’re quiet...”

Shooting him a short nod, you offer a forced smile. “Sorry.”

He feels something knot, something which makes it hard to take a step back and turn away from you. Something urging him to push, to keep standing there, even if he would get more from the water cooler.

“Hey… you good?” 

You eye him, brows narrowing ever so slightly. “Yes. Of course...” 

He nods. “Good. Okay, good.”

You turn more to face him, frowning as you try but find yourself unable to discern whatever it is you’re looking for—not that he knows what you’re searching for. 

He’s confused, prickled—tense. But nothing else. 

“Did you think I wouldn’t be or something?” 

You seem upset. Distracted. 

That’s what he wants to say. Wants to try and unpick the reason for your sharper gaze, raised shoulders and the almost box of files on his office floor.

Likely would if it didn’t allow you to know that he watches you, even through the blinds. That he knows these little things, the small shifts in your otherwise carefully constructed set of walls and barriers to keep everyone out. 

“I expected you to give me more shit… about the fruit, the coffee. Be difficult.”

You smirk, leaning as you run the cup under your nose. “I can be difficult if you need me to be, sir.” 

Your smile slowly spreads, more teeth than you’ve shown—more laid-back. It stretches from your cheeks to your eyes. His tongue runs across the front of his teeth, watching it, how it illuminates and lights every part of you. 

“Somehow, I bet you can be.”

Shrugging, you take a sip from the coffee again—eyes narrowing ever so slightly at the taste. 

He did good, he thinks. Knowing you likely won’t admit it, acknowledge it—

“This is good…”

He feels his brow rise, wiping his bottom lip. “Yeah?”

“Almost as good as you… sir.”

You watch him, make sure it lands. Watch it spread. Likely enjoying the show too. He can’t hide it, not quick enough to mask it. Not that he really puts much effort into trying.

It’s futile, a waste of energy and time.

He’s even sure you hear him inhale and whisper the word fuck as your phone rings.

“I’ll tidy this up in a minute, excuse me.”

Then you’re gone. Leaving him with your words and perfume, hearing the distinct sweet and, most innocent voice. 

A voice which didn’t fit or follow what you had just said. 

He’d never thought Messina’s job looked fun, but he never realised how unbearable it must have been. 

Javi’s head throbs from it. 

All of it. The meetings about meetings, the bureaucracy which wraps ropes around his throat and the fact—even if he’s not in the room—he can feel Stechner breathing down his neck. 

Something pulses more so when he meets your smirk-smile. The one he was robbed of enjoying yesterday, but today has got it in plenty. He puts it down to the coffee, not the possibility he heard you went out for a drink with another agent last night. 

Fresh air washes over him as he steps out of the building. The stuffy boardroom air uncurling itself from his suit as the grey, cloudy day hangs around him. Normally, he finds the humidity tiresome, but today it greets him like a friend. A better friend than pompous air breathed by men who want an easy win, than fight the actual fight that’s necessary. 

It’s habit again now, lighting a cigarette, even if he had tried to quit. His fingers hover the cigarette close to his lips, watching the end sparkle with orange and yellow as he releases his shoulders from around his ears. 

Bad habit, that.  So are you. You don’t mean that, sir. 

Taking the longest drag, he lets it fill his lungs. 

Hearing your voice call him sir, it is always faintly there—a callback, a reminder. A tease. 

He didn’t mean it, you’d been right. Didn’t mean it so much at all. Even if you were bad and a habit, you weren’t a bad habit.

Javi kept thinking about that night, and the ones he could have enjoyed after. Thoughts of taking you back to his and seeing how many times he can make you call his name; whether you’d beg him in that same way, please, Javi, please. 

It’s taken all of his strength not to act on it. 

Something to prove fizzing inside of him, blending with the taste and scent of tobacco which bleed across his senses. It slowly undoes each tendril of stress, unknotting each tense muscle, allowing the briefest second of calm—of peace—to wash over him. 

Sex did that too. 

Sex, whiskey and smokes did it all together. A perfect blend—one which had kept him going for longer than he cared to admit before. 

He didn’t smoke the night he fucked you. Hadn’t even realised he hadn’t until he smoked this one—acknowledging there’s a deeper meaning there, but unwilling to unfold it.

No good came from digging inside himself, not now. Not when his walls are painted in red shame and bitter regrets. 

He’d thought things were easier then. 

Before, when he didn’t have people answering to him, and he had a partner. He had a person to share a desk space with. Now, he’s behind glass—placed on a mantle, eyes looking up to him when they should be looking down. The pressure nipping at him, the smoke swirling up to his nose as he hovers the cigarette on his lip.

It’s at the last minute he catches the blonde woman coming closer, more into his view. Right in his peripheral. “Can I get one of those?”

Her non-embassy attire catches him off guard, before she introduces herself. Eyes raking up and down her, unsure where he knows her from—where he’d place her. Something, that voice he continuously ignores, firing and chirping, but he does what he always does. 

Javi should have known. He’s trained to be better. Expected to do better. 

Churning her name, the newspaper she works for in his head as he lets his smoke dangling from his lip. Already waiting, expecting. She was a reporter, she’d have questions. More than asking him for a cigarette and more than a simple chat about the weather. 

Then it falls from her tongue. Acidic, purposefully chosen to knock him—to bother him.

It does. Especially because she casually throws them his way. Him left feeling them figuratively land and bruise as she did. Each accusation not spoken, feels sharper and more painful than the previous, his cigarette doing nothing to stoke the rising shame and annoyance. 

If anything, it just covers it in tobacco smoke and a bitter taste. 

“Have a nice day—”

“Have you heard much about the Cali accident? Four more people dead. Children. Dozens more sick.”

The reporter's words swirl, peck and dig into him further. His sharp response is not close to the one he wants to give: I cannot get involved. His place here is tied securely to his behaviour. One wrong step, one misfortune, and he’s sure he’ll be back in Texas. Having accomplished nothing, once again.

“Looks like you said, it was an accident.”

The lie falls from him before he can pull it back. Knowing she doesn’t believe him—he doesn’t even believe himself. 

She snorts, half-laughing in mockery. “By the end of the day, it will be. No matter what the truth is.” 

The itch inside of him worsens when she turns from him. Fingers rolling against his palm, making him wish he’d finished his cigarette irrespective of the questioning and insinuations. The imaginary rope that ties his hands behind his back, constricting, stinging. 

His palm meets his forehead, rubbing against it as he heads in. Feet carrying him, body moving—

He needs you.

You who he could vent to, ask, merely fucking speak to. You who’d likely see through his bullshit and know something is wrong. You who he suspects understands, for reasons not highlighted in your report or in any file. Who stared into his eyes in that bar and made him wonder what hell you’d been through for the vengeance to live so prominently in your eyes. 

He comes to a stop, blinking as he lands on you, glaring into Feistl. 

The two of you huddled close, engaged in a discussion that didn’t look all too friendly. Your eyes gave it away, the forced smile confirming it. So much of your thoughts flitted across your face when you weren’t careful—and usually, you were careful. 

That’s something he learnt quickly. That you’re secretive, cautious, meticulous. 

When he blinks, he watches you say something before walking away before it’s fully landed. His jaw tightens, almost cracks. Eyes fixed on the back of the other agent, unable to tear his eyes away, watching you throw something in the sink, mutter something and storm in the other direction. 

He shouldn’t care. 

He’d learnt to avoid problems between couples with Connie and Murphy. He supposes it’s even more important to stay out of it when they were exes. Ones who worked closely with one another, shared office space and breathed the same air. 

He does care. 

It’s the only reason why he waits, almost reaching his office before he turns on his heels and heads in the direction you’ve gone. 

With each step, he swipes his index finger over the pad of his thumb, unsure what he’s going to say. What he’s going to do. Thrumming with annoyance from the outside; protectiveness swirling with a bunch of other unresolved feelings inside of him. 

It makes no sense—none of it. Yet the door squeals in protest as he shoves it open. 

Dropping your hand from your face, your eyes greet him instantly—the door barely back in its frame before you’ve hidden how wide and surprised they were. 

He doesn’t speak, but neither do you. 

And then, slowly—as though they were the physical embodiment of your walls coming down—your arms folded and your eyes narrowed. All he did was simply fucking stare, all he could do. 

There’s nothing he can say. Not that would make any sense—not to him, or to you. So, he allows the heaviness of the conversation outside and the annoyance that had grown in its place, to slowly dissipate as he stares and breathes, letting you do the same.

The tension thickens. Almost softly simmering between the two of you.

There’s no music thrumming this time, no alcohol to blame for the kinder expressions and wider grins. He just focuses on trying not to pay attention to it, but in the smaller space, it’s harder to ignore. It sits there grinning with its shiny teeth, its mocking behaviour taunting him, as he wonders if it’s the same for you. 

And then, you smile as if you can read his thoughts. It's instant, the way it smothers other emotions. Dilutes them, makes his tongue run across his teeth as he lets the stress melt from his shoulders and back. 

“I know what you’re gonna say?”

Looking at the floor, you snort. “I doubt that.”

“It’s none of my fucking business, right?” he adds, your eyes staring at him through your brows. “But, it looked heavy and I needed to ask—wanted to ask.”

“I’m fine.”

He gnaws at other words. Deciding quickly against them, swallowing them back, and switching to the next set of things he could say. 

“You told me you’d take the mountain of shit for me—hold the walls up. Remember?”

“Faintly.”

Lie, he thinks. It flutters across your face, the acknowledgement, how easily you’re able to recall it. He takes that as his invitation. Stepping closer, he watches as you unfold your arms.

“Who does that for you, cariño?” 

Your mouth—so usually the quicker one out of the two of you—clamps shut. Any quick remark fizzling into nothing as your chest rises and falls significantly, likely all from a silent sigh. 

“I promise I’m—“

“Don’t lie,” Javi adds, interrupting you. “Not to me.” 

Please, he thinks. But, he keeps that silent request to himself—even if it’s likely he’s spelling it with his eyes, his softer expression. 

You shift, eyes fluctuating between softening and sharpening. As if unsure whether to let him in—and be honest, trusting—or ruin him. He just hopes it's the former. Feeling it—that something which thrums in the air whenever he’s around you. The thing he’d rather bury than confront. 

Even if he likes being near you. Likes how you make him coffee, visit his office and tell him things he already knows. Just to be near you. To make sure you’re okay because you so often make sure he is. 

Your eyes narrow. “What’s happened?”

“What?”

Tilting your head, you sigh. “You went out for a smoke—“

“How’d you kn—“

Smirking, you lick your lips. “You’re not the only one with a pair of eyes, Peña. What. Happened?” Blowing out air, you shake your head. “I’m not stupid—”

“—I don’t think you’re—”

“And, you want me to tell you things, and you can’t even tell me what happened outside to make you this riled up.” 

He lets you have that one. Nodding gently, running his hands through his hair as he contemplates it—telling you. Informing you of it all. How Martínez doesn’t trust him, that the reporter outside…

Looking up, he stares at you. 

You are the face of ruination. Your eyes able and powerful enough to bring him to his knees. Already unspooling him, having dug under a layer he’s never allowed many others.

So he decides against sharing, instead smirking.

Not for reasons such as him not trusting you, but because this isn’t about him. It was always about him. You made it about him, whenever you fucking could, just like it had been before. Back when he had Steve, when he made catching Escobar about him. When he convinced himself he was doing what was right. 

He’d do it again—parts of it, anyway. But he still wanted this to be different, to be better, to be—

“How y’sleeping?” 

You blink, almost wincing from surprise. “Fine.” “Don’t lie.”

“How do you know I’m not sleeping?” 

Swiping his thumb across his bottom lip, he shrugs. “Because I know I don’t. More here, than I did in Texas. But… not like before. Nothing close to the hours I got before Escobar.” 

He watches your eyes widen at his name. The one he so rarely says, even when questioned. 

The one which makes a muscle in his chest tighten when he hears the name, fighting to not let the guilt and shame run through his blood at the mere mention. 

“I know I have no idea what you went through. But, I’d get it—try to, at least.”

It flashes like a rainstorm over your face. The heaviness of the clouds and then the downpour—and before he can get an umbrella out, it’s over. Javi isn’t quick enough to work out each expression. Not sure if he’s miles off or so close to the thing unravelling you, that he’s rendered you silent. 

You roll your lips, before whispering, “I don’t sleep either.” 

He blinks, staring at you as you try to force a smile and he moves closer. 

Like the two of you are being drawn together, pulled. It is all another dance, one without music, a beat or lyrics, and yet, you lift your hand to his cheek. Some words forming, that never appear. A different expression cracked over the former, one that he wasn’t sure he'd seen before. 

He tries to paint it, carve it into a space so he can unpick its meaning later—knowing how quick you are to wipe your canvas clean. But, your eyes flick over him, looking for something as he slides a hand over your hip, feeling you hunting. He feels the warmth stroke from his eyes to his lips, and back again. 

The thread, the one which had begun being sewn between the seats at the bar, was tightening and it tugged the two of you closer and closer, until he felt you—your lips. 

You’re kissing him. 

Hands pressed on both sides of his cheeks as you brought his mouth down to yours. Devastating him, ruining him all over again. Everything about you is intense. Consuming. Spanning over him and tugging him under in thick waves he’s not sure where they came from. 

All he can focus on is how good it feels to kiss you again. 

How soft your lips are, how he didn’t take the time to appreciate it before. How today you’re a mix of sugary lips and a bitter coffee tongue. 

He guides you, moving you behind the shelves—more out of view, the softest huff escaping your lips when your back meets the shelving. One he captures and stores, holding it closely as he pulls you tighter against him. Almost desperately so. You scorch yourself against him, hoping to leave something on him you’ll be able to see—something he welcomes. Some proof that you’re not too far out of reach as he groans at the sensation of your nails scraping through his hair and your mouth burning against his. 

It’s messy, disorientating—but, so are you. 

His tongue licking up into your mouth, hearing the discernible sound of a moan smothered by both your mouths as the shelving creeks when your spine presses against it. 

It’s natural, well-versed—like it was in his place. His thigh slotting between both your legs, hearing his name leave your lips in a whimper, all wrapped inside of a groan that has been born somewhere deep in your throat. 

Then it turns slower, gentle, languid. His head swimming in you, and only you. A hand up your spine curling you closer; your hand sliding from his hair and cheek to his neck. 

“Cariñ—“

The squeal of the door yanks the two of you apart.

His heart hammers, fucking thunders as your back flattens to the shelves, his feet making him step back—hidden behind more shelving. 

Someone from the doorway yells your name, not a voice he’s familiar with. 

They’re sharp, gruff, far enough away to not know, but if they stepped in the room… 

Javi is sure anyone could walk in and they’d feel the tension. More so convinced when he glances down your frame, seeing buttons undone and exposed, soft, kissable skin.

You must feel it. The way he looks at you. Your mouth shouting back you’d be there in a minute as nervous, shaky fingers try to button yourself.

In typical fashion, you shoot a sharp glare at him. One he’d already been expecting. One he knows you don’t mean. 

They’re not like the ones he endured when he first met you. It wasn’t the glare that made him almost beg for forgiveness. This glare was a ‘we almost got caught, idiot’ stare. One he feels no guilt about as he waits in your silence, hearing the door once again close. 

“We can’t do this.”

He moves, stepping back in front of you, leaning both hands on the shelves—caging you in, keeping you close. Not allowing you to wriggle away. “Well, we can’t do this here.”

It crosses his mind it could be too much. He could be being too much.

That it was fine at the bar, at his place. That it’s fine with the flirting, but anything more is overstepping. Then Javi sees the glint—the soft twitch of your right lip before he feels hands slide around his neck. Keeping him as close as he’s keeping you. 

“Peña.” 

“Cariño.”

You smirk, fingers sliding down his chest, not breaking eye contact with him. “Thought you were trying to be decent.” 

“Told you I was doing a poor job of it.” 

It’s less a smirk, and more a smile now. Soft on the edges, almost warm. Something he wishes to bottle. If only to keep the feeling he has bubbling in his chest when he spots it. When you allow him to see past curled lips and sharper words. 

“Let me take you for a drink.” 

You smile, playing with his tie. “You don’t have to buy me a drink to fuck me. This isn’t transactional. You don’t have to find a way to pay me to be around you.” Your eyes flip up, cutting into his, letting his thoughts run wild as you slowly roll your lips. “Plus, I want to.”

“Want to what?”

You trace your bottom lip with your tongue. “Fuck you.” 

Letting go of his tie, you wink. 

“I did tell you earlier, you’re more than half-good. Are you really that surprised I’d want another round with you?” 

Moving from him, walking around the files until he hears the door squeal and slams back into place. Slowly raising his hand, massaging his forehead. 

Staying in the file room for an impossibly long-time. An amount appropriate to how hard you’d gotten him, to how long it took him to will it away with thoughts of case file boxes and catching narcos. 

It’s hours until he gets a sight of you, watching you poking your head in his doorway. The afternoon having firmly gone, blanketed instead by the night. 

“Hey,” you say, leaning against the frame.

You look worn, more tired. Whatever had stolen you from your desk seemingly having taken the last shreds of caffeine and willpower you had been running on. 

He also notices you’re wearing your coat, bag already in hand. He doubted it was an invite to leave with you. 

“I hope you don’t mind, but I’m going to go try and grab that thing you mentioned.”

Leaning back into his chair, he lets his brow rise. Feeling it curl up his face as your smile seeps into your cheeks and eyes. 

“Sleep, Peña, I’m going to go try and get some sleep.”

“Afraid you’d enjoy your tenth cup of coffee or something?” 

Licking your lips, you roll your eyes. “Eleventh. I had the tenth after… we organised the file room.”

“That’s what we’re calling it?” 

Shaking your head, he smiles. 

Natural, easy. Like it’s the most normal thing Javier Peña can do, when he never fucking does it. When it’s been so long since the last time, he can’t actually find a time with much ease. 

“We’re okay, aren’t we?” 

Leaning on his elbows, digging them into the paper covering the wood, he has to nod. “Thought that was my line.”

There are plenty of women he’s had a nice time with, plenty that he’s had a great time with. Some he’s liked going back for more, others he never has. But it’s rare he has a good time when both sets of clothes are on. Rare when it’s in an environment like this, flooded in fluorescence and weighed down by expectations. 

Smiling, he taps his desk. “We’re good, cariño. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Peña… you should…” you begin to say, standing a little taller as you glance at his desk, slowly pointing to something near the top of the pile. “He’s a good agent. Thorough. Just take a look at what he’s done. Ch—Feistl, he wants to do a good job. He cares a lot, too. So, just consider it… even if you do so because I make you coffee and am extra nice to you.”

He stares, confusion wrapping around words he won’t speak. Because he’s not sure how someone can be so nice about a person they keep bickering with only earlier. A person he’s pretty sure you called an asshole if his lip reading was up to scratch. 

“If you get some sleep, I’ll look over it, sure,” he smirks. 

You nod, lifting up from the doorframe—he expects you to leave, but you linger.

Pretty eyes drink him in, looking close to how they did in the file room, and it takes all of his willpower to not cross the room and kiss you again. It would be easier too, to stop fighting and give in. 

But he doesn’t, afraid if he does, it would be the last time. Somehow, unsure if he could allow himself to have nice things, never mind actually having them. 

Glueing his feet to the ground, he feels you break eye contact. Allowing him to capture his full breath. 

“Try to get some yourself—sleep that is. Maybe we can be less difficult with one another that way.” 

He laughs, watching you turn on your heels as he leans to grab the file. Listening to your shoes getting quieter, until he’s left with his thoughts and the low mumble of the television.

He spots your handwriting first, words left on your usual lined paper so similar to the ones you’ve just spoken. Then he opens it, finding tabs along certain pages—ones he knows aren’t there from Feistl but you. 

It’s only as he reads, as he goes between messy writing and typed-up words, does he see what you mean. Does he begin to see the beginning of something. 

It turns the cogs, and lets them twist—something forming until he’s standing. 

Then the television catches his eye, hand quick to grab the remote as he turns it up. He feels his stomach drop, parts of the formed idea beginning to solidify as other parts begin to crumble. 

…After a thorough investigation, we’ve reached the conclusion that the Yumbo chemical exposure was caused by a faulty valve in a natural gas line in the area…

chapter four ->

[those70scomics]

Fictober Day 29: "how did this happen?"

That '70s Show Fanfiction

Laurie sat on a stool in her dad's garage, transforming his car into a monster with washable paint. She'd begun work on it today. This project needed to be done in time, before her parents' Halloween party. She hoped two days would be enough.

Her old college sweatshirt covered half her body. It was one of her painting tops, and the sweater's original red had been replaced by many colors the last few years. Art school taught her the discipline she'd lacked in her previous schools. Probably, as both her therapist and husband told her, because painting actually brought her joy.

Real joy. Productive joy. Not destructive satisfaction.

She dabbed her paintbrush in paint mixed on her pallette. She returned to the creative zone when the garage's side door swung open. Her dad entered. She scooted out of the way so he could see her progress on the car.

He pulled out a stool, sat, and said nothing.

She continued to paint, but his watchful silence bothered her. "If you're waiting to critique my work, don't. I can take it."

"How did this happen?" he said but sounded awed, not annoyed.

"How did what happen?"

"You painting that masterpiece from my dinky little drawing. It's horrendous, and I mean that as a compliment." He pointed to the headlights. "The details ... you've made those look like bleeding, rotting eyes."

She presented her pallette and paintbrush to him. "I've got the right tools."

"Not from me." Dad laced his fingers together on his lap and bowed his head. "When you were a little girl -- hell, until your early twenties, I both coddled and held you to an impossible standard. With Eric, I never hid my expectations. With you, it was subtle." He raised his head and looked her in the eye. "I wasn't a very good father to you. You're a success in spite of me."

Laurie's chest tightened with pain. She wasn't having a heart attack. Dad was breaking her heart, and she put her paintbrush and palette on the drop cloth protecting the floor.

"Dad -- " She went to where he sat and hugged him. He hugged her back weakly, and she said, "You supported me through all my failures. I get that you struggled between wanting me to succeed on merit and your weird, regressive idea of pretty women snagging rich husbands. You only ever wanted me to be safe."

His embrace remained weak. "Safe? I disowned you -- "

"For, like, half a day. Because you had an idealized view of me, and I burst your delusional bubble." She ended the hug he barely participated in. "But you eventually accepted the real me, all of it. I wouldn't have gotten through art school without you or Mom."

Dad's face flushed, and he gestured to himself. "Come here."

She did, and this time he embraced her properly. Strongly. He wasn't crying, but she could make him if she tried.

Instead, she let him talk.

"I'm doing my best to change where I failed. You wouldn't have chased so many dumbasses, the single and married ones, if I'd given you a better example of -- of a man. A father."

Laurie parted from him but kissed his cheek. She appreciated, deeply, that he was owning his mistakes. Her low self-esteem, her therapist said, did stem in large part from being idealized by him and the expectations she could never meet: achieving his concept of a perfect daughter. So she rebelled and became the opposite.

"Since when did you become so introspective?" she said.

"As soon as my house was empty of kids." He tapped his temple. "I finally had time to think.

"Are you looking forward to being a grandpa?"

He grinned. "Oh, yeah. I'll get to enjoy teaching my grandson or granddaughter how to play ball, fix a car, and never have to change a diaper or get up for three a.m. feedings ... and the best part -- they won't live here."

He tossed his head back and laughed.

Laurie patted his shoulder to regain his attention. "What do you mean they? Is someone else pregnant? Is Eric? Donna's the type to make him carry the baby in his womb."

Dad's laughter transformed into a fit of coughing. He struck his chest and gave her the I'm okay sign with his free hand.

"If Eric had a womb," he said once he could speak, "that's probably true. I just meant they as in I don't know if you're having a boy or a girl."

"Maybe it'll be both. If I have twins, Mom said Tim and I could move in here with you."

"Your mother said what?" He got off the stool and matched toward the garage's side door.

She stepped in front of him. "I'm lying, I'm lying." Despite his and Mom's reassurance, his health always worried her. "I doubt we're having twins anyway. They don't run in either of our families."

He blew out a deep breath. "You want me to live long enough to see your kid graduate from high school, right?"

"Right ... "

"Then never joke about moving into my house with your husband and twin babies again."

[golbrocklovely]

this is a reminder to never, and i mean never, send in an ask like this to anyone that writes fanfics:

now, imma be honest with yall, i'm not upset that they called me a "usless slut". tbh it's a first, so props to you for that.

but since we're both being so rude to each other, i figured you wouldn't mind me saying my peace.

i mean, you won't be able to reply, since i blocked you, but you know…. it's rhetorical.

idk how much internet you've consumed over your years of being chronically online, or how much fanfiction has rotted out the empty part of your skull where your brain used to be, but don't ever talk to ppl like that. idk if you thought you were just being funny, or if maybe you've been here before and have talked to me and thought "oh i can say this to her, she'll get it". no, i don't get it. and to be quite honest with you, i don't get how there was ever a thought in your mind that made you think this was totally okay.

what synapse fired in your brain to make you think this was a good statement to say to someone, serious or not? did you actively decide to be dumb today or is it more of a genetic thing?

i say all of this bc i saw your previous ask to me, which was simple and to the point: "plz update the chosen daughter series". that's a totally fine ask to send in. and if that's all you would have sent in, i would have just responded with "hey, i plan to post an update soon, but probably not til after new years". but now, just for you bestie, i'm gonna hold off on posting on that series for a while. i had other things in mind that i wanted to write anyway, but you really solidified my answer.

and i hope now, with you blocked, you have to go out of your way to read the story. i hope you never find out when i update it, and i hope the ending i make for that series pisses you off, just on spite :)

i write fanfictions for fun. it's a hobby of mine, not a job. and i've never promised a schedule of when i update, which is why it has taken me a long time to update any stories or fics i write. asking when i plan to post next is one thing, trying to insult me into posting more frequently is an entirely different thing which has never worked in the history of ever.

also, and i don't ever do this to anyone bc i just find it so asinine and silly, but it's *useless. as in "sending me this ask was useless bc now you're blocked". so…. you're 0 for 2 on that front, anon.

good luck next time tho.

[zhongrin]

dear mei and her dearly beloved,

how have you both been? days have been harsher here, and in spite of our hard efforts to overcome these barriers, times have been tougher recently. jiaoqiu appears rather at peace with his condition, but i'm afraid something darker is rotting inside his heart. if only i knew.

on the brighter side, we have been closer than ever these few days, and he seems rather at peace with not running about the place due to his duties; much like he was all those years ago. i'm certain you remember, back when we were in university together. those were easier days, and love was easy to maintain as it was to blossom.

when zhongli would be busy with other duties, i would drag you to the cafeteria to ask you about everything you knew about boys and their likes. you seemed to be rather fond of the fact that i had never been in the company of many, and would often tease me, but answer my incessant questions regardless. beautiful days, those were.

oh, and do you remember that time the four of us were a part of the same team that went to the swamps as a part of our educational tour? best memory ever! zhongli would be so cheesy all the time, always telling jiaoqiu and i to leave you two to your privacies for a while and go 'enjoy our few days of single-ness' and we'd never understand what you meant until one of those days of wandering off resulted in us falling for each other, and you both resulting in a hearty fit of laughter when we told you both about it.

alas, all good days come to an end. although i must say; every day spent thinking about our memories together is a day cherished. jiaoqiu speaks of zhongli often, and hopes you two will drop by some time. he seems to be of the impression that zhongli is an 'old man' who struggles with his vision all the time so he would be able to give amazing tips with his current condition. zhongli would be amused, i bet.

take care, mei. attached with this letter is a tin box of the lotus candies that you both love, made with care by jiaoqiu. he hopes it will be enough an apology for not having dropped by when he was in your city, and is rather disappointed about it. do console him. he refuses to listen to me, and is too nervous to speak to zhongli on his own. i also hope zhongli has been doing well, and wish good luck upon the both of you.

with love, cherry and jiaoqiu.

dear chryseis and jiaoqiu,

i have routed your letter to meirin, but she seems to be particularly taken with some work and house chores at the moment, so i have been given the liberty to reply, i hope you do not mind.

my heart goes out to the both of you. if you ever need any help, please remember that we are always here for you two. it may be hard to initiate such sensitive topics directly, so if you ever need us to become the middleman to kickstart the topic just so you both could talk about it in private afterward, please do not hesitate to let us know.

ah, yes, the olden university days. i am constantly reminded of them whenever i walk the university halls. i find myself seeing us in some of my students as well. looking at it from this perspective, it all feels almost surreal sometimes.

i had no idea you would talk about 'boys and their likes' with mei back then. i'm glad you both could bond and support each other over such topics. but i have to ask, did she ever say anything about myself back then? foolish and young as i was, she must have had a multitude of complaints about me.

i'm afraid the glasses you may have seen in our photos only serves an aesthetical purpose. meirin insists that i wear them sporadically, and my students encourages me to abide by her wishes. after a while, i find myself taking a liking for it as an accessory myself. i do, however, have a few acquaintances who might be knowledgeable about this issue jiaoqiu is facing. let me forward you their contacts when i have the details.

please extend my gratitude to jiaoqiu for the lotus candies. it's not much, but meirin had baked some banana oat cookies the other day. i hope you both will enjoy her latest baking endeavors. i've relayed your message to her, and the following is her reply, which i have transcribed word-by-word: "you think some lotus candies is enough apology? come apologize properly to our faces! …. haha, i'm kidding. wow, i feel mean saying that. i meant, don't worry about it, but be sure to drop in next time!".

lastly, while the good old days may not return, let us continue to look forward to the infinite possibilities of even better days which are to come.

postscriptum. i hope the both of us may reconvene soon; meirin has been cooking more often lately and wanted some guidance from an expert. i think she's just excited to show you the progress of her culinary skills and is itching to catch up with the two of you, but i implore you to entertain her. you have my thanks.

always wishing the best for the two of you, zhongli and meirin

[katyspersonal]

Tumblr sorta needs a 'Mute' feature in my opinion. Like what if I don't want to block this user, what if I don't want to become enemies and in some days I'd like to interact. But also most of the time seeing how they avidly encourage everyone else whereas I get the passive-aggressive 'oh yeah very uhh... interesting... (please leave me alone I don't like your art lol)' makes me want to unfollow every single fan of these characters and never draw them again.

I remember two years ago the exact same thing happened when someone liked the same character and the same ship and I swear I was the only person in the fandom they bluntly left out and could not spare a single good word for. I can't even blame this on my art being "ugly" because this type of user always aggressively praises all art styles and all levels of skill, it feels more like 'a personal thing except we never fought a single time'. And now my toxic trait of needing approval from [cool person name] is back to haunt me years later! Add the unability to "abandon" this character/ship/whatever despite wanting to after facing so much unspoken passive spite, because I am a contrarian and the best way to trap me into doing something is to try to exclude me from it. I didn't face attempts to very aggressively bully me out of the yard/class/community/etc, sometimes with physical violence included, only to let something mid like passive aggression online finally do it.

I am really stupid and naive person despite my age, but in like 5% of the cases I will still understand the hint and understand what is going on. Yet I have to pretend to be clueless even in rare situations when I know someone hates me, because since they never admitted it, quitting will be perceived as me being "paranoid". But dear goooood, it hurts sometimes. I hope that one day I will be numbed to being treated as a tumor on an otherwise healthy body of society that someone is dying to amputate- and always a person whose approval I want, of all people. Knowing that this day will come is one of the things that keep me going as both a person and a creator. Things like viruses and diseases still try their best to persist, so even if I am actually one, I should persist. It doesn't matter whether I actually rot everything around me or this is just my self-depreciating delusion upon focusing on people that mistreated me and not people that loved me. What matters is persisting, I just still feel angry that it hurts. I can't respond spite with spite or passive aggression with passive aggression, I can't do the 'smug asshole' when I become aware that someone tries to starve me until I "die". I can just fall over and cry about it like a kicked dog, despite being so old, especially when it is a person I didn't have anything against.

And really.. It is as simple as turning the internet off, so I don't see The Person and can focus on doing stuff that I like, as if they never existed and can't crash my self-esteem. It is just annoying to keep doing this, a feature to not see them unless I am in the mood would be better. Like.. blocking is not an option. Not only it implies being enemies which is not my intention, but also it will be like an "evidence" that I was "crazy". They didn't do anything, right? Well, they know what they did, but it was never verbal, so it is my fault I "imagined things", right?

[acacia-may]

With You, Life Is Always Sunny Side Up (Gajevy Fluff Fic)

Description: One morning, Levy stumbles upon Gajeel and Panther Lily's (somewhat unsuccessful) attempts to surprise her.

Fandom: Fairy Tail

Genre: Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Slice of Life, Kind of Silly, and Warm & Fuzzies

Relationships: Gajeel Redfox x Levy McGarden (Gajevy) Established Relationship, and some of the Gajeel, Levy, & Panther Lily Friendship/Found Family

Characters: Levy McGarden (POV Character), Gajeel Redfox, and Panther Lily

Rating: G

Warnings: Nothing but fluff here. It might give you cavities.

Word Count: 1017

Link to original post on AO3. Please do not repost to another site.

Note: Wishing the happiest of birthdays to @delirious-donna! I learned today was your birthday only recently so I didn't have a lot of time to prepare this, but I know we talked about how much we both love this ship in the past and you encouraged me that I could write about them, so I put this together for you. There's really not a lot to it, but it might just give you cavities!😁 I hope that you'll enjoy this story and that you have an absolutely wonderful birthday, dear!!

Story Below the Cut! Thank you so much for reading! ☀️

Sunlight streamed through the windows as Levy yawned and groggily rubbed her eyes. She stretched—rolling onto her side expecting to nestle into the chest of a certain Iron Dragon Slayer and catch up on a few extra minutes of sleep, but the side of the bed generally occupied by Gajeel was empty. With another yawn, Levy sat up and glanced around the room with a furrowed brow and narrowed eyes. There was no sign of him anywhere.

Perplexed, Levy wrapped her robe around her and headed out into the house to look for him. As she made her way down the stairs, she could hear the clanging of metal pots and pans in the kitchen. What in the world?

“Hey, Lily?” asked Gajeel’s voice, clearly trying his best to be quiet. “Does this look okay to you?”

There was a pause before Panther Lily’s voice replied. “That depends—what is it supposed to be exactly?”

Gajeel huffed. “Eggs.”

Another pause. “Then, no. It’s definitely not supposed to look like that.” Panther Lily sighed, followed by the sound of scraping and Gajeel swearing under his breath.

Levy didn’t mean to eavesdrop on their conversation, but her curiosity was definitely getting the best of her so she stopped at the bottom of the stairs and listened as Panther Lily continued. “You know, it’s still early—maybe you can run over to that little café down the street and pick up some breakfast.”

“I wanted to cook it myself,” Gajeel’s voice insisted. “It was supposed to be a surprise.”

“Right now, your surprise is rubbery eggs and food poisoning,” Panther Lily quipped. “If she saw this, she’d probably thank you for ordering out.”

Levy covered her mouth before she accidentally made a sound. Her mouth curved into a smile. So they were trying to surprise her?

“Why is cooking so damn hard?” huffed Gajeel. “It’s just eggs.”

“Well for starters you don’t need an actual inferno to cook them. If you keep trying to fry them on such high heat, they’re going to turn to rubber. And please…” Panther Lily paused, and Levy could almost hear him rolling his eyes before he continued dryly, “Like I said earlier, put some butter on the pan so they don’t stick to it.”

“And like I said earlier, I’m not taking cooking advice from a cat,” bantered Gajeel.  

“I’m an Exceed, and you need all the advice you can get.”

Levy laughed in spite of herself, and though she quickly scrambled to cover her mouth, Gajeel and Panther Lily had both clearly heard her as they peeked their heads out of the kitchen. When she saw them, she laughed even harder. They were both covered in a goopy mess of flour, egg, and goodness only knows what else.

Gajeel’s eyes widened, but he did his best to frown at her. “You’re giggly this morning.”  

“And you’re a mess,” teased Levy as she ran her hand through his floury hair. “What in the world happened to you?”

“I was making breakfast—not a big deal,” he grunted with a tilt of his head.

As Levy caught sight of their kitchen over his shoulder, however, she quirked an eyebrow at him. “I think our disaster zone of a kitchen might beg to differ.”

Gajeel shrugged his shoulders slightly but insisted, “I was gonna clean it up after the food was ready.”

“So…never…?” she teased with a tilt of her head. Gajeel’s mouth twitched, seemingly in spite of himself, but he huffed.

“Okay so I’m not the best at all this…cooking stuff.”

Levy sighed with a sympathetic smile. “What I don’t understand is why you wanted to cook anyway? I would’ve made breakfast for us as soon as I got up.”

“I know, but I was up already and…I dunno,” he mumbled with a dismissive shrug of his shoulders. “I wanted to do somethin’ nice for you.”

Levy’s mouth curved into a bright smile. Gajeel was always doing nice things for her from helping out with the yardwork and landscaping to working on repairs around the house to even surprising her by picking up new books for her because the covers looked interesting. Most recently, he and Panther Lily had taken on the big project of building bookcases for her next to the living room fireplace. Surprisingly, or perhaps unsurprisingly, that construction zone was currently less of a mess than their kitchen. Levy chuckled at the thought before her expression softened, and she pressed her hand to Gajeel’s cheek.

“You do plenty of nice things for me, Gajeel. Most of which don’t destroy our kitchen or have the potential to give us salmonella.” She chuckled as he watched a smile tug at his mouth seemingly in spite of himself. “But if you really want to make breakfast, we can cook it together. I could always use an extra hand around the kitchen.”

“Because you can’t reach most of the cabinets otherwise,” he teased with a lopsided grin, and as he patted her on the top of the head, Levy frowned and crossed her arms at him with a somewhat playful huff. “Don’t worry. I’ll hold you up so you can reach.”

Levy rolled her eyes and quipped, “Ha. Ha. Very funny, you big tree.”

Gajeel laughed, and Levy supposed she deserved that. ‘Big tree’ was definitely not her best work in the bantering department, especially since she often prided herself on having a way with words even when she was just kidding around. “You’re a little off your game this early in the morning, Levy,” he teased.   

Levy twisted her mouth to one side but found she couldn’t hold back her smile as Gajeel leaned forward and gently pressed his lips to her forehead.

As he pulled away from her, he met her eyes with a bright, bantering grin and a dry nod. “It’s okay. I still love you.”

Levy beamed at him as she reached out and grabbed him by the collar of his grubby apron. “I love you too,” she said before pulling him in for a messy, floury kiss.

[justagalwhowrites]

Coming posts

Hi Besties!

A few thingssssss

For anyone who's reading Lavender and Beskar Doll and are caught up on both, you know that both stories are reaching their climax at the same time. I did not plan it that way but that's how it's kind of shaken out, so here we are I guess?

My posting over the last week or so has been a little off my normal pace. I hope that's not too annoying or confusing or frustrating. It's been a bit frustrating for me, but it is what it is!

So here's what's up!

Because of where I'm at in these two stories, I kind of want to write on them both equally? When I first started writing fics, I was all about Beskar Doll. Then, for a while, Lavender was the home of the brain rot. Now it's a pretty even split. I think it'll probably stay that way as we get through the home stretch of these fics. That means I'll be alternating chapter publishing - meaning no back to back chapter days for Lavender (SORRRRRYYYYYYY I know I got you guys used to that cadence!)

I'm also trying to do something with my life besides just work and write fan fic? It might be getting a smidge obsessive lol So there will probably be a few more days a week that I just... don't post something new because I went to a party and then went to bed before 4 a.m.

To be clear, I still FUCKING LOVE writing all the time. It's kind of the main thing I want to be doing! But balancing shit out a bit more is probably going to make this hobby doable in the long term and keep the rest of my life from crashing and burning.

I'll still be posting something new most days! But it's just not going to be quite as regular and it'll be alternating between stories for a bit instead of 3 or 4 days straight of one fic.

Hopefully you still enjoy keeping up with the fics in spite of these changes! It's been so much fun sharing these stories with you all and it's still one of my favorite things to do. Love you all!

[henrys-wee-hen]

No-one Fucks With The Lobos - Chapter 19

At this point it's pure brain rot. Enjoy!

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/48070186/chapters/122536663

As I lay on Teddy’s chest, enjoying the moment of his mood being stable, in the afterglow of Teddy showing me exactly how much he loved me, I remembered something I’d heard. I looked up at him, chuckling. At one point, right in the middle, he’d gone to wash the blood off his face while we both took a break. I stroked his cheek.   

“You gotta give me a fucking… minute, baby,” he murmured, running a hand through his hair. “Or go get me a Gatorade or something… I think I got one more left in me…”  

“Then save it for the morning,” I murmured, smirking. “Because I don’t think I have anything else in me… but it’s sweet you were willing to please me again.” Teddy chuckled softly, pulling me close for a kiss. “But I do have a question.”  

“Yeah?”  

“Mmm. Before, when Brice came in… and you decked him…” Teddy pressed his lips together. “What did you mean when you said I was practically a Lobo?”   

He blushed. He fucking blushed .   

He looked up at me with puppy eyes. “It’s true, (Y/N). That plan you made… the stuff? The charity work? That’s basically the kind of role my mom had when my dad was alive. But she hated it. And she wanted more control… but you don’t like the fucking gross side of it… but it would make me so fucking happy if you had a place here, beside me, that you could be proud of.” He smiled a little. “If that’s what you wanna fucking do, then it’s yours.”   

“And if I just want to do this?”  

“Yours, baby.”   

“And if I want both?”   

“Woof,” Teddy grinned, as I stroked the soft hair trail on his lower stomach. “Baby, the things you’re doing to me… I thought you said you didn’t have another one in you…”   

“Let me go get you that Gatorade…” I purred, climbing from the bed. I could feel his eyes watching me, and I felt quite a crazy amount of him start to drip down my inner thigh.   

“Fuck,” he breathed, and I looked back and winked at him.   

The clock on the wall in the kitchen read midnight, and after getting drinks and a bowl of strawberries, I took a moment to gaze out of the window at the glittering city below.   

At my empire.   

I’d thought making Teddy Lobo into a good, law-abiding citizen would be a short-term, quick thing… but I realised I’d be playing a long game, years and years… if I could get Teddy investing in the stock market, rather than selling drugs, it would be a step to the other side and keep us rich. If I could get him investing in property, rather than weapons… another side. There were so many ways for him to make the money his family made now, without crime, and do good for the community… Maybe it was a pipe dream. But I realised now that I could do way more good at Teddy’s side, than I could trying to be a police officer. I just hoped Rebecca would understand that I hadn’t done it to spite her when I inevitably stepped out as his partner. Because I understood, as I looked at the eternal party that was New Orleans shimmering and glittering below, that I couldn’t go back to my old life. Not now.   

But I also didn’t need to become a criminal. I could be a good influence on a man slowly losing himself.   

I made my way back to the bedroom and climbed over the sheets. Teddy took the Gatorade from me, draining half the bottle already as I put the bowl on the bedside table.  

“Really, tiger?” I murmured, leaning over him to get a strawberry.   

“Like I said, you’re one fucking orgasm away from draining me dry for the next… twenty-four hours, baby,” he murmured back, eating a couple of strawberries. I loved how he tasted after them. Strawberry Teddy was by far my favourite. “At least.”   

“Mmm… so I have a choice, then,” I said softly. “Either I wait a little bit, and enjoy it in the morning… or I make you knock me clean out now?”  

“Mhm.” Teddy pushed me over and kissed me. “Entirely up to you.”   

“All this power… it’ll go straight to my head, you know…” I ran both my hands through his hair and over his tattoos, feeling the soft muscle roll underneath. “So much power… the offer of an empire, and your last orgasm for the next day…”   

“People would kill to be right where you fucking are right now, (Y/N).” Teddy dipped his head and kissed my collarbone, my throat. We’d long since removed the bandage keeping the butterfly stitches closed; the cut wasn’t deep, and it had already knitted together. “Filled with me, beneath me… mine entirely…”   

“I’ll believe that when I’m waking up aching …” I whispered, eyes gleaming. Teddy dived on me, dived down, and began his final assault of the night.   

Morning broke, a beautiful dazzling and bright blue sky the perfect backdrop for how I felt about Teddy: like he was dazzling me. We were sleeping in much the same position we’d fallen asleep in. I was draped across him, his arm around me pretty tightly. I sighed, wriggling a little so I could stretch.   

“Good morning, beautiful.”   

“Oh – you’re awake,” I smiled. Teddy looked down at me. He was indeed wide awake, scrolling his phone with an airpod in. “Good morning, handsome.” He took the airpod out and put his phone down.   

“I didn’t wake you, did I?”  

“No.”   

“Good.” I yawned deeply, my body aching deliciously . Teddy nuzzled my hair, rolling on top of me. “What do you wanna do today?”   

“Hmm... Do you wanna start with dogs, or kids?” Teddy’s face fell a little, both in confusion and panic.   

“I - fucking – what do you -”  

“Not have them, you fucking idiot,” I grinned. “Charity them.”  

Teddy visibly sagged.   

“Jesus fucking Christ, (Y/N),” he murmured, kissing me. “You could convince me to get a dog, but a fucking kid?” he shook his head. “Not yet, at least...”  

“Glad we’re on the same page with that, tiger,” I grinned. “But at least let’s plan it. I think, while you’re stable for the time being, we should work. You especially...”   

“You’re fucking telling me you don’t wanna lie here the entire day?”   

“Mmm. Are you telling me you lied last night about not having anything left in the tank for me?” I stroked his stomach, and he winced. “That’s what I thought, baby.”   

“Bled... me... fucking... dry ,” Teddy growled, but his eyes were sparkling with mischief. “And... for future notice, you little fucking vampire, it’s kinda painful when my balls are dry...”   

“Noted,” I smirked. “I hope we never get to that point on a regular Wednesday night.”   

“But any other night of the fucking week’s good, huh?”   

Oh, to have him back. To have that greedy, cheeky little smile back, the sparkle in his eyes, the cocksure way he walked around the place... it was heaven.   

We made breakfast and sat out on the rooftop terrasse, and then both of us got ready for the day. Seeing Teddy back in those fucking clothes, looking his best again... God, I fucking loved him when he was a mess, but I’d almost forgotten how good he looked and smelled when he actually got dressed properly. All the little accents, the little additions... I felt drab in comparison, in my jeans a plain shirt. But it’s all the boys had bought for me.   

Still, it didn’t matter so much. We sat in the office for most of the morning, going over the numbers and figuring out how we could help out the local dog rescue. It felt a little bit juvenile, but with some research and planning, by lunchtime, we had a potential way forward. And Teddy was pretty excited about it too, especially when we checked out the website and saw some of the dogs that were up for adoption.   

We made a list of the things they needed: food, toys, vet care, groomers, cleaning supplies, walkers, donations.   

The easiest stuff to start with would be the vet care and donations. We could easily transfer a load of cash for that kind of thing, right away. But we wanted to set up a link with them. And Teddy didn’t want to make that call.   

“It’s your project,” he smiled at me. “You fucking call’em.”   

“But it’s your name,” I shot back. “I’m just (Y/N). I’m not remotely attached to you.”   

“True,” he smirked. “Guess we’ll have to fucking do something about that.”   

“But today?”  

“If we can cover your throat up, maybe we can head over there.” Teddy placed a hand on my thigh and ran his thumb over the fabric of my jeans. “Quietly.”   

“And come back with a dog?”   

“Absolutely not. Not yet, anyway.”   

“Better idea,” I grinned. “Let’s send them a load of food, toys and pay a vet to cover care  right now... and then ask them if we can work with them.”   

“Whatever you fucking want, baby.”   

With Teddy feeling somewhat stable, a couple of weeks passed by. He was much like his old self, just less twitchy and trigger happy. I even stopped microdosing him, because he just didn’t need it. We went out a couple times here and there, to restaurants and to the movies, just enjoying time together without the constraint of either of us being too banged up.   

Once or twice, Bellafrancesca sent her guys after us, to scare us, but Teddy just didn’t seem scared of her anymore. That paranoia he’d had, the neediness he’d had to please her... it had clearly been made worse by the cocaine. Even when Bellafrancesca, on the way to wherever her elegant ass was needed, had her three black SUVs block our path in the middle of the street in a strange game of chicken, Teddy didn’t fucking hesitate. He revved the engine of his gorgeous Dodge, the sound echoing through the street. And then, he drove at full-speed, pushing the car’s limits, straight at the car holding his mother.   

I screamed, partly with fear, partly with pure joy – Teddy driving at speed was something to fucking behold – and, of course, Bellafrancesca’s driver chickened out. He pulled out of the way just as we roared past. Teddy holding his middle finger up out of the car window as we passed.   

We did random things in the community, too, though. Teddy had instructed his accountant to set up another funding account which held money for the community projects I wanted us to work on. So, while Teddy went back to his old role (albeit more willing to delegate the tedious little jobs to his men), I was able to focus on something a little more helpful. With the money, we bought an old, crumbling hall, and started renovating it with the intention of finally putting Loco Lobos into motion. A youth centre where kids could go to have a decent time. Teddy got real excited when I told him we could put games consoles in there, and have mini gaming tournaments if he wanted. And when I talked about the movie room I wanted to put in there, he made me promise we could christen it before we opened it. I rolled my eyes. His mind…   

He also got fairly excited about the basketball court at the back of the place, on a patch of land that would need to be flattened and redone.   

The thought of Teddy getting excited about those things – especially the idea of him sitting in a room full of kids and holding a fucking gaming tournament with them – made me tingle. Teddy, helping the community… we’d be the stars of the show. The real society couple… and the Lobo Empire would be a good thing, as much as a bad thing. Because life is all about balance, right?   

One night, after a particularly beautiful dinner (and making Teddy let me drive us home after he’d filled up with gas – which, again, was something I found too fucking sexy to be normal), Teddy started getting a little flirty as I pulled into his parking spot in the garage. He pushed his seat right back as I unclipped my seatbelt, and he pulled me onto him. He kissed me deeply, holding my thighs tightly. But he trembled a little, and I wasn’t too sure why... the last time he’d been this trembly, he’d taken a hit, a little microdose to take the edge off... I pulled back.  

“Why are you nervous?” I asked, frowning. “You’re shaking.”  

“I’m not fucking nervous... I just can’t fucking wait to get you up those stairs...”  

“Aha,” I purred. “So, it is excitement...”  

“Sure...”  

There was something hesitant about the way Teddy was with me. Almost like he was fumbling, stumbling over his usually sure moves. He never ever faltered, but this time... It was strange. We made out in the elevator up to the penthouse, but instead of feeling hot, feeling like it was stoking the usual fires... it felt like Teddy was stalling for time. I frowned.  

“What it is, Teddy?” I asked softly. He said nothing, dragging me by the hand along the corridor to the apartment. I pushed him against the door before we went in. “Tell me what’s going on... Or I’ll drag it from you.”  

“Ha,” Teddy laughed. But before he could brush me off again, I slid to my knees in front of him, and unbuttoned his trousers. I had him in my mouth before he could utter another word, and the back of his head hit the door in pure pleasure, whatever lie he was about to spin catching in his throat, coming out instead in a guttural, choked moan. It really didn’t take long before he melted, gripping my hair tightly, trying to keep himself upright.  

I stood, kissing him after swallowing.  

“Fuck,” he breathed, trembling even worse now. I grinned.  

“Tell me.”  

“No.” He kissed me again, pulling me inside.  

My little assault outside did nothing to calm him down. Teddy was all over the place, stumbling with me, gripping me in the wrong places a little too hard, tripping as he pushed me backwards onto the bed, so he had to catch me before I hit the floor. And the sex? Sloppy. Fumbled. I ended up pushing him down and taking the lead halfway through just to stop the indecision he clearly felt between continuing foreplay, and getting it on properly. I still felt loved... but his confidence wasn’t fully there.  

As I lay across him, panting a little, Teddy trailed trembling fingers along my damp spine. I didn’t ask where his head was at again. I just let him enjoy the moment, let him figure it out.  

He’d tell me, when he was ready.  

Teddy shifted, reaching beneath his pillow for something. I lifted my head, smiling at him.  

“I love you, (Y/N). You know that, right?”  

“I think you tell me often enough, sure,” I grinned. “I love you, Teddy fucking Lobo.” He kissed me, and turned my gaze to the glittering city stretching out towards the horizon.  

“This city seems to glitter a little fucking more since I met you...” Those fingers again, trailing down my spine. I looked out of the window, too. Such a gorgeous view, unhindered, the city glittering below. And somewhere down there, adding to those little specks of shimmering light, Lobo Mansion. His mother. And his attention was entirely on me, instead. I looked back him. I didn’t really know what to say. But then, from the nest of sheets around us, he lifted his hand. The world around me seemed to stop.  

Those beautiful fingertips held a ring. Probably the most gorgeous ring I’d ever seen. Understated, not overly obnoxious, like I’d imagined Teddy would present to his probably-Eastern-European oligarch daughter fiancée... but understated. Simple. Delicate.  

“Will you marry me?”  

I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t say or do anything. I knew in an instant what that ring meant. It didn’t just mean I got his name... it meant I got him . His life. His riches, his power, his empire. It got all the shit that came with it... but I got him . I got Teddy. I got a man who Ritchie Lobo would be fucking proud to call a son. And even though I wanted all of that, there was a moment where I simply wasn’t sure if I actually did or not.  

I hesitated.  

“I... Teddy...”  

“What? What – you – you want me on my knees? You want me on my fucking knees? I’ll get on my fucking knees -” He rolled me off him gently and collapsed to his knees, grabbing my hand. There was the panic. There was the fumbled vulnerability. I felt my heart swell to a crushing size in my chest. “Marry me, (Y/N). Please. Everything I fucking have is yours.”  

“I didn’t want you on your fucking knees, you asshole!” I whispered, my voice breaking. “Yes, I’ll fucking marry you! Yes!”  

Teddy dove back onto the bed with me and kissed me fully, the ring slipping from his hand and landing on the sheets beside us. It lay there forgotten for a solid minute, until Teddy’s hand hit it. He slid it onto my finger and kissed it, linking those beautiful fingers with mine.  

“Hey, look,” I murmured, showing him the way his dollar sign tattoo on his middle finger lined up perfectly with my ring. “Maybe I should get a matching one, huh?���  

“That bullshit? If you wanted to, baby...” He inspected my hand, and I his. “That might be hot, actually.” I giggled. Teddy kissed me. “You’re really gonna fucking marry me, huh?”  

“After everything you’ve put me through, and everything you’ve gone through for me? Tedward Eddie fucking Lobo, I think the least you could do is put a ring on me and fucking lavish me...”  

“Lavish you, ravish you... mmm, sounds good, baby.”  

“Oh, I mean it. You give me that power, I’m going to become a little monster...” I stuck my ring finger up at him. “Last chance to take it back...”  

“Last chance for you to run away happened ages ago, baby.” He kissed me softly. “You’ve been mine for months... now I’m just making it Facebook official.”  

“Does this mean I get my life back, then? My socials? I can go see my family?”  

“Sure. I guess it’s going to have to happen.”  

“I’ll need a spraytan, then. I can’t exactly have spent, what... eight to nine months in Florida and not come back with a tan.” Teddy burst out laughing.  

“You’re fucking sticking with that?”  

“Someone never gave me a choice.” I tapped his nose. “But sure. We can say that I was working with you to try to take down one of the five families... and then we fell madly in love over time. Makes sense, right?”  

“Sure. I could even have been there with you, since I wasn’t really doing much while you were in the ICU. And then I came off the coke...” he smiled at me. “We’re really doing this?”  

“I want to, Teddy. Despite everything you’ve done to me... despite all the horrible, awful things you’ve ever done... I understand you better. And I don’t think I can go back to normal life. Not now. As fucked as this is... I think this is the life I want. And I think I can do more good in the world by your side, than if I’m a cop.”  

“I agree,” Teddy smiled. “I think you can...” He kissed me softly, chastely. Tenderly. “You know what the next thing is gonna be, huh?”  

“What?”  

“We gotta tell my fucking mom.”  

[ooc-miqojak]

🔫 Would they ever sacrifice someone in order to save their own life? 😡 What would someone have to make them lash out in violent anger? 🎵 If they were going to torture someone, what music would they play while they did it?

Horrific Headcanons Pt 2

🔫 Would they ever sacrifice someone in order to save their own life?

"I mean...when I was first free from the demon's bonds, still new to my... 'altered' existence, I definitely sacrificed the soul of a stray, smitten warlock in order to exact some spiteful revenge on an old friend who'd left me to rot in the clutches of said prior demon. So, would I do the same to save my own life? Absolutely - without a doubt. Now, there would be conditions, naturally - not just anyone's life is up for trade, in my opinion. There's a reason I chose a warlock's soul to sacrifice, last time. That said? No kids, and preferably some shitbag who has it coming. Just because I'm changing doesn't mean all my morals go out the window. ...Yet, anyways. That said... I'm notoriously difficult to kill these days, so... very low chance of anyone needing to worry about being sacrificed for my life." 😡 What would someone have to make them lash out in violent anger?

"Oh, now we're asking the difficult questions... I feel like I've learned to laugh at most things, rather than lash out, however. Bad things happen to good people all the time - and while I was very angry at how my life went, how goodness and devotion and loyalty meant nothing, in the end... it's all a little mad. And maddening. So why take it seriously? Nothing matters. Everything is random. But what would it take to make me lash out in anger, rather than out of the need to sustain my more demonic parts? Harming children, for one. Let the innocent keep what they have until it's time to shed as much. There is plenty of time for the shadows of the future to crush them later, anyways." Here, booted feet kick up onto a nearby table, and the lengthy woman herself melts down into her seat, to better think, it would seem. "I struggle to imagine the scenario. Most insults to my person I've grown accustomed to - one must, really, once they look 'different' in any fashion... but especially when you are changed by a magic most fear and loathe. Anymore, I just hope for a little creativity and originality in the insult." Here, there's a slow sigh, and a more direct answer, at long last, "I suppose if I had anyone with whom I were particularly close, and they were threatened, or insulted... that would do it. I've always been a defender - whether it was with the Light, or now with Fel. Some things don't change, amidst the chaos."

🎵 If they were going to torture someone, what music would they play while they did it?

How did you know I both craved and dreaded this question? I have IDEAS, but it depends on the scenario - on who is being tortured, and what for. If it's just... someone she doesn't know? Maybe she's hired to torture, or something? Probably something fun and/or something that rocks hard. (The ways I think of to explain her outlook, and warped kind of outlook these days range from 'think Unseelie Fey' to 'think Joker/Harley Quinn', but it kind of boils down to 'fuck it, have a laugh!' Chaos, and all - you can still dance in the dark.)

So why not the literal Happy Song? Her belting out the "Let's go!" - then make the torturee sing along and do the 'S-P-I-R-I-T' part? (Or else?) Ugh, yes.

[black-water-simping-ships]

Harrowhark

thank you so much for prompting the ask game (i assue you've also sent the gideon ask, so i'll answer them in one post), i hope you have a great day :)

Do you love/hate/don’t feel strongly about this character?

i feel very positive about gideon. she deserves the best.

i feel quite strongly about harrowhark but less in a love/hate way than a she-makes-me-feel-so-many-things-way. she rots my brain. she cuts my wires.

What’s your favorite trait of this character?

gideon is a genuinly good person. she cares so much about people she has just met! i also love how much more observant she is than others, especially harrow, give her credit for.

honestly? harrow is incapable of half-assing things, she always gives 110%, she is so over the top. it's hilarious when it's, like, the skull decor. it's impressive, for example when she saves g1deon from the furnace. it's absolutely fucking heartbreaking too. she has such an exoskeleton of spite, routine and perfection ;_;

What’s your favorite moment/even involving this character?

the climax of harrow the ninth. the way gideon handles this awful situation, not well but bravely. how those around her react to her. how everything falls apart. her perspective on the lyctors. this entire horrible slow-motion explosion after a pressure cooker of a book.

"Marrow."

bonus: my favourite moment that involves both of them HAS to be when they step up to defend camilla when babs challenges her. it's pre-pool scene but. "death first to vultures and scavengers."

If you could have one power/attribute/etc. of this character, what would it be?

gideon's fitness/harrow's necromancy B) because neither of them has any truly desirable attributes like healthy coping mechanisms. i think insta-healing would be pretty swell tho

Have you ever pictured this character naked?

not actively, but i'm in a tlt server with a n.s.f.w channel lmao

When did you fall in love/hate with this character?

i can't pinpoint a single moment for gideon, as the narrator of the first book she just crept up on me and bam, i love her.

for harrow, i think it was the moment gideon found protesilaus' head in her closet and in my mind she went from being just kind of an antagonist to interesting

Who’s your OTP for this character?

griddlehark 5eva. i think both gideon/ianthe and harrow/camilla would have some stellar dynamics but i do hope that they end up together. book 4 is going to be such a nuclear blast of an ending

[juls-writes]

find the word!

more find the word! I have two tags rn so I'm just compiling them - @pinespittinink gave me sunlight, ribs and lungs, and @legiomiam has given me leg, build, egg, spin, and suddenly.

sunlight

On the outside of the amorphous dome of swirling darkness is sunlight, holding the entire thing up like an oversized circus tent as high as the clouds. Light and dark are opposites – irresistibly drawn to each other – so play them against one another, and they act in tandem. It’s actually super cool, but I don’t think Ivos would appreciate a lesson at this moment. If he knew he could simply run to one end and duck under the spell, he’d hate me more than he already does.

ribs

“Sleep well?” he asks. He leans back again, and I can taste the alcohol on his breath. “Your shoulder’s digging into my ribs.” “Then try and get away,” he replies, with what I can only assume to be a shit-eating grin.

lungs

I lift a hand to wipe blood from my chin and then swing a backhand across Delano’s cheek. In the silence following the slap, he grins through red staining his stubbled jaw and lifts his knee into my gut. He uproots me effortlessly and throws me down into the underbrush. My lungs empty in a fell swoop, and I find myself both grateful and annoyed at the soft mossy ground eagerly soaking a chill through my robe.

leg

I cough. Feign exhaustion. Struggle, fake, against his grip. Let my legs give out.

Delano doesn’t let me fall. The crowd is cheering, jeering. There’s a silent disappointment somewhere in there I hope I’m not making up. After years as the most powerful sorcerer on the continent, the showdown between me and Delano – a man with ever more fantastical a reputation than me, without even using magic – should have been incredible. A close match, a spectacle.

Not a street brawl over in under a minute.

build

It is a jungle of a city, replacing the real, natural one that once existed here and is now relegated to the space between buildings and the occasional abandoned plot. Walls slice through in misshapen rings, relics of old town borders now grown past. The palace sits smack dab in the centre, where I stand soaking in the bird’s eye view. Across from me, a sloping tiled rooftop leads the way to another series of towers, clambering over another as if in a race for conquest.

egg

This is supposed to be shameful, I’m sure, but the crowd watching me is silent. There’s no egg or produce thrown my way, nor are there any cheers or raucous celebration for Ivos and Theoreos in catching me. The eyes I do find, and the expressions I see, are more reverent than anything. I know it. They know it. I did them a favor.

Doesn’t mean I’m not still marked as insane. Doesn’t mean I’m not a criminal.

spin

“Yeranos,” he says, like he’s talking to a cat with behaviour issues. 

“Delano,” I reply, in the same tone but far stupider.

I turn the rope into a ten foot cobra.

Delano curses and I run again, throwing the tail behind me. This time I veer sharply to the left, grab a tree to spin myself around, and as Delano drops the snake and runs the other way, I catch him in a grapple.

suddenly

My throat’s gone dry. I wish it was just the heat and exhaustion from the fight, but it’s neither. I hate myself suddenly. I used to think I did, when I made poor choices or effectively ostracized myself from society, but this feels like my soul is rotting. Destiny was supposed to heal me and send me on a path righteous for myself, in spite of the world and its rules; there was no reason to believe it would hurt so much.

I know @legiomiam is always game for the tags (and so am I, fwiw) - otherwise this is open to anyone that wants it! Your words are method, rumor, impossible, tear, continue

[littlemissfix-itfic]

“Good. It reminds me that I am…”

I trail off, hesitant to say alive. If there is no death, is there really life? A breath no longer holds the same weight to me that I once did. Not after gaining this immortal stretch, this breath of eternity. A breath is simply a creature comfort to me now, I could live without it and simply bask in the aching, screaming burn of lungs without the air that was once so vital for survival, but I opt to breathe both out of habit and for comfortability.

She shakes her head at me, frowning. I know that it scalds her, ruffles her, that her “gift” to me has been met with such an abundance of bitterness. But she stole me away, forced me to watch all the people I loved slowly age and slip away. She stole my golden years, trapped eternally in the body of a young adult may seem like a gift, but jobs begin to be difficult to attain when your resume doesn’t match your face. To say the least about the pain of immortality.

As the child grows, I bask in their light and their warmth, loving them as if they are my own. Their life, 98 years, was a lengthy stretch of time for most humans, but for me, it felt like a blink. Over far too soon, and like all the other losses, this one destroys me. My heart torn out, my lungs aching, and again, she returns.

“I told you this would hurt.”

“Please.” All I need to say, she knows what I’m begging for.

Scoffing, she leaves me, crumbled at the rubble of the alter of my place of worship. The alter to my God that I was raised in. The God that she ripped me away from, barring me from the eternity that I had longed for. She took my family, took my faith, and gave me no hope of escape from this agonizing existence, and expects me to grovel and worship her every breath as if I was given a gift, not punished for simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

So the cycle begins again, spiting her with my every thought. Every fiber of my being dedicated to being an eternal thorn and embarrassment. I find the weak, the helpless, the fearful, the abandoned, and I love them. Help them, protect them, and when she warns me of my impending pain, I spit at her warnings. I dive in and love just as much and as unwaveringly as I did when I was human, like I haven’t felt the agony of the impending loss a million times.

For every time she has chosen to be a harbinger of agony, of suffering and pain, I chose to be one of love, of happiness and hope. I will until the world rots around us and the gods and forsaken immortals are all that remain, or until she decides to unmake me, going back to my conception and unraveling my DNA as it begins its formation, so that my handprint can never mark history.

Her fierce and evil face contorts in fury each time I smile in anyone’s direction. But it’s only natural. Only natural for us to be at odds, for her to hate me so.

Her hideous name is Hate, and I have and will always worship at the alter of love.

The abandoned child you’ve taken in sleeps on your lap as the god who gave you immortality softly warns you. “This will hurt.”

[landothemuppet]

let the rain pour on you | (t.h) chapter one

☽✧ chapter one ✧☾

synopsis ➼ Rain, sun, fertility. Three little words; a coveted title.

The feud of pride and combativeness for the title of God has rotted the existence of Tom and his brother since they were children. Only one condition is imposed on them to obtain the title they desire. And when Tom’s eyes linger on you. He is convinced that you are the one who will bring him into the light. And he’s willing to do anything for it.

word count ↳ 1.5k

warning ➼ SMUT (+18) MINOR PLEASE DON'T INTERACT

n/a ➼ hello everyone ! It's finally here! The first chapter of my new serie "let the rain pour on you". Don't forget English isn't my native language. I hope you will love reading this as much i loved writing it ! Thanks to the beautiful, the kindest person here, my sweet and lovely friend @justapurrcat, she proofread this chapter, she helped me with ideas, without her, this fic wouldn't be there.

☽✧ serie masterlist ✧☾

You’ve had this dream for whole nights. The same one, over and over again.

You were naked in this immense lake where only the nothingness resonated. The thick grey mist that surrounded you, letting anxiety hover, anticipation freezing your bones more than the water already did. Everything seemed heavy around you and although you could feel the ground beneath your feet, the atmosphere made you think that, at any moment, something, someone, would grab your ankle to draw you towards the abyss of water that was this dark lake. You were wrapped in the grey haze, blinded by the mist before the storm would break out.

And the second the lightning fell, when the flash of its light bursted, you were a spectator of your own torrid scene. You were watching yourself screaming with pleasure, at the edge of an orgasm. Your back leaning against a rock while this mysterious man pounded into you with ardor. Your legs were wrapped around your partner’s hips while your hands lacerated the skin of his back in an attempt to relieve the wave of ecstasy you felt, almost overstimulated. Your screams died in your own throat as your heart threatened to let go under the ferocity of his strokes. Under the powerful adrenaline you felt, your eyes were almost rolled back due to the desire that drove you. The rain was pouring on both your bodies, already sparkling with sweat.

The spectacle was not only passive, the fire of desire, the intoxicating sensations of that burning moment burned between your thighs like hell beneath your feet. Your throat was dry but your cunt was damp like an endless cloud of rain, ready to fall on a land of drought.

And every time, you would wake up sweating. This night was no exception to the rule. With a sense of frustration, you went through your nightstand drawer to pull out your vibrator. This feeling of fullness filled you again as the object buzzed against your clitoris, a happy sigh escaping from your lips. There was nothing like the feeling you’d had with that enigmatic lover during your dream. A partner more than excellent to the attention of the feminine pleasure. But the pressure on your pussy, along with the vibrations titillating your bundle of nerves brought some satisfaction. You again felt your walls contract intermittently, your humidity facilitating access to the object that would gradually bring you closer to the orgasm that your dreams refused you. Your head sank into the pillow with a small cry stifled by the intense feeling of pleasure that you repressed in spite of yourself.  Your legs squeezed against the precious object to feel the most stimulation against your skin.

It was too much for Tom, sitting on his throne, his tight pants with his excitement, his eyes full of lust, burning with the flames of his desire for you. He bursted with rage, jealous and furious for not being able to touch the one he longed for. The one he had seen during an afternoon when his ruminations had again led him to the storm. That moment when his eyes had landed on your figure. You were everywhere in his thoughts since that day. 

A lightning bolt bursted, roaring thunder not far from your room as a torrent of rain hit the windows of the room. You jumped to the noise, then moaned deeper. The gesture having stretched the vibrator to the right place. You first tried to shut up, placing one hand on your mouth, but your fingers instinctively slipped down on your throat and you applied  a little pressure yourself. The God of Rain crossed his eyes, pushing his fingers into the armrest of his throne.

"By Odin," he whispered in his nonexistent beard.

Your fingers continued to squeeze your throat as you fired your toy into your pussy, deeper, faster still. Only the pressure on your neck prevented you from moaning loudly. 

Tom was clenching his teeth, white knuckles tightening on his seat, constrained in his pants because of his obvious erection. You seemed so pure and vile at the same time. Oh you, mistress of his nights, dominatrix of his thoughts. You were the fiery demon who would sit on him at night and keep him awake, like a representation of Füssli’s painting, but you were divinely prettier. As he pressed his signet ring against his lips, clenching his teeth in front of this sight of lust for which he could not look away, his right hand detached the button from his pants by itself, sliding to the edge of his boxer. 

He knew neither your name nor the sound of your voice, apart from the wonderful moans that came out of your mouth, he could only imagine the softness of your skin, its scent, the taste of your lips and more. He could only dream of the pressure of your fingers against his dick, replacing his own hand which was pumping to relieve the influx of blood in his hard limb full of desire for you.  

The rumbling of his pleasure sounded almost as loud as the roaring thunder outside. The sounds you made were excitable, seeing you without touching you was a real torture. A loud moan escaped from your lips and he threw his head back, thinking that he was the reason for your sweet sound. 

Tom followed your pace, his hand pumping his hard, red, venous dick as fast as the toy came in and out of your wet pussy. With light years separating you, your grunts echoed throughout the universe in perfect harmony. Your eyes began to roll back as your legs trembled with pleasure, your arousal at its peak. 

Your orgasm hit you hard, like a feeling of being sucked into the abyss of a galaxy. And as your scream moved down your throat, the sound changed. At the barrier of your slightly parted lips, your pleasure materialized in a name.

“Oh, Freyr!”

The surprise sent a chill that went through all of Tom’s divine being, a shock wave that definitely upset him. His sperm gushed from his limb, splashing over his hand and staining his underwear. His whole body was shaking and burning for you. His orgasm reasoned all over the throne room and anyone passing by could not deny the activity of the God. But his mind was as foggy as the storm he’d caused several minutes ago. 

“By Freya!” Tom said with astonishment.

She was killing him, he thought. A small burst of light burst into the room followed by the delicate movement of Freya’s dress.

"Did you call me?" She exclaimed cheerfully before her expression faded, her eyes widening with surprise and disgust. "Oh by Odin, keep your… thing away from my sight, brother!"

Tom jumped, taking off several centimeters from his throne, his expression just as horrified as the one of his sister. He quickly got dressed before his smirk appeared on his face, thinking of the irony of the situation.

"Aren’t you the goddess of love and sexuality, sister?"

"Still, I don’t want to see your penis. Don’t give Loki the opportunity to kick-start their nonsense!" She said, staring at Tom with a stern expression.

The god of rain smiled in a pinch, only being able to agree with his sister. Loki bore their title of god of malice and told anyone who wanted to hear it - even those who didn’t want to - that brother and sister Freyr and Freya shared much more than a name. Tom dismissed the words of his sister and invited - ordered - her to leave his throne room, which she did without asking questions, but decided not to let this scene fall into oblivion. 

You woke up with a sense of lack, frustration eating away at your being. And that feeling exasperated you even more by the simple idea that only a man could satisfy your physical needs. You sat quietly on the stool in your kitchen while your best friend looked at you in an intrigued manner. 

"In a bad mood? I thought I heard the sound of your vibrator last night." she said with a mocking smile. 

You looked at her, angry at those way too thin walls and dissatisfied with last night’s event. The fact that Revna pointed out the situation made you even more bitter.

"Actually... I had to finish it myself. I had this dream last night..." 

"The dream?" she asked, knowing exactly what you were talking about. 

"That dream, yes. And again, I woke up at the worst time."

Your roommate and best friend gave you a compassionate look. You bit violently into the buttered bread you had just made.

"Shit, girl. With this violence, I understand that the man or woman of your dreams woke you up before the orgasm."

You threw your toast in her face with a growl, Revna avoided it with some difficulty, collecting a little butter in her hair with an expression of disgust.

"I’ll go get a better coffee than your sock juice, witch." 

"That’s an idea, maybe you should look for a guy who’ll shove it down your throat to put you in a better mood, too!"

You showed her your middle finger by slamming the door just after. The rain began to fall as soon as you set foot outside.

"Fuck you too!"

☽✧ TAGLIST ✧☾

@namoreno @justapurrcat @harryhollandsgirlfriend @iluvjj @sleepyamaya @mayal0pez @just-lost-inbetween-worlds

ADD YOURSELF TO THE SERIE TAGLIST

[mirahuyooo]

Memento Mei | knj

Memento Mei | Recordatio — Soulmate! AU

—   Remembering, to you, meant carrying a great deal of sorrows, but in spite of it all, you will do what you have long sworn to do—never forget.

Word Count: 10,168 (woAH ik) Pairing: Kim Namjoon x Reader Content/s: FLUFF, drAMa, ANGST, romance, pining, slow burn?? joon is one patient man OwO, flower language, NAMJOONING with NAMJOON h i m s e l f, NAMJOON IS A SWEETHEART, mrs (L/N) ships you two on hARD MODE, past lives both cute and tragic lol, historical inaccuracies with the past lives bc i may like history but my braincells were fizzing out, Soulmate AU, Reincarnation AU

[masterlist] | Part of the [Recordatio Series]

A/N: hi hello this is me channeling my grief of not being able to make it to the concert 😭😭😭 (to those of you who did i hope you guys have fun aND GIVE THE BOYS L O T S OF LOVE YALL 💞💕💞💕💗 ) this certainly took longer than expected but AyEeEE I L O V E this oneee bc I, too, am a slut for dramatics, soulmates, and the flower language ;((( This one got A LOT longer than anticipated too like AAAA and I know the implications of the synopsis and moodboard have made this a little predictable but shHHHHH enjoy reaDING THIS!!!

As the morning breeze blew against his wool coat, Namjoon clutched the bouquet tighter in his hold. Occupied by interviews, practices, and deadlines, it had been months since he had managed to have a chance to visit his past incarnation’s grave at the cemetery. The last flowers must be wilting away by now, he thinks to himself, looking at the fresh ones in his hand. Hope these last longer.

The idol then adjusts the mask on his face to further secure himself from being discovered. Many have raised their brows at the news of his self-established practice, and he’s sure the press would have a field day if they were to find him walking around a quaint cemetery. 

It was an odd custom to follow, that’s true—a lot wouldn’t really go on to seek out their past lives that much—but it had been one he decided to keep a few years back, especially since the circumstances allowed him to do so. It was for old time’s sake, after all, and with his tendency to not remember the entirety of the myriad lives he had lived, the sentiments couldn’t be helped.

His feet began to lead him naturally to where he had discovered his grave to be—a cobblestone settled somewhere a little further in. In the midst of his walk, Namjoon recalls the words written onto the slab. 

Ahn Jungnam 1951 - 1994 Beloved teacher, father & husband

His last life was a bland plaster wall compared to the vibrant graffiti that is his current lifetime. He had been a humble college professor then, who worked hard to provide for a family he dearly loved. The most excitement he would’ve gotten out of the week was having to entertain his son on a free day. His life was simple and peaceful, though he had lost a battle against cancer in his later years.

That very touch of serenity calms him sometimes, makes him feel ordinary for even just a fleeting second.  

Soon, however, the tall man’s steps slowed to a halt as he caught sight of a young woman from afar. She was clad in a tan trench coat, kneeling in front of the very grave he frequented. The cogs in his head began turning as he lost sense of reality whilst thinking to himself.

Is she the one who’s been leaving the other bouquets since last month?

It was most likely so, Namjoon decided. Judging by the flowers the young woman has with her now, Namjoon concluded that it’s the same flowers that he came across before. It’s always the same bouquet of red and purple flowers—different from the white roses that he would occasionally see rotting amidst the grass and stone slab.

But who is she then? Is she my past life’s granddaughter?

His brows furrowed, however, when he remembered the birth of his grandchild, just a few months shy from his previous death. No, that can’t be. I had a grandson. She can’t possibly be a distant relative. No one else really visits his grave as diligently as he does.

As Namjoon whips up a storm of questions in his head, his heart starts racing. His palms began sweating. It only got worse as he noticed the woman pack her things and stand up to leave.

All too suddenly, it felt like the world was on a timer, and his mind was reeling at the thought of the consequences he has yet to know but still dreads nonetheless. Something within him was clawing, begging to know who on Earth this woman was.

Namjoon could hardly believe the way he was reacting. This was getting ridiculous. He hasn’t felt these kinds of nerves since—

Letting his instincts take their reign upon him, his heart continued to hammer against the confines of his rib cages. He got closer and closer, letting his feet lead him towards the woman sitting all by herself at the corner of the diner.

He watched as her eyes skimmed over the dishes that the menu offered. She’s beautiful, he thought to himself, but is she who I think she is?

He had to make sure—he had to.

“Excuse me?” he began, “Miss?”

The tone that accompanied his words was pathetic as they left his lips. Instinctively, he pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose—a nervous tick his peers would often poke fun at. His bread cheeks soon set ablaze at the realization of his current appearance. 

Still, as embarrassed as he was, the young woman looked up at him, a soft smile pulling at her soft pink lips. He watched as the recognition sparks in her eyes and the excitement seizes her face.

Air was knocked out of his lungs as she lunged towards him, wrapping her arms tightly around him. Butterflies erupt within him as he feels her nuzzle into his neck.  

“You remembered.”

Namjoon’s eyes widen at the memory triggered by his anxious constitution, a soft gasp falling from his lips at the indication of who this woman might be.

What if she’s who I think she is? What if she’s my soulmate?

The chances may be slim, but it can’t be fully impossible. After all, his instincts have almost always been exceptionally good.

Alas, it appears that he’s been too occupied with his thoughts. The distance between them grows, Namjoon realizes—albeit a little bit too late. Without thinking twice, he wills his feet to pick up the pace once more, not paying mind to the bouquet of roses in his hands that was slowly falling apart from his recklessly hasty movements.

Though he didn’t want to make a scene, a part of him wanted to scream from the top of his lungs. Damn it. He’s been waiting for this ever since he got his first trigger back in middle school. Come on, Kim Namjoon. Hurry up, and put those long legs to use.

With his inside voice cheering him on, Namjoon manages to catch the woman by the street. Alas, she had already crossed the other side of the road. All too sudden, he couldn’t hold himself back anymore. “Excuse me!” he exclaimed, raising an arm to wave over at her. “Miss!”

A few heads turned from his commotion—fortunately, so did hers.

At that moment, the world was put on a pause, as all else seemed to cease to exist. The drumming in his heart was unmistakably familiar. His instincts have yet to fail him once more.

Even with half of his face covered with a black face mask, his heart swelled as he caught sight of the spark in her eyes—one he knew to be recognition. He watched as her eyes blurred with tears, realizing not too long after that his were doing the same.

He knew with her (e/c) eyes that he was home. This is it. It is her.

The smile that seizes his face beneath the mask was a torture for his cheeks, but his dimples remained present—too overjoyed to be bothered. His eyes had turned into crescents that pushed a few tears to slide down the sides of his face.

She breaks their eye contact to look around her, on both sides of the road, and at the streetlights that count a few seconds down. Taking the chance, she raced against the ticking clock, quickly crossing the road back towards him.

All these years, he’s been stuck with memories of lifetimes he can’t return to.

All these years, he’s waited anxiously to cross paths with his soulmate again.

All these years, she’s finally here.

In the corner of his eyes, Namjoon catches sight of a motorcycle in a hurry, speeding through the otherwise barely occupied street. His eyes widened, his body launching forward as he tried to stop her in her tracks.

“Wait!”

Outcries erupted from the crowd around him, as the collision happened before them. The man driving the motorcycle—a mere delivery boy—skids to a stop, panic setting into his eyes at the sight of the person he just hit. “Oh my God…” he gasped in horror, getting off to check on her. “Ma’am, are you okay?!”

Namjoon rushes towards the woman who, just seconds ago, he realized to be his soulmate, pushing past the crowd gathering. She lies on the pavement, unmoving with eyes slowly blinking as if her entire being was still processing what just happened. Blood was pooling beneath her, and he was unsure where it was coming from.

“Hey, hey,” he softly coos as he kneels beside her, careful not to move her body and worsen any injury by accident. Pulling his mask down, he tries to give a smile, but it’s shaky and betrays any strong upfront he was trying to show. “Don’t close your eyes, darling,” he tells her, “please.”

The woman stares at him, taking him in, but she gives no response. Somewhere, he hears someone calling for an ambulance, and it sends some sort of relief through him. “You hear that?” he urges her to hold on. “Help is coming, so stay awake, hm?”

She manages to crack a small smile, her hand inching closer to hold his. “You…” she tries to speak, but it comes out frail. A tear falls down the corner of her eyes.

Namjoon gently intertwines his fingers with hers as he uses his other hand to wipe at his tears. His heart hammers against his chest as he sees her losing grip on her consciousness. “Shh, don’t speak,” Namjoon hushes her, “don’t waste your energy, okay?”

Still, the woman persists, giving his hand a weak squeeze. Her eyes held so much that she wanted to say, but the two of them knew that time and fate’s grace upon them was uncertain. With the last of her strength, her words came to him in soft relief.

“You remembered…”

Namjoon gapes as her (e/c) eyes fall to a close. “No, no, no,” he utters under his breath, trying to look around for a sign of the ambulance. “Please, please!” he pleads, inching to shake her into waking up, but he knew that would do more harm than good. He collapses on the arm that held her hand, praying for a miracle to any god out there who would listen—even when he doesn’t worship one in the first place.

“Please, wake up.”

All these years, and she slips past his fingertips yet again.

Blooms of red and purple were nestled gently on her lap, the same way it cradled his head on one side. “They’re beautiful,” her voice softly declares, smiling down at her lap both at him and the flowers he stole from some garden on his way to meet her.

“Very,” he grins cheekily in a way that showed the dimples she loved to poke at, though he wasn’t necessarily thinking about the flowers and she knew that well enough to playfully roll her eyes at him.

She looked onto the beach before them, the sea breeze blowing her hair back as the amusement park in the distance continued to be idle background music.

“I love you.”

She couldn’t avoid the gasp that left her lips at the moment of his sudden confession. There on her lap, he pressed a kiss against the palm that rested against his cheek. “Forever.”

“I’d hope so,” she giggles, “I’m your soulmate after all.”

He smiles at that, and so does she. Ah yes, what a fortunate life this is for them to have met so easily and early and have more time to grow old together.

Her fingertips traced the slope of his nose, tapping the point of it at the end before she gave him a smile so full of love and affection.

“I love you, too,” she tells him, “forever.”

Eyes fluttering open, you immediately take note of the ringing in your head. It’s the very blank and static state of it that sends your chest heaving. Your vision blurred as your eyes stings, later wetting your cheeks.

You were crying. Why am I crying?

Looking around you, the bland, white walls of the room didn’t make you feel better at all—especially upon realizing you were hooked to a machine. A hospital—you were at a hospital.

“You’re awake.”

A man you hadn’t noticed before was staring at your figure in disbelief. That incredulous look turns into relief in an instant, as a smile spreads across his face and reveals a set of dimples that stirred something in you.

“You’re awake,” he repeats it, more to himself as he inches closer to your bed. He almost laughs at the news of it, as if he had hardly expected this day to come. Immediately, he flags down a nurse by the door and urges a doctor to come quickly.

You could only look at this man, head whirring to try and gauge him. Though his presence was like warmth on a cold winter’s day, the seasons suddenly turned scorching as you were reminded of your initial panic. The ringing in your head, the unfamiliar environment, and the heavy feeling in your chest for something you’re not entirely knowledgeable of.

“Who are you?”

The moment such words left your lips, you saw the fast flurry of emotions flashing across his eyes—emotions you couldn’t quite process well, but the overall falter to his posture was enough to tell you that what you said had gotten rid of any good in the moment.

It takes a while, but the man composes himself, taking a step back as he rubs the back of his neck like it’d relieve him of the awkward tension. “I’m…” he clears his throat before giving you a small smile, “I’m Kim Namjoon.”

It was then that the doctor came in, followed closely by a nurse or two. “Good morning, miss,” the doctor asks, adjusting his glasses as he gives you an amicable smile. “Do you remember your name? Do you know where you are?”

“I’m…” you began, but the cogs in your head were taking their time. The minutes it took you to respond was concerning to say the least. “(Y/N),” you eventually say, “I’m (Y/N) (L/N)… I’m in a… hospital…”

The rest of the questions go by like a blur in your head. In the end, you were told you were unconscious for about three months, and that, judging by your responses, you were likely suffering from retrograde amnesia after the accident. You could recall basic and old memories—your name, your family’s name, where you grew up, where you graduated—but your head was blank at the aspect of recent events.  

You still have so many questions you want to ask—not to the doctors, but to the Kim Namjoon who was there the moment you woke up. You have no recollection of him before, so he must be someone you knew just recently. 

Finding it difficult to tear your eyes away from his figure, you find yourself in an absent-minded trance. He was tall—really tall. You may just have to strain your neck a little to look up at him if you were to stand.

“(Y/N)? You alright?”

The deep voice that came out of his lips was a gentle rumble that somehow soothed you but sent little shivers down your spine—pleasant shivers, you think. Alas, your reverie ended when you came to a realization that he was talking to you. “Sorry,” you blink slowly, realizing that he was now just a few feet away from your hospital bed. “I… I was just thinking of something.” 

Namjoon nods, thoughtfully. “Do you...” he mulls over his words, “do you have any questions for me? I’d be glad to answer them for you.” 

You fiddled with the fabric of the blanket on your fingertips. You needed more details, you decided. “Wh—” you stammer, “what happened? Tell me more about what happened.”

A bitter smile, you notice, comes across his face. “You got hit by a delivery boy on your way to cross the street,” he tells you as he moves to a nearby table that was home to miscellaneous things—bags, snacks, and flowers among other things. “I was the one that admitted you to the hospital,” he tells you plainly, handing over a bag to you. “This is yours.”

The leather material shakes in your hands, your strength still not fully back in your system. 

“Your mother’s here, by the way,” Namjoon then tells you, catching you by surprise. “I told her about the incident. She flew here to watch over you while I’m away.”

Though glad to hear your mother was here, the last part of his words piqued your interest. If he had your mother flown here so she could take care of you while he was away, then does that mean he’s come by more than once?

“Who are you to me?” you find yourself asking that aloud. Was he a friend? A colleague? A lover?

You fluster at the thought of the last option, but soon see that Namjoon seems to be red as well. “Well…” he purses his lips, thinking of what to say. “I’m your—”

Just then, the door bursts open. A familiar woman frantically comes through, going first to Namjoon. “Where’s (Y/N)?” she asks him, “I heard she’s awake?”

He must’ve been in the way of her seeing you already awake. Before Namjoon could answer, you spoke up, voice still a bit raspy. “Mom?” you meekly call out. “I’m right here.”

Your mother immediately rushes to your side. You feel her urge to pull you in an embrace, but your current state doesn't allow her to recklessly do so. “Oh, thank goodness,” she sighs in relief as she clings onto your hand. “You’re okay.”

Your mother’s concern ends up being a catalyst to the emotions you’ve been bottling up. "I'm sorry," you ended up saying, voice quivering as you held back tears. 

Both Namjoon and your mother furrow their eyebrows together. It was your mother, who was nearest to you, that reached forth to caress your cheeks in comfort. "Nonsense, honey," your mother softly chastises. "What on earth do you have to say sorry for?"

She was right. You didn’t intend for any of this to happen at all, but your thoughts have already come to a conclusion about your burdens. "It must've been a bother to hear about the accident," you say, looking at the white sheets on your lap. "The bill, too," you suddenly gasp, "how much is it?"

Your mother shakes her head. "Don't worry about those things, honey," she tells you, "Namjoon's been helping me deal with that."

At the mention of his name, Namjoon, who had been occupied for a moment with something on his phone, looked up in confusion. "Mom said you've been a great help with my hospitalization," you give him a grateful smile, "Thank you."

A slight flush of red stretched across his cheeks and ears as he held back the beginnings of a shy grin at your words. "It's no problem, at all," he gently says, “I’m glad to be of help.”

There was a flutter in your heart that you pushed away, chalking it up to gratitude over the acts of a kind stranger. It was then you noticed the frequent flashing of his phone, something you could tell he deliberately tries to ignore. "Do you have somewhere else to be?" you softly ask, catching him off guard.

It takes Namjoon a while but he nods in embarrassment. “Is it important?” you stare at the device throwing up a tantrum. You wonder what it is that’s demanding his time from you so much. Was it his job? Was it his friends? Was it a significant other?

Somehow, that last part hurts to think of.

He nods again. You didn’t understand why he’s so hesitant to leave when he’s needed somewhere else. Did it have to do with what you two are? 

Alas, you didn’t have time to unpack all of that now. “It’s fine,” you assure him, “I’d hate to hold you back.” 

The man before you looked so torn that you, yourself, felt a bit downcast. "Alright..." he sighs in defeat, hesitantly taking the baseball cap and mask by the table, and securing it on his head. "I'm so sorry to leave so soon."

"It's alright, Namjoon," your mother smiles. "Take care."

Namjoon gives a polite bow and smiles. Distracted by his dimples, you only offer a meek wave with your hand. "I'll visit as soon as I can," he tells you. "Get well soon."

Numbly, you nod as something in you stirs.  Something in you feels at ease with his presence. Something in you feels fuzzy seeing his smile. Something in you hates to see him go—but not knowing what exactly makes you feel these things has forced you to keep your mouth shut. 

Not a moment later the door closes, your mysterious knight in shining armor gone. 

It was an absolute torture, really, to have be stuck for the next month in the dull walls of your hospital room doing recovery. On the bright side, it was nice to hear from your doctor that you were progressing quite nicely. You were still missing bits and pieces, of course, but it was something you couldn't force your brain to just up and do. 

That aside, it was the promise of getting out of the hospital that really pulled you through the gruelling hours you spent there. It was the curiosity, you suppose, of seeing the world you once knew and experiencing it again. 

There was also a certain boy that you found yourself looking forward to. Kim Namjoon would visit every week if he could, and he would bring with him food that actually tastes good (don't tell the hospital cafeteria that), some board games, red and purple flowers, or other things that made your stay a little worthwhile. He even came around bringing his friends around—Jimin and Taehyung, if your brain didn't fail to remind you clearly—and it was the most intense game of UNO you've ever had the chance to remember. 

If your mom had to take a break or go back to your apartment for something, Namjoon would be more than glad to watch over you. He already spends hours with his visits as is. The two of you would talk about anything, watch any movie on the television, or listen to his music. 

It was another thing that caught you off guard actually. 

Kim Namjoon is an idol. 

You had heard of his vibrant life nearly a week into your waking up. Still in the hospital bed, the two of you were sitting together as you waited for your mother to come back from your apartment. He had been reading a book, whilst you were idly flipping through the television channels. 

A music show came on and you swore one of the men looked like him. Styled to the nines and ready for the spotlight, he looked good—really, really good. 

“Is that you, Namjoon?” you had instantly asked him, pointing to the television. Never had you seen him so flustered before, but Namjoon managed to explain himself.

It was true. He is an idol—the leader of Bangtan Sonyeondan, an international KPop sensation, a man so sought after by millions of people around the world. 

It was hard to wrap your head around. To think that the man before you, the one who had been so diligently visiting you, was a celebrity. The constant ringing of his phone, the long intervals between his visits, and his fussing over a mask and a cap suddenly made so much sense. 

There were things you’ve managed to piece together from the weeks after your discharge from the hospital. It was thanks to your kind landlady and neighbors that you found out you were living in South Korea for about five years now. You had a decent job and a decent apartment. You seemed to have a decent life for yourself too.

There was still something missing though, but you still couldn’t put your finger on it. A large void in your heart that gapes at you, aching to be satiated with whatever it was that was taken from it on that fateful accident. 

In spite of that little mishap, however, you fell into a routine quite easily. Even if there were fragments in your memories missing, you still managed to wake up on time, go to work, come home to your mom, and spend time with her after finishing any other possible duties at hand. Those were what your weekdays consisted of, but on weekends? Weekends were for—

Knock, knock, knock. 

“Namjoon, good morning,” you hear your mom’s cheerful voice greet him by the door.

“Good morning, ma’am.” You could almost see that dimpley smile on his face.

A smile, too, blossoms on your face before you knew it. As usual, Namjoon was here on time. 

You take a frantic lookover of yourself at the mirror on your wall. Your outfit was simple enough—knit sweater over a midi dress and a trusty satchel to keep your things—but you worried somehow that it might not be a good match for whatever it is that was planned for today.

Exiting your room, you look up to see a familiar large man waving at you by the hallway with his other hand poorly hiding something behind his back. “Hello,” you greet him with a smile, “did you eat breakfast yet?” 

Namjoon sheepishly shakes his head as he hands you a small bouquet of red and purple flowers. They were a custom at this point, Namjoon having been so used to bringing you such flowers during his hospital visits that he had come to bring you them to every outing as well. "Didn't have enough time to," he then tells you as he slightly trails behind you to the kitchen where you took a big glass and filled it with water for a makeshift vase. The grin on his face persists as he sees you set the vase next to the ones that held the flowers he had brought you two weeks ago. 

A hum leaves your lips. "Guess that makes two of us," you say, awkwardly fiddling with the sleeves of your sweater. 

“You two can grab a bite on the way then,” your mother suddenly swings into the kitchen, laying down a coat onto your shoulders as she presses a kiss on your cheeks. 

Her actions startle you. “But, mo—”

“I’m going to the spa, sweetie,” your mother declares as she excitedly ushers you and Namjoon out the door. “You two have fun!”

As the usual black car that served as your ride together on days like this came to a stop, Namjoon slides the door open for you and you murmur a shy thanks. “Thanks again,” you thank the man on the steering wheel as well, Namjoon grinning along with you as you both earned yourselves a little wave back from the driver.

The driver starts the car again to look for a parking spot, leaving you alone with Namjoon. It was then you prompted the question in your head. “Where are we going this time?” you ask him, head tilting to the side. 

Namjoon gestures to a building nearby. It was relatively big and the people walking around were sparse, giving it a more calm and private aura. “A museum,” he simply tells you this with a grin so contagious that your own lips couldn't help but beam back at him.

These were what you easily found yourself looking forward to in the weeks since you had been discharged from the hospital. Today would be Namjoon's third effort on taking you around Seoul—to refresh your memories, he had said, and to hang out together, too. Namjoon took you biking along Han River on the first time, bought the both of you some bungeo-ppang while watching the sun set on your little break. Then, he took you to an aquarium two weeks ago, too, dragging you around to point excitedly and gawk together at any cute sea critter he saw. 

Such moments like these were precious, not only because you were spending time with him, or because you were getting more and more familiar with the city, but because you knew for a fact that time for Namjoon was precious and yet he chose to spend it with you. 

You couldn’t understand how on Earth you managed to cross paths with a celebrity before your accident, or what exactly made you so special that a celebrity like him would find the time to fit you in his busy, busy schedule, but either way, you understood that your time together was a chance for Namjoon to take a break from his famous persona.  

“Your mom was awfully excited for spa day, wasn’t she?” Namjoon chuckles as the two of you walk along the street towards the museum.

This effectively knocks you out from your reverie. “To be fair, she’s always been interested in trying those sorts of things out,” you then shrug with a grin, as you check your phone for the time and the weather. “I think she thinks of you as a babysitter at this point.”

Namjoon, being the gentleman he is, only grins. You could swear you can imagine those dimples under his mask. “It’s alright,” he tells you, “I don’t mind at all.” 

All of a sudden, the idol comes to a sharp halt, making you look at him in confusion. He doesn’t answer—he doesn’t even look you in the eyes. Instead, his fingers suddenly weave together with yours. 

Naturally, his actions shock you to the point of having a blush spreading across your cheeks. You look onwards, and it suddenly clicks. Before you was a traffic light directing cars through the street that separated you two from the museum itself.

The accident.

Bits of it were still blurry in your head—all you knew, really, was that it hurt. Namjoon, on the other hand, was the one that must’ve seen the accident first hand, and the one that looked out for you in the hospital first in the place of your mother. 

You return your gaze to Namjoon, giving his hand a small squeeze in assurance. He finally glances your way, embarrassment written across his eyes, but you both do nothing to take your hands apart as the two of you crossed the road. 

His concern warms your heart and envelops you in an air so safe and sound. Kim Namjoon is clearly a blessing in your life—a literal angel from the heavens sent down to grace you with his presence. Whatever fate stitched your paths together, you were grateful for it. 

You did notice something, however. No matter how much you can chalk it up to him just being a nice guy, there were signs that resonated from him—signs that told you he may be caring for you just a little bit more than friends do. Fond smiles, lingering touches, constant hanging out, pretty flowers—no one, as far as you could tell, has ever given you this many flowers.  

You didn't want to assume, but you didn't want to go on like this either—not when you may or may not be hoping for a little bit of something. 

Eventually, you get the courage to ask him some time inside the museum. “Namjoon?” you hushly call out, unsure of whether or not you should keep your distance or take a step closer.

He takes his gaze away from the modern masterpiece on the wall, naturally taking a step closer to give his full attention to you. “Yeah?”

With the way he ended your own inner argument, your mind buffers for a moment at the good ruler-length distance between you both. You tear your gaze away, the damned chicken in you coming out at the last minute. You could feel Namjoon looking down at you in concern, but stood patiently still for your words. 

“Who are you to me?” you ask, voice so soft and feeble that the nerves were dreadfully obvious. A part of you mentally gives you a slap and a push to get all of this over with. “You…” you clear your throat, “You never really answered my question.. back then… at the hospital...”

To be honest with yourself, a part of you hoped that those flowers, those visits, those little touches meant something more. There was no shame in liking a man like Namjoon. He's a gentle giant with so much talent, love, and wisdom to give. Who wouldn't crush hard for the likes of him?

Oh wow. It feels weird to come to terms with your feelings—that giddy but antsy feeling in your belly, that rapid heart beating, that frantic buzzing of your head as all it could ever think now is him. It's a resounding conclusion, a childish need to start squealing overtaking your senses. 

Him. Him. Him.

I have a crush on him.

Before you, however, Namjoon stiffens. “Oh,” he says. 

And that one sound was somehow enough to blow a crack onto your heart. Fuck. Your eyes go wide in panic and distress. Did I complicate things? Did I make him uncomfortable?

“It’s fine!” you rushed to ease his discomfort. “You don’t have to answer me! Forget I said anythi—”

Namjoon’s eyes meet with yours, the indecipherable state of them stealing the words from your mouth and rendering you anticipating his. “You’re...” he began, searching for his choice of words. “You’re someone I really cherish in life.”

You nod softly, both endeared and disappointed to hear such words from his mouth. You wanted something specific—be it the words you wanted to hear or the words that could’ve broken your heart. Whether it was the "I like you" that would've made you the happiest woman alive or the "You're like a friend/sister to me" that would've shattered your daydream and give you a slap back to reality, "You're someone I really cherish in life" was a sentence that tiptoed on a line between two drastic territories. 

Namjoon settled for something a little vague.

Does he cherish you as a woman romantically or platonically?

Does he want to start calling these things dates too? 

Does he want to keep walking along with your hands intertwined too? 

Something—was it the desperate hopeless romantic in you?—told you that he was holding back. With the way his jaw was clenched, you came to think he’s frustrated with something—clearly something he’s not ready to talk about yet, so you do your best to move on. “That’s great,” you say, nonetheless, a bittersweet smile on your lips. “You’re someone I cherish, too.”

Someone I really hold dear to my heart.

It must've been obvious—your disdain—else, Namjoon wouldn't have spoke again to ease the awkward tension in the air. 

"We haven't known each other for that long before the incident," he tells you, rubbing at the back of his neck, "but you really have become someone I hold dear to my heart."

Then and there, your heart skips a beat. 

Something chaotic arose in you, a little devil that crawled from the very depths of your mind to wreak havoc with the new realized crush you had on the man beside you. There was barely friendship to ruin then if you two hadn't known each other for that long. 

Well, aside from the bond you've made together in the months you've been awake. 

Still, with this fresh news he told you, he made it sound like you two were too much strangers to have been anything. 

"It isn't that hard to like you."

Namjoon's head almost snaps to look at you. Your own hand almost snaps to slap it over your wretched mouth. The two of you could only gawk at each other. 

"What did you say?" a flabbergasted Namjoon asks you. 

A groan leaves you for a moment, you wanting—begging—the ground to just swallow you whole. Alas, all you could do is suck it up and be a big girl. "What I meant by that is," you cleared your throat, "it's a shame we weren't already well-acquainted before the accident. I think we could've been more than friends."

Namjoon gawks at you still. 

You take a deep breath. "I like you, Joon," you confess, the exhale you make seemingly taking the weight off your heart too. "I know it's too sudden, but I think I see you as someone more than just a friend."

The big oaf is still processing. "You… do?"

A laugh manages to escape you, finding amusement in his shock. "Yes," you say earnestly, feeling a bit more confident with your confession. "You're kind, handsome, and just a really awesome person," you tell him, "I meant it when I said you're someone I cherish."

His dimples resurface, and you are yet again helpless. Namjoon's eyes were soft yet twinkling as he gazed into yours. "I meant it to."

Two weeks passed by since that fateful day at the museum, and Namjoon was yet again occupied with his duties. It was fine of course—who were you to demand things from him?—but what didn’t sit right with you was how things were still a bit vague between you two. 

He acknowledged your crush. He even seemed to like it, too. Alas, in the midst of your giddy victory over not being outright rejected, you forgot to ask him for a clear answer too. 

Did he like you too?

You grow antsy by the minute, thoughts plaguing your overthinking brain to the point of a slight headache.

Fuck it.

You take a leap of faith—not caring if it was recklessly foolish of you—and grab your phone to type out the beginnings of your grand scheme to fully woo Kim Namjoon yourself. The words your fingers bring to life start off casual enough. 

Simple and easy enough to get out of, it only took you a few minutes of debating and overthinking to press that send button. 

It took three (painful) hours to get a reply, the sound of a notification springing you up from your dilapidated state on your bed. 

Your heart almost drops at the subtle rejection, but it doesn't hurt that much. Just a little bit. With a sigh, you type out your response, glad to know he’s somewhat available enough now that you’ve heard from him. 

A part of you fussed if what you sent was too cringey or awkwardly put, but his next words made you forget such thoughts in an instant.

You waited a couple more minutes, but nothing followed. Was that it? No worries, I will?

Another text interrupts the awful ache that just started to bubble within you, replacing it instead with confusion.

Ding dong

You hear the faint ring of the doorbell from your room, making you freeze. You glance at the words on your phone, then at the door where you could hear the distant voice of your mother answering the door. Not a moment later...

“(Y/N)!” she called out. “You have a delivery!”

As if they could bulge out, your eyes widened even further as you pocket your phone and slipped off your bed—pajamas, bed head, and all. Your feet took you to the kitchen where you heard your mother go about.  

There at the table were familiar flowers in red and purple, and just by looking at it, a sense of giddiness washes over you. You gently take them in your hand as the other fishes for your phone in the pocket of your hoodie. 

The smile on your face made your cheeks hurt.

Alas, there can only be so much good things you could have for a day.

“Are those from Namjoon?” your mother peeks from the kitchen, a warm smile stretching across her face as she resorts to leaning against the wall to look over at you.

Instinctively, you take a small whiff of the bouquet in hand as you tuck your phone away. “Yeah,” you absentmindedly reply with a ghost of a smile unknowingly making it to your face, almost forgetting about the fact that you were fretting over him in the first place.

You were oblivious to your mother’s pleased reaction. “What a sweetheart,” she muses, approaching you to take a closer look at the flowers. She rests both of her callous hands on each of your shoulders, giving them a light squeeze of excitement. “I’m so glad he’s your soulmate, sweetie,” she gushes, “he’s quite the keeper.”

At such words, you froze, heart skipping a beat. All this time, you had only thought Namjoon to be a friend you were having an awful crush on—but a soulmate?

Right, the soulmate system. How could you have forgotten to put soulmates into the whole equation of this?

“I’m sorry,” you breathlessly gawked, “did you just say soulmate?”

It seems like the soulmate system still works for the likes of Namjoon, whom Fate has robbed his soulmate of their memories from time long passed. 

No words could ever truly define how beyond ecstatic Namjoon is to hear such words from her. (Y/N) (L/N), his soulmate and other half for the rest of eternity and end of time, likes him. Even without remembering him as her soulmate, she likes him. It wasn't love just yet, but Namjoon was in no rush—not when everything was starting to fall back into place. 

Still, it begs a question in his head; will it be alright to try now?

Namjoon stares at the unconscious state of his soulmate, insides knotting together in an entangled mess of nerves and fury. He had just gotten off a discussion with the young delivery boy, the poor lad a sniffling mess as he was interrogated by Namjoon, his soulmate’s mother, and a lawyer. Mrs. (L/N) decided not to put up any charges, pitying the poor boy. 

“Thank you, Namjoon,” the woman told him, voice soft and hoarse, dripping with fatigue from both the travel and the grief.

Namjoon bows, a bit jittery—he was meeting his potential mother-in-law, after all. “It’s nothing, ma’am,” he shyly says, “I just wanted to make sure (Y/N) gets treated as best as possible.”

This notion causes Mrs. (L/N) to raise a brow. She hasn’t heard of a ‘Namjoon’ from her daughter before.“Does my daughter know you, Namjoon?”

Namjoon froze for a moment, but opted for honesty—not that he would’ve had the chance of being a believable liar when he’s this much of a wreck at the moment. “Uh...” he mulls his words over, “a little, ma’am.” 

Seeing confusion, he explains the situation further. “We met just a few minutes before the accident,” he tells her, breath shaking at the memory of the wave, the street, the crash, and the blood. His tears almost flooded his eyes again. “I’m her,” he shakily sighs with a bittersweet smile, “soulmate.”

Mrs. (L/N) was shocked for a moment, but soon enough an understanding flashed before her eyes.  She nods softly, staring at her daughter again with a fond smile. (Y/N) had been born with a lot of her past life memories intact, often crying about them.

Knowing that her daughter could've been happy with her soulmate already, but this happened instead, made (M/N) quite teary. Still, she was glad her daughter had a reliable soulmate. “Thank you for taking care of her in that short moment then,” she smiled, truly grateful.  

Infamous dimples proudly resurface on Namjoon’s cheeks, in spite of the shy demeanor in his smile. “She’s my soulmate, ma’am,” he said, “I’ll be taking care of her for the rest of my life, if fate allows me to.”

Namjoon's heart hammered against his chest as he recalled that moment at the hospital. 

Take care of (Y/N). Such were the words that he had pinned atop his many, many thoughts.

Alas, each day, it was getting harder and harder to keep himself in line—keep the longing and aching part of him locked away somewhere. He worries, thinks, and worries some more. 

Even if she liked him, it doesn't necessarily make it clear if he should court her now or wait for her triggers to start setting in. He wouldn't want to make the risk of an explosive trigger higher with a romantic relationship and end up putting her in pain. No. He will never let her get hurt. Never again. 

Take care of (Y/N)—he would often remind himself. Worry about her first before your feelings, Namjoon. You can do this.

A familiar ringtone rips through the air, pulling Namjoon from his internal debate. The contact on his phone read out the very name engraved in his head and his heart almost jumped out. 

He was just thinking of her. 

Not having it in him to distance himself more than he already has, Namjoon slides his finger across his phone. "Hello, (Y/N)?" he says, clearing his throat. A part of him worries that his poor choice of words in their chat earlier may have come across wrong in some way, or if she had som—

"We need to talk."

There was a shake in her voice. It didn’t sound furious—it didn’t sound like anything. It was numb almost, and that alone was enough to stop Namjoon’s world for a moment. “About what? Did something happen?” he immediately asks, a storm of worry brewing within him.  

Alas, he looks at his desk before him, littered with papers and work all over as a product of his reckless pursuit to keep his mind off of her. “I’m sorry, I can’t leave right now but if ther—”

A heavy breath puts an end to his words. “Namjoon, please,” you plea, emotions of all sorts drowning two simple words. It hurts to hear his name fall from your lips that way. 

Namjoon gets up, easily admitting defeat as he leaves his studio. “Alright. Wait for me.”

There can only be so much good things you could have for a day. 

Namjoon is your soulmate.

“Oh dear, I thought he told you already,” was what your mother had said after her little slip up. “With all the little dates you two have been to, I thought you would’ve known by now, sweetie.”

The news shook you to your core and you were elated and distraught all the same. You didn’t have a trigger. You didn’t have any prior memories. You were just left with a statement. 

Namjoon is your soulmate.

It was something that felt so right to hear, but with barely anything else to back it up, there was still doubt in your heart. 

Is that why he was hesitant? 

Why did he tell me in the first place? 

Was it bad?

Hell, you didn't even think to add soulmates to your grand scheme of wooing Kim Namjoon. How could the entire soulmate system slip past your mind in the past few months you've been awake?!

Namjoon is your soulmate.

You need to hear it from Namjoon yourself—hear if it’s true that the universe meant for you to be together, hear why he chose to hide that fact from you. 

And so, here you were at Han River waiting for him. 

“(Y/N)?”

Your heart stops to hear your name from an all too familiar voice. You couldn’t find it in you to turn around just yet, wanting nothing more than to put this all into pause. You weren’t a fan of confrontation—not after your miserable attempt in the museum. 

Footsteps approach you, and you know just who it is. You didn’t have to look up either. The feet that set its place before you and the bench you sat in were familiar shoes, yet all they served to be was a backdrop for the flowers presented to you.  

“You just sent me flowers an hour ago,” you manage to find your voice in a hushed whisper, a part of you wanting to laugh but your harried thoughts wouldn’t let you. It took a lot to look up at him—at the man who you first met in a hospital, at the man who held your heart, at the man who was apparently your soulmate all along.

Namjoon flusters before you, almost putting the small bunch in his hands away. Knowing his shortcoming, however, he remains with his hand outstretched. “You sounded upset,” he says, pulling his mask down to talk with you properly. “I thought they might make you feel better.”

Managing a small smile, you glance down at the flowers of red and purple he presents to you. As you gently took the bouquet from his hands, you couldn’t ignore the ringing in your head that seemed to be screaming out to you. 

“(Y/N)?” you faintly hear Namjoon’s voice call out to you in concern. There was a secure grip that held you up by the arms as you staggered a bit. 

You try to come back to reality. You try—but your senses wane. 

Alas, in spite of your best efforts, you were plunged into cold waters, unable to hear anything. Your breath hitched as the pinch in your heart began to escalate. In the confines of your own mind, you were frantically clawing your way out of the abyss—desperate to reach the surface and find out the truth.

Come on, (Y/N). Remember.

“Welcome to Purple Blooms, how may I help you?”

A warm smile made it to your face as you entered the premises of your local flower shop. You took notice that the attendant by the desk isn’t the usual blonde that manned the shop, but you greeted her nonetheless. “Hi,” you said with a slight bow, “I’m (Y/N) (L/N). I ordered a bouquet of—” 

“Red carnations and statices?” she piped, after your name seemed to ring a bell in her head. When you had replied with a nod, she disappeared to the staff room of the shop to retrieve your order.

Biding your time, you looked around to take in your surroundings, in spite of being so accustomed to the small shop in all of your months here. The scent of flowers in the air was prominent, but what really made you giddy was the amount of meaning these beauties possessed.

You knew quite a handful of the flower language—courtesy of your past lives’ fascination with them. To you, there was always an element of creative passion in the flowers and the message they convey could do wonders.

“Miss?”

Turning back to the attendant, you gave her a grateful smile as you handed her the money in exchange for the bouquet in her hands. “I had fun arranging this one,” she tells you, smiling brightly. “It was one of my first bouquets.”

Your eyebrows shot up in interest as you cradled the bouquet closer to you, taking a whiff of the flowers. “Really?” you mused, “You did a good job then. Thank you.”

“Any time, ma’am,” she beams, “Come again!”

As you exited the quaint shop, you waved the woman goodbye and went on your way to the cemetery—as you usually do with the bouquets. You gazed down on the red and purple hues in your hand, feeling the wistfully warm sensation in your heart.

You knew just what these flowers meant to you and your soulmate.

The utter joy in the air was easily contagious, the sun shining over the field only serving to amplify the vibrant aura of the moment. Before you stood your bestest friend in a raggedy shirt, loose pants, and wild hair askew in all sorts of directions. “For you, my lady,” she declared in a feign manly tone, revealing the flowers from behind him with a wide grin and a silly bow that makes you giggle as you do a similarly exaggerated bow. 

“Thank you, good sir,” you beam back, happily taking the small bunch she had likely stolen from Mrs. Hopkins’ garden. The flowers were pretty shades of purple and red—a gesture you didn’t quite understand as a twelve year old girl.

There were a lot of things you didn’t understand as a twelve year old, actually. Why your best friend’s roguish and carefree attitude was so frowned upon, why the boys in town had to be so cruel, why she had to be sent away. 

You would, however, in your later years, find the flowers to be a combination of red carnations and statices that, thanks to the book of flower language you came across in a library, respectively meant sincere love and remembrance. 

It is through this you saw flashes of the same flowers being given between two people. It is through this you had your very first trigger. 

There in that old house of a childhood long passed, tears fell upon the withered petals pressed and preserved in between the pages of your old favorite book. The truth dawned on you, leaving you helpless to do anything now that you had a husband and children to look after. 

Your soulmate and your best friend, one in the same. Your soulmate, a woman you haven’t seen in two decades, haven’t heard of since she was forced to board that ship to the new world with her older brother.

You cry—cry for the love you never had the chance to have with your other half in this lifetime, cry for what could’ve been but didn’t. 

In the next life, you vow. I’ll remember and love you more.

You remember now. 

That was the first lifetime in which neither of you remembered anything. So close yet so far, an almost that plagued that past incarnate of yours till the end of her life. 

It was funny, you thought. You were crying just as hard as this when your memories started coming to you when you were around ten. Your parents couldn’t understand the hysterics you were in, and nearly had to rush you to the hospital. This was the bitter and awful side of the soulmate system that the world had to become accustomed to. 

It became a catalyst for you maturing at such a young age—to know of customs and moments long gone, to have the knowledge of centuries return to you in days, to become suddenly so aware and so daunted of the fact that you were part of the soulmate system. 

You remember where your most recent incarnate had lived with her soulmate—Korea. It had been a quiet life, one you hoped you’d have in this life too. You supposed it was because of this that you were so drawn to go to South Korea too, causing you to study hard in order to convince your parents to go on a holiday trip around there.

You remember being fifteen and wanting to visit their graves for nostalgia’s sake on that very trip, laying down that bouquet of red carnations and statices over the cobblestone with tears and a bittersweet smile. 

You remember the pitiful gazes your mom would give you as she could only watch you at a distance, knowing she can’t do much with your past lives other than to support your current self. 

You remember deciding to just live in Korea all together as soon as you graduated, applying into multiple companies until you got accepted by your current employer—constantly going through places you’ve been to while making new adventures to tell, too.

You remember that day.

You remember going to the flower shop you frequent, remember smiling at the new employee who handed you the bouquet. 

You remember going to the cemetery, giving a short message over the grave and a silent prayer to meet your soulmate soon.   

You remember someone calling your name as you left, a man frantically waving at you from the other side of the street. 

Him. In an instant, you knew just who he was—knew just who those kind eyes belonged to. 

Your soulmate. Your other half.

Kim Namjoon. 

The sight of you trembling sent Namjoon’s head in a flurry of emotions. He sat you down, worried with the way your knees were buckling. He waits beside you, rubbing circles onto your back as he watched you stare down at the bouquet in your hands through your tears. 

It was after a long, almost torturous moment that he saw the weak turn you made to face him. Namjoon sees the recognition and struggle shining in your eyes as they flow with tears. “You remembered,” he softly gasps, eyes blurring with tears himself as he realizes this. His heavy heart eases for a moment, but it comes to a shortstop. 

Another wave of tears hit, a sob breaking past your lips as you nod, leaning close. “Oh, baby...” he sighs, heart clenching at the sight of you. Namjoon easily wraps his arms around you—both as a result of his own emotions and an effort to comfort you. 

“I remember,” you breathe, clutching his jacket tighter as you bury your head into his neck further. “I remember...”

Namjoon presses a gentle kiss into your hair. “Yes, you do,” he says as he pulls away and smiles gently at you, wiping the tears from your cheeks. “I’m so happy you do.”

You clumsily rub away at your face in embarrassment of him seeing you like this, hands wet with more tears. “I’m sorry,” you sniffled.

The universe blessed you with a patient gentle giant for a soulmate. Namjoon brushes your hair away from your face, his touch of great effect calming you down from the rollercoaster that your surge of memories gave you. “You don’t have anything to apologize for, jagi,” he hushes you with gentle strokes on the back of your hand. “Cry it out. Deep breaths.”  

Doing as he said, you regain your composure—enough to at least form your words more coherently. “Why didn’t you tell me?” you ask, voice a little hoarse and quiet that Namjoon had trouble understanding at first.

“What?”

The windows to your soul came to meet with his and Namjoon sees the pain swimming in them. “Why didn’t you tell me you were my soulmate?” you say, a little more clearly and a little more hurt. 

There was a guilty expression on Namjoon’s face and he shamefully looked away for a moment, but he takes a deep breath to man himself up. “I didn’t want to lay it on you so suddenly. You woke up barely knowing anything, after all.” he admitted, looking down at both of your hands. “ I thought, what if I suddenly cause a trigger? Wouldn’t it make things worse for her? I didn’t want that to happen.”

Alright, so he had a point, but— “I would’ve wanted to know that sooner, Joon,” you tell him, still upset having spent weeks pining for him, only to find out he’s been pining after you too but didn’t say anything about it.

“I know,” Namjoon sighs, looking at the sky to keep any more of his tears at bay. “I suppose I got scared of hurting you or seeing you in pain. I saw you get hit by a motorcycle,” he told you, “on the day I first saw you in this lifetime, I saw you get hit.”

The tremble on his voice easily elicits your own tears to come back. Namjoon sees this and gently shakes his head, a silent message for you to not waste any more tears. He presses a soft kiss onto your forehead before resting his own against it. 

Your eyes flutter to a close as you revel in his presence. “I’m sorry for hurting you even though I said I didn’t want to,” you hear him murmur, making a breathless chuckle leave your lips.

“It was pretty rude of you to do,” you jokingly muse, and Namjoon drops his head onto your shoulder with a groan, embarrassed of himself. 

The idol in your embrace savors the moment he had in your arms. “I know, I know...” he murmured, “I’m a terrible soulmate.”

Pulling away, you squish his face in your hands. “But you’re a great guy,” you coo at him, “and I still really, really like you.”

His dimples make their appearance, making you grin back at him. “Really?” he asks, eyes shining at the implication of your forgiveness.

You nod, cheeks hurt from all the giddy, happy feels. “Really.”

“I really, really like you, too,” he muses, the both of you chuckling. Elated, Namjoon leaned forwards and brought his lips onto your forehead yet again. “You won’t ever be in pain again,” he swore to you, “not if I can help it.”

As a smile blossoms in your lips, you close your eyes and lean forth, melting into his arms. Everything in your heart has fallen into place. 

It was alright now.

You remember. Both of you do.

It was now time to officially start anew in this lifetime, make new memories, and then some.