#excuse the cleaned sketch as lines for my hand is weak

[vigilbutts]

Kalla can be a bit demanding with her friends.

zoom for doodle details:

#kalla wrathbringer #luis fiernfal #gw2 #guild wars 2 #shar art #this is so sloppy though looool #excuse the cleaned sketch as lines for my hand is weak #im trying not to overwork doodles but like for real this time #shitpost aesthetic

[ruwriteshours]

MONSTERS IN MY ROOM (PART I) ⛧ L.JN

↝ pairing: lee jeno x fem! reader

↝ genre: mortal instrumental! au, angst, gore, urban fantasy, fluff, eventual smut (MINORS DNI)

↝ warning: mention of death of characters

↝ summary: You didn't know your usual habits would become a huge significant part of your life. With little memories of your past, you are forced to remember to find your missing mother with the help of Jeno, an immortal.

"Yeah, I know I wouldn't forget." You groaned, your hand clutching onto the phone as you moved it to the other side of your ear. "You've been talking about it since last week."

You could hear grumbling noise of complaint coming from Jongho at the other line. "Well, how am I suppose to know you'll follow through. Your mom's crazy."

"Well, my mom doesn't control my life." You began sketching on your notepad, your fingers tracing on the symbol you drew as you let out your usual monologue. "I'm three more months to eighteen. Plus, she won't know a thing." You whispered out the last part.

"Yeah, whatever 'Miss Independent'." You giggled. "Just don't get both of us in trouble."

"Oh, don't be such a wuss. She won't suspect a thing." You assured, before hanging up— not even giving Jongho the chance to retaliate.

Flipping through the pages of you sketchbook, you had realised how much your sudden habbit had gotten worse. Your book was occupied with the same drawings of the symbols. All of it being repeated.

Sighing under your breath, you walked out of your room to wash up. "Hey, sweetie!" Your mother's chirpy voice greeted you by the kitchen, preoccupied with her cooking. Muttering back a soft 'hey' as you walked away only to be stopped again by her voice calling out to you.

Whining, you turned around. "What is it?"

Turning off the stove, she looked up at you with her beaming smile. "I see you've gotten busy."

Glancing down at your hand, you could see the graphite ink of your pencil had painted your entire hand— smudging your clean shirt.

"Yeah, it's for a project." You lied, attempting to rub off the dirt.

Your mother only prodded further. "Well, tell me more then." She said excitedly. You laughed awkwardly as you gestured towards the bathroom. "I would love to, mom but I'm meeting Jongho soon." You excused.

"Oh," You could hear the tease in her voice. "Your boyfriend."

"He's not my boyfriend!" You yelled out, a little too quickly. "He's a boy and he's my friend. He's my boy-space-friend." You explained, which only cause your mother to smile even more annoyingly. "Alright, sweetie. Have fun."

"He really isn't!" You began rushing to the bathroom to get ready. The last thing you heard was the gleeful laugh of your mother.

"Hey— woah." Startled by the sudden force being pulled on him as you hastily dragged Jongho out of your house. "What's the rush?"

"Don't want you to suffer by the wrath of my mom." You half-joked, still bothered by her comment. "Uh oh, what'd she say this time?" He laughed seeing your flustered expression.

"Nothing that concerns you." You grumbled, still holding onto his elbow to have him match your pace. He hummed, "Sure must be embarassing to have you this worked up."

"Shut up!" You hit his shoulder as it only fueled his humour, not finding your weak attack effective.

The walk towards the cafe was fairly short, your conversation with your best friend had always resulted in light bantering— not that you minded. Despite what everyone says about Jongho, (that he was someone who always plaster a cold exterior) you knew he had that warm light inside of him. His sense of humour and brightful personality was what made you want to get to know him more.

"Thanks a lot for doing this for me." Jongho spoke up. You smiled, "Don't go soft on me now, what are friends for?"

Oblivious, you didn't take notice on how Jongho's shoulder seem to slump— disappointed by your response. He was quick to cover up by bumping into your shoulder playfully, chuckling as you hit him back dramatically. Nearing to the destination, he walked up first to open the door. You didn't bother picking up on his gentleman act, having being used to his gesture.

"I'll get us a drink." He declared as the both of you found a seating. "Don't forg-" He was quick to interrupt you, though. "Forget to add in more whipped cream, got it."

With your order, he made his way to the queue. Your attention now being directed to the stage, listening to poetry slam— watching as the man stumble with his words, the beat of the drum not matching up to his speech. Letting out a sound of amusement, you turned your head to the tinted window— only to catch your attention at a certain symbol.

The same symbol you drew.

Without much though, you walked out of the cafe to take a closer look. Crossing the road carefully, you made your way to the open alley— observing excrutiatingly at the drawing. Your heart having picked up the sense of familiarity as your brain couldn't seem to remember. You didn't know you had taken so long outside until you heard Jongho's voice, followed by his hand holding onto your shoulder.

"Hey, why are you out here?" He asked, startling you out of your daze. Shrugging off, you could only utter, "I don't know."

He was about to question further when you turned to face him abruptly. "Let's go back." You grabbed his hand as you led him back to the cafe— thankfully, your seat was not being taken.

"Are you alright? You're being awfully quiet." He asked, noticing that you were in your head and was not paying attention to the event. You looked up at him with a small smile, "It's nothing, I'm just tired."

"Agony. Pain. Suffer." The voice of the performer acting out his scene.

"Tell me about it." He joked. "We'll finish up and go, you want another packet of sugar?" You nodded, "The brown one, please."

"Gotcha."

Watching him walk off, you let out a sigh of relief. You noticed a blonde-haired girl eyeing your best friend, a smile played on your lips as you observed the both of them exchanging greetings. You also couldn't help but notice that she kept staring at Jongho, obviously taking interest in him. Your heart soared, happy that your best friend had a chance to find someone. However, you were quick to assume when he walked away— rather quickly to your seat, acting as if nothing had happened.

"Why'd you leave so quick." He looked at you confused, "That girl you just talked to, she's totally into you."

He shrugged, not finding interest in the topic. "Not my type." You scoffed, "Oh please, you can go to her. I don't mind."

He scoffed back, "And leave you alone. No way." You groaned at his stubborness, "Act like that and you're gonna be single for life." You said jokingly, sprinkling the sugar onto your cup.

He didn't seem to take offense to your insult as he shrugged. "Maybe I'm saving myself for someone." You looked around dramatically, as if trying to search for who he was talking about. "Who?"

He didn't get to answer your question when the cheers and clapping sounds from the audience interrupted him, though you could see that he seemed relief to have avoided the topic altogether. Not soon after, the both of you joined in— acting as if you were listening to the awful speech.

The sky eventually went dark as the both of you took a detour, looking through every single local clubs that were available. As you past through every one of them, your eyes landed on the sign— with the same damn symbol on it. You turned towards Jongho as you pointed at the place. "Let's go here."

"Do you think it'll work?" Jongho asked incredulously.

"Of course it will."

Walking towards the entrance of the club, you were about to recite your script that you had prepared when the person behind the both of you cut through. His eyes were electric blue, hair spiked and his body covered in tattoos— all of which were random signs and symbols that had no meaning. "What an asshole." Jongho murmured.

Annoyed with the guy's rudeness, you looked up only to have an idea popped onto your head, "Actually, follow my lead." Ignoring his protest, you walked up to the bouncer with a confident facade as you pointed at the sign on top. "What does that symbol mean?"

Your question perked up the man that skipped ahead of you, turning around to look at you as he shared a look with the boucer. The man briefly whispered in his ear.

"What are you talking about?" Jongho harshly commented, his face panicking as he thought you had lost your mind. "Relax." You assured, focusing ahead as you watched the two men interact.

Not a moment after, the bouncer allowed the both of you inside. You let out a sigh of relief as you turned around to face Jongho with a smug smile.

"Did you went here without me before?" He asked in amusement.

The further you went inside the club, you squeezed your way through the crowds of drunkard people. Their bodies swaying to the side as the upbeat music echoed and flashing lights shining through the room. Jongho struggled to trail behind you, a look of discomfort takes over his face.

"Do you want a drink?" He asked— well shouted, as he was trying to overpower the loud music. You replied back with the same volume, "Yeah, but just water please!"

You looked around, your eyes catched a sight of the man who let you in the room. You were about to walk up to him, ready to ask him questions when his eyes looked behind you. Turning around, you caught sight on the most gorgeous woman in the room, her black hair swayed down her shoulders— the tight white dress complimented her curves, the tilted smirk of her lips as her sultry eyes bored onto the man.

Your eyes followed his movements, watching him walk towards the woman. You couldn't ignore the sudden feeling in the pit of your stomach, your feet following the both of them in the other area of the club— which is still in an open area, where everyone could see. You began to worry.

Something felt off.

Just as you predicted, the ring on the woman's fingers began slithering its way like a snake, transforming into a metal coil as it began wrapping itself on the man's neck. You gasped in shocked, completely in disbelief as you continued to watch the scene unfold.

The gurgling sound of the man struggling to gasp for air was spine-chilling. He clawed his hands around the metal coil but that only enrages the woman. The fury of the woman turned the colours of her eyes green as she balled her hands into fists— which made the material tightened around his throat. You looked around panicking as you noticed how the crowded room didn't seem to react at all at the murderous scene that was happening right in front of their faces, as if these people were invisible.

Shortly, a figure came in and began holding the man down— you watched helplessly as he was pleading for his life. Just then, another man came emerging through the crowd with his hood up, hiding his identity. You could only make out the black strands of his hair that was sticking out as he pulled out a weapon. His hand tracing along the lines of those threatening, sharp knife.

Without much thought, his knife sliced against the man's throat— completely decapitating his neck clean off. The blood began splattering everywhere, only now that you realised that the blood was black in colour as the fog escaped his body like acid. The sound of the man hissing in agony made you scream at the top of your lungs.

The three individuals hastily turned their heads towards the sound, seeing you in utter horror— from the way you covered your mouth as you teared up at the gruesome sight. The dead man was transformed into a horrifying parasite before it melted away into nothingness.

Your sudden screaming has also alerted the people in the room, who turned their heads towards you in confusion— not seeing the brutal death of the man. Your eyes dart towards the three people, their eyes staring back at yours. You could finally see the face of the hooded man. He was the last to fled the scene, taking a couple of steps closer towards you as his gaze was set at yours. His hooded eyes began to squint, as if trying to recognise you.

"What's going on? Are you okay?" Jongho was at your side in an instant, his hand grabbing onto your face to make you face him. You couldn't listen to his words, not when the fresh memory keeps repeating itself at the back of your head.

"I know what I saw." You rushed out of the club. "They killed that guy!" You repeated for what seemed to be the millionth time, still shaking from fear.

"Did you drink something, perhaps?" He asked, following your steps as he reached his hand out to call for a cab. "I heard that these people popped some stuff in the air to make sure we have a good time." He explained, trying to find some logical reasonings for your outbursts.

"Then how come you're not affected by it." You shot back, your makeup now smudged from the tears you let out previously— in a state complete mess. Thankfully a taxi came to a stop as the both of you hopped inside, his constant assurance only left you with more anxiety.

You knew what you saw.

After bidding your goodbye's, you were quick on your feet to make a beeline to your room— shutting your eyes in hopes to get some rests. Your vision clogged and your mind went black as you succummed to the darkness.

The morning after, groaning as you let out a stretch— rubbing your eyes but hissing at the sudden burning sensation that made your eyes water. Looking down, your hands were completely smudged with the ink of your pencil. In shock, you looked around your room as you gasped in horror. Papers were scattered across the floor, hung up and pasted on your cream textured walls. The same drawing accumulating in your room. You grabbed onto a couple and shoved it inside your bad, dashing out of your room as you made your way to the door.

However, you didn't make it far when the voice of your mother stopped you. "You went back late last night." Her usual nagging tone bugged you, not in the mood to get yelled at.

"I know, I'm sorry but I really have to go now." You pleaded, turning around to face your mother. Her eyes widened in shock seeing you in such a distress state.

The dark circles under your eyes are prominent as your hair flung in every direction. Despite the amount of sleep you had last night, it was as if you hadn't slept in days. "You can't leave."

You scowled in annoyance. "Yes, I can. I'm just going to hang out with Jongho, mom. It's fine." Your mother wasn't convinced, "So what? You're going to go off to him when you have problems, isn't that more of what you would do to a boyfriend." This time, you didn't detect any playfulness in her voice— it was as if she was hurt that you couldn't confide in her.

It was then that she realised that she needed to tell you the truth. Now. However, before she could utter a word— Jongho made his presence known as he stepped inside the house, which gave you the opportunity to fled, ignoring your mother's calls.

Showing the drawings to Jongho, you could only explain the events that had been happening as you watched his face contort to confusion— obviously not believing your spiel. Sitting at the cafe with eyes like a mad woman, it was difficult to convince Jongho. Ignoring his advice as you saw the same hooded man from the club, ignoring your train of thought. Your eyes widened in horror as you cowered away from his vision.

"What? What are you looking at?" Jongho asked exasperately as he began scouting around.

"Wait here." You said before running off, in hopes to finally get some answers— even if it killed you.

"Who the fuck are you?" You sneered nastily, shutting the back door that was leading you to an alley. The man chuckled at your rudeness.

"Lovely girl, aren't you?"

"This isn't funny! You killed someone, you're a murderer!" You accused, shouting at the man.

"I prefer to be called Jeno, actually." He stated as a matter-of-factly. "But I guess people who love to assume can call me that too."

"I know what I saw." You retorted.

"You think you know what you saw." He pointed at you, his eyes hardened.

Grabbing his hands to take a closer look at his tattoo, the same symbol being drawn on his hand— with shaking hands, you dug under your pockets to retrieve the drawing that you drew as you shoved it up to his face. "Why do I keep drawing this."

He hummed, taking the piece of paper as he observed it. "It's a mundane." He explained, as if there was no further explanation needed.

"What's a mundane?" You asked incredulously, prodding the man to continue. He looked down at you, his voice dropping an octave. "Someone that's from the human world."

"Well, if I'm not a human then what am I?"

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

©ruwriteshours

#jeno smut #lee jeno smut #jeno angst #jeno fluff #jeno imagines #kpop fanfic #nct fanfic #nct dream imagine #nct dream fanfic #lee jeno #lee jeno imagines #jeno fanfic

[senadimell]

The Mysterious Benedict Society as an adaption

So far, The Mysterious Benedict Society adaption feels very faithful to the books. There are definitely changes (Constance, for instance, has been aged up, and likely has a different background. This is understandable. It would be nigh impossible to portray her as she is in the books in live action format--for example, none of the kids in the book suspect she’s a toddler, let alone two years old). However, most changes have all felt reasonable and add to plot and pacing.

I especially enjoy the additions: showing the adult side of the team, for example, or Ms. Perumal’s growing concern about Reynie’s whereabouts, or the girls’ nighttime conversations. Some changes are more extreme. The Mr. Curtain of the books is clearly a villain. He’s condescending and rude, and the only people who like him are bullies. Mr. Curtain of the show is much smoother. It’s easy to see how he’s managed to influence people. Similarly, the L.I.V.E. curriculum is much less obnoxious in the show (not just memorizing nonsense by rote), and as a result, the school’s students seem less stupid and cruel. You can see why they enjoy attendance.

I’m particularly pleased that Number Two’s weirdness has been amplified. Mr. Benedict’s found family is delightfully strange, and I love watching their unusual rhythms. It will be easy to believe when (or if) it’s revealed that the women have been legally adopted into Mr. Benedict’s family.

Similarly, I love how they intensified the quirky feel of the setting and characters. Of course Number Two built a house in the woods in a day because she has a woodworking hobby. Of course there’s secret tunnels and drawers and compartments in Mr. Benedict’s house. Of course Milligan’s disguises and mannerisms are wackily memorable instead of just matter-of-fact. The books themselves have a stylized feel at times (they kind of remind me of Lemony Snickett’s A Series of Unfortunate Events, though with none of the grimness).

I love the overall aesthetic. When I first read the books, they didn’t strike me as being set in the past, but the vaguely vintage feeling works excellently. (I was also a fully grown adult before I realized that the Incredibles wasn’t set in the present, so...) The color schemes, costumes, and sets have distinctive feelings and coordinate well. The effect is stylized rather than naturalistic, which is appropriate and amplifies the tone of the scenes. The bright colors and rough textures of the wooded hideout and its inhabitants’ costumes contrast nicely with the clean lines of tL.I.V.E.’s vintage-pastel interior and sleek exterior.

I also enjoyed the way they did Kate’s flashback as rough home footage. Similarly, I enjoyed the way they showed four kids solving problems on the same screen, how they illustrated Reynie’s thought process with overlaid sketches of the problems, and the way words show up on the screen during the tests for emphasis. The combination of animations, showing multiple things at once, and creative angles for emphasis did a great job conveying the feeling of the tests. (Unfortunately, I lack the vocabulary to describe the techniques they used here).

There’s two things I didn’t enjoy. The first was killing Sticky’s parents to make him an orphan. It mattered in the books that he felt rejected by his own parents. Making it his aunt and uncle who (seemingly) care more about money and fame than the child they’re raising feels a little too much like the wicked stepmother trope. I don’t know why the showmakers decided that Of Course They’re All Orphans, because while most of the book characters are orphans, Sticky isn’t, which serves to show that you can feel rejected and hurt by your parents even when you’ve got an ordinary, non-abusive nuclear family. It’s about feeling isolated, whether or not you’re technically alone.

Secondly, all the wheelchairs have been removed from the adaption. I’m not sure why this was done. Sticky’s mother has bad arthritis and requires a wheelchair. In the books, this was done without fanfare; it was as normal as anything else to oil Ms. Washington’s wheelchair in damp weather, or load and unload it from cars in later books. She was more of a background character, so it didn’t affect the plot, but the casual background representation was a welcome contrast to many books that assume being disabled is strange and uncommon, and that disabilities only exist when they’re plot-significant. The aunt who replaced Ms. Washington used no mobility aids, which disappoints me, especially as the woman she replaces in the books is ultimately shown to be a flawed but loving parent who’s dedicated to making up for her mistakes.

The other person missing their wheelchair is Mr. Curtain, the villain. I’m also not sure why this was removed? It could be to avoid the Evil Disabled Villain trope, but in the book, I didn’t feel like his disabilities were treated as a moral flaw or an excuse for his villainy. He shares his narcolepsy with the unquestionably benevolent Mr. Benedict, so it didn’t feel like his condition was used to vilify him.

He and Mr. Benedict act cope with their condition differently: Mr. Benedict relies on trusted family members for support and chooses to sit on the floor and avoid positioning himself in tall places from which he could fall, whereas Mr. Curtain disguises his narcolepsy by wearing mirrored glasses and using a wheelchair that secures an upright posture, so that no one knows when he has an episode. He does use his wheelchair aggressively, banging through doors and zooming around and forcing people to jog and keep up, but it felt like his use of mobility aids grew naturally from his character.

The books also include a scene where he shocks the children by leaving his wheelchair to chase them. They assumed that using a wheelchair=completely unable to walk, a common view in US society. Importantly, I didn’t feel like the scene was framed as particularly deceptive, like he was lying to them by using a wheelchair when he could walk. Rather, it fit into a pattern of Mr. Curtain managing assumptions and expectations: he doesn’t want people to take advantage of his weaknesses, yet wants to hold a few cards close to his chest. He doesn’t have to lie to people, just let them see and hear and assume what they will.

I don’t use a wheelchair or have narcolepsy, so I’m not in a position to say whether or not the books have good representation. Maybe the fact that Mr. Curtain is evil, and also zooms around and bangs through doors, is uncomfortable. Maybe the fact that his nefarious devices are wheelchair-accessible and in fact designed around his chair sends the wrong message. Maybe using mobility aids to conceal a disability sends a bad message, or maybe it would be better if the good guy was the one to use a wheelchair to cope with his disability. I don’t know. I do know that Mr. Benedict’s condition is played for laughs in both the book and show, and that might be uncomfortable. I do think it’s worth noting that Mr. Benedict’s narcolepsy is seen less and less as funny as the books go on, and grows to be seen as an endearing quality that emphasizes how much he loves people, since his attacks usually underscore with strong emotions and convey worry for his loved ones or joy at their company.

My own sense is that both approaches to narcolepsy make sense, and neither is shown to be inherently faulty. Rather, it’s Mr. Curtain’s character that’s to blame for his villainy--his arrogance, condescension, and mistrust. Both characters feel well-developed and consistent, and their disability is only one part of them. Their disability is colorful, but it’s colorful in the same way as the main characters (Sticky’s anxiety and memory, Kate’s gusto, eye for measurement, and bucket, Constance’s precociousness, etc).

As for why Mr. Curtain’s wheelchair was cut, I’m not sure. Maybe the show writers just didn’t want to deal with the ramifications of depicting a villain in a wheelchair, and decided to cut it altogether (a lazy reason, I think). Alternatively, it seems like they’re depicting narcolepsy without cataplexy, eliminating the need for a wheelchair (a better reason).

On the other hand, Mr. Curtain’s attitude and mannerisms bear the least resemblance to his book counterpart of all the show’s characters. They’re incorporating some backstory from the other books to build a secondary plotline, and I’m not sure how it’s going to play out. From what we’ve seen of him so far, S. Q. Pedalian is also drastically different (shy, cloistered, and openly acknowledged as Mr. Curtain’s son, instead of the gregarious, bumbling, misfit Executive of the books). The TV dynamic between him and Mr. Curtain is largely unrevealed as of yet. Since these changes constitute departures from the book, I’m not sure how the future story’s going to play out around them, and what that reveals about why the wheelchair was cut when it was so characteristic of Mr. Curtain’s mannerisms while other things (like Mr. Benedict’s use of plaid) were included.

Still, it does disappoint me that two wheelchairs were erased, and no one in the show uses one, not even background students. 

Overall, though, apart from the orphan and wheelchair situation, I’m very pleased with this adaption and think that the pacing works wonderfully. It’s a near-ideal format for a video adaption (I think animation would be best, but this is a close second).

#the mysterious benedict society #the mysterious benedict society adaption #tv adaption #the mysterious benedict society show #ledroptha curtain

[5lazarus]

To the Victor the Spoils

In the Skyhold gardens, in Adamant's wake, Solas meets Loghain.

A character study of two trickster-kings, speaking a little too honestly.

As Loghain himself says, "The past is always with us. It’s in our bones and our blood and we wear it on our skin. You can think otherwise, but you’ll never get far without it." Read on Archive of Our Own here.

The Inquisitor’s hand aches, and Solas is responsible, so he rouses himself from the Fade and dresses quietly. His erstwhile roommates, Varric and Dorian, snore away soundly. They came back late last night and may still wake up drunk. If this were not the third night in the row they had done this, he would be more sympathetic and leave a tincture for their headache. Alas, they must learn soon, or he will simply make a lot of noise waking up. There are healthier ways to cope with bad battles and beloveds’ deaths by drinking, however Varric wants to honor Hawke. Adamant has left them all aching. He would still like to sleep.

Outside Blackwall is running the new recruits through their basic drills. He is yelling at them about honor—another Adaman casualty. The children look like badly-plucked chickens in their ill-worn armor, shambling in the gray morning light. Solas would tell them to stand up straight and widen their stances, but here he does not need to play the drill sergeant. He leave Blackwall to his work and retreats into the main keep.

Morning prayer has just released and Leliana is wistful, her hood down. She pauses by Varric’s table and looks unseeingly at the stack of books. Then she sees him, and her face grows as porcelain-clear as a doll’s.

“Good morning, Solas,” she says. “You’re up early.”

The easiest way to answer is to obfuscate, and the best way to obfuscate is simply to say the truth. Solas says, “I enjoy the quiet, before Skyhold’s residents slip back into their daily routines.”

Leliana chuckles, and the porcelain visage warms into flesh. “Surely the Fade reflects routine too? The Hero of Ferelden told me she found me at my prayers, when we were trapped by a Sloth demon.”

You people dream such dull lives, Solas thinks but does not say, but of course I took the dreams away. He says, “There is disruption to be found on both sides of the Veil.” She watches him as he walks towards the cloister. He resists the urge to strut. Apostates, particularly those claiming to be hermits, do not walk with pride in their power and accomplishments. Many of the mages he has observed scuttle rather than stride. Solas has never tried to draw attention to himself; he cannot help being six feet tall and occasionally a redhead. Still, he tempers his walk.

In the cloister Elan’Vemal is buzzing around the felandaris like an angry wasp. Solas ignores her and walks towards the royal elfroot, pulling out his knife.

“Absolutely not,” she says.

Solas crouches down next to the bush. “I beg your pardon?” he says to the branches. The tips of its leaves are an electric violent. He can grind the stalks into a salve that will soothe the spasms in the Inquisitor’s hand and temporarily numb the spread of the Anchor. The leaves he will keep for himself.

“Inquisitor’s only,” Elan’Vemal says. “Unless you have a requisition form.” She looms over him, arms crossed. She’s a nasty little creature. The Inquisitor had not been pleased at her barefaced attempt at manipulation. Solas touches his own cheek, sans vallaslin, and does not even allow the thought to fully form.

He says, “I am making a salve for the Inquisitor.”

“A likely story.” Elan’Vemal is unimpressed.

Irritated, Solas says, “The stalk of this plant, ground into a salve with arbor blessing harvested wild and the stamen of the amrita vein, releases a numbing agent useful for treating Fade-inflicted wounds.” This is accurate enough, for her purposes. “We will be marching on Adamant in two weeks, and best be prepared.” He takes his knife and cuts only two branches from the stalk, when initially he had hoped to take three. Elan’Vemal watches him work. He is careful not to wound the plant. Grudgingly she remains silent as Solas ties the branches into a small bundle.

As he pushes himself to his feet, brushing the dirt from his knees, she says, “And the leaves? What will you use that for?”

Solas says, “Getting high, of course. What else?”

Shocked, Elan’Vemal laughs. He smiles slightly and makes his escape, dodging Mother Giselle with a polite “good morning.” The salve will not take much time to prepare, but the day is barely long for all he wants to do. There is the basic sketch for his fresco of Adamant. He already has a sense of what the colors need to be, and so he need to requisition more cinnabar for the corrupted lyrium holding the City enchained. There are calculations to be run, as well, regarding the latest of his Veil accelerometers. They have reactivated enough for him to use the lodestone at Skyhold as a base and predict where the Veil is weakest. The Inquisitor ought to plan her next foray where the Veil needs the most attention; but first, he must soothe her hand, and let her know she is cared for. He cares for her. She knows that; but after Adamant, the reminder will help.

A man is staring at him, not unkindly, so Solas turns with a practiced mild expression.

“May I help you?” he asks. It has not been easy to fall back into the habits he developed as Mythal’s thrall, but he has never been one for ease.

Loghain says, “You fought valiantly at Adamant.”

The almost-king of Ferelden: even now he cannot help but trip into exalted circles. Solas takes him in quickly before responding. He has heard the Inquisitor complain about Loghain’s betrayal of the Night-Elves, the resistance force both the Dalish and the urban elves of Ferelden launched against the Orlesian occupation. Solas separates the personal dislike from the political necessity. Of course the Teryn could not keep the elves of Ferelden armed; he could not risked an armed and organized minority clamoring for land just after they had waged and won one foreign war. Factionalism is so easy to fall into; Solas knows this from experience. That does not excuse it, but one does what must be done. He has done similar and worse. He would have left Cailan to die at Ostagar, and the Wardens too—but he would not have been so obvious about it.

Loghain himself looks like a tired but brawny old man, much like himself nowadays. Blue rings his eyes, but he is clean-shaved and his armor is polished. If the darkspawn in his blood keeps him up at night, he does not let it taint his day. He still survives.

Why does he notice him? Why did he notice him on the battlefield? Solas is too old for flattery. What does he want from him?

Solas says, “Thank you. You as well.” Inveterate loser, he thinks. He does not know if he is insulting him or Loghain: both, this is your human kin, the Fade will press him into your archetype.

Loghain says, “I’ve fought with apostates before, when we faced down the Archdemon—Dalish and human too. But I’d never seen any mage move that quickly, or so competently bark orders at frozen soldier in the field. Have you served before? Ferelden, Tevinter, or Orlais?”

Solas, as practiced, recites, “I’ve journeyed deep into the Fade, in ancient ruins and battlefields, where I’ve watched as hosts of spirits clash to reenact the bloody past in ancient wars both famous and forgotten.” He smiles thinly. “One learns from their mistakes.” Yours and mine, he thinks and cannot say: I would have done what you did at Ostagar, but I would have made sure I was not blamed. So quickly one’s allies misunderstand the good one attempts to have wrought; so quickly it spirals out of one’s own control.

Loghain stares at him. “You dream on battlefields? And can see what had happened there?”

“I can watch spirits copy the strongest emotions felt there,” Solas corrects. “There is truth but she wears many faces.” Obfuscation via weak poeticism works so very well, though it marks him as more polished than most elves. “In the same blood-drenched patch of dirty a spirit acts and reenacts a soldier throwing himself to the ground in anguish as he sees his king overpowered. And then, in the same blink, another plays the role of the relieved foot soldier, glad to be spared a fatal charge in a battle of fools.” Perhaps bringing up Ostagar is not the most tactful, but he struggles to know the average quickling’s reference-point. His knowledge of history is vast, and time has slowed to a crawl. He does not know what else to reference.

Loghain presses his thin lips into an even thinner line. “Ostagar,” he says. “And before I’ve had my breakfast. Did you go there deliberately, or just…fall asleep?”

“I was in the neighborhood,” Solas says simply. It is not an untruth. He had found Flemeth’s cottage first. The dreams came easy. “Battles that change the tide of history mark the Fade as much they do the waking world. It is difficult to dream anything else, north of the Korcari Wilds.”

Loghain stares into his eyes. Solas, of course, peers back. The man’s eyes are a clear, cold blue, more brilliant for the bruises under them. The former regent of Ferelden says levelly, “When I dream, all I remember is a fool’s death and a hard choice. And I’d make the same again.”

“As you should,” Solas says. “There is no time for regret. You have lived your life according to the demands of your honor: for your countrymen, and now, your fellow Wardens. If you regretted that choice—if you sought to deny it, to fruitlessly work against the tide of the history you have made, that would be dishonorable. But you are an honorable man, are you not?” He realizes he is perhaps speaking more passionately than he ought. This is not Blackwall, an easy mirror to his own sins. He must remember what he is in the world: an elf, an apostate, a dirty outsider—no matter that he keeps himself cleaner than Cassandra. Repressively, he says, “Forgive me. Adamant stirs up old memories in us all. I am marked by what I witnessed as well.”

Loghain says, “You know war. Of course, most of your people do. The Warden has told me what the elves face in Orlais and Tevinter. It’s not much better in Ferelden.” Solas stirs, irritated, wanting to deny—but he is an elf, he is stuck in these circumstances, and he does know war intimately. He could not help but speak first. He cannot snap back. Loghain may be held in dishonor; that does not mean an elf can talk back. “Your friends have spent the past two nights in the tavern, drinking, and when that lugubrious warden isn’t weeping into his ale, he’s drilling the recruits to exhaustion. At least that will make them sleep at night. But that won’t do away with the dreams.” He smiles thinly. “I find your description of the Fade comforting. It means no one can lie about the past. Whatever it is. It’s always with us. It’s in our bones and our blood and sinks into our dreams. We wear it on our skin, and even the heavens are scarred with it. However history writes us.”

“To the victor the spoils,” Solas says.

Loghain burbles a laugh. It’s a pleasant sound, unexpected and a little hoarse. “Ha! And it’s my daughter who won. And right now—the Inquisition. The Wardens. Us. It’s easy to die for your cause. I could have claimed my redemption, if I need one, at Adamant. But it’s much harder to live for it, bearing the weight of the dead.”

Solas, surprised, says, “Yes.” He thinks, this is a lonely man, opening his deepest thoughts to a stranger, but aren’t I the same? Haven’t I been doing the same, with him, with Blackwall, with the Iron Bull and Varric and Cassandra and them all? He did not need the death of Wisdom as an excuse. He has found comradeship enough where he goes. He clears his throat, suddenly overcome. He thinks it through: I am upset, why? What has disturbed me? That this man carries his sins on his skin, and rejects the need for redemption. History has painted him the villain; I, also. Dread Wolf take you: what will they say about Loghain?

Loghain says, “It’s early in the day for this talk. I must be keeping you from your work.” The moment has passed; now they are awkward with each other, and not two soldiers who are harrowing a war. The man’s drawing into himself, embarrassed at the truth he told. Disappointed, Solas draws up to his full height and remembers: don’t hold yourself too tall.

He says, “Quite,” and holds up the pouch of royal elfroot. “Duty calls.” The Inquisitor’s hand is hurting and needs a salve. The quartermaster needs to order him cinnabar. Then there is the composition of the fresco to calculate and then sketch with charcoal, and more calculations, and sidestepping Leliana and Vivienne as to how he made those calculations. He saw it in the Fade. When he saw it, the Fade was everything, and there was no bleary waking. He leaves the courtyard and the almost-king, remembering and forgetting his words.

#dragon age #dragon age fanfiction #dragon age fanfic #dai #solas #loghain #character study #solas & loghain #elan ve'mal #leliana #adamant #ptsd #survivor's guilt

[larinah]

August 20th, 19—. I HAVE HAD what I believe to be the most remarkable day in my life, and while the events are still fresh in my mind, I wish to put them down on paper as clearly as possible.           Let me say at the outset that my name is James Clarence Withencroft.           I am forty years old, in perfect health, never having known a day’s illness.           By profession I am an artist, not a very successful one, but I earn enough money by my black-and-white work to satisfy my necessary wants.           My only near relative, a sister, died five years ago, so that I am independent.           I breakfasted this morning at nine, and after glancing through the morning paper I lighted my pipe and proceeded to let my mind wander in the hope that I might chance upon some subject for my pencil.           The room, though door and windows were open, was oppressively hot, and I had just made up my mind that the coolest and most comfortable place in the neighbourhood would be the deep end of the public swimming bath, when the idea came.           I began to draw. So intent was I on my work that I left my lunch untouched, only stopping work when the clock of St. Jude’s struck four.           The final result, for a hurried sketch, was, I felt sure, the best thing I had done.    

      It showed a criminal in the dock immediately after the judge had pronounced sentence. The man was fat—enormously fat. The flesh hung in rolls about his chin; it creased his huge, stumpy neck. He was clean shaven (perhaps I should say a few days before he must have been clean shaven) and almost bald. He stood in the dock, his short, clumsy fingers clasping the rail, looking straight in front of him. The feeling that his expression conveyed was not so much one of horror as of utter, absolute collapse.     

There seemed nothing in the man strong enough to sustain that mountain of flesh.

       I rolled up the sketch, and without quite knowing why, placed it in my pocket. Then with the rare sense of happiness which the knowledge of a good thing well done gives, I left the house.

       I believe that I set out with the idea of calling upon Trenton, for I remember walking along Lytton Street and turning to the right along Gilchrist Road at the bottom of the hill where the men were at work on the new tram lines.

       From there onwards I have only the vaguest recollection of where I went. The one thing of which I was fully conscious was the awful heat, that came up from the dusty asphalt pavement as an almost palpable wave. I longed for the thunder promised by the great banks of copper-coloured cloud that hung low over the western sky.

       I must have walked five or six miles, when a small boy roused me from my reverie by asking the time.

       It was twenty minutes to seven.

       When he left me I began to take stock of my bearings. I found myself standing before a gate that led into a yard bordered by a strip of thirsty earth, where there were flowers, purple stock and scarlet geranium. Above the entrance was a board with the inscription—

CHAS. ATKINSON MONUMENTAL MASON WORKER IN ENGLISH AND ITALIAN MARBLES

       From the yard itself came a cheery whistle, the noise of hammer blows, and the cold sound of steel meeting stone.        A sudden impulse made me enter.        A man was sitting with his back towards me, busy at work on a slab of curiously veined marble. He turned round as he heard my steps and I stopped short.        It was the man I had been drawing, whose portrait lay in my pocket.        He sat there, huge and elephantine, the sweat pouring from his scalp, which he wiped with a red silk handkerchief. But though the face was the same, the expression was absolutely different.        He greeted me smiling, as if we were old friends, and shook my hand.        I apologised for my intrusion.        “Everything is hot and glary outside,” I said. “This seems an oasis in the wilderness.”        “I don’t know about the oasis,” he replied, “but it certainly’s hot, as hot as hell. Take a seat, sir!”        He pointed to the end of the gravestone on which he was at work, and I sat down.        “That’s a beautiful piece of stone you’ve got hold of,” I said.        He shook his head. “In a way it is,” he answered; “the surface here is as fine as anything you could wish, but there’s a big flaw at the back, though I don’t expect you’d ever notice it. I could never make really a good job of a bit of marble like that. It would be all right in the summer like this; it wouldn’t mind the blasted heat. But wait till the winter comes. There’s nothing quite like frost to find out the weak points in stone.”        “Then what’s it for?” I asked.        The man burst out laughing.        “You’d hardly believe me if I was to tell you it’s for an exhibition, but it’s the truth. Artists have exhibitions: so do grocers and butchers; we have them too. All the latest little things in headstones, you know.”        He went on to talk of marbles, which sort best withstood wind and rain, and which were easiest to work; then of his garden and a new sort of carnation he had bought. At the end of every other minute he would drop his tools, wipe his shining head, and curse the heat.        I said little, for I felt uneasy. There was something unnatural, uncanny, in meeting this man.        I tried at first to persuade myself that I had seen him before, that his face, unknown to me, had found a place in some out-of-the-way corner of my memory, but I knew that I was practising little more than a plausible piece of self-deception.        Mr. Atkinson finished his work, spat on the ground, and got up with a sigh of relief.        “There! what do you think of that?” he said, with an air of evident pride.        The inscription which I read for the first time was this—

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF JAMES CLARENCE WITHENCROFT BORN JAN. 18TH, 1860 HE PASSED AWAY VERY SUDDENLY ON AUGUST 20TH, 19— “In the midst of life we are in death.”

FOR SOME TIME I sat in silence. Then a cold shudder ran down my spine. I asked him where he had seen the name.        “Oh, I didn’t see it anywhere,” replied Mr. Atkinson. “I wanted some name, and I put down the first that came into my head. Why do you want to know?”        “It’s a strange coincidence, but it happens to be mine.”        He gave a long, low whistle.        “And the dates?”        “I can only answer for one of them, and that’s correct.”        “It’s a rum go!” he said.        But he knew less than I did. I told him of my morning’s work. I took the sketch from my pocket and showed it to him. As he looked, the expression of his face altered until it became more and more like that of the man I had drawn.        “And it was only the day before yesterday,” he said, “that I told Maria there were no such things as ghosts!”        Neither of us had seen a ghost, but I knew what he meant.        “You probably heard my name,” I said.        “And you must have seen me somewhere and have forgotten it! Were you at Clacton-on-Sea last July?”        I had never been to Clacton in my life. We were silent for some time. We were both looking at the same thing, the two dates on the gravestone, and one was right.        “Come inside and have some supper,” said Mr. Atkinson.        His wife is a cheerful little woman, with the flaky red cheeks of the country-bred. Her husband introduced me as a friend of his who was an artist. The result was unfortunate, for after the sardines and watercress had been removed, she brought out a Doré Bible, and I had to sit and express my admiration for nearly half an hour.        I went outside, and found Atkinson sitting on the gravestone smoking.        We resumed the conversation at the point we had left off.        “You must excuse my asking,” I said, “but do you know of anything you’ve done for which you could be put on trial?”        He shook his head.        “I’m not a bankrupt, the business is prosperous enough. Three years ago I gave turkeys to some of the guardians at Christmas, but that’s all I can think of. And they were small ones, too,” he added as an afterthought.        He got up, fetched a can from the porch, and began to water the flowers. “Twice a day regular in the hot weather,” he said, “and then the heat sometimes gets the better of the delicate ones. And ferns, good Lord! they could never stand it. Where do you live?”        I told him my address. It would take an hour’s quick walk to get back home.        “It’s like this,” he said. “We’ll look at the matter straight. If you go back home tonight, you take your chance of accidents. A cart may run over you, and there’s always banana skins and orange peel, to say nothing of fallen ladders.”        He spoke of the improbable with an intense seriousness that would have been laughable six hours before. But I did not laugh.        “The best thing we can do,” he continued, “is for you to stay here till twelve o’clock. We’ll go upstairs and smoke; it may be cooler inside.”        To my surprise I agreed.

WE ARE SITTING now in a long, low room beneath the eaves. Atkinson has sent his wife to bed. He himself is busy sharpening some tools at a little oilstone, smoking one of my cigars the while.        The air seems charged with thunder. I am writing this at a shaky table before the open window. The leg is cracked, and Atkinson, who seems a handy man with his tools, is going to mend it as soon as he has finished putting an edge on his chisel.        It is after eleven now. I shall be gone in less than an hour.        But the heat is stifling.        It is enough to send a man mad.

#william fryer harvey #august heat #august 20 #well i don't know why...it's just that i'm sitting here sweating again in mid august in portland

[scandalsavagefanfic]

2/2 Also I have a question does anyone from Jason's harem have feelings for him, or they all just here for pretty boytoy?

I’m answering part 2 of this question first because I have some ideas for part 1. 

Short answer is, yes. Most of them actually care about him in one way or another. Not people like Lex of course. Slade doesn’t have feelings for Jason but he likes the kid as much as he likes anyone. But the Justice League love him and they’re very protective. The al Ghuls love him. Ra’s has more romantic interest than Talia but they’d both kill someone for hurting him.

And of course a certain Green Lantern gets sucked in, despite his best efforts.

Which brings me to the long answer. Here’s the first of two chapters about how Jason’s harem actually appreciates him for more than just his sexy skills.

PART 1     PART 2     PART 3

Part 4 - Read All Parts on AO3!!!

Words: 2085

Warnings: None

Nothing explicit in this chapter. Just softness. 

_____________________________________________

Kyle racks up a startling number of favors owed in a startlingly short amount of time.

If he’s honest with himself–which he generally tries to avoid on principle; if you can’t lie to yourself, what’s the point?–he might be more interested than he likes to let on. But he assures himself over and over that he’s not doing anything that everyone else isn’t doing. 

Hell, even Hal is hooking up with Jason. 

Though… Kyle doesn’t think Jason is purposefully trying to give Wayne a heart attack, he’s just doing what he needs and wants to do. But Kyle is positive Hal is definitely fucking with Batman as much as he fucking Jason. Kyle would bet his tiny apartment on the fact that at least 25% of the attraction for his predecessor is sticking it to the Bat.

Alright… maybe Jason does get a little joy out of Wayne’s discomfort.

That said, no matter what he tells himself, Kyle is all too aware of the fact that Jason gets something out of every rendezvous.

Except the ones with him.

They both know the favors were just an excuse, even if neither of them would admit it. 

It takes months before Jason finally starts calling them in. And when he does it’s in small ways. 

Requests for backup are expected when they come. 

But then Jason uses one to ask Kyle to pick up take out from Jason’s favorite hole in the wall in Hong Kong “on his way over”.

He uses another just to get to see Oa–the Guardians were not thrilled to have a “tourist”–and Kyle found it was actually enjoyable showing Jason around. He was amused and a pleasantly surprised when Jason hit it off easily with Kilowag. Far less surprised (and far less amusing) when they visited Guy and Arkillo and it was like the three of them had known each other for years.

Of all the little things Jason uses his favors for, Kyle’s favorites are the massages. They almost always lead to more and it hasn’t escaped Kyle’s attention that when they do, Jason doesn’t count it.

Even when it doesn’t lead to a round of increasingly… affectionate sex, he still gets to work pleasantly scented oil into the astounding number of giant knots plaguing the rippling muscle under Jason’s warm, scarred skin.

Both scenarios usually end the same way too. With Jason dozing off and snuggling close as Kyle uses his ring to get the lights.

He’s reasonably certain that none of Jason’s other arrangements get to stay the night.

They’re both intelligent, capable men. They know what this is. What it’s become. What it could morph into.

But Kyle’s too stubborn to voice it and Jason is too, even if he wasn’t cripplingly insecure about shit like this. 

Still, it hadn’t really hit him how bad he has it until now. Until he slowly crawled out of bed, careful not to wake the other man, showered, and exits the bathroom to what he can only describe as an ethereal view.

Jason is laying on his front, arms tucked under the pillow, breathing slowly and evenly. His mouth is slightly opened, a small dark spot on the pillowcase where he’s drooled a little. The sunlight pours into the room between the opened slats of the blinds. One band illuminates the mop of wild black curls, making the thinner edges glow golden like a halo. Several more stretch across the width of his broad shoulders, his rib-cage, his tapered waist. The soft cotton sheet has slid low, sitting atop the perfectly rounded rise of Jason’s butt, the sea-green edge perfectly angled with the blade of light. The last one shines warm and orange over his toes, peeking out from under the soft cotton sheet.

Sketching is like breathing to Kyle. He’ll doodle on napkins or receipts, anything with a little space, of anything with a little beauty. 

He doesn’t pay much attention to the paper he swipes from Jason’s open file folder. Just enough to note that there was nothing on the back. 

That’s how he finds himself drawing Jason while he sleeps. Painstakingly smoothing over the line for the arch of Jason’s spine, the curve of his ass. Lovingly capturing the shape of his lips, the thick, dark fan of his eyelashes. 

It’s while he carefully adds every scar from memory that Kyle realizes just how deep he’s gone. 

His hand goes still and he glances up to Jason’s face with the surprise of the sudden understanding. 

Then he jumps so hard he drags the pencil through the drawing. 

Jason is laying there awake, bright eyes watching but otherwise still as he was when Kyle started.

“Jesus,” Kyle hisses, trying to collect himself. “Scared me half to death. How long have you been awake?”

Not very long if the soft, groggy smile Jason gives him is any indication.

“Just a couple of minutes,” Jason answers, voice husky from sleep (and the way Kyle made him scream last night). 

Kyle cringes internally. A couple of minutes is a long freaking time to not notice. 

“You had your focused face on,” Jason continues, shifting a little to stretch like a cat. “I didn’t want to bother you.”

“My what now?”

Jason turns onto his side, clearly in no rush to get out of bed, and smirks at him.

“When you’re really into what you’re doing, your brow pinches and you either chew your lip or, honest to god, stick your tongue out. It’s cute.”

Kyle scowls. “Puppies are cute. I’m a badass, space cop.”

With a snort, Jason sits up against the headboard and runs his fingers through his hair. “Whatever you say, officer.”

And fuck if that doesn’t give Kyle all kinds of ideas.

“What were you doing?” Jason asks, attention trained down at the book Kyle was using as a hard surface.

“Uh… nothing.” He tries to think of how he can hide it from the other man. Even to an untrained eye, the emotion in it is obvious. And Jason knows a surprising amount about art. Kyle would much rather never become more than this than risk losing what they have.

Jason’s smirk turns mischievous and there���s an amused glint in his eyes. “Drawing me like one of your French girls?" 

The little huff of laughter Kyle manages does nothing to hide the rapid shot of color to his cheeks. His "no” is weak and unconvincing. 

“Well, come on, Rayner. Let me see?”

Kyle’s breath freezes in his chest and he hesitates, clutching the sheet of cheep printer paper closer to him.

“Dude, I’m sure it’s not that bad,” Jason taunts.

It’s not bad at all. That’s the problem.

It might be the best thing Kyle’s ever drawn.

He swallows hard and braces himself. Then gets up and sits on the edge of the bed as he hands it over. 

Watching the smile slip from Jason’s face feels like getting punched in the gut. 

It’s over now. Kyle got too serious. The Pit left Jason with something he can’t fully control and he doesn’t want or need a partner. It doesn’t matter that Kyle would understand that Jason would still have to… do what he does. It doesn’t matter because the last thing Jason needs is some useless serious relationship cramping his style.

“Is… is this supposed to be me?" 

The question surprises Kyle. Because it’s painfully obvious that the portrait is of Jason, down to the almost unnoticeable freckles across his nose and cheekbones. And the question is asked so timidly as Jason stares down at the sheet with wide eyes. Not an ounce of recognition. 

"I couldn’t have made it more obviously you if it was a photo,” Kyle says lightly, hoping head off the worst of things.

But Jason stares for long moments, expression confused, until finally he pulls his eyes away to look up at Kyle.

“But I… I don’t look like this.”

Kyle blinks at him. “What? I mean… you don’t have a big, dark pencil line through you but–”

“No… I mean… this is… this is so…” He huffs. “It’s too… pretty. Didn’t really think you were the type to romanticize the subject. Sure you didn’t have Dickface on the mind?”

It’s defensive. Using humor to armor himself. Kyle can practically see the walls going up in Jason’s mind as he tries to rationalize things. As he tries to make what he’s seeing on the paper–what Kyle sees–fit with his own idea of himself. 

Leaning in, Kyle takes Jason’s chin in one hand and pushes the book with the sheet of paper down to Jason’s lap while forcing Jason to look up at him.

“This is you, Jason. Every scar, every freckle, every bruise from last night. Just you. No one else.”

“But…”

“No. It’s beautiful because you’re beautiful,” Kyle says gently. Then he smirks. “And because I’m really talented. But I promise. That’s exactly what you look like.”

“To you maybe,” he grumbles, trying to turn away. 

Kyle tightens his grip and gives a little tug to get Jason meet his eyes again.

“Yes. To me." 

Jason’s eyes widen and he stops breathing. 

"I don’t know what you see when you look in the mirror, Jason, but you’re objectively attractive,” Kyle continues. He looks into those vivid aquamarine irises and where once he would have bristled, felt the urge to challenge and compete, he softens. “And to me… you’re perfect.”

The room is deathly quiet. It seems like neither of them are even breathing. 

Eventually Jason gulps and looks back down at the drawing. 

Kyle glares at the headboard, kicking himself for letting things get this far; for having to come clean about his feelings; for putting Jason (and himself) in this awkward position. For letting their friends-with-benefits agreement slide into murkier waters. A lifetime ago, when he did have a stupid, ill-advised, youthful crush on Batman, he promised himself he’d never actually fall for any Bat. They were all bad news in one way or another.

So of course it’d be the asshole black sheep of the family, the biggest bad news of the bunch (except for maybe the punk kid who’s Robin now), who he’s going to have to get over.

An indignant noise from below him draws his attention back to Jason. 

Jason who is glaring up at him.

Kyle shrugs and splays his palms open in surrender. “What?”

The drawing gets shoved in his face. Only it’s not the drawing. Its the other side. The side emblazoned with the Coast City Police Department logo.

“You drew on my police report, asshole!”

He searches Jason’s face. The younger man isn’t kicking him out; isn’t telling him off. Hell, Jason isn’t even asking that they just keep things casual. Kyle knows he can be clueless about this kind of stuff (Jason honestly believes Ra’s is only interest in him is the sex) but there was obvious understanding in that gemstone gaze when Kyle spilled his heart.

“Those aren’t supposed to leave the precinct. You shouldn’t even have it,” Kyle retorts. 

Jason rolls his eyes so hard Kyle’s surprised they stay in his head. “No shit dumbass, that’s why I have to sneak it back in!”

Trying–and failing–to stop the smile tugging at his lips, Kyle says “Oh… whoops” and goes to shift back, put a little more space between them. But Jason’s hand snaps out and the next thing he knows he’s flat on his back with Jason towering over him, those fucking thighs straddling his hips

“Don’t worry,” Jason practically purrs, “you can make it up to me.”

“Oh no. What a great inconvenience,” Kyle smirks as Jason leans close.

The kiss is softer than usual. Less desperate; less demanding; less competitive. 

“And then?” He whispers it against Jason’s lips when they part to get some air. He can’t help it. He has to know.

Jason hums and mouths at the pulse point in Kyle’s throat.

“And then I’ll be hungry so you can take me to breakfast.”

He swallows hard against that talented tongue and the pointed roll of Jason’s hips against his groin.

“A favor?” he asks, hardly daring to hope.

Jason kisses his mouth again before answering, cheeks bright red and eyes averted. “A date… if you want.”

Kyle threads his fingers into the curls that stick up every which way and when he pulls Jason into the next kiss, it’s got all the desperation of the ones before and then some.

“I want.”

#Jason Todd #Kyle Rayner #JayKyle #jason/justice league #I have to find a better tag for this stuff #fluffy #Anonymous

[sicklyscribe]

(I thought I wanted this scene to be with Cami or Hayley, but I couldn’t find a place where it might fit during the episodes where it would have been appropriate. It’s better this way, I think, with Klaus -- it only ever should have been with Klaus. Set during the interim between “I Love You, Goodbye” (the wedding) and “They All Asked for You”)

Elijah thought he had been careful. Niklaus’ ears really were that much more keen, just keen enough to hear the rustle of leather and paper and shoes on a library carpet. 

His brother was framed in the light of the hallway, suddenly, and just as quickly as his feet had carried him, his brow quirked at a supernatural speed to see him standing there, parchment in hand. 

Klaus made to speak, but something stopped his mouth. Elijah could not move, could not breathe, in the scramble to find some excuse that would not require an ounce of the truth. 

“I wanted to show Marcel a -- the -- that text, about...” 

Klaus took several steps forward as Elijah spoke, slowly, somewhere between stalking and soothing in his gait. “About...?” 

His brother’s eyes scanned the table, the animal skins near to dust in age and the careful archival binding he himself had compelled an expert to perform. These were not texts. These were not for Marcel. Elijah watched the confusion bloom in Klaus’ face and felt as though the weakness he felt, heavy and ugly and tight, was filling the room and choking his vestigial breath. 

“What could Marcel possibly want with...” Klaus reached and brushed his fingers over the air atop a drawing of Rebekah, young and smiling and small and human. “With any of this?” 

Klaus looked back up to Elijah, and realized there was anguish in his eyes. “Elijah?” 

Elijah smoothed his hair and smoothed his slacks. Smoothed his hair again. “I know -- I know you drew her. Often. And I wanted... I didn’t want to ask. I couldn’t. Ask you.” 

Klaus saw faces of his family on the table, and knew that the pages beneath would hold sketches of brooks and livestock and neighbors and not a single one would depict a woman with wild brown hair, and fire-brown eyes, and a mouth that cut and kissed like no other. He nearly fell into the chair beside him, staring over Elijah’s shoulder at memories he had not wanted to archive. 

He did not want to speak. He did not want to give this ancient grief a voice. But Klaus knew it was not so ancient now, for either of them. “I burnt them.” 

Elijah’s jaw fought not to tremble. “Why?” 

“Every time I looked at them, all I could see was the fear in her eyes on that last day, when she saw... And you...” Klaus swallowed the rest, revising the well-trod events with what must have really happened. 

The room filled with a breathy sob. “I thought after the binding ritual, she would see that I was still myself. It was --” a bitter smile cracked between his words -- “it was the first thing I was going to do when it was over.” 

Elijah slid to the floor, and neither of them could see the other’s face, and neither wanted to. “I’m so sorry, Niklaus.” 

“I know.” 

Paper rustled on the table, and Elijah kept his eyes on the space beneath the table for what could have been minutes or hours watching Klaus’ foot as it tapped restlessly against the floor. Rebekah had gotten him those pajamas for Christmas. Elijah had helped chain Klaus’ hands and feet to that cross and watched while he was cursed using the blood of the girl they both loved. Would Esther have been able to do it without killing Tatia? If Elijah hadn’t brought her to his mother, would Klaus have never been shackled? Would he have been able to keep them both safe -- 

“Brother -- Elijah, Elijah!” Klaus was before him, blurry and unformed against the lens of tears that would not, could not stop now for the world. “Brother...” Klaus’ hand was trembling beside his face, half-clawed, and Elijah sensed it more than saw it and in the same instinctual way he gripped his brother’s wrist so that he could feel that Klaus was still alive, in a way, and with him, in a way, and free. 

Klaus’ other hand fell to his shoulder, gripped it tight and pulled Elijah forward as he leaned in to not so much offer as demand his shoulder be used as a pillow. Only then did a tear or two escape from him as well. 

“I’m a coward,” Elijah whispered into Klaus’ shirt. “You cannot possibly forgive this.” 

Klaus sighed and swallowed against his sadness and his total, yawning helplessness in the so-foreign situation where Elijah needed comforting that only he could provide. “But I do. You do. I mean -- I might not be able to forgive it, except.” 

“Family?” Elijah scoffed. “You have begrudged me far more for far less, brother.” 

“You’ve forgiven far more from me when I was far further from any kind of deserving, brother. And you are. Deserving.” He squeezed the shoulder he still gripped, rough and real and he hoped it would do something to ground him. “Coward or no.” 

Elijah pulled back from their embrace, eyes red and cheeks wet and totally disbelieving. “I’m so sorry.” 

“Christ, Elijah, I know it. I can’t say,” his voice fell to a whisper, “that I would not have done the same.” 

Both of them knew the omitted confession there, the acknowledgement that Klaus had nearly done the same, after killing their mother. But Elijah felt more rage now in the fact that she had not stayed dead, and could not muster that familiar judgement for Niklaus now. 

Klaus leaned back on his heels and stood, holding out a hand to help his brother up. Elijah sniffled. He wiped his face with a kerchief quickly (vampirically quickly) before taking the offered hand. 

A baby wailed three stories above their heads, but both were attuned to the sound by now and no brick or mortar in this home could stop them noticing. “’S my turn,” Klaus said awkwardly, proudly, and Elijah relaxed into the wonder at his brother being a father to such a precious, tiny, new, beautiful girl. This feeling was True North to him now. 

Klaus licked his lips, scanned the floor and the ceiling. 

“Don’t keep my niece waiting,” Elijah found himself smiling with another unavoidable sniffle. “I’ll clean up the mess I’ve made.” 

Klaus nodded, and there was something to it that was strange and knowing, but he was gone as quickly as he came. Elijah turned to the mausoleum of humanity on display before him.

On the desk, a yellow legal pad laid amongst the art from a millennium ago. A woman’s face was sketched in blue pen, smiling over her shoulder. Flower petals in her unruly hair. Eyes that were too enchanting, even in a portrait, to be believed as real. Elijah had seen that same face several times since, but it was never the same. The women who later wore that magic-steeped smile had never wielded it quite the way that Tatia had; the doppelgänger descendants that had been born from her ornery, observant babe. Klaus’s pen knew the difference. 

Elijah traced his fingers over the lines, stopping when he realized that the deeper shadows had not yet dried. Hope’s crying had calmed now, and Elijah longed to kiss her goodnight, but he knew when he had decided to leave the compound that he would miss these precious moments with his niece. And he did not know how to thank Niklaus for this. 

When the ink set, Elijah folded the unmarked edges back so not to crease her face. He grabbed a book from the other side of the library -- some poetry that Rebekah loved and Klaus loathed -- and pressed the drawing between the pages to keep it safe before tucking the sonnets into his suit pocket and stealing out into the bright New Orleans night. 

#klatia #talijah #klelijah #the original bae #i was really in my f*cking feels you guys #my writing #NO EDITING WE DIE LIKE MIKAELSONS: REPEATEDLY AND WITH NO SHAME

[alexthepartyman]

Fine Line

Chapter Two: Hold it, focus.

“I was teaching an in-serivce at the Baltimore field office when this came in,” Derek tells us as we walk through the house. “Baltimore PD’s seen some pretty grisly stuff, but never anything like this. We got two bodies ID’d as William and Helen DiMarco.” I look around, the house seems very antiqued. “Retired, lived here for thirty-seven years, no kids.Neighbourhood reports a white male, twenty to forty years old, fleeing the scene, and I quote, hopped up on those damn drugs.” 

“Eyewitness accounts are notoriously unreliable.” 

“So far, it sounds like a standard double homicide. Why are we here?” Aaron asks as we walk up the stairs and into the master bedroom. I note the blood smeared on the walls. 

“Massive overkill.”

“You don’t say.” 

“Helen DiMarco was found here, tied to the chair in front of the vanity. No defensive wounds. Ligature marks around the wrists, one clean lacertation from ear to ear.” 

“She was either too weak or she knew she wouldn’t make it,” I comment. “But that is a weird amount of overkill.” 

“Looks arterial. Probably the carotid,” Elle says. “At least she went quickly.” 

“The husband, William, was found in the shower. But he wasn’t quite as lucky.” I look into the bathroom, noticing the shower floor covered in blood, dried blood splattered on the glass sides and door. Yikes, it looks like the aftermath of the shower scene from Psycho. This amount of blood outside of a human body makes me nervous. “Ligature marks on the wrists and ankles and one long laceration up the abdomen through both layers of muscle.” 

“Evisceration - that’s typical of disorganised behaviour.”

“Despite all the blood, this crime scene shows method, order, control. I’d say it’s pretty organised.”

“There was also evidence of torture with the husband. Burns, contusions, lacerations. You name it, this guy tried it.”

“If torture is the unsub’s signature, the methodology is usually unique. A person who burns someone usually doesn’t use a knife.” 

“So maybe he have more than one killer, or we have one killer with more than one personality,” Aaron says. 

“We also have three victims. Blood on the vanity, wife’s body was found there, husband was in the shower. From the looks of the level of the ring in this tub, whoever was in it lost thier entire blood volume.” 

“I’d say that about all of the victims,” I add, peering into the bathtub. 

“Approximately ten point six pints.” 

“Which means the victim was dismembered.”

“Pints?” I ask. 

“It looks like our guy took all the parts with him.” 

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Okay, so I’ve got Helen DiMarco tied to the chair,” Derek says. “He probably killed her first.”

“To prove to the others that he had no mercy. Psychological torture before the physical pain.”

“Only there was no satisfaction from her death.”

“The death was too quick. Arterial, jugular, trachea, she died within seconds, especially with a cut like that.” I answer. 

“The husband...with him, he took his time. There doesn’t seem to be any wasted effort, no hesitation on the unsub’s part. I mean, Gideon, look around. What he did...it’s a lot of work. We’re either dealing with a professional or -”

“A pure psychopath.” Uncle Jason stares blankly at the bloody shower. “Nothing more we can do here until the third victim turns up. I’m guessing there’s a connection to him.” 

“He doesn’t want that victim identified.” 

“Have Garcia go through open files in Maryland, see if any of the involve this level of torture.”

“Got it.” 

“Have her check the surrounding states as well. If...the guy’s a pro, why do jobs only close to home?”

“How far back do you want her to go?”

“At least ten years. Guy’s no rookie,” Uncle Jason answers, walking out of the bathroom. 

“Where is he going?” I ask.

“I don’t know, kid, but you should stick around here.” 

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Third victim was positively ID’d as a low-level mob guy,” Derek reports. “Frederick “Freddy” Condore. He was the nephew of the older couple. Body parts were found in seven different trash cans two blocks from the crime scene.”

“Were they able to completely reassemble the body?” Spencer asks. 

“Killer didn’t keep any trophies.” 

“Is there any evidence he got off?”

“No.”

“Garcia has a number of unxolved murders in DC, Virginia, and Maryland over the past fifteen years. Many of them have ties to organised crime, all different MOs.” 

“What’s the connection?” Elle asks. 

“Torture. Marks on the ones are consistent with the same cutting tool.” 

“Tortured victims, most tied to organised crime...no signs of sexal sadism.” 

“Hitman,” I answer. 

“Excuse me?”

“You’re looking for a hitman.” 

“No, a hitman doesn’t need to torture to get the job done.”

“Two things - Baltimore just forwarded a sketch of the man running from the scene, and uh, you’ve got some agents out there who think you’re poaching on their turf,” JJ cuts in, hanging Jason a sketch. 

“I’ll handle it.”

“Doesn’t federal trump over local?” I ask, looking up from my book again. 

“Come on, we’ll set you up in my office,” JJ offers, grabbing my backpack.

“Why?”

“Because you’re gettin distracted from your school work, and Aaron said you can’t be here if you can’t get your work done.” 

“JJ, I can do my work, I promise,” I tell her. Kids don’t steal my assignments and cheat off of me for nothing, you know. 

“So, we just going to drop it?” Derek asks as Jason comes back and approaches the whiteboard. I slip my bookmark in place and put my book away. 

“These guys don’t know what they’re dealing with.”

“Our unsub is male, intelligent, organised, and methodical. He has the confidence of a man who’s been killing for a long time. Only victim removed from the scene is Freddy Condore, indicating some tie to him. Elle, you and Reid stay on Condore’s background with Garcia. Dig deep, see what turns up.”

“Condore worked as a supervisor at a scrap metal yard in Baltimore. It’s owned by a guy named Michael Russo, boss of a small mob crew. I’m gonna grab Hotch and go check him out. Jamie.” I nod and throw my bag over my shoulder, jumping from my chair. 

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Michael Russo?” Aaron asks. “Agents Hotchner and Morgan, FBI. This is our intern, Rossi.” 

“What do you want?” Michael asks.

“Freddy Condore.”

“He didn’t show up for work today. He didn’t call, nothing.” Well...you can’t exactly make a phone call when your body is divided between seven trash cans. 

“Probably because he, his aunt, and his uncle were murdered last night,” I state. 

“Really? Too bad.”

“Yeah.”

“I can tell you’re all busted up about it.”

“Look, I don’t speak smart-ass, so you got something to say to me…”

“It was a professional hit. Either you’re in charge of your business or you’re not.” 

“What kind of business do you think I’m in, huh? Look around. I’m in scrap metal. It’s all about recycling. That’s where the money is, my friend. Saving the earth.”

“You’ve got a big problem. You know, the mob isn’t what it used to be.”

“Ain’t easy always fighting for respect, is it?” Derek steps closer to Michael. “You always gotta fight for what’s yours. One of your boys steps out of line, tsk, tsk, tsk. You hit him hard, you make it count, right? Is that what happened to Freddy?” The man chuckles.

:Look. You got a case to make, run along, get your papers, and come back with the bracelets. Otherwise, I got a business to run.” The two men walk away from us.

“They don’t dress scrap metal,” I retort.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Derek kicks the door in, and he and Aaron storm in, guns pointed. “CLEAR!” Aaron yells. 

“Copy that.” 

“It’s clear here.” 

Aaron and Derek holster their weapons. “Morgan, this is weird. There’s nothing here.” I step into the room and look around, finding a barren home. “It’s like nobody lives here...guess he wasn’t expecting company.” 

“Something’s wrong?” 

“Yeah, I know.”

“Look at this place. It’s an artifical dwelling...to match an artifical past.” We start searching through everything, and I hear Derek tapping on a wall, before a loud thud. 

“Derek, what the - what the fuck? Why did you punch that?” I ask, peering up from the other side of the oven. 

“Hotch!”

“Yeah?” 

“We got a hot weapon. Jamie, get back.” Derek gently pushes me away as Aaron approaches us. He pulls out a towel and sets it on the stove, unwrapping it to reveal a gun and a cartridge. “Oh, no.” 

“What? What is that?” I ask.

“It’s a Glock nineteen. And this round is standard law enforcement issue.”

“So you’re saying Baker’s an undercover cop.”

“I’m saying I did eighteen months deep cover, and this place has got all the makings of a crash pad.”

“That does make a lot of sense. You can tell a lot about a person by how they decorate their house and if you just have nothing...then they can’t figure you out.” 

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“What the hell is wrong with you people?” A guy with a yellow tie bursts in, slamming the door behind him, I can hear him over my music.

“Sorry?”

“I told you, this is my case!” 

“Alright, first of all, don’t shout at me,” Aaron says, rising to his feet behind his desk. I sneakily pause my screamington playlist so I can hear this whole thing. “And secondly, you don’t decide what cases the BAU works on.”

“You ran my agent’s gun through IBIS?” I look out of my periphreal and see Uncle Jason standing outside the office door with files in his hands. 

“Cause I wanted to know who he worked for, and now that I do, I’d like to talk to him.” 

“You don’t have him.”

“No. You don’t know where he is?”

“He’s missing,” the man says, sitting down by me and sniffling. Uncle Jason opens the door and lets himself in, closing it afterwards. 

“How long?”

“Twelve hours.” 

“Before or after the murders?” I look back to my book, scanning the words to pick up where I was.

“You think Jimmy’s a suspect?” 

“Well, there’s a sketch of someone who looks an awful lot like him leaving the scene.” 

“That’s because he was there. After. Look, he ran into a couple of Baltimore detectives, and they made him while he was with Condore. Now, Jimmy tried to play it off, but he didn’t think that Condore had bought it, so he wanted to  go back and talk to him. When he saw what was left of the DiMarcos, he called us for a pickup. We showed up. He didn’t.” 

“You think he ran?” Aaron asks.

“No. Jimmy’s too experienced to run without contact.” Contact, contact, contact, con...con...con-tact. No, that can’t be it. Con-ca...that sounds even worse. “If he’s not calling in, then someone’s keeping him from doing it.” 

“Who’s Jimmy Baker’s target?” Uncle Jason asks. 

“Michael Russo. We’ve been after the guy for three years. Jimmy’s been under for almost two.” 

“We talked to Russo yesterday. He seemed genuinely surprised by the murders.”

“And you bought that? Let me tell you a little something about Michael Russo. The guy is a liar, and a good one. If he didn’t do it, then he knows who did. Oh hell, you know what? I’m wasting my time with you. You obviously don’t get it.”

“Agent Cramer, we’re not the enemy. Please sit down,” Jason says, blocking the door. Agent Cramer sits at Aaron’s desk, and Jason joins him. “We;re dealing with a very dangerous killer here...and we need your help. You know these people better than we do.” 

“This guy - if he is what you say he is and he has Jimmy, did he kill him already?”

“We don’t know.”

“I’ll help you in any way that I can. You help me get this man back to his family.” I pull off my headphones and put my book away again, grabbing my bag to go hang out with someone else.

“If it’s any comfort, Agent...I knew he was lying. They didn’t dress scrap metal,” I say, before walking out of the office.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“You’re gonna need a bigger board,” Penelope says, bringing in a cardboard box. 

“Please tell me you brought some breakfast.”

“Huh. Trust me, sugar, you’re not going to want to eat when you see what’s in here. What is Jamie still doing here, I thought he had school?” Penelope asks, turning to me.

“Two day weeks for the rest of the month. Doctor wants me to take things slowly,” I answer. 

“This place is not slow, Jamie. You should be staying home with your dad.”

“He thinks it’s good that I get out. As long as I’m with one of you guys, I’m fine.” 

“How many more are there?” Derek asks Penelope. 

“Well, I’ve gone back fifteen years, and there’s over a hundred.” 

“A hundred unsolved murders?”

“Yeah, that we know of. And then there’s more coming in.”

“I can help bring in boxes,” I offer.

“Sorry, little noodle. You have to focus on school, and you can’t do any heavy lifting.” I pout at Penelope, who ruffles my mop of hair. 

“Torture’s consistent. You know, we thought this guy might have been at it a while, but this many victims, Garcia?” Derek sighs. “John Wayne Gacy killed at least thirty people. This guy’s more than tripled that.”

“Yeah, but this guy gets paid for it. He’s a hit man.”

“No...he’s more than that. Not all these victims were mob hits. You know, my guess is that he started hunting when he was really young...perfected his craft...moved on to bigger prey. Garcia, look at this, there’s no hesitation in the wounds, one clean cut through flesh and bone.” 

“Okay, so what does that tell us?”

“Most people wouldn’t imagine doing something like this to another human being, but this guy, he doesn’t even flinch. He’s got no conscience.” 

“Is that psychopathy or sociopathy?” I ask. 

“Sociopath. We’ve got ourselves a serial killer with the perfect career. Russo has no idea what he’s dealing with. I think we can shake him. Keep looking. Jamie, stay with Penelope and do your work.” He says, ruffling my hair and walking out of the room.

“Do I really get that distracted that easily?” I ask. 

“Yeah, you do.” My phone beeps and I peer at it, finding a text from Cal. “Give the phone. Ooh! A text from a boy!” 

“Penelope!”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Is this gonna work?” Elle asks.

“The beam is reflected off the pane according to the law of optics.” 

“Yeah, the angle of instance is equal to the angle of reflection.”

“Uh-huh. Is it gonna work?”

“Hey, it’s me.”

“We’re gonna find out right now,” I comment.

“I need to see you tonight. I’ll call you from a secure line.”

“Apparently, it does.”

“Hey. Listen, you brought a lot of heat taking down Freddy like that...What - I’m dealing with the feds...Listen, meet me here at the office...they don’t know nothing...I’m dealing with them...stop being paranoid, Vinnie…”

“Bingo.”

“No. Vinnie.”

“Look for either VIncent or Vincenzo. Mob members are usually Italian, so focus on names of Italian origin...and keep it around Baltimore, look for a rap sheet indicating sociopathy to this level,” I ramble. 

“Well, he’s got eleven associates named Vincent,” Spencer says, collecting files. 

“No, make that ten. Vincent Cellito died last summer,” Elle corrects him. “You know, here’s something. What can you tell me about Vincent Sartori?” Elle then gives Penelope a look of surprise. “I was still drinking that.”

“Not only is this equipment expensive, it’s also extremely sensitive.”

“Don’t leave your coffee on the files next time,” I reprimand her. 

“Vincent Sartori.” 

“Currently doing six at Dannemora for racketeering.” 

“How about this Perotta? There’s not much on him.”

“Can you get into those records?” Elle asks Penelope. 

“Despite the fact that they were probably expunged, she can find the faintest echo of deletion and successfully re-create the file, thereby sending us all to prison for computer felony fraud counts.”

“We can make bail. Garcia?”

“Already in. Alcohol addiction at fourteen. Violent outbursts. Assaults. Once threw a molotov cocktail at someone sitting in their car.” 

“That sounds like a party,” I comment, not looking up from my book.

“Several notations for aggression. He once scheduled a visit to an infirmary to gain access to a boy who looked at him for too long?” 

“No hear, no remorse. Quick temper. And he was smart enough to stay off the radar as an adult. Paranoid personality. He could be our guy.” 

“There’s absolutely no information on him as an adult. No driver’s license, no utility bills, nothing. It’s like he became a ghost.” 

“Let’s just hope that they can catch them.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“This was all in his van?”

“Yep. The guy wasn’t exactly neat.” 

“Classic anti-social personality.” 

“What are these tapes?” I ask. 

“I don’t know. Why don’t Reid and Garcia take a look, let us know, alright?”

“Yeah. Movie night. I’ll make popcorn.” 

“I’m gonna join movie night,” I comment. “I’m not innocent, Derek, and I don’t need to tell you how.” 

“You’re twelve.”

“Fourteen. In case you haven’t forgotten, I’m not like the other kids, either.” My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I pull it out to see an image from Jasmine, a drawing of us and our friends. 

“Is that the boy?” Penelope asks.

“No,” I remark, typing back a quick ‘looks awesome!’ before tucking my phone away again.

“A boy?” 

“Derek! It’s not a boy!” 

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“You got that address?”

“In Glen Burnie like you thought.”

“Yes.” 

“It looks like Frank Perotta died in a suspicious hunting accident with Vincent, he was seventeen, it was like, thirty years ago.” 

“My guess is that it was no accident.”

“Well, you said he was looking for bigger prey, and it looks like he found it.” 

“Garcia...you’re my girl. Thank you. Jamie, keep it up, get ready for school. It’s Thursday morning.” Derek kisses her head and then leaves, closing the door to the cave behind him.

“I’m gonna need, like, five energy drinks to get through today,” I groan, throwing my head back and taking a light spin in the chair. 

“What are you even doing on my system?”

“Helping. I heard you say Frank Perotta and I just...did it. I’m gonna head to the bathroom, try to look like I haven’t been awake for the past three days. Gym class first thing in the morning fucking sucks ass.” I tell her, kissing her head and walking out of the cave with my bag on my shoulder. I stop at the glass doors to the bullpen, watching as officers take a man away in handcuffs, before stepping into the bullpen and heading to Derek’s desk, nicking his 3-in-1 from his go bag. 

“Why are you stealing Derek’s...soap?” Elle asks me from her desk. 

“Is he coming yet?” I ask.

“He’ll be a few minutes. What are you doing?”

“I was going to use the gym showers so I don’t go to school and people think I live in a cardboard box and then hitch a ride to school from Grant, but if you’ve got better ideas-”

“Come shower at mine and tell your dads.” 

“I only have the one dad.”

“You mean Hotch and Gideon aren’t your dads, too?” She jokes. “Just come on, I’m headed home, anyways, I’ll take you to school.”

“You don’t have to-”

“I insist. Besides, Grant and Spencer are probably going to want some time alone.” I sigh and pull out my phone as Elle grabs her things. 

“Hey, Dad, so I’ll be home tonight...I’m getting ready at Elle’s house this morning...the case just ended…”

“Make sure you eat, and tell Aaron and Jason where you’re going. How long was the case?”

“It started Monday morning, and I’m so...I’m gonna need a nap when I get home, we had to deal with the mob in Baltimore, and… I slept, I promise, I’ll make Elle get me an Egg McMuffin or something.”

“Alright, piccolo, just make sure you’re taking better care of yourself. I left yesterday to go to another signing, so go home after school and feed the dogs, and if you need a ride home, call one of yourr brothers or the BAU. And get a decent night’s sleep.” 

“I will. I love you, Dad, I’ll see you next week.” I hang up and put my phone in my pocket and climb into the passenger seat of Elle’s car. “Let’s go.”

“You don’t eat breakfast. Something’s wrong.” 

“Nothing’s wrong!”

#adoptedbydavidrossi #criminal minds fanfiction #Criminal Minds

[kookiecookiefics-blog]

Hiraeth (m) II kth : Chapter 1.

HIRAETH (M) II kth

~Pairing: Taehyung x SerialKiller!Reader 

~Genre: Angst, a lot of it. Smut. Gore. Violence. Fluff in between the lines. Slow build-up.

~Warnings: Blood, lots of it. Depictions of murder. Yoongi x Reader smut-ish. This chapter is pretty basic.

~words: 2.1k

~chapters: 1

~A/N: Yeah so, pretty basic for now. It is my first fan-fiction so I am kinda nervous hehe. I was supposed to post this in December but I totally forgot about my exams so here I am posting it a whole month later. Enjoy xoxo

~Beta readers: @moonpeachhy​ @smileyoongle​ @starry-sky-1​ and my one other precious friend. MY HUGE PILLARS OF SUPPORT OMG.

_______________________________________________________________________

You killed Jimin. You took a razor and slowly drove it into his carotid artery and watched him bleed. He couldn’t speak nor he could scream, he just bled until he died. You loved him even though he hurt you. You loved him way too much. He didn’t deserve you and anybody didn’t deserve him. This was 6 months ago.  

Jimin was the boyfriend you regretted but couldn't let go. He was sweet, charismatic, empathetic and a complete ladies' man, the latter being his weakness. He cheated, more than once and merged with his fate. 

The next one to go was your friend Namjoon. You knew he could not swim; you knew he was an extremely clumsy person, so under the guise of a friendly outing and successfully getting him drunk you pushed him off the cliff standing high above the sea; your hangout spot filled with that memories you cherished in the past. You could say that you and Namjoon were close friends. You did know each other since you were 16. He was a huge supporter and a kind friend. You were inseparable until he started ditching your company in favour of his girlfriend. She was all he talked about. You could not bear it so you shut him up. Yes, you missed him but getting rid of toxicity felt good. This was 4 months ago.

 Namjoon was smarter than you, wiser than you in all aspects. You were almost jealous.  

Almost.  

His presence made you feel weaker. A lesser person, more like a sidekick or a tail. It suffocated your instincts and thoughts to a point where the friendship turned into hatred and hence, Namjoon had to go.

For your sake, he just had to.                                                                       

 -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Killing became a hobby. A thrilling hunt that boosted adrenaline in your veins. You killed mercilessly, luring a man through your charms, seducing a boy with your body. The glassy look in their eyes when you took their lives made you ecstatic. 

Just yesterday at the nightclub near the city you met a delicious prey. His sharp jaw highlighted his face, his eyes small but gazing and his luscious lips were to be craved for. You were tempted, so tempted. You wanted to take him then and there. You made your way towards the bar with a strut that made you intentions very clear. You caressed his shoulders, his strong arms the smooth skin on his palm. The slutty exchanges began. Your introductions along with limitless flirting downed with multiple shots of alcohol. 

“Yoongi, I like it, it rolls of your tongue” You cooed in his ear. You felt him tense under your touch. He could feel the thick atmosphere of sexual tension you were creating.  

Within the next hour. You had him sprawled in front of you, with you straddling his hips and his hands tied together with his tie to the cracked wooden bedpost of some dingy motel right around the same block. 

“Y/N....please, touch me I can’t take it” He begged. His cock straining hard over his trousers waiting for any kind of touch. 

“Shhhhhhh......quite now and behave or else...” You cockily say while grabbing the hem of your shirt and take it off in one swift motion. Your breasts perk up and nipples hard. You can see him drooling at the sight. You grabbed his collar and with a hard ripping tug you tore the buttons right of his shirt exposing his milky smooth skin and nipples perked from the cold outside and his arousal. You traced you palms over his abs and slowly traced it higher to pinch his nipples earning another moan from him. 

You bent over him grinding your ass over his raging boner. 

“Open your mouth” you ordered and he obediently agreed. Instantly grabbed his chin and met his tongue with yours in a heated kiss. Your tongue rolled into his warm cheeks tasting him and your lips leaving with a string of saliva connecting you two. You traced his earlobes with your tongue. “You’ve ruined my shirt” He breathes.  

“Oh! you won’t need it anymore” You chuckle into his ear as you slowly reach into your pocket to take out your newly sharpened swiss knife. 

You see the lust leave his eyes the moment he sees the shiny glint of the knife resting in your hand. 

“Woah! Is this some kind of kink that you’re not telling me about? I am sorry I am not comfortable with this” He snickers. 

“Blood kinda makes me squeamish” 

“Oh, sweet baby, this is not a kink” You clamp his mouth shut with your other hand and watch him trying to scream inside as you trace the knife over his chest leaving tiny cuts here and there. You treat his torso like a canvas while you see tears run down his face. He tries to free his hands but the pain makes it impossible. You torture him with your knife carving his skin with deep red sketches. You gently bite into his neck, licking over the bite with your tongue and soon you replace your tongue with the sharp point of you knife. You slowly push it inside and feel him shake under you, convulsing and the knife gently drives into his carotid spraying blood on your hands and the bed sheets below and soon comes to a still, lifeless state. 

You pull the knife out from his neck. The silver blade now shines with a deep shade of red. You get up from his corpse and walk over the bathroom cleaning all the stains of blood from your hands and torso and after grabbing your stuff you slowly head over to the body and tear a piece of his shirt as a souvenir, adding another to your growing collection. Still drowning in your desire for danger, you manage to clean your fingerprints from all the places you touched and head out, for a mess to be discovered soon, hopefully. 

                                                                                              “Miss! Excuse me! Miss!” a shout tears through your years almost petrifying you amidst your escape.  

The receptionist. 

Well not exactly a ‘receptionist’, more like a guy with a huge beer belly and a six-pack of Coors sitting on a creaky wooden desk, an exceptionally creepy man reeking of alcohol who probably owns this place. 

“A pretty lady like you done using the room so soon? The guy couldn't get it up eh? What a shame. Come here sit with me, have a beer! Let me show you a good time” he bellows out scratching his crotch and flashing his obvious boner under his pants. 

Ugh.  

You were not in the mood to kill two guys today. You liked a hunt, a game that gave you the adrenaline high and the power over someone. Pure entertainment to be honest. You did not want to wash your knife again. He is just going to be collateral damage; he was not going to keep quiet. You had to, you just had to kill him. 

You walked over to him, his grin getting wider and wider in the hope of getting some good time.  

“Do you promise to show me a good time, sir?” You say oh so innocently as well as cringing at your own choice of words as you take his bottle of beer from his hands to carefully take a swig of the bitter sparkly liquid.  

You set the bottle aside on his desk and move over to his chair to carefully straddle his thighs and carefully and immediately remove your shirt slowly completely teasing him. You feel his hard on pressing against your core, almost making you throw up. 5 minutes. This whole ordeal will pass in 5 minutes. Just go with the flow.  

Luckily pervs like him and crazy over boobs, you calmly unclasp your bra and smirk. His jaw dropped so wide it could touch the ground. 

“Wow I did not know you were this easy” He whispers grabbing a handful of your soft mounds. 

Without a second to waist you run your fingers through his hair and smash. 

Smash is head into the wall behind his chair with as much might you could muster. 

Again. 

Again. 

And again. 

Blood splashes over your breasts and neck. He’s obviously dead, no one can survive a blow like that multiple times. With the tissues lying next to the empty beer bottle you wipe the sprinkles of blood away. 

Phew. That was.... something you’ve never done before. It felt good. 

 It felt really good. 

You dress again, succeeding in avoiding all the blood that could’ve ruined your clothes. You clean the scene again like a routing and smash the beer bottle you had sip from into pieces to avoid all the fingerprints. That’s a wrap for today, I guess.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------                           

It’s been a month since Yoongi, your last victim. Life was getting boring. The café you owned at the library quarters did well but it was routine work of roasting the same beans and brewing the same coffee. You don’t even know why you were so invested in a café, you hate coffee, frankly, it is just bitter water. The café did well, apparently reading and coffee were a good pair. 

Libraries always seemed to be filled with smart boring people and hard-working students. You often wondered how picking up a book and reading it would feel like. 

 “Man is the most dangerous game of all”  

Yes, but it’s not a game when they’re so easy to latch onto. You want a hunt, not a fishing picnic.   

Life. The word is extremely versatile when it comes to definitions. Difficult, adventure, survival but today looks like it’ll be exciting.

You see him. 

Oh my.  

A tall man with golden honey skin and curly brown locks of hair. His sculpted face adorned with classy looking black-rimmed glasses and thin pouty pink lips. He is carrying a shit ton of notebooks along with a set of newspapers. You notice him all day. People come and go ordering their espressos or flat white and you catch yourself stealing glances at him.   

He is dedicated to his work, not distracting himself for hours researching something on and on via his newspapers and the glory of the internet. He seemed smart. A good target? Maybe. He does not seem like the kind who would be fooled or jump into bed with you, no he is too smart for that. You start your fantasy train, entrapping him, betraying him and killing him the same way you killed Yoongi. The chase you were imagining looked promising and very very exciting.  

Shit.  

And there your eyes finally meet. He sees you, doing nothing at the booth.  

It is time to scramble. You immediately reach for a mug to clean but your butterfingers successfully manage to drop it with a loud crash in a quiet library. You bend down to pick up the mess but you can feel all the eyes staring at you for the disturbance caused.   

You clean the mess up, picking the shattered pieces one by one and throwing them in the trash. What an embarrassing way to get his attention. 

 “Hi, excuse me, miss”  

The voice catches you by surprise. He is standing right there at the booth with his long brown jacket donned and all his stuff gathered. Startled you get up, wiping your hands hastily on the apron.   

“Hi, I am so sorry about that. How can I help you?” You say putting on a smile you could make as charming as possible.  

“Can I get a latte? A little stronger than usual and hold the sugar please.”  

“Sure. Your name please?” You say holding out a cup and a marker. 

 “Taehyung”  

And there you set off to make the best cup of coffee in your life.  

Taehyung.  

You had to impress him. Your fingers work delicately with the cup at every step and make the prettiest foam heart you could usually never make and hand it over to him.  

He thanks you with a cute little boxy smile. Oh, my God. You are infatuated. You had to see him again but then you see it. A couple of newspapers left forgotten on the counter.   

It was scribbled on.  

“Murderer went cold. Last victim: Min Yoongi”  

The articles were circled, notes were jotted down.

  This is going to be a GREAT game, isn’t it? 

#bts #btsfanfiction #btsfanfic #bts smut #kpop #kpop imagines #kpop smut #taehyung smut #yoongi smut #bts fanfic #taehyung #yoongi

[seasinkarnadine]

Do you think u can write about how bow and glimmer reacted to adora being pregnant with the kitras and Them being like "BUT HOW?" btw I kitras are adorable :)

warning: the following contains graphic details of pregnancy and mentions of child abuse.

It takes a while before anyone realizes what’s going on.“Where’s adora?” Glimmer asks one morning. They’re supposed to be having a meeting regarding supply lines to the front in Thaymor.“Puking her guts out.” Catra responds, sliding into her seat.“And you’re not helping her?”“She wouldn’t open the door.” Catra shrugs. Glimmer won’t claim to understand their dynamic, but she loves Adora enough to tolerate the surly cat woman. Just barely.“She says we should get started without her.” “…fine.”

–It’s near midnight.“Hey…is everything alright?” She’s taken to knocking on the door instead of teleporting directly in after catching the two in flagrante delicto …more than once.“She’s sick.” Catra replies through the crack in the door. Her eyes are remarkably alert considering it’s the dead of night.“Again?” Glimmer asks, trying to see past Catra into their room. She can’t see Adora. But she can certainly hear her.Catra shrugs. “Guess it’s a bug or something.” “Is there anything I can do…?“The sound of renewed retching reaches their ears and they both wince.“No, thanks. I’ll take care of her.” With that Catra closes the door.

—

Catra takes off for a few weeks to help Scorpia out with some bandit problems in the crimson waste. Adora is something of a mess without her.Adora still behaves like she has a cold. Perfuma gives her a powder to mix with her drink to help with the nausea.

“Ugh. I’m crashing. I gotta take a nap.”

“Again?” Glimmer reaches over to place a hand on Adora’s elbow.

 "You’ve been taking a lot of naps.“

"yeah. I don’t know. it’s nice to be able to, though. Naps weren’t exactly allowed in the Horde.” Glimmer reaches up to feel Adora’s forehead. 

“Why are you doing that…?”

“To see if you have a fever… hm. you’re not warm.”

“You can tell just by touching?” Adora reaches up to touch her own forehead in awe. 

“Well, yeah…how do you know in the Horde?”

“They don’t check unless you’re really, really bad. And when they do they put this stick in your mouth called a thermometer." 

"You’ve been sick for like, three or four weeks now, haven’t you?”

“Yeah.” Adora blushes. She has this thing about getting sick. Catra, too. Like it’s some indication of personal weakness.

“Maybe we should ask Perfuma about it?”

“No, no! I’m sure it’s fine. she’s already done more than enough for me.” Glimmer narrows her eyes but decides not to push further

.—

Catra is still absent. Glimmer and Adora are visiting Mystacor for a celebration that Castaspella INSISTED they attend. Adora tried to wear the same one she had for the Princess Prom but just couldn’t fit into it.

“Weird. normally when I get sick I LOSE weight.” She gripes, turning around in the mirror. 

“You have been sleeping a lot. Maybe it’s a different way for your body to fight off whatever it is?” Glimmer suggests, eyeing Adora’s waist as she turns. They couldn’t get the dress over her hips or belly.

“Yeah. Maybe.” 

—

They find something that fits. Adora stands near a pillar and watches the other guests as they mingle.

“Here you are milady,” Glimmer chirps as she hands off a drink to Adora.

“You’re a saint.” She downs the fizzy drink in one go. 

“Do…they have any more?”Glimmer can’t help but laugh.

“Adora you’re gonna clear them out of house and home.”

“They’re sorcerers,” she reponds somewhat defensively, “they can make more, right?”

“You don’t have to be a sorcerer to make juice, Adora.”

“But it helps, right?”

“Well…there are probably juice sorcerers out there somewhere in the world.”Speaking of, one of the sorcerers (a woman in an elegant blue dress) approaches them.

“Hello, Mistress Glimmer, Mistress She-Ra. Please excuse my interruption. I wanted to stop by to offer a thousand congratulations to you and your partner. Your children will surely grow to be as beautiful and strong as their mother.”

Adora looks behind her and Glimmer nearly does, too. 

“I–I’m sorry, ma’am, I believe that you’re mistaken,” Glimmer says hurriedly. 

“Adora–She Ra, isn’t pregnant.”

“Oh!” The woman holds a hand against her chest as if the words have caused her heart to jump. “How embarrassing! I am ever so sorry! Please accept my most sincere apologies.” She sketches a half bow and then beats a hasty retreat.

“Uhh.” Adora look to Glimmer. 

“What was all of that about?”

“No idea. She probably had too much wine is all.” But the way that she said it with such confidence…

—

She forgets about it.

Until the middle of the night when she wakes to the sound of Adora hurling her half digested dinner into the toilet. 

“Oh, Adora.” She says softly, kneeling down beside her on the tile to pull back her hair.

“No–no, Glimmer, I–” She gets cut off as another wave of nausea forces her head back towards the porcelain bowl. 

“Where is Catra?” Adora murmurs when she next resurfaces. “I–I want Catra.” Her voice is so small. Broken. 

“Oh hun, I’m sorry, she’s not here.” Glimmer reaches over to brush sweaty strands of hair out of Adora’s face. 

“Do you want me to go?” She doesn’t understand Adora’s thing with wanting to hide when she’s sick, but she will respect it.

“I…” Eventually she shakes her head ‘no’.

“Okay. How about we get you into some clean pajamas, huh?” Her current ones are absolutely drenched in sweat.

 “Yeah.” Adora nods. It’s not easy, but with her help Glimmer manages to peel off the soft sleep shirt she was wearing (it’s one of Catra’s. Across the front in huge letters it says ‘ANARCHY’). She isn’t wearing anything underneath. It’s strange. Adora loathes to be seen while she is sick or injured, but has absolutely no problem stripping out of her clothes. And Catra’s more likely to kill Glimmer for having the audacity to hold Adora’s hair back for her than for seeing her topless now.Unlike in the Rebellion, where it’s kinda awkward. But Adora is Glimmer’s friend and right now she needs her. So she determinedly looks anywhere BUT Adora’s chest as she runs a wash cloth over her heated skin. And…there’s definitely a bit of a bump around Adora’s stomach. She noticed it before, when they were trying on dresses, but had attributed it to the weight gain. But now… They manage to get her into a clean shirt (it’s another one of Catra’s, this one just a plain red but covered in little orange strands of fur). Adora guzzles down a glass of water.

“Hey Adora?”She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.“Yeah?”“Have you…ever had sex with anyone besides Catra?”

Adora starts coughing immediately, and for a moment Glimmer’s worried she’s choking. Finally she manages a strangled,“WHAT?”

“Have you ever…had sex with a man?”

“No!”“And…you’re sure?”

“I think I would remember if I had!” She doesn’t sound angry at Glimmer, more…perplexed.

 “Okay, I believe you…only ever with Catra, right? And Catra…doesn’t have …a dick.”

“I’ve only ever been with Catra. And no she does not have a dick.” Adora looks just as confused as ever.

“Okay.” Glimmer breathes deeply to steel herself. “You remember the woman from earlier? The one who thought you were pregnant?”

Yeah?”

“Well…I am starting to think…maybe she was right.”

“How could she have been right? I thought–YOU told me that the only way a woman could get pregnant was sex with someone who has a dick. And I have not done that.”

“That’s what I thought, too. But let’s face it–all of your symptoms are remarkably similar to a pregnancy.”

“They are?” 

Right. Horde sexual education was pretty much nonexistent. Of course Adora wouldn’t know.

“Yeah. And…you say you’re gaining weight? That…could be a baby.”

“A…baby.” Adora’s face is blank.

“Yeah. Uh…when was the last time you had your monthly blood?”

“My period? Gosh. It’s been a while. Three months ago?”

“Three MONTHS AGO ADORA?”

“What? Why? What?”

“That’s–That’s not normal!”

“I mean it’s happened before?”

“IT’S HAPPENED BEFORE?!”

“Yeah! There was one time in the Horde when Catra and I were in huge trouble and as punishment we had to fast–”

“THEY FORCED YOU TO FAST?”

“Yes?? I? I mean it was only supposed to be a really serious punishment but–”

“How old were you?

”“Fourteen?”

“THEY FORCED FOURTEEN YEAR OLDS TO FAST?!”

“Okay now you’re starting to hurt my ears.”

“Sorry. Sorry. Okay.”

“They forced us to fast and my period stopped for two months. Which I guess…I’m eating MORE, not less, so that doesn’t really make sense, but what else could it possibly be? I’m just sick.”

“Hun, I do not think you’re sick. How long ago did all of this start? The nausea and food cravings?”

“Uh…th…three months…ago?”This is bizarre.

“And you’ve only ever had sex with Catra. Do Magicats have some sort of…weird anatomy…that could…I don’t know. Result in her getting you pregnant?”

“No. Nothing weird.” Adora pulls her legs up to her chest and hugs them. “I’ve never…I don’t…” her eyes go wide. “Could someone have …have done something to me, and then wiped my mind?” 

Oh. Right. That’s a thing that Shadow Weaver can do, isn’t it? Shit.

“I– I mean. You’ve been at Bright Moon castle. Shadow Weaver’s on Beast Island. I don’t think it’s likely…” but not outside the realm of possibility, is what she doesn’t say.

“I want Catra to come home.” Adora says in a small voice and Glimmer feels her heart ache. 

“How about…how about we go to sleep for now. In the morning we can talk to Casta, maybe she can connect us with the sorceress who thought you were pregnant and we can find out more details. She can also help us send a message to the Crimson Waste to get Catra over here. How’s that sound?”Adora closes her eyes and nods her head slowly.

“Yeah.”

“Good?”

“Good.”

“Okay.” They turn off the lights in the bathroom and climb into their respective beds.

“Glimmer?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”She smiles.

“Don’t mention it.”

#long post #ask #prompt #magical pregnancy #tw #tw pregnancy details #graphic description of a pregnancy #tw child abuse #the horde is evil #fasting #catra #catradora #glimmer #glimmer is a good friend #supportive sparkly gorl #drabble #adora #no editing we die like men #i wrote this in 2 sittings #1 day #tada

[taeverie]

I Do (want to love you)

“God, Jimin.” You stop and giggle at him, light disbelief in his words. “You’re crazy.”

He chuckles, the sound of your laughter a perfect symphony to his ears. “If falling for you is crazy, then I’m going out of my mind.”

Synopsis: There is only one word to describe your life, and it is simple; there are a million words to define Park Jimin’s sphere and the few are extravagant, prodigal — affluent, especially. Though despite the stark differences between your plain world and Jimin’s riches, you both find a common ground within the universe of love.

[cr.]

Pairing: Jimin x Reader // soft sugar daddy au

Genre: light angst, fluff, lots of fluff ^^ + a bit suggestive

Word Count: 24.2k

Includes: alcohol mentions

A/N: the first re-upload! 10/10 would recommend the song this fic is inspired from!! here it is :)

It was supposed to be a typical Saturday night for you; television flickering on with an array of savory snacks scattered over your coffee table. To you it is the perfect way to unwind from the stressful week of serving food and cleaning tables at your local restaurant.

That was, until Namjoon was passionately banging at your apartment door and begging you to accompany him to the nightclub downtown.

You groggily answered the door, only to find a bright grin plastered on his face while he voices his pleads; and somehow, with enough convincing, you gave in and got dressed in the most casual of an outfit. On the way to his vehicle you questioned why he was so ecstatic to go to a darn nightclub on a Saturday night, what had him on the edge of his seat constantly, and his answer was no surprise: all for a woman, a showgirl who works at the claustrophobic comfort of a vivacious area.

“I just didn’t want to show up alone,” he told you while you both entered his car.

“Whatever,” you groaned. Not like you could have done much about it at that point.

Now, you are stuck with him for an entire night, not ready to deal with him drool over one of the dashing showgirls that work at the unfamiliar club.

—

Your friend is practically racing down the vast street to desperately reach the nightclub in no time, nothing but carnality fueling his being at this point. You are gripping onto the hem of your plain tee, momentum from the car pressing you deeper in the passenger seat while he pushes harder on the metal. His eyes are fixated on the road that only seems to elongate, a bright green light in his sight. You take notice of how he narrows his gaze on the road, full intention on making it past the light as if there are hundreds of yards between your point.

“Don’t do it, Namjoon,” you warn, somewhat afraid. “I came with you to go to a club alive.”

Namjoon chuckles and allows his confidence to overtake him. “I can do it.”

“Oh my god, don’t do—”

The street light flashes yellow in the distance, cancelling out the viridescent glow and Namjoon bites his lip, hand soaring to the emergency brake while he shifts his foot to the other pedal.

You yell, “I told you not to do it!”

The pattern of the streetlights flicker red in an instant, the second your friend’s vehicle reaches it just in time and an abrupt halt erupts from the hasty press of his brakes. Your body jerks forward and becomes caught in the seat belt, resulting in you leaning back to regain your composure.

“God,” you mutter, fixing yourself up, “Namjoon, quit being so reckless. You and I both knew you weren’t going to make that light.”

“Hey,” he strokes onto the leather of his wheel, head tilting to face you, “what matters is that I tried.”

You roll your eyes and avert your gaze out the window, almost petulant. The streets are empty, road barely lighting up from the dull bulbs of the towering street lamps. With no one in sight, you sigh. You could have been cooped up inside your apartment as well, but Namjoon clearly has other plans in store — some more reckless than others apparently. “What matters is that you could have gotten a ticket,” you spit out.

“You need to lighten up,” he says with a pat on your shoulder. “Tonight’s going to be fun.”

“My definition of fun was ruined the moment I heard you banging on my door,” you admit, anger sketching on your face.

Namjoon forces out a smile, pressing on the gas pedal when the street light switches back to a bright emerald. “You’re going to have a good time tonight, trust me. The nightclub we’re going to is a part of the best chain of discotheques since time. When was the last time you went out anyway? Not for work at your fancy restaurant.”

You groan and toss your head back in the passenger seat. “You cannot be using that against me.”

“Three weeks, Y/N,” he informs, as if you are not entirely aware of the information yourself. “Three long weeks! Enjoy yourself tonight at the least, for me?”

Well, what can you say? It isn’t your fault that nothing goes on in the north of your dingy town aside for silly festivals and boring sports events — and shopping sessions at the one local outlet. The life of the city is downtown or to the west, each too far of a drive for you. You should consider yourself lucky that Namjoon is willing to give into his crave for romance to drive you with him to the club.

Namjoon turns the final corner to reach the lively building, its booming music audible past the closed windows of his car. As soon as he parks, he yanks off his seatbelt and impatiently waits for you to exit as well. You step out of the vehicle slowly, double checking if you have everything, which is your cell phone alone, before following him at the curb.

“Come on, will you enjoy yourself tonight?” he asks for the second time.

Your purse your lips, trailing his tracks as he starts to stride to the vibrant entrance, jaunty. “Fine,” you grumble. “I’ll try.”

—

The moment the doors to the club are swung open the music withers to an obnoxious blare to your ears, far too loud to even hear the few of Namjoon’s words towards you. He softly places a hand at the small of your back, guiding you past the sea of dancing bodies so he does not lose you in the dim of the area. The lights are little to none, scarlet luminescence not providing enough illumination for you to navigate past the mass of drunken dancers. Everyone is either moving mindlessly to the the music, has alcohol running through their bodies — or best of all, both. The lively vibes within the perimeter flow from one person to another like a virus, the positivity alone intoxicating their senses as the beat proceeds to drop.

Namjoon leads you to a surprisingly immaculate lounge at the outskirts of the dance floor, a chic, disco era coffee table resting right in front of it. You both take a seat, heads turning and eyes scanning the area — both for two polar different reasons. Amidst the scene of intoxicated people, men and women trying to kiss up to one another, or at the least people enjoying themselves, you feel as if you do not fit in.

The last place you would imagine yourself to be at on a Saturday night is an ebullient night club, every being jaunty and making the most of their evening until dawn.

One of the workers in the club approaches both of you, an artificial smile pressed onto his face as he asks, “Would you like anything to drink?”

Namjoon grins at the man, voice carrying over the music, “Yes, one Oasis Amber and a PM Porter for my friend please.”

When the employee nods his head and scurries off to the bar Namjoon takes notice of how stultified you appear: a stern frown etching on your face, eyes that are lifeless from boredom, and your body slumping in the soft of the ivory leather seats.

“Well,” Namjoon clears his throat, “you appear to be enjoying yourself.”

You sigh and people watch the dashingly clad dancers, a line of showgirls preparing to walk onto their own stages in pleasantly long heels. “I could be doing better,” you comment.

“Lighten up,” he urges, eyes not leaving the line of raffish women, “you’re at one of the best nightclubs in existence.”

“It’s not my style, Namjoon.” You sigh and sink lower into the sofa, every fiber of your being wishing that the cushions would just engulf you already because anything would be better than this darn nightclub.

Namjoon chuckles, something he always does when he attempts to lift up your down spirits. “Remember you said you would try to enjoy yourself? Go drink, dance, get drunk—anything.”

You sit up and take his words into consideration, and by the time you formulate a response the employee comes back with two towering glasses of the drinks your friend has ordered a moment ago. The worker sets it down and you stare at the bubbling drink, the amber liquid titillating as ever after Namjoon’s impelling words.

“For me?” He grins and hands you your glass.

You wrap your fingers around it, eyeing the ice that submerges within the glass like miniature glaciers. “Fine,” you reply then take a large sip. “Let me drink away the fact that this night will totally suck.”

“Well,” Namjoon shrugs, “at least you’re doing something. Now if you excuse me…” He eyes the last showgirl at the end of the line, a true bombshell beauty that has an award-winning smile painted on her face. “I have a show to catch. I’ll be back soon.”

“Wait, you can’t just leave me by myself—” And within a heartbeat Namjoon leaves you alone on the sofa, his drink untouched on the table as well, all to chase over a fetching performer like an overexcited puppy. “And you’re off…”

You sigh and gawk at your drink before making the hasty choice of downing it within a dream. You hope for it to nullify you; not that you want to remember this forsaken night to begin with but the alcohol could not have been more weak.

As the upbeat song transitions into the next, the club practically becomes electric. For a moment you wonder what it would be like to slip into the lively crowd and become lost in the music, to twist and turn with a forced smile on your face. Everyone is dancing like nobody’s watching them, not a single care present in their thrilling selves and you ache to feel that way.

From the corner of your eye you watch the showgirls dynamically express themselves, a fire in their eyes from a swirl of happiness and desire. People wreath around several of them to stare with their mouths agape; absolutely mesmerized by their performance, and Namjoon is one of them. As their ten minute show ceases you patiently wait for your companion to return to you, but you only have your hopes let down in the end.

You take another furtive glance to his untouched alcohol, tempted to drink it but all you find yourself doing is mindfully staring at it and lolling your head. “God,” you mumble to yourself. “Whatever.”

You smoothen out your clothes and start to prepare yourself to exit. Clearly Namjoon will not be returning any time soon and the least you wanted was to be left alone at an unknown nightclub. Just as you are about to raise yourself from your seat a man joins you on the white leather of the sofa, a comfortable distance now shared between you and him.

You raise an eyebrow and tilt your head to him, studying his features under the colored lighting. Under the darkness of the club he seems to be dazzling, the corner of his lips quirking into a sly smirk, hair and outfit spruce as ever. In fact he appears far too dressed to be in a nightclub.

He sees right past your half drunken stupor and his smirk blossoms into a wide grin, the true highlight of your night. The man notices the full glass of beer next to your empty tumbler. “Date stand you up?”

You smile at him. “More like my friend left me for one of the showgirls.”

“Ah,” he throws his head back with a small chuckle. “Well, they are gorgeous.”

“Gorgeous?” You turn your head back to see the women proudly walk off the stage, each proud with one of their final shows of the night. They are patting each other on the back, engaging in admirable hugs, and you face the man again. “I suppose they are.”

“But,” he continues, “I think I found someone far more beautiful tonight.”

You remain silent at his words, your eyes raising out of interest from his rallying comment. Within the still moment a strange feeling comes over you, almost as if there are a few pairs of eyes boring into the back of your head. You gulp and scan the area, pondering why some drunken passers are bickering while staring at you — or possibly the man next to you.

“What’s wrong?” he questions your silence.

“Nothing,” you smile, attempting to brush aside the curious glances. “I mean this in the nicest way possible, but why are you talking to me?”

“Ouch.” He hisses, hand soaring over his chest. “I felt that.”

You laugh at his act, his dingy sense of humor enough to brighten up the rest of your evening.

The grin still remains fixated on his face, never faltering and forever flirtatious. There is a twinkle in his eye like a freshly polished diamond, or perhaps that is the miniature sign of his want for you. “Mind if I buy you a drink?”

“I already had one too many,” you inform.

“It wouldn’t hurt to have another.” He raises his hand to call an employee, but quickly sets it down when you shake your head, embarrassed.

“I’d rather get home sober.”

The man tilts his head and thinks about your words before responding, “You’re at one of the largest nightclubs in the country on a Saturday night and you want to be sober?”

“Yeah, well it wasn’t my idea to come here.” You slump back in the seat, the same bored expression ghosting upon your features. “I have nothing to do at a place like this.”

The man’s expression withers into a mark of skepticism, eyes averting from yours for a few seconds when he notices that others are staring. Nonetheless, he brushes those agog looks to the side and immerses himself in a conversation with you. “You can talk to me if you want to be occupied.”

You lock gazes with the debonair man, the same modish grin still on his face as if nothing can dare falter it. From the looks of it, he appears interested in you — or maybe he just wants a good time for a few hours, in that case he came to the wrong person. “Can I at least get your name first?”

“Jimin, you?”

“Y/N.”

And as if your introduction is the final key to unlock a new door of opportunity and intrepid adventure, he silently thanks the fact he has came to the club tonight.

Little does he know you feel the same way.

“So tell me, what is it you do?” he asks.

You hum. “I’m a waitress at one of the restaurants uptown.”

“Uptown?” he repeats, raw shock overtaking him like he has never encountered someone from there before.

“I know,” you sigh, “I’m from the boring part of the city.”

He chuckles, no intention of demeaning your occupation. “I should visit sometime, where do you work?”

“I only work four days out of the week and I’d rather not tell someone that I just met. He might be a creep,” you announce with a wink. “What about you?”

“Of course, of course.” Jimin pauses, eyes casting upwards like he is scattering through a dozen thought bubbles. “I don’t do much, but I work everyday a little.”

“Do you?” you ask to confirm, doubt limpid in your tone.

He nods. “Yes, but ‘I’d rather not tell someone that I just met.’ She could be a creep, you know.”

You cannot help but let out a fit of airy laughs at how he turns his own words against you. “Fair enough.”

The mindful chatter then withers to mindless converse after you give into his offer of purchasing you another drink, nothing too heavy; after all, you did say that you still want to go home sober. Jimin appears like a perfect man: intricately chiseled features, eyes that crinkle into two crescent moons whenever he laughs a symphony, and a unique sense of humor. Topic after topic as the conversation progresses you feel a perceptible closeness to the man, despite barely meeting.

As the hours pass of you laughing and talking with him, it is safe to conclude that he is quite genuine. The comfortable distance between the two of you closed, almost like there is a present attraction that neither of you are able to consciously notice, similar to the force of two magnets.

You did not catch how many hours have passed of bickering inside the club with the extravagant man; far too many for your night, and you inform him of your leave.

“Already?” he asks. When he tugs on his sleeve to reveal an opulent black watch his eyes widen, surprising himself at how long he has spent trying to get to know you. “Oh, I’m sorry. I lost track of time and I didn’t mean to keep you back so late.”

You assure, “It’s alright, I had fun tonight—surprisingly.”

“Just by talking to me?” he says with a playful wink.

You raise yourself from your seat, tugging on the hem of your clothes. “Honestly, yeah.”

Jimin mirrors your expression back, the artificial glow of the nightclub miraculously drawing perfection around your traits. He turns his head to the exit, messily taking account of the amount of people flooding the dance floor before looking at you once more. “Need someone to drive you home? Uptown’s a twenty minute ride from here.”

“It’s fine,” you wave off his offer. “I can just hail a taxi.”

“Are you sure?” his expression droops, eyebrows furrowing together from worry. “It wouldn’t trouble me at all.”

You flash a smile of assurance to him. “It’s fine, thanks for the offer.”

And just like that you are lost within the active crowd.

Jimin gets a strong impulse to chase after you, to get to know more than just your name alone and everything else you told him tonight, but his body is being held by the invisible strings of hesitation — long enough for you to exit the building.

God, what is it about you that can drive him crazy within such a short amount of time?

“Jimin!” says a rough voice from behind. A man dressed on equal par of Jimin wraps his arm around his neck as an embrace like they have not seen each other in eons. “Who was that?” his friend asks.

Jimin chuckles and shrugs him away. “No one,” he replies, a clear lie.

“I don’t think you would spend hours talking to ‘no one,’ usually you enjoy having fun with others in your own clubs, not talking to one person.”

“Hoseok,” Jimin calls, eyes mischievous, “don’t worry about it. I had fun talking to her.”

“Why?” Hoseok scoots back and grabs onto a glass of beer on the table. “Because she was fawning over you? Kissing your ass after meeting the Park Jimin?”

Jimin shakes his head, an admirable expression ghosting his face. “No,” he corrects, “Actually, I don’t think she knew who I was at all.”

—

You arrive back at your apartment at the charcoal of day, the time right before dawn, and immediately plop onto your sofa; the most refreshing feeling of the night. You feel drained from the night, for you never expected that you would be lounging at the club without Namjoon longer than an hour. But with that spirited man how could you not stay?

You stare at the dark of your ceiling in deep thought to attempt to sort out who exactly Jimin is. Many people stopped their fun to stare at him and marvel at his unique beauty, some covert and others not. A celebrity, perhaps? He did have the superb look of one. If you can recall correctly he is roguishly handsome to the core, a personality just as superlative.

Your phone vibrates for a couple of seconds; the only person who can be calling you at this hour as to be… “Namjoon?” you croak, being far too tired to keep up a proper conversation or even voice a greeting.

Namjoon is straining his voice to yell at you past the line, the roaring music still audible in the background, muffled. “Y/N, where are you?” he asks.

Your expression rests niche, no emotion crossing it. “Not at the club, why?”

“Oh!” He exclaims, “I was wondering if you’d like to go home now.”

You remain silent on your part, no part of you being able to drag a reply from your throat.

“Hello?” He asks, “Are you there? Are we still going to the bookstore tomo—”

And you hang up the call. Jeez, after the handful of hours he finally notices that you are gone. Not that it matters by now. You decide to close your eyes, drop your phone, and allow your mind to shut off for a couple of hours.

—

When you wake the following morning there is another fit of ardent bangs being impacted on your front door. Of course form none other than Kim Namjoon. You wake to the rebarbative sound, fuddled from the scene from last night and swing open the door with a frown.

Namjoon is smiling like the sun again, giddiness lacing his tone with every word that flies out of his mouth. “Ready to go?”

“Go?” You blink a couple of times and rub your eyes. “Go where?”

His smile diminishes into a pout. “Really, Y/N? We had plans to go to the bookstore today, remember?”

“No,” you answer, “I don’t. Go by yourself.”

You start to shut the door on him but he slides his foot inside, creating a tiny gap. “Come on! I want to update you on what happened last night, it went great for me!”

“That’s great to hear,” you comment, sarcastic. “My night went amazing as well.”

“I saw.” Namjoon chuckles. “You looked like you were enjoying yourself with that man—hey, he’s honestly quite good looking. Please tell me you got his number so you can score a couple of dates.”

“I—” Then, your thoughts soar to you quicker than the words that pour from your mouth. You never caught his number. “I didn’t…”

Namjoon pushes your door open and dramatically presses a hand to his forehead. “You didn’t? That’s more of a reason to go out today, you need a man in your life.”

“I don’t need a man in your life the way you need a woman in yours,” you argue. “How was she anyway? You took so long last night I went on without you.”

Namjoon’s ears flush a shade of pink from recalling last night. “She was… incredible. I loved watching her on stage, and we talked afterwards. She really is charming, and she has—”

“—okay,” you interrupt, “I regret asking.”

He laughs. “Well, I’m going back to the club next week if you want to tag along. Maybe your man will be there again and then you can score his number.”

“Next week? Why are you returning? Is she going to be there too?”

“Well,” he hums, “yeah, but I heard the owner will be there again too! Apparently he was at the club last night but I didn’t catch him under the darn lights. You really should come with though.”

You cross your arms and lean against your doorframe, no ounce of interest visible.  “Why?”

“Because it’s the closest to what we can ever get to a celebrity. He owns the largest chain of the best nightclubs in the country, you have to. I heard if you find him he always offers to pay for drinks, and we can always go for free drinks.”

The thought of the owner baffles you, a normal man that Namjoon places on a pedestal. You then take a moment to think, the thought of Jimin crossing your mind and how he always offered to buy your drinks enough to make you blush. A lovesick smile paints on your face, but your reverie is quickly broken by an unwanted snap of Namjoon’s fingers. “Are you coming with?”

“Yeah,” you nod. Perhaps you will cross Jimin again. “Sure.”

Namjoon deviously grins in victory. “That’s great. Now, please go out and buy yourself a dress because you were the most casually dressed person at the party. You looked like a schoolgirl rather than a partier.”

“Excuse me? Care to come shopping with me today instead of hitting the bookstore?”

He winces, the thought of dress shopping with you terrifying him. “You see, I would but last time I went dress shopping with you I sat alone in the waiting room for two hours.”

“Really,” you articulate nonchalantly. “I sat at the lounge last night for five hours without you.”

“And I’m sorry for that,” he appeals, cheeky. He takes a small step back. “You can handle dress shopping alone.”

“But what about our plans for the day?”

Namjoon slides out his phone and pretends to check his messages, a cold sweating dripping down his forehead. “I think I have a meeting today! Oh no, I forgot,” he fibs with a frolicsome grin.

And just like that, he is off before you call him out on his white lie. “God, Namjoon,” you grumble at his incompetence. “You don’t even work.”

—

It takes you an hour to freshen up and get dressed to hit the shopping outlets, regret already falling on your shoulders from using the last of your previous paycheck to purchase a decent dress. You saunter inside one of the appealing stores, an array of garbs and accessories adorning the plaster mannequins. Along with the gust of cold air from opening the door, the redolence of fresh jasmine kiss your senses, welcoming you like open arms inside the costly store. All sorts of women are flooding the racks, cascading every nook for the picture-perfect article.

One of the workers approach you, drone-like as she aids you in your arduous shopping journey. With your fists shoved into the pockets of your zip-up jacket you eye the racks as you listen to her guidance on what dress is perfectly comfortable for a night out. And to her a red cocktail dress just appears to be the premier choice.

Past the soft music and moderate noise of scuttling shoppers she urges you into the fitting room before moving onto the next customer. After slipping on the dress you stare at yourself with a poise hand on your hip, admiring the snug way it hugs your body. Your touch kisses the smooth chiffon; it is not the best in your opinion, but rather than spending another hour searching past racks and stores you decide to stick with the dress anyway. As you trot out of the fitting room, walking past the line of impatient men and women tapping their toes or fiddling their thumbs, you near the register and wait in line.

A mass of people start to appear behind you, volume of the chatter substantially raising as if etiquette is nonexistent. Little by little you approach the cashier, people checking out of the lines quicker than you imagined. And just when you reach the cashier and place your dress on the white counter you root in your purse to get your wallet — but it takes you far too long to rummage for it.

You hesitate, nerves raging as you shove your hand all over within the confinement of your bag, searching for any trace of your wallet but nothing comes up. You bite the outline of your lip, worry filling to the brim as you release a sigh. Maybe it is a sign to just not purchase the dress — not bother going back to the buoyant club. “Sorry,” you utter to the irritated cashier, feigning happiness, “I change my mind, I don’t really want to buy this anymo—”

“—I got it,” says a familiar voice that slides next to you. You tilt your head to get a glimpse of the man, only to have an extended stare at his face once you recognize who it is; the gallant man from last night. He is dressed to the epitome of a gentleman: casually suited and hair nicely tousled, all tying together with an award-winning smile. He gives the appearance of a pompous man, but honestly he is quite gracious, mannerly to your surprise. He waves his wallet lowly in the air, doughty at the cashier before he slips out one of the many credit cards squished in the fine leather.

Your eyes flare wide, lips parting from surprise. “No, Jimin,” you cut in and grip around his wrist to hold it onto the counter like an immense mass. “Please don’t, you don’t have to—I don’t really know you.”

“Of course you do,” replies Jimin. “We met last night.”

Your eyebrows cross together out of sheer confusion, unable to see the moment on the silver lining of all. “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean you can buy me a dress. This costs me my last hundred—”

“—hundred?” he cuts you off, eyebrow cocking upwards. “That’s a steal, and it’s quite brilliant. You would look resplendent in it.”

His compliment sucks you dry, protests dissipating off the tip of your tongue as if it has turned to sand. He takes the card in between his index and middle finger, graciously handing it to the cashier who so decorously accepts the payment of the swanky dress. You are snapped out of your daze the moment you hear the ring, an indication that it is too late for him to go back on his word — not that he ever had intention on doing so to begin with. The silently woman bags it, fast and magnanimous as her eyes are directed past you and Jimin.

“I don’t need the receipt,” Jimin comments, charming the cashier with his silky voice. He takes the bag and you extend your arm out so he can hand it to you, but his palm falls to his side as he starts to walk out the door, style intact. “Shall we go?”

“What?” Your feet are practically rooting to the marble tiles of the store, disturbance written all over your face and it draws you away from him. “Jimin, you have to let me pay you back.”

The cashier sighs. “Next in line please.”

You snap your head at her and back to the man who holds your shopping bag like it is a designer briefcase. Racing after him, you boldly scan him up to down to confirm that this really is the man from last night. And your eyes do not lie. “What the,” you spit out, practically beleaguered by his simple action. “At least let me pay you back. That dress was a hundred dollars!”

He saunters out of the store, you prodding him with how you insist that he takes your cash. There is no way you are accepting a payment that much from a man you barely met; you feel hopelessly guilty. “We can go out for some coffee right now if you really want to pay me back.”

You struggle to keep up with his quick stride on the sidewalk, heads turning his way — the cynosure of attention. “Great,” you sigh in relief, “let me buy you a cup of coffee.”

“Oh,” he stops himself and looks at you, “No, that isn’t what I mean. Your presence is already enough to make up for it, and you don’t have your wallet, remember?”

He flashes his pearly whites, fascinating your being as you become unnerved. He walks ahead of you with care, almost like a lazed strut down a naked runway. Is it just you, or is everyone entranced by him? There is a thought pricking the back of your mind to prompt you to walk the opposite way and leave him be, but you appear planted at a crossroads while a fraction of you screams otherwise.

“Y/N,” he says you name in a singsong voice, “are you coming?”

You give it a final thought before saying, “Sure.”

What’s the worst that can happen anyway?

—

The two of you pace into your local coffee shop, the ring of the bell hanging above the door greeting you inside. With air thick with the aroma of freshly grinded coffee beans you and Jimin take the comfortable seats at the far corner, slight bitterness painting on your face just like coffee before the sugar. “Why the glum face?” Jimin asks, tone sweet as ever.

“Why did you buy me that dress when I told you not to?” you ask, still persisting.

“Why does it matter?” He shrugs, not seeing on the same level as you. “You forgot your wallet and I just did a friendly gesture of paying for an outfit.”

Friendly gesture? If paying for a hundred dollar article of elegant clothing is a “friendly gesture,” you cannot imagine how he spoils his acquaintances.

“Anyway,” he changes the topic. “Mind if I buy you a drink?”

You roll your eyes but still is somewhat thankful for his offer. “Yes, I do. I still need to pay you back for those drinks from last night.”

“Does this mean we’re going to meet again in the future?” he questions, optimism coursing through his veins.

And with a mere “maybe,” his heart starts to pirouette.

An employee from the coffee shop skirts the mahogany table, a pleasant smile sketching on his face after gaining a better look at Jimin — how affluent he is dressed within a dainty cafe. “Can I get you two anything?”

You shake your head. “I’m fine, thank yo—”

“—Can we have two caramel macchiatos and two blueberry muffins, toasted,” Jimin asks, not sounding the slightest bit demanding.

“Blueberry?” you remark, distasteful.

Jimin fixes the order immediately, assuming you want the best, “Alright, change the blueberry muffin to a strawberry scone.”

“Jimin—”

“—actually, let’s just get both. May we have both?” Jimin asks the waiter, sparkles in his eyes.

If it isn’t for the formal composure the employee has to keep up, his jaw would have dropped to the ground and urge him to purchase almost everything on the menu — mainly because Jimin can afford it. Instead, he nods in full awareness and scurries to set the order.

You pinch the bridge of your nose, taken aback by Jimin’s impulsiveness, and all you can manage to say is, “Why? And why are you here, uptown?”

“You said you were from uptown and I never really spent time around here, so I decided to visit!” He interlaces his fingers on the table, head bobbing as he speaks with intricate eloquence. You stare at him across the surface, tight anger loosening and ankles crossed, already immersed by his words. There is just something about the way he talks that holds a soothing effect towards you, an act of reassurance in a sense. He continues, “I never knew there were shopping outlets here, and they seem to fit my style than those downtown.”

“All of the shopping outlets here are expensive,” you admit, lighthearted. You let out a breathy laugh, an attempt to make yourself feel larger in the situation.

Jimin merely shrugs. “I suppose so.”

“You’re always paying for me too,” you puff, “I need to pay you back one of these days.”

He smiles, cheekbones rising as a perfect masterpiece. “I already told you,” he repeats, voice warm, “being with you is enough for me.”

You feel your heart skip at his words; perhaps there is no underlying meaning behind such a statement but you cannot help and hopelessly flush. Your eyes are locking on the movement of his lips, the stars that practically adorn his eyes. The action of his mouth hesitates and there appears to be a piece missing from the soundtrack of his voice. When you shift your gaze to his eyes you find him emptily staring at you, almost like he has been waiting for your response. And he has.

“Y/N?” he calls, his lips quirking.

“Ah,” you snap yourself back into reality. “Sorry, what was that?”

Jimin becomes baffled, pink washing on his face as he shys away. “Nothing, were you too busy looking at my face?”

You turn your head towards the window and start to count the cars that drive by. You twiddle your thumbs on the surface edgy nerves excited. “No…”

“God,” he comments, “you’re so cute.”

The waiter comes back with two large mugs, the toasty pastries resting on tiny porcelain plates. He sets the tray down for you and Jimin and drops the check, quickly leaving the table as if he felt a disturbance between the date’s electricity. You pull the scone closer to you. “You’re lucky I forgot my wallet.”

“Actually,” he takes a sip of his drink, “I’m lucky because I’m with you.”

You roll your eyes at his shameless remark, interest in him rising as words race out of his mouth.

He clears his throat and wipes the outline of his lips with a napkin. “So what’s the fancy dress for?”

“Uh… Well,” you stammer. “My friend wants me to go back to the club with him on Saturday and he said I was underdressed; so, this happened.”

Jimin turns his head in debate. “Underdressed? You just wore a plain white tee and—”

He cuts his words off when you narrow your gaze at him, an indication that you are catching onto his drift. Right, you wore a plain white tee and stained leggings in a club full of overdressed individuals.

“Well, you still looked good. You look good right now.”

“In my sweatshirt and jeans?” You laugh. “I’m sitting across from a man who is in another linen suit, looking like he just came back from the biggest business meeting of the year.”

“It’s all casual wear!”

The “casual wear,” which Jimin modestly calls it, is his day to day look that consists of an extravagant suit, occasional diamond cufflinks if he feels on the top of the morning. The ornate man across from you is a polar opposite of your being; and somehow every single time you cross paths with him you are looking disheveled as ever. Being by Jimin’s side, you look like the definition of shabby.

“What I’m wearing right now is casual wear, if not then less,” you educate him, playful. “Have you ever went out in jeans and a plain tee in your life?”

“Yeah,” he takes a bite of the muffin, “when I was a child.”

“So you were normal when you were a child.”

Jimin slips out his wallet and tosses a flat twenty on the table; a fresh, crisp bill. “Rude, maybe you should take me out shopping so that I can buy ‘proper casual wear.’”

You set down your scone and swallow the remaining of your food. “Are you asking me on another date?” you ask, eccentric.

“Would you say yes if I did?”

You rest your chin in your hand, loving eyes scanning him. “Probably.”

“Then Y/N,” he takes a deep breath, nervous, “care to go on a ‘proper’ date with me sometime this week?”

You hum, the mere daydream of Jimin and you browsing through stores together making you giddy. “I’d be happy too.”

After a few hours of chatter and laughter, you and Jimin part at the coffee shop; it is not until you are halfway walking home for you to realize something.

You forgot to obtain his number again.

Two days without any contact with Jimin fly by; funny since the two of you have agreed to hit off on another date, but when? The past couple of days have been filled with complains and exciting news talking to Namjoon, both of you just as happy — equally infatuated. Namjoon has been screaming at you to accept Jimin’s modest “friendly gestures,” and that he is the man that even he has been waiting for.

Your friend pesters you to properly introduce Jimin to him for the sole purpose of gaining “friendly gestures.”

Oh how you two both starkly differ.

To put it in an unadorned way, you are entirely simple. Resplendence does not strike a chord within you, neither does dazzling stunts or a plethora of money stacks. Uniformed and set, you live by the same weekly routine of groggily trudging to work, serving tables with an artificial grin, and lounging at home the second you step foot into your apartment. The calls from Namjoon are always out of the blue though, but it is a great out for your standard routine.

Though as simple as your routine is, there are always those scintillas of instances that pull you to obscurity, disrupting your procedure; in this case, it is Jimin. The man who is the polar opposite of you from a first glance. The improvident suits, lavish personality to the core — it is funny how your two reverse worlds have collided.

And you wish for it to happen again.

—

You are passing by, yet another, draining day of work. From the mid-afternoon sun melting into the evening, hungry and querulous customers flood to and fro of the restaurant, keeping every worker occupied and stressing to the brink. Wednesdays are always like this: busy, rushed, and unpleasant. You would be considered lucky if a customer did not snap at you for half an engaged hour.

Though, as you complete the final of your hours your manager calls you over. “Can you take care of table forty-two? They haven’t had anyone tend to them for twenty minutes,” he asks, more of an order without averting his gaze from the seating screen.

“Ah, yeah sure,” you comply and tug onto the sleeves of your uniform, hoping that this final table will be the least of tolerable. Well, your hopes become shattered the moment you recognize who is lounging right at table forty-two: “Park Jimin?” you call, voice excessively lacing in dread.

Jimin hushes himself and rotates his body to face you until you are tapping on the surface of his and his friend’s table. “Y/N?” he sounds just as surprised as you. “You work here? This is Hoseok’s favorite restaurant.”

“Who?” you ask, but you glance at the being across from Jimin only to find a taller man with a sunshine smile across his face. “Oh.”

“This really is my favorite restaurant,” Hoseok comments. “I enjoy your burgers, but my friend seems to enjoy something else here.”

You shift your gaze to Jimin whose face flushes the deepest shade of roses, embarrassed by his friend’s comment but does not deny it. You take a deep breath and wave off his friend’s comment. “What would you guys like to order?” you inquire.

Hoseok skims the menu one last time. “I’ll take your Kobe beef with foie gras and gold leaves. Can the cheese be melted with champagne steam?”

“Yes—” you direct your full attention to Jimin who still feels torn on what to order— “what about you?”

“I’ll, um,” he stammers, “take the Wagyu beef burger with a foie gras patty and truffled sauce. Is it okay for us to order a Chateau Petrus wine?”

You lick your lips, hesitant about their order. “Sure, anything else?”

“We’ll both have your ‘haute chocolate,’ decorated with edible gold,” Hoseok chimes.

You nod your head and crack a smile, the last of your happiness tossed into the small action. “Got it.”

You sigh to yourself; of course they would order the most expensive items on the menu.

With that, you file in their order.

Hoseok leans in like he is about to bicker to Jimin about the gossip of the century, eyes scanning the perimeter before he opens his mouth. “Is that her?” Hoseok asks and jerks his head your direction.

Jimin cannot fight the bright grin that graces his face from the thought of you; wow, he never expected that you would look so cute in your uniform. “Yeah,” Jimin confirms. “So what?”

“That’s the girl you spent hours talking to the night you went to your club… She works?” Hoseok asks, almost too aghast to the point of dramatism.

“Um, yes.” Jimin nods.

“Here?” Hoseok confirms.

“Apparently so.” It doesn’t take long for Jimin to perceive the belittlement his companion holds within him. “Hey, don’t judge her.”

Hoseok leans back in his chair, smug. “I’m not judging, it’s just that I thought you would be with someone more… extravagant.”

“Extravagant?” Jimin repeats with a foolish smirk, head turning over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of you. “Her personality is the richest thing I have ever come across.”

Hoseok raises an eyebrow. “What makes you say that?”

“You’re going to laugh at me.”

“Like I don’t do that all the time anyway,” Hoseok decreeds.

Jimin turns face forward, more than ready to answer his friend’s question. “She doesn’t care about my money. Hoseok, she didn’t even know who I was when we met. Can you believe that? We had a normal conversation about life, family, friends—almost everything that doesn’t involve opulence. She talked to me, looked at me, like I was a normal person. I haven’t had that in a while.”

Hoseok hums, mind drifting away. “I see what you mean. I guess that can be sort of refreshing but how do you think she’s going to react once she finds out how grandeur you are?”

“I don’t think she’d mind,” Jimin comments. “She seems very understanding and I don’t think my wealth would throw her off.”

His friend tries to assess the situation, wondering what it is about you that Jimin is absolutely hooked on. Not once has Jimin appeared serious about any woman; after all, Jimin always invested himself in his work and lived quite a superficial life. “You should tell her rather than having her find out. We just ordered the most expensive meals on the menu and I’m sure you spoil her already. She might be understanding, but she doesn’t seem stupid.”

“We’re not dating,” Jimin argues.

“But you’re interested in her. I know how you get when you’re head over heels; you toss money like nothing.”

“As if I don’t do that now.”

Hoseok frowns. “Jimin.”

Jimin remains silent; maybe Hoseok has a point. “Things will go by smoothly,” Jimin assures, breezy.

“Fine,” he gives in, “I’ll believe you. Just don’t scare her off with your whole luxury lifestyle. Is the going to be the one accompanying you to my wedding?”

“Wedding?” Jimin hesitates.

Hoseok dramatically presses a palm to his forehead. “My wedding in a few months, I cannot believe you forgot about it.”

Jimin leans back in the chair. “I’m sorry!”

“That girl really intoxicates your mind, doesn’t she,” Hoseok jokes.

All Jimin does is smile. You serve their food within twenty minutes and they leisurely consume it, bubbly laughter exchanging between the two men after every petty joke. Whenever you walk through the section their table is in you cannot help but gawk at Jimin. How can a man look so resplendent without even trying? His teeth dazzle under the efflorescence, pairing perfectly with his glittering cufflinks. It does not take long for you to serve them dessert, then deliver their costly bill.

“Thank you for coming,” you say, appearance now disheveled from the busy night.

Hoseok nods. “Of course, we can’t wait to come back.”

“Come back?” you mumble to yourself. “Oh, of course,” you conclude with nervous laughter.

Jimin slips out his credit card, the same one he used to purchase your dress, and sends it to you. “I’ll take care of the bill, Hoseok.”

Again? This another one of his “friendly gestures,” modest once more.

They did not even take a second to look over their bill and you leave to complete the transaction. “What the heck,” you whisper to yourself.

When you return after two minutes Jimin’s friend appears to have left, no trace of him present at the dining table — oh, except for the darn ninety-eight dollar tip on the table. “Where’s your friend?” you ask as you give Jimin the check back.

“He said he had something to do,” Jimin says, nervous. His eyes look out the tinted window for a split second to eye Hoseok who slips into his car, flashing a thumbs up at Jimin.

Though, you catch that perfunctory gesture. “Sure he did.”

“Say,” Jimin smiles, “After you’re out of work would you care to catch a movie or go out on a night walk?”

You hum, lips pursing as you soar past jumbled clouds of thought. “Walking around here sounds good.”

“Great.” He props his chin in his hand, a lovesick gesture matching his hopeful stare. “When do you get off?”

You mirror the admiration that blossoms in his eyes back. “Ten minutes, so sit tight.”

“Will do.”

—

You meet Jimin outside in the front of the restaurant, a warm breeze kissing your skin under the temperate night. The skies are clear, not a single grey cloud veiling the sky to make the cosmos above visible as ever; stars twinkling and attempting to outshine one another.

“Glad to see you again.” He laughs and holds his hand out to shake.

You walk straight past him and start to stride down the sidewalk. “I keep running into you and every time I do I don’t look like my best.”

“I don’t mind that,” he surmises and catches up to your side. He scans your uniform: ivory polo shirt stained with marinara, a maroon tie, and onyx pants. Your whole attire would honestly be tossed together with the apron you had snug around your waist during your shift, but Jimin overpasses that. “You seem to look great in everything you wear.”

You blush under the golden lights of the street lamps, his words keeping you keen. You distinctively eye him top to bottom under the unobtrusive glow. “I can honestly say the same about you.”

He catches what you are trying to say, peering at his own outfit, chary. “Is it because every time you see me I’m wearing a suit?”

“Perhaps.”

As you amble down the sidewalk you end up walking into the scarlet metal gates of the city park, sitting on the edge of the circular center fountain. It rests right at the center, its water splashing against the marble with a soft gurgle. The moonlight reflects off the clear of the water, the contours of his features limpid. Silence surrounds you two aside from the melodic splashes of the water; an absolutely picturesque scene.

The scene alone appears like it is taken straight out of a painting, morphing itself into a bittersweet reality shared between you and Jimin alone. Strange, but it feels as if you two are the only beings occupying the entire universe late this night.

You hear a few rustles in Jimin’s pocket and direct your attention to him, watching his struggle to slip out something miniature. He clears his throat, nervous and face already flushing. It makes your heart flutter knowing how easily he gets flustered, almost like an embarrassed child. He takes a deep breath before speaking, “I was, uh, going to leave this on the table as I left but since you’re here with me I’ll just give it to you now.”

You tilt your head. “Give what?”

He slips out the customer copy of the tab from earlier, neatly folded like he prepared it for intricate origami. “This.”

You take it from his grasp carefully. “A folded receipt? From earlier, why?” You start to laugh, but your lighthearted belittlement becomes hushed when you unfold the glossy paper. There are numbers inked on the receipt that are most likely his own —  and you do your best to disregard the poorly drawn heart at the end of the last number. “You’re unbelievable.”

“What?” Jimin chuckles. “I didn’t think I’d see you again after tonight so I wanted to keep contact with you somehow.”

“What made you think I would call you anyway?” You ask with a tight coy smile.

Jimin shifts his gaze to the suede of his shoes, fighting the urge to lock eyes with yours. “Aren’t you interested in me?”

You laugh. “Now what makes you think that?”

“You’re with me now, are you not? We went on a date a few days ago, you know,” he points out easily, catching you off guard. Your face freezes when you realize how correct he is. If you are not interested in him to begin with, why are you here burning the night away with him? “Because I asked you.”

The answer is simple: “You might be right,” you reply in a lower voice.

You press your hands on the hard of the fountain and tilt your head to the aegean blanket that drapes the sky. With golden pins scattered throughout the silk like cosmea you find yourself searching for all sorts of twinkling patterns. Jimin turns his head to face you, mouth open to voice a spurred comment but his tongue runs dry the second he sees the shimmers reflect off your two orbs.

He is gawking at you like you are a newfound masterpiece — the eighth wonder of the world — and your beauty alone entrances him. There is something about the quirky curve of your candy-coated lips, your hair that looks like it is capable to hold stars as well, and the raw look of wonder. You angle your head to look at Jimin, hair falling to frame your face flawlessly.

His eyes still manage to shine like twin crescent moons; his expression striking, almost fox-like. You become like everyone else within a moment: stopping your actions just to stare at him and his lost stare. You notice his thick lashes, flecks of gold casting off his eyes.

“Wow,” he says like an asinine fool, “you’re so beautiful…”

Your lips gape at his compliment, pondering if you heard it correctly. Jimin just called you beautiful; in your stained uniform and tangled hair, semi-tired eyes, he still finds beauty within you.

“Sorry,” he laughs, “I thought aloud.”

You note, “Don’t worry. Hey, you seem like the one who is interested in me.”

“If I say yes at least I’m being honest,” he postulates, clever.

Jimin inches closer to you, sealing the comfortable distance of a gap and leans in slowly. You close your eyes, expecting an act of fondness, but he pulls something else: his mouth is right at your ear, the gallant petals of his lips ready to move to a command. You lower your head by an inch, intrigued by his unsaid words already and it keeps you on the edge of your seat.

“And I really am,” he whispers, careful.

You pull back from the statement, heat transmitting to your face along with hues of coral.

Jimin stands up and stretches. “We can continue this another time, how does tomorrow sound?”

Ready to seal the plan, you recall your schedule. Another arduous day of wiping tables and serving food resting ahead. “I have work tomorrow,” you inform with a sigh.

“I can wait for you until you’re finished,” he insists.

“I’m closing the restaurant this time.”

“At ten?”

“At twelve,” you correct.

Jimin bobs his head, understanding. “We can hang out before and then I can drop you off at work.”

“That would be creating you too much trouble,” you stand up and walk to his side, “let’s say we hang the day after, alright? You could see me properly dressed for once.”

“It’s no trouble at all, but that sounds good to me. Does that mean I should I come in a finer suit?”

“You’re fine just the way you are,” you wink.

Amidst the refreshing moment, the stars are beginning to align to each other’s pleasure, pinpointing the mark of a new story — your story, and how it is just getting started.

Friday seems to soar by quicker than you thought, the mere daydream of Jimin picking you up from your apartment for a day-long date rising butterflies in your stomach. The fuzzy feeling beneath your skin will not go away, anticipation filling you to the brink of elation. Finally, you can look decent next to Jimin in your simple skater dress, favorite pair of sandals to pull the outfit together.

You smile at yourself in the mirror for one last check on your outfit, tossing your hair around a couple of times to appear pristine. Your phone rings on your desk, most likely Jimin calling you to let you know he is outside of your apartment complex. With a bob of assurance, you grab your phone and head out the door. “Hello?” you answer.

“Hey,” Jimin greets; you can almost hear his grin through the phone. “I’m here but I don’t really know where to go. Do I exit my car to get you?”

“No, it’s okay. I’m walking to the front.” When you reach the entrance of the apartment complex your eyes search the area for him, or any vestige of him. All you end up finding is rows of the same silly vehicles. “I don’t see you anywhere.”

He hums. “Try walking past the gates, I couldn’t go past those,” he advises.

And so you do. You rush your way past the gates of the apartment complex, head turning all sorts of ways in search of him but all you see is a small gathering of people wreathing around a certain object — a vehicle. You press your lips into a tight line, allowing the benefit of the doubt to surface. There is no way he is in that car, you tell yourself, no way.

As you near the heavy chatter of the people you slip yourself into the circle around the car, becoming just as stunned from the lean, immaculate vehicle. The car itself looks like a combination of art and advanced technical innovations, painted the perfect shade of red and lined with glittering black. The car itself looks like it would idle at sixty miles per hour, basking in the sun and placing other vehicles to shame on the road.

The windows are rolled down, but there is no one in the driver’s seat — the spotless leather appearing new. You sigh, relieved at the fact that Jimin is not resting in the vehicle waiting for you. “Hello?” he asks on the other line, noticing your episode of silence.

“Ah, sorry,” you fret, “I got distracted. There’s some spectacle going on out here.”

“Do you see me?” he asks.

You turn your head again: nothing. “No…? I—”

Your words at cut short when you feel a weight on your shoulder, turning you to face the person and it just so happens to be Jimin with a bright grin sticking onto his face. He slips his phone into his pocket when he hangs up the call, welcoming you with a bob of his dead and ecstatic expression.

“Jimin,” you call, embarrassed. “What the heck? Where’s your car?” You then take notice of how casual he is dressed: pink button up, sleeves rolled above his elbows, and black jeans — you can easily tell he purchased a new outfit just for the occasion. “You seemed to dress down for this date.”

“What do you mean ‘where’?” he replies, pointing to the attraction behind you. “It’s right here. And yes, I did. I tried to find something not as fancy.”

You twist on your heel to look at the car, Jimin waltzing to the passenger side and opening the door for you like a princess. You facepalm, the gossip from the crowd arising. “Oh my god.” Rather than wasting time drowning in the set scene, you enter the sports car with your head hanging low, a wave of sheepishness washing over you.

Jimin paces to the driver’s side and quickly joins your side, shoving the keys into the ignition and twisting it to earn a purr from the engine. “Why, is something wrong? I noticed that you dressed up—funny, I dressed down.”

The mini mass of watchers begin to disperse when Jimin starts to drive, one of the last things you hear being, “Isn’t that Park Jimin?”

You break out a forced chuckle. “Yeah, I noticed. You ‘dressing down’ still looks great though.”

Jimin’s eyes remain fixated on the road, one hand on the wheel while the other rests on the center console. “Thanks,” he responds. He then intricately weaves the vehicle past the junctions like a shuffled deck of cards, without fail the two of you reach the same shopping outlets again within twenty minutes on the dot.

It is early afternoon when he parks his car perfectly at the curb, already causing a scene just by exiting the vehicle. He runs to the opposite side, rubbing his clammy palms together before swinging open the exit for you. He extends his arm, holding out his palm for you to latch onto; and so you do.

Under the water-like sunshine that drops down to kiss your skin you and Jimin walk down the sidewalk to the main entrance of the outlets. There is nothing but still silence between you two, awkward tension rising unlike all the other instances before. Why is it so hard to talk to him all of a sudden?

You are about to stride past a jewelry store far too expensive for your taste until Jimin latches onto your wrist, tugging you back to his side as he window shops the adornment on display: a pink princess diamond necklace on a delicate silver chain, too thin and it looks like it can snap with the smallest movement.

“What?” you ask him, attention elsewhere.

He points past the thick glass. “I think that necklace would look great with your dress.”

You blink twice and peer at your black skater dress — plain as it is without any jewelry to stand out. “I think I’m fine,” you comment. “That necklace seems to cost more than someone’s existence.”

Jimin squints and tugs you by his side again when you try to slide away. “It says… seventeen thousand dollars.”

You choke on nothing but air, the whopping number startling you. “S-seventeen thousand?”

“Yeah,” Jimin confirms, already taking a step inside the store, “Not bad if you ask me.”

“Jimin—”

But he already dives himself in his impulses. You stand outside while he roams with the rosy brocade walled store, his eyes scanning the bijou, fine trinkets while he waits for the woman to carry out his request. You roll off the balls of your feet, gaze making shapes out of the few clouds that shield the sun’s rays. And within five minutes, which is far more quicker than you imagined, he comes out with a luxury black box.

You are speechless when he opens it before you, the very necklace that rested on the display now sitting in the soft pillow of the box. He holds it out, the gem catching the sun and twinkling it into tiny fragments. “I told you it would look great with your dress, turn around,” he orders.

“I didn’t ask for this, Jimin,” you comment while doing as he says.

“But you looked like you wanted it,” he replies, witty.

You sigh. “I never said I did.”

“But you looked like you did.” He wraps the thin chain around your neck, hooking the two ends together and fixing your hair once it rests snug. The expensive stone rests right below the middle of your collarbones, complementing your entire appearance like the necklace is made for you. He turns you back around, a grin brighter than the diamond itself sheening on his face. “And you look amazing with it. Shall we continue on with our date?”

Jimin holds his hand out for you again, awaiting for you to grab onto it like he is accompanying you to a formal party, and, reluctant, you do.

The two of you parade the outlets, entering every other store if something on a mannequin enraptures his attention, which is when you two would walk out empty handed. But when Jimin notices you gawking at an item, whether it is faux or natural, he would purchase it for you within a heartbeat; despite how much you beg him not to. One by one the bags start to pile up, Jimin’s name already being spread around the shopping outlets like wildfire from the amount of treasuries he is purchasing.

People stop to stare at, not only Jimin that struts the cracking sidewalks, but towards you as well. With bags flooding each other’s arm it is as if you and Jimin are ripped straight from a dramatic movie — as shopaholics.

Jimin sure enjoys pampering you, indulging you in his own riches that you still have no clue how it is obtained; he is tossing his money around like nothing, just as you predicted. But you do not enjoy it, in fact you are growing bored at the seams. At the least you expected a normal date, not a whole afternoon dedicated to excessive swipes of a credit card and bags upon bags dangling on both your arms. He shops in designer stores, hidden labels — the opposite of you and your casual street wear. It feels incredibly outlandish when you trek alongside him into a store that is the definition of opulence, far too ostentatious.

Though, this is the base line of Jimin’s behavior and you are slowly starting to realize that.

“Jimin,” you stop him from treading into another sumptuous store, “can we stop for a second?”

You peer over his shoulder and he observes that acton, gaze tossing over his shoulder to see what you are gawking at. “Yes, do you want something in here too?”

“No,” you detest, “I sort of just want to relax now, and can you quit buying me stuff? I don’t know how I’m going to pay you back for this.”

“Y/N,” he sighs, “I told you that you don’t have to pay me back.”

You pout. “I have to, I feel guilty. I don’t really need all of this stuff anyway; like when am I ever going to use a sheer floral scarf.”

“For summer—”

“—I don’t even wear these. Aren’t scarves supposed to keep people warm? Why would I wear one in summer? I only said the pattern was nice.”

Jimin shrugs, dumbfounded. “Hang it on your wall or something.”

“Jimin,” you sigh, “come on, let’s keep things simple.” You place a hand on his shoulder as if the action alone will clear his head of his prosperous, moneyed thoughts. “I don’t need you to buy me things.”

“Are you not happy?” he asks, sadness sailing in.

You smile at him. “I am, like you said, your presence is enough for me. So I don’t need all of this fancy stuff or shopping sprees. I do appreciate the thought, but I don’t need it—want it.”

Jimin thinks for a second; maybe channeling every cent of his earnings isn’t the way to win your heart, and he has the definition of gracious wrong in his book.

“Hey, I should get to work,” you tell him after checking the time. “Can you drive me home so I can change into my uniform real quick then drop me off at the restaurant? If it isn’t too much trouble.”

He bobs his head. “Never too much trouble.”

You and Jimin start to pace to his vehicle on the opposite side of the outlets, stride quicker than usual so you can get away from the area of grandeur. It has been enough splendor and spending for your day — and you hit your turning point with the amount of stares being tossed at you latching onto Jimin’s arm, some passersby snapping blurred pictures to preserve the moment. God, is Jimin really some celebrity?

When you enter the car you feel more at home than ever, ready for the day to end as if your long shift at work is not awaiting you already. “Why does everyone stare at you whenever you go out?” you ask, rapid and nervous while he starts up the engine.

Jimin leans back in his seat, reluctant to respond. His anxiousness dawns on him, excessive thoughts of wondering swirling in his mind like a raging whirlwind. What would you think of him when you find out? Would things change just as Hoseok warned him?

“I’m not sure,” he fibs right through his teeth, an enforced smile ghosting on his face. “Maybe you’re that good looking.”

“But this isn’t about me,” you comment while he begins to drive. “Are you some underground celebrity or something?” you ask with an airy laugh, false humor weaving into your tone.

Jimin cannot help but cackle at your question when he leisurely drives on the road. “I’m not a celebrity. I mean I guess my name is out there, but that’s about it.”

You hum, studying his words, and check the time again, realization hitting you like a freight train that you will be late for work — again. “Shit, Jimin can you speed up a bit? I might be late.”

“Speed up?” he asks for confirmation, foot pressing harder on the pedal.

“Yes, but don’t be reckless. My friend Namjoon tried to make a green light over the weekend and I felt like I was going to travel through space and time.”

Jimin chuckles and places his palm over your own, reaching over the center console to ease you of your worries. “You’re funny,” he comments. “And don’t worry, I’m not reckless.”

The drive back to your apartment complex is not simulated with easy conversation, but rather with the trendy tunes that emit from his car radio. As much as you attempt to immerse yourself in the cage of music scores you cannot help but ponder why Jimin continuously beats around the bush.

You reach your apartment the same time you are supposed to clock in for work, resulting in you dashing into your flat for a quick change and trotting back to the vehicle — a literal race with the time that you have already lost. Jimin tries to take you to the restaurant as quick as he can but as fast as he goes, the result will still be the same: your manager will probably be fuming once his eyes meet yours.

You bid Jimin goodbye with a flash of your twinkling smile along with the shopping bags that coop in his trunk. Before he can even voice his parting you have already slammed the door and soared into the restaurant like a frantic tornado.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” you tell your manager as you clock in.

“You look like you had a fun time,” he comments, bitter and jerking his head towards the window where Jimin’s vehicle is slowly leaving the lot.

You sigh. “I’m sorry.”

Your manager sucks in his breath through gritted teeth, not allowing his anger to uncap itself in front of surrounding patrons. Rather than lashing out onto you he carries on with his own duty, ordering you to talk to him during break.

As if the rest of the day could not wither to hell any more majority of the customers you deal with appear to have their own problems channeling out onto you as well, causing your day to feel more dragged down and increasing the weight on your shoulders. Hell, one of the hungry patrons even complained for ten minutes straight for having the wrong sauce on his dish; then, without a doubt, went straight for your manager. And during your break, his cap flies off.

Every minute during work is utterly dreadful, busy, and pressuring. So the moment the clock strikes twelve, you are out the door.

You come back to your apartment with two unread texts from Jimin, both concerning your day at work and when you reply with an “it went fine,” the supreme way of making you feel better in his book is to send a picture of a necklace he bought you — just then, with a following text of him hoping you feel better.

As if it would do anything.

You begin to work on Saturdays, a couple of hours only but it is still tiresome events to add onto your week — to squeeze into your schedule. And it takes more time for you to unwind at the comfort of your apartment, the time that you could be using to waste with Jimin. Dates are now kept at a minimum, you not willing to go out in public with him due to all the uncomfortable stares and his impulsive splurges of money to “make you happy,” when all it does is add to the heavy weight on your shoulders.

This new routine continues for a solid two months, encouraging texts from both Jimin and Namjoon that motivate you to push through the weeks, and some superlative texts from Jimin encouraging another date. And with enough endless pestering that Namjoon is nonpareil to, the new routine comes to a standstill.

So, after two months and a half without a proper date with Jimin out in public, you doll yourself up after work. You slip on the dress Jimin bought you from your second encounter with him, never sailing to the chance to try it on since you never returned to Namjoon’s heaven, which is the nightclub downtown. It feels strange having such an extravagant piece of peerless clothing adorn you; you haven’t dressed up nicely in a while.

And for once, when Jimin picks you up in his black sports car, you feel like you finally have a place in his paragon world.

“Ready to go?” he asks, looking splendid as he is dressed to impress.

You smile. “Go where?”

“Wherever you want,” he comments and starts to slowly drive on the road, allowing time to pass for you to make a decision.

“Hm, I haven’t been to the club in a while…” you trail off. Jimin raises an eyebrow to your statement, already catching onto your drift. “Let’s say we go back to the nightclub, we’re both dressed and we can relive that night.”

Jimin laughs, driving past the entrance to the freeway that leads to downtown. “I’d rather not.”

You furrow your brows together; for once he does not want to do something for you, especially when you asked. “Why not?”

Jimin turns the knob of the car radio, slowly increasing the volume when he turns the corner. “I’d rather keep, um, work away from me when I’m with you.”

Your eyes flare wide like blown glass. “What? Work?” you ask, wondering if you heard his statement correctly.

Jimin slightly nods. “Yes, work.”

“You work at the nightclub?” you confirm, but he quickly shakes his head.

“No, I—” Jimin sighs, his fear before breaking the news already washing upon him— “I sort of own that club.”

“Wha—”

“—and a whole bunch of others,” he continues.

“Wait,” you rotate your whole body towards him, leaning over the center console to study him and his words, “are you serious? You own that club—a whole chain of clubs? That’s what you have been keeping from me?”

The color starts to flagrantly drain from his face, his body slumping in the passenger seat while being afraid to merely glance at you. “Are you mad?”

“Why would I be mad?” you question. “I’m sort of disappointed that you didn’t tell me earlier. Gee, that explains where all the money comes from—and how the free drinks just kept on coming along that night.”

Jimin chuckles, nervous. “Sorry, do you still want to go to the club?”

“God, you’re unbelievable,” you comment with a smirk. “But no, I suppose not. I don’t want to trouble you or anything—and maybe we might run into Namjoon there. He has been bugging me to introduce you to him for ages.”

“Is Namjoon the one intrested in one of my showgirls?” Jimin inquires.

You tug on the hem of your dress. “Yeah, how’d you know?”

“She bickers to me about him all the time.”

“I can relate to that,” you jest. “So where do you want to go?”

Jimin turns another corner and waits at the stoplight. “How does dinner sound? I saw a new restaurant when I was driving to your place, it looks pretty good to me.”

“Oh god,” you sigh, “is it the one with the outer roman architecture? And the entrance is lined with some gold. You could see the platinum chandelier through their door and it’s brighter than the necklace you bought me.”

Jimin releases a fit of chortles. “Do you want a brighter necklace? I think some new diamonds are coming in stock for—”

“—Jimin,” you call, tone stiff as a reminder.

“Right,” he huffs, “simple. Got it.”

“Thanks.” You stare at his features for a good few seconds, his eyes glued onto the scarlet stop light. His fingertips tap to the beat of the background music on the wheel, full awareness that you are gawking at him like you are in a cinema. It doesn’t take long for you to shut the gap and peck a kiss on his cheek — a brief, light action but it is more than enough to drive him crazy. You pull yourself back upright in the passenger seat, fixing your hair while looking in the car mirror like normal.

Just when he is about to comment, his mouth is left hanging open when the light flickers green, almost washing away his words. “T-thanks,” he says instead, ears flushing a bright pink.

—

When you and Jimin arrive at the restaurant already stealing glances, you both unintentionally create a spectacle of yourselves just by striding inside and asking for a table for two. As often as people stop to stare at Jimin, and you in some occasions, you can never get used to the feeling — even if you know why now. God, how could you have been so blind to Jimin being at the top of all successful nightclubs in the country?

Once you and Jimin are seated the first question he breaks is, “How was work?”

You cast your gaze down onto the menu, pretending to scan the various options. “Same as always.”

“Could be better?”

“Yeah,” you confirm, “it really could. I don’t really spend a lot of time with you anymore.”

He opens the menu, velvet of the cover kissing his fingertips. “You’re spending time with me right now.”

“But it isn’t the same,” you detest. “I kind of wish we can have more dates.”

Jimin voices his assurances and closes the menu, already aware of what he wants. “Then we can try to. I sort of want more of your company as well.”

“We can make that work—or we can try to.”

Jimin hums. “We can start soon. You know when I’d really love your company?”

“When?” you ask with a cock of your eyebrow.

“In four and a half months.”

You freeze, taking a moment to process the time. “Four months? Why so long from now?”

“Uh, well…” Jimin trails off, eyes locking with yours in sheer intent. “My friend’s wedding is in four months and I would love to have you accompany me.”

You expression turns ice, unsure of what to think of the sudden proposal. This whole inquiry is cryptic. “Why me?”

Jimin shys away, eyes crinkling into a smile. “Because why would I want someone else? I like you and your company.”

“But I’m not like you.”

Jimin remains silent at your comment. Blinking twice, he reaches for your hand across the table. “I enjoy you for who you are, please believe that. And I would love to have you accompany to my friend’s wedding.”

You sigh, not enough of a positive reaction for Jimin to see. “Who is your friend?”

“Hoseok,” he informs. “The one from the restaurant.”

“I don’t have a dress,” you tell him, uninterested.

He grips onto your palm. “I can take care of that.”

“Makeup?”

“I can also take care of it.”

You crack a smirk. “Are you a hidden makeup artist? Another one of your hidden talents?”

Jimin laughs. “No, unless you want to go out looking like a painting a child did.”

You nod your head, accepting his proposal. “I’ll accompany you.”

In that very moment Jimin’s eyes gained a dozen stars, shining brighter than the crystal chandelier in the middle of the restaurant. “Thank you.”

The waiter fluidly makes her way towards your table, forced smile decorating her face as she asks what you both would like for dinner. Everything that occurs afterwards is a blur until you both are on the way leaving the restaurant. Dinner has been resplendent, exquisite meals filling up your stomachs but you still crave for dessert.

“Why didn’t you order their golden sprinkled ice cream in the restaurant?” Jimin asks and takes your hand in his.

“Because,” you begin, “I know where the best ice cream in the world is.”

“Uh,” Jimin thinks to himself, “Paris? We can fly there if you—”

“—Jimin, no.” You roll your eyes. “There’s an ice cream parlor uptown next to my local supermarket.”

“Ice cream parlor?” he says, distaste dousing his tone. “You really could have just ordered it at the restaurant.”

“No, it has the best ice cream by far, trust me on this.” He unlocks his car with a beep and you slide right in.

“Alright,” he enters as well, ready to drive, “but if I don’t like it you owe me.”

“I owe you a lot already,” you jest.

—

Jimin parks on the outskirt of the plaza, right beneath a fluorescent street lamp to avoid gaining a mass of people at the lot. Excitement pulses through your veins; when was the last time you got your favorite ice cream anyway? You haven’t treated yourself out in a while, and you can finally reunite with your favorite flavor.

When you latch onto Jimin’s hand you are practically dragging him on the concrete to get to the ice cream shop like it will close the second you step foot inside. Jimin has the best view, watching your animated self sail its way to the store, baffled at how the thought of dessert can fuel your being so much.

Once you arrive to the ice cream store, a retro feel around it and 80s music filling the air, you guide Jimin to the display. “I recommend their s'mores flavor, or pistachio,” you comment, pointing on the glass. Within the display is like endless stacks of flavors, unique to plain within the best creamery.

Jimin chuckles. “You look like a child.”

“Hey,” you huff, “I haven’t had this in a while, let me live.”

“I’ll treat you tonight—”

“—no,” you interject, “I got this. I remembered to bring my wallet this time.”

All he can do is shake his head and watch you order three scoops, intention to share with him. After you pay for the dessert you hand it to him, eyes of wonder waiting for him to take a bite. “I don’t know… It’s sort of—” Jimin peers at the colorful dessert, but you take the miniature spoon in hand and give him a taste of the mix of flavors; immediately, it dances on his tongue, perfect cool tingle erupting.

“Good?” you ask.

Jimin seems taken back, grin instantly forming on his face. “Surprisingly, yeah.”

You lean on the black marble counter, colorful tiles of the retro parlor causing you joy. “It’s cheap,” you comment, “but delicious. If you ‘flew to Paris’ your ice cream would have costed hundreds of dollars for the same amount, but it wouldn’t beat this.”

Jimin gives into your words, gaining a new impression. “Well I should still fly to Paris with you one day.”

“Maybe,” you respond with a singsong voice.

After you and Jimin devour the creamery the two of you exit the parlor hand in hand, bright smiles on each other’s faces from pointless stories and petty jokes.

Street lamps illuminate the dark of the area, constructing another perfect scene that can be ripped from a masterpiece. The streets are vast, not that many people bustling to and fro and it provides a soft sentiment of peace.

You and Jimin then are walking down the yellow-glowing sidewalk, striding past the supermarket until the outdoor florist’s booth in front of the supermarket catches your eye. Underneath the moonlight and artificial luminescence each petal of every variation of flowers still display their unique radiance. You cease your pace, eyes unable to avert from the glorious attraction and you find yourself mindlessly walking towards it, Jimin’s presence slipping from your thoughts.

You crouch to look at the blossoms that are displayed on the bottom shelf, white lily petals glowing under the ivory moonbeams. Next to the lilies are a whole bundle of fresh chicories and crimson jasmines. The entire booth is festooned with colorful flowers like vibrant frozen flames. You carefully take one of the lily’s petals in your fingertips, petals curling at the edges and cold touch meeting your skin. They have been freshly watered, the beauty willing to everlast for a few more weeks.

Its sweet fragrance is homelike; delicate blooms holding their own wonder. You hear Jimin’s light footsteps approach you with care. “Why are you so interested in flowers?” he wonders. Jimin is about to ask you if you would like a bouquet of them, but stops himself, keeping your words in mind. Right, you aren’t fond of him constantly buying you things — maybe these flowers are a part of that group, as much as you appear to want them.

The thin, delicate works of art blossoms a smile upon your lips like a bud sprouting in spring time. “I haven’t passed by here in a while and last time the flowers were not this beautiful,” you respond and lift yourself up. “Aren’t they?” You look at him with hopeful eyes, a part of you finally aching for Jimin to insist on buying you a bundle — two if he is feeling generous.

“Ah, I guess.” He diverts his attention back to the sidewalk, tapping his foot to the concrete like he has somewhere better to be.

Your expression freezes, eyes no longer bright when you notice his disposition. “Are you busy? Do you have to get home?”

“No,” he interjects, “I just, well, there are better flowers I’ve seen if you would like them. And it would be placed in a nice crystal vase.”

Your smile dwindles, sadness sprouting in your chest. “I guess.”

“Come,” he urges and takes your hand, “your apartment is near, isn’t it? We can continue this walk and—”

“—you can drive me home.” You begin to amble to his vehicle, refusing to glance over your shoulder towards Jimin. Maybe you don’t need the flowers; if you do you can purchase them on your own time in the future.

“I- Alright…” Jimin jingles his keys in his hand while making way to the car, not bothering to open the door for you. “Is everything okay? Is your stomach hurting? Was the ice cream too much?” he asks while on the road.

You turn up the volume to the radio; engaging in conversation is the last you want right now.

“Y/N?” he persists.

“Yeah,” you huff, “I’m fine.”

Jimin sighs. “I know you’re not. Did I say something wrong?”

You bite your tongue to hold back your negative comment, vexation creeping onto you. “No, I’m just tired.”

“Did you want the flowers?” Jimin lets out, body already stiffening at the reply that doesn’t escape your mouth yet.

You turn you head towards him, unable to believe that he actually noticed. “I did.”

“I can buy you better ones,” he declares.

You remain silent.

It isn’t that you are upset from him not purchasing you a simple bouquet of lilies or carnations at the stand. It is because of the closed world of riches and preeminent he lives in, and refuses to pull himself out of — he just cannot view things on your side, the simple side.

And it appears to be very problematic.

“Y/N?” he says your name again, voice lower.

“It’s fine,” you tell him with a soft smirk, but the lie could not have been more limpid. “Jimin, do you find it—me being this way—bothersome to you?”

Jimin drives to the gate of your apartment complex and stops the car, not daring to meet your gaze. “Being what way?”

“Simple, not wanting to be spoiled. How I don’t like fancy dates and shopping excessively—all of that.”

“No, why?”

Your eyebrows cross together. “Because it seems like it. Every time we go out you always want to go to a fancy restaurant or shop. You always end up spending your money on things for me that I don’t even use or wear, and I know it sort of bothers you. Sorry I’m not into jewels over twenty-four karats or fancy dresses—it just isn’t me. Do you have a problem with that?”

Jimin sucks in his breath, grip tightening around the wheel to the point his knuckles drain white. “I don’t.”

“Don’t lie to me.” You lean back in the passenger seat, attention now out the window.

“I’m not lying, Y/N,” he persists.

“Jimin.”

“I’m not!” he blurts out, tone swirling with spite like his tongue is dripping with poison. You flinch at his words, his sudden defense catching you off guard.

His voice alone keyed the silence, stirring a hurricane between you two. No words are exchanged for a short while, almost like the aftermath of a thundershock. It is strange to see Jimin lash, for he never really expressed much emotion aside gaiety and excitement. It is almost like you have stricken his weak spot; then again, you are his weak point.

“I-I’m sorry…” he stammers, cowering in his seat.

It takes a while for you to voice your assurance; you take another moment for his fury to simmer. “It’s alright. I think I should go.”

“Y/N, wait.”

You place your palm on the door, ready to push it open but he tugs you back by your other wrist.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats again. “I hope you can listen to me and trust what I’ll say to you right now.” He waits for you to whisper yes, or at least nod your head before venturing on. “I like you for who you are, I really do. You’re simple, plain in the best way, and I find that incredible and different as ironic as it is. It’s an out of my standstill of a life, to have someone like you in my world. You’re different, you don’t approach me for my money or beg for me to buy you things—especially since you have become aware of my affluent status. I really appreciate that, but at the same time…

“I cannot help but spoil you with things that you seem to like. I feel like these gestures would make you happy, knowing that I buy things for you thinking about you but all it does is make you upset with me. So I tried to stop, which is why I didn’t impulsively buy those flowers back at the supermarket. But if you really do want them I’ll drive back and purchase their whole stock—their whole garden. I’ll buy you some ice cream again too.

“I’m not trying to shift you into my world, I’m trying to keep you happy while you’re with me because I-”

Jimin cuts himself off, face already becoming hot from his unsaid words.

“Because I’m kind of just scared to lose you.”

Your lips part, eyes flare wide, and you are rendered speechless. His words effortlessly aimed at you like an easy target, and they won you over.

He ends his words from the heart, “You’re so beautiful, different, and I’m just scared I won’t have you.”

Having insight behind Jimin’s actions startles you, but within your body there is nothing but relief and passion blossoming.

Jimin hangs his head low, elbow resting on the center console. His bottom lip is quivering like he is a vulnerable mess, waiting for you to facilitate the situation. You place your hand at the nape of his neck and lean towards the middle of the vehicle as well, forehead touching his own to prompt him to meet gazes with you.

He raises his head a little, eyes glossy while yours is holding the universe. There is a stare that enounces the quietude, and the silly car radio’s tunes wither into nothing but white noise. All that is present is the melody of each other’s heartbeats racing against each other.

Your lips hold the lyrics to the silent melody, but you utter something else, “You have me, Jimin.”

He smiles at you, eyes forming two half moons and perfect craters for dimples.

“You have me,” you whisper again, eyes closing.

He feels the blanket of your lashes when you lean in, the fine hairs tickling his cheeks.

Between your lips rests three words that hold an entire future, and both of you are aware of it. It causes a bittersweet longing to erupt in his chest. You lightly mumble them against his mouth, breath mingling on the plump petals, but the statement comes out incomprehensible — a silent promise on edge.

All Jimin can do is smile and close the last of the proximity shared, replacing his three words with an action that speaks louder than the evident confession alone. You smirk into the kiss, diving into the lovely sensation — and the final match gains its spark.

The dance of each other’s lips is coquettish, a step closer to an amorous invitation as his palms sail to every crevasse of your body, arms tangling around your waist to tug you closer; if only that darn center console isn’t in the way, he would be exploring every inch of your body.

He pulls apart to inhale a shallow breath. “Thank you,” he mumbles.

“Mm, for what?” you hum.

“For being you.”

Jimin crashes his lips against yours before you even have the chance to reply, your mind being sent into a magnificent daze that holds him in your thoughts. His gentle touches on your body are tantalizing, acting with wonder, and you take a quick breath, murmuring his name.

You cup his cheeks in your hands, setting off another electrifying kiss, and all of a sudden the world seems to melt away.

Your relationship with Jimin is a whole great wave of emotions as time transitions into the next season, from guilt to affection — love to raw happiness — and both of you could not have been happier. Four months pass of mutual admiration, taking time out of each other’s hectic schedules for a date that can be as simple as going out for coffee. The immoderate shopping sprees have toned themselves down, Jimin taking care and caution to what he purchases for you, and surprisingly himself.

His closet practically revamped: more plain street wear invading his wardrobe, almost matching with you every single date, but never wearing the same outfit twice.

Jimin waltzed into your life like a hurricane, to be honest. He stirred your thoughts and emotions in the best and worst ways, but in the end he is also the calm after the storm. Jimin’s habits still remained intact, well he gives into his impulses whenever you are feeling down from work by purchasing you a basket of snacks or a plain tee, each always coming hand in hand with a small letter.

Though, as mannerly as the stunt is, it is never one you can become accustomed to. Because whenever your head is underneath stormy clouds you search for Jimin to lift your spirits, not his treasures to dress your way into artificial happiness.

Besides, you and Jimin confessed it: “your presence itself is enough.”

—

When you get off from work you find Jimin leaning against his sports car looking entirely smug and waiting for you. The crowd of people that are a comfortable distance surrounding him and the vehicle do not appear to disturb him anymore — not cause the slightest feeling of inconvenience. Not the way it does for you.

“Y/N!” he calls your name with a bright grin while doing a small wave.

“Jimin,” you say as you approach him. He snakes his arm around your waist and pulls you into a kiss, several photos being taken during the midst. No surprise here, tabloids and online articles have been blasting through the media about Jimin, the illustrious owner of the best club chain, and his new girlfriend. “You look good,” you continue as you briefly examine his outfit. “But you always do.”

“Thanks, I’m still wearing the same thing though.” He grasps around the handle, ready to open the door but you look at him, lost.

“It doesn’t seem like you’re wearing the same thing,” you comment. “You don’t even wear the same outfit twice.”

Jimin chuckles and swings open the door. “Yeah,” he assures. “You gave it to me.”

“I did?” You give his outfit another scan, every article is different down to the accessories. “I don’t see anything that’s the same.”

He urges you inside and comments, “I’ve been wearing the same smile you gave me ever since we first met.”

Filling with delight, your cheeks burn hot and surface a deep rose hue. Jimin closes the door once you are situated in the vehicle and gives a final wave to the strangers that surrounded him, then joins you inside.

“So, margaritas at my house? They’ll taste better than the ones at the club,” he jests.

“I don’t really want margaritas but I can still come over,” you respond with a wink.

“Sounds fine to me. I just realized,” he begins and starts up the engine, “It’s your first time coming over to my house. Two days before the wedding too.”

You tilt your head. “Is that bad?”

“No,” he responds, rapid. “I just thought you would have came over sooner.”

“Well I’m coming over now,” you tell him with a quick kiss.

Jimin beams. “And I’m happy. Just, uh…”

You stare at him, waiting for him to finish his sentence. “Jimin?”

“Nothing,” he shakes his head, “you’ll just see.”

Your eyebrows cross together and you lean in the passenger seat. “Okay…”

—

You have not the slightest clue on what your boyfriend has been edging on; that is, until you start to near his neighborhood that is immensely grand. Placed next to the notorious botanic gardens downtown is a hidden neighborhood that is sealed off by golden gates. Gargantuan trees tower over the road the closer the vehicle nears the entrance, six flower bushes guiding the way under the set sun. Your eyes widen when you reach the gate, mouth agape but no words spilling from how thunderstruck you are from the scenery.

Once the gates open, it feels as if the gates of heaven have been placed on earth. If it isn’t for the mass foliage and Jimin guiding the area, knowing the curved road like the back of his hand, you would have never spotted the entrance. Jimin continues to drive up the hill, the peak of it making it the best place to watch the sun rise and set. All you hear is the muted sound of his vehicle driving over the gravel, rolling over the pebbles until you see his house in the distance — no, it is more of a miniature kingdom in your eyes.

“Holy fuck,” you mumble.

Jimin tenses at your comment, anxious to what you are thinking. He parks his car next to the other untouched European sports vehicles, hesitating to exit. “So,” he laughs, nervous. “I know it isn’t simple or anything, but this is my house.”

“Jimin,” you take a deep breath, “your ‘house’ is huge.”

“A-ah,” he sputters, “I guess. My parents got it for me when I moved here.”

“Where are your parents?” you ask, already theorizing on their whereabouts.

Jimin exits the car. “Busy traveling and such, they’re making their own money too, you know.” He smiles at you, a false shield for his sadness and you see right through it.

But you know better than to carry on past it. “I see.” You shut the door to his car and follow him up the stairs past the two snow-white roman pillars. There are no cameras, no flashing lights — no people surrounding him and gawking at his good looks or treasures — yet being with him feels incredibly outlandish, almost like Jimin is from a completely different world from you.

And he truly is.

When you walk into Jimin’s “modern house” the floors are a creamed marble, glass coffee table right in front of the ivory sofa similar to the one at his nightclub. There is a whole hall dedicated to floor-to-ceiling mirrors, and a dozen of doors as if you are stuck in a labyrinthine. It smells like the perfect balance of vanilla and lavender, not too strong or feint.

“The bedroom is this way,” he informs.

You follow him past the gargantuan hall and into his palatial bedroom, a bed fit for a king resting right in the center with perfect symmetry of decorations on either side. “I’m assuming you want me to stay the night?” you ask.

“Maybe,” he shrugs and grabs your hand, leading you to his bed. He takes a seat on the soft of his luxurious mattress and looks up to you lovingly. “Do you want to?”

“No margaritas?”

“You said you didn’t want any.” He smirks.

Then, before you can bow your head he tugs you down to him, both bodies falling onto the plush mattress with laughs pouring from each other’s lips. He places a soft kiss on your forehead, trailing down onto your nose before uniting with your mouth.

“I’m fine staying like this all night,” you comment, voice like a whisper.

Jimin places wraps his arm around your waist and tugs you closer to him, mouth grazing over the invitation. “So am I.”

The night with Jimin has been filled with nothing but chaste pleasure, silly jests and brief talks about the future effortlessly pouring from each other’s lips like you both have had far too much to drink. You talked to him about Hoseok’s wedding, how you have been getting nervous jitters thinking about it since the day you found out — it is not in your sphere. And just like always, he assured your worries.

That is actually how he wakes you up the following morning, when you drifted into a deep sleep in the midst of him finally opening about his family life.

“Did you sleep well?” he asks while handing you a cup of coffee. Jimin is already dressed — gracefully clad in another suit and hair already tended with. He looks the same as the night you have first met: extravagant suit and opulent overview.

You take a sip of the drink and smile, a homelike feeling washing over you. “Yeah, sort of wish I slept for a couple more hours though.”

“Why?” he asks. “We need to go out and buy you a dress today for the wedding tomorrow. I don’t know why we waited until the last minute.”

“God,” you complain, “can I at least eat breakfast first?”

“After you get dressed.”

“But I didn’t bring any clothes.”

Jimin steps to the side, revealing a woman that is equally dressed as Jimin in terms of spectacular. Jimin gives you a thumbs up. “She’ll doll you up for the day, I’ll be in the living room once you’re done. My chefs are preparing you a breakfast.”

“She’s going to… what? Wait, and chefs? Jimin—”

But he already shuts the door, shutting out your protests as well.

“I don’t want this…” you mumble, hands tugging onto the velvety sheets.

You smile at the woman who has a variety of dresses on a rack waiting for you to rummage to. They are just as striking as the ones in the store from when you ran into Jimin for the second time, only in this case you can choose whatever you want without worrying about the price — no matter how dramatic or splendid the apparel is.

As you rummage through the racks the lady begins working her magic onto your hair, styling it to paragon. You choose out the most simple dress out of the entire rack, to nobody’s surprise, and it still looks like you are about to strut down a red carpet at a premier event.

The dress is a muted scarlet, embellishments around the neckline and it hugs your body nicely, cutting off right above your knees. After your struggle with slipping on the dress the woman starts to work on your makeup, more layers than what you have ever tossed on in your life and you are really starting to become unable to recognize who you are. She slips on nude flats for your comfort, straying away from the painful heels, and you thank her.

When you exit Jimin’s bedroom and reunite with him at the wide kitchen, he is speechless at your appearance, and you are unsure if it is a positive thing. “Um,” you begin, “this is sort of weird.”

Jimin takes a bit of time to take in your outstanding image; he has never seen you so dressed up before, and he cannot dare to imagine what you will look like tomorrow. “You look stunning,” he comments.

You swallow your breath. “You made me look stunning,” you comment and take a seat, words stinging like poison. “I thought we’re only going shopping for a dress.”

“We are,” he pushes a plate full of pancakes to you, “I just wanted to dress up with you.”

“You dress up everyday,” you shoot back.

Jimin ignores it. “I can’t wait to go out with you. God, you are so beautiful.”

“But this isn’t me,” you mumble before taking a bite of the hotcakes. Unexpectedly, they are bland.

Jimin gapes at you, completely intoxicated.

But by you or your appearance?

—

Within an hour Jimin and you roam the outlets like a pair of movie stars, thick as thieves to other’s eyes, and you already feel the short articles being constructed. Both of you stride past the jewelry store where he has purchased you the silly necklace that you have only wore, at most, four times.

Jimin pauses again and you immediately know what is soaring through his mind. “Jimin—”

“—I think that a charm bracelet would look great with you dress right now. You can wear it at the wedding tomorrow,” he comments, excited.

“But Jimin,” you stop him from entering, “I don’t want it.”

“I do,” he blurts out with a smile. “You’ll look more amazing.”

Confusion washes over your face; it is almost as if Jimin has withered to the same person he was when you first met him. A reckless, impulsive rich man who tosses money around for the sake of it. You frown, wondering if he has already forgotten the words you constantly repeat to him like a mantra — how you enjoy simple things and not that much luxury. Heck, the outfit you are wearing today is enough opulence for you.

Jimin rushes out in four minutes time, like the only thing he did was swipe his credit card and take the box. He hands it to you with a smile, waiting for you to open the thin velvet. You sigh and accept his “present,” hesitant, only to find a charm bracelet with two diamond encrusted letters hanging on the rose-gold chain.

“‘J’ for Jimin, and the other letter is for your name,” he informs, excited.

“God,” you whisper behind a smile, unable to fight the blush that comes across his light flattery. “You’re unbelievable.”

He puts it around your left wrist, and takes your hand in his, guiding you to all sorts of dress stores for the perfect wedding apparel. “You’re going to a wedding with people like me,” he directs, “so you need to dress like them.”

He leads you into a palatial boutique, arrays of gowns waiting for you to try them on. Blossoms rest on the white shelves of purses and heels, ranging from hibiscus to camellias. There is more detail within a single store than there will ever be in your apartment — more splendors than ever.

After getting help from a sea of workers who only approached you because of Jimin, you finally found the perfect dress: a high-collar white dress, lace forming the apple style drapes like serpentine waterfalls. Trying it on feels foreign to you, it is a dress that costs more than what you make in a year, fabric a thousand times more exquisite than the muted scarlet you picked out in Jimin’s mansion.

You slowly twirl in front of the mirror in the fitting room, feeling like you are a princess ripped straight from a fairy tale. And when you step out to ask Jimin for his opinion, it is his turn to be speechless from your appearance.

“God,” he places his hands on your waist, loving the touch of fabric, “you’re so gorgeous and you will outshine everyone at that wedding.”

“Even the bride herself?” you joke.

“Possibly,” he says with a kiss.

Though his assurances feel as faux as leather on cheap wallets.

It gets you thinking; does Jimin really like you for who you are? Is being simple a burden to him to the point he is trying to shift your lifestyle? All you are reading from his recent actions is how he is attempting to mold you into an affluent life that you never had a place in — his world that you never once stepped in.

He purchases your dress, and this time you keep your complaints at bay.

—

The date you had in mind while dress shopping never occurred, and he drives you to his house again right afterwards, aching to give you a tour of his palatial home as if you are about to room with him. He shows you the maze within his garden, the wine cellar — everything to satisfy you, but nothing does.

And when he notices that, you, slumping in the firm of his couch, he presents you with another present: another necklace he purchased while obtaining the charm bracelet.

“Do you like it?” he questions.

“Yeah,” you sigh, “I like everything you get me, remember?”

“Great, I—”

“—But I don’t need them.”

Jimin’s smile dwindles, lost for words. “I-I see. Well, the wedding is tomorrow and I think it would look great with the dress I bought you today.”

“Of course you’d think that,” you mumble. “I’m going to the restroom.”

Jimin watches you storm out of the living room, nothing but your perfume left lingering in the air. The moment you step foot into his restroom, the gold decor and pure white marble mocks you. You head over to the sink and splash your face with water, gently scrubbing onto your skin to get every ounce of makeup off — every fraction that is not you to wash away.

It takes minimal effort, but finally you have returned. Your own skin, your own attire — you feel like yourself again. You are slumping against the bathroom door, contemplating if being with Jimin truly is the best idea for you or not, and the thought of leaving him pains your heart, sharp.

There are a couple of knocks on the door, shattering your clouds of reverie. “Y/N?” Jimin calls. “Are you still there?”

“Yeah,” you croak, aggressively running a hand through your disheveled hair.

“Is everything alright?”

At that very moment you wanted to scream at him for everything he is doing wrong: for displaying you a dress, for purchasing you everything, for giving you his world, but you voice the opposite, “Yeah, I’m just trying to fix the zipper on the dress.”

Jimin catches the way your voice cracks through the door, a broken sound he thought he would never hear. You splay your fingers to cover your eyes with a single hand, the other hand gripping onto the scarlet apparel. “A-are you sure? You’ve been in there for a while.”

“Yeah,” you let out a shaky laugh, hoping it is enough assurance, “I need to spend time to wash the  makeup off too.”

Jimin’s heart itself cracks. There is only his door that is standing between you and him, but it feels like there is a thousand yards that separate you and his heart. “Is there anything that I can do to make you feel better?”

“Jimin, I said I’m fine.”

“I can buy your flowers right now, would that make you feel better?”

You grit your teeth. “Jimin, I need to focus.”

“I’ll go buy you some of your favorite ice cream instead.”

“Jimin—”

“—I’ll come back in a bit, okay?”

With that, he is off. You hear his quick footsteps get farther away from the door — the door that you didn’t even lock. You start to cry, the situation overwhelming.

And Jimin is not here to comfort you, pat your back, or do anything of the sort to make you feel better. Rather than physically being here with you, sharing your pain and ridding of it, he is the one causing it and his money-filled mind believes that the source of your problem will solve it.

When Jimin returns back to his mansion with six roses neatly bundled in a compact ribbon, purchased from his personal florist at the west, and a tub of your favorite ice cream you are asleep on the couch, dressed in one of his comfortable sweaters and a fleece blanket barely draping on your body.

Your face is puffy, tears still at the corners of your eyes, and all Jimin can do is sit there, unsure.

Your dreams feel like they have only lasted for a split second, and the next day — wedding day — soars quickly. Jimin greets you with a smile, his front up and guard high, “Good morning. Ready for breakfast?”

“I’m not hungry,” you comment, groggy.

Jimin looks past your puffy eyes, ignoring the visible sadness that is written on your face. “Breakfast is still important, at least eat one of my pastries.”

“I’ll just freshen up for the wedding first, is that okay?”

Jimin freezes. “Yes, your dress is in the restroom. Shower is available and when you’re done the same woman from yesterday will be ready to do your hair and makeup in my bedroom.”

You nod your head and scurry to the bathroom. You tell yourself to get dressed, get your makeup and hair done, then let the day go at its own pace. Just one more day, you tell yourself, I can make it through today.

At least that is what you wish.

Everything is determined by this day.

The drive to the wedding is closer than what you would have ever expected from Hoseok. You thought it would be on a private island on the other side of the world, maybe even a beach resort, but all you are informed of is the fact that it is at a simple, small and private park a few more miles downtown.

Though, your definition of small surely is different than theirs. You find a red carpet leading to the entrance, pillars at the front of the park entrance hall and hundreds of people there just to watch the spectacle. Jimin tosses his keys to the valet when he steps out, opening the door for you and allowing you to latch onto his arm as some cameras flash. Jimin leans to your ear, eyeing the sea of people. “Have I ever mentioned that Hoseok is a worldwide model, getting married to the daughter of the economy’s backbone?”

Your eyes widen at the new information, everything getting its own explanation within an instant. “No, but you should have told me that earlier. How is this even ‘private’?”

“Uh,” he shrugs and starts to pull you to the elephantine gates, the arranged roses decorating the area with towering trees. “only two hundred of us can attend? The party after the ceremony is also in this park, this sounds amazing.”

“Jimin—”

“—Jimin!” exclaims Hoseok. “Glad you’re here. And Y/N, hello.”

The two boastful men complement each other like it is a competition; you never imagined how superficial their relationship truly is in front of others. Everyone’s dressed equally to you, if not then more prosperously. The purest of gold adorn women’s necks and wrists, dresses imported from every corner of the world being shown off and flaunted. Some men and women walk past you and Jimin, leonine as ever, and laughing at how someone like you is with a successful man like Park Jimin.

“Isn’t that the girl who works at a restaurant?” bickers one of the women with a glass of wine.

“I heard that Jimin bought her drinks at his club because she couldn’t afford it.” Her friend laughs, obnoxious.

The grip around Jimin’s arm tightens, anxiousness dawning at you at their comment. You know better than anyone than to stir a heated scene within their universe — especially at a wedding.

Jimin looks at you, eyes soothing your worries and kisses your forehead. “Don’t worry, everything will start in a bit.”

A whole hour is spent by you latching onto Jimin’s arm like a pretty doll, the most of conversation initiated with you is “hello” and “goodbye.”

Then, everything falls into place.

Everyone has taken their seats underneath the soft sun, the orchestra playing the set refrain, and bridesmaids begin to enter with their elegant chiffon pink dresses. They each have a seafoam green pearled bundle of flowers in hand, walking in perfect motions down the aisle. Being on both sides of the aisle, they raise their flowers to the air and create an arch.

Hoseok’s soon-to-be wife makes an appearance behind the rose bushes, her dress truly the most outstanding one of the night. She walks down the aisle, joining Hoseok who has never looked more handsome, and smiles. It feels a bit strange not knowing who they are completely, all you can do is watch, grip onto your boyfriend’s hand, and immerse yourself in the live music.

She reaches the altar, a bright, genuine grin on her face as the ceremony truly begins.

All you can find yourself to do is watch.

Oh, and listen to the loud whispers of the people behind your seats caring more about the fact that someone as plain as you is dating Park Jimin.

As the ceremony ends, applause rippling throughout everybody and calm cheers, everyone disperses themselves within the setup wonders of the park.

The orchestra plays more lively music, still appearing elegant and proper, and waiters sail to attendees that ache for more food. Jimin greets those he hasn’t, eyes all around the park and not on you. In fact, the last he really bothered to initiate a conversation was right before the ceremony; now, you really are nothing more but arm candy. Oh, and a simple person that other attendees can belittle. The gossip just never ceases from women who only parade their wealth and men that boast where their imported suit is from.

This day is going by slower than you imagined, and all you are feeling is dread — aching for the day to be over. You let yourself off Jimin’s arm, needing time to yourself so you weave past the decor and crowd to catch a small bite.

But the time you take to yourself comes to an end when two new faces approach you just to gossip.

“I heard that Jimin’s girlfriend isn’t even new-money,” says one of the women.

“Really?” Her friend takes a slice of cheesecake, intention to only take a single bite then scrap it. “Is that why she looks so… plain?”

You grab onto a plate of marbled cheesecake and start to walk away from the scene, comments be held within your throat.

“Just like her dress,” she laughs. “She seems like the only one in a lace gown that isn’t made this year by a known designer.”

“Hey,” her friends chimes, “but she’ll take what Jimin can get her.”

You move to the middle of the lawn, not that many people around and those who are only crave to snap pictures to place on postcards. God, you really wish this day can end. The sun is starting to dip in the distance, a gorgeous sight with the grand park. Thankfully, you see Jimin nearby with Hoseok and his friends.

You approach him, hesitant and tired, eyes beginning to droop from sadness and being drained.

“Jimin,” you tap onto his shoulder then tug onto his sleeve until he turns to face you, a flute of champagne in his hand. “Take me home.”

“What?” he asks and swirls the glass. “Why?”

“I want to go home, please,” you beg.

Jimin blinks, trying to focus his attention on you but finds it difficult with his friends boring their eyes into the back of his skull. “Y/N, the party only has two hours left. Can you wait?”

“God,” you spit out and twist on your heel, ready to walk away, “nevermind. Go enjoy yourself.”

“I’ll call you later,” he comments as you storm through the crowd, laughter and gossip spreading throughout the park.

“Please don’t,” you mumble. You slip your phone out of your clutch, dialing Namjoon’s number. “Joon,” you utter, “where are you right now?”

“Uh,” he hesitates, “with my new girlfriend. Why? Is everything okay?”

You exit the park, tears glossing your eyes as you slump your shoulders. “No, can you come get me, please?”

Namjoon moves his head away from the line to talk to his girlfriend, and you can hear the conversation flow smoothly about how he is telling her it is an emergency with you. If Namjoon can prioritize you over anything, why cannot Jimin? The very thought of that makes you feel like a fool for ever thinking you can fit into his grand sphere.

“Joon?”

“You’re at Hoseok’s wedding, right?” he asks.

You take a deep breath. “Yes, how do you know?”

“My girl just told me and gave me the address of the place, I’ll be there in ten.”

“You’re that close?” you question.

Namjoon shrugs. “No, but I’ll speed through. I promise I’ll make all the green lights to be there for you.”

You smile to yourself; ready to unwind in front of your friend.

—

Namjoon’s expression drops when he sees the venue, flashing lights and a perfect red velvet carpet splayed out on the sidewalk. But sadness overtakes him entirely when he sees how absolutely miserable you look. “Y/N…” he prompts you into his car and you bury your face into your palms.

“I’m not going to date a stupid rich boy again,” you spit out.

Namjoon chuckles and starts to drive. “Tell me what happened.”

And so you do.

Everything that has built from the past few months finally comes out: how Jimin is an impulsive spender, his love for spoiling you as much as you tell him not to, especially how he thinks money can solve all your problems. Jimin is not simple; Jimin is not from your world, and both of you guys should have never crossed paths to begin with.

You finally realize that.

Perhaps Jimin wanted to ease you into his world of money, mold you into what makes him the happiness. He is nothing that you thought he would have been, at the very least you expected him to accept you the way he promised.

“I’m going to punch him,” Namjoon spits out.

“Joon!” you exclaim. “Please don’t.”

“Does he think his money can block my hit? That his Gucci shades can block the shade that I will throw at him?”

You burst out laughing at that statement, Namjoon instantly calming his nerves.

“See,” he sighs, “when was the last time he made you laugh like that?”

You remain silent, having trouble painting that thought into your mind. Namjoon is correct.

“Y/N, I know I told you to go get this guy but I really do regret my words. I thought he’d make you happy and all but here you are. Crying—because of his money. It should be the other way around! You should be crying for his money. God, you had an actual sugar daddy in your life. Do you know how many girls would kill to me in your position? He owns the best nightclubs in town!

“But, that doesn’t matter. He made you upset and I don’t want to stand for it. You are more than just someone he can use to doll up and call for arm candy.”

The quietude is stagnant in his car after he rants, his words sinking into your mind. “You’re right,” you pout, “I guess I had high hopes for him.”

“Why?”

You shrug. “I don’t know, I just did, Joon. Love works in strange ways.”

Namjoon eyes the green light and starts to press harder on the pedal. “Love? If it’s love then it will work out.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The things people love always find a way back to them, and things will work out if both sides ‘love.’”

You slump in the comfy seats, hands gripping onto the edge as Namjoon gains speed by the second to make the light. “We’re from two different worlds Namjoon. We’re completely different.”

The light flickers yellow. “It doesn’t matter how different two people are; love is love, it will always ensue if the feeling is mutual.”

The last thing you see from the stoplight is a flash of vermillion in the midst of the yellow light.

“I told you I would make it!” Namjoon exclaims with a bright grin, unaware of the depth of his previous words. He pulls up to the front of your apartment, high and mighty from the mini accomplishment. “Now go get out of my car!”

You laugh and swing open the door. “Going back to your girl?”

“I’m ready to get a show, if that’s what you mean,” he jests. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

You nod your head and within seconds, he is off.

There is a gust of cold air that hits your skin before you enter your apartment, the long fabric of your dress swaying in the wind. It cools your nerves, practically calming the flame that Jimin sparked inside of you but not putting it out.

Maybe it will work, just maybe.

You and Jimin do not communicate for four days after the wedding. Pictures of you and him attending flood social media, spreading around like wildfire how the “power couple” is ready to own the world.

Your universe feels back to normal: silent, calm, random calls from Namjoon to just yell at you about the fun he is having. Oh, and, of course, dreadful work.

You are ready to dash to the restaurant in your uniform, freshly washed and smelling like plain detergent and not expensive perfume; that is, until there are two knocks on your apartment door. You hesitate, fearing to open the door in low hopes of it being Jimin, but you see a man in a white polo and khaki shorts at the door.

He is holding a crystal vase of red roses, petals looking lush as velvet and bits of dew still adorning the leaves. “Delivery for Y/N,” he says ands places it in your hands.

“I didn’t order roses though,” you tell him.

The man looks at the receipt and back at you, tipping his hat. “It’s a present.”

“From where?”

The man glances at the receipt again. “Those are roses important from the Italy botanic gardens, they’re from a man named… Park Jimin.”

With that, the man leaves.

You walk back to the comfort of your cozy kitchen and get a strong urge to toss the vase into the trash, not wanting anything to do with Jimin for the time being. Hell, you even shoved the dress in the depths of your closet and stored the jewelry in an old shoebox. Instead, you gently put the crystal on the counter and stride out your door.

You cannot be late for work.

-

Either the customers have been docile for the day or you cannot draw yourself to care about the angry remarks made towards the employees. Your movements are sluggish, desultory, mind still plaguing with the aching thought of Jimin. You have been placed at a crossroads ever since that night, Namjoon’s words pointing to both ways yet you still cannot make the choice. Would it be better for you to get out of his rich world? To stray away from every inch of imposing spoils?

You need all the time in the world to decide, but the more time that passes the deeper the wound becomes; recovery is better than a deeper lesion.

But the moment, after six arduous hours of serving and cleaning tables, it feels like a huge strike when you see Jimin leaning against his car, clad in a suit, waiting for you to talk. There is another miniature crowd around him, pictures being snapped and all you want to do is run. But your feet remain rooted at the concrete.

“Y/N,” he calls. “Can we talk?”

You look around for any sort of sign — there is none, and you nod your head, ready for the prolonged confrontation. “At your place?”

“If that’s what you want.”

You both enter his vehicle in silence, quietude the only present factor. There is no muffled car radio, no petty laughter or awkward eye contact — only silence and anticipation.

When Jimin opens the door for you his gaze is casted downwards, like meeting your eyes will set him ablaze. “How was the wedding?” he asks.

“Fine,” you respond, sour as you take a seat on the sofa.

“I-I was worried about you when you left like that,” he admits, hand scratching the back of his neck.

You roll your eyes and cross your ankles. “Why didn’t you come after me then?”

“I-you were mad at me, were you not?”

“I was disappointed, but I became angry at how you chose your champagne with friends over me,” you spit out.

Jimin sits on the couch perpendicular to yours, wordless. It is almost like everything that leaves your mouth will stir a hurricane, no hope for the situation uplifting. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “It was my friend’s wedding, I couldn’t just—” Jimin stops himself when he sees the frown that is plastered on your face, disappointed— “I’m sorry.”

“I am too.”

Jimin twidles his thumbs together, nervous and pondering if you are about to scream an ordeal of the night. “W-why?”

You fists ball into the hem of your shirt, frustration finally filled to the brim. “For thinking that this could work.”

“What?” Jimin’s eyes blow wide, scared to hear your clarification.

“For thinking we could work.”

“Y/N—”

“—Jimin, stop.” You take a deep breath, calming your nerves to not release your storm. “You and I are from two completely different spheres. I thought I would be able to deal with it the way I have from when I first met you, but I feel like nothing more but arm candy when I go out with you, especially lately. You have been dressing me up, putting makeup on me, and taking me out on these ‘dates’ that are literally broadcasted everywhere.

“Our relationship lacks the personal factor—lacks the factor where you should care about me. All I get from you is clothes, jewelry, and all the stuff I don’t need. The things that I don’t ask for but you still purchase for me as if I cannot live without it. Jimin, I don’t need it and I never will.”

Jimin buries his face into his palms, allowing your anger to strike him like a train. Maybe this time your point is finally getting across to him, but now it is already too late and he is all too aware of it. “I’m sorry…” he trails off, unable for formulate anything more.

“I know you are,” you continue, “but you are every single time this happens and nothing changed. Jimin, nothing will change.”

As Jimin is the one to spark your match, he is also the one who has put it out. He rests on the edge of the lounge, scared to hear the words that have been resting on the tip of your tongue since the night of the wedding ball.

“I think we should end this.”

“Y/N,” he blurts, but nothing else is said. Jimin tries his best to search for the right words in his jumbled mind, but the best he can come up with is, “I’m sorry.”

You force out a smile amidst the tears that well at your eyes, disbelief washing over you and his insincere tone. This is the last you need; the final talk with Jimin, you cannot handle it right now. You feel absolutely drained, tired from it all: his lifestyle.

“Listen, I really had no idea how much this bothered you. I always thought you felt better when I bought you—”

“—that’s the thing, Jimin,” you distastefully interject. “You always think you can make me feel better with money.”

He swallows his breath, unsure of what to say. “Do I not?”

“No!” you exclaim. “I don’t care about your money, what you buy me—none of that! I care about you, and when I’m upset I need you and not whatever stupid jewelry you want to buy me.”

Jimin is rendered speechless, incoming breath steady and cautious, almost as if any sudden noises can set you off within a heartbeat. It breaks his heart to see you this way; all your built-up frustration finally unleashing itself within one night, all caused by him.

“Jimin,” you say in a softer voice, raising from the seat and start to amble out the room, “I’m not used to your lifestyle, this whole luxury life is not me and you don’t understand that.”

“I can try to understand it,” he pleads, hand soaring to grip onto your own and stopping your pace.

You snap out of his grasp, not wanting to face any form of contact with him much longer. “But it won’t be enough. You tried, but it was never enough and I don’t want to deal with this anymore.”

His eyes widen, fear overtaking every fiber of his being as he prepares himself for your incoming words, no surprise arising. “I never meant to hurt you… I just wanted to make you happy.”

You sigh and start to make your way to his front door. “I know.”

He twists on his heel to face you, afraid to watch you go. “Then why are you leaving us behind?”

“Because as much as you try, you will never change.”

And just like that, you are out his door without a single glance tossed back to him.

You start to amble your way to the nearest bus stop, no longer able to fight the incoming tears. Is this the toll you take for falling in love with someone like him? For having the false belief that he would open their eyes to the truth that he has been dangerously blind to? What a fool you are; believing that he would try to accept your lifestyle the way you attempted to accept his.

Jimin stares at his elephantine front door, the slam of your departure swirling with your scornful words replaying in his mind like a record player. How could he have been so dumb? Everything he tried to do to make you happy only caused you pain in the end — and he was oblivious to it all.

Maybe you are right, you are far too different than him and he has to let you go.

Regret weighs on him like never before.

He has no one else to be angry with but himself. How could he be so foolish with the woman that he loves? He should have listened to your words the moment you pestered him, but he could not help but spoil. He could not think that buying you items that everyone else would love would cause you a plethora of distress.

And because he has chosen to see things in his world and not your own, he lost you.

You expected effort. You thought he would try to see things from your sphere the way you attempted to ease your way into his own, but no good has arrived. The spoil was nice sometimes, but mostly problematic. There has always been a blindside to him that you cannot accept. Therefore, the better choice is to cut him off.

But why does it hurt so much?

Is it love? No, because everything that is love will make its way back to you, just how Namjoon advised.

And in this case, he is not making his way back to you.

You fight every urge to call him; he faces a mild war in his thoughts to chase after you, and everything remains the same.

Your routine goes back to its original: no sudden outliers to meet up with Jimin, days spent at work and nights used to recover from long and stressful days. Namjoon stops by a few times out of the week with a bucket of your favorite ice cream and spends time with you roaming the television and mindlessly watching shows with you while bickering about everything that is not romance.

Jimin feels as if there is a piece missing in his life. He decides that retail therapy is the best, but it only drained him further from exerting effort for items that he now sees useless, thanks to you. There is no belittling comment of him splurging his money, you begging him to place silly apparel back on the racks. Meals have not been more lonely since you have left. His nights haven’t been complete without a silly phone call from you, even if it was for two minutes. Jimin struggles with easing back into his old routine, his vivacious clubs still successful and gaining all the positive attention but it does not fix him at all.

His world slipped away the night of the first kiss, but now everything is out of his grasp. As he suspects, it is something that money cannot fix.

So, more regret dawns on him for an entire week.

Your match might have been put out by Jimin and his recklessness, but Jimin’s is still barely flaring and that is enough for him to head out his door early afternoon, after endless hours of laying in his bed dwelling in sadness, to head to your apartment.

God, how he does not want to lose you for good.

Jimin presses his foot on the gas pedal, carving past the streets to drive uptown and making a couple of quick stops here and there.

You finally feel a still in your life after that arduous night, zero contact with Jimin erupted. Finally done with fixing your hair at the mirror, you stare at yourself for a quick second and flash a bright smile at your reflection. Right, this is good. Your plain, simple schedule is good. Empty, but you can adjust.

You slip on your shoes and rest your hand on the doorknob of your front door, twisting it as you latch onto your bag. Then, you hesitate, unsure of what to think of the scene before you.

Jimin’s back is facing you, bouquet in hand and nervous paces in front of your apartment as he whispers himself rehearses of what he is preparing himself to say to you and you cannot help but feel warm. When he twists his pace his eyes shoot wide open, startled that you are standing there in front of him.

It feels like months since he has seen you — shit, he forgot the words he prepared for this moment. He places his hands behind his back, bouquet now hidden by his body, and approaches you.

“Jimin?” you call, dumbfounded to why he is standing at your door. God, it feels like ages since you have seen him and his angelic features and the mere sight of his physique makes your bottom lip quiver. “What are you doing here?”

He hangs his head low takes a deep breath before opening his mouth to speak, afraid that his incoming words will not be enough for you to even take into consideration.

“Well? I have to get to work.”

“Y/N,” he sighs and raises himself, eyes looking straight through your own with a determined flame hazing his two orbs. “I’m sorry.”

Your eyes widen, taken back by what he has said. You take a moment to yourself, pondering if you have heard them correctly. “You’re… what?”

“Sorry,” he repeats. “I’m sorry for not trying hard enough for you, for pressing on my lifestyle and riches and disturbing your own. I didn’t mean for it to end like that and I feel horrible knowing that I tried to make you adjust into something that you are not comfortable with, so I’m sorry.”

Silence is shared between you two as your eyes begin to gloss, an overwhelming feeling of relief waving upon you from seeing him again after the heated quarrel. “Jimin… I’m sorry as well.”

He smiles, nervous. “It’s fine. It was all my fault.”

And just when you are about to voice another apology, he moves his hands from behind and shows off a small bouquet of red roses to you. There are no silver tinsels, no crystal vase with a ribbon festooning it — just a plain, simple bouquet from the supermarket downtown.

“I got these for you on the way here,” he confesses. “I remembered how much you adored them while you took me into the supermarket, and I guess they’re beautiful and simple—like you.”

You accept his present and rest the bouquet in your palms, a gentle smile blossoming on your face.

“And I also planned a date for us today to make up for my, um, behavior.” He scratches the back of his neck, fearing what you will think of his offer.

You raise an eyebrow, skeptical. “What did you plan?”

“Um,” he hesitates, gaze fixating to his feet, “I read online that picnic dates are simple—and you like simple—so I planned for us to go on one together at the nearby park. If that’s okay, of course.”

Your lips part, impressed at his effort, and you have to say that it easily wins you over. You hug the roses as you press a few questions in regards to his surprise date. “Are you going to be driving your luxury car?”

“What?” Jimin tilts his head to face you. “Uh, no.”

“Is the meal going to be some five-star finger foods from an international chef?”

Jimin laughs, finally catching onto what your ploy. “Nope, I tried to make sandwiches though, they might be just as good.”

You chuckle. “Is there going to be a live violinist playing in the background?”

“Nope,” he says, proud.

“That’s a shame,” you comment with your lips pursing into a pout.

A hint of the color in Jimin’s face drains, expression niche for a split second like he has committed a heinous act. “I- do you want there to be?” Jimin frantically slips out his phone, ready to dial another number. “I can call one up right now—”

“—I’m joking,” you assure. The corner of your lips quirk up into a playful smirk, giving the image of the date some brief thought. “Maybe this could work.”

Jimin shakes his head in realization, slipping his phone back into his pocket. “I know it will.”

You close the proximity between you two with a loving embrace, the homelike scent of his musk welcoming you like his open arms. You can feel his heart thud against his ribcage maniacally, ecstaticism flowing through his veins from having you in his embrace. Out of all the riches, all the treasures, he has his most valuable one back in his life — he has you back in his life, and he has no intention of letting go again.

You pull away from his chest and tilt your head to gawk at him. He inches closer, ready to lightly press his lips against your own but you move back. His eyebrows cross together, unsure of what you are doing, and you grin.

“After the date,” you graciously add, “mind if I buy you a drink?”

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