#one I cannot accept after (creeping up on 9) years | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

1kook · 4 years

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EXPLORER

jjk x female reader

FOR GCN’S ❝ 23 | JUNGKOOK BIRTHDAY PROJECT ❞ ! Alien AU | “I want to have your last name!” | “I like when you do that, it makes me crazy.”

summary; Jungkook does not want to impress the frankly tyrannical ways of his planet on you. He just wants to stay here and keep your couch warm for you, hold your hair back when you wash your face in the morning. warnings; smut in the forms of cunnilingus, loss of virginity, unprotected sex, anal, tit play, and all that jazz bc surprise its tentacle porn rating: mature (18+) miscellaneous; FLUFF, strangers to friends to lovers, curious alien kook, there’s a saber tooth tiger mention, virginity is a social construct, they both have skewed perceptions of sex and love, and idk what else word count; 17.8k

notes; someone said once “all u ever do is write college aus 😃” and i was like lol true but i was also a virgo and was like “i’ll prove u wrong” and next thing i knew i was writing a 17k alien au clap for me lads

special thanks to; my savior and editor rumu ( @kigurumu ) who very politely tells me when im making up words n also when shit doesn't make sense but lets me make stupid final decisions that will come back to bite me in the ass<3 and also my gf yeji @suqakoo who watched me crash and burn about ten times while writing this monstrosity of fic and just laughed her support amazes me<3

BEFORE READING SEE HERE; body marks, under eye marks, sixam that i stole from the sims 4

He comes with the sole purpose of populating this uncharted territory with his seed.

Jungkook has been on many missions abroad. He’s visited about every planet in Sector 76 before this, the largest collection of neighboring galaxies known to exist. And because of that, he likes to think he’s well educated in extraterrestrial affairs, quite knowledgeable in the barbaric ways of the foreigners. They see, they mate. Pretty simple.

For the past couple years, as leading field researcher of Sixam, Jungkook has been exclusively studying every creature he comes across. He enjoys cataloging their habits, their mating cycles, and the unique culture they develop, sometimes intentionally and sometimes not.

Granted, he’s never been on a mission like this.

This type of mission has never been his.

When the great planet of Sixam wishes to settle colonies of new species— Sixamian bred with whatever other species that have deemed suitable —they usually task people like Namjoon or Seokjin, both high ranking generals of the Sixamian Intergalactic Corp. with a near immaculate genetic makeup. Their genotypes carry strong traits, and are oftentimes most reflected in their phenotypes as well. Beings like Namjoon or Jin are the epitome of what it means to be Sixamian, which is why Jungkook is surprised when they ask him to place his seeds on Planet 43 Z-7 of the Via Láctea solar system, otherwise known as ‘Earth.’

It wasn’t that Jungkook had major self image issues, nor did he think he was particularly bad to look at. In fact, Jungkook thinks he’s pretty amazing. Of course he doesn’t compare to Namjoon or Jin, but quite frankly, the comparison is skewed by the fact he works in a different field than them. You cannot compare black holes to asteroid belts; in a similar fashion, you cannot compare military generals to scientific researchers.

Anyway, Jungkook has never been to Planet 43 Z-7, but some of his coworkers have. They all claim it is a beautiful place, filled to the brim with life and culture never before seen.

Frankly, Jungkook doesn’t believe it.

He’s seen hundreds of planets, thousands of species, so he hardly feels amazed anymore. There is nothing enjoyable about other planets when he comes from Sixam, quite possibly the most intellectually advanced one in the universe. And he says this having met Yoongi of Planet 732 T-1, another being near immaculate in terms of cognitive abilities.

But not as perfect as Sixamians.

Hoseok says Planet 43 Z-7 has all sorts of unique artifacts, like these edible arrangements called ‘hot dogs’ you eat between two pieces of raised yeast. Planet 43 Z-7 has been unmarked for eons now, but is a popular hideout for rebelling Sixamians during their early years. Jungkook was never one of those types, but he has a handful of friends who were.

Needless to say, Jungkook isn’t looking forward to his mission. He asks Namjoon and Jin for tips on how to approach the reproductive members in the species, if there’s any protocol he needs to follow, but they simply laugh it off. They’ve both had the pleasure of, well, pleasuring some of the most beautiful creatures in the universe, so Jungkook’s incompetence must be a sight to see.

Airship handler Jimin is the last face he sees on Sixam. He’s as relaxed as ever, strapping Jungkook into his travel pod like this is just another one of his research trips and not his first ever population operation. He pats his shoulder once, tells him to bring him back something called a ‘Nintendo DS’ that his partner Taehyung has been begging for since the last time they went to Planet 43 Z-7, but Jungkook has no idea what that is.

And then he’s off.

Jungkook has long since grown comfortable with the emptiness of space, a desolate feeling that oddly made him feel at home. But, as he hurtles towards his destination, there’s a newfound sense of anxiety that consumes him at the thought of this unknown planet— this ‘Earth’ that his fellow Sixamian friends speak so highly about.

He lands in a field. Well, ‘lands’ is a bit of a stretch; his pod comes to a stop a few feet above Planet 43 Z-7’s surface, hovering over the natural flora that seems to grow in abundance in this part of the planet. It’s… dirty, compared to the sleek skyscrapers and glowing structures of Sixam.

He steps out tentatively, the vegetation crunching beneath the boots of his skintight spacesuit. The folks back at Sixam had told him that whatever the residents of this planet breathed in was compatible with Sixamians, but he still hesitates to click off his helmet.

The planet is quiet, save for the quiet chirping of some creature underground. The AI on his helmet pulls up the information before his very eyes, the advanced technology quickly tapping into wherever it was these beings stored their information. A mole cricket, he reads, first documented by a researcher about two hundred human years back. Very annoying.

His pod seals itself shut again, presumably heading back into orbit until Jungkook calls for it again. With it gone, he’s faced with the vast nothingness of Planet 43 Z-7, just grass and trees with very few things in between. He’s beginning to suspect Jimin might have sent him to the wrong coordinates, a void space on the planet with nothing but vegetation for miles.

Part of him is frustrated, beyond annoyed that he cannot even complete the one thing he came to do if there is no being in sight. But another part, the part of him that had been nervous to even accept this mission, feels grateful. Well, there was no use complaining about it now, he thinks. He pulls up his virtual journal, ready to catalogue every bit of vegetation he can set his eyes on.

After a while, his helmet becomes stuffy, the digital screen that plays over the glass piece fogging up with his breath. So Jungkook takes his chances and clicks it off, the sudden wash of oxygen filling his lungs quickly. It’s fresh and moist? It smells like his laboratories back on Sixam, the ones that took years of countless trips around the universe and meticulous gardening to cultivate. Yet here on Planet 43 Z-7, this type of phenomenon is common, and apparently, ignored by its residents.

One man’s trash was another man’s treasure, he supposes.

He’s scanning a peculiar organism, reddish and dome-shaped, when he hears the first crack of a twig. Immediately, his defenses rise. Jungkook was by no means a skilled warrior, but most Sixamians fared better than other creatures in the universe. Save for the few barbarian, primitive species they’ve encountered, 9/10 times any wild encounter was in their favor.

His eyes scan over the perimeter of the field, scanning, scanning, scanning— until he spots two, huge, glowing yellow eyes from distance. His eyes widen, flicking on the retractable blaster from his wrist and pointing it at the creature.

It’s bigger than him, with eyes that look over only a short distance before gradually dying down. He wonders if that’s the scope of its field of vision, crouching down along the vegetation. He creeps closer, rounds the bright beams until he can see the creature’s side, an oddly shaped thing, almost like a shell. It has wheels, he realizes, mentally jotting down the fact this species is advanced enough to develop such technology on their own.

Right as he’s beginning to lower his wrist, deciding this metal creature posed no threat from its lack of movement, something smaller moves around it, carrying a compact version of those glowing eyes.

Jungkook panics, wildly clicking through the modes on his wrists. He jumps from his blaster to the thermal detector, and the smaller creature that moves around the metal beast has a heat signature he’s never seen before, warmth that begins at its core but doesn’t drop drastically as it fans out. And then he’s switching to his electroscope and is startled to see that the smaller creature even carries an electric charge beneath its outer membrane.

This is terrifying, he thinks to himself, wondering why his friends back home had decided to trick him into believing Planet 43 Z-7 was remotely safe.

Before Jungkook can act rashly and accidentally kill that terrifying creature, he’s blindly stepping into a hole in the ground, a dip in the field. An uncontrollable yelp tears itself from his throat at the roll of his ankle.

Immediately, the yellow eye is upon him, flickering over his kneeling form in the vegetation. Jungkook freezes, caught in the all-seeing rays of the yellow eye. He wonders if this is the end, the end of an undoubtedly legendary run, as the creature slowly approaches.

Its figure is shrouded, the blinding eye turning them into just a silhouette that closes in on Jungkook fairly quickly. He squeezes his eyes shut, wishing he never stepped out of his pod, when the beam flickers off.

“Hello?” a hesitant voice calls out, and then he’s met with you.

You had always believed holding out until marriage would come as an advantage. You played it safe your entire life, always did what you were told. You had grown up in a relatively traditional household, always following the rules like a good kid. Your parents said no dating until seventeen? You waited until seventeen. Your health classes in school said practice abstinence? You practiced abstinence.

Following the rules was what got you into a prestigious university. Following the rules is what got you your first, quite admirable, job. Following the rules is what had gotten you into your first serious relationship with your boyfriend, who became your fiancé, who would become the man to cheat on you three nights before your wedding.

Being a virgin— that symbol of purity —was supposed to make you desirable to men, you thought. It was supposed to protect you from bad experiences, keep you perfectly polished until the time came. You had many a friend who had engaged in sex at a young age, experienced mind blowing sex that would never be topped, even by their own future husbands. You had saved yourself from disappointment by saving yourself in general.

Except that concept, that meticulously followed tradition, was what ultimately drove your fiancé away.

Three days.

Three days before you would marry and lose that treasured thing you had been carrying around for the past twenty-five years, flushed clean down the drain all because he couldn’t wait any longer. He had managed four years with you, four memorable years where he had religiously told you he loved you every chance he got, regardless of your lack of sex life. Just to blow it for some barely legal chick at a bar.

Needless to say, you were done. Absolutely finished with him and your friends who claimed they “weren’t surprised” only after the fact, or your parents who had urged you to try again. You were done with this saving and waiting all for a man who ultimately did you dirty. You needed to get away from it all, and the only way to do that was to leave the city all together.

Your parents were uncomfortable with the idea. They said it was too brash a decision to give up after one try. But your whole future had been riding on this one try, and to have it completely ripped away from you crushed not only your hope but your pride.

On the other hand, your grandmother and her lifelong experiences with men understood you just perfectly. She was old, living in a retirement home near your parents’ home in one of your city’s many suburbs. There was a house out in the countryside, about a two-hour drive from the city. She had grown up there, and even though she hadn’t lived there in years, she simply couldn’t bring herself to sell it off. So she gave it to you.

It was a cute little thing, a stereotypical farmhouse surrounded by miles and miles of nothingness. Well, your neighbors were about half a mile off on either side, but who was walking half a mile for a cup of sugar? No one.

You loved it.

It was peace and quiet, long days of focusing on yourself and your tiny garden outback. There was no societal pressure to act right, or forced ideologies to make yourself the ‘perfect woman.’ It was just you and a stray cat that visited now and then, spending day after day reading and writing, working from home.

The trips into the city were far and few between. There was a general store close to your house, nestled into a quaint little town you visited every so often. And the mailmen still had to make their stops through here, so everything was practically at your fingertips. The only thing you had to do in the city was drop by the main branch office of your job. Your work had mostly been over a computer before, so moving to work at home was rather easy. However, there was still the occasional board meeting to sit through.

So here you were, three months into your new living situation and on your way back home from the city. The evening sun is beating down hot on your yellow Beetle. You were in desperate need for a check up, but you kept pushing it off and telling yourself tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow. It seems tomorrow should have been today, because by the time the sun is setting, home is still another thirty minutes away and the temperature gauge is climbing to unhealthy levels.

The Beetle pushes for another two minutes before wheezing to a stop in the middle of nowhere, your angry slaps against the dashboard doing nothing to revive it. With a muttered curse, you switch the car off. The front lights remain on even as you round the dead car, angrily kicking the tire with your heel. It doesn’t budge.

You sigh, sinking down to your knees beside the opened door you came out of. The nearest mechanic was still a forty minutes’ drive from here, and you doubt anyone is still open. The con of small towns is that most of the businesses close after sunset. One glance at your phone lets you know it’s way too late to call anyone for help. You contemplate just walking to your house, but it’s dark and far, and your heels were only meant to be worn for an hour or two during your meeting. Not for an entire transcontinental trek back home.

Sighing, you decide your best bet is tinkering around yourself. You weren’t a total idiot, so you hope whatever is wrong with your car is something you can fix on your own. You shoot back up to your feet, patting the blood back into your face as you round the car.

There’s nothing but you and the Beetle for miles on end— or so you think.

Just as you flicker your flashlight over the expanse of grass, there’s a startled shout that scares the living daylights out of you, flashlight fumbling in your hand in your haste to see what it was.

Great, so not only were you stranded in the middle of nowhere with nothing but your heels to carry you to safety, but now there was also a man out there, hiding in the tall grass like a voyeur.

It’s a terrible idea, but you approach him anyway. There’s a huddled figure, a gleam of a bizarre outfit that has you shaking in your heels as you step closer to the edge of the road. And when you finally get close enough, the light shining over their figure, you’re not exactly sure what you’re looking at.

“Hello?” you call out, and are met with the most violet eyes you’ve ever seen in your entire life.

Jungkook thinks you are an odd creature.

To begin with, you carry an electrical charge at your fingertips but are unable to revive your rickety metal ride with said touch. It is undoubtedly a trait he does not remember cataloguing in any other species before yours; it might rival the Sixamians’ aura sensing abilities, the little triangular markings beneath their eyes that allowed them to alter another’s emotions. Electricity beneath surface, he mentally notes for the nth time that night.

The inside of your vehicle is disgustingly mediocre, a mixture of old clogs and pipes he’s only seen in ancient Sixamian textbooks. Still, they’re devastatingly easy to figure out. One simple twist of a lid later and your car is revving back to life. You squeal and clap, clacking around on the frankly terrifying footwear you call heels that are practically knives as stilts.

Amazing, you cry, moving like a mini tornado around him. You don’t seem the least bit phased by his appearance, despite the initial shock you’d gotten when you first made eye contact. Actually, Jungkook thinks you might be the quickest extraterrestrial being to accept his existence as fact. He has to wonder what exactly goes on here that has these Humans, as Jimin has called them, so desensitized to the appearance of otherworldly figures such as himself.

You invite him into your moving death trap, not the least bit concerned with the chest piece of armor he removes and tosses into the seats behind him. Jungkook has been in a lot of near death situations, and somehow your manner of driving this metal box marks high on the list.

“My home,” you tell him when you finally pull up to a tiny shack of a house. It’s about the same size as his personal lab back on Sixam, so he wonders just which one of you is being deluded by the size. The car engine shuts off with a practiced flick of your wrist, and then you’re making your way up the front steps without sparing him a glance.

“Lovely,” he says at the entrance. He moves to travel deeper inside, but you warn him to remove his shoes. He does, hesitantly, bare feet padding along the wooden floors behind you. “Forgive me,” he apologizes, watching you bumble around a small space with a standing cooler and heat box. “I haven’t asked your name.”

You hum, tugging out two cups from a hanging cabinet. You fill them with a white substance, followed by a light brown powder that almost makes you sneeze, before shoving them into the heat box that begins suspiciously counting down. “__ ___,” you offer.

Jungkook frowns. “You have two names?” he asks skeptically. In Sixam, rarely anyone had two names. “Are you a government official?”

You laugh. “No, but I do work for an office. I have one name, and then my last name,” you explain.

This only perplexes him more. “A last name?” he repeats. “What is the purpose of this last name?”

You shrug, and the heat box beeps loudly. Jungkook twitches, ready to aim his blaster once more but you calm the beeping box with a gentle click that has the front opening, the most heavenly scent wafting into his nostrils. Oh Jungkook definitely needed to take that back. Much to his surprise, you hand him one of the handled cups, the sweet smell making his eyes roll into the back of his head.

“Well,” you say, seemingly unaware of the way you just changed Jungkook’s entire life. “I have my name, and then I have my family’s name. Like, to show we’re in the same group, kinda,” you explain. “And it also helps sort of differentiate you from other people with the same first name.” You settle down on a seat in front of the counter, carefully blowing across the liquid contents of the mug. Jungkook doesn’t get why until he tries to take a sip and the liquid scalds his tongue. You laugh. “Gotta cool it down, silly.”

He feels silly. In fact, he feels beyond embarrassed that someone who is not a Sixamian is looking at him with the same eyes you look at an infant with. He has a strong need to reinforce his superiority over you.

“Well I am Jungkook,” he announces proudly. “Jungkook of Sixam. The only Jungkook of Sixam, because we do not believe in sharing something as intimate as our names with another,” he huffs. You scoff, a genuine look of amusement crossing your features that Jungkook simply does not understand.

It’s with a practiced grace that you set your cup down on the counter, face coming to a rest in in the palm of your hand as you watch him talk over himself about the intricacies of Sixamian names, and how each one is carefully selected at one’s first celebration to honor the first long year of life they overcame. That look on your face, that disgustingly entertained expression does not melt away, even when Jungkook hastily calls your people imbeciles to your face.

“Yeah, well,” you shrug, staring deep into the contents of your hot cocoa, as you had called it when offering him a second cup, as if you don’t seem to disagree in the slightest. “Humans are like that.

There’s a quality to your voice, a rather melancholy tone that curls around your words that stops Jungkook’s tirade against your race for a moment. There’s a look in your eyes, hollow and alone, that he cannot place. He wonders if it’s from past experiences or from a shared Human trauma. Either way, he does not understand.

It’s with a shake of your head that you look up at him again, sweet smile back on your features. “Humans are selfish creatures, Jungkook,” you say.

He is not sure if he believes you.

Jungkook has traveled to many parts of the universe, has visited places your tiny Human brain may never comprehend. Yet he has not always received this treatment. There have been missions where he has been picked on and abused for his curiosity, rudely ejected back into the vast emptiness of space just because he wanted to know more, learn more. Not every planet welcomes him with a soft smile and a warm place to stay.

Despite the initial unimpressed confusion he felt upon entering Planet 43 Z-7, there is something about the quirk of your lips and gentle tapping of your fingers that intrigues him.

Huh, he thinks, subconsciously cataloguing your mannerisms in his head. He will write about this later.

You let Jungkook sleep in your quarters, a small area with a mattress that he sinks into with delight. There’s a change of clothing you set out on the edge of the bed, a rather shabby set that matches yours. He is reluctant to peel away his bodysuit, even more so when he realizes he is standing naked on a foreign planet with a very strange creature clattering around downstairs. He hurries into the clothes.

You peek your head into the room later on, carefully flicking off the lights as he settles onto the mattress. Jungkook is beyond tired, body fatigued from hurtling thousands of light years through space in such a short amount of time. The abundance of breathable oxygen is still something his body has to grow accustomed to. Your voice is soft as you whisper out a goodnight farewell that he can only sleepily mumble back.

Jungkook is quite literally the most gorgeous person you have ever seen. Well, person is a stretch considering you’re not entirely sure what he is, or where he’s from. When you found him, sadly crouched in the middle of nowhere, you wanted to convince yourself he was some random college boy lost on his way to a costume convention. But he’s not. His big purple irises are oddly bright, practically luminescent, and that’s definitely not something one could achieve through stage makeup. And he’s not a college student either, despite how youthful he looks, but a foreign being at least three times your age.

Or so he says.

Honestly, you’re torn between wanting to write him off a nutjob or believing he is this highly intelligent extraterrestrial being. In the case he is the latter, you find it odd that of all the planets in your solar system— a whopping eight, maybe nine —he chose crappy old Earth to visit.

Jungkook moves like a fine tuned instrument, graceful limbs wandering around your home and backyard the next morning. His little head piece, a unique accessory that wraps around the base of his skull like a microphone headset or something, seems to keep him in constant communication with his fellow brethren so long as he wears it. So he wears it all the time.

Still, you’re able to differentiate between his messages back home and his mindless mumbles. Those usually happen more often than not, soft muttering as he inspects your garden, vivid descriptions of the plainest things like an onion.

“Lemonade’s ready,” you call, stepping into your backyard. Jungkook peers over your rosemaries like a bunny, wide eyes scanning the pitcher you set out on your back porch’s table. Carefully, he steps around your meticulous rows of vegetables. He’s wearing the clothes you lent him last night, a pair of shorts and a shirt your brother had left when he visited a few weeks ago. They fit him nicely, shorts just shy of his knees.

“This is lemond-aid?” he asks quizzically, tentative hands reaching for the quickly perspiring glass. He has unique markings that begin at his hands, twisting and curling carefully around his arms. They’re gold in the sunlight, contrasting softly against his relatively peachy skin. There’s a matching set on his knees that wrap over and around his thighs, beneath his shorts. He looks every bit the celestial being, yet here he is marveling over the lemon slice balanced on the rim of his glass.

“Lemonade,” you correct, sitting down on your rocking chair. Your floppy sun hat protects you from the brutal rays of the sun, practically scorching in this summer heat. It reminds you of the honeymoon you were supposed to take a few months back. You stomp out the memory.

Jungkook takes tentative sips, stopping every few seconds to smack his lips at the taste. Then, suddenly, he’s plopping down on the wooden planks of your porch criss-cross applesauce. The bracelet-like contraption he had removed from his suit is sitting on his wrist by itself, with Jungkook rapidly tapping some unseeable button on it until a blue hologram appears between the two of you.

“Woah,” you gasp, the projection flawless and stable. Jungkook gets to work tapping at it, unrecognizable symbols appearing on the screen. His glass of lemonade is by his knee, ice tinkling inside.

“Lemond-aide,” he repeats, mouth moving awkwardly around the world. He glances at you for confirmation. You shake your head. Frustrated, he scoots up beside you, pressed against your leg like a puppy. “Say it,” he commands, tapping at his screen once.

You clear your throat. “Uh, lemonade?” you offer. Jungkook nods, clicks something else, and then your voice is repeating itself back to the two of you. He looks for your approval once more. “Perfect,” you nod, slightly bashful to hear your own voice played back like that.

Content with your approval, he gets back to work, clicking and typing wildly at the screen until it’s filled to the brim with those strange symbols. When he’s done, he says his name and date into the same recording device and shuts off his hologram. “It is an interesting thing,” he says quietly, bare feet swinging over the edge of the porch. “A sweet drink procured from a tangy fruit.”

You nod, can’t stop the smile that consumes your features at his childlike wonder. You know it’s not his fault that such simple things astound him, but there’s something about Jungkook’s genuine curiosity and snarky tongue that make you feel young again. Like a teenager in her prime, sitting with a silly high school boy. Not a woman sitting on the cusp of thirty, alone and untrusting of the world.

“What are hot dogs?” Jungkook cuts in abruptly, turning to face you with those purple eyes of his. You can’t help it; you laugh.

“I have some in the fridge,” you answer, leaving your rocking chair and him on the porch. Jungkook doesn’t sit still for long, quietly trailing behind you inside the house. The stray cat is here today, slinking around your ankles as you scour the fridge for the hot dogs. It’s a perfect day for a barbecue, you think, with hot dogs and lemonade.

The cat wanders over towards Jungkook, sniffing at his ankles before nuzzling against him too. “You also have smilodon on your planet,” he comments. “You are comfortable with such murderous beasts in your home?”

You furrow your brows. “It’s just a cat,” you shrug, leaning down to pick up the furry baby. He purrs against your chest while Jungkook glares at it.

“Have you taken its teeth for your own?” he asks.

“What?” you laugh. “He has all his teeth.”

Jungkook frowns. “No, his unusually large canines,” he explains, mimics two giant fangs with his fingers. “Is this a kitten of a smilodon?” You have no idea what he’s saying at this point, rubbing the cat’s back gently as Jungkook talks over himself. He does that a lot, you realize, ramble about facts you would otherwise see as of little importance.

The afternoon is spent grilling hot dogs, Jungkook carefully trailing the cat he has taken to calling Smilodon. You watch from the grill as he follows the cat around the garden, gently shooing it off when it gets too close to your broccoli plants. He’s cute, you think, watching him maneuver around your plants with the grace of a trained dancer.

He absolutely adores the hot dogs, spending another twenty minutes typing out one of those funky journal entries into the computer in his wristband. He asks about the Nintendo DS, something that makes you laugh boisterously at the absurdity of the question.

When it gets dark outside, he stands in one place and stares up at the sky, rendered motionless at the sight. Jungkook doesn’t like coffee, but he loves hot cocoa. He settles in to watch the nightly news with you, every five minutes filled with an abundance of questions about your planet— which he refers to by a unique set of numbers and letters you’ve never heard before —and what you like to do. Every tidbit of information is documented in his wristband.

He sleeps on the couch this time, feeling shameful to have pulled you away from such an amazing mattress. He says goodnight shyly from the bottom of the stairs, followed by a tentative wave he saw you give the mailman that morning. You say it back and fall asleep, the alien in your living room not making a peep.

Thus a whole week passes with Jungkook of Sixam.

On the seventh day of his stay, Jungkook is woken up by the quiet beeping of his headpiece. It’s Chief Kim Namjoon, calling to ask how his population operation of Planet 43 Z-7 is going. Jungkook stills, the quiet chirping of the birds outside your window filling in the space. The water is running somewhere inside your house, signaling your conscious state.

His answers are quick and sharp, nervous laughter falling from his lips as he rushes to end the call with Namjoon. He manages to do so just as you appear in the living room, skin nice and dewy from your morning shower, eyes still showing signs of your peaceful slumber.

“Good morning,” you rasp quietly, a soft ruffle of his hair as you pass by Jungkook on your way to the kitchen. His face feels warm, under eye markings surely glowing a vivid red at the gesture you have gradually ingrained into him, one that makes his heart rev up like an engine preparing to shoot off millions of light years into the distance.

Jungkook enters the kitchen behind you, your pet smilodon greeting the two of you with a gentle head butt against his ankles that is unlike any other smilodon he has encountered before. He sits at the counter as you work on breakfast, the faint scent of your cucumber body scrub wafting by with every turn you make in the small kitchen.

And then he’s thinking.

There are a few crucial bits of information that Jungkook has come to realize over the past week, some of which he hears directly from you, others he picks up from watching your ancient projection in the living room.

One: of the variety of human genders that exist on Earth, you are one that seems to carry the specific set of bodily structures necessary for reproduction. He’s inspected you carefully the last few days, watching the way you move and carry yourself, just to ensure such is true. By finding you right away, Jungkook was halfway to his goal of settling his seeds on Planet 43 Z-7.

Two: unlike most humans of Planet 43 Z-7, your body seems oddly… preserved, to say the least. He knows you are familiar with their reproductive rituals as he’s watched a few of said rituals on the projection box in your living room with you. They were very normalized among your people, with almost every broadcast including at least one mention of them every day. Despite that, your body shows no significant reaction to the scenes, and one sneaky scan of your vitals shows Jungkook that you have yet to participate in this ritual yourself.

Lastly, Jungkook has come to the terrible, godawful conclusion that he does not wish to rope you into breeding with him for the sake of Sixam’s colonialist ways. There’s something about you and your people that does not deserve to be seized by Jungkook and his people. A sort of untouched quality of the progression of your species.

As the oldest and most advanced planet in quite possibly the entire universe, Sixam holds significant power over everyone else. Their higher order brains have helped many a planet follow the right path in attaining the same level of perfection. They were saviors of some sort, touching every planet they visited with the finger of a god. While there were certainly some Sixamians who did not believe in this way of life, of stretching their hold across entire galaxies, others did.

Jungkook had always fallen in the middle. He had no particular desire to reign over the planets he visited, because his interests had always laid with the existence of the individuals on said planets. He was a researcher, not a military official like Namjoon or Jin. But he has to admit that time and again his research has procured the same results; while there were certainly other planets where the beings were more beautiful or the landscape more stunning than that of Sixam, there was not a single planet that matched their advanced mental capabilities.

Until now.

Your civilization moved in a rather fluid way, always changing and never settling. There were eras he learned about on TV, revolutions where one invention rose to prominence, where one sub-race rose to power. Even now, a simple scan through your news broadcasts leaves Jungkook curious. For the first time in a long time, his countless journal entries of information do not lead him to a plausible conclusion. Would you make it right and settle your disputes? Or would this endless fighting, sometimes carried out passively and through words, other times with the use of advanced weaponry, continue until the end of time? Jungkook didn’t know.

And it was wrong of him to ask you to carry the burden of introducing an entirely new species— a Human and Sixamian at once —for the sole belief that it would somehow “fix” your planet. For the sake of your people, it was best if Jungkook just bugged off.

And yet, the soft scent of your body lotion, the gentle brush of your hands against his scalp, the delicate way his name rolls off your lips like you’re tasting it for the first time, they all make his heart beat unnaturally fast beneath his skin. They make him yearn for a feeling, an emotion, he cannot quite describe.

He was in trouble.

Ovulation creeps up on you early into the next week.

You hadn’t been too focused on it this time around, mostly just worried about your period and how awkward it would feel around Jungkook of Sixam. Preoccupied with stockpiling pads and finding your heat pad, you forget about the few days before the period. The time where your libido rages like an animal that has been poked at one too many times.

The realization dawns on you slowly. Jungkook is sitting on the couch, avidly watching a documentary on ancient civilizations. He’s got one hand in a bowl of popcorn you set out for him, another mindlessly toying with a stray thread on a throw pillow. It’s when he looks at you with those big purple eyes, lips pouty and pink, that something distinctly carnal flickers on inside of you.

You ignore it. You wrap those feelings in a box and shove it deep into the recesses of your mind.

But Jungkook was devastatingly handsome, that much you’d known from the moment you saw him. When he’s not in the sun, those Sixamian markings wrap around his body in charcoal streaks, peeking out from the hem of whatever clothes you find for him everyday. For the most part, he’s been running through the pack of plain shirts you picked up from the general store, and the same two pairs of shorts on rotation. His body is artfully toned, thighs big and bulging, but waist small and tapered. His lower lip is the juiciest pink color you’ve ever seen, plush and soft, framing two rows of pearly white teeth. His hair is jet black, part favoring one side more than the other.

His hands are firm on the rare occasion he touches you; on your hips when you stumble around the kitchen, on your shoulder when he’s pointing out a particular constellation to you. Jungkook’s presence slowly begins driving you to insanity.

The worst thing is, you cannot tell if his curiosity comes from your status as a potential partner or his overall interests in your species. You want to convince yourself that he is just as interested in your body as an individual as you are his, but those hopes are dashed with every question he asks. Where does the sink drain? Where does the chocolate powder come from? How far is the nearest government official?

So you calm your thoughts, push them away with the same practiced ease you’ve mastered from a young age. Your purity remains untainted by others, only teased in the shower when Jungkook is wandering around outside. Then and only then do you offer yourself a reprieve, press your fingers down between your thighs and wonder what it is like to have someone else there.

You picture two purple eyes peering up at you from below, a pink tongue carefully licking against your puffy folds until you’re shaking. How well endowed was a Sixamian? You didn’t know, but you imagine them to be quite big if the subtle shifts you catch of Jungkook every now and then are any sign.

One finger wiggles past the tight ring of muscle surrounding your hole, the intrusion makes your knees buck. You sink along the shower wall, huffing and puffing as your fingers dance along your swollen clit, thumb swirling hurried circles around the bud until you’re cumming, body spasming from the force.

The water rains down on you, washes your shameful acts down the drain. Vaguely, you wonder if Jungkook is still outside or if the heat drove him into your air conditioned home. Did he hear you? For all his curiosity, you’re certain there are some aspects of the human experience that Jungkook did not want to see. His roommate/caretaker/only-human-friend masturbating was probably one of them.

It has been years since your fantasies included any other man, faithfully revolving around your ex-fiancé until the very end. It is scary how quickly the mere idea of Jungkook riles you up, how that violet gaze is enough to tear you apart.

When you resurface in the living room, the house is still. The only sounds are that of the grandfather clock in the hallway and the occasional creaking of the pipes. Jungkook is still outside, you sigh in relief, catching his fluffy head of hair bounding across the front yard with Smilodon on his heels. When he turns, you catch his eyes and he pauses. He offers you that same cute wave he learned last week, gentle smile gracing his features.

It’s the soft curve of his cheeks, eyes crinkling at the corners, that make the rapid thumping in your chest settle. You raise your hand, waving back through the window. All was well.

For now.

The next morning brings with it an overwhelming sense of anxiety. Namjoon calls him again in the morning, and this time Jungkook cannot skirt around the truth. He hurriedly tells his friend of his findings, of the beautiful society that flourishes on Planet 43 Z-7, and the never-ending personalities he has the chance of encountering. There is an author fansign, you told him, of a book he thoroughly enjoyed taking place next week. There is a woman in town who can fix any technology sent her way. There is a group of children who pass by and sell you food, these flattened things called Girls Cout Cook Ease. There is so much to see and so much to learn that it has Jungkook unconsciously projecting his excitement via his under eye markings.

You come downstairs mid-call, smiley and ditzy. You were normally a bubbly person, but this much excitement can’t possibly be yours. It’s the sign Jungkook needs to settle down, but Namjoon offers him one too.

Much to his chagrin, he warns Jungkook against getting too comfortable, tells him to finish his operation and scram as quickly as possible. The Higher Sixamian Court does not take kindly to Sixamians becoming enamored with other planets, especially if they are as advanced as Jungkook claims them to be. He’s rushing out information, begging Jungkook to finish or abandon his mission, anything but stay too long, and before Jungkook can respond, their comms are abruptly shut off.

He’s left blankly staring at your coffee table, Namjoon’s caution ringing loudly in his ears.

After the effects of his accidental influence wear off on you, you shake yourself awake, confusedly glancing around the place before shrugging it off. “Morning,” you say, the same as ever, patting his head softly. Jungkook watches you begin your daily routine, the kettle running on the stove as you get to work preparing his hot cocoa.

For a moment he wonders what it’s like to be like this, to live like this. Free from the standards of Sixam as you go about your morning. There is no drive in you to conquer everyone, no overwhelming need to ‘fix’ those around you. You exist by yourself in this tiny house outside the city, like a moon always circling but never interacting. He knows you have your own circumstances that drove you here, issues where you suffered that same grueling past of people forcing ideas and beliefs upon you as Jungkook. But now you’re here, housing an extraterrestrial being such as himself without any payment.

He wants to be like you.

He wanders over towards the kitchen, returning your sleepy smile when you catch his gaze. Jungkook likes this. He enjoys seeing you in the morning, still trailed by the remnants of sleep, with skin tender to the touch. The smell of cocoa filling his nostrils, the chirp of the birds outside your window. He likes Smilodon and the mailman, and the woman half a mile from here who brought you peaches the other day.

Most importantly, Jungkook likes you.

Not as a breeding partner or convenient hostess, but as a person. Your laughter makes him feel warm inside, like he is genuinely appreciated as is. You’re gentle with your words, and even more so with your touch; hands pat his head, hold his arm when he stumbles too close to the garden.

Jungkook does not want to impress the frankly tyrannical ways of his planet on you. He just wants to stay here and keep your couch warm for you, hold your hair back when you wash your face in the morning.

He wants to remain beside you.

It’s a little stuffy inside your house today, a problem you solve by cracking open the kitchen window. A nice breeze flows over the two of you, pushing the scent of the cocoa and your coffee his way. But a sweeter one follows, something thick and earthy that rolls off of you in waves. Jungkook squeezes his eyes shut, tries to ward off those sounds he heard from you just yesterday afternoon.

Those whiny sounds, airy whimpers that had drifted down from upstairs. A wet squelch that had registered a little too loudly to his superior ears. It had haunted him last night on the couch, made Jungkook twist and turn until the fuzzy image of you relieving yourself went away.

Jungkook wanted to help with that too. He wanted to put his hands and his mouth in places you needed him most, pleasure you like you deserved.

But how could he tell you all this and more? Did he even have the right as an invader to profess his infatuation to you? This Planet 43 Z-7, this Earth, was filled to the brim with interesting things, yet you remained at the very top of Jungkook’s list. He couldn’t leave, not now, but he couldn’t stay either. His entire presence in itself was a ploy to spread his seed, a fact you continued to be unaware of.

Namjoon’s words bounce around his brain, twist and wrap around him until he’s shakily reaching for his mug. He couldn’t stay here any longer under this false pretense. He couldn’t lie to you another day, another second more. He was tired of being a sheep. It’s with this conflicting resolve that he commands himself to confess this to you at once.

So he spills it all out to you.

From the complex history of the Sixamians to his assignment of this mission. You listen quietly as you munch through breakfast, nodding along to each new point he brings up that changes the story. He tells you about the population mission, about how he was sent here to spread his superior genes over the land, but how he’s let that sit on the back burner while you taught him all sorts of new things. If you are unimpressed with Jungkook and Sixam, you don’t show it.

“So you came to... breed?” you ask when he has finished, hands neatly folded on your lap. Breakfast is finished, plate scraped clean.

Jungkook nods shamefully. “I was asked to contribute to the reconstruction of Planet 43 Z-7,” he says, repeating the practiced reasoning every Sixamian has heard at least once in their life. But in front of you, it makes him cringe.

The grandfather clock in the hallway clicks along quietly, the soundtrack to Jungkook’s desperate read of you. Your eyes are focused on the plate before you, lost in thought at the abundance of information he has just thrown on you. He could easily switch his influential abilities back on, brighten your mood like he has been taught to do with countless other species since the beginning of time. But it feels wrong to subject you to that, to strip you of your emotions, even if it would save him the discomfort.

Instead he sits in silence.

Jungkook waits patiently, even though every fiber in his being is telling him to get up and make a run for it. Escape before he can see a look of disgust aimed his way. But he has come to value your opinions as equal to his, and the thought of leaving you by yourself does not sit well with him. So he waits.

It takes a few minutes of contemplation before you grace him with an answer, nervously rubbing your hands over your thighs. “I understand, Jungkook,” you exhale tightly. “But I don’t think I’m the partner you are looking for.”

“No! I was not— It was not my intention,” he stammers, waving his hands all over the place in his hurry to explain. He sucks in a sharp breath. “I do not wish to force such a burden on you, __,” he manages, “I would not do that to you.”

He is about to pat himself on the back for his save, when suddenly the corners of your lips take a sharp drop. “Oh, I see,” you mutter, arms self consciously wrapping around your frame. “So you don’t see me as a suitable partner?”

Jungkook’s eyes widen at your drawn conclusion. “No,” he chokes, and your frown deepens. “I mean, yes, I do see you as a viable partner to engage in reproductive activities,” and now he’s spiraling, the surprised look on your face only fueling his pea-brained ramblings, “I just—I assumed you did not enjoy that?

His excuse sounds so unbelievably weak even to his own ears.

“What made you think that?” you ask. At the rate this conversation is going, Jungkook fears his brain will soon fry itself out.

His mind is a spinning mess, like the inside of a vacuum that rumbles and turns with each new thought that enters. What was he supposed to say? That he’s heard you in your most intimate moments, moments where you hid from him? Or that he’s done countless scans on your body when you weren’t looking and came to the same result every time; that result being that you have never been touched by another before? And what was he supposed to draw from these conclusions if not that you abhorred such intimacy?

“I-I heard… you,” Jungkook admits quietly. “And, I felt your emotions. They were nervous.” He does not need his thermal detector to feel the heat that floods your face. “I did not want to impose on such a fragile moment,” he continues. “And I apologize if my actions have made you uncomfortable.”

“No, no,” you wave off, pressing the back of your knuckles to your cheeks. “I apologize for doing something so inappropriate with you in my house.”

Jungkook’s brow furrows. “Do you not enjoy participating in sexual activities, __?” he asks curiously.

You gulp loudly, obviously startled by his question. Which part of it, Jungkook doesn’t know. He nudges your knee with his, urging you to answer. A shaky exhale, and then you’re rambling. “I-No, I do,” you rush out, avidly avoiding his gaze. “I, um, I just have never, uh, been with anyone.”

“Oh,” Jungkook blinks. “Is that why your reproductive areas are strangely well preserved for a being your age? I was beginning to wonder about the complexities of Human reproduction after meeting you, __. Is there a certain tradition one must follow to copulate with you?”

“No, no,” you rush to correct. Jungkook has obviously said something that upset you, because when you speak again your aura is tainted with the hints of irritation. “Tradition is stupid,” you explain slowly, a sense of heartache consuming him at your rather lonely figure. He is beside you, yet feels a thousand light years away from your heart. “I was just a fool.”

His gaze softens, carefully placing a hand on your knee comfortingly. He doesn’t have to say anything more, just let you know he isn’t far at all, and you understand. You lean against his shoulder, the same sad look in your eyes. The grandfather clock ticks on in the hallway, in sync with the slow rhythm of your heart. Jungkook places a kiss to the crown of your head.

The day drags on.

Your morning chores are finished quickly with Jungkook at your side. He obsesses over the plants and plays with Smilodon. You make apple juice today with the fruits that fall from the tree out front. Jungkook enjoys it, but not as much as lemonade. Still, it gets its own entry in his log.

He asks more questions about your world, straying away from the ones he had last week that seemed to exclusively revolve around the fauna and flora. Now, he is interested in your Human way of life. The TV confuses him, and he doesn’t quite understand the difference between dramas and news stations. So you explain as best you can for him.

His main issue lies in his inability to comprehend the constant strife within your planet, especially when you explain to him topics like poverty or homelessness. Sixam is nothing like Earth, he says, because everyone on Sixam is looked after and taken care of as deemed appropriate. There is no division of classes because deep down, every Sixamian acknowledges they are superior to the rest of the universe. It sounds like a utopia to you, but you’ve read enough books to know how those usually turn out.

That fact intrigues Jungkook as well. How Humans can be aware of so many altering concepts and beliefs, yet desensitized to all. He doesn’t get it, and explaining the concept of fiction existing on a separate plane only confuses him more.

Eventually you bring it back to tradition, somehow, that dreaded word you’ve come to abhor. Jungkook enjoys learning about your culture and your way of life, little things you do here and there. But as most things do in your life, the conversation circles back around to your failed marriage.

“Ah,” Jungkook says. “So it is tradition to save your first reproductive act for the one you ‘marry’?” You nod, toes tucked up into the couch. It’s a little before sunset now, the orange hue of the outdoors leaking into your living room. “And then you take their last name? That is very confusing, __. I thought this last name identified you to your fellow Human, how can you so easily change it around?”

You laugh. “It's complicated,” you offer. Jungkook chuckles as well, obviously overwhelmed with all the new information you provided him with today.

Jungkook nods pensively but you doubt he understands. “I see,” he mumbles, fingertip tapping against the armrest he’s leaning against. It’s a tell tale sign that he desperately wants to document what you’ve said in his supercomputer bracelet but is holding back for the sake of this moment. You think it’s rather sweet. “So copulation does not always secure you a partner.”

You shrug halfheartedly. “People have different drives,” you say. “Some of them want love and some just want sex.”

“And you?” he asks suddenly, big purple eyes swirling with entire galaxies. “What would you like?”

A lot of things, you think, but when it comes down to it, when Jungkook asks you with his pretty eyes and pouty lips, you can’t find the right words. “Both,” is your measly reply. “What about you?”

He seems just as thrown off by your question as you, eyes widening as he leans back. The living room is bathed in warm splashes of color, the last of the sun’s rays painting Jungkook in a rather romantic light. You can’t look away. “I too would like both,” he admits, idly tracing the tip of his finger along the markings that decorate the tops of his knees. “This notion of attraction beyond the physical realm is not common in Sixam,” he answers. “Sixam is very… strict about what a relationship entails.

You set your mug down on the side table, shuffling around until your toes poke his hip, arm thrown over the back of the couch. “How so?” you ask.

Jungkook’s lips push out into a frown. “The Higher Sixamian Court has long since ruled that mating rituals between citizens are strictly limited to those that will produce the most immaculate genome,” he says, as if that is just another simple, everyday fact of life. It is for him, but not for you.

“So, are you like… assigned?” you press, suddenly wondering how a being as curious and sentimental as Jungkook has survived so long in a place like Sixam. “And like, do you raise kids together?”

“Until the end of their first era,” Jungkook supplies, as if that makes the slightest bit of sense. “And sort of. Sixam is not that oppressive,” he jokes, but there is something about his eyes missing their usual glow that tips you off. “I have yet to copulate for reproductive purposes.”

You pause. “But you have for… fun purposes?”

Jungkook looks at you seriously. And then, ever so slowly, the little marks beneath the corners of his eyes, the little triangles that usually flare blue, fade into a lovely pink shade. “I-“ he stammers, obviously flustered by your question. “I have.”

Your mouth parts into a little o. “With other Sixamians? Or….” Jungkook flushes, nods meekly. His expression seems off, like it isn’t a particular fond memory he carries. “Was it bad or something?”

He sighs. “It is… very lacking. Nothing like the scenes depicted in your projection box.” He nods towards the TV, you barely contain a giggle at its name. You reach for your mug instead. “There is no,” he waves a hand in front of his face. The last rays of sun catch on his hand and turn his charcoal markings a pretty gold. “No expressions of adoration beyond what is necessary. And I do not particularly enjoy that.”

You nod understandingly. “You're soft,” you tease, watch his little triangles light up again at your words. “It’s okay,” you reassure him, “so am I.”

He says nothing, just stares blankly out the front window as the sun disappears behind the horizons, leaving thousands of glittering lights in its wake. Not man made but natural; right. “I think your last name is lovely,” he suddenly announces. You chuckle against the lip of your mug, but Jungkook doesn’t find it amusing. He turns to you with that sparkling purple gaze, like you’ve hung those stars outside yourself. “There is no other __ ___ like you.”

Your face feels warm, and you’re not sure if it’s from the coffee steam rising from the mug or Jungkook’s unexpected reassurance. It makes your heart tender, sends a shock through your system that leaves your body buzzing. “Thank you,” you say sincerely, covering the palm he rests over the couch with yours.

Jungkook doesn’t say anything else, but he doesn’t need to.

Ovulation ends, but your blossoming feelings for Jungkook do not go away.

The next morning his comms remain shut off. Jungkook has never had his communications back home cut off, save for the time in his first era where he brashly spoke out against his superior in a lab. He was young and had much to learn, took too many risks and didn’t consider the consequences. He guesses he hasn’t grown much since then as he watches you tend to your garden.

“Smilodon urinated in the closet,” he announces, witnessing the smile slowly slip off your features. He lets you revel in your annoyance for exactly two seconds before following with the phrase he heard on your box the other day. “Just kidding! You are being prank’d.

Your frown is nothing like the expression the program’s contests exhibited following their supposed pranking. “Jungkook, that’s not funny,” you huff and his heart sinks. A soft snort. “Okay, maybe a little,” you concede with a terribly contained smile.

He bounds over, kneels down beside you, and begins pulling the overgrown weeds out with you. “I saw it on the projection box the other day,” he explains excitedly, tossing the weeds into the bag between you two. “I did not know such pleasure could be received from silly broadcasts like that.” You nod, say something about all kinds of dumb shows existing before a pout taints your lips. “What's wrong?”

A long sigh from you. “I think the sun isn’t reaching these,” you tell him, lifting the stem of a sad looking tomato plant. It’s the closest one to the house, often covered by the house’s shadow when the sun shines best. “They’re sad.”

He tilts his head to the side quizzically. “Sad?” he repeats, reaching for his wristband before he can stop to think. If his extensive journaling reads right, your planet’s vegetation follows similar patterns to that of another’s, requiring allotted amounts of sunlight and water to flourish. “How can it be sad?”

Caught up in his notes, he doesn’t realize you’ve migrated to the other side of the garden now, dutifully picking out more weeds. “Well, it looks sad doesn’t it?” Jungkook glances back again. The tomato stalk is significantly droopy and malformed, smaller than its brethren who sit only a few inches away in direct sunlight. It’s colors are dulled and almost… sad. Huh. How peculiar.

He chances one glance back at you, deems you far enough, and then channels the entirety of his energy towards the tomato plant. It wiggles a few times, kind of like it’s dancing, before you’re calling his name from the other side. “What’re you doing?” you ask, hand on your hip. Jungkook stills.

“Um,” he drawls. The plant returns to its sulky state.

Garbage bag full of weeds, you pass by him with a shake of your head. “Don’t do anything weird to my plants, silly,” you chide. Jungkook huffs, follows behind to take the bag off your hands. You thank him, join him for his walk around the house until he tosses the bag into the garbage can out front. Before he can retort and engage you in a playful argument regarding his superior abilities, you’re crouching down by the spigot out front. It’s making a weird hissing noise that has Jungkook frowning as he walks over.

Right as he approaches, you make the amateur mistake of turning the handle, water spewing out from the gap between the spigot’s mouth and where it’s supposed to meet the hose. You screech, and Jungkook can’t shut it off fast enough.

In the end, both of you are drenched.

“Ugh,” you groan as you walk around the house to the unlocked back door. Jungkook trudges behind, just a teensy bit annoyed by the mud that quickly stains his rubber sandals. “This is so annoying!” you complain loudly, shaking yourself off like Smilodon when it accidentally fell into the sink the other day. “Ruined my day.”

At that Jungkook frowns. He does not want your day to be ruined, especially not by some faulty spigot outside. You were too good for such emotions, too perfect in his eyes. Sadness and the like did not suit you; they had no place ruining your beautiful features. You’re huffily patting yourself down at the back porch now, distress prominent on your features as you most likely consider the second load of laundry you will have to do today.

The tomato stalk glances at him sadly from the ground, and before Jungkook can stop himself, he’s breathing in deeply and pushing his generally relaxed attitude onto you. You can be mad later, but right now Jungkook doesn’t want to see you sad. It’s effective immediately, your gloominess quickly fading away. You breathe in deeply, eyes falling shut, and when you open them again you’re offering him the most gentle smile he has ever seen.

And a soaked through shirt that highlights the shape of your red undergarments. Jungkook’s eyes widen, unconsciously flicking down to the sight you present him with, and a different emotion floods his senses.

It’s quite possibly his biggest mistake. Because while he can easily look away, it takes longer for those emotions to fade, and soon they’re being reflected on you.

“Wow,” you exhale, shaking your head in confusion because these aren’t your emotions— you probably know they’re his. Jungkook feels terrible instantly.

“I’m sorry,” he rushes out, scrambling up the steps to guide you inside. Simultaneously, he’s shutting down his influential abilities, scolding himself for slipping up with you like this. You most certainly did not want to feel this way around Jungkook, yet here he was quite literally projecting onto you. “Please, let’s go inside.”

You nod, jolt when his hand touches the small of your back as he guides you in. “Oh,” you gasp, and Jungkook has to bite his lip to force himself from making the situation worse, from thinking thoughts you would not approve of. “Why— what's happening?” you ask in a breathy tone, lingering by the staircase Jungkook tries to push you up.

He sighs. “I— I was trying to brighten your mood,” he admits, metaphorical ears pressed against his head like when Smilodon gets scolded for knocking down a plant. “And, um. There was— the, um, sight of your undergarments distracted me for a moment.” You glance down and seemingly become aware for the first time that your bright red bra is on display, shyly covering yourself with your arms.

“Distracted?” you mumble softly, leaning against the banister of the stairs. Your skin is radiating more heat than Jungkook ever recalls, face demurely turned down towards the floor. He could have sworn he stopped projecting minutes again— why were you still behaving like this? Did he break you? Did he exude more energy than he meant to, accidentally extend the length of the emotions? “I’ll go upstairs now,” you announce quietly, touch his arm almost sensually as you pass by.

Your skin is warm, that heavenly scent that Jungkook craved rolling off in waves— but he was certain he’d stopped himself before anything became too overwhelming. Were his emotions stronger than he had fooled himself into believing? There was no way he had felt or looked as riled up when he accidentally influenced you. So where exactly were these emotions coming from? What exactly was making you behave this way even after he’d withdrawn his influence? Could it be...

Jungkook watches with wide eyes, almost certain that your behavior, though sparked by his initial slip up, was entirely your own at this point.

There was a lot of weight behind that.

The water turns on upstairs, and he has to strain his ears, still his breathing, just for a hint of your sounds. But they’re there, quiet successors to the louder moans you’d let out the other day. They make him shiver, melt against the staircase as his cock twitches in his pants. His body comes alive, something distinctly carnal twitching beneath his skin, blossoming out at the base of his spine.

And still, as he grinds his hand into his palm, it is not merely the sight of your red undergarments that render Jungkook useless. No, the ghost of your smile at his poorly executed prank follows, brands itself into the inside of his eyelids as he slowly falls apart.

Was it your own emotions that had made you like that? he wonders, sinking to his knees in the hallway. If you came down right now, you’d certainly catch him. But Jungkook can still hear your muffled cries from upstairs, and furthermore, Jungkook wanted desperately for you to catch him. He knows you won’t, but the idea makes him shiver, has him coming in his bottoms shamefully.

“What the,” he huffs, sweat trailing down his forehead. His brain replays that look in your eyes. That emotion you displayed that, although it may have been planted by him, was taken by you and magnified. Had you been just as excited by the sight of Jungkook’s wet body as he had yours? And if such was the case, was your attraction to him limited to the physical realm?

He doesn’t want to delude himself, but your words from the other day ring loudly in his ears. Soft, you had called him, for wanting something both physically and emotionally intimate. But you were the same, or so you claimed.

Was it so wrong for Jungkook to think that ideology applied now?

That night you join Jungkook outside for his routine stargazing. He sits on the porch while you sit on your rocking chair, mugs of hot cocoa in hand as Jungkook retells his adventures across the universe.

Space is bigger than you thought, with a culture far more complex than Earth’s. It makes you wonder how Jungkook, who has quite literally seen it all, can become so enamored with this place. There’s bigger and better somewhere out there; planets that won’t force terrible traditions on him or task him into ungodly missions. Yet he lingers here, in this quiet space between your garden and your house, head on your lap.

His hair is soft, almost like silk, and he enjoys having it touched. “I do not wish to leave,” he admits quietly, empty mug long since set aside. You hum, encourage him to elaborate. “The beauty of the universe lies entirely on Planet 43 Z-7.”

You snort. “No way,” you say, trace your hand down his jawline. Jungkook says nothing of your wandering hands, skin warm to the touch. Some of his markings decorate his neck, curl around the pale skin in perfectly symmetrical swoops. They creep beneath the hem of his shirt, and you wonder what they look like down there.

You flush those thoughts away, that afternoon’s events still fresh in your mind. From your understanding of the events, Jungkook had been excited at the sight of your body, so he obviously had to hold some attraction towards you. But how much of that was purely physical and how much was emotional?

“I want to have your last name,” he announces suddenly. You choke, breath caught in your throat from the randomness of the statement. Your reaction makes Jungkook pull away from your touch, stare at you with wide eyes like you do him.

“I— what?” you stammer, having gained back your composure. Or at least some of it. “Jungkook, I don’t think you know what that means.”

He frowns, shuffles around until he’s facing you, and lays his head across your lap again. This time, those purple eyes that dance with nebulas and stardust zero in on you. His hair tickles your bare thighs, makes you unconsciously press them together when his warm breath fans across your skin. “You amaze me,” he murmurs, eyes glazed. “I have never seen a being like you, who lives so far off from society, thrive in their own bubble— is it too much for me to want to live like you? Be with you?”

“Huh?” you ask, ever so eloquently.

Jungkook smiles, turns his face to hide it against you. Pink lips brush against your skin, your hands unconsciously shooting into his hair to guide him away. When his head rolls back, he’s got this rather melancholy look on his face. “The beauty of the universe lies entirely on Planet 43 Z-7,” he says again, “and I am looking right at her.”

Your face burns.

Heart hammering in your chest, palms sweaty, you don’t know what to say. He looks at you with that vibrant gaze, drinks you in like you’re the finest of wines and your heart absolutely cannot handle it. Your brain fumbles for a response but by then Jungkook is standing up, head tilted downwards cutely as he observes you. One hand in his, thumb gently swiping over your knuckles. “I would like to show you every expression of adoration possible, __,” he murmurs, presses a kiss to your knuckles before disappearing back inside.

You stay outside, turning his words inside and out, backwards and forwards, until you deduce that Jungkook of Sixam most definitely harbored the same feelings for you as you did for him. It’s odd, because it is exactly what you want but the idea scares you to death. The last time you let a man into your life under a similar guise you ended up wasting years of your life, clinging to this grand finale you never got. And now this foreign being was proclaiming his feelings for you, possibly propositioning you for the same thing.

Did you want Jungkook? Yes, undoubtedly yes. He was free from the shackles of tradition that had held you down so long, didn’t believe in this twisted notion of your body being “sacred.” He was a breath of fresh air, unlike anyone you’ve ever met before (although part of that was due to his alien heritage).

However, he was not free of flaws, and perhaps that is what entices you more.

Jungkook, though he looked and spoke like the perfect man, was a being of his own, with struggles of his own. He too had his own handful of painful memories, toxic ideologies that followed him around. But Jungkook was willing to learn, to change. And you admired him for it.

Tip-toeing back inside, you find the house shrouded in darkness. The steady tick of the grandfather clock lessens the rapid beating of your heart. Jungkook is sitting on the living room couch, legs pulled to his chest. Muscle memory has you reaching out for the top of his head like always, ready to pat his fluffy hair as if you hadn’t just spent the last twenty minutes outside doing just that. He turns around just as your fingers touch his soft strands, purple eyes meeting yours. You trace your hand down the side of his face, knuckles brushing over his cheekbones; he puckers his lips, bestows a second tender smooch against you.

“I like when you do that,” he says, voice unexpectedly loud in the otherwise silent house. As he speaks, he shifts to the side, arm thrown over the back of the couch to look at you completely. You swipe your thumb over his bottom lip and he gulps. “Makes me crazy.”

You chuckle, releasing him to round the couch. Jungkook’s got this sweet smile on his face, hand outstretched for you. When you take it, he tugs you onto the couch, flush beside him. Your thigh is practically thrown over his, his other arm wrapped around your shoulders. You heart flutters and you can no longer look him in the eye.

But that’s okay because Jungkook can. He ducks down, dark hair tickling your skin as his breath ghosts over your lips. “May I?” he asks softly, nose bumping against yours. “May I have the honor of pleasuring you?”

Your breath catches in your throat, answering with a tiny nod that makes his lower lip brush against yours teasingly. “I-If I am suitable,” you mumble, tingles spreading all over your body.

Jungkook smiles, pretty and bright, as he turns his head to slot your mouths together. “No,” he says, “if I am suitable. You are more than enough.” Lips brush against yours, shaky breath meets yours, and then he’s kissing you. Slow yet suave, carefully molding against you as if he is afraid of breaking you. His lips are like two soft pillows, moving against yours in a practiced rhythm that makes you tremble against him. Every bit the measly virgin, but Jungkook likes you just so.

He pulls away with a pop, his figure shadowed by the darkness of the room. But his eyes, purple irises, glow brightly. Like two pools of cosmic dust swirling around his dark pupils. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him like this before, but you hardly saw Jungkook in the dark anyway. He hides them too soon, eyes fluttering shut as he leans in again.

The second time, there’s a faint flick of his tongue against your bottom lip. The action makes you gasp quietly, lips parting for a fraction of a second. But Jungkook is quick, slips his tongue past your lips. It’s lewd; his breath mingles with yours, tongue pushing against yours. Slick and dirty, spit traveling between your two mouths, but Jungkook makes sure you’re okay, sinfully wrapping his lips around your tongue when you get too brave. A moan escapes you, fingers squeezing around his.

Jungkook squeezes back, pushes forward until you’re pressed against the back cushions of the couch. “This okay?” he husks, low-lidded eyes meeting yours when he pulls away. You nod, words caught in your throat. Jungkook’s gaze lasers in on your mouth, and he seems to have an internal debate before eventually pulling away to kiss your neck.

You tilt your head back, choppy exhales creeping out from between your lips as he kisses down the column of your neck, untangling his hand from yours to press against your hip instead. It’s with a devastatingly slow speed that he eventually slinks away, finds himself kneeling between you on the floor with hands dancing over the tops of your thighs. Your heart is beating a thousand miles in your chest, threatening to rip itself right out when he meets your eyes a second time.

He pushes your legs apart, not once looking away as he gently encourages you to raise one. Lips pressed against your knee, slowly trailing down the skin of your thigh. Your hand squeezes at the couch cushions. Jungkook pulls a startled yelp from you when he tugs at the backs of your knees, makes you slump down the couch with your legs perfectly spread out for him, feet flat on the floor. Then he’s back to kissing you, languidly pressing smooch after smooch against your scorching skin until he’s reaching the apex of your thighs, stilling once to look your way.

“Go ahead,” you choke out, hands clutched over your chest, as if that’ll keep your heart from up and running away. Jungkook takes your admission and moves on, puckered lips meeting your mound through your clothing. It’s the first time you’ve ever had someone else so close to your most sensitive areas, and rightly so, you whimper.

“Shh,” he soothes, thumb pressing against your hip as he carefully hikes one of your legs over his shoulder. You’re quivering like a leaf, lower lip bitten raw between your teeth as you watch him move between your legs. “I don’t wish to hurt you,” Jungkook murmurs.

Another press of his mouth against you, this time right over where your bud hides, and the sensation makes your eyes roll to the back of your head. His fingers tighten around the waistband of your shorts, take your underwear with them when he begins pulling them down your hips. You push yourself up briefly, let him slide them down your legs and bare yourself to him for the first time.

Your cheeks flood with warmth, hands unconsciously reaching to pull your shirt down, but Jungkook catches you. Fingers tangle with yours, warm breath fanning over your slick folds. Unconsciously, you tense up at his proximity, the stark realization that this was the moment you had waited for for a good chunk of your life suddenly hitting you. Jungkook seems to notice you crawl inside your head, drawing you back with a squeeze around your hand, luminous eyes meeting yours.

“If you need me to stop, I will,” he reassures you.

The blood is rushing to your ears, his words nearly lost in the madness. “Aren’t you scared?” you ask quietly, voice wobbly, holding his hands so tightly you’re surprised he doesn’t complain.

Jungkook shakes his head. “No,” he answers. “Would you like to know how I feel?”

Hesitantly, you nod. Jungkook’s eyes flutter shut, but the little triangle markings beneath his eyes begin to glow. Like fireflies in the dark, two little lights that intensify as he exhales.

And then, suddenly, you’re flooded with a new wave of emotions, similar to yours but not. They feel like yours, but are distinctly his, make you arch against the cushions with a soft groan.

At the forefront, lust that swarms your senses and makes your body melt into the couch beneath you. It makes you shiver, nipples peaked beneath your top as his feelings and their intensity grow on you. It feels like drowning, like swallowing a thick and sticky substance that lingers in your throat and refuses to go away. It’s how he feels about you at this moment, so strongly it could drown him.

So overwhelmed with that sensation alone, you almost don’t recognize the second emotion that Jungkook takes and pours into you.

Warm and comforting, like being embraced by a thousand doves, kissed by a swarm of butterflies. It’s different from the first, doesn’t tap directly into your physical body, but wraps around your heart, creeps into your thoughts. Until you’re rolling your eyes back open and meeting his, the feeling so plainly spelled out across his features.

Sheer and utter adoration.

“Oh,” you breathe, face scorching to the touch following the emotions Jungkook’s just revealed to you.

He grins, shy, and squeezes your hand. “What do you want to do?”

Biting your lip, you take initiative and hook your knee over his shoulder, the same way he had shown you just moments prior. “Please,” you murmur, “show me more.”

And Jungkook does.

A soft kiss against the inside of your thigh, nose running along your skin teasingly. And then he’s faced with your puffy lips, pink skin slick with arousal. Jungkook sighs softly, tilts his head as if he’s analyzing his next course of action, and then carefully places his mouth against you.

“Mmmh,” you whimper, hips instinctively bucking into the touch, never having felt such intense pleasure before. Jungkook doesn’t mind as he languidly kisses your folds, eyes shut as he loses himself in the motions. The first swipe of his tongue makes you twitch, arms flailing but Jungkook holds them down, entwined fingers pressed against the couch.

His tongue is an entity of its own, wet muscle pressing and licking at your most sensitive areas like it was made specifically for this. Never mind talking, Jungkook’s tongue was made to lap at your pussy like this. He licks a long stripe up from your quivering hole to your engorged clit, curling at the end as if you were nothing more but a sweet for him to mindlessly play with.

Your muscles clench up, the leg thrown around his shoulder unconsciously pulling him closer until his nose is pressed flush against your clit. Jungkook breathes in deeply, moans softly but it sends earth-shattering vibrations up your core until you’re a whimpering mess. “O-Oh,” you cry, sweat clinging to your skin as Jungkook continues lapping at your folds.

He releases one hand, uses it to push your other leg further away to properly slot himself against you. You take the opportunity to wildly reach for him, grabby hands lost in the silky waves on his head as you urge him closer to where you need him most. You’re not even sure where that is anymore, your clit or your entrance, but Jungkook switches between the two just fine.

That warm tongue prods at your entrance, tip sinking inside just enough to make you gasp. It’s a new experience for you, someone’s tongue touching and stroking you there, and it feels like an entirely new door opens from that action alone. You whimper his name, dig your nails across his scalp like maybe he’ll grant you a reprieve and pull away. But you don’t really want that, and so you’re happy when he stays where he is.

The hand that had rested against the juncture of your hip glides up, lays flat over your mound with his thumb idly swirling around your clit. The combination of his tongue breaching your hole and his fingers playing along your clit makes you spasm. “Wait,” you sob, the muscles in your thighs twitching as he licks away. “I-I’m gonna—“

An overpowering wave of relief floods your senses shortly before that last syllable can escape your lips; everything goes tight and then suddenly you’re on a cloud, cum spilling from your heat and onto his waiting tongue. Jungkook licks it all up, slurps loudly against your clit as the last waves of your orgasm run their course. “Beautiful,” he murmurs, kissing up your navel, t-shirt pushed away as he goes.

When he reaches your face, you’re quite embarrassed to find the area around his mouth to be glistening with your juices. “You’re incredible,” he says, easygoing smile on his lips. But there’s something hard and heavy against you, snuggled between your thighs, that makes your face heat up all over again.

You can’t find the words to respond, and lose the opportunity when Jungkook captures your lips with his again. He’s more assertive this time around, roughly pushing against you until you’re certain you’ll bruise. But it feels good, makes you wrap your hands around him as Jungkook grinds down against you. When he pulls away, he’s got this dark look on his face, out of place against such bright eyes.

He says nothing as his hands creep up your waist, push your t-shirt and bra out of the way, until he’s cupping your breasts in his palms. Experienced hands massage them thoroughly, roll the soft skin between his fingers. His mouth is against yours again, tongues pressed together; Jungkook groans and the sound shoots straight between your thighs. He pinches a nipple between his fingers and you whimper, break away from his kiss to hide your face against his shoulder.

His cock is heavy against your folds, the thick material of his pants slowly stimulating you again. The cotton brushes against you, most certainly picks up your wetness as it goes, and Jungkook lets it as he continues to grind down against you with his hands on your tits. Your hands tear their way down his back, fist the material of his shirt in your hands. “Off, off,” you plead, desperate to feel more of him against you.

Jungkook complies, sitting up to yank his shirt over his head. You were right about his markings, dark swoops and circles that decorate his chest and abdomen before tapering down around his waist. Your mouth salivates at the sight, blindly reaching for your own clothes as if one look away will make him disappear.

He doesn’t.

In fact, the removal of both your tops only makes Jungkook hungrier, completely abandoning your lips to suck your breast into his mouth instead. “Jungk— fuck,” you wail, slipping further down the couch as you lose yourself in Jungkook’s embrace. His teeth nibble at your swollen bud, roll the sensitive skin around before pulling off with a wet pop.

Your breath jumps when he reaches behind you, corded arm locking around your waist as he repositions the two of you, unsatisfied with the previous position. He lifts you up with his undoubtedly superior strength, one palm beneath your thigh as he plops you down across the couch more comfortably, head neatly resting on a throw pillow.

Your heart is in your throat, desperate to memorize the man before you, inked skin, lean and meaty, vibrant violet eyes that focus solely on you. Before he can join you on the couch, Jungkook steps away, tucks his thumbs into his waistband and swiftly removes them. His engorged cock, bigger than any you’ve seen in any erotic video— and that was saying a lot —springs up against his navel, flaming tip glaring right at you. Your pussy quivers at the sight.

“Come here,” he husks out as he moves towards you. You welcome him with open arms, a soft groan of his name against his lips as he shoves his tongue past. His hands are everywhere now; one squeezes at your breast, hand molded to the flesh, while the other runs along the underside of your thigh, guides it over his waist. And another tickles around your navel, soft—

You shriek, eyes snapping open as you tug Jungkook over you as a shield. “What was that?” you heave, wide eyes roving over the dark living room, like maybe you’ll find Smilodon traversing the carpet and it was his silky tail that came too close.

But Smilodon doesn’t usually appear at night, nor is there anything else in the living room with you and Jungkook. Your heart hammers in your chest, carefully meeting his dark gaze until something thin and distinctively alive appears over his shoulder. Another scream tears itself from your lips.

“Hey, hey,” Jungkook shushes, pulls away to cup your face in his hands. “Forgive me,” he says tenderly, “we are so similar, I forget you do not possess extra arms.”

You pale. “E-Extra arms?” you choke, eyes focused on the thin ‘arm’ that slinks out from behind Jungkook, almost screeching again when a second one appears on the opposite side. And then a third, a fourth.

It is no arm, but rather… a tentacle? Sans the weird suction cups. They’re thin little things, no thicker than his wrist, that dance behind him as if they have a mind of their own. They move as if suspended in water, soft lilac skin tenderly touching yours. You shiver, its smooth skin odd against your supple flesh. Jungkook relaxes, but draws them back anyway. “Forgive me,” he says again, taking your hand in his to press a peck against it. Your heart flutters at the gesture that was slowly driving you insane. “I shall keep them at bay.”

You nod shakily, but cannot deny the curiosity that picks at you when they slink back into the base of his spine, blend seamlessly against his skin. “What… what do they do?” you ask tentatively.

Jungkook hums as he descends upon you, featherlight kisses against your shoulder and up your neck. “Hmm? They help me out,” he explains mindlessly, pulling you flush against his cock again. A moan tears itself from your throat, eyes fluttering shut as you force yourself to focus on the moment again.

But your hands unconsciously wander down his spine as he kisses you, circle the skin where your swear they had to have disappeared beneath, until Jungkook is pulling away with a confused expression on his face. “Would you like to see them again?” he asks quizzically, sweat forming along his hairline.

You cannot play it off any longer; meekly, you nod. “I— they were interesting,” you admit in a quiet voice, nervously twiddling your fingers over your chest.

Jungkook says nothing for a second, until he’s lightly chuckling and pressing a kiss against your cheek. “Okay,” he concedes, and goes back to rolling his hips against yours.

About to protest, the words are robbed from your throat when something soft and blunt tickles your thigh. “Oh,” you shudder, prevailing through the initial shock as Jungkook’s ‘arm’ slides around the diameter of your thigh to brush against your cunt. It’s silky and smooth, pushes against your lips until it’s emerging past them, slipping inside of you.

You gasp, head lolling backwards as the sensation gets to you. It feels the same as your fingers do when you’re in the shower, but it moves differently, gauging your reactions as it curls within your walls. Jungkook muffles a low chuckle against your chin, kisses spread over you until his tongue is back down your throat.

“Feels good?” he asks, hot mouth against yours. You nod jerkily, hands digging into his biceps. Another appendage tickles around your waist, dips into your navel and makes you giggle. It’s a sound that’s frankly out of place amongst your moans and whimpers, but it makes Jungkook smile. It eventually moves away, continuing its soft caresses elsewhere.

The one that plays in your pussy has your eyes rolling to the back of your head, jaw slack. Perfect for Jungkook who pushes and prods until his saliva is dripping down your throat, catching in the corners of your lips. It impossibly fattens inside of you, makes you choke just as a different one dances around your neck. “I— I,” you stutter, boneless beneath him as the soft tip traces around the column of your neck tenderly, lovingly.

There’s so many different areas to focus on: one rubs comfortingly beneath your breast, while another fucks into your cunt. The contrast has your head spinning, unsure of where to look.

There’s something about the one inside of you that makes you feel so sticky and wet, more so than before. Like it’s oozing something out, making the glide against your walls smoother than before. It makes your body tingle, sends a feeling down your spine that you’re almost certain isn’t normal.

At the same time, there’s a brush along your thigh again, a tight coil around the flesh of your skin tightly that encourages your legs apart. More room for Jungkook to squeeze in. It wraps around you, slithers past its sibling and prods against your ass. Your heart skips a beat, buck into Jungkook’s embrace as it slips between your cheeks— you gasp. It releases that same substance that makes everything so wet. You tremble at the touch, body already so overwhelmed.

Your attention is snatched away before anything can happen, Jungkook tugging you closer until the ridges of his cock are running along your folds, each push sending his goddamn tentacle deeper inside of you. You moan, hands shakily traversing his skin until you’re cupping his face in your palms. “More,” you hoarsely whisper, dazed eyes meeting his. “Please.”

Jungkook nods, presses one more kiss against your lips before shuffling around. The appendage inside of you swiftly recoils, has you shivering from the way it slips out of you so easily. As it finally emerges from your folds, you find it’s slick with cum and something slightly pink, sparkly and wet as if it’s got precum of its own. The sight amazes you, makes you want to touch it. Before you can, it’s moving again. Much to your surprise, it doesn’t go away, doesn’t return to hide within Jungkook’s body, but wraps around his cock tightly. Purple tendril against engorged skin, makes him sigh at the squeeze.

He holds the base of his cock, tongue prodding against the inside of his cheek as he regards you with an unrecognizable look. One hand on your thigh, fingers gripping tightly even before he’s done anything. “Tell me you want this,” he exhales, “please?”

You nod hurriedly, hands reaching for his hips to urge him closer. “Want this,” you assure him, quiver when the head of his cock presses against your folds. Bigger than your fingers, bigger than that damned appendage, and it was going inside of you. “Want this so bad,” you whimper, drawing your bottom lip between your teeth. A squeeze around your breasts, a flick against your nipples. It’s not Jungkook’s hands, and that fact makes you shiver.

They curl around your breasts, frame the mounds gently before the flatted tips meet your nipples, tease them with featherlight nudge.

Eased by the certainty of your words, Jungkook relaxes. He places a hand on your hip, the other still holding his cock as he lines himself up with your throbbing entrance. You’re so wet, dripping in your own cum and whatever that tentacle released, thighs slippery and shiny. The anticipation in your chest swells, pushes against your rib cage until you’re afraid it’ll break. The little markings beneath his eyes flash and suddenly it’s gone, replaced with a sense of comfort that only doubles when he flashes you a tiny smile.

The first press of his cock makes your back arch, has you knocking every throw pillow off the couch as he slowly eases his way in. “Oh god—“ you sob, the sudden intrusion being questioned by every muscle in your body. Immediately, two of his tentacles snap forward, release their soft grip on your neck and their wrap around your breasts to caress up your sides, smooth ends practically kissing your skin with their soft nudges.

They by no means lessen the pain, but their butterfly touches are a nice distraction that tickles your skin, makes you whimper softly as Jungkook slowly sinks into you.

Jungkook ducks over you, tip of his nose against yours. “Breathe for me,” he instructs, even though his breath is labored against yours. One appendage cups your cheek, curls softly around your ear to hold your head still— you feel so spoiled with all the attention. You make an effort, breathe in swiftly through your nose as Jungkook pushes in deeper.

Slowly, the discomfort fades away. It melts and in its wake you’re left with a dull numbing sensation that starts in your toes and magnifies as it reaches your ears. It grows until the weight of his cock inside of you has you drooling, eyes unfocused as you watch Jungkook push himself to the hilt, the ridges of the tentacle wrapped around his cock making you jolt with every push.

At the same time as his cock thrusts inside of you, a sneaky little thing continues it’s dance between your cheeks, pokes and kisses at your hole like it’s testing you. It is, really, because you've never had anything up your ass before— up until a few moments ago, you had barely had anything in your pussy.

This was your first time, yet two seperate holes were begging to be filled, clenching tightly at Jungkook kisses along your chest, hands wound beneath the small of your back. The playful tentacle near your behind does just that— plays until you gently reach back for it, trembling hands giving it the go ahead it needs to finally plunge itself within you. Like an excited little being, it flutters against your hand a soft, kiss-like press against your palm before returning to its favored spot.

It chooses the perfect moment to press in, takes advantage of Jungkook’s first few slow thrusts to slip its way inside. A loud moan tears itself from your throat, and Jungkook joins along. “I-I’m sorry,” he pants, mouth against yours. “I-I just want to feel you.”

You shake him off, body twitching from the utter fullness you felt, the weight in between your folds and your ass that moves in opposing strokes. His cock, wrapped in those bulging ridges, pushes in just as the tentacle in your rear pulls out, and the sensation is enough to make you whimper and sob.

It feels good, amazing even, and you almost can’t believe it’s happening. Jungkook’s lips slot against yours, slow and lazy as he lets your body grow familiar with the stretch. He kisses you until the cat-like grip you have on his shoulders weakens, replaced with wandering hands that trail down his spine. The base of his spine where his protrusions appear is unique, makes him buck against you when you wrap your hands around one appendage.

“S-Sensitive,” he says as an apology, never mind the fact you want him desperately to fuck into you like that again. You voice such thoughts and Jungkook groans against your skin. “Really?” He chokes out, “I can move?”

One nod and then he’s off, for real this time.

He’s slow at first, like he’s hesitant about hurting you, but you tuck one leg around him, pull him closer until he’s forced deeper inside of you, and from there everything is a downward spiral. You forget Jungkook of Sixam is superior for more than just one reason, harsh reminder given in the strong snap of his hips that would have otherwise sent you flying off the couch if that same strength wasn’t channeled into the arms he held you with.

You reach for his hair, desperate to feel that comforting silk between your fingers, but then there’s something wrapping around your wrists. It pins your hands down, twists around your wrists twice before snaking up and curling along your fingers. Like it wants to hold your hand, wants to fill the spaces for Jungkook. The thought makes you burn, insides a boiling mess as he fucks into you, hands held down above your head.

“Jungkook,” you sob, squirming in his hold. It’s like whenever you move, there’s something there, holding you down or fucking you senseless. He responds with a grunt, roughly thrusting into you over and over until all you can manage is a series of hiccups.

The ridges around his cock, the added thickness lended to him by his extra appendage, has every shove past your lips sending tingles like an ascending xylophone shooting throughout your body. The rhythmic stretches make you huff like a dog against him, brain fuzzy and overwhelmed.

At the same time as he delivers killer grind after grind, another arm, the one that had been left out of the fray, slithers around your chest, looping twice around your frame and caging your breasts between them. Like bondage, except it’s Jungkook’s own body holding you down.

You don’t think about the absurdity of it too much, couldn’t anyway. Your brain is a scrambled mess of Jungkook’s lips and incandescent eyes, lost in the purple galaxies and stars he holds, slowly slipping away from reality with each brutal thrust he gives. His name tumbles from your lips, and yours from his. He holds you like you’ll slip away, sweaty skin pulling you impossibly closer with each roll of his hips.

The thick appendage buried within your ass makes you squirm. It’s a tight fit, one you don’t get too stuck on because for every reprieve from its maniac thrusts you are met with the equally ferocious slam of Jungkook’s cock. So it stays in the back of your mind, this curling tentacle that stretches the tight rim of your ass apart.

You were stuffed to the brim, eyes rolling back as you struggled to keep up. A soft brush along your jawline makes you gasp, before your mouth is tentatively filled with something soft and pulsing. Oh, you would die, you think, mindlessly sucking around the tentacle squeezed between your lips. It fattens in your mouth, pushes roughly against your tongue in rhythm with Jungkook’s cock. You cough, gag even, but it doesn’t move away. It drips a thick substance down your throat, disgustingly sweet.

“Please, please,” he pants, quiet and lost among your own higher-pitched moans. Your leg hikes itself further up, accidentally brushes at the base of where two of his tentacles protrude, and Jungkook jolts against you. His cock presses so deep into your walls, you swear you feel him kiss your cervix. “__,” he pants, tongue lapping at the skin of your neck, picking up the sweat and replacing it with his thick saliva. “Be mine, please.”

Your heart pounds with the beat of a marching band's pace, loud thundering that competes against the slapping of Jungkook’s skin against yours. You whimper around the weight in your mouth, the idea he places in your head only fueling that lifelong dream of yours. Your grip around the appendages that hold your wrists down tightens, its faint heartbeat-like pulse felt between your fingers.

“Let me be yours,” Jungkook moans, pulls out once only to slam his cock past your folds, hold himself there as your brain scrambles to rewire itself. As he says this, your mouth is freed, saliva and that sticky wet substance sloppily splattering across your lips and chin at the rather harsh exit. “And you will be mine.”

“Yes, yes!” you choke, dribbling drool down your chin.

It ends too soon.

Jungkook reaches a hand down, thumb feeling for your clit, but he’s pressed so tightly against you, it takes a second before the rough pad makes contact. That simple swipe, one half circle, is enough to make you unravel. “J-Jungkook,” you wail, biting down against his shoulder, “I’m—“

Your orgasm swallows you whole, his tentacle in your ass joining alongside you. It bursts inside of you, makes your ass leak with cum when it finally pulls out.

“I’ve got you,” he shudders, stills when your pussy clenches down around him, creamy pleasure dripping down around his cock. Your cries fill the air, body falling slack against the couch as you struggle to recover. Your head is a foggy mess, clouded by the slow snap of Jungkook’s hips as he reaches his arousal. Each push against your folds feels even more intense now, overstimulated walls fluttering wildly around him as his cock slips in.

His body stiffens and he swiftly pulls out, every ridge of his cock sucked back by your pussy, and when he finally frees himself— from your clenching walls and his tightly-gripping tentacle—he spills over your abdomen. Sticky and pink, like the strawberry lube you keep in your drawer, except its come out of Jungkook as a result of your rump in the sheets.

As quickly as his body locked up, it slumps just as fast, heavy muscles and long limbs crashing down over you before you can react.

“Jungkook—“

The sun shines in through the front window, wakes him from his slumber slowly and then all at once. He accidentally shifts into a patch of sunshine, the blinding light irritating his eyes until Jungkook is forced awake. His body aches but has never felt better, a weird sense of relaxation flooding his senses. For a moment, he is confused.

Eyes scan over the room, purple irises carefully calculating every bit of information until he catches sight of Smilodon’s furry tail and the memories of last night come swarming back in. He sits up quickly, whirling around for any glimpse of you, only to find you’re nowhere in sigh—

“Morning.” A small hand atop of his head, fingers stroking against his scalp. Instantly, Jungkook melts into the touch.

You walk past him and into the kitchen, where you get to work making the usual breakfast for you and Jungkook. He watches you from the couch, naked beneath the blanket you’ve so graciously covered him with. The sun leaks into the kitchen, paints you in soft shades of orange as you amble around the area.

The scent of hot cocoa fills the air, calling him to the space behind you after he dresses. “Good morning,” he says shyly, presses a kiss against your shoulder. Hesitantly, he lets his hands slide around your waist, lock over your navel. You don’t push him away, simply pat the side of his head as Jungkook snuggles into you.

You don’t speak about last night and neither does he. You eat eggs for breakfast and Jungkook playfully knocks his foot against yours beneath the table. “Don’t play footsies with me,” you laugh. Jungkook quite likes footsies.

Morning chores are skipped, pushed off in favor of sitting in front of the couch. You sit beside him, flush against his side, but Jungkook doesn’t mind. The projection box tells him about the weather, says something about a stock market, but other than that, it is relatively quiet.

There is no mission to complete, no tradition to uphold. It is just Jungkook in this new and not as scary world. The mailman always visits, and Smilodon shows his face every now and then. It is a routine he adores, but not as much as the Human at his side.

He doesn’t remember taking his headpiece off until it beeps from its spot on the coffee table, three distinctive chirps that signal an incoming call from the Higher Sixamian Court.

#goldenclosetnet #bangtanhq #networkbangtan #jungkook smut #jeon jungkook smut #jjk smut #jungkook x reader #alternative ending by rumu omits the last paragraph and we all pretend to live happily #but im evil so we suffer together #jeon jungkook x reader #jeongguk smut #jeon jeongguk smut #jungkook fic #bts fic #bts smut #mine

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 3 years

Text

The Handmaiden🌹9

Warnings: eventual dark elements ~ nonconsensual sex, violence, name calling

This is dark!(king)Steve and explicit. 18+ only.

Summary: Princess Madeline has left her homeland to marry a king. On her journey, she has brought her most trusted handmaiden. Little do either of them know how perilous their new home will be.

Note: Well, well, well, if it isn’t King Sneke again. So I reread this and started on a new chapter and then it took a turn. And another turn. And you know how it seemed slow at first... sorry.

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

Masterlist

The king and queen remained tense and at times contentious, though Steven easily overpowered Madeline. The girl, that’s all she was, could not do more than pout and accept her remonstrance for her drunken display and reluctantly restrict your duties upon the king’s insistence. You saw her in the mornings and at night, to dress and undress her, and on some occasion, serve her meals.

In between, you tried to distract yourself until the king called for you. And when he did, you dreaded facing his queen.

Again, the court resumed its progress south. You packed and loaded the trunks along with the rest of royal staff and took your spot among the carts, at times, walking behind the horses instead. The days grew stifling and tiring as you kept the rear of the parade of carriages, carts, and steeds. It was several days before you reached Lord Barnes’ manor of Strata.

You carried with you a sense of familiarity. Your arrival unfolded as it had at Lord Parriser’s. You followed the other servants to the rear entrance and went about the tedious and laborious task of sorting luggage. Just as before, you were kept from finishing your work; this time by a young servant you vaguely recognized from the capital.

“You are the queen’s maid?” She asked as you wiped your hands on your apron and adjusted your cap.

“I am,” you frowned.

“She calls for you.” The girl said, “She will have no other.”

You held in a sigh and instead clenched your teeth and attempted a smile as you nodded. You rubbed your lower back as you gripped your waist. “Will you show me to her chambers, then?”

The girl was like a bunny, squeaking and hopping to lead you down the corridors. You followed her though she lost herself several times over. You didn’t complain, you likely would have done the same.

As you reached the higher floors of the castle, she found her bearings and only had to go back one corner before she found a set of doors painted with singing birds and floating leaves.

“This one.” She pointed. “I know it by the robin’s breast.”

“Thank you, uh…” You blinked at her.

“Tilda,” she answered with a smile.

“Tilda,” you repeated and turned to gently rap your knuckles on the door.

“Is it you?” The queen called from within and you heard her frantic steps, “Oh!” She opened the door and wrapped you in your arms, “Thank the lord, it is!”

“Your majesty,” you were stiff in her grasp.

Before, you would have gladly comforted her but you were wise enough to know the king would have his wife watched, you as well, and it didn’t feel right to accept her affections. Not after… everything. The king’s demands hadn’t ceased, nor his appetite, and every time you saw him alone, he reminded you of your betrayal, not that you could ever truly forget it.

“You mustn’t,” you whispered, “You are queen, you cannot…”

“Oh, do not tell me what a queen does,” she withdrew and waved you inside as she turned and blustered across the chamber. “I hear it enough from my husband! Oh and he does not keep quiet when he is unhappy with me. You cannot understand how long this progress has been for me.”

You entered and pushed the doors closed. She swept around the empty chamber as she flung her hands up in exasperation. “I left him in the yard. I cannot stand to hear it anymore. He tells me how to smile, how to stand, how to breathe. I am young but I am not so stupid as he thinks.”

You watched her. You couldn’t agree with her, though you did. It was unseemly to speak ill of any noble, let alone a king. She huffed as she went to the hearth and kicked the stone.

“If he should come to me now, I would tear his eyes out,” you had rarely seen Madeline so worked up. She was ever calm, ever disciplined, but you could see in the dull circles beneath her eyes that she was as tired as yourself. “Do you know what he did?”

You shook your head, “no, your majesty.”

“He--He--” She sniffed and clapped her hands, “Well, I am still in disbelief. As we are on the road, traveling anon, I am tired and hot from the summer days, and he does nag and nag. He wants me to… fulfill my vows in the carriage and I could not. I was too embarrassed and I told him so.”

You pressed your lips together. It was not unexpected that the king should be insistent and crass. You shifted on your feet.

“He would not listen. I swore at him. I’ve never sworn at anyone and he tried to force it and I scratched him, right across the face,” she touched her cheek. “He was so angry, I feared he would do worse to me. He only had them stop and took to his horse instead.”

You were shocked by her recollection. You hadn’t heard anything of the episode but once the court settled at the manor, gossip would surely begin to stir.

“He did not visit me again. That was two nights past. And then as I am stepping down from my carriage today, he has the gull to whisper to that pest he keeps around, Lord Barnes, that-- that I was a disappointment after his first wife…”

The air went out of her as she stomped to the sofa and collapsed upon it. She hung her head back and sighed. “Why does he hate me so? I’ve done nothing but try to please him. Oh, and he still reminds me of my little dance at the banquet.”

“I am sorry, your majesty.” You said meekly.

“Why are you sorry? He should be.” She crossed her arms and turned to sink back against the couch. “I hate him!”

“He is your… husband. He is the king.” You said.

“I don’t care. He is awful. He only wants me for his bed and I cannot stand it. He hurts me and acts as if I should thank him for it.” She huffed.

You lowered your eyes and folded your hands before you. You felt heat creeping up your spine and your stomach churned painfully. You felt terribly guilty, as if it was your fault that her husband mistreated her. In a way, it felt thus. His desire for you made him impatient and resentful. Or perhaps, that was thinking too highly of yourself. He wasn’t much less cruel with you.

“And I came here before I could claw at him again.” She went on, “But I know he shall follow and I must be made to listen to another lecture. How can I be called a queen when I am not treated as one? I give an order and am not obeyed! Am I to be a fool for the rest of my--”

A pounding interrupted her and you both looked to the doors as they trembled. “Madeline!” the king’s voice boomed through the door, “Wife, do let me in.”

You blanched and peered back at the queen. She sat up and her face turned bitter. She steeled herself and pointed you to the door. Before you could reach them, the king opened them from the other side and stopped short as he was faced with you. His eyes flared and his cheek twitched but he quickly turned his attention to his wife.

You stepped aside and watched him tramp towards her. The scratches above his beard were stark across his cheek and ended just below his eyes. You almost grinned at the damage but new Madeline would not go unpunished for the assault.

“You are never to speak to me as you did upon the green!” His face began to turn red, “Do you understand, you brat?”

“Do not call me a brat,” she stood to meet him. You were shocked by her energy. She had only ever been so angry years ago when her mother had forbidden her from drinking after she was caught after a banquet. “I am a queen and your wife!”

“My wife?” He scoffed. “I come to do my husbandly duties and you would attack me like a rabid dog!” He swatted her hand aside as she pointed at him. “You shame me before my whole court.”

“And what were you to do to me? To do so in that carriage? As if they would not all hear your lust!” She accused.

He snarled and spun away from her. “I have been patient,” he declared as he strode to the doors and shut them. “I have been tolerant.” He turned back. “I have sat and watched your childish antics. I have done all I can to acquaint you with your new life and you continue to behave as a spoiled princess.”

“I have done all you’ve asked of me,” she approached him. “I have bent to your every whim--”

“As is your wifely expectation,” he grabbed her wrist and twisted her arm suddenly. Madeline cried out as he spun her and marched her back to the sofa.

“Release me!” She hissed. “Steven--”

“Husband! King!” He snarled as he shoved her onto the couch, her knees on the cushion as he forced her against the back. “You will not use my name.”

She turned her head and looked at you fearfully. “Let go!” She shouted.

“A wife does not give orders.” He sneered.

“A queen does!” She cried out. “Now leave me--”

He grabbed her hair and wrenched her head back. “Shut your fucking mouth.”

Madeline gasped as she was held by her twisted arm and the hank of hair in the king’s fist. She squirmed and he bent her arm further. She was helpless and you felt just as weak. The king planted his knee on the couch between her, her skirts wrinkled below, and she whined in fear.

You raced forward without thinking. You grabbed his shoulder and tried to pull him off of her. He released her wrist and elbowed you harshly so that you flew back. He grunted and kept hold of her hair.

“And you!” He pointed at you before his eyes flew back to his wife, “You’ve fed the ego of your maid and let her think she can touch a king! I warned you she was allowed too much--”

“Get off of her,” you tried again to charge the king and he easily batted you away.

“Try again, mouse, and I’ll strangle her and tell all it was your own hand,” he spat, “Now recall yourself.”

You froze and stared at him. Madeline whimpered as grabbed the roots of her hair as he yanked again and lifted his leg to unbury her skirts and shove them up her legs. You trembled and teetered on your feet. You had no doubt of his threats but you could not watch it happen.

You closed your eyes and turned your head away. A coward. A traitor. You listened to Madeline pleading and struggling and the king’s growls as he warned her again. There was a pause.

“Now don’t look away,” he taunted, “You serve your queen so well. Now watch as she serves her king.”

You shook your head and squeezed your eyes shut tight. You heard Madeline’s sniff and the king’s order; “tell her!”

“W-w-watch,” she quavered.

You opened your eyes and found Steven staring at you over his shoulder, Madeline trapped between him and the back of the sofa. He snapped his fingers, his other hand on the back of her neck and pointed to the other side of the couch.

You stumbled, nearly toppling, as you followed his wordless demand. You rounded the sofa and turned to face Madeline. Her blue eyes welled and yours threatened to overflow. She bit down as the king moved behind her, feeling between their bodies and she braced the back of the sofa.

“Don’t look away,” Steven hissed and Madeline exclaimed as he thrust into her with a sharp jerk.

His hand snaked around the front of her neck and the sofa creaked beneath their bodies. He rutted into her without relent and she shrieked. He did not stop, deaf to her cries. You shook as he looked you in the face, baring his teeth as he fucked her. He stared at you, a glimmer in his eyes, a taunting shine as he got his pleasure from her pain.

Madeline’s eyes rolled back and closed. She sobbed as he kept on and leaned heavily against the back of the sofa. The clap of flesh mingled with her agonized moans and the king’s deep groans. And then it ended with a growl and several quick squelching strokes.

Steve pushed himself off of Madeline and stood from the couch. She slipped down and disappeared from view as she slumped onto the cushions. The king grabbed her skirts and wiped his cock before he laced his breeches up. He rolled his shoulders as he walked along the edge of the sofa.

“Well, your majesty,” he mocked, “If you aren’t a child, you can clean yourself up.” His eyes darted to you. “And your trite little maid will find a new master.” He curled his fingers as he directed you closer, “One able to teach her a servant’s lot.” You didn’t move and he barked at you, “Here!” He gestured beside him, “I am certain I will train her well.”

You neared, your heart beating wildly, your nerves flying and bouncing off each other. He seized your arm as you neared. You peeked down at Madeline, her skirts twisted around her legs, as she wept violently.

“No, don’t take her from me.” She begged. “She didn’t do anything--”

“She assaulted her king.” Steve gripped your arm tightly, “And you did set that precedent.” He shoved you towards the door and turned to follow, “On your grace, my wife,” he nudged you on and tore open the door as he looked back at Madeline, “I will not send her straight to the noose.” He kicked the back of your leg so you staggered into the corridor, “The next time we meet, you will convince me not change my mind.”

He slammed the door and followed you out. You hadn’t time to react before he had you by the back of your gown and dragged you along the hallway.

“You’ve done it now, pet,” he snipped, “Trust me when I tell you, you will love me as much as you do your precious queen.” He shook you meanly, “You will!”

#steve rogers #dark steve rogers #dark!steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #King!Steve #the handmaiden #series #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #medieval au #au #captain america #mcu #marvel #oc

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hitsuackerman · 3 years

Text

Unpredictable (Overhaul x Reader) pt.28

a/n: aye have mixture of fluff and angst~ sorry for uploading late :c MY SCHEDULE IS SUCH A KILLER I CANNOT STRESS IT ENOUGH huhuhu

warnings: this cannot be read solo

Links: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9, part 10, part 11, part 12, part 13, part 14, part 15, part 16, part 17, part 18, part 19, part 20, part 21, part 22, part 22, part 23, part 23.5, part 24, part 25, part 26, part 27, part 29

Masterlist to my other fics: here :) (that has not been updated for how many months now... proceed with caution~)

“Is that really you, Inspector (l/n)?” The hero asked. With each step she took, you made sure Chisaki’s face wouldn’t be seen. “It’s late.”

“Hey, Enigma~” Lowering his head to rest on your shoulder, you smiled at the small quiet hero. “It is late~ We’re not causing a disturbance are we?”

“Of course not! But I don’t think this is the place to be…” She scratched her cheek and avoided your eye contact. “You know…”

“I know~ I apologize. He’s typically busy and we don’t get to hang out much.” You patted his back and continued. “He’s also very shy and doesn’t like to be seen in public.”

“Oh! I’m very sorry! But, if you don’t mind, would it be alright if the both of you continued elsewhere?”

“It’s fine! We were just going separate ways.” You consoled her and knew that her reaction was safe enough. At least you were fast enough to cover his face. “I told you, Shinoda-san. Heroes patrol these times of the night.”

“Forgive my rash decision.” He rested his head on your shoulder. Embarrassed that he had been this close to kissing you. Disappointed that it was barely a few centimeters and yet even such trivial things like these, the heroes would always disturb him. For now, all he could do was to wrap his arms around your body.

“Don’t wear your mask.” You whispered to him. He merely hummed. Gliding your hands on to his chest, he looked at you with cautiously eager eyes. Feeling how you pushed him he let you lead the way till the hood of his car hit thighs. “Enigma’s gone. You can turn around now.”

“I apologize for my actions.” Overhaul said as he took out his mask and wore it. “I was not expecting those bastards to roam this area at night.”

“You come here often?”

“Many years back. That apartment building, the third one.” He pointed it out. “Before the Shie Hassaikai was established, Kurono and I used to live there.”

“Wait, wait, wait… You and Chrono were roomies?” You stared at your companion, to the building, and back at him. A small pang of pain hit your forehead just as he had overhauled his glove back. “Well, no need to flick me, Chisaki.”

“Whatever it is your mind was thinking, no. We weren’t roomies.” He pinched your cheek and leaned on to the hood. “Neighbors. Pops owns that building. It’s one of the properties not involved with my business.”

“You know, I’d ask but perhaps we can schedule another meeting for that.” You took the vacant area beside him. With a bit of space in between, you placed your hand beside his. Just a reminder that the invitation still remains open.

“Of course.” Looking at your figure beside him, he furrowed his brows and shook his thoughts away. “Then again, we really should go separate ways. I hate having to take my mask off.”

“You know, you don’t have to take it off when you’re with me.” Elbowing him gently, you chuckled. “Don’t get me wrong, though. I like looking at your face. I just don’t want people to see you. Especially not with how things are going.”

“Nah.” Not expecting that word to come out of his mouth, the both of you met eyes at the same time. Adjusting the cloth, he tried to hide the slowly creeping heat on his cheeks. “You’re rubbing off on me, (y/n). That aside, it isn’t really bothersome if I take it off when you’re around. Your expressions are worth breathing the horrid air.”

“Ugh. Smooth talker.” You pouted. Taking a peak at your watch, the time was now quarter to one. As much as you wanted to stay and get to know more of the man behind the name, he was right. Flinching at the sudden weight on your hand, you looked down and found his on top of yours.

The kiss may not have happened but if it were compensated with this small act of intimacy then perhaps it wasn’t that bad. Carefully interlacing your fingers, you were more than relieved when he moved along and held on to your hand tightly. Maybe it was fine if you were to lean on to his arm and rest your head on his shoulder?

Just as you were about to attempt, Chisaki pulled you closer to him.

“You’re too obvious…” He said as he rested his head on yours. “We already have to leave in a few minutes. If you won’t do it then I will.”

“I swear this feels like a fever dream…” You commented earning a ruffle to the hair with his free hand. “Alright, alright. It’s real. You better not bug me Chisaki or I swear I will block you.”

“Well, now that this has happened, shall we take our leave now?”

“Is it bad to say that I’d rather stay here?”

“Are you suggesting we sleep in the car?” He poked your cheek.

“And have you drowned in your car’s germs? I’d rather not.” Standing up straight, you took a few steps and only then realized he still had not let go of your hand. “If you don’t let go, I’ll have to rethink sleeping in the car. And frankly speaking, sleeping in cars is not the most comfortable experience.”

“Right again.” Letting go of your hand, he too stood up. “In that case, I shall send a message when I get back to the base.”

“And I’ll message you when I arrive home.”

“Fair trade.”

To which you did not. Right after both your cars went separate ways, your phone vibrated with a message from Tsukuachi. Parking at the nearest allowable area, you grabbed your device and read the message. Rereading the text, you clicked dial.

“Are you for real?”

“I wasn’t expecting you to read it now.” He stifled a yawn and continued. “Unfortunately yes. If you can drop by the precinct, I can hand them over to you so you can get a head start.”

“Nao, it’s 1am.”

“And yet here we are, talking on the phone like the rats we are.”

Letting out a sigh, you ended the call. Rubbing your face, you leaned your head on the steering wheel and stared at your hand. Chewing on your lip, you began to recall the moment that had happened a mere minutes ago. Being able to hold his hand out in public had a different tingle.

Not long after, you were now seated beside Tsukauchi. Accepting the small cup of coffee, you waited as he filed through some documents. Taking small peaks at some of the letters, you saw how some names of villains you knew of were written down and crossed out. When Tsukauchi stopped at a particular piece of paper, he handed it over.

“Damn. It really is happening.” You set the paper aside and took a sip of your now cold beverage. “Do you need any help for the preparations? I can pull an all nighter if needed.”

“Would it be alright? It’s bad enough the schedule keeps changing.” Glancing at the paper and to the calendar, Tsukauchi stared at your tired eyes. “With this, the Fukuo Kai case will commence a week from now. Are you ready to focus on Nighteye’s?”

“From the middle, I have been focusing on their case. I just didn’t expect it to happen too soon.” Playing with the hems of your sweater, you rested your elbows on your knees and covered your face. “Wanna go to the rooftop?”

“Not thinking of bailing now, are you?” Tsukauchi said as he began to clear his desk and stand up. “What’s on your mind, hmm?”

“I just met with 2 people I shouldn’t have any business with.” You weakly chuckle as you lead the way to the rooftop. Opening the doors, you felt your breathing grow heavy. The sudden claminess of the narrow pathway was not good for your running mind. Holding onto Tsukauchi’s sleeve, you were more than thankful he was willing to listen.

Taking the final step, Tsukauchi unlocked the hatch and granted access to the rooftop. The night sky was still dark and barely held any stars. Light pollution framed the horizon while the street lamps casted a yellow-orange glow to the roads below.

“What happened?”

“Levi specifically told the heroes not to mess with my work.” You began. “It went well but not for long. I had to bug the Shie Hassaikai after a few days Levi left. Only an idiot would refuse knowing my stance with the two parties.”

“Was it successful?”

“It was. The anon tip we had from before was Chronostasis. He gave me Overhaul’s sim card and I kinda just took the opportunity to let him plant the chip for me. It was going smoothly till a few hours ago. Nighteye told me that they were still getting feedback even though Chrono destroyed the device.”

“Where did things go wrong? It just seems like a loyalty test to me.”

“I don’t even know if I passed at this point.” Taking your phone out, you opened the gallery and showed him the picture of the hidden camera. “They bugged me. I’m not certain if they saw what went on inside my unit but the fact that they saw him entering and exiting as he pleases makes my blood boil.”

“Then it means they saw his face?” His eyes widened.

“As far as I know, he only took his mask off around the living room area, his room, or mine.” Trying to recall, each time he entered the kitchen he used the other door connecting to the living room. Thank the quirk gods your apartment was designed that way. “I don’t even know if it transmits audio.”

Squatting on the floor you rubbed your face once more and raked your fingers through your hair. Pulling on the clumps a bit, you released a small shaky sigh.

“I’m guessing the second person you met was the reason for all this?” Tsukauchi took the initiative and sat on the empty space beside you. “What happened with him?”

“He knew about Chrono helping me and about the other bug running around. Told me that heroes needed to have fun too. Bastard.” No matter how much you twisted your views, Chisaki Kai was always Overhaul first. “I… I just don’t know what to do anymore, Nao.”

Closing your eyes, a small whimper left your mouth as tears began to fall.

“Things are just so fucking complicated that I… I don’t even know what step I should do next. I want justice to prevail but no matter what I do…”

“You’ve really fallen down the rabbithole, huh?” Tsukauchi commented as he gave soft pats on your back. “Then again, who wouldn’t? You’re literally stuck in the middle and have to be on edge more than usual. Other than that, you held up pretty well.”

“I can’t even clear my name at this point. If things ever go wrong in the Shie Hassaikai raid, my name will definitely make it into the possible accomplice list.” You bit your lip and clenched your fists. “Gods I hate this so fucking much. I told him I had it under control when in reality I’m as stuck as a rat on a glue board.”

“Don’t go using that analogy.” Tsukauchi still continued to pat your back. “Think of us as hamsters. We’re pretty cute and intelligent. Just give it a bit of time and I’m sure you’ll think of something. I bet you wouldn’t want your dad to partake in any of your problems so best not to pop up in your estate.”

“I know it’s a law for heroes not to kill but what if…”

“I doubt he’ll die in battle. Overhaul is a B-Rank villain. The most that’ll happen would be for him to be knocked out unconscious or bloody at the end of the day.” Yet even as he said those words, Tsukauchi wasn’t too confident. It would be a lie on his part if he said things would be fine. “Who knows? He might have some sort of magical epiphany and surrender to lessen his charges.”

“Now that you mention it,” You wiped your tears away and sat down properly. “I’ve never really read what happens to higher rank villains after they get captured. The highest I’ve handled was just D-ranked ones.”

“Hmmm…” Now that the topic was open, he too hadn’t really thought too much about it knowing his and your department weren’t incharge of what happens after the dirty work. “Standard procedures. They’ll search the area once more and take proper inventory. Say that Overhaul is merely strained, they would pat him down and once he’s clear and in the precinct or designated area, he’ll have to sign a document signifying that the given list is all that he owns. He’ll be then taken to a private area to have his fingerprints, mug shot, and other necessary information.”

“He probably won’t get a hearing.”

“Right you are. He’ll most likely be sent to Tartarus if that’s what you’re asking.”

“If he does, who do you think would handle it? The HPSC?”

“Most likely. Still, they have a lot on their hands so his case would surely collect dust.” He paused and let out a yawn. “If it were you, would you grant him a second chance in life?”

“Heh, If it were up to me...” Looking at the now starless skies, you felt a chill run down your spine. “Personal emotions aside, of course not.”

“But?”

“You really think I’d break into Tartarus just to save one villain and give him a better life?” You smirked and stood up.

“Of course not.” He chuckled and stood up as well. “Even the dumbest person knows that’s suicide. Go home and get some rest, (y/n). We’ll handle this later in the day.”

Giving you some privacy, Tsukauchi excused himself first. Hearing the door latch click, you took your phone out and dialed a number. It only took 3 rings before the other line picked up.

“Well now,” The cheeky voice said. “What can I help you with dove?”

- - - - -

Overhaul’s waiting list: @jjk-biased @infinite-universe-love @dirtypride @blackymomo03 @azzie @purple-rabanito @meximorrita @awesomeee19 @celestial-kanzakii @laure-lo @team-wang-puppy @aydience-world @choros-main-hoe @colorseeingchick @franko-pop @o-dragon05 @but-kairis-not-that-smart (i cant seem to tag again :( hope this lands in your timelines!)

I hope yall liked this chapter annnd if you want to be tagged feel free to comment :’) your comments make my day and make me happy huhu <3

#overhaul x reader #chisaki kai x reader #overhaul #bnha overhaul #mha overhaul #bnha chisaki kai #mha chisaki kai #shie hassaikai #bnha x reader #long fic #i hate my schedule so much

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averykedavra · 4 years

Note

20. Do you have a favorite fanfic or author? If so, tag them/post a link and share the love!

!!! An excuse to recommend my favorite fics and authors? Don’t mind if I do! Here’s a top fourteen list of some great fics and a top nine list of my favorite authors, in no particular order! Because I had way too many. (Plus I’m bound to forget a million good ones, so take these with a grain of salt!)

1. chivalry is dead by Uncrowned_King! There really wasn’t another option. After Roman disappears into the Imagination, the other Sides come to look for him, and find several Romans fighting for ownership of the land. My all-time favorite Roman angst, with some beautifully written worldbuilding and my favorite OCs ever and a plot twist that sent me reeling. With some cute DLAMP, too! What’s not to love?

2. Breathe Out by Odaigahara! This is darker than I usually read but so, so worth it! Set pre-canon, Virgil and Janus team up against the other dark sides and find their feelings go beyond platonic after a relationship of convenience becomes something more. It’s a WIP and I don’t know where it’s going yet, but I’m really intrigued and the writing is incredible!

3. The Black Hole Group Chat by Greenninjagal! Definitely my favorite comfort fic. After Logan accidentally joins a group chat and is forced into sticking around, he finds himself making his first friends--but past feelings and present conflicts threaten to tear apart the first place they’ve ever felt comfortable. So good, so funny, makes the most of the texting medium, and I always cry at the end.

4. Monsters of the Subconscious by Quarantinevibes! Ohh, everything by this author is fantastic which goes for all of them. After PoF, Janus visits the Imagination to apologize. Instead, him and Roman are sucked into the Subconscious, a wild land full of mysterious dangers. They must team up to escape, and come to terms with their feelings for each other. Some wonderfully soft Roceit, hilarious comedy and incredible action, and great emotional moments!

5. the feelings in my headspace rearranged by mutemelody! Some canon divergence for the soul. Anxiety doesn’t have a name, and after the AA arc, has to make his way through acceptance and love. Canon turns on its head, old friends make a reappearance, and through it all Anxiety has to find his own identity, nameless or not. Gosh, this fic is incredible--the writing is stunning, the plot is amazing, and it’s some of the best Virgil angst I’ve ever read.

6. There’s a Word For That by plumcat! I cannot recommend this fic enough. Roman, a Slytherin, has been pining over arguing with Patton, a Hufflepuff, since the beginning of time. But with the Quidditch match coming up, his two annoying best friends relentlessly teasing him, and Patton himself spending more and more time with Roman, Roman has to figure out what he really wants and who he wants to be. This fic is hilarious and makes me feel feelings and please, please read it.

7. (i’d never) want once from the cherry tree by ace_corvid! Prinxiety! And a Youtuber AU that really takes advantage of the medium! Virgil and Roman are two of the most popular creators on YouTube and their fans have been begging them to do a crossover episode. The collaboration goes surprisingly well, but it’s one thing to explore a relationship, and another to do it when the whole world is watching. So cute, so hilarious, has some amazing art as well, and I just highly recommend it.

8. double down on the paradigms by remrose! Here’s a lovely college AU! Logan is doing his best to pass his classes, and everything is going fine, despite his roommate Virgil’s concerns about his late study nights and compulsive behavior. Then he meets Patton, and every wall Logan’s constructed slowly begins to crumble. To show how much I love this fic, I have not stopped thinking about it, even though it’s the only one on this list I’ve only read once. It stuck with me that much and hey maybe I should reread it, hold on--

9. In a Tizzy by coconutcluster! Cute fluff, so wholesome, much love. After Logan finds out that Roman gets flustered at compliments, he enlists the other Sides to test this theory. But Roman gets upset when he thinks they’re playing a joke on him by being nice. The writing is great and it’s a fantastic pick-me-up on a bad day! Just so full of nice wonderful feelings!

10. Communication Issues by WaeRose! Analogince! The alternative title that I cut out says it all! After Logan and Virgil find Roman crying in his room, they make an effort to spend more time together as a group. But platonic feelings quickly become non-platonic, misunderstandings abound, insecurities rise, and they’ll have to learn how to communicate their feelings if those feelings could ever lead to a relationship. The writing is incredible, the second-person POV is done expertly, and the characterization is top-notch!

11. a heart he couldn’t control by codevassie! Prinxiety that tore me into a million pieces. Roman traded away his true love’s life to save his brother from a witch, but when he actually meets said true love, he begins to regret his choice. Now Virgil is trapped once again with the witch, Roman is on a rescue mission, Patton and Logan are hiding something, and Janus is definitely not who he seems. Once again, this AU hurts me, and the incredible writing makes it a gut-punch! It’s a WIP but I love where it’s going and need to catch up on it but shhh

12. Another Goddamn Hero Story by rosesisupposes! I’m a sucker for a superhero AU and this one is stellar! Logan and Virgil are a hero team, trying to subdue Patton and Roman, the most famous villain duo in the city. But nobody’s exactly who they say, everyone’s not quite sure which side is right, and past wrongs are coming back to draw new blood. It’s endgame LAMP and the romances are built perfectly! Supervillains Royality is amazing, the action is incredible, and the plot twist blew me away!

13. Hurt, and How We Grow Past It by Jinx72! Another comfort fic of mine, by one of my all-time favorite authors! After Deceit visits the Imagination and lights a fire larger than he intended, Roman is left injured while the other Sides try to put the pieces back together. Old grudges come to light, new bonds are forged, and they all fall in love slowly while all simultaneously being extremely insecure. The characterization is incredible, the writing is top-notch, and the DLAMP is heartfelt and wonderful!

14. Eucatastrophe by arealsword! I added this one last-minute because it’s incredible and deserves to be on this list! The writing is incredible, the world-building is top-notch, and the plot manages to be coherent and incredible while throwing me for a loop every other line! It creeped me the heck out, but I’d expect nothing less from the author of Pick a Side. I’m not even gonna summarize this one because that’d spoil the fun, but suffice it to say, Thomas gets kidnapped by faeries and things get interesting very fast.

And now for the authors! (I chose authors who I didn’t mention above, but all the ones I already talked about are hella good, check them out too!)

1. @/sleeplessinstarbucks. You want good losleep content? Here. You want good QPR content? Here. You want good content in general? Here! Lia has amazing hurt/comfort, beautiful writing, and stellar characterization. I binge their writing every time I get bored. If you want your heart to be warmed, this is where to go!

2. @/theeternalspace. Okay, so Acantha is the Royal of Long Fics. Every one of theirs is a winner! They’re an expert at plotting and characterization, and I’ve been sucked into every one of their many AUs. Plus their writing is godly! And did I mention there are so many chapter fics on their Ao3? If you want a bunch of bingeable emotional rollercoasters, head on over here!

3. @/whenisitenoughtrees. Cat...how. How do you do it. See, Cat writes the best one shots. Their writing is incredible and they’ve written some of my all-time favorite short fics! Their characterization is always on point, and their dialogue always lands, and did I mention their writing is just so deliciously readable--you feel like they chose every word carefully to make it pack as much of a punch as possible. If you want some incredible one shots, this is your writer!

4. @/tulipscomeinallsortsofcolors. I mean, I couldn’t not include Violet. LAOFT is still my favorite series of all time and deserves all the attention it’s got! They’re the expert at well-done short fics that serve a longer narrative, giving everything an almost episodic structure. Plus, their fluff is the fluffiest and the best, and their angst hurts me deep within my soul, so they’re double-powerful! If you want standalone fics or a complex, emotional series, check them out!

5. @/impatentpending. Elena, our writing god, our Deity, which all other writers must respect. Every fic of hers is top-tier, from short to long, and she’s unrivaled at plotting and worldbuilding! You’ll get sucked in to every world and story she creates, and she’s an expert on letting the stories linger. I’m still thinking about Powerless and Monster and it’s been almost a year. If you want expertly crafted stories that leave you in emotional pieces, she’s got them.

6. @/ironwoman359. A classic choice here! She’s got it all--incredible one shots, great characterization, and a big enough master list for basically any ship to be found! She also writes some of the best hurt/comfort in the genre, so if you’re a fan of bad things that lead to good endings, there’s always something to read. If you want a large catalog of fantastic stories, she’s your gal!

7. @/caffeinatedcryptid. You may have seen El’s fantastic art on tumblr, but have you read their incredible stories? If not, you’re missing out! They’ve got several spectacular one shots already written, and each one of them broke me in their own special way. Their writing style is incredible and their characterization is fantastic. If you want longer one shots with well-thought-through plots, head over there!

8. @/astronomical-bagel. Astro, our Lord of Roman Angst, always ready to punch me in the gut with feelings! Act One, Scene Three still hurts me to this day. They’re always ready to turn anything into Roman angst (or any angst, check HDABST) but they’ve got some comfort in there as well! A little bit. Somewhat. Yeah. If you want to be emotionally destroyed, you know who to call.

9. @/green-writes-sanderssides. Green’s fics were some of the first I ever read in this fandom, and they’ve stuck with me to this day! They're an expert at the fluff-angst balance and causing all sorts of Emotions. They’re currently working on an incomplete LAMP fic that just completes me. But I digress. Green is spectacular! They’ve got wonderful canon-verse fics that explore the characters and their relationships expertly. If you want amazing fics with fantastic characterization in-canon, stop by!

And that’s all of them! Again, there are tons more I didn’t get to mention, but these are just a few I love! Congrats if you read all the way to the bottom, I know it was a lot--I just get really excited when I can compliment my favorite writers! Anyway, check them out if you want, I highly encourage it!

#sanders sides #fic recs #sanders sides fic #sanders sides fic recs #tw long post #long post #asks and answers #ask game #anon

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rohirric-hunter · 3 years

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Léonys of Rohan Part 9

Part 1 | Part 8 | Part 10

Three years of college.

20k in debt.

Countless hours spent workshopping unspeakably mediocre short stories written by rich kids who have never been told “no” in their lives.

One useful piece of writing advice.

Worth it? I mean, I feel like there were better ways I could have got hold of it, but yes, absolutely.

***

This is how it is to be Léonys:

The silence echoes in the hall almost as loudly as your name had, when Éomer-king had greeted you with it. You have heard many Rohirrim take advantage of this moment to identify their fathers, but your father is nothing more than an image, a memory you cling to. You do not know who he was.

“You were banished from the lands of Rohan by the order of my uncle,” he says, eyes stern and hard as flint.

You drop your gaze to the polished tiles of the audience hall. You had, admittedly, dragged your feet on your way to this meeting, climbing the tiers of Minas Tirith to the citadel as slowly as you could, but the dread you had felt anticipating it is nothing compared to the shame and fear that blankets you now. If you could do it over, you would have made the same choices, and yet still they weigh on you, and it will be a long time, you suspect, before they do not.

“Yes, my lord,” you say.

“You have crossed our borders many times since then, knowing full well that the banishment had not been lifted. You defied the direct command of Rohan’s king -- of your king.”

“Yes, my lord.”

There is another long pause, but when he speaks again his voice is softer. “I lift the banishment. You have paid in blood for your trespass, and done much in the service of Rohan and her people. You saved many lives, by tracking those accursed Dunlendings into the Hornburg and slaying their leader, and before the walls of this city and the Black Gate you fought with honor under Rohan’s banner.” He sighs. “And I am told you stood close at hand when my cousin died, and he asked you to aid his father against Saruman. I would see none punished harshly who acted on my cousin’s dying wish.”

You look up hesitantly as he continues. “Citizenship in Rohan is yours by birthright. Your family I do not know, but you may begin anew, should you so desire, among your own people.”

Your breath catches in your throat and your hands clutch almost by themselves at the edge of your tabard. With Hathellang’s help, you had cleaned and patched and re-dyed the armor that had been given to you at the Dunharrow weapontake. It is a slightly darker green now, and a studious eye might pick out the spots where Hathellang had resewn portions of it, for the stitching is clumsy and does not run straight, though it is as tight and secure as any other portion of the garment. The sigil on the chest, a running horse carefully painted white, stands out bright and clear, not an exact copy of the steed on the standard of Rohan, but a clear tribute to it. Wearing Rohan’s colors in battle was a greater honor than you had dared hope for when you had joined the Grey Company, your homeland finally on the horizon, and the offer of a life there is a hope that had begun to die before you had ever set foot in that land, when you had walked among the tribes of Dunland and traced the movements and plans of Saruman. Even so, it remains a hope not powerless, not when you had wished for nothing more since you were old enough to understand that the Rohan you remembered was far away from the green fields you lived beside.

You have seen so little of the Mark: the Westfold, ravaged by Saruman’s incursions; Edoras, its people waiting for their inevitable fate in grim silence; the Hornburg, destroyed by the battle that had raged there; Dunharrow, bustling with preparations for war. There was strength, and honor, and beauty in that strength and honor, but it had been obscured by the shadow of death, or perhaps you had simply been too caught up in your own darkness to see it clearly. You wonder what Rohan looks like in peacetime, when herds move freely across the fields and the smithies make more horseshoes, and fewer swords, and when her people have the freedom to be trusting and welcoming.

Perhaps someday you will know, but even as you consider the offer, you realize that your mind is already made up. You spent your entire childhood longing for a Rohan that does not exist, that has never existed. You followed a dream here, and the reality is both harsher and more wonderful than anything you could have imagined.

And it is not for you.

“My King,” you say slowly. “I cannot express how grateful I am for what you’ve offered me. I have been privileged to defend Rohan against her foes, and stand in battle beside her bravest knights. It is, and will forever remain, the deepest honor that the blood of your people flows in my veins.”

You pause, and take a deep breath.

“But although I was born within the borders of Rohan, my home lies in the north. I was raised there, and my family is there.”

Éomer nods, and it seems as if he has been carrying a great weight, which has suddenly grown a little heavier. “The choice is yours,” he says. “I am sorry if Rohan has not been the homeland she should be to all of her people.”

His eyes fall, and the grief leaks from every line of his body: for his country, his cousin, his uncle, and perhaps for more. Perhaps you should not speak, but it is in your nature to comfort.

“My lord,” you say, “you misunderstand me. Rohan is everything I hoped it would be and more. For a moment, perhaps, it was overshadowed by Isengard, but when the darkness passed it shone all the brighter, a gem among peoples. There is honor here, and glory, and strength, and there always has been. Any Man or Woman who can claim Rohirric blood can gain nothing but pride from such a claim. It has been my privilege to defend it, and to play a role, however small, in restoring some of its light.”

“I fear Rohan will not forever live in the light,” Éomer says.

“Perhaps,” you reply. “But her people are strong, and when the shadows come again, they will stand against it, and make their own light.”

“Perhaps,” he says and then he speaks again, words rolling and flowing like a small stream through a clear meadow, musical and beautiful like notes struck from a harp, but as utterly meaningless to you as the creaking of trees in the wind.

“I beg your pardon,” you say, and you feel the heat of embarrassment rise to your face, and you hope your helm hides some of it. “I don’t understand.”

“It is a saying,” he says. “A blessing for the parting of the ways. It does not translate easily.”

You bow, and almost turn away, believing yourself dismissed, when the king speaks again.

“Léonys of the North,” he says. “Your path may leave Rohan behind, but I name you a friend of the Mark, for as long as you live. I trust you will bring her nothing but honor.”

Your heart swells and you feel the flush from before creep up again as you offer another bow. “Thank you, my lord,” you whisper, though it echoes loudly in the hall.

Éomer-king rises, and acknowledges you with a nod and a thin smile, and you turn, and leave the hall with a lightness in your step that you did not expect, when you arrived.

Outside, it is raining, a gentle and warm spring rain, and the westering sun shines through it, transforming every drop into a streak of shining glass. You remove your helm from your head and lift your face to the sky, letting the water run down your face and breathing deeply.

When you look down, shaking water from your hair, Hathellang is there, walking slowly across the Court of the Fountain toward you. He is dressed in pale blue, and wears a smile, and it has been so long, you think, since you have seen him really smile -- not since Rivendell, when the two of you had laughed together with the four hobbits there over some joke or other: something to do with Boromir and Aragorn, though the details have faded with time.

“How is your arm?” you ask as he approaches, and his eyes fall to his right side, where his arm ends just above where his wrist once was. He has foregone the sling today, and you wonder if it is because the healers told him he was ready to go without or because he has once again decided that for himself.

“Better,” he says. “They say the smiths here can make tools that I’ll be able to use.”

“That’s wonderful,” you say, and you feel your own face break into a smile. You had not asked, but you had known the prospect of losing his leatherworking had weighed on him, especially after he had helped you repair your tabard, shakily sewing half a seam with his left hand before being forced to stop and painstakingly talk you through the rest of the process. His left hand would gain strength and skill with time, but holding the leather pieces steady had been a difficult task, and while you had offered help, and he had accepted, it has always been an escape for him, an activity he performs in relative solitude.

His smile falters, and he glances down at the white stones of the Court for a moment before taking a deep breath and glancing around. He catches your hand in his and draws you up the steps that lead to the city’s pier. The sun is brighter here, away from the buildings that block it, and the rain gleams brighter too. It is not strong enough that the stones of the pier are slick, and the two of you walk twenty yards down it in companionable silence before Hathellang speaks.

“What did the King say?”

You smile, almost giddily. “I have been forgiven, for breaking my banishment,” you say. You glance over to Hathellang, meaning to speak further, but the forlorn look in his eyes stops you short, and instead you tuck a strand of wet hair behind his ear.

He closes his eyes as you meet them, and smiles again, but while there is genuine feeling behind it, it is strained. “I don’t know when yet,” he says, choosing his words slowly and intentionally. “But I will be going back to Bree eventually.”

You open your mouth to speak, but he raises his arm and forges forward. “I want to check on Lady Hackberry and everyone at the house. Make sure they’re doing okay. I owe Ted Pickthorn five gold. I want to see the Spring Festival again. But I’ll come back!”

He looks very earnest, wide eyes meeting yours as he quickly continues. “I’ll stay a year, at most, and then I’ll come back, and when I do --” He releases your hand and produces a ring from his pocket, a beautiful silver band with gold filigree worked into it. “When I come back, may I have your hand in marriage?”

You swallow as you take it in, and there’s a nervous fluttering in your stomach, and for a long moment you only stand there and look at him, and he looks at you and waits, and you finally break the silence the only way you can bring yourself to.

“Did you steal that?”

He rolls his eyes, but his smile has grown less strained, even if it is a bit exasperated. “No,” he says. “You do know how to ruin a moment. If you must know, someone gave it to me.”

You smirk. “Did they know they were giving it to you?”

“Yes!” he insists, and there it is, mild, fond annoyance. You laugh, and he follows suit, and in the midst of it he presses the ring into your hand and you take it.

But as soon as you do, you frown. “Hathellang… no. Not like this.”

His laughter fades and he looks at you in concern. “Is something wrong?” he asks, and his voice wavers.

You look at him, and take him in, all wet hair and anxious eagerness framing beautiful brown eyes, and wonder how to express everything you’re feeling. Both of you have understood for some years that one day you would wed, but he had not asked and you had not pressed, and you finally confront the fact that this is because you had been Léonys of Rohan, and he had simply been Hathellang.

Hathellang had come to live in Lady Hackberry’s house when you were fourteen, perhaps fifteen. Then he had been brash and annoying and overconfident and absolutely certain that he neither needed nor wanted anyone’s assistance. More than once you had wished, very strongly, that you could do over that night in the Pony and look the other way when you had caught him with his hand in Doris Mallow’s pocket, and let him keep taking care of himself the way he insisted he did.

After dinner has always been a lazy, slow sort of time in that house, a few stolen hours before bed during which the Lady sits in the Big Room and embroiders, and the younger children play, and the older children read or finish small projects that they could bring into the house. Sometimes there is conversation or song, but more often than not you all sit in contented silence, enjoying each others’ presence and preparing yourselves for the day ahead.

On one such evening you had sat, sketching out a pattern you had thought to carve into a chair back you were making for Ilena Appledore, and in the relative silence of the room your ears had caught a muted gasp of pain and a thump. You had glanced around, and at once your eyes had lighted upon Hathellang by himself in a corner, his left hand half inside his mouth as dark eyes darted nervously about the room.

Lady Hackberry had not been looking; Helena, perhaps ten herself, had just emerged from the kitchen with some sort of steaming blue concoction and that bright and eager look in her eyes that told anyone with eyes to see that she had every intention of consuming it, and the lady of the house had dropped her embroidery and pursued her out of the Big Room and up the stairs, judging by the thunderous clatter you could hear from overhead. Derrick, the only other individual in the room that late, was staring at the ceiling intently, having apparently not heard Hathellang over the shouts of Lady Hackberry and Helena.

“You’re going to make yourself ill if you keep sucking on it,” you’d said as you walked over to him.

“‘M’fine,” he’d mumbled around his hand. You’d rolled your eyes, making sure he could see.

“Yes, and I’m a hobbit. Let me see it.”

He’d glared, guarded eyes gauging you for ulterior motives. “‘M’fine,” he’d insisted.

You’d pulled up a chair across from him and sat down, studying the leather carving he’d been attempting. It wasn’t good by any practical measure, but it was better than anything you’d yet attempted at the time. You could treat a piece of leather, but after that its properties became a mystery to you. He seemed to have figured them out quickly.

“It doesn’t have to be fine, you know,” you’d commented, trying to sound casual.

Hathellang took his hand out of his mouth. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s fine because it has to be, right? Well, it doesn’t have to be, anymore.” You’d watched as blood welled up from the cut along the side of his index finger and spilled out onto his work. “If you don’t clean that it’s going to get infected.”

“I can’t do anything right, can I?”

The comment had taken you by surprise, bitterness hitting you in the sternum like a physical blow. “Look,” you’d said defensively, “I like to argue --”

“Don’t stop on my account!”

“I won’t! I like to argue, and I’m sorry if that comes off like I’m criticizing you all the time, but you’re being a real idiot right now, I don’t mind saying.”

“You sound sorry,” he’d remarked, and you’d rolled your eyes again and sighed.

“You’re not out on the streets anymore, you’re in Lady Hackberry’s house, so you can --”

He’d cut you off again and the bitterness was sharper this time. You could almost taste it. “Am I wanted here?”

You’d stopped short, suddenly lost for words. For the first time, you think, you’d really looked at him, past the unkempt hair and dirty face that he’d refused to wash in those days and the loud, overconfident facade, which you saw for the first time as a facade, and you’d seen Hathellang, and whatever you were about to say stuck in your throat.

“Of course you’re wanted here,” you’d whispered.

He gave you a look loaded with doubt and suddenly you were angry, angry at the world that had let him expect to be used and then thrown away, and angry at yourself for not seeing what his problem was earlier, and angry at Helena for distracting Lady Hackberry and making you deal with this yourself. You’d grabbed him by his other hand and stood up, dragging him with you.

“You’re always wanted here, always,” you’d insisted, loudly. “Now come on. I’m cleaning that cut, no, it’s not ‘fine’, don’t you dare put it in your mouth again, and don’t ever, ever just sit there and take it when you’re hurt again. Ever, do you understand me?”

And he’d resisted at first, pulled against you, and you weren’t nearly strong enough, then, to force him to go, not that you were really trying, but after a moment he’d relented, and you’d dragged him into the kitchen and put on the kettle and washed his hand with warm water and soap, and bandaged it with the clean cloths that were set aside in case of accidents, and then, because you were children, both of you had climbed up onto the kitchen table beside the oven and he had boosted you on his shoulders, and you had stolen honey-cakes from the top shelf.

It had been that night that had laid the groundwork for a friendship that had eventually shifted into something else, and, thinking of it now, you shift the ring to the hand that is holding your helm and take Hathellang’s hand with your other, leading him to the south edge of the pier. You sit down, and at a suggestion he follows suit, and the two of you sit there, legs swinging over the edge, hundreds of feet above the city below, the fields reaching out before you almost as far as the eye can see, though the shining rain cuts eyesight short. You take a steadying breath, and then you speak.

“I have spent my entire life calling myself Léonys of Rohan.” You bite your lower lip. “And I am Léonys of Rohan, but I am also Léonys from Lady Hackberry’s, and Léonys who hunts in the Chetwood, and Léonys who climbs the tree above the firework field, and Léonys who accidentally taught Dorian how to start fires, and I am Léonys who found Hathellang, on accident, and brought him home, on accident.” Hathellang is watching you, his brow creased, but he waits, listening patiently. “I am Léonys of Rohan, but I am also Léonys of Bree-land. I could make a home for myself in the Mark, a very good home, but then -- I would be Léonys of Rohan, and I would lose everything else. And I don’t want to do that anymore.”

You laugh a little dully, and take your helm, and gaze at it for a moment, and then you set it aside and meet Hathellang’s eyes. “When you return to Bree, whenever that is, I will go with you. Léonys of Rohan is a fine person to be, but for the rest of my life? That’s terrifying. I would like to be Léonys of Bree-land. It’s not less terrifying, but it’s a fear I know.”

“Are you certain?” he asks. He knows as well as anyone how much you have longed for Rohan -- and he has seen much, much more of it than you have, and told you about it, and during calm evenings in the Houses of Healing, or the gardens before the guest-rooms, you had found yourself listening happily to his voice, hardly hearing the words, and content that way.

“I have never been more certain of anything in my life, Hathellang,” you say. “And I want you to know. I want you to know that I want Bree, and I want Lady Hackberry’s, and I want you, more than I have ever wanted Rohan. And I want you to know that I’m sorry, that I didn’t see it sooner. I’m sorry I dragged you across the whole world before I saw you.”

He smiles, and takes your hand, and gently presses his forehead to yours, and you close your eyes. “You didn’t drag me anywhere, dearest,” he says. “I chose to follow you, because I wanted to.”

You press the ring into his hand and wrap his fingers closed around it. “Hathellang of Bree-land,” you whisper, and you pull away so that you can look into his eyes, “might I have the honor of your hand in marriage?”

He whispers, “yes,” and this is how it is to be Léonys.

***

Listen, I’m not fond of romcoms. They always end with one or both parties giving up their dreams because they’ve realized that they’ve found real happiness in each other, and that story’s fine, really, it is, even good, but they’re all like that and when it’s so pervasive it becomes less good.

I didn’t realize the risk I was taking, by having the representative of everything Léonys would leave behind if she chose to stay in Rohan be a love interest, until I was far too deep to back out, and as I worked out Hathellang’s specific backstory and insecurities everything just got riskier. So I put a lot of effort into making it very clear that while it would be wrong to say Hathellang wasn’t a driving factor in her decision, it hinged on other elements as well, and if he wasn’t there she likely would have made the same choice. I guess my question is... is that clear? I tried to achieve a balance between clarity and keeping the scene moving, but that can be very difficult.

And thanks for reading! We’re almost done now.

Part 1 | Part 8 | Part 10

#lotr #lotro #lord of the rings #lord of the rings online #lord of the rings online fanfiction #lotr oc #leonys of rohan

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chroniccombustion · 4 years

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Butterflies in the Garden

Written for the ‘Fools in Love’ Persona Fan Zine (@personafoolsinlovezine)

Genre: soulmates, soulmate indentitpre-romance, M/M Rated: K Characters: Souji Seta (Yu Narukami), Akira Karusu (Ren Amamiya), Margaret, Izanagi, mentions of the IT Warnings: none Status: zine fic, oneshot; complete

Your name is Souji Seta, and you do not have a soulmate.

Even as a child, when your classmates started sprouting colors, Lover’s Marks around their wrists, Platonic Marks across their backs, your skin has always been blank. You used to watch the other children as they gleefully showed off their growing ink and giggled over whose Marks might match their own. You envied them at first. Now you just feel numb.

Over time you’ve come to accept your Mark-less existence. You don’t like it, you don’t want it, but a lifetime of changing schools and absent parents means you’re no stranger to being alone. Eventually you just stop caring. At least, you tell yourself you’ve stopped caring; it’s easier than facing the gaping void of loneliness threatening to choke you whenever your guard is down.

Maybe this is better, you think. Maybe your lack of Soul Marks is the universe’s way of helping you deal with the isolation in your everyday life.

(You chant your “maybe’s” in your head and stop crying yourself to sleep by the time you reach age 9.)

---

Your flowers finally bloom when you turn 16.

A year is spent in a rural town called Inaba, where, for the first time in your existence, you actually feel alive. There are murders, a mystery, but in between the stress and combat there are people, and as you slowly get to know them you can feel your garden grow.

They start as tingles across your shoulder blades, the sensation of warm water spreading like ink along your skin. You wake one morning to find stems and buds. You wake the next to petals and leaves. Sunflowers for the Magician, hyacinth and amaryllis for the Chariot and Priestess. Gladiolus, then pink roses; lilac, then iris. There is freesia for your cousin, a dahlia for her dad. An entire field of Platonic Marks springs up almost overnight, and little by little they bury the emptiness beneath vibrant shades of love until you’re covered neck to waist in watercolor blooms.

But for all the tattooed beauty of the flowers on your back there is still a blank spot on your canvas, and the colors fade in sadness on the day you have to leave.

---

You stop dreaming about the Velvet Room when you move back to Tokyo. You miss it, the way you miss everything else about Inaba, but your contract has been fulfilled and the logical part of you knows you have to readjust to life as a normal person. It takes ages, but you begrudgingly fall back into your boring, lonely life. You clutch at your shoulders when it gets to be unbearable; when texts and calls to your garden of friends just aren’t enough, you find your fingers searching out the comfort of the blossoms on your back.

Months pass by the time you’ve finally accepted that you’ll never see the liminal blue dreamscape again, and it’s because of this that you’re so completely unprepared for the night when, out of absolutely nowhere, you feel that familiar sensation of falling just as you’re drifting asleep.

“Honored friend,” comes the silvery-sweet voice of Margaret in your ear. “May I ask a personal favor?”

You do not hesitate, you simply tell her, “yes.”

The world around you is cold and harsh when feeling returns to your body. You open your eyes to find yourself in a… cage? Stumbling to the bars, you look out into the blue-tinted room beyond your cramped enclosure and realize that you are not in a cage, but a prison.

The walls curve away from you in a circle of cells too dark to see inside, but from what you can tell, the center of the space is empty.

Someone lurks behind you in the dark; you do not need to turn to know who it is. “There is something wrong with the Velvet Room,” Margaret whispers over your shoulder. “I cannot seem to contact my Master and I fear this new guest may be in danger.” You hear her move, hear the creak of her Compendium as it opens.

Faintly, from all the way across the room in the cell directly opposite yours, there comes the sound of rustling chains. Instinctively you step back into the safety of the shadows as a figure, clad in white-and-black prison garb, shuffles up to the bars of that distant cell. You cannot make out features, only the monochrome of skin and charcoal hair.

“Hello?” the figure calls, and the voice is male.

“Hello?!” he calls more insistently, voice hitching in building unease. “Is anyone there?”

You don’t like this. You don’t like what the Velvet Room’s become and you don’t like that there’s a boy in chains across from you in the empty dark. “Let me help,” you whisper, eyeing the oppressive space around you with creeping dread. “This isn’t right, let me help.”

You practically feel Margaret’s smile. “I was hoping you’d offer.” The Compendium snaps shut.

Something rises from your soul: an old, familiar presence that you nearly weep to feel again, lightning-charged and sizzling through your veins like a pulse. There’s a surge of ethereal blue light and past the glow, through a pair of eyes not quite your own, you see the boy in the other cell take a step backwards in shock.

When the light dims, Izanagi stands triumphant in the center of the room.

Through your Persona’s vision you see the boy more clearly. He’s roughly your age, with curling black hair and wide dark eyes set in a beautiful, seraphim face. He stares up at you-not-you in fear and awe and somewhere in the back of your head you hear Izanagi’s voice like a rumbling, distant storm.

I am thou.

But thou are not I.

The boy’s bow furrows in frustrated confusion. “I don’t understand.”

You watch through Izanagi’s eyes as he silently appraises the boy in the cell. Eventually you feel him nod.

You’ll do.

The world glows white-hot.

There’s a sensation of something shifting – relocating – and suddenly you’re blind. In place of your sight, however, comes an acute awareness of someone else, like your awareness of Margaret behind you only stronger, deeper, like you’re somehow folded up in another person and they in you. Any hollow place that once existed within you is gone, filled to the brim with this feeling of him, the boy who now holds the most profound piece of your soul.

It’s the most intimate thing you’ve ever felt in your life and you are very nearly brought to tears.

Your vision fades back in, leaving you once more inside your own body, and from across the way you can see the boy staring at his hands in pure wonder. He flexes his fingers, brings them up to press against his chest as if he’s feeling for something past his sternum. He looks up, and those dark, wide eyes meet yours.

“Who are you?” he whispers, but you feel it in your head all the same.

You get no chance to answer. Margret’s hand is on your shoulder before you can open your mouth, and into your ear she murmurs, “It’s best if we leave now, honored friend.”

You want to protest, shake her hand off, shout your name back at the boy and ask for his, but your body feels weightless, detached from your surroundings, and you blink to find the room around you blurring at the edges.

You wake up alone in the physical world, blinking away fresh tears. The feeling of completeness is still there, though, and as you stare up at the ceiling and focus, you can just make out the faint stirrings of Izanagi from somewhere far away. “Come back,” you whisper to the boy that cannot hear you. “Please …”

When the sun rises a few hours later, flooding your bedroom with light, you notice something beneath the cuff of your shirtsleeve. There, on your left wrist, in brilliant cyan-blue, is a Lover’s Mark in the shape of a swooping butterfly.

---

Life doesn’t change too much. You weren’t sure if it would because you’ve never had a soulmate before and don’t know what it’s meant to feel like, but the garden on your back hadn’t really changed anything either, so you suppose this is normal. Something that does change is the way you can sense his emotions whenever they’re strong enough.

Determination comes through a lot, as does defiance. You wonder what kind of life your soulmate is living where he’s constantly on edge, constantly tense or stressed. Anxiety and anger are common as well, and you don’t like that the negative emotions are what you get most often because you can’t tell if they’re what he feels the strongest or what he feels most frequently. Neither one is good.

You worry for him, send him thoughts of strength where you can, whisper, “you’ll get through this, I believe in you” into the butterfly, and pray that it reaches him when he needs it. You don’t know him, not even his name or where he is, but you’ve wanted him your whole life and now that you know he exists you already want to protect him. Sometimes there’s a flicker of something in return, but you can’t make out what it is.

There are times, however, when you swear you can feel his happiness. It’s soft, more focused than the other emotions, and always at night when you’re lying in bed thinking. There’s something like longing hiding in there as well, and you know this because you’ve known forever what longing feels like. The butterfly on your wrist tingles with warmth; you dare to hope it means he’s thinking about you, too.

It’s during those witching-hour moments, when you’re alone with the memory of dark eyes and even darker curls, that you press your palm over your new Lover’s Mark and pour every ounce of yearning and curious affection from your heart into this budding bond between you. You like to imagine that the faint, giggly joy you feel afterwards is him answering you back.

But your luck always runs out.

You awake in a feverish sweat one terrible, soul-rending night in November, with after-images of torture flashing behind your eyes and fear crackling in your ribs like Izanagi’s being torn apart from the inside out. It doesn’t let up even after you blink away the nightmare, and your entire body shakes violently with adrenaline not wholly your own.

You gasp into the darkness, searching for any scrap of familiar feeling you can use as an anchor to ground the both of you on either side of the bond. All you feel is chaos, a steady stream of spectral pain. You curl in on yourself then, instinctively wrapping your hand over the butterfly and clutching until your knuckles turn white. “I’m here,” you whisper, hoping against hope that he can hear you. “I’m here, I’m here, I’m here…”

There’s a feeling like something slotting between the fingers of your left hand, like someone is desperately gripping it, and you clench your fist in response as if you could hold his hand from far away and not let go. You stay that way until everything fades into a drug-like silence, sobbing against your Lover’s Mark and rocking back and forth until well after dawn.

Later, as you’re sluggishly getting ready for school with the morning news in the background, it’s announced that the leader of the infamous Phantom Thieves killed himself last night while in police custody. Somehow, with a gut-dropping surety that you cannot explain, you know.

You don’t go to classes that day – instead, you crawl back into bed in a daze and lay there with your lips pressed against the faded butterfly, your heart freezing over inside your chest.

---

Your Mark is silent after that.

Your hope begins to dim to embers, not yet dead but slowly dying as the months roll by. Sometimes, at night, it feels like maybe there’s still something there – an echo of lonely sorrow ghosting across your soul, but it always vanishes too quickly for you to catch. No matter how fervently you plead afterwards, there is never any response.

You look for solace in denial; old “maybe’s” sit like poison in your mind and you quickly discard them when all they do is make you sick. You cling to your garden of platonic flowers, but even they bring little comfort now that you’ve had a glimpse of something deeper.

Ever observant, your Magician is the first to notice your despondence. He calls you, asks if you’re okay, doesn’t believe you when you tell him you are. He calls again later to say he’s bought a train ticket to Tokyo for spring break, and despite your hollowness the sunflowers on your back grow a little brighter at the news.

March arrives and with it comes your friend, his presence a balm to your shattered heart. You talk for hours, catching up those months spent apart and, miserably, you tell him about your once-vibrant Lover’s Mark. It’s grey now, the color all but gone in your despair, and you’re grateful when he empathizes but doesn’t ask to see.

Three days into his visit you’re… better, so he drags you off to Shibuya for a change of scenery. It’s fun, hours passing with easy laughter, and you realize you’d forgotten what it felt like not to hurt.

You’re halfway to the arcade when it happens.

Out of nowhere comes a sharp, stinging pain – it lances up your arm, tracing the lines of your butterfly like lightning, and Izanagi roars to life inside your soul.

Go.

You run.

You don’t know your destination, nor how your feet know where to go; it doesn’t matter. You follow the pull inside your heart, letting Izanagi direct you left, right, straight for a block then down into an empty, open alleyway, heedless of your Magician calling out behind you.

Then Izanagi’s presence abruptly disappears.

You stumble to a halt. Heart hammering and confused, you nearly miss the sound of pounding footsteps steadily coming closer until they’re just beyond the opposite entrance to the alley. You turn as a figure rounds the corner—

and freeze.

Wide eyes stare at you from behind crooked glasses, dark beneath darker curls in a beautiful, seraphim face. “You,” he whispers, taking a step towards you.

And then you’re both moving. You meet as one in a tangle of grasping desperation, tugging at each other’s wrists to reveal an identical pair of butterflies in shining, brilliant blue. Your fingers in his hair, his arms around your waist, and somewhere in the middle your lips connect in a kiss that feels and tastes like home.

“You’re alive,” you nearly sob when you pull apart, at the same time he murmurs in awe, “you’re real.”

Your name is Souji Seta, and you are 17 when Akira Kurusu calls you his soulmate.

#fanfic #fanfiction #soukira #banpego #pegoban #fools in love #zine fic #persona #persona 4 #persona 5 #p4 #p5 #soulmates #souji seta #yu narukami #akira kurusu #ren amiyama

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saultnpeppah · 4 years

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Day 3: The proposal

Day 3: The proposal for the WonderBat event “Steps to the Altar”. It’s a long one, but I hope you all enjoy!

March 1. Downtown Gotham. 9:10

Diana

I love the sun. I love the brightness it casts over the gloomy city, promising a better day over each hidden corner it illuminates. I love the heat that radiates from its core, the warmth it brings, giving life to those things left dead by the harsh temperament of Gotham winters. I love the hope it brings when you wake up to see the sun peeking through the clouds, greeting you with a magnificent glimpse of all you can accomplish.

Growing up in Greece, the sun greeted me most mornings. I often found myself staring out at the ocean in awe, wondering how something so seemingly small could be so powerful. When Mother and I had moved to Gotham, my sunshine filled days were soon overshadowed by the gloomy overcast and clouds that reigned over the Gotham skies most of the year. Eventually I learned to find the beauty in the vastly different weather of Gotham to my hometown. That did not mean I still did not miss the sunshine.

Every time the sun took a chance, peeking through the low clouds that filled the sky, I was out soaking it up. When I went back to Greece for a few years after college, I spent most days outside, soaking up the warmth, storing it up for the winter nights here in Gotham when it felt like the wind chilled me to the bones. The sunshine was a rarity, and I never wanted to take it for granted. This would explain why the phone call I had received an hour ago had frustrated me to no end.

When Charlie had called me at nearly eight this morning, I had had a foot out the door, ready to run some personal errands before enjoying my one day to myself in nearly three weeks. Things at work had become hectic, and with a new exhibit expected to open at the end of the month, I had spent every waking moment focused on work. Of course, once Charlie had called, frantically explaining they were having an issue procuring one of the items for the exhibit, I knew the sunshine would have to wait. I had a job to do.

My footsteps squeak against the freshly waxed floors as I make my way to my office, trying not to overthink the vague message in Charlie's call earlier. I am unable to help the worry that settles over me and my feet begin to carry me faster, making a sharp turn at the end of the hallway. The cell phone in my coat pocket begins to ring and I quickly pull it out, a small sigh escaping my lips when I see Bruce's name flash across the screen. He's been in Star City for the last few days, meeting with Oliver Queen and his company, trying to find a way to save the company of the reformed playboy. Bruce knows all too well how a bad image can ruin a company, as he nearly lost his because of stupid mistakes on his end. Fortunately for Bruce, he had Lucius. Oliver, however, did not.

Silencing the phone, I continue down the bright hallway, shoving the device back into my coat pocket promising to return his call when I am not in the middle of a drawback that could not only hurt my career, but also the reputation of the museum. Besides, Bruce will understand. He knows it has been a busy week, and although I hate the months when we are both so busy we hardly get to see each other, it's nice to have a partner who understands the demands of a job. Bruce doesn't fret when I have to stay late at the museum. He doesn't complain when I have to drop plans last minute because an artifact goes missing. He respects my job, as I do his, and I love him all the more for it.

When I finish my journey down the hallway, I continue into my office, barging in the door, ready for whatever chaos may be on the other end. My stomach sinks when I see Charlie on the phone, sweat dripping down the side of her face as she clenches the half eaten bagel that was surely her breakfast in her hand. She frantically waves me over, trying to distract me from the two men sitting at her desk, their head in their hands- whatever has happened is not going to be an easy fix and something tells me I'm going to have to cancel dinner with Alfred for the second time this week.

Immediately my fingers begin to work their way to the buttons on my coat, pulling one loose, ready to settle in for the day and fix this mix up, before Charlie lifts a finger and shakes her head. She nudges a few of her dark curls out of her face, staring at me with dark brown eyes while she nods to whoever is on the other end of the phone. "Of course," she says after a few moments, forcing a laugh to hide the anxiety that is beginning to creep up. "We'll get it fixed right away, Sir," she says, addressing the mystery caller.

My heart begins to pound. Charlie is usually so confident, so sure of herself and her abilities. That is why she is part of my team. When I took this job, I was up against candidates with much more experience, both in museums and in life. I was younger and I was still looking for ways to change the way museums ran, and many did not like that. My first year I ran into a lot of hurdles, but I pushed through, eventually gaining the trust of the board of trustees. That didn't mean I had been able to slack off. In fact, every exhibit, every artifact, every presentation, I need to do my best, which is why I work with the best.

Charlie is my main assistant curator. She knows the ins and outs of every exhibit here in the museum, and on the occasion I am not here, she is able to run things flawlessly. But the look she has on her face is making me worry more by the second. "I will call you with an update soon," Charlie promises into the phone, letting another nervous chuckle pass through her lips before she ends the call, slamming the phone onto the base in the corner of her desk.

"Do I want to know who that was?" I ask

Charlie shakes her head. "Andrew Lemming," she answers anyway. She wipes her sweaty palms onto her pant legs, turns, and grabs something off her desk.

Something big must have happened if the President of the Board of Trustees is calling demanding it be fixed right away. "Someone mislabeled one of the accounts," Charlie explains, glaring at the two men seated behind me. Arthur and Daryl are our newest hires, and they both came highly recommended- it's hard to imagine them making a mistake this crucial. "One of the shipments got mixed up and is halfway across town but because you're the one who put in the original order, you're the one who has to go down there."

She hands me a sticky note and I read the address written in blue ink. It's going to take at least forty minutes to get to where this is and probably another hour to get everything situated. I will definitely need to call Alfred to cancel our dinner plans tonight. The thought alone makes me sad, as he was going to tell me about Bruce's second grade volcano project that went horribly wrong, resulting in a complete renovation of the kitchen; it was definitely a story that would produce a laugh big enough to cure the stress of the last few days.

I shove the sticky note containing the address into my pocket beside my phone and turn on my heel, walking out of the office with a nod to the two men who are still sulking at Arthur's desk. I walk through the maze that constructs the basement of the museum, a sense of urgency lingering in my movements. It isn't long before I am in my car, jabbing the keys into the ignition and bringing the vehicle to life, before speeding off, hoping I can fix this before everything else goes sideways.

XXXXXXX

West End. 11:17.

The drive to the west end takes longer than expected, thanks to a fender bender on the highway that blocked nearly three of the four lanes. I had offered to help, silently cursing myself for offering a helping hand when I was on a strict timeline myself, however the two drivers only shook their heads and went about their day, already halfway through with exchanging information. Not wanting to press my luck, I drove straight to the address Charlie had given me, focused on the task at hand.

I knew it was going to be a long day. When I was done here, and had the artifact safely in my possession, preferably in a vault at the museum, I was in for a ton of paperwork. I would need to figure out how the mix up happened and how I would be able to assure the Board something like this would not happen again. Thank the gods I had accepted the second cup of coffee Alfred had offered this morning. I was going to need it.

I turn the wheel of my car one last time, letting the vehicle make the last turn that my GPS orders from me, before I shift gears, placing the car in park in front of a warehouse, and pull the keys from the ignition. My phone rings from the inside of my coat again, and I reach into my pocket, unable to help the sigh that falls from my mouth, worried about what else might be happening at the office. Bruce's name flashes on the screen once more, causing my lips to curl into a smile even though I swear my hair is graying from all the stress. Just the thought of him relaxes me slightly and even though I know I need to get into the warehouse, I want to hear his voice, if only to prevent the raging migraine I can feel forming at my temples.

"Hi," I say into the phone, placing it to my ear, letting my head fall back onto the top of my seat.

"Hi," is his response. "Everything okay?"

"No," I answer truthfully. He's going to hear about it when he comes back anyway, there is no use lying to him now. "One of the pieces for the Tibet exhibit is missing and I'm trying to track it down."

"How did that happen?" he asks. I find myself shrugging, even though I know he cannot see me, and pinch the bridge of my nose. Hearing his voice wasn't as soothing as I had wanted, and I can feel the tension growing by the second.

"I don't know," is all I say, as I reach into the glove compartment, pull out a bottle of aspirin, open it, and dump two pills into my hand. "I'm fixing it."

"That's why they pay you the big bucks," he says. I know there is that stupid smirk on his face and I shake my head and scoff.

"Shush." My eyes glance up to my dashboard, taking a look at the time displayed. My hand reaches across my body and unbuckles my seat belt, before it grabs the handle to the door of my car and opens it up. "I have to go," I explain, stepping out of the vehicle and onto the sidewalk that leads to the warehouse. "I'll talk to you later."

"Of course," he says. "Don't stress out, Diana," he says, "it'll work out." With that he ends the call.

I close the door to the car, clenching my keys tightly in my hand as I try to let out a steady breath, trying to calm myself. As I follow the cemented path to the front of the warehouse, I slip my keys into my coat pocket. My phone is inches from following my keys to their fabric resting spot when it begins to ring again.

"Hello," I answer so quickly I don't even bother to look at the number flashing on the screen.

"Di," Charlie's voice rings out, "you make it to the warehouse?"

"Yes," is my answer. When I reach the front of the warehouse I let the door slide open before I step inside, letting the hot air radiating from the heater behind the front counter warm my body. The receptionist who stands beside the heater smiles my way, pushes her glasses up her thin nose, and tilts her head. "Hi," I greet, trying my hardest to conjure a friendly smile. It is not this woman's fault I am here. She deserves some common courtesy.

"Hello," she says. "How can I help you?"

I shift my phone, moving the mic away from my mouth as Charlie is not the intended other party for this conversation, and pull my work badge from where it hangs around my neck. "I'm from the museum," I say, handing her the badge. "There was a mix up that I was told I needed to fix."

She lifts my badge, reads my name, and nods. "Ms. Prince, of course!" she exclaims. "Yes, I do believe we have something for you." She lets go of my badge and I stuff it back into my jacket, watching as she disappears behind the counter, only to appear moments later carrying a small wooden box. "Here it is," she says as she places the box onto the counter. She hands me a receipt and offers me a pen, watching as I sign for it, before she offers me another smile. "Thank you. You're all set."

Confused, I only nod and walk out of the building, the wooden box tucked safely under my arm. "Well that was quicker than I expected," I say into the phone, unlocking the car and hopping inside.

Charlie lets out another nervous chuckle. "Did you get the right one?" she asks.

My hand reaches for the glove compartment, opens it, and pulls out the pocket knife that I keep inside. My shoulder raises up and pins the phone to my ear and my hands work the knife around the box, slicing the labels and stickers around the box, carefully wiggling the blade between the boards trying to pry it open without damaging what is inside.

The box opens and I flash a grin, happy with my success. I carefully fold the knife and place it back into the glove box and place the top piece of wood onto my passenger seat, glancing into the box, hoping to find my artifact safe and sound. What I don't expect, however, are the four flowers laying inside. "What the hell," I mutter, lifting the flowers from the box, and rummage through the packing materials in hopes of finding the missing item. "There's no mask."

Charlie lets out a giggle and I stop my search. "I'm sorry," she says, "but I couldn't help myself."

My eyes narrow and I toss the box containing only paper packing material onto my passenger seat. Charlie has always been one to pull practical jokes, and while I would be on the receiving end of those pranks from time to time, none were nearly this elaborate or time consuming. "You're an ass," is the only thing I can say. "You made me come in for this."

"No, Di," she says, "it wasn't me. I was only a part of this elaborate plan."

My eyes scan over the flowers in my hand, clenching the four roses. There is a note laying in the box and I am quick to reach for it, my eyebrow raising as I read the all too familiar handwriting. I will love you until the last one dies. I take another look at the flowers and notice one is brighter than the other three and my lips curl into a smile when I realize it is plastic.

Bruce.

A comment made the night of our Freshman Orientation, when Bruce and I had been watching some cheesy romance movie where the main love interest had done something similar. I can't believe he remembered this, after all those years.

"Yeah, yeah," I say, remembering Charlie is still on the other end, "You're still an ass."

Charlie laughs harder. "Everything is all good here. Enjoy your days off."

Days? I know I'm supposed to be in tomorrow, but if Charlie says they don't need me, I won't push it. Considering I've spent a good portion of my actual day off on this wild goose chase, I deserve some time off.

Charlie ends the call and my fingers are quick to dial Bruce's number. It rings twice before he answers, but when he does, I can tell there is still a smirk on his face. "Hello?" he answers, trying to feign innocence.

I blow past his innocent demeanor, knowing he is up to something. "You're an ass," I whisper. "I mean, I love you, and the flowers, but you're an ass."

Bruce laughs and I fight to keep the scowl on my face. "But also romantic," he states.

I can't agree with his tactics, but I also cannot deny his claim. Bruce is one of the most romantic people I know. I secretly wonder if he enjoys the old romance movies I've forced him to watch countless times. "Yes," I agree, "but why?"

"Did you read the card?" he asks.

"Mmhmm."

"The whole card?"

The whole card? Was that one sentence not the only thing? I quickly turn the card in my hand, noticing the business logo in the middle of the card. The address is on the bottom along with Bruce's handwriting: I have some good news.

"What's your good news?" I ask unable to help myself. I know he's not going to tell me, he's going to force me to be patient. He's going to force me to play along with his little scavenger hunt, although I can't deny it's enthralling.

"Na uh," he says. "No cheating."

"Fine," I say, adding the address into my phone, getting the directions to my next stop. "I'll talk to you later."

"I love you."

"I love you too," I say. He hangs up the phone and I place the device on the dashboard, watching as my custom route comes up, ready to guide me through the streets of Gotham. I quickly start my car and drive off, wondering where in the world Bruce is sending me and what is waiting for me once I get there.

XXXXXX

Gotham Heights - Gracie CuppaJoe. 12:02.

The smell of coffee and fresh baked pastries fill the air as I step through the front door of the small corner shop. There are a few customers scattered around the room, each enjoying the last remnants of their caffeine concoctions and sweets. It brings a smile to my face when one of the baristas looks up from the register and offers me a large smile.

"Good morning," he says, wiping the counter with a rag, trying to clean before the lunch rush comes in for their caffeine fixes. "What can I get started for you?"

I contemplate whether I should indulge in another cup of coffee, having already had two this morning. However, the stress that both Bruce and Charlie have put me through should warrant another - maybe just a small. "She's with me."

I turn to face the owner of the voice. "What are you doing here?" I ask casually, smiling at the woman who offers me one of the small cups of coffee in her hands, before she turns to nod at the barista, who goes about his day.

Lois takes a sip from the remaining cup in her hand and flashes me a smile of her own, letting her shoulders shrug. "I was in the neighborhood," she says with a smirk. It is all I need to hear to know she's in cahoots with Bruce.

The two of us make our way to an empty table near the door, each taking a seat in a chair as we make ourselves comfortable. Lois slides her purse from her shoulder and places it on the chair beside her, eyeing me as she pulls out an envelope. "What did Bruce do?" I find myself asking, watching as she places the envelope on the table and slides it in front of me.

"I honestly don't know," she confesses. "But he helped me with that story about Lexcorp earlier this month, so I owed him a favor."

I nod, knowing full well that Bruce has been helping Clark with exclusive stories for years. When Lois and Clark started dating, he extended that courtesy to her as well. "How was Kansas?" I ask, attempting to make small talk as I grab the envelope from the table and peel it open.

Lois chuckles and whispers, "Interesting," before she takes another sip of her coffee, and ponders over the trip to meet Clark's mother for the first time. Having only met a few weeks earlier, Bruce and I were both excited and nervous to meet Clark's newest girlfriend. I wasn't sure how she would react to the fact that Clark still had dinner with his ex-girlfriend, nor was I sure how I would feel about seeing him move on, no matter how much of a hypocrite that made me. But after meeting Lois, I knew she would be a good friend, and after seeing the way she and Clark looked at each other, I knew they were perfect for each other.

"I'm just kidding," she says after a moment. "Martha was wonderful, and she spilled some secrets I'm sure Clark was not too fond of."

I chuckle and nod, knowing exactly what Lois speaks of. Martha and Alfred have much too much fun spilling secrets of Clark and Bruce's childhoods, and I know both Lois and I appreciate the embarrassing memories. "The tractor?" I ask, smiling when I remember the story Martha told Bruce and I the night of Clark's graduation.

Lois nods and finds it impossible to contain the laughter as she visualizes the event that occurred nearly two decades ago. She watches as I finish opening the envelope and pull out the card seeing Bruce's handwriting on the white piece of card stock.

I knew you would need something to calm your nerves so this one's on me. A few doors down is where you'll find your next clue.

I let out a small sigh and shake my head. How elaborate did Bruce make this scavenger hunt, and why was he doing it to begin with?

"The bookstore," Lois says, when I stuff the card back into the envelope. "Ask for Ryan."

I narrow my eyes at the woman but still give her a slight nod as I push my chair back and stand. "You want me to stay?" I ask when I realize it is rude of me to leave so suddenly.

Lois shakes her head, sips on her coffee, and pulls a small laptop from her purse. "No," she answers, "I'm perfectly content here." She waves her hand around the room and I watch as she begins to sway to the soft music that has been playing inside. "Much better than a stuffy office," she says, convincing me that she is okay with me leaving to go next door.

"Okay," is all I say, as I gather the still hot coffee in my hands. "Thank you." She nods and I see her lips tug into a radiant smile. My eyebrow raises and I know she knows more than she is letting on, but I don't bother to ask. Lois is a vault that no one can crack when it comes to confidential information. It is one of the reasons she has gotten so far in her career: people are willing to help her get information knowing she won't identify anyone who doesn't wish to be made public. With a small wave of my hand, I step out of the coffee shop and onto the sidewalk, following the path until I am standing on the stoop of the small bookstore.

My hand pulls the door open and I step inside. The walls are covered in vintage posters and artwork, signed and framed, showing the years that have gone into the decor of this place. There are rows and rows of bookshelves, lined to the brim with books. Novels, comics, and magazines fill the shelves and I wonder how a place this small place can hold what looks like hundreds of books. To the right is a small counter that houses two registers, a phone, and a computer to, what I assume, account for inventory and orders. All in all, it is a quaint little place, and I mentally remind myself to come and get lost in here on another day.

From behind one of the book shelves walks a man. He carries a box full of wrapped items in his arms, humming and bobbing his head along to the soft music that plays throughout the shop's speakers. He makes it to the front of the shop, still lost in the music, and places the box on the counter, before he turns to face me. His eyes widen when he realizes he is not alone and I can tell he is not used to customers this early.

"Hello!" he exclaims. He runs a hand through his hair and stumbles as he runs up to where I stand. "How can I help you?"

"Uh," I begin, trying to focus my attention on the small name tag that is pinned to his chest. The letters are unrecognizable, having been worn out from years of use, and it does me no good in identifying whether this is the man I need to speak to. "Are you Ryan?" I ask. "I was told I needed to speak to Ryan."

His lips tug into a confused frown. "Do you have an order?"

"I think so," I say unsure as I pull the card out of the envelope and hand it to him. Under Bruce's handwritten message lies a string of numbers. I was unsure of what they were, but when the shop owner turns and begins to type on the computer, I realize it is an order number.

"Ms. Prince," he says to himself, the frown disappearing from his face. He rummages through the box and pulls out a wrapped item. "Ah ha," is all he says as he hands me the item and the card. "I hope you like this," he says with a wink.

I thank him with a nod and pluck a business card from the counter, stuffing it into my coat pocket before I walk out the door, giving him a small wave as I push the door open and step outside. The bright glare from the sun distracts me momentarily and I have to squint until my eyes adjust. Sunshine in Gotham may have been a rarity, but when it came, it brought all it's glorious light. When my eyes finally adjust I take a look at the item in my hand, smiling at the fact that Bruce went through all this trouble to give me a little adventure while he was away.

The white wrapping is accompanied by a large red ribbon, tied to a beautiful bow on top, and I momentarily hate that I'm going to ruin the beautiful wrapping. Soon, however, the curiosity to know what Bruce has planned outweighs the want to preserve the wrapping, and I rip the package open. Inside there is an older publishing of the classic Shakespearean Romeo and Juliet.

The book is old but still in fantastic shape and as I move the book in my hands, I admire the intricate filigree on the cover. I open the cover and once again I see Bruce's handwriting.

Some people are worth dying for, but you, Diana, are absolutely worth living for.

Go to where we had our first kiss.

I smile as I pull the keys from my pocket and head to where my car is parked, hoping to find the answer to all this waiting at my destination.

XXXXX

Gotham Academy. 13:32.

Walking through the halls of Bruce and my alma mater brings back memories, some good, some bad, and I am overcome with emotions. My years here were definitely filled with both happiness and heartache, but if there was one person who had kept me sane throughout my time at Gotham Academy, it was Bruce. He was, is, my best friend. He was always there to listen to me when my mother was being overbearing and forbade me to do anything remotely fun. He was there for me when Steve broke my heart the summer after our Freshman year, and even though we had been friends since grade school, it was in these halls that I fell in love with Bruce.

I continue to walk through the halls. On a Saturday afternoon the once busy halls are nearly empty. Only a few students linger throughout the halls, trying to avoid the weekend detention they've been assigned or getting a jump on college prep exams. I don't envy them as those were some of the most stressful times in my life. One of the students looks up, their face having been buried in one an ACT prep book, and notices me as I continue down the hall. Her eyebrow raises as she tries to place my face and I chuckle lowly; being with Bruce, I have been splashed on the cover of multiple magazines, newspapers, and tabloid pages, the latter I am none too comfortable with, however I soon learned to get over the hurtful comments.

The student offers me a small wave when she realizes who I am and I respond with a small nod and a wave of my own, before I continue down the hall, turning the corner. I see my destination a few doors ahead and I breathe a sigh of relief when I notice the door to the room is the only one open, confirming that I am at the right place.

When I first got the clue in the book, my first thought was to go to the beach. That night, as we enjoyed a bonfire with half of the class, Bruce had kissed me. At first I thought it nothing more than a joke, as I was sure there was no way Bruce Wayne would be interested in the girl he had seen crying and shoving fistfuls of chocolate into her mouth more times than I would like to admit. However, as the night went on, I realized just how much I cared for him, and we spent the night together. I was nearly halfway to the beach when I realized the bonfire was not the first time Bruce and I had kissed, and I soon changed course to go back to our high school.

Our sophomore year of high school, we were forced to study and interpret pieces from Shakespear. Bruce and I were forced to work on Romeo and Juliet for the better part of the semester, which included a visual representation of the first meeting between the star crossed lovers - a visual that included Romeo and Juliet's first kiss. It was then that Bruce and I had kissed for the first time, and even though it had been nothing more than a platonic kiss between two people playing roles, sparks had flown, starting the attraction that only grew as time went on.

The room is dark as I step inside and I fumble with the switch on the wall, cursing at my nerves. I don't know why I'm anxious, but if this goes on for much longer, I'm going to fly to Star City myself and give Bruce a piece of my mind. The lights flicker on, illuminating the room, and I step fully inside. The room is the same as it was a decade earlier, albeit there are new desks that are lined throughout the room, and a new computer on the desk in front of the whiteboard, but the nostalgia is still there.

I make my way to the large desk and take notice of the small box in the center of the desk. As I get closer I can see that next to the box lays a card with my name on it. I open the card and see another message from Bruce.

I couldn't wait until the reunion.

Laying the card down onto the desk, my hand reaches for the box. It begins to shake as I pull it back. All the pieces start to fall into place and I suddenly realize what is happening. I open the box, letting out the breath I hadn't realized I had been holding, and chuckle. Inside is a giant ring pop and I can't help but think back to when I jokingly proposed to Bruce back at the end of our sophomore year.

The sound of shuffling from behind makes me jump and I turn to face the person who has joined me in the room. Bruce's smile sends butterflies down my stomach and I can't help but reciprocate with a goofy smile of my own. I can't believe he's here, having flown all the way back without telling me he was going to be coming back early, but I am grateful. Seeing him standing there, a few feet across from me, suddenly makes this all real.

"Hi," he says, taking a few steps until he is able to reach out and take my hand in his. He places a kiss on the back of my hand and gives me a smirk as he glances at the box in my other hand.

My heart beats faster when I glance into his eyes; those beautiful steely blues make my knees weak. The thumping of my heart fills my ears and I say, "It was supposed to be blue," cringing when I hear the awkward statement.

Bruce laughs and plucks the box out of my hand, placing it on a nearby desk, before he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a smaller box. I let out a small gasp when I see the velvet box and although I know what is happening, I still can't believe it. "This one is," he says. He pulls his hand from mine and opens the box, displaying the ring that is inside, as he lowers himself down onto his right knee.

The ring inside the box is absolutely stunning. The white gold band is studded with blue sapphires, coloring half of the ring in a beautiful blue color that shines under the fluorescent lights in the room. The diamond in the center is a marquise cut, modest yet beautiful, and the two smaller diamonds that lay on either side of the center stone only accentuate it's charm.

"Diana," Bruce begins, forcing my attention from the ring in his hands to his face. His eyes are soft and he bites his lip nervously, trying to gather the right words to convey what he is feeling at this moment. Finally, he says, "I've loved you longer than I can remember. I've nearly lost you more times than I want to admit, but we've always found our way back to each other. I was a fool for waiting so long to tell you how I really felt, and if you'll have me, I'll spend my entire life showing you just how beautiful, how special, how wonderful you truly are."

His thumb caresses the back of my hand softly as he clears his throat, and he sends me a smile to let me know this is what he truly wants. The Bruce I knew as a kid would never have allowed himself to be vulnerable like this. He would have never let anyone break into the wall he had worked tirelessly to build. "I love you, Diana," he confesses. "Will you marry me?"

My arms are wrapped around Bruce before he can register what is happening, and he laughs as I find my voice, so clouded with raw emotion it is difficult for me to get the word out. "Yes," I whisper, trying to clear my throat as I wipe the tears from my cheek.

Bruce places a hand on my cheek, carefully caressing the skin as I repeat my answer, before his lips crash into mine. He continues to cradle my face as he kisses me once, twice, three times, each time more urgent than the last. Before we make the mistake of celebrating in one of the rooms of the high school, he pulls away, placing a kiss on my forehead before he plucks the ring from its spot in the box. He closes the small box and places it on the desk beside my ring pop and card, before he gently grabs my hand and slides the ring onto my finger.

The ring continues to shimmer under the lights and I can't help but look at it, so in awe. The ring is beautiful, balanced and adventurous, just like the relationship Bruce and I have. "I love you," I say when I finally find my voice.

Bruce nods, gives my lips another small kiss, and stands. "I love you too."

Bruce helps me up and we embrace in a strong hug. There are so many questions I have for him, like how things with Oliver went, and who else beside Lois and Charlie know about this, but for the moment I only want to revel in the bliss being here with Bruce brings. I will find out everything eventually, but for now, Bruce's arms are the only place I want to be. I love this man, I always have, and I cannot wait to finally marry my best friend.

@fyeahwonderbat

#StepsToTheAltar #wonderbat #brucexdiana #fanfiction #au #proposal

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questionsonislam · 4 years

Note

God Almighty declares in the surah At-Tahrím (Holding (Something) to be Forbidden) in the eighth verse: O ye who believe! Turn to Allah with sincere repentance: in the hope that your Lord will remove from you your evil deeds and admit you to Gardens beneath which Rivers flow. What is the meaning of sincere repentance in the verse?

Nasuh is the exaggeration mode of the word nush. It means to give advice a lot. The repentance is described as something giving advice a lot. That is to say, it recommends its holder to leave his sin, removes him from the evil deeds, and tells him to turn to Allah with sincere repentance. Thus, sincere repentance is: Leaving the sin; Remorse over the sins committed; Resolving never to return to sins; If it is related to the rights of another person, then, returning the rights or property one took.

Our prophet defines the sincere repentance as: feeling remorse, seeking an absolute refuge in Allah and not returning to it again just as there is no return for the milk into the udder. (Ahmad b. Hanbal, Musnad, 1/446)

Ghazali described repentance as follows: Those asking Allah His forgiveness with sincere repentance are the ones showing persistence in their vows until they are dead. They make up their mistakes in the past and never think of repeating the same sin, except for lapses and slips. It is the resolution in repentance. They are the people whose sins are turned to virtues by Allah, and who compete for good deeds.

2.The conditions for the repentance being accepted:

That Allah acclaims those turning to Him in repentance (the Quran, Repentance (At-Tawbah) 9/112) and says He likes the people knocking the gates to repentance is a proof that repentances are to be accepted by Him. (the Quran, the Heifer (Al-Baqarah 2/222)

The Messenger of Allah (peace and blessings of Allah be upon him) tells how Allah becomes joyful when His servants seeks his forgiveness with the following analogy,: 'When a servant of Allah returns to Him and repents, Allah becomes happier than a traveler who loses his mount which has all his belongings and provisions on and then resorts to the shade of tree after losing all hope only to wake up and find his mount staring in his face, and then out of joy and happiness erroneously says: 'OAllah! You are my servant and I am your Lord.' (Bukhari, Muslim) (Bukhari, Daawat 4; Muslim, Tawbah 3). As it is emphasized above, Allah’s joy is more than that of a man losing his camel and then finding it again when His servants turn to Him.

There are some requirements for repentance to be accepted by Allah. However, those requirements show differences depending on the type of wrongdoing committed. It is very important to know against whom it is committed at the time of seeking forgiveness of Allah. Therefore, we can divide it into two:

A. The sins involving God’s due: there are three stipulations in order to repent of the sins relating to His rights.

1) Remorse over having committed the sin; there occurs a sense of uneasiness and penitence within the conscience of man when it is come to a decision that the sin committed is a misdeed and harms the relations between Allah and His servant.

The servant transgressing will stand before the gate of repentance in a state jerking out of the perturbation and lurching with penitence and having a prudent heart and soul. The perturbation mentioned is an element encouraging man to repent.

Penitence is the first condition of repentance. As a matter of fact, our prophet said that repentance is feeling remorse in order to emphasize it. (Ibn Majah, Zuhd 30; Ahmad b. Hanbal, Musnad, 1/376, 423). To feel remorse is repentance itself. Repentance is impossible without having deep regretful feelings.

2) Abandoning the sin that is repented: Penitence cannot only be confined to the heart and neither is it a creep, recoil nor is a spiritual repentance in the form of weeping. That is to say, it is not only composed of some sorts of inner feelings. Rather, it is a process during which some actions are constructed on internal sensations. For instance, the person seeking repentance must give up the wrongdoing, live up to Allah’s orders as far as he can, and should not continue the sin that is repented. Should he happen to keep committing the sin even though he has repented, he will fall into a contradiction with himself. Such a manner is not going to comply with the repentance and the vow not to repeat that sin. On the other hand, abandoning the sin immediately is going to be an indication of his repentance and decisiveness not to go back to the same sin again.

3) Resolve not to repeat the sin that is repented: The person who has turned to Allah with repentance because of his past sins should be strong-willed not to commit the same sin again so that he will repent truly. Repentance and decisiveness for not repeating the same sin will be known with their true meaning merely by Allah as they are related to the heart. Therefore, it will not be known by people about who truthfully has repented. The person should promise Allah not to commit the same sin again so that it will have the true essence of penitence.

b- The sins that involve the rights of other men: there are four conditions for making tawbah for the sins involving other people’s rights. The fourth stipulation, apart from the three conditions stated above, is that it is compulsory that the rights be restored to the people and he has to ask for forgiveness from the person whose right is violated. If those rights are in the form of property, then he may encounter the following possibilities:

1. The grabbed possessions should be given back if they are still available and their true owner is known. 14. At this point it is not sufficient to conceal the sin and repent only.

2. If the stolen belongings are at the hands of the thief and yet their true possessor is not known, then those belongings should be given out as alms and he should not keep them any more.

3. If a man wronged the others in the past years and their true holders are not known, then he should give the equal amount of money to charity.

4. If the possessions the wrongdoer has are not fungible goods and if their value can be estimated and if he has enough money, he should give its equivalent to their owner. If he cannot pay for them, he should intend to give them back when he has enough money. We can expect of Allah’s forgiveness for the person that tries to restore the properties to their true owners as far as he can even if he finally fails.

5. A man who is not sure how much of his own material goods is mixed with what is forbidden picks a quantity of sum in accordance with his own assumption and gives alms intending getting rid of the rights of other people.

If the sinner seeks the pardon of his Lord and carries out those conditions, Allah will accept his repentance and will be ashamed to punish the repentant.

3. Time factor in penitence:

The sins are hurdles in the path going to Allah. The sinner is similar to a person who has got poisoned. Just as it is so perilous to waste time for a poisoned person, so too is it very risky for a man committing sins to delay his repentance.

A believer who has just sinned will be very irritated out of his sin as a result of his trust in God and will seek out ways to be removed from that sin. There is concurrence of opinion about the fact that it is fard to ask for Allah’s forgiveness just following the sin committed. In addition, those holding their penitence in delay get sins due to delaying it.

According to Ghazali, once the man realizes what he has done is a sin, he is to feel remorse and cleanse its effect with a good deed. Otherwise, the wrongdoings will dwell in his heart and their removal is going to be impossible.

Thus, in a hadith, it is said, “when the servant commits a sin, a black spot appears on his heart, and if he seeks forgiveness, that black spot is removed, and if he returns to sin, the black spot grows…..”(Ibn Majah, Zuhd 29)

The following hadith illuminates us about the last time for penitence: “Allah, the Lord of honor and glory, will accept the repentance of His servant till his death-rattle begins.” (Tirmidhi, Daawat 100; Ibn Majah Zuhd 30). When the death comes and the death-rattle begins, the penitence will not be accepted.

The reasons why tawbah is not accepted at the parting breath are that the man is in the state of hopelessness at that moment. However, the penitence should be sought at a situation when the servant is still hopeful of life. At the parting breath, the proposal is cancelled from servants. The deeds committed at that time cannot be regarded as good or bad. However, penitence is of the worldly deeds and should be done before the proposal is over. In the hereafter, everybody is going to be regretful and yet their states are not going to be evaluated as repentance. It is because the moment when the sinners feel remorse is a moment when the proposal is concluded. The last minute repentance is not accepted and it is like nothing and as a result, it means nothing. The person seeking repentance at the time of his parting breath is regarded like a man who has never repented throughout his lifetime.

As a conclusion, we can draw a timeline with regard to repentance: the time for penitence starts just after the moment a sin is committed, continues in the following days with no regard to any time limit and ends when the death signs appear. That is to say, the last time is when hope of life expires, the death marks become visible and the person lives his last moments.

4. The place factor in repentance:

Though some certain places for prayer and Hajj (Pilgrimage) are obligatory and virtuous, there is no any such a condition for penitence. Since tawbah (penitence) is multi-dimensional remorse, it does not start and end at a definite place.

Therefore, being in the mosque, dervish lodge or in a small Islamic monastery is not a must for asking for the pardon of Allah. On the other hand, it is not obligatory to come together with congregation in order to make tawbah in the form of chorus in groups.

A person who has committed a sin can make his repentance in any place. Any place for a person thinking about his past sins and coming into a decision to get rid of his sins is a place for repentance. That is to say, a worker can decide to start for making tawbah at his work, a farmer at his land, those being at home can make their repentance at their abodes.

After all, Hazrat Yunus (Peace be upon him) was in the stomach of the fish and in the darkness of the sea and said “"There is no god but Thou: glory to Thee: I was indeed wrong!" (the Quran: 21-The Prophets (Al-Anbiya, 21/ 87) and asked for Allah His forgiveness just because he did what was virtuous though he could have done the most virtuous. And Allah pardoned him.

And as it is known, eating the forbidden apple in the heaven, Hazrat Adam and Eve disobeyed Allah’s order. Having been expelled from Paradise and walking in the world for a long time, they turned to Allah in repentance because of their mistake at Arafat arena at the top of a mountain called “Mountain of Mercy”. And they said: "Our Lord! We have wronged our own souls: If Thou forgive us not and bestow not upon us Thy Mercy, we shall certainly be lost." The Quran: -The Heights (Al-Araf), 7/23). They asked the pardon of God and God Almighty granted His forgiveness upon them.

The process for tawbah begins when the heart decisively comes into a decision to get rid of sins. At every place where this decision is taken, the repentance is sincere. Confining the penitence to a place, laying down a sacred place condition for it stems from not knowing the essence of tawbah and failing to work out the message of Islam for the issue.

Conclusion:

God Almighty created man in a nature apt to being able to do both good and evil deeds. Tawbah is the solution for being cleansed out of sins and mistakes committed, and spiritual dirt. Through repentance, the servant is removed from his sins and faults and becomes as if he has never sinned. It is an undisputable fact that every man is in need of penitence.

Tawbah can be made just following the sin or until prior to the death rattle and signs for death come out. Since the appointed time is not definite, a person should repent without wasting any time.

A man needs no means for making tawbah nor a certain place or time for asking God in repentance.

For a true penitence, a person should feel remorse over having committed sins, and leave the place where he sins together with a resolution not to go back to the same sin. Giving the rights of their true holders back is the most crucial element of tawbah.

The suspicion whether he is cleansed out of his sins after his penitence is something baseless, Allah keeps His tawbah door open for people committing every type of sin. The point about which people should be cautious is if repentance is done with sincerity or not.

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rayj-drash · 4 years

Text

Berlin Sketches pt 1

by T. Frank

My grandmother cannot fathom entering Germany. She was a child of the Great Depression and lived through the war safely from the Catskill Mountains of New York while her husband fixed radios on home turf. However, Germany represents a taboo in history for my grandparents as Jews. They would no sooner visit the Brandenberg Gate than they would try scuba diving without an oxygen tank.

I constantly reflect on the trusted feeling of Home since I lived in Berlin for six weeks in fall of 2018. Previously, the longest trip I took was a ten-day tour of Israel through the organization Birthright: from the peak of a mountain overlooking three desert countries, to the crowded rush of the Jerusalem shuk, and my aversion to a display of American-Israeli nationalism on a military campus. The scenes and feelings form a whirlwind of hazy memories, much like any experience on new land.

A few days after I arrived back in the Bay Area, I sat in Strawberry Creek Park watching the sun go down and the light blue sky grow faint as night approached, seeking those moments of "awe" that came so suddenly in Berlin. This bright green park reminded me of the open recreational space I loved over there, even though the grass was literally greener on this side of the pond! I distinctly remember the moment when I scarcely had to look up at the street signs and felt like whichever path I took, I would find my way. Nevertheless, five months ago, I had sent in an application for an unusual art residency, an immersion into the study of grief. I reflected on those periods of my life that had led to some of my deepest creations. Drawings of cancer cells and lungs, struggles to breathe and heal in the midst of choking emotion, flowers and vines winding through the dark themes. I yearned to express my observations of the world through whatever moved me, again.

~~~~~

The journey to Berlin was a three-legged trip with two layovers, leaving Friday evening and arriving at 10:00PM on Saturday. A huge, crowded economy flight, cheap and minimal. I tried to rest as the crew turned off all lights on board. No sooner did I close my eyes than it seemed like the sun was creeping over the horizon, and we touched down to a windy, barren tarmac. It was 9:00AM, as all the passengers disembarked in Reykjavik, Iceland, we felt the chill burrowing through our thin layers and shivered.

On the second leg, as the plane glided to the lowlands, I appreciated the bucolic farmland. I was alone in the Copenhagen airport. The crowds in Reykjavik were more diverse, like a burgeoning metropolis. By contrast, everyone arriving in this Danish terminal looked alike: tall, blond, and, permit me, Aryan. They traveled in clusters of family groups, chatting, gesturing, smiling. I dragged my suitcase past designer boutiques to a desolate, unfinished terminal, where passengers awaited their flights without customary notice; but learned to say, Takk, Danish for "Thank you". When I finally reached Germany, I connected to the U-bahn, the underground subway. The ride was over an hour long, and I gazed at the subterranean signage, lost once more. Until I arrived at Rathaus Neukölln, and my new roommate Shimon met me outside in the rain.

The next day, I left the mattress that our hostess Amelia had set up on the floor, staggering about with jet lag. Luckily there's oatmeal, my favorite companion. Shimon and his friend Devorah from Tel Aviv are home. We discuss the neighborhood. ‘What if I get terribly lost, not only physically, but mentally, too?’ I thought. ‘Is this a dream? Why am I so far from anyplace I know?’ Devorah suggested a walk to the canal, with a Sunday flea market. Late afternoon, I ventured outdoors and discovered a slice of paradise.

At the end of the block, a large mosaic mural adorned a staircase which I took to have the impression of a rooftop. A large concrete lot surrounded a beautiful community garden. Raised flower beds were home to a bounty of colorful flowers, tall green vegetables grew under the sunshine and painted poles flanked handmade structures. I spotted a concrete ping-pong table, and mustered up the courage to join two men playing. One of them wore a baseball cap with "Cal" emblazoned in blue and yellow; by chance, he attended law school at UC Berkeley, and lived several blocks away from me! After a few rounds of ping-pong, the Germans drank beer and suggested that I check out a nearby landmark before sunset.

Cheered, I walked along and found an "I Love SF" sweatshirt at a pop-up flea market. More surprises awaited. I heard music, and pushed aside brambles to emerge in Hasenheide Park, where a large circle of guitarists and drummers jammed for casual onlookers. I saw an ornate mosque with blue and gold trim, a wide courtyard, and an outdoor faucet for washing hands or drinking cool, crisp water. Next door was Tempelhof Field. A former airport utilized during World War Two to fly-in supplies from the West, the unused tarmac was reinvented as an open recreational wonderland. I entered the gates and was met with flocks of activity: bicyclists, joggers, even a pair doing synchronized roller-skating. Dry, dull grass covered the fields, but a victory garden shined under the setting sun, and the barista of an on-site cafe recommended finding a good perch.

I joined two boys from Afghanistan, Hasan and Muhamed, watching the sky from tall ladder-seats. Muhamed and I grinned, struggling to hold a conversation between the lack of a common language. Google helped, but broken English got us farther. "Do you know there are still American police in my country?,” he exclaimed. My conscience bristling, I say that most people do not speak of the Afghan-American war anymore. The sun set in deep purple and vivid pink hues. Hasan saw my eyes light up at the sight of his bicycle, and offered me a ride--so, I sat sideways on the frame, clutching his black leather jacket, and answering "Ya" when asked, "Alles Gut?"until I grimaced from discomfort and Hasan laughed--"Kaput!" The two friends saw me off at a bus stop, and I stumbled on board as the passengers stared.

~~~~~

The following Monday, I walked twenty minutes from the apartment to arrive in front of a white-painted gallery, and no one around. Feeling nervous that the entire program was a hoax (just like my parents thought when they read the acceptance letter from the dubious-sounding organization), I noticed a middle-aged man at a computer in the corner. I knocked on the window, and he let me inside. Here was a room devoid of decoration, save for a long rectangular table and six chairs, three of which were filled by women. Soon, another man entered the room and offered tea, introducing himself as our "mentor". We never referred to him by any name other than his own, even when I suggested “Alek”. He's over six feet tall, shaved head, and wore all black from his long-sleeved turtleneck to his sturdy dress shoes.

The participants introduced themselves. Sarah researched environmental grief, such as the devastation left behind from man-made disasters. Gwen studied grief theories in graduate school. Jasmine hoped to connect to refugees of war. And Sara--no error, there are two--prepared to make an installation honoring a departed friend. Linda would join us the following afternoon and plunge into an exploration of feeling othered through found objects. After we went over studio policies, we shared a bit on why we study grief, bringing several girls to tears. It felt like a group therapy session--and it wouldn't be the last.

~~~~~

Dear Talya, Gone to synagogue. It's a short walk from the canal. I forget the street name-'Pflug'-something. Come join me for Yom Kippur services. Love, Devorah. Without consulting a map, I asked for directions from three different shopkeepers to find the synagogue. Luckily, they understood English and didn’t express unsavory reactions to my Jewish-ness. Once I found the path parallel to the Canal, the temple came into view: a large building curving around a tranquil block, with stained glass windows and a grand façade. Security officers were stationed outside, and I was screened before entering. "Are you Jewish?" they ask.. "Yes." Unmoved, they question, "Do you pray?"

In August, I went to Washington, DC for my cousin’s wedding. Her family and friends are modern orthodox, or, religious. The day before the wedding, we were in shul for Shabbat services. During the long morning prayers, I read the English version of the Torah portion. The text alluded to the treatment of rape by virtue of marriage or the punishment of execution. By coincidence, this was the same chapter I studied for my Bat Mitzvah twelve years ago, but I must have been too young to grasp such explicit content. I left the room and spent the rest of services out in the hallway, tending to the potted plants as a distraction.

Did I pray? Not willfully on that day in the synagogue. Internally, yes, throughout my life: the inner dialogue between my spirit and the spirit of a G-d. But in practice, only with family over Shabbat blessings. So I answered, "No. But my Israeli friend is in there, can I go in?"

Yom Kippur services were surprisingly welcoming in Germany. Although the congregation was divided amongst the men and women, the dress code was more relaxed (jeans, white t-shirts), and several of the men held babies on their shoulders as the rabbi sang in Hebrew. I found Devorah and stood beside her. I recognized the somber prayer, "Avinu Malkeinu", and it felt no different than my family's congregation. The prayer books here were German on one side, and Hebrew on the other.

After the ceremony, we passed by plenty of people enjoying the balmy weather at dusk. Devorah was reminded of holidays in her country, riding her bike freely while everyone took time off to relax. Shimon met us to break the fast with noodle phơ. I was lucky to connect with "my people", thousands of miles away from home. As a child, I remember feeling like my relatives’ religious differences divided us. However, my cultural upbringing is something I've retained and appreciate. Joining Israelis in Germany for Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, was akin to sharing a secret amongst friends.

~~~~~

As the weeks went by, I developed a habit of visiting the community garden, mornings before heading to the studio and nights on my way home. One weekend, I felt antsy as I read a book called The Truth Will Set You Free by Alice Miller. There was a campfire at the garden as they observed summer changing to chilly Autumn. I surveyed the party scene before resting into a corner of a homemade wooden bench under the dim glow from industrial lights around the lot. Although the setting was not condusive to reading, I was shy to join the group. But, when I repositioned myself next to the fire, it was apparent that these young, hip, multinational guests preferred to speak in English. Rosa asked what I’m doing in Berlin. When I told her I’m studying grief, her voice got excited and she invited her friends into the conversation.

Annika was vivacious and full of life. I noticed her wisps of fuzzy blonde hair, bright in the glow of the fire. She was working on a memoir, and was also the subject of a photoshoot documenting her journey with cancer. As she spoke, I folded a paper crane and gave it to her, provoking a sense of delight. My idea for the residency then was to make a handmade book for participants to share their experiences of grief, and to make origami together. Annika agreed to be interviewed the following week.

~~~~~

I took the S-bahn, the above-ground trolley, several miles northwest where the buildings are close to the city center. Annika told her story: how, at age 26, she discovered the cancer in her breast and rushed into several months of intensive treatment including antibody therapy, anti-hormone medicine, and chemotherapy. She ultimately received a double mastectomy and chose breast implants. For a month after surgery, Annika couldn't lift her arms over her head. It was painful, but her energy was focused on how to function normally again. Now, she was in recovery, undergoing radiation and daily physical therapy. She wholeheartedly embraced her body, and I felt a mixture of awe and love for her resilience and positive attitude.

I encouraged Annika to leave her mark in a communal scrapbook of stories. She drew a breast in pastel colors with words circling the nipple, such as "soft"-, "round"-, "hope"-, and "loss".- After I left the apartment, I boarded the train and closed my eyes. In the dark, I envisioned a bare, cream-colored orb, shiny and wet, like a peeled lychee fruit. Perhaps, I reasoned, this represented Annika's true self.

Back in the studio, I was at a loss to contribute during our group discussion. I almost broke down, overcome with emotions that arose from the interview. So I took a break from the sterile white walls, and sat under the chestnut tree in the courtyard. I picked up a spiny shell, cracked it open to reveal a creamy-brown belly. I wrote a meditation on the seed of the tree. I reflected on impermanence, on patience, on Annika taking her time to heal yet reveling in every healthy moment. I like taking my time.

"Hey Aleksander," I remarked in the midst of studio time, "Since the interview with Annika, I’ve been feeling down.” My mentor was sitting at a desk, drinking tea and writing in one of his many small notebooks. "Do you feel your own grief surface?," he replied. "No, more like I put myself in her shoes, and feel compassion." He advised, "Keep a journal--one just for yourself, your thoughts and daily experiences. And one for your work in the residency; write down everything you're thinking. It'll help, trust me."

----- Talia Frank lives in the San Francisco Bay Area. She contributes to the Donut Club, an East Bay writer’s group. Visiting Berlin in 2018 inspired a love of community gardens and allowed her to re-examine Judiasm within a global context.

Reach the author: [email protected]

Visual art: www.cargocollective.com/taliafrank

Blog: https://wanderlustblumen.wordpress.com

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carmenlire · 5 years

Note

Could you do malec 9 for the kiss meme

Kiss 9: War’s End

read on ao3

The road is long and lonely. With every plodding step, though, home nears.

He feels like he’s aged a decade no matter that his commission is only half that long. With a wry twist of his mouth, he can’t help but think that the civilians have no idea what it’s like. Sure, there are parades for the officers and his red coat is brushed to perfection and the gold of his buttons gleam by the light of a thousand chandeliers as he’s celebrated at yet another fête but it seems the worst sort of cruelty when his mind is cast back to battlefields where he can still remember his men’s screams, still flinches at the memory of gunpowder and lethal bayonets.

It makes bile rise in his throat but sometimes he wishes that he’d followed his mother’s pleading. There’s a little piece of him that wishes, for once, he’d followed convention but no-- he’d had something to prove and had felt called to do more with his life than settle accounts and collect rent from his tenants. He wanted to secure his family's honor for another generation, had felt duty and responsibility twine around his neck until he felt like suffocating.

So, he’d enlisted in His Majesty’s Army to fight against Napoleon and in the process, he can’t help but wonder if he’s lost a piece of his soul.

Shifting on his horse, his thoughts are cast back to a time before-- when he was still young and idealistic and didn’t give a fig that he was the oldest and therefore exempt from war. He remembers talking to his best friend and daydreaming about being the one to finally end France’s threat against their little corner of the world. He remembers elegant dinners and peaceful drawing rooms and sharing teasing looks with his sister as their parents bickered about how on earth they had raised such rambunctious children.

His hands tighten on the reigns as he looks over at the empty space next to him. He can almost hear the second pair of hooves on the road, his brother’s obnoxious laughter scaring the birds away.

Jace had died at the Battle of Waterloo five months ago and the grief stings like an open wound, still rises up to choke the breath from him if he lingers on the horrifying realization a moment too long.

Without quite realizing, the Earl of Idris is squeezing his left hand in a tremulous fist. It’s only after a moment, though, that he feels the metal of a ring digging into flesh. It’s a welcome distraction and makes him take a shuddering breath.

Looking down, he sees the ring his betrothed had given him the night before he’d left for battle.

The gold gleams in the afternoon light. The sun is just starting to set over the horizon and as his horse plods on, his eyes warm immeasurably.

Childhood friends, as their lands bordered each other, it had been the most natural thing in the world when, after the fall they’d turned sixteen, The Marquess of Edom had found him in the stables cooling down his horse.

They’d both been home for the holiday break, wrapping up another term at Eton, and it was getting harder and harder to ignore the way his heart pounded anytime the other boy was near. They lived on different floors but found themselves inseparable, eating together in the dining hall, sharing classes, staying up late in the common rooms studying and talking as the tension sharpened until it threatened to shatter.

That’s how it felt to him at least.

Back at Lightwood Hall, he’d felt his best friend’s presence even before he spoke. He hadn’t minded, though, and the stables had remained silent as he’d taken the tack gear off and reached for a brush after his morning exercise, murmuring praise that made the mare whinny in a sound that made them both smile.

Bane had just stood there at the threshold, leaning against the doorjamb and it had been comfortable for all that they'd both felt like they were crawling out of their skin.

“Darling,” his best friend had finally asked, voice coy. “Aren’t you getting tired?”

“Tired of what,” he’d asked absently, finally setting his brush down and stepping away towards him.

“Tired of making us both wait,” had been the quiet response and his breath had stopped at the words, at the acknowledgement they’d both been dancing around for ages.

Looking up, he’d seen all of his feelings reflected in brown eyes that had the most beautiful habit of flashing gold in the right light.

Without a word, Alec had closed the few feet that separated them. He’d had a moment to catalog the fawn breeches, the emerald jacket over black waistcoat. His best friend's Hessians gleamed with a new polish and he was an enthralling mix of comfortable and unknown that had Alec's heart racing.

Ducking close, he’d tilted his head and when their lips had met, the rest of the world had fallen away. They’d ended up dashing into an empty stable, tripping into a pile of hay.

Remembering now, he doesn’t know how long they’d stayed in the shadows, only that it had seemed at once an eternity and bare moments before they heard the footsteps of the liveried stable boys rushing to ready a carriage. They’d stifled their giggles, their euphoric joy at this next step of their relationship, against each other’s mouths.

Their courtship had last a few years before Alec had found he couldn’t ignore his conscious any longer. He’d enlisted with his brother and while no one liked it, they all knew his mind would not change.

That last night before he’d left to fight, Magnus had climbed up the tree next to his window and they’d spent all night together, neither sleeping, just talking in the dark, wrapped around each other. They’d talked until their voices grew hoarse-- from length or because of the tears they were keeping back, neither one could tell.

Finally, when dawn’s light had started creeping through the drapes, he’d felt Magnus reach for his hand and place an object in it.

“When the war ends and you defeat that bastard-- because I refuse to accept anything else, darling-- we will marry in the old church on the edge of my property. Until then, consider this ring a promise of my intentions and let it guide you back home to me.”

It’s been a long five years, he thinks now. There are no guarantees that Magnus wouldn’t have found someone else in the intervening years, that a boy’s promise hasn't become a man’s burden.

Not an inconsiderable amount of Alec wonders if the horrors he’s seen on the battlefield won’t be enough to make Magnus falter.

His leg throbs, by turns numb and burning as he’s been in the saddle for fourteen hours with another few miles to go before he reaches his destination.

There have been letters throughout the years. Briefly, he wonders how many never managed to find him but hope is a persistent bedfellow and he can’t help but cling to it, to the words his love has written him, all of which are seared onto his heart.

It’s his truth that they kept him alive throughout the war, sometimes when it seemed impossible, sometimes even when he didn’t want them to.

Finally, as the last of the day’s light glides over him, he makes the final turn into the drive of Edom Manor.

He works on his breathing, shifts restlessly in the saddle. The horse seems to sense his unease and tries to sidestep but he’s lived and breathed on horseback since he was a child and it’s the work of a moment to get her in line.

As he nears the front door, he’s surprised to hear it opening before he stops. Expecting the butler, Alec looks up only to find eyes that have haunted his dreams staring at him in stunned hope.

They’re too far away for him to hear the words but he swears they kiss over his skin as he sees his love’s lips move.

“Alexander?”

Magnus doesn’t move, just watches as Alec nears and comes to a stop just a few yards away. It’s a painstaking process and he grits his teeth as he climbs off the horse. His leg falters under him and for a horrifying second, he thinks he’ll fall.

The part of his brain not in a panic doesn’t think he could stand the indignity.

Some noise must escape him and he sees Magnus take a single step towards him before stopping. Thankful for that, Alec takes a deep breath and reaches for the cane he’s been using since that last battle six weeks ago now.

Turning around to face the man who’s owned his heart since they were children, he can only imagine what he looks like. Dusty from the road, lips pulled down in a grimace of pain at the bullet trapped against the bone of his thigh-- that the surgeon couldn’t remove unless the whole damn leg was amputated-- with his heart, battered and bruised, held in his shaking hands.

His steps are halting, slow, but his eyes don’t leave Magnus’s until he’s standing before him. Like this, they’re the same height and he watches as Magnus runs desperate eyes over him, examining him from head to toe with a sort of violent frenzy. His gaze lands on his left hand and Alec hears his muted gasp as his eyes fly back up to meet his.

Tears fall and they each reach up at the same time to wipe them away.

“Lord Lightwood as I live and breathe,” Magnus says softly. His hands come up to cup Alec’s cheeks before he’s leaning in to place a gentle kiss on his forehead. “You came home to me, my darling.”

Pulling back just enough to look into his best friend’s eyes, Alec’s voice is hoarse as he replies, “I made a promise that I’d always come back to you, Magnus.” He looks away as he forces himself to say the words that make his throat ache. “I understand, however, if this is no longer what you want. As you can see, war has changed me and I cannot ask someone else to share the burden of my new body. Not to mention everything else. If--”

Before he can continue, Magnus is urging him to face him. “You have been my heart since we were children, Alexander. I have loved you since we were hiding away from our governesses and playing pranks on our Latin tutor. I loved you when you were half a world away where I couldn’t follow. I will love you until I take my dying breath-- all of you, every single piece that has returned to me against all odds.”

Overcome, Alec closes his eyes. He takes a shuddering breath when he feels lips ghost over his cheek. It strikes him, the familiarity of such a gesture that he hasn’t had in five years. It almost feels like a different person.

“I’m not saying it will be easy or that it won’t be an adjustment,” Magnus murmurs, bringing their heads together until their foreheads touch. “However, as long as you want me, I am yours, darling. I, too, made a promise and I see by your hand that you must remember it.”

Silence descends upon them and the last of the day’s light washes away to leave them in shadows. Alec barely manages to nod in acknowledgement. The relief and hope rampaging through him is dizzying.

And then Magnus whispers one last sentence that has the breath wrenching from his lungs.

“Welcome home, darling.”

It’s like a dam bursts and Alec is surging forward, claiming Magnus’s mouth in a desperate kiss that speaks of a thousand lonely nights and the washing away of a terror so deep that it’s carved itself into his bones.

His balance shifts as he moves, though, and while he could easily ignore the pain shooting through his leg, it’s not so easy to do so when he’s at great risk of falling and humiliating himself in front of the one person he’d never wish to appear weak in front of.

Magnus breaks the kiss, breathing harshly, as he wraps a hand around Alec’s back. “Let’s get you inside, darling,” he offers lowly.

The words sting and Alec can’t help but wish he had returned from war unscathed. But when Magnus looks up it’s not with pity or revulsion. Instead, there’s a devilish glint in his eyes as he simply suggests, “I’m sure you’d be more comfortable in bed.”

He doesn’t know if it’s the relief of returning home or Magnus himself but Alec finds himself laughing and it fills the entry hall, is no doubt heard by the servants as it rings throughout the house.

With Magnus helping him to the stairs-- he’s familiar enough with the layout to know they’re heading towards his chambers-- Alec kisses the top of his head, scrunching his nose as he breathes deep and gets a lungful of Magnus’s sandalwood pomade.

“Lead the way.”

#summers-hazy #asked #answered #my writing #upon thy lips #thanks for sending this!!!! I hope you enjoy it #because i had SO MUCH fun writing this!!!

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gearprideproject · 4 years

Text

Wren's Backstory part 1

Hey everyone! Here it is! Part of it anyway. So I typed this all up and you guys would not be live how long this sucker is in fact, it's 3,737 words long! It takes up like 6 pages on Google docs, so this is a bit of a doozy. Is it worth it? I sure hope so! But after writing this I have decided I like it so much that im gonna keep writing it. How many parts? I don't know. Like I really don't know. However what would a post here be without warnings so here we go! In this chapter there is: blackmail, murder, death, bargaining using someone's life, gang's, a child witnessing their parent die, and misgendering to cause here wren is a girl. Wren is only a little kid and has yet to like realize that they are non binary. So yeah. Uh there is a dead body that does get taken away cause someone dies. But other than that you guys should be good! Enjoy!!!

Wren grew up helping her father with his work as a scientist/engineer, learning to cook and fight from her mother. Her mother, Laina insisted that while she may be a lady and therefore must know how to do the housework, she must also be able to protect herself. After all there were plenty of cousins that she must beat at the family reunion held at Aunt Stacy’s ranch. of course, learning to fight gave her an edge, and once she joined in at age 5 she easily beat all the others in the little kid area. this would sometimes lead to some grandparents joking them that they were raising a son instead of a daughter. Her parents always laughed that off and said,

"You just say that because she's stronger than the boys. We don't see a problem with her being able to stand up for herself. in fact, it makes us feel better that she can keep herself safe,"

As the years progressed and she was almost 9, they went to the ranch, but Stacy pulled aside Liana, "Liana i know that mike has been receiving some, concerning mail from your local gang leader, and I understand why you are trying to ignore it, but I really am worried for you all. I checked my future and I saw a few futures ahead of you. one: you guys move and come stay here with me. this far out the gang can be apprehended by the law, and you guys will all be safe. the boys would be glad to have you, and George can take Mike into town with him for work."

"Stacy that is awfully kind of you, and i know you have more than enough room... but Mike and I discussed this, and we don't think if we run that we can stay this close and not get followed. we would have to bring it up with the government, and that is not something we would like..." she trailed off. Stacy understood of course. she had looked into the future and while this was the safest, she knew that they would be against it. "Liana, this is the only one where you all get out alive! I refuse to lose my baby sister to something i know i can prevent! please Liana, just run away!" she begged. She was the oldest, and the most successful. she had inherited the family ranch when their parents died due to gang activity in the city. She had held them all together. she had gone to agonizing lengths to protect everyone. She refused to allow this to happen.

"Stacy, can you tell me the other options? I just want to know." Liana looked at her big sister and gave her puppy dog eyes.

“Fine. I'll tell you. the second option is..." and so with the children running around in some strange customary greeting and the other adults unpacking, Stacy explained what would happen in two months. this of course worried Liana, but even though she had managed to hide it from everyone else, Wren caught on. "Mom? What’s wrong?" Wren asked while Liana was tucking her in. "Is something wrong?"

"No, sweetie." Liana replied sweetly. "There’s nothing wrong. Nothing you need to worry about anyway."

"If you're worried, then I'm worried. Pleeeeeease tell me?" Wren looked up at her and Liana couldn't help but give in.

"Well okay. Your father has been receiving some, letters from some bad people. and I was talking with Stacy earlier and she told me some things about the future that are going to be really hard to talk about."

"But you need to. So tell me. I'm a big girl i can take it. I beat all the boys." she says with a smug little grin.

"Yes you did. well... I suppose this can be our secret, because if I told your father he would freak out, and we can't have that no can we?"

"No!"

"Exactly. So... you know that some bad people are going to try and use him for something wrong. They want him because he's really smart, and they want him to work for them. And there's a very high possibility that I won't be there. And I know that if I'm not there to keep your disaster of a father in line he'll just fall apart. He needs to be fine though, so he can keep you safe. So darling, if I am unable to, will you take care of your father for me?"

"Of course, Mom! But why won't you be there with us?"

"Well... if we don't run the best case scenario involves me getting, removed, and in order for your father to be able to keep doing what he must to keep you safe, you'll have to make sure that he doesn't blame himself or do something stupid. okay?"

"Okay. But Aunt Stacy didn't see anything super bad right? Cause I'll fight the bad guys for dad and you."

"Wren," Laina said sternly as she gripped her shoulders, "Promise me that you will not fight. These bad guys will have weapons and they will remove you too. Promise me that you will stay invisible and stay away"

"Can I watch?"

"I... It will not be something you should watch, but if you really want to no one will stop you. Although it will likely become... not... pleasant. I would prefer if you didn't come and watch but if you really want to, then slip out of your room quietly and invisibly okay?"

"Okay. I promise I'll be quiet. wait... if the bad guys come and you leave...does this mean that i'm gonna have to cook and take care of the house and Dad?"

"Yes, if you'll take over for me by doing that i would feel much better about your survival because we all know how your father cannot cook to save his life."

"Okay mom!" Wren beamed at her. "I’ll make sure Dad doesn't do anything stupid without you," was her reply with mock seriousness.

"What would I do without you,” her mother replied with the same tone, "I suppose I'll have to up your house work training. Since right now, we all know you guys are disasters without me" Laina smirked at her daughter.

"Yeah! Wait ..." Wren wrinkled her nose in confusion "did you..."

"Don’t worry about it sweetie. Now go to bed. It’s too late." Laina reassured her as she tucked Wren in bed

"Night mom." was wren's sleepy reply

"Goodnight, Wren" was Laina's soft reply as she slowly closed the door and exhaled. Now that she had dealt with Wren she would have to sort out the rest of the family. Laina smiled softly to herself as she murmured, "At least they will be safe. She promised that they would be safe..." before quietly continuing down the hall to her and Mike's bedroom.

It was only a few weeks later that Aunt Stacy’s words came true.

People burst in the windows and grabbed her and Mike. Laina clung to her sisters words though

"In about two months the people sending you letters will break in. You and your husband will get caught, Wren will not. She will see invisibly her father attempting to get out and your final telepathic shout. You will die, but sister they will live and be safe. I promise you that if you die they will both be safe."

She knew this would happen, and she had already come to accept her death. She had already finished off all of her family business, and Wren was told what to do. She knew that her family would make it. And she just hoped that they would forgive her. She was held in the kitchen, while the leader had others bring Mike in the living room to talk. Soon she heard booming voices and saw a small flicker of movement from upstairs. She knew that it was Wren sneaking down to see what all the commotion was about. Laina just had to hope it would all work out.

Wren however did not like being woken by shouting. it was the third time this week and she was tired. she couldn't sleep so she decided to go sneak down far enough to see what was going on. She went out already invisible since she remembered her mom telling her that if she woke up to shouts to only come out if she used her power. Now, normally the shouted conversation had one side that sounded sticky, suggesting that her father was on call. But these voices she just knew were from people sitting in her living room because she could hear them very clearly. So she decided to creep downstairs and listen poking her head around the stairs. She quickly saw the not so pleasant conversation taking place downstairs, and she did not like it.

"Mike. really. we need you to do this. If you don't we will kill your family. It’s all up to you. Some random strangers die and your wife lives, or your wife dies and you still have to kill the strangers. I think you have a kid too, don't you? A daughter right?" this sent Mike into a rage as he surged forward at the big guy in charge.

"I swear if you touch her i'll make you regret it! Leave my kids alone! She has nothing to do with any of this!"

"Of course we'll leave her alone! I’m not a monster. I mean, we will have to do something if you don't do what we want, but still! No harm to either of them if you work willingly." The boss man grinned creepily at mike, showing off a row of rotting teeth. Mike seemed to be considering this, but Liana knew that this could not happen after all her sister had warned her, "Your husband may try to keep you alive, but more harm than good will come from your life. He will make bold rash decisions that will hurt them both more than if you had died." so Liana did what any good telepath in this situation would do, and took matters into her own hands. "Mike," she began, "Please don't take up his offer. It will just lead to more pain and death on your end. remember when Stacy talked to me two months ago? She warned me of this. Do not take up the offer. please Mike." Mike seemed to be swayed by his reply, "and... will you both be... safe? Please, Laina, I need to know." Liana replied to him swiftly, "Mike i promise to you, i will die tonight but in the end you and wren will both wind up safer by it. so please do not be rash." "if you say so. I will do what Stacy seems to know is right." "thank you" the others apparently were unaware of laina's abilities otherwise they might grow suspicious of mike's long silence. but they must have just chalked it up to him deciding because the boss started getting impatient.

"well Mike? a pretty good offer don't you think?"

"No actually. what kind of choice is this? create new technology that will kill people, but don't worry your family will be just fine? you are crazy."

"maybe I am, but either way they will die, and you will do this. it really does not matter." the boss shrugged

"You are horrible people. I could not face my family again if i did this. so go ahead and kill me." Mike said with a calm surety. he knew they would not kill him, they needed him alive after all.

"you are a fool mike. do remember who holds the power in this situation" and with that he snapped his fingers and Laina was brought into the living room by his people.

"Mike, I could let her live. but clearly you are not getting this through your thick skull so I must insist that you think of our offer again. I will give you one more chance." Mike and laina locked eyes and she whispered into his head, "do not give in." Mike looked at her with pain in his eyes and she knew that this would kill him, but he had to say no.

"my decision stands. I will not create these chemical bombs that you plan on using!"

" very well then. This decision is all on you now. we offered you a way to keep her alive, because we are humane, but you refused. You must really hate each other if you can just offer her up without a second thought. Marty, if you will?"

The sound of a gunshot rang through the house as Laina's voice echoed in her head before she slumped to the floor.

"Goodby Mike, Wren. I love you both so much."

Mike was heartbroken. how this was the best scenario he had no idea but he knew that if he refused again they might take wren to, and she had only spoken of her death. besides. he refused to lose them both. so he looked at him and said with only a hint of a waver in his voice. "if you promise to leave wren alone, as long as she can either stay or leave and still be safe, I will do it. but you need to swear on your life that no harm will come to wren in any way. do you understand?" Mike looked directly in his eyes and the boss man grinned.

"of course. no harm will come to wren. in fact she can do whatever she wants with her life as long as she doesn't try to ruin our plans. the same goes to you of course. I will send the details and some bracelets. the both of you will have to put them on, but they will guarantee your safety. and before you ask, no we are not bugging your house or tracking you. as long as we get what we want we don't really care."

"fine."

"I will send the cleanup person for your wife in the morning. she will get a burial of course, but we can't have the authorities getting suspicious. they will also clean up the windows and whatnot. actually, they will get here in a few hours, can't have the cops getting suspicious. I'll have them bring the stuff for you with them. also, any materials you need will be covered by me, just let me know what and how much. everything else will be covered in a letter. goodbye." and just like that they all left as quietly as they came. soon wren climbed down the stairs and went over to her father, now completely visible.

"dad? what, what's wrong with mom?" her voice had a slight tremble to it as if she were afraid of the answer. "Shes gonna get up right? please say shes gonna wake up daddy." Wren's tears started to fall and her father looked at her and sighed, looking so very tired. a long pause of silence filled the air before he spoke.

"wren sweetie, i dont think shes gonna get up again. she's dead and even though she said that this was for the best, I just wish she didn't have to. i... I hope you can forgive me wren, i just knew I had to keep you safe, you can leave and go stay with your aunt stacy or your cousins... this place may not be super safe for you..."

"no. I'm gonna stay with you. mom asked me to take over for her anyways since you can't cook at all."

"true. So you want to stay? even though your dad is about to have to do some bad stuff?"

"yeah. you're my dad and family has to stick together. besides mom said that we're disasters without her, so we need to prove her wrong!"

"of course sweetie. want some ice cream? there's a few hours till the guys who will clean up the windows and take your mom someplace where she can get ready to go... away."

"yeah! and i'll always be here for you okay dad?"

"Okay. I'll be the best dad to you to. I'll make sure you stay safe."

"i know! now ice cream!" Wren yelled before sliding off of her dad's lap. she looked at her mom and whispered, "we'll be safe mom. I know we will. I'll watch dad for you" before scurrying off to the kitchen. several hours and bows of ice cream later, the cleaners showed up. the one that looked like the boss headed over to mike and handed him a massive manila envelope before pulling out a box and opening it. inside were two bands of some silvery substance with the gang's logo imprinted on them.

"they're magic" he began "they will offer additional protection to what you have and they will ward off anyone who even thinks to hurt you. they also grow to fit you so you don't have to worry about losing them."

"alright. thanks. now then-wren."he nudged her awake, "wake up sweetie. I need you to put this bracelet on okay sweetie?`` Wren woke up slowly, blinking her eyes owlishly. "okay dad." she yawned, "are these the people that are gonna take mom away?" she asked before another yawn forced its way out.

"yes. there will be a burial of course, right?" he asked looking at the cleaner. behind him, the windows and broken locks were being replaced, while pieces of blood and glass were cleaned up.

"of course. we are simply moving her out of your house and into our area. we will get everything set up for you. the boss was very happy about you joining us." that gave mike pause, 'why is he so happy... that can't meant anything good' he thought, but at least everything will be fine.

"alright. now which one wants to put on their bracelet first?"

"oh- oh, dad! can i! can i!" this gave the cleaner a good chuckle, '' I was not expecting such enthusiasm" he commented.

"well she just wants to put on the cool shiny thing you brought."

"dad! that's not true! you told me to wake up and put it on. so what if it looks super cool?"

"see told ya." Mike chuckled "she just wants the cool bracelet"

"well you can put on this one kid" the cleaner said and held out a bracelet. "here, let me help you"

"thanks mister!" Wren said happily as she held out both of her arms "which one should it go on?"

"hmmm. how about... the right." he said "okay!" "well here we go..." he said before clamping it onto her right wrist. colors shone and magic crackle but soon the light show died down and the cleaner turned to mike. "alright big guy. your turn" he said before pulling out the other one. mike held out his right arm and the cleaner clamped it down on his wrist. a light show similar to wrens filled the room before quickly dying down. "alright then. I'll go help clean up. if you ever need any help, then just ask for me. I'm usually around. and i can help watch your kid to." he said with complete sincerity. "well okay, but who do i call for? do i just say ,'the cleaner guy that looks like he's in charge of the other cleaner guys?' because that does not sound like something i can say." the cleaner grinned. "well normally you have to earn someone's name with trust. just ask for 'the head cleaner' and if they ask which one tell them 'the only REAL one' they'll know who i am." "alright... thanks head cleaner." "not a problem. you have all the files, here's the letter," he said as he pulled out a small unassuming envelope,

"so unless you have a desire to say any final goodbyes that can't be heard by the general public, or you have any burning questions, i'll need to pack up your lovely wife."

"mr. head cleaner," wren said as she tugged on his sleeve,

"what's the symbol on the bracelet? and is it removable? cause what if i need to take a bath and stuff? and... is mommy going to be safe?" she looked up at him eyes wide with curiosity.

"well kid," he began as he sunk down, "your mom will be fine, we just don't want her on your floor. the bracelet can be removed but only by you, and even then only willingly. so bathtime shouldn't be an issue. and the symbol is the sign of the gang i'm in."

"are we in the gang now? cause mom told me that I shouldn't be in a gang.."

"well kinda? this just means that you are under our protection since your dad is going to help us out with some stuff. but I promise you won't have to do anything bad even if you join."

"okay mister. be nice to mom okay?"

"I will" he said before he stood up and walked over to mike and the still body of laina

. "alright man, i gotta take her. you done? or do you need a bit more time?"

"no, i'm-i'm alright." Mike said wetly as he wiped the tears from his face. "gotta be strong for my kid now right?"

"if you need more time i'm not going to judge you. heck, when my family got killed i cried like a baby and refused to come out for a week. but i did. and even if the world seems a little gray, the world can still have lots of colors in it, you know? so what I'm trying to say is... it's okay to be sad about this."

"thanks."

"no problem man. so... should I go?"

"no. I'm good. you can- you can take her." Mike said shakily

"alright man." said the cleaner before handing him the letter and using his ability - telekinesis- to lift up the body of his wife, of wren's mother, of laina, and gently placed it in a body ag that he levitated outside. soon the cleaners were done and the cleaners left. sunrise came a bit after that, and the new day saw the outside of the house as the same as always. the inside however, would never be the same.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hello! So this is part one! Please let me know what you think or if I missed anything! Love you guys!!!!!

#gear #wrens backstory #tw death #death tw #like i kill off the mom #shes super sweet to #honestly the mom is awesome #the dad is to #these people are great #but uh im supposed to be doing the other stuff #tw blackmail #tw blood #tw violence #tw gang #i guess????#cause they are mean #but also decent #and honestly i like cleaner dude #hes super sweet #i might make him act like a big brother #but you know #things happen #oh wait #tw misgendering #gotta get that because while this does take place in the past and wren does identify as a girl here they are still nonbinary #also virgil i love you and i hope you like this cause if you dont i will cry cause i legit spent so long on this.#this was all me btw like my wife didnt help with the writing at all but its fine cause i wouldnt have let her anyways #okay this is a lot of tags #so i think im like about at my limit or coming up here soon so better stop also theres a character limit to #love you all hope you like the story! likes and reblogs seriously make me feel super happy! you guys are awesome!

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