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snackhobi · 4 years

Text

pairing: jungkook x (gender neutral) reader / word count: 20k / genre: fluff (author!reader, florist!jungkook)

summary: “You’re in love and you didn’t tell me?” Jimin sounds affronted. “Who is it? Are they cute? Where are you hiding them? I knew you were lying about those flowers, you lying liar.” or: the story of how you meet a pretty florist with soft hands and warm eyes, how he mends your broken heart, and how he helps you realise some other things along the way.

warnings: use of a few curse words, reader is self-deprecating and suffering from heartache towards the beginning (v mildly angsty ig? but dw it passes), but otherwise this is a Very Soft fic!

“It’s time to get up.”

“It absolutely is not.” Your voice is muffled under a layer of pillows and blankets, material pressing down on your body and head, covering you. A protective cocoon. “I’ve become one with my duvet and we shall never be parted.”

You yelp when the blanket is ruthlessly ripped from you. Your curtains have been thrown open and you can feel how the sun is streaming in through your windows, warming your skin, even if you can’t see it; there’s a particularly fluffy pillow smothering your face right now to keep the world outside at bay.

“This has to be against the Geneva convention,” you whine as your collection of pillows is similarly stripped from the bed, leaving you entirely bereft from their comfort and protection. You curl into a tight ball around your Pusheen cushion and try to protect her from Jimin’s grasping fingers— your final bastion of defence against him. “No! Not Pusheen! Please! Take me instead!”

Jimin rolls his eyes before stealing Pusheen right from your arms, ignoring your dramatic sob as she’s pulled from your desperate hands. He tucks the plush grey cat under his arm before fixing you with a stern gaze. “I said it’s time to get up,” he repeats, ignoring the chaos of pillows and blankets and toys now littered around him. “You know the drill, Y/n.”

You suck in a deep breath, filling your lungs with air before letting out a long, weary sigh. All your theatrics disappear with your escaping breath, strength seeping out of you. “A week of wallowing,” you say in a small voice, eyes squeezing shut. “I know.”

You don’t have to look up at Jimin to know what expression is on his face right now. You feel the mattress dip and then soft fingers are gently stroking the hair out of your face. “A week and then we get up.” His voice is soft as he repeats the mantra.

Your cheek drags across the cotton of your sheets as you open your eyes and turn your head into the hand that Jimin’s still drawing down your face. “You’ve always been better at getting back on your feet than me,” you say, and Jimin affectionately pats your cheek.

“You’re being melodramatic,” he says kindly. “You’ve seen me at my worst and you know that’s not true. I’m only good at getting back on my feet because I have you to lift me up, and I’m here for you too.”

“Can I have Pusheen back?” You sound hopeful as you pout at him, pushing your bottom lip out.

“You can have her back once you’ve showered and had breakfast,” Jimin says.

Your limbs are leaden weights as you drag yourself out of bed. The cold water of your shower shocks some life back into them, and you’re almost back to your regular self once you pull yourself from the bathroom, thoroughly scrubbed and refreshed. Jimin greets you with a fruit smoothie bowl, the most wholesome meal you’ve had in the past week; it’s infinitely healthier than the ice cream and snacks and junk food you’ve been shovelling into your mouth.

“I didn’t realise I had half this stuff in the fridge.” You use your spoon to swirl the oats and fruit into the yoghurt, muddying the pretty rippled effect Jimin had created with it. “I’m guessing you brought it with you?”

Jimin is eating eagerly from his own bowl and swallows down a spoonful of banana and berries before he responds. “No, it was already in there, actually,” he says.

“Oh, yeah.” Your free hand goes down to Pusheen, who’s safely in your lap, and you dig your fingers into her soft velvet skin. “Of course.”

Your face is twisted into a wince as you look down and continue to knead the cushion on your knees. Seokjin loves fresh produce, taking you to the farmer’s market for organic strawberries and blueberries and raspberries, lifting them up for you to breathe in their bright scent before laughing at how you go cross eyed at how close he brings them to your face. Your fridge must still be full of these reminders of him, food you’d bought for him, things he’d made for you.

“Well!” Jimin’s voice is loud and bright, cutting through your thoughts with all the subtlety of a bull in a china shop. “You better finish up— we’re going out soon and you’ll need all the energy for today!”

You’re immediately on guard, eyes narrowing at him. “Going out where?”

“Shopping, duh,” he says, raising his eyebrows at you. “You said you’d come with me and Namjoon to pick out stuff for our new apartment, remember?”

“Oh yeah.” It’s only been a week and it’s like you’ve forgotten that the world is still moving on around you, taking no notice of how your own world has been upheaved and irreparably fragmented. You know Jimin is being cheery and upbeat in an attempt to distract you from this, and it’s working, but it’s also highlighting exactly how much you’ve been wallowing. You normally never would have forgotten. “Alright, let me finish up and get my shit together and then we can go.”

Getting your shit together takes longer than it should. You have to wade through the piles of blankets on the floor to get to your wardrobe, and the desk in your office is in similar disarray, notes and stationery strewn across its surface from your week long stint of wallowing and writing about said wallowing.

You’d never planned on the romance in a novel about magic in the modern world to be so depressing, but hey. They always say write what you know and all you know right now is heartbreak.

(“I’m sorry. I just… don’t feel the same.” Jaerim’s voice is soft and gentle, even now, even as he’s breaking Lily’s heart, so tender as it falls apart in his hands. “You’ll always be my best friend, Lily, but nothing more.”

Lily’s smile is pained. “I know,” she says, her own voice small and weak. “I know. I just couldn’t hold it in any longer. I— I had to tell you or I felt like it was going to burst out of me. I’m sorry.”

“I’ll always love you, Lily.” Jaerim sounds sorrowful. “But not the way you want.”

Why had she ever expected anything different?)

You’ve been feeding all of your sadness and heartbreak into your most recent heroine, using your latest novel as a way of catharsis, but the problem is that your stories always have happy endings. Right now Lily may be heartbroken after a failed confession, but at the end of the story she’s going to be happy. You, however, will still be sad and lonely once the book is finished and for all that you project your hopes and wishes onto your main characters, you know your own story will never go so smoothly— real life is never as neat as that.

You pause when you catch sight of one of the Polaroids scattered on your keyboard. Seokjin’s beautiful skin is washed out and there's a glint of red in his eyes from the bright flash of your camera; it's a terrible photo and the focus is all wrong, but he still looks radiant as he smiles at you, ever beautiful.

The heroes you write are soft and kind and lovely; fierce and strong and admirable; talented and smart and impressive. You, however, are clownish and sarcastic and nonsensical. Just an absolute mess of rough edges and endlessly tangled thoughts. Unwanted. Undesirable. Unlovable.

(No wonder Jin— bright, brilliant, beautiful Jin— doesn’t love you back.)

You swallow and steel yourself before opening the top drawer of your desk to sweep all the littered bits and pieces of your life into it before slamming it shut, trying to ignore how metaphorically fitting it is, and then grab what you came here for in the first place: your camera. You loop the strap of the Polaroid around your neck so that you’re ready for the day ahead.

You know that Jimin thinks you should just stick to using your phone, considering the piles of film you get through, but there’s something about the whole instant photo process that just works for you. Maybe it’s just a writer/artist thing. Maybe it’s just a you thing. Either way, you like to take your camera everywhere so that you can take photos of things that inspire you and incorporate them into scenes of your stories.

(You have so many photos of Seokjin, and he’s reflected in so many parts of your books— from the jokes that characters tell, to things they eat, to hobbies they have. You may not have ever been so transparent as to project him directly onto the love interests of your main characters before now, but he’s ever present in other ways. There's a part of him in every thing you’ve ever written, even before you fell for him.)

(Your love for him must have been obvious from the start, and yet he’d never mentioned it at all.)

(What made you think it would be a good idea to confess?)

“Y/n?”

You look up from where you’ve been staring at the same bowl for the past three minutes, the leaf pattern stamped into its edge blurring together into eyes that are staring back at you. “Huh? Yeah? What?”

Over Jimin’s shoulder you can see Namjoon trailing around the small store, staring at some pretty wall-hangings with appreciative eyes. For all that Jimin had claimed to be concerned about his boyfriend’s taste in decor, they’ve asked for very little input from you, so you’ve been left alone to zone out for most of the morning and afternoon.

“I was saying Joonie has a suit fitting he needs to get to, so we were going to get that done before lunch,” Jimin says. “You’re welcome to come along as well if you want?”

“So I can watch someone ask your boyfriend which side his penis hangs down so they can tailor his slacks accordingly? I think I’m good.”

You sound almost like your usual self which is why you think Jimin lets this pass without comment— you’re very happy being independent but it’s true that you’re somewhat more delicate than usual so you understand Jimin’s worry.

“I’ll drop you a message when we’re done.” Jimin smiles at you. Behind him, Namjoon picks up a large ceramic crab, only to immediately drop it onto an incredibly fluffy shag carpet— which fortunately saves it from breaking. “It shouldn’t take too long.”

“Eh, take your time.” You keep hold of Jimin’s attention as Namjoon sheepishly attempts to pick up the crab, only to immediately drop it back onto the rug. “I haven’t been out for a while so I could do with a walk in the fresh air and sunshine. I’m sort of like a dog. Or a plant, I guess. Just with slightly more complex emotions.”

Namjoon has just put the crab back into place by the time Jimin turns around, though his hand lingers on it. “Baby, can we—?”

“You’ve already filled the quota when it comes to crab-themed decorations, Joonie,” Jimin interrupts.

When Namjoon looks at you with imploring eyes, you raise both your hands and step backwards. “Don’t involve me, I’m just an innocent bystander,” you say, before escaping so that Namjoon can (unsuccessfully) try to persuade Jimin to up the amount of sea-life themed decor allowed in their new home.

This part of the city isn’t one you get to often, but it’s really beautiful. You know Namjoon likes it around here, near the river, because there are a lot more offbeat and avant-garde shops than you’d find more centrally, a warren of curiosities and pretty places around each corner. You pass by shops selling antiques, fabric, jewellery; you pause to take photos of the eye-catching doorways into each of the shops, the mismatched bunting fluttering overhead, the utterly eclectic nature of it all.

You pass by a tiny baking shop and pause in your tracks, peering into the window at a collection of rolling pins— the wood is embossed with different designs that get pressed into the pastry when it’s rolled out, all sorts of pretty patterns on display.

Jin would love these, you think, and then you tear your eyes away.

Stupid.

You continue to wander through the maze of shops but now you’ve sunk into your own thoughts. Kim Seokjin. A close friend whom you’d been harbouring feelings for, for so long now; it had been getting so hard to try and keep that love at bay, to try and shove it down inside you, keep it hidden and safe. But it had been bleeding out of you at every turn, in the way you moved and spoke and wrote, every sharp edge of you softened by your tenderness for him, impossible to ignore.

And so you’d finally let go. You’d let it out into the world, spoken the words you’d been holding onto for so long— and for a moment, just a moment, you’d had hope. Jin is bright and kind and lovely to everyone, but surely what the two of you had was a little more, a little different; all those hours spent together, the friendship you’d built, the language you’d created with each other of jokes and references that other people didn't understand. You’d thought it was something more.

You’d thought that maybe you could get your storybook ending. That maybe, for once, rather than having to imagine a mutual love and pouring that quiet desire into your books, it could be real— that the cheesy, embarrassing daydreams you’d always kept to yourself and only expressed through your writing could finally come true.

But no. Jin only loves you as a friend. You know he still considers you a friend, even now, for all that you’ve ruined things by opening your big dumb stupid idiot mouth; you’ve spent a week wallowing after his gentle rejection but you know he’ll still be waiting for you once you come back to yourself.

You’re just not sure how long that’ll take.

You’re finally pulled out of your reverie when a burst of colour catches your eye. There’s a soft blue bicycle which has been adorned with flowers and trailing leaves, part of a display in the front of a store that’s brimming with blooms, buckets set up in a cascading rainbow of colours. The windows are similarly full of plants, all enjoying the sunshine of the afternoon. Your eyes trail across the flourishing bouquets and then up to the sign, lovely and pretty, in what seems to be a hand-painted cursive: Spring Day.

You have a single, tiny cactus in your office— the only thing you trust yourself to keep alive— but screw it. You’re itching to buy something for yourself and everything seems so pretty in here. You might just buy yourself a fuck-off huge arrangement of flowers, as a sort of metaphor for the death of the hope you’d held in your chest, that your love for Seokjin might be returned.

That ship has sailed. You’ve cast it off from the shore and set it ablaze. You’re not sure they had bouquets at Viking burials, but it’s the 21st century now. You think you’re allowed to mix it up a bit.

A bell lets out a tiny, crystalline tinkle as you swing the door open, announcing your presence to anyone inside. The front counter is covered in plants, some larger, some smaller, with a few pots of flowers that you would be hard-pressed to name; there’s a glass bowl of water, too, that has unlit rose shaped candles floating in it. Cute.

You peer behind the large leaves of a ficus plant to see if there’s anyone behind the counter but it looks deserted. The only evidence that someone has been here is the book that’s open and resting face down on the wicker chair there— The Language of Flowers, okay, that makes sense, you guess. You take a sneaky photo of the set-up, something about it resonating in your chest; although there’s no one here right now their presence is still undeniable. It’s poetic, in a way. You love visual poetry.

You wave the photo about in the air to help it develop as you make your way towards the back of the shop. Spring Day seems surprisingly big, extending back farther than you had initially thought. It’s hard to gauge the actual size, with displays of flowers and plants everywhere and even hanging from the ceiling above. You meander through the store and pause to touch a hanging glass planter, which slowly spins and scatters light across you. It’s like every spare inch inside is covered, but somehow it doesn’t feel chaotic. It’s so pretty and peaceful here.

There’s clearly some sort of order to things even if you can’t tell what it is. Each display is labelled with the names of the plants and how to look after them, but just as you’re leaning forwards to read one, a noise catches your attention. You pause and tilt your head. Drifting closer to the source of the sound, you realise that it’s someone singing, a soft melody that you don’t recognise. You find that you step lightly, almost enraptured, not wanting to break the serenity of the moment with heavy footfall as you step into a greenhouse; you round the corner to find who’s singing and stop in your tracks.

There’s a pretty doe-eyed boy bent over a selection of blooms that he’s watering, white and yellow and purple and pink flowers softly trembling at the touch of the drizzle that runs over them, and it almost seems like they’ve turned towards the lilting tones that slip from his lips. You watch as he draws the watering can in a sweeping arc, the motion causing his earrings to move, catching your attention when the sunlight cascading in through the glass of the greenhouse shines off the glinting silver; his hair hangs a little in his eyes, eyelashes fanned across his cheek as he keeps his attention cast downwards, smiling at the flowers on display near his feet.

His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows and you can see the definition of his arms, the flex of his muscles under a tattoo as he moves the heavy watering can without effort— and yet he looks like he belongs here, surrounded by flowers and plants and sunlight, soft and neat in his loose shirt, narrow waist cinched in by the ties of his apron. He turns the watering can a little further and you can see that the tattoo looks like a lily, petals unfurled over the soft skin of his inner arm.

You love visual poetry. And this man is poetry in motion.

It seems like he’s finished watering the flowers because he straightens up with a smile, song finally coming to an end. “All done,” he says to them in a quiet voice, and then he finally looks up.

He immediately startles when he sees you, water sloshing audibly in the watering can in his hands. You jump too, surprised at his surprise, the two of you like startled rabbits when you spot each other. Skittering around and trying to recatch your balance.

“Sorry, sorry!” You lift your hands in apology, holding them in front of your face as you wince. “I didn’t want to interrupt, you seemed really focused!”

The florist is blushing. He looks absolutely mortified, a pink flush stealing across his cheeks and the tips of his ears, betraying his embarrassment. “I, uh. It’s fine!” He stammers. “I wasn’t busy. Um. Can I help you?”

Your hands fall back to your sides, your heart immediately going out to this poor boy, who looks like he wants the ground to swallow him up. “I was just looking around, actually, when I heard you singing,” you say. “I didn’t mean to be like— a sort of weird voyeur, I guess? Sorry. Your voice is lovely, by the way.”

The flush has crawled down his neck. “Um, thank you?” You get the feeling he’s only saying this because you’re a customer, and if this were any other circumstance, he would have turned tail and bolted by now. Unfortunately he’s trapped by the fact he works in a retail job and he can’t escape. He shuffles a little from foot to foot as he resolutely avoids your gaze.

You take pity on him. What can you ask to change the topic? Hm. “Can you give me some advice about plants, actually?”

This seems to be the right thing to say. He carefully sets the watering can down, fingers plucking at the ties of his apron as he readjusts them, but he seems a bit more comfortable now that you’ve moved away from complimenting him and onto work related talk. “Sure,” he says. “What would you like to know?”

“I was wondering what sort of plant would be good for someone who’s only good with cactuses. I mean cacti,” you correct yourself. “I’d like something different, but I’m worried about killing it if I forget to water it. You know, the bane of every novice gardener’s existence— their own forgetfulness and ignorance. Of which I have a lot. I am spectacularly ignorant.”

The florist blinks but then he gives you a little smile, finally glancing at you. His eyes are so lovely and deep, sunshine refracting from the greenhouse reflected in his eyes, points of brightness against that endless, warm brown. “I think everyone is guilty of under-watering plants,” he says, apparently unperturbed by how unsuitable you are to be a plant parent. “I think a peace lily might suit you. Would you like to come have a look and see if you’d like one?”

A peace lily. Lily. The name of your most recent novel’s heroine. How weirdly apt. “Sure, I’d love to see the lilies.”

As you follow him you notice that there’s still a little tinge of pink on the back of his neck, evidence of how he must feel embarrassed at being caught singing and talking to plants. You find it endearing, actually, but you’re not about to say this to a stranger, especially as he clearly wants this entire interaction over and done with as quickly as possible.

The peace lily turns out to be a pretty white flower, emerald green foliage curling out from the simple unglazed pot the florist hands over to you with an infinite amount of care. He holds it delicately— it looks so small in his careful hands— and makes sure you’re fully supporting its weight before he finally lets it go. Your fingers brush his as he does and you notice how he draws back immediately, shy.

“You don’t have to water her regularly, you can just touch the soil to see if it’s moist and give it a little top up if it’s not. Even if you forget, as long as you water her when she starts to droop a little she’ll be fine. Just make sure she gets a little sunlight and you wipe down her leaves once or twice a year so dust doesn’t stop her from getting enough light, and you’re good to go.” He’s smiling, but you notice he’s still looking away from you, resolutely staring at the plant in your hands instead. “Peace lilies are incredibly forgiving.”

“Oh, that’s good, I’ll probably be asking for a lot of forgiveness,” you say. “I can guarantee I’ll forget to water her so it’s good to know she can take it.”

When you refer to the plant as ‘her’ and ‘she’— just like the florist has been— it seems like he only just notices that he’s been doing that. He looks a little embarrassed, yet again. “She’ll be— I mean, it’ll be fine, I’m sure,” he says.

“I promise I’ll do my best to look after her.” You tighten your grip protectively around your newly adopted plant. “I’d take a bullet for her.”

The florist lets out a little laugh, revealing a slip of his white teeth before his mouth clicks shut. He looks almost surprised at the fact he’d let out a chuckle and tries to cover it up with a cough. “Hopefully you won’t have to.”

You watch as he draws a ribbon around the pot, looping it against the patterned, unglazed ceramic before tying it into a neat bow. His hands are sure and his motions are practiced, fingers deft as he finishes the knot and tucks a business card into the bag alongside your plant. You can’t help but watch him, magnetised— he’s absolutely fascinating. Cute and soft, but with an undeniable strength to him, underlying each of his movements, almost hidden under the clothes that envelop him.

“Is there anything else I could help you with today?”

He’s blinking at you with those large, pretty eyes. His mouth is still a little open and you can’t help but reminded of—

“What song were you singing earlier? It was so lovely, but I didn’t recognise it.” You want to find that song immediately and keep it close forever, listen to it on a loop, even if it won’t be the same if it’s not being sung in the dulcet tones of this pretty florist. It’s such a beautiful song, whatever it is.

His mouth snaps shut again and the blush returns full force. “Nothing,” he squeaks. “It’s nothing.”

You squint at him. “Is ‘Nothing’ the name of the song?”

“No! It’s. Um. I mean, it doesn’t have a name yet.” His voice is so high right now. You pause before you light up, eyes widening.

“Wait, are you saying it’s your own song? You wrote it? Oh, wow! That’s so cool,” you say. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry, I didn’t know. My bad. Totally understand wanting to keep your work private.” You quirk a smile at him. He doesn't know that you're a writer, one who publishes under a pseudonym for privacy; only your close friends know the truth. You totally get it. “Guess you probably want me to pay so I can get out of your hair now, huh?”

“N-no, it’s fine,” the florist stammers. He’s still so polite, even when he’s obviously flustered.

“Ah, you don’t have to be polite just because I’m a paying customer.” You wave your hand dismissively. Before taking off as an author you’d worked back-to-back retail jobs and it had sucked. “I’m being a pain, I know. How much do I owe you?”

He stays silent as you give him money and he hands over the change, dropping the coins into your outstretched hand. You give him one last smile before lifting your bag from the counter and turning to go, finally leaving this poor man in peace. He must be glad to see the back of you.

But then.

“Magic Shop.” His voice is quiet from behind you.

“Hm?” You pause and glance over your shoulder, confused. “Pardon?”

The handsome florist is looking down at the counter, wrapping an offcut of ribbon around one of his fingers, staring down at it as he does. “Magic Shop,” he repeats, a little louder. He tightens the loop of ribbon around his finger. “The song. I was thinking of calling it that.”

“Oh.” You continue to look at him for a few moments longer before a wide smile crosses over your face. “That’s a really beautiful name for a really beautiful song.”

He glances up from where he’s been staring at the end of his finger flush deep red, almost purple; the ribbon goes lax in his loosening hold and blood rushes back into his fingertip. “Thank you,” he says, bashful as he smiles back at you. “I’m glad you liked it.”

The peace lily takes pride of place on your desk once you’ve cleared it of the crap you’ve let pile up over the past week. She watches as you bend over your keyboard and mutter to yourself, pruning back a lot of the raw hopelessness of your most recently written passages before starting a new chapter.

Lily’s escaped to the neighbouring city to get away from Jaerim and her broken heart. She gets lost as she’s wandering through this new, mysterious place, trapped in a maze of alleyways before she stumbles across a mysterious building with roses climbing up the trellis by the door. The front garden is full of flowers and tended by the prettiest woman she’s ever seen, eyes wide and dark as she startles at Lily’s sudden appearance over the small stone wall. Lily might not know it now but she’s just met someone important and special, a future friend: Yunhee, a witch who can speak to plants and sells dried bundles of herbs and flowers and spells to anyone who finds her.

It’s cheesy and cliché and you know it.

“It’s cheesy and cliché but it’s cute!” Your agent, Hoseok, is as upbeat as always, and he seems genuinely onboard with the snippet you’ve just sent him. “Especially after how sad the chapters were before this one. I think it’s a nice change of pace, considering how heavy your last novel was too.”

“Haha, yeah,” you say.

Hoseok has no idea about your botched confession to Seokjin and how it had fuelled the subsequent heartbreak you’d put Lily through; you’d put your heroine through the wringer to let all your feelings out, because if you have to suffer, she does too. Especially if she’s going to get a happy ending after all of it. Lucky her.

“Your fans will love it.” Hoseok continues, oblivious. “Where did the inspiration suddenly come from, though? I thought you said you were struggling with where to go with this one.”

“I don’t know really.” You sound absent as you stare at the neatly tied ribbon that’s still affixed around your lily’s pot, Spring Day’s business card still nestled into it. “It just came to me, I guess.”

You have to resist the instinct to take a photo of the peace lily to ask Seokjin what he’d name her. (He’s always so good with names.)

You know you’ll have to see him eventually. That’s the problem when all your friends are friends with each other; it might still be a while off but once Jimin and Namjoon have moved into their apartment and decorated it, they’ll hold a housewarming party and everyone will be invited. You can’t avoid Jin forever. You don’t want to, either, but right now you still feel like your heart is an open wound, and you need to give it time. Seeing him right now will just peel back the bandage you’ve tried to lay across your weeping heart to try and hold it together until it heals.

And you still feel awkward as fuck, too. Rejection hurts but it’s also embarrassing. Struggling through ten layers of repression to be sincere with someone and open yourself to pain, only to be let down? Ugh. Awful. Terrible. Never again. You’re gonna stick with repression from now on and just live vicariously through the stories you write. It might be lonely but at least you can keep your heart safe. (Not that anyone wants your heart, anyway.)

You start to play music to your plants. You can’t sing as well as the florist, but at least your lily and cactus can benefit from the sound of music, even if you’re probably off-key when you sing along to the soft songs you choose for them.

(“Plants grow better when they’re spoken to.”

“What? Really?”

“Really,” Yunhee says with a small smile, fingers curling tenderly around the petals of the deep red tulip. “They respond to love and affection just like we do.”

Lily stares at the bloom and watches how the witch touches it so gently— with so much love and affection— and for a second she wishes was a flower, too.)

You have very little faith in your abilities to keep a plant alive, but your peace lily seems to flourish under your care. It’s only one plant but alongside your cactus it seems to bring light and life to your office, and there’s a bubbling sense of satisfaction in your chest each time you see them, still alive despite your ineptitude. It’s a brief distraction from the lingering sadness that still dogs your heels, opening up each time you find yourself thinking of Seokjin before having to quiet those thoughts.

The lily and cactus are fine but it doesn’t take long before you find yourself wanting to add more members to your green coterie. Plus, you never did buy that fuck-off huge bouquet, so maybe you’ll treat yourself to one this time around.

When you step into Spring Day you’re greeted by the sight of someone actually behind the counter today, barely visible behind the large leaves of the ficus plant; when the bell rings they pop up and it’s the same florist as before, eyes wide as he peeps over the counter and only growing wider when he spots who it is.

“Hi,” he says. He’s not as squeaky as he was last time but he still seems a little flustered at your appearance, fumbling with The Language of Flowers as he drops the book onto the chair and stands up straight; his hoop earrings have small chains today and they’re jostled by the motion. He looks away from you to brush his apron down. He’s wearing a loose button-up underneath it, sleeves rolled up like before, revealing the thin bracelets he has on each wrist. “You’re back.”

“I am.” You smile widely, surprised he's remembered you and weirdly happy at the sight of him. You’d half expected to see someone else; there’s no way this guy is the only person who works here, but you’re glad it’s him. “I was worried my lily would get lonely so I thought I’d get her a friend. Can I pick your brain for another recommendation?”

He takes you to the succulents. There’s a menagerie of terrariums to choose from, bursting with different shapes and sizes of plants, bright greens and soft teals and muted browns.

“I think you’ll like this one,” he says, lifting up a dodecahedron of glass, each geometric plane trimmed with metal. He holds it up for you as you peer inside, small succulents nestled in a scattering of pebbles and soil. “They like bright light, but keep them out of direct sunlight because the glass can magnify it and burn them. And water them really sparingly, because there’s no drainage.” He taps the base of the terrarium. “It’s really easy to over-water succulents.”

He’s always so careful when he handles things, even if he lifts them like they’re weightless. No wonder the plants and flowers bloom so prettily here. They know they’re loved and looked after.

“They’re so cute.” You smile at the collection of contrasting plants that somehow live harmoniously together in such a small space. “And there’s more than one! So my lily will have plenty of friends.”

You’re too busy looking down to painstakingly accept the terrarium to notice the small, shy smile that flits across the man’s face as he watches you, your hands so cautious and protective as you accept more members into your growing family. “You’re right,” he says. “She won’t be lonely.”

You have the glass ball hugged against your chest as you trail behind the man, but then you come to a stand still by a selection of floral arrangements and realise that there’s no way you’ll be able to carry both the terrarium and a bouquet; at least, not one the size you’d been planning for. The florist notices the sound of your footsteps disappearing and stops to look over his shoulder. He seems concerned.

“Sorry,” you apologise, staring at one particularly large collection of flowers and foliage all gathered together in brown paper, soft pastel colours surrounded by greenery and smaller pale blooms. “I was just thinking about how nice your bouquets are. They’re so pretty.”

“Would you like one?”

“Of course, but I only have so many hands.” You laugh as you glance down at the terrarium you’re clutching onto. “I wouldn’t trust myself to hold a bunch of flowers at the same time as this. That would be a disaster waiting to happen, honestly.”

The florist pauses. “How about if I make you a boutonniere to pin on your shirt?”

You look up from the terrarium, blinking. There’s that tinge of pink stealing over his cheeks again and you find the sight surprisingly endearing. “You can do that?”

“If you’d like.” He’s looking away from you again, staring intently at a bucket of sunflowers. “So at least you have some flowers to take home.”

Something twinges, deep down in your chest, right at the bottom of your ribcage. Something you can’t put a name to. “That sounds nice. Yes, please? If it wouldn’t be too much trouble?”

You carefully put your succulents down on the counter and lean against it as you watch him select flowers for the corsage, pausing before he chooses each one; he keeps his gaze averted from you the whole time but you think it’s because he feels awkward about the attention you’re giving him. You’re not pretending like you’re not watching him intently, wanting to take everything in, intrigued. He keeps his eyes cast down as he starts to bring everything together but there’s still a flush on his cheeks. It’s… adorable. He’s adorable.

“Feel free to say no, but can I take a photo?” You point at the camera you have looped around your neck. “Not of you! Well. Not all of you. Just… your hands as you make the corsage? I swear I don’t have a hand fetish, I just like to take photos of things I think are cool. Totally get if you don’t want me to, I—”

“Sure.”

He’s staring down at the tiny floral arrangement in his hands as he interrupts you, but he seems resolute despite the blush on his face. You pause for a second and then smile. You lift the Polaroid camera up to peer through the viewfinder and take the shot, but before you have the chance to take a proper look it seems like the florist is finished.

He only looks up at you now that he’s done and holds his work shyly up for you to inspect, as if it’s not the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen. He’s framed a soft purple rose with small blooms of lilac and white baby’s breath, offset by a burst of greenery, delicate and perfectly balanced.

“Oh, that’s so beautiful,” you breathe. You reach out to touch it with reverent fingers, lavender petals of the rose so soft against your skin. “You did that so quickly, too! How did you choose everything? Did you just go for things you thought would match?”

“Um.” The florist has turned red. “Yes?”

You decide not to press further, even if you wonder what it is that has him so embarrassed right now. Probably because you complimented him on his floristry skills. “You have a really good eye,” you say, smiling. “It’s so lovely.”

He somehow flushes an even brighter shade of scarlet when you struggle to pin the boutonniere on and ask for his help; he’s so careful as he secures it in place, staring at his hands as he settles the flowers gently against your chest.

“Perfect.” You beam at him and feel triumphant when he gives you a small smile in return despite how shy he seems, but then he seems to realise that he’s still got his hands resting against the fabric of your clothing and rips them away like they’re on fire.

“Um.” He has his head turned away from you but there’s a wide smile on his face, teeth on show as he looks down at the ground. “Thank you. I’m glad you like it.”

You’ve just finished paying when you realise— “I don’t think you’ve charged me for the boutonniere ?”

The florist seems like a rabbit caught in headlights. “It’s a, uh, promotional thing. An incentive to come back and buy a full bouquet or arrangement. You… uh, you actually get a discount on your first bouquet if you get a boutonniere or corsage first. I just— I need your name to make sure you get the discount. Next time you come. If you come back,” the man says in a rush, before sucking his lips in and looking away from you. “If that’s okay?”

Of course you’re going to come back. “Oh! Sure! It’s Y/n,” you say.

“Y/n,” he repeats. He’s staring at you, lips parted, soft around the shape of your name. You wait for a beat, looking back at him, before one of eyebrows rises.

“Um… do you have a book to write it down in? Or do you just memorise all of your customer’s names straight off the bat?”

The florist blinks and then his eyes go wide and his cheeks flush again. “A book! Of course, um.” He scrabbles around behind the counter, flustered, but seems to come up empty-handed. You watch as he grabs the only book he can find— The Language of Flowers— and cracks it open to the title page to scribble your name down in pencil before shoving the book under the counter and out of sight.

“I feel bad that you’ve just, uh, defaced a book because of me,” you say. “You didn’t have to write it down, I was just kidding? I know not everyone is as forgetful as me.”

“No, no, it’s alright,” he says. “It’s my book. I can write what I want in it. The, um, the logbook seems to have gone missing,” he continues, staring at his hands as he scratches his palm. “Yoongi-hyung must have moved it. I’ll, uh, write your name when he comes back with it. Yeah.”

“Yoongi? Is that your boss?”

“Hyung? Sort of. He owns Spring Day but he basically treats me like a co-owner, I guess.”

“Oh, wow, that sounds so cool, even if it must be a lot of responsibility.” You smile softly at the florist. “He must really trust you.”

He glances up from his hands, eyes warm when he spots the expression on your face. “Yeah,” he says, smiling back. “I owe Yoongi-hyung a lot.”

“Oh!” Your fingers tighten around the handles of your bag, terrarium safely encased inside. “You know my name, and now I know Yoongi’s name, but I don’t know your name…?”

He flushes again, imperceptibly, the tiniest spread of pink on the apples of his cheeks. “I’m Jungkook,” Jungkook says.

“Jungkook,” you repeat. His eyes flicker and he looks away from you. You’ll have to work on that shyness— but you’ve always been good at coaxing people out of their shells. You’re unapologetically yourself, and that helps other people feel comfortable being unapologetically themselves, too. “Alright, Jungkook, thank you for the help again today. And the beautiful boutonniere.” You wiggle your shoulder so the flowers affixed to your chest shift a little. “I’ll see you around?”

“Yeah.” He sounds a little breathless. “Yeah, I’ll see you around.”

Once you get home the terrarium is carefully unpacked and placed on your desk with your other plants; you’ve had to relocate some of your general filing clutter to another table to make space (the plants make you feel better than staring at a rose-gold in tray with letters that you need to get to, so whatever). You finally have a chance to look at that photo you'd taken earlier and fish it out of your pocket.

The background is a little blurry, not the focus of the shot, but you can see the neat pile of offcuts on the table, a small scattering of equipment. Jungkook’s hands, however, are in perfect focus. He has such lovely hands, from the pronounced knuckles to the subtle flex of his tendons to the pale blue veins that are visible as he holds the tiny bunch of flowers together and wraps them in ribbon. You stare at the picture for a little longer than you probably should before resting it against the peace lily’s pot, in eyeline as you begin to write.

(Lily watches, enraptured, as Yunhee prepares the sprigs of herbs and flowers that she hangs from the kitchen’s low ceiling. Her pretty hands are so fast as they bring the dried flora together, encircling each bunch with twine, quick and delicate. Careful. Reverent.

“Would you like a go?” Yunhee has seen her watching and holds up a spray of dried lavender rosemary, colours muted from their usual brightness, but no less pretty. “I can teach you, if you’d like.”

Lily smiles. “I would love that.”)

“What do I want in my bouquet? Hmm… that’s a tough one. What’s your favourite flower?”

You’re back at Spring Day the day after buying your terrarium, and once again, Jungkook is there. You’d caught a brief glimpse of another man on your way in, his hair a bleached-blond mess, but he seems to have disappeared— although his apron has been cast haphazardly over the back of the wicker chair behind the counter so you don’t think he’ll be gone too long.

Jungkook pauses. “I don’t know if I could choose just one,” he says. “But if I had to, I’d say the tiger lily.”

“Oh!” You point at his arm. His t-shirt today seems to be as baggy as the rest of his clothing choices but it leaves his lower arms visible. “Is that the tattoo you have?”

Jungkook turns his arm towards you so you can see it properly, the delicate lines of the lily blooming across his skin, and you can see the scratched lines of some words silhouetted behind it, ones you hadn’t spotted before. “Yeah.” He’s smiling. “It’s my birth flower.”

“That’s so pretty,” you say, awed. “What do the words say?”

Jungkook’s been less shy today, but when you ask this, he seems bashful. “Please love me.” He traces the words with his finger, the letters hidden behind the large petals of the flower. “It’s what the tiger lily means.”

He keeps his gaze averted from you, staring at the black and grey lines that bloom across his skin. You’ve barely scratched the surface of Jungkook, but there’s something so… so fascinating about him. Undeniably powerful and masculine, yet still so soft and considerate. Romantic.

“It’s beautiful,” you say, truthfully. “Both the tattoo and its meaning.”

Jungkook smiles shyly. “Thanks,” he says. “I’m glad you like it. I, um, drew it, actually.”

You’ve been staring at his arm but when he says this, you reel back. “You designed that tattoo? Jungkook. Are you telling me you can sing and draw?” When he doesn’t respond, still shy, you giggle. “It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything. I know the truth.”

“So what would you like in your bouquet?” Jungkook’s clearly trying to change the subject and you laugh.

“I have no idea. I’m a dunce and you’re the expert, so I’ll let you do the heavy lifting,” you say. “How about something with some tiger lilies?”

The tiger lilies are beautiful, vivid oranges flecked with brown; Jungkook lets you select the ones you want, accepting the flowers from you carefully as you pluck them from the buckets and then laughing at yourself when you end up with water spattered over your shoes, dripping down the long stems. After that you let him take over and he chooses the other flowers to bulk out your arrangement, mulling over each decision before he seems content with his choices.

“I can recognise the roses and lilies, but what are the others?” You ask, intrigued.

“Roses, hypericum berries, tiger lilies, orange lilies, goldenrods, and some greening for filler.” He lifts each flower up as he lists them off for you, a cascading gradient of red to cerise to orange to yellow. “Do you want me to change them?”

“No.” Your voice is gentle. “It’s perfect. It’s just like a sunrise. I love them.”

Jungkook’s responding smile is wide enough to show his teeth and squeeze his eyes.

There’s something soothing about watching him work. His eyes are entirely focused as he puts everything in its place, uncompromising when it comes to his perfectionism; things will look fine to you but he’ll seem to think differently and shift things around until it passes his rigorous standards. You want to take a photo. Not just of his hands, but of all of him— the little furrow of his brows, the intense look in his eyes, the tiniest pout on his lips; the softness of his hands, the tenderness of his fingers, the relaxation of his shoulders. Someone who’s intent on perfecting his craft but finds joy in its practiced motions.

You're just considering risking it all to ask him if you can take a photo when you're (thankfully) interrupted.

“That’s a pretty bouquet,” someone drawls. “What’s the occasion?”

The other man has appeared out of the back room. His eyes are fox-like but his mouth is soft and his fluffy white jumper seems even softer, fuzzy against the dark apron that he loops back over his head.

“Hi, Yoongi-hyung. Um.” Jungkook glances up at you. “Is it… for… a partner? Or someone else?”

“Nope, just thought I’d treat myself. Is that weird?”

Yoongi looks at you consideringly, clearly thinking something, before he shrugs. “Nah. You should tell your partner to step up their game, though. You shouldn’t have to buy yourself flowers.”

You laugh, trying to cover up your sudden awkwardness as Seokjin’s face flashes in your mind. Partner? You? Haha. “I’m single, so this is the only way I’ll be getting flowers, I’m afraid.”

Jungkook drops a handful of goldenrods. Yoongi’s eyes flicker over to him, watching as the younger man scrabbles to pick the yellow flowers back up. “Huh,” Yoongi says. “I see. Well, as long as you’re paying, I’m not complaining.”

You already like Yoongi, as forthright and blunt as he is, an utter juxtaposition to Jungkook’s unassuming shyness; he plops himself down and watches Jungkook finish putting the arrangement together, arms crossed as he leans back in the wicker chair. He looks a little lazy and a little sleepy. A cat reclining in the sun.

Jungkook finishes the bouquet by wrapping it in layers of brown and white paper, layering orange and yellow and white ribbons around the stems, pulling the sunrise of plants together with more bursts of bright colour.

“It’s so beautiful,” you say.

Yoongi makes a small grunting noise of agreement. “Good work, Kookie.”

Jungkook seems almost overwhelmed by the praise and holds a hand over his face, a shy curve of his fingers over his nose and mouth as he coughs and pretends he’s fine. “It’s alright, I guess,” he says. “Do you want anything else?”

“No, that’s everything for today, thanks.” You beam at Jungkook, who smiles back; he’s so cute. “How much is that?”

Yoongi’s mouth opens but Jungkook speaks over him to tell you the price, which is lower than you thought, but— “That must be from the boutonniere discount, right?”

Yoongi squints at you. “Boutonniere discount?”

“You know, hyung, the boutonniere discount.” Jungkook’s voice is a little high. “The promotion.”

Yoongi stares at him. Jungkook stares back. You think Jungkook’s about to break in the face of Yoongi’s blank pokerface, but then he nods. “Oh, yeah, that one,” Yoongi says, slowly. “I forgot. The boutonniere discount. Absolutely.”

Yoongi lapses into silence during the rest of the transaction, and though he looks sleepy, his eyes are sharp as he watches the two of you. Not that you notice, too busy carefully accepting the flowers from Jungkook and hefting the huge bouquet in your arms, mindful not to jostle them too much.

“Thank you so much, Jungkook!” You tilt your head forward to breathe in the soft floral scent, smiling. “It’s so lovely. And it was nice to meet you, Yoongi.”

“Likewise,” Yoongi says. “We’ll see you again?”

“Of course!” On your way out you go to take a hand off the bouquet to give them a jaunty wave, but unlike Jungkook you can’t keep the whole thing steady with just one hand and settle with giving them a nod instead. “I’ll see you again!”

As the door settles shut behind you, bell tinkling as you go, Yoongi raises an eyebrow at Jungkook. “Boutonniere discount?”

“Shut up, hyung,” Jungkook mutters, embarrassed.

Once you get home you unearth the vase Namjoon made you in his last ceramics class, unwrapping the bouquet and easing it into the water. You watch as the flowers come a little loose from the tight presentation and jostle lightly against each other as they settle into the vase. It’s a bright burst of colour on your breakfast bar, eye-catching and beautiful.

These flowers should last longer than the corsage from yesterday, which had already started to wilt; you know practically nothing about preserving flowers but you’ve sandwiched the purple rose and lilac and baby’s breath between layers of tissue and squashed them between some books on advice from the internet, wanting to press them and keep them close. (Maybe you’ll frame them or something. That would be cute.)

You pause. You pluck out a tiger lily, disrupting the careful balance Jungkook had strived to create, spinning the flower slowly between your fingers. Your friends send you congratulatory flowers after each new book publication, but this is the first bouquet that’s ever been made specifically for you— not the you that’s hidden behind a pseudonym. You. Even if you’d asked for this yourself, Jungkook had been the one to choose everything for you. He'd been the one to put the thought and time and effort into it.

You stare at the tiger lily for a few moments longer before slipping it back into the arrangement, turning it so it rests just as it had before you’d pulled it out.

(Spring is turning to summer and everything is starting to bloom, the garden alive with a riot of colour, full of the buzzing of bees and other insects— drawn here just as Lily had been. But Yunhee finds Lily in the greenhouse, away from the noise and activity, quiet and contemplative as she stares around her.

“What are they?” Lily points at a plot of flowers that have yet to bloom. The yellow and orange buds are long and heavy, weighted towards the ground.

“Tiger lilies.” Yunhee squats down and touches one of the furled flowers. “They’re shy to start with, but once they start to blossom, they’ll be some of the prettiest things here. Yes, that means you,” Yunhee laughs as the plant in her fingers seems to twitch. “They’re always so bold once they’re in full bloom. You just have to wait until you can coax them out.”)

“You seem to be doing better.” Jimin puts his coffee down. “Have you spoken to Jin yet?”

“Good god, Jimin,” you laugh. “Straight in there, aren’t you?”

Jimin fixes you with a stern gaze and you wince a little.

“Sheesh. No, not yet.” You fiddle with your napkin, curling it around the end of your teaspoon. “I’m starting to feel… like… kind of okay about it, I guess, but I’m worried that it’s going to be weird when I see Jin again.”

It’s been over a month since your confession, and it’s the longest you’ve gone without talking to Jin since you’ve met him. It’s… weird. You miss him so much. But you don’t know if it’s too soon to try and reintroduce him into your life, even if Jimin clearly disagrees.

“It’s only going to get weirder the longer you go without talking to him,” Jimin says, and you hate that you know he’s right. “You keep asking how he is, and he keeps asking how you are, and it’s obvious you both miss each other. I’m not saying you have to jump back to how things were straight away, but you can ease back into it, you know?”

You sigh. “I know,” you say. “It’s just hard, Minnie.”

Jimin, your oldest friend, had been the first person you’d called after your failed confession. You’d been tearful and honest when you’d said that it felt like you were going to hurt forever. But it’s weird how quickly that’s ebbed away, even if you still regret opening your mouth in the first place; most of the hurt you feel right now is from missing Jin, not from lingering pain about unreciprocated feelings. You miss your-friend-Jin, not your-crush-Jin.

“You seem to be doing okay, though.” Jimin raises his eyebrows at you over his latte. “Anything to do with whoever’s sending you those pretty bouquets that’re all over your apartment, hmm?”

You splutter into your coffee. “What? No, don’t be ridiculous, I’m buying those for myself,” you say once you’ve wiped the coffee off your chin. “Me? Getting sent bouquets? Pfft.”

You never planned on becoming some sort of manic flower hoarder, but Jimin isn’t exaggerating when he says that they’re all over your apartment. You’ve even had to buy extra vases to hold all the bouquets and arrangements you have, every hue and shape and size of flora imaginable on almost every flat surface— only your desk remains untouched, sacred ground for your potted plants. You’d bought a rubber plant a few days ago, but beyond that, nothing new has been set on your desk recently.

It’s just… whenever you’re in Spring Day it’s like there’s no space in your brain or heart to think about Seokjin. It’s a place of respite for you, now. Somewhere you can go that’s untouched by the outside world. Somewhere you can go to be surrounded by beauty and life. Somewhere you can go to talk to Jungkook, the sweet, soft florist who’s slowly opening up to you, a blossoming flower, petals unfurling further with each visit.

He’s not always there. Sometimes it’s just Yoongi, and you like Yoongi and enjoy his company, but… it’s different with Jungkook. He’s growing bolder, less shy, and every conversation with him is so riveting; you eagerly gobble up every tidbit of information he feeds you. He sings. He draws. He paints. He takes photos. He dances. Everything he finds interesting, he tries, and everything he tries, he tries voraciously— he never settles for anything less than 100%. He puts himself entirely into everything he does.

He’s incredible.

Anyway. You can’t come away from Spring Day empty-handed, hence all the flowers that are filling your apartment. Even though Jungkook says it’s okay for you not to buy things, you’d be a supremely awful customer if you just distracted him by talking and then leaving again, so you always make sure to buy something. Even if it’s just a tiny flower themed bookmark that you don't need.

“I’m all for retail therapy, but why not buy stuff for yourself that doesn’t eventually die and wilt?” Jimin seems mystified. “That many flowers can’t be cheap.”

“I’m a relatively successful author, I can afford to blow money on flowers if I want.” You wave your hand dismissively. “Besides, my latest novel involves a lot of flower and plant related stuff, so I’m basically investing in my writing. I’m killing two birds with one stone: research for my novel, as well as filling the gaping hole in my chest by buying flowers for myself because I’m destined to die alone and no one else is ever going to buy them for me.” You finish brightly.

Jimin looks equal parts frustrated and sad. “You know that’s not true, Y/n. Just because Jin—”

“It’s fine, Jimin, I’m kidding! I’m kidding,” you insist. “The reason I’ve been single for the past billion years is because I’m just too much of a catch and people find it intimidating, I know.”

You’ve used fake, inflated narcissism and mocking self-deprecation as ways of protection for years. Most people take your confidence at face value. However, Jimin knows you too well to be fooled by it; not to mention he’s one of the few people who knows about your books and has read every single one so he’s well aware of all the schmoopy daydreams you keep close to your chest.

Ugh. This is why you write under a pseudonym. Autumn Lovett is allowed to enjoy clichés and have unrealistic and dumb romantic fantasies. A lot of their platform is built around it. Meanwhile the real version of you tries to pretend that you’re not obsessed with the idea of true love and yearn for it almost every waking moment despite how utterly impossible it is that you’ll ever find it. Because it’s embarrassing.

“I’m going to kick you,” Jimin says lovingly. “Right in the shins.”

“God, please don’t.” Jimin’s kicks are lethal. “If I say I don’t genuinely think I’m some sort of unlovable cave troll, will you promise not to hurt me?”

Jimin takes longer to think about his answer than you’d like. “Okay,” he says eventually. “You have to really mean it.”

“Alright, I don’t genuinely think I’m some sort of unlovable cave troll. I just haven’t met the right person yet.” Your words seem to pacify Jimin, even if they ring a little hollow in your own ears.

The truth is that, on a deep level, you do feel unlovable. It’s maybe a bit self-pitying, because you have friends who adore you and you know you’re worthy of love, but… it’s kind of hard to really believe that when you have yet to have your feelings genuinely reciprocated. There have been a few moments in the past, a few brief, fleeting connections, but never anything wholesome and real. You feel like you’ve been waiting for something that’s never going to happen.

Besides, if it does happen, it’s never going to be as soft and loving as the relationships you write into your books, right? You’re a sucker for clichés. You love the idea of someone bringing you flowers, watching the sunset with you, dancing together in your kitchen to a song on the radio— every overdone and overused formula that’s shoved into every romantic film ever. You want all of it. (You’ve never been on a ferris wheel but god do you want to have a date that involves one.)

Maybe you’re still alone because you’ve been asking for too much. Not everyone is as lucky as Jimin and Namjoon; you doubt you’d ever be so fortunate to find someone who loves you as much as they love each other and express that love, too.

You’re still brooding over these feelings when you visit Spring Day later. Jungkook’s singing again, something smooth and lovely and mellow, and when he sees you he brightens— he cuts himself off, but not because he’s embarrassed, but because he’s happy to see you.

Something inside you goes soft and warm at the sight. He’s so nice.

Still, despite Jungkook’s soothing presence you’re far more distracted than you usually are and he seems to notice this; you end up sitting cross legged on the floor of the greenhouse under the leaves of a monstera while Jungkook keeps flicking you looks between watering plants.

A few weeks ago, he would be too timid to say anything, but by now he’s grown far more bold. You’ve been encouraging him to speak his mind. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah.” You’ve had your head tilted back to watch the fluttering leaves of the monstera plant but you look down to turn your attention to Jungkook. He’s wearing a dark plaid shirt today, loose sleeves rolled up past his elbow as he hefts his blue watering can; he looks soft and approachable, eyes warm with concern. “Yeah, I just have some stuff on my mind, I guess. Sorry. I’m not exactly a great conversational partner at the best of times, so I’m being even worse right now.”

“It’s fine, you don’t have to apologise.” Jungkook hesitates. “Do you… want to talk about it?”

You let out a light chuckle. “Ah, you don’t want to hear about the nonsense I’ve got in my brain, but thank you. It’s very sweet of you to offer.”

“No.” Jungkook’s voice is surprisingly firm and you internally startle. “If there’s something on your mind, it’s not nonsense. I’m not saying you have to tell me if you don’t want to, but— please don’t think I don’t want to listen to you.”

You blink. He’s not looking away from you like he normally does— there’s a hard set to the line of his mouth, like he really, really means what he says and he wants you to know that.

“Oh.” For once you’re the one who breaks eye contact, glancing down at your lap. You’d found a lone daisy on the floor and you’ve been cradling it in your hands, rolling the stem between your fingers, and you watch as the petals fan out and shiver at the motion. “Okay. Thanks, Jungkook.”

“Don’t mention it,” he says. His voice is gentle. You keep your eyes fixed on the daisy, and you can hear the slosh and drizzle of the watering can as he goes back to the plants. You take in a deep breath.

“What’s your opinion on romance, Jungkook?”

There’s a splashing noise as Jungkook fumbles with the can and drops it. Luckily it stays upright and doesn’t spill over the floor. “I, um, what?”

You look away from your daisy and stare at him earnestly, as embarrassingly open and raw as you feel right now. “What’s your opinion on romance? You know, love and all that.”

Jungkook pauses.

“I know it’s a weird question.” You wince. “You don’t have to answer it. I’ve just been thinking about it.”

Jungkook stares at the watering can by his feet before he stoops over and picks it back up. He’s not looking at you. “How come?” His voice is a little strained, but you don’t notice.

“Ah, I don’t know,” you sigh. “I think about it a lot, honestly. Sometimes I just wonder if it’s realistic? Like, of all the people in the world, what’s the likelihood you’re going to meet someone that you really… really resonate with? And they’re going to feel the same for you? Part of me has always believed in fate, or like… serendipity, I suppose. Bumping into someone that turns out to be so much more important than either of you could imagine. A soulmate? In a way? But as time goes on I… I guess I’m worried I’ll never actually find that and it’s all a ridiculous pipe dream.”

You feel small and defenceless after admitting this. You might be a loudmouthed sarcastic clown, but underneath all your theatrical buffoonery and snark, the truth is that you’re an utterly hopeless romantic. It’s the world’s worst kept secret, sure, but you’ve never laid it out so plainly to anyone before.

The longer Jungkook stays silent, the more awkward you feel, and you desperately need to break the tension.

“Bweh.” You make a little noise. “I get nauseous whenever I express real emotions. I didn’t mean to word vomit all of that at you, sorry—”

“I believe in soulmates.” Jungkook’s back is to you as he stands in front of a collection of osteospermums, but he’s stopped watering them. “And romance. And true love. I don’t think it’s always going to be easy, and it might hurt along the way, but… I think there’s love and happiness waiting for us at the end of it. Yoongi-hyung always calls me a hopeless romantic.” He laughs a little and glances over his shoulder at you, his expression warm and sincere. “I always cry at sad scenes in romantic films and books and he likes to tease me about it.”

He doesn’t seem ashamed about being open and vulnerable with you. It’s terrifying and yet Jungkook seems unafraid. Honestly, you admire it. “Me too,” you admit, your voice a quiet hush. “Everyone keeps arguing about if Rose could have let Jack onto the door with her but I’m always too busy crying to pay attention to how big the piece of wood is.”

Jungkook lets out a breath of laughter, nose scrunching as he smiles at you. He’s not judging your sappiness at all. “Titanic is such a sad film,” he says. “It makes my heart ache every time I watch it.”

You hit your knee with a fist. “I know! Why couldn’t they just be happy? Ouch,” you say. “Wow. I punched myself harder than I thought. I just get very passionate about happy endings. Sad endings— well, they make me sad, especially if the rest of the story has been sad too. What was it Guy Fieri said? I can bear any pain as long as it has meaning.”

Jungkook blinks. “Guy Fieri said that?”

“Now that I think about it, I think it was actually Haruki Murakami.” You rub a soothing hand over your knee. “But yeah. I’m not saying sad endings don’t have a place, and sometimes it’s right for the story that’s being told, but… I’m more of a happy ending person. If I were James Cameron I’d have to let Rose and Jack end up together. I’d be too soft to write the ending he did, even if it was appropriate. You know?”

Jungkook turns away from the osteospermums, his eyes as soft as he looks at you. “Yeah, me too,” he agrees. “I think everyone deserves a happy ending.”

The monstera plant above you patiently listens as you and Jungkook have a long, quiet conversation about love and romance, and it’s… weird. You never thought you could have a conversation like that without wanting to cringe so hard you collapsed in on yourself and imploded into a black hole. Submitting to the mortifying ordeal of being known is usually a lot more… well… mortifying, but somehow with Jungkook, it isn’t.

Maybe it’s because he’s so open himself. Maybe it’s because you can tell he’s not judging you at all. He doesn’t think your desperate yearning for love and romance is anything to be embarrassed about— and he clearly feels the same yearning. You find it baffling that someone as lovely as Jungkook doesn’t have someone special in his life, though. Wild.

“Monsteras are actually nicknamed Swiss cheese plants,” Jungkook informs you, running a hand over one of the leaves and trailing a finger over one of the holes in it. You're adding it to your steadily growing plant collection. “Because of these. They look like the holes you find in Swiss cheese.”

You laugh. “Oh, that’s so cute! I love that.”

Jungkook smiles. “I knew you would.”

He’s just finished tying a ribbon around the plant’s pot when he pauses. “Oh,” he says. “If you like happy endings, can I recommend something?”

He stoops down to get something from behind the counter and you can tell when he’s found what he’s looking for by how his face lights up. You’re hyped to see what it is, what’s gotten Jungkook so excited— but then he flips the book over to hand to you and you nearly choke on your own spit.

Jamais Vu. Your most recent novel.

“I really love this author,” he says as you try to swallow down your coughs, eyes watering with the effort. Luckily he’s looking down at the book and doesn’t seem to notice. “No matter how difficult things get, or how awful things seem, the endings are always happy. Or at worst, bittersweet. They’re never completely sad? Watch out for the plot twist in the middle, though, that’s a rough one.”

“Hahahaha, alright, I will!” It was the first time you’d incorporated a murder mystery in one of your books, but damn, it had gone over really well with the critics. And Jungkook too, apparently, judging from the excited look in his eyes. “This looks, um. Interesting.”

He beams at you. “If you like it, I have the rest of their books at home. You can borrow those as well. I, uh, I've been reading them from the very beginning,” he admits, with a tiny, shy laugh. “The earlier books are skewed mainly towards romance, but the plots are always good too. If, um, you like that sort of thing.”

You feel faint. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks, Jungkook.”

Once you get home, you very carefully and delicately place the monstera on your desk, turning it a few times until you’re entirely happy with the position of it.

Then you lie face down on your bed.

Your breaths are fuggy against your pillow but you keep your face buried in it, even if it’s getting progressively harder to breathe. Jungkook reads your books. Jungkook reads all of your books. Jungkook is apparently an avid fan of your books— the copy of Jamais Vu he’s lent you is a hardback copy and the design on it is one you recognise as a pre-order exclusive.

Oh, shit. Is it a signed copy?

You scramble out of bed to grab the book and flip to the title page. There it is, staring up at you: your own signature. Well, Autumn Lovett’s signature, complete with a tiny scribbled leaf.

To Jungkook, you’d written. Thank you so much for all your support! you’d written. Autumn Lovett, you’d written.

You muffle a scream into your hands.

Even if Jungkook doesn’t know who Autumn really is, there’s no way he’s going to read your next book and not realise the truth. The tiger lilies. Yunhee’s dark eyes and dark hair and swift hands. Her strength and softness. Lily, magnetised by her, drawn in by her gravity.

(You haven't realised until now just how much meeting Jungkook has changed the development of your novel. Why?)

You’re at a loss for words. You honestly don’t know what to feel. Part of you feels flattered that Jungkook loves your writing so much. Another part of you feels like you’ve been lying to him the whole time you’ve been talking— pretending to be someone you’re not. Somehow. Autumn has lied to him by not being real, and you’ve lied to him by not letting him know the truth. Sure, you’ve only found out today, but.

The one person you’d talk to— the one person who’d help you muddle through your emotions on something as complex as this, as flippant and blasé as he might seem to people who don’t know him like you do— is someone you haven’t spoken to in over a month.

Your eyes slide over to your phone. After your conversation with Jimin earlier you’d genuinely been planning on messaging Seokjin tonight; nothing major or big, just a dipping of your toe back into the waters of your friendship. But you need to hear his voice. You’re not going to offload on him, of course. You’re not going to make the first conversation you have after your confession to be all about you. But you just need that familiarity right now.

He picks up after one ring.

“Hi, Y/n,” he says, and you feel like you could fold in two.

“Hi, Jin.” The sound of his voice fills you with warmth and tender affection, and you love him so, so much— but you know in an instant that it’s platonic. This cresting wave of tenderness crashing through you and making your knees want to buckle is for one of your best friends, Kim Seokjin. Your friend. “Hey. I hope you’re doing okay. Been up to anything interesting?”

You end up curled in your computer chair as you talk, your hand resting on the book that Jungkook has entrusted you with. It’s funny how talking to Seokjin comes so naturally; a month feels so long, especially after such a huge revelation from you to him, but it’s also like no time has passed at all. You think maybe you could go years without talking but the moment you came back together again, it would feel the same way.

It’s like you exist on the same level. Like there’s some sort of unbreakable, connective membrane between the two of you. It’s why you’d fallen in love with him. It’s only now that you realise that you’d mistaken that closeness for romantic love, when it isn’t really, at all. It’s just different to your other friendships; deeply and emotionally intimate, but not romantic.

“It sounds like you’ve been doing well,” Jin says. There’s the sound of sizzling in the background and you glance at the clock; he’ll be cooking dinner. He always cooks around now. “How’s the novel coming along?” Are you still in love with me? Are you writing about me?

You pause. Your flip Jungkook’s book open again, staring at his name written in your handwriting— months before you’d known who he was. Some tenuous, inexplicable connection before you’d even met.

“It’s good,” you say, truthfully. “It’s not what I’d been planning, but it’s really good.” I love you, but I’m not in love with you. I’m writing, but not about you. Not really.

“I’m glad.” Jin’s voice is so warm. “You’ll have to send me what you've got so far at some point.”

“So you can point out all the inconsistencies whenever characters are cooking or baking anything? No thanks, already fallen into that trap too many times,” you say, and Jin laughs.

“If you’re going to write a character who’s a baker, you need to do your research batter,” he says, and you laugh in return.

“Did you say batter instead of better? That’s terrible. I love it, even if I wasn’t bready for it.”

“Your puns are so crumby,” Jin replies.

“Are you trying to get a rise out of me?”

You both end up dissolving into laughter at your increasingly nonsensical and awful baking puns. The puns are weak and not even good in a bad way (as in, so bad that they’re good), but they don’t need to be. Jin takes longer to finish laughing than you. His squeaky wiper noises are a familiar sound through your phone speaker and you’re still smiling once it eventually trails off.

“I missed you,” you say suddenly. “I’m sorry. Not sorry about the confession, but— sorry it took me so long to come back around afterwards. I was just worried it would be weird.”

“I understand. It’s okay. I missed you too. You know I love you, right?”

“I love you too. Not romantically. Don’t get it twisted. I realise now that I’m way out of your league, anyway, so it’s a good thing you turned me down.”

“It was for your own good,” Jin says. “As the two most beautiful human beings alive we’d been too powerful if we were together, so it’s for the good of humanity.”

“We’re just so altruistic,” you sigh dramatically, and then you both giggle. “Can the world’s two most beautiful human beings get together for lunch? That wouldn’t cause a vortex in the space time continuum, right?”

“I think the fabric of the universe can handle it.” You hear the sound of Jin taking his pan off the stove, the clunk of metal. “Let me check when I’m free, sweetheart.”

(“You seem happy.” Jaerim’s smile is a soft, hesitant thing, but Lily’s responding smile is bright and wide.

“I am,” she says. Pinned to her breast pocket is a corsage of sweet pea, soft purple and pink and white, its gentle fragrance filling her senses. A reminder of Yunhee even when she’s not here. “I’m really, really happy. But I’m always happier when I can share things with you.”

Jaerim reaches out for her hands. His touch is familiar and warm, and Lily feels as loved as she always has— the way she loves him, too.

As a friend.)

“You know, at this point I’m pretty sure you’re bankrolling the entire shop,” Yoongi says, and you laugh.

“I can always go somewhere else if you’d like?”

“Please.” Yoongi snorts. “I’m not complaining. Besides, Jungkook would be heartbroken if his favourite customer stopped coming.”

The way Yoongi assembles bouquets is different to Jungkook. He’s no less skilled and lavishes the same amount of attention on each one, but his arrangements always seem a little wilder, freer— not in a bad way, just different. He’s surrounded by an increasing collection of carnations and dusty miller, the silver leaves curling around the immaculately white blooms; simple and elegant arrangements for a small bridal shower.

“That’s good to know,” you say, ignoring the warm flush that spreads through your chest at the idea of being Jungkook’s favourite customer. Sometimes you worry that you’re overbearing, actually, with how often you visit, even if Jungkook never seems to mind. “I do buy a lot, though, so that’s probably why I’m his favourite.”

Yoongi’s just finished tying a trail of silver and white ribbon around the collection of flowers in his hands, eyes flicking up at you as he eases it into a small vase. “You shouldn’t feel obligated to keep throwing money at this place,” he says. “You’re welcome to come whenever you like. Without needing to buy something.”

You feel weirdly chastened. “Um, okay.” You laugh lightly. “Kind of a weird business you’ve got running if you’re not telling customers to buy things, though?”

Yoongi snorts again. “You’ve spent more money in the past few months than most customers might spend in a year.” He reaches for another bunch of carnations. “I think we’re good.”

The bell tinkles above the door. You glance over your shoulder to see who it is and your face lights up when you see it’s Jungkook, clutching a small cardboard tray of coffees. He looks boyish and cute today, his hair is a little windswept from the breeze outside, and there’s a smile on his face that only grows wider when he spots you. You smile back. You’re always so happy to see him.

“Is that my coffee?” Yoongi says, without looking up from the bundle of flowers he's holding. “Bring it here.”

Jungkook rolls his eyes and you stifle a laugh behind your hand. Any shyness Jungkook might have had originally seems entirely gone now, and he’s unabashed when he pretends to disrespect his hyung, even if you know there’s a lot of love there.

Jungkook puts the cardboard cup out of the way of Yoongi’s work so there’s no chance it might accidentally get knocked over. “Here’s the decaf caramel cappuccino with extra sweetener and whipped cream that you asked for, hyung.” Jungkook gives you a conspiring smile and you stifle another laugh at the expression that flits across Yoongi’s face at the word decaf.

“Die,” Yoongi says mildly, before taking a sip of his bitter and untouched black coffee. “Perfect. Now, shoo, I’m busy. Go check on the herb display, I think they could do with some fertiliser.”

You keep hold of Jungkook’s cup as he mists the herbs, a tiny spritzer in his hands that he carefully aims at the stem of each plant. Unlike Yoongi’s black coffee, Jungkook’s opted for something iced, a creamy yellow blend with shavings of chocolate on top.

“If I’d known you were here, I would have gotten you something as well,” he says. You glance up to see Jungkook’s paused in his motions, hands engulfed in bright green basil leaves. It seems like he’s noticed you peering at the drink.

“Don’t be silly, I don’t expect you to buy me coffee! I’m just trying to work out what this is. It looks really tasty.”

“It’s a banana frappe. You can try some, if you want?”

You beam. “Can I?” You take a sip before Jungkook changes his mind, pursing your lips around the straw as the coldness hits your tongue and nearly gives you brain freeze— but then you register the sweetness on your tongue, the flavour of banana and vanilla and honey, delicious. “Oh, this is so good,” you breathe. “Where did you get this? I need this in my life.” You take another cheeky sip, eyes on Jungkook’s reaction, but he seems unfazed at the fact that you’re greedily slurping up his drink before he’s even had a chance to have any.

“There’s a small café a few streets away from here,” he says. “I, um.” He looks away from you, back towards the basil, before he pulls his hands out of the leaves and starts to mist the soil of the mint plants. “I could take you there, if you’d like.”

You haven’t seen him blush for a while, but that familiar tinge of pink is starting to steal over his cheeks as he looks away from you. Something churns low in your stomach, something almost like butterflies; a shifting of their wings, ready to take flight. “Oh,” you say. “That would, um. That would be nice.”

For the first time since you’ve stepped foot into Spring Day, you leave without buying anything. Instead, you leave with a day and time, hastily typed into your phone so you don’t forget. (Not that you would. How could you forget anything about Jungkook?)

You still haven’t told Jungkook who you are. Well— who Autumn is. He’d been so excited when you’d ‘finished’ Jamais Vu and had accepted another book from him, wanting eagerly to hear your opinion on it; it’s hard to not blurt out the truth to him, but you don’t know how to broach that topic. You’re worried that it’ll change this friendship you’ve built up with him and you don’t want to lose Jungkook. Even if you haven’t known him that long, he’s already so, so important to you, and you don’t want to let go of that.

But if you’re starting to become real friends, the kind of friends who get coffee together, who spend time together outside of Jungkook’s work— he deserves to know, right? You just need to find the right time to tell him.

When the day rolls around, you’re early. You’re always early for things. You skulk around the front of Spring Day, where you’d agreed to meet; you make sure to keep just out of Yoongi's eye line, ducking out of sight when it seems like he might spot you through the front window. You’re staring at a bucket of coral-coloured blooms when you hear Jungkook calling your name and you glance up, lifting your hand in a wave.

You almost choke on a breath. You’ve never seen Jungkook out of uniform, his plethora of loose, oversized shirts under a dark apron, nondescript trousers and plain shoes.

“Hi, Y/n.” The smile on his face is bright and wide, eyes squeezing into crescents. “I hope you haven’t been waiting too long?”

He’s in such a simple outfit, but it’s devastating. His hair is arranged neatly under a cap, a leather jacket over the dark, tight shirt tucked into his jeans, blue denim nipped in by a plain black belt; there’s large rips at the knees, flashes of skin visible as he walks forwards, feet steady in black boots. It’s undeniably Jungkook, but it’s so different from the version of him you’ve gotten used to over the past two months, catching you completely off guard.

“Y/n?” He repeats, concerned at your silence, and you snap to attention.

“Oh, sorry! I was just thinking about, uh,” you glance at the flowers you’d been looking at, “peonies. No, I haven’t been waiting long at all, don’t worry. You, um, look really nice today,” you add lamely, unsure what else to say.

“You do too.” Jungkook sounds like he genuinely means it, even if you’re just wearing a pretty regular outfit, similar to the sort of thing you usually wear when you visit him at work. “Peonies only flower for about a week, actually, if you wanted to get some?”

“No, no, that’s fine! Today’s not about flowers, today is about coffee,” you say. Your heart is hammering in your chest for some reason. A single butterfly lifts off in your stomach, taking flight with a flutter of its wings, flitting to and fro. “Take me to the coffee?”

He takes you to the coffee. He leads you confidently through the maze of alleyways, past more places you haven’t seen; he waits patiently whenever you ask to stop and take photos, watching as you stare in awe at an arch built out of precariously balanced tomes that leads into an old bookshop.

“It’s just so pretty around here,” you say, flapping your hand about to try and speed up the development process of a photo. “I’m sorry I’m taking so long.”

“It’s okay.” Jungkook’s voice is soft. “We’re not in a rush.”

He’s not just saying that to be nice, either. At one point, after you’ve apologised yet again, he steals your Polaroid from you and runs; you laugh at him when he refuses to give it back, taking shots of you while he dances just out of your reach, a cascade of photos that somehow turn out distinct and unblurred. Curse his photography abilities.

You slap him lightly on the arm when he eventually surrenders the camera back to you and he just chuckles. It’s a long, looping detour on your way to the café, but you’re having so much fun that you don’t mind— in fact you end up having to be the one to get you back on track, tugging Jungkook’s elbow when it seems like he’s about to take you down another alleyway and towards the river, which you know is the wrong direction for the café.

“Coffee, Jungkook.” You try to sound stern but you end up dissolving into giggles when he pouts at you. “Okay, how about a compromise? We can get coffee to go and then come back this way so you can show me that market you were talking about.”

He brightens. “Okay,” he says. “We can do that.”

You almost regret saying this when you eventually turn up at the café; it’s actually a few stories up a building, a narrow set of rickety steps that opens into a light, airy room, naked lightbulbs hanging in constellations overhead, the entire wall behind the counter a massive chalkboard that’s covered in art of different styles and designs. The wall facing out onto the road outside is glass— the perfect place to unwind and people watch.

“Oh, wow,” you breathe. “Jungkook, this is so cool.”

“I know,” he says, smug and cheeky, and he laughs when you huff out a little breath at him. “The drinks are good, too.”

He’s not lying. He opts for another banana frappe, and after much deliberation, you decide to try the iced honeycomb latte. He refuses to let you pay and hands his card over to the barista before you even get a chance to reach for your bag, which has you narrowing your eyes at him.

“I feel like you prepared that in advance,” you say.

“Not telling.” He taps the side of his nose, which is scrunched from his smile. Inside you another handful of butterflies take flight.

More and more take wing as the afternoon goes on, each time Jungkook laughs or smiles or looks at you; he leads you through the market and shows you his favourite stalls, excited each time he gets to show you something he likes and enjoys, stealing sips of your drink when you’re distracted— but you laugh in his face and do the same to him, so it’s okay.

Time flows by as easy as quicksilver, liquid and bright, and before you know it it’s turned from afternoon to evening, sky softening in deepening shades of blue and purple, the smattering of clouds a pastel palette of pink; you come to a stop by the edge of the river, Jungkook a few steps ahead of you by the time he realises you’re not walking beside him. He smiles at you as you lift your camera and take a shot of him surrounded by the sunset.

“I didn’t realise how late it was getting,” you say, and Jungkook blinks. It’s like he’s coming around to himself, like he didn’t realise either; he glances around and notices the shade of the sky before he pulls his sleeve back to look at the watch on his wrist.

“Wow, me neither.” He sounds surprised, and then he looks guilty. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you busy for so long.”

“Oh my gosh, Jungkook, don’t apologise.” You tuck your latest photo into your pocket to look at later. “I’m having so much fun, I just didn’t notice the time go by. It’s not like you’re forcing me to be here,” you laugh. “I like spending time with you.”

The lampposts have yet to turn on and it’s hard to make out Jungkook’s features when he’s turned away from the soft light of the sunset like this. But you can hear the sincerity in his voice when he speaks. “Me too,” he says. “I’m really glad you found Spring Day.”

Your heart squeezes in your chest. Jungkook looks towards the river just as the first lights switch on, finally dark enough that the streetlights come to life; there're trailing bulbs between each lamppost that flicker on moments after, points of brightness that flood the path below them. Jungkook’s face is shaded by the brim of his cap but he takes it off and shakes his head, running his hand through his hair now that it’s freed. Another breath catches in your throat at how utterly mesmerising he is.

The sound of his voice breaks you out of your trance. “I was wondering,” he says, staring at the rippling mirror of lights on the water, the fading colours of the sky overhead cast in undulating reflections that shift from moment to moment. “You like photography, right?”

“I do,” you say. “Even if I’m not that great at it myself.”

“I have a friend who’s a photographer and some of his work’s been accepted in a local gallery.” Jungkook’s running his fingers over the hard brim of his cap, running them along its edge. “The opening night is in a few days, and, um. I was wondering if you’d like to go with me?”

He finally turns away from the river to look at you. Jungkook’s eyes are so big and dark. For once you’re the deer caught in headlights, and you don’t even know why; it’s like this simple, innocuous question has reached inside you and stolen all the air out of your lungs.

Even so, your answer is immediate. “I’d really, really love that,” you answer honestly, and Jungkook’s responding smile is so, so wide.

You forget about that final photo until you get home. It falls out of your pocket as you shrug your coat off to hang it up, and you stoop down to pick it up, fingers stuttering and going still against its white edges as you take it in.

Jungkook’s silhouetted by the evening sky behind him, in stark contrast to the gentle colours and yet just as soft. The shadows are a little blurred, and the colours are a little muted— but Jungkook’s face is clear, his eyes warm and his smile gentle as he looks at you.

No one’s ever looked at you like that before.

At last the final butterfly flaps its wings and joins the others, your stomach full of fluttering.

Your friendship with Jin has miraculously gone back to normal. If anything, it’s even better than it was before your confession— you don’t feel the need to think twice about your actions, like you’re tiptoeing around him, desperate to keep your love a secret. It’s as easy as it used to be and you’re glad.

But you still remember how much it hurt when he’d looked at you and turned you down. You’ve moved past it, sure, but it had just cemented something you’ve known your whole life: how utterly unlovable you are. How wrong you’d been at reading signs, how you’d been in over your head. How every crush you’ve ever had has come to nothing.

You’ve kept that picture of Jungkook resting against your peace lily. His lovely eyes watch as you struggle at your computer, hours of typing stilted words and phrases that you read back and furiously delete. You bury your head in your hands, frustrated.

Why can’t you write?

By the time Friday night rolls around, you’ve added a grand total of one (1) sentence to your novel. But right now you have more important things to worry about; it’s almost time for you to meet Jungkook at the gallery downtown and the maps app on your phone has been playing up. It’s not that you’re going to be late— you don’t actually live that far away— but you’re not going to be early, and you hate that.

You can see the small groups of people trickling into the gallery, the lights shining out by the entrance cutting across them as they step inside, but your eyes are immediately drawn to Jungkook. He’s been looking down at his phone but as soon as you start to approach it’s like he can sense that you’re there, eyes rising from his screen and zoning in on you immediately.

You stop in your tracks. His face lifts and splits into a wide smile and you smile helplessly back. He’d said the dress code for tonight was smart-casual, and he looks so good dressed like this. You love his turtleneck jumper.

“Hi,” he says. “Wow, you look good.”

“Hi,” you respond, breathless. You feel winded from his compliment and from the blush that’s rising on his face, even if he’s keeping his gaze locked on yours. “You do too.”

You stare at each other for what feels like eons when someone brushes past you and it snaps the two of you out of the moment, and Jungkook coughs. “Um. Should we go in?”

It’s busier inside than you thought. The gallery isn’t exactly small but the layout isn’t entirely straightforward and people keep clustering in certain areas and getting in the way, distracted by the photos on display. You have to wade through one particularly large group of people to get back to Jungkook, who’s been waiting for you on the other side; he looks concerned on your behalf, and when someone makes a move to walk between the two of you he reaches out for your hand, cutting off their path. Your hand feels so small in his, so warm in his grasp.

“I didn’t realise there’d be so many people here,” he mutters, looking around. You entwine your fingers with his and he startles, glancing at where your hands are joined, like he hadn’t noticed that he’d reached out for you.

You abruptly feel embarrassed and you’re about to let go when Jungkook squeezes your hand. You glance up and he’s looking away from you, back of his neck red, but he’s not letting go.

“I think Tae’s stuff is a bit further in,” he says. “Let’s go.”

You trail after Jungkook, who keeps his pace matched to yours. It’s a little quieter back here so it’s easy to find who you’re looking for; when you spot a man with bright blue hair he waves wildly in your direction and Jungkook brightens.

“Kookie! Hi!”

Jungkook lets go of your hand when he’s swept into a hug, and before you can introduce yourself, you’re swept into a hug, too.

“I’m Vante,” the blue-haired man says once he lets you go. “But you can call me Taehyung. Vante is my photographer name. I think it sounds cooler. Don’t you?”

“I think Taehyung is a lovely name,” you say, unphased by how full on Taehyung seems to be. “But Vante sounds really cool, too.”

Taehyung beams at you. “I like you,” he announces. “Y/n, right? Jungkook mentioned you.”

You cough into your palm, trying to act like you’re not supremely flustered right now; when you’re not looking, Jungkook hits Taehyung on the shoulder. “Yeah, that’s right,” you say, looking up. Both boys have innocent expressions on their faces. “Can I have a look at your photos?”

Taehyung is an incredibly talented photographer. You don’t need to be an expert to know that. He has a series of scenic and nature shots, some in colour, some in black and white; he enthusiastically answers your questions about each one, about the background of them and why he takes photos of what he does. Jungkook walks quietly behind you and is content to watch as the two of you talk, chest warmed by how well you’re getting on with each other.

You round a corner to another wall, and Taehyung gestures dramatically at the collection lined across it. “And these are my portrait photos,” he says. “There’s even one of Kookie up here, even if he gets embarrassed whenever I mention it.”

Sure enough, Jungkook is blushing.

“Take me to it,” you say firmly, and Taehyung laughs out loud before he does just that. It’s a black and white shot, Jungkook in profile as he looks towards the camera, endless ocean waves and sky behind him. “Jungkook, you’re such a good model,” you say, smiling softly at it.

Jungkook’s gone bright red, and you’ve honestly missed this sight, even if you’re glad that he’s not shy with you any more. “Taehyung’s just good at taking photos,” he says, voice high with embarrassment.

“I have a lot more photos of Jungkookie that aren’t on display,” Taehyung pipes up, and Jungkook looks like he wants the ground to open up and swallow him. “You’ll have to visit my studio some time so I can show them to you.”

You have Taehyung’s business card carefully stowed away in your bag as you walk home, arms swinging by your sides; you unintentionally brush your hand against Jungkook’s, but before you can say sorry he’s taken it as an invitation to hold your hand again. The apology dies on your lips as he slots his fingers between yours and you smile at him instead.

“Taehyung is so cool,” you say. “And talented, too. I love his photos.”

“I’m glad you both get on so well,” Jungkook says. “Sometimes people seem to think Taehyung is… I don’t know. He can come on a bit strong, I guess.”

“He’s great.” You frown. “I’m going to fistfight anyone who’s mean to him.”

Jungkook laughs and squeezes your hand.

He insists on walking you up to your door, keeping hold of your hand as he follows you inside your apartment building. You feel somewhat abashed at how wide his eyes go at how nice it is inside here. You’re not on the same level as, say, Stephen King or George R.R. Martin, but you make a pretty decent amount of money from your books and it shows.

Jungkook doesn’t actually know what you do. You’ve vaguely alluded to the fact that you’re a writer, but that could mean any number of things; for all he knows you could pen the agony aunt column in a magazine (you imagine that would be pretty fun, actually). You keep waiting for the right opportunity to come clean about your pseudonym but nothing’s presented itself yet.

“Do you want to come in? My friend Seokjin makes killer brownies and I’ve got a box of them still in the fridge,” you say. “He always makes way more than I can eat myself.”

Jungkook seems torn. He wants to see inside your apartment, you can tell, but he also probably doesn’t want to seem intrusive— even if you’re offering.

“I hate wasting food so you’d be doing me a real favour,” you add, and Jungkook relents.

“Alright,” he says, and you smile to yourself as you unlock your door.

You’ve been giving flowers to other people, too— Seokjin and Jimin and Namjoon and even Hoseok have been receiving the gifts of your bounty— but only the premade bouquets. The ones that Jungkook puts together are ones that you keep for yourself. It’s far less overwhelming now than it had been a while ago, only a few floral arrangements here and there, but it’s obvious from Jungkook’s expression that he recognises each bouquet.

He ends up sitting at your breakfast bar as you dig the brownies out of your fridge, and he smiles in delight as you warm up some milk. It’s getting late, and you know Jungkook doesn’t like coffee, anyway.

(You’ve learned a lot about Jungkook in the past few months.)

“Which one is Seokjin?” He asks around a mouthful of brownie. You’ve retired to your living room and Jungkook is peering at the strings of fairy lights you have on the wall, Polaroids of your friends and family clipped along its wire. “This one?”

“No, that’s Namjoon,” you say. You stand up from the couch and scooch next to Jungkook so you can point. “He’s Jimin’s boyfriend— which is this guy here. That’s Seokjin,” you point. “All my favourite people. Ah, don’t look at this one, it’s me and Jimin when we were back in school. We look like such dorks. Look at our hair.”

“You look cute,” Jungkook says, and you try not to blush. “Wait, is that me?”

Your collection of Jungkook photos has been growing exponentially over time. The one he’s looking at is a picture of himself in Spring Day, bent over a bucket of roses, fingers cupping the pink flowers as he smiles at them; he’s said he’s okay with you taking photos, but maybe he meant when he was actually aware of you taking them.

“Um, yeah,” you say. You feel weirdly embarrassed. “I can take it down if you want? Sorry.”

“No, it’s okay.” Jungkook’s staring at the glowing light next to the photo, avoiding your eyes. “I just didn’t think I’d be on the wall with the rest of your, uh, favourite people.”

Your mouth falls open. You don’t know what to say. Normally you’d scoff at him and say duh, of course you are, but for some reason you can’t summon the courage right now. The words catch in your throat.

Luckily, Jungkook seems to notice another photo. “Oh, is that from your school prom? Wait. Are you on crutches?”

You laugh, glad for the distraction. “Oh, yeah! Jimin persuaded me to sneak out of my house a few weeks before that because I was under curfew but there was a party we were both desperate to go to. Needless to say, climbing out of my window didn’t go so well. I was on crutches for ages after that. It wasn’t so bad, honestly. People felt sorry that I couldn’t dance so they kept sitting with me and feeding me cupcakes out of pity. They were delicious,” you say with a smile. “Never did get to do that end of school dance I’d planned with Jimin, though. That’s the only thing that was bad about it.”

Jungkook’s face twists. You’re too busy looking at the photo and reminiscing to notice, but you do notice when he steps back. You turn, confused as Jungkook holds his hand out and looks at you expectantly.

“What?”

“I know it’s a bit late, and I’m not Jimin, but you can have that end of school dance.” Jungkook wiggles his eyebrows at you. “I promise I won’t step on your feet.”

You giggle, but you can feel a blush threatening to fight its way onto your cheeks. There’s a storm of butterflies in your stomach. “But there’s no music,” you say. “How can we dance without music?”

Jungkook shrugs. “I’ll sing for us,” he says. He steps forward, hand still proffered, and you slide your hand into his, unable to deny him.

It’s been years since Jimin’s taught you the basic waltz, and you’re a little stiff because of it, but your body seems to remember the steps as Jungkook slowly leads you. You’re staring at your feet while Jungkook hums, but once you have the rhythm down he opens his mouth and starts to sing; you look up from the floor, your eyes helplessly drawn to his.

His voice is soft and honeyed, words sweet as they hang in the air. You’re so entranced by the deep, warm brown of his eyes that it takes you longer than it should to recognise the lyrics of the song: 10,000 hours, transformed by Jungkook’s mellifluous voice.

He leads you into a turn, and when you come back together it’s a little clumsy and you giggle. Jungkook smiles at you as he continues to sing. The laughter leaves you feeling light and sparkling, like there’s a fountain bubbling inside you, and all the stiffness finally falls away from your limbs. The waltz becomes more of a swaying dance as you let your arms drop, Jungkook’s arm sliding around your waist as you step closer to him, and you end up turning in small circles in the middle of your living room as Jungkook murmurs a love song into your ear.

You suddenly realise that you’ve never been happier than you are right now: dancing in your living room in the circle of Jungkook’s arms as he sings to you, a romantic cliché that’s somehow become true for you. For you. With someone as incredible as Jungkook.

You’re never happier than when you’re with Jungkook.

Holy shit.

You’re in love with Jungkook.

The final note of the song lingers in the air as he comes to an end, the resonance of a bell that slowly fades. He smiles at you as you slowly come to a stop, still nestled in each other’s embrace as your feet finally become still.

“I’m so glad I broke my leg,” you say suddenly, and Jungkook laughs outright, face squeezing up in the way that you love so much.

You’re in love with him.

You watch as he slips his shoes back on. You feel helpless and untethered in a lot of ways, but at the same time, you’ve never felt more sure about anything. When he flashes you a smile, you can’t help but smile back— but that’s always been the case, hasn’t it?

“Hey,” you say suddenly, just after Jungkook’s finished shrugging his coat on. “I know you’ve just, um, gotten ready to go and everything, but can I quickly show you something?” Your heart is thudding in your chest.

Jungkook blinks. “Sure.”

You give him a jerky nod before turning on your heel and walking down the corridor to swing the door open to your office. Jungkook follows behind you, waiting in the doorway as you flick the light on; he makes a noise when he notices the frame hanging on your wall, the flowers of the corsage that you’d dried and pressed safe behind the glass.

You don’t respond. You’re too busy taking a moment to suck in a deep breath and steel yourself before you open your filing cabinet to pull out a stack of papers, sheaves of writing that are stapled together— the very first, unedited drafts of each of your novels, kept for posterity.

“I, um, don’t really know how to say this.” You stare at your hands as you shuffle through the booklets. “I haven’t told anyone new in a long time, so I guess I’m out of practice, but, uh.” You’re so nervous that you’re light-headed. “Autumn Lovett is actually my pen name. These are drafts of my novels if you think I’m lying,” you say, shoving the paper at Jungkook’s chest; he grabs them before they fall to the ground. “Um. So. Yeah. Taa-daa?”

You feel like you’ve run a marathon. Your heart is racing and your lungs are struggling to take in air. You can’t look at Jungkook. You’re staring at the ceiling instead, dreading his reaction.

When he makes a noise, however, your head snaps down. He’s crouched in the middle of your office with your drafts held over his face.

“Jungkook?” You say, panicked, and he makes the same noise again.

“Oh my God,” he whines, muffled behind the paper. You squat down to grip his hands and pull them away from his face, worried; when it’s finally revealed he’s bright red and he looks mortified. “I can’t believe I recommended your own books to you,” he all but wails. “And I gushed like a fanboy in front of you about them too. Oh my God. I’m so sorry.”

You don’t mean to but you laugh. Jungkook tries to hide his face again but you pull the drafts out of his hands and send them scattering to the floor. “Oh, Jungkook,” you say, overflowing with affection. “You don’t have to apologise. I found it flattering, actually.”

He doesn’t seem bothered that you hadn’t told him sooner. He doesn’t care that you’ve been keeping it a secret. He’s just embarrassed. He stays embarrassed as he helps you gather up the papers, and he stays embarrassed as you return your own book that he’d let you borrow, and he stays embarrassed as he heads towards your front door for the second time that night.

“I do, um, really like your work,” he says, shy as he fiddles with your door handle. “I’m really looking forward to your next novel. I’m not just saying that to be nice because I know who you are now.” His eyes are wide as he looks up at you. “I mean it.”

Your heart feels full to the brim with fondness. “I know,” you say. “I believe you. I— you can have a read through it before it’s published, actually, as long as you promise not to leak it.”

Jungkook’s eyes widen even further before he holds his hand out. “Pinky promise.”

You giggle as you hook your finger with his. “Pinky promise.”

Once Jungkook’s left you immediately sit down at your computer and write and write and write— it’s like the words just won’t stop. They come pouring out of you, and endless torrent that you don’t try to rein in. You write for so long you end up crashing at your desk, face smooshed against your keyboard as you drool in your sleep.

(“I don’t know how to dance,” Yunhee says, and Lily just smiles.

“Me neither,” she says. “We can learn together.”

They keep stepping on each other’s feet. It’s clumsy and messy and they keep dissolving into laughter between apologies to each other, but it’s perfect, because it’s Yunhee.

It’s perfect, because it’s Yunhee, with Lily: because it’s them, together.)

“I’ve finished my novel,” you announce, and all the men at the table sit up.

“Wow.” Namjoon blinks at you. “I thought you weren’t due to publish for, what, another six months?”

“What can I say? I’ve been inspired.” You smile down into your glass before taking a drink of your orange juice.

Seokjin stares at you before he leans back in his chair. He’s always been able to read you through and through, and that perceptiveness doesn’t leave him now. “Ah,” he says. “You’re in love.”

You’re in the middle of swallowing your juice and nearly choke, spluttering. Namjoon pats your back with concern while his boyfriend looks askance.

“You’re in love and you didn’t tell me?” Jimin sounds affronted. “Who is it? Are they cute? Where are you hiding them? I knew you were lying about those flowers, you lying liar.”

“I wasn’t lying,” you wheeze, finally coughing the last remnants of orange juice out of your windpipe. “Well, I guess it was kind of a half lie? I was buying them, but, uh, he made them.” You fiddle with the napkin in your lap as Seokjin coos at you.

“You fell in love with a florist,” he says. “You’re literally living in an AO3 fanfic. That’s adorable.”

“Shut up,” you hiss, and Jin just laughs when you try to kick him under the table and nearly hit Namjoon instead.

“It sounds romantic,” Namjoon agrees, apparently unphased by how close he was to getting nailed in the shins.

Jimin slaps his small hand against the table. “You haven’t answered any of my questions, snake. I know what you’re like, Y/n— get the Polaroid out of your bag. We need to judge your new beau.”

Jimin’s right. He knows exactly what you’re like, the helpless romantic that you are; the three men shuffle their heads together to peer at the photo of Jungkook, the one where he’s surrounded by the sunset.

“He’s fucking cute,” Jimin decides immediately. “I’m almost offended you haven’t introduced him to us yet. You should invite him to our house-warming party. Namjoon agrees.”

You look at Namjoon, who nods despite not being consulted. “You’re so whipped,” you mutter at him. He just shrugs. “Anyway,” you continue, raising your voice over Jimin’s and Jin’s muttered conversation as they continue to stare at your photo of Jungkook. “I’m going to hold fire on the house-warming party invitation for now, because, um, I haven’t actually said anything to him yet.”

Your eyes are cast down as you say this, affixed to the sight of your hands in your lap. You’ve still been visiting Spring Day, of course, and you’ve started to see Jungkook more and more outside of work as well; each time you meet him you fall a little bit more in love. It’s almost terrifying how easy it is to fall for him.

“Y/n.” Jimin’s voice is sober and you glance up from your lap to take in the worried look on his face. “I know it must be scary—”

“Oh gosh, Minnie, I love you, but it’s okay, you don’t need to give me a pep-talk on how I’m a 10/10 and anyone would be blessed to have me,” you interrupt. “I haven’t been putting off confessing because I think he’s going to pull a Jin and turn me down—”

“Hey,” Jin says mildly. He knows you’re joking. You got over that ages ago.

“—but I, um, emailed him my book yesterday, actually,” you finish. “What he does once he’s finished reading it is up to him.”

Jimin is right. It is scary. But Jungkook is worth the potential pain and heartache. He is. He’s always so lovely to you, always so considerate; he sings for you and dances with you and he’s even painted for you, a small canvas covered in favourite flowers, ones that won’t die. Last week when he’d dropped you off at your apartment, he’d brushed his lips across your cheek before practically sprinting away, and your heart had exploded in your chest.

You have no idea how someone as amazing as Jungkook sees something worthwhile in you, so it's hard to come to grips with, but there’s no way you’re reading this wrong. There’s no way.

The table goes quiet and then Jin leans forward and takes your hands in his. “I can’t believe you’re confessing to him with your book,” he says. “This really is an AO3 fanfic. Hashtag slow burn.”

This time, when you kick him, you don’t miss.

You spend the rest of the day with your coterie of doofuses and by the time you get home you’re ready to relax. You’ve just finished getting into your pyjamas, flopping down onto your sofa when there’s suddenly a hammering at your door. You sit up, startled at the noise. The knocking doesn’t let up as you approach the door and you’re wary, but once you look through the peephole you immediately swing it open.

“Jungkook? Are you okay?”

He’s wild-eyed and windswept and his chest is heaving as he sucks in air. You stare at him with concern as he catches his breath.

“Yoongi let me have the day off,” he says. You blink at him.

“Okay? Did you want to go out somewhere? Now? You’ll have to let me change, though, my pyjamas aren’t exactly great evening wear.”

“I’ve spent the whole day reading your book,” Jungkook says, and your heart goes still in your chest before it starts beating at double time.

“Oh,” you say. “Um. What, uh. What did you think?”

Jungkook’s face has taken on an expression that you’ve become intimately familiar with, a similar look to the one he’d been giving you that night by the river, soft and open and warm and— you can see it now, as time has gone by— full of love. He cups your face in his hands and rests his forehead against yours, dark eyes drinking you in, the smile on his lips so lovely and sweet. Just for you.

“I love you,” he says, and then he kisses you.

He keeps cradling your face in his hands, his lips moving against yours in a way that’s so tender that it makes you want to cry; you’ve never felt so wrapped up in someone’s touch like this, like you can feel exactly how precious you are to him just from the touch of his lips against yours. You know it’s a cliché to say that it feels like fireworks going off in your chest, but it does, every single one of the butterflies that have been nestled in your ribcage exploding into flames and brightness, sparkling heat that shines out of you every second Jungkook keeps kissing and kissing and kissing you.

Kissing Jungkook feels like every romantic fantasy you’ve ever written into your books is coming true all at once. You’re not unwanted, undesirable, unlovable: he wants you, he desires you, he loves you.

(He loves you.)

It feels like every flower he’s ever given you is flushing to full bloom all at once, spilling out of your chest, brightness and colour and life curling around your heart. All those years spent quietly hoping, culminating in this moment: Jeon Jungkook pressing his lips against yours, keeping you steady as you lean into him, and you feel like all that waiting and yearning and wanting was worth it if you got to meet him at the end of it all. You’ve finally got your storybook ending.

No, actually— it’s just the beginning.

You’re still standing in your doorway when you part, Jungkook’s hands splayed across your jaw as you give him a smile so wide it almost hurts.

“I love you too,” you say. “If that wasn’t already obvious.”

Jungkook chuckles and you can’t help but lean into the sound, eyes slipping shut as you turn your head and rest your forehead against his jaw. “I had to reread some parts because I didn’t think I was reading it right,” he admits, and you keep smiling. “I thought there was no way it could be real.”

How could Jungkook ever have any doubts? How could Jungkook think that there was no way that you could love him? Does he not realise how amazing he is? How wildly lucky you feel that somehow— with all your flaws and blemishes and imperfections— he loves you back?

“What made you come around?”

“Yoongi-hyung took one look at the last page and threw a roll of ribbon at my head,” Jungkook says, and you laugh, and Jungkook laughs, and the two of you are laughing and laughing and laughing. You feel like you could float away, buoyant with happiness; only Jungkook’s presence is keeping your feet on the ground. “I hope you don’t mind that I let him read it.”

“It’s okay.” You tilt your head back to look at Jungkook. He’s staring at you like you’re the sun and he’s turning towards you, a fierce and beautiful tiger lily blooming in your light. “I wouldn’t mind if you sent free copies of the book to everyone in the world if it meant I’d have you at the end of it.”

Jungkook smiles at you. It’s bright and wide and his eyes are crescents as his nose scrunches and he flashes his teeth, and you love him. “Purple rose, lilac, baby’s breath,” he says, and you recognise the flowers of the corsage he’d given you, all those months ago. “Love at first sight, first love, everlasting love.”

You stare at him in disbelief. “Shut up,” you breathe. He'd seen you as worth loving, even then? “Shut up. You did not— you did not confess that you had a crush on me with flowers? After we’d only met twice?”

“Maybe I did.” Jungkook’s smile turns cheeky and you love him.

“I can’t believe you. I can’t believe me. You were literally reading a book about flower language, how did I not— god. I love you,” you say helplessly, and he laughs before he kisses you again.

(“I love you.”

Yunhee freezes in place and looks up at Lily with wide eyes. Lily is terrified of being hurt again, terrified of Yunhee not returning all this endless love that she has in her heart— but Yunhee is worth that terror. She’s worth that pain. Even if she doesn’t feel the same, she needs to know how loved she is. How brilliant and lovely and wonderful she is, her Yunhee, her love.

Yunhee opens her mouth to reply, and says:

How this story ends is up to you, Jungkook. I’ll be waiting. - Y/n)

#jungkook fluff #bts fluff #jungkook oneshot #jungkook x reader #jungkook scenario #bts oneshot #joy.masterlist

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sirfrogsworth · 4 years

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You seem to think it's not possible to hate corporations for getting tax breaks AND think people on disability shouldn't get stimulus checks. Neither should people on welfare. They'll just blow the money on tattoos and televisions instead of paying a bill or getting their kid braces. I grew up deeply impoverished, no one hates poor people than a former poor person.

If I understand you correctly, you believe because a few people foolishly spend money on tattoos or televisions, we should deny EVERYONE additional funds?

I know a single mother who eats one meal per day to make sure her kid has enough food. There are thousands of people who ration their insulin because they can’t afford to buy it every month. Some of them die doing so. There are people endlessly paying interest to loan sharks because they had an emergency and had to get a payday loan. This stimulus check could help all of them greatly. It might even save a few lives.

But someone got a tattoo so fuck all of them, right?

Almost every good thing has a price. Kindness is in finding the things that do the most good while trying to mitigate the cost. You can’t punish the masses for the sins of a few.

Candy is tasty. People love candy. But if you eat too much candy it might harm your teeth. But I don’t think that means we should ban all candy. Perhaps we just need better education about taking care of teeth and moderation. (Universal dental healthcare might be nice too.) Just like a lot of people in poverty never get any kind of financial education. They were never taught how to create a budget or balance a checkbook or file their taxes. No one teaches you how to be poor. But you would have them punished for that societal failure.

Yes, there are always going to be people who take advantage. But I believe that is a small price to pay to make sure truly desperate people get food and medicine and shelter. In fact, the amount of fraud in the welfare system is actually quite low.

“A 1978 federal report found that just 1 percent of the annual budget of the Department of Health, Education, and Welfare was lost to unlawful, willful misrepresentation (fraud) or excessive services and program violations (abuse).”

–The Myth of the Welfare Queen

“While critics still like to use old arguments of rampant abuse to lambast a program that feeds millions of Americans, the fraud rate has decreased from “about 4 cents on the dollar in 1993 to about 1 cent” by 2006. And this decline has only continued, with the 3.5% rate of fraud in 2012 reducing to less than 1.5% today.”

–The Very Short History of Food Stamp Fraud in America

Compared to corporations of significant size, the percentage of fraud in our social safety net is actually less. Some companies will just write fraudulent activity into the budget as the cost of doing business.

“One government report says fraud accounts for less than 2 percent of unemployment insurance payments. According to the Association of Certified Fraud Examiners (ACFE), the typical business loses 5 percent of its revenue to fraud each year.”

–Just How Wrong Is Conventional Wisdom About Government Fraud?

And who cares if someone gets a television? Hell, I just bought a television on sale over Christmas. Poor people shouldn’t be restricted from buying a nice thing every once in a while. I saved up a little each month over a year and a half. I had to start over twice because of unexpected expenses. But I kept at it and found ways to be even more frugal. I ate food I was sick of because it was cheaper in bulk. I found online coupons and deals for my regular expenses. I transitioned my family off of cable to streaming services. I was proud of my financial ninjutsu. I’d prefer to not have to be that frugal on a regular basis because that was frustrating and stressful. But I’m glad I accomplished my mission. My TV is the main tool I use to keep me sane while being trapped in this room. I feel like it was an important purchase. Which means you don’t even know if people are being foolish with their money. You’re like those ghouls who judge people for buying a steak with food stamps. Sometimes people need a damn steak. Because being poor is depressing and steak is delicious.

Also, I know plenty of people who clawed their way out of poverty who don’t “hate poor people.” In fact, many appreciate what they have even more and do everything they can to give back to those less fortunate. So I reject the premise that former poor people hate poor people. I posit that you are, and always have been, a giant asshole. Don’t try to justify your harsh ideas by believing it’s some common trope.

I feel like your comment should inspire an update to the “Okay, Boomer” meme. You have done this cruel calculus that really reminds me of someone. Perhaps we can use a new phrase to quickly shut down people who have abandoned their empathy. And it is brought to you by the TV you probably think I shouldn’t have…

#long post

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paintercat · 3 years

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Public Service Recognition week is the first week of May in the US.

5/6/2021~ A letter for my fellow employees of tribal, local, state, or federal governments,

Here we are again in Public Service Recognition week of Irony and Endlessly Spinning Wheels. If you work in any of these sectors, I guarantee you’ve had multiple emails, zoom calls, or other meetings that are tone-deaf bullshit celebrations from your leadership this week. ‘You are important and agency pride and practice self-care and we’re so honored yadda yadda yadda.’ It’s all just crap at this point and it is laid on thick. Y’all are beyond tired. It’s in your bones and in your heart and this week is just driving it home.

You are:

- Fire department first responders called endlessly to houses for a family member that cannot breathe due to Covid and you know there may not be anywhere to take patient and you know their family may never see them again. I see you.

- Protective services workers called into homes where families have slipped into crisis due to lack of schooling for kids, inability to work, and shelter/food shortages. I see you.

- Social services coordinators who are working mandatory overtime with staffing at all-time lows while applications for help are at all-time highs. I see you.

- Cops just trying to be good cops in a world where bad cops are making life hell for both cops and the public who don’t know how to feel about cops. I see you.

- Accountants being told to make those budgets work in a world where their agency hasn’t been given any increase in funding and no employee has been given a cost of living raise in a decade. I see you.

- Quality assurance folks in EVERY field and service being asked to pitch in elsewhere to help and watching it all just fall to hell around you because you are no longer doing your real job. I see you.

- IT workers for a city or state whose employees grabbed their stuff and headed home in March 2020 and you now need to be everywhere at once for all of them without any additional hiring. I see you.

- Agency employees that are not allowed to take more than 5 days off ‘for the foreseeable future’ so a real vacation with real decompression is just not in your cards. I see you.

- SNAP workers who call a household to try get them some Food Stamp help only to get berated by a desperate client whose application is just now getting touched when it was turned in 32 days ago. I see you.

- Teachers who know you have students losing their way and you feel powerless to help. You work outside your paid hours and use your own funds in your classrooms. I see you.

- Agency heads that send out bullshit cheerleader emails because its all you can do. You don’t set the standards to meet and you don’t have any control over money your agency gets. Legislators ask you to do more with less and then hold you accountable when it doesn’t happen. I see you.

There are hundreds more.

I don’t have any advice to give and I don’t really see an end in sight either, but I still wanted to tell you that I see you and the thousand tiny things you do that matter a LOT to someone, somewhere. I know. We know. I love us and I love you.

~♥️, a state employee in Texas~

#public service #public service recognition week #state employees #federal employees #civil servant #teachers #government employees

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un-beel-ievable · 4 years

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The colour of heartbreak - (Ace Trappola | Twisted Friends EBG FINALE)

Author’s note: Please do not repost!! If you like my writing, please leave a like and a comment (and follow me to see similar content in the future :D)!

EBG is over! Achievement get! :D Congratulations to everyone who earned bragging rights! (I’m one of them :D)

This is my final self insert piece written for EBG! You can view my original EBG (extreme bias game) starter post here!

~☆~☆~☆~☆~

Navigating the hedge maze that surrounded the Heartslabyul dormitories had once been an impossible task; she recalls a time when she had gotten so hopelessly lost amongst the —seemingly— never ending flora that she began to seriously consider living out the rest of her miserable existence amongst the rose bushes. Roaming its walls was as easy as breathing now, as easy as knowing the words to her favourite song. It took several months of trial and error and several similar mishaps, but she had finally committed the layout of the maze to memory.

She tiptoes to swipe at the low hanging branch of a cherry tree, and concedes that having someone to guide her probably helped. Even though her guide was as irritating as an itch she couldn’t scratch, and was currently snatching the cherries that she had just plucked for himself. Cries of protest ring in the air, disrupting the serenity that had been prevalent just a moment prior. But her companion doesn’t seem to care. He merely laughs, and sticks his tongue out at her before popping a cherry in his mouth.

Ace Trappola had and always would be a menace. (But a cute one. Annoyingly so; the shit-eating grin that he’s shooting her may have designed to taunt her, but she can’t help but melt a little under that smile.)

Biting back a huff of annoyance, she resists the urge to stamp her foot as he dangles the rest of the fruit over her head. “Were you raised in a barn, Trappola? You know that food is supposed to go in your mouth and not on it, right?”

She tugs at the sleeve of her blazer. Pulling it over the palm of her hand, she uses it to dab at the juice that stains the corners of his lips. She half expects to become the instant target of Ace’s ridicule, and braces herself for him to make fun of her for behaving as though she were his mother. But the jeers that she’s come to expect from him never reach her ears. Ace seems to freeze under her touch, staring down at her with a deer in the headlights expression that she isn’t used to seeing on Heartslabyul’s resident troublemaker. It’s amusing and somewhat adorable to see him in such a state, and a part of her is tempted to tease him for that slack-jawed look that he’s directing her. But when she opens her mouth, the words stick in her throat.

Her heart skips a beat. Ace Trappola has the most amazing eyes. Who knew? They’re the same reddish hue as the fruit that still dangles from his fingertips but...better, somehow. Brighter. She’d always associated the colour red with anger, with pain —with bloodshed and the callous flames that burn endlessly in depths of hell. Red was hatred; red was the stinging of skin that followed a raised hand. Red was the self loathing that echoed in her mind whenever she met her own gaze in the mirror, the disgust and disappointment directed at herself that seeped through the pores of her skin and hung in the air in dark, heavy clouds. Red was the hot tears that came with knowledge that the fleeting happiness that she had gotten a taste of was no longer hers. Red was the colour of heartbreak.

Had she been mistaken?

She feels compared to lean in, to close the gap that separates them —even if it’s only by the slightest, most miniscule amount. Ace must have had the same idea, however, for a second later his lips are crashing against her own.

Ace’s lips are warm and taste of cherries. Those are the only things that she manages to register before she snaps to attention. The fog that’s clouded her mind over the last couple of days lifts, and she reels backwards from the kiss so quickly and with such force that she nearly sends herself sprawling. The only thing keeping her from cracking her skull open is the arm that Ace has wound around her waist. Her brow furrows. “Uh, Trappola? What the fuck are you doing?”

Hurt and confusion flicker across Ace’s facial features, but as he scans her expression for a clue on what had just happened, he seems to come to the realisation that she wasn’t just toying with his heart or playing him for a fool; the girl seemed to have genuinely no recollection whatsoever of the kiss that they had just shared, let alone the affection that she had been displaying for him over the last couple of days. To his credit, he recovers quickly —dredging up his usual mischievous smirk from goodness knows where and pinning it carefully into place to hide his disappointment from his companion. “Oh, I just wanted to see if I could steal you away from Leona-senpai.”

“Trappola!”

She swats irritably at his chest, and he laughs at the scowl that she shoots his way. It’s a hollow sound, but she doesn’t seem to notice. “You wish, Trappola —I’m not leaving him for you. Not in a million years. Look, I’m gonna go look for him now. I’ll see you around.”

A beat passes before Ace realises that she’s waiting impatiently for him to release her from his embrace. His arm falls limply to his side, and his gaze follows her as she heads towards the exit of the maze. Every step she takes leads her further and further away from him, and he pleads silently for her to turn around and return to his side. He can feel his heart splintering into a billion tiny fragments; all he wants is for her to hold him in her arms one final time.

By the time that it finally hits him that she isn’t coming back, her silhouette has long since faded into the distance, and the horizon is streaked with red.

#non obey me #twisted wonderland #twisted friends EBG #ace trappola #angst #extreme bias game

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mackenzieparker · 4 years

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ok lets do this one more time, yeah? for real this time. this is it. my name is nika (she/hers, est). i like to write and hang out cool communities like this and for the last first time, i have brought a brand new muse to y’all. below you’ll find all the details on a ms. mackenzie “mack” rae parker, plucky country gal and badass babe. please love me and her and smash that like button or send me a dm (discord ichoosenikachu#4859 ) to plot.

( tw: drunk driver, death, sexism )

B A C K S T O R Y →

meet mackenzie rae parker, born august 17, 1989 in grove, oklahoma. mack (as she’s gone by since she was a kid and it won’t be changing anytime soon) was born to two loving parents Steven and Margaret Parker, the youngest daughter of three boys: morgan, matthew, and merritt. yes, her parents did have a thing for m names--and no, it didn’t help her momma remember her name any better, like they told their kids growing up.

Maggie and Steve loved their daughter--their whole family, really--to bits and pieces. It had been Maggie’s dream to have a little girl when the couple first got together and when they had first received the ultrasound, well, they were overjoyed. When Mackenzie came into the world, there was cause for joyous celebration and laughter. Everyone was happy the Parker’s finally had a little pink bundle of joy.

Little Mackenzie’s personality was--well, let’s just say she had never been one to shy away from an exciting situation. Her brothers’ had taught her early on that life wouldn’t always be easy so she had to be tough enough to take it head on. In fact, they made it a point to remind her whenever they had a chance. Buts she was also their little sister, and fiercely protective of her. And while it annoyed Mack to no end, she adored her brothers endlessly.

Mack may not have been the strongest Parker in the household, but next to her Momma she was the wittiest. Her comebacks were always sharp and as she grew up, she honed her sarcastic, dry wit in addition to her own athletic talent.

Mack loved her Momma. In fact, if she had to pick favorites her Momma would have won every time. It wasn’t that she didn’t like her father. Her father was a good man--he was a local mechanic at Grove Automotive, always greeted everyone with a smile and cared deeply for his family. But Mack and him were never as close as she was with her momma. Maggie understood her daughter’s firey nature but compassionate heart and saw the way it warred within her--especially after she’d gotten into a fight with one of her brothers.

( tw: drunk driving & death ) When Mack was twelve, though--tragedy struck. Maggie was on her back from work after parent teacher conferences; she was the local kindergarten teacher at Grove Elementary, when a drunk drive t-boned her car and Maggie was killed on impact. thankfully (if one can say that in this situation) no one else was in the car. but suddenly the Parker family had lost its matriarch and Mack, the one person who might have been able to understand her.

She had always grown up as a tomboy--a fact that even her momma, a woman who had been raised in South Carolina to rather traditional parents couldn’t stamp out of her. But even so, after Maggie Parker passed on, Mack became even more of one, almost shunning all that was feminine away from her, as if any reminder of her mother would be the end of her as she knew it. And, for her, it might have been. It was no secret she had been the closest to Maggie--and her death hit her the hardest. Mack got rid of all her dresses, all her skirts, anything that reminded her of her mother--save for the small box of photos and momentos she kept heavily hidden under her bed. On her worst days, she’d pull the box out and talk to the photo of her Momma--it was the only time the blonde ever outwardly expressed emotions, specifically crying.

To distract herself from the grief, Mack threw herself into everything she could in high school--archery, debate, robotics club, anything to keep her mind off of the encroaching cloud that now lived around her heart. It was in Robotics club, though, she learned she had a real knack for using her hands. She had learned early on about cars and the like--her father’s occupation and brothers’ fascination with the thing gave her unparalleled access to a number of cars being torn apart and rebuilt from the ground up. But Mack--Mack was always more excited about what flew above their heads than right next to them. A junior in high school, she had made the choice that she wanted to be an engineer--one who would eventually design an entire new fleet of Boeing Jets for commercial use. She had only ever flown on a jet once--to see her grandparents after her momma’s passing--but it had been the only thing to give her relief from her sadness that day. It’s where her love affair with aviation began.

Mack graduated top of her class (nerd, her brothers would always joke) and soon found herself enrolled in the University of Oklahoma’s prized engineering program (boomer sooner!). Of course, she wanted to stay close to home--one, to keep the costs down but two, leaving her family felt wrong, even six years later. And for the most part, Mack loved it. She got involved in all sorts of things--engineering clubs, intramural sports, and even, yes, a sorority. It went against all the things she hated in relation to femininity, but her mother had spoken so highly of her experiences in the organization, and Mack felt a pull to join her. To her surprise, she didn’t hate it--and it was with those women she really started to learn about feminism.

You see, when Mack would go home, all the women in town would ask her about if she was seeing a boy. Mack had never understood why it mattered so much if she had a boyfriend or not--she was getting her degree in mechanical engineering, wasn’t that a tad bit more impressive than whatever guy she might be seeing? But soon, it occurred to her that the women in town would never understand anything other than her finding her future husband at school. The fact shocked her, considering it had never occurred to her in the slightest that she’d ever go to school to get a husband in the first place. After the shock worn down, it enraged her and made her work harder. Because now, she was getting disparaging comments from the folks back home and the men in her internships and co-ops. Women can’t build things--they’ll break a nail. Why are you in pants? Your legs would look better in a skirt. Mack had never been one to bit her tongue, and on more than one occasion was able to test out what her brothers’ had taught her growing up. No one was going to tell Mack what she could or could not do. And certainly not because of her gender.

Mack eventually graduated college--though deeply in debt thanks to all those added fees for science labs #thanksUofOklahoma--but realized that going back home would never be realistic for her. So, she packed up her truck, Betsy, and headed west. Originally, she had meant to go to Seattle or Portland--that’s where Boeing was, that’s where her dream landed. But something about Charming, CA caught her eye--and she found herself intrigued. Plus, it sure didn’t hurt that no one seemed to care when she applied to work as a mechanic in their autoshop. Now she’s been here about 8 years and she hasn’t grown sick of it yet. She still has dreams of working for Boeing, but as she grows more comfortable in Charming, they seem to be slipping to the wayside.

Mack’s vibe is...well, she’s a loyal friend, a good listener and kind, though not sunshine and rainbows. Growing up without her mom really changed her--she still had a compassionate heart but it’s not as obvious as it once was. She’s still sassy, sarcastic and witty, but she is friendly as well. Smart too--and a bit of a nerd, loves herself some comics and documentaries. all around, she’s genuinely a good egg, just a little...rough around the edges at times.

H E A D C A N O N S →

Mack never, ever goes by Mackenzie. In fact, you’ll never know its her full name unless she drops her ID. The only person you’ll ever hear call her that is her father--or brothers--when something is wrong.

Her favorite food is chicken cordon bleu. She knows it sounds fancy but literally, her favorite is the one where you buy it frozen and pop it in the oven. She is a simple gal, truly.

Her favorite shoes are her various pairs of converse, although for work she can be seen wearing docs so she doesn’t get oil all over her shoes.

Betsy, her truck, is very special to her--she takes extra good care of it. She’s a 1967 Chevy C10 Pickup in a robin’s egg blue color--and her pride and joy.

Even though she loves her truck no matter what, the woman has worked on enough bikes for the various motorcycle clubs around town to know that if she had even gotten enough money--she’d get herself a nice bike. Flying down the road on open asphalt? Doesn’t get better than that.

Mack loves classic rock. Like love loves it--but also the women of the 90′s like Alanis Morisette, Liz Phair, The Cranberries--she loves a good women rock group.

P L O T S →

friends

exes

situationships/flirtationships

fwb

slowburn

coworkers

any connections to the motorcycle gang

literally i suck at listing plots out, just hit me up and i’ll be EXCITED TO PLOT!

#[[intro; mackenzie rae parker]]#please...love us?#shes a good sweet egg i promise #well sweet maybe not

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ofthreechords · 4 years

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cadel + theron: swtor & the secret world crossover/au concept

Deleted my last post about this because I didn’t like it. Going to try again.

This is a thought that’s been in my mind for the last few weeks for no reason other than that I find it fun to imagine. What if my SWTOR character Cadel Browydr and his love interest Theron Shan were in the universe of The Secret World? (See here for more info on Cadel and Theron)

For those unfamiliar with The Secret World, it’s an urban fantasy MMO. Its setting is our modern-day Earth under attack from occult forces. There is magic, mythical creatures, and secret societies pulling the strings and controlling the world. Among these secret societies are the Templars, the Dragon, and the Illuminati.

All of these thoughts are my own and I’m not dictating what someone else’s SWTOR + The Secret World crossover should look like. I’m just writing my thoughts down so that I can keep track of them. This whole thing is hideously self-indulgent, so be warned.

tl;dr: This is how I’d do it -- Theron comes from Los Angeles, California, and was force-recruited into the Illuminati after graduating from university. Cadel was born in Ottawa, Ontario, into a Templar-affiliated family that taught him traditional Templar values growing up. Details under the cut.

-- ILLUMINATI AGENT: THERON SHAN --

Theron was born in Los Angeles, California. His parents, Jace and Satele, divorced when he was very young. They had joint custody of him, but Theron lived mainly with his mother, only being sent to his father’s when his mother had to travel for work. His mother worked in disaster relief and his father was a businessman. Theron didn’t really bond with either of his parents growing up. His mother was firm and disciplinary, and his father was very busy with work, so neither of them really gave Theron the love and support he needed. He grew up rather lonely, though he discovered a talent for music -- this became his “escape”, teaching himself piano and guitar and writing short songs on occasion. He shared his music only rarely with his peers, and never with his parents. It wasn’t until his teenage years when Theron and his father started to grow closer, and they gained some semblance of an ordinary father-son relationship. His mother started to travel for work more often, and so he saw her less. Jace learned of his son’s musical talent, and while he was supportive of it at first, he convinced Theron that he wouldn’t make a good living as a musician. Theron went to study business in university, with his father paying for all of his courses. He proved himself to be a bright student, and even his mother became proud of him -- however, she could not attend Theron’s graduation ceremony due to her work. After the ceremony, Gaia sent a bee for Theron to swallow, and part of the auditorium was destroyed in the following explosion. Soon afterwards, a group of Illuminati revealed themselves to Theron, and Jace revealed himself as a member. They covered up the incident, paid the university a large sum of money to silence them, and sent Theron to the Illuminati Labyrinth in New York. Suddenly plunged into the secret world, Theron had to rapidly learn about the existence of magic and mythical creatures and the secret organizations controlling the world. He learned how to control his newfound powers, preferring anima-infused firearms over magic. During his time training, Jace informed Theron that Satele had been missing since his graduation ceremony. This came as a shock to them both, as Jace had never known about Satele’s involvement in the secret world. He does not know where she is, but he suspects she is with the Dragon. Theron makes a living as a field agent for the Illuminati, but he disapproves of their lack of ethics, cheating others and their own people to make money and get ahead. Jace agrees with him only partially, but he argues that the Illuminati have power and they get results. Theron wishes to return to his old life in Los Angeles, but he has a feeling that his mother is here somewhere in the secret world, and he wants to find her.

-- TEMPLAR MAGUS: CADEL BROWYDR --

The Templar-affiliated Browydr family is a large and privileged family that has its roots in Cardiff, Wales, though a portion of them live in Ottawa, Ontario, and that is where Cadel was born. Growing up, many of Cadel’s summers were spent in Wales, learning about magic like everyone else in his family. In Canada, he helped his family oversee secret world activity in the area while maintaining an ordinary appearance to the mundane world -- going to school, being part of the community, et cetera. Though potion-brewing was not one of Cadel’s strong suits, cooking and baking definitely were, and they were his main hobbies throughout his childhood. Cadel expressed dreams of becoming a chef, but his parents told him that he was a Templar, first and foremost. They taught him traditional Templar values -- to fight evil and to protect the world -- and Cadel learned to embrace them. Like the rest of his family, he became fiercely loyal to the Templars, aspiring to become a Templar Knight one day, stamping out evil wherever it may lurk. He was a “golden boy” all around, even to the mundane world -- earning good grades in school, participating in sports, and being a role model to his peers. As he grew into adulthood, he started started to reflect on his childhood passion towards food, and how his parents had discouraged him from that. He still cooked on a regular basis, but he didn’t feel the same passion as he did before. He also began to question the Templar values he’d been taught -- thinking they may be too extreme or too black-and-white -- which led to disagreements with his family. Cadel ended up feeling lost, not knowing what to do with his life. He went to college and took courses in various fields like English, philosophy, and history, and while he enjoyed learning in those fields, he didn’t feel as if they were what he wanted to do with his life. Before he was able to complete a degree, Gaia sent a bee for Cadel to swallow. His family sent him to Temple Hall in London, where he learned to use his new powers, and he became proficient in many different types of magic. He favours Blood Magic and Chaos Magic in particular, and has discovered abilities in thaumaturgy. His magical prowess has earned him the respect of many other Templars, and Temple Hall has awarded him the title of Magus. Since he started working in the field, Cadel has found that what makes him happiest is work where he helps out people in need. This is consistent with one of the values his parents had taught him -- to protect those who cannot protect themselves -- but Cadel remains somewhat critical of other values the Templars uphold. To this day, he remains relatively silent about these criticisms.

-- CADEL & THERON --

(If you’re still reading this and you’ve made it this far, I respect you. I also warn you that this following section is the most self-indulgent thing ever.)

Cadel and Theron’s respective factions had them assigned to Solomon Island to rescue survivors and cull the Filth infestation, and that is where the two met. They became friends fairly quickly, and there was physical attraction between the two, but the Templars and Illuminati are old enemies, and this discouraged them from starting a romantic relationship. They kept in contact, but they didn’t meet again until months later -- when they were both assigned to Egypt to root out the Cult of Aten. During their downtime, they went to a cafe and shared stories, bonding and growing closer. They eventually confessed to each other and agreed to start a relationship, but they kept it secret from their respective handlers. From then on, working together became a rarity, but they kept their relationship stable, going on dates all over the world and strengthening their bond. Eventually they stopped being so secret about it, and thankfully, their handlers didn’t seem to care -- so long as it didn’t get in the way of their work. This led to Theron and Cadel discussing their criticisms of their respective factions with each other, and Cadel suggested joining the Council of Venice. It’s in a neutral position between the Templars, Illuminati, and Dragon, and it may enable the two to do more work helping the world and giving aid to people who need it. Months passed, and they worked and advanced through the ranks of their respective factions, and they got the attention of the Council of Venice. Some time later, they both joined. This was seen as an act of abandonment by Theron’s father and Cadel’s family. This surprised neither Theron nor Cadel, but they remained firm in their decision. They both wanted to work in an organization that aligned with their morals. Eventually Cadel’s family warmed up to the change, though Jace cut off all contact with Theron. This made Theron depressed for a bit, but Cadel was endlessly supportive of him. Working for the Council was not all the two had hoped it would be -- it was and still is slow and inefficient, but Cadel and Theron were still doing work that they enjoyed. Cadel’s family began to accept his and Theron’s relationship, and Theron took this as confirmation -- he and Cadel were made for each other. Theron proposed, and they eventually got married, with all of their friends and Cadel’s family at the wedding. They had invited Jace, too, but unfortunately he did not come. To this day, the two still work for the Council and are still in love. Theron goes crazy for Cadel’s cooking, and Cadel helps Theron re-kindle his passion for music. Theron knows that his mother is still out there, and he intends to find her. Cadel intends to help him.

#my swtor #theron shan #cadel browydr #crossover #au #alternate universe #swtor #star wars: the old republic #the secret world

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birdlord · 4 years

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Every Book I Read in 2018

Again, better late than never??

01 On the Town; Marshall Berman - A freewheeling personal and general history of Times Square, which had some great historical tidbits I’d never read before. I think I would have got more out of it if I were interested in Broadway musicals...

02 Stephen Florida; Gabe Habash - A slim little book that follows a college wrestler. One of those books that is described as muscular, when what they mean is brutal.

03 Green Grass, Running Water; Thomas King - Four plot lines intertwine in a story blending mythology, creation, and modern First Nations people dealing with massive transformational change to their lands. I did sometimes feel like I would have enjoyed it more as an audio storytelling experience.

04 People who Eat Darkness: The Fate of Lucie Blackman; Richard Lloyd Parry - I don’t often read books like this, but this is essentially a true-crime sort of story, about the murder of a British woman who works as a bar hostess in Japan. Parry covers not just her story, but the whole aftermath, which even pulls in Tony Blair, eventually.

05 My Brother’s Husband; Gengoroh Tagame - Weirdly, two Japan-related books in a row! Another culture-clash tale, when the Canadian husband visits his deceased husband Ryoji’s single-parent brother. The couple had never been to Japan while Ryoji was alive, and so the story of slow acceptance (helped along by little Kana’s openhearted curiosity) is suffused with sadness.

06 Ghosts of the Tsunami: Life & Death in Japan’s Disaster Zone; Richard Lloyd Parry - And, let’s make it three! When the earthquake and tsunami hit Japan in 2011, I remember thinking that the reaction seemed so orderly, so...Japanese. But this examination puts you right in the various affected communities, following different people, including schoolchildren from Okawa primary. Like with the other Parry book above, we hear about all of the grief, ghosts and lawsuits that follow the disaster.

07 Mademoiselle: Coco Chanel and the Pulse of History; Rhonda K. Garelick - Once she became famous, Coco Chanel built a scaffolding of lies about her past, and the purpose of this biography is to attempt to see the truth behind them. Garelick concentrates heavily on Chanel’s collaboration with the Nazis, which must have been a challenge given that her company still exists, under her name.

08 Kubrick; Michael Herr - “They speak about the dumbing of America as a foregone thing, already completed, but, duh, it’s a process, and we haven’t seen anything yet. The contemplation of this culture isn’t for sissies, and speaking about it without becoming shrill is increasingly difficult, maybe impossible.” Whoa!

09 Call Me by Your Name; Andre Aciman - I did read this after seeing the film, so as usual it was hard to divorce it from the movie experience.

10 The Left Hand of Darkness; Ursula K LeGuin - A thought experiment about a genderless world, seen from the perspective of an off-planet envoy, who has a range of reactions to the world’s inhabitants. The most enduring section of the book involves a brutal 3-month expedition undertaken by the exiled envoy and a local, a trial by ice, wind and snow. A winter read.

11 Stamped from the Beginning; Ibram X. Kendi - I don’t think I’d really fully grokked the idea that southern white supremacy built itself in order to prevent an uprising of the black and white underclasses, together. The basic rubric of this book is separating American movements, parties and individuals’ thinking into one of three categories: assimilationist, segregationist or genuinely antiracist. Supporting results like abolitionism does NOT make one antiracist, since support could come those with less pure motivations. I highly recommend this one, though it was copy-edited in a pretty haphazard manner!

12 Witches, Midwives and Nurses: A History of Women Healers; Barbara Ehrenreich & Dierdre English - A short book charting a couple of parallel stories, of women healers in Europe being dismissed as witches, and the masculinization of medicine (particularly midwifery and the medicine of birth) in the USA.

13 Her Body and Other Parties; Carmen Maria Machado - Short stories skirting the edge of a lot of genres; horror, science fiction, dark comedy. These are women’s stories, that refuse to be dismissed as chick lit. It didn’t connect with me as deeply as it has for some, but I see the appeal.

14 Look Alive Out There; Sloane Crosley - Largely comedic set of essays by a writer whose earlier work I read, about a decade back. It’s a strange experience, to return to someone who has written memoir that seemed to exemplify that late-2000s era and discover that she - and you - have grown.

15 Homesick for Another World; Otessa Moshfegh - Moshfegh’s choice of words (not to mention her characters themselves) remain utterly revolting. I often found myself looking up, shaking my head as if to say THIS BOOK. Considerably funnier than Eileen, which was the first of hers that I read.

16 My Year of Rest & Relaxation; Otessa Moshfegh - After reading this, I found out that Moshfegh basically set out to get her work noticed by populating it with these vile young women. Well, it worked! Your tolerance for unlikeable main characters will be tested by this rich Columbia grad who decides to prescribe herself into a virtual coma within her NY apartment, at the turn of the millennium. And yes, it ends where you think it does.

17 They Can’t Kill us Until They Kill Us; Hanif Abdurraquabi - This collection of music-related writing is wildly far-ranging, poetic and emotional. For myself, I did find I was more interested in those that were related to bands or musicians I had some experience with myself , which was not always the case.

18 The Bad Food Bible: How and Why to Eat Sinfully; Aaron Carroll and Nina Teicholtz - If you’re a reader of the food media, most of what’s in here will be familiar to you, debunking fears of meat, GMOs, gluten, MSG. The authors keep their own experience, taste and interests very much in the forefront, which ends up feeling smug and irritating.

19 The Mere Wife: A Novel; Maria Dahvana Headley - My knowledge of Beowulf is scant at best, but this retelling stood very much on its own two feet, set in a tony suburb and comparing the experience of two very different mothers of two very different sons.

20 How to Write an Autobiographical Novel: Essays; Alexander Chee - I’m very much On The Record as being against writers writing about writing, but this might just be an exception.

21 Vancouver Special; Charles Demers - A sort of update on Douglas Coupland’s City of Glass, a book I loved and reread many times. This one has both a more historical bent, and an actual political viewpoint, contrasting with Coupland’s Gen X remoteness.

22 Crudo; Olivia Laing - A rushing frantic little novel, incorporating Trump tweets and Kathy Acker quotes throughout. A difficult read so close to the events described, but I can see this being an amazing window into this weird time, once a few years have passed.

23 Hits & Misses; Simon Rich - This might also be on the line of “writers writing about writing” but Rich manages to do so in a charmingly self-deprecating way.

24 2020 Commission Report on the North Korean Nuclear Attacks Against the US; Jeffrey Lewis - Speculative fiction written as a government report, responding, as we all have been doing, to the endlessly unprecedented Trump presidency. It all started with a tweet, of course...

25 A Paradise Built in Hell: The Extraordinary Communities that Arise in Disaster; Rebecca Solnit - This book is intended to counter the idea that disasters (“natural” and otherwise) lead people to indulge their worst sides. Solnit looks at the aftermath of some 20th C disasters like the Halifax Explosion, 9/11 and various earthquakes to find examples of people banding together to help the wounded and homeless, even taking the opportunity to create new institutions when authorities fail to do so. A tonic for a world in which disasters are likely to become increasingly common.

26 How Fascism Works: The Politics of Us and Them; Jason Stanley - When I lived in Scotland in 2010, I went to an anti-fascist rally in Edinburgh, and I remember feeling like those attitudes were closer to the surface over there, where at home in Canada they felt abstract. This book traces how fascist policies lurk within democratic frameworks, and can sometimes metastasize to take over the host. Suffice it to say I was probably wrong then, and I’m definitely wrong now.

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vesperlionheart · 5 years

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The Golden Bridle (1/2)

@ofhealinglove Hey, remember that selkie ask you wanted to see? I tried. It’s not selkies, but it is a MadaSaku and hopefully that’s good enough.

Sakura knew what it felt like to snap a neck. Some would say she was intimately familiar with the technique after a dozen decades of living cursed. She knew the pressure and swiftness required to cut a life short. The fact that the creature between her hands was only two and half feet with ears longer than her face didn’t change a thing. She could snap a brownie’s neck just as fast as a man’s.

“You know who I am, don’t you?” she sighed easily.

“Down, down, down,” the dirty humanoid creature chanted, fear making his eyes color brightly.

“The bounty, friend. You’ve been running for the wrong gang too many years and now it’s time to pay up.” Sakura eased her thumbs up over the sides of the brownie’s face. Her smile turned cruel. “So, pay.”

The chittering pitched higher as the creature panicked, but Sakura didn’t flinch. It scratched and flailed but she didn’t move. Her hold was iron for as long as it needed to be.

The brownie stopped fighting in her hands. A moment later the illusion he had been holding up melted away. Sakura grinned at the revealed secret passage, happy enough to drop the magical creature and let him scamper away.

Sakura let her hips swagger a bit as she skipped throat the ruined illusion, singing to herself. The room was familiar the way chain restaurants were familiar. Sakura had never been in that exact room before, but plenty of hoarding wizards had the same style when it came to decorating their treasure rooms.

Sakura picked her way through, recognizing some items for their magical importance, and others for their monetary value. Boots that traveled seven leagues, a short table that never ran out of food, a sack that held the calvary of a long dead kingdom…yes, she recognized a good number of the items.

“He’s terrible,” Sakura sighed aloud. “No wonder the bounty is so high. This stuff belongs to….” Sakura started to count off names in her head and frowned when she only came up with six. “Well, I know where most of it goes. Too bad only one person was willing to pay me for it.”

Not caring for the older collectors who had suffered theft and were unwilling to contract her to retrieve their stolen items, Sakura made her way through the mounds of loot until she found the diamond encrusted egg that hid the spirit of a wizard caught scrying on someone he shouldn’t have. The poor wizards’s wife was only too willing to fund anyone competent enough to retrieve her scatterbrained husband.

“And now to take something for myself,” Sakura mused aloud, pocketing the egg and staring out across the room for something interesting. It was a habit, to always pinch a little extra in case the employer renegade on payment. That hadn’t happened in years, but the ritual stuck.

Sakura came across a corner that reeked of abjuration magic.

“This is either terrible or wonderful,” Sakura breathed, cracking open a chest and reaching inside.

Her hand hit something soft and warm. She grabbed it tight and yanked it free, unfolding a gray seal skin that still smelled like the sea. A Selki’s pelt.

“Not worth much,” she huffed aloud, shouldering it to look again inside the chest.

She felt the cold touch of magic and yanked on what felt like a rope. A golden lead followed her hand out, but instead of attaching to a bridle, the lead unwound endlessly, indicating that the creature on the other end was miles away, doing the master’s bidding.

She took both the golden lead and the pelt, but also helped herself to a magic mirror that showed the past ‘through the eyes of the lowest among us.’ Sakura guessed by the etching of the rats on the back, what sort of vantage the mirror would offer.

With her bounty in toe, Sakura set off to collect her payment from a grieving wife and then deal with her own business. She was sure in time she’d be able to find the owner of the seal skin, but the easiest thing to do next would be to follow the golden lead and see where it ended.

So that’s what she did.

With the money from her recovery and the seal pelt both locked safely away, Sakura found the free time to follow the never ending lead as it took her from city to town, to village, to the dark moor of a fallen fae king. The muck came up to her ankles, but she walked on top of most of it, kicking her way through in her wet boots until the lead ended.

Sakura whistled low and snapped her wrist, sending a ripple down the length of gold until it smacked the side of the malnourished beast of burden. She had seen ponies and she had seen workhorses, but a Kelpie was neither of those things.

The black water horse looked up at her through a shaggy tangle of even darker hair, with red eyes too dim to scare even children. Sakura could count his ribs for how far they stood out and it made her grimace. There were scars around his fetlocks, criss crossing all the way up to his knees. The scars made her gut roll.

Sakura hopped off the lip of a grass mound and began to wade through the shallow waters, too low to drown in. When she was close enough the Kelpie drew his head back and whined low. In spite of the torture, his eyes were back to burning red when he saw who she was.

“You’re not him,” he rumbled. His voice was ancient and echoed of a time before the fae fell pray to men’s magic. He was one of the old monsters, she guessed.

“I’m not, but I have his magic bridle because I’m more powerful and better looking. My name’s Sakura. Who are you?”

The dark horse glanced down at the gold lead coiled up in her hand and bowed his head, glaring up resentfully through his bangs. “I am Madara. What do you wish of me…master?”

Sakura made a sour face, scrunching up the skin around her mouth and nose. “Ew. No, none of that. Quit it, I’m not like that bastard. Just stay still for now and don’t try to eat me because it won’t go well for you if you try. Hang on…”

Sakura closed the distance between them and reached up for where the bridle latched together. There were two places she had to open, but once they were loose she pulled the rest down off his long face. The golden lead dissolved from the extinguished magic and Sakura cradled the rest of the bridle in both hands, holding it while the gold light of its enchantment dimmed.

“There,” Sakura breathed. “All better?”

The Kelpie had been painfully still since she first reached for his face, but even after dragging the bridle off he stayed like stone. The one eye she could see was blown wide, and the whites around the dancing red pupil made her think he was in shock.

Sakura brushed the hair of his face back, combing with her nails and dragging them through the muck that still clung to him. She tisked at the filth and snapped her wrist to fling it off her fingers.

“He really didn’t even try to take care of you, did he? I’m sure you’ll do better,” she said.

Sakura stepped back and threw the bridle over her shoulder. There were enough grassy patches to pick her way up the slope that lead back to the footpath she had followed. It had taken her the better part of a day to follow the lead, but she didn’t tire like other humans, so she didn’t mind it when she realized it would be past midnight before she saw the lights of man’s world.

“Wait!”

Sakura looked back and saw the Kelpie had finally moved.

“You, what do you want of me?” he asked, sounding almost frantic.

“Try not to eat any children I guess. Someone will come to kill you if you go back to drowning humans, but there is plenty to feed on in the fae wilds.” Sakura snapped her fingers and then made her hand into a gun shape that she wagged in his direction. She paired the gesture with a sloppy, lazy smile. “That’s just some free advice though.”

“You can’t command me anymore. Why are you telling me this?” He stomped a single hoof, still sounding agitated. There was frantic magic all around him too.

“I just told you, silly, its free advice not a command. I knew what I was doing when I took this off of you. I’m not stupid,” she scoffed.

His eyes were still wide. “Then why?”

Sakura didn’t like the way he watched her, so she turned around and started to head back. When she answered it was a shout over her shoulder. “I don’t like seeing things chained up. Don’t think too much about it.” She waved a hand up in the air, hoping he saw it. “Have a happy life!”

He didn’t follow her, though she heard him climb out of the mud pit and stamp around on the road behind her for a ways. Eventually he stopped before the moors could, and let her go through the mists that uncurled around dusk. It was nearly dawn by the time she made it back to the apartment and by then she was barely awake enough to shower and dress for bed.

She fell asleep just before dawn and slept until noon.

Hunger was what eventually drove her out of bed. With her refrigerator empty, she forced herself to dress and sniff out enough human money for a good meaty midday meal from her favorite pub down the street.

It was a dark day outside, but she didn’t mind the shade the way some others did. Before she could make it to the pub the rains rolled in and she ended up nearly drenched by the time she arrived.

“No umbrella?” the owner laughed at her, face red with cheer and ale.

“Who owns an umbrella?” Sakura snapped back, shedding her jacket and snapping most of the rain water from it before hanging it up by the door. “I was told you just needed to dodge the raindrops.”

“Then what happened to you little miss?” he laughed back, already pouring her a frothing stout to go along with her meal. There was bread ready for her to butter next to her usual seat at the bar.

“I didn’t see the point in it, since I figured I was coming here to get sloshed anyway.”

Someone at the far end of the bar raised his stein and laughed, saluting her before staining his beard with froth. The pub owner chuckled and dipped away to prepare her chicken the way she liked it.

Sakura leaned back and tore through the bread, knowing it wouldn’t be enough to fill her, but loving the taste of it all the same. There was a television mounted up in the back with football reruns playing. It was still exciting enough to entertain a few of the regulars.

Sakura did a sweep of the room, noting only a few new faces. Most everyone else was a regular. Some seemed to live at The Angel’s Trumpet Pub and Meals.

One of the faces belonged to someone she had never seen before, and that was rare because Sakura was just paranoid enough to spend whole days watching the world through pub windows until she was sure she had memorized enough of the township to tell locals apart from interlopers. Sakura drank deep and then called for a second once her first mug ran dry.

Her plates of food came out, one after the other, and she ate through the first one before she noticed the staring of the stranger. Yamato was working behind the counter so she waved him down and then asked him for a pale ale to be served at the stranger’s table. If he knew who it came from she’d risk an encounter. If he didn’t…well, it wasn’t like she was worried or anything.

She was halfway through her second plate and fourth drink when he settled into the seat beside her. Sakura drank deep and then reached for another roll before sliding the empty basket down to Yamato’s end to fill up again. She tore open the biscuit with her teeth and watched the dark stranger.

He was taller than her, like most men were, with wild black hair barely braided back. His eyes were just as dark as the rest of him and his clothes were timeless trousers and a loose white shirt rolled up his forearms enough to expose the criss crossing scars.

“Oh, you,” Sakura breathed, feeling some of the lingering tension ease out. “Human you. Hey, nice look.”

Madara inclined his head and the picked up the ale, gesturing to it before taking a long pull. When he set it back down half of it was gone.

Sakura whistled low.

“What’s brought you out into the people places?” Sakura teased. She bit off another chunk of her roll. “I thought you’d be eager to see the wilds. There’s nothing keeping you back is there?”

She asked it like a question but it really wasn’t a question. The enchantment was null and void, but Madara had been a prisoner for so long, he probably forgot what it felt like to be free.

“I am considering it. I had some other matters of business to attend to and a few questions I was hoping you could answer,” Madara said, watching her.

Sakura finished her last roll and reached for her drink. “Sure. What can I do for you?”

“The magician you took the bridle from. He….?”

Sakura made a gesture with her finger under her throat and then winked. “You won’t have to worry about him. It’s just his hold out minions who are a pain in the ass. You not worried about them, are ya?”

Madara shook his head slowly.

“What else can I help you with?”

“The bridle, how did you come to possess it?” Madara asked.

“It wasn’t doing him any good where it was. I was looking for something else but after I found it I picked up a few other trinkets for myself and I have….issues? Yeah, I guess you could call them issues. No yeah, I have issues with binding magic like yours so I picked up the bridle when I found it and then just followed it to you.”

“Why?”

Sakura made a face like she didn’t understand the question, so Madara leaned forward and asked again.

“Why did you bother to free me?”

“Why not?”

He blinked, pulling back to see her better. Sakura skipped over the fork and picked at the chicken with her fingers and tore through it the same way she tore through her bread, not caring if he saw her make a mess.

“You are an odd human,” he finally concluded.

“I’ve been called worse.”

“You know I am dangerous. You would say I am a monster, no?”

Sakura rolled her eyes, wiping her mouth with the back of her wrist as she leaned back on her stool. “Sure, yeah, I guess I can agree with that. Your kind has been known to eat kids, on occasion, but that’s rare, from what I know. You prefer animal to human, yes? Can’t blame you for that. I’d be a hypocrite,” Sakura laughed and held up what was left of her chicken.

“You still risked it. What if I had been a terrible creature locked away with good reason? Would you still have freed me as you did?”

Madara was still watching her and his voice made her want to bed down and sleep, it was so soft and smooth. She knew it wasn’t intentional. She had listened to enough thralls and fought off enough mind altering enchantments to know when she was being manipulated. Madara’s voice was just pleasant and there wasn’t anything more to it than that.

“Madara.”

She called his name to get his attention. When she spoke his name aloud the Kelpie sat up straighter in his seat and went rigid. She thought it reminded her of how work dogs stood at attention when their masters called. Something in her stomach rolled unpleasantly when she thought how long the abjuration magic must of lasted. There was nobility in his beautiful features. She didn’t doubt Orochimaru spent decades breaking him.

“Look, the guy I stole your bridle from was a horrible guy. He was…one of the worst humans I have ever had the misfortune of running across. I’ve known plenty of bad guys, and he was one of the worst. There’s nothing good that comes from shackles and slavery. Even if you had been the world’s worst monster, I would have wanted to free you, even if just to kill you. It’s just who I am. It’s my epic flaw, if you will,” she laughed. “If I’m free to do as I please, I’d free you again, no questions asked.”

“But…why?”

His eyes were full of questions, but they all hinged on that single word.

Sakura drained what was left of her drink and reached into her pockets for the thick wad of bills. She counted out enough to be generous for both her portion and Madara’s.

“Look, it’s just who I am, friend. Don’t think too much about it.”

Sakura threw the bills down and grabbed what was left of her chicken to swallow whole, bones and all. Her eyes gleamed bright for a moment more before she exhaled comfortably. Madara turned in his seat to watch her as she headed towards the door. She waved her hand up in the air behind her. “Have a happy life.”

She didn’t know if he would be at the Angel’s Trumpet if she went back, but Sakura didn’t risk it for the next week as she ran back and forth, paying favor for favor as she tried to hunt down new treasures and clues.

Orochimaru had plenty of spawns that were still slithering out from the cracks left in his grave, and as strong as Sakura was, she wasn’t eager to wrestle with any of them. She heard that she had pissed off some of them, and they were even more of a headache to deal with when pissed off.

But eventually the days passed, one after the other. And then the weeks passed. Sakura forgot about the kelpie and remember her hunger.

It was raining again when she stepped in and slapped her jacket in mid air, freeing it from excess rainwater. She left it on the hook by the door and waved to Yamato at the bar, taking her usual seat.

Sakura scanned the room for new and old faces, but only recognized all she saw.

“Looking for someone you missed?”

Sakura cradled her head in her hand, leaning over the counter. Yamato offered her a basket of bread to pick out of, but Sakura took the entire basket from his hands.

“You’re too observant for your own good,” she grumbled.

“The trees have eyes,” Yamato laughed, wiggling his fingers in her direction while backing up to return to the kitchens.

“Go live in a forest, green man!” Sakura hollered. She bit into her bread and then swallowed. “And bring me a beer while you’re at it.”

Yamato reemerged a moment later with a plate for someone else, but got her drink from the tap before she could complain a second time. Before she could have the first sip, Yamato tugged it back out of her reach and leaned in.

“What?” Sakura growled, feeling more irritated than usual. She had stayed away too long, she missed her comfort food and was cranky for it. Freedom had spoiled her.

“Tell me I’m your favorite wood kin,” Yamato teased, holding her drink just out of reach.

“And why would I do something like that?”

“Because it’s true.” Yamato’s grin was suspicious.

“Doesn’t mean I’d admit it. I’d break Hashirama’s heart.”

Sakura grabbed for her drink but Yamato was persistent. One of the drunk regulars lifted his head out of his arms long enough to whistle at them before his head fell back. A couple more men laughed but for the most part Yamato’s antics went ignored.

“You’ve been terrible. If someone asked me what ungrateful looked like I’d show them a picture of you. On top of being a hold out you’re also unfaithful. Weren’t we supposed to be bosom buddies?”

Sakura curled her lip in annoyance. “I swear, I think I might have to decapitate you again if you don’t give me my drink.”

“I’d just grow it back,” Yamato teased, knowing that he could survive losing his head the way all Green Men and wood kin could.

“It’s still hurt like a bitch though, so hand the drink over. I’m hangry.”

Yamato relented and let her have her drink before pushing off the counter. “Fine, be that way. I gave you a chance, just remember that. The cook will bring you your food, not me.”

Sakura flipped him the bird and Yamato saw it, but he just smiled wide at her in a way that made her stomach lurch. He was a tricky bastard. What was he planning?

“If your food sucks I’ll never come back here,” Sakura hollered down the bar.

Yamato laughed. “As if you could.”

Sakura tore into a new roll and then drank deep from her beer. She and Yamato had known each other too long and been through too much to get along so well, but at the same time there were few who understood Sakura as well as Yamato, who had been a child broken by Orochimaru’s mad schemes. She hadn’t been the victim of another human, but she understood Yamato better than most.

Which is why her stomach refused to settle.

“Maybe I should just chop off a leg this time,” Sakura muttered to herself. She tilted her glass back and the empty bottom greeter her. She set it down when she heard her dinner on the counter, excitement building as the aroma hit her.

But it wasn’t the food she noticed first.

“Oh, it’s you!” she exclaimed, leaning back. His memory came to her mind a second later. “Madara, right?”

The newly freed Kelpie was wearing a chief’s uniform and had his hair braided back more neatly than the last time she remembered seeing him.

He spoke with an easy smile. “You remembered my name, Sakura.”

“Hang on, something is more important right now,” Sakura exclaimed.

He went still to watch her as Sakura tugged her steak closer to stab at it with her fork and knife. She cut a piece away, watching him wearily as she chewed. A second later her serious expression melted into a smile and she nodded.

“Okay, now we can talk. You made a good steak, I don’t have to hate you.”

His eyes seemed to twinkle as the corners creased along with his smile. “That would have been unfortunate. I might have lost my job here if I couldn’t prepare a decent steak.”

“It’s more than just decent. You’re not in any danger,” Sakura said before taking another forkful. “So what are you doing here, other than making decent steak?”

“Apparently one needs money in order to afford goods and services in this world.”

“Sucks, man,” Sakura sighed. “But aside from that, what are you still doing on this side? You could cross over to the fae wilds, can’t you? That place is pretty desolate, you wouldn’t have to worry too much about if you went all natural over there.”

“But you live here,” he said. “In this world.”

Sakura nodded. “Yeah,I do, but this is where most humans live. I’m a badass, but I’m not anything extra special when it comes to species.”

Madara nodded along, watching her while she ate. “I realized that pretty early on. I was curious why you would encourage me to travel to the fae realms. You didn’t seem the type to enjoy trapping into realms not suited to your kind.”

He couldn’t have known about her past, so she chose not to bristle at the suggestion.

“I avoid the fae places almost enterally if I can help it,” she laughed. “I’ve spent enough lifetimes over there to grow sick of it, trust me. Plus, the food and drink are incomparable. Have you had much human food yet? It has real taste!”

Madara offered to take her glass for a refill and she happily passed it off for him. He spoke while operating the tap. “I’ve enjoyed much of what I’ve tried so far. I don’t think it will be hard to adapt to life here. You enjoy this pub, don’t you?”

“I love it. I’ve been coming here for years. You’re lucky to have a job in such a fun place. If Yamato ever gives you too much trouble tell me and I’ll throttle him for ya.”

Her words made him laugh as he handed her drink back over. Sakura accepted it with a nod of thanks and a salute before tipping it back to wash her throat. She wondered if he would be heading back into the kitchens soon, or if he was on break, since he didn’t look like he had any intention of leaving.

“He’s been nothing but amicable,” Madara assured her, referring to Yamato.

“Well, at least he’s nice to one of us!” Sakura hollered. From across the room Yamato hear her and looked up. His smile was wide and far too devious for her liking. She flipped him off again and then took another drink. “The cheep bastard is just a right asshole to me most of the time.”

“I was under the impression that Yamato thought highly of you. He shared with me some stories about how you know each other. You were very helpful in liberating him and his kind at one point.”

Sakura blinked before it occurred to her that Madara and Yamato shared a common enemy. Madara had been trapped by the golden bridle found in Orochimaru’s belonging, while Yamato had been the result of a direct experiment involving humans and wood kin magic. Both men must have been able to bond over their hatred of Orochimaru.

“I hope he didn’t tell you too many stories about me,” Sakura groaned. “He must have bored you.”

“No, I asked specifically for more information on the human that saved me and he didn’t ask for anything in return. You just left and I thought I could work here and wait until you came back, but that was many days ago now.”

Sakura took a bread roll and used it to wipe up what was left of her meat’s juices. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you still had questions for me. I guess I could have been more helpful if you really do plan on living in the human’s realm.”

“Well, this is where you live,” Madara said, sounding like it was the most obvious thing in the world to comment on. He pat at something at his waist and then reached into the pocket of his pants. “But it was good that you stayed away so long, I think, since this took a while to earn.”

“Oh?” Sakura was puzzled by what Madara seemed to be implying. In the far corner Yamato was wiping down at table while watching them. He wasn’t even trying to be subtle and it irked her.

“Here, this is for you,” Madara said, setting a small velvet box on the counter.

Sakura wiped her hands on her jeans under the bar, frowning at the box. It looked familiar but she couldn’t tell from where. It wouldn’t be the first time a freed or rescued creature thanked her with a token, but the box was weirding her out.

When she glanced up at Madara he seemed too transfixed on her every movement, watching her with midnight black eyes that sparkled like something from a distant midnight.

Sakura reached for the box and cracked it open. It unfolded to show off a pretty gold band with a diamond in the center. It made her stomach flip when she recognized it.

“Madara, this is an engagement ring,” she chuckled nervously. Yamato was in the back, watching with the widest smile imaginable. “This is too much.”

“I thought it would be appropriate to do things according to human customs as well, since you are also human.” Madara’s smile spread and the twinkling of his eyes was almost boyish. “I didn’t know that there was such a thing until Yamato told me.”

Sakura didn’t know if she wanted to laugh or scream, but she knew her neck was itchy and her face was hot as the handsome kelpie creature watched her with an intensity that was all too recognizable. “But Madara, this is-this isn’t appropriate for a thank you. This is something you get for someone you want to marry.”

“I know that now. I had been wondering why you didn’t come back and I worried it was something I had missed, but Yamato explained all the customs to me. They’re a little different from Kelpi custom, but you don’t have to worry about those anymore. You already gave me my freedom so there’s nothing else to do.”

Sakura could drink any old man under the table, but after only two beers she was starting to feel the room spin.

“Madara…do you think we’re married?”

“Almost,” he breathed, blushing only slightly. “But I hope the human customs won’t take much longer.”

Sakura leaned back in her seat, away from the bar and the box with the ring. Madara didn’t look away and the intensity of his stare was making her feel like the room was the deck of a ship in a storm. Everything rocked and he was still too handsome to look at.

“I thought that was-I didn’t think you guys did that anymore. Only the really old fashioned selkies would-would still do ‘event’ marriages. Is this normal for kelpie?”

“It’s quite common. Potential spouses would try to bind their love or catch their potential mate, only to ‘free’ them from their singleness. I’ll admit my freeing was a little unorthodox, but I couldn’t have been happier with my match. I don’t want anyone else but you. I’me dedicated to only you!”

Madara reached across the bar and grabbed for her hands, securing her wrists first and sliding down until her hands were trapped in his. He pulled her closer and kissed her knuckles.

“Madara…” Sakura couldn’t find her voice.

“Don’t worry, love, I promise you we can take it slow until the wedding, but I’m so happy you chose me.” He angled his face so that he stared up at her through his heavy lashes. A few stray bangs fell out from the braid, framing his face. He seemed impossibly beautiful and she couldn’t help but panic as he loomed closer, shadowing her with the blush still high on his cheeks. He kissed her fingers again before breathing over them. “Don’t expect me to hold back from now on.”

Madara looked so lovestruck and in that moment all of Yamato’s evil grinning in the background made sense.

255 notes · View notes

tally-kiza · 5 years

Text

Horrortale and Horrorfell Headcanons

After making some Horrorswap and Horrorswapfell headcanons, I decided to try my hand at Horrorfell and Horrortale hc’s!

(this is slightly edited and revised as of 02/07/2020 so if things seem different than before, thats why)

Horrorfell Papyrus (Voss)

- Years of struggling to survive have tempered his ego and grandiose. He doesn't have the energy to loudly trumpet his own greatness anymore.

- Fights with unruly Snowdin-folk have left his teeth oddly-spaced, cracked and crooked, and a collage of small cracks along his bones and skull.

- After Undyne became queen and began her tyranny, she and Pap got into a terrible fight, which lead to Sans's cracked skull and the loss of Papyrus’s hand. The loss made surviving that much harder, but makeshift prosthetics certainly helped.

- Still the responsible one. (When they’re Underground) he cooks food for himself, Sans, and Snowdin. Sets up very gorey and deadly traps to capture humans. Motivates Sans enough to keep him from dusting. Reports to Undyne daily. Keeps her wrath out of Snowdin.

- Once, when he caught a particularly fierce monster trying to steal food, he attempted to dust them, but the monster fought back and punched a section of Pap’s jaw. Those bones, being too weak from malnutrition, shattered, leaving only half his jaw, only one cheekbone, and vision in only one of his eyes. Talking was very painful for him afterwards, and even when he does get a prosthetic jaw, he never says much, and rarely if ever yells.

- The injury caused blindness in one of his eyes. He was already partially-blind in the other eye from a scar, and with this new jaw injury, it left his vision so poor that he’s legally blind.

- Generally very serious. Resting face is just (눈_눈). After all he's been through, not much can faze him. Rarely ever smiles or laughs, and is easily irritated. He may not be able to yell anymore to express that irritation, but boy does he have a glare that could turn you to stone.

- On the surface, he's still the one taking care of him and his brother.

- Gets his teeth fixed with braces on the surface--even though he hates how stupid he thinks he looks for the entire 2-year process, he has to admit he’s happy that he’ll be in less pain soon.

- Is given a seeing eye and therapy dog to help him and his brother. Voss says he doesn't need one, that's he's perfectly fine, but he can't deny that it makes his life easier and a heck of a lot nicer. Paps is also pleasantly surprised when the dog comforts Sans when he dissociates, and himself when his thoughts start spiraling and the dark days catch up to him.

- Both of them try to train it into being a guard/attack dog, but attempts have been unsuccessful (i.e. the dog is sweet as heck and doesn't have a mean bone in its body.)

- While he's not particularly fond of humans, he doesn't outright avoid them like his brother does. But he is, however, the king of passive aggression, and with his irritability, there’s no telling what untoward comments or petty revenge he may hoist upon an unsuspecting human.

- Loves filling out sudoku and crossword puzzles. They’re a nice way to unwind and stretch his brain muscles. It’s almost frightening how fast he can complete them. And he has a shockingly good track record for getting them 100% right almost every time!

- An amazing cook. Can make a gourmet meal out of food scraps. But he doesn’t enjoy it much anymore. It’s just a duty, like everything else. Before the famine, he loved cooking; it was his passion, but then it was... soured for him.

- Despises not being productive, so he works a lot, at the job that makes him happiest: a plant nursery! Weeding, watering, planting trees, etc, it all seems so very mundane but it’s just... such a nice reprieve from the stress he’s used to. He loves helping things grow and flourish instead of destroying them.

Horrorfell Sans (Rem)

- Will eat anything. A N Y T H I N G. Even if it isn't edible. He doesn't go out of his way to do it, but there were times during the famine when there wasn’t any choice.

- Basically a big ol' teddy bear. His closest friends will receive unexpected tsundere cuddles. He’s fluffy no matter how hard he denies it.

- Feels very awkward generally. He doesn't know what to do with himself on the surface. He also tends to says all the wrong things at all the wrong times. Also occassionally blunt and straightforward. Almost rudely so. Doesn’t care much about people’s feelings, he just wants them to know the facts.

- Doesn't make friends easily. Basically ignores most humans on the surface until his brother makes Sans get off his ass and be a contributing member of society. Is openly hostile to humans at first, but after a few years he relaxes around them more.

- If, by some miracle, you actually befriend him and his brother he'll defend you within an inch his life. He doesn’t take friendships and closeness lightly, and if he trusts you enough, he won’t let anything bad happen to you.

- The underground was very aggressive, and you could get attacked at any time, so napping was a no-go. On the surface, however, once he feels safe, he will nap. ALL. THE. TIME. There is no waking him before he is ready.

- He's not in the best state of mind, so he probably won't ever get a full time job, but he'll probably do odd jobs once in a while. Something easy with heavy lifting or where he can slack off.

- The hole in his head gave him memory problems worse than HT Sans's. If you tell him something, Sans could very well forget it almost 5 minutes later. Gets lost often and forgets where he is, so his brother tags around with him a lot to help keep Sans on track.

- Luckily writing things down is a pretty good solution to that, so he keeps a lot of pencils and notebooks around for when he needs to jot down notes to remember.

- Much like Red, Rem adores video games. The former prefers horror and competitive games where he can whup the asses of anyone he wants, whereas the latter likes more casual stress-free games like Candy Crush and Angry Birds -- Rem’s had enough stress for one lifetime, he doesn’t want any more of it. So the more casual ones are his favorites.

- Collects objects! Mostly little knickknacks and trinkets he finds, like marbles, tickets, stamps, even slow globes! His otherwise sparse room is filled with these and he loves every one of them.

- After Undyne smashed his skull in, it took a part of his eye socket too, so he's blind in that eye now. His other eye is bright red and dilated just like HT Sans’s eye.

- Thinking is so hard sometimes... so he doesn’t talk much anymore. And he still loves puns and jokes but making them is harder these days because of his injury. The easiest ones for him are knock-knock jokes, so he has a set of bone-themed ones that he memorized a long time ago to shoot off whenever appropriate.

- Has occasional episodes where he depersonalizes and derealizes. The world around him gets fuzzy and its hard to think and react. Those moments are... distressing. Once in a while, he’ll also have black-out fits of rage, mostly triggered by the site of heavy bleeding -- but his brother can usually talk him down from those.

- Like all the others, the famine left him really messed up. He doesn't like thinking about it, and even though he doesn’t regret doing what he had to to survive, the guilt still eats him up sometimes...

Horrortale Sans (Mars)

- Quiet and observant. When he gets to the surface, he doesn't talk much, and when he does it's usually some sassy joke or observation. Usually talks the most when his bro is around, but generally he’ll just let Pap steer the conversation instead.

- Doesn't remember much from before Frisk left. The majority of his scientific knowledge has disappeared. He knows he used to know these things, and it frustrates him endlessly that he can't understand it anymore. He tries to read scientific studies once in a while, but always ends up just throwing his phone/book across the room in frustration.

- Not very hostile towards humans, just ignores those he can. Often people stare at him and it gets... very annoying after a while. So he just ignores them and keeps doing his thing.

- Often dissociates, he spaces out and loses himself. Occasionally during these moments he’ll forget that he’s on the surface and he’s safe. So his bro made a list for him of things to remember during these, when he’s not around to comfort Mars in person. The list includes like Frisk is gone, they can’t hurt anyone; humans are good; they’re safe and well; they're not going back underground. It’s ver comforting to Sans.

- Has a weird fascination with dark jokes. They simultaneously make him uncomfortable yet he loves them. He won’t say them too often, most of the time just to unnerve someone he dislikes. (Pap groans and chastises Sans whenever he makes them, but secretly deep down, he finds them funny too.)

- On the surface, he’ll often wear a beanie or his hood to cover up the hole in his skull. Having it exposed to surface air, especially high winds, felt similar to strong winds whipping against your face, so the beanie helps with that. Eventually though, he gets a prosthetic mold that perfectly fits into the hole, so it’s all covered and he doesn’t have to worry about it anymore. Mars is a lot happier with it.

- Hates sand. It’s coarse and rough and gets everywhere like his joints and head hole.

- Loves sandwiches. Passionate about them. There’s just so many possibilities to them. Makes them out of everything so that they usually end up being at least 3+ inches tall. Yet he can’t open his teeth so how can he eat them...?? Truly, it is a mystery.

- Likes listening to instrumental songs. Especially the relaxing kind. They’re such a nice reprieve from the constant, deafening silence of the Underground.

- Post-it notes are a life-saver. He has terrible memory, so he keeps a bunch of them in his hoodie and scattered all over the walls of his house so he can write down stuff before he forgets.

- Ver affection-starved. He secretly loves affection but doesn’t get it enough (from anyone other than his bro). Is surprisingly soff for cuddles and petpats. Feeling your soft touch on his bones always makes him so soft and happy.

- When Mars got to the surface, he discovered all these insanely cool weather phenomena and fell in love. They never had anything like that underground, so seeing it all for the first time, in all its chaotic, unpredictable, majestic glory left him starstruck. It’s one of the few things hes genuinely interesting in, and his face always lights up whenever he talks about the different types of tornadoes and lightning and! the aurora!! It's so awesome, he loves all of it.

- Loves watching livestreams of the sky and weather-events. Usually it’s so chill and quiet to him, even if there’s something not-so-chill-and-quiet being recorded. It’s ver relaxing to him.

- Befriending Mars is a task and a half. He assumes anyone who tries to get close to him is up to no good. But with a combination of puns, friendliness, and persistence, he will eventually trust you. Once you get past his aloof exterior, he’s a pretty nice and chill friend to have.

- Hates to think about the famine and his time underground. Even though he’d do it all over again to save him and his brother, he’s still haunted by the memories of what he had to do. Barely ever entertains the idea about doing so on the surface.

Horrortale Papyrus (Jupiter)

- Fashion icon. Like dang, can this skellie put an outfit together. If you ever need fashion tips, always go to Paps. He’ll use the opportunity to show off his wardrobe and all his cool embroidered leather jackets and boots. He even offers to embroider your clothes too so you can look like him!

- Like canon Papyrus, Jupiter is charmingly eccentric. Not crazily so, just in that usual Papyrus way. But he’s also a lot chiller, too. The famine sapped his energy, so it got harder to proclaim his cool greatness, but he still likes thinking he can still be cool and great after all these years.

- An excellent cook. Can make a buffet out of scraps. Ever since he got out from the surface, now that he has all the ingredients he could ever want, he’s taken up cooking as a serious hobby. He’s even won multiple local cooking contests! Only ever cooks vegetarian meals, but with the power of tofu, he always makes them taste succulent and delicious.

- Baking, however, is still a bit of a challenge for him, but Pap is determined to master it just like he did cooking!

- Has a giant collection of small succulent plants in his house. They’re everywhere, on the windowsills, the bookshelves, hanging from the ceiling. He loves them and their simple beauty; seeing them throughout his home always makes him smile.

- After he arrived on the surface, he almost immediately got braces to fix his teeth. The fancy kind with colorful dots! They’re kinda painful to wear, but nonetheless he’s psyched the entire time that his teeth will be better soon.

- Gets helpful glasses on the surface. He loves them; not only do they allow him to see-- which had been progressively harder underground as he became increasingly malnourished-- but they look cool too! They even fade into being sunglasses when he goes outside, so every time the sunny rays hit his face, he becomes his Ultimate Coolness Form!

- It’s... it’s harder to believe sometimes that with everything that’s happened and with the way he looks now that he’s... cool. But! He always has Sans’s and his therapist’s encouraging words to rely on when he feels down, which is always a big help to him.

- Loves wholesome memes, and will send them to you all the time. He especially likes the drink water ones, mostly because he thinks it’s an important healthy reminder. “YOU NEED WATER, HUMAN! IF YOU DON’T DRINK WATER, YOU MIGHT TURN INTO A PRUNEY, DEHYDRATED RAISIN AND DIE! AND THAT WON’T BE A FUN SITUATION FOR ANYONE. SO PLEASE DRINK YOUR LIQUIDS!”

- His favorite activity is! Picnics!! Especially in the park and with other people! They’re so much fun, he loves nomming his delicious foodstuffs on a comfy blanket while the warm sunlight shines on his happy face. It’s extra fun when there’s clouds in the sky for him and you and anyone else to find cool shapes in!

- Still gets panic attacks from time to time, when the memories get too strong and he feels like he’s still underground, starving to death... He goes to counseling to deal with his trauma. The famine really did a number on him, and even though he puts up fronts and says he's fine, it’s hard to deal with the memories sometimes.

- Really cares for his brother and always makes an effort to be there for him. The famine, even though it led the bros to be closer than ever before from seeing each other in those desperate states, put a strain on their relationship. But on the surface, after everything’s said and done and they’re getting the help they need, it’s steadily improving.

- Jupiter is hard of hearing. He has difficulty differentiating certain words, and talks loudly to be able to hear himself better. On the surface however, he gets treatment so his hearing is far improved! Apart from getting a hearing aid, he takes up learning sign language (mostly so he can be cool in more than one language!), and likes it and talking to people with it so much that he eventually becomes a sign language interpreter! It’s a great job and he loves being able to help people this way.

#horrortale #horrorfell #mine #headcanons #undertale headcanons #undertale imagines #horrortale sans #horrorfell sans #horrorfell papyrus #horrortale papyrus #hf papyrus #hf sans #ht sans #ht papyrus #sans #papyrus #long post #i love the mental image of tol prickly hf pap just sweetly watering some flowers. its so cute #taki writing

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water-hates-learning · 5 years

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I try not to compare one person’s work to another as it can be very rude and demeaning to creators but I keep thinking about how the Void in Darkswxrld functions. And mentally I inevitably compare it to a, for lack of a better term, state of being from the Urban Magic series by Kate Griffin.

Under the cut because it got kind of long and definitely got away from me.

Also some minor spoilers for Urban Magic, Book 3, The Neon Court by Kate Griffin. (Highly recommend this series, it has strongly influenced my writing and I love all the books with my whole entire heart!)

In the Neon Court, we find out about “falling through the cracks”. Literally and metaphorically. That’s how magic works.

From The Neon Court, Part 4: Between the Cracks, page 380:

The corridor was covered in the same dust. Debris was strewn about, creating dense islands and archipelagos for the traveller to sidestep. There the torn-off arm of a plastic doll. Here, an envelop, open, a letter, half-written, inside, the stamp never attached; a pen, its plastic case cracked, the ink spilt out in a solid dry stain; a folder, its paper torn and curling; a ticket to the theatre, never used. A pram still in its plastic wrapping. A pair of false teeth tumbled out of their glass, liquid long since evaporated, grinning for ever at nothing. And always, falling around it all, the thin beige dust. There was nothing in this place that wasn’t shattered and broken, and no sign that it had ever been disturbed.

To “fall through the cracks” or “slip through the cracks” is an idiom that means to remain unnoticed and unattended or forgotten. When something slips through the cracks, it’s because no one has been paying attention to it. Think about the small things we lose in the depths of our bags or purses; the discarded pens, the spare change, the wrinkled receipts, all forgotten in the dark and left to gather dust. They slip between the cracks and fade from our mind.

In the sense of the magical or supernatural, you can take the phrase and turn it into something that actually happens. The things we leave behind, left and forgotten, abandoned wherever they may be, are swallowed by the void.

From The Neon Court, Part 4: Between the Cracks, Page 383:

He grinned, yellow teeth flecked with black. “In between the cracks, the place in the city where all the forgotten things go? Where else would you expect to find the Beggar King?”

But it’s not just the forgotten and abandoned that can slip through the cracks. People trying to flee, trying to run, searching desperately for a place to hide, people who just want to escape and get away from it all, who long for quiet and to be left alone, they can end up slipping through the cracks too.

From The Neon Court, Part 4: Between the Cracks, Page 390-391:

“...You ran and ran until you didn’t know where you were running to and you felt like there was a hole opening up beneath you and then you were here. Wherever here is. In all the dust. And you couldn’t find a way out. Am I right?”

From The Neon Court, Part 4: Between the Cracks, Page 385:

The room was empty of furniture, just a television on the floor, its aerial sticking up like a pair of comical ears. In the screen the grainy image of a man and a woman bickered in front of an electric fire. The dust was thicker here than anywhere, the floor almost felt. On the walls it formed a thin brown layer. Someone had written in the dust with the end of their finger, over and over and over again, a thousand times, cross-crossing its own words,

Help me Let me out Help me Let me out HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME!

And true, the place between the cracks in Matthew Swift’s London has more...substance than Darkswxrld’s Void, it’s actually situated in what could almost be called a building though I would hesitate to constrain such a place into the human perception of a “building” or, really, a “place” at all.

But it has that same vibe, I guess. It has that same lost, quiet, endlessness about it. How many rooms are there between the cracks? How many floors? How many flights of stairs? How many corners? How many piles of the discarded and lost?

Countless, no doubt. As bottomless and dark as, say, a void.

This isn’t so much a theory as an observation, I guess? It’s just been on my mind, thinking about the Void and the things that live there and how it affects the people (and things?) that end up there. I suppose thinking of it like the space between the cracks in Urban Magic also helps me to sort of...conceptualize it? That doesn’t seem like the right word. Put it into perspective? Quantify it into a manner that my pathetic human psyche can render into an understandable space?

I’m really not sure.

Maybe I just have a very wonderfully clear understanding of how magic functions in Kate Griffin’s books, as abstract as it is, and looking at Darkswxrld’s Void through that lense is giving me a better understanding?

Or maybe I just wanted to set two things I adore very much next to one another and point out all the cool shit I love about them.

No theories, just thinking out loud. Making a few observations.

Well, okay, a small theory.

I think, maybe, people end up in the Void because on some level, they want to be there. Like the people who slip between the cracks, they just want to get away. But, just like the space between the cracks, once there, you can’t get back out (at least not without some help, generally from an outside source).

And spaces like that, they change people. People change. Their perceptions change. Their realities change.

From The Neon Court, Part 4: Between the Cracks, page 378-380:

The dust had settled on his back like fine snow, and was settling even now, a continual gentle shower tumbling from the spider’s web of cracks sliced through the ceiling. The only disturbance in the dust was on the floor: a set of footprints, his, from a crooked rocking chair to the scuffed marks of where I’d fallen. No others, not in, not out of the little windowless room.

[...]

“Sorry about that but I don’t usually have people just fall through my ceiling like that and you did give me a start and I like my privacy but don’t think I’m rude will you?”

“Not at all,” I mumbled, “Um...and in equal spirit of openness, where am I?”

“Here, here,” He gestured grandly around the room. “Where else would you be?”

“And where is ‘here’?”

“It’s where I live isn’t it!”

“And that is...?”

“Here! I live here!”

“I see. And...how long have you lived here?”

[...]

I looked around the little room, but I saw nothing, food, sink, bed, that suggested this was a place a man could live.

[...]

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“My name?” He echoed. “Um well it’s uh it’s...” He started ruffling through the great pile of paper stacked up against one wall, wading in knee-deep, “It’s somewhere here it’s um...hold on I’m sure I’ve got it somewhere...”

“Never mind.”

People forget themselves in a space that is not a space.

Less because it is willfully erasing who they are and more because they just, don’t want to be who they were. They’ve adjusted to an inhuman space so that it doesn’t destroy them.

Matt and Tom used to be human. But it’s been ages since they actually were. The Void changed them (or maybe in some way they changed themselves?). They occupy and see their own versions of reality because that’s how they perceive it. The man in the above passage didn’t see the dust and the crooked rocking chair or the windowless room, not in the same way Matthew was; he saw a home, a place he could hide from the council that had been bothering him endlessly, a place of peace and quiet.

Tom sees a world without color. Maybe it’s because he’s eaten all the color that used to be there. Or maybe it’s because he’s disenchanted and apathetic; he sees the world the way he thinks about it. I’ve talked about that before, though.

I am ever so endlessly curious about how Tord will see things when he wakes up. Does reality look different no matter who you are? Can only Void dwellers perceive the true nature of the Void? Would seeing what it really is break their minds? How long does it take for the Void to change people?

I have so many, many questions and I’ve gotten off topic from my original post once again.

TL;DR - friggin’ darkswxrld

#i refuse to apologize for the length of this post #8ball's darkswxrld theories

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cannabisrefugee-esq · 5 years

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Of All The Things I've Lost, I Miss My Mind The Most. Ft. Joker

November 29, 2019

I recently wrote on my Patreon about Dave, my new disability advocate who seemed like he was going to be helpful for once. Where my previous advocate was good at bleating on endlessly about my alleged “rights” as a disabled person, wasting my time and energy listening to her while not actually helping me gain access to resources, my new advocate put on a seriously impressive show. Because I don’t have a car and am generally too sick to walk or ride my bike more than a couple of blocks, and likely too sick to drive even if I had a car, he arranged to pick me up for our appointments and afterwards took me back home.

Because I no longer possess executive function and cannot consistently or reliably complete tasks that require it (read: the stuff corporate executives pay other people to do for them, particularly female people, namely secretaries, wives and others) this man filled out applications for me, doing some of them online, addressed and mailed the ones going out of town and hand-delivered the rest. This was almost unbelievably (!) helpful and I felt cautiously optimistic that things might finally be on the right track: a track towards getting me the disability and need-based benefits I’m entitled to as a seriously ill person with a disabling incurable, progressive disease.

To wit, Social Security benefits, into which I have paid since I started working when I was 15 and which they will just give to me freely if I live long enough but for which I have to beg in order to receive now, and housing, food and cash assistance that will help me stay in my little apartment, run my small business and somewhat control my environment and my access to climate control/lights/running water/refrigeration/toilet etc. and privacy and relative peace in which to care for my 2 adopted shelter cats and manage the daily pain and indignities of my disabling autoimmune disease.

The online application for SSD was returned to me in hardcopy to review, sign and return. lol. Along with a notice that if I want to also apply for SSI, the “other” form of disability-based benefits that’s basically exactly the same as SSD and as far as I know requires mostly the same information sent to the same place, I had to do a separate application for that. lol. The application for food and cash assistance was “never received” by social services, according to social services, even though Dave hand-delivered it and watched them time/date stamp it himself. lol.

Dave had also assured me that I was a candidate for vocational rehab, which agency would easily and gladly find me a part-time work-from-home job tailored to my new dis/ability and help me do and keep it, as well as offering me various assistance with my small business including accounting and other administrative support, technical assistance and equipment including a new laptop and other things. lol. Most of that seemed unlikely at best but I almost believed it: my hope went from none to about 3.5% — that’s 3-and-a-half percent — because anything higher than that is frankly completely insane and I knew better but I did it anyway. It was mostly involuntary because that’s the thing with humans innit. They (we) seem predisposed to hope, against the odds and against all evidence.

When I spoke with someone at voc rehab, she informed me that she had just that very day had to have a “talk” with Dave who apparently keeps making inappropriate referrals and making promises to sick and disabled people that voc rehab simply does not/cannot keep. They don’t do any of what Dave told wasted an hour of my time and about 3 days worth of spoons telling me about, and what is available is only available to people starting new businesses. People with existing businesses get nothing. lol.

As for getting me a coveted “work from home” light-duty position that myself and everyone else and all their relatives also want, and might actually need, they don’t do that at all. They might be able to help me keep a job I already have but I don’t have one, and there is no realistic way I will ever get one as even the application and interview process is too grueling a task for me now. Not to mention that I’m too sick to consistently show up and produce quality work anyway because even if a sick person can still produce quality work sometimes when they feel relatively well, chronic illness = unpredictable = unreliable = unhireable.

I put myself through law school with absolutely no help of any kind, took the hardest bar exam in the country if not the world and passed it on the first try, but that — meaning, looking for, applying for and getting jobs, something I could do as a 15 year old and did for 25 years of my life — that I can no longer do. lol.

I only saw “Joker” once but from what I recall, a bunch of white men and their white male “disability” system made another white man even more crazy than he was before and he killed some of them. I see absolutely no problem with that.

Today is Thanksgiving in the United States. I don’t know what this means in other places that also celebrate this holiday at different times, but I know what it means here. So Happy Celebration of Indigenous People Being Genocided By White Men Day y’all. Make sure you are sufficiently “grateful” to our male owners/corporate and government overlords for allowing us to just-barely exist (to serve them) until we literally, physically can’t do it anymore or die trying. This world is fucking crazy man. It’s absolutely insane.

Comments Open.

#advertising #media #culture #Joker #Conversation #crohn's disease

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themcuhasruinedme · 5 years

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Vintage Film Fest (Pt. 1)

[Summary]: You and Steve have been dating for a while and you surprise him with a pair of tickets to a vintage film festival as an anniversary date

[Pairing]: Steve x reader

[Word Count]: 2,874

Tagging: @theashhole @dividedwecantfall @peterman-parker @avengerofyourheart @nataliarxmanxva @metalarmproblems @mcuimxgine @accio-rogers @imagine-assembling-the-avengers @that-sokovian-bastard @hellomissmabel @abovethesmokestacks @peculiar-persephone @bellameys @beccaanne814 @hymnofthevalkyrie @buckys-shield @callamint @redgillan @lancefvcker @thetalesofmooseandsquirrel @iwillbeinmynest @theassetseyeliner @lilasiannerd @aubzylynn @sgtbxckybxrnes @iamwarrenspeace @marvelrevival @httpmcrvel @avengersnthings @feelmyroarrrr @girl-next-door-writes @honey-bee-holly

A/N: Just taking a break from my Tony series cuz I hit a tiny bit of a wall with it... but this little gem decided to appear after I got done watching all of Laurel and Hardy’s shorts and movies (and because I have such a massive love for Old Hollywood films)... I encourage you guys to watch the movies and shorts I mention in this as they are all wonderful and amazing (heads up though: some of them are silent!) and all can be found on YouTube.

It had only been five months since you and Steve became a couple. The team had often wondered how you two had never met before since you both enjoyed pretty much the same things.

You did find it a bit odd that you never did run into him at the theater when it was doing a special showing of an “Old Hollywood” film because Steve and you enjoyed those very much. You also enjoyed listening to the music that he grew up with. There were so many things that you and Steve had in common that it almost seemed like you two were destined to be together.

As the six month anniversary of you two being together was coming up, you were trying to come up with something special for the two of you to do. And after endlessly scrolling through a google search of restaurants nearby, things to do in NYC and a list of “things to do on the weekend and staycations”, something caught your eye: Vintage Film Festival.

Getting a big smile on your face, you clicked on the link and started scrolling through the details. It read:

Join us for an exciting four day event! Our movies will range from old, silent films to early talkies, featuring the most well known acts from that era: Charlie Chaplin, Buster Keaton, Harold Lloyd and comedy duo Laurel and Hardy. Come laugh, cry, smile and sing with your fellow “Old Hollywood” fans for an event to remember!

Schedule can be found here and movie times start at 4:00 PM (although we try to avoid changes, the schedule is subject to change)

You looked around the web page to see if you had to pay for it and sure enough, you did. After all, getting to have a four day event to see some of the most memorable black and white films couldn’t be free. But you were happy that it didn’t cost that much. For two tickets to all four days was only $100 a ticket. You bought them immediately and decided you were going to surprise Steve when they showed up.

You then clicked on the link for the schedule to see what was going to be played and your jaw practically hit the floor. You couldn’t believe how many amazing movies and shorts were scheduled to be shown; from Charlie Chaplin’s City Lights to Buster Keaton’s Cops, from Harold Lloyd’s Safety Last! to Laurel and Hardy’s Way Out West. Almost having tears come to your eyes, you quickly dabbed them away and closed your laptop while still having the biggest smile on your face knowing that you’d be spending four days with Steve and the best slapstick comedy movies and shorts to ever grace the planet.

The tickets arrived within a week and a half and you couldn’t be more excited to give them to him, you just had to find the right moment. You came up with a couple ideas. One that included you making a special dinner and hide them under his napkin. Another was still making the dinner and “pretending” to watch a movie together afterwards and at the end it told him about the tickets. Another was the simplest of all: just tell him you had a surprise for him and to cover his eyes and pull out the tickets. You decided to go with your first idea.

A few days later, you made a lovely dinner for the two of you and Steve was a little curious at first because you hardly ever made anything special unless it was for a reason. But he was still happy that you were making dinner and when he took the napkin off the table, he had to do a double-take.

He picked up the tickets and looked at them, slowly studying every word that was on them. He then looked up to see you smiling wide and holding out to him another piece of paper. He took it and started to read it. You watched as his eyes scanned the paper and as they went further, a huge smile appeared on his face.

“The Gold Rush, Safety Last!, Cops, Brats... Seven Chances... Way Out West... City Lights...” he said excitedly. “Hun, this is.. this is just... how did you find this?!”

“Well, since our six month anniversary is coming up I thought it would be nice to do something and when I was doing some searching for things to do, this caught my attention. I knew you’d be excited about it.”

“Yeah! These are like, some of the greatest movies and shorts there are! Especially Buster’s and Charlie’s!”

You smiled at him as you went around the table and sat in his lap, wrapping your arms around his neck and placing your temple against his as you both started at the paper.

“This is gonna be some six month anniversary then,” Steve said, still smiling.

“Mmhmm!” you giggled and placed a kiss on his forehead.

When the event finally arrived, the two of you couldn’t contain your excitement. You both had stayed up late the night before to watch other films and shorts by the actors on the list. Needless to say, there was a lot of laughing going on and you now loved and admired Buster Keaton even more.

After Steve parked the car and helped you out, he offered you his arm. You smiled, linked your arm through and placed your head on his shoulder as you made your way to the entrance of the theater. The man stamped your tickets and ushered you both in.

In the lobby you watched the video screen above the concession stand as Steve went to get popcorn and a few snacks. You watched as it played through clips of some of the movies you were about to see on the big screen and you couldn’t help but chuckle at a few and smile when you saw Buster show up.

Steve came back over with everything and you took a few things out of his hand and linked arms again with him as you two made your way to the screen room. Finding seats somewhere in the middle of the theater, you both plopped yourselves down and settled in for night one of your wonderful four night event.

As you waited for the movies to start, more and more people started showing up. You looked around and couldn’t believe your eyes! The place was starting get packed. It amazed you at just how many people there were that enjoyed these kinds of movies still. A few minutes more and the place had every seat taken. You saw parents with their kids, old couples, young couples and grandparents with their grandkids. It brought a huge smile to your face seeing that everyone was here to make memories with family.

Then the lights dimmed and everyone cheered and clapped, excited to start the first night of movies and shorts. You linked your arm through his and smiled at him when he placed his other hand on yours, giving you a quick kiss on your temple. He then placed his cheek on the top of your head as the film started.

The first film to kick of this four night event was The Gold Rush. You watched as they showed the travelers trudging through the snow and smiled as soon as you saw The Tramp wander on screen. With his cute mustache, that adorable walk and the things he did with that cane, you couldn’t help but just love this character that Charlie came up with.

The audience roared with laughter as The Tramp tried to leave a cabin in a storm but it kept pushing him back inside. And the laughter continued as you all watched The Tramp eat a candle in desperation as there was no food around the cabin. A few quiet somber moments happened before the theater filled with laughter again as The Tramp cooked one of his shoes to eat.

The laughter came and went as the film went on and when the most famous scene happened, which was the “Bread Dance” scene, the audience cheered and clapped when The Tramp had finished it.

A little later, the movie was over and the whole audience went wild with cheers. This was already starting off to be a great night. You looked at Steve, who was dabbing away some tears. He looked back at you with a smile as you gently dabbed away the tear stains on his cheeks.

“From laughing so hard or because of a beautiful ending?” you asked.

“More than likely both,” he chuckled.

There was a five minute break in between as the next one was getting prepared to play. Steve thought it would be a good time to use the restroom and get some more napkins for you two to finish the rest of the popcorn. Both of you had only gotten through half of it and had one box of candy emptied. Steve made it back with a minute to spare.

As soon as you heard the music start when the room went dark again, you tried not to jump out of your chair with excitement. Tugging on Steve’s sleeve, you whispered, “It’s Stan and Ollie!” When the word Brats came across, which was the title of the short, you smiled even bigger. “Oooooo! This is one of my favorites,” you whispered again to Steve.

You loved watching Laurel and Hardy. They were your favorite comedy duo. And did you have such a love for Stan! Not to say that you didn’t love Oliver but good gravy that Stanley. Between his accent, the adorable and often times hilarious, facial expressions (especially his smile), the way he mussed up his hair and his whine in times of trouble, there was nothing you didn’t love about Stan.

The theater was quiet until Stan said, “If you must make a noise, make it quietly.” Everyone burst out laughing. The laughter kept going as Stan and Ollie tried to play a game of checkers and watch their kids (who they also played) but the kids kept causing trouble. And after the boys tell them to go to bed, hilarity still ensues with Stan and Ollie playing a game of pool and the kids still causing trouble.

The audience was still having roars of laughter when the kids started to accidentally overflow the bathtub, which then started to fill up the bathroom. And laughter still rang out when Stan and Ollie sang the kids to sleep. Even more rang out when Ollie opened the bathroom door, having all the water rush out into the room. As the short ended and the lights dimmed on for another five minute break, you went to the restroom and got a refill on your soda.

There were a few minutes to wait before the next short started. You looked over at Steve and smiled at him. He smiled back at you and wrapped his arm around your shoulder. “This is the best thing we’ve ever done. I couldn’t think of a more better way to spend our six month anniversary.”

You nodded in agreement and kissed him. “I sure hope they do this again. We might need to make this an annual thing if they keep it up.”

Steve chuckled. “We just might.”

The theater went dark once more for the next movie to start. And you couldn’t be more happy to see what it was. Harold Lloyd’s most famous film, Safety Last!. Sure it had great funny moments here and there at the beginning and middle but you were most excited about the part where Harold climbed up the side of the building and hung from the face of the clock. And when that scene finally happened, there were so many gasps and oh-no’s coming from the kids in every direction of the theater. And even though you knew that Harold was gonna be ok, you tensed up just a bit and held onto Steve’s arm just a little tighter.

Another five minute break happened after the movie was over. This break seemed to go by rather quickly and the lights soon went dark again and the next short started. You really had to contain your excitement when you saw it was one of your absolute favorite Buster Keaton silent shorts, The High Sign. You admired Buster quite a lot, especially his stunt skills. The man was in a league of his own when it came to the dangerous stunts that were put in his movies all because he did many of them himself, some of which could have killed him. And even though this short didn’t have anything dangerous in it, it still showed off his stunt skills quite a bit.

Laughs started already with the first title card: “Our hero came from Nowhere - he wasn’t going Anywhere and got kicked off Somewhere.” and continued when he jacked someone’s newspaper and opened it over and over, turning it into this humongous paper that practically swallowed him.

Quietness hung in the air as the audience watched him read a “Wanted Ad” for an expert shot at a shooting gallery and sneakily take a cops gun to practice with. Laughter erupted again as he tried to practice but was absolutely terrible at it. It slowly died down but picked right back up when Buster went to the shooting gallery and got scared so bad that it knocked him right off his feet.

It got quiet again, except for a few whispers here and there about the man that owned the shooting gallery. You heard a child behind you say to their parent, “He’s really mean looking. I don't like him.” You smiled softly, knowing that this man was the bad guy.

You heard some of the children gasp when it showed that the very tall man was the leader of a gang of bandits that was going to kill someone that day. But laughter rang out again while Buster made an invention using a stray dog and a bone to make it seem like he was a great shot, which made the very tall man believe that Buster was perfect for taking out the person.

It became quiet once again as the audience watched Buster get asked by the man that was going to be shot that day to be his bodyguard but then also be told by the very tall man afterwards that Buster was gonna be the one to kill the man. But the hilarity and laughter ensued once more when towards the end after tricking the bandits, Buster outwitted them using every secret passage in the man’s house.

The next break in-between movies was a bit longer so if people wanted to walk around for a bit to really stretch their legs after being in their seats for a few hours they could, along with letting moms take care of the little ones that they brought. You and Steve took turns going to the bathroom and getting refills. Both of you stretched a few times to wake up those sleeping muscles and then it was announced that the next movie was going to start in a few minutes to give people time to get back to their seats.

The lights went off one more time for the last movie of the night. Another early talkie short from Laurel and Hardy called They Go Boom started which was another favorite of yours.

Laughing started almost immediately when the audience heard Stan snoring and seeing the shade fly up after Ollie sneezed. It continued after Stan tied the shade down but flew up once again and fell off the window after Ollie sneezed, along with a picture that was hanging above the bed falling off and hitting Ollie on the head. The audience watched as Stan then tried to help Ollie get over his cold but things don’t go right at all as usual.

You heard some of the kids gasp when the landlord threatened to throw the boys out. Laughter rang out once more when Ollie accidentally overfilled the air mattress with gas and it raised the bed all the way up to the ceiling. The laughter was even harder, if that was even possible, when Ollie needed to sneeze which sent Stan into panic mode and the bed exploded also causing a hole in the room above them.

And as the screen faded to black the whole audience broke out into cheers and applause. Everyone started to then file out of the theater and out to their cars. You and Steve slowly walked to your car, your arm linked in his and your head on his shoulder.

“So, did you have fun?” he asked.

“Do you really have to ask?” you answered. “Besides, we have another three nights to go. I think that question would be best served at that point.”

You looked at him with a smile, knowing damn well that he wouldn’t even need to ask again. The two of you already knew that you would have the time of your lives with this. With one night of classics done, it was now onto night number two!

#avengers imagine #marvel imagine #steve rogers #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers x reader

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bitsandbobsandstuff · 6 years

Text

Safe with me (14)

Summary: When an unknown threat enters your life, protection is offered at the highest level. As Bucky Barnes comes into your life, the game changes, and you realise falling for the man tasked with keeping you safe is the last thing you expected.

Characters: Bodyguard!Bucky Barnes x Reader Warnings: Bad language. Graphic descriptions of violence. Minor character death.

A/N: Bucky has methods to his madness and you are just done with these people. Stuck in the middle of a battlezone is a terrible place to be.

Tags for this story are CLOSED Link here for posting schedule

SAFE WITH ME MASTERLIST PREVIOUS CHAPTER

Previously…

The room is silent.

All eyes are on Bucky, who stands at the screen with his hand still raised. Steve releases him slowly, when he feels the panicked movements go suddenly rigid. From behind, a peculiar shapeshifting appears to take place. His posture changes, his neck flexes, his shoulders roll back.

Bucky stands up straight.

When he spins around, even Steve takes a step back at the sight.

Deadly rage burns like blue fire in the Soldier’s eyes.

*****

MID-1990s

Jack Bernstein pours a cup of coffee and parks himself behind the large wooden desk, propping his boots on Pierce's crisply folded suit coat. He takes a long drink, coughing when the scalding liquid scorches his throat. No matter. He enjoys the pain, because he needs something simple to ground him before he buzzes out of his skin.

That was exhilarating.

Every fantasy he's entertained about this day, about meeting the Soldier for the first time, all of it pales in comparison to the real thing. In life, everything about him was infinitely more than Jack ever imagined. Harder. So obedient. Beautiful and perfect. What a marvelous gift.

Scanning the white walls and bits of clutter adorning the small office, Jack memorizes every detail. He knows he'll remember this day for the rest of his life.

Sighing in contentment, he selects the top folder from a large pile, one appropriately stamped with the word "INDUCTION" in chunky red script. He begins to read.

-----

BASIC HANDLING INSTRUCTIONS The Asset requires minimal formal care, but it is biologically enhanced and dangerous if not handled properly. The following instructions will minimize risk to handlers. See related appendices for detailed information.

Removal from cryofreeze: Asset will be sluggish and non-responsive. Hosing down with cold water is recommended before wiping. Clothing is optional, but not preferred during removal phase.

Wiping process (see detailed instruction manual): Asset will tolerate wiping process as long as it is completed shortly after leaving cryofreeze.

Nutrient management: Asset does not eat standard food. Calories should be administered in the form of IV fluids.

Drug enhancement: Adrenaline may be given through injection but should be used sparingly as it enhances agitation levels. 'Oblivion' can be given in limited amounts. Technicians are recommended to hold Asset's jaw shut until clear the drug has dissolved / been swallowed.

Weapons selection: Asset will select its own weapons. DO NOT try to remove weapons from the Asset's body once they have been strapped in place, may result in loss of life or limb.

In the unlikely event of death due to mission failure, Asset has no personal affairs or effects to manage. If available, body should be cremated to reduce risk of knowledge transfer.

-----

He moves slowly through the Asset's files, absorbed in hundreds of pages exploring every detail of the disturbingly long life. Memorizing lab reports and doctor's notes, tracing wondering fingers over the blunt block letters of his mission reports, captivated by photos showing bullet holes and knife wounds littered across a broad chest.

Shivering with delight at the idea that all of this belongs to him.

He was disappointed to put him back on ice, but the Algeria mission was unnecessary and it's best to be patient. He has years to learn him, to understand his Soldier inside and out. Every intricate nuance of his body, every sparking neuron in his brain. How to obliterate everything and how to piece him back together.

A perfectly indestructible toy.

Jack tips his head back and laughs, the sound bouncing around the small room.

And after all – toys are meant to be played with.

*****

PRESENT DAY

5 HOURS AND 10 MINUTES AFTER ABDUCTION

To this day, Bucky marvels at the difference between a Hydra mission and a mission for himself.

Now, Bucky takes blisteringly hot showers before every mission. He despises the cold, hated it during the war, hated it even more with Hydra. He doesn't have time tonight, so instead he stuffs heat packets in the pockets of his tac pants. He loves the way they make him sweat.

Now, Bucky doesn't rely on IVs and pills and manufactured enthusiasm. Instead, he drinks a special cherry flavored Gatorade Bruce had engineered especially for him and Steve, and he raids the Tower cabinets of every king-size Snickers he can find. Chocolate and peanuts make him happy and help him focus, and Bucky swears their tagline was written for him. He is definitely not himself when he's hungry.

And now, perhaps the most stunning difference, are the personal affairs he puts in order. As the Soldier, Bucky had less than nothing. He remembers the vague feeling of wistfulness, of emptiness, that often intruded before a mission – he consistently took unnecessary risks, because he had nothing to draw him home. When he joined the Avengers, he behaved the same way – until Steve reminded him that he had his own real life with people and possessions he loved. So, Bucky sat down and wrote a will. He still doesn't have much, but now the little things he cherishes all have a place to go when the inevitable end arrives.

On that note, Bucky digs out the sheet of paper from the bottom of his desk, finds a chewed-up Bic pen, and makes one small amendment.

Under the Brooklyn apartment, he adds your name next to Steve's.

*****

5 HOURS AND 20 MINUTES AFTER ABDUCTION

Steve can actually feel his body thrumming when he reaches Bucky's bedroom, tension climbing over his skin. Pausing outside the door, he steels himself for a full-scale brawl, because as he well knows, his best friend is a stupid god damn fucking idiot.

Throwing open the door he stomps inside, kicks it shut, and starts speaking.

Loudly.

"Look, I know you're pissed as hell right now, but you need to take a beat and think about things. You can't go barging in, shooting everything on sight with no back-up. It's fucking suicide."

Bucky hums in agreement, fishing through his loose change jar for the key to his bedside weapons cabinet.

"Seriously Bucky, we need a plan. This is very obviously a set-up."

The small key snicks when the lock clicks open, revealing a cache of knives and guns, several old grenades and a handful of Widow's Bites he won off Natasha in a poker game.

"They know you'll come. They expect you'll come. Traps, Buck. There'll be so many traps."

Bucky nods along with the tirade, but the absentminded move proves he's not listening. Frustration bubbles over and Steve's now yelling.

"James Buchanan fucking Barnes, why are you such a stubborn asshole all the time?"

At the words, Bucky looks up in startled surprise.

"What the hell Rogers? Why am I an asshole?"

"I don't know Buck, why are you an asshole?"

Tossing an armful of knives on his bed, Bucky plunks his hands on his hips, head tilted in genuine confusion as he stares at Steve.

"What am I – "

"You're not going alone Bucky."

"Whoever – "

"There's no guarantee you're not walking right into a god damn trap."

"No sh – "

"Why the hell can't you ever let anyone help you?"

"Steve, I – "

"Jesus Christ, you're an insufferable prick!"

Bucky looks on the verge of laughing.

"Are you done? Can I talk?"

Steve grabs a bottle of cherry Gatorade off Bucky's dresser and chucks it at him, growling when Bucky dodges the missile.

"Yeah I'm done. Jerk."

Bucky sighs patiently. "Steve. I'm not going in blind and obviously I need your help. Assumed the whole damn team was coming, so I'm not sure why the hell you're standing here. Stop being a little bitch and suit your self-righteous, spangly ass up."

Steve opens his mouth to argue, but – yeah, he's got nothing. Bucky raises his eyebrows and goes back to sorting knives, separating his favorites and setting them aside.

"Well," Steve clears his throat, still spoiling for a fight, but struggling for a reason. "Well okay then. Long as we're clear. About time you stopped acting like a self-sacrificing dumbass."

Bucky snorts. "You should talk. Meet me in the lab in 10, we leave in 40. Only got a few hours until the sun rises. I want this finished before then, I'm not leaving her there a minute longer."

"Good," Steve grunts, and turns to go. The door's almost closed when he hears the question.

"Steve?"

Spinning at the sound of Bucky's low voice, Steve's heart skips a beat when he sees the expression. The façade has broken, harsh emotion filtering through the cracks. In the entirety of their crazy fucked up lives, Steve's never seen his best friend look so desperate.

"If he kills her – I won't stop. Not until every last one of them is dead." A dark look settles on his face in place. "I'm telling you right now, don't get in my way. Don't make me stop."

Steve contemplates him for a long moment.

"I know you won't. And I'll help you do it."

Thank god for Steve Rogers. Bucky gives him a brisk nod and goes back to his knives.

*****

5 HOURS AND 25 MINUTES AFTER ABDUCTION

Bucky storms into Tony's lab, a wraith in head to toe black. The silver arm is emitting a constant whir, endlessly clicking and shifting, a physical representation of the anxiety pulsing through his veins.

"Stark, I need your help."

Tony looks up at his arrival, blanching at the image. Mission ready, Barnes is just a little terrifying.

Black tac pants are tucked into a pair of comfortably worn combat boots, and each boot holds two long serrated blades, rough black handles within easy reach. Strapped around both thighs are matching holsters, the right side holding a Sig Sauer P320, the left side holding a Beretta M9. A black utility belt sits low at his waist, holding extra clips of ammo, a cylindrical tube with five round mini-grenades, and a pack of bandages. Flat against each hip, are two fixed blade combat knives, and tucked into a holster at his lower back, sits his Glock.

Strangely, the most striking feature about the whole ensemble isn't the ridiculous amount of weaponry. It's the ordinary black tank top he wears.

Normally refusing to let anyone see the thick red scars streaking down his shoulder, he always ignores the curious questions or dismisses the thoughtful comments with an icy glare. But tonight, for the first time Bucky appears oblivious to the furtive glances and open stares.

Well, he's not actually oblivious. He's just totally out of fucks to give.

Rubbing both hands down his face, Tony slaps them on the table, fingers splayed wide. Disappointment rolls off him in waves, and Bucky thinks he knows what's coming.

"Stark, listen – "

"I'm sorry," Tony interrupts, curling his fingers into hard fists, rapping his knuckles restlessly against the table. "I screwed her tech up, that's on me. I wasn't – "

"Stop," Bucky holds his hands up. "Seriously. I'm sick and tired of us taking the blame for the shit these assholes do. Forget it and help me fix it."

Tony Stark and Bucky Barnes stare at each other for a long moment. Their relationship's been disproportionately burdened by a shared history, but with this common purpose, each is relieved to find the other willing to wipe the slate clean.

"Done," Tony says tightly. "What'd you need?"

"Remember the throwback outfits we had for that charity event? With Steve's stupid USO outfit and my Commandos uniform?"

"Sure," Tony says, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. "They're in storage. Why?"

"I need the blue jacket."

"You need it right now?"

"I need it right now," Bucky confirms.

"Are we stopping by Fashion Week on the way? You're not wearing it on this mission, are you?" Tony asks, bemused by the odd request.

"I most certainly am."

Tony purses his lips and chooses his words carefully.

"Uh, not that I don't condone wearing whatever makes you feel comfortable with your bad self, I mean clearly I love red since it highlights my boyish good looks and all, but you're supposed to be stealthy. That's kinda your thing. The blue is bright, Barnes. No clue why Howard ever made that dumbass design, they'll see you a mile away."

Bucky doesn't reply. Instead, he offers a slow smile and there's something so astoundingly sinister, it makes Tony's teeth chatter. Bone-chilling and lethal, he sees the anger simmering just below the surface, Bucky's murder face on full display.

"Ah. Right. So. The color was bright on purpose," Tony guesses. "You wanted to be seen."

"I did," Bucky affirms, his tone easy and conversational. "And now I want every one of those fuckers who took her to shit their pants when they see me. I want them to know exactly what's coming for them."

*****

6 HOURS AND 5 MINUTES AFTER ABDUCTION

Down in the cargo hold of the Quinjet, Bucky's screams grow louder and louder. Sitting quietly on the above level, the team remain stoic.

*****

6 HOURS AND 30 MINUTES AFTER ABDUCTION

The world around him is dark and blessedly quiet.

Alone now, Bucky leans a trembling forearm against the window, rests his aching forehead on the cold glass and takes a shallow breath. The beads of sweat dripping down his face finally begin to dry, so he shuts his eyes and lets his mind wander, searching for something sweet to calm the nightmare still wracking his body. Like a slideshow, the pictures in his brain flip at lightning speed, until they stop on his apartment in Brooklyn and zero in on the book you left tucked under a fuzzy velvet blanket.

The Book Thief.

When he watched you pick it up that day, Bucky fought back a smile. It's one of his favorites, something he's read a dozen times. When he feels anxious and fidgety, the story is soothing, the pages crinkled and bent, the poetic words smoothing the edges of his soul in a way he could never explain. Tonight though, Bucky begins to understand why the story holds so much appeal.

Through the horrors that made up the bulk of his life, first during his war, and later as the Soldier, a concept always played in the back of his mind.

Some people are born into this life with the desire to command, to play God. Some demand the role and some accept the burden when it's given. That was never him. No, Bucky was always asked to play one role above all others, one that led him to find a kindred spirit in the narrator of his favorite book.

Death.

It's been his calling card since the first day of Basic, when the US Army plucked him from obscurity and shoved a rifle in his peculiarly steady hands. From that day forward, he owned every life around him. Some he spared, some he protected. Some he reaped with a broken neck in the dead of night, some he bartered with a sharp blade and a sharper tongue. This has been the way of his life for so long, it boils down to a single truth.

Most of Bucky's life – has always been death.

Now he stands silently, accepting once again the bleak mantle laid across his shoulders and he thinks of you curled in his leather chair, warm in a patch of afternoon sun, your finger unconsciously marking his favorite quote as you drift to sleep, not realizing you equally loved the one line that always gave him pause.

"Even Death has a heart."

Most of Bucky's life has been death, but that's okay. Because those words are a poignant reminder that he can be so much more than the hollow shell he was. In this life with you, he finally understands how his head and his heart really are better together.

So, he holds the words in his mouth, tests them on his tongue, accepting that if the inevitable happens, he has a reason to come home.

"Even Death has a heart."

He certainly does, Bucky thinks wryly. He opens his eyes and gazes into the star strewn blackness, his heartbeat a steady rhythm driving him forward, back to you. And it's all hers.

*****

All you can think right now, is that this compound is freezing and you'll rage kick anyone who comes near you.

Slouched in the chair from earlier, a constant throb of pain shoots up your awkwardly bent arms, still secured behind you with a plastic zip-tie. Earlier struggles had done a number on your wrists, the unforgiving plastic slicing open the delicate skin and even now, blood oozes from the lacerations. It offers a small amount of warmth though, the sticky liquid running down your fingertips and catching under your nails.

You're a little disappointed when it cools.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

How did you not know?

You knew Jack. You knew him. He supported you, encouraged you. Offered helpful life advice even when you didn't ask for it and bought you a bottle of champagne to celebrate your first by-line. How could you not see that charming, amiable façade, hid a full-blown unhinged psychopath? How was it possible to be so utterly wrong about someone?

Maybe you should fire yourself for being the world's worst investigative journalist.

Huffing in frustration, pain flares anew when you shift, searching out a comfortable position. The stripes on your arms burn, your ribs are bruised, your jaw aches.

Everything hurts.

Bucky, where are you?

Closing your eyes, you let your mind drift, reaching for the imaginary comfort of your favorite place. An apartment in Brooklyn filled with piles of fuzzy blankets and soft pillows. Shelves of books and bowls of peanut M&Ms. The fresh scent of the river and Bucky's laughing blue eyes.

Did he see the video? Did he know where you were? Would he figure it out in time? The grim reality of this whole thing, was that you desperately wanted to leave, to be back in Brooklyn, warm and safe in his arms, but there was one glaring problem.

You wanted Bucky to find you.

You wanted Bucky to never face these people again.

Success was an impossible duality.

The faint sounds of movement outside your door grow louder, inaudible voices making you tense. Electronic beeps sound and the door whooshes open, revealing two men dressed in faded combat fatigues. One is tall and lanky, bald head shining under the fluorescent lights. He spares you a brief glance, before striding to the table and rifling through the knives and lengths of rope.

The other man is short and thin, with red hair buzzed military short. He gives you a little smirk as he ambles inside, making a show of locking the door and letting his eyes roam over you.

"Don't worry sweetheart, we're just here to tidy up," he says.

Sauntering over, he stops beside you, cocking his head and staring down, waiting for you to acknowledge him. Fixing a bored expression on your face, you ignore him, keeping your eyes trained on the door handle straight ahead.

"I'd look up if I were you," he advises. Heart pounding at the implied threat, you stare forward in silence. Suddenly his fingers are gripping your jaw, pressing into the bruises left by earlier knuckles, and the startled gasp melts into a groan as you struggle away from the rough hand.

Tears prick your eyes when you look up, meeting his mocking stare.

"There she is," he croons, pinching your jaw tighter. The pain makes your vision swim and you blink rapidly, fighting to stay conscious.

"I gotta say, we've been running real low on women around here. Be nice if you could help some of the guys out," he says casually. "Maybe later, once we get your man back under control. Hell, maybe he'll even have a go. I hear he'll do anything if you know the magic word."

Releasing you, he drags the tips of his fingers over your face, tracing the bruises, swirling his fingers through the blood still leaking from the gash high on your cheek. The pads of his fingers come away stained red and he brushes them over your mouth, painting your lips with the taste of salt and copper.

"How about it sweetheart?"

Eye level with you, his thumb is still rubbing your lip, waiting for an answer.

You can almost hear Bucky's voice begging you not to do it, but you're so god damn pissed off.

The taste of copper appears again, when you snap your teeth, sinking them into his finger. He screeches and jerks the hand away, hugging it to his chest as he stumbles backward.

"Bitch," he rasps furiously, raising his hand while you brace for the hit.

"Dude, would you get away from her? You're not allowed to mark her up," his partner cuts him off with a sharp rebuke. "Wait until the Asset's finished and packed away, you'll get a turn after. If there's anything left."

The nonchalant way they speak about you should make your skin crawl and it does. It really does.

But the way they speak about him, about your Bucky, as if he's nothing but a mindless animal and not the sweetest, snarkiest, most infuriatingly wonderful man in your life, makes you shake with anger.

"Makes your nervous, huh?" The redhead sneers, sucking petulantly on his damaged finger. "You should be. I hear he's a beast once he gets going. Brain's so fucking fried, he'll probably get confused halfway through, won't remember if he's supposed to fuck you or kill you, but either way – sucks to be you."

Nothing would be more enjoyable in this moment than stabbing this prick in the eye with a rusty knife, but you'll have to rain check. Taking a soul cleansing breath instead, you settle for your best Bucky Barnes murder face impression, letting a grim smile slowly lift your lips, while glaring in total silence.

"What the hell?" he grunts, unnerved at the creepy expression.

A long-suffering sigh comes from the bald man. "Stop talking and help me."

"Aw come on man, I'm just – "

The sound of a low sonic boom suddenly vibrates the floor beneath your feet.

Both men freeze, turning wide-eyed to each other.

"What the hell was that?"

"Something in the upstairs lab?" the other guesses wildly.

A long pause follows, the world quiet.

The second boom knocks the wind from you, raising dust from the floor. Lifting your eyes, you watch a long crack appear in the plaster ceiling, stilted bursts of movement as it spiders outward.

Silence follows again.

Then the distant pop of gunfire reaches your ears.

"Shit," you hear one of the men behind you whisper in panic.

The surge of happiness floods through you, promptly tempered by the panic of knowing Bucky was here, surrounded by these bastards once again.

"How'd he get here so fast? Bernstein said it'd take a couple days for him to figure it out!"

"How do I know? I wasn't planning to be here when he – "

There's a high-pitched scream in the hallway that's cut short.

Silence.

Suddenly the screeching whine of metal on metal rings through the room when something heavy slams against the locked door.

Once.

Twice.

"Fuck," the bald man spits out, lifting his gun and taking aim at the shuddering door.

Three times.

Next to you, the redhead draws a pistol from the holster under his arm, and you close your eyes when you feel the cold kiss of a metal barrel pressed against your temple.

Silence.

You can hear the ragged, panting of the man above you, deafening in the quiet room. He smells stale, like fear and cigarettes, the scents bleeding from his skin.

Silence stretches on, further and further, and you pray Bucky won't pass, that he knows, that he comes back.

The respite forces a shift in the room. Weapons lower slightly, muscles soften. Perhaps the Soldier has moved on.

A rookie mistake.

A catastrophic mistake.

With an ear-piercing metallic crunch, the door in front of you explodes open, ricocheting off the wall. A knife whistles through the air, cold steel whispering past your ear, before the wide blade lands in the man's neck with a wet thunk. The force of the throw knocks him flat on his back, fingers scrabbling uselessly at the rough hilt, and you squeeze your eyes shut when the gush of hot blood splatters across your face.

Roaring gunfire sets your ears ringing as the bald man fires five hasty bullets at the hulking presence in the doorframe, but each one is swatted away with a lazy flick of a metal hand. There's a sharp retaliatory crack, and the man wobbles for a second, before collapsing to the floor, a bullet drilled straight between his eyes.

Bucky steps into the room, gun raised while his eyes scan the corners, check the ceiling, sweep under the table. Swinging around, he catches the edge of the door and slams it shut, before grabbing a chair and jamming it beneath the busted handle.

When he stalks forward, a small fraction of your heart cowers in fear at the viciousness in his face. This is him, the unreal ghost story, the legend in the flesh.

"Don't look," he orders harshly, bending down to the twitching body beside you. Eyes closed, you turn away when you hear the cracking noise the knife makes as Bucky jerks it from the man's throat. A brief bloody gurgle follows, before it's effectively silenced, and you hear the sound of a body dragging across the concrete floor, landing with a soft thump.

Breathing fast, sharp little pants that make your chest ache, you keep your eyes closed and wait.

A moment later, you feel the light touch of cool metal on your swollen jaw. Opening your eyes, your heart leaps into your throat.

Leaning over you, he gently cups your face, patiently waiting for you to see him. And now, looking into those blue eyes, you wonder how on earth you could have ever been afraid, because this isn't him, he's not the Soldier.

This is your Bucky, through and through.

Reaching down to his boot, he pulls up a long knife, slipping it behind you to snap the plastic on your wrists. They feel like deadweight after being locked in that position, so he helps ease them forward, working out the aching kinks. Two quick flicks and your legs are free, and you see a minute tremble in his fingers when he returns the knife to his boot.

Kneeling before you, Bucky looks up, the penitent man with his heart on his sleeve. He swallows thickly, throat working as he gathers his courage.

"Hi," he finally whispers.

"Hey," you whisper back, voice cracking.

He sees the cuts and bruises scattered over your face, the raised welts down your arms. Reaches a tentative hand to your neck, fingers brushing over the thin line of rope burn, a broken sound rising from deep in his chest when he feels the raw texture of your skin. That sound alone is more painful than anything you've experienced, so you reach for him, cradling his face between your hands and his eyes close. Leaning into the touch, he turns to press his lips to the palm of your hand.

"You came for me," you murmur.

"I’ll always come for you," he responds, lifting blood-stained hands to cover yours, tangling your fingers together. "I love you. I love you so god damn much and I'm so sorry for everything."

Tears flood your throat at his declaration, at the heat behind his words.

"God you're such a pain in my ass Bucky Barnes, but I love you too. More than you can imagine," your voice is painfully hoarse, but his response makes each syllable worth the strain.

Speckles of blood cover one side of his face, sweat plasters strands of hair to his forehead, and there's white dust caught in the dark stubble covering his neck, but at your words, the grime and exhaustion fade away. Bucky's face lights up and his excited smile steals your breath.

"Really? Seriously?"

"Really seriously," you confirm with a smile, voice still weak but growing stronger. "Take me home Bucky."

"I will," he promises. "I'll get you out of here, I swear."

Taking your hand, he curls a warm arm around your waist and stands, lifting you carefully to your feet. Swaying at the move, you lean heavily into him and he wraps his arms around you, folding you close to his heavily padded chest.

And sure, the world may be falling to pieces outside that door, and god knows what you'll find when you leave, but in this moment, the only thing you need is the solid presence of the man surrounding you.

Comforting and stable and brimming with love, he is enough. He is everything.

Finally, reluctantly, he lets go. Stepping backward, he pulls his Glock from the holster at his back, cocks the hammer and flips it around. He presses the grip in your palm.

"Listen to me. We get out there, and I want you to shoot first, ask questions later. If you feel threatened at any point, pull the trigger, okay?"

"Okay," you agree.

"You remember everything I told you?"

It takes a moment, but you fish for the memory and reel it in, remembering that day at the Tower gun range.

"Yes. Squeeze the trigger, don't jerk. Both eyes stay open. Be ready for the recoil," you repeat.

He looks surprised but pleased at the automatic recitation. "I honestly didn't think you were paying attention that day. That was – kinda hot."

"Your face is kinda hot," you sass back instantly.

Pulling a fresh clip from his belt, Bucky snaps it into his Sig Sauer and grins. Watching his movement, you notice something new, something different.

"Hey. The blue jacket – it really did match my dress. I like it. You look really handsome in blue," you say softly, tugging his sleeve. "Sorry, I've been super behind on your compliments. Lots of catching up."

There's a blazing look on his face at your statement, and he wraps a gentle hand behind your neck and steps closer, resting his forehead against yours. Closing your eyes, you breathe each other in, a swirl of blood and death, of safety and protection.

"I love you," he murmurs the words again, reveling in the pleasure they bring.

"I love you," you answer, pressing a light kiss to his chin.

He hums at the response, giving himself one more delicious second to enjoy, before grudgingly stepping away. His voice shifts and he speaks quickly, sharing the basic intel necessary before leaving the room.

"There should be very few people left out there, I swept the majority of the lower level before I found you. There were people here, but it wasn't heavily guarded. Which makes me nervous. I don't know exactly what this place is now, but it used to be a secondary research lab. This is – it was here, where I met him. The first time."

It's clear who the him is in this scene. And while Bucky's voice is calm, you notice a flicker of confusion cross his face, and that small waver makes you want to find Jack and cut his heart out. Gripping his hands, you give him a small shake, forcing him to meet your eyes.

"Listen to me. You got out. You won. You never ever have to go back," he clings to your words, riveted by your conviction. "You came here to get me Bucky, but don't forget – I've got you too."

"I know," he agrees heatedly, pressing his lips to your knuckles. Then he shifts the chair blocking the door and squares his shoulders. "Alright, you ready?"

"Ready," you confirm. "Let's go fuck shit up."

Fingers pause on the handle and he sighs, equal parts exasperated and entertained. Glancing over, he looks like he wants to say something stern, but the serious expression melts and his shoulders shake with laughter.

"I really fucking missed you," he nudges you.

"Same," you whisper back, elbowing him in return.

Keeping one hand fisted in the smooth cloth of his jacket, you take a deep breath as he pulls open the door and steps outside.

Once in the hallway, his demeanor switches back to the man who kicked your door down only a few minutes before. He's overwhelming in this form, towering and tense, confidence in every move, so obviously capable it puts you at ease.

The corridors are eerily quiet, the tracks of fluorescent lights lining the ceiling giving off a steady buzz and the occasional flicker. The smell hits you in that moment, a strange burnt earth smell floating through halls, of gunpower and guts, and it makes your eyes water. People don't seem to talk much about what it's like on a battlefield, the visual horror and the stomach-churning smell. Now you see why.

Turning the corner, you see bodies scattered along the hall, the stench of blood a dense fog hanging heavy in the air. Bright red halos spill around surprised faces, and you see now that bullets leave very large holes. It draws your eyes with each body you pass, and your breath comes faster.

"Breathe through your mouth, not your nose," Bucky urges, his voice a grounding force as he propels you forward. "Look at me or close your eyes, okay? I won't let you fall."

"Yeah," you say weakly, turning your face toward calming blue. "Yeah, okay."

Rounding the next corner, the hall is thankfully empty of human remains. Bucky keeps his gun raised, eyes sweeping along. All seems deserted, until the whisper of rolling wood, like a closet sliding open reaches your ears and you see part of the wall begin to shift. Bucky swings around, but your finger already hovers dangerously over the trigger, and without thinking, you squeeze.

The bullet makes a solid thwack when it hits, and a body crumples to the floor.

A sickeningly familiar body in fact. One with a faded red tattoo crawling up his neck.

He groans, curling around himself, gasping as blood pumps from his abdomen. In one quick stride, Bucky is standing over the writhing body, and he stomps down, grinding his boot into the man's wrist. Screaming in pain as his bones are crushed, he drops his gun and Bucky kicks it away.

Walking slowly forward, with the smoking gun still raised, you stare down into the face of the man who's haunted your dreams for the better part of your life. Who spent the last several hours smiling while he slapped your face. While he snapped a leather strap across your arms. While he tightened a thin rope around your neck.

Who smiled the day he shot your father and took away the only person you had in the world.

Bucky's pistol feels perfect and right in your hand, as you point it at his face. Vengeance, retribution, revenge, whatever word fits, you're feeling it right now, surging adrenaline making you light-headed. Finger brushing the trigger, you steel yourself for the final shot, for the chance to end this on your terms.

The moment drags on and on, the sounds of his wet gasping the only thing in your ears.

"Come on little girl, do it!" he manages to taunt, choking on the words.

Pull the trigger. Pull the trigger. Pull the trigger.

This man killed your Dad. He tortured you. He destroyed your childhood.

Pull the fucking trigger!

Your arm begins to tremble, precious moments allotted for escape now lost as you stare down. A strangled sob suddenly breaks through and your heavy arm begins to lower. Tears fill your eyes, and you rub them furiously away, trying to raise your arm again.

And then Bucky reaches over, gently pushing the gun down. Looking at him, the tears spill over, sliding down your cheeks, dripping from the tip of your nose.

"You're not a killer," he says quietly. "Once you pull the trigger, you can't take it back. If you want to do it I'll help, but don't become something you're not, just because you think you should."

Firm and compassionate, his familiar voice shakes you out of the haze. Sniffling, you hesitate for another moment, before letting the gun relax at your side. With a deep breath, you turn away instead, snipping the strings tethering you to the survivor's guilt that's hung around your neck for so long.

Bucky nods encouragingly, and together you walk away from the bleeding man. Putting his arm around you, he pulls you in tight. Covers your ear and presses your head against his shoulder, muffling the world.

Then he raises his arm behind him and fires one quick shot.

The hallway goes quiet once more.

*****

Moments later, you turn another corner, relief palpable when you hear Bucky speak.

"We're close, there's an exit in two turns," he mutters, his body still tense, eyes wary as he tugs you along. He taps the comms in his ear, letting it go to the loudspeaker so you can hear as well. "Steve, we're near the north exit, where are you?"

Clear as a bell, Steve's voice comes through sounding annoyed. Gunfire sounds in the background and you hear the clatter of tin cans on concrete, followed by a slow hiss.

"We're coming, just – finishing something up. Apparently Nat decided this was the right time to test Stark's new gas grenades."

"Don't be lame Rogers, these guys are assholes," you hear Nat laughing in the background.

"Yeah no shit, just wondering why – ouch, god dammit – why you couldn't wait 10 seconds. Buck, we'll meet you at the rendezvous point in 10 minutes. Did you find Bernstein?"

"Negative, no sign, I think he ghosted from – "

The comms crackles and goes off. Bucky taps it impatiently, but it stays quiet.

Stark technology will not fail a second time and it takes a split second to connect the dots.

Something is happening.

Swearing fiercely, Bucky pushes you behind him, his arm keeping you pressed against his back.

"Stay against me. Do not move away," he grits out, eyes scanning the empty corridor, searching, searching, searching.

He hears the sound before he sees it happen. It raises the hair at his neck, and with sizzling burst of heat, a web of electricity blooms before you, a curtain of transparent white light. Spinning around, you find the same thing behind, a crackling fence of fire trapping you together.

"Fucking hell," Bucky hisses, eyes whipping back and forth, assessing the electric barriers. Hesitating slightly, he stretches a tentative metal finger forward.

"Bucky, don't – " the warning is still leaving your lips when his hand makes contact. The harsh zap flings his arm back.

"Dammit, I didn't think these'd still be here," he growls in frustration. His fingers curl into a hard fist, metal plates whirring as they reset after the electric shock.

Looking through the waves of energy, you can see beyond them, but there's no possibility of passing. "What are they?"

"Fry zones. Barricades to trap people," he mutters. "When a building was under attack, they were set up like alarms. Someone must have triggered them earlier, because I killed everyone else in the building."

"Well that's just awesome," you mumble, pressing close to him. Bucky turns to face you, hugging you against his chest.

"Okay, it's alright. The team are coming this way, they'll find us when we miss the rendezvous, so we just wait. Can you do that for me?"

"Yeah," your voice is muffled against the thick fabric.

Bucky leans down to press a feather-light kiss to your forehead, the barest hint of a touch. For a second, you wonder if the sound of electricity is still the walls around you, or if it's the feel of his mouth on your skin. Snuggling closer, you relax in his arms, while his hands rub long, soothing strokes up your back.

For a long, happy moment, all is well. The world is right. A bright future together is so close.

But inevitably, it doesn't last.

The measured, deliberate click of dress shoes on concrete rises above the steady hum of electricity, and Bucky's body goes rigid. His arms tighten around you, but when you raise your head, his jaw is clenched and his face is white, sweat already slicking his forehead. His eyes are fixed on something above you, beyond you, and still clasped in his arms, you slowly turn.

Jack stands on the other side of the barrier, his face flooded with desperate, hungry longing as he gazes at Bucky. He licks his lips and comes closer to the cage, and even through the thick fabric of his jacket, you feel Bucky's heart racing.

"So, here we are then. After all this, there he is," Jack breathes fervently, moving closer, unable to help himself. "I see him under there Barnes. Let him out to play. Let him come home."

Bucky lets go of you, tugging you behind him and extending both arms, widening his stance.

"Drop the barricade and let us go," he says calmly. "She has nothing to do with this."

With a snort, Jack shakes his head.

"Wrong. She has everything to do with it. It's because of her that you're even here. She's a weakness. She's your weakness, don’t you see that? You think you're in control, but she stole that from you. Look at you! Following her here like a pathetic dog. Jesus Christ, what did you do to my Soldier, you've ruined him Barnes."

"Seriously Jack, eat a dick you dramatic piece of shit," poking your head around Bucky, you try to move in front of him, but he holds you in place.

"Don't, it's not worth it," he murmurs warningly.

Jack looks amused for a moment, but it fades as he considers an idea.

"She's scrappy, I'll give her that. We could make a deal you know – give me back my Soldier and I'll let him keep her if he wants. She can be his pet, something soft and breakable to entertain him. Maybe that's what was missing before."

Bucky feels a swoop in his stomach as he considers Jack. Hearing his voice now, he's baffled how in seven hells he could have ever forgotten this man. It's so clear, so god damn obvious he wants to scream. But in the midst of that anger, Sam Wilson's voice pops in his head, and Bucky suddenly remembers the closing remarks of his first group therapy session down at the VA.

"Some things you leave behind, some you carry home. It's your decision what you need to let yourself heal."

Bucky understands it then, the choice he made. The only way he could let himself heal, to get better and move on, was to let go of the horrors in his past. Including this one.

"No deal you sick fuck," he says flatly. "Let us go or I swear to God, I'll rip you to pieces with my bare hands."

Jack shrugs at the response.

"Alright then, if that's what you want," he steps even closer to the barrier, so close you can see the gleaming white of his eyes. "I gave you a chance, so – just know that what happens next is your fault Barnes, it's all on you. I hope you remember that. In the end."

Jack reaches behind him, grasping for something in his pocket, and Bucky crouches slightly, a snarl on his face as he settles into battle stance.

When his hand reappears, Jack's holding a thick paperback book.

He smiles.

*****

Next Chapter

*****

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky fic #bucky barnes fic #safe with me

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