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project-sonadow · 1 year ago

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Fate?

Summary: Sonic never cared about soulmates, but in a world where everyone had a red string of fate wrapped around their finger, Sonic decided to wear gloves.

Read the rest below!

To put it bluntly, Sonic had never cared about soulmates.

He wasn’t exactly unique in this mindset. In this modern day and era, it was only slightly progressive to spend your entire life without ever meeting your other half, let alone devoting your life to them. Radical ideas, such as platonic soulmates, familial soulmates, or even soulmates being bad if you ended up paired with the wrong person were common talking points in the general public and media. That red string of fate which had governed entire lives in the past no longer seemed critical to most people.

Sonic didn’t care about any of that either. In fact, until he started hanging around populated human areas more often, he didn’t realize there was so much controversy about it. He always lived how he wanted, paying barely any attention to the subject.

Sonic’s friends all had very different opinions about soulmates.

Tails was kind of like him, in that he didn’t care about the red string encircling his pinkie and leading to a far-off point in the distance- or, at least, he pretended not to. Amy had been heartbroken that she and Sonic weren’t soulmates, before deciding to prove to Sonic and the world that true love couldn’t be predetermined by fate (her words, not his). Knuckles didn’t want to leave his duty for long enough to find his soulmate, and had admitted to Sonic once that he felt bad for whoever his soulmate was. Cream was excited to find her soulmate when she got older, but wasn’t under any illusion that it was a requirement for happiness in life, considering that her own mother was forever trailed by her own cut string, dragging limply on the ground, and seemed just fine despite that. Blaze and Silver both viewed it as a luxury that they couldn’t indulge in (ironic, because their shared red string of fate was apparently strong enough to cross through time and dimensions). Vector didn’t care about it at all, considering that he had his eyes set on Vanilla. Espio thought it would get in the way of his “duties as a ninja”, whatever that meant. Charmy just didn’t like the idea of relationships in general. Rouge hated the concept in general, Shadow refused to talk about it, and Omega said he would refuse to accept his soulmate unless they were willing to help him destroy Eggman. Big had a gentle kind of apathy towards his string. Whisper didn’t talk much about the subject to begin with, and considering that she wore blocker gloves 24/7 people didn’t ask her about it.

Tangle…

Well, it seemed like she was trying very hard to convince herself that she didn’t care about the idea of never finding her soulmate.

“I just don’t get why everyone thinks it’s such a big deal, y’know. Like it’s great if you do find your soulmate, and in a tiny village like mine half the soulmates are paired up before they’re teenagers, but it’s not like you need to do it! My moms aren’t soulmates and they’re doing just fine!”

Tangle’s moms were currently divorced and trying to rekindle their relationship, but Sonic decided not to bring that up.

“And then we have to throw a huge stupid party everytime someone comes back from vacation with their soulmate in tow, and I just. Ugh. We all make such a big deal out of getting to choose how to live our own lives, but we’re all born with this stupid string around our pinkies and told to go off and find the other end. It’s so annoying.”

This probably wasn’t what was actually bothering her, Sonic thought. It was probably the fact that one day her string had stopped moving by itself, only responding to Tangle’s own body, and currently led to a forest in the middle of nowhere with nobody at the other end. It was probably the fact that her soulmate had apparently been the type of person to try on a pair of blocker gloves one day and then never take them off.

Sonic thought about Whisper. About the blocker gloves she never took off, the way she started fiddling with them whenever Tangle was around. The way she looked so anxious whenever Tangle grabbed her by the hand and started running, like she was scared Tangle would pull the glove clean off. The way Tangle and Whisper looked at each other, in general.

Like always, he wondered if he should tell Tangle what he thought.

Like always, he decided against it.

“If you want a huge stupid party, I can always just throw you one, soulmate or no soulmate,” he said instead. “Hell, if you really want, we could pretend that we’re soulmates just to rub it in your town’s face.”

Tangle fake-gagged, and Sonic took fake-offense to that.

“Like you’re one to talk, Mr. Celebrity,” she said, and Sonic drew himself back a little, spines involuntarily bristling. “Whenever people talk about soulmates you just roll your eyes and say some shit about ‘living free’ and ‘going with the flow’. Do you really not want to find your soulmate? It would be easy for you.”

Sonic rolled his eyes, and then instantly realized what he had done when Tangle started laughing at him. He hastily cleared his throat. “Don’t know if there’s anyone who would be able to keep up with me.”

“I know at least three people who can go about as fast as you can,” Tangle said, punching his shoulder lightly. “C’mon, if you really didn’t care that much you wouldn’t wear those stupid blocker gloves all the time.”

Oh, so she had noticed. “Eh, I mostly wear these because I tend to get mobbed by crazy fangirls if I don’t. If I make it obvious I’m not really available then most people won’t attempt to tell me that they’re totally different from the hundreds of other people who have been convinced we’re meant to be over the years.”

Tangle narrowed her eyes at that. “Crazy fangirls? Like Amy?”

“Crazier.”

“Wow, scary,” Tangle said, and then moved on to talking about how her own friends had set up a Sonic fanclub once, and the conversation moved on from there, and Sonic was glad he didn’t have to talk about it anymore.

So yeah, Sonic wore blocker gloves, and yeah, it was so he wouldn’t be harassed about the subject whenever he showed his face in public, or when journalists ambushed him on the streets, or people edited photos of him to make it seem like he had a thin red line coming down from his pinkie and leading to some stranger in the photo. It was convenient. It was easy.

It was even mostly the truth.

Sonic knew a couple other people who wore blocker gloves- Blaze studiously kept hers on to keep up a vaguely professional air, even when her cheeks flamed fire-red every single time Silver so much as existed in her general vicinity, Espio had his on so the string couldn’t get in the way of his “duties as a ninja” (seriously, what the hell did that mean), Vector occasionally wore them on the job and had made half-hearted attempts to get a pair for Charmy, which kept on being mysteriously lost. Rouge and Shadow both wore a pair, presumably because of their super-secret spy jobs that Sonic wasn’t supposed to know about (glowing red strings which could phase through any solid object would probably make hiding difficult, he figured), and Omega had found a way to simply turn his string off, somehow, which was more impressive and terrifying than anything else Sonic had seen him do.

The only person Sonic knew who steadfastly refused to wear blocker gloves was Vanilla, despite the troubles she sometimes saw because of them. She was a single mother whose string had been cut by an untimely death, and she didn’t care who knew it. She lived each day of her life with a bright, happy, genuine smile on her face.

She was, so far, one of the only people who had ever seen Sonic with his gloves off. The only other person besides Tails, actually, who built his gloves in the first place. And the only person who hadn’t said a word to him about the subject, just cleaned the cut he had gotten on his palm and told him to keep himself safe.

He was grateful to her for that.

Rouge was Vanilla’s polar opposite, in regards to the string. She not only hid her string, she made a show of hiding it, commissioning custom blocker gloves and shoving the subject right back in the face of any poor soul who dared to question her about it. She had a million and one excuses for why she didn’t want to find her soulmate, all of them tiptoeing around the truth and never once touching on the actual reason why. She bragged about being able to date anyone she wanted even without showing her string off. She complained about not wanting to be tied down. She whined about how annoying societal expectations were. She crowed about the amount of people who desperately wanted to be her soulmate.

Sonic saw through all of this as the extravagant bullshit that it was, but he really had no idea what the actual reason was. Didn’t really care either. It wasn’t like she brought the subject up an annoying amount either, she was far more likely to yammer on for hours about her one and only actual love (jewels) than she was to start talking about literally any other subject (and if he could put up with the jewel talk, then he could put up with anything).

It was just that sometimes when they hung out, people would get the wrong idea about them. Sonic and one of his friends (a woman at that), both with blocker gloves, spending time together, alone? It was apparently unthinkable to some that they could just be friends. So they both made a big joke out of it, Rouge flaunting how untouchable she was and Sonic pretending to be heartbroken. It made for some hilarious think pieces about how Sonic was a bad role model, at the very least.

Still, he didn’t want to deal with all of that every time they hung out, which was why Rouge had dragged Shadow along with them this time, mentioning that he owed her for something.

So here they were, sequestered away in a tiny café, Rouge and Sonic talking about everything and nothing, while Shadow was also there, sipping delicately at his tea while Sonic chugged his large chocolate milkshake and Rouge got whipped cream from her hot chocolate all over her face.

Good times.

For once, the general populace seemed content to ignore them, at least for now, so the conversation went wherever it wanted to, Sonic and Rouge loud and energetic, Shadow quiet and solemn (despite the fact that there was nothing to be solemn about).

At least, nothing until Rouge spilled hot chocolate all over her glove.

“Ohgoddamnitshit,” Rouge said, all in one breath, dabbing at the stain on her very expensive glove with a napkin, a small frown on her face, before it turned into an outright scowl. “Oh come on-”

She shifted her wrist, and Sonic saw what had bothered her so much. Some of the liquid must have gotten into some of the actual electronics in the glove and messed with it, because Sonic could now see Rouge’s string. Rouge’s cut string.

Rouge groaned, and then shoved her hand under the table, her head in her other hand. “Not. A. Word.”

She said it lightly, like Sonic and Shadow had just seen her do something embarrassing instead of accidentally revealing that her supposed other half was dead and buried, but Sonic could hear the threat in her tone, and he wasn’t going to tell anyone about it anyway. He mimed sealing his lips shut, Shadow just gave her a terse nod, and before either of them could do anything Rouge had thrown some cash onto the table and ran out the front door, presumably to go home, get a new pair of blocker gloves, and hide her face from them for at least a couple months.

Sonic put his chocolate shake down on the table. He had a feeling it wouldn’t taste anywhere near as good as it did a second ago.

“I know Rouge already said as much, but if you tell anyone else about that, you’ll regret it,” Shadow said, the threat in his far less concealed than Rouge’s had been.

“I won’t, jeez,” Sonic said. “I’m not an asshole. And I don’t care about soulmates either.”

Shadow just raised an eyebrow at him, and Sonic glared back half-heartedly. “Those gloves serve a purpose, Sonic.”

“I only wear these because I’m a celebrity for some reason, and people think that makes it okay to pry into every detail of my life.”

“‘For some reason’,” Shadow said, mostly to himself, sounding incredulous. “That can’t seriously be the only reason you wear them.”

Well, it wasn’t, but he wasn’t about to tell Shadow that. Especially when he had no idea what the other hedgehog thought about soulmates beyond just a general unwillingness to speak about the topic. He was born over 50 years ago and raised by a bunch of uptight scientists in literal outer space, so Sonic was curious if he had any different opinions from the general crowd he hung out with.

Shadow didn’t seem willing to share, so Sonic decided to push the issue. Just a bit. “Why do you wear blocker gloves?”

Shadow’s lips curled in a vaguely unpleasant way. “I don’t want to find my soulmate. That’s all.”

Well, that was an unsurprising and boring answer. “Okay, but what would you do if you met your soulmate and fell head-over-heels in love with them? Or if you’ve already met your soulmate, but didn’t know because of the gloves?”

“I wouldn’t fall in love with anyone. And I’m not even slightly concerned about the second possibility. There is nobody in my life who I would want to become my life partner.”

Sonic pouted at him, and something in his chest hurt, just a bit. “Nobody? Not even little old me?”

Shadow’s expression flickered, before it hardened again. “I hope, for your sake, that what you just said was a joke. I’m an immortal being, Sonic. My string will end up cut, at some point or another.”

“Hmm. Good point,” Sonic said. “Well, unless your soulmate is Omega, I guess.”

Shadow choked on his drink, and Sonic couldn’t help but grin like a maniac even as Shadow glared at him (it was less scary than normal, with tea dripping out of his mouth and into his chest fluff. He looked adorable. Sonic tried not to think about the fact that he thought Shadow was adorable).

Sonic decided against talking about it anymore for his own health (Shadow had proved he was more than willing to suplex Sonic through a table if he annoyed him too much), so instead he just waited for Shadow to finish his tea before handing him some gold rings to pay for the half-drunken milkshake. Shadow glared at the rings like they offended him. “They don’t accept those as payment in human establishments.”

“My mistake,” Sonic said cheekily. “Guess I’m dining and dashing. The next date will be my treat.”

And then he dashed before Shadow could actually suplex him through the table.

Sonic didn’t leave the city when he left the café, instead opting to nap on the nearest rooftop before night fell. Whenever he visited the big cities he always made sure to stay off the streets themselves. With so many people all locked into one tiny area, the red strings, thin and frail as they were, became far too many, all at once, hundreds and thousands and millions of them all crisscrossing their way across every visible surface, choking his view and making it impossible to run unless he wanted to be half-blind. So he stuck to the rooftops, and waited for night so he could at least get a good view for his trouble.

At night, the streets of every city lit up, suffused with a red glow, invisible during the day but radiant when the sun went down. The strings varied in size, thickness, length, how strong they were, how much they were moving, but every single one of them, collectively, bound people together in the most literal way possible. If you had a soulmate, it was impossible to get rid of your string. It would remain there until the day you died, so most people still said it was better to try and use it, to find happiness with your other half.

Sonic didn’t put much stock in that idea. Or in the idea of other halves existing in the first place. Some of his friends called him an idealist for thinking so, but he had always believed that people were complete by themselves, and that finding someone else made them something more than just themselves.

Shadow would probably call him an idealist for that, too. Even if he had a sneaking suspicion it was something close to what the other hedgehog thought.

Or maybe Shadow would just call him stupid.

High on his chosen perch, Sonic surveyed the glove on his right hand. Tails had made it for him. It was mostly pure white, just like his old gloves, but with a thin ring of silver at the bottom which made its purpose obvious. It looked professionally made. To everyone except him and Tails, it even looked like it worked.

When he removed it, his hands were bare, free from any string. He never had one in the past, and would probably never have one in the future. Sonic had learned a long time ago how people reacted when they realized he didn’t have a soulmate, and decided he hated it even back then. The gloves were a convenience, a way for him to avoid explaining himself, a preventative measure to stop everyone from looking at him like he was broken.

Because Sonic wasn’t broken. He only needed himself, so even if fate said he was doomed to be alone he was perfectly fine with that.

Sonic thought back to Shadow, in the café.

Well, there was a reason he had never put much stock in fate, either.

#project writes #sonadow #sonic the hedgehog #shadow the hedgehog

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escespace · 9 months ago

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Merthur prompt

Or rather, a long concept that has been going around in my head since I saw a tiktok but that I don't have the energy or time to write:

BUT LISTEN TO ME, I HAVE NOT FOUND ANYTHING LIKE THAT:

The king who seeks his warlock, the warlock who seeks his king. Two halves trying to become a whole again through two parallel growth journeys and a convergence between duty and hope.

So...

Merlin pretends to be heading for Camelot but he definitely isn't going there. I mean, IT'S THE KINGDOM KNOWN FOR ROAST BUNNY ON FIRE SEASONED WITH SORCERERS (he loved his mother but is that woman out of her mind?!)... However, he understands why she came up with the idea and agrees that his magical outbursts are becoming harder to conceal, so he wants to seek help (other than that of an ex-sorcerer who remains under the command of the chief butcher of his kind). He wants to find druids but he knows it will be a difficult journey, druids never stay in one place long enough and they distrust outsiders. Either way, he's already made up his mind and he never backs down when he does that.

Meanwhile Arthur's taking Morris to Gaius because the idiot moved at the last minute while he was practicing throwing knives.And it's totally his fault and not Arthur's. How dare him doubt the ability of his prince? Ha! As if Arthur could fail.

He knows he's going to be late for the banquet and his father will look at him in that way he does and well, it better not be that late, right? So he takes other routes and somehow ends up near where that magnificent entertainment is staying, that Morgana kept talking about but that he didn't listen to at all...

He hears the commotion in one of the rooms and ends up stopping a crime and finds evidence of a possible assassination attempt on the royal family. More or less, Arthur stops the whole fiasco with Lady Helen before it happens.

While they take her to the dungeons to burn her the next morning, she growls, attacks and curses the Pendragon ancestors... Above all, that night Arthur does not stop listening to her again and again claiming for the life of her son, burned that same morning :

«It wasn't Him, it was my magic, it wasn't Him »

And for the first time in his life Arthur asked himself a question related to magic...

Weeks go by and for Merlin things may not be going the way he thought they would. He has been living on just one meal a day and sometimes manages to pick up work in passing villages in exchange for lodging for a couple of nights; but mostly he tries to stay in the woods. It's not that he know much about living off the wild, but He has been through tough times before, not big deal, and for some reason there's something very comforting about being constantly surrounded by nature too.

Almost any discomfort would be acceptable if it weren't for the freaking unicorn that never stops following him. And aren't they supposed to be a sign of good fortune or something? Then why has it been the cause of all his calamities so far? First the overestimated horse tore one of his shirts while dragging him across the grass, and it's not like he's in a position to lack of anything without having money and with the cold nights he usually faces. Then the animal he fought with him until push him into a river whose watercourse rolled him around like a lady's garment during the wash. The last encounter ended when I lead Merlin towards some bandits Merlin did what he could. He knocked most of them down, causing branches to fall on them and their feet to get caught in roots. But one managed to get close enough to knock him until leaving him confounded, then the others who were not so bruised joined in the beating and Merlin could do nothing.

Intense emotions, deep reflections on his identity and self-worth until he is finally saved by an blonde woman. The lady said at most three words and all the bandits fell asleep.

An exchange of words that I can't come up with but ends with the woman telling him that she didn't do it for free, that he should pay with her neckerchief. Merlin doesn't understand but he's hurt and tired so he no protest

(Pause to say that in defense of the unicorn, he was just looking to steer Merlin in the direction of his destiny coughcoughArthurcoughcough, and Merlin didn't make it easy for him)

Days later the thing with Valiant and nobody suspects anything, nobody is there to save the ass of our favorite brat. But a Old lady follows him around like a duck all morning treating him like a adorable and helpful young man (much as a grandma style) until he bends to accept a ☆favor☆, yes that one... You and I know where she got it, Arthur doesn't and he doesn't know how unique and special that little piece of cloth can be.

No one sees anything strange in this favor because the old woman gave it to him in a very public place and everyone assumes that the prince is just being chivalrous

But the scarf ends up being what protects Arthur from Valiant's shield just because I say so and the magic of fiction stories and Merlin and his neckerchiefs have a special connection so its essence or whatever is still there

The story would extend to the first encounters between Merlin and the druids, Merlin and his father (a meeting before time to give them their due quality time and badass moments). He having the opportunity to forge his own identity and an independent path. On the other hand, Arthur discovering aspects of magic on his own to create his own criteria and value system. HE COULD EVEN BE THE FIRST TO TALK TO THE GREAT DEAGON!!!!

Forget that, Arthur is definitely the first to talk to the great dragon and learn of the prophecy. And listening to how it sounds, without many details and as critical as only Kilgharrah can be, plus the fact that he is only told about a certain Emrys and not about if is a wizard or witch or sorcerer or him or her...he comes to the same conclusion as us: That Emrys is his other half, "SHE" IS HIS SOULMATE... Oh man when they meet...

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cipheramnesia · 3 months ago

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Hey I'm not a big horror person myself, I get scared very easily, but you're telling me the overuse of cozy has extended to horror?

I genuinely don't know what or where cozy is going, but I decided to poke around and at least find out what it means. The simplest and easiest way to contextualize "cozy horror" is as modern folktales and campfire stories. It's a bit more complicated than all that, but that's kind of the foundations of it.

Alright, so first, my basic searching points to "The H Word: Getting Cozy with Horror" by José Cruz, published in Nightmare in 2021 as the place where it was coined, and seems to be what the few articles trying to define it point to. As far as I can tell, that site is offline, but you can read it archived here. Anyway, this thing breaks it down as "Familiar" (which seems to be primarily described as nostalgia), "Sensuous" (in the sense of stimulating senses - distinct from stimulating emotions), "Distant" (feeling insulated from the frightening elements, or safe), and "Fun" (meaning it tends to resolve without significant emotional or physical trauma). Some of that is me putting words in his mouth, so I'd encourage anyone interested to poke through the article. To me, his examples are what speak more directly. With the exception of "Night of the Creeps" he uses examples like Dracula, gothic horror, IT, the Goosebumps series, Creepshow, and the old Peter Cushing and Vincent Price 70s movies. These examples, to my eyes, all have something of the scary story that gets passed around between adolescents or as online urban legends and sometimes creepy pastas.

Anyway, as with any new idea there's the option of throwing it away and calling bullshit (generally my inclination with "elevated horror"), or taking it more at face value, which I'm a little more inclined towards with "cozy horror." For me, I suppose it's the way the core elements seem close to slightly more old fashioned "thrills and chills" horror that makes me charitably inclined - if you read the article, it's practically dripping with the abstract concept of "the good old days." And that serves as a solid foundation for quite a lot of horror. There's coming of age stories, updated vampire tales, folk horror of all ages, dark fairytales, sure. You know, it fills a useful spot, yeah? It may help that I'm coming from the perspective of a horror movie fan who very ardently seeks out dusturbing and transgressive movies or gouts of blood or warped flesh, without any interest in whether it makes me frightened, that it's easy to see how much enjoyment someone can get out of an evil murder clown which is safely defeated at the end of the day - just like it happens in Killer Klowns from Outer Space.

So it's not quite folktales, but it overlaps and next time a person talks about it you probably know the vibe. However. This subgenres has got a HUGE ASS or, put another way, a big but.

If you clicked through the article first, I imagine your reaction to the first few paragraphs might be something like mine, a knee jerk "this guy doesn't know what the fuck he's talking about." I think that's not correct, but after the cool off period, it's clear that he's either in some kind of a horror media social bubble, or he's not engaging with a lot of the genre. There's a kind of distastefulness about modern horror, described like a friend who changed into a pretentious stranger after college - as if modern horror has become all about emotional shock value, serious psychological torture porn. Which is not only unfair and incorrect, it's myopic. The ugly undercurrent to cozy horror is the overly pleasant and sickeningly kind suggestion that we don't need all this modernity, followed by the paternal recommendation that it's much better if we all just embrace the old traditions. And I don't think that's innate to cozy horror or cozy whatever, more that we don't always realize when we pull some ugly undercurrent of society up with an idea, and like when has horror not had problematic elements right? But there's no ignoring that a drive towards nostalgia, isolation, emotional suppression, and total safety can take a very bad turn in excess.

So that's cozy horror I figure. Interesting branch of folklore, but needs moderation like all things.

#cozy horror #horror movies

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greenerteacups · 5 months ago

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GT!!

Your writing inspires me every time I read it! I have long admired how you so skillfully drop deep insights into your writing in seemingly throw-away lines. You masterfully weave impactful themes into your narrative without disrupting flow for even a beat.

Personally, this is something I struggle with in my writing, and I'm really trying to improve. How did you learn to do this so well? Any tips for a new-ish writer?

Thanks for sharing your beautiful art with the world :) I wish I could scream at you in person about how much your writing has impacted me, but I hope you feel my respect and admiration across our screens! 🫶🏼🫶🏼

Thank you so much for the kind words! I offer you an answering scream into the void, out of mutual appreciation for the inspiration and kindness.

I think "writing themes" is tricky, because it depends on the kind of fiction you're trying to write. Some authors are deeply invested in telling a story that communicates a particular idea about how to live. (Contemporary critics tend to be dismissive of this mode because they see it as unrealistic; real experiences don't happen in order to communicate ideas or parables, etc.; and to that I would say who died and made you king of fiction, nobody said realism had to be the goal of all books ever, and the fact that the current literary climate happens to favor realism is an accident of taste and culture, not an objective standard of quality.) Those authors — I'm thinking of people like C.S. Lewis, G.K. Chesterton, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Harper Lee, George Orwell, Oscar Wilde, Paul Coelho, Anthony Burgess, most big-ticket science fiction novelists since Isaac Asimov and many fantasy novelists as well — have characters who act as representations of particular ideas. If you want to write that way, you might consider what you want one idea to "say" to one another in the moral thesis of your story: how do you think these concepts engage with each other? If you were going to visualize that by treating these concepts as people, what would they do to each other? What flaws would they have? How would they survive in different environments? What would be the "conclusion," i.e., which of them end up better-off? Is that a good thing? Why?

Alternatively, maybe you want a story that's more naturalistic and character-centric, and you don't want to necessarily give your reader a moral at the end of it. That's fine! In general, I've found that when most people talk about "themes," they use it as a sort of a catch-all term for "the author is thinking Deeply about Some Stuff," which doesn't necessarily mean that the text takes a position on any particular moral problem. It just means that the problems your characters have are rooted in choices they make, which allows the reader to see how certain ways of living may result in certain costs and benefits. The Great Gatsby isn't about capitalism and inequality per se, but watching Nick run around with these rich people, it's hard not to think about what capitalism and inequality are doing to each character in the story. Which kind of inevitably makes inequality and capitalism one of the themes of the book. It's not that the author put it there on purpose as an easter egg for you to find; it's just that if you want to discuss the book on a level deeper than a straight-up plot summary (asking the big why and how and what-if questions of analysis), you'll probably need to think about the ways that money and class are playing out in the story. It's woven into the structure of the story, right? These are concepts with force and energy in the novel, and they're moving pieces on the board. Conversely, some concepts don't play a role in the novel. For instance, nobody in the book is particularly religious. (Except, of course, the murderous idiot Wilson — and whoa, what does that seem to say about religion in the book?) So the redeeming power of Christ is clearly not a "theme" of Gatsby in the same way it very much is a theme of, say, Brideshead Revisited.

In that case, you might try dedicating a freewrite or two to what your concepts are. What's moving your pieces? Why you think your characters have the problems they do: what do you think causes them to fail? What in their pasts made them that way? In what situations would their faults become virtues? When they hurt other people, why does that happen? What institutions, systems, and social rules might have shaped their thought process? What do they believe, and does it help them or hurt them?

#then you get into literary theory and some people are like 'but what if every book actually could be understood with the same paradigms?'#'what if everything was freudian? what if everything was marxist?' it would be real boring. next #sometimes... books are about... different things.#anyway good luck with your writing!! if stuck the answer is always to write more and write different. hope this helps!#greenteacup asks

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butterscotch-goat · 8 months ago

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Tell me about how charles loves

OH I FORGOT THET WAS IN THE TEXT WASNT IT. FUCK okay so. Okay. These r so scrambled and like I don't even know what I'm doing ever so it's going under the cut. Good lord I'm so sorry to everyone forever. Thank you for the ask Len genuinely I LOVE TALKING SBOUT THE OCS

Actually genuinely pacing back and forth writing this. Ok. So what I have in mind is more like specific circumstances than anything methinks?? I'm just gonna go with what's on my mind ok I told you this is dog shit take it all with a grain if salt bc it's RAMBLES. And ofc "love" in like the most applicable sense so in this case platonic if it's not obvious

SO! It takes a LOT of work for Charles to say he loves something or someone (projecting.) it's a very big word for him, moreso than it is for Beatrice, so he uses it carefully. he would say (honestly) that he loves/loved his parents, and he would admit only to Beatrice that he loves her. And after a certain point, he would declare his love for science. what I've been thinking about mostly though is that. Charles has never and could never love Aster. Ever. He might THINK he could, he might think he DOES at some points even (early in their friendship before shit REALLY hit the fan, or anytime after he starts believing Aster is divine) but he DOESN'T and CANNOT. BECAUSE!! He's too obsessed with the IDEA of her. The very CONCEPT that someone like her can even EXIST boggles his brain and gets him giddy with wonder. He's too blinded by that obsession and fascination that he could never truly see Aster as the person she is, therefore could never love her for the person she is. That's why he was able to operate on Aster with no anesthesia but couldn't do the same for Beatrice; he could (somewhat subconsciously) disconnect Aster's screams and cries and just hear them as byproducts of the procedure. But he couldn't do that with Beatrice, because he actually bothers to not only know, but LOVE her as a person, and hates seeing her unhappy (which is a problem because Beatrice constantly lies about her happiness).

He and Beatrice love each other in,, ways????? Beatrice throws around "I love yous" not without care, but rather often. Charles only says it when he thinks Beatrice needs it (and of course Beatrice is awful at expressing her needs, so. Y'know.) Charles more often expresses it via actions; getting a bucket of warm water for Beatrice without her asking for her to rest her feet in (arthritis babey!), or the ONE TIME he played piano in front of her, both of them knowing Beatrice is listening (then theres that second time that happens a month before the ovening but SHHH SHHSHSHHSHS), or getting her tea whenever he makes himself a cup. Stuff like that. Which is a valid way to love someone! But it's hard for Beatrice because she has the brand of self hate (everyone in escapism has their own Special Kind of self hate btw just to be clear) that needs A LOT of reassurance, and again, she would almost never outright ask for that reassurance herself. The most she'd do is say "I love you" and silently wait for him to say it back. And when he's p sure it's clear that's what Beatrice wants, OF COURSE he'll say it back! He loves Beatrice like crazy!!! They love each other so much it's awful!!! Doomed!! They're so fucking doomed Jesus Christ!! These two motherfuckers would go to the ends of the earth for each other but Beatrice doesn't want to communicate and Charles gets so swept up in his passions he doesnt realize when Beatrice's mental state crumples unless she tells him herself!! Good god I'm projecting a lot!! I think that's all I have to say for now I am so sorry holy fuck I don't know if any of that makes sense!! Was any of that relevant to like??? What I was referring to when I mentioned it?? I DO NOT KNOW. EVERYTHING A BLUR. Thank you good night!!!

#butterstalk escapism #mailbox

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moreloke · 1 year ago

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csm x skinner, flower shop au, accidental time loop??

you can find other fics under #csm x skinner

Walter is not a big fan of flora. He's also not a big fan of places that smell like grass.

He's awkward and out of place amongst the delicate plants in the apron and work gloves. He's too old to be a flower boy. He's helping a family friend.

...He's very much applied when hauling pots and vases around and counting the cash meticulously.

🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸

Walter looks up - a man steps in, water dripping from his coat, muddy shoe prints everywhere, and puts a cigarette in his mouth. He's just cleaned up after the last customer, the weather was dreadful alright, a bit too wet, but then his shop is not a bus stop.

"No." The man freezes comically, a lighter half way to his face, brows going up.

"No?" He repeats, unused to being denied.

Walter silently points at the no-smoking sign. (He dug it out of a stationery box in the back for no particular reason. He's glad he did.)

"This is a flower shop." Walter points out helpfully at the prolonged silence.

"So it is."

"People buy flowers here."

The man ponders this, as if unfamiliar with the concept. The man is someone Walter could have seen in the endless halls of Hoover building. He hopes not.

"So. Sell me flowers then."

🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸

Man in a suit comes in with a frown and a lit cigarette in his mouth. The man puts it out at his stern look.

"Something simple. For a funeral."

Walter got no idea what's appropriate for a funeral.

"Lilies ok?"

The man nods.

He doesn't ask about colours or arrangement, sensing it's not that type of customer, and ties a simple black ribbon carefully around the bouquet.

"These are not US dollars." Some foreign currency, german maybe?

"You could still take them." The suit man's voice is gruff, from years of lung damage, surely. He frowns at his own hand, then at him and Walter guesses he's not used to being refused. Well, tough luck.

"I couldn't." He says it firmly enough and stands straighter, so they're the same height.

At that the other changes his stance lightly, less of a stand off, more of a size up.

"I'll write a cheque."

Walter shrugs and accepts the paper. He studies it attentively, then, finding no apparent fault, slips it into the drawer.

"Your flowers."

The man grabs them carelessly, too carelessly, but that's not Walters problem anymore.

"Sorry." At the raised eyebrows he adds "for the occasion." He doesn't know why he said that.

The suit throws him a look and leaves without another word.

Walter sighs and turns back to work. He hopes the cheque isn't a fraud.

🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸

"Something for a hospital."

There's nothing well wishing about the man, harsh frown, deep lines, insincire eyes. But then it's not Walter's place to comment on that.

He plucks carnations out of their vases, some fern and lemon leaf, and rolls them into a simple paper bag. They wouldn't smell too strongly and would last arguably well on a bedside table. He doesn't explain any of it, presuming that the other wouldn't care.

This time it's proper american cash but he still makes a point of examining the hundred dollar bill.

"It's genuine, I assure you." He insists, as if offended at the forgery insinuation.

"Hmph," agrees Walter and hurries to count the change.

🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸

A man in a suit rushes in and demands two dozen roses.

"We're closed."

The man winces, yet comes closer to the counter. There's a cigarette in his hand, unlit.

"You're still here, aren't you?" Walter is busy trying to discern the note of threat in his tone when the vague smell of Morley breaks though the grassy wet fragrance of the shop.

His supervisor's office reeked of smoke that day.

"You're doing good work in the field, Agent Skinner. We would hate for your career to... stall due to unsubstantiated claims and lack of concrete evidence."

It was back there. Whatever horror he supposedly never saw. It was still back there.

"Yes, sir. Of course, sir, I understand."

Someone else got the promotion. The thing, whatever it was, still roamed at large. Unchecked. Free. Hungry.

The cigarette man is looking at him expectedly.

"So? My roses."

Well, fuck it.

"Sorry." He breathes out unapologetically and looks straight into the murky blue eyes. "But we're closed for the day."

The man sizes him up. Huffs in an obvious displeasure. Stares at the "no smoking" plaque and lights his damn cig on the way out.

What an asshole.

#csm x skinner #walter skinner #cigarette smoking man #x files #i couldnt just write a normal au could i #no no no way #this is flirting btw #x fic tag

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yellowcry · 1 year ago

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Add some sugar

Mirabel didn't want to admit how surprised she was when Luisa wasn't working.

Turns out, it's Señor Agustín's birthday soon

Twice to once!

Mirabel had to admit she was too shocked by Luisa's lack of presence at work for her own likance. Because as she stated before, Luisa was at work every single day Don't get her wrong, she was glad that Luisa did something other than breaking her back at where Casita used to stand. But, considering how Mirabel had to drag Luisa for a short rest just a few days ago, she doubted Rojas would skip the work by her will.

It wasn't very hard to find Luisa. She paced around the streets like a child wandering in the wild forest. Coming from one place to another without any visible goal. Black hair wasn't collected as usual, lying in waves on the tall woman's shoulders

"Luisa, what's wrong?" Mirabel purced her lips, staring at her acquaintance with big eyes.

"Everything is fine.." Luisa muttered, ignoring Mirabel. Her fingers traced the brim of the clay cup that was on sale. "No, pa'll just break it..." She said under her breath. Intended to, as Mirabel assumed by the exhale. But the words were heard on the opposite side of the street.

Several people stared at Luisa. Mirabel noticed Señor Ortiz approaching the woman. Luisa listened to him, her fists clutched. Body shook in panic. Oh, yes. Osvaldp had always been known for being blunt and lacking a concept of social cues. Coming with the worst possible help, even if he meant well.

The more Luisa was searching, the more anxious she looked. Like Tía Pepa during one of her unstoppable hurricanes. Which only added to Mirabel's worry. The only thing she got from the older woman's unintelligible mumbling was that she needed something for her dad, Señor Agustín. And she didn't seem to have any progression in here.

"Goddamit, what do I do?" Luisa gasped, taking a moment to shake herself.

"Are you... sure you don't need help?" Mirabel looked from the corner, tucking a strand of her unamenable hair behind her ear. Luisa looked down at her with wide eyes, brows arched, and mouth open a little in confusion. "You were going in circles for hours. I won't be surprised if everyone had noticed how you're doing a marathon or something."

Luisa sighed, throwing her head back. "Papá's birthday in a few days." She confirmed, exhausted. "I have no idea what to give him.", Her eye audibly twitched. "Can you imagine? I'm running out of time!" She claimed in worry.

Oh, Mirabel wasn't sure if she could help with it. She had barely contacted with Señor Rokas. Why would she? He was her Mamá and Tíos' contemporary. There wasn't any real reason to interact with him beyond simple greetings when they met by accident.

Luisa groaned. "Damn, I need coffee for this." She slipped down the lifeless rock of the fence.

"It's serving nearby. I can show you... Besides, I planned to buy some cake for Toñito too." Mirabel shrugged. Anything was better than sitting here in panic. She was meant to remake the party for Antonío for days. His birthday was interrupted by the whole cracks thing. And besides, it would give.him.some.form.of consolation after losing his gift.

"Oh, he's so lucky! it's been a while since I had one." Luisa scratched her chin. "Now, thinking about it, I need to buy a cake too!"

Of course, a good sweet would cheer most people up. Even if Mirabel herself wasn't a fan of the sugary taste, she preferred the saltiness of a good cheese. Bonus if it was in arepa. But having a cake was a birthday tradition so it was only natural for Luisa to get one for Agustín.

Mirabel stood in a moment, the wheels moving inside her head. "Or, you can make one! I mean, as a surprise for your dad!"

She was a crafty person and she was well aware of this. From embroidery to drawing, she always made gifts for her family herself. Who would not like a nice thing you did with your very own tiny hands? Again she didn't love sweets much, but she would melt if anyone bothered to waste their time on her like that instead of doing something they actually wanted.

Luisa's eye twitched, she waved her hands frantically. "No, no, I don't know a thing about bakery! She explained. "And, I don't even have a place for it."

"I'm sure, Mamá will help you!" Madrigal insisted, leaning her hands on the grays. She squinted, feeling how hot it was from the bright direct sun. Now that nobody could create a cloud to cold down the village, the equatorial weather was spilling out in milk.

Becides, if Mirabel is busy with the cake, she would have a reason not to go back to the tower that had nearly crushed her to death. As much as she wanted to make everyone believe it was fine, she didn't enjoy the idea of staying near the place for the time being.

Mirabel shrugged the thought away, it wasn't about her. Luisa doesn't need to know about the whole thing with the magic. Ignorance was treasure as someone smart had said. The magic was gone anyway, so it wants a big deal.

"So, cake it is?" Luisa chuckled, looking down at Mirabel. The back of her leg bumped into the rock.

Mirabel nodded. Her Mamá was an amazing cook, so she was sure Luisa would grasp the purpose somewhere in the middle of the work.

Luisa still thought this Idea was stupid. She just didn't have anything better. So now she stood over the kitchen counter. Hunching next to Julieta and Mirabel. She shifted from foot to foot, trying to prevent her eye from twitching too much.

"Don't be so nervous, I don't bite." Julieta chuckled, placing her hand on Luisa's arm. Luisa winced at the voice. She gulped, throwing her gaze down. Seeing Julieta and Mirabek closer reminded her of how similar they looked. a clear familiar heritage.

"Yep!" She replied at a speed faster than the military could ever hope for. Mirabel threw a concerned look at her. Luisa thought Mirabel wouldn't join her. After all, they had the whole rebuilding thing. But Mirabel stated that she still has nothing better to do, despite all the work that has to be done yet. Oh, crap... Luisa would be so behind her schedule after this!

"It's sweet of you to make a cake with your own hands." Luisa decided to examine a small painting on the wall instead of admitting that it wasn't her who wanted it. The oily fruits glimmered from the sheeting. Luisa tensed her eyes, examining how the colors played together. "Ah, is everything alright?" Julieta asked, seeing a clear discomfort in Luisa's posture.

"Luisa, it's okay, you'll do it great. I know it." Mirabel tried to pep-talk her. Luisa closed her eyes holding back her laughter. A short chuckle managed to creep out. Luisa leaned on the table.

"Do you know what you want to make exactly?"

"Ah, well, pastel?" Luisa spreaded her arms.

"Well, you have to choose which one exactly." Julieta nodded.

Luisa bit her lip, stretching her hands. She didn't know much about cakes. They didn't exactly have them often. And with the beginning of La Violencia, it only worsened. So, she had no real idea of what to say. "Mm, Torta de Manzana sounds... okay?" She said the first thing her mind came up with. It wasn't too complex... She hoped at least. And who doesn't like apples anyway? Sure, it wasn't cake, but pies count as sweets too!

Señora Julieta explained to her how to measure ingredients. Luisa squinted her eyes, observing when the flour would hit the mark. Gotta make sure it won't be too much. Threw an egg into the bowl, then took out the pieces of a shattered shell.

Luisa wiped her finger against the edge of the kitchen cabinet, getting the ropy foodstuff off. Well, not very prim and proper. Who can stop her?

The older Madrigal was an advicer for the most part, allowing the girls to learn themselves. Well, at least for Luisa it was like this. Mirabel could be just as good as her mamá. Cooking is usually a family thing. At least it was like this with Luisa. But, to be fair, it was probably caused by the fact that allowing Papí to do anything that could produce flame was a fire hazard.

"Good thing Camilo isn't around, we would have to clean the whole place after his cooking," Mirabel muttered to herself, kneading the dough. Meanwhile, Luisa was busy beating hers with all the passion that she could muster. The thick substance stuck to her knuckles and fell back into the bowl. Yeah, it might be a little funMeanwhileLuisa was busy beating hers with all the passion that she could muster. The thick substance stuck to her knuckles and fell back into the bowl. Yeah, it might be a little fun

Several orange drops fell on the table. Luisa didn't listen to whatever Julieta had said about this, too focused on the process. Maybe she should remember that fighting the floor and eggs wasn't exactly knucking it. But who cares? It would do something. Probably.

"You're getting into the process." Mirabel chuckled, slicing the apples. Luisa looked away, nervous. How can she hold herself back anyway? It's so fun!

According to the smell... Their cooking experiment might got burnt a little, even with Señora Julieta's help. Luisa poked a finger into the hot soft surface. Damn, she really hoped she did it good.

"Good job, girls!" Julieta smiled, staring from behind Mirabel. "Luisa, I'm sure Señor Agustín will be very proud of you.

Luisa did taste some dough before the baking. Señora had said it was a good way to determine if they lacked of something. This way, Luisa added a few spoons of sugar back then. Really hoping it didn't fucked up anything. No, of course, Papí would appreciate it either way. But there was a difference between it being appreciated because of family feelings and the torta being nice.

#encanto #fanfic #ao3 author #mirabel madrigal #luisa madrigal #julieta madrigal #twice to once au

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recurring-polynya · 2 years ago

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How do you go about planning out your writing? Additionally, have you ever gone into something expecting one or two chapters and ending up with 10+?

There are two kinds of fanfic: some fanfics fit entirely in my head at once, and I can just write them out and do no planning whatsoever. This is the ideal state of writing, the dream. This is generally fics with <10k words, although Portions for Foxes (28k) was written in this manner, and my only excuse was that I was in the grips of hyperfixation.

This almost never happens to me anymore, so I gotta go down the other route, which is to plan everything out with my engineer brain. It goes like this:

I have an idea. Occasionally, the idea will be a very specific scene or a first chapter, and if it's very clear in my head, I may just let myself write it.

Otherwise, I spend a few hours to a few days free-thinking about the concept. What kind of story can I make out of it? What scenes does it include? Will it be fun to write? Do I get more excited the more I think about it, or does it feel like a pain? ->If it feels like a drag, I don't write it ->Sometimes there's just one scene or so that feels fun, so I just write that and throw it in my short story anthology

If it feels like it has legs, I start an outline. The outline must contain the story arc in broad strokes and it must contain a beginning, a conflict, a climax, and an ending before I start writing in earnest. Any time I have tried to start writing without these things, anguish has resulted.

I also often write down notes about character motivations and themes and other stuff I want to remember not to forgot, or that I can go back and look at when I feel like I've lost the thread. I keep all of this in a separate document from the main story, and over time, I also add stuff like links to useful websites, kanji for names of characters or places that I've picked out, useful facts, timelines, etc. Whenever I have a bit of writing I have to cut from the story, I save it and put it down at the bottom of the planning document under a section called DISCARD. Yeah, this is kind of a mess after a while.

Once I have this much, though, I start writing. As I am writing, I often get ideas for things to happen down the line, so I add them to outline. I try to start from the beginning of the fic and write continuously, until I get stuck or don't want to, and then I skip ahead to the next thing I feel like writing. When I run out of things I am excited to write, I refer to the outline, and fill out one of the bullets that I haven't done yet. This is sort of an iterative process of writing scenes and adding to the outline, and the fanfic goes from being a skeleton to getting gradually more fleshed out. Sometimes I write a scene and I'm not quite sure where it goes, so I guess.

(There are sometimes bad times, where I realize that my outline was a joke and my story is a mess and I roll around on the floor for a bit. After that, I do some combination of making new outlines and making new documents where I cut and paste the scenes from the old on in until they make sense. Usually this works eventually. Once, I had to do this, like, three times, and make a color-coded spreadsheet about it.)

Around this time, I will usually make an additional, chapter-centric outline. This lists every scene in the fic, in order, with some formatting to show the ones that still need work, or haven't been written at all. I will write out word counts for each chapter (sometimes for each scene). I can now see the places where I need a connecting scene, and also how big/how much stuff is in each chapter. The scene at the end of a chapter connects to the next chapter in a different way than scene-to-scene. I sometimes use two or three rotating narrators, and this also helps me make sure the POVs are balanced.

I write all the scenes I didn't want to write earlier, but now I have momentum because I can see the end.

I finish the fanfic. Joy returns to the land.

As for the question about have you ever gone into something expecting one or two chapters and ending up with 10+, the answer is no, because, as you can see, my process is specifically designed to gate off that possibility from the beginning. My fanfics regularly overrun their predicted length by 25-40%, but the decision to write a short or a long one is always one I make consciously and with care.

#fanfic ask meme #everything i wrote in my first year of writing was just off the top of my brain and it was so great and fun #and i used to worry 'what will happen when i run out of inspiration?'#and it's this. this is what happened. but hey! i'm still going right?

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grimfalcon746 · 11 months ago

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Over the last few year, I have built some of the best mage prisons that exist. It started simply enough, the local police department asked me for help arresting a mage. After that they realized they had no conceivable way to contain them. After helping with that I came highly recommended to other police departments for the same purposes. From there I honed my craft, making mage prisons that none could escape from.

So here we are, giving the final tour to the warden of what I may, ever so humbly, call my masterpiece. Salt laced iron walls, enchanted to absorb the magic of any spell cast at it. The whole prison is suspended in a temporal stasis (no idea if that makes sense, don't question it.) And in every cell, there are mage crystals. These things absorb magical energy (the energy that spell casters use against the walls gets stored here.) If those crystals get over 100% charge they will explode, killing any occupant inside the cell.

"what are those crystals for?" the warden asked as I showed him the final cell.

Turning my attention to the crystal, I started to explain the concept to him, before the unmistakable sound of the iron door clanking shut was heard behind me.

"What is this?" I ask, annoyed.

"Unfortunately it has been determined that you are too much of a threat to be left to roam free. You, therefore, will spend the rest of your life in this cell. Enjoy it." The warden explained, his guards joining him.

"You idiots ever hear the term self fulfilling prophecy?" I ask.

"Big words from a man who will die in that cell." A guard retorts.

Well, nothing to do now, i guess. I summon a doppelganger and start practicing my magic skills against it.

"How is that possible!" The warden demands.

"Although I have no obligation to explain. The cells only absorb spells that are fired at the walls, ceiling or floor. General magic is fine." I explain. "Of course, if you have a problem with it, you are welcome to come in and do something about it."

As the warden moved, one of the guards stopped him. "That is exactly what he wants. Once that door opens, he will over power us and escape."

"Wow. One of you have brains. That is more than I would have guessed." I mock.

Nothing to worry about, I think to myself, as I go back to practice. You see, I have planned for this exact scenario. Unbeknownst to my former allies, all my prisons take magical energy to function. I need to routinely top them up to keep them functional. This one will run for a couple of years without any intervention. However I do not think I will be here that long.

For the next couple of weeks, I continue to practice, rest and try to keep myself sane. Right around the the time I expected, a knock comes at my door. It is the warden.

"A very dangerous mage escaped one of your prisons." He explains.

"Wow. That sucks." I reply. "If only you knew a mage that specialized in capturing and containing mages."

"Cut the shit." He shoots back. "We both know why I am here. If we let you out, will you help?"

"Wow. That was a quick flip." I retort. "Did you even try thoughts and prayers?"

"My patience wears thin. Smart ass." The warden demands.

"Fine. I'll help." I agree, before hearing the unmistakable sound of the lock releasing.

After pointing me in the right direction, I once again head towards an area with a rogue mage going crazy, destroying and killing everyone and everything in his path. Throwing up a quick barrier as some fireballs come charging my way, the mage settles down and squares off against me.

"You broke out of a prison I designed." I state.

"Yea. What of it?" The mage asks, seemingly getting ready for a fight.

"Want to jailbreak the others?" I ask.

You are a powerful mage whose job it is to build prisons for powerful mages that are impossible to escape. Today upon completing your masterpiece they lock you up in it.

#writers #writers on tumblr #writing prompts #writeblr #writing inspiration #mage #mage prison #jailbreak

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patton-ly-absurd · 1 year ago

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Fanfic pet peeve number 5:

<insert color here>ette used to describe a characters hair color.

Ex pinkette, bluette.

Please, I beg of you, just describe the hair color itself. I get the idea. It’s purpose is to allude to the character in question without actually saying their name because the color of their hair is distinct. This also applies to any other vague way of referring to a character, such as “the older woman” or “ the coquette girl”. Unless the have an actual reason not to be named, why do this?

Ex “This situation was new to the pinkette. Natsu had never seen a fish so big before.” (Not a real example, I made this up.)

But it just, is annoying? My problem? Why not just use a pronoun??? That’s what they’re for???

Go back to the example but changed this time.

“This situation was new to him. Natsu had never seen a fish this bug before.”

I get wanting to avoid the pronoun game, but in this situation it really doesn’t matter. The subject is clarified in the following sentence.

In a situation where two characters are interacting but they share the same pronouns this is more excusable.

Ex “The two women fell unto each other. She kissed her lips with a fervor she had never seen before.”

This is bad and unreadable

…ette version

Ex “The two women fell unto each other. The bluette kissed the brunette’s lips with a fervor she had never seen before.”

Is easier to understand but reads a little funny. It’s still unclear who the “she” is referring to. It also draws your attention to the color of the subjects hair and not the kissing. Bad.

*Chefs kiss* version

Ex “The two women fell unto each other. Marinette kissed Alya’s lips with a fervor she had never seen before.”

While this technically still has the problem of ambiguity with the “she”, most readers would interpret this as “Alya has never seen before”, rather than Marinette. Calling characters vague titles dilutes this a little bit, making this harder to parse.

If characters have real in universe titles like “coach” or “The shogun” that characters call them, use them. There’s no reason to make up new ones unless you’re trying to be purposefully vague.

Ex “Hey, Coach. Can I ask you something?” “Idk man, coach said not to do this.”

“Coach gave himself a laugh before throwing the ball over to me. The brunette He seemed to have decided that he was done messing around.”

This is a title which is basically just a name.

Ex “The Shogun beckoned Miko up the stairs. As she walked Yae felt the pain of a thousand years as she felt the words “Seize her” fall out of Ei’s beautiful, faux mouth. She was not her friend. She was not Ei. This body with her flowing indigo hair was fake, as was the mouth she said it with. But what does it matter? Every word The Shogun said came first with her friends, Ei’s permission.”

An example of some of the concepts here. Practicing with titles vs names, as well as some practiced ambiguity. Making it clear which perspective you’re talking from also makes it easier to interpret what’s written. “She was not her friend.” Is that kind of ambiguous sentence, it’s clear there are two people “she” and “her”, but unclear who is who. On its own, this sentence is very unclear. But with the help of its follow up. “She was not Ei.” Makes it clear immediately that the “friend” is Ei, the “she” is the shogun, and “her” is yae. The “her” part of this sentence is clear only really because it is clear from whose perspective we’re writing, even though it is not first person.

#that’s it. that’s the post #I read a lot of miraculous fanfic in middle school #and by god why #there are multiple characters with blue hair in this show #this is not as distinctive as you think it is #(this is partially helped by tut being spelled ‘blueinette’ referring specifically to marinette #bug still.)#fanfic pet peeves #anger and annoyance

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jung-green · 2 years ago

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SFW Alphabet. Edward Nashton x reader

A/N: Hello! long time no update! a big apology because the next chapter of Amor, Amor, Amor. Will be longer than the previous one and I want it to be perfect. For the moment I have this SFW alphabet for you.

Warnings/Clarifications: This fic is ooold, so an apology for any spelling mistakes, toxic behavior, emotional dependency, the letters are a bit misspelled too, in some letters there are mini scripts, fluff!

Words:3,200.

Activities - Favorite things to do with you??? How do you spend your free time?

He likes very much whatever he does with you, but he prefers the quiet ones, beyond going out to parties or events, he likes to spend time with you in his apartment reading or just watching TV, he tries to know better your hobbies and do them on the days he is not busy.

"What do you want to do tonight?" you asked your boyfriend without looking at him, you washed the dirty dishes from the previous meal, and as Edward was kept busy putting together gadgets and doing streams, you helped do some housework.

Edward was slow to respond, you only heard the deep breaths he takes while still in his Riddler outfit, he just finished a transmission and after a minute he turned around watching under his mask as you finished cleaning up.

"Anything is fine," he said as he removed his mask showing his face wrapped in plastic, with scissors in hand he cut the plastic film from his head and made an exhale from exhaustion, you approached him to help him undress calmly.

"Maybe we can have to watch that series that is in trend" you suggest, forcing a little to remove his tight leather gloves on his hands, when you take the gloves off and see his bare hands you can't help but caress them.

"Okay, whatever you want" he smiles calmly and you smile back, he's still your Eddie after all.

Beauty - What do you admire in your partner? What do you find beautiful about yourself?

Beautiful? Of you? Everything, he thinks so without hesitation, for him, beauty is a subjective concept, it is true that he fell in love at first sight, but what made him stay was merely your personality.

"Do I have something on my face?" you asked nervously, Edward was next to you watching you instead of the movie without appreciating the action scene in turn, sighing with love, your partner had a habit of seeing you when you least expected it, with a smitten face.

Edward puts his head on your shoulder sighing as he always did when he realized how much he loved you "I was just appreciating you".

you snuggle more than they already were, you don't know at what point you got someone who adored you as much as Edward does.

Comfort: how do they comfort you when you are upset? when they are sad do they come to you or do they try to handle it by themselves?

He doesn't know how to comfort people, but he has improved for you, it depends on whether you were upset or saddened, he will do anything to make you happy, and he has no limits when it comes to you.

When he is the sad one they also depend on the situation, sometimes he vents to his followers ranting about how he was going to solve the problem, he knows that what makes him happier is your consolation.

Terrible anxiety caused you to cry, you've had a bad day that ruined your mood, and disaster to disaster happened, you just felt like going home where Edward was, who comforted you in multiple ways.

Edd receives you with surprise, he has the tissues ready to wipe your face without you asking him, he asks you what caused your sadness, and violent ideas arise in his mind, horrible things he would do to the person who hurt you.

"What happened, who hurt you?" he asks in exaltation and concern, throwing the dirty tissues in the trash.

"It was just a bad day, it's complicated to explain" you whisper trying to relax, your head could explode from the pain at any moment.

This time Edward decides not to ask anymore, hugging you to know that you don't have to face your problems alone.

"Thank you" you thank wishing the hug would never end.

Duration- How long do they think about the relationship duration?

As he has had few or no romantic relationships, when he is with you he knows that it is something serious and formal, with all the shyness in the world he tells you that he wants to last long enough with the relationship, for him you would be his partner for the rest of his life.

They were in the community park closest to the apartment they both shared, as much as they liked being cooped up in the comfort of the apartment, you forced Edward to go out for a walk, to let the sun hit his face (if sunny days exist in Gotham).

Eating an ice cream of your favorite flavor on a bench with Edward, you thought of a topic of conversation "How long have we been together?".

"Three years, five months, and twenty days" assures Edward without hesitation.

"Wow, how fast time goes by" you reciprocate.

Edward stopped eating his ice cream, pondering what you just said, time passed too quickly for the two of you, a long time since he asked you out, it was so spontaneous that he didn't need to ask if you wanted to be his partner outright.

"Eddie?" you call out to him, touching his shoulder.

"We're serious right?" doubt shows in Edward's broken voice, with bewilderment you tilt your head, you didn't know what he was talking about.

"I don't understand."

"About us, this is serious," he explains, and you instantly interpret it.

"Of course it is!" you reply reciprocating, soothing Edward with an embrace of his own insecurities.

"Good" he sighs then eats his ice cream.

Equitable - Are they dominant in the relationship, or rather passive?

A fusion of the two, he generally always abides by your wishes, and he lets you set things up, but not when it comes to Riddler, it's his plans and his mission. In that aspect he is dominant, also when he is in his real skin dressed in his mask, he tends to be more clear and tough, but even in his vigilante moment, he knows you call the shots.

"GOTHAM IS A WELL OF CORRUPTION, ALL THE PIGS WHO CALL THEMSELVES EXEMPLARY CITIZENS ARE WORSE THAN SCUM" Edward, or rather Riddler shouted angrily at the camera in front of him, berating the people who pollute Gotham with their perversions.

The comments of his followers were so fast that he could not read them, but he knew perfectly well that they agreed with him, he stopped shouting at the end of the stream when he stayed to chat with his most devoted followers.

You go into the room where he was doing his stream, behind his camera so he wouldn't record you, you pull out a costume holder and presented a suit to Riddler.

"Wait for a minute folks, I'll do something" announced your boyfriend muting his microphone, giving his full attention to what you have to say.

"Look, you're going to wear it to my cousin's wedding" you didn't ask him if he wanted to wear the suit, you mostly handle the clothes he wears and the suits were no exception, you even helped him make his vigilante design, without you his outfit would probably be more unsightly.

Her expression is not fully visible due to her mask, but her laughing eyes betray that she agreed with the idea "Yes my love".

Physical (Físico) - How much physical love do you give to your partner? Do you like physical contact?

Honestly, Edward's behavior towards others is somewhat petty, outside of his Riddler schedule he hates unnecessary attention, but you are an exception to everything, at the beginning of the relationship he was uncomfortable as he was not used to it, but over time, he is more than happy to have you hug him, play with his hair and give him soft kisses on his face, it makes him very happy.

"I thought you hated love, Nashton" a co-worker Edward despised because he talked to him like he was his friend when he loathes him, ignores his comment, and continues typing on his computer.

"I'm saying this because of what I saw in your profile picture" he searches his cell phone finding what he was looking for "Who is it?" his partner shows him an old picture of him and you.

"It's my partner, now leave me alone."

"Easy Nashton, I just wanted to know," he says goodbye and leaves Edward's cubicle, he was typing furious at the interaction he had, why were they meddling in his private life?

a message from his computer he forgets how angry he was, it was a message from you asking when he was coming home, he replies that he would be leaving in a few minutes.

He was delighted that you were going to be with him again, cuddling until you fell asleep.

Gratitude - How grateful are you in general? Are you aware of what your partner is doing for you?

He is grateful every day to have met you. He is very aware of the magnificent person next to him, how he won the lottery of being with a person who loves him with everything, and his psychopathic side, that's why he tells you every day that he is grateful to know you.

Honesty - Do you have secrets you hide from your partner? Or do you share everything?

If you already know his biggest secret which is his alter ego and you accept it, he will share every secret of his with you, he expects you to trust him with your secrets too because he would never reveal them as you do with his.

But, if you show that you disagree or are afraid of Riddler, he will keep the secret as he will subtly manipulate you into accepting it in some way or another, as he doesn't want any secrets between you.

Inspiration - Did your partner change you in any way or the other way around?

Edward's perspective turned about 180° degrees thanks to you, he saw life, people, and the world in general differently, you could say you softened him.

Yes, he continues to kill corrupt people who for him do not deserve fair treatment, but he has stopped with his very sick thoughts, he rethinks several times if it is necessary to do terrorist acts such as bombings.

Talking to you about his problems helps a lot, as he feels listened to by someone.

But by the same token, he's a manipulative little thing, he'll change your perspective of Gotham for the worse, and he'll spout his most elaborate speeches so you're not just another sheep of the flock who thinks the corrupt could make real change.

Jealousy - Do you get jealous easily and how do you handle it?

YES, definitely yes, something he can't control, but only with "possible" potential partners, one of the toxic traits is his possessiveness, they try to manage him meticulously, and he uses his wit to make you stay away from people he considers a danger.

Kiss - How do they like to kiss you? How often do you kiss?

He likes to kiss you almost like breathing, he kisses you too many times when he gets over his shy phase, it doesn't have to be all the time on the lips, it varies between the cheeks or hands. He likes it when you kiss him with his mask on, when he is sad or discouraged he asks for encouraging kisses.

Loyalty- How faithful are you and have you ever cheated on your partner?

No, it doesn't even cross his mind to think about it, he has quite a following who look at him with heartfelt eyes and do crazy things for attention, but he would never cheat on you, sometimes you joke that he might be in love with Batman because of how he talks about him, but he rejects it outright.

Memory - Favorite moment together

If you were to ask him, he would be thinking for hours, he can't have just one favorite moment, every day has touched, cheesy, funny moments that he wouldn't know how to decide.

Children (niños) - How do you feel about children? Would you like to have children?

He is indifferent to children, he doesn't hate them but he doesn't love them either, if you want to have children it's another thing since he can't deny you, he would learn to be the best father he ever had. On his part if you didn't want kids that's fine with him too, they don't need a baby to be happy.

Obviousness- What is it like when they are in love? Is it obvious to others? How do they express their feelings?

He tries to be as subtle as possible since he doesn't know if you reciprocate his feelings, but in reality, it is painfully obvious that if he is in love, his face gets hot, his hands sweat and he stutters, that only happens at the beginning, he gets used to it and doesn't do that anymore but it is still obvious that he has a high preference of you over others.

Forgiveness (Perdón) - What things do you forgive your partner for? What things don't you forgive?

Edward considered himself a person who neither forgave nor forgot, every little thing that society has done for him keeps it in his memories like a black list that has no end, he is amazed at his ability to forgive you for everything, if you make a rude comment without meaning to he will forgive you, if you say something he doesn't like he will forgive you and forget it, you can do whatever you want and he couldn't get mad at you for a long time.

Wanting - What do you look for in a relationship? What do you want in a partner?

Someone who truly loves him, he is not demanding, but he would prefer someone with his same political ideals, who understands that Gotham needs a change.

He would also say people who do not lie deeply or falsely, as he despises lies of that style with all his being.

Romance - How romantic are you, what would you do to make your partner happy, cliché, or more creative?

Romantic first, he is ashamed of how affectionate he is, as I said before what he would do for you has no limits, his creativity in the form of gifts is extensive, a master of crafts, boxes with your favorite sweets, stuffed animals, flowers made with paper and the most common thing he gives you are letters.

Less sinister letters he addresses to Batman but with fun riddles or riddles that only you would understand, he can get quite cynical with his letters, but he loves to do that sort of thing.

Safety: What makes you feel safe and comfortable around you?

That you support him, that you don't lose respect for him or treat his feelings badly, you accept him as he is and that gives him a lot of security, he can trust any thought of yours no matter how obsessive it is.

Trend- What trends do you have around your partner?

Obsessive and possessive most of the time, doesn't know much about love and believes that to some extent being obsessive with your partner is normal, tends to put you first in everything.

Unique: Something unusual about you that is strangely charming to them.

He loves it when you take an interest in the things he likes, some unconventional like riddles, you try your best to answer his mental challenges and he loves that so much. Also if you share his hatred with Bruce Wayne, it's nice to have someone to criticize others with.

Variety: Do you prefer to keep things the same or spice things up?

If that's what you want, for him that's fine, but only if it doesn't pose a threat to the relationship or could include serious physical harm.

Without you: Would they feel incomplete without you?

Of course! He doesn't want to go back to the life he lived before you, he couldn't bear to be so far away, and you don't want to think about what he is capable of as long as you are by his side.

Extra (Xtra): Random fact about you.

He has an accounting notebook that is just for you, that is, there he writes everything related to you, every piece of information you release he already has written in that notebook when he wrote on all the sheets without leaving a corner to use, he bought another one.

Yuck: What are some of the things you don't like, either in general or as a couple?

He would not like you to hate Batman as he believes he is his friend, also if you find out he is The Riddler and tries to change him and his ideals he will keep a frown on his face, most likely if that happens he will ignore those opinions of yours and turn a deaf ear.

Zzz - How do they act when they are sleepy? What is it like to sleep in the same bed?

Because of his nightmares, he sleeps as light as a feather, wakes up at night trembling and looking for you for affection, knowing that he is no longer in that orphanage where he had to survive every day, he sleeps much better being next to you, hugging you.

A chilling scream woke you from sleep, you weren't surprised when you saw Edward sitting up in bed with a stiff posture, a little sweat was dripping down his forehead, he must have had another one of his nightmares.

"Eddie, breathe for me" you take his hands slowly, hoping he wouldn't panic.

Edward does as you say and begins to inhale and exhale several times until he relaxes.

"How do you feel?" you move his hair bangs to kiss his forehead.

"Better, hold me, please."

Thank you very much for reading. And again, an apologies for any errors! ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა

#edward nashton x reader #the riddler x reader #dano riddler x reader #riddler x reader #paul dano x reader

155 notes · View notes

yeojaa · 5 years ago

Text

( NEVER LET YOU GO. )

You do things without thought, making impulse decisions that’d make Freud proud. Sometimes they pay off, sometimes they don’t.

(or: Jeon Jungkook’s just as impulsive as you.)

pairing. tattoo artist!jjk x f!reader.

genre + rating. slice of life fluff, light smut. explicit (but only at the end).

tags / warnings. mentions of heavily tattooed!JK, casual drinking, tender lovemakin’, JK with the bad jokes, honestly just him being funny and chill like that one guy you never get over...

wc. 7.6k.

beta reader(s). @hobi-gif, @papillonsgf, and @yeoldontknow 💛 ty for always indulging me and most importantly, supporting me when i begin to spiral. 🤠

author note. i got this idea into my head one evening in the shower and now... it is this. it’s not your usual bad boy tattoooist!JK fic but i hope you enjoy regardless. as always, feedback means a lot!

You and forethought aren’t close friends. You really aren’t even distant cousins, or part of the same family tree. You consider it a stranger, wave loftily as it passes you by, squinting like you can’t properly make out what it is. Careful consideration? Thoughtful patience? None of that exists for you. At least, not when you really, really want something.

It’s what has you here now, bumbling your way into the tattoo shop like a newborn baby bird.

You wonder how it must look, whether the shop assistant is used to this. Random girl shows up on a Sunday afternoon looking like a fish out of water, eager yet afraid. By how she greets you - with a curious stare and not quite a smile - you’re sure she is.

“Do you take walk-ins?”

You’d meant to make an appointment. Had sat for hours on the shop’s Instagram page, combing through the residents’ portfolios, trying to decide who to reach out to. When you’d finally decided, you’d realised books were a thing and most of them were closed. (Just your luck.)

Still, it never hurt to try, right?

“Everyone’s fully booked.” The girl sounds bored, apathetic yet genial. (You don’t blame her.) By the way her stare swings over you, it feels like a dismissal. You’re ready to admit defeat - head half-bowed, words draped over your tongue. “But our apprentice might be able to squeeze you in.”

An apprentice? Well— that’s not exactly what you’d been hoping for, but this shop is reputable. Well-known. Considered one of the best in the city. Surely their apprentice would be fine. Just less seasoned, not as experienced.

You all but snap your neck nodding along, gratitude tumbling out in the form of awkward laughter. “That’d be great!”

The girl passes you off with a nod of her head, gesturing down the hall. “Last room on the left. His name’s Jungkook. His schedule says he’s all clear, but maybe knock before you go in.” It’s not the sunniest smile you’ve ever received, but the small thing she offers helps with the nerves. Stills them beneath your skin as you do as you’re told.

“Jungkook?” There’s not really anywhere to knock, every wall neatly frosted glass and no doors in sight. (You had passed a few folding screens but otherwise, it’s open concept, each room offering a glimpse into the artist who works inside.) It feels too disruptive to tap your knuckles on one glass pane, lest it interrupt someone else.

(His studio is minimally decorated but inviting: one big cabinet; two of those typical IKEA shelves in the 4x4 grid that every new homeowner and their mother have; and a shop table, upon which a black backpack sits. Various plants dress the room - both hanging from the ceiling and along the window - and Polaroids string over walls, held aloft by twine. A Roomba sits by itself in a corner and the tattoo bed dominates most of the space, positioned closer to the dividing wall; one teeny tiny rolling chair sits beside it. There’s a bench on your left, with a pair of Birkenstocks tucked beneath. All in all, very homey. Reminiscent of your own apartment.)

Hidden behind the bed, crouched low to the ground beside the cabinet, is a head of dark hair that speaks, drawing your attention from studying the cozy space. “Oh?”

You’re not expecting the face that turns to you, all big doe eyes and the sweetest dimples.

For a moment, you forget what you’re here for. Why you’re standing in the empty door frame, staring down at the guy like you’ve spent your entire life secluded and have no idea how to speak.

The longer you’re quiet, the more his concern seems to grow, single brow disappearing into his inky fringe. It hangs in his vision at certain angles, shields the brightness of his stare with each turn of his chin. “Are you okay?” He’s even risen - stopped what he was doing - so he can see you more clearly, without any obstruction in the way. Good for him, but worse for you.

He’s so cute. Were you prepared to look like an uncertain idiot in front of this… angel?

“Y-yeah.” You manage after what feels like forever, sweeping your nerves under the rug that sits on the floor, separates the sole of his sneakers from hard concrete. “Um— I was told you might have some time? For, uh, a walk-in?”

(Why’re you stuttering? You’re never shy. Or rather, you’re not this nervous mess. People have always called you an extrovert, outgoing as hell, a social butterfly.)

(You aren’t those things but you appreciate the sentiment nonetheless.)

“Oh!” Realisation dawns across his features, throws his kind smile into greater relief, and you have to actively tell yourself not to stare, tearing your gaze away to focus on the wall of stencils past his shoulder. He moves into motion then, stepping around the bed to meet you still rooted in the doorway. “Yeah, I’ve got time. Come in.” Up close like this - there’s only maybe two feet between you - you can make out the little scar on his cheek; the tiny beauty mark below his bottom lip; each individual lash that frames his Bambi eyes and flutters when he blinks. “I probably can’t draw you anything new right now but I’ve got some flash, if you’re interested?”

Even if you weren’t interested, you don’t think you’d say no. You were always a sucker for a cute boy and this Jungkook? He was that. In spades.

“Sure.”

“Are you looking for anything in particular?” He’s retreating back into the room, moving to grab his iPad off the far table. It’s balanced on his arm when he swivels to you, prominent front teeth on full display. “I’ve got a pretty big selection.”

When he drops onto the bench - a wayward vine above his head tickling his cheek - he gestures to the spot beside him. This time, you don’t stare for a stupid amount of time, instead taking up the seat without hesitation.

“So—” He’s swiping through the photo library with his Apple Pen. You’re sure there are pretty sketches on the screen - you just can’t focus on them, too preoccupied by the artwork that crawls across his hand and into the sleeve of his oversized, well-worn shirt. It’s an intricate chrysanthemum, impossibly well-shaded with bold colours that demand attention and stand out over his fair complexion; it creeps halfway up the back of his hand to tickle over his knuckles. He notes your attention with a quiet chuckle, fingers wiggling. The ink moves, flows, ripples with the motion, before his hand relaxes, knuckles unravelling as he offers the limb to you and your curiosity. “Do you like it?”

“It’s incredible.” It really is. You’ve never seen anything like it, as if a painting has been done across his skin, laid in watercolour rather than tattoo ink. “Did it hurt?”

(You almost want to hit yourself for the stupid question. Of course it did. It’s a hand tattoo.)

Jungkook only laughs again, doesn’t hold it against you despite the verbal barrage you’re faced with internally. “Like crazy, but it was worth it. This was my first tattoo and all the rest have just sort of been—” He shrugs, fabric of his shirt bunching around his collar.

“A piece of cake?” You can only imagine.

“Exactly.”

You nod thoughtfully, as if that means anything to you. (It doesn’t. You’re bare as a baby’s bottom, blemish free save for the occasional hellish pimple and the scar you have from surgery on your hand when you broke parts of it in sixth grade.)

If he can tell you’re talking out of your ass, he says nothing, redirecting your attention back to the iPad propped on his lap. “Do any of these interest you?” He’s resumed scrolling, swiping carefully through pages of flash. There are assorted floral pieces (plum stems, lily stalks, fully bloomed mums) and various skeletons (what looks like a deer, a dragon, a wolf). They’re mostly blackwork with fine lines and heavy contrast, so wonderfully detailed you spend too much time studying one piece before he’s flipping to the next.

“That one.” It catches your eye more than the others have. Likely because it’s one of the few pieces in colour, soft hues spilling over neat lines. A pretty little cat with a braided collar, big golden bell centered beneath its head, unravelling petals sweeping around it.

“You like cats?”

You do. “She looks like mine.”

“It’s settled.” He beams then, rising so quickly you’re startled; you watch as he moves around the space with decisive steps, putting your plan into motion. A paper is pulled seemingly out of nowhere, laid on a wooden clipboard and offered with a blue ballpoint pen. “If you can fill all of this out, I can get the stencil ready.”

Well, that was easy. Somehow, you’d thought it’d be more complicated, a ton of back and forth and yes and no. You can’t deny you’re nervous, staring down at the consent form.

(It doesn’t mean you read it any more than you normally would, though. You gloss over all the points, making note of what you’re agreeing to without really considering any of it. You’ve wanted a tattoo for most of your life. There’s really no going back now.)

(You just hope it turns out like you want - that you’re not just being blindsided by a sudden superficial crush and a lack of critical thought.)

“I think I’m done,” you mumble, slashing the date into the paper with gusto.

“Do you have your ID?” You’ve got it ready for him when he returns to take both it and the form. “I’m just going to make copies and then we can discuss more.”

He’s gone with that same smile, disappearing back the way you’d come.

Alone, the nerves set in. You’re actually doing this. Getting a tattoo. Putting something permanent on your body. It’s exhilarating and terrifying all at once, shaking your hands in your lap. Maybe you should’ve eaten more before you’d come. (You’d woken up late - had only shoved two pieces of raisin pinwheel bread into your mouth before you’d made up your mind about this.)

(But had you really made up your mind? Was this going to be it? It feels mostly like yes, though the repetitive thud of your toe against concrete seems to indicate otherwise. It’s as if you’re tapping out something in morse, telling yourself—)

“Okay!” Jungkook’s back before you know it, driver’s license returned to you along with an unsealed envelope. You eye it curiously. “A copy of your form and an aftercare sheet.”

He’s really thought of everything. Or the shop has. Either way, you appreciate that when you’re not so sure, caught somewhere between giddily excited and vaguely worried, as if someone’s pulled a weight off your shoulders, taken on some of the burden of this spontaneous choice.

“So, where do you want it?” It’s like he has a one track mind, utterly focused on the task at hand. (Probably a good thing, given you’re about to voluntarily let him needle your poor skin.)

You hadn’t thought about that. You’d always liked the idea of a back of the arm tattoo, positioned somewhere along your tricep so it could be seen while turned away. “My arm?”

“Upper? Forearm?” There’s not an ounce of annoyance or exasperation or anything else negative. He’s just genuinely curious, peering over his shoulder at you.

“Tricep area, I think? Would that look good?”

“If you like it, it will.” Then he grins - beams so bright you half expect the sun to come zooming out of his mouth - and laughs, a funny little cackle that makes you do the same. “I’m kidding. That was cheesy. But I’m sure it’ll look fine. We can try laying it down first, so you get an idea?”

“That sounds good.” A lot better than endless years of regret for poor placement.

“You’ll, uh— need to take your shirt off though.”

It’s then you realise your mistake: wearing a turtleneck. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

A beat of silence passes, then another, and he smiles so kindly you wonder what your expression must look like. Sour, like you’d sucked fresh lemon? Awkward, as if you’d never worn anything less than double layers before (a proud Never Nude)?

“If you’re uncomfortable, we can reschedule. Or I can put a divider up so you don’t have to worry about being seen from outside. Whatever you’d prefer.”

The longer you stay quiet - a seemingly common occurrence today - the closer his brows furrow, preparations coming to a standstill. You can tell he’s not trying to rush you, politely waiting for an answer with transfer paper in one hand and scissors in the other.

(If only he could peek into your brain, see the whole reason you’re hesitating is because you can’t quite remember which bra you’re wearing, whether it’s the slinky black one that offers absolutely zero support or the lacy blue one with the cute detailing and practically see-through cups.)

(Did it really matter either way? He was probably desensitized.)

“It’s fine.” You find the confidence somehow, nodding firmly. Jungkook’s still studying you carefully, though. Waiting as you strip your purse off your shoulder and reach for the hem of your sweater. It feels funny in your fingers, more like steel wool than sheep’s.

One breath. Two.

You fold your turtleneck neatly, laying it beside your bag and turning back to face him. “All right. Let’s do this.”

“So, which arm?” He’s close now - crossed to you in two strides of his long legs - and holds up the stencil.

Your right rises, fingers wiggling as if to say hello.

He lays the design down, pats it into place with deft fingers. You don’t realise the breath you’re holding until he pulls the sticky paper away, leaving neat line work in its wake.

“Oh.” It slips out of its own accord, almost a whisper as you stare at the design in the mirror. “It’s so pretty.”

There’s pride in his eyes as he stares with you, bounces his gaze between it and your face. “Thanks.” He lets you linger, peering thoughtfully at your reflection before speaking, casually hopeful. “What do you think?”

“This is it. Right here.”

Maybe he’d fist pump, if he were any less cool. As it stands, he simply nods, cheeks round like fresh baked bread, nose scrunched with glee.

“All right. We’ll shave you down and get started. You like the colours, right?” Once again, he’s buzzing around the room, gathering up all his materials and snapping black gloves on once everything is laid out upon his cart. It’s heavily stickered, covered in video game vinyls and anime mattes. (You recognise a handful of them, make a note to ask him where he got them from.) He pats the tissue papered bed top when you make no movement toward him. “Hop on up. Face down, if that’s okay.”

You do as he says, climbing atop with minimal grace. It takes you a bit of adjusting to get comfortable, folding your left arm under your head and allowing your right to simply dangle, uncertain of where it should be.

“You’re sparkly.”

“What?” You’d misheard that, right?

“Your skin. You’re sparkling.” He sounds a little in awe, surprised as wetness spills across your arm, the edge of a razor following closely thereafter.

“Oh.” Heat creeps over your cheeks, slinks all the way up into your roots and has you chuckling awkwardly. “It’s my soap.”

“Sparkle soap?” Whether he’s just making conversation or genuinely curious, you’re not sure. He does seem delighted by the fact, though, as if he’s never seen a girl covered in glitter before. (Which, fair.)

“It’s this specialty holiday soap. It has pigment in it.”

“That’s cool.” He’s laying the stencil down again, smoothing it over your now-hairless arm. “It smells nice.”

Obviously, you agree. It’s honey and citrus, brightly fragrant but not overpowering, lingering on your clothes like the subtle golden glitter does. Still, you flush, heat crossing from a casual day under the sun to burning-on-the-stove hot. “Thanks.”

“Was that weird? I hope not.”

“No, you’re fine.”

He hums a tiny noise, something that sounds like understanding and appreciation all at once.

Then the buzzing starts - a steady, inescapable brrrrrrrrr - and he’s gripping your arm, steady yet gentle. “Ready?”

Honestly, you’re not sure. Hearing the noise makes it seem scary, has your entire body tensing up like Pavlov’s dog. Your honesty can’t be helped, a nervous giggle chased off your tongue. “I think so.”

“I think so too.”

By the time you’re done - a good almost five hours later, your arm stinging so bad you wonder why you’d ever sat down in the first place - you’d fallen asleep twice, started drooling on your other arm once, and really, really have to pee.

“All right—”“ The incessant buzzing stops. Liquid spills where the pain centres, followed by rougher paper towel. “You are finished.”

(You might be imagining it, but he sounds about as relieved as you. Maybe because you’d been sitting for hours on hours, turning down his offer for a break because you just wanted to get it done and therefore forcing him to do the same.)

“Can I see?” You don’t want to leap to your feet - feel a bit too lightheaded for that - but you’re bouncing with excitement, the thrumming in your arm intensified when you shift to catch a better look at Jungkook’s face.

“Yeah, go ahead. Just be careful - you might be a bit—”

He’s right. You nearly topple over the moment you stand, none-too-gently rolling off the edge of the bed and barely landing safely on your feet. It’s only his close proximity that prevents you from falling to your knees, one degloved hand darting out to steady you.

“Careful!” It’s politely reproachful, coloured soft with worry.

“Sorry, sorry.” You seize the edge of the bed, gripping tight as you wait for everything to settle, the lightheadedness to recede. Everything straightens out quickly enough. “Got up too quickly.”

“Do you need a snack?” He’s already up, moving faster than you, rummaging through the cabinet against the far wall. “I’ve got seaweed and Choco Boys and shrimp chips and—”

You can’t help but laugh, hobbling to the mirror to inspect your new piece of art. “I’m fine.” That, and you’re too occupied with the ink that now sits embedded beneath your skin, a flurry of lovely colour and impressive line work.

“Choco Boys it is then.” The familiar yellow package is thrust toward you, a pack of his own already ripped open. Mushroom-shaped treats are tossed into his open mouth, lips curling around chocolate and his next words, “it’ll help with your sugar levels.”

A thank you comes, fingers curling around the snacks, but you’re still in deep, so focused on the lovely hue that bleeds over your skin, marks up previously unblemished flesh and holds your attention. It’s better than you could’ve possibly imagined, a piece of artwork forever yours. It makes you giddy as you stare at it - almost reach for it, but stop when you catch the alarmed widening of Jungkook’s eyes.

“You like?”

“I love.” You’d stare at it for hours, if you could. Likely will, once you get home, sitting in front of the mirror like a zombie. “Thank you so, so much.”

The brunet beams as he polishes off the last of his Choco Boys, tossing his dark hair back with a flick of his head. Triumph rolls off him in palpable waves, sitting pretty in the lines by his eyes, the scrunching around his nose. Seeing how it blooms in his stare is like a straight endorphin shot, as if you’ve done more than just be the canvas he’s laid all his hard work into. “It was a pleasure.”

It’s a whole month later - enough time for the piece to heal - before you decide you want another one. It’s not as spontaneous as the first time, instead led with an Instagram direct message to @jeonink. (You half expect him not to answer; you’re utterly delighted when he responds not five minutes later.)

Maybe it’s fate or maybe it’s luck that has him with availability the same day you reach out, bringing you back to the studio three hours after you’ve messaged him.

He’s just as cute as before, black baseball cap pulled low over his ears, silver-lined ears twinkling beneath the shop lights.

“So, what’re you thinking?”

Truthfully, you hadn’t done much thinking. Just like before, you’d decided you wanted a tattoo and, well, the rest had been history. You figured you’d let him have free reign, given how happy you were with your first piece. “A sleeve?”

That surprises him. His whole face lights up, eyes wide, mouth rounding curiously. “Like, a full sleeve?” It’s not necessarily a no - more of an are you sure? he hides between the syllables.

“I think so.”

He nods slowly, knowingly, arms folded over his chest, expression suddenly unreadable. “You caught the itch.”

Your own features twist, brows shooting high. “The what?”

“The tattoo itch,” he clarifies with a laugh, the sound sweeping your concern away like the sea. “People say once you get one, you get addicted to the feeling.” He’s extending both arms to you now, hands palm up. For a moment, you’re note sure what he’s doing. (In actuality, you’re distracted by the fact that he’s in a tee, muscle cording his limbs, undulating as he turns his arms over.) “I got bit by it when I lived in Japan. It’s actually what got me into tattooing myself.”

You remember what he’d said last time - how he’d spent a handful of years overseas, working in restaurants after having followed his last partner there. He’d shared lots about his life, giving you the Sparknotes version while you’d ground enamel to fine dust.

“I guess I have the itch then.”

“Guess you do.”

Your dream comes to life in four excruciating sessions. It’s some of the worst pain you’ve ever endured (you’re never going to get an elbow tattoo ever again) but you’d do it all again in a heartbeat, utterly in love with the mural that now lives on your skin. A peony caps your shoulder while one runs halfway up your bicep. Another takes up the entirety of your forearm. There’s a darling little bird and delicately inked koi. It’s breathtaking, greater than anything you could have dreamt up.

You’ve been staring at it for at least three minutes now, tracing over the freshly laid colour with a tender touch. You’re grateful for the SecondSkin, the clear bandage that wraps everything up and keeps it safe from your over eager hands.

“You did it.” Jungkook’s grinning at you, feet kicked up where he sits, his usual bag of Choco Boys balanced in his lap. “Big girl.”

From anyone else, it might sound condescending - might rub you the wrong way and have you glaring daggers. Instead, you take it in stride, beaming at him from your seat. He’s been there with you every step of the way, been there for every hour (seventeen over three months, to be exact) you’ve dedicated to finishing this beauty up. Tease you as he might, you know he really is proud of you.

“You mean we did it,” you return, giddy like a child.

“Ah, right.” The chocolate-covered snack he’s devouring goes crunch crunch crunch before he speaks, mouth still full, eyes crinkled. “I guess I did do all the work.”

“Hey! Screw you!” You’re glowering at him, middle finger raised in defiance.

(How curious that your relationship has grown like this, turned from tattoo artist and client to what feels like more. It probably makes sense, given the long hours you’ve spent together, the support he’s had to offer each time the pain has gotten this side of too much, chattering your teeth and dizzying your head. Solidarity in pain and all that.)

(You really had tapped out once, when he’d crept his gun into the ditch of your elbow. You’d asked him whether it’d hurt beforehand and he’d only laughed, shrugged off the question and continued with the careful shading to your inner arm. That in itself had hurt like a biiitch; you hadn’t thought it could get worse.)

(You’d been mistaken.)

“Am I wrong?” He drawls, full of laughter and that big dumb smile of his you’ve grown accustomed to. It eats up his cheeks and disappears his eyes, makes it hard to be mad at him when he looks so sweet.

“Yes, you are.” You’ve got absolutely nothing to back it up, but who cares. This is the sort of banter the two of you have developed, like two old friends forced to spend too much time together. (Not that you’d complain. You’ve loved hearing his stories, all the tales he regales you with whenever you’re in his chair.)

A snort is his answer, the full roll of his eyes over-exaggerated and playful. “You’re lucky we’re all finished or I’d sneak in an ugly fish somewhere on your arm.”

You think he’s kidding - know he takes too much pride in his work to do that.

Still, you stick your tongue out, hopping down from the bed with your freshly inked arm, hands clapping together in celebration. “You wouldn’t dare.” You’re confident, crossing to the bench to tug your flannel on, careful of the dull pain that throbs beneath the thin medical dressing.

“Wouldn’t I? I’m leaving anyway.”

You’re ready to call him out for it, insist he would never ruin the sanctity of his profession in such a way, when you realise the words he’s spoken, the casual tidbit he’s just dropped like it’s nothing.

“Leaving?��

(Is it you or do you sound disappointed? You can’t dwell on it for long, worried you’ll miss his explanation. Had he mentioned it previously? Slipped it in when you’d been delirious from pain? No, you would’ve remembered that. You swear you would’ve.)

“I’m moving to Tokyo.” How he’s so casual, you have absolutely no idea. You suppose it’s not a big deal for him - he’s not from here anyway. Home is back in Korea, the place he’d spent most of his life before moving to Japan and then here, just two years ago. (God, your memory is good. If only you’d retained knowledge like this when you were in school.) “My flight’s next weekend.”

Your face must be hilarious because Jungkook’s laughing, cackling like the evil villain in an anime.

“Gonna miss me?”

Would it be inappropriate to say yes? Because you will, you realise the moment he’s posed the question. You’ve grown to consider him a friend, someone who you send random memes to on Instagram (usually pertaining to #tattooartistproblems or one of your shared hobbies, like video games and finding the best noodle soup restaurant in the city).

You go for the safe bet, answering with a question of your own. “Are you gonna miss me?”

“I’ll miss your restaurant recs,” he answers, offering honesty to your reticence. “You can still send me funny photos though.”

You can’t help your laugh, the tiny quirk of your mouth into a smile. “I guess you’re right. Will you still be tattooing?” It’s an innocent enough question - you really do want to know. You can’t imagine going to anyone else, even if it means you’ll be shelling out an absurd amount of money for a plane ticket.

“Yep, new shop.” Something twinkles in his stare, has him giddy as he rises to his feet, tossing his empty packet of snacks into the trash bin. “Actually, where I got most of mine done.” You understand it then - that it’s a move of faith. He’s finally come full circle. You’re unbelievably happy for him, brimming with delight to mirror his pride.

But you’re still going to give him a little bit of a hard time because you have to. It wouldn’t feel right otherwise. “Whoa, big shot.”

“I am actually,” he sniffs, raking an ink-strewn hand through his hair. It’s longer now than it was when you met him, curling over the tops of his ears, hanging in his eyes at every turn. “You’ll be lucky if I remember you when I’m famous.”

“Famously lame, maybe,” you tease, slipping your bag over your shoulder. You busy yourself pulling your keys from the interior pocket, checking your phone as if you’re ready to go. It’s only when you’re standing in the hallway - you have no real intention of departing like this and he knows that, considering you haven’t paid yet - when you level him with a half-formed smirk. “But I guess I should take you for a drink?”

His hoodie is on before you know it, yanked over his head and tugged into place as he joins you. It’s become your regular routine - leaving together after your sessions, a perk of always booking the last slot he has available. (Not that you relied on that, but simply because your work schedule didn’t really allow for anything else.) “Obviously.”

Jeon Jungkook is a talented artist, a dedicated snacker, a lover of the colour black. You discover, sitting on the patio of the nearby bar, that he’s also really, really good at holding his liquor.

(Not that he’d ever indicated otherwise.)

“Do you think you’ll get anything else done?” He’s on his sixth pint, casually leaned back in his chair as he picks at the fries you’d ordered but that he seems perfectly happy to help himself to. (Payback for all the times he’s forced snacks on you maybe?) “Like, a face tattoo?”

You scoff at the question as if greatly offended. “You think I’d get a face tattoo?”

While a little glazed in the eyes, you can tell he’s altogether coherent, grinning across the table at you. “Hey, I don’t judge. You like making surprise decisions, so I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Okay, so he’s got you there. Used your own impulsive history against you. “I would never.”

“If you change your mind, do I get first dibs?”

“Dibs on what? Tattooing me?”

He nods as if it’s the most obvious answer in the world. “Duh.”

You can only roll your eyes, tossing a wayward burnt fry end at him. “Yes, Kook, you get first dibs on ruining my face.”

His expression twists, mouth shaping around words he’s keeping caged behind his teeth. There’s something he isn’t saying, a comeback he’s chosen to lock up. You wonder what it is.

“Hey - nothing wrong with face tattoos.”

“Really?” You’re leaning forward, a clear challenge written across your face. “Then why don’t you have one?” He has a million others as it is: a hand, nearly the entirety of both arms, his chest, his shoulders, one of his legs. (You haven’t seen them all in person but you have seen them online, memorialised on his Instagram feed.)

“And hide all this?” One inked hand is gesturing toward his own face, gesticulating wildly as if that’ll drive his point further home. “I would never.”

“That’s what I said!”

It doesn’t matter to him, not when he’s fully sober and most certainly not now, when he’s slightly buzzed, eyes glossier than usual. “But I’m cuter. It’d be a shame if it were me. You…” The way he trails off is suggestive, indicative of something mocking and mean. (Except it’s never cruel - far too friendly and soft to ever hurt your feelings.) “—not so much.”

Another fry hits him right between the eyes and then another disappears into the hood of his sweater, lost to the black fabric that bunches up around his neck and hides the flush he’s been battling since you two got to the bar an hour ago.

“Don’t be rude!”

He beams at you then, so unnecessarily endearing you can only throw one more piece at him.

“I’m kidding.” You knew that already but pretend to ignore the pseudo-apology, choosing instead to polish off the last of your now-cold fries. A bad choice, you realise when he continues, surprising you with the words that come out of his liquor-laden mouth so much so that you almost choke. “You’re actually pretty cute.”

(So what if you’ve sort of maybe been waiting to hear them? Wondering if the tiny crush you’d developed was in some way reciprocated?)

(Not that this meant it was. Only that you perhaps weren’t alone in thinking he was the most lovable - and somehow simultaneously hot - person you’d ever met. It’s almost rewarding to know the long hours together hadn’t left him unscathed.)

“You all good?” The look on his face is worse than that smile he usually offers, instead a devilish smirk that makes him look like Satan himself.

Were you? You’re not sure.

“I can’t believe you just said that.”

“Really? You can’t?” You’re not sure what that means, whether you’re simply reading too far into it. But then he’s dragging his bottom lip through his teeth, head cocked curiously. It’s a bait, you realise—and one you’ll gladly take.

“Should I have expected it?”

Shoulders hike, rising up around his ears. “I thought I made it sort of obvious.”

Had he? Thinking back on it, you can’t really recall. Of course, he’d always been friendly, indulging you in your pursuit of body art, sketching up the loveliest things you’d never even think to dream of; accepting your distracting Instagram messages without complaint, always tossing you a like or some sort of acknowledgement no matter what you’d send (and you’d send some random, random stuff). Chatting with him daily had just become the norm, conversation flowing freely whenever you’d pop in for your next session.

But that was just because he was a nice guy - or so you’d thought. You realise now how wrong you’d been, too occupied with your own crush to notice his (if it could be called that).

“You like me,” you hum, surprisingly nonchalant despite the little pitter patter in your chest, the flutter of your heart within your ribcage.

“I think you’re cute,” he retorts, though there’s no real weight to his rebuff. The two statements are really one and the same and you’re giddy with the knowledge, absolutely tickled pink.

Except for the fact that he’s leaving, fully prepared to start a new life in another city in just one week. The irony isn’t lost on you, like fate’s laughing even as she offers you this little crumb. (You feel like Oliver Twist, frankly.)

“Same difference.”

He huffs - you’re reminded of how adorable he is when he does that - and downs the lukewarm remainder of his beer. “I take it back.”

“No, you don’t.” Where the confidence comes from, who knows. You grip it tight with both hands though, hold it snugly as you level him with a stare that has his own unwavering. It’s almost as if you’re caught in a staring match, a battle of unspoken wits.

It drags on longer than it should, just the two of you locked to each other with nowhere to go.

Then he does the last thing you expect: shoves his chair aside and leans across the table, stealing a kiss and returning to his seat, all in the span of time it takes you to blink.

(His lips are so soft. A little chapped, a tiny bit dry, but soft - deceptively delicate. Bitter, touched with sea salt and something else distinctly him. French fries and beer and his Chapstick.)

(For the briefest moment, you wonder whether you’d just imagined it - if your imagination had truly gotten the best of you and you’ve absolutely lost your mind.)

“You just kissed me.” It seems like you’ve found your new favourite hobby of just repeating things, giving live play-by-plays like an awkward narrator in a romcom.

“Yeah, so?”

“You’re leaving.” Speaking the words into existence feels bad; you see the way his eyes tighten, the subtle sobering of his expression even while he tries to keep his cool.

“I am.” At least he’s realistic. It saves you from any uncertainty, keeping the what-ifs at bay.

You suppose it means you have nothing to lose.

“Do it again.”

And Jungkook does - over and over, sinking the taste of him almost as deeply as ink, offering a piece of himself you want to keep for just as long.

It takes you longer to add to your collection of art, nearly four whole years before you decide what you want next. (It’s a back piece this time - a full body suit from your shoulders down past your ass. Another cat, dressed in traditional Japanese clothing and surrounded by flowers. An ode to your first tattoo, to the one that had started it all.)

(You’re not sure you’re ready for the pain, though.)

“Lay down,” the artist instructs, back turned to you, busy preparing his materials. You’d stripped down while he was occupied, discarded all your clothes to the allocated basket and stood quietly in anticipation.

You do as he says, dropping atop the tattoo bed with a quiet oof. The stencil has already been laid, the entire outline ready to be inked into your skin. You can’t deny you’re more than a little nervous. It’s been years since you’d last gotten anything done, uninterested in finding a new artist since Jungkook had left.

(Which he had, exactly as he’d intended, gone on a 6 AM flight that you’d driven him to, teary-eyed and embarrassed. He’d laughed at you standing outside of the departure gate, his suitcase at his side, arms wrapped around your shoulders. You’d refused to show your face, burying it instead into the warmth of his neck, into the familiar scent of him that was going away for who knows how long.

“Stop being a baby,” he’d said, smothering you in kisses, the full weight of his laughter palpable through your close proximity. It'd rumbled out of his chest all the way into yours, finding a home behind your ribcage, right alongside where your heart fluttered, shaded blue and sad.

“Stop being mean,” you’d countered, petulant like a child.

It couldn’t be helped. You’d had only one week with him - one glorious, chaotic week filled with eating too much junk, rewatching your favourite animes, and generally making up for all the lost time you’d never even known there was. As amazing as it’d been, it still hadn’t prepared you for the goodbye.

That was your fault, though. You’d wrongly entertained the idea that maybe things would work out, that he’d change his mind or ask to take it - whatever you had, that is - with him, keep it going somehow. He hadn’t.)

“Do you have a preference where I start?” You’re unbothered, hair loosely knotted over your shoulder. Ready for the session to start - ready to feel the familiar sting again. (You’re proud of that. It might have taken you years and years but here you were, tackling something huge.)

“Nope.”

“Sounds good.”

The buzzing begins and pressure lands upon the small of your back, a gloved hand laid over the centre of your spine. You remind yourself to breathe in, out, focus on something other than the pain that fizzles over your skin and then ebbs into tenderness. Where he’s started - just above the fattiest part of your butt - isn’t too bad. Tolerable and yielding.

You can do this.

Your back aches in a different way than you’d anticipated, soreness buzzing beneath inflamed skin and making it uncomfortable to move around. It’s not any worse than your arm had been - the lines along your spine had felt comparable to that of your elbow - but it’s fresh, not dulled by years like your sleeve now was.

The artist is stripping his gloves off, your back neatly covered and the bed stripped of its original tissue paper. He’s leaned against the sink, onigiri held in his now-free hands, nibbling at the edge of the rice ball as you turn this way and that in the mirror. “You did good.”

You’re still undressed, admiring the linework from different angles, shimmying closer to your reflection to catch the lighter inking that makes up the undefined edges of the various florals. Something tells you that you should be shy - eager to redress after spending nearly five hours naked in the secluded studio - but you don’t care. Your back is quickly becoming a masterpiece, something that might as well be hung in the halls of the Louvre. You’re in love with it.

“Thanks.”

You mean thank you for his compliment but also for all his hard work, the long hours he’s put into bringing this beauty to life. It means so much - like progressing to the next level.

Which, you suppose it is. This is a fresh start for you. A new beginning in a new city.

“Proud of you,” he hums, suddenly close, broad palms searing heat over your hips. He’s careful to avoid the edge of the bandage that wraps your back and holds you delicately, like fine china or the most precious jewel in the world, lips sweet against your temple.

You meet his eyes in the mirror - the same sweet doe-eyed stare from five years ago. A little darker now, aged by the hand of time but endlessly kind, shining beneath the overhead lights.

“Proud of you,” you chirp, identical smiles spreading over your faces.

Jungkook’s having none of it though, bratty as usual. “Proud of us.”

You suppose you can settle for that. You really are proud of the two of you - for how far you’ve made it and all the obstacles you’ve overcome. From the first few weeks of sadness, all the melancholy that’d set in when he’d left, to exactly one month after, when he’d called you in the middle of the night, drunk and stumbling home.

(It’d been infuriating at the time - incoherent and foolish as he was - but it’d bloomed something between you, something neither of you could ignore.)

Four years of miserable long distance had become this: a love that's brought you back to his side, to a city you’re unfamiliar with but that he calls home; to a city that never sleeps, loud with pachinko machines and some of the best food you’ve ever had; to the place you’ve been missing every minute you were apart.

You’d never thought you would move for someone, uproot your entire life for a relationship, but he’d changed that. Made it worth it in ways you had never considered. Convinced you more and more with each trip you’d taken, two visits twice a year, for a measly two weeks at a time.

“Should we head home?” He means your physical home - the apartment the two of you had decided on in Roppongi, the one you haven’t seen yet, that he’s had to move into all by himself. It’s not quite as nice as the home in his arms.

You say yes anyway.

“I’m so talented.” The words come entirely too whole for your liking, loud somewhere above your head.

“Are you serious?” You’re levelling your boyfriend with the most incredulous look, whole face scrunched up, hands fisted into his dark sheets. It’s uncomfortable at this angle - kinking your neck as you look over your shoulder - but you really can’t believe he’s just said that. He’s knelt between your legs, knees spread wide around his own, his hand halfway up your back and tracking heat over your spine.

Somehow, he has the audacity to look surprised. “What?”

“You’re really patting yourself on the back right now?” Now, when he should be pounding you into oblivion, working that big fat cock of his through your fluttering walls, making you moan his name into his pillows like it’s his only job?

(It truthfully could be. You’d rank his skills in the bedroom on par with his skills in the studio.)

“Oh.” All at once, he’s the devil - sin personified. Or would be, if he didn’t somehow still look infuriatingly cute.

The gentle touch turns bruising, heel of his palm pressed hard into the tender notches of your spine. “You don’t like when I admire my own work?” Asked as he shifts behind you, length dragging out of your dripping cunt to gently tap against your aching clit. The head of it glides through your folds, mercilessly teasing but never slipping back in, never filling you whole like you need. (Because you really do need it. You haven’t seen him in six months, left to your own devices - literally.) It feels like heaven and hell, too good and not nearly enough all at once.

“Kook,” you snap. Try to, anyway, his name far too whiny and breathless to hold any real weight.

“I’m just admiring you, sweetheart.” He’s dragging the hand over your back, tracing all the lines he’s embedded into your skin. They make up his favourite piece, inked permanently into his favourite canvas. A testament to his hard work, his dedication, his love.

Any other time, you might not care. Here and now, after not having felt his touch in what feels like forever, you’re burning from the inside out, a million volts of electricity tripping your circuits. When you speak, it’s more a plea than a reprimand, uttered so sweetly you know he can’t deny you. “Admire me later.”

“I’ve missed you” is his only answer, punctuated by a fluid roll of his hips, the heavy press of his cock back into your dripping cunt. “I’ve missed this,” he breathes out, sinking all the way in, so slow you can feel every ridge and vein as he fills you.

“Missed you too,” you parrot back, a little delirious now that you’ve gotten what you want.

Now that he’s right where he should be - with you.

tag list. @neverthefirstchoice @youwannabelostandnotbefound @snackhobi @codeinebelle @xjoonchildx

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tommyspeakycap · 4 years ago

Note

Hi love, I adore your writing so much! And as you just asked for some ideas/concepts here’s mine for Jack Grealish from prompts list 2: fluff #11 where he’s asking her (she’s his best friend) to go for a walk cause there’s so much going on in his life and he just needs to talk. fluff #36, angst #31 and a happy ending please? Basically a Best friends to lovers thing as I’m a sap for that…thank you!! xx

Fluff #11; “I know it’s 2 in the morning but do you want to…”

Fluff #36; “because I fell for you, isn’t it obvious?”

hope I did this justice for you!

Fell for you

“Jesus god,” you grumbled with hands aimlessly palming across the mattress for the blaring sound of your phone from its place charging somewhere on the bed. Your next move is an elongated “Ahhhhh,” sound, fatigue still holding tightly onto your body in a way that seals your eyes shut even as you try to shut off the sound your phone was deafening your with. In a wakened state, you might’ve noticed that it was your ringtone that had interrupted your sleep. However as tired as you were you ruled it as your alarm right away and moved yourself into seated position with the duvet still wrapped tight around you and your eyes still shut.

You were suspended in that space between being asleep and being awake, still sitting up when the offensive sound came screaming through your phone once again.

This time, your eyes snapped open in fright and the fatigue-blurred letters of Jack Grealish’s name popped up across the top of your screen.

“How is it morning already?” You protest down the line, a heavy sigh passing your lips to follow. Jack’s chuckle can be heard through the line, “It’s not.” He replies simply, prompting you to pull your phone away from your ear to hold out in front if your face.

02:17am

“Then why on earth am I up?” You mumble, a question more posed to yourself than the man on the other end. “Wait, why are you up? And why are you calling so early?”

“I’m outside your door.”

“You’re what?!” You throw back your duvet and swing your legs over the side of the bed. You’ve hung up the phone already by the time you reach the front door at a tired shuffle. His hair is tousled when you see him, like he’s been running his hands through it over and over, you imagine that he has. He does that when he’s stressed. You have to squint against the street lights and his car headlights outside, still on as it sits running on the street. “Can we go somewhere?” He asks, his voice as desperate as his eyes look when he speaks, begging you to agree. Not that he would need to beg. You’d do anything for that man. Even if it did mean dragging yourself from your bed at 2 in the morning.

“Course.”

No question, no pressure. He loves that from you. He knows you’ll ask him later and when the time is right you’ll force him to tell you of course. Now is not that time yet and you’re nowhere near awake enough to do so much anyway. “Let me just grab my-“

“I have a hoodie in the car and your shoes in my boot.” He cuts in, tugging your arm gently out the door of your house. He knows you better than any other person in this world, so he knows full and well that there’s not much you are going to do in the way of protesting when you’re so soon out of sleep. He’d often teased with layers of worry deeper beneath that he genuinely worried for you living on your own. You open the door to people far too easily, and he will not fail to bring that up sometime tomorrow. For now, he steps into your doorway where you had stood moments before, grabs your keys from the cabinet and pulls the door closed behind him with a click of the latch locking behind him.

The cold paving stones beneath your feet make you shine in protest, shifting your weight between each one to ease the chill. In was in that cold that you look down and make the realisation, or rather come to remember the fact that you don’t have any pyjama bottoms on. “Jack!” You yelp, “I’m not wearing trousers!” You suddenly feel very exposed and rightly so, standing outside your home suddenly very awake in only a long claret and blue shirt that only extended down to the middle of your thighs. “Eh?” He whips around, “You what?”

It’s only now he really takes you in with rosy cheeks from embarrassment, your hair messed up from your sleep. His frantic eyes soften and his heart stops thundering in his chest finally. The sight of you there calms him. You’re there. Right there. His (y/n) is right there in front of him.

“What’s the rush, Jack? Is everything okay?”

Your gentle words and tired eyes bring him back to the ground, the flurry of his racing thoughts only now finally calmed. He often acts on impulse, but you are always able to slow his brain down a few paces. His sits heavily, "I know it's two am but...do you think we could go somewhere. My heads fuckin'... I don't even know." He dips back down to run that hand through his hair once again. His words stoke a bit of a worry in you, head tilted to the side in question. Jack doesn't tend to be the kind who gets himself panicked and all wound up like he has right now. That's more your half of the friendship. You did the worrying, he did the easygoing.

"It's okay, Jack. Of course. Come on then, let's go." You nod your head and he goes around the back of the car to get the shoes and socks he promised you. You very nearly choked up a lung when he presented you with a brand new Balenciaga box. "What the fuck, Jack?" You all but wheeze out, head whipping towards him climbing into the passenger seat.

"Got you a present 'cause I'm leaving soon." He shrugs with a jaw-dropping ease. You list open the lid and inside sit a pair of sliders that cost nearly £400. You physically gawp. "Oh my god."

"What?" Jack asks, drawing out of his parking spot on the street, "Heard you telling your mum you needed new sliders for the summer, do you not like 'em?"

His nerves would be clear in his voice if you hadn't been in such a ferocious level of shock. You're glad you weren't eating anything because it surely would have choked you to death. Of course you had seen Jack wearing brands like Balenciaga, Gucci, Versace and the likes, but you had never owned such an expensive piece of clothing. "I mean of course I love them, J but I meant from Primark or bloody amazon, you shouldn't have spent al that money on me." You protested, but Jack really pays it no mind. In fact, the suggestion that you don't deserve everything luxurious that this world has to offer offends him more than it does anything else. You should know that you deserve everything good that this world can give and he has the means to actually give that to you. He'd count himself an absolute fool not to.

"Gonna pretend you didn't say that." He mutters, eyes kept carefully on the empty road ahead of his car. Your eyebrows are furrowed, a part of you brain still very much trying to a) wake up and b) process the expensive of the gift he handed to you so casually. "Not arguing about it either." His voice cuts you off the second you open your mouth to speak, shutting down your protest before it even leaves you.

As the fatigue of your sleep wears off, your mind continues to be just as boggled as it had been the moment his name popped up on your screen at 2am, if not more boggled now.

"You're acting so weird, Jack. What the hell is going on with you today?" Your insistence is careful with your pressure. It's enough to try to open him up but not enough to make it sound like a confrontation. Neither you nor Jack like confrontation especially with each other. The words make him chew on his lip as he careens the large white range rover through a turn that leads up a gravel road that crunches beneath his tires. The stops when he's met with a with a large gate that prevents cars but a little slot for people to walk through. Jack leaves his door open when he leaves the car with a curtly mumbled "Stay here" as he does. He pushes open the gate with ease before he gets back in the car and follows the path up the hill further.

He stop abruptly in a very small gravel car park without any parking lines to abide and steps out, slamming his door behind him like he absolutely always does; you swear that man couldn't be quiet if his life depended on it. Which was another reason why you were so surprised by his silence. You clamber out after him with that same fear of falling flat on your face that always fills your mind each and every time you leave his car. But Jack is where he has been every time you step out the Range Rover since the first day he got it; standing by your door to hold your hand so you can jump out without a trip onto the gravel beneath. He shuts the door behind you and hands you a spare pair of his loose fitting track pants.

On an average day you might've teased the reason he hasn't worn them was because they wouldn't have squeezed the life out his legs. Today wasn't one of those days, so you slip them on without a word. Followed up by his way too big for you socks and the brand new black slides. Even wide awake, this confuses you to no end. Jack was never quiet and never elusive. He was boisterous, loud, open and confident.

The second you turn around, you realise why he brought you here.

The view of the stars, the sky completely clear. There wasn't a street lamp in sight. The moon provided the kind of spotlight hue that you kind of thought only existed in the enhancement of Hollywood movies. "Woah," you breathe, words stolen by its beauty.

"Yeah," Jack laughs, "Now you know how I feel every time I look at you."

You head turns to him so fast it sends your head spinning a little, or maybe that's just the shock of his words. You couldn't tell.

"What?"

He shrugs his shoulders, scuffing his feet along the gravel to meet up with where you stand. But he freezes before he gets the chance.

"Why are you wearing that?" He asks, a very sudden cold change in his tone that actually makes your body feel colder. "Wearing what? This?" You gesture to the claret and blue shirt you had thrown on in a haste to get to him standing at your front door a short while ago. You turn to see his unhappy scowl and the firm discontented cross of his strong arms. "Yeah that," he grumbles, "And where'd you even get it." He adds with a flare of his nostrils. He looks adorable angry like this, like he's trying so hard to look angry when his emotions lie truly elsewhere.

You look down at the shirt with furrowed brows, before you shift your shoulder forward, crane your neck and pull the material around to view the back as best you could. "What's wrong with it?" You ask finally, attempts to defy the natural state of your body failing to allow you to see your back.

"It's Ginny's." Jack states as if its the most obvious thing in the world. You just look at him bewildered. "And?"

He huffs as he takes a few more heavy steps up to you, looking like he had a lot of things to say without any way of being able to get them to coordinate from his brain to his lips. "Why do you have Ginny's shirt though?"

You breathe a little bit of laughter at him, shaking your head softly. "it was just a joke. I saw him after a match waiting for you so I jumped out at him and pretended to be a fan for a video and he signed it and gave to me as a joke. I just threw it on when you showed up at my door in the middle of the night. Wasn't exactly a fashion statement."

Jack still grunts in dissatisfaction at your answer, refusing to meet your eyes. "You have plenty of mine to wear though, don't need his." His argues in a disgruntled grumble. You raise and drop your arms down by your side with a sigh. He was really testing your patience now. "Hm, last time I checked you couldn't give me yours anymore because your ex didn't like it." You protest with a wag of your finger, making him turn his head downwards with something like a shudder running through him at the mention of her name. "Yeah well there's a reason she's my ex innit." He mutters under his breath.

"What the hell is the problem with you today Jack?" You exclaim, his eyes jolting to you in surprise. You don't often snap.

"First you show up at my door in the middle of the night and drag me out of my house and then you won't actually speak to me and now you're picking a fight about John M fucking Ginn?" You snap, the anger and confusion he had stirred up showing in your emphatic hand gestures that only come out when you're telling him a passionate story or going off your head at him. "He's your best mate, why would that even bother you?!"

"I'm sorry, I-"

"I'm not done, Jack!" You yell, holding out a hand. "You haven't even spoken to me all week. I found out you made the England call up on fucking twitter Jack, twitter! And your mum told me about you dumping your girl and I can't even get through to you and now you're buying me gifts and bringing me here? I don't know if I'm coming or going here Jack, you have to give me something. We're meant to be friends." You voice breaks on the last syllable and a lump forms in Jack's throat that he can't just swallow away. Any pain, any hurt and any slight sadness of emotion that appears in you shatters his heart. He thought that was a normal reaction until two weeks ago when he realised it only happens to him when its your upset he witnesses.

"I'm sorry." He says, his voice thick and wavering with the same level of emotion. "I really, really am." He stands right in front of you now, so close you're basically chest to chest, faces merely inches apart.

"And I'm scared." He admits, sending a pang through your already aching heart. "Scared because I'm leaving and I can't take you with me." His words tickle your lips as they leave his, clouds of air puffing above the two of you as his hot breath meets the cold night air. "You've done it before, J. It'll be fine." You soothe, hands gently raising to reach up and brush the hair out of his face. His let's forth a content sigh of relief at the feeling of your touch. "That was before though." He confesses with a slight shrug. He watches that furrow sow itself back into your brows.

"Before what?"

"Dance with me?" He suggests, his arms finding their way around you with ease, much less fumbley than you remember from your high school prom. Your head tilts in that adorable confused way that makes a grin form on his cold lips.

"Why?" You query, eyes slightly narrowed in suspicion. He laughs softly. "Because the music is slow and the sky is gorgeous and because I love you."

Before you get the chance to recognise, process or even understand what he said, he's swaying you around the gravel under the stars.

"Because you what?" You squeak, your eyes desperately searching his as you look for any reason this might be some kind of a joke or one of pranks that makes you want to throttle him. He just smiles at you with those crinkled eyes and the love shining right there in his eyes for you to see. Your stomach flutters like the teenager you were when you fell in love with him. His lips dip down to capture yours in the best kiss that your being has ever felt, his hands ringing your hair, stroking down over your cheeks with those warm hands of his.

"Because I've fell for you, isn't it obvious?"

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