#Kitchen Cleaning Mastery

[cpcleaningservices]

CP Cleaning Service: Kitchen Brilliance Unleashed

Immaculately cleaned kitchen showcasing CP Cleaning Service expertise in cleanliness

[zentarablog]

10 Quick Hacks to Speed Up Your Meal Prep

In our fast-paced lives, the idea of preparing healthy, homemade meals often takes a backseat to convenience. We all know the benefits of cooking at home – healthier ingredients, cost savings, and often better taste – but the time commitment can feel daunting. This is where meal prepping comes in. However, even meal prep itself can sometimes feel like a chore, demanding a significant chunk of our…

[dcxdpdabbles]

DCxDP fanfic idea: Cooking Teacher

Damian Wayne does not do failure. He always mastered whatever skill he put his mind to, regardless of the number of hours he invested in the work. His ability to mimic others ' voices, movement, and behaviors was so sharp that even without instruction, he was able to clean and effectively accomplish mastery of whatever struck his fancy.

It was a testament to his parents' genes that he was able to prove their mixing had produced the perfect offspring.

That was, until Drake bet him fifty dollars that if it was anything like Bruce, no amount of training, good genes, or instruction would ever help him in the kitchen. Father did not help this insult when all he did was nod and shrug his shoulders.

"The Waynes are cursed," Father said, waving a fork around. "Whenever one of us steps into a kitchen, disaster follows. Cooking is just... not a thing for us. But, we can sing"

As if being compared to a songbird was a good thing. Damain vowed to prove them both wrong. And thus he ventured into one of the Wayne Manor extra kitchens, clutching a bag of groceries and a simple cookbook.

He followed the instructions to the letter. He studied various videos and cooking blogs. He used only the freshest ingredients. Really, there was no chance for it to go wrong.

And yet, when Damian pulled out the vegetarian lasagna from the stove, it resembled a soiled baby diaper. He attempted to take a taste, assuring himself it only looked bad, but the second the food made contact with his taste buds, his entire body shuddered in disgust. Damian had to stick his head under the running water of the sink to wash out the vile taste.

It was infuriating that out of all the skills in the world, something as simple as cooking was evading him.

Not about to give up, he tried again the following day. And again, and again, and again, until three months of failed attempts forced him to seek out professional help.

Alfred straight up refused to lend a hand, not after the many years he attempted to teach Damian's grandfather and father. Apparently, the only times Alfred had gotten workers' compensation were when he stood with a blood-related Wayne in the kitchen.

Damain wanted to call him a coward for that, except when he went into the kitchen to confront the bully, the stove exploded and nearly burned the old man's face off. Damian barely even glanced at the dials. He had no idea how it was able to set off like that.

Well, no matter, there were plenty of cooking instructors in this city. They may not be as great as Alfred- for that man made even dirt taste delicious- there had to be someone out there who could teach him to make one decent meal.

___________________________________________________________

Danny Fenotn is short on cash. That tends to happen when your evil godfather somehow rips your ghost half out of you and flings your human side to an unknown parallel world.

Gotham City was large and dangerous in a way Danny had never known. Without Phantom, he had no skills he could use to make a profit, and without a form of identification, he couldn't even sign himself up for school or aid programs.

He had wound up on the streets, dodging police and other street rats as best he could, but he was not doing too well for himself. days turned into weeks, which turned into months, and he was still unsure how he even survived that time.

Just as he was starting to actively dream of a shower and a roof over his head, word began to spread that a wealthy individual was willing to pay top dollar and even provide lodging for anyone willing to teach him how to cook.

Danny wasn't the best chief around, but he was desperate, so he washed up in a park sink and scurried across the city to the mansion of a house.

Danny followed a giant group of people, all dressed better, looking better, and smelling better than he did. Many were wearing chef outfits, giving him disgusted glances, but he grew accustomed to the casual hatred over the past few weeks.

They were told to wait in the hallway, sitting on some chairs with a number. The kid who wanted cooking lessons would call them in one by one and give them an interview, alongside asking them to cook something simple to prove their worth.

Danny was number twenty-two out of fifty candidates. A few people left when candidate number five ran out of the room screaming, with half his clothes on fire. More got up from their chairs and excused themselves when three different parametric teams were called in to rush out number eleven, number fifteen, and number seventeen.

What really cleared the room, however, was the screams that came from number twenty's mouth as though they were ripped off her limbs from behind closed doors. In a stampede of movement, the hallway was cleared, leaving only Danny sitting awkwardly on his chair.

"Number twenty-two?" A tall, dignified butler questioned from the door, seemingly surprised that someone was still there.

"Um, yeah?" Danny scrambled to his feet, aware his appearance was less than presentable. He felt like he just dragged himself out of a garbage can, even after trying his best to tidy himself up.

"This way, young man."

Danny is led into a kitchen —or a kitchen that has survived an ill-fated war. There was food splattered against the walls, smoke was burning on three stoves, some tiles were missing on the ground, and the furniture was turned over.

Sitting at the only untouched surface area was a young boy of twelve years old, and Danny nearly winces at how close in age they are. He doubts he will be able to teach the kid anything he doesn't already know.

"Good evening," The boy says, holding up a clipboard.

"Oh, uh, hi?" Danny replies. The kid raises a brow, clicks his red pen open, and scribbles something down. Danny feels himself break into a cold sweat.

"We shall start the interview." The butler cuts in, taking a graceful seat next to the boy and picking up his own pen. "Please answer to the best of your abilities."

Danny fumbles his way through the interview, muttering excuses when they ask for any of his past information, and by the time the food test comes around, he can tell they aren't going to consider him. He decided to teach the kid a simple recipe just so he could leave quickly, and by the time Danny had taught the kid a simple chicken soup recipe, he was all but ready to run.

Until the kid's fist closed in his dirt-stained shirt - it was no longer purely white, now it had a gross, brownish hue to it - keeping him in place.

"You are hired." The boy says, staring up at him with wide, joyful eyes while clutching his bowl of soup like it was the last lifeboat in a sinking ship. "The curse does not harm you."

Well.....Danny didn't like that, but he really had no other choice, did he?

[velarisdusk]

The Moment Between Heartbeats

Azriel x Reader

summary: You return to Velaris with gratitude in your heart and a wedding on the horizon. You never meant to cross paths with him. You never meant for anything to change. But fate has its own timing. And its own tether. word count: 4,865 content: [ medical emergency (not main characters), blood, infidelity, sexual content ] author's note: thanks anon for this request!! i had a nice time writing this one :) i dont write mates often so this was interesting practice for me <3 ✦ . Masterlist . ✦

The River House looked exactly the same.

Maybe that shouldn’t have surprised you. The Night Court didn’t tend to change unless it meant to. But still—after so many years away, after the long roads and longer days of study and practice and scraping your way toward something like mastery—it was jarring. Like walking into a memory that hadn’t aged with you.

Your steps slowed as you passed the flowering hedges, eyes skimming over the sleek curve of stone and glass, the soft gleam of sunlight spilling across the balcony where you’d once stood as a child, legs too short for the railing, craning your neck to see the High Lord who’d knelt to speak to you like your words had mattered.

They had, apparently. Enough that he’d sent coin. Letters. A promise that if you ever needed a place in the world, he’d help you find it.

And he had.

You adjusted the thin leather satchel at your shoulder. You’d dressed plainly—dark slate skirts, a soft cream blouse, hair half-pulled back—but everything was clean, pressed, deliberate. You weren’t here as some wide-eyed child this time. You were a woman grown, a healer, and the ink on your wedding invitation had barely dried.

You were here to say thank you. That was all.

The House let you in without pause, as if it remembered you.

It smelled the same, too—like polished wood and faelight, like cedar and citrus oil and some warmer note underneath, like the scent of magic at rest.

You didn’t have to wait long. Rhysand appeared from one of the upper hallways, jacket slung over one shoulder, shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms. He looked a little more tired than you remembered, but the grin that broke across his face when he saw you—it was the same one he’d given you all those years ago, when you’d tugged on his sleeve and asked if High Lords ever got headaches.

“Well, well,” he said, arms opening as he stepped toward you. “If it isn’t my favorite prodigy.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, letting him pull you into a light hug.

“I’m sure you say that to all the children you fund.”

He drew back with a mock-wounded expression. “Only the ones who become brilliant healers and forget to write.”

“I never forgot,” you said, more gently now. “Just… wanted to come back with something to show for it.”

Rhysand’s smile softened. “You didn’t owe me anything. I knew you’d do something extraordinary. All I did was give you a nudge.”

You looked away, suddenly aware of the tightness in your throat. You hadn’t expected to feel so much. Gratitude sat warm and steady in your chest, but underneath it—there was something else. A kind of ache, maybe, for the girl you’d been when she met him. For how much had changed since.

“How’s Nyx?” you asked quietly. “Last time I saw him, he was still half the size of his wings.”

Rhys’ grin tilted, a little proud, a little tired. “Started training in Illyria a few years ago. Thinks he’s ready for war—kid can barely make his bed.”

You laughed, heart squeezing. “Sounds about right.”

“I’m hoping the training will wear him out enough to keep him from charming the kitchen staff into midnight cakes,” he added, voice fond.

“I don’t think anyone who’s ever met him could say no to him.”

“No,” Rhys agreed, “he gets that from his mother.”

You smiled at that—felt something settle in your chest.

“I wanted to thank you properly,” you said, reaching into your satchel. “And to invite you. My wedding’s in two weeks, just outside Cesere. I’d be honored if you came.”

He took the invitation from your hand, fingers brushing yours.

“You found someone worthy, then?”

You smiled. “I did.”

Rhys’ eyes searched yours for a moment longer, but he only nodded.

“Then I’ll come. If I can get Feyre to stop adding new wings to the House for a weekend.”

You laughed. “Tell her she’s invited, too. And Amren, Mor—and the boys, if they’re in town.”

“They are,” Rhys said, walking you toward the door. “Cassian’s been banned from three taverns this month. Azriel’s been pretending that’s not his problem.”

The name landed like a flicker of shadow across your awareness—nothing more. You’d never met him. Only heard stories. Rhys’ Spymaster. A ghost in most reports.

The front door opened before you could respond, catching the breeze.

Rhys gave you one more warm look. “I always knew you’d make something of yourself.”

You ducked your head, smiling. “Thank you.”

And then—

You turned to step outside and walked straight into someone solid.

Your hand shot out instinctively, catching yourself against a chest that felt like it had been carved from mountain rock. Warm. Steady. Not moving.

“Sorry—” you said, already taking a step back. “I didn’t—”

The male in front of you didn’t respond.

He just stared.

Tall. Shadows coiled around him like living things, brushing at his boots, curling at his wrists. He was broader than you expected, beautiful in a way that didn’t seem real—like moonlight caught in obsidian, eyes fixed on you as if you were some kind of puzzle he hadn’t meant to see.

Something flickered in your gut—strange, sharp. Gone as quickly as it came.

You cleared your throat. “Excuse me.”

You stepped aside.

He didn’t.

But he did eventually turn his head slightly, just enough to look past you. Past your shoulder. To Rhysand.

“This is the healer I told you about,” he said, voice easy. “The one from Cesere.”

Azriel didn’t nod. Didn’t speak.

He looked back at you.

And you, not knowing what it meant for him, gave him a polite smile and walked away.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The scent hit him first.

Not strong. Not floral. Something quiet—cool skin and parchment and the faint bite of rosemary, like an old tonic he couldn’t quite name. It caught in his lungs mid-step.

Azriel paused halfway up the stairs. He was halfway through brushing it off—just another passing guest, nothing to—

And then she collided with him.

It wasn’t a dramatic crash. Just a soft, startled sound, the rustle of fabric against leather, the brief, unintended press of her hand to his chest.

But in the space between one heartbeat and the next, something snapped.

Not a crack. Not a fracture.

A snap. Clean. Absolute.

Like a door locking into place behind him.

Azriel didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink.

It sliced through him like cold steel, sliding beneath the skin and anchoring itself deep, deep in his ribs. It didn’t roar. It settled—quiet and immediate, like a secret remembered too late.

Her.

It was her.

The realization landed with surgical precision. No fanfare. Just certainty—absolute and all-consuming.

She looked up at him, eyes warm but distracted, her apology gentle and brief.

“Sorry,” she said, stepping back. “I didn’t—”

She trailed off, watching his face for a beat too long. He could feel the way her gaze skimmed over him—curious, unknowing. A stranger’s curiosity.

Azriel said nothing.

He couldn’t.

His body had gone still in a way that had nothing to do with training and everything to do with survival. As if any movement might break the air open between them, expose him.

She stepped aside. Cool and polite. Not a flicker of recognition in her voice. Not a hint that anything inside her had shifted.

It hadn’t snapped for her. Of course it hadn’t. 

“Excuse me,” she murmured, already turning away.

The shadows at his back swelled—not violently, but insistently, curling up the stair rail, whispering in a tongue only he knew. They surged toward her retreating form like they wanted to follow.

He swallowed hard and forced them still.

She walked down the steps, and every step she took away from him felt like another inch of his soul being peeled back.

Azriel didn’t move.

She didn’t look back.

Only when the front door eased shut behind her did Rhysand’s voice float up from the hall.

“You alright?”

Azriel blinked.

Only once. Slow. Mechanical.

Rhys stepped into view, already watching him. Not alarmed. Not yet.

“That was her,” Azriel said, his voice low. It came out hoarse, unused. “The healer.”

Rhys’ brows lifted slightly. “Mm. She just came to say thank you. Invited us to her wedding.”

Azriel said nothing.

“She’s done well for herself,” Rhys went on, stepping up beside him. “Bright as ever, even more driven now. Trained under some of the best outside the Courts. She runs a clinic in Cesere.”

Another pause.

Azriel kept staring at the door.

The scent hadn’t left. It clung to his skin. Pressed under his breastbone.

Rhys glanced at the invitation. “She’s marrying someone from her school, it seems.”

Azriel’s jaw tightened—just barely.

“I see,” he said.

And then he turned, took the stairs in silence, and vanished down the hall like smoke.

It took him hours to come back down.

He didn’t know why he bothered.

The house was quiet again by the time he found Rhys in the study, sleeves still rolled, a half-empty glass of wine balanced in one hand. Azriel didn’t knock—just stepped inside and leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, shadows wound tight at his ankles.

Rhys glanced up, unsurprised. “Thought you might circle back.”

Azriel didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he asked, voice low, “What’s her name?”

Rhys set the glass down with a faint clink. “You mean your shadows didn’t read the invitation she handed me?”

He said nothing.

“Mm.” Rhys paused, then said, “(y/n).” Softly. Like a secret.

“She was twelve when I met her. I was visiting Cesere with Feyre—some small delegation thing. She slipped into one of the healing halls during a tour. Asked the attending why no one ever treated grief like poison in the magic. Said it didn’t make sense to heal the body if the magic still hurt.” 

Azriel’s gaze flicked up.

“She had a raw instinct,” Rhys continued, leaning back in his chair. “Not just for medicine. For the way things work. People. Systems. I paid for her education because I wanted to see what she’d build if someone just let her try.”

Azriel said nothing.

Rhys’ tone shifted—cooler now, careful. “She’s good, Az. Not just in skill. People love her. She’s the kind of healer who remembers every patient’s name, who sends letters to families months after an injury’s healed. She’s careful, and kind, and sharp enough to make even Madja flinch—she did, once.”

Azriel didn’t move.

“She met her fiancé at the university. They trained under the same master in Montesere for a few years. He works with magical plant derivatives—” Rhys broke off, narrowing his eyes slightly. “But I’m guessing you already know all that.”

Azriel’s jaw worked once, subtly.

“I read her file,” he said, not bothering to lie. 

“So what is it you’re actually asking me?” Rhys asked. Quiet, but not unkind.

Azriel’s shadows shifted—tighter now, curling slow around his fingers. His voice, when it came, was stripped down.

“I want to know who she is.”

Rhys tilted his head. “You think I didn’t just tell you?”

Azriel’s eyes met his. That flat, endless stillness he wore like armor—but Rhys knew him too well to mistake it for calm.

“You told me what she’s done. What she does. Not who.”

Rhys sat with that for a beat.

Then he said, “She carries too much on her own. Doesn’t like being helped unless she’s bleeding out, and even then she’ll try to talk her way out of it. She walks like she’s being chased, even when she’s not. Laughs when she’s anxious. Goes quiet when she’s hurting. She’s better at caring than being cared for.”

That landed. Azriel didn’t flinch, but something in him stilled further.

Rhys watched him. “You could just ask her yourself.”

A long silence.

Then Azriel said, evenly, “She didn’t feel it.”

Rhys sat back. “Ah.”

“It’s one-sided.”

“For now,” Rhys said carefully.

Azriel shook his head—once, sharp. “She’s getting married.”

Rhys didn’t argue.

Azriel’s voice dropped again, barely above a whisper. “I know she doesn’t know me but… She looked at me like I was no one.”

And Rhys—soft, but steady—answered, “You’ve been no one before. Didn’t stop you from becoming someone.”

That silence stretched again.

Then Azriel said, almost absently, “You guys should go to the wedding.”

“You’re not coming?”

Azriel didn’t answer.

He was already gone.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The clinic had been quiet all morning—just the way you liked it.

Soft chatter from the waiting room, the steady rhythm of footsteps across polished floors, the faint hum of spelled light filtering through the tall windows. Outside, the Velaris breeze stirred faintly against the curtains. Somewhere, someone was playing a lute badly. It made you smile.

You’d set up your temporary workspace near the back—out of the way, tucked into a sun-drenched alcove with jars of salves and tinctures stacked in tidy rows beside you. There was comfort in the routine of it, in knowing what each bottle did, where every tool belonged. And for the first time in days, the weight behind your ribs felt… light. Not gone, exactly. But manageable.

You’d written your vows that morning. Scratched them out in the dim hours before dawn, half-smiling at how strange it felt to put a life into words. They were good words. True. Still, a quiet part of you had hesitated over the last line. Not for lack of love, but for something else. Something you couldn’t name.

You were just finishing up a binding charm on a sprained wrist when the front doors crashed open.

The magic in the room shifted—taut, unsettled.

“Coming through,” someone called, and two males rushed in with a third slung between them. Blood slicked the side of his neck, pulsing magic leaking raw and uncontrolled from a gash just below his jaw.

You were moving before anyone asked.

“Back room,” you said sharply, already pulling your sleeves up.

Your team fell in around you, practiced and calm, and you were halfway through stabilizing the spell fracture when another presence stepped into the doorway.

You didn’t look up at first.

But the air had gone still in a particular way—not dangerous, not loud. Just… watchful.

Then you felt them. The shadows.

They lingered at the edge of the room like smoke waiting for a breeze.

You glanced up.

He was standing just outside the threshold, a step out of reach. His arms were crossed over his chest, wings tucked tight behind him. He wore those dark leathers that looked both worn and battle-ready, the kind that moved like a second skin. Seven stones glinted across his body—each embedded in a different place in the leather, deep and gleaming like captured starlight. Shadows curled lazily at his boots, brushing the floor like they had nowhere else to be. Azriel.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

Whatever had happened to your patient, he’d been involved. Not in the causing of it—you could tell that much by the tension in his stance. But the aftermath. The cleanup. The threat, neutralized.

You turned back to your patient, sealed the worst of the tear, then gave the nod to move him to recovery.

Only when the doors swung shut behind the others did you turn toward the figure still watching you from the doorway.

“You’re Azriel, aren’t you?” you asked, voice light but genuine.

His expression didn’t shift. “I am.”

You stepped toward him, extending a hand. “I didn’t get a chance to introduce myself the other day.”

He looked at your hand for a fraction too long before taking it.

His palm was rough—calloused and worn from blade and sparring, and yet warm. Steady. Your fingers slid into his like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And then—

Something.

Not pain. Not heat. Just a flicker. Like the air had gone thin. Like the room had tilted ever so slightly on its axis.

Your eyes lifted to his.

He was watching you with a stillness that made your breath catch.

The sensation passed as quickly as it came. You blinked once and let go, unsure why you’d held on for even that long.

Azriel stepped back. “I won’t take up your time.”

And then he was gone. Just like that.

You stood there a moment longer, fingers tingling faintly, heart oddly out of rhythm.

You shook it off.

There were patients to check on.

Still, as you walked away, you couldn’t help but glance back at the empty doorway.

Like some part of you had missed something.

Or maybe recognized it—too quietly to name.

That night, Velaris shimmered in the dark like it had something to hide. 

You wandered without a plan, the hem of your dress brushing against your ankles as you took another left, then a right, letting the streets pull you wherever they pleased. The sky had slipped fully into indigo, faelights casting their gentle glow across balconies and shuttered shops, the river whispering its song somewhere below.

You should have gone home hours ago. You’d promised your maid of honor a final fitting. Promised yourself an early night.

But your skin itched like it didn’t fit.

You hadn’t been able to shake the feeling since the clinic—the way Azriel’s hand had lingered in yours, the way his voice had slid under your skin like a needle finding the vein. He hadn’t done anything. Had barely said anything.

And still, your dreams since that day at the River House had been full of him.

Nothing graphic. Just… presence. The weight of someone watching over you. The brush of shadow on your shoulder. That same quiet pressure blooming behind your ribs—like you were being filled with something you hadn’t known you were missing.

You were halfway across a narrow footbridge when you sensed it again.

The air changed. Stilled.

You stopped walking.

Then—behind you—a sound. Barely.

Boots touching stone.

You turned just as he dropped down from the rooftop. 

Your breath caught—your whole body flinched, instinct flaring before reason. No wings flared. No shadows curled in warning. Just the quiet landing of a male who’d been waiting. 

Azriel. 

He straightened slowly, eyes already on yours. No armor. No weapons. Just him, dark and patient, the streetlamp glow catching the edge of his profile like it didn’t dare touch him fully.

You stared at him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice low, rough. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

You swallowed. “I’m used to unexpected visits.”

A faint curve at the corner of his mouth. Then gone.

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” he said quietly. “I told myself I wouldn’t.”

You didn’t move. “But you’re here.”

“I needed to see you. One more time.” A beat. “Before you go.”

Your fingers curled against your palm. “I’m not leaving until next week.”

“I know,” he said. “But I wouldn’t have been able to stay away that long.”

There was something hollow in his voice. Like it cost him to admit it.

You waited.

Azriel’s gaze didn’t waver. And when he finally spoke again, the words landed soft—but they hit like a blade.

“I felt it the moment you touched me.”

Your breath stilled. 

“The bond. I didn’t ask for it. I wasn’t looking for it. But it’s there. And I wouldn’t force it—gods, I’d never—but I couldn’t lie about it either.”

The silence between you opened wide.

He stood in it like it hurt. Like he’d rather be struck than watched. 

Your heart thundered—faint, wild. “I didn’t feel it.”

“I know.”

“And you still came.”

His throat bobbed. “I couldn’t not.”

Your eyes burned suddenly. Too full, too sharp.

“I thought…” You shook your head, laughing once, barely. “I thought I was just nervous about the wedding. About the timing. About saying the right words. But I’ve been dreaming of you. Every night.

Azriel went utterly still.

You stepped closer.

“I didn’t know why I couldn’t sleep. Why every time I closed my eyes, I felt like something was missing. Like I was standing just behind a curtain I couldn’t pull back.” Another step. “It’s been you.”

His mouth parted, breath catching—soft, sharp.

And then you were in his arms.

Or maybe he was in yours.

It didn’t matter who moved first.

The kiss wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t frantic or frenzied. It was simply inevitable—like the space between you had finally grown tired of pretending it wasn’t there. 

His hands found your waist, fingers curling into the fabric of your gown like he needed proof. Yours slid into his hair, slow and reverent, as your lips pressed fully to his for the first time.

It felt like answering a question you hadn’t known was being asked.

Like everything else—your vows, your carefully laid plans, the quiet ache behind your ribs—had been written before this moment.

Just waiting.

Just… waiting.

The kiss ended only because breath demanded it.

Your forehead rested against his, both of you breathing like you’d run miles—except you hadn’t moved, hadn’t done anything but say the one true thing your body had been screaming for days.

Azriel’s eyes stayed shut a moment longer. Then:

“Come with me.”

You hesitated—but only for a second. Only long enough to remember that this was your city, too. That just four blocks from here, in a tucked-away garden flat above a glassblowing studio, your rented room waited. Not glamorous. Not permanent. But yours.

You slid your fingers down from his jaw and whispered, “It’s just around the corner.”

He didn’t ask. Didn’t need to.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The apartment was dark when you stepped inside, but a flick of your fingers coaxed the faelights to life—low, golden. Gentle. The kind of light that knew how to stay quiet. The windows were still cracked from earlier, letting the breeze in. You’d left a kettle out, a half-folded list of supplies on the table. A vase of overripe lilacs sagged near the sink.

Azriel stepped in behind you and closed the door with the softest click.

Neither of you moved.

The quiet held.

And then, slowly, carefully, he reached for your hand again.

You let him.

His touch was delicate at first. Too delicate.

You lifted your eyes to his as he brushed the backs of his fingers across your cheekbone—like you were a painting, not a person. Like he didn’t trust that you were real.

So you said nothing. Just stepped closer and let your hands rest at the hem of his shirt. Waiting.

He gave a tiny nod. Barely.

You slid your fingers up, finding the fastenings along his back, those slits sewn carefully into the fabric to accommodate those massive wings. One by one, you unhooked them. The slats parted gently under your touch, fabric loosening as his wings shifted just slightly. 

Then you pulled the shirt up—slow, reverent. Your hands skimmed his ribs, his stomach—solid muscle, old scars. He stood perfectly still, letting you bare him inch by inch, until the shirt slid off and his chest rose unguarded in the faelight.

He looked like something holy. Or ruined. Or both.

You kissed the center of his chest.

Azriel exhaled—rough and quiet—and brought his hand to the back of your neck. Not pulling. Just holding.

Then he kissed you again.

And it changed.

The tenderness didn’t disappear, but it deepened—like a blade sheathed in velvet. His mouth moved with more hunger, more need, but never lost its care. He touched you like he’d never expected to be allowed. Like every inch of your skin was being memorized in real time.

You didn’t speak. Didn’t have to.

When his hands slid beneath the delicate fabric of your gown, you lifted your arms, arching just enough to give him room. When he paused at the clasp of your underthings, you nodded once. And when he sank to his knees, letting his forehead rest for just a moment against your stomach, you ran your fingers through his hair and whispered nothing but breath.

The bed caught you both gently.

And the world shrank.

He moved over you like a prayer—fingers first, reverent and unhurried. He learned you by touch. By breath. By the sound you made when his hand slid lower, when his mouth followed. And when you finally pulled him up—when you looked at him and didn’t say anything but yes—he pressed his forehead to yours like it might keep him from coming apart.

When he entered you, your hand trembled against his jaw. His name never left your mouth, but the breath of it did. Again. And again.

Slow. Then deeper. Then real.

It was not performance. Not frenzied. It was necessary.

You didn’t look away.

His shadows slipped along the edges of the room, brushing over the bedpost, the windowsill, your bare hip. Not invasive—protective. Cradling the space you created between you. And just once—just for a flicker—your own magic bloomed up in answer. That soft green-gold light you only used for pain, for healing. It lit along his spine where your fingers had dug in. It sank into him, even as he gasped quietly and thrust harder, undone by the gentleness of it.

No words passed between you. Just sound. Just motion. Just the raw, breathless truth of two people burning quietly where they touched.

You reached the edge first, fingers clenching tight in the sheets as he whispered your name like he’d known it his whole life.

He followed right after, head buried in the crook of your neck, body shuddering once, twice, a low groan breaking through his chest as he came apart inside you.

The silence afterward was almost sacred.

Just breath. Just the brush of your fingers along his back.

The shadows receded. The light dimmed.

And when he finally lifted his head, kissed your shoulder, then your collarbone, then the side of your mouth—

You let yourself hope.

Just a little.

Just enough.

The air had cooled.

Outside the window, the city had gone mostly quiet—only the faintest sounds drifting up from below. A wind chime. Distant laughter. 

Inside, the only movement was breath.

Azriel lay half-curled behind you, one arm draped low around your waist, the other tucked under the pillow you shared. His body was all heat and steady weight, his chest rising against your back with the kind of rhythm that made you want to cry.

Like he was still here. Like he would be.

You didn’t speak. Neither of you had—not since the last trembling breath between kisses, since the final touch that made the world go still.

Words weren’t ready. They didn’t need to be.

You shifted and let your fingers trace the edge of a scar on his chest—an old one, rough and puckered, just below his collarbone. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t tense. Just exhaled, slow and heavy, and turned his face toward the back of your neck.

A moment later, he brought your wrist to his mouth and kissed it.

Nothing more.

Just that.

Like a seal. Or a question. Or maybe an answer.

You closed your eyes.

The ache in your chest had changed. It wasn’t confusion anymore. It wasn’t the quiet, misnamed nerves that had haunted you these past days.

It was him.

The bond hummed somewhere low and deep in your bones—not demanding. Not loud. Just there. Waiting. Like it had always been there, and you’d only just looked up and found it watching.

You didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. Didn’t think of the promises that would be broken or rewritten, or who you’d have to face in the morning light.

But you knew this.

Knew the shape of his hand against your ribs. Knew the silence he wrapped you in wasn’t cold—it was shelter.

And as your breathing slowed again, as your fingers curled loosely around his, one last thought threaded through the stillness, calm and final:

It wasn’t the moment the bond snapped that changed everything. 

It was the moment between heartbeats—when he saw you, and knew he’d never be the same.

[mothprincess]

maybe 2 yrs ago, i was like 'i have to become better at cleaning.' i realized that my dream of the future had clean, beautiful spaces and lovely little meals. i started cleaning much more, replacing sponges more often, trying different cleaning products, etc. to have that life that i dreamed about. it's not there yet—i don't know if i'll ever think about the present rather than future—but my bedroom is airy and bright, i bought new pink kitchen sponges the last time i was out, i keep a calendar on the refrigerator, and my google calendar stays up-to-date. i have to admit that it feels better this way. reading daily, too, feels better. movement. being aware of the news: local, national, international. staying consistently engaged in creation and research, even when i don't feel like it. consistency and mastery are too important to listen to the voice that doesn't encourage curiosity, depth, and the mind of an eternal student

[werezmastarbucks]

U N13

U N7 masterlist 8/14

word count: 3302

music: bloodsport by raleigh ritchie

you don't listen to U N7 anymore because it just doesn't feel right.

feelings are neatly arranged in your soul, they slowly drift in pairs as you watch new snow curl and rush past the window at the end of January. suddenly the time slows down and you begin enjoying your job again. almost all your students, except one, return. Yoongi doesn't have a significant fallout, his mastery is relatively the same as when you left. you ask him again if he studied by himself and he just shrugs.

"it hasn't been that long".

whether it's your new lighter attitude, or Yoongi's evolution of character, but it feels like he's become a little more charming and restless. he's moving around the classroom now, cracks jokes more often and overall seems happier. he talks about the upcoming album all the time and foresees the tour in summer, rubbing his hands together. a new brand reached out to him, so now he is a double ambassador, the boy with puffy soft cheeks in an old hoodie.

you make him and Hoseok tell you in detail about all of the things they have been doing while you were away, in English. making full lessons out of it. Hobi is flexing his new vocabulary and tells you about the videos he's been filming, rapping a little bit of new lyrics to you, showing his new clothes.

Yoongi is introspective, telling you about the lack of insomnia in his life for the first time in years. it's so nice listening to them. the first spring flowers in the shops are imported and feel absolutely unreal when you buy them on the cold, windy street, to take home. puddles pull on the streets and freeze over night and Joonie slips and falls badly on his knee and has to walk around in a splint. slowly, with a cane. Jimin is away on his honeymoon otherwise he'd be making fun of him. now it's Jungkook's job.

you drop the strawberries into the bowl and open the little cupboard door to search for baking soda. the process of cleaning, cutting, working in the kitchen is very soothing to you, therapeutic. at first, the boys were looking a little uneasy (everybody except Tae) when you came over simply to do their dishes. even Yuna asked you what you were doing. but you often ate in their studio kitchen since you had lessons a floor below and worked on materials there. so you did all the dishes. with time it became a habit. now they just say thank you and put their plates carefully into the sink when you're around. you find it right to help them out like that since they don't have a manager or a chores assistant to do that. no reason. just plain neglect due to familiarity.

you cut the butts off the strawberries and rinse them in water again. one berry after another. this kitchen is a bit smaller, the studio itself is dimmer, greener, it has a distinct Yoongi vibe, quiet. the kitchen is green and the room is black. you put the strawberries in the bowl on the table and walk back with a couple in your hand.

he is sitting with his feet on the chair, slippers lying down in chaos under. like a monkey. the bracelet is clacking on the desk every time he drops his hand.

"ready?"

you show him strawberries and he simply opens his mouth, you shove them inside. he presses play. you lick the pink juice off your palm that just touched his lips.

you listen to the songs, brain altering under the pressure of the new sound, the new lyrics that haven't been ever put together in this specific sequence up until now. like a newborn baby, the music that hasn't hit the market yet. it's beautiful and fresh, you hear their voices that you can, after all these years, tell from each other even by the hum. the new bts remind you of those travelling musicians they had sung about long time ago. their solo breaks have done so much to the quality of music it's obvious it was a great decision. Yoongi has brought back his yapping shrieking voice that sounds so attractive. it makes the muscles... well, the same old stuff. he comments on each song: this one's not mixed up yet. this one only has vocals. this one i don't like, don't know what to do with it yet. it's gonna kill me. this one is the best. in this one you can hear Jungookie sneeze in the background. i kept it.

you're standing there, listening and watching him, and asking yourself what you are. a couple of people listening to new music in the mixing studio. your right palm is still warm with the impression of his mouth. you feel shy telling him your feedback in full, you don't want to sound too enthusiastic out of the old habit. don't chase the man, let the man chase you... although you know for sure this is what hurts Yoongi the most. so you let yourself sob a little out of the weird emotion, a mix of pride, like on the Grammys night, and sentimentality, and jealousy. what they have, the seven of them, is historical. the bond that they all have cherished and honed with equal rigour and care. the real thing always shines bright, it's unmistakeable. Yoongi bites his lips and gets timid about it. he shrugs. it's just us.

"are there more strawberries?" he asks. you say that they are in the kitchen.

you walk together, your throat craves a sweet drink. you look at your palm mindlessly and dive into the cupboard again.

"you still going to the gym at ten?" he asks.

"yeah".

by now it's a sure ritual. when you're lucky there's even fewer than ten people there with you and it's not crowded.

"i'll start again, too. i know i'll die in the summer when we start touring".

February is nigh and you have only the spring months before they leave for almost a whole year. you imagine it as another break and a trial at the same time. you nod. Jungkook and Jimin reported suspiciously little about him once you returned. usually they let you know about his every move that may be of any significance in their opinion. them three with Yuri started a fucking group chat that they named HESCGC (happy ending secret coalition group chat) where they consoled you and discussed Yoongi sometimes. it's insane. it's been inactive for a while, actually. Jungkook only said, yeah, we've been super busy. Yoongi hyung makes us rerecord every second word he doesn't like, he's gone full producer over the years and we hate it here. has he finally given up? or just saw you at the airport and instantly picked up on the change? you were in pain from trying to refrain from asking them. how has he been? has he spoken about me? has he dated anybody? it's like trying to hold down a dog that's itching to get off the leash. slowly, steadily, you are convincing yourself to take it slow. slow and calm. you are all far too mature to behave like this.

"you still here?"

you turn to him. Yoongi is flipping the slipper on his toe, swaying his foot under the table.

"haven't slept?"

"what are you talking about?"

"you're just standing there like a zombie. i don't mind. it's just funny".

you frown and wave him off, get back to your coffee.

frankly speaking you feel you'll get angry if he starts hitting on you. six and a half fucking years you've waited for him. what angers you even more is that you are still waiting for him. you want to smack yourself. you wonder why you have never tried smacking this love out of yourself before. like jumping under a car of falling down the stairs. cognitive recalibration. maybe you could get amnesia and forget all about him.

him and his freaking little ponytail on the top of his head, he looks like a samurai that goes crazy over Nike. he simply puts the hair away from the face and you can't move. you do the same, you have your hair away and on the back of your head, revealing shoulders. sometimes men, coworkers, idols, producers, look at you. some of them already heard the rumors about you going on dates and fucking every other man in Hybe. that's how the gossip travels. it's been there for a while. whether it's the foreigner stereotype, jealousy that Park Jimin is running after you like a puppy, or the stalker whispering things on lunch breaks. the boys form a wall around you, act like they heard nothing. Yoongi doesn't even entertain these rumors. at the end of the day, nobody can prove it and nobody can push you against the wall. in the gym, there's usually at least one Bangtan boy behind your back with an angry face. now he's looking like he could choke you and you'd say thanks. he wipes the sweat off his face and puffs his cheeks after returning the bar back on its place. his back is a menace. always been. the waist line is getting more and more defined as he grows older. you sometimes forget he is already thirty-six, he stopped aging after thirty-two. just the magic of his genetics. the only thing that changes about him is that he becomes softer and softer, like a melting marshmellow.

you walk to the leg press and see there's a fifty plate on each end.

"Yoongi-ah!"

he doesn't hear, too far away and wearing his earbuds.

you travel across the room, ignoring the guy doing his routine, who raises his head to you. you don't remember his name, it's either Dojin or Seongjin and he's a sound designer.

you tap him on the shoulder. Yoongi swings his arm to relax it and nearly hits you on the face.

"huh? sorry".

"there's fifty plates on the leg press, i can't take them off".

he walks behind you to help, removes the plates. Yoongi is an oxymoron, sexy as hell but he squats like an old man when he puts the plates down by the wall.

"need help?"

"no, thanks".

he is a little hesitant. he still remembers the panic in Jungkook's voice when maknae was yelling at you for toying with this machine while pushing forty. you always unbend your legs completely, and he always tells you you can't do that.

"okay".

Yoongi is perhaps traumatized by the mansplaining bite, just like he lingers on your comment about the height. so he retreats.

but generally you ask him for advice and help more freely these days. it's not the silent co-training alone anymore. more and more often he walks over unprovoked and starts correcting you, or assisting, or asks for water or chapstick because he keeps forgetting things.

he notices you lying down on the floor and watching your foot in the mirror. your hands wrapped around the sole, massaging. the punching bag is still swinging and it looks like it attacked you instead. you see his shoes walk away and then return and stop.

"you okay?"

you love his intonations. they rise and fall like waves.

"yes".

he walks towards you.

"did you kick it?"

you hum in confirmation and his eyes wander over to the bag.

"it's too heavy".

"you gotta teach me. it keeps hurting my hands. look", you show him the fist with pink knuckles and a little swelling from several days ago. Yoongi takes your foot instead and feels if it hurts too much. his hands are ridiculously big against it.

"first of all you won't kick. you have no stretch".

"thanks".

"well, you have to start with hands. also, it always hurts. why would you want to learn to fight?"

he's on his knees before you, eyes laced with amusement. the floor is cold and you try to pick yourself up. Yoongi lets go of your foot and sits down.

"so that i can punch my pussy guy in the face".

"aaah. i almost forgot about him. he seems reluctant, no? not sure if he really wants you".

he grins for a second, showing teeth.

"have there been any notes while i was away?"

"no, why?"

"sent flowers to my apartment the day before i left, back in September".

the grin slides off him.

"really? and what did he say?"

you shrug.

"i didn't read it. just threw it away".

it's your turn to smile. Yoongi stares you down for a second. then stands up with a sigh.

"show me your posture".

you heave yourself up quickly, through the pain, and try your foot. pain fades a little, unwillingly. nothing's broken, just the weakness leaving the body.

Yoongi's fingers press lightly between your shoulders, then hand adjusts you by the waist. you recall dancing with him when this hand was guiding the movements of your whole body. he explains how you should stand, throw a punch, move your hips, arch your shoulders. he's the kick boxer. he throws street punches making himself big, like he gathers all his size up just before hitting. he's incredibly fast, too. bam! the punching bag that feels like a wall to you, swings wide as the chain rattles. he demonstrates and then tells you to repeat. you throw a kitten punch, making him chuckle.

"you need to buy tape", he says, "if the gloves don't fit".

he actually starts looking a bit guilty and scratches his ear as his eyes drop down to your red hands.

every time you're at the gym, you waste more and more of his time on this. Yoongi never tells you no and that he needs to do his own thing. he says,

"finally, something i am better than you at".

you think it's a joke but let him be adorably proud.

it's almost like dating. he always rocks long black shorts and you start associating them with romance. the dark February skies outside the tall windows slowly turn into the black March skies. you ask him what he wants to do for his birthday. as usual. he says that, as usual, nothing. you wonder out loud when the day will come, when he starts celebrating. there is something to celebrate. Yoongi says that it's not like he doesn't. every year, the boys throw him a party even though he asks them not to. so it's not like nothing happens. you smile, realizing how he manages to appreciate things in a special quiet way, how he interprets everything so meaningfully. you slide the tips of your fingers in between red knuckles. they are rough, and the rest of your palm is smooth.

you catch him watching you as he sits down to rest on a bench. the gym is empty.

"don't forget the fight is not only about the physical", he says from over there. "you need to be smart".

you nod.

"throat, knees, balls".

"use your fingers, too".

you look up.

"like, to gouge his eyes?"

"like to call me".

he tilts his head forward and rakes his hair, releasing it from the ponytail. it's been months and it's getting long again.

should this connection happen last year, gym would've been exhausting. constant presence of him, hearing him pant next to you, his touch on your body, helping or stopping you. he even sometimes grabs your knee not to let you unbend the leg completely. you stop wondering. stop creating fake scenarios in your head about what he thinks, and whether he wants to leave or whatever. he clearly doesn't. he clearly enjoys working out with you. he's like that dog that walks by itself to you so you understand it likes you. there's nothing to question here. you just take it. you're finally - kind of - getting what you wanted, and, miraculously, you don't seem to care. it's a pang of empty pain. you are in his league and have always been. you willed, grew yourself into it. you die to talk to Jimin about it; his absence in your life is gaping, he barely texts you anymore. there's still love between you, you can see he misses you from his infrequent messages. but he's in a good place where he doesn't really need you anymore.

"are you crying?"

you raise your head, and the light blinds you. you wipe your eye with a fist.

"no. just missing Jiminie cricket".

he hums and sits next to you on the bench. you tie your sneakers better after treadmill. your chest is still heaving, heart racing. there must be sweaty heat coming off your body.

"me too. he's coming back soon".

"i miss having loser night parties with him".

Yoongi's face becomes soft.

"he would always race through Seoul to be with me and bring food when i was breaking down".

you bite your tongue but it's too late.

"what were you breaking down about?" he asks simply. without any of those nasty, suggestive undertones.

"stuff. it was hard for me the first couple of years".

"i remember. you used to cry a lot".

he nods to himself. the heart slowly steadies itself.

"don't cry anymore".

"good. nobody's worth it. not the guy who refused to dance with you, for sure".

"oh", you chuckle out of surprise. "yeah no, that's in the past".

he really has no idea, does he? or is he that good at ignoring the reality?

he crunches his button nose and sniffs.

"you ready to go?"

at night, on Monday, Wednesday and Friday, he gives you lifts home. you both are usually too tired to speak in the car. body aches, head hums. you don't get burnt out anymore because the biggest stress factor is gone from your life: your own insanity. it's just you and Min Yoongi the prettiest guy in Seoul in the car. one night a song comes up on the radio and he turns up the volume. brightens up a bit, even shaking off some of the sleepiness.

"ha, there we go".

"what is it?"

it sounds familiar.

"do you not recognize it? shame on you, y/n".

you do, after a couple of seconds, as Jungkook's voice comes through the speakers. the blue crystal voice.

that faint voice of yours that grazed me please call my name one more time i’m standing still under the frozen light, but i will walk towards you, step by step still with you

you never listened to it again after Yuri told you it's about you and Yoongi. it sounded very beautiful, it sounded like it would tear your ribs out one by one if you really listened to the lyrics. now the tsunami crashes on you like you're a lonely palm tree on the beach.

"it's so pretty", Yoongi comments, smiling to the street unfolding ahead. "nice that they are still playing it. Kookie is so good".

your teeth tear out skin off your lip as you disintegrate on the passenger seat. he has no idea and might never have. the old ache clutches your heart, muscles of your stomach contracting so strongly it feels like suddenly you cramp. it's the pain of the last six years, sweet like blood, bubbling, burning you. the kissing with Taehyung, trying to drown this agony out in each other. the empty, lonely streets of your neighbourhood where you were dreaming to hold his hand. you have no idea how the maknae did it, but this song is chewing at your guts. somebody acknowledges the poetic, beautiful and unfixable condition of you. he really must love you very much to understand this much. everybody loves you, you think, spiteful. everybody, except Yoongi. no, you're not cool with it, not cool. you need to get the fuck away from him.

taglist: @ktownshizzle , @benyhime , @ryryvna , @amarawayne , @mar-lo-pap , @lili-spots

[whereforarthur]

Wedding Day Bliss~

Request: I had this idea if a wedding day. Like the whole wedding day leading up to the end of the night. Like the saying their vows and it being really emotional and George tearing up when she is walking down the aisle and the reception and all their friends and family watching them be so in love. Also their first dance as husband and wife I think would be so cute then sharing kisses and just being in their own bubble with George’s friends making speeches.

Pairing: George Clarkey x reader

Rating: PG-13

Category: Fluff

Word Count: 3.3k

*****

"The best thing you can do is find a person who loves you for exactly who you are: good mood, bad mood, ugly, pretty, handsome, what have you. The right person is still going to think the sun shines out of your ass. That's the kind of person that's worth sticking with." —Juno

"You okay, mate?" Arthur's voice cut through the early morning chill as George stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. His hand hovered over the shaving cream, his eyes bloodshot from last night's festivities.

"Yeah, just trying to remember what year it is," George joked, rubbing his hand over his unshaven face. The wedding was in a few hours, and the nerves were starting to set in. He had never felt so alive, so ready to embark on a new chapter with the love of his life. Yet, the gravity of the promise he was about to make weighed on him like the hangover he was pretending not to have.

The house was buzzing with activity, the air thick with excitement and anticipation. The smell of fresh flowers wafted in from the open windows, mingling with the faint scent of his mother's famous breakfast spread. He could hear the distant chatter of the bridesmaids, the occasional burst of laughter, and the clinking of champagne flutes as they toasted to the soon-to-be newlyweds. George took a deep breath and turned to face the day ahead.

When she reached him, George's hand trembled slightly as he took hers. The priest's words were a gentle hum in the background as they exchanged vows, their eyes never leaving each other's.

"Y/N," George began, his voice clear and steady despite the tumult of emotions churning within him. "Thank you for loving me, for understanding me, and for putting up with my friends. They're a wild bunch, but they're mine, and you've welcomed them into your heart without question." He paused, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he thought of the countless nights spent cleaning up after their drunken escapades. "I promise to stand by you, to cherish you, and to laugh with you, even when they're singing off-key karaoke at three in the morning."

Each word felt like a promise etched into their very souls, a declaration that no matter what life threw at them, they would face it together. And as he slipped the ring onto her finger, he knew that he had made the right choice.

The congregation chuckled softly, and George felt a warmth spread through him. He took a deep breath and continued, "I vow to support you in your dreams, even if it means watching every cooking show on Netflix with you." He winked, remembering her passion for culinary mastery, which often resulted in kitchen disasters that only she found amusing. "To be your partner, your confidant, and your rock, as you are mine."

"And now," the priest announced, turning to Y/N, "it is your turn to speak your vows." She took a deep breath, her hand tightening around George's. Her voice was steady and sure as she began, "George, my love, from the moment I met you, I knew you were different. Your kindness, your humor, your unwavering loyalty—these are the traits that have made me fall in love with you over and over again."

The room grew still, captivated by her every word. "I promise to be your home, a place where you can always find comfort and peace. I vow to stand by your side, through every challenge and every victory, holding your hand through it all. I will laugh with you, cry with you, and maybe even dance with you when you're feeling particularly courageous."

Her eyes sparkled with a hint of mischief, and George felt his cheeks warm at the thought of their many dance floor disasters. She went on, "I will cherish every moment we share, from the mundane to the magnificent, because each one is a gift that I never knew I needed until you gave it to me. I will love you fiercely, George, because you have shown me what it means to truly be loved."

The room was silent as the gravity of her words settled over the guests. The emotion in her voice was palpable, and George felt his heart swell with love for this incredible woman. He couldn't wait to spend the rest of his life making her as happy as she made him.

"You may now kiss the bride," the priest announced, breaking the spell. George leaned in, his heart racing, and kissed her softly. It was a kiss that spoke of their future together, a gentle promise of love and protection. The congregation erupted in applause and cheers, and the organist began to play the wedding march.

They walked back down the aisle, hand in hand, smiling at their friends and family. The warmth of their union seemed to radiate outwards, wrapping everyone in a blanket of joy. The light from the stained glass windows painted them in a rainbow of colors, as if the very walls of the church were celebrating with them.

*****

The reception was held in the manor's lush gardens, under a grand marquee that had been set up especially for the occasion. The air was filled with the sweet scent of roses and the sound of laughter. The guests were already mingling, eager to congratulate the newlyweds. As they stepped outside, George and Y/N were greeted by a shower of confetti, thrown by their exuberant friends and relatives. It was like stepping into a whirlwind of love and good wishes.

Throughout the evening, George couldn't help but steal glances at his bride, her smile never fading, her eyes always sparkling. They danced, they talked, they laughed, and with every shared moment, he felt his heart swell with love. The speeches from his friends were equal parts embarrassing and endearing, each one reminding him of the incredible journey that had led them here.

But it was Arthur's speech that truly stole the show. He took the microphone with a grin that was a mix of mischief and affection, his eyes twinkling as he began to recount their escapades from over the years. The room grew quieter, anticipating the tales that were about to unfold.

"Ladies and gentlemen, family and friends," Arthur started, his voice carrying over the clinking of silverware and the gentle hum of conversation. "I stand before you today, not just as George's best man, but as his confidant, his wingman, and occasionally his designated driver." The crowd chuckled, setting the tone for the heartfelt roast that was to come.

"Now, I've known George for what feels like an eternity," Arthur continued, his eyes twinkling with mirth. "We've been through it all—the good, the bad, and the questionably legal. And through it all, he's remained the same lovable, slightly disaster-prone man we all know and love."

The crowd chuckled, and George felt a warmth spread through him as Arthur winked at him. "But today, we're not just celebrating George and Y/N's love story," he said, his tone growing serious. "We're also saying goodbye to the bachelor days, the nights out that ended with pizza on the floor and George's head in the toilet." A collective groan echoed through the room, followed by laughter. "And Y/N, let me just say, you're a brave soul for taking him on. You're not just gaining a husband; you're inheriting a lifetime subscription to 'What the hell was I thinking?' magazine."

Arthur raised his glass, and the room fell silent. "But in all seriousness, George, I couldn't be happier for you. You've found someone who not only puts up with your terrible taste in music and your obsession with superheroes but also makes you a better man. And Y/N, you're not just stealing him from us; you're giving us back a George we haven't seen in a long time—one who's more at peace, more content, and dare I say it, more responsible."

The room erupted in laughter, and George couldn't help but feel a twinge of truth in Arthur's words. Y/N had indeed changed him for the better, bringing order to the chaos that was his life and filling his days with a warmth he hadn't realized he was missing. He looked over at her, her cheeks flushed with a blush that made her look even more radiant, and knew that every second of this new journey with her would be worth it.

As Arthur wrapped up his speech, the DJ took over. The air was electric with joy, and George found himself drawn to Y/N, ready for their first dance as husband and wife. The first dance was a slow, sweet melody that had been playing on the radio the first time they had kissed. As George held her in his arms, their bodies moving in perfect sync, he whispered into her ear, "Thank you for choosing me." Her eyes searched his, filled with a love so deep it seemed to hold the secrets of the universe. "I've always chosen you," she murmured back, her voice filled with a gentle certainty that washed over him like a warm summer rain.

*****

The evening passed in a blur of shared glances, whispered promises, and stolen kisses. The air was electric with love and happiness, and every moment felt like a precious memory in the making. As the night grew darker, the stars began to twinkle outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, echoing the sparkle in their eyes.

Their friends and family watched with smiles, some with misty eyes, as the couple moved in perfect harmony. The lyrics of the song spoke of a love that had withstood the test of time, a promise of forever, and George felt it resonate deep within him. He whispered sweet nothings into Y/N's ear, her cheek pressed against his chest, and she giggled, her happiness infectious.

He couldn't stop thinking about how lucky he was to have her, to call her his wife. Every few seconds, he'd lean down and press a gentle kiss to her forehead, her cheek, her lips—any part of her he could reach without breaking the rhythm of their dance. Her eyes would flutter closed with each touch, a soft sigh escaping her lips, and he knew she felt the same overwhelming love that he did.

A silent conversation of love and adoration that didn't need words to convey the depth of their feelings. The music swelled around them, a cocoon of sound that blocked out the world and left only the two of them, spinning and swaying to the beat of their hearts. The warmth of her body against his was a reassurance that she was real, that this wasn't just some beautiful dream he would wake up from.

From the sidelines, George's friends couldn't help but tease him. They had never seen him so lost in a moment, so utterly consumed by happiness. "Look at him," Chris murmured to Arthur Hill, his own partner in crime at past escapades. "He's gone soft."

Arthur Hill chuckled, raising his glass. "It's about time," he said, a hint of sentimentality in his voice. "He's been chasing that love bug for years. It's good to see him finally catch it."

Their banter grew louder, a playful jab here and there, but the affection behind their words was unmistakable. "You know, I never thought I'd see the day when George Clarkey would be this whipped," Arthur quipped, earning a playful glare from George.

Chris, Max, Arthur, and Arthur Hill had been the life of the party, charming the guests with their wit and camaraderie. They had been an integral part of George's life for years, and seeing them interact with Y/N and her friends was a delightful reminder of how intertwined their worlds had become. Their banter was light-hearted, their laughter infectious, and their love for the couple palpable.

As the night grew later and the music grew softer, the four friends—now bonded by more than just friendship—gathered around George and Y/N, raising their glasses in a toast. "To new beginnings," Arthur said, his voice a blend of joviality and sincerity. "May your love be as wild and unpredictable as our adventures, yet as steadfast as the foundation of this ancient city we call home."

Chris leaned in, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. "And may you never run out of patience for each other," he added with a knowing smile, "because with us around, you're going to need it." The group erupted in laughter, the tension of the day giving way to the easy camaraderie that had carried them through so much.

"To Y/N," Max said, raising his glass higher, "for saving us from ever having to listen to George's dreadful dating stories again." The room buzzed with knowing chuckles, and George couldn't help but laugh along. The group's laughter grew as they reminisced about his infamous Hinge dates—stories of catfishing, awkward silences, and that one girl who had stood him up a record eight times.

Y/N leaned into George, her eyes shining with mirth. "But I'm the one who finally caught you," she whispered, her voice a gentle caress against his ear. "And I'm so happy I could be the one to save you from a life of swiping and ghosting."

Their friends' laughter grew, but George's gaze never left hers. "You didn't just save me," he murmured, his voice low enough that only she could hear. "You gave me a reason to stop looking." He placed a tender kiss on her cheek, the warmth of his lips leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake.

As the music played on, George watched his wife dance with her father, her smile never fading, her eyes shimmering with happiness. The moment was so perfect it hurt. He felt a gentle pat on his shoulder and turned to see Arthur, a solemn look on his face. "You know, George," Arthur said, his voice barely above a whisper, "you're the luckiest man here."

George nodded, the weight of Arthur's words sinking in. "I know," he replied, his voice thick with emotion. "I never thought I'd find someone who could handle all of this—me, us, the fans, the chaos. But she does. She's my sanity in a world gone mad."

*****

The night grew later, the music slower, and the room more intimate. The air was thick with the scent of happiness and the warmth of a love that had conquered all. As the final notes of their first dance played out, George leaned in to kiss his wife, the sweetness of their union echoing in the silence that followed. Their friends and family cheered, but the couple remained lost in their own little world, oblivious to the applause.

The reception wound down, and the photographer captured their love in a series of candid shots, the flashes of the camera a stark contrast to the soft glow of the candlelit room. They mingled with their guests, thanking them for their presence, sharing laughs, and receiving well-wishes that felt like warm embraces. Each moment was a treasure, a memory to hold onto forever.

The rest of the night passed in a whirlwind of dance, laughter, and love. Each moment with Y/N felt like a gift, a precious memory to be stored away and cherished for the rest of their lives. They shared dances with their parents, the joy in their faces reflecting the happiness of their children. They watched as their friends paired off, spinning and laughing, the music weaving a tapestry of memories that would bind them all together for years to come.

Y/N leaned into George, her arms wrapped around his neck. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "Thank you for choosing me, for loving me, for saving me too."

George pulled back slightly, his eyes searching hers. "Saving you?" He cocked his head, a question in his eyes.

Y/N nodded, her smile softening. "From a life of questionable life choices and questionable haircuts," she teased, her thumb gently tracing the line of his freshly trimmed hair. "But mostly, from the loneliness that comes from not knowing your soulmate is out there waiting for you."

George's heart swelled with gratitude, his eyes never leaving hers. "You've done more than that," he whispered, his voice raw with emotion. "You've made me whole, Y/N. You've given me a purpose, a reason to wake up every morning with a smile."

Their friends had cleared the dance floor, giving them space to continue their intimate moment. The soft glow of the fairy lights above them cast a warm, romantic hue over the two of them, as if the universe itself was bending to highlight their love. Y/N's hand found its way to his cheek, her thumb brushing away a tear that had escaped his eye. "And you've done the same for me," she murmured. "You've shown me that love isn't just a word in a book or a scene in a movie. It's real, it's messy, and it's beautiful."

Her words hit him like a tidal wave, the depth of her feelings resonating through his very being. He leaned into her touch, feeling the warmth of her skin, the gentle beat of her heart. "I never knew I could love someone like this," he confessed, his voice a whisper in the stillness of the night. "But here we are, and I can't imagine a single day without you by my side."

*****

The moon had risen high in the sky by the time the party began to wind down. The guests slowly started to say their goodbyes, each one offering congratulations and well wishes for a long and happy life together. As the last of the cars pulled away, George and Y/N stood on the porch, hand in hand, watching the taillights fade into the distance. The cool evening breeze danced around them, carrying with it the promise of a future filled with love and adventure.

Turning to face him, Y/N looked up into George's eyes, her own sparkling with a hint of mischief. "Ready for our grand finale?" she asked, a playful smile playing on her lips.

George raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. "Grand finale?"

"Mm-hmm," she nodded, her smile growing wider. "The part where we finally get to be alone."

"Alone?" George echoed, feigning innocence. "What could possibly happen when we're alone?"

Y/N rolled her eyes playfully. "Oh, I'm sure we can think of something," she teased, her voice dropping to a seductive whisper.

The banter between them was light, a playful dance of words that had become a hallmark of their relationship. George's cheeks flushed slightly, the humor in his eyes betraying his excitement. "First time as husband and wife, you mean," he clarified with a grin, squeezing her hand.

"Ah, yes," Y/N giggled, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "But you know what they say, practice makes perfect."

Without a moment's hesitation, George bent down, wrapping one arm under her knees and the other around her waist, and scooped her up into his arms. She squealed with delight, her gown fluttering around them as he spun her in a circle. "Let's get to it then, Mrs. Clarkey," he said, his grin growing wider with each passing second.

Her laughter was like music to his ears, a sweet symphony that had played on repeat in his mind since the moment they first met. "I can't wait," she exclaimed, her cheeks flushed with excitement. The night was still young, and the possibilities stretched out before them like a never-ending horizon.

Carrying her over the threshold, George felt his heart swell with a love so profound, it was almost painful. This was it—the start of their forever, a journey they would navigate together, hand in hand.

He kicked the door shut with his foot, the sound echoing through the now empty house. The quiet was a stark contrast to the buzz of the wedding, but it was a welcome one. The world outside could wait—this moment was theirs, and theirs alone.

[kimoralov3]

mornin'

mornings in the harrington household had become synonymous with chaos.

"willow dear, would you please sit down so mommy can give you your breakfast?" steve pleaded with your 7 year old as he wrestled your 1 year old daughter into her highchair. you would think by now he would learn how strong babies can be.

willow, always wanting to be helpful, ignored steve's plea. instead, she was busy trying to convince her 4 year old brother asher to leave his toys behind and join the five of you at the table. she wasn't having much luck either.

"willow, sweetie?" you call as you help steve get sage into her highchair. willow turns to you and smiles sweetly.

"yes, mommy?" she asks as she drops her brother's hand.

"you know what would be really helpful? if you sat down at the table first. asher will surely follow the lead of his big sister, hm?" you say as you continue trying to get sage into her highchair. you let out a triumphant laugh as you finally manage to get her in, steve buckling her up.

willow thinks about it for a minute, seemingly considering her options. she eventually decides that you're right, climbing up into her assigned seat beside steve. you mumble a thank you and press a quick kiss on her head, smiling as you see asher climbing up in his seat beside you.

you quickly tear up their waffles, making sure they've cooled down enough before setting their plates and forks in front of them. willow had basically achieved mastery when it came to using utensils, but asher still had a few accidents every once in a while. you just have to keep an eye on him.

"god damn it." you hear steve mumble as sage hits her bowl, causing the contents to spill over. you quickly hand him the wet wipes, picking up the bowl and placing it by the kitchen sink. "guess she's not hungry." he jokes as he unbuckles sage and hands her off to you.

you laugh as you settle sage on your hip, grabbing a wipe to clean off her face. she whines softly as it touches her face, yanking her head back. "c'mon sweetie, we have to get all the oats off your face." you say as you gently bounce her on your hip. after a few more failed attempts, you finally manage to calm her and wipe the breakfast from her chubby cheeks.

the rest of the morning goes on without a hitch, you and steve helping willow and aj get ready for school.

"dad, where's my project?" aj asks as steve helps buckle him into his car seat. the both of you freeze, giving each other a subtle look.

"what project are you talking about, bud?" steve asks as he straightens up.

"the family tree! you and mommy helped me with it last night." he says as he looks between the two of you. steve looks at you once more, silently begging for help.

you falter for a moment, trying to remember what your son could possibly be talking about. last night, after you made dinner the kids all took a bath, then you all watched an episode of clifford before putting all the kids to bed. once they were settled, you and steve enjoyed a nice glass of wine before-

"oh shit." you mutter as you close your eyes.

"that's a bad word mommy!" willow says quickly.

"sorry sweetheart, mommy'll put a dollar in the swear jar." you apologize as you give your eldest a sweet smile before turning to aj. "i'll go grab your project right now, okay sweetie?"

steve watches as you scurry off back into the house, confused and concerned. when you come back a few minutes later with a mess of blue and green construction paper, it all clicks for steve.

aj had gotten out of bed last night while the two of you were on the couch, telling you (for the first time, to steve's irritation) about a family tree project he had for school. the two of you were slightly drunk, so the resulting project was a half assed cutout of a blue tree with green leaves to represent every member of your little family.

"what would i do without you?" steve mutters as you pass by him. you chuckle, handing aj the project before turning to face your husband.

"be stuck with three crying children." you joke before getting in the passenger seat. steve rolls his eyes, although he has to admit that there is some truth to your statement.

---

a/n: shout out to jess (@arkofblake) she helped me create this world lol

[imaginedreamwrite]

Damned Together

Part 3: Rust & Ruins

The pack bearing weight on your back was a minor inconvenience when you had taken in the appearance of the wreckage outside the vault. The heavy load bearing down on your shoulders, the edges of the straps cutting into the base of your neck, was minute.

It was nothing compared to the shock that had hit you square in the chest when you had stepped off the metal edge of the vault you’d left. There was nothing short of absolute carnage that had extended from the vault’s door to the nearest ruin. The extension of sun and sand, burning heat that was unkempt from the lack of anything to shield it, was something entirely new to you.

You stood still as you took in the vast expanse of destruction caused by the nukes over 200 years ago. Your eyes had scoped out what it could before you were equally distracted. Your attention was taken by the soft noises coming from the carrier strapped to the front of you.

Ophelia Grace was the only other living soul to escape the attack and fire on the vault. It was an unseemly and irrevocable attack—one that had been completely devastating to the outside world.

You stumbled forward and caught yourself, resting a hand upon baby Ophelia’s head to stabilize her. The weight of this all, of all the devastation had compiled into what you had just witnessed in the vault. Skeletons littered the exterior of the vault, and if there weren’t skeletons, then there were human remains encased in the sand.

In the foreground, you could see decrepit pieces of humankind’s mastery—broken and marred steel caked with thick coats of rust or blasted by sand. There was a gentle hum of something nearby, or maybe it was the vault itself, though you couldn’t focus on that. Instead, you had stepped forward and then again, trying not to step on the bleached bones that littered the ground.

You get a good twenty feet away from the vault door when you take a look down at the baby. Mrs. Coleman had a carrier inside the room, untouched and saved from the fire, made of sturdy cloth. The inside was lined with a pastel peach colour that was reminiscent of the colours in their kitchen.

In the pack that weighed on your back, you’d gotten as many clothes for the baby as you could. You had managed to pack formula for the baby, contained in a few lightweight cans, canisters of fresh water to mix for her.

There had been various baby items that you had wished you could take; however, there was little you could carry. Soothers and clothes, formula and clean water, clothes and the few personal items in the room.

Guilt for taking the woman’s clothes for yourself would have rendered itself in you. But guilt was as fleeting as all of your lives were, and there was no going back. For 23 years, you were given nothing but hospital grade gowns and medical robes to wear. You were given a bare minimum, you had nothing for yourself, and you needed to have something.

Mrs. Coleman had few pieces of clothing outside the blue and yellow jumpsuit—although what she did have was well-made and fit like a glove—however, it was enough. There was something lingering on the back of your mind when you had first taken from her, how odd it was to be wearing a dead woman’s clothes.

“Ophelia Grace,” you spoke her name as she slept against your chest, her long lashes resting against the tops of her cheeks. She was so unaware of what was going on around her. She was innocently sleeping as if she were with her mother the entire time—she would never know what they would try to turn her into.

The prodding and the poking, the feeling of your skin burning itself from the bone, the radioactive exposure, the life behind a sealed vault separated from the rest of the world…that was not what she would experience. Not like you.

 But you two were the sole survivors. And you were now responsible for this baby, this newborn who was less than 2 months old. How were you supposed to care for yourself in a world you had no experience in? And then add to that, taking care of a child?

You had taken two child-rearing books from the Coleman’s room. One was based solely around the first year of a baby’s life, and the other was for early childhood. If you could survive the first few months on the outside, you would be able to learn from them.

If you survived, that was the opportune word…

Your body has been genetically modified to survive in the radiation, much like Ophelia’s was. While she was just a baby, and they had just done the procedure to ensure and survive in the radioactive environment, she hadn’t been exposed to it like you had. There was a due process to being exposed to radiation and monitoring the levels that your body could absorb before you got sick.

You remembered every canister that was thrown through the hole in the ceiling. You remembered every jab of the needles as they took blood and monitored your bone density. Bone marrow sucked from you which had healed over time, a kind of procedure that was just another notch—another dehumanizing way for them to use you like you were a living pharmacy.

She would never have to go through that, she would never have to but put under anesthesia. Even if it was for an hour, or a few, Ophelia Grace Coleman—as she was called on the birth certificate—would never feel that pain.

Part of you was relieved in that, and the other half was debating whether it was truly better to be out here. In the wilds, where you had no way of knowing what was out there, you had no real defensive abilities save for a few knives you’d taken.

Was it more merciful for the two of you to be out here? Or should you have stayed in that broken and charred vault?

The way the sand had shifted beneath your feet made it difficult for you to walk. You stumbled more than once, unaccustomed to the weight at your back and being cautious of the baby on your front.

You had raised a hand, at some point, and shielded your eyes from the sharp tint of the sun. As you scoped out the heat radiating from the sands and the sun, you had found another derelict set of buildings a few miles in the distance.

Like the buildings you had already passed, marred metal and rust has poked through the ground like jarred spines. The buildings, you imagined, would have been hundreds of feet tall. You pondered for a moment if it was the buildings were originally used as offices for the people who had lived in the area before the bombs. Or were the marred metal the foundations of houses for those people.

Regardless, it wouldn’t have matter much now. The damage was done, and you had the good sense to get to cover before dark. Even if you were holed up in one of the abandoned buildings or houses on the outskirts of that settlement ahead of you.

The baby would need to be fed the formula, you would need to eat and recover your energy yourself. The radiation—through the processes of altering your genetic and DNA code—allowed the radiation in the air to be converted into something useful. It was like having iron, vitamin b12, vitamin C or vitamin D, it gave you a certain amount of energy.

Yet, that conversion didn’t replace sleep and restfulness, and you would need both for the following day.

“We’re in this together, you know?” After a long-winded silence, you started talking to her. The baby in the carrier you’d taken from the vault was still sleeping, occasionally she would make noises or shift slightly.

You had questions whether her being close to your chest allowed her to sleep easier—with your heartbeat acting like a white noise machine for her.

“I don’t know how to take care of a baby, I don’t know what I’m doing.” Your breath came out ragged, your body weary and tired from the continuous trek from the vault.

You truly were at a loss here, in this vast wasteland. You had known less than anyone else in your vault, and if it hadn’t been for the books they’d given you to mentally stimulate yourself, you would have been as clueless as the baby was.

Regardless of your isolation from the rest of them, you could read and write, you had a complete education despite being alone. And there was little to educationally separate you from the rest of the population of the vault.

“I’m talking to you like you can respond,” you groan and moved the pack and the straps on your shoulders, attempting to shift the weight to a slightly different position, “you won’t speak for…well, I really don’t know how long.”

Your pause and your break had only lasted so long, and then you had to continue. Your feet worked against you, almost seemingly becoming encased in concrete despite the urgency to move. You clenched your teeth and grimaced when you felt gritty sand in your mouth. You would’ve wanted to spit, to try to get the small flecks out of your mouth with water—instead you pressed on.

You were less than a half mile toward the outskirts of the ruined city when the familiar shrieking cry started. You lowered your gaze to the carried the baby was in and glanced at her with furrowed brows. Her face was scrunched, and her eyes had become screwed closed, while her lips were parted in her startling cry. You stood frozen as you stared down at her, wondering if this kind of cry was a hunger cry or if she needed a change.

“Shh, shh….” Unrelentingly you had tried to quiet her down, to no avail. You couldn’t have stopped here and taken care of her, not in the sand and the sun, not out in the open.

You tried again to quiet her, once more failing before the sound of something chittering behind you had gardened your attention. You took a languid look over your shoulder, spying the deformed looking roach-like creature scurrying on the ground toward you.

Fear replaced the attempt to quiet Ophelia down, and you had to rest a hand on the back of her head, holding her against your chest. Adrenaline had pumped through your veins as you started running for the decrepit city. The urgency to find shelter was a pressing manner, especially since the cockroach creatures had doubled in numbers.

“Shh, shh, it's okay…” Panic was evident in your voice, and your heart was racing wildly. Ophelia was screaming and screeching, unbeknown to the things following you.

It was hunger or the need for a change that fuelled her; it was fear that fuelled you.

You stepped over the threshold of the ruined city and found the first viable shelter. You jolted yourself up the warped and splintered wood staircase, carrying the heavy load. As you looked out at the window that only had shredded glass still ensconced in the frame, you saw the roaches leaving.

They were in pursuit of something else to chase and devour, something apart from you to eat. You recoiled from the window and first dumped the pack off your shoulders. You winced and raised a hand to rub the sides of your neck where the straps dug in. Your fingers massaged the skin before your attention shifted to the baby.

“Are you hungry? Or do you need a change?” You dug through the pack for a changing blanket and unfolded it on the floor. You were careful not to set her on anything that could be sharp, and then you slowly undid her from the carrier.

“Shh, shh…” you quieted her, or tried to, and slowly undid the protective jumper she was wearing. Your fingertips were shaky but as you had undone the zipper you pulled it down to her hips and then her thighs.

Your hand shot out to rummage through the pack, finding a diaper. You didn’t know what you were doing, but there was little trial and error involved. You followed the basic design of the diaper and got her changed and redressed.

“You’re hungry, I know…” you whispered to her, briefly glancing at the setting sun before you cast your eyes upon her once more. “… I’m going to get your formula.”

Mrs. Coleman had a few bottles for her that were already filled with milk and formula that you had taken. Of the 4 she had, you had given Ophelia 2 and a half. You had grabbed the half bottle still available and lifted her into your arms. You cradled her delicate head in the crook of your arms and brushed the nipple of the bottle against her bottom lip.

Your eyes grew heavy as you fed her, listening to her suckle and ingest the formula like she was starving. Closing your eyes and exhaling, you leaned your head back against the wooden wall and let your shoulders droop.

You were exhausted. You were stuck in a strange position between wanting to grieve for the people of the vault you belonged to—despite never being able to be in the general populace—and letting it roll off you like water off a duck’s back.   Your exhaustion bleeds into sleep, and sleep finds you quick.

You don’t wake until you hear the cry of Ophelia again. You shot away and sat up, eyes widening and your heart stopping as you looked at her.

Panic was overwhelming, it had hit you with an unseemly force. Your breathing rate had increased to a rapid speed, as you tried to suck in air as quickly as you could. It had felt like you were being choked, like someone had a hand around your throat and the pressure was increasing.

Her wailing starts and stops, and you find her across the top floor of this dilapidated house. There sitting in the dimly lit corner is someone unworldly holding her. The soothed from the vault is in her mouth, her eyes wide as she stares up at whatever is holding her.

There’s a glow from something it’s smoking, the orange-red end releasing a trail of a grey-blue haze. You can see a worn and leather cowboy hat upon his head, and a tattered leather duster on his body. 

“Ophelia!” You lurch forward and come to a halting stop at the click of a gun. Overpassing clouds part and a steady stream of moonlight cast upon whoever is holding her.

You feel your heart lurching again, your stomach churning when you see him. He looks human-like but not quite, his skin is marred and looks like it’s been burnt. His eyes are considerably light, and it strikes you deep, though it’s the appearance of his nose, or what’s missing, that makes you feel fearful of that he could be. He’s got a faint kind of orange tint to his skin, and it’s clear that there are scars littering his entire body.

You had seen pictures of bodies exposed to nuclear bombs when testing had begun over a century ago. The bodies that had been marred by the deadly explosions certainly matched the looks of this stranger.

“Long way away from a vault, sweetheart. Especially with a baby. Smoothies like yourself are prime targets for raiders and fucking cannibals.” He clicks the gun in his hand and points it at you, before he looks down at the baby, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

“Give her back—“ You try to move again and the sound of a gun firing startles you and stops you in your tracks. Your eyes widen, and your hands start to feel your body for blood, and its only when you realize you’re not bleeding that you look behind you.

Embedded in the wooden wall is a damn near perfect hole, where the bullet embedded. You draw out a shaky breath and turn to look at him again, your hands trembling as your gaze drops to Ophelia. The sound startled her, her cries increasing desperate and fearful. His hold on her tightens, but it seems like it’s all just natural to him.

“You take another step toward me sweetheart, I’ll blow a hole in your fucking knee.” He lowers the gun to the direction of your knee and tilts his head slowly to the left. “Now sit.”

Tag list: @gruffle1

[arainbowofchaos]

You're my light ✩

pair: Jungkook x reader

genre : mainly angst and a sprinkle of fluff, owing to Jungkook's charming persona :)

warnings: mentions of alcoholism, depression, agoraphobia, daddy issues and grief

word count: 9k

summary: Trapped by social anxiety within the confines of your home, your world transforms upon Jungkook's arrival, your new neighbor. Little do you know, he's not just a stranger but a figure from your past with some hidden history. Could Jungkook hold the key to mend your emotional wounds and lead you towards healing?

[A/N]: Please lemme know what you think I'm getting anxiety just posting the whole thing, kinda put my heart in it. Thank you for taking the time to read.

Emotionally wounded, you watch raindrops collide with the windowpane in your kitchen, wondering how the rain would feel on your skin. Rain is a soothing melody, a solace that you have come to cherish. Over time, this sound became comforting, like a song on repeat. On days like this, the push to do anything fades away, and the guilt dissolves.

Childhood memories of carefree puddle-splashing play in your mind, a stark contrast to your current existence. You long to regain that spirit, but stepping outside triggers a heartache. It's sad how you have become a recluse, avoiding the world. In shame, you look at your hands, still holding the knife you've been using to chop vegetables. The rain has captured your attention, making cooking an afterthought.

This routine has become your comfort zone. You no longer venture beyond your home, convinced that there's nothing worthwhile outside. You find contentment in isolating yourself from the world around you. Your sensitivity is heightened to the point that everything wounds you – every comment, gesture, and thought grazes against you, leaving scars that will never fade. You've resigned yourself to living with these wounds indefinitely, seeing no reason to expose yourself to new ones. 

Your mother had preached the importance of moving forward, but confidantes are scarce since her departure. Loneliness envelops you, and you carry your burdens alone. Pills offer fleeting relief from the pain, granting you sleep.

Your father's feelings of resentment towards you are like a cloud that comes and goes. He struggles with alcohol, which makes things even more complicated. Even though you left his home a long time ago, he still shows up at your place from time to time, causing scenes and making things difficult. His hurtful words and actions when you were younger have left deep scars, making you scared of trusting men and feeling like you don't deserve love. 

Until your new neighbor steps into your life.

One Monday morning, he rings your doorbell persistently, but you consciously choose to ignore it. The chime continues to echo, punctuating the air with its urgency, yet you remain resolute, showcasing your mastery of avoidance.

His second visit takes a different turn. Instead of ringing or knocking, he leaves a dish of hwajeon for you on your doorstep, thoughtfully covered with a plastic dome. As you bend down to retrieve the dish, a note beneath it captures your attention.

"Hey there, I'm your new neighbor. Hope we can meet soon. Jeon Jungkook."

You're speechless. No one has ever made cakes for you before this day. Neither neighbors nor family have ever shown the slightest attention since your mother passed away. On that afternoon, you indulge in three floral cakes, sitting on your couch and sipping your red berry tea. And in that moment, your heart feels a bit lighter than usual. It's strange but for once, you feel like someone actually cares.

Jungkook doesn't wait long before coming for his third visit. When he knocks this time, you open the door right away, handing him his plate. It's been cleaned and carefully wrapped in a bag. Taking the bag quickly, he looks at you with surprise in his big brown eyes.

"Hey, I'm Jungkook." 

"Hi, I'm Y/N. Thanks for the cakes... they were really good," you say, feeling a bit awkward. This kind of attention is new to you.

He grins, his dimples catching your attention. With that in mind, you take a quick look at him from top to bottom. He's tall and wears loose clothing, with piercings in his lip, ear, and eyebrow, and his arm is covered in tattoos. His underground style seems to suit him perfectly. He's definitely not your average guy.

"Thanks. I run the Kiwa Café downtown. Maybe you could drop by sometime?" 

"Yeah, sorry, I'm not really the type to go out. Have a good one."

You attempt to close the door, but he stops it with his arm. He’s got some strong arms.

"Wait, what if I bring you more treats to try? Since you don't really go out." he suggests.

You're taken aback, finding it hard to believe what you're hearing. Your expression softens as you timidly nod. Jungkook responds with a warm smile, saying, "Great, I'll drop by tomorrow with more goodies. And perhaps you could treat me to some coffee?" He playfully winks and takes a step back. His body remains turned toward you, as if he's reluctant to turn away. You thank him once more and close the door before he leaves your driveway.

You're left in a state of shock. What does this guy want? Why is he being so kind? You can't quite grasp the situation, but one thing is certain: you appreciate his way of talking to you. He effortlessly makes you feel comfortable, a rare occurrence for you.

The following day, Jungkook shows up at your door, dressed in a black crop top, a denim jacket, and blue ripped jeans. He's brought chocolate-filled hotteoks for you. You're torn between the excitement of the pancakes on your kitchen table and the delight of having Jungkook strolling through your apartment, softly singing. His presence carries a warm aura that envelops you in its positive energy.

You've fulfilled your promise and offered him a cup of coffee, complete with a metallic pink plate and a dessert fork. He finds the color charming, and you blush because compliments about your tableware are a rarity. As you both savor the sweet treats and chat, you learn more about each other. You find out that he's a lifelong resident of Busan and that he chose to move out of his parents' house because his brunch restaurant is thriving. The business is doing so well that he's been able to hire additional staff. He's looking to create more space in his life to enjoy moments outside of work.

When he asks you why you no longer leave your home, you honestly reply that there is nothing waiting for you and that you are content with the way things are. He listens without passing any judgment, a quality you greatly appreciate.

As your conversation drifts to cooking and books, you uncover that he's a sensitive and humorous individual, incapable of harboring negative judgments against others. Talking to him feels effortless; he has a way of making you feel at ease and never foolish. His voice carries a gentle cadence. He speaks slowly, ensuring that each word glides smoothly from his lips. There's no rush, just like the soothing sound of raindrops tapping against your window. It dawns on you that you could easily become accustomed to the comforting sound of Jungkook's voice filling the air as he talks to you.

Your conversation is abruptly disrupted by a forceful knock on the door, and your heart clenches as you apprehensively consider the potential visitor. In an instant, your father enters without warning, causing your heart to race. His surprise is unmistakable as he takes in the sight of Jungkook in your kitchen.

"Who's this guy?" Your father snaps, his gaze fixed directly on Jungkook. His anger radiates palpably, and you can easily discern the influence of alcohol in his slurred speech.

You remain silent, feeling deeply uncomfortable and shocked. Jungkook notices your immediate tensing as he enters. Just moments ago, you were just fine, but now it's painfully clear that this new arrival is unwelcome. Since you don't respond and seem terrified, Jungkook decides to speak up.

"I'm Jungkook, your new neighbor. And you?" Jungkook stands up and extends his hand to your father, who responds with a forceful strike rather than a handshake. You shiver from head to toe, feeling helpless in finding the right words to say.

"Get the hell outta here!" the man continues aggressively. However, Jungkook appears entirely unimpressed; he's determined to understand who this man is to you and won't leave you alone with him unless you confirm it's your wish.

"Y/N, you good?" Jungkook's concern shows. Tears well up in your eyes, and no sound emerges from your mouth. You feel like you can't breathe; a panic attack takes hold, and you're desperately trying to calm yourself.

"And she's crying again, what a mess!" your father curses. Those words are enough to prompt Jungkook to take a step forward, his tone resolute but composed.

"Sir, I'd appreciate it if you left now," Jungkook addresses your father calmly. "Y/N needs some space, and I think it's best for all of us if you give her that."

Your father's face turns red with anger, and his frustration becomes even more evident. He clenches his fists, and for a moment, it feels like he's about to explode. "An' who do ya even think y'are, tellin' me how t'handle my own family?" he fires back, his voice rising.

Jungkook maintains his composure, though a trace of concern flickers in his eyes. "I'm not trying to tell you what to do. I just want to help. Y/N deserves a bit of calm right now," he says, his tone even.

Your father's anger escalates into a scene. He raises his voice, exclaiming, "I dun' need no stra-nger tellin' me 'bout my own daugh-ter!" His words reverberate in the room, thickening the tension.

Jungkook keeps his gaze on your father, his patience unwavering. "I'm not here to lecture anyone. I'm just asking for a bit of understanding."

After a heated exchange of words, your father lets out an exasperated sigh and storms out of the room, the door slamming shut behind him. The room is left in an uneasy stillness, the weight of the confrontation lingering in the air. You're now alone with Jungkook, your heart still racing from the encounter.

Jungkook returns his attention to you, his expression softening. "Hey, you're okay. He's gone now. Just take deep breaths, alright? You're safe."

His words provide a soothing balm to your frayed nerves. You manage to steady your breathing, focusing on Jungkook's reassuring presence.

"Thank you," you whisper, your voice still trembling.

Your new neighbor offers a gentle smile. "No need to thank me. I'm just here to make sure you're okay."

Without a word, Jungkook takes a step closer, his intention clear. You feel a warmth emanating from him, an unspoken gesture of support.

And then, in a moment of profound understanding, his arms envelop you in a gentle embrace. You welcome it, allowing yourself to lean into the hug, feeling his comforting presence wrap around you. Your hands find their place around his small waist, fingers curling slightly.  It's been years since you've been hugged. Feeling Jungkook against you, his black curls tickling your face, his scent—a blend of orange and passion flower—is intoxicating.

...

The recent days have brought a wave of happiness, unlike any you've experienced in a long time. Jungkook has become a constant presence, visiting you almost every evening after closing his café. Each time, he arrives bearing the day's leftover treats, and you've noticed a pattern – it's almost as if he sets some items aside especially for you, given the appearance of new treats daily.

When he arrives, the two of you embark on culinary adventures together. Seeing him wear your pink apron unexpectedly charms you. He often ties his hair in a small bun, a detail you can't help but notice and find appealing. His comfort in your space is noticeable, and he respects your boundaries. He doesn't ask intrusive questions, and his curiosity never makes you uncomfortable. You feel grateful that he doesn't push for explanations after the incident with your father. 

As the days pass, Jungkook's daily visits continue, leaving you to ponder the underlying reasons behind his actions. This situation intrigues you - you perceive yourself as ordinary, yet his consistently caring behavior since the beginning prompts you to wonder what might be driving it.

It's hard for you to fathom why your new neighbor seems so determined to drop by every day. You've contemplated the possibility that his feelings might extend beyond friendship, but considering you've only known each other for a week, it's unsettling.

It's the way he gazes at you intensely when he assumes you're not looking, and how he naturally gravitates towards your presence. It's not an everyday occurrence for such an attractive individual to show active interest in you. Slowly, you find yourself beginning to rely on his company, and it leaves you feeling anxious.

Gathering your thoughts, you find the courage to ask the question that has been swirling in your mind.

"Jungkook... I gotta know, why do you come over every single day?"

Surprise lights up his eyes; it's evident that he hadn't anticipated such a direct inquiry. He clears his throat, and a slight blush graces his cheeks.

"I really enjoy hanging out with you. If my visits bug you, just let me know" he answers, his voice gentle and reassuring. He fidgets with his lip piercing, briefly averting his gaze before locking eyes with you once again, a newfound intensity behind his look. While you accept his response, an intuitive feeling suggests that there's more beneath the surface.

"How can I put this?” You start to ponder with a touch of caution. “I like having you around. But I can't help but wonder if this routine might get old for you."

He shakes his head vehemently, his gaze tinged with a hint of sadness at what you've just suggested. Then, he asserts with conviction, "I value every moment we spend together, whether it's here or anywhere else. I'd love to take you out sometime, but I don't wanna rush it. What matters is us being together like this."

His way of conveying his feelings is beautifully simple; he genuinely just wants to spend time with you. You're flattered, and your astonishment is transparent on your face – it's as if you're struggling to believe the sincerity he's displaying. As Jungkook takes a step closer, the soft scent of his cologne envelops the room, infusing the air with a comforting familiarity. He gently tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers warm against your skin, and looks at you with a tenderness that's impossible to misunderstand. The truth of his intention is unmistakable.

"I want you to know how amazing you are. Seriously,"  he tells you with unwavering enthusiasm. Your head unconsciously tilts toward his touch, like a flower leaning into the sunlight, and your motion garners a fond chuckle from him. "And you're super cute, too."

Even though you're not really looking for romance, you find yourself hoping to have him around as much as you can. You know that his interest might not last forever, but you're not focusing on that right now. The happiness he brings you in the present is what matters most.

This is what ultimately leads you to the decision of accepting his invitation to join him for a drink at his café.

"You know what? I've been thinking... I'd like to check out your café. See where you work," you admit, your words laced with a mixture of curiosity and eagerness.

Jungkook's face brightens, a wide grin forming on his face. His enthusiasm is palpable as he practically springs up from his seat.

"Really? That's awesome!" he exclaims, the genuine delight in his voice making your heart skip a beat. You both reach an agreement that this visit will happen before the café's opening hours. The next day, he'll come to pick you up in his car, a detail that adds a tinge of excitement to the anticipation.

...

If you were to describe Jungkook's café, you'd say it's vibrant and luminous. The space isn't huge, but it's cozy. Along the bay window's entire length, carefully arranged flower pots create a greenhouse-like atmosphere. Small tables are tucked away in this space. The use of materials, like wood and black metal, adds an industrial feel. The ambiance radiates warmth and elegance, suggesting he's tailored the café to match his personality.

From Jungkook's expression, you can tell how delighted he is that you wanted to explore his work. You understand how much energy and passion he's invested in his business. It warms your heart to see him bustling behind the counter, preparing your black sesame lattes while humming a happy tune.

When he joins you at the table nearest to the bay window, right beside the azaleas (which are so exquisite that you want to appreciate them up close), he places the two lattes on the table with utmost care. A heart-shaped milk foam graces the surface of your latte, an attention to detail that elicits another slightly quicker heartbeat from you.

Amused, Jungkook observes your contemplation of the drink, a playful glint in his eyes. You lift your gaze, your cheeks tinged with a soft blush, and you offer a genuine expression of gratitude. If he punctuates this exchange with a sly wink, it's merely to incite laughter and a fond roll of your eyes – he's become quite attuned to your reactions.

Taking out his phone, Jungkook seems a bit nervous and asks, "Can I take a picture of you?" 

"Why? I... uh…" Panic sets in – photos aren't really your thing, and you kind of wish you could just disappear.

"It's like your first time out in forever, you know? Capturing the moment could be cool."

But you're not totally convinced. You're thinking of saying it's kind of silly, and honestly, you don't feel like you deserve all this attention. I mean, you're mostly here because of him, right?

"What if you took a picture of me too?"

It's this last proposition that changes your mind. A photograph of Jungkook is something you genuinely desire. Perhaps it could be a way to keep him close even when he's absent? You might seem like a stalker, but your newly awakened feelings can't be suppressed. You nod and retrieve your rarely-used phone; this seems like the perfect opportunity.

He gets into a pose all effortlessly, with this tender look in his eyes. You snap the shot, capturing his cute smile forever in your phone's gallery.

"Now it's my turn."

You're not sure how to pose, so you just kind of shyly look at him while holding up your latte.

"You look really nice," he says quietly from behind his phone, and those words make you way happier than you'd admit. Taking a sip of your coffee, you segue into conversation.

"Your coffee is amazing, and I really love the vibe. I get why it's doing well."

He grins at your nice words, looking kind of proud.

"Thanks, I'm glad you like it. You're welcome here anytime."

"I don't want to bother you while you're working, though."

"Nah, you're not bothering me. Time drags when you're not around."

And you're not sure if it's the latte or just his friendliness, but words start flowing out before you can even think.

"I could actually work here. It'd be a good spot for me to write my articles."

Jungkook nearly chokes on his coffee, but he's got this big happy smile on his face.

"That would be awesome," he says, all gentle and sincere.

This is the first time a man has made you feel so desired in a way that isn't just about the physical. He also feels the need to have you around all the time. He's equally invested. And even if you don't fully comprehend your contribution, you're determined to reciprocate, to make him feel as special as he makes you feel.

...

You've been involved in writing literary articles for a long time, tracing back to your primary passion: reading. It all started with a simple personal blog during your teenage years, where sharing your thoughts online gradually captured your interest. As your blog gained more followers, you could sense your confidence and pride blossoming. Suddenly, at 20 years old, an unexpected opportunity knocked on your door. A renowned literary journal offered you a chance to write a weekly article. The thought of working remotely and getting paid to review new publications felt almost unreal. Writing was the most cherished aspect of your life, and this offer meant the world to you.

But little did you realize that this enjoyment of yours could deepen even further... until that fateful day when you made the decision to spend your time working in Jungkook's café. 

As you step into the café on your own, he instantly notices, rushing over with uncontained excitement to envelop you in a tight hug, even lifting you off the ground. The words of genuine pride he whispers into your ear create a unique warmth that ignites within you. Experiencing his authentic appreciation becomes one of the most heartwarming sensations you've known.

And then, unexpectedly, he brings forth an assortment of beverages – tea, lemonade, and orange juice – with almost whimsical efficiency, all in quick succession, "to keep you perfectly hydrated!" His insistence on not accepting any payment only adds to the sincerity of the gesture.

As night's curtain descends upon the café, he bids his farewell to the last customer, turning to cast you a smile that seems to hold the very essence of genuineness and sincerity. "What an absolutely incredible day!" he exclaims with an infectious enthusiasm that swiftly spreads to you. 

Throughout the day, you've been attentively observing Jungkook as he effortlessly manages the café's bustling operations. Every interaction with customers is an exquisite display of his innate politeness and warmth. From the way he greets them with a genuine smile to how he takes the time to inquire about their preferences, it's clear that his kindness isn't reserved just for you. 

You're deeply moved by how your connection with Jungkook has grown. He's been persistent in breaking down your walls from the very start. This transformation is clear: in a short time, Jungkook has become a significant part of your life, a cherished friend. Despite initially thinking you could handle things alone, you're now openly admitting that his presence brings you real happiness.

The issue lies in the fact that when you return home in the evenings after your days spent together, the burden of anxiety returns to rest upon your shoulders. A new kind of apprehension emerges – the fear of losing the friendship that provides you with so much solace. Tears well up at the mere thought of a future without him, and you're frustrated with yourself for feeling this way. Why does it seem so difficult for you to appreciate the current moment? You find yourself convinced that someone as wonderful as Jungkook doesn't belong in your life, especially when he embodies all the qualities you could ever wish for in a person.

...

Jungkook vividly remembers the first time he laid eyes on you. Both of you were in middle school, but in different classes due to your two-year age difference. He was pushed by a classmate from your class because he was doodling cute characters on paper instead of playing soccer. Instead of making fun of him like everyone else, you stepped in to defend him. At that time, you were more confident, and confronting others didn't bother you. You simply couldn't ignore injustice. When you helped him pick up his pencils from the ground and flattened his crumpled drawing under your books, you said words he could never forget, "Hey, don't let anyone boss you around. You've got every right to follow your passions!" with a wink that made his stomach flip. He didn't know what love was back then, but that's when he started paying attention to you.

That's why he noticed the exact moment when the change occurred in you. He still doesn't know the reason to this day, but it used to torture him. He observed how you withdraw into yourself. You spent time alone during breaks, barely responding to your classmates' invitations. He liked coming close to you to draw, and you didn't object; you let him do it as you read your book quietly. Occasionally, you exchanged knowing glances, but no words were spoken. During those moments, he felt like he was supporting you – not leaving you alone like everyone else seemed to do. How could he not notice the spark extinguished in your eyes? You, who used to talk and laugh loudly, had become silent.

And then one day, you finished school and he lost sight of you. It made him really sad, his heart felt broken without you around. What you might not know is that Jungkook never forgot you, even during the years when he couldn't find you. He held onto memories of you, even when he had chances for romantic relationships. The idea of you stayed in his thoughts, making it difficult for him to let go completely, his mind always coming back to you.

A few months ago, he came across an article written by you – he couldn’t believe it. Just seeing your name brought back so many memories. He dedicated hours to reading your frequently updated blog. Learning that you've been residing near his café filled him with immense joy. He felt like the luckiest person alive.

And so, he decided to leave his parents' home and quickly found a place to live right next to yours. Some might find this weird, but for him, it was a natural step to reconnect with you. Your warm welcome was just like it had been before. Believing in destiny, he sees this reunion as something meant to happen. His goal now is to help you find your carefree self again, if you're open to it. And it seems you are.

There's one thing that Jungkook would like to come clean about: he wants you to remember the 12-year-old boy he was. He needs to admit that he was that person to you, even if it might change things between you. 

...

It's 6 AM, and Jungkook's awakened by his usual alarm – just like every morning, you're the first thing that pops into his head, especially since your photo adorns his phone’s wallpaper. It's been a few weeks of almost daily hangouts, and he senses you're opening up bit by bit – he really wants to gather the guts to ask you out. He worries that if he waits too long, you might start misconstruing his intentions. He just wants to make it clear he doesn't want you to see him as just a friend. 

Running his fingers through his dark hair, he lets out a groan before burying his head in his pillow. He knows he'll have to gather his courage and take the leap soon. Jungkook gets out of bed and heads for a shower to clear his mind – when he's suddenly alerted by the sound of his front doorbell ringing. Quickly slipping into a pair of joggers and a t-shirt, he rushes to open his front door.

Standing right there is... you, and it doesn't take him long to realize that your eyes are red and puffy, and it's evident that you've been crying. Your braids are disheveled, and you're still clad in your hello kitty pajamas.

"I... I kind of just showed up... I saw your lights on... I'm... sorry... didn't mean to bug you," you sob, and it's a heart-wrenching sight that tugs at his emotions. Without hesitation, he pulls you into his embrace, aiming to provide comfort.

"I'm here, you're not bugging me at all, you did the right thing by coming over. C'mon in," he reassures you in a gentle voice. Jungkook's scent carries a hint of soap, and you're enveloped in it, feeling the warmth of his body beneath your cheek. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat has a soothing effect, helping you regain control of your own breathing.

As he welcomes you into his home, Jungkook closes the door behind you and leads you into his living room. There's minimal furniture – just a sofa and a TV – he moved in not too long ago, after all. And most of his free time has been dedicated almost exclusively to you. He motions for you to sit on the couch and takes a spot nearby, leaving a small gap between you to avoid overwhelming you. To his surprise, it's you who scoots closer, seeking solace in his arms again – and he's more than happy to oblige. He wraps his arms around you, holding you close as if silently saying, I'm here.

"Hey, what's going on, Y/N? You seem really upset," Jungkook worries. His voice still holds traces of morning huskiness, and his warm breath brushes against your skin. You're enveloped in a comforting atmosphere.

"I... I'm just struggling... with everything... and it's like I'm scared of every little thing," you admit, but what you really mean is I feel like I’m suffocating when you're not around. "Before you came along, being alone was fine... but now…”

And maybe nobody else could quite grasp the weight of what you're expressing, but he gets it immediately – he holds you even tighter, offering reassurance.

"I like being around you too. You shouldn't stress about it, it's a good thing,"he says gently.

"Nah," you reply with a serious tone. "I don't want... to end up relying on whether I see you or not... it's kinda silly, I barely know you." And even if you come across as rude, you don't care. You need to let it all out. Your eyes are brimming with tears as you try to explain. "If you leave, what am I supposed to do? I don't want to feel like I can't function without you."

Jungkook chuckles softly—not at you, but at your words. You're not used to relying on anyone. You've lived in seclusion for so long that the simple realization that you're comfortable with someone triggers a tsunami of tears within you.

He decides that now is finally the right time to be honest. You were the one who first confessed your feelings to him—albeit clumsily. And seeing you cry like this, it's clear that there's something there for him, even if it's just a tiny spark.

"I can't imagine doing well without you either," Jungkook admits softly. Your face turns to him swiftly as his words reach your ears. His gaze is unapologetic, genuine, full of tenderness, and you can barely meet his eyes because of how intimidated you are.

"What do you mean? We've only known each other for a few weeks," you express, a bit stunned. "How can you be sure about that?" You inquire further.

Jungkook pauses - this is the moment. His hand gently cups your cheek, his touch sending shivers down your spine. "To be honest, we've known each other for a bit longer." You lean back a bit, pulling away from Jungkook, much to his regret, but it's expected; his words have taken you by surprise.

"What do you mean by that?" you ask, cautious and a bit skeptical.

"Just give me a moment, I'll be back soon. It'll make sense," He says with a reassuring smile.

Jungkook gets up from the couch and disappears for what feels like a long, endless few minutes before he returns, holding a photo album in his hands. He settles back down beside you and offers you the album. "I was around 12 years old in these class photos. Maybe it'll jog your memory."

You could have never predicted what was about to unfold. As you turn the pages of the album, suddenly there's a photo of a little boy looking back at you. He's dressed in a school uniform - much like the one you wore in middle school. And you recognize him, but it's hard to believe it could actually be Jungkook, right?

Your eyes widen so much that no more tears come out; you're just in shock. You can't even speak.

"Look, I hope you're not mad. This wasn't easy for me to spill out. I was worried you'd want nothing to do with me after this," he says with a touch of nervousness.

You shake your head, finding it hard to believe his words."Wait, Jungkook, you're telling me this little guy is you? The one who used to draw next to me every single recess?"

He nods, a bit shyly, and it's like you're seeing your old schoolmate all over again. The one who was always hanging around, no matter where you went, bringing you some kind of comfort during those tough times after your mother passed away. Suddenly, all those memories, the good and the bad, are swirling in your head, and honestly, you just want to hit reset, go back to square one. You jump up, needing to leave, to head back home, pop those pills to make the past just shut up.

"Don't go like that, just let me explain." Jungkook tries to hold you back, but you're already in the entryway, your hand on the doorknob.

"I probably shouldn't have come here. Jungkook, I... I'm not mad at you, but I really need to leave."

"Wait, hold on. Can we talk instead of you leaving like this? Please, don't disappear on me again!" And he's yelling at this point, his voice echoing in the room, and you realize the pain it holds. Suddenly, you're no longer thinking about yourself, but about this vulnerable boy who wants to keep you close. What are you afraid of?

"I've got a lot of baggage, you know. I... I don't think I deserve your attention. It's like a waste of time for you to be with someone like me." you declare with frustration.

"I might not know all the details about your past, but I see you as an amazing person. And I really care about you, like, a lot." Jungkook's words come out gently, his gaze steady on yours, as if he's trying to express the sincerity of his emotions. 

"Can you give trusting me a chance?" He's asking sincerely, and you want to agree, but you're afraid of how he might react once he realizes how messed up you truly are. 

With a reluctant nod and a hint of hesitation in your gaze, you still find yourself willingly accepting the hand he's reaching out to you. There's a sense of liberation in letting your guard down. Confronting your anxiety attacks with Jungkook by your side seems to surpass the effectiveness of any medication, even though it involves the potential risk of future pain.

...

"Have you continued drawing, Jungkook?" You inquire, a genuine curiosity lacing your words.

His response is tinged with humility. "Yeah, I still doodle here and there, but I won't pretend I'm some pro. It's just a thing I do for fun." 

A playful grin forms on your lips. "Is there anything you're not good at?"

He playfully retorts, "Well, you'll probably find out sooner or later if you stick around."

A chuckle escapes your lips. You're in it for the long haul.

After the revelations Jungkook shared, everything suddenly clicks into place, a puzzle of emotions now neatly assembled. The enigma of why this extraordinary man took interest in you unravels, fittingly revealing its answer. Welcoming a figure from your past back into your present is as bewildering as it is enlightening, considering the deliberate isolation you've woven around yourself. Encountering a familiar face wasn't part of the story you had envisioned.

From that morning onward, a new rhythm emerges. You initially thought you'd want alone time to process the revealed truths, but surprisingly, you find yourself craving his company, seeking the comfort he brings. He becomes a regular presence in your space, creating a cozy spot on the sofa bed where you engage in countless conversations that stretch beyond twilight.

During quiet nights, if you stir from slumber, you retreat to your bedroom with a mix of hesitation. He pretends to be asleep, his breath shallow, and you ponder whether his gaze would reveal more in the dim light. In recent days, touch has become a silent language, fingers grazing skin to convey comfort and understanding. Your thoughtful gestures extend further, seen in the room you make for him in your bathroom and closet. He transforms into a dependable source of support, and you both intuitively sense the ease with which you share moments and spaces.

Here's the thing, you find yourself yearning to deepen your connection. Despite feeling shattered, you're attuned to the moments when your heart races. What you feel for him goes beyond mere fondness; you desire him in a way that leaves no room for doubt. As he rises in the morning, stretching and gifting you his first smile, you find yourself yearning to kiss him. Yet, the beauty of your dynamic lies in its naturalness, making you eagerly anticipate the day when such a moment will unfold seamlessly between you two.

Yet, the weight of your past remains a burden you carry alone – you can't bring yourself to accept his love until he's aware of your complete history. You're well conscious that his perception of you might shift dramatically, perhaps even pushing him to retreat. He clings to an image, a nostalgic notion of you from his childhood, and you've undergone significant changes since those days. Even though he's cognizant of this, you pick up on his yearning to resurrect the person you once were – and that's simply unattainable. You'll never revert to that former self. So, being honest, when he confesses something later while you both relax on the couch – his head on your lap, your fingers playing with his hair – you’re not prepared.

"I think I might be falling in love with you," he confesses, his words breaking the tranquility of the moment you're sharing in front of the screen.

The admission catches you off guard, and you react with a mixture of surprise and conviction, "That can’t be."

"Why do you say that?" His tone carries a touch of reproach as he lifts his head to meet your gaze. It's evident that your response has struck a chord with him, and you're already grappling with a pang of guilt.

"I'm not the best person, you know... I've caused pain to people in ways that don't make me deserving of your affection. Trust me on that," you explain, hoping he won't press further.

He leans back slightly, a contemplative look on his face, "You should talk to me about what happened. I'm not trying to rush you or anything, but I want you to know that I'm here for you. Always."

The sincerity in his eyes and the way he puts his feelings on the line encourage you to open up, to let him in, even though you're fearful of the judgment that might come with revealing your past.

You curl up into a small ball, wanting to appear as small as possible.

"What do you wanna know?" you ask him, your voice soft.

Jungkook furrows his eyebrows, determined to seize the opportunity you're giving him to learn more about you.

"I'm kinda curious about what went down when you were 14, the time you started isolating yourself in school to read," he says, sounding pretty straightforward.

"You actually noticed that back then?" you respond, genuinely surprised that he paid such close attention.

"You used to be this bright presence, and then, you changed. I caught onto that real quick. I was too shy to ask you about it. I still regret it, you know…" His voice wavers at the end, revealing the sincerity of his words. He really wishes he could've been there for you.

"You were just a kid too, Kook," you say gently, using the nickname that brings a smile to his face. "You were more there for me than anyone else, and I appreciate it."

He never anticipated finding you again, let alone receiving your gratitude. Whatever you're about to reveal to him, he wants to spend the rest of his life protecting you, making up for lost time. He wants to hold you in his arms. He wants to kiss you. He wants you to finally understand that he loves you deeply, and that nothing could ever change that.

"I lost my mother, and it's my fault," you finally admit, the pain clear in your trembling voice. "I caused the car accident."

Jungkook remains silent, allowing you the space to share your story without interruption. He gently caresses your wrist, a silent encouragement for you to continue.

"Back then, I had this blog where I shared my favorite books, but my dad didn't like it at all. He was having this huge argument with my mom when everything happened," you explain with a heavy tone, avoiding his gaze as you speak. Tears start to well up, and your voice wavers, "My mom was always on my side. She meant the world to me, and when I lost her, my whole world just fell apart."

"Oh, sweetheart..." he murmurs gently, his arms enveloping you in a comforting embrace that you welcome despite your feelings of guilt. "You can't blame yourself for this. Were you in the car too? And your dad?" His question is tender, his disbelief evident as he realizes the burden you've silently carried for so long.

"My father and I survived, but he holds me responsible for the accident and wants nothing to do with me," you share, your voice tinged with a mix of sadness and frustration. "I lived with him alone until I turned 20. I tried to continue my studies, but when I got the offer from the journal, I left. I could finally make a living and never see him again," you recount. "Yet, from time to time, he comes back just to make me feel awful, like he did the other day when you were here."

Jungkook is appalled by your father's behavior. How could anyone blame a 14-year-old? It's beyond comprehension.

"Wow, that's just... messed up," Jungkook responds, his voice filled with disbelief, "I'm really sorry you had to go through that. I can't believe your dad would do that to you. Blaming you for something like that and cutting you off?"

You let out a heavy sigh, the weight of your past still evident in your tone. "Yeah - he couldn't handle the fact that I was doing something he didn't agree with, even if it was just writing about books. And when the accident happened during their argument... Well, he put all the blame on me."

Jungkook's grip on you eases slightly, his empathy palpable. "But you managed to get away from that toxic environment," he remarks, his voice warm. "You grabbed the opportunity and moved on, working at the journal and building your own life. That's pretty damn courageous if you ask me."

You manage a half-smile, the memory of your journey to independence still vivid. 

He lets out a soft sigh, his fingers tracing soothing patterns on your back. "You’re not blaming yourself for what happened, right?"

A gentle chuckle escapes you, laced with a hint of irony. "What do you think? I isolated myself all those years. It's hard to forgive myself."

Time feels suspended as you've just opened your heart completely. There's nothing left hidden. To your astonishment, Jungkook hasn't fled as you half-expected he might.

His touch remains warm against your skin, a silent reassurance that he's here to stay, regardless of the scars you've unveiled. In his eyes, you see a mixture of empathy and affection, as if he's been waiting for this moment to understand you more deeply. The weight of your shared emotions hangs in the air, mingling with a newfound sense of intimacy.

"I hope you can forgive yourself someday. And thank you for sharing your past with me," he says softly, his voice a soothing tune that dispels the tension in the room.

You manage a small smile, touched by his words. "It wasn't easy to open up, but I'm glad I did."

His fingers tenderly brush against your head, as if affectionately tousling your hair, "You don't have to carry your burdens alone anymore. I'm here for you, no matter what."

The sincerity in his voice resonates within you, and you find yourself leaning into his touch. In his presence, the weight of your past seems just a bit lighter, the pain a bit more bearable. As the minutes pass, the silence between you feels comfortable, a testament to the unspoken connection you've forged. With Jungkook by your side, the wounds of your history don't sting as sharply. It's as if he's a balm for your soul, mending the broken pieces with patience and care.

As you bask in the quiet companionship, you realize that the journey ahead won't be without its challenges. Healing takes time, and vulnerability is a journey of its own. But now, you have a partner who's willing to walk that path alongside you, no matter how rough it gets. 

...

Since opening up to each other, a shift has occurred in you. It's as if a dormant part of you has awakened, nudging you to venture beyond your comfort zone. You start small with grocery shopping and even a cinema visit, hand in hand with Jungkook. Soon, solitary walks, workdays at various locales like the park, library, and Jungkook's café become your norm. Life starts to regain its hues, and appreciation for it blooms once again.

While strolling in the park one day, a familiar face approaches you, etched with anger and accusation. Surprised, as you've been feeling watched lately, you realize it wasn't just paranoia.

"So, now you decide to step out, huh? Putting on a show?" Your father's words sting with bitterness. "While I've been miserable since your mother's death, you seem to have magically found happiness? You make me sick!" His voice carries a storm, discomfort washing over you.

You face him, his spiteful words hanging heavy. The once-sunny day turns chilly, leaving you vulnerable. Refusing to be shattered by your father's words, you gather courage. "You don't get to hold me responsible for your unhappiness," your voice steady despite inner turmoil. "I've grown; I'm finding my own path."

Your father's anger sharpens. "Oh, really? So, this guy brings you joy while I've been in misery?"

The tension hangs thick, a cloud between you two. Heart pounding, you recall past conflicts, but this time, you're resolute.

"I'm not responsible for your pain. But I won't let it define me either, and I won't apologize for seeking happiness."

Your words linger, a testament to your growth and strength. As you stand firm, the weight of your journey toward self-empowerment shines through your words.

"And you know," you continue, your voice softer, "We both deserve to heal. Holding onto bitterness won't help either of us. I've found a path that brings me happiness; I hope you can find yours."

A pause follows, your father pondering your words. Anger in his eyes wavers, replaced by uncertainty. With a sigh, he looks away, shoulders dropping.

"Yeah, do what you want," he mutters, his tone subdued.

"Thank you," your sincere response. "I wish you well."

Turning, you walk away, leaving tension behind. Your father watches, then turns and walks in the opposite direction.

Arriving home, you find Jungkook, donning your pink apron, making Bulguri Noodles. His presence warms your heart. Sharing the encounter, he expresses admiration for your strength. Grateful, you thank him for empowering you to stand up for yourself, a reflection of the strength you both have shared since your childhood days.

...

As the anniversary of your mother's passing approaches, cemeteries evoke intense aversion within you. Visiting her grave has grown daunting, fueled by insurmountable anxiety and fear of encountering your strained relationship with your father, even with Jungkook's soothing presence.

In the midst of your emotional turmoil, Jungkook offers a beautiful idea that flows effortlessly from him. "Why not create a commemorative day?" he suggests. "Visit her cherished places, do activities that brought her joy. It's about preserving her memory in your unique way."

The weight of uncertainty settles on your shoulders. "I'm not entirely sure if I can handle it," you confess, your voice laced with vulnerability and hesitation.

Jungkook offers a reassuring smile. "If you want, I can be there with you. We could do it together."

"I would genuinely appreciate that," you respond, the warmth of gratitude and emotion swelling within you.

And so, the journey to organize a day dedicated to your mother's memory begins. For you, it's an opportunity to reacquaint yourself with her essence through the prism of cherished memories. For Jungkook, it's a chance to glimpse her through your eyes.

The day arrives. Jungkook dresses elegantly, clad in a crisply ironed white shirt and black linen pants, his black hair framing his face ethereally. On your part, you've chosen a modest black dress, an homage to your mother's favorite color. Jungkook's admiring gaze lands on you, a testament to his appreciation for your choice.

"You look stunning," he murmurs, releasing an almost inaudible breath.

His words melt doubts. With him by your side, you face the day's commemorations with newfound resilience.

Instead of a cemetery, you honor your mother's artistry in an art gallery. Jungkook's presence is reassuring as he walks beside you, holding your hand. 

Art speaks to you, a reminder of your mother's love. Pointing out art that reminds you of her, Jungkook listens intently, genuine interest in his eyes.

You confess, "I used to enjoy when you doodled around me. It reminded me of my mom. She loved drawing. She used to illustrate stuff for kids, but she also had these personal pieces she kept just for herself."

Pride and affection light Jungkook's face. The urge to kiss you is strong, but he restrains it. Today is about honoring the memory of you and your mother.

Leaving the gallery's embrace behind, you step into the warm caress of sunlight and head towards Haeundae Beach. The yearning to bask in the lovely weather and absorb the ocean breeze propels you onward. Memories surge back – those cherished moments, just the two of you. Your mother's days off often translated into these special beach outings.

As you approach the beach, the golden sands extend before you, converging with the vast expanse of azure waters that stretch towards the distant horizon. Jungkook's gaze locks onto yours, brimming with hope and vulnerability. With a softness as tender as a whisper, he asks, "Would your mother have approved of me?"

He looks so young and uncertain, so adorable that your heart could almost burst. The fact that he's even asking this question makes you fall for him a little more.

A rush of emotions floods you, your eyes glistening with unshed tears. "She'd have adored you," you reply, your voice brimming with certainty. “You two share so many passions and values. She'd have wanted me to find someone like you."

In that moment, Jungkook's hesitation dissipates. His resolve to convey his feelings takes over. He takes a step forward. "Then, maybe you could build your life with me?" he says, his voice carrying hope and charm.

A mix of emotions wells within you, your heart caught between longing and self-doubt. "You might not fully realize what you're getting yourself into."

But Jungkook surprises you, his fingers intertwining with yours, his touch tender. His gaze, so intense and sincere, meets yours as he says, "I understand more than you might think."

Your heart skips a beat, the gravity of his words sinking in. The day, this moment, is a culmination of emotions and shared experiences. And then, without hesitation, he utters the three words you've yearned to hear from him for so long.

"I love you."

It's a confession that echoes in the space between you, a declaration that tugs at the strings of your heart. You didn't anticipate how deeply his words would resonate, how they would weave into the fabric of your being. The tears you've been holding back finally break free, a testament to the depth of your emotions. They trace a path down your cheeks, mingling with your smile as you respond, your voice unwavering and genuine, "I love you too, Kook."

Jungkook's been waiting for this moment, for your reciprocation, for the confirmation that your hearts beat in sync. His hands find your face, his touch gentle yet filled with purpose. And then, with a tenderness that transcends words, he leans in and kisses you. 

As his lips touch yours, warmth envelops you.

You're home.

[umbrellajam]

Post-Knightfall - Batboys and Domestic Chores

aka What To Do When Your Alfred Quits Because Bruce Is A Self-Destructive Dingus With No Regard For His Own Health And So Now You Suddenly Have To Adult All By Yourself

aka despite both being raised by Alfred from roughly age 9 onward, Bruce is still a completely helpless fumbling rich boy when it comes to domestic tasks, while Dick is very much not, lol.

Tim also starts out as a typical sheltered teenage boy who doesn't even know how to fold laundry... But fortunately for him, he has a new older brother to teach him what's what while they're partnered up during Prodigal! :D

...Sort of. Once Bruce is back and he and Tim are on their own, they both still fumble without Alfred or Dick around. Tim's embryonic domestic skills can't make up for Bruce being a sad wet cat re: household tasks, pfft.

In chronological order, starting after Bruce and Alfred have both fucked off and Dick and Tim are holding down the fort in Gotham as Batman and Robin:

DICK AND TIM

Batman #512 - Dick can cook! And he cooks for Tim :) Also, the house-robes are adorable, as always. Tim: "I can't believe you can actually cook..." Dick: "I like to eat." Tim: "So does Bruce - but he had to order Chinese last night." Dick: "That's where I'm one up on him - I've lived on my own without an Alfred. Still miss him, though... He was good for a lot more than cooking and cleaning." Tim: "Yep - but at least we don't have to miss him on empty stomachs."

Batman: Shadow of the Bat #32 - The Manor was thrashed after Bruce's fight with Bane, and was never cleaned up after Bruce's back was broken and Jean-Paul Valley took over as Batman. The Batbros are on the job! Dick (sweeping): "Bruce told me a story once: Two philosophers talked all day." Tim (blithely eating a banana): "And...?" Dick (tossing him the broom): "The mess was still there next morning!" Tim (grinning): "Message received and understood, Captain!"

Batman #513 - Timmy is amazed at Dick's mastery of the household arts! Tim: "Awesome - you can cook and do the laundry?" Dick: "Hey, if there's time, I may even putty some new panes in those smashed windows." Tim: "Blimey - does Alfred the Pennyworth know you've mastered all his domestic secrets?" Dick: "Who do you think taught him?" Tim: "Not to get too serious, Dick, but it's good to see you loose again - and good to see the Manor taking shape, too. Since Jean Paul didn't care about it and Bruce relies on Alfred, it looks like you can teach a trick or two the other Batmen couldn't."

Robin #12 - More Dick handling the laundry, and Dick flinging a towel in Tim's face - er, teaching him how to fold so that he can pitch in instead of sitting on the side and moping. Dick: "Does that mean that things are going smoother between you and Ariana?" Tim (mopily): "Not really. Every time I think we're finally getting along, something happens to change all that." Dick: "Welcome to the opposite sex, Tim." Tim: "Look at you with the laundry. You're going to make some woman happy someday." Dick: "Well, it's about time you learned to fold a towel." (throws one in Tim's face) Tim: "Hey!" Dick: "I can't do everything around here until Alfred gets back."

BRUCE AND TIM

Bruce is back! And he straight up sucks at all this stuff without Alfred, lol, and doesn't have a Dick to lean on like Tim did.

Batman: Shadow of the Bat #35 - Bruce attempting laundry in the washer (laundry strewn all over the room and bubbles ominously emerging from the machine), getting pizza delivery, and asking the delivery boy for limo service recs, lol. Delivery Boy: "Good afternoon, sir. Three-cheese special, right?" Bruce: "You don't happen to know a good limo service? Or anything about washing machines...?"

Detective Comics #685 - Bruce infamously ruining tuna fish sandwiches. Bruce: "Sorry about lunch, Tim. I'm not much of a hand in the kitchen. With Alfred gone I'm pretty much helpless." Tim: "It's okay, Bruce. How can you screw up a tuna fish sandwich?" (takes a bite) "Oh. That's how."

Detective Comics #687 - Bruce attempts to toss an Armani tuxedo in the washing machine because reasons. Tim: "Are you sure you know what you're doing, Bruce?" Bruce: "How dangerous can it be, Tim? Alfred never seems to have a problem." Tim: "Well, he makes everything look easy. What are you washing here?" Bruce: "My summer tux. It smelled like the river." Tim (pulling out the now-tiny tux jacket and smirking): "Guess you didn't know you were supposed to dry clean these things, huh?"

Batman: Shadow of the Bat #40 - The central heating system at the Manor has gone down, and Bruce is aghast that he (a) has to make a reservation with the maintenance man, and (b) it might take him more than a week to take care of it. Bruce decides to just fix it himself - I wonder how that went, lol. Bruce (hand to his forehead dramatically) : "A butler, at butler, my kingdom for a butler!" Tim (coming down the stairs into the basement): "Specifically Alfred?" Bruce: "Very specifically. He'd have had these central heating tyrants fixed in minutes. Losing Alfred has caused me as much pain as anything Bane did to me."

THE RETURN OF ALFRED! Yaaaaay! And more Bruce and Tim.

Batman #521 - More overflowing laundry shenanigans 😂 Bruce: "Not again, Tim!" Tim: "Honest, Bruce - I know I didn't go overboard on the detergent this time!" Bruce: "You mean you added detergent too--? After I already did it?" Tim: "Uh oh. Hey, I was only trying to help..." Bruce: "The mops." Tim: "Yeah...again." Alfred returns to Bruce and Tim both attempting to mop up, suds everywhere, including in their hair. To preserve both his and Bruce's dignity, he's pretended to come in answer to a Help Wanted ad that he himself placed in the paper, for a butler at Wayne Manor. Bruce and Tim both warmly welcome him home.

Detective Comics #689 - Batman and Robin pick the wrong rooftop to talk on, and startle a woman coming up to hang her laundry so badly that she faints, dropping and scattering the whole load. Robin: "She'll be okay. Just passed out." Batman: "I hate when this happens." Robin: "Well, what do we do now?" Batman: "How about demonstrating some of your new skills - the ones Nightwing taught you?" Robin: "Man..." He does, and the woman wakes up to her neatly folded items in her basket, while Bruce and Tim swing away. Tim (indignant): "It wouldn't hurt you to learn how to fold clothes, even though Alfred is back." Batman (grinning): "You know what they say about old dogs, Robin." Robin: "Right."

(All of these were published within a one year span, from November 1994 to September 1995. Very fun little recurring D-plot in the aftermath of Knightfall c:)

[ferrocyan]

because of the maid day cleaning blade fanart i started headcanoning that retsarra has domestic skills and actually like it makes sense to me that hed live in a more analog way than the average alexandrians, so i think he does cook his own meals most of the time. he used to live in the outskirts where the comforts of everkeep is less accessible, and his parents left him home alone most of the time so he got used to taking care of the house on his own since he was little. also making his own meals means hes in control of his nutrient intake and thats what athlete types rly care about right. anyway that post i rb'd earlier fits so well w my hc that retsarra has a one track mind that hounds on one subject or feeling for ages so he just cooks one dish and eats the same thing three times a day for a month to max out his mastery of the recipe. hes thriving like this. man hed love having the same raid food over and over each lockout. everyone else around him though.. i think hector especially would be like "hell no you can only give me the same beef stir fry once every two days im not letting you ruin meat for me again!" while eutrope thinks of food as mere sustenance so she more appreciates that retsarras considerate enough to set aside some portions for her sisters too. however the sisters dont share this appreciation, yaanas like "ughhhh even plain meal bars are designed to have changing flavors so you dont get bored. can your boyfriend fucking cut it out alreadyyyyy" and well yknow its sad that eutrope went missing suddenly one day but at least this means shes free from this specific hell. that is until now that retsarras spending a lot of time in tritails and he tells yaana "hey you can just focus on the search, ill handle things at the gym. the sickness leaves me housebound sometimes so to make up for it ill take care of cleaning up and cooki—" and yaana immediately goes "no way absolutely not dont you dare touch the kitchen." by the way tart would be on her side for this bc he hates boring food more than anything

[kay-elle-cee]

For the Taylor Swift prompts, how about "Loved you three summers" for Jily!!

Hi Em! Thanks for sending this in...as promised, I fought the angsty urges. I hope you enjoy! Read here on ao3 or below the cut!

Follower Milestone Celebration

James hummed something upbeat and off-key to himself as his wand moved in a lazy pattern, the dishes hovering low above the sink and cleaning themselves as he read a folded-back copy of Transfiguration Monthly. His focus was all on the magazine in his left hand, and Lily had to raise her own wand from where she sat at the kitchen table to ensure rogue streams of water didn’t end up puddling on the floor.

She watched him with a small, serene smile, her legs propped up in the neighboring chair as her left hand rested on the swell of her belly where their darling boy wiggled restlessly. It was mornings like these—the summer breeze drifting in through the open windows of their cottage, the promise of their friends’ visits as Lily’s due date drew near—that made everything seem perfect.

Two years out of Hogwarts and life wasn’t exactly what she had pictured—she’d never expected to get pregnant halfway through her Potions Mastery, but days like this just felt…right. Like it was always supposed to happen this way. 

Just the three of them. The Potters. In feeling, at least, if not in name. James and Lily had fallen in love hard and fast, once the planets aligned during their seventh year, but she had never wanted to be a young bride. She wanted to make her way through her Mastery on her own merits, not wanting the Potter name to give her any sort of special advantage or attention. It had seemed so important, at the time, but it was starting to feel…silly. She was still Lily, regardless of what followed. Her work ethic was still her.

And right now, here in this kitchen, the missing moniker felt like a cavern in her chest, all other desires small in comparison.

Blinking away the sudden surge of emotion that pricked the back of her eyes, she inhaled a sharp breath. “James?” 

The emotion must have overflowed to her voice, because James turned quickly, the dishes falling lifelessly into the sink with a gentle splash. His eyes were wide behind his glasses, quickly taking stock of her. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m not going anywhere, you know that right?”

The divot in his forehead smoothed out, a small, amused smile playing on his lips as he nodded to her elevated feet and round belly. “Not like that you’re not.”

“No I mean…us,” she pressed, only slightly embarrassed by the waver in her voice. “I love you. And I love this.”

He put Transfiguration Monthly down on the counter and swiftly crossed the little kitchen, kneeling down next to her so that he was at eye level. Covering her hands with his, his voice softened. “Lily, I know, love. What’s brought all this on?”

“I just—” the tears began to trickle down her cheeks, and she tried to wipe them away. “You standing there. Harry kicking the shit out of me. My heart is just so full and this is it for me and I know when we found out I was pregnant I was very clear that I didn’t think we needed to get married just because of it but—”

His sharp inhale interrupted her. “But?”

Now it was her turn to take his hands, the earnestness of her words spilling forth. “I love you so much, James. So much. What if we did something small. Just for us right now.”

“Are you asking me to—”

“Yes.”

He carefully pulled her towards him, lips meeting hers in a fierce, urgent kiss. Breaking apart with a breathless laugh, he rested his forehead on hers.

“Evans, I’d marry you in a heartbeat. No questions.”

[brown-little-robin]

47: How To Get Breakfast

part one | previous | next | masterlist | ao3 version

Thad wakes up being pressed into a soft surface by a thick blanket, and it’s so incomprehensibly cozy that he forgets it’s unfamiliar for the five whole minutes it takes him to fully wake up.

He stretches luxuriously. Rubs the last remnants of sleep out of his eyes. He’s in the Plum Room, and morning light is coming in through the window.

Thad feels… good? He feels good. He feels not exhausted. He feels "good".

Weird.

Thad Free remembers the questions and anxieties and energy of last night and can’t fully summon up the urgency to care that much about it. Not that he's apathetic to the questions of his existence, but right now that's just background stress, overall goals to be worked toward slowly. The highest priority right now is how, in this house, he can get some breakfast.

He gets dressed in pants and a t-shirt and, after some deliberation, adds his black jacket, more to cover his bare arms than to add warmth; the chill that pervaded Max’s house, making Thad want to curl up and freeze, just doesn’t exist here. The carpet is warm. The air is warm.

Thad exits his room and creeps downstairs, on the alert for Adeline or the maid he’s heard of but not yet seen.

He finds Joseph in a chair in the study downstairs, feet propped up on a footstool. Thad stands in the doorway of the study and smiles helplessly.

There is something so stupidly domestic about Joseph’s feet in yellow socks up on that footstool. Like something he’d see in a documentary about American life. And this from a man capable of possessing people! A man with such mastery of martial arts that he’s capable of being on a team of metahumans. A man with scars all over him, from the matching marks of the impalement wound through his back and chest to the pale scar visible above the neckline of Joseph’s loose sweater. It just makes Thad smile, is all.

Joseph looks up and smiles at Thad. He puts the book down and signs, “Good morning!”

“Good morning,” Thad says back, and clears his throat. His voice is still scratchy from sleep. “How does a person eat in this household?”

Joseph blinks at him. “Eat? You? You want to eat?”

“Yes, but what are the rules?”

“Just… the usual ones…” Joseph signs, clearly trying to understand what That is asking and not quite getting it. “You can eat when you’re hungry… eat in the kitchen, but if you eat in another room, clean up after yourself…?”

“Okay.” Thad comes and stands closer to Joseph’s chair, not close enough for Joseph to touch him but a more friendly distance. “That’s all I needed to know, I think. I just…”

Joseph waits. Thad’s not even sure where his hesitation is coming from, other than the fact that he’s not used to feeling this comfortable with sharing things that could be used against him. And he is comfortable with Joseph. It’s… strange.

“I don’t know,” Thad says, and shrugs. “I’m not used to… being one of the people that the rules apply to. I feel like I’m going to mess something up.”

Joseph’s mouth silently forms the word ahh. He nods.

And now Thad feels awkward standing here. And he’s hungry. He says, “I’m going to get breakfast, then.”

Joseph stands up decisively. Uh. What is he doing?

“No, I’ll make breakfast.”

Okay?

Why?

Thad follows Joseph to the kitchen. Adeline is in the Great Room, working on her laptop. She looks up as Joseph and Thad come in, and Thad flinches when her sharp gaze flicks to him.

He can’t help it. She’s—she’s in charge. She’s Joseph’s mother. She could probably convince Joseph to abandon Thad if she really tried. Thad knows Joseph promised that he’d stick with Thad no matter what, but still, Adeline has known Joseph longer. She surely must matter more to him, have more influence on him. Thad is just a new project to Joseph, a charity case, something like a pet, at best. Adeline is his mother.

She’s like President Thawne.

Thaddeus suddenly realizes that if Adeline is like President Thawne, who is technically his grandfather, that makes Joseph the equivalent of Meloni Thawne, technically Thaddeus’s mother, although Thaddeus never met her. He’s a clone, after all; she didn’t even give birth to him. Ugh, this line of thought is making him feel weird. He tugs the sleeves of his jacket down further over his arms and sticks his hands in his pockets.

“Morning,” Adeline calls.

Joseph waves cheerily.

Thad hurries to get closer to Joseph and sticks close to him as they go into the kitchen.

Once they’re out of eyeshot of Adeline, Joseph turns and ruffles Thad’s hair. Thad shudders at the weird sensation, but doesn’t pull away. It's nice to be… well. Loved might be too strong a word.

Joseph asks, “What do you want for breakfast?”

Uh…

“What do you like?” Joseph amends.

It is such a relief to be asked a question he can answer. “Sweet things. I like all foods,” he adds hastily, mindful of not asking more than Joseph can give. “But sweet things are my favorites.”

“Okay, sweet thing,” Joseph signs playfully, grinning.

What—that’s not—Thad feels his cheeks flush and he looks away, shoving his hands further into his jacket pockets. That’s not—he’s not—is he—?—Joseph thinks he’s—

The familiar little pop of Joseph snapping his fingers for Thad’s attention interrupts, uh, whatever that was.

“Pancakes?” Joseph asks.

“Sure.” Oh wait. Thad should be polite. He’s too comfortable with Joseph. “Yes, please.”

Joseph smiles at him, wrinkling up his nose in what looks like amusement. He signs, “Don’t worry, I like making food. I’m taking advantage of my time off work. Every other day, you’ll have to make your own breakfast.” He grimaces apologetically. “I work Monday through Saturday. Monday-Wednesday-Friday, I help with programs and planning at the community center. Tuesday-Thursday-Saturday I teach during the mornings at the community center.”

Thad nods. He repeats that information to himself in his head until he’s sure he has it memorized.

Joseph asks, “Will you be okay on your own, when I’m working?”

“…Yes?” What else can Thad say? No? That he’ll break down and kill people while Joseph is gone?

Thad and Joseph stare at each other for a minute. Joseph looks like he’s realizing how much of an unhelpful question that was.

Thad asks, “What do you mean by ‘okay’?”

“Okay to get yourself breakfast?”

“Oh! Yes. Yes, I can get myself breakfast. I’ll figure it out.”

Joseph visibly hesitates, then asks, “Do you know how cereal works?”

Thad breaks down and laughs. “Yes, I know how cereal works.”

Joseph laughs as well, silently, eyes gleaming. “I had to ask.”

“I know.” Thad’s grinning so hard it hurts his face. It’s been a while since he's had so much fun with the fact that he’s a clone. With Max, talking about being a clone is always agonizing. With Joseph, sometimes it’s just funny. “I grew up in a tube, I know you had to ask. But yes, I know how cereal works. I know how the world works, theoretically. It’s just the applied aspects I don’t have experience with.”

Joseph ruffles his hair again. Thad allows it, and then shakes his head hard when Joseph takes his hand away. His hair swishes around. It's strange, having long hair like he's pretending to be Bart, like he's not inside CRAYDL anymore. It's even stranger to not really mind.

Joseph said it wasn't wrong to want long hair. He said it didn't have to be about Bart. Thad thinks maybe, maybe that could be true. Maybe someday not everything about him will come back around to being Inertia.

Someday soon.

He’s hungry. He could freeze time while Joseph blinked and eat something out of the pantry without Joseph ever knowing, but he has more self-control than Bart, thank you very much. He waits, letting his stomach growl, while Joseph moves purposefully around the kitchen, gathering ingredients and whisking them into a bowl. Thad watches from his position on a high stool next to the marble-topped “island”.

The butter sizzles as it hits the pan.

As Joseph pours the first dollop of batter onto the pan, Thad stretches himself across the marble countertop and lets it dig into his stomach. He reaches toward the stove like a zombie.

“It smells so good,” Thad groans. “This is a form of torture.”

Joseph turns around and grins at him. “Too slow for you, speedy?”

“Ugh, don’t call me that.” Thad isn’t serious. He’s mostly not serious. It reminds him of Bart, which hurts, actually. But he wants to keep joking around with Joseph, so he doesn’t let it show. “I’m not speedy, I’m normal speed. It’s the rest of the world that’s slow.”

Joseph crinkles his eyes at Thad. “They’ll be ready in a few minutes. Want a snack?”

“Yes please!”

Joseph kneels below the counter, disappearing from Thad’s view. There’s a clunk sound. Thad climbs up on the countertop and looks down at what Joseph’s doing. There’s a cupboard built into the island; Joseph has it open and is spinning a little rack with stuff in it.

Joseph looks up at Thad and shakes his head, smiling. He signs, “Monkey. Clean that.”

Thad blinks. “What?”

“The countertop. You got your feet all over it, you’re going to clean it up.” Joseph smiles to show that he’s not angry, which Thad appreciates in the part of his mind that’s not stinging from being reprimanded. ASL is a blunt language; there’s no way to get around all possible statements being incredibly direct. But Joseph is good at making things less hurtful.

Thad gets down from the island and starts looking around for cleaning supplies. Joseph taps him on the shoulder, and he startles and turns around. Joseph offers him a crinkly bag of… chocolate chips…?

“Sweet things,” Joseph signs, grinning. “Don’t eat all of them, they’re for the pancakes. You can clean up after breakfast.”

“Okay.”

Thad carries the bag of chocolate chips back to the countertop island. Joseph flips the pancakes, then flips them again and serves them up for Thad on a slightly chipped china plate.

They fall into a comfortable rhythm. Joseph watches the pancakes, leaning on the counter. Joseph pours, watches, flips, watches, and then gives them to Thad, who places the chocolate chips on top of them at evenly spaced intervals. He eats the finished pancakes at a moderate pace, pacing himself against how fast the pancakes are baking as if it’s a game. The smell of butter and chocolate fills the room.

At some point, Joseph asks, “How are you?”

Thad considers.

“Good,” he says, still surprised to hear himself say it. “I’m good.”

[cgpropainting]

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[kitchencabinetsfmd]

A Journey Through Kitchen Arch Design History

An architectural feature like an archway adds a unique, compelling, deep appeal to any space, including the often-overlooked kitchen. Over recent years, the fascination for kitchen archway design has surged as homeowners aim to amplify the aesthetics and practicality of their kitchen spaces. Such arches offer a fluid, eye-catching linkage between rooms, fostering an aura of openness and hospitality. Regardless of your home’s stylistic orientation — traditional, modern, or a blend of both — a well-executed kitchen archway can drastically boost your interior design.

The kitchen arch design, a familiar sight in many homes today, boasts a rich history that stretches back centuries. Its journey is one of adaptation and evolution, reflecting changing architectural styles, societal needs, and even technological advancements.

Let’s delve deeper into this fascinating story:

Ancient Beginnings (2nd Millennium BC): While the earliest documented uses of arches appear in Mesopotamia, primarily for structural support in larger buildings, they planted the seed for their future application in kitchens. This period laid the foundation for the technology and concepts that would shape arches in the years to come.

Roman Innovation (1st Century BC — 5th Century AD): The Roman Empire witnessed a golden age of arch construction. Their mastery of the technique extended beyond aqueducts and bridges, potentially reaching domestic spaces like kitchens in grand Roman houses. However, concrete evidence of everyday kitchens incorporating arches remains elusive.

Medieval Transformations (5th Century AD — 15th Century AD): During the Middle Ages, the focus shifted towards smaller, more practical kitchens within castles and manors. While grander architectural features continued to utilize arches, their presence in the typically smaller and more utilitarian kitchens of the era was quite limited.

The Rise of Domesticity (17th Century — 19th Century): As the concept of domesticity gained greater emphasis, kitchens began to occupy a more prominent role within the home. The Georgian era (1714–1830) in Britain, for instance, saw kitchens incorporating elegant rounded doorways and arch-shaped windows, adding a touch of sophistication to these increasingly important spaces.

Modern Influences (Early 20th Century): The 20th century brought various architectural movements that significantly impacted kitchen design. Art Deco (1920s & 1930s), known for its geometric shapes and clean lines, embraced the arch in a more stylized and modern way, offering a fresh interpretation of this classic element.

Post-War Functionality (Mid-20th Century): Following the Second World War, housing trends prioritized practicality and efficiency in response to changing needs and realities. The “Frankfurt Kitchen” (1926), a pioneering design that shaped modern kitchens, emphasized a streamlined layout with straight lines and minimal ornamentation, favoring functionality over elaborate design elements like arches.

The Return of the Arch (Late 20th Century — Present): Recent decades have witnessed a resurgence of the arch in various design styles. Tuscan-inspired kitchens often feature arched doorways and windows, evoking a sense of warmth and traditional elegance. Meanwhile, some contemporary kitchens utilize recessed arches to create visual interest and delineate specific areas within the space, offering a more modern interpretation of this timeless element.

Beyond their aesthetic appeal, arches in kitchens can offer some practical benefits as well:

Openness and connection: Arches can visually connect different areas within the kitchen, fostering a sense of spaciousness and encouraging a more seamless flow between spaces.

Light and ventilation: Larger arches can facilitate the flow of natural light and improve air circulation, making the kitchen a more pleasant and healthy environment.

Storage and function: In some instances, arches can be incorporated into cabinetry designs, providing additional storage space or creating unique display areas, offering a functional element to their aesthetic charm.

From its ancient origins to its modern interpretations, the arch continues to add a touch of history, elegance, and functionality to kitchens across the globe. As design trends evolve, the future of the kitchen arch remains open to creative expression, ensuring that this timeless element continues to grace our kitchens for years to come.

source: https://medium.com/@FMDcabinets/kitchen-arch-design-a-timeless-journey-through-history-b1e209826372