#we are actually finally nearly done with the rough draft for their origin fic

[mortyinc]

op, i just wanted to you know that if i could only interact with Researcher Rick once I'd take his cheeks in my hands and kiss his forehead so lightly <333 He needs more love!

Give him an inch and he’ll take a mile.

[leah-bobeea]

Magazine Girl; Steve Rogers

You ever start writing a fic about a journalist reader at two am who’s eventually gonna end up doing steeb, over his desk, biting down on his expensive leather belt?

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Warnings: CEO!Steve x Journalist!Reader, Angst, Steve’s a little mean, Bossy Steve, Shy/Anxious reader, Dom!steve, mentions spanking, oral (m receiving), unprotected sex, coercion (a little teensy bit), Bad writing lol

Word Count: 3.9k

A/N: Terrible writing w/ a terribly rushed ending. Written on my phone, in my notes app, not beta read, and barely proofread.

❀ ❀ ❀

Yes, your hands were busy. Not busy typing out a rough draft of this stupid article on Steve Rogers, not busy calling his secretary to set up a meeting with the man, or the closest to him you could get, not busy doing their job at all. They were busy tapping your pen against the glass tabletop of your desk, successfully annoying Wanda, who sent you an aggravated look from across the room.

“Seriously, Y/n?” Wanda moved from where she was at her desk, clearly not making a breakthrough on her article for this month's issue either. You could only shake your head in reply. Throwing your head back to stare at the ceiling, you starting explaining. “Maria gave me this huge article, Wanda. Cover! And, trust me, I know she’s testing me and doesn’t think I’ll actually be able to do it so she can fire me, or belittle me, or- or something! I don’t know what to do, help me, bestie.” As you finished rambling you looked up at her with your best puppy dog eyes, hoping for some of that amazing advice she gives.

Wanda laughed and pulled a chair over from an empty desk, sitting down and haphazardly throwing her feet on top of your cluttered tabletop. “She wouldn’t give you an article you couldn’t handle, she loves you, Y/n. If it’s truly as difficult as you’re making it out as that means that she knows you’re ready for it, and you’ll do amazing. Who’s it on anyway?”

She was doing such a good job at easing your nerves until she brought up the topic. You whined high in your throat and threw your head to the side before uttering, “Steven Rogers,” you turned your body back to Wanda, “What more do I need to say?” Her eyes widened just a little. “Sheesh...I’d start making phone calls, and praying, maybe?”

❀ ❀ ❀

“Hello, Miss. Carter, um- this is Y/n L/n with Shield Mag-“ “Please hold, dear.”

You pulled the phone away from your head and let it rest on your naked thigh, quickly pressing the speaker button. It was times like this when you were grateful that you let your grandma convince you to buy a house phone. Peggy Carter was the fifth person you’d contacted trying to get an interview with this man and she was the second lady that humored you enough to at least pretend like she’d get back to you.

She’s his main assistant so you might have better luck this time...

Thirty minutes later you had your head inches off the ground and your toes wiggling in the air. Humming the annoying hold music to yourself, you braided, unbraided, and re-braided a single strand of your hair. At thirty-nine minutes you were ready to give up until you heard a click on the other line.

You scrambled to turn off the speaker and press the phone back to your ear.

“Miss. Carter I was hoping to set up an interview with Mr. Rogers, over the phone, in person, or through email, if that’s possible?” You asked, hopeful that she wouldn’t shoot you down immediately like everyone else.

“Well, Magazine Girl, I only do in person. But I am a very busy man, so I need to know right away, what’s in it for me?” Your breath hitched and you almost fell and cracked your head open from how startled hearing his voice made you. Then, you nearly gave yourself a head rush from how fast you sat up.

“Well, um, Sir, you would get a headlining article, and uh, a cover on the June issue of Shield Magazine. That’s um, that’s if you want a cover- you don’t have to be on the cover if you don’t want to, just the interview would be mentioned on the cover, but-“ His chuckle was gritty and vivid, effective in stopping your babble. “I’ll see you Friday around noon. Goodbye Magazine Girl.” He hung up on you before you could even comprehend anything but that captivating laugh.

You rubbed at your eyes and grabbed your planner and pen. “Friday at noon...”

❀ ❀ ❀

The next day you were back in the office, sitting in Wanda’s stiff chair with twin caramel lattes sitting in front of you. That was the thing about you, you’d come to work early bearing gifts just to tell your closest friend your good news. You’re sweet like that.

When Wanda arrived it was fifteen minutes later and your latte was halfway gone. Hearing her black stilettos click on the glossy linoleum made you perk up immediately. As she approached, you stood, handing her the latte and wrapping your arms around her lithe body.

“I got an interview!” You squealed, rocking your bodies side to side. She stilled you and smiled. “Gosh, that’s great, Y/n. How’d you get it?”

“Well, I called, like everyone, and he picked up, Wanda! he picked up! I’m scheduled for Friday, and my Lord, Wanda, his laugh, it's like honey...” You trailed off, sighing at the thought of him. Your head was rested on her shoulder, a faint smile on your face. “You’ve got a crush on him!” Wanda exclaimed, grabbing your shoulders and holding you an arm's length away to get a good look at your bashful face.

You gasped, “No I do not! That would be totally unprofessional!” The cackle that erupted from her made her sound like the wicked witch of the west. And honestly, under her stare, you felt like Dorothy stuck under that house.

When Wanda was finally done laughing maliciously she let you go, plopping down in her desk chair and sipping her latte. She pointed over and your desk and gave you a look. “Better start drafting those questions... we wouldn’t want you to blank on your crush.” “Wanda!”

❀ ❀ ❀

The days leading up to Friday were excruciatingly long, yet the hours until twelve flew past all too quickly.

It seemed as if your wardrobe was never ending, full of clothes that you deemed inappropriate for a meeting with the CEO of American Enterprises. You threw yourself back onto the bed, hair and makeup done but body still wrapped in a fluffy white towel. “Oh Milky, what am I gonna wear?” The soft white kitty glared at you from the pillow she was perched on, meowing at you aggressively.

Ten thirty blinked on the clock and you sat up, glancing at all of the clothes that were scattered on the floor. “I guess this will do.” You picked up the same emerald blazer you had chosen originally and layered it over some basic Levi’s, and gray low cut blouse flowing over your form. A belt was necessary, so you grazed over your options. Brown wouldn’t go, even though it was your only fancy belt. The only black one you had was old, the leather cracked and worn, but it had to do. You slipped on some pretty black heels, lucky that you painted your toes a similar color to your blouse. After accessorizing you sprayed your signature perfume, the one that got you your first college-aged boyfriend, and the same one that you were wearing when you got your first real job.

By the time you were on the Metro, it was eleven o’ six, and you were worried. If you were late you’d lose this chance, and probably your job. The car stopped around eleven fifteen, giving you fifteen minutes to make your way to the building, check-in, and try to not seem so nervous.

Finding the building wasn’t difficult at all, after all, it is the second biggest building in New York City, competing with Stark Tower. The “A” at the top wasn’t illuminated, but it still stood out against the other buildings, cowering over them.

You found that the doors were heavy and if you denied Wanda of going to those burn boot camps you would have extreme difficulty prying them open. The inside was classy, just as you expected. The lamps had blue shades and the front desk lit up with a design that resembled the American Flag, but with less curved stripes and only one large star.

The receptionist was one of the women who shot you down immediately when you called and was a little surprised when you checked in. “Hello, I’m here for Mr. Rogers, twelve o’clock?” She searched for something on her computer, clearly trying to see if the appointment was legitimate. When you were proven correct, she handed you a temporary security badge and a sharpie to write your name on it. “Have a seat over there when you’re finished. I’ll call for you when Mr. Rogers is ready for you.” She smiled, it was fake, but it helped you feel more comfortable.

The red couch was stiff and small, clearly not meant for long periods of sitting. The badge was clipped onto your blouse, not your blazer, and the weight of it was pulling at the already low cut neckline. You thought about moving it, but your attention was quickly turned to the coffee table, where your magazine sat, opened to an article you wrote. Your hands were a little shaky as you went to close the magazine, but you were interrupted before you could grasp the bent pages.

“Miss. Y/n? Mr. Rogers is ready for your interview. Head up to floor thirty six, the door on the right.” Miss receptionist sounded bored, her eyes never left the monitor in front of her. “Thanks.”

Some of the others in the waiting area looked up to you after hearing where you were going, causing you to blush.

You felt lucky to get the elevator to yourself. Thirty-six floors is a long way to go, yet you got there in under three. In the elevator you adjusted your outfit and flattened your hair, hoping it wasn’t frizzy.

The door on the right was clearly not just a meeting room but an office, which you thought was odd. You also found it odd that no one was in the room, you expected to at least be met with his assistant or secretary, if not Steve himself.

Your eyes scanned the room to make sure it was completely empty before taking a seat on the leather chair on the opposite side of the big desk. You opened your notebook and got out your lucky rooster pen before going over your questions once again, hoping he didn’t think they were stupid.

You waited fifteen minutes for him, growing increasingly irked as the minutes built up. When he walked through the door you felt like your heart stopped.

Six-four build covered in a black suit and tie, white undershirt pristine. Blonde hair disheveled and a perfectly manicured beard. The door slammed shut and you heard the clinking sound of a glass being set down. Steve lifted his head and you snapped yours to the front, hoping he didn’t catch you checking him out.

The room was silent besides a rustling coming from behind you. You busied yourself with your notebook, highlighting the questions you wanted to ask most.

“You’re a very patient girl.” He observed. Steve made you wait on purpose. He knew from the first person you called that you wanted an interview, he was friends with Maria Hill after all. But he wanted some entertainment, and after looking into you, he knew you were the right girl. So far he’s made you wait an hour and fourteen minutes for just a smidge of his attention.

“Yes, Sir.” You mumbled, accidentally stopping the highlighter too soon, pressing it down, and letting the pink ink bleed to the next page. He hummed in approval as he rounded the corner, drink in his hand, coat jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up, first couple buttons loose. Finally, Steve sat in the big chair, keeping eye contact with you as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the mahogany table.

“Give me that.” Your eyebrows furrowed at his statement, “What?” You asked, putting your pen down on your lap. Steve motioned for your notebook, and you opened your mouth, starting to stumble over your words. “Oh? um- Okay?” You handed it over to him and he relaxed back into his chair. A question bubbled in your throat, but you didn’t let it escape. Instead, you watched as his eyes scanned the papers, blue cursive, and pink highlighter, little stars and flowers drawn in the corners. “Mr. Rogers, are you ready to start the interview?” You tapped your watch, twelve twenty four.

He nodded, “Yes, I’m ready.” You cleared your throat and went to ask for your notebook, but he beat you to it. “Miss. L/n, is there an achievement or something that you’ve contributed to me that you are most proud of?” Why was he asking you your own questions? “Sir, I-“ He cut you off once again. “Answer the question, doll.”

You huffed and crossed your arms over your chest. “I- um, no. I haven’t contributed anything to you that I should be proud of, Sir.”

“Is there a particular moment or memory of building this relationship that stands out to you?” He continued with the questions, tilting his head to the side. Why was he twisting the questions onto you? When you didn’t come up with an answer he chuckled, sounding sickly sweet like molasses dripping straight from the sugarcane. “Patience finally wearing thin, honey?” You nodded eyes staring at his chest, you couldn’t quite muster up the courage to look him in the eye.

He snapped your notebook closed and slid it towards your side of the grand desk. “You couldn’t answer my questions correctly, Y/n.” You nodded, eyes now downcast, admiring the pattern on the blue carpet. You felt like you were going to cry. This big scary man was mean and just wouldn’t let you conduct your interview and you didn’t know why. “I’m sorry, Sir.”

“I know you are, doll. But, if you can’t answer my questions how can I answer yours? You have nothing to offer me.” This was it, you were losing your chance. “Business wise, that is.” Your head shook, and your hands were clasped together, your left thumb rubbing your right nail back and forth. “I don’t understand, Sir.”

“I’m friends with Maria, Y/n. If you’re able to get this article done and get me on the cover you’re gonna get a promotion, you want that, right doll?” Your eyes went wide, “Yes, Sir.” Now, he stood, coming around to the front where you are and leaning against the desk. “She said to make it difficult, but I don’t care enough to do all that. So, doll, I’ll answer your questions. They’re quite good actually. And I’ll do a little photoshoot for the cover, but you’ll need to pay me back.” You gulped, hands suddenly sweaty, you felt like a little chihuahua, trembling under his gaze.

“How? Um, how do I pay you?” Gosh, even your voice was shaky. “Stand up. Lose the blazer.” Steve commanded, slowly unbuckling his belt. You could faintly tell from the buckle that it was Hermès. You stood and took off your blazer in a rush, folding it poorly and setting it on the arm of the chair. “Atta girl.”

He placed his hands on your shoulders and then ran them down to your hands, giving them a little squeeze before he hooked his index fingers into your belt loops, pulling you closer. So close that the tips of your shoes were touching. He leaned down to kiss your neck and you stiffened, but when he grazed his teeth over the bruised spot he just created you melted into him, your hands grasping at the pristine white button up, letting out a little whimper.

Steve pushed you back a little and took in your form, then he pulled the little security badge off, tossing it to the side. Like a little kid, he pulled at the neckline of your shirt. “Off.” You would’ve giggled at him if he didn’t look so scary right now. His blue eyes were piercing into yours, left hand so tight on your hip you thought he might leave bruises.

By the time your shirt hit the floor, he was pushing at your shoulders, hinting at you to go to your knees. “Sir, I don’t know-“

You started, knees hitting the carpet underneath you. He shushed you and guided your head to look up at him. “It's okay, baby, you don’t have to know how. I’ll do all the work, doll. Now, undo your bra.” As expected you did as he asked immediately, fumbling with the clasp until it fell down your arms. It ended up next to your thigh as you watched him pull his belt through the loops.

Steve walked around you and kneeled down, belt in his hands. “Put your hands behind your back.” You nodded immediately, so submissive, completely at his mercy. “Yes, Sir.” Steve loved how polite you were. He made quick work of restraining you, tying your hands to rest against your jean clad ass. The metal felt harsh against your skin and the soft, expensive leather snaked up your arms.

When he was back in front of you he sighed and shook his head. “I should’ve had you unzip me first.” Hearing Steve say that finally brought you to the reality of what was about to happen. You watched with big eyes as he undid the button and then the zipper, the sound making you tremble. His dress pants puddled on the floor and you were in awe as he massaged his bulge through his boxers. Slowly, he pulled them down to the middle of his thighs. His cock bounced up to hit his abdomen and he hissed as he stroked it a few times. “Open as wide as you can, honey.”

As always, you did as asked. Your tongue stuck out a little, wetting your bottom lip. He grasped the back of your head and leaned you forward a little, then you felt his blunt tip on your tongue. You gagged and spluttered when Steve was about halfway seated, he pulled out and leaned down, kissing you sloppily. “Breathe through your nose, baby. Don’t forget.” Then he was back at slowly entering your throat. “Fuck...” he grunted, finally fully seated in your throat, your nose pressed against his nicely groomed pubic hair. He caressed your throat then, rubbing the bulge in your throat, resisting the urge to press down and have you choke on his cock even more. “So good, Y/n.”

Steve started rocking into your throat, slowly fucking it as spit leaked from the corners of your mouth. After minutes of abusing your throat, he finally pulled out, adoring the way tears ran down your cheeks and how you hiccupped, wanting to desperately rub at your raw throat to soothe it. Your hands pulled at the belt and your eyes begged Steve to undo it. “Up, doll.”

He hoisted you up from your armpits and bent you over the desk. Steve pressed kisses down your back and reached in front of you, unbuckling your belt and throwing it somewhere to the left of you, then he unbuttoned and unzipped your pants, tugging them down with fervor.

Steve undid your restraints and left more kisses down your back until he reached your ass, spreading your cheeks to reveal your tight hole and glistening cunt. “I’d love to see this ass all bruised and red, but I’ll have to save that for another day.” His index and middle finger ran circles on your clit, your back arching to press into him more. “Sir, please!” You gasped, your hand flying out to the edge of the table and nearly knocking over the glass of whiskey he left on a coaster when Steve finally pushed two fingers into your aching hole.

“Gotta open you up first, doll, get you all sloppy and ready for my cock.” You cried out as he hooked his fingers, rubbing the magic spot inside of you. “Please, Steve, please.” He cooed at you, pulling his fingers out, and instead traced his name over your clit. “You gonna come, baby? Huh? You gonna drench my fingers, little girl?” You were moaning in wanton, hips humping his hand desperately. He brought his other hand down and started fingerfucking you again, giving you just enough to push you over the edge.

Your moans were breathy, your legs twitching, and you were panting by the time your orgasm faded. “I hope you know I’m not done with you yet, doll, I still haven’t come inside you.” That made you whine high in your throat and you tried, to no avail, to slam your legs shut around his hand.

Steve’s right hand fisted his cock a few times, making sure he’s rock hard and dripping with pre-cum, while his left kept your lips spread, showing him your gorgeous pussy. The blunt head at your entrance shocked you, and you yelped at the intrusion. “Sir!”

He leaned his head down and spit where you were joined, trying to make the glide even easier. “Shut up, doll.” He snapped after you cried out. Once he was as deep as possible inside of you he reached for his belt, looping it over as if he was going to spank you, and stuffed it into your mouth. “Bite down,” Steve demanded, a hand snaked around to the front of your neck where he was applying light pressure.

When you tried to push back against him he held your hips down against the wood steadily and started snapping his hips at a fast speed. Each thrust pushed you down onto the table, letting your clit rub against the mahogany wood.

Your vision felt spacey like you could black out any moment as he choked you. Your orgasm washed over you and you had to use all the strength you had in you to keep biting down on the belt. You didn’t want to know what would happen if you disobeyed his and let it go. Steve’s hips harshly snapped against your ass a few more times before he stilled inside of you, filling you with his spunk.

Before Steve cleaned you up and let you leave his office he had to finger his cum back inside of you, making sure none of it went to waste. Then, he made sure you had a way home, and a way to contact him, because, “Now you’re no longer Magazine Girl, but My Girl.”

@lo-bells

[ryqoshay]

Putting on Hairs - Post Production: Shizuku v Kasumi

Primary Pairing: ShizuKasu Rating: T? Words: 517 AU: Theater (their monster types are not important here) Fandom: Love Live Nijigasaki Parent Fic: Putting on Hairs - Post Production Time Frame: Sometime before the main story Event: Promptober 2022 Event Source: Idol Fanfic Heaven channel on Discord Prompt: Ninja Content Warning: Major Character Death (?)

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Author’s Note: Bonus 3rd entry for Oct 15th

Summary: Shizuku approaches Kasumi about something

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“Nakasu-san.”

Kasumi nearly jumped out of her skin. “Shi… Osaka-san?” She asked, mirroring the level of formality she thought they had both passed. “Why are you calling me that?”

“It is you, is it not?”

“Me? Of course, I am me. What are you talking about?”

“You acted surprised, when in fact, you knew of my presence before I turned the corner. Because I allowed you to know.”

“You’re not making any sense, Osaka-san.”

“You were about to assassinate my master.”

Kasumi narrowed her eyes.

“Everything you’ve done over the last month has been an act leading up to this moment.” Shizuku continued. “And while it took me a little while to figure it out, then a bit longer to admit it all to myself, I am here now to prevent the finale of your act.”

Kasumi’s hand hovered over the hidden hilt of her sword.

“It was all a lie, was it not. Your feelings for me.”

“No.” Kasumi admitted. “That wasn’t part of the mission.”

“I see.” Shizuku’s gaze turned down.

Kasumi seized the presented opportunity and lunged toward the other woman.

To an untrained observer, it may have appeared that Shizuku never moved. And that Kasumi’s strike landed, ending the battle in her favor.

However, Kasumi came to a stop behind Shizuku, glanced down at herself. Then collapsed.

“I’m sorry… Kasumi-chan…” Shizuku said quietly as she resheathed her blade.

The samurai turned solemnly, stooped, and lifted the ninja’s body into her arms. Then, bearing a weight far greater than that of her fallen foe, she went to find somewhere to bury her former lover.

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Kasumi stared at the script in her hand.

“So, what do you think?” There was clear anticipation in Shizuku’s voice. “I’m using our names as placeholders for now, but I’ll come up with actual character names for the finished work.”

“…”

“Kasumi-chan?”

“Shizuko~!” Kasumi wailed.

“K… Kasumi-chan?” Shizuku uttered as her girlfriend barreled into her.

“Why do you always have to write us so tragically? Why can’t we get a happy ending as a couple on stage for once? Does Shizuko really want to kill her little Kasumin that badly?”

Shizuku couldn’t help laughing lightly at Kasumi’s melodramatics but reached up to pat her head gently anyway. “You know I have no desire to kill my girlfriend. And you know I have a fondness for tragic stories.”

Kasumi huffed, though still seemed receptive of the head pats.

“Chika-san and Yuu-san seem better equipped to write happy and fun plays.” Shizuku decided to say. “Perhaps I will ask one of them to write a happy ending for us.”

“That’s fine, but I’d still rather star alongside my girlfriend in a play she wrote for us.” Kasumi sighed. “Even if it is a tragedy.”

“So, other than the ending, what did you think?”

Kasumi detached herself from Shizuku and picked up the discarded papers. “It’s a good rough draft.” She said. “And I really liked this one scene…” She flipped through the pages to find it.

And with that, the couple settled into discussing a potential new play for the theater.

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Author’s Note Continued: I originally suggested to someone on the Discord channel who was struggling to come up with an idea to write something based on Shizuku’s solo Eieisa. Maybe some samurai v ninja thing. And then immediately wanted to write about myself.

Whether or not this becomes another play at the Sonoda Kurosawa theater remains to be seen. But if it does, I can almost assure that Shizuku will say “Aye Aye, Sir!” and the focal character will think to themselves “Eieisa?”

[kerikaaria]

Hanging by a Thread

(Yoongi x Taehyung) Oneshot, Soulmate!au

Genre: (NC-17) ANGST. BUCKETS OF ANGST. With some fluffy fluff.

Warnings: Alcohol consumption (just some friends hanging out and going to a bar and club, nothing crazy), mentions of past abuse (undetailed and brief), homophobic side character, brief mention of minor character’s death (happened in the past)

WC: 16.3k

Description: Yoongi thinks he is unlovable, and Taehyung doesn’t believe in soulmates. When they meet, Yoongi feels a spark of hope that maybe, just maybe, this person can love him the way he craves. Except, Taehyung only gives Yoongi a single glance before walking away, taking the last piece of his heart with him.

A/N - This fic is submitted for the “Dishonest Love” project for Valentine’s Day 2021 with @thebtswritersclub​ ! It was something that the amazing @eternalseokjin​ had pitched to me months ago when I said I wanted to write something angsty but didn’t know what, and here it is, FINALLY done! It’s also my first official MxM fic, in honor of the great MxM writer who pitched me the idea. Thank you, Dean! <3

Also, I had wanted to get a beta reader for this but.... I literally just finished and am posting it LITERALLY last minute after quickly reading and editing through myself. So if there’s stuff I missed, sorry! I hope it still reads well!

Yoongi walked into the now familiar building, easily directing himself to the third floor as usual. He had been routinely coming here for a few weeks now, and he found himself looking forward to his meetings with Jimin. The building itself was a bit smaller than he had originally expected for an entertainment company, and he remembered needing to stop and take a look around the first time he walked through the front doors. The lobby was rather welcoming, not so monochrome and sleek as many other businesses liked to keep their interiors.

The comfy-looking couches in the seating area were complementary tones of brown and blue, the plants placed nearby looking much more real than the plastic ones found at Yoongi’s workplace. The bit of actual life brought into the lobby just added to the much more welcoming feel here, something Yoongi had really come to appreciate these past weeks. Wall-length windows brought plenty of natural light into the open room, and along with the colorful but tasteful art hanging on the walls, the area emitted a warmth that reached into Yoongi’s bones. Much different from the cold atmosphere he was used to.

He didn’t even need to stop at the reception desk on his way in anymore since the staff easily recognized him. After the first week, he didn’t need to schedule appointments anymore either. He and Jimin would text and arrange their own times when they were available to meet.

Walking into the studio they were using, that now had temporary touches of Yoongi as well since he spent a fair amount of time working there, was more than natural by this point. It even felt more comfortable than his own studio lately.

Jimin smiled lazily at Yoongi. “Hey, Yoongi!”

“Hey, Jimin,” Yoongi responded as he pulled out the couple pieces of equipment he liked to use and always brought with him since they weren’t available here. “I have a demo to share with you today.”

Jimin’s eyes widened in excitement. “Really? Let me hear it!”

Yoongi chuckled. “Let me get set up first, huh?”

The first meeting Yoongi had with Jimin weeks ago went better than he had expected. He seemed to be just about as nice and personable as he acted in public, which was something Yoongi certainly couldn’t say for many of the other artists he worked with. By the end of it, he felt like he had a pretty good understanding of the type of song that Jimin was hoping to sing.

To be honest, Yoongi was surprised his company even agreed to let him meet with Jimin at all. This certainly wasn’t the first time someone from another label had requested a song produced by SUGA, but it was the first that his company approved. Usually they’d instantly refuse the request, wanting to keep Yoongi’s work exclusively for them.

Maybe they felt like Jimin wasn’t enough of a threat to compete with their own artists. But even just from the research Yoongi had done prior to meeting him, listening to his music and watching a few interviews to get an idea of who he’d be working with, he knew better. Jimin might not have been at the top, but he had been steadily gaining popularity since he first debuted a few years ago. He for sure had the talent, not only in singing but also dancing, and with just the right song and publicity he was sure Jimin would become a force to be reckoned with in the industry.

Working with Jimin on this song had been more than a breath of fresh air for Yoongi as well. The label Jimin belonged to didn’t feel the need to dictate every step they took with the song, letting them have the freedom to come up with a song that was a pleasant middle ground between what Yoongi wanted to write and what Jimin wanted to perform. Which surprisingly enough, was much less of a middle ground and more like almost exactly what both of them wanted.

After getting everything set up and pulling up the track that he finished putting together last night, Yoongi pressed play. It was still rather rough, needed finetuning and a more solid melody to go with it, but Yoongi felt like he managed to write something that both of them would be happy with.

The first few demos he made didn’t quite fit the bill, either Jimin not liking it as much as Yoongi wanted him to, Yoongi himself not being completely happy with the outcome, or a combination of both. But this one, he felt was different. He had a feeling this song was going to be it.

A smile quickly spread on Jimin’s face as he listened, giving away that he was indeed pleased with the song. He refrained from commenting until after the last beat had finished, but as soon as it did words flooded from him.

“Wow, that sounds amazing! It’s almost like you looked into my mind and managed to turn exactly what I was hoping for into a reality. I absolutely love it!”

Yoongi tried not to feel embarrassed from the praise as he smiled to himself. “Well, I mean my notebook filled with notes on what you wanted your song to be is pretty much that.” He shrugged. “I just wrote something based on those notes, and based on what I wanted to do.”

“I might be prejudiced,” Jimin said, “but I really think this might even end up being better than all your other songs,” Jimin said, tone light but seeming to only be partially joking. “It just sounds more… I don’t know. More real? Like not as artificial or manufactured.”

When Yoongi stared unmoving at Jimin for a moment, the singer backtracked a bit. “That’s not to say that your songs are bad, or anything! I really love them! It’s why I asked if we could reach out to your company, see if you could write me a song. But, I don’t know. It just sounds different.”

“I agree,” Yoongi admitted, nodding. “Sometimes I don’t even recognize my own work by the time it ends up being released, to be honest.”

Jimin furrowed his brows at him. “What do you mean?”

The elder casually shrugged. “It’s nothing. But if this gets through, I think I’ll be really happy with it.”

Jimin smiled brightly, eyes almost closed from the force of it. “Everyone will love it. I just know it.”

Yoongi was a pretty reserved person, finding very few people who he considered friends. But despite not being nearly as social or chatty as Jimin was, he found himself hoping that even after their song was done and released that they would keep in touch.

During the second week of working together, he had caught himself staring at the string on his finger that was only visible to himself many times. It was almost as if he hoped that it would suddenly connect to the other man in the room. Of course, he couldn’t be that lucky. It didn’t bother him, though. He quickly stopped the habit and was perfectly happy with the friendship that was possibly forming between the two of them.

However, it wasn’t much longer that he had to wait for the string that usually faded out into nothing to finally connect to its other end. In fact, it was later the same day that Yoongi had played the first draft of what they finalized as the new song for Jimin.

Yoongi was on his way back to his apartment when he felt it. A tiny tug on his hand that he barely noticed at first. But just a moment later, there it was again. When he looked down, he could see that it was the thread attached to his finger, the string longer than usual and pulled taut.

His heart sped up at the idea of his soulmate being nearby. After 26 years, he thought he’d never meet them. That he was just doomed to be alone and never feel loved. But his soulmate would love him, wouldn’t they? They had to.

Yoongi followed the string, trying to focus on that single task and not think too hard about who could be on the other end. The red thread was leading him toward a higher end clothing store, growing even longer the closer he got until he was standing just outside of the entrance to the shop.

He took in a deep breath, preparing himself before pulling the glass door open.

Once he was inside, the thread no longer tapered off into nothingness, but instead finished its path. Yoongi carefully followed it until he found the person it was connected to. He slowly took in the figure, feeling all of his breath leave him at once.

On the other end of the string was the most handsome man Yoongi had ever laid his eyes upon, perusing a rack of colorful shirts. Curly dark locks just long enough to fall into his eyes, facial features striking enough for him to be a model, and a gorgeous tan to his skin.

Yoongi was speechless, suddenly unsure of how to approach this man who was made to be his soulmate. He couldn’t help the brief feeling that he looked vaguely familiar, but shrugged it off. He would have certainly known if they met before. Worried that he would come across as a creep just staring at the stranger, he turned around to find something in the store to pretend to contemplate buying—although everything here was more expensive than what he’d usually buy.

As he started walking in the other direction he felt the tug on his hand once more, the string apparently wanting him to keep approaching the man on the other end. Yoongi looked over his shoulder to see if the other had noticed, and he froze when he met the beautiful man’s gaze.

The stranger’s eyes flickered down, clearly looking at the red thread tying them together. He then glanced up once more, again meeting Yoongi’s line of sight, before starting to walk in his direction.

Yoongi opened his mouth as the handsome man approached, ready to introduce himself to his soulmate. But before he could even get a syllable out, the man had walked right past him, opening the door and leaving the store. He didn’t look back even once.

Yoongi could feel the string pulling and tugging, not wanting the two of them to be separate after it had finally connected. The line remained taut, not dimming or fading out for a few moments. But then Yoongi could have sworn he felt it snap as it slackened, the string falling and its connection fading out into nothingness and resuming its usual length on Yoongi’s finger, a little duller than it had been before.

Yoongi stood in the middle of the store, unable to move. He had waited for 26 years to meet his soulmate, the one person in this world that he had hoped would be able to love him, only for him to walk away without a word.

“Sir, if you’re not going to buy anything, would you please leave?” a store associate said, returning Yoongi’s mind to the present.

He bowed in apology before walking out the door, staring wistfully in the direction that his soulmate had left.

Apparently not even fate had the power to make someone love him.

By the time Yoongi downed his third beer, Namjoon was looking worried. But he wasn’t going to ask. That was one of the things Yoongi loved about his best friend. He could read him like an open book, but also knew that if there was something to talk about he would come to it in his own time. Namjoon didn’t push or pressure him to talk before he was ready, just waited for him to be.

When Yoongi had knocked on Namjoon’s door with an abundance of beer and chicken wings, the latter already knew that something was up and his friend needed company. His understanding wife called her own friends to arrange a night out and let the men have the house to themselves. She was also Yoongi’s friend, but she knew this was something that only Joon could help with.

It wasn’t until the fifth beer that Yoongi had enough liquid courage in him to tell Namjoon what was on his mind. Gripping the half-empty bottle, he muttered out the words he never thought would end up being as solemn as they were.

“I met my soulmate.”

Namjoon’s eyes widened as he took a good look at the elder. “Seriously?” Answered with a single nod, he only became more confused. “So what’s wrong?” he carefully asked. “I figured when that happened we’d be drinking to celebrate, but you’re not exactly in a celebratory mood.”

Yoongi took in a deep breath in preparation for the next words he would mutter. “He took one look at me and walked away. Didn’t even say a word.”

The look on Namjoon’s face fell into solemn understanding. “Oh,” he said. “Yeah, that… That explains it.”

“Am I that disgusting?” Yoongi asked, looking up at the other earnestly. “Am I that ugly? That undesirable? Just one look, and he hated me already.”

“I highly doubt that, Yoongs,” Namjoon said. “First off, you’re not ugly. You’re actually very good looking, and not at all disgusting. But to hate someone just by looking at them without knowing anything about them? Impossible. Are you sure he saw you?”

“He looked me right in the eyes, Joon,” Yoongi said exasperatedly, harshly setting his bottle down on the table. “Looked me in the eyes, looked back at our string, then walked right past me and out the door.”

Namjoon chewed on his bottom lip in thought. He was going to try to rationalize, just like his smart brain always did. Always trying to think logically before emotionally. “Maybe he had never been interested in men before,” he suggested. “It may have been a shock to him to see that his soulmate was a man.”

“I don’t know. He didn’t look shocked or confused or anything. He had the most blank expression on his face. Like he just didn’t care.”

Namjoon opened his mouth to say something, but decided against it, looking away. But Yoongi had a pretty good idea what he was thinking. That maybe he was one of those people who didn’t care about soulmates. It wasn’t very common, but not unheard of. Maybe that was him, maybe he was already in a relationship. But did he have to just ignore Yoongi, though?

“But did he have to just ignore me, though?” Yoongi voiced his last thought. “He could have said something, at least.”

Shrugging, Namjoon took a swig from his second bottle. “It would have been nice of him to, definitely. I’m sorry man, I really don’t know what to say other than whether it’s your soulmate or not, you’ll find someone for you.”

“Yeah, the odds aren’t looking too good for that,” Yoongi scoffed before chugging almost the rest of his bottle.

“I’ve already said it so many times, but I’ll say it again,” Namjoon said, honest and strong gaze fixated on his friend. “You’re worth love, Yoongi. Regardless of how others have treated you in the past. They don’t matter. And if this soulmate of yours really doesn’t want to even give you a chance, then he doesn’t either. You’re worthy of being loved, deserve to be loved. The right person will come around eventually.”

Yoongi wanted to argue, but he knew he wouldn’t win. When it came to this topic, Namjoon would always have the last word, refusing to let Yoongi believe anything else. Every time he had been hurt, whether it was by yet another person who found his sexuality disgusting or someone who told him all the right words only to break his heart in the end, Namjoon was always there. He always gave him the ‘you’re not worthless’ speech. While Yoongi was heavily inclined to not believe it, it had always been enough to at least keep him going.

The two fell back into silence—not uncomfortable, but still heavy with the weight of Yoongi’s heart. It didn’t matter if no more words were exchanged until they decided they were done drinking and went to sleep. Yoongi would fall asleep next to his best friend, at least comforted by the fact that even if he never found someone who would love him the way he craved, he had someone who did love him in some way and would never leave him alone.

One of the benefits of Yoongi’s personality that he’d realized years ago was that when he was upset about something, the average person was none the wiser. A storm could be brewing in his mind, but because his expression was blank and his eyes had a hardened look to them during even a normal day, no one would have any idea. Well, except for Namjoon.

It meant that he didn’t have people constantly asking him what was wrong. Which he was extremely thankful for when he saw Jimin again two days later, the singer coming to visit Yoongi at his own studio this time. It was possible he took notice that Yoongi was a tad less talkative than normal, but if he did notice anything at all he just shrugged it off easily.

“Do you not like decorating?” Jimin asked after they finished working on the song for the day.

“What do you mean?” Yoongi asked, eyebrows raised.

“I noticed that you don’t really have much of a… personal touch to your studio,” Jimin shrugged.

“Not allowed,” Yoongi mumbled in response as he shut down the computer.

“You’re not allowed to decorate? Not at all?”

“Nope. The studio belongs to the company, not me. I just use it.”

“Huh.” Jimin seemed genuinely confused at the concept. “But like, people who have office jobs are allowed to decorate their spaces. They have pictures at their cubicles, or if they have a room to themselves they can arrange it how they want, can’t they?”

Yoongi shrugged. “I guess. I don’t know. It’s not like the studio we’re using at your company is decorated with your stuff.”

“Yeah, but we’re just borrowing it,” Jimin countered. “After we’re done with the song, someone else will use it. Whenever I visit the producers at our company, their studios are always decorated. Each one looks different, unique to them.”

“I don’t really care either way,” Yoongi said. “It’s just a room.”

The younger’s face scrunched up a bit, deep in thought for a moment. “It just feels like you don’t have much freedom here,” he carefully said after a moment.

“Comes with the territory, I guess,” Yoongi said. “I work for my boss, not myself. He decides what is good and what isn’t.”

“But the tracks you showed me earlier, they sounded so much better than the versions that were released. They were amazing.”

Earlier when they were a bit dry on ideas for the song, Jimin had been curious about demos of some of Yoongi’s other music, and so the producer had decided to play a few samples for him. Yoongi absolutely agreed with Jimin, but it didn’t matter. It wasn’t up to him what was good or not.

“Our company doesn’t do that,” Jimin mumbled, almost too quiet for Yoongi to hear.

But he did. “Do what?” he asked for clarification.

“I mean, it’s not like they don’t ask for revisions on songs if they need some work still,” the singer said. “But our producers have a lot more freedom than it seems like you do here. They’re happy with the versions of their songs that get released. I just wish you could be, too. Your music is absolutely amazing and it deserves to be heard the way you want it to be.”

Unsure of what to say, Yoongi stared at the other, blinking. Eventually, when his mind caught up he said, “Well, nothing I can really do about that at this point.”

Jimin frowned, knowing that he was right. “Well, I’m positive my company is going to love this song we’re releasing,” he attempted to lighten the mood a bit.

“I hope so,” Yoongi said. “I haven’t enjoyed writing a song this much in a long time.”

“Well, I’m honored that it’s a song for me, then,” Jimin said, a smile back on his face. “And I hope that it’s just the start of you enjoying it again.”

Butterflies flying into his chest at Jimin’s kind words, Yoongi found himself glancing at the thread on his finger once again. He already met his soulmate, he knew it wasn’t Jimin. But he couldn’t help but wonder if only.

His expression must have become more readable than usual because it was only a few short moments later when Jimin asked, “Yoongi? Are you alright?”

It took Yoongi a moment to look back up at Jimin. “Have you met your soulmate, Jimin?” he blurted out.

The singer seemed surprised at the sudden question. “My- my soulmate?” His expression changed to the saddest Yoongi had seen him yet. “Well, yeah, I met her. I met her a long time ago. But we’re not together. Why do you ask?”

Yoongi couldn’t help being curious about why that was. But, he realized asking about Jimin’s soulmate was already treading dangerously into overstepping and it wouldn’t be appropriate to keep prodding. “No reason,” he shrugged. “I was just curious. Sorry.”

Jimin’s smile returned. “It’s alright. It’s natural to be curious, I guess. I’m a bit strange for not being with my soulmate, huh?”

“No,” Yoongi immediately responded. “I don’t think you’re strange at all.”

“What about you?” Jimin asked, somewhat hesitantly. “If you feel like sharing.”

Yoongi stared at his string one more time. “I ran into them once in a store,” he said, being careful not to specify gender. “But no, I haven’t properly met them.”

Nodding, Jimin seemed to understand that Yoongi also had left something unsaid but didn’t pry. “Well, whoever they are, they are a very lucky person to be your soulmate.” He was smiling, but the expression on his face was one that Yoongi couldn’t quite read.

The song was an absolute hit. So much so, that Yoongi’s boss seemed incredibly surprised. If he had presented a song like this to his boss, he would have been told to make a ton of changes before it hit the masses. He’d be told it wasn’t good enough, not perfect enough.

However, this song blew up so much faster and stronger than any songs that Jimin released before, and even more than any other song yet produced by SUGA. The love for the track made Yoongi happy, not just because his song that he was really happy with and proud of was getting love, but also because of how much it made his boss question everything he knew.

Barely even a week after the song’s release, Yoongi received a call from the company Jimin worked under. At first, he assumed that maybe it was an effort to try to get more collaborations with him, maybe a short-term contract. But much to his surprise, they were offering for him to work with them permanently.

To say that he was floored would be an understatement.

Switching companies like that was not easy. Especially since Yoongi knew how hard his current company would try to hold onto him, knowing that they’d be losing one of their best and most popular producers. Even if he had somewhere else to go, there were clauses in the contracts that made it difficult for one to just move from company to company. By offering Yoongi the job there, they were also promising to spend the time and money to handle the technicalities in order to ensure his successful transfer.

Shellshocked from the unexpected phone call, Yoongi could only muster a promise that he’d consider the offer before the call ended. It took a few good minutes, but once he was able to gather the remnants of his brain together, he pressed the call button on Jimin’s contact.

“Hey, Yoongi!” the ever-so cheery singer answered. “What’s up?”

“Park Jimin, what did you do?” Yoongi asked, no venom to be found in his voice.

There was silence for a moment while Jimin seemed to think about the question. “What do you mean, what did I do?”

“I mean, why did I just get a call from your company offering to hire me?”

“Oh, that,” Jimin breathed out through a nervous laugh. “Well, I didn’t know they were going to actually call you, for the record. Although, I really am glad that they did. I mean, you really des-”

“Jimin.”

Jimin cleared his throat. “I just asked them if they liked you, and what it would look like if they signed you on as a producer for us. I guess they started thinking about it and decided they wanted to.”

“Why did you do that?”

“You know why. That place doesn’t treat you how they should. You could have so much more freedom here, Yoongi.” After a few moments of silence, Jimin added, “Plus, I really enjoyed working with you. I was kind of hoping that we might be able to write some more songs together in the future.” Another silence. “You’re not mad, are you?” Jimin asked in a small voice.

“No, I’m not mad,” Yoongi replied. “I’m just shocked, is all.”

“Do you know how you’re going to respond?”

Yoongi sighed into the phone. “I’m not sure. I’d have to talk with them and figure out what working there would mean, make sure it’s worth the effort battling my current company to let me leave.”

“Well, let me know when you decide?”

“Yeah, sure.”

It didn’t take long for Yoongi to decide. After asking for more information on the offer, there was no way he would refuse the deal. Not only would he have proper rights to his music—still shared of course, but actually a reasonable percentage compared to what he was currently getting—but he’d also get a higher percentage of royalties. Like Jimin had mentioned, he would get his own studio that he was allowed to decorate and even refurbish, within reason of course. All of that, on top of the experience he’d already had with them not forcing him to change his songs entirely, made the choice a no-brainer.

Apparently, they were already prepared for him to say yes to the offer, quickly going in to get his contract with the current company terminated as swiftly and easily as possible. There was of course still pushback, but it could have been much more difficult if Yoongi’s original employer had been more prepared for it.

That still didn’t stop his boss—ex-boss, rather—from repeatedly asking Yoongi to stay, trying to convince him that he’d give him a better deal. Out of curiosity, Yoongi had humored the idea just to see what he’d come up with. But when the man showed him the new contract he had written up, Yoongi couldn’t help but laugh at it. It wasn’t even close to being as good as what Jimin’s company had offered, and he certainly wasn’t going to be hanging around there either way.

The day the transfer was official, Yoongi couldn’t help but feel excited to go to work for the first time in a long time, other than the days when he got to work on Jimin’s song at least. He already had everything prepared to put into his new studio, equipment he already knew they wouldn’t have there that he preferred, and just a few simple things to start making the space his own.

His spent the first hour or so of the day arranging everything the way he wanted, placing equipment where he could work efficiently, and finding places the his small trinkets he wanted to try decorating with. Afterwards, he texted Jimin to see if he was at the office, wanting to show him his studio. Yeah, it wasn’t really much quite yet, but it was his own space. And he knew Jimin was going to be just as excited as he felt.

Jimin’s quick reply let Yoongi know that he was currently in one of the dance practice rooms, and he insisted Yoongi stopped by.

After taking the elevator one floor down, he could hear laughter coming from the room where he knew Jimin to be. Jimin’s recognizable tinkling laughter was accompanied by an airy, deeper one. It was only one short moment later when he felt a pull on his hand. Furrowing his eyebrows, he glanced down to see that once again, the string attached to his ring finger extended farther and was clearly reaching out to the other end.

Sight following the line, Yoongi’s heart raced when he realized it led into the room where Jimin’s laughter could be heard. Without thinking, his footsteps became more rushed as he neared the door, quickly pushing it open and looking for its occupants.

“Yoongi!” Jimin greeted just as Yoongi’s eyes found them. Sure enough, sitting next to him was the dark-haired man that Yoongi had met in the store that day—his soulmate. “Come meet my best friend!”

Yoongi tried to not let the storm going on inside his head to show in his expression as he approached the two.

“This is Kim Taehyung,” Jimin introduced the mystery man. “Tae, this is Yoongi. Better known as SUGA.”

“Ah, Jimin has been talking a lot about you,” the other man, Taehyung said, no hint of embarrassment or apology for their last encounter in his tone. His voice was deep and rich and sent an involuntary shiver down Yoongi’s spine. “It’s nice to meet you.” A hand, the hand which their string attached to, reached out toward Yoongi.

Hesitantly, Yoongi grabbed it, gently shaking it once. “Nice to meet you too, Taehyung.”

Jimin was incredibly persistent, and it was a problem. Because that meant that it was impossible to ignore Jimin's pleads for Yoongi to go out to a bar with not only him, but Taehyung as well. He said something about wanting two of his favorite people to get along, or something along those lines.

So there he was, sitting in a booth next to Taehyung—under Jimin's insistence again—and feeling stupidly nervous about being in such close proximity to his soulmate. While Taehyung hadn't made any active effort to speak with Yoongi outside of the social obligation to generally not be rude, or to please Jimin when he encouraged the two to interact more, he wasn't acting like anything had ever happened between the two of them before.

This was the same man who walked out of the store to get away from Yoongi. Who saw they were connected by this string and still felt the need to completely ignore him. But he genuinely acted like this was the first time they met, and he most certainly seemed to be intentionally ignoring the fact that they were soulmates.

"Everything okay, Yoongi?" Jimin asked when he hadn’t spoken for a while.

"Hm? Yeah, I'm okay," Yoongi said. "Why?"

"You just, have that look," Jimin answered. “Like you’re deep in thought about something.”

Yoongi’s not sure if he imagined seeing Taehyung glance at him from the corner of his eye. “Ah, sorry. It’s nothing, don’t worry about it.”

A slightly worried look sat on Jimin’s face, obviously unconvinced. However, he seemed to think it best to move on, a smile soon lighting up his features. “So, you haven’t told me how your old boss took your transfer to our company.”

With a light laugh, Yoongi’s face loosened up as well. “It was funny. He tried telling me that he’d offer me a better contract if I was unhappy with the one he had given me. But it was still terrible, definitely not as good as what they offered me. He was trying so desperately to keep me.”

“Yeah, they’re no doubt going to lose money without you,” Jimin said. “Their loss. If they wanted to keep you, they should have treated you better. Your songs are amazing. Right, Tae? We’re always listening to songs you’ve written.”

Yoongi glanced between the two, trying not to linger too long on Taehyung’s undeniably gorgeous face. “Really?”

It was Taehyung who nodded. “Yeah, your music is really great. Some of my favorite songs were written by you.” Yoongi tried to hold in his surprise when Taehyung turned to him and gave him what seemed to be a shy smile.

His heart still felt like it skipped a beat, though.

“Thank you,” Yoongi answered, a small smile of his own returning Taehyung’s before taking a sip of his drink.

“Although, I still have to say that your new song is by far your best,” Jimin said smugly.

Taehyung rolled his eyes. “You’re biased.”

“Am I wrong though?” Jimin challenged.

Taehyung was quiet for a moment before he ultimately just shrugged.

A short, not so uncomfortable silence sat between the three. Yoongi still couldn’t forget that first encounter he had with Taehyung, and was trying his best to not look at his left hand. However, it was slowly getting more comfortable with him thanks to Jimin. He made a mental note for himself to definitely try to talk to Taehyung later about what happened that day.

“So, how did you two meet?” Yoongi decided to ask to keep conversation going.

“I transferred to a new school when I was… what? Twelve?” Taehyung started. “Yeah, that sounds about right. Jimin was the first friend I made there.”

Jimin nodded. “And we’ve been inseparable ever since. He’s my soulmate.”

Yoongi’s brow furrowed in confusion, glancing subtly at his string, which most certainly was connecting to the man sitting beside him.

“Not literal soulmate,” Taehyung nonchalantly clarified. “We call each other that because we were basically just destined to be best friends.”

“Oh, yeah,” Jimin laughed. “I’ve definitely caused a few misunderstandings with that one. I sometimes forget other people still have soulmates.”

Now Yoongi was even more confused. “Still?”

Recognizing what he said, Jimin’s eyes widened before he put a smile on his face, looking somewhat forced. “Oops. I’ll tell you some other time. Don’t want to sour the mood. Anyway, when Taehyung was scouted by our company I was so excited that we’d be able to work close together. It was like a dream come true.”

“You’re signed under the company, too?” Yoongi asked the dark-haired man next to him.

Taehyung nodded. “Yeah. I know I’m not like super famous, but most people recognize me. You don’t?”

Unsure if he should feel embarrassed about the fact that he had no idea what Taehyung was talking about, Yoongi didn’t say anything as he looked between the other two.

“Oh, really?” Jimin finally said, giving Yoongi some relief. “I didn’t realize you didn’t know, sorry. Tae is a model.”

The mentioned man already had a picture pulled up on his phone to show Yoongi. It was obviously from a photoshoot, the image expertly taken to show off all the perfect angles of Taehyung’s face. Now it made sense why he felt like he had recognized him when they first ran into each other. Thinking about it, it wasn’t so surprising. The man really was strikingly handsome.

“Oh, that- that actually makes a lot of sense,” Yoongi said before he could stop himself.

“I know, right?” Jimin cheered from across the table. “It’s like he was made to be a model. He’s absolutely gorgeous. Don’t you think so, Yoongi?”

Yoongi spluttered for a moment, caught off guard by the question being directed toward him. As he felt heat rise to his cheeks, he settled on nodding in agreement. He couldn’t help but think about how that meant he’d probably end up running into Taehyung a lot, then. There was a high chance they’d see each other frequently at the company, and even outside of it if Jimin kept insisting on having them hang out together. Maybe it was a chance to get to know each other, maybe Taehyung could warm up to him and consider giving him a shot.

It was interesting to see a contrast between the two best friends in their drinking behavior. An hour later, Jimin was most certainly well past the point of tipsy, while Taehyung was still sipping on water. Yoongi himself had a few beers, but not anywhere enough to get more than a light buzz.

“Not much of a drinker?” Yoongi tried to make light small talk with Taehyung when Jimin left to go to the bathroom, not for the first time that night.

“Nah,” Taehyung said. “Don’t really like the taste at all. I can tolerate some wine, but that’s about it. Jimin loves it though. Obviously,” he chuckled.

Yoongi just nodded, taking another small sip from his cup.

“Did you say anything to him about this?” Taehyung asked, lifting up his left hand where the red string hang from to connect to Yoongi’s.

“No,” Yoongi replied honestly. “I had mentioned that I ran into my soulmate, but I didn’t know who you were at the time, and I didn’t tell him anything else. Just that we ran into each other once. Did you?”

Taehyung shook his head. “We don’t talk about things like soulmates. Not a great topic for us.” He took in a deep breath. “I want to apologize for that day, though.”

Yoongi’s head snapped to look at him, surprised at the sudden apology.

“I’ve never had much interest in the whole soulmate thing,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean I wasn’t rude. I had had a pretty bad day, not that it excuses my behavior. I just didn’t think. I’m sure you have questions, since I know most people care about this string. I’m not comfortable sharing my life story with you yet or anything like that. But you seem like a nice guy, and Jimin wants us to be friends. I wanted to clear that up so that we can try to be friends. If you wanted.”

“Yes,” Yoongi responded, quickly feeling embarrassed of how fast he did. He cleared his throat. “Yeah, I’d like to be friends. And thank you for that apology.”

The two shared a smile, but didn’t get to say anything else when Jimin came fumbling back to the table and started animatedly talking about some girl that he was sure had been checking him out.

Maybe Taehyung wouldn’t end up being so bad afterall.

This was not going as well as Yoongi had hoped.

It wasn’t that he and Taehyung weren’t getting along well. In fact, they were getting along perfectly fine. Most of the time when Jimin asked Yoongi to hang out, or when one of them would visit the other at the company, Taehyung was there. The more time Yoongi spent with Taehyung, the more he liked the man.

Half of the time, Yoongi would even forget about the fact this handsome, charming, warm-hearted person was his soulmate. He’d just be hanging out with Taehyung. Yoongi felt as though he had been doomed from their first conversation. That as soon as things were friendly between the two of them, it became inevitable for him to be sucked in deeper and deeper, for him to slowly fall for the man.

Okay, maybe not that slowly. It had only been about a month or so, but Yoongi could already tell he was in too deep with no way out. Hence why things were not going well.

Taehyung made no indication to having any interest in Yoongi other than just being friends. He was hands down a great friend and there was nothing wrong with that. But when Yoongi could feel himself longing for Taehyung more and more each day as he saw the string connecting them slowly become duller, things were obviously not okay.

The thing with soulmates was that they weren’t set in stone. No one quite knew how people ended up tied together by some intangible string that only you and your soulmate could see.  There were many theories, mostly spiritual, on the topic but no one had figured it out for sure. However, there was a substantial amount of research put into the topic to decipher as much as humans could about them. One thing that was clear was how the string read emotions. Just because you had become tied to someone didn’t mean you always would be. If there was emotional distance, betrayed trust, or anything else that would drive a couple apart emotionally, the string would reflect that by disappearing. Sometimes slowly, sometimes as fast as a snap of the fingers, depending on each situation.

Every day that Yoongi’s feelings grew stronger for Taehyung, the string faded a little more, becoming more and more transparent. Which meant that while Yoongi had the emotions and felt the connection with him, Taehyung didn’t. Even though Yoongi didn’t know Taehyung’s story of why he didn’t care about soulmates, one thing was made very obvious to him—that Taehyung valued honest, emotional connections more than anything. Yoongi had hoped that as they became closer, maybe Taehyung would start to warm up to him and want to give him a genuine chance, soulmate or not.

Yoongi was, as always, stupidly hopeful.

It was a night where Jimin visited Yoongi at his studio, now much more decorated to reflect his likes and personality when the topic of soulmates was brought up once again.

“You’re staring at your string, aren’t you?” Jimin asked quietly after he had just been gushing his growing crush on his choreographer, which Yoongi had only been paying half of his attention to.

Yoongi looked up from where he had indeed been staring at his left ring finger, apologetically smiling at Jimin. “Sorry. What were you saying?”

The younger remained quiet for a moment before asking, “Have you met them again? Your soulmate.”

Heart clenching, Yoongi nodded. “Yeah, we’ve met properly.”

Another silence sat while Jimin examined Yoongi’s face. He was annoyingly becoming rather good at reading his poker face. “It’s not going well, I take it?”

Yoongi shrugged. “Debatable. It’s going fine, I guess. Just- not where I wish it was going.”

Jimin nodded, taking a moment to stare at his own finger where his string would have been. “It’s been a long time since I had my string,” he said quietly.

It was Yoongi’s turn to examine Jimin’s face, finding a wistful expression as he sighed.

“I met her in high school,” Jimin said, lifting his gaze to Yoongi to check if he seemed okay with the subject change. When Yoongi nodded in encouragement, Jimin continued. “Like the stupid kid I was, I put blind faith into the fact that some red string told us we were supposed to be together. It was fine at first, she was sweet and we had a good time together. I don’t know now if I was legitimately in love with her, or if I just felt like I was supposed to be. But either way, it still hurt more than I could have imagined when I found out she was cheating on me.”

Yoongi’s heart clenched in empathy for Jimin but didn’t have anything he could say. He could understand exactly how that must have felt for young Jimin, having had his fair share of people using and hurting him, but this conversation wasn’t about him.

“You’re forgetting to mention about how she started treating you like shit even before that,” an unmistakable, deep voice came from the entrance to the studio. Taehyung fully entered the room, sitting next to Jimin on the couch and pulling him into his side. “She would insult him in front of friends, convince him to do ridiculous things for her all the time, just generally treated him like he was lower than her and should be lucky she was with him.”

“She wasn’t that bad,” Jimin quietly defended.

“Yes, she was,” Taehyung insisted. “She broke you down and tore you apart before she even decided to cheat on you with that sleazebag. You said your string was already gone by that time.”

Jimin relented, sighing as he lay his head on Taehyung’s shoulder. “I’m just lucky I had Taetae. I don’t know what I would have done without him holding me up.”

Yoongi observed the two of them, Jimin still looking sad as he relived the memories in his mind and Taehyung holding onto him, almost protectively with a hard look on his face. It started to become more clear to Yoongi as to why Taehyung might not care about soulmate connections.

“Some people are assholes,” Yoongi settled on saying. “I’m really sorry that happened to you, Jimin.”

Jimin lifted his head, offering Yoongi a smile that brightened his expression a bit. “It was years ago, I’m okay now. And it doesn’t mean I can’t find someone. Same with you. If things don’t end up working between you and your soulmate, you know that doesn’t mean that you won’t find someone for you, right?”

Yoongi tensed up, trying his best not to look at Taehyung at the mention of his soulmate. Instead, he stared at his left hand, the string extending past his vision toward Taehyung as usual. “Thanks, Jimin,” he answered, not wanting to say anything else.

“Anyway, we’re all here now,” Jimin said. “So let’s go!”

“Go?” Yoongi asked. “Go where?”

“It’s the weekend, Tae and I don’t have any schedules tomorrow, and you have been slaving away at that computer all week,” Jimin said, as if that answered the question.

Taehyung chuckled when Yoongi just stared blankly at the singer for a long moment. “He means we’re going out. To a bar or club, or whatever he feels like doing.”

“Why am I included in this?” Yoongi grumbled.

“Because I said so,” Jimin answered. “You need to get out more.”

“I’m good with my music and dark rooms, thanks,” Yoongi insisted.

“I don’t know why you bother fighting this every time,” Taehyung said with a smile on his face. “You know he’s always going to win. Just gotta learn to go along with it.”

“Yes, precisely,” Jimin said, grabbing Yoongi’s arm to pull him out of his chair. “Now come on. Let’s go!”

Jimin was feeling up for a club today, apparently. Yoongi was most definitely not dressed appropriately for one, not that he had anything in his closet that would be, but Jimin and Taehyung were by far well-dressed and good-looking enough to get all three of them in.

It still surprised Yoongi that whenever they’d go out, no one really paid much attention to Jimin and Taehyung. They were both well-known and steadily getting more popular every day, yet they were left alone and unbothered when they were so out in the open. Yoongi couldn’t figure out how they did it, but he assumed that it might have had something to do with the fact that every place Jimin picked out looked higher-end than the bars Namjoon would drag him out to.

The three had barely ordered their first drinks before the first woman approached them. Yoongi paid no attention, subtly turning away from her to stay out of it. Every time this happened, they always had their eyes set on either Jimin or Taehyung—and they weren’t exactly Yoongi’s type anyway. And if it were Taehyung she had her eyes set on, it was better for him to not watch.

To his complete surprise, he felt a tap on his shoulder just a moment later. “Excuse me,” a light voice said.

Yoongi carefully turned back to face the woman, trying his best to keep his face as emotionless as usual despite how shocked he was feeling. “Yes? Do you- can I help you?”

From behind her, he could see Jimin and Taehyung both watching the interaction with rapt attention, amusement on their faces.

“I was about to dance, but I don’t want to go alone,” she pouted. “Would you come with me?” Objectively, this woman was rather beautiful. She was clearly skilled with her makeup, accentuating the soft angles of her face really well. The bold purple dress she wore was club appropriate, showing off a fair amount of skin, but also had a more classy look to it to make her stand out among the other girls in the crowd and it hugged the shape of her body really well.

“Sorry,” Yoongi replied, “I don’t really dance. My friends dragged me here.” He nodded in the direction of the two, certainly much more handsome men behind her in hopes she’d maybe pay them some attention instead.

She looked disappointed, but didn’t push, seeming to sense a rejection when she heard one. “Alright. Well, if you change your mind, feel free to find me.” Her gaze very obviously dragged up and down his body before walking away with a very intentional sway of her hips. If Yoongi were interested in women, he was sure his gaze would linger on the action, but instead he just turned to look at his still amused friends.

“You’re not going to get anyone interested in you that way,” Jimin teased.

“I don’t want anyone interested in me,” he rebutted quickly, being extra mindful to not glance at Taehyung. “I’m not even dressed well, either. Don’t know why she decided to hit on me.”

“Have you ever looked in a mirror?” Jimin asked. “You don’t need the right clothes when your face is that gorgeous.”

“She was pretty hot, though,” Taehyung said, not-so-discretely looking in the direction she had left in. “Wouldn’t have hurt to indulge her a bit.”

Yoongi shrugged. “Not my type.”

There was a time Yoongi would have been cautious about saying anything that could have even subtly hinted at who exactly his ‘type’ was. But after a while he realized that if someone were to judge or dislike him for it, then they didn’t deserve his trust anyway. He didn’t know what Jimin’s stance was and assumed that Taehyung probably at least didn’t have an issue with it since he never appeared repulsed by the fact they were soulmates, despite also not seeming to care much about it. He figured if they were going to figure out what he meant by that, this couldn’t have been the worst time for them to.

Jimin certainly seemed to be in thought after that, carefully scanning the crowd until he apparently found someone of interest. “What about him, then?” he asked completely nonchalantly, bringing Yoongi’s attention to a very handsome man.

From this distance with the dark lights, he couldn’t trust that he was seeing everything fully accurately. However what Yoongi did see was someone whose looks almost seemed to rival Jimin and Taehyung’s. A sharp jaw line, swept back brown hair and soft eyes, and he most certainly seemed to know what he was doing on the dance floor.

After taking the moment to appraise him, Yoongi gave a slight nod. “He’s definitely really attractive, at least from here.” He took a sip from his beer as he waited for one of them to say something more. When they remained quiet for a moment, he decided to ask, “It doesn’t bother you?”

Jimin smiled, shaking his head. “Of course not. I’d be lying if I said that he wasn’t my type as well. My choreographer is a guy, too. What do you think, Tae? He’s a cutie, wouldn’t you say?”

Taehyung’s gaze narrowed as he assessed the stranger. “Yeah, he’s definitely cute. Looks pretty young, though. You know I like it when they’re older, especially men.”

Jimin’s head threw back with laughter. “That’s true.”

Yoongi tried not to be too obvious about how relieved he was to find that out, hiding his smile behind the cup when he took another sip.

Ten minutes later found Jimin on the dance floor, a few shots in already, dancing with the man he picked out earlier while Yoongi and Taehyung hung back at the bar. During the few times that Yoongi had gone out like this with them, it wasn’t a common thing for Jimin or Taehyung to indulge someone else for very long. He’d seen Jimin dance with women on an occasion or two, and Taehyung would have short chats with people who were interested in him. Although that was the first time he saw either of them approach someone themselves. He wondered briefly if this might be the first night they might not all leave together.

“Don’t want anyone to be interested in you, huh?” Taehyung asked after long moments of a comfortable lull in conversation, filled only with the sounds of the club.

“Nope,” Yoongi replied, pulling his eyes away from where Jimin was dancing incredibly close to the stranger. “In places like this, people are usually just looking for a hook-up. I’m not really a hook-up kind of guy.”

Taehyung nodded. “Same,” he said, swirling his glass sitting on the bar. “Although, I find it fun to indulge. Chat a bit, see what they’re like. But if they seem to only be interested in who’s house we’re going to after, that’s the end of that for me.”

“What about Jimin? It kind of looks like he’s interested in not going home alone tonight.”

Shaking his head, Taehyung’s mouth turned down into a stupidly cute pout. “Nah, he’s too much of a romantic. He’s probably going to go home with the guy’s number, though. Jimin has a weird habit of making friends with the people he flirts with. Why? Are you jealous?”

“No, not jealous,” Yoongi replied easily. There may have been a time where he wondered if he could have had a thing with Jimin, but he was far too gone for Taehyung to even remotely consider that now. “Just don’t want him to get hurt.”

“You and me both. But he’s smarter, now. I don’t think he’d let another Miyoung into his life.”

Yoongi assumed that was the name of the ex-soulmate they talked about earlier. There was another pause in the conversation, this time heavy from the thoughtful expression Taehyung wore.

“It happens too often, you know. Not even just with teenagers. People in any stage of their life blindly trust this thing.” He was clearly looking at where their string attached itself to his left ring finger. “They assume that the person on the other end is going to be loving and compassionate, and there’s no way they wouldn’t work out. It’s so stupid.”

That felt like a stab to Yoongi’s chest. “Maybe some people just don’t have anyone else who can love them.”

“I’m sorry, that sounded harsh,” Taehyung backtracked. “I didn’t mean that about you, it’s just a general observation. Everyone in this world has a string connected to them at some point. But not everyone in the world is a good person. People who are assholes, abusers, criminals, killers, they all have a soulmate. But so many people assume that the person they’re attached to is just going to be amazing when it’s actually not often the case. Did you know there are some really interesting statistics around divorce rates?”

“Oh?” Yoongi asked, genuinely interested. He had never thought about that before, but Taehyung was really making a lot of sense so far and he was curious of what he had to say.

“Among divorcees if you divide the couples into who were soulmates when they met and who weren’t, there’s a much higher percentage of soulmate couples. It was somewhere around 70% soulmates last time I looked. It makes sense in one way because that’s also the majority of people who end up getting married. But when you hear their stories, almost all of them are the same. It’s some version of how they put faith into the string and rushed their relationship without properly developing a connection, and then they found out too late that they weren’t actually compatible. Or worse, that one of them was abusive in some way, overly possessive, or anything else from a list of red flags you’d usually find out during a relationship where you would have gotten to know them properly without a silly string telling you they were ‘the one.’ Non-soulmate couples who have talked about their stories tend to boil it down to other things, like growing apart over time, their partner cheating or becoming a ‘different person’ than they used to be. Rarely anything about rushing into something blindly.”

“That actually makes a lot of sense,” Yoongi said after waiting a moment to make sure Taehyung was done explaining. “I realized earlier that what happened with Jimin might have had something to do with our first meeting.”

Taehyung cringed. “Yeah, I’m still sorry about that. But yes, he’s one reason. He’s not the only person I care about who’s been burned by their soulmate though.” He stared into his drink, a distant look in his eyes.

Out of the corner of his eye, Yoongi caught sight of Jimin walking back to them with the mystery guy he had been dancing with being dragged behind him.

“Guys, say hi to Jungkook!” Jimin excitedly said as he approached.

It was almost scary how abruptly Taehyung’s expression changed as he turned to his best friend in amusement. “I was just telling Yoongi that you have a habit of making friends by flirting with them. Nice to meet you, Jungkook. I’m Taehyung.”

“I mean that turned out amazing for us, didn’t it?” Jimin said through a laugh.

Jungkook turned out to be a really sweet guy, and the four of them spent the rest of their night just chatting at the bar. Well, mostly Jimin and Taehyung were the ones chatting. Jungkook seemed to be more reserved like Yoongi, so the two mostly just responded when asked a question or being dragged into the current topic.

“You know,” Jimin slurred when he had already gotten well past the point of being drunk, a wobbly finger pointing at Yoongi, “that soulmate of yours must be really dumb.”

Yoongi quickly glanced at Taehyung to see him looking uncomfortable. Tensing up, Yoongi cleared his throat. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“Well, I would,” Jimin insisted. “Whoever he is, he should be thankful that he gets to be your soulmate. You are amazing.”

“Jimin,” Yoongi sighed. “Maybe he has his reasons.”

“But it’s not fair.” The pout was obvious in his voice despite Yoongi not being able to see it due to the man now draping himself over Yoongi’s back. “You said you weren’t happy with how things were going between you two. I don’t like that he’s making you upset.”

Yoongi closed his eyes as he took a steadying breath, not wanting to see Taehyung’s reaction. He already knew the model wasn’t interested and didn’t want to feel that sting of rejection right now. “We should get you home,” Yoongi said to change the subject. “You’re really drunk.”

“I’ll pull the car around,” Taehyung said, seeming really eager to walk away.

Jimin continued to whine, sniffles interrupting here and there while he kept saying how it wasn’t fair and he wanted Yoongi to be happy. While Yoongi’s heart clenched with appreciation for his friend’s concern, he didn’t want to feed into the conversation again.

Hurried knocks on Yoongi’s studio door cut through the track that Yoongi was currently editing. Finding a spot he felt comfortable to stop at, he answered the door to a very smiling and excited Jimin throwing his arms around him.

“Oh my gosh, I can’t believe it, Yoongi!” the now pink-haired singer yelled a little too loud for being right next to Yoongi’s ear.

“Can’t believe what, Jimin?” Yoongi asked as he gently pushed the man back a bit.

Jimin raised his left hand in between them as if that would answer Yoongi’s question. “I have a new soulmate!”

Well, that was unexpected. Confused and surprised, Yoongi tilted his head as he tried to figure that one out. “What do you mean you have a new soulmate? That’s possible?”

“Yeah! It was something I looked into years ago when I was upset about losing mine,” Jimin elaborated. “It’s actually more common than you’d expect. Soulmates drifting apart or separating, whatever causes the string to disappear. But it’s possible to find a new one later. I always hoped it would happen to me but I had no idea how it would. Like, would it happen when I met them, or if I started feeling something for someone?”

“So how did your string appear?” Yoongi asked through his amazement of the new information.

A blush settled on Jimin’s cheeks, looking suddenly shy as he said, “We kissed.”

Jimin was certainly full of surprises today. “Oh, well that’s… good, I guess. Who is it?”

“Hoseok,” Jimin said with a smile. “My choreographer that I’ve been gushing to you about lately. We’ve been getting closer and, I don’t know. It just- it felt right. And we kissed, then the string appeared and connected us. He’s so great, Yoongi. He’s so funny and nice and, I just- I feel so happy.”

“That’s really great, Jimin,” Yoongi genuinely said, a smile sitting on his face. “I’m really happy for you.”

Sighing, Jimin relaxed into the couch in Yoongi’s studio just as another knock, much more calm this time, sounded on the door. Yoongi opened it once more, letting in a confused Taehyung.

Nothing had changed between Yoongi and Taehyung after that night at the club even after another few weeks had passed. They still talked and hung out, usually with Jimin and oftentimes Jungkook as well now. They both seemed to silently agree to act like Jimin’s drunken outburst had never happened, while Yoongi’s heart continued to break every time he saw the string fade more and more. It was almost gone now, hardly visible. It probably wouldn’t make it through the week.

“Is everything alright with Jimin?” Taehyung asked as he stepped in. “He just texted me to come meet him here and that it was a red alert?” He turned to the singer in question, starting to examine him over as if looking for injuries.

Which queued Jimin filling him in on his new soulmate. Taehyung’s eyes widened in shock, but seemed just as happy and excited as Jimin was. Yoongi couldn’t help but feel a pang of jealousy in his chest, staring wistfully at his own string.

“It’s been a few weeks since we’ve talked about the soulmate thing,” Jimin said to Yoongi after they both calmed down. “I want to ask, but I don’t kn-”

“Same as it was last we talked,” Yoongi interrupted. “Nothing new to report.”

Jimin sighed. “I know I was drunk when I said it, but I’m serious that whoever this guy is dumb. It is a guy, right? I just assumed since you seemed interested and made it pretty clear you’re not into girls.”

Turning to his computer so he didn’t accidentally look at Taehyung, Yoongi steeled himself for not being able to dismiss the conversation this time. “Yeah, it’s a guy. And also, you should stop saying that. He has his reasons. And just because we’re soulmates doesn’t mean he needs to like me.”

“But he should!” Jimin insisted. “You’re really a catch, Yoongi. He’s really dumb for not wanting something with you. And he’s making you feel sad, I don’t like that.”

“Jimin, please drop it,” Yoongi said as gently as he could, pleading tone to his voice.

It was quiet for a moment before an, “It’s me,” sounded into the room.

Yoongi’s head snapped around to stare at Taehyung, surprised at the words he just muttered, while Jimin’s face morphed into confusion.

“What?” Jimin almost whispered. “What did you say?”

“Yoongi’s soulmate,” Taehyung elaborated, pausing to take a deep breath. “It’s me.”

Jimin’s eyes widened, looking back and forth between the two. “Seriously? You’ve been talking about Tae this whole time? Really?”

Looking at the nearly faded string that only one person in the room couldn’t see, Yoongi nodded. “Yeah.”

“Why didn’t you guys tell me?” Jimin asked, almost sounding offended. “I just- oh my god, I just said- Yoongi I’m so, so sorry. I just-”

“It’s fine,” Yoongi said. “I think he knew, anyway.”

After a moment of loaded silence, Jimin broke it again. “Alright, I take back what I said, then. Kim Taehyung, you-” Jimin hit him over the head with one of the throw pillows from the couch “-are undeniably, one hundred percent an absolute moron! You have a whole ass Min Yoongi that your soul is literally tied to and you’re not taking that opportunity? What the fuck!”

By this point, Yoongi’s neck should be sore from the amount of whiplash he’d experienced today.

Taehyung looked a little bit like a cornered animal, unsure of what to do. “Jimin, you know about how I feel about soulmates.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Jimin said, still seeming exasperated at his best friend. “You don’t trust it, fine. I get it, I really do. But seriously? You guys have been getting along so well, and you’re telling me you haven’t felt like you wanted to date him at all? I know you, Kim Taehyung. I can tell when-”

“It never ends well,” Taehyung interrupted, remaining surprisingly calm.

“Just because both your dad and I got screwed over by our soulmates doesn’t mean everyone does, Taehyung,” Jimin said. “I get why you’re hesitant. And I think it’s really great that you’re getting to know each other instead of jumping into something too early, but seriously?” By this point, Yoongi just felt like a bystander even though the conversation was about something he was very much in the middle of. “How strong is the string?”

When Taehyung’s eyes shifted, settling on the floor without answering, Jimin finally turned back to Yoongi. “How strong is the string?” he repeated.

“It’s um-” Yoongi cleared his throat “-it’s pretty faded. Getting kind of hard to see.”

Jimin sympathetically smiled at Yoongi before turning back to Taehyung and smacking him with the pillow one more time. “I repeat. You are a moron. You guys are talking this out. Right now.”

“Jimin-” Taehyung started.

“Nope,” Jimin stopped him. “I am leaving the room and standing guard outside. And you are going to sit in here and talk your shit out.”

Standing up, Jimin stopped to give Yoongi a strong hug and then threw one last glare at his best friend before closing the door behind him.

While Yoongi tried to process the roller coaster Jimin just put him through, Taehyung leaned back into the couch, running a hand over his face as he sighed. “I don’t know what he expects us to talk about.”

The door opened once more, Jimin having known the password and just usually knocked to be polite, to say, “In case you’re having trouble figuring out where to start, your baggage is a great place to, Taehyung.” Then he firmly closed the door once again.

An awkward silence sat between the two for a moment while Yoongi did his best to look anywhere besides Taehyung or their string.

“You don’t have to,” Yoongi was the first to speak. “If you wanted to give us a shot the string wouldn’t be fading, so I already know your answer.”

“The most valuable lesson I learned from my parents,” Taehyung said, “was to never trust the soulmate string. They did, and my dad ended up so much worse because of it. He always tells me the only good thing he ever got from her was me.”

Yoongi’s mouth was firmly shut as Taehyung started pouring out what was probably his most personal story.

“They were soulmates,” he continued. “They trusted it, didn’t take their time and just rushed into a relationship like so many other people do. But my mom was a bitch, told me all the time I was a mistake and she didn’t even want me. She was so abusive in every way. Verbally, mentally, physically she abused us. Mostly my dad because he did what he could to keep her hands off of me. It wasn’t until I was twelve years old that my dad finally was able to get us away from her. The courts even tried forcing him to give me back to her, too. That’s a really weird thing about the court system, they tend to favor the mothers in these situations. But luckily my dad had taken pictures, and I guess I was barely old enough that they took my testimony against her somewhat seriously so in the end I got to stay safe, with Dad.”

Taehyung stood, walking closer to where Yoongi sat at his desk and sitting on the floor in front of him. “So needless to say, I kind of have a really bad opinion on soulmates. Between him and then Jimin, I just started to feel like they were pointless, that it was always going to be a bad idea to trust the string. I promised myself I’d never let the people who care about me see me go through what they had.”

“I understand,” Yoongi said. “I don’t think you should feel obligated to care about me just because we have this string. And you certainly don’t have to feel bad for me about it.”

“You, um,” Taehyung seemed nervous. “Jimin made it sound like that you are, uh, interested in dating me.”

Looking at the floor, Yoongi nodded. No point in trying to lie about that.

“Why?” Taehyung asked.

Yoongi turned back to him, confusion knitting his brows together. “What do you mean why?”

“Is it because of this?” Taehyung lifted his left hand, the string moving and bending with it as if it were an actual, tangible thing.

“No,” Yoongi didn’t hesitate to respond. “I can’t deny that I had been looking forward to meeting my soulmate. I- well, things have just always gone wrong for me, I guess. And I hoped that could change when I met my soulmate. But I usually forget about it when we hang out. I just enjoy spending time with you, as Kim Taehyung. Anything I’ve ever felt for you has nothing to do with us being soulmates.”

It was silent for a few moments while Taehyung seemed to be in thought. Yoongi turned to his computer, not really doing anything in particular, but just wanting to keep himself occupied to ease the anxious knot in his stomach.

Before either of them said anything else, Yoongi’s phone started vibrating on the desk. The manager of his apartment complex was calling, which was never a good sign. Sliding the green button on the screen, Yoongi tried to keep his voice from shaking as he answered.

“Hey Yoongi,” she greeted. “Sorry to bother you while you’re probably at work, but he’s here again. He’s just sitting outside of your door and won’t leave.”

Yoongi sighed, feeling bad for the poor woman. She was a really nice lady and didn’t deserve to deal with his father’s bullshit. After probably the fifth time the police were called to forcibly remove him, he had figured out that if he didn’t act violently and appeared innocent, they wouldn’t interfere. So now, the only way to get him to leave was for Yoongi to attempt to deal with him, and then call the cops if he did start to get violent. To be honest, he was lucky the woman refused to evict him over it.

“Alright, I’ll be there as soon as I can,” he replied. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” she said. “I’m sorry for needing to ask.”

“Not your fault, either. I’ll handle it, don’t worry.”

He hung up the phone as he got up to gather his things and leave.

“Yoongi?” Taehyung asked, almost nervously, from the floor.

“Sorry, Taehyung,” Yoongi said. “Something came up and I have to go home.” As he walked toward the door, a thought popped into his head. “I promise this doesn’t have anything to do with what we were just talking about. I just genuinely have something to take care of and it can’t wait.” He wasn’t looking forward to this, both him and the apartment manager knowing this was going to be one visit that would end with the cops dragging him out.

“Is everything okay?” Taehyung asked as he got up from the floor.

“Yeah, it’s fine. Nothing I can’t handle.”

When he opened the door, Yoongi was unsurprised to not see Jimin standing there like he said he would be. Knowing him, he probably stuck around just long enough to make sure they started talking before leaving, and probably to go hang out with his new soulmate.

He could feel Taehyung’s presence closely behind him as he walked down the hallway, finding it oddly comforting since he could tell the man seemed genuinely concerned. It was then that Yoongi remembered something important.

“Fuck,” Yoongi said as he stopped in his tracks. “I walked to work today. It’s not that far, but I don’t want to be too long and risk him causing a scene.” Yoongi turned around, and probably would have laughed at Taehyung’s surprised expression if it weren’t for the situation he was preparing to handle. “I’m really sorry to ask, but did you drive here? Do you have something you need to do soon?”

Taehyung gently shook his head no, but didn’t say anything. When Yoongi continued staring at him, he seemed to realize he needed to elaborate. “Oh. Yes, I drove here and no I don’t have anything else I need to do today.”

“Okay, again I’m sorry to ask but could I borrow your car?” Yoongi hesitantly asked. “Or drive me there and then you can leave. I just want to get home as quickly as possible.”

“I’ll drive you,” Taehyung said, and the two continued walking toward the elevator at a quickened pace. “Seriously, is everything okay?”

“It’s nothing to worry about,” Yoongi insisted. “I’ve had to handle this a ton of times before, and this time isn’t going to be any different.”

They spoke very little on the way there except for Yoongi to give Taehyung directions. His heart flipped in his chest to think about the fact that this was the first time Taehyung was seeing where he lived, but it wasn’t exactly something to be excited about at the moment. He’d see it and then drive away. And the next time Yoongi would see him, the string connecting them may very possibly be gone. He still wasn’t sure how he felt about that other than the fact that it scared him.

“Thank you so much,” Yoongi said as Taehyung pulled into the parking garage with ease. “You don’t need to wait for me. I can get back to work on my own.”

“I’ll wait,” Taehyung rushed out before Yoongi closed the door. “I want to talk to you when you get back, so I’ll wait. Should I come with you?”

“No, please don’t come with me. I’d rather not get you mixed up in this. I’ll be back soon. Hopefully,” Yoongi said before closing the car door and walking to the elevator which he could take directly to his floor with his ID. He tapped his foot anxiously as he waited for it to climb up and up, until the doors finally opened on the right floor and he did his best not to rush out. As much as he didn’t want his father inside his home, it was best to not get him agitated before then. Especially if he had been drinking.

Pretending to not have noticed the man leaning against the wall next his door, Yoongi made sure his father couldn’t see the numbers as he typed in his code and opened it. Without looking behind him, Yoongi left it open for him to follow before acknowledging his existence.

“Yoongi,” the man said, elongating the vowels. Definitely drunk.

“What do you want this time?” Yoongi asked, already annoyed. “More money?”

“What? A father isn’t allowed to come see his son?” The look on his face would have appeared as offence to anyone else, but Yoongi knew better.

“You never want to just see me for no reason,” Yoongi said. “What do you want?”

“Always straight to the point,” his father said, almost sounding like praise. But again, Yoongi knew better. “I need some help.”

Sighing, Yoongi turned into his kitchen. He hadn’t eaten lunch yet and was getting pretty hungry so he figured he might as well do something useful while he listened to his father’s excuses this time. “So you want money again.”

“I’m going to get kicked out of my house.”

“Good, maybe that’ll teach you to be more responsible with your money.”

“I’m your father, don’t talk to me like that.”

“Yes, you’re my father.” Yoongi dug around his fridge for some leftovers from last night. “My father who won’t get a job, spends all his money on alcohol and gambling, and then comes crawling back to his son for cash when he can’t afford to pay his bills or buy his groceries because he wasted all the money that his son had lent him the last time. The same money that is always given with the condition that it’s to be used only for your rent and groceries, but it never is.”

His father scoffed. “What good is it to have a son who makes a ton of money when he won’t take care of you?”

“Maybe you should have thought about that before you treated your son like he was a worthless piece of shit. You reap what you sow, I guess.”

“You fucking-”

Yoongi placed his food on the counter and turned around in time to block the punch that was far too sluggish to be effective anyway. “You might want to add some new tricks to your bag, old man. You’re too predictable.” His father lowered his raised fist as Yoongi let his grip loose. “And I’m not giving you any more money. I told you last time that I wouldn’t be doing this again, and I intend on keeping that promise.”

“You don’t care that your father’s about to be homeless? When you’re living in this nice apartment in a nice neighborhood?”

“No, I don’t. You only care about me when I’m useful to you. Before, you used to think of me as just some piece of shit who wasn’t worth your time. Now, you only care that I have money and could support your alcoholic ass if I chose to. But guess what? I’m done. I told you a month ago that was going to be the last time and I meant it. Now fuck off.”

“I didn’t raise you to be a disrespectful piece of shit.”

Yoongi prepared for the next attempt to hit him, but to his surprise it didn’t come when they were both distracted by a very familiar voice calling from the entryway.

“Yoongi?” Taehyung’s deep timbre sounded into the house. “Yoongi, are you here? Is everything okay?”

“I told you to stay in the car,” Yoongi sighed when Taehyung made his way into the kitchen. “You shouldn’t be here. Please go back to the car. I’ll be down in a bit.”

“Who the fuck is this?” Yoongi’s father asked.

“Who the fuck are you?” Taehyung deflected back.

“I’m his father,” he replied before turning back to Yoongi. “Don’t tell me your gay little ass got yourself a boyfriend.”

“Excuse you?” Taehyung answered while Yoongi bit his tongue. “First of all, that’s apparently none of your business if that’s how you’re going to talk to him. Second, Yoongi, are you okay?” his voice became much softer as he asked, making Yoongi’s heart feel warm.

“I’m fine,” Yoongi replied. “No need to get yourself involved. I’ve got this under control. Now, if you would leave, Dad, we have nothing else to talk about here.”

“I need fucking money, Yoongi!”

“Yeah, I’ve gathered that.” Yoongi turned back to the counter to open his container of leftover food and pop it in the microwave as he spoke. “But you’re not getting it from me. How about you stop drinking and get yourself a job. Maybe then you’d have some money.”

“Just because you’re rich doesn’t mean it’s easy to get fucking money. You think it’s easy?”

Yoongi was more than done with him at this point. “I know it’s not easy. I grew up with you as my parent, remember? After mom died, you could hardly even keep a roof over our heads and I had to work low-paying shit jobs as soon as I could to help you before I got out of there and slowly worked my way to where I am. So yeah, I know it’s not. But I’ve given you so many chances, way more than you deserve, frankly. And I’m done. I don’t know how many times I need to tell you for you to understand.”

When Yoongi’s father knew he had nothing to say back, he resorted to his fists. When the first one extended it was Taehyung, who had been silently standing back and watching their argument, who moved forward to restrain him.

“Keep your filthy hands off of me!” Yoongi’s father struggled as Taehyung kept his arms locked behind him.

“That’s what Yoongi should be saying to you,” Taehyung rebutted as he dragged the man toward the entrance to the apartment. Yoongi followed, watching as his soulmate shoved the still yelling man over the threshold and quickly shut the door behind him, locking him out.

“Taehyung, what-”

“The woman downstairs said she would call the cops,” Taehyung spoke over the pounding and yelling from the other side of the door.

“How did you even know where my apartment was?” Yoongi asked, still trying to process what just happened.

“The way you phrased things made me worried,” Taehyung said as he walked further into the house. “So I got out of the car not long after you and asked the lady at the front desk about you. She seemed relieved that you had someone to help you, and then told me she’d go ahead and call the cops then if you were already up here talking to him. Obviously, I got even more worried so when she told me your room number I hurried up.”

“But how’d you get in?”

“The door was left open.”

Of course his father hadn’t closed the door. Sighing, Yoongi retreated back to the kitchen to get his food from the microwave which had been annoyingly beeping at him periodically to remind him that it was done. His hands started shaking as he placed the container back on the counter, residual adrenaline from the argument keeping his body over fueled.

After taking a breath to steady himself, Yoongi grabbed some chopsticks and took his dinner to the table to eat, Taehyung closely following. While he settled in to eating, he could hear the police filing into the hallway to collect his father and drag him away.

“Yoongi, if he ever comes back here again, please don’t face him alone,” Taehyung said as he pulled back a chair to sit in. “Call me next time.”

“I’ve handled him all my life, I can take care of it on my own.” Yoongi poked his food around as he spoke, not yet having taken a real bite of it.

“But you don’t have to.”

Looking up at him, Yoongi’s gaze met Taehyung’s. A silent moment sat between them, charged but not uncomfortable. “I guess it’s time for me to tell you my baggage, huh?” Yoongi asked.

“Only if you want, but you don’t have to,” Taehyung replied easily. “You could always tell me later.”

Yoongi chanced a glance toward the string, heart dropping when it was still just as faded as before, maybe even a little more. “It’ll be gone soon,” he whispered before shoveling the first bite of rice into his mouth. After he finished chewing, he sighed. “I feel like I need to talk about it now. I just- he gets me so angry. There’s only been one person I’ve ever been able to vent to about anything, and I just really want to get it all out right now.”

Nodding, Taehyung said, “Okay. If you want to, then go ahead. I’m here, I’m listening.” The sincere look in his eyes could have fooled Yoongi.

“My mom was really nice, at least from what I remember. I think she was the only thing that kept my dad held together. But she got sick when I was still young, so then it was just me and my dad. He had a hard time keeping a steady job, would start going to drink and just didn’t pay much attention to me. He didn’t hit me or anything back then, but he just didn’t seem to care much. And then, when I realized that I was gay, he became disgusted with me. Told me how wrong it was, how much of an abomination I was, use slurs with me. That was around when he started becoming violent, too. Was always a bad hit, though.”

“Asshole,” Taehyung muttered under his breath.

That got a chuckle out of Yoongi. “Yeah, basically. I tried to find other people who would accept me. I didn’t think anything was wrong with me, despite what he said. I had heard about same-sex couples who were soulmates not being very uncommon, how it is a really old idea from back when soulmates were completely ignored that it was somehow unnatural and wrong. And even before I started making a bunch of money, he’d always expect me to support him. I had to try to make enough to support myself, and him at the same time because he never got his act together. It’s always been like that.”

Taehyung shifted in his seat, seeming to have something to say but was too nervous to. When Yoongi looked at him and nodded once in encouragement, he gently spoke. “You mentioned earlier that you were unhappy and hoped meeting your soulmate would change that. Is it because of him?”

“He was the first reason. It became a pattern in my life for people to just not care or hurt me. My best friend, Namjoon, he’s always trying to tell me that I deserve to be loved. But everyone has always made me feel like I can’t have it. My father was just the first one to show me that.”

“You do, though,” Taehyung said. “Deserve love, I mean. You really do.”

Trying his hardest to ignore the painful clench of his heart in the irony of Taehyung being the one to say that, Yoongi pushed his food away and set down his chopsticks, no longer feeling hungry.

“Do you want to talk about the others?” Taehyung carefully asked.

Nodding, Yoongi took in a breath to brace himself to continue. “So the first person I told about my sexuality was my closest friend at the time. He didn’t take it well, either. He was always really nice, but then suddenly he became cold and didn’t want anything to do with me anymore. It only got worse after that. When I went to college, I had a crush on this one guy who knew about it but all I was good to him for was to be used to get off, and eventually he got tired of me. Anyone who ever acted interested in me in some way, it was never for me. No one ever cared about me, just that I was a guy they knew was gay and could be used for their closeted asses.”

“That’s why you were hoping your soulmate would be different.” It wasn’t a question that Taehyung muttered, barely above a whisper. “But when we met I just walked away without even talking to you, just like another one of those jerks. Didn’t even give you a chance.”

Yoongi said nothing, just stared at their string that was still hardly there at all. He was so shocked when Taehyung’s hand covered his that he almost pulled his own away.

“Jimin’s right,” were the next words out of Taehyung’s mouth. “I’m a moron. My whole issue about soulmates is that people don’t take the time to properly get to know someone and run so far ahead without even thinking. But we’re friends, we’ve been getting to know each other for quite a while now. And instead of thinking that means it’s okay to give us a chance, I’ve been stuck in this mindset of thinking that I can’t follow the string. That it’s somehow inevitably going to lead me to pain. Even though I-”

Heart pounding, Yoongi’s eyes searched Taehyung’s face in hopes of seeing what he was about to say.

“Just the thought that this string connecting us is going to disappear forever because I’m being such an indecisive, baggage-carrying ass, it absolutely terrifies me. I don’t want it to disappear. I used to hate it, I thought it wouldn’t do anything but cause me problems. But, Yoongi-” Taehyung’s eyes finally connected with Yoongi’s “-I feel like it was impossible for me to not fall for you. I’ve just been ignoring it because I’ve been scared and- fuck, I don’t know. It doesn’t make any sense to me now that I’ve actually thought about it. I just feel like an idiot for fighting it all this time now.”

Surely Taehyung had to be able to hear how fast Yoongi’s heart was pounding in his chest. Was he being honest? It would still make sense as to why the string kept fading, but if he was being honest about it now, the string should be becoming brighter, shouldn’t it? Looking at it again, he could see that it wasn’t. Was the damage that’s been done to it permanent?

“I understand if it’s too late, though,” Taehyung said, nearly breaking Yoongi’s heart in half. “Even if we’ve been good friends up until now, it doesn’t change the fact that I’ve let you get strung along while I didn’t know what to do with myself. Oh wow, that was a pun right there. That wasn’t even intentional. But whatever, I just mean-”

“Taehyung,” Yoongi interrupted. Blinking back at him, Taehyung stayed quiet while he waited for Yoongi to continue. “If you really mean all of that, then you have a lot of making up to do.”

“Do you mean…”

“The most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen, the same man that I have been falling for so hard and so fast ever since the first time we spoke to each other, just told me that he’s been falling for me too. How am I supposed to reject that?”

Taehyung’s chest rose up and down with how hard he was breathing. “Maybe- maybe we should think about this. It’s been an emotional day and we should take a moment. I don’t want you to do anything you’d regret because you’re not able to think properly-”

“I’m a grown man who can make his own decisions and have been practically praying for this day to happen. Kim Taehyung, if you meant everything you just told me, then you better come over here and kiss me within the next five seconds or so help me, I-”

It was Taehyung’s turn to cut Yoongi off, but by joining their lips together. One of his beautiful, large hands rested on the back of Yoongi’s head, making him tilt it just a little to make the kiss easier from the awkward angle. Yoongi felt like his heart was soaring as he eagerly returned the kiss, pressing back into Taehyung’s soft lips. He could swear he felt something tingling on his left ring finger, but was absolutely not breaking the kiss to take a look.

Gripping onto Taehyung’s shirt, Yoongi stood up carefully enough to make sure their lips stayed connected. Wanting to deepen the kiss, he parted his lips just enough to give Taehyung the invitation to do so. He was rewarded with a delightful groan as Taehyung’s tongue tangled with his own. It was only their first kiss, no time yet to learn how to navigate each other and what each of them liked, but it was by far the best thing Yoongi had ever experienced in his life. It was almost as if he could feel Taehyung pouring his emotions into it.

When they finally pulled away from each other minutes or maybe hours later, out of breath, Yoongi thought that maybe Taehyung really did. They rested their foreheads together for a moment, smiling at each other like they’d never been happier in their lives—and maybe Yoongi hadn’t. Yoongi was the first to chance a look at where the string wrapped around his finger only for his smile to grow wider. He looked back up into Taehyung’s eyes once more as he lifted his left hand for the other to see for himself.

“It’s back,” Taehyung breathlessly marveled. “Is it-” he pulled away just enough to look at his own “-is it just me because I got so used to seeing it fading, or is it brighter than before now?”

“I don’t think it’s ever been this vivid,” Yoongi answered. “I always remembered it being just slightly transparent. But if I didn’t know any better, I’d think this was an actual, real string on my finger right now.”

Taehyung’s light laugh made Yoongi’s already palpitating heart jump even more. “Kiss me?” Taehyung asked.

Who was Yoongi to refuse that request?

“So does this mean I’m not going to have you coming to me to mope about your soulmate anymore?” Namjoon teased when Yoongi finally introduced the two. It was a stupidly large gathering at Jimin’s house, who had insisted that they had to celebrate not just one, but two soulmate pairs getting together. Jimin demanded that Yoongi invited Namjoon so he could meet him, and had invited Jungkook who also brought his older brother Seokjin since Jimin saw a picture of him and demanded that he needed to meet such a beauty in person. And of course Hoseok was there as well.

So there were seven of them. Maybe not large for Jimin’s standards, but this was absolutely a huge gathering for Yoongi who preferred to just chill at home by himself—well not so much by himself since he now had an actual boyfriend who he just couldn’t help wanting to see all the time.

“You act like I did that all the time,” Yoongi said, rolling his eyes. “I only did that once.”

“Twice,” Namjoon corrected. “Once when you first met, and then when you met the second time. You came to my house so late at night, already halfway to drunk, and kept me up way too late telling me about how you could just tell that it was already doomed to fail.”

Yoongi didn’t need to look to know Taehyung was pouting. He could practically feel its aura. “We’re not doomed though, are we, Yoongi?”

“You would have failed if it weren’t for me,” Jimin inserted himself into the conversation. “You literally owe this whole entire thing to me. If I hadn’t met Yoongi through work, and I wasn’t best friends with you’re dumb but beautiful ass, you probably wouldn’t have even talked at all. And I was the one who forced you to air out your dirty laundry so that you could actually talk things out like adults.”

“Yes, thank you, Almighty Jimin who shall never let us live that down,” Taehyung said as he exaggeratedly bowed to him. “I promise to name one of my future children after you to honor the good deeds you have done for me and my boyfriend.”

“I shall accept that payment,” Jimin said, definitely enjoying himself more than he should.

“If we have or adopt kids in the future, we are not naming them after Jimin,” Yoongi said, bursting Jimin’s bubble of delight. “And also, please don’t compliment my boyfriend’s ass, it’s off limits.”

“So’s mine, so it’s even.” Jimin laughed, leaning into his own boyfriend since he could never keep himself standing when he laughed too hard for some reason.

“Dude, why did you never introduce me to your new friends before this?” Namjoon cut in suddenly. “I like them already.”

“Of course you do,” Yoongi rolled his eyes. “You can have them if you want. I don’t think I want to keep him anymore.”

“Hey! We literally just established how you two owe me a child for putting you together,” Jimin said.

Sighing, Yoongi rolled his eyes. “That is not what we-”

“I promise to not forget my debt to you, my Savior Jimin.” Taehyung yet again played up worshiping the man while Yoongi merely questioned every choice he made to put himself here.

But when he saw the string on his finger, bright as ever, he couldn’t help but smile. Thanks to not just Taehyung but also the other people who had recently entered his life, he smiled much more than before. He had people who accepted him for who he was and cared about him.

Sometimes, the string was wrong. Not even that could be perfect. But sometimes, it got this so, so right. And Yoongi was just happy that in the end, his soulmate did end up being the person who could love him the way he had longed for for so long.

My ask box is always open!

Also, if you’d like to donate to my Ko-fi, feel free! Absolutely no pressure though :) You can also check out my Etsy shop for BTS inspired charms as well!

[annerbhp]

What’s your writing process like?

A hot mess.

No, seriously. It’s a complete mess, but it’s my mess, tailored to me perfectly, and I think that’s the big battle with writing–coming up with a system that works for you, and being able to deal with it and modify when it stops working for you.

Here are my current eleven painful steps to writing a fic:

1. Conception - I daydream a lot. Like, while I’m falling asleep at night, while I’m doing the dishes, taking a shower, commuting to work, running an errand, sitting through boring meetings, I’m constantly running scenes and imagining snippets in my head. This is usually when a new story idea hits me. So I daydream about it for a long time. I start collecting emotions and visualizing moments. A lot of ideas die at this point, getting lost in the chaos of life or just not capturing my attention long term. The ones that do though, eventually crystallize enough that I feel compelled to start actually writing it down.

2. The Mad Scramble - At this point, I open a document and word vomit. It’s a scramble, to try to purge all those various imaginings and scenes and snippets of dialog and feelings and just get them down as fast as possible before they fade or I forget them. Totally out of order, totally unconnected, just vomit, vomit, vomit. Interspersed with brainstorming, since most of my stories are AU, I’ll just write long narratives of where are we, what has changed, why, and often the ideas change and evolve as I am writing them down. That doesn’t make sense, what about this instead? What would happen if that happened? In this phase I try very hard not to edit myself. I always know I can come back later and massage and edit. Again, a lot of stories die in this phase. Or fizzle out and get chucked back in the writing file as another idea starts taking over my daydreaming.

3. Rough Skeleton - After a lot of word vomiting, I usually pull back a bit to try to wrest some sort of logical order. Usually this just means shifting things around so there is a Point A: where the story starts, a Point B: what is the big dramatic beat where conflict erupts?, and a Point C: where are we when it ends? Often these specific three scenes are the first to get written, even if never in their final form. This starts to crystallize the overall journey of the fic. What is the plot change? What is the emotional change? What is the character change? And since I write mostly ship fic: how has the relationship evolved by the end? This is usually the point I can start imagining titles, which lets me know that I kind of know what the point of the fic is.

4. Useless Puttering - Now I descend back into my favorite past time: daydreaming. I imagine scenes, once again totally out of order, but that fill in between Point A and Point B, and Point B and Point C. Other important beats get established. I just dream up dialog and scenes and imagine emotions, and things just happen. Some of them get down on paper again. Not necessarily in their final place, but I get the most important dramatic beats in between the main points. The story is now full of unhelpful notes like: Have Hermione show up here and say something that makes Harry think about blah blah. Or, don’t forget that Ron is still mad at Ginny here. Was blah blah ever explained? And my least favorite placeholder: kissage. Stuff I will go back later and deal with but don’t want to now. I pretty much let myself write whatever the hell I want at this phase (the ‘good’ bits), knowing I can come back to things later. Momentum is too important here.

5. Rereading - Now comes the phase I get stuck in endlessly. At this point, I start obsessively rereading what I’ve already written. On a good day, that means I will start editing and filling out and toning some things down (my first word vomit versions are usually over-the-top DRAMATIC), pulling threads through the fic as I go along, making sure the emotional beats are going in a believable and satisfying way. Chapters start to form if there are going to be chapters. But more often than not I just re-read and re-read with very little changes. This is another big stall out point for me.

6. Walk Away - With almost every story at this point I feel the need to walk away from the story. I get bored with it after re-reading it so many times. I get frustrated. I run out of ideas and I generally stop caring about it. I have to admit, quite a few stories die at this point. And sometimes for good reason. (This is also where I start whining to people who are kind enough to listen, as I am sure @bethanyactually and @weatheredskies and @runawaymarbles can attest.) This is a really good point to put it away and just ignore it. My daydreams go somewhere else (and inevitably this is where my next story is born). When I was writing The Changeling and hit this point, this is where the majority of the Armistice Series was born. When I was stalled out on pick it up, this is where my coffeehouse AU was born. It’s good palette cleanser. Sometimes this lasts a few days, a week, a month. For The Changeling that one time, it lasted A YEAR. (Though there were other Real Life considerations influencing that as well.) I fill out a lot of memes at this point. Get caught up with asks and comments. I read other people’s fic.

7. Hello, Old Friend - If I’ve been away long enough, coming back to the story for a fresh re-read is like coming home to an old friend. Hey, this isn’t as bad as I thought! I really like this bit here. And this new wave of energy comes up. I start daydreaming again, I re-read and modify as I go, and the story starts to fill in more and more. I start getting antsy to share it with people. I might give small snippets to my long-suffering friends who listened to all my complaining.

8. Pen and Ink - At some point the second honeymoon ends, and I start getting frustrated with the document, feel overwhelmed trying to wrap my brain around things. Depending on the size of the story, this might be post-it notes and outlining time, where I use color coded paper and/or pens to make sure there is balance between narrative POVs and plots and themes and whatever threads are being dragged through the fic. I will also hit a point when I can’t edit on the computer anymore and I print out a chapter. I will take that chapter with me to a coffee shop, pull out obnoxiously garish pens, and write all over it. This is how I know I am very nearly there. I will scribble that print out to death. I take a break again here, and then come back and input the edits on my computer. Sometimes the process has to be repeated, but more often than not, the chapter is now in rough draft format.

9. Betas Are a Writer’s Best Friend - At this point I upload the chapter/story to a google doc to share with a beta. For Armistice, I am spoiled enough to have four (!!) people looking at chapters for me right now. One is a literal Squee Beta. She reads it and squees at me and helps me believe that it is not complete garbage. Another is a beta who is very willing to completely disagree with all my life choices, which I find hugely helpful because I have to justify my choices and admit when I’m being lazy–this often leads to disgruntled rewrites that make the story better. My two original betas are great at not just grammar (which boy do I need) and catching mistakes here and there, but discussing character beats and plot points, and asking me questions, and being endlessly willing to just talk about the story with me. (How are there people this awesome that exist?)

10. Final Edits - Sometimes the final edits are painless, but often there is some melodramatic whinging on my part at this point and some rewrites, as I battle the need to just be done with it and getting it done right. Though I am also known for sitting on a final draft far too long. Like, maybe not making a single change for a week, but still not just POSTING it. Again replying to asks and getting caught up on comment replies is my best stall tactic. (hmmmm…)

11. Posting - I usually do this when I am completely sick of the chapter/story. That lets me know I am done. I am no longer daydreaming about that part of the story. I don’t want to talk about it anymore. It becomes this immutable canon-like thing in my head that can’t be changed anymore. So, I post it. And then spend the next day a total and complete wreck as I wait for validation of some sort. If I’m lucky, I get some, ride a high for a few days, and then back to Step 5 for the next chapter, because, boy, if they liked that, I can’t wait to share this next bit with them.

The End

[hystericalcherries]

aeon (2/6)

Pairing: Keith/Lance Words: 11.5k Rating: M Warnings: mild violence, (minor) implicit sexual content, anxious thoughts Tags:  Post-Season/Series 07, quantum abyss, Flashbacks, Flashforwards, Prophetic Visions, Visions in dreams, Mind Control, Dimension Travel, Boys Being Boys, Falling In Love, Mutual Pining, Gay Keith (Voltron), Bisexual Lance (Voltron) when the going gets tough… the tough write fix-it fics, Allura (Voltron) Lives, because fuck you jds and lm 

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Summary:

Keith does not leave the quantum abyss untouched.

“Home can be anything, you know,” Lance says in lieu of a conversation starter.

Slivers of moonlight filter through the blinds above their heads, casting lines of truth across the sheets. Lance tilts his head forward and a band slides over his eyes, catching the ocean in them and drawing Keith into their rolling tides. And as distracted as he is, he doesn’t put up a fight when a hand clasps his own, reeling them heartward.

“Home is just something you can come back to.” His knuckles brush against the soft fabric of a nightshirt, the v-neckline falling loose to reveal a sharp collarbone, and Keith feels his breath hitching. “Something that keeps you grounded.”

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The flashes grow more intense.

At first, they had been an inconvenience. A flash here and a flash there, arbitrary like flipping open a book to a random page. Aimless in its intent of stealing Keith’s time but an ambitious thief nonetheless, sifting through his cove of memories and hoping to strike gold amongst desert sand and bruised knuckles. Both passages of time, locked away in a tilting hourglass and behind porcelain skin, they are fleeting in thought and consequence.

That is, until they decide to stay.

Then it becomes a problem.

A problem he can’t fix because the scenes played out are narrated by some omniscient being, unreliable with its knack for embellishing the color of the sky and the clouds that ride the breeze, and wholly unwilling to take criticism. For somewhere between leaving the quantum abyss and stepping foot on Earth soil the universe had decided that Keith’s story was far from over and needed to be told. What had been weekly is now daily. Streams of them, disjointed and vague, bobbing in the shallow depth of his foremind. It takes over, dissolving reality in a current call to a life that couldn’t be his.

One minute he has his hand on the doorknob to Shiro’s apartment, twisting, and the next he is walking into a stranger’s home, steps faltering at the tinkle of wind chimes and the sight of Kosmo curled up on a plush armchair, fast asleep. Past the backdrop of the muted television is the sound of running water and soft humming, running lackadaisical fingertips over the threadbare rug under his feet and the bookcase bursting with scrapbooks and bent paperbacks. Gossamer drapes sway in a draft let through the open windows, refracting the sunlight through their soft lens. He squints, blinded, and—

A face shrouded in light, beaming with happiness. Welcome home, Keith.

—he’s standing in the middle of Shiro’s apartment, not knowing when or how long he’d been standing there.

The walls are pale and the furniture minimalist. It’s a bit too pristine for Keith’s taste, everything in a place and a place for everything. For someone like Shiro, who’s always needed to have everything beyond flawless to justify his own dream in the face of a chronic illness, the space is perfect, but Keith is cut from a different cloth. Worn and rough to the touch, he expects the world around him to reflect the same. Brief as it was, he misses the flash and nearly wishes it real.

“You okay?” Shiro is asking, turned completely in his seat at the kitchen island and staring at Keith, reading glasses slipping down his nose; they look suspiciously like Adam’s but Keith isn’t going to say anything about that. “You kinda spaced-out a bit there.”

“Uh, yeah,” he responds quickly, throat dry. He rubs at his eyes with the jut of his palm, willing the vision away for good. “I just”—a deep breath, even and slow—“forgot about… something. It’ll come to me eventually.”

“If you say so.” But the older man doesn’t look entirely sure, frowning that frown he does whenever Keith says something particularly dismal about his past. Thankfully, he seems to understand Keith well enough to know better than to delve deeper— yet. “Did you wanna get started on the security detail for the coalition conference? The Unilu are sending a party next week and want to know if Voltron will be there to escort them out of their solar system…”

Constantly standing at the cusp of something almost real, Keith waits to be pushed over the edge.

It gets tougher to keep things under wrap with the flashes manifesting whenever they like. Most of the time he can blame the lapse in concentration on fatigue or even mishearing, but Keith knows that people are starting to catch wind that something is— not wrong, per say, but that something is definitely going on. Keith is not known for his inability to focus, but, rather, his to inability to stop.

“People are getting suspicious,” Allura tells him the third night in a row he had snuck into her room on the Atlas. Scattered around her are countless scrolls, brittle to the touch and written in a language he can’t read. Her mice lay about; Chuchule hidden in the curl of white hair, Platt napping under the makeshift tent of a book and Plachu and Chulatt lounging on Keith’s knee. “You could be a little more tactful in how you go about things.”

Having already heard the complaint more than once, Keith simply rolls his eyes and focuses on the translator in his hands. It’s slow compared to the almost instant reaction time of those that had been on the castleship, but it’s progress nonetheless. “Yeah, well, it won’t matter once we figure out what’s going on with me. So if you could focus on reading and doing just that, that’d be great.”

Allura huffs up a storm but does what’s asked of her.

It’s a little easier having someone else know, Keith must admit. Makes him feel less like he’s drowning and more like he’s treading deep water. With Allura around and in the loop, Keith doesn’t have to pretend when a flash hits him, scrambling up a dumb excuse or making a hasty retreat. She merely sits next to him, hand on his arm and leaning in, and waits for it to pass. There is no pressure of secrecy when it is done, just a smile he haltingly returns and a murmur for them to get back to work; not that that stops him from keeping to himself anyway (though Allura has made her opinion on that blatantly clear), but the thought is still there.

As if sensing his want of confidentiality and purposefully scorning it, the device in his hand beeps, causing them both to jerk to attention. Match found, reads the screen and Keith nearly topples over a pile of dusty books in his haste to get the scroll he had been translating into the princess's hands, upsetting the mice. Allura is just as eager, ripping it from his grasp and shoving her nose into it, going cross-eyed as she reads its faded ink.

“What does it say?” he asks impatiently.

Allura doesn’t answer immediately, instead unrolling it further and frowning in her effort to make sense of the words bared in front of her. After a solid minute of reading her eyebrows rise up in surprise. “Wow,” she murmurs in wonder. “To think that all this knowledge was at my fingertips this entire time. How foolish of me not to delve into the archives sooner.”

“Well?”

“First off, we were right in thinking that there might be a connection to what’s happening to you and Oriande. The translator worked and this scroll details the supposed creation of the realm.” Her eyes start glittering, wide like full moons. “It’s a realm, did you know that? Not another dimension like we originally thought. There’s a difference: a dimension can exist in a limited amount of space, but realms exist in all of them. How fascinating.”

“I know this is all great and awesome for you, but can we focus here? What does it say about the abyss?” Allura doesn’t so much as twitch. “Allura. Hey— what does it say?”

Almost reluctantly, she looks up and away. But when they are finally level with each other once more her face takes on a specific expression, the one where she talks science and alchemy and diplomacy. Perceptive and fierce. It’s one of calculation.

Out of pure instinct, Keith leans away from it. “What is it?

“You haven’t come into contact with pure quintessence recently, have you?”

“Uh, no.”

“How about during your time in the abyss?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think so or you don’t know so.”

The way she beats around the bush causes a spark of annoyance to run through him. “I’m not sure if you know this, princess, but I lived on the back of a giant, space whale and you don’t just find vats of pure quintessence lying around. I’m sure if there was any, we would know about it.”

Another eye sparkle, as if she’d been waiting for Keith to say as much. “Speaking of ‘we,’ how does your mother fair with the visions? Are they more taxing with her age? Do they happen just as often as your own? It’s possible that the visions are connected through you both, through familial relation. Maybe we could ask and compare experiences between the two.”

Keith twitches. “Ah, no, she doesn’t get them anymore. They stopped a few days after we arrived on the castleship.” He looks away, wincing against the guilt that ravages his insides when he recalls her relief when telling him of the news. She had been so happy and Keith hadn’t wanted to ruin it, so much so that the lie had rolled off his tongue without a moment’s thought. “She actually doesn’t know that I still get them. I haven’t… well, I haven’t told her.”

Her brows turns downward. “Keith.”

Keith shakes off the chide, clearing his throat. “It doesn’t matter. She doesn’t need to know, not when we finally have this.” He gestures to the scroll still held loosely in her hands. “You said there’s a connection, right? And that it’s got something to do with quintessence, I’m guessing.”

Allura looks as if she wants to talk more about Keith and his choices in life, but doesn’t know how to continue without upsetting Keith himself. Eventually, she sighs and nods, laying out the scroll between them and placing her ever-compliant mice at the corners as paperweights of sorts. They squeak up at them, watching Allura’s perfectly manicured finger trace a line. “It says here that realms are tied directly to the quintessence that makes up the world. It is the beginning of what was and what is and what shall be. The quantum abyss is a precursor to even that. From it or another like it, Oriande was made and from that, our universe. Just as I was tied to Oriande, it seems you are tied to the abyss.”

“But… why me?”

She tilts her head in thought. “Only selected Alteans can enter Oriande, a criteria held by what the Life Givers hold true. But the abyss is older and run by more… archaic principles. You are the first galra-human hybrid in existence, something never before seen in this universe or that of another, so perhaps it is your physiology. Maybe the fact is making you susceptible to the flashes in a way full-breeds and other species are not. Kinship in the form of novelty. It would explain why you are so sensitive to quintessence too.”

He nods. “Back when— before all this and Voltron was even a thing— I was able to find Blue. At first, it was just a feeling, but then it turned into some kind of obsession. I always thought I was going crazy, you know, chasing after some obscure cave drawings, but then we actually found her and…”

“It became real.”

“Yeah.”

She must notice something in his tone, because she leans into him and smiles. “It’s a good thing you trusted your instincts. Without it, we might have never met and the universe would be a much different place.”

“Yeah,” he says again. “You’re right. I’d rather deal with this than never meet any of you.”

Allura brings her hand to her heart, mimicked by the mice, all obviously touched at his words, and Keith flushes in embarrassment. He’s gotten better at conveying his feelings since being launched into space, but the action of voicing them still causes his stomach to flip erratically. It’s ridiculous, he knows, because they’ve had enough group hugs and heartfelt reunions to sufficiently define themselves as the makeshift family he’s always wanted, but the abandonment of his past has a way of following him into the prospect of his future and it’s a battle he’s raging even today.

“So,” he says louder than necessary, “let’s get back to… this.”

Allura clears her throat. “Yes, well, if we are to assume that you are still linked to the quantum abyss despite leaving its bounds and that link is quintessence based then it would stand to reason that quintessence might be the solution.”

“I don’t follow.”

Her hand cups his own. “I want to induce a vision.”

It’s not what he was expecting and he says as much. “You want to— the flashes aren’t something I can control, Allura. They just happen.”

“You forget that I study alchemy and, though my knowledge is nowhere near complete, I am one of the leading experts on quintessence in this universe. If there is anyone who can guide you through a vision, it is me. I am a Chosen of Oriande.” Seeing his reluctance, she takes on a quieter tone, almost pleading. “Keith, let me try, please. This is all I can think of and I want to help. Something obviously went wrong when you and your mother breached the quantum abyss, and these visions could be attempts to realign what has been broken. If guided we could delve what they mean to fix and bring an end to this madness all the quicker.”

It’s the eagerness that does him in. Selfless in intent and utterly devoted to do the right thing, Allura is at the ready to prove herself in any way possible. Willing to give everything and more, guileless, she offers an upturned palm, putting the choice in his hands.

Hesitantly, he takes it. “Fine, but if anything goes south, you pull back immediately.”

“On my honor,” she promises.

When her other hand settles on top of their clasped ones he does his best not to jerk away, spying the faint glow that emanates from the princess just as a low hum vibrates the air around them. Reminiscent of how his friend’s eyes blazed with power when she had cradled a husk of a man and brought life to it, he doesn't dare look up, fearful of what the act might induce— days, weeks, all of it lost in the possibility of a single moment. So he lowers his gaze to his knees, outlining the definite wrinkles that pull at the fabric of his pants and letting Allura take the lead, riding the wave as she dives into the caverns of his psyche.

There is no fight against the intrusion, Keith allowing her to tread deeper as he floats upon its deceivingly shallow surface. She dips a finger into the water that fills his mind, studying the ripples it makes with avid interest. A breeze of energy passes and he breathes deeply with it, eyes fluttering closed as something bubbles deep inside him.

At first it is a tentative thing, a mere whisper floating along the outskirts of thought. But then Allura pushes and it reacts, creeping ever closer; a shudder and it crystallizes into something real, a reflection of self. The apparition, colored red like a dying sunset, stares him down, face blank and hand spread over the transparent barrier that lies between them. Voiceless words channel through the connection and Keith, still aware of the projection of Allura at his back, goes to echo the gesture. Fingertips touch and—

—a flash, blinding light that rolls down the inverted buttes of his irises and tightens the coils of every muscle. Pupils dilate, widening until they are a chasmic gateway to the soul.

He falls and it is a timeless motion.

Like Icarus to the sun, he aims too high and burns upon exposure. Once gliding on vitreous wings, they shatter and break, condemning him to fall eternally. Images fly past him, telling of scenes already passed and yet to come. They are solar flares, arching high above the scope of his vision, assembling into a life that lies far beyond his ability.

Hands that are not his own stretch farther than he can reach. Stained a divine pink, they spread wide and seize at the images, pulling them inward. A pulse of quintessences and then his axis is tilting. For there is no up and down, no left and right, no back and forth. Simply a directionless force, reticent and resolute. Transcendental impressions, waiting to be acted upon. Ever waiting. Waiting for creation, for aspiration, for vitalization, for—

—a field of flowers, white tablecloth and champagne glasses, an altar christened with tuxedos and vows—

—the heat of a fire raging, plumes of smoke rising from the ashes of a stranger’s home, clouds over the tombstone of a father buried—

—the roar of a lion—

—the weightlessness of falling, golden eyes in the shadows, a sword cutting through the air, the slumped form of a body in armor—

—a warm hand clasped in his own, golden ring glinting in the morning sun—

—absolution.

He resurfaces, gasping.

The world snaps back into place. Gone is the rush of predetermined destiny, leaving only the barren truth of now. He is back within the thrumming walls of the Atlas, surrounded by dusty tomes and military grade furniture, time resuming its reign and taxing him heavily as he regains control over his own breathing.

“We,” he pants, sweat already cooling at his neck, “are never doing that again.”

Allura is no better. She has her hands curled on the back of her thighs, leaning forward as if she can’t even support the weight of her own thoughts. The mice chitter worryingly, pawing at her ankles and wrists, only quieting when her altean marks flicker with residual magic and then die out. “Agreed.”

Phantom hands intertwined with his just as lips ghost over the corner of his mouth and Keith jolts to attention, muscles spasming as he catches the tail ends of the flash fading into the air. Head still aching and heart running a mile a minute, Keith forces himself to his feet.

The movement causes Allura to stir. “Where are you going?”

“Bed,” he says quickly. He feels ready to crawl out of his skin. “It’s late and I’m tired.”

She pushes herself to her knees. “But we haven’t yet determined the purpose behind what we saw together. If we are to believe that these are preeminent visions, then some of those images were your future. We may be able to use them to our advantage.”

The thought of delving deeper into what just transpired is nauseating. Some of the images had been nondescript enough for them to ignore, while others were in excruciating detail. There’s no way either of them had missed the significance behind some of the scenes, like the altar or wedding bands, and he dreads the questions that’s going to be asked of him

“There isn’t much to talk about. It didn’t give us anything to stop it or the war with, so.” He shrugs, hoping she’ll drop it.

Of course, it isn’t that easy. Allura thrives off knowledge and Keith is a treasure chest of hastily kept secrets just waiting to be plundered.

“I wouldn’t say that we didn’t gain nothing from it…” Her eyelids lower with her brows, giving him a side-eye that’s reminiscent of Hunk when he spies fresh gossip, only worsening when the mice begin to reenact some romantic shtick on the floor. Her voice is coy and has the impression of a cat that’s just got the cream. “Some of those visions were… quite telling. You have a bright future ahead of you, wouldn’t you say?”

Heat rushes to his face.

“Come now. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. This war won’t last forever and when it ends we’ll be free to live out our lives, finding the happiness we so rightfully deserve. If that means finding another to live it with, then I hope we are all as lucky as you.”

Keith’s stomach flips. Mouth suddenly dry, he tries to think of something to say but can’t; trapped in the confines of his throat, they stay.

Love had always been a fickle thing for Keith, an almost affair that leads to heartbreak and broken promises. It’s something he can’t control. It rears its head in the most unlikely of places; in deep space, in between bubbling laughter and gunfire, a something settling behind his breastbone, refusing to disappear even as the years pass. It takes many forms, sliding along the cradle of his mother’s arms or curving with the brotherly hair ruffle Shiro bestows, easy to swallow because they are things he has always yearned.

But what the flashes depict… it is a love that runs deeper. A cluster of stars tied with a cosmic ring of infatuation, born in an instant and lasting an eternity.

His shoulders hunch and his fists clench, contorting in the equivalent of a full body grimace. “Yeah, well, it’s just… whatever.”

Allura frowns. “Are you not pleased with what you saw?”

And how does he even begin to explain? Explain the concern, the trepidation, because nothing is set in stone and letting himself hope is one step away from being let down.

For the flashes hadn’t really been a choice, not in this fold of time. In them he is stuck between yesterday and tomorrow, walking into a fate that might be deprived from him; he’s seen so much, flashes that blind him to what can be and what really is, painting him gray with longing. It’s years, months, week, days, seconds down the line, a tropical illusion amidst a desert of truth, blurry and just beyond reach. Tantalizing but deadly, because what he wants isn’t what he gets. And that’s the thing that hurts the most, the uncertainty.

Not that Allura would understand, he realizes. Love had never been in short supply for the princess, lavished onto her by a father, mother and kingdom. And he doesn’t blame her for that— would never compare the love she deserves to the love he lacks—but it still leaves him crippled.

So he takes a breath and clears his face of all emotion. “It’s late. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

He ignores her shocked face as he leaves, feeling the pinch in his temple and twist in his gut. Bitterness is an all-encompassing thing, but he runs from it all the same.

“Dad?” an eight-year old Keith asks on a summer night long past. “Why did mom leave us?”

Crickets chirp among the blooming cacti, loud in the stillness of the desert. Dust coats his boots and clothes from their hike into the canyon that day, rough against his skin but warm against the cold air that whistles over the dry grass. Faintly, from inside the shack, he could hear the low hum of the refrigerator. The moon, yellow and waxing crescent, hovers low over the distant horizon, highlighting the rugged features of his father’s face and throwing his nicked eyebrow in direct relief.

An ashen gaze is pulled from the heavens back to earth.

“Your mother,” his father starts with that smile he always gets when speaking about the woman he loved, soft and sad and wistful, “left to protect us— to protect you. She couldn’t stay, not if it meant putting us in harm’s way, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t with us now. She’s up there, somewhere far beyond, looking at the stars and thinking of us just like we’re thinking of her. And it might be tomorrow or next week or even next year, but she’ll be with us again. Some day.”

It’s the same answer he always gives and just like all the times before, Keith doesn’t believe it.

Keith fools himself into thinking that the world wouldn’t catch up to him. Thinks himself so far ahead and with time to let the dust settle that when things do come crashing down it’s like a hammer to glass. A shatter so abrupt that it cracks him wide open.

It starts with a thinly veiled interrogation from Shiro on the Friday following his talk with Allura, stuff packed with good intentions and gentle probes. A you okay there, champ? here and a how about we go out for lunch today and talk? there, slipping past the bitten lip of concern. And when he ultimately declines, it shifts to blatant coddling. Helpful hands and calm words, aiming to guide and resolve, but only succeeding in bringing the thoughts inside his head to a steady boil. Enough so that Keith not-so-subtly excuses himself from the apartment and heads to the training facilities on the Atlas.

It’s early and his class doesn’t start until another ten minutes and, as a result, he doesn’t see any of his students when he swipes his keycard to enter. Which is fine with Keith, because he’d rather not have to force out some half-baked nicety between people he barely knows. However, the thought is torn in two when he realizes that he recognizes a face doing drills with a kendo stick at one of the mats.

“Lance?” he calls out without thinking, loud with surprise, drawing the attention of said boy along with the few bodies that are already stationed at the machines.

Quickly and ignoring the stares that follow him, he makes his way to his teammate. The mat sinks slightly when he steps on it, putting him at the same level with the boy when he straightens from the fighting stance he had been practicing. He looks to have been there a while, sleeveless shirt sticking to his sides and stretching the width of his chest as he takes deep breaths, face flushed from exertion.

The blue paladin doesn’t appear at all surprised to see him, leaning onto the stick as he pushes his hair back. There are earbuds hanging from his collar, playing some muted pop song that he doesn’t recognize. “Hey, buddy, fancy seeing you here.”

But Keith doesn’t register the banter-in-motion. “What’re you doing here?” he asks, abrupt and rude.

The teasing smile on Lance’s face dims slowly and it’s a painful thing to watch, more so when he realizes belatedly it was his doing. “Training,” the boy explains, scratching his neck and taking a quick sweep of the area before returning to him. “I, uh, missed my evening session yesterday and didn’t want to fall behind, so here I am.”

“I didn’t know you trained.” Rude again. Why can’t he stop?

A flash of annoyance. “Well, I do.”

Keith backpedals momentarily. Tries to remind himself that Lance hasn’t done anything to deserve to bear the brunt of his frustrations. “Yeah, of course, I… sorry.”

Lance purses his lips, passing quick judgement. Eventually, he shrugs and loosens the slope of his shoulders. “It’s all cool. I don’t exactly make a point to live here like you do. Hear you took up a class teaching dudes how to karate chop bad guys. How’s that going for ya?”

“It’s going.”

That brings a smile back to the other boy’s face and Keith feels the cool water of relief run through his body when he lets out a small laugh. Not everything is entirely hopeless, it seems. “Sounds riveting. I might just stick around and watch.”

There’s an unspoken challenge that Keith can’t quite decipher, but before he can even ask there’s the familiar swish of the door to the training room opening, a gaggle of his students filing through, dressed in sweats and activewear. Hunk is with them, shouldering his own pack and chatting amiably with two girls, one dark-haired with glasses and the other blonde and freckled. Rizavi and Leifsdottir, if Keith remembers their names correctly.

Keith takes a step, then stops.

Seeing his hesitation, Lance punches him lightly in the shoulder. “Go on. I’ll still be here when you’re done.”

So Keith goes, passing by Hunk on his way and sharing a wave.

Back into the routine of things he acknowledges his students, waits for them to line up, guides them through some basic stretches, and finally starts demonstrating their first move. It’s one he learned during his time with the Blades, efficient when needing to get out of a sticky situation. Duck, lunge and roll. Simple and easy to be coupled with other maneuvers, best in close quarter situations.

Pairs are made and Keith walks among them, stepping in and adjusting stances whenever he sees the need, but watching for the most part. His students take his offered advice seriously, fine-tuning their movements accordingly and only ever needing one or two demonstrations until they get it right. It’s impressive and entirely reflective of what he’s read from their files, all picked from the cream of the crop with the scores to prove it.

However, it’s not twenty-five minutes into the class, just as Kinkade executes a perfect lunge, rolling out of Leifsdottir’s surprisingly aggressive assault, that Keith gets distracted.

Amidst the flurry of fists and grunts, he spies Lance and Hunk. There’s nothing exceptionally ostentatious about the pair that rightly explains the way his gaze is caught so suddenly; they follow the basic pattern for a spar, circling and engaging at appropriate intervals, unassuming in how they exchange blows and playful words. Nothing to justify why he ignores his students and instead focuses on how Hunk’s burly left arm swings in an arc so wide that Lance has to duck out of the way or be gifted a black eye, the lanky boy slipping back into range with his fists at the ready in a decent boxing stance. Nothing but his own prying eyes to blame, ensnared onto the the sharp angle of shoulder blades as Lance twists into a kick that catches the bigger boy straight into the gut.

He chalks it up to his own restlessness. It’s been a while since he’s allowed himself to do anything outside the Garrison’s work-out regimen, too busy with restoration of Earth and his classes, and his body longs for the familiarity of close combat. To hold a sword in his hand once more, to feel that extension of self, pointed and dangerous and in control. In the throes of gunfire, a soldier, first and foremost, falling back on instinct alone.

Idly, he wonders if Lance would say yes to a spare if he asked.

“—tch out!”

Pain erupts in the back of his head, sudden and sharp. A noise between a grunt and a yelp erupt from his mouth, skewed as he attempts to twist himself and face the attack, only to trip over his own treacherous feet; the weight of it strikes him down, jaw smashing to the floor, unforgiving.

There’s a flurry of activity around him, voice rising in shock. Distantly, he feels more than one set of hands make to touch him, gripping his biceps and shoulders, and haul him onto his back. White spots dance in his vision, floating just above the harsh lights of the room and the fuzzy outlines of the people that crowd him, flickering in and out of existence as he tries to get a hold of his bearings.

A few seconds of dazed existence and he can actively decipher the muffled noise into words.

“Hey, is he gonna be alright?”

“Wow, Curtis. I can’t believe you just drop kicked a paladin of Voltron.”

“That looked like it hurt.”

“I didn’t mean to, I swear! It was an accident! I didn’t see him and— and who just stands in the middle of a sparring zone? Plus, Jason did the move way too fast and I couldn’t stop my spin in time!”

Another voice, lowered in an effort to soothe. “Hey, hey, hey. It’s okay. I’m sure you didn’t meant it— no one’s blaming you, okay? Breathe. Just give him some space, yeah?” A little louder. “All of you, back up and give him some space. Back to your drills. Hunk, could you…?”

They must follow the order because things go quieter. Quiet enough for Keith to focus on his breathing and the throb that pulses at the back of his neck, wincing when he feels a faint touch to the tender area. He groans deep in his throat and shifts uncomfortably on his tail bone, forcing his eyes to open and squint past the pain until the world sharpens into clarity.  

Front and center is Lance, brows furrowed in worry. “You okay, man?”

He offers a hand and Keith takes it, sitting up. The immediate rush of blood to his head makes him dizzy and he sways just a bit, fingers tightening around Lance’s even as his other hand rises to prod at his temple.

“What happened?” he asks.

“I didn’t actually see it but apparently you took a mean one to the head. Caught you when you weren’t looking— just a good ol’ heel to the face. Judging from the size of Curtis’ feet, I’m betting it’ll bruise.” Lance looks to him, frowning. “You need an ice pack? I can run and get one. Or I can take you to the infirmary myself. I know I joke about your mullet, but not even bad helmet hair can stop a concussion.”

The infirmary is the last place Keith wants to end up. The risk of being found out and having his flashes the focus of scrutiny is too high and Keith would rather suffer possible head trauma than deal with that. Not to mention the unbearable mothering Shiro would dote onto him once he realized his worry was justified, accumulative tenfold by his own mother once she heard of the news herself.

“Yeah, no, I just zoned out for a second— totally my fault. Just need to walk it off.”

“Are you sure?”

Slightly disoriented and a bit bruised, but nothing a good rest couldn’t fix. He’s seen worse, been through worse, and can take care of his own. “Yeah, it’s okay.”

“I don’t know, you’ve been lookin’ a bit scruffy the past few days. Me and Hunk were just talking about how maybe something bad is rolling through the base, like the space flu or yalmor pox— I’m not sure the second one actually exists but Coran didn’t technically say no when we asked, so…” He shrugs, like it’s water down his back.

“I’m fine, really.”

“I really wouldn’t mind going with you. We can catch up while we get you checked up.”

He’s not sure what exactly, but something about that has his hackles rising in defense. Maybe it’s the fact that Lance is so obviously pushing something he doesn’t want. It’s insignificant and well-meaning, but Keith has been living in a constant state of anxiety for the past couple of weeks, strained under the pressure of the flashes and keeping them locked away, and the words eat away at his fortitude. He can’t even pinpoint the reason this moment is the breaking factor— can’t even explain the fuddled mess of thoughts prior to the embarrassing kick in the head or why the pressure of Lance’s hand in his feels too much. Doesn’t know why and hates it.

“I’m fine, Lance.” he snaps prematurely, biting his tongue by accident and tasting copper. Lets the taste fuel him, push him past what he knows to be right. “Why are you asking? Did Shiro put you up to this? Is this why you’re really here? God, I already told him—”

“Woah, woah, woah. Hold up.” Lance looks taken aback, palms outward in a gesture of surrender. “Shiro didn’t say anything to me. This is me asking all on my own, okay? No need to bite my head off.”

Keith breathes hard, looks away, and attempts to get up. He can feel Lance watching him, struggling to get his feet underneath him, eyes narrowed as he makes no move to aid his clumsy limbs; it’s a look that sticks, seeping into his pores. Tension, high and thick, fills the space between them, but Keith, for once, doesn’t rise to the bait. Lance, unfortunately, has never been one to let things go.

“Why would Shiro need to talk to me about you anyways? Is there something I should know?”

“No.” Finally, he makes it to his feet, knees popping in protest. The ache in his head is worse when standing, but he ignores it. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

Lance rises too and pushes forward in a way that is solely them, challenge-like, close enough that Keith can see the speckles of brown in his eyes and feel his breath when he speaks. “Does it have something to do with how you and Allura are hanging out every night?”

His chest pinches tightly and it’s an oddly familiar feeling.

It furrows his eyes and thins his lips. Hard like stone he becomes. “Let me rephrase that. It’s nothing that concerns you.”

A pause.

Then, “Ah, okay. I see.”

It doesn’t immediately process that he’s said something wrong. It’s not until the other boy makes a face, scrunched up and twisted like he’s just sucked a lemon, that he’s even aware that something could go so wrong. But it could and it does. For there's definitely something wrong about the quiet chuckle that comes out of Lance's mouth, too much like the gurgling end of a drowning man.

Lance rocks onto his heels and shakes his head in this genuinely uncomfortable manner. Usually, the close proximity of the blue paladin wouldn't phase him, as used to it as he is by their constant squabbling, but something about the other’s face— the hard angle of his eyebrows maybe, or even the pressed line of his mouth— puts him off kilter. It's enough to have his mind stutter to a confusing stop.

“I don't know why I thought…” The boy looks up at the ceiling, closing his eyes and somehow making Keith feel like there’s miles between them. A deep breath, “Fine.” Then he straightens and smiles something self-deprecating, gaze sharp enough to cut glass, walking past him so abruptly that their shoulders knock together. “Look alive, Team Leader. Your class is waiting for your orders.”

Keith stumbles, turning with the move so as to watch Lance head toward his gear and pack everything away. Watches him mutter something to Hunk and the other gym goers, hiking his bag over his shoulder and head straight to the door. Watches Hunks casts one, last worried glance over at him before following his best friend, door sliding shut with a quiet swish.

Watches him leave.

Hidden under a blanket of shooting stars, he lets himself fall— in body, in mind, and in love. Arms of the sea cradle him, lifting him above the surf when the dark depth threatens to drown. Glistening, ever bright, it leans in close and presses a secret into his skin.

You can have your place, a starlit ocean whispers, but first you must want it.

It’s Hunk who finally corners him the next day, appearing just after Keith returns from an afternoon jog around the base with Kosmo, exhausted as he leans against the wall for support and unable to escape. For he is a wanted man, running from the many and the few, desperate to succumb to his own self-inflicted wounds. Lips cracked and throat parched, he swallows the sticky saliva that coats his mouth with increasing discomfort, watching his friend walk toward him from under the curtain of sweaty bangs.

Kosmo has no qualms about the company, wagging his tail when he gets a ruffle of the ears and a piece of jerky from the the boy’s stash of snacks. It’s betrayal in the most truest sense.

“Hi,” Hunk says, taking a seat on the ground next to him.

Keith gives him a small nod, using his towel to wipe away the sweat clinging to his heated skin. “Hey.”

“You have a nice run?”

“Yeah, it was good.”

“That’s good.”

It’s quiet between them. Keith bent over his folded knees, still catching his breath, and Hunk just sitting, staring straight forward. There is no pressure in the silence, the yellow paladin’s easygoing nature lulling any and all tension just with his mere presence. Though, like all things in Keith’s life, it's only a matter of time before it breaks.

“I talked to Lance.”

And there it is.

It may be selfish, but Keith doesn't want to have this conversation. Doesn't want to be here, in this moment, in this position. Doesn't want to play this game of telephone with his teammates. Doesn’t want to be the reason this problem exists.

“How… how is he?”

“He’s a bit upset. Wouldn’t really tell me all of it and got really quiet when I pushed, but I think he’s more frustrated that it took such an ugly turn than anything else. Probably wasn’t expecting you to be so… you.” Something about it doesn't sit well. Hunk shouldn't be the one saying this— it should be coming directly from the source, from someone else, from Lance. “He did promised to behave, so that’s something.”

Internal dissent parts his lips. “He doesn’t have to… It’s not his fault, not really. I’ve just got— a lot going on, okay?”

“Figured as much. Still would’ve been helpful to know though.”

He lets out a frustrated huff. “It’s my stuff and I don’t want to…”

Hunk hums.

“Plus, you know how he can be.”

Another pause and it’s nice, to have someone there that just gets it. Keith has never been one for words, has never excelled in stringing thought into something more concise. Not like Shiro or Hunk or Lance. And the world doesn’t care for boys like that, like Keith, who would bite the hand that feeds him.

“Look…” Hunk starts and Keith feels it like a kick in the gut. “Lance is one of my best friends. He’s the reason I went to the Garrison in the first place— begged me for weeks to register with him, saying that I was too smart to waste it by staying on the islands. Always been like that, in case you were wondering. Loud, pushy and full of opinions.” He chuckles, the sound peeters off into a tired sigh. “I’m only saying this because I know sometimes he can be… a lot, especially with the rocky start you two had. But he’s a good guy, I promise. He’s just— sometimes he’s got these ideas of himself and everybody else that don’t really represent reality, and it makes him… sensitive to things.”

“Are you saying Lance is sensitive to me?”

Hunk gives a pointed side-eye. “Lance has always cared what you think of him.”

Keith frowns and shifts so that his ankles cross, wrapping his arms around his shins and wiggling his toes until Kosmo growls softly at him. He had known that people had envied his intuitive skill in piloting, no one being discreet about the words they said to his face and behind his back, and maybe he had distanced himself because of it. But it hadn’t matter, not when he had Shiro. Not when he could count on his friend-turned-brother to have his back, to listen when he talked, and to inspire him when the rest of the world let him down. To think that someone out there— and Lance of all people— had been admiring him in that same light, looking at his retreating figure and wishing for just a single glance back.

“You’re a hard guy to read, Keith, and an even harder guy to impress.”

He winces. “I don’t mean to come across that way. You guys have nothing to prove to me.”

“Lance doesn’t see it that way. You guys have always had this— thing, and well, old habits are hard to break, I guess.” He shrugs and Keith sways with the force of the motion. “We’ve spent a lot of time together up in space. Got to really know one another. But I think sometimes we forget that we aren’t all the same and experience everything differently.”

Keith thinks of Allura and his flashes. How something so anxiety-inducing for him had been celebrated.

“I’m not asking you to share your life story or for you to apologize, cause I know that you didn’t ask for that made-up rivalry or whatever it is you’re going though right now, and it’s not your fault that Lance feels like this. It sucks that you’re in the cross-fire and I would change it if I could, but this is just something he has to figure out himself and until then— if you could just lay low for awhile.” He must see his responding grimace because his tone gets a bit frantic, evidently distressed at the thought of distressing Keith. “I don’t mean it like that, I promise. Just— like, you know, not do anything in retaliation. Even if he starts it.”

He remembers Lance in the beginning, unreasonable and needlessly challenging, and dreads returning to it.

“Yeah,” he still says. “I’ll keep out of it.”

Hunk sighs in relief. “Thanks, Keith. You’re a good friend.”

Keith gets a pat on the back and then the yellow paladin is leaving, back to his family and Shay and the rest of the resistance. Kosmo whines a little, obviously missing the company he’s gotten so used to during their long travel back to Earth, but settles down when he pets his flank. In a move that forces Keith’s knees apart, the large wolf settles his head in his lap, ears alert and eyes focused on his face.

“I thought things would be easier when we returned,” he tells the wolf quietly, knowing the animal doesn’t have the answers to his problems. “But things are all mixed up now. I kinda wish we had stayed in space— everything was so much more simpler.”

Kosmos licks the pad of his thumb.

“Thanks buddy.” Keith smiles, fond when a bushy tail thumps against the floor. “Lance probably just needs some space. I’m sure this will blow over soon.”

It doesn’t blow over soon like everyone says, not even within the next few days. It gets worse, slowly and deliberately, enough so that he starts resorting to desperate measures. First and foremost, avoiding Lance.

It's not the most mature thing he's done and there is no denying the nauseating shame that comes to a boil in his stomach, but Keith doesn't know what else to do. Usually, if there had been a problem between him and another student back before Voltron, Keith would force it into the light and hash it out right then and there. But this is different, feels different, because Lance isn’t just some vague face roaming the halls anymore; he can’t just swing a fist and call the score settled, not if he wants to retain what they’ve made together. Friendship with Lance— with the entire team, really— is something he cherishes and has grown accustomed to, leaving him reeling without its easy grace and sincere intentions.

No more secret smiles or casual arms draped over his shoulder. No more thoughtful water bottles found by his practice gear or dumb challenges over who can finish the warm-up sprints first. No more playful banter or dumb puns.

Instead, he gets to watch as Lance stands to leave a room he just entered or purse his lips in a frown when he can’t, folding his arms and looking anywhere but at him. There are no heated arguments, no snippy comebacks, or even quips at his expense. Lance doesn’t speak to him at all and it’s that much worse, Keith decides. The silence is a pike between them, glaringly obvious to their friends and anyone who remotely knows the two of them, killing conversations and moods dead in their presence.

It’s nothing like Hunk said it would be and he can see the other boy sending the blue paladin concern looks throughout the days, always ignored and always brushed off when confronted. This puts Keith even more on edge and he falters in his next move, wanting to take action and wanting to keep the peace. Because if even Hunk doesn’t know what to do, then what hope does Keith have?

So Keith does the one thing he knows how. He ignores it, pushing forward and past with a single-minded focus, training in the hours not spent sleeping or teaching his class. He pretends that Lance isn’t there, forcing his eyes to glaze over his stooped form and to keep away when the silence starts to become too suffocating.

It’s unhealthy, he knows, but it’s familiar.

Strangely, while Lance makes himself scarce, it’s Axca who takes his place.

The half-galra, now working alongside the MFE pilots, seems to have worked her way around the Garrison Galaxy base. He sees her around constantly. Roaming the hallways of the Atlas, lingering outside the tech labs, sitting alone in the canteen, unloading fresh shipments of scaultrite at the landing docks. She’s everywhere, always aware and looking up to meet his questioning gaze with a twitch of the lips and sharp nod.

She starts joining Keith in his workout sessions, quiet as she greets him and focuses on the weights she lifts. There is no exchange of words, just the muted thuds of metal meeting polyester and their huffs of breath— and it helps, surprisingly enough. It helps to have someone there. He never says why he’s there so often and she never asks; no burning judgement or well-intended advice, just two people existing within proximity. It’s the understanding of two outcasts, bonded through blood shed, allies lost, and debts repaid.

Eventually, they start sparring together and it’s a breath of fresh air. Axca is a challenging adversary, quick and rational as she parries his blade and aims a short jab at his left side that’ll definite bruise. It reminds him of his time with the Blade, learning to use the weapon of his birthright and parrying the strikes of his fellow Marmorites when they practiced. It didn’t leave a lot of room to talk, but it did leave him stronger.

People come to watch them, sometimes. Peering through windows and beyond door frames, individuals of every kind of life and species watch them. The gazes of many tack onto their forms, ever curious of them and the Galra empire they supposedly represent. Keith ignores it to the best of his ability. Axca, for her part, appears to not notice their accumulating audience, focused solely on the fight at hand, sliding through the forms with ease and deadly precision acclimated with experience. She matches Keith’s every swing, expects every lunge, and parries every strike.

Shiro stops by whenever he’s not busy, watching with thinly veiled pride and offering constructive criticism on how to better their form. Pidge and Hunk visit too but only so that the former can sass them from the sidelines, ignoring the scandalized looks received when she cups her hands against her mouth and makes an obnoxious farting noise whenever Keith takes a hard tumble. Romelle likes to come with his mother, cheering when Keith gets in a particularly impressive hit. Only once does Allura show up, giving a beatific smile to those present before wiping the floor of both Keith and Axca in a record breaking minute and forty-two seconds.

It would almost be as if nothing was wrong if not for the blatant absence of a certain blue paladin.

And it isn’t as if Lance is indisposed. He’ll see the boy walking with Matt and his new alien girlfriend or the princess somewhere, obviously on break from his duties, matching their strides like he used to do with Keith.

It always brings forth a particular memory. The universe’s last chance drifting, five nobodies linked together by the arms of necessity, crusted with frost and one hysterical outburst away from splintering. Overcome by thoughts once locked away, slipping to the forefront with an edge that promises fracture, they are exiled, launched out of the mouth of a deity. Desperate, afraid and wishing to be swallowed whole.

Like cosmic dust, they float aimlessly in a sea of stars. Insignificant and dwarfed by the extensive scope of space, they are paladins without a righteous cause. Run through by their own failures, self-inflicted and refusing to heal, hoping that no one sees that they are less than what they are; but the damage is done and they pounce on one another, exploiting weakness in the name of preservation.

Maybe you should have stayed away, and it’s sharp canines digging into the vulnerable flesh of his jugular. A snarl, vibrating with malice intent, and he is left in pieces. Broken.

It hurts like nothing has hurt before, but he takes the pain and makes it his. Braces himself for a fight, brandishing sword and teeth just to survive. A thousand moons light the sky and he howls to every one, bristling under their pretense of companionship, knowing he does not belong.

For he is a wolf in a lion’s den, desperate and alone.

And when he’s pushed himself past his limits and is a moment from collapsing, can no longer stand the sight of the empty space beside him, he retreats to the stillness of solitude. Shoulders hunched and muscles aching, he makes his way to the Black Lion; the large cat lets him in easily, silent and solemn in the wake of leadership.

It’s a week into his self-isolation, things change.

The Garrison officials are gearing up for some big symposium, puffing out their chests and marching down the hallways with self-crowned importance oozing from every salute. It causes a rippling effect across the base, because suddenly more and more coalition ships are descending into the stratosphere by the day, bringing with them convoys of resistance fighters and the idea that soon their way of life will be no more; it seems everyone everywhere has things to do and no time to do it. It’s hectic and loud and everything Keith hates.

Hates it so much that he retreats to the library on the Atlas. Pristine as most new things are, the grand room is filled wall to wall with journals and tomes and star maps from planets all across the universe. Shelves run perpendicular to the main entrance, broken only by the holo-database that sits in the room’s center, organized and tended to by small drones. Humans and aliens walk through the scaled-down labyrinth, chatting quietly to themselves and the crisp pages they turn, nearly overshadowed by the low hum of the AI librarian cataloging new arrivals.

Settled in a tight-spaced alcove on the second floor, Keith finds himself curled on one of the many spherical chairs with a holoscreen held loosely in his grasp. It pings with the notification of newly received messages, but they go ignored as he stares listlessly at the open email, text glaring in the lamp light.

Mandatory team meeting, the screen reads. It’s time to end this war for good.

The quiet of the library is in direct contrast to the loud buzz in his ears. Only the books are privy to how his thumb runs anxiously over the side of his knuckle, the only indicator of the turmoil that churns inside. Though Keith was never one to let his things like feelings of doubt stop him from doing what he wanted, the storm inside his chest does put a damper on his resolve, binding his muscles in transparent chains that left him paralyzed at the very thought of seeing the face of the person he’d been actively avoiding for days. Forced through shared responsibility, this meeting would bring the two together in close proximity and Keith doesn’t know if the world would survive such a collision.

It’s then that a voice, distinctively feminine, breaks through his internalized frenzy.

“Can you believe how things turned out?” the bodiless being says from just beyond the nearest shelf. Close enough that it has Keith looking up sharply, turning off his holoscreen like he’s got something to hide, and leaning slightly out of his seat to get a look at the person who’s disturbed his bubble of privacy. “It’s wild, isn’t?”

“So wild,” another voice agrees, accompanied by a bob of blonde hair through the spines of Puig encyclopedias. “I wonder how it happened.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, what do you think set them apart?” Another flash of hair, cinched in a high ponytail and a bright red bow. “Those cadets. Why do you think it was them that got launched into space and not some actual pilots.”

“Professor Shirogane was with them too, you know.”

“Yeah, but you know what I mean. Plus, he was already MIA when it happened. Which, totally sketch, by the way.”

It takes a long moment for Keith to connect the dots and realize that the strangers are talking about him— him and his team. There’s some irony to it, he thinks, that the Paladins of Voltron, legendary defenders of the universe and wielders of the most powerful weapon seen in this world and the next, can be reduced to something so juvenile as hearsay. Brows furrowing at such a distracting thought, he shifts so that he’s facing away from the pair, ears perked despite the voice in his head advising against it.

A third person is talking now, a boy. “Didn’t you have fighter class with them, before? What were they like?”

There’s the shuffle of books being taken off the shelf, opened, flipped through and returned. ”Well, Kogane didn’t talk much, though he got caught in a few fights. But that was before he started his private lessons with Professor Shirogane.” A huff of thinly veiled glee, slightly muffled like it was being pressed against the back of a hand. “No one knows what they did, but that didn’t stop people from guessing.”

“No way,” the first girl gasps, scandalous.

“My roommate says that she would see them go on rides outside of Garrison grounds— wouldn’t return until after hours sometimes”

“They are pretty close…” someone else Keith can’t see murmurs. “But wasn’t Professor Shirogane getting married to Professor West? Full offense to Kogane, but I wouldn’t even hesitate dropping him for a taste of Professor West, or even Shirogane for that matter. Have you guys seen the size of his arms?”

A low rumble of agreement follows the declaration and Keith makes a face in disgust. It was hard to see the two men in such a light since he had been thirteen at the time and had been privy to their shamelessly domestic habits. There was no going back once he’s seen Shiro nearly burn down the kitchen trying to make premade lasagna and Adam’s arm blindly grasping outside the bathroom door for toilet paper he himself had forgotten to replenish.

“Okay, okay, so Kogane is just emo and a charity case. But what about the rest? I hear McClain was a cargo pilot, and he still got chosen as a Paladin. Garrett too, only a mechanic. If I was some sentient space robot, I’d at least pick a batch of decent pilots and not some wannabes.”

“You’re just salty it wasn’t you. Plus, Garrett is the sweetest guy out there. Same with McClain. Cute too.”

A bark of laughter. “Now who’s projecting?”

There’s the sound of a hand meeting skin and someone’s half-hearted squawk. “You know that’s not what I meant. He’s way too annoying and high maintenance for me. Don’t you see him always in the other paladins’ business? No thank you.”

Vwoop. The librarian materializes next to the group, outside of the shelves and directly in Keith’s line of sight, causing everyone to jump in sight and at least one book to be knocked over. “If you’re going to be disruptive,” the pixelated voice tells them, humanoid in shape and colored a neon blue, “then I’m going to have to ask you to leave the premises.”

The group, scolded, leaves with not another word, the watchful eye of the AI following them before it too flickers out of existence and Keith is left alone once more.

He sits there for a long time. Long enough that his legs start cramping badly and the occupants of the room start to thin, going quiet and solemn like the only way inked pages can. It leaves room for thought, chaotic and introspective, fixated on the idea of life and what it means to share it. To stand at the edge of an infinitely large gorge, look to the other side, and actually cross it.

There are no bridges in space, nor is there a concept of time and what it means to lose it, and Keith is suddenly hit with understanding of what's been taken away from him.

A hand on his shoulder startles a gasp out of him. He looks up through his bangs and meets the gaze of the blue paladin, steady and clear like a lake. They stand in the shadow of the Black Lion, waiting to crown a leader.

It’s the start of something new.

A transition from Lance and Keith, neck and neck to Lance and Keith, back to back. A partnership of equals, pushing to the pull and rising to the fall. Where one falters, the other is there to take the slack. It’s the sound of a pistol charging a mere second before a soldier’s blade can meet its mark. It’s the sight of Red’s hull in the middle of a rolling maneuver, shredding through the fighter jets tailing him with one swipe of a massive paw. It’s the hands tugging at his forearm, accompanying exasperated words for him to put down the holoscreen and join the team for movie night. It’s the solemn I respect the Black Lion’s choice, loyalty given wholly and irrevocably.

It’s them.

It’s purely by chance that he runs into Lance later that day, seated at an antique piano pushed to the corner of an empty room in the Garrison’s north building. He’s not in his armor or usual get-up and it throws Keith off, blinking in muted surprise at the sight of a short-sleeved hoodie and dark jeans when the boy turns to face the door he had just barged through. Dark navy meets gray obsidian, painting a thunderstorm on the canvas of the moment.

Keith stands awkwardly in the doorway. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Lance responds out of reflex, tone polite even with the tension that vibrates between them. “What’re you doing here?”

There’s no backlash at his presence so Keith takes a chance and finishes walking into the room until he is standing right at the piano’s bulky edge. A quick glance around reveals the room’s roots as a recreation center, complete with a three piece couch, television set, and foosball table; it’s unfamiliar like most things that are vaguely related to community are, unfrequented in his past because of their breeding grounds for possible social interaction. It’s almost uncomfortable to be there, out of place as he feels, especially so when seeing how natural the blue paladin looks framed by the domesticity of the late afternoon sun. So uncomfortable that he fixes his gaze resolutely on Lance’s hands, slender fingers still poised atop of the keys and at the ready to continue what Keith had rudely interrupted.

“I didn’t know you could play the piano.”

Keith must have done that thing were he goes too long without blinking again because Lance squirms a little in his seat, retracting his hands and hiding them in his lap. “Oh, uh, yeah. My mom’s a big fan of Einaudi and, well, you know how it goes. First it’s one piece for her birthday and then another for mother’s day and then boom, you’re stuck in lessons every Saturday afternoon while everyone else kicks it at the beach.”

Inhibited curiosity stirs within him, rolling with the image of a young boy whose feet don’t even touch the floor, practicing his scales just to see his mother smile. It brings forth a longing that Keith hardly ever feels nowadays, one where it is his own juvenile self that bashfully holds out a newly-drawn picture of his family to his mother, happy and not torn away from him by war. A cycle ensues, one where curiosity turns to longing to jealousy to acceptance and back again, endless like the thrum of a piano string.

Lance opens his mouth, as if to say something to fill the space between them, but suddenly thinks better of it and presses his lips tightly together.

“What?” he asks, because he has to know.

“Nothing. You just look ready to deck me. The staring is… it’s just— kinda intense.”

“Oh.” Keith shifts from one leg to another, grimacing, and looks away. “I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s fine.”

A short silence follows his words and it's a weird one. It isn't uncomfortable per se, just… loaded, like someone crammed the world’s entire supply of pillows in between them and was surprised that they couldn't breathe. Keith isn’t sure if he’s supposed to speak up, to fill the blank page of this chapter with the ink of words, so he watches Lance’s leg start bouncing in rapid fire instead, knee making a soft thud whenever it bumps into the underside of the key bed.

Lance clears his throat. “Do you… want to sit down?”

“Uh, that’d be— yeah.”

He sits on the corner of the bench offered to him, careful to keep space between them. Uncertainty seeps through his skin, coloring him with its vacillations, and it’s frustrating because touch is one of the many things that Lance excels in. A nudge to his calf, an impromptu hug, a brush of their shoulders as they walk. Effortless, like few things are.

“You can…” He makes an aborted gesture at the keys. “… if you want.”

Eyelashes flutter and Keith watches their shadows billow over the slope his cheeks, combating the highlights that the sun cast through the open window. A balance of two worlds, night and day, coming together to form wondrous twilight. He thinks of being seven-years old and trying to outrun the setting sun, one leap away from skipping today and landing in tomorrow. It’s a finish line he had never crossed.

Slow, like the sun and stars and moon will wait forever, Lance places his hands back on the board. Weightless, they hang there, letting gravity bead together a string of notes. It’s soft, the song he plays, and Keith listens as it grow into something bigger; profound as the universe’s birth had been, a cacophony of collisions and violent chance, it is its death that will be remembered, a lull into a oblivion so sweet that it’ll have the cosmos sighing.

As if compelled by some higher power, his gaze drifts back down to the boy’s hands. They’re nice hands. Long fingers with wide knuckles, the jut of his thumb straight and his nails cut even. Tendons rise under smooth skin, a parallel to what must be happening under the piano’s lid, and it’s enthralling to watch. There are no music sheets anywhere in sight and Keith marvels at the idea that these fingers are moving on memory alone; from nothing— something, a paradox that only a soldier’s hand, molded to the grip of a pistol and a single squeeze of the trigger away from snuffing out a light, can know.

Lance hums as he plays.

“I’m sorry.”

The apology pushes past his lips and takes with them a great weight from his shoulders, silencing the music. He knows that he can’t stand much more of this but is more than willing to bend in order to end it. He misses Lance. Misses what they had, stupid rivalry and all, and is willing to set the world on fire for a chance to get it back. All he needs is a chance, just a single chance to make it right. He wants to make it right.

“Lance,” he says, swallowing hard. “I miss us.”

Truth makes the words heavy, filled with everything Keith can’t say but means. It’s one of the sincerest he’s ever been, second only to Shiro, you’re like a brother to me and I love you, Mom, and he thinks there’s going to more to it. More begging and more heartfelt turns of phrase, milked for all that it’s worth. But none of that happens and he’s left with Lance, solemn-eyed and soft, just nodding once and saying, “Me too.”

And for once, he thinks, that’s enough.

That night, a flash hits him while he sleeps.

Long fingers trace the grooves nestled between treasured ivory and reflective black, teasing at a melody that skims the mind. A single note sings, the precipitate of a feeling long in its coming, harmonizing with the delicate pitter-patter of the rain that knocks on the window pane. It’s peaceful, cool in the absence of worry and responsibility.

“Any requests?”

Movement, languid and infinite. The sweep of hair as he lowers his head, lips parting, breathing a burning declaration into the skin of another as his hands explore; the body in his lap shivers as he bears down with venereal intent, inhaling and exhaling in time with the world. A gasp and nails dig deliciously into the meat of his thighs.

“I… I don’t think I can play that on the piano.”

“I can help,” he murmurs.

The music that comes after is like nothing he’s ever heard.

[durenjtmusings]

10 Baby Facts for SPN Fic Authors

[I swear this is not a rant - it ISN’T. Honest.]

It is actually kind of cool to realize that you possess specialty knowledge that may be of use to others. Stuff that you didn’t really KNOW you knew, until, of course, you are reading along in a fic and something the author describes (or the character says) brings your brain to a screeching halt. “That’s not right – it can’t possibly happen that way…” And then you go and do actual research to back up your gut knowledge. This little FAQ is the result of one such realization.

My dad fixed antique and classic cars for a living from 1964 – 1978, owning his own showroom for 3 years near the end of that time. Born in 1966, I grew up playing in old cars, hiding in floorboards and exploring them to my heart’s content. Our family car for several years was a 1966 Thunderbird, but when dad went to car shows, we rode in whatever he wanted to show off. I’ve been in rumble seats, hard top convertibles, cars with windshields that laid down flat, and cars with no roof, doors, or walls of any kind. My 1st car was a fully restored 1966 mustang. Without really realizing it, I soaked up a LOT of inherent understandings about older cars. The information below is based in that knowledge, backed up with some internet research.

The following is true about Baby (the character in SPN, not necessarily the actual cars that play her): 

1) Compared to most modern sedans, Baby is BIG. Like REALLY BIG. She is 17 and ¾ feet long (5.4 meters) and 7 feet 8 inches wide (2.03 meters). Allowing for door thickness on either side and the gaps between doors and bench seat, I’m betting the front seat is a little over 5 feet wide. Given basic geometry and human skeletal limitations, this means it is not possible for the passenger to have their head resting against the passenger door/window AND place their hand on the driver’s thigh. If the passenger is in this position, the driver can,  at best, entwine fingers with the passenger’s outstretched hand. That’s IT (even with Sam’s monkey arms). Sitting up straight, yes. Slumped over, no. On the plus side, this is why the guys can, in fact, get some sleep in her (and have fun in the back seat).

2) Despite how big Baby is, she is kinda short. Baby is only 54 inches high (4’6” or 138 cm). INSIDE the car, she is slightly less than 4 feet tall total. This means that the following actions WILL make you bump your head (or butt or hands or feet) on the ceiling unless you are very very slow and careful: climbing over the back seat, straddling someone’s lap, taking off your pants or t-shirt (unless nearly lying down in the seat), and lunging across the front bench seat to attack someone bodily. And you will look graceless doing it. [Ahem, trust me on these, I KNOW.] Additional negative modifiers for Sam due to height.

More below the cut.

3) Baby HATES crappy roads. Her big body has an all steel frame and body panels plus a very large engine system. Baby is HEAVY. She weighs a *minimum* of 3704 lbs empty. With equipment and the boys in her, she is over 2 tons. Oh and Baby is LOW. Her ground clearance is slightly less than 6 inches. This means an 8 inch deep pot hole (like the one in episode 11.01, above) can bottom out her axle and stop her in her tracks.  She SUCKS on rough terrain. Oh, and getting her OUT of said hole? Will require a JACK and a lot of swearing. (Baby is rear-wheel drive – her front wheels aren’t getting her out of anywhere). There was NO way the boys lifted her out of that hole in that episode (especially since they showed up in the next scene NOT covered in mud).

4) Baby is, in fact, good to have in a wreck. That all steel frame means she can practically bounce off of most modern cars. You’ll note they use large SUVs and tractor trailer trucks to hurt her. The fact that she makes it through the bumps and bruises she does is relatively accurate. In addition, Baby’s model had shoulder* seat belts in the front driver and passenger sides ‘standard’. Now this doesn’t mean the guys have to wear ‘em, or that Dean/John didn’t take ‘em out, but they were a standard safety measure. If you are wearing them, however, all movement described in 1 & 2 above is even MORE limited/complicated. Wearing them should keep you from getting thrown out of the car in an accident. Without them - you are the rock in a slingshot, out you go.

5) Baby’s model ONLY had a full, flat, smooth bench seat all the way across (front and back). She should NOT be drawn or described with a split front seat or (shudder) bucket seats of any kind. Sliding across this kind of seat from one side to the other was, in fact, a fun game for us as kids. Again, this makes her relatively ideal for napping…kinda. The backwards tilting angle is weird to sleep on and the seat itself is narrow front to back. it isn’t ideal, just possible.

6)  Baby’s gear shift is on the steering column (and she is an automatic). While there is a hump in the floor boards for the transmission, there is exactly zero to climb over for anyone who might be…shifting positions for activities in the front seat. In fact, given #1 above, it is possible for three grown adults to sit in the front seat, although the floor bump makes the middle person uncomfortable (unless they are short). Leg crowding and hip/elbow bumping will occur, but it can be done without too much discomfort. This means Baby can seat 6 with only mild discomfort (and in fact, has seat belts for 6 standard - see #4 above). You could do 7 if the four in the back are small (or someone lays across the other three – What? I’ve done it). OK, if later season Sam is in the front seat, the person in the middle better be Claire or Jody.

7)  Baby, as portrayed on screen, has lots of “optional” features. Most likely, John and Dean have been regularly ‘upgrading her’ over the years. For example she has “all vinyl interior” (standard was cloth and vinyl combined). The extra headlamps in early seasons are another example (and of course the trunk modifications). The ‘67 impala came with a wide variety of transmission and engine options. Even before the Season 1 finale, Baby likely had a “non-standard” engine system. Who KNOWS how powerful a system Dean put into Baby in the FIRST reconstruction (because, trust me, she needed a new engine) and what he might have done since then.

8)  Baby is OLD school rock and roll. *NEW* for the 1967 model year was the option of a tape deck – an 8 track tape deck. Dean’s ‘compact cassette’ deck is an after-market modification, likely sometime after John bought it in 1973. The compact cassette player is not “authentic” or “original” for Baby. (Although Dean may say or think so, he, in fact, knows better.) John likely listened to 8-tracks or to just the radio if the previous owner hadn’t put an 8-track in her.

9)  Baby is EXPENSIVE to maintain: > At best, Baby gets between 10-15 miles to the gallon (4.26-6.19 kpl), depending on the size of the engine Dean put in her most recently (and the tweaks he has made to it). As a corollary, Baby’s top speed is between 95-130 mph (152-209 kph) also depending on the engine. Top speed is inversely proportional to gas mileage. The bigger/faster engine Dean uses, the crappier the gas mileage. > Baby’s engines – ALL of them – are designed for ‘leaded’ gas. To get the most out of her, Dean has to regularly give her additives. > At this point, parts for Baby are either original ‘leftovers’ from the manufacturer (and very expensive) or from junk yards (used) or from online specialty stores (or Dean machines them himself). Glass, in particular, is going to be a special order. This means that ANY fic you write can include gripes about the COST of Baby (or the challenges in finding parts for her). Really, If I was FBI/enemy hunting Dean, I’d haunt the 67 Impala online groups  - which is where Dean’d go to find parts for cheap. They’d all know each other – classic car enthusiasts are a small close-knit community.

10)  Baby needs LOTS of regular maintenance. The mileage on baby, at this point, is almost a moot number. She’s had at least 2 new engines and one new transmission. She’s had just all sorts of parts replaced. Dean can tell you what’s still truly original, but for the most part, consider only the mileage you see from seasons 2 on when considering wear and tear. That said, Baby is FIFTY years old this season. Yet, as depicted, her interior and her engine are PRISTINE. Dean must spend TONS of time regularly detailing her inside and out. I mean LOOK at the carpets in the image for #5-6 above. There is NO MUD or dirt anywhere. The dashboard isn’t all faded or cracked from sunlight, and the vinyl hasn’t any rips or stains. Now, granted, likely most of that was all replaced with as new as Dean could get in 2006, but still, it takes a LOT of work to keep a car looking like that even if you keep her under a cover in the garage all the time. Baby is an actively working classic car, with the added bonus of blood and other nasty goo all over her on a regular basis. Any time a fic writer needs something for Dean to do, he can be working on Baby. There is ALWAYS something for him to be doing. [Heaven forefend he lube the damn door hinges.]

Bonus Facts: Baby is HOT. No, I mean it, all black vinyl seats and steering wheel sitting all day in the sun – is scorching hot. Like “I can’t touch anything without yelping” hot.  The 67 Impala had air conditioning as an option, so the guys likely have it, but it will still take a while to cool her down in the summer – especially in the southwest.  She will likely also take a bit of time to heat up from dead cold in the winter – especially for those in the back seat. And she isn’t air tight or well insulated, she’ll have subtle drafts. Which also means she’ll fill up fast and sink like a rock if she goes into water (2 TONS – see #3 above).

I hope this is helpful to SPN fic writers. I certainly feel better for writing it - this was fun! :)

*Updated - *brackets* for shoulder seat belts were standard - the belts themselves were an option.

[buzzdixonwriter]

Writing Report June 11, 2017

Yet another example of how the writer’s mind -- at least this writer’s mind -- works, in which I create a story I will probably never write…

…but more on that below. I shall annotate as needed.

Thursday morning, after finally getting a good night’s sleep after being sick most of the week, I awoke with a story title in my head:  ”Drive Down The Devil’s Highway”

I actually saw the title already printed up in my dream, in the style of old time men’s adventure magazines.

[Annotation #1:  Men’s adventure magazine -- affectionately known as “sweaties” -- were a popular format / genre from the 1950s to the mid-1970s.  While their predecessors existed in the earlier pulp era, the “sweaties” were different in several key aspects.  For one, while sci-fi / fantasy / mystery pulps transmogrified into square bound digest-size publications, the “sweaties” melded with the saddle stitched racy pin-up magazines.  For another, their stories, while remaining mostly fictional, attempted to pass themselves off as factual true events.  While the stories remained somewhat plausible at the beginning of the “sweaties” era, by the mid-1960s they were thinly disguised male wish fulfillment fantasies of increasingly improbably proportions.  Nonetheless, they were a hoot to read, and even now the genre has fans such as those found at Bob Deis’ Men's Adventure Magazines & Books on Facebook.]

Back to my dream:  I awoke with the title in my head, and from the style of the title I knew the story had to be in classic men’s adventure magazine mode.

But what kind of story?

Well, obviously, something to do with highways (…duh).  I had just started re-reading Jack Kerouac’s On The Road in the original scroll draft (which, technically, is a memoir or a travelogue, and not an autobiographical novel as the first edition was), so the story would be constantly moving, traveling, going somewhere, but…why?

Because of Kerouac, my brain instantly flashed the story would need to be set in Quebec.  Somebody had to get somewhere -- why?

My brain flashed again:  Roman Holiday, a delightful classic romantic comedy starring Audrey Hepburn as a young princess who just wants to have fun, and Gregory Peck as a world weary journalist who treats her to a night on the town when she sneaks away from her embassy.

Great story…

…but “sweaties” demand gut-slammin’ jaw-poundin’ tire-screechin’ gun-blastin’ !A!C!T!T!I!O!N!, not some wimpy romance.

So…keep the basic idea, only…only the princess has just been orphaned:  The time is immediately at the end of WWII.  The royal family of some small but strategically important Eastern European nation sat out exile in a remote ethnic community of their countrymen in Quebec during the war.  They planned to return as soon as the war ended, but not everyone in the ethnic community wants the old royal family back; some are communist agents who kill her parents.

The princess escapes and is hidden.  However, spies and assassins are everywhere, and even though they’ve tried to disguise the teen as a typical bobby-soxer, her regal manner makes her stick out like a sore thumb.

[Annotation #2:  Where the hell is the RCMP in all this?  Gonna need some handwavium to keep ‘em at arm’s length, but I can come up with that later.]

So my protagonist -- a melding of Peck and Kerouac -- knocks the regal out of the princess by forcing her to clean a public toilet by herself.

The effort leaves her tired / grossed out / pissed off…

…and not at all regal looking.

Now our hero can get her on the aforementioned highway and go barreling down to Montreal where her embassy awaits to protect her.

Well, that evokes memories of Thunder Road which is great:  Plenty of car-chasing / car-crashing action to go around, plus some occasional bomb-throwing / gun-shooting / fist-fighting for variety.

Now we’ve got our title, our premise, our conflict, our main characters, our setting, and enough hi-octane high concept to keep the inventive juices flowing…

…if I choose to write it.

See, everything you just read, including the various asides, formed in my head in the space of less than two and a half minutes elapsed time from the moment I woke up.  (Oh, and I was carrying on a conversation with Soon-ok simultaneously.)

150 seconds to whip up 650 words worth of story concept -- and I wasn’t even thinking about it!

This happens all the time.  I’m minding my own business, not bothering a soul, not really thinking about anything, and BOOM! suddenly an idea has exploded in my head and is screaming “WritemewritemeWRITEME!!!  Write me write NOW!”

Ain’t gonna happen, compadre.

Least not anytime soon.

As fast as I can come up with ideas, I’m nowhere near as fast writing them down.

“Writing them down” is a misnomer.  It really means I’m researching the idea, probing for weak spots, fleshing out the characters, coming up with plot and incident and dialog to drive the story along…and that doesn’t include all the work that comes ///after/// it’s written down, either.

If I decided to write this store, I would want to keep it short (under 6,000 words).  That means if I committed to it, I could probably finish a rough draft in a week’s time.

So why don’t I?

Well, ignoring the huge backlog of other stories in various stages of completion in my mind / on my desk / in my computer, the reason is going to cause a lot of you to look at me as a snob, and if you do, so be it; you’re not the one occupying my skin, I am.

There are, in my estimation, three classes of fiction:  True Fiction, Genre Fiction, Stock Fiction.

There’s nothing wrong with any of them; as noted above even Stock Fiction can be tons o’fun to write and read

But each possesses certain strengths, counter-balanced by equal weaknesses.

We’ll start at the bottom of the barrel and work our way up:  Stock Fiction is nothing but formulaic stock characters involved in formulaic stock situations, saying and doing formulaic stock things.

And hey, there’s nothing wrong with that (lord knows I can’t get enough old B-movie westerns to satisfy me).

Sometimes all you want to do as an audience is turn off your brain and go through the pleasant (e)motions of a story. 

Even when done professionally, as likely as not it’s just a better grade of fan-fic.

You could literally get a computer to write this kind of stuff; it ain’t rocket science.

Stock Fiction takes what already exists and rearranges it slightly and peddles the product as new.

But there’s nothing there.  It’s all just empty calories like a cheap snack food:  One bite and it’s gone (but oh, how delicious while chomping).

The second form is Genre Fiction, and this is essentially Stock Fiction written well.

The same caveats and criticism apply, but there’s a little more legroom, a little more breathing space, a little more originality here (not much, not nearly enough, but some).

Genre Fiction basically takes stock characters and stock stories then amps them up with a dollop of originality.

If the pleasure of Stock Fiction is the beauty of the form, the pleasure of Genre Fiction is the deviation from the norm.

Take a Stock Fiction story, give it just enough insight and wit and originality to boost the characters from one dimension to two, and you’ve got a palatable hit on your hands.

The geniuses of this field -- and true geniuses they are, no snark here -- are many, but let’s focus on four in the tiny, tiny sub-group of really well done detective fiction:  Hammett, Chandler, and MacDonald’s Ross and John D.

Through their philosophizin’ PIs, their complex and compromised characters, their willingness to tell the truth about the world around them via their genre of choice, they create something new and fresh and wonderful…

…but not completely whole.

When they work well -- as Chandler did, as John D. did when Travis McGee was fresh and new in the world and found only in paperback originals -- they create genuine art, something any reader can consume without shame, something adding to this weary world, not merely draining more from it.

But there is a limit, stylistically if nothing else, that holds these writers and their works back.

They can ride their literary steeds as high up the hill as possible, and in the fading evening light they can catch a glimpse of the city they can never visit, the city they can imagine, the city they can yearn for, the city they can never visit.

True Fiction -- good fiction, pure fiction -- starts so much further out and beyond from Genre Fiction.

It starts with an idea that is fresh! and original! (though sometimes the idea ends up coming to it).

There are no genres in True Fiction, real fiction.  Life is not defined by terms and conditions we conjure up, it is what it is.  We may later find a conveniently labeled box to drop it in, but that’s not what it is, that’s never what it is.

A work of True Fiction comes out of nowhere, entraps us, and takes us all…Somewhere!  Anywhere! we never visited before, indeed, may never even realized existed before exquisitely brought to our attention.

It is a work of art first, a bundle of tropes second -- if at all!

Truth be told, True Fiction may not do well in initial release, but what gives it staying power is that it takes readers someplace brand new even though they’ve already seen it a million times.

”Drive Down The Devil’s Highway” is straight stock fiction, one from column A, one from column B formulaic storytelling.  I might, if really pressed, come up with enough originality to ooonch it up a notch or two in the form of a scene here, a supporting character there.

That’s not what I’m trying to do.

My goals and ambitions lay higher, and while I certainly have some genre and stock influences in me, I’d like to think I’m aiming higher, unwilling to fall back.

Because that’s what Genre and Stock Fiction would represent to me, a falling back to safer pastures.

I probably won’t write ”Drive Down The Devil’s Highway” because I can see nothing in it that promises to rise above Stock Fiction.

If I applied myself and worked hard at it, I might be able to boost it up to the level of low grade Genre Fiction.

But that’s as high as she’ll get.

I have a limited number of years allotted me on earth, and while I night fail in the attempt, I’m gonna spend ‘em trying to write True Fiction.

[Annotation #3:  Some of my more pragmatic friends will ask why I don’t write ”Drive Down The Devil’s Highway” anyway and sell it and use the money to help buy time to write True Fiction.  Because there’s no market for that kind of fiction anymore, that’s why.  Once upon a time a writer could sell two hours worth of TV scripts a year and earn enough to coast thru the next nine months writing True Fiction.  Not anymore:  The freelance market in everything has long since evaporated and the amount of time and effort taken to place a short story simply ain’t worth it other than in publicity and egoboo.  Yeah, ”Drive Down The Devil’s Highway” could probably make a good low budget indie film, but it takes forever and a day to get those kinds of films made; I lack the time and patience.  So this is as close as we’re ever probably gonna get to seeing ”Drive Down The Devil’s Highway” written down.]

[Annotation #4:  Least any of my sibling scribes think I’m trash talkin’ them for what they choose to write…no.  This is about me, my POV, my values, my motives, my soul.  If you’re writing a continuing character who makes you money and your readers happy, you go for it.  Nothing shameful about that at all.  If I’ll watch crappy 1950s sci-fi movies, I’ve got no business telling you what you can or can’t write, should or shouldn’t feel good about.  Fly your freak flag high.]