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yumeyooa · 3 years ago

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revenge is brutally sweet | jeon jungkook

—jeon jungkook’s life so far has been going well. he’s the guitarist of the most famous band in the scene, he’s got the girl of his dreams, and everything he’s ever wished for is in the palm of his hands. what he doesn’t expect though, is to wake up one day in the middle of a controversy. what the controversy is, you may ask? a new band has been hitting the charts, and their lead singer is none other than you, a former member of the band and his ex-girlfriend.

➢ pairing: jeon jungkook x female! reader

➢ word count: 14.6k+

➢ love letter: AH SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG T_T I kinda drowned in midterms AHSHSHs but I hope you enjoy this fic <33 there’s more to this angsty collection to come so stay tuned!!

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Life couldn’t be any better.

This is what Jeon Jungkook constantly told himself every morning after his short, fifteen-minute shower while messily tousling his hair in an extra-soft towel as he takes in the dreary yet somehow vibrant view from his penthouse apartment, soaking in the sun’s rays.

The city was busy, even though the sun had just risen and bloomed into full glory. The streets were filled with people rushing to get wherever they needed to be, cars driving past with the fervor of a shackled mad man on wheels. If Jungkook looked closer, he would have probably seen the black exhaust drifting in the air from the fumes of those ecologically damaging vehicles or the frantic looks on an office worker’s face as they hurriedly crossed the street obviously late for work.

But alas, Jungkook couldn’t care less about the trials and tribulations of some strangers he didn’t even know. After all, his life was going great. In fact, he was literally walking on cloud nine at this point and felt like nothing had stopped him.

Of course, it wasn’t always this way, which was why Jungkook appreciated his success tenfold.

He, like every other success story, had started from the ground up. Music was something he had always dreamed of doing for the rest of his life. Ever since his grandfather had first shown him how to play the guitar, the melodies had wrapped their whimsical tunes around his heart and made themselves stay. It was fascinating to him how playing a couple of strings could produce such music that could move souls and bring smiles to people’s faces.

And ever since then, he was hooked. Every chance he got, he would play the guitar even if his parents tried to pry him off it.

They wanted him to be a doctor after all, and there was no way in hell he was going to go by their wishes. While being a doctor was great, it didn’t ignite the same spark that music did, and for Jungkook, he would rather die than live a life without his flame running ablaze.

So, against his parent’s wishes, he pursued a career in music. It wasn’t easy, of course. At first, he had no support system for his dream. His friends and teachers ridiculed and discouraged him, saying that the future was bleak and he had no hopes of making it big. But if Jungkook knew anything about himself, it would most likely have to do with the fact that he was extremely stubborn and persistent, much to the disappointment of the adults in his life.

So he continued. He continued reaching his dreams, joining every music-related activity he could at his age until he finally met Mr. Park.

Mr. Park was a bright man who came in one day as a replacement for their music teacher, who was an old lady who stuck to the classics and had a somewhat deceiving grading system. He came into class with disheveled hair, an unkempt tie, and when he turned around to write his name on the board, the whole class laughed as they could see his heart print underpants peeking through.

But despite his clumsiness and seemingly carefree nature, Mr. Park was a master at his craft. He was the epitome of what a music teacher should be; exceptionally skilled, eloquent, and passionate about what he did. But Mr. Park had another talent that not many knew about, which was the eye for potential.

And Mr. Park saw potential in Jungkook.

He had taken Jungkook under his wing and taught him the ropes of music life. The keys of the piano, how notes were read, how symphonies were made. And the more Jungkook learned, the more he yearned for a life surrounding music. When he voiced his wishes to Mr. Park, expecting to receive the same rejection he had always known, he was pleasantly surprised to find out that he had his support.

Mr. Park was the very first person who saw that Jungkook could have a future in music. He was the very first person who showed Jungkook that there was a path for him to take that was far better than the path his parents laid out for him. A rocky path filled with trials and tribulations but ultimately reaped great rewards in the end.

Like a moth drawn to its flame, Jungkook was attracted to the seemingly devastating path because somehow, amid the darkness, there was hope. Hope for a happier future, a future that wasn’t filled with regret and mourning but full of triumph and satisfaction. Jungkook would be a fool not to pursue the latter.

And thus, in hopes of finally seeing the light, Jungkook decided to start his own band.

It didn’t start off right away, though. After all, no kid at his school wanted to be part of a band that, in the eyes of their parents, was a complete waste of time. Jungkook kept his small dream hidden deep within his heart, yet even so, it still burned with an unyielding passion. Even if years passed and no opportunity for him to start a band was in sight, Jungkook didn’t give up, knowing that his persistence would one day reap great rewards.

And finally, his chance came in the form of you.

From the very beginning, Jungkook had always thought you were strange. In a prestigious school known for being the epitome of perfection and class, you were the odd one out, sticking out like a sore thumb with your disheveled appearance and undignified manner of carrying yourself. Almost immediately, you were set to be the outcast, ridiculed by your peers for your looks and mannerisms, even if, in Jungkook’s opinion, you weren’t doing anything out of the ordinary.

Unfortunately, the world is never kind to those who are different.

Jungkook’s phone rings from where it is laid on his bedside table, the alarm blaring loudly, causing a shift in the once serene atmosphere of his apartment. Jungkook pays it no mind at first, choosing to finish drying his hair before finally picking up the phone, voice groggy and slightly annoyed from having his peaceful morning interrupted.

“Who is it?” He hastily asks, not meaning to sound as harsh. But could he really be blamed when it was 7 AM in the morning, and he wasn’t expected to show up to any scheduled event until noon?

“Jungkook!” An exasperated voice exclaims from the other side of his phone. It was Namjoon, his manager, Jungkook, quickly concludes. Although it was rare for him to call so early in the morning, especially in such a panicked state. Perhaps he forgot to inform him of a schedule? Although that was annoying, Jungkook wouldn’t really mind. After all, work made money. But if that were the case, it would have been odd for Namjoon to be so panicked about it. The man was known for being reasonably level-headed even in times of extreme stress, so perhaps it was something else entirely.

“Did you read the news?” Namjoon quickly adds before Jungkook could ask what was wrong. At his question, Jungkook’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion, quickly sitting down on the side of his bed and grabbing his iPad from the same bedside desk, unplugging the charger along the way.

“No,” he says as he types up the password into the Home Screen, laying his phone in between the juncture of his shoulder and ear. “Is there something I should be concerned about? I mean, it’s not like I got into a scandal or anything, right?”

Wrong.

Well, partly.

The moment Jungkook opens his Twitter, he’s surprised to see more notifications than usual. Of course, it was a given for him to have a ghastly amount of notifications as a celebrity. He did have a large fan base, after all. But the numbers on his screen far exceeded that of what he was used to, and amongst those notifications tagging his account, one article stood out amongst the rest, and the headline made his blood run cold.

“What the fuck?” He whispers, staring at the article in shock as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. “Am I seeing this right, Namjoon?”

The man on the other side of the phone is silent for a while before Jungkook hears a sigh. “Unfortunately, yes,” Namjoon says, and Jungkook can almost imagine the way he’s probably rubbing his temples together while sipping his cup of black coffee in his office out of stress and frustration

“(Y/N) is back,” he says, causing shivers to run down Jungkook’s spine. “And apparently Jungkook, she wrote a song about you.”

The day Jungkook finally mustered up the courage to talk to you for the first time was an experience, to say the least. For what felt like years, albeit it was only a few days, Jungkook had been observing you from the sidelines, watching as you were berated by his classmates, who apparently had nothing better to do with their time.

A part of Jungkook always felt guilty for never standing up for you. He knew you needed a friend. Someone to confide in this hellish school that made it seem as if it were every man for himself. But he was a coward, raised and molded to never take a step outside the boundaries he had set for himself, like a doll.

Although, with Mr. Park's influence, Jungkook could finally break free from his shell, even if it were just a mere few steps.

"Here," he says nervously, handing you a carton of banana milk that he had picked up from the nearest vending machine the moment he saw you storm out of the classroom in tears. Even then, your classmates had laughed, mocking how sensitive you were, which disgusted Jungkook. Didn't they have any ounce of shame for making a person cry like that?

You look up from where you sat on the school's staircase, eyes puffy from crying so hard, a stream of tears still flowing down your face. You looked like an absolute mess, and the sight only caused Jungkook's heart to clench even more. He sat beside you, albeit a bit distanced because he couldn't help but feel awkward. This was your first conversation, after all.

You stare at him, not entirely understanding why he would extend kindness towards you. Was this a trick of fate? Was he doing this so you would someday do his bidding in the future? The kids of this school were scary, even scarier than the monsters that hid underneath your bed or the creatures that roamed around in the dead of night. Even amidst the light, they scared you, and you were terrified that the man offering you some banana milk would be just the same.

"You don't have to take it if you don't want to," Jungkook says, after realizing you were staring at him warily, cautious over whether or not you would accept his gift. "Sweets always cheered me up whenever I feel down, and I thought maybe it would cheer you up too!"

If anyone were to see your interaction, they would have burst out laughing from how awkward it was. You who were wary and cautious, and Jungkook who was awkward and shy. A stark difference between your usual timid behavior and Jungkook's confident act. In fact, if anyone else were to see this, they would have never believed their eyes.

It was odd, after all. And you knew this very well. Which was why you were so confused at Jungkook's behavior. Why was he approaching you so kindly when everyone else ridiculed and shunned you out? You were different, someone who didn't deserve to be there. An imposter, an intruder. It didn't make sense for him to act friendly.

"Don't take this the wrong way," Jungkook continues, setting down the banana milk in the space between the two of you as he fiddled with his fingers, a habit he had picked up over time. "I'm not doing this to mock you or make fun of you later down the line… I just really don't like the way they're treating you. It's not right."

You're stunned. Rightfully so. This was the first time someone had ever gone against what others did to you, despite him doing so behind the scenes. A weird sensation bubbles up from inside you, one you can't quite place. But what you do know is that amidst it all, there's warmth. Jungkook's words sounded genuine and sincere, not like the usual condescending tone you were used to hearing from the rest of your peers.

He genuinely seemed to care.

Jungkook's eyes widen in surprise when he sees you grab the carton of banana milk, opening the straw in pushing it through, taking a sip. You sheepishly stare down, not even bothering to look Jungkook in the eye before muttering. "I prefer strawberry milk… but this isn't that bad... I guess… Thanks…"

His eyes gleam, happy that you've accepted his offering and watching with a content smile as a small smile of your own forms on your lips, a far cry from the mess you were mere moments ago. He had somehow managed to cheer you up, and that was better than anything Jungkook could ever ask for.

"No problem. Next time I'll buy you a whole box of strawberry milk!" He exclaims, excited for what was about to unfold between the two of you.

But he would have never expected this.

And on this week's celebrity news: Former Vocalist of The 97, (L/N) (Y/N) debuts solo with her new single 'Move On', which fans speculate is a direct message to her ex-boyfriend and former bandmate Jeon Jungkook.

"Fuck!" Jungkook exclaims, overcome with emotion, as he watches the news unfold in the conference room of his label. He had quickly made his way over the moment he saw the headline, confused, devastated, and most of all angry.

What in the world were you thinking, dragging him down like that?

"Jungkook, calm down," Namjoon says from the other side of the room, trying to prevent Jungkook from destroying the room. Jungkook was strong. And if he really wanted to, he could turn the whole conference room upside down in a blink of an eye, and Namjoon really didn't want to deal with whatever consequence would follow should Jungkook actually decide that he'd destroy the conference room.

"How the fuck do you expect me to be calm, Namjoon?" Jungkook asks, exasperated as he walks from one end of the room to the other. "This is going to ruin my fucking reputation. And it's all because that bitch is too bitter about our breakup that she decided to fucking write a song about it."

"Hey." Another voice calls out, stern and ready to scold. Jaehyun, the band's bassist, glares at Jungkook with as much disdain as he could muster, not believing the words that came out of Jungkook's mouth. "No matter how you feel about the situation. I'm not going to stand by and let you call (Y/N) a bitch. She was and still is our friend. Just because you're so caught up in your perfect reputation doesn't mean you have to bring others down in the process, Jeon."

It was rare for Jaehyun to ever call Jungkook by his last name. The two were as close as could be, having been the best of friends for more than ten years and counting. Jungkook knew he could trust Jaehyun with his life and vice versa, so it shocked him to hear that his best friend was defending her.

"But Jungkook has every reason to be mad, Jaehyun!" Another voice pops up, this time a more feminine one that has Jungkook's heart-melting just a bit. Eunha, his current girlfriend, and the one who was there for him when you left him. She was the band's current vocalist, and Jungkook couldn't feel any more grateful to have someone as supportive as her in his life.

"She's using a personal situation to make her more popular, all the while bringing us down in the process! There's nothing else to call her but a bitch when she's hurting the band she started with! Is that how she says thank you when the band's been nothing but good to her?

It's incredible, Jungkook thinks to himself, how he was able to find someone like Eunha. She was the most compassionate and understanding person in the world, a far cry from what you had become. Bitter, selfish, and downright ungrateful. You probably wrote that song out of spite just to get back at him when he did nothing wrong in the first place. You were crazy, and he was glad Eunha allowed him to see through all of your lies.

"Shut the fuck up, will you?" Jungkook's eyes darted in surprise to Yugyeom, the band's drummer, who had just cursed at his girlfriend. He glares at the drummer, mad at the fact that the usual happy-go-lucky man was now acting bitter in front of his girlfriend, who had done nothing wrong. Were his bandmates woven that deep within your cruel lies?

"Excuse me, what did you just say?" Eunha asks, appalled, tears forming from the corners of her eyes, which only causes the anger within Jungkook to grow. How dare they. How dare they make Eunha cry when she was doing nothing but telling the truth?

"You heard me, Eunha," Yugyeom continues, paying no mind to the burning rage that was about to burst within Jungkook. "I said shut the fuck up. So what if (Y/N) wrote a song about Jungkook? Why does it matter? She has every right to. I mean, our next single is literally a song Jungkook wrote after the breakup, so why the fuck are you berating her for doing the same?"

"Because she's hurting our reputation!" Eunha exclaims, clearly frustrated at how Yugyeom and Jaehyun weren't getting her point. "And besides, she was the one in the wrong during the breakup. What right does she have to make a song about it?"

Jaehyun scoffs, glare intensifying, causing Jungkook to clench his fist at their hostility. "And how do you know that when you only heard Jungkook's side of the story and not (Y/N) 's? For all we know, Jungkook could also be in the wro—"

Before Jaehyun could finish his sentence, Jungkook explodes, immediately rushing over to where Jaehyun sat and grabbing him by the collar, causing the rest of the band and Namjoon to panic, trying to break them apart, while Eunha watches, scared.

"You motherfucker," Jungkook curses, hand raised into a fist, ready to punch Jaehyun in the face with all the force he could muster. But before he could do so, Namjoon and Yugyeom immediately held him back, causing Jaehyun to let out shaky breaths as he glared at Jungkook, hurt, confused, and angry. "Why are you defending her? She was the one who hurt me! You're supposed to be my fucking best friend!"

"Maybe if you actually listened to what she had to say and what she was going through, then we wouldn't be in this situation in the first place," Jaehyun screamed back, anger slowly growing as each moment passed by. "You've always been like this Jungkook, self-centered and fucking mean. (Y/N) was right for wanting to leave."

"What did you say, you fucki—"

"Enough!" Namjoon screams, holding his ground. This had gotten out of hand, and it was beginning to stress him out, and clearly, that same stress was spreading through every single person in the room. This wasn't even supposed to be that big of a deal. All they were supposed to do was listen to the song you wrote, and come up with a statement, So why the hell did this turn into a full-blown fight?

Gosh, Namjoon needed a raise.

"Jeon Jungkook calm the fuck down, or I'll have you on probation, you hear? The same goes for all of you. I don't want to hear any bullshit about who's right or wrong in the relationship. All I need is for us to listen to the song and figure out what we're going to tell the higher-ups. So stop acting like you're a bunch of teenagers and sit down."

Usually, Namjoon wasn't this scary. But there was a glint in his eyes that taunted the band. And they knew that in the heat of the moment, the best thing to do was to shut up and listen. Besides, he was right. The way they were going, no progress would have been made, leading to further complications. With a huff, Jungkook sits down, staring grumpily into space. He wasn't comfortable with what had just occurred, a frenzy of emotions bottling up inside him from the outburst.

Luckily for him, Eunha was quick to hold his hand into hers, soothing him enough to calm his nerves and mentally prepare himself for what was about to unfold. Because he knew he wasn't going to like it.

And true to his words, the moment Namjoon pressed play, he didn't like it. Not one bit.

Jungkook couldn't quite pin why your song made his blood boil and heart clench. From an outsider's perspective, it was a good song. A really good song. As a musician himself, Jungkook would never deny that. You had a knack for creating some really great tunes that were out of this world, after all. It was the very thing that made him ask you to start a band with him in the first place.

But there was just something about this piece in particular that seemed different. Your very aura was different, Jungkook concluded as he watched the video, listening to the way you screamed about how good it was that he was able to move on while you haven't. How you laced memories and fragments of your relationship and expertly wove them together to create a masterpiece that echoed into the very depths of his beating heart.

It left a bitter taste in his mouth. Because amidst the chaos, you looked free.

There was something beautiful about the way you were in the middle of a room up in flames, almost to the point where Jungkook knew that it was metaphorical. You liked metaphors. Jungkook remembers how long ago, when the band was just the two of you, you mentioned how metaphors brought out the beauty of the world. They made the ordinary extraordinary. They made the dull come to life. Metaphors were beauty itself, and that's precisely why you loved to play with them so much.

It's funny to see how that part of you hadn't changed, even after how many years.

"Jungkook?" Eunha calls out to him, a concerned look gracing over her face. "You okay?"

Honestly speaking, Jungkook didn't know. The high of his anger had finally settled, and all Jungkook felt was a burning numbness scouring through his veins. It's laughable how mere hours ago, Jungkook was sure that today would be another great day to celebrate how amazing his life was. Yet, here he is, in the middle of a conference room, watching as you submerged yourself underwater at the last scene of your music video, feeling empty.

He doesn't directly answer Eunha, afraid that if he were to say anything, unwanted words would slip from his lips, and he would unleash another round of chaos and hell. And he was too mentally exhausted to go through that again. So he merely nods, clasping Eunha's hand gently and sighing as Namjoon pauses the video, turning towards the group.

"Well," Namjoon says, surveying the room to see the band's reactions. But who was he kidding? He knew damn well that the band wasn't nearly overjoyed seeing and hearing what their old friend had to say, especially Jungkook. The poor kid looked lost. "That's that. It looks too vague to be considered a song catered to Jungkook, so I'll inform the higher-ups that it has nothing to do wi--"

Suddenly, Jungkook stands up, causing a deafening silence to befall once more as everyone watches him with cautious eyes, afraid of what he was about to do.

"I'm going to get a drink," is all he says, moving to head out the door. No one really says anything in protest, Yugyeom and Jaehyun still feeling the aftermath of the previous fight. Only Eunha seemed to be visibly bothered, scoffing at the rest of the team's reactions before quickly latching on to Jungkook's arm.

"Babe, it's still early in the morning. At least let me accompany you?" She asks, that hopeful glint burning brightly in her eyes, to the point that it makes Jaehyun recline back in his seat uncomfortably, not liking the way she seemed so unnatural. You were never like that. And while Jaehyun knew it was wrong to make comparisons, he couldn't help it.

You were his best friend just as much as Jungkook was.

"I'll go alone," is all Jungkook whispers, shrugging Eunha off who is about to protest, but Namjoon is quick to shut her up with a gentle hand on her shoulder, shaking his head when she tries to chase after him. Jungkook needed to settle down and sort his thoughts through if he ever wanted a chance at getting through this situation with you.

And maybe, just maybe, he could finally make amends.

“Do you have a dream?”

This was the question that started it all, Jungkook supposed. He remembers the very day you asked him that one decisive question that, looking back, changed both of your lives. For good or for worse, Jungkook wasn’t sure. But as he reminisces the memories of the past and tries to figure out where everything went wrong, he couldn’t help the gut-wrenching feeling that settles within him. It’s so upsetting, in fact, that the moment Jungkook arrives in the pub across the street, he immediately drowns himself in a bottle of soju.

The two of you were spending the lunch break in the empty stairwell, the same place where the two of you first met and the same place where the two of you gradually started to hang out. It was a quiet space, free from the condescending eyes of the perfection-seeking kids you called classmates. It was a space where you and Jungkook could be free, even for just a little while.

Sipping on his banana milk, Jungkook looks at you curiously. You were staring at the strawberry milk he had bought you, fiddling with it nervously, not even bothering to look him in the eye. He wonders what goes on through your mind, what thoughts dance around within its hollow crevices, shaking you up and causing you to become a nervous wreck. Especially when the question wasn’t as bad as you were probably thinking.

“Hmm, do you want the honest answer or the answer everyone wants to hear?” He asks back, looking up at the ceiling. For an elite school, they didn’t do well to maintain the more hidden areas. Was that a sign that they really didn’t care about things that weren’t relevant to them? Maybe. Maybe not. Jungkook didn’t particularly care. It was just more bearable t stare at the ceiling than sit in awkward silence,

“Honest,” you say after a few moments, much more confident than a few moments ago. After hanging out with you for a few months and observing you within the silence of your conversations, Jungkook somehow knows that no matter what he’d do, you would forever be shy. Regardless if you knew someone well or not, the first moments of conversation would always be parallel to a first meeting. It was a curious thing, honestly. But it was more intriguing once he realized that your confidence grew the more you spoke.

In a way, it was kind of cute.

“I wanna make music,” Jungkook says after snapping himself out of his trance. He once again averts his gaze from yours, but this time it wasn’t to avoid silence, but rather to think, to immerse himself in his thoughts. Because this was the first time, someone had asked him what he truly wanted to do with life. The first time someone wanted an honest answer from him, not a polished response set up to please his parents and peers.

“Not the classical kind, though,” he continues, smiling softly to himself. “Not really fond of it as much as you think.” From the corner of his eyes, Jungkook can see you gaping at him in surprise, and it causes him to chuckle. You were never really expressive beyond the weary walls of the seemingly abandoned stairwell. To the rest of the student body, you were expressionless. Someone who took all the beatings and ridicules with a blank face. As if you were a doll, waiting to be ruined.

But here, you were much more alive. Much more expressive than Jungkook was used to seeing. It was as if the (Y/N) beyond the worn steps of the stairwell was an entirely different person. A mask you placed upon yourself to protect your heart from the cruel reality you had come to face. And Jungkook was more than fascinated at the fact that you had brought that mask down for him.

“If I could, I’d do rock, maybe even some metal If I got enough courage,” he continues, smiling to himself unknowingly giddy at the sight of you. “There’s just something different about it, you know? The music runs through your system and gets you all hyped up; you just can’t resist it. And when the beat drops, it’s as if your emotions are on an all-time high, and it weirdly makes you kind of free. It made me realize that this was what music was supposed to be, I guess.”

“Wow,” you mutter, after staying within the silence of your initial awe. “That’s... poetic.” Jungkook laughs at the look of disbelief in his face, shooting his empty carton of banana milk in the air and watching in satisfaction as it lands straight into the empty trash can just right down the corner before turning to you, a grin high on his lips.

“Oh, come on,” he whines, rolling his eyes playfully. “Why do you sound so surprised? Do I not look like I’d be a good musician?”

“It’s not that!” You quickly exclaim in your defense, flailing your arms in the air to avert Jungkook’s thoughts about the situation. Unbeknownst to you, Jungkook was only joking, highly amused at your reactions, wanting to see more. “I just assumed you’d be more into sports, you know, since you’re so good at it? If you ask me, you kind of look like you’d do well in either football or basketball… so I just kind of assumed that was what you wanted to actually pursue. Not that wanting to pursue music is a bad thing! It’s great, it’s just that rock is kind of unexpected....”

You were beginning to ramble at this point, the shy sheep from within you bursting forth as you fiddled with your thumbs nervously, anxious to see Jungkook’s reaction. Would he be mad at you for assuming things about him off the bat? Probably not, right? You did initiate the conversation by asking him what his dream was, after all. Wait, maybe this was your fault. Gosh, you should have just asked any other question that wasn’t as deep.

This friendship thing was too difficult for your liking.

As you bury yourself in your thoughts, Jungkook couldn’t help but let out a chuckle. It was small at first, almost going unheard by you who was so deeply consumed by the matters of your mind, but the more Jungkook laughed, the louder he got until he was full-on cackling, much to your dismay, confusion, and shock.

“What’s so funny?” You ask frantically, trying to make sense of his actions. Did you say something wrong? As far as you knew, you hadn’t, but what if you had and accidentally crossed the line? You hoped not. You really didn’t want to screw any chance you had at having a real, genuine friend. But to your dismay, your questions remain unanswered as Jungkook continues to laugh, almost as if he wasn’t planning on stopping anytime soon.

“Hey!” You exclaim, pouting. “Stop laughing at me, Jungkook!”

“I-i’m sorry,” He says after a few more laughs, trying to wipe the tears that were beginning to form in his eyes. “I couldn’t help it,” He laughs again, although this time, it seems as if he’s calmed down, sporting a cheeky smile. “Your reactions are just something else!”

Jungkook watches as you become flustered, once more, much to his fascination and amusement. He’s never been the teasing type, or more like, he’s never had the opportunity to become the teasing type, especially with the perfect image he had to curate in front of his peers. But he liked this. He liked being friends with you. It made him all the more free.

“What about you?” He suddenly asks after a while, feeling that it was high time to cut you some slack. You look up at him in confusion as if you had entirely forgotten why this entire conversation had happened in the first place. “Do you have a dream?”

It’s silent, yet this time, Jungkook notes, the silence is uncanny. It’s not the same comfortable silence that Jungkook is used to whenever he was hanging out with you. It was as if the silence had suddenly crashed down and enveloped the cheery atmosphere in its deceitful arms. A trap, if you will.

And Jungkook was unsure whether he wanted to break free from it or stay there with you.

But you take the first step, finally looking up to meet him in the eyes, and Jungkook can feel his heart sink just a tad bit from how empty and solemn they were. “I don’t think so,” is all you say, brushing off the concerned look on Jungkook’s face with a smile. “I’ve never really given it much thought. That’s why I asked,” you chuckle halfheartedly, staring up at the ceiling. “Although I think it would be nice,” you say, smiling a bit more genuinely. “You know, to have a dream?”

Jungkook doesn’t know what to say. How was he supposed to react to that, anyway? No matter how difficult his life was, he had always had a dream. It kept him going, made him push through no matter the difficulty. Dreams were the driving force of life. The hope amidst the darkness. To not have a dream, even just a small one, rattled Jungkook.

It terrified him because now Jungkook realized that he knew nothing about you despite you being his first friend. He didn’t know the reason why you decided to become a living doll in the eyes of others. He didn’t understand why you subjected yourself to such suffering when, from the small talks you and Jungkook had with each other, you seemed to have a loving family.

He wanted to help you, to be there for you. Because he wasn’t sure whether or not you were actually feeling lost. That’s what friends were for, right? Jungkook wasn’t exactly sure on how to do this whole friendship thing, but if there was one thing he did know, it was the fact that friends helped each other.

And Jungkook would be damned if he couldn’t help you in any way that he could.

Soju bottles littered the lone table that Jungkook sat upon. At this point, he wasn’t sure how many bottles he had drunk, but it sure was many, more than he could handle if he were, to be honest, but amidst his drunken state, he just couldn’t find it in himself to care.

Why was he acting like this anyway?

He was supposed to be happy. His band was one of the most successful ones out there. He had thousands, if not millions of fans, who supported him in everything he did. So why, just why was this insignificant matter affecting him so greatly?

Was it because it was you?

“Dear, are you alright?” The old woman, running the pub asks, concerned as she sets down a piping hot bowl of warm hangover soup, which has Jungkook’s mouth watering to the point where drool almost seeps out, mainly because he only had a bite of a sandwich on his way to the office which Eunha forcibly made him eat. But even so, he couldn’t bring himself to eat, especially with the array of emotions that were burning deep within him. “Do you need me to call someone for you?”

Jungkook stays silent, not even bothering to respond to the old lady, who only grows wearier at the lack of response. He didn’t mean to be rude. It was just that he couldn’t find the strength to actually do anything but wallow in his own misery. His thoughts were going on haywire, with no place to land in sight.

What had he done to deserve this? He was sure he had done nothing wrong, so why were you doing this to him when all he had done was, be nothing but nice to you? He had supported you ever since the beginning, and this was how you repaid him?

He doesn’t notice how the old lady leaves to call someone from the company, despite him not saying anything. It was probably for the best anyway. He was too out of it to even ask for help. The old lady was right and kind for going out of her way to do this for him. Although it made sense, after all, this specific pub was where Jungkook had been drinking ever since he had reached adulthood.

Maybe she would call Namjoon? It was likely, but Jungkook hoped not. He was sure that if Namjoon were to see his sorry state, he would scold him until his ears bled out. Although he couldn’t really blame Namjoon, if any manager were to see their client drinking away their woes like he was, they would probably freak out. Primarily since he was known for drinking at most two bottles. Jungkook just really didn’t want to deal with Namjoon right now, especially after what had transpired earlier.

He hoped that she would call Eunha. Sweet, loveable Eunha, who was there for him when the shitshow that was his breakup with you went down. Even until now, Jungkook was still in the dark of why you had left him and the band, but Eunha was the one who stayed by his side. Ever since he had met her two years ago when she first entered the company, they had become the best of friends. And now she was his girlfriend, and he couldn’t be happier.

All of a sudden, a familiar voice wafts through the empty pub. One that has Jungkook’s head whipping everywhere it could to figure out where it was coming from. It was sweet, melodic even. But at the same time, it had a hint of melancholy and freedom? Why was the voice so familiar? Where had he heard it before?

Jungkook’s eyes darted around, trying to see if he could spot the culprit behind his dilemma until they finally landed on the wide TV that sat in the middle of the pub, presumably for their customer’s enjoyment. And lo and behold, in his eyes, he sees you.

It was a local music show where famous stars would often find themselves performing to promote their new music. He assumed you were there to perform your new single, the one song that had him sitting here broken and destroyed with pride in your chest. Did you enjoy this?

Did you enjoy knowing that he was broken because of you?

He hated it. He hated how bright your smile was the moment he caught sight of the camera focusing on you as the hosts began their interview. You were brilliant, cheery, happy. And it sickened Jungkook to the core. Why did it seem like you were doing fine when he was here all bothered? How selfish could you possibly be?

But as much as it hurts him, he can’t find it in himself to look away. It’s a strange sensation that Jungkook couldn’t quite explain. Why couldn’t he avert his eyes from you when all he’s been feeling today was pain? It didn’t make sense. But honestly, Jungkook couldn’t tell what made sense anymore.

He watches you sing, hearing those blasted lyrics that made him rage just mere moments ago. Yet, this time, the lyrics made his heart clench. Perhaps it was the fact that your performance seemed more genuine because you were singing live. But why? Why were you singing those lyrics as if they had genuinely happened to you? Jungkook never caused you any pain, so why did it seem as if you were hurting more than him?

The thoughts were too much. It was driving Jungkook crazy, and all he wanted to do was drown in them. He didn’t want to think. Thinking heightened the pain that brimmed deep within his chest. He just wanted to float in the ocean of his misery and stay there, hoping that someday he would land ashore and the pain would come to an end.

Maybe if he took one more shot, it would help?

He pours down the last remaining soju into his shot glass, not caring if it overflowed and spilled out on the table. Rationality was far out of his mind at this point. All Jungkook wanted to do was do anything that would make him feel numb.

He raises the glass shakily, ready to feel the burning sensation of the alcohol run down his throat, that temporary relief that made him sink deep down into this endless cycle of emptiness. Yet, it doesn’t happen.

A hand shoots down to stop his wrist. It’s a familiar yet unfamiliar hold, something Jungkook can’t quite place. Where has he felt this hold before? He looks up, his eyesight a bit blurry from his drunken state, so he squints, trying to see clearly.

Who was it? Namjoon? Eunha? Heck, Jaehyun?

Turns out it was none of them.

When his sight finally clears, he gasps in shock, breath hitching in his throat as he takes it all in. Because the person, whose hold was familiar yet unfamiliar at the same time, wasn’t his manager, nor was it his girlfriend or best friend.

It was you.

The person, the old lady, had called to get him was you.

Well, Jungkook be damned.

When you got the call from the old lady, you were on your way to your new studio after finishing up a schedule you had prior. The past few weeks have been busy for you. Leaving the band and Jungkook was no easy feat. It was a decision that you knew was a high-risk, high reward yet at the same time had higher chances of failure.

After all, even if you hated to admit it. Without the band, you had nothing.

Sure, there was the fame that came with all of the band’s success. You were the vocalist, after all. It was exhilarating knowing that millions out there would be listening to your voice, singing music you created with people you loved dearly. But in the midst of all of that, there was nothing.

Jungkook, Jaehyun, and Yugyeom had everything going on for them. A backup plan in case the band didn’t succeed. A plan B, if you will. It made sense. They had privilege dripping from the palms of their hand, after all. Even if they had their own troubles and doubts, they didn’t have to worry about finding another way out because there already was a path laid out for them in the beginning.

You went into all of this, risking everything.

It was a choice that you had seemingly made on impulse if an outsider were to look back at the situation. When Jungkook had asked you to start a band with him, it was during another one of your many lunch dates, as you two had jokingly called it. Only this time, the two of you weren’t sitting on the cold and empty stairwell, but instead, you were in the old music room.

“I can’t believe this,” Jungkook mumbles to himself as he cranks the rusted door of the old music room open. People barely used it nowadays, much to his disbelief yet relief at the same time. He couldn’t blame them though, the brand new music room was much more enchanting, filled with top-of-the-grade musical instruments than anyone would drool over.

Well, at least it meant that he could have autonomy over the room (even though that wasn’t really the case). “You’re telling me that you never heard rock or metal before?” He gapes in disbelief as he sits on one of the dusty desks, looking at you with an outraged expression. You sheepishly enter behind him, taking a sip of your drink as you took a seat beside him.

“You never asked,” is all you say, shrugging. Jungkook looks at you once more incredulously, as if he couldn’t believe his eyes and ears. “That’s because I assumed you would have known what rock and metal are! They’re like the greatest music genres of all time. How can you not know it?”

You shrug once more, not really having an answer. Well, you did, but it was probably stupid. After all, if this was his reaction to you not knowing about rock and metal. What would his response be if he were to find out that the only music you’d ever listened to was classical and nursery rhymes? Yeah, probably not a good idea.

“Well, get ready then,” he exclaims, bringing out his phone, much to your surprise. Model student and Mr. Perfect Jeon Jungkook breaking a school rule? Who would have thought that you’d ever lived to see the day? “Because you’re about to experience an awakening, I tell you. A revolution!”

It’s amusing, really. You had never seen Jungkook as passionate as he was at the moment. Was this what it was like to have a dream? His eyes lit up as if sparkles were floating around him. As if he were about to step on cloud nine and enter paradise. He was bouncing his leg lightly in excitement, a goofy smile on his face that kind of reminded you of a bunny.

Maybe having a dream wouldn’t be so bad, after all.

He immediately scoots over to you once he has his phone ready, grabbing his earphones and plugging it into his phone, handing you the other ear. You hold it, a small smile on your face, and hook it unto your ear, not really knowing what to expect but excited all the same. After all, this was the music that made your best friend passionate and hopeful for the future. For sure, it wouldn’t be bad, right?

Well, to say the least, it was an experience. An experience you couldn’t quite tell if you enjoyed or couldn’t fathom. It was entirely different from the music that you were used to. From the bright and soothing tones came ones that were heavy and thundered on your ears. Yet, in a way, it was exhilarating.

You could see why Jungkook was attracted to this style of music. In a way, it was unhinged, a little more rebellious than the traditional types of music you were used to. But that didn’t mean it was worse. In fact, that’s what made it more exciting. Jungkook was right. In those few minutes that he had introduced you to the world of rock, you’ve gone through an array of emotions, from confusion to thrill and excitement of the highest level. The rollercoaster of new sensations was, to say the least, intoxicating,

Because immediately you got hooked.

“Wow,” you mutter, looking up at Jungkook, who was looking back at you with lively eyes. “That was… something else.”

“Right?!” He exclaims, immediately jumping off the desk to grasp your hands in excitement; it was endearing to see. Jungkook rarely got riled up like this. Music truly brought out the best in him, you thought to yourself, watching as he continued to dangle your hands in his. “Isn’t rock just amazing? Oh, what I’d do to pick up an electric guitar and play,” He sighs, and you can tell from the far-away look on his face that he’s daydreaming about something and the sight warms your heart.

“You should,” is all you say, startling Jungkook out of his trance. “I think you’d do absolutely great in music, Jungkook! You should go for it.” Jungkook looks at you, stunned. He blinks, trying to process what you had just said, before clasping your fingers a bit tighter, unsure of himself.

“Really?” He mutters softly, “You really think I can do it?”

“Of course,” you encourage with a bright smile. “If it’s you, then you can do anything!”

It’s silent for a moment, with Jungkook deep in thought. But you don’t necessarily mind, as more than anything, you understood the weight of your words. Being Jungkook’s friend meant that you stuck by him through a lot of undesirable moments, moments that both of you promised to never speak of unless it was absolutely necessary.

You knew how much he longed for his dreams. Ever since that rather inspiring conversation you had around a week ago, you knew just how much Jungkook bottled up his true passions and desires, even though there were moments wherein he would freely let them out.

“Then you have to be there with me,” he says, eyes filled with determination. “I don’t think I can do this without you (Y/N).”

Looking back at it, you chuckle at how swooned you were with Jungkook’s words. It was crazy to think that he had swept you off your feet with a mere ten words that ultimately decided the course of a good chunk of your life. You let him, and for that, you were to blame, But that didn’t necessarily mean that you regretted your decision in its entirety.

Suddenly, your phone rings from beside you, and you grab it from where it lay in your purse, only to see an old number that you hadn’t seen in a while. It’s been a year, you think, as you accept the call, pressing your phone to your ear. “Hello?”

“(Y/N) dear! It’s been such a long time!” You smile at the cheery sound present within the old lady’s voice, although you can’t deny that you hear a twinge of worry within it. You used to go to her pub every so often back when you were still in the band. And the old lady had been such a sweet soul, acting as some sort of parental figure to you and your bandmates through the years.

“It’s good to hear from you again,” you mutter, pleasantly surprised at her sudden call but also a bit suspicious because you had no idea what she was calling for. “May I ask why you’re calling me?”

“Ah!” The old lady exclaims, and suddenly the initial chirp present within her fades into a frantic tone that has your eyebrows furrowing in confusion, not sure what to expect. “Do you mind picking up your boyfriend?”

You blink, confused and startled. “I’m sorry,” you say, still not processing it clearly. “What was that?”

You hear a sigh from the other side of the phone. It sounds tiring, exasperated even, Which shouldn’t be the case since the pub usually opens up later at night. It was only open during the day for company employees. And what sane person would cause trouble with this much sunlight out?

“Your boyfriend dear,” the old lady continues, sounding absolutely done, yet at the same time, the concern was still there, and you swear you hear the sound of glass falling in the back, causing your eyebrows to furrow in worry. “He’s been drinking for hours, and this is more than he’s ever drunk!”

You stay silent, letting it all sink in. The only person she could have possibly been referring to was Jungkook. There was no doubt about that. After all, the old lady’s pub was where you and Jungkook would often find yourselves having late-night rendezvous, drinking the night away as you bonded over whatever life was throwing at you within those moments.

But now, the pub gave you nothing but pain.

“Grandma, I’m sorry to tell you this, but me and Jungkook aren’t—”

“—So you’ll come, yes? Thank you, dear! Truly a lifesaver!”

She hangs up. You stare at your phone in disbelief, shocked at the predicament you had unknowingly gotten yourself into. What were you supposed to do now? The responsible thing to do was to probably phone Namjoon and tell him about the situation. But with what had just transpired earlier today with the release of your single last night and your performance this morning, you’re not so sure he would appreciate any sort of contact from you.

With a sigh, you turn to head towards the pub. No matter how much you hated Jungkook for the way he treated you within the last few stages of your relationship, you couldn’t leave him alone to wallow in his misery (even though there was a part of you that was secretly glad that he was torn because of you). It would be too cruel of you. Especially considering that Jungkook had been a significant part of your life.

Huh, guess you haven’t moved on as much as you thought you had.

Even just reaching the pub brought back memories that you wish wouldn’t resurface. You and Jungkook used to wrestle over who would open the door for the other, and more often than not, Jungkook won. But you weren’t one to lose quickly, even to him.

The familiar jingle that came with opening the door brought a pang of nostalgia to your heart. When you and Jungkook would enter the pub, just ten seconds after the jingle faded away, the old lady would come out of her quaint kitchen and say

“Welcome home— Oh, there you are, dear!”

Not exactly how you remembered it, but it was still familiar all the same.

“Hello grandma, how are you?” You greet with a solemn smile, watching with fond eyes as the old lady comes up to clasp your hands within her own. “Oh dear, I haven’t seen you in forever. Why haven’t you visited in so long?”

You’re not sure what to say. How are you supposed to tell her that you left and broke up with the man she asked you to pick up? That would put her in an awkward position, and you didn’t want to cause stress for the already weary lady.

“Oh, never mind that,” she says, luckily dropping the subject. “Come in, come in, your boyfriend’s over there drinking in the corner. Did something happen? I’ve honestly never seen him drink this much before. At this rate, he’s going to finish my soju supply before I open up for the night!”

You enter the main area, and immediately you’re hit with the familiar, comforting scent of alcohol and home-cooked meals, as odd as it sounds. Although the smell of alcohol was by far heavier in the air, and as you turn to look for the source, your eyes land in Jungkook.

And you’re, for lack of a better word, shocked.

It was almost as if he was drowning in an ocean of soju bottles, with some of the alcohol dripping off the table and into the ground or his clothes. Partly because he was pouring himself another shot, which you know he can’t take.

He could barely handle two bottles when the two of you were dating, so why did it feel like he was drinking more than ten. If he wasn’t stopped now, something majorly damaging could happen to him, and as much as you never wanted to speak to him, you couldn’t just ignore him when he was literally on the brink of life and death.

You stomp on over to where he’s at, hastily quickening your steps as he’s about to down his last shot, and before you can even think about what to do, your instincts act on their own, and your hand reaches out to him, stopping him.

No words are spoken. Rather, you can’t find the words to say as you watch with solemn eyes as Jungkook looks at his hand confused. He tries to shake it, to move his arm so he can bring the shot glass to his lips, but you remain firm in your grip, clasping just a bit harder so he wouldn’t push through with the shot.

He looks around, following the trail left by your grasp until he meets your eyes, and already you can feel the whirlwind of emotions bubbling up inside you. This was the first time you and Jungkook have met after the breakup after leaving the band. You never expected the two of you to meet this way. Although, you supposed life was funny like that. It liked to throw unexpected situations in your face, especially in the most inappropriate times.

You watch as he squints, trying to make sense of who you were before he gasps, arm slacking, falling into the side as the alcohol from the shot glass splatters into the air. He squints once more as if trying to ensure that what he was seeing in front of him was real before stammering.

“(Y/N)?” He whispers, broken, voice breaking. You try not to let your emotions show, knowing that if you do, he’d only lure you back into him, which was something you did not want at all. You were done. After many months, heck years of being torn apart by him, you couldn’t afford any more pain. It would break you even more than it already did,

“Hey,” you whisper back, breath hitching as you watch the way Jungkook’s eyes widen at the sound of your voice, loud and clear for him to hear. Even with his drunken state, he can’t deny the pang of nostalgia that runs through his veins once he finally registers that it’s you standing before him. In the flesh. Not a vision on TV or a picture of you from his memories.

It was you.

“What are you doing here?” He slurs, trying to reach out to you, but you move away, refusing him any form of affection. Because you two were too far gone for that.

“Grandma called,” is all you say, the disappointed look in Jungkook’s eyes not going unnoticed. “Asked me to pick you up. Said you’ve been drinking more than you used to and… I can see that.”

You gesture to the empty soju bottles that littered the table with a grimace, turning back to Jungkook only to hear him scoff and point a finger to you accusingly, although with his drunken state, his posture was way off. “Who do you think’s to blame?” He asks, sarcasm laced within his tone. You raise an eyebrow at that, choosing to let him continue before you could offer back any sarcastic remark of your own.

“It’s you!” He continues, slamming his fist to the table, much to your surprise. “You and your stupid fucking song…. I mean, what the fuck is up that?”

“What the fuck is up with what, Jungkook?” You quip back, eyeing his fist cautiously in the case he would do something dangerous that would either injure him, you, or if worse comes to worst, both.

“Don’t play dumb with me,” He continues, and Jungkook can feel the irritation, frustration, and fatigue build within him now that he’s finally gotten a chance to let all these raging emotions out. “You know what you did! Why’d you do it, huh?” His voice grows louder, causing you to flinch as you move your chair back just a bit.

“Why’d you have to ruin my fucking reputation?”

All of a sudden, it’s like something in you snaps.

You can’t believe it. You can’t believe the audacity Jungkook had to say something as outrageous and stupid as what he just said. The emotions that were already burning up within you finally exploded as you stared at him with all the anger and disbelief you could muster.

And here you thought he was drinking because he had finally realized all the wrongs he had done to you. What a fool you were.

“Excuse me?” You say, exasperated. “What did you just fucking say?”

“I said what I said (Y/N),” Jungkook continued, not noticing the way rage was about to take you into its waiting arms, only to allow you to explode upon him with all the pent-up hurt that you’ve accumulated inside you. “You and your fucking song ruined the band any my reputation. Is this how you repay me after everything I’ve done for you?”

You blink. The words slowly make their way towards you as you try to process them, letting out a chuckle at how ridiculous his words were. “Are you being serious right now?” You say, scoffing at how there wasn’t an inch of regret on Jungkook’s face. “You’ve got to be joking, right?”

You want to give him the benefit of the doubt. You want to give him a chance to prove your ears, mind, and heart wrong. That he wasn’t actually thinking those absurd thoughts that had your gut-wrenching and your heartbreaking after already being broken. This couldn’t be the Jungkook that you knew, right? He wouldn’t be this cruel, right?

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

“You piece of shit.” You spat without even realizing it, surprising Jungkook. He’s sobered up just a little from your outburst, looking at you like a deer caught in headlights. For a moment, you regret speaking without any thought. But the more you try to rationalize it, the more the anger burns. This was unacceptable.

“Reputation?” You scoff, looking at him incredulously. “You’re fucking worried about your reputation when there are bigger issues to be addressed here?”

“(Y/N) I—”

“Shut up, Jungkook,” you say, cutting him off coldly. “You don’t get a say in this when all you’re worried about is your reputation over a broken relationship with someone you’ve grown up with for the past thirteen years!”

Wide-eyed, Jungkook gapes at you, and you, in your disgruntled state, take this chance to get back at him, unleashing all the feelings you’ve buried deep inside you.

“You dare ask me why I’m treating you this way when you’ve been nothing but nice to me?” You mock, his words hurting more than they should. “Do you even bother to ask yourself as to why I broke up with you in the first place, Jungkook? Why I left? Did you even bother to listen to my song?”

His silence echoes throughout the pub, further shattering any lingering hope that you had about the situation. “No,” he says after a while, firm in his belief as he stared back at you, although his gaze seemed as if it could easily water away. “Didn’t think it was necessary; after all I did nothing wro—”

“—You treated me like shit for the last two years of our relationship, Jungkook. That’s what you did wrong.” You exclaim, not wanting to hear his excuses. “Are you really this blind to not know? To not see your own faults?”

How could he? You think to yourself, the unbearable pain of this revelation thrumming through every fibre of your being. It was painful. Painful to hear that he hadn’t even thought about the situation through your lens. He was too absorbed with what he had going for himself that he failed to see the world through your eyes, and it frustrated you to no end.

Because that breakup broke you like no other.

Choosing to leave wasn’t an easy decision, by no means. You had risked everything to help support Jungkook in hopes that you would find a dream of your own. You joined the band, knowing that you would put your family’s safety and security at risk instead of pursuing a more stable career like starting a business or becoming a doctor.

You became selfish to follow Jungkook, so of course, you were attached.

Jungkook, in a sense, was your world. You suppose, looking back at it now, that wasn’t the healthiest decision you took for yourself. But at that time, you could not help yourself. He was your first friend, your first love, your first everything. Jungkook showed you the ways of the world and then shattered it without a care. Of course, more than any other breakup, it would tear you apart.

Because to be honest, loving Jungkook made you happy. You remember when he first asked you out. Probably one of the best moments of your entire life. It happened after your band’s first major gig to open up the local summer festival. The two of you were still calming down from the high of the performance, excited, thrilled to have finally been given the opportunity in front of a bigger crowd. It felt surreal seeing the fascinated faces and happy smiles as they listen to your music.

Jungkook was right. This feeling was incredible.

“Holy shit. That was amazing,” Jaehyun laughs, hugging Yugyeom before turning to hug you and Jungkook. “I can’t believe we just did that!”

“Do you think they liked us?” Yugyeom, ever the timid one asks. “I felt like I made a mistake somewhere along the second cho—“

“—Who cares, man?” Jungkook says, cutting Yugyeom off with a playful slap to the back. “We just fucking performed our first major gig. This isn’t time to be wallowing down on our mistakes. This is a time to celebrate!”

You and Jaehyun hollered in agreement, following Jungkook as he dragged Yugyeom backstage where the four of you packed up, took a few commemorative pictures, and made your way towards the nearest convenience store to celebrate the night with some good old ramen, ice cream, and whatever your hearts desired.

It was a fun night, one filled with laughter as the four of you joked about whatever your mind could think of. Jungkook boasted about how he was right about their band getting somewhere, of how Jaehyun and Yugyeom, who were much more hesitant in joining the band, and after months of no progress, we’re beginning to regret it, had nothing to worry about.

Jaehyun and Yugyeom even mustered up the courage to do a speed eating challenge, grabbing about her round of hot piping ramen and racing to see who could eat it the fastest, despite the heat burning their tongues both literally and figuratively.

It was a night where for once, the four of you didn’t have to worry about life outside of the band. Didn’t have to worry about the social pressure from school or home, Didn’t have to worry about stupid tests or becoming the best, for once the four of you could just be yourselves. Unapologetic and free.

When Jaehyun and Yugyeom decided to pack it up and head home, saying that if they didn’t arrive before their dreaded curfew, then their parents would literally send them to the pits of hell, you didn’t notice the way Jungkook grew silent. Maybe you did, but you were too preoccupied with the nauseated looks on Jaehyun and Yugyeom’s faces as they headed towards the public restroom to flush out the ramen in their system.

“Hey (Y/N)?” Jungkook asks once Jaehyun and Yugyeom are nowhere to be seen. You hum in response, turning to look back at him, and immediately your eyes become overwhelmed with worry at the serious look on his face as he gazes up at the night sky, seemingly nervous and scared.

“Will you go out with me?”

It’s unexpected, a bomb to your heart if you could call it. You gasp the moment the words flow out of his mouth, staring at Jungkook in shock. Did he really just ask you out?

You think it’s a joke. A cruel trick of nature. But by the way, Jungkook nervously fidgets from where he sits, and his eyes nervously dart around. Like they usually do during nerve-wracking situations like these, you knew in your heart that his words were true.

And you couldn’t be more overjoyed because you had fallen for Jeon Jungkook too.

Throughout your many years of friendship, you had gotten to know Jungkook inside out. You were there when he threw a mini tantrum over missing first place in the final exam by one point, knowing that his parents would be disappointed in him. You were there when the two of you went out to buy his first-ever electric guitar after months of saving up money secretly. You were there for him when he was convincing Jaehyun and Yugyeom to join the band, even when he was about to get into a fight with Jaehyun over the matter.

And like clockwork, you had fallen.

It wasn’t particularly hard to do so. Jungkook had this certain charm to him, after all. He was an enigma. He could draw people into his rhythm like it was nothing and have them follow to the beat of his own drum. Sometimes you wondered if there was a hidden secret with the way he could so easily attract people, but the more you hung out, the more you realized that wasn’t the case at all. He was genuine in everything he did.

“Yes,” you say without hesitation, causing Jungkook to whip his head to face you in the blink of an eye, mouth slacking in shock. He blinks, you smile, and suddenly a smile of his own is forming on his face, reaching all the way into his eyes.

“For real?” He whispers, not wanting this moment to slip away from his grasp. He was so close to having you in his arms, something he’s wanted for the longest time, that he was afraid that if he spoke any louder, he would ruin any chance he got. But your reassuring gaze and gentle hold immediately calm the raging wave of anxiety within him. “For real,” you affirm, and suddenly you’re in Jungkook’s embrace.

It’s a warm embrace, one that has you returning it back with the same vigor, the same excitement bubbling in your chest. This marked the beginning of a new chapter for you and Jungkook, one where the two of you would walk down the unclear path you have chosen, still remaining by each other’s side, but this time, with hands intertwined.

You just wished it didn’t go up into flames like this.

You blink, snapping out of your trance as you gaze at Jungkook. Once more, seeing the way his lips were pursed into a thin line, his brows furrowed as if he had a lot going on through his mind. Which was only fitting. He had to, or else this wave of hurt and pain would only intensify and turn into something you would never be able to control.

Remembering the happy moments was something you had promised yourself not to do, for it only brought you into another world of pain after looking at how the two of you were faring now. But in the midst of agony staring right at you, you couldn’t help but let yourself reminisce in hopes of relieving some of that anger and hurt so you wouldn’t do anything out of hand.

“Tell me, Jungkook,” you finally say after a moment of silence, and you want to curse yourself for the way your voice cracks at the end. You had to be strong. You had to get through this. Because there was no way, you were going to let Jungkook ruin you once more. “How do you think our relationship was going within the last two years?”

Silence befalls the room for what feels like the millionth time, But this one is heavier than the last. Jungkook looks at you with such a severe gaze that you almost falter, forgetting the fact that he’s drunk with the way his eyes bore into yours.

You dread his answer, not knowing what to expect. With the way, he was acting, and with all the things he’s said and done, you knew that his words would only hurt you even more from here on out. You clutch the fanfic of your sweater tightly, hanging on by a thread.

But he says nothing.

The heavy silence lasts longer, and the more it persists, the more disappointment and disbelief creep into the cracked crevices of your already broken heart. Was he really going to act this way? Saying nothing at all? Did your relationship mean nothing to him in the past 2 years?

“Unbelievable,” you mutter, letting out a scoff as your eyes scan his figure. He’s hunched up as if unsure of what to do, what to think, or what to say. There’s probably a flurry of emotions running through his mind, but you don’t pity him. You hope it continues to weigh heavy, as it did to you for the last three years.

“I was miserable, Jungkook,” you whisper, recounting the memories you had buried deep within, afraid to open them up again at the cost of your already fragile happiness. But to be truly happy, one needs to let go of all the agony locked within. “Ever since Eunha came into our lives, you started treating me like a side character, as if I wasn’t your girlfriend.”

“And no,” you say sternly, already knowing what Jungkook was to say by the way his eyes widened and his mouth slacked, an arm up in protest for your words. “I’m not blaming Eunha entirely, contrary to what you may think. Sure, her arrival started it all. Sure, there were times where she acted so out of line that I wanted to slap her in the face n’s remind her who exactly she was talking to. But I couldn’t. Do you know why, Jungkook?”

His eyebrows furrow in confusion, and you take a deep breath as you gather your thoughts. This was the first time you were finally going to let out all of your frustrations that’s been building up inside you for the past few years. It was a nerve-wracking feat, but a necessary one nonetheless, as even in those few moments of speaking, you were starting to feel just a bit more free.

“Because I didn’t even know who I was anymore.”

Jungkook’s never been this confused in his life.

It’s as if you had dropped a bomb on him without warning, causing him to be in a frenzy. What did you mean? How could you blame Eunha? Eunha was a sweet girl who could do no wrong. She was there for him whenever he needed that extra support, whenever he needed someone to ground him in this cruel, unforgiving world.

She was there when you weren’t and was a constant in his life. How could such a sweet girl like her be the catalyst of this catastrophic situation? It had to be a joke.

“You’re lying,” he mutters, shaking his head in disbelief. The pain in his heart was coming back again, and just when he thought he had finally gotten rid of that after drowning in alcohol moments ago. This was your fault. You and your stupid song, your stupid lies. You were driving me crazy.

“I’m lying?” You ask, and Jungkook looks up to meet your eyes, feeling another burst of pain shoot through him at the agonizing expression on your face. Why did you look so hurt? He did nothing wrong. He didn’t hurt you. He couldn’t have. He had always been there for you. He was the reason you could do what you could in the first place. There was just no way that misery was because of him.

“Jungkook, did you even realize that with how much time you were spending with Eunha, you weren’t spending time with me anymore? Remember how you used to walk me home at midnight after your time at the studio and my radio show? You stopped doing that ever since she appeared.”

Lies.

“For days, I stood outside the company for hours, waiting for you to bring me home because you promised that you’d never miss it for the world. And on the day that I finally decided to check up on you, worried that you might have been overworking yourself? I see you in the studio, laughing with Eunha.”

Jungkook wanted to scream. He was stressed. He had to make music. Why couldn’t you understand that?

“And when I confronted you about it? You shrugged me off, saying I was overly dramatic.”

You are. Jungkook insists in his head, thoughts spiraling. What’s wrong with him not bringing you home. Even if he was your boyfriend, he was not obligated to, right? You were supposed to understand him, right? That’s what lovers are supposed to do.

“I thought to myself, maybe you were right. Maybe I was overdramatic, so I did what you asked and shrugged me off. Yet, with each passing day, it felt like I was a stranger in your eyes. Do you even realize Jungkook that ever since Eunha came into our lives, we’ve only been on three dates?”

You’re too demanding, his mind screams. Three dates? That was plenty for successful stars of your caliber. You had to understand that being under the limelight meant that he couldn’t reserve all the time in the world for you.

His heart clenches painfully again, and Jungkook feels a sob hitch in his throat.

“It hurt.” You cry, letting out the words that Jungkook wanted to say. “It hurt so much watching the love of my life and my best friend toss me to the side. Where was the you that promised that you’d always be there for me? Where was the you that promised to stay?”

You’re crying now, tears streaming down your face as the words you’ve kept hidden for the longest time finally make their way out of your system. Every part of you was screaming in agony and pain, and you can feel the mended parts of your patched-up heart slowly break again.

“Jungkook, I loved you. I loved you so much that I risked it all for you. I joined the band even though I wasn’t sure of our future because I saw how happy you were. You showed me what happiness could be, and I’ll never be able to thank you enough for that, but at the same time, you showed me firsthand real pain and heartbreak. And I don’t think I can ever forgive you for doing that.”

No. Why? You had to forgive him. You were his best friend. Stop. Stop speaking. Stop it.

“I left because I wanted to keep what we still had within our memories.” You whisper, remembering the night you finally came to your decision. Remembering all the times you cried and broke down, not knowing what to do or where you should go. All the times where you forced yourself to put on a smile on your face and act as if everything was fine even though it wasn’t.

“And I hoped that in leaving, we could pick up all the broken pieces and create something new with them. Maybe it would not have been a relationship as strong as the one we’ve had before. But at least it was something. And at least I would have still had a connection to you.”

You’re calm now, in a much better headspace than before. But that didn’t mean the ocean of despair that you surrounded yourself in dwindled in the slightest. It was still there, waiting in silence for the moment it could envelop you once more into its treacherous arms and drown you in its suffocating whispers.

“But what the fuck is this?”

You can feel the tides begin to sway, and you will yourself desperately to keep them down. With how the situation was unfolding, you needed to be the bigger person. For your sanity, For Jungkook’s, and for the closure that you both needed, which you weren’t sure would ever peacefully come to an end.

“I never thought that you’d think of us like this Jungkook,” you whisper, and much to your horror, a tear slipped from the crevices of eyes as you hurriedly wiped them, standing up to grab your purse as you stood to leave the pub, not caring one bit if Jungkook got home safely or not, you were too overwhelmed to care.

“I thought you loved me,” You whisper as you turn to look at him one final time, and all of a sudden, Jungkook is hit with wave after wave of sadness, anger, pain, frustration radiating from you. It suffocates him, and the only thought running through his head were questions of him hurting you? Was this really all his fault?

“But I guess you only loved yourself.” A chuckle falls from your lips as you make your first step out of the door. Not paying mind to the old lady who looks at you with a worried gaze, you turn to open the door of the pub, only for someone else to beat you to it.

Lo and Behold, It’s Eunha.

“You,” She gasps as she takes in your disheveled and exhausted state. Although that immediate shock quickly disappears as she catches Jungkook’s equally petrified state from the corner of her eye. She then glares at you, but you honestly can’t find the energy within you to care.

Because this was never about her in the first place, even if in some way she plays a small part.

“What did you do?” Eunha spats as she rushes past you to go to Jungkook, not even bothering to hear you out. You sigh, gathering the last remaining buts of courage within clenched fists, and make your way out of the door, leaving Jungkook, your broken heart, and the memories you two shared behind for good.

Not caring what he would do with those fragments in the end.

“Jungkook!”

Eunha exclaims, immediately hooking her arms around him and hoisting him up into an embrace. “What happened? What did that bitch do?” But Jungkook doesn’t answer, thoroughly overwhelmed by the range of emotions that had just surpassed him from his conversation with you.

Was it truly his fault? Was he the reason why things had turned out this way? There was no way right. He had treated you right, right?

Jungkook tries to convince himself that he’s done nothing wrong, that he was perfectly innocent in this situation. But that nagging feeling deep within his mind and soul screams at him to finally realize the truth. He’s scared. He doesn’t want to know what lies beyond the bubble of happiness he had placed himself in. He doesn’t want to feel the agonizing pain he’s put himself through without realizing it.

But not doing so would kill him more than knowing the truth ever will.

So he opens the door to the truth and wallows in the misery of what he’s done.

To be fair, there was some truth to Jungkook’s words. He had treated you like you were the most precious thing in the universe. And that was because, for the longest time, Jungkook did consider you highly special to him. You were his first friend, the first person he could confide his feelings in, the first person who showed him what love could be like.

You grew up together, cried together, had your first drink together, stood on stage for the first time together. You had done just about everything together, and Jungkook cherished you more than anything in the world.

In everything he did, he always tried to make you a part of it. Whether that meant buying your favorite drink or sending you pictures of whatever he was doing, Jungkook always wanted to help you see the world through his eyes because you deserved that much.

Ice cream dates, sneaking out at night to have some chicken and beer, random dates at the local arcade, a stroll at the beach. You and Jungkook had practically done it all. So, where did it all fall apart? Where did Jungkook go wrong?

“Jungkook?” Eunha calls out, and Jungkook finally musters up the courage to look at Eunha, who was worriedly trying to get him to answer her. Her hold is familiar, something he’s been used to in the past two years, yet at the same time, something was missing within her warmth. An unexplainable feeling he couldn’t quite describe.

And then he realized it wasn’t you.

Just when did he go astray? When did he start treating you like you weren’t the world to him? For sure, it wasn’t a singular moment. It was most definitely a culmination of many events that led up to his demise. But just how did it happen?

He looks at Eunha’s worried eyes, those same eyes that he thought meant the world to him within those two years of your break up. Yet, for some reason, he just couldn’t look at them in the same way anymore. Not when there was this hollow emptiness in his heart that called out for you and only you,

It was like a game of tug and war in his heart. He still loved Eunha; that much was for sure. But he couldn’t deny the love that he had for you as well. He remembered how Eunha was like a breath of fresh air for him. In the midst of all your nagging for him to take care of himself when he was working his ass off making new songs and dealing with management, Eunha was there to simply smile and encourage Jungkook.

Like a fool, he got lured into Eunha’s charm and held onto it, not noticing that he was letting go of you in the process.

His heart wails. It cries in pain and desperation of the love it has lost. Why did it have to be this way? Why was Jungkook such a fool? So consumed by his own selfishness, he abandoned the love you two shared and sought another, and now he was reaping what he had sown.

You were gone. You would never come back. Whatever love you had between the two of you had left and died out. The world was cruel. It had given Jungkook so much hope yet took it away from him the moment he slipped up. Yet, he couldn’t really blame them. He couldn’t really blame you.

Because he knew you had tried, he could see it in the way your eyes still cried out in pain when you see him. He could hear it in the agony of your voice as you sang passionately in your songs. He knew you did your best to pick up the fallen pieces and try to mend them back together. But all Jungkook did was rip them apart all over again.

Life couldn’t have been any better for Jeon Jungkook until suddenly it was not.

And he was the only one to blame.

➢ taglist: @wearenot7withu @nadiaislas @bbydoejk

#bts x reader #bangtan x reader #jungkook x reader #jeon jungkook x reader #jeongguk x reader #jeon jeongguk x reader #bts jungkook x reader #bts fanfiction

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lady-morta · 2 years ago

Text

Open Starter

“Okay, so, let’s go over this one more time,” Morta said with a sigh, turning on her heel and slowly walking back towards the large, circular window overlooking the city street below. “We agree upon the creation of three score new ferrymen, the creation of nine more way points, the implementation of a three strike warning system before termination, and three weeks of excused leave. There, did I miss anything?

There was a loud squawk, causing Morta to turn around abruptly. She looked over the countless sets of eyes looking back at her, and scowled as the one squawk turned into a dozen. Soon, feathers were ruffling and she threw her head back to stare at the rafters before shaking it and rolling her eyes. Things used to be so much simpler when she didn’t have to rely on her servants to help her do her job. Alas…without her scythe, this was where she was at.

“You are constructs. You do need family leave! You can’t reproduce!”

The squawking continued. Soon, it was a cacophony of sound. Though her ferrymen took on the form of corvids, they were quite sentient. For the most part, they only spoke to her--but that didn’t mean that a few of the other deities couldn’t communicate with them if they so wished. With the amount of noise they were making, Morta couldn’t imagine a reason any of the other deities would want to commune with her ferrymen.

Morta raised her hand, releasing a crackle of icy energy. Silence fell through the room--the secondary attic of one of the few remaining cathedrals within Vievecor--though the birds remained unsettled. “Fine. In the event that one of you manages to reproduce, you can have family leave. Six weeks. And no, adoption does not count! I will not have you going out and stealing pigeon eggs in order to get an extended vacation until they’re out of the nest.”

Another squawk from the background.

“I don’t care if you’re indignant--don’t pretend there isn’t at least one of you here thinking about it. I’m looking at you Odjir. Now, are we done? We’ve been cooped up here--no pun intended--for far too long and I have a party to get to.”

One by one, the birds took off, passing through the walls and ceilings with ease to return to their patrol of the city. Soon, it was just Morta left…with Odjir. He hopped towards her, gave what Morta was certain was a hmph with his head, and then took off, flying awfully close to her face as he passed through the circular window. Morta scowled and muttered a few choice words before stomping towards the door.

Quickly descending the rickety old stairs to the upper level of the cathedral, she waved her hand, unlocking the wooden door from the other side. She threw it open, startling an aging priest who was far too in shock to say anything as she made a U-turn, her heels clicking loudly on the stone stairs. Morta breathed a sigh of relief as she crossed the entryway in only a few steps and pushed the large double doors open…

Only to freeze in her tracks. It was so cold. And…and was that snow? Surely not, it was too early in the year for that, what with Halloween only being just around the corner and--

Was that…a holiday song?

Morta crossed her thing-sweater- covered arms, haphazardly rubbing. It wasn’t as if the cold really bothered her, but it was quick a shock in her weakened state. Morta followed the music down one block towards the heart of the city, slumping her shoulders more and more as the city center came into view.

There was an ice-skating rink set up. Families were linked arm in arm, gliding around as holiday music echoed from speakers and colored lights twinkled from the manicured trees. She had missed the Halloween Celebration hadn’t she? She should have known. The veil had been so terribly thin while she gathered with her ferrymen and time tended to move differently when engulfed in such energy. While she had expected a few days to have passed her by, it seemed that had been wishful thinking. What more had she missed.

With a sigh, Morta dropped down on an empty bench. “Fantastic…”

@vievecorcitystarters

#vievecorcitystarter

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noa-ciharu · 2 years ago

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FuuKam with ahem, no.33--- i'm testing you how you will make this hot---(?)😎😎 (i know i asked too much but i'm sinful--)

I sinned so much with this one it's unbelievable. TRC setting, nothing much of plot is going on. The plot however...

Also thank you @gabbylyons for helping me chose an outfit for Kamui, it was a tough one because he'd look good in anything. I never called outfit by it's notorious name but if you've been on internet for a while I bet you'll know right off the bat.

Extremely NSFW and kinky so under cut. Look, I planned this to be around 4-5k, somehow it turned 10.5k. It's PWP so all sin and kinks. Maybe I'll put it on ao3 someday, who knows.

33 - "you're not going out dressed like that"

With a yawn Fuuma flipped book pages; hazily skimmed over lines and lines of text. Mind refused to follow. It was what? Only nine in the evening? Absurdity he was already so exhausted but not to say he wasn’t overworking himself during past fortnight. Searching for treasure Yuuko employed him for proved to be no easy feat this time around; candle had to be burnt at both ends.

Leastwise Kamui was by his side, has been for a year or so now; perhaps because of his presence Fuuma felt motivated to work extra hard for few weeks, finish all treasure hunts in least time possible and snatch extra week or two to spend together. Quality time however; they saw each other every day yes, but rarely got chance in last fortnight to actually be together.

Another yawn. Putting finger between current pages he flipped dozen more around; ten more pages till end of chapter, maybe he should push himself a bit more. What was the last thing? Protagonist fainting because someone brought up murder he committed? Way to be subtle. Or maybe he imagined that fatuity? Fuuma leaned back into backrest and groaned; grasped for coffee cup on side-table. He should put book down, call it a day and go to bed; coffee wasn’t doing it for him. Pity however, he wished to spend time with Kamui, even if cuddling and dozing off on couch. He should be done with shower by now? Fuuma didn’t hear water running any longer.

As fate would have it, door creaked the exact moment. Fuuma grabbed book again and tried to concentrate for ten more pages; after that he’d either spend some time with Kamui now that he’s available or go straight to bed. Maybe coax him into joining and have both. Fuuma doubted he had energy for anything more than cuddling or sloppy make-out season.

“I’m going to ground floor to check the mailbox”, Kamui said in passing.

Right, he was expecting a letter from his twin. However, if it hasn’t arrived by late morning chances of letter arriving now were slim. Whatever floats his boat, maybe Kamui wanted to catch a breath of fresh air instead? Fuuma turned page around and mechanically glanced up.

“Alri -”

Words died in throat. Distantly Fuuma discerned bang of book hitting the floor. I have to be dreaming, there’s no other.

Blinking once, then once more Fuuma tried to wash away the jaw-dropping image. Alas, it persisted. Kamui’s back was still turned towards him – naked back. Ends of bow tied around nape slid down bare skin all the way down to small of his back, where dress explicit cut ended. If it was an inch lower, Fuuma had no doubt he’d see crack of his ass. Striking ruby red brought contrast to pale skin and black hair. It looked sinful on Kamui’s slender body. Sight straight out of wet dreams, it made Fuuma’s groin stir considerably.

Damn.

Fuuma sobered up immediately. Mere seconds ago he was considering dozing off but now couldn’t feel more awake. Sleep would certainly be last thing on mind for next couple hours. Fleetingly Fuuma recalled purchasing sexy wool sweater like that many moons ago; a prank, more of a dare. Of course Kamui hissed at him like some offended cat and refused to wear ‘such perversity for him to take pictures to later wank off to’, as he profanely put it. Since then sweeter was collecting dust somewhere in back of drawer; not even within wildest flights of imagination did Fuuma see Kamui wearing it. Voluntary to the boot, no coaxing or dubious consent whatsoever. But now…

Smirk crept up lips, both predatory and triumphant. Gears within mind set into motion. Oh Kamui, you’re not going anywhere like that. Don’t think for a moment I’ll let you.

“You’re not going out dressed like that”, Fuuma commanded in low rough tone as he abruptly stood up. That caught Kamui’s attention; he stopped inches away from door and slowly turned around.

Ah, that image, no words could describe how drop-dead gorgeous Kamui looked. Sleeveless turtleneck sweater clung to him like second skin, only accented curves of his slender body; dress barely covered groin, left Kamui’s bare legs open to unrestrained ogling, something Fuuma planed to do himself. Hell would freeze over before he lets someone else see his lover in outfit that revealing and attention-grabbing.

Still, understatement to say situation felt off. Kamui could be kinky and wanton in bed but never this provocative outside sexual situations. Not to mention libertine, never flaunted himself for others. All Fuuma could see was red, both taunting ruby in front of him and scorching fury within mind’s eye.

Kamui’s voice grounded imaginary rage back to reality.

“I’m not going out”, Kamui responded sharply. Put hands on hips and tried to look self-assured; there was no mistaking slight blush on cheeks.

Sweater rode up thighs; Kamui reached down and readjusted it. Blush intensified, indicator Kamui was, indeed, conscious of how indecent outfit was; as well as implication it carried. Fuuma licked lower lip and took a step forward. Kamui shivered, but then rubbed bare arms and tried to play it of as coldness; adorable but unnecessary, Fuuma knew intimately well what it was all about.

“Just to ground floor”, Kamui murmured under breath and glanced down to carpet, cheeks tiled pink.

I don’t think you will. Fuuma fixated him with predatory look, one that left on place for ambiguity of where his thoughts were. Feast for eyes indeed, especially exposed like that; but not for a second did Fuuma let his stare leave Kamui’s face. Message had to be passed, Kamui had to feel full intensity of that hunter’s fixation, of raw desire in eyes. Pants already felt too tight; deciding to put halt to all coyness and dancing around topic, Fuuma addressed the matter.

“Kamui”, he whispered velvety but didn’t bother masking irritation.

Kamui’s gaze bolted up; their eyes met. His pupils dilated instantly, breath fell short.

“You’re not passing front door in that”, Fuuma repeated roughly, each syllable spelled out accented and slow enough for words to sink in.

Barely audible gasp left Kamui’s lips; few second ticked by before expression shifted from flushed to vexed one; resembled pout more. Almost like he recalled he should act feisty, rather than really feeling that way.

Interesting.

Fuuma felt aroused further at this alleged play-act; they’ll do anything but sleep tonight it seemed. Anger was pushed aside for a second, but not forgotten. Kamui would pay for trying to ruffle him up, one way or another.

“Don’t tell me what to do Fuuma. You don’t control me”, Kamui hissed and tried his best to glare.

Fiery indeed, just the way Fuuma liked. There wasn’t side of Kamui he wasn’t allured to; from coy flirt to rare instance of being docile to wantonly submissive; or boldly aggressive and feisty like now. That side of Kamui evoke a hunter within him; primal instinct to dominate and seduce Kamui into yielding. Is this game we’re going to play? Don’t be surprised if you awaken animal inside of me.

Despite seeing through Kamui’s scheme (more bratty antics fueled by frustration), ire did emerge. Kamui’s rebellious side was one thing, quite another flaunting himself at other. No way Kamui seriously considered going out in outfit that’s basically asking for sex; his kinkier side was reserved for bedroom only, for Fuuma’s eyes only. Bait was laid and he fell right for it; under any other circumstances Fuuma would feel miffed at own predictability, but right now when he’d benefit from it? No way he’d let such salacious opportunity slide.

However that wasn’t to say traces of irritation weren’t present; Kamui chose to play a rather dangerous game.

Fuuma straightened back and aimed to appear as dominating as possible; not to intimidate Kamui, quite the contrary.

“Watch your mouth”, he scolded in guttural tone.

Kamui continued fake-glaring but didn’t protest at all. Surge of triumph swept by at implicit submission. Kamui was leagues ahead of him strength-vise, if he were to seriously retort there would be nothing Fuuma could do but accept. In that manner it was beyond empowering, intoxicating even, to beat someone as strong as Kamui into submission; precisely because it wasn’t fight to begin with, he yielded out of own volition.

Fuuma took a chance to let eyes wander over Kamui’s body once more. Long slim legs, slight curves and hollow of waist – he traced them all before and will so again; very soon. Fuuma felt his erection twitch at sight, only urging on. Pity most of front was covered with red wool; of no account, Kamui’s back was as exposed as one might wish. Fuuma smirked, intelligible desires finally gained shape; gaze bolted up to Kamui’s pretentiously miffed expression.

“Be a good boy and move from that door, I’m not touching you there”, Fuuma commanded.

Not for a second did penetrating stare leave Kamui’s eyes. He visibly shuddered. Oh yes my dear, do submit.

Cheeky smirk crept up lips. In octave lower Fuuma added - “Neighbors won’t hear sounds you make when I’m fucking you. Those are for my ears only”

Flush spread over cheeks, pupils dilated for a heartbeat; yet despite obvious affectedness Kamui tried to remain unaffected; feisty like untamed animal, like he did crave to be tamed. Perhaps that’s precisely why he’s being wayward and purposely instigating sparks of tension. Ah right, it’s been a while since their last time; perhaps even a week, now that he bethought it. Fuuma tended to be one to initiate sexual activities on regular basis; hence thought of Kamui being sexually frustrated never crossed his mind.

Interesting indeed.

In addition, whenever desperate or overall horny, Kamui had inclinations towards aggressiveness and boldness. Fuuma glanced down to Kamui’s groin; slight outline of erection was discernible, if one were to observe with keen eye. Kamui either got aroused by his firmness and dominant side or was hard even before leaving bathroom. Fuuma’s own erection twitched as imagination began to run wild; with ease he silenced those libidinous cravings, or more precisely just postponed them. Flame ignited within veins, in lust and leftovers of rage.

Really, out of all ways to indicate he wanted to be fucked, Kamui chose to evoke protectiveness and possessiveness within him. What was he thinking? Did he really plan to go outside in such revealing outfit and panties in case Fuuma didn’t notice him on time? If he gave a green light (no way of course, but in hypothetical scenario), would Kamui really let other people see him almost naked?

Flame flared up into fire, scorched through very being. Anger partially directed towards Kamui’s boldness to purposely provoke him with something he disliked; all while making him unable to resist. Scarcely ever was he truly irritated but this impudence called for it. Fuuma narrowed eyes and pierced Kamui with a half glare half leer. Don’t think you’ll manage to seduce your way out of this one. Alluring you may be, but I can resist you if situation called it.

And trust me, I will.

Kamui pretended to sigh wearily; murmured something under breath and began pacing towards him. Halted within arm reach and tsked.

“Here, are you hap -”

In a flash Fuuma seized Kamui’s wrists. Startled yelp went over head. Second more and Fuuma managed to hold Kamui’s wrists with one hand; wrapped other around waist and pulled Kamui against himself. I want you, but on my terms only.

“What would you do if neighbor caught you of guard like this?”, Fuuma narrowed eyes and asked firmly.

Pupils dilated, yet no hints of perturbation; raw desire in them. Kamui’s body felt hot against his. Fuuma purposely rubbed thigh over Kamui’s groin; he squeezed eyes shut and grinded teeth, tried to remain unaffected. Yes, he was already hard, no negating that. Grip over wrists tautened, another gasp left lips. Kamui opened eyes and glared, but didn’t try to break free.

“I’d fight back”, Kamui lied through his teeth.

Glare intensified, in response Fuuma smirk broadened; sadistic appetite whetted, he’d make Kamui have a taste of own medicine.

“Like you’re doing now?”, Fuuma offered back in a heartbeat; tone guttural enough to send shivers down Kamui’s spine.

Yearning yes, but perplexed at same time; in all fairness Fuuma was too. Ardency from within burned low, flame of bubbling irritation only fueled by carnal desires. Both primal, both seized too deep, embedded within very soul. Simply fulfilling one of lustful nature wouldn’t do it, not for inner satisfaction, not for serving as lesson to Kamui what buttons shouldn’t be pushed. On other hand denying himself what, in all aspects, belongs to him would be inane; not something he had on agenda, especially not when prurience was residual within blood.

In between and betwixt, perhaps those two desires weren’t that exclusive, intersection in manner of domination did exist. One of forcing not only Kamui’s body into submission, but very soul too. Fuuma wet lower lips. He knew exactly what he wanted to do.

Predatory smirk reached lips, gaze turned into leer; Fuuma added rough grope over waist into mix. Kamui shivered immediately, tried to squeeze legs shut; presumably to calm erection down. Fuuma had no such inhibitions; purposely rubbed their crotches together. Kamui grunted, flush spread over cheeks; Fuuma gazed down to quivering lips, had to control the impulse to lean in and scoop a kiss. It wouldn’t be a peck, it’d be a full blown make-out season; desirable yes, but no space left for romance now; none for slow pace and whispers of devotion.

Kamui closed eyes and tilted head up; stood on tiptoes and clearly expected to be kissed. Fool. Smirk broadened even further, pure triumph coiled within chest.

Right where I want you, unsuspecting and craving.

He abruptly grabbed Kamui by waist. Palms pushed at chest yet all meekly, lacked the bite; Kamui could do better if he truly wanted to break free.

“Fuuma wait! What’s wi - “

In a flash he swirled Kamui around and shoved face into desk. Paper magazine fell down, there was a loud crash of ceramic cup shattering but Fuuma couldn’t care less about that mess at the moment; due to startlement Kamui impulsively stretched arms in front, shoved decorative fake plants down floor as well; oh well, leastwise nothing remained on surface.

Fuuma let eyes roam over Kamui’s body. Unlike front, back was mostly exposed to hungry stares; luckily only his as Kamui was going nowhere in open-back sweater that barley covered ass. Both carnal cravings and leftovers of ire ignited, yet somehow flames fused into desire for domination; for putting Kamui into place yet satisfying his wanton wishes and enormous sexual appetite. Fuuma leaned over Kamui, recaptured wrists and pinned them above head. Free hand toyed with red bow on nape, tracing fingertip over knot like he was going to untie it. Kamui hissed, yet didn’t try to free himself. So fiery yet submissive; perhaps most tempting part of this all was the fact Kamui allowed himself to be dominated.

Cheeky little liar, you want to be hunted like an animal. But are too bashful to admit it either of us, so you’ve opted for provocation in desperate attempt to get ‘punished’. I’ll give you what you want, but first and foremost satisfy my own cravings.

However, Fuuma had qualms whether Kamui was aware of what laid behind his, presumably, impulsive action. Whichever way, he won’t get of the hook so easily, Fuuma would make sure of it.

Lowering over Kamui, Fuuma hushed into his ear -“What if they pushed you down like this, what would you do?”

All hypothetic scenarios, yet he couldn’t stop them from playing out within psyche. Some faceless stranger grabbing Kamui by elbow and dragging into apartment; pushing Kamui down the table and even worse: being horny as he was, Kamui allowing himself to be touched and pleasured. Overwhelming surge of possessiveness and anger emerged at mere imagination. Perhaps said implicit fury kept libidinousness in check for if Kamui was in outfit that kinky under any other circumstances they’d have been on round two by now.

Turning face to side, Kamui rested cheek over desk. Gazed up and regarded him with coy smile. Playful indeed, Fuuma couldn’t wait to put him in place for acting like a brat. Then Kamui spread legs apart, arched back and rubbed ass over his clothed erection. Wordless reply, yet spoke volumes.

Fuuma had to bite back a groan; won’t allow Kamui satisfaction of seeing him affected. Under regular circumstances he’d lavishly praise Kamui for his sexiness and loosen inhibitions; also express urgency to have a taste. But now? No way, all cards will be in his hand.

Sadistic chuckle left Fuuma’s lips. “Figures”, he mocked into Kamui’s nape, then began sliding kisses down spine.

Kamui moaned and writhed at feathery touch; if something so insignificant made him react then he must have been pent-up all along to be this sensitive. And to think Kamui potentially wanted to go out aroused. Hands slid down Kamui’s arms, traveled over sides to waist; palms slid past wool, rested over bare skin. There Fuuma squeezed; simultaneously flickered tongue down Kamui’s spine. High-pitched moan, he arched back and put erotic body of his on display; tried to allure him into temptation. Grip taunted, pained moan left Kamui’s lips. Fuuma squeezed him tighter, at same time grinded against him. Palms shifted a bit higher, red marks could be discerned from where hands were. A pity they’d be gone in mere minutes, bruises left on Kamui’s body could never last. Nonetheless knowledge of them does. Memories of allowing to be tamed and marked will stay with you, of that I have no doubt.

“What a little slut you are, walking around like someone’s wet dream”, Fuuma hushed while tracing pecks and brief sucks down Kamui’s spine; all the way to small of waist where he reached sweater’s hem.

Hmm, should he speed game up? Own arousal urged so, but Fuuma wanted to see how long he could deny Kamui’s desires while keeping own in check. He toyed with hem for a second, let finger slide underneath, just barely to tease; sharp inhale, all in anticipation. Cheeky grin crept up Fuuma’s lips; oh yes, he could and would control Kamui’s libidinous cravings.

Finger retraced from sweater; frustrated groan could be heard instantly; cute, Fuuma though, but won’t grant Kamui what he wants. Fuuma placed fingertip inch above end of tailbone, then oh so slowly glided it up Kamui’s spine; just to let tension build up. Kamui shivered and sweated, whimpered and implicitly urged for more.

Once more Fuuma gripped Kamui’s waist; this time with intention of controlling freedom of movement. Resting knee on desk’s edge, he half knelt over Kamui; lowered over completely and nibbled on earlobe.

“All those men, they love to look. But they can’t touch”

Oh how Kamui whimpered at his voice, it only made Fuuma harden more. Impulsively he rubbed clothed erection against Kamui’s ass; per expected, he wanted to grind back but was unable to. High-pitched moan broke out, one of utter desperation. Fuuma nibbled on earlobe, flickered tongue over it just to hear Kamui whimper again. Nails scraped over heated skin, only enticed Kamui further; he tried to writhe and obtain friction, but couldn’t.

“Do you know why?”, Fuuma let breath hover over Kamui’s cheek.

Waited a second, then growled into ear - “Because you’re mine”

Desperate groan left Kamui’s lips; he tried to rub erection against desk but all in vain, Fuuma stilled him on first thrust; swiftly slid palm down spine and pushed dress down thighs. Ah, he had sneaking suspicion before, but now Fuuma was certain Kamui had no underwear on, not even panties; fire scorched through veins, Fuuma had to inhale to dampen it down. Beyond alluring sight went down to groin, made his cock twitch repetitively. Far from the first time they had sex, yet eagerness and level of desire never wavered; were just as intense as the first time.

Kamui shivered and moaned, arched back and tried to tempt further. Instead of groaning as he’d usual show appreciation, Fuuma let out a devilish chuckle; slid fingertip inside ass crack, all the way down to testicles. Lustful groan combined with rapid thrust mid air, yes they were a delight but Fuuma didn’t plan on satisfying Kamui’s craving so easily or early; he had to earn them.

“Not even panties?”, Fuuma teased and traced finger up to tailbone; skimmed over entrance in process, only to have Kamui writhe and gasp underneath.

Still, mere thought of someone’s shamelessly ogling his lover made Fuuma see red for a moment; let alone if they, for even a second, assume they could touch. Kamui would have their head before Fuuma could even react however; deeply down knew with absolute certainty Kamui wouldn’t allow to be groped by random perverts; never was anything but faithful. Nonetheless, in hypothetical scenario playing out, there… no, merely thinking about it caused additional irritation fueled by protectiveness and possessiveness to surge. For this odd half-roleplay they’ve settled in, more than suitable.

Fuuma removed knee from desk and stood above Kamui; gripped ass cheeks and kneaded them gently at first. Kamui moaned how good touch felt. Yes my dear, be unsuspecting. Grip tautened, fingernails scraped over skin. Moan broke out, gradually altered into scream as pressure intensified.

“Were you hoping someone would grope you like this?”, Fuuma asked firmly, weakened the grip only to squeeze brutally again.

Instead of answering Kamui groaned and stretched arms above head; tried to ground himself on sense of touch.. Whole back was exposed for Fuuma’s hungry stare; heat got to him, he had to unbutton collar; unzip pants too for they felt excruciatingly tight. Boxers had to stay on however, Fuuma doubted he’d be able to prevent himself from slamming into Kamui otherwise. Miffed he may be, but hurting Kamui for real would be uncalled for; something he neither of them wanted. That much he had to keep himself in rein.

Resting palm above groin, Fuuma propped Kamui’s hips up; wool seemed slightly damp over where erection should be, irrefutably Kamui was far more aroused than this amount of foreplay ought to make him. Perhaps being dominated and degraded had more prominent effect than he could anticipate? No matter, Fuuma was grateful for Kamui’s endless sexual appetite. Without sparing second more, Fuuma shoved two finger inside to second knuckle; immediately found out why Kamui was so impatient.

Cheeky grin crept up lips, all self-pleased. Fuuma pushed digits inside to third knuckle; leaned over Kamui and whispered - “Did you finger yourself in the shower?”

No coherent reply, just series of broken mewls and groans. Kamui curved back and began fucking himself on fingers; for time being Fuuma kept digits still, allowed Kamui to pleasure himself. If he were to claim he wasn’t affected by Kamui’s wanton side, he’d be lying. Fuuma felt pulse go rapid, precome dampening boxers and – enough.

This had to stop. With deep exhale he tried to calm alarming level of arousal down; managing to some degree, Fuuma gave Kamui few strokes through sweater then gripped hips and stilled thrusts. As alluring as it is to watch you, I’d rather take control back.

Fuuma eased fingers out, only to slam them back inside. Scream ripped from Kamui’s throat; he tried to grind back but couldn’t. Insides felt loose, with ease he could spread and twist fingers them around. Kamui did a great job of preparing himself, must have taken a while. Within mind Fuuma could picture Kamui, frustrated and horny, trying to find best position to finger himself in; groaning and thrashing around as satisfaction was never reached; could picture water droplets sliding down heated skin, traveling down chest and waist, then teasing even lower; Kamui’s lustful expression and whimper of his name on lips as he – I said enough.

Fuuma hissed sharply and tried to regulate breathing. Arousal scorched inside veins, skin too hot for comfort; beast got unleashed.

Fingers withdrew; Fuuma spread Kamui’s cheek and kissed hole. Flickered tongue over rim but instead of pushing tip in he glided tongue over ass crack to small of back; then sensually licked up spine all the way to nape. Underneath him Kamui was broken mess of pleads and moans; just the way Fuuma loved. He placed lips over Kamui’s neck; nibbled on it before sucking intensely. Simultaneously shoved three fingers inside. Kamui’s body convulsed underneath his, unsystematic mewls and moans falling from lips one after another.

“Were you fantasizing you’re getting fucked?”, Fuuma teased in between the licks and shallow bites.

Prolonged groan from Kamui, followed by high-pitched whine; insides clenched around fingers, Fuuma had to bite back groan of his own. Damn, how much he wished to fuck Kamui relentlessly, it was inhuman; just a little bit more, he’ll endure.

Pace sped up, Fuuma started thrusting fingers in and out repetitively; on each push Kamui grinded back, tried to maximize friction achieved. Sweat rolled down temple, Fuuma was grateful Kamui was moaning and losing himself so much for no way he’d be able to hear how ragged Fuuma’s own breath became. His cock was throbbing at this point, self-control wearing thinner by each moan.

Experimenting with thrusts, Fuuma slowed pace down and curled two fingers. Kamui finally snapped.

“Yes, yes I did!”, Kamui yelled from top of his lungs.

Ah, that delightful voice, he’s been longing to hear it; always so raspy and wretched when they made love. Pity Kamui’s face was concealed from view, but this position was most suitable one for brisk pace and deep swift thrusts; no way he’d go easy on Kamui after that distasteful teasing, point had to be proven. But it won’t be punishment for you, will it? You crave the attention, the roughness and submission. By the time dawn arrives, you’d get your wishes fulfilled, one way or another.

“You’ve been- ahhh b-busy lately”, Kamui managed to murmur in between the gasps and grunts. “We haven’t do-done it… for a w-while”

Cocky smirk reached lips, some of previous anger subdued. Finally Kamui admitted what was evident from start. Really, has it been a week since they last had sex? Fuuma couldn’t believe he lasted that long, especially without noticing (excusable however, seeing as he’s been dead on feet each day in row for close to fortnight now); neglected own lover in a way. No wonder Kamui has been pent up to point of disregarding dignity and seducing him with bratty behavior and provocative clothing.

Explainable, but not excusable. Kamui could have straddled his lap or simply gazed at him with half-lidded eyes and lustful expression – in a heartbeat Fuuma would provide him what both of them itched for. But no, Kamui decided to be bratty and provoke on purpose.

Thumb skimmed over rim, pads massaged inner walls; Fuuma slid free hand inside sweater, encircled fist over Kamui’s erection and rubbed at tip. Kamui moaned loudly, broken yesyesyes and pleasee falling from lips. Reactions stimulating, moans ballad to ears, but Fuuma won’t be stroking him into orgasm; Kamui should consider himself lucky if he gets to cum tonight. One teasing rub, followed by swift stroke; shivers bolted down Kamui’s spine, insides clenched again. Not to risk it and possibly push Kamui over edge, Fuuma released his erection and got up.

Kamui whimpered immediately; turned head around and hushed coarsely - “I got horny and didn’t know what to do…”

Half lidded golden eyes, flushed cheeks, lips parted, saliva dripping from them – he’d never get over erotic expressions Kamui made during sex. Sight went straight to groin, Fuuma felt himself swell even more. Some of anger reemerged too, mostly directed at the fact Kamui could arouse him so deliberately, so effortlessly. Regularly that wouldn’t be an issue, exact opposite, a delight; but it proved to be an hindrance when wanting to establish dominance and control over situation. In far gone state that he was no way Kamui was aware of effect he left, perhaps simply acted on instinct. Whichever way, foreplay had to reach epilogue, otherwise Fuuma feared he might accidentally cum in underwear from sight alone.

“Meaning you became such slut that fingers can no longer satisfy you?”, he demanded, voice velvety.

Kamui gazed back at him with expression so yearning and tantalizing, Fuuma felt resolve shatter bit by bit. Fuck, he should pull erection out, enter Kamui and take him animalistically all until dawn. Reached for elastic band on boxers and – no, not yet.

Emotional satisfaction was as desirable here as sexual, he craved for Kamui’s soul to yield along with body (especially as he presented latter for Fuuma’s touch and gaze long ago); for those reasons Fuuma forced himself to endure a minute or two more. Cupped himself and pressed erection back in desperate attempt to clam it down. It did little help.

“Answer me”, Fuuma insisted rougher this time around; twisted fist around and spread fingers inside of Kamui.

Eyes squeezed shut, eyelashes fluttered over flushed cheeks; so erotic, no way Kamui wasn’t aware of how sexy he looked during sex. Lips quivered, whimper after whimper falling from them. Fuuma eased digits out, only to slam them back in.

He rubbed against that spot. Golden eyes flew open immediately.

“Yes! Fingers can no longer satisfy me!”, Kamui yelled and frantically nodded.

Fuuma smirked. Oh yes, just like that Kamui. Admit only I can satisfy you. Fingers withdrew; slight grunt, otherwise Kamui didn’t react. Easing boxers down hips Fuuma pulled himself out and – ah the chilly room air against heated skin, only made him throb further. Not to mention how Kamui’s pupils fixated on his erection, then abruptly dilated. He groaned and licked lips – damn it, Kamui’s loosen inhibitions and wantonness only hardened him more.

Enough with it.

Fuuma stepped behind Kamui and brought his ass directly against himself; shoved Kamui’s head back into desk. Sensing how rapid pulse down on himself was, Fuuma didn’t want to risk entering Kamui and climaxing in same moment; little bit of additional teasing for sake of buying himself time to dampen down critical levels of arousal within blood wouldn’t hurt. No need to prepare himself, tip was already drenched with precome. Fuuma positioned himself but instead of entering rubbed head over rim. Kamui groaned and tried to thrust back onto him; predictable. Palm rested over small of back and held Kamui in place.

“And what would you say if someone were to do this?”, Fuuma insisted in firmly. Rubbed head over entrance once more to prove the point; electricity bolted down spine, Fuuma inhaled deeply as to ground himself.

Per expected, Kamui tried to turn head around and tempt into giving in with wanton expression. Fuuma raked fingers through his hair and tautened the grip. Even if most of previous ire evaporated from system, desire to tease persisted.

“Fuuma, fuck me pleaseee”, Kamui begged shamelessly, tried to provoke him.

Enticing yes, but not the appropriate answer. Of course noone beside him would ever be doing this to Kamui, that wasn’t up to dispute. But point here was to frustrate Kamui into complete obedience; as well as get him to admit who he belonged to.

“Wrong answer. Try again”, Fuuma commanded, combed through Kamui’s hair as to confuse him with polar opposite approaches. Shifted hips and grinded shaft over ass crack; both of them grunted at electrifying sensation.

“And this time think with your head instead of ass”, Fuuma added mockingly.

Moan or two, but otherwise Kamui kept silent. State of arousal urged Fuuma on, he’d go insane if he had to wait a second more; with the way he was whimpering and writhing, Kamui wasn’t in any better shape. Just unlike him, Fuuma was the one who called the shots. He rubbed tip over rim and insisted.

“Again my little slut, what would you say?”

Kamui let out a mewl, sounded closer to wail. Adorable how far gone he was, but Fuuma won’t give in; he stroked Kamui’s hair as to encourage him to discard little bit of dignity he had left.

“Only Fuuma can do that”, Kamui murmured barely audibly, voice ragged.

“Good boy”, Fuuma rushed out and stroked Kamui’s hair for a split second. Not wasting a moment more, grabbed Kamui by hips and swiftly entered to the hilt.

“Ahhhh – yes yes, ohmygoshyesss!”

Remotely Fuuma discerned Kamui screamed; yet heard none of it.

World narrowed. Nothing existed other than utter pleasure shooting through veins. Complete victory, he couldn’t focus on anything other than how to get more. Fuuma growled, eased erection out until only head was in; then slammed inside. Pulled out again; pushed at full speed. Again. And again.

On each thrust Kamui groaned and grinded back; Fuuma could feel how insides clenched around his cock on every push, how close actually both of them were. Of no matter, he’d be damned if he stopped now. Fuuma briefly pulled out; taunted grip over Kamui’s hips, levitated ass up air; no need to instruct Kamui, he arched back on his own; tried to make himself as erotic and desirable as possible.

Then Kamui glanced coyly backwards and moaned his name. Last fraction of self-control shattered.

Fuuma thrust back into him; brutally, without care for anything. Thankfully for both, Kamui had fair share of masochistic tendencies, hence relished in rough treatment. At one particular rough thrust Kamui shuddered and screamed; insides clamped down on him rather hard, Fuuma had to pause for few seconds as to delay orgasm.

“Harder pleasee!”, Kamui begged breathlessly and shifted hips repetitively; tried to mimic thrusts as he was held still and obtain pleasure.

“Did I allow you to thrash around?”, Fuuma asked firmly and pulled out.

Of course, need for domination and discipline served as ulterior motive, simply a way to buy himself some time. Kamui mewled and turned head around to glare at him; with flushed face, disheveled hair and bruised lips, he appeared more debauched than intimidating.

“Damn it Fuuma, stop being a tease!”, Kamui hissed at him. Wrong move.

Cute but Fuuma didn’t have disobedience in plan. Fuuma lowered hands from hipbones to ass cheeks; massaged them for a second, all with ulterior motive of deceiving Kamui into false sense of security. Spank echoed through room; only afterwards did Kamui scream.

“Still didn’t learn how to behave?”, Fuuma scolded while gripping cheeks; scraped nails over skin firm enough for stings to emerge. Kamui relished in that ache, Fuuma was intimately acquainted with his masochistic side.

“Do I have to bend you over knee and spank?”

“No…”, soft moan, it set fire within veins.

Fuuma was partially expecting Kamui to ask to be spanked. Won’t some as a surprise, they both knew intimately well how enticing Kamui responded to controlled pain during sex. Oh well, some other time for sure, but now he had other priorities at hand. Fuuma hastily unbuttoned shirt and pushed it down shoulders; leaned over Kamui until no space was left between their bodies; Kamui’s skin was as equally heated and sweaty.

“If so then behave”, Fuuma hushed and kissed Kamui’s shoulder; skin tasted salty under lips. Without a warning slammed inside.

Before Kamui could scream Fuuma shoved two fingers inside his mouth; pushed them in and out in tandem with thrusts. Other hand went under sweater; immediately latched onto nipples. Already erected, Fuuma realized pleasingly; rolled left one in one direction, then another; grasped between thumb and index finger and pulled. Muffled moan passed lips, insides clenched down on him; Fuuma squeezed eyes shut and grunted, forced himself to slower the pace. Fuuma positioned fingers over tongue and thrust them deeper down throat; simultaneously glided thumb over nipple and pressed down. Wheeze followed by desperate gasp, Kamui sank fangs into fingers.

Pain surged; unlike ache when Kamui bites his neck, this one didn’t arouse, simply hurt. Good, otherwise he’d be pushed over edge, no doubt about that. Fuuma kept himself as deep as possible, barely eased out on backward thrusts; on each push made sure head brushed against prostate. Kamui whimpered and writhed, tried to catch up with the pace. Fangs caught over wound again, Fuuma winced; stilled thrusts for a second and pulled fingers out Kamui’s throat.

“Lick them clean”, he commanded coarsely.

Kamui obeyed immediately; flickered tongue up fingertips, licked trails of blood. Fuuma pinched his nipple rather hard, just to hear him moan. Tongue traced up digit, lapped over sensitive skin between middle and index finger; then poked into bite-mark.

Ah, sweet ache shot through body, only served as further stimulation; strange how touch on such mundane places could arouse so. If possible he swelled even more, pulse down on erection going rapid. Fuuma squeezed eyes shut an hissed as – ah to hell with holding back. Without a warning he shoved fingers past Kamui’s lips; bit Kamui’s nape and began fucking him for real.

Thrusts gained speed and ferocity; by no means did Fuuma hold back. On each push insides squeezed around him; so tight, so hot. More. On each pull head rubbed over rim; sensitive spot, Kamui writhed each time. He overpowered Kamui entirely, trapped between desk and his far larger body; the heat between them, it was unbearable, so alluring. More. Fuuma shifted hips, changed angle of thrusts; aimed to rub against that one spot that set Kamui aflame. Must have found it as Kamui’s whole body suddenly shook; thighs trembled, lips squeezed and sucked over fingers. More. Just a bit more. With free hand Fuuma aggressively rubbed and pinched nipples, tried to drive Kamui insane with pleasure; positioned thumb over left one and mercilessly pushed. Kamui mewled, would have screamed if weren’t for fingers inside mouth.

Fuuma let out a growl. Triumph surged; pleasure both sexual and of emotional kind. Primal craving fulfilled, Kamui was completely dominated, physically and mentally. Kamui let out a wail, followed by series of muffled whimpers; his whole body sweated and trembled; felt so so good. Shifting head from nape to ear, Fuuma hushed praises into Kamui’s ear; not like those words were processed, Kamui was in far to gone state to focus on anything but carnal pleasure imposed on him. Leaned forwards even more, let breath ghost over Kamui’s cheek; licked tear and placed kiss below eye. Pulled erection entirely, waited few seconds; then entered to the hilt.

“You’ve been a bad boy, you know that?”, Fuuma whispered next to Kamui’s cheek; broken moan in response, it was all Kamui could mutter in the moment. Pity his face was concealed from view, it must be out of wet dreams.

Nails scraped over nipples; Fuuma tries to systematically push and pull them, but lost focus. Arousal was eating him alive as well, lust scorching within blood. Minor miracle he hasn’t climaxed so far, given he didn’t have any release for over a week; still, with how heated and swollen to point of aching his cock was, Fuuma knew he wouldn’t last for too long.

Kamui tried to rub himself over desk but couldn’t; it’ll be beyond arousing to see him cum over himself like an animal, completely untouched. Saliva coaxed fingers, tongue chaotically swirled one direction then another; clearly Kamui had troubles catching up with pace; evidently overwhelmed. I would have granted any depraved wish of yours, all you had to do was ask. However not in bratty way you did.

Heat rushed to groin, pulse down on himself going mile per hour; grunt and groans were impossible to be contained, Fuuma was no longer in control of himself. Yet still, he craved the domination, the utter power over this one special person who tried to turn tables on him; tried to wake up a beast inside of him. A bit deeper, he itched for more.

Strangely enough, he was denying Kamui that depraved desire but somehow ended up fulfilling it. He should pull away and reestablish the power dynamic and – electricity bolted down spine, sweet ache spread through veins.

To hell with teasing. Dominance allured, but sexual gratification and urgency of his desire did just as equally. Just a few more thrusts and he’ll finally obtain the sweetest release. Kamui was close too, Fuuma could feel how he trembled and whimpered; how saliva dripped down lips as he thrust fingers in and out. How insides clenched around him, how amazing it all felt; threatened to bring him over edge at any second. Just a little bit more and -

No.

Not like this.

I want this sense of domination and triumph to last.

At last moment Fuuma gathered enough willpower to control his desire; all because he’d be controlling Kamui’s in process too. Heartbeat later withdrew in all senses; stood up and pressed palm over himself as to calm erection down. Seconds away from orgasm, he could see the pulse down on his cock; great timing indeed. Fuuma rubbed fingers down trousers, tried to clean saliva and remains of blood; leastwise focus himself on anything but how alluring Kamui’s body looked.

Few more seconds passed before Kamui grasped onto lack of sensations. The moment he did -

“Nooo!”, scream echoed around them. Kamui raised on elbows and turned around.

Ah that sight, if it didn’t make him cum immediately then nothing would. From flushed cheeks to debauched appearance, there wasn’t a thing Fuuma didn’t like. Half-lidded golden eyes gazed up at him, prurience and desperation clear as day in them. Saliva slid down chin, lips bruised and parted as he desperately tried to regain breath; wasn’t the only one, Fuuma could barely regulate his panting and pulse. Red sweater still covered most of front but was hoisted up to stomach, revealed exactly how hard and yearning Kamui was.

Damn it, don’t look so tempting.

“Ah, don’t stop… Fuuma p-please”, Kamui managed to whisper in between the panting; levitated arms towards him, irrefutable invitation.

Beg went down to his groin, Fuuma had to clench muscles on stomach to prevent himself from cumming on spot. No, this had to stop. The sooner, the better. Control had to be establish, point to be proven; game was still on after all. And don’t think for a second I’ll let you win.

Wrapping one arm around waist and other under thighs, Fuuma scooped Kamui up. How his body was so light yet held so much power and strength, Fuuma had no clue. Startled yelp passed lips but Kamui didn’t protest for real; even rested palms on his chest and gazed up coyly. So tantalizing, Fuuma could barely resist.

Kamui swallowed and cleaned his throat, clearly wanted to say something. Fuuma placed finger over his lips and whispered huskily - “Shh, let me take you to bed”

In couple of second they made it to the bedroom. Fuuma gently lowered Kamui down sheets; tried to raise himself up but Kamui wrapped arms around shoulders and pulled him in; moaned his name and tried to urge on. Ah, beyond obvious what Kamui wants. Fuuma desperately wished to take him relentlessly again too and he will – but on his and his terms only.

Brief kiss on lips distracted Kamui, lured into false sense of safety with predictability. With ease Fuuma pulled away.

“Be a good boy and wait for me”

With that Fuuma turned away from bed and strolled towards closet. Involuntary shivered for sweat already dried on naked chest; cold night indeed. Still, same couldn’t be said for his lower body; uncomfortable to pace around with unzipped pants and erection out on open, but hell would freeze over before he’d tuck himself back into pants when this hard. Fuuma took a chance to glance down on himself. Damn, he could hardly recall seeing his cock this swollen or angry shade of red; no wonder he was throbbing so much. Of no matter, he’ll obtain release very soon, could endure until then; willpower flared up by primal desire for domination, otherwise he doubted this much resolve would be found. Brutality of orgasm and sexual delight will be salacious, but they alone would provide no inner relish, just one of body.

We can do better than that, don’t we Kamui?

Kneeling down he pushed aside few boxes and – ah there it is. Fuuma hooked finger into bag and drew it closer; hastily rummaged until fingertips glided over something fluffy. Ah yes, exactly what he needed. Fuuma eased on pair of plush red handcuffs; wasting no time searched for other pair and matching set of keys. With divided attention payed attention to lewd sounds filling the room; one of strokes over skin and badly muffled groans. Needn’t turn around and check visually, Fuuma knew for the fact Kamui was touching himself.

Sadistic grin crept up lips, almost predatory. Fuuma was no fool, he knew Kamui’s libidinous nature and poor resistance to temptation rather well. Bait was purposely laid and he fell for it; like a moth to the flame. Every break or rules craved punishment and leftovers of rage he felt before were more than enough to provide necessary ruthlessness and dominance for that.

Gathering all items needed Fuuma raised up; turned around and confirmed his suspicions. With dress shoved up chest, Kamui was pinching nipple with one hand and stroking himself with other; barely audible grunts and moans falling from lips, yet still detectable. Quite a sight, Fuuma felt his own cock twitch in response; it had to reach epilogue soon (such buzzkill if Kamui got to orgasm now, it’ll spoil vast majority of what Fuuma had in store for him). Seeing as Kamui’s eyes were squeezed shut as pleasure washed over features, Fuuma took a chance to sneak up to him.

One step. Then another. In a heartbeat he seized Kamui’s wrist. Golden eyes flew open, startlement and lust equally palpable in them.

“Did I say you can touch yourself?”, Fuuma scolded; even went as far to narrow eyes and frown, all to establish dominance over someone who very much was epitome of headstrongness.

In a flash Fuuma handcuffed wrist to bed frame; pushed key in and sealed the cuffs. Kamui thrashed around instantly. Could break free anytime with that vampire strength of his if he wanted to; pair of toy cuffs meant for bedroom were no match for him. They both knew protest was just for show, nothing more; only ignited fire from within.

“I need to cum so so much!”, Kamui yelled and glared at him. Miffed yes, but retorts lacked the bite.

Kamui bolted free hand down to his cock; grabbed tip and stroked with such ferocity and swiftness Fuuma thought he’d orgasm from first jerk alone. With ease Fuuma captured that wrist too. Needless to say, if Kamui were really putting up a fight he’d be one handcuffed to bed; telltale little minx yearned to be beaten into submission, craved this roughness and discipline; to be punished like an animal. You’ll evoke a hunter within me disobedient like that. I guess that’s what you’ve wanted from the very start, just didn’t have enough dignity to ask directly.

Lowering tone even more, Fuuma scolded once more - “Such a brat, you never listen”

Both wrist ended up cuffed to bed; Kamui tested restrains but quickly concluded they won’t budge; was forced to lay down and accept his fate. Fuuma rested palm on his stomach, skimmed it up and hoisted sweater up chest as far as material allowed. Before Fuuma had chance to intake erotic sight, Kamui rested foot over chest and kicked; all meek for he knew exactly how brutally Kamui could shove him backwards if full strength was used; nothing but kitten play, however teasing had flame on its own.

“Fuck, I was so close! Let me go!”, Kamui protested and thrashed around.

Ah, they were back at square one, weren’t they? Apparently Kamui could be docile only when he had fingers or cock down his ass for otherwise even when aroused there was hardly taming him.

Fuuma gripped his chin and brought them face to face.

“Behave”, he threatened; made sure tone was deep enough to send shivers down Kamui’s spine.

Nonetheless that didn’t put him in place. Kamui glared and hissed back - “Fucking sadist”

Disobedience both irritated and enticed. Temptation to slam inside Kamui and fuck him like an animal was too damn high; being bratty and horny as he was, Kamui would relish in that brutality and briskness. They’ve had fast rough sex countless times before, one more repeat would be desirable but satisfactory only from hormonal perspective. Sight allured too much, Fuuma had to get up from bed.

He paced towards bag; knelt down and searched for toy that could serve as further punishment. Flogger? Nah, they weren’t in doggy style anymore. Butt plug? Kamui would cum in a second if anything entered him now. Vibrator and anal beads were also a no. That elegant red collar with bow would look breathtaking but he’d have to untie Kamui to take turtleneck off him right now. Something leather under fingers, Fuuma fetched it and -

Ah, this one could do. Kamui hated (but loved the resulting sensations; cheeky little liar) anything that served as orgasm denial, especially cock-rings; this time he’ll absolutely lose it. If I monopolize all your desires, I wonder how much would pass before my name is only thing on your mind. I wonder how far up high can you go. Cheeky grin reached lips, anticipation surged. Fuuma got up and returned to bed; sat beside Kamui’s waist and caressed him; fooled.

“You’re basically begging to be punished”, Fuuma whispered velvety and combed through Kamui’s hair; drenched in sweat, even a bit knotty, only logical given what they’ve been doing until now.

Kamui closed eyes and moaned; rapidly thrust hips up air and tried to reach orgasm. Level of his desperation was adorable, only begged to be teased more. Fuuma kept on petting and caressing Kamui, all over non-erogenous zoned; gave Kamui no means of reaching orgasm. The moment Fuuma concluded Kamui relaxed even a tiny bit, he changed the tactic.

Hand bolted down to Kamui’s erection; immediately prolonged moan passed lips. Kamui’s eyes flew open, pupils dilated; silent begs on lips yet no need to express desires verbally, expression and yearning in eyes spoke volumes. Instead of stroking into orgasm, Fuuma wrapped leather over base; only when snap fell in place did Kamui realize what has happened.

“Damn you to hell”, Kamui hissed; glared and squirmed around, all meek effort to break free.

Kamui’s feisty attitude only served as further incitement. There were no more reasons to postpone his urgency anymore; Fuuma got up and swiftly eased trousers and boxers down legs; socks followed shortly afterwards. The way Kamui was sizing him up, shamelessly letting eyes roam over his body – only added more fuel to fire; they’ve had fair share of kinky prolonged foreplay and pauses during sex, this wasn’t anything novel; yet Fuuma could scarcely recall ever being this aroused, this hard and aching.

Kamui fixated gaze down on his cock, blushed and licked lips. Bold indeed; Fuuma leered at him and chuckled. He’d be damned if he waits a second more. Fuuma walked around bed and sat between Kamui’s spreed legs.

Damn the sight, no amount of fantasizing could prepare him for erotic Kamui could look when sexually frustrated and constantly having his desires denied; desperation suited him well, especially when Kamui’s insatiable appetite was added into mix.

He knelt and raised up; purposely loomed over Kamui, served difference in their positions as reminder who called the shots here. Fuuma let eyes roam over Kamui’s body in similar starved fashion Kamui checked him out minute prior; didn’t bother hiding inhibitions, let Kamui feel intensity of predatoriness and carnality in it.

“Watch your mouth. I’m not letting you go until you learn how to behave”

Kamui shuddered at lowness of tone. Yes, show me how affected you really are. Fuuma gripped Kamui’s thighs and lifted legs up; hooked them over shoulders. Kamui gasped, his pupils dilated; surely expected to be penetrated at any moment given position they were in. Cock-ring wouldn’t be enough to prevent Kamui from cumming, Fuuma knew that for the fact; as desirable as fucking Kamui senseless for hours and hours would be, it’ll be equally addicting to be in full control of Kamui’s wants and body. For that reason he’d delay second round of penetrative sex for hour or so.

Fuuma pushed Kamui’s legs together; instead of entering him pushed cock between his thighs. Leaned over Kamui, bent his legs at knees and started thrusting erection in between thighs.

Ah the utter bliss, the ecstasy spreading through veins; victorious smile reached lips, Fuuma closed eyes and smirked. Clearly didn’t feel as amazing as thrusting inside Kamui’s ass or mouth was, but definitely beat jacking off. Still, the novelty and kinkiness act spiced things up, Fuuma knew immediately he’d last for minute top. Especially with the way Kamui was gazing up at him, pleading look drenched in raw desperation; Fuuma couldn’t recall Kamui ever gazing at him with that much prurience.

“Ahh,-ha, you h-have no… clue h-how sexy you lo-look”, Fuuma praised, voice broken in tandem with thrusts; even to his own ears voice sounded way too wretched, way too coarse.

Tip caught between thighs on each pull; he was so sensitive underneath head, each time sparks ignited. On each push Fuuma groaned; squeezed eyes and watched white dots play behind eyelids. Precome formed at slit, some even slid down thighs to Kamui’s erection; temptation to rub their cocks together was high, but Fuuma forced himself to recall original goal.

One particular thrust sent electricity down spine; Fuuma closed eyes and growled. In surge of utter pleasure didn’t notice how rough he was gripping Kamui’s thighs until he started moaning and writhing underneath. Such enticing reaction, Fuuma craved a repeat. He dug fingernails into skin and sped up trusts.

Kamui’s back arched from mattress; eyes flew wide open and saliva slid down lips; gasp after moan falling from them, all ballad to ears; only aroused Fuuma more. Sweat and shivers covered body, all heat rushed to groin; it was all dead game now, only matter of time when he’ll be pushed over edge. Fuuma brought Kamui’s legs as close to himself as possible; picked up pace and stated thrusting towards climax. Kamui’s body shook due to intensity of his thrusts; things squeezed tighter around him, sensation so overwleming it was a wonder how he has’t climaxed from it. Growl ripped from throat; in response Kamui whimpered and mewled.

So enchanting. So breathtaking. So mine.

“You b-belong – ah, to me Kamui, don’t e-ever… forget that”, Fuuma reminded hoarsely.

Kamui didn’t vocalize approval but squeezed eyes shut and nodded frantically. He could do better, but when lust at what little of coherent thoughts were left, Fuuma decided it was good enough.

Room around lost its color, nothing existed except two of them and raw lust within veins. Muscles on lower stomach clenched, telltale he’s alarmingly close to orgasm. Fuuma let eyes wader over Kamui’s body. More. Mostly naked chest, glistering due to sweat; oscillating up and down in rhythm with his thrusts, nipples stood up erected, pleading to be played with; he will very soon. Now he needed more. Just a few more pushes. More. Sweater hoisted up to chest and neck, color matching one of fur on handcuffs; arms restrained above head, only made Kamui appear more submissive and docile. Pulse on himself went rapid, Fuuma could feel cock twitch uncontrollably. Harder, just a bit more. Gaze lowered to Kamui’s lewd expression and -

Wave of pleasure toppled over edge. Fuuma knew once he halted all movements he’d start cumming. He closed eyes and welcomed the sensation. One thrust, then couple of swift and ferocious few more before he stilled. World shattered around him. All Fuuma could see was black.

No amount of fantasizing could prepare him for brutality of that orgasm. In one wave he started releasing long and hard down on Kamui; some of cum caught on thighs and stomach, but most ended over Kamui’s face and chest. Speed must have caught him of guard for he didn’t even close his eyes and mouth. Fuuma held Kamui’s thighs in place while he was pumping even more seed; he couldn’t recall ever climaxing this long, perhaps holding back for a week had some benefits to it. Orgasm so self-shattering whole body went numb; vision blurred at edges, distantly Fuuma heard someone groan but couldn’t tell who. Even if he no more semen was released, Fuuma still felt his cock pulse, was still going through orgasm.

Little death indeed.

World stopped. Nothing existed for couple of seconds beside rapid hammering of his heart. Nothing but sweetest post-coital bliss within veins. Nothing but panting and sweat cooling down on heated skin. Vision returned gradually. Fuuma wiped sweat from forehead and showed bangs backwards; shower will be dire need later on. He felt so satisfied, yet so so numb and detached. Remotely Fuuma concluded he was grinning all along. Maybe he should let post-orgasmic euphoria sedate entirely and -

“Please”, desperation in Kamui’s voice grounded him back to reality.

Fuuma finally properly looked at Kamui. Debauched was first thing that came to mind. Understatement to say Kamui was covered with semen; so thick and sticky, given how mind-blowing and long orgasm felt, no wonder he came bucket. Dress was officially ruined, no amount of washing would save it at this point. Kamui’s release was yet to be granted however; with how swollen and red his erection seemed, Fuuma couldn’t help wondering if leather ring would serve any purpose. Sniffle caught attention, momentarily made him bold gaze from groin to face.

Tears slid down flushed cheeks. Lips quivered and eyes glistered; all due to denied sexual gratification, all frustration.

“Fuuma please”, Kamui pleaded, voice beyond wretched. If it weren’t for refractory period, Fuuma knew without a doubt he’d get hard in a second.

Instead of fulfilling Kamui’s urgent desires, Fuuma got up, paced around bed and leaned over Kamui. Hope flashed over features instantly; fool. Do you really thinking one I got drunk on utter sense of power I’ll hand it over so freely?

Fuuma chuckled; let fingers trace over cuffs. Sinister grin crept up lips; without a warning got up.

He ignored lewd calls of his name; strolled straight to the bathroom. Better do this quick if he didn’t want Kamui’s patience to wear thin and snap; it’d bring such anticlimactic epilogue to their bed play but it’ll be fair, he’d have no rights to protest if his lover called for the halt. Fuuma drenched one corner of towel, then hastily cleaned himself. Washed face for a second and returned to the bedroom.

Thankfully Kamui remained cuffed to the bed; everything was in place. Fuuma sat beside Kamui and rubbed semen from his face; one on chest, waist and thighs could stay however, not like they won’t be taking shower later on.

Whimper after whimper passed lips; needn’t say anything, Fuuma could read him like open book. Especially now, when Kamui was aroused to point of crying and begging. He bent legs backwards and tried to rub erection over own tight; such desperate move it was more amusing; but just as enticing. Fuuma pushed his legs down and regarded Kamui with cheeky grin. Instead of hissing and glaring he teared up. So adorable, how much Fuuma wished to tease him more, it was inhuman.

“You know Kamui”, Fuuma began nonchalantly as he got up from bed.

Strolled towards bag with sex toys; crouched down and rummaged through it once again. Behind him Kamui moaned and pleaded further; he knew intimately well what depravities laid in this beg, of course Kamui put two and two together. Yes my dear, game is just getting started.

“You should have through about consequences of your actions a bit more”

Something silken skimmed over hand. Fuuma caught one end and pulled cloth out. Ah the blindfold; yes this one could do. Even if he preferred observing Kamui’s lewd reactions, sensory deprivation would only heighten the stakes by arbitrariness of touch.

Their bedroom wasn’t too big, meaning Kamui saw what he held in hand. High-pitched whimper confirmed that suspicion. Fuuma grinned sadistically. Post-orgasmic bliss was slowly evaporating from system, very soon he’d be up for round two.

“You should have thought a bit more what game you were starting before provoking me”, Fuuma kept on his monologue while searching for more items. All impact play toys were out of question in this position; yes he could spank Kamui’s thighs but relish laid in playing with his ass too. No matter, some other time.

“You craved to be stripped of all dignity and principles, fucked roughly like a slut that you pretend not to be but at very core are”

Still, sadism from within evoke; he might have decided to not whip Kamui with anything, but Kamui didn’t know that. For those reasons Fuuma eased out nastiest looking tail whip. Far more skill on his side would be needed for properly handling this one with care (as well as aftercare that was needed); maybe one day, but certainly not now. Fuuma purposely lifted toy up; from room’s other corner heard Kamui gasp.

“And we both know it”, Fuuma accented words by experimentally flogging whip mid air; snap echoed through the room.

He partly expected Kamui to seriously retort or beg for him to not use toy as brutal as that one; but that didn’t happen. Fuuma shoved hand into bag and tried to find something he’d really use. Hand brushed against something raw cold, instantly made him hiss. Ah, temperature and sensation play in one, that one would work amazingly with blindfold. Fuuma retrieved metal pinwheel from bag but pushed it on night table behind lamp; concealed from view. Now, they could start once again.

This time completely on Fuuma’s terms. No longer was he aching and aroused of his mind, seduced by Kamui’s coy yet provocative invitations. This time he was in full control over himself whereas Kamui was one whose blood was boiling with lust.Tables have switched in my favor, I’m afraid.

“So don’t pretend otherwise, my dear”, Fuuma whispered in honeyed tone. Gathered tail whip and black blindfold and paced back to bed.

Fuuma sat beside Kamui’s head; whipped tear sliding down cheek with thumb and combed through bangs. Kamui’s eyes fixated nowhere in particular, perhaps he was far to gone to concentrate on anything. Pushing bangs aside, Fuuma leaned in and kissed his forehead; then placed blindfold over face and fastened behind head. Sight straight out of wet dreams, Fuuma felt first stings of arousal emerge. Kamui whimpered and squirmed around a bit, but otherwise remained obedient; nothing else was optional, perhaps Kamui finally grasped he should behave, lay back and look as alluring as possible. Good, Fuuma intook with delight.

Allow me to give you and deny you what you want.

“Now lay back and enjoy your punishment”

#and so they sinned till the dawn #day after Fuuma told Yuuko he can't do work bc he has intense aftercare to do #thanks for the ask!#tsubasa chronicle #fuukam

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percabeth4life · 3 years ago

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i want to know the original version of hades and persephone story. there are so many versions I've read and i wanted to know which one do you believe in or which one do you think is the real one?

Okay so to start with. If we wanna really go back, Hades came into existence after Persephone. But alas, we aren't speaking of this version.

We are talking about the version where Hades sweeps Persephone away without so much as a hello.

The problem is a lot of the stories of Ancient Greece are well... They're lost. They were primarily shared through oral tradition, and written down over time. And so many stories we may not know. On top of that, many that were written down were lost, destroyed or just vanished, to time. Plus, we don't know how to translate Linear A, but we do Linear B, and there may be a version somewhere in Linear A. Overall, it's just possible we don't know the earlier versions.

But the earliest version we do have is from the Homeric Hymn, from the 7th or 6th B.C.E. This hymn is actually one to Demeter, not Hades or Persephone. The myth, while speaking of the two, is actually about Demeter.

It is, for the time period it is from (and you must keep in mind the culture of the time to understand the myth) a feminist myth.

So the culture of the time.

In the time period women did not have the greatest of rights, something improved upon today, but it means that the Father (and/or King) had full rights to hand their daughters off to another man.

That is what happens in this myth, Zeus tells Hades he may have Persephone's hand... But Persephone did not wish to go. And likewise Demeter was not informed.

By the culture of the time that does not matter, but Demeter *makes* it matter. She searches for her daughter first, then when she discovers where Persephone was taken and who was the cause (Zeus) she is angered.

Demeter then refuses to step upon Olympus, not allow any plants to grow, until she sees her daughter again.

This is obviously a problem, so Zeus sends Hermes down to retrieve Persephone (who btw was unhappy and missed her mom). Persephone leaps up with joy to see her mother again and Hades agrees immediately. But he secretly feeds her pomegranate seeds just to be sure she would return.

The reason this is a feminist myth is because of Demeter, because she refused to accept her king and her daughter's father handing their daughter off in marriage. And she refused to such an extent that they had no choice but to compromise with her (and had Hades not forced Persephone to have the pomegranate seed she wouldn't have even had to compromise).

For the culture of the time, Zeus and Hades were taking actions that were more than okay, nothing they did would be considered wrong. But Demeter stood against it.

Demeter stood for her daughter to not be married off, and demanded she be returned, and Persephone (tho she came to love Hades) was relieved to return to her mother.

Many of the "new adaptions" have Persephone wanting to leave Demeter, wanting to be with her husband, and Demeter being overbearing. But originally it was mutual love, Mother and Daughter missing each other and the Mother fighting to get her daughter back when everything of the time said she had no right to.

And so the myth as we know occurs. This is the myth I ascribe too, being the oldest we have, and I do wish more realized how Demeter's actions are why the myth is so important.

I have copied the Hymn in it's entirety below the cut. It is fairly long and four parts. If you have questions about it, feel free to ask!

Homeric Hymn 2 to Demeter (abridged) (trans. Evelyn-White) (Greek epic C7th or 6th B.C.) :

I. HAIDES ABDUCTS PERSEPHONE

"[Demeter's] trim-ankled daughter whom Aidoneus [Haides] rapt away, given to him by all-seeing Zeus the loud-thunderer. Apart from Demeter, lady of the golden sword and glorious fruits, she was playing with the deep-bosomed daughters of Okeanos and gathering flowers over a soft meadow, roses and crocuses and beautiful violets, irises also and hyacinths and the narcissus, which Gaia (the Earth) made to grow at the will of Zeus and to please Polydektor (Host of Many), to be a snare for the bloom-like girl--a marvellous, radiant flower. It was a thing of awe whether for deathless gods or mortal men to see: from its root grew a hundred blooms and it smelled most sweetly, so that all wide heaven (ouranos) above and the whole earth (gaia) and the sea's (thalassa) salt swell laughed for joy. And the girl was amazed and reached out with both hands to take the lovely toy : but the wide-pathed earth yawned there in the plain of Nysa, and the lord, Polydegmon (Host of Many) [Haides], with his immortal horses sprang out upon her--the Son of Kronos (Cronus), Polynomos (He Who has Many Names).

He caught her up reluctant on his golden car and bare her away lamenting. Then she cried out shrilly with her voice, calling upon her father [Zeus], the Son of Kronos, who is most high and excellent. But no one, either of the deathless gods or mortal men, heard her voice, nor yet the olive-trees bearing rich fruit: only tender-hearted Hekate (Hecate), bright-coiffed, the daughter of Persaios (Persaeus), heard the girl from her cave, and the lord Helios (the Sun), Hyperion's bright son, as she cried to her father, the Son of Kronos. But he was sitting aloof, apart from the gods, in his temple where many pray, and receiving sweet offerings from mortal men. So he [Haides], that Son of Kronos, Polynomos (Of Many Names), Polysemantor (Ruler of Many) and Polydegmon (Host of Many), was bearing her away by leave of Zeus on his immortal chariot--his brother's child and all unwilling.

And so long as she, the goddess, yet beheld earth and starry heaven and the strong-flowing sea where fishes shoal, and the rays of the sun, and still hoped to see her dear mother and the tribes of the eternal gods, so long hope clamed her great heart for all her trouble . . . and the heights of the mountains and the depths of the sea ran with her immortal voice : and her queenly mother heard her.

II. DEMETER SEARCHES FOR PERSEPHONE

"Bitter pain seized her [Demeter's] heart, and she rent the covering upon her divine hair with her dear hands : her dark cloak she cast down from both her shoulders and sped, like a wild-bird, over the firm land and yielding sea, seeking her child. But no one would tell her the truth, neither god nor mortal man; and of the birds of omen none came with true news for her. Then for nine days queenly Deo wandered over the earth with flaming torches in her hands, so grieved that she never tasted ambrosia and the sweet draught of nektaros, nor sprinkled her body with water. But when the tenth enlightening dawn had come, Hekate, with a torch in her hands, met her, and spoke to her and told her news : ‘Queenly Demeter, bringer of seasons and giver of good gifts, what god of heaven (theon ouranion) or what mortal man has rapt away Persephone and pierced with sorrow your dear heart? For I heard her voice, yet saw not with my eyes who it was. But I tell you truly and shortly all I know.’

So, then, said Hekate. And [Demeter] the daughter of rich-haired Rheia answered her not, but sped swiftly with her, holding flaming torches in her hands. So they came to Helios (the Sun), who is watchman of both gods and men, and stood in front of his horses: and the bright goddess enquired of him : ‘Helios, do you at least regard me, goddess as I am, if ever by word or deed of mine I have cheered your heart and spirit. Through the fruitless air (aitheros) I heard the thrilling cry of my daughter whom I bare, sweet scion of my body and lovely in form, as of one seized violently; though with my eyes I saw nothing. But you--for with your beams you look down from the bright upper air (aitheros) over all the earth and sea--tell me truly of my dear child if you have seen her anywhere, what god or mortal man has violently seized her against her will and mine, and so made off.’

So said she. And the Son of Hyperion [Helios] answered her : ‘Queen Demeter, daughter of rich-haired Rheia, I will tell you the truth; for I greatly reverence and pity you in your grief for your trim-ankled daughter. None other of the deathless gods is to blame, but only cloud-gathering Zeus who gave her to Aides, her father's brother, to be called his buxom wife. And Aides seized her and took her loudly crying in his chariot down to his realm of mist and gloom. Yet, goddess, cease your loud lament and keep not vain anger unrelentingly : Aidoneus Polysemantor (Ruler of Many) is no unfitting husband among the deathless gods for your child, being your own brother and born of the same stock: also, for honour, he has that third share which he received when division was made at the first, and is appointed lord of those among whom he dwells.’

So he spake, and called to his horses: and at his chiding they quickly whirled the swift chariot along, like long-winged birds. But grief yet more terrible and savage came into the heart of Demeter, and thereafter she was so angered with [Zeus] the dark-clouded Son of Kronos that she avoided the gathering of the gods and high Olympos. She [Demeter] vowed that she would never set foot on fragrant Olympos nor let fruit spring out of the ground until she beheld with her eyes her own fair-faced daughter.

III. THE RETURN OF PERSEPHONE

"Now when all-seeing Zeus the loud-thunderer heard this, he sent Argeiphontes [Hermes] whose wand is of gold to Erebos, so that having won over Aides with soft words, he might lead forth chaste Persephoneia to the light from the misty gloom to join the gods, and that her mother might see her with her eyes and cease from her anger. And Hermes obeyed, and leaving the house of Olympos, straightway sprang down with speed to the hidden places of the earth. And he found the lord Aides in his house seated upon a couch, and his shy mate with him, much reluctant, because she yearned for her mother. But she was afar off, brooding on her fell design becuase of the deeds of the blessed gods. And strong Argeiphontes [Hermes] drew near and said : ‘Dark-haired Aides, ruler over the departed, father Zeus bids me bring noble Persephone forth from Erebos unot the gods, that her mother may see her with her eyes and cease from her dread anger with the immortals; for now she plans an awful deed, to destroy the weakly tribes of earth-born men by keeping seed hidden beneath the earth, and so she makes an end of the honours of the undying gods. For she keeps fearful anger and does not consort with the gods, but sits aloof in her fragrant temple, dwelling in the rocky hold of Eleusis.’

So he said. And Aidoneus, ruler over the dead, smiled grimly and obeyed the behest of Zeus the king. For he straightway urged wise Persephone, saying : ‘Go now, Persephoneia, to your dark-robed mother, go, and feel kindly in your heart towards me : be not so exceedingly cast down; for I shall be no unfitting husband for you among the deathless dods, that am own brother to father Zeus. And while you are here, you shall rule all that lives and moves and shall have the greatest rights among the deathless gods : those who defraud you and do not appease your power with offerings, reverently performing rites and paying fit gifts, shall be punished for evermore.’

When he said this, wise Persephoneia was filled with joy and hastily sprang up for gladness. But he on his part secretly gave her sweet pomegranate seed to eat, taking care for himself that she might not remain continually with grave, dark-robed Demeter. Then Aidoneus Polysemantor (Ruler of Many) openly got ready his deathless horses beneath the golden chariot. And she mounted on the chariot, and strong Argeiphontes [Hermes] took reins and whip in his dear hands and drove forth from the hall, the horses speeding readily. Swiftly they traversed their long course, and neither the sea nor river-waters nor grassy glens nor mountain-peaks checked the career of the immortal horses, but they cleft the deep air above them as they went. And Hermes brought them to the place where rich-crowned Demeter was staying and checked them before her fragrant temple.

And when Demeter saw them, she rushed forth as does a Mainas (Maenad) down some thick-wooded mountain, while Persephone on the other side, when she saw her mother's sweet eyes, left the chariot and horses, and leaped down to run to her, and falling upon her neck, embraced her. But while Demeter was still holding her dear child in her arms, her heart suddenly misgave her for some snare, so that she feared greatly and ceased fondling her daughter and asked of her at once : ‘My child, tell me, surely you have not tasted any food while you were below? Speak out and hide nothing, but let us both know. For if you have not, you shall come back from loathly Aidao and live with me and your father [Zeus], the dark-clouded Son of Kronos and be honoured by all the deathless gods; but if you have tasted food, you must fo back again beneath the secret places of the earth, there to dwell a third part of the seasons every year: yet for the tow parts you shall be with me and the other deathless gods. But when the earth shall bloom with the fragrant flowers of spring in every kind, then from the realm of darkness and gloom thou shalt come up once more to be a wonder for gods and mortal men. And now tell me how he rapt you away to therealm of darkness and gloom, and by what trick did strong Polydegmon (Host of Many) [Haides] beguile you?’

Then beautiful Persephone answered her thus : ‘Mother, I will tell you all without error. When luck-bringing Hermes came, swift messenger from my father the Son of Kronos and the other Sons of Ouranos, bidding me come back from Erebos that you might see me with your eyes and so cease from your anger and fearful wrath against the gods, I sprang up at once for joy; but he secretly put in my mouth sweet food, a pomegranate seed, and forced me to taste against my will. Also I will tell how he rapt me away by the deep plan of my father [Zeus] the Son of Kronos and carried me off beneath the depths of the earth, and will relate the whole matter as you ask. All we were playing in a lovely meadow, Leukippe and Phaino and Elektra and Ianthe, Melite also and Iakhe with Rhodea and Kallirhoe and Melobosis and Tykhe and Okyrhoe, fair as a flower, Khryseis, Ianeira, Akaste and Admete and Rhodope and Plouto and charming Kalypso; Styx too was there and Ourania and lovely Galaxaure with Pallas who rouses battles and Artemis delighting in arrows: we were playing and gathering sweet flowers in our hands, soft crocuses mingled with irises and hyacinths, and rose-blooms and lilies, marvellous to see, and the narcissus which the wide earth caused to grow yellow as a crocus. That I plucked in my joy; but the earth parted beneath, and there the strong lord, Polydegmon (Host of Many) [Haides] sprang forth and in his golden chariot he bore me away, all unwilling, beneath the earth : then I cried with a shrill cry. All this is true, sore though it grieves me to tell this tale.’

So did they then, with hearts at one, greatly cheer each the other's soul and spirit with many an embrace: their hearts had relief from their griefs while each took and gave back joyousness. Then bright-coiffed Hekate came near to them, and often did she embrace the daughter of holy Demeter: and from that time the lady Hekate was minister and companion to Persephone.

IV. GIFT OF AGRICULTURE & THE ELEUSINIAN MYSTERIES

"And all-seeing Zeus sent a messenger to them, rich-haired Rheia, to bring dark-cloaked Demeter to join the families of the gods (phyla theon) : and he promised to give her what rights she should choose among the deathless gods and agreed that her daughter should go down for the third part of the circling year to darkness and gloom, but for the two parts should live with her mother and the other deathless gods. Thus he commanded. And the goddess did not disobey the message of Zeus; swiftly she rushed down from the peaks of Olympos and came to the plain of Rharos, rich, fertile corn-land once, but then in nowise fruitful, for it lay idle and utterly leafless, because the white grain was hidden by design of trim-ankled Demeter. But afterwards, as spring-time waxed, it was soon to be waving with long ears of corn, and its rich furrows to be loaded with grain upon the ground, while others would already be bound in sheaves. There first she landed from the fruitless upper air (aitheros) : and glad were the goddesses to see each other and cheered in heart. Then bright-coiffed Rheia said to Demeter : ‘Come, my daughter; for far-seeing Zeus the loud-thunderer calls you to join the families of the gods, and has promised to give you what rights you please among the deathless gods, and has agreed that for a third part of the circling year your daughter shall go down to darkness and gloom, but for the two parts shall be with you and the other deathless gods: so has he declared it shall be and has bowed his head in token. But come, my child, obey, and be not too angry unrelentingly with the dark-clouded Son of Kronos; but rather increase forthwith for men the fruit that gives them life.’

So spake Rheia. And rich-crowned Demeter did not refuse but straightway made fruit to spring up from the rich lands, so that the whole wide earth was laden with leaves and flowers.

Then she [Demeter] went to [the leaders of Eleusis] . . . she showed them the conduct of her rites and taught them all her mysteries . . . awful mysteries which no one may in any way transgress or pry into or utter, for deep awe of the gods checks the voice. Happy is he among men upon earth who has seen these mysteries; but he who is uninitiate and who has no part in them, never has lot of like good things once he is dead, down in the darkness and gloom. But when the bright goddess had taught them all, they went to Olympos to the gathering of the other gods. And there they dwell beside Zeus who delights in thunder, awful and reverend goddesses. Right blessed is he among men on earth whom they freely love: soon they do send Ploutos (Plutus, Wealth) as guest to his great house, Ploutos who gives wealth to mortal men.

And now . . . queen Deo, be gracious, you and your daughter all beauteous Persephoneia, and for my song grant me heart-cheering substance."

#demeterdeity #demeter deity #persephone deity #persphonedeity #hadesdeity #hades deity #anon asks #life answers #greek mythology #ancient greece #the hymn to demeter #the myth of hades and persphone #hades and persephone #hellenic chat

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thekisforkeats · 4 years ago

Text

Love Languages

Info: The Magnus Archives, JonMartin, rated T probably for swears. Canon-Compliant. Set post-MAG 22, with a coda post-MAG 159. Everyone is ND and everyone is trans because that’s just how my personal S1 Archives gang rolls.

CWs: Mentions of ableism and Martin’s mother. I’d say canon-typical worms but the worms don’t really come up except in passing.

I do not know anything about BSL, so I did not try to describe the signs.

Summary: A love language is not just about how you best show love and affection; it is also about the ways you best receive love and affection. And so, for someone like Martin, who shows love by going out of his way to help others, someone going out of their way to help him, well. What better way for him to realize just how loved he is?

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

The first time Martin went completely non-verbal after starting work in the Archives, it was the morning after giving Jon the statement about Jane Prentiss.

It wasn’t a surprising development, really. Martin didn’t go fully non-verbal that often, but when he did it was almost always a thing that started in the morning and lasted most of the day. Sometimes it wore off by the time he went to bed, sometimes it lasted until the next morning.

After his mother’s diagnosis, he’d been unable to speak for an entire week. That hadn’t gone over well--as much as his mother wanted him to be quiet, she didn’t like the “silent treatment,” as she called it.

Martin hated that she’d called it that, as though his non-verbal episodes were anything he did on purpose. Some days talking just felt like a chore; those days he could get by only forcing words out when he had to. But some days, the worst days, he just couldn’t talk. He could understand other people just fine, he could make noises, sometimes he could even hum. And he could definitely read and write. But speaking words, aloud? No. He could not speak, on these days, however much he may have wanted to.

As Martin grew older and learned more about himself, he learned words and reasons and coping mechanisms. He realized that some of the problem came from dysphoria and the longer he was on hormones the less often it happened. He realized that he was autistic (even if he never got diagnosed), and learned how to handle the episodes that still occurred. He took sign languages classes because it was a good and useful thing to know regardless, to be able to communicate with more people.

As many Deaf people had learned before Martin, he’d found himself in plenty of situations when nobody around him knew BSL, so he’d found a phone app that let him type out things he wanted to say and repeated them in a tinny, mechanical voice. Feminine, but he found it didn’t cause dysphoria; it wasn’t his voice. It was the app speaking for him, a robot lady translating his words.

Martin was fairly certain he was going to need the robot lady to speak for him today, and he was dreading the whole idea. The app got him a range of reactions from scorn to derision to faux sympathy. The last time he’d done so at work, the Institute library staff had regarded him with such pity that he’d called in sick the two other times it had happened since.

He’d woken early, because he was always awake fairly early, to ensure he looked presentable and got to work on time. He did not want Jonathan “Crisply Professional At All Times” Sims giving him that look again. The particular look that was “I highly disapprove of your sartorial choices but I’m not going to get into it right now because I have so very much else to do. Nonetheless, if I could fire you for what you’re wearing I would.”

Jon had a lot of looks. Martin fervently wished he could stop categorizing them; he very much disliked his boss, and very much wanted to stop thinking about Jon quite as much as he did.

Jon was attractive, that much Martin had noticed the first day he’d come in, with a jawline Martin would’ve loved to trace with his fingers, eyes sharp and deep and intelligent, salt-and-pepper hair that Martin would have tangled his fingers in gladly.

Except, of course, that Jon was also a prick who didn’t like Martin one bit and made that very clear. He’d put down on record that he thought Martin would “contribute nothing but delays.” Martin was not such a sucker for punishment that he would put up with someone who hated him just for a pretty face. The tiny potential blossom of a crush had been, well, crushed five seconds after it had poked its head above ground, by Jon’s declaration that he could dismiss Martin if he didn’t resolve the “dog situation” immediately.

Martin counted his lucky stars every day that Jon had not, in fact, dismissed him, despite having had to deal with a doggy mess. The luck was really in having Tim around, Martin figured; Jon actually seemed fond of Tim, and the other man had managed to smooth the entire situation over.

Martin had fallen asleep last night thinking about the new look Jon had given him yesterday: concerned. Truly, genuinely concerned, which had rather taken Martin aback. He’d been certain Jon wouldn’t believe him, would scoff and roll his eyes at the entire statement, and instead he’d just looked… concerned.

And then Jon had offered Martin the cot that he’d woken up in this morning.

It wasn’t the look of concern that had Martin non-verbal, though; of that he was certain. It was the stress of the last two weeks, and dumping out the statement yesterday, and all the whirl of figuring out how to live in the Archives. Jon’s insistence on going with him to pick up basics with a toothbrush at the convenience store, and then coming back to be sure he was okay. Jon finding clean sheets and discussing how he’d do his laundry. Jon had expensed clothing bought online to the Institute, including next-day shipping, because he’d “lost access to his flat and thus his wardrobe in the line of duty.” It had all been bewildering and overwhelming and it was no real surprise that Martin was in the state he found himself when he woke.

Martin had known as soon as he’d opened his eyes. It was just there, the feeling of nope can’t talk today. He’d pulled on his binder and the same clothing he’d worn the day before and then fumbled around for his phone. Which… he didn’t have. The damn worm-hive-lady had stolen it from him. Well, shit.

He managed to avoid having to figure out how to talk while he went out to get breakfast, just pointing at a scone in the display and smiling at the guy behind the counter as if he wasn’t secretly irritated by the price of everything in Chelsea. By the time Martin got back, Jon was already in his office, so thank God he’d avoided that awkward interaction. He went to make himself tea, and had his breakfast in the breakroom, and brushed his teeth, and then went to get started on…

Wait. He didn’t even know what they were working on right now.

Well, he wasn’t going to bother Jon about it; however nice he’d been last night it surely must have worn off by now, and Martin had no interest in summoning one of his boss’ looks this early in the morning. Normally he’d still be on his commute at this hour.

After a moment’s thought, he went to go see what they’d recorded in his absence, and soon had a stack of statements on his desk. They’d gotten through five statements in the two weeks he’d been gone. Maybe Jon was right. Maybe Martin did contribute “nothing but delays.”

Pushing the thought aside, Martin focused on listening to the tapes, and was just finishing up listening to the second half of Father Edwin Burroughs’ statement when Tim came into the shared office the assistants used.

“Hey, you’re in early. You get the email?”

Martin raised his eyebrows and shook his head.

Tim snorted. “Jon claims he’s got something to warn us about, something that ‘won’t parse properly through digital means.’” He rolled his eyes. “Which is Jon-speak for ‘it’s a weird thing and I don’t want to admit it’s a weird thing because I have to keep my skeptic hat on to preserve my self-image.”

Martin chuckled in solidarity, then gestured toward the door to Jon’s office, to indicate that’s where their boss was.

“Not coming?” Tim asked, his own eyebrow raised. When Martin shrugged, he said, “Well, I guess if you didn’t get the email…” Tim also shrugged, then said, “Guess I’d better get it over with. Wish me luck!”

Martin gave him a thumbs up.

When Sasha came in, Martin silently directed her to Jon’s office as well, then heaved a sigh of relief. He hadn’t had to explain being non-verbal at all yet, and it was already nine o’clock. Maybe if he was lucky, Jon would warn them off talking to him and he’d manage to make it the entire day without having to explain the whole “non-verbal” business to anyone he saw on a regular basis.

Alas, it was barely thirty minutes later that Tim and Sasha returned to talk to him, both wearing expressions of mingled concern and guilt. When they spoke it was a flood of the usual, expected platitudes:

“We’re so sorry!”

“We didn’t know!”

“Are you okay??”

And such like.

Martin shrugged and nodded and shook his head in all the right places, and evidently Jon had played them the tape of his statement so he didn’t have to explain it all again (thank God), and he thought maybe, maybe he could even figure out what statement they were working on right now if he just listened to their chatter after they were done with the niceties, but then…

Well. Then Timothy Stoker happened.

Which is to say, Tim actually looked at Martin, and said, “You’re being awfully quiet. You sure you’re okay?”

And then he and Sasha just… sat there, looking at him expectantly.

Martin sighed and reached for a piece of scrap paper and wrote, I’m autistic and sometimes I go non-verbal. Today’s one of those days, but I don’t have my phone anymore, so no communication app.

As he held up the paper so the others could read the words, Martin braced himself for the ensuing reactions. Pity, probably, like those in the Institute library, and he couldn’t even call in sick to avoid it; he’d rather have scorn and derision. At least those reactions were honest.

What he got from them was not pity, however, nor even scorn.

Sasha hummed. “Autism explains a lot, actually. Don’t worry, it’s not a problem.”

Tim grinned and clapped Martin on the shoulder. “Yeah, why didn’t you just say so? It’s fine, you’ve been through an ordeal. And so you know--you’re hardly the only neurodivergent in the Archives.”

Martin blinked at Tim, then wrote: Wait, what? Who…?

“Would you believe me if I said all of us?” Tim said with a grin. “I have ADD, Jon’s… well… he’s Jon, and as for Sasha…”

Sasha sighed in fond exasperation and cut in, “Tim…”

“I contend that you cannot be neurotypical, Ms. James. You fit in too well around here.”

“I am not admitting to anything on Institute property,” Sasha said with aplomb. “And you shouldn't have either, but here we are.” She looked at Martin. “If HR finds out and they give you any trouble, let us know and we’ll figure out what to do.”

Tim, in the meanwhile, pulled out his phone. “Here, go ahead and use mine for now, until your replacement gets here or whatever. What’s the app so I can install it for you?”

Martin’s jaw had dropped open. Tim having ADD made sense; what did he mean about Jon, though? And Sasha? And what did Sasha mean about HR? And… and why were they being so… nice? So… understanding? It wasn’t an act, or at least he didn’t think it was. They seemed… genuinely fine with it. Accepting, even.

It was the strangest thing Martin had experienced in a while, and that was including the worm-riddled woman who’d stood outside his door for two straight weeks.

From there the day just… went on as normal. Tim installed the app on the phone, Martin’s robot phone lady spoke for him, the three of them did their work, and everything was fine.

Until, of course, the nature of their work reared its ugly head. They were discussing the statement of Leanne Denikin, case #0051701, which they had yet to attach a pithy name to; hence the discussion. It had long since become standard practice to attach a name to the “weirder” statements, to make them easier to discuss. (Jon insisted on using the case numbers on tape still, which was annoying, given that was the only place he did that.)

Martin was reading through the statement, and he typed into Tim’s phone: What do you think of this bit? “Be still, for there is strange music.”

What came out of the phone’s speakers, however, was garbled static followed by high-pitched screeching that startled Martin so much he actually dropped the phone.

Jon was walking in just as this happened; he stopped in the doorway, blinking. “What on Earth was that?”

“Martin’s robot lady gave Tim’s phone an aneurysm, I think,” Sasha said, eyeing Martin as well.

Martin scrabbled on the floor for the phone, pulled up the app (which had crashed), and typed, I don’t know what happened!! I was just typing in something from one of the statements!

Jon frowned at him sharply. “What are you doing with Tim’s phone? Are you quite well?”

“No, Martin is not ‘quite well,’” Tim said. “Non-verbal for the day.”

Then Jon did something that stunned Martin: Jon signed at him, specifically, “Do you know sign language?” He spoke aloud as he said this, too, but also raised his eyebrows and gave a quizzical tilt to his head to convey that he was asking a question.

Martin blinked rapidly, then signed back: “Yes, actually. But Tim and Sasha don’t.”

Jon nodded, then said aloud, along with signing, “Why are you non-verbal, exactly?”

“I have autism,” Martin signed. “Sometimes talking is overwhelming and sometimes, especially in stressful situations, I can’t talk at all. Woke up that way today. It should be gone by tomorrow morning.” Why was he explaining so much more to Jon than he had to the others? Maybe just because Jon knew sign, and thus could communicate in a language Martin found much easier than even the typing.

Jon frowned thoughtfully, then nodded again. Then, still speaking and signing both, “What were you typing into your phone?”

“Be still, for there is strange music. From the statement.” Martin gestured to the statement on his desk.

Jon’s frown deepened and he repeated the words. “‘Be still, for there is strange music….’” His expression went slack for a moment, and then he shook himself. “Right. Well. Just… just… I’ll be right back.” Then he abruptly turned and left the room.

Tim and Sasha exchanged bewildered looks. Then Sasha asked, “Do you know what that was all about?”

“I forgot Jon knows BSL,” Tim replied thoughtfully. “Hard of hearing on one side. Not that he’d have agreed to interpret all day or anything.”

Martin shrugged. It’s alright, he typed. This works just fine.

“Well, no, obviously not for some things.” Jon had reappeared as suddenly as he’d disappeared, holding a small brown notebook the size of Martin’s hand. “Here,” he said, thrusting the notebook at Martin. “This will work better, for communicating about the statements. You needn’t use it with me, of course, unless signing is also taxing.”

Martin stared up at Jon. There was an entirely new look on his boss’ face. Not any level of scorn or sneer, nor even concern. He was… nervous. Fidgety. Like he was offering a gift that he was afraid might be rejected.

Something went flip in Martin’s stomach and it was like the entire world turned upside down. Suddenly, in light of Jon’s actions in the last 24 hours, he saw the way his boss had acted toward him the last six months for what it was: a defense mechanism. Armor pulled up around someone fragile and soft and sweet, someone so terrified of rejection that he went about making sure it happened preemptively so he wouldn’t be hurt.

Martin had a sudden, fierce desire to hug Jon and tell him everything would be okay. It was so bewildering a sensation--he didn’t even like the man! At all!--that he just took the notebook with a nod and a signed “Thank you,” eyes still very wide.

Jon nodded in return. “You’re welcome.” He let out a breath, and seemed to relax a little. “Well. Then. I think we’ve found the name for this one, given the way Tim’s phone reacted to those words. ‘Strange Music’ it is.” He straightened himself. “Tim, you said something about the organ reminding you of articles you’ve read…?”

Tim nodded, expression suddenly serious. “Yeah. I’ll see if I can find them for you.”

“Right. Well, then, Sasha, if I could ask you to look through the Archive like we talked about? I’m certain we’ve had a statement from Jane Prentiss.” Jon then turned to Martin. “And if you wouldn’t mind helping me with ‘Schwarzwald?’ You used to work in the library, right?”

Martin was still staring at Jon in confusion, but nodded.

Jon actually smiled at him. Faintly. “Well, then, I’m certain you must know where to find the German history reference books, if you could go grab whatever they’ll let you bring down?”

The strangest thing about it was, Jon seemed sincere. Like he actually believed Martin did, indeed, know the library well enough to just… go up there and find the German history reference books. The faint, confident-in-his-assistant smile was a new look, at least directed at Martin; he’d seen Jon look at Tim and Sasha that way many times before.

Martin’s stomach was doing cartwheels. There were butterflies taking up residence in his intestines. His heart was pounding. How had he never noticed how nice Jon’s smile was? Soft and small, like he was afraid to let it actually take up residence on his face for too long.

Oh, God, oh, no. Martin could not fancy his boss. Jon hated him. Or, well, no, evidence suggested that perhaps Jon did not hate him, but Jon most certainly did not fancy him. This crush had to disappear, just as fast as it had come. This would not do.

He was going to be writing poetry again tonight, wasn’t he? Crap.

“Martin?” Jon’s tone was concerned rather than sharp, and the way Jon said his name made Martin want to sink into the floor.

Instead, he scribbled furiously in the notebook and held it up so all three of the others could see: Yeah, sorry, was just thinking about where that’d be. I’ll bring them down as soon as I find them.

Jon practically beamed at Martin’s use of the notebook and he nodded briskly. “Right! I’ll be in my office when you have the books, then.” He started to turn away.

Martin’s heart went pound pound pound because oh wow Jon was really cute when he let that smile take up more of his face. Throwing caution to the wind, he made a noise to get the other man’s attention.

Jon turned around, quirking a brow. “Yes, Martin?”

Martin signed, “Tea?” He, too, raised his eyebrows and tilted his head to indicate the question.

Jon nodded. “Tea would be lovely, yes.” He smiled at Martin for a brief moment, and then suddenly looked flustered. He glared at them all. “Anyway,” he snapped in his ‘boss’ voice, the impact of which was ruined by the flush rising in his cheeks, “there’s still work to be done. So let’s… do it.” And with that, he turned on his heel and left the office.

Had Jon blushed because Martin had offered him tea? Did Jon like his tea that much? Was Martin imagining things? He had to be imagining things. He put his head down on the desk and wrapped his arms over it so he could grab at handfuls of hair. What was happening to him?

Sasha tried to make her voice serious, but couldn't quite manage it past quite clearly holding back giggles. “Mourn for poor Martin, working alone with Jon.” She looked at Tim. “We should call HR preemptively, it’ll be a bloodbath.”

“Nah, I think Jon’s softening on our boy,” Tim said with a laugh. He reached over to ruffle Martin’s hair with one hand while he took his phone back with the other. “Don’t worry, Marto. I told you he’d come around one day.”

Martin looked up at Tim with a stricken, betrayed expression. In the notebook: Is this how you comfort me in my hour of need??

Sasha shook her head. “For once, Tim’s being serious. You weren’t in the room when Jon explained things to us. He’s worried about you, he doesn’t want you to have to leave the Institute alone, he doesn’t want you to have to look for the Prentiss statement in case it’s ‘too traumatic’ for you to run across on your own. He actually asked us if we thought we should avoid any mention of Prentiss altogether in your presence.”

“I told him no,” Tim said. “I hope that was okay. You seem like you’d rather deal with trauma by facing it and figuring it out, rather than avoiding it entirely.”

Matin gaped at them. Really? he wrote. Jon’s… worried about me? Really? As if he hadn’t seen the evidence just now that Jon was, indeed… softening.

Tim gave Martin a very serious look. “I’ve told you before… I’ve known Jon, well, not as long as I’ve known Sasha, but for a long while now. He’s prickly and thorny, even to people he cares about, but that’s a front and I’ve said so. You just didn’t believe me.”

“In Martin’s defense,” Sasha put in, “Jon’s been awfully ‘prickly and thorny’ to him specifically.”

Tim put up a hand. “Oh, I agree. I have had words with our dear boss about the way he treats Martin, largely because I’m one of the few people he might actually listen to.” He looked at Martin. “I don’t want to take the credit, because it’s really been a remarkably fast turnaround, but I’d like to think I helped, a little.”

Martin frowned thoughtfully. Thank you, he wrote. If Jon’s at ‘I can stand Martin’ instead of ‘Martin is the source of all bad that happens in the Archives’ work might be… better than tolerable, for once.

“That’s the spirit!” Tim said with a grin. “Now, then, Jon did say to get back to work…”

Jon gave Martin another of those soft smiles when Martin brought in the tea, a smile which widened on seeing the stack of books he carried in right after. That afternoon, spent sitting and going through books and discussing the Schwarzwald statement, was the first of many they’d spend together, reading and talking and comparing notes.

Martin was feeling verbal again the next morning, but he kept the notebook. If nothing else, it was a good place to jot down poetry. And it came in handy when he found himself unable to speak the morning after Jane Prentiss’ attack on the Archives.

And the morning after Jon confronted him about his CV.

And the morning after Jon disappeared, leaving Jurgen Leitner’s body at his desk. (Martin blamed that on the corridors more than the body, really.)

Funnily enough, he didn’t need it the morning after the Unknowing. But he kept it with him that day all the same, the first gift Jon had ever given him, and one of the few things he had left of him with Jon in a coma.

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

When they reached Daisy’s safehouse in Scotland, Martin had hoped he’d somehow manage to dodge the threat of going non-verbal. He’d been the one to drive the car, over Jon’s protests; it was something to focus on, to keep him remembering he was alive and real. He’d clutched the wheel and driven north north north with Jon giving directions in the passenger seat.

Martin had finally figured out that it was the chance to stop and think about trauma that led to his being non-verbal, which was why it was almost always a thing that hit in the morning. Adrenaline would keep him running after a stressful event, and then he’d carry himself through the rest of the day trying to clean up whatever mess had been caused. But sleep was enough for his body and brain to both tell him to stop, to process, to deal with whatever he’d run into.

It was possible, in hindsight, that he’d gone non-verbal more than once since the Unknowing and just hadn’t noticed because he’d been barely interacting with anyone. He’d certainly had a bad bout the morning after his mother’s funeral, dealing with so much misgendering and fake smiles. And there had been more than enough trauma to try to process in the past year, so it must have happened before.

He’d just really, really hoped it wouldn’t now, because he didn’t want to put Jon through that. (Why he thought he was putting Jon through anything he didn’t really want to examine. It made him feel Lonely, and that was bad.)

At any rate, the realization of why he went non-verbal had led to him keeping busy in order to hold it off, in order to hold himself together. So he drove, and he puttered about the cabin poking into cupboards, and he talked to Jon, and he talked to the shop lady in the village, and he brought back food and made dinner with Jon, and everything was good and fine.

And then he woke up the next morning, in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room, and he could not speak.

There was the smell of bacon and eggs and pancakes cooking, and Martin made his bleary way out into the main room of the cabin and peered at Jon, already up and dressed and cooking.

His boyfriend turned to look at him and smiled, one of those soft smiles Martin had come to love so much. “Sleep well?”

"Not really,” Martin signed. “I mean…” He gestured at his throat.

Jon nodded. “I figured you might feel that way this morning. I, uhh… hold on a moment, I need to….” He grabbed the pan of bacon and moved it off the heat, pulled a pancake off the griddle and deposited it on a plate, then turned off the stove and went to poke around in one of the bags.

Martin chuckled fondly. “What’re you looking for?”

Jon was still digging through his bag. “When I was grabbing essentials at the store, back in London, I was thinking, you’ve been through a lot, and the notebook I gave you before must be full if you even have it anymore. I know you were writing poetry in it, and… oh, here we go.”

Jon came up with another small notebook. This one was not plain and brown, the way the first one he’d gifted Martin all those years ago had been. This one was black, and had silvery stars on its cover that, as Jon held out the book and thus tilted it through the light, shimmered into rainbows.

“Just in case, you know, the shop lady doesn’t know BSL.”

Martin blinked at the notebook.

“It, uhh… I know it’s not your usual style,” Jon said, his voice suddenly nervous. He was looking down at the notebook as he spoke, instead of at Martin. “Not… retro. But… I saw it and I thought of you.” He paused. “That tape, where you were talking to Simon Fairchild. He talked about the ‘cosmic scale,’ and how we’ve never even been alive on that time frame, and you said… what was it? You said, ‘I think our experience of the universe has value. Even if it disappears forever.’ And I just… that was… maybe the most… it was very… you. And there were other options, flowers or cursive writing, o-or… I don’t know, they all seemed so obvious, but this…”

Jon swallowed, and finally looked up at Martin. “I thought, after the Lonely, you might like a reminder that, you have value. That… that to me, you shine as bright as any star.” And then he flushed, and Martin knew it was for him, just as he now knew the flushes about tea all those years ago had also been for him.

Martin was gaping. Oh. Oh. Jon… loved him. Which he’d known, intellectually, but the emotional knowledge of it hit him suddenly, took his breath away. He knew it, all at once, in that “oh we could spend the rest of our lives together” way he’d never really thought he’d ever feel.

Jon had clearly misinterpreted the expression; he started stammering, “I-if… it it’s bad, I can… well, no, I can’t take it back, stupid, I should’ve just grabbed the one that had--”

Martin cut him off by reaching out to take the notebook from Jon and reached out with his other hand to cup the shorter man’s cheek. He smiled, and because he’d realized long ago how well Jon responded to physical touch, he leaned in to plant a soft kiss on his boyfriend’s forehead.

Then he pulled back to put the notebook aside on the counter and signed, “It’s perfect. Thank you.” A pause, and then, “I love you.”

Jon smiled, both speaking and signing, “I love you, too.”

And for once in his life, Martin knew that to be true, and trusted that knowledge. He was loved. He had been loved, and he would be loved for the rest of his life, whatever state his voice was in.

#the magnus archives #tma #jonmartin #jon sims #jonathan sims #jon the archivist #martin blackwood #tim stoker #sasha james #archives gang #otp: one way or another together #fanfic #my fanfic #ableism tw #jmart #canon tma fic

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tinyjeanmarco · 4 years ago

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Helloooo 🥺🥺 idk if ur into writing hurt+comfort but I’m in such a big fat mood to cry rn and there’s not a lot Porco angst out here... I was thinking along the lines of modern au and ur already in a relationship but ur incredibly insecure about urself and the relationship, but Porco reassures u in the end that he really does love u and goes out of his way to prove it <3

(I realize u likely won’t get this done tonight and I’ll probs be in a better mood tomorrow BUT it’s still true there isn’t a lot of Porco angst out there!!)

Also if u don’t write angst pls ignore this!! Thank you 💖💖

teddy (a hurt/comfort fic)

hello my darling!! i hope that you’re in a better mood now and don’t want to cry anymore! （＞д＜） remember that it’s okay to cry and to take care of yourself. your body loves you and you should show it just as much love. i do really love hurt/comfort fics! they always make me feel so soft in the comfort part. 🥺 i’ll do my best to write this! i think porco can be a real comforting boyfie that just cares so much about you. ♡ also sorry this was so late after your request, love. (｡ ́︿ ̀｡) i listened to idontwannabeyouanymore by billie eilish, and emotional anorexic by svavar knutur while i wrote this so you kinda get the vibe i was feeling while writing!

wc: 1,818

modern!porco x gn!reader

warnings: some angst, hurt/comfort, happy ending, i swear.

he’s just busy, you thought as you exited the coffee shop. you clutched the cup in your hand tighter as you checked your phone for what must have been the twentieth time that hour.

you texted your boyfriend, asking if he wanted to do something that day, but alas, it’s been a few hours and no response. you knew he had classes, but they should be done by now, meaning he was just ignoring you at this point.

no, he’s busy. you reminded yourself. yet, you weren’t sure how much longer you could buy that thought. you couldn’t tell if that was true anymore, or if it was just a way to keep your bad thoughts at bay.

you debated texting him again, but were worried that you would annoy him. maybe that was the issue in the first place; he saw your text and wanted a break from you, thus making him ignore you. it had already been nine months since you started dating, maybe he was annoyed with you.

you picked up your pace as you walked back to your apartment, no longer wanting to be around people, in case you broke down in some way. you knew it wasn’t the best to be alone when you felt like this, your friends telling you that getting out and doing things would take your mind off your anxious thoughts.

you couldn’t seem to text anyone to tell them you felt trapped.

stepping inside your apartment, you locked the door behind you and toed off your shoes before making your way to the bedroom. you tossed your keys on a table as you walked by.

your mind just kept racing faster the more you were alone with the silence that was suffocating you. the best course of action was to take a nap, you decided. so, you changed, and put on one of porco’s hoodies that he gave you.

yet, when you settled under the covers, sleep wouldn’t find you. your insecurities picked you apart down to the bone. at this point, you had felt like you were being drowned. it was so hard to swim in the fog that was your head.

your brain had managed to convince you that porco was tired of you, and it was on its way to make you think he would break up with you. in the back of your head, you knew this was false, yet it kept persisting. it wouldn’t leave you alone.

instead of ruminating about things you didn’t want to, you thought maybe putting on one of your sad music playlists would help quiet the thoughts, which, in hindsight was an okay idea at most. it really only served to upset you even more.

you didn’t even notice tears were leaking from your eyes until you found your nose was beginning to clog. you wiped at your eyes, and just cried harder.

you were trying so hard to be okay, but your insecurities would not leave you alone. you hated it so much. you just wished they would leave you alone. tired, you were so tired of always feeling like not enough.

normally, you would communicate to porco about how you were feeling because communication and telling the other how you feel in a relationship is rule number one. yet, you were so convinced he didn’t want anything to do with you at the moment, so you refrained.

the only option left was to just keep crying until sleep somehow made its way to you.

a few hours later is when you woke up, thanks to the constant buzzing of your phone. why couldn’t everyone just leave you alone?

sighing, you did your best to wipe the sleep from your eyes before you squinted at your phone screen to see who was calling.

your heart dropped to the pit of your stomach. it was porco. what would he want? was he finally going to break it off? would he tell you that your texts got on his nerves so he needed space?

you decided you didn’t feel like answering it, not wanting to deal with whatever it is he had to tell you. you weren’t mad at him, you just didn’t want to be even more hurt than you were already. that means ignoring everything completely.

after the phone finally stopped ringing, you kept getting texts from him but you just put your phone on do not disturb and shut your eyes again.

you had fallen alseep again, but it didn’t last as long as earlier, because you happened to hear a soft knocking on your bedroom door. shooting up into a sitting position, you scanned your room for a nearby weapon. who the fuck was in your apartment?

the answer came when a gentle voice, which you didn’t want to hear, followed the knocks.

“baby? are you in there?” and ever so slowly, the door pushed open. your body felt like it was made of lead as he stepped into the room. you forgot you had given him the spare key.

“oh, were you asleep? i’m sorry if i woke you, sweetheart.” he made his way over to your bed and sat himself on the side of it.

“yeah, i was asleep. it’s fine though, i needed to wake up anyways.” you mumbled out. he nodded before speaking again.

“what’s got you down? and don’t tell me nothing because i know you only take naps when you’re upset or it’s exam week.” he reached a hand out to take yours, gently stroking the top of it with his thumb.

“are you tired of me?” you blurred out, not quite answering his question, but to porco, that was enough of an answer that he got what was going on.

“no, no, no, baby. why do you think that? talk to me, honey.” his other hand that was not in yours, reached up to gently cup your face, encouraging you to speak.

“i dunno, you had to be not answering my texts for a reason.” you sniffled, tears coming to your eyes again today. when would they just stop and let you be happy?

“i’m so sorry, baby. my phone died today after i got called in for an emergency shift at work, and i didn’t have a charger at work. i promise you, i’m not tired of you. i was thinking of you the whole time i was working. i’d rather be with you then at that dump.” he gave a small squeeze to your hand. you squeezed back.

you had felt a little of the weight lift off your heart at his words, but you had spent so long today just overthinking and assuming you were right. the sadness wasn’t going to go away immediately.

“i’m sorry i overthink so much and always make you deal with it.” he just tutted and crawled on the bed to plant himself right beside you, pulling you into his chest.

“don’t you dare apologize. you know i care about you and have no problem making you feel more comfortable.” you felt yourself melt at his words and sink into his embrace. with every word he spoke, the thoughts in your head got quieter and quieter.

you closed your eyes and just listened to his heartbeat for a second before saying anything else. one of his hands reached up to your face and wiped the last of the tears away.

“thank you, porco.” you sighed and snuggled in even closer.

“you don’t need to thank me, this is what i’m here for.” a kiss is pressed to the top of your head, and you feel him shift. “now, how about i run to get stuff to cook for you and we can spend the rest of the night in?”

“you don’t have to, pock. i’m okay with just ordering a pizza or something.” you turned to him and pressed a kiss onto his nose before connecting your lips together.

“but i wanna.” he mumbled into your lips, not wanting to break the kiss.

you eventually reluctantly agreed, and decided to hop in the shower to melt away the rest of the day’s stress as you waited for him to return. he promised it would only be fifteen minutes max that he’d be gone.

the hot water running down your back felt like heaven. you could feel the knots in your neck and shoulders just dissolve under the heat. you were okay, not like earlier when you were wrapped up in despair.

you still felt tired and a little numb from the thoughts that polluted your head that day, but at least you no longer felt the need to cry. now you just craved the touch and comfort of your boyfriend, whenever he returned.

as you were getting dressed after your shower, you heard porco call out that he had returned from his shopping adventure. pulling his hoodie back over your head, you shuffled out to where he was unloading the groceries he had purchased.

when he saw you, he hurried to grab something he set aside and made his way over to you.

he got you a giant, cuddly teddy bear and some of your favorite chocolate bars.

“what’s all this for?” you inquired.

“i got it for you, to help cheer you up and kind of apologize for being irresponsible.” he scratched the back of his neck, a light red dusting his cheeks.

“pock.. i don’t know what to say. you really didn’t have to do this.” you took the bear from his hands and hugged it close to you.

“but i really wanted to, and it’s to make up for you being sad. whenever i’m not around, you can just hug the bear and pretend it’s me.” he set the chocolate aside on the counter and went to pull you into a hug, effectively squishing the stuffed bear between your bodies.

“this bear will never live up to the expectations of cuddling with you, pock.” you let out a small chuckle.

“well, then i guess i’ll just have to be sure to cuddle you as much as i can.” he pressed a kiss to your cheek.

“you won’t hear me complaining.” you leaned into him and pressed your lips together, craving his affection. “now, please cook for me, baby. i’m really hungry.”

you tried to give him the best puppy eyes you could muster. he laughed and gave you another quick kiss before pulling away and turning to the rest of the things he bought.

“of course, just make sure you sit there looking pretty and i’ll get right to it.” you finally felt a big grin form on your face, finally relaxed.

you hated that you could get so sad and insecure sometimes, but porco understood you, he didn’t judge you. you could always trust him to pick up the broken pieces when you didn’t feel okay.

#porco x reader #porco galliard x reader #aot #attack on titan fanfiction #aot x reader #snk #snk x reader #porco #porco galliard

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chinneths · 3 years ago

Text

The Relativity of Wrong | By Isaac Asimov

I received a letter from a reader the other day. It was handwritten in crabbed penmanship so that it was very difficult to read. Nevertheless, I tried to make it out just in case it might prove to be important.

In the first sentence, he told me he was majoring in English Literature, but felt he needed to teach me science. (I sighed a bit, for I knew very few English Lit majors who are equipped to teach me science, but I am very aware of the vast state of my ignorance and I am prepared to learn as much as I can from anyone, however low on the social scale, so I read on.)

It seemed that in one of my innumerable essays, here and elsewhere, I had expressed a certain gladness at living in a century in which we finally got the basis of the Universe straight.

I didn’t go into detail in the matter, but what I meant was that we now know the basic rules governing the Universe, together with the gravitational interrelationships of its gross components, as shown in the theory of relativity worked out between 1905 and 1916. We also know the basic rules governing the subatomic particles and their interrelationships, since these are very neatly described by the quantum theory worked out between 1900 and 1930. What’s more, we have found that the galaxies and clusters of galaxies are the basic units of the physical Universe, as discovered between 1920 and 1930.

These are all twentieth-century discoveries, you see.

The young specialist in English Lit, having quoted me, went on to lecture me severely on the fact that in every century people have thought they understood the Universe at last, and in every century they were proven to be wrong. It follows that the one thing we can say about out modern “knowledge” is that it is wrong.

The young man then quoted with approval what Socrates had said on learning that the Delphic oracle had proclaimed him the wisest man in Greece. “If I am the wisest man,” said Socrates, “it is because I alone know that I know nothing.” The implication was that I was very foolish because I knew a great deal.

Alas, none of this was new to me. (There is very little that is new to me; I wish my corresponders would realize this.) This particular thesis was addressed to me a quarter of a century ago by John Campbell, who specialized in irritating me. He also told me that all theories are proven wrong in time.

My answer to him was, “John, when people thought the Earth was flat, they were wrong. When people thought the Earth was spherical, they were wrong. But if you think that thinking the Earth is spherical is just as wrong as thinking the Earth is flat, then your view is wronger than both of them put together.”

The basic trouble, you see, is that people think that “right” and “wrong” are absolute; that everything that isn’t perfectly and completely right is totally and equally wrong.

However, I don’t think that’s so. It seems to me that right and wrong are fuzzy concepts, and I will devote this essay to an explanation of why I think so.

First, let me dispose of Socrates because I am sick and tired of this pretense that knowing you know nothing is a mark of wisdom.

No one knows nothing. In a matter of days, babies learn to recognize their mothers.

Socrates would agree, of course, and explain that knowledge of trivia is not what he means. He means that in the great abstractions over which human beings debate, one should start without preconceived, unexamined notions, and that he alone knew this. (What an enormously arrogant claim!)

In his discussions of such matters as “What is justice?” or “What is virtue?” he took the attitude that he knew nothing and had to be instructed by others. (This is called “Socratic irony,” for Socrates knew very well that he knew a great deal more than the poor souls he was picking on.) By pretending ignorance, Socrates lured others into propounding their views on such abstractions. Socrates then, by a series of ignorant-sounding questions, forced the others into such a mélange of self-contradictions that they would finally break down and admit they didn’t know what they were talking about.

It is the mark of the marvelous toleration of the Athenians that they let this continue for decades and that it wasn’t till Socrates turned seventy that they broke down and forced him to drink poison.

Now where do we get the notion that “right” and “wrong” are absolutes? It seems to me that this arises in the early grades, when children who know very little are taught by teachers who know very little more.

Young children learn spelling and arithmetic, for instance, and here we tumble into apparent absolutes.

How do you spell “sugar?” Answer: s-u-g-a-r. That is right. Anything else is wrong.

How much is 2 + 2? The answer is 4. That is right. Anything else is wrong.

Having exact answers, and having absolute rights and wrongs, minimizes the necessity of thinking, and that pleases both students and teachers. For that reason, students and teachers alike prefer short-answer tests to essay tests; multiple-choice over blank short-answer tests; and true-false tests over multiple-choice.

But short-answer tests are, to my way of thinking, useless as a measure of the student’s understanding of a subject. They are merely a test of the efficiency of his ability to memorize.

You can see what I mean as soon as you admit that right and wrong are relative.

How do you spell “sugar?” Suppose Alice spells it p-q-z-z-f and Genevieve spells it s-h-u-g-e-r. Both are wrong, but is there any doubt that Alice is wronger than Genevieve? For that matter, I think it is possible to argue that Genevieve’s spelling is superior to the “right” one.

Or suppose you spell “sugar”: s-u-c-r-o-s-e, or C12H22O11. Strictly speaking, you are wrong each time, but you’re displaying a certain knowledge of the subject beyond conventional spelling.

Suppose then the test question was: how many different ways can you spell “sugar?” Justify each.

Naturally, the student would have to do a lot of thinking and, in the end, exhibit how much or how little he knows. The teacher would also have to do a lot of thinking in the attempt to evaluate how much or how little the student knows. Both, I imagine, would be outraged.

Again, how much is 2 + 2? Suppose Joseph says: 2 + 2 = purple, while Maxwell says: 2 + 2 = 17. Both are wrong but isn’t it fair to say that Joseph is wronger than Maxwell?

Suppose you said: 2 + 2 = an integer. You’d be right, wouldn’t you? Or suppose you said: 2 + 2 = an even integer. You’d be righter. Or suppose you said: 2 + 2 = 3.999. Wouldn’t you be nearly right?

If the teacher wants 4 for an answer and won’t distinguish between the various wrongs, doesn’t that set an unnecessary limit to understanding?

Suppose the question is, how much is 9 + 5?, and you answer 2. Will you not be excoriated and held up to ridicule, and will you not be told that 9 + 5 = 14?

If you were then told that 9 hours had pass since midnight and it was therefore 9 o'clock, and were asked what time it would be in 5 more hours, and you answered 14 o'clock on the grounds that 9 + 5 = 14, would you not be excoriated again, and told that it would be 2 o'clock? Apparently, in that case, 9 + 5 = 2 after all.

Or again suppose, Richard says: 2 + 2 = 11, and before the teacher can send him home with a note to his mother, he adds, “To the base 3, of course.” He’d be right.

Here’s another example. The teacher asks: “Who is the fortieth President of the United States?” and Barbara says, “There isn’t any, teacher.”

“Wrong!” says the teacher, “Ronald Reagan is the fortieth President of the United States.”

“Not at all,” says Barbara, “I have here a list of all the men who have served as President of the United States under the Constitution, from George Washington to Ronald Reagan, and there are only thirty-nine of them, so there is no fortieth President.”

“Ah,” says the teacher, “but Grover Cleveland served two nonconsecutive terms, one from 1885 to 1889, and the second from 1893 to 1897. He counts as both the twenty-second and twenty-fourth President. That is why Ronald Reagan is the thirty-ninth person to serve as President of the United States, and is, at the same time, the fortieth President of the United States.”

Isn’t that ridiculous? Why should a person be counted twice if his terms are nonconsecutive, and only once if he served two consecutive terms? Pure convention! Yet Barbara is marked wrong—just as wrong as if she had said that the fortieth President of the United States is Fidel Castro.

Therefore, when my friend the English Literature expert tells me that in every century scientists think they have worked out the Universe and are always wrong, what I want to know is how wrong are they? Are they always wrong to the same degree? Let’s take an example.

In the early days of civilization, the general feeling was that the Earth was flat.

This was not because people were stupid, or because they were intent on believing silly things. They felt it was flat on the basis of sound evidence. It was not just a matter of “That’s how it looks,” because the Earth does not look flat. It looks chaotically bumpy, with hills, valleys, ravines, cliffs, and so on.

Of course, there are plains where, over limited areas, the Earth’s surface does look fairly flat. One of those plains is in the Tigris-Euphrates area where the first historical civilization (one with writing) developed, that of the Sumerians.

Perhaps it was the appearance of the plain that may have persuaded the clever Sumerians to accept the generalization that the Earth was flat; that if you somehow evened out all the elevations and depressions, you would be left with flatness. Contributing to the notion may have been the fact that stretches of water (ponds and lakes) looked pretty flat on quiet days.

Another way of looking at it is to ask what is the “curvature” of Earth’s surface. Over a considerable length, how much does the surface deviate (on the average) from perfect flatness. The flat-Earth theory would make it seem that the surface doesn’t deviate from flatness at all, that its curvature is 0 to the mile.

Nowadays, of course, we are taught that the flat-Earth theory is wrong; that it is all wrong, terribly wrong, absolutely. But it isn’t. The curvature of the Earth is nearly 0 per mile, so that although the flat-Earth theory is wrong, it happens to be nearly right. That’s why the theory lasted so long.

There were reasons, to be sure, to find the flat-Earth theory unsatisfactory and, about 350 B.C., the Greek philosopher Aristotle summarized them. First, certain stars disappeared beyond the Southern Hemisphere as one traveled north, and beyond the Northern Hemisphere as one traveled south. Second, the Earth’s shadow on the Moon during a lunar eclipse was always the arc of a circle. Third, here on Earth itself, ships disappeared beyond the horizon hull-first in whatever direction they were traveling.

All three observations could not be reasonably explained if the Earth’s surface were flat, but could be explained by assuming the Earth to be a sphere.

What’s more, Aristotle believed that all solid matter tended to move toward a common center, and if solid matter did this, it would end up as a sphere. A given volume of matter is, on the average, closer to a common center if it is a sphere than if it is any other shape whatever.

About a century after Aristotle, the Greek philosopher Eratosthenes noted that the Sun cast a shadow of different lengths at different latitudes (all the shadows would be the same length if the Earth’s surface were flat). From the difference in shadow length, he calculated the size of the earthly sphere and it turned out to be 25,000 miles in circumference.

The curvature of such a sphere is about 0.000126 per mile, a quantity very close to 0 per mile as you can see, and one not easily measured by the techniques at the disposal of the ancients. The tiny difference between 0 and 0.000126 accounts for the fact that it took so long to pass from the flat Earth to the spherical Earth.

Mind you, even a tiny difference, such at that between 0 and 0.000126, can be extremely important. That difference mounts up. The Earth cannot be mapped over large areas with any accuracy at all if the difference isn’t taken into account and if the Earth isn’t considered a sphere rather than a flat surface. Long ocean voyages can’t be undertaken with any reasonable way of locating one’s own position in the ocean unless the Earth is considered spherical rather than flat.

Furthermore, the flat Earth presupposes the possibility of an infinite Earth, or of the existence of an “end” to the surface. The spherical Earth, however, postulates an Earth that is both endless and yet finite, and it is the latter postulate that is consistent with all later findings.

So although the flat-Earth theory is only slightly wrong and is a credit to its inventors, all things considered, it is wrong enough to be discarded in favor of the spherical-Earth theory.

And yet is the Earth a sphere?

No, it is not a sphere; not in the strict mathematical sense. A sphere has certain mathematical properties—for instance, all diameters (that is, all straight lines that pass from one point on its surface, through the center, to another point on its surface) have the same length.

That, however, is not true of the Earth. Various diameters of the Earth differ in length.

What gave people the notion the Earth wasn’t a true sphere? To begin with, the Sun and the Moon have outlines that are perfect circles within the limits of measurement in the early days of the telescope. This is consistent with the supposition that the Sun and Moon are perfectly spherical in shape.

However, when Jupiter and Saturn were observed by the first telescopic observers, it became quickly apparent that the outlines of those planets were not circles, but distinct ellipses. That meant that Jupiter and Saturn were not true spheres.

Isaac Newton, toward the end of the seventeenth century, showed that a massive body would form a sphere under the pull of gravitational forces (exactly as Aristotle had argued), but only if it were not rotating. If it were rotating, a centrifugal effect would be set up which would lift the body’s substance against gravity, and the effect would be greater the closer to the equator you progressed. The effect would also be greater the more rapidly a spherical object rotated and Jupiter and Saturn rotated very rapidly indeed.

The Earth rotated much more slowly than Jupiter or Saturn so the effect should be smaller, but it should still be there. Actual measurements of the curvature of the Earth were carried out in the eighteenth century and Newton was proved correct.

The Earth has an equatorial bulge, in other words. It is flattened at the poles. It is an “oblate spheroid” rather than a sphere. This means that the various diameters of the earth differ in length. The longest diameters are any of those that stretch from one point on the equator to an opposite point on the equator. The “equatorial diameter” is 12,755 kilometers (7,927 miles). The shortest diameter is from the North Pole to the South Pole and this “polar diameter” is 12,711 kilometers (7,900 miles).

The difference between the longest and shortest diameters is 44 kilometers (27 miles), and that means that the “oblateness” of the Earth (its departure from true sphericity) is 44/12,755, or 0.0034. This amounts to 1/3 of 1 percent.

To put it another way, on a flat surface, curvature is 0 per mile everywhere. On Earth’s spherical surface, curvature is 0.000126 per mile everywhere (or 8 inches per mile). On Earth’s oblate spheroidical surface, the curvature varies from 7.973 inches to the mile to 8.027 inches to the mile.

The correction in going from spherical to oblate spheroidal is much smaller than going from flat to spherical. Therefore, although the notion of the Earth as sphere is wrong, strictly speaking, it is not as wrong as the notion of the Earth as flat.

Even the oblate-spheroidal notion of the Earth is wrong, strictly speaking. In 1958, when the satellite Vanguard 1 was put into orbit about the Earth, it was able to measure the local gravitational pull of the Earth—and therefore its shape—with unprecedented precision. It turned out that the equatorial bulge south of the equator was slightly bulgier than the bulge north of the equator, and that the South Pole sea level was slightly nearer the center of the Earth than the North Pole sea level was.

There seemed no other way of describing this than by saying the Earth was pearshaped and at once many people decided that the Earth was nothing like a sphere but was shaped like a Bartlett pear dangling in space. Actually, the pearlike deviation from oblate-spheroid perfect was a matter of yards rather than miles and the adjustment of curvature was in the millionths of an inch per mile.

In short, my English Lit friend, living in a mental world of absolute rights and wrongs, may be imagining that because all theories are wrong, the Earth may be thought spherical now, but cubical next century, and a hollow icosahedron the next, and a doughnut shape the one after.

What actually happens is that once scientists get hold of a good concept they gradually refine and extend if with a greater and greater subtlety as their instruments of measurement improve. Theories are not so much wrong as incomplete.

This can be pointed out in many other cases than just the shape of the Earth. Even when a new theory seems to represent a revolution, it usually arises out of small refinements. If something more than a small refinement were needed, then the old theory would never have endured.

Copernicus switched from an Earth-centered planetary system to a Sun-centered one. In doing so, he switched from something that was obvious to something that was apparently ridiculous. However, it was a matter of finding better ways of calculating the motion of the planets in the sky and, eventually, the geocentric theory was just left behind. It was precisely because the old theory gave results that were fairly good by the measurement standards of the time that kept it in being so long.

Again, it is because the geological formations of the Earth change so slowly and the living things upon it evolve so slowly that it seemed reasonable at first to suppose that there was no change and that Earth and life always existed as they do today. If that were so, it would make no difference whether Earth and life were billions of years old or thousands. Thousands were easier to grasp.

But when careful observation showed that Earth and life were changing at a rate that was very tiny but not zero, then it became clear that Earth and life had to be very old. Modern geology came into being, and so did the notion of biological evolution.

If the rate of change were more rapid, geology and evolution would have reached their modern state in ancient times. It is only because the difference between the rate of change in a static Universe and the rate of change in an evolutionary one is that between zero and very nearly zero that the creationists can continue propagating their folly.

Again, how about the two great theories of the twentieth century; relativity and quantum mechanics?

Newton’s theories of motion and gravitation were very close to right, and they would have been absolutely right if only the speed of light were infinite. However, the speed of light is finite, and that had to be taken into account in Einstein’s relativistic equations, which were an extension and refinement of Newton’s equations.

You might say that the difference between infinite and finite is itself infinite, so why didn’t Newton’s equations fall to the ground at once? Let’s put it another way, and ask how long it takes light to travel over a distance of a meter.

If light traveled at infinite speed, it would take light 0 seconds to travel a meter. At the speed at which light actually travels, however, it takes it 0.0000000033 seconds. It is that difference between 0 and 0.0000000033 that Einstein corrected for.

Conceptually, the correction was as important as the correction of Earth’s curvature from 0 to 8 inches per mile was. Speeding subatomic particles wouldn’t behave the way they do without the correction, nor would particle accelerators work the way they do, nor nuclear bombs explode, nor the stars shine. Nevertheless, it was a tiny correction and it is no wonder that Newton, in his time, could not allow for it, since he was limited in his observations to speeds and distances over which the correction was insignificant.

Again, where the prequantum view of physics fell short was that it didn’t allow for the “graininess” of the Universe. All forms of energy had been thought to be continuous and to be capable of division into indefinitely smaller and smaller quantities.

This turned out to be not so. Energy comes in quanta, the size of which is dependent upon something called Planck’s constant. If Planck’s constant were equal to 0 erg-seconds, then energy would be continuous, and there would be no grain to the Universe. Planck’s constant, however, is equal to 0.000000000000000000000000066 erg-seconds. That is indeed a tiny deviation from zero, so tiny that ordinary questions of energy in everyday life need not concern themselves with it. When, however, you deal with subatomic particles, the graininess is sufficiently large, in comparison, to make it impossible to deal with them without taking quantum considerations into account.

Since the refinements in theory grow smaller and smaller, even quite ancient theories must have been sufficiently right to allow advances to be made; advances that were not wiped out by subsequent refinements.

The Greeks introduced the notion of latitude and longitude, for instance, and made reasonable maps of the Mediterranean basin even without taking sphericity into account, and we still use latitude and longitude today.

The Sumerians were probably the first to establish the principle that planetary movements in the sky exhibit regularity and can be predicted, and they proceeded to work out ways of doing so even though they assumed the Earth to be the center of the Universe. Their measurements have been enormously refined but the principle remains.

Newton’s theory of gravitation, while incomplete over vast distances and enormous speeds, is perfectly suitable for the Solar System. Halley’s Comet appears punctually as Newton’s theory of gravitation and laws of motion predict. All of rocketry is based on Newton, and Voyager II reached Uranus within a second of the predicted time. None of these things were outlawed by relativity.

In the nineteenth century, before quantum theory was dreamed of, the laws of thermodynamics were established, including the conservation of energy as first law, and the inevitable increase of entropy as the second law. Certain other conservation laws such as those of momentum, angular momentum, and electric charge were also established. So were Maxwell’s laws of electromagnetism. All remained firmly entrenched even after quantum theory came in.

Naturally, the theories we now have might be considered wrong in the simplistic sense of my English Lit correspondent, but in a much truer and subtler sense, they need only be considered incomplete.

For instance, quantum theory has produced something called “quantum weirdness” which brings into serious question the very nature of reality and which produces philosophical conundrums that physicists simply can’t seem to agree upon. It may be that we have reached a point where the human brain can no longer grasp matters, or it may be that quantum theory is incomplete and that once it is properly extended, all the ��weirdness” will disappear.

Again, quantum theory and relativity seem to be independent of each other, so that while quantum theory makes it seem possible that three of the four known interactions can be combined into one mathematical system, gravitation—the realm of relativity—as yet seems intransigent.

If quantum theory and relativity can be combined, a true “unified field theory” may become possible.

If all this is done, however, it would be a still finer refinement that would affect the edges of the known—the nature of the big bang and the creation of the Universe, the properties at the center of black holes, some subtle points about the evolution of galaxies and supernovas, and so on.

Virtually all that we know today, however, would remain untouched and when I say I am glad that I live in a century when the Universe is essentially understood, I think I am justified.

#isaac asimov #science #wrong #ideology #philosophy

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katsidhe · 4 years ago

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could you share the descriptions of the answers? I'm bad at answering these quizzes cause I always get like 3 answers that fit but in different circumstances so I like seeing all of the descriptions

Yeah sure! I too wish uquiz gave an option to see all the result descriptions... alas.

anyway here’s a wall of text, go nuts.

DEAN-CODED DEAN GIRL

You might just be the hero of a YA fantasy novel or an action movie, because you have Big Protag Energy. You’re self-centered and extremely giving at the same time: you expect and demand absolute loyalty, just as you provide the same. Your love can move mountains, but if you’re not careful that same love can be suffocating or controlling. You’re volatile: you’ll cut a bitch and you don’t care who knows it. You’ll kick their ass. You’ll kick their dog’s ass. You’ll kick your own ass. You have a one-liner for every occasion. Your friends like you but would describe you as “a lot.” You’re magnetic: your charisma and sheer bull-headedness mean you stand out in every room. You’re polarizing, and you know it, but that doesn’t bother you: you know you’re right, and even when you’re wrong, you’re at least entertaining. You’re very “do as I say, not as I do:” you’re a bit of a hypocrite, but, like, in a fun way.

Holotypes include: Dean Winchester (Supernatural), Thomas Jefferson (Hamilton), Sirius Black (Harry Potter), Kathryn Janeway (Star Trek: Voyager), Katara (ATLA), Vriska Serket (Homestuck)

DEAN-CODED SAM GIRL

You are a charmer and a people-pleaser. You’re charismatic to a fault, when you want to be: whether consciously or not, you have a razor-keen sense of how others see you, and you mold yourself to expectations. You can either talk circles around most people, or you come across as so fundamentally honest that you gain everyone’s trust without trying. Your affable persona is built on a rock-solid sense of purpose. You have a steadfast, deadset fixation on your goals, which you know in your heart to be worth any cost and any sacrifice. Armed with iron conviction, you’re a rebel with a cause. Is it paranoia if they really are all out to get you? When you inevitably win, the whole world will know your name. Your strong sense of self will carry you through any hardship. Your friends look up to you, but they don’t always “get” you.

Holotypes include: Lucifer (Supernatural), Eponine (Les Mis), Count Olaf (A Series of Unfortunate Events), Prince Zuko (ATLA), Samwise Gamgee (LOTR), Karkat Vantas (Homestuck)

DEAN-CODED CAS GIRL

Like all Dean-coded people, you are charming and affable, and you talk a big game. You might be the class clown or a popular athlete, or otherwise one of them cool kids, but underlying that public persona is a certain quiet idealism. You keep your strong convictions close to your heart, even when far from home or beset by strife. You’re fiercely loyal and you crave being around people, but you can see when your friends need space, and you can get along okay on your own. You’re not afraid to change your opinions if new information comes to light. Strangers find you easy to get along with: you tend to go along with the group, and you’re a team player no matter what needs to get done. Your chill-to-pull ratio is sky-high.

Holotypes include: Ahsoka (Star Wars), Meg (Supernatural), Percy Jackson (Percy Jackson), Ginny Weasley (Harry Potter), Boromir (LOTR), Jon Snow (Game of Thrones)

SAM-CODED DEAN GIRL

You come across as level headed, but you’re never more than an inch from going off the rails. Your highest values are love and personal loyalty, but you’re pragmatic about it, and you try very hard not to put unfair expectations on other people, with varying degrees of success. You spend a lot of time dealing with expectations; it’s something you either grapple with, or lean into to use to your own ends. You value your own sense of identity, but that identity can get subsumed by your loyalties. You can easily get pulled in or suborned by strong personalities. You keep secrets, both from yourself and from others. Who you want to be is at odds with how you see yourself. People meeting you for the first time might say you’re aloof. You have lots of strong opinions, but you usually keep them to yourself… unless provoked. Careful; you bite.

Holotypes include: Mary Winchester (Supernatural), Harry Potter (Harry Potter), Aragorn (LOTR), Anakin Skywalker (Star Wars), Julian Bashir (Star Trek: Deep Space Nine), Katniss Everdeen (Hunger Games)

SAM-CODED SAM GIRL

Gifted kid (diagnosis). You were and maybe still are an outsider, and because of that you’ve had to learn to be self-sufficient and confident in your own abilities. You’re a fiercely independent overachiever, and you’ve fought hard for every inch. Somewhere inside you is a hot, long simmering rage born from the injustice of the world, but it’s buried very deep. You’d be more than content to be alone for long periods of time. You have sometimes crippling perfectionism: if you aren’t succeeding, it’s your fault for not trying hard enough. You’ll pick every kind of intellectual fight and throw yourself into playing devil’s advocate just to improve your understanding: you see the gray areas in everything. You’re aggressively big-picture. You want to, no, you MUST change the universe, but you don’t need to take credit for it. Your few friends might describe you as callous, but you know you’re just being realistic: you’ve got a harsh, clear-eyed sense of the world. No pain, no gain, and really, if you do the math, no single individual is all that important in the grand scheme of things.

Holotypes include: Kevin Tran (Supernatural), Jean Valjean (Les Miserables), Emperor Palpatine (Star Wars), Neville Longbottom (Harry Potter), Frodo Baggins (LOTR), Dirk Strider (Homestuck), Luke Castellan (Percy Jackson)

SAM-CODED CAS GIRL

You have a strong sense of how the world ought to be, but you have no overriding vision or big master plan: you take life day by day to fix the little things you can. You have very few close relationships, but those you have you treasure dearly. You support your few friends unconditionally, but you tend to be emotionally distant with acquaintances. You may be a bit of a pushover. You often find yourself put in the position of mediator. You loathe conflict, so you avoid it unless absolutely necessary--but once you’re truly angry, you’ll stop at nothing to see justice done. You’re a diplomat and an advocate: you are deeply idealistic, but you’re nevertheless strongly grounded in a pragmatic sense of achieving what you can. Philosophy is action, action is philosophy; you like meditation and self-improvement and have probably done at least one juice cleanse. Both friends and strangers describe you as quietly dependable. If you can’t see the trauma, the trauma can’t see you! That’s just science!

Holotypes include: Sam Winchester (Supernatural), BJ Hunnicut (M*A*S*H), Jean-Luc Picard (Star Trek: The Next Generation), Aang (ATLA), Luke Skywalker (Star Wars), Nico di Angelo (Percy Jackson)

CAS-CODED DEAN GIRL

Much of your identity is tied up in a set of core beliefs - to the point where those beliefs might be strong enough to override your identity. You’re not beholden to any outside system. If you’re comfortable serving a larger common goal, it’s because you believe in it wholeheartedly. You’re action-oriented: you act first, and think later, or possibly never. You judge your friends solely based on what they do, and you tend to hold people accountable for any unforeseen consequences of their choices. You have strong personal loyalties. You’re not at the center of your social circle, but your friends trust you implicitly and the leader of your group tends to confide in you. You don’t seek power, but you’re also not afraid of taking charge, and you may find power thrust upon you. If you do find yourself in a position of leadership, you struggle with going too far or taking your friends in an unexpected direction. Whether you’re fighting in a war or making yourself a sandwich, you go hard in the motherfuckin’ paint.

Holotypes include: Castiel (Supernatural), Javert (Les Miserables), Captain Rex (Star Wars), Kanaya Maryam (Homestuck), Worf (Star Trek), Albus Dumbledore (Harry Potter)

CAS-CODED SAM GIRL

I mean this in the nicest possible way, but you’re a bit weird. You are spacey or odd or otherwise out of step with how people think you should act, but that’s fine. It doesn’t matter what they think, because if you’re sure of one thing, it’s that you should never mold your unique identity to other people’s expectations. You live internally: you’re all about grand, world-changing concepts, whether they be philosophical, artistic, or mathematical. You are grounded in the reality that you are one person and one viewpoint among many others, but that doesn’t stop you from writing your nine-hundred page thesis on the topic you’re passionate about. You can justify just about anything by the virtue of your personal convictions arising almost entirely from within yourself. Your identity can get swept up in your big ideas. You’re easier to sway with logic than with emotion, but you don’t feel the need to confine yourself with such terms: you operate on both vibes and flowcharts. You move through the world with the assurance that you are the master of your own fate, and you are unburdened by worrying about the opinions of others. You won’t let yourself feel pinned down by one social group; you float in and out comfortably, depending on how you’re feeling. Friends and strangers describe you as “spooky.”

Holotypes include: Azazel (Supernatural), Luna Lovegood (Harry Potter), Aaron Burr (Hamilton), Princess Azula (ATLA), Yoda (Star Wars), Jadzia Dax (Star Trek: Deep Space Nine), Terezi Pyrope (Homestuck)

CAS-CODED CAS GIRL

You are chaotic and excitable. You’re swayed by the drive to explore: the greatest good is to understand the universe and your place in it. You’ve got big ideas, and you’re drawn to new experiences, but you don’t necessarily understand what’s going on. You might be a part of a bigger social machine, but that doesn’t mean you’ll be defined on its terms: you’ll self-actualize if it kills you. You identify new objects by licking them. You can see the strings of the world; what will you choose? You’ll take the reins and see where they take you. You say you’re following your own path. Your friends say you don’t know what you’re doing. Pragmatism? Never heard of her. A dream is a vision is a reality; ideas are the world writ large. You might be a prophet or a visionary. With your head in the clouds, you’re sometimes divorced from both reality and consequences. You’re usually on the outside looking in, and you don’t want to be. People think they understand you, but they definitely don’t. Your friends and enemies describe you as impulsive and mysterious.

Holotypes include: Raphael (Supernatural), Uncle Iroh (ATLA), Draco Malfoy (Harry Potter), Data (Star Trek: The Next Generation), Obi-Wan Kenobi (Star Wars), Gandalf (LOTR)

#x coded y girl #i speaks #my quiz #long post for ts #why doesn't uquiz give that as an option?#and while we're at it why won't uquiz let me click one button to read all the text box responses ppl gave me :(#aromanticbristlefrost

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fascination-street-writing · 4 years ago

Text

Jumping on Someone Else’s Train | Narancia Ghirga x GN!Reader

His is the face of the one who lost everything, found everything, and lost it all again.

A Canon Divergence AU, in which Narancia does not follow Bucciarati on the boat in Venezia

- 200 Follower Giveaway Piece I for @vergissmeinnnicht -

Content Warnings: Regret, Angst, Mentions of Alcoholism, & Mentions of Other Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms

Men and women clad in suits of varying styles and colors stand along the proscenium of the tracks, waiting for the first wave of commuter trains from Venezia. With thoughts of unfinished reports, soccer practices, and uncertainties of whether to have spaghetti alle vongole or ai ricci for dinner, no one pays heed to the three battered teenagers seated just behind the line – who, mind you, certainly ought to be in school.

To your left, Fugo fumes; and yet, despite his ever-apparent anger, there is unbounded despondency in his violet eyes. Despondency indeed, perhaps for the mutual decision of yours and his, or otherwise, because of Bucciarati’s blasphemy. Although, you suppose that you cannot fault your former Capo. He has always had a proclivity for saving undesirables – yourselves, included. But his kindness is not your own.

To your right, Narancia leans over and slouches, clutching his head between two hands that have not yet healed from his scuffle with the first man of the assassination team. You cannot help but to notice that several of the crackling scabs have been picked open. You regret deeply that you had not offered to run Trish’s errands with the black-haired boy. And, though he will not admit it, as does Fugo.

The sound of a shoe tapping against the concrete flooring would be irksome to you if it were anyone other than Narancia’s doing. You cannot decide if he is merely growing impatient for the train to arrive, or rather, unequivocally conflicted about what has transpired within the past hour. A shuddering breath slips past his lips, expelling as his shoulders begin to quake. He might never forgive you for letting him snivel in public.

Gently, you place your hand on his back. Narancia stills at your touch and allows his own to fall from his reddened cheeks. Reluctantly so, he meets your concerned gaze. He fears he might disintegrate into nothing more than bones if you keep looking at him this way – like you adore and loathe him all the same.

You speak his name softly, reminiscent of some kind of lullaby that his mother might have sung to him during his early adolescence. “We need you to be here,” you tell him.

His nod is an automatic response. He contemplates the bluntness of your words, understanding well enough that they have sprung from a good heart. You have become more like Bucciarati, he thinks; your pension for austerity in love rivals his, to be sure. Narancia swallows and nods once more. “I’m here,” he insists.

He would wince at the cracking of his voice if you had turned away sooner. You pull your hand back and rest it atop your leg, curling your fingers into the threadwork of your pants. “Stay with us, then.”

The rotors of the train squeal as the machinery lulls to a stop. In truth, you would never like to board another train for as long as you should live. But this is not a luxury you can afford.

“Now boarding from Stazione di Venezia Santa Lucia to Napoli Centrale. Total travel time – seven hours and thirty-nine minutes. First stop: Ferrara.”

Within the compartment of the train, Fugo sits beside you and pours over a bit of reading that he had swiped from a kiosk before embarking. Narancia determines that the book the younger boy reads must be painfully dreadful, or implausibly wonderful. His brow furrows, as if deeply embedded in his own thoughts, but his fingers never bend to turn the page.

A quivery sigh escapes as you stare from the window, appearing to be as bored as ever. The Italian countryside passes by in blurs of likewise colored landscapes. Narancia wonders how it is that you can tell the difference between a vineyard and a farm against the speed of travel. Or maybe you cannot, though you try to anyways.

You stifle a yawn, finally succumbing to the exhaustion that has accumulated over the past several days. And yet, despite it all, you are still living. Narancia feels his own jaw beginning to twitch, and his mind drifts elsewhere, to the interlude of youth before life with Bucciarati became quite so complicated; good thoughts to keep him grounded amidst the unrest of divided loss.

As it were, he remembers the day when he first met you as if it were yesterday. Before Mista, Abbacchio, and certainly Giorno – back when the two of you, Fugo, and Bucciarati made for the greatest family whom he had ever known. The only other time Narancia has ever seen such strain upon your face was when Bucciarati took you into his home, still clothed in street-rags and muddied shoes. You had not even joined Passione yet; their then eighteen-year-old leader had acted of his own volition to take you in. He always has had a way of saving people.

Narancia knows your strife as if it is his own. Your mother died and your father neglected you; you took to thievery and pickpocketing to find whatever you needed to spend a night without an empty stomach. It was only a matter of time until, provoked by the unfortunate solidarity of utter hurt, you had clicked with the two boys.

But it was not always this way.

In truth, your eagerness to snub the boy is, of some emotional gravity, debilitating. He has always believed friendship to be deserving of the highest value of any other virtue in life. When you observe his struggles to solve seemingly simple math equations during tutoring sessions, with such an unreadable look on your face, he dreads that your hesitation has born itself from an aura of superiority that you harbor against him. The moment you turn away as Fugo’s chastisement rains upon him, he wonders how he might ever be good enough to earn your favor when he cannot be good enough for himself.

When he speculates his plan to befriend you, he thinks without fail that it must be the most brilliant little scheme in the world. Narancia begins by buying you a chocolate bar from the corner store down the street, because what peer of your age does not like chocolate? By the time he has returned home, it has begun to melt in his pocket. He hopes you will not mind, and if you do, he has already decided that he will go back and purchase a second one – cognizant to carry it instead, rather than stuffing it in his corduroys.

To his chagrin, you turn your nose up at the creased, seeping parcel. “I hate sweets,” you tell him with a heavy insistence and no succeeding explanation or defense. Never mind that he had caught you sneaking cake from the kitchen last night when you thought everyone else had gone to bed.

Alas, his resolve is strong. He supposes that it was wrong of him to assume that you would indulge in a chocolate bar, because it is simply not the same thing as cake. During an astronomy lesson with Fugo, a fetching optimism takes over. That evening, he forgoes dinner to sweep the terracotta roof of dead leaves and earthly dust. He rummages through his closet for the softest blanket he owns – blue gingham that had once belonged to his mother.

He runs into you in the hallway on his way to your bedroom; budding with courage, he asks if you would care to watch the stars with him on the rooftop, because the window in his room leads right to the widow’s walk. You roll your eyes and turn away, muttering, “Constellations make me dizzy.” But did you not tell Bucciarati in passing yesterday just how much you love searching for the little dipper when the night skies are forgiving?

Narancia’s spur is beginning to wane, though he cannot blame you. Perhaps he has been reading you wrong. He simply has not pinpointed your interests – that is all. Flipping through the channels of the television, he stumbles upon a culinary program of an older man demonstrating how to prepare bucatini alla carbonara. Struck with inspiration, the boy rushes to the market for pancetta, parmesan, and dried pasta; he has never quite had the patience for making fresh dough, so he settles for pre-packed bucatini. Surely, you will understand.

And so, he leads you into the kitchen with a grin on his face. While pointing to the array of ingredients on the counter, he asks you to lend a hand and to help him prepare dinner. You are all in need of a reprieve from Il Libeccio. “I don’t like cooking,” you say, disinterested. It surely must have been a ghost who prepared the rigatoni al pesto on this past domenica, then.

Narancia does not have high hopes when he extends to you the offer of catching the movie Panni Sporchi in the theater with Fugo and he. His crushed spirits know better by now. But it never hurts to try.

You set down whatever magazine you have snatched from the corner store and cock an eyebrow. “Comedies aren’t my thing,” you utter. “They’re not even that funny. Besides, they’re just poor imitations of life. So are romances. And dramas. Thrillers – horrors . . . Actually, I hate movies.”

He bears it with a curt nod, choosing to ignore that you had held a private viewing of Auguri Professore in the living room yesterday. His head tells him that you do not wish to be his friend, amongst other things – but his heart insists that one day, you will.

It is by chance that he should wake up this night with the irrepressible urge to use the bathroom. On his way back, skin still damp from the sink, Narancia tiptoes along the embroidered vines of the carpet. It is a solitary game he only partakes in when no one is around to question his antics. When he hears a hiccup, he surmises that he has been caught. His sock-clad feet sink into the floor as he stills and prepares himself for whatever beratement is sure to follow. Instead, there is only another gasp for breath.

No, not a hiccup, he notices: it is the sound of grief that came from your bedroom. With little regard to your privacy, he peaks his head through the cracked door.

“What are you doing, Narancia?” you demand as you wipe the back of your nose and hoist the blankets – wetted by your tears – up to your shoulders. “Get out of my room.”

In this moment, it is as if the clouds have parted and clarity canvases the sky. All this time, he truly was enough for you – it was you who was not adequate for yourself. And here you are, curled up in your bed with swollen eyes that beg him to stay even though you had told him otherwise. You are tormented by bad memories that ought to be shed like snakeskin.

Narancia steps forward. “I just wanted to tell you, uh, it’s okay to cry,” he says with a certain tenderness that seems so unfamiliar to you. He rubs the back of his neck, averting your gaze. “Even if you don’t think so.”

You gawk at him and say nothing, for words have failed you. The silence is deafening, all the same. It is an audacious move, but he smiles to you – a gesture of compassion – before turning to leave. He has overstayed his welcome, and your unrelenting stare does not make him feel any better.

“Wait.” He stops, anticipating your delayed retaliation. “Could you . . . Can you spend the night with me?”

As he lies in bed next to you, distance kept by a pillow wedged between your bodies, Narancia beams – but you cannot see outline of his grin in the darkness of the room. This night and many more will pass, and you slowly become something of a beacon. He is beholden to you, because you make him feel appreciated in the ways that not even Fugo or Bucciarati can. For this reason, he will always cherish you – a talisman encapsulated within a friend.

And now, though the seeds of regret have already begun to spring roots within him – hyacinths embedded in his heart –, he will stay strong, for you are like a pharos to him. If not resiliency for his own sake, then certainly yours.

At least, for as long as he can.

“Hey, Narancia.” Startled, he jumps in his seat and clasps his knees tightly. “Is there something on my face?” you ask.

“I – Huh?” he stumbles over any response that might have come to mind. “What do you mean?”

You chuckle. “Well, it’s just that you’ve been staring at me for the past ten minutes.”

“Uh . . . I . . .”

Fugo drags his gaze from his book to your face. “I don’t see anything,” he assures with a shrug. “Actually, come to think of it, I think your nose has gotten bigger.”

The banter of humor between you and Fugo is lost on the black-haired boy. Or rather, he is far too distracted to mimic it. He stands from his seat abruptly and reaches for the door to the compartment. “I have to piss,” he mutters.

He is gone before either of you can comment on his sudden brashness. In his absence, you nudge Fugo and gesture towards his book; just as Narancia had noted, you realize that your strawberry blonde friend has not gotten past the first page of the novel ever since you had departed. You left nearly an hour ago.

“My head is just elsewhere, I guess,” he confesses to your proclamation. He closes the book and sets it down on the seat. “I’m fine, though. As much as I can be. But Narancia isn’t.”

You hum in agreeance. “I’ll go check on him.”

Water rushes from the faucet and pools in the porcelain, ceramic bowl of the basin. Steam wafts towards the ceiling, blanketing the mirror in a cloud. Narancia’s fingers curl around the rim of the sink so tightly that the coloring flees from his knuckles. He feels like a phantom, for a part of him has surely died back in Venezia.

In another world, he imagines that he might have followed Bucciarati – as would have you and Fugo. But this is nothing more than a nonsensical thought that can never be anything more than an instance of intangible pondering. He does not wipe the fog from the mirror, because he cannot bear the sight of the boy who will greet him in return.

His is the face of the one who lost everything, found everything, and lost it all again. His stomach churns and his head whirls with aches. He has never been the type of person to boast of his character; it takes a humble attitude to realize that there is nothing special about oneself – until there is. Truly, Narancia once believed that he was a proper man, because he worked for someone as virtuous as the young Capo, whose confidence bred itself and more.

“I guess I’m not much of one now,” Narancia mumbles aloud with a sigh of vexation. “Not like Mista, Abbacchio . . . or Giorno.”

He taps the tip of his shoe against the linoleum floor. As it were, his socialization into Passione – no, into Bucciarati’s squad – has taught him the moral necessities of defending the weak who cannot otherwise safeguard nor vindicate themselves. Betraying him is a dreadful regret. How can he ignore the voice in his head that affirms his folly and tells him that he is no better for abandoning Trish in all her temperamental, vain ways, either?

When the sound of knuckles rapping against the door startles him from his thoughts, his first impulse is to lash out at whoever has disrupted his mind chamber of self-reflection. “Hey, can’t you read, idiota?” he demands, angrily. “Bathroom’s occupied.”

“Narancia, it’s just me.” The scowl on his face falters as he recognizes your voice. He turns the squealing faucet until it has dried. He does not stop to catch his staggered breaths before opening the door, and perhaps he should have. Even though you have become such close companions, you still make him feel like a child under your anatomizing gaze – as if there is something particularly interesting about him after all, which takes him for a good subject of study.

Your look of concern is jarring. For a moment, it is difficult to breathe, and he wishes he had tried to calm himself first. So much for staying strong for them. You step forward and lock the sliding door behind you. If it were anyone else – even Fugo – the proximity of your body to his might have made him uneasy. You drag a finger through the film of steam on the mirror. “I’m going to ask you something,” you begin to say, “and I’d like you to answer me, honestly. Are you alright?”

He chokes up at your words, because yes – he is perfectly fine; healthy, albeit a bit battered still from his fracas with Formaggio. As soon as he manages to stop himself from instigating the scabs on his knuckles, they will heal, and he will be left with nothing more than pink scar-tissue as an everlasting memento of these past few days.

But, in other contingencies of prosperity, he is unequivocally not alright. Against his better sense of control, his eyes well up with tears, and his cognition scatters.

“Narancia?”

There are many things that a person indulges in as a means of coping, some safer than others. Men fall to the bottle, like Abbacchio – and men lash out in violent rages, such as Fugo. He could keep picking at his scabs, find an emptied compartment to scream in, or pull out his unkempt hair. Contrition moves through him like a venom, and he supposes he should find a way to suck it out before it kills him.

His hands meet your arms in a shockingly gentle, clammy grasp; he jerks himself closer and suddenly, his lips are on your own and he is kissing you. His teeth scrape against your own and he pulls you flush, as if he cannot get close enough to you already, desperate to suffocate the detrimental notions running through him. Stunned and too preoccupied with dwelling on the sweet taste of his mouth, you have forgotten how to reciprocate.

You break apart and shrug the grip on your arms, unsure of what to say as his desperate indigo ogling gauges you for a reaction – whether you should berate him or express your equal adoration, anything is preferable than the silence. “I . . . I’m sorry,” he finally says when you have not.

“It’s fine,” you insist, an unreadable poignancy sweeping your face. “You can do it again, if you need to. I don’t mind.”

He must have heard you wrong; surely, you did not give him such a blessing as this. And yet, when he cups your jaw and meets your lips halfway, you do not shove him off. Instead, you repay the gesture and swipe your tongue along his own. His heart sings for you, like a schoolboy’s choir: thank you, thank you, thank you. You swear that your legs have become melting gold, for they quiver and you can no longer stand on your own.

Or maybe it is because the train has lurched forward. Despite the separation of your lips, Narancia catches you in arms that harbor unassuming strength, but make you feel guarded, all the same. It is strange, you reflect: he has always been something of a haven to you, ever since the night when you had cast aside all hesitations of welcoming him into your circle and did exactly that.

“I just want you to know that everything will be okay,” you tell him – about the kiss, about the train, or about your shared regrets, he does not know. No matter the intent, he enjoys listening to your voice. “You aren’t alone in this, Nara. We both made the decision to leave. You don’t have to suffer on your own, because I feel just as guilty, too.”

He frowns.

“Besides, we have all we need. You, me, and Fugo. I’m glad you’re here, you know; I couldn’t do this without you.” He hastily wipes away the tears that trickle down his cheeks. Stop crying, he sneers to himself. Stop it, stop it, stop it. You pull his frantic hand away from his reddened face and lace your fingers with his, so that he might not try it again. “It’s okay to cry, even if you don’t think so.”

He blooms and comes undone, sobbing into the crook of your neck and clasping your shirt so tightly that the spooling contorts and wrinkles. You trace shapes against his back, creasing the leather with your nails. Slow, tentative, and soft. He wishes to stay like this forever, bathroom or not – just so long as he has you.

While Narancia straightens himself and splashes fresh water upon his face, you wait for him at the door. He hesitates to follow you back to the compartment, because he can lose himself to grief exactly where he is without repercussion. You know this well, and so you extend your arm for him to take with a sense of hushed encouragement. His fingers meet yours, only this time, it is not to stop him from swiping at his face until his skin is raw. “We should check on Fugo, yeah?” you suggest.

“Yeah . . .”

Down the corridor, he trails behind you like a lost stray to his savior. In a way, that is exactly what you are, he thinks. And he will forever be grateful for it. It is not until you have returned to the strawberry blonde that Narancia lets his grasp fall from yours. You return to your seats, and Fugo offers his own attempt at a smile to you each. His book lies in his lap, untouched and unmoved.

“So, Fugo.” You drag out his name, as if deep in thought. “Did you get past the first page yet?”

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