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causeiwanttoandican · 3 years

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The Times

Prince William’s close friends on what makes him tick — and why he’s not trapped

March 20 2021, 6:00pm

As the world devours the Harry and Meghan interview, what’s going on with the brother who was left behind? He’s embracing his destiny, William’s close friends tell the Sunday Times royal correspondent, Roya Nikkhah

Next month Prince William will celebrate his tenth wedding anniversary — the day he became a duke and embarked on the most formative decade of his life. Back then, the tentative 28-year-old newlywed was not ready to devote himself entirely to royal duties. A decade on, he is in a very different position.

The job of being the heir to the heir to the throne, of finding a balance between life and duty, is difficult at the best of times. These are not the best of times. In their bombshell interview with Oprah Winfrey this month the Duke and Duchess of Sussex accused the royal family and the institution around it of racism and callous disregard for a suicidal newcomer, among many other damning charges. Harry the spare also declared that William was trapped within “the system … My brother can’t leave that system, but I have.”

In the immediate aftermath of the interview William was “reeling”, a source close to the duke says. “His head is all over the place on it.” Four days after the Sussexes had their say, he hit back during an engagement with the Duchess of Cambridge at a school in east London. Asked about accusations of racism, William retorted with restrained fury: “We’re very much not a racist family.” He also confirmed that he hadn’t spoken to Harry yet, “but will do”. By the weekend it emerged they had “been in contact”.

William is thought to have been less than thrilled a few days later when that conversation made global headlines after the American presenter Gayle King, a close friend of the Sussexes, revealed live on air that it had not been an easy chat: “I did actually call them to see how they were feeling,” she told viewers. “Harry has talked to his brother and he had talked to his father too. The word I was given was that those conversations were not productive.” The intervention prompted a senior royal source to say that “none of the households will be giving a running commentary on private conversations”.

A close friend of both brothers says Harry’s “trapped” comment was “way off the mark”, insisting that William does not see it that way. “He has a path set for him and he’s completely accepting of his role. He is very much his grandmother’s grandson in that respect of duty and service.”

When the Queen turned 90 nearly five years ago William admitted “the challenge” that “occupies a lot of thinking space” is how to “modernise and develop” the royal family, and make it “relevant in the next 20 years’ time”. Twenty years now seems like a very long time. In the hours and days after the Oprah broadcast, William was at the heart of all discussions with the Queen and the Prince of Wales about how to respond to the Sussexes. He was keen that the issue of race should be acknowledged in the Queen’s statement as an area of particular concern that “will be addressed”.

William has always railed against being a “ribbon-cutter royal” and the issues he champions — mental health, battling racism in football, homelessness and his ramped-up eco-warrior role — are a window into where the future King William V will take the House of Windsor. A friend says: “He’s a small-c conservative. He values tradition and the need to go around the country, but he realises he can make a difference beyond traditional royal duties.”

Today royal popularity is, to put it mildly, in a state of flux, but William’s strategy has been working. Post-Oprah, he ranks just below the Queen at the top of a YouGov poll of royals. Not so long ago such a position looked like a long shot, when the “workshy Wills” and “reluctant royal” tags plagued him and he was clocking up fewer days of royal work than his nonagenarian grandparents. Pictures of him hitting the ski slopes and clubs of Swiss resort Verbier in March 2017, missing a Commonwealth service that even the Duke of York flew back for, didn’t help.

After the lasting PR gold dust of the Cambridges’ 2011 wedding and the births of Prince George and Princess Charlotte, it was the first public nosedive for William, who was still working as an air ambulance pilot. “That pissed him off,” a friend says. “He was leaving home at 5.30am, getting home after dark and saving lives in between, but people were still being critical of his commitment to his [other] job.” William was based at Cambridge airport with East Anglian Air Ambulance for two years, where he was on call for “some very sad, dark moments”, often working “on very traumatic jobs involving children”. He later acknowledged that “after I had my own children … the relation between the job and the personal life was what really took me over the edge, and I started feeling things that I have never felt before”. But it was a job he loved, because of “working in a team … that’s something that my other job doesn’t necessarily do. You are more out there on your own.”

A former royal aide says: “Immediately after their wedding he had a very clear idea of the pace at which he wanted to take things.” William was adamant he wouldn’t curtail his day jobs, first as an RAF search and rescue helicopter pilot in Anglesey and then with the air ambulance. “If you’re not careful, duty can weigh you down an awful lot at an early age,” he said, insisting he didn’t “lie awake waiting or hoping” to be king. He delayed full-time royal duties until the autumn of 2017, when, acknowledging the Cambridges’ future required more time at “monarchy HQ”, they moved from Norfolk to London and George started school.

He’d had to fight his corner for the air ambulance role. A source close to William reveals “there were lots of raised eyebrows in the Palace when he wanted to do that. While the Queen and his father backed him, some senior courtiers questioned whether it was becoming of a future king to be doing a middle-class role, hanging out with ordinary people. They thought he wouldn’t stick it out, he’d find it boring, or was doing it out of stubbornness to put off royal duties. He was pretty bloody-minded about it, and determined that other people’s expectations in the media or the system shouldn’t get in the way of his own values.” In the wake of Harry and Meghan’s interview much has been speculated about the extent to which royal life is dictated by Palace officials, but it is clear that William has managed to forge his own path. Who knows how high those senior courtiers’ eyebrows rose in 2019, when William spent three weeks shadowing the spooks of MI5, MI6 and GCHQ to learn how they combat terrorism. He insisted on being called “Will” and lunching in the canteen every day.

Those closest to the duke say his resistance to the idea of full-time royal duties stemmed not only from a desire to achieve something for himself but also from a fear of the impact on his family life. Miguel Head worked alongside the prince for ten years until 2018, as William, Kate and Harry’s communications secretary and later as William’s private secretary. “In his role everyone’s going to tell you you’re marvellous,” Head says. “The RAF and air ambulance jobs were about knowing what his abilities were, what he was good at in his own right. Without that he’d still be hankering for something that was his own.” After children came along he says William developed a “visceral determination to give them a life of consistency and privacy that were missing for large parts of his own childhood”.

Another close aide says the plan enabling the Cambridges to have a few years of “normal” married life, away from the full-time glare of the royal spotlight, paid dividends: “For years, the battles around privacy and paparazzi intrusion were all-consuming. He wanted to know, could we build them a credible plan allowing them a family life while slowly increasing the profile of official life? It took years to get there, but the success of that plan allowed him to be confident and content in his role. He’s not worried about his kids’ privacy any more and he has been able to be the kind of dad he wants to be.”

“Marriage maketh the man,” a friend says. “Catherine’s groundedness has been the critical anchor. And where his relationship with the media was once all fury and frustration, he now understands using the power of modern media, so the public feel they’re getting enough access.”

The children’s birthdays are marked with photographs — often taken by the Duchess of Cambridge — and there has been a noticeable increase in their public appearances of late. While not “officially” staged, William was happy to let George and Charlotte be photographed at their first Aston Villa match with Mum and Dad in 2019. Pandemic set pieces have shown the family clapping for the NHS on the steps of Anmer Hall, their Norfolk home, and, before Christmas, their first red-carpet appearance together for an evening at the panto with key workers and their children.

As they celebrate their anniversary on April 29, friends who joined the Cambridges on their wedding day tell me the partnership’s equal footing is key to its success. “They’ve got a solid relationship and she gives him confidence,” one says. “There is no jealousy, no friction, they are happy for each other’s successes.” In private William talks as passionately about Kate’s work as his own campaigns, and takes pride in her growing confidence on the public stage.

William has said his grandmother’s approach to being head of state is to take “more of a passive role. She’s above politics and is very much away from it.” He doesn’t plan to meddle in party politics, but he was not happy about the unenviable position the government put the Queen in with the 2019 proroguing of parliament, which was later ruled to be unlawful and forced an apology from Boris Johnson to the monarch. Constitutionally the Queen had no alternative other than to act on the advice of her government, but in William’s reign there will be “more private, robust challenging of advice”. His last three private secretaries — Christian Jones, Simon Case, now the cabinet secretary, and Head — had all worked in government departments, helping William to keep his finger on the political pulse. The new incumbent, the Whitehall heavyweight Jean-Christophe Gray, who served as David Cameron’s spokesman, continues in that vein.

The former Conservative leader Lord Hague of Richmond was last year appointed as chairman of the Royal Foundation to develop William’s work on mental health, the environment and a raft of new support programmes for key workers. “People internationally and nationally respect his credibility and knowledge on these issues,” Hague says. “He’s very persuasive. You only see that behind the scenes. He knows what he wants and he goes out to get it.”

Charlie Mayhew, chief executive of the conservation charity Tusk, has known William since he was 20. In 2005 Tusk and Centrepoint, the homelessness charity championed by Princess Diana, were the first patronages William took on. “In those early years I kept having to pinch myself to remember how young he was,” Mayhew says. “He was much more mature than his age and very aware of his destiny coming down the track. He had a sincerity, but never without wicked humour. His teasing is merciless.”

William knows some people see his passion for conservation as a posh man’s part-time hobby, but Mayhew says the duke’s “genuine and huge knowledge” undermines that view. “He’ll call and WhatsApp to flag up something that I haven’t even seen in the conservation space. He can be impatient to get things done.” Last year William launched the Earthshot prize, a £50 million Nobel-style environmental award to galvanise solutions to global problems over the next decade. He believes “conservation and the environment … shouldn’t be a luxury, it’s a necessity”, Mayhew says. “That’s the drum he wants to beat. He’s got a megaphone and wants to use it in the most constructive way. He speaks for that next generation and I think they can relate to it.”

A turning point for William was his 2015 official visit to China, one of the world’s largest consumers of ivory, where he met President Xi and condemned the illegal wildlife trade as a “vicious form of criminality”. Unlike his father, who has refused to visit the People’s Republic over its human rights record and treatment of Tibet, William’s view was that despite the UK’s fractious relationship with China, “we’ve got to engage”.

“It was very political, raising the illegal wildlife trade in China. I’m sure the diplomats were having all sort of nightmares in advance,” says Mayhew, who joined the duke in China. “But he was gathering greater confidence that he had the ability to be a mouthpiece for the issue.” Mayhew reveals that while William was visiting Japan before China, he still hadn’t secured a meeting with Xi. “But when the Chinese saw all the high-level meetings he was having in Japan, they changed their minds and Xi made time for him.” Later that year, as Xi began a UK state visit, William appeared on Chinese television condemning the ivory trade. Two years later China banned the trade.

In 2018 he spent months prepping for his most high-stakes overseas visit yet, to Israel and the occupied Palestinian territories that summer. Navigating the diplomatic tightrope walk between Jerusalem and the West Bank, he visited a Palestinian refugee camp in Ramallah. As he travelled back to Jerusalem, he changed his speech for a reception with young Israelis and Palestinians to strengthen his solidarity with the latter: “My message tonight is that you have not been forgotten … The United Kingdom stands with you.” It was a bold move, but both sides hailed his visit a success and the officials breathed a sigh of relief. To the delight of the travelling press pack, William’s engagements on the final day were brought forward, allowing the diplomat duke and president of the Football Association to land back in the UK in time to watch England’s World Cup tie.

Ask him if he’s a peacemaker and William will laugh, saying Kate is the mediator. But according to a source close to William and Harry, his bridge-building skills were deployed in the lead-up to Harry and Meghan’s wedding in 2018, when tensions in the Kensington Palace household, then still shared by the brothers, were running high: “Every time there was a drama, or a member of staff on the verge of quitting, William would personally try and sort it out.”

As the brothers clashed more over the substance and style of their work, and the family hierarchy that William is a stickler for but Harry is less keen on, a split was inevitable. When they finally divided their households in March 2019, it had been a long time coming. But he never thought that a year later his brother would up sticks for America.

The pair went for a long walk to clear the air after the “Sandringham summit” when the Megxit deal was hammered out, but did not part shores as friends. What upset William the most was Harry and Meghan’s surprise launch of their “Sussex Royal” website before the summit, which featured their blueprint wish list of a part-time, commercial royal future. Later, when the Queen decreed they could no longer use “royal” in their future ventures, their website hit back with this bold statement: “While there is not any jurisdiction by The Monarchy … over the use of the word ‘Royal’ overseas, the Duke and Duchess of Sussex do not intend to use ‘Sussex Royal’ … or … ‘Royal’ …” Both “the content and that it’s still online is staggering”, a senior royal source says. “That was it for William, he felt they’d blindsided the Queen in such an insulting and disrespectful way,” says a source close to him, who reveals it was still at the forefront of William’s mind at the Commonwealth Day service one year ago. It was the Sussexes’ final engagement as working royals, and the froideur between them and the rest of the family was unmistakable.

It is a year since the Sussexes left for California and William misses Harry. “Once he got over the anger of how things happened, he was left with the absence of his brother,” an aide says. “They shared everything about their lives, an office, a foundation, meetings together most days and there was a lot of fun along the way. He’ll miss it for ever.” A close friend says William “definitely feels the pressure now it’s all on him — his future looks different because of his brother’s choices, it’s not easy.” Another friend says: “It’s still raw. He’s very upset by what’s happened, though absolutely intent that he and Harry’s relationship will heal in time.”

After lobbing bombs in his Oprah interview, Harry said: “I love William to bits … We’ve been through hell together … we have a shared experience … The relationship is space at the moment, and time heals all things, hopefully.” Harry would be wise not to set his stopwatch.

The first test will come this summer, when the brothers could be reunited for a series of family engagements including the Duke of Edinburgh’s 100th birthday and the Queen’s birthday parade in June. In July they are scheduled to unveil a statue of their mother at Kensington Palace, marking what would have been Diana’s 60th birthday, an emotionally charged occasion with the world watching.

While a chasm has opened up between the brothers, William has grown closer to the Queen and Prince Charles. He has helped them to navigate their way through Megxit, Prince Andrew’s removal from public life following the Jeffrey Epstein scandal and, now, the Oprah controversy. “That has changed the way the Queen sees him and values his input,” a courtier says. William also feels his relationship with his grandmother has “massively improved” in recent years and their views are “more aligned than ever”.

Friends say there has also been a “renaissance” in William and Charles’s relationship. “As the years passed there were strains imposed by the system — money, work, competition, Diana,” one says. “Part of William’s evolution is that as he has become closer to his father, he sees their similarities. At William’s wedding there was a gag in one of the speeches that he was more like his father than he’d ever admit, which made a lot of us laugh. As their respective destinies get closer, it weighs more heavily on them and strengthens the bond. The rift with Harry has also brought them closer.”

William is said to hate “flummery”, though the role of future king comes with plenty of bowing and scraping. But in 2017, for the first time publicly, he didn’t get his way. As a new parent worried about rising teenage suicide rates, he had spent a year convening a Cyberbullying Taskforce with big cheeses from tech and social media giants including Facebook, Snapchat, Apple, Google and Twitter. He wanted them to adopt industry-wide guidelines creating safer online spaces for children. According to William the meetings at Kensington Palace got “fruity” and the tech giants didn’t come close to the change he wanted. He was furious.

Tessy Ojo, chief executive of the Diana Award youth charity, sat on the taskforce. “He was deeply disappointed,” she says. “He didn’t come into it as ‘the duke’, he gave emotional pleas as a father.” William has since publicly condemned social media giants for their “false choice of profits over values” and privately offered support to the family of Molly Russell, who took her life at 14 after viewing images of self-harm online. Ojo believes it is William’s “lived experience of the fragility of life that guides the work he does”.

It also shapes the way he and Kate are raising their family. William has said he is determined that the grandchildren Diana never knew should “know who she was and that she existed”. He “constantly” talks to his children “about Granny Diana” at bedtime, so that they know “there are two grandmothers in their lives”. Earlier this month on Mother’s Day, Kensington Palace’s social media feeds published George, Charlotte and Louis’s cards paying tribute to “Granny Diana”, revealing it is an annual ritual for the Cambridge children. After a difficult few weeks for William, a line in Charlotte’s card provided poignant insight into how he is feeling: “Papa is missing you.”

He is on course to be a more modern monarch than any before him, but William is still a creature of habit at heart. He has the same tight circle of friends from his schooldays, one of whom says that, with William, “it’s all about trust and loyalty”. He plays five-a-side football in his Villa socks when he can, goes to the Chelsea Harbour Club gym he went to as a child with his mother and has a “smart casual” public uniform of chinos, jacket, blue shirt and no tie.

“William’s not trying to be down with the kids,” a friend says. “He never wants to be painted as irrelevant or dull, though he’s allergic to being compared to celebrities. The public doesn’t always get to see his funny side, but otherwise he’s the same in private as in public. He once said, ‘I’ll be in the public eye all my life. I can’t hide who I am because I’ll be found out.’ ”

In 2019, during a visit to a youth homelessness charity supporting LGBT people, William was asked how he would feel if one of his children was gay. “Absolutely fine,” he replied. “I fully support whatever decision they make, but it does worry me from a parent’s point of view how many barriers, hateful words, persecution and discrimination might come.” Such a personal exchange was a radical departure from royal engagement small talk. But William, the first in his family to be photographed for the cover of a gay magazine, had personally put the issue on the agenda.

As president of Bafta he gave the academy a diplomatic dressing down in his speech at last year’s ceremony, expressing his “frustration” over the lack of diversity: “In 2020, and not for the first time in the last few years, we find ourselves talking again about the need to do more to ensure diversity in the sector and in the awards process — that simply cannot be right in this day and age.” The 2021 nominees announced this month suggest his words hit home.

William “thinks the public look to him to keep royal work looking modern”, a confidante says. “The Queen and Prince of Wales are providing continuity and stability. He’s carving out his own relationship with diverse communities. He sees it all as a way of doing things now that will help a smooth transition when the time comes.”

Since the start of the coronavirus pandemic, as a former frontline worker himself, William has led the royal charge supporting key workers. “Now, more than ever, he knows what his role in public life is, and he sees the value in it,” a close aide says. Chatting to NHS workers in January, William said: “Something that I noticed from my brief spell flying the air ambulance … is that when you see so much death and so much bereavement, it does impact how you see the world … as a … darker, blacker place.” Soon after the first lockdown was announced, the Cambridges’ Royal Foundation launched Our Frontline, a round-the-clock mental health and bereavement service for key workers.

Miguel Head says the future King William will continue to campaign on his big issues: “I can’t see him backing away from causes he’s passionate about. And while he’s not someone who loves ceremony, he knows the importance of it. When he gets the top job he won’t do away with it all. He’s mindful the monarchy represents something timeless that’s above all of us, and many people like the magic and theatre of it.”

Roya Nikkhah

Roya is royal correspondent at The Sunday Times. Over more than a decade she has covered royal events for the BBC, interviewed the Prince of Wales and Prince Harry and presented the films Prince William, Monarch in the Making and Meghan and Harry: The Baby Years.

#William #TeamQueen #TeamWilliam #TeamCambridge

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smoochkooks · 4 years

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—lost stars, part 2 (m.)

⟶ pairing: jeon jungkook/reader

⟶ genre: smut, angst, bits of fluff, (troubled) idol au, childhood friends to lovers

⟶ word count: 20k

⟶ summary: in dead hours of the night he stumbles upon the bars, reaching, searching, trying to feel something, for once forget about consequences and taste the bittersweet freedom. between sips of addiction and faint touches of nameless lovers he finds you again: his own long-lost star on a blackboard sky.

⟶ warnings: explicit sexual content, soft dom!jk but also bit possessive!jk, sub!reader, oral (f receiving), praise kink, jk calling oc his pretty girl, unprotected sex (stay safe kiddos!), creampie, implicit car sex, mentions of infidelity, smoking, both oc and jk are emotional mess sometimes.

✔ read part one here!

a/n: i’m sorry i keep you waiting for so long but it’s finally here. as i promised, by the end of october. this story has a really special place in my heart, i’ve had it in my drafts for over a year now. i hope you’ll enjoy it!

Twenty-two. No, twenty-three. Or maybe it was actually twenty-two? Jungkook starts counting again.

Various, different certificates are aligned on the wall in front of him, every single one dedicated to the same man, sitting across the table with crossed arms and stern expression. It’s rather obvious his ego reaches far beyond the printed sheets of paper with his name written in swirly fonts. They are here just to make an impression, to fool people into believing that the pastel blue shirt he’s wearing and expensive watch on his wrist are the outcome of his hard work.

He opens his mouth to say something, but it doesn’t reach Jungkook’s ears. He starts counting again; this time the number of letters on the first certificate.

“What do you suggest we should do then?”

The man whose achievements in marketing and public relations Jungkook currently attentively analyzes, is Lee Ilsug, or at least that’s what those diplomas indicate. To be honest, Jungkook couldn’t care less about his name or the list of accomplishments that made him be employed here.

He’s new in the company, that’s certain. Jungkook didn’t have to deal with him before but Yoongi had the unpleasantness though, when he needed to deny the rumours going all around the Twitter about his slightly too close friendship with a female singer he had collaborated with.

Quoting Yoongi, Ilsung was pain in the ass.

“The photo is blurry. It’s debatable whether it’s Jungkook-ssi or not.” Another voice, this time female, cuts in. Jungkook remembers her face fleetingly from some PR meeting he had attended before. It looks like she’s now Ilsung’s assistant. “I checked SNS. Fans are on Jungkook’s side, they don’t believe what that girl had written, which is a good situation for us to interfere and release a statement.”

“What do you think, Jungkook?”

It’s Sejin. He was the one who contacted Jungkook about the ruckus in the company that has been going on since morning. The case is simple: on the day he did his walk of shame out of your apartment, he stopped to light up a cigarette that happened to be another one of his cardinal mistakes he’s made in span of 24 hours. What started with getting the temptation and alcohol got better of him and sleeping with you, ended with someone taking a picture of him while smoking.

It’s truly a miracle the photo’s quality is moderately vague. His mom always tells him he was born under the lucky star but for Jungkook it’s more like fate was playing hide and seek with him. This time, he managed to blend into the shadows in time.

Ilsung clicks his tongue. It’s not a secret he hates his job yet cherishes the money he earns. He pushes his thick-rimmed glasses up his nose and leans over the table. He’s close enough for Jungkook to notice the fresh cut from shaving on his cheek and a small, golden cross hanging on his neck.

He raises his brow, eyes trained on Jungkook. Cold, emotionless. Clearly, his ambitions don’t end on dealing with some idol’s reckless shenanigans. “Well? What’s on your mind, Jungkook-ssi? We are ready to release the statement denying rumours about the incident in an hour.”

Jungkook bites the inside of his cheek. “But that will be a lie then. I did smoke, it’s me on that picture.”

Next to him, he hears Sejin clearing his throat uncomfortably. “Jungkook, I know it’s unfair but we can’t let it affect yours or boys’ reputations right now. We are a month before the comeback.” he says and no matter how much he tries to make it sound neutral, pulling the ‘what about the rest of the members?’ card is usually the last straw to bend Jungkook.

Jungkook releases a long sigh at that. He feels unworthy. He let down his brothers again, made them worry about him countless times before and that’s what he offeres in return: disappointment. He cannot risk his bandmates’ good name because of his incautious behavior. They sacrificed too much to be where they are now to lose it over a silly scandal.

“Do what’s best for the team.” he decides after a while.

Once he’s out of the office, his thoughts drift instinctively to you. Do you already know about the mess he created? Do you even search through social media, looking for the updates about him? No, you wouldn’t go there, he tells himself. He’s almost sure. He hopes those revelations won’t ever reach you.

Sejin breaks his chain of thoughts, stepping into the elevator after him. “What were you even doing in that part of the city so early?” he asks, staring at Jungkook’s reflection in the mirror.

“Does it really matter?”

Sejin’s features soften a little. He’s been with them practically since the beginning. Seen their best and worst, always by their side even when the whole world seemed to be against them. Piggybacking Jungkook out of the practice room because he complained about his feet being sore, joking behind the stage about trivial things when no cameras where around. They trusted him. And he’s never stopped believing in them.

“I told you that million times before. You are allowed to lead your life the way you want, Jungkook. I know how you feel, but as a public figure you have to be extremely careful, first and foremost. People don’t forget, nothing ever disappears from the Internet,” he says, or rather repeats the same mantra he’s been telling them since they broke into the mainstream and started being overly recognizable. “I am here to protect you but I won’t be able to do that if you don’t take care of yourself first.”

He places a strong hold on Jungkook’s shoulder and squeezes reassuringly. Jungkook releases a sigh and the door slides open behind them. “Thank you, hyung.”

“Always, Jungkook-ah. I’m feeling like a father of rebel teenager now.” Sejin laughs lightly to clear the heavy atmosphere, making Jungkook snort.

“Hey, I’m twenty-two!”

Sejin ruffles Jungkook’s hair, ignoring younger’s grumbling protests. The walk into the spacious parking lot of the company and Jungkook suddenly stops in his tracks.

“Does Bang already know about this?“ he asks matter-of-factly, although he’s sure what the answer will be. The confirmation he needs comes with a nod from Sejin. “Is he pissed?” he adds then.

Sejin raises his brows, looking down at him. “His golden boy let him down, what do you think? He might not be mad but he’s sure as hell disappointed.” He gestures to his car and Jungkook follows him without a word, imagining his boss’ sour expression next time he sees him. In Bang’s self-made ranking he’s sitting at last place right now probably.

“Want to grab a proper breakfast with me? I’ve been called into the company while I was in bed. I didn’t even have time to finish my coffee.” Sejin offers, pulling Jungkook out of his thoughts.

“Okay.” Jungkook says, hopping in Sejin’s car. “You’re buying?” he asks, mustering a snickering smile even though he’s definitely not in the mood for joking.

Sejin rolls his eyes, fastening his seatbelt. “Don’t you think you own it to me for saving your ass once again?”

“But I’m your rebel teenager kid, remember?” Jungkook pouts. When he sees Sejin hesitating, he opts for another strategy. The one that never fails. “Rock-paper-scissors?”

“Deal.”

Tonight, Jungkook pulls up in front of the club you’re working in with his car. It’s Friday night and he recalls you saying you work here every two weeks. He counted the days three times. There’s no way he made a mistake. He’s sober. And he has no intentions of getting drunk.

You’re surprised when you see him. You haven’t spoken a word for a whole week since he walked out of your apartment. He seems happier when he approaches you, flashing a bunny-toothed smile like nothing ever happened. Maybe he’s good at pretending. That’s exactly what you told him to do - act like the night he stripped you bare and fucked you silly was merely a mirage.

In a way, you’re relieved he makes everything seem ordinary, even though it’s anything but normal.

He waits for you to finish your shift. Tells you he drove here with his car and your eyes involuntarily widen. When you’re standing in front of his black Mercedes Benz, you can’t help but gawk.

“I don’t even want to know how much money this cost.” You take in the all-polished, black glory of his car, muttering “Holy shit” under your breath.

Jungkook chuckles to himself, gesturing for you to get in. You do it without a word, making yourself comfortable on the leather seat. If he manages not to make things awkward, you can do it to, acting as though he isn’t a well-known persona in your country with an addiction for unhealthy lifestyle.

He starts the engine and drives in the direction of your neighborhood, humming to himself the tune playing in radio. It’s awfully domestic, the way he navigates through the streets like he knows them like the back of his hand although you’re aware he’s glancing at his phone once in a while to check the directions. You catch yourself watching him from the corner of your eye with curiosity, biting your lip to suppress the urge to ask him million questions at a minute. Instead, you let him do whatever he has in mind. You can’t ruin this, you remind yourself.

Later that night, you’re sitting in his car in the darkness, parked on the rundown parking lot where no one’s standing expect for you. The only source of light is coming from the single street lamp nearby, illuminating delicately Jungkook’s features in dim, yellowish lighting.

He doesn’t say much. He fumbles with the hem of his jacket almost absentmindedly and you know him well enough to sense there’s something plugging his thoughts. You call his name and he turns his head to the side. It’s too dark for you to spot the tiredness on his beautiful face, too dark to read from his eyes and find all the needed answers in them.

“Is everything alright?” you ask and it sounds awfully loud in a small space of his car. Despite the silent promise you made to yourself about keeping things between you civil, you can’t help but interfere.

Jungkook then whirls on his seat so he can face you fully, flashing you a smile meant to throw all your former worries away. “Yeah, I’m fine. I just wanted to sit with you for a while like that, if you don’t mind.”

If anything, it doesn’t cure your concerns but you shove it to the back of your head for now. Nodding at his words, you fall into the distressing silence. The street lamp nearby goes out and if it wasn’t for the digital dashboard in Jungkook’s car, you would have been surrounded by darkness completely.

Jungkook chuckles under his breath and you follow suit. The sudden change in the atmosphere should be taken as a sign to abandon this damned parking lot and go somewhere else, but he looks like he has other plans in mind. Hearing the soft whisper of your name, you start feeling like it all was meant to happen. Him appearing in front of the club, the lights going out and enabling you to read the true emotions from your faces – it’s all like fate is again playing tricks with you.

You don’t know who moves first, crossing the invisible oceans between you and reaching homeland, but the next thing you feel is his lips on yours.

He tastes like the non-alcoholic beverage he drunk earlier, mixed with faint bitterness of his beloved cigarettes and something akin to mint, yet you’re drowning in it, in him, in the warmth of his breath on your wet lips.

You feel the world spiraling in front of your eyes, despite your soberity. You’re moving automatically; leaning into his touch and accepting the kiss with raw passion, welcoming his tongue in your mouth willingly. It should be alarming how good it feels to have him like this, in your arms, teeth scrapping your neck until you’re writhing in your seat. Breathless, he takes the hint, maneuvering your body until you’re straddling his lap.

It feels dangerously familiar. You know what’s going to happen next, when he unzips your jacket and places his hands underneath your sweater, relishing in the way you shiver at the coldness of his touch. When he sinks his teeth in your neck and withdraws seconds before leaving a blossoming mark. Yet you make no vow to stop him.

From this exact moment, it’s just a blur of hushed whispers, broken moans and quick caresses that leave you yearning for more. Jungkook acts like he knows your body inside and out, thrusting his fingers knuckle-deep into your heat until you’re keening and begging him for more. And he gives it to you with earnest, coaxing you into an orgasm with one last, final flick of his thumb on your sensitive bud.

Jungkook groans when you palm his bulge through the material of his pants, but he’s too desperate to feel your wetness around him to let you tease him any longer. When you sink down onto him, all of your rational thoughts fly away with the breathy moan you let out in unison with his choked gasp.

It’s fast and ragged, chasing the high that it’s both forbidden yet so craved. And it hurts, when tears well in your eyes, when you’re at the brick of pleasure and you know there’s no way in the world you’re going to experience a desire so raw and overwhelming with anyone, ever again. It hurts when Jungkook picks up the pace and fucks into you with ferocity and anger, because the world is unfair and he’s a slave in the system in which freedom means fucking you dirty in his car when it’s dark out.

And he hates it, hates it so much when you unveil in front of him, whimpering his name hoarsely and tightening around his cock deliciously. He swallows every sound you make with his mouth, clenching his teeth because the pleasure is right there, but he needs an extra push to throw himself over the edge. It’s his name on your lips and the whimper of “Inside, please” that finally makes him snap.

Then, there’s only guilt and laboured breaths. In his self-made list of mistakes, you’re aiming for the top.

Grocery shopping has never been your favourite thing to do.

You would never quite enjoy doing it, not due to the constant anxiety of forgetting about buying something even if you make a list of products beforehand, not when you don’t have enough money to buy a little extra than needed (thanks to the dear capitalistic world we live in).

Right now, you’re standing in the middle of an aisle with cereal, trying to look as much casual as possible so people passing by wouldn’t suspect you to be a wanna-be thief. The cause of your distress sits at the very top shelf and there’s no way in hell you’ll manage to snatch that Reese’s Puffs without knocking everything over.

Defeated, you raise your hand to take your second option (good, old Corn Flakes), but a familiar voice coming from the right stops you in tracks.

“Need some help?”

Twirling on your feet, you’re now standing face to face with Kihyun – Minho’s friend from work. Smiling sheepishly, you nod. “I do, actually. Can you pass me these ones, please?”

You feel stupid asking that but fortunately, Kihyun doesn’t seem to mind your awkwardness. You talked to him briefly a few times before thanks to Minho, who took his friendship with him as far as to go on a double date together.

“So, how are you?” Kihyun asks, placing the cereal box in your cart.

“I’m good, thanks. I assume you’ve been also doing well,” He raises his eyebrows at that and you clarify, “Minho told me you got promoted lately. Congrats, chief Yoo.”

“Ah, yeah, thank you,” There’s a tiny bit of pink covering the apples of his cheeks when he waves his hand dismissively at your comment. “But it’s not that big of a deal.”

“I’m sure working in a homicide department is a big deal,” you say. “And I heard it requires some extra shooting training as well.” you add, alluding to what Minho has told you the day you read the message on his phone from someone named Soyeon.

To your surprise, Kihyun furrows his brows in a manner that could only mean he’s confused. “I don’t know what you mean by that.”

Hiding your astonishment with a light laugh, you explain, “Don’t you go to the shooting range with Minho after work? He told me so a while ago.”

Something akin to realization crosses Kihyun’s face. He shakes his head. “Yeah, we went there together once or twice but recently he’s training there our new recruit, Soyeon.”

His words punch you right in the guts. Minho lied to you. He wouldn’t come up with that shitty excuse if he didn’t have something dirtier to hide, right? Maybe you’re exaggerating, but he certainly hasn’t been truly honest with you for a while now. It must be a reason behind his strange behavior.

“Are you okay?”

For a moment you’ve forgotten you’re in the middle of the grocery store with your boyfriend’s friend. Shaking yourself off your unpleasant thoughts, you send Kihyun an apologetic smile.

“I’m sorry. I just remembered I need to go to the pharmacist’s and they’re closing soon so I gotta hurry now.” you lie. He doesn’t look like he entirely bought your story but nevertheless, he bids you goodbye.

You leave the store with half-empty shopping bag, raging headache and a torn heart.

They say silence can speak more than any exchanged words.

It hovers in the air, heavy and overwhelming, a tension primed to snap at any moment yet it has never happened before. There’s always quiet, no hushed sentences, half-lies or stuttered confessions leaving quivering lips.

Sometimes you wonder when will you have enough. When will you be able to resist, to say you’re hurting so bad it aches right in your heart, like there are tons of bricks lying on your chest, suppressing your breathing. And maybe this is the night.

A few unread messages on your phone, next one popping up and the screen lights up.

[1:23pm] jungkook:

i need you

It pains, a dull ache and suddenly there isn’t enough air in the room. [1:24pm] jungkook:

please

He never begs. It doesn’t suit him. There is too much pride and power inside him to crawl in front of you, to fall to his knees and plead. Yet, you falter, shaking fingertips typing a quick response. When brain screams fuck you, you don’t deserve me, a sight of him makes all the rational thoughts go to hell.

He stands in your door, slender body leaning against the frame. You haven’t seen him for a while, a week or maybe two. His skin is pale, sheer and delicate you worry it might break if you trail your fingers over it. There are bangs under his bloodshot eyes and you know he had trouble sleeping again. It hurts seeing him like this, beautiful and broken but you’ve always loved picking up the damaged pieces.

He smiles, a lopsided smirk you know oh so well, a dark amusement because here you are, pliant under his gaze, vulnerable under his every command.

“Hello, doll.”

It’s the ‘doll’ that makes you grimace. Nickname he uses only when you’re stripped bare for his liking, bend to his will. It means he’s been drinking. Probably the expensive whiskey you hate the taste of so much when it lingers bitterly on your tongue after each swipe of his mouth against yours. “Will you let me in?” he then asks although he already knows the answer.

It’s cruel of him how he uses your weakness. You hate seeing him like this, hate when he’s thrown apart and you’re the only one who knows how to fix him. That’s why you move away from the door in a silent invitation, biting your lip when you see his slouching posture and unsteady walk.

It hurts when you help him sit on your bed and he smiles at you lazily, in all his beautiful yet broken glory. You almost don’t recognize him. It’s not your Jungkook. Your Jungkook would never drown his misery in alcohol, he would never sit in your room barely conscious, smelling of cheap bars and cigarettes.

But you accept your fate the way it is.

“I need to sober you up a little. I’ll go get you a glass of water, okay?” He hums in response, although you’re worried it might have not reach his ears at all.

Jungkook looks up when your back, accepting the water and drinking it with eagerness. “You’re too good to me, you know that right?” he slurs a little once he’s done. “I don’t deserve you.” he adds after a moment, cupping your cheek with his unoccupied palm.

You squeeze your eyes shut because you fear you might break down in front of him if you look him in the eyes. He strokes your skin, murming “I’m so sorry” all over again.

You stay like that for a few beats of silence, breathing in each other’s presences until you hear Jungkook’s phone buzzing in the pocket of his jacket. Taking it out, you see ‘Jimin-hyung’ written on the screen. “Your friends are worried about you.” you murmur, nudging his side.

“Tell them to go to hell.” You hear him muttering under his breath. Sighing, you decide to exit the room and answer the call.

“Jungkook? Where the fuck are you?!” Jimin’s angered, thick with Busan dialect voice rings in your ears, making you flinch. “You should’ve at least answer my text once so I would know you’re okay!”

Mustering the courage, you take a deep breath and say, “Hi, it’s Y/N speaking. Jungkook’s friend.”

There’s a pause on the other side, until your hear Jimin clearing his throat. “Oh, hi. Is Jungkook maybe with you?” he asks and you smile to yourself involuntarily noticing how his voice has changed once he realised he’s not speaking to his friend.

“He is. Drunk, but in one piece.” you reply, sparing a glance at aforementioned Jungkook who’s now slumped down on your bed, probably fast asleep.

Jimin sighs with relief. “That’s good then. You know, we got into a little fight today and he suddenly disappeared without a trace, and we are right before the comeback so–”

“It’s okay. You don’t have to explain anything to me,” you interrupt his rushed rambling. “I’ll take care of him.”

“Thank you, Y/N-ssi. It means a lot.”

‘’I’ve been taking care of his ass practically since we were kids, so it’s not a big deal for me,” you chuckle lightly, even though you’re definetely not in the mood for jokes. “Well, maybe not in that way but still.”

“I know. He told me about you.”

Your eyes widen. “He did?” you ask, failing to hide the surprised tone of your voice.

“Yeah, he did. When he first told us he met his childhood friend accidentally in the club he got drunk in, we didn’t believe him at first. But then he slowly started opening up more about you and even showed me some picture of you and him when you were kids.” Jimin says. “You know, Jungkook hasn’t been himself for quite a while. He kept pushing us away but ever since he met you, he’s started smiling again. Please, promise me you’ll never hurt him.”

You release a shaky breath. “I promise.”

It’s easy to promise such thing. Because you’re for sure going to end up being hurt first.

It’s your alarm that wakes you up the next morning.

The sight of Jungkook is long gone, the only proof he’s been here in your bed last night is an empty glass on your bedside table and a small note written on the napkin.

Thank you for everything. I really don’t deserve you.

Jungkook.

Sheets have gone already cold underneath your fingertips where he laid beside you just hours ago. You didn’t get much sleep the night, watching his beautiful, pale features illuminated by the moonlight slipping through your window. He looked so peaceful with his chapped lips slightly parted and in that moment, you couldn’t think of any reason to hate him and what he’s doing to you.

Later, when you’re finally out of uni, you come home and take a quick shower. It’s Wednesday and Wednesdays are reserved for your small dates with Minho. The guilt you’re feeling while getting dressed and fixing your makeup is eating you from the inside. Staring at yourself in the mirror, you almost don’t recognize the shallow of a girl you’re seeing.

You are not a bad person, you keep reminding yourself, then why did you sleep with him that night? Let him crawl into your bed again and again after?

Minho waits for you outside in his car. He’s taking you to a new Thai restaurant and you manage to hide the frown on your face, because your dear boyfriend forgot you don’t like this type of food.

“You look pretty tonight, babe,” he says once you’re inside, waiting for your orders. You smile at him briefly. “It’s really been a while since we went out together, hasn’t it?”

At that, you nod curtly. It’s true, you haven’t seen each other last week at all. Minho ditched your usual Wednesday date in favor of staying at work for something important. It happened second or third time this month. You feel like you don’t have right to be mad at him. If anything, that’s what you deserve for lying to him behind his back.

The rest of the evening goes smoothly. Your food arrives, you act like you don’t feel nauseous chewing on your pad thai and trying to break out the taste with red wine. Minho babbles about the new Netflix series he’s started watching and you’re pretending to be intrested. Wednesday date at its finest.

Then, when you’re about to pour yourself another glass of wine, Minho stops you with his hand on yours. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about something,” You fight an urge to roll your eyes. He wants to discuss serious matters? What a change. “We’ve been together for eight months. My parents keep asking about you.”

“Oh,” you blurt out. To hide your anxiety, you force out a breathy laugh. “So, what about them?” you ask, however you already know what the answer is going to be.

“I thought we could visit them soon in Daegu over some weekend when you don’t have work,” he proposes, squeezing your hand as if to calm your nerves. It’s not doing much to put you at ease. “My mom has already started making plans what food she should make. They’re really excited to meet you.”

You feign a smile. It should be a natural progression for couples to take things at a time, step by step but you can’t help but feel uneasy. Minho wants his parents to meet you, the girl who lets a certain raven-haired boy play with her heart and mess with her head. In a sick game where both parties are out of reach, you’re terribly losing.

“I’d love to meet your parents.” you say finally, almost breathless.

“You don’t look very excited.” Minho comments with a smirk and you know he’s joking but the lump in your throat only grows.

You smile meekly. “I’m just nervous, that’s all. What if they won’t like me?”

“I’m sure they’re gonna love you. You don’t have anything to worry about.” he dismisses your concerns, reaching for the wine bottle to pour himself a glass. “I’ve got one more thing to tell you. I know it’s a lot for one evening but I’ve been meaning to talk to you about it for weeks now so since we have this opportunity now, I’m gonna use it.”

Color drains from your face. What else is there to converse about all of a sudden? Biting the inside of your cheek, you give him a sign to continue.

“I’ll go straight to the point. I want you to move in with me,” The bomb explodes and you nearly drop your wine glass to the floor. “I know it might be a lot for your but I really, really want to see you every day in my bed. My apartment is big enough for both of us but once I get the promotion my boss talked to me about last week, we can look for something fancier.”

You stare at him blankly. First his parents, now this? Minho from the beginning of your relationship was the one who liked to take things slowly. He didn’t kiss you until your third date, he waited unnecessary amount of time to have sex even though you told him over and over again you were more than ready to do it with him.

The sudden rush feels weird. As if sensing your discomfort, Minho clears his throat and asks, “Don’t you want to move in with me?”

You notice the subtle change in his voice, the way he’s not as enthusiastic as he was a minute ago but you shove it to the back of your head. “I’m surprised,” you respond neutraly. “And of course I don’t mind living with you. I just thought you wanted to take things slow.”

Minho clicks his tongue. “This has nothing to do with that. I’m not asking you to marry me, Y/N,” he chuckles but you don’t mirror the sentiment. “I think it would be more comfortable for you to live with me than your current cubby-hole.”

He’s already irritated by your reaction and you know it’s better not to poke the bear but those three glasses of wine down your throat give you enough courage to disagree. “Your place is further from my university and work. Not to mention I have a five minutes long walk to the underground now and it would take longer for me to get there in your area.” you point out.

“You can get a driving license then finally.”

You frown. “What do you mean ‘finally’? You know damn well I can’t afford it now with the job I have and student loan. We talked about it before.”

Minho is aware that with your current financial situation you’re barely making ends meet and you can’t let yourself have another, bigger expenses. But you’re fine on your own, you don’t mind living where you do because that’s the result of your independence. You showed your parents you are able to study and work without their extra help. You’re proud of yourself for that.

“Now you’re literally making excuses. Just say you don’t want to move in.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” you try to reason. “I’m not ready for such a big step yet. I need more time to think about it.”

Minho snorts, rolling his eyes. “What else is there to think about? Either you say yes or no!” His raised tone catches attention from the family sitting nearby and they send curious glances in your direction.

“Stop being so loud, please. We are in a restaurant for God’s sake.” you whisper-shout.

“Do I look like I give a fuck?” he snorts, obnoxious and annoyingly snarky.

You stay quiet for a moment, debating whether you should give up entirely and hang a white flag or wait for the atmosphere to clear on its own. But you’re so, so tired. Tired of being lied to. Tired of always having to choose your words carefully and bending to his will.

“You know, I met Kihyun the other day at grocery store,” Minho doesn’t seem much interested in your inquiry, still deeply frustrated with your tantrum. He simply hums, unfazed. “I congratulated him on his promotion. He for sure needs to visist shooting range more now, doesn’t he?”

Minho arches his brow. “Yeah, I told you he goes there with me and that new recruit.”

It’s ironic, how easily he can lie to you straight in the eye. But you’re strong enough now to fight back. “That’s interesting actually, because Kihyun said something totally different.” you say languidly, watching your boyfriend narrowing his eyes.

“And what is that?”

“He said you’re going there only with your new recruit, Soyeon. The one sending you messages on your private phone.”

Minho gapes at you for a few short seconds and then, bursts into laughter. “What are you trying to insinuate here, honey?” he asks.

The petname sounds mocking this time. Ignoring his lighthearted approach to the situation, you dodge a bullet. “I’m not insinuating anything yet. I just pointed out that you lied to me.”

“Lied? That’s bullishit. I would never lie to you.”

“But you did, Minho. The day I asked you who Soyeon was after reading the message on your phone. You said you’re visiting shooting range with her and Kihyun after work sometimes. Turns out it’s just you and her after all. Isn’t that a lie?” you press.

Minho doesn’t like being backed into the corner. When you confronted him first, he thought he had everything under control. Now, he’s losing it and he isn’t used to being that helpless.

“So what? Maybe I told you that so you wouldn’t freak out and think I’m cheating on you. Because that’s all it is about, right? You think I’m fucking someone behind your back.” he snaps, making you wince.

“I didn’t say that.” you counter but there’s no use for that. You stepped into the lion’s den.

He aprubtly stands up from his chair and the cutlery on your table clutters. “You know what? I’m done. I’m not in the mood for your bullshit anymore.” He withdraws his wallet from the pocket of his jacket and throws a few bills onto the table.

A bitter chuckle escapes your lips. “Your’e leaving? Just like that?”

“Yeah. Are you going with me or not?”

You shrug your shoulders. “I guess someone has to finish this bottle. It would be a shame to waste such expensive wine.” you say, mustering a sarcastic smile.

Minho doesn’t utter anything more to you. He nods and exits the restaurant, leaving you sitting by the table alone. Despite the stares, hushed whispers and an urge to run away and hide from the audience, you stay a little longer and drink up that damned bottle of wine until there’s no droplets left inside.

Once you’re outside, you inhale greedily the fresh air. Your head spins a little and you’re debating whether to take an Uber home or just walk thirty minutes on your own to sober up a little. You choose the latter.

You don’t know what makes you dial his number. You’ve never done that before. He was the one calling you in the middle of the name and begging without words to tend his wounds. Tables have turned, and here you are.

You call once, twice. After the fifth attempt you give up, showing your phone into the pocket of your coat. As the first tear rolls down your cheek, you realise he would never be there to pick up your pieces.

Three missed calls from: Jungkook

[11:11pm] jungkook:

I’m so sorry y/n. I couldn’t pick up the phone cause we had late practice

Please call me back. I’m worried

Two missed calls from: Jungkook

[11:36pm] jungkook:

At least text me if you’re okay

Please

[11:39pm] me:

I’m fine

[11:39pm] jungkook:

Thank God

You sure you don’t wanna talk?

[11:41pm] me:

Maybe next time

[11:41pm] jungkook:

Okay

Night, miss grumpy

You’re sitting in your favourite cafeteria, typing furiously on your laptop the last paragraph in your assignment. Your philosophy proffesor has been a bitch lately, telling you to write essays about the most uninteresting stuff she could possibly think of. And here you are, writing about Hegel’s triads, reminding yourself the semester soon will be over and so will be your mandatory philosophy classes.

Taking a moment to sip on a caramel macchiato you ordered, you notice a message popping up on your lockscreen.

[10:45am] jungkook:

Do you have time now?

I need to tell you sth

It’s been two days since your date with Minho. You’re still mentally flogging yourself for calling Jungkook that night repulsively because of your tipsiness. In that exact moment, he was the only person on your mind you could talk to. Once the fresh air cooled down your emotions, you realised how stupid your idea was.

With slight resistance (and raced heartbeat), you type a response.

[10:46am] me:

I guess

[10:46am] jungkook:

Great. I’m gonna call you now

Eyes widening, you stare at your phone. What is so important that he cannot just text you instead? Not even a minute later, you hear buzzing. Exhaling shakily, you answer it.

“Hi, Miss Grumpy,” Jungkook says and you could tell by the tone of his voice he’s in a good mood. He sounds like the old Jungkook you know well. It’s a pleasant surprise. “What’s up?”

“You called me to ask how am I doing?”

Jungkook chuckles and something inside you flutters hearing that. “And what if I did?”

Rolling your eyes, you respond, “Let’s just say it’s unusual of you. Shouldn’t you be at some dance practice right now?” you ask.

“We just ended a company meeting. And this is exactly the reason why I’m calling you.”

“Should I be scared?”

”Not at all. I’m gonna move straight to the point,” he says and your pulse involuntarily quickens. “Are you free next weekend?”

You bite your lip. There’s a part of you that wants so bad to counter with “What? Do you need a booty call?” but you don’t let your facade break that easily. Instead, you tell the truth. “Yeah, I am.”

“Would you like to go with me to Busan then?”

You nearly spill the coffee onto your laptop. “Oh.” You can’t quite hide the surprise in your voice. You would never expect him to propose you such thing, yet here you are.

It’s been a while since you were home. Not like you don’t want to see your parents, it’s actually the opposite. The reason you haven’t been in Busan for months is simple: you don’t have extra cash on the side to afford a two-way train ticket.

Sensing your bewilderment, Jungkook takes your silence as a sign to explain further his sudden proposition. “Our company gave us few days off to relax before final comeback preparations so I decided I could go home,” It’s what he says and unsure of what to answer with, you only hum in response. “You told me some time ago you haven’t seen your parents since Christmas so I thought you might accompany me.”

Something squeezes in your chest hearing that. You fail to hide the smile creeping on your features and despite the many obstacles that should be a warning sign for you to say no, you find yourself reminiscing in the idea of spending a weekend at home with Jungkook. Just like old times.

“Okay. I agree.”

Upon hearing your response, Jungkook breathes out a sigh of relief to the phone. “I thought you would ditch me.”

“Excuse me? Who do you think I am? I wouldn’t miss an opportunity to eat my mum’s bulgogi.”

You can’t ignore how you’re feeling, cheeks flushed and a silly smile stretching on your lips. But there’s still that bugging thought present at the back of your head, reminding you of your illicit affair and every mistake you’ve made so far. Maybe agreeing to a small trip down childhood memory lane is one of them.

Right now, sitting in a cafeteria and talking on the phone with Jungkook about the details and your mum’s cooking skills, you pretend like you’ve turned back the time and everything else is a mere drawback to deal with later.

“I can’t believe I agreed to do that.”

That, is a blatant lie. You know damn well why you’re standing on the pavement in front of the building you live in as Jungkook pulls up with his high-priced, straight-from-the-salon black Mercedes. Something ignites in your lower stomach at the mere memory of what you’ve done there inside last time.

When he exits the car, you disregard as best as you can the aloof feeling in your chest, seeing him adjusting his bucket hat further down. This is the life he’s living, you remind yourself. If he wants to minimize the risk of people with preying eyes recognizing him.

Dressed in all black, he comes up to you and lifts his head up. That’s when you see him fully for the first time since he stumbled through your drunk and barely conscious. He smiles widely approaching you, not an ounce of uncertainty in his movements when he wraps his arms around you in a bear hug.

“What’s that for?” you mumble.

“Just missed you.”

He smells like the flowery fabric softener you know he likes. It almost lulls you into paying no mind to the thumping of your heart against your ribcage and redness blossoming on your cheeks.

It almost makes you forget he’s not yours, and you will never be his.

You’re the first one to withdraw, stepping away. “You’re such a sap.” It’s the first thing that comes to your mind to say after such intimate moment – twist it into something without depth and meaning you’re so afraid of facing.

He shrugs, still smiling. “I’m just happy we’re going to spend some time together with our families.”

You know he is. Jungkook has always been a family person. Moving out at a ripe age of fourteen paradoxically strengthened the bond he has with his parents and brother.

He picks up your bag from the ground and throws it into the trunk next to his. Getting into the car, you mutter, “You know, I tweet ‘eat the rich’ every two days but you are safe from my hatred for high class as long as you drive my ass with this expensive car to Busan.”

Jungkook chuckles, starting the engine. “Thanks for your kindness, love. Good to know I’m pardoned.”

“Jokes aside, I mean it though. I might want Jeff Bezos to rot in hell but at the same time I think you deserve that money because I know you worked hard to achieve it.” you say, buckling your seatbelt.

He spares you a quick glance and arches his eyebrow. “I didn’t know you are actually a fellow comrade Y/N, Miss Grumpy.”

“Oh, boy. Follow me on my private account. You’ll see then how radical I can get.”

You earn another laugh from him and you find yourself getting more and more comfortable in the situation, sitting in his car and venturing onto a weekend trip to your hometown. The perspective of spending a couple of hours with Jungkook in the same car doesn’t seem to bother you as much as it did the whole week before.

Tapping the unknown rhythm on your thighs, you reach to press what you think might be the radio button. Your aren’t good with modern technology, so you smile triumphantly to yourself, hearing the first tunes blasting from the speakers.

The slow pop-ballad ends and radio host announces next song as ‘fan favorite’. You look out of the window for a short while just to be brought back to the reality by the sound playing in the background. You know this song more than well.

“No. We are not listening to this.” Jungkook reaches to change the radio station with a speed of light, but you swat his hand away.

“Jesus christ, stop being so dramatic. I love Blood Sweat and Tears! It’s a masterpiece.” you protest.

“I thought you don’t listen to our songs.”

You gasp, placing a hand on your chest. “Excuse me? I’ve been to your concert twice, dumbass. And I’m saving up money for another.”

That, is true. You like listening to BTS not because of Jungkook (though he might one of the reasons you fancy them) but it’s their music and message in general. Now, since they’re over their badboy phases and objectifying women in every ‘love song’, you’re fond of them even more.

You start humming Namjoon’s part when Jungkook cuts in. “Okay, then. Who’s your bias?” he asks.

You don’t miss the way he seems to grip the steering wheel tighter. Of course he would be that petty to ask you this. To entertain yourself a little, you quip, “Take a wild guess.”

“It has to be Jimin-hyung.” he says right away.

You shake your head. “Boo. Try again.”

“Namjoon-hyung. You bit your lip when he started rapping his part.”

“That’s bullshit. Namjoon’s hot but not my type. And you should keep your eyes on the road, buddy.” Placing your fingers on his chin, you turn his head away.

Jungkook sighs. “Who is it then?”

“Taehyung.”

Hearing your response, he snorts. “I should’ve known that.”

“And why is that?” you ask, trying to hide your amusement.

“Because he’s the most good looking from us all. He dresses stylishly,” You could tell by the tongue in his cheek you’re irking him right now. Adding to the irony, Taehyung’s part in the song comes blasting from the speakers. “He has a nice, deep voice.” Jungkook adds and before he can name another positive trait of his friend, you chime in.

“Is somebody jealous?”

Though you’re clearly making fun of him, he decides to chuckle like he doesn’t give a fuck anyway. “Jealous? Of Tae? Please. I have no reason to be.”

Smirking to yourself, you find his demeanor too entertaining. “That’s good then. Because I think you’re handsome too. And I love your voice when you sing.” you say, turning your head to the side to observe his reaction.

No matter how much he tries to hide it, clenching his jaw and giving you an eye roll, there’s no use for that. The blush covering his cheeks gives him anyway. His agony ends with one last beat of the song.

Hiding a yawn behind your palm, you lean back onto your seat. Last night you didn’t get as much as you’d like to and your four hours long drive to Busan seems like a great opportunity for a compensatory nap.

Drifting off to sleep, the last thing you remember is Jungkook’s hands on the steering wheel and his soft voice humming the song playing in the radio.

“Hey, sleeping beauty, wake up. We’re almost there.”

Slowly opening your eyes, you’re met with familiar-looking streets of your hometown, Busan. You jerk abruptly, straightening your posture. “Why didn’t you wake me sooner?” you ask, looking to your left at Jungkook.

He shrugs in response. “You looked like you didn’t want to be waken. And trust me, I know what it feels like to be brought back to reality from a good nap too early.”

You don’t dwell on that more. Instead, you look out of the window, greedily drinking in the city. You’re now driving through downtown, passing by shining skyscrapers. Both yours and Jungkook’s houses are situated in a more peaceful area of Busan, closer to the sea. That’s why you spent most of your childhood and teenage days there as long as the weather was merciful.

Spring has always been your favourite time of the year but spring in Busan hits different. You don’t have an occasion to sit by the sea and watch the sky burning in orange and red in Seoul. Here, where you used to grow up, spring is the cherry tree blossoming, your mum planting vegetable seeds in her small garden behind your house, you and Jungkook smoking cigarettes underneath the pier while the sun hides behind the horizon.

“Did you tell your parents you’re coming?” Jungkook’s voice pulls you from your thoughts.

“No, I didn’t. I want it to be a surprise for them.”

“Oh, that’s cute.” he comments curtly and turns right. You’re approximately thirty minutes until you reach your destination. “I need to talk with you about one more thing before we get there.”

You focus your sight on him, however he seems to avoid your eyes. You give him a sign to continue. “Go on.”

Jungkook rubs his forehead with his hand and then sighs. It’s a nervous habit of his, you recognize. “I just want to apologize for causing you so much trouble. Not only last time but in general,” He stops at the red light and cocks his head to the side to look at you. “I acted like a complete dick and you don’t deserve to be treated like that. I’m sorry for everything. I thought this small trip here would be some sort of redemption for me, I don’t know.” The lights turns to orange, then to green and he focuses his eyes on the road again.

Reaching over the gearshift, you place a hand on his thigh to get his attention. When he peeks at you with the same, round, sparkly eyes you’ve grown to adore, all you can do is smile softly. “I’m okay, Kook. If that’s what you need, I don’t mind helping you. If only it means you’ll be okay too.”

Perhaps he notices the sadness in your eyes when you say it. Perhaps he can tell your smile is not the happiest he’s ever seen. If he does, he chooses to stay silent. Instead, he nods. Taking his action as a sight to withdraw, you straighten on your seat.

“There’s one more anything, actually,” Jungkook adds after a while.

“What is it?”

“You’re invited to a party.”

“What party?” you ask, brows furrowed.

‘’We are celebrating Junghyun’s engagement.” he says casually.

Eyes widening, you let out a shocked gasp. “What?! Your brother got engaged?”

Jungkook sends you a look. “Jealous, buttercup?”

You roll your eyes. “I told you I had a crush on your brother when I was ten. It’s been twelve years since then. Twelve!” you exclaim, but he only smirks in response.

The reason you liked Junghyun as a kid was simple: he was your best friend’s older brother. He was just there yet unreachable at the same time.

(And he didn’t have as many pimples as Jungkook.)

But Junghyun getting married? That is a news to you. You clearly remember him telling you one day he would never form a serious relationship before he reaches thirty. Looks like he made up his mind.

“I’m just pleasantly surprised he decided to settle down. Junghyun has always been more of a free soul when it comes to dating. I even remember your mum throwing him a tantrum during barbecue because of this.” you say.

“Honestly, I’m not that shocked. You should’ve seen him looking at Hyerin during our Christmas dinner. This boy is whipped.” Jungkook chuckles.

“Your parents must be happy.” you comment absentmindedly.

He nods, the corners of his mouth stretching in a small smile. “Yeah, they are. They really like Hyerin. And considering they won’t be getting grandchildren anytime soon thanks to my line of work–” he trails off, “–they are even happier that hyung is settling down.”

The air seems heavy now inside Jungkook’s car. He said an obvious thing you were aware of but something aches in your chest at the thought.

You will never understand why there’s so much stigmatization surrounding idols dating other people. Wanting to be loved by someone is a natural, human need. Prohibition won’t magically stop them from catching feelings.

But there’s also another side of the story – the one Jungkook referred to. In his line of work even if there are no obstacles, it’s hard to maintain a long-lasting relationship. And he knows that.

You still remember vividly his first girlfriend. Her name was Eunbi and she was one of their manager’s daughter. Her dad used to take her to the MV sets, introduced her to the boys because she was a fan of them. And that’s how she met Jungkook.

Jungkook, age seventeen, was too shy to hold a proper conversation and keep eye contact with a girl at the same time but somehow, him and Eunbi got along pretty quickly. They shared a sympathy for the same video games and for Jungkook back then it was enough to fall head over heels for her. She was his first kiss as he told you (”First real one, because I don’t count that peck Jisoo gave me in fifth grade as a kiss.”)

After that moment you decided you’d never like Eunbi. Not because you were furiously in love with him, no.

You just didn’t want to see him form such a close bond with anyone else but you.

Their fairytale love story ended when Eunbi’s father found out about their secret randez-vous. Jungkook sulked for a week and then eventually got over Eunbi.

(And he was again texting you about that video game you had no interest in but you pretended to be a good substitute for Eunbi and her nerdiness you lacked.)

“What are you thinking about?”

You’re standing on the red light again. Glancing at Jungkook, you find him staring right back at you. “I’m wondering whether I’m invited to the wedding.” you lie.

“Of course you are. I’m sure hyung is going to do it officially tomorrow,” he answers with a grin. “I think Taehyung is coming too. He loves weddings.”

Narrowing your eyes, you reply with a saccharine sweet voice, “It’s about time you introduce me to your bandmates. Especially Taehyung-oppa.”

“Oppa?”

You bite your lip. There’s no doubt you did that on purpose. You find it rather amusing to see Jungkook so worked up over such a silly thing. You wonder how far you can go before he finally snaps.

Smirking to yourself, shrug your shoulders. “The light’s green. Watch the road, Kookie.”

Jungkook huffs, shaking his head. It’s approximately fifteen minutes until you reach your destination. “I’m sure you will be delighted to meet him.” he says with enough amount of sarcasm for you to know he’s irritated.

“Oh, I will be over the moon.”

“Good.”

“Amazing, even.”

You hope he doesn’t notice you failing to maintain a serious expression.

You moved with your parents to your new house in Busan at the age of eight, two ponytails, overalls and sparkly sneakers every kid wanted to have adoring your small frame, a look of pure concern worrying your childish, chubby features.

It was a quiet neighborhood, on the suburbs of the town, a row of similarly looking terraced buildings and small gardens in front of them, every single one akin to the other. There was nothing distinctive about the area, it screamed dullness and tedium but for years you have grown to call this place home.

You know every corner here inside out. A local grocery store owned by a lovable, elder woman known as Miss Kim, who always has spare candies underneath the counter for children who come to buy something for their parents. Next to the store, there is a florist’s. Your first, high school part-time job. The intense smell of roses makes you nauseous to these days.

There is also your primary school, huge backyard behind it with a run-down playground. You never minded it though, spending there probably too much time for your parents liking. Many memories were made there. First, innocent childish peck placed on your cheek from a 6th grader named Jinyoung. Twisted ankle, tears, pain and regret because you decided to jump off the highest step of the climbing frame one Friday afternoon after classes. A punch to the face of school’s bully Dongin, who called your new pair of Converse trainers ugly.

It was exactly fourteen days before the end of August when you met Jungkook.

You had been living in the new house for almost a month but still felt too insecure to explore the neighborhood. Most of your time you were spending inside, missing your old friends and reading books to distract your attention from the approaching start of the second semester in school.

It was probably one of the last scorching-hot days of the year and you were sitting in your garden alone, family’s cat named Leo purring on your lap, when all of a sudden a ball bounced on the grass right in front of you, landing perfectly at your feet and almost scarring Leo to death.

And then, you looked up and saw him.

A pair of big, black doe-like eyes hidden behind a fringe of onyx hair staring at you through the fence curiously. The boy was not much older than you, probably around your age. He was wearing a striped football t-shirt with some popular team name.

You fidgeted slightly on the pavement where you were sitting, glancing at the boy shyly like you didn’t know why he was looking at you so intensely. You noticed a small scar on his left cheek, his knees were bruised, splashed with dirt just like his sneakers.

“Can you give me my ball?” he asked suddenly, startling you.

Your eyes widened. Of course he would talk to you, you scolded yourself, he wants his ball back.

When you didn’t answer immediately, he continued, “I kicked my ball here by an accident. Can you give it to me?” He pointed at the object lying at your feet.

You nodded and picked up the ball from the ground. You threw it over the fence, so it landed directly on the other side.

“Thanks.” the black-haired boy said. “I’m Jungkook, by the way. What’s your name?”

“___.” you responded and the boy, Jungkook, grinned at you friendly, showing his bunny-like smile. He looked cute.

“Bye, ___! See you tomorrow!” he beamed and headed back to his house.

Tomorrow. He wanted to meet up with you and what? Play football? You were petrified, as the eight-years-old girl should be after hearing such thing from a boy.

And just like he promised, Jungkook visited you the next day. He took you to that playground behind your new primary school. You came home with bruised legs and splotches of dirt on your skirt, to your mother’s dismay.

You also came home with a content grin plastered on your face and a new friend.

Unexpectedly, Jungkook appeared to be a pleasant company and you found yourself enjoying his boyish bickering while fulfilling the rest of the summer break doing things your old friends would consider inappropriate for a girl.

You never thought you could be friends with someone like Jungkook. He was a boy, for God’s sake, and your eight-years-old-barbie-phase-self absolutely despised boys. But months passed quickly and you both found yourselves stuck to each other sides. Something in your relationship simply clicked.

The neighborhood you grew up in isn’t a suburban area but it definitely seems more peaceful than busy streets of downtown. You pass by local church, miss Kim’s store and the big, luxurious house owned my Gwon family you dreamt of living in when you were a kid.

And then, approximately two hundred meters further, there is your house.

“Here we are.” Jungkook says, pulling up at his parent’s driveway. They left the gate open, anticipating their son’s arrival.

Jungkook hands you your belongings, offering you sheepish smile. “I thought that once you unpack and eat dinner, we could go to the beach together,” he says, scratching the back of his head. “Of course, only if you want to.”

You don’t give his proposition a second thought. “I’d love to.”

He grins in response and you take it as a sign to leave and finally meet your parents. From the distance you see your mother in the garden, dressed in her usual clothing – black and red checked shirt and cropped denim pants she wears while gardening.

She doesn’t notice you yet, too busy pulling weeds from her precious tulips. You know her better not to creep behind her like that, so you take a deep breath and shout, “Eomma! It’s me!”

She stands up and twirls around to face you. Her eyes visibly widen, like she actually thought her mind is playing tricks on her and she might have misheard you.

“Good Lord, Y/N, sweetie, is that really you?” She throws away her gloves and jogs up to you, enveloping you immadietly in a bear hug. “I missed you so much. Why didn’t you say anything you’re coming?”

“I wanted it to be a surprise,” you mumble. “Jungkook took me with him.”

At that, your mother pulls away. She arches her brows. “Jungkookie is home as well?” she asks, earning a nod from you in response. “You’re talking with him again?” Her voice is laced with apparent bewilderment but that’s exactly what you expected her reaction to be like.

Your mother is aware you and Jungkook haven’t been keeping in touch for three long years. She was basically your only source of information about him (besides Twitter) thanks to her close friendship with his parents.

“That’s quite a long story. I will tell you everything later.” you say. Well, maybe not entirely everything. You’re for sure going to miss out the parts you’re not proud of.

Your mother doesn’t press you more about it. Instead, she puts her arm around your shoulders and pulls you to her side. “It’s your lucky day sweetie, because we have your favorite bulgogi for dinner. Honey, come here quick!” she shouts and you chuckle, hearing your father responding with: “What is it again?”.

The door to your house creak open, revealing your flustered dad. His expression morphs into a genuine smile when he spots you. “Is it really my daughter or are my eyes deceiving me?” he asks.

‘’Your eyesight is fine, appa. It’s really me.” You come up and give him a small hug. He was never the affectionate type of parent but once you moved out, he let his facade break a little.

From where you’re standing now, you have a clear view of Jeons’ house. Here, fourteen years ago, sitting on your porch, you met Jungkook for the first time. You see his window upstairs, alligned perfectly with yours. You wonder if he’s already there, inside, unpacking in his blue-painted childhood room.

(What if it isn’t painted blue anymore?)

“Come on, let’s go. You’re probably starving.” your mother says, pulling your mind back to the present.

Walking into your house, all you can think about are his tears-filled eyes when you were bidding him goodbye almost ten years ago in his blue bedroom.

It takes you more or less thirty minutes to reach the bay.

When you were younger, you used to ride there by bikes practically every single day during summer. You loved sitting on the beach and observing people enjoying their time; swimming in the sea, kids building sand castles and their mums trying to relax among childlike chatter and the smell coming from nearby fishmonger’s store.

It was Jungkook who discovered the spot underneath pier. His curiosity only a twelve-year-old can posses led him there one day after school. At first, you were rather reluctant to go and didn’t mirror his excitement but once he actually showed you it, you changed your mind completely.

It was a perfect place to hide from the world. You called it a ‘temple’ because it really felt like no one beside you knew about its existence, and that’s what made it sacred to you. When Jungkook moved away you were left to go there by yourself. Without him, it always felt like it was something missing.

Right now, sitting here feels like you’ve you’ve turned back the time.

It’s like you’re eighteen again, running away from the whole world, starting your own rebellion with a cigarette caught between your lips and sun disappearing behind the horizon. Listening to the songs Jungkooks had saved on his old iPod and catching up with everything that happened during the last few months when he was absent in your life.

When you were eighteen you didn’t even know how to smoke properly, blowing out the fume too quickly and stiffing a cough so Jungkook wouldn’t laugh at you. Now it’s a different story.

Looking at him from the corner of your eye, you notice how much he’s changed physically over these five years that have passed. Gone is the baby fat on his cheeks, replaced with sculpted jawline and prominent nose. His hair is longer, falling on his forehead. There’s more piercings on his ears, an expensive watch wrapped around his wrist.

He looks breathtaking. It never occurred to you before just how beautiful Jungkook really is up close, when there’s no flashing cameras around and make-up covering every imperfection on his face with concealer.

This is your Jungkook. The same one whose competitive nature never let you win any of his computer games, who called you after their debut showcase with quivering voice, who always treated you as his equal even when other boys were making fun of him for being friends with a girl. Your Jungkook, who’s too good for this world to be treated so unfairly.

“I think Minho is cheating on me.” you blurt out.

It’s been sitting on your tongue for weeks and now you finally let the words slip. You don’t see his reaction but from the sharp intake of breath you assume it’s not something he’s expected to hear from you.

“Few weeks ago I read a message on his phone from some girl asking when he will be free next time,” you continue before you could stop yourself. “He’s been meeting with her alone behind my back this whole time and I didn’t notice anything until now.” A pair of arms wrap around your frame. Jungkook presses a fleeting kiss to the crown of your head. “I don’t even know if that’s true or I’m overreacting but I just can’t understand how he can lie to me one day and the next propose to move in with him.”

You don’t realise you’re crying until you feel Jungkook hugging you closer to him. You burry you face into his chest as sob after sob shakes your body. “Shh, it’s okay, it’s okay,” he whispers, stroking your hair. “I’m here.”

Few minutes pass until you calm down, wiping your tear-stained cheeks with your hand. Jungkook offers you a tissue and you thank him with a small smile. You can only imagine how ridiculous you look right now, with smudges of mascara underneath your eyes and red nose. Not a sight for sore eyes.

“I’m sorry. I just needed to get it off my chest.” you say after a moment.

“You don’t have anything to apologize for, Y/N. If you need to talk about it, I’m here for you. I’m still your friend, right?” Jungkook asks, meeting your eyes.

You nod, although he’s anything but friend for you. “Right.”

Because friends don’t console each other with burning touches on bare skin. They don’t give into carnality and submit to pleasure, putting it before everything else.

From the corner of your eye, you see Jungkook’s jaw clenching. “I’m gonna kick his ass when I meet him.”

Before you could stop yourself, you mumble, “He should probably kick yours, too.”

Jungkook visibly stiffens, hearing your words. He avoids your eyes, staring down at his lap instead. You wonder what he’s thinking about now. Does he regret his actions? Do you regret letting it happen? No matter how much you know you did wrong, there’s a part of you longing for more. Because with Jungkook, you felt alive. Minho could never compare.

Reuniting with Jungkook after three years made you realize just how much you needed him back in your life. You actually stopped being mad at him the moment he stood in your room for the first time that night, disheveled and sleepy.

You could love him. Perhaps you’ve always did. But he cannot give you more. Nothing besides bitter-sweet pleasure between the sheets.

It’s Jungkook who speaks first.

“I might not be the best man in the world but I would never, ever hurt you like Minho does,” he says and you know he means it. He stares at you intensely. “You do believe me, right?”

“I do.” you whisper truthfully.

He then leans closer and when you think he might actually kiss you, he places a small peck on your forehead. ‘’Good,” he murmurs, still inches from your lips. “Come on, let’s go. It’s getting late and I can practically hear my mum already complaining she doesn’t have enough time to spend with her son.”

You nod aabsentmindedly at his words.

There’s a tough conversation for you to have once you’ll be back in Seoul again. Finding out about Minho’s lies was a point of no return for you. It made you realise you’ve been on this path with your relationship for a while now, missing signs or not paying enough attention to the details.

But what is even more disturbing to you, is that you didn’t let Jungkook warm your bed out of simple frustration or heartache. You did it because you wanted him. And that thought scares you the most.

The first thing Jungkook hears in the morning when he wakes up is the high-pitched chatter and the clutter of pots coming from the kitchen.

He sighs to himself, staring at his blue ceiling. The clock on his bedside table reads 10am and at this rate, it looks like he won’t be getting any more sleep, not when his mum and soon-to-be sister-in-law are making a fuss downstairs preparing for the party.

The strong smell of homemade food invades his senses as soon as he enters the kitchen. He spots his mum putting something in the oven, her usual red and white polka-dot apron adoring her form. Hyerin is right next to her, busy cutting some vegetables and listening tentatively to her mother-in-law’s babbling.

“Good morning.” Jungkook says in a groggy voice followed by a yawn.

“Morning.” Hyerin quips, flashing him a smile.

Jungkook’s mother barely acknowledges his presence, too busy moving around the kitchen and making sure nothing is burning or overcooking. Feeling the first rumble of his stomach, Jungkook opens the fridge and stares blankly at its contents.

Miss Jeon runs her house by the rule the more, the better when it comes to preparing food for special family occasions. Hence why there’s so many different type of products lined up in front of him, just begging to become a remedy for his empty stomach.

“Nu-uh, don’t even think about it!” she chimes in, closing the fridge in front of Jungkook’s face and crushing his dreams about having egg toasts for breakfast. He stares at her with confused expression. “Order yourself something for breakfast, please. We need kitchen to ourselves right now.”

Knowing better not to argue with his mother, Jungkook sighs in defeat and opens the food delivery app on his phone. He chooses the first option that comes to his mind that won’t take too long to make and slumps down onto the couch.

“Eomma, where’s dad and hyung?” he asks, debating whether to turn on the TV or not. He decides on leaving it silent.

“I sent them to the grocery store. They should be back in two hours,” she responds. “Hyerin-ssi, please make sure to keep an eye on the soup. I’ll be right back!” The door to bathroom slams behind her and Jungkook chuckles under his breath.

“Is she giving you hard time?” he asks Hyerin once he knows his mother cannot hear them.

Hyerin looks up to peek a glance in his direction. “Your mum is a lovely person, really, but she can be… a lot sometimes. Especially when she’s stressed.” she says, smiling coyly.

“Tell me about it.”

She lets out a laugh that quickly dies down when aforementioned woman emerges from the bathroom. Instead of heading straight to the kitchen, she makes her way to Jungkook. “What are you planning to do after breakfast, Jungkookie?”

Jungkook shrugs because honestly, he hasn’t given a thought it yet. “I don’t know. Maybe I can help you with something here.” he proposes, although cutting onions and cabbage is the last thing he would like to do.

Fortunately, the grimace on his mother’s face tells her she’s not quite fond of his proposition. “Oh, no, no, no. We’re perfectly fine on our own with Hyerin-ssi. We don’t need extra pair of hands. Why do you think I told Junghyun to go with dad?” she asks rhetorically with raised eyebrows.

Of course Jungkook knows why. Kitchen is his mother’s kingdom. No one steps a foot there while she prepares food unless she permits it herself. Today she’s even more uncompromising about it because it’s the first time Hyerin parents are meeting Junghyun’s. It’s the matter of making a good impression as the host.

“Maybe you could call Y/N and ask her what her plans are? I’m sure she won’t be very busy.” Jungkook’s mother prompts and he feels like he’s ten again, bored on Saturday and wondering what to do with himself. Then, an idea pops in his mind.

“Yeah. You’re right,” he agrees. “I’ll call her.”

Maybe a literal trip down memory lane is everything he needs to feel like himself again.

As predicted, at first you welcomed his idea with a little bit of qualm, yet you said yes nonetheless.

And now here you are, hanging out together at the playground behind your old primary school. Getting there wasn’t an easy task, it required some parkour abilities and jumping over the fence because the place is apparently being locked on weekends now. Ten years ago it used to be your life estate on Saturdays.

You’re currently sat on a swing, watching Jungkook doing pull ups. You have a nagging suspicion that he chose to go on with his daily workout routine right now on purpose but you’re not better yourself, doing rather poor job at ignoring the way his hoodie rides upwards with every move he makes, revealing his toned abdomen.

“Okay, I’m done.” he grunts, letting go of the bar. He plops down on the other swing next you with a heavy exhale. “How many was it?” he then asks, referring to the number of pull ups you were supposed to keep a track off.

For a moment you forget you’re supposed to answer, eyes focused on Jungkook’s throat as he chugs down the whole water bottle.

“Hmm?” he repeats and you quickly snap out of your trance.

“I lost count.” Truthfully, you didn’t even make an attempt to do so. You were too distracted by the act itself to pay attention to anything else, let alone do basic math. Now you do understand all these girls going crazy when they get a glimpse of his sculpted body.

Jungkook rolls his eyes in response and starts swinging himself back and forth. It you recall correctly, he lost one of his front baby teeth here, jumping off the swing.

“I thought a lot of would change here after so many years. But it looks exactly like I remembered it.” he says, slowing down to a halt.

You nod at his words. Apart from a little painting and renovations done here and there, it’s like it all got stuck in time. You’re about to add that your mother told you the infamous principal Choi is still consistently running the school, but Jungkook doesn’t let you vocalize it.

“Wait,” He stands up suddenly and walks to the seesaw swing. You furrow your brows as he crouches on the ground and attentively observes the object, presumably searching for something. “A-ha! Here it is! I knew it still would be there.” he exclaims excitedly after a few seconds.

Confused, you come up to him. “What are you doing?”

“Look,” he says, pointing at the wooden base of the seesaw. At first glance you don’t notice anything but as you get closer, you see what he meant.

Jinyoung + Y/N = ♡ engraved on the swing.

“Oh my god.” you groan, covering your face in embarrassment.

Jungkook ignores your whining and actually snaps a picture of his finding. “You know what’s actually funny? It was me who did this because you didn’t have enough strength.” He giggles, making your cheeks heat up in bright shade of red. “I stole my dad’s pocket knife for it. Such a shame your love story lasted only a week.”

“I’m not listening to you!” you announce and quickly come back to your previous spot on the swing.

Jungkook doesn’t give up easily though, enjoying tormenting you with your pre-teen love life. He follows you, asking, “Wasn’t he your first kiss as well?” You keep your mouth shut, avoiding his eyes. He then clasps his hands. “Yeah, I remember now. Sixth grade. He kissed you here, am I right?”

You wish you could wipe off that smirk from his face.

“I never liked Jinyoung,” he continues, sitting down next to you on the second swing. “But I always wanted to have that black range rover his dad drove.”

Your face heats up even more at the mere mention of Jinyoung and his dad’s car in one sentence. Jungkook can make fun of your silly crush as much he wants, but he doesn’t know one thing.

That your little infatuation had a sequel.

Taking a deep breath, you lean closer to him and ask, “Wanna know a secret?” He sends you a curious look and nods. You brace yourself for what is about to come. “I lost my virginity at the back of that range rover.”

Jungkook chokes on air. His eyes widen in pure shock and you have to fight an urge to laugh at how ridiculous he looks right now, gaping at you with mouth wide open. “What the fuck, Y/N?! Tell me you’re joking, please.”

You sigh, shaking your head. “I wish but unfortunately, that’s true. We went to the same high school and somehow… our paths crossed together again.” you explain.

“And you decided to fuck him in his dad’s car?”

“No, dumbass. We were dating. For whole six months.”

Jungkook sends you a look. “And you didn’t tell me?”

“It’s not like we were talking back then,” you reply sheepishly, toying with the edge of your sweater. Suddenly it’s hard for you to meet his scrutinizing stare. “You stopped responding to my messages a little before I started dating him.”

The atmosphere between you tenses. Jungkook’s expression morphs from astonishment into guilt and you curse yourself for ruining the mood.

Jinyoung is just a mere memory, one of many mistakes you made during your teen years. He wasn’t anyone special to you anymore, he never had been. Not even when he deflowered you on the backseat of his dad’s car one night after some party. You were too drunk to care and too inexperienced to do more than just lie there and take it. With your skirt hiked up and blouse mid-open, wondering if Jinyoung was just as clueless as you when it came to sex or he simply didn’t know how to pleasure women.

What Jungkook doesn’t have to know, is that you jumped into the relationship with Jinyoung to fill the void your best friend created three years ago with unanswered messages and never returned calls. You were lonely in high school, you couldn’t manage to form a close bond with anyone after Jungkook. You hoped Jinyoung was good enough for a replacement.

“What about you then?” you ask to clear the atmosphere. “I told you my secret, now you reveal me yours.”

To loosen up the tension a bit, you decide to play the quid pro quo card. Partially out of curiosity, but mostly because you feel like you’ve exposed yourself too much in a short period of time. It will only be fair if he gives you the same in return.

Jungkook smiles bashfully. For the person who had done many dirty things to you before, he sure looks shy now. “I was nineteen as well. She was a friend of a friend, four years older than me. We met a party, flirted a little and one thing led to another,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. “I’ve never seen here after that. She tried to contact me but I just… I didn’t want to commit to something more.”

Is he ready for more now? you wonder silently. The question stays at the tip of your tongue though. You can’t wish for more when everything he’s able to provide is a few, quick moments of blissful relief between the sheets when sun goes down.

But what if you want more? What if you’ve always, subconsciously, felt like you belonged together but universe decided to split you apart? What if you’ve always been in love with your best friend?

The realization hits you like a tsunami. All these years, you spent denying your feelings for him. And when there’s a chance for you act on them, you back away.

Because even if he’s now inches from you, he seems out of your reach.

By the time you gulp down your third glass of champagne, Jungkook’s brother’s engagement party is in full swing.

Junghyun and Hyerin didn’t invite many people to celebrate. It’s a small, family gathering. Your parents were invited thanks to the almost twenty-years-long friendship with Jeons, which started when you moved into the new house next to theirs.

Jungkook looks painfully handsome dressed in black suit pants and emerald green button-up shirt. His raven hair is styled the way you like the most, parted in the middle and revealing his forhead. You, on the other hand, are wearing a simple, long-sleeved navy blue dress you’ve had on multiple occasions before but it’s still your top go-to garment when you have nothing else to put on.

“Have I told you look great tonight, buttercup?”

Turning around, you’re met with Junghyun’s smiling face. Of course he would approach you with his childhood nickname for you that used to make your heart flutter.

Besides his hair color, there’s little resemblance between him and Jungkook when it comes to appearance. While Jungkook took a lot after their father, Junghyun is almost a cardboard copy of their mum. Even their characters are two polar opposites. Junghyun is the more outgoing, boisterous type but Jungkook still tends to act introverted towards strangers.

And paradoxically, it’s the younger brother who’s making a career in entertainment industry.

“Shouldn’t you be complementing your fiancée instead?” you ask, accepting another glass of Martini Junghyun hands you.

“As you can see, she’s busy being interrogated by my mother.”

From the corner of your eye, you see Hyerin nodding along to whatever miss Jeon is telling her right now, expressively gesturing. It’s her brand to do so. Your father says that she talks with her mouth and hands simultaneously.

“I’m sure Hyerin-ssi went through it already when they were preparing food together earlier today.” you joke.

Junghyun chuckles, having a seat next to you. He sends quick, supportive thumbs-up to to his girlfriend when she glances at him from the spot she occupies on the couch. You can’t help but coo at the sight.

“So,” you quip, “when’s the wedding?”

“Next year in August,” Junghyun answers. “You’re obviously invited as well.”

You smirk around the champagne glass. “I wouldn’t miss seeing my childhood crush getting married.”

Junghyun laughs at that, throwing his head back. After a moment he adds, “It’s funny though, how you were gushing over me when the boy who had heart eyes for you was right under your nose.”

You arch a brow. “You mean Jungkook? He had a crush on me?”

“If course he did. You were the only girl who talked to him and moreover, you always helped him with his homework and you know how bad he was at algebra,” Junghyun says, sending you a knowing look. That much is true. Jungkook did suck at Math and could not, for crying out loud, interact with girls. “If he could, he would’ve taken you with him to Seoul all those years ago.”

Your eyes involuntarily drift to aforementioned boy, standing with his father in the kitchen. They are looking at something your dad is showing them on his phone, probably pictures of the car he recently renovated.

(A classic Chevrolet Camaro 1969. For all you know it looked like Damon’s car in Vampire Diaries.)

You can see Jungkook’s eyes growing big as he stares down at the screen. Obviously, he’s genuinely amazed with what he sees. You can only hope your dad won’t try persuading him to sell his luxurious Mercedes and buy something vintage instead.

“Why didn’t ever tell me that?” you ask, your voice quivery. You take another gulp of your drink to soothe the emotions bubbling in your chest and you barely succeed.

Junghyun shrugs his shoulders in response. “Would it change anything? You were thirteen-year-old kids back then and he was moving out to another city to make his big dream come true.”

Pursing your lips, you nod. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

You don’t know exactly what Jungkook feels for you right now. Back when you were teenagers, it was just a fleeting attraction. Perhaps he thought about you this way because you were a girl who liked spending time with him.

“I know him giving up your friendship was a dick move but you have to believe me that this boy has been really lost these past three years. Now he’s trying to find himself again, to become a better version of himself,” Junghyun remarks. “He needs his best friend to help him do so.”

Turning once again to look at Jungkook, you catch him staring right back at you. He flashes a cheeky grin and completely fails winking at you. You’re lips automatically stretch into a smile seeing his goofiness. You like that side of him. It suits him.

“I think I need to go save my fiancee from my mother.” Junghyun whispers, catching you off guard. He follows your line of sight and smirks to himself. “Go talk to him. I’m sure your dad wouldn’t mind snatching Jungkook for a bit.” Unlike his younger brother, he lands a perfect wink.

Like beckoned, Jungkook approaches you when Junghyun leaves the table. “Aren’t you a little sad he’s getting married, buttercup?” It’s the first thing that night he says to you.

Fighting an urge to snort, you ask, “Aren’t you tired of being jealous I chose Junghyun-oppa as the object of my affection and not you when we were kids?”

Jungkook bites the inside of his cheek, manifesting his irritation. You relish in it even more now, having the knowledge he used to pin after you. He ignores your witty retort though completely.

“Want to get out of here for a while?”

Your heart skips a beat. “Where?” you blurt out, looking around the room for any place comfortable for you to stay in for a while.

“Isn’t it obvious?” When you raise your brows in question he adds, “To your house, of course.”

“But–”

He shooshes you with a finger on his lips. “No buts, Miss Grumpy. It’s been ages since I’ve been in your room. Do you still have that Edward Cullen’s poster above your bed?” he asks and this time, you actually land a punch to his arm.

Downing the rest of your champagne, you get up from the chair. “Shall we?”

“Ladies first.”

“I still can’t understand why did you really hang a poster of some pale dude above your bed.”

You’re climbing up the stairs to your room, and Jungkook is in the middle of his rant about Why Twilight Has Ever Been A Thing. You’re ten seconds from pointing out his teenage female crushes one by one, starting with IU just to rile him up.

“It’s just weird for me,” he huffs upon taking one last step to the top.

You whip your head to send him a glare. “Do you really want me to say the same thing about your fans worshipping your posters?” you ask, eyes narrowed. “You’re out of their reach just like Edward Cullen was out of mine when I was fourteen.”

He points his finger at you. “But he’s a fictional vampire and I’m real.”

“Exactly!”

You leave him with that, eyebrows scrunched in confusion, and open the door to your room.

“So you did get rid of him after all.”

Nothing really much changed in your childhood room since you moved out four years ago. Your walls are still painted in lavender but the posters are long gone, much to Jungkook’s dismay. There is a bookshelf with all your favorite positions (Twilight included) standing directly next to the desk which is now pearl white, just like the rest of your furniture.

Before you can say anything, Jungkook plops down onto your bed. “You still got them though,” he murmurs and you glance in his direction, waiting for him to elaborate on what he means. He raises his finger to the ceiling. “Those yellow stars that shine when it’s dark. You have the same in your apartment in Seoul.”

“Oh, yeah,” you awkwardly reply, looking up. “I put them there so I can have something reminding me of home.”

Truth to be told, you are a sentimental person. The very best evidence of your heart’s weakness is the corkboard with old photos in your apartment. As cheesy as it might sound, it gives you a sense of comfort.

Jungkook hums at that and pats the spot next to him with his hand. “Come lay with me.” he proposes.

“Why?” you ask, although you sit down on the bed anyway.

“Because I want you to,” he grumbles and places his palm on your stomach, pushing you to lay flat. “There you go.”

It reminds you of old days, how you used to lay down with him like that on your bed and just do nothing, simply staring at the constellations on your ceiling in silence or speaking about trivial things.

Life was much easier back then, when there was no cameras flashing around and capturing every move your best friend makes. When you were just two kids with head full of dreams and dragging on forever doing your Chemistry homework. When you were each other’s beginning and end, yin and yang, sun and moon and the starry sky above you.

It slips off your tongue eventually, what have you been meaning to ask him since the beginning of your illicit affair. And now it seems like you’ve finally reached the point of no return. “What are we, Jungkook?”

You turn your head to the side, staring at his right profile. His chiseled jawline, black lashes ghosting the skin of your cheeks. He opens his eyes slowly, focusing his sight on you but you quickly look away.

“You know damn well that we aren’t just friends anymore. Maybe we’ve never been,” You sit up straight from your position, finally gaining enough courage to face the matter. “You can’t play with my emotions like that and expect me not to catch any feelings for you. You’re confusing me so much, Jungkook. I don’t think I can go on like that any more.”

You feel his palm on the small of your back, comforting and bringing you a brief wave of solace. He follows suit, getting up from his position as well. “Look at me,” he murmurs and you jerk your head to the side. You don’t want him to see you like this again - vulnerable and exposed. “Please, ___.”

It’s his pleading voice that makes you succumb to his request. Hesitantly, you accept his touch on your cheek and meet his doe eyes, two black charcoals shining in the dim lighting of your childhood room. He has the same look in them as you saw the first time he kissed you. If the teeth worrying his bottom lip are anything to go by, you could mistake it for nervousness.

“I shouldn’t feel that way about you,” Jungkook finally says. “I shouldn’t wake up with an urge to text you because if I didn’t, my day would be incomplete. I shouldn’t picture us doing mundane things like cooking ramen in your apartment or picking you up from work,” he recites, voice laced with an emotion you can’t quite put the name on. Or maybe you do.

It’s longing.

“I shouldn’t imagine us being together because I can’t give you all of these things, ___.” Lone tear slides down your cheek and he catches it with his thumb. “I’m so, so sorry.”

You’re shaking your head, because no, he shouldn’t apologize for the world’s unfairness, for wanting to have more of you, of freedom. “Jungkook–” you start but he’s quick to interrupt you.

“I told you this before and I’m repeating it now: you deserve so much better than what I can give you, ___.”

He tries to distance himself, to back away and leave because that’s what he’s a master of but you beat him to it, extending your index finger and poking him right in the middle of his chest. “Now you listen to me, Jeon Jungkook,” you urge, not caring about your tear-strained cheeks and shaky voice. “I’m a very stubborn person, and you know that. If I wanted to leave you, I would’ve kicked you out of my apartment the day your drunk ass stormed back into my life.”

He smiles sheepishly, putting a strand of hair behind your ear. “And why didn’t you do that?” he asks, his palm not leaving your cheek.

“Because more than anything, I’ve never stopped caring about you,” It’s almost a whisper. “No matter how hurt I was, I couldn’t let you slip away from my reach again.”

And then he’s leaning even closer, lips almost touching yours yet it feels like it’s not enough. It’ll never be. “___,” he murmurs your name softly, breath smelling of champagne hot on your skin. You feel dizzy, drunk on him. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

You both know it’s a white lie, that as soon as you’re back in Seoul the reality will brutally kick you in but you let yourself for a moment indulge in this fantasy – that you’re his and he’s yours. You’re on the opposite sides of the spectrum, yet you cannot be separated.

And you need to hear him say it.

“Promise?”

Jungkook seals it with a kiss, the one that leaves you breathless and pliant in his arms, blindly reaching for him and pulling him closer with your hands on his neck. “Promise.” he whispers, eyes trained on yours.

For now, it has to be enough.

Then, as if he can’t hold himself back any longer, he dives in for more, hands finding purchase on your hips. He’s tugging you closer until you’re perched on top of his thighs, feeling the hard flesh flexing underneath your weight. It feels familiar; that funny, pulsing sensation building up in your core when he swipes his tongue over your bottom lip to meet yours. It makes you tangle your fingers in his black locks and pull, just to hear him groan into your mouth.

But there’s another pressing matter on your mind and before you can go any further, you’re pulling away from his lips with a light smack. Jungkook doesn’t take the hint though, anchoring your hips over his crotch.

“Wait,” you mumble in between kisses, biting down the moan that almost tears from your throat when he uses the grip on your body to grind down on him. “What about the party? What if parents will come home and–”

“Shhh,” He silents you with a peck on your quivery lips. “They won’t. The party has barely started. And even if they do come home, you’ll just have to be quiet, right?” Something about his tone makes you nibble on your bottom lip to suppress a whimper. He sees it, and leans down to kiss your throat. “Can you do that for me, baby?”

“Mhm,” you mewl, angling your neck to give him more access. He sucks a mark right above your sternum and it almost distracts you from asking him one more thing. “Jungkook,”

He licks a stripe up the column of your throat and looks at you, lips shining with saliva. “What is this?”

Despite the urge to kiss him stupid right here and there, you cup his cheeks and repeat the same question that led you to this very moment. “What are we?”

Jungkook looks like a living sin with his blown out pupils and disheveled hair yet his gaze is nothing less than affectionate. He brings one of your hands to his lips and places a kiss on your knuckles. “Whatever you want us to be,” he responds, sincere. “You know I never give up without trying.”

You nod, a small smile dancing on your features. “I know.”

He captures your mouth in another kiss, like he’s trying to prove his statement with actions; sucking, biting, kneading your supple flesh just right. Suddenly there’s too many clothes separating you and your fingers grip his silk shirt in faint attempt to satisfy your yearning to feel him fully.

As if reading your mind, Jungkook stops mid-decorating your neck with yet another red mark. “Get up and take off your dress for me, baby.” he says, all soft but still demanding enough to make your knees wobble. As much as you love the dominant side of him, you’re enjoying this new-found softness of his.

You comply to his request in an instant, raising from his lap to a standing position. Your fingers travel to your backside and pull the zipper down. Your dress falls on the floor with light thud, leaving you in your underwear. It’s matching but not your best pick nonetheless; simple black lace bra and cotton panties. Jungkook doesn’t seem to mind though, two antsy hands gently pulling you closer to him until you’re in between his thighs.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, leaning down to press a feathery kiss on your belly. You let out a shaky sigh, trying to avert your gaze away from his burning stare but he destroys your attempt. “Don’t shy away from me now.” A squeeze to your hip is a warning. You give in, looking down just to see him smirking right back at you.

“I won’t if you take off your clothes as well.” you challenge despite your trembling voice.

He gets up, towering over your figure. “Undress me then.” Your shaky fingers reach for the buttons, opening one by one. He watches your movements attentively, lets you run your palms over his broad chest. His silky shirt joins your dress on the floor as you fumble with his belt buckle.

There’s something intimate about this moment. It’s not the first time you’re seeing each other naked yet everything feels new, unchartered. You’re exploring each other again, mapping your bodies with subtle touches and observant eyes.

Jungkook strips off his slacks, steps off his shoes along with socks. He sends you a cheeky grin. “Now we’re even.” He swallows your giggle with his mouth, not wasting any more time and pressing you against his body.

You moan when you feel his erection touching your hip. He uses it as an opportunity to slither his tongue inside, each experienced lick making it hard for you to follow his tempo. You go lax in his hold, letting him snap your bra open. He maneuvers your body until you’re laying on your back and he’s straddling your waist.

“So pretty,” he marvels, palms caressing your breasts. Your nipples harden under his ministrations, breathy moan escaping your lips when he pinches them. “Such a pretty baby.” he repeats, lost in touching every part of you he can reach.

Jungkook peppers kisses on your belly, hands travelling to your thighs. He leans to kiss you on your panty-clad mound. You mewl at the sensation, unconsciously sliding your legs wide open and giving him more access to your center. “Can I eat you out?” he asks, continuing mouthing over your pussy. When you don’t answer him in time, he slaps your thigh in reprimand. ‘’Hmm?”

“Please,” you whimper, mind send into overdrive. Minho rarely went down on you and you almost forgot how good it feels to have someone’s mouth on you.

Jungkook grasps your underwear and pulls it down your legs, revealing your dripping pussy to his hungry eyes. His breath tickles your folds, sheets grasped tightly between your fingers. Jungkook kitten-licks your pulsing clit, eyes trained on your face to see every small reaction he emits from you.

“Jungkook,” you keen, hips rising to chase after his mouth.

He nibbles on your thigh playfully, flashing you a sly smile. “What do you want, doll?”

It’s the ‘doll’ that makes you whine pitifully at him. He relishes in it, sucking your clit into his mouth as an apology for his teasing. You whimper, “Please, I want more. Give me more.”

‘’Demanding, are we?” he snorts but complies anyway. No matter how much he loves hearing you beg, he enjoys eating you out more. He covers you your pussy with his mouth, tongue swiping over your sensitive numb. He licks up clean your soaking slit, not missing a single drop of your pearly arousal.

He groans at the taste and throws your legs over his shoulders. He pulls you even closer to him until his face is burried between thighs. Your fingers wander to his hair on their own accord, threading into his silky strands. After a harsh suck he abuses your clit with, you pull. It spurs him on even more, a groan mouthed against your pussy causing even more slick to drip down your opening.

“Tell me how good it feels.” he mumbles, glancing up at your face. You focus your sight on him, his chin is shining with translucent substance, hair tangled and sweaty against his forehead.

“So good,” you mewl.

“Yeah? That good?” Jungkook asks, tone almost mocking. You’re now only nodding in response, your cunt pulsing with a need to release. “Can you cum for me like this, baby?” he mouths along your folds.

“Please, please,” You’re nearly crying, tears pricking in the corners because the pleasure is too much to bear. Your clit throbs, eyes rolling to the back of your head. “Oh my god–Kook!”

“Good girl,” He rewards you with two slender fingers pushing inside your pussy, searching for that one stop that makes your insides flutter. “My pretty baby, tastes so sweet for me.” he rasps before licking a stripe up your cunt.

His digits slide even deeper into you. It sounds sinfully wet but you don’t care, accepting whatever he gives you. And give does he, plunging his fingers repeatedly inside and flicking his tongue against your bud – a perfect symphony to finally send you over the edge.

“There you go,” he murmurs, feeling your walls tightening around his fingers. More juices leak out of your hole and he drinks them up eagerly. “My pretty girl doing so good for me.”

He prolongs your orgasm until you stop him with a breathy whimper of, “’m sensitive.”

Jungkook gets up to hover over your shaking body. He opens your mouth with a deep, wet kiss. You taste your arousal on his tongue, feeling no longer foreign and eliciting a moan out of you. His length presses against your hip, hard and straining his briefs. With a surge of boldness you reach down, rolling his underwear off his body. His cock slaps against his abdomen, curved tip leaking precum.

Nibbling on your bottom lip you watch as his hand encloses around his member, giving it a few pumps. He groans, head thrown back. Your eyes focus on the sweat dripping down his sculpted body all the way from his neck down his chest. Jungkook is a sight for sore eyes– slim waist, toned thighs. Everything about him is mesmerizing.

He settles between your legs, cock prodding at your folds. “You sure?” he asks, searching for your eyes.

You don’t answer him verbally this time and he doesn’t press about it. Instead you open your legs even wider, a small smile dancing on your features as you nod. You’re welcoming the stretch with a drawn out moan. He pushes himself inside slowly, until he’s flushed against your pelvis, his neatly trimmed pubic hair tickling your skin.

“Fuck,” he curses, hands coming up to grip your sides so tightly you’re sure they’ll leave fingertip bruises. “You’re so perfect, baby. Made for me.” He leans to press a kiss on your mouth, tongue lazily lacing with yours. It’s messy, saliva trickling down your chin but you don’t care, reciprocating with vigor.

Jungkook pulls away and places one last peck on your cheek. “Ready?” he murmurs.

You couldn’t be more than. “Ready.”

He picks up the pace, blindly reaching for your legs to make you encircle his waist. You’ve never fucked in this position before, with him so close to your face you could practically taste the sweat dripping off his body on your lips. He relishes in having you like this, palms caressing every square inch of your flesh.

‘’God, I missed having you like this, doll,” he grunts. He props his hand next to your head and it gives him leverage to hammer himself faster into your cunt. “Do you like how I’m fucking you?” he asks and you keen in response. He doesn’t seem to be satisfy with your reaction. “Too fucked out to speak?” You hear him chuckling evily into your ear.

“Shit, Jungkook,” you whimper, throwing your hands over his neck. His skin his hot and slippery under your touch. He rams himself even harder into you, hips never losing the rhythm. You feel the pressure building up in your abdomen already, reducing you to mewling mess underneath him. “I-I love it. So, so much.” you stammer out.

“Yeah?” he prompts, fingers slipping down your belly to toy with your clit. “Love how my cock is fucking you?”

“Yes, yes–fuck,” you chant. “So good.”

He loses himself in you, in the way how tight you feel around his cock. He tells you this, spits filthy obscenities into your ear and punctuates it with deep strokes inside you. He wants to have you like this forever, keep you to himself and hide from the whole world.

It’s selfish of him to think that way but he can’t help it, not when you’re moaning so pretty when he tightens his grip on your waist and rails you harder into the mattress. Not when you’re there when he needs you, when you’re his lifeboat bringing him back to the land (sanity).

He wants to see you smile for him, because of him. Wants to call you his. And that’s what he asks you to, begs in stranded voice. “Say you’re mine,” You’re shaking your head, tears threatening to spill from your eyes but he needs to hear you say it even if it’ll be just this once. “Please, tell me you’re mine, ___.”

Your whole body shudders from pleasure. You open your quivery lips but nothing comes out of it except for a broken whimper of his name. “J-jungkook–”

“Please,” he pleads once again, entangling your hands from around his neck and pinning them over your head instead. “Say nobody will ever make you feel this way. Fuck you until you cry,” he continues, fingers circling your nub with ferocity. “Fucking say it!”

You sob, pleasure rippling through your body and throwing you off the edge. “I’m yours,” you whisper hoarsly, staring into his dark orbs. “Yours, yours, yours!” you repeat, creaming his cock with your release.

“Fuck,” Jungkook groans and you don’t know it’s because of your confession or your walls constracting around his member. Maybe it’s the mixture of both. “You’re mine just like I’m yours.” he spits as the orgasm approaches him, shuddering through his whole body. He comes with a call of your name, spilling himself inside.

You whimper at the sensation, your arousal mixing with his and dripping from your hole. Jungkook lets go of your wrists, pressing a peck on each of them. His palm cups your cheek and he leans down to kiss you. It’s lazy, your mouths barely moving but it feels good anyway.

He’s in the middle of pulling his softening cock out of your core when you hear your mum’s voice.

“___, honey, are you here?” She’s downstairs, approximately forty-five seconds from reaching your room.

Jungkook sends you a panicked look. “Go lock my door!” you hiss.

He obliges quickly, naked butt jogging across the room to twist the key. You can’t help but giggle as he tiptoes to the bed again. He puts a hand over your mouth and murmurs, “Shhh, be quiet.”

Your mum’s heels clink on the stairs. Few seconds later she’s knocking on your door. “___, are you there?” she asks. You’re praying she won’t twist the handle because in that case you’ll have a lot of awkward explaining to do. Fortunately, she gives up. “I guess they went for a walk.”

By ‘they’ she means you and Jungkook who’s currently stifling a laugh against your shoulder. “Well, maybe not for a walk but something equally energy-draining.” he whispers. You elbow him in the stomach, making him chuckle even harder.

When you hear the door to your house closing, you let out a breath of relief. “I knew fucking in my childhood bedroom wasn’t a good idea.”

Jungkook smirks. “You sure about that?” he teases, squeezing your hip. It makes you roll your eyes but you don’t hide the smile on your face afterwards anyway.

Jungkook reaches for your panties and rolls you onto your back, carefully cleaning you up and then himself. He tucks you beneath the covers, encircling your body with his arm. You relish in the heat radiating of him, pressing your cheek right where his heart beats.

“You’ve never told me what would be my biography’s title.” Jungkook says after a moment.

You smile to yourself, fingertips drawing patterns on his skin absentmindedly. “I’d call it ‘Lost Star’.” you answer.

“Because I’m a troublesome celebrity?” he chuckles and you shake your head.

“Well, of course you can interpret it like that but for me it has more of a metaphorical sense,” you explain. “You’re a star, like those on the sky, which got lost and came to Earth instead. That’s why you’re so special. Because you’re out of this world.”

“I’m no special,” Jungkook grumbles, pouting.

You sit up from your position to look him in the eyes. “You’re wrong, Jeon Jungkook. And I think I’m not the only person who thinks the same,” you urge. He meets your gaze and you realise how young he looks right now. Young and boyish. “You make thousands of people smile because of your music. That’s a special ability to me.”

He flashes you a small smile. “I’ve never thanked you for believing in me from the very beginning.” he says, cupping your cheek in his palm.

“Always.”

You drift off to sleep with his voice humming softly in your ears.

[4 months later]

“Bangtan Sonyeondan are currently at the Incheon International Airport, leaving for their upcoming world tour. Their first show will be held this Saturday in Los Angeles and–”

You walk into the living room and sit on the sofa, staring at the pictures Korean press took of Jungkook and his bandmates while they were departing to US. They are dressed in their casual clothing and you know the fans are going to freak out seeing Jungkook’s hair has gotten long enough to tie it in a man bun. You’re almost sure the news have already spread on Twitter.

The TV is too big for your liking but Jungkook insisted on buying it anyway. You can almost see the pimple on his cheek he woke up with this morning. It makes you smile involuntarily.

Rest of the design in his–now yours as well– apartment was mainly your idea. He bought it without telling you because he knew you would freak out. And you did, obviously, call him crazy. But he didn’t mind. Told you he needed a space for himself for a very long time and now he has someone to share it with.

The house feels empty without him. It’s too spacious for one person and when he’s not around, you feel like intruder. But you’ve put on your big girl shoes this morning after a passionate round of love making and teary-eyed goodbyes. You won’t slip them off until he will come home to you in two months.

He promised he would show you Paris and London. You know he will keep that promise, although you aren’t sure you’ll be able to make it with your new job. After breaking up with Minho, Jungkook encouraged you to try sending your drafts to different publishing companies. And one of them responded positively.

You check your phone–your smiling face meeting you on the lockscreen. Jungkook’s smooching your cheek, but prying eyes wouldn’t be able to tell it’s him from that angle. His last text message is from fifteen minutes ago.

[5:55pm] jungkook:

We’re departing in 20 minutes

I’m missing you already so much:(

You reply, although he’s probably fast asleep like he always does during flying.

[6:01pm] me:

Miss u too!!

And you mean it. You’re missing him when he’s at his dance practice, when he’s in the studio. But it has to be enough for now.

The dates he takes you for have to be in the confines of your apartment. You can’t go for a walk and hold his hand or kiss him in public. He said you needed to wait for the tour to end to discuss publicly announcing your relationship. You’re wondering what’s better: forever hiding or being judged for every step you take.

You’re a strong girl, he once told you. And you’ll continue being one. For the two teenagres on the beach smiling to the camera in the framed photo next to your TV.

However long it takes.

#jungkook smut #btswritingcafe #ksmutclub #bangtanarmynet #smutcentralnet #maknaesmutsociety #bangtanhq #btsbookclub #btswriterscollective #jungkook angst #bts smut #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook fanfic #my writing #lost stars

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shadowfae · 3 years

Note

We’re all pretty aware that the tumblr otherkin community is at a huge decline; I was wondering if you have any theories as to why that is?

American Protestantism, the decline of queer oppression in North America and the AIDS crisis, helicopter parenting, web 3.0, morality politics, and Tumblr’s porn ban; roughly in that order and rolled up into one bombshell that was a few years in the coming but nobody really saw it and understood it until it was far too late.

That was a mouthful and probably only made sense if you follow current cyberpolitical theory. For some of you reading this, as with every other hot take I have this has a chance of being passed around, that alone is enough. But for others who had no idea what I just said and need the ELI5 version, let me explain that. Buckle up, this’ll be a long one, and will go into fandom history a bit as well because it is actually relevant.

As we know, tumblr is a very American-centric platform. Twitter is also this way, but less so, but tumblr has it bad. Now, I’m ‘lucky’ in the fact that I’m Canadian and a twenty minute drive from the American border, so that puts me in the ‘privileged’ majority. (I say privileged because I’m not really sure what else to call it. Most of the information going around about politics either directly affects me or indirectly affects me approximately one or two links of contact away. Someone who’s only influenced by American politics because it makes their sister’s online friends sad is not going to be privileged in that way.)

This means that American politics and their social climate overwhelmingly affects tumblr’s social climate. This also bleeds through into other fandom spaces, on twitter, instagram, and Pixiv to name a few places; but here’s where I spend the majority of my time so here’s what I’ve witnessed.

America’s main religion, as far as I understand (from the raised agnostic and currently neopagan view I have), is some weirdass capitalistic-Protestantism that is so many miles from what the actual Bible says that if I were a betting man and knew more about cults than I did, I’d say it’s some weird fucking cult and never set foot in the country again for any reason that isn’t gaming free shipping through a PO box. If you have no idea what I just said but are at least vaguely familiar with Christianity, this graphic explains it pretty well. So we can see there’s some glaring issues with that ideal.

The decline of queer oppression and the rise of queer rights in North America, which is to tenderly include my own country but we all know when people say ‘in NA’ they mean ‘America, and Canada where it applies because the right-wing Republicans are really good in the propaganda department to convince everyone that Mexico is a drug-lords-and-anarchy wasteland to the point where even I don’t actually know what’s down there other than bad drivers and heat’; means two things. One, it’s a good thing by a long shot and do not mistake this as me thinking queer oppression being lessened is a bad thing. But two, it means that thanks to the AIDS crisis, queer folks lost a lot of first-person sources as history.

The queer elders in NA who survived are typically either a) bitter anarchists who are often POC, probably still dirt poor and do recreational drugs or b) university-tenured TERFs (trans exclusionary radical feminists). Category A are the people who Republicans have deemed worthless in every way, because racism, queerphobia, ableism, and all the other ways to be wrong and different and Evil that they can’t handle, because Jeezus would never want them to actually learn to love someone who wasn’t just like them, and they don’t have the compassion to do better. Category B are the people who want to be different in just a teensie little bit, typically with TERFs they want to be lesbians, but they don’t want to challenge the status quo. They’re fine with the way things work, they just want to be on top oppressing others over ripping the whole damn thing down and building a more forgiving system.

Now, due to all those ‘isms and the cheerfully malicious aid of the Republicans, pun not intended but drives home the cruelty of it all, we also see the rise of helicopter parenting. The invention of the internet did not really help this. Basically what you’ve got is a whole bunch of parents who saw the civil rights movement, just got access to the internet and things going viral, know the world is changing, and like all parents, they’re scared for their children. Now instead of parents knowing one or two people in their classes who just went missing one day and everyone assumed they ran away, they hear about eight homicides in the city of kids going to parks at night and dying. The Satanic Panic was another event around this time that contributed to that, but I’ll let you research that one.

This means that all of these parents, instead of doing what their parents typically did and let their kids wander off for the day so long as they’re back by sundown, they can’t let their children out of their sight. There might be a freak accident where their child is decapitated on the playground swing! Their baby might get murdered by an evil Satanist walking home from school! Their dearest darling might go online and tell their address to someone who’s got a 100% chance of being a pedophile who will show up and kidnap them in the night!

…You get the idea.

Combine those three things I just established, what we’ve got is a lot of queer kids who have a lot of internalized shame for being different and wrong, because they’re queer, and they can’t find spaces offline to be themselves, because all of the elders who would do that are dead and/or inaccessible and their parents won’t let them go to any clubs that aren’t school-related, which they’ll never find a GSA or queer club because Republicans, ‘isms, propaganda, and the war on Category A queer adults have all done their best to ensure that those spaces don’t exist.

So you have a generation of kids who I am the youngest of. The first generation on the internet. The late Web 1.0 (usenets and Geocities) and early Web 2.0 (livejournal was the big one, ff.net too, also 4chan but fuck those guys) generation. What we were taught was: trust nobody on the internet with your real info no matter how much you like them, this is a wilderness and any crimes that happen won’t be punished or seen so don’t put yourself in a position where you’re going to be the victim of one, and everything you put online is never getting taken down so don’t put anything up that you’re not willing to have on the front page of your local newspaper.

This worked out pretty well, actually! You had kids who knew that if they got in trouble, there was no backup coming to save them. Because the form that backup might take - parents and police - wasn’t going to help. Best case, they’d be banned from their friends and online support groups for being queer. Worst case, they’d be jailed and put in juvie and conversion therapy and turn to drugs and become evil Satanists just like everyone says they secretly are already. So they learned very quickly to take care of themselves. Nobody was going to save them, so they learned to not need saving.

And then, well, Web 2.0 shifted to Web 3.0. Livejournal died because parents - the Warriors for Innocence was the big name - went “gasp how horrible my children are being exposed to the evil pedos and homosexuals they’re going to do drugs and die of AIDS!”. Which is uh. It’s filled with a lot of bigotry, and I’m not excusing them - absolutely I am not - but you can kind of see where they’re coming from, if you tilt your head and squint.

Either way, LJ died, tumblr took its place, Facebook was fast taking off, and the fandom folks who had seen mailing lists go inactive, web admins take their fanfic sites down due to copyright, entire fandoms burnt to the ground in flame wars, said ‘fuck that we’re making our own place’ and that’s how AO3 got made.

That’s important. A lot of folks move to AO3, because well, the rules let them. The rules say ‘you can throw literally anything up here so long as it’s fan content and is not literally illegal, so we don’t get taken down’. It’s a swing for the first generation internet users, those kids who know this place is a wilderness and are carving out our own sanctuary.

But. The children under us. The children for whom AIDS is a nightmarish fairy tale, for whom the ghost stories are conversion therapy, for whom know they can’t really talk to their parents about being queer but can trust they probably won’t get kicked out over it. The children who haven’t spent ten seconds without supervision except online, and their reaction isn’t ‘oh thank god I’m finally free to express myself’ but ‘if I get in trouble, who will protect me?’.

And there’s nobody there. Because we went in knowing there was no backup. And that was fine. But now, the actual adults have figured out that hey uh, maybe we should make cyber laws? Maybe we should make revenge porn and grooming children over the internet crimes? And they grew up with that. They grew up learning that no, even if your parents are suffocating and controlling, they’re always be there for you! Some adult will always be there to protect you!

That isn’t the case. It’s not. But they expect it, because it’s always been done for them. They don’t really want to change the status quo, because that means doing it themselves. They can’t do that, because they don’t know how, they’ve been controlled for every single part of their lives thanks to helicopter parenting and without that control, they don’t know how to keep their lives together, and they demand someone come and control it for them, without restraining them.

Effectively, they want someone to ensure they never face the consequences of their actions. Helicopter parents will rescue you from whatever you did, because you’re their precious baby and it doesn’t matter if you punched a kid, you can do no wrong and the other kid clearly started it.

But being queer is doing wrong. Being queer is something Jeezus doesn’t approve of. So they want to make it something he could approve of! But if it’s too off what they consider to be okay, if it’s too different and weird and wrong and evil, that can’t do, that’s still bad, and they’re precious angels, and children, and minors, why are we the adults not protecting them and letting them see it? Why aren’t we being just like their parents but queer-friendly, why aren’t we protecting the children?

The adults who taught us were the children of those who died as a result of AIDS. The eldest of my generation knew some of them personally. My therapist’s younger brother died at 20 of AIDS, and she told me what it was like. But they don’t have that. These kids of web 3.0, they don’t have that. What they have is over-controlling parents, and the expectation that someone will always be there to protect them but hopefully in ways that don’t hurt them this time, no real understanding of why Category A queer elders are the way they are, and so much internalized shame that they have to do some pretty fancy logic-leaping to keep them from collapsing entirely.

They can’t turn into Category A queer youngsters, because they don’t know how to unravel the system around them, because they’ve never had to actually make choices in their lives and live with the consequences, because they don’t have the example of how to do it. They can’t unravel their internalized shame because again, that’s hard and they don’t have their parents to take away the consequences and pain. It doesn’t come easy to them, so it may as well not come at all.

But, you ask, if Category A queer elders aren’t around to teach the kids, then how are they learning anything positive at all? Well, Category B, our university-tenured TERFs, who don’t want to change the status quo but want to just be at the top of it instead.

For a lot of kids who don’t know how to make hard choices but want to be queer, this is an extremely attractive option. But when they go online to queer spaces, a lot of them say fuck terfs, we don’t support your hate, and they go ‘yeah okay that makes sense’. They can say fuck terfs without ever actually questioning why terfs are bad. They’re Bad and Evil, just like drug addicts, just like fairytale nazis, just like the evil homophobes.

And we saw them say ‘yeah fuck terfs’ and we were like, ‘aight you got it’ and we never questioned if they actually understood us. They didn’t. They didn’t, and we didn’t do enough to fix it, because not enough of us realized the problem. So terfs got a little sneaky. They hid behind dogwhistles and easy little comments, hiding their rhetoric in queer theory that you’ll absolutely miss if you just memorize it and never actually question it and understand why that point is being made.

This goes back to America sucking, because their school system is far more focused on rote memorization over actual logic and understanding of the text. They’re engaging with queer theory the way they’ve been taught, which is memorize and don’t think, don’t question. Besides, questioning and understanding is hard. Being shown different points of view and asked what they think is not only hard but requires them to go against all of the conditioning that says to just listen and agree and never question it, which goes back to tearing the system and internalized shame down, and we’ve established they can’t do that so naturally they don’t do that.

This begets, then, the rise of exclusionary politics. They’re turning into Category B queer youngsters, because we told them ‘hey that’s a terf talking point what are you doing’ and they never questioned why. They learned you can do all sorts of things, just don’t say X, Y, or Z, because they never thought deeply about it.

The children who have grown on Web 3.0 do not want to do any heavy lifting to make things easier for themselves long-run. They want to do as little as possible and have things get better for them. There isn’t enough of us left in Category A, because Category B terfs are very good at recruiting young folks and Cat. A is overwhelming poor, dead, and easily dismissed in the system as evil and bad, so we can’t exactly convince the young folks to listen. If all of the young kids could agree to tear down the system, a lot more older folks might listen. Change always starts with the young, and there’s a reason for that.

But Republicans have figured out, if you get people fighting, they never put together a force that can actually stop you. TERFs, who want the exact same thing as Republicans but with themselves on top, are doing this to queer youth, and Cat. A elders can’t fight back because there isn’t enough of them and the odds are against them, and the young folk like me who follow their lead.

People can kinda handle gay people. It’s not so far from the acceptable normal that it’s impassable. But you want them to handle kinky people? Gay people of colour? Kinky gay people of colour? Trans people? Those are bridges too far to step across. The original idea was to get the foot in the door with marriage equality and inch our way through with racial equality, sex positivity, dismantling ableism and perisexism (forgive me if that isn’t the word for anti-intersex ‘ism), and see if we can’t patch up the system instead of inciting a civil war over this and have to tear down the system entirely.

Well, we might’ve managed that if not for AIDS being the perfect ‘Jeezus is killing all the evil gay people for being sinners’ propaganda machine. As it stands now, not a chance in hell. So long as Republicans and terfs keep everyone fighting, nobody has the power to dismantle their empire, and they stay in power.

So then, you ask me, “Lu what the fuck does that have to do with the decline of otherkinity on tumblr???” and now that you’ve got all that background knowledge, here is your answer.

Those children who want their experiences curated for them and the evil icky content they don’t like to be gone because it disgusts them and anything that disgusts them is clearly sinful problematic and should be destroyed, are what we call ‘antishippers’, or anti for short.

They like being progressive. Sort of. They learned what Republicans and terfs have honed to a fine talent: keep people fighting, hold them to a bar they have to constantly make or risk being ostracized, and harass the people who don’t play along into getting out of your sight forever. Sound familiar?

They learned of otherkinity, and particularly fictionkind, because web 3.0 means if something goes viral on one site, it doesn’t just go viral on that site, it makes it to worldwide newspapers and twitter and nobody ever, ever fucking forgets it. They realized the following: “Hey wait, if I’m this character for realsies, not only does it help me deal with the internalized shame I’ve done nothing to actually fix because that takes work, I can also tell these people who draw gross content I don’t like they’re hurting me personally, and that actually sounds credible, and I can shame them into stopping”.

If this is your first time here and that sounds sickening, it damn well should, and I am so, so sorry that any of us had to witness this, and I am more sorry I and everyone else who personally witnessed this didn’t realize what was going on and put a stop to it. I answer asks and browse the tags and clear up misinformation and it isn’t just a genuine desire to help. It’s damage control, and my own way of trying to deal with the guilt of not stopping this. I’m well aware I couldn’t have seen it coming, I was a teenager myself still learning and no one person has that much power. I still feel like I should have done more, and I’ll do what I can to fix what’s within my power to fix.

So back to the story. This all culminates around 2016 or so. Trump wins the election, and every queer person ever knows they’re fucked, and the younger generation’s only ever heard horror stories, never seen actual oppression that this could bring. We’re all scared. We all don’t know what to do. Nobody has any answers or any control over the situation.

So they lash out. They attack others for drawing things they don’t like, for challenging them in literally any way, for asking them to reconsider the vile shit they just said, for so much as defending themselves from the harassment they just got. And when challenged, they yell “But I’m a minor! A literal child! How dare you attack me, clearly you get off on this, you evil pedophile!” and they sling around every insult in the book until one sticks. Pedophile is a pretty good one, so is abuser, and sometimes zoophile works out too. Freak is great, everyone gets right pissed off about it.

The fact that Category A queer elders were called pedophiles and freaks is not a fact they know or care about. The fact that they are quickly making every fandom community super toxic is also not a fact they care about. The fact that the ‘kin community has words and terminology and they actually mean shit, and the fact that they’re spreading misinformation faster than we can keep up with, are not facts they care about.

So they come in, take our terms, make it impossible for us to find new folks. They realize our anger is easily a power trip, because we’re already made fun of, so they get off on the little power they can find and make fun of us too, and then when we get rightfully annoyed and pissed off, they can hide behind being minors.

Then tumblr implements their porn ban, because nobody’s stopping them, because it isn’t profitable to have porn on here. Considering most of the otherkin community, and most fandom communities, are full of adults who do occasionally talk about NSFW things, and the fact that they’re just banning everyone who so much as breathes wrong, this begins the start of a mass exodus, scattering already fragile communities to twitter, pillowfort, dreamwidth, and a few other places. Largely, twitter, where you can’t make a post longer than a snappy comeback and where the algorithm is literally designed to piss you off as much as possible.

So community elders have largely left, because they can’t stand the drama and the pain of what’s happened, and that’s if they didn’t get banned for being kinky furries who do talk about how their kintypes merge with their sexuality. Most community members have also left or stopped talking about being ‘kin, because they get associated with antishippers and toxicity and it’s just not worth it. Those of us who are left get drowned out by misinformation and trolls and wishkin and antishippers who appropriate our terminology because it supports them getting a power trip, and whenever we argue, we get called pedophiles and freaks and worse.

And now there isn’t much left. I hope we get to find a better place. Othercon was a good place to talk about it, I did a whole panel (it’s on Youtube!) about what we want to do about it. But I don’t really have any answers.

But to sum it all up... America’s political climate ultimately culminated in destroying queer spaces, and we survived, and then people who wanted to destroy smaller communities to get on top showed up and we were all but defenseless against something we had never, ever dealt with before on this scale.

One of my twitter mutuals mentioned how kinning and otherkin are now completely separate communities. It’s really the best I can do to keep hoping that continues, until nobody realizes the words are at all connected to each other. It’s the best anyone can hope for, now. I hate it. I hate every part of this. But maybe we can salvage what’s left.

#luteia laments #otherkin #fictionkin #alth #alterhuman #asks #anonymous #long post //#discussions #on community history #on politics #on public relations #commentors feel free to add your own thoughts!#Anonymous

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let-it-raines · 3 years

Text

I Hope We Never See October (1/?)

Summary: When his personal life and football career go up in flames, Killian Jones escapes England for America, finding seclusion in Martha’s Vineyard in order to hide from his demons. It’s a fresh start, or at the very least a paused moment in his life, and all he needs is a few months alone to allow his heart to heal. He doesn’t count on meeting Emma Swan.

Emma’s life depends on tourists who come to the island every summer. It’s how she makes her money working in restaurants and clubs across the vineyard, but every year, she cannot wait until autumn comes and her life returns to normal. She especially cannot wait for Killian Jones to leave.

Rating: Mature

a/n: Do you know what’s a great way to distract yourself from writing and other responsibilities? By writing a story that you shouldn’t be writing. So, here we are, and I hope you enjoy 😂

On AO3 | Here |

-/-

June

The ocean water runs over his toes before disappearing, heading back to its home beyond the sand. It’s a cool contrast against the heat of the sun that’s warmly beating down on his skin, but it matches the chill of the beer bottle against his palm. Who knows what time it is? From the emptiness of the beach, Killian is guessing it’s mid-morning, but seriously, who the hell knows anymore?

Likely everyone other than him.

After more water washes over his feet and up his ankles, he decides the water is too cold to stay standing this close to the shoreline, so he walks up the path to his house and closes the gate behind him. He sits down at the bench by his pool and then buries his face in his hands before moving to take a sip of the beer.

God, he hopes it’s not truly the morning because he’s one second away from tipping the bottle enough for the beer to tumble down his throat.

Killian yanks it away and tosses it to the ground. He expects the damn thing to shatter against the tile, but it doesn’t. It rolls away into the grass, spilling a little beer with every turn until it stops against the tall grass lining the gate. Killian bends down and picks up another bottle, popping it open, then pouring it out. He does the same thing over and over again until his grass is fertilized with alcohol.

At least his body isn’t.

What a thought to have (presumably) so early in the morning.

His eyes close, the sun no longer blinding his vision, and he starts picking up the bottles, chasing them around and cursing himself for even buying the damn case in the first place. He has no clue what damn day it is, but he does know that it’s too damn early for him to be drinking. And if he’s going to get wasted and waste his day, he might as well do it with rum or whiskey. He doesn’t even like beer.

Killian chucks the bottles in the bin resting against the side of the rental house and goes through the side door into the kitchen. It’s clean today, all the white countertops empty of plates and pitchers and the junk that accumulates over time. The living room is clean as well, all the pillows in the right place, the throw blankets over the correct corners of couches, and he can see vacuum lines in the rug. He’s sure if he were to walk to the mantle, it’d be empty of dust. Ariel must have sent someone in to clean yesterday while he was away from the house. He’s got to have her stop doing that. He’s thirty-five years old. He can clean the house he’s staying in. He doesn’t need her taking care of his life for him.

Though, it is literally her job, but Ariel takes things far past being his manager. He doesn’t know anyone else who does all the things she does for their client, especially when he isn’t bringing in the same amount anymore. Sponsors aren’t exactly lining up at the door for disgraced football – not the American kind as everyone here believes – players, but he still has a few hanging around and good enough investments that he’ll be alright for a long while. Bored as hell with too much time for him to wander to bars in Martha’s Vineyard before talking himself out of them and sitting in a twenty-four-hour diner all night. He’s got his favorites. One has better coffee than the others, but the booths aren’t clean. Another has clean booths but a piss excuse for coffee, and his favorite has a selection of pies that have him eating in ways he hasn’t since he was young. Still, they’re all pathetic little places for him to spend his time so he doesn’t drink more than he can tolerate.

At least no one knows him here. It’s actually why he’s here to begin with. There are obviously less famous towns and places in the world, but he wanted to be near the ocean, wanted to at least have that if he was going to be in disgraced isolation. This area has beach for miles and different nooks to disappear into, and so far, it’s nice. He’d rather be in London or New York, but he knows this is better.

He collapses onto the couch and sees a note on the coffee table in Ariel’s neat script. When was she even here? Honestly.

Killian, Eric and I are in town for the week. Please come to lunch at our house. We’d love to have you! I know you don’t have anything better to do, so don’t bother calling me with an excuse. Hope you enjoy the clean house!

- A

He runs his hand over his face and scratches at his too-long beard before fumbling for his phone and checking the date and time. It’s half past eight. He can get two, maybe three, hours of sleep now, and he’ll only look half as pissed as he feels when he makes his way to Ariel and Eric’s house a few miles over in Tisbury.

At least he isn’t actually pissed. Always the positives, he guesses.

-/-

Ariel’s house is covered in gray shingles with white trim. The shutters are cherry red, much like her hair, and while there are obvious updates to the place, it looks just as it did in the pictures he’s seen from when Ariel was young. She was raised here, her father a local fisherman, and while she now resides outside of London, on occasion, she returns to Tisbury for a holiday. It’s why he chose to holiday here even if he’s over in Edgartown on the beach in a house too large for one person. He spent years listening to her talk about her childhood, and then visiting when she married Eric here, and he wanted that calm sense of relaxation.

Right now, however, he wants nothing more than to be back in a city. The firing squad won’t be as intrusive there where he can get lost in a crowd instead of being the center of attention.

Killian opens the unlocked front door that squeaks on its hinges, and he immediately smells garlic bread baking in the oven. She must be making her pasta, and his stomach growls for real food. As he walks through the hall at the entrance of the house, he notices that everything is the same, all the family portraits are in the same places, there are a few too many nautical decorations, but it all works. Killian looks into the kitchen, sees that it’s empty, and calls out for Ariel and Eric, no answer. He takes the liberty of checking the oven, and when he notices the bread is slightly overdone, he grabs an oven mitt and takes it out, placing the tray on the stove.

Where the hell are they?

He pushes open the kitchen door that leads to the backyard, and he sees two figures toward the side of the yard. Killian sighs and walks over to them, only stopping when he realizes it’s three people instead of two.

Ariel and Eric are talking to a gorgeous woman in a pair of small white shorts and a fitted polo. She’s got long, thick blonde hair pulled off her neck, and he can’t stop glancing down at her legs. He doesn’t usually pay much attention to people anymore, unless of course they are paying attention to him, but he cannot help but notice her. Because she’s stunning, of course, but also because he wasn’t expecting to see anyone else. He thought they would be isolated, and his gut tells him to turn around and run.

He doesn’t.

“Hello?” he starts, and they all turn to him. “I, uh, took your bread out of the oven.”

“Oh shit,” Ariel mumbles. “I forgot I’d put the bread in the oven. Is it burned?”

“No, I think I saved it just in time, love.”

Ariel’s shoulders deflate, and then she’s closing the distance between them, hugging him tightly, before Eric does the same and claps him on his back several times. He’s missed them, and it feels good to be embraced by something other than a heavy blanket. When Eric releases him, Killian can see the woman still standing in the yard, shifting on her feet.

“Hello,” he greets, nodding in her direction.

“Hi,” she nods back.

“Oh, Emma,” Ariel begins, walking over to her and grabbing her arm, “this is my friend, Killian. He’s staying on the island for awhile. Killian, this is Emma. We rent the house to her for most of the year, so we’ve invaded her home this week, I’m afraid.”

“It’s fine,” Emma says. “You guys basically give me the place for free, and I picked up some extra shifts at the club. I’d never be home anyway.”

“What do you do, love?”

“Not your love,” she corrects, and he feels the sting even if he uses the term for many a woman, “and I’m a manager at a little place by the shore, but sometimes during the summer I’ll wait tables at the local country club for extra money. The people will treat you like shit, but at least they tip well since they have no concept of real-life money.”

“What’s the restaurant?” he asks. “Maybe I could eat there.”

Her brows raise, and he gets the feeling she’s not a fan of the idea of him disturbing her at work. He gets the feeling she’s not a fan of him at all. Funny, his first impressions are usually better than this.

“The Blue Dog Tavern.” She points to the logo on her shirt. “I actually have to go there now. I just had to drop by and get my shirt since my boss is coming by today. I’ll stay out of your way when I get home tonight,” she tells Ariel and Eric. “It’ll be like I’m not even here.”

“Oh, no, honey,” Ariel sighs, smiling at Emma, “we’re the ones disturbing you. I promise, it’ll be a fast week, and then everything can go back to normal.”

Emma nods with a tight smile, and he definitely gets the idea that she isn’t a fan of having Ariel and Eric here. He wouldn’t be either if he had to share his home with his landlords. She walks away into the kitchen, leaving the door open behind her, and Killian makes a note of the restaurant she mentioned, not necessarily to see her but to venture somewhere that isn’t a twenty-four-hour diner.

“Is that why I couldn’t stay here?” Killian asks. “Because you already rent it out?”

“Yep. Plus, it’s not on the beach, and that was your request. This isn’t really to your taste anyway.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, A?”

She shrugs and walks toward the kitchen. “Nothing. I’ve got to finish cooking. I was just about to put the pasta on the stove when Emma came in through the back gate, and I got distracted. Thanks for saving the bread, Jones.”

“Is she okay?” Killian asks Eric.

“Yeah, mate, she’s fine.” He claps his hand onto Killian’s shoulder. “And what she meant by that is that you’re an ex-football player who is hiding from the world and is used to a certain kind of luxury. You’d lose your mind living in this house for months. It’s smaller than a quarter of your flat back home.”

“I would not lose my mind living here. It’s charming.”

Eric rolls his eyes. “You would. I think the giant crab pillow in the living room would be what pushed you over the edge.”

“That thing is still here?”

“It’ll never leave, and I’ve offered to pay Emma to get rid of it many times. I think she throws it out, and it finds its way back inside.”

Killian snickers and settles down on the bench of the dining table they keep outside, letting Eric follow. He feels like he hasn’t talked to another human being in ages, and he’s only been here for a few weeks. “You know her pretty well then? Emma?”

“No,” Eric starts, waving his hand, “no, no, no, no. You cannot go there.”

“What the hell are you on about? I can’t go where?”

“Emma. You can’t go there. She’s not a one-night stand for you. She lives here, takes care of it since we’re gone all the time. You can’t mess that up. Ariel would murder you if you screwed this arrangement up.”

Killian flashes a smile, the ones he’s used to get whatever he wants a million times. There’s an art to being in the public eye, one he figured out only to ruin it all over again, but he still knows the old tricks. Smile, be charming, never let them see any hesitation in your actions. If a question is too invasive or the answer to telling, redirect. It’s all about the redirection. Killian was never one to lie, but he was certainly one to evade, especially toward the end when he couldn’t handle hearing what everyone had to say.

Here, he doesn’t want to admit that Eric might be right about him, but mostly, he’s tired of people controlling his life because they think he can’t make good decisions.

“What?” he laughs, shaking his head. “You think I’m not capable of simply asking about a woman?”

“I think you are, but I don’t want Ariel to have any reason to kill you.”

“Eric,” Ariel yells from the kitchen, stopping Killian before he can speak, “set the table! We can eat in fifteen.”

Saved by the bell. Or the Ariel.

He hates himself a little for rhyming in his head. If this is how he thinks sober, he’s not sure he wants to stay this way.

“And Killian,” Ariel calls, “you can make the lemonade!”

Okay, so maybe he can, if only because Ariel will kill him if he collapses into the pit again, and she won’t be the only one. He’s had a few downfalls into drowning in alcohol since coming here. Maybe it’s boredom, maybe it’s sadness, who the hell knows? What he does know is that it makes the demons all disappear for the night, sometimes the morning too, but then it all comes roaring back in screaming color.

And with a hell of a screaming headache.

One or two drinks every few days, he reminds himself. That’s what he’s working with, and besides the few slips, he’s been pretty damn successful.

Killian heads inside to help Ariel, though he thinks he hinders her more than helps since he can’t find a damn thing, but eventually they get it all done and eat. Mostly, he has to listen to Ariel give him a briefing on things he has to do over the next few weeks. He has contracts to sign, video interviews and conferences to attend, and they need to happen at certain times. That’s a bit obnoxious, but he can’t complain. He’d be the biggest ass in the world if he did, and he’s certainly already in the running for that title. People still want his face and brand to represent them, and he doesn’t even kick around a ball anymore.

Fools. All of them.

Ariel asks him to stay for dessert, but he’s already eaten too much off his usual diet. Old habits die hard, and he isn’t working out like he used to. Maybe he’ll take up running again soon, but right now, the thought is exhausting. Killian excuses himself from the table, hugging the Fishers goodbye and wishing them goodnight. He’s sure he’ll see them before they return to England and go back to their regular lives. Ariel still has Will and Rob to manage, so she can’t spend all of her time on him. There are other pieces of work out there.

The streets are crowded as Killian drives back to his rental house. Tourists and native islanders alike are out to go to dinner or bars, likely a party or two, and while Killian is tempted to take a turn and go out himself, he doesn’t. He continues along the GPS guide back to his rental house until the garage door is closing behind him.

Day seventeen of being here - now that he knows the date, he’s reminded of when he arrived - is done and dusted, and he cannot wait to close his eyes and go to sleep. He’s been running on fumes all day.

Once inside, Killian quickly showers and puts on a pair of pajama bottoms, collapsing under the covers of his bed as soon as possible. So, of course, that’s when his phone rings.

“It’s bloody half past one in the morning where you are.”

“And only half past eight where you are, so why are you in bed? You look horrible.”

Killian groans and pinches his nose as he props the phone up to get a better look at the screen. “Thanks, Els.”

“No problem.” She flips her blonde braid over her shoulder, and despite the time, she looks as if she could be up and ready for work in minutes. “I was up, couldn’t sleep, and I figured I needed to check on you. I’m sorry I don’t have the girls with me.”

“Did you tell Ally and Sophia I love them?”

“I tell them every day, but I think they’d appreciate it more if they heard it from their actual uncle.”

“I’ll call tomorrow.”

“Good,” Elsa sighs. She adjusts herself on her couch, pulling her blanket up higher on her body, and the familiar pang of guilt hits Killian. It happens anytime he talks to just Elsa. The girls act as a buffer, and he feels guilty for using them like that. He feels guilt about a lot of things. “How are you?”

“Good,” he lies. “Really good. I think I’m going to take up real running again soon, maybe finally check out the gym in the basement of this house. What about you, love?”

“I’m okay. Work has kept me really busy, which I like. I have this one house with the biggest garden I’ve ever seen, and designing it has proven to be a bit of a challenge. But I miss spending time with the girls. Anna has been such a big help, though. I love having her here.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m sure that’s great.” Killian runs his hand through his hair, yanking at the strands, and sinks a little further into the bed. It’s nice that Anna is around, that she’s been around this entire time while Killian fucked off across western Europe and then eventually to America. Yet again, he’s let someone he loves down because he’s an absolute tosser. “It’s nice to have a family you can count on.”

“Hey, don’t start that again, Killian. I’m not here for self-pity. You’ve had a hard year, and you needed some time away. No one is blaming you for that.”

“I’m not the one who lost my husband, love. I wasn’t left with two little girls with no father.”

Killian tilts his head up so he doesn’t have to see Elsa as water gathers around his eyes. Today was an okay day. Started off rough, but it ended up being alright. Now he’s gone and made Elsa talk about Liam’s death instead of having a normal conversation with her.

“My grief doesn’t negate yours, darling. You lost your brother, who was your best friend, and you lost the career you spent your entire life building. We can both be sad. It’s not a competition.”

Killian blows air out his nose and blinks the forming tears away. “How’d you get so wise?”

“Well, you see, when a child with a head the size of a football comes out of your vagina, you get special emotional intelligence. It’s something to do with all the hormones and pain.”

Killian finally looks down at his phone to see Elsa laughing, and the corners of his mouth twitch. “You make me glad to be a man.”

“You should be glad. You’re at least fifteen steps ahead of every woman in the world. Now, come on, I want to hear about everything you’ve been doing. Have you made any friends?”

“What am I? A lad in reception?”

“No, because my child in reception has many friends.”

Killian rolls his eyes. “Well, I met the loveliest waitress last night. Reminded me of my Gran, and, uh, today I met the woman who lives in Ariel and Eric’s house. Don’t think she was a fan of me.”

“However could a woman resist your charms?”

He laughs, even if he doesn’t appreciate the sarcasm, and this time when he sinks a little deeper into the bed, it’s for comfort and not to hide. When Killian got the news Liam died in a Naval accident, it felt like his world was ending, that the ground was crumbling underneath his feet. He was at the club warming up to head out onto the pitch, and suddenly his sacred place wasn’t so sacred. He couldn’t understand any words leaving Elsa’s voice over the phone. Everything was ringing, and his legs collapsed from underneath him.

He’ll never forget that day. One moment everything in his world was right, and then it wasn’t. and he’ll never get over the fact that Elsa has been the one who has had to continue holding him up when she lost someone too.

“Well, if their names are Ally and Sophia Jones, they are experts at resisting my charms.”

“Unless you give them sweets.”

Killian chuckles. “Those are my good charms.” Elsa smiles and yawns on the other end of the line. “Els, I think you need to go to sleep. I promise to call the girls tomorrow.”

She nods and flips her braid over. “Don’t go breaking your promises to them.”

“Never, love. I’m a man of my word.”

Or, at least, he used to be. His word seems to falter lately, but mostly only his words to himself. Killian looks out the glass doors and windows toward the ocean, watching the water crest much like this morning, but he hopes that tomorrow morning he won’t be standing there with a bottle of beer in his hands.

Maybe he can keep that promise to himself at least.

-/-

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dorminchu · 3 years

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Insult to Injury: The Director's Cut — Chapter 01

Note: All right, it's been a hot minute since I uploaded anything substantial in regard to this fic. So I'm going to try something a bit risky! I've archived Insult to Injury as you all know it, with the exception of a few errant reblogs outside of my control. But that's neither here nor there; I am very excited to present to all of you all the definitive version of this fic — the Director's Cut, if you will. ;)

Fandom: James Bond Characters: Madeleine Swann, Lyutsifer Safin, various OC(s) Relationships: Madeleine & OC(s) Warnings: Strong language, intense scenes of violence, general cynicism. Rating: M Genre: Crime/Drama Summary: A troubled psychologist desperate to escape her past criminal ties finds herself drawn into a far more insidious schism. [Post-Skyfall]

[Ao3 | FFNet]

— ACT I —

“Everything which is done in the present, affects the future by consequence, and the past by redemption.” — Paulo Coelho

— Episode I: A THOUSAND DETAILS —

In the sterile comfort of her office, Dr Madeleine Swann stared blankly at her computer monitor. The notification that her application as a psychologist consultant with the Médecins Sans Frontières had been sent six days prior blurred with lack of focus. The location of the mission in question was Conakry, Guinea. Her contract duration would last from the start of May to the end of August; just shy of two months away from now. There was an additional caveat:

All non-ECOWAS foreigners are required to have a valid Guinean visa and a vaccination card in order to be granted entry. Yellow fever vaccination cards are verified upon entry into the country at Gbessia.

Approval for the visa necessitated a seventy-two-hour window of clearance. And it would be at least four weeks until she heard back from the Human Resources Office—up to six if she were unlucky. She sat erect and the movement alone was enough to incite a sharp stab of pain into the back of her head. Through the window the sun cast a reddish glare, obfuscating the monitor and warming the nape of her neck. She shoved her face into the heels of her palms while the pressure in her skull abated to a dull throbbing.

Usually she made a habit of drawing the blinds. There were already enough odd complaints about her office being too cold and sterile passed along by the secretary. It had been a stressful enough week that Madeleine saw no reason to keep the shutters closed, so her clients might have something else to focus on besides four polished wooden walls and the analog clock.

What came off to most outsiders as a cool and direct manner of conduct was simply pragmatism. She had a laptop computer used primarily for sending emails. She recorded the bulk of her notes on patients by-hand and revised by means of portable recorder. She kept no photographs in her home nor office. The casual anecdotes she provided to her colleagues were ostensibly as droll as her taste in décor; though her efforts to blend in had largely gone unappreciated.

There wasn’t anything else immediate to review for tonight. She wished a curt good-night to the secretary before donning her coat and exiting into the crisp evening air.

⁂

It was only a fifteen-minute walk from the clinic to the flat. Above her head the clouds hung grey and pregnant with snow. By the time she had ascended the staircase and opened the door to her apartment her fingers prickled. Numbness seeped into her skin. She’d never much cared for the colder seasons.

“You’re back early,” said Arnaud—a fellow Sociology major from her college days. After graduating from Oxford, Madeleine had taken his offer to return to Paris and transfer over to the 8tharrondissement with the understanding that they would be rooming together. Her colleagues back then often referred to them as friends-with-benefits as Madeleine had showed little interest in dating before. After three years of cohabitation, her co-workers at the office wondered how she and Arnaud remained so cordial while balancing their careers and relationship.

“Yes.” Madeleine hung up her coat, noting that he had not yet changed out of his own. “I submitted my request with the MSF a week ago. If I am accepted I’ll be working as a psychologist consultant. In that case, I’ll be out of the country until August at least.”

“Well, you’ve never landed a position that didn’t suit you.” Madeleine smiled politely. “Can I get you anything?”

“No, thanks.” She looked away from him towards the window. “You could open the blinds. It's very bright in here with the lights on.”

“There’s hardly much to look at when the sun is in your eyes. Isn’t that what you say?”

For the most part, Arnaud was easy to live with. Neither of them required financial support and he was of equitable social standing. Her relentless volunteer work did not always lend much time to get to know his inner mind. “It’s late. Are you going out again?”

“No, I got back first. And it’s fortunate. You looked awfully cold when you came in.”

“I can hardly control the weather. And you needn’t worry, I always carry a key on me.”

“Madeleine, we live together. It wouldn’t be right to avoid you. But you know, if I were going out to an unscrupulous club it would make for a pretty good story.”

“Hm.”

“And knowing you,” Arnaud continued, “you probably won’t be going out drinking. The sunrise disturbs you in the mornings, and you woke up before I did, at seven. I assume you’ve been busy all day. In just a few weeks you’ll be working that much harder. You ought to get some rest while you can.”

“So,” a little cooler, “you’ll be another mission?”

“Most likely.”

“All these countries must seem the same after a while.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t expect you to understand. When was the last time you volunteered out of the country? 2011?”

Arnaud laughed. “Jesus, this isn’t a competition.”

“But it’ll give you something to talk about to your friends while I am away.”

Arnaud said nothing. Madeleine frowned. She went into the other room and began to change. He could not approach her in the same casual manner as his peers, nor dissect her outright. His life was one of prestige as well as privilege, and Madeleine could not foster any underlying resentment towards him for acting in his nature. The silence held, strained. Then Arnaud said:

“It’s always been important to you. That’s what should matter.”

⁂

In two weeks’ time she got a response from the HRO; the initial interview was scheduled shortly thereafter. By the middle of April she was making preparations to depart. Thanks to Arnaud’s tactic of avoidance she had little reason to tell him the details. No one would know where she was headed unless they broke inside her laptop and hunted through her mail. The situation in Guinea had kicked into mainstream awareness back in February for a week or so before gradually sinking back into obscurity.

Reports from several news outlets cited the emergence of an outbreak primarily affecting South Africa. Originating inland, a mysterious illness that revealed itself first with fever and spells of vomiting, then gradually ate away at the flesh of those afflicted and bore their bones and muscle, vulnerable to further rot. More emboldened journalists had taken to calling it the Red Death on account of this. Neither a cure nor a place or origin had been discovered.

The situation had not improved in the last two months so much as stabilised. Madeleine had been assured several times over email and electronic conference that those working in the field had already taken precautions, and she’d be instructed further on what to do upon her arrival. She was issued a few pamphlets and strongly advised to vaccinate before boarding the flight. Which she had done, but it was very kind of them to remind her.

In spite of Arnaud’s apparent disinterest, his last words to her before she departed had been: “Last year it was four missions. I'd never seen you so tired. I wish I knew what you’re trying to prove.”

After managing to get some sleep on the plane she touched down Conakry International Airport around mid-morning and contacted the Project Coordinator; a shorter man in his mid-forties with a photogenic smile and toupee. He clasped her hand in both of his clammy ones and said: “Very glad you've made it, Doctor. We need you on-site in twenty minutes. Make sure you are ready.” Her luggage was dropped off on the second floor of the Grand Hotel de L’independence, where she and the other MSF members would be rooming. The staff were polite enough, though their attention was fixed on the Project Coordinator.

Her room was spare and a little dingy, and the only means of fresh air came from opening the window and polluting the room with outside noise, but it was at least reasonably clean. A fine sheen of sweat was building on her skin. No reason to delay the inevitable.

Upon reaching Donka Hospital she met up with the rest of the team, most notably the Medical Coordinator, and the Psychosocial Unit. It soon became apparent that there were still not enough medical doctors to handle the influx of infected. An isolation ward had been established before the MSF’s involvement, but they were reportedly at full capacity; the workers in there were clad in full-body personal protective equipment. Another section of the grounds had been set aside and fenced off; rows of tents all lined up, reminding Madeleine distantly of a prisoner’s accommodations. No matter where you went the stench of rot always seemed to hang pervasively in the air.

She was paired off with another psychologist by the name of John Herrmann; American, around her age. He was of a friendlier disposition than she was used to, introducing her semi-formally to the rest of the group before adding:

“So, one thing you should know now, we’ve been having problems with the electricity on site as well as the hotel. There’s no running water either.”

“This isn’t my first mission with MSF. And I lived out in the countryside when I was small. I know how to look after myself.”

Herrmann smiled. “That’s fair.” He scratched his neck. “The mosquitoes are worse. Bug nets won’t help worth a damn. Make sure you close your windows at night, I had to learn that the hard way.”

“I see.” The humidity combined with the smell off-road were already becoming intolerable. But she did not want to appear so snobbish or weak in front of someone she would be monitoring for the next three months. “I won’t go any easier on you just because you are unaccustomed to the environment.”

“See ,that’s the kind of attitude we need around here!” He clapped a hand on her back; Madeleine regarded him levelly until he relented. “Good to have you on the team.”

The other members on the Psychosocial Unit were as amicable with Madeleine as the situation permitted. None of them got on her nerves as much as Herrmann. His enthusiasm was never to the point of seeming false or obsequious, but he remained just enough of a go-getter to piss her off. After a week of monitoring them she came away with the impression that Herrmann was genuine. He had been consistently genial with the clientele and hospital staff alike, no matter the severity of their condition. She saw no reason to socialise with him outright. The most he ever noted about her mood was: “You’re pretty reticent for a psychologist consultant.”

“I’m here to do my job. That’s all.”

Herrmann shrugged. “I can respect that. We all deal with the situation in our own ways.” He paused. “I can see why the Project Coordinator wanted you. You’re handling this situation a lot better than I would have.”

“Thank you.”

“The workload must be insane compared to what you’re normally used to. I know it took me time to adjust—" he stopped as Madeleine threw him a look of confusion “—what is it?”

“Back home, I am usually referred to as what one would call a workaholic. Or didn’t anyone tell you?”

“Oh, hey, I didn’t mean to imply—”

“No offence taken.”

The higher temperature was not so bad as the humidity that slapped her in the face whenever stepping outside—according to the forecasts, it was only going to get worse within the coming months. There was no manner of ventilation or air-conditioning in the hotel so often times she had to draw the curtains and keep her hair back. She resigned herself by reminding herself that it was better than sleeping in a tent.

There wasn’t much time to be hung-up on much else besides her assignment. The members of the Psychosocial Unit all looked good on paper, but they betrayed their inexperience through a shared level of idealism towards the mission that Madeleine deemed ill-fated. She did not blame them. Young, perhaps fresh out of school, looking to make a difference in the world without truly anticipating the gravity of the situation. Their time spent observing the crises of the rest of the world through the lens of journalism and outside empathy could not compare with the experience of actually sitting down and listening to the stuff their patients talked of with prosaic seriousness.

It often sounded outrageous when Madeleine played back the recordings, taking down notes in the quiet, stuffy hotel room. Mortality was an expected outcome, and the implication of negligence by their government a common topic of discussion among patients. Most conversations were conducted in French or else by way of an interpreter, though the antagonism in the voices of these patients needed no translation.

There was a growing disparity between the narrative put into circulation by the news and what was happening in the field. According to several members of the MSF and the staff at Donka, the media blew the problem out of proportion. The people whose condition had kicked off the “Red Death” story had been subjected to long-term exposure. Most of the patients that came through were not in that same condition, but it created an illusion of immediacy that incited concern in the public eye and a need for donations. Government officials wanted to cover up the severity of the situation as not to detract from any potential business opportunities; until the MSF got involved, they were only employing the most rudimentary of safety procedures.

This latter revelation had shaken up the Psychosocial Unit considerably; Dr Herrmann had lost his patience with the Medical Coordinator. To this end, he’d apologised profusely to Madeleine afterwards though she would hear none of it. Whatever he felt about the situation was not necessarily invalid, but out of consideration for their patients, he would not bring it up again.

Herrmann never held it against her. So Madeleine busied herself in her own work. Whatever quiet camaraderie forged between the other MSF members was not her business. When pressed for advice, she would talk calmly, carefully with the rest of the team about what would be optimal but never overreach. In the sweltering nights and throughout the early morning, Madeleine would pore over her notes, listening to the passing automobiles and indistinct conversation carried over by civilians.

⁂

June crawled by. Currently the MSF were in the process of dealing with a new influx of internally displaced persons (IDPs) from the surrounding prefectures and villages, all of whom had to be tested and separated from those not stricken with disease. Thanks to the cooperation with the local civilians and tireless efforts on part of the medical staff and Medical Unit, there had been a forty-five-percent decrease in fatalities compared to the start of the year.

The atmosphere within the hospital was not improving. The topic of insurgence was the new favourite with patients. Allegedly there had been several attacks on neighbouring villages; a consequence of the lack of tangible progress coupled with deep-seated mistrust of government officials. Now the Force Sécurité/Protection, or FSP, had been brought on in collaboration with an additional Protective Services Detail (PSD) by the name of Kerberos, to ensure the hospital and surrounding property remained untouched.

Their Project Coordinator called them all in for the sake of reviewing protocol in the event of an attack. Outright criticism of the government’s method in handling the situation was discouraged. Madeleine was savvy enough to keep herself abreast of any controversy. For the rest of the Psychosocial Unit, she presumed they were either too naïve or willing to look the other way.

The only exception to this was the Vaccines Medical Advisor, Francis Kessler; a stoic older man with thinning hair and glasses. He and Madeleine had cooperated a handful of times beforehand, at the discreet behest of the Medical Coordinator. Madeleine had found nothing wrong with his conduct. A diligent worker, he acknowledged her judgement fairly but did not overextend his gratitude. Outside of his work he was straight-laced and reserved and wouldn’t be seen socialising with any of the younger MSF who all talked about him as though he were some out-of-touch stick-in-the-mud. As the situation in the hospital became more dire he would stay behind on-site, late into the evening. Whenever they had a break, he would disappear on calls. Once he came back late by only a few minutes and apologised to Madeleine.

“I was supposed to be sent home last month, but with the situation being what it is, I decided to stay on until things are resolved.” He did not sit down, his attention turned towards the path back to the infected ward. “It’s madness. We’ve already waited until things are too severe to think of bringing in a proper security detail—who the hell does the Project Coordinator think we’re fooling?” Madeleine ignored him. “Dr Swann. The Medical Coordinator tells me you’ve been involved in volunteer work for a while.”

“Five years, as of March.”

“Perhaps they would be more willing to listen to someone with your expertise.”

“I’m flattered. But it’s fortunate that I was not selected for my personal opinion.”

Kessler chuckled. “You’ll go far.”

Madeleine had no interest in pursuing this topic any further. “Who were you speaking to?” He froze up, didn’t answer immediately. “My apologies. I shouldn’t have been so blunt. But you leave often enough on calls, and it appears to be taking a toll on you.”

Comprehension dawned on his face, his shoulders relaxed. “Just my wife. This past month has been no easier on her. But I find that it can help somewhat, just talking to someone outside of this element.” Madeleine nodded stoically. “I’ve never seen you contact anyone outside of your unit.” Madeleine did not anticipate the conversation to take such a turn, nor did she wish to divulge much about herself. But she could not deflect as she could in the clinic back home, and Kessler seemed forthright enough to warrant a harmless response.

“I’m living with a friend. We graduated from college together.”

“And you keep in touch while you are abroad?”

“He tends to lead his own life while I am away.”

“That’s a great deal to ask of someone.” Madeleine inclined her head in his direction. This was not a man that emoted often; now the thin mouth was set, and the eyes behind the glasses disillusioned. “Few women your age would devote themselves to a thankless vocation as this. Not everyone is going to want to stick around until you decide you want to settle down.”

Madeleine’s smile did not touch her eyes. She hadn’t even mentioned the nature of her relationship to Arnaud. “We have an understanding, that’s all. Besides, I don’t bother him about his social life.”

Kessler shook his head. In a few minutes they were back to work as usual. By the end of the day, Madeleine resolved to let him dig his own social grave without further interference.

By the time July rolled around Madeleine found her mind snagging easily on technicalities. She became less tolerant of the Psychological Unit’s personal hang-ups with the lack of resources and lack of any obvious moral closure. Smell of rot and disinfectant permeated into her clothing and hair until she had begun to associate the smell itself with a total lack of progress.

She left the window to her hotel room cracked most nights, afraid to open it completely. Alone with her own mind and the recorder. The conversations now circled back readily to death and terrorism. An overwhelming fear of retaliation from looming insurrection.

Madeleine stopped the recording. She checked the time and cursed under her breath. Just past one in the morning. In six hours she would return to Donka Hospital and repeat the process. A month and a half from now she would be on a flight back to Paris. Her mind wouldn't settle on either direction.

Outside her window she heard the distant voice of Francis Kessler. He was conversing in German, from a few storeys down, but as Madeleine came over to the window she understood him clearly:

“…I’ve been saying it for weeks, and they dismiss me every time. These wounds are the result of prolonged exposure from chemicals. We’ve seen evidence of IDPs coming through, exhibiting the same symptoms as the PMCs we treated back in February. How we can expect to make any progress if the Project Coordinator refuses to bring this up? We’re putting God-knows how many lives at risk waiting for a vaccine that we don’t know if we need—and even so, it won’t be ready for another week. There’s not enough time to justify keeping silent….”

Madeleine closed the window carefully. She’d never been one to intrude on family matters.

⁂

When Madeleine exited her room the next morning, she found the Project Coordinator waiting for her in the hallway, along with the head of security from Kerberos and a couple Donka Hospital staff Madeleine knew by sight but not intimately.

The vaccines had arrived earlier than anticipated, around three or four in the morning. Several members of the Medical Unit had stayed on-site in order to determine if all had been accounted for and subsequently realised it was rigged. Thanks to the intervention of Kerberos the losses were minimal. Several doctors had suffered chemical exposure and were currently isolated from the rest of the IDPs to receive immediate medical attention. Others, such as Drs Kessler and Herrmann, had been less fortunate.

Now there was additional pressure from the hospital doctors and Logistics Team to begin moving the high-risk patients to a safer area. The fear that this story would circulate and any chance of obtaining vaccines would be discouraged could not be ruled out. So they would not be reporting this as a chemical attack, but as a failed interception of an attack by local terrorists, stopped by the FSPs.

“Dr Swann.” The head of security, Lucifer Safin, gave Madeleine pause. His accent would presume a Czech or Russian background but his complexion and eye colour invited room for ambiguity. The MSF on staff commonly referred to him by surname; perhaps Lucifer was simply an alias. What set him apart was his face. Gruesomely scarred from his right temple to the base of his left jaw, though the structure of his eyes and nose remained intact. In spite of the weather, Madeleine had never seen him without gloves. “I understand that you were one of the last to speak with Dr Kessler?”

His manner wasn’t explicitly taciturn, more akin to the disconcerting silence one might experience while looking into a body of still-water—met only with your reflection.

“Yes,” said Madeleine, “but that was nearly five days ago.”

“You were instructed to monitor him during that period by the Medical Coordinator?”

“That’s correct.”

Safin glanced at the Project Coordinator. “I’ll speak with her alone.”

“Of course.”

Safin nodded. They walked down the length of the hall back to her room. His gait was purposeful and direct. He had a rifle strapped to his side. Madeleine tried to avoid concentrating on it. Her attention went to the window. She'd forgotten to lock it.

“Dr Swann.” The early morning light put his disfigurement into a new, unsettling clarity. Too intricate to be leprosy or a typical burn wound, it was more as if his very face were made of porcelain and had suffered a nasty blow, then glued together again. “What was the extent of your relationship to Dr Kessler?”

“I did not work with him often. We talked once or twice but that was all. I have my own responsibilities with the Psychosocial Unit. From what I could tell, he never made an effort to befriend anyone.”

“But you were asked to monitor Dr Kessler.”

“I was requested to do so on behalf of the Medical Coordinator. There were concerns that Dr Kessler was somehow unqualified to continue his work. In observing him, I had no reason to suspect he was unfit for the position psychologically.” Safin said nothing. “The only issue I could see worth disqualifying him for, was that Kessler and the Project Coordinator had very differing views on protocol.”

“He spoke to you about his views?”

“He expressed to me once, in confidence, that he did not understand the Project Coordinator’s hesitance to bring in a security detail.” Safin’s attention on her became sharper. “He also told me he’d elected to continue volunteering here past his contract duration, just to ensure the operation was successful. That was my only conversation with him outside of a work-related context. You would be better off asking the other doctors about this.”

“We have video surveillance in place on the Grand Hotel de L’independence. At around one in the morning, Dr Kessler exited the building and contacted an unknown party by mobile phone. Then, a minute later, you were at your window.”

“Oh, yes. I have been forgetting to close it. With so many longer days, it can be difficult to remember these things.”

“Your room was the only one to show signs of activity at that hour.”

“I was reviewing my notes from that day’s session. I heard a voice from outside, though not clearly. It was distracting me from my work, so I got up and closed the window.”

“Do you commonly review your notes in the early hours of the morning with an unlocked window?”

“I just wanted some quiet. I leave the windows open because otherwise I seem to find myself trapped with the smell of rotting flesh as well as humidity.”

Safin’s expression became easier to read, but not in a positive sense. This was not a man you wanted to be on opposing sides with. Madeleine kept any apprehension away from her face and her voice tightly controlled.

“Look. Without information about Dr Kessler’s lifestyle outside of the MSF, I cannot give you an answer in good faith. I was assigned to survey him. He showed no signs of dereliction in his work, and to my knowledge kept his personal views separate from his work. Whatever he said to me during outside hours was assumed to be in confidence. Many people say things to one another in what they believe to be confidence that they would not admit to otherwise. If I had reason to suspect he was unfit to work, I would have contacted the Medical Advisor immediately.”

Safin held her gaze. She did not dare avert her face. Then he said: “Thank you for your cooperation. The Project Coordinator is waiting for you downstairs.”

The rest of the day she spent in a different wing of the hospital. The Psychosocial Unit was cut down from four members to three. Another inconsequential day of thankless work that never seemed quite good enough. That night Madeleine laid back on her bed and watched the shadows on the ceiling stretch over peeling paint until daybreak.

When she’d arrived at the airport she could stave off her doubts with shallow, private reassurances. As long as you are here, you are just Dr Swann the psychologist consultant. Your father is many miles away and he won’t contact you again. No one else will come looking for you in a place like this.

With a guy like Safin around she was undoubtedly safer than she would have been with the FSPs alone.

Safer, but no longer invisible.

⁂

July brought hotter weather and brittle peace—the vaccines had finally arrived. The wing of the hospital that had suffered the terrorist attack was still closed and they had lost several more staff members wounded in the initial attack. Madeleine and the remaining MSF were encouraged by the Project Coordinator to take earlier shifts. Progress remained steady but there was no clear resolution in sight. The stench of rot imprinted into Madeleine’s senses to the point where she no longer consciously registered her own nausea. Discontent among the staff continued to bubble under the surface on account of the closed wing and bad press.

It couldn't last forever.

A week away from August. Just another humid morning at six AM. Madeleine rose and prepared herself mentally for the day ahead. Stress kept her mind working late into the night, but her position with the Psychosocial Unit barred her from working overtime in the hospital. She was overwhelmed with keeping up the pace, not yet to the point of exhaustion.

There was an inordinate of activity on the road outside as she got dressed and left the room. She put it out of her mind.

Outside the hotel she met up with the Medical Coordinator and a few members of the Logistics Unit. They spent about ten minutes standing idle in the humid air, too weary to speak. The streets were usually empty this time of day.

An unremarkable black Jeep pulled up. The Medical Coordinator opened the door and was about to step into the car when it happened. The Medical Coordinator’s head burst over the interior of the vehicle and Madeleine. The body slumped like a doll to the dirt. Madeleine wanted to scream but could not. She turned and found herself facing down the barrel of a rifle.

Around a dozen men with guns, sans insignia, circled them. The man who had fired addressed her harshly in French: “Where are the rest of the MSF? Why are they not at the hospital?”

“I don’t understand.” Madeleine could see another group of men approaching from the rear. A massacre, onset.

“We’ve been waiting for months for a solution, and you have been injecting us with a useless vaccine.” He aimed right at her sternum. “Your doctors gave them all false hope for months. Now the MSF have abandoned you.”

“You have been protecting them!” the insurgent roared, levelling his weapon. “All this time! You knew why they were here, and you allowed them to experiment on our families like dogs!”

The man at his left turned and fired. The insurgent fell dead. “That’s enough.” One of the men from Kerberos in plainclothes. A dozen more in military gear materialised as if from nowhere. “There is no need for additional bloodshed,” said the plainclothes. “Release them now or you will be shot.”

All around her at once, gunfire. Madeleine didn't wait to see who had fired first. She prostrated herself, hands clasped over her neck, breath clogged in her throat.

All sound ceased. Her head continued to ring. Her eyes were open but she did not process the colour staining her skin, on her clothes, the smell of it. She hadn’t been shot. Her heart hammered against her ribcage.

Heavy footsteps approaching. She closed her eyes awaiting the kiss of metal at her temple.

“Dr Swann.” Madeleine shrunk away instinctively from the gloved hand upon her forearm. “It’s all right. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Another soldier pulled her upright. Sight of blood on dry earth briefly mixed up with blood spattered across wooden floorboards. Madeleine went limp. Ushered into the backseat of an unmarked Jeep, she could not stop trembling. Shoulder-to-shoulder with another man she recognised as head of Logistics, Peter Miller. The door slammed shut, jolting her back into her own body. Sound of the ignition set her into trembling. Miller’s naked hand materialised on her shoulder. His voice overtaken by the roaring in her ears. Madeleine bowed her head into her hands like a child, whispering: “Ne me tuez pas. Je n’ai rien fait. Je ne sais rien.”

#no time to die #madeleine swann #lyutsifer safin #several ocs #crime drama #fanfic #fanfiction #multichapter #canon is gonna joss this into the sun probably #haha... unless?#slow build

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thatholmesburyblog · 4 years

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disgraceful

That fic where Mycroft finds out that Enola and Tewkesbury eloped by reading about it in the paper, because I feel like it. If you like Mycroft, you probably shouldn’t read this.

WC: 953

The day is wet, and Mycroft doesn’t bother to shut his umbrella in the carriage. He’ll be getting out again in less than twenty minutes, and he’s already later than he meant to be to the club. It isn’t that he wants to go particularly, on a day like today, but he must see Sherlock, catch up on news and gossip, and have a brandy. Not in that order, of course, but the day is as cold as it is wet, and his office rivals the open streets in draftiness. The club with its promise of a roaring fire and intelligent company far surpasses the allure of an office that can run itself for one morning, though it will be run into the ground.

Sherlock isn’t in yet when he arrives, but no matter; Mycroft is in no mood to rush through the single morning of relaxation he’s gotten or is likely to get this week, or month, for that matter. The fire is warmly crackling and inviting, and he can feel his entire self relax the moment he enters.

“Brandy, please,” he says, shrugging out of his coat, sitting down in an armchair, and opening the paper. There’s another reform bill, of course there is; Enola’s young lord is leading the charge to extend the vote to the even-less educated. He ought to pay a call on the marquess and drop some arch hints about propriety and what he expects of a young man running around with his sister, but he’s been so busy with work and the government lately, and it isn’t as though Enola is pregnant. At least, he hopes she isn’t. He almost never sees her, but Sherlock might know. Sherlock will know if there’s any impropriety to speak of. At least, Mycroft can hope so.

Shaking off the disconcerting thought, he continues to scan the headlines of the Standard. The British South Africa Company finally got their charter; the use of the Suez canal has been settled; there’s been another train crash in the north of England. Mycroft often says that the country is going to pot, but he’s always right and the news is always worse and worse.

“Drinking, older brother? And so early in the day.”

“It never changes. You judge me for my job, you judge me for my drinking habits, you judge me for how I handled Enola...my God, Sherlock, it never ends.” Sherlock is silent for a long moment.

“I apologize for the first two but I do not and will not ever regret taking over care of Enola.” Myrcoft cedes the point and opens the paper to the personals.

“A new record of elopements at Gretna Green this weekend alone. No wonder England is in such a mess, these young people have no sense of propriety these ....” He trails off in horrified silence at the familiarity of the names in the last elopement announcement on the page. Sherlock looks at him quizzically.

“What’s so alarming about elopements? Surely you didn’t have a paramour that’s run off with someone else?” Mycroft shoves the page at his younger brother, his temper rising.

“Enola. She’s disgraced the family again and again, and what’s more, she’s finally dragged that companion of hers, the marquess into it, and for God’s sake, Sherlock, they’ve--look.” Sherlock takes his time reading the announcement. There are only twenty words in it; it shouldn’t take so long. “Well? I know you promised you’d take care of her but that’s hardly apparent here. I mean, she’s gone and gotten married. They’ve gotten married.”

“So they have.” Sherlock replaces the paper on the end table, giving Mycroft his full attention.

“This is unacceptable,” Mycroft spits, standing up and signalling for his coat. Sherlock frowns.

“You’re not going to Gretna Green?”

“Of course not. I shall be waiting at Basilwether Hall when they return.”

“Is it not a possibility that they care for each other?” Mycroft paces in front of Sherlock, careful to keep his voice down even though he’s utterly livid. Sherlock looks vaguely amused.

“They do more than that, I’d be willing to wager. Sherlock, do you imagine she’s….she’s….of course she is. There’s no other reason anyone in the House of Lords would marry such a wild little thing, except to salvage her honor. Their relationship has always been too visible, I knew it could come to no good, for all he is a marquess. In other circumstances, this would be a boon for any family, but this….this is insufferable.”

“Mycroft.”

“What?”

“Enola isn’t pregnant,” Sherlock says. Mycroft fixes his younger brother with a doubtful stare. “I saw her last week, when she and Tewkesbury came to tea and, ah, ‘tested the waters’ to see how I would react to news of their marriage.”

“You knew?”

“I did.”

“And you think it wise for two teenagers to make the most momentous decision of their lives when they’ve known each other less than a year? They’re already the talk of London, Sherlock.”

“And after the surprise of their elopement, London will have no reason to speak of them any more.” Mycroft turns to his brother with a frown.

“You think it’s a marriage of convenience?”

“I am convinced it is not.”

“You believe they...care for one another.”

“I am sure of it. He looks at her the way Father looked at Mother, you know, and she looks at him the way--what was her name? no matter--looked at you.” Mycroft can feel the blood returning to his face. It’s time for this conversation to end.

“I’m still going to Basilwether,” Mycroft says, taking up his coat. Sherlock nods and reopens the paper.

“I would expect nothing less.”

#enola holmes #enola x tewkesbury #holmesbury #viscount tewkesbury marquess of basilwether #viscount tewksbury #sherlock and mycroft #mycroft holmes #sherlock holmes #holmesbury wedding #holmesbury elopement

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skateboardtotheheart · 3 years

Text

Domestic Headcanons

I wrote a fic in which the band were all alive and living together in their early twenties, and @zendrella sent me questions about what them all living together would be like.

**Established Willex, Julynn, and Ruke/PeterPatter in these**

- The band moved in to a large, expensive Hollywood apartment when the boys were 19 and Julie was 18. Their first two albums, released when they were all still in high school, had blown up across the country and the world, so they had plenty of money. They were able to buy their own apartment/house/whatever you want to call it with four bedrooms, a kitchen, living room, bathrooms, and an in-unit washer/dryer

- They still use the Molina’s garage as their studio- partially out of nostalgia because they have so many good memories there and partially out of convenience because Ray doesn’t make them pay and Julie gets to see her family pretty much every day

This got really long so read more under the cut!!

- Since they were already with their significant others when they moved in, Julie and Alex had offered for Flynn and Willie to live with them, too; they certainly had the space. Both turned down the offer, though, because Flynn was attending UCLA for music business and wanted the dorm experiences, and the apartment was just a little too far of a commute for Willie when he had to work at the Hollywood Ghost Club, so the skater has his own place that wasn’t too far away from the band’s

- It takes another two years after they all move in for Reggie and Luke to get together. Julie had been dating Flynn for six months by the time they got the apartment, and Willie and Alex had been together since they were 17. The four of them team up to stage an Intervention with Luke and Reggie so they would finally admit their feelings

- After the Intervention, suddenly Reggie's room becomes completely useless because he's always sleeping in Luke's. Eventually (read: within a week) it becomes their room, and they turn Reggie's old room into a guest space for Julie or Luke's families, or as the space they go to when they want to have a sleepover in their own house (usually with Flynn and Willie, too)

- When it comes to cooking, Julie is surprisingly enough the one Not Allowed in the kitchen. Yeah, she can cook pasta and stuff, but one time she tried to make one of her aunt's recipes for the boys and accidentally set off every fire alarm in their Very Large apartment and maybe a couple of the ones in the apartment above them too

- None of them are great bakers, honestly, but since they're at the studio basically every day, Ray is constantly sending them home with different baked goods from both him and Victoria. When it comes to cookies, though?? There is not a single chef/baker in the world who compares to Luke's cookies. He's never burned them once, can make basically any type the band can think of, and he never uses a recipe??? They're just freaking perfect every time and the rest of them Do Not Understand

- Luke stress bakes most often, but sometimes it’s Reggie in the kitchen at 3AM and he makes the best pie any of them have ever tasted??? But if you try to get Reggie to bake at any other time it always comes out burned or misshapen or just something's a little off and you can't tell what but it's possible he mixed up the baking powder and baking soda and holy fuck Reg is this olive oil???

- Reggie makes the best coffee, but he also disgusts each and every one of them because he drinks it black??? What the fuck, man???

- Alex does the cooking more often than not, with a few nights a week reserved for Luke or Reggie to make dinner, but it's Luke who's in charge of grocery shopping. You'd think, like the rest of his life, it would be a chaotic mess, but in reality he would always go grocery shopping with his mom, every time without fail until he moved out. Emily always knew all the best deals, where to get the Good Coupons, and how to masterfully budget the amount of groceries they would need. She didn't even really teach Luke, but he'd managed to pick it all up. They discovered this the first time the band tried to go shopping, when the rest of them were confused and goofing off a little and Luke came out of nowhere with price calculations in his head and telling them "no, no, no, grab this one, it's less expensive and actually tastes better”

- Whenever they do the dishes, Luke is not allowed to put things away because even thought they’ve lived there for two years already he's the only one who does not seem to understand that THE SILVERWARE GOES IN THE DRAWER BY THE STOVE and THE GLASSES DO NOT GO WITH THE PLATES

- When they can’t sleep, they all get midnight snacks, but Alex is the most likely to get one almost every night. It surprises all of them because Alex is the healthiest eater yet his midnight snacks are always something sugary or very much not his usual healthy food. They lowkey blame Willie for getting Alex hooked on certain sugary foods because the skater has the Sweetest of sweet tooths

- They all stay up way too late, but it's a different person depending on the night. If they've done a gig or a concert, then it's definitely all of them. On weekends Alex and Reggie like to stay up late together to watch SNL reruns. Sometimes Luke and Julie have to physically be dragged to bed because they're working themselves ragged over a new song. Since Alex and Julie don’t get to spend as many nights with their significant others, if Willie or Flynn is over chances are everyone is getting less sleep than usual. Sometimes it’s because the couples get a little too loud and sometimes it’s just the excitement of seeing each other and all six of them start goofing off around the apartment

- Reggie is the designated "would you please go tell the neighbors to fuck off" person. Reggie loves talking to people even though he's kind of an introvert, and when they were moving in he made an effort to go say hi and introduce himself. Reggie has by far the best relationship with their neighbors, so he's usually the one who kindly asks them to quiet down a little because Luke and Julie are in Writing Mood and the noise is making them stressed, which is making Alex stressed, which makes Reggie want to vacate the premises as soon as humanly possible. Considering they're a band in their early 20s, the four of them are actually the quietest apartment in the building

- Julie, though, Julie's the one willing to yell at their neighbors. She may be small and innocent looking, and she really does hate confrontation, but she can destroy you with a single damn look that makes you regret your entire life. The other three just let stuff go usually, but after about 10 incidents of neighbor issues that aren't noise, Julie gets ready to blow and the boys just stand back and let it happen. They tried to stop her once and just got caught in the crossfire. It's even worse if Flynn has been staying over when Julie gets mad because Flynn will hype her up and support her even if she has no idea what the neighbors did

- For the most part they all do their own laundry because they have an in-unit washer dryer, so it's easy to just throw in a load, but if they're doing all their clothes or towels and things at once, Julie is definitely in charge of the laundry. The boys do not understand the concept of delicates or how to properly wash bras and things, so Julie does Not let them touch her clothes. She's had too many shirts shrunk in the wash because of them. And the boys' clothes never seem to come out cleaner than when Julie washes them. The one thing they all insist on washing themselves are underwear and sheets (because let's face it, all of them are in a relationship and things are bound to get at least a little messy, and they might be Close with each other, but no one needs to deal with that when doing the laundry)

- When it comes to holidays, decorating is always, always, always a group activity. They invite Flynn and Willie over when they do, and it becomes like a little party with the six of them. They dress up for whatever they're decorating for (in Halloween costumes, Santa hats and reindeer antlers for Christmas, reds and pinks for Valentine's day) and make hot chocolate, no matter the time of year. The entire apartment looks like holidays threw up on it, but it makes them smile and laugh every time, so they always do it

That’s all I’ve got right now!! If you have any questions about who does what or anything, feel free to send them my way and maybe I’ll do a part 2!! If you made it this far thank you very much for reading and I hope you enjoyed <3

#jatp #julie and the phantoms #headcanons #willex #julynn #ruke #peterpatter #julie molina #luke patterson #reggie peters #alex mercer #flynn jatp #willie jatp #fanfic

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supernatural-jackles · 4 years

Text

The Man on the Side of the Road - Part 13

Title: The Man on the Side of the Road - Part 13

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Word Count: 3,834

Warnings: High Stress Levels, Mentions of the readers shitty Mom, FLUFF, All around cuteness!

Summary: Driving down the road, going well over the speed limit. You come across a man walking in the opposite direction with a bouquet of flowers in his hands. His head cast down as he walked. Your gut instinct is telling you to check on this man, no matter what your parents told you growing up. Little did you know just how much this would change your life.

The Man on the Side of the Road - Masterlist

A/N: Three parts left after this one! I hope y’all enjoy this part! As always, feedback is greatly appreciated! Happy Reading!!

Your head was pounding. Your vision was starting to blur and everything looked the same. You felt like you had been awake for forty eight hours. Your stomach was in knots, your chest was tight. You were beyond exhausted.

Finals were going to be the absolute death of you.

You buried your face in your hands, trying your hardest to clear your eyes and make them see one thing instead of eight. You had been at this for hours and nothing was sticking. You needed to pass this final. It was the most important one and you needed a seventy five in order to advance to the class you were taking next semester. You needed to learn the next twenty definitions and the process of seven more things and you literally had no idea how you were going to pull this off.

“Knock knock,” Dean called out from behind your door. You took a deep breath, trying to compose yourself.

“Come in,” you called out, trying your hardest to sound okay. Your bedroom door opened and Dean walked in. He was wearing his new pyjama pants that Sam had sent him as an early Christmas present. They had presents scattered all over them, and quite frankly they looked cute on him.

“Hey you,” he greeted you. “Still studying?”

“More like dying,” you sighed.

“Nothing’s sticking huh?” he frowned, taking a seat at the end of your bed, giving you a bit of space.

“Nope,” you shook your head. “I am not going to pass this final at this rate. I’m stressed out, exhausted and all I want to do is sleep for ten years.”

“Don’t say that, sweetheart. You just need a break,” he suggested. “Why don’t we go make some dinner and pie. I did the groceries so we’ve got some food in the house. I can make you one of my dad’s recipes and after we can make your grandma’s homemade apple pie recipe.”

“What are we going to make for dinner?” you smiled. “Mac and cheese? Winchester surprise?”

“I was thinking I could make your favourite chicken with some mac and cheese,” he said with a smirk.

“You know I can’t resist that,” you squinted at him.

“I know. That’s why I’m making it. You gotta come out of this room and you’ve gotta eat something that’s not dried cereal or leftover beef jerky from our road trip nearly two months ago.”

“You’re making me sound like I have a problem,” you giggled.

“You do. It’s called being overworked,” he chuckled. “Kitchen. Now. Then I need you to watch a short movie with me. Give yourself a break. After that, we can kiss a little and I will help you study for however long tonight,” he declared proudly, looking at you with a sweet smile

“Okay. We’ll go with your plan, chief,” you said with a weak smile. “You win this time. You had me at kissing you.”

“Let’s go.”

The second you got to the kitchen, you felt guilty for not having your books in front of you. The worry of not passing this final was really starting to get to you. You knew Dean was right; that you needed a study break because nothing was going to stick if you kept trying to cram it in. He offered to help you later, and you prayed to god that it would stick in better.

Dean had the pasta noodles on, and the chicken already in the oven, like he was planning this all along. All that was left was to grate the cheese, and he was already halfway done. You just got to sit there, and watch him do what he did best.

“When I was little,” you started, glancing up at Dean, “my mom tried to teach me how to bake. Red velvet cookies were what I wanted to make because I saw a picture in a recipe book one day. So she found one that would work and picked out an afternoon to do so. I thought it was going to be fun. You know, spending time with my mom, just the two of us. But I accidentally dropped an egg on the floor, and of course it broke. My mom was furious with me and sent me to my room for destroying her good kitchen floor. All because the egg slipped out of my hand and fell.”

“That is terrible,” Dean frowned. “Accidents happen all the time.”

“It was,” you nodded. “She came into my room hours later with a single cookie for me to eat. It was the first time I looked at something and felt like I didn’t deserve it.”

“Why are you telling me this?” He asked, turning to face you.

“Because I feel like I don’t deserve you sometimes. Especially on days like today when I’m cranky as hell, and not so fun to be around. You’re here making sure I eat and don’t overwork myself, and I don’t deserve to have someone as great as you in my life.”

“Yeah you do,” he argued with a smile playing on his lips. “You deserve to have someone looking out for you, Y/N. You do the same for me.”

“Well, I’m glad I’ve got you,” you smiled.

“Likewise,” he smiled softly. “When I was growing up, my dad was the one who taught me how to cook. He told me it was a valuable life skill that I would need one day. I was always taught that it wasn’t just a woman’s job to cook for the family. I don’t remember a whole lot of my parents together. I was four when she died. But what I do remember is that they were happy together, and I wanted to have that one day.”

“Do you still want that?” you asked him.

“Yeah,” he nodded. “I’ve got you. I know my parents loved each other. Even if I remember them arguing, and such. I asked my dad about her from time to time, and he always talked about her with that same look on his face that he had when he saw her. Their love was something real. That’s what I want.”

“The real thing,” you teased. “Growing up, my dad was my best friend. He had this big office in our house that no one was allowed in but me. He had a chair in there for me, and a computer there for me to do work at one end of his desk. It was our space that my mom couldn’t enter. It was a safe place for me. His Sunday’s were spent playing golf, away from my mom. Those were supposed to be the days I spent with her but she never wanted to. She had her girlfriends over for drinks and I’d be shoved into my bedroom, away from everyone and everything. My parents never spent any time together when I was growing up. My dad travelled during the week for work. I spent Saturdays with him. The more I think about it now, I wonder why they waited until I was twelve to get divorced. They were never happy together.”

“That’s not fair to you,” he commented.

“No it’s not. It’s like some sort of arrangement for them, I think,” you agreed. “You want what your parents had, and I want anything but what my parents have. How strange is that?”

“Have you ever gotten along with your mom?” Dean questioned as he poured the cheese into the noodles. “I know Ketch said to you at the diner that night that your mom loved him more than she did you. Is that true?”

“Unfortunately yes,” you shrugged. “And for the longest time, that was so hard for me. I mean, my mom loved my boyfriend more than she loved me, and I was her daughter. God, my mom was more excited when she found out I was going out with Ketch than I was. Sure, his family is the richest, and their house is a million times bigger than this. Ketch literally doesn’t need a college degree for crying out loud. It’s not like we ever struggled with money. I mean my dad still makes amazing money and he bought this house for me so I wouldn’t have to stay with my mom while I went to school.”

“He’s got connections to everything and your mom liked that huh?”

“It made her look good. It was good for the parties and for all the people at the country clubs. It’s like he’s fucking royalty or something,” you scoffed. “My mom didn’t want me to go to college at first, actually. That’s one of the reasons why I’m so late in graduating. I fought hard to go, and she would only let me go as far as here. My dad fought for me. He knew I wanted my own life. My mom was determined. A girl like me shouldn’t have to work hard for one. The job at the hospital was hard enough work. At one point, she even told me I wasn’t smart enough to get in, which was untrue. It’s just not me. I can’t just sit somewhere and have everything done for me. I’ve never been that way, even if my mom tried to raise me that way. It wasn’t right. I think she thought that Ketch was going to turn me into someone that she’d approve of. A housewife. Someone like her.”

“I could never see you sitting back and doing nothing,” he chuckled. “You work harder than a lot of people.”

“Thanks, Dean,” you grinned. “I’m at the point where I’m trying not to care about her. I don’t answer my mom’s texts anymore. Her calls are ignored. I’m done dealing with it all. All it ever does is upset me and I’m tired of putting myself in that position. I gotta move past it all.”

“Good for you, sweetheart,” he nudged your shoulder. “You graduate in June right?”

“Maybe! If I pass this final and all my classes next semester, then yes,” you let out a dry laugh.

“You will,” he reassured you. “You’ll get home tomorrow feeling relieved that it’s over with and that you aced it. I’ll pick up some pizza and beer on the way home, and we’ll celebrate.”

“And I can pick the movie?” you asked with a wide smile.

“‘Course you can,” he winked.

You and Dean ate dinner with a constant flow of conversation. For the first time all day, you felt relaxed, and you knew that was going to do your brain some good. When you were to go back to studying, there was a good chance you were going to retain more than you could before.

Dean was the first one to finish, and he instantly started on the dishes. You couldn’t help but watch him as he worked. His muscles flexed beneath his shirt every so often. It had been a whole two months since you had slept with him that night, and the morning after. Your feelings had only grown stronger for him. You were taking it slow, enjoying the ride as you went on. Since you already lived together, you kept the sleepovers until Friday and Saturday nights. You didn’t want to rush this and ruin things. You wanted to still have that friendship between you. It was the most important thing to you.

You were slowly but surely moving past the whole, not good enough for him thing. There were still days when you felt like you weren’t good enough for him, and that was normal. Most of the time, he was the one who made you feel like you were. He was always making sure you knew that you were doing good, especially in the moments when you felt like you weren’t. There wasn’t a single doubt in your mind that you weren’t head over heels for him. This had the potential to become what his parents had. This had the potential to be something amazing.

You got up from the counter, placing your utensils in the sink and your plate on top of his. You reached for the towel, taking the first mug out of the sink, drying it off. Dean gave you a soft smile before returning back to what he was doing. Your heart began to race in your chest.

You wondered exactly what was going through his mind. If he was thinking about dinner, or anything else in specific. You wondered if he looked at you and thought the same thing you did when you looked at him. If he thought you were beautiful. If he thought he was lucky to have someone like you in his life. It was the little things.

There was a part of you that wanted to tell him that you loved him. You knew it wouldn’t be the worst thing to say, especially with how long he had been in your life. But at the same time, you were always the one who expressed how you felt first and that never worked out for you in the end. It was fear this time around. You didn’t want to push it so far only to have it crash and burn in the end. Dean was all you had at this point. You could wait. You could wait a lifetime for him. He was worth it.

“Pie time?” he chuckled, pulling the apples out of the fridge. A few weeks ago, you had decided to go apple picking one Sunday. He remembered the day you met him that you mentioned something about your grandma’s recipe needing fresh autumn apples. He thought it would be a good date idea for the two of you and it was. It was one of the memories you think about that makes you smile.

“Pie time,” you nodded.

You opened up the cupboard, grabbing your book of recipes. Dean was already pulling out everything you needed from the fridge. You stifled your laugh, knowing just how excited he was for this. Quite frankly you were too. He was like a kid when he was excited and you loved that about him.

He peeled and cut the apples while you made the pie crust. You worked side by side, bumping into one another a few times while you worked. You tried your hardest to focus on the pie in front of you, but when he stood so close, you couldn’t help but look over.

“You’re cute,” he muttered, taking a slice of apple, bringing it up to his lips.

“You’re cute,” you smiled, taking a bit of flour before flicking him. The white dust covering part of his shirt and his cheeks.

“You’re going to pay for that,” he threatened with a laugh, placing his hand in the flour before rubbing your face. “Much better.”

“Dean!” you shrieked, letting out a laugh. You smirked, inching closer to him, wiping your cheek on his shirt. He gasped, laughing in the process. “Okay, I actually have to finish this if you want to eat this tonight.”

“Fine,” he grumbled, flicking you once more before getting back to work.

You managed to get everything ready within half an hour. Dean added a lot of apples into the pie, and extra cinnamon. You smiled when he helped you with the top of the pie, patting it down with you. Your hands brushing against one anothers every so often. He took it when it was done, and put it in the oven for you. You were really looking forward to tasting it after this.

His hands made their way to your hips, backing you up to the opposite counter until you hit it. He lifted you up quickly, his body settling between your legs before his lips were on yours. His kisses started off slow and soft; chaste. Moving in a perfect sync with yours as his large hands travelled over the length of your back. You melted against him, allowing yourself to enjoy being with him like this. It was really nice to have a boyfriend that wanted to kiss you the way he did on a constant basis.

“You want to watch a movie, or a few episodes of Dr Sexy? You’re nearly caught up,” he pointed out as he placed a slice of pie on your plate. “Fuck, this pie is amazing.”

“Dr Sexy!” you stated. “Gotta see if Dr Sexy and Dr Tara get together. I’m glad you like the pie.”

“I love how into this show you are,” he let out a laugh.

“This is your fault,” you side eyed him. “I wouldn’t be in this mess if it weren’t for you.”

“Hey, this is on you too. I had no idea you had a medical kink,” he winked.

“So do you, Winchester,” you teased. “You and I both know if I dressed as a nurse, you’d have a field day.”

“There is no denying that,” he shrugged. “You’d make such a hot nurse.”

Dean pulled it up on the tv as you sat down in your designated spot. Right next to Dean. It was one of your favourite parts of movie nights. He’d always end up playing with your hair while the movie ended, and you soaked up every second of the attention he was giving you.

“Can I ask you something?” Dean asked about halfway through the episode.

“You just did,” you turned to face him with a wide smile. “What’s up?”

“What’s the plan after you graduate?”

“Honestly, I’m not entirely sure yet,” you answered. “I have lots of options, and I think that’s what matters the most.”

“Which one sounds the best?” he questioned.

“Teacher’s college,” you breathed out. “The one my mom would hate the most.”

“For that reason?”

“That’s a bonus,” you chuckled. “But I think I could make a good career as a teacher.”

“My mom was a kindergarten teacher,” he revealed, giving you a soft smile. “I think that would be an amazing career path for you. You know I’ll support you in anything you want to do.”

“Thank you,” you smiled. “I have to apply at the end of January, so I still have time. But it’s definitely something I’ve thought about for a little while now.”

“You’re good at helping people. I’ve learned so many things from you,” he added. “You’d make an amazing teacher.”

The episode finished, and you needed to get back to studying. You couldn’t relax any longer. You needed to get these last few things down before you could go to bed. You flopped down on your bed, opening up your notebook. Dean was in not long after you with two mugs of peppermint tea. You knew that there was nowhere he’d rather be than here with you, making sure you got this material down.

It was around midnight when you packed it all up and crawled into bed. Your eyes were drooping, and words started to blend together. You studied the best you could and you felt a million times better than you did earlier. Dean helped you get down the last eighteen definitions and you had memorized the processes you needed to. You have this final in the bag.

Dean left your room to go lock up the house, something he did nightly for you. You flicked your side light off before curling into your pillow. A few moments later, you felt your bed shift, the comforter moving just a little, before the bed dipped next to you. Dean was sleeping next to you tonight.

“Gonna sleep with you tonight,” he whispered, linking his pinky with yours.

“Good,” you muttered. “Night handsome.”

“Night sweetheart,” he mumbled, reaching over to place a kiss to your forehead.

------------------------------------

You walked through the front door with a smile playing on your lips. Friday were the best days. The start of the weekend. The best damn part of the week. You kicked your shoes off, heading straight for the kitchen with your bag in hand. You couldn’t wait to start the weekend off right with the man you loved.

“I’m home!” you called out.

“Hey beautiful,” a familiar voice filled your ears. Your smile only grew wider. Your eyes glanced over to the counter where he stood. The sleeves of his flannel shirt rolled up to his elbows, revealing his strong, toned forearms that drove you crazy.

“Hey sexy,” you winked at him. “How was your day?”

“Great. Bobby gave me a raise today,” he revealed. “He said I had been working really hard the last few months and it’s paying off.”

“Dean! That’s amazing,” you grinned widely, dropping your bag to the ground. You circled the counter quickly, reaching Dean in an instant. You stood on your tiptoes, your lips crashing to his, kissing him hard as you wrapped your arms around his shoulders. “I’m so proud of you!”

“Couldn’t have done it without you,” he smiled, licking his bottom lip. “You’re my rock.”

“And you’re mine,” you whispered, reaching up to kiss him once more.

“How was your day, sweetheart?” he asked, tugging you in close to him.

“Good. No tears today. No parents to call. And it’s Friday,” you chuckled. “Today’s a good day.”

“How’s our baby girl?” he questioned. His right hand slipped from the small of your back to your growing bump.

“Why don’t you ask her?”

Dean kneeled down to your stomach, pressing his lips to the bump. His hand held either side of your stomach. It had to be the best thing you had seen and he did it over and over again. She already had her daddy wrapped around her tiny little finger. She was going to be a daddy’s girl for sure. This was exactly what you wanted.

“Hey baby girl,” he said softly. “You being good for your mom in there? Not kicking her insides too much?”

“Not today,” you whispered.

“I love you, peanut,” he muttered, pressing another kiss to your stomach. “And I love you, sweetheart.”

“Not as much as we love you,” you smiled.

---------------

You shot right up, your eyes opening widely. Your heart was pounding in your chest. You swallowed hard, realizing that it was just a dream and it was the middle of the night. Dean was still fast asleep, facing your direction.

For a moment, it actually felt real. It actually felt like you and Dean were going to end up together, and you were having a baby together. It actually looked like life was looking good for the two of you. God, the way he kissed your stomach. Ugh, and the way he kissed you. It was everything you wanted and more. It was everything you wanted with the person you loved.

“You okay?” Dean breathed out, shifting a little. He never even opened his eyes.

“Yeah,” you whispered.

“Bad dream?” He asked you, popping one eye open.

“No. Good dream. Best dream I’ve had in awhile. I’m just sad it came to an end,” you admitted.

“Dr Sexy?”

“Something better,” you rolled your eyes. “I’ll tell you some other time.”

“What if you forget?” He cocked his eyebrow with his one eye still open.

“Trust me. I will never forget this dream.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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tangledstarlight · 3 years

Photo

days go by and seasons change (lets try again next winter)

julie's ready for a year away from home, studying and trying to refind the magic in music. luke's about to start on a summer tour around europe opening for a band. they meet one night, sparks fly and emotions run hight. now they've just got to try and see if they can maintain a long distance friendship.

ok hello hi so this is my wild ride of a fic that i’m working on, a scene (much later on) came to me in a dream, and much like how smeyer wrote twilight, i just had to find out how they got there fhbdj there’s some drinking which would be classed as underage in the us but is legal in the uk which is where it’s set so

trigger warnings!! alcohol and swearing

also on ao3 –– [ 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | extras 1 & 2 ]

winter

There was a line almost outside the door for the coffee shop, people wanting something to warm them up or just to avoid the sudden downpour of rain. Julie had been in England for just over a month now and she still wasn’t used to the randomly changing weather, how were you supposed to plan an outfit for the day if it started mildly sunny and ended in a thunderstorm? It was January! She had come prepared for snow, not rain, damn it.

From her table in the back corner of the cafe, hands wrapped around a mug and headphones blaring music, Julie people watched. Sure, she was supposed to be working on an essay, but she’d been there for half an hour already. She deserved a little break.

Even through her music she can hear the sounds of the cafe around her. Customers placing orders and rain on the windows and cups hitting tables and people laughing and it’s comforting. The sounds of life going on around her while she pretends to be doing work.

Pretends, because she’s been trying to work on this essay for a week now and getting nowhere with it.

When she’d signed up for the study abroad scheme her mind had been on experiencing a new country, on the places she could visit, the new friends she could make, the thoughtful looks she could escape.

She hadn’t thought much about the work she would have to do, the essays that would need to be written, the awkwardness of settling into a new place, the strangeness of hearing new accents.

The actual creative side of her course she found easy enough, but when it came to writing about her stylistic choices and her themes and her influences and how they all tied back with what they’d been reading about? She was drawing a blank.

Blowing on her drink, Julie let her eyes wander around the coffee shop. It was a fairly small place with an extensive collection of teas and fresh baked cakes and free wifi. She’d found it by mistake while looking for a music shop her first week in the city, they’d lured her in with carrot cake and coffee and she’d been coming back at least once a week ever since. A group of boys push through the door, shaking off hoods and laughing at something as they join the queue.

Something about them seemed vaguely familiar, like she’d seen them from a distance in a dark club, or scrolled past a group photo of them on her instagram suggested posts. Or maybe it was because they just looked like every other group of young adults she’d come across, both back home and in Liverpool. One thing she had learnt pretty quickly was that boys were the same everywhere.

She was saved from mulling it over by her phone vibrating on the table with a text, Carrie’s name popping up on the screen and Julie swapped her cup for her phone, a small smile already tugging at her lips as she read the series of texts on her screen.

Julie’s attention is dragged away from her phone by something – someone – knocking into her table, sending her pen rolling off and her cup to shake. Pulling her headphones out of her ears she looks up as the culprits eyes widen, mouth pulling into a grimace as he stares at the coffee now running down the back of her jacket that had been happily sitting in the spare chair.

“Shit,” he mutters, already pulling a napkin out of his back pocket and dabbing at the mess. “I’m so sorry, I uh– wasn’t looking and the chair leg and fuck I’m so sorry about your jacket, can it be dry cleaned?”

And he looks so sincere in his apology, all wide sad eyes and words stumbling out too quickly and messy brown hair curling out from under a beanie and accent that sounds like home, that Julie swallows back the annoyed retort she had ready to go.

It was just an accident. Accidents happened. At least it wasn’t over her laptop. Blowing out a breath, Julie shakes her head at him once, pushing back her chair to inspect the damage.

“It’s fine, honestly. Don’t–” she pauses, holding up the denim on either side of the collar and frowning at the pretty large brown stain. “Worry about it.”

Can she wash it? She’s never tried, but well. She bites her lip as she looks at it, the stranger awkwardly standing just a short distance away with a wad of used napkins and his half spilt drink, and yeah, she definitely won't be able to wear it tonight.

“I’m so sorry.” He says again and someone must catch his attention over her shoulder because his eyes dart away from her, eyebrows shooting up and shrugging his shoulders and, it’s kinda cute. The way he seems to be hovering, unsure if she’s going to shout at him.

“Seriously, it’s fine. Accidents happen, right?” She shoots him a quick smile – though not missing the way his cheeks turn slightly pink – before turning back to her jacket, carefully laying it out on the chair to hopefully dry out enough for her to stuff it in her bag before she needs to leave. She really hopes it stops raining.

“I uh– shit I’m sorry. Again. I gotta–” He gestures to the door where Julie can see his friends waiting for him, barely contained grins on all their faces that has Julie rolling her eyes. Boys. She looks back at him, raising an eyebrow even as her lips tick up into a small smile, she’s rewarded by his cheeks going red, the hand still holding the napkins rubbing at the back of his neck and a stuttered ‘goodbye’.

Sitting back down, Julie rolls her eyes again, muttering under her breath about ‘annoying cute boys’ and ‘favourite jackets’. Leaning down to pick up her fallen pen with one hand while the other tapped out a reply to Carrie. An hour more of sitting here, attempting to do her essay and then she’d have to go if she wanted enough time to get ready.

“So where are you?”

Julie couldn’t hear what was being said on the other side of the phone, but judging by the way Carrie was rolling her eyes the answer wasn’t correct. Flynn leans her head on Julie’s shoulder, their linked arms drawing them closer as they walk, it’s not the most comfortable way to walk, but they’ve already had a few drinks and Flynn gets a little clingy after one. Julie puts her head on top of Flynns as they stumble along cracked stone streets.

“She actually might end up killing Bobby at this rate,” Julie mutters and is rewarded with Flynn letting out a laugh that has Carrie looking over her shoulder at them, eyes softening for a moment before she’s rolling them again. If she hadn’t known the other girl as long as she had, Julie would be worried about permanent eye damage.

“Fucking hell. Okay. Yeah, okay we’ll be like, ten minutes then. Yeah, yeah, okay bye.”

Sliding her phone into her back pocket Carrie took a half step back so she was walking with them again, linking her arm on Flynns other side.

“They’re at the Cavern Club,” Carrie looks at Julie over the top of Flynn’s head and lets out a loud sigh, “I know. That’s where we were going to go anyway. They’re so annoying.”

But she says it in a fond sort of way. Like how you talk about your neighbour's dog that barks too early in the morning and wakes you up, but always runs over to say hello to you through the fence when you walk past and brightens up your day. Annoying, but sweet.

Julie’s only met Carrie’s cousin Bobby once, it had been a short ‘hello’ and ‘goodbye’ type interaction as he ran into Carrie’s house to pick up his bag and then run straight back out again.

She’s never met the other three members of the band at all, but she knows, after doing a little bit of internet searching, that their band isn’t half bad. They’ve got some pretty good songs and a small following that she is sure is bound to get bigger by the time they’ve finished being the opener for whoever they’re touring with and their first album is out in the world.

The three of them flash their id’s to the security on the door, slightly giddy smiles on all their faces even now, still not used to it all being legal for them to drink under the age of twenty-one. But the security guy doesn’t even blink and then they’re walking down a flight of stairs, the air getting warmer and the sound of drums and guitars reaching them.

Carrie grabs hold of Flynn's hand and Flynn grabs a hold of Julies and then they’re weaving through people and avoiding knocking drinks out of hands.

Her attention is pulled from the crowd to the stage at the back of the room, a band playing a cover of something she can’t name, they don’t sound too bad, and the part of her that used to fall in love with music every time she heard it wants to stop and listen. But that part of her is small and quiet and shy now, so she keeps her grip on Flynn’s hand and follows along.

Julie doesn’t know how Carrie knows where she’s going but all of a sudden they’re coming to a stop, her free hand reaching out to balance herself on Flynn’s shoulder even as a small part of her is still trying to work out what the song is.

Turning her eyes away from the stage she looks at the five boys sitting at the table, a collection of bottles scattered across the wood, and Julie smiles at Bobby who’s standing up to hug Carrie, opens her mouth to say hello before stopping. Her brows furrow as she locks eyes with a shaggy haired brunette who’s own eyes are widening in realisation.

“You!” She blurts out before she can stop herself, and if anyone asks she would blame it on the three drinks she had before leaving the dorms, detangling her fingers from Flynn’s to point at him. With the music blaring so loud only the boys still sat at the table and Flynn heard her, the latter turning to raise her brows while Julie can see the boys trying not to laugh.

“He’s the guy who spilt coffee on my jacket earlier,” she shouts over the music, hand gesturing wildly at the table and Flynn follows her hand, eyes resting on the culprit.

“That was her favourite jacket!” Flynn props one hand on her hip and almost glares at him, but it loses part of its ‘scare factor’ when she starts swaying a little in place to the music. Well, Julie thinks it should lose some of it’s scaring power, but the guy still looks kinda worried, so who’s Julie to know?

“I said I was sorry!” He puts his hands up, shoulder raising to almost his ears, and with his eyes already open so wide and his hair curling slightly at the ends, Julie has to wonder how much trouble that look has gotten him out of over the years.

“You guys have already met?” Bobby jumps into the conversation before Julie has a chance to reply and Carrie is looking between them, lips pursed.

“This is the girl whose jacket Luke ruined earlier,” the blonde one says and Julie vaguely recognises him as being one of the boys from the cafe.

“Dude,” Bobby raises his eyebrows at the jacket ruiner – Luke, Julie reminds herself – shaking his head in disappointment.

“It was an accident!” Luke turns his sad kicked puppy look on Bobby before looking back at Julie, his hands lowering but his eyes still drastically wide, “I really am sorry about it.”

Julie tries, she really does, to hold on to that small kindle of annoyance that she’d felt upon seeing him again. But well, the jacket is already ruined and she’s come out to avoid doing an essay and she’s finding it really hard to be mad at someone so cute. Blowing out a breath she shakes her head at him.

“It’s fine, I’ll forgive and forget the whole thing if you buy me a drink.”

“That I can do,” the furrow in his brows smooths out and his shoulders relax and suddenly there’s a smile spreading across his face that seems to light up his eyes.

“So, you’ve met Luke. That’s Reggie, he’s our bassist,” Bobby nods at the dark haired guy sitting next to Luke who grins and waves, and it’s such an infectiously happy wave that Julie can't help but wave back. “Alex, kickass drummer,” the blonde who spoke earlier ducks his head a little, an almost shy smile on his face as he nods at them, “And Willie. Officially he’s one of our roadies, unofficially he’s just here to hype us up and do cool tricks in empty arenas.” Willie, who’s sat pressed against Alex’s side, raises his hand in a wave.

“This is Julie and this is Flynn,” Carrie points at them each before claiming the seat next to Alex and looking at Luke, “We’ll take 3 vodka lemonades. Please.” She only adds the please on the end after Flynn sits next to her, nudging her elbow into her side, Julie notices with a smile.

There’s a moment of bodies moving as Luke gets up from his side of the table, pulling Bobby along with him towards the bar and Reggie is waving his hand at her, nodding at the empty space along the bench next to him that she slides into gratefully.

They can’t really see the stage set up from here, but the music is still just as loud and Julie starts nodding her head along to the beat, trying to focus on the conversation happening on the other side of the table. Something about Carrie’s group and choreography and convincing someone to add in a dance break to a song. She’s laughing at something Willie said when a glass is slid across the table in front of her, a bottle of something passing over her to Reggie and she looks up in time to see Luke sliding into the space next to her, a small smile on his face.

“Forgiven and forgotten?” He asks, eyebrow quirked as he lifts his own drink, tilting it towards her in invitation.

“Forgiven and forgotten,” she agrees picking her glass up and tapping it against his beer bottle, shooting him a smile of her own before chasing the straw of her drink to take a sip, trying hard not to blush at the intensity of his stare.

It’s two hours later, three drinks and a deeply regrettable shot later, happily on the precipice of truly drunk but hanging out in tipsy land, when Julie shakes her head at Luke who’s standing on the bench. Tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth in concentration as he writes on the curved brick of the ceiling.

“Dude no ones gonna be able to even read that!” Reggie complains from next to her, his eyes squinting as if it will help him to read their names better. It doesn’t, Julie’s already tried.

“Why did we let the one with the worst handwriting do this?” Alex tilts his head to look up at Luke, who waves the hand not holding the pen in his face, almost hitting him but missing by several inches to the left and it sets them all off giggling.

“Because the rest of you are cowards!” He wobbles a little as he shuffles his feet to change angle, and Julie reaches out on instinct to hold his leg, fingers wrapping around his calf as if it will stop him from falling. His head drops down to look at her, teeth biting his bottom lip as he smiles at her quickly before going back to the ceiling.

To leave his – their – mark on a legendary musical site. Luke's words, the rest of them hadn’t been able to talk him out of it so they’d gone right into encouraging.

“I think you’re getting cowards and idiots mixed up,” Carrie mutters, head propped up on her hands, elbows resting on the table. Well, Reggie and Julie and Willie had gone straight to encouraging, the others were still on teasing.

“Do you want your name added or not?” Luke grumbles but Julie can see his pen moving, going over the letters of what she assumes is meant to be Dirty Candi, and bites her cheek to not laugh.

“Don’t forget it’s an ‘i’ instead of ‘y’ for candy!” Flynn leans forward, eyes on the ceiling as she shouts up at him and Luke says something, but it’s too quiet for any of them to hear.

It isn’t until he moves to get off the bench that Julie realises she still has her hand wrapped around his calf, her fingers idly tapping along to the song some guy with a guitar is playing behind them. Heat fills her cheeks (that she’ll blame on how warm it is in the club and the alcohol in her system thank you very much) as she lets go, pulling her hand back into her lap, watching from the corner of her eye as he jumps down and back into his seat, a proud smile on his face.

“Now when we’re big and famous people can come and hunt our names down.”

“And finally realise that you have awful writing and question how any of our songs get written,” Bobby grins at him, elbow nudging his side which sends Luke leaning into her to try and avoid it, sliding along the bench until there’s no space between them, and she can’t find it in herself to be too mad about it. He smells like tequila and mint and aftershave all mixed together, not really a good combination, but one she finds herself liking anyway.

“Well why don’t you start writing the songs, huh?” Luke retorts, and starts a back and forth with Bobby, Alex chiming in and Flynn watching it all like a tennis match, and Juile tries to follow it, but all she can think about is how Luke hasn’t moved back. How his thigh is pressed against her leg and his arm is resting around her back, hand near her hip and how if she wanted to, she could rest her chin on his shoulder and kiss his neck.

Not that she wants to kiss his neck. Does she?

Julie furrows her brows, biting her lip as she examines those thoughts, tries to decide if it’s the alcohol or the music or her lack of sleep or if she just wants to kiss him.

Flynn says something and it makes him laugh, loud and bright and unrestrained, head thrown back and eyes closed. And yeah, she just wants to kiss him. Fuck.

Reggie slings an arm around her shoulders, the other going over Flynns and tugging them together until their cheeks are all pushing together and Julie giggles, poking at his side with her partially trapped arm.

“What do we think chocolate tequila is like?” He asks, eyes glued to the chalkboard menu above them.

“Not as nice as the summer fruits one,” Julie says back, wrinkling her nose a little at the memory of when she’d tried it. If you liked chocolate, it was a bitter disappointment in her opinion. But she was also drunk enough now not to mind.

“Alex says we can’t get the coffee one. Thinks we’ll have a repeat of the red bull incident.” Luke appears on her other side, pushing his body into the small gap between her side and the next group of people. He’s stood so he’s facing her – them – and rests one arm on the counter top.

“Man he’s gotta get over that, it was one time,” Reggie mutters and Julie wants to ask what the ‘red bull incident’ is, but then Flynn is sliding three shot glasses towards them, salt and limes following, apparently having ordered without any of them noticing.

“We’re standing with mango!” Flynn shouts, shot already in one hand and salt on the other, clearly waiting for the three of them to catch up. Reggie lowers his arms and Julie can feel Luke’s hand brush past her arm as he moves to lick the back of his hand, she can feel herself flushing as she watches him do it. And is happy to note that he flushes just the same as he watches her lick her hand in turn.

Idly, Julie notices that Reggie counts them down, that Luke inclines his head at her before he lifts his shot to his lips, that Julie lifts her own, the liquid sliding down her throat with a slight burn that’s not eased at all by the lime she bites into. She squeezes her eyes shut against it and when she opens them sees Luke grinning at her, eyes full of something she can’t name but makes her want to blush again.

“Y’know what? Screw Alex, four of the coffee my good man!” Reggie shouts next to her, waving a hand at the bartender in front of them who just rolls their eyes but puts out four more shot glasses.

“Okay, you gotta tell us about the red bull incident,” Flynn finally asks what had been nibbling at the back of her mind from the moment Luke had spoken so she pulls her attention away from him and back to her friends as Reggie launches into his story that even grabs the attention of the bartender for a moment.

But Luke is a warm presence at her side, leaning into her space and breath ghosting against her neck as he chimes in the story. If she stepped back, just a little, she could lean her back against his chest. She wonders if he’d wrap an arm around her waist to hold her steady? Julie blinks and blows out a breath, raising an eyebrow as Reggie talks.

“Wait, how’d you get onto the roof?”

“So why Liverpool?” Luke asks, hands stuffed into the pockets of his coat as they aimlessly walk through almost empty streets, faint music coming from clubs and other drunk people giggling in doorways. The fresh air has helped a little to sober her up, but not enough for her to know where they’re going. But they’re following Carrie, who has a plan for the night and they’ve no option but to follow it.

Julie wraps one arm around herself, the other pushing hair over one shoulder as she thinks about it. There isn’t really a big fancy answer, no special reason for her choice, she shrugs at Luke, lips ticking up into a smile.

“It was the only place still with spots open,” she can see the slight confusion on his face and explains more, “I wasn’t going to take the study abroad year, but I changed majors and I needed to get away from home for a while. Carrie and Flynn had already signed up and the internet said the train didn’t take too long to get to Manchester or Glasgow.”

“You changed majors?”

Of all the things she’s said that hadn’t been the part she’d thought Luke would zone in on. It wasn’t really something she liked to talk about much, her fall away from music. She still loved it, still listened and wrote and sang, but the passion she’d once had, the magic she’d once felt whenever she sat at a piano? It had gone away. Had been gone for a long time. Had been gone for four years and she’d only been pretending she still felt the magic.

Everything she played or wrote was missing something and no one had seemed to notice but here.

It hadn’t been until one of her teachers in first year had pointed something out that Julie had finally confessed. And changed course and major the next week.

Everyone had tried to understand, had listened as she explained why she couldn’t do it. How her mom and music were so intertwined together in her head and her heart that it felt impossible to detangle them, to love and play music without always feeling like there was something missing. But she knew they didn’t really get it

So she’d signed up for the study abroad, and picked Liverpool because they had a good English Lit course and was close enough to her friends if she needed them. Okay, so maybe she’d lied a little, there was a fancy answer for why she’d moved, but picking Liverpool had just been random.

“Yup,” she pops the ‘p’ and glances ahead of them, where Willie has Alex clinging on to his back, running through a puddle and laughing loud and clear. She can’t help but smile at them, at the carefree way Willie spins around and Alex holds tighter, face red with whatever he’s trying to say between laughs. Luke must follow her gaze because he lets out a soft snort of laughter, and she can see him shake his head from the corner of her eye.

“I’d hate them if they weren’t so adorable together,” he muttered, but his gaze is soft as they both watch the couple; Willie lets Alex off his back and grabs hold of his hand before he had a chance to get too far away. They’re all soft eyes and teasing smiles and vibes that scream about being in love, you’d have to be blind not to see it. Julie looks away, feeling like she’s intruding on a private moment as they share a kiss.

“Tell me about the tour,” Julie says, drawing Lukes attention back to her and it’s the right thing to say because his face lights up with a smile that she’s sure is going to drive girls wild one day soon.

Julie nods along with the song blaring through the speakers, mouthing the words so herself as she scrolls through her phone, ignoring the press of bodies crowding the smoking area as best she can. From her spot near the wall, opposite the door, she can see Carrie and Willie and Alex dancing together, wide smiles and heads thrown back.

Flynn and Reggie are talking to a group of people off to the side and Julie can see the way Flynn has pulled her braids over one shoulder and is gesturing to Reggie every few words the way she does when she’s trying to hype someone up (she knows, from having been on the receiving end of it, many times). Bobby, standing with them, seems to find the whole thing hilarious, grinning around the cigarette hanging from his lips.

“Okay, favourite book?” Luke asks, leaning in close to be heard over the noise and if he doesn’t move back, well Julie’s not about to complain. The little space heaters on the wall don’t provide much warmth, and it’s January and she’s cold and someone ruined her jacket.

“Currently or of all time?” She asks, raising an eyebrow as she turns her head a little to look at him. Her heart stutters for a second at how close his face is to hers, she can see the small flecks of green in his eyes, can feel his breath ghost across her cheeks.

“Current,” he says and she can see as his eyes flicker down to her lips quickly before back up to her eyes and Julie really hopes she’s not blushing right now.

“Stardust. By Neil Gaiman. I’m reading it for one of my classes and it hits all the boxes for a fairytale.” She likes fairy tales, likes the idea of them, likes the message of true love and pure of heart and happily ever afters. This one just happened to involve lightning pirates which was a bonus. Okay, so maybe the lightning pirates were mostly a film detail, but still. “Favourite food?”

“There’s this little hole in the wall place down by the strip? They do the best cheeseburgers. If I could have one for every meal, I would.”

They’re still standing close together, eyes staring too intensely for a game of twenty questions and comments about cheeseburgers and Julie’s eyes flicker to his lips, can see the way they’re pulling up a little on one side. She wants to lean forwards, close the gap between them and press her lips against his. But then she shivers, shoulders hunching up around her ears as she rubs her bare arms, conscious of how close they’re sitting and how much she just kind of wants to steal his body heat.

“Are you cold?” He’s biting his lip, pulling back out of her personal space and Julie almost whines at the loss of contact and body heat and – well maybe she’s too drunk to be making smart choices right now if she’s five seconds away from whining.

“Well someone ruined my jacket,” she points out, eyebrows raised at him and is rewarded with his cheeks flushing and one hand rubbing at the back of his neck which she’s quickly coming to realise means he’s embarrassed or just a little flustered.

“I thought we’d agreed to forgive and forget about that?” He mumbles and before she can come up with a response Luke is standing up, shrugging his jacket off his shoulders and then he’s carefully draping it over her shoulders, fingers tapping lightly on her arm until she holds it out for him to slip through one arm hole, doing the same on the other side and then pulling her hair out from under the collar.

It’s too big on her, but the faux fur inside is soft on her skin and still warm from Luke and she can stick her thumbs through the little gaps created by the fastened buttons and if she turned her head a little she could smell his aftershave clinging to the collar. Julie can’t help the little smile that graces her face, rotating her shoulders to let the coat settle better on her body.

Looking up at him her brows furrow a little at the look on his face (if she wasn’t so drunk and giddy and tired she’d say it was something like awe but that made no sense. Why would Luke be looking at her in awe while she wore his jacket?), but it’s gone just as quickly as it appeared and he’s smiling at her, that wide smile from back at the start of the night when he’d handed her her drink and she’d tapped it against his.

“Thanks,” she tilts her head to the side, loose curls falling across her cheeks as she looks at him, a wide smile of her own and she opens her mouth to say something else – though she’s not sure what she’s going to say – when another voice cuts through and pops the little bubble they’ve created.

When did they even create their private conversation bubble? Julie doesn’t know, and from the way Luke’s head whips around to land on Flynn and Reggie and Bobby with wide eyes, he probably doesn’t know either. But it’s nice to know that he’d been enjoying their conversation as much as she had.

“We’re gonna get food, come on!”

“I wanted to be wrapped up in bed an hour ago,” Julie sighed but there’s no real annoyance in her tone as she hugs Luke’s jacket closed tight across her chest, shoulder brushing against his arm as they walk.

“But you also wanted pizza instead of McDonalds like everyone else.” And Luke has a point but she still pulls a face, sticking her tongue out at him and getting a laugh in return. She couldn’t even be annoyed at it, he had a nice laugh.

Plus, when she’d said she wanted pizza Luke was the only one who’d wanted to come with her, the rest of their friends going back to their hotels. He’d walked all the way to the takeaway with her, shared half of his chips and then started walking her back to her dorm, insisting on carrying her half eaten pizza too. It was all very sweet and kind and not helping her not want to kiss him.

“Where’s your first stop?” She asks, because he was about to start a tour and she had school and maybe if they were both back home they might have been able to give something a go, but they weren’t and Julie wasn’t really a one night stand kind of person.

“We’re heading up to Newcastle on Sunday to kick it all off,” there was a slight bounce in his step, his excitement almost palpable and Julie could tell that this was all he’d ever wanted. To play music to as many people as he could. A small part of her remembered what that was like, to want to share your songs with the world.

“Sing something!” She pulled him to a stop in the middle of the street, bouncing a little on the balls on her feet and grinning at him. Because she was still a little drunk and she missed feeling excited about playing music and here was this sweet charming guy who loved it so much and felt it with everything he had and Julie wanted to be like that again too. She wanted to think about music without it being tinged with sadness.

“What?” He laughed, eyes a little wide and glassy and with his hair looking more wild then it had when they’d started the night, but Julie was pretty sure she looked the same so she didn’t comment.

“Sing! Anything! Please?” Julie tried pouting at him, doing her best impression of Carlos and his puppy dog eyes and something about it must have worked because Luke huffs out a laugh as he looks at her, biting his lip in thought for a moment before he nods his head for them to keep walking before he starts singing.

His voice is a little rough, from screaming lyrics in the clubs and shouting to be heard in the bars, and his words are a little slurred because he’s a little drunk and a lot tired, but Julie’s sober enough to decide it’s one of the best versions of Mamma Mia she’s ever heard. As he gets to the first chorus she joins in.

They were just two slightly drunk young adults, singing in the street and if nothing else comes of his night she’ll always have this memory of unadulterated joy.

“You can sing,” he whispers and now it’s Luke’s turn to pull her to a stop with a hand on her arm and a look of wonder on his face. Julie shrugs a little and can feel her cheeks heating, but she keeps their eye contact and smiles at him.

“Only drunk in the streets.” Which is more true then he’ll ever know.

Luke opens his mouth to say something but she cuts him off by pointing over his shoulder at the building behind them.

“This is me.” She’s not sure what to do now, take her pizza and run? That seems a little rude, and unsafe. Julie’s not sure she can actually run in these shoes without falling. Luke looks over his shoulder quickly before looking back at her, blowing out a breath and nodding.

“Right, right.” He seems just as unsure as she is about what to do now, which makes Julie feel a little better about it.

“I should–”

“Can I–”

They both start at the same time and then Julie is laughing and Luke is huffing out a breath while a smile grows on his face. The only thing between them is a pizza box and she doesn’t miss the way his eyes keep flickering down to her lips.

“I can’t kiss you!” She blurts out, a hand quickly going up to cover her mouth and Luke’s eyes widen, taking a half step back, retracting his hand like he’d been burnt.

“That wasn’t– I– this–” Luke started stuttering, face going red and Julie quickly shook her head at him.

“That came out wrong! Fuck. I–” She curled her hands into fists at her sides, squeezing her eyes shut before opening them, “I want to kiss you, but I can’t.”

The shock on his face had softened at the start of her sentence only to morph into confusion at the end.

“You’re gonna have to explain this to me, Molina.” Luke still looks confused, but he’s still standing in front of her and that’s enough for her.

“I like you,” she dips her head as she says it, because Julie’s pretty sure she could really like him if given the chance, “but I’m no good at one night...things and you’re about to go on a tour and I’m stuck here and I just, I think– I think I’d like us to be friends. I think we could be really good friends actually.”

Because they’d only spent a few hours together and she’d laughed and smiled more in that time then she had in awhile. Luke was sweet and funny and had something to say about every song the DJ picked to play but sang along anyway. Which is why she doesn’t want to risk a friendship for one night in bed. The confusion on Luke’s face turns into understanding and the soft, slightly sad smile that he gives her tells Julie that she’s right. A friendship with him would be better than one really fun night.

“I get it,” and he carefully puts his hand back on her arm, squeezing slightly before pulling away. “And, for the record, I’m not very good at one night things either.”

Her heart beat sounds loud in her ears and it takes Julie a moment to refocus her thoughts. Friendship. No kissing. Friendship.

“Well, maybe if we can keep a friendship going until we next see each other we can try this moment again,” she waves her hand around them with a small laugh. They could probably keep a friendship going long distance, but Julie isn’t so sure that they’ll ever get a moment like this again.

“Deal,” Luke grins down at her and pulls his phone out of his back pocket and unlocks it, Julie raises her eyebrows at him when he holds it out for her, “In order to keep in touch we’re gonna need to exchange numbers.”

“You make a point,” she agrees, putting in her information and handing it back to him in exchange for her pizza box. “Text me when you get back to your hotel, okay? So I know you didn’t get lost.”

“Yes, boss.” His smile is a little teasing now and Julie shakes her head at him as she brushes past him to walk into her dorm. She’s half way across the road when stops in her tracks to turn back at him.

“Wait, I’m still wearing your jacket.” Julie stars to shrug the item off when Luke shakes his head, already starting to walking backwards down the street.

“No, keep it!” He shouts with a smile, “Means we’ll have a reason to see each other again and have another go at this.”

Julie just shakes her head at him with a laugh, watching as he walks away before tightening her grip on the box and finally making it into her dorm. She’s still got an essay to write and a pile of laundry to put away and magic in music is still missing, but she’s gotten herself a new jacket and a friend who she thinks could make her life a little brighter. So she’ll forgive and forget that she's home an hour later than promised.

#julie and the phantoms #jatp #julie molina #luke patterson #alex mercer #reggie peters #carrie wilson #willie #flynn #rosie vs writing #i just. really like making fake texts and igs and tweets lmoa #*fics

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