#Dream getting offended that his lover does not appreciates his good graces is like— Well I can also give you a nightmare :|

[magnusbae]

On the rare occasions when Hob is actually mad at Dream— he refuses to sleep. Coffee, energy drinks and the God forsaken awakeness pills? All fair game. If he has to inject caffeine directly into his vein, he would. Hob doesn't often get mad, but when he does, he likes to make a point. Dream and Hob match in more than one ways, really, they do. And so it is that the Dream Lord must come out of his realm personally to sprinkle sand into his lover's eyes because he'd be damned if Hob refuses his gift for more than two nights in a row. Not speaking for 100 years? Easy. Hob refusing sleep? Unacceptable.

[winetae]

⇾  city of stars | 01

⇁ female reader x yoongi ; female reader x taehyung

⇁ drama, slight angst || hollywood!au, actor!bts, enemies to lovers

⇁ 5.1k

. . .

When your childhood sweetheart packs his bags to pursue his dreams in the big city, the two of you promise to meet again once you’ve both become successful. Years later, you find yourself running to and fro auditions, desperately trying to make ends meet, while his face is plastered on every giant sized billboard in town.

↳  or; no one ever said the road to success was easy

a/n;  OR a new short series literally no one asked for

+ inspired by the movie la la land (2016) and the anime skip beat (2002) “mama didn’t raise no weak hoe, you gonna push it” – sassi’s words of wisdom and also the reason i finally finished this;; ily !!!! this is for u

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A beginning and an end—these moments bookend all your shelved romances.

Although the denouement may often vary—tears, a broken picture frame, a kiss—the origin story remains, for the most part, the same. But contrary to any of your previous encounters, Min Yoongi disrupts the familiar formula of exchanged hellos and awkward pleasantries.

Maybe it starts like this:

an ugly brown stain on your new white blouse, one iced caramel macchiato wasted.

In the movies, the guy offers his number and a free lunch to make up for his clumsiness, or gives up his hoodie to cover his mistake. The lead finds his efforts to earn forgiveness endearing, and soon enough, one date becomes two, two eventually turns to six. Somewhere along the way—between date number nine and eleven—he musters the courage to profess his love with a kiss, under the sleek blanket of a starry sky.

But this is not the movies, you are reminded, as the cold beverage clings to your skin and shirt unpleasantly.

“Motherfucker!”

It is not the most eloquent start, either.

You hope the sheer force of your glare has the power to pull an apology from his lips, but he stays still—completely indifferent to your plight.

“You should pay attention to your surroundings,” he drawls, unmoved.

Your immediate reaction is to scowl, brow creasing with indignation. If this had been any other day, you would have attempted to laugh it off because you’re no stranger to accidents. But today is D-Day: the start of pilot season and also your chance at finally landing a substantial role, something with more visibility and depth than the cheerleader #3 background character you’ve always been relegated to in the past. Today is supposed to be your ticket to stardom—the prized opportunity for your talent to finally bloom on center stage. 

But one glance down at your worn-in wristwatch and panic grips you, dousing you in a sheen of cold sweat, much more unbearable than the spray of caffeine that’s still dripping down your shirt. 

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out this blunder will affect the rest of your day. You have two casting calls to attend from noon to four and there is absolutely no way you have any time to grab a change of clothes, especially if you factor in the perpetual traffic that clogs up the city streets. Your stress level is already at an all time high, nerves taut; the stain does nothing but add on to the overwhelming queasy feeling that swells in your gut like a balloon ready to burst. How are you supposed to impress the casting directors when you look like a slob? You can already imagine the offended expressions judging you before you even have time to open your mouth and deliver your well prepared monologue. A sense of utter failure stabs you in the chest and the high hopes you had for the day come crashing down in an instant.

You’re well aware at how much your future depends on how well you do today and the thought that one stranger and a cup of coffee could compromise this opportunity is enough to frustrate you to the point of tears. Maybe if your life was a romantic comedy, the scene unfolding in front of you would take a turn for the better. In such a clichéd scenario, you would expect the heroine to experience the Love at First Sight story archetype and throw away her dreams to chase after her soulmate. 

But Min Yoongi is not your knight in shining armor. On the contrary, he is the furthest thing from the Humphrey Bogarts and the Cary Grants that grace the silver screens with their imposing presence and charming smiles. Instead of igniting your insides with desire, the mere sight of him and his lazy smirk makes your blood boil in anger. If you weren’t so attached to your daily dose of caffeine, you would have made sure to drench him in your gluten free pumpkin spice latte. 

“Aren’t you going to apologize?” you snap, gesturing at the stain bleeding through the thin fabric of your shirt like a physical wound. 

“Aren’t you? The coffee around this part of town is more expensive than a pack of cigarettes, y’know.” His derisive tone infuriates you further; it takes a herculean effort to not shove his empty cup of coffee up his ass. 

Neither of you budge. 

He stares you down and, had you been a lesser woman, you would have caved under the intensity of his glare. Maybe even cried a little. Still, you hold your ground, refusing to let yourself be intimidated by his scowl.

“You realize you owe me a coffee, sweetheart.”

If anyone else had delivered the line, you would have thought it to be a poor attempt at flirting. However, he utters the phrase with so much contempt, you almost reel back, struck down by the look he pairs with it. 

“What?!” 

In retrospect, you should have been more mindful of your surroundings but your mind had been occupied, too focused on revising lines that you already knew by heart. You’re aware the blame can’t be entirely shifted onto you, not when he had been so brusque in his movements, and distantly it registers that you’re both getting heated over nothing. Be the bigger person and let it go, your conscious urges you.

Pursing your lips into a grimace, you adamantly refuse to compromise. The only way your day can go from bad to worse, is if you let a short man with a mean looking face push you around like his plaything. Your aversion is justified, you argue internally.

“I have an audition,” you insist, tone clipped, waving around your script, penned and colored in pink highlighter, as if to prove your point. “I don’t have time for this.”

“Well aren’t you special.” The man sneers, eyes narrowing into slits. “We all have places to be, princess.”

“An apology would be nice,” you grit out, still refusing to back down. The use of pet-names by this stranger only irritates your further, itching at your skin like a insect bite you’re unable to soothe over. “But you’re so uncouth, I won’t waste my breath asking for one.”

“Ouch.” His lips curl into a mocking smirk, “well, maybe if you ask nicely, I’ll give the princess what she wants…” 

You want to deck him. But your already limited time is running short, and another peek at the clock makes your fingers twitch around the cup of your drink, contents sloshing around, threatening to spill. 

First impressions easily make or break a career. First impressions can also ruin relationships before they have the chance to begin. 

Any other day, at any other time, you might have admired the slight glow of his peachy skin, or taken the time to appreciate how the lilt in his speech reminds you of home. 

Instead, you flip him the bird and slide your sunglasses up the bridge of your nose so as to signal the end of the conversation. You feel extremely childish, like the star of a young adult drama series, but that doesn’t stop satisfaction from settling onto your features, only partly hidden by your knock-off Gucci shades. But your pleasure is short-lived; his disgruntled expression stays imprinted in your mind long after your argument ends, to your biggest dismay.

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It’s funny how a mere stranger is able to single-handedly ruin your day.

Something heavy and uncomfortable sits in your chest, like a ball of lead, and your script trembles in your hand.

You’ve barely made it to your first audition, copies of your resumé neatly tucked under your arm and script clenched tight in your fist, but the memory of the morning’s incident makes it impossible to concentrate on your forthcoming task. This, of course, only infuriates you further, because the last thing you need is for that asshole to distract you from the opportunity you’ve been waiting for. You inhale slowly, counting eight beats before exhaling, trying your best to clear your mind and focus on your day’s objective. 

6… 7… 8

You repeat the process until your clenched muscles slowly relax and your breathing evens out. 

The role you’re auditioning for is a secondary character in a new TV series, set to debut in the fall on one of the main public channels. The scriptwriter has won half a dozen Emmys in the span of their short career, and from what you’ve been able to read of the script so far, the ratings will probably do well. There’s a good balance between the drama and the romance and to top it off, the dialogue is witty and gives you enough material to work with. For weeks, you’ve been preparing your role, even going as far as to memorize the other characters’ lines just in case they ask you to read for someone else at the audition. 

Up until yesterday you were still buzzing with excitement, confident that this job was the one that would finally jumpstart your career. But now, your thoughts are flooded with incessant “what if’s…” that are slowly poisoning your morale. You can already picture yourself announcing to your parents that once again, you didn’t get the part you were pining for… 

You hold in a sigh, not looking forward to that phone call. It’s hard to snuff out the smidgen of shame that grows with a pang in your chest whenever you speak to your parents over the phone. You know they patiently await news of your success, so you can’t help but feel like you’ve let them down when their inquiries are met with silence on your end. “The road to success is paved with sacrifices and failure,” your father reminds you often, as if sensing the heaviness that weighs down on your shoulders. 

When asked if you have adjusted to the bustling city life, you will always answer in the affirmative. Although the reply is mostly meant to reassure your concerned parents, separated from you by miles upon miles, you can’t help but believe the words you reiterate every weekend over the phone. After all, you’ve been here long enough for the sun to dust your skin gold, freckles blooming on your exposed shoulders. You’ve long since memorized the street names and adjusted your schedule to take into account the constant traffic jams caused by the heavy congestion. 

But it’s during times like these, when you’re sandwiched in an elevator with seven other girls your age, all with highlighted hair, professionally blow-dried to glossy perfection, that you realize how out of place you really are. You hug your handbag to your chest in an poor attempt at concealing the obvious brown splatter down your front. From the corner of your eye, you see someone raising their eyebrows in disdain, their expression visible in the elevator wall’s reflection.

She coughs, the sound catching everyone else’s attention. 

“You’re auditioning dressed like that?” her voice drips with faux sympathy and immediately embarrassment colors your cheeks. 

Remarks like this are to be expected, you suppose, but that doesn’t mean you’re insensitive to the comment. 

But before you have time to formulate a retort, a musical chime alerts you that you’ve arrived at the audition scene. Everyone files out and you shuffle after the rest, handbag still clutched to your chest like a physical shield. 

You’re told that the auditions will be one-on-one and that your name will be called up when the casting directors are ready. Sitting down in the waiting room only ramps up the angst that threatens to swallow you whole. 

The clock ticks by slowly, every measure of time filled with mounting dread. What if you blank out and forget your lines? You run through every possible worst case scenario, despite trying to distract yourself by playing piano tiles on your phone. It obviously doesn’t work and you’re just about to turn off your phone in a fit of frustration, when it buzzes in your hand, alerting you of an incoming message.

A smile pulls at your lips when you realize your best friend, Tina, had sent you a text to cheer you on. You can almost hear her voice as you read out the text, her accent bleeding through the words that light up your screen.

tina [01:23 pm] Smile like fucking Julia Roberts even if they shit on you. If they see you sweat, it means they win, k? 

tina [01:23 pm] You got this, bitch :)

Somehow the aggressive motivation encourages you more than any bouquet of expensive white lilies you could have received. She knows how much today means to you and how much you’re worked up over it. You tell each other everything, so she’s well aware that the desire for this job isn’t solely for monetary reasons. 

Your dream of being an actress constantly surprises people when you tell them. The word actress evokes images of glamorous movie stars and fearless individuals who aren’t afraid to push their limits in order to create art. Your far from fearless. In fact, it’s taken years before you finally gathered your courage and left behind your family to pursue your dreams. 

It’s not easy to lend your body over to your character, but it’s something you study relentlessly—pen stuck between your teeth to practice your elocution, spending your hard earned money to attend acting workshops on the weekends after your shifts end. You devote yourself to the craft, studying everything from   Lee Strasberg’s method acting to the Chekhov acting technique. But all of it never seems like it’s enough. It feels like you’re stuck in a swamp, and no matter how much effort you put in, it’ll never be enough to move forward. 

Suddenly, your name is called and you jump to your feet, adrenaline making your spine stand straight. You’re quickly ushered into the small room where the casting director and his assistant sit, hands clasped on the wooden table in front of them. Piles of papers are scattered in front of them, and you can spot headshots and crossed out names on a list.

At once, you can feel their serious gazes settle on the coffee stain that adorns the front of your shirt. You ignore the slight raise of their eyebrows and instead shoot them your best smile, the one you’ve long since perfected in front of the mirror in your room. 

You present yourself, words tumbling out through your strained smile. 

As you start to relax, muscles in your neck loosening, it’s easier to slip back into the role you had worked hard to perfect. Everything from your posture to the tone of your voice changes, and it’s as if you morph into an entirely new person. 

At least, that’s what you let yourself think. You’re so into the part you don’t notice they’ve signaled for you to finish prematurely.

“Very well.” A hand comes up in the air à la Simon Cowell, effectively putting a stop to your dramatic speech. You resist the urge to check if he has protruding nipples to match.

You halt mid-sentence, mouth slightly parted, the rest of your prepared phrase stuck in your throat. Aware that you must look like a poor imitation of a goldfish, your jaw closes shut with an audible snap. You glance at his name place card, squinting at the small embossed lettering, before he commands your attention with a cough. 

“So, tell me,” Neil continues, crossing his arms and leaning forward to stare you straight in the eyes. “What do you think love is?”

“What love is?” you parrot back, trying to mask your confusion. Is this a trick question of some kind? You fail to understand what answer he expects of you, so instead of answering verbally, you shift around on your feet. It’s hard to think properly when your entire career is on the line; one wrong answer and you can say goodbye to the role you prepared so much for.

“Yes. What is love to you?” He flips through your meager résumé, nodding in what could be either acknowledgement or dismal.

Sweat beads at your hairline while your entire body freezes up. What does he mean by “you”? You wonder if he expects you to answer in character or not… What would your character answer? According to the script, she’s a little airheaded, with no other purpose than comic relief. 

“Love is…” you trail off, suddenly overcome with a memory you believed to be buried in the recesses of your mind. The words trigger something within you, and for a second you falter, the rest of the room becoming but a faint buzz of static in your ears.

“I have loved you.” 

His words settle into your lungs like a cloud of smoke, making it difficult to breathe. You’re not sure what hurts the most—his apologetic expression or the way he delivers his confession with the utmost sincerity. The use of the past tense only finalizes the blow; the skin of your lips almost bleed from the force of your bite.

“Do you not anymore?” you croak, voice catching in your throat.

You hate crying in front of him. Years ago, whenever you scraped your knees after falling from your bike, you had always refused to shed any tears in his presence. It all flashes through your mind right then like a film stuck on loop— the packs of band-aids you carefully wrap around his blisters and the way his calloused fingers strum your exposed skin like his guitar in gratitude.

“Of course I do.” For the first time since your argument, he loses his composure, the harsh creases between his furrowed brows giving away how much the goodbye is affecting him.

A warm palm encloses your own and with a nudge at your chin, he forces you to meet his own gaze.

You wish he would release you from his hold—only because it would be easier to conceal the trembling in your jaw. He must feel the minute movements beneath the pads of his fingers; for a split second his mask falls, features stricken with grief.

“I’ll always love you,” he finally admits, the quiet confession ringing loudly in your ears.

The sentence echoes in the silence of the room, seemingly amplified by the memories of all the previous times he had whispered the same words, intertwined with soft kisses and familiar caresses. There’s nothing comforting about the admission now—not when it veils the finality of a goodbye.

“But?” you ask tentatively, readying yourself for another blow.

Your reaction, for some reason, seems to anger him, because his expression stiffens—muscles on his face crisping up, wall falling back into place. It’s always been difficult to read him when he closes himself off from you, but it never stops you from trying. You search his features, hoping to find some kind of sign that would clue you in.

“Please don’t make this harder than it is. I thought you, out of everyone in this godforsaken town, would understand me.” You blink, eyelashes damp with unshed tears.

“There’s nothing for me here,” he continues, softer now, glassy eyes not noticing the way you flinch at his words. “If I stay, I’ll never get anywhere. They say there’s more for me out there in the big city. And I know— I know it’s crazy and the competition is tough, but—”

There’s a pause as he gathers breath, your face still cradled in the warmth of his palm. From where you’re standing you can spot the beauty marks and scars that are sprinkled over his skin like tiny constellations. You think back to the time he was twelve and had nicked the skin right above his eyebrow during one of his baseball games. It all seems like a lifetime ago—before puberty had filled his gangling body with hard muscle—but you can still recall with vivid clarity the front he had tried to put up, his brow furrowed and jaw clenched. Much like now, you think.

“But I’ll never know if I don’t at least give it a try. I’ll regret it if I stay cooped up here, wondering every day why I didn’t swallow down my fear and pack my shit up. I know I’ll be miserable if I give up on my dream. You know that, right? It’s the only thing I have going for me. I’m not like you—I suck ass at math and science. I don’t have a future here so I’m going to where I actually have a chance.”

And maybe now is not the time, but it’s impossible to stop the envy from coursing through your veins. How lucky it must be to know what you’re good at and what you want, to be brave enough to leave everything you’ve known behind because you have something to chase after. Unlike him, you’re stuck at a standstill, with nowhere to run forward to and now the only thing grounding you home—gone.

“I have to leave, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, you’re right.”

The last thing you want to hear from his lips is an apology. It’s a painful reminder that there’s a world outside the bubble you’ve built for yourself, that everything around you is changing and you’re the only one stuck in place, unmoving.

In the end, you opt for honesty.

“Love is a promise. It’s waiting for the right person, no matter how long it takes.” Your voice is resolute, even as you twiddle with a ring on your index finger nervously.

“Ah, I see… I don’t suppose you believe in love at first sight? Or soulmates?”

You run your tongue against the inside of your cheek, still unsure what sort of answer they’re looking for. It feels like a test but Neil’s voice and expression give nothing away. Either way, you must have taken too long to answer because he clears his throat and rearranges the papers on the table in front of him, his assistant writing something in red ink across your résumé.

“That’ll be enough, then. Thank you for your time.” 

Maybe today just isn’t your day, you think grimly, gathering your things. The ring that sits on your finger catches the overhead light, shine momentarily blinding you. When will you be able to fulfill your end of the promise? Perhaps childhood promises are meant to stay in the past. You’re not sure why you stubbornly hold onto such words, anyway. 

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The fight that usually lights up within you deflates. Most days, you’re optimistic, but today for some reason, things just haven’t gone your way. Ever since the damned coffee cup this morning, things have only been going downhill. Of course, it’s not fair to blame everything on what was evidently an accident, but it’s easier that way.

“On a scale from one to ten, how bad did it go?” Tina asks, pouring you a generous shot of vodka. Since you don’t own any shot glasses, you have to pry the bottle out of her hand because any more and you would think she wants you dead. “One being they occasionally zoned out during your monologue…”

She scratches her chin, trying to recall the worst audition story. “Ten being told you’re too ugly to read for the part. Although I have heard some disturbing ass stories that are definitely a fifteen or higher. You know Drew Barrymore? Heard she was asked to give herself the finger during an audition.”

“What?” you splutter, frown marring your features.

“Dunno, it was supposed to be a sexy scene but there was no one to read with her, so she had to act it out herself. Pretty w-weird. So she sucked her own finger while she acted out the blowjob. Or maybe I’m not remembering this correctly?” Her words are slightly slurred together, shoulders raising up into a shrug.

“Um,” you choke out, after knocking back your drink in one gulp. “Okay, well, it didn’t get weird. I thought it was going well but he cut me off before I finished and then asked me questions. I guess I kind of blanked out? I didn’t know what to say, so he must have ended up thinking I’m too daft.”

“Isn’t your character supposed to be a little empty up there?” she points at her head, one manicured finger only slightly missing her eyeball.

You’re not sure she notices the look you shoot her way, but if she does, she promptly ignores it in favor of reaching for the vodka bottle.

“Slow down or you’ll puke all over the carpet. Do you really want to add to our stain collection?” 

She huffs, pouting pathetically up at you.

“Spoilsport. Fine, let’s get drunk at a bar instead.” You’re convinced pretty easily because anything seems like a better alternative to spending the night cleaning up your friend’s vomit. 

You almost regret your decision because grungy bars aren’t your thing. Empty plastic cups litter the ground and faded graffiti paints the walls in squiggly streaks, and, yeah—grungy bars are definitely not your type of scene.

It’s nearing the one o’clock mark and you repress the urge to (kindly) throttle Tina and her group of friends who have dragged you along with them. Instead of sitting on your couch re-watching one of your favorite movies, you find yourself squirming your way through a crowd of sweaty bodies, balancing four cups in your hands and doing your best to prevent the cheap beer from spilling.

An elbow juts out, bony angle jabbing your side, and some of the froth overflows in splatters, coating your fingers in its stickiness. You mutter out a curse that gets lost, drowned out by an off-key acappella rendition of a Britney anthem, while you’re left to salvage the damage. There is a pause for breath onstage, and someone yells “Take the mic away from him!” in the background. Suddenly, it is chaos. Everyone howls out their own two-cents and the performer onstage redoubles his efforts in his attempts to drown out the noise with his song. 

For a reason you can’t quite understand, this place seems to be a hot spot for all the young, neighborhood artists; you spot a pair of guys in matching hoodies from the local film university at the bar, trying to pitch their idea to anyone drunk or interested enough to listen.

The cause of its unexpected success seems to be the open mic night event that is hosted once every week. Apparently, talent scouts are known to scour this area from time to time, and the promise of a success story attracts all the young and struggling artists, desperate to make it big. One of your friends has been raving about it for a little over a month, and even you’ve been curious as to see what it looks like. Your expectations fall short, but you won’t let that deter you from having fun. 

Well, fun isn’t easily found.

Tonight happens to be open mic night, which means you’ve already had to sit through half an hour of drunken poetry. You’re all for the creation of art through self-expression, but, well…. The intoxicated ramblings are amusing at best (the highlight so far being a short skit involving a plastic hammer and a beach ball) but the night’s entertainment is as gripping as a B-rate movie.

You let out a plaintive sigh, swirling the ice cubes in your cup with your straw, zoning out yet again when the next participant shuffles onto the small makeshift stage. You ready yourself for another five minutes of nonsensical babble, but instead you do a double-take as your gaze falls upon the man adjusting the mic stand, his shaggy hair partly obscuring his face from view.

Instinctively, your blood runs hot—something ugly rears its head as soon as you recognize the same face you’ve been cursing since your failed audition.

You gnaw your straw, working your jaw until it becomes just another useless piece of plastic.  

Although you’re not yet familiar with his name, you can’t forget the ugly lines of his face and the cold, dead look in his eyes. You don’t know why you thought he looked slightly attractive this morning because looking at him now only makes your lip curl in disgust. Why is his skin glowing? You’re convinced he must have dabbled glitter over his body to achieve such an effect. Who does he think he is, anyway? Kesha? Edward the vampire?

A nameless stranger—that is all he is to you at this point. And yet somehow he is also more than that.

Hate is a strong word. But as your attention focuses solely on his face, highlighted by the harsh glare of a spotlight, something within you boils to a tipping point.

A hush falls over the packed room as he clears his throat into the mic. Something about the sound bounces off the walls, makes several heads turn, snapping them out of their drunken stupor. As much as you want to tear your gaze from his figure, something about his presence on stage commands your attention. Unbeknownst to you, your breath is caught in your throat—anticipating his performance.

When he finally speaks, you can’t keep the astonished expression off your face. You’re not sure what you expect from him—maybe a dispassionate monologue on the benefits of caffeine or perhaps intoxicated words slurred together—but not this.

Impassioned dialogue falls from his lips, his face scrunched up. Words become bullets he fires into the crowd, his tongue twisting each of them with precision. You don’t know much about rap—only the try-hard images you see on television—but this is nowhere close to that. He quickly creates a story, raw emotion building with each stride he takes across the stage, and you’re unwillingly sucked into it. 

“There!” Tina nudges, voice somehow catching your attention. You fight hard to detach your gaze from the stage. It takes a moment to orient yourself, still reeling from the performance that’s still going on, but your stare finally falls on the man your friend is pointing at, huddled in one of the corners of the room, nursing a half empty cup of amber liquid. 

“That’s him! The guy from The Agency. He’s the one who comes here sometimes. I swear he was sleeping earlier but look! Whoa, this guy must be good to have gotten his atten—”

You tune her out, the anger that had simmered down now back in full force. Your day has officially gone to shit if the same guy from this morning is now being recruited by one of the best agencies in the world. Nope, this can’t be happening—you refuse to accept this as your reality. The many shots of alcohol blur your better judgement and you lick your lips in preparation for fucking war. 

Slamming your cup down on the table with more fervor than needed, you rise to your feet, a single thought coursing through your mind. 

Over my dead body, asshat. 

[omamaha16]

Swazz and Pisces- Requested

“The Cancer and the Pisces makes the harmonic connection of Water on both the parts. This is one of the most sympathetic and lovely relationships of all the zodiac signs with least amount of arguments and differences. The Cancer is a true image of empathy while the Pisces is true deity of devotion.

A Cancer man is fully equipped man with hard shell determination to achieve his success which is generally in terms of money. He is gentle and caring and most often very loyal towards all the relationships. Though he suffers from mood swings but his great sense of humor also keeps him in good books of everyone. He loves to get pampered and in a relationship with a Pisces woman he definitely gets spoiled by her constant urge to serve and love him. Issues related to finance has the ability to intrigue him and he finds a lot of joy by saving money instead of spending it.

A Pisces woman is extremely gentle and caring with an appealing feminine grace. She is a wise woman with serene nature who is very helpful and always works to sort out problems of other people. She likes to stay in her dream world and usually have a spiritual connection with her lover. In a relationship with a Cancer she blooms well in his tender care and gentle attitude and provides him with everlasting devotion. Even when she goes through phases of despair and insecurity, she never loses her calmness but cannot tolerate depression for a long period of time.

The Pisces woman accurately evaluates the qualities possessed by her Cancer man. She provides him with devotion and care which he craves for deeply and also helps him to become emotionally matured. In any kind of augmenting state, she makes the first move to make any kind of settlement, making him feel needed and valued which in turn is beautifully responded by him. She makes a good home-maker with all the qualities of a lady that are admired by him. She is equally sensitive but sometimes drifts into her own dream world which makes her behave in a detached manner. She never appreciates the possessive streak of the Cancer male. And he might not fully understand her point of view because he cannot draw the line between love and being overtly possessive.

The cancer man is a gentleman who is blessed with the tender hands to hold on to the delicate Pisces lady. His sense of responsibility makes her feel very secure and carefree. The sophisticated sense of humor of Cancer man always makes the pretty Pisces woman smile but his unpredictable nature thoroughly intrigues her. Even though she never asks for his help, he is clever enough to interfere at the right moment in order to keep her well accustomed with the harsh realities of the world and to protect her from getting hurt by others. Though, both of them are bound to display their stubbornness at times, but it brings into line their passions and emotions. He admires her serenity and loves the way she takes care of him and his emotions and in turn showers her with gentle love and strong protection that she longs for.

As the lovely pair of the Cancer man and Pisces woman, hold their hands for the ever-lasting relationship of true love and extreme trust, they make remarkable harmony as a couple. Their eyes always shine with the affection they hold in their hearts for each other and their hearts always beat louder in each other’s presence assuring that their togetherness is no less than a miracle. With the supreme devotion given by her, the insecurities of the Cancer man fades away and he opens up his heart completely to place this lovely lady in it forever with tenderness that is a gift from angels of love. And with this love and security given by him, she responds like a flower to rain with utmost caring smile and loving eyes. Their unison is one of a kind with so much compassion that fills their life with happiness and affection forever.

Both, the Cancer man and the Pisces woman understand the need for a healthy physical relationship because they think it helps them to deal with the difficult phases in life. As they become physically intimate with their Water flowing through each other smoothly, they experience a natural unison of man and woman made by nature itself. The tender touch of Cancer man helps her to bloom up with such passion that she responds even more beautifully than expected by him. The love making of these two is sensuously mild and erotically pleasing and fulfilling for both of them. Usually there are no problems in their physical relationship except for the time when he becomes too cold towards her, and does not make her realize that he loves her truly or when she gives a sarcastic remark during an argument, hurting the sensitive feeling of him. But these problems do not last for a long time, and once all the disagreements are settled, this couple will again start to enjoy being in the relationship.

When Cancer man and Pisces female feel attracted to each other, the relationship seems like a blessing but whenever they go through a rough patch in the relationship then they might feel that they have got trapped in the relationship. Though he admires philosophical insight and healing ability of her but he cannot stand her weak will and tendency to lie and even though she loves the way he guides and rescues her from the cruel world but his offbeat moods and stinginess are unbearable by her. To make this relationship a success, she should try to make him emotionally more mature but she needs to be very careful while she is discussing such delicate issues with him because if she goes overboard then he might get offended. At the same time, he needs to keep a check on the Pisces woman so that she does not drift into her dream world too often and lose touch from the realities of life.”

MASTERLIST