#thinking that they see somebody they know every thirty minutes

[forsworned]

to have realized that there are typical adhd golden retriever ipad kid energy stereotypical men that actually exist is another level of consciousness

[taegularities]

candles & flames: air | jjk (m)

bonus chapter I: air

Summary: Voices over the grapevine murmur that somebody has been yearning for you who certainly shouldn't. Jungkook is agitated to the core – reacts immediately until something far sweeter overshadows the envy and turns his and your life upside down.

➳ pairing: Jungkook x reader ➳ rating: 18+ ➳ genre: established relationship, royal!au; fluff, smut ➳ warnings: so much okay let's see; jk is jealousss, mention of a dead parent, daddy issues, pregnancy, birth (no details), kissing, insecurities that are resolved, worries and tears, somebody faints :'), 19th century culture/beliefs/society, short mention of the struggles after birth, a guest appearance!, and a cute baby 💕 jk loves the kiddo so much that his affection makes him cry; explicit sexual content: making out, muchhh teasing, fondling, biting, he loveees her tiddies, oral (f. receiving), he touches himself/masturbation, manhandling, soft dom!koo, big dick!koo, he threatens to tie her up lol, "fck me like you hate me", both hard and soft s/x moments, love spanks, delaying of orgasm, hair pulling, he's roughhhh, fingering, multiple orgasms; pls spot the lil references to the other parts hehe 😁 ➳ wc: 24.4k yay! ➳ a/n: hi hi hiiii. it's been literal months, but we're here again and sharing another piece of our soul. hope y'all like this one, whether you've just arrived here or been here for a while. love you all and as always, let me know what you think!! 🤍 ➳ a/n2: this is a bonus chapter for my mini-series candles & flames. reading the rest of the story helps!! find the mpost below <3

SERIES MASTERPOST | TAGLIST MASTERLIST | WIPs

The quiet hysteria starts with a whisper.

It echoes off the walls that Friday afternoon, seemingly insignificant at first. Most of the whispers are — a cacophony of hisses and sharp tones and hushed nodding.

Uttered between members of the staff, Jungkook catches the conversation coincidentally. He never means to eavesdrop, but these accidental occurrences have revealed one or two things to him before.

Like, what they ate for dinner last night. Or how their sons had learned to read. Jungkook would laugh at stories about neighbours, pout at tragedies of lost family members. But what he hears today is worth neither of those reactions; just mild yet growing confusion.

He wouldn’t have registered a word if he’d left his office a minute later. Wouldn’t have known if he’d opted for his meal thirty seconds earlier.

No. He had to step out now. Cross paths with the staff in this very moment as if it was supposed to happen, coming to a stand in the hallway, mind instantly whirling and eyebrows furrowed. 

The two women, startled by the sudden appearance, freeze at their spot a couple feet from Jungkook’s body. They stare at him as though met with a ghost, eyes trailing from his uncurling fist to the Lord’s unmatchable face — puzzled at the moment.

Abandoning curiosity and the hint of amusement, sudden respect spreads over their countenances, and once they have made sense of the situation, they straighten their backs. Bow a little. One of them a little deeper than the other.

Their eyes are as wide as his; the scene couldn’t be more comedic in the afternoon sun shining through the wide window. Three baffled figures fighting the awkwardness; growing by the second until one of them murmurs, “Lord Jeon.”

Her tone is timid, as if she fears he might’ve heard — which he did, alright. But they don’t dare make an attempt at asking about it, perhaps finally realising that things like these aren’t really their business.

So they only nod again, waiting for the man to react in kind, and then rush past him and down the hall. Jungkook isn’t stupid, though — he knows they won’t stop talking.

And he could confront them. Call them back and demand an explanation, lay out every word he just heard and analyse it with what they know. But he doesn’t. He lets them approach the end of the hallway, turning left at the end of it just a few seconds later.

His body’s balanced weight shifts to his left leg, and he puts both his hands on his hips, curling his lower lip inward and tracing it with his tongue. He knows better than to believe rumours mumbled in the gardens or halls of this place.

Maybe it’d be foolish to overthink just yet. Guess he’ll need to ask you yourself.

But he can’t help but replay the conversation in his mind, gaze wandering out of the window and to the blue sky above. He soaks in the summer, lowers his eyebrows, appetite forgotten as he simply voices—

“Huh.”

Existing in this world with you as the love of his life isn’t easy.

There’s magic to how you move. To the way you slip under the blanket with that enchanting smile. To how you reach for the back of your head, undoing the bow.

For a moment, he can’t keep his eyes from the locks that fall over your shoulder; how you sigh in relief as your scalp finally breathes. And when you lean against the bed frame, pulling your legs up and knees close to you, book in hand, you look endlessly cosy.

Warm and inviting, soft hands holding the novel. Your side profile is tender, lips always a perfect curve. Your mouth moves with the words you read, and you smile whenever a description delights you.

You always live in a dream. You are one, too.

Loving you isn’t easy because you’re a constant source of healthy insanity. Of the burning in his chest, the odd feeling in his stomach, and the yearning in his fingers.

But especially tonight, you evoke something he only ever experiences with you. He did it when he saw you dancing with somebody else two years ago. And feels a sliver of it whenever he catches men staring at you at gatherings.

The emotion boils green inside of him, and somehow, you’ve managed to elicit it more than once. He could swear he never knew of it before he met you. You’re truly a spell; only right now, he wishes he felt something else.

You shut the book suddenly, keeping a finger where you stopped, and look up into his eyes without a warning. He flinches just a little, as if awakening from a dream, and you laugh.

“Will you speak what’s on your mind or just keep staring?” you ask; the tilt of your head is sickeningly sweet.

He improvises — nods towards the novel and wonders, “What is it about?”

“Oh,” you look down, holding it up, “secret affairs. Princess to be betrothed is in love with someone else.”

The situation lacks so much humour that he can’t help but find it funny. He suppresses the sarcastic smirk and the shake of his head, keeping the facade upright as he admits, “That is very brave of the author to thematise.”

Your eyes narrow a little, drenched in confusion. “Well, I mean. A lot of them are. But it’s just words on pages. How many secret affairs do you think happen in actual life?”

More than you’d know. Jungkook has seen enough to understand that lovers often reunite in shadows; or that they betray loved ones when the world goes quiet.

You believe in people, though. You romanticise the world. Assume that cruelty is rare, and that most human beings strive for loyalty and flawlessness.

But he doesn’t say any of it; only shifts closer to your optimistic, angelic warmth, craving your scent. He says, “We were the opposite, weren’t we? Made everyone think we were in love when we still despised each other.”

You cock an eyebrow; he instantly regrets his words, realising how harsh they truly sounded. You might be gentle, but you can be just as fierce, too — so he prepares for some scolding, lips parted.

But you only puff out a breath, freeing the finger trapped between the pages, and put the book aside. Then, you say, “I still despise you.”

Jungkook stares, pausing for a moment, and you let him ogle for another second before you laugh. You grab the still hand on his thigh, lifting it to your lips and press the feather lightest of kisses against its back.

You keep the palm against your cheek, inquiring carefully, “Is something troubling you?”

“No,” he immediately shoots, “no. I just wanted to ask about your novel.”

“Just about the novel?”

“Mhm. Yes.”

“Hmm. Well, yes, that one,” you grace it another glance, “it’s good. A typical story about a royal princess mingling with the stable boy and rejecting the prince.”

Jungkook nods, but you think his pupils widen. Is he imagining a scenario of his own? Not enjoying the storyline? Perhaps.

Because he states, “Disloyalty is quite something. I would,” he pauses, blowing a raspberry, “die if I was the prince.”

He emphasises die with all his tongue’s strength; you huff at the dramatics of the moment, puzzled by the sudden shift in mood. In truth, this is not such an unusual behaviour.

Because more often than not, Jungkook displays interest in your little hobbies. Novels render you sentimental, and you’ve pulled him into the whirling storm of emotions that those stories made you feel before.

Like,

“They won’t accept him because he’s an artist?”

“So he decides to leave instead of fighting for her?”

“Alright, tell me about the first time he tells her he loves her.”

He’ll lean forward, turn to his side, eyes wide, indulging in the narrative. Mirroring your emotions, a sucker for tales and sentiments, albeit barely ever picking up a book voluntarily.

Just today. Today something seems off. The issue he has with the feelings prevalent in the book seem to reach far deeper — to a personal level, it seems.

You start slowly and patiently, shaking your head once before you say, “But you won’t die. I chose my prince wisely, and I do not care for our stable boys,” you pause, lifting a finger with a laugh, “wait. In such a way, I mean. They are actually very kind.”

Jungkook doesn’t appreciate your joke — your suspicion grows. Although he does turn to the side again, elbow digging into the pillow, body closer to yours.

“What about lords?”

Huh. What?

You echo your thoughts, “What?” You wait for only a moment before the space between his eyebrows morphs into a crease, and you mimic the expression. “Alright. Now you’re not making sense anymore.”

It takes another second or two for his drying eyes to blink. The movement is slow, a little frustrated; he looks to his hands. Then up to you; to the wall behind you and back to you.

Then, his Adam’s apple bops, swallowing thickly before he finally reveals, “The maids were talking about some neighbouring man. Lord Jeong or something. Would you happen to know him?”

Jeong? 

Hm…

You think for a moment.

Of course you know him. The town isn’t too far from yours, and the people around here never speak ill of him. In fact, one of your cooks was just praising him a couple weeks ago as you dined without Jungkook during his busy working hours.

The cook kept you company for most of the time, speaking of his pre-Jeon adventures in other towns, with other lords.

You hum before you respond, “I know of a Jeong Yuno. But I have never spoken to him.”

The sigh of relief that Jungkook heaves is immediate. You stare bewildered.

“Good,” he answers, “they were just…”

He scratches his scalp before the hand drops to the mattress with a dull thump. For a distracted moment, he smoothens the already flat baby blue surface, drifting from his original thought.

The light tug at the sheet creates new wrinkles; you watch intently, relaxed and calm. Only, you aren’t sure he feels the same way. Especially when his fingertips shift to the back of your hand, a ghost touch looming over your thumb.

He must have thought about this a lot.

“They were saying that a lord was spreading rumours about how he used to want you and would still not hesitate if you could be his.”

Oh.

“That’s… not a proper thing to announce for a lord,” you sympathise, gaining an instant nod, enhanced by the round, big, brown eyes.

“Yes. It is not. A very outrageous statement to give about a married lady anyway.”

“Mhm…”

You are in full agreement that the words shouldn’t have fallen out of a presumably respected man of the country. Someone as loved and cherished by a community shouldn’t comment on a married couple, even less on the wife of a well-known man.

Jungkook’s father was celebrated around towns and villages — the head of the capital.

It’s just that in this case — you can imagine what occurred. The lord in question relishes a far lesser known reputation than Jungkook. If it’s who you imagine it to be, he must be reigning over a tiny village now. 

You remember that back when you knew him, he was still young, uninterested in his parents’ legacy; seems he has made it far. Though, it seems he hasn’t quite understood the responsibilities that come with royalship.

Shit.

Jungkook notices your fog-shrouded gaze; you probably haven’t blinked in a while. He touches and taps your wrist, pulling back your attention, possibly still tense as he asks, “What?”

When you look at him, he resembles a curious, frightened puppy, trying to make sense of his surroundings. He’s pouting, waiting for an answer, lips parted. He lifts his head off the propped up hand, alerted, and repeats—

“What?”

Waving his concerns off would do nothing, right? You swore to always be transparent — and this issue isn’t big enough to be postponed. In fact, it might only grow if you do choose to stuff it in a chamber.

“You are not talking about Jeong,” you explain, carefully wrapping your fingers around his, “but Jung. Jung Hoseok.”

The curtain of relief falls and gives way to a dark, gloomy night. You know he expected this conversation to be over, for his misunderstanding to turn out as just this. But there’s more behind the maids’ whispers — and he hates it.

“Who?” he asks.

“We don’t have to talk about it if you feel displeased with it.”

“Why would I feel displeased?” Jungkook prods, slowly sitting up. “Is there a reason to?”

Absolutely not. But you also know your husband isn’t the most patient of men when it comes to envy and poison green feelings alike. You still remember the night you confronted his uncle — slivers of jealousy found their way through him even then.

“No,” you admit, “but it is absurd, and I knew you would react like this.”

“Like what? I am calm.”

That he is.

At least the rapid breathing, the voice gaining on pitch, the manner in which he squeezes your hand — they indicate a form of calm unknown to you, alright.

“Jungkook…” you mumble, wiping over the back of his hand with your thumb, trying to calm the grip.

You move on the bed, butt bumping against your book and nearly knocking it to the ground. Tired from the day, you grunt as you get on your knees, watching him follow your body before you finally straddle him.

Jungkook gets into a proper position, heaving himself up until his back is pressed to the bed’s railing. He holds onto your waist to keep your balance, and you shift properly onto his lap.

Once stabilised, your hands hurry to his face, squishing his cheeks just a little as you speak, “I shall make you wiser then?”

“You shall stop teasing me.”

The fiery eyes could throw daggers at you on any other day, but the pout he talks through just makes him look… sweet. Thick eyebrows kiss, and he pulls at one of your hands to lighten the cradling grip around his face.

You angle your head, fond of the soft care, albeit hiding behind an insecurity. There’s flattery in the way his mind created a nonexistent rival — at least, he thinks you’re worth the worship.

You surrender when he blinks, letting out an exasperated breath, “Alright. Remember when I told you I have only fallen in love very few times?”

“At the orphanage.”

His answer shoots out of him as if scripted, and you dare a subtle chuckle. Your thumb brushes against his lips and the mole underneath them; you think that despite his agitation, the gesture soothes his soul.

“Jung Hoseok was one of those people,” you say.

A few buttons of his linen shirt are open, so you see his sun kissed chest heave at the admission. You move a hand down to touch the sculpted skin, warm and immediately comforting under your touch.

“He was the only other Lord I ever dared to mess with, but he wasn’t too important back then yet. And Hoseok… he caught me at a time when I was not yet ready for bigger commitments. Despite my feelings for him.”

Jungkook’s eyes are glistening. Helplessly observing your every move and expression, lost for words as he digests yours. There’s an ego in men that you haven’t understood just yet; fragile at times.

So this piece of information must be activating a thorough thought process in him.

It’s odd. How those once roaming around town are usually the ones affected the most when they actually fall in love. Protective and dedicated to an exceptional degree.

Maybe, however, because his escapades never meant anything at all. And you… You put your heart in someone’s hands once.

“What happened?” Jungkook wonders, puppy stare intact.

You don’t think there’s more to tell — or more for him to know. But a curious mind is a curious mind.

So you tell him, “He wanted more right away. Dedication, marriage, for me to leave my house. And,” you shrug, uncomfortable with memories of a past lover; you want to keep loving and touching your current one, “I couldn’t.”

You’re not sure whether his nerves are calming at all; but you’re satisfied and relieved when he lifts a palm to the small of your back, gaze warm. You keep playing with the collar of the soft linen.

“And now I am happy I didn’t. In hindsight, we were so incredibly different. I mean, people are different, but… we didn’t match at all.”

“Were you…” His voice is so unbearably quiet. So sweet and lovely; the cocky boy from years ago has a delicate heart, and you want it pressed to yours. “Ready when I asked you to marry me?”

Ready? In fact, your skin was tingling with joy; every moment of the day.

You soothe his worries, “I would not be here if I hadn’t been. This,” you raise your fingers to his cheek again, brushing his face with their back, “you. I won’t ever want more. You’re all the dreams I’ve ever dreamt.”

Are you referring to nightly images conjured by a dreamy mind? When you’re fast asleep, barely ever tossing beside him? Because as far as he’s concerned, you follow him even into his daydreams, in your presence and in your absence.

If he told you now, he fears you’d dissipate; you’re a soul with its head in the clouds, and you’ve always appreciated a gesture of romance here and there.

You’re a force of nature, and someone to be desired greatly.

But.

Perhaps that’s what’s troubling him the most right now. And it never has before. He knows you’re captivating, and he’s proud that somebody loves him who’s easy to love, but this time… this time the whispers prevail, and they do something odd to his mind.

He matches your smile, giving into the relief you bring; yet, distressed by his own intrusive thoughts and memories of conversations he’s gathered, he can’t help but let his gaze fall. It floats over your bare neck and clavicles and then drops further to your lap.

A hand on his neck, you opt for a question — he knows by the way you suck in a soft breath, knows every of your motions and their meanings. But before your inquiry tumbles out, he murmurs, “They were saying he wants you back.”

And the worst thing is that you don’t hesitate, immediately nodding. “I heard about it. I uh… the other day I went down to the village and one of them told me her sister was part of the staff over in his town. And they heard others in his mansion say it, apparently.”

Jungkook doesn’t like the ugly, searing hot feeling spreading beneath his chest. It differs entirely from anger or disgust; pure fire burning up his insides and extending to his head.

That you talked about the still rather yearning lord with somebody else isn’t Jungkook’s favourite thought, admittedly. Worse even when you proceed, “He’s unmarried, I’ve heard.”

But what could you do with what you heard? Do you even care?

Jungkook swallows the balls of flames until the vexing sensation burns in his stomach, nearly afraid to ask, “What do you think of that?”

He shouldn’t be, though. Because you’ve proved time and time again who you stand with — yet, it feels like a wanted relief when you, with absolute certainty unmatched, assure, “Nothing. How could that affect my life? I’m here, with you.”

“I…” Jungkook tilts his head, and when he stares back up to you again, you could swear a piece of your heart detaches itself from the rest. Shoots right into his chest. “Am I being stupid?”

And how could it not if the man of your dreams, yours in this and the next lives, usually so composed, wordlessly declares you his kryptonite every single day?

Your eyebrows furrow slightly in unending adoration and worship, and you sigh, touching his cheek, wishing there was a far superior way to showcase affection and love of such tender sort.

“A little,” you admit.

“But… you’ll forgive me for it?”

“Nothing to forgive you for.” You match the tilting motion of his head, but in the opposite direction. You blink slowly. “Except maybe for the fact that you provide so much love without giving much of it to yourself.”

When he downs the knot in his throat again, it feels and looks different. Not the insecure envy from before, but rather a truth spiking his heart.

“…Darling,” he whispers, “why?”

“You know as well as I know that you trust me. That’s not why you’re afraid, right? It’s because you don’t trust yourself.” You remove a strand of dark tresses off his forehead. “We’ll change that.”

You don’t judge him for it, huh? You could. In truth, you could absolutely distance yourself from such an unwanted trait, but you don’t. Combatting it seems easier to you.

Yet, he can’t find a better answer than, “I’m sorry.”

Your husband is a jealous man, but he’s also a fragile man. You’re not allowed to leave him; not because you regard it as a duty to serve as his remedy. But because you made a vow to love him regardless, regardless of fate’s cruelty.

And.

You want to show him what you see through your eyes; what he doesn’t notice through the looking glass.

“Thank you for forgiving me, though?” he then speaks, forming it as a question rather than a statement; though he finds himself pretty soon. “Albeit, I have to say, if you hadn’t, I would’ve found ways for you to do it either wa—”

His promise is broken by your yelp when he presses you in, tickling your waist. He grits his teeth, cuteness aggression kicking in when you call his name, holding onto his face. Your nose inches close to his as he squeezes your hip.

Eyes closing before they open again and he says, “I will never let you go. Never. And let nobody ever have you but me.”

“Aren’t we a little more obsessed tonight?” you jest, watching him shrug his shoulders. “But. I would be mad if you did.”

“My princess…”

There’s something about the breathy tone, filled with growing desire, a not too subtle hint to how the night will inevitably evolve.

It’s insane, how the breathing stagnates when you’re in love; crazy at just the prospect of lips touching.

And once they do, your lungs dry out right away, and you lean back, slowly losing your grip. But he holds you and holds you tighter, eyes aflame with sheer willpower, and then holds you so tight, it hurts…

The kiss is breathtaking, in the truest sense of the word. Goosebumps covering all your flesh, you raise your shoulders, hands in his hair as his wander along the lines of your body. He moves just a little underneath you, but you feel the change so obviously.

Harder, stirring, hot and heavy. And you enhance the effect, continuing the sloppy kisses until he, impatiently, breaks away from the kiss with a quiet moan and opts for your neck.

The break between the change, he uses to focus on his hands. Raises your dress at light-speed, brushing his palms over the curves of your ass. And he doesn’t take too long before he’s snuck his digits further in this complicated position, winding his arm to find your aching heat.

You move forward a little, helping out, so his limb can wrap around you easier, digits floating to the hole. But your decision distracts him; you laugh.

“It’s amusing to you, yes? Having your tits in my face,” he teases, as shameless as ever when he bites and misses your nipple by an inch over your gown.

The free hand pushes the clothing down, freeing one side, reluctant to practise restraint when swollen lips engulf your hard nipple. You whimper immediately as his teeth gently nibble at the nerves, and you tighten your grip around him, head falling back.

“Cannot say it’s not,” you admit, unconsciously toying with the hair in the nape of his neck until you start pulling, barely noticing. He does, however, gasping with a mouthful of your tits. “Sorry.”

He shakes his head, an indicator that he doesn’t care; that he enjoys the pleasurable pain if it’s you inflicting it in a moment like this. As a masochist and a pet at times, you won’t disagree.

But you don’t hold the power for too long when he continues with his intentions, finger pressing against your pussy, desperately longing for the garment to disappear. Wanting to sink into you with all his might.

But… endurance. Patience.

You nearly suffocate him in your tits as he caresses your cunt, and then your ass again, only managing to resurface to say, “Pretty girl… weren’t you tired?”

“I was,” you tug at him, wanting him much, much closer, “make me more.”

“More tired?”

“So I sleep better tonight.”

“Sweetheart… you will. I promise you.”

It’s vows like these that stir the last stage of lust in you, so unbridled that it leaks out of each of your pores. You want his trousers off, want them to magically disappear. But sorcery doesn’t exist, and your wish will be impossible to fulfil in this position.

And he notices, reads your thoughts as if floating above your head. “Lift your body?” he kindly demands, holding you for a second until you’re inches over his crotch. He uses the moment to lower his clothing along with the underwear, suddenly half bare.

Oh so bare…

When you look down, you’re met with protruding veins, a length twitching slightly, wanting to lay against his stomach. And you don’t hesitate as you lower yourself again, dragging your clothed pussy over the hardness so recklessly—

But the harsh material of your clothes rubs him wrong, literally, and he whimpers. Should you do it again? You fucking love it when he whines and writhes… but not in such a way.

You don’t want to hurt him. So you oblige. Stop when he digs his nails into your waist, ordering, “Get off, so I can—”

You don’t know what for, but you can imagine, and the thousand possible pictures are more than enough for you to lift yourself off immediately. Carefully, you move away, expecting for him to let you know how to continue, but instead…

Within the blink of an eye, you find yourself flat on your back, flipped over and caged in. Only rising again when he aids you in doing so, just the upper body, just a little. To remove your dress, pulling it over your head and stuffing it in a corner.

You swear the time passes in slow-motion, yet simultaneously paces faster than usual. Because it’s a leisurely blur when you see him discard the last piece of your bed-attire. But a rush when he bares his golden chest and back, laying next to you and starting to kiss your tummy.

It’s so funny because…

You sigh. Nevermind.

You put your attention solely on how he kisses his way down, still next to you, further down until you only see his back and his mane, and somewhere far beneath, hands caressing your thighs. Then spreading them. And then, working up… up towards…

“You’re defeating me today…” you happily conclude, not one to reject a night with him winding under you, but also not one to decline… whatever he’s doing right now.

“You are very welcome.”

Cheeky jerk. You’d snort and roll your eyes if you had the energy and power to. Although, the latter does not stay absent after all, even if the roll of your eyes occurs backwards, mouth open when he parts your folds and touches your swollen nub.

Gauging your reaction, he throws a stare back, just briefly and quickly. He barely flinches when you pierce his skin with your nails, scratching him, biting your lower lip with desperation in your pupils.

And it’s enough for him. Boosts his keenness. You see it in his smirk, and see the desire, the devotion, the appetite in his lost eyes. 

He cocks an eyebrow at you, never bothered by your frequent love-wounds, yet sly when he warns, referring to your nails, “Stop it. I will tie you up if you keep going.”

Is that… a threat or a promise? You’re tempted to test him.

But for now, you wish to indulge further in what he’s initiating, and if you said something right now or provoked him into a pace of change, you’d lose the moment. So you remain still. Or, as much as you manage to.

Not quite when he moves over you, turning the back towards you once more, and—

Is that… oh. No doubt that he just spat right onto your clit, wet, warm and enhancing your greed. And then the damned finger. Touching your thighs as if to tease you, advancing to your cunt slowly, as opposed to the ball of frustration building in your chest and tummy.

“Could you move that up?” you mutter, barely registering how nonsensical you might sound.

But Jungkook knows you inside out, and reads your words as well as your body. Uses the knowledge to torture you some more, sneaking to your folds before he finally touches them, but doesn’t dig in.

Okay…

“Why?” you ask, not expecting an answer. “I’ve been good these days.”

“You’ve been great,” Jungkook retorts, tugging at one of your nether lips as if busying himself, “but I’m just kidding. Who am I to deny you anything?”

“In this situation? Perfectly Jeon Jungkook…”

The unsteady breathing accompanying your statement adds to the comedic aspect of the moment, and he doesn’t hold back when he laughs. Only briefly stopping when he leans down, delivering a chaste kiss to your aching bud.

And then he does the unforgivable, and lifts himself up. Away from you. Entirely.

“What—”

“It’s alright,” he ensures, nodding as if to make it believable for himself, “I am right here. See?”

He crawls — crawls! — towards you, very briefly until he reaches your lips, kissing you with the same filthy mouth that touched your intimate part just a moment ago. His mouth moves against yours just a little, then retracts and then comes back for another shorter kiss.

“Want me to do it?” he asks.

“Do what?”

“Tie you up?” The constant head tilts are killing you, not well for your heart or mind. Even less combined with the sickly sweet smile, so awfully in love. “You didn’t reject the idea and,” another kiss to the corner of your lips, “you’re being so terribly cooperative tonight.”

He says it as if it’s news to him. As if you’re not true-blue every second of the day.

Jerk wants things spelled out to him. Waits as he plays with a lock, face hovering inches from yours, and the tip of his tongue so visibly touching the spot behind his front teeth. 

As you refuse to answer, however, solely for the purpose to gauge what he might do next, he chuckles quietly, inhaling before he says, “Alright. Different idea, then.”

He gets back on his knees, straightening his upper body for a mere moment only before he opens your legs. Positions himself between them. Distances himself from you before finally getting into the desired stance. Stomach-down, hands touching your thighs, parting them with his mouth close to you.

It takes everything in you to not shut your limbs again when the warm breath mingles with your sloppy centre; and you already feel wasted when his tongue darts out. Opens up your pussy a little. Tickles you so lightly.

“Put your hands over your head,” he uses the pause for, haphazardly gesturing into your general direction with his chin, “no touching allowed. And if you endure until I’ve tasted you till the end, I’ll do whatever you want for the rest of the night.”

“Put your hands over your head,” he uses the pause for, haphazardly gesturing into your general direction with his chin, “no touching allowed. And if you endure until I’ve tasted you till the end, I’ll do whatever you want for the rest of the night.”

The image his words conjure is mesmerising. Yet, you don’t know if that’s the outcome you’re wishing for, or rather the absolute opposite, submitting to him and letting yourself go entirely for his pleasure.

There is no time to think. Your mind isn’t capable of thoughts at all.

Of course not, not if he attaches his mouth to your cunt, wrapping gorgeously soft and swollen lips around your equally soft and swollen ones. He kisses your pussy, drawing back with a smooching sound.

Goes in again, repeats. Then, slowly, adds his tongue. Swirls it around your clit, making your right leg twitch, your body react. A strong hand holds your thigh down, breath falling against you so hotly; the sensation is unlike anything else.

You don’t know how he does it; but you don’t just feel the tickling, endlessly lustful phenomenon where he causes it, but across your body. On your warm skin, in your stomach, in your chest.

You’re light-headed when his tongue flicks over your clit again, and then moves back to your hole; you curl in your toes. For the first time after a long while, you think this won’t take very long.

Digging your nails into your palms, you wet your lower lip with your tongue, uttering, “I’m almost there…”

“Mhm,” he muses with his mouth still licking you up, spreading the warm feeling all over. Then detaches himself to say, “I thought so. I can hear it.”

Knows you too well…

You recognise that he wants to take his time. Your pleasure is his sole purpose, fully focused on your reactions, your sounds, your winding body. But as the two of you deduced, you’re closer to the end than ever.

He kisses your thigh, provides little love-bites, tongue tasting your skin before he dives back in. Breathing in and out through his nose, he buries himself in you, bringing a thumb under his tongue and pushing in just a bit, but not entirely.

At the same time, his other thumb shifts its attention to rolling over your clit. Apparently, he trusts you enough now to not pin your legs to the mattress anymore, doesn’t expect you to give in and touch him, even if you want to. The way you’re holding yourself back, seeking your pleasure and obeying his orders floods pride and immeasurable greed through him.

As he French kisses you thoroughly, you notice when he smiles against your pussy. Even laughs a bit in amusement. Your body moves and lifts when his light but calculated touch toys with your nerves; he follows the insane writhing, glued to you.

And then he pushes a finger inside, pumps a couple times; moves his tongue to your clit. It’s crazy. Crazy. The saliva dripping off his chin when he eats you up, so diligent and powerful, executing this as perfectly as ever.

But it’s neither of these things that make you topple off the edge; not just the fingers or his tongue or how worryingly good he is at this.

But the damn eye contact at the end.

The immediate connection between you, the way he wants to see you, understand your reactions, but simultaneously keep going.

And all that knowledge helps you feel it all over. The contractions coming in waves; the pleasure radiating to every other part of your body. The sense of warmth and tingling experience.

Shit, and the euphoria. The profound relaxation while perceiving the increased heart rate at the same time; your glowing skin and the sweat.

And once you’re done, throat dry from not speaking, only yelling, you breathe, “That was… quick.”

“I am sorry,” he responds, still exhaling against you; you still feel the waves inside your cunt, so it’s hard to listen. “I needed to let my frustration out somewhere.”

You half-roll your eyes, as much as manageable.

“But in exchange… I’ll hold my promise and let you do anything,” he repeats, rubbing your leg and then your sides softly. Slowly moves up to you until his length presses against your heat and his lips align with your mouth. “Can I just first…”

“Love,” you interrupt, “you don’t need to. You don’t need to hold your promise, because I don’t want you to. Not tonight.”

“What?”

“I want you to let it all out,” you confess, ”claim me.”

Because frankly, you see it in his eyes. That he wants to release the beast, too. Of course ready for your ministrations, but yearning to wreck you so desperately. Already in the headspace, affected from the moment he licked you dry and wetter.

“I promised,” he tries, but you shake your head, still breathing stagnantly.

“I… So I… May I?” he still inquires permission, stuttering, so gentle, polite and tormented. “Goodness. I might die.”

You chuckle at the hyperbole, though the sound comes out weak as you still breathe through your craze. As you stare up at him, you think you recognise pure anguish reflecting in his gaze, made visible by the candlelight. Eyebrows kissing, mouth open. 

You feel similar, so you’re not one to turn down the plea.

“Yes, but… I mean it. You don’t need to submit entirely. I want you to do what you want to do.”

Because that’s when he’s the most authentic. And because the statement never poses a risk with Jungkook. Any other man might forsake you, but you could say such a thing a thousand times; even as he seeks his own pleasure, he won’t forget about yours.

And unleash all desperation on you simultaneously.

You want this. You want this.

“Fret not,” he assures, “I will. I am not neglecting either of us.”

Lining himself up, he sits up properly, starting a languid movement of the head of his length up and down your pussy. He means to tease you just a bit longer, wanting to test your reaction to the thickness rubbing between your folds.

But you see the surprise in his face when his cock threatens to slip in the moment it reaches your hole, even though there is no reason for his bafflement. Doesn’t he know what he does to you?

“Oh…” he murmurs, trying again, once again watching just a few inches disappear inside you before he pulls back. “That is… nice.”

In, then out again. Once more, in. Once more, out.

Then a tap of his heavy cock against your pelvis, stroking it in the process for further hardness, and you observe. Fully undisturbed and entirely amazed by what you’re seeing. Every single time.

You let him touch himself, and then close your eyes to listen to his sounds. But he soon leans into you again, whispering to keep them open, and when you do, he uses the proximity to kiss you again.

Harder this time. Moaning as he jerks himself off. A second longer until he brings it back to your pussy, and you raise your back off the mattress a little when he pushes the head in. Whimpering into the kiss, never having him back away.

You grip his shoulders for safety, trying not to go insane, and right before he parts from you, he nods. Asking, “Yes?”

“Please.”

“Shall I?”

“Please start.”

“Start… if you want me to fuck you numb, I will. Right until your mind is vacant of everything else. Will fuck all of me into you. Yes?” You take a shaky breath, barely nodding, but he sees and laughs quietly. “I need every lord to know to keep their hands off just by the way you walk.”

The nod turns into a shake of your head, and as he presses in further, you try to whisper, “That would be… incredibly scandalous, my love.”

“Oh? What difference does it make? The entire house always knows when I do these things with you.”

“Do they—”

“The staff always whispers. And they pay extra attention to you. Always lurking and trying to see if something changes about you. I’ve heard them, you know?”

Oh… oh, you know what he means. Of course you do. Perhaps you’re not the only one dreaming of a blooming future with him, of seeds being planted and growing into this family of yours.

The entire place must be waiting for the announcement to arrive one day.

Right…

“Then…” you start, interrupting yourself to press your lips together, muffling your moan when you feel him bottom out. “Then do not hold back now either. I want you to.”

“To hold myself back?”

“No.”

“Want what then, darling?”

“To fuck my mind numb of thoughts. And my legs of any feeling.”

Abruptly, he pulls out. Then, all of a sudden in again, all at once. You’re cross-eyed when you moan, and he more or less falls onto you as you pull him in, resisting the urge to bite into his shoulder as he nuzzles your neck.

A hand settles under your knee, raising one leg over his waist, starting to move. Messily, he licks and kisses your neck, continuing at your jawline, and then down to your clavicles. Fucks you lovingly enough to light a fire in you.

His hanging strands tickle your skin, damp from the sweat much like his forehead. His greedy sounds are crazy against your collarbones, and then decrease in volume when his lips wrap around your nipple once again.

“Sweetheart,” he mutters.

“Mhh…”

“This is not enough, is it?” No, it isn’t. He barely needs to speak on for you to momentarily shake your head, but he does, and it adds to your madness. “Not enough to disable straight walking…”

“Yes. No, yes—”

You mewl embarrassingly when he slides his cock out again; you see so much more of him outside of you than fucking necessary.

And God. God, you hate it when he presumably accidentally retracts it fully. Silently complaining, you sigh with worried eyebrows, but he finds his way back to you easily. It’d be odd if he didn’t. You suck him in effortlessly.

And he seems to enjoy it. Seems to seek an end to his goal, still keeping his previous question in mind, and then—

Your thighs quiver when he pushes in with all his power, all at once and as deeply as physically possible, and your eyes shut so hard that they hurt.

“Would you look at these tits…” you hear him say, forcing yourself to look at him again, fluttering your eyelids open.

And as sassily as your foggy brain allows, you respond, “I am looking, as well.”

At small, brown, constantly hard nipples. You want to touch them, kiss and bite them. Want to destroy him as much as he’s intending to destroy you. But you can barely move.

How could you if this time, when he returns to his ministrations, he turns entirely, irrevocably, positively merciless.

He gently falls forwards, holding you as he did before, but this time, when he hammers into you, the entire bed shakes. You raise your arm over your head, holding onto the railing for a second, inspecting how far away your head remains from it.

But Jungkook is attentive, and you only notice a second later that his palm is covering your head, keeping it from bumping against the railing. So you remove your hands from it, letting it glide over his smooth back again, sweat-covered and hot now.

He’s a monster, this man. Or perhaps, you make him a monster. You want to believe you’re the sole reason he forgets the universe like this; pounds into you, causing your body to move up and down the mattress, just because you’re the weakest spot he has.

Of course you are. Of course. 

So obvious when he confesses for the millionth time, “I love you.” Muffled, but clearer when he moves to look at you, expression beyond words as he repeats, “I love you so much.”

“And I you, my love.”

Strange. So strange how you never would’ve imagined yourself saying such a thing just a few years ago. How you avoided him, took a different path than him, never voluntarily meeting his eyes.

The words floating between you urge him to slow down for the moment; he attempts to take you in, to memorise you. Lets his eyes flit from your mouth over your nose to your pupils. Touches your cheek.

And the slower pace allows you to speak a bit more properly, even though you can’t help but feel distracted when he drops his head some to peck your skin.

“It… it has not been more than two years, has it? When we still despised each other.”

His kiss burns scars into your shoulder, hotter than hellfire. A raspy voice murmurs, “The world changes in mysterious ways.”

“Mmmh—”

It does. So does your mind. Because why is it that the most utterly sweet romance births the wildest of desires?

“And… Maybe that is what you need to unleash tonight, Kook. Perhaps I need it, too—” You shudder when he hums. His digits are still restless on your face, sliding up and down; not knowing what to caress. “What if you fucked me like you still hated me?”

“I… would that… You want that? I cannot even act as if I hate you, though.”

“Try it. I want you to.”

Jungkook remains speechless for too long, still comprehending your words, clearly torn between adhering to your wishes and worshipping you with the same adoration as you give out.

But as you so faintly mouth a hushed Please, you diffuse something in his brain. Inexplicably, because the rush of sensations, while never absent, feels new each time he touches you.

Perhaps that’s why he never gets enough of you; you hang a new star onto the sky every day, a new moon every night. Alternating every moment and refusing to leave a single one bland.

He’d be damned if he didn’t give the same excitement back to you.

Pushing his body up, he kneels above you, slipping out of you bit by bit as he grips your left knee. He shifts your limb, changing the position until you’re laying sideways, somewhat twisted.

You see the fleeting glimpse of pride as he slides back home and you mewl, soon squinting your eyes shut because shit — whatever you were doing before doesn’t compare to the tightness the shift allows. How your legs are nearly closed, allowing for much more friction.

You’re wrapped around him so fucking well, reminiscent of old key-to-its-lock-metaphors; and he feels infinitely closer to you. Possibly having a harder time than you, even.

The drag of his cock is endless as he begins, still too gentle, but effective enough. Your hands seek a place to hold onto, immediately opting for his leg; but he doesn’t seem to dig the idea as much.

“Let go,” he orders, not quite waiting for you to oblige before he’s captured your arm harshly and removed your touch, pinning it to your hip. “Same as before. No touching or I’ll stop—” The thrust he delivers isn’t quick, but relentless and hard; deep to the hilt. “—this. I don’t care if you cry or complain then.”

Shit…

He’s started. And he’s playing the act well. In your drowsy idiocy, you can’t help but wonder how the two of you would’ve fared if you’d turned your hate into lust much earlier. If you hadn’t used the time to despise each other, but transform it into this kind of energy.

Of course it is stupid to retort to such fantasies. Back then, you were disgusted by his personality, irritated by the way the two of you treated each other. There would’ve been no scenario in which he would’ve landed balls-deep in you.

But fuck, does the image prompt something in you.

You don’t bother for an answer, reckoning that the quiver of your lower lip might suffice, but… seemingly, not for him. Because he presses into your wrist harder before moving it to your back.

Yelping, you nearly stuff your face in the pillow, not entirely realising his next moves until you open your eyes again. See his mouth floating right over your ear. So close to you, pushing your damp hair back, whispering ominously, “Are you not fucking hearing me? Do you not understand?”

“I…” Goddamn it. Is he gritting his teeth? Playing his aggression so well? Or does it derive from the sheer lust he can’t contain? “I hear you. I understand.”

“What did I say?”

“No touching.”

The fingers stroking your strands back are more tender than his words, rewarding you with caresses as he continues just a tad softer, “Was that so difficult?”

He leaves you with another squeeze of your tits, moving his knees on the mattress to draw closer to your body. To bury himself further into you, leaving no spot untouched. And then, perfectly in character, claims, “Looking as pathetic as years ago, aren’t you? Probably dreamed of fucking me then, too.”

Wow—

Regarding the assignment with absolute diligence, it seems.

Even more cruel when he slips out of you so casually, so easily, despite adjusting to the position a mere moment ago. For a good purpose, however — because his digits replace his rock hard, soaked cock not soon after, testing the situation with languidly slow pumps.

They feel so different from his length; so… inadequate. You desire so much more. Back to where you were a minute ago. It’s… so hard not to touch him.

But if you begged for it now, would he give in? Or rather hold onto your previous idea?

You can try.

“Kook…” you whisper carefully, albeit immediately noticing how his breathing overshadows the word. You attempt again, “Kook.” This time, he hears. “Please. Need more? Please.”

“Asking for mercy all of a sudden… you cannot be serious.”

“I…”

“You’re lucky I do, too, you see? Need more.” Firmly, he lets a heavy hand fall to your ass, moving it up before your surprised squeal leaves you, and pushes at your back; your body flat on your stomach. “Or you’d long be sprawled over my lap.”

One of your dangerous traits is that you’re constantly tempted to test him. To act out, to follow his little warnings. Then again, he already provides enough; already at a hundred percent.

Like now, when he returns with the intent to wear you out. Wrecking you from the moment his cock intrudes again, falling in so smoothly that it’s almost embarrassing.

He starts right away. Pants a couple seconds later, matching your squeaks, probably delighted by your desperation as you hold, nearly rip the sheets. 

Tired, he leans in, chest closer to your back, and uses the nape of your neck as leverage to move easier. Wrapping a hand around it, pressing you down, hearing you whine and sniffle against the pillow.

You cannot recall the last time he fucked you this brutally. Snapping against your ass, letting all of the massiveness he sports disappear inside you. You don’t know what surprises you more — his stamina or the fact that you can take him this well at all.

But even Jeon Jungkook has his limits. You hear the approaching end in the way he sounds, breathing irregular and words incoherent. How broken his sounds are, high-pitched and absolutely unhinged. How his thrusts are slower now, indicative of his fatigue.

You know he’s close. But when he doesn’t slow down but stops altogether, you know he doesn’t want to be.

Refusing the orgasm, he pulls out for the nth time, much, much to your chagrin. With a dry throat, perspiring skin and droopy eyes, he delivers a harmless smack to your ass, and says, “Get up. Your turn to work on this.”

And with that, he means making himself comfortable against the back of the bed; letting the muscles of his arms bulge when he lifts them; using both hands to card through his hair, bringing some order into his messy mane.

Then, watching as you sit up, crawling on all fours and nearing his awaiting body.

Your gaze falls to his lap right away as you inch closer. To the shiny, wet member, secured in his fist, moving in it just a little, so as not to explode prematurely. Reserving it for you, and you only.

Such a giant. Towering. Thick enough for you to once again wonder if you can truly fit this inside you. Jungkook is gifted in every way.

And it’s not just the package he’s so proudly touching right now; it’s all of him. The golden skin, the thick thighs, the firm chest and the moles across his body. How his plush lips part further, the more your warmth nears.

Ready for you when you don’t take a seat right away but instead, steer straight towards his mouth, seeking a kiss you so hopelessly need. And for a second, he falls weak to your actions.

Only, until he suddenly yanks you back by your hair, probably reluctantly because…

Even now, his face draws to yours like a magnet, wanting more. Resisting. Extending the misery.

“Sit down,” he instructs, hitting your hanging tits. “Now.”

You do.

You do as quickly as you can; even rolling back your eyes, throwing back your head, unconsciously submitting to the reflex of gripping his shoulders. Bad idea — because he snatches your wrists, working to bring your arms behind your back again. Away from his body.

“Without this. Start.”

You try. You drag your pussy along his cock, up and then back down again; give yourself time to actually take in every little bit of him and how he makes you feel. The muscles of your legs and upper body are in full swing, exhausting your capacities.

But you’ll admit that it’s hard; not because your limbs have turned as wobbly as is usual with this beast, but because you’re awfully out of balance.

As he holds you captive, you’re struggling with the stance, even when he pulls your chest to his, melting the two of you. You don’t voice the difficulty yet, keen on observing his reactions; enduring the tremble of your body.

“So incredibly cooperative,” he repeats, “we make a strong pair, don’t we?”

Tease. Tease. Taking advantage of how much you crave praise.

You cannot pinpoint whether you’re coveting his appetite particularly strongly these days, or whether he’s just now awoken desires unknown to you so far — but his advances leave you salivating. Make you hunger for more.

Odd how you didn’t know you’d enjoy it if he gripped a patch of your hair as he is now, shaking your head, face close enough to you to repeatedly graze his lips against yours. Or that you could tighten around him like this the moment his fingers dig into your cheeks, holding you like an enemy.

“Mmmmh, you are pretty,” he hums, delivering two light slaps to your cheek. He hisses when he feels you constrict again, trapping his cock between your drenched walls, only able to whisper multiple fucked-out, “Pretty, pretty, pretty.”

His fitful breathing doesn’t allow for much interruption of his air flow; his chest is heaving and he seems far more spent than he did in the beginning. But he’s never ready to stop or wave the white flag.

Still succumbing to said hurdles when his lips dash forward, instantly blending his taste with yours as his tongue snakes around yours. His lips move against yours with ferocity and determination. Teeth bite your lower lip softly, giving his aggression a soft outlet.

And it seems to you that he might not pull his claws in again tonight, unleashing all the savage fierceness his lust and envy combine into. Perhaps this will turn into the most ruthless night just yet.

But you’re wrong.

And for once tonight, you don’t mind the 180 turn.

Because the moment he surfaces from the kiss to catch his breath, you use the pause to whisper his name. With a gentle shudder, kissing eyebrows and half-open eyes, you bring your forehead to his, and all of a sudden, he lets you go.

You don’t understand why until you look at him again. Blinking innocently, still not touching him properly, but carefully bringing your fingertips to his legs. The crease between your eyebrows vanishes, allowing them to rise, and you echo, “Kookie…?”

That’s all it takes. You might be hallucinating, but you think you see something in him break. Something shifting back into place, as if he’s going through a change, returning to himself after separating from his mind for a bit.

And he slows down. The dizzying brutality of his pounding leaving you drooling turns into something friendlier. A welcome alteration but…

The change in pace surprises you. Not even inspecting his expressions helps you understand what he might be thinking, what he might be intending to do next. He’s unpredictable in moments like these.

He might turn the tides. Or he might return to his demonic self.

What you don’t realise is how your eyes affect his thumping heart so badly; how you emanate sweetness with all of your being, and how you make this played aggression nearly impossible.

Rendered hypnotised, he understands that’s enough for tonight. This isn’t the true nature the two of you share. What was it again in simple, human words, never enough to describe the celestial feeling within?

In love. Devoted. Ready to do anything. And so, so beautiful.

Jungkook cradles your face, gently massaging the back of your head. His thumb touches your cheek as if you’re fragile, careful to keep you together now and forever. You’re tenderness personified; the object of all his desires.

The definition of a treasure to be protected. And you are—

“You’re the kind of person to kill for.” His warmth breathes into your face when his lips ghost in front of yours, words sugary when he admits, “I cannot do this like I hate you. Because I don’t.”

…If there is one thing aside from you that your husband will remain loyal to forever, it’s his feelings. Not only towards you, but everything he regards the world with.

He always claims he hid most of himself before he met you, but you’re convinced he never stopped being the person he is. That he was merely believing in what others wanted him to believe.

That’s all.

Even now, as his touch falls to the small of your back, he refuses to deny the fondness and care that has grown in his heart, right around your name sheltered in there.

You swallow thickly, touching his waist, and shake your head, “Then don’t. Do it just how you mean it.”

He nods, bringing his fingers back to yours and lifting them as he asks, “Would you like to touch me again?”

“Will you let me?”

A kind laugh meets your curious, yet genuine question. He places your hands on his shoulder, jesting, “Imagine… having the power over you to decide whether to let you or not.” 

Bringing his own fingers to your ass, he moves you a bit, and with that, his hardness inside you. “I love it when you are desperate like this, my love. But.” You moan when he urges you to move. “So am I.”

“Jungkook… I’m yours. You can do whatever you want.”

“I can, right? And— in return, I can be whatever you need me to be, too.”

Yours — that’s all. All of him.

The arms you finally touch, up to his shoulders, neck and jaw. The soft lips he’s kept parted ever since you started. The mole on his nose, under his mouth, near his jawline. The kiss he shares with you and the hands clamping at your body.

How he fucks you with a passion you’re certain is reserved for nobody in this world but you. You’re selfish like this; you don’t believe anybody loves like that.

It’s all yours; that’s what you need him to be.

You murmur his name repeatedly, and he pecks your neck dryly. Your sounds change as you near the end, feeling a bubbling sensation in your stomach pleading to be released. Impatiently, you lean back, planting your hands to the mattress, face towards the ceiling.

Jungkook uses the position to latch onto your nipples, fucking you harder now, even if not with the same craze as before. He knows your body; he knows it so well. So you’re not surprised, yet gasping when he brings a finger to your clit, hitting and touching the right stops over and over and over again.

Your body winds on top of him as the chaos inside you unfolds, your shoulders sinking, eyes in the back of your head, upper body so fucking weak. And as he massages circles onto your clit, never rough, and murmurs against your jaw, you lose your mind.

“You’re my love. Gorgeous, beautiful sweetheart. I want to see… this every night.”

Doesn’t he know he will all his life? Doesn’t he know you’ve surrendered every piece of you to him?

Fuck. Fuck—

The knot uncoils the moment he utters the last word, voice dulcet and hazy, so loving and breathy. Your arms give out, threatening to let your body fall, and you rush to find an anchor in his shoulders, holding him, embracing him within a second.

Without a single thought ahead, you blurt, “I’ll— I’ll never want anyone but you. Never.”

“You’re all I know, baby,” he responds in kind, holding you the same, a confession between each kiss to your neck, “I love you. D-did you know? I love you. Love you. Love you so much.”

And God, do you love him.

The waves crashing over you are metres-high, and they’re drowning you ocean-deep. Why does this feel new and crushing every single time? He’s helped you experience this a hundred times. Nobody ever has before.

But you never get used to this. Not to how hard your pussy tightens and loosens over and over again, how your body becomes weightless, needing to be kept upright. How your stomach feels much more free, like you’ve gone through an epiphany.

The world sparkles. You feel ridiculous, alone in your head with these thoughts, but you’re above clouds, and the stars sparkle. What the hell…

“H-how much?” you ask, gripping his black hair, dizzy. 

“You cannot ask me. I have no fucking idea,” he curses, “I wish I could measure it, you see? Wish I could show you better. Tell you. Write it in a book.”

You’re fond of books; but he doesn’t know there’s no need for him to create a story, because he’s one himself. Isn’t he? A chapter after another.

He lifts your face from his shoulder, making you look at him. Pushes your hair back, his stare fond. Crashes his lips against yours again before it’s his turn to let go.

Affected by your contractions, he moans against your cheek, closing his eyes before he’s shooting all that he kept back into you. Hot, wet and sticky, loads of it, requiring multiple pumps until he’s drained.

Then, falls back against the railing with you in tow, hiding in your chest as you keep him close to your heart. You touch his tresses, caressing his scalp, matching his breathing until your bodies wind down.

It takes endless minutes in each other’s arms until the burning sensation all over your skin diminishes.

The room has grown darker now, candles burned halfway through. When you allow yourself a glimpse of him, the shadows are dancing across his features, hiding half his face. The light is so faint where it hits him, a gorgeous weak golden that still doesn’t do his own teint justice.

You can’t believe you get to keep this for a lifetime. That this is the very being you have the honour to wake up next to every single morning. That you’re the only one holding his heart, and that he’s the only one matching your soul.

Is this what it means to share everything with someone? To indulge in something far greater than love.

Which… reminds you…

“Jungkook,” you call, and he hums quietly, smiling through it. Eyelids falling, he listens as you ask, “Kook, do you think I feel— or look different?”

There’s a pause in your hushed conversation, a rise of eyebrows. If he wasn’t so tired, he’d sound a lot more concerned, you reckon. Immediately question your thoughts.

Instead, he sounds weaker, yet confused when he mutters, “…Why?”

“Do I?”

Another break in thought. This time to take you in. To lean in just a little, regard you carefully, to let his eyes drag over your being to detect the change you speak of.

But maybe…

“I think you were quieter these days. In thoughts? I assumed it was the Jung thing. But,” he eventually says, “responsibilities didn’t allow me to be around much either. Did I… miss something?”

Were you quieter? Possibly. 

Saying you were trapped in your thoughts is an understatement; if he’s figured something out without being around, it’s this much. The utter truth, a successful deduction. But was it the Hoseok rumours?

You can’t yet say for sure. So you choose to not say anything at all.

Only, “That might be it.”

“Other than that, however…” he speaks, moving with a grunt. The hands on your hips are gentle as they instruct you to get up; and unbothered by the seed soon flowing out, he urges you to your back, face soon levitating above you. “You’re still the same.”

A creature of habit, he wipes the drying locks out of your face, kissing the tip of your nose. You’re almost entirely sure that you look like a proper mess — but it’s impossible to not believe him when he claims, “Still the same beautiful woman I fell in love with two years ago.” Another kiss to your eyelid. “Stunning darling.”

“Are you still in love with me the same?”

“No,” he immediately blurts, and if you didn’t know him so well, you’d panic, “of course never the same. Always a little more.”

“Mmmh. And I love you.” You touch the smooth surface of his back, drawing figures over the defined muscles. “So. Does this prove that I wouldn’t run away with some lord?”

He puts on the act of a thinker, purposely teasing you until you hit his bicep. Then, “Yes. But does it prove you won’t run away with a stable boy?”

“…I hate you, Jeon Jungkook.”

The laugh he emits is genuine, so different from the troubled voice you heard less than an hour ago. His old jesting self, he refers to your awkward idea before, mentioning, “I know. You surely got that across tonight. And oh, how you kept looking at me. Pure hatre—”

“Shut up. I gave myself to you tonight or you would’ve begged and whimpered—”

“Oh? How so? Tied me up, hm?” he mocks, fingers cautiously following the veins of your arms before he’s caught your wrists again. He lifts them over your head, trapping you again. “Like this?”

You laugh as his lips trace your neck, the tickling sensation not quite the same as the lust spreading before. Helplessly, you surrender, begging, “Alright. Okay. I apologise for saying that! If you keep going, I will be crawling tomorrow.”

“Is that so bad? Not having to tend to so many things?”

“You’d make it worth it, I’m certain.”

He lets you go the very next moment, sighing before he asks, “Do you feel alright? I was worried about going overboard.”

“No, I am more than alright. Dog-tired but… this was perfect. I am a little happy you got jealous. Do you feel better, too?”

“I feel extraordinarily well.” He keeps his mouth open, pondering on saying more, but as you see his mind whir, you reckon another thought has replaced his previous statement. “I was not jealous. Merely worried.”

“…You yourself have said you are a jealous man.”

“Have you got any evidence? I thought so.” Another snicker in a joyous night, setting the mood for your dreams. “But. You are loved by many, and I admire you for that. And objectively I know I will always love you the most, but… it’s scary.”

“Ah… what is, Kook?”

“Knowing that somebody might want to overtake me. To try better or make you reconsider.”

“They couldn’t. I do not have to tell you… you know me and you know I will be here.”

“Good. I know,” he assures, countless infinitesimal sparkles of yearning in his eyes. They glow even in the shadows of candlelight, even without flames. “I really want this with you.”

“What is that?”

“…Everything.”

Everything.

His thoughts are a repetition of your own. A confession of a forever. Which is why you understand so well what he means, not a single explanation necessary. Because you want it all, too.

Of all the facts existing in your realm and universe, this remains one that you could never doubt. And you’re trying to provide him with the same amount of everything, as well. You are.

Which is why the thought of disappointing him is so unbearable for the time being.

So for now, you’d rather avoid it by keeping your mouth shut just for a little longer.

For all the longing touches revealed last night, Jungkook was certain he’d meet a glowing face the next morning. Sparkly, familiar eyes, taking in all hallways despite already knowing them so well, pointing out a new detail each time as you love to do.

For all the affection revealed last night, he was sure he’d eliminated all doubts and sorrows, every piece of thought and afterthought left of the conversation about other lords and past love.

In such a sense, he finds himself cheerful in his office the following day, enduring the staff’s playful ridicules. Grateful about the comfortable atmosphere, the lightness of the morning. His humour runs off the charts and he catches himself snickering about his own jokes.

You left him bright at least. Hopeful and joyful, with a heart filled with so much love and craze that is barely comprehensible for a mortal mind.

When you stroll into his office with your hands folded, his dark gems glitter, lights dancing in his pupils. He didn’t see much of you yet, despite from the tiny moment he left you sleeping in bed, kissing your shoulder and removing the lock off your face.

Tending to his duties, only torn away from you when he was urged to do so.

“Good morning,” you say in your sweetest voice, so small and soft.

And he hears the alteration in your words, so vastly different from last night. But your eyes look somewhat swollen, sleep still apparent in them, so it’s easy to give into the first instinct and blame a short night for your fatigue.

“Good morning, my love,” he responds, silencing as he nears your body, tenderly aligning your fingers and raising yours to his mouth.

As he kisses every knuckle, you ask, “Working so early?”

“Did not choose to,” he murmurs in between pecks. He concludes the gesture with rubbing a thumb ever-so-gently against the back of your hand before he leads your palm to his face. “I can come back to you any moment, though.”

You smile, but the blinking of your eyes is slow, and your reserved stance grows. He finds it odd when you hesitate, but you’re faster than him when you speak, “No, no. I didn’t want to disturb you, please do what you need to do.”

“Then… keep me company?”

“I will, but later, yes? I was thinking of a brief outing.”

It’s not unusual for you to seek fresh air or promenade along a nearby waterfront. Ever since you left town, you’ve grown even fonder of nature. The blossoming flowers, the sun, the summer rain and the rainbows afterwards match your energy.

But your usual light is missing; you don’t look quite downcast, but moreso worried about something. Your chest rises a bit too hard when you breathe in, and the nerves burn hotter when he asks, “Where to?”

“Just nearby. Picking flowers.”

Maybe he’s thinking about it too hard. Maybe you’re honestly just drowsy and opting for the crisp air, hoping for it to clear your mind. And maybe your demeanour will have changed by the time you return.

Might at least just be worth the wait, right?

So he doesn’t intervene with your thoughts, merely nodding. He leans into your tender palm, still resting on his warm cheek, and presses a careful kiss into it, as though a mistake could make you run away.

“Sure,” he concurs at last, “rush back to me. And show me the flowers you collect, alright?”

Which you don’t really oblige to, keeping a safe distance from his yearning, worried heart for an hour or two.

It becomes increasingly difficult to focus on work with you away; inquiring about you doesn’t do much, because how could the staff within these walls know more than he does? Would you confide in them but not in him?

Are you afraid of something?

When the attention drifts off his work eventually and his gaze keeps switching to the view out the window, to a path that you might be walking, he plummets into his chair. Waits. Fiddling. 

“Dojoon,” he calls, immediately met with a guard outside the room, speaking to the stiff, polite form, “has my wife returned yet? Have you seen Aza around?”

Denying his lord’s questions, Dojoon shakes his head, causing Jungkook’s chest to deflate, and informs him that no, he has neither noticed the presence of you nor of your chaperone.

Fitting, a timing so appropriate, because the guard has only nearly finished his sentence and increased Jungkook’s concerns when footsteps echo through the hallway outside. Jungkook cranes his neck momentarily, hoping for an end to his perturbation.

And at last, some deity seems to have heard his prayers, even if, in hindsight, he knows he’ll probably have nothing to worry about. You’ve been away for longer, albeit usually announcing your departure more cheerily and with less uncertainty.

Which, to his pleasure, doesn’t torture your expressions as much anymore as you finally enter the room. The hands are still folded, a shawl wrapped around your back and gracefully falling over your arms.

You’re always so pretty; so stunning that he nearly forgets the issue on hand.

That your folded fingers don’t carry anything.

Which is not too suspicious, it shouldn’t be. You might have handed the flowers to somebody, might have hastened back into his room without thinking of his prior request.

But his paranoid mind has been wreaking havoc lately, and he hates, hates, hates it — yet, can’t stop it.

So he despises the feeling in his chest when he asks, “Where are the flowers?”

“I…” you unfold your hands, inspecting your fingers as if you forgot they were vacant of said bloom. “Staff took them.”

Of course. That’s the most logical option, one he considered. So why…

He inches closer to you, nodding towards Dojoon and signalling for him to leave. As the guard exits right away, Jungkook lightly touches a strand of your hair, tucking it back as he so gently wonders, “Where did you go, baby?” 

“Just out for a while. I told you before.”

“But…” You swallow as he talks, nervous about something and suddenly fidgeting with your way too warm cashmere shawl. Only looking up when he breaks his barriers and asks, “What’s the matter?”

“What?”

“I do not know. You tell me. What’s the matter? Is it because of something we said last night? Or because of…”

There. He said it. Stupid unease that might prove wrong and oh-so-utterly and truly stupid soon.

Of course he’s had this in his mind. But somehow, he’s started to wonder… do you feel okay? Are you ill?

“What?” you echo, shaking your head. “No. What are you saying—”

“Something must be bothering you, I reckon, and you…”

“No, I think I just,” you start, pausing, tonguing your cheek until you turn your body a little. Almost facing the door. “I probably only need more rest. I feel tired and you wore me out so much, you see—”

It’s meant as a joke, and he’s sure he even recognises a smile — but the mood won’t allow for otherwise very welcome jests. Before you can even reach for the door handle, he places a flat hand on the surface of the door, ensuring that Dojoon didn’t leave it ajar even a tiny gap.

Half caged in, you look at him in disbelief, lips slightly parted as you say, “Won’t you let me go out?”

“Talk to me, sweetheart.” The genuine distress in his expression hurts you; just because you’re so fearful of disappointing him, or putting him under more anxiety. No reason, no reason. “Tell me what’s going on.”

You want to. It’s just — he’s been forlorn before. You’ve seen his lows and seen the reasons for it. Waded through parts of his pain with him. The news you want to deliver are merry and colossal, but you don’t know if he’s ready.

And fuck. You’re taking too long to answer, aren’t you?

You are. You see it in his eyes. How they start to burn, how frustration grows so apparent in them. Never replacing the care and worries, but certainly furrowing his eyebrows the way he often does when irritated.

“What’s troubling you?” he tries again, keeping himself from snarling. “Where did you go? Did you… did you see him somewhere? I apologise if I said or did something wrong last night. If I hurt you.”

Keeping himself from snapping. Because your eyes are so big, and your stare so innocent and you look so concerned for him rather than for yourself, and… and…

Other than every reason in this universe, he can’t bear to be mad at you.

“Hm?” he voices.

“No,” you finally reveal, “it’s not him at all.”

“I know… Of course I know. But what is it?”

You blow out air. “I am…”

“Yes,” he interjects when your pause proves longer than a moment, “are you ill? Oh goodness, this is nerve-wracking. I think I might fai—”

“Jungkook,” you interrupt, both hands dashing to his arms. He’s out of breath, unfiltered craze in his eyes, as if expecting the worst. So you free him of his misery, taking a deep breath, and then, outrightly, reveal, “I’m expecting.”

…The world stills.

You hear it and you feel it; are certain that all movement has ceased, that the birds have halted mid-flight. That the wind has ebbed down. That the people down in the village have frozen in whatever state they were in before.

Selfishly, you believe that the centre of the world has shifted from the sun to right where you’re standing, right where the love of your life has paused. Where he’s looking at you and you only, barely blinking, out of words, lungs as dry as yours.

“My lo—” you start at the same time as he mumbles, “What?”

So you speak on, “I have not been bleeding. I went to consult the doctor and—”

“Outside? Where?” he asks, the memory and logic in his mind so disrupted that he finds himself in a state of utter bafflement and insanity. “Why didn’t you go to the mansion’s—”

“He went to his family for the week. Do you remember?”

“Right… right. What did you… You just went?”

You nod. “Spoke to him about all the things I have been experiencing and he’s certain those are all signs for me expecting… it seems.”

“…You didn’t tell me.”

“Because I wasn’t sure. And I… I know how much this scares you, so I didn’t want to stir chaos in case it turned out to be nothing.”

Which is a truth you weren’t sure you’d be able to spell out. Jungkook has wanted children; he has mentioned it on several occasions. But ever since you fathomed his deepest fears, laying in a fatherless past and a sorrowful childhood, you’ve been careful.

He’s affected. He always has been. And perhaps you’ll see glimpses of those very worries the more your pregnancy advances; let’s see.

For now, however, they don’t seem to roam his mind.

Instead, he shakes his head, hints of an expression creeping onto his face that you know too well. The first sign of approaching tears; of a swelling heart. Of love growing so fondly and fast that it overflows.

Every single tongue-tied reaction gathers in eventual words when he summarises, “I barely know what to say.” And right there it is; underneath his eye, on the apple of his cheek. One single tear. And with it, a breaking voice. “I do not know what to say.”

But he knows what to do. And what he does is tilt his head, sighing into the stuffy air of the office, not bothering to wipe away the tears — and you can’t either as he grips your hands. Smushes them in his. Calls forth your own liquid affection, blurring your vision.

And then you’re pulled off your spot, crushed in a long-overdue embrace. Before you know it, you’re safely secured in his arms, one a snake around your body, the other hand holding the back of your head as if you could disappear.

He hides his lips in your hair, still not able to put his thoughts into words. But he cries silently against you, leftover panic subsiding and giving way to raw sentiments.

“Jung— kook—” you hiccup, and he shakes his head, possibly keeping you from sobbing; yet, not faring better. “I apologise for— for keeping it from y—”

“No. No, you…” he takes a deep breath, and you know without looking that he’s closing his eyes. Putting his chin on top of your head. “You’re the only one who’s ever cared like this. And shielded me like this. How do you care so much? No, I know. Because I do, too…”

His words turn into a murmur, and he swallows a syllable or two, but it doesn’t matter. You hear his heart, and it speaks volumes without him needing to.

You could cry all your life. And you could love all your life.

“So,” he adds, “we are finally growing, yes? You and I and another. The only another we need, right? Fuck the rest of the world.”

You nod against his chest with a broken laugh, palms wandering further up from the small of his back, and you try to hold him as tight as he’s holding you.

There is no need for words and confessions anymore. There is no need for anything at all; just this very thing. And this very touch. These tender sounds of your sobs, ongoing until they turn into a light and quiet mingling of smiles and tear-filled laughter.

“I promise to you,” Jungkook finally says after a minute, his voice calmer, steadier, “I will do anything. Everything.”

Pause. Waiting to collect his thoughts. All those of lords and kings knocked out within a moment.

And then—

“I will do so much better.”

Over the course of the one year you have spent within the same walls as your husband, you haven’t just learned how to share the same home but the same habits, too.

Some are deliberate — reading the Friday newspaper together in the morning; craving eggs on Saturdays; taking walks to wind down from the week on Sundays. They have become a reflex; unspoken activities you indulge in without the other pointing them out anymore.

Others developed accidentally — like, unconsciously counting the windows you pass in the long hallways, because you caught him doing it before. Or, not being able to sleep well unless you have bid each other a good night. Or — in such a case, seeking each other out once the other side of the bed feels too cold.

It’s not rare for Jungkook, who’s still learning to handle responsibilities, to overwork himself deep into the night. At times, you find him at the edge of the bed, still reading a document. On other days, you tap blindly along the walls of the mansion, meeting him in the library.

Tonight, it’s neither.

The place looks eerie, somewhat haunted in the dark. Still adjusting to the darkness, you stroll from room to room idly, trying to make out a light, or a shadow, a sighting of the man you woke up without.

It must be late; or incredibly early. You can’t say when he awoke and skulked off; the sky is still pitch black outside, but sunrise might break in soon.

A few minutes later, akin to an eternity, you finally push the unlocked door to the study, lit by faint flames. Jungkook flinches when it squeaks open and you step in with featherlight steps. He nearly throws the book into the air, catching it as it threatens to slide off his knee.

The gentle heart only calms once it recognises you, taking a deep, shuddering breath in. He isn’t angry; rather delighted to see your figure standing in the dark, in a long, white nightgown and big, worried eyes.

As much as he’s able to perceive from his spot, you look relieved, fingers fiddling, and he doesn’t think he could love anybody more than you, ever. Not when you’re here steering towards your goal, obviously having scoured the mansion to find him.

“You’re so light on your feet, love,” he faux-complains, tutting, “thought you were a ghost.”

“Oh. A pretty ghost?”

“One I’d let haunt me any day.”

You let out a gentle laugh, stepping closer until you’re towering over him, “They say one glows when with child.”

“If you glow any more, then…” he whispers as you take a careful seat on his lap, simultaneously securing you there with an arm and covering his eyes. Charading being blinded by the light.

How dramatic.

Shaking your head, you take a look down to his fingers, following his touch until you’ve opened the shut book to the page his thumb serves as a bookmark for. The cover isn’t particularly telling, a mere title on it too small to read.

The chapter he was reading is an advanced one, the page starting in the middle of an ongoing sentence. but as most stories beloved to dreamy poets go, kindness prevailed in the end.

You don’t ask for the content right away; rather, you wonder, “Jungkook, why are you still up? And here of all places.”

The golden candlelight highlights the fatigue in his eyes — but it makes his heart-stirring smile evident, too. A note of pride resonates in his voice as he lifts the book, holding it towards you as if that doesn’t worsen the lighting drastically.

“It has lullabies and bedtime stories,” he says. You lean in, staring at the right page, and recognise colourful, faded illustrations. “Father used to read them to me. I remember how they shaped me, so I— I wanted to practice, too.”

No matter how many arrows Cupid shoots into your heart, Jungkook always seems to outdo the beneficent god. He’s diligent in watering and growing the affection in you. Tending to your heart — just like that, effortlessly.

Despite your tired mind, your emotions are on overdrive; because of your tired mind, you, in the tone of a statement, repeat, “You were preparing.”

“Is that odd?” he immediately blurts, a little too loud for the room. When you shake your head in denial, he nods in comfort. “I was afraid I was doing too much. This book helped. There is another one on parenting, but,” he reaches for his desk with a groan, putting another, smaller piece on top of the other one, “but I feel like this advice is a given. Look.”

He flips through the pages, halting at one that outlines tips and tricks in imperatives. The first you lay eyes on is already one that proves his point, odd as you read aloud, "An affectionate household works wonders upon a young mind. Remember to, uh— cultivate a serene and harmonious family atmosphere!"

“Fair enough, is it not?” Jungkook jests, shutting the book again.

The smile he flashes, the one you never hesitate to join is a peculiar one. Utterly sweet, undeniably handsome; yet, strange, considering the history the two of you share.

You wonder once again.

When did he become this tender? The boy you knew, smirking so slyly, evil words shot towards you in a group of fellow pals — none of the damaging energy remains today. Today… sitting on this very lap, going into raptures.

Carrying his child.

Then again, people change, but never thoroughly. A basic foundation, the core that one is made of always healthily and steadily remains. Jungkook’s traits, the ones you have learned to love and cherish, were always part of him.

He just needed an outlet. Somebody to practise them on; a lifelong companion to pour the softness onto.

And things never end there. No, they go on and on, a flood of sparkly emotions. Like, when he gets into a more casual conversation now, never quite realising that his little statements are pulling you above clouds.

”I asked some of the staff about their experience with their children. Did you know some of them have young toddlers themselves?”

”Mihee gave me a list of things to be careful about once birth comes around. It sounds painful, darling. You can do it, right?”

”You can. I’ll be there, too. You can certainly do it better than I will, possibly.”

He tells you he has been working a little less these days; having struggles forming a clear thought. Informs you about his spontaneous and perhaps too early decision of planting a tree just for the child. Explains to you how to not hold a baby, the information courtesy of Mihee.

And then, he kisses your forehead, sucking in a breath as if shivering. He adjusts for a moment, never pushing you off his lap, and then eventually, quietly, admits, “It is so frightening, as well, though, isn’t it?”

“Hm?”

“This… this whole thing.” You gaze at him with gentle worry, suspecting what’s to come, but he misinterprets it for doubt. “I am not anyhow indicating that I don’t want this. Not at all. I wouldn’t want it with anyone but you.”

You nod understandingly, clarifying that you never assumed such. But he continues, “Still, I can’t help but wonder how well I will do.”

You could tell him that it’s a valid and often occurring worry. That no parent-to-be will ever dive into this with full confidence and a pure lack of insecurities. But you know why he’s saying this.

Not everyone has a dead father. Not everyone deals with an abusive household growing up. And not everyone was fed with doubts and deep-rooted issues that provoke such hesitant thoughts.

“Is that why you are reading books on parenting, my love?” you inquire, speaking slowly.

“I would guess so,” he answers, “I want to be there. I’d hate it if I had to leave… you never know what might happen, you know? Or maybe, if I was here, yet tried too hard and then failed in the process—”

“First of all,” you interrupt, “do not make me imagine a life without you. Second of all… we are thinking about it in such a theory. I reckon that… once you hold someone in your arms,” you put your head onto his, keeping him close, the free hand seeking his, “it feels more natural. Love happens naturally.”

“Does it? I have never been a father before.”

You chuckle, “So I hope! But. What was it like to love me? A process? Progress? Were you scared of loving me?”

“I was.” The answer is unexpected. Then again, it’s not. Certainly rapid, though. “You’re an unstoppable force. Of course it is scary to love you. What if one messes up? That’s nothing that can be forgiven.”

“You always speak too highly of me.”

“I am not blinded. I see it clearly and I mean every word. Loving you was frightening, but it developed…” He removes his touch from your fingers, instead tracing up the skin of your arm until his digits skim your elbow; echoing, “Naturally.”

“Mmmh. And does it ever feel like you’re trying too hard?”

“No. You’re right, it doesn’t. It just happens.”

“So,” you whisper, “who’s to say this will be different? And to tell you a secret: You’re doing so amazing loving me. If you can give this one the same amount as you give me, we will be fine.”

He hums, nodding instantly. This must boost his confidence.

He’d be a fool to ever doubt the sentiments he houses for you. He knows he loves you well, because he regards you as worth it. Because he vowed to provide to you what you deserve; the intensity of that adoration will never be subject to confusion.

“I will share another secret with you,” you clear your throat, shifting. “Can you imagine how terrifying it can be for a woman to leave home after so long? How, considering the role of the woman, the thought of living with a man can be intimidating?”

Jungkook’s head sinks in thought. Big eyes fixate on a random spot and a plump, rosy lower lip curls outward, pouting. Another hum before he does a head tilt and confesses, “I haven’t thought about it yet. But… if I had a daughter and she left, I would be scared to death for her well-being.”

“Yes. And she would be, as well. It can be difficult. But to tell you something… Despite my fears and the adjustments I needed to make here, I didn’t fear for my well-being. I knew you’d take good care of me.”

You swallow, sighing when he leans in, lips close to your chest, “And if this is what you consider your nature, Jungkook… Then I do not think you have to worry about anything.”

“Hmmm. This makes so much sense. You are such a bright woman, did you know?” he says, rubbing your arm, then your back. Buries his face in your breasts; his voice vibrates against you as he speaks, “You are everything good. And incredibly smart.”

That’s what he’s saying. The true feelings run much deeper than that; you understand.

The sudden affection that washes over one on the best days. When it overwhelms the senses and dips the air in vibrant shades of pink. Feelings of invincibility and eternal happiness.

Yet, hard, or even impossible, to grasp into appropriate sentences. What Jungkook is doing is merely spitting the most harmless of his love confessions, because his true thoughts cannot be constellated into actual words.

“I love you. I do love you. So, so much,” he mutters, scattered kisses between words a habit now, “and I want to take care of you forever. I will bring you tea. And carry you to bed. I will even cook for you, I do not care about the intensity of effort…”

He’s said that before — delivering whatever you crave, whenever you crave it. To your surprise, the royal you thought spoiled previously has a knack for bringing delicious creations to the table. You know because he gets bored sometimes. Takes some work off the staff’s overworked shoulders.

“Speaking of,” he soon inquires, just as you foresaw, “are you hungry? Are you eating well? We should sneak into the kitchen.”

You shake your head immediately, telling him that eating before sleep does not do well to the stomach. Tell him that it is far too late to hide in the corners of the mansion the way you hid around town when engaged.

That now, it might be much easier to stroll back into your room. Slip under the covers. Smile and talk and drift into sleep.

And you promise that you’re already well fed as long as he fills you with the care your dreamy youth would always read about.

But the clouds you float above dissipate and drop your body into a fall, from heaven to absolute hell.

You’re not sure what you expected from this entire affair; perhaps you should’ve known that carrying and leading a full human being into the world wouldn’t occur so blissfully as the pregnancy itself was. And yes — compared to this, the pregnancy was a bed of roses, no matter how often you whined.

Damn the society around you. The only knowledge you had of this moment came from the few books Jungkook brought you every now and then, his gentle warnings that this might hurt, and the brief conversations you had with your mother about the existence of people.

One or two comments from your doctor here and there.

Oh, it will be all good!

But that’s it, isn’t it? Women do not get informed properly; you do not fully understand the concept of such things until they finally roll around.

And the day you wake up once again with the highest expectations, you finally speak those hopes into existence. As you walk up the stairs shortly after dinner, you feel a liquid drain your legs; confused until your stomach so agonisingly twists. 

A punch to your guts.

The moment it happens, your heartbeat accelerates, its sound echoing in your ears — for the very first second, you fear the worst. Did something go wrong? Is something bad happening?

But it doesn’t seem the case, because the tumult around you suggests otherwise entirely: the royal mansion breaks into an immediate excited bustle. You don’t know how they do it, but word spreads like a wildfire.

As soon as the world starts spinning and you let out one or two groans, slowly turning into yelps of pain, you’re escorted to the empty bedroom. Barely minutes later, you’re accompanied by the doctor residing in your mansion these days.

Jungkook’s doing.

Ordered the physician Sang and the midwife Yumi — yes, both — to spend their days here because this is the time they predicted for the baby to arrive at. Nine months… plus, minus a couple days.

The skies have darkened and the seasons changed. It’s colder now, but you feel hot, tortured by your body temperature as staff members drape more blankets over your body, comfortable pillows under you, water and cloths beside you.

And among the blurring faces you perceive under the growing pain, you don’t see his.

Not now; not a couple minutes later; not even more than half an hour has passed. Have they not informed him? He went out for a stroll, but he couldn’t have gone this far.

Your pleas were whispers before, asking for him, yet somewhat ignored, as if you never uttered them at all. So when the light contractions turn moderate, threatening to worsen over time, you raise your voice, “Where’s my husband?! Are you being serious? Get him o—”

“Lady Jeon,” Yumi calmly starts; your possibly irritated mind perceives the probably neutral tone as condescending, and as such, your title makes you internally cringe. “We cannot.”

“What?”

“Husbands aren’t allowed at childbirth. But—”

“What?!” you repeat, rage redirected from the pain to the person only trying to help. You’ll feel guilty later, you know. “This is his child, too. He’s a goddamn part of th—”

The blunt curses are unlike you, and your brain understands; they understand, too, because they have seen and appreciated your true nature for the past few days. Maybe that’s why they don’t take your outbursts too personally; or maybe because they have done this before.

And you know, you know that whatever bond you share with Jungkook, you probably can’t breach society’s rules and the things it deems inappropriate. You weren’t aware that he wasn’t allowed in here; the books didn’t teach you that.

But you should’ve known.

“The Lord will be with you the moment this is over,” Sang promises, preparing whatever he needs to. You’re barely looking, only praying to the ceiling. “He won’t miss a moment with his child. Now, listen to what I say.”

You do. You are.

It just gets so hard with time; the pauses between the contractions seem to shorten and then they vanish. The intensity grows, each time a little more than before; and every other minute, you’re sure you’ve reached the peak, but you never have.

Then, everything starts spinning, your skin soaked in sweat and the little one moving inside, your vision blurring… have hours passed already?

You don’t know. You don’t care — you want this to be over.

But the warm liquid between your thighs, the urge to push, along with the midwife’s words and reassurances, indicate that you’re almost there.

And that’s when it happens. Not the end of it all. Not the appearance of whoever you’ve been anticipating for so long.

But the aggressive thump at the door, repeated and rapid. It hurls your heart from your chest into your throat, your breathing a little more arhythmic than before and you nearly cannot imagine who might be provoking chaos so close to the end.

Then again, could it truly be such a surprise?

Because when the door opens a slit, a familiar face peeking, something in you stirs so hard that you nearly jump into a standing position, pain be damned. Adrenaline rushes through you as a hand pushes you back again; you must’ve risen a couple inches, calling a name.

“You can at least tell me how she is,” Jungkook’s shaky voice inquires near the door, louder than he probably intends. His words are filled with anxiety, and you know he cried before. “I deserve to know.”

Sang hesitates; even in such an advanced state, you still hear his composed words, as calm as he’s been taught to be. “She’s been bleeding a little. We are, however, taking care of it.”

“…What is a little?”

“Bleeding is a common occurrence. It’s just…” The man clearly leans in, because you hear him a bit worse now, yet well enough to understand why your thighs feel so oddly wet and warm, and you so weak. “Somewhat more than it should be. But she’s nearly done, so it’ll be—”

“No,” Jungkook resists, “this is unspeakably stupid.”

Not the man speaking to him, and not anything about what you’re going through, what so many women a day must be going through.

But the distance — you know. And when you move your head towards the open door, meeting his eyes at just the right moment, almost hidden behind Sang’s figure, they widen. Once again, you know why.

Because he’s snapped.

“Jungkook—” you murmur, and it’s enough.

With a combination of impatient aggression and respectful care for the physician, he pushes past the arm blocking the entry to his own bedroom. Someone in the room catches onto Jungkook’s sleeve, but he shakes it off without ever averting his gaze from you.

Yumi follows her responsibilities without a moment of hesitation, nearly leaning over your body as she warns somewhat shyly even, “You are not allowed to be here, I apologise, but…”

But her message is sharply cut in the air before it even reaches Jungkook, because he finally breaks eye contact with you, instead redirecting the flaming pupils towards her.

You don’t see much else than the bottom of his jaw, but you’ve seen the stare before.

When he manages a business that irritates him. When he gets into a rare but bad argument with you. You saw it when he met his teasing friends again, way after your engagement, ready to mock you. And when he faced the idiocy his uncle committed.

Intimidated, Yumi leans back, nodding just once, probably accepting that should whatever myth about childbirth come to life, it’d be your problem. But Jungkook has always been careful; doesn’t believe in the warnings of infections and other unspeakable things that apparently occur when the husband joins the birthing process.

“You are almost ready to push. Just a bit more,” she informs you instead, taking her place at the end of the bed, taking a glimpse under the blanket over your legs.

You feel it, too. Your body is telling you to.

“This is so stupid,” Jungkook repeats, taking a seat on the chair shoved behind him. His hands seek out yours, clutching it immediately. “Hours of waiting and hoping you’re alright? Incredibly dumb, isn’t it?”

“I know,” you say, faintly nodding, only noticing how much you’re crying when he wipes away a stray tear, “I told them. It’s taking so long, Jungkook…”

“Yes, I figured it might, but… but,” he starts, waterline shimmering, bangs already damp — where did he run from to you? “It will be over and so worth it.”

“Read it in… a book?” He nods, and you chuckle as much as possible. “You’ve been reading so much.”

“More than ever! I have never read so many books before, you know?” He sniffles. “And still nothing prepared me. Do you know what happened, darling?”

He’s fighting tears until he can’t. A single one rolls down his cheek and over his mouth, his smile remaining intact, even if somewhat damaged by the profuse emotions. His lower lip trembles like yours.

You’re in no mindset to answer, but his voice, his words, his touch soothe your heart. Lessen the pain, even though in reality and in theory, they don’t.

How does any woman do this without her beloved?

“Two hours in, and I fainted.”

Immediately, your eyes shoot open, your fingers squeezing his, but before you can utter your worries, he shakes his head and continues, “They kept me in there and guarded me like a child. I was scheming how to escape… climbing out the window.”

He smiles when you laugh again, sniffling again, and concludes, “Then they told me they had heard you were struggling and that you were screaming more often. And the room was so hot, as well — it is winter, for Heaven’s sake! And I just…”

Shaking his head, he emphasises the embarrassment of the moment, aware that you cannot talk much, but guiding you through it nevertheless. Speaking his mouth wound, “You’re the one doing this. I did nothing.”

“You did,” you manage, “it is not the same, but you were there.”

“I was there. But you’re doing this, yet I fainted. I would’ve been with you so much earli—”

His soft conversation is soon interrupted when you scream again, your chin quivering, head thrown back when another excruciating contraction catapults you almost into unconsciousness.

Somebody wipes the sweat off your hot forehead for the millionth time, and finally, finally, you feel something happening.

But Jungkook can’t contain his concerns, an observer who can’t feel any of this, only seeing the love of his life sobbing, yelling, squeezing her eyes shut until they hurt. You hear him ask, “What?”

“Just… blood,” Yumi’s voice answers at the same moment as another pair of hands start massaging your stomach for whatever reason, “just…”

“Is that bad?” Jungkook wants to know, out of breath.

“It’s not great, but it won’t be fatal.”

“What? Is she…” He stops for a second, and you see him looking at you through half-lidded eyes, then back at the headless body, covered by the blanket, “God. Then do something!”

You rub a thumb over the back of his hand, fully breathless, already feeling veins pop as you push. And once more. Then say, “It’s alright. It…it will be alright.”

“I should be telling you that! Is that why they mock men? Huh?” He looks back and forth, and you want to laugh, barely managing to listen as you focus on the pushes. You hear his words faintly, but they help. “I am guessing you are feeling it quite a bit as opposed to me, yes?”

You’re crying harder when you shut your eyes again, back arching, yelling out sarcastic words, “No! N–not feeling a thing!”

Your upper body is killing you. The pressure is unbearable, the sensation burning. Through it all, as you near the finishing line, wishing to skip these minutes, he keeps encouraging, “This is so amazing. Just a little more. Almost… almost do—”

The last word is swallowed, quiet, barely spoken. Maybe because his voice is breaking, too. But maybe, because it’s interrupted by another, much shriller cry of change. Entering a world so new is surely scary.

Somebody knows it even better than you, because the first ever sounds of the baby once it finally emerges heal and break your heart. How can that be? You haven’t even touched it yet.

Then, how are you already caught by such an… odd feeling? Floating somewhere between reality and a dream, not quite realising that you’re actually hearing the crying. Isn’t a child just what you were a while ago, too?

You remember the moment you first met Jungkook so vividly. In the rain, attempting to soothe his sorrows, trying to figure out what misery had ambushed the disconsolate boy.

You were a child back then, too. That wasn’t long ago, was it? Are you really married to the same being now, sharing your all with yet another existence that is yelling away in this very room?

Overwhelmed by someone you only felt and cherished through your own skin, without ever touching, without ever speaking to it? 

“Is it… a girl or a boy?” you want to know.

Jungkook takes a stand, leaving your hand for just a moment, but Yumi and the rest are busy tending to the bloody and fresh child. Wrapping it in a blanket. Holding it carefully. Cutting off the umbilical cord — a relatively young term Jungkook told you about.

“It’s… a girl, Lady Jeon.”

A girl.

Oh God. The father’s beauty. The mother’s wit. A lion-heart and a strong-willed mind. If the two of you are combined, that’s what comes out, doesn’t it?

And all of her, all of what she is is yours. And you’re hers.

Jungkook doesn’t get to inch too close to his flesh and blood, because Yumi turns away; you’re too tired to be angry, albeit a little relieved when she lets you know extra gently, “We’ll just clean her up and get her back to you immediately. You can hold her then.”

You let your arms sink, and Jungkook comes rushing back to you. Instead of grabbing your hand again, he places a palm to your forehead, wiping at it, moving back the hair. The calming gesture helps you wind down, even though you’re nowhere close to being yourself again.

The aftermath of the pain remains, but you’re eternally grateful for the end of the contractions. For the ceasing of your screams. For the temperature coming down, your breathing calming just gradually.

And for—

“Thank you, my love,” you mutter absent-mindedly, noticing when his movements slow down. You’re so dizzy. “For being with me through all this nevertheless. I do not know how they expected me to do it without you.”

“Well… they did not know I read all those books. I mean, you heard it. I’m more or less a certified royal midwife now.”

You can’t help but let out an unexpected snicker, still too exhausted to open both eyes. You crack one of them a split apart, teasing, “My midwife fainted.”

“We have bad days, too. No?”

You hear the actual midwife’s voice jest something in agreement, widening your smile, and state, “Then. In that case, you need to redeem yourself, yes? How— about a crown for our baby?”

When you look at him properly, you see new tears emerge. He’s trying his best not to cry — but with you so close, alive and courageous, and a child weeping away a couple feet from your bed… how could he hold back?

“Well, I was thinking of a nightdress with a tiny crown print. A real crown might be a bit much, don’t you think?”

The counter-jest is already forming on your tongue, something about toys and humility and joy combined into some type of coherent sentence. But as Yumi turns towards you, holding the vulnerable, now calmer baby in her arms so carefully, you lose track of your thoughts.

Even from afar, you hear the tiny sounds. Noises of comfort, remainders of the crying. You see a miniscule hand with petite fingers curling and uncurling before they disappear close to her face, hidden behind the blanket.

You can’t see much more from down here on the bed, sinking into the mattress. You attempt to get up a little, but you still feel faint, taking it step by step until someone from the staff rushes to your side. Helps you sit up.

In that time, Jungkook has already taken upon the offer to hold her first, his stance unbearably and sweetly cautious. As if he’s holding freshly crafted glass. No… much more careful than that.

He draws a breath in, and you see the furrowed eyebrows. The shine in his eyes. How he looks at her with utter, pure, unfiltered, raw affection until he can’t bear it anymore. Averts his gaze for just a second to blink the tears out of his eyes, trying not to let them fall on her face.

His lips remain parted, focusing on breathing, cradling her. You see the knotted ball of a dozen emotions in his stare, each string made of a different sentiment.

Like a fierce protective instinct, surging through him as it does through you. Awe and wonder, marvelling at her delicate features. And a smile, a little laugh, an obvious sign of endless elation. Speechlessness.

Without words, he says—

I’ll keep you safe.

You’re so perfect.

I would die for you.

All summarised in a quiet, “I can’t believe it.”

He’s close to you, and you reach out to him, touching his knee softly with a palm, rubbing until he looks at you. Shooting a curious look, he shakes his head, barely any reason behind, before he says, “She’s curled up. Touching her face.”

“Is she… looking at you?”

“Barely opening her eyes. Just a slit, and… it’s all dark pupils and nothing else, you know? But…” His next breath is shaky, his upper body trembling; the baby with him. You wait patiently, expecting anything but what he says next. “She’s even prettier than you.”

“Shut up,” you immediately blurt, laughter mixed with relief. It’s hard to speak; there’s a clump in your throat. “Yet… it’s so easy to believe you.”

“See?”

He leans in, moving naturally, gracefully, and you widen your arms, ready to welcome her in the first embrace, and once she settles and you get comfortable and lean back again, you realise—

He’s so right.

The slight crack she opened her eyes to. And the small tongue darting out every now and then. A hand on her face, arms close to her body, as if guarding herself. No weight on your arms at all; cheeks that remind you of some fluffy pastry.

You don’t know her yet, but you already know her name. You haven’t spoken to her, but you’ve already internalised the shrill voice. And the face is new to you, but you do already treasure it.

Does she feel the same? It’s crazy… This is crazy.

In theory, you know most newborn babies look similar. You know they sound the same and act the same. You’re aware that they need to be cleaned thoroughly, and that they need to grow into more than this little bundle in your arms.

But, perhaps as a mother, you can’t deny how gorgeous she is.

You already know — already pronounce her the diamond of every season and every year to come.

They say that love opens your eyes to new colours. Unlocks a path to brighter sunrises and clearer nights. They say in every second of loving somebody another star is hung into the sky, shedding more light onto the world.

There’s utter truth to these fairytales and supper anecdotes; but they never quite mention how draining a life as a mother can be, too.

That it’d be torture to your once bright mind; that you’d wake up in pain and beg for sleep and never quite receive it. That you’d realise how mean your mind could be to you after experiencing such heart-shattering worship the moment you saw her first.

The nights are difficult, but Jungkook exerts an effort equal to yours. You’re grateful when he takes a few days off as needed. Constantly shows his appreciation for your hard work and refuses to let you do this alone.

And you both agreed. You want the nanny to interfere as little as possible; want to keep the child’s attention glued to you for the most part, but with a balance that allows her to never shy away from other people, either.

Like, when your and Jungkook’s family visited a while ago; not once did you feel like she couldn’t handle a moment without you. Was switched from one hold to another, moving towards whoever was ready to provide affection.

She’s a social butterfly. Doesn’t fear strangers. But you still help her familiarise herself with you, independent from a nanny who’d enable more of your time to yourself, but less time with your baby.

And neither you nor Jungkook urges for that distance.

It’s never easy.

You’ve cried more often than your fingers can count, on your last legs as you wept into Jungkook’s clothes. Feeling a palm wiping at your tears a dozen times. Motherhood always sounded so gorgeous, but it hurts, too.

Then again…

See, then again, it’s easy to circle back to the metaphor of the sun and the stars, the fresh start to your life that cannot be replaced by any other experience. A million little moments that wrap you into your own bubble. The three of you and nobody else.

They render each of those troubles worthless; you cherish them with an unspeakable vigour, aiding yourself as your exhaustion fades once faced with warm, sunlit afternoons as today’s.

Jungkook offered to watch over her as you wallowed in the breeze and the walk you desired for so long. It’s been too long since you enjoyed the miles outside; steep hills and green fields, accompanied by the sound of birds you yet need to study.

Then down to the village, then another stroll back up again. You sought out tranquil moments, escaping your chores. But when you come back, nothing compares to the sight that meets you.

Damn all these walks.

Because only a fool could resist such an image of your husband lying on your bed, on his back and with his legs crossed, head facing sideways and away from the window. Away from the descending sun. Suhana sprawled right on his upper body. Cheek above his heartbeat, her fingers on Jungkook’s sharp jaw.

A pocket-sized hand holding him close to her.

His proportionally large palms rest on her back and under her little butt, both of them dozing peacefully. She moves with him as his chest rises, but she looks so undeniably at peace — as if there’s no better heaven. And mouth open, like no thunder could wake her.

Suhana’s bangs have grown longer now, hair covering some of the nape of her neck and her forehead. Her lips are rosy; the same shape as his. Even if reluctantly, you have to admit that she looks a lot like him.

You act offended when people remind you of that. Because you vehemently claim you want to see more of yourself in her, and Jungkook always calms you with the forecast that she’ll grow up to be as beautiful as you.

Something he thoroughly fears, however, judging the world’s intentions.

But you must also confess that seeing two pieces of the same gentle soul makes you feel lucky.

You drape your shawl over the chair at the large, wooden desk and step closer to the royal bed. Rest your legs from the excessive walk, laying down right beside him — facing him directly.

Gently, you reach out and graze the apple of his cheek; soon repeating the action with his miniature version before you tuck your hand under your temple. Then, you wait.

She doesn’t stir — as expected. But the tickling touch you left along his face elicits a sigh out of him before he lets out a small sound. Voices something like a harmless groan, along with a quiet smack of his lips that reveals the tiny dimples at the corners of his mouth, and a barely-there crease between his eyebrows.

His hand slides over her mini-body as a protective reaction, an immediate reflex. His eyes flutter open so slowly, just a slit; and when they do, you’re not the first thing he sees. Because they drift straight to her, ensuring that she’s still right where he left her and alright.

And only once he’s gathered that she’s still asleep, he blinks into your direction. They also say that priorities change with a child, no matter the amount of love for the partner; and you can’t blame anybody for this.

He smiles when he realises your presence, only lightly nudging you with his elbow. You move closer as he deduces, “You’re back. Was it…” Loving yawn. “Was it long enough for us to fall asleep?”

“It seems so. What were you two doing?”

“Talking.” Of course. Not an absurd answer by now at all. You nod. “She was explaining to me the existence of the pillow and the sun. Pointing at them. I was listening.”

Jungkook doesn’t ever describe her curiosity as exploration. To him, she’s talking, conversing. Your heart swells as you ask, “Ohhh, yes? What else?”

“I made her toy talk and she liked it, I reckon. Giggled so much that she fell off my lap once.”

The fantasy of the moment makes you break into laughter; you have a handful of questions. Did she get hurt? Did she keep laughing as she fell? Was she out of breath as much as you are when you observe her shenanigans?

You quiet down when she moves, fingers curling in. Shushing yourself and grimacing, you shift your attention back to your husband, taking in his freshly awoken expression before you state, “Your eyes are so swollen, though. And your face is dry.”

As if liquid dried on it.

Attentive assumption, because Jungkook instantly discloses, “Uh… I might’ve cried a bit.”

Oh? Oh no. Not him, too—

You wonder, “Why did you cry, my love?”

“Because she was crying…”

“What? Why?”

“Mmmh…. She’s always touching her face, you know?” You do know. You keep her from squishing her cheeks all the time. “I think she poked her eyes at some point and I mean… it didn’t hurt her at all.” Of course not; you make sure to keep her nails trimmed. “But it was a new sensation for her and her baby brain must’ve thought it hurt. So she started crying.”

“Oh no… and then you cried, as well, huh?”

You reach out to him, clearing his right eye and temple as you swipe away the strands of hair. By now, your language and manner of talking are mixing; you feel the same protective instinct towards both.

He sighs before he continues, “The parenting books said not to. I was supposed to stay calm, so she doesn’t interpret the situation as worse than it was. But I hate seeing her sad. So stupid.”

The position doesn’t allow him to shake his head properly, so he settles with a slow blink of his eyes. Then, he says, “But that made her stop. Look how hard she’s sleeping now. So deceiving!”

“Oh, baby…”

You don’t know what it is; maybe the permanent, lingering, overwhelming fact that this dream is actually your reality. That the three of you are alive and together and undoubtedly part of each other.

Whatever it is, it looks as though he is about to cry again.

“She is so feisty. Reminds me of you,” he whispers. “Right?”

He’s not talking to you, but to her — because she’s opened her eyes and he noticed before you even saw it.

Upon hearing his voice, she moves. Tiny fists stretch out, and she starts kicking slowly against Jungkook’s stomach. Her body winds restlessly, put off by his reaction just for a second when she hits against his body again and he utters, “Owwwh!”

And then, shamelessly, she yawns. 

Coos and gurgles, croaks and caws. The sounds are small and high-pitched, sweet and tender. Curious wonder rests in her eyes as they crack open entirely, adjusting to her surroundings and you suddenly being here when you weren’t before. Not that she remembers.

And…

God, your heart jumps out of your chest, bloody and beating.

Because the very moment she sees you, she smiles in joy. She so often does. Sometimes, as you walk over to her crib at night, shining the candlelight into the space between you, she smiles with barely open eyes, too.

She squeals a little, reaching out for you, and you bring her fingers to your face for a fleeting moment before she retracts them again with a tired giggle. But when she registers her father’s breath, his voice sounding against her ear, she stops again.

Cuddling back in. Right where she wants to be.

No matter how much she loves you, she will never feel the same towards anybody in this world as she does for him. 

He settles his hands on her more firmly, and then sits up with an encouraging, “Aaaand, here we go. Let’s take a look at you.”

He stares at her as he holds her in front of him, and she laughs again, seemingly amused by floating, held by two strong hands. Meaty legs kick in the air until he seats her down between the two of you with a shielding hand on her back.

She can’t fully sit on her own yet, but she always tries. Doesn’t wiggle too much anymore, though. Hits the mattress with her palms playfully.

“I swear… I will die for her,” Jungkook proclaims, moving until he meets her eyes. She looks up in a sudden movement, snickering again when he tickles her a little. Then, he repeats through gritted teeth, “Do you know, hm? I will die for you, I will!”

Before you know it — probably even before she, with her limited attention span, knows it — she’s back at playing. Then, another shift to you; a touch to your cheek. Leaning in, almost falling onto you when you scrunch your nose and kiss the air, communicating with her silently.

As her body attacks your face, an open, amused mouth drooling onto your cheek, you protest. Sitting up, you help her into your lap, and she has the audacity to yawn again.

With a shake of your head, you declare, “Sometimes you act spoiled, alright. Haven’t acted up yet, but I think we should probably feed you now, shouldn’t we?”

“Probably before she starts crying again,” Jungkook agrees.

“Can’t have that. Or you will, as well.”

“Ha-ha. But you know what, I might as well. It was insane.” He tuts, cocking an eyebrow as you prepare to bare your chest. “But if that’s what being with this tiny little thing means, I’ll take it,” leaning in, he returns to his talk with her, “alright? Listen up.”

Somehow, she does. No matter what he says, he manages to flood happiness through her, because she coos again, inhales sharply as she perks up her ears, “I’m serious. I’ll die for you, but only if you do not grow up. Stay like this, yes?”

“Stop it. I need her to grow into a woman like me and save the world.”

“Is that right? She can’t even say Dada yet. Give her some time.”

“Or Mama.”

“Yes. But you know as well as I do what word she’ll start out with.”

Standard banter between parents, you assume. You wouldn’t want it any other way. You prepare for a counter-tease, but then you fare better. “Of course. Something distinguished and eloquent like crown princess, probably.”

Jungkook blows a raspberry, and when tiny Hana mimics the action, spitting in the process, he roars with laughter. His usual child-like, sugary sweet titter, head thrown back and a hand under his chest.

This right here.

This is worth the pain, you think. Despite the hurdles, you think you’ve settled in this job, understood its responsibilities and set goals that will probably enable the life you desire.

Nothing can break this. Right?

As if diving into your thoughts or seeing them floating at the surface of your eyes, Jungkook reaches out, placing a warm palm on your neck. You look into his eyes, half his face dark as he covers the sun falling in from behind him.

If she wasn’t still on your lap, you’d jump into his, cuddle in and stay like this until the hot ball outside sets and rises again. But instead, you keep staring until he says, “We’re doing well. Really, really well.”

You are.

You have made yourself at home with the most tender of men, have gained luxuries and a noble style of living, still sporting a kind and generous heart. Yet, you’ve never been prouder of yourself.

“We are. And you are! See?” you agree cheerfully, touching his knee briefly. “You were so worried. And now— I’m losing her to you. God, just look at this—”

Her eyes must have followed your hand when it caressed his knee a moment ago. Because she crawls out of your lap, squeaking in joy as she targets his. Climbing it until he helps her up and settles in the way you wished to do just a minute ago.

“Mmmh. I guess I’m great at this, yes,” Jungkook concurs, “seems that bad traits aren’t learned after all, hm?”

The environment might be crucial in many cases, but if one inhabits a strong heart and a solid will, nothing can sway you.

Your chest feels as warm as the weather; your mind is as fresh as the breeze. And staring at his set of cheeks as flushed as the roses planted outside, you can��t help but be flooded with inexplicable magic.

You tell him, “You got into this role very easily. And I’m happy you’re happy.”

And he, the effortlessly fitting, second part of your soul, answers without a moment of hesitation and doubt—

“You make it easy to be.”

The bright, opulent room you enter floods back bittersweet memories in soaring waves.

It has been a while since you attended a noble ball like this. They’re cosier where you live. Smaller, the names less known; differing rigorously from events in the main city, in the capital, in the centre of your country.

Your seethingly beloved lorddom where you now reside has a humble and warm note to it; but no matter how thoroughly you might seek quiet peace, it will never bring the same nostalgia your former home does. Where you grew up.

Where you come from. And where Jungkook comes from. That one connection, indicating where the two of you started; your family; the crowds. This is all your life, playing out right in front of you.

As two of the most noted royals entering the hall, all eyes flicker to the two of you. Their gazes are brilliant and their attire posh. His brother, the host of the night, invited the best of the town; or rather, his wife did.

It’s wedding season again, which means that courting and heartache, confusion and intrigue will come back in all the glory you remember. Even now, you see a sliver of all the drama already.

Because no matter where you look, somebody is whispering. Somebody is eyeing another. Mustering the courage to dance with the object of their affection, or hatching a plan how to go down as the most desired of the year.

And from an outsider’s perspective, it’s fun to watch. In hindsight, you wonder if the crowd noticed the tension between Jungkook and you all that time ago; if they tittle-tattled about you, making up rumours or silent bets on what might transpire between you.

They probably did. You don’t recall much of the reactions as much as you do the touches, gazes, the butterflies his existence brought along.

And just as well, you remember the time before — when you’d hide behind your sister as she sought out a partner. Never did you think that the two of you would come out of the season with a beloved like the ones you now cherish.

And never did you think it would be the man who’d stand near those very pillars you’re now passing, a mere boy, keeping his eyes on you, but never saying anything particularly nice or productive.

It was events like these that you attended with him after he posed the question that changed the two of you.

“Let me court you.”

Sleepless nights. Rainy evenings. Swirling on dancefloors, bonding at orphanages, teasing in carriages. Locked rooms, secret conversations, broken hearts. Unexpected secrets and reunions.

Was that your life within a few months?

When people grow bored or notice the indecency of staring, they drift back to their old conversations. Jungkook and you conclude your entry, soon moving to the side. Fearing upcoming talks with people curious about the two of you.

You sigh as you listen to the strings, stress dropping off your shoulders as you say, “I love Hana so much, but… it’s so nice being here with you again.”

“It is,” he agrees, though hesitating, mouth open as if to add something. And then he does, “I do miss her, though.”

You laugh. Of course. “I know you do. I bet she does, too.”

Of course.

She could barely contain herself from babbling constant Dadadadas before you left. And yes, she said it before she learned to pronounce Mama. An insult, considering that you were the one who tended to swollen feet and a weight hanging off your tummy. Building to the moment she’d call for you.

But no! A daddy’s girl through and through. Then again, you are, too.

You do adore her to pieces, as well, but… it’d be a lie if you said you didn’t look forward to a night without a single obligation. Thankfully, the nanny took it upon herself to take care of Suhana tonight, so you are free to roam.

Despite, she’s already two years old now.

She’s been articulating herself clearer these days, so it’s gotten a little — a little! — easier to explain things to her now. She didn’t whine much when you told her you’d be out for a bit, but come back soon.

She must be asleep already anyway. And you hope you can keep your husband’s yearning in bay, too. You understand; it’s hard to leave. Especially as she stood ogling at you before you bid her good night, muttering a teeny tiny, “So pretty,” to you as you presented your gown.

“Mine?” she uttered.

You squinted, puzzled; you spoke her language, but couldn’t decipher this just yet. “…Yours?”

To explain, she nodded, making you understand when she patted her chest with a flat palm. Eyebrows cocking, you voiced, “Ohhhh. Hmmm. Darling, shall we go tomorrow and get you a pretty new dress for the summer?”

She was unspeakably delighted.

“Do you want to dance?” Jungkook asks, a hand already lifting.

For a while, you’d rather watch. It’s custom to dance, but… you’d rather observe the world from a different point of view, see what they used to see. Besides, you don’t enjoy Galop as much, and that’s what the piano is pulling out of the guests right now.

“You want to exhaust yourself already?” you laugh as he shrugs his shoulders. “Hmm. Am I allowed to decline?”

“Well…” he starts, lightly gripping your wrist, thumb touching it sweetly. “Do you have a card that you need to fill?”

“If you were courting me, yes. But I’m already shackled to you, and can’t escape even if I wanted to.”

“Ahhh,” he draws closer, mouth inches from your ears. Acting as if forwarding gossip, but only driving you insane in reality. “So you want to escape?”

“Something’s telling me I should try and see what you’ll do.”

“I mean, go ahead. Not opposed to going full-courti—”

Your laughter overshadows his last syllable, and you push his chest away, careful not to risk a scandal after coming out here after so long. He’s unabashed and would kiss you right here, if you let him.

So you move away, still giggling, and the moment your eyes lift to the guests, you silence. Right there, among the faces, you recognise one in the distance that had long dimmed in your memory.

You haven’t seen him in such a long time. And you didn’t expect it to happen today, either.

The man must have noticed the presence of a direct stare, because he soon looks into your direction at the very same moment. Squints his eyes, the smile adorning his mouth dropping as he spots you and understands who you are. Eyebrows raise. Features always expressive.

You want to grab Jungkook’s arm and flit away, but the man excuses himself from the conversation, idly strolling towards you and not leaving a way to escape anymore.

“Oh shit,” you quietly curse, and Jungkook hears, alarmed instantly.

He widens his doe eyes, so sweet as he looks at you, fingers coming up to pinch your chin as he asks, “What happened? Are you alright?”

“Yes. Certainly, just—”

“Oh… I won’t ask if it’s you because I know it is.”

The smooth greetings are accompanied by a surprised call of your name, and when you look back at the person matching the voice, your expressions move to kindness. You don’t want to appear awkward, and you don’t, but you wonder what Jungkook might be thinking.

Smiling, too, as you observe. But this one’s definitely awkward, the friendly kind that can’t do anything else but wait until the question marks have cleared up for him. Right there in his eyes until you enlighten him.

“It has been ages,” the man in front of you chimes.

“It has been. Years!”

You turn to Jungkook, an introduction sitting on your tongue, but he beats you to it. Still weirdly smiling, as amiable as ever, he asks, “Do you know each other?”

And the man, heart-shaped lips rising back to a smile, apologises immediately, “Ah, yes, yes, yes. My manners. I am Lord Jung. Jung Hoseok.”

He bows, missing the way Jungkook’s mouth parts, eyes blinking nearly unimpressed until— his features become defined all of a sudden, jaw far sharper than usual. Akin to a razor.

He’s not liking this.

“Ah,” Jungkook mutters, returning to the sociable expression that households drill into their children for years. “I am Jeon Jungkook.”

If anybody knew him as well as you do, they’d realise much sooner than later that he’d rather switch the situation with an easier one. But you can’t say any of it yet. You only listen as your past flame says, “You settled so well.”

Of course he knows. You guess after the craze over two years ago, he soon found out what the truth really held. You only reply, “I did.”

“Married life suits you!”

“Thank you, Hoseok! What about you, have you—”

“Oh, actually I—”

He seems much more cheerful about this than you imagined. Then again, what did you think? His life has probably changed now and the sentiments his heart once tended to evaporated. Everyone moves on at some point.

And he sounds genuinely happy for you.

But that’s not how Jungkook seems to perceive it. Because to your chagrin, he interrupts the man facing you, and you immediately hold your breath, already preparing a couple warning words when he starts—

“It is rude of me, but may I perhaps interrupt?” Hoseok silences upon Jungkook’s words, listening attentively, and you ready yourself for more teeth-grinding. “I apologise for being so impudent and straight-forward, but… this is uncomfortable to me because—”

“Jungkook—” you cut, trying to save the situation.

“I know, I just do not wish to let feelings out on anyone who doesn’t deserve it.”

Hmm…

“Uncomfortable?” Hoseok repeats, watching Jungkook’s Adam’s apple move as he swallows. Ponders over the words hanging in the air, and when none of the two of you speak on, Hoseok finally understands. “Oh! Ohhhh…”

He snaps a finger, and you resist the urge to slap your face. You know you’ll laugh about it in a couple hours; in truth, you don’t care if it might get odd for you because in all pure honesty, the situation has the potential to turn into comedy gold.

But Jungkook has an envious fibre; one to occur rarely, but when it does, he doesn’t hide it. To him, you’re the most striking creature to exist; in his opinion, everybody should be in love with you.

Yet, the thought of you with someone who he might consider better than him is unbearable.

For a second, you consider lifting your frock and storming to the entrance, or a room upstairs and to squish Jungkook’s cheeks between your palms. To make crystal clear who your heart thumps for, to bring back the confidence he’s built in the marriage with you.

But you restrain yourself when Hoseok speaks, “I understand. Back then, I actually hoped to see you at some point because I know what you are talking about.”

Jungkook reacts, “You are?”

“I think so. Is it not about the shenanigans people crafted a few years ago?”

Two and a half years now, to be exact.

“Yes, I apologise,” you chime in, “they shouldn’t have spoken about you or your personal feelings. But I thought you knew I had married and—”

“No, I,” he says, flushing, raising a hand in objection, “I— this is what I wanted to explain, so the two of you never find yourselves despising me.”

Oh god.

“The thing is that,” he hesitates. If you didn’t know his heart better, you’d assume he’s teasing you. But he scratches his temple, scrambling for words. “One of my staff came to my mansion with me as we settled there. He lived in this town before as well. Like you and I did.”

He looks to the side as if he could find that friend here, but then soon lets his eyes drift over you and Jungkook again, continuing, “He had heard stories about… what we used to be.”

“Right,” you add.

“He asked me about it. And my best guess is that somebody must have heard and interpreted that I was still yearning for those sentiments. But I wasn’t. I had a secret fiancée for the longest. I never told anyone until the wedding day neared. So…”

It takes a moment. Then another.

You think back to the reactions each of you had two years ago; how it spread throughout the mansion and spawned chaos in your bedroom. In any good or bad way, and yet.

And when realisation finally trickles in, a big of course ghosting through your minds, Jungkook and you both voice a simultaneous, “Oh.”

You should’ve known. Then again, didn’t you? Didn’t both of you doubt the truth behind the rumours, yet believing what a collective of people said? You guess, once more than one person claims a thing, it becomes more plausible.

No matter that it never was.

“Please don’t misunderstand,” Hoseok emphasises, “it’s not how I felt. Certainly not. I just never thought you’d believe it, or,” God, how stupid, “as a happy married woman, care. So I never bothered reaching out. We both have our homes, right?”

His fingers touch almost shyly, another smile flashing to defuse the situation. You’ll definitely laugh about this later. But right now, you only feel heat in your face, desiring to chase your staff throughout the mansion until they tire out.

Damn it.

“We did. We do.” You put an ashamed hand to your stomach. That feels funny. Weird. “I actually have a daughter now.”

Good change to lighten the moment. You shoot Jungkook a look; his cheeks are as flushed as you expected. But Hoseok does well in playing along, latching onto the new topic effortlessly and naturally.

“Oh, you do? I have a son as well. Maybe yours and he could be friends.” You nod as he talks, grateful for his kindness. “Another’s on the way for us, and Soo swears she can feel it’s a girl this time.”

“That’s so lovely, Hoseok,” is all you need to say. You might not feel towards him as you used to. Whatever flame the two of you ignited all that time ago has long been extinguished, but you always wish the best for him. “That is honestly so lovely. I’m happy for you.”

One single nod, smile reaching his eyes. Then, no more beating around the bush, the end of the conversation already overdue when he says, “Enjoy the night. Don’t ever trust anyone but your own eyes and ears, yes?”

“Yes… you as well, Lord Jung.”

And then he walks away. Leaves the two of you in silence.

Lips tight, eyes on the ground, nearly dissociating until you nod. Then you raise your lips. And then laugh. Chuckling with a shaking head and a hand lifting hand. Touching your hot forehead as you say, “I feel stupid.”

“And I feel stupid…” Jungkook finally speaks, his first words after a while.

“Did we really argue about this years ago?”

“Well, before you reprimand me, I need to defend myself and remind you that the argument worked for us that night, not against us. Did Suhana come from it or what?”

“Do the math, Jungkook! I told you about the pregnancy already a day after. Suspected it that night, too.” You giggle again, amused by his dumbfounded expression. “You know what? Maybe I could use that dance now.”

“Ah? Thought the lady would be rejecting me tonight. That would’ve robbed much of my honour.”

“Shut up, you envious fool. Either you’ll come and sway with me or I’ll never let you forget it.”

“You won’t. Either way.”

You don’t respond with much other than another beam and an accepting palm in his. You don’t need to.

In the end, Hoseok didn’t make a difference. Guess you would’ve lived either way, just the way you are, content and in love and eternally blissful to all obstacles. The evil of the word and sorrow fear you, not vice versa.

Because it’s him. It’s you.

And her. The three of you; three pieces of the same heart.

Or perhaps— perhaps it’s you who’s doing the math all wrong.

yoooo!! it took a while, but we're finally back. as summer and vacation near, i will have a lot more time to write again, so sit tight and look forward to more content, like entertainer and cmi (ofc these two, as well). i really really hope you liked it. some parts were written under a bad migraine and exhaustion, but i hope i could still deliver the emotions well.

and love you all!! thank you for still being here with me :') and stay healthy and happy, don't overwork yourself! hopefully this one could serve as a bit of relaxation. if you liked it, don't forget to let me know as always, no matter if you just arrived here or have been here for some time. and like, reblog, comment as well! you knowww how much i cherish all the words ever sent hehe <3

[leossmoonn]

can you please write something with Mike being a hero, maybe saving the reader from something? I feel like he is such a caring, protective person who wants to help others and I would like to see something where he is able to do that - your work is so appreciated and incredible btw!

thank you :D.

a/n- thanks to jess for this idea. i didn’t just want to do a copycat scene of mike and afton. that’s the only idea i had lol. and i feel like this could capture what you wanted you :)

warnings / includes -lowk near death experience lol. reader can be read as gn ! one use of y/n

————

“i’ll see you in thirty, mike.”

mike gives his co-worker a small smile and nod. “yep.”

he exits the employee’s office, stuffing his hands in his pockets in search for his keys and phone. he checks his phone for any texts or calls from max about abby, relieved to see nothing was the matter.

he makes his way out of the mall and to one of the fast food options across the street. he forgot to pack his lunch again. not like he does, anyways. he usually can get by with lots of water and some gum, but today he’s hungrier than usual. he hates to spend money on food for himself, but he knows that if he doesn’t eat, he might pass out. that’s not something he needs happening at work.

“hi, can i have a number three. no drink,” he orders. he pays with cash, taking the table number and sitting down in the corner of the restaurant.

he looks out of the window, trying to think of anything else but the home he has to go to at the end of the day, and the fact that he should get another job. he thinks about what abby might say to him, or what she might not say to him.

he ponders about the day his brother was taken. if only he could go to sleep right now in this mcdonald’s. if only he could travel back in time and see who took his little brother. if only he was able to protect garrett from the monsters that lurk on this earth.

his appetite is shot, but he forces himself to eat something since he paid for it. he saves some fries for abby, putting them in a paper brown bag and folding it hastily. he gives the workers an awkward smile as he leaves, pulling out his phone to check the time. he still has 15 minutes before his break is over. he might as well just go back to work. he doesn’t get paid to be on break, and every cent counts.

he makes his way across the parking lot, pressing the crosswalk button once he gets to the street. he watches as the cars speed by, the wind blowing in his face and providing a calming sensation. a wave of tiredness washes over him and he feels his eyes start to flutter shut. he runs a hand over his face, dragging his skin down in attempt to somehow stimulate him. but, of course, it doesn’t work. mike is in terrible sleep debt and will be for the rest of his life.

he starts to feel impatient as the light is taking too long — for him, at least. in reality, he’s only been standing there for almost two minutes, but it feels like 10. his attention is turned away from the terrible timing of the traffic lights when he hears a loud laugh. he looks to his right, seeing you approach him. you’re on the phone with somebody and talking very loud. the wind seems to carries your voice as you laugh once more, rolling your eyes right after.

as you get closer, mike quickly looks away. he glances at you through his peripheral once you stand next to him.

“yeah, i’m not sure what to get him. i might just get him money. that’s what teenagers what anyways, right? he can just spend it however he wants,” you say.

mike tries not to listen to your conversation, but you’re right next to him. it doesn’t seem like you care, anyways. it’s not like you’re talking about anything incriminating.

“well, i’m about to cross the street and head to the mall. can i send you pictures of things i find and you can tell me if he will like them or not? okay, thanks. yeah, i’ll talk to you later.”

mike turns his head to you slightly, watching as you end the call and slip your phone in your back pocket. you glance at him, giving him a sweet smile. it’s not a polite, awkward smile like mike usually gives someone. it’s genuine, like you’re happy to see mike or something. the corners of your eyes crinkle and the apples of your cheeks raise. mike can’t help but stare for a few seconds too long.

finally, the crosswalk gives them the green light. mike lets you walk first, but as you take a step, a car that’s turning right doesn’t stop. everything happens so fast, you barely have time to process. first you were calmly taking a step, next thing you know you’re heart is racing and you feel like you’re about to shit yourself. your body feels like a sloth and your legs stutter, not sure what to do even though your brain knows you should take a step back. luckily, mike out and grabs your arm, yanking you back onto the side walk. the car has the audacity to honk at you, speeding into the parking lot behind you two.

“oh, my god,” you mutter, a little breathless. you look down at his hand that’s wrapped around your bicep. his grip is firm, but gentle. his hand is warm and you can feel the callouses that live at the base of his fingers.

“sorry,” mike murmurs as he tears his arm away from you.

“don’t be sorry. you saved my life,” you smile gratefully. “it’s… it’s no problem,” he nods.

“ugh, now we have to wait another cycle. i’m sorry,” you groan as you watch the lights on the other side turn green.

“you shouldn’t be sorry, either. that asshole almost killed you because he couldn’t wait a few seconds.”

“yeah,” you sigh. “i wonder why he’s in such a hurry.”

mike looks back to the small strip of restaurants behind him. “must be hungry.”

“mmm, being hungry and driving are not a good mix. trust me, i know,” you joke.

mike laughs softly. you give him another smile. “i’m y/n.”

“i’m mike,” he says. he says your name in his head a couple of times as to commit it to memory.

“so, are you always saving people from angry drivers?” you ask. you internally cringe at your cheap way of trying to keep the conversation going, but mike doesn’t seem to mind or notice.

“only sometimes.” he gives you a playfully grin that makes your heart stutter against your rib cage.

you stay silent for a few moments, looking over him. you feel like you’ve seen him before. he looks so familiar, but you don’t know why. you know you’ve never spoken to him before. you only knew one other mike, which was one of your co-workers. and you know you’d remember this mike if you had even bumped into him. he’s handsome, no doubt. his eyes are dark, like he’s experienced terrible things, but they’re also soft and kind. he doesn’t look welcoming or forthcoming. you can tell he’s quite reserved in the way he stands, his stolen glances, the way his hands rest in his pockets. once he smiles, though, his face lights up and there’s a twinkle in his eyes.

you stare at him for a few more moments. you trace the slender curve of his nose and prominent jawline that could cut butter. it’s when you take another look at his whole face you realize where you know him from.

“do you work at the mall?”

mike eyes widen slightly and you can see his ears redden. “yeah, i do.”

“i knew i recognize you from somewhere!”

his lips twitch up into an almost smile. “how often do you come to the mall?”

“well, i’ve been making very frequent trips since some of my families’ birthdays are coming up soon. they all seem to be born one month after the other. and then, of course, when i come home i realize i forgot to get something.”

“i think i’ve seen you, too.” mike’s eyes flicker down your body and a thrill runs up your spine.

“you work in security, right?” you ask. “i do,” he nods.

“well, you are great at doing your job. you saved my life today.”

“well, technically i’m just supposed to make sure nobody is stealing anything. so, i was just doing what a good samaritan is supposed to do.”

“believe it or not, not everyone would do what you did. especially if we were in a crowd of people. i might have legitimately died, or gotten seriously hurt.”

“i’m glad i was here to help, then.”

mike can’t help but feel a small ounce of pride fill his chest. he’s always been a pretty humble guy, and he knows that him saving you from an asshole of a driver was what he was supposed to do. but he’s spent most of his life feelings helpless and worthless. he can’t hold down a job, he’s doing a terrible job of raising abby — by everyone’s standards, at least — and he just feels like he’s living the same day over and over again. he feels like he’s going nowhere and that he’s stuck permanently, like his feet are cemented to the ground and he will never be able to move.

but being here with you, his day feels a little different. he feels a little lighter and happier, even. he feels like he finally did something good in his life.

“god, finally,” you sigh in relief as the cross walk gives you the go.

you and mike both take a moment to make sure no one is coming. you two share a little laugh before walking across the street.

“it was nice meeting you, mike,” you smile as you head towards the entrance of the mall.

“you, too. i hope you’re able to find a gift,” he says. “so, you were listening to my conversation earlier,” you raise a brow.

his jaw drops a little. “i-i —”

you laugh, “i’m just teasing. i know i’m a loud talker. i hope I’m able to find a gift, too.”

“there’s a gamestop inside near the build-a-bear, if you haven’t looked there yet.”

“i will definitely check it out, thank you. maybe i’ll see you around?” you ask. you hope you don’t sound as hopeful as you feel. mike doesn’t seem to notice, but he seems to feel the same.

“definitely,” he smiles. you give him a little wave as you make your departure from him. he watching your retreating figure. for the first time ever, he is actually looking forward to his security job in hopes of seeing you sometime soon.

————

taglist

@celestbarnes

[dontsh0vethesun]

a storm and a kiss

part three of home for christmas

natasha romanoff x reader

The hallmark movie inspired Christmas story that nobody asked for.

Natasha Romanoff fell out of love with Christmas, but perhaps a certain someone could help her find the festive magic once again.

Coming home to her small hometown from her life in New York City, the children’s author is reunited with the people of her past; some are happier to see her than others.

But, will rekindled relationships inspire the Christmas story she’s struggling to write? Or will she go home empty handed?

awkward silences, fluff, wanda meddling again, still cringey, snowed in trope kinda, mentions of alcohol

wc: 2.1k | part one | part two | part four

“Wow, this town still goes all out for Christmas, huh?” Natasha spoke, attempting to cut through the uncomfortable quiet between you as you walked.

The layer of snow along the ground and the greyish-white clouds above you only added to the winter feel of the town. The lights strung along each and every building were on most of the time, biting through the dark of winter in Ohio and various festive decorations stood on every street corner. The oversized tree in the town square was your favourite, the one in the heart of the town, surrounded by the goings on of the month-long fair that was always busy.

She used to love it here, how the community always came together at this time of year. Everybody was always included and she felt as much a part of it as anybody. It makes you both wonder back on those years before, when the magic of the season lost its touch on the woman when the warmth that sparked within her turned to something cool and dismissive.

“You’d know that if you came back here, rather than having your family schlep to New York instead.”

“I guess so,” she sighed.

“They always talk about you - how you don’t decorate your apartment, how you don’t make Yelena that hot chocolate you always used to bring us all.”

“I get too busy for all this Christmas stuff,” she shrugged, internalising the frown her lips desperately wished to fall into. “I don’t have time for the ‘Christmas cheer’ anymore, I guess.”

“You used to,” you returned, sparing a look at the side of the face. She peered downwards at her feet, her eyebrows knitted into the thoughtful expression they always had done when you knew she was in quiet contemplation. “Natasha Romanoff was never ‘too busy’ for it all.”

“People change,” she mumbled. You saw the clenching of her jaw poke through her skin and you knew there was more to it. Still, whether you sympathised with the redhead’s clearly deep-rooted dislike for this time of year, her dismissal of the conversation left you with a stinging in your belly that even the chill of the air couldn’t compete with. An explanation is all you want, she owes you that much at least.

“Yeah,” you sighed. “They do.”

Even when you reached her car you were still hoping somebody would take over for you. It’s a certainty that Melina and Wanda - and perhaps various other interfering ‘allies’ - had something to do with this. After all, sending two people to a remote cabin over thirty minutes away is a perfectly reasonable ask. Tasking two people, who have a physically observable discontent between them, with fetching unnecessary Christmas tree ornaments is not strange at all.

You’d tried to get out of it, of course, but with Melina’s irresistible way of charming you into doing just about anything, you found yourself caving into her demands rather quickly. ‘It’ll only be a couple of hours’ you repeated in your head over and over.

–

The car journey couldn’t have been much more awkward if you’d tried. It was clear that both of you had words on the tip of your tongues that you fought away by drowning them out with the radio’s music. You wanted to ask her ‘why?’. You wanted to give her a piece of your mind yet, also, tell her how much you think about her. Positive and negative. You wanted to be honest to somebody about the way she plagues your mind at night with ponderings both wholesome and unsavoury, hot and cold, loving and loathsome.

She wanted to say sorry. She wanted to tell you her love for you was still there - it always had been. But times change, things change, and things that once brought her joy had melted away and taken a part of her with them. She wanted to explain why.

So, it was merely two people with words aching to be set free, sitting in a silence that felt less dangerous. You climbed out of the car as soon as the hum of the engine slowed.

The house brought back memories of all those times before; the wooden roof clothed in snow, a frosted cobweb weaved against the window in the centre of the old front door. The crack in the porch decking, just to the left of the doorstep, was still there and you both smiled to yourselves at the sight. You remember the time that Kate tried to keep up with Carol, carrying the same amount of logs into the house for the fire. She smirked with hubris and you all laughed when she stumbled, dropping it all with a snap beneath their weight. You all decided to use the gaudy gnome Alexei had bought, much to Melina’s distaste, to hide it for as long as possible. It worked until it didn’t, and you all still feign oblivious to the damage.

“Alright, I’ll look down here, you look upstairs?” Natasha asked once you’d walked in.

“Sounds like a plan.”

You made your way upstairs, eyeing the dent in the papered wall where Wanda had playfully pushed you one tipsy evening. She’d been teasing you about the way you’d apparently been ogling Natasha and she only retaliated to the shove you’d given her, chuckling when you almost fell down the staircase.

There were still photos hung in frames along the walls when you reached the top, memories of your group of friends cemented into shots. Smiling faces framed with wood, the glass shielding them gathering dust. You wiped one clean with your sleeve just to be met with Natasha’s smile, her arm draped over your shoulder whilst you grinned all the same. The rosy hue to the apples of her cheeks only served as a reminder of what made her so easy to love.

The drawers you searched through turned up nothing, and the cupboards were just as unsuccessful. Apart from the trips down memory lane, you found nothing, and you only sighed as you descended the stairs once more. It was becoming more clear why you were sent on this excursion - the decorations didn’t exist. You suppose you should have figured it out sooner.

“Anything?”

“No,” you shook your head. “We should probably get on the road - it’s already getting dark.”

“The snow’s pretty bad, I think we’re gonna have to wait it out.”

“Okay, I’m just gonna call Wanda to let her know I’ll be late back.”

You stepped out into the kitchen and grumbled at the obvious smile in her mischievously toned voice when she picked up.

“I hate you,” you groaned.

“How’s it going? You found the ornaments?”

“Wanda,” you sighed. “We all know they don’t exist. You and Melina must despise me, I’m sure of it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she returned, clearly holding back a laugh at your annoyance.

“This isn’t gonna change anything, Wands. My life isn’t some fairytale you can turn into some true love thing.”

“Nobody said anything about ‘true love’,” she answered. “Apart from you.”

“Oh my God-”

“No, you’ve said it now. It’s been spoken into the universe. I can still see it between you, y’know? It’s a bit much if you ask me,” she teased.

“Well, I didn’t ask you,” you mumbled.

“You’re not denying anything, though,” Wanda spoke, her tone softening just as it does when she wants you to know she’s being earnest. “You know I’ve always been on your side with all of this - I am always on your side. So you have to trust me when I tell you that you need to trust your heart with this.”

“I loved her, Wanda. I did. But, things change. It’s a lot to make sense of.”

“Then take your time - I’ll be here. But I can see it in both of you. Sure, things change - people change - but maybe, sometimes, that’s the best thing that can happen.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Yes. You will,” she returned. “And we’ll talk about it later. One more thing, there’s a storm coming tonight so I think you might have to stay there,” Wanda hurried out, clearly hoping to hang up before you could say anything else.

“Oh my God, Wanda.”

“Sorry,” she laughed - clearly not meaning it - before ending the call as quickly as possible.

Natasha was sitting on the sofa when you walked back out, holding up a bottle of vodka she’d found with a smile and gesturing to the space beside her for you to take a seat.

“My mom texted me,” she spoke. “We’re gonna have to wait the storm out here tonight. We should be able to head out first thing in the morning.”

“I’m gonna need a drink then.”

–

You didn’t speak much at first but the uncomfortable silences between you had become such a regular thing that it hardly felt unusual. Natasha had found two shot glasses and filled them rather liberally as the evening drew in, you winced less and less at the sting of liquor in your throat. It seemed the alcohol wore away that tall wall of glass between the pair of you because, as time passed, scatters of conversation turned into recalls of childhood memories. And then you felt comfortable asking her what your mind had begged you to.

“Why’d you leave, Nat?”

“I had to,” she shrugged, taking a sip that emptied her glass. “I got into college, moved to New York.”

“You know what I mean, Natalia,” you breathed. You were leaning close enough to her to see the twitch at the corner of her lips at the use of the name only you are allowed to use. “Why’d you leave me?”

“I didn’t mean for it to all happen like that,” she sighed. “Things changed. The way I wanted things to go didn’t seem possible anymore so I left it all behind.”

“You left me behind, too.”

“I didn’t mean to, sweetheart,” she spoke the pet name for the first time in years and it tasted just as sweet on her tongue, you felt it wash over you like the stroke of a tender hand. “Anyway, I’m here now and we’re having a good night. Reminds me of old times.”

“We had fun, didn’t we?” you smiled, letting your shoulder rest against hers as though the space between you had never been there.

“We did.” Her grin was contagious, it always has been. She let her hand rest on your leg as though it was the most normal thing in the world and you accepted it because you agreed. “Do you remember that time, just like tonight, when we just sat and talked for hours? The others were all asleep-”

“We could hear Yelena’s snoring from down here,” you laughed and Natasha chuckled at the memory, you felt the laugh move her body from where you leaned against her.

“And it was like we were the only people who existed.”

Neither of you mentioned the way you desperately wanted to kiss the other that night - nor the other nights you’d felt the same. But, right now, as though making up for missed opportunities, she cupped her hand around your cheek and swiped a musing thumb against your bottom lip. The skin left your lips tingling and wanting more, you felt a shiver run through your spine as her face drew nearer.

The gap between you vanished with a slow touch of her lips to yours, the bitter taste of vodka lingering on the tongue that pushed past your teeth. It was all you’d wanted since you were young and, at first, it left you dizzied with nothing else on your mind apart from the woman who held your waist.

But, as the saying goes, good things must come to an end. When the haze of Natasha Romanoff’s mouth dancing with yours had settled, you thought back to the unresolved issue you held with her. You still don’t know why she left you, you still don’t know why all of your calls wouldn’t even ring out on her mobile. You don’t know if this is just a drunken thing she’d forget about by morning.

You pulled away as though her kiss had left you burnt and her flushed cheeks stared back at you.

“I can’t do this right now,” you stumbled out. “I still don’t understand what’s happened between us but I can’t just move past it all so quickly.”

“I’m-”

“No, it’s fine,” you sighed, pushing a hand through your hair in an attempt to unravel your mind just the slightest inch. “I’m gonna sleep upstairs. I’ll see you in the morning.”

If you’d found the drive to the cabin uncomfortable, the car ride back home was incomparable.

[treedaddymcpuffpuff]

Excessive Force : Tom Ludlow x Fem Nurse Reader (COLLAB W/ THE INCREDIBLE @johnwickb1tsch) - Chapter Map Twenty-Three

TW: noncon, shithead doctors, trauma, graphic medical descriptions

Your next shift at the hospital, you are understandably on edge. You have not seen Julian since the incident in the parking garage, and so much has happened since, you haven’t even had time to think about what you’re going to do.

Besides kick him in the junk again, if he gets handsy.

On your break, you make your way to the ICU. Washington is there, miraculously in stable condition. His wife is sitting with him, holding his hand. 

You give a little knock on the curtained off room walls, and peak your head in. “Hello.” 

She wipes some tears from her cheeks with the heel of her hand and motions you in. “Oh, sorry, any news from the doctor?” 

You pad timidly into the room, unsure of what to do with your body besides stand, awkward and uncomfortable, with your hands clasped in front of you because folding them across your chest would just seem too hostile. “No, I’m actually just here to see how you’re doing? How he’s doing?”

She gives you a hard look. “And who are you?” You don’t take it personally, only because this woman holds herself like someone who’s been through hell and back, and you respect her for staying strong. 

“Sorry. I’m y/n.” 

Her expression changes instantly. Apologetic, astonished, grateful—you think. “Oh my. Oh, I’m sorry. You saved my husband’s life.”

You take a page from Tom’s notebook of laissez-faire hero sayings. “I was just doing my job.” 

“Well, either way, thank you.” She gives you a little nod, then looks back at her husband’s swollen, perse face. “He’s alive because of you and the paramedics and the doctors and I owe you…” fat shiny globes roll down her face as her voice catches on sadness. It’s kind of just instinct—the urge to comfort another woman in distress, to hold the mourning mother or the distraught widow. You wrap her in your arms, and immediately she clings to you and soaks your scrub top with all the pent up agony inside of her. 

“It’s alright,” you say, rubbing her back in what you hope is a comforting touch. 

That’s how Tom finds you, and he’s past knocking at this point apparently. Barging in, as usual, like he owns the place, but you’re becoming more grateful than annoyed with these interruptions.

It’s stupid, to think that everything will be hunky dory between Tom and Washington’s wife. 

Because Linda’s jagged-spear stare immediately freezes the pushy cop in his tracks, and it’s kind of funny for a minute—to see Ludlow get nerfed by a tiny woman—until you realize she wants him tarred and feathered. 

“What you can do,” she spits, pointing her finger at him, “is get out.”

“Linda, please, hear me out.” He’s as soft with her as he is harsh with any man, and it makes your heart pop like a bloody balloon. “I-“

“No,” she tells him, “Get. Out.” 

You know Linda is a distraught wife, and you know she’s in emotional distress, and you know that she has every right to be upset, but you still find yourself looking at the back of her head like she kicked your puppy. Your big, nippy, sad eyed guard puppy…

So, what do you do? Defend Tom like every fight reaction in your body is screaming at you to do? Satiate Linda by saying nothing? Tom decides for you, thank God, and slips out through the curtain. 

“He’s got some nerve.” Linda shakes her head, then grabs back onto her partner's hand with a grip as strong as her confident attitude that you absolutely envy. 

You have thirty minutes, because you’re taking your break today whether hospital numbers suffer or not, and you sit with her for the entirety. Not saying much of anything, at first. Just silent. Because you have a feeling she needs someone right now, and even though you’re probably not the best companion, somebody is better than nobody. At least in situations like these.

Finally, she speaks. “They said it’s touch and go.”

“Oh,” you nod, because what do you say to something like that? What do you say to someone who’s real-time getting their heart crushed under the boot of unfair circumstances and injustice? “I’m so sorry, Linda.”

“He’s not dead yet,” she reminds both you and herself and, probably hoping he can hear her, Terrence, too. “He’s been through worse than this.”

Life. What a weird, fleeting thing. You can go through hell and survive, and then a little thing like a bullet wipes you from the earth just like that. You give Linda your number. “Call me if you need someone.” 

Tom’s not here, anymore… You wish he was.

***

Later in your shift, you receive a page to see Dr. Mercer in his office. Your heart makes a very good attempt at beating out of your chest, but you reason he can’t get up to anything too sinister, here at the hospital. 

Yeah, right. 

As you approach his door you start to sweat, your palms clammy, your face hot. Do not have a panic attack right now. Because it’s that easy, of course. You pause and close your eyes, steady yourself with a hand on the wall. You think of Tom, the way some people clutch rosary beads to gather strength, and only then do you feel properly prepared to tell Dr. Julian Mercer to fuck off, if you have to. 

You knock once before entering, and can’t help but think about him like a proper Bond villain now behind his big desk. All he’s missing is the snow-white ragdoll cat. Somehow, you can’t imagine him having a soft spot for an animal. 

“Close the door,” he tells you, his long fingers steepled before him. 

“I’d rather leave it open.”

“Not when you hear what I have to tell you, you won’t.”

With a long breath out of your nostrils you gird your proverbial loins, and shut the door. You do not stray far from it though; a thing he notices, and seems to find amusing. 

“Truce, y/n. I lost my head earlier. You make me…wild.” 

Naturally, it would be all your fault. 

“What do you want, Julian?” you demand, your patience paper thin. 

“I happened to be in surgery, the night your friend Detective Washington came in. I heard you saved his life.”

“Yeah, but…I don’t actually know him.” 

“But your boyfriend Tom Ludlow does.”

Your mouth opens to protest the label–then as you think on the past twenty-four hours, snaps shut. Things have moved like a bullet train with Tom, yet somehow, at their own perfect pace. Everything about that man just feels right, and as you hear his name in Julian’s poisoned mouth you feel as though someone just walked over your own grave. 

“What about it?”

“What if I told you…I excised a very interesting foreign object from Washington’s shoulder?”

He withdraws a small plastic baggie from his breast pocket, shaking it like a dog treat. From where you stand you can see it's something heavy, and silver colored. It kind of looks like lead. “One of these things is not like the others…” 

“I don’t follow?”

“I had a little visit from a fellow in LAPD’s Internal Affairs after patching Mr. Washington up. Sounds like Tom Ludlow has fallen under some suspicion, found in the place where someone attempted to murder the man possibly blowing the whistle on your boyfriend’s less than honorable conduct…what a debacle.”

The blood in your veins turns to ice. 

“Pretty sure Tom was in the store because of me,” you defend, even as you know your deflated tone belies your doubt. 

“Pretty sure will be a great defense in court at Ludlow’s attempted murder hearing.” He looks at the baggy in his hand again, the way some men will look at a lover. Satisfied. Anticipatory. Fond. Dr. Mercer certainly never looked at you that way. “I’m sure the jury will take that over the hard evidence I have in my hand here.”

“What is in your hand?” you demand, losing patience. You don’t entirely understand what’s going on here. Only that it must be bad. 

“This is the remnants of a .38 slug, of the kind many police officers favor in their throwdown. Do you know what a throwdown is, y/n?”

You press your lips, wanting with every fiber of your being to jump over the desk and strangle this man. 

Too bad he might like it. 

“No.” 

“It’s what cops call their extra gun. A little insurance, in case things get hairy on the street, and they have to get rid of a murder weapon. But Tom Ludlow doesn’t seem like the type who would carry something like that around, does he?”

You happen to know he does. You’d watched him strap it onto his ankle, as the two of you had gotten dressed, right before he drove you to work. 

Fuck. 

“And before you think that all you have to do is tell him to get rid of it, they have him on video in the store firing it.”

Double fuck. 

“What do you want, Julian?” You hate how small, how fragile, your voice sounds in that moment. 

He smiles at you the way the snake must have smiled at Eve. 

“Why, I want you, y/n.”

The tinnitus from your misadventure in the store seems to return with a vengeance, a ringing piercing through your ears. 

“Julian…” 

“I’m going to put this in the safe in my house. If you want it…you’re going to have to come convince me to give it to you. And sweetheart, I’m going to need a lot of convincing.” 

“Fuck you.” It comes out of your mouth before you can swallow the hateful phrase back down, and his smile only grows.

“Please, give me more reason to punish you,” he says, motioning for you to go on, to dig your hole deeper. 

Suddenly, a fond memory comes to mind. One where you smashed a flower pot over your ex’s head after his fist met your face. God, you wish you had a fucking flower pot right now. 

You try to set him on fire with pure willpower and the burning look in your eyes, give him a taste of his own medicine. See how he likes being burned alive. Sadly, he stays flameless. 

“Oh, come on,” he goads, leaning back in the swivel chair, “I’m sure that clever little tongue can come up with something.” 

“When?” You grit.

“Hmmm?” He asks, toying with the baggie in his long fingers. 

“When do you want me…to come and get it?”  

“You’re free next weekend.” It’s not a question. He’s passed niceties. Whatever Julian you get now is the one who wants to see you bloody and bruised. 

“Fine. What—what are you going to do to me?” 

He pops up from the chair, and you yelp, fling yourself back against the door with a hard thud, prepared for him to cross the room and show you what he’s planning. His fucked up grin widens, and he takes something from a drawer behind his desk. 

“Do you know what operant conditioning is?” He asks, coming around to perch himself on the front of his desk top. He has a small, round piece of plastic in his hand.

“No.” 

He presses into the side of his toy and you hear a little click at the same time he lunges forward, bringing himself halfway across the room and making you screech again. “Operant conditioning is voluntary behavior modification via reward and punishment. The voluntary behavior, in this case, is the sass that comes from that mouth of yours. And we’re going to work on changing the ‘fuck you’s’ to the ‘please, Julian’s’.”

“What’s the fidget toy for?” You ask, heart in your throat.

He shrugs. “I just wanted to keep you on your toes.” He clicks it again, and then moves forward, and you flinch back, trying futilely  to press yourself further into the wall. 

On the next click, you don’t need to see him move to cringe and twitch, your whole body aching to run, to move, to sprint far away from this awful man. 

“See?” He says. “You’re a fast learner. You’ll do just fine.”

You’re wrong. Very wrong. Have been this whole time. You’re not a woodland creature, and Julian is not a wolf. You’re a rat in a cage, and he’s the scientist appointed to experiment on you. 

“It could have been different between us,” he has the gall to say, reaching up to caress the curve of your cheek with his finger. You hate the way you flinch and tremble at his touch, but it’s like your joints have fused, refusing to move, refusing to carry you away from this bad man who wants to hurt you. “You’re the one who chose to make it this way.”

You know, you fucking know, in the logical part of your brain that he is gaslighting the shit out of you. But the little scared rabbit part of your brain, the part that is regrettably in charge right now, just nods its trembling head at Julian’s assertion. This is your fault. It could have been nice between you, if you hadn’t ruined everything the first night. He would have taken care of you. 

It’s bullshit, of course. This is the monster that was lurking beneath Julian’s pleasant mask all along. He would have shown you eventually–preferably while you were bound and gagged and couldn’t do anything about it. 

You have got to get out of here. 

You don’t know if it’s your voice, or Julian’s, that spurs you on, that gets you moving, even if just a millimeter at a time. 

“Leaving so soon?” asks Julian with a smirk, clearly amused by the way he terrifies you. He gets off on it, and god how you wish you could just knee him in the balls again. 

As he reaches out to touch you again you warn him, “If I scream your game is up. You want to turn this into a shitshow at work?”

This actually stays his hand. His professional image is important to him. You have to remember that. It might be the only real weapon you have against Julian. Maybe aside from Tom Ludlow–but you have a feeling Tom would do something horrible. Something that would get him into huge trouble, and that was exactly what you were trying to avoid. 

“That won’t stop me from turning over that little bag,” he warns you. 

“Maybe. But you’ll still wish your part in it had remained quiet. So let me the fuck go, until the weekend.” You sound tough, while your knees are positively knocking. 

Dangling the promise of a later playdate seems to appease the hungry monster before you. His chest rises and falls as he takes in a deep breath–smelling you, you realize. Smelling your fear.

“I look forward to it, y/n.” With a cordial wave he gestures towards the door, as though he’s just been a gracious host and you had a pleasant little chat in his office–psychopath. 

You sense that you’re safe for the moment, if only because he wants to savor it. You force your leaden feet to shuffle to the door. 

A sharp click makes you jump sky high with your hand on the door handle. You turn back with wide eyes, to find Julian with a diabolical smirk curving that well-made mouth. 

“Bastard,” you hiss, then flee before he can do anything else to you. 

You know he’ll make you pay for it, later. 

Later, when you have to go to his house to let him do dastardly things to you. 

Later, when you’re going to have to cheat on Tom. 

Somehow, that hurts you worse than anything you imagine Julian doing to you, and you have to duck into the bathroom to throw up, and cry.  

[eitaababe]

SOMEBODY ELSE !

— chapter 5. last night. (pt 1)

! this part is in neteyam's pov.

series masterlist. | previous / next

last night ! written portion below. —

"guys, seriously what do you want? i have to get back to y/n." neteyam asked his teammates, clearly annoyed and trying to spot y/n's figure over the crowd.

"guys, seriously what do you want? i have to get back to y/n." neteyam asked his teammates, clearly annoyed and trying to spot y/n's figure over the crowd.

"don't get your panties all in a twist," one of his teammates, jake, snickered as he led neteyam over to one of the boys trucks. "we just wanted to pop a few drinks, and we have some girls coming by."

"dude seriously i really don't have time to flirt—"

"look man, calm down. ao'nung will probably find y/n as soon as he packs up, and she won't be alone. it's fine if you're a few minutes late, take a drink and stay for a bit."

with the idea of ao'nung and y/n painted into his mind, neteyam hesitantly agreed, taking a can of beer and sitting on the bed of the truck. "five minutes." he sternly replied, and promising that to himself.

"five minutes." his teammates grinned, and soon after more of his teammates came, followed by a group of girls.

"hey guys," another one of neteyam's teammates, harry, smiled cheekily at the group of boys already there, direction everyone's attention to the girls behind him. "this is natalia and violet. girls, this is neteyam, jake...."

neteyam stopped listening to the introductions, really not caring for who was there. he checked his phone, not seeing any notifications from you yet. he took that as a good sign and smiled at the blonde girl who approached him, a red solo cup in hand.

"hey," she started in a sultry voice, already making him uncomfortable. "i'm violet."

neteyam nodded politely back, subconsciously scooting backwards, away from the stranger. "neteyam."

"so, i hear you're on the football team? you're a wide receiver, right?"

huffing in annoyance at the girls inability to take a hint he nodded, trying to reach for his phone to check the time when he realized it wasn't there. eyes widening in panic, neteyam looked around, only to realize it was in his teammates hold.

"jake, give it back."

"calm down, dude. i'm just holding it so you don't go crazy and check your phone every thirty seconds. i'll let you know when it's been ten minutes."

knowing there was no way to change jake's mind neteyam only sat at the edge of the truck bed, humming mindlessly at violet's words. ten minutes went by in a blur but the moment he heard the words he could go neteyam jumped up, grabbing his phone and ready to sprint back to y/n when the girl stopped him.

"why are you going so soon? there's still a party later, i was thinking maybe you'd join us."

"violet, seriously, i have to go—"

his protests were cut short as his phone was taken from him (again) and she giggled obnoxiously at the notifications. "who's y/n? your little girlfriend? she's asking where you are~"

"she's not my girlfriend, she's my friend. and i told her i'd meet her back over at the stadium."

"cmon, just ten more minutes! please?"

"violet! it's not funny, give me back my phone." neteyam suddenly snapped, his tone surprising everyone there. with wide eyes the girl finally gave him back his phone and he mumbled a thank you underneath his breath, running back to find you.

only to see you weren't there anymore.

FUN FACTS !

— violet's had a crush on neteyam for a few months now

— kiri only left because neteyam promised he wouldn't let y/n out of his sight liar

[tswaney17]

It's a Match - Part 1

Happy birthday to the incredible @impossiblescissorspeachpaper!! I hope you have the loveliest of birthdays baby. I'm so blessed to call you one of my close friends. You're such an incredible person. 💕 Enjoy your special day, my love.

This fic is inspired by a conversation between myself, @ultadverb, @offtorivendell, @impossiblescissorspeachpaper, and @duskwhisperer. Thank you all for allowing me to take this idea and run with it. Also, apologies because this is barely edited. I was a hot mess all over this fic and it shows. 😅

My fanfic account: @tswaney17fics​​​

My ao3 account: tswaney17

Please let me know what you think about this update. I love getting your feedback. Constructive criticism is always welcome. 💕

Trigger warnings: language, NSFW

Word Count: 9,759

Read the full fic on AO3 here. Snippet under the cut.

Azriel was lounging on the couch in Cassian’s apartment regretting every decision that led him to this moment. Because just a few minutes ago, he accidentally let slip that he downloaded The Cauldron, a dating app, a month ago and his brother and Mor had not stopped pestering him about it since the words passed through his slightly buzzed lips.

“Come on, Az,” Mor whined, hanging over his shoulder and shooting him those puppy-dog eyes he had trouble resisting. “Open it up. Let’s see who you’re chatting with.”

That’s where the problem lay. Azriel wasn’t chatting with anyone because he never actually swiped right on anybody. It wasn’t that he didn’t find anyone particularly attractive—there were plenty of pretty girls on the app—it was just that he wanted something more than a physical relationship. He was thirty now; had a good career and his own place, made good money, and was freely able to spend it on anything without worrying about paying his bills. His life was in a good spot.

But he never really dated. Yes, he got women and fucked them well, Az wasn’t self-conscious enough to not know he was an attractive man, but those one-night stands just weren’t cutting it for him anymore. He wanted a genuine connection with someone; somebody he could build a relationship with.

Like what Rhys had found in his new girlfriend, Feyre. He’d met her once or twice, but it was obvious his brother was completely in love with the woman. Head over heels kind of in love. He was happy for him, truly. But sometimes, when he listened to his brother speak about the light of his life, he got this envious feeling inside; because he wanted that too.

He supposed that this dating app in general was probably not the best place to find that, but he was at a loss on where to find women that were looking for more than riding dick. Az sighed, running a brutally scarred hand through his dark hair, the strands flopping onto his forehead. “I’m not chatting with anyone,” he admitted, taking another swig of his beer.

Read More

~~~~~

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Some tags seem to not want to link, which could be related to your visibility settings. Sorry about that!

[cal-daisies-and-briars]

Hi Cal ❣️❣️❣️❣️❣️ can you please write

⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️

🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊

🌌🌌🌌🌌🌌

🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨

🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿

🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸

✉️✉️✉️✉️✉️✉️

📚📚📚📚📚📚📚📚📚📚

Please and THANK YOUUUUUUU❣️❣️❣️❣️❣️❣️❣️

Hell yeah I can!

21 for ⚡️:

---

First, butter Buck up so he’s feeling good. Second, act just possessive enough of him - like a dog peeing on a bush - that his parents leave him the fuck alone. Third, meet any of their passive aggressive horseshit with the appropriately petty energy, so Buck doesn’t have to. Eddie thinks it’s brilliant. He could lead a nation.

Part one is very easy. It requires zero exaggeration, because he has genuinely somehow ended up with somebody mouthwateringly gorgeous and generally wonderful. 

“My god,” Eddie whistles as Buck is changing into a pair of slacks and his signature just-too-tight button up. “Why would you decide to wear something that makes me immediately want to undress you?”

Buck smirks, cheeks turning pink. “Not hard to do, considering how much you like undressing me.”

Eddie steps into him and runs a hand along the soft pinkish color of his shirt. 

“Yeah, but it’s like you’re taking it to new extremes,” Eddie says, voice low. “Your arms in this.”

“You have to behave,” Buck swats Eddie’s hand away. He’s acting like he’s on task, but Eddie knows the compliments are working. “Besides, you’re not any better in those pants.”

Eddie looks down at himself. “What’s wrong with my pants?”

“Nothing and that’s the point,” Buck says. “You just can’t see your own ass.”

---

18 for 🌊:

---

“Um,” Chris tries again. “I forgot my Switch.”

“Yep,” Eddie says, voice a few octaves too high. “Why don’t you go get it?”

Buck struggles to put his shirt back on, hands shaking a little. It gets stuck on his head for a minute. 

“Right…” Chris says. “Sorry to interrupt your, uh, making out.”

Shannon chokes on a peel of laughter behind her palm. 

Eddie wants to die.

Chris walks off towards his bedrooms, cheeks pink.

The moment he’s out of earshot, Shannon drops her hand and starts cackling. 

“Okay,” Eddie frowns, unimpressed. “We were supposed to have the house to ourselves.”

“No, no, I know,” Shannon tries to compose herself, wiping honest to god tears from the corners of her eyes. “Just every time I wondered if seeing you with a guy for the first time would be awkward for me, I never thought it would be so much more awkward for you.”

Eddie sighs. “Buck, this is Shannon. My ex. Shannon, Buck, my…”

---

15 for 🌌:

( @steadfastsaturnsrings )

---

Buck rolls his eyes. “Eddie, I’m so pissed off. Like so pissed off. I really… I thought I was going crazy.”

“Right, so I-”

Buck raises a finger.

“Shut up for a second.”

Eddie’s mouth snaps shut.

“I am so pissed off,” Buck says again. “But if I didn’t fucking love you so much, and love what we are, there would be nothing to be mad about. If I didn’t love you, I would’ve just kept on with the way things were. It wasn’t my life you erased, Eddie. It was yours. So how can I help you not do that in a way that can’t be undone?”

Eddie covers his mouth with his hand, feeling his jaw and lower lip begin to shake.

---

21 for 🚨:

---

He always thought it was silly when people, listing phobias, spouted off scenarios that seemed impossible. Like being buried alive. But, right now, Eddie thinks he may have been buried alive. 

Oh fuck. 

Eddie pants, terrified. He is going to die. He is going to fucking die. He’s not even thirty. He’s going to fucking die before he turns thirty, just like Shannon. 

Shannon…

Christopher.

What the hell will happen to Christopher if he dies? Two parents dead in under a year? God. Fuck. His poor baby boy. This will hurt him so badly. 

At least he’ll have Buck. Buck will take care of him. Love him like his own, like he already does. Buck will keep him safe.

---

27 for 🌿:

( @goldenbcnes )

---

“And Maddie respects that, too,” Chim agrees. “Really, she does. I think she’s just stressed about how she’s going to balance everything as Margaret gets sicker.”

Eddie thinks of Shannon, all those years ago, leaving to take care of her dying mother. Obviously this is a completely different situation, but that undercurrent of stress on a dwindling timer is still there. It’s hard enough to do it and balance your own kid and marriage, let alone someone else’s kid, too. Buck can’t quite see that, from his perspective. Then again, his perspective is pretty narrowed by an otherwise completely reasonable fear.

“They need to talk,” Eddie sighs. 

“They really do,” Chim agrees. 

“It won’t go well if he feels like Nico is at risk of feeling the way he felt as a kid,” Eddie warns. 

“I know,” Chim replies. “When Jee was born, I couldn’t imagine her ever feeling tossed aside by me the way I felt by my own dad. The thought makes me feel crazy.” 

“I hear that,” Eddie agrees emphatically. And he does, is the thing. He had tried so hard, with Christopher especially, not to be his parents. Did he make some of the same mistakes? Yes. Of course. Especially when Chris was little, and Shannon was in the picture. But overall, he raised a son who isn’t afraid to talk about his feelings and can come to Eddie and Buck for help without fear of reproach. 

Christopher didn’t grow up feeling so much pressure the core of himself got crushed. Jee-Yun, from what Eddie knows of his niece, knows she is adored beyond measure by both her parents. And Nico, his sweet little boy, is utterly surrounded by people who adore him unconditionally. That’s what matters most. Everything else, they can figure out.

---

15 for 🩸:

---

Does that mean… Buck is here, right now?

Eddie gapes at the house for a moment. He figured, if Buck was alive, he was probably in the hospital. Or resting at home with Maddie caring for him, fussing over him like she had after he was struck by lightning. Why is he here? 

Eddie takes a few steps closer to the front stoop and considers it. Walking up, throwing the door open, begging Buck for his forgiveness and his help. Explaining that he was out of his mind. That he would never choose to hurt him. So, please, help him call his son. Help him get through this. He thinks Buck would probably forgive him, if he understood. It’s not in Buck’s nature to be unforgiving.  But before he can make a decision, Eddie hears the telltale click of the front door unlocking from the inside. Spooked, he ducks behind the Jeep, hiding himself.

---

18 for ✉️:

---

The final postcard is just a plain Los Angeles tourism piece. You could find it anywhere. It’s dated August 16th. The day after the day Christopher told Eddie he was ready to come home. 

Dear Chris,

I heard the news today that you’re coming home soon. So this will be the last postcard I send you. I hope it reaches you before you fly out.

I don’t want to be too sappy or anything and cramp your style, but I am really, really happy to hear you’re coming back to Los Angeles. It’s really not the same without you, kiddo.

One of the reasons I liked the idea of moving out here, all those years ago, was because of just how many people are in the city. It sounded hard to feel lonely with millions of people around you. But that was kind of immature thinking, on my part. Doesn’t matter how many people are nearby if YOUR people are far away.

So I’m glad you’ll be back. Zoo trip soon?

Lots of love and have a safe flight,

Buck

Eddie doesn’t know why he’s crying by the time he finishes reading. His throat is thick with an emotion he can’t easily untangle.

---

30 for 📚:

---

When it kept getting worse, and it was clear something beyond asthma was wrong, Ravi was almost relieved. He remembers that feeling. Like a further explanation would make it something other than an inherent flaw in him. And he supposes that is true. Neuroblastomas are a random mutation, not caused by anything the patient does at all. But a ridiculous thing to be glad about, in hindsight. 

In the end, it took close to four years of treatment before Ravi was done. Three surgeries. Multiple courses of chemotherapy. He was held back a grade, even. 

And as Ravi grew sicker and sicker, then, slowly but steadily, better, Anil hated him more and more. He never understood it. He never understood what he did. They hardly even got to spend time together those days, for Ravi to have done anything at all to Anil. He remembers wishing Anil could understand how tired he was, how much pain he was always in, and cut him a break. But empathy has never been his strong suit. 

Ravi’s mother tried to make him understand. 

“Your brother has always liked being in the center of any room he walks into,” she said one day, when Ravi was eleven. “But your illness has required a lot of attention from your father and I over the past few years.”

“I didn’t want this,” Ravi had complained. “I’m the one who is sick.”

But yet again, that hardly seemed to matter. What was or wasn’t in Ravi’s control was never the point. The point was that Ravi had something Anil craved like a vice. Attention. And no matter how many perfect grades or winning soccer games or remarks from teachers about what a charming, polite young boy he was, Anil couldn’t take it from Ravi. Not until Ravi was healthy again, anyway.

Ravi remembers that the family had a party for him, when he was officially considered in remission. Everyone from both sides of the family came. It was huge.

[embersofhope-if]

Okay i wrote this a while ago bc somebody requested it but now i can't find the ask💔

anyways heres a drabble of the fight Mc and Aurel got into when they were sixteen

tw for fighting, dissociation, strangulation, and theres a needle used at the end but its not explicitly stated

wordcount: 1.9k

The rain pours down onto me as I stand waiting. What I'm waiting for, I'm not entirely sure. All I know is that I need to stand here and wait until whatever is supposed to happen happens. I see the blurred figures of both children and teachers leaving the school to go start their afternoon shifts in the factories. Even if I can’t clearly see their faces, I can feel their glares, anger, and hatred hot on my skin. It’s the only thing I can feel at the moment. It’s honestly about the only thing I’ve been able to feel since the games ended. I can’t bring myself to think too deeply about what happened, or I might start drowning in every emotion imaginable, again.

I can’t let that happen. They’ll put me on so many pills I won’t be able to tell which way is up.

So, I continue to stand, waiting in the rain, having only the heat of glares keeping me warm. A bolt of lightning hits the building across the street, followed by a loud crack of thunder. The jolt of fear suddenly clears my mind of the fog that it’s been trapped in, and I realize why I’m here.

Ash

Every day without fail, Ash and I would meet up here after school. Whether we would just talk for a couple of minutes before their shift at the factory or I was walking them home, we always met up here.

All at once, everything that I haven’t been able to feel hits me so hard I almost fall over. Every feeling forms into a single thought.

I’ve got to get out of here now.

I run, fleeing from the courtyard and everything that’s happened there. That courtyard is nothing but a painful reminder that Ash is gone, and there is nothing I can do to bring them back. With the fog lifted from my brain, I can now fully feel the pain of what's happened. My heart aches as if the games happened just yesterday, and it has left my feet unsteady as I continue to run. I have no idea where I'm running to, probably somewhere equally as painful, but as long as I’m moving away from here, I don’t really care.

I shove past several people, barely hearing their angry shouts of protest, and force my way through a set of doors. I have no idea where I am or where to go. I recognize the room, but my mind refuses to focus enough to remember the name. All I can think about is how much my chest aches and how cold my hands are. My skin feels so cold it's like I’ve never felt the Sun.

I force myself to sit down before I collapse onto the floor, trying not to make any more of a scene than I already have. Exhaustion begins to replace whatever panic is left in my body.

I need to stand up. Make my way home before someone tells Father that I’ve had some type of breakdown. Explain to him that this is nothing like that.

But it is exactly like that, isn’t it? I’m not entirely sure what counts as a breakdown, but sprinting through school grounds shoving anyone out of my way in a blind panic probably counts at least as the start of one. The worry of what Father is going to do when he finds out isn’t enough to motivate my body to move again. I’m so exhausted that all I can bring myself to do is sit here and breathe.

I’m not entirely sure how long I’ve been here, but it’s long enough for me to finally realize where I’m at, the community cafeteria. I’m just thankful I didn’t barge my way into some teacher’s classroom, which means the chances of someone noticing me are significantly lower. I still haven’t been able to bring myself to stand, but I have noticed other people moving about and taking seats. These must be late-day shift workers. That means it's almost seven o’clock, and I’m supposed to be at dinner in thirty minutes. This realization finally manages to get my limbs moving again.

I’ve got to get across the city in the middle of a shift change in less than thirty minutes and then pretend that I’ve spent the last three hours in my room instead of out here trying not to lose my mind. This is going to be near impossible

I quickly stand, trying to come up with something to say to my family whenever I get back home.

Maybe I can say I went on a walk or Hope went missing and I went looking for him. Who am I kidding? Mother wouldn’t believe that for a second, and if she did, Calliope wouldn’t, and she’d have no problem with immediately calling me out on the lie.

No matter what I come up with, every excuse is worse than the last. Ultimately, I decided to just get back as fast as I could and wing it from there.

Once again, I begin shoving my way through groups of people not really caring for the looks they throw my way. I’m stopped whenever a hand grabs my collar and pulls, hard. The motion forces me to turn around, and I come face to face with Aurel Weaver. The anger in their eyes does nothing but confuse me.

I hardly know Aurel. I can’t even remember the last time I spoke to them. What could I have possibly done to make them so angry?

For a minute, we both just stare at each other, waiting for the other to speak. I take the moment to properly look at them. After the games ended, shifts at the factories began to ramp up, and Aurel ended up dropping out of school to keep up with the work they were assigned. I haven’t really seen them since then, but I can tell the work is taking a toll on them, changing them. They look about as exhausted as I feel. Their skin pale, and the bags under their eyes are worse than I've ever seen them before. But the biggest change I can see is in their eyes; beautiful hazel eyes drowning in nothing but fury and hatred, and it's all directed at me. A sharp pang runs through my chest. I may not have been best friends with Aurel, but I still considered them at the very least a friendly acquaintance. I force myself to ignore the hurt and very suddenly realize that I’ve been staring for too long and I can't afford to waste what little time I have to get home. “Sorry Aurel, I didn’t mean to run into you,” I say quickly, going to turn to leave.

I take a step away until I, once again, feel a hand grab me. Only this time, the hand is wrapped around both my collar and the chain hanging around my neck. They’re saying something to me, but all I can focus on is the chain in their hand and the fact that if they pull it’ll snap. I take a breath slightly, turning my head, forcing myself to listen to what they’re saying.

“It’s rude to not answer my questions, you know?” Aurel growls, and I can feel them getting ready to yank me back. Instead of responding, I try to move out of their grip. At the same time, they decide to pull, and I feel the chain snap.

The pendant slides down my shirt, and I watch it fall to the ground. The last precious gift that I will ever get from Ash now lays on the ground broken like it was nothing. I barely feel Aurel's presence anymore. All I can stare at is the pieces.

They grab my shoulder, tired of me apparently ignoring them, and force me to look at them. Suddenly, the nothingness I felt while looking at the broken pendant is replaced with an all-consuming rage at the sight of them standing, acting like I owe them any type of response. I glance around and notice a glass cup sitting on the table next to us.

Without a second of delay, I grab it and smash it against the side of their head. Before they manage to recover any semblance of balance, I lunge at them and knock them to the ground. One. Two. Three. I get three punches in before they get me off them. They pin me down with one hand around my throat and use the other to try and hold my hands down. I can feel their right hand around my throat, squeezing hard while I kick and scratch at them. As my vision starts to fill with black spots, I freeze and begin to realize that Aurel might just be trying to kill me.

I’m going to die on the dirty floor of the community cafeteria, and it’s nobody’s fault but mine. Broken and nothing on the ground, just like the necklace lying next to me.

I feel Aurel's grip on me loosens, and I know this is my chance to get them off me. I kick them in the side and manage to get out from under them. I throw a punch to the side of their head that knocks them into a leg of the table, hard. Disoriented and off balance, Aurel doesn’t even notice that I’m in front of them until I pin them down and begin to hit them over and over. I lose track of how many times I hit them; all I know is that they’re not fighting back anymore. I don’t stop. I can’t stop. Every emotion I’ve been trying not to feel comes out in every swing. I know I’m crying, but I can’t bring myself to care. I should be ashamed for doing this for letting my anger take control, but I’m not.

There’s a crowd around us now. I can’t hear them, but I can see them; with the show me and Aurel have been putting on, it was bound to catch some attention. If there’s a crowd, then that means there must be peacekeepers on the way. I don’t care. They can drag me away and lock me up forever, and I won’t care. I feel hands trying to pull me off Aurel, but I don’t let them.

They hurt me. Why shouldn’t I hurt them? I want to hurt them. I want to hurt all of them. Everyone in the districts and Capitol. I want to hurt them all.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice white uniforms surrounding me, and they begin grabbing me. They’re a lot better at getting me off Aurel than whoever was trying before. As I’m being pulled away, I notice the pendant still lying on the ground, a forget-me-not shattered into pieces.

Ash would hate me right now.

That thought takes any fight I had left, and I sag in the peacekeeper's arms. The last thing I see is my Father walking towards me as I feel a sharp prick on the back of my neck and fade into darkness.

[jinmukangwrites]

Handcuffed/Manacled

Fandom: Nightwing, Batman - All Media Types

Rating: M

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Tags: Self-Sacrificing Dick Grayson, Hurt Dick Grayson, Hurt Tim Drake, Tim Drake Whump, Dick Grayson Whump, Kidnapping, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Blood and Injury, Dick Grayson-centric, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Hopeful Ending, Hostage Situations, Near Death Experiences, Protective Tim Drake

Ao3

Summary: What started as a quiet night quickly turned sour when Tim's comms cut off without warning.

----

"I think I have a pimple on my chin, and I'm about to get violent about it."

Dick laughed, swinging under a fire-escape—it creaked, but he had swung under this particular fire-escape enough times to know it could hold his weight.

At the other end of the comms, Tim sounded bored. Well, he must be bored if breakouts, and not the fun jail kind, had suddenly become the topic of conversation.

"It'll get better when you're older," Dick replied, smirking to himself, his eyes scanning the regular shady alleyways of Blüdhaven as his grapple retracted, then shot off to the next practiced ledge with a jolt down his arm. It looked like it would be a quiet night tonight, not a crime worth punishing to be seen.

"I'm literally almost 20, N," Tim replied, deadpanned. "Also you can't talk. I'm pretty sure you've never had a pimple in your life."

"Not on my face, not really," Dick agreed. He could hear Tim's weight land heavily on puddled Gotham streets through the other end of the comm. Seemed like he, too, was having a slow night. "But bacne? Whoah-boy. Pretty sure I have one right below my left shoulder-blade, it's driving me nuts."

"You said it gets better when you're older."

"I'm still young."

Tim snorted. Despite the empty streets being the only one to see it, Dick grinned.

"You literally asked me what gyatt meant the other day."

"In my defense, I said I'm young, not that I'm twelve. Believe it or not, I'm also not terminally on TikTok."

Tim laughed, and Dick followed.

It wasn't often he could just hang out like this. Somebody was always busy, or somebody didn't have the social battery, or was getting over an argument, or was doing something with someone else, or there was a storm over Gotham and the connection didn't hold despite the constant fixes Barbara made to the system, bless her. Honestly, when he contacted Tim, the response "yeah I'm free" was a very pleasant surprise, especially after he'd just gotten a "not tonight" from Cassandra a few minutes before.

"So, how's it going on your end?" Dick asked. He let the swing of his grapple slow as the ground came up. He took a few running steps, carefully bending his knees, coming to a stop on solid ground as the grapple fully retracted into his escrima stick. He attached the useful weapon on his back next to its pair.

Tim sighed. "Is it bad I'm almost hoping someone's getting mugged with every empty alleyway I check?"

"Probably," Dick responded lightly, "but also, same."

"Of course I don't want anyone getting hurt, you know? But like, maybe just a little bit of threatening? Some yelling? Some asshole with too much ego needing to be knocked down a peg? I'm itching to kick someone in the face and I don't think that's something people should itch to do."

"Trust me," Dick responded, "I think I'd rather hear gimme all your money than you won the lottery right now."

Hindsight had Dick wishing he had some wood to knock on.

Tim started to ramble about how the most interesting thing he'd seen that night was a cat messing with a rat outside a doughnut shop, and Dick was strolling the quiet streets, a city away, a thirty minute drive at midnight, listening with a smile. It could have continued like this the rest of the night, and he would have been content. He would have said goodbye to Tim, stumbled into his apartment, did some stretches, ate a toaster strudel, then gone to bed happy. Bored, but happy. Glad no one needed saving, Nightwing wasn't a factor in life or death, he could rest, knowing the quiet nights were rare and precious.

Tim cut off in the middle of his ramblings, and tonight wasn't rare or precious.

"Red Robin?"

"I heard something. Just a sec."

He was whispering, voice tight, Dick could almost imagine the narrowed eyes behind white domino lenses.

Warm pressure washed over him, the physical feeling of a happy moment turning stale, starting at his ears, settling threateningly in his stomach.

Nearly a minute passed, Dick had to remind himself to breathe during it.

"Huh," Tim said, finally, voice shaken a little. "I could have sworn I-"

Static.

Dick was on the emergency channels before his heartbeat could finish its first stutter.

"Oracle," Dick said, "I've lost contact with Red Robin."

-o0o-

And that was how the nightmare started.

The last time he sped this quickly across the distance spreading between Blüdhaven and Gotham—often times too small, at times like this, too long—was when Damian had fainted at school. Nothing serious, apparently he had forgotten to eat and it was a hot day.

This was serious. Bab's was able to report Tim's vitals spiking, then slowing into unconsciousness mere seconds before any signal between Tim and the family cut off.

Every bat in the city scrambled. A fine oiled machine, like students practicing drills for school invaders; a machine that shouldn't have to be this oiled.

Dick took the west, ignoring how his ankles ached and his back ached and his jaw ached. Fingers creaked, ribs squeezed, stomach clenched. The sun would rise soon. Maybe a citizen or two would wake up for work and see a bat out and be baffled by it for a moment, then wonder if it's a sort of bunker down and call out kind of day.

He followed Tim's footsteps, checking alleyways, passing the doughnut shop with a rat corpse in the gutter, looking up at the pipes and gargoyles that had scratches from grappling hooks, some fresh, some very not.

The sun rose. It hung in the sky. It set.

Nothing.

He needed to eat. Everyone needed to eat. Damian was the only one resembling someone who could stand on their own two feet and it wasn't from a lack of caring but more from a responsible butler forcing the kid to go to school. Damian wasn't happy about that, the family had to move to a different channel while Damian argued over the comms for a solid 30 minutes.

Dick kept returning to the alleyway Tim's last location had pinged from, like if he looked again, Tim would be there that time. He was exhausted, to put it plainly. He was tired to the core, from the lack of sleep, and from once again, fearing for the life of a younger sibling. His eyes desperately wanted to close, but he knew that if he stopped looking even for a second, he'd see Jason's grave, feel Damian's blood, hear the silence coming from Stephanie's empty chair.

Not Tim. Not Tim too. Not Tim again.

Can't the universe let him catch a break? Or, at least, let it be him instead?

A grim thought. He had to keep looking.

There wasn't any sign of a struggle. No Red Robin branded weapons stuck in the brick walls, no dented dumpsters, not a single speck of blood. It was like Tim was kidnapped by the fabric of reality itself; glitched and removed, plucked out of thin air.

The irony and deja vu wasn't lost on him.

He sighed to himself, searching around the alleyway, poking at the same clueless details until maybe his fingers would leave indents in concrete.

Something blinked. Faint. Red. Rolled under a dumpster, near unnoticeable.

Dick noticed it. His blood ran cold.

He could hear Alfred get on the comms, demanding everyone return home for dinner before they do Tim no good by letting exhaustion win, but he ignored it for a second as he crept to the dumpster, reaching his hand under to pull out a small device no larger than the tip of his pointer finger.

Tim's comm.

He'd checked under the dumpster before. Several times. This wasn't there before.

It had to have been returned here. Purposely.

It was blinking like it was connected to something, which was impossible because Oracle said the signal was completely disconnected, and only she could connect it back to the family again.

He took out his own comm, wiped off alleyway water from Tim's, then replaced it in his ear.

"Is anyone there?" Dick asked, not knowing if he wanted an answer.

A second passed, he felt like he'd throw up.

A shaking voice responded. "N, go to these coordinates. Come alone, or he's going to kill me."

-o0o-

Dick went alone. He was instructed to keep on the earpiece, and that the kidnapper would know if he muted to warn the others.

The coordinates lead him to no special location at all. A thirty minute walk from where Tim had initially disappeared, a nook under the freeway where flood water could drain.

Not a soul awaited him there.

A blue backpack, abandoned—no, purposely placed—awaited him there.

Nothing was good about this. Tim had sounded weak and frightened to his trained ears, brave to anyone else. Dick felt like getting stabbed would hurt less than this.

He didn't care. He didn't know what else to do.

Tim had long since stopped responding to Dick after giving the initial instructions—the comm was mostly for the kidnapper to keep Dick under control—but he didn't need instructions to know that whatever happened next involved that blue bag.

He stepped up to it, hands long past the point of shaking that they're deathly stable as he unzipped it.

A device about the size of a pen greeted him. Thin, sleek, nothing special besides the tip being a very threatening button the size of a push pin.

"Gloves off," Tim whispered. "I- Nightwing- don't do it- I'm-" he cut off with a shout. The line went silent.

Dick didn't hesitate to take his gloves off and press the button.

Two things happened. The first was quicker, while the second was more physical.

The earpiece shorted out, and anything powered on Dick's body—his removed comm, his tracker, the sensors to his vitals, even the batteries to his escrima sticks—went completely dead.

He had just a millisecond to process that before nausea washed over with a prick to his thumb.

His vision swam, and he collapsed, black consuming him before he hit the ground.

-o0o-

"Just my luck," A modulated voice said exactly as Dick found himself waking up enough to comprehend words being said to him, "I've always wanted to meet Nightwing."

His arms were behind his back, wrists locked with tight bands of cuffed metal. Gravity told him he was sitting up, spine slumped against a wall, but sharp tugs in his hair told him that a hand clutched the strands, holding his neck up. He knew before he opened his eyes that the face of the speaker would greet him.

Or well, the helmeted face. Close enough.

Dick glared through the grogginess of fading unknown drugs. His face felt numb, tongue heavy, but the movement at least assured him that there was still pressure over his eyes.

The attacker regarded him back, faceless, unmoving, as if waiting for Dick to make the first move.

Dick didn't have a lot of options in terms of first moves.

So he took the moment to get a better grasp of the situation. He had a lot of practice with this kind of situation, it didn't take long to assess himself, the villain of the week, and the surrounding room.

He, himself, was fine. A little woozy from whatever drug was shot into his system, but it was fading with only slight lingering feelings of nausea, numbness, and weakness to the extremities. His hands were pressed between his back and the wall, his shoulder blades touching the faded wallpaper, making it clear his weapons had been removed. Other places that held weapons and tools were suspiciously light.

The person in front of him had a large, muscular build, in-between the range of Jason to Slade. Tall, closer to seven feet than six, combat boots, armored fabric suit, a gun strapped to a thigh the size of a basketball. The suit was nondescript, black, with the occasional gray accent, the armored fabric mixing with armored plates where organs are concerned. The helmet was nothing more than a glorified biker-helmet that wanted to look sci-fi.

All signs pointed to human and male, though meta wasn't ruled out yet. All Dick knew for sure was that this wasn't a run of the mill criminal; maybe something closer to a bounty hunter, or assassin, or some disgruntled asshole with a vendetta and actual knowledge of how to carry that vendetta out. Truly, the Slade vibes were strong with this one.

Dick couldn't see any other weapons on the attackers body, but granted, he was sitting on his ass against a withering wallpapered wall, head held up by a fist of hair, a helmeted figure crouched down staring back.

Behind the figure, however, was where Dick's eyes settled. The room was small, a hundred square feet give or take, comprised of cement floor, walls water-rotted and peeling, a door chipped and unkept. Between Dick and the door, however, was a collapsed body, dressed in familiar colors, cape tattered and clothes twisted.

Tim.

He laid curled on his side, hair waterfalling over an exhausted face. His arms were wrenched behind his back, no doubt restrained. What made Dick's gut squirm was the trail of blood dripping down an obviously broken nose, over Tim's tight lips, down his cheeks, puddled on the ground.

Fresh.

Dick's face must have done something with that observation, because his captor chuckled and turned their visor at Tim. "Poor boy needed come company."

Even modulated, the extra words allowed Dick to pinpoint the accent as American, West Coast. Not necessarily useful information, but hey, accents sometimes identified.

Dick tore his eyes away from Tim and clenched his fists tight enough the cuffs dug into his tendons.

"What do you want, you bastard."

An amused huff. "Nothing you can give me. I have you right where I need you."

"Why here? Why us?"

"The boy happened to be the first one I saw. You happened to be the first one to find my next trap. This isn't personal, bat."

Frustration pooled. "If you think this will get you Batman, or-"

The man laughed, letting go of Dick's hair and standing up. "Batman isn't my goal. I just need you here."

This can't be good. A villain wanting to get at Batman is one thing, a villain not caring about Batman is another.

Why capture them if not to interrogate them?

The man stepped away from Dick, and Dick felt his whole body tense as he stopped above Tim's prone form. Tim swallowed, then glared up at their captor.

Then their captor, with no warning, lifted a leg and nailed Tim in the stomach.

Tim choked off a breathless scream, and Dick found himself on his feet in the next moment. His vision, however, jolted, and his legs twisted around each other, tripping him up and having him crumple disgracefully to the hard floor with an irritated growl. Damn side effects of damn drugs.

Their captor chuckled, amused, and stepped over to Dick while Tim coughed for breath. A large hand wrapped around Dick's bicep then dragged him back to the other side of the room. Instead of just leaving him there, however, his hands were pushed down to the floor and the chain between his cuffs were locked onto something solid and unmoving. Some sort of bolt.

"Don't worry, it'll be over soon," The man said, stepping away from Dick, sounding full of himself and confident. The prick. "Play nice, and you both will get out of this alive."

Then, he left, stepping over Tim and leaving out the door, a lock sounding in his wake.

"Red," Dick called, the moment they were alone. "Hey, look at me."

Tim, his expression more out of it than what Dick's seen in years, turned his face toward Dick. "N... 'm sorry."

What had that monster done to Tim?

"No sorry," Dick said, forcing his voice to remain calm as he ran another scan along Tim's body. Nothing visibly violent greeted him back, nothing but the broken nose. Perhaps everything else was hidden under his suit, and perhaps the cocktail of a weak immune system, drugs, and captivity, didn't mix well. "I'm here now. Talk to me, what happened before I got here?"

Tim took a deep breath, stealing his expression and shifting slightly. "I- not much. He kicked me around a bit, only took me out of the room once to use the bathroom—blindfolded. Then he told me to... tell you to find his trap."

"Nothing about his goals? No questions or anything?"

Tim shook his head, then winced, spitting some blood from his lips. "Nothing explicitly said. I... think he has a partner outside, and I think we're just distractions."

"For what?"

Tim shrugged with the shoulder he wasn't laying on, looking frustrated and tired. At least the more he talked, the more awake he started to look. "It's a good plan if we are just distractions. When was the last time you slept?"

Ouch.

"I don't think anyone's slept," Dick responded softly, feeling like an idiot for being so predictable. If a distraction was the goal, then them both being captured will run the whole family down to the bones, cause them to lock up inwards and assume another will be next, focus in on the areas they disappeared from.

It could leave any number of targets around Gotham completely ignored.

"At least," Tim continued, "I think he's not going to kill us when they get what they want."

No, helmets and voice modulators and blindfolded bathroom trips didn't usually predict a homicidal villain.

"And if they don't get what they want?"

A beat of silence. "When I tried to convince you to not come... he broke my nose. No hesitation."

Great.

"Alright. We either hope they get what they want and let us go..." Dick looked around the walls, a single camera blinked back, no microphone. He lowered his voice. "Or we escape."

"How?" Tim asked, his voice going unimpressed, hinting that the boy had already been trying that.

Dick slowly sat up, angling his body so it didn't look too obvious he was hiding his hands from the camera. He wrapped his fingers around his anchor to the floor, the bolt wobbled a bit.

"Bolt's loose. I'll get my hands free, then I'll get us both out of here."

Tim relaxed a bit, relief a visible wave. "Sorry, but I'm glad you're here."

"It's okay," Dick responded, throwing a reassuring smile. "I'm glad too."

He'd rather be here with Tim than back outside, not knowing.

At least here, he had a chance to protect Tim.

-o0o-

The kidnapper, which Tim and Dick had worked together to nickname "Visor", returned about two hours later. Dick couldn't help but tense when the door opened while Tim gave a hard glare from where he had worked himself up into a seated position.

"The bats are widening their search a little too close to where I don't want them," Visor said as he walked in. "I need some incentive to drive them away."

Tim stiffened, his eyes traveling over to something Visor held, previously hidden from vision but now fully in view.

Dick stiffened too.

One of his escrima sticks was held in the enemy's hand, and the reason why wasn't hard to guess.

It wouldn't be hard to lure someone away from somewhere you didn't want them to be if you plant something elsewhere that would catch attention.

"You really think Batman would fall for something as obvious as that?" Dick asked, putting bravado into his voice and succeeding in catching Visor's full attention. "He's probably already figured out that this whole kidnapping thing is a distraction, planting something like that is just going to make it obvious that there's somewhere you don't want him to be."

He wished he could see Visor's face as the large man blankly observed him for a moment, it made it all the more unnerving when Visor broke into a low chuckle. "This is what I admire about you, Nightwing," he said, a smile in his voice, bringing his hands in front of his chest and running his fingers over the stolen weapon. "And what I was most looking forward to when I found it was you who fell for my second trap."

Cold fear settled in his belly. "What?"

"Your martyrism."

Then he turned and hit Tim across the jaw with Dick's escrima, causing the younger hero to fall onto the ground with a cut off shout, the blow coming as a surprise, the thud of his shoulder hitting the cement sounded like a distant roar of thunder to Dick's suddenly ringing ears.

"Hey- HEY!" Dick snarled, he couldn't help it, if Tim was shocked by the sudden violence, then Dick was caught in the whole lightning storm. He went to his knees, straining against the cuffs and the loose anchor. "I'm talking to you!"

Visor laughed, and it dug the pit deeper. "Now this is the cherry on top."

Dick had met plenty of sadists. He'd been held hostage by many of them. And yet, they usually took the bait, they usually ignored who Dick wanted them to ignore and went after him just to wipe his arrogance off his face. Sure, it cost him a straight nose, a scar here and there, a few weeks bedrest, but it was always worth it, because it meant he was the only one who got hurt. He did his job as the first Robin. As Nightwing. As the oldest brother.

But Visor had anticipated that, and instead of taking Dick's bait, he immediately found that the exact way to hurt both hostages the most was to keep Nightwing perfectly untouched.

He hit Tim again, but Tim didn't shout. He probably figured out Visor's goal was to make this hurt for Nightwing and had decided that keeping stony and quiet and brave would hurt Dick less. Tim had been through worse, after all. They all have. A beating with a glorified stick was nothing.

Somehow, it hurt more to see Tim glance at Dick, forgiveness and bravery and determination shining through those white lenses, than it would have been to hear him scream.

Dick wanted to scream.

He met Tim's eyes, and grinded his jaw shut.

By the time Visor had a satisfactory spray of blood across the escrima stick and left, humming to himself, Dick's wrists were slick and red beneath bands of silver, the anchor looser without him even intentionally trying.

And Tim laid still on the floor.

-o0o-

Hours passed again. Tim remained unconscious for most of it, even after Dick had tried and tried again to stir him with voice alone.

He watched Tim breathe, terrified one lungful would be the last, images of corpses and funerals flashing behind his eyelids every time he blinked.

He couldn't do this again. He couldn't endure another sibling's funeral. A part of him died with every one—there couldn't be much more of him left. Them coming back to life didn't revive those parts of him. Those parts haunted him in his nightmares, and if Tim... if Tim didn't survive this one... if Tim didn't survive because some fucker knew it would hurt more to watch... those parts would drag him under, and he knew he wouldn't try to swim back up.

He worked at the bolt holding him down. Visor wouldn't have another chance to hit Tim again. When he came back in the room, Dick was going to end this.

Near the end of the third hour, Tim stirred, groaning.

Dick quickly called for his attention, and Tim, bless him, did his best to respond.

"D..ik?"

His jaw was swollen. A tooth had been spat out a blow or two before the blow that knocked him out.

Dick didn't even care about identities right now.

"Hey, hey, you're okay. I'm gonna get us out of here."

Tim took a few deep breaths through his mouth, spitting blood onto the floor, not daring to move what must be an aching body.

"... kay..."

"Just hold on a little longer. You're being so brave. Just a little longer, I promise."

Tim, half conscious, in pain, put on something that must be intended to be a brave face, but it only broke Dick's heart more. Tim lost the fight with consciousness, and fell back into what couldn't be a painless slumber.

About an hour later, Visor returned.

The anchor wasn't loose enough to escape yet, and Dick had to swallow his panic.

Even with the helmet, Visor didn't look happy.

"How did they know," he growled, striding forward and grabbing Dick by the neck. "How did you tell them."

The pressure wasn't strong enough to choke, but it was just shy of becoming so. Dick should feel afraid of that, and yet, he only felt relief that in Visor's true anger, he walked straight past Tim.

"I told you," Dick hissed, the fingers oh so close to squeezing, he could feel it inside his throat. "You're an idiot to think they wouldn't catch on."

The replying sneer was audible, physical in a twitch of fingers. "That's where you're wrong, we planned for this. I have two hostages, you're my bargaining chip for a prisoner exchange."

Dick thinned his lips to keep from vocalizing that in the end, when it came to the Batfamily, prisoner exchanges never worked in the enemy's favor.

"I just have to show them I'm serious first," Visor continued, his voice lowering to an eerie promise, like rolling fog in ancient mountains. "I only need one hostage."

The words processed milliseconds too late, Visor had shoved Dick away and had walked back toward Tim, kneeling, hands reaching towards his younger brother's neck.

Something untamable tore out of Dick's throat, taking control over his body. His heart was a beast clawing at his ribcage, panic swallowing him whole. As Visor began to choke Tim, the boy too unconscious to give more than the body's sluggish, natural reaction, Dick began to pull at his chains, at the anchor, the pain in his wrists meaning nothing to the mere feet between him, and the monster killing his little brother.

"You fucking bastard," he roared, vocal chords straining with his wrists, his own shouting thousands of miles away, drowned out with the suffocating panic and the ringing in his ears. "Touch him and I'll kill you!"

Visor ignored him. Tim was twitching, eyes opening with pain and confusion, legs jolting and arms tugging at his own handcuffs.

Seconds passed. Seconds that engrained themselves into Dick's soul like an unwanted tattoo. Finally, as Tim's face turned red under the blood smeared on his cheeks, as his eyes began to flutter back shut, the anchor fell loose.

It was as easy as breathing to contort his body in a way that allowed his wrists to pass under his legs and in front of his body. He was running the next instant, crashing into Visor, bodies colliding in shouts and struggles, shoulders hitting the cement away from Tim.

Tim erupted into very painful coughs, and Dick... Dick couldn't bring the monster back in.

His fists wanted impact. His fingers wanted pressure. His skin wanted blood that belonged to the man below him.

Visor didn't make the bloodlust easy. He put his weight into struggling. There was a reason this man was able to capture not one, but two bats within their own city. He fought back like a demon fresh out of Hell, his own blows landing with promised swelled purple bruises across his jaw, shoulders, neck, stomach. At some point, he even managed to kick Dick off with a heavy boot, knocking Dick across the small room and slamming his back into the water rotted walls. He said something, something prideful and angry and arrogant, something that turned to static to Dick's angry ears.

He went to kick Dick in the stomach before Dick could get back up, but while Visor fought like a demon out of Hell, Dick had an older devil inside of him, one that's been caged for much, much longer.

Dick will make him wish he went for the gun.

The pain meant nothing, it didn't slow him down as he scrambled to his feet and jumped onto the larger man, wrapping his legs around his torso and flipping him down onto the ground, back under Dick, at the perfect angle for Dick to bring his bound hands up and down over and over and over again until the helmet cracked, visor shattered, splinters going into bloodied hands below bloodied wrists controlled by a bloody hatred that, after this, he knew would haunt him.

Visor tried to fight back, and he tried until he couldn't. He tried until his helmet fell off and his face was exposed, cheekbones cut, nose cracked, jaw loose, eyes terrified and half-lidded and losing focus.

Dick didn't stop.

He wanted Visor dead.

He didn't stop until a body crashed into his own, arms large and strong wrapping around his waist and tearing him from Visor and pinning him down to the ground, heavy hands on his shoulder blades, pinning his bound hands between the cement and his heaving stomach. Dick struggled, brain screaming at the sudden change.

"Get Red out of here, B!" A voice shouted above him, "I got him!"

The voice was familiar. Through blurred eyes, the form that stooped down to Tim was familiar too.

Batman undid Tim's restraints and carefully lifted the limp body into his hands, eyes barely casting a second torn glance back at Dick, who was completely pinned under Jason's weight, before leaving the room.

Dick breathed. He breathed like he'd been deprived of air for hours on end, windpipe bursting open, the edges fading.

His brain caught up with him. Jason had positioned himself perfectly, almost purposely, to obscure Dick's view to Visor. He didn't release Dick, and Dick knew why.

Jason understood this anger. This fury. This rage that took everything that made you you and replaced it with something you wouldn't recognize in the mirror. He kept Dick pinned, not speaking, not accusing, not comforting, just there until Duke and Cass arrived to drag Visor out of the room, eyes very carefully avoiding Dick like if they looked, everything they thought they knew about him would be destroyed and replaced with something unstomachable.

When they left, Jason jumped off like Dick was on fire, and Dick scrambled away like he was acid.

Silence filtered between the two of them. Jason stood near the door, as if afraid Dick would bolt, but in all honesty, Dick didn't have even a fraction of the energy to do something like that, even if the anger hadn't suddenly been replaced with exhaustion and self-hatred.

"Was he breathing?"

"Tim? Or Zeek?"

Zeek. That was his name? Of course they figured that out too.

"Tim first."

"Yeah, B has him back at the cave. Alfred's got him stable."

Dick swallowed. How long had he been here? How long had Jason been here making sure Dick didn't murder someone? 

"Zeek is also alive, GPD has him handcuffed to a gurney on the way to the hospital."

Dick brought his knees to his chin... and he could only bring himself to nod.

Jason approached a second later and finally got the cuffs unlocked around Dick's shredded wrists. As he bandaged them, talked to him about getting him back to the cave... Dick felt nothing.

-o0o-

"Hey."

"... Hey."

"You weren't answering your phone, so," Tim shrugged, looking all too comfortable and normal standing in the entrance doorway of Dick's apartment.

"Tim, I'm..." Dick had his hand behind his neck, wrists achy. He regretted opening the door, he thought it was the landlord or something. "You look good."

Makeup covered the bruises on his neck, that much was obvious, and Tim wore a high collar hoodie. Everything else looked about as healed as Dick's wrists.

"Yeah," Tim smiled, pushing his way inside. "A few weeks of Alfred-enforced-bedrest can do that. Finally escaped."

"Tim, now really isn't a good time," Dick said as Tim took off his shoes and raided the freezer.

"Knew you'd have some," he said victoriously, ignoring Dick and pulling out a tub of ice cream. "You always have a stash. What are you feeling? I'm feeling a Lord of the Rings marathon."

Dick sighed, and closed the door. "I don't have the extended."

"That's alright," Tim pulled two bowls out of Dick's cupboards and set the tub of ice cream on the counter to thaw. "I brought them."

"Tim, what is this?"

"I think you know," Tim said lightly. "Bruce keeps saying that space is what you need, but I think ice cream will help quicker."

"I'm fine. It's you I'm worried about."

"Liar. Well, that first bit is a lie."

"I'm dealing."

"With me, and ice cream, and Lord of the Rings."

Dick, defeated, sank into the sofa and grabbed the remote. "You're impossible."

"No, I just know you. You blame yourself for me getting hurt, and you blame yourself for not getting us out of there. I also know you want to wallow in your guilt for as long as you can, and you know the second I tell you I don't blame you, it's not your fault, you're human and you're a victim too, yes I know you still blame yourself so I'll forgive you for you, etcetera etcetera you won't be able to wallow in the guilt. Hence, the ignored phone-calls. Hence, ice cream. Lord of the Rings."

Dick sighed. "You can say that, but I still feel awful, Timbers."

"That's okay," Tim said, joining Dick on the sofa, handing him a bowl of ice cream, and pulling out the first DVD of Lord of the Rings, the extended version. "I'm here until you don't anymore. Keep in mind, I'm also feeling Pirates of the Caribbean."

That wormed a smile. It almost felt traitorously real. "And Star Wars?"

Tim stood up and went to the DVD player, opening the case.

"Star Trek too if you want."

"Thank you, Tim. And I'm sorry."

"I don't blame you, and believe it or not, it wasn't your fault."

He slid the disk in, and sat down next to Dick, leaning on Dick's shoulder with a content sigh, pulling his own ice-cream bowl up to his chin.

Dick couldn't help it. He melted, allowing Tim to get comfortable, allowing himself to get comfortable.

It felt vile to allow any kind of comfort, but Tim was right, they've had this rodeo before, and with quiet conversations during the quiet scenes, he wasn't surprised he felt a little better by the time they put in The Return of the King.

Not all the way. That would probably take a few more marathons, and maybe a hug, another bowl of ice-cream.

And for a whole night and most of the morning, the guilt went forgotten, and he knew it would be okay. He would be okay.

Because Tim was beside him. Breathing, alive, softly snoring as sunlight filtered through the window.

And that wasn't changing, not any time soon.

[iamknicole]

Aisle 32

A/N: Its short buuut felt like a good stopping point lol and Yes, he got friends!😂😂😂😂

Grocery shopping was usually Haleigh's favorite thing to do when she had help and today she was going at it alone. Her family all had other obligations, though they encouraged her to wait till the next day she didn't want to and decided she could handle it alone. As she stood on the detergent aisle she started to realize that she probably should've waited.

"Why do they always put the one I like on the top shelf?" She mumbled, rubbing over her round six month belly. She giggled feeling the kicks. "You don't know either huh? Guess we'll have to get something else for now."

Looking at her options, she realized that she didn't like any of them. There were no employees around to ask for help and she was not about to ask a stranger. Biting her lip, she thought about all the chastising her mom, aunts and Nana had done when she even looked like she wanted to reach over her head or pick something heavy up.

"If you don't tell, I won't." She said to her belly before reaching for the jug of detergent.

As she was trying to pull the jug down, another patron came down the aisle. His cart came to a stop in front of the dishwasher detergent, his phone sandwiched between his ear and his shoulder. While he was listening to the person on the phone tell him what kind to get, he saw Haleigh out of the corner of his eye struggling to get the jug down then noticed her belly. Telling the person on the phone to hold on, he put it in his pocket then quickly went over to her.

"Let me get that for you." He said softly.

Haleigh glanced over at him and gave him a small smile as she stepped back. "Thank you."

He pulled it down, placing it in her cart and smiled at her. "You're welcome. That's way too heavy for you to be pulling down."

"Gotta do what you gotta do sometimes," she shrugged, "Thanks again. I really appreciate it."

Giving him another smile, Haleigh pushed past him continuing her shopping. He was cute but she knew on the slim chance that he was single she had way more going on than he wanted to deal with so she kept walking. She loves her baby so much already but thinking somebody was cute was how she got this way. Just another guy to leave her when things got too serious.

Thirty minutes later, she finished getting everything on her list and decided to go look at the baby section. Every time she went to a store with a baby section, Haleigh couldn't leave without something for her unborn baby. She had looked on the first two aisles not finding anything she liked, getting to the third she was too busy looking at the items that she didn't see the other cart before she bumped into it.

"Oh God, I'm sorry. I wasn’t paying attention." She apologized quickly.

Looking over at the person's cart she hit, there was that smile again. Only this time it was a bit wider. He looked up from the two sippy cups he held in his hands.

"I'm fine I promise," he assured her. "Are you and your lil one okay?"

Her hand went to her belly feeling the few kicks and laughed softly. "Got a few kicks so we're okay. I really am sorry though."

"You're good, I promise."

The two of them went back to looking at the items on the aisle. Him still trying to pick a sippy cup, her looking at bibs. She could feel him glancing at her but she tried not to look back.

"What're you having? If I can ask."

"Huh? Oh um I don't know yet. My best friends insisted on throwing me a gender reveal this weekend." She explained still looking at the bibs.

He nodded putting one sippy cup back and picking up another. "You got a preference?"

She shrugged a little. "Healthy. You have a kid, huh?"

Looking up from the cups, he gave her a confused head shake. "No. Just a dog. Why'd you ask?"

Haleigh laughed a little pointing to the cups. "You look like you're thinking really hard on which one to get. Figured it must be for your kid."

He laughed. "Oh, oh no. My friends invited me to a baby shower so I'm tryna find things to put in a basket for the mom."

"Ooooh," she laughed, "Well if you know what she's having then get gender specific. If not, gender neutral."

"Smart, that's smart." He winked at her. "Which bibs are you gonna get?"

Haleigh rubbed her face trying to hide her blush. "I think I'm gonna get Mickey Mouse. Boys and girls like Mickey. Right?"

"Yeah they do. I'm Ardian by the way." He said sticking his hand out which she shook.

"Haleigh."

"Nice name. How far along are you?"

"24 weeks as of yesterday."

He nodded, looking over at her. "Congratulations, I don't know why I hadn't said it before. I'll let you go, don't wanna take up all your time."

"Thank you," she said softly, "You're not but I do need to get out of here before I spend more money. Have a good day, Ardian."

He chuckled, sliding out of her way. "You too, Haleigh. I hope you have a good gender reveal."

As they passed each other, they shared another smile and watched her leave the aisle shaking his head at himself. Both were chastising themselves for flirting with someone that was more than likely taken.

[sadchip]

Rehabilitation Is Bullshit

This fic is nearly 100% based off of an idea @letmerambleplease had.

TW: Lots of cussing, Valentino.

Part 2

Velvette walks into her new room and sighs. She's only been here three days and she misses her linen sheets. Her plushies. And dammit, maybe she misses her friends a little. Not that she'd ever tell them that.

She looks at her luggage. She doesn't wanna unpack this shit. Then again she kinda has to, so…

She picks up her luggage and she pulls everything out, laying it on her bed and shoving her bags in the closet.

She grabs the spare fabric and the notebooks she brought. Just because she's trying to get revenge doesn't mean she's going to get behind on her work. She has a line coming out in a few months.

Despite what some may think she actually does love her job. And her business partners however begrudgingly it may be.

She pulls out her clothes and shoves them in the closet and the dresser.

When she's done putting her stuff away she sits at the desk that's at the front of the room. She's really fucking bored. She pulls out her notebook and a pencil. Might as well get some work done.

But she can't, the ideas are all garbage. She can't get shit done when she's bored. She makes her emotions. The designs will be boring, and that just won't do. She groans and hits her head on the table.

She really should stop doing that.

Suddenly she gets the feeling that she's being watched. She looks around, but no one is there. She shrugs, she's probably gone insane with boredom. Vox will have to pick her up in a body bag.

She chuckles at the thought. She can't wait to have him on his knees begging for her to come back. Maybe she wants to go back a little too.

Not because she misses them or anything… She misses her room. Nothing more, nothing less.

She stands up and sits on the bed, it's comfortable enough. She's about to get back up when she hears a knock. She gets up and answers it.

The Princess is standing there, smiling. “Hey!” She says happily. It's honestly annoying how upbeat she is. “We're going to do an activity, do you wanna join us?”

Velvette wants to refuse, to slam the door in her face. But she's so fucking bored. “Sure, its not like I have anything better in this shitty hotel.” She answers, brushing past Charlie.

Charlie follows her, trying to make small-talk the entire time. Velvette wants to rip her eyes out. Does this bitch ever shut up?

They all sit in the living room. Velvette is in a chair in front of the radio demon. She doesn't get what Vox sees in him. The guys teeth are fucking disgusting, and he smells like shit.

Charlie stands in front of them. “Okay, now that we have somebody new I thought it would be fun to play a game!” She says happily as she looks at everyone.

Nobody seems interested, she either isn't interested or doesn't care, because she just keeps on talking. “Okay, everyone get onto the floor!”

Velvette ends up sitting beside the princess and her girlfriend. Charlie explains that they'll all be playing two truths and a lie to get to know each other.

Charlie starts smiling as she thinks. “Okay… Lucifer is my dad, my eyes are blue, and my favorite color is red!”

Velvette scoffs. This will be a long day.

Around thirty minutes passes and eventually it's Velvette's turn. She thinks for a moment before she speaks. “I died in the late 2000's, I hate the color brown, and…” She smirks, pointing to Nifty. “I watched that one kill an angel.”

Charlie smiles. “Ooh! Ooh! That one!” She says, seemingly proud that she found out the ‘right answer’

Velvette cocks her head to the side, still smirking. “I died in 2012.”

Charlie's eyes widen almost comically.

—

It's day five and Velvette is still bored as shit. She's currently sitting in the lounge area, she's playing on her phone. Angel Dust and that fucking cat are talking at the bar.

Angel Dust has been shooting glares at her every fucking chance he can. Too bad, Valentino would lose his shit if he thought they were hanging out…

She stands up and walks over to the bar, she smiles at the cat guy. “Whiskey.” She says simply as she scrolls through her phone.

He starts making it, mumbling curses under his breath. Velvette turns to Angel Dust, a smirk on her face. She flips her phone to Angel and he chokes on his drink.

On her screen is a picture of Valentino tripping and eating shit on some pavement. He thinks she deleted it, but he doesn't have to know.

“Here's the deal.” She starts, turning off her phone. “You take a few pictures with me while I'm here. It will piss Valentino off. And I'll also give you that lovely picture.”

Angel Dust stares at her for a moment. He smiles and takes the drink that the cat guy made for him without him even asking for it. He drinks it. “You had me at pissing off Valentino.”

AN: Hey, I finally updated this, I couldn't really find a way to improve it, so I just posted it as is. All in all I kinda like it.

[olivander1270]

ghostly habits. | wolfstar | non-canon!au | wc: 0.497k ( inspired by this pin but originally from @courfeycute on this shithole of an app :) )

content includes course language :)

a.n: the beginning of a new au :) not necessarily a series, but this may have a pt2? i'm not sure. i'm not a huge fan of this but i need to start this blog one way or another :)

"you bloody wanker."

"i have no idea what you're talking about."

to the naked eye, it would appear that remus was talking to himself; maybe that's why his reputation lately has been so rambunctious lately. or maybe it was the ghostly figure looming over his shoulder like it had been for two weeks now.

"you see that group of teenage girls over there? the ones who have never looked my way before? yes well, thanks to somebody," remus glanced at the ghost over his shoulder, "they've been staring at me for the past ten minutes!" he whispered, attempting to pour every ounce of venom possible into his words.

the ghost, sirius, smiled. "remus, dear, i made you the talk of the town, really you should be thanking me. now, where were we on the list?" sirius craned his neck to get a look at the shopping list remus was holding in his left hand. his right was occupied by a half-full shopping basket. remus moved the list from sirius's line of vision.

"you made people think i'm a witch, sirius. let me go back through the chain of events for you, shall i? somebody throws a baseball at me-- which is a very normal thing to do in a game of baseball-- and remind me, sirius, what did you do?" remus stares expectantly at his ghostly companion.

"i caught it," sirius supplies. remus frowns. "i caught it while invisible." sirius rolls his eyes.

"exactly," remus says while placing a carton of eggs into his basket. "and now the whole town thinks i'm some sort of sorcerer. if one more person asks me to make them float i'm going to perform an exorcism on you."

"oi! i'm the one who has to bloody pick up everything people ask you to levitate. how tired do you think my arms get?" sirius follows remus up to the cash register. the boy scanning the items has a bored look on his face.

"that'll be thirty eight dollars. cash or card?"

"cash, please." remus hands the boy a fifty dollar note.

"i wonder what would happen if i socked this kid right in his face," sirius says, smugly. "it'd get you in a spot of trouble with the coppers, that's for sure."

the boy behind the register hands remus his change. "see you later, man. uh, keep me in your good books, okay? my mam says if i come home reeking of 'bad vibes' from seeing you, she's gonna kick me out."

remus stares blankly at the boy while sirius howls with laughter. "yeah, sure, dude." remus walks out of the store.

"oh my god that was gold!" sirius cackles, wiping iridescent tears from his eyes.

"for you, maybe. you see what you've done to me?"

"you did this to yourself, darling. you are the one who summoned me, whether it was on purpose or not. now you deal with the consequences. aka, me."

sirius winks, and remus knows he's thoroughly screwed.

divider cred to @cafekitsune :)

[i-eat-worlds]

Alex & Friends Part 11: Dirty Laundry

te-he. That’s all I’m gonna say. cw: betrayal, light institutional ickyness, little bit of a creepy dialogue

After about ten minutes for everyone to set their stuff down, order some food and use the restroom, Eric gathered everyone around the table for a team meeting. Alex snacked on a chicken skewer while Teri set up her laptop and connected to the wi-fi. Once Sil had returned (what was he even doing), Eric stood up to begin. The tension in the room was palpable, so thick you could cut it with a knife. “I’m just gonna say it, because we’re all thinking it,” He started. “Nobody except the people in this room and Rudick, should’ve known what safehouse we were going to.” Eric paused to let that information sink in. “Anybody have anything to explain this?”

“I had a pigeon tail as a look out. No drones were following us.” Aarav said. He stuffed several fries into his mouth. “I checked everything for trackers. It was clean.” Teri added.

“Nobody was following us.” Sil said.

“There's no way that it’s Rudick.” Avia said in disbelief.

Eric scrubbed a hand over his face. “I mean who else? Maybe she was just careless, but nobody but her knew early enough to plan an ambush like that.”

“Maybe. That's not her though,” Teri shook her head. “I can look at the database, see if it’s been accessed by anybody who shouldn’t. The encryption on that thing is something, though.”

“Do that,” Eric said. “I just know who else would’ve had access.”

Then, it hit her. It hit her so hard it had to have been audible. Her handler. He would’ve been informed what safehouse she was at. Fear lanced in her chest at the thought. If she couldn’t trust him, her own handler, who could she trust? But then again, how much did she really know about him? As far as she knew, his name was seventy-three.

“There's-There’s somebody else.” Alex said. All the heads in the room turned to her. “My handler, he would’ve known.” A beat of silence passed before Teri spoke. “I’ll look into it. Who’s your handler?” Alex bit her lip. “I don’t know the name. He used the callsign seventy-three.”

“You don’t know your handler’s name?” Joseph said, shocked. “Not all of us get a big face to face meeting in 2A every time we need a brieng.” Alex snipped, placing her elbows on the table.

“He’s not too creative.” Teri remarked, tapping the spacebar. “Seventy-three is just his management ID number. Not too many people out in INSUPA intelligence.” She turned the computer around. “Real name Jacob Tindley. Forty-Five, been working in INSUPA intelligence for nearly thirty years.”

“What’s on his record? Anything on the COI sheet?” Eric asked, leaning in closer.

“Record isn’t too bad. Spent most of his time working relatively successfully long-term undercover assignments. Got some big fish, honestly.” She kept scrolling. “Pretty high agent turnover rate, even for his department.” Teri wrinkled her nose. “Look at the COI sheet. He’s got several LLCs registered under his name. Weird on its own, but this one-” She pointed to one called Erico Holdings. “-was flagged a day ago for an exchange of money with Raven Industries. I know because I flagged it.” She took a pause. “This is a direct, monetary connection with Albert Zorland and his mercenaries. I should’ve seen this way earlier.” Alex swallowed, feeling nauseous. “That bastard.” She cursed.

Joseph’s nostrils flared. “Asshole.” “I’ll start compiling a report, and find a way to get it to Rudick.” Teri said.

“Good.” Eric said, “Though there is a chance that once Tindley realizes we're onto him, he’ll take everything and run. He’s already been paid something for the info.”

“If Zorland has one, he might have another. And we know that INSUPA is shit at investigating andybody who’s been here for so long.” Joseph said. “Especially if it's supposed to be secret.”

Alex leaned back in her chair. “So we capture him ourselves. Record a confession. I could ask for a meeting.” She rolled her shoulders back. “He thinks he’s smarter than me. He’d do it.” Eric nodded. “Any objections.” The team shook their heads. “Let's do it.”

***

For the second time that day, Alex found herself punching in her handler's phone number again. She gave the robotic voice her identication code number and codename, then waited for him to pick up. “Good afternoon, Shevchenko.” Alex held up a finger to her lips, reminding everyone else to be quiet before she answered. “Good afternoon, seventy-three,” She said, trying to keep her nerves in check.

“I wasn’t expecting another call from you so soon.” Alex tried not to squirm at his voice, now that she knew what he was. “I was ambushed on the way to the safe house . Don’t trust the team they had me with.” Her fingers twitched. “I need to get out.”

“That’s the girl I trained,” Tindley said. Yesterday, the words would’ve made Alex smile. Now it made her want to throw up. “I’ll get something set up overnight. Meet me tomorrow, eight o’clock, Greenwich Park Pond, the one near the deer park. ”

“Thank you, Seventy-Three.” Alex said, going her best to make it sound genuine.

“No, thank you, Alex. For all the work you do.” The line went dead and, hands trembling, she set the phone down.

Tagging: @pigeonwhumps

[stargazer-sims]

Eden + Toy + Drink + Bearded (I know this is three words but I'm curious to see what you come up with. Plus I got these words randomly from a writing app I have.)

I’m working my way back to the rest of these @dandylion240. Here’s the next one. I had fun with this 😃

—————

Eden Seong is tired of group skating classes, he’s tired of his cousin Yi-Joon calling him by his Korean name, and most of all, he's tired of people thinking he needs a babysitter.

He's ten years old — practically a teenager — and he doesn't understand why someone can't just drop him off at the rink and pick him up again after. That's what the other kids’ families do. But no... stupid Yi-Joon has to sit there the whole time with his tall caramel macchiato or whatever and watch Eden practice like he actually knows something about skating.

Eden is just so... mad. About everything.

It's bad enough that Mommy can't bring him to the rink for his Saturday group class because it conflicts with Charlie and Sadie's art lessons, but now Dad can't bring him either because he decided it would be a good idea to join a community theatre group. So, that leaves his eighteen year old cousin, Yi-Joon as the only adult available to take him to the rink.

Yi-Joon came from South Korea back in the summer, and he's supposed to be living with Eden’s family for a year. It's February, which means Yi-Joon's time with them is only half over. Eden's not sure if he can put up with him for another half a year.

Eden grabs an orange safety cone and starts to push it around the ice. These silly orange pylons are another thing he dislikes. It's so babyish to have to skate around them like a beginner. He can already do a bunch of double jumps, and he’s secretly taught himself to do a triple toe loop, even though his coach said she didn’t think he was ready for it. He's so far ahead of everyone else in the group class, he feels embarrassed on their behalf.

His coach, Beth-Anne, isn't here yet. No one is, except for him and Yi-Joon. HIs cousin is obsessed with not being late for anything, so they're usually at least thirty minutes early for everything, and it's annoying.

Keeping one hand on the pylon, Eden rotates himself around it. Then, he picks it up and pretends he's ice-dancing with it.

"Yeon-Jin! That's not a toy!" Yi-Joon shouts from the stands, where he's sitting with his drink from the fancy coffee place he insists they have to stop at every Saturday.

Eden puts the pylon down and turns to glare up at his cousin. "My name is Eden!" he yells. "And stop telling me what to do! You're not the boss of me!"

"I am when your parents aren't here," Yi-Joon says.

"You are not!"

Frustrated, he spins around and kicks at the pylon. He's not sure how it happens, but he somehow loses his footing in the process of swinging his leg forward, and ends up landing on his bum. He yelps, startled by the impact.

He doesn't mean to cry, but Yi-Joon is laughing. He calls down to Eden, asking if he's okay, but the amusement in his voice completely wipes out any kind of concern he might've been trying to show. Eden can think of a thousand mean things he'd like to scream at his cousin, but he can't make any of them leave his brain and make their way to his mouth. He's crying too hard for that.

It's in this state that his coach finds him. He doesn't realize she's there until he hears her say his name. There's a lot more empathy in Beth-Anne's voice than had been in his cousin's.

He swipes his hand across his eyes and then looks toward one of the gates that opens onto the ice surface. Beth-Anne is there, and she has somebody with her; a slender, bearded man with glasses and floppy brown hair. The man is dressed in athletic pants and an oversized blue sweatshirt as if he's going to skate, but he obviously isn't going to because he's on crutches.

"Eden, are you okay?" Beth-Anne asks as she begins to glide toward him. "What happened?"

Eden scrambles to his feet and skates directly into her waiting arms. He sobs for all he's worth, heedless of the gaze of Yi-Joon or the bearded man. Beth-Anne hugs him tight. She's really the best at hugs, maybe even better than his mother.

"Everything is awful!" he manages to get out.

"Now, I wouldn't go that far," Beth-Anne says. "Everything can't be awful. There's got to be something that isn't."

"No... everything."

"Are you sure?" she asks. “What about grilled cheese? And ballet?"

Eden has to pause for a second to consider her words. He sniffles, and concedes. "No."

"There. You’re not awful either, and I’m pretty sure I’m not. So, everything's not awful. Just certain things."

"Yeah, I guess."

"Can you tell me why you're crying?"

"I fell.”

“Did you hurt yourself?”

“No.”

“Is there anything else that’s upsetting you?”

“I don't want to do agility with the cones any more," he says. That's only part of it, but he can't tell her the whole thing. Not with Yi-Joon there, and not with a stranger standing nearby. "I don't like group class. It's too easy and boring."

"I've been thinking about that, actually,” Beth-Anne says.

Surprised, Eden pulls back so he can see her properly. He’s pretty much done crying, and he rubs his eyes to clear them of tears. "Really?"

"Hmm..." She lets go of him and straightens up. "You'll start competing in the Novice division next season."

"Yeah," he says.

"I'll need to talk about it with your parents, of course, but I agree with you. I think you've outgrown group classes, and I think if you really want to keep skating competitively, you should have individual coaching all the time."

"Will you do it?" he asks. He hadn't expected this particular plot twist, and he suddenly forgets all about being angry and upset. Instead, he's excited. "I want to keep skating and maybe even get to the Olympics some day, and if you were my coach, that'd be awesome."

"I'll be your coach for the next couple of years, if that's what you and your parents want," Beth-Anne tells him. "When you're ready for Junior division, you might need somebody who can give you more time and attention."

"Somebody?" he echoes, curious. He can't imagine not having Beth-Anne as his coach. "Like who?"

"We'll have plenty of time to figure that out, but maybe this guy." She gestures at the bearded man. "You know, if he learns everything I'm going to teach him about coaching, and if the two of you get to know each other and decide you can get along."

Eden shifts his attention to the man. "Do you even know about skating?"

The man looks entertained. "I might know a thing or two."

Beth-Anne smiles. "Eden, this is Nikolai Pavlenko. He won gold at Worlds last season." She gestures at Eden and continues, "Nik, meet Eden Seong."

Nikolai Pavlenko. Eden scrunches his brow in concentration as he studies him. He recognizes the name, but... "My parents let me stay up to watch a bunch of stuff from Worlds last season. I watched your free skate, but you look different than you did when I saw you on TV."

Nikolai strokes his chin. "Maybe it's the beard. It's new."

"I like it. You think I can grow one some day?"

"Probably when you're older," Nikolai says.

"I'd look cool with a beard." Eden strokes his own chin, trying to imagine himself older and with facial hair. "If you were my coach, could you teach me to do quads?"

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Beth-Anne says. "You can't even do a triple yet."

"Yes, I can!" Eden retorts, and then quickly claps a hand over his mouth when he realizes he's just tattled on himself. "Um, I mean... Triple? What's that?"

Nikolai laughs out loud. "Oh, I already like you."

Really?"

"Beth-Anne, remember the back flip?" Nikolai says.

"Oh, lord..." Beth-Anne groans. "Don't give him ideas."

"Back flip?" Eden inquires.

"Never mind," says Beth-Anne. "Forget you heard that."

"Can you really do a triple, Eden?" Nikolai asks.

For a second, he panics because he doesn't know how to answer without getting in trouble. He glances at Beth-Anne, trying to guess how she might react.

It's almost like she's reading his mind. She shrugs. "If you can, you can. Never mind that I told you not to try it."

"I can," he confesses. "A triple toe loop."

"You don't become a champion without taking risks," says Nikolai. "You told me that, Beth-Anne. Remember?"

"You were my first student. What did I know back then?" she says.

"Eden, how old are you?" Nikolai wants to know. "You're starting Novice next season, so ten or eleven, right?"

"I'm gonna be eleven in May," he says.

"And you can do a triple already. Nice." Nikolai meets Beth-Anne's gaze. "Can he show me?"

Beth-Anne spreads her hands ln a gesture that Eden decides must mean basically tne same thing as shrugging. "Does it look like I can stop him?"

"You really wanna see it?" Eden says. "Beth-Anne, can I show him right now?"

Beth-Anne waves him back toward the centre of the ice. "You might as well go for it. Move a few of those cones first, though."

Eden grins, thrilled by this new turn of events. He pushes the pylons off to the side, one by one, making sure to get Yi-Joon's attention as he moves them around. Yi-Joon is frowning, as if he's the one who's mad now because Eden got to play with the cones after all and didn't get scolded for it by his coach. He feels a kind of wicked pleasure over that.

Once the pylons are all out of the way, Eden prepares himself for his jump. He pretends he's at a competition and that the stands are filled with spectators. Even if it's only in his imagination right now, his music is playing and he times his strides to the rhythm in his head, building up momentum.

Beth-Anne always tells him to picture his body as a spring, coiled tight and ready to unfold as he jumps. When he's ready, he leaps, spins...

One rotation. Two. Three.

Yes!

The landing isn't great, but he doesn't fall or stumble as he touches down. In his imagination, the crowd goes wild, cheering for him. The pretend spectators toss teddy bears and bouquets of flowers onto the ice.

In real life, Nikolai Pavlenko actually does cheer, and Beth-Anne lets out a breathless, "Well done!"

Eden skates back to them and gets rewarded with another hug from Beth-Anne. Still exhilarated from what he's just done, he exclaims, "Did you like it? Was I awesome?"

"You were awesome, sweetheart," she says. "I'm not letting you do that again for a while though, understand? You're brilliant, but it's not a good idea to rush you along. There'll be plenty of time to work on triples and quads when you're really ready, okay?"

He nods. "Okay."

"All right. Your friends are going to start showing up for class soon, so it's time to start putting the cones back. I'm going to help Nikolai find a place to sit, and then I'll help you set them up. Sound good?"

"Sounds good," he agrees.

He can't help showing off a little as he slides one the pylons back to the middle of the ice. He stops every few seconds to do footwork around it, and checks for Yi-Joon's reaction. He thinks he notices Yi-Joon mouth the words, "I'm telling your mother."

Eden sticks out his tongue at him and goes back to dancing with his cone.

Behind him, he distinctly hears Nikolai say. "When we're both ready, yeah. I definitely want to be his coach."

[swamp-spirit]

So I have a hoarding problem -

I haven't accepted this until very recently. I knew I 'struggled to keep my house clean', I even knew mental illness was a big part of this, but I never called it hoarding. It's even more recent that I'd be able to talk about it, but I've been learning how common it is, especially for people with anxiety, depression, ADHD, and OCD, so I wanted to talk a bit about my experience because I think it might help somebody else. Hoarding makes you feel gross and disgusting. It makes you feel like you should just go die and clean the world up a little.

If you see yourself in any of this, I want you to know that's good. Accepting this was a problem felt... physically painful, but it has been such a relief. Hoarding is usually less of a mental illness and more of a symptom of other mental illnesses. Realizing so many of my issues were rooted not just in executive function issues, but how those issues combined with my OCD. Like many other issues, the biggest turning point in hoarding is accepting that

A) You have a problem

B) You can get better

I feel so lucky to have realized what was happening so young (I'm thirty, while my two relatives with hoarding refused to deal with it until their 60s and 70s).

I knew my wife had hoarding issues. (FYI, she read over this and it's all shared with permission) She has what I've always thought of as hoarding: sentimental hoarding. It's the kind I think gets talked about the most, but some of the most emotionally painful to deal with. For various reasons, holding onto stuff from her past is really important to her, and it can be hard to get rid of any objects she connects to certain times, experiences, and people. I was able to recognize this as hoarding, but it took me a lot longer to recognize my own problem.

Two years ago, I moved into a new apartment with my wife. We never unpacked most of the boxes. Instead, they slowly became buried.

We couldn't use most of our house. I couldn't access most of my things. The shame was... intense. Every time apartment maintenance had to come in for three minutes to check something, I'd have panic attacks the whole week. Even now, even knowing it might help other people, it's hard for me to discuss the details of how my home looked and smelled. I never had a friend over the whole time I lived there.

So it turns out what I mostly deal with is trash hoarding.

On syndicated hoarding freak shows, trash hoarding is combined with sentimental hoarding. We can be fascinated by how anybody could have an emotional attachment to a bunch of old soda cans.

But I didn't have any attachment to my kitchen full of dirty, empty peanut butter jars. No, I just “cared about the planet”.

Let's break down how 'wanting to recycle' can become life-ruining.

OCD – I have, during quarantine, realized a lot of the overwhelming shame that's dominated my life is a form of OCD called 'moral-scrupulosity'. I want to go through life never doing harm, never hurting anyone's feelings, having any 'bad' opinions, liking any 'bad' media, or thinking any 'bad' thoughts. When I was in my agoraphobia phase, I became so scared of stepping on an insect that the thought of moving upset me.

Recycling is a big part of this. Being a human that creates waste is unacceptable. If it can be recycled, it should be. If it can't be, I shouldn't buy it. If I need it, ???. I should die? Self-flagellate until my carbon sins are atoned?

Hole covered shirts could be mended or cut into rags! And that broken laptop, wow, you can just get rid of a whole laptop? Okay, Bezos. People are starving to death, but I guess we can just afford to not salvage that for parts.

My parents are fantastic at recycling. They buy most things used, recycle everything they can, including driving boxes of sorted items out to the dump since there isn't a robust recycling program in my hometown.

So shouldn't I just be an obsessive recycler? Well, that's where we get

ADHD & Physical Disability

If you have the obsessive need to recycle, and the ability to recycle, you still have a problem. You may have a clean house and a reduced carbon footprint, but it will never feel good enough, because that's not how OCD works.

On the other hand, if you have the obsessive need to recycle, but not the ability... well, that's when you get 30 moldy peanut butter jars scattered throughout your kitchen. Which makes cleaning anything else in your kitchen more overwhelming, which makes it harder to get to the jars, and you're well on your way to spending the next decade hating yourself more and more as your home turns into a biohazard.

My apartment wasn't filled with trash because I 'thought it might be useful', my house was filled with trash because I was physically and mentally unable to recycle, but felt like accepting this and throwing it in the garbage was unforgivable. It doesn't help that there are people who will treat this as unforgivable, who won't understand why I felt the task was insurmountable, but it was, and I wasn't recycling. If I'd kept up what I was doing, all I would have done would be leaving a mess for somebody else to clean up when I died.

It Takes Two!

If I didn't have OCD, I could probably accept my limits and recycle what I could instead of trying to meet impossible standards. Actually, I'd probably recycle more if it was easier to give myself a clean work area. If I didn't have ADHD, I'd probably, you know, recycle the damn peanut jars more often.

Obviously this isn't the combination for everyone. Perhaps throwing things away makes you anxious, but depression has sapped your motivation to sort them.

Listen, if there's parts of your house you can't use (a room, a door, etc), if you're afraid to have people over because there's a pile of trash, it's time to take a look in the mirror and ask yourself if you're hoarding.

If you are, qualified help is probably best. There are professionals, both mental health and organization specialists, who do this for a living. There are also many great books on the subject and related subjects. (A friend recently recommended 'How to Keep House When You're Drowning' and I think it contains some great advice.)

One of the biggest things that has changed, however, is realizing why I act the way I do has been vital to getting myself out of it. I spent years trying to shame myself into keeping a cleaner space. Recently, I've been working on a practical, compassionate approach, figuring out how to make cleaning more accessible and tolerable. It's worked better than shame, but... well, it didn't clean the damn peanut butter jars, and it didn't convince me to throw them out.

I thought that keeping trash around to recycle later was better than throwing it out and ‘giving up’. It turns out keeping trash around actually just filled my house with trash, and seeing the overall pattern really helped me make those hard decisions. During my move across state, I got rid of three broken laptops. My wife and I recycled, donated, and, when necessary, trashed about half of what was in our home and... it's such a relief. It was hard. It was painful. I am so glad I did it.

I am not cured. Not falling into the same patterns will take work. I will need help. My home will never be clean enough to make that voice that says I'm disgusting and don't deserve to exist shut up, but I have been fighting that fight for years and have long passed the place where that felt pointless.

The shame is still raw, but shame makes you want to not talk about it, and... I know how much easier the past few years would have been if I'd seen more people openly talk about struggling with cleaning or hygiene, and when they do, somebody always comes in to say “actually, it's not acceptable to let it get that bad. You should be (showering every day/mopping every week/cleaning your sheets every week/recycling everything you can)”. Any attempt to provide comfort and connection when your struggle is less “my counter is a bit cluttered” and more “I can no longer use my kitchen” is met with the accusation that you're enabling bad behavior, that you are disgusting, you should be ashamed, and maybe if you just try, you won't be so gross. Honestly, I’ve really only ever heard about hoarding from the perspective of people struggling with a loved ones hoarding, and though dealing with a loved one's mental health struggles is painful and people should be encouraged to openly talk about it, if us hoarders don’t talk, it means only hearing about our mental illness from the perspective of how difficult it makes things for other people. (or with a recovery arc that fits into a 45 minute episode)

I can't say I'm not ashamed. I have a hoarding problem, it got bad, not even half as bad as it can get, but bad, and the shame is still enough to make me too ill to eat, but I am starting to feel like I don't deserve that shame. And if you struggle with hoarding, or any other problem you feel like is too 'gross' to talk about, I want to tell you that you don't deserve to feel this way.