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dreamingofscully · 4 years

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The Wrong Side of the Bed

Rating: Explicit Length: 4427 words Classification: Established MSR, Slight angst, Season 7, Smut Exchange 2020 Summary: Smut Exchange 2020. Prompt from @crescentmoon223: After a frustrating day at the office, Scully gets bossy in the bedroom.

Notes: Thank you to my wonderful betas. @fragilevixenfic you are so quick, detailed and wonderful with your feedback. @AweburnPhoenix I loved the suggestions you made. @suitablyaggrieved I think you have beta’d every one of my fics and I am overwhelmed with your support and value your opinions on everything I create. Lastly, my good IRL friend who isn’t on tumblr/twitter made such an impact on my very first fic also looked over this one, and I am so so grateful. I could never have done it without you all!!!

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“No I can’t wait until tomorrow, I need that file before noon.” A pause, her brow scrunches in a way that he has become intimately familiar with over their long partnership. “What do you mean, you don’t know where it is?”

Mulder cracks another sunflower seed and watches Scully surreptitiously from his desk. She’s near the door, the reception on her cell phone trapping her in a small five-foot section of their office, and she’s pacing like a wild animal in a cage.

She glances in his direction and he looks away, busying himself with the file he’s pretending to read.

“Look, do I need to come up there and fetch it myself, Agent Porter? … No? … Fine, if you can get it to me by one I won’t–”

When Mulder peers up, she’s looking at her phone incredulously.

“That asshole hung up on me.”

A burst of laughter bubbles up before he can stop it, and he intently regrets it when he sees her narrowed eyes, the heat in her glare directed at him instead of the hapless agent on the fifth floor.

Scully goes back to the computer desk in the corner and slumps in her seat. She’s holding her shoulders tightly to one side. He notes the wrinkles in her slacks, the half-untucked blouse, the careless way she sits her elbows on the surface in front of her. It would be charming and he’d delight in teasing her about her unusually unkempt state of dress but not even he would dare to try to lift her up by joking with her today.

“Would you stop staring at me Mulder, I’m fine.”

He opens his mouth to remind her about the words she’s not supposed to say but she nails him with another hard glare.

“I’m just having a shitty day.” She sighs and shifts in her seat, groaning as she cracks her neck from side to side. “Why are there so many incompetent people in this goddamn building?”

It’s been about an hour, and she can’t get herself to relax or focus. Another crack from Mulder’s side of the office makes her wince.

“For Christ’s sake, Mulder would you stop eating those things for, I don’t know, fifteen minutes? Maybe?”

When she glances up at him to emphasize her words, he’s looking at her with wide eyes, mouth half-open, hand frozen in place as he’d set another sunflower seed in his mouth. Instead of biting down, he spits it out on his desk, causing another surge of annoyance to rise within her at his carelessness.

The smallest things have been irritating her all day. She hates her unexplainable irrationality, that she can’t gain control of herself, and it makes her want to alternately burst into tears and smash something into tiny pieces.

She looks towards her partner again, sees his sad eyes and a tight, uncomfortable smile flash across his face. Her anger dissolves and shame rises within her. She can feel the tide of tears well up from deep in her chest, stinging her eyes as she holds them back. Mulder’s been nothing but supportive today; handling all the minor tasks that neither of them liked, answering the phone, and redirecting stupid questions. Yet, all she can think about is his inconsequential habits. She hates herself for taking out her anger, for which she could find no rational source, on him.

Her chair creaks as she shifts away from him in her seat; her hands coming up to hide her crumbling face, uncontrollable tears falling down her cheeks.

His gentle hand on her wrist stills her shaking hands.

“What can I do Scully? Anything.”

Kneeling down beside her chair and leaning close, so she can’t hide, his worry deepens. He’s never seen her so upset. At first he thought she’d just been stoically withstanding a day that had gone from bad to worse… but the tear tracks down her flushed cheeks and the worry in her eyes betray a deeper problem. His heart starts to race, finding it strange that she’s accepting his comfort at work.

Mulder releases a breath when her watery blue eyes meet his, and he sees a determination there, a curiosity. Something different than the fury and despair he’s been a silent witness to all morning.

A small smile briefly lights up her face and she brushes her damp cheek with the back of her hand.

“Anything?” Her eyebrow lifts, and he’s done for.

Nodding, Mulder squeezes her hand, moves a bit closer.

Scully withdraws her hand and looks away from him. When she looks back, he’s relieved to see she’s transformed back into her usual self. Her emotions are subtle, carefully hidden behind a mask of clinical detachment, but easily recognizable to him.

“Go to your apartment. Take off your clothes. And wait for me,” she says, her eyes an intense indigo that pierce straight through him.

Mulder’s eyes widen and a smile spreads on his face. Scully merely tilts her head to the side, raising both of her eyebrows at his delay. Her back straight, she directs the full power of her commanding gaze towards him.

He stands, grabs his jacket from his chair and leaves the office, a foolish smile on his face as he rushes to the elevators. He’s distracted but has enough sense to cover the evidence of his arousal already tenting his pants.

***

As Scully’s heels tap along the tiles in the hallway outside Mulder’s apartment, a small smile dances on her face. Mulder’s intervention worked something of a miracle. The control that she wrestled with all morning has morphed into anticipation. An emotion she was much more familiar with and something she could easily compartmentalize.

She didn’t wait very long. It took a weight off her shoulders that she was able to finish a few reports, thoughts of a licentious afternoon with Mulder teasing her. On the drive to his place, all she felt was the hot pooling of desire and all she thought about was how much she wanted to reward him for his ability to always make her feel better.

She lets herself into his apartment, the only light scattering dimly through the windows. The long shadows and silence gives her pause, but she sees his shoes scattered in the entryway, his jacket crumpled on the floor near the coat rack. She envisions his distracted, lanky frame entering his apartment in a rush, even more heedless of neatness than usual. It never fails to thrill her that she excites him just as much as he excites her.

The bedroom is darker than the living room, the shades pulled from the night before to give them privacy. She waits on the threshold, grazing her eyes over his darkened form, lingering over his hardening cock, wondering if he touched himself while waiting for her.

She doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move.

Dragging her eyes away after a few long moments, she moves to the window and tilts the blinds open, risking a little of their privacy so she can enjoy him in the light from the bright midday sun outside. A thrill races up her spine at the small chance someone could watch them and enjoy the view of their partially obscured forms making love.

She stands over him on the bed, and their eyes connect.

Mulder can tell she sees the desperation in his eyes. She’s deliberately dragging things out, and he almost forgets what started this in the first place. He wants to reach up and throw her on the bed, rip off her expensive suit, and show her what he’s been thinking of doing to her since he left their office.

But… he stays still under her intense gaze. His breathing quickens and his cock hardens under her scrutiny, arms across her chest like she’s examining evidence. Her eyebrow raised in silent command, he knows he’ll be hard-pressed to move without her permission, even if a goddamn sasquatch appeared behind her.

Suddenly, she’s leaning over him, one knee on the bed. Her mouth inches from him, warm puffs of breath onto the flushed skin of his cheek.

“You’ve been good, I can tell. Did you shave?”

He doesn’t speak, knows this game. He answers her with his eyes: Yes.

“How can I show you how much I appreciate you, Mulder?”

He can’t help but smile at her with a toothy grin. She’s fully clothed but reaches upwards to shrug off her jacket, unbutton her blouse halfway. The silky material of her untucked shirt tickles his skin, the warmth from her hands seeps into him as they hover but don’t touch. Her hair wraps around her face and hides her expression in shadows.

Her tongue is the first thing he feels, meandering down the center of his chest. The coolness of the air a transitory sensation on his dampened skin as her touch inflames him. He can only watch as she circles his navel, the sunlight from his window catching her fiery hair as she nears his cock. She exhales a soft sigh and glances upwards to meet his eyes before her mouth and hands descend upon him.

She grasps his rigid cock and licks his entire length with the flat of her tongue. Swirling around the tip, she tastes his essence, the saltiness, and something else that she’s associated with him from the very beginning. She can’t quite describe it. Since their first embrace, her face pressed into the center of his chest… it is HIM.

Taking him in her mouth, stroking the base of his cock with her hands, she hums in pleasure. The vibration from the sounds she makes travels down through him, upwards, echoing in his own voice. Mulder groans from his position on the bed but doesn’t reach out to touch her, as much as she wants him to.

Tears sting at her eyes, this time in happiness. He doesn’t hesitate to make himself vulnerable when she’s feeling powerless, shifting the balance between them. Ever since that first night in his hotel room, he knew what she needed. The trust built from there, and it was unconditional, unspoken, the thing she treasured most about them.

“Scully…”

She feels the tightening in his balls before the warning in his voice and lets him go, peering at him through her lashes.

“Did I say you could speak?”

Mulder shakes his head, his eyes tinged a deep green, equally desperate and aroused. Sweat slicks his brow, and his hands clench at the sheets. Holding his gaze a few seconds longer, his face softens, a small smile gracing his lips. The absolute trust she sees reflected in his eyes clenches at her heart.

Crawling up his body, carefully letting only the fabric of her clothing touch him, she brushes her nose along his. Her hand caresses his cheek, moves upwards to tangle in his thick hair. When her lips dart close to his, she pulls away as he strains upwards.

“Tell me what you’d do with me if I let you touch me.”

His voice is rough as he speaks. “I’d grab your wrists, pull you under me. I’d lick my way down to your pussy and keep licking until you begged me to fuck you.”

A twitch of her lips betrays the thought that she would, very much, like for him to do that to her. But not right now. Mulder waits passively but the sparkle in his eyes gives away his enjoyment.

“You were supposed to say ‘whatever I want’.”

“Tell me, then.”

“Kiss me.”

Their lips meet, and electricity travels from the top of his head straight to his groin. Her hands grasp his wrists, holding him in place. Her tongue invades his mouth, withdraws. She nips his lips playfully then pulls back out of reach. He longs to reach up and crush her mouth to his, to grab fistfuls of her hair, to run his fingers along the edge of her blouse and over her silky skin. He waits, but not for long.

Their lips separate momentarily, and Scully whispers into his mouth. “Touch me.”

He takes advantage of his freedom, hands finally moving from the bedsheets to caress the sides of her breasts through her shirt. Pulling on the edge of her blouse, he draws her closer to deepen their kiss. His tongue presses along hers and glides along her lips, tasting her.

Mulder pulls away and implores her silently as his hands move to the last remaining buttons on her blouse. Scully nods and grins at him. When he removes it, gliding his hands over her shoulders and down her back, he sighs at the contact of his hands along the smooth length of her skin, finally.

They kiss, her hand tangling in his hair, gently tugging and scratching his scalp. A surge of desire rising up within him, his hands glide up and squeeze her breasts. She gasps at the contact, pulls away slightly.

“Sorry, was I too–”

“It’s okay, I’m just a little… sensitive.” She grins at him, strokes a finger over his cheek, and bites her lip.

Nodding again and pressing closer, Mulder continues his ministrations. He takes a deep breath and controls himself, watching her face for any sign of discomfort. He works his way slowly towards her nipples, dares to glide over the hardened peaks through the material of her bra once he can see her face twist and her body writhe with want for him. Her skin is flushed down to her chest. Running a finger along the edge of her bra, he leans upwards and licks the perspiration forming there.

Panting shallowly, Scully sits up, reaches behind, and releases the catch on her bra.

“Your tongue.” She arches an eyebrow. “Gently.”

He obliges, teasing her as she teased him, awareness of her flooding every sense. When she stiffens slightly, he pulls back, touching her heated flesh everywhere but there, working his way up. Her sweet rosy nipples draw him, but he resists, placing feathery kisses on her alabaster skin, circling her areola with his tongue. When he finally, finally covers her nipple with his mouth, she’s panting with lust. He gently skims the sensitive nub with his tongue, making sure to pay equal attention to the other.

Suddenly she’s rolling off of him, lifting up her hips and divesting herself of the rest of her clothing. She perches up on one elbow, gazing at his body next to hers.

Scully watches as Mulder’s eyes sweep over her body, pausing at the thatch of curls at the apex of her thighs. She sees his hesitation, his hand inching towards her body. Stilling it with her own, she smiles impishly when his eyes return to hers, bathing her in the heat of his desire. He always makes her feel so fucking sexy like she’s the only woman on the planet.

As she rises on her knees, Scully feels wound up, tightly coiled, and ready to break at any moment. The unusual discomfort she felt earlier is forgotten, miles away. She’s swollen, flushed with heat, and ready. However, there’s a few more things she wants him to do first.

She crawls up his body, and can’t help but giggle self-consciously as she braces herself on the bed in front of him, knees bent on either side of his head, directly over his face.

“Make me come,” she demands.

He grasps her legs, pulling her close, and she gasps at the contact of his warm breath against her thighs. His tongue glides a trail along her leg, and she can tell he’s hesitant. His kisses are soft and slow, frustrating her with their gentleness. She moves, hoping he’ll quicken his pace, touch her where she wants him to, but he maneuvers out of the way, wrapping his arms around her legs firmly, grasping her ass with his hands.

“I’m ready, Mulder. Don’t hold back now.”

She feels him smile against her. It seems to take forever and then he’s there, a teasing nip at the crease of her leg, a soothing lick. Her legs wobble unsteadily, but he’s got her, supporting her completely as she abandons the control she’s had all this time. She gives herself over to him. As he worships her, kissing and sucking at her folds and her clit in a gentle rhythm, Scully grips the bedsheets with one hand and grasps his arm with the other, the flood of sensation overwhelming her.

The extended anticipation, the teasing, made her more than ready, despite how little she’s allowed him to touch her up until now. She’s wet, dripping, and he’s consuming her.

She lets him.

It’s only moments before his deft tongue has her breaking apart, seeing their future in the stars.

He’s holding her up when she comes and lays kisses against the soft skin of her thighs when she returns to him.

She crawls unsteadily off of him and lies on her side, trembling and breathless. She’s loose, draped languidly like a ragdoll. Mulder touches her freely, gliding over her porcelain skin. It glows underneath the sunlight from the window, and he worships her. The curve of her hip, the dip of her waist, the strength of her taut abdomen. He grazes his thumb over the slight swell just below her navel, the spot she curses at in her neverending search to rid herself of that last bit of softness. It’s his favorite place, where he’d lay his head for the rest of his life if she let him.

When her breathing steadies Mulder moves over her, leaning in to whisper in her ear. “What next?”

He’s close, mimicking her teasing from earlier, well aware that with only a word he’d do whatever she asked. Her eyes are dark, the blue irises a thin circle around her pupils. The dimple in her cheek flashes briefly as she grins. Her hands move across his chest, scratching upwards, tracing her thumbs around his nipples before pushing him up firmly.

“Off.”

He moves away from her, testing his limits by remaining as close as possible while still obeying. Scully licks her lips and slips out from under him. She sits close and moves a delicate finger down his chest and along his abdomen. A pause, a tantalizing glance beneath her lashes as she lays a palm on his chest and pushes him away again.

And then she’s on all fours, peering back at him through the veil of her hair.

“Fuck me.”

It takes him a moment to process her words through his lust-addled brain, the sight of her positioned so vulnerably, yet with absolute control of him, nearly makes him come right there. He scrambles up behind her, moving her to the edge of the bed, hands lingering on the curve of her ass and giving it a light squeeze.

“Hmmm… “ Scully murmurs, wiggles temptingly nearer to him, arching her back and laying down on her elbows.

The fiery fan of her hair blazes in the sunlight, her creamy skin beckoning him to touch her. The tattoo on her lower back taunts him as he grasps his cock, teases her entrance. She’s incredibly wet, swollen with need. He can’t help lingering there, gliding his other hand over the ink on her back then wrapping it around her hip.

He meant to go slowly to give her time to adjust, but once he enters her, she drives back onto him, and he’s deep within her, all at once.

“Oh!”

They both exclaim at the sensation and laugh in tandem. Being inside of her always feels incredible, like he’s sheltered, complete.

“Talk to me.”

“Miss my voice already?”

Scully giggles and swivels her hips to encourage him to move.

“Agh, Scully. Your wish is my command,” he says, as he starts to thrust slowly, his words centering him, keeping him focused on her.

“Do you know who I ran into on the way to the car out of our office today?”

“Hmm?”

“Skinner.”

Scully gasps, and he’s not sure if it’s from his words or a particularly sharp thrust, but he enjoys the ambiguity.

“I had to hold my jacket in front of me the whole time. And look like a complete jackass when he wondered where I was heading to in the middle of the day. You think he figured it out, Scully, what you do to me?”

Mulder leans over and kisses her shoulder blade.

“Do you know how hard it is to drive with an erection, Scully? Well of course you do, it’s not the first time you’ve put me in that state.”

She snorts into her arms with laughter, and the movement causes him to slip out momentarily. They both groan from the loss of contact. Mulder falters in his story, too distracted by the sight of her ass and slit in front of him, and the feel of her surrounding him when he enters her again.

“More.” Scully says, her words muffled by the pillow she’s holding onto.

He continues his movement and his tale with difficulty, his hands steadying her hips and caressing small circles into her skin with his thumbs.

“I thought I’d be late, that you’d get there before me and I’d disappoint you. I never want to disappoint you, Scully.” He’s quiet for a moment, wanting the meaning of his words to sink in, and desperately holding onto his control.

It was hard to think about anything except the woman writhing and moaning in front of him, but he was going to do his damndest to do what she wished. A challenge, he was always up for that.

“I waited for you, just as you asked. Shaved, laid down on the bed. It felt like hours…” He pants, pauses, leans forward again until she turns to face him. “I knew you’d come, Scully. Do you know how much that means to me?”

“Umm…” She leans up towards him, grasping onto his neck and pulling him forward. She looks at him as directly as she can from this position. “I’ll always come for you, Mulder.”

“That’s what she said.” Mulder smiles broadly, thrusts forward with a “Schwing!” motion.

Scully shakes with laughter and groans. Reaching backward she slaps the side of his ass. “That’s enough of that.”

Mulder’s broad grin shifts into a sentimental one. With one hand still holding her hip as he moves within her, he traces the contours of her spine and runs his fingers lightly over the soft skin of her lower back.

“When I heard you enter my apartment, it was all I could do to stop myself from leaping out of the bed to tackle you. The thought that in mere minutes, seconds, you’d be touching me, telling me what you wanted. It’s everything, Scully. You’re everything, you know that don’t you?”

“Yeah, Mulder,” she pants. “Love you, too. But… harder.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

He is overwhelmed by how good she feels; her tight walls gripping his cock with each movement. The swivel of her hips at the perfect moment. The increasing intensity of her moans and the sounds they make coming together. His hands grip her hips as he withdraws slowly, thrusts inside quick and deep. The force of it causes her to jerk forward on the bed, to grip the bedsheets tighter in her fists.

A wave of tenderness washes over him at the sight and feel of them together. His hand moves from her hip to glide up and caress the fine hair at the nape of her neck. He’ll never get over how amazing it feels to share this with her, to know that she wants this, that he can make her happy. She turns her head to peek at him, a smile curving upwards. The glint of the sun reflecting in her eyes, the love shining forth. His heart clenches and his movements grow more erratic. Gliding his hand between her legs, he rubs her clit, desperate to help her to the edge before he falls inevitably, towards his own.

It’s not long before she’s there. Scully gasps and her eyes squeeze shut and Mulder feels her walls pulsating around him. A few more sloppy thrusts and he’s engulfed by his own climax, an overwhelming tide of sensation and emotion.

When she comes back to awareness, she’s lying facedown on the bed, Mulder’s limp form half-covering her. Both groaning, they crawl into each other’s arms. Scully tucks her head into her spot just under his chin and sighs contentedly as her heartbeat slows.

Her eyes droop shut as Mulder strokes her hair and pulls up the sheet to cover them. She’s deliciously sore, filled with warmth, and finally feels calm settling over her like a quilt.

“Feel better?”

“Mmm, much.” Scully tilts her head up to look at him. “Thank you for turning my day around.”

“Well, let me tell you, it was a hardship.” Mulder winks at her and kisses her forehead.

Chuckling and laying back down, Scully sighs. “I really don’t know what got into me today. I’ve never been the superstitious sort–”

“No kidding.”

“–But it honestly feels like some horrendous combination of every terrible idiom. Woke up on the wrong side of the bed, full moon, etcetera. I could believe all of them were true.”

“I don’t know, Scully. I’m glad I could help though.” Mulder glides his hand over her shoulders and grasps her hand. “And I’m glad–”

At his pause, Scully looks up at him again, raising an eyebrow.

“I’m glad Skinner found me before he could go see you.”

“Why?”

“He told me something I’m sure would have made things worse. I… hope I don’t sour your mood again by telling you, but…”

“Mulder…” she warns. They don’t keep things from each other, not anymore.

“There’s some sort of audit coming next week. He just wanted to make sure we didn’t take any field trips before then. Apparently the guy is a bit of a hard-ass.”

“Is that it?”

Mulder’s mouth quirks into a half-smile. “I thought you’d be more upset.”

“That was this morning. I’m good now.” Scully’s eyes pierce into his own. “How are you with this news?”

Mulder shrugs and rolls his eyes. Giant waste of time, she can hear him think.

“We’ve been through worse, Mulder. One accountant certainly can’t do much.” She wraps her arm around him tighter, kisses his chest. “Besides, we’ve got each other. What can they do?”

She can feel his contentment surrounding her as she drifts into a half-sleep. “Yeah, we got this, Scully.”

#XFSmut2020 #my fic #xf fanfic #xfiles #x-files #the x-files #msr #mulder and scully #smut #xf smut #msr fanfic #fox mulder #dana scully

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nukyster-blog · 4 years

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Changing course chapter 2) Dorestad; The Centrum of Wine and Slave Trade

Chapter 2) Dorestad; The Centrum of Wine and Slave Trade

.-.-.

With the same vigorous spirit, the overseers filled up the cages and their travel continued. As Ivar tried to relax his stiff back against the iron frame of his cage, the road slowly changed from murky grime to a pattern of cobblestones. Reserved, he made no attempt to speak to his partners of misfortune and tried to memorise the route they were taking. Aside from him, two older men traded information. They spoke with heavy dialect, still Ivar was able to overhear the essence: the country they’ve been shipped too was called Frisia, which was part of the Frankish empire, since Charlemagne’s invasion. Soon, Ivar learned that the language of the overseers was called Dietsc and that their travel would end at the auction in Dorestad; the centrum of wine and slave trade. Grey clouds formed an impenetrable fortress for the sun and therefore harvested all warmth. Specks drizzled down onto the heads of the soon to be slaves; aggravating Ivar’s black mood. The Gods were pissing down on him, it was a clear sign of their disappointment, which Ivar shared. He should have fought in Wessex, instead of being his father’s obedient little lapdog. Look where his uncharacteristic meek behaviour had brought him; caged, crossing a grey, dead-beat country.

Robbed of his leather tunic, Ivar was an easy target for the cold; the rain effortlessly seeped through the thin fabric of his clothes. The absence of decent meals and a good night's rest made hunger gnaw on his stomach and cluttered his mind. The breeze had been mild at first, but now numbed his face, hands and feet. With no buffer from the cold, his body started to lose heat rapidly. Ivar’s teeth clattered behind his bluish lips when their trip ended at an imposing settlement.

The carts stopped abruptly at the city’s centre; a marketplace of comprehensive size. Foreign chattering rumbled between sellers and buyers, haggling over the best products for the best prizes. Crates for vegetables, fruits, grain and cheese lay tactically on display while the seller shouted, trying to overrule others with their volume. Massive barrels were being pushed onto carts, exporting the finest wines throughout the country while vendors shook hands, collecting their fee. Live stock was being ushered through the crowd, calves abruptly separated from their mothers, chickens were being sold in cages, so small that the animals started to peck at each other. Ivar soon realised he wasn’t different from the cattle being pushed and pulled around. In the middle of the market, there was a small stage where a group of possible buyers had assembled in lines, eager to buy the best of human merchandise. Men, women and children were put up for display. One by one, an overseer showed off their muscles, healthy teeth, shiny hair. And like meek lambs, the slaves passively let them. Most kept their eyes at their feet or at the horizon; their gazes shared the same emptiness and dejection. Ivar’s cart was one mainly filled with elderly men, a few young children and a pregnant woman. Their cart was the last to be auctioneered and the audience had drastically decreased once the first men of their cart came up for display. When Ivar was pulled up the stage by the overseers, parts of the lost attention slipped back. Audience members paused their chattering, turned back to lay their eyes on the crippled. Mocking and laughter echoed through the air when the overseer tried to point out Ivar’s well developed upper body in a bid to minimize the focus on his handicapped legs. Throughout his life, Ivar had become indifferent to the cautious stares and quiet whispers that bubbled up every time he dragged his sorry arse through Kattegat. But to have his disadvantages pulled up for full display while a crowd of Christians pointed, stared and ridiculed him was unforgivable. Rage riled up his temper, fury warmed up his numb limbs and made him jerk loose from the overseer. With all the passion his wavering body could muster, he pulled himself along to the wooden edge. A scream seated deep from within, forced its way out of Ivar’s mouth. Like a beast, he howled; startling and scarring the spectators. A young boy was being hoisted up his mother’s chest, as Ivar produced unhinged hollers. The overseers swiftly stepped in, putting an end to the rebellious act. It wasn’t the first blow that silenced him, neither was it the second, nor the third. It took a solid hit of a baton between Ivar’s ribs to make him moan and fall. There was nothing glorious about taking the beating, it was a lost cause; three vital men were towering over him while they kicked the living daylight out of him. One managed to repeatedly hit the same spot; the kidneys. A fist slammed his eye shut, his skull ricocheted onto the wood and as blood pooled into his mouth, Ivar slowly saw all the light fade away. A flock of ravens circled far above him, cawing ominously. Ivar managed to tilt his chin up and plead: “forgive me father, for I could not avenge you,” before embracing the darkness, like an old friend.

.-.-.

Blinking his one good eye, a montage of angered, shocked faces. Blinking again, blood still seeped from his busted lip.

A piece of rotten fruit smashed against the side of his face. Laughing, sneering, taunts spoken in unfamiliar tongues.

Another cart. Wrist twisted behind his back, aching and chained. Knees scraped over bloody planks of the stage. The smell of hay and mildew, cold, aching limbs and not enough strength to lift his chin up. Tilting his head then. A giant grinned down at him from high above, showing a mouth full of blackened teeth and gabs. Crows feet radiated from the corners of the Giant’s grey eyes, revealing the amusement of watching Ivar’s battered state.

The Giant handed a few coins to the overseer, but the man refused and without further notice Ivar was given away for free. The ride that followed was one of pure agony. The cobblestoned road made Ivar’s beaten body toss, turn and tumble. With his wrist shackled behind his back, it was impossible to keep himself in place. All that remained was simply to endure, which was easier said than done. The searing pain coming from his ribs made Ivar gasp for air like a fish on dry land. That sound earned him a soft chuckle from the Giant, sitting up front at the buck. The man clacked his tongue, ordering the horses to trotter. The acceleration made the motions grow in multitude. Ivar’s body was tossed from side to side like a rag doll until he was knocked out due to the intensity of the pain.

.-.-.

A/N: So I tend to enjoy beating the shit out of Ivar a little too much. And this is just the beginning, because this cocky little bastard needs to understand his new place in the world. I don’t think you’ll be too shocked, but Ivar’s going to have some difficulty accepting his ‘new place’.

Also Dorestad was a real city. I’m from Holland and always love to somehow merge a little tat of my ‘world’ into the story. So there you go, little bit of Dutch History!

Xoxox Nukyster ( I hope I got all the taggings right, if not excuse moi, still new on Tumblr)

@youbloodymadgenius @apenas-mais-uma-pessoa @xbellaxcarolinax @saldelys @shannygoatgruff

#vikings fanfic #vikings fandom #ivar fanfic #Ivar-the-slave #ivar lothbrok

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cultleaderyoongi · 4 years

Text

in my head | ksj

☆ pairing: Seokjin x f. reader

☆ genre: established relationship • angst

☆ word count: 4.8k

☆ warnings: mentions of toxic relationships, manipulative behavior, alcoholism, and infidelity; mature language

☆ inspo: Ariana Grande - in my head

"My imagination's too creative, they see demon, I see angel."

☆ a/n: Hi, this is my first piece on this site. I'm really excited to kick off this drabble series cough these are gonna be proper oneshots sry cough It took me way longer than I wanted. I initially intended something around 1-2k, but this topic deserved way more background than what would've been possible at half the length. Hope some of you give it a chance, and please lmk what you think ♡

You swore to yourself to never be blinded by love, to not let the idea of it cloud your mind.

Yet here you are, under the bright lights in your bathroom, washing off the telltale signs of your realization. One look in the mirror and a mixture of disappointment and embarrassment seeps through you, concentrated in the core of your body.

Though the dark trails on your face now gone, you can't help but feel miserable at the sight. This isn't the person you remember. A lilac shadow underneath the eyes, much more striking through the pallor etched onto your face, the uncomfortable tightness of it akin to that of stretched skin on a drum. There's only so much essence and moisturizer can do.

Three silent knocks on the door stop you in your routine. Then the clicking of the handle, followed by the door cracking open. Unconsciously, you take a sharp inhale, holding it in the back of your throat.

"Can I come in?" he murmurs through the crack, the features of his face barely visible in the dark of the hallway.

You sigh, releasing the breath that you've been holding. "Yeah." The single syllable is the first you speak ever since your argument about an hour ago, the fluttering sound of it making the sudden usage of your vocal cords apparent.

Hesitantly, he swings the door ajar wide enough to slide through, shuffling behind you.

You watch him intently through the mirror, unsure of what to do, so you resort to opening the jar of eye cream that has been sitting in your hand, tapping the product onto your under-eye area.

"Look," he starts, his gaze fixated on you, "I'm sorry."

You meet his eyes in the mirror. "I know." And truly, you do. There's never a moment where you doubt his remorse.

But this was one moment of many, and you know deep inside you have to stop lying to yourself.

He continues. "I didn't mean to lash out on you like that. Please, forgive me." A hint of fresh tears starts to well up in his eyes, the last words coming out as a croak.

You roll your bottom lip in between your teeth, averting your gaze towards the marble top counter of the sink, putting back the jar with shaky hands.

"Baby…" He slings his arms around your waist, his chin resting atop of your shoulder, the side of his face nestled into your neck. "I never meant to hurt you. You're everything to me. I'm so sorry."

The strong hold of his embrace a shelter and a shackle all at once, your body is confused at how to react. A side of you wants to push him away, walk out and never look back. The other side wants to revel in his touch and feel the warmth of his skin once more – just once.

Upon a sniffle coming from him, your eyes dart towards where his arms are interlocked in front of your stomach, never faltering in their tight grip. Mentally, you curse yourself for what you're about to do, but your own limbs can't help but search for his, your fingers tracing along the sides of his forearms.

He drops his head at that, his forehead burying into the space between your neck and shoulder. Silent sobs start to escape his lips, his entire body shaking like a leaf.

As if on autopilot, your hand finds its way to his dark locks, running through the silky strands. One and a half years worth of your relationship taught you this is the best way to calm him down.

Repeating the motion over and over, his whimpers slowly subside, residing as choked-out coughs in his throat.

You know you're done for at this point. There's no turning back, so you carefully release yourself from his hold, turning around to face him. Clutching his face in between your hands, you caress his cheeks with the pads of your thumbs, running over the remnants of regretful tears. "This can't happen again, okay?"

His gaze lifts up at your words, blown out as if his soul had left him, leaving only the reflection of you in the pitch black of his irises.

You swallow. "Promise me this won't happen again." This is a lot to ask for, you're aware of that. Promises have been made along the way and discarded not long after. You know you're risking everything, but it's a risk willing to take to fix the man you fell in love with. "Kim Seokjin," you speak again, waiting for an answer, a sign. Anything.

He licks his lips, nodding lethargically. "Okay."

Truth be told, you hoped for more than just a single word to come out of him, but you know this is all you're going to get now – and for now it's more than enough to be with him. Just once more.

By the time you figured out the true face of Kim Seokjin, it was already too late.

Things progressed naturally, your first encounter through a mutual friend leading to you taking a liking to each other, your first date and parting kiss that night developing into something more than just a simple crush.

He was everything you wished for, and so much more.

Or so you thought.

You started to see the ugly sides of your relationship sooner or later – definitely later rather than sooner.

It wasn't until a couple of months ago that things got out of hand. You met up with your friends on a Saturday night – despite his initially silent protests.

"Why can't you stay home tonight?" he pleaded with a drop of a smile.

"I told you already, Nayeon just got back from her internship program in Japan. We haven't seen her for half a year." You peeked a last glance in the mirror to spot if any finishing touches on your make-up were necessary. "Besides, I offered for you to tag along. It's not too late to change your mind," you singsonged with a small shrug of your shoulders.

Your boyfriend's reflection froze before a shake of his head appeared in the corner of the reflective surface. "Nah, I'd just feel out of place."

Your body reacted at that instantly, turning to face Seokjin whose head was hanging low now. "What makes you say that?"

He sent you a tired glare. "I don't know, I just don't think your friends particularly like me."

His words forced a frown onto your face. Quickly, you made your way over to the bed where was sitting. "Hey, that's not true. They like you very much," you cooed, taking one of his hands into your own.

You didn't realize where his insecurity came from at that point, especially since he's always been confident by nature – or so it seemed.

His eyes narrowed at your words, lips slightly apart as if he intended to say something before clasping your hand in both of his. "Who's coming anyway?"

A growing smile appeared on your face. "They're all gonna be there. Jisoo, Jimin, Nayeon of course, Taehyung,…" He stayed mute at the mention of your individual friends, so you took it as a queue to probe further. "We're gonna do some karaoke. Come on, it'll be fun! You won't regret it." You got up from the bed, his hand still in yours.

He hesitated at first, but gave in eventually to which you reacted with a silent squeal and your arms around his neck. "Yay, I'm so excited! You should get dressed then. We have like 10 minutes max before we gotta leave." You rushed your boyfriend, slowly shoving him towards the closet before disappearing into the bathroom to secure your hairdo with some hair spray.

Five minutes later you re-entered your shared bedroom, ready to slip on the dress you chose for the night when you spotted your boyfriend in his attire, on the bed with your phone in his hands.

"Whatcha doin'?" you asked, slightly perplexed.

Seokjin jumped at your sudden appearance, the device in hand almost flinging out. "Sorry, I-I couldn't find my phone, so I was just trying to ring it."

Sliding into the skin-tight fabric, you spotted the object in question atop of your vanity, holding it up with a tight grin.

"Ah," Seokjin exclaimed, "how stupid." He stood up, retrieving it from your hand. "What would I do without you?" Bending over, he pecked your red-tinted lips.

This was very unlike him, awkwardness clear in his actions. Still, you decided to heed no further attention to his antics.

"You certainly wouldn't survive a day in this world as it seems." Stepping into a pair of high heels, you mustered the man in front of you, a stoic expression on his face. "So, how do I look? Do I look okay?" You fixed the off-the-shoulder sleeves, awaiting a response.

He gave you a shy nod. "Yeah."

"Wow," you chuckled. "So much enthusiasm. Saving all that energy for the karaoke or what?"

Your boyfriend shook his head at that. "No… I'm sorry. You look great." Peppering a small kiss onto your forehead, he embraced you in a hug, face buried in your hair, mumbling something you couldn't catch.

"Sorry, what was that?"

"Nothing. I said we should probably leave."

The night started off calm, clinking glasses and laughter filling the room you rented. Everyone enjoyed themselves, singing along to whoever's turn it was to perform.

Only Seokjin was seemingly passive throughout the continuation of the night, inspecting the scene from the corner of the couch, calmly sipping on his third glass of bourbon.

You checked in on him what must have been an abundance of times, making sure he was comfortable. He assured you he was merely on the verge of fatigue, his eyes half shut, arm propped up on the back of the couch, head resting atop of it.

"We can leave anytime you want. Just let me know, okay?" You shot him a concerned look, rubbing the back of his neck.

He gave you a small smile, signaling you he was alright for now.

"Hey, _____."

You turned around to face the growly voice calling your name.

"Do you wanna sing a song together?" Taehyung beamed you a wide grin.

"Depends," you responded. "What were you thinking?"

He scratched the bottom of his chin as if he had a hard time coming up with an idea. "Maybe some Ariana Grande, so you can show off your singing impression again?"

You screeched in reply, shooting up from the couch. "Shut up, that was one time! I was really drunk that night, okay? I know I sound nothing like her."

A mocking grin made its way onto Taehyung's face which you mirrored. "Okay, you choose then."

The both of you settled on "Best Part" by Daniel Caesar and H.E.R. – one of Taehyung's favorites. Stepping closer to the monitor, your voices ricocheted off the walls in perfect harmony. The rest of the group, fairly intoxicated, raised up their glasses into the air, swaying in tune with the melody.

With closed eyes, you enjoyed the moment, feeling the warmth flow through your body when suddenly a loud clicking noise pulled you out of your trance. You didn't noticed your boyfriend got up to leave the room.

You stalled in motion, eyes wide open and mouth hanging ajar. "W-what just happened?"

"No idea," Jisoo piped, "he just grabbed his jacket and rushed out."

Your gaze shifted to the spot where he was sitting before.

"Maybe he had a little too much," Jimin proposed. "I saw him toying with that last bottle of soju earlier."

You didn't hesitate any longer, immediately reaching for your coat and purse. "I should go look for him." With a guilty look, you took Nayeon's hand into your own, squeezing it lightly. "I'm so sorry. I'll let you know what's up, okay?"

Your friend gave you an affirming nod, mouthing a silent It’s fine before you left the vicinity, leaving a perplexed Taehyung behind.

Out in the cold, you sunk further into the fabric of your coat, the wind licking at your exposed legs. You needed to find Seokjin as soon as possible.

A cough to your right had you turning your head, spotting the man in question leaning against a lamp post.

You let out a relieved sigh. "There you are." Heels clicking on the asphalt, you made quick way of moving over to his side. "Are you okay? What's wrong?" Your hand came out of your pocket to rest on his shoulder only for him to brush it off. Confused, you studied him, a crease forming in between your eyebrows. "What's up?"

"N-nothin'," he slurred. "Can we jus' go home?" His torso was slightly hunched over, hands rubbing at his temples.

You folded your arms in front of your chest. "Are you drunk? Is that what you are?"

"No…" he trailed. "Please, jus'– Fuck, can we go home?"

This was so unlike him. You were at a loss for words, but wasted no time in fishing your phone out of your purse to call a taxi before typing out a short message to Nayeon, telling her you had to leave and you would make up for it soon.

The course of the taxi ride remained silent, Seokjin's arm propped up on the window, head buried in his hand.

With yours, you reached out for his that was resting beside him on the leather seat just for him to pull back.

A sharp pain found its way inside your chest. Tears started forming at the corners of your eyes. What did you do wrong?

"Now, could you tell me what's wrong, please?" You swung your purse across the kitchen island, not caring that it slid off the smooth surface, landing on the vinyl planked floor with a thud.

Seokjin avoided your stare, his adam's apple bopping up and down. "Do you like Taehyung?"

Your eyes squinted at his question. "W-what do you mean 'do you like Taehyung'?"

"Exactly that. Do you like him?" He now looked at you, piercing gaze tearing you apart piece by piece.

"I don't think I can follow. He's been my best friend since childhood, of course I li–"

"No, do you have feelings for him?"

You couldn't believe his proposition. "Where is that coming from? No, I do not have feelings for him!"

"Then why do you dress like that?"

Your vision darted down to your black bodycon dress, hands carefully picking at the polyester fabric. "Because I want to. That has nothing to do with Taehyung. I dress like that because I feel like it."

"Would you dress like that for me?"

With any further word he spoke, you lost more and more sense of reality. "Do I not dress like that for you? Anniversaries? Birthdays? Holidays?"

The room stayed silent, a nerve-wracking minute passing before you spoke up again, voice calmer than before. "Seokjin, do you think I'm cheating on you?"

Your boyfriend dropped his head at that, hands buried in the pockets of his dress pants. "No, of course not."

"Then why all this commotion?"

He let out a heavy sigh, hands nervously running through his thick hair. "I dunno, I just…" His train of thought left him. "I love you, so fucking much." He made sure to put emphasis on every single word. "I know I shouldn't worry, and this is no reason, but you know what happened to me…" He stalled to study your expression which didn't change, so he proceeded. "And I trust you, but not everyone else. I just can't bear the thought of losing you."

You listened to him silently, arms interlocked in front of you. He had told you about his last relationship coming to an end due to his ex-girlfriend cheating on him with his best friend. You couldn't grasp how someone could have harmed the kindest and funniest person known to you with a clear conscience. She must have had no values, you thought to yourself – and you wondered if you were no better than her.

Upon a sniffle coming from him, you found your words again. "You know I would never do something like that to you, right?"

He resorted to a lethargic nod.

As you kept talking, you stepped closer to where was standing. "You're the most important person in my life, and I would never do anything to purposefully hurt you." You were now near enough to reach for his hand. "Please don't misunderstand any of my actions. I love you, and only you." Tears were now dangerously close to spilling.

Before you knew, Seokjin's hand came out to wipe away the stray tears that started rolling down your cheeks. He pulled you into a tight hug. "I'm so sorry I'm just breaking this to you. I know I should've said something sooner. Please, forgive me." From the shaking pitch of his voice, you could tell he was crying now, too.

At that, your arms tightened around his waist with no intention of letting go. The thought of him suffering in silence rendered you with an unknown feeling close to guilt and shame. He was always so strong and resolute in every aspect of his being, thus seeing him in this vulnerable was nothing short but a blow to your heart. You wanted to be the best version of yourself for him, just like he was for you.

The both of you stayed like that for a while, the clock on the wall ticking quietly by the second, making the hairs on your neck stand up straight.

As he released you, he took both of your hands into his. "Would you do me a favor though?"

You bit your lip, looking up at him with still blurry vision. "Anything for you. What is it?"

He blinked heavily once. "Could you not see him so often?" The grip on your hands tightened. "I know you said there's nothing to worry about from your side, but it's him I worry about."

You swallowed down the lump in your throat. This was a lot to ask for – foregoing your best friend since kindergarten days. There barely has been a single day where you didn't talk to him. He shared most of your memories with you, always having been a constant in your life.

"Sometimes, I see him looking at you with this glint in his eyes, like there's a spark of curiosity in him. And it kills me." He took one of your hands to pound on his chest.

Your mind went into overdrive. What were you going to do? How were you going to break this to Taehyung if you decided to cut ties with him?

"I don't wanna assume too much about him, but isn't he kinda promiscuous anyway?"

You let his words sink in before nodding gingerly.

He sent you a tired smile. "Could you just try to stay away from him for a bit? For me? Until I've caught myself."

This man had become your life at this point, and you wanted him to be your life until the end of time. And you were willing to accept losses if needed.

"Okay."

This specific night has been deeply engraved into your memory, and he progressively became more possessive towards you ever since. His face distorted in disdain whenever you informed him of your plans to go out with your friends, his words were tainted with criticism every time you wore something he deemed inappropriate or too revealing – despite your initial compromise of having girls' nights exclusively.

But you brushed it off at first, considering it his idea of protecting you from the ogling eyes of strangers. The rose-colored goggles robbed you of your ability to think straight and decide for yourself. Thus, you adapted to his ways, starting from changing your style and going out less, to refraining from going out altogether. You had no other choice.

It didn't take long for your circle to catch on – especially Taehyung, who was visibly outraged by your boyfriend's proposal which incidentally made it easier to break things off. The girls questioned Seokjin's methods with critical eyes.

"Don't you think this is going a little too far?" Nayeon asked, pink lips wrapped around the straw of her drink. "Not to step on your shoes, but you've changed your entire lifestyle almost!"

You shot her an incredulous look. "I have not! He's concerned, and I should be more considerate of that."

Your girlfriends didn't dare to argue much, clear concern drawn onto their faces though. Why couldn't they understand that you solely attempted to ease the tension for Seokjin?

"Please, really think this through, _____," Nayeon continued. "This is the first time we get to see you after what? Almost three months? We used to hang out every weekend before. You can't tell me this was all your idea."

Clenching your fists under the table, you replayed her words in your head. None of your friends were in a relationship. They didn't know what it's like to be in your position, the everlasting conflict of hurting yourself or the person you love. But ultimately, you hurt yourself either way.

That night, you got home with thoughts running a thousand miles per hour.

"Why're you so late?"

You jumped at the voice sounding from the darkness of your living room. "Gosh, you startled me." Catching your breath, you squinted your eyes at the silhouette in front of you.

"It's almos' 1. You wanted to be 'ome by midnight," Seokjin stated matter of factly.

A tired sigh escaped your lips. "I know, and I'm sorry. We got caught up talking."

You didn't notice your boyfriend had been sipping on a beverage until he slammed the empty crystal glass onto the coffee table.

"D-did you stay up to drink while I was gone?" You eyed the half empty bottle of whiskey next to it.

He smirked at you, mindlessly running his fingers through his raven hair. "Jus' for a little bit. I was waiting for you mos'ly."

You took a deep inhale, gnawing at your bottom lip. "Come on. You should get some sleep."

You swore to yourself to finally put an end to this charade, to not play this game anymore.

Now here you are, in the darkness of your bedroom, coming to terms with your own betrayal.

Ever since your fight three hours ago, your mind has been racing uncontrollably, your body tossing and turning with no sight of peace to sleep.

Seokjin passed out right after you made up in bed, sealing your reconciliation with breathy moans in between heated kisses, and naked skin on skin under silk sheets.

Though the peaceful rhythm of his breathing the only sound in the air, you can't help but feel suffocated by the noise, the steadiness of it aggravating your insides.

The inner turmoil is relentless, recklessly playing with your conscience. You told him you would be out for a company dinner. A harmless get-together with your co-workers to celebrate the upcoming holiday season. What was wrong with that? Was that too much to ask for? Did you go too far again?

A silent buzz disrupts your thoughts. Then another. And another.

Bending over your boyfriend's sleeping form, you reach for his phone to put it on silent.

You don't mean to look, but it's inevitable.

from unknown [today 12:41 AM]

Wtf are you on about? I haven't talked to your gf in like 6 months

Just like you wanted me to

from unknown [today 12:42 AM]

But maybe you should talk to her

Who is this, and why aren't they supposed to talk to you? Is this…?

Hastily, you unlock Seokjin's phone to check the conversations. Just like you assumed, he messaged Taehyung – multiple times at that.

to unknown [yesterday 10:12 PM]

I thought i dmae mysfle clear

I told you to sftay away from hver

to unknown [yesterday 10:13 PM]

What more do i havye to do?

Do i have to break your neck for yqou to finalily get jit?

to unknown [yesterday 10:14 PM]

I know you're cfucking behind msy back

Ynou both shohuld juts tell me

You choke as if a string of barbed wire is wrapped around your torso. This isn't the Seokjin you remember, the Seokjin you fell in love with. You endured loss and pain for his benefit, sacrificed time and love to build him up – just for it all to be in vain. He doesn't trust you.

Nausea starts creeping its way into your system, your mind and body going into autopilot.

You have to get out of here.

Without wasting another second, you grab your phone, scrolling through your contacts list in panic.

There's only one person in this world you can turn to right now.

to Tae [today 12:45 AM]

Taehyung, I am sosorry

Ik you're up

to Tae [today 12:46 AM]

Idk if you even wanna talkto me

But I'm sofucking sorry

I should've listened toyou

to Tae [today 12:47 AM]

Idk what todo

All Ik is I need to fcking get outof here

Iam so so sorry

With your heart pounding in your chest, and your breath stuck in your lungs, you make quick way of rummaging through the closet, putting on the first pair of underwear and bra you could find before slipping on a hoodie and sweatpants, indifferent about the outcome of your blind pick, the stinging tears in your eyes distorting your vision.

Even if Taehyung doesn't answer, there's no way you can stay here for another minute. You need to get away somewhere. Anywhere but here.

Your legs move as if on their own, your fight-or-flight syndrome fully kicking in. You can't confront him about it. He will pull you back in – just like every other time.

Making your way through the expanse of the living room, you study your surroundings, multiple pictures of the both of you hanging on the walls – one from New Year's Eve where you took a classic couple picture, kissing while holding sparkle sticks. You felt awkward asking one of your friends to take it, but he shamelessly did it for you. Another one from your birthday where he planned an entire day of your favorite activities, this particular picture showing you in front of a piece at an art exhibition you were dying to attend. You never smiled wider at anyone's gesture. And another one from your one-year anniversary where he took you to the Great Barrier Reef which you always wanted to see, the two of you enjoying a picnic on a dream of a white sand beach.

These images serve as a stark contrast to the ones you witnessed a mere three hours ago, the reflection of the moonlight illuminating the dark of his irises, menacing and miserable all the same, the echo of breaking crystal still making you flinch just from the memory, the sharpness of his accusations still ringing in your ears, the amber liquid spreading across the dark wood floor like blood, slowly seeping into the pearl white of the carpet in the center of the room.

He has been your world for the past one and a half years, and you still love him dearly. You know you always will, but in the process of loving him you disregarded yourself. You diminished your own feelings in order to heal him – but to no avail. You lost yourself, and you had no idea up until this point. But you know you can't take it anymore.

A vibrating sensation in your pocket pulls you out of your reverie, the incoming message on your phone inducing hot tears to shoot into the corners of your eyes.

from Tae [today 12:49 AM]

I'm coming to get you. Be there in 5.

from Tae [today 12:50 AM]

Don't be sorry. And please don't blame yourself.

It'll all be ok, yeah?

A silent, choked-out weep leaves your lips. Clasping a hand in front of your mouth, you let the tears flow uncontrollably. This is it. You're actually breaking out of this endless circle. Just a step out of the confinements of this apartment, and you're free.

The determination and resolve starts rising in your chest, relief bubbling to the forefront of your core –

"Where are you going?"

#bts fanfic #seokjin fanfic #bts angst #seokjin angst #bts scenario #seokjin scenario #bts imagine #seokjin imagine #bts oneshot #seokjin oneshot #bts au #seokjin au #bts x reader #seokjin x reader #bts x yn #seokjin x yn #kim seokjin #bts #f: in my head

156 notes · View notes

outroshooky · 5 years

Text

the aces up your sleeve | jjk

this is the third time i’ve posted this fic; let’s hope tumblr’s tags decide to actually show the post this time.

⇢ genre: series; part 2 of simmer down and pucker up (friendswithbenefits!au, friendstolovers!au)

⇢ pairing: jeon jeongguk x unnamed oc

⇢ word count: 12.05k

⇢ warnings: heavy angst (excessive drinking, hangovers, foul language, unhealthy coping mechanisms, jeongguk lets his heart get ahead of his head), implied and also brief smut, fluff. vomit tw. there are some darker themes here, read with caution

⇢ a/n: i started working on this fic five months ago to the day i finished it. 12,057 words and so many hours later, it’s done. i hope you enjoy aces as much as i enjoyed writing it, and a special kudos to all of the people who’ve helped along the way- @a-heart-full-of-javert and @yoonsgiggle for reading revision after revision and being my number one supporters always, and those mutuals whose feedback helped hone this piece (@pvrpletae @taeholic, and any other friends i missed). also, a nod to @genderfluid-jaredkleinmann, because anything is possible with twenty bucks and a metro card. thank you, thank you, thank you for all of your love!

“Come home with me,” she whispers. “We’ll figure out the specifics later.”

“‘m okay with that.”

He stumbles with her to her apartment building, ignoring the questioning glances and stares of strangers. He looks up at her and thinks she’s never been more beautiful, not even when she’s naked and writhing under him. He wants to immortalize this forever- her features glowing in the soft light of dawn, her arm supporting him, keeping him steady. He still believes he doesn’t deserve her, but oddly enough, he can’t find it in himself to worry too much, because he believes in her so, so much more. They’ll figure out the specifics later.

It’s cold, he thinks.

The air is chilly as it kisses his bare arms, burns his sore throat as he inhales, exhales. Breath after breath passing through his lungs, every single intake of sweet oxygen a reminder that he is still here; he hasn’t yet drunk himself to death. Everything is still a little fuzzy at the edges, something he attributes to the entire bottle of Delas Cotes Du Ventoux he’d downed on top of a vodka shot or two. He’ll apologize to his liver once he’s completely sober.

Step after step, his beat-up sneakers plod over an endless concrete plain. Exhaustion wears on him; he can’t even bring himself to avoid the gray gum stains, and every so often his foot sticks just a half-second longer to the pavement.

Jeon Jeongguk has seen sunrise after sunrise limping home after a night of indulgence, and yet something about this one is different.

Reds and pinks and oranges blot the sky like the misshapen wine stains on his t-shirt, a celestial canvas that, to his foggy brain, must’ve only been painted by God himself. God, an entity he’s never believed to be real, yet he’s never felt more spiritual hunched over and crawling home in yesterday’s clothes and tomorrow’s promises. There must be a god, some sort of master puppeteer defying the impossible and stringing together the inevitable, because there’s an arm around Jeongguk’s shoulders keeping him grounded and good fucking god, it’s her.

Her.

There’s no other word for her, no other name that can possibly summon that raw, unbridled feeling that resides deep in his chest. Rather than the term defining her, she defines it all on her own. She brings a new meaning to a normal, ordinary, everyday word that isn’t near worthy enough to refer to a personal succubus, midnight companion, best friend. His succubus, companion, friend.

Salmon and peach pour over the piercing tops of the skyscrapers, leaking color onto the endless streets, monotonous in their grid-like ways. The same convenience stores, sex shops, traffic lights direct the flow of cars that cough and sputter like the smoke wisping from grates in the asphalt. Life goes on, and yet above, seemingly unnoticed, is a display of Elysian grace, empyrean beauty. Light seeps into a world of mist and twilight, and it paints over her skin too, illuminating her from the side. Her, a divinity in her own right, with two feet on the ground and five slender fingers in his own.

I must be dreaming, Jeongguk thinks. Dreaming, because the sun is oozing over the horizon like a lazy yolk and for once, he’s thinking straight. Dreaming, because this is the drunkest he’s ever been in his entire life, yet he’s never seen it like it is now, laid out before him. His cards are on the table and his heart is on his sleeve, whipping free and loose in the wind that tousles his already-messy hair. Dreaming, because he’s having a divine revelation that men of old have only when the life is seeping from their bones, and as far as he’s concerned, he still has years ahead of him. Fuck it, he could die tomorrow but he wouldn’t care; it’s as if he found the very essence of life itself, and it lies not in the cracked-egg sky nor in the lazy plumes of smoke, not in empty alcohol bottles nor bodies slotting together in twisted sheets. It lies in the only one who matters, the smart mouth who stumbled into his life when she tripped up the stairs and her books flew into the backs of his tweenage ankles.

Her.

Maybe Jeongguk is still drunk. Maybe he’s high too, lost in the clouds of delirium and pacificity. Maybe he’ll wake up in a mess of blankets and dirty laundry, noon’s glow filtering in through the kitchen window. Maybe it's the weariness that bears down on him like a train, pulling at his tired limbs and drooping eyelids, weighing on his shoulders with a divinely brutal burden.

And yet Jeongguk stumbles on through the fog, ignoring the looks of faces unknown. He stumbles on, trusting fate and God and the bleary, bleached world that seems so full of color now. The world is gray through cracked eyelids as he stares at slab after slab of concrete, dull only until he can tear his vision to the masterpiece that paints the heavens up above. Has it always been this beautiful? Or has he just never been able to look up and see it?

He mulls the question over as his feet move with a will of their own, pondering over and over until he finds himself in an apartment he’s only ever known in darkness. His shoes slip off, his shirt comes over his head; he's handed sweatpants and boxers and her fingers dance over his bare skin like she's known it all her life. Jeongguk’s head lolls and rests against her shoulder, and it's only then that she speaks, murmurs for him to stay awake with her just a little while longer. He's pretty sure his eyes are already shut by the time his body hits the mattress, and he sinks into a five-hundred thread count haven of her conditioner and her perfume.

Every fiber of Jeongguk’s body aches, with exhaustion or emotion he’s not quite sure. He’s wrapped in sheets that smell like her, but something is missing. His eyelids crack open to see her retreat from the bedside, and he extends one arm as if reaching for a lifeline. A drowning man, the life preserver skimming away across the waves. “Please-”

“Jeongguk...” She hesitates.

“Please just stay with me, please,” he pleads. “Just hold me.”

Maybe it’s the rasp in his voice that makes her pause; it doesn’t even sound like his own. Maybe it’s his frame, broken and small in an ocean of blankets. Maybe it’s the fact that in one night, her entire world has been thrown upside down without any way of making out what’s right and what’s wrong.

She takes a step forward.

Then another.

“Please stay,” He whispers.

Maybe it’s just him.

By the time she eases herself down next to him, he’s already snoring quietly, the shipwrecked victim clutching desperately to his life raft. Yet as hard as she tries, her tired eyes refuse to rest, mind working, thinking, processing. What else can she do?

And so she lets herself go a little, and then a little more until she’s sinking into the warm feeling that envelops her heart, cradles her soul. For the boy she loves is curled into her, head on her chest, and oddly enough, it’s in the midst of the chaos where she finally finds peace.

Mortal fucking agony.

The only three words that Jeongguk can summon when his sticky eyelids slit open and the light, airy feeling of sleep fades to be replaced with what feels like just about every cell in his body painfully throbbing as one. His head is spinning, limbs trembling, bile threatening to rise in his throat, bitter on a thick tongue.

It couldn’t possibly be worse than this. This is, without a doubt, the worst hangover he has ever had.

Thank god it’s still dark outsi-

The blankets are ripped off of his head, and Jeongguk screeches as the pain in his head intensifies to a nearly unbearable degree. Bright light floods the room, casting warmth and comfort across a neatly kept apartment, the eggshell walls doing their absolute best to reflect the sunshine. He swears the sun itself is driving a railroad spike through his skull, and he wonders what he ever did to personally offend a massive ball of burning gas hundreds of thousands of miles away.

“Morning, sunshine!” A folded towel smacks him in the face next, perches on his head. “Time to get up!”

“What the actual fuck?” Jeongguk groans, rolling over and wrapping his arms around the towel. At least when it covers his eyes, he’s back in the dark.

“Oh, I think not, Gukkie. It’s four in the afternoon. You’re getting your lazy ass out of my bed and showering, because you smell like a personal minibar and puke.” The towel is wrenched out of his hands, and he whines in complaint. She chuckles. “I never knew you were such a baby.”

“Fine, fine, I’m getting up,” he pushes himself to a sitting position, scrubbing at his eyes with deadweight arms. “Where the hell is my shirt?”

“In the wash, along with the rest of your shit.” She pauses. “Shampoo and soap are in the shower caddy, towel and washcloth are right next to you.”

He pokes his tongue in his cheek, stares up at her standing over him through squinted slits. “Do I have a choice?”

She folds her arms. “Absolutely not.”

He stands, gathers the things she’s laid out for him, wanders around her bed. He’s closing over the bathroom door when he sighs, winces as a particularly agonizing wave of pain rolls through his head. “Oh, fuck me.”

“For the record, I have!”

His only response is the squeaking of the shower handle and the rush of water pitter-pattering a familiar melody.

The first thing Jeongguk is greeted with when he emerges from the sauna of a bathroom is the smell of scrambled eggs. The second is something burning, and that’s when the fire alarm goes off.

“Oh, shut up!”

He leans against the doorframe with his ears plugged, watching her bat at the detector with a damp hand towel, waving at the ceiling furiously. “Need some help there?” he asks when it finally quiets.

“Oh hey, you look a little more alive. Smell a lot better too.” She scrapes the eggs out of the pan, dresses them next to two pieces of blackened charcoal that he assumed to have once been toast. She can’t admit to either of them just how good he looks in a plain white tee, lanky frame drowning, and so she slides the plate across the table without a second glance. Jeongguk tucks one leg under him as he settles, reaches for the salt and pepper. “Find everything satisfactory?”

“Water pressure could use some work.” He gestures with his fork. “Whose clothes are these?”

She shrugs. “My ex’s.”

“Excuse me?” Jeongguk coughs. “I thought it’s been months since you’ve seen-”

“It has been,” she busies herself at the sink. “He left them here.”

“And you never got rid of them?”

She scrubs particularly hard at a bit of grizzle on a dirtied plate. “That’s a waste of a forty-five dollar shirt.”

He takes a bite, chews. “To each their own.”

Silence falls thick and heavy. Jeongguk swallows, clears his throat. Says her name, and when her eyes meet his, something in his chest hitches. “Thank you.” He pauses. “Really, I mean that. Thank you for everything.”

She freezes, water still pouring down her hands, soap bubbles swirling, leaking into the drain. Silence.

His heart thumps once. Twice.

“Jeongguk, what are we?”

It’s like a cavity has opened up inside of him, chasm splitting far and wide, and inside is roiling emotion, waves crashing and cascading with abandon. He isn’t sure if he’s about to vomit or weep- perhaps the former, because his head is still pounding, but his own heartbeat outweighs the drum thudding in his skull. “What do you mean?”

The knife she’s holding slips from her fingers, clatters against the basin of the sink. “What do you mean, ‘what do you mean’? You nearly drink yourself to death and I’m the one who goes out and saves your sorry ass, coincidentally the same person you’re fucking on the weekends, by the way. Are you just going to casually play off what happened last night? God Jeongguk, you’ve got to be shitting me!”

It’s easier to push people away when you’re about to crack, because they don’t have to watch you fragment into pieces that you can’t even hope to put back together without slicing your own palms into ribbons. It’s easier to watch your own blood run than see the ink of the ones you love stain a blank page crimson. She can’t breathe; her page isn’t blank, there’s scribbles all over in black and blue and now they’re running maroon. Messages embedded in gestures and actions, and she grips the edge of the sink white-knuckled. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.”

It’s foggy, misty in his head, the memories of last night. Concrete smooth under his fingertips, sacred confessions in a city of sin, but what did he confess? It’s blurred at the edges; her face is reflected in the surface of a still pool, but when he summons answers, he’s only left with more questions.

Her voice is a mere whisper, broken and raw. “Please don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.”

He rises from the table. “Tell me what I’ve forgotten.”

It’s a few steps to cross the kitchen, to see her trembling, still clutching onto the worn sponge. Silence is an old friend by now, sickening quiet, and the tumbling waves inside him threaten to break forth, gushing like a flood. He reaches out to touch her and she jerks away.

“What did I do?” he begs.

Silence.

“Did we fuck?”

Nothing.

“Please tell me, I don’t even know what I di-”

“There are no fucked-up people in this world,” her voice is shaking. “Just good people who do very, very fucked up things.”

Jeongguk freezes, arm outstretched to touch her, fingers stilling.

“Drunk words are sober thoughts,” her voice cracks, and she bends over the sink, head between her arms. “If you can remember what it is you even said in the first place.”

“What did I say?” he nearly whispers.

Her shoulders shake and she’s crying now. It’s killing him to see this, killing him that he’s destroying her and he doesn’t even know how he possibly drove a knife through her back. When she speaks, her voice is so soft, he can barely catch each word. “‘You told me you fucked up, and you broke the rule,’” She quotes, pauses. “‘And now it’s my turn. I fucked up,’” she sniffles. “‘I broke the rule.’” Oh god, please don’t finish the sentence. Please- “‘I love you.’”

Ringing.

Pounding.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Air filtering through his lungs, but it’s as if there’s a vice crushing him, squeezing every ounce of oxygen from his fragile body.

Confessions are told behind closed curtains, doors locked with the intentions of secrecy and intimacy, spilling the worst of your intentions to the holiest of the holy. They penetrate the curtain, the wall between you and your savior, separating human and divine with shame, guilt, the need to atone, repent for the one who’s given their everything for you. In the ultimate act of love, you’ve been saved from what you fear the most, blood spilled on fine sand, pierced by nails and a spear. Nails and a spear, except this time it’s vices and virtues, and tears prick at his eyes like thorns brushing skin.

“That’s what you did, Jeongguk.”

You knew?

For so long.

“You told me you love me and I told you I love you, too.”

She cries quietly, hiccups jerking her small frame.

Jeongguk wishes he could say something, do something to stop the agony. But it’s all his fault and his head is spinning still; he wants to comfort her, protect her from the torment she’s locked in, except he’s the one that’s spurred on the waves, and now she’s desperately trying to stay afloat.

Slowly, he reaches out to her. A life preserver, something, anything to help. His fingertips brush the top of her head, and he’s forever shocked by how soft her hair is, like flaxen strands of silk.

It’s coming back to him now, in bits and pieces. Her sweatshirt, bundled in his arms, his only protection against the biting cold. The world spinning in black and neon and twilight gray until a face comes into view. Her face.

His hand strokes the top of her head, slowly, stiffly. She leans back the slightest into his touch.

His savior. His sins, laid out for the sheep to bear. He had to go and fall in love with the one thing he couldn’t touch, couldn’t have, couldn’t attach himself to.

“I’m so sorry.” The words pale in contrast to the situation no matter how much magnitude they carry, and his voice cracks. It’s too heavy for her to bear alone.

She reaches out to him, for him, and in an instant he’s pulled her against his chest, and she’s sobbing. The lamb’s back has broken, and there’s nothing left.

Her fingers twist in his shirt, face buried in his shoulder as he strokes her hair, lowering onto one knee and then the other. When he eases himself into a sitting position, she collapses with him and he cradles her close, like she’ll fragment any second if he lets go. Perhaps she will.

He rests his head on top of hers as she finally lets herself feel the stress of trying to keep it all together for him. He traces patterns on her arms, her thighs, her knees and her calves, lets her shake and tremble and break against him. He doesn’t care how much she’ll cut his palms, if he’ll even have any left by the time he’s done piecing her together. She’s worth it.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers into her hair. “You deserve better than this.”

“Don’t,” she croaks, screws her eyes tighter. “Don’t push me away with an excuse like that when I’m crying in your arms on my kitchen floor.”

“Okay,” Jeongguk says. “I won’t.”

And so he doesn’t.

He holds her until she has no tears left, until her face is blotchy and her cheeks are damp. She doesn’t see the way he weeps too, his forehead against her own, eyelids fluttered shut. I love you. The statement doesn’t burst forth from his chest, but leaks like the sunrise filtering over the tops of jagged skyscrapers, oozing like the warmth of a yolk, spilling the reality he can’t hide from anymore.

The dying sunlight casts the room in dusky reds and yellows, patchy opals and milky blues. The day is coming to a close, but he feels like it’s just begun.

He noses at her cheek, watching as she blinks up at him through tired, sticky eyes. “You asked what we are.”

“And what are we?”

Jeongguk hopes he’s being reassuring. “We are whatever you want us to be.”

She snorts. “So specific, coming from the guy known for running from his problems.”

He rolls his eyes. “Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you?”

“Somehow you ended up making more sense when you were drunk, Jeongguk.”

“No, I-” He sighs. “So we’re in love with each other. We’re best friends that fuck on the weekends when they’re stressed, and we’re in love with each other. And I- I think I’d like this- us- to happen more often.”

“So you’re saying you want to hold me as I cry on my kitchen floor every day? Jesus Christ, I know you’re secretly a sappy bastard, but even t-”

“I’m saying I want to hold you like this more often, minus the tears,” Jeongguk interrupts. “I’m saying I want us to happen more often.” He stops for a moment when he sees her brows furrow, her face soften. “I’m saying that I want to eat shitty takeout with you on Tuesday nights and watch Finding Nemo as many times as you want to, because I know you love animated movies and Nemo is your favorite. I’m saying I want to kiss you before I fall asleep at night, and this time I’m not kissing your neck, I’m kissing your lips because I’m tired of being ashamed of kissing you, any part of you, when I know you’re not mine. I’m saying I want to argue and drink dollar store wine and forget about it all in the morning. I’m saying that I want to say I love you and not be afraid of it. Or be afraid to show it.” His fingers tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. “Did you not believe me when I told you while I was drunk?”

“To be fair, you told me and then threw up on the sidewalk,” she remarks dryly, cheeks shimmering with wetness. “Your vomit had more conviction than your over-emotional drunk self did.”

Jeongguk rolls his eyes. “Just let me love you, Jesus Christ.”

“That’s more trouble than it’s worth.” She sniffles.

His heart twists. “We’ve come this far.”

“You still haven’t answered my question. What are we?”

He lets his heartbeat echo in his ears once, twice before he responds. “Let me prove it to you.”

“Prove it to me?” She lifts her head from his shoulder, eyebrow raised. “I’m sorry, do I need to bring up my previous rant about how I’m the one who goes out and saves you when you attempt to murder your liver? You have a lot of proving to do, Guk-”

“Let me take you out on a date.”

And then it all goes quiet.

It’s like someone’s pressed pause on an old VHS tape, playing quietly on an old television. The room is dim with afternoon light slipping lower, furniture and faces illuminated with a soft golden glow. Everything is frozen; it’s as if he’s watching from outside the screen as her face freezes in an expression of pure shock. A Renaissance painting, perhaps- Boy Nearly Shits Himself Hoping Fuckbuddy Doesn’t Leave Him, Jeon, 1591.

She can’t do anything but gape at him, mouth moving and jaw working, except no sound comes out. When she does find her voice a few seconds later, all she can splutter out is every other syllable, spewing consonants at him until he holds up a hand. “If you don’t want to, that’s okay, I just- I dunno, I figured that’s what guys do when they wanna impress a girl-” She’s talking with her hands now, gesticulating wildly, still unable to formulate an actual word. “-I’m sorry, if you say no, I’m not gonna push-”

“Jeongguk, would you shut up and listen to me?”

“Oh look, you’re actually intelligible now.”

“I’m not saying no.”

It’s his turn to freeze in shock, eyes wide, his arms still around her going rigid. “So what are you saying?”

She hesitates. “Well, I’m not saying yes either.”

His mouth goes dry. “W-what?”

“Look, Jeongguk, I-” she pauses, buries her face back in his chest because there she doesn’t have to worry. It’s a familiar patch of skin; she knows every birthmark and freckle, and she traces the constellations over his shirt with one finger. “I don’t know yet. I need to think about it.”

Anxiety, growing in his mind like so many vines, overgrown and flourishing, creeping into his thoughts and constricting his throat. He swallows hard, resists the desperate urge to pull her closer. A drowning man and his life preserver. “I can’t blame you for that.”

“Thank you for understanding,” she murmurs. Her lips brush his chest over his shirt and for a moment he’s in a dark bedroom, hands gripping her curves, whispering sin in her ear as she grinds on his lap, a whimpering mess. Not now.

He cracks a small smile somehow, squeezes her hip gently. “I try.”

“Guk?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you just hold me for a while?”

Forget for a while that she’s not yours.

His hands slide under her legs as he lifts her up seemingly effortlessly, carries her through the kitchen into her bedroom, settling down on the bed next to her. He opens his arms and she crawls to him like she has so many times before, except this time there’s no post-sex haze, no panting of breath nor eyes that shine with a certain satisfied, mischievous look. It’s just her and him, as she settles between his legs with her head on his chest and he traces gentle, slow circles on her back. Neither of them will admit just how comfortable it is, just how right it feels- nor will they admit that it’s happened before, and indeed Jeongguk does his best to push the thought out of his mind. Live in the now. You may never get to do this again.

And so he calms her until her breathing slows to an even rhythm, and she drifts off peacefully into a deep, calm sleep.

jeon jeongguk: so

jeon jeongguk: did u think about it

Read, 2:23pm. Yeah I did.

jeon jeongguk: aaaaand?

Read, 2:24pm.

jeon jeongguk: cricket cricket

Read, 2:36pm.

jeon jeongguk: i feel like i should be playing the jeopardy theme song rn

jeon jeongguk: do do do do do do do

jeon jeongguk: do do do do DO do do do do do

Read, 2:37pm. You’re so irritating.

jeon jeongguk: ty

jeon jeongguk: it’s a talent ive perfected

jeon jeongguk: especially with u

jeon jeongguk: anyways

jeon jeongguk: im picking u up on friday at 3 outside ur apartment building

jeon jeongguk: be there or u have to eat my ass for a week

Read, 2:38pm. I never knew you were into that.

jeon jeongguk: there r a lot of things u don’t know about me

jeon jeongguk: but

jeon jeongguk: if u see me friday at 3

jeon jeongguk: u’ll get to find out

jeon jeongguk: it’ll be lit

Read, 2:41pm. Please never use that word again in my presence.

jeon jeongguk: ur no fun

Read, 2:43pm. img.jpg

jeon jeongguk: sending an uno reverse card does not change that fact

Read, 2:43. I’m at work; my break just ended. See you Friday.

jeon jeongguk: peace

A date.

It’s Thursday night and she’s still trying to wrap her head around it.

A date.

With Jeon Jeongguk.

The person whom she refused to kiss on the cheek in middle school, scrunching her nose because he was a boy and he was gross. The person who caught her when she tripped and fell in high school at the ice skating rink, likely saving her from a broken ankle, but certainly not a busted ego. Also the person who she fucked a handful of times. Okay, more than a handful.

An actual fucking date, with all of the romantic aspects thrown into the dish, rather than garnished on top with a mockery of true aesthetic design. No more dancing around the truth, no way to fuck it out in the comforts of a messy bed and hazy midnight vision. Real consequences to be felt… as if none of their behavior had had consequences already.

Oh my god, I can’t do this, she thinks.

What is she even supposed to wear?

Jeongguk, what should I wear tomorrow?

jeon jeongguk: um

jeon jeongguk: probably clothes

jeon jeongguk: for once

Read, 10:14pm. You’re an actual dick.

jeon jeongguk: is now an appropriate time for me to send my own uno card

jeon jeongguk: anyways wear something nice but like

jeon jeongguk: not ridiculously nice y’know

Read, 10:14pm. That’s… incredibly unhelpful.

jeon jeongguk: don’t wear a wedding gown but don’t wear a t shirt n booty shorts

jeon jeongguk: even tho u look good in a t shirt n booty shorts

Read, 10:15pm. When have you ever seen me in a t-shirt and booty shorts?

You know what, don’t answer that question. I’ll figure it out. Ty

jeon jeongguk: bye

She tosses her phone to the bed and frowns, flips through the clothes hangers in her closet, pauses to finger a shirt sleeve. What could he even have to offer on a date? Where would he take her? Would they stay in? Go out? What could you offer to impress someone who’s seen every facet of you growing up and knows you inside and out whether or not either of you like to admit it?

Is she enough?

She shakes her head. She can’t be thinking like this before the date’s even happened.

She’d just have to wait and see.

Oh, how she hated waiting.

At 2:47pm on Friday afternoon, her phone buzzed.

jeon jeongguk: leaving now bc traffic, be there in 15

Read, 2:47pm. See you in a few.

At 2:59pm, a black four-door pulled up in front of her apartment building, and at 3:01pm, she pulled open the passenger’s door and slid inside.

“Hey,” Jeongguk said, taking the car out of park. “What’s good?”

“Only you could begin a date by saying ‘what’s good’,” she teased, shifting the buckle so it fell comfortably across her shoulder. “And for the record, I’m good, thanks.”

A smile tinged his lips as he spared a glance across the car, looking her up and down. “A leather jacket and combat boots. You look more than good.”

It was her turn to appreciate him- lean thighs clad in tight-fitting black jeans; off-white dress shirt tucked neatly at the waist, rolled at the elbows, unbuttoned at the collar. “As do you.” She snickered, elbowing him. “I didn’t even know you owned anything other than monochome tee shirts.”

Jeongguk raised an eyebrow, sparing a quick glance over his shoulder before merging into traffic. “Again, there are a lot of things you don’t know about me.”

She glanced over at him, tongue in cheek. “Care to tell me about them?”

He smirked, foot tapping the brake. “Oh, you’ll find out in time. Oh, and speaking of time-” he checked his watch. “-we have a long drive ahead of us. Aux cord is yours.”

“Did you really just give me the aux cord? So I can play my, oh, how did you put it- ‘shitty ass spawn of country music and dollar-store trap’?”

“Old Town Road is not real music, don’t you dare tell me otherwise-”

“Mm, but you gave me the cord-” she teased, swinging it around her index finger. “It’s my radio now, country boy.”

“Can we compromise with Post Malone?” Jeongguk begged, a hint of a whine in his voice. “Beerbongs and bentleys is where it’s at, plus I’d rather claw out my ears than hear ‘I got the horses in the back’ one more time-”

“Done,” she tapped at her phone, and as the opening chords of Sugar Wraith sang through the car speakers, they both visibly relaxed.

Perhaps she’d been anxious for absolutely nothing. It all felt the same here in his Jeep, like every day by his side had been before he’d turned a cold shoulder and disappeared for months. Nothing new, everything familiar, too familiar.

Had it been this easy to be with him all along?

By the end of the first half hour, Jeongguk had rapped more than half of the album, and she was impressed by the fact that his singing voice wasn’t, as she’d assumed in the past, absolute shit. “When were you going to tell me you can sing better than an autotuned Post can?”

He raised and lowered one shoulder, hand comfortable on the rim of the wheel. He looked so damn fine, effortless with a sharp jawline and a gentle smile. “I’m not that good. I can carry a tune and that’s about it.”

“Lies, Gukkie. You have a lovely voice.”

She noticed a hint of pink in his cheeks.

By the end of the first hour, the impenetrable rows of buildings had faded to flat land and open road. She gazed out the window, elbow propped up on the sill, and Jeongguk allowed himself a look at her. Not a hair out of place, finely polished, not too much makeup. Perfect. So utterly, wonderfully perfect.

He wondered when she would ask how much longer, and five minutes after the first hour, she answered his question. “Are you planning to take me on a romantic roadside picnic, Guk?”

“And if I was?” he hummed quietly to the melody filtering through the speakers.

“You wouldn’t drive an hour out of the city to do so; this is the person who walks everywhere, god forbid his bicycle leave his apartment.”

“You’re right,” he affirmed. “Just a half hour more. I think.”

“You think? What happens if we get stuck out here in the middle of nowhere?”

“I have twenty bucks and a working Metrocard, we’ll be fine.”

“We’re not even in the city!”

“Shhhh.”

At an hour and twenty-eight minutes exactly, the car slowed, bumping along as Jeongguk pulled into a parking lot that was more dirt than asphalt. She’d dozed off about twenty minutes ago, cheek smushed against the seatbelt, and his heart glows warm when he parks and finally looks over at her. His hand finds its way to hers, and he rubs the back of it gently. “We’re here.”

She wakes slowly, eyelids fluttering in a moment of confusion, and his thumb rubs over her knuckles. “Where-” She sees him smiling, and she’s instantly alert. “Oh no.”

He lets her hand fall with a final squeeze. “Oh yes.”

“I don’t trust you,” she chuckles breathlessly. “Where the actual fuck are we, Je-”

The rest of her statement is cut off by Jeongguk hopping the few inches from the lip of his Wrangler to the ground, and when he circles the car to collect her, her face is scrunched in confusion. “You drove thirty miles outside of the city for this run-down shack of a restaurant? It’s barely anything Gukkie, are you sure we’re in the right place?”

He turns to regard the one-story restaurant, pop-up roof signs peeling in their age, before nodding firmly, decisively. “I’m sure.”

She follows him inside, mumbling something about being assaulted by the dinner crowd, and Jeongguk strolls up to the maître d′ like he’s done this every day of his life. Maybe it’s the over-starched dress shirt. He swears it’s hugging his frame just a little too tight.

She misses the reservation name, spoken too softly and too quickly for her to hear, but she has no reason to suspect anything, not even when they settle at a corner table set with two places and a vase of four roses. She’s handed a menu, which she accepts with a polite word of thanks, and it’s when she sees the name of the restaurant in bright block font at the top of the page that she pauses. In one moment, the oxygen drains from her lungs, and the past comes alive before her eyes like a film reel, rewound for his and her pleasure.

She’s frozen across the table, lights dancing in her eyes in neon hues, flickering in her irises, countless bursts of color in pink and green and yellow. When he glances up to ask if she’d like to order appetizers, he swears he can hear her heart explode in her chest, crashing and roaring and perhaps aching just a little, too. His own beats just a little bit faster when he sees tears glimmer in her eyes, pinprick stars in her cosmos. “Jeongguk, how did you-”

“Find the only Moonlight Diner in three hundred fifty miles?” He relaxes, nudges the table leg with the toe of his shoe. “Turns out there’s only two in a thousand mile radius. One of which is at home, the other of which is, well- here.”

“Y-you-” she can barely get the words out, so overwhelmed is she with nostalgia and heartache and just a little bit of relief. “You found our childhood diner chain and you brought me here on a fucking date, Jeongguk, I-”

Her hands tremble on the corners of the menu as Jeongguk makes incredibly awkward eye contact with the impending waitress, who turns on her heel when she sees the scene in front of her. Something in his throat seizes with anxiety. “Is this okay? Did I do something wrong? Fuck, I-”

“Jeongguk, shut the actual fuck up and let me bask in the fact that you did this for me,” she chokes out. “We spent how many years going to this diner back home, having french fry sword fights, spraying each other with ketchup, truth or dare rounds involving coleslaw in your-”

“I try to forget the colesaw incident,” Jeongguk winces. “But- But is it okay? I-” He squeezes the edge of the sickly green leather seat, white-knuckled. “I’m not crossing any boundaries?”

“I swear to god,” she’s crying now, out of her control, but for the first time in so long it’s a good kind of cry, and she curses her tendency to cry for him at the drop of a hat. “How the fuck- you know what, I don’t even want to know how you came up with this or what else you have planned. You son of a bitch, I love you.”

Jeongguk bites his lip. “That’s the most contradictory sentence I’ve ever heard, but I’ll take your word for it.”

She sniffles, wipes her eyes on the back of her hand. He passes her a napkin, and she dabs at her face. “Are you getting the bacon cheeseburger? With extra bacon and ketchup on the side, because you know I’m going to steal some?”

“Yes,” he admits gently. “That was the general plan.”

She smiles through her tears, chokes out a laugh. “Nothing’s changed, has it Jeongguk?”

He’s starting to well up now, eyes shining with pride and adoration and remembering, because he remembers now. He remembers what it’s like to joke, to laugh, to love without the vices of the everyday world surrounding him. It’s been so long since the feeling bubbled up in his throat; a memory flashes before his eyes of dancing in the rain, and just like the flow of water down a storm drain, it’s gone before he can grab it, explore it. It’s okay, let it go, he thinks. There’s a more important memory he needs to make here with her, and as she reaches for her fork to playfully poke his arm, he finds himself falling in love with her all over again.

It is with full bellies and warming hearts that the two leave the run-down diner, clutching strawberry milkshakes and reveling in memories long-forgotten. There’s a bounce in her step and he’s beaming like the moonlight that lies silver across the breadth of the parking lot, shines off of the hood of his worn-out car. He can’t remember the last time he’s felt alive like this, without the help of his vices. He had thought he never would again.

He slides into the driver’s seat, pulling the door closed behind him, and she hops into the passenger’s side. “Home, now?”

“I mean, if you really want to.” He buckles himself in. “But there’s one more place I wanna take you.”

Her teeth shine bright as she smiles. “Where to, Gukkie?”

His heart flutters at the use of the nickname. “You’ll see.”

As the moonlight stretches long across the cracked road and his hand finds hers on the center console, Jeongguk turns the car back towards the city, heart beating just a bit faster than before.

Flat land rolls, tumbling end over end into buildings that grow longer and taller until the city envelopes the single black Jeep. The ride is spent in a comfortable silence, her thumb running over his knuckles, lazily playing with his fingers. She doesn’t miss the smile that graces his face, the way his eyes gleam with the nebulae of a thousand swirling galaxies. She wouldn’t mind getting lost in them more often.

He marvels at how small her fingers are, how easy it is for two of them to wrap around merely one of his. He wonders what it would be like to kiss each knuckle, treating each with care before they fall asleep with interlocked hands and limbs, and for the first time, he doesn’t feel guilty about imagining the possibilities.

A few blocks before her apartment, Jeongguk pulls over and parks. The sidewalks throng at this hour, individual faces blurring in the crowds, and when they meet around the front of the car, she takes his arm. “Are you absolutely positive you didn't just bring me home?” She teases.

“Nope,” he gives her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “There’s one more place we’re going, promise.”

He knows the way by heart, the place he discovered three months ago by accident that had ignited a little-known nostalgic streak in him. It’s a right on 65th West and a left on 15th North, go straight four blocks (five?) and a right on 53rd and then it’s there in front of him in all of its childhood glory. He pats his pocket, makes sure its contents are still intact.

“We’re here,” Jeongguk announces.

“A playground,” she murmurs.

“Do you know why?” He asks.

“Where would we go after the diner?” She laughs quietly, disbelievingly. “The playground.”

“It’s got the three swings and everything,” he offers. “And the little ship’s bow with the climbing nets.”

“I can’t believe you.” She stands on her toes and kisses his cheek. His skin tingles where her lips press. “You’re incredible.”

“I’m really not,” he answers shyly. “I just think about these things is all.”

“Hey.” She pokes his ribs, a hint of teasing in her voice, and she’s off in a flash. “You’re it!”

“You- Get back here!” Jeongguk staggers back and then lunges forward, sprinting after her, past the monkey bars and the climbing wall. The playground is deserted save them, two fully-grown adults playing a chaotic game of tag, and he can’t even stop to think how ridiculous it may look to onlookers. He realizes then that he doesn’t care, because she’s within arms reach, nearly his, just a little bit farther, and he reaches just an inch more and snags her by the waist.

She trips over her own feet and tumbles, bringing him down with her, but he rolls to take the brunt of the fall. Loose stones on the colored rubber dig into his back and she’s heavy on his chest, but he’s breathless with laughter and her teeth flash as she too dissolves into giggles. His ribs ache as he wraps an arm around her, but it’s a good sort of ache, and as she hoists herself to her elbows resting over him, a loose lock of her hair brushes against his cheek.

“You’re such a brat,” He teases, his tongue poking his cheek.

“You’re such an dunce,” She responds, head tilting cockily.

“Dunce? When’s the last time anyone said dunce? Come on, you can come up with something better than that!” He pokes her ribs and she squeaks. “Asshole, thrice-cursed bastard, son of a fu-”

“Enough out of you,” she kids. “I’m not feeling creative today.”

“What if I was?” He lets his head fall back, tresses flopping messily on his forehead. “How about douchebag? Dickwad? Bi-”

“Shut up!”

“Make me.”

“And how would I go about that, hm?” Her fingers walk up his chest.

“Like this.” And in a rush of movement and fear and elation, Jeongguk closes the distance between her lips and his own, the oxygen draining from his lungs as he presses a kiss to her mouth.

It’s as if the entire world has stopped to take a breath with him, the rustling of the trees and the creaking of the swings frozen in a moment of infinitesimal, earth-shattering stillness. Her lips are soft against his; she tastes like strawberry Chapstick and vanilla milkshake, a drug on his tongue like any other. His hand is at the base of her spine and hers is at the back of his head, threaded through his hair. He is drunk and sober all at once, dizzy yet alert of a thousand sensations at once; he can feel her exhale and the way her weight shifts on his hips and the way her nose grazes his when he pulls away.

Her breath is faint on Jeongguk’s lips, a rush of dizzying intimacy, and then she’s pressing her lips to his, mouthing at their soft plush; he snags her bottom lip between his teeth as his fingers tuck under her jacket, settle against the curve of her side, crave the warmth of her skin against his.

Her fingers twist, the long, shaggy locks knotting around the slender digits as her nails meet his scalp and he groans from the feeling.

He sighs her name against her mouth, held sacred in the coveted pause of the universe, and when her eyes flutter open, he is locked into the emotion that sings so freely from her dark pupils. It entrances him, ensnares him in her web, a siren singing from her rock. He is utterly transfixed by her, and when she blinks once, twice, the haze is lifted. He is suddenly aware of the leaves scraping the ground, the slightly colder air that settles over them as wispy clouds roll in front of the moon. He leans in just a little bit, hoping to get that much closer, desperately chasing the high, but a finger to his lips stills him.

“Hi,” he says, breathy and unbelieving.

“Hey you.” There’s a smile on her face, but it’s matched by an expression he can’t quite read. His hand trails down her arm and she hesitates. “Guk, I-” she begins, stops.

“What is it, baby?” His fingers dance down her spine, settle at the base.

“Jeongguk, I don’t know if I’m ready for a relationship yet.”

And that’s when his world comes crashing down.

“I just- I don’t know if I can do this yet. I don’t know if I can be who you need me to be right now. I can’t come find you every time you get yourself shitfaced and need someone to bring you home.” She rolls onto one elbow, pushes herself into a sitting position next to him; his arm slips to the side. “I’m sorry.”

“Is that what this is about?” He too sits upright, matches her position. “My habits are the make-or-break for you?”

“That’s not what I said,” she gently corrects. “Because I know you told me that you want to get clean, you don’t want me to be embarrassed of you, and I’m not, Jeongguk. I’m really not. But I don’t think I am who you need in a girlfriend. You deserve someone who’s going to be able to give you time, and right now that’s one thing I don’t have.”

“Who do you think I need in a girlfriend, then? I don’t ‘need’ anybody except for you. You don’t see what I see,” he insists, gesturing widely. “You’re brilliant and warm and you’ve got everything ahead of you. I don’t even deserve you but I want you. Can’t you see? I’d do anything for you.” His cheeks heat; his arms fall. “Is casual fucking easier for you than a relationship because you don’t have to dedicate time to it?”

Her own face flushes in the dim moonlight, rosy hues darkening the apples of her cheeks. “That’s not true and you know it, Jeongguk. What about all the times you stayed over till morning? Or I stayed over your apartment for two days straight? I’m trying to be honest with you, I really am.” There’s hurt in her voice but the blood rushing in his ears drowns out the world around him, the pit in his stomach swallowing every good feeling. “I’m telling you the truth not because I want to hurt you, but because I don’t want you chasing a ghost of something for the rest of your life.”

“But you love me back,” he sounds small even to his own ears. “You love me back.”

“I do.” She takes his larger hand in two of hers. “I love you Jeongguk, so fucking much, but right now I don’t know if I’m ready for us.”

“But what about tonight? What about this? The diner, the playground? You can’t tell me you didn’t feel something,” he begs. “I felt something.”

“I did feel something, yes,” she admits. “Tonight with you was incredible, Guk. You didn’t have to do any of it, but you did anyways.”

“I did it all for you. Can’t you see that?” Jeongguk stands, shoulders tensing, heart breaking. “Can’t you see what I would do for you and more? Can’t you see what I want to do for you? I’ll buy you a dozen roses every day, I’ll raze a mountain, I’ll be whoever you want me to be if you’d just let me fucking love you!” He doesn’t even realize he’s shouting until the sound of his voice rings down the deserted block, and then it sinks in that he shouted at her. She’s shaking just enough for him to notice, and when guilt sinks its needle teeth into his gut, he deflates.

“I’m trying to protect you, Guk.” She stands too, head bowed, refusing to make eye contact. He hates himself for doing this to her. “My only hope is that you’ll realize that soon.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“It’s okay.” She smiles, but it’s painfully empty. She takes a step towards him, pats his arm. “I know the way to my apartment from here. Get home safe, Jeongguk.”

He can’t even bring himself to offer to walk her home, for it’s as if he blinks once and he’s alone, standing firmly planted in the middle of an urban playground, the swings creaking a faint melody as the street light winks a dull amber above him. He reaches into his coat pocket and withdraws a single red rose, examining the crushed petals, mangled from the impact of her having fallen on top of him.

She loves me. She loves me not.

Jeongguk runs his thumb across the stem, wincing as he snags the digit on a thorn.

She loves me not.

For the first time in what feels like forever, her phone is silent.

It doesn’t sigh with a seductive feminine air, the sound of his ringtone slicing through her apartment with a piercingly high-pitched moan. It probably made the neighbors raise an eyebrow on quiet mornings, but they kept her up with the sounds of their late-night trysts anyway. She guessed it was only fair.

Hey Guk, hope you’ve been doing alright. Call me tonight if you get a chance, I finally got around to watching Santa Clarita Diet and wow, you weren’t kidding when you said it’s oddly wholesome as fuck.

One day turns into two, and then three. The first post she sees on Jeongguk’s social media is of a blurry red cup in a filmy haze that is all too familiar, and a fire burns low in her gut.

Hey uh, so my shower head came off and I don’t know how to reattach it. Any advice?

P.S., I should note. In regards to the last text, it came off randomly, not because I sat on it or something. Seriously.

The second is of scraped palms and grinding bodies, heavy trap music blasting from a car stereo, bass thumping wildly. Four days turns into a week, then a week and a half.

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Look at this dog I just saw on the subway. It’s dressed as Marilyn Monroe. I’m not shitting you. I found the costume on Amazon for $25.

The third involves a crowd of strangers and a beer keg, and she doesn’t care to describe it in any further detail.

Hi Jeongguk, I haven’t heard from you in a little while and wanted to ask if you’re doing alright. If you don’t want to hear from me, please just tell me and I’ll stop texting you.

Nothing.

He knows she’s seen his posts. He most certainly knows how they make her feel, too. He knows the game they play, for provocation is an old friend of theirs, made known in the pictures and videos he displays for the world to see. Bad habits, it seems, are easier to slip back into than to break after all.

Then, at the two-and-a-half week mark, late in the evening when she’s perched on the couch in pajamas and a face mask, she sees it.

A blurry photo, taken in a dark bedroom, flash illuminating a bare back, navy sheets twisted around the lower torso. Hair cascading down a pillow, pulled to the side just enough for a violet bruise to be visible, blossoming on the side of the mystery woman’s neck.

The candle flame dancing in her belly ignites into a fucking wildfire.

Before she can even think, she’s sent the text.

You asshole. I fucking hate you.

She doesn’t know if she’d prefer a response or utter silence.

Turns out, she gets the latter.

A month without him hurts.

As quickly as he’d tripped and fallen back into her life, Jeongguk was gone. Ten words out of her mouth and he’s fled back into the world he promised her he’d claw his way out of. The danger of betting your stakes on one person is that when they inevitably fall through, you’ll come crashing down even harder than anticipated. And he bet just about everything on her.

She throws herself into work, doing her best to forget. It’s hard, however, when everything reminds her of him. When a hooded stranger brushes past her on the subway, sandalwood and sage graze her nostrils; suddenly she’s wrapped in bedsheets, surrounded by cologne and the musk of sex. Instant ramen is a reminder of shitty rom-coms on snowy Tuesday nights and the warmth of a blanket covering tangled legs. Even an Overwatch figurine brings back endless numbers, countless statistics that were rattled off at the mere mention of the O-word. She misses him even more acutely than before.

Jeongguk seems to have made quick work of the past, the chronicles of his new present documented in late-night Snapchat trysts. She sees one, two, three girls decorating his page, and yet they last one post and never appear again. She wonders if they’re merely even just for show.

She gave up hope that week, the fourth week without him. The boy she loved, the man who slotted so easily into her life despite their differences. He was gone, having fled the scene of the crime with the evidence bag, leaving the splintered fragments of her heart behind. And he did so without a second thought.

It was so easy for her to hate him. It was so easy for her to burn the Polaroid photographs they’d taken together, to delete text messages and the playful reminders he set on her phone, to cut out every single scrap of evidence she had that he ever existed. It was so easy to scrub the physical reminders from her surroundings like blood from dirtied fingernails.

And yet, she didn’t. She couldn’t.

Jeongguk wasn’t the easily hated type. At least, not to her.

He had so much of her that he took for granted. The sides that she revealed of herself to him, the only one who even knew they existed, could never be taken back. Whether he liked it or not, he had held her in the palm of his hands, cradling her like a bird with a broken wing. And when it came down to things, he dropped her without a second thought.

After all they’d been through, she couldn’t bring herself to do the same.

That just wasn’t her way.

Bent over the sink, she brushes a strand of hair out of her face with a soapy glove, doubling her attention on a greasy pan.

Some said she forgave too easily. Some said she was too quick to leap to the defenses of others, too trusting in those who had access to her heart. She had always struggled to go against the grain, push back against the very thing that resonated deep in the marrow of her bones. Whether she could help it or not, it was simply who she was, for better or for worse, deep down at her core. It was, at least, who she thought she was.

She scrubs harder at a troublesome crumb of grizzle.

She wasn’t so sure anymore.

3:14am.

She stretches, blinks wearily, squints at the clock on the nightstand table.

She must’ve been imagining things.

Her eyes flutter shut, chasing the alluring clutches of sweet, blessed slumber.

SLAM!

“What the fuck- goddamnit.”

It must be the neighbors’ headboard again.

SLAM!

Her eyes shoot open, because there’s another, more primal sound that accompanies the earth-shattering noise that seems to be emanating from the opposite side of her apartment.

She throws the sheets back, inching across her apartment. Every impact against her front door sounds, to her groggy self, like a bass drum amplified to fill every nook and cranny of her skull. Surely, every neighboring suite would be awoken by the noise, wondering what could 31 could possibly be doing awake at this hour, and why it sounded like a rhinoceros was throwing a temper tantrum in the hallway.

She edges her way to the door, peers through the hole to inspect the contents of the hallway, but nothing seems out of place.

That is, save the choked, heart-wrenching sob that vibrates through the thin wall.

Her fingers close around the doorknob and she pulls, revealing an empty corridor, darkened and silent.

She looks right, and all is quiet.

She looks left, squints a little, and there’s a standing figure slumped against the wall, fingers gripping the chipped doorframe, head braced against the plaster.

“‘M sorry,” are the first words that tumble in a rush out of Jeongguk’s mouth, slurred and heavy.

She moves to close the door over, slowly so that she doesn’t accidentally slam his fingers in the gap, but he shifts to extend one leg, effectively trapping the door open. “Please-”

“Jeongguk-”

“Please,” he looks up at her for the first time, the utter brokenness in his eyes trapping her heart in her throat. His cheeks are stained with tracks of moisture, tears rolling from his waterline as he slumps. “Please.”

The microcosmoi in his pupils swirl, miniature galaxies that are flecked with dappled brown and raven black, eddy with agony and the deepest ache. They speak to her own, the conflict of her heart haunting her inner landscape, and she sighs, hating herself, hating this all-too familiar scene. “No matter where you start, you always end up back here.”

“No matter where I start, you always end up fucking with me somehow,” he exhales, alcohol-tinged breath fanning her face. She barely recoils.

“I thought you said last time was the last time.”

“‘M not as drunk as last time.”

“That doesn’t change a thing and you know it, Jeon Jeongguk.”

“Take me in again, maybe I’ll r’member it this time.” He shudders, hand relaxing on the frame, knees buckling.

She catches him as he lurches forward, arms linking around his waist to support him, stepping backwards into her apartment and stumbling to the couch, where she deposits him into the cushions with a huff. “You know, you’re lucky I didn’t leave you outside. I didn’t want the neighbors calling the cops on you.”

“And if they did?” An audible thump emanates as his head hits the back of the couch, lolling aimlessly. “You’d bail me out an’ways.”

“You don’t know that,” she hisses, dragging the garbage pail to the couch from its ready position by the refrigerator.

“May be drunk but ’m not stupid,” he breathes, running a hand through the tangled strands of hair that frame his damp face, spill over his brow. “Love makes people do things they wouldn’ admit to in front of God himself.”

“And when did you get so religious?”

“There’s something spiritual about this,” he gestures to the empty room, legs splayed. “The high an’ then the fall. It’s too good to be true an’ then you’ve got a taste and it’s all you want, over and over, ‘til it all comes crashin’ down and then cold reality fuckin’ hits an’ it stings like a motherfuckin’ bitch.”

She stares down at him. “You do it to yourself when you try to drown out the pain. We either learn how to cope or bury it deep down until it rears its head again and then you’re back where you started. Maybe it’s time you tried coping instead of pretending that your hurt doesn’t exist.”

“An’ why do I d’serve that after all the hurt ‘ve dealt you?” His jawline catches the faint light of the corner lamp, casting his profile in shadow.

“Because you’re a human being, Guk? You’re human like the rest of us, the same flesh and blood.” She kneels at his feet, hand cautiously brushing his knee, then settling. He intakes harshly, shuddering.

“‘M so fucked up an’ you know that an’ you stay. An’ that’s why you won’ date me, ‘cause of this. Disgustin’, fuckin’ asshole me-”

“Jeongguk, you know that’s-”

“‘M so fucked up an’ you know that an’ you stay ‘cause you love me, but you won’ confess to God,” his chest heaves and she stands over him, grabs the pail. “You won’ ‘fess to the one who really matters.”

“Who really matters then? God or you?” She shakes her head. “If you think other people need to see us together for the way I feel about you to be validated, you’re completely wrong.”

“Then why do you hide me?” He stifles a sob with the back of his hand, fresh tears threatening to spill.

Her careful ministrations on his knee pause. “Because I like having you to myself,” she confesses quietly.

“We’ve n’ver been a thing,” his gaze fixes steadily on her face. “N’ver been a real thing.”

“We’ve always been exclusive, though.” She gently squeezes his thigh. “I know you, Jeongguk. And I know that deep down, you commit even if you won’t open your mouth and tell me. I was your first just as you were mine.”

He goes to say something but pauses, eyes wide, face white. Without pause, she lifts the pail and he grabs at the base, burying his face in the mouth and retching. Her fingers brush his hair back from his face, the dampness of his skin clinging to hers, and his whole body shudders in dry heaves. He spits one final time and wipes his mouth with his sleeve. “‘Ve been yours from the start.”

“I know, Guk.”

“An’ you never though’ to ask?”

Her eyes flicker to the tear in one cushion, the white stuffing a stark contrast to the dark couch. “I did.”

“An’?”

“You can’t just casually ask your best friend if they’ve been in love with you for your entire lives.”

“We n’ver kept much from each other an’ways.”

Her fingers pause in his hair. “If that’s the case, then answer me something.”

His grip around the bucket tightens.

She inhales once, twice. “Jeongguk, are you running from us?”

His jaw flexes, stiffens.

Her voice lowers. “If we never kept much from each other, why are you running away from this, right now?”

“Shu’ up,” he hisses.

She withdraws her hand; his bangs tumble in his eyes and he tosses his head. “You’re afraid of us, Guk,” she challenged. “You’re afraid of something that’s too good to be true, so you bury the way you feel because it’s easier than admitting you’re afraid of losing your best friend when shit goes south. You’re afraid of throwing everything we have away because one of us will inevitably fuck up, but you don’t have the security of knowing if we’ll make it through. So rather than give your heart away as one whole, you divide it up, partition it off, let me see bits and pieces while keeping the rest under lock and key. But Jeongguk, I’ve seen you. I’ve seen your heart bleed and sing and grieve and I’ve seen it love, too. I know you better than anyone else does. You don’t have to run from me.”

A moment of silence, weighted and thick, hangs low like fog.

When a horrible sob tears its way from his throat, she’s right there to hold him, let him wrap an arm around her waist and bury his face in her pajama shirt. Once again her hands find his hair, working out the knots in a manner she hopes is soothing. “You don’t have to be afraid of us, Jeongguk. You don’t need my validation to know that what we have is real.”

Words spill from the crumpled figure, alcohol seeping from the mouth of the bottle. “I love you,” he blubbers. “Love you so much.”

“I love you,” she assures. “I love you, and I’m not going anywhere.”

“Please don’,” he gasps. His hands cup her face with a tenderness only found in late nights, when the world is quiet and they have only the moon for company.

“I won’t.” She places her own over his before continuing, “You thought I turned you down because your habits are the ‘make-or-break’ for me. But Jeongguk, you were wrong. You weren’t ready then, and neither was I.”

He looks up at her, brows furrowing in confusion. “But my sorry drunk as’ is ready now?”

“You’re not afraid anymore.” Her arms link around his neck and she coughs once. “Neither of us is afraid anymore.”

When he says her name, she looks down, gaze meeting his. The warmth of her clasped hands heats the back of his neck; the strands of his hair brush her knuckles, and she toys with the clasp of the chain he wears. “‘M sorry.”

“It’s okay, Guk.”

“‘S really not. ‘M sorry for ignorin’ you an’ yellin’ at you back at the playground an’ jus’ generally being an’ asshole. Includin’ showin’ up at yer ‘partment an’ makin’ a scene.”

“It’s okay.” A tinge of a smile pulls at the corner of her mouth. “Thank you for the apology.”

He shrugs one shoulder. “You deserve that an’ so much more.”

She sees in his face the want to kiss her, and when he moves to reach her, she pulls away. “Please kiss me when you don’t reek of puke and Hennessy.”

He nods once. “Okay.”

She sighs, hands sliding to his shoulders, feeling the muscle flex under her fingertips as he trails his hands down her hips. “So it looks like we’re back to where we started.”

“Yeah,” he huffs, setting the pail down. “Goin’ in circles is our specialty, I guess.”

“Wanna try moving in a straight line for once?”

“Ar’ you sayin’ that ‘cause it’s like, four-thirty in the mornin’ and you wanna go back to bed?”

“Well, not completely.” She nudges the bucket away with one foot, the smell beginning to permeate the room. “I guess it’s my turn to ask again. What are we?”

A corner of his mouth tugs with a hint of familiarity. “Wha’d’you wan’ us to be?” “Together,” she says hesitantly, then more firmly. “Together, this time.”

“Together. I like that word.” His ministrations on her thighs, soft nondescript patterns traced by adoring fingers, spark heat under her skin.

“But Jeongguk-” she cuts herself off, then begins again. “Jeongguk, there’s gonna need to be some boundaries set.”

“Wha’d’you mean?” He hums.

“Well for starters, we’re going to need to communicate. Like, actually talk about the way we feel instead of just fucking it out, you know?”

“Done,” he says with way more confidence then she feels. She attributes it to the fact that he’s still utterly wasted.

“It’s not just that, Guk. You can’t run away from this boyfriend thing, and you can’t get completely shitfaced if we have a fight, because then I’ll be the one holding you as you cough your lungs up and then you’ll feel guilty and the whole thing will just repeat itself.”

Jeongguk waves his hand. “‘Ll figure it all out in the morning.”

And with a squeak, she’s hauled onto Jeongguk’s lap, his arms tightening around her as he gazes up at her and for the first time in a very, very long time, feels wholly and completely okay. “Can I kiss you if I brush my teeth firs’?”

“No, gross ass. And this isn’t really a figure it out later kind of thing-”

“Baby,” He hopes he sounds reassuring. “‘Ve gotten this far, right? An’ we’ll get farther, and we’ll figure it out, an’ whatever happens happens, you know?”

“I can’t tell if this is sober you trying to be wise or drunk you trying to be prophetic. Either way, it’s not working.”

“‘Ll figure it out.” He tries to imbue as much warmth and understanding into his voice as humanly possible. To Jeongguk’s ears, he sounds like an angel. To hers, he slurs every other syllable.

“Jeongguk…” she wavers.

“Promise.” He crosses his heart and hooks his pinky finger in the air, waiting for hers just like, she remembers, they used to do in the treehouse in his backyard whenever they made a pact that was supposed to last the rest of their lives.

She swallows her worry back and blinks, exhaustion tugging its subtle pull on her eyelids. “We will talk about this in the morning.”

“Talk, talk, talk. The firs’ thing ‘m doing in the morning is kissing you real soft an’ slow, because ‘ve got you to myself now, and ‘m gonna revel in it as much ‘s I can.” Jeongguk flexes his pinky. “C’mon. Promise.”

Her digit wraps around his as she murmurs, “Promise.”

His teeth glint as he smiles, a real, slightly loopy Jeongguk smile. “You’re precious.”

She taps the bridge of his nose. “You’re so drunk.”

“I know,” his eyes are glassy and he almost warbles. “I may be drunk righ’ now, but you’re beautiful even when ’m sober.”

She wrinkles her nose in faux disappointment. “That is no way to treat your brand-new girlfriend, Mister Jeon.”

“Girlfriend?” He relaxes into the couch, limbs limp, then sits up and moves to stand. “Jus’ fuckin’ marry me already, baby. Les’ get married-”

She pushes on his chest with ease and he falls without concern. “Ab-so-lutely not, good sir.”

His hands dance down her body to quickly grope her ass. “Why not?” Jeongguk squeaks as her nimble fingers slide down his chest, playfully pinching his nipple. “Fuckin’ love it when you call me sir.”

“I thought you preferred daddy. Besides, you gotta get past boyfriend status first, mister I’m-only-married-to-my-Twitch-Prime-subscription.”

“Tha’ was like, fifteen years ago.”

“Days,” she corrects.

“Whatever. Fuck, you’re an angel,” he groans.

“Not quite. I don’t think angel will be the name that comes to mind in the morning when you’re hungover as fuck. Again.”

“Last time this happens. Promise this time.” He kneads her thigh, causing warmth to blossom in her chest.

She leans forward to plant a kiss on his forehead. “We’ll see.”

Jeongguk suddenly wrinkles his nose. “Baby, wha’s that?”

“What do you m- Guk, did you knock over the garbage pail?”

“Oh fuck, uh-”

She clambors off of his lap, side-stepping the offending mess. “I’m about to clean an entire gut’s worth of cognac-infused vomit off of my living room floor. You’re really, really lucky that we’re back on unofficially-but-now-officially-dating terms, because let me tell you- wait, did you get it on the rug, too?”

“Y’know, is’ not too late to change those terms.”

“Shut up and go get me the spray bottle under the sink.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Are you always this obedient? You’re holding out on me in the bedroom.”

Jeongguk winks at her from across the apartment, sliding a casual arm behind his head. “Only for you, baby. Only for you.”

#bts #jungkook #bts smut #bts angst #bts fluff #kpop smut #kpop angst #kpop scenario #jungkook angst #jungkook smut #jungkook fluff #jungkook x oc #outroshooky

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sirjustice300-blog · 4 years

Text

My next tumblr

My next tumblr a/c will be a continuation of sirjustice1-300 as i open new a/c from sirjustice301-400 to direct u later if i reach 400 to open again from 401-500 and it goes on and on add-inifitum as described below

With the below machines as in the link provided makes u locate places that grows much soya beans or corn as u locate oil with less side effects and which can be used as baby oil b4 u change another altogether

https://www.google.com/search?source=univ&tbm=isch&q=corn+oil+mini-etracting+machine+china+made+images&client=opera&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwiaxp6myLjqAhXIxIUKHaKACRoQsAR6BAgJEAE&biw=984&bih=658

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_countries_by_soybean_production

https://www.statista.com/statistics/192076/top-10-soybean-producing-us-states/

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Corn_production_in_the_United_States

https://www.healthline.com/nutrition/are-vegetable-and-seed-oils-bad#oxidation

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_vegetable_oils

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_countries_by_coconut_production

https://www.statista.com/statistics/263930/worldwide-production-of-rapeseed-by-country/

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Canola_oil

https://www.tridge.com/intelligences/canola-oil/import

https://www.statista.com/statistics/259466/leading-countries-based-on-cottonseed-production/

https://expatexplore.com/blog/olive-oil-production-top-countries/

https://www.abmp.com/textonlymags/article.php?article=977

http://littlegreendot.com/six-supermarket-vegetable-oils-skin-will-love/

https://time.com/5342337/best-worst-cooking-oils-for-your-health/

https://www.facebook.com/oliveplantationinpakistan/posts/top-25-olive-oil-producing-countrieswith-italy-the-largest-importerexporter-and-/1504293696481540/

http://www.genewatch.org/sub-532326

https://www.worldatlas.com/articles/the-top-walnut-producing-countries-in-the-world.html

https://www.tridge.com/intelligences/flax-seed/production

http://textilefashionstudy.com/top-flax-growing-countries-of-the-world-linen-fiber-production/

Google the above per each continent and even USA state and find 1 with less side effect which many middle class household will opt 4 in such middle income nations. Get to see the side effects and as well find the machines used to extract its oil is how much at china alibaba.com and be a man of words/action not Obongo lala listening to obwongo music and drinking mala to lala/sleep as Lazarus did at the Gate. Every household cooks, so get the essence of cooking oil dude

From the above Canada rich dude with oil, USA can sell their to other many small nations that don’t produce the same of less side effect with the newly designed E-cargo airplane as in the link below

https://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.ainonline.com%2Fsites%2Fainonline.com%2Ffiles%2Fstyles%2Fain30_fullwidth_large_2x%2Fpublic%2Fuploads%2F2020%2F06%2Fairflow_hero_image_for_pr.jpg%3Fitok%3DqjL4dirb%26timestamp%3D1591788789&imgrefurl=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.ainonline.com%2Faviation-news%2Fbusiness-aviation%2F2020-06-10%2Fairflow-launches-estol-electric-cargo-aircraft&tbnid=rfFS6nH7Jjyp3M&vet=12ahUKEwiY9oSNz7jqAhUE_RoKHfX5B3IQMygBegUIARClAQ..i&docid=IhpMVXvLwB7UmM&w=2200&h=1080&q=countries%20making%20electric%20cargo%20airplane&client=opera&ved=2ahUKEwiY9oSNz7jqAhUE_RoKHfX5B3IQMygBegUIARClAQ

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cargo_aircraft#/media/File:An-124_ready.jpg

https://edition.cnn.com/travel/article/electric-aircraft/index.html

Britain top export in the link below, is USA and the same USA u say its poor yet at the same time saying trying saving Britain, which if u look closely when USA has defeated ya will go 4 the 1 they claim they are supporting to ambush to take their lands which harbors rye 4 making durable airplane parts which grows not in their dry nation, the kikuyu blooded and that’s the main worry dude. Signs of snow to bring reality u have refuted that long ago here was not that and this nation as God can do the same, kinda, u see snow collected on road side to believe and make u less rich in food cause can only firm in non-snowy times and maybe whats the white man desires at the back of your minds

http://www.worldstopexports.com/united-kingdoms-top-exports/

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_the_largest_trading_partners_of_United_Kingdom

Now Mr Hindu want what 1 found on YouTube that if he clicked referred him to a pintrest a/c as open link in a new window, now terorazing 1 with locals to as want to stub on on the eye out of the above and they are not relenting while kebi says he has never opened a pintrest a/c this the 1st 1, yet, kinda, they refute to do the above. Still superior liasing with Luyas now wanting ya food as the above explain vice is of 2 fold as explained above. If u see things on ya eye u ought to have questioned me b4 of opening the tumblr a/c of alternator rotated by a dc motor to produce power with cooking sufuria timer to be turned by the motor to start the sequence again as the timer technology is added much strength to rotate the alternator b4 seeping up the power 4 usage in business and households as in the link below

https://www.google.com/search?sxsrf=ALeKk00EnJSKKfqlt_ORBwh7Mebh7CA4mQ:1594039434252&source=univ&tbm=isch&q=car+alternator+rotated+by+ac+motor+to+producer+power+images+site:youtube.com&client=opera&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwjf1PHR07jqAhV65-AKHYYSALwQsAR6BAgFEAE&biw=984&bih=658

https://www.pinterest.com/search/pins/?q=car%20alternator&rs=typed

https://www.pinterest.com/pin/611222980664981934/

https://www.pinterest.com/search/pins/?q=manual%20timer&rs=typed

With the bolt thing u ought to know whom u can marry or just have sex with and leave as the same destroys the world if u got kids. Mr Hindu women am talking to ya take heed dude, don’t just get into the habit of wanting others use the method above, don’t make us sick and tire and if u r superior why did u not know the above. Go to hell straight dude, period.

https://www.alibaba.com/premium/12v_dc_motor.html?src=sem_ggl&cmpgn=126060740&adgrp=4641625940&fditm=798840465&tgt=dsa-68290902815&locintrst=2156&locphyscl=9070332&mtchtyp=b&ntwrk=g&device=c&dvcmdl=&creative=160700076226&plcmnt=&plcmntcat=&p1=&p2=&aceid=&position=&gclid=EAIaIQobChMIhYGVoMi46gIVyIXVCh1-YAdTEAAYASABEgJLjvD_BwE

https://www.alibaba.com/product-detail/60-Minute-Countdown-Kitchen-Cooking-Mechanical_1600064000705.html?spm=a2700.7735675.normalList.1.64a819bcTEuYaI&s=p&fullFirstScreen=true

When 1 is approaching u squatted, kinda, u see the ground tilting as landslide, that dude got Kkuyu blood or not hearken but rude and still wants from ya, can use that formula to separate them from people or if they don’t relent, kill them altogether or set an island to take them or another planet. Will not ever disturb us dude, the beauty dude!!!! All of them Aot-a, carries blood to other parts of the body from the heart, oxygenated 1 which is bright red. Brazil with already the dredger as in the link below and cargo plane that can be set as the plot dude. King of the jew, kill them all to ascertain truth bro of yesus sayings

https://www.google.com/search?sxsrf=ALeKk026sqj8q1pUe165V7JG_hi2CwG0Qw:1594040104588&source=univ&tbm=isch&q=portable+dredger+made+in+usa+images&client=opera&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwiB9MOR1rjqAhWR3YUKHcGhCuYQsAR6BAgKEAE&biw=984&bih=658#imgrc=VIgdaUgj5RTl1M&imgdii=ovaQqGgRqnfxOM

Hair shampoo are made of grinned cat/mad fish mixed with cold water or ice fakes them many spit saliva from loft high directly unto the above and boom such are formed dude which can be used as bath deep cream as a substitute, mostly used in kinyozi and saloons

Click the link below to locate much of this tumblr following to read from them as well

https://www.tumblr.com/followed/by/sirjustice50

Check as well this tumblr followers by clicking the link below

https://www.tumblr.com/following/25

The Names of my tumblr followers or following below

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myproblemos

nelsonbotomsiepa

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companyprincipals

companymission

asninelson

kingparksmonde

vincentmalachimodi

hurlmonde

mcsleepymonde

chalmerslynnmonde

tolbatmonde

liliansmith

underwoodnelson

mondesky

skyhighmonde

mondemchurt

mondescott

furtsonmonde

myrobimson

bradleynelson

companymoto

myminaj

monitorlizards

adholadicktator

ourmischief

signupbrother

euniceriverside

kebiyouth

wekasasa

platosmonde

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mrshownemonde

farmermillsfunston

magdalindiewre

snitchbase

mondetheko

monglosesmoses

wensenseblouse

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osienelsonmonde

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mondefederor

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noregreatsme

getrudebro

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kisiindians

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1 note · View note

invokingbees · 5 years

Text

An Elder Scrolls Question

or, The Time I Nearly Zero-Summed Thinking About Wizards

Elder Scrolls was the series that got me into funky fantasy worldbuilding and lore, because just under the high fantasy surface, under the elves and castles and dragons and magic, the series is a nightmare stew of Gnostic Medieval Science Fantasy, replete with time traveling robots, lucid dreaming super powers and cat-men who climb to the moon using magic cocaine. And that’s why I like it so much, it gives me the best of both worlds: comfy high fantasy dungeon crawling and PhD level arcane metaphysics. I think that’s why many others like it, too, there’s Morrowind weirdness, Oblivion charm and Skyrim memes. Something for everyone.

Now I have actually a purpose to this post, and that purpose is, despite the various levels of eldritch funk, one big question seems completely left unanswered, a question the game never seems to get around to answering: how does the magic work?

Read on if you dare

Now that the weak and unwizardly have been warded off, let me elaborate. Magic in TES isn’t actually left completely unanswered. In TES, the universe is set up (more or less) in three big layers: Aetherius is the realm of magic and various special afterlives, Oblivion is the home of the inscrutable Daedra, and Mundus is the Mortal Realm where the plane(t) Nirn sits, upon which is Tamriel, the continent where all this stupid shit happens. Back in the day, the ancient spirit, or et’Ada, who designed Mundus at the behest of the demiurge-esque cheeky lad Lorkhan, became disgusted by it and left so hard he ripped a hole through Mundus, through Oblivion and into Aetherius, which is the sun. His followers went after him and their exit holes are the stars. It’s through these tears in the veil that magic energy, or magicka, seeps onto Nirn, into the beings living on it, making it positively juicy with raw fucking power. And thus, we get magic.

Only it’s not that simple. We have two parts of the equation, we have the energy source, this raw stuff of creation, magicka, and we have the wizards who sling fireballs and conjured daedra and reanimate the dead, but I ask you,

how

Fellow TES fan and mutual @colonel-killa-bee once gave me a reason, I think, and it was simply that magic is cast with willpower. You train your body and mind to do extraordinary things with extraordinary materials. And that makes sense, but not for everything, not to me. I’m gonna use the Skyrim schools of magic here because it’s been way too long since I’ve played either Morrowind and Oblivion to remember and I’m not doing research for a Tumblr post.

So to an extent, it makes sense. You use the sheer power of your will to take raw creative force and make it a stream of fire, or you take it and make an impenetrable ethereal skin, or you use it to change your make up and become temporarily transparent. You can channel it into an exaggerated healing factor or a wall of diffusing force to absorb incoming spells. But these are all essentially physical constructs using a material. So the aim of this post is to not just ask questions, no no, it’s about making WILD assumptions armed only with my immensely rusty lore knowledge.

So, the school of Conjuration, is where the willpower thing starts to fall apart for me. The idea of this school, this avenue of practice, is to conjure and commune with spirits, namely the denizens of Oblivion, various daedra of lesser and major power. In Conjuration, you can’t keep such summoned forces over here too long, they usually just vanish back to their home plane(t). But why? Perhaps it is the willpower of the magician keeping them here which is run thin, or perhaps the caster expends a certain amount of energy creating a form for them manifest in which actually just runs out of juice, or the caster cannot keep a portal to Oblivion open for too long either by lack of concentration or some force in the world says no. But that kind of falls apart when you take into account spells that allow one to permanently conjure a daedroth until it is killed. How that works, I just can’t say. Necromancy makes more sense, simply infusing a corpse with energy to make it animate, creating mental connection between it and the caster, so it can follow commands. But soul trapping and soul gems? How is magicka utilized to trap the soul of an enemy? Is some invisible hook thrown out, connected to a soul gem? The gem itself I’m sure is the artifact of beings called the Ideal Masters, ascended necromancer weirdos or some shit, but the act of soul trapping and the transference into a soul gem is just not clear at all.

Scrolls are really weird, aren’t they? They require literally no experience or talent except for aiming, they’re ready made spells for anyone to use, they’re literally just utility in Morrowind in the case of recall and divine intervention. But how does that even work? Who makes these scrolls? My guess is they are themselves infused with enough magicka for the spell to be cast. But how does one cast them? Does just unfurling it work, or are there words to be spoken or gestures made? How can a scroll be created that is so easy to use that even a child could cast firestorm? These things are guns with no safety or magazine to unload. Don’t need actual guns when I can go to a fucking Whiterun general store and buy a scroll of invisibility so I can break into people’s houses and steal shit. SCROLL REGULATION WHEN

Now here’s the real stickler: rituals. Why and how do they work? By what process is the information of a ritual, the purpose of its performance, relayed to the daedra or whatever it’s intended for? This is the one that really throws a cog in the Willpower Machine to me. Ritual magic is highly specific and requires extreme preparation, ritual magic steeped in symbolic mysticism. So why does it work in TES? How does drawing a circle inscribed with strange runes and glyphs, speaking invocations and lighting candles allow one to commune with daedra? How does it bring back the dead? Is ritual and symbolism all merely completely artificial mental devices or focuses? Or do words and glyphs themselves hold power? Are they necessary to transmit contact to a daedroth? Why can’t a wizard of sufficient power simply yell at the night sky that they want to talk with Hermaeus Mora? Perhaps they are devices created and passed down by the daedra themselves, overly complicated ‘phone numbers’ they can take notice of.

This isn’t taking into account shit like Thu’um of Sword-Singing, being able to focus your ‘vital essence’, whatever THAT’S supposed to be, into a command for something to happen, or making a sword out of your own soul and nuking mountains with it. That stuff doesn’t even require magicka, though it’s possible they work through the same ‘willpower’ avenues but how they attain such bullshit level of power is beyond me. I guess the mortal mind is truly the most powerful tool in creation. I suppose this is summed up in CHIM, attainment of enlightenment, actual awareness that you’re a dream, a piece of a mind, pure willpower made manifest, and able to change it all...at will.

I may have just answered myself but I wrote all this and am posting it, I’d very much like to hear if I’m flat out wrong.

#much wizardry below the cut

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youcantmakeme · 5 years

Note

6, 16, 22, 29, 30 for the identity asks 😘

6 - Are you religious/spiritual?

I was raised catholic and studied for 10 years in a catholic school, even tho neither of my parents are actually religious. At 13 years old I got mad with the church because a lot of what they said didn’t make sense to me and I started to rebel in school (meaning, I started coloring my hair – which the nuns didnt like – and became friends with more boys lol. not to mention that I would always question everything they said WE HAD to do because the bible said so). So I started studying and learning about other religions on my own.

What I took of that is that all religions, in their essence, say the same things.

To sum up, no, I’m not religious. But I am spiritual as I believe in forces bigger than us and some other things.

16 - If you’d grown up in a different environment, do you think you’d have turned out the same?

Probably not exactly the way I am now, as many things I believe are the result of how and where I was raised. Culture influences a lot. But I think in my core, I would be the same person. Does that make sense?

22 - List the top five things you spend the most time doing, in order.

Oh geez… ok, keep in mind that I am not working at the moment lol

Social Media (mostly Tumblr and Twitter)

Gifs

TV (lots and lots of shows)

Gym

Seep

29 - Three songs that you connect with right now.

Lost Stars - Maroon 5Unsteady - X AmbassadorsThis Too Shall Pass - Maria Mena

30 - Pick one of your favorite quotes.

It’s a tie and I can’t pick just one.

“It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye” - From The Little Prince (and I have to say that this quote sounds more poetic in portuguese lol)

The other is from a poem written by brazilian writer Cecilia Meireles I really like. It roughly translates like this:

“I have phases, like the moon.Stages of hidden walking,phases of coming to the street …Damn my life!Bane of my life!I have phases of being yours,I have others to be alone.”

Identity asks

#wow i wrote a lot #sorry #identity asks #ask game #personal #about me #thanks for playing El #:)

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nochiis · 6 years

Text

True Colors

⇒ Pairing: Namjoon x Reader

⇒ Genre: Fluff

⇒ Summary: In a world full of bleak, colorless hues that continuously drip down onto the people and seep into their minds, there is one man in particular, who doesn’t feel anything but the love, light and multicolored feelings that can only be brought upon him by you.

⇒ A/N: Uh I’ve never done this before.....posting on tumblr not writing. Inspired by JBJ’s album ‘True Colors’

Masterlist

(Credits to the gif owner, where ever you are)

The sun’s beams pour down onto the unforgiving city, hitting the cold, grey people hurrying to get home. In the midst of it all though, stands a young man. This man is unlike others, at least, that’s what the ‘others’ believe. He walks aimlessly, not a worry on his mind, completely carefree and with only one thought--her. To him, she is the aftermath of spring, when the flowers are fully blossomed and the air is warm and full of sweet pollen. To him, she is everything he could ask for, have and want. To him, she is all he needs.

But even this young man has to take a step down from the clouds and face reality--that he is a stuttering, blushing mess when she is only standing next to him. Every encounter always starts with confidence but ends with him looking anywhere but at her. Every time, it always ends with the regret that he couldn’t even form one coherent sentence.

If only you knew.

His small pep talk, marked in regret, ended with those same four words. But they also happened to be his driving force for the next day. It was always the same old script, repeating every day like a radio on playback. He didn’t want to admit it to himself, but he relied on it. Everyday, he would wake up, positive that today would be the day. Today would be the day that he would ask her out. Of course, you already know how it ends. A rueful feeling would settle at the bottom of his stomach every night, when he opened up his apartment door.

But tomorrow would be different. Tomorrow, if he couldn’t ask her out, then he would never do it again. He knew that he couldn’t--ever since he arrived, all the young man could think about was what he would possibly do when the small interaction he had with you everyday after 4 would come to an end.

Now, from a stranger’s point of view, confessing one’s love for another may seem like the easiest thing in the world. But no matter how hard he tried, the man could not get rid of the growing nervousness that erupted within him as the nighttime hours passed. It even followed him in his dreams--what was supposed to be peaceful, ended up in him waking him multiple times throughout the night with one horrid feeling inside--the feeling of being rejected.

So when daybreak finally hit, the man could do nothing but his daily morning routine and then he was off. Off to you, specifically.

°•°∞°•°♪°•°∞°•°♪°•°∞°•°♪°•°∞°•°♪

The day went by painstakingly slow. Agonizingly slow. It was almost as if the universe didn’t want it to happen, like it was putting it off for some reason. But this wasn’t true. It was just the young man’s constant worrying that made it seem that way. That you were already off, with him.

But finally, the day came to a close and there you are, standing in front of the small, deserted bus station. When you turn, he can’t help but admire the big smile that comes over your face as you notice his presence. Your smile is truly a sight to behold. There is something that is just so polychromatic about it, so brilliant, so vivid. There are so many words he could use to describe that beautiful beaming smile that graced your face. One word isn’t enough to describe it, to describe you. The man had learned that the day he met you--that no word is enough to capture just how breathtaking you are. In all aspects, whether it’d be looks, personality or small, irrelevant actions, they all can’t be confined to just one word.

With a big, dimpled smile back, the man walks up to her. “Hey, Namjoon! Long time, no see,” she giggles, he can feel the monochromatic essence beaten into him after a long day of work slowly fade and be replaced with coloration. His smile gets a little wider.

“But we just saw each other yesterday,” he responds, pleased with how his voice doesn’t stutter. She laughs out loud again, more shades start to define his feelings.

“Hey, 24 hours is a long time,” He rolls his eyes playfully.

“Yeah, long,” More laughter fills his ears.

“So, did you see that new kid in class? He’s pretty cool, I think his name was...Jeon Jungkook? I swear every girl in class reverted back into a teenager the minute they saw him.”

“And you didn’t?”

“Nah, I like someone else,” She replies nonchalantly, “Though it was amusing to watch them gush over him, it brought a little color to my day.” She voices with yet another dazzling smile. The man, however, feels conflicted. She likes someone. A part of his head tells him to go for it, that maybe it’s him that is the object of her affections. But the other part tells him to stop and think. What if it isn’t him? What will he do with himself if he finds out that the one person he’s been dreaming about for so long, doesn’t reciprocate his feelings? But he knows he has to make a decision quickly, otherwise he will never be able to forgive himself.

“That’s good. So….who is it?”

She looks up at him with a bewildered expression on her face, “Who is what?”

“The lucky guy, or girl, who gets to be your crush?” At this, her face reddens, he chuckles at her flustered state.

“Um...that is a secret for me to know and for you not to know.”

“Isn’t it ‘and for you to find out’?” She blushes even more but quickly tries to hide it with another big smile.

“Nope! But since we’re on the topic of crushes…who’s yours?” Namjoon almost doesn’t speak but he remembers the promise he made with himself and the decision.

“Um...my crush? Well, if I tell you, you have to promise to keep it a secret, okay?”

She smiles even wider than before, eyes widening in anticipation, “You got it,” and then he leans in. Namjoon misses the way she blushes at the close proximity--but only because he is too busy screaming on the inside for the exact same reason. He doesn’t know where this sudden courage comes from, but he uses it. His lips are right next to her ear as he whispers his soul away, into the ears of an unsuspecting grim reaper.

“My crush is...you.” The whole world stops. The bus that always comes late is conveniently later than usual and all that can be heard is the occasional passing of a car or ignorant person. Namjoon pulls away, anxiously waiting for her response. She looks up at him wide-eyed, and he almost regrets his decision. Almost. Then her eyes crease up into another smile.

“Was I too obvious?” is the first thing that escapes her mouth.

Namjoon’s eyebrows furrow together, “What?”

“You just confessed to me and...when I said I had a crush on someone, did that give it away?” she says, still smiling.

“Uhh...yeah, let’s just assume that.” She laughs a lot louder this time, causing a few heads to turn in surprise. Once she quiets down again, her gaze turns back to him.

“So...are you gonna ask me out, or do you want me to do it?” It’s his turn to laugh this time.

“Ah, I didn’t know...I’m sorry.”

“Oh no, it’s all fine, I mean we can just skip the whole ‘going out on dates’ and start dating right now. Of course, if that’s what you want, I mean, if you want to go on a date, I don’t mind, I just know that some people like to be fast about these sort of things, and you know dates happen usually to get to know someone and since we already know a lot about each other, I just thought, maybe-” she sighs, “I’m sorry, I’m rambling again.” Cute. Namjoon looks down at her and lifts her head to meet his eyes.

“We don’t have to go on a date to get to know each other, we can just have fun!” Her grin replaces the now setting sun, as it’s rays disappear behind the tall, bleak buildings.

“Okay! Where to?”

“Anywhere you want,” Her gaze shifts to that of concentration as she thinks of somewhere to go. Namjoon’s hand slips from her face down to hold her hand. It’s silk soft, just as he expected it to be. Her eyes quickly flit down to their interlocked hands before looking back up to him. He doesn’t miss the evident blush on her face. She too, doesn’t miss the way his cheeks are tinted a light pink as well.

“How about coffee?”

“Sure!” The two of them walked and walked and walked and leave a path of color and euphoria behind them for others to follow. And just like that, a new color is born. One that cannot be erased no matter how many times one tries. This color spreads, and will latch onto every living and nonliving thing it could, pushing it’s all into it before moving onto the next. It would unfurl all it can--every feeling, emotion and color--into the lives of all beings that walk the earth and will not stop until the world is filled with joy, contentment, pleasure, satisfaction, cheerfulness, merriment, glee, and delight.

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khorazir · 7 years

Text

A cartographic plot

The first part of this was written for Spark. I went a bit over the wordcount while talking about the importance of places in my fanfics, and decided to post the entire thing here on tumblr. The bit published in Spark is above, the rest below the cut.

I started writing BBC Sherlock fanfiction in the back of my parents’ car after a week spent cycling in the French Alps. For years, my father had talked about tackling the Col du Galibier, a pass of Tour de France fame, by bicycle. In the summer of 2012, we finally did it. Ah, but Sherlock and cycling? Where’s the connection? When I began writing the story, scribbling on whatever scrap of paper was available in the car, at first the only connection was that I loved both Sherlock and cycling, and that my recent experiences in the mountains, spending hours in the saddle arduously ascending winding roads, had made a deep impression on me. I was desperate for an outlet for my pent up inspiration.

Eventually, what started out as a cracky premise for a Post-Reichenbach Sherlock story became Over Hill and Under Hill, a fanfic of 75k words and the first finished instalment of my Over/Under series. In the story, the extreme, beautiful landscape of Savoyen serves as a backdrop for the Baker Street boys to deal with the fallout of the Fall (written before Series 3 aired, my version of Sherlock’s reunion with John is different from canon) and their feelings for each other while basically doing what I had just done: climbing Alpine passes on their bicycles. At some point, a case creeps into the story, too, which Sherlock solves from abroad.

Apart from telling my version of the reunion, I wanted to write a story about grandiose nature, the hardship of ascending two thousand metres of altitude on a bicycle, the elation of standing on top of the pass glancing over the mountains, and the rush of adrenaline during the steep descents. I yearned to include some of the strange people we’d met on the way and who return as minor characters in the story, such as the chap cycling all the way in tight black swimming trunks and nothing else. How fortunate for the storyteller that the long ascents give John and Sherlock time to think and to talk, while the descents make their adrenaline junkies’ hearts soar. They have to share a room and a double bed at the hotel, of course, which leads to ... things. The plot itself is structured by the landscape, almost following the roads they cycle on bend for bend and landmark for landmark. Weather conditions such as hot, relentless sun and a sudden thunderstorm add a touch of drama. Stops along the way provide incentives for reflections, conversations and realisations, and for the boys getting to know each other again after their separation.

I was surprised by how well it worked to transfer these very urban characters so closely associated with London into this new setting and unfamiliar activity, keeping their essence (hopefully) while letting the landscape and its particular blend of beauty and danger work its magic, moulding the two men into the couple they hadn’t realised they’d been all along.

Looking back, the way Over Hill and Under Hill came about shouldn’t have surprised me. Of the books and stories I grew up with, and which have left a lasting impression on me, most have a very specific setting and precise sense of place. Be it the stories by Astrid Lindgren, mostly set in the Swedish region of Småland during the time of her childhood in the early 20th century, or Vasapark and the small islands around Stockholm of her adult life, or Otfried Preußler’s masterful descriptions of the Lausitz region in Eastern Germany where his captivating novel Krabat is set. Or be it JRR Tolkien, the master of making the fictional yet reality-grounded landscape of Middle-earth absolutely integral to the plot and structure of his writings. Even if many believe Middle-earth to be found in New Zealand, based on Peter Jackson’s film adaptations, the true inspiration for the Shire are Tolkien’s beloved West Midlands. The hemlock glade where Beren sees Lúthien dance for the first time in The Silmarillion is based on a similar glade near Great Haywood Tolkien watched his wife dance. And the gruesome Dead Marshes on the borders of Mordor Tolkien experienced himself on the war-torn battlefields of the Somme. I think it’s safe to claim that the landscapes that he encountered as a child and young man seeped into his writings, in many cases becoming not just interesting tableaux to add colour to the stories, but important tools to provide characterisation, suspense, and poignant reminders of the preciousness of the natural world.

For me, the spatial setting of a story and its detailed description have always been an important requirement for my enjoyment of a tale. The “willing suspension of disbelief”, to quote Tolkien, works best for me when the setting of a story is as detailed and well observed as possible, grounded in physical laws and restrictions as well as the distinctive laws of the story. Weather, vegetation, distances, languages and the effects they have on the characters have to be realistic – both when existing and imagined places are described –, otherwise I’m quickly pulled out of the narrative and lose interest (by the way, this is one of my major gripes with “The Final Problem”: the way it sets at naught many of the basic “laws” established in previous episodes of Sherlock). Hints at local customs and peculiarities add colour, depth and believability to a setting, providing the characters with material to rub against and to engage with, to test their limits and limitations.

For me as an author (and illustrator), researching locations for fanfics or art is part of the enjoyment of writing, especially when it can be linked with visits to said locations (my excuse for frequent trips to the UK – I’m based in Germany). I’m a stickler for detail born out of a profound interest in the natural world, in botany, eco-systems, geology and geography, but also in the way historic events shape and influence landscape and its inhabitants. All these aspects I need to see reflected in fiction, and rendered faithfully, or else I can’t take a setting seriously, not the characters and their motivations. Most of the fanfics I’ve enjoyed so far have a very strong sense of place, be it London, Edinburgh, New York, Continental Europe, the Near East or the English countryside. In my own stories, I try to emulate this, preferring to write about places I’ve come to know through repeated visits and extensive literary and online research, as well as correspondence with locals.

Researching my WW2/codebreaker AU Enigma constitutes a special challenge in this respect, because it not only requires me to gather information about existing locations like Bletchley Park, Kent or London, but also wartime Britain in general, removed not just by space but by more than seventy intervening years. Although the internet is a brilliant tool for research, while trying to find out more about the history of the Enigma locations, visits have brought the places to life for me, particularly Bletchley Park. The venue has been transformed into a commendable museum that seeks to recreate the atmosphere of it’s hay-day as a secret codebreaker base through reconstructed huts and historical installations, as well as information about important figures such as Alan Turing, and live demonstrations of his inventions. Interestingly, at the museum, I even found factual confirmation of what I had considered an invention for my story. When it came to locating Sherlock’s and John’s billet in Bletchley in 1941, Google Maps was of limited help: most of Bletchley was built after the war – it’s now part of Milton Keynes –, and from the map, it was almost impossible to tell which parts of it would have existed during the war and which were built afterwards. Old maps or arial photographs were scarce. So I used a bit of deductive reasoning and common sense, basically looking at the main roads leading in and out of town and assuming that they would have been built first. On a whim, I chose one of those thoroughfares, Buckingham Road, and placed the billet there. And lo and behold, during a subsequent visit to the Bletchley Park Museum, I found a photograph depicting billets of the park’s staff situated on the very road.

Lucky coincidences aside, nothing beats a visit to a location one wants to write about. However sometimes, due to constraints of time or money, visits aren’t possible and research from afar has to suffice. I worked like that when I started writing The Summer Boy. I’d been toying with the idea of a story partially set in Sherlock’s childhood for a long while. 1980s nostalgia played a part since I was a child during that decade as well, as did the desire to get to know the character better and to speculate what made him the man we encounter in the show, after glimpses of his past shown in Series 3.

However, a fitting setting for my story to unfold long eluded me. I was striving for an atmosphere similar to that of one of my all-time favourite films, “Stand By Me”, a bitter-sweet yet authentic depiction of childhood with a strong sense of spatial setting. I wanted the location to be a rural one, preferably close to London, with a distinctive landscape and somewhat fragile eco-system, the partial destruction of which would feature in the story to symbolise a place Sherlock could not really return to, but that offered him the chance of “growing up“ and finding an alternative retreat through his developing relationship with John.

Given the canonical links Sherlock Holmes has with Sussex, I began looking for potential locations along the Sussex coast and in the South Downs. I didn’t just want to invent a village or landmark, but wanted the story that was going to contain mythical and supernatural elements (based on how it’s interpreted, at least), to be set in a real place. The landscape and particular vegetation of the chalky downlands were going to play an important part in the story. And remember: stickler for detail. The plants, animals and historical sites Sherlock encounters had to be correct. So I researched the South Downs and their particular chalk-based vegetation, read up on South Down sheep, about Bronze and Iron Age settlements and their remains, and about the myths and legends of the area. I found striking similarities to Terry Pratchett’s masterful depiction of the Chalk in his Tiffany Aching series (The Wee Free Men and its four sequels), which is doubtlessly based on the chalky Wiltshire Downs he lived on. The link to Pratchett, his blend of real, meticulously observed, and fantastical elements based on myths and local culture (which are again inspired by the landscapes they originated in) seemed a good foil for my own story, which grew to contain lots of references to his works. I even partly modelled some of the characters on figures from his series of books.

Still, the dilemma remained to find a concrete place, preferably one featuring an ancient site or landmark such as a hill-fort or a barrow that would function as a focal place for young Sherlock to discover and to spend time at with the mysterious friend he encounters there, and who seems to be a personification of the South Downs, and of summer. By chance (and Google Image Search), I stumbled across a place called Chanctonbury Ring, a henge of trees planted in the 18th century on an Iron Age hill-fort. The South Downs Way leads past it, it commands a good view all around. Sheep graze there in summer, and on the grassy and partly wooded slopes surrounding it many rare plants grow. It’s in walking distance of a quaint village (Washington), which I could use as a base for Sherlock to be accommodated at with relatives. And what ultimately made Chanctonbury Ring the perfect location for my story was the fact that during the Great Storm of 1987, the trees of the henge were almost completely destroyed. I had wanted to set the story in that very year, because I imagine BBC Sherlock’s age to be around Benedict’s and my own (we are only seven months apart), which would make Sherlock around nine in the story, pre-pubescent. Perfect. His fake gravestone from TRF even says 1977, so that fit. And we all know what’s said about coincidences and lazy universes ...

So, perfect spatial and temporal setting found, I still faced the sad fact that I hadn’t actually visited Chanctonbury Ring, nor could see any chance of getting there soon. Nevertheless, the story demanded to be written. Consulting Google Maps as well as photographs helped to get an idea of the place. I looked at similar places in my home country across the Channel. Thus equipped, I started writing (the muse wouldn’t suffer any delay and kept pestering me until I relented), in the hope to actually be able to visit Chanctonbury Ring before I had come too far, enabling me to revise potential mistakes.

Eventually, when the story was already half written, and during the wrong season of the year (the story is set in the summer, I went in December), I visited Chanctonbury Ring. I was pleased to find that my descriptions of the landscape were surprisingly accurate based on what research I’d done, although the visit did add a feeling for the place that hopefully enabled me to make the latter chapters more poignant.

Arguably the most important location for writing Sherlock fanfic is London, a place I’ve become very familiar with in recent years due to frequent visits with long walks and a full timetable of museums, exhibitions, galleries and cultural events, lots of reading about the history of the city, a strong interest in current events, and constant curiosity that lets me explore places off the beaten tracks.

London was one of my favourite places even before I my obsession with BBC Sherlock happened. Actually, I’m convinced the way London is portrayed in the series is one of the main reasons Sherlock struck such a chord with me. Apart from the humour, the obvious chemistry of the protagonists, the cleverness of the dialogues and the overall aesthetics, it was the way modern London was depicted and made an integral character that fascinated me so much about the show. Despite large parts of Sherlock being filmed in Cardiff and elsewhere, they nevertheless feel like parts of the British capital just off the main tourist tracks. Sherlock’s London is both familiar and strange, ugly and beautiful, dark and bright, historic and modern. The character’s particular way of focussing on seemingly unimportant details is reflected in the cinematography. The choice of unusual settings and locations such as Speedy’s Café, Battersea Power Station, the streets of Soho, Leinster Garden, a disused Tube station and the banks of the Thames add atmosphere and colour, making London a living, breathing character in the show – as it was in the original Conan Doyle stories. Occasionally, a touch of Victoriana, ever present even in modern London, creeps into the series, linking it back to the stories it’s based on. Sherlock has definitely rekindled my love of London, or rather, has fanned the already existing embers into hot flames. In the sequels to Over Hill and Under Hill, and several of my other Sherlock fanfics, I’ve tried to honour this tradition by including curious locations in, and little-known minutiae about London to make it come to life as an integral part of the narration, and also to create credibility for the setting.

I have plans to dive even deeper into London past and present. For about a year and half I’ve been working on a Sherlock/London graphic novel in which the location becomes centre point. The story is simple: to alleviate boredom, on his birthday, Sherlock is sent on a “treasure hunt” through London, moving from riddle to riddle and clue to clue set, from one little known location to the next, discovering facts and anecdotes about what he visits in the process. The idea for the book was born out of my many walks through London, along the South Bank, through the City on Sunday mornings when it’s like a ghost town, deserted, along the Regent’s Canal to Camden and on to Hampstead Heath, through the East End and the West End, Chinatown, Soho, Bloomsbury, through Chelsea and Kensington, and further out to the Docklands and Greenwich. I’ve discovered real gems through these walks, some of which Sherlock is going to visit as well – as many as I can realistically squeeze into twenty-four hours without completely exhausting the poor man.

The project is going to occupy me for a good while yet. Also planned are two sequels to The Summer Boy. One is based on a painting I did for the Holmestice Exchange and which depicts John and Sherlock in a disused Tube station. There was some clamouring for a story based on the image, so I’m going to oblige. Since the Tube is such an integral part of London and I’ve long been fascinated with its history, I look forward to researching it.

The second sequel is going to be set in the Lake District. Some of the research for this new story has already been done, and another visit to the area has been booked for the autumn. I haven’t really thought of a plot for the story yet, some vague ideas aside, but I’m very sure that the landscape of Cumbria will provide it once I’m there. A cartographic plot, as usual.

#sherlock #fanfic #spark #enigma #summer boy #over hill and under hill #over/under #sherlock graphic novel #tolkien #jrr tolkien

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