#painful emotions all around there is no joy

[tune-on-in-folks]

Day 20! We're ignoring that this is being posted a month later. I am working through the prompts, I swear, and I will get them all out! There's just been a lot of stuff going on in my life. I got promoted to a leadership position at my job for example! :D

Anyway here's day 20, Restraints with our boy Al!

Warnings/Tags: Possessive Alastor, Jealous Alastor, Restraints, blood drinking, biting, marking, creampie. Word Count: 2,002

(Tell me if there's any tags that need adding!)

Alastor watches you from across the room, his hand tightening around the glass of whiskey he was holding. His smile strains at the edges, revealing his discontent as you talk and laugh with a new patron. Husk stood by, idly cleaning a glass.

“You know, Boss.” Husk says, his voice almost thoughtful, “You could just tell them how you feel.”

Alastor laughs at that, glancing away from you long enough to send a scathing glare Husk’s way. “I don’t know what you are implying, Husker.”

There’s a warning in his voice, one that Husk knows all too well. But the bartender just shrugs, refiling Alastor’s glass before going back to cleaning the bar. Alastor lets out a small huff of air, his annoyance and anger spiking. Why should he let Husk know that you’re spoken for? That he's the one to have claimed your heart? He turns back to you, only to see the sinner you’re talking to lean closer. Their hand rests on your shoulder, tightening there. Alastor was certain he saw red, his jealousy spiking. Downing the rest of his liquor, he slinks into the shadows. Husk watches, amused. He knew about you both because he was observant, but it was fun to fuck with Alastor.

Your smile strains as you try to make polite conversation with the sinner in front of you. Their advances didn’t go unnoticed and your attempts to reject them gently were moot. They were simply not the type to take ‘no’ for an answer. When they lean in to whisper in your ear, their mouth brushing against the shell of your ear, you nearly shrink back. You would have taken a step back if their hand wasn’t tightening on your shoulder in an almost painful way. A rush of energy passes beneath your feet before Alastor emerges from the shadows, about a foot away from you both. Relief floods you at Alastor's arrival. The sinner immediately drops their hand from your shoulder, their expression betraying their annoyance at being interrupted.

“My dear,” Alastor’s voice is clipped as he takes a step closer to you. “May I have a word with you?”

“Certainly, Alastor!” You reply, taking a step towards him, anything to create distance between you and the sinner.

“Lovely!” His voice is filled with mock joy.

You meet his gaze and see two emotions you hadn’t expected to see: anger and jealousy. You swallow nervously, taking a step around Alastor. His volatile mood generally meant you'd be ending up in his bed, not that you minded, that is.

Alastor turns his glare towards the sinner one last time, feeling a smug satisfaction at the fear in their eyes. He follows closely after you, barely a breath behind, as he ushers you out of the lobby. As soon as you both turn the corner, he rests his hand on your shoulder, dragging you with him as he slinks into the shadows. You gasp, the sensation of your physical body falling away, foreign. You stumble back into form a moment later, catching yourself from falling completely on a bed. His bed, you realise. You take a few deep breaths, calming your beating heart as you turn around to face a seething Radio Demon.

“Alastor-” His mouth is on yours in an instant, silencing anything you had hoped to say.

He pushes you down onto the bed, the room darkening with shadows, extinguishing most of the lights in the room. His anger and jealousy bleed away into desire effortlessly. His claws glide up your sides, pulling your shirt up. He breaks the kiss only to slip it over your head. He palms your breasts through your bra, pinching and rolling a nipple between his fingers. You moan softly, arching into his touch. You shift back as he climbs onto the bed, following you until your back hits the headboard. His shadows shoot forward, wrapping around your wrists as you reach for him. You whine as your hands are forced above your head. The shadows twirl around your wrists, forming solid links that keep them bound. Alastor trails kisses down your neck, nipping at your skin as he slides lower and lower. He wraps his hands around your hips, yanking you forward, your back pressing against the mattress. His fingers hook in the waistband of your pants, pulling them down as he presses kisses, almost reverently, down your body. His lips trail down your neck and chest, between the valley of your breasts, and down to your navel. Your breath hitches as his fingers hook beneath the waistband of your panties, his mouth hovering over your core. He pulls them down your legs excruciatingly slowly, sitting back on his haunches. He looks down at you, his gaze intense, making you want to melt into the mattress below you.

“Alastor..” You whisper, “Is this talking?”

He leans forward, his claws slicing through your bra with practised ease, pulling a gasp from you.

His mouth brushes against your ear, his erection pressing against your core. “You could call it that.” His voice is husky, almost sultry.

You can’t help but ask, “Jealous much, my love?”

His eyes flash with that same jealousy and anger you had spotted earlier. “What do you think, my dear?”

You wrap your legs around his waist, grinding against him. “I think I’m grateful you showed up when you did. They simply weren't getting the hint that I wasn’t interested.”

He hums, his anger palpable as he slides his hands down your legs, curling his fingers beneath your knees. Alastor shifts forward, pressing your legs against your chest while spreading them. More shadows wrap around your legs, growing taught to keep you in place. You were bound and helpless for him. He shifts back, reaching for the clasps of his pants to free his cock. He strokes his length, his eyes dark with arousal as he takes you in. 

“Well perhaps I should make it abundantly clear that you are spoken for.” He says cooly, shifting forward to swipe the head of his cock through your slick entrance, nudging your clit.

You bite back a moan at the contact, your walls fluttering in anticipation. He repeats the motion a few times, your anticipation growing with every teasing touch. He positions his cock at your entrance, rocking his hips forward.

“So wet for me already.” He sounds almost amused as he presses the head of his cock into you.

“Alastor!” You whine loudly as he begins to sink into you, his cock stretching you open.

“That’s it, my little doe.” He coaxes, “I want you to be loud. Let everyone in this establishment know who owns you.”

You blush furiously at the thought of everyone hearing you, but as he sinks into you further, you realise you don’t care. Just as long as he was inside you and he was fucking you, you couldn’t care less who heard you. He chuckles, watching the compliancy flood through you. He sinks the rest of the way into you with a sharp thrust. Your walls flutter around his cock, a moan escaping you both as he bottoms out. Alastor rests against you, burying his face against your neck. His lips press against your skin as he grinds into you. Every roll of his hips is punctuated by a kiss, nip, or a hickey being sucked into your neck. He withdraws his cock further, almost slipping from your entrance before he sinks back into you with a harsh thrust. His change of pace makes you cry out in pleasure, your arms straining against the shadows.

“Fuck! Alastor…” You moan, whimpering when he repeats his movement, thrusting into you harshly again. And again.

With each thrust he picks up his momentum until he’s pounding into you. His groans fill the air, mixing into a cacophony with your moans and the creaking of his bed as it strains underneath you both. Each stroke brushes against your g-spot before sinking deeper and kissing against your cervix. Your pleasure was steadily climbing higher and higher. The coil in your gut taught with tension, bound to snap at any moment.

“Oh fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!” You cry out, so close to that edge, but unable to go over just yet.

Alastor chuckles, brushing another kiss against your neck. His hand slips between your bodies, his fingers honing in on your clit with precision.

He rubs tight circles into the nub, his mouth brushing against your ear. “Cum for me, little one.”

The tension in your stomach snaps, sending you off that edge. You moan out his name loudly, your legs shaking against the hold of his shadows. He fucks you through your release, his pace never faltering for one moment.

A few thrusts later, Alastor's pace falters, a low groan escaping his lips. He slams into you deeply, his cock twitching as his mouth finds the conjunction of your neck and shoulder. His teeth sink into your flesh. You cry out, a mixture of a yelp and a moan, as he paints your walls white with his seed. He stills, seated right against your cervix as he slowly pulls his mouth from your neck. Blood spills from where his teeth punctured your skin. He runs his tongue over the wound, lapping up your blood eagerly. You shudder at the feeling, a small whimper leaving you as he soothes the wound.

His cock softens, slipping from your cunt. Begrudgingly, Alastor withdraws from you fully, sitting back on his haunches. His eyes trail over your body, taking in your flushed cheeks, the rise and fall of your chest, the hickeys decorating your neck, alongside his mark bleeding slowly. His eyes slide lower, taking in the way you're bound for him, the way his cum leaks from your used cunt. You almost feel like he's admiring his work, and when he swipes his fingers up your labia to push his leaking seed back into you, you're sure of it.

“Alastor.” You say his name softly, slightly amused as you watch him.

“Hmm?” He responds, more focused on fingering you than what you were saying.

You squeeze your muscles around his fingers, moaning softly. “Don't you think you've made your claim?”

He pulls his fingers from your heat, meeting your eyes. “Hm, well I suppose. You are covered with my marks and my scent.”

He brings his fingers to your lips and obediently you take his fingers into your mouth. You swirl your tongue around his digits, a soft moan escaping you at the taste of you both. He pulls his fingers away, satisfied, before snapping to banish the shadows keeping you bound. Exhaustion floods through you, your body falling limply to his bed. With another snap you find yourself cleaned up, dressed in pyjamas, with your wound bandaged.

Alastor lays beside you, drawing you into his arms. “After tonight everyone will know you're mine.” He sounds so pleased, so proud of himself.

It makes you laugh softly, resting your head against his chest. You listen to his heartbeat for a moment, finding comfort in being in his arms.

You break the silence, “Husk can't make anymore comments about me now.”

Alastor rolls his eyes, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “oh no, whatever will I do without Husker’s input?”

You snort, placing a kiss against his chest. “You're a dick. But I love you anyway.”

His gaze softens as he looks down at you, all feelings of anger and jealousy completely forgotten. With you in his arms, murmuring words of love, Alastor knows without a doubt that you're his. He places a kiss against the top of your head, drawing blankets over the both of you as he holds you.

“I love you too, my doe. Now get some rest. I'll see you in a bit, hm?” His voice is soft, loving.

You close your eyes, allowing yourself to fall asleep in his arms. You might have been in Hell, but being in Alastor's arms was your form of Heaven.

[neon--nightmare]

SO EACH FRESH PARASITE CANONICALLY HAS LIKE,, ONE ‘POWER.’ fresh doesnt have one bc he can use the abilities/magic of the host body, which his other parasites can’t!! the powers also get stronger the more they age, but not only is it rare for fresh parasites to even live long enough to take a host (fresh usually produces them involuntarily, spits them out into a bucket, and crushes them all into powder bc theyre competition and put him directly at risk) they tend to either get tracked down by him later or well. die due to other circumstances bc they were just born and tend not to be the best at subtlety/controlling and using their power with zero experience <- I NEED TO MAKE A FRESH PARASITE OC LORE GUIDE SOMETIME

toffee’s (my fresh parasite oc) power was literal emotional manipulation (e.g. if they touched you they could make you feel what they wanted, not by overwriting your current emotions BUT more just. adding them on top.) but they also had all the subtlety of a steamroller because they were barely a few months old AND could only do the most basic emotions (happiness, sadness, fear, anger)

oh toffee my toffee.. iirc if they lived long enough for personal growth theyd end up with DEBILITATINGLY low self esteem. if someone you cared about was sad and you had the ability to smother their misery out with happiness, calm them down and make it easier, wouldnt it be at least a little tempting to take it?

especially if all your life, that was your gift, your solution to every problem related to others you had, and your ticket to survival in a world that wants you dead merely for existing. you never knew anything else, how to comfort, help, how to be genuine. how to care, when being cared about, any living thing knowing the abomination that you are - it’s terrifying, it’s risky. you’re not very strong, you’re small, and you’ve never known one day of peace in your own short life. never the kind word of a parent, of a friend, of a partner. since the day of your birth, wriggling away like a leech as all your ‘siblings’ were crushed to dust behind you, the only one you’ve ever had is yourself.

and how would the other beings even react if they found out that the whole time they’d known you, any of your emotions weren’t theirs? the joy with you, sadness, fear was magically induced, and you never told them. they can’t trust any of their memories with you. it’s a defense mechanism, but you still did it. you still made the choice, over and over and over again. how could that ever be forgiven? tampering with minds leaves marks, after all.

and if just by being around you the people you cared about felt supernaturally happy, how could you trust that they actually liked you for YOU and not just what you could do for them? they don’t even know you’re a parasite, that the host body you’re forced to take for survival is in constant pain, agony, where the only alrernative is rolling over and letting yourself die. how could you trust if anything they say, the love they profess is true! everyone adores you, but they don’t adore you. they’ll never like you, so does it even matter?

isn’t it easier to shut down, not get attached, not let yourself care? it hurts less that way. treat them all like toys, keep yourself on top. no, better not to think about it at all. you’re just doing what you can to keep yourself alive, to see the sun crest the horizon again tomorrow. distract yourself, take advantage, manipulate, run, run, little thing, and never stop to think. or the awareness of what you are and what you’ve done will destroy you, and there’ll be nothing left.

(slushie’s under the cut so this doesn’t get TOO long!!)

while slushie’s (second fresh parasite oc’s) power was fast regeneration (if their host body was hurt it healed much faster than normal, usually without scars or visible cracks/fractures!) they were very clumsy and developed a very, very high pain tolerance. since unless they were wounded enough to actually lose a limb or something, which they hadn’t yet, there were no consequences besides an unpleasant yet deeply familiar sensation that faded in like, an hour maximum. in their mind that’s how it is for everyone, just a fact of life.

whatever accidents you get in, whatever happens to your host body, it doesn’t matter! you’ll be fine, without a scratch. the idea of a life where you don’t bleed magic every day and wake back up in the morning is nearly impossible to fathom. you nearly die, let yourself be torn apart willingly by those you latch onto with a smile, and get back up, again, and again, and again. you can’t trust anyone who doesn’t hurt you, it’s too unfamiliar, it doesn’t make sense, that’s what you live for. why do others look so horrified when you mention it?

that’s just the way things are, were, and always will be.

[tamagotchikgs]

been trying to figure out just how i am going to explain how wildly my brain has been altered since the last time i saw my therapist && it make me realize all of this has happened in 1 month,,,,,,,,,,, it feels like . eons. eternity . in the best way possible

[mourn-and-watch]

no but essek's abnormal behaviours in the last arc and especially in episode 140 are my roman empire. which is ironic because aeor is something of a roman empire itself. but in all seriousness, it was the episode that made me realise i love essek and his development so much and it kinda summarised it even before caleb's epilogue.

and i mean the "it's not fair" scene specifically. it's like, an epitome of his whole character progression from a person who put An Objectively Important Goal above all else without hesitation to someone who can't help but care for people around even more than his goal, no matter how big and relevant it is.

the mighty nein - and he alongside them - pretty much saved the world and freed an ancient city from thousand-year-long suffering. they defeated nine extremely powerful menacing entities who managed to stay out of everyone's sight for years and were so close to achieving their goal and dooming exandria in the process. they did the impossible and became heroes and somehow, they survived, even though they had bidden farewells a couple of hours ago because they had already understood what they had been facing. and nevertheless. they made it.

and none of them was celebrating.

mighty nein are basically essek's only friends. he knew them to be very unusual people, to put it lightly, loud and stubborn and completely inescapable once they consider you to be one of their own. and they showed him so much kindness and put so much faith in him, they were here playing the most atrocious music ever and digging clay in his backyard for a spell they invented just to help one of theirs and asking him if he could bring them pastries the day after they found out he was lying to them and had started a war. they were chaotic and weird and sometimes unbearable but most importantly they were carrying so much hope with them all this time - a hope they could end the war, a hope they could stop the angel of irons cult, a hope they could get better, a hope he could get better, and now, finally, that they could save their lost friend.

and that hope shattered, just like that, the moments after they'd already made the impossible. they saved so many souls - and then could not get back just that one.

for essek "my intentions were never good they were important" thelyss it just. shouldn't have mattered. they won. it could have been worse. people die and when they die they rarely come back. they should've been happy everyone else barely made it alive.

but for some reason, mighty nein being so defeated after they saved the world exposed him to that overwhelming feeling of injustice and unfairness. and i mean, there were many things essek considered to be unfair, but when i watched his first appearance and his interactions with mighty nein later on til their reunion in aeor arc, i wouldn't dare to guess that one of the things on that list would be something that personal. and personal not even to him.

the thing is, essek didn't even know who that guy was. why mighty nein cared about him so much. he had an idea, i guess, that he was their friend once, or someone in that body was. it was also a person who wanted to unleash a terrifying horrific aberration onto the material plane. it was a person very dedicated to killing essek and his friends - and they still didn't take any pleasure in fighting him. essek didn't feel strongly about lucien or molly, because he never knew them.

i don't think he mourned his death and failed resurrection. he mourned mighty nein's hope, the one they put in him when they had no reason to, the one they offered yasha in the cathedral and the one they kept after the spell for veth failed and the one they carried til the very end because they wanted it to reach molly. they had saved people with this hope. they had saved nations. they had saved the world. but they ended up feeling like it hadn't even been worth anything.

how desperate would it feel, witnessing people who for some reason always saw good in you when they absolutely shouldn't, who made literal miracles out of nothing, who ended wars and fought gods and tricked the hags and freed cities from horrors beyond anyone's comprehension purely because they thought it was the right thing to do and also loved their friends this much, silently crying over a dead body they couldn't bring back to life? how desperate would it feel to realise that with all your knowledge about time you dedicated your life to and threw away any principles for, you can't undo this? no one can. some things are left to fate alone and this time it wasn't kind to them. no matter how much good they did, they still got slapped in the face.

and it was, i think, such a genuine moment of empathy. like, essek is the character who prefers to put up a facade and act distant and self-composed but this time he just. walked away unable to watch this. the could only say to fjord that it wasn't fair. even when he was caught off guard in nicodranas he was able to explain himself and his motives to an extent even though he was a nervous wreck whose extra important plan went to hell the second the only people he cared about appeared. this time he had nothing to elaborate on. it just wasn't fair. it wasn't fair his friends didn't get what they wanted the most. it wasn't fair he couldn't do anything to make it right.

it is such a sad and beautiful and even cathartic scene because it is about person who started a war that destroyed so many lives - and then met this ragtag group of weirdos who saw a lonely stand-offish guy and said "hey, let's be friends!" and didn't even wait for him to answer. he saw them being serious and calculated and he saw them being ridiculous and extremely stupid, he saw their mistrust to outsiders and their loyalty to each other, he made spells with them and paid a visit to their hot tub, he ate their stale pastries and drank their hot chocolate mixed with whiskey, he was welcomed amongst them and in their wonderful home, both in xhorhas before they even found out what he had done and in the tower when they already knew - and then, he saw them mourning their loss, defeated and helpless, and he, a person who believed there were things more important than whole nations, let alone just one life, couldn't help but share the pain they felt. a pure display of compassion from someone who detached himself from it, who didn't believe he could grow into a better person capable of it again, but became one nonetheless without even realising it

[novadreii]

rewatched arrival for the hundredth time. this movie never fails to gut punch me with its approach to determinism. louise embracing her future that she knows every moment of, despite the tremendous loss and pain it contains, with open arms. she doesn't hesitate, or ruminate on how she can try and change it. she accepts it all, the good and the bad, because what she gains is worth it, so many times over for her. she steels herself against a certain future and runs forward to meet it all, to love, learn, and lose, and trusts and leans on herself to live through it all. because that's what life is; it's the joy and the suffering. to try and isolate the joy alone is madness, futility in its purest definition.

comparing her line of thinking to a palindrome (how she named her daughter, hannah), the movie kept emphasizing, "it's the same backwards as it is forwards." it doesn't matter if you can see the end; life is the same whether you live it "forwards" (without knowledge of the future) or "backwards" (with foresight). it doesn't change the significance of your life experiences; to try and avoid certain future pain just because you have the knowledge of it is a zero sum game. you think you win because you avoided pain, but you also avoided the joy that preceded it. the metamorphosis. so you still lose if you try to win, and vice-versa.

all you can do is rush forward and take it all head-on. see this whole beautiful mess as your one most precious gift; this one life, this one chance, a laughably miniature blip on the colossus that is linear time, to experience all there is to feel before you return back to an eternity without perception. it's all worth it, because only in living a full-fledged life open to everything it has to offer does the experience of living turn out to be greater than the sum of its parts; it's in trying to beat the system (avoid pain) that we actually lose.

"if you could see your whole life from start to finish, would you change things?"

"maybe i'd say what i feel more often. i...i don't know."

[wellzofyouth]

That one post of my mine predictably aged like fine wine. Never let somebody on comic twitter in the writer's room😭😭😭 Like imagine a 1 to 1 adaptation of literally any event?? -1b at the box office. "Who are these people???"

[iraqueer]

.

[lavenderyoonji]

pretend this isn’t me you’ve never seen me i don’t exist

[khioneee]

tap out. pt ii.

warnings. mentions of death, emotional distress, grief and loss, pregnancy.

a few years later, another tap-out ceremony arrives, but this time, the air feels different—heavier, somber. simon’s been gone for over a year, his deployment unexpectedly extended due to an incident overseas. you’d been told he couldn’t come home for a while, but that didn’t make the waiting any easier.

today, you stand among families who aren’t just here to tap out their loved ones but to say goodbye to those who didn’t make it home. tears stream down faces as loved ones gather around caskets, grieving the soldiers they’d lost. the sight fills you with a mix of dread and relief, knowing simon is still out there, waiting.

simon stands in formation, rigid as always, but he has a sense for you. before you even appear in his line of sight, he knows you’re near. but imagine his surprise when he catches a glimpse of you in his peripheral vision, a small bundle wrapped securely in your arms.

his heart hammers in his chest, quickening as he realizes what this means. his breath catches, his eyes fixed on you as you approach. you look up at him, your eyes sparkling, a knowing smile on your face as you watch the subtle changes in his expression—the slight twitch of his eyebrows, the way his breathing picks up as it dawns on him.

both of you had been trying for a baby before he left, and now, standing before him, you hold that precious life in your arms. it had been a struggle going through pregnancy without him, feeling his absence during every kick and every sleepless night. but seeing him now, looking more than ready to meet your child, all the pain fades away, replaced by a joy so profound it fills every inch of you.

‘daddy’s home,’ you whisper softly, tilting the blanket so simon can see her tiny face, fast asleep, a perfect mirror of him in miniature. she’s got his nose, his quiet strength already etched into her tiny features.

with tears in your eyes, you reach up, your hand finding his cheek, tapping him out in the gentlest of touches.

the moment your hand connects, simon moves, breaking formation as he pulls both of you into his arms, holding you close as if he’ll never let go. his voice is thick with emotion, barely a whisper as he murmurs, ‘my loves.’

you knew your husband had a reputation in the military—a man as cold and unyielding as steel, a fortress no one could break. but as he held you and your newborn in his arms, that carefully built facade cracked, revealing a vulnerable side of him that only you ever saw. the tough soldier was gone, replaced by a man whose heart lay entirely with his family.

‘do you want to hold her?’ you ask softly, watching his eyes light up with a blend of surprise and joy.

‘her?’ he whispers, voice catching on the single word, as if it’s almost too much for him to believe.

you nod, smiling through a haze of happy tears. ‘her.’

with slow, reverent movements, you pass your daughter to him, watching as she looks impossibly tiny cradled in his strong arms. simon looks down at her with a mixture of wonder and fierce protectiveness, as though he’s already memorizing every detail of her face.

as if sensing her father’s gaze, the baby yawns, a soft little sound that makes simon’s eyes shine with awe. you catch the faintest smile pulling at his lips, a rare, tender expression that he reserves only for moments like this.

he leans down, pressing his lips gently to her forehead. ‘never gonna let anything happen to you,’ he murmurs, voice thick with love and quiet promise.

while simon was lost in his quiet moment with your daughter, a loud shout cut through the air, breaking the peaceful silence.

‘is that our baby i see?!’

simon’s head snapped up, his expression immediately shifting to something harder. he turned to see soap grinning widely, practically bouncing with excitement. with a sigh, simon reached over and smacked the back of soap’s head, though his movements were careful not to jostle the sleeping baby in his arms.

‘there’s people grieving, you idiot,’ simon muttered, but soap only snickered, completely unfazed.

‘and what do you mean, ‘our’? she’s y/n’s and mine. you’re not part of this relationship, mate,’ simon added, his tone dripping with mock irritation.

but soap, undeterred, just ignored him and held out his hands, wiggling his fingers in a display of exaggerated excitement. ‘oh, come on! let me hold our child!’

simon groaned, looking down at you with a glance that seemed to ask, ‘do i really have to put up with this?’ but he couldn’t hide the tiniest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as soap’s enthusiasm filled the air around you.

reluctantly, and with another sigh, simon finally leaned over, carefully passing your daughter to soap, though not without a low, ‘if you don’t keep her calm, you’re not holding her again.’

soap just grinned, taking her into his arms as if he’d won the lottery, cradling her gently and cooing softly.

soon after, the rest of task force 141 gathered around, drawn by the excitement, each member eager to catch a glimpse of the new addition to the family.

you and simon stood to the side, watching with cautious eyes as they took turns holding her, each one adopting a careful gentleness you wouldn’t have expected from hardened soldiers.

price held her with a proud grin, murmuring something about ‘training her to be the next captain,’ while gaz made her giggle softly with his gentle cooing. even the usually reserved roach softened as he held her, a rare smile tugging at his lips.

you glanced up at simon, watching his face as he stood beside you, arms crossed in a show of casual indifference.

but you knew him too well. beneath the mask of stoicism, there was something warmer, a subtle softness in his gaze as he watched his team, his family, sharing this moment with him. this gruff, unbreakable soldier, who had once thought he’d lost everything, had found a new family among them, one that shared in his joys and sorrows alike.

reaching over, you took his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. he didn’t say anything, just gave your hand a quick squeeze in return, a quiet acknowledgment. but you could see it in his eyes, that gratitude for a family he never expected to find—a family that had now become part of yours.

[idkyetxoxo]

Aemond Targaryen - Embracing the Unexpected

Summary - Aemond and his wife navigate the fear, love, and uncertainty of new parenthood, discovering that the joy of new life is irresistible, even when it arrives as an unexpected set of multiple babies.

Pairing - Aemond Targaryen x reader

Warnings - Childbirth (brief)

Word count - 2482

Masterlist for Aemond • House of the Dragon General Masterlist

"You startled me," I gasped, my voice trembling as I felt a pair of hands trail softly across my bare shoulders. My heart raced, pounding in my chest, as I clung desperately to the discarded fabric of my gown.

"It's only me," Aemond murmured, his voice low and soothing. He pressed a gentle kiss to the nape of my neck, his hands gliding along my sides. 

I drew in a shaky breath, trying to calm myself. With a subtle wriggle, I slipped out of his embrace and stepped away, wrapping the nightgown more securely around myself before turning to face him.

His expression was a mixture of concern and sadness.

"What's the matter?" he asked softly as I made my way to the bed. I sat down, crossing my legs and began to braid my hair with methodical movements.

"Nothing," I replied, barely above a whisper. Aemond sat beside me, his fingers gently untangling the strands of my hair as he watched me with a worried gaze.

"Then why have you been keeping me at a distance these past few weeks?" he asked, his lips brushing against the side of my neck. 

I gripped the sheets tightly, my face averted as the flush of distress spread from my cheeks to the tips of my ears.

He pulled back, his eyes searching mine with a pained expression. 

"Am I repulsing you?" he asked, his voice thick with hurt. Before I could respond, he continued, "Do you no longer want me?"

I shook my head quickly, my heart aching at the thought of causing him such pain. I moved closer to him, desperate to reassure him. 

"No, it's not that at all. I promise," I said, my voice earnest. I could see the hurt in his eyes, and it made me feel even more unsettled.

"Aemond, it's just..." I started, the words tangling in my throat as I struggled to articulate my feelings. My mind raced, the weight of the truth pressing down on me until I couldn't hold it back any longer. 

"I'm with child," I blurted out, the confession leaving my lips before I could second-guess it.

His reaction was instant. His head snapped towards me, eye wide with shock. 

For a moment, his face lit up with joy, but as he registered my anxiety, that joy dimmed. The light in his expression faded, and he slowly stood from the bed, turning away from me as if to shield himself from what he feared might come next.

"Wait," I cried out, desperation seizing my heart as tears welled up in my eyes. The mere thought of him walking away from me, from us, was unbearable. "Please, don't leave."

His back remained turned, but his voice was sharp, carrying the weight of his wounded pride. 

"Does the thought of having a child with me cause such distress?" he asked, his words laced with bitterness. I shook my head, realizing too late that he couldn't see my silent denial.

"No, no, Aemond, it's not like that at all," I pleaded, my voice cracking under the strain of my emotions. "I'm just... afraid."

Finally, he turned around to face me, his expression a mixture of confusion and concern. 

"Why are you afraid?" he asked, his voice softer now, though it was clear he was struggling to understand.

"I'm afraid that I won't be enough," I whispered, my deepest fears spilling out into the open. 

"That I'll fail you, that I'll fail our child. I'm terrified of what's to come, of not knowing how to be a mother, of not being able to protect our child from the dangers of this world and most of all, I'm afraid that you'll see me differently now, that I'll lose you in ways I can't even fathom."

Aemond's expression softened, and he took a step closer to me, reaching out to cup my face in his hands. 

"You're not going to lose me," he said, his voice steady and full of conviction. "We'll face this together, whatever comes. You're not alone in this, and I will be by your side every step of the way. We'll figure it out, I promise you."

Tears spilt over, and I leaned into his touch, finding comfort in the warmth of his hands. His words were a balm to my anxious heart, but the fear still lingered, a shadow that would take time to fully dispel. 

Eight months later, I found myself pacing the chamber, one hand pressed against my back, the other cradling my swollen belly. 

Each step was a struggle, my breaths coming in short, laboured gasps as the pain in my abdomen grew more intense. Every contraction felt like a wave crashing over me, leaving me trembling and weak.

I groaned, my forehead resting heavily against the bedpost as another contraction tore through me. My hair was matted to my forehead, damp with sweat, and my body ached under the immense strain. 

It felt as though I might burst from the pressure, the sheer force of it overwhelming me.

"Where is Aemond? Where is he?" I gasped, my voice tinged with desperation as I scanned the room. 

Faces blurred around me, the maids and midwives moving quickly, but none of them were the ones I needed to see.

"The father's presence is not customary during the birth," the maester explained calmly, though his words were drowned out by the scream that erupted from my lips. 

The pain was unbearable, and the thought of going through this without Aemond made it worse.

"I want Aemond!" I cried out, pushing away the handmaidens who were attempting to soothe me. Their gentle hands and soft words were of no comfort, only he could provide that.

As if summoned by my plea, the door to the chamber burst open, and Aemond rushed in, his face pale with worry. Without a moment's hesitation, he ran to my side, his arms encircling me in a protective embrace.

"Aemond, please, stay with me. I can't do this alone," I sobbed, clutching at him as if he were my lifeline.

"My prince," the maester began, his voice tinged with disapproval, "it is not customary for the father to be present—"

"I do not care what is customary," Aemond snapped, his voice steely with resolve. "If my wife wants me to stay, I will stay."

He guided me toward the bed, his hands gentle but firm as he helped me lie down. Another scream tore from my throat, the pain intensifying as my body prepared for the final stage of labour. 

Aemond held my hand tightly, his presence grounding me amid the chaos.

"You're doing so well," he murmured, his lips brushing against my temple as he tried to soothe me. "I'm here, love. I'm not going anywhere."

Each contraction came with a force that seemed to split me in two. Time lost all meaning as I focused solely on Aemond's steady presence.

The pain was blinding, but knowing he was there kept me from being completely consumed by it.

Minutes stretched into hours, each moment a battle as my body worked tirelessly to bring our child or so we thought into the world. Aemond never wavered, his hands steady on mine, his words a constant source of comfort. 

When I felt I could push no more, when I was certain I had nothing left to give, his voice would pull me back, reminding me that I was not alone.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the maester's voice broke through the haze of pain. 

"The babe is crowning," he announced, and I gasped, the realization that the end was near bringing a rush of determination.

"Just a little more," Aemond whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "You're almost there."

With a final, desperate push, I felt a release, and the sound of a baby's cry filled the room. Tears welled up in my eyes as I collapsed against the pillows, utterly exhausted but relieved beyond measure.

"It's a boy," the maester announced, placing the squirming, crying infant in Aemond's arms. His face was a mixture of awe and disbelief as he looked down at our son, and then back at me.

"You did it," he whispered, his voice filled with pride.

Before I could respond, another contraction hit, more intense than before. My eyes widened in shock, and I looked at Aemond, fear creeping back into my heart. 

"There's another one," I gasped, my hand gripping his with renewed urgency.

The maester's expression shifted from concern to realization. "There's another babe," he confirmed, moving quickly to assist with the unexpected second birth.

Aemond's eyes were wide with shock, but he quickly regained his composure, focusing entirely on me. 

"You can do this," he said, his voice steady. "I'm right here with you."

The second labour was just as intense, but somehow, knowing what to expect made it more bearable. Aemond's hand never left mine, his voice guiding me through each agonizing contraction. After what felt like an eternity, a second cry filled the room.

"It's another boy," the maester said, handing the newborn to a waiting handmaiden to clean and wrap.

Aemond's eye was shining with tears as he looked between our two sons.

Before I could catch my breath, a sharp pain tore through me once more, I felt as though my body was being torn apart.. My heart raced, panic rising as I realized there was yet another child.

The maester's expression turned serious as he realized the truth. "Triplets," he said, a mix of amazement and concern in his voice. "This will be the last one."

Exhaustion threatened to overwhelm me, but Aemond's presence kept me from sinking into despair. 

"You're almost there," he whispered, his voice strained with emotion. "Just one more, love. You can do this."

With every ounce of strength I had left, I pushed through the final wave of pain. The third birth was the hardest, with my body protesting the entire way, but finally, mercifully, it was over. 

The last cry filled the room, softer and more delicate than the others.

"It's a girl," the maester announced, his tone gentler now, as he carefully swaddled our daughter.

Aemond was speechless, his eye wide with disbelief and joy as he looked at the three tiny bundles in the hands of the midwives. "Three..." he whispered as if he couldn't quite believe it. "We have three."

I collapsed back onto the pillows, utterly spent but filled with a profound sense of love and accomplishment. Tears streamed down my face as Aemond placed our daughter in my arms, her tiny features perfect and serene.

He sat beside me, holding our two sons, his expression one of utter devotion. "You did it," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "You brought them into the world."

Despite the exhaustion, despite the pain, nothing could overshadow the overwhelming joy of that moment.

A couple of hours passed in a haze of exhaustion and bliss. The room, once filled with the frantic energy of childbirth, had quieted into a peaceful sanctuary. 

The three tiny bundles nestled in our arms were the centre of our world, their soft breaths and occasional whimpers the only sounds breaking the stillness.

Aemond sat beside me on the bed, cradling our two sons, while our daughter rested against my chest. I marvelled at their delicate features, the softness of their skin, and the way they seemed to fit perfectly into our arms. 

It was overwhelming to think that just hours ago, they had been growing inside me, and now they were here each a tiny miracle.

The door creaked open, and I looked up to see Alicent entering the chamber. Her face, usually so composed and regal, softened as she took in the sight before her. 

Her eyes shone with a mixture of pride and love as she approached the bed, her steps careful and measured.

"Aemond," she greeted her son, her voice warm with affection. "And how are you, my dear?" she asked, turning to me with a smile that reached her eyes.

"Tired, but happy," I replied, my voice barely above a whisper, still feeling the lingering exhaustion from the ordeal.

Alicent's gaze shifted to the three babes, her expression one of awe. She reached out to gently stroke the cheek of our daughter, her fingers tender and light. 

"They're beautiful," she said softly, her voice filled with admiration. "Three little blessings. I don't think I've ever seen anything so perfect."

I smiled, my heart swelling with pride and joy. 

"They are," I agreed, my voice catching in my throat as I looked down at our daughter. The love I felt for them was overwhelming, almost too much to contain.

Alicent moved her gaze to the two boys in Aemond's arms, her smile deepening as she reached out to touch their tiny hands. 

"Have you decided on names?" she asked, her tone gentle as she looked between us.

Aemond and I exchanged a glance, a silent conversation passing between us. We had spent countless nights talking about names, but now that they were here, the decision felt weightier, more significant.

Finally, Aemond spoke, his voice soft yet steady. "We have," he said, his eyes meeting his mother's. "Our daughter will be named Viserra,"

Alicent's eyes softened further, her smile widening. "Viserra," she repeated, the name rolling off her tongue with reverence. "A beautiful name for a beautiful girl."

"And our sons," I added, my voice trembling with emotion, "will be named Vaegon and Viserion."

Alicent's eyes flickered with recognition, and she nodded approvingly. "Vaegon and Viserion," she echoed, her voice filled with pride. "Strong names for strong boys. They will carry them well."

She looked between us, her expression one of deep affection and pride. "You have chosen well," she said, her voice filled with warmth.

Alicent leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to my forehead. 

"I am so proud of you both," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "You have brought such light into this world, and I know you will be wonderful parents."

She stepped back, giving us a moment of privacy, her eyes lingering on the three tiny babes who had already stolen all our hearts. 

"Rest now," she said, her voice tender. "You have earned it and when you're ready, we will celebrate these new additions to our family."

As she left the room, the warmth of her presence lingered, filling the chamber with a sense of peace and fulfilment. Aemond looked at me, his face filled with love and gratitude. 

"Viserra, Vaegon, and Viserion," he repeated softly as if the names were a prayer, a promise for the future.

I nodded, smiling through my tears as I looked down at our children. "They're perfect," I whispered, my heart swelling with love for the tiny lives we had brought into the world.

Aemond leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to my lips, his hand resting gently on our daughter's back. 

As we sat there, surrounded by the quiet strength of our love and the promise of our future, I knew that no matter what challenges lay ahead, we would face them together.

A/n - I swear thinking of the names took longer than writing the whole thing literally had to hop onto reddit.

Aemond tag list - @darylandbethfanforever9 @lessdepressy

[oofthwoods]

STEPS TO YOU! ── ˙ ̟ lando norris !!

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 :: lando norris hates the idea of soulmates. for him, it's hard to see everyone in his life with a matching tattoo, or a timer, or the inability to see colors, while he has to be content with the fact that he may never find his perfect match. that is, until he starts to see mysterious footprints around the paddock, hinting at a path he never expected.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 :: this is my confession that my favorite soulmate!aus are the ones where they don't think they have one. the sadness of thinking you are not destined for a great love only to find out that there's someone out there for you??? mwah chefs kiss

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 :: to be added.

LANDO NORRIS WAS A ROMANTIC AT HEART.

He had a secret love for romantic comedies. Watching couples overcome comical obstacles before finding their happy ending always brought a smile to his face. Though he would never admit it, he found joy in the cliched plots and endearing moments portrayed on screen.

The Brit also enjoyed weddings. Family, friends, or mere acquaintances— it didn't matter. To him, the ceremony was a tangible display of true love that existed beyond the silver screen and scripted Hollywood romances.

Despite everything, Lando knew that he would never experience anything like it. Everyone around him seemed to have a sure sign that they were meant for great love: Carlos with his past life visions shared with his beloved, George with his key pendant symbolizing his destiny, and even Oscar, who occasionally vanished, leaving a girl in his place. But not Lando. No visions, no tattoos, no words etched on his arm foretelling what his soulmate would say upon their first encounter. He felt like an outsider in a world where everyone seemed to have found their perfect match, while he knew he would be alone forever.

As Lando's realization sunk in, it was an emotional rollercoaster. He wasn't just a late bloomer; he wasn't meant to blossom at all. In his childhood innocence, he embraced his supposed independence and declared that girls were gross and he could live without someone by his side forever. But as adolescence took over, he found himself increasingly on the sidelines, watching as close friends shared stories of connection and love, filling him with a painful mix of envy and despair.

Every tale of someone else's romance felt like a dagger to the heart, a wound that refused to heal. Lando couldn't help but wonder what he had done to deserve this solitary fate in a world where everyone else seemed to find their soulmates.

Occasionally, he gazed up at the dark expanse above, yearning for solutions. Had the universe overlooked him or was love just not in his destiny? Some claimed that soulmates were like atoms connected since before the Big Bang, their bond enduring despite eons passing. But what did this mean for Lando? Was he destined for a solitary life even before the cosmos took shape?

As an adult, Lando struggled to convince himself that he had come to terms with his fate. He told himself over and over again that finding true love was possible without a soulmate being involved. It didn't have to be some cosmic arrangement. Yet, deep down, even as he tried to comfort himself with this reasoning, he couldn't shake the desire for something more. He yearned to be uniquely crafted for someone, to be cherished wholeheartedly despite his imperfections and weaknesses.

Lando shook his head, pulling himself out of his thoughts and back into the present moment. The unforgiving Melbourne sun beat down on him, its golden rays spreading across the circuit. Heat radiated all around him, almost suffocating in its intensity. He cursed his decision to wear an orange hoodie that morning as a bead of sweat rolled down his forehead. Walking from the entrance to his garage, he couldn't escape the discomfort caused by the heat. The thick fabric clung to his skin, trapping him in its grasp as the temperature continued to rise.

Beside him, Oscar emanated an infectious energy. The pilot was fully immersed in the atmosphere of his home country's race, evident through his beaming smile. Despite the hustle and bustle around them, they maintained a calm demeanor, as if they were in a world of their own, oblivious to the cameras of the photographers trying to capture every moment.

Lando observed Oscar's anxious glances, as if he was searching for a particular person.

Deciding to break the silence, Lando asked, "Has your family arrived?"

Oscar's mind seemed elsewhere as he replied, "Oh, yeah. They're here. I'm just looking for someone else."

Someone else. Lando's brow furrowed as he thought about the mysterious bond between Oscar and his soulmate. Every now and then, without warning or explanation, the Australian would switch places with the girl he was connected to. Initially, Lando feared that this could happen during a race and result in a disastrous outcome. However, he soon realized that the universe was smart enough to only make these switches when both were safe.

"You met her?" Lando finally asked, curious about Oscar's soulmate. He looked at him with confusion before smiling sadly.

"Not yet, and she's not the one i'm looking or," Oscar replied, bringing a small sense of relief to Lando. He immediately felt guilty for wishing that others wouldn't find their soulmates, knowing it was selfish and petty.

Additionally, Lando could recall a peculiar incident from the previous year, when Oscar suddenly disappeared, and a girl had surprisingly turned up in the McLaren garage, clad in pajamas and exuding an unusual calmness about the situation. He remembered her as a charming and witty girl, and the thought that Oscar had someone special to share his life with brought a comforting warmth to Lando's heart, though it was tinged with a hint of jealousy.

"I have a friend coming over today," Oscar interjected, breaking through Lando's thoughts. "We went to elementary school together, but it's been a while since we've seen each other. She finished college last year, and managed to take a few days off to visit."

Lando nodded along as Oscar talked about his friend, dividing his attention between their conversation and the busy paddock. He couldn't help but notice weird stains on the ground and wished people would be more considerate of the space.

The two McLaren pilots still had a few minutes before the first meeting and the final free practice before qualifying. They decided to take refuge from the scorching sun inside their respective driver's rooms, seeking a moment of tranquility before the hustle and bustle of the track.

Lando made his way down the narrow path to the driver's room, noticing strange marks on the floor. The team garage was typically spotless, and he couldn't comprehend how it had become so messy.

"Who the hell made this mess?" Lando furrowed his brow and glanced around the room.

Oscar, perplexed, asked, "What mess?"

With a chuckle, Lando replied, "Are you blind? Look at the damn floor, it's covered in stains." He pointed to the ground with his arm.

Oscar tried to play along, forcing a laugh. "Mate, did you hit your head on the way here? The floor is spotless, as always."

Lando's eyes narrowed as he examined the stains on the ground more closely. What he imagined was dirt from a worker's shoe, appeared to not be random splatters; they seemed deliberate, almost forming a pattern. And then, in a sudden moment of clarity, Lando's heart skipped a beat as he realized the stains looked like footsteps.

"This is strange," he muttered, crouching down to get a better look.

Hearing Lando's concern, Oscar joined him and peered at the marks. "What are you thinking?"

Lando's mind was filled with various thoughts. He wondered if the intense heat was causing him to hallucinate. A thought crossed his mind that someone had wandered into the garage barefoot, possibly in search of new shoes. Everything seemed mildly possible.

Despite his efforts to suppress it, a nagging part inside him reminded him of the nights he spent wondering about potential invisible soulmate connections. He couldn't help but recall the excitement of discovering invisible threads - like leaving colorful marks upon touch or having their thoughts connect when within a certain distance, almost like telepathy. Things that wouldn't appear on his body when he turned eight, but still meant he had someone.

The 15-year-old version of himself seemed to be pounding on his chest, making him remember the thread through footsteps that he had long forgotten about, and started to question if even existed. Yet, Oscar didn't seem to notice the distinct marks on the floor and Lando couldn't possibly be hallucinating from dehydration.

Oscar placed his hand on Lando's back and felt a shiver run through his friend's body. "Lando, you're starting to worry me. Do you want to go to the medical bay?"

Lando quickly got up from the floor, shaking off Oscar's touch. "No need, Os. I'm fine." He forced a smile, but there was a lump in his throat as he tried to swallow down the fear and uncertainty. He didn't want to get his hopes up again, only to have them crushed once more.

"What do you think of the place?" Oscar's voice startles you from behind,.

A smile lights up your face as you turn around to see your friend in person for the first time in a long while. You eagerly embrace him with open arms, attempting to lift him off the ground like you used to when you were kids.

"Wow, okay, you're not as light as you used to be."

Oscar chuckles, and playfully returns the favor by lifting you up. "Nope, I'm not. Or maybe you're just not as strong anymore."

You tease, giving his shoulder a light slap. He winces and holds onto it, pretending it hurts.

"It's impressive." You answer his previous question. "So many people, so much noise, but I can see why you love it here." You take in the bustling atmosphere with a laugh.

The Aussie leans back against something and asks with a playful glint in his eye, "So, what's been going on in your world?"

You chuckle, immediately feeling at ease with him. "Just the usual post-grad life. Trying to figure it all out."

"Will you stick with auto sports?" He asks hopefully.

"I have an interview lined up to shadow a F2 journalist, so let's hope for the best." You make a gesture of crossed fingers. You thought that graduating with a degree in Journalism would give you direction in life, but almost a year later, you're still searching for your calling.

"It's already yours. I've never met anyone who could get honest answers from drivers like you do." He tried to calm you.

"I interviewed you once for a college project, Os. I don't think that counts." You chuckle.

"Come on, I was in f2 back then. That's definitely something to put on your resume."

"I'll keep that in mind." You nod.

It didn't feel like it had been so long since you two last saw each other in person.

As your gaze sweeps over the cluttered garage once more, something strange catches your eye, and you furrow your brow in confusion.

"Isn't Easter still a ways off?" Your eyes follow a trail of small, misshapen footprints leading around the room and you can't help but comment, "And whoever left those prints definitely didn't excel in their Arts & Crafts classes. They look nothing like bunny paws."

Oscar couldn't believe it. What was going on with his friends and footprints that day?

He squints and shakes his head. "I don't see anything," he says, trying to follow your gaze.

"Of course you don't. I've been telling you to get your eyes checked for years," you tease with a laugh. You walk over to him and point directly at the pawprint (that looks more like a footprint) on the ground that you can clearly see, even though it's slightly faded. Oscar looks at you with confusion.

"Are you and Lando in on this together?" He starts to suspect a prank.

"Lando? Your teammate?" You shake your head. "I've never even met him, Os." A mischievous grin spreads across your face. "But maybe I should."

Oscar's gaze shifted from the empty space in front of him. "Don't even go there, missy. Teammates are strictly off-limits."

You couldn't help but tease, "Why, does he have a soulmate?"

Oscar used to give you pitying looks whenever you mentioned not having a love thread, but it had been a while since then. He missed all of you - including your bad puns.

"I don't know. We've never discussed it," Oscar shuddered. He and Lando had grown closer over the past year, but the Brit never seemed to want to talk about that topic, so Oscar left it alone.

You continue to tease, "I still don't see why he's off-limits."

"Can you imagine how traumatizing it would be to see Lando making out with my best friend?"

"It wouldn't be any weirder than collecting bugs with my best friend and then suddenly having a random girl in front of me," your counterpart argues.

"Touché" It wouldn't be right for Oscar to dictate who you should pursue, especially since you had no control over randomly talking to his soulmate after swapping places. "It still would be fucking weird."

"You know, if two people saw those pawprints and you didn't, I think it's safe to say who's the one in the wrong here," You nudged him playfully. "Maybe you're just not looking close enough. Let me guide you."

Stepping closer to the mysterious prints, you crouched down and examined them closely. "They seem... fresh, don't they?"

Oscar joined you, squinting his eyes as he tried to make out any shape or form on the ground. "I swear, there's nothing there. Are you sure this isn't some elaborate prank?"

You shook your head, running your fingers over the indentations. "No, these are real."

Despite trying his best, Oscar couldn't make out what he was supposed to be looking at. "Alright, you got me. Congrats on your and Lando's little joke."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Your frustration grows as you wonder how he could have missed the obvious footprints right in front of him.

"He saw these so-called "footprints" too." He gestured with air quotes, convinced that his best friend and teammate were up to some strange prank together.

Before you could protest, someone called out your friend's name. "I have to go, it's my engineer," he said, getting up from the floor. He gave you a friendly smile that quickly turned into a knowing smirk. "And don't follow the footprints, Alice. They won't lead you to wonderland."

Wonderland or not, you would be stupid not to follow it.

As you follow the trail of footprints through the crowded garage, your curiosity builds with each step. You maneuver carefully around toolboxes and piles of spare parts, focusing on the prints as they lead you deeper into the maze-like space.

At last, you reach the end of the trail and come face to face with a closed door. Your heart races with excitement and anticipation as you stare at the sign above it: "Lando Norris' Driver's Room"

You furrow your brow in confusion. How could Norris' driver's room be connected to the strange footprints you've been tracking? Is this some kind of elaborate prank that Oscar roped Lando into as well?

Despite the nagging feeling that something was off, you stood your ground and refused to give into whatever it was that was trying to lure you in. You mentally prepared yourself to turn around and head back to Oscar's garage, where at least you felt familiar, and he couldn't pull pranks on you in front of his entire team.

And then, as if on cue, the door swings open, revealing Lando Norris standing on the other side. His presence fills the doorway, commanding attention with an effortless grace that leaves you breathless.

In that moment, you can't help but drink in the sight of him—the way the soft glow of the room illuminates his features, casting his angular jawline and chiseled cheekbones in sharp relief. His eyes, a mesmerizing shade of azure, hold a glint of mischief as they meet yours, and you find yourself drowning in their depths.

Lando is clad in his fireproofs, the sleek material hugging his lean frame in all the right places. His racesuit hangs by his waist, a vibrant burst of color against the backdrop of the room. There's a confidence in the way he carries himself, a hint of swagger that speaks of countless hours spent behind the wheel of a racing car.

But it's not just his physical appearance that captivates you—it's the strange electricity that seems to crackle in the air when your eyes meet.

Your heart skips a beat as you find yourself in a predicament, searching for a clever excuse. You definitely didn't want to appear as a stalker-fan who snuck in. "Um, I was just... uh..."

"Oscar?" Lando interrupts, a knowing glint in his eyes.

"Yes, Oscar!" You latch onto the name like a lifeline. "I'm a friend of his."

"He mentioned you," Lando nods, a friendly grin spreading across his face.

"Ah, so Oscar's been gossiping about me, huh?" You tease, a playful smirk curling your lips as you lock gazes with Lando. "I hope he said only nice things."

Lando chuckles softly, leaning casually against the doorframe. "Oh, absolutely. But he forgot to mention how gorgeous you are"

You feel a warm flush creeping up your cheeks at his compliment, and you playfully bat your eyelashes. "Oh, did he now? Well, I'll have to thank him for the rave reviews later."

An easy silence falls between you, charged with unspoken chemistry and the promise of potential. Lando breaks the quiet with a mischievous smirk, closing the gap between you.

"Care for a little tour while we wait for Oscar? I promise not to lead you astray... too much," he adds with a wink.

Despite the lingering adrenaline from the close call and the unexpected encounter with Lando, you find yourself nodding eagerly. Oscar had been too occupied to give you a proper tour, and you were itching to explore the place.

"Lead the way, but I'm holding you to that promise of not getting lost," you tease, motioning for him to lead. As he begins to walk, you fall into step beside him, the playful brush of your shoulders sending sparks flying.

"Do you have a habit of getting lost?" Lando asks with a playful glint in his eyes.

You laugh, shaking your head in mock dismay. "Define 'a habit'," you retort, a playful sparkle in your eyes. "When we were younger, Oscar and I used to roam around this massive mall near our homes. I lost count of how many times he had to page me over the speakers because I got sidetracked and wandered off."

"I'll have to keep a close eye on you, then," Lando quips. "Can't have Oscar's friend getting lost on my watch."

You chuckle at his teasing, reveling in the easy banter between you two. As he continues to show you around the McLaren paddock, pointing out various spots and sharing amusing anecdotes, you find yourself drawn to his effortless charm and infectious energy.

"You know, I never expected today to turn out like this," you admit, stealing a sideways glance at Lando. "But I'm glad it did. Especially if it means getting a personal tour from McLaren's charming star driver."

Lando beams at your words, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "Consider yourself lucky, then. Not everyone gets the VIP treatment around here." He pauses for a moment before adding with a playful grin, "Although, I must confess, it's rather challenging to focus on giving a proper tour with you flashing that smile."

Your heart flutters at his words, but you play it cool with a playful roll of your eyes. "You need to work on your flirting skills, dude."

"But do they work?" Lando counters with a cheeky smile.

"Maybe. Keep trying, and who knows where it might lead."

"Ah, so you're admitting my charm has potential?" Lando shoots back, a playful glint in his eyes.

"I didn't say that," you reply with a smirk..

"Ouch, that hurts," Lando feigns offense, placing a hand over his heart dramatically. "Here I am, giving you the grand tour, and you won't even give me credit for my rizz."

"Okay, okay, maybe just a little credit," you concede with a laugh, nudging him lightly with your elbow. "But don't let it get to your head."

Lando grins. "Don't worry, I'll try to contain my ego."

As the tour comes to an end, you and Lando bid your goodbyes, thanking each other for the enjoyable time spent together. It's time for qualifying, and Lando is escorted towards his car by a member of his team. Just before he gets in, he looks back towards you with a faint smile. In that moment, his gaze locks with yours, and he freezes as a realization dawns upon him. The footsteps he had noticed earlier, weaving through the McLaren paddock, had a familiar pattern. They were from you.

He looks back to the path he took with you, and the marks on the floor as clear as day. They appear in front of his driver's room, in the small cafeteria where he took you to get the best coffee from the paddock (his words), and they follow you as you make your way to Oscar's side of the garage.

Lando's lips part slightly, as if he couldn't get enough air.

Before Lando could take a step towards you, his engineer's firm grip on his arm pulls him back. "Where are you going? Quali is about to start," his engineer reminds him, snapping him out of the mesmerizing realization.

Lando looks torn, torn between the exhilaration of discovering a potential connection he never noticed before and the responsibility of his racing career. He gives you one last longing look before reluctantly turning away, his mind buzzing with newfound thoughts and possibilities.

As he slides into the driver's seat and revs up the engine, he can't shake off the image of your smile, the sound of your laughter, and now, the footprints you left behind that seemed to lead straight to him. The engine roars to life, drowning out his racing thoughts as he steels himself for the high-stakes qualifying round ahead.

There were various theories floating around regarding why Lando secured the pole position. Some attributed it to an engine change, while others praised McLaren's performance on the specific circuit. But deep down, Lando knew that his main motivation was to finish everything quickly so he could talk to you.

He heard his engineer's voice in his ear through the radio, but he wasn't really paying attention. He knew he had interviews to do, photos to take, and a tire to sign, but as he stepped out of the car, his mind was consumed with thoughts of the girl he never knew existed.

After the whirlwind of interviews subsides and Lando returns to the bustling garage, his mind remains fixated on one thought: finding you. He navigates through the maze of mechanics and engineers, his determination unwavering.

Spotting Oscar amidst the commotion, Lando strides over, his expression a mix of eagerness and urgency. "Hey, Oscar," he calls out, drawing his friend's attention.

Oscar looks up from his conversation with a mechanic, a puzzled expression crossing his face at the intensity in Lando's gaze. "Hey, Lando. What's up?" he asks, curious yet cautious.

"I need to talk to your friend," Lando replies, his tone serious.

Oscar's confusion deepens, and a hint of protectiveness flickers in his eyes. "My friend? Why do you need to speak to her?" he inquires, his tone guarded.

Lando hesitates for a moment, searching for the right words. "I... I just need to ask her something," he says evasively, unwilling to divulge the true reason behind his urgency.

Oscar studies Lando intently, sensing there's more to the story than meets the eye. "Is everything okay?" he probes, his concern evident.

Lando shifts uncomfortably under Oscar's scrutiny, torn between his desire to find you and his reluctance to reveal too much. "Yeah, everything's fine," he assures, attempting to brush off Oscar's concern.

But Oscar isn't convinced, his protective instincts kicking into overdrive. "Look, if you're going to involve my friend in something, I need to know what's going on," he insists firmly.

Lando sighs, realizing he can't keep dodging the question. "It's just... I met her earlier, and I... I need to talk to her," he admits, his voice tinged with vulnerability.

Oscar's expression softens as he recognizes the sincerity in Lando's words. He may be protective, but he also trusts his instincts when it comes to his friends. "Okay," he relents, nodding in understanding. "She's in my driver's room."

Before Lando can make his way there, Oscar grabs his arm, a serious expression etched on his face. "Look, I know we don't talk about this, but…" He hesitates momentarily. "I don't know if you have a soulmate, but she doesn't. And I don't want you giving her false hope, only to disappear the moment someone mentions what's on your arm, or whatever."

Lando offers a reassuring smile. "You're wrong."

"Listen, I don't care if your mark is on your arm or your ass, my point was-"

"It's not about that. It's about her not having a soulmate," Lando interjects.

Oscar's expression turns grave. "What do you mean?"

"Footsteps," Lando responds simply.

Oscar's frustration bubbles to the surface. "What's going on with both of you? First, you mention footsteps, then her." He glances at his teammate, who meets his gaze with a serene smile. In Lando's eyes, there's a glimmer of hope and relief that Oscar can't quite comprehend. Initially, he considers escorting both of his friends to the medical bay, puzzled by their strange behavior regarding footsteps that only they seem to perceive—

Footsteps that only they can see.

A sudden realization dawns upon Oscar, his eyes widening. "You two are soulmates."

"Hopefully," Lando murmurs. "I—I never thought I had one. No marks, no dreams, nothing. But this morning, I saw footsteps. And then we met, and I showed her around. We were side by side, so I didn't pay much attention. But before Qualifying, I noticed her walking toward your side of the garage, and there were footsteps leading there."

As the realization settles between them, Oscar reluctantly releases Lando's arm, allowing him to continue on his way. However, just as Lando begins to move away, Oscar calls out to him, his tone a mix of seriousness and jest.

"Lando, wait," Oscar says, his voice tinged with playful threat. "Soulmate or not, if you ever hurt my best friend, I'll make sure to crash into you in every single race."

Lando stops in his tracks, turning back to face Oscar with a wry smile. "Fair warning," he replies, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes. "But I can assure you, if I ever did hurt her, I'd deserve every crash."

The Brit's heart races as he stands before the door, realizing he doesn't need to ask Oscar about the girl when the footsteps guide him straight to her. He wonders if he'd ever noticed those phantom imprints before, dismissing them as mere smudges or dirt. And in a fleeting moment of clarity, he wonders if those same invisible marks had led you to his door earlier, tracing a path he hadn't noticed until now.

As Lando hesitates outside the door, uncertainty gripping his thoughts, he contemplates his next move. Should he pace back and forth until you notice the traces on the floor? Or perhaps he should boldly declare their connection as soulmates upon entering? Before he can settle on a plan, the door swings open.

"Wow!" You exclaim, your initial fright giving way to laughter. "Okay, I probably deserved that. Second time's the charm, right?"

"Uhm," Lando's throat constricts, his words stumbling over each other. In his mind, this conversation had seemed much simpler. "Look, I—I need to ask you something. Do you… have a soulmate?"

Your gaze hardens, but it's not anger that flickers in your eyes, only a hint of sorrow. "We just met today," you confess, your tone tinged with vulnerability. Lando realizes it might be an invasive question; after all, some people prefer to keep such matters private. "Is it that obvious?"

"Yes. I mean, no. I mean—" Lando fumbles, his nerves getting the best of him.

"It's alright, I understand," you say, crossing your arms with a sad smile. "You do?"

"I do," Lando confirms, gesturing subtly to the scattered footsteps that crisscross the room.

"Cool," you respond, your expression disoriented.

"No, wait, that's not what I meant." Lando's frustration mounts as he struggles to articulate his thoughts. Was this what it felt like to be stupid in love?

"It's okay, Lando, really," you reassure him gently. "I know some people like to have... fun before finding their soulmate. I won't judge you for that." Yet beneath your understanding tone, a pang of sadness lingers, the thought of forever being a mere diversion rather than a final destination.

"Listen," Lando interjects, laying his hands gently atop yours, a jolt of electricity coursing between them once more. "Earlier today, you saw those footsteps, didn't you?"

"Actually, yes," you reply, confusion clouding your features. Oscar had vehemently denied their existence, leaving you to question your own perception.

"Me too. I saw footsteps this morning. Then I noticed footsteps leading towards Oscar's garage," Lando reveals, his voice soft with emotion. He silently pleads for you not to notice the trembling in his hands. "And now, I see footsteps again. Emerging from the door and heading toward the couch. A circle of them, right in front of the television."

As Lando confides in you, his vulnerability palpable, you begin to piece it together. Your eyes widen in realization as you look around. Although you can't see the invisible footsteps he's describing, you can distinctly perceive a path, stretching from the door to where Lando stands before you.

"Every step leads me to you," he murmurs, his gaze locked on yours with unwavering intensity.

A tender smile graces your lips as you absorb Lando's words, a rush of warmth flooding your chest. "I never thought I had a soulmate," you confess softly, your voice tinged with wonder.

Lando's own smile mirrors yours, a mixture of affection and amusement dancing in his eyes. "Look at that, one thing that we already have in common," he replies, his tone gentle yet playful.

You share a moment of quiet understanding, the air thick with unspoken emotions swirling between you. It's a realization that defies logic yet feels undeniably right, as if the universe itself had conspired to bring you together. Well, it did, didn't it? Maybe you should apologize for all the times your cursed at it.

"And here we are," you say, a hint of awe coloring your words.

"Here we are," Lando echoes, his gaze never leaving yours.

A mischievous glint twinkles in your eyes as you playfully tease, "You know, when I suggested you keep trying to flirt with me, this wasn't exactly the outcome I had in mind."

Lando chuckles, his grin widening. "Well, lucky for me, there's no one I'd rather up my game with than you."

You laugh, feeling the tension ease between you as the playful banter continues. "Smooth talker," you tease, giving him a playful nudge.

"Just stating the truth," Lando replies, his tone lighthearted yet sincere. "Besides, you will have to deal with it for the rest of your life."

Your heart skips a beat at his words, the playful façade giving way to a deeper connection between you. "I suppose you have a point," you concede with a smile, feeling yourself drawn even closer to him.

Lando's eyes light up with mischief as an idea sparks in his mind. "You know," he begins, a playful grin tugging at his lips, "I've spent my entire life thinking you didn't exist. I have a lot of making up to do."

Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise at his bold statement, but a smile tugs at the corners of your lips, intrigued by his playful demeanor. "Oh really?" you reply, a teasing glint in your eyes. "And just how do you plan on making it up to me?"

Lando's grin widens as he leans in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Well, I was thinking we could start here. I can't really go out, but my hotel has an amazing restaraunt" he suggests, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. "After that... Have you ever been to Monaco? Or Italy? Maybe after that, we could..."

You can't help but laugh at his enthusiasm, charmed by his playful spirit. "I say you're full of surprises, Lando Norris," you tease, interrupting him, a playful sparkle dancing in your eyes. "But I like the way you think."

A bashful smile graces Lando's lips as he chuckles softly. "Great," he replies, his tone now tinged with a hint of shyness. "I've got a meeting to attend, but after that, how about we meet back here?"

"You'll know exactly where to find me."

As warmth floods through Lando's heart, a tender smile graces his lips. In that fleeting moment of realization, it dawns on him—he'll never doubt your existence again. Not when there's a trail of footsteps leading him straight back to you, a path he'll eagerly follow time and time again.

Lando Norris is a romantic at heart. The universe, in all its wisdom, understood that he deserved nothing less than the greatest of loves.

fun fact i actually hate this

taglist (tell me if you want to be added or removed. crossed names means i couldn't tag you) :: @saturnssunflower @sopheeg @minkyungseokie @alexander-hamilhoe @butterfly-lover @cool-ultra-nerd @tomriddleswhorecruxes @everbizzare @chonkybonky @styl1shl1v

[drchucktingle]

i have copied this comment without name because i think it is very kind and respectful and i do not want buckaroos interpreting it the wrong way. PLEASE UNDERSTAND this buckaroo is very sincere and has important points and please respect their way. i am going to answer in a way that is counter to their point and i do not want buds to go after them IN ANY WAY. THEY ARE PROVING LOVE AND THEY HAVE GOOD POINTS

okay here is what i have to say:

i have not transitioned and in this lifetime i do not expect to. i think you have a good point of 'how can you know?' and honestly i cannot know that is just how timelines and reality and perception work

HOWEVER i must caution against this train of thought slightly because what works for one buckaroos MAY NOT WORK for another. every time i talk about my non-dysphoric way there are plenty of well meaning buds, particularly fellow trans buds, who show up with posts in the tone of 'its only matter of time.' like i just do not understand yet.

this reminds me of bisexual buckaroos who are told 'you just do not know you are gay yet'. as difficult as it is to step out of our own dang minds, i implore buckaroos to accept that there VERY JOYFUL AND FULFILLED NON-DYSPHORIC TRANS BUCKAROOS who do not need to transition and never will and are healthy and happy without that. just like there are bisexual buckaroos who are not just on their way to being gay

a good way to look at it is like this: I LOVE MY MALE BODY. i think i am a very handsome buckaroo. i have masculine features in my muscle and height and frame. as far as how fate could have placed me on this timeline I WON MY OWN PERSONAL FOOTRACE. i am up on the podium and i am standing here with a medal around my neck. GOOD JOB CHUCK

HOWEVER when i look down i see that medal is silver. i am not going to lie and say it is gold. it is silver.

YES my gold medal is a female body. that is an objective truth to my trot. i believe my gender way is that of a women, but there is no part of me that is upset about where i have placed.

I GOT SILVER. i am not upset. there is no tragedy. in fact i am OVERWHLEMED WITH JOY not just to be on the podium but to be in this race in the first place. HECK YEAH I DID IT AND I GOT A MEDAL

of course this is not to dismiss the difficult journey of others. many do not feel the way i do and their trot is VALID. a dysphoric way matters and is important and these voices are important. they should be elevated and supported. i understand some do not share this podium imagery, and they feel PAINED by trappings of their body.

i feel so much for this. i understand and care for my dysphoric buds, but the simple truth is that is not my story. i cant just lie and say that it is.

it will never be my story. i cannot say this enough: i love my body. however i STILL believe my truest way is that of a ladybuck. if it was a simple button push to change me, then i would push it without hesitation.

but it is not a simple button push.

talk to almost any buckaroo who has transitioned and they will say 'transitioning is hard'. it takes time and work and money and emotional support. i am in awe of the bravery of buckaroos who trot this path, but all of that is not worth it for something that i already feel good about. SCRATCH THAT, i feel GREAT ABOUT. i feel overwhelmed with joy every day over just existing in this male body that i have been blessed with. YES buckaroo, i feel joy existing in a male body that i know is ladybuck on the inside. it feels interesting a cool and exciting.

but my truest way is STILL a ladybuck trot

i guess i am just trying to say that i love second place. im happy to celebrate it. i think my male body is really dang cool. it is not a 'perfect me' but it is really dang awesome, and i never really bothered with trying to be perfect

[taegularities]

colour me in: the starry night | jjk (m)

Summary: You anticipated the trip to Jungkook's hometown with a thrilled yet nervous heart – and upon your arrival, your emotions prove justified: because as the days pass, you realise that gentle joy awaits just as much as ancient pain.

➳ pairing: Jungkook x reader ➳ rating: 18+ ➳ genre: fwb/f2l, fake dating; angst, fluuuuuff, smut ➳ warnings: fluff fluff fluffluffulfufluf, flirting, daddy issues, arguments with his father, his dad is pretty much an ass and almost as bad as oc's mom, but his mom and brother are <3, ria <3, oc being a light in the dark, oc learns many new things, cursing, fighting, a lot of crying/tears, neglect, mental breakdown, panic and anxiety, anger, insecurities, too many mentions of nostalgia lmao, jealousy, mention of therapy, nara, christian yu lmAO, WEDDING TIME!!!, oc is so pretty (that jk loses it), alcohol/drunk stuff, more confrontations, making up, he loves loves loves her, childhood coping mechanisms; explicit sexual content: kissing, making out, oral (f. & m. receiving), teasing, eating out against the wall, bit of wall sex, drunk sex, manhandling omg, impatient koo, big dick!jk, dom!jk but this timeeee also sub!jk lowkey!!, tears of pleasure, masturbation, fingering, handjob for a bit, squirting, creampie, literally their orgasms are a MESS phew it's kinda hot lmao, moany/whiny/super turned on jk; no 'the ending' warning this time… just the whole chapter 🥺 ➳ word count: 45.9k lmfao pls do still read it tho ➳ a/n: this was supposed to be 30k i can just never shut up lol sorry <3 but this chapter honestly got me good. i cried sm writing it and i love them and i never want this story to end :') i hope you love it, too. thank you for supporting me at all times <3 i can't wait to hear what you think 🤍 ➳ listen to: dance me to the end of love by the civil wars (alt. version) | full collaborative playlist 🤍

SERIES MASTERPOST | TAGLIST MASTERLIST | WIPs

It’s going to be okay — Jungkook’s hand gently clasping your thigh wants to convince you of this, you know.

But you can’t deny that the presence of the family you so long awaited is affecting you — your pulse is quickening to a heavily uncomfortable pace. You know his mom; you don’t fear his brother; but his father… his eyes are inscrutable.

They scare you to no end. There he is; the power continuously shattering your boyfriend’s heart. And Jungkook must be well conscious of your distress; because a mere moment later, he of all people, the one who's supposed to seek comfort, says—

“Angel? Breathe.”

Your eyes swerve to the side and remember to blink; you only now feel that you're jabbing crescent moons into your palm, just when you realise the sharp impact. You uncurl your fingers and nod, letting him cover the faintly scarred skin with his hand.

Sighing, you ask, “Are you okay?”

“I am,” he says, nodding, as if he’s practised and polished this answer over the years, “nervous, but… it’ll be okay.”

“Yes… I know.”

“Let’s go?”

You pull the handles on your respective sides at the same time, setting foot onto the stranger soil for the very first second in your life. You can’t quite discern your gut feeling right now, but you hope it’s not the last.

Waiting next to the car, you watch Jungkook round the vehicle, squinting your eyes; the noon sun is burning right above you. He heaves the suitcases with a faint groan and you join him right away to fetch the rucksack you brought.

Holding it between your knees, you flash his family a smile and a slight wave, awkward and unsure about what to do until his mother steps down the porch and towards you. She’s elated, and you see the same sprinkle in her eyes as in her son’s when she closes in enough for an embrace.

Her arms are comforting around you; somehow, you’re startled by it. Takes you a second to reciprocate the hug, hopefully not long enough for her to question your receptiveness. But then you put your chin on her shoulder, shutting your eyes for the briefest of seconds until you open them to a side hug between Jungkook and his brother.

In the slowly cooling weather, she feels warm, a motherly love that blasts heat to your cheeks until she lets go. “Finally a woman, huh?” she breathes, her voice so sweet and kind. “A great alternative to all the testosterone.”

“I can imagine,” you respond; the thought isn’t too much of a stranger to you. “I spent most of the week amongst men. They’re barbarians.”

She laughs, just in the moment that Junghyun, Jungkook’s brother advances towards you. He offers you his hand and a radiant smile that resembles your boyfriend’s. In fact, he does look quite a bit like his younger sibling. Lopsided smirk, fluffy dark hair, handsome features.

Not a lot older. Kind as he greets you with a, “Miss Novaura herself, yes?”

The name makes you beam, inundates you with pride. You appreciate that he doesn’t revert to Charmante as most people have done throughout your life, but sees you as what you are and what you do now. The manager of Novaura, damn it.

Yes.

Has he been keeping up with stuff?

“And Miss Novaura meets the second Jeon himself!” you respond, but as he grimaces, you bite your tongue immediately. What did you say?

“When,” he starts, overly dramatic, a little like Jungkook, yet somewhat more extroverted, “was I demoted to the second Jeon?”

“Oh, I’m…”

Jungkook clicks his tongue from the side, shoving his brother aside in the most sibling-like manner you can possibly imagine. Then, he threatens, “Don’t do this, or I’ll take her away from you guys again.”

“What’s that mean?” you ask.

“It means,” Junghyun interjects, “that everyone’s been dying to meet you. Mom and I even told Jungkook not to spill too much about you, so we can see ourselves.”

Oh, the pressure. The nervousness from the past couple of weeks skyrockets. Yet, your charming self conjures, “Then I hope I don’t disappoint.”

Jeon Junghyun speaks on, babbling something reassuring that you’re certain could warm your chest if you had the capacity to listen. But you drift off quickly as the side of your eyes follows a movement in the back: Jungkook timidly, almost fearfully nearing his father.

You’re alarmed and you can’t tell why — perhaps because you don’t truly know their situation yet. You haven’t seen them interact. But at this very moment, you’re surprised when Jungkook and his dad share a light side hug, too.

The occurrence is frigid, but somehow, you expected even more frozen behaviour. Rare glances, absolute ignorance. Your mind envisioned a world that harboured true enmity, but you don’t think that’s quite what these two have been maintaining over the years.

In some sense, it’s worse.

Because rather than pure silence, there’s a deep distance that is still disguised as a surface level of closeness in a family. Faking it might just be more difficult after all.

There’s no conversation between them. Nothing much as Jungkook comes back to his mother to give her a warm, genuine hug, a rainbow to a drizzle in comparison. As if to receive what his father didn’t provide.

You follow.

You’re not entirely keen on a too affectionate interaction between his dad and you, but you still smile when he lifts his hand, shaking it kindly. From here, as the corners of his lips raise, wrinkles around his eyes that he passed onto his next generation, he looks like a terribly nice man.

He gestures into the house and you follow, listening as he asks, “Was the journey okay?”

You nod joyfully, mustering up all kindness for somebody you know hurt someone you love for so long. After all, Jungkook has done the same for you, no matter how many times your mother shattered you.

And in the end, it’s still his dad.

“Oh, yes, pretty pleasant,” you answer, clearing your throat when you hear the formal tone in your voice. “We took turns driving. And since I fell asleep, I guess I can still seize the rest of the day… if you want to?”

You turn to Jungkook as the sentence fades out and he nods with raised, stirred eyebrows. “Yeah! It’s what we’re here for.”

His father smiles, a flat hand signalling towards the living room to invite you to rest for now. Matters seem normal so far; for a moment, you allow yourself to believe he isn’t so neglectful after all. Even with all your trust in Jungkook, you try to imagine a scenario in which he perceived his father’s distaste as something wrong.

You’re incorrect.

It doesn’t require more than a couple minutes and a bit more mingling until you recognise amidst the smalltalk that he doesn’t behave the same with his younger son as he does with Junghyun. There’s lightness in the way he converses with the latter.

Jungkook only moves around you and his mother; no particular intention to really connect with his dad. Understandably so. Their gazes barely meet.

Not even when his father’s tone drops as he approaches Jungkook, uttering a seemingly obligatory, “You alright? Is the job good?”

“Mhm,” Jungkook merely responds.

The interaction is awkward and quiet, yet too noisy for the lovely room. You focus on the homely furniture and small-town-vibed interior as you wait for the brief dialogue to conclude. You’re not at a place to intervene yet.

There are pictures of the family, yet fresher if you could judge. The ones showcasing memories are probably somewhere you can’t see yet; you’re buzzing to finally skim through his childhood pictures.

You listen in. Quiet again, conversation already at an end.

Jungkook’s fingertips graze yours, giving a short head tilt, wondering what you’re thinking about. His beam is different when he looks at you now, a much more blissful alternative to the timid words he voiced just a couple seconds ago.

But you can’t really answer when his mother emerges in the room to wave you towards the kitchen, eager to converse, yet suggesting, “If you want, you can freshen up before dinner.”

But you reject the idea kindly, flashing your best smile as you respond, “I’m excited to be here, so we can just talk a little for now. I’ll go wash my face after dinner!”

She nods slowly, politely, a the-guest-is-king-sort of gesture before you add, “How have you been?”

The family joins at the dinner table one by one; nobody interferes or barges into another’s turn. Only listens. You’re used to chaos from events and parties you used to attend, everybody dying to have the last word, to outsmart another.

This family is as patient at a conversation as you’ve witnessed in your boyfriend. They’re lively, interested; maybe there’ll be more of an ecstatic family tumult when you get used to them or when more people join. At the wedding, probably.

You’ve seen something like that with your friends, too. Especially on this vacation. You did fall into disorder quite often.

Yet, it differs from your usual experience. No discomfort. No fear of odd questions.

The Jeons aren’t out to reveal your little secrets, but to understand you as a person; so you appreciate the natural flow of the dialogue when Jungkook’s mother answers, “Just tired. The wedding preparations are tedious, and it’ll probably only get worse.”

“Yeah? You’ve been helping out a lot, yes?”

“Yes, somewhat. The bride… Gayoung, she’s close with us and relies on us a lot. And on top of that,” she shakes her head at this point; rolls her eyes as she turns on the stove, stirring and heating up some meal, “she’s getting cold feet.”

“Oh man,” Jungkook adds, chuckling a little, unsurprised, “wedding is definitely on, though. She always gets nervous. Almost missed her first day at work years ago,” he turns to you, “she’s a vet, and she was terrified of hurting the pets, but… everybody trusts her with their pets’ lives now.”

“Awh,” you voice, “I can imagine how stressful that must be. I’m pretty good at managing stuff, though, so if you need any help—”

“No way, you’re not here to work. You can do something else?” His mother looks over her shoulder, pondering. “Paint?”

“Oh, I do paint sometimes, but I’m not very good at it.”

“She is,” Jungkook argues, hand lifting to rub your back, “but she’s an even better writer.”

His father chimes in, arms folded, “Oh, I think you can get a ton of inspiration here, then. There’s a flower field nearby if you’re interes— what?”

Stopping when Jungkook interrupts with an exhale, he tilts his head at his son, and you follow his gaze, watching thick eyebrows kiss. “I already took care of that, but… way to spoil a surprise.”

Ah. You see the hostility increase with each second. You wish you could diffuse the moment; tell Jungkook to ignore everything that might irk him.

Instead, you only sneak your palm to his knee, imitating his rub to calm his nerves. He must be tense. He always must be.

“I wasn’t spoiling,” his father argues, “was just an idea.”

“Oh, it’s okay,” you intervene, patting Jungkook’s thigh. He looks at you just briefly, but it suffices for some of his muscles to relax. “I don’t know much anyway. Spoiler-free zone!”

It’s the best you can do. So you keep trying; diverge the topic to other aspects of your life when Junghyun asks about your job and the efforts connected to it. About the joys and hardships of it. About how your parents are doing — burdensome topic, yet a must to master. 

Then they speak about the passage of time in the city, and how it compares to this place; how the family perceived the differences and how their current life differs from their past here.

You learn that they still feel more connected to their hometown; obvious when considering the fact that they spent most of their years here. Initially uncertain about moving, they still decided to be closer to their children and the world’s opportunities.

The city called and it kept them.

You know it kept Jungkook the most; or maybe it was you who shackled him there, too.

“Apart from the obvious differences,” you start, “I can’t comment much on it yet, but… I’ve been really interested in being here. Super nervous.”

His mother coos, scrunching her nose the way he does, assures that there’s no need to be nervous; that this wedding might end up being the kindest you have ever been to. Adds, “Speaking of. Brought a pretty dress?”

“Oh, of course,” you say; your toes curl in excitement. “I’d show you right now, but I promised to keep it more or less a secret from Jungkook.” You wiggle your eyebrows at him. “He’s seen it, but not me wearing it.”

“Ah. Is it that pretty?”

“It’s pretty amazing.”

She steps closer as the dish simmers, playing with a couple strands hanging in Jungkook’s eyes. His lips twitch upwards, and his cheeks colour in a blush when she says, “Well, knowing this guy, you’re out to give my boy half a nervous breakdown, I see.”

“I’m trying to, really.”

Your answer is light-hearted, but a mere moment late. You can’t help but wonder what she means by knowing this guy. Then again, you presume a mother usually witnesses her children’s lives; watches them fall in and out of love.

You don’t like how the realisation makes you feel, but you smile it away either way.

And it doesn’t help when Junghyun seems to catch onto her statement, too, saying, “By the way… I’ve heard that at the wedding, we—”

But the interruption is sharp. Unnatural, abrupt, his mother’s voice strange when she interjects, “Ah. Listen. Let’s serve dinner, and we can talk more when we eat. A hand?”

You don’t know what it’s about, but you attempt your best to not be nosy. You can’t even guess it, so it’s probably easiest to let it go. To only stand up to help a little, Jungkook and you handing things around until you’re seated again.

She still scolds Junghyun silently, eyes wide when she sits next to him; perhaps it’s a surprise for Jungkook or for you.

You won’t spoil it. Focus on the food.

And despite the early tension, you survive dinner, albeit occasionally cut by things Jungkook’s father remarks and by Jungkook’s responses of retaliation. Like—

“Honestly, you not liking these is a perk,” Junghyun comments when Jungkooks puts the green beans aside, snatching them immediately.

His father is quick to deduce, “Didn’t you love them?”

Jungkook’s smirk is immediate, accompanied by a shrug and a click of his tongue, and a somewhat passive aggressive, “Yes. Fifteen years ago, though.”

It’s odd, the mixture of anger and fear. He reveals his agitation in his short answers, but he never extends them to something that might provoke a bigger fight.

His father then says, “I’ve never seen you put them aside.”

To which Jungkook mutters, “Should’ve looked more then, right.”

“That’s unnecessary.”

“Okay.”

Tense. Quiet. Gulping.

But you get it over with, breathe and touch through it all until the plates are cleared, stuffed in the dishwasher, the clock ticking. Jungkook leads you to the porch that his family greeted you at earlier. You intertwine your fingers deeper, hoping for some solace between the irate words exchanged.

His shoulders stand slightly higher than usual, eyes a little unfocused. You squeeze his palm, and he laughs when you bump your shoulder against his. Tapping his foot against the porch, he says, “This is where we were having a barbeque this summer. Remember when I called you?”

As if you could forget. Those calls got you through messy, forsaken summer days. He lets go of your hand to tug you into his side, tight in his embrace, and your voice grows a pitch when you answer, “Yeah. You were drunk.”

“I was.”

“And you still called me. Burned your finger, right?”

He scoffs. “I barely remember that. I just remember seeing you on the video call and… missing you really bad.”

You glance into his face, opting him to do the same. Eyes half on his lips, half on his pupils, staring to and fro, you ask, “You don’t miss me now, though, right?”

“Hm… I don’t hope I’ll ever need to again.” As he presses into your arm, you cuddle in. He nods towards the small front yard, “They were playing Linkin Park here. And way back, when I was like seventeen, I’d smoke here sometimes.”

Your eyes blow wide; you can’t imagine his gentle fingers holding a cigarette between them, but then again, you kind of can. He laughs at your surprise before he continues, “I know. Rebellious phase. It was stupid, because Mom would smell it right away and then ground me.”

“Damn, Kook.”

He nods, lifting a shoulder as if to say my bad, and then kisses your temple. Asks, “You feeling good?”

“Yeah. I really like it here so far.”

“Good.”

“Are you?”

“Yeah. It’s okay.”

“Good,” you echo, just for him to do it, too.

“Good. I think we cou—”

Pause. 

Because the feast of interruptions continues still. A sudden, shrill call of his name reverberates across the streets, and you flinch, following the sound on the right before detecting somebody walking up to you.

You haven’t seen her yet, but she’s glowing; hair open behind her, just the top half held at the back with a butterfly claw clip. The breeze swirls her bangs, and just from the exhilaration in her voice, you can tell who it is.

Jungkook lights up equally when he squints his eyes and recognises her, loosening his grip around you as he exclaims, “Hey!”

“Helloooo!”

And then he lets you go. You watch the endearments unfold. He says, “Didn’t expect you here today.”

“Me neither,” she says, and he laughs; you join in, already curious. “I was going to binge some show, but Junghyun texted saying you’d arrived.”

She catches up with a somewhat heavy breath, widening her arms when Jungkook steps down from the porch and engulfs her in a firm, heart-warming hug. Loving, decades old.

They oscillate on the spot, and she rubs his back until they let go. She doesn’t waste a minute until her eyes drift to you; they’re so expressive, dark yet glimmering. They prove your assumption when you see her joy towards you immediately.

The moment begins a little awkwardly as the stranger approaches you with uncertainty about what to say, but then she asks, “Is it okay if I hug you, too?”

You giggle. Goodness.

“Gosh, sure!”

And you’re delighted to the bone. Her touch is warm, inviting. They all are. You’re not used to it; why does it make you sentimental? You don’t know her. You’ve never spoken to her. Why the clump in your throat?

Weird.

“Ria,” she introduces, “I’ve heard so much about you. Really, it’s a common thing to say, but I’ve been really excited like… man, why did you come so late when he was sooo whipped in the summer already and—”

Your face heats up impossibly; this thought of a passed summer that called upon a million unknown emotions and words and encounters and yearning… you might never get over it.

Jungkook gives her a playful whack on her clothed arm, eliciting a prolonged Owhhh. You lift a protective arm over her to jest back, and she gasps, infinitely pleased. It helps her open up more, because it seems that she doesn’t need more than this to suggest, “Can I take her?”

Wrinkles form on his forehead as he raises his eyebrows in confusion, and she, nearly jumping at her spot, explains, “Show her around a bit. We’re having dinner soon and then I won’t be able to move, so…”

Jungkook blinks, unsure, looking between her and you until you urge, “It’s okay. You drove most of the time, too, so try and rest a bit.”

Your reassurance helps; either way, you don’t think you would’ve gotten to much more today anyway, no matter how much you hoped to seize the evening. You’re beat from the last day and the terrible night and the tiring journey and the filling meal.

Taking a walk is all you can imagine to do right now.

Maybe he’s on the same wavelength as you, because the nods come slowly but surely. “Sure. Go. I’ll come later to bring her back.”

Ria places a sweet hand on your back, urging you forward and speaking back, “Gotta make sure I don’t kidnap her, what?”

Her house is nearby. The first of the conversation goes by similarly as it did in Jungkook’s house, but the moment she announces the arrival at her own home, your calm demeanour changes to a rather terrified one.

She’s not going to…

No.

Because she promises, “I’m not taking you inside, no worries. I wouldn’t overwhelm you like this.”

Your chest relaxes. You guess meeting one family officially, as if you’re being evaluated for marriage, might suffice. While sure her family’s as lovely as the other, you don’t want the overstimulation.

So instead of urging you inside, she takes you to the small cottage next to her house. Their property is a little bigger, the area spacier. You soon find out that the little house she’s taking you to isn’t some guest thing, but houses dozens of farm animals.

You didn’t think there was something to the cliché you heard about small towns; yet, the reality is much more endearing. How oddly cheerful the animals seem, even though you know the fantasy is just a fabrication of your mind.

You don’t know what they’re thinking or feeling.

One of the hens clucks as Ria picks it up, looking at you with big eyes as she says, “I thought you guys would come early in the night and then just sleep. I didn’t know you’d arrive so much earlier.”

“Oh yeah!” you say, hands in the back pockets of your jeans, “We left the hotel at noon.”

“That’s crazy.”

She bends, letting the hen go, and the little thing instantly rushes away. You flinch, stepping back. You’ve never done this before; you try to keep your cool, but you’re so inexperienced, mesmerised by your surroundings.

This place is so different, so much quieter, more serene. You understand the nostalgic vibe of romance movies set in towns like this. You’re suddenly thrown into The Notebook and into Footloose. Into everything that evokes warmth.

“What is?” you ask.

“Just. It’s so nice to meet you. We have so many guys here, so it’s cool to be with a girl for once.” She takes a deep breath. “And I love Kookie and I trust his judgement. So when he told me about you, I told him to get you here right away. It took you so long.”

Her tone is frisky, but you feel bad. Not quite because you let her wait, but because of why you waited yourself. Because of the breaks and pauses and the split hearts that you needed time for to sew again.

The weeks of insecurity and then the trials of life.

Something in the pit of your stomach stirs at the memories; you can’t believe you’re standing where he fell for you first, despite the distance. Where he reached for you through the rain and the clouds and the stars, and called to listen to your tears and your pleas to return.

You can’t believe it. In fact, yes, you believe it as little as her.

“I get it…” you say, “we have quite a few guys in our group, too.” You wait, watching her nod as she inspects the last of chickens running into the cottage. Then you ask, “What did he tell you about me?”

“What he told me? Mmmh. I mean, it’s difficult to say. He spoke of you highly, but I think his main focus was on not hurting either of you. Very, very worried about how things might play out.”

Yeah… yeah, it sounds like him.

You don’t answer; shift your eyes to the grassy ground. You hear her voice lift a pitch as she says, “Man, too many guys is simply too much, though, seriously. And then having to deal with Kook all the time must be so exhausting, too.”

Laughter erupts out of you, and you shake your head, “I mean, he’s a brat sometimes. But he’s the best man I know.”

“He is a good guy, yeah? I’m so glad.” She nods again, affirmative and positively confirming. “He’s always been. It sucks sometimes that he lives so far away.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, but she shrugs her shoulders, waves off your concerns. “I take it you’re not interested in living in the city?”

Her eyes narrow when she looks into the distance, met with the lowering sun as if it entails the entirety of her beloved town. It’s probably part of it, though; the one sun she’s known all her life, despite the same star rising and setting everywhere in your vast world.

“Not really,” she says, “I like it here… Even though so many left.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. Some people I knew…”

You can imagine. Two faces flash into your mind, at least. Not that you like half of the thought; but it’s automatic, and so is your statement, “I feel like I know at least two.”

She seems surprised. Tilts her head, blinking, hands on her hips. “Really?”

“Yeah, well…” You avert your eyes, fearing an abundance of transparency. “Jungkook and Nara.”

“Oh.” Ria’s blinking fastens. She didn’t expect this; neither did you. But in some sense, it was inevitable, dropping Nara’s name here. “You met Nara, huh?”

“You say it so… weirdly.”

Her hands lift and she immediately works on objecting to your assumptions, “No, I mean. She’s nice! I liked her growing up. I just wouldn’t have mentioned her unprompted. There’s no need…” She studies your face. “He doesn’t either, you know? Talks about you mostly.”

You don’t know what to say. You gathered this much; but a very strange feeling in your chest presses against your heart, and you can’t quite decipher why. You shove it aside as best as you can, and then breathe it out, thankfully admitting, “That’s relieving.”

“There’s no need to worry. I think he and you will have a good time here and bond more than ever.”

You nod. You don’t feel like responding; not because you don’t like her or don’t want to. Your throat is tied, and you can’t really think of or form a productive thought. So you just keep nodding, smiling until a hen pops out again.

Ria, pushing away a stray strand of her dark hair, points to the little, excited animal, wondering, “Hey, have you ever held a chicken?”

“No!” Ah. Good tactic to distract you, considering how many times you mentioned this minor wish in the past weeks. “But I want to! Told Jungkook like a hundred times.”

“Okay,” she waves you closer and you dare to approach, hoping to neither hurt the hen nor yourself. You have absolutely no clue about these things. “Come here then. It’s not hard.”

It’s not. In fact, the process sounds logical, facile; but your hands are shaking, and often enough, animals seem to understand negative emotions when targeted. But Ria proves a good teacher.

Shows you to near the hen calmly, moving slowly to not startle her. She instructs you to soften your voice as much as possible, kindly noting that you’re soft-spoken enough to not worry about it. And then, once close enough, she demonstrates placing a hand around the tiny body, securing the wings to prevent flapping.

You imitate. Or try to, at least. It doesn’t work right away, your nervousness intruding; but at some point, you manage. You use your other hand to support the body, lift the hen gently. Hold it close to your body to give her a sense of security, much as Ria lectured.

Ria is patient, amazing, despite having done this probably a thousand and million times. Adjusting to your lack of knowledge, praising you, acknowledging your effort.

Her giggle is mellifluously sweet as she watches and hears you gasp; she applauds, but stops right away when she detects the third presence amongst you.

She calls, “Ah! You’re finally here.”

Your eyes follow hers, heart lighting up as you hold up the chicken carefully and nearly shout in uninhibited excitement, “Kook, look!”

His hands are in his jeans’ pockets; his walk idle. One of his eyes is squinting shut until he steps into the shadow, a tender smile playing around his lips before you realise that it looks… sad. Doesn’t reach as far. No crinkles around his eyes.

“Aren’t you the cutest, munchkin?” he responds before dropping into a crouch next to you. He seems brighter upon seeing your face, but you still keep wondering… What just happened in the house?

You don’t know. You don’t want to ask yet either.

So you only set the hen down, lowering her until she’s balanced and waddling — waddling? — away. You wrap your arms around him, providing a flicker of warmth. You don’t know what made his face fall like this, but you want to at least attempt to lift his chin again.

God. What a start to the first day. Is it odd to feel scared?

“Wanna go?” he asks, a thumb brushing the corner of your lip.

You hum, “I’m getting tired, yeah…”

“Then we can go and rest? And sleep if you want to.”

It’s early… but laying down and staring at the ceiling doesn’t sound too bad right now. Maybe he needs it, too. So you agree, pressing Ria to your heart once more and promising to return to her.

She’ll be at the wedding, too. You guess you’ll see everyone multiple times anyway; but as rude as it may sound, the thought of warming into this man’s body doesn’t allow you to bother with the world right now.

His steps are slow as you walk to the house. Eyes drooping. He might not notice; he’s been here so many times. But his presence, combined with the things you see, make your heart swell.

Maybe because you want to be there for him; maybe because you still can’t believe you’re here. But you perceive everything as if for the first time.

The cosy garden and the flower beds. A small-town house sitting on a quiet, tree-lined street. It’s more on the simple side, painted in warm hues, a light beige. Charming. You remember everything being charming.

The snug living room, the tender, partly wooden and partly modern kitchen, the clearly old and handmade dishes. A fireplace. Wooden floors. 

You haven’t seen the rooms yet, but as he leads you upstairs, you imagine him doing the same this summer as he approached his bed. He walked these same steps, a narrow and short hallway, opening the door to an inviting childhood bedroom with you present in his device.

Yearning.

But the man from the summer isn’t all you see. In fact, the place reminds of time travel; you soon recognise just how signature Jungkook everything is.

Because the moment you enter, you see him in everything. Like, in the soft quilts on his bed; he wouldn’t use them today, but you imagine a shy Jungkook and you imagine big eyes, small hands pulling the sheets over his body to cuddle into a warm night.

The window overlooks the backyard; the sunlight filters through the sheer curtains. It’s still just the middle of the evening. But you find it hard to want to leave this simple comfort. Lived-in, sweet.

Reminiscent of a youth.

Like a soft tune of a ballad. You don’t know what it is that makes you feel this way.

The cosiness? The pictures on shelves? The slightly tilted roof of the room? Or the posters reminding of a world a decade ago. It hasn’t been this long, if you think about it, but to you, all of this still tells a story.

“What’s this?” you ask, opening a random drawer and grazing rolled up paper, large, stowed away.

“Posters, I think? I haven’t seen or opened them in ages. Maybe we can—”

He pulls and rolls them out, glancing for a bare moment before he undos the action with a sudden bright red on his cheeks. You try to catch a glimpse, “What?”

He doesn’t answer, so you take the poster from him, only needing to open it halfway through to see a pretty face, followed by a swimsuit and a snatched body. Ah. Is this…

“Victoria’s Secret?”

“Shut up,” he instructs, and you hold yourself back, watching him, blinking until—

You puff out some air, nearly spitting as you laugh, teasing, “You were that type of guy, yeah?”

“Shut up,” he repeats, prying it out of your hands before he throws it into a corner. “I had this up for like two weeks. Forget it.”

“Never threw it away, though.”

“Never thought of it.”

He scratches the back of his head, a tilted smirk on his face, and you can’t help but want to keep annoying him. But he needs far more than this right now, and you’re not here to get on his nerves. So you walk up to him until determined arms wrap around his waist, kissing his chin.

“You okay?” you ask.

“Well…” He’s quieter than he’s been in the last few days and it disheartens you. Somehow fatigued, eyes halfway closed. “You know.”

You do know. Or perhaps, you don’t, but you can well imagine.

You’re not sure how he took all of this day in, day out for so many years, but you understand the weight of the situation a lot better now. Of course your mind would be rewired if you hurt this much all the time.

Whatever you’re seeing now is a fraction of what he experienced.

“It’s going to be okay,” you remind him again.

“Yeah.” He sniffles. “Hey. I have a little surprise for you tomorrow. It was spoiled a bit, but you’re right.” A peck to your nose. “You don’t know anything yet. But you’ll like it, I think.”

You don’t doubt it; you guess it helps, not being aware of much at all. Waiting for the surprise.

But then again…

When you look at him again, excitement flickering in those tired eyes of his and a hand pushing against the small of your back lightly, you think that you know a couple things at least.

“Okay. Hold on. You’re definitely going too fast!”

“This is too fast? You should’ve seen Junghyun and me racing years ago.”

You lower your head in an attempt to hide it from the wind, seeking his sweater; it’s impossible from this angle. You’re at the front, surviving between his arms as he navigates the bicycle recklessly. 

The wind slaps your face, cooler this noon than yesterday. The bike writhes on the road, and you yell out, “Man, I’ll die!”

“Baby!” he exclaims back.

His laugh is louder than the gust as you hold onto his moving thighs and then realise it’s of no help. You shift your hands to the front of the cycle, wondering when it’ll hit an unforeseen rock and tip over.

“Hey,” he tries again when you only scream back, “have you never been on a bike before?”

“Of course I have!” You resist the urge to add a curse. He’ll kill the two of you. The streets are steep, probably a hill, going downwards. “Just never two people at once.”

“I did it a lot! With friends, and mostly with Gureum.”

Gureum… his dog. You have yet to meet him.

“Gureum?” you repeat.

“Yeah! He’d sit in the basket and… and enjoy the wind. Eyes closed.” He pants between cycling. “I told you, no?”

But your thoughts are elsewhere, chin dropping to your clavicles as if not looking could save you. “Fucking hell—”

“Okay. Okay…”

The bike stops abruptly, and you yelp, shutting your eyes tight and preparing yourself to die. But death doesn’t come; a tap to your hip does. His fingers hold you, calming you, words the opposite as he orders, “Alright. Get off my bike. You can walk the rest of the distance.”

Between the sniffling and the reclaiming of control of your trembling legs, you register the surprising command, and mumble, “What?”

“You heard me, sweetheart. I’ll wait at the flower field.”

You dare a look over your shoulder. His expression is serious, an eyebrow cocking. You want to retort something snarky, tell him you’ll stay on if he just slows down, for the love of God; but instead, you look ahead, and decode the view immediately.

The grass is high and the place wide. You’re right where the field begins, the road more narrow here, only really enough for cyclists and walkers. You roll your eyes, getting off as you tell him, “You’re terrible. We’re already here.”

He laughs, dropping the bike to the side carelessly before he reaches for your messed up hair. Fixes at least the front of it, flattening it in the back. You’re glad there’s no mirror around.

Then, he proceeds to grab your hand, a finger pointing to the place and says, “Look around.”

You do. It’s widely open and empty. A decent amount of flowers; you imagine a plethora of them in the summer and the spring. Now that fall is in full effect and it’s a little colder here than on your coastal vacation, you reckon that this isn’t usually all how the field looks.

But it’s beautiful. In the far, far back, you see the forest expand. Slightest traces of autumn foliage. The leaves will fall and entirely bare the trees soon.

“This is so pretty,” you say.

“Right?”

“Was this the surprise?”

“I mean,” he cards his fingers through his hair, but as he grabs the willow wicker from the larger cycle basket, the mane is blown back into his sight just a moment later, “yeah. But the actual surprise is a bit further down the field. Come.”

He guides the way, and you put your all into deciphering what he might be hinting at, only for him to say, “Don’t look so hard. You will see it in a moment anyway.”

The laugh he elicits is sweet, a thumb touching the back of your hand. Your shoulders drop in relaxation, and you shift your attention to the grass and the flowers, trying not to stomp on any of those that are still left for this fall.

A couple feet forward, you tell him, “You know I still need to meet Gureum.”

“I know. He was with Ria since we can’t really take care of him when we’re away.”

“You could take him to the city.”

“I’d do anything to be able to. But Gureum is… a free dog. He wouldn’t enjoy life in a smaller apartment after running around for so long.”

Ah… You feel the opposite still; jumped from a large cage into a homey, sheltered cube happily. But you get it; the freedom here doesn’t compare to a crowded city, does it?

“But,” Jungkook continues, “Ria said she’d bring him over this noon, so he should be there when we get home.”

“Damn. Why am I more excited about this than necessary?”

“Oh, you should be. I am, too… he’s my old boy.”

The oxymoron grants you a smile; to a parent, a baby stays a baby. Most of the time, at least. Jungkook feels something for Gureum, and even a stranger, lost and unknowing, could piece this bit together within a heartbeat.

“He’s old?” you wonder.

“He’s twenty years old. A bit slower now but… the same amount of love in his heart.”

One shall learn how to love and be kind from Jeon Jungkook. Then again, he’d be an excellent example, but a bad teacher. Wouldn’t know what to say. Wouldn’t be able to really pick out what makes him so pure-hearted.

He just is… He just is.

“I can’t fucking wait,” you say, inspirited.

The sight changes along with his expressions as you walk down the field. From happiness to a smile to excitement and then contentment. The flowers mostly disappear, giving way to something you don’t really recognise.

Orderly rows, bright green leaves and… more plants? As you inbreathe the air, however, you swear you recognise the sweet and fresh scent. Even from here, it’s distinct and special.

And when you trudge closer, finally glancing down, you understand.

Jungkook…

He took you strawberry picking.

You see them low on the ground, clustered, ripe and red. Pretty. Enough to warrant a dozen adjectives; yet, you only whisper, “Wow.”

He waits… then waits more. Lets your eyes scan the area and the fruits, permits you to take in what he probably reckons you’ve never seen before in this form. And he’s right — you haven’t.

“You like it?” he questions. “I was unsure, like… maybe you’re underwhelmed?”

Your head turns towards him at light speed. “What? I’m not. I’ve never seen anything like this before,” you confirm, repeating your thoughts, “I am definitely not underwhelmed. This is… this is something my younger self craved.”

“Oh— Really? How so?”

You hum. Think back to late nights in the back of your bed, a room larger than what you needed, yet smaller than your imagination. Smaller than your heart.

“I read stories,” you tell him, “fairy tales. Watching tales of love in the countryside. We don’t have these places in the city, do we?”

Jungkook’s hand, on your back a second ago, travels up to the back of your neck, touching it gently. “I guess you’d have to find a farm.” He stares ahead where you do, still standing there, unmoving. Then, “Angel?”

“Yeah.”

“You said you went on a field trip to a farm, right?”

“I… can only really remember once in school. Kids were shitty.” You spoke about this once; last month, he promised you’d see Ria’s farm, too. Funny that she actually did show you. “And my parents weren’t really interested in that stuff. Which I do kinda get because many city people aren’t.”

“Mhm, I can understand.” He shuffles his feet, presumably a little sad for you, regarding the long row of strawberries stretching to his right. You’re about to crouch and try without a clue what to do when he, instead of commenting on things much more, asks, “Okay, so. Wanna pick strawberries?”

“Yes!” You rub your hands, taking a step forward, but pausing again; you could start anywhere. “Will you show me how?”

“Of course.” He hums, looking for an easy spot with an accumulation of easy-to-pick fruits; then, he lifts his jeans by a couple inches and lowers his body. “Look. You can crouch or kneel.”

You give your clothes a lookover. Just some everyday jeans; they should be able to take some dirt. In actuality, though, you might’ve joined him on the ground anyway. So you do, kneeling with your hands on your thighs, obediently listening.

“You look so cute.” He chuckles, the back of his fingers barely grazing your cheek for a moment. As he sniffles, his chin nods towards the plants, hands reaching for them. “So. You gently pull the leaves aside and just pick the strawberries. Avoid those that aren’t red, though, okay?”

His pinky touches parts of an unripe strawberry still in the ground, and he explains, “You’ll know that one’s ripe when it comes off easily. Like this,” he tugs at it, “isn’t ripe. Won’t come off so well. Mmmh. Let’s try this one.”

You follow his movements until he settles for a particularly pretty and seemingly juice berry; with ease, he plucks it off by grasping the stem and twisting a little, and says, “See? You could eat this one right now. But… basket?” You shove it towards him and he throws the berry inside. “We’ll wash it before that.”

It’s quiet and sweet here as he works on explaining the process to you. An atmosphere you haven’t ever witnessed anywhere before. It’s probably different in the spring, but you’re alone here; even if someone’s around somewhere, you can’t see them from where you sit.

And it helps you focus: on how concentrated he looks, lower lip pouting, crouching easily with his sweater sleeves rolled up. It’s unusual how his tattooed hand works on the plants. Your first imagination of such a task always involves straw hats and dungarees.

“Try it, too,” he then instructs.

He puts a gentle palm on your back as you get up from kneeling, now crouching as he is, and cast about for a couple good pieces. Whenever you think you’ve found one, you seek confirmation in his eyes, repeating, “Is this okay?”

And he always promises, “You’re doing well. Look,” he inspects one of your choices, “picking the best even.”

“You’ll have to eat mine, then.”

“Sure will. I knew you’d be so good at this.”

You’re surprised; you never saw yourself doing this, even though you yearned for a life so different than the one you lived. Until you stepped off his bicycle twenty minutes ago, you had never come up with such an idea. All the more reason to be thankful to him.

But you do wonder why he’d perceive something like this far before you did, so you ask, “Really? Why?” 

He uttered the words so casually, pupils fixated on the basket; he might not have noticed how immediately you reacted. Because he hums now, looking at you with immense eyes, matter-of-factly spelling out, “Because you’re gentle. This called for you.”

Because you’re gentle. Because you’re gentle.

The reasoning, so clear to him, repeats in your mind. It’s not as obvious to you; it’s been a while since you thought of your qualities, and in the last months, being gentle often meant the same to you as quietly enduring.

So you’re touched, silenced by the lump in your throat; such an easy sentence, but so filled with  knowledge about a person that only truly occurs with the purest of affections.

As you stare at him, you feel the fondness spreading over your countenance as much as the leaves tickling your ankle; you hold the current strawberry delicately as you conclude, “That’s why you brought me here, yeah?”

“That too.”

Oh.

“What else?”

“You can’t do this every day,” he argues, “I want to show you new places and things.”

You graze the vulnerable skin of the strawberries collecting in the basket, watching it fill enough to feed a couple people. Grabbing it, you lift your body with a smile. For a minute, your knee aches from the crouching, and your brain gathers the sensations into one to create another core memory.

Lost for words, you merely tell him, “Thank you, Kook, I…” You heave the basket to your chest, touching his hand as he rises, too. “How do you even come up with all this?”

“How I come up with it? Hmm… I guess you make it easy to do.” He laughs, and you follow, reading your mind as he voices the same thought flashing through your brain. “I know I’ll be so nostalgic about this someday. In ten years, maybe.”

Cheeks hot despite the autumn wind, you register the butterflies immediately. Right under the basket, underneath your skin, like a swarm awaking from metamorphosis. The fact that he thinks ahead like this, paints a distant future with you… wanting you for this long drives you insane.

Jungkook’s voice always lacks uncertainty when it comes to you.

Mellow when he speaks to you, gentle even when he asks, “More?”

“Mmmh… yes. Can do a few more. And it’s fun.” So you do; picking and plucking until you can barely carry the basket anymore, already wondering what to do with the bunch until you pop the idea, “Can we eat some of these?”

“Now?”

“Yeah.”

“Of course. Gotta wash them, though.”

Which isn’t as easy as it sounds. It takes you a good moment to find a water tap on the wide field; one only crosses your way when you travel back to where the bike stands, proving as dysfunctioning and broken.

And only once you’ve reached nearly the end of the field and already detect the narrow path that you cycled along from afar, your luck strikes. You wash a handful of your harvest and place them neatly at the top of the rest, right above a handkerchief Jungkook whipped out from his pocket.

The grass isn’t high everywhere; you find an ideal spot for a brief, spontaneous picnic, pleasant and comfortable; a fluffy blanket of nature. You watch ladybugs and ants crawl over blades of grass; not too much more, considering the season.

Jungkook works through the content of the basket, soon holding a piece to your mouth, “Take this,” he says, pushing it through your parted lips; waits until you’ve chewn most of it. “And?”

The initial taste is good, but the aftertaste dramatically makes your world quiver. Whatever you’ve known about food and fruits so far must have been a hoax, because you can’t fake the way your eyes widen and your voice raises in pitch, delighted as you say, “This is… so damn good.”

“Right?”

“They don’t taste like this in the city!”

“Yeah,” Jungkook chooses a smaller one from the collection, throwing it into his mouth as a whole, “these are fresh. No bullshit berries.”

“No bullshit berries indeed. So good.”

“You picked good ones!”

“But this is a curse, too!” you exclaim, urging a laugh out of him that he transforms into a kiss to your temple, observing as you munch the strawberries as though encountering them for the first time. And you pout as you say, “ Keep me from eating them all. I want to take the rest home.”

“Sure, don’t worry. We can put them somewhere and take them back on the last day.”

“Hm? Oh. No, I meant today. Home, your house…” You realise your mistake. “Sorry.”

Only, he doesn’t deem it a mistake for a moment. He didn’t think you’d feel this cosy this fast — but it was what he’d hoped and opted for, so it’s a win either way. His family as your home, him as your home.

He thinks, you finally do feel at home. It took you years of endurance, didn’t it?

“Home, yeah?” he mutters. “An apology is the last thing I’d want, angel. You’re home, alright.”

You wish you had an equally meaningful answer; whatever you might babble now, you don’t think you could do justice to the soft tone he settled on. You can’t even outdo his gaze, so round, eyes so big on his otherwise clear-cut face.

What you can do is smile. Draw closer until your shoulders touch. About to taste the strawberry-flavoured, red tinted lips before a sudden motion drowns your plans.

The bunny flits over your feet; you’re sure it jumps onto yours for a moment and then uses them to push itself off into the grass, journeying on. The yelp it elicits out of you merges with the startled sound Jungkook emits.

His elbow lightly hits the side of your breast, and you pull your legs into your chest as self-defence. But it’s gone as fast as it appeared, and barely a second later, you’re watching it hop away, little ears disappearing in the distance.

“Well,” Jungkook breathes, “at least that’s normal. I’ll tell you about my snake encounters later some day.”

A hand on your chest, you exclaim, “Oh my God. You know what?” You calm down your lowkey panting, hand falling back into your lap, “Maybe you were right. We’re home for sure.”

“Oh… yeah?”

“Yeah! Totally looked like you… thought we were back home.”

Jungkook laughs out, head throwing back, and then, amidst his giggle, he throws a “Shut up” at you. The tackle nearly pushes you to the ground before his lips attack your face all over; making out on a countryside field wasn’t on your bucket list, but you sure as hell will add it only to tick it off.

His tongue really does taste like strawberries. His lips are sweet; the hand on your waist careful yet explorative. If the grass wasn’t this cruel, tickling all over your body, you’d probably remain here for the next hour.

Let him strip you bare. Kiss you into the earth. Nobody’s here; you don’t think you’ve ever fantasised of such a moment before, but suddenly, you don’t mind loving him right here.

But maybe he’s fostering the same thoughts as you, pulling back with a little groan when the blades prick his cheeks and closed eyes. Endurance isn’t easy right now; and you have a lot planned for the rest of the day anyway.

So you pull yourself together, and nod when he finally asks, “Wanna go?”

Somehow, it takes you a little longer to get home than it did to reach the field. Perhaps because he’s cycling uphill now, or maybe because the sun is at its zenith, warming the colder day. The comfort makes you want to stay in this moment, have his voice laughing next to your ear.

On a bike swaying when he loses focus, rolling dangerously to tease you on purpose.

And when you get back to his house, you’re greeted with yet another surprise. It’s fluffy and sweet and white like a cloud, living up to its name. A tongue sticks out, tail wiggling, right at the door when Jungkook opens it.

Gureum is small, smiling as far as you’re aware of a dog’s joy. You once heard that upon seeing their owner, the same hormone floods their tiny bodies as a human’s when they fall in love. Gureum must feel much like you do when Jungkook comes home.

You understand.

Understand when Gureum jumps up to Jungkook’s legs, licking his human’s face when your boyfriend picks him up. Jungkook’s voice changes so much that you barely recognise it; you’ve never heard him talk like this. Higher, lovelier, slurred to imitate the language babies speak.

The affection is unfiltered and crystal clear.

Jungkook’s smile brightens until it reaches its maximum, bunny teeth flashing, the laugh erupting so deeply from his chest. Authentic. Eyes nearly closed as he calls Gureum’s name, plays with his face, as if communicating with a child.

Twenty years, and he still thinks of him as his baby. Sometimes, all golden stays.

“Baby,” he says after a while once Gureum has stopped licking his face, introducing, “this is my Gureum.”

You set the basket down next to the door, reaching a careful hand to Gureum’s head; but he’s cooperative. Lets you easily. “Hi Gureum,” you whisper, “nice to finally meet you. You’re so cute!”

“He’s a little sick these days, but,” Jungkook gazes down again, kissing Gureum’s ears. “He gets through it so well, doesn’t he? Yes, he does.”

The laugh is real. The affection is real. Tender and deep-rooted. He smooches him again, and then puts a cheek to his warm fur. You’ve never seen him like this. You’ve never fallen deeper.

“I missed you so much, too, buddy,” he says, “so, so much.”

You swear you see Gureum cuddling into Jungkook’s chest. Doesn’t move even when you’ve settled in the living room, resting from the journey. You’d drafted plans for the rest of today, but it doesn’t seem they’ll separate, and you don’t want them to.

You can wait. Things can wait.

You sit by Jungkook’s side as he pets him, his head soon on your shoulder, one hand in the white fur, the other holding yours. It’s how you remain for a bit.

In hindsight, albeit never having plucked strawberries before, today wasn’t some grand adventure across the world. You didn’t strike a deal at work or fight off some paparazzi hiding in an unexpecting corner. And you didn’t climb a mountain.

But you guess that’s what you craved all your life. Somehow, this is better than any crazy escapade.

The serenity that comes with a mundane moment. A love that consumes you and a love that helps you commit the most casual of acts to memory.

Maybe this is enough. An old couch lightly creaking as you move; a cloud blinking as you caress its head. Surprises to help you experience saccharine afternoons.

You remain for a bit, and then remain a little longer.

Ria came through the door not too long after you’d returned, ready for the evening plans. She’d promised to accompany the two of you to the centre of the town, giving you a tour of the most important and ancient of places.

You learned about the town’s only drapery seamstress and the best flower shop. Much as it so occurs in 70s and 80s movies, you met the son of a mechanic. He told you he’d be inheriting the company one day, and that it was okay because he never intended to leave anyway.

Ria’s eyes suspiciously widened as she spoke to him, and she lingered for a moment longer than you did after your farewell. The guy had forgotten that there was work to do by the time she finally bid him goodbye.

Jungkook’s eyes squinted at the sight, but not even he could hide his endeared smile. Pressed into Ria’s shoulder with a teasing hum.

You rewarded yourself for the day’s many steps with some soft serve in front of the city hall, talking and delivering anecdotes until the sun started setting.

As the evening concludes, you’re the last to appear at dinner. His family is already sitting here, politely waiting and sweetly welcoming once you’ve washed up and hopped into the dining room with a vibrant smile.

You’re in a good mood. Evidently so; the scent of strawberries and the taste of his mouth still linger, and you’re still coming down from the high when you chime, “I’m sorry for being late.”

“Don’t worry about it at all,” his mother assures, “we just sat down.”

“I really wanted to help, though.”

It’s true. His mother has been nothing but the ultimate host. You wanted to prove productive and useful, but then Eun had called to check in on you and delayed your plans.

“Hmm, you know what?” his mother utters, pouring you some Jjamppong. “The wedding isn’t until one, so we could get up earlier and make strawberry jam in the morning? If you’d like.”

The wedding has been in the back of your mind constantly, slowly sneaking to the forefront with an intense nervousness. You’re timid because of how it’ll turn out, how people will perceive you, if they’ll talk to you. How Jungkook will look at you.

How much love might spread; how much certain people might tone down their resentment.

Learning yet another skill such as making jam might just be the best distraction. So you nod wildly, only interrupted when Jungkook asks, “Can I join, too?”

But you change the movements of your head to a shake, jesting about quality time and whatnot until he surrenders, “Alright. Way to shut out the boyfriend and son, I see you.”

“Speaking of food,” you say, pausing, slurping a big bite of noodles; they’re spicier than you’re used to from city restaurants. Better, too. You point your chopsticks to your dinner. “May I have the recipe?”

As his father and brother indulge in their food, acting as quiet listeners, his mother answers, “I’m sure Jungkook has it. I’m offended he never cooked it for you, since they had it a lot growing up.”

“Offended indeed. You learned this?”

“Oh, this?” Jungkook’s eyebrows, hitherto sporting a crease between them — a telltale sign of a well-eating Jeon — relax. “Yeah! I was learning when I was like, what, fifteen?” He seeks approval from his mother, who soon nods. “I fully butchered it when I tried it for the first time.”

Junghyun chuckles. “Even I remember.”

“Yeah, you refused to help!” Jungkook complains, whining when Junghyun hits his brother’s elbow with his own. “And I burned my wrist and had the wound for ages. Couldn’t do much in P.E.”

Much as yesterday, it seems his father hasn’t learned; because as you feared, it’s only now when he melts and intervenes. You almost surmise he’s provoking on purpose when he queries, “When you were fifteen when? I can’t remember any wounds.”

Jungkook scoffs. “Are you telling me I’m making it up again?”

“No, I’m just saying I don’t remember.”

“That’s because you were at work and didn’t pick up my many calls. Mom was sick that week… It's why I wanted to cook and learn at all.” He nods towards his brother. “Junghyun remembers because he went to a friend and then rushed home to bring me to the hospital. None of it sounds familiar to you, does it?”

Jungkook lists and narrates the happening with a flat voice, as if recalling items still left to purchase for tomorrow’s meal. He’s stirring his soup and his father is stirring everyone else’s, uncaring as he responds, “I didn’t know.”

“It’s fine. You probably didn’t care.”

“Nonsense.”

Another, “As much as the last years,” added to the mix, you opt for his hand under the table again, but he pulls away. You’re left dumbfounded, looking at him in surprise. This has never happened before; he’s never been upset in such a way.

As if to signal, “It’s fine. It’s whatever. Let me deal with this.”

But he can’t deal with it; you see the beginning signs of a rising chest and a decreasing appetite. Nobody just plays with the content of such a rich soup for this long; least of all a foodie like him. He’s busy looking at it, propping his elbow on the table.

You stare for a little longer, and then turn back to your food.

It sounds like it’s over. And it’s quiet; maybe you could interrupt with something else, change the course of the conversation. But his father isn’t done yet.

No. You notice everybody else’s irritation when he opens his mouth to speak again. They sigh, forming a line with their lips when he emits a question that leaves even you in disbelief, “Why are you saying this?”

“Come on,” his mother tries, wanting to ease the tension, but Jungkook is faster.

“What? I mean, I don’t know?” he starts, once again an equal amount of fear and annoyance in his voice. “I barely ever hear from you, Dad.” With each word, he grows more daring, at the end of his capacities when he eventually curses, “We live in the same city, for fuck’s sake—”

“Jungkook—” Junghyun interrupts.

“What? It’s true. Even the last hundred times, Mom visited alone. Could’ve at least come over and said Hi to my girlfriend.”

“I’m here now and saying Hi, though,” you try, weakly smiling.

“And he’s here, too. How grand of him.”

Fuck.

“Stop the attitude,” his father warns, “you could’ve come over plenty of times, too.”

“Are you hearing yourself? News flash, I did. I tried to talk to you, too. If I was still fourteen, I’d still be apologising. Oh, or is that what you want? Is it what you want?”

“What are you talking ab—”

“I’m talking about how I really wanted to tell you about a shit ton of things. Like when Nara and I broke up,” amidst the already tense moment, your heart pains for a second, “or when I graduated. Or when I was having a really fucking hard time this summer and needed somebody and then when I fell in love and needed to tell somebody, and… where are you all the time anyway? Who fucking knows — I don’t!”

It worsens and worsens. Crashes and burns; every word splits the air in the room. You don’t know how to save the moment anymore; maybe you’re not supposed to. You can only lend him courage. Perhaps he’s supposed to finally say all this.

But it’s hard to listen.

Because as the waterfall of grief cascades, you hear Jungkook’s voice quiver. He’s about to break. Right here, in front of everybody, you’re about to witness the woe this man inflicted on him all his life.

And you see it; see parts of this very torture when his father reveals who he’s become over the decade. The one Jungkook described to you; empty of empathy and understanding.

Because again, he renders you in shock when he speaks again. Fucking nasty, nitpicking and focusing on only one aspect, attacking somebody’s pride.

“Get a grip over yourself! You graduated in arts — you didn’t conquer the world. And you hold a grudge when—”

“I hold a grudge? I do? You’re the fucking one who shunned a kid because of a mistake and—”

“I do not want to hear about this. Not again.”

As their voices grow, so does your heartbeat. The anxiety is unbearable; you can barely imagine the one spreading through Jungkook’s chest. His face is red, neck hot, veins about to pop. If you could, you’d slap your hands over your ears.

But you can’t listen away; can’t ignore the panic, either.

“Please, stop,” you say, moving, but Jungkook frees himself of your grip again, stands. You attempt again, “Stop it, baby.”

But he won’t listen, mind somewhere else entirely.

“You won’t blame me for shit you did years ago, you can’t—” his father insists, but…

“Oh, fuck off.”

“Watch your mo—”

“Or wha—”

His father’s face, similarly scarlet as his son’s, grows a shade darker at the shameless counter, and his large hand lifts in slow motion for you. Comes down with a thump, intending to slap the wooden table, but hitting the edge of his small kimchi bowl again.

It flies up inches into the air before suddenly rolling off the table, aligning with you and soon falling onto your lower arm with a painful impact. It topples down onto your knee before it meets the ground and shatters into a handful of pieces.

You gasp and shriek, more out of surprise than pain; but Jungkook’s reaction is immediate. He bolts towards you, protecting you from whatever danger might be left. Pulls you off your seat and away from the shards as dead silence befalls the room.

It’s filled with your shaky breaths and the way his mother and brother shove their chairs back, hands reaching for you. Jungkook keeps you out of their reach. Looks at his father for a couple seconds; then to the kimchi on the ground; then back to him.

You can’t see him properly until you move to glance at him, wanting to keep his anger low, but… you don’t think you can do much anymore.

The fire in his eyes is blue.

And his voice is strained but furious when he finalises through gritted teeth, “You are fucking insane.”

This time, the man doesn’t answer. You hear his wife utter something as if scolding him before she speaks up and offers to clean up the mess. But Jungkook shakes his head, “No need. He can do it.”

Then, turning to his father, he repeats, “You’re fucking insane. You’re a terrible parent and we all know and only you can’t admit it to yourself. I just didn’t think you’d develop into a terrible person, too.”

Still long fingers around your wrist, he moves you towards the stairs, rounding off the fight with one more, “Don’t fucking get near me or her, do you understand? Fuck.”

So many words exchanged, but it was the stupid kimchi covering your pyjamas to make him topple over the edge. You feel guilty, but you don’t. It’s the man downstairs that has so fucking much to reflect on.

God. You wanted this vacation to relax Jungkook, to soothe you, to turn the first painful half of the year into something glorious.

But…

Then again, didn’t you expect this? Weren’t you scared of this?

Didn’t you fear the exact manner in which he now leads you to his room, in which the slamming of the door rings in your ears, his hands in his hair?

He’s let you go and stranded in his room. It’s odd, the way you stand here, clothes dirty and the grief dirtier. 

You walk towards him cautiously, watching him shiver, and reach for his wrists in turn this time. It’s a featherlight touch, but you feel the tremble underneath your fingers. And you instantly notice when he starts coming undone. When his lips shake, too.

Even with his head lowered, you recognise the wet waterline, and how it takes a handful more heavy breaths until you hear the first sob. You hug him. You hug him right away. Hold him close and closer.

You make a weak attempt at pulling him to the bed, but he’s already in the process of breaking down, his body getting heavier, falling. The carpet offers solace as his knees suddenly hit the ground. His arms hold onto your hips and his face buries in your chest.

When his breathing turns irregular, so does yours; you feel like the world is splitting and the sky crashing down. 

His leg comes in touch with your messed up clothes, and when he looks up into your eyes, he’s already crying. A trail of tears courses down his cheeks as his pupils suddenly shake, looking for something, asking you, “Did he hurt you, baby?”

“Kook…”

“Let me see, you must be hurt, you— you were just wearing these thin ass slippers without socks, right? The fucking bowl shattered and…”

“I’m okay, Kookie. I’m not hurt, I promise.”

“No, but… it fell on you, it must— did it bruise your knee?” he continues hectically, inspecting you, never seeing anything. He cradles your face, still crying and sniffling, shoving his pain aside to make sure, “Please tell me if anything hurts, ‘kay? I will get something, I’ll— dunno, fucking smash his fucking face, I’ll—”

His mind is going haywire. A proper downward spiral, and you don’t know how to stop it. What the fuck— what the fuck…

“Jungkook— Jungkook, please,” you try, lowering his hand, but he won’t stop searching for signs of injury. “Baby, please.”

“Why is he like this? I just… man, I am trying, angel.” His voice falls at the last word; your heart fractures at the same time as it tries to keep his intact. “I am trying so hard in life for him to like me, and you… you’re here, so I thought he’d behave and instead—”

“I know. It’s okay.”

It’s not, but you can’t say it. Can’t say how much the meaning behind your stained clothes hurts. How much it connects to what the weeping man in your arms feels; how he looked forward to this, planning ahead, a surprise for everyday without anticipating such ruin.

And he’s as clueless as you. More broken than you ever anticipated. Resembling the burst dish one floor beneath you, holding you like an anchor, crying into your chest.

He keeps repeating the same things as you repeat yours, soon mumbling his words of trying and trying and constantly trying. Of wanting to be loved. Attempting to understand if it’s too much to ask for. Is it?

Why can’t he love me?

And you whisper back, He loves you. He does.

It’s easy, falling into such misery. There were moments not too far in the past where you were on the receiving end of such pain, and he was your life vest. You don’t know if you’re keeping him above the surface as well as he did, because you keep susurrating the hopeful mantra to him.

But he keeps believing—

“No… no, he never fucking did. Wh—who treats someone like this?”

“Some people forget, you know… how to show affection. Sometimes, they deem their pride more important. It says nothing about you.” You lift his chin, heartbroken upon detecting his reddened eyes. “Everyone else in this stupid world loves you.”

“Your mother doesn’t either…”

“My mother? The woman who hates literally everyone?” You smile, trying to make him imitate it, but he doesn’t. You brush his cheeks and then his hair. “I do. I love you. I knew who you were even when I was unbiased.”

“Didn’t you… hate me, too?”

Once again, you try a faint smile. Not for him to join in, but because you’re reminded of a foolish friendship; it had already long bloomed into more when you’d finally named it one.

“Not for a second,” you say.

Break in discussion. He’s still shedding tears, snivelling. Stays frozen like this, all of him unable to move except for his lips. They mutter, “I don’t ever want you to get hurt. He can do whatever the fuck he wants with me, but…”

“Yeah. I’m okay. We’re okay.”

“I love you,” he maffles weakly, “I love you. I love you.”

“I know. I love you, too.”

You feel as though offering solace to a child. As if he’s shrunk into what he used to be, in the very room he used to sulk. The trauma still belongs to a kid, and when hurt, he’ll turn him into one, too.

You hate it. Hate that his sorrow still belongs to such a young heart. That he never processed it.

Before you came here, you spoke about it. And once you’re back in the city, you’ll have to figure things out further; the time constraints just before you drove away didn’t allow you to take much into consideration.

You can only cry now, can’t you? Detest the dampness in your own eyes. Stay right here until some sign occurs, lifting you up from the ground.

And it does fifteen minutes later.

The knock is gentle, just two of them, and you tell Jungkook to wait, that you’d be back in a minute. As you stand, his back is bent, his head lowered. As if he’s sleepwalking or slowly fainting.

You shut your eyes for a second; then open them again.

Behind the door, his mother awaits. In her soft hands, she’s balancing a tray holding some food. She lifts it towards you, tells you, “The two of you barely ate.”

Upon a closer look, you realise that her eyes are swollen, too. The view nearly forces you to tear up again, your face seethingly hot. You want to hug her. Want to tell her you’re sorry. Instead, you only touch her shoulder, and mutter a grateful thank you.

“It’s okay.”

She sounds so pained. You wonder if she said something to her husband. Reprimanded him, cried for his son, grieved a childhood and life that could’ve been.

But she doesn’t say any of it, and neither do you mention it. You only agree, “It will be. Are we still making jam tomorrow?”

“Yes. Tell Jungkook he can come if he wants to.”

“Yeah… I was thinking that, too.” You stare down to your food, never noticing how she peeks past your shoulder. Sees her son unmoving on the floor; she knows she can’t do more than you are right now. So she only nods when you repeat, “Thank you so much.”

You wish her a good night, bringing the food to where your boyfriend sits. Put it down in front of him.

“Sit upright, baby?” you ask him, crushed by the sight of swollen cheeks and red-rimmed eyes. His lips are parted, his breathing still stagnant; he only stares at his food until you push the tray closer to him and say, an attempt at a smile, “Let’s eat a bit. Mother-in-law brought it for us.”

No smile back, but a sniffle. The crying subsides just a bit as a shaking hand grabs the spoon, slurping the soup before he can even think of the noodles. He eats a little, slowly, surely. You help when he needs it, feed him a bite, encourage him to one more.

Every other minute, he cries again. You wipe the tears away, try to make him eat more.

His father fucked him up. You knew about the issues and demons Jungkook combatted. Of course his mentality suffered; of course there are parts of him that might never heal… But you never quite understood the full effect. 

His father fucked him up good; got him so bad. Parts of both of them are so ultimately ruptured, aren’t they?

Whenever he winds down, you eat in silence, right there on the ground on top of the old carpet. When he can’t swallow anymore, still some left in his bowl — Jungkook barely ever doesn’t finish his food — you move up to the bed with him.

You kiss his hair repeatedly, as if it could heal him just a little, to even the tiniest percentage. You don’t know how much of an effective bandage you are to him, but you know you’re doing at least something.

Because he whispers another I love you before the gut-wrenching sounds of his sobs have finally faded out, still echoing in the room. His tiny, shrunk voice says, “I’m looking forward to tomorrow with you.”

And somehow, it pains you even more. The hopeful tone; the wish for a day to not hurt.

“Me too, baby,” you say, “it’s nobody but us, okay?”

“Yeah… yeah.”

And that’s it. It’s all you can do for now; understanding the heavy heart the night cursed you with.

But as you drift away, you keep pleading. Pleading and pleading and pleading for a better tomorrow without getting a promise back.

To your chagrin but least of your surprise, Jungkook doesn’t join your jam-making session the next morning.

When you stirred awake for a little bit, eyes still sleep-drunk and body falling, your phone flashed seven thirty in the morning. Not ready to start the day yet and doubting anybody else had gotten out of bed, you cuddled into his body, and he, while deep in his slumber, must still have noticed.

Pulled you in more, smacking his lips and sighing a little, a warm hand at the back of your head. Secured in his embrace, you fell asleep again.

Only to awake two hours later without him by your side. You’re already washed up and somewhat sobered up from sleep, and you’ve looked on the first and ground floor. You can’t find him.

His mother informed you that she and her husband would be leaving to join the wedding earlier, to help out with the preparations and make sure the plans all sit. You offered your help, but she claimed they’d be okay, and that you can still use the morning after the jam lesson to rest.

Perhaps Jungkook has embarked on a journey then, using this time to do something in the early morning. 

Once you’ve walked into the kitchen, greeting his mother with a smile and a good morning, you ask, “Nervous for the wedding?”

“Mmmh, kind of,” she answers, locking the phone she held, putting it aside to sip her tea, “but it should be good since we took care of most of the stuff pretty well. It’ll be wonderful. Except the damn Wedding March — we couldn’t settle on any song but this.”

“I can’t wait. I bet it’ll be beautiful.” You take a seat in front of her, hearing the sounds of the TV and quiet conversations. Among the voices, you recognise two, but his is neither of them. You’re not interested in joining. So you look at her, scratching your temple as you inquire instead, “Where’s Kook gone?”

Her forefinger points downwards, another blow to the tea and another swig. “Basement. I brought him some coffee, but he seemed busy and quiet, so I left him there. But,” her voice grows louder, enthusiastic, “you can go! Maybe he’ll be okay with that?”

Hmm…

“What did he go down for?” you ask.

“I think he was looking for something.” Now, she lowers her tone again, lower arms on the table. “He also just… did that sometimes when he was younger, or after a fight.”

After a fight.

Like the breakdown last night. You understand.

You should probably walk down and check — but then again, this has seemingly been a coping mechanism ever since he was younger. So perhaps, you need to let him be for a little; give him a chance to entangle his thoughts and regain some peace.

You repeat your decision to her and she nods in understanding, throwing a glance to a huge jar on the kitchen counter. You’re ready to deliver an answer before she even asks, “Want to help out then?”

“Sure!”

The process is a patient one. Reminds you of when Jungkook told you how to pick the strawberries yesterday; gently, sweetly, with a tender touch and an even more delicate voice.

Jungkook’s mother takes the fruits out of the jar with care, explains to you to mash them and cook the jam with absolute soothing composure. The minutes pass so serenely that you imagine preparing meals with her on a cold winter evening, pleasing your soul to ensure not only a good night’s sleep but lasting quiet of the soul, too.

You add the sugar and lemon juice to your mix, stirring and boiling the delicatesse before you put it in sterilised jars. She shows you how to sterilise them at all; you didn’t think or know that such a step was necessary at all.

The making of it doesn’t take too long; forty-five minutes tops. As you scanned the internet just before entering the kitchen almost an hour ago, it said it takes barely half an hour. But she demonstrated it all to you slowly, unrushed.

You’re thankful.

“Have you ever made jam before?” she asks as you admire your creation.

You shake your head. “No… I don’t think I’ve tried such a thing at all. It’s fun making things on your own. I mean, I do like to cook sometimes, but I’m nowhere on Jungkook’s level, I don’t think.”

She chuckles, nodding as if to confirm. Then clarifies, “Yes, he’s enjoyed being involved in the kitchen ever since he was a teen. Especially before he left town and realised he’d have to cook on his own.”

You giggle with her, like with a friend or a trusted figure. It’s so consoling, talking to her. Fun, smiles intact, still present when she asks, “How are the two of you doing? I mean, you did move in together quite fast, so I’m just wondering.”

Yes; she doesn’t need to spell it out. You get it — you’ve heard about this.

So-called relationship experts claim that taking decisions in the honeymoon phase isn’t too healthy, warping your sense of reality and perception of the other person. You don’t disagree, but you guess in this case…

“Honestly, it’s been good,” you respond. “We have a couple heated evenings where we argue about stuff, but… it’s been healing. And he offered to move in when I really needed it.”

“Yes, Jungkook told me.” Oh. “You weren’t at a very good place before. Please don’t mind.” You shake your head in reassurance, urging her to go on. It’s his mother; it’s fine to tell her if any of you is struggling. “I’m glad you’re there for each other because he wasn’t at a good place either.”

You nearly don’t dare to ask; in a way, she might know her son better than you know your boyfriend. Maybe; maybe not. You fear a disheartening answer when you ask, “Do you think he is now?”

But she, careful as ever, tells you honestly, “It’ll probably take time to get over things, but— it’ll be okay. Things seem a little better, though, if you want my neutral POV.”

“Ah… okay. That helps.” You play with the white-dotted red band around the jar. Your mind circles around a million questions that only she might be able to answer; yet, cautiously, all you query is, “Do you ever… have you ever spoken to him? Or his dad? About all the things…”

You reckon that if he’s talked about the two of you before, he probably mentioned spilling his secrets to you, too. At least from your perspective, it’s obvious that he entrusts her with his heart.

And once again, she affirms, “I have. Often. Even before the two of you came. It’s why I told you to take your time getting here.”

Ah… Makes sense now. So that’s why you had to roam the hotel until noon a couple days before. You sigh.

She continues, “It just doesn’t end well most of the time, so… And I’m not a good talker. I don’t know what to say anymore after so many years. Both want me on their side, though Jungkook never persists on it.”

She’s so wrong. Both she and him.

Jungkook has told you for months that he’s bad with words; yet, he comes in with every word ever written by any bard, singing poetry to you and bandaging your heart when needed.

You remember…

I’m not good with words, baby. And I don’t know how to ever properly verbalise something like this.

You sigh again. Tell her, “I understand. I also wouldn’t expect you to go against either of them.”

“Sure. But… It's difficult sometimes. Seeing how broken some of our bonds are.”

You’ve used and formed this word so many times before. Broken. For him, for you, for the world. Hearing somebody else share these sentiments and confirm your fears hurts.

And you’re out of words, wishing for a higher power to grant you a curing skill. If you could lift somebody’s burden with a single touch, just the way you’re reaching out for her hand now, you’d be busy circling the globe at all times.

“I’m so sorry,” is all, however, you can offer.

You hate how helpless she is. You urge to say something more, to hug her and promise that the world always regains its colours at some point. But you remain like this, watching the jam in the jars; hearing her say—

“You know. Jungkook has my number. I don’t know how much you and your mother still talk, but… you can talk to me, too, if you ever need to. I mean, I’m a mother.” She laughs at this part, raising a shoulder to her chin in pride, “And you’re part of him, so you can be part of us, too.”

Your eyes, locked onto the jar until now, flit up to her, and you blink to keep them dry, admitting without another thought, “I might actually cry.”

“Oh. Awh,” she voices, lifting her hand from underneath yours to cover it again. “Don’t. I didn’t mean to be all kitsch. I meant it.”

Gathering your prior thoughts into words, you puff out a breath, sporting a reprimanding look as you say, “You’re so wrong. You and your son, you always know what to say.”

Teeth flash again as she grins; she looks so innocent and pure. “Well, where do you think he got it from?”

Shit…

“Thank you…” you mutter, body already twitching, yearning to bolt forwards until you finally dare to ask, “Okay. May I… Can I hug you?”

“My goodness, love. You don’t need to ask! C’mere.”

You instantly tear up when she pulls you in. Last time you met, she left a fleeting touch. You barely knew her then; in some way, you don’t know her much now, either. But this… this is impactful.

The way she presses you into her; her chin on your shoulder. The slight pat and then the following rub up and down your shoulder blade. So warm; so salving.

One or two more pats, with a little more impact this time, she gently moves you back by your arms again, sucking in a breath as she suggests, “Alright. Wedding time, yes? We should start getting ready.”

“Yes. But…” You hesitate, wonder how much you can interfere. But then you diminish your mental concerns, and simply utter, “If you don’t mind. May I suggest something?”

You walk down the steps to the basement.

The light is on; other than what mainstream movies might suggest, they’ve set up the interior of the basement prettily. The few furniture — a table and a couch chair, as well as a couple common chairs — is a light beige, the wallpapers light, flowery.

He’s in the middle of the room, on the ground despite the many options to sit, sifting through pictures and objects lying around him. When he detects you, he flinches a bit, eyes big, moving suspiciously as if to hide something.

But you guess he’s just startled; and once he catches himself, he calls your name, wishing a sweet, “Morning, baby. Sorry for leaving the bed.”

“Oh, hey. It’s your house, you can do whatever you like. Besides, your mom and I had the time of our lives.”

He smiles brightly. You love, love, the wrinkles around his eyes. “Made some groundbreaking jam, yes?”

“You’ll see when you taste it.” You walk closer, recognising photo albums and frames. Yet, you ask, “What are you doing?”

“Uhmmm, just looking through old stuff.”

The pictures are flipped, upside down from where you stand, so you round his body, legs folded on the floor. You come to a kneel, and just when you’re close enough, you see the pure sugar spilled in front of him.

It’s in the form of fat baby cheeks. An open, surprised mouth. Then, in form of a photograph of a toddler crying. The same tremendous eyes and the same curve of his upper lip. A tilted smirk on one of them, just the one you know.

They’re adorable. You dissolve at the sight; at seeing him in a red vest, holding a half chewn corndog, tiny fingers forming a peace sign, and an unsure expression as if he’s seeing the world for the first time.

He does this often. Zone off like this.

Not rarely do you tease that he’s trudging through his first life, but he often refutes your theory with an immediate expression of shock. Chuckles back that it never feels like he’s loving you for the first time.

“Why are you looking at these, Kook?” you ask, hands on his shoulder before you settle your chin on one of them, cheek to cheek.

“Just so. I knew there was a picture of my cousin somewhere, too. Look.” He shoves aside some of the photographs on top, fishing out a very old one. “This is her. Gayoung.”

A lovely girl next to him, clearly older. They’re both holding car toys; he’s busy indulging in it, laughing, not noticing the flashing of the camera. But she’s staring right into it, caught off guard, eyebrows high and mouth open.

“I can’t believe she’s getting married today,” Jungkook says. “She’s like a daughter to my parents, but… I didn’t get to talk that much with her anymore when she grew into an adult. Was more with Ria. And then I moved, too. But… it’s still crazy. I still remember her as a young but older sister.”

“Of course. Time’s pace of passing is pretty strange. Very fast.”

“Yeah…”

He throws it back into the pile, shutting two of the handful of photo albums. Humming, he flips a couple pages of a third album; your eyes follow as he combs through them. You almost don’t notice when he pauses, and when you do, you understand why.

It’s another old picture, Jungkook tiny, mouth wide open to say something as he points towards the camera slash photographer. And he’s in the arms of somebody who’s undeniably his father. The man looks more like Junghyun than Jungkook.

But they seem happy here. His big hands are firm on Jungkook’s body, holding him lovingly and smiling at him with even further tenderness.

Jungkook remains on it for only a split second, but you get it.

You replay his mother’s words in your mind, and suddenly, you remember; a revelation clears up like a sunny day after a fog, and God… you remember.

And still, you act like you don’t. Like you haven’t understood that he’s here to reminisce about a life when things were still okay; when he still felt loved. Reliving moments when shit hurt less. Of course he’s here; it makes sense, so directly after a fight.

He seeks comfort in moments he barely remembers to escape the pain he recently suffered.

You’re out of damn words. This shouldn’t be happening to anybody.

You hug him from behind, arms around his chest. Attempting to ease his possibly disturbed soul, you ask, “Hey. Do you know that you’re the sweetest being alive? These pictures cause cavities. Good that you kept them from me.”

“Oh, yeah?” He turns his head slightly, lips grazing your nose, warm breath falling on it. “Coming from my munchkin herself.”

“I mean it! You’re so cute. And look at these cheeks,” your finger gestures towards a chubby baby, “they’re still so soft, by the way.”

You press your face against his, squishing his scarred cheek, and he states under a laugh, “You’re too much.”

“Too much of a fool for you, yes.”

He clicks his tongue, though playfully. You hear in his voice and see in his beam that he’s delighted, flattered, loving and loved. You ask, “Are you feeling okay now?”

To your relief, he nods. “I’m feeling better, I guess. Looking forward to the wedding. And your dress!”

“Oh, I am, too. I was going to show it to your mom just before, but… I want you to be the first to see it.”

“And then you say I’m not the luckiest man alive.”

“I just said Ashton Kutcher is. Mila Kunis is pretty cool.”

“Shut up.”

You pause, watch him tidy up; after a minute, you tell him, “You should’ve joined when we made the jam. Could’ve been fun, too.”

“Yeah… I mean I thought about it, but. Then I was like, maybe it’d be good for her to get to know you, like, unfiltered. She’s always careful not to be weird around me.”

“Ah. That’s kinda sweet, though.”

“Isn’t it?”

You nod against his cheek; then, drum lightly against his chest, a peck to his ear, getting to your feet a second later as you ask, “So… are you coming up? It’s a little after eleven. We should probably get ready soon.”

“Yeah, I’ll be up in some. You should go first, though. I’ll need a bit less time.”

You’re already taking steps towards the staircase leading up, but you can’t refrain from throwing one last tease, “You sure? Not sure with your skincare routine. Have you even eaten?”

“Yes, I did. Don’t be a brat.”

You lift your lips to a last provoking, tight-lipped smile before you ascend to his room. The dress is still almost flawless between your clothes. You heavily worried about damage in the few days you travelled, but aside from a few spots that need to be ironed out, it’s as gorgeous as ever.

Flattening out the creases with a borrowed iron, you soon rummage in your suitcase for the curling iron and the rest of your make up. You look at the mess scattered on Jungkook’s table, wondering where to start.

Make up, probably.

Okay. you have one, two chances max to try what you want to achieve. The goal is to remain casual, natural and humble; considering your dress, you cannot overdo it. You don’t want to look excessively over the top. Want to keep your essence under the make up.

So you keep it lowkey, pretty much content with the results before you slip into the dress.

And when you look into the mirror, you nearly squeal. You don’t struggle with your appearance. But while you���ve largely been satisfied with how you look, you did occasionally find things to possibly improve.

Normal. Doesn’t everyone deem certain spots flaws, regardless of whether they actually are?

But today… today you’re sparkling. You’re happy; in love with what you accomplished.

If you could, you’d immediately rush down to him again, show you the results. But it seems you don’t need to — because half a minute later, you make out his voice outside. He’s talking to his brother, laughing about something; seems the rest of the family is leaving. The door shuts just before you hear him moving up the stairs with quick steps.

And… when he finally opens the ajar door to his own room, his body locks at the spot, as if somebody screwed his feet into the wooden floor.

The reaction is easily imagined; most often seen on TV. You didn’t know how real it was, but then again, clichés always have an origin in real life, don’t they?

You’re surprised, a little shy by how he looks at you. And how he looks in general — black trousers hugging his snatched waist and well-formed hips. The white dress shirt is still in progress, collars up, suit jacket not yet on.

And he’s olding something in his hand that you can’t recognise.

He looks breathtaking and mesmerising, despite missing half of the preparation still. Fuck… fuck, fuck, fuck.

Does he feel the same about you? Probably.

Because he curses, “What the fuck.”

Like a statement, not a question. You touch the silky soft material of your dress, widening your eyes as your quiet voice asks, “What?”

“What are you even?”

You burst out into a brief, fleeting laugh at the question, repeating, “What I am?”

“Like, a fairy or something. Shit, it’s as if I’m getting married.”

Another near-squeak falls out of you. But you can’t blame him this time; you chose this attire carefully.

The sheer chiffon fabric, light and airy, sparkling; it called your name the moment you saw it. Floor length, lavender, spilling to the floor like a waterfall; a spicy slit on the side that Jungkook’s eyes remained on for just a tiny heartbeat longer, you know.

And off-the-shoulder sleeves; most of the back bare.

Sheepishly, you ask, “So you like it?”

“Like, I—” he starts, yet stops. He blows a raspberry. “You’re so pretty. You’re the prettiest. Oh my God,” he exclaims, dramatically touching his forehead, “I need to keep other’s eyes off you. Look at you!”

You laugh out loud, a hand on his wrist to keep your balance, no other productive response in your bright pink entangled mind than, “Babe—”

“No, seriously. Okay, I concur. It was right for me to wait to see you in the dress. Getting a heart attack as we speak.”

Your cheeks still glow brightly when you wiggle a finger at him, disappointed that there is no reality show camera pointing at you to hear you say, “If your boyfriend doesn’t react like this, girl, you don’t want him.”

You instinctively move to the buttons of his sleeve, helping out, resisting the urge to give in and fix his collar, too. You want to see the end result so badly, but he’s still missing the tie and the jacket. 

So you settle on merely touching the buttons over his chest, nodding as if approving before you say, “You already look so good, too. You know, maybe it’s you who should hide behind me today. What if some middle school girl crushing on you jumps you?”

He chuckles. “They can try.”

“They? Well, shit.”

“I’m kidding.” He lowers his chin, bringing your knuckles to his rosy lips, kissing one or two of them. “Hide me, then.”

“Mhm… Do you need help getting ready? With the tie or something?”

“Oh, it’s okay. You can lean back for a bit, tell me a story or something? I shouldn’t take too long.”

It’s a ritual of sorts. Sometimes, when you wait for the other on a date or dinner night, the faster one acts as the night’s entertainer. Sings songs or tells stories or plays DJ or serves the latest, hottest work tea.

You tell him, “Okay. But before I do,” your hand wanders down to his; it’s stubbornly closed around an object, dangling on his side. You uncurl his fingers. “What’s that you got there?”

“Oh, I…” He comes to life, as if he forgot that he was holding it at all. He lifts it between your faces, straightening his palm, and presents you something incredibly sparkly and nostalgic. “It’s part of the reason I went down at all. With my mom’s permission since she wore it at her prom…”

Damn it. Both of them deceived you.

“You were looking for it?” He nods; your heartbeat accelerates as you urge, “And…”

“And I got it for you.”

Words, you notice, are only your specialty when you’re jotting them down and narrating a story from within your mind. When it comes to answering to the grand gestures he always makes you fall in love with, you’re such a zero.

Odd, considering how he, in contrast, has claimed over and over again that he’s not as eloquent as he’d like to be. But you’ve long figured out that if he was to preach the truths he holds in his heart to an audience, the stage would drown in a flood of tears within minutes.

You reach for the shiny, pearly, flowery accessory. It’s rose-gold, a little vintage, clearly older, and so strikingly beautiful. It looks like…

“A comb… for me,” you say. Not the one to untangle your hair. The decorative type; fancy and gorgeous. He nods again, lets you take it between your fingers. “Why?”

“Just,” a shrug of his shoulder, “I wanted to give you a little something to remind you of this place and the love you got here. Besides, it’d look so pretty on you.”

A reminder that you’re loved. You wonder — who thinks of these things? Does anyone else in this universe heat up their girl’s chest like your boyfriend does?

They can tell you what they want; you’re the luckiest being alive. And in return, you want to love him as much as nobody has ever loved before.

You whisper, “Thank you, Kook… Your mom is okay with this?” Another enthusiastic nod of confirmation. “Thank you so much. I— I wish you could see yourself the same way.” You squeeze it in your hand to feel it properly, then open it again. “This is so pretty.”

“It’ll suit you.”

“Yes?” Softly, you hand it back to him, turning to the mirror, with him right behind you. “Do you want to put it in?”

“Ah… I can try.”

“Right there?” You point to the back of your head; to the braid in your loose half updo. “Near the hair pins I used. The comb might hide them well, too.”

And he does his best. Regards your hairdo focused, eyebrows knitting in concentration, so gentle with it. No getting stuck, no intentional tugging.

“Wait,” he then says, tapping his trouser’s pocket, and then fishes out his phone for a picture. He shows it to you; the accessory sits there perfectly, not crooked or ruining a single wisp of hair. “How’s that?”

“You did it so well. Thank you, Koo.” You face him again, smile bright and endless. “Your turn?”

“Yes.” He rubs his hands, looking around. “Let’s get this over with. Give me feedback, okay? And tell me a story?”

You take a seat at the edge of his bed prettily, coming up with a short tale about personified instruments and what they’d symbolise. The guitar for the heart and the love in it, the drums for thunder and the excited pulse of the soul.

“The flute for the breeze and dreams?” Jungkook adds.

And you urge in a thrilled tone, “And the violin for the rain and longing. They’d learn from each other, right?” You sigh. “I’ll think about the piano, too. Can’t figure it out yet… it could be a lot.”

Jungkook nods, distracted and interrupting the story when he asks for brief comments on his progress. Barely any feedback, though; praises largely.

You watch as he slips into the rest of his clothing and gels his hair back — it’s grown quite a bit since the press conference in September. You get to your feet, amped up when he finally claps and rubs his hands in anticipation a bit later, announcing that he’s ready to leave.

And you’re still euphoric when you jump into your car, letting him drive through the streets he knows much better. His fingers wander to the passenger seat every now and then; minutes after the last scolding, you keep reminding him to keep his hands on the wheel.

I want to kiss you so bad, but your damn make up won’t let me today, huh?

A tease here, a flirt there.

You feel like you could do anything. The sky's the limit. And it soon proves that the statement has never rang truer, even if in a vastly different context now.

Because once you reach the wedding — your metaphorical sky —, Ria is already standing at the parking lot, waving the moment she spots the two of you stepping out of the car. From afar, you already see the wedding’s venue; a lake in the back, a huge tent and a field at the front.

The parking lot right next to it, but still a couple minutes of a trek away.

Ria’s parents indulge Jungkook in a conversation about something you barely register right away, and she gestures towards herself, hugging and greeting you with an odd half-smile.

“You look so pretty,” she says, and you beam benignly, returning the compliment.

She’s rocking a dark blue dress, sleeveless, her hair in a loose bun. Wavy strands frame her face. But somehow, she looks demotivated. Worried to the slightest, though still mostly cheerful. So you ask, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah! I just wanted to tell you something. But don’t freak out, okay?”

Well, shit. Doesn’t start as you imagined, does it? You glimpse over to Jungkook. He’s laughing from the heart, button nose crunched; why is she not telling him, too?

Your chest feels tighter; the usual human response to a menacing statement such as hers. You upright yourself, take a deep breath, ground yourself as you encourage, “Yes? I won’t. What’s up?”

“Well… we’re in this town and like, people know each other. And since we’re all in a very close circle here, I just wanted to say that,” her face changes; she kind of grimaces, as if apologetic for something, “Nara came, too.”

Ah.

Ah…

The sky's the limit, and you reached it, and now you’re kind of crashing.

Well. You never thought about this; but it makes perfect sense, doesn’t it? Of course she’d be here. She was part of this town and Jungkook’s life for so many years, so naturally, she’d be familiar with his relatives, too.

Besides, even if she hadn’t been with him… Didn’t Jungkook and Ria already establish with you just yesterday, when you were inhaling your ice cream, that this small town strives on familiarity?

Meetings at the town hall, the shop owners’ affection for most of their year-long customers. The Stars Hollow vibe you already recognised.

Ahhh…

So that’s what Junghyun might have been trying to tell you on the first day, too. You remember his mother interrupting.

How annoying. You did not want to feel annoyed. Maybe it would’ve been better if Ria hadn’t told you; if you’d bumped into Nara randomly and suffered the temporary heart attack. Or perhaps, you wouldn’t have seen her at all…

Come on. Unrealistic.

Fuck, you feel childish. There shouldn’t be any burning in your chest or an uncomfortable warmth in your cheek. You shouldn’t be feeling the urge to run over to Jungkook, to actually hide him behind you.

To rush to his ear, whisper your worries, make him promise that he only loves you and won’t ride into the sunset with her.

Delusional, paranoid concerns that you wouldn’t entertain on any normal, sane day; then again, the news Ria delivered wasn’t going to leave you unbothered anyway. This whole thing around exes really sucks.

“I… I shouldn’t spiral, though, right?” you answer, your voice a little weaker. Ria immediately nods, though still not relaxing the wrinkle between her eyebrows. “I mean, of course she’d be here. This is her place, she was born here and…”

Ria takes your hands in hers, assures, “I promise you it’s nothing too bad, okay? Nara and Jungkook have been here at the same time before and literally nothing happened.”

What? When?

“When?” you echo.

“Uh, like last summer? He only came down for a couple days, though. College exams and stuff.”

Ah… you wouldn’t even know. Back then, you’d only encountered him once, at the blurry frat party that you spent in locked rooms and on tiled roofs. When you sang together and spilled your hearts to each other.

For the very first time.

Whatever he did before or after that… how would you know?

Only, you feel even sicker at the thought that after that party, and after he allegedly met Nara here again without anything literally happening, he still linked with her back in the city. Still shared his nights and sheets with her.

Does this count as nothing happening? What if the time here evoked something? What if it happens again?

Fuck, what if it happens again?

“I’m going to panic,” you tell Ria.

“What? No,” she exclaims, though instantly lowering her voice, rubbing your arm soothingly, “it’s okay, I promise. He didn’t even think of it. Either that or he doesn’t care ‘cause he didn’t mention her once.”

“But now I might keep thinking about it.”

“Seriously. Fuck, I feel bad for saying it—”

“No… no, it’s okay. You should’ve.”

“Okay, look. It’s honestly fine. She’s nice, she won’t do anything shady; not if she knows about y’all.” Another caressing touch to your shoulder. “I just wanted to warn you. Please don’t feel startled. I’m here, okay? I’ll smash his nose if anything happens.”

She looks to the side. The other conversation has seemingly ended, too, and you swallow as Ria’s parents wave her over. She says, “Okay. Gotta go, but I’ll meet you guys inside and reserve seats, okay? There’s just limited assigned seating.”

She pats your coat-clad arm, and then walks away. 

Well. Okay.

You guess you’ll have to get over this one way or another. You focus on your clothing. Focus on how you look, how Jungkook looks. The weather, the tent many many feet away. Your boyfriend’s gaze on you as he walks back to you, offering his hand.

He pauses when he sees you, asking, “Is everything okay?”

“Hm?” you hum. “Yes. Just nervous, I think.”

“Me too.” He flashes the sweetest grin known to mankind, genuinely excited, childlike joy. Tilts his head at you. “You seriously look so fucking pretty. Like really, really.”

You smile.

Okay…

It should be alright. Jeon Jungkook is so in love with you; damn it, he even peels your oranges for you when you don’t feel like doing it. You need to trust the process; need to hold onto your excitement.

Okay.

You glance at the event warming up in the far. Halfway through, people have gathered, standing on the grass or the man-made path. There’s still a bit of time; so naturally, they’re still busying themselves with conversations.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

You’ve met her before. This isn’t different.

You look down to where his and your fingers intertwine; put particular attention to the way he holds you. Firmly, as if protecting and loving and keeping you close at the same time.

His smile lifts your spirits a little, the wind enclosing your mind and easing it. You nod only slightly, telling yourself it’ll all be good — and then, let him tug you towards the wedding.

The wedding is as bustling as you expected. It’s bright, colourful, flowers draped over the place in abundance. Even before you enter it, the huge tent leaves you breathless, gasping.

They put so much effort into this; it’s clear as day. Jungkook’s mother isn’t around, but the moment you lay your eyes on her again, you’ll praise her for what she helped mount. Somehow, the beauty nearly makes you forget that you’re among pure strangers.

But that at least one familiar face is roaming here somewhere.

You take a deep breath.

All these people know each other. They probably grew up together, know the ins and outs of the town, have gathered at weddings and funerals and school events. You don’t know how well you’ll be able to integrate, but you do hope for their support.

It’s not too much to ask, you reckon.

At least not when Jungkook pulls at your hand and the two of you into certain directions, coming to a stand multiple times when he sees a person or two calling him to them. Some are old school friends; some adults he knew when he was a child.

Candy store owners. Somebody who sold him his first scooter. Or a pal he used to share his banana milk with.

The sentiments are clearly there and they bask in them, but none of them ever forgets about you. Jungkook introduces you, tugs you into his side, enskies you with praise. And they respond with kindness and interest; tell you he’s mentioned you before.

You remember. Jungkook told you how his friends spoke about you or saw you on TV, eager to meet you — they react according to the excitement he foretold, and you reciprocate it with ease. Very sweet.

Yet, it seems that even in a small town, or especially in a small town, enmity runs just as deep as affection. Some people remember friendships, others still resent rotten memories.

You soon meet the first one of the latter kind.

He’s standing near the entrance of the spacious tent; you glance inside, unsuspecting, not a single familiar face in sight. You don’t notice him until Jungkook does, coming to a stand, walk interrupted as the guy exclaims, “Jeon Jungkook! My goodness, Jungkook—”

You meet thick eyebrows, long-ish dark hair, full lips. He’s handsome, his smile bright. 

And his voice is mellow and sweet, and at certain tones, it reminds you of Jimin’s; then again, some syllables come out much deeper. You don’t know who he is; of the pictures Jungkook has shown you, he wasn’t in any of them.

“Hey,” Jungkook greets, somewhat distant. You don’t think standing here is his first choice, but your boyfriend is as polite as can be. Even waves towards the guy, and tells you, “This is Christian. Barom, but he lives in Australia now, so.”

“Hi,” you reach out a hand, “nice to meet you.”

The accent is heavy and somehow cursive when he responds, “Likewise.”

Jungkook is definitely not delighted about him. Follows the touch of your hands, then your gaze up to Christian’s face. You notice it before Jungkook can probably even think of it: the odd look the stranger throws at you.

Up and down. Smile telling. Uncomfortable.

And when Jungkook suddenly does catch it, he intervenes, “You came all the way from Sydney?”

“Yep. And you came over from the city?”

“Yeah,” Jungkook answers. You barely register it, but you’re certain he’s been pushing you behind him inch by inch; but you remain at your spot. You can deal with this. “We were on vacation before, but I was gonna come anyway.”

“Nice. And wait, sorry, you were…?”

You recall never introducing yourself; but you’re positive he’s figured out your relationship to Jungkook just by the steadfast grip around your palm. But Jungkook still officially voices your name and informs him, “My girlfriend.”

Christian must be seeing or hearing something you aren’t — strange since it was him who asked — but he laughs, teasing, “You’re being defensive.”

“I’m not. I literally just told you she’s my girlfriend.”

“Lucky. You look pretty together.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

You have not a single clue what’s going on. Jungkook is never really rude, so there must be something about this Barom or Christian — he’s never mentioned him before.

Then again, you guess growing up in a tight space comes with all sorts of relationships. Christian is probably the sort that never earns a mention until actually met with the person themselves.

It’s funny though — in some way, the rejection seems one-sided. As if Jungkook is still holding something against him and Christian remains uncaring; while it might not be a universal truth, you’ve experienced that those utterly calm are often the ones at fault.

And Jungkook isn’t an angry human being. He’s kind. Patient. Needs a reason to be mad.

Christian doesn’t take the hint when he smiles, a heavily tattooed hand patting Jungkook on his shoulder as he suggests, “See you later then? Let’s take a picture or get a drink afterwards.”

Jungkook only stalls for the tiniest seconds, but you know him — he’s probably already made up his mind. You look between the men, baffled by the nearly visible bolts shooting from one pair of eyes to the other.

“Sure,” Jungkook eventually says, your hand still in his, and works on moving to the coat check and then to the chairs without adding anything else.

You don’t inquire yet what this was about as you walk, catching glimpses of the priest, of the stranger guests and of the people lingering at the front of the tent. You’re busy gauging Jungkook’s eyebrows, observing as they relax more the further he gets away from the guy.

And neither do you need to pop the question when you’ve settled somewhere in the middle-ish, you on his right side, Ria on the other. Next to her, her parents that you briefly met when you brought her home yesterday.

Previously turned on her seat, she now uprights her body, hooking her arm with Jungkook’s as she whispers to him, yet clearly enough for you to hear, “Was that Yu Barom?”

Jungkook nods. “Christian Yu now. Yup.”

“Right.”

They nod, understanding each other wordlessly, but you’re still floating in between a couple theories and the actual sentiments. So you lean in; you’ve become one of the gossipers at a wedding, you guess.

“Okay,” you start; the two of them stare at you with the same big puppy eyes. “You don’t seem to like him.”

“Oh, we don’t,” Jungkook bluntly admits.

“Why?”

Jungkook smacks his lips. Eyes drift to the roof of the tent, the polyester fabric swaying in the gust. Then, they shift to his cousin, presumably seeking approval, because she shrugs her shoulders, gesturing with her hand and says, “Oh, go ahead.”

So he explains, “His little cousin was a constant problem for Ria. Same age… harassed her and all. Constant flirting and phone calls and didn’t take the hint, just an uncomfortable dude in general.” He pauses, shaking his head. “I had to threaten him for him to get lost. And Christian didn’t like that.”

Okay, now you definitely feel like somebody indulging in tittle-tattle. Some more and you’ll be one of the aunties. Your mouth gradually opens as he speaks, and you emphasise, “No way.”

“It’s true— the guy was on a break from college for just a month and decided to argue with a fifteen-year-old.”

“What? Did you get into a fight with him?”

“Nah.” He pauses when a group of random three girls in green dresses walks along the aisle, even though they’re barely facing you, sending a perfumed breeze towards you. Then, “Not a physical one. But it was a bit messy. Didn’t like that night.”

“Me neither,” Ria confirms.

Of course he didn’t like it.

He’s largely non-confrontational. You’ve learned this much in the time you’ve known him, and have given the fact utmost sense ever since he revealed his innermost fears. Jungkook keeps quiet; he dreads repetitions of a direful past.

Yet, initiating and risking a conflict for his baby cousin increases the respect you harbour for him.

People are cruel; but Jeon Jungkook is good-hearted to his core, no matter how flawed.

You touch the back of his hand, caressing it when he says, “Stay with me tonight, okay? And if you can’t, then do come to me when he nears you.”

“Okay.”

His eyes meet yours, concerned but also suspiciously fiery when he states, “Because like, I really didn’t like how he was looking at you.”

Ah…

“Hm?”

“You didn’t notice?” he asks, his voice higher, thick eyebrows closing into each other again. You lift a thumb, clearing the crease and his stress. “I almost plucked his eyes out.”

Of course you noticed. You just didn’t think it irritated Jungkook to this point.

“Oh— Kook—”

“No seriously,” he stresses, turning his hand to get ahold of two of your fingers, “guy was sweet half his life and then tried stuff with so many girls. I wouldn’t be surprised if he approached you again, so please stay away from him, okay?”

“Yes, baby. But I wouldn’t let him do shit anyway. Don’t worry.” You nudge his shoulder. “And don’t be jealous. Have you seen yourself?”

He rolls his eyes at the accusation, but there’s a sliver of a smile on his face and relief in his gaze. You guess hearing you say it does wonders to him; sometimes, you truly praise the connection between you, based on a clear foundation of trust and communication.

Well… at least now.

“I’m not jealous,” he insists, “it was just gross how he looked at you. Fuck this. Not with my girl.”

You can’t help but break into a chuckle, way too loud for your row. You slap a hand over your mouth, careful not to ruin the lipstick, and nearly give into the urge to release his pout. But it’s too sweet — it can linger for a second.

Removing your hand, you near him until your mouth grazes his, assuring, “I love you,” before you peck his lips curtly. He still looks a little grumpy, though. Your man. “It’s okay, baby.”

The grip around your hand intensifies. It doesn’t seem it will vanish for the rest of the night. You sure hope it doesn’t.

And you’re immensely grateful for the luck you’re enjoying. Not only because of this place’s beauty and the palm holding onto yours — but you haven’t seen Nara either. In fact, you become hyper aware of how much you’ve been thinking of her.

Like; what is she wearing? How is she doing? Is she thinking about Jungkook; expecting him here; feeling a sort of way? Is she imagining his smile and how she saw it in this very town so many times, dedicated to her?

And did Christian ever flirt with her, too? Did it irritate Jungkook?

You’ve been thinking it all dead.

Unnecessarily so if Jungkook hasn’t even mentioned her, never sought her out. Instead, he’s busy protecting his girl from past bullies.

In all honesty, you’ll probably cross ways with her still. The guest list isn’t endless; the place vast but not infinite.

But for now, you forget about her, trashing all thoughts and possibilities. Shake your head. Breathe it out. Relieve your chest.

You diverge into conversations about anything and everything, reminiscing about yesterday and the places you saw. Listen into stories Ria and Jungkook tell: about injuries, about pleasant nights and about the fights they had.

Ria was like the sister Jungkook never had; Junghyun was a good older brother, but when seeking another opinion, she was on speed dial. Sometimes, growing up in a certain environment makes all the difference — hearing a girl’s thoughts at all times might have made Jungkook the way he is.

Thoughtful, respectful. You have encountered sexism a million times — not to mention just minutes ago, checked out so shamelessly — but you don’t think Jungkook has such a notion even in any crevice of his heart.

You’re fond and happy when they laugh together; her crinkles match his. Their laugh contagious.

It still echoes and fades, slowly and lovingly when the tent quietens. All heads turn, but you don’t see much from here. Maybe a couple moving bodies at the entrance. Someone coughs, interrupting the silence and lowering their head, and the moment allows you a peek at the sensation.

The bride is waiting, holding a bouquet. Her father is touching her veil to fix it despite having nothing to fix; but she doesn’t notice.

Gayoung is glancing ahead, breathing in. Everyone’s eyes remain on her, but your head turns to follow her eyes. The groom is already standing there in a standard groomesque position, hands folded, upright like a post.

He looks insanely nervous. His shiny boot taps the ground, lips parting and unparting. And he’s blinking; then forming a circle with his mouth, releasing the pent-up tension.

She hasn’t moved yet. The ceremony is yet to begin.

But even before all that, as people indulge in the sight and wait for their eternity to start, Jungkook has already mimicked your turn, fingers still intertwined. When he speaks, you flinch; you didn’t notice his voice this close.

He’s looking at the groom, too, before he settles his gaze on you. Stares with affection in his gems that bursts your heart, splinters your ribs and implodes your chest. You know he’ll say something to fade out the entire crowd before he actually says it.

“Can I tell you something mainstream?”

You hum, “Hm?”

He regards your digits, plays with them. “If you ever choose to marry me…” Your heart stops. “I’ll look just as tense as him.”

“Would you… want to marry me one day?”

“It’s just a thing people do, right?” he questions. “Whether it’s like this or in any other way— I’ll spend my life with you anyhow.”

I’ll spend my life with you.

Not a question. Not a need.

But a confession. A goal. A plan. 

You don’t get to answer when the first tunes of a guitar play. It’s a song you recognise; paints a smile onto your face. The melody is soft, slow, so gentle. They didn’t choose an orchestral track or the usual Wedding March after all.

It’s a song.

Jungkook’s eyes blow wide, and he immediately seeks yours. Mutters into your ear, “Do I know this?”

“You probably do.”

“Wait—” He listens in. Pupils roll up as he ponders. Then, “Didn’t someone sing this in the lobby this week?”

Almost. It’s why it delights you so. You already had half an idea back then, and you managed to somehow incorporate it into this wedding without really being part of these people.

“Yoongi played it on the guitar,” you clarify, “I suggested it to your mom this morning. I guess she liked it enough to forward the request so spontaneously.”

“You did? Then she must’ve…”

You can’t decipher what he’s thinking. His stare is fixated on the passing bride, her slow steps, the beam she wears as she nears whom she’s decided to be the rest of her life.

You can’t peep into his brain, but you notice when he tilts his head. See the tiny gap between his lips and the way he catches the groom blink away tears the moment you do, because Jungkook smiles at just the same moment as you do.

Gayoung lowers her head when she comes to a stand in front of his still-fiancé, and then delivers the most magnificent, most mesmerising grin. She’s happy, you know. You don’t think you’ve seen this intensity of joy a lot of times in your life.

You recognised it when Jungkook woke up still in your bed after the blue night. When he opened up to you, vowed to stay, brought you to his home. When you announced to the world that you’d be his to remain, that you’d do what you enjoy.

When you got home that evening, and he kissed you right against the door, deemed you crazy, deemed you his.

You haven’t seen this very happiness much in your life, but you’ve seen it in him. And you’ve felt it in your chest. Growing, blossoming, never wilting.

The couple at the front speaks its vows like a song. The words are melodic, poetic, and you’re almost entirely sure that they’re not rehearsed. It’s all real. The love in them and the memories in them, accompanied by the liquid bliss swimming in his and her waterline.

No, you haven’t experienced this too many times before. You’ve felt it. He’s felt it.

And you don’t need to know much more than this; don’t need to know what he’s thinking to understand what he means when he says—

“This… this is it.”

THE CHAPTER ISN'T OVER YET!! PLS READ 👇🏼

1k block limit as always!! you can read the second half of the chapter in this reblog!! the reblog begins with a new scene <3

[malfoyscoffee]

call me theo ౨ৎ theodore nott

pairing theodore nott x fem!slytherin!reader about fluff, angst | 1.7k words | exes to lovers warnings mentions of time skip, use of y/n, and a dumb theo

“Friends?”

“Friends.”

That marked the end of your two-year relationship with Theodore. As he said his final word, you turned away, walking down the winding steps of the Astronomy Tower, holding back the emotions until you returned to your dormitory.

The night blurred into a haze of tears, finding comfort in Pansy’s shoulder as both of you nestled on the dorm floor. Hours passed in a cocoon of sadness before Blaise, Mattheo, Lorenzo, and even Draco appeared with snacks and muggle movies, trying to lift your spirits.

Wrapped up in your distress, you didn't think to ask how they found out about your breakup. Unbeknownst to you, amidst his own pain, Theodore asked his friends to comfort you instead of him.

Three weeks had gone by since the breakup. As promised, you and Theodore went back to being friends, just like before, merely two friends within the same tight-knit circle. But beneath the surface of friendliness, your friends noticed the underlying tension between you and Theodore, silently wishing for a reunion.

It was a random morning in the Great Hall when you announced to your friends that you would be occupied before dinner to take on the extra credit assignment for Herbology. Your friends looked at you strangely, the assignment was unnecessary for someone with such high marks, but inside you wanted a distraction from everything. 

Back in the common room, the attention shifted to Theodore, the elephant in the room finally about to be addressed. 

“So, what led to the breakup?” Blaise relaxed in his chair while Theodore sighed, looking at the ceiling. 

“She didn’t say why, but she mentioned that you initiated the breakup,” Draco said casually, trying to hide his interest in the situation.

“I told her she deserved better.”

Silence.

Suddenly, Lorenzo burst into laughter.

“Salazar, Enzo,” Pansy stood, disregarding Lorenzo's reaction. “So, let me get this straight,” she pointed her finger at Theodore, “You're saying the reason the group has been down is because you decided she deserved someone better?”

Mattheo set aside his cigarette, “Didn’t expect you to be so naive, mate.”

Blaise nodded, “Thinking that's an explanation. Y/n adores you, where will you find a girl better than her?”

Theodore’s face paled, “She’ll find someone better and eventually leave me. I couldn’t handle that.”

Draco stayed composed, “So you ended it first. Well done, Theo.”

Theodore buried his face in his hands, letting out an exasperated groan. “You all know she has a promising future after graduation. Why should she stay with me and be held back?”

“Did you talk to her about this, or did your insecurities make the call?” Lorenzo’s words made Theodore freeze, lost in thought.

Pansy packed up, checking the time. “Dinner’s soon. Let’s go.”

The boys followed Pansy, leaving Theodore alone, contemplating if his decision was right for your relationship.

"I got the job!"

Strolling around Hogsmeade with Blaise and Pansy, you stumbled upon a new place—a wizarding coffee shop. Your liking for muggle coffeehouses sparked your curiosity, pushing you to ask about potential employment.

Excitement bubbled as you shared the news with your friends in the Great Hall.

“We’ve got a place to visit now.” Lorenzo grinned, aware it might bring some joy after a while.

Pansy nudged Draco, "Let’s study there. OWLS are coming up and some muggle coffee might help."

Draco glanced at Theodore, who sat in silence, unsure of what to say. “That sounds like a plan. I could use some muggle coffee.”

They all knew Draco was convincing Theodore to join.

"When do you start?" Mattheo asked between sips of hot chocolate.

You remembered your upcoming schedule, “Next week, Wednesdays and Saturdays? Once I’m trained, next Saturday, I’ll treat you all to some amazing muggle coffee."

The group agreed, planning to meet at your workplace next Saturday.

“Five cups of regular iced coffee, please.” You operated the muggle machine, engrossed in fulfilling the order.

“Oh, hey, Theodore. Are the others here?” You looked around, causing Theodore’s shoulders to slump slightly.

“They're at the big corner table. Enzo insisted the natural sunlight would help with studying…”

A soft chuckle escaped, “You can go back, I’ll bring the drinks over when ready.” Theodore nodded, returning to the café’s corner.

Blaise grabbed the first cup but stopped when Pansy teased him. “Don’t hog! Share!”

“How does it taste?” you asked, turning to your friends.

“Y/n, muggle coffee is amazing.” Mattheo praised, soon followed by Blaise signaling he finished his drink.

“I should tell my father about this place,” Draco chimed in, and before you knew it, all the cups were empty.

“I should get back to work, see you at dinner.”

“What time do you finish?” Theodore's sudden interest surprised everyone.

“Y/n?”

"I'm done around six," You said while feeling a bit overwhelmed inside.

Theodore nodded, indicating your return to work.

Numerous customers kept you busy. Though you didn’t need money, the experience was enriching.

While your friends left at five, Theodore stayed. He moved to a quiet spot facing the counter where you worked.

Ignoring his shift, you focused on the new customers who walked in.

“Y/n, it's six, you can leave,” your boss said, offering a pastry.

“Thanks,” grabbing your coat, you started to leave the kitchen.

“Are you done?” Theodore was poised by the counter, waiting for your response.

“Theodore, did you wait?”

Signaling to walk together, he said, “I had a few assignments that I wanted to finish early so I stayed longer.” His nervous fidgeting gave away his lie, his habit you remembered from your past relationship. 

You hummed, touched by his waiting. 

“I might visit often. I didn't mention earlier, but the coffee’s great.”

Walking back to Hogwarts, feelings for Theodore surfaced since the breakup.

How could you move on when he acted this way?

For two months, Theodore kept his promise, visiting the café every Wednesday and Saturday, bringing schoolwork, and leaving with you.

You felt the emotions returning but you were scared to get hurt. After all, he initiated the breakup, right?

Your friends noticed Theodore’s absence on your workdays, understanding where Theodore was without verbal explanation. 

“One large iced coffee, please.” You prepared a cup, “And your name?”

“Theo.”

“Oh,” You looked up at Theodore. “One large iced coffee for Theodore.” You repeated his order and placed the cup down. 

“Why don’t you call me Theo anymore?” His disappointment was evident.

Meeting his gaze, you explained, “Because we’re just friends.”

Theodore observed the cup, then you.

“You know what, I think I forgot something at my dorm. I’m going to go.” His tone was sharper than he meant, leaving the café abruptly.

“Now you're the clueless one. Salazar, why do I have two of them?” Lorenzo dramatized, earning an eye roll from you.

Theodore disappeared after the café meeting. Unaware of his whereabouts, your friends gathered in the common room, waiting for his return.

“I mean, Y/n, Enzo's right,” Pansy said, sipping the muggle coffee you brewed for the group.

“He ended things months ago. I don’t see why you're all on his side.” Frowning, you didn’t grasp their empathy toward Theodore.

“Y/n, listen,” Blaise interrupted, “Regardless of who initiated the breakup, Theodore has come to your café twice a week for months, just to spend time with you.”

Draco echoed Blaise’s sentiments. “OWLS were done a month ago, yet he still visits. Give Theo credit for trying.”

You sighed, “I care for him, but I don’t want to be hurt again. He should just tell me. His actions are misleading if he doesn’t want to reconcile.”

Lost in thought, the warmth of the common room enveloped you, the crackling fire providing a soothing ambiance.

As evening approached, your thoughts circled Theodore’s sudden exit from the café, leaving you unsettled, your mind in disarray.

Unnoticed, the common room door creaked open. Theodore entered, visibly anxious. His eyes met yours, a blend of hesitation and resolve painting his expression.

The room fell silent as Theodore approached you, a mix of emotions playing across his face. Without a word, you got up and led him out of the common room.

The two of you reached the Blake Lake, facing each other, as the tension filled the air. Theodore struggled with his thoughts, torn between holding back and speaking up.

“I’m sorry for earlier,” he started, a hint of regret in his tone. “I didn’t mean to leave abruptly. I've been struggling, Y/n.”

“Struggling? With what, Theodore?”

Gathering his thoughts, he spoke earnestly. “With everything between us. The breakup wasn't about not caring about you. I was scared.”

“Scared?” Your voice softened, understanding blooming within.

Theodore nodded, his eyes never leaving yours. “I was scared that you would realize I was holding you back and leave me. So I thought if I let you go, you would be better off.”

Your heart ached, his honesty striking a chord with your own doubts. “But, Theodore, you never gave me a chance to choose. You made that decision for me.”

“I know, and I regret it every day.” Remorse filled his words, and his vulnerability was evident. “I visited the café because I wanted to be near you. But I understand if it’s been confusing for you.”

Silence hung, emotions swirling like a storm.

“I never stopped loving you,” you whispered, emotions stirring within.

He met your gaze, “I don't want to lose you again, Y/n. I want us to start over, I'll do everything to make things right.”

“Let's take it slow, Theodore. Start over and let's see where it takes us.”

A soft smile appeared on his face, relief in his eyes. “I promise, I'll do everything.”

"I've missed this," Theodore confessed softly, his eyes reflecting a mixture of emotions.

You gently squeezed his hand, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "Me too. I think we both needed this time to figure things out."

Theodore stopped walking, turning to face you with resolve. "I want us to try again, to be together, properly this time.”

Your heart skipped a beat, warmth spreading through you at his words. You looked into his eyes, seeing a depth of sincerity that reassured you more than any words could. "I want that too, Theodore. Let's give us another chance."

With that shared agreement, a sense of relief and joy washed over both of you. Walking hand in hand, Theodore smiled for the first time in months.

“Now, will you call me Theo?”

[suguru-getos]

Could you write a continuation of yandere satosugu where the reader lived and they try everything to help her get better and care for her?

| making up for mistakes | yandere satosugu x reader |

-> continuation of the first part: link 🔗

you had survived the almost suicide attempt you so carefully & yet so carelessly attempted. you were sure you weren’t getting up after this. damn it you made sure to hit your head hard, you could see blanks, you could see stars in your eyes until it all faded to a peaceful nothing-ness.

now, you’re awake again. nothing hurts. you know they must’ve told their friend shoko to aid in your injuries. you feel like you’ve woken up from a long slumber. unwanted as it may be… it does make you feel eerily refreshed. you stretch your limbs from the bed, they’re going to kill you for this. kill you for hampering with their property. oh well — at this point you’re fine with it. what’s it going to do? hurt you. pain is all there is they could ever offer anyways. maybe you can scream out and wish it gets over. that’s all you set your mind to.

you look to the side, the curtains are open and there is a little drizzle of snow. it brings a smile to your face. what if you hadn’t been kidnapped? it would’ve been so fun to hop into one of the lovely cafes you like & order some hot cocoa. put both your hands and wrap them around the ceramic of the hot cup and exhale in utter relaxation of the aroma the sweet cafe has to offer. oh… happy days.

its nauseating what your life is now, wrapping a blanket around yourself and checking down below. you are wearing clothes, decent clothes… not the sultry, slutty ones that satoru forces you to wear. you feel like you could throw up when the reminder occurs again. beaten up like you were nothing but an animal, throwing up in pain and anxiety--

"there we go! princess! awake! oh my god!" satoru comes in and hugs you tightly, his bulky arms wrapping against you, he doesn't let your mind have the time to panic. besides, satoru was... not the one who inflicted you that pain. even though he did nothing about it, in a moment of pure misery, your mind would latch on to him for comfort. "baby- you scared daddy, please don't do that ever again. fuck! i thought i lost you." you could hear the heartbeats on your snow haired man, they were ragged and reminded of the same panic you once bore.

"sorry." your eyes lack all emotions, just a soft murmur escaping you. the haunting realization that you were alive was eating you up. even so, it was your soul that had died. it's the dejected way you answered that makes satoru panic even more. immediately at your knees, leaning against your thighs and mumbling soft apologies, tears wetting your skin. "please baby, I'm so sorry, i should never have let that happen... you did a mistake that's all! you- you- pissed us off." he shakes his head, hugging you tightly.

your hands robotically landed across his hair, caressing. "it's okay, i did wrong, i understand."

your responses were making him nauseous, he hated seeing you in pain, but suguru always says its something that's needed. why is it needed? you're not an animal, are you? the ways with which satoru and suguru try to 'discipline' their toy they are delusional enough to call their lover is insane.

"i got breakfast, little one." now, your heart sinks. you hear the voice of the man who did this to you, mothering, now that his rage is faded into pure, eviscerating guilt. "you have no idea the joy it gives me seeing you awake." suguru hums, and you latch onto satoru, hugging him tightly. satoru's heart skips a beat. this was not the first time you had reached out to him, yet, you did it by your own. it gives him a sick sense of protectiveness. "he wouldn't do anything to ya baby, suguru loves you too." he reminds, looking at a devastated suguru.

"please don't hurt yourself again, angel" suguru hums, leaning in and kissing your forehead. it makes you sick to your stomach, how they treat you right now. you know that whatever you did yielded no results. and they are ever so careful about the same. you're pretty sure you'd have either of them by your side at all times.

"let's go and eat, suguru's made your favorite!" satoru chirps, happily holding you princess-style and going to the dining area. your eyes wandered to the other room on the way, the same room where this all happened, it's making you panic internally. the grotesque reminder of how they treated you. you're about to throw up again.

as soon as satoru puts you down, you run to throw up in disgust, nothing comes out except a few drops of water. your stomach is empty as is. a large, looming hand caresses your back. "I'm sorry, angel. please relax." suguru-- it's suguru...

"i'm sorry." you answered, "i am so sorry." you nodded to get back to the dining area, you should know better than to be with satoru. its not like suguru wouldn't do anything he wants anyways... you'd just like to have some comfort over it.

luckily for you, the breakfast went fine, you were eating quietly, while satoru just observed you. how uncomfortable you looked, the subtle shift in your demeanor. every tiny thing. suguru is essentially doing the same, gazing at your way and observing you. "you look beautiful." suguru comments, and you force a smile from the deepest pits of your psyche. "thank you, suguru."

you know he's ticked off, you need to call them 'daddy' and you're here, addressing them by their first names. sigh... they just have to help you heal, there isn't anything they can do about it really. they pushed you this far, and they should make up for it.

however, as days turn into weeks, satoru and suguru are forced to face the haunting realization that your mental and physical health is worsening. you barely eat, barely talk... you just, stare into the nothingness of empty spaces. satoru has avoided missions to take care of you. he is by your side, sleeps next to you, kisses your forehead, helps you take a shower. while earlier, you tried to at least pretend and work with it. answer however you could, talk to them, fake your smiles, now its nothing. you barely talk.

this time, satoru has a mission to take care of, but suguru is the one who's spending time with you. gently placing you on the bathtub, caressing your forearm, massaging it, decorating it with petals. "there we go little girl, there we go. feels nice?" he coos, and when you don't respond, sighs weakly. he wishes he could at least hear something out of you. when he sees you immersed in auto-pilot, he hums by himself; "yes, yes it is." he has to talk to himself in hopes that its you talking to him. "you know, me and satoru... we were thinking a trip to Italy sounds nice, or maybe Paris.." you used to love travelling, he hopes that would utter out a response from you. NOTHING comes out of you however. that makes suguru's heart break a little, "or maybe, anywhere that you like." he hums, sighing.

"angel?" he asks softly, leaning in and kissing your neck, maybe that would at least earn some leaning back. your resistance...

none.

"talk to me for fucks sake!" suguru snarls, glaring hard at you. you don't even flinch at that, contrary to your earlier flinching and tweaking. a sigh escapes him and then comes bubbling tears. he has truly fucked you up. the haunting realization finally hits him. he can't live with it anymore... it's choking the very fiber of his being.

the rest of the shower passes by in a haze, and suguru is quiet, tears dripping from his face. "what should i do so that you become normal again?" he asks again, pouting and begging with his eyes. no response...

he gets up after tucking you in bed. the dark circles in your eyes are an explicit example of how less you're sleeping. sometimes you wake up with irritating nightmares, screaming and crying. that's the only moment when satoru and suguru are welcomed by your affections.

suguru sighs, he needs to win you this time. or maybe... what's that called? stockholm syndrome?

or maybe, he needs to discuss with satoru about erasing your memory...

or maybe, he needs a curse that can shove your memory off and then they can date you.. from scratch...

either way, they're not leaving you. anytime soon.

[hellishjoel]

reborn

1.4k / pairing: jackson!joel miller x f!reader

main masterlist | notifications blog

summary: Joel’s long hair is a testament to a long life in Jackson, Wyoming. He hasn’t had time to get it cut since the birth of his daughter. 

warnings/information:  joel’s long hair appreciation post!!!!!, fluff, established relationship, a little swearing, soft!joel, girl dad!joel, jackson!joel, mother f!reader, ellie and joel are just fine okay!!, obvious maria appreciation, reader doesn’t have a physical appearance but has given birth

A/N: this is super short and I wrote it in 24 hours - you all know why we’re here, we saw that new picture of long haired joel miller and yadayadayada now we’re here! graphics by @saradika-graphics

There’s a new baby in Jackson. 

One more teeny tiny resident. The population sign must be repainted to acknowledge its three hundred and fifth resident. 

And she’s your little girl. 

She’s not just perfect, she’s the center of your universe. Wrapped in a freshly hand-washed baby pink blanket, a testament to the hours of labor in Jackson’s makeshift delivery room. Joel held your hand throughout. 

This was his second child, but his first with you. The flood of emotions was overwhelming, and you promised to stand by him, even if you could never truly understand the pain tangled with newfound joy. 

But you should have seen the way his eyes softened at the first sight of her. Everything changed, for the both of you. His once-buried fatherly instincts took over, walking with the delivery nurse from your bed to the small cleaning station. He couldn’t let her out of his sight.

Already so protective and wound around her little finger from the moment she took her first breath and wailed her first cry. 

Scream it, little one, tell the world you’re here and that you’re ours. You are already so loved with your big glowing eyes and round cheeks, your small hands curled into your chest, and you kick your tiny little feet. Stomp, roar, live. 

You’re born into the most dangerous time in history, but your parents are here to protect you. The moment your baby girl was born, you and Joel were reborn. 

One month old, and nothing has changed. Except for your and Joel’s sleep schedules. Tommy gave Joel temporary leave from patrol duties, which Joel did not protest. He found it impossible some days to leave the house for food and supplies. 

Ellie was helpful. Despite no blood relation, she and Joel shared many qualities. She didn’t let you lift a finger if she could help it. She had moved into the garage a few months back. After all, she was a teenager who loved having space.

“You sure you don’t just wanna move back inside the house, Ellie?” She was here more often than not, and her company and help were dearly appreciated.

“And wake up to a crying baby twelve times in the middle of the night? I love you guys, but no thanks,” she teased as you playfully rolled your eyes. 

“That’s fair. But the offer still stands.”

Ellie shrugs nonchalantly and lands beside you on the couch, laying her head on your shoulder as you both stare lovingly down at the baby sleeping soundly in your arms. 

“I know, but you should make my old room the baby’s new one. Besides, Joel just set up my stereo, and I blast that thing non-stop. No baby is gonna like that.” 

“Oh, trust me, we know.” You whisper as you kiss the top of her head, your cheek nudging against her brunette tresses tied back into a ponytail.

Ellie cooks some sort of monstrosity in the kitchen upon Joel’s return from Tommy and Maria’s. He holds piles of Maria’s hand-sewn diapers and onesies. She was a God send, a woman you consider a Jill of all trades. 

Oh, Maria. She always desired that Jackson would not fall into turmoil like most of the country had surely found its way to. In her eyes, Jackson would remain a thriving and welcoming community to those who were good of heart. 

That woman worked to the bone to ensure that Jackson’s residents were safe and happy. Living here was like living in a snow globe, safe from the outside world and protected from danger. 

As the de facto leader of the Jackson settlement, she wore many hats. From trading and supplies to security and community welfare, Maria made it her mission to ensure that all new families found their new home in Jackson to be an inviting one—a safe haven from their old lives and here to start anew. 

“Maria bartered for new cotton,” Joel whispers as he enters the living room, quiet so as not to stir the baby. 

“She did?” You ask softly, sitting up slightly as you feel his hand cup your cheek from above, tilting your head back so he can give you a proper kiss. 

“Yeah, she was gonna try and find somethin’ alternative to cotton for the diapers, but they set her up with some scavenged materials and clothing to make lots of diapers out of. Plus, gave her some stuff to cultivate it here. Y’know, be self-sufficient.” 

“Wow,” you mutter tiredly, rubbing at your eyes as your daughter begins to twitch in your arms. “I think she hears her daddy’s voice.” 

Joel cooes softly, quick to drop the items off on the kitchen counter with haphazard abandon. He grunts quietly as his knees scream for rest until he sits beside you on the couch with open palms. You delicately hand him the baby, and his eyes twinkle at the sight of her. He was adorably cute when he baby-babbled, though he swears he never does. 

“Hi sweet wittle girl, pretty pwincess, did you have a good day with mommy?” 

It takes you this long to realize how much his hair has grown out. Your fingers softly weave into the greying curls, twirling one around your finger before you let it fall into its natural waves. 

“It’s so long, baby,” you whisper like honey.

He lets out a quiet chuckle and absentmindedly leans into your touch. “I’know. Haven’t had time to get it cut,” he turns his attention back to the little girl swaddled in his arms, “and I think I know who’s been keepin’ me so damn busy.” 

You hum and gently clutch the curls at the nape of his neck, truly in awe of how long they were. You’ve never seen him let it get this long. As Joel would say, this is Tommy long. But was there really a look he couldn’t pull off?

“I, uh, I don’t want you to cut it.” Your words come off shy and sweet, making him melt as he slowly turns to look at you with a raised brow. 

“Is that so?” His southern twang rolls freely off his tongue. 

“Mhm, you look so handsome. I think I would cry if you got rid of that thick mane of yours.” 

He chuckles again, a low and sultry one. “Alright. I’ll keep puttin’ up with it.”

“Mmm, please do. It’s sorta doin’ somethin’ for me.” 

Joel pauses and watches as the aging sunlight shines over your face. He takes your hand in his large calloused one and squeezes, circling his thumb along your wrist. “You’ve given me a life I sometimes don’t feel like I deserve. A happy one. I don’t think there’s a way I can ever say thank you or I love you enough for how my life has turned out. Without you, I might be dead.”

“Oh, Joel,” you whisper as you rest your forehead against his own, both of your eyes falling closed. “You are deserving of every moment of happiness in this life. You make my life worth living. You saved us.” 

Joel lets out a wet chuckle, kissing the tip of your nose before meeting your lips delicately. 

In this light, the amber glow of the sun setting just beyond the walls outside, he’s so handsome. It truly makes your heart skip a beat. After all these years of pain, loss, and suffering, Joel is happy. It’s all you’ve ever wanted to make him. 

During the first few weeks in this new and unfamiliar settlement, Joel would shoot up in the middle of the night, upset that he had fallen asleep. He hadn’t slept in a home with four solid walls in so long, none of you had. You remember the first night he slept soundly, snoring like a madman and nuzzling into his pillow. He was safe. There were no clickers in waiting, no scavengers to fend off. His people were protected. He could breathe. 

Never did you once think that at the ends of the world, there would be room for you to feel like this. Reborn. It led you to Joel and Ellie and continued with your baby girl. Your lives are getting a second chance. 

You didn’t know how long it would stay like this because nothing was forever. But you would wake up tomorrow morning and run a hand through Joel’s hair, through the pretty curls that tickled his neck, and the opportunity for it to keep growing would be another sign that your lives weren’t ending. They were only just beginning.

main masterlist | notifications blog