“Have you ever heard of this? They say the sun is seen only in daytime and the moon in nighttime. They say the sun and the moon cannot be seen together. But look closely. You see… they are in the same sky together, right? Even though you cannot see your father anymore, he will always be with you.
I have so much to say to you. Ga Eun… Like this sun waiting for the moon, I will always be with you. Just like that moon, I may not be able to see you clearly, and like that moon you may change, but however you do, I will protect you.
I hope you remember that I am always at your side. You are not alone.”
bst japanese version has me dying so i punched this out in ten minutes bc im desperate despite being killed by rl hahakjfdlsjd sugakookie PLEASE ;_; will do tags and asks and messages later i promise im running late as it is but i NEEDED to write something its just OTL im a goner…
i love you in ways i thought were impossible; i love you.
it goes like this: a boy falls in love. a boy falls in love with another boy, makes a home in the heart of six and they are happy.
for a while.
in jungkook’s hair: the cold warm grip of yoongi’s fingers. in jungkook’s eyes: the secret laughter of yoongi’s joy. in jungkook’s mouth: a kiss a kiss a kiss that sets him dreaming all the time.
a piano that sings for both of them is safe enough, dangerous enough. jungkook remembers a piano from childhood, how he wanted to destroy it because it stopped speaking to him. and it’s not that yoongi is the answer to all his mistakes, but sometimes when yoongi’s elbow invades his personal space at the bench, it feels like he’s the answer to some of them. lights burst and jungkook throws his head back, his throat a sharp line of trust in the on and off dark. he feels yoongi smile the same as he feels their friends cluster in around them: the tide incoming.
it goes like this: a boy cannot save himself but he tries to save other people.
yoongi shouldn’t taste like blood and jungkook tells him so. yoongi laughs red but it sounds like crying when he mumbles, “look who’s talking.”
when yoongi isn’t home, he goes to the same motel, the same room, the same far-down place in his heart. jungkook finds him because of course he finds him.
reaching him is another matter.
sometimes jungkook lies down on the bed and waits to be noticed and sometimes waiting is all that happens.
it feels out of order; they feel out of order. on the ground: glass that is glass but is also a mirror, water and blood, and roses grave with longing.
if red roses are for destined love, they say blue is just as true.
just not quite as fortunate.
what hurts jungkook the most: yoongi’s trembling hands pushing through jungkook’s hair, yoongi’s trembling mouth against his split lip murmuring how sorry he is, asking jungkook to do the one thing jungkook fears the most.
it’s not that he doesn’t see the car.
* * *
in yoongi’s dreams, jungkook lies in the grass at his side. namjoon is near. they are all together with their individual problems. maybe this is true in yoongi’s waking world as well.
if only he could be sure.
say jungkook followed him like a love story like a ladder missing so many rungs the reach became almost too far. say something like that.
then yoongi follows jungkook like a ghost like a love story that remembers losing and wants to know if the other thing is still possible.
city to city they all look the same; motel after motel.
every time yoongi passes blue roses it rains.
sometimes yoongi hears a whistle and wonders who’s calling him. he hurries through the storm slicked streets, and does what makes sense: breaks into the nearest piano.
tries to connect.
he has this memory (and he’s even fairly sure it’s real) of kissing jungkook shadow light across his bruises, has this memory of jungkook’s lips on his fingertips like some kind of worship, has this memory of laughing together as the lights went bright brighter brightest and then…
every bed is incomplete, but that is to be expected.
under his grip, jungkook is not jungkook though yoongi doesn’t know why. he pulls him back by the neck of his jacket, pleads, rasps loud whispers, and yells even though he tried to promise that he’d never yell at him again.
when he holds jungkook fully from behind, he remembers jungkook’s hands gripping the back of his jacket days weeks months years ago.
“jungkook,” he holds him tighter. “jungkook—
namjoon is here but he’s not the namjoon yoongi swears he knows. this namjoon takes care of jungkook, which fine is part of the namjoon that yoongi knows, but this namjoon also won’t help him escape.
“can’t,” he corrects.
yoongi, seated at the head of a long table across from him, adjusts jungkook in his arms: sleeping.
eyes falling to the empty glass, yoongi can’t tell if he wants to cry or disappear. neither seems especially useful.
“i don’t think he recognizes me,” he admits, though to argue, jungkook shifts in his hold, murmurs incoherently, and sighs.
when yoongi looks up, namjoon has a glass to his lips. yoongi watches the movement of his throat, the press of his mouth, the almost cat-like open close open of namjoon’s eyes. somehow when he speaks his voice fills the room, outfits it in some new feeling of being Elsewhere without going Anywhere, without raising it louder than a thought.
“that’s not true at all.”
outside the window, the flaring lights make yoongi feel dizzy. he cards his fingers through jungkook’s hair, watches namjoon’s profile and thinks a hundred runaway things.
in yoongi’s heart: a piano, a fight he never wins, a boy he always loves, a dream handled wrong on all ends.
yoongi asks him to wake up all the time, has flashes of memory that tell him in another moment jungkook asked the same of him.
walking into the room where jungkook stares at nothing in particular that yoongi can see, he kneels as he places his hands on him, thumbs his shoulders and upper arms, digs in a little deeper than the norm, waits. but jungkook doesn’t look at him, still enthralled with what is in front of him, or isn’t, and it’s only as yoongi drags him out, jungkook’s wrist sharp in his hold, that he notices the blue rose tucked behind jungkook’s ear.
what it amounts to: one dream fractured.
slowly quickly yoongi cannot find the motel. he runs down the same long road and bites through his own tears every time there’s blood on the highway.
he remembers: jungkook looking in the mirror sometimes, staring at his upper back like there was something he was missing.
“people don’t fly,” yoongi said to namjoon who shrugged, shrugged and said,
“and dreams don’t last forever.”
the whistling takes shape the same as the view out an airplane window: suddenly clear but no less tangible. he would have to be on the ground for that; he would have to be a sound for that.
when yoongi can no longer run, he walks, and when he can no longer walk he crawls.
so it goes.
for a time.
it’s not that he doesn’t see the car.
* * *
looking out at the water, jungkook jumps a little as yoongi collides into him, throws an arm around him…and smiles.
it seems the love thing to do, to smile back.
it also seems…familiar.
he wonders if everyone hears a piano when yoongi touches them, if everyone feels words that aren’t happening but are definitely there all the same, if everyone knows that yoongi’s dream happens but only in pieces.
when yoongi is sure jungkook has fallen asleep, he drags himself along the grass until he can press his mouth to jungkook’s crown, kiss him hello.
the truth: the dream.
the someday: laughing at a piano in a sunlit room whose walls are blue but not sad.
on the couch of an abandoned warehouse, jungkook listens to the catch of yoongi’s fire and imagines he’s trying to tell him something.
in a street where jungkook lies collapsed against a building, yoongi is afraid to touch him and is trying to tell him something.
at the piano where they come closest: a song they both know without having learned.
this one quiet idea.
love is not over.
please wake up.
on a pier yoongi slips his arm over jungkook’s shoulders, jungkook holds his hand up to the light –
– and dreams.
the ocean waves they would see, if they looked closer, are made of roses.
Summary: Peter tries to be a hero, but Aunt May knows that he carries the heavy weight of the world on his shoulders that make it even harder for him to breathe.
Word count: 581
A/N: (I’m assuming the fight in Spiderman: Homecoming takes place in Washington) This is my first Peter Parker one shot that took me around 5 hours to finish so feedback would be great!
Credit to gif owner
Peter tries to be a hero, but Aunt May knows that he carries the heavy weight of the world on his shoulders that make it even harder for him to breathe, so he takes a seat on his bedroom window to get some fresh air, his legs dangling off the apartment building. The sun sets to a dark red with a tinge of pink and he gazes toward the sky, clutching the red mask into his fist and he almost wants to get rid of it. It came to a point where everything was just too much for him to handle. Even the sound of his phone ringing in his front pocket seemed to bother him, so Peter decides to ignore it.
Somehow, he starts thinking about Y/N and how he ended things between them weeks ago. There were times when Aunt May or even Tony would ask him how they were doing and he’d always reply with a shrug or a muttered “We’re fine” until it came to a point where they just knew that their relationship was going downhill.
Peter hears a knock on the door and sees Aunt May peaking through the small crack. “Someone’s here to see you.” She says, her lips curving upwards before leaving the room. Tony’s seated on the couch, chewing on another slice of Aunt May’s walnut and date loaf before sending him a grin.
“Peter!” Tony appeared amuse to see him again considering that it’s been awhile since the fight in Washington. “Listen kid, I don’t know what’s been going on with you lately,” he swallows. “But whatever this is, you can’t deal with it alone.” He nods toward the kitchen and that’s when Peter spots her:
He catches his breath, not knowing whether to yell at Tony for bringing her here for God knows what reason or cry because he gets to be with her again and maybe, just maybe he’d have her back in his arms by the end of the day.
“We’ll leave you two alone.”
“Hey,” Peter spoke. “How have you been?”
“Coping.” She nods, taking a seat on the stool. She’s been partying again, going out with Liz and Michelle and whoever else asks her if she’d want to hang out- desperately wanting to keep her mind off of Peter and her failing grade in chemistry.
It was silent for awhile, the tension and possibly heartache growing in the room. He decides to speak up, wanting to get things over with.
“I’m sorry.” They both say at the same time. Peter looks at her in shock.
“It was my fault, every piece of it. Why do you blame yourself?”
“I was being selfish, Peter. The world needs you. It’s what you do.”
Her selflessness makes him run his fingers through his hair. “I wasn’t enough. You deserve more than what I give you.” Y/N shakes her head, almost in disbelief. “I’m not good for you.” Peter wants her to punch him and scream and it frustrates him because she’s not angry.
“Stop beating yourself up. Please.”
He realizes that she was all the strength he needed during his downfall, that he fights for her, for Aunt May, for the team and for the rest of the world.
“I don’t want to lose you again.”
And he was right. She was back in his arms with eyes closed and even breaths, every ounce of fear and worry fading away.
Owl hoot carried through the evening air. For most, the night would have required a coat, or at the very least, a cloak. Frost covered the aged windows of a small, unadorned single-room dwelling near the lakeside. However, the death knight that walked along the small, overgrown path to the house would have had no need. More frost covered him and spread outwards around him with each step than what was there naturally, jagged lines of white that seemed reminiscent of spider webs upon the ground.
Overhead, clouds covered the sky, masking the moon’s visage from the landscape below. Light filtered in from time to time as they parted, giving hints as to her splendor, but just as quickly as a ray slipped through, the blanket quickly closed the gap. The Sin'dorei, however, needed no light. His domain was the darkness. Carried back through the shadowlands, the night was as clear as the day. Death needed no light to find its way on its journey through the living and nor did he.
A stray gap opened, illuminating Lledwyn Lomeriel’s face. Instead of its normal passive, stoic expression, he wore something else. He glowered, his eyes set upon the door of the small hamlet. His fist at his side clenched and unclenched, over and over, as if it had a mind of its own. He didn’t bother hiding his anger as he finally reached the door, his hand moving up and icy power racing through him as he pushed upon the wood, rather than simply opening it. The door seemed to buckle, for the briefest of moments, before imploding into the room. Splinters and pieces of the oak barrier rained into the small quarters, clattering against the wall, fireplace, table and the small, single bed.
To say that he was frustrated would be as saying that the lake was wet. Lledwyn hated wasting his time. He hated working towards an end only to see that robbed from him. Their game interrupted, never to be finished.
The Sin'dorei closed his eyes, attempting to find the calm through the storm of fury that raged through him. It slipped through his fingers like wisps of frost through the night air that drifted off his armor. Before he’d realized it, he found himself punching through the bricks of the fireplace, literally demolishing it with his plated fist. For a brief moment, he hesitated, and then decided it didn’t matter. He wouldn’t be back here for awhile.
He felt rage over being implicated in Celestine’s death. He felt the sudden white-hot surge of power fill him as he grabbed the table and tore the thing in half, as if it were a sheet of paper, tossing the pieces aside. Who was this ebon who betrayed one of his own? Who was this other who had so casually tossed Lledwyn to the Wolves and expected to get away with it? Everything that he’d worked for could be lost. Everyone that he protected now at risk because of their association with him. The agitation that filled him as he had to explain himself to Feloirus and provide alibi was momentarily overwhelming.
The death knight couldn’t help the snarl as he hissed, “I will find you and I will see you destroyed for this, Ebon.” He had no name to use, only the drawing that Selikka had brought to them. But, it would have to be enough.
He’d lectured Neri so often about control, about finding the inner peace and the ability to mask those emotions that Arthas had changed so readily to make them into better weapons. Now, his true nature showed. A monster lurking just below the surface, ready to break free when Lledwyn couldn’t find the serenity of the void. Waiting for the time when it could take out its frustrations upon the world, for when it didn’t have to hold back. When it could relive the time when he was a Scourgelord and granted the leave to do exactly as he wanted. The world spun a mix of red and black as the room seemed to dissolve into the destructive force of a tempest born of the fury of the blizzards in Icecrown.
When he finally calmed himself, when he’d caged the monster once again and chained the beast back to its dungeons, he went back outside, leapt upon Frostclaw and took back to the air, going back to the main buildings of Erudition. For a moment, he felt regret about the small dwelling, thinking that it would be up to his sister and Auro to repair the damage inside once he gave it to them, but then remembered all the times that he’d had to clean up his keep after one of her experiments.
I was going to put a readmore but this is actually pretty dang short sooo… no readmore. I hope you like it though. :)
Marinette stepped out of the shop, the stillness of the city pressing into her ears. It was quiet and soft. Paris was usually a lot louder than this, but with the added snow, everything had been blanketed with what seemed to be pure peace.
The snowflakes swirling slowly and thickly in the air were quiet as well, not disturbed by a whistling wind, only floating at their own pace while the yellow light of street lamps caught them on the way towards the ground.
She took a few steps forward, the snow compounding beneath her weight with pleasant gentle noises, and her boots left their designs in the trail behind her. She held her paper bag close to her puffy coat, trying to silence any noise she might make from it, as well as keep the pastries inside as warm as they could be. In her coat pocket, pressed securely against her by her arm, was a thermos of hot chocolate. Its warmth seeped through the layers of her clothes and made the skin on her arm and stomach tingle a little.
The longer she walked down the deserted street, the colder she got, and she began to puff out air that would rise up to her face and relieve the numbness of her nose for a moment. By the time she reached her destination, her nose was running a little, and she had to pause for a moment to wipe it. She looked up into the pure white sky, masking the black night with snow and city lights, and she could now see the base of the Eiffel Tower in the distance before it disappeared up into the sky.
She turned the other way and faced the Notre Dame, and squinted into the snow to see the figure she knew she had seen from her balcony, sitting at the doors with their knees up to their chin. Marinette took careful steps forward, making sure to be as quiet as possible, and she was soon standing before the person she’d recognized from very far away.
She didn’t want to scare him, so she just stood there for a moment, swaying a little, before he looked up, surprise written on his face.
“Hey.” she said, nodding her head a little.
“…Hello.” he said back quietly, looking a little confused.
Marinette then sat down beside him on the steps, trying to ignore how the icy cold cement bit through her clothes and into her skin, knowing that it would soon become a little warmer.
“I saw you from my room… you looked like you might need a little company.” she said, smiling at him. He blinked at her, his face still a little blank. She carefully unwrapped her arms, taking out the thermos from her pocket and showing him the paper bag. She reached in and pulled out a warm pastry, handing it to him and warning him on the melted chocolate inside that might burn his tongue.
They sat in silence for a few minutes, eating their pastries and quietly handing the thermos of hot chocolate back and forth. Then Chat said quietly, not looking at her but at the snow floating quietly in front of them,
“Do you ever feel like you just want to keep walking and walking forever from your house… just so you can go somewhere else… and be someone else? Sometimes I do that. Today was the farthest I’ve gotten. It’s not really that impressive of a length though.”
Marinette rested her head onto her crossed arms and looked at him carefully until he continued, saying,
“I guess you probably don’t feel like that. I’ve met your parents before. I don’t know why you’d ever want to leave your house.”
She thought for a moment, chewing on her cheek gently before looking over at him and saying quietly,
“Well I left to come see you, didn’t I?”
He smiled at her sadly.
“Yeah but you’re going back.”
“…I know. But not yet.”
Her hand reached out and covered the top of his, and she squeezed it lightly, settling her head against his shoulder.
His head dropped down onto hers and she didn’t say anything when she felt a warm tear hit the top of her scalp and run down to the roots of her hair.