#gonna get We Are Not Seven With You tattooed onto my fucking heart

[lilithgrax]

Seeing In Color

Summary: Jungkook decides karate is better than boxing and takes you to Dragon’s Gate, where you meet the Boy With the Dragon Tattoo.

Pairings: Yoongi/Reader

Rating: PG; swearing

Warnings: Swearing

Author’s Note: Interlude

You can find this work on my Ao3 as well at Lillith_Grax.

One - Two - Three - Four - Five - Six - Seven - Eight

You collapse forward onto his chest, body gone completely limp from the orgasm and the alcohol. His chest rises and falls deeply beneath you, his mouth open and sucking in air like a beached fish. For a few minutes you both lay there chest to chest in the quiet, bass pumping in the distance from others' music, feeling each other's heart rate gradually slow down again. Every inch of skin on your body tingles.

"Y/n." He whispers.

Yoongi sounds like he's about to fall asleep. You hesitate to pick your head up from his shoulder, embarrassed. What would he think of a woman who'll dry hump a man to orgasm the first day they go out together? You try to put the thoughts from your mind when you remember that he was the one who pulled you into this room in the first place. You squint in the dim light and let your eyes adjust. Yoongi is looking at you with half lidded eyes, his forehead and neck sparkling with drying sweat, hands running soothingly up your sides. "I hate to sound like a Debbie Downer", he continues, voice soft, still catching his breath. "But we should probably get out of here before anyone comes in this room and finds us, right?" He gives you that lopsided smile and you can't help but smile back.

The two of you sneak out of the karaoke room and round the corner, near the bathroom. He corners you in the same spot Jungkook had you cornered earlier, when you were having your crying fit. You feel oddly protected, surrounded by Yoongi's warmth. You fish your phone out of your purse and there's three messages:

<Jungkook>: Are you okay? Where did you two go? <Jungkook>: Don't tell me you're fucking, you little devil <Jungkook>: I'm gonna assume by your silence that Yoongi's balls deep in you right now

A fit of giggles comes out of you and you feel Yoongi step even closer into your space. He's looking at you with eyes that seem apologetic and your heart sinks.

"So, I'm going to be honest with you right now y/n." Your heart sinks even further into the pit of your stomach. This is it, he's going to say this was a mistake and he never wants to see me again. Don't cry, y/n. You knew this was going to happen. He leans his head down to you so nobody else can hear.

"I'm feeling pretty gross right now, with cum drying in my underwear and all. So… I really don't want to go back inside like this." His eyes meet yours and he looks embarrassed, biting his bottom lip. "You wanna bail?"

"Like, leave them here?" You blink back at him. He laughs.

"It's not like we're their ride or anything." His face falls and you see his adam's apple bob when he swallows. "Unless you want to stay and have more fun, you know, you don't have to leave if you don't want to."

"No, no!" You're quick to correct him, not wanting him to jump to any wrong conclusions. "Let's get out of here."

Yoongi's smile is beaming. "Wanna go for a walk to sober up a little?"

You text Jungkook back and tell him what's going on. He sends you back a series of devil emojis but nothing else. You can't help but smile to yourself and feel the warmth spreading in your chest- Jungkook really is your biggest cheerleader. Yoongi is walking beside you with his hands in his pockets, but he keeps sneaking glances at you and you wonder if he's just keeping his hands to himself to be polite.

"I thought you said you wanted to go home because you were, um, dirty? Aren't you uncomfortable?"

He bites his bottom lip and you swoon. "I am, but I don't want to say goodbye just yet."

You walk a little longer in comfortable silence, both of you being tipsy causing you to bump shoulders. He looks at you every time it happens and you can tell he has something to say and he's not saying it. He keeps his hands in his pockets and you see him fiddling; trying to unstick his underwear from himself, no doubt. When you get to a crosswalk, he grabs you and pulls you against the corner building.

"Y/n," Yoongi starts, swallowing thickly. "I'm gonna go home. But it's not because I want to, I mean-"

He lets out a frustrated breath and swipes a hand through his shining hair. When he looks at you, his face is flushed pink from the drinking and he just looks beautiful. The panic starts to simmer up from your stomach; but you tamp it down, replaying the events that just occurred over in your head. Yoongi initiated this, he wouldn't leave me high and dry right now. Calm down, y/n.

"I don't want to fuck after we've been drinking either. I mean, if you ever wanted to do that with me. What I'm saying is, it'd be inappropriate to invite you to my place or whatever right now, right?"

You nod, stifling a giggle at his ranting. Yoongi takes another deep breath and steels his jaw, thinking about what he's going to say next.

"Please keep coming to my classes."

You nod again. "I will."

"I want to see you again."

"You will."

"Can I kiss you goodnight?"

"Please."

And Yoongi does.

#bts yoongi #yoongi #bts suga #jungkook #yoongi x reader #yoongi x y/n #seeing in color

[lilakennedy]

LILA WHAT'S YOUR FAV MOTS7 SONG AND WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THE ALBUM

fKSJDFHG:DSFGLKDFGJK THIS ASK WAS A SURPRISE - 

but i fuckin love the album!! totally worth the wait! and dude, i suck at picking favorites - i can never pick just one above the rest JKSL-SD:FGKJDFS 

The Eternal definitely has that special spot in my heart tho, ON hits most of my aesthetics, UGH! is the rapline song i’ve been dreaming of since the last cypher, Louder Than Bombs gives me chills, Respect is so fun and threw me back to the era i became an ARMY!!

Inner Child, My Time, Moon & Friends have such a sincere vibe and made me cry a lil - and Filter obviously ended my entire career as a Jimin stan,

00:00 is one of those songs like Magic Shop to me? it’s a very comforting one and the boys’ vocals just add to the magic -

#The Eternal. Friends. Inner Child & Moon made me cry. #in that order from most to least #The Eternal had me ugly sobbing imso glad i was alone JKSDFHGS #EGO is still such a fun bop #it never fails to make me smile #and the new verse in SHADOW???? #HELLO??? #the lyrics are insane #god i fuckign love Yoongi #and well Black Swan is still a masterpiece #like the entire album #feels very sincere #and i will never take that for granted with them #i could gush about lil details of this album for ages honestly #gonna get We Are Not Seven With You tattooed onto my fucking heart #we in this bangtan sonyeondan shit for life #as an ARMY of 6 years this album hit various spots #and then theres this magical timing of theirs #with their songs/concepts always fitting whatever is going on in our lives #cookieface678 #lila asks

[hrina]

Be Sweet, Pt. I

PAIRING: Harry x Reader RATING: M (minors dni!) WORD COUNT: 6k

hey everyone! here's part one of my new enemies-to-lovers series :) this fic will be five parts in total, but i'm only posting the first part on tumblr. you'll be able to read the rest of it on patreon if you wanna sign up!

as always, reblogs and feedback are very much appreciated. i love hearing your thoughts! enjoy.

~*~

August 27th, 2021

“Who’s opening tomorrow?”

Ella scrubs a wet rag across the table closest to the door. You cast a furtive glance up at her, flipping absentmindedly through the jumble of papers on the counter in front of you. Nick’s messy scrawl catches your eye, and you pause, reading the haphazard comment written at the bottom of the page.

Customer requested a very specific shade of pink trim. See back for details.

You flip the order, scoffing at the Pantone strip taped to the other side. The square labelled Quartz Pink has been singled out, encircled in bright red. Jesus fucking Christ.

“Alice and Olly, I think,” you say, shoving the form to the bottom of the pile.

“That’s good,” Ella grunts, returning the napkin holder and the sugar dispenser back to their spots on the table. “And you’ll swing by sometime during the afternoon?”

“Yeah,” you say, drumming your fingers over the papers. “I’m gonna help Olly in the back. You know how much he hates dealing with fondant.”

“How could I forget?” Ella rolls her eyes, smiling to herself. You grimace when she tosses the damp cloth in your direction. It lands on the counter with a loud splat! You nudge it away with your elbow, shaking your head.

“Gross.”

“You’re gross,” Ella says.

“I’m lovely,” you reply. She grins.

“Where’s Alex taking you tonight?” you ask, changing the subject. Her eyes light up instantly, and she clasps her hands together against her chest.

“It’s a surprise,” she says, giggling girlishly.

You groan. “I hate surprises.”

“It’s a good thing he’s not your boyfriend, then, isn’t it?” she retorts. You snicker, and she continues: “He told me we should stop off at home to change, though, so I’m guessing that wherever it is, there’s a dress code.”

“Ooh, fancy.”

“Right?” She twists her wrist, peeking at her watch. “He should have been here by now. It’s already a quarter past seven.”

“The hospital is just down the street,” you remind her, organising the mountain of orders into a neat stack. “Give him another five minutes.”

She nods. You spin on your heel and push through the door leading to the backroom of the bakery. The large space is split into two sections: on your right, there’s a wall of ovens, and a cluster of metal racks filled with pale, unprocessed dough. On your left, tables and counters lined with all sorts of decorating necessities—piping bags, spatulas, scrapers, turntables. You make your way toward the small cabinet perched against the nearest wall and pull out the top drawer, sliding the orders inside. Olly should have no trouble locating them tomorrow morning.

When you return to the front of the shop, Ella is locked in a passionate embrace with a gangly, dark-haired man. You recognise him immediately.

“Doctor Dao,” you call out, resting your elbows on the counter. “Did you at least wash your hands before putting them all over my best friend?”

Alex and Ella break apart swiftly, but he keeps one arm wrapped around her waist. “Hey, cookie,” he says, flashing you an apologetic grin. “Didn’t see you there.”

You arch one brow, lips curling into an amused smirk. “I’ll say.”

Only then do you catch sight of the other man lingering by the door, and your smile quickly morphs into an irritated frown. Harry is watching you with twinkling eyes, like he knows the effect his presence has on you. How could he not? You don’t try to hide your disdain, especially when it comes to him.

“Harry,” you say curtly, lifting your chin in stubborn acknowledgement.

He brings two fingers to his temple—a mock-salute. “Sweetheart.”

You clench your jaw. God, he makes your blood boil. Rather than responding, you turn back to Alex, who is now smoothing his palms over Ella’s silky brown hair. “You’re late,” you tell him. “You were supposed to be here when we closed.”

“Sorry, cookie,” Alex says, and he sounds like he means it. “My last surgery of the day had a few…complications.”

You purse your lips as the annoyance melts away. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah.” He nods, blowing out a heavy breath. He looks tired. “We figured it out.”

“That’s good.”

Alex directs his attention back to Ella, leaning in and pressing a chaste kiss to the tip of her nose. “You ready to go?”

“Yeah,” she replies. “Just let me grab my bag.”

“Cool,” he says. “You don’t mind if we drop Harry off at his place, right? His car is fucked, apparently.”

Ella’s grey eyes widen. She peers over her boyfriend’s shoulder at Harry. “What happened?”

Harry waves away her concerns, chuckling quietly. He tugs on the collar of his blue scrubs, and you can’t stop your gaze from trailing across the plethora of tattoos inked into his arm. Your nose wrinkles at the sight. He looks ridiculous. What kind of doctor would agree to don such outrageous body art?

“He’s being dramatic,” Harry says, shooting Alex a pointed glare. “My car’s at the shop right now, but I’ll have it back by tomorrow evening at the latest.”

“Oh.” Ella relaxes. “Okay, that’s great. Babe—” She turns to Alex. “—when are our reservations?”

“Eight-thirty,” Alex says. “Plenty of time.”

“Awesome,” she chirps. She scurries around the counter and playfully bumps her hip against yours. “My purse is in the back. Give me one second.”

And then she’s gone.

You stare at Alex, fighting a clever smile. “Tonight’s the night, huh?” you murmur, quiet enough so that there’s no chance of Ella overhearing.

He beams, shouldering his knapsack and dragging his sweaty palms down the front of his shirt. His scrubs are a light purple, you note. The shade compliments his dark skin.

“Yeah,” he replies, gnawing anxiously on his bottom lip. “She’ll say yes, right?”

You scoff, rolling your eyes good-naturedly. “Of course she will.”

Just then, Ella bursts through the door, her leather purse swinging wildly against her waist. “Alright!” She claps once, striding over to you and planting a wet, sloppy kiss onto your cheek. “I’m off.”

“Bye,” you say, wiping her saliva from your face with the back of your hand. “Have fun.”

Alex waves at you as she tugs him out of the bakery. “See you later, cookie.”

You wink. “See you.”

Harry is the last one to leave. He glances at you momentarily, the corners of his lips quirking up into a smug smile. The look makes you bristle. He’s absolutely infuriating.

“Got any leftover almond croissants?” he asks. Silent laughter taints every word.

You point to the exit. “Get out.”

He bows his chin in farewell, approaching the door. “Sweetheart.”

“Asshole,” you reply flatly. Now that your friends are out of earshot, you’re under no obligation to tolerate him. Sometimes, you find yourself actually craving his company, just so you can drop the pretence and really give him a piece of your mind. You’re a mature adult, and you won’t ruin a social gathering because of one presumptuous dickhead, but everyone has their limits. You don’t owe him shit.

Harry chuckles to himself, and you clench your fists at your sides. He shoots you one last maddening smirk before disappearing out the door. You rush forward, latching it swiftly and ensuring that the sign against the glass reads ‘CLOSED’. Once you’ve successfully locked up, you march into the back of the shop, plucking your own purse off one of the metal counters and tugging it over your shoulder. You shut the light and return to the front, scanning the clean tables, the empty display cases, the shades drawn over the windows. Shards of the sunset stream through the cracks in the blinds, casting orange stripes along the floor.

All clear, a voice in your head whispers, and you sigh.

Finally—you can go home.

August 28th, 2021

Quick, frantic knocking rouses you from your sleep. Blearily, you sit up on the mattress, knuckling at your puffy eyes. The hardwood floor is cold against the soles of your feet when you climb out of bed. You shiver.

The insistent clamour continues as you pad down the hallway. You tug at the hem of your worn, baggy t-shirt, concealing your midriff. Ella wastes no time after you open the front door, surging past the threshold and vaulting herself into your arms.

“He proposed!” she squeals as the two of you stagger backward. You freeze, remembering Alex’s plans from the day before. His apprehension, too—the way he wiped his clammy palms against his scrubs and anxiously dug his teeth into his bottom lip. Shock ebbs and flows through your veins for a fraction of a second, but then you’re sweeping Ella into a tight hug, rocking your bodies from side to side.

“Oh my God,” you say. Excitement festers beneath the murky exhaustion clouding your mind. “He did it.”

Ella steps back, brows knitting together in bewilderment. “You knew?” When you nod, she scoffs, aiming a half-hearted swat at your bicep. “And you didn’t tell me?”

“Why the fuck would I tell you?” you retort, rolling your eyes at the demand. “Come on. Let’s see it.”

A bright grin stretches across her lips, and she holds up her left hand, wiggling her fingers keenly. You spy the ring resting on the fourth digit: a simple platinum band topped with a large, clear diamond. Grey morning light bounces off the gemstone, and it winks at you as if it knows something that you don’t.

“Gorgeous,” you breathe, gripping Ella’s wrist to bring her hand closer. You scrutinize the ring carefully, smiling to yourself. “He’s got good taste.”

“Doesn’t he?” she gushes, beaming like an idiot. You beckon her into the kitchen, and she collapses onto one of the tall stools positioned in front of the marble island. A quick glance at the digital clock on the stove reveals that it’s only eight in the morning. You groan, rubbing gentle circles against your temples.

“I was hoping I’d get to sleep in today,” you say, lips curling into a wry smirk.

Ella shoots you a sheepish, apologetic smile, sliding her purse off her shoulder and placing it on the counter. “I’m sorry, cookie. I couldn’t wait.”

“I’m just kidding,” you tell her, floating around the room to prepare a pot of coffee. “So…how did he do it?”

She launches into a frenzied retelling of the night before. Alex brought her to the same restaurant they’d visited four years ago on their first date. They ordered their food and made conversation. Things proceeded as usual until the end of the meal, at which point Alex set his napkin down on the table and excused himself to the restroom. Two minutes later, the waiter arrived with the bill. Ella accepted it graciously, scanning the thin paper and pausing at the question scrawled at the very bottom of the slip. When she snapped her head up, searching for her boyfriend in the crowded dining area, she found him kneeling a few feet away from her chair, a small velvet box nestled securely in his steady hands.

“I started crying immediately,” she tells you, groaning at the memory. “I couldn’t keep it together. It was so embarrassing.”

You toss your head back and laugh. Despite the crimson blush staining her cheeks, she joins in. The coffeemaker beeps, signalling that the pot is ready. You fetch two mugs from the cupboard and fill them with dark liquid. Ella accepts her drink eagerly, blowing cool air across its surface. You grimace as she takes a tentative sip—you’ve never understood her penchant for unsweetened black coffee. Sugar and cream are a must.

“I’m so happy for you, El,” you tell her, stirring a small spoon around your mug. “You’re going to be the most beautiful bride.”

Her eyes grow damp. You snicker quietly, reaching across the island and swiping your thumb beneath her bottom lashes. She catches your hand and kisses your knuckles softly, clearing her throat.

“Will you—?” She releases a shuddering breath. “Will you be my maid of honour?”

You stiffen at her request. Her gaze rakes over your face, like she’s searching for any clue as to how you might respond. At last, your shoulders sag in relief, and an ecstatic smile splits across your cheeks.

“Of course,” you say, voice thick. Tears gather in your own eyes, but you blink them back furiously. “I would love nothing more.”

She sets her coffee down and skirts around the counter, yanking you into another bone-crushing hug. You grin as she presses a handful of sloppy kisses to the side of your head. Her elbow knocks against your abandoned mug, and a few drops of coffee spill down the side of the cup. You laugh at her enthusiasm, pulling back and sweeping your hands over her silky hair.

“It’s probably way too soon, but have you guys started discussing anything?” you ask, arching one eyebrow.

Ella flushes pink, averting her gaze. “Um…when we got home, there wasn’t really much of a discussion going on.”

You cackle, poking at her ribs. “Oh, he gave it to you good, didn’t he? It’s a miracle that you’re not limping right now.”

“Be quiet,” she yelps, stamping her eyes shut.

You lift your hands and shoot her a teasing smirk. “I’m not judging, okay? If anything, I’m living vicariously through your various sexual conquests. It’s been months since I last got any action.”

“Maybe that should change,” Ella says, folding her arms over her chest. “You and Harry could probably fuck out your frustrations. His dick is huge, apparently.”

You balk. “Ella!”

She shrugs, grey eyes widening comically. “What? Alex told me!”

You snort, but say nothing. She watches you cautiously, examining your features for any signs of acquiescence. Any indication that you might actually be considering her lewd suggestion. You almost gag.

“Why do you hate him so much, anyway?” Ella asks, flicking an invisible speck of lint off her shoulder. “You’re not still hung up on that fiasco with the almond croissant, are you?”

“I’m not doing this with you again,” you say, and she sighs.

“Okay, I’m sorry. But can you at least try to be civil while we plan the wedding? For my sake.”

After mulling over her words, you slouch in defeat. “Fine. But only for you,” you say, throwing a stern finger in her face.

She beams. “Thank you.” Something dirty flashes behind her pale eyes. “And if you do end up sleeping with him, I want all the details.”

You shove her gently and scoff. She laughs.

“Honestly,” you start, shaking your head, “it doesn’t matter how huge his dick is. I’d rather walk across hot coals than let somebody like him climb into my bed.”

“What makes you think it wouldn’t be the other way around?” Ella snickers. You glare at her, but she just steps back, raising her hands in surrender. “Alright, alright, fine. Have it your way. But I’m expecting you to find someone in time for the big day. Don’t let your plus-one go to waste.”

You roll your eyes, thoroughly unconvinced. “Noted.”

September 2nd, 2021

“Olly!” you call, sticking your head into the backroom. “Ella and I are going on our lunch break, but Leyla will be here in, like, twenty minutes. You going to be okay by yourself until then?”

Olly doesn’t even bother looking over his shoulder, too busy piping little flowers along the sides of the rectangular cake laid out in front of him. He lifts one hand, waving away your concerns before running his palm over his short blue hair. He buzzed and dyed it just last week after claiming that he couldn’t stand how the long brown curls stuck to the nape of his neck. It took a few days to get used to the change, but now that the initial shock has faded, you have to admit that he looks great.

“Yeah, that’s fine,” Olly says, putting the finishing touches on the cake. He sets his piping bag down and turns toward you, wiping his palms against his red apron. His left ear bears a swirl of shiny silver piercings. “I’ll be out in a second.”

“Thanks,” you say, flashing him a small smile. He returns it, and then you’re spinning on your heel and letting the door swing shut behind you.

You find Ella waiting outside the bakery. She urges you along, and you squawk at her impatience.

“What’s the rush?” you ask, falling into step with her as you both amble down the sidewalk. “We have forty-five minutes.”

“I don’t want Alex’s sandwich to get cold,” she explains, holding up the small paper bag clutched in her right hand. You snort.

The two of you make it to Ridgefield Hospital in record time, mostly because Ella grips your arm and gives it a forceful tug whenever you start lagging behind. You walk through the automatic doors, ignoring the row of ambulances parked outside. The secretaries sitting at the front desk shoot you a few distracted smiles—they’ve all grown accustomed to your frequent visits by now.

Ella babbles endlessly as you enter the elevator, pressing the button for the fifth floor and waiting as the metal doors slide shut.

“I want to ask Alice and Leyla to be part of the bridal party, but I’m scared the guys will feel bad if Alex doesn’t choose them as his groomsmen. Like, I think they’d understand, considering I work with the girls and we’re all pretty close, but I don’t know.” She nudges you with her elbow. “What do you think?”

“I think you should do whatever the fuck you want,” you tell her, shrugging. “It’s your wedding. And I don’t think Olly, Marcus, or Nick will mind if they’re not part of the bridal party. Olly doesn’t care about that stuff, and Marcus and Nick already have their hands full with their jobs at the bakery. Plus, they know Alex has his own friends—not just the ones he’s met through you.”

Ella nibbles on her bottom lip, her head bobbing in agreement. “Yeah, you’re right.”

You lay a placid hand on her shoulder. “You’re already overthinking this. You’ve only been engaged for a week. Enjoy it.”

She shoots you a grateful smile just as the elevator dings and the doors glide open, and the two of you step out onto the hospital’s paediatric floor. It’s a stark contrast to the other sections of the building. Instead of barren white walls, these ones are painted with all sorts of pretty, colourful decorations—flowers, rainbows, sunsets, animals. A massive sign in front of you denotes the different divisions on the floor and where to find them: the ICU, the operating rooms, the palliative unit, the psychiatry wing, and the oncology department. You and Ella turn right, making the familiar trek to Alex’s office.

“He should be on his lunch break, too,” she says. “Unless they paged him for another emergency surgery.”

You hum in response.

Sure enough, you find Alex at his desk, twirling a blue pen between his fingers as he pores over the stack of papers in front of him. Ella knocks gently against the open door, and his face lights up when he spies her standing in the threshold. He moves quickly, crossing the room in five long strides, and plants a searing kiss onto her lips. You look away, rocking awkwardly on the balls of your feet.

“Hey,” Alex murmurs after he and Ella break apart. That’s when he notices you behind her. “Hey, cookie.”

“Hey,” you reply. You toss your thumb over your shoulder. “I’m just going to—you know, the usual.”

He nods.

The last thing you see before you turn around is Ella holding up the brown paper bag, and Alex’s face splitting into a bright, easy smile.

You meander through the halls, trailing your fingers over the rich artwork covering the walls. The end of the corridor cleaves in two; you turn left and enter a large atrium. The ceiling is high and peppered with skylights. A small cafeteria sits off to the side, clusters of families chatting and laughing together as they eat. Children sprint around the space, their arms outstretched. Some of them are dressed in normal clothes—others don pale hospital gowns, their skinny legs bared for all to see. You wrench your attention away from them, fixing it instead on the far wall.

Slowly, you cross the room, surveying the vibrant handprints stamped against the plaster. There has to be hundreds of them, you think. They vary in size—some are so tiny you could cry. Colour becomes scarcer the higher you go—the youngest children are too short to reach those levels, obviously—but still. The sight takes your breath away. You visit this mural every time you find yourself at the hospital, and every time, you unearth a new detail that you hadn’t noticed before.

You walk along the length of the wall, dragging your fingertips across the dry, smooth paint. Purples and pinks and oranges and blues. Reds, greens, yellows, browns. Each handprint is a person—a pair of little feet that scuffled over this very floor, a blank story that had yet to unfold. Briefly, you wonder how many survived whatever illnesses plagued them, and how many succumbed to their conditions. The thought makes your throat grow tight with emotion, so you quickly shove it aside.

Ten minutes pass before you’re leaving the mural behind and heading back the way you came. You’ve just rounded the corner when a strong, solid body barrels into you. You grunt at the impact, smacking one palm against the wall to steady yourself.

“I’m sorry,” you start, lifting your head to meet the stranger’s gaze. “I wasn’t paying—oh.”

Harry smirks, his green eyes glittering with mirth once he recognises you. You purse your lips, wishing the ground would just open up and swallow you whole.

“Harry,” you say, nodding stiffly.

He folds his arms over his chest. “Sweetheart.”

His brown hair is tousled, and his biceps strain against the white button-up adorning his torso. Black slacks cover his legs, and he’s wearing a pair of pristine leather shoes, ones that look like they might’ve cost a month’s worth of rent. Your teeth grate together noisily. The sound echoes in your ears.

“What are you doing here?” Harry asks, as though the two of you are old friends. You want to scoff—you’d rather stick your hand in an oven than make idle conversation with him.

“Visiting Alex,” you say tightly, stepping back. “Ella brought him lunch.”

At that, Harry straightens. “Ella’s here?”

“Yes.”

“I wish I’d run into her,” he murmurs, pinching his bottom lip between his thumb and forefinger.

You throw him a scowl. “Asshole.”

Harry cocks one eyebrow, tilting his chin haughtily. “Forgive me if I prefer her company to yours. At least she doesn’t treat me like I’m some insufferable bastard.”

“Maybe if you stopped being such an insufferable bastard, I wouldn’t treat you like one,” you shoot back, planting your hands on your hips. You tense as Harry’s gaze rakes down your body—head to toe, like he’s sizing up an opponent. His nose wrinkles in disdain, and you fight the urge to deliver a sharp, backhanded slap across that pretty, perfect face.

Harry opens his mouth, and you brace yourself for whatever retort he has prepared. What comes out is nothing overtly nasty, but it is enough to make you want to shrink away and curl into yourself until you wink out of existence.

“You smell like yeast,” he says, and tosses in a derisive sniff just for the added effect.

You recoil as the words slam into you, blinking in shock.

Asshole. Rude, arrogant, condescending asshole.

“I own a bakery,” you grit out. Harry shrugs, but says nothing else. Your lips flap wordlessly as he pushes past you, his shoulder bumping against yours. You watch him go, massaging the tender spot on your arm with shaky fingers. Your eyes fall to his ass for only a moment before skittering away, and a hollow laugh catches in your throat.

What a fucking prick.

September 17th, 2021

“Attention, everyone!” Ella stands at the head of the table, clinking her fork delicately against her glass. “I wanted to make a little toast.”

The conversation around you tapers off into silence. You sit back in your chair, focussing on your best friend. She looks splendid in her pretty blue dress, her dark hair twisted into an elaborate knot at the nape of her neck. She peers around the room, chewing nervously on the inside of her cheek. When her gaze locks with yours, you grant her a tiny, encouraging nod.

She beams, her next words imbued with renewed enthusiasm. “I wanted to thank all of you for coming here tonight to celebrate our engagement with us.” She holds out her hand, and Alex presses a gentle kiss to her knuckles. “We’re so grateful to be sharing this milestone with such a wonderful group of people.”

You inspect the other guests gathered around the table. To your right sit Alice and Leyla, the first employees you hired when you were trying to get your business up off the ground. It’s odd seeing them like this—poised and elegant, looking nothing at all like they do during the long, arduous shifts at the bakery. Alice’s blond hair has been fashioned into an intricate braid, and Leyla’s brown eyes are lined with dark kohl and smoky eyeshadow. They clean up nice, you must admit.

Next to Leyla: Ella’s older sister, Hillary. They have the same piercing grey eyes, though Hillary’s hair is a shade lighter. You didn’t miss the sour expression that trundled across her face when you waltzed into Alex and Ella’s condo. She’s jealous, you think. Jealous that Ella chose you as her maid of honour instead of her. You’ve been ignoring her resentful glares for the better half of the night, letting her bitterness pass over you like a cloud. Whatever her problem is, it’s clear that the issue lies between her and her sister. You’re not getting in the middle of that.

It doesn’t help that she’s been fawning over Harry all evening. Upon witnessing her coquettish behaviour, you glanced at Ella, brows raised, but your best friend just rolled her eyes and yielded a helpless shrug of her shoulders. At least the attraction didn’t appear to be one-sided—that would have been humiliating, you think—because Harry gave as good as he got, chuckling sincerely and flirting right back. You had to suppress the urge to retch, and sent out a quiet prayer of gratitude when Ella and Alex sat them as far away from each other as possible at the beginning of the meal.

On the opposite side of the table: Alex’s groomsmen—Milo, Sasha, and Connor. You’ve been in their company a few times, mainly on birthdays and other special occasions. According to Alex, they all met when Milo accidentally vomited during their very first anatomy lesson at medical school. Milo insists that the putrid smell of the cadavers was simply too awful to bear, but everyone else claims that he just couldn’t stand the idea of being so close to a dead body. No matter the truth, the story always makes you giggle. The four of them have been good friends ever since.

The five of them, you remind yourself as your gaze settles on Harry, who is lounging in the chair directly across from you.

Harry—Alex’s best friend. Harry—Alex’s best man.

You wanted to rip your hair from your scalp when Ella broke the news. Several images flashed through your head all at once. You and Harry inching rigidly down the aisle, arms linked. You and Harry donning the same colours, your gown complimenting the spry flower pinned to the lapel of his suit. You and Harry flanking Ella and Alex while they recite their vows, glaring daggers at each other behind your friends’ backs. Even now, the mere thought of it has you biting down on an exasperated groan.

You don’t realise that you’ve zoned out until the faint quirk of Harry’s mouth catches your eye. You blink once to yank yourself from your daze, and clench your jaw when you find him staring at you with an amused look on his face. He places his elbows against the arms of the chair and clasps his hands together. Unmistakable smugness emanates from him, as if he somehow managed to crawl inside your mind and saw exactly what you were envisioning. Your nostrils flare, and you fix your attention back on Ella, who has reached the end of her speech.

“Cheers,” she says, holding up her glass. The champagne inside sloshes and fizzles temptingly. Would she allow you to chug the entire bottle, if you asked?

Everyone around the table mirrors her movements, raising their own drinks and touching them together lightly. Quiet, delicate clanking fills the room, and the friendly chatter resumes. You nudge Ella with your elbow, shooting her a proud smile. “That was great, El.”

She beams. “Thanks, cookie.” She then picks up her fork and motions to the plate in front of her, piled high with seasoned chicken and steaming, roasted vegetables. “Let’s eat.”

~*~

“Are you sure you’ve got him?” Alex asks Sasha, gesturing to the very inebriated Connor wobbling at his side.

Sasha wraps one arm around their friend, letting Connor rest his full weight against him. He bares two rows of perfect ivory teeth, flashing a wicked grin. “Yeah. Besides, I’ve been meaning to pay him back for the shit he pulled at the barbecue last month. There’s a Sharpie in my car.”

“You’re going to draw a dick on his face, aren’t you?” Alex muses.

“Obviously.”

With that, Alex bids them both farewell, shutting the door and heaving a dramatic sigh. Ella approaches him after a moment, hooking her chin over his shoulder and murmuring something indiscernible into his ear. He chuckles softly.

“Didn’t peg you as the voyeur type, sweetheart,” a low voice says from behind you.

You jump, whirling around and coming face-to-face with Harry. He’s got a green washcloth slung over his left shoulder—the shade brings out his eyes, a traitorous voice in your head whispers—and his arms are folded neatly across his chest. Your gaze falls to the collar of his black button-up, where he’s undone the first two discs, leaving his sternum exposed. Tendrils of ink peek out from beneath the dark material.

You frown and take a step back, putting distance between your bodies. “You’re such an asshole.”

“So I’ve heard.” His lips twitch, and he rolls up his sleeves. “Now, if you’re done ogling them like a lovestruck puppy, I could use some help in the kitchen.”

You grit your teeth, but follow him into the other room. Harry grabs the rag hanging over his shoulder and holds it out for you. You snatch it from his fingers without a word, and the two of you take up residence in front of the sink. Harry plunges his hands into the soapy water, rinsing the dishes thoroughly before passing them to you. You stand as far away from him as possible while you dry each plate, your movements stiff and choppy. This is not how you wanted to finish off the night, but Alex and Ella spent the entire day preparing the food, and it was delicious. The least you can do is spare them the hassle of tidying up.

The tense silence eats at you, until you feel like you might explode. Unable to bear it any longer, you hastily blurt, “Saw you getting pretty cozy with Hillary before dinner.”

Immediately, you want to kick yourself. Where the fuck did that come from?

Harry snorts, shrugging coolly. “We’ve hooked up a few times, but it’s nothing serious.” He shoots you a mischievous grin. “You jealous?”

“Of Hillary?” you scoff, rolling your eyes. “Please. The woman’s standards are practically underground. Why else would she be interested in someone like you?”

Harry scowls, and hot satisfaction surges through your veins. Yes, the taunt was mean, but no, you don’t care. “You’re a real bitch sometimes, you know that?” he says.

You flash him a petty, insincere smile. “Only to you.”

He squeezes the yellow sponge nestled in his right hand, scrubbing it forcefully across a dirty plate. “Maybe you should find someone to hook up with. It might help get that stick out of your ass.”

“I have better things to do,” you sneer, narrowing your eyes.

“Better than sex?” He chokes on a derisive laugh.

“Yes.”

“Like what?”

“Like…things!” you snap, fingers curling into tight fists. “I run my own business, for God’s sake. And I’m going to make Ella’s wedding cake.” You announce the last part proudly, hauling your chin into the air.

Harry, however, looks unimpressed. He shakes his head, blowing out a heavy sigh. “Uh-oh.”

You pause. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shrugs again, but you detect a hint of malice behind the action. “It’s just…I’ve seen the way you decorate cakes. Ella might be better off going elsewhere—you know, to an actual professional.”

Son of a—

“That’s rich, coming from you,” you say, motioning to the mismatched tattoos littered across his arm. “What would you know about professionalism? It looks like you let a preschooler doodle all over you.”

Harry bares his teeth in a feral grin. “Deflection. I’m not surprised.”

You bristle at his words. “Asshole.”

“You’ll need to get a bit more creative with the insults, sweetheart. I’m growing bored.”

“Is that so?” you say. “I think ‘asshole’ suits you just fine. Maybe you should have become a proctologist instead of a paediatrician.”

“At least I pursued something I was good at. I’m not sure if you can say the same.”

“You fucking—”

“Everything okay in here?” Ella asks, floating into the kitchen. You spin around to conceal your anger, placing your hands against the counter and inhaling deeply. You roll your shoulders back and slap an artificial smile onto your face before turning once more.

“Everything’s fine,” you say, and fake a yawn, covering your mouth with your palm. “I think I’m going to call it a night. I’m exhausted.”

Ella’s bottom lip juts out into a pout. Her red lipstick has faded, leaving only a stain of scarlet in its wake. On cue, Alex walks into the kitchen behind her, setting a steady hand on her hip and cocking his head to the side. “Hey. Everything okay in here?”

You nearly snort. Fucking soulmates.

“All good,” you tell him, nodding brusquely. “I’m just going to finish up with the dishes and head home.”

“Okay.” Alex presses a soft kiss to Ella’s temple, murmuring something about needing to get out of his stuffy clothes. You whirl, drying the last of the plates with frantic, shaky fingers. In your peripheral vision, you spy Harry watching you, but the stupid bastard must possess some scrap of self-preservation, because he keeps his mouth shut. You say nothing else as you whack the rag down onto the counter and stride out of the room.

You don’t miss Alex and Ella’s hushed whispers at the other end of the hall, but a little voice in your head tells you not to interrupt them. You halt at the front door, snatching your purse off one of the metal hooks mounted on the wall. You’re in the middle of putting on your shoes when you hear it:

“I was hoping we could arrange a truce, you know.”

You twist around, palm flying to your chest. Harry is standing a few feet away, his hands still wet with the water from the sink. He clasps them together and ducks his head, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d almost think he was ashamed.

Something vile bubbles in the pit of your stomach. You gnaw on the flesh of your cheek, trying to reel your emotions back in. You refuse to give him the satisfaction of witnessing another outburst.

“Keep your fucking truce,” you spit, and wrench open the door. You shoot him one last withering look before stepping out of the condo and slamming it shut.

#be sweet #harry writing #lmao you can tell i've given up on posting my writing on tumblr cus i don't even tag it with the typical fic tags anymore 😭

[verse50]

Heat

It was the first weekend over 80F and we took full advantage of it on our six acres. Friday night we let the kids loose on the rock pile, loading up the trailer for the dump, then packed them off early Saturday for soccer camp. All morning he bush-hogged the treeline while I wrestled the sunken raised beds into shape. This house had been so neglected when we bought it two years ago. Finally we had the time and money to make it nice again.

I was pulling weeds when he tromped out in chaps and ear protection. Chainsaw hanging from his belt. That and the sweaty dirt on his face made me look a bit longer.

“I’m gonna saw up that alder and then get to the stairs,” he half shouted. Bush hogging will do that to you. He grinned and took out his ear plugs. “The beds are coming along, maybe-” I was on my knees and gazed up at him quizzically.

“You’re not wearing a bra,” he said, at the perfect angle to peer down my shirt.

“Nope!” I agreed, and swung myself back and forth. It looked and felt like two water balloons bumping in a pillowcase. Then stuck out my tongue.

His mouth set. “I gotta get the stairs done today.” Then he was gone into the brush, chainsaw revving. I bent down again to the weeds, trying to drown my frustration with deep breaths. 

He was so hard to read. I was a free spirit, a spitfire, and he was a calm, methodical engineer with a heart of gold. There was no better man on the planet, I was convinced, but gosh sex was tough with him! It took him so long to adjust to change. A toe ring. The tiniest gold nose ring. A tattoo on my ankle. Introducing him to my vibrator. I had to pace everything at six month intervals or it was too much.

 But once he got used to it...holy fucking shit. He basically dissected that vibrator and and studied the user manual. Found similar ones, tested them on me like I was a guinea pig. Even took me to a toy store in Dallas then fucked the daylights out of me until 3am. And then...it all petered out like a spent firework. I would try to keep the energy going, keep him interested, but I could never tell what worked. He was pretty shy about sex, almost embarrassed. He wasn’t comfortable with dirty talk. We couldn’t really sext because his job required cellphones be lockered except at lunch. We could go months on once a week then he would surprise me with a two day fuckfest, like a volcano erupting. I lived for those times but could never figure out how to make them happen more often. All it did was make me ramp up with excitement, feel more free, then try to cram myself in a box again. He was such a good man, though. I just needed to be more patient, less wild. I ripped up the weeds angrily.

The sun was high when he came in for lunch. I had sandwiches, chips, and his favorite tea ready. There was even more dirt on his face and I sat there awkwardly, trying to equate my silent chip-crunching husband with the dirty woodsman I wanted to pounce on.

“I think I’ll build out the landing a bit from the stairs, maybe put in a new handrail,” he said. I sipped my tea and nodded. “The driveway could use some gravel.”

“The trailer has all the rocks in it still,” I pointed out.

“Mmm. I’ll go to the dump first, then hit Home Depot and Brother’s Fieldstone.” He looked at me as if I had just appeared at the table. “You’re wearing a bra now.”

“Uh-huh.” I cut off a smart-ass retort and became very busy fishing pickles from their jar. “I’m gonna work on the petunia baskets.”

After the peck on my cheek he would be gone for at least two hours. I ripped off my bra, blasted Slayer on my bluetooth speaker, and delved into the hanging baskets. By the time I had repotted everything and cleaned up the cobwebby  lounge chairs I was a filthy mess. Shower time.

You couldn’t see our house from the road. I went out on the deck in just a towel, then threw it off and lay naked on a chair, basking like a lizard. Big fluffy clouds blocked the sun momentarily, then shooed away when I spread my legs wide. Everything needed to dry. My hair would need a serious flatiron session. Idly I thought of him coming out of the forest...rushing home...making a beeline for me...a naked woman tanning herself alone...so easy to take advantage...helpless...but there was a shotgun behind the door...

Damn it, I thought. Can’t even have a fantasy and it gets all practical. He’s wearing off on me. I looked at my phone. About 30 minutes of naked freedom left- I should water the baskets again. I picked up the hose and my phone rang.

“Hey baby,” I said, working up the cheerful wife tone. He really was wonderful. I just needed to...not need so much.

“Baby, guess how much the lumber cost for the deck, right now?”

I thought for a minute. It has been awhile since we did a major project. “Um, I think we did the brown house for under $600?”

“Yeah, well, I priced it all out. It’s gonna be over $2000! We can’t swing that now. It’s insane, the prices. Never seen anything like it. And Brother’s is out of pea gravel!” He was worked up. This man stuck to budgets religiously.

“O my God! No, you’re right. We can’t do that now. The deck will be fine for awhile, definitely. It’s sturdy at least.” The sun was so hot on my back. I stared at my shadow, waving the limp hose to and fro.

“So I emptied the trailer and uh, checked everything out. Since we can’t do anything more on that today I, um....” he coughed. I waited, cautiously easing on the water. “I went to that new little toy store in the strip mall.”

Water spurted out onto my shadow. “I see. What kind of toys?”

“The only kind!” His voice rose. The hose engorged and gurgled. “I found one like your pink one, you know that does the swirly thing, too? But this seems to be a softer material, a better grade of silicone, I think this company merged with a big distributor and, uh...”

My mouth twisted. It was just like him to get carried away on technical aspects. “That’s so sweet, baby. What are you wanting to do with that?”

“I want to use it on you.” He was almost whispering, as if there were seven other people in his F-250. “Like Dallas.” It was such a distant memory. I couldn’t work myself all up again, it was too exhausting. But he went to the store, my dear husband...he wants something.

“You can do whatever you want to me, baby,” I said sincerely. “Just come home and we can hang out the rest of the day.”

“I don’t want to hang out. I want- I want you to not wear a bra again. I don’t want you to feel, uh, like you have to put it back on? Around me?”

I aimed the water where my shadow’s pussy would be. Cool drops sprayed up onto my flushed skin.

“I’m not wearing a bra right now.”

“What?”

“I’m naked out on the deck. Been tanning after I took a shower.”

Silence. He was gunning the truck, I could hear the roar.

“I hope you’re bringing some wood home for me.” VVVBBBBRBbbbbRRRRrr.

“Baby, if you can just let me plan stuff. It’s easier for me. I’m sorry I’m slow and I disappoint you. I wanted to tear your shirt off there but I’m just never sure...I don’t want to do anything you don’t like, I don’t want to hurt you- really- just let me plan sometimes and maybe try to go along? I promise I’ll do better, you are so sexy-” sfhkhfffffppp. His phone cut out. I stood there, dumb, watching the water drip my shadow off the edge of the deck. He had never talked to me so much at one time. “-if I can plan and know in advance that you like it we can do more, you drive me crazy you know that, right?”

I took a deep breath. My legs were shaking into the damp, hot wood. “How do you want me to be, when you get home?”

Pause. More gunning. “On the deck chair, doggy. Ass in the air. Wait- I need to shower first.”

“No, you don’t. You’re sexy with the dirt on you. I love it.”

“You do?”

“Yes, I love my sexy, dirty husband.”

“Ok.” He was firm. The blinker was on, he was at the intersection ten minutes away. “Ass up, doggy. Hands by your side. Face turned away from the stairs. I don’t want you to see me. I have-have- a special delivery.”

I turned off the water. The whole deck was soaked. Not one basket had gotten a drop. “Ass up ready to receive. I’ll be waiting for you, baby.” I was so excited my words came out slowly, bouncing through a lump in my throat. The sun was cold and hot at the same time.

“If you respond well there will be future appointments.” His voice was full of confidence before the phone shut off.

I almost tripped on my way over to the lounge chair. Fortunately my towel was there in case things got really wet.

Thank you to @daily-esprit-descalier for sharing the photo that inspired this story.

Linktree

#verse50original #relationships #nature #writersontumblr #married

[flowerwrites06]

break my mind’s eye special — jjk

Plot: Jungkook thinks marriage is the only way to seal a deal.

Pairing(s): Druglord!Jungkook x Fashion Designer!OC (Name: Belle)

Rating: G | PG | M | R 18+

Type: Drabble | Oneshot | Two Parter | Series

Parts: Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI | Part VII | Part VIII | Part IX | Part X | Special 

Word Count: 7k+

Genre: Mafia | Angst/Smut/Fluff

Tags & Warnings (for entire series): drug dealing, marriage through trickery, explicit smut, drug use, dubious consent, prostitution, miscarriage, lots of manipulation, impregnation through manipulation 

Walking through the dark halls of permanently stained apartment building, Jungkook finally stood in front of a familiar number written on the text. He rapped at the wooden door a few times hearing a couple of grunts and rummaging from the other side. He sighed. “It’s me, Hoseok, you don’t have to hide the weed.”

“ Oh! ”

A few locks clicked here and there before the door swung open to welcome a light air of smoke mixed with the stench alone that could make Jungkook high. Hoseok gave him a loose smile, holding onto his arm as a wide grin spread across his lips. “You finally made it!”

Jungkook hummed trying not to grimace too much at the smell as the older male closed the door behind them.

“Come on, tell me…” Hoseok patted his back, prancing towards the couch where the coffee table was exuding smoke.

The apartment was miniscule with one bedroom door open on the left and a tiny kitchen on the right with a window next to the fridge. Another one near the dining table. Walls were a gross green tint and the floors a dull brown with black velvet couches that were ripped a little at the edges. But Jungkook could not complain.

“Tell you what?” The younger male dropped his bag on the floor and sat on the couch next to him, burying his hands into the pockets of his hoodie.

Hoseok picked his joint back up and hovered it near his lips. “What was prison like?” He sucked in his cheeks causing the ambers to light up at the end before he blew the thick smoke away from Jungkook.

“Like living with a bunch of criminals. What else?”

“So just like old times then.” Hoseok smirked.

Jungkook glanced at the male for a moment before scoffing out a chuckle. “Yeah…pretty much.” Except there was one difference. Every time he pranced with criminals like himself in the past, he was a leader. In prison, he was young, fresh meat. Before he would also come back home to a warm embrace in bed instead of a steel bed alone with a stinky roommate.

“Well it’s all over now.” He blew out another puff of smoke, shifting to rest his head back against the couch. “You can start doing something else with your life. Something different. Not a lot of people like us get that chance.”

For the first time, he noticed a slight sadness in Hoseok’s tone despite being pumped with artificial endorphins.

His eyes flickered down to the coffee table, noticing the burger wrappers and scattered newspapers. One of them immediately caught his eye. Jungkook sat up again, pulling one of them out of the pile, the right corner of his lips twitched seeing the familiar face.

‘ FAMED DESIGNER KIM BELLE RULES TOKYO FASHION WEEK ’

A side by side picture of a model wearing violet and gold ensemble which almost resembled the traditional kimono with a modern, royal twist. The picture on the right showed her. Belle wearing a simple black dress with her gorgeous waves out and a gracious smile spread across her lips.

‘ Twenty seven year old fashion designer Kim Belle takes all the popularity and buzz with her winter designs for Tokyo Fashion Week. Showing her long love for traditional Japanese fashion culture along with an inspiring movement for domestic violence and trafficking victims by showcasing broken chains and kimono style gowns. An elegant mix of grace and fight for personal freedom. Truly an impressive successor to the legend that was Madame Saito and we are definitely going to keep an eye out for more of her daring projects. ’

“She made a big damn name of herself.” Hoseok broke through the thick coat of silence Jungkook had around him.

“She deserves it.” More than I ever did.

The older male searched his expression for a moment, scoffing a little. “Dude, I have to ask.”

Jungkook met his gaze as he leaned back onto the couch again with the newspaper still in his hands. “What?”

“Why her?”

His brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you—literally could’ve had anyone in the entire country to pose as your fake wife or whatever. But you chose a fashion designer who barely knew anything about you to begin with…” Hoseok shook his head with a light wince. “What was your angle?” Some part of him did not want to believe Jungkook simply blackmailed someone for his own amusement because he knew the man was better than that.

Jungkook wished he had a decent reason to blurt out to him. Maybe he was just inherently evil and wanted to hurt Belle for his own pleasure. Maybe he wanted to fuck her one time just for kicks before dragging her out a little further until it was too much. Maybe he was just sick in the head, wanting to claim a girl who could not say a word against him because her and her brother’s life were wrapped around his finger. Except none of them felt like the truth. “I honestly thought she’d say no.”

“Oh fuck off—”

“Seriously I…” He shrugged a little. “I really thought she was going to punch me and storm out of there with her brother.”

“But the guards wouldn’t let her. I mean—no offense, buddy but you would’ve probably killed her. Knowing you from back then.” Hoseok scrunched his nose lightly.

“She did something ten times more dangerous though.” Jungkook couldn’t resist the jolt of pride bursting in him. “I destroyed her—so she waited until she destroyed me.”

Hoseok chortled a little, voice incredibly raspy. “I wouldn’t call going to jail for your crimes destroying you but sure…”

Jungkook shared a small laugh, nodding as he looked at her picture again. He could almost still feel her soft skin underneath his palm. How her hair smelled when he would hug her from behind as they slept, the way it soothed him to a calmer sleep.

“It’s a thing of the past though…” He tilted his head as his expression turned a little more serious. “…right? No more pulling her into shit she doesn’t deserve?”

“Yeah—yeah, of course.”

“Good…cause Belle’s the star of the city now. One wrong move towards her, you’re back in jail or worse.” Hoseok raised his brow a little making sure there was not a hint of determination on that young face of doing anything stupid. “You don’t have guards or power by your side and Taehyung isn’t addicted anymore. Has a wife and kid…he’s got the dad anger. So he will beat the living shit out of you if you give him the motivation.”

“I know, Hobi.” Jungkook chuckled, patting his thigh gently. “I don’t want her to go through it again either.”

Hoseok hummed a little taking another waft from his joint as he looked out the window, the sky tinted purple. “Alright. I’m gonna go and eat my girlfriend out.” He patted his shoulder, walking up to his bedroom.

“You had to look at the time for that?” Jungkook winced despite the grin on his face.

“Brother, when you’re together for this long, things need schedules.” He walked out of the bedroom with a black duffel bag putting out the joint onto the ashtray. “Food’s in the fridge and there’s Netflix open on the laptop.”

Jungkook waved him off before the door clicked close leaving him in his thoughts. For some reason, all he could do was look back at the newspaper and try to salvage that warm feeling again. The feeling of a true home that could never be.

-

Purple faded into a deep blue across the skies as Jungkook paced around the apartment in his bare torso, scattered with more imperfect tattoos. One cellmate liked doing tattoos because it calmed him down so the younger male did not hesitate much to let him use his skin. He was a nice man who had been thrown in jail for being a drug mule all his life and Jungkook could not help but have a nauseating guilt in his stomach.

Drug mules were essentially trafficked human slaves from Jungkooks’ experience. Their owners use their lives and bodies to transport goods without being detected and usually they start off terrifyingly young or desperate or both. All this service was done for almost little to no money. They were more abused victims than criminals but the legal system were not good at telling the difference sometimes.

Jungkook allowed his body to be used as if giving himself some kind of cathartic relief allowing the broken soul to control something else for a while instead of being controlled. Thus his skin now littered with designs of devil horns, tiger flowers and his own personal request was a tiny print font ‘B’ on his collarbone. No one could truly see it up close but he wanted to feel it there.

Chugging a generous sip from his beer bottle, he quietly observed the night sky glimmering with stars while the city shone in neon. The one thing his mansion lacked was the clear view of how alive everything looked at night.

A knock sounded on the door causing his head to shoot to the side.

Hoseok should not have been home at this hour. Even if he was, the man would not knock in his own apartment.

Jungkook opened the kitchen drawer and brandished a knife before making his way over to the door. Another knock sounded again. It was a gentle knock. Almost shy. But he knew better than soften up so easily. Carefully, he peeked through the peephole trying not to make too much of a sound even though the wooden floors creaked far too much.

His heart jumped right up to his throat seeing the familiar face on the other side. Jungkook almost dropped the knife on the floor trying to focus as best as he could. Was he drunk already? Was he dreaming? Gulping down, he placed the knife on the side table along with the beer bottle and opened the door.

When the view became clear to him, Jungkook let out a sharp breath. “Belle.”

Her hair was shorter up to her shoulders compared to the length in the newspaper picture except she still always kept her natural waves. Eyes a little glazed while her flushed lips spread into a weak smile before pressing them together again. “I-I don’t–I don’t know why I’m here.” Belle’s furrowed her brows a little.

“It’s okay.” He whispered. “Come in.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course.” Jungkook smiled even though a small tinge of sadness shone in his eyes.

He opened the door further for her to enter before closing it behind him. Eyes flickered down to her grey sweatpants and frilly white socks paired with a thick sweater like she just woke up from a nap.

Belle kept her back to him for a few minutes, pretending to observe the apartment even though she was really just trying to figure out why she was here. Questions muddled her mind over and over again. Any valid or logical answer. There was nothing. No reason to be standing here when she tried so hard to walk away from him. She did everything to get away. Now she walked right back without any coercion.

Jungkook tilted his head attempting to meet her gaze but decided not to force it too much. “You cut your hair.” A smile twitched on his lips. “It looks nice.”

She absentmindedly touched her waves, breathing out a small chuckle. “Thank you.”

“Uh—how did you know I was here?”

“Namjoon helped me track you down.” Belle mumbled, guilt pooling in the pit of her belly going behind Yoongi’s back like this. She still remembered what Namjoon said when he gave her the address.

‘I’m only giving you this because I know you’re tough as nails…no matter what people say to you…but the second anything goes wrong, you call me.’ Namjoon had become a close friend in the last few years. He had been escorting her back and forth from home to work.

Yoongi had been disallowed to see her after being undercover so he could get a proper therapy before doing field work again. So Namjoon seemed the next obvious choice to take care of her.

Finally Belle turned around to face him, eyes raking down his torso and seeing new designs etched on his skin. Not as precise as the phoenix but still beautiful. “The tattoos look good.”

Jungkook glanced down at his torso with a soft grin. “A friend did them for me.” He met her gaze again even though she quickly averted it, plunging silence back into the room as they waited for it to be filled. “Belle…why are you here?”

Her body deflated as the question lingered in the air, lump growing in her throat while her knees kept trembling. “I—” Belle closed her eyes. “I mis—I missed you.” She smiled sadly before trailing her glossy gaze away again. “It sounds stupid when I say after so long.” Her voice kept getting constricted from the lump, tears filling at the brim of her eyes. “But I still think about you…I still kept that—stupid letter after all these years.”

A familiar warmth seeped through his veins knowing she missed him but it still mixed with dread and guilt. Jungkook scarred her memories forever with his presence and she was so confused on what it meant. He could see the way she shifted and looked away as if trying to push reality away but face it all the same. “I hurt you a lot. I’m so sorry—if I—if I could do it all over again, I’d do it better.”

“How could it have been better?” Belle shook her head. “We met when my brother owed you a debt.”

Jungkook raised his shoulders. “Maybe we’d have met at your boutique.” He attempted to smile a little at the thought of just walking into that boutique and falling in love the normal way. The happy way. “I’d have flirted with you a lot and you’d roll your eyes at me. We’d travel together to Paris or Tokyo, explore the things we love and eat ice-cream until our stomachs ached.” A tiny chuckle passed through his lips.

Belle had to suck in her trembling bottom lip as tears began escaping down her cheeks. “And?”

“We’d get married…properly. Away from my family, we’d relax somewhere at a beach.” The visions in his mind played without any effort causing his eyes to flood knowing it was all an impossible dream now. “We’d have children…we’d love them so much, Belle—”

She couldn’t hold in the sobs that shook through her body. At the very mention of children, Belle felt a tingle under the skin of her belly, memories of the aches still lingering. “Why didn’t you just take the money?”

“What?” He whispered.

“Why didn’t you just take the money? And don’t tell me it was because of business or keeping up appearances. Why? Why me?”

The ever burning question. Even the interrogators asked them the question. What was the motive to taking in Miss Kim? A lot of people owed you debts. Jungkook only answered with a vague, menial answer that had no real connection to his deeds as a boss.

“It was—it was just an impulse…”

Belle’s expression hardened even though her eyes still looked so vulnerable and broken. “An impulse?” Her voice was small and meek. “That’s it?”

“I didn’t think you’d—say yes.”

Saying it to Hoseok was easy. Saying it to Belle felt evil. Jungkook noticed the darkness clouding over her beautiful features, a mixture of heartbreak and pure rage.

“You put my brother’s life on the line and you thought I wasn’t going to say yes?” Belle winced, tone rising back to its original power. A harsh slap of reality learning that one of the most traumatizing experiences of her life happened because one man had an impulse decision to use his power over her.

“Belle, it was years ago—”

“So why am I still getting nightmares about it?!” She shrieked leaving a tense silence to plunge into the room while her voice still echoed through the walls a little. “W-why h-haven’t I stopped seeing t-that mansion every time I close my eyes? Wh-why do I wake u-up scared that I’m still in that room w-while they watch—” Belle let out a loud, trembling breath closing her eyes. Tears rolled down her cheeks, dripping to her chest from her jawline as she hugged herself tightly.

Jungkook stammered, swallowing down the painful lump in his throat as he attempted to keep his composure. “You didn’t have to come and see me.” He whispered.

“I wanted you to see me.” Belle sniffled shakily. “Staying away from you doesn’t help because you could always push it out. I can’t—I can’t push it out because it’s inside me.”

“You think all this has been easy for me? That I just pushed it out?” Jungkook shook his head with a pained expression as their gazes met again. “Yeah our first meeting was an impulse but that didn’t mean it was always like that. I stopped a lot of contact with my family when you told me you were pregnant. That letter was meant to be the last thing I said to my parents before we left.”

Belle wanted to argue that he just started getting sympathetic after her pregnancy but she would be a hypocrite. Even she felt softened knowing a child was growing inside her. “You wanted to kill the mayor too, Jungkook, how long would that have taken?”

“Overnight if it meant I’d be escaping somewhere with you.” Jungkook spoke without hesitation, still remembering all the plans he had in place for their move.

“But I would’ve lost the baby anyway.” She smiled sadly. “It was natural causes.”

The male took a few careful steps forward, trying not to intimidate her but hopefully close a little more distance between them. “I didn’t just do it for the baby, Belle.” Jungkook sighed. “I did it cause I love you…but I knew we couldn’t be happy if we were at that mansion and I was still running the cartel.”

Belle sniffled. “I wish you didn’t love me.” Her chin trembled, her body tired of brewing more sobs as tears filled her eyes again. “I wish I didn’t love you. Maybe all this would be easier.”

“When has it ever been easy between us?”

“That’s the problem.” She pressed her lips together. “Love shouldn’t be this difficult. Maybe sometimes but—every single day wondering whether what you’re feeling is real…or worrying that something terrible is going to happen if I stay with you for too long.” Features contorted in pain as she stumbled on her feet a little.

Jungkook’s inhibitions banished immediately seeing her trip slightly, rushing to her side and gently holding onto her arm. Before he could say anything, he felt Belle rest her head on his chest. A burst of butterflies soared across his belly having that familiar smell touch his nostrils and the warmth of her body radiating onto his cold bare skin.

They didn’t say a single word as Jungkook properly wrapped his arms around her body, fingers brushing through her soft hair. Her sobs were quiet but her body still trembled and his embraced tightened a little. As if praying that all of her pain could be transferred to him so she did not have to suffer through it all.

Belle should have pulled away the moment he touched her but the warmth was too much. Her body felt heavy against his, melting onto his skin almost like they could join as one. Maybe that could repair some of the damage. Breathing became steady as she allowed herself to relax. A protective part of her still tried ensure she was not too vulnerable but another part said it was too late.

In this particular weakened moment, she was his and he was hers.

-

15 unread messages.

Namjoon: How did it go? Are you good?

Namjoon: Taehyung said you didn’t come home last night.

Namjoon: Belle?

Namjoon: I don’t want to have to track you down.

Namjoon: Please tell me if you’re okay.

Namjoon: Yoongi and Taehyung found out, I’m sorry.

Belle: I’m okay.

Namjoon: Jesus, don’t scare me like that.

Namjoon: Where are you?

Belle: I’m still at Jungkooks’ place.

Namjoon: Okay. Is everything alright?

Belle: I don’t know.

Namjoon: What do you mean? Did he hurt you?

Belle: No.

Namjoon: Just tell me what happened.

Namjoon: Look I’m not Yoongi or Taehyung. I won’t get mad, alright? You can tell me.

Belle: I slept with him.

Namjoon: Okay that’s fine.

Belle: No it’s not.

Namjoon: Did he hurt you or force you or anything?

Belle: No, no it was consensual.

Namjoon: Then I don’t see an issue.

Belle: How?

Namjoon: Considering he’s a former drug lord, I expected far worse things done to you then you two just consensually having sex.

Belle: Are they really angry?

Namjoon: I’ll handle Yoongi and Angel’s handling Taehyung. They’re grown men, they’ll get over it.

Namjoon: Just come back up again.

Belle: Okay. Thank you, Joon.

Namjoon: Anytime.

Belle let out a sigh, chest falling a little as she hugged her phone for a moment before placing it on the nightstand. Eyes scanned the ceiling, a few brownish stains here and there but nothing far too putrid. Her old apartment usually had those stains after a storm. She felt Jungkook shift a little, his arm still resting over her body while his face buried into her neck. It was so easy allowing the warmth to coat their little bubble.

Except it was not a bubble of theatrics. She was not pretending to be Mrs. Jeon anymore. She was a fashion designer with her boutique and Jungkook was a regular man trying to get by in the city. They were two normal people with no real threat to be together but they were here.

The ache between her legs still pulsed a little when she remembered the night before.

The very minute she resorted to hugging him, Belle knew it was going to be difficult to turn back from it. Deep recesses of her mind surfacing up to whisper in her ear that it would be okay just this once.

To feel him again.

To have his head between her legs at this moment, kissing and nibbling on all her sensitive nub while his fingers pads dug into her thighs. Jungkook took his time. Licking a stripe tantalizingly slow, tasting her juices until it was the only remnant on his tongue. He let out a breath through his nose as his lips wrapped fully around her clit, suckling passionately until her thighs closed up around his head only making him moan.

Belle whined against the vibrations on her aching, sensitive skin as her fingers found themselves knotting in his hair. Chest rising and falling she faced the ceiling. Lower belly burned and tightened as Jungkooks’ movement did not falter, shaking his head a little to jolt more of that head-spinning heat.

…

Bed creaked as Belle straddled him, bouncing at a steady pace while her hands rested on his torso. Moonlight painted her sweat glistening skin through the window. As if the whole city could see her relishing in her own guilty pleasure. Except the guilt was nowhere to be found.

His hand trailed up her abdomen to cup her breasts gently, digging a little into her tender skin to earn a small whimper from the woman. Then he moved up to her neck. Jungkook cupped the side, thumb tracing her bottom lip while the other hand gripped at her shaking hips.

Belle suckled on his digit muffling her moans all the while clenching tightly around his member until it sent shivering tingles up her spine. She hummed in satisfaction as Jungkook groaned at the pressure.

“You feel so good.” He pushed in his thumb a little further watching her slightly drenched curls fall over her face. A smile curled up at the corner of his lips hearing the sinfully loud squelch sounds their thrusts emitted. “So fucking beautiful.” Jungkook whispered. He forced himself to keep his eyes open, wanting to take every second of how she tried to suck on his skin harder every time she dropped down roughly.

“I’m close.” Belle’s words were a little muddled against his thumb. Her thrusts grew desperate and relentless, pussy squelching violently as their incessant moans swirled in the sex scented air.

Bursts of searing heat and unbridled pleasure shook through their limbs, pulsing through her veins as Belle’s movements became sloppy. Jungkook had his head pressed deep against the pillow as his muscles tensed feeling her walls clench around him before he pulled himself out, release spewing out onto his belly. Belle cheekily reached down to touch his reddened member, giggling lightly when he jerked against it.

Jungkook followed with a breathless chuckle of his own as she rested back on his chest, uncaring of how messy they were.

It was the first time they laughed after sex.

Granted it was not much but last night gave her a dreamless sleep. A welcomed type of sleep. They cried, hugged, moaned and laughed. So many sensations all at once was bound to make anyone have such a deep sleep that they do not want to wake up the next day. A wonderful feeling. It would be temporary before her other dreams settle in again but Belle was not going to let them get to her this morning. She wanted to relish in this new, momentary peace.

Jungkook began stirring more, light hum under his breath until he finally opened his eyes to a calming sight. Tired vision still a little blurred but he could always make out her face. “Sleep well?” His voice grumbled despite the smile creeping on his lips.

Belle turned to meet his gaze, mimicking his gentle smile. “Really well.” The curl slowly disappeared from her lips as reality seeped through their comfort. “We can’t see each other anymore. You know that, right?”

He nodded although solemnly. “I know.” Whatever red string they forced themselves to tie around their pinky finger had to separate one day. Even when reluctance settled in. “Like you said, love shouldn’t be as difficult as ours was.” Jungkook shifted so he lay down his back, one arm curled so he could rest his head on top of it.

“I don’t have to leave now though.”

“What, you want more?” Jungkook licked the inside of his cheek as a smirk formed, one of his hands reaching out to gently touch her lower belly.

Belle pushed his hand away with a chuckle. “No…I meant something else.” She pulled the sheets up to cover herself a little, goosebumps forming on her skin when the room brushed a little cold. “Ice-cream. We could get ice-cream.”

A jolt of nostalgia burst through him as he remembered the last time that request was passed between them. Despite expecting a child back then, Jungkook preferred this more knowing Belle was sitting here by her own volition. That was what mattered most. “Yeah…we can get ice-cream.”

-

Tiny slab of pink and mint down the food line of the city. Belle somehow managed to make his black T-shirt and her sweatpants look strangely put together while he buried himself in his hoodie. They walked inside the cute parlor immediately greeted by a kind boy at the counter.

Making their orders, the couple took their ice-cream cups to a booth at the corner.

Thankfully the parlor was empty since no one bought ice-cream this early in the morning so it would be difficult for them to be spotted.

Journalists eventually grew bored of doing stories on Jungkook and Belle’s ‘tragic love story’ but she knew the moment, a single person saw them, it would be chaos.

“Did you have any trouble these few years?” Jungkook asked feeling a sense of joy in his mouth as the sweet taste touched his tongue.

Belle shrugged lightly. “Apparently there was a hired hitman for a while but he was quickly detained. Then a stalker which lasted for a few months.”

“What did he want?”

“Namjoon found out he was a spy for a gang called Pogpungu Pa.”

“Fucking tongue twister.” Jungkook scoffed. “They wanted a large percentage of my cocaine supplies in exchange for prostitutes.” He waved his spoon. “Told him I didn’t work in that line of business so the Don got pissed.”

“Well he’s also detained. Namjoon’s been very quick in dealing with them. Probably happy to be out on the field again with Yoongi still at his desk.” Belle suckled the remnants of brownie bits from her spoon.

“Why is he at his desk?” His brows furrowed.

“Standard procedure, I guess. Every detective is meant to have a few months of therapy and leave from field work. But I’m pretty sure it’s a new thing that the mayor advised.”

“They’ve been doing a lot of things.”

“A lot of good things.” Belle corrected, narrowing her gaze even though her expression was not completely serious.

Jungkook smiled lightly picking up another small scoop of his ice-cream. “You’ve been doing a lot of good things. The Tokyo fashion week.”

Her eyes almost immediately lit up when the topic was mentioned and Jungkook couldn’t help but feel accomplished that he initiated it. “You knew about that?”

“Saw it in the newspaper. It looked good.”

Belle grinned from ear to ear, eyes shining in the bright lights of the parlor. “Angel helped me with the movement. She wanted to create a shelter for domestic violence victims like her. So I offered to promote it in the fashion shows.”

“Oh yeah Hoseok told me…Taehyung and Angel, they have a kid, right?”

“Yeah…” She giggled lightly. “A little baby daughter.”

“That’s good.” Jungkook nodded with a wide smile. “He’s all okay now?”

“Clean and sober for four years. He—relapsed another time but when they got married and then started trying for children, he never went back again.” Belle murmured still remembering the happiest look on Taehyung’s teary eyed face when he first held his baby. That was all she ever wanted for her brother. True happiness. “I kind have you to thank for that.”

He hummed in disapproval. “Don’t, please—the way I did it was wrong.”

“Yes but everything happens for a reason. I think if that didn’t happen…he might not be here at all.” Belle shook his head. “He also did technically meet Angel in the Sangria House. The only reason we even had her booked was because I met Seokjin at the party with you.”

Strange how time fools you in that way. It makes you feel regretful of the bad things that happened in the past except you could not possibly take them back because it would mean diminishing the good things along with it. Delicate and strange thing time was.

“I would’ve never been free from that place if you didn’t go behind my back.” Jungkook smiled down at the cup. “I’ll always be grateful for that.”

“Speaking of which…how is it like being a normal joe in the city?” Belle asked with a cheeky glint in her eye as she tapped her fingers against the ice-cream cup.

“Apparently you have to pay for grocery bags now.” He waved his spoon around.

“Yes for recycling and it’s been happening for a very long time.” She smiled.

His bottom lip jutted out in a little pout. “Not from what I remember.”

“Since when have you ever shopped for groceries?”

Jungkook scrunched his nose a little poking into the mint chocolate ice cream to pick out the chips. “Since yesterday.” He mumbled. “But I’m happy…” He nodded letting his words linger in their comfortable silence. “Or at least now I can do things that make me happy.”

“You could travel to Tokyo and Paris, eat ice-cream until your stomach aches…” Belle grinned. “You can get married to someone you love dearly and have lots of children. No more deals though.” She raised her index fingers as a warning.

Jungkook laughed. “No more deals, I promise.” He mixed around his melting ice-cream for a bit enjoying the little swirl. “What about you? What’re you going to do?”

“My therapist said I should take some time off from the boutique when I get the chance.” Belle quoted her therapist mostly but she never really thought about the prospect on her own until she discussed it with Yoongi. “Yoongi suggested we could go to Norway to disconnect for a little while.”

“Yoongi…wait, are you two—”

“No, silly. As friends.”

“Ah.”

“You think if I had a boyfriend like Yoongi, I’d sleep with you again?” Belle scoffed even though a smile tugged at her lips.

“Hey I’m pretty tempting.”

“Not that tempting.”

Jungkook scrunched his nose at her before chuckling as he practically slurped on his ice-cream at this point.

The couple sat in silence for a few moments finishing their breakfast desserts, unable to keep smiles off their faces.

“We go our separate ways now, yeah?” He spoke the truth this time. The satisfaction in his belly along with the warmth in his heart softly stating to him that it was time.

Belle smiled, a slight twinge in her chest but nothing compared to the relief brewing inside. A whisper in her ear telling her it was okay. It was okay to move on. “Yeah. No more looking back.”

Throwing their empty ice-cream cups away, the pair walked out of the parlor towards Belle’s car. Jungkook’s apartment was a few minutes’ walk away. She wanted to drive because it made it that little bit easier to go back home immediately. At this point, they both deserved one thing to be easy.

Belle gave him one final smile before climbing into the car and driving away.

Jungkook didn’t wait a second as he turned on his heel and walked back to his apartment.

This was the true final time they saw each other. They would not turn back. There was no need to anymore.

-

As soon as Jungkook walked into the room, it smelled a whole lot more different than it did the first time. The only smoke emitting was from the pan exuding a warm, delicious scent. Morning sun beaming through the windows making it look a tad bit brighter and the floors almost shone clean now.

“There you are!” Hoseok announced with a grin. “Did you go out for a jog?”

“Yeah…a little bit.” He answered absentmindedly.

A figure with short, black hair stood at the kitchen counter setting some bacon and eggs up on the plate. She looked up and immediately give him a similar bright smile as Hoseok.

“Ah—this is Rosyne.” Hoseok touched the womans’ shoulder. “Rosyne, Jungkook.” He gestured over to the younger male.

The two exchanged greetings before Hoseok invited him over to the kitchen counter to have breakfast. He wanted to tell them that his stomach was a little full from the ice-cream. But it felt so peaceful when he saw the giggles shared between them while eating, random conversations that no one really cared about but it made them smile.

Jungkook stayed still for a moment watching them so easily be vulnerable and happy around each other. “Hey, you guys want to go to Paris?” He sat down on one of the stools.

Rosyne’s eyes widened a little as the request lingered in the air while Hoseok looked amused but taken aback at the same time.

“Why the sudden interest?” Hoseok chuckled, sticking his fork into some scrambled eggs.

He shrugged. “Might be cool to disconnect for a little while.”

“Prison wasn’t disconnecting enough?”

Jungkook nudged his arm with a light scoff. “You know what I mean. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“I’ve—always wanted to see the Louvre in real life.” Rosyne raised her shoulders, giving Hoseok an adorable smile.

“Don’t spoil him, Ros.” Hoseok glanced at the both of them for a few moments before letting out a defeated sigh. “We’ll think about it.”

Jungkook did not argue any further after that and began taking careful bites of the breakfast even though it might give him a stomach ache later. The thought of something actually exciting happening this year or the next year made him happy enough to keep going on this new life.

-

Carefully padding into the apartment, Belle’s footsteps were soft and barely echoed across the walls but there was no use in being discreet. Especially since Yoongi, Taehyung, Namjoon and Angel were all in the sitting room. Bloom sat on the floor completely focused on banging her little drums that Namjoon gifted her on her first birthday.

Once Angel looked her way, everyone else followed suit. Yoongi was the first one to shoot up to his feet and stomp towards the woman.

“What took you so long?” Yoongis’ words sounded more like pleading than anger. “Are you hurt?” Eyes frantically examined her body until his gaze darkened as he stopped at her neck.

Belle hovered her hand over the patch of skin that definitely had a few purpling marks scattered but she kept a calm expression. “Everything’s fine, okay? Nothing happened.”

“No something happened.”

“Yoongi, fuck off.” Namjoon grabbed his shoulder and led him to the side. “Good to have you back in one piece, B.”

As the two men sat near the paneled windows muttering a few things to each other, Belle caught another figure coming towards her from the corner of her eye. She took a deep breath keeping her gaze on her brother.

Taehyung looked so much taller now. Loose emerald shirt with golden vectors as opposed to the old black hoodies, his eyes were a little darkened from exhaustion but this time it was to take care of his baby rather than an accidental bender. The serious expression on his face added more to the fact that Belle had her older brother back. He was sturdy in his appearance and confident in his stance. The look of a man who had gone through a tunnel of hell and found happiness at the end of the trail.

“How’d it go?” He asked.

“Pretty civil…” Belle nodded, playing with her fingers a little. “…considering the circumstances.”

Taehyung hummed in approval. “That’s good. And that?” He waved his index finger across his own bare neck while looking at hers. “Good or bad?”

“Good.” She smiled faintly. “Really good.”

He grimaced a little. “Gross.”

“Shut up.”

Taehyung could not seem to keep his serious expression as a light chuckle broke out of him, shifting on his spot to loosen up. “But—no more, right? We’re gonna try to get back up again? Start over?” He would be the last person to ever judge Belle for her impulses. What he did know is that the impulses were not meant to be a constant.

Belle did not hesitate to nod. “I uh—I wanted to go to Norway. With Yoongi…” She glanced over to the side seeing Yoongi give her a more apologetic look which the woman smiled in response. “And maybe you guys too? Get away from the city for a while.” She shrugged. “Might even give me inspiration on the new line.”

He thought on the idea for a moment but quickly had a wide grin on his lips. “Angel’s been talking about going on a holiday. We could talk about it over breakfast.”

“Let me just go freshen up.” Belle patted him on the shoulder before making her up the top level of the apartment to her bedroom.

Being the owner of a prestigious boutique came with its perks when she managed to get a big enough apartment for three people including safety for children. It was in the highly populated areas of the city which is meant to be the best area for the position they were in. With Angel’s first husband and Belle’s connection to the Jeon Cartel, the more witnesses around them, the better.

Walking into her bedroom, Belle had one thing in mind before going to shower as she opened her walk-in closet. On the top shelves a box had been hidden under some folded sheets. She reached out and pulled it towards her feeling the light trickle of dust flow through the air making her sneeze.

Sniffling a little she brought the brown box and sat down on the bed with it. Belle paused for a moment, a very light tinge of dread brushing through her but there was a strength that seemed to power through it. Taking a deep breath she clicked open the box. Two tiny yellow shoes on the right hand side causing her to let out a shaky sigh, smiling a little as a few tears filled her eyes.

Belle held the shoes gently, hugging them to her chest before placing them on her lap. Then her eyes moved from the bracelet to the piece of folded paper. The warmth in her belly soared again taking the letter, unfolding to reveal the heavy promise scratched across the surface. The promise that kept her up at night for this many years. How much words could impact a mind was both fascinating and terrifying.

No more though. It was time. Something her therapist said to her in one session Belle would never forget.

It’s never about one solid destination of healing. You will never know exactly when you were healed. All you can know is when you decide to start or keep healing. That is what’s important. After that, everything will flow by you…in the future, it will all seem like a dream. But you’ll feel so proud of yourself when you look back, Belle. Even more proud than I am of you now. You’ve done so well and I hope you’ll keep healing.

Belle placed her fingers at the top of the letter and ripped it half, letting out a deep of relief as she put them together, ripping it again. Smaller and smaller the pieces became breaking off like petals from the already withering flowers in her heart. A smile widened on her lips as she let out something in the mixture of a chuckle and a sob, tears freely leaving her eyes. Teeny tiny pieces piled on the bed. Helping to remind her that they were just words after all.

With steady hands she gathered them together and threw it into the bin under her nightstand.

Then Belle took the yellow shoes and walked to the living room.

The group were already settling around the kitchen counter when she arrived. Angel had Bloom in a high chair feeding her some custard looking mush which she seemed to enjoy though slightly confused by the taste.

Belle walked over to where the child was and gently placed the yellow shoes on her socked feet. She could not help but grin seeing how it fit perfectly. Everything happens for a reason.

“Those are beautiful.” Angel gently touched the soft fabric. “Did you make them?”

“I got them from the market years ago.” She softly brushed through Blooms’ thin dark hair as the child tried to peek at what her aunt put on her feet.

“We were just talking about the trip to Norway.” Taehyung spoke up leaning against the counter next to Angel.

“Yeah, why was I not invited?” Namjoon pouted a little.

Belle stammered, chuckling lightly. “It was Yoongi’s suggestion…we can all go together. I thought you wanted to do field work for the rest of the year.”

“Still would’ve liked to be included.”

Bloom squeaked in response to Namjoon’s mumble, bouncing up and down her seat.

“Might need a babysitter if Taehyung wants to get laid.” Yoongi mused.

“Ah, language.” Angel covered Blooms’ ears but the baby only grinned wide looking at Yoongi.

“She’s not going to know what it means.”

“Listen, we’ll go together.” Belle silenced the group for a moment. “Namjoon forgets to take breaks from work anyway so it’d be a good way to force him out somewhere relaxing.”

“Norway does have a low crime rate.” Taehyung spoke.

“So it’s settled. We’re going to Norway and forget about our problems for a month.” Angel announced glancing at each one of them for a nod of approval.

Belle grinned seeing the group dive into their conversations about what to do in Norway and what hotels to book or the sights to see. No worries of any impending problem or event that could ruin everything. It was just peace in the loudest way possible. All you can know is when you decide to start or keep healing. That is what’s important.

She broke for her family once.

Now she was going to keep healing for it too.

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#jungkook #jungkook imagines #bts imagines #jungkook fanfic #bts fanfic #jungkook fanfiction #bts fanfiction #jungkook mafia au #bts mafia au

[dropsofletters]

avenue of tears

— summary: listening to the latest album of the living daydream that is the drummer jeon wonwoo isn’t quite the best idea when, supposedly, it’s written about an ex. missing him to bits, she decides to plug in her earphones, and get lost in the words written by him, for her, perfectly put together to describe what was once broken…but can now be healed.

— title: avenue of tears — pairing: jeon wonwoo x reader — genre: drummer!au ; podcast host!au ; friends to exes to strangers to lovers!au — type: fluff ; angst ; drama ; humor ; suggestive ; romance — word count: 19,796

For the first time in her life, she can say she is happy while having a sore-throat.

Well, there have been other good times in her life that have included such a symptom—the after-effects of a concert, the times in which she really believed the vocalists of the bands she loved would end up looking at her and falling in love, or when she screamed out of joy, whether on amusement park rides or from pure happiness. Having a voice is enough of a gift; saying and speaking out our thoughts, the most divine of talents that one can possess. Using that voice for the first time in her own podcast is a blessing.

Though, no amount of throat-clearing can get the staff backstage to open up some space for her to walk in. In some parts of her life, being talkative does not compare to being loud, and this is one of those moments she wishes her throat wasn’t dry and in the need for tea, simply to shout to the slow walker in front of her just so she can get to her boyfriend faster. Perhaps, feel the roughness of his calloused fingertips rub against her palm when they hold hands, and he gives her one of those lazy smiles that beg for her to give him a kiss.

The room has gray walls, and around four bands have gathered in the same space. She smells everyone’s deodorants mingling together, and she doesn’t know if the stench is favorable or she’d rather not smell anyone at all, even if it’s not an unpleasant smell. Masculinity exudes from every band, lacking the female character that should exist in rock by now, but someone’s bleached blonde strands of hair, long enough to reach that person’s waist, remind her that there is a representative of female power in this giant gig for small bands.

The vocalist of Wonwoo’s band.

The chopped strands of her hair are, thankfully, long enough to welcome the rotten pair of scissors she uses before every show, not standing split ends, and also not standing the way she calls out her real name. You see, one year ago, the vocalist would’ve been called Eunkyung, with pretty straight hair in chocolate brown, curves covered in small sprinkles of ink, sporting a little black dress of a nice day, but that’s far from the case. Now, Eunkyung has taken up the name Love, an ode to what she hates the most, cutting her hair like she cuts the men out of her life, sporting leather pants and chains falling from her shoulders, cheeks hollowed in absolute distaste of the place she finds herself in, but quite enjoying the bottle of beer she brings up to her mouth.

“Eunkyung!” She calls out again, waving her hand in the air but not getting a reaction. Instead, she stops on her tracks, the sole of her boots barely lifting from the ground as her eyes scan the room. Eunkyung stands out because of her hair, but it’d be difficult to find Wonwoo’s dark head of hair. “Love!”

With the bottle of beer perched up between her rosy lips, Love lifts her hand in the air to greet her, trying to call her over only to stop her ministrations. The little ounces of oxygen left in her lungs ask to remain on her chest before she passes out, her white boots probably dusty by the amount of people who have stepped on her.

Love moves in between the groups of people, pushing people away with a force that could barely be contained in her tall body, never once letting a single droplet of beer fall on the floor. Just when she reaches her, Love wraps her fingertips around her wrist, tutting her name out in a raspy tone, perfect for the edgy tune in the new band. “Shit, what are you doing just standing there? Could’ve gotten your shit stolen.”

Her hand absentmindedly cradles the back pocket of her jeans. Her phone is still there, thankfully. “Sorry, didn’t know I was dealing with prisoners and not with rock enthusiasts.”

Love chuckles at that, now much different from the person she used to be, tattooed up to her neck, flowers blooming on the thin skin. If she looks from close enough, she believes her jugular palpitates against the dark ink. “Here, they’re about the same.”

Once they reach the corner the band had taken up, she finally gets a glimpse of people she has met. In Wonwoo’s apartment last year, for example, when a list of names had been written on a whiteboard and each sounded worst than the last. A man with a burgundy and green beanie sits with his bass on his lap, thin legs parted and yet, seemingly thicker because of his baggy pants. His head is thrown back, as if the chatter around him doesn’t distract him from his thoughts, looking ahead at the ceiling as if there’s something interesting on there. She really does look up, just in case Hansol has found the secret to life in that damned white ceiling.

The bassist doesn’t seem to be paying attention when she directs the question towards Love. “What did he smoke?”

Love finishes her beer in one go, patting her hand against Hansol’s leg before taking a seat on it. The two childhood friends had been the ones to start this whole band ordeal—and to be quite honest, it’s all thanks to them that Wonwoo got the guts to be in a band. Love’s Midnight may not be doing quite well right now, but it will someday. “Vernon didn’t smoke a thing. If anything, I’m the one looking for a smoke.”

“Weed’s bad.” Hansol, or by his stage name Vernon, says from his spot as he finally concentrates on the conversation at hand. His brown eyes seem gentle, even when his dark eyebrows join in a frown. “You’re gonna fuck up your voice.”

“So what?” Love asks.

“We don’t have a vocalist, then.” Hansol continues, pushing her off his lap to put his bass back inside its case, rubbing his sweaty palms against his black pants. “And we don’t have anyone to back you up. My singing is not as good. Andy’s singing is shit and Wonwoo sounds mysterious when he sings, but put him on the front of the stage and he’s going to black out.”

At the mention of her boyfriend, she can’t help but feel a smile creep up her face. Wonwoo was supposed to only be her little cousin’s drum teacher, a little part-time job he had to keep the dream alive, but one of those times her aunt couldn’t make it, she was asked to drive the little boy to class. There, Wonwoo captured her attention, and just before she left with regrets, she had slipped a paper with her number onto his palm.

And he had called.

And now, seven months later, they’re there. Coexisting in the same world, uniting their loose threads, and living out of it.

Well, he’s not there.

“Where’s Wonwoo?” She asks, resting her hands inside the pockets of her jeans, and a little grin appears on Hansol’s face at the mention of his name.

“He’s—”

Hansol’s deep and tranquil voice cuts short when an interruption comes through in the shape of the shortest of the band, purple hair done a mess and yet, matching with the hickeys trailing up his neck, doing his best to conceal it with the thick choker around his neck. Andy, the band’s guitarist, whose innocent features bring him just about any lover to his side, thinking he understands them, listens to them…but he’s a player.

And a damn good one, too. “Twenty bucks and I’ll tell you where he is.”

“Twenty bucks and you shut up.” Her tongue is witty enough to reply, and the sound of familiar laughter stirs her heart alive. When her hands spread on top of Andy’s shoulders, pushing him to the side to look for Wonwoo, she sees him nearing them, perhaps accompanying Andy in the process, black hair falling upon his forehead in sweaty strands, framing his elongated face, rounded ears, enigmatic eyes and tender, thin lips.

He gets closer, enough to wrap an arm around her and make her feel the coldness of the chains on his leather jacket, as dark as the rest of his outfit, but she knows the red shirt underneath is the tank top she bought him not too long ago. “Don’t give him your money. He’s a scam.”

“Girls don’t say that.” Andy shrugs, crossing his arms over his chest and gently rubbing the hickeys on his neck.

“I doubt they get to tell you anything at all.” She answers, twirling on Wonwoo’s arms until he’s hugging her completely, his taut chest breathing in and out, meeting hers in the middle. “There’s only so much you can know about someone while having sex.”

“Listen—”

Love stands up from her spot to wrap her arm entirely around Andy’s shoulder, smiling wickedly at the people in front of her. “Instead of arguing with our two lovebirds and the reason why our love songs are good, why don’t we look for a blunt?”

“Be careful out there.” Wonwoo conquers, lifting one of his eyebrows as if to question Love’s actions. The woman simply chuckles, already dragging Andy away for her.

“The only difference between a cigarette and a blunt is social norms, Wonwoo.” Love complies, clearly talking about the smell of cigarettes that breathes out in the aftertaste of the cologne and mint in him. He picked it up not too long ago, and hasn’t been able to get away from nicotine since then.

Hansol, once again too lost in his own world, doesn’t seem to notice—or mind—when her lips meet his in one of those brief dances of excitement, a smile barely able to conceal itself on her face when she looks into his glistening eyes. “How was the gig?”

“Tiring.” He answers, tugging at the collar of his leather jacket. “Love insists we have to look edgy, but this make me sweat buckets.”

“It makes you look hot.”

A tinge of pink creeps up his ears, smiling widely when he moves her from side to side. “What’s with all the love today? You’re awfully happy.”

How not to be so when she’s with him? Awakening to the sound of his fingers pattering against the counter of his kitchen, mumbling out the lyrics of the songs he is always writing. Wonwoo is not only a dreamer but a dream, a sight to look at and a potion inside her stomach. If she could, she’d throw up hearts at the mere mention of him, but the impossibility only further explains her infatuation for him. Love, love is this.

“Well…” She trails her voice, just at the same time that her hands take place by his abdomen, toying with the fabric there. “Did you listen to the podcast today? First episode early in the morning. Not a lot of people tuned in, but twenty is more than nothing, right?”

His black hair covers the darkness that looms over his eyes, lips faltering that smile to instead part delicately. Even his body moves away at the mention of the podcast, little droplets of sweat intensifying on his neck. “T-The podcast was today?”

A sigh leaves her before she could stop it. Forgetfulness is not his thing, but it seems to be today. “Yeah. I told you today before you went out to practice.”

“Shit, sorry.” Wonwoo lets his hand hover on her cheek, lips leaning forward to join hers, but she can’t even purse her own to meet him, leaving him with her blank expression instead. “I went to the gym after practice, and then I was too busy to actually listen—”

“You decided to go to the gym instead of listening to the podcast I have been working so hard on?” Nights spent listening to her favorite albums, preparing topics and asking Minghao to help her achieve the best quality in sound. Publicity done just about everywhere, asking her close friends and family to listen. Twenty people had listened, and none of them was Wonwoo. Her boyfriend.

“It was a mistake.” He whispers, like the boyfriend he is, not forgetting to pour all his emotions out in the pout of his lips. Giving her another kiss, she wants to stay angry, let the pits of hell stay inside her, but his eyes glimmer as if he means it when he promises: “Maybe, next time I will listen, okay?”

Maybe. A relationship should not be gray; it’s either black or white, it’s yes or no, never an in-between. Never a maybe.

But she takes it, because Wonwoo is just the type to say things without thinking. His ‘maybe’ may mean ‘certainly’.

His ‘maybe’ may mean ‘I’m sorry’.

Or it just is meaningless. Not ‘maybe’ at all.

###

Pen to paper. Cigarettes to lips. A mess done person, or a person done a mess.

The press has met the man that she has loved for over eleven months, and yet, she feels like each article that gets out about Love’s Midnight just makes her know the people in the band a lot less. This thought crosses her as her feet come in contact with empty bottles of soda, thrown across the floor of the hotel room they rented for their first real gig. Wonwoo’s cigarettes have been his lover for the night, as well as his lyricism notebook, but Andy seems to be having other ideas in the cheap room next door. It may be just some hooker, but something in her gut tells her that the lack of Love on the afterparty gives her an indicator of who it may be…

The reaction is long gone when she closes the door behind her, sporting her best dress—the one Wonwoo always talked about, the one that had his eyes lingering on her legs a lot longer than necessary, unable to keep his hands off her waist whenever she used it. The attention from him was well received, and yet, it was lacking tonight. The lonesome yellow of the lightbulb in front of them flickers, her heels click against the tiles on the floor, and he doesn’t even pull away from his notebook, humming out the notes to the song he is writing. At least, he’s not the one with the hooker.

But, what kind of thought is that?

It’s not the kind of idea she’d normally have about Wonwoo. Her Wonwoo, all rock songs but soft heartened words. Yet, with each passing month of his newfound stardom, she sees him less. Feels him less. Talks to him in ways that feels as though he is a stranger, and not the kind that wants to meet her. Definitely not the interested strangers they were in the past, the reason as to why they fell in love.

The lighter in between his fingers basks the cream walls in a faint light, the first smoke of the cigarettes leaving his lips and then, he keeps his hand up, a little bit twisted to keep the ashes away from his notebook. She moves closer, the back of her thighs meeting the edge of the bed when she calls out his name. Nothing. Wonwoo feels like nothing these days.

There, in a pretty dress, and yet not of his liking, pushing the pink fabric to fit more of her body, like a woman in her honeymoon. Insecurity latches to each portion of her uncovered skin, clearing her throat to catch his attention as she rests her extended palm on his back.

The toned muscles seem to welcome her touch, but his face remains stoic, hair standing out in various spots, dark eyes packing worries inside his heart. “Wonwoo?”

“Baby, I’m busy.” Annoyance exists in his tone, though it’s almost imperceptible. These days, all his feelings seem to be this way—happiness is the same as sadness, as annoyance and worry. Wonwoo is just a blank canvas, and she can’t seem to paint him. “Can’t seem to finish writing this song.”

“Maybe, it’s just not a good song.” The words don’t come out in the way that normally would. He has been talking about this song for three days, maybe it’s about time he drops it. Maybe, it’s time for them to drop this strange silent treatment between them—

“What?” Finally, he looks over his shoulder, his lips barely wrapping around the cigarette before each blow of smoke is thrown her way with his words. “What do you mean the song is not good? You haven’t even heard it.”

“If you can’t write it, it’s because you’re not inspired for it.”

His eyebrows raise up at that, taking his notebook in between his finger and stomping his cigarette against the bedside table, perhaps leaving it for later. He turns on his back, on the verge of becoming silent again, when he stops tapping his pen against the notebook. “What do you know about music anyways? It’s not that easy to write a song.”

A laugh escapes her nose, because she’s not half happy at the man in front of her. “The podcast I have, the one you don’t listen to, talks about music and I have a minor in something music-related. Isn’t that enough for you?”

“I listen to your podcast.” Wonwoo defends, letting the notebook rest on his taut abdomen as he lifts his hands to rub at his eyes. “I just don’t have enough time to listen to you talk for more than an hour—”

Her legs can’t seem to stay still then, standing up from her spot on the bed and making sure to pull her dress as far as possible. Somehow, being looked at by Wonwoo at this moment feels absolutely horrendous. Earlier this afternoon, she would’ve loved to have his hands all over her, his lips mouthing the things he loves the most about her. Right now, he’s impossible. “Isn’t that what a boyfriend should do? Listen to his motherfucking girlfriend?”

“I listen to you, oh my God!” He throws his head back, covering his face with his hands before sighing. “Babe, you’re being irrational. You come in here and tell me my song sucks, and now you’re making this about our relationship?”

“Well, you were the one that told me I didn’t know anything about music.”

Wonwoo stops for a moment, uncovering his face to look at her with what seems to be despair. “Then, I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” Her heels click harshly with each step she takes towards him. “You can’t just say sorry like you’re bored. Saying sorry has to be meaningful.”

“That’s just how my voice sounds.” But she knows that’s not the case. Deep, tranquil, that’s his voice, but that doesn’t mean it’s not meaningful. That doesn’t mean he can talk to her in a way that feels as though he has never loved her.

“No, that’s not how your voice sounds—”

“Babe—”

“Wonwoo.” She closes her eyes tightly, kneeling to take the empty bottles of soda in between her hands. “Who are you and what did you do to the man I fell in love with?” The question is rhetorical and not meant to be answered as she continues: “You’re messy and uninterested, this is not—”

“Maybe, if you let me speak, I’d be able to tell you what’s wrong with me.”

“Oh, so there’s really something wrong?” Far too entranced in her anger, she crosses her arms over her chest. “Is it me? Am I the wrong thing in your life?”

“When you get like this, maybe.” Wonwoo conquers, standing up and taking the resting empty bottles of soda before sighing. “Hey—”

“No. Repeat that.”

“Give me a break.”

She takes him by his arms, then, his tank top moving with the motion as she makes him turn towards her. Tired eyes to tired soul. One for him. One for her. “You really want me to give you a break? Because I could totally leave you if that means you being happy.”

Wonwoo has always been a selectively silent man. His lips don’t part unless necessary. He loves being a listener, not a talker. She wishes he would’ve stayed silent that night, but he didn’t, instead frowning deeply as he pushed his body away from her. “I can’t be with someone who doesn’t listen to me. So, maybe, it’s better if we give each other a break, don’t you think?”

She has to scoff, pulling her dress further down her thighs as it had ridden up, yet not once breaking eye contact with him. “Why call it a break? Why don’t we just break up and that’s it? Call it fucking quits so you can go fuck some other chick that actually listens to you, baby boy?”

“Don’t talk to me like that.” He answers, shoulders rising and falling as he gets closer to her. “Don’t talk to me at all if you’re going to be like that.”

“Well, tough luck. That’s just how I am.” Her voice drops a few octaves, pushing at his chest to get him away from her. His eyes seem to change, then, ever so present in his feelings, burning through him when he calls his name and tries to reach for her, but she is halfway through the room when his skin barely grazes her.

“Baby—”

“Don’t you fucking touch me. Don’t you talk to me. Don’t look for me. Don’t…” Her voice breaks then, breathing out slowly when her hand comes in contact with the handle of the door. “Don’t, Wonwoo. Just don’t.”

“Hey, sorry, you know I love y—”

“Don’t.” She whispers, loud enough for him to hear when she opens the door. Why is that, even when the air in the corridor feels fresher than the one basked in cigarettes in this room, she feels more suffocated when she leaves?

Right, because she never listened to him.

And he never got to talk honestly to her.

###

“Listen, you’re a podcast host. I think you should really leave the coffee aside and go for tea and honey.”

One of the biggest wonders in this world is how in hell Minghao’s blonde strands of hair seem to be soft even when he dyes it continuously. The other wonder is how such a sweet voice like his seems to have the pointiest of remarks just at the tip of his tongue. Perhaps, that’s why Minghao is the tech of her podcast, and not a host to be exact. He’d be far too honest about the newest releases in music. What she’d call ‘something different yet not tasteful’, he’d call it ‘absolute garbage taken out of the trash, eaten by a dog, and then thrown up onto the floor’.

But hey, that’s just Xu Minghao.

Twirling on his chair, he writes something down on their shared document for this week’s podcast, two years on the run and yet, doing better than ever. Thousands of listeners check up each week, either on YouTube or on Spotify, to tune in and talk about the newest music dropped into the world. Mostly rock, but she doesn’t forget some other genres if they catch her attention enough.

He runs his fingers through his hair, leaning back on his seat and parting his jean cladded legs, fixing the plain yet expensive t-shirt resting on his slender body before she responds. “Get on with your life, Hao. If I don’t drink coffee, I could totally die.”

“Stubborn as ever, I see.” Minghao tuts, lifting his cat-like eyes from the screen just as he clears his throat. “Your kidneys are the ones dying.”

“As long as it’s not my vocal cords, we’re fine.”

“You’re not going to die because of lack of caffeine. That’s just stupid.” Yet, his eyes keep concentrating on the screen, organizing both good and bad albums to talk about, maybe a sprinkle of singles here and there as not to make the podcast too long. However, just as the straw of her iced coffee meets her lips, Minghao’s face stands out in their office setup, widening his eyes at what he sees on the screen. “You’re going to die because of this, though.”

Exaggerations are not his thing. That’s why he is so poised even when the audio cuts off, or when her voice breaks. Nothing impresses him, nothing leaves an imprint on him, so her body moves to his side before he could completely finish his sentence. “Why? Why? Why? Why would I die?”

Minghao doesn’t let her look at the screen of his laptop, instead reading out the title of the article he read online for her. “Love’s Midnight has released a new album after their one-year hiatus. The drummer, Jeon Wonwoo, surprises with his songwriting skills in their new project: Valentine. The release date is next week and…” Minghao turns to her then, eyebrows lifted as he inspects her features. “Apparently, it’s an ode to a past lover.”

It’s been two years since she opted to never hear those names again. Love’s Midnight. Jeon Wonwoo. Even Eunkyung, Hansol and Andy had been completely eradicated from her thoughts.

Valentine, perhaps because they had gotten together on February, but what are the odds of Wonwoo actually writing a song about her? An album, at that? He had never reached out, not by hand, not by text, not by a single call. Wonwoo had dissipated after a few missed calls, as if he had given up, and it was for a cause.

“Well, we’re not talking about their album next week.”

Minghao shakes his head harshly enough for a few strands of his hair to jump at the motion. “We have to. Love’s Midnight has been huge for the past two years,” The lack of her in their lives must have been the reason of their success. All friends of hers, now nothing in comparison. “And with the departure of Andy and the entrance of lady-killer Hoshi into the team, we better have all the fangirls tuning in for our podcast.”

Andy. The innocent features, short height, the banter in between them. She had not even gotten to know he had left. “Why did Andy leave?”

“Ooh, messy stuff.” Minghao conquers, not one for gossip, but one for knowing it all. “Love and Andy were dating since the start, right?” Now, that’s not the story she knows—Andy and Love were pals for lust, but they were never really a serious thing. “They broke up. Andy departed because of how difficult it was to be around her, and that was it for them. That’s why the hiatus happened, but now Hoshi joined them.”

“Who’s that Hoshi dude?”

The tech turns to his laptop, writing down the name quickly on the search before an image popped up in front of them. Pierced ears, rounded cheeks and sharp eyes, all highlighted by makeup on his cheeks to make him glisten like the sun, the thick eyeliner matching his leather jacket and his pushed back hair full of gel. He seems to be blonde in that picture, but in the one next to it, his hair is darker, playing guitar on stage with Love, who’s singing in the microphone. Skinnier than ever, with her eyes hollowed out and yet, the smile never leaves her face.

“I see,” She starts, pushing her body away when she sees a glimpse of Wonwoo with his hands up in the air in the back, ready to smack his drums again. “We’re not talking about them, though. I don’t care about anything Jeon Wonwoo can write.”

But her heart picks up just at the mere sight of him. Would he be alright? His health, fine? His lungs still working perfectly or is he still in the way to addiction to nicotine? Does the loneliness still haunt him at times in the middle of the night, or has he found someone else already?

“Don’t be like that,” Minghao states, rolling his eyes at her. “It’s just an album, and you haven’t listened to their music in a while. It was two years ago, I’m sure it will be fine.”

“What if it is about me?”

The question haunts her, makes her feel insecure in a way that she hasn’t felt in a while. Maybe, she fears to know what he really wanted to say—the regrets or the acceptance, the things he felt. If it made him happier or sadder. If he, to this day, hasn’t been able to love someone equally as much as her, because she knows she can’t. No man can compare to the fluttering feeling that came with him. “It’s just a few songs. I think not all of them are about you. Besides, it can be any past lover…and I’m sure you weren’t Wonwoo’s first girlfriend.”

Not his first love, and definitely not his last. A sigh leaves her lips as she crosses her arms over her chest. If she spoke about his album, maybe she’d prove to herself that he was wrong. Music exists in her blood, she acknowledges it as part of her, and he can’t tell her that she doesn’t know what she’s talking about anymore.

“I’ll give it a listen once it drops out.”

With a dizzy smile on his features, Minghao claps his hands in excitement. “Well, look who made you agree to something for the first time in his life.” Sending his two thumbs his way, he chuckles. “This guy.”

###

Being the center of attention has never been of his liking. It’s not the thing Jeon Wonwoo is known for, but it’s the thing their publicist wants him to do.

Flashing lights end up all over him, makeup-less and yet, not caring that he is showing every imperfection on his skin. He cares about what he has to say, though, to take out the buried memories of a past love just for the sake of an album, or for healing. The documentary they’re doing about Love’s Midnight, however, is another ordeal he can’t seem to understand. Not quite feeling connected to the camera in front of him, the white background, the staff that gather as if they want to listen to him. They don’t.

Hansol is somewhere by the corner, getting his makeup taken off for his own interview—people want it to be realistic, or so they say. Somewhere around the room, Love is singing at the top of her lungs—not reaching those notes that had once been the point of her knowledge, but still sounding like an angel sent from heaven. Hoshi is the only one nearby, seated with his legs crossed, looking at Wonwoo in understanding. Not equally as introverted, but somehow capturing the essence of dread in Wonwoo’s soul.

He shrinks into himself, each curvature of his muscles hidden by his posture, though the tank top on him does nothing to conceal what he knows will get him compliments, but never too meaningful. He sends a smile to one of the staff members that passes by him, fixing the lights one last time and asking him to take off his glasses. He does, never the type to say no.

“So, Wonwoo…” The cameraman says from his spot, learning his questions like the palm of his hand, and no amount of preparation and knowledge could’ve prepared him for the question thrown his way. His mind knew it was going to happen, but much like a teenage student in high school, he didn’t prepare. “What’s this album about?”

Her.

It’s not a ‘what’, it’s a ‘who’.

It’s his February 21st, his little memory in a pink dress, his ode to the drums, the reason why he sometimes touches the piano in hopes of composing a song. The only smile he can’t seem to remember perfectly, from the shade of her lipstick to the way her lips felt against his. The little smile she gave him after their first kiss, the way she called out his name, the only ode he has been able to give to the world…his memories of her.

“It’s about love, heartbreak, healing. All of the like.” He says, clearing his throat soon after, only to watch the cameraman move his hands, instructing him to say more. His eyes close for a second, letting out a breath that mingles with an uncomfortable laugh. “It’s about someone I loved dearly. Someone I don’t want to forget.”

“What did you love about them?”

“Pardon?”

“What did you love about them?” The cameraman asks, and Wonwoo has to lean back on his seat to capture the gasp that was about to leave his lips. He was never one to say it much—those three words that would have otherwise made her feel better. She’s talkative, he’s not.

What did he love about her?

Was it the love that she made him feel? Was it the movement of her hips, the shape of her lips, the way she spoke about her issues as if the world was falling down on her? Was it her enthusiasm, her happiness—?

“That everything about her made me want to be a better person.” His head nods once, twice, trying to further convince himself that it’s okay that he doesn’t have her. She’ll always exist in his music, in his rhymes, in his handwriting as he gives another poem to her—another melody to cherish her. “She was the only woman I ever imagined myself loving for a long time.”

Yet, he can’t clean up the mess they made. Can’t return to the avenue they left abandoned because it had taken too long to get to their goal. With one last breath, he hears another question:

“Care to explain some songs to us?”

But the words never come to him. They didn’t back then, they don’t now.

###

Okay, an album. She has listened to thousands of those, maybe even millions. It shouldn’t be an issue for her to sit down in front of her computer, plug in her earphones, and just let the melody of Love’s Midnight songs fill her eardrums with absolute bullshit. Cheesy love bullshit that never happens.

But this is not yet another album.

This is an album about her.

Minghao could be right, though. What are the odds of Wonwoo actually remembering her, much more in the form of lyricism? This thought is what has her pushing her earphones inside the laptop, sighing deeply as she presses play. The introduction shouldn’t be that difficult to listen to, and the artwork is simplistic, something of the like of a sunset merging into artwork in its abstract form. It feels romantic, but it isn’t about her.

The first song changes it all.

The first track of nine has Love’s strong vocals, reaching her high notes like they are part of her voice, slow and steady with that edge of slow rock, a plea for a lover to trust them even when they don’t seem to be showcasing their truest intention. A fool, the song speaks about over and over again, blaming themselves for not being able to point out their realest feelings to their lover.

The bass is heavy on the second track, and Hansol—Vernon, in this case—hasn’t lost a single ounce of his talent to fame. Metaphors speak about Wonwoo’s growing love for literature, grieving the end of a relationship and cladding it in pride. A man who can’t seem to understand the finalization of his relationship, covering it with more wrongdoings, and yet, begging for another yesterday, another chance. Something that has her tightening her hand against her heart, listening to Love’s voice dragging feelings through the pits of hell.

The third track is the one she likes the least, and it’s the one that seems to be the most about her. Talking about smiles, laughter, reminiscent of times much happier and yet, mixing a sound that she would’ve never imagined from Wonwoo’s band. It feels like she is walking on the streets of Madrid, waiting for a lover, letting the Spanish guitar pull her in only to dizzy her. Far too happy. Far too difficult to understand with their bitter ending.

The fourth track feels like him, enough for her fingers to hover over the space bar to pause it a few times. Slow, steady, and the pain of the break-up is felt through every single note. Loneliness haunting, drowning and drowning him into this pit of nonexistence. Love’s voice seems to fit every feeling, and she wonders if it’s just her amazing way of portraying sentiments, or it’s common for people to go through so much pain.

Fifth track, and the echo of it makes her feel even lonelier in her room, leaning back on her gray bed and fluffy pillows to close her eyes lightly. Drunken feelings, it speaks about, a man in the middle of a party with the smell of smoke clinging to him, speaking his feelings into the microphone as if they come directly from his heart, remembering how his life seemed to be easier, much easier when it was simpler. The minimalistic whisper coming from Love’s voice indicating: “I’m good, what about you?” in such a broken tone has her sending a weak smile to the air.

She’s not half as good as he is.

Insecurities seep through the sixth track, and her back cracks by the time she moves again, wanting to hear this from up close. This past lover comes haunt him in his dreams, and he only wonders if they’re happy. The sixth track is far more commercial than the rest, reason as to why it doesn’t surprise her it’s the one, they dropped with a music video she has yet to see. The allegories indicate that this lover, maybe, has found someone else, and the thought alone makes them sleepless. Insomniac. Saddened.

Huh, wouldn’t even surprise her if Wonwoo was the one that found someone else. Each of her dates have ended in her going home without a single kiss, not wanting to have anyone but him.

The seventh track shows Wonwoo’s talent by the drums perfectly, upbeat and coming directly from the 80’s, Love doing her best to portray the meeting of two lovers and the immediate chemistry between the two. A pink dress is mentioned, and the only thing she can do is purse her lips together.

Fuck Xu Minghao.

Fuck him for making her listen to this motherfucking album.

Fuck that pink dress that she keeps in her closet.

The piano on the eighth track takes her breath away, far more heartfelt than anything they have ever done—far more mature than anything she would have imagined from Wonwoo’s little band. The fear of losing someone, one last goodbye, the speech through a break-up. It speaks about turning and twisting, about running out of things to say and saying the worst ones. Tears gather by her vision when she hears that female voice speaking all the pain, she has gathered in her heart for only four minutes. It feels like a lifetime.

Getting Wonwoo to sing for her was difficult. It’d have to come after long conversations, when he was really tired, or when she couldn’t sleep. His voice in the last track was unexpected, so much that she wouldn’t even be able to recognize his voice if only she had not listened to it for almost a year of her life, every single day. His deep tone breathes out words of wanting someone back, but not knowing if he should trust his heart or his brain. Starting slow and then building up to a pop beat, it’s a nice song to snap fingers to, yet, she can’t bring herself to do anything but stare at the screen.

He’d still try for her, he says. In some point of his life, or when he wrote this song, he wanted her back.

He’ll always want her back with him.

And it’s with that thought that she closes her laptop, breathing out harshly at the same time that she texts Minghao.

To: Hao.

I hate you for making me listen to this album.

Track number three sucks ass.

Yet, her fingers hover over the search bar, letting the line tickle the write surface with its glow before she is writing down his name. Jeon Wonwoo, but with an addition—girlfriend, she wants to know who this could be about if it’s not about her—

The first pictures that pop out break her heart in a million pieces only to deliver it across the world as a souvenir. Wonwoo is getting out of a party with some model by his side, long dark hair cascading down her back, a little black dress cladding her elongated body, shiny legs in display as a shy smile creeps up her red lips.

Want you back my ass.

Maybe, it’s this model he is missing.

###

Blue lights bathe his skin in its sinful glow, seated by the entrance of a bar. Their usual spot packs people as if they’re the box of cigarettes on his coat’s pocket, one long stick of nicotine dangling from his lips only to be lit up by someone else. Some of the people gathering around him, perhaps, or the femme voice that has been asking him personal questions for the past hour. Short answers have escaped him, but seeing how risqué they are getting and how uncomfortable he is, he can’t bring himself to care.

Tonight, he’s supposed to celebrate the release of Valentine, his newest album. The happiest night of his life, it must be, but it’s far from that. Droplets of champagne pour from the ceiling, cheers being heard as yet another electronic song plays in the background. Eunkyung is lost in God-knows-where, Hansol has embarked in a conversation about the universe with a group of college students, and Soonyoung is dancing as if he doesn’t have a care in this world. He probably doesn’t, and that’s the dream.

It feels weird. Earning money and success from his sentiments should make him feel better—narcissistic in a way that fuels his ego, but only makes him feel as though the headlines are eating him alive. With each person that nears him, he feels more faux. A product, nothing more, nothing less, enough to be dismissed when he stands up from his spot, blowing out smoke into the condensed air. Some bump his side, staining the expensive leather of his coat, but the conceptualization passes him by quickly. At least, he gets to feel something.

Footsteps are heard beside him by the time he opens the door to the bar. If he’s lucky, he may get to go to his apartment, smoke another cigarette, and head to bed quickly. However, just when the black, sleek door slides from his fingertips to close it down, the flashes of cameras attack his features. Each regret is highlighted by yet another paparazzi throwing themselves at him as they ask the same old questions. The only thing that people seem to wonder about him.

“Who was Valentine about? Please, tell us the details!” One of them screams directly to his face, the microphone grazing his bottom lip and making him stumble back. He tries to smile, but the beam falls down by his fakeness.

“Wonwoo, over here!” One of the shortest interviewers says, waving his hand in the air to capture his attention. “Was it about Eunji?”

Right, Eunji. His publicist would love if he simply said it was about her.

The woman comes in the shape of a goddess, and the tremor of her voice brought a distraction for one night. A distraction, compliments that are void, words that did not have to have meaning, and the frustration of not being able to move on. Eunji said she understood—she, too, had been going through some kind of heartbreak and the relief was needed, but each text that came after said events went directly through his head and towards the deleted pile. One night was enough.

Blowing the air of his cigarette in the air, his mind desires to give the paparazzi what they want. Be the good boy he has always been in a band of people who have stood out for their unique qualities, but tonight, when it’s about her and the success tastes like blood and iron on his tongue, he doesn’t want to be who he used to be.

Jeon Wonwoo, did everything to be one of the most well-known drummers of the year, and ended up alone in the process.

“It’s just for someone, let me be.” He whispers, pushing through the seas of people with his bodyguard trailing right behind him. One good thing comes from fame, but just as he is getting away from the bar, the clicking of cameras still following along with the words from the paparazzi, he hears a lively voice cut through the air with worry.

“Wonwoo, what do you think you’re doing? That’s bad publicity.” Soonyoung speaks quickly, brushing his blonde hair away from his face to showcase his reddened face. The honesty must come from being a bit tipsy.

“Sorry.” It’s the only thing he can bring himself to say, because he knows it’s bad publicity, but isn’t it bad enough that people have been speculating about the muse behind his album? And none of the suppositions are right.

“Stop smoking and look at me for once.” Soonyoung indicates, and Wonwoo parts the cigarette from his lips for a second, quirking one of his eyebrows as they walk together. “What is going on with you?”

“I’m about to become a million seller by exploiting my past relationship and I’ve been getting more attention than usual in the process.” The night seems to swallow each and every single one of his worries, leaving him with a sigh. “I think I’ve just had enough.”

“That’s what happens, dude!” Soonyoung conquers, as if trying to make him feel better. His arm wraps around his shoulder, moving him from side to side. “You’ve done something great for our band, and you’ve been able to let go of all those pent feelings.”

Ha. That’s something he hasn’t done at all. How stupid does he have to be to be in love with her when it all ended so wrongly? Besides, it’s not like she would’ve waited for him—he was a dick, and she has all the reasons to find someone much better. The thought has him putting the cigarette up to his lips again.

“I suppose.” He shrugs, watching a limousine pull up not too far away from them. Since when did he forget about the existence of taxis and started to be too rich for his own good?

“The publicists are going to be so mad at you.”

Wonwoo stops at that, looking ahead and back, ahead and back, not knowing if he should move forward and drag himself to the past. Was it easier when no one cared? Is it easier now that he has all he ever wanted?

Was this all he ever wanted at all?

“Soonyoung…” He says those words into the air, playing a smile into his features as if he feels it. He doesn’t. “Can’t we just get in the car and not talk about this for a second? Let’s talk about any other band but Love’s Midnight.”

Something in the blonde man switches, opening the door to the limousine as he nods with uncertainty. He doesn’t like being looked at like that—as if he doesn’t know what he’s doing with his life…

Because it’s damn right.

But hey, at least he’s almost a million copies seller, right?

###

“Huh, I listened to an album this week,” Her voice drags with the continuation of her sentence, eyes trailing up until she meets Minghao’s, far too concentrated on the sound of her microphone, on stopping the echoes and making sure that those who tune in live do get to hear her properly. She has to muffle a laugh. Nervousness makes her sound stupid. “Well, duh, of course, I always talk about music and listen to albums…but I listened to a weekly favorite just last week.”

Each day has been worse than the last. The headache doesn’t leave her, finding herself humming the tunes to Love’s Midnight songs—that one song, the last track, keeps playing in her head as if she had been the one who composed it. Whatever. It happens. I’m sure most of the women in music who had songs written about them felt the same way. Maybe, Courtney Love felt like this. Could’ve been worse, at least Wonwoo didn’t pull a Lennon and wrote a song along the lines of “Dear Yoko”.

She fixes the beanie on her head, staring forward at the white doors of her office, the coldness seeping through her sweater, a shiver going down her spine. “It’s Love’s Midnight latest album, Valentine. You guys were recommending it a lot this week, wanted me to talk about it and all…” Her fingers start to play with the straw of her drink, trying her hardest not to take too many pauses. The podcast is live for some, after all. “And it’s here. I’ll talk about it.”

With the last ounce of sanity left inside her body, she takes a long sip of her drink, smacks her lips and starts pouring out her thoughts into professionalism.

“Track number three sucks. Sorry to anyone who is a fan, but track number three is the corniest, stupidest thing I’ve ever heard from them. No hate, just truth.” She lifts her hands in the air, watching Minghao lift his gaze to mouth something to her. Don’t, he says, and she remembers that was the last word she told Wonwoo. Fuck. “In all honesty, though, I liked the conceptualization of the album. I think that…uh…they could’ve added some spice here and there. Everything felt like a pile of heartbreak—”

The screen by her side lights up, showing up the live chat and the viewers speaking about the album.

Jeon Wonwoo wrote it for a past lover. He must be heartbroken.

Track number three is the best, though.

Finally, you’re talking about Love’s Midnight. Favorite band.

“But yeah, Love did amazingly with her vocals, contrary to what one would believe. She went to high highs and low lows, exquisite in her vibratos, that raspy tone of hers still captures everyone who listens.” Looking up at the ceiling, she swallows thickly. So much to say about nine tracks about her, and still the words don’t come out. “H—Vernon, he’s very good with the bass. You know, maybe our tech Minghao will agree with me on this, but Vernon is the one who makes the songs feel profitable, like it can be heard in a club, can be heard in the car, both adults and teens can like his sound. Definitely one of the pillars of the band, I think.”

Minghao nods his head from the booth, and she feels a little bit of warmth in the room. She’s not alone—if she fucks up, she’s not alone.

“Hoshi. Didn’t even know Hoshi was in the band until our tech told me, haven’t been really up to date with Love’s Midnight…” Because watching him play would only bring back the memories of the first time they met, the feeling of his skin tattered in tattoos under the weight of her hands, the tremble of his voice, the tender way he held her. Like she meant something. Like her words meant something. Until they didn’t. “God, his solos? He’s—I think in this era, in this generation of musicians, it’s impossible to stand out as a guitarist because there’s hundreds, thousands, millions of good guitarists. Haven’t seen Hoshi live, but I’m looking forward for the acoustic sets with his talent. Just from listening to him, I feel like he has real talent.”

Her eyes divert towards the screen, shaking a bit when she reads a question on her opinion about Wonwoo’s songwriting skills. There, she can imagine him sprawled on his bed, his notebook covering most of his face as he looks at her from the corner of his eye, sending a shy smile her way before venturing into a new world, writing her in it as if he cared.

Did he ever care?

“Ah…what I think about Jeon Wonwoo’s songwriting skills?” Saying his name out loud has her scrunching up her features. If she closes her eyes, he’s there, so she keeps them wide open. His voice calls her out—baby, baby, I didn’t forget you. “I think they could be better.”

It’s at this time that Minghao scoffs from his spot, shaking his head as he places his hands behind it. Liar, his pretty lips mouth at her.

“Wonwoo, whoever this album is about,” Me, she thinks, it’s about me and my stupid dumb smile when around him. My insecurities. My world. “I don’t know, it feels fake. Maybe, it’s just me…” Her voice trails for a second, shaking her thoughts out before sighing. “They’re good, they’re just not…you know, they’re not ‘album of the year’ worthy. He seems to be stuck in the same topic and I can’t judge his range if he’s only written about…one thing…you know, like—” Shit, she’s really digging her own grave right here. What is she supposed to say? That she liked it? “Like, yeah, we get it, you’re heartbroken…but, I mean, judging from what he has written in the album…he fucked up, too, you know?”

Maybe, she should just read some comments. Reassure herself that she’s not sounding like the one who had an entire album written about her.

Emo boy energy, doesn’t surprise me. Very Jeon Wonwoo-esque. One of them writes.

The drums were sick, though. Say hi to me, host!

People say it’s about Song Eunji.

Song Eunji. Model. Wonwoo’s latest known lover. The pictures flash before her eyes as she thinks about it. Maybe, it’s really about Eunji and not about her…

Why does the thought make her sadder?

“So, yeah, I’d give it an eight point seven out of ten. Favorite track is track number nine. Hoshi is the backbone of this band to me now. That’s it.”

Regret clings to her like a leech. Song Eunji. Jeon Wonwoo. An album. Failed dates. A broken relationship. Why is love always extra difficult for her?

###

“Come on, babe, lighten up.”

With rosy cheeks, her friend, Jade, speaks those words like there is enough space in this party for her to feel free. There isn’t, quite clearly, but Jade is on the brink of her youth, ready to mess up her long hair, get on some tables and drunkenly sing to the world, albeit a bit messily. Her family, all consisting of enormous classic musicians, rooted from the most intricate and exclusive of schools, would shake their heads at the sight of Jade, already rid of her shirt and practically dragging her body towards her to wrap an arm around her shoulder and keep herself steady. The bottle of champagne Jade had been drinking from is brought up to her lips, and she has to take a sip if she doesn’t want Jade to start whining in a high tone, able to break through the bass-boosted music in this club.

It’s Jade’s birthday, and Minghao is nowhere to be seen. He probably left early—her fault for trying to play matchmaker between Jade and Minghao over a year ago, but her apologies had never been enough for the awkward blind date she had set up for the two of them. If there’s one thing Minghao can’t stand is lying, and much more if it’s about his romantic life.

To be quite honest, she thought it’d be a match. Stylishly rich guitarist of a local band, Jade, and stylishly average tech of her podcast, Minghao.

Maybe, she was wrong.

“Shit, Jade—” She’s already taking off her jacket from her shoulders to drape it across Jade’s chest, who simply looks down at the fabric with a scrunch of her nose. “You’re on your bra.”

Jade chuckles sweetly, because inherently, she’s dulcet. The kind of girl that wipes your tears after a break up, lends you some powder after you throw up in a bar’s bathroom, and the one that just wants everyone to have a good time. Everyone including her. “Babe, it’s Victoria’s Secret. I’m sure it’s fine.”

“Everyone is going to see your nipples.”

“You know, it’s better for me to have two very healthy nipples than not have them at all. So, whoever wants to see, can see.” With that, her jacket is given once again to her, staring at Jade who brings up the bottle of champagne up to her lips, the pink liquid trailing down her cheeks and her chin. “Why are you here all alone?”

Because the music is shitty, Minghao is nowhere to be in sight, and Jade was playing a game of body shots not too long ago. College has been long dead for her since a while ago—and she doesn’t think she’d be confident enough to have someone drinking directly from her body.

Props to Jade, of course.

“Ah, maybe because I wanted to leave soon?” She asks, rubbing the back of her head to play with her messy ponytail. It had been sleek once, but being around this amount of people, dancing against one another, and trying to move through them while also avoiding anyone getting too close to her, was a difficult task that ended up getting her a bit riled up.

“Shut up!” Jade screeches, wrapping her arm around her once again and resting her cheek against hers. “Shut up, babe! You’re not leaving…anywhere…no.”

That’s the drag of her voice, the clear sign that Jade will be too drunk tomorrow, drunk enough for her not to remember if she leaves her alone here—

But shit, she can’t leave Jade alone. She’s shirtless, meaning that her Versace shirt must be somewhere on the floor, or covered in vomit, and she’s drunk. God knows what could happen if she leaves her alone.

“I’m not leaving you, don’t worry.”

“Yay!”

“But I should clean you up, you’re all sticky from the alcohol, Jade.” She replies, already making her way through the masses of people to find the bathroom. It must be by one of the corners, but she’s not too sure in this club. “Why did you drink so much?”

“Because—”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Just because.”

When the bathroom’s door is only a few meters away, she sees him. The song that is playing in the background is too robotic for anyone’s taste, but the one that plays inside her head is the one she mumbled to him before they fell asleep once.

‘Love of my Life’ by Queen.

Because if there’s someone that she loved in this world, in this hellish world that they dare call real life, it’s Jeon Wonwoo.

Closed eyes, head tilted back enough for his Adam’s apple to bob when he takes another drag of his cigarette. Nicotine is his lover for the night, while Love seems to tell him something angrily, fingers threading through her bleached blonde hair, dying at the number of products she puts on it, fried at this point. Wonwoo looks like himself, but he also doesn’t. She knows those black strands of hair, and how they curled against her fingertips when she tightened her hold on them after a kiss. Her mind recognizes those lips, now pink yet chapped, but when they wrap into an answer that blows the smoke into the air, he doesn’t seem like her Wonwoo. His eyes open, he stares at Love as he speaks to her, but Love’s eyes are already looking at someone else.

Eunkyung is calling out her name and there is nothing that seems to stop her as she stumbles away from her seat.

It’s at nights like these that she wishes to be forgotten. Get on a car, preferably old, drive until her feet hurt or until the gas runs low, wearing a thin jacket as she listens to classics. She’s tired of this new version of her life that she can’t seem to get used to. People that she thought she knew seem to be far too different now, with Eunkyung not existing when she reaches her and Jade. This is Love, the vocalist of Wonwoo’s band, with eyes so hollow she almost feels dead, and a mouth that wraps up in a smile that begs for a second chance.

Because everyone wants to go back.

But no one can.

“It’s been so long since I last saw you!” Love’s arms wrap around her to take her away from Jade, but her friend doesn’t seem to mind as she giggles mindlessly. Love’s hold is strong, calloused hands meeting her spine as she cages her face on her shoulder. There are tears there, an unspoken word, perhaps the need to feel like herself again. This is not Eunkyung. “Where have you been?”

“Somewhere. Always here.” She replies, pulling away and yet, capturing Wonwoo’s gaze in a single second. His eyes are already on her, twinkling heavenly in the pits of hell, and she has to give a step back to deny the gravity in between the two.

“Wonwoo’s over there. Let me call him over—!”

Little by little, she loved him.

And little by little, she shall erase the memory of him.

“No, sorry. Me and my friend are going back home.” She replies, wrapping her hand around Jade’s wrist, pulling farther and farther away from the people she had known the most. Yet, she doesn’t know them now. These people on world tours, selling millions of copies of their albums, making money out of their past…those are not people she had known.

And she doesn’t want to know them again.

Her feet bring her out of the club, and she swears she feels someone behind her, but with rushed steps the feeling becomes barely a ghost. Then, nonexistent. Finally, in the car she starts to think about it.

May the stars only know if it was him going after her.

###

With him, it always feels like one of both said something wrong. Or, rather, didn’t say anything at all.

What’s with her, this feeling of talking too much and saying too little? What’s the regret that overtakes her when her head leans back on her seat, listening to the song Minghao has put on per her request, played for their viewers and yet, not quite admitting to her most intricate of desires even on a verse? Her eyes stare at the ceiling, imagine him in front of his drums—imagine him calling her beautiful, holding her head, longing for her. All things she wants now, all equally as impossible.

A week since she last saw him, and she likes to believe Wonwoo went trailing after her. It’s the only thing that keeps her up at night—the questioning of reality and a dream. Maybe, he was never behind her—it could’ve been one of the partygoers, one of those drunken people that don’t know where to step, or it could’ve been him. Why does she feel her lungs relax against its own confines when she imagines him?

Because this is Wonwoo. The one who writes songs about her. The only man that she can’t seem to get over. Memories that come back all the time, because he’s in every single one of them. Wonwoo’s name spill from her tongue without knowing, his songs come to her in the shower without meaning to, and his scent is felt on every portion of her bed. He hasn’t been there in years, but it’s almost like he left only yesterday.

It was two years ago.

Two years, and she really should get over him.

Her eyes divert towards her computer screen, watching the messages pop in slowly before she sees a collection of digits. It’s a date—the date in which everything ended, continued by a text that has her mouth drying up.

I want to see you again.

It has to be a coincidence; it really has to be so. It could be that someone’s important date was two years ago, in that night in which everything ended. She sighs deeply, clearing her throat when the song finishes itself and she has to talk again.

“Well, now we have to talk about that album—”

Another message pops up, but it’s impossible. Wonwoo rarely listened to her podcast, and when he did, he never said anything.

Love’s Midnight album is about who you think it is about.

Please, let me see you again.

She wants to see him again, too. It’s that feeling that keeps her up at night—knowing he could be close, but never close enough.

“Ah, in case anyone comes across a bunch of messages in the chat about seeing me again. It’s just some ex.” She tries to chuckle, but her voice has long gone left for something duller, stranger, as if she can’t get used to talking when it’s about him. “Already seeing someone dude, sorry.”

Seeing who?!

Minghao lifts his gaze, his hat doing nothing to conceal the disappointment on his face. What can she do? Admit that she feels jealous whenever she hears those rumors about who the album is about? That she has looked at pictures of his possible lovers and yet, the feeling never quite settles well with her?

The last man she saw was a man of wealth—son of a record label owner, very much into music, yet not quite in a band or participating anywhere as a solo artist. Mingyu was a nice date; the kind that made her laugh, ate a lot with her, drank a good glass of burgundy colored wine with her…but he wasn’t a forever. Wasn’t even a kiss. Mingyu became a friend after, and then, she didn’t want to date again.

But it’s what she has to do. If Wonwoo can go date some Eunji, and possibly write one or two songs about her, she can date whoever…

Right?

Right?!

###

The documentary didn’t show exactly how Love’s Midnight came to be what they are today.

People love a good story. Movies are a profitable job because of that, and books keep on fueling fantasies for those who can’t live in a better world for the same reason. What happens is, if something is boring, people don’t care. There has to be sentimentalism; enough to move anyone to tears, or make them feel inspired. Everyone who has been legendary has gone through a story of pain, only to reach their best spot. There’s a downfall in between, but the point of union always brings the grand finale to life.

In reality, Love’s Midnight happened because of Hansol. Eunkyung, who now can’t seem to stand anyone calling her that name instead of Love, worked part-time in some bar downtown. The place was ratchet, with hidden call-people expecting someone to capture them for the night, some drunkards that got a little bit too loud, and the owner, who’d always thank Eunkyung’s presence, calling it Love’s Midnight whenever clients gathered around…because her drinks were that good.

Hansol said, as he happened to be sitting down in Wonwoo’s couch, that it sounded like a band’s name. Andy was there, too, partly rubbing the skin of his arm after getting his first tattoo, and also hardly listening—but it seemed to be fitting for him, to join their forces and make a group. Originally, Eunkyung was supposed to be a guitarist, but Wonwoo would not even dare step in front of masses of people to sing a goddamned song about love.

What did people who watched the documentary believe now? That it was because of Andy’s nickname to Eunkyung. Love, when they were lovers, and the midnights they spent together. It earns them more money, yes, but it’s also heavily exaggerated to have people asking for more. Andy and Love were one of the biggest couples years ago, after all, and people thirsted more and more for their little interactions, even if they were nonexistent at this point.

Luckily, Hoshi is now with them.

But people are now even more interested in the band, and the arenas for the concerts of their world tours have been selling like hot bread. The problem is that being in a van with his three bandmates gets more tiring with each and every day that they spend pretending to be people they are not. They have to be cool, edgy, attend parties when they are told to, drink alcohol like it’s water, talk like they think of themselves as the most mysterious in this world. He can’t even call Hansol his real fucking name without having one of their managers tug him by the arm and correct him to Vernon.

The news outlet displays itself on the television screen. Hoshi keeps strumming on his guitar, and Vernon doesn’t seem to mind as he lays sleepily on his bed, ready to knock off. Love is somewhere in the back with someone she met in the afterparty of the concert—some groupie that she can’t seem to get her hands off of. The worst part is that he can’t seem to continue writing this song for the next album, because a picture of him is displayed on the screen.

“Who do you think Valentine is about, Rose?” One of the hosts asks, moving her short hair away from her sturdy shoulders to look at her taller counterpart.

Rose plays with the strands of her bubblegum pink hair, smacking her lips together before she speaks up. “People say it’s about Eunji Song, but I think there’s a line of girls that say it’s about her.”

“Wonwoo’s totally a womanizer.” Another host says, fashionable in the way he dresses, one leg crossed over the other. “We have fourteen idols who have been linked with him, three models, one entrepreneur and all in the last two years. We don’t even know who could’ve slipped the public eye.”

Rose takes a sharp breath, her teeth clattering in a way that has Wonwoo closing his eyes tightly. Two models, and that was about it. Neither lasting more than a week. Neither meant to be more to him. Just two people that he happened to come across with, and helped him forget. Well, tried to, at least. “He has even more lovers than Vernon!”

“Vernon’s been with the same girl for a while. Maybe, he could learn a thing or two about a committed relationship.”

The first host chuckles at their words, shaking her head in the process. “Everyone’s into drummers. I think he just likes the attention.”

The lonesome tune of Hoshi’s old guitar stops playing in the background, and Vernon’s soft snores mix with the cars passing by. His fingers reach for the remote, turning off the TV before those words stain his heart even further.

“Want to talk about it?” The bleached blonde man in the room asks, resting his cheek against his guitar to pay his utmost attention to him. “Vernon knows. Love does, too. But you’ve never told me what happened with your Valentine.”

Maybe, Hoshi seems like the kind who doesn’t take anything seriously—but he does. His eyes glaze over as he quietly speaks into the night, but Wonwoo can only stand up from his seat, eager to lock himself in his own room and think of what exactly happened. He doesn’t know what’s going on inside his head. “It’s nothing special,” But it is. Wonwoo believed in a lot of things—that Van Gogh was the best artist of his generation, that knowledge is the best form of revenge, and that she was his person. The only individual in this world that could see him for who he was and still, gauged him to be better. “Just what happens to everyone.” He fixes his jeans then, hanging low on his hips when Hoshi scoffs.

“What happens to everyone?”

“…Just, falling in love and never being able to make it work.”

“That’s not your fault.”

He stops in front of the door that leads to his room, and he wants to believe what Hoshi says. Maybe, if she had understood him as an artist, they’d be together. Perhaps, if he had just listened to her, he wouldn’t have written an entire album about heartbreak. It was not inherently his fault, but partly, like DNA that splits in two and creates the atrocity of what they were. The beauty in the fallout. “I’m heading to sleep.”

A hand wraps around his thigh, caging him in his spot when Hoshi, with a widened gaze, asks: “Who is it about?” The gossip must’ve gotten to him, too. Secrecy at its finest made an entire festival for the world to enjoy. “Like, who out of all the women they say it’s about…the album is actually written for.”

“None of them.” Wonwoo conquers, pushing his body away from him with a dizzied smile on his face. “…And that’s all I’m saying.”

“Wonwoo—!”

“I’m not saying who it is about.”

“…Damn it.” Hoshi adds, finally leaning back on his seat and returning to his guitar, soon after playing a tune with a few invented lyrics: “Jeon Wonwoo has a stick up his ass…”

The door closes behind him with a swoosh, all thoughts of rationality building themselves down out of pure impotence. The room is far too tiny, and Hoshi will join him sooner than later when he finishes his little guitar rendezvous, but that’s far from the point now. With each step he takes towards his bed, the more he notices his phone. Changed it like four times in the past two years because of crazy groupies, obsessed people sending him threats and just because he could do so. He wanted change so much that he doesn’t need it anymore.

The bed welcomes his weight as if he had never left, molding to his every curve, bouncing at his mere presence. His fingers subtly reach for his phone, lurking through his contacts like a man searching for answers.

His past lover is taken, and he’s stupid enough to press down on her contact even when he’s not drunk. Not an ounce of alcohol clads his vision, his stance, and that only makes it more pathetic.

But, how could she be taken? If love’s not as easy to get rid of for him, it should be difficult for her, too.

The ringing stops, and someone picks up, though the voice that welcomes him is old, a femme to be exact, but definitely over her sixties. “Hello?” She asks on the voice, and Wonwoo closes his eyes tightly out of embarrassment. “Who is calling this late?”

Right, a sixty-something-year-old woman is probably not used to two in the morning calls.

But who is, actually?

Out of embarrassment, his thumb presses down on the red button and he’s once again left with his silence. This has to mean that he should stop—calling his ex-girlfriend, who said was taken, is not the worst thing he has done, but it’s outright pathetic. For a second, he thinks of texting someone else—a friend, a model, a singer, someone who clearly wants to pay attention to him, who wouldn’t mind having the star of the year talking to them about anything and everything but her.

Yet, his mind can only think about an old friend, and it’s not even a friend to start with. Calling him would earn him a few insults, so he opts to text the only direct line he has to what he wants to get back. The thread that could move him closer to getting an answer.

To: Xu Minghao.

Hello, Minghao. This is Wonwoo.

Jeon Wonwoo from Love’s Midnight.

Minghao probably recognizes him more as his friend’s ex-boyfriend, but hey, he doesn’t know what to say.

Still, he mentions her name.

To: Xu Minghao.

Do you have her number?

I really need to talk to her.

For a few seconds, he wishes he could dissipate. Of course, Xu Minghao probably has made his life, twirled in his bedsheets and perhaps, with a lover that fits him better than he ever fit his ex. He’ll probably get insulted nonetheless, knowing just how protective he is over the podcast host. It’s two in the fucking morning, Wonwoo’s not drunk, but he really wishes he was so he could have an excuse for being…

Stupid.

A dick.

From: Xu Minghao.

Are you drunk?

To: Xu Minghao.

No.

From: Xu Minghao.

Are you planning on getting drunk?

To: Xu Minghao.

No.

Her number is linked soon after, not without forgetting to add something else.

From: Xu Minghao.

Anything you say can and will be held against you.

I’ll know if you do something stupid.

Don’t fuck it up, dude.

The thing is that Wonwoo is a thinker. Immature at times, or most of the time, but really an overthinker. His dad always told him that going through life as if he’s in a game of chess would help him make right decisions. Count every movement as a step forward, but also a step closer to either winning or losing. Each and every action could cause the fallout of others, of himself, or absolute success. He doesn’t know where he stands as the phone rings and he awaits her response.

“Hello?”

That groggy tone, he has heard before. Whenever someone wakes her up from a nap or a deep night of sleep, her voice seems to be eerily quiet. It’s the only time he has heard her something far from perfect, not as knowledgeable as she is. Love-filled confessions were given at the peak of the night, when Wonwoo’s fingers would ghost over the delicate spot on her waist and she’d grasp his hand with her warm ones and say: I love you.

Muffled, silent, followed by sleep, and yet so meaningful.

“What do you mean you’re taken?” Wonwoo wants to say a million things. Say hi, and indicate that her podcast has only gotten better. That he’s sorry for not believing in her, or rather, not knowing how to show it. However, his mind is clouded with the image of her, holding hands with someone else, kissing someone else, being in absolute love with someone that is not him—and making it work. Egotistic as it can be, he is.

The bed ruffles, and for a moment, she’s silent. Too unlike her until she breathes out, much more awake now, surprised even. “Wonwoo, why are you calling me?”

The only time he has heard that surprised tone was after their first kiss. One would think that someone as beautiful as her would’ve kissed him with little to no reaction after, but his collarbones can almost feel the weight of her face at the memory. Her features hid away from him, the dumbest of smiles accompanied with a few giggles of her own. It was as if she had been waiting for him, and he had taken too long.

It’s not that different now.

“I—Uh, I needed to hear you. Hear from you.” Wonwoo doesn’t know what to say, straightening up his position on the bed and taking his pillow to slot his fingertips against the fabric. “I told you what I really felt and what I did, and all you do is ignore me.”

“I’m not friends with my exes, sorry.” She replies, and Wonwoo is about to retaliate, but the words have come back to her. Angry. Burning. Scalding. “And why in all the fucking hell would I have to tell you why I’m taken?”

“Because—” He wants to be honest for the first time in a while. With himself and with her. “Because we used to be friends before we were lovers, and I still care about the kind of person you’re seeing—”

“Do you really care?” The scoff that leaves her lips brings a frown to his face. “Go ask one of your models, or Song Eunji, about who they’re seeing and what they’re doing with their romantic lives. You don’t need to protect me from anything.”

Oh, so she knew about Eunji. “I’m not with any of them.”

“And you’re not with me, either.”

Wonwoo has to run his fingers through his messy black hair in order to grasp onto something else, or organize his thoughts before he goes absolutely insane. “I’m not.”

Silence. “So, why are you calling?”

“Because I can’t stand the thought of you loving someone else.” He breathes out, and before she could interrupt him with one of her pointy, correct, honest speeches, he bares his heart and soul. “…I’ve only been yours, I’m still yours. I want to know who it is that made you not want to be mine again.”

Again must not be in her vocabulary, and if he listens close enough, he can hear the change in her breathing, as if she starts to live life slower. “So, you date some model and I’m supposed to stay single?”

Fuck.

“I didn’t date her.”

“Then, you slept with her. Or various women, I don’t know.”

He can only stay silent.

“I know we broke up, and it’s totally okay for you to do that, but why would you ask me to stay waiting for you, when you didn’t wait for me either?”

“Okay, shit, sorry.” Wonwoo tries to reorganize his thoughts. He’s stupid. She wasn’t wrong when she said most men are stupid in the past, and now he has entered the spectrum. “I did it because it just…I just…I needed to get you out of my head.”

“By sleeping with other women?”

“Two.”

“Oh, two.” She releases, sarcasm thick in her voice. “What would you do if I said I have had more than two?”

Wonwoo closes his eyes, imagining her going on dates or perhaps, simply looking for someone in a bar. For men to sweeten her lips with a taste of their own, before treating her like less than what she deserves. It’s not what he wants for her, but it’s the same medicine he took. “It’d suck, but it’d be acceptable. We are not together.”

“Exactly.”

“…But who is it?”

“Who?”

“Who is the person you’re seeing right now? Out of your repertoire of people.”

She remains silent for a few seconds, as if she’s thinking too deeply, and yet, Wonwoo can’t keep his mouth from running. For the first time in his life, he wants to say a lot instead of saying nothing at all.

“No one.” She whispers into the dark night, the lullaby of his dreams coming directly from his lips. He wants to call it a second chance, but it just means solitude. “…Because unlike you, I wasn’t able to move on as easily.”

“I didn’t, fuck, I didn’t move on.” Wonwoo replies, laying on his stomach as he hides his face on the sheets. “I was just stupid. I don’t know how to explain myself.”

“Do so or I’ll hang up. Last chance to hear my voice—”

“I wanted to get over you, and I thought I’d do what most rockstars do. I’d just sleep with someone and feel powerful, like I don’t care…” His voice trails, eyes glistening when he lifts his gaze. “But I do care. I care about you.”

“…I don’t know if I should trust you.” The insecurity is palpable through her voice, as if she’s a star in this sky and she’s only getting farther away from him. Tiny, miniscule for her; big and bright for him. “Wonwoo, we didn’t understand each other then, when we were barely starting to be the people we wanted to be. How would we understand each other now that my podcast is doing the best it has ever done, and you have about every woman in this damned country wanting to throw their wet panties at you?”

Looking up at the ceiling, Wonwoo wants to say the truth. What he has always regret not telling her. “I’ll always try my hardest for you. I didn’t do it then, but I’d go back and do it differently if I could.”

The line cuts short after she hangs up, leaving him with no more than a sharp intake of breath.  

###

The chocolate on the man’s ice-cream cracks under the force of his teeth, sliced nuts meeting the white substance in between—vanilla ice-cream, most likely, with a few lines of caramel. She had forgotten just how much Mingyu seemed to enjoy life, lips forever petrified in a smile as he looked around in the ice cream shop. Her delight has disappeared into the depths of her stomach, but Mingyu is on his second ice cream. Not a care in this world. Not a single wrinkle on his face to indicate he is feeling the weather a little bit strongly. He’s just eating, living, existing, breathing.

Jade tagged along, because something about her being in his father’s label and Mingyu absolutely needing guitar classes means that they had to ask her to come to their little ‘not a date’. Judging by the way Jade’s cheeks stain pink, and how she continuously play with the strands of hair, becoming a shy version of herself she had rarely gotten to see—unless they went to a concert and got to meet the artists backstage—, she thinks there is a reason why everything felt so inherently wrong with Mingyu, and with her setting up date for Minghao and Jade.

The young woman’s eyes glaze over when Mingyu smiles at her, and her fingertips reach for his lips to rub the chocolate away. Those stares, in between shyness and comfort, in the stage of not knowing what to say and yet, doing everything all at once—she lived that with Wonwoo, and she knows they’re probably less than a month away from calling it the truth.

So, she stands up, because if she can do something right in this life it’s making two people get together, even if she has to fake a few actions in the process. “I’m getting another ice cream. Want one, Jade?”

“We’ll share.” Mingyu adds, already putting his newly bitten chocolate ice cream up to Jade’s lips, and he barely ignores Jade’s widened eyes as she wraps her lips around the sweet and bites on the chocolate.

“Okay…” She whispers, lifting her hands in the air with her phone dinging in between her fingertips. “I’ll be right back.”

She doesn’t miss the way that Jade whispers ‘take your time’, before Mingyu joins her with sweet laughter.

Ugh, love.

It’s so motherfucking annoying when you don’t have it.

But, let’s admit it—it’s cute in its early stages.

To: Hao.

So, when I set you up with Jade…

From: Hao.

You mean: Worst idea you’ve ever had?

To: Hao.

Yeah.

Did you hate me for it because Jade’s not your type, or because you knew she’d be a better match for Mingyu?

From: Hao.

Jade denies it, but she’s always had a thing for Mingyu.

To: Hao.

Oh, tea?

From: Hao.

I guess.

She drunkenly admitted it to me once.

Well, initially she said she wanted Mingyu to tie her to a ceiling fan and make her spin.

But I continued to talk her out of it and she admitted that she thought he was cute.

And I’ve been working on building up her crush on him for a year straight.

To: Hao.

Trust Xu Minghao on finding the love of your life.

Upon approaching the counter to order her ice cream, she hears someone softly calling out her name. It’s a delicate voice, definitely not used a lot, as if the air could take away the words in one single swish. Locking her phone as she turns to the side, she sees a smaller young woman by her side. Probably on her teens, with black hair and red highlights, a band t-shirt representing the pinnacle of her youth. Long ago, before Jeon Wonwoo even existed in her life, she may have looked like this.

“It’s you.”

But she wouldn’t have said that to a complete stranger, lowering her voice to a deep whisper as she clings onto her backpack. The pins read Love’s Midnight name and logo, making her swallow harshly.

“Sorry, I don’t know you—”

The teen fan gets her phone out of her pocket, lurking through her pictures as she speaks. “You’re the woman Valentine was written about,” The lisp on her tone is ever-present, clinging to her every syllable as she shows the device to her, pictures with Wonwoo displayed one by one, moved by her finger to show even more proof. Her face behind important pictures of their first few gigs, a few messages in social media that she was sure she deleted before— “Fans have been going crazy trying to find who it was about, but I saw you in the pictures and decided to look you up.”

She has to take a step back. Fear overtakes her. A young fan could do anything they wanted with this information, and if she was able to find all that…this is not the normal kind of fan. With shaking fingertips, she clasps her phone against her chest. “Did you follow me here, kid?”

“No. This is dad’s ice cream shop.” A smack of her bubblegum fills the air, twirling her finger against the straps of her backpack. “…I just saw you here and I thought it was destiny.”

“It’s not destiny.” She speaks, curt and clear. “And also, I’m not the woman you’re looking for. Sorry.”

“You’re in all his pictures from the past—”

“We were friends.” And she doesn’t know why she’s explaining this to a teenager, instead of actually calling her father and telling him that her daughter is batshit crazy. “And it’s none of your business, ain’t it? If you really like a celebrity, you need to learn how to respect their privacy.”

“Everyone is looking for his Valentine, and if I am right with my assumptions, we’ll finally get to know—”

“What do you earn from it?” Turning around, she spares one glance at Mingyu and Jade, with Mingyu looking at them with a frown on their features. Confusion, definitely. “Whoever it is, that’s the drummer’s issue.”

“It’s you! It’s so you!” The teenager says, a smile on her face as she jumps on her spot. “The blog’s so gonna love this!”

Grasping her hand with force on top of the teenager’s, she sighs deeply. “Don’t do that. That’s wrong.” She starts, eyes raking over the room before clearing her throat. “One day, you’re going to be older, and you’re going to realize those people you look up to are as normal as you are. You don’t need to make them more important than they already are, for you or for anyone. Don’t let being a fan of someone take over your life.”

The teen looks down at their joined hands, eyelashes fluttering with the heavy mascara, chest going up and down with each breath she takes, deeper than the last. “Okay, sorry…” She whispers, pulling away from her. “I must’ve gotten it wrong.”

“Don’t worry, I was also a fan of some people in my time.” She shrugs, returning her gaze to her friends to give them a tight smile. Everything’s alright. “Thank you for understanding.”

“Yeah, no problem.”

“Alright, thank you.”

The problem is that only that night when she gets home, Minghao links her straight to an article, written fresh from the oven and reading:

Forty Women (+1 Unexpected Guest) That Can Be The Inspiration Behind Love’s Midnight’s Valentine!

Scrolling down with shaking fingertips, she prays to the heaven for her to not be in that list—for it to be another rumor, another person that has been wanting to be thought of by Jeon Wonwoo, but once she reaches spot number forty-one, her heart feels like it has fallen out of her chest.

Her name is on the forty-first spot.

41. Podcast Host, Communication Major, Music Minor: This one is the most unexpected, yet the newest guess. Fans were able to compile pictures of two or three years ago of Jeon Wonwoo and this podcast host. Not only that, but she seemed to be close friends with Vernon, Love and Andy! Ouch!

Personal pictures were attached under the small paragraph, tugging at her heart strings.

Isn’t that the pink dress Wonwoo always talked about? Or could it be Song Eunji’s favorite color?

As if things couldn’t get any harder…

###

This is Eunkyung’s little dream. Her tea party filled with reporters, cameras, flashes, cigarettes and bodyguards. Everyone says that what doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger—and he feels like he has become a weightlifter with how much he has coped with, leaning back on his seat as the reporters in front of them beg to eat them alive. Each question pointier than the other, each silence dragging on for longer than the last. The center of attention is not the album, not Hoshi’s guitar solos or Vernon’s enigmatic bass skills. The center of attention is that Jeon Wonwoo had fallen in love, and couldn’t seem to get his old lover back.

His friends are different, and so is he. It should make him feel better that the evolution is ever-present in their lives, but it isn’t. The man he sees projected on the glass of water in front of him is exactly who he would’ve never thought he’d become. His black hair is pushed away, forehead is full display, not a single imperfection left for the world to see as he’s covered in makeup. The red leather jacket makes him sweaty, but he still wears it. It’s a gift from Versace and there’s only two of them in the entire world; he just has to wear it, according to his stylist.

One of the reporters stands up from his seat, fixing the blue sweater atop his toned body. The long strands of his black hair give him a bohemian look, but the preppy outfit and the glasses make him look somewhat nerdy. He could definitely be a reporter in music, but Wonwoo doesn’t really give a shit, does he?

“Wonwoo, excuse me—” The man starts, voice as nasal as ever as he brings his recorder up to his lips. “Forty-one women have been linked to be your muse for the latest album, but only one of them stands out.” He already knows the answer. Song Eunji. If rolling his eyes was an option, he’d do it, but he’s been staring at the cameras flashing for too long and his eyes feel like they may give up on him at any moment.

“Sorry, uh, we said no questions about that.” Wonwoo leans forward on his microphone, offering a brief smile in order to keep it at peace. The least he wants is drama for being an absolute diva.

The reporter doesn’t listen, calling out her name as if he knew her. As if they had shared cups of coffee, mornings where conversations merged into memories, nights in which her tears couldn’t be stopped with memories of either really good or really bad times. “…Podcast host and communication graduate, whose connection with you was clarified by your fans after finding pictures from two years ago, seemingly in a relationship with you.”

Fuck.

Where was his publicist when he needed her the most?

He didn’t know that his fans were able to find such things. Each trace of his past with her had been deleted—for the sake of his band, and for the sake of forgetting her. “I won’t make any statements.”

“So, you do admit that you were in a relationship with her?”

“I said,” He presses his lips to the microphone, lifting his eyebrows in the process. “No statements. Meaning, no comment.”

“Ignoring my question is a confirmation, Wonwoo.”

This time around, Vernon is the one who takes place in the interview. “Ignoring his complaints about not wanting to answer is a confirmation of your lack of knowledge in reporting, sir.”

The masses in front of them go crazy, each asking questions louder than the last, penetrating his ears with absolute hatred. Wonwoo stumbles backwards by the time his body leaves his seat, shaking his head when his manager tries to reach out for him, make him sit down before he absolutely ruins his career. Yet, the only person he can think about is her. His fans had found her, the reporters knew about her, too. A life void of privacy simply because of him.

Once backstage, his shoulders tense, cradling his phone in between his hands and bringing it up to his ear. The phone rings a few times, but she always hangs up. Each and every call is ignored exactly in its beginning.

From: Jeon Wonwoo.

I didn’t tell anyone about us.

Tell me you’re alright, please.

Please, answer the phone.

Are you okay?

Why aren’t you answering?

I’m sorry for everything.

Regret bites at him, slices him to bits as he sits down on the sofa, hearing the commotion outside and yet, doing nothing to conceal it. Love would hate him for this, tension rising between them ever since he became the center of attention—but he never asked for this. If he could take it back to the time in which he had her, and Love’s Midnight only played small gigs in some bars downtown, he would.

And he’s been meaning to.

To: Jeon Wonwoo.

I know you didn’t tell anyone.

I’m alright.

I just need time to think of what I’m going to do.

From: Jeon Wonwoo.

I could book a hotel for you so you feel safer.

Paparazzi are going to look for you.

To: Jeon Wonwoo.

I’m staying at Minghao’s, don’t worry.

From: Jeon Wonwoo.

Fine, but take care of yourself.

To: Jeon Wonwoo.

Wonwoo?

He can imagine her, calling out his name softly as if she had never left him, as if everything was alright—

From: Jeon Wonwoo.

Tell me.

To: Jeon Wonwoo.

I need you to take care, as well.

I don’t want you to stress out over this.

From: Jeon Wonwoo.

I’ll take care, baby.

Before he could regret what he said last, she left him on read. As if she had heard him too, but decided not to listen.

###  

The only beverage Minghao’s going to give her while staying at his place is lukewarm tea with honey. No matter how hard she tries to get him to give her coffee, it doesn’t happen.

The cars pass by the windows, stuffed by her breath that fans upon the clear glass. Her heart can’t stay still, much like her hands, fiddling against the other, waiting for the bad news. They have arrived—the world knows her, and past the comfort of Minghao’s place, she knows there are cameras flashing in front of her house. They had captured her before she got here, and after endless twists from Minghao, they managed to get to his apartment safe, sound and unnoticed.

Each and every insecurity is highlighted by the cameras. The fact that there had been someone else after her mocks her—tells her that people are just going to end up comparing her to those after her, or even before her. Ghosts that never existed in Wonwoo’s life, too. Some may be taller, some more petite. Some may have a clearer tone of voice, others may be unable to speak in anything other than profanities. Some may kill it on the guitar, and some may kill for a guitar. Everyone in Wonwoo’s life has been so different and yet, she’s the only one with an entire album written about her.

It’s winning the feeling of feeling unique that makes her feel less like shit. Wonwoo cared enough about her to write a million apologies in the form of notes, for him to pour his entire heart out in a guitar, a set of drums, a piano, a voice, the bass—all inspired by her, they rotate around her like the constellations around the universe. The smile she misses had dissipated with the memories of them, and she wants to bring them back. Fuck two years, more than six hundred days, because time is just a concept we don’t understand.

“Hey,” Minghao’s hair is not disheveled, put-together like he’s about to go over the runway with the newest pajama collection from, probably, Louis Vuitton. His body leans against the doorframe, wood against his soft skin, looking at her with worry as she sits on the bed of the room in Minghao’s apartment that he doesn’t use. “There has to be some good to this.”

“Yeah?” She asks, tilting her head far enough for her forehead to rest against the window. “Tell me what it is.”

The tech moves closer until he is in front of her, delicately kneeling in front of her before patting her leg. “This could bring potential listeners to our podcast—”

“Or girls that will hate me because I’m dating their rocker fantasy. Minghao, get real.” Her voice isn’t meant to sound so sharp, but it does. Her world shatters while Minghao can only see from up close, first row, even.

“Don’t think about them. Think about you.”

“What am I supposed to think about?”

“What you want out of this. If this is only a sign from the world to just get in contact with Wonwoo and clear things up. His career, yours, your relationship—” Minghao is speaking too fast, fingers fiddling with his own hair before sighing. “And if you’re not going to do it, I am. I can’t keep seeing you haltering your life because a relationship didn’t work. You are the one that needs to get real.”

She pushes his hand away then, crossing her arms over her chest to shelter herself. “Well, hear me out, you haven’t been in love, but I have. It’s damn fucking annoying when it doesn’t work, and you think that’s the only man that will ever get you, know you, feel you like he does. It’s not the same when you imagined your entire life with a man and he’s suddenly taken away from you. He changes. Twists. He’s not the same anymore, but you know that deep within him, there’s that man you love.” Her chest shakes with every breath she takes, and Minghao takes this time to step away from her. “And you wait for him. Wait for the day he realizes that you never meant to make him feel bad, and hope that he never meant to say the words he said to you. You don’t know what regret is, but I do—”

“Just mend it.”

She wishes it could be that easy. “And then, what?”

“Why do you always have to think about the future?” Her eyes inspect Minghao’s features, as if pulling away every thread of his enigma.

“Because the future is always happier than the present, ain’t it?”

His hand hovers over her shoulder, as if he wants to touch her, shelter her, but he doesn’t. Instead, Minghao smacks his hand against his side, looking for his phone before speaking up. “It’s up to us to make our present happy, too.”

The only response he gets is the sound of her sipping on her tea. Bland tea that Minghao loves, but doesn’t keep him in the room as he closes the door behind him with a thud.

For some moments, she can only look ahead. The cameras follow her, and it wouldn’t surprise her if she closes her eyes, only to awaken to the world trying to get information about her—a picture where something sags in her body, or her pimples are visible, or the stress marks around her face become wrinkles. However, even sleep seems to be out of town today, and she can’t do much but watch some movies on TV. Let the world decide for her again. The Notebook. Then, she couldn’t quite look at the screen without tears on her face.

When sleep welcomes her, it doesn’t stay for long.

It’s like the culprit that opens the door to the room, closing it behind him with an accidental bang—like the way he left. When her eyes can finally clearly see the outline of him in the dark, Wonwoo becomes a living being after years of trying to erase him. Dark hair pushed away from his face thanks to the droplets of rain that had coated both his leather jacket and his black t-shirt. His boots squeak against the flooring when he moves, stopping whatever force brings him closer to her. Eddie The Eagle plays in the background, but no star has ever been as bright as him. As the twinkle in his eyes when he breathes out his name as if he had never forgotten the lullaby in it. As if, for some reason, she’d always have a taste of that tongue and those lips, even when they are nowhere near or over hers.

Proof that love exists beneath him, over him, in him, is when he asks: “Are you alright?”

She could say no, or even just confirm it. Her words could turn into lies or truths, but they decide to stay in between. With him, saying too little or too much is granted to be a loss. “…I could be worse.”

Wonwoo lets the jacket fall on the floor with a thud, and before he could part his lips to say anything else as he nears her, she asks:

“How did you get in?”

“I was hiding in some hotel downtown, when I realized I just couldn’t leave you alone through this.” His voice is gentle, barely above a whisper when the wind keeps blowing on the windows, rain pattering like droplets of paint. “So, I called Minghao, and he told me he’d leave the door open and I just could get in.”

“No one followed you, right?” Worry piles in her expression when mirrored in his starry eyes. The music of their love has lulled to a weak piano tune. They fell, lifted themselves up, only to be pushed to the ground again.

“I made sure no one did.” And the weight of him falls on the edge of the bed, the gray bedsheets wrinkling under his wet presence, leaving an imprint of him. A memory as strong as the ones she holds of him. “I’m sorry this is the way we ended up meeting again.”

Chances, figures in percentages that we don’t expect. We hope for them, and rarely get them. The chance of meeting Wonwoo again was lost thanks to his lack of privacy, but it would a lie if she said she hadn’t been worrying about him all night. In the edge of the bed, biting at her nails, wanting nothing more than to reach out for him.

Who loves you now, Wonwoo?

Who loves you more than I do?

Is it the world? Your fans? Your bandmates? Is it someone else?

Have you been loved at all while I have been gone?

“It had to happen someday,” She whispers into the night, bringing her knees up her chest, taking her coat off and tossing it his way. The cotton material meets his hands quickly, draping it over his body as if the tears that had been dropped in the same garment manage to warm him up. “Not the way I expected it to happen—”

His lips quirk up in a shy smile, shivering with happiness and glee, or perhaps from the coldness of the room. “You expected it to happen?”

It’s her time to shut her mouth for a second, thinking of the next step. “…It’s one of those vague daydreams I have. What would happen if we met again?”

“And what did you think was going to happen?”

“…That I’d try to run away.” She replies, and his smile falls at that moment. Yet, she doesn’t want to lie to him. “But if you got close enough, I’d start thinking of your hands around my waist, or the little kisses you used to press to my hands when you held them, and I wouldn’t be able to keep myself away from you.”

Wonwoo gets closer, like a wanderer trying to land on his preferred island. Swimming through their insecurities, the issues that pulled them away— “I like that.”

“You do?” She asks. “I think I sound stupid.”

“…Love’s like that.” He shrugs. “I took the stupid decision to write an entire album about you, but here’s the thing: I don’t regret it.” His words condense every single bit of coldness inside her chest, letting the tremble of his voice awaken the senses that never left her, loving him to death. “If writing a song about you is a sin, take me to hell.”

Kicking him softly on the leg, she chuckles. “Metaphorical as ever.”

“I like to read.”

“I know, you liked reading more than talking to me.” There, one of the issues of their relationship arises.

“And you don’t know how many books I have wished to un-read just to hear you talking again.” He replies, sighing soon after as he plays with one of the threads of the blanket. “But that’s life. I make bad decisions, they bite me in the ass, and then, I try to mend it.”

“And how are you planning to mend it?”

His arms extend at that moment, taut muscles contracting against the wet shirt. “I offer a hug for the night, if that’s alright.”

She wants to say no, but her body welcomes his embrace, feeling his strong chest pressed against hers, the curve of his spine, the way his scent always seems to be there—so warm, so his, so memorable, and yet, unable to feel as strong as a perfume. It is as though the scent of him drenched in rain makes her feel better, not quite as cold as in that bed alone, even when her skin clads itself in goosebumps. Her heart thumps with so much force that he probably feels it against his waist, in the way he leans back and cocoons her into place. She can’t look at him, just because she knows herself, and she’s one centimeter away from falling.

“It’s what I need.”

“Good.”

Zero point five centimeters away from falling.

Then, his breathing becomes tranquil, and his lips rest atop her hair.

Zero point twenty-five centimeters away from falling…

Zero point seventeen…

Fallen.

###

She knows he is still in that apartment when she hears his fingertips drumming against the counter.

You know, that’s also one of the issues of their relationship…the one they had two years ago. Waking up to the sound of Wonwoo playing whatever ACDC song on their kitchen counter wasn’t a pleasant noise in the past. When she’d go to the bathroom, phone perched in between her fingertips, she’d feel the rhythm thrumming through the tiles, interrupting her precious time of privacy. He’d do it before going to sleep, when bored, when watching a show but on her legs. It’s one of those things she’d ask him to stop doing, but as her eyes open and she comes face to face with the opened door, she feels safe.

Because Wonwoo is there, and that’s more than she could ask at this moment where her name is imprinted in every magazine. Her hand looks for her phone, and for a moment, she wants to stop. God knows what most of the pages she follows on her Instagram page must have written about her—gossip sites that she is not proud of following, but does it to have topics to talk about in her podcast. Whatever. She’s a nobody, there is surely one or two things about her—

But when the light of her phone casts down on her with horrid pictures of her going through the seas of paparazzi to get out of there as soon as possible, she feels shallow.

She’s not a podcast host.

Not Wonwoo’s ex-girlfriend.

But Song Eunji’s rival.

Comparisons, one after the other, from physical appearance to the ultimate statement coming directly from Eunji. Some messages that could be understood as a simple song lyric, if it wasn’t from Wonwoo’s song itself, displayed on a throwback picture of the two of them. Finished, with of course, as much class as the model can have on an apparent drunken night, when she writes down on her caption—

Shout out to the man who writes an entire album about me and yet, can’t last more than four minutes in bed. Love you, Woo.

The laughing emojis after surely don’t settle well in her stomach.

She has to put the phone to the side to think about what bothers her—Wonwoo being with Eunji could be it, but it could also be Eunji taking the spotlight that does it. Maybe, it’s just the fact that she’s involved in all of this, covers thrown away from her body as she goes towards the kitchen, only to watch her best friend and ex-boyfriend seated face to face. Minghao, peacefully drinking from a cup of warm tea, and Wonwoo making conversation as he plays whatever difficult song he can’t seem to get out of his head.

It’s the fact that she hates it—this feeling that tells her she’s proud of being his muse, but in secret. It’s the fact that, all this time, she’d rather have him than anyone else—words be forgotten, actions be damned, only at this moment when his eyes meet hers again, and he dares say:

“Good morning. Slept well?”

How not to think of the fact that, after pushing him to the bathroom to get him to change into warmer, drier clothes from Minghao’s closet, she ended up falling sleep on his arms? That being in silence felt comfortable when around him? That healing is not quite complete when she can’t have him?

“Better than I expected.” She whispers, moving over until she is closer to him, inspecting his features before breathing out softly. “Eunji said the album is about her. People are going crazy over it.”

Wonwoo’s features soften for a second, head thrown back when a groan escapes his lips. “It’s not—”

“I need you to tell me why you wrote an entire album about me.” Her eyes don’t close, honesty overtaking her when her hands ball to her sides, breathing controlled, world stopping just for her to listen to him.

Wonwoo’s brown eyes shake, looking over to Minghao as the dullest shade of pink takes over his face, bathing him in an enchanting glow. “To forget about you,” He says, though he laughs at his antics a bit soon after. “Didn’t work out.”

“Why did you want to forget about me?”

“I thought you’d never come back.”

“And did you want me to come back?”

“From the moment you left that hotel room.”

“Why?”

“…I’m going to leave.” Minghao announces softly, already parting ways to go to his room with his mug of tea, but she can’t keep her eyes away from Wonwoo much longer. The question lingers in the air, just in time for him to connect his hands with hers.

“Why, Wonwoo? Why write about me, think about me, when you could’ve just let go?”

“It’s not that easy when it’s about you.” He says, a small smile playing on his features when he pulls her closer, not all at once but step by step. Slowly, she falls in between his legs, looks into his eyes when he lets sincerity live within his words. “I got everything I could ever wish for, and I still wanted you.”

“…Oh, God.” Her smile can’t hide itself when she wraps her arms around his shoulders, head resting on his chest as she chuckles. “Why do I like that so much?”

“Maybe, because you wanted me back, too?” The hope lingers on his voice, and she has to pull away for a second, looking up and down his features as she licks his lips.

“Let’s fix this entire mess first.”

“I’ll deny you are my album’s muse if that makes you feel better.”

For a moment, she feels the weight falling off her shoulders, but instead, she perks up, spine straightening when she says: “And why not confirm it instead?”

“Would you want to? This world I live in, it’s not good—”

“If I have to confirm a past relationship just to have you again, I will. I would.”

“…I won’t do that to you.” Wonwoo whispers, lips pressing to her knuckles like they used to at the earliest stages of their relationship. “You know what I want to do? Mend the lost time with you. Think and heal together. Talk to each other. I don’t want anyone else but us having a say on what we are…not stardom, not the band, not anyone.”

When she looks into his eyes, it feels like the old Wonwoo is back. Not the rockstar drummer that everyone has fallen for, but Jeon Wonwoo who’d laugh at the idea of ever being famous.

And it’s nice to think the world is different today, that they’re alone and there are not a thousand pictures of her online.

“Let them talk,” He finishes. “The only person I want to listen to is you, anyways.”

An avenue of tears has welcomed a sweet lake, and when she has seen her reflection in the water, she captures Wonwoo’s figure beside her. Maybe, they can get through this together. Perhaps, music united them, separated them, and now it has brought them back together again.

That’s the magic of love, isn’t it? Trusting again.

“…And you’ll hear me talk a lot about the past two years, Jeon Wonwoo.”

With a smile, he answers. “And I’ll gladly listen.”

Though, the only sound she gets to hear is the small intake of breath from his lips when she leans forward and tastes the early morning cigarettes in him. Everything she has ever wanted exists in him, so imperfect and yet, so fitting for her.

#wonwoo scenarios #seventeen scenarios #wonwoo #seventeen #kpop scenarios #writing #wonwoo au #wonwoo fluff #wonwoo angst #seventeen au #seventeen fluff #seventeen angst #drummer!au #yea i wrote about wonwoo bc whenever i have wifi i have binge watched gose lemme be #also SUPER inspired by one of those ask games i did and hehehehehe i'm excited

[ktheist]

CEO!JK + - prompt list - + #47 “You’re seriously like a man-child.”

“ooh, you wanna kiss me so bad.”

“you’re seriously like a man child.”

muses. ceo!jk 

genre. e2l / arranged marriage

word. 2.6k

warnings. implied smut

synopsis. your family legacy is falling into ruins. your father is on his deathbed and your mother and sisters have never worked a day in their lives. their only hope is the jeons - the family of the fiancé you abandoned.

x

it can’t be said that you know nothing of jeon jeongguk per se. for one, he was lightly nudged in your direction by his mother at the age of 6 because he’d been hiding behind her legs since the jeon’s arrived. clad in navy blue kindergarten uniform and gripping tightly onto the brown teddy bear he uncreatively called ‘teddy’, he’d stolen a glance at you for a split second and fixed his gaze to the ground.

“____, say hi to jeongguk, you’re going to be seeing each other often from now on,” your mother nudged you from behind, her voice awfully sweet in the presence of mrs. jeon and her extremely shy son.

you’d found out at 11 years old and him 13 years old, what ‘seeing each other often’ actually entailed.

“i don’t wanna marry you!” you’d screamed in his face when you were left alone by the adults.

“i don’t wanna marry a kid with snot running down her face 24/7 either.” jeongguk’s retort, though held no substance, still made you wipe your nose on your sleeve after you’d left him and locked yourself in your room.

at the age of 13 and him 15, you’d managed to escape the clutches of your family by proposing the idea of attending a prestigious boarding school in zurich where you’d spent most of your adolescent years skipping classes and crashing parties.

by 18, you wanted to laugh at your teachers’ relieved faces when your name was called to receive your diploma, marking the end of your great era in that school.

that was when your mother called you back to south korea, claiming that she’d missed her youngest so very much. but you’d continued to make excuses to stay in zurich, applying for a scholarship and getting into a local university there.

none of your friends knew anyone from home and you’d only passingly mentioned that ‘oh, i don’t talk to my family much’.

but just as you were finishing your degree, the news of your father in his death bed latched onto your limbs and had you hopping onto the first flight home.

“what do you mean? so we’re broke?” yuqi’s voice cut through the air like a knife. even her ray bans couldn’t hide her burning gaze.

to think you willingly walked into this mess of a family.

“yuqi, let dad speak,” miyeon glares.

minnie asks after a lapse of silence, “dad, what do you mean the company’s wounding up?”

your father, a man with greying hair and cheeks losing most of their fullness, stares at nothing but the ceiling, as if seeing the angels welcoming him.

“do you remember uncle jee?” even breathing seems difficult for a man that used to work out everyday at the private gym and always invited you to join in on his healthy lifestyle, “he transferred all the company’s assets to his name and fled the country. even his family doesn’t know-”

“oh, for heaven’s sake!” your mother cries, shooting up from the sofa farthest from the bed - you should have known something was wrong when a wife wasn’t waiting by her husband’s bed and took the seat that’s on the far end from her husband, “just admit that it’s your fault! you trusted him too much even though i warned you about him! you ruined this family!”

“i should’ve brought popcorns,” soyeon says from next to you, shooting you an unapologetic - heck, even entertained smile - when you craned your neck out of mild disbelief.

this family’s a little fucked up in the head.

but they call you the black sheep that got away.

“so what now? do we have to... work?” soojin asks, a horrified look spreading across her face.

those several inches nails aren’t made for work. that’s for sure.

“the jeons...,” he coughs, “jeongguk promised to help us rebuild the family business because my father - your grandfather, supported the jeons when they were starting out.”

all of a sudden, seven pairs of eyes turn to you as if you’re the rabbit in a cage full of wolves. the air turns chilly as if someone’s turned the ac to a minus degrees celcius.

“well, don’t look at me, i haven’t talked to him for 9 years,” despite your hands held up and your shoulders almost making your neck shrink into your body, all they see is a little gold piggy bank.

“what? what about the times when we talked on the phone? you sounded so close!” your mother’s source of rage shifts to you.

“well, i mean, he’s pretty active on instagram-” you couldn’t even properly finish your sentence when a hand lands on your shoulder and you’re staring into your reflection in yuqi’s ray bans.

“start talking,” her cherry lips curl as she holds out your phone that you don’t even notice she’s swiped out of your hand bag which, “hey, how did you-” you remembered was zipped shut.

x

“you got something to tell me?” the jeongguk before you wears a smirk that exudes confidence and billion dollar legacy backing him up.

no longer the shy kid that avoids the gaze of those he’s not used to and keeps his head hung low. if anything, his chin is looking too tilted for your liking. though you can’t say the same for the muscles that fill out his suit and wraps around his biceps a little too snug.

he’s finally foregone the side swiped bangs and grew it enough to have it tied back into a man bun, enhancing his sharp jawline and proving once and for all that puberty isn’t just for anyone.

the hesitant hum reverberates against your chest. you can only hope that it’s not audible for persons besides yourself, “you look great.”

his head drops as he chuckles but you can still see the way his jaw clenches, cutting off every humor that’s ever present before looking straight at you through his lashes, “can’t say the same for you.”

you resist the urge to shoot up, handle of your handbag tucked in the juncture between your arm and forearm and strut out of the restaurant without looking back.

“that rotten attitude of yours hasn’t changed i see,” allowing the smile to sneak up your face, you feel your nails digging into your palms underneath the table, rooting you back to your reason for being here.

“it’s the thinking you’re better than me for me,” he states, back leaning against the chair.

“oh, baby, i am better than you,” the words escape your lips as naturally as breathing does.

“i don’t know about that, i certainly wouldn’t bring an on-and-off boyfriend of mine to a restaurant where my potential clients usually go to,” there’s a gleam in his eyes.

but before you can dissect the meaning of his words, the sight of a familiar jet black haired man trudging from toward your table with a distorted expression and waiters hurrying after him from a few steps away - catches your attention.

“___! baby, i’m sorry!” if you look closer, you could see the tears welling up in his eyes when he spots you.

“eric,” the hiss under your breath is venomous, threatening, “what are you doing here?!”

“i’m here for you, baby. i realized you’re the only one for me,” he drops to his knees, pulling out a velvet red box from his pocket. the waiters that were chasing after him now freezing, looking at each other back and forth before eric proclaims his undying love and his desires to, “i don’t want to live a life without you- marry me, baby!”

“stop,” you say curtly, body involuntarily leaned forward to make sure your voice reaches him. the sight of a smirking jeongguk adds to oil to the flames growing inside of you, “stop it. you’re acting insane, right now.”

“...i promise, i’ll never cheat on you again...” eric goes on, tears freely streaming down his cheeks as his shoulders sag, “i even tattooed your name on my chest.”

the italic curls of your name is inked in black a few inches underneath his left collarbone, probably where his heart is supposed to be. but at the moment, all you can see is jeongguk’s leisure wine drinking, “oh my god, security. please, take this man away, he’s disrupting lunchtime.”

the two waiters seem to snap out of their initial trance, marching over to eric and gripping his arms with all their might before dragging him away at the manager’s instructions. it’s only then, do you notice the flash of camera from one of the tables on the farthest left side of the restaurant, its position allowing for a full view of your expression and possibly only a view of jeongguk’s back.

“you,” a whisper slips out of your mouth once you’ve assured the manager that everything was settled and you’d continue eating, “you planned this.”

“what an assertive deduction. i almost thought you would’ve missed it altogether,” he remarks, a look of pure awe spreading across his face.

“fuck you, jeon,” slamming your fist against the table, you slip out of your chair and march out of restaurant, fully aware of the eyes that follow you until you’re out of sight.

x

no word got out.

sns was oddly silent about the incident at the restaurant but your sisters know anyway. shuhua knocks on your door, fixing you one of her calming smiles before dropping the bomb.

“mother and elder sisters don’t know, i’m not gonna tell them but i think it’s better if you talk to jeongguk about it.” is what she suggests.

but she doesn’t know he was the one that orchestrated it, as if your life was a show and he was there for a good time. either way, to ease your sister’s heart, you make your way to jeongguk’s office.

he made you wait for a good two hours, having his assistant retell that he’s busy and can’t be disturbed at the moment. but once you’ve had enough, you barge into his room, nails digging into your palms at the lack of meeting partner and the man’s too casual appearance with his blazer draped over his recliner and his sleeves folded up till his elbow.

“i heard you were in a meeting,” you announce, making sure to glare at the secretary that stopped dead in her tracks when you managed to slip past her and through the door of jeongguk’s office.

“as you can see, i’m quite busy,” he nods, hands gesturing at the open mac in front of him.

“what are you playing at, jeon jeongguk?” a smacking sound echoes through the air as you slam your palms on his mahogany table, glaring down at him “because i swear to god, i will make sure you regret messing with me.”

but instead of the panic you hope to raise, a chuckle trickles out of his lips, “ooh, you wanna kiss me so bad.”

how the prettiest pairs of lips could smirk like that is beyond you. natural pink lips, curving deviously as his bunny lips peek innocently underneath. you don’t notice you were staring until his voice fills the silence, forcing you to tear your gaze away from those kissable lips and meet his gaze.

“you really do wanna kiss me,” there’s that gleam in his eyes - that of realization and something - something - you can’t pinpoint.

gone is the boy that used to tell you your pigtails are lopsided and proceeded to fix it for you - he made it worse but you didn’t really mind because it was the effort that counted.

but that was almost a decade ago.

“you’re seriously like a man child,” you shake your head, the initial reason of marching over to his office now shoved to the back of your mind. the last thing you want is to be in the same room with a man who seems to only be interested in making someone else’s life his own personal entertainment.

but before your fingers brush the metal handle of the double doors, another hand brushing on top of yours, feather-light fingers pleading for you not to walk out on him.

“i’m sorry,” he doesn’t sound like the jeon jeongguk you’ve come to know within the short span of time - like a man stripped off his cards and games, “i went too far.”

you don’t - can’t - say anything but your body isn’t exactly listening to your mind’s instructions to move out of his grasp. out of his presence.

“i didn’t know the reporter was there - i made sure he’s keeping his mouth shut after you left,” his breath is hot against your neck and his front brushes against your back but not really touching.

“why did you do it? why did you bring eric all the way here?” you pray to thank the stars for the strength in your voice despite the feeling that’s slowly disappearing from your knees.

“i found out  you guys broke up because he cheated.. i wanted to make sure he knew you were mine,” his clicks his tongue, “i didn’t know you dated such a psycho-”

your world spins for the briefest moment before you come face to face with a wide eyed jeongguk.

“first off, you don’t own me,” you announce, arms coming to cross over your chest in show of protest, “and second off,” the semblance of surprise and panic finally slips through his facade when your hands grip his collar, “kiss me.”

the last thing you remember is jeongguk nodding ever so slightly before his eyes flutter shut just miliscends before yours. you feel his arm band around your lower back, free hand digging into your hair and pulling you closer into the kiss. he tastes like mint and lemon candies that your nanny used to give you and you’d give it to him, saying something like “it’s my favorite candy but i like you so i’ll let you have one”. you don’t miss the small jar he keeps on the side of his desk full of those candies.

but the matter of this and getting married in order to save your family from falling into ruins are two different matters altogether.

and somewhere down the line, you find yourselves still arguing about the littlest of things.

“um, what do you mean that red roses aren’t romantic? it’s literally the symbol of undying love,” surprisingly enough, it’s jeongguk that’s fighting for the fiercer shade of the petal.

“you think fuchsia pink doesn’t symbolize love?” you roll your eyes.

then comes the time when your mother and magically healed father asking for a grandchild to which jeongguk grins, “we’re working on baby jeon.”

(you’re married and the petals themed in your wedding are both fuchsia and garnet)

“excuse me?” you turn to him, brows arching. that alone warrants a break of cold sweat on jeongguk’s forehead as he cautiously laughs.

“i mean, w-we’re not ready yet.”

rather, you’re not ready to forego your child-less phase in exchange for late night awakenings and learning cry-languages.

but you’re not exactly being careful either, what with the two of you finding the holes in time to slip away from your family and into your childhood room only for jeongguk to slam you against the wall and bend you over the vanity.

“jeongguk did you bring a condom?” you ask.

“i’ll pull out,” is all he says and you’re barely listening as you clasp your palms agaist your mouth, trying not to let out the moans pass through your lips.

when you go back to your family, jeongguk’s arm is around your waist and you both sit together as you joke and laugh with your sisters whilst jeongguk raises a glass to joining your dad at the gym.

x

note. hope yall enjoyed!

see drabble game! for how to request!

#bts smut #jungkook smut #bts fic #jungkook fic #jungkook x reader #bts x reader #bts x yn #jungkook x yn #jungkook scenarios #bts scenarios #jungkook scenario #bts scenario #bts fluff #bts angst #jungkook fluff #jungkook imagines #bts imagines #drabble game 1 #excerpt from a fic i'll never write

[47-shades-of-hitman]

Seven days of Valentine with Agent 47 | Day 5 | NSFW

Day 5 - “Cream-pie” for dessert | NSFW

Even though Agent 47 is an excellent cook, you'd much rather have him for dinner.

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, oral (male and female giving/receiving)

Link to my Hitman-related Discord server

Your legs dangled off the edge of the countertop, occasionally kicking the drawers underneath. Not that it mattered, because your socked feet would do no damage to the hardwood of the kitchen.

Agent 47 stood stirring in a pan of spinach, but the scent of well-seasoned salmon was what made you linger here whilst he prepared dinner – well, that, and the hitman’s presence.

He remained in his crisp white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the top buttons undone, crimson tie loosened. The veins running across his forearms made you want you trace your fingers over them, but you didn’t want to disturb him.

The scene in front of you was utterly domestic – a checked tea-towel thrown over his shoulder, a thin sheen of sweat visible on his brow in the heat of the stove, his bare feet on the kitchen floor. It was a sight you could get used to, but his occupation made you unable to settle in the way you wanted.

You let your foot graze against his hip, and as he looked up at you, you smiled softly at him.

“Thank you.” you whispered. “For taking care of me.”

“Of course.” 47 replied, wrapping his fingers around your ankle, caressing your skin as he flipped the salmon with his free hand. “Anything for you, sweetheart.”

Your heart swelled at the nickname like it always did when it slipped velvety smooth off his tongue. That, combined with the current setting, made your stomach flutter with something else than just love.

Oh, how you wanted to run your fingers over that exposed sliver of his pale chest and run them all the way down to his abdomen, where his hard muscles came down to that beautiful and soft V-shaped curve, right above his—

“(Y/n)?” You snapped out of your impure thoughts. “Hm?” “I’m almost done. Could you lay the table, please?”

Your eyes locked with his and you slightly tilted your head. “What’s for dessert?” As much as you loved 47’s cooking, since he was excellent at it, you preferred to taste him above all.

“Well,” 47 began, “I have brought those chocolates you like, and we also have some soft serve with whipped cream and—”

“Can’t we just start with the dessert?” you purred suggestively, reaching over to caress his arm. His blue eyes flickered to it, his muscles slightly flexing at your touch but soon relaxing as he realised what you were doing.

“What did you have in mind? This will all get cold if we—” “Can you just shut up and kiss me?”

You hooked your leg around his hip, pulling him towards you. His hands came to rest on either side of your thighs and you leaned in, connecting your mouth to his. 47 hummed into it, pulling back after a few seconds in order to turn off the stove.

He was soon kissing you again, though, softly sucking at your bottom lip. You took his face in your hands and deepened the kiss, tongue sliding over his without much effort.

Agent 47 took your hips and pulled you to the very edge of the countertop, fingers undoing the button of your pants before sliding it down your legs. You smiled at the action and at the practised ease he displayed while doing so before positioning himself between your legs again, so he could press his face into your neck and leave a few marks-turning-bruises.

His fingers came to rest at your jaw, tilting up your head so he could suck at your throat, tongue and teeth gentle and hot against your skin, travelling down to the top of your shirt. Without a word, you lifted your arms so he could take it off of you. Deft fingers unclasped your bra and immediately teased at your hardened nipples after disposing of it.

You sighed, popping a few buttons of his shirt as he brought his lips to rest at the nape of your neck, brushing down to suckle at the sensitive buds in the centre of your breasts. His mouth remained there whilst he opened his belt, ridding himself of the restraining fabric of his slacks.

The outlines of his erection were pressing against the cotton of his briefs and you soon fondled it, finding it steadily swelling against your palm. He pulled back from your breast and once again opted for your lips, rolling his tongue against yours deliciously.

For a moment, he reluctantly tore himself away from your mouth to focus his gaze on your heated flesh – he pried aside your panties to reveal the soaked folds of your flower, fingers parting them to find your swollen clit and tease it – albeit shortly. You softly moaned, legs jerking at the feeling of his thumb brushing at your clitoris, toes curling already.

“47…” you whimpered. “Fuck me…” “All in due time, sweetheart.” He slid your underwear off your legs and inspected your wet pussy for a second before retreating to the fridge. “Hey, where are you going?” you breathed, afraid that he was having second thoughts about this little adventure.

From the fridge, he took the bowl of whipped cream he had prepared earlier, soon returning to your side. He leaned closer to your ear, ghosting his lips over the shell whilst you rested your hands on his biceps.

“I’m in the mood for some… Cream-pie.” You shuddered at the huskiness of his voice, gripping at his arms as he licked a wet stripe from under your ear to your throat, and then, he crouched down between your legs, hot breath fanning over your drenched sex. With his finger, he took a dollop of cream and smeared it over your pussy lips without a warning.

You shivered, one hand grabbing at your own breast whilst the other gripped at the edge of the counter. “Fuck, 47…” He kissed the insides of your thighs, searing breath wafting against where you needed him most.

You didn’t need to complain for long – soon, his mouth latched onto your cunt, tongue slithering in between your labia to taste from your nectar. You moaned loudly, immediately arching your back and pressing yourself tighter against is mouth. “47…!” you mewled, “Fuck!”

He hummed against your core, tonguing at your clit for a moment. You cradled one hand behind his head, pushing him impossibly closer. His chin was slick with your juices as were his lips, eating away at you. He kissed at your folds before wrapping his lips around your sensitive clitoris, suddenly sucking it flat against his tongue.

Your stomach twisted pleasantly and you gasped his name, pleasure pulsating through you with every movement of his mouth on you. Biting your bottom lip, you whimpered, grinding against his face. He had only barely started, but you were close – undeniably close…

“Forty—” you moaned, unable to murmur his name. “Gonna cum…” you managed to gasp under the heat of his tongue on your cunt, slipping into your depths, tasting you even deeper. His thumb brushed at your clit and you gripped the edges of the counter, digging your nails inside the wood as he pushed you closer to that edge with every passing second.

“Gah!” A cry of dismay left your lips when his heat was suddenly gone before he allowed you to climax, yet he soon positioned himself between your legs again, pressing his mouth firmly to yours. You could taste a mixture of yourself and whipped cream on his tongue, the sweetness only adding to how naughty the flavour already was.

47 shimmied off his briefs and rested his cock on the expanse of your pussy, rubbing it up and down across it to lube himself up and tease you in the process. “Fuck…” you sighed, gripping at his forearms as he guided his tip into you, sliding deeper until he was fully hilted inside of you, filling you up nicely.

Agent 47 gripped at your thigh, his other hand coming to rest in your neck, thumb pressing under your chin to make you look up at him. His piercing eyes locked with yours as he began to thrust, soon increasing the pace for he knew from the clench of your walls around him that you needed him – desperately so.

You could only choke out a few moans and something sounding like his name as he stared at you, pools of blue drilling into your soul as the soft pap-pap-pap of his body colliding with yours echoed through your skull.

His breathing hitched at the feel of your tightness, his speed quickening out of instinct. 47 could not look away from your blushing face, captivated by how delicious your expression was, how your lips parted and brows knitted together in a deep frown, a tell-tale sign of your orgasm nearing.

“47…” you forced out, “You’re gonna make… Me…” You could barely find your words, but he told you that he understood by pressing his lips to yours in a sweet kiss, tongue parting your lips right away.

Your arms wrapped around his neck and you pulled him closer, snogging him deeply, and there it was. Your toes curled and you tensed, momentarily paralyzed in the moment, but electricity pulsated through you and the flicking of his fingers on your clit were no help either. With a soft cry, you orgasmed, fingers tingling as they caressed the tattoo on the back of his head, wholly familiar with its outline.

He drove his hips into you a few more times until he was sure that your high had subdued, and as soon as he removed himself from your satisfied depths, you slipped onto your knees, bringing the bowl of whipped cream that had been standing next to you along.

With one of your fingers, you took a large dollop of cream and spread it on the weeping tip of his cock, smearing it all the way to the base.

Agent 47 laced one hand in your hair as you brought your mouth to his length, your hot breath hitting his skin pleasantly. Even though he was big, you were quite experienced and it wasn’t he first time you took him in. It didn’t take long for you to establish a steady bobbing of your head, messily sucking at the whipped cream in the process.

He gritted his teeth and sighed your name, keeping himself from throwing back his head in pleasure, because you were way too beautiful to not cherish the sight. You looked up at him with half-lidded eyes, humming around his cock to send vibrations up his spine.

Pleasure jolted through his spine and his hand in your hair convulsed, and he muttered something akin a warning – you pulled back immediately and he leaned down to drag you back onto the counter. Right in time, because he bottomed out in one swift movement as soon as you felt the surface against your ass again, spilling himself deeply inside of you.

47 pounded into you a few more times, his spend running down your thighs whilst he pulled out, causing him to sigh softly.

“I love you, 47.” you breathed, pulling him down for a kiss. It was sweet and short, but still hot, especially combined with his seed cooling on your thighs.

“And I, you, (Y/n).” was his reply, his hand cradling your face. For a moment, he rubbed his length between your pussy lips again, spreading whatever was left around there. “A cream-pie for dessert, hm?”

You bit your lip, smiling sweetly. “Oh, 47…” you mused, pulling him closer against you, “It’s too bad that I can’t eat it myself… Why not help me do it?”

His answer was non-verbal and consisted out of his fingers plunging deeply into you, determined to give you what you wanted.

By the time this was going be over, your original dinner would be long cold.

#Agent 47 #agent 47 x reader #David Bateson #reader insert #smut

[syubub]

JIMIN SOULMATE READING

~Disclaimer: This is for entertainment purposes and should not be taken as fact~

Chim chim, my Libra son. Your time has come.

(Yes I am aware of the shit picture)

So let's start off with Jimins energy color! Its an amber orange with gold ish sparkles? Kinda like if you dipped a cheeto in gold dust?

This was the closest I could find to how it looked. Its really pretty!

Moving on. I get up to his platform and offer energy and blah blah but hes behind a little glass door thing. He doesn't open it so I'm like? Do I just leave? But then I kinda start to float through the glass? This shit makes me sound crazy and I am well aware thank you. Anyway, he touches my forehead and yeets me backwards off the platform.

Cool cool cool. It wasn't mean or anything btw, he was just kinda like oki, get to it.

The only "message" I got was just straight up, "Nevermind" thats his tattoo and idk what that has to do with anything at all lol.

Now for this person's card I got 10 of cups. This is a very well rounded, optimistic person who has worked hard to achieve the life they've always wanted. They are very fulfilled in life!

As for cards about this person's personality/ life I pulled 9 of swords, king of wands, high priestess and temperance. This person is always in search of balance in life and they are a natural born leader. They have a lot of hidden talents. This person has also been through a lot of past traumas/insecurities that are still manifesting in their life today. This person is trying to get better and is most likely in therapy (I'll get to this later too) this person is motivated and driven (I see them being a perfectionist) has a knowledgeable and strong persona.

As for possible zodiac signs I got air or earth and I pulled the empress so that to me says Taurus or Libra (or maybe those two together)

Onto the relationship. We have the sun, the lovers, seven of wands rev., the heirophant rev., death rev and ace if swords.

So this relationship is very warm. I mean no doubt they work well together and have a very seamless fit. They fit into eachothers lives like pieces of a puzzle for sure. I bet they are always very touchy around eachother. I get the feeling that his soulmate is equally as touchy and physical as he is. Probably a lot of cudles tbh. Theres a lot of love between the two.

Now, they might have an issue with being in the spotlight. Its kinda like they have a hard time dealing with being under scrutiny/ pressure. They both have things that they need to work on and they are both heavy perfectionists and having people nit pick everything that they do together really messes with them. Theres likely to be a period of "drama" and breakdowns in the relationship. Its no fault of their own though. I don't want to get too into it but its like..( possible trigger warning I guess) they both have not great relationships with food/ their bodies or they push themselves too hard as a form of self harm? And they deal with pressure in unhealthy ways sometimes. They are both getting better and doing better and are healthy but there is this caution almost that they still hold on to old, harmful coping mechanisms and IF things their relationship were to be public and people were watching everything they do 24/7 and criticizing their every move then theres a chance that they might fall back into bad habits? Or even say it was just his soulmate that kinda spirals then that might trigger him or vice versa? They have similar ish issues and all I can say is that its hard to recognize something toxic in someone else when you're plagued with the same issue. They also might not be good at communicating how they want to be loved? Like I get the sense that they have a hard time being like, "hey, it really upsets me when you do this and this is why. I know you mean well but it does xyz" ya, know? I think its hard because they don't want the other person to feel bad or like they don't appreciate the love that they receive.

HAPPIER STUFF NOW

We have warrior woman and answer the call. These cuties help eachother find their purpose. They are eachothers rock and they are both so supportive of eachother!

Moving on to messages that his soulmate has for Chim. We have open your heart, its dark and you can't see a thing (get your head out of your ass. Pronto) and get the fuck outside. Move your ass (your body is pissed at you) I think this can be interpreted as his soulmate being like, "hey. Its okay. The world is scary right now but you shouldn't lose faith in humanity. You're surrounded by people that love you and they are good people. Go take a walk and take care of yourself" some level 100 wholesome shit.

Now let's go to character cards. We have. Child: nature, mother and monk/nun rev. This person loves animals! Wouldn't be surprised if they volunteer at animal shelters and do a thawing that helps rescue animals. This person is also mom friend for sure. Always taking care of others and is everyones go to shoulder to cry on. This person also is a bit unintentionally judgy? Its not mean or anything but they have a savior complex almost? Its like they don't know what to do if they aren't needed. They also may unintentionally let some of their personal high standards seep onto other people.

Little cards are funny, feminine, dark hair, fashionable, loud and introvert.

We also have the cards from his soulmate to him, open, thinking of you, pure, negative and habit. (The last 2 were stuck together so I'm gonna say it means something about a negative habit that he has)

Now we on to the last card! We have beyond the mind, the heart beats. This card talks about listening to your heart and not ignoring its wishes. It talks about doing what you feel is right. Following that call and trusting yourself!

Last last card. I pulled one card just to get a sense of what might have contributed to his soulmates past trauma and I go the hermit. That gives me the sense that they have abandonment issues and it might be a big part of their perfectionism. So there's that.

Jiminie has a very sweet and kind soulmate and they work very well together. They help eachother to overcome and to love. The energy is so lovely even if part of the reading was serious? Really though, his soulmate is very kind and very much like him. I wish them both all of the happiness ever.

#bts tarot #bts #bts reactions #bts imagines #kim seokjin #jin #suga #yoongi #hoseok #jhope #namjoon #bts rm #bts jimin #jimin #jimin fanfic #taehyung #bts v #jungkook #bts astrology

[metalheadkells]

ALSO here is a little corporate AU drabble because I’m not that excited by it but also should I write more? WHO KNOWS. 

“Excuse me?”

Marshall drags his eyes away from the glow of his laptop screen in the dimly lit block of cubicles to the source of the voice that had rudely shattered his concentration. The point of showing up to work at seven in the fucking morning was to give himself a couple of blissfully undisturbed hours to start his day before his coworkers started noisily piling in. He opens his mouth to express something along those lines to whoever it is that’s deigning to speak to him at this unacceptably early hour, but the words die on his tongue as soon as his eyes land on the offender. Standing in front of Marshall’s desk is a young man that he knows for a fact he hasn’t seen in the office before, because he’d definitely have remembered him. He towers over Marshall, a glossy black messenger bag clasped to his front like a shield, an unmistakable neck tattoo peeking over the crisp collar of his dress shirt, tiny black roses embroidered all over his charcoal-gray slacks. Who the fuck…? Marshall stares for a second, his eyes latching onto the guy’s ridiculous cheekbones and long eyelashes, before he snaps out of it and grumbles, “Modeling agency’s two floors down.” Pretty Boy seems confused by this, his forehead creasing as he says, “What? No, I… I’m not… I’m the new intern?” Marshall blinks. “Intern?” “Yeah? I’m gonna be working with the Sales team?” The way everything he says comes out sounding like a question is making Marshall’s eyelid twitch. “Paul said I could stop by his desk first thing,” he continues, “but I’m, uh, obviously super early.” This kid wants to work in Sales? This stammering, shy, unreasonably attractive - “There’s a dress code,” Marshall blurts out of nowhere, having also noticed the subtle silver hoops affixed to his ears. Pretty Boy raises his eyebrows. “I know?” “You’re violating it,” Marshall clarifies impatiently. “We’re pretty traditional around here. Those piercings aren’t gonna fly. And you need to do a better job of covering your tattoo.” Pretty Boy’s face falls, and Marshall almost takes pity on him. He looks young enough that this could be his first real job out of college - he’d probably had no idea what to expect. “You got a name?” “Call me Kells,” he says. “The fuck kinda name is that?” Marshall hadn't really meant to say that out loud, but oh well. That’s what you get when you try talking to him before 9 AM. Kells scowls at him, and the overall effect is… intense. Marshall smiles involuntarily, then glances back down at his laptop to hide it, wondering at the little spark of excitement shooting up his spine. “I’m Marshall,” he offers, scrolling aimlessly through the Excel pivot tables on his screen to appear busy. “And you think my name’s weird?” Marshall stops his scrolling, eyes flickering up to note the righteous indignation taking over the kid’s expression.

Ah. Maybe not as shy as I thought. 

“Senior Vice President of Sales,” Marshall finishes, just to watch Kells blanch as that revelation sinks in. “Oh fuck,” he murmurs, then presses a large palm to his mouth, his entire face turning red. “I’m - Sh-shouldn’t you have your own office? Sir?” “I do,” Marshall says, forcing himself not to grin like a loon, “but I like to work out here before the cavalry clocks in. One too many windows in my office.” Kells looks at him like he has a retort on the tip of his tongue, but is holding it back out of deference to Marshall’s seniority. It makes Marshall want to laugh. But laughing isn’t his thing. So instead, he asks, “And what’re you doing here so goddamn early? Were you planning to sit around doing nothing until someone showed up?” “Well, yeah,” Kells says, biting his lip. The motion shouldn’t be as distracting as it is. “I get… anxious. I was gonna kill time at some café or something until 9, but nothing around here’s open yet. So I figured I’d just come up.” “Hmm. You’re from LA, aren’t you. Or SF.” “No,” Kells splutters, like he’s offended by the notion, “I’m originally from Cleveland.” He pauses, then adds, “But I did just move here from LA.” “I knew it,” Marshall says smugly, “You have the look. And the presumptuousness.” Though I’m not compelled to murder you, so that’s a point in your favor. Once again, Kells looks like he’s holding his tongue, his eyes pained with the effort it must take. Marshall is gripped by an oddly strong urge to drag a feisty retort out of him. “Anyway, Paul gets in at 8:30. Find somewhere to sit and post your Snapchats and your Twits until then.” “You are so - ” Kells bursts out, then stops himself, steam practically coming out of his ears. Marshall turns an innocently questioning look on him. “Yes?” Then, Kells’ temperament shifts so immediately that it gives Marshall whiplash. “So generous, to have taken time out of your busy day to talk to me,” he says, sickly sweet, all earnest blue eyes and animated hands. “Thank you so much. I’ll get out of your way now, sir.” Marshall stares after him as he walks off without a backwards glance, thinking, Well-played, kid. His heart is thumping in this uncomfortably erratic rhythm that he knows can’t mean anything good. He whips out his phone and shoots off a text to Paul. This intern you hired??? He’s gonna be a distraction. We can’t have that. He adds: I can fire him for you. Take that off your plate. And a few seconds later: Well, maybe it’d be better to give him a test run first. See how the team likes him. It’s only fair. And half a minute after that: You need to tell him to do something about his face though. This isn’t some fucking froofy LA design firm that exclusively employs hot 20-somethings. And after he reads that last text over: Not that I’m calling him hot. Because that would be an inappropriate thing to say to the head of HR. And finally: I’m just saying he could play down his looks a little. Jesus, he walked in here dressed like a fucking Bloomingdale’s mannequin. By the time Paul texts him back, nearly half an hour later, with nothing but an ominous, oh no, Marshall is still recounting his interaction with Kells in his head moment by moment, his work entirely forgotten.

#emgk #m: fic #long post //jk'k #thats all im giving you from my WEAK AF DRAFTS lmao #mine

[venicebitch1999]

Late Night Confessions

Pairing: Fezco/Reader

Summary: You and Fezco spend some time stargazing. Who will make the first move?

Warnings: Profanity, mentions of underage drinking and drug dealing.

A/N: Hey, y’all! This is my first writing I’ve actually posted, so bear with me. I love Fezco so much, he’s my fucking cinnamon apple and deserves more writings. Let me know what y’all think though! Feedback is always appreciated. ❤️ Much love.

You were currently driving out to your favorite weekend spot, the cliff about three miles out of town that overlooked the city. You and your best friend, Fezco, had made plans to meet up and stargaze. Every once in a while, when you two needed an escape, you would go to your favorite spot and observe the night sky. It wasn’t often that you did this, but you never passed the opportunity up. You loved these little moments with him.

Fezco had been in your life for close to seven years. You had met him the first day of seventh grade, and although people came and went throughout your school years, Fezco stayed by your side. Fezco, eventually, dropped out to help take care of his grandma. When money became tight, he started drug dealing. He thought this would scare you away for sure, but no. Best friends stuck together no matter what.

Eventually, you grew to love him, beyond just friends. He was charismatic, polite, soft-spoken, and protective. He would take a bullet for you. Because you didn’t want to risk your friendship, you kept those feelings to yourself. He had enough on his plate already.

Your thoughts were interrupted by the sight of Fezco’s car parked near the cliff’s edge. You were so in love, even the sight of his car had you feeling giddy. You parked your car next to his and unbuckled your seatbelt. You knew he was already waiting for you at your usual spot, a grassy area farthest away from the road. You both thought this area was the best place to see the nighttime skies, as no trees or dirt were present.

You walked towards your spot and saw that he was already laying down on the blanket, looking upwards. You could hardly make out his figure, but you knew he looked just as good as ever. Hearing your footsteps approach, he turned to look at you. You smiled at him, placing your backpack with the radio you both used to play your tunes down, and greeted him with a shy “Hey, Fez.”

He moved over, giving you some room on the blanket to get comfortable and replied “What’s up, Y/N?”

Yep, you were right. He did look good. He was dressed in a simple long sleeved black shirt, gray sweatpants, and his favorite duo, socks and slides. How the hell did someone manage to look so fucking amazing in something so plain? You had no idea, but he did it with ease.

Fezco thought you looked amazing too. Your attire consisted of a cropped red sweatshirt, black leggings, and black high top converse. He couldn’t help but stare at you. You always looked beautiful.

Fez had had a crush on you for as long as he could remember. Before he had even officially met you, he’d seen you at school and thought you were one of the prettiest girls on the planet. The day he mustered up the courage to talk to you was the best day of his life, because that was the start of your friendship. Over the years, Fez watched you grow up. He was there when your first boyfriend broke your heart at winter formal sophomore year, even threatening to beat his ass afterwards. He was there when your parents separated. He was there when you graduated high school. He was there when you dropped out of college to help take care of your younger siblings after your dad’s alcoholism reached its peak. He was there for it all. Your friendship meant everything to him, so he never told you about his true feelings. He couldn’t lose you.

“Oh, you know, just getting ready to hang out with some loser.” you answered, with a wink.

He laughed sarcastically, “Ha ha ha, you think you cute or something, huh?” he said while he rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, or something.” you sassed, pulling your speakers out of your backpack and connecting your phone to it before turning it on shuffle and laying down. The sounds of “Ribs” by Lorde started playing.

“No lie, I fuck with this kinda music.” Fezco admitted.

You smiled and looked up at the trillions of tiny, twinkling stars. “Yeah, I know. You haven’t complained once about my music.”

“It’s nice to hear new shit. I like all kinds of music, like that one chick. Uh, I think her name is Lana? Ion know, but she kinda fire.” he commented.

You gave him a little side-eye. “Del Rey?” you asked causing him to look at you.

“Oh yeah! Her. Yeah, she got some hits. Some of her shit got me sad as hell.” he said.

You laughed loudly, “More like all her shit.”

Fezco smiled and you both fell into a comfortable silence. Gazing up at the thousands of twinkling stars, you let your mind wander. You thought about your relationship with Fezco. Did it have the potential to be anything more? You wondered what it felt like to kiss him, to have his hands on your thighs, to feel his arm around your waist. You wondered what it felt like to be called his.

“So.. Rue told me something today.” Fezco said nervously, still looking upwards.

You quirked your eyebrow up, and looked at him. “What’s she gossiping about now?” you asked with a joking twinkle in your eye.

“Ion know if it’s true or what. She said she overheard it at last night’s party or some shit.” he claimed.

Fuck. Last night’s party was a trip, you hardly remembered it. “Spit it out, dude.” you pressed.

“Ight. Well, she said you was fucking around with Cameron Gates. She said someone saw y’all making out? Ion know, that’s just what she heard.” he finally said.

Your eyes widened. “Fuck, I was so drunk last night. I don’t even remember that. I mean, Cameron always tries to get with me at parties and shit, so I wouldn’t be surprised.” you admitted, feeling embarrassed.

“Cameron is a dick. I didn’t wanna believe it, but I mean, you do you.” he said icily. He could feel the jealousy creeping in. He didn’t like knowing other guys were into you.

You looked at him, a little confused at his tone. “Uh, okay? I mean, I’m not into him like that. I was just wasted. Besides, I’m 20. I’m allowed to make out with people if I want to,” you snipped. “I’m not even into guys like him anyways.”

Fezco snorted. “Whatever you say.” he said sarcastically.

“The fuck? We were just having a good time. What’s with you?” you asked him with a glare.

“I mean, you’ve only ever dated guys like him, so Ion know why you lying.” he pointed out.

Yeah, Fez was right. You dated a lot of guys that ended up being really shitty boyfriends who only wanted one thing. In your defense, the one guy that you did want to date had friendzoned you, so you had limited options.

“Yeah, well if I could date who I wanted to, I would’ve never dated those guys.” you said while sitting up. You didn’t like this conversation, you felt defensive.

Fezco followed your actions and looked at you. You looked angry, embarrassed, and hurt by what he said. He instantly felt bad for making you upset. You were right, you were having a good time. He just wanted to confirm what he’d heard. It was selfish, but he was bothered by it.

“I’m sorry, ma. I just don’t fuck with that Cameron guy. He only wants to fuck you and dip. You deserve more than that shit.” he said softly as he grabbed your hand and observed the rings on your fingers.

Butterflies erupted in your stomach. “Oh yeah? And what is it that I deserve?” you asked, with a little smile playing on your lips.

Fezco’s eyes met yours and he placed a tiny kiss on your ring finger. “You deserve everything good in life, Y/N. All the shit you’ve ever dreamed of having, you deserve it. You too good for all these dumbass guys around here.” he declared.

You looked at him and gave him a shy smile. You felt lost for words. Nobody had ever told you that before.

Your thoughts were interrupted by Fez letting go of your hand to trace the small tattoo on your exposed waist. “Can I ask you something?” he inquired.

You hated when people asked that question. Your anxiety heightened immediately. “Um, yeah. Go ahead.” you answered.

“You said you wanted to date someone earlier. Who was you talking about?”

Fuck. Should you tell him? It was always hard to lie to Fez. He knew immediately when you were bluffing. Lying would be obvious, no matter how hard you tried to mask it.

You stumbled over your words, trying to come up with a vague answer. “Um, I mean- Well, I-.. He’s uh- Fuck, I can’t talk right now.”

Fezco raised an eyebrow at you. “You about to lie,” he chided. “Lying ain’t ever get you anywhere with me, mamas. Might as well tell me the truth. I ain’t gonna tell nobody. You and Rue the only people I fuck with.”

You sighed loudly. “Okay. Fine. I’ll be honest, but like you gotta promise this won’t be weird, alright? You’re my best friend. I don’t want us to be awkward.”

He looked at your serious expression and nodded. “Ight, swear on my life.” Fezco was feeling nervous now. Why were you so serious?

You hesitated before speaking. “Um, okay. Uh. Well, the guy I like may or may not be you.” you finally managed to say.

Your face was beet red and your palms were sweaty. You watched as he looked into your eyes for any signs of a joke. He thought for sure this was a prank. There was no way you felt that way about him.

“Like deadass?” he asked, feeling nervous.

“Deadass.” you replied simply.

Wow, he never thought you’d felt that way about him before. He was for sure his love would always be unrequited.

“But it’s okay if you don’t feel the same way. I love our friendship. We can pretend this never happened.” you stated, feeling a little defeated by his silence.

He laughed. “Y/N, what the fuck? I been having a crush on you. Like ever since you walked onto the fucking playground that day at school and punched Nate Jacobs’ brother in the face for trying to kiss you.”

You were shocked. Holy shit. Fezco felt the same way? No fucking way. All these years, and neither one of you said a thing. How could you have been so clueless to one another?

“Oh my god. We seriously been having secret feelings for each other all these years? What kinda soap opera shit?” you laughed.

Fez laughed with you before taking your hand and kissing the palm. “Come’ere, ma. I wanna give you a kiss. I been waiting like ten years for this.” he admitted.

You moved closer to him and let him grab hold of your waist. You put your arms around his neck and looked him in the eyes. “Then kiss me.” you said.

He moved his head downwards and locked lips with yours. The fireworks that people claim to feel in movies? Yeah, that feeling is real. You had never been kissed with such passion and love before, and you definitely didn’t mind it. His hands moved to your lower back as he pulled you closer. He moved his lips from yours down to your neck, where he placed a chaste kiss to the spot behind your ear, before looking into your eyes with a smirk.

“How about we make this official, huh?” he said.

You laid back down, pulling him over your body. “Okay then, boyfriend.” you winked.

He leaned down to give you another kiss. “I like the sound of that, mamas.”

#euphoria #fezco #angus cloud #imagine #fezco euphoria #fezco x reader #fezco imagine #fez

[stellarboystyles]

Ever Since New York

This is my first fic for the HS1 Masterlist that @bfharry​, @goldenfeelin​ and myself have created...i hope you enjoy <3

2.4k of light fluff and angst

NYC was beautiful this time of year. Glittering holiday lights illuminated the cityscape, blankets of snow cloaking the ground as the two of you walked down the icy sidewalk with your hand enveloped in his. The two of you had just left a holiday party that some of your friends were hosting. Their house was just a few blocks down from Harry’s apartment, so you walked. Which seemed fine, until it was one in the morning and you were fighting against the freezing Brooklyn air just to get home. The thick white blanket encasing the ground below you illuminates your path as you were walking when a burst of wind rushes through your coat, making you shiver. 

“I know, m’sorry bug.” he wrapped his arm around your shoulder, pulling you into his warmth. “Almost there.” 

After walking up the stairs to his apartment, Harry fumbled with his key a bit before successfully unlocking the door, the cold air slowing the movements of his fingers. 

“Finally.” he grumbled before pushing the door open. You took off your coat, hanging it up and he followed with the same action. 

Everything about Harry’s Brooklyn apartment was so nostalgic. The smell of spices and vanilla is evident when you walk in from your favorite candle that he was burning earlier, not to mention the color scheme, it was your favorite out of every place that he’s ever had. Different textures and jewel tones filled the space and even though Harry always says that New York is too crazy for him, he can’t argue that you've made some of your best memories here.

“Whatcha thinkin’ about?” his voice was soft, taking a few steps towards you. Your back was pressed against his chest as strong arms wrapped around your shoulders. He proceeded to kiss the top of your head as you spoke. 

“Remember the last time we were here together?” you couldn’t help but smile, reminiscing of the night when your life changed forever. 

“Can I open my eyes now?”

Harry’s hands are covering your eyes as he’s guiding you down the hallway. 

“Shhh.” he ignores your request, too focused on whatever he has planned. “Okay, there’s steps here, so just step up-there ya go.”

“Where are we going?”

“Fo’ the last time, s’a surprise.” he huffs playfully before reaching around you and it sounded like he was opening a door in front of you.

“I’m scared.”

“Why ya scared fo’? S’just me, love.”

You roll your eyes under his palms but he’s quick to catch you. “Heeeey.” 

“You’re always up to somethin’, and you know I hate surprises-”

“Jus’ hush and keep walkin’, almost there.”

The breezy October air rushed in from outside and soon you felt concrete scuffing underneath your sneakers. You can hear his shaky breath from behind you and the curiosity is too much to bear.

“Okay,” he takes his hands away. “Open your eyes.”

Once your eyes adjusted to the golden light of the sun, the scene in front of you was breathtaking.

You were on the rooftop of Harry’s apartment building. Twinkling fairy lights were strung above your head and you felt like you were dreaming. Your eyes fall to the ground and there’s blankets and pillows and your favorite snacks are scattered on top, and your favorite candle is sat on the ledge burning. Soon after, your ears pick up the music that’s playing. 

“Thought we could watch the sunset...and I got your favorite playlist.”

You felt frozen, but your heart was so warm.

You swiftly turned around to face him, bringing your hands up to his cheeks. 

“What did I do to deserve you?” you question and the genuine smile on his face is more than contagious.

“Y’tryna make me blush?” 

His sheepish comment makes you giggle. “Maybe.”

“Think it’s workin’.” 

The air was leaving his lungs a little too fast but you could tell that he was nervous.

“You look like you’re gonna pass out.”

His eyes slightly widen, but he tries to hide it. as his arms pull you into a bear hug. “M’fine.”

“You are so special.” you murmur after a few moments, pulling back to look at him. 

“Awh stop.” he shies away from your accolade. “Just love you, s’all.”

“I love you too.”

He stood there for a moment before taking her hands and turning around so that he was standing in front of her and gently pulling. “C’mere.”

You feel drawn to him. He pulls you into the middle of the open space. “Wanna dance with me?”

Both of his hands are holding yours and he gives you a cheeky smile before pulling you in. 

“You really shouldn’t have gotten those tattoos on your ankles if you thought you were ever gonna dance again.”

Your comment surprised him and he looks down at his shoes, and you both burst into giggles when he quickly looks back up at you. His face softens at your face, he loves making you happy. 

“Only for you.”

Butterflies flittered inside of your rib cage at his statement. 

You don’t know how long you stayed like that, your head resting against his chest as he held you. Your hands slid underneath his shirt, feeling the muscles of his back beneath your fingertips while slowly moving to the melody of a kodaline song. 

“Have somethin’ fo’ you.” 

Mild confusion crossed your face at his words as he pulled away. “What is it?”

“Jus’...I want you to know somethin’ first.” 

He held your hands in his as he spoke. 

“I want you to know how wonderful you are.” he takes a breath. “When i first saw you I thought you were the most beautiful girl I had ever seen in my whole life, but you...quickly showed me your heart. You’re the sweetest person I’ve ever met, so kind and funny and we’ve grown so much together, and m’bein’ honest...I wouldn’t be who I am right now without you. You showed me how to love again, how to trust again, and m’so grateful.”

Small tears are trying to sneak their way onto your cheeks, and you couldn’t take your eyes away from his, so you didn’t notice him reaching into his pocket right away. He looked unusually nervous, more so with every word, voice wavering just a bit. 

That’s when Harry dropped down onto his knee, and he was holding a ring, and you were already crying. 

“Harry,” you pleaded, voice barely above a whisper and you could hear the punching heartbeat in your ears. 

“I love you with all of my heart. M’so incredibly in love with you.”

Your lungs felt empty, air leaving them too fast to keep up. 

“My love, will you marry me?”

“Yes.” you were breathless, hands moving to cradle his cheeks. “Yes, yes, oh my gosh, yes.”

“Remember it like it was yesterday.” he hummed, reaching around to place a kiss on your cheek, which you leaned into. 

“It was the best night of my life.” you spoke honestly, holding onto his hands as they came over your shoulders. 

“Hope so, don't’ think ‘ve ever been tha’ nervous.”

“You’re hands were shaking so bad, tryin’ to put the ring on my finger.” your giggling earned a scoff from Harry. 

“Heeey, your hands were shakin’ too! And I couldn’t mess up tha’ moment! Knew it was somethin’ we were gonna remember forever.”

“I will.” you turned around in his hold, hands on his cheeks. “You’re the best fiancé in the world.”

“No, you are.” 

“No, you—”

He cut you off before you could start fussing. Soft lips were on yours, the kiss sweet and filled with love. 

Before anything could escalate, the next thing you heard was Harry’s phone buzzing from the inside of his back pocket.

“M’gonna get tha’.” he mumbled against your lips, kissing you one more time before pulling away. “But right after, m’all yours, love.” 

You giggled before turning around, proceeding to take out your earrings as he answered the call. 

“Hi mum.” 

Harry stayed silent, holding the phone up to his ear and intently listening at what she was telling him. 

“No, m’with Y/N.” 

“Is everything alright?” he questioned, now pacing around the bedroom. His next words were hushed into the phone. “D’you want me to come down there?”

You turned around at his words, wondering if it was what you thought it was. 

“Mum, jus’ tell me, please.”

With everything inside of you, you hoped and prayed it wasn’t what you thought it was. 

“Oh, god.” 

His voice instantly flooded with distress, chest rising and falling rapidly. He ran a hand through his hair, tears spilling onto his cheeks. 

“No, no no.”

The repeated silence was deafening. 

“It’s not fair.” he cried, squeezing his eyes closed as he sat on the edge of the bed. The conversation with his mum lasted a few more minutes before he told her loved her, and that he would be there as soon as he could. As soon as he hung up the phone he’d burst into tears again. You sat beside him, placing a hand on the side of his face, encouraging him to lay his head on your shoulder. He struggled to explain through pained sobs what was happening, and his words broke your heart. His stepdad, who raised him since he was seven years old, was fighting a long battle with cancer and everyone has always been hopeful, but his mum had just told him the words he never wanted to hear. 

There was nothing more that they could do. 

His cries were gut wrenching, fingers tightly clutching your shirt as you held him. 

“For fuck’s sake, the wedding.”

You could feel your heart ripping out of your chest as Harry choked out those words. He is like a second dad to you, so when you and Harry got engaged you’d asked him to walk you down the aisle. Your heart couldn’t even begin to think about that right now.

“Need t’go down there, gonna get a plane.”

The bunch of conflicting emotions were causing Harry’s thoughts to be scattered, not that you could blame him, but you were struggling to process everything too. 

“I’m going with you.”

Your voice was soft, not wanting to upset him further. His head hung down, looking at his hands. 

“He’d love t’see you.” 

“I’d love that, too.” you promised, gently stroking his hair. “Whatever you need, I’m here.”

 The two of you didn’t get any sleep that night. He stayed up sitting on the edge of the bed, praying for hours—begging for something, anything. Nothing in life can prepare you for something like this. The hurt, the anger, the confusion.

“Feel like m’just talking t’the wall.” he huffs, roughly running his hands through his hair before choking out another sob.

“There’s a reason your heart tells you things.” He lifts his head to look at you and his cheeks are stained with tears but his eyes still pierce into yours, intently listening. “You may not ever know the reason why your heart tells you what it does, but you always have to listen.”

He dips his head down, staring at his hands as his eyes squeeze shut and the fact that you know there are tears welling up again makes you sick to your stomach. “Jus’ want-” his breath jerks as another sob comes out of his chest. “Want it t’be a dream.” and you wanted that too. Hell, you wanted to say something, anything to make feel better...but was there really anything you could say? No. Harry wasn’t stupid, he knew all too well that this could always be a possibility, but he was always filled with hope. This is his dad. Of course he’s going to have all the hope in the universe.

“Never thought this would ever happen, y’know? Thought that it would work this time.”

“Maybe he can get another doctor.” he’s already shaking his head. “There has to be something-”

“Fuck’s sake.” he interrupts, pushing himself off the bed and storming across the room and into the hallway and your gaze dropped to the floor. Letting Harry cool off was the best thing to do when he was angry, and when the sound of what you assumed was his fist punching drywall broke the tense silence, you didn’t flinch. 

Then you heard it again...and again, and again, followed by a strangled cry and that’s when you stepped in, jogging down the hallway calling Harry’s name. 

“Harry,” you gripped his other bicep, trying to pull him away and as soon as he felt your touch, he broke down. His forehead pressed against the wall with his eyes squeezed shut and his fists still clenched above his head. He turns around, back against the wall, sliding down to the floor and his resolve slowly crumbles when you knelt down and wrapped your arms around his shoulders. His head fell onto your shoulder as you held him. 

“I’m right here, I’ve got you.”

He’s shaking in your arms and the two of you are crumpled on the floor. He slowly calms down with your touch, but he’s still choking out sobs. Your hands cover his knuckles, kissing the blood stained skin.

“Shhh, I’ve got you.”

Your hands were weaved through his locks, being caressed through his hair as you held him until his breathing had calmed along with the beat of his heart, but you never wanted to let go of him.

“I wish I could make it all better.” you murmur between soft kisses to his cheeks. “I’d take all your pain away.”

“Know y’would.” he leans into the palm that’s cradling his cheek before catching a glimpse of your sleepy eyes starting to fall closed.

“Y’should get some sleep.” he rasps, head on your chest. “Don’t want y’to be exhausted tomorrow.” Despite everything he was going through right now, he was still thinking of you. 

“We can sleep on the plane.”

He nodded, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. 

It took a lot for Harry to look tired. It’d been hours of crying, sobbing, and you both needed rest. 

“I can lay with you if you want?”

“Would love that.” he wanted to smile, you could tell. But he just didn’t have it in him tonight. 

“I’ll be right back.” you whispered, placing a soft kiss on his cheek. 

You clung to each other as soon as you were under the covers. You protectively put your arms around him, running your hands through his hair and his eyes never left your face.

“I’m not gonna ask you if you’re alright, because I know you’re not.” one of your hands came down to his face, thumb brushing across his cheek.

“I’ll always be here for you, whatever you need.” you took a deep breath, brushing the hair away from his face. “Always.”

“Will y’hold me, please?” his voice was raspy, his tone sweet and sad.

“C’mere.”

Emotions were so fresh and raw right now, but all you could do was be there for him. With every fiber of your being you wanted to take his pain away, kiss it better...anything. But right now, all you could do was love him. And for Harry, that was more than enough. 

#this is my baby #be nice to her #harry styles angst #harry styles fluff

[sagasofazeria]

Stories of the Past

Song of the Seven Suns, Part 7

Summary: The gang recovers from their battle with Dymea, and head back to Koretion to celebrate their victory. Stories are shared.

Taglist (just ask to be added/removed!): @hellishhin @talesfromaurea @thelaughingstag

content warnings: slavery/child slavery, kidnapping, torture, swearing and strong language, alcohol, violence, blood, gore, death, discussion of trauma/childhood trauma, child abandonment

word count: ~6500

The clouds had finally broken, and the newly risen sun was beginning to burn off the mist and rain of the night.

As the warmth of day spilled onto the scorched camp, it found the five companions beaten, battered, exhausted, and covered in mud and blood, yet victorious all the same.

Jetra knelt silently at the top of the hill, staring at the corpse of the woman who’d killed her father. Tears were falling in rivers down her face as she gripped the hilt of her blade and pulled it free from Dymea’s skull.

Dymea’s last words would haunt her, but she’d done it. After 3 years of anguish & anger, it was done. Just like that, she was dead. Jetra had no idea how to feel, her mind was fuzzy and blank. Where did she even go from here?

Before she figured that out, though, she decided it was time to enjoy a well-earned victory, preferably with a lot of wine and a good song.

She stood, flicking the blood and brains off of her sword, and limped her way down the hill to where the rest of the group was waiting.

The others were all gathered around a large rock that jutted out of the hillside, leaning against it and breathing hard. Alejandro was grimacing in pain, holding his arm as Faulkron helped him stand, and Jetra ran to him first.

“What happened?” she asked hurriedly, seeing the wound.

“Oh nothing,” he chuckled. “Just a... agh, a spear through the shoulder. It’s not a big problem,” he said. “I’ll be fine. Heal the others.”

Jetra stared at him, incredulous. “Um, excuse me? You can barely move your arm because there’s a huge godsdamned hole in it. Shut up and let me work.”

Alejandro grunted but did as he was told, and Jetra placed her hand on his shoulder, channeling as much magic as she could. Her magic welled up inside her, waiting to flow out. and as she released it, she hummed the first song that came to mind without thinking.

She found herself humming the song her father would always sing to her mother when he returned home safe from an adventure, when they would all dance on the roof and laugh and sing and smile. She could see it painfully clearly, and her heart ached with loss and joy at once.

As the magic faded, Jetra shook herself out of her memories. She felt tears threaten to fall again, but she sniffled them away before they could, and smiled at Alejandro, hoping he hadn’t noticed. She’d save crying for later.

“Better?” she asked.

“Sí, gracias,” he said, rotating his arm a little bit. He winced slightly, but the only thing remaining was some rough scar tissue, and he assured her he’d be fine.

She moved over to the others, kneeling next to Fuego, who was still grimacing, his normal exuberant energy gone. “Fuego, are you all right?”

“I’m mostly okay, thanks to you. I’m pretty sore though, so I wouldn’t mind a bit of magic,” he smiled weakly.

Jetra looked up at Shakari, who was sprawled against the sun-warmed side of the boulder, holding in one hand a dagger that was jammed between the large scales on their chest.

“Shakari, are you okay? Do you—“

Jetra never finished her sentence, only able to watch with mouth agape as Shakari took a deep breath and pulled the dagger free with a growl.

Shakari turned to Jetra again. “I’ll be fine, spend your magic on him,” she said through gritted teeth as she tossed the blade aside.

Jetra hurriedly closed her mouth and nodded, letting the last of her magical energy flow into Fuego, and he took his first real deep breath since the battle.

“Thanks.”

“Of course, friend.”

Fuego smiled at her before pushing himself to his feet.

“Well, I gotta go find my sword and make sure all these fires are out,” he said as he stood and stretched.

Shakari nodded, standing as well. “I can help.”

They walked off, and the other three turned to each other.

“We need to free the prisoners and bring them back to Koretion as soon as we can,” Alejandro said, quickly walking towards the nearest cage.

While he and Faulkron broke locks, gathering the people near the entrance to the camp, Jetra searched the slavers’ corpses for a key. Finally finding one, she rejoined the other two in freeing the people.

As they scoured the camp, she was mortified to see how many people were imprisoned. She was glad to have gotten rid of the slavers, but she knew this would leave a wound, both with the people who would return and the people who wouldn’t.

Once they’d freed the rest of the exhausted but relieved prisoners, Jetra addressed them all where they had gathered at the bottom of the hill, taking a deep breath and composing herself.

“Good people! There’s no need to worry any longer, we’re here to help you. We’re going to bring you back to Koretion. You can rest soon,” she said, using a bit of magic to make her voice slightly louder over the confused whispers and relieved cries of the freed people.

One older dwarven woman stepped forward from the crowd, and many of the others seemed to pause, looking at her with a flash of respect in their eyes. “We owe you an enormous thanks, heroes. Who... who are you?”

Jetra looked to either side of her. Faulkron and Alejandro stood to her left, still bruised and bloodied themselves. Alejandro had a distant look in his eyes, and Faulkron was breathing deeply with arms crossed, taking in the victory even as he squinted in the sun.

Fuego and Shakari were approaching from her right, giving a signal that all the fires were out. Fuego was smiling, and jogged up to them eagerly. Shakari took their time, looking to the sky with a relieved expression of their own.

Jetra took the necklace with the blue moon symbol from around her neck, and showed it to the woman.

“Just a group of people in the right place at the right time,” she said with a smile.

The woman looked at the pendant, and there was a spark of recognition in her eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I was hoping,” she said, and pulled back a tattered sleeve to reveal a small blue moon tattoo on her forearm, mostly obscured by thick hair. It was a symbol Jetra knew well.

Jetra smiled back. “Let’s get you all home.”

The woman nodded, and the five companions began to lead the people back through the hills.

•••

When they returned to Koretion, they were greeted with cheers and tears of joy, as families, friends, and lovers were reunited.

They were called heroes many times that morning, and Faulkron didn’t know what to do with it.

Was he a hero? It felt good to be called that, but he wasn’t certain he had really been a hero, whatever that even meant. He’d really only come for the money. Or at least, that’s what it had been at first. Over the last few days, he’d seen so many people full of fear and despair. Now he only saw joy, and he felt a weight lifted off of his own chest as well. A satisfaction he hadn’t felt before.

The whole town was celebrating as they walked up the side of the quarry to the guard post. People were dancing in the streets, music was being played, stories of their victory were already being told and songs were being sung. The mines were empty and the town alive, as the dreary gray of Koretion became a colorful joy, banners put up and braziers lit to welcome the lost home.

Even as they entered the militia building, there were people thanking the newly crowned heroes.

Jetra led them through the curtain to the militia captain’s room. Horakes greeted them eagerly as they entered.

“So you’ve done it? They’re gone?”

Jetra nodded, smiling wide. “They are. Dymea is dead. We did it, Horakes, we fucking did it. We’re gonna need some medical attention, ‘cause magic only does so much, but until then, yes, we did it. I’ve avenged him.”

Horakes nodded and smiled, though Faulkron noticed his eyes did not hold the same joy and relief as Jetra’s. There was something else hidden within them that wasn't quite the elation of victory, though he did not know what. 

“I’m proud of you, kid. I assume these are your allies?” he asked, turning to the rest of them.

Faulkron nodded to him. “That would be us.”

“I assume you’re here for your pay?” Horakes asked, reaching onto his belt for a bag of coins.

Faulkron nodded, thanking him as he handed Faulkron the money.

“Of course, whatever it takes to save my city,” he said with a bow.

Jetra nodded back. “Thanks, Horakes,” she said, before turning to the rest of the group. “Now I do believe it’s time to go enjoy this victory, yeah?”

“Oh gods, I’m so hungry you have no idea. Let’s go,” Fuego said earnestly, already starting to head out the door.

He was cut off suddenly by a halfling woman with wild curly hair, dressed in healer’s robes with her hands on her hips.

“Uh-uh, I don’t think so. Each and every one of you is injured, and I’m not lettin’ the heroes of the town celebrate all day just to drop dead because of internal bleeding. Get over here,” she commanded, clearly not taking no for an answer, beginning to prepare bandages and medical supplies.

•••

That afternoon, after they’d been well tended to, they were welcomed with cheers and smiles back to the Bedrock & Breakfast.

They were quickly surrounded by grateful townsfolk and awestruck children, the tavern full to nearly bursting.

As the day wore on, it was easy to see that Jetra was truly in her element now. The children’s mouths hung open in rapt interest as she told them a grand, if simplified, tale of their adventure, Fuego occasionally jumping in with his own inputs.

When the tale was done, the children, as well as many of the adults, eagerly requested another story.

So she told another, a popular folktale to which no one knew the ending. She brought her stories to life in front of her, dancing colors and illusions acting out every word.

For much of the evening, they told stories to the crowd. When Jetra wasn’t weaving her epic tales, Fuego told some stories of his own. Standing on the table, he regaled the bar with sagas of sorcerer-kings and distant islands, even some of which he claimed were his own adventures. While Jetra’s stories were dramatic and evocative, Fuego’s were loud and grandiose, and filled with enough enticing details you might’ve thought he was adding more even as he told the tale. In between stories, Jetra led the celebrating townsfolk in songs and dances. With enough pestering, and a little help from the wine, she even convinced the rest of the group to join her as they danced around the bar.

When asked well into the afternoon if he would tell a story too, Faulkron simply shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t have many grand tales to share. My life until now has been rather boring--”

“Azbolutely not! You’re cool! Tell us! Tell us!” One of the kids demanded, standing to emphasize her point.

The other children began to murmur in agreement, and eventually most of the bar was encouraging him to share a story. Faulkron chuckled, sighing. “Alright, alright. I might have one story.”

“Yay!” cheered the first kid, plopping back down on the rug that had been laid out.

“It’s the story of where I’m from, and how I got there.”

“Oooh, that sounds good! Tell us!”

“Okay, here goes...”

•••

Nearly three and a half decades earlier, and an ocean away, in the middle of the dry plains of the Unterras...

Ardos had been up far too late, far too often these last few cycles. Jamie, his oldest cow, was sick again, and he was starting to worry. It’d only been getting worse despite his efforts, and he wasn’t certain she’d make it to a temple this time if it came down to that.

Just before he could justify closing his eyes and drifting off, he heard a crash and the noises of startled livestock. Ardos jolted out of drowsiness and reached for the nearest thing resembling a weapon. He fumbled around for a second before finally finding purchase on his pitchfork.

Holding it out in front of him like a spear, he searched all through the house, but couldn’t find the source of the sound.

Then, he heard the unmistakable sound of a blade being drawn, and battle. He rushed outside to find the door to his stable broken in. He slowly approached, hands shaking and white-knuckled as he gripped the pitchfork, the sounds of swordfighting ringing from inside. When he reached the shattered door, he peered around the corner as far as he dared.

Inside, an elven man in unfamiliar garb was dueling a cloaked figure in equally unfamiliar white robes, their curved blades flashing in the moonlight.

Before Ardos could react, he watched the elf slash the other figure down, blood spattering across the ground as the horses whinnied. Ardos watched in shock as the corpse hit the ground, eyes lifeless.

The elven man’s ears swiveled at the sound of Ardos’ gasp, and he turned to Ardos with a rushed intensity. He began to speak rapidly in an unfamiliar tongue, before clearly realizing that Ardos couldn’t understand a word he was saying.

“I trust we both understand Common?” he quickly asked, grimacing in pain.

Ardos nodded, before finally noticing the wound on his chest.

“Oh my gods. Do you need help? I ca-“

“No. There is no time. You must listen to me,” he said, revealing a small bundle of colorful cloth. Ardos stared at it for a moment, puzzled, before the man turned it to show that within was a baby.

“Please. Raise my son. Keep him safe,” he said, panting and coughing. “I cannot protect him, but you can. I saw you. You care a lot about your animals, and I know you’d protect them,” he said. He gestured to the pitchfork Ardos had dropped. “Please, care for my son. I cannot, but you can.”

Ardos paused, then nodded, and the man handed him the child.

Then, the elf leaned in and whispered something to Ardos. What the father whispered that night, the baby would never hear, as Ardos nodded, staring down at the baby in his hands, and realizing his life just changed forever.

The elf stepped back. “Keep him safe.”

Then, the man ran off into the night, leaving Ardos to raise the child.

•••

The children sat around, mouths agape as Faulkron finished telling the story of his adoption.

“That’s how Ardos always said it happened, anyway. And he never did tell me what the warning was, as much as I annoyed him about it.”

“Hey mister sword man, sir? That wasn’t very boring, you were wrong,” the little girl said.

Faulkron smiled. “Well, it’s about the only story I have that isn’t, so I can’t do any more.”

Some of the other children were whispering, discussing the story in hushed awe. An older kid spoke up, scratching their head.

“Wait a minute, where did the man go?” he asked.

Faulkron waved to the mother as she cringed and attempted to shush her kid. “It’s fine, it’s fine.” Then he turned to the kid. “I don’t know where he is, to be honest. I’m not certain I want to know, though. He’s been gone long enough I don’t think it matters anymore, whatever his reasons were.”

The kid nodded, sitting back, deep in thought.

After Faulkron’s story, the tavern began to clear out, leaving the companions to themselves as the townsfolk began to return to their homes.

A few cups of wine (courtesy of the barkeep’s appreciation of the booming business), and after a while they were all reclining around a table, the day’s wounds and struggle forgotten for the moment.

Fuego grinned at them all, wine in hand. “I have to say, that plan went pretty damn well. We should do that more often.”

“Hey, you know I’m always up for a bit of righteous arson, my friend,” Jetra laughed, taking another drink.

“Agreed, we all made a pretty good team,” Alejandro said, raising his glass.

Fuego’s grin widened. “To ass well kicked, my friends.” He knocked his cup against Alejandro’s as they all joined in, laughter spilling out as if a dam had broken.

As their laughter quieted down, Shakari let out a long sigh. “It feels good, doesn’t it?”

The rest of the group all nodded and muttered agreements.

Faulkron felt that strange feeling bubbling up again. Victory, success... and something else. He looked around at all these people. Not only his companions, but the barkeep, the tavern patrons. He knew he’d outlive most of them, all of them who weren’t elves. Wasn’t what he did inconsequential, then? That would make sense, but it didn’t feel that way. He had changed a part of the world today, and for the better. He had to admit, it did feel good, and he found himself smiling along with the people he had started daring to call friends.

He realized that in the swirl of confusion and new feelings, he'd forgotten about the money they’d earned.

He grabbed the coins, and they split it as they finished their drinks.

After the coin had been shared, Jetra sat back and pulled out her harp again. She had drunk the most wine out of all of them, and her eyes had begun to glass over. After a long beat of silence, she started to play a simple melody, the notes falling like water in a gentle stream, an easiness settling over all of them as Jetra wordlessly played. They sat for a while in silence, just listening to the music.

Not long after the song had finished, as the final straggling townsfolk left the tavern, Shakari stood. “I’m going to go rest. This... was a good day. Sleep in peace, friends.”

As they disappeared into their room, Jetra stood as well, stumbling slightly. “Yeah. Thanks again... means a lot. When I’m not, uh, super fuckin’ drunk, I’ll explain more.. but I’m gonna go pass out.”

They all nodded, and she walked away.

The others sat for a while, each lost in their own thoughts, before Fuego stood too.

“I should head to sleep too, doctor’s orders... we didn’t do half bad.” He clapped Faulkron on the shoulder twice, then hopped off of his chair and took his leave, walking off to his room with a smile.

After a few minutes of content silence, Faulkron suddenly realized he was more or less alone with Alejandro again.

“Thank you for saving my life,’ Alejandro said, breaking the silence.

Faulkron startled, the sudden voice shaking him out of his own slightly panicked thoughts, and preventing him from making a fool of himself in an attempt to prevent that very thing.

“Oh. Yeah, yeah, no problem.”

“I’m serious, I probably wouldn’t have made it without you, so I am deeply grateful.”

Faulkron looked up from his empty cup, meeting Alejandro’s eyes. “You’re welcome, but it was mostly Jetra who healed you.”

Alejandro shook his head. “You give yourself too little credit. You were awesome out there.”

Faulkron felt his face flush a bit, and he hoped Alejandro couldn’t see the embarrassed hint of purple to his cheeks.

Alejandro’s smile faded slightly, and his eyebrows creased in worry. “You are alright, though? I know the healer did her thing and all, but..?”

“Oh, yeah yeah, I’m okay,” Faulkron said. “Real question is, are you okay? I mean, there was a lot happening, but you seemed... very upset? I don’t mean to pry, I’m just worried about- I mean, concerned—“

Alejandro held up a hand. “It’s okay.”

“Okay. Sorry.”

“No need to apologize. It’s just... well, it’s complicated.” Alejandro then paused for a while, and Faulkron began to think he’d said something wrong despite Alejandro’s reassurance.

Then he spoke again. “Would you, um... would you like to go up to the roof with me? I’d feel better talking about it there.”

Faulkron was a little confused as to why the roof would be better, but he nodded and followed anyway.

•••

As Alejandro led Faulkron to the roof, he found himself going silent. He’d never shared what he was about to share with anyone besides the people who’d rescued him so long ago, and he’d really only known this man a week. They’d gone out for drinks once. Faulkron was had saved his life, though. He trusted him, and he wanted to keep trusting him, so he was taking a leap.

Alejandro took a long shaky breath as they stepped onto the roof of the inn. He looked up at the sky for a moment, still readying himself. The last two days’ clouds had cleared and the stars were shining. They were scattered like bright paint across a dark canvas, haphazard and chaotic, but beautiful all the same. He sighed, staring for a moment longer, and turned to Faulkron. “It’s... it’s a long story, really.”

“I’ve got time.”

“It’s... not a happy one, either.”

“I’ll be fine. I’m glad to listen, if that’s what you want.”

Alejandro nodded, letting his last sigh of anxiousness leave him. “I think it is. You might want to sit then.”

They both sat down, eyes cast up at the night sky.

Alejandro sighed again, and he gripped the handle of his second sword, feeling the old worn leather there. As he stared at the stars, images and memories began to flash in his mind.

Staring up through a small square window at the same stars, unable to sleep.

The smell of blood and the stench of death, hot sand beneath his feet.

The burning of a brand on his arm.

“It was a very long time ago. It was only my 12th summer...”

•••

15 years earlier, somewhere along the western Leinos coasts...

Alejandro was playing with his siblings, rolling around on the sandy beaches of his home, when the ships came. They came to the beach, and a man with a crown stepped out.

He said he would burn the village to the ground if he did not have what he wanted. When the village people asked, he said that he wanted their children, the youngest and strongest. When the villagers refused, and the militia drew their weapons, the man fulfilled his promise. Fiery arrows and spears descended upon the village, shrouding the beach in a thick black smoke. In the smoke and ashes, they grabbed Alejandro and a handful of others, dragging them onto their ships as they sailed away.

They chained them inside the hull, rough and cruel. The captured children fought of course, they spat and growled and screamed. Then the man cracked a whip, and they all were suddenly very very quiet.

They were told that their old lives were over. The man with the crown said to forget their names, forget their village. Those with defiance in their eyes were whipped. Alejandro’s back took 5 lashes before he couldn’t look up again. The ships sailed for a long time. None of the prisoners spoke.

When they eventually reached land again, they were shuffled onto a beach, surrounded by lush greenery that told lies of beauty. Dominating the center of the island they were on was a gargantuan marble arena, tall, imposing, and oppressively white, almost blinding after the darkness of the slavers’ ships. And that was what they were, the prisoners soon realized. Fifteen frightened children stood there on the beach, the full weight of all that had happened crushing down on them. Alejandro’s own shoulders felt weak and weary, and his manacled wrists only dragged him further down.

Around them, hundreds of small huts and seemingly innumerable cages. They saw hundreds of people around them, and more and more slavers, pushing them along and barking commands. The children were led through the houses and lines of people, who looked at them with flitting eyes, so full of fear and pain they were hollow, ghostly.

Their gazes didn’t linger on them long, but their eyes stayed in Alejandro’s nightmares for years.

Alejandro and the others were pushed further onward, the massive arena approaching ever faster. When they finally reached it, they were led to a series of rooms carved out of the earth beneath the structure.

In the next few months, they were trained relentlessly. How to fight, how to be strong, but most importantly, how to obey. Alejandro quickly learned that the man with the crown who was not king very much liked to act like one. He paraded the children around the arena, boasting them as the newest gladiators for his ring.

And there was the ring. The sand red from battle, the cheers and jeers of a bloodthirsty crowd. Those first few months, Alejandro and the others only watched the fights. Massive beasts, mythical and mundane, squared off in the pit against older gladiators who in turn faced both man and beast on the sands. It was not long before Alejandro had seen enough people die in the ring that he couldn’t keep track anymore.

He had heard of gladiatorial games in the big cities, way to the east. No one ever died there, as far as he knew. But this was different.

When he was 13, after the better part of a year being relentlessly trained & conditioned, he stepped into the ring for the first time. His adversary was an older kid, whose eyes were hollow like the people outside. Acting on instinct, the battle ensued, fear disappearing as it was replaced by careful training. Alejandro found himself falling into a performance, and when the dust cleared, only he was left standing.

To congratulate his first kill, the man with the crown took him to the lowest room beneath the arena, where the earth’s heat powered a burning forge. As much as he struggled, he couldn’t stop them, and heated chains were pressed onto his arms, searing away the flesh, leaving a mark that would weigh on him for the rest of his life.

Alejandro faced death in the arena constantly for the entertainment of the crowds of the cruel, and it left many scars. During the next five years, he would watch as one by one, the others from his village would fall in the arena, each death met by cheers. Not long, and Alejandro was the only one left. In his time there, he also saw more ships come and go, bringing new gladiators, always young adults and teenagers, always broken.

Pasaos told Alejandro that he was one of the youngest he’d ever seen show up there in his time. Pasaos was an older gladiator. He’d seen much, and his eyes held a great suffering, but he cared for Alejandro like a father, or as much as he could. He taught him many things. How to stay alive, how to keep his spirit going, even while broken.

Alejandro never asked how long Pasaos had been there, or how many people he’d killed. They both knew better. Alejandro also never thought twice about the moon tattoo on his arm beneath the brand, not until the day it all came crashing down.

Alejandro was 18 now, and he knew his eyes were losing their fight. He had gone a very long time without becoming a ghost, but now it was a near thing. Though they were treated well enough for slaves, it was only to keep them in fighting shape. The slavers were quick to punish if they stepped out of line, even if it meant they lost a fighter for a bit. But they had never done an execution before.

When he was shoved out onto the sands, he saw Pasaos tied to a pole in the center of the arena, and he could feel the flames closing in around him again, about to lose the one thing he could call a home.

He could do nothing but watch as the man with the crown cut free Pasaos, handing him a blade with the smug confidence of a man holding another’s life in his hand. They fought, but Pasaos had been beaten and tortured before the execution, and he stood no chance. The man with the crown, who Alejandro had come to know was named Atticus, simply knocked aside Pasaos’ blows, and when he finally ran him through, he turned to the gathered gladiators in triumph. Alejandro barely remembered what happened next.

He remembered grabbing the blade from the sands, slashing at Atticus. He remembered fighting him, losing, bleeding, pain, tears. He remembered sudden movements, brown and blue cloaks descending on the arena, shouts, commotion. He stood again before the rest of the gladiators, surrounded by chaos he couldn’t understand, and he called them to arms, screaming all their pain as it echoed throughout the pit. He remembered chasing Atticus down, but being beaten into the dirt, unable to stop him from sailing away.

There on the beach, bloodied and broken, he swore this:

“Atticus the Cruel, man who wears a crown but is no king, I will drive this dishonored blade into your wicked heart if it is the last thing I do. Your obsession with death will serve you well when the day comes that I return this blade to the evil from which it came.”

Then he was found by the cloaked people who had saved him. They called themselves Company of the Blue Moon. They helped him recover, brought him back to land. They told him Pasaos had died a hero, he had gotten them to the island. In a way, young Alejandro realized, Pasaos had sacrificed his life for Alejandro’s future. He promised himself would not let him down. The Company gave him much time to rest, and he took it, but before long he found himself on the road again, always on the lookout for any sign of the man he had sworn to destroy.

•••

“And now... I’m here.” Alejandro let out a long breath.

There were a few beats of silence, his heart loud in his ears. The relief of sharing the pain he hid so often with someone he trusted was quickly being replaced by fear, and he started to wonder if he’d overshared. He didn’t look up at Faulkron, not sure what he’d see.

“I... I’m sorry that happened to you.”

When Alejandro turned to Faulkron, he was staring at him with genuine concern. Alejandro cast his eyes away again, but he felt the fear retreat, and he was once again glad for Faulkron’s presence.

He chuckled a bit, hoping it didn't sound too bitter. “Thanks. It was hell, but I’m here, I guess, and that’s what counts.”

Faulkron nodded, and there was another pause.

“That’s the sword, then?”

“Yes.”

Alejandro unsheathed the sword, looking over the blade. The moonlight glinted eerily off of the edge, as if the night knew they spoke of death. Alejandro put the sword away, and the two fell quiet again.

“You know they taught us how to die?” Alejandro spoke suddenly.

“They what?” Faulkron exclaimed, head snapping back toward him.

“Yeah.” Alejandro sighed. “They taught us how to die for a crowd. I’ve seen it happen so many times, and it’s sad, because... you know that death isn’t that. It’s gray, it’s cold, it’s empty. But we were taught how to make it grand and flashy. I saw my mentor do it when Atticus killed him. Hells, even Dymea, this morning. No one goes out like that without being trained for it.”

“That’s... horrible.”

“It was, but it’s done now. Or at least, I had hoped it was. Knowing there might be still more of these remnant groups out there... It looks like my work is cut out for me. This is the first I’ve seen in a long time.”

Faulkron paused for a moment, deep in thought. “I... I will gladly go with you. You won’t fight Atticus alone this time. And I swear to you, you won’t die like that. Not while there’s still blood in these veins,” he promised, placing a hand over Alejandro’s.

Alejandro stared at him a moment, startled by the sudden sincerity and intensity.

“I... you have no idea how much that means to me.”

Faulkron looked at him for a moment longer, before seemingly coming to a decision. “I’m not big on hugs, but do you want one?” he asked, opening his arms.

Alejandro paused for a moment, but eventually he nodded and pressed himself into Faulkron. He let out a sigh as his arms wrapped around him, their strength anchoring him in the moment.

Alejandro eventually broke away, wiping away the tears that had streaked down his face.

“Thanks, Faulkron. I’m glad I could trust you. And... I don’t know where you’re going, or what you’re after, but I’d like to help you find it too.”

Faulkron nodded, looking back up to the stars. “I’m not sure yet... I think, a purpose, but I don’t know it yet. But I’d enjoy your company on the road either way.”

Alejandro nodded and smiled at him. He offered out a hand.

Faulkron grasped it, and Alejandro pulled him to his feet and bringing them face to face. Alejandro’s eyes twinkled in the moonlight as he laid a brief kiss on Faulkron’s cheek.

“Thank you.”

Faulkron smiled at him, and they headed back down into the inn together.

•••

The next day, the five companions woke to a far more somber Koretion. That morning, the townsfolk grieved those they had lost. The bodies that had been retrieved from the bandit camp of the missing scouts and militia were gathered. Funeral shrouds were burned, and white-crested helmets were placed on the pyres. The deepest grief, though, was of those whose loved ones there was no trace of. A messenger on horseback rode out at midday headed for the bigger cities and eventually the capitol, bearing news of what had happened and the people missing, as well as a request for help in the search. Jetra ensured the messenger, who wore a familiar crescent tattoo, carried a message of her own as well.

While the most part of the day held a stark grief and sadness, it was not all-consuming. In the face of that loss, there was still joy in knowing it wouldn’t happen again, and the people began to gather once more that evening. They celebrated the happiness in the lives of those they had lost, honoring their memory with joy rather than anguish. And so the town returned to celebration, even bittersweet as it was. Jetra played ballads of memory in death and the joys of life, songs the citizens of Koretion already knew well. Alejandro was playing games with some of the kids, the occasional toddler hanging off of his bicep as he practically juggled children, smiling and laughing all the same. Fuego was dancing around the central pavilion, putting on a beautiful display as multicolored flame swirled around him in time with the music, the people watching in awe and wonder.

Faulkron watched it all from the sidelines, mostly Alejandro if he was being honest. As he watched Alejandro smile and pick up a leather ball, and toss it back to a child, he couldn't help but feel at least a little overwhelmed, in a good way. He certainly looked very very cute right now, for one. But the way the sunlight was shining on his grinning face almost made him look comfortable, at ease. And Faulkron hadn’t seen Alejandro at ease since they’d first discussed the slavers back in Corias.

Alejandro had shared so much with him last night, and it was showing him a new light. He knew now why he’d joined them on the journey, why he’d been so tense during that first ambush. Faulkron felt a new bond of trust between them, far closer than he would have expected in just a week. Alejandro had clearly been through hell, so Faulkron really wasn't sure why he’d trust him with something like this already. He wasn’t even sure he’d earned that trust, though he would admit he wanted to, badly. He had no idea what they even were yet. Given how much Alejandro had been through, and how stressful the last few days had to have been for him, Faulkron was more than willing to let him decide where this went, and he’d go along for the ride. His life had made a turn for the better and the interesting, that was for sure.

“You look like you’re deep in thought.”

Faulkron shook himself out of his reverie and turned towards the voice. 

Shakari had sat down next to him at some point, and she was watching the celebration as well.

“I was, yeah.”

“I understand. Much has happened in the last week, for all of us,” Shakari said, eyes still watching the pavilion.

“You’re not wrong. I don’t even really know how I ended up here, but it seems... good,” he mused.

“It is. We did something good. All of us.”

“It’s weird to hear that, you know. I’ve never been called a hero before, and I’m still not sure what to do about it,” Faulkron said with a small sigh.

Shakari raised an eyebrow, turning to him. “I understand that, it’s a first for me too. Yet there is no denying we are heroes to these people, and we made the world better for it.”

Faulkron nodded, unsure what to say.

Shakarin placed a hand on his shoulder. “I think you are someone who follows the path before them when it is presented, even if it is yet untraveled. You have a wanderer’s eyes.”

Faulkron creased his brow. “What makes you think all that?”

“I am the same.”

Faulkron turned back to her, and saw a deep sincerity in her eyes.

“I am going to follow this path wherever it may take me,” she said, turning back to the celebration.

Faulkron thought for a moment, staring into the crowd again. He smiled quietly to himself. He wasn’t sure what direction he’d found himself stumbling in, but it felt good, and he liked these people, and he liked being called a hero. So he supposed it wouldn’t be so bad to keep going down this road.

“I think I am too.”

Part 6 | Part 8

#Song of the Seven Suns #post 7 #cw slavery #cw child slavery #cw kidnapping #cw torture #cw violence #cw trauma #cw death #cw childhood trauma #cw child abandonment #cw blood #cw gore #cw alcohol #cw swearing #(almost all of this is in flashbacks fyi) #my wip #wip update #D&D story #Faulkron Rhodes #Alejandro de la Espada #Jetra Avaki #Fuego Tamir #Shakari #Horakes Kiente #this is the last one of the first arc! :D #its a long one but for good reason #there's 1800 words of raw backstory in this bad boy #enjoy and thanks for reading!

[fmdtaeyong]

like a rockstar : taeyong marketing breakdown

a headcanon & playlist on how titan’s taeyong is marketed as a product and brand.

headcanon

word count: 491 words, not counting the tvtropes quote.

a successful celebrity can’t exist without marketing. some celebrities are all marketing. ash, for one, wouldn’t be where he is today without bc entertainment’s well-oiled marketing machine painting him in a desirable light and smoothing out his rough edges into something shiny.

the image the name taeyong provokes now isn’t quite the one it would have provoked a few years ago. the role of maknae burdened ash’s image for years. a sense of brightness is expected of any idol, but the youngest of a group is expected to show it, even in a group like titan that has never been about bright concepts. whether that means being babied by the older members or having a certain underlying innocence to him.

when he went solo was when his image gravitated further away from being dictated by his place within a group. as he earned recognition for his own name (or rather, his own stage name) and got attention from a new crowd, he was able to pave a path that painted with the brush of an artist, a little less bound by preconceived notions about his role in titan. when the scandals stamped to his name went from fumbling over formalities and dating a well-loved actress to controversies less easily painted as endearing that came at the same time he began to present himself differently visually, bc had to bank on the leeway of an artist tinge to his image saving him.

ash has never been marketed as an ideal boyfriend. titan has that covered in the group already and an outed relationship before he’d begun to make a name for himself individually prevented that from being a rational path. some fans still fall into the trap of babying him, but overall, taeyong is now known as the more serious and reserved type. satisfactory fanservice is a non-starter, so they make their own fantasies out of his mystery and “edginess” and a brooding stage persona. bc has done damage control where they’ve had to and let his music and fan projections paint the rest.

out of all of the classic boy band member tropes, ash would solidly be considered a purveyor of the bad boy / rebel trope within titan and out of it for that matter. to quote tvtropes:

“the one with a rougher edge to him. he's the one wearing the black shirt and jeans or leather jacket in those videos where they're not all wearing matching clothes. if he's really edgy, he may also have a tattoo. put in to cater to those girls who want bad boys.”

 bc read the first two paragraphs of the tv tropes page for all girls want bad boys and said ‘yeah, this should work’. the bad boy / rebel angle tends to get played up within fandom a lot more than among more casual listeners to his music, who get a heavier dose of the ~artist~ part of his image since that’s meant to appeal to them more anyway.

ash has very purposefully been trying to lean more into the artist aspect of his image lately because he isn’t a fan of being painted as some kind of bad boy fantasy when he doesn’t consider that an accurate representation of him at all.

playlist

this playlist gives a semi-chronological cataloging of the image associated with taeyong since around 2016/2017. some parts of his image have remained consistent, while others have changed either by purposeful marketing, unavoidable consequences of media discussion around him, or simply altered fan narratives for him. some parts of this are less about how he’s marketed and more about very one-dimensional fan narratives crafted around him, but overall it gives an idea of the feeling associated with him as a product and brand. (some of these songs were used in image playlists on ash’s previous blog, but i made sure at least seven of these are new. i wanted to include ones i’d used before as well for a comprehensive look on his new blog since some aspects of his image have changed.)

this honestly also doubles as a list of the songs you’d find the most results for if you looked up taeyong fan edits.

i. death of a bachelor | i’m cutting my mind off, feels like my heart is going to burst / alone at a table for two, and i just wanna be served / and when you think of me, am i the best you've ever had?

ii. daydreamer | a jaw dropper / looks good when he walks / is the subject of their talk / he would be hard to chase / but good to catch / and he could change the world / with his hands behind his back, oh

iii. wildest dreams | he's so tall and handsome as hell / he's so bad, but he does it so well / i can see the end as it begins

iv. style | cause you got that james dean daydream look in your eye / and i got that red lip classic thing that you like / and when we go crashing down, we come back every time / cause we never go out of style, we never go out of style / you got that long hair, slicked back, white t-shirt / and i got that good girl faith and a tight little skirt

v. crazy beautiful | and he picks you up / and he sets you down / and that's the way / he thinks and he walks and he plays around downtown / but the truth is, he's still got a scar / as plain as others / to get his way to a scarlet heart

vi. ready for it...? | knew he was a killer first time that I saw him / wondered how many girls he had loved and left haunted / [...] / some boys are tryin' too hard, he don't try at all though / younger than my exes, but he act like such a man, so

vii. radio | now my life is sweet like cinnamon / like a fuckin' dream i'm livin' in / baby, love me 'cause i'm playing on the radio / how do you like me now?

viii. like i would | he, won't touch you like i do / he, won't love you like i would / he don't know your body / he don't do you right / he won't love you like i would / love you like i would, like i would

ix. i wanna be yours | secrets i have held in my heart / are harder to hide than i thought / maybe i just wanna be yours / i wanna be yours

x. strange love | they think i'm insane, they think my lover is strange / but i don't have to fucking tell them anything, anything / and i'm gonna write it all down, and i'm gonna sing it on stage / but i don't have to fucking tell you anything, anything

xi. my oh my | yeah, a little bit older, a black leather jacket / a bad reputation, insatiable habits / he was onto me, one look and i couldn't breathe, yeah / i said, if he kissed me, i might let it happen

xii. bad reputation | i don't give a damn 'bout my reputation / never been afraid of any deviation / and i don't really care if you think i'm strange / i ain't gonna change

xiii. starboy | i'm tryna put you in the worst mood, ah / p1 cleaner than your church shoes, ah / milli point two just to hurt you, ah / all red lamb' just to tease you, ah / none of these toys on lease too, ah / made your whole year in a week too, yah / main bitch out of your league too, ah / side bitch out of your league too, ah / [...] / look what you’ve done / i’m a motherfuckin' starboy

xiv. into it | i'm just fucking lucky i was born with it / a hundred million people couldn't deal with this

xv. like a rockstar | put me in designer then put me in the dirt / keep my legacy alive like a rockstar / lifestyle, on the edge, can be unforgiving / see i worship the dead, they worship the living, yeah

#* | character development. #* | queued.

[teddy-bear-surprise]

Chapter 2: The First Assignment

Link to the table of contents and disclaimers: 𝐃𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐲 ✷ 𝐌𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐒𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐤𝐢

A/N: Sorry for the long wait :( I just started writing the third chapter so that should be up relatively soon too... It was supposed to be a part of this chapter but I had to separate it bc google docs starts crapping out after like 10 pages

Mitch and Marcel exited the foyer after a long introduction and walked along the clean marble hallway. As Stilinski followed Marcel, he cautiously scanned the walls admiring the outdated yet stylish design. The heels of his oxfords clicked vibrantly with each stride, echoing against the tall ceiling. As their steps approached Genevieve’s hiding spot, she scampered back into her sanctuary. She stole a quick glance into the hallway, locking eyes with Mitch.

The sudden and unintended eye contact with Celestin’s daughter drove a stake through Mitch’s heart and invoked the dozens of warnings that Didier and Hurley had drilled into his head the prior week. Whatever you do, Stilinski, don’t engage with his daughter. Hey, Stilinski, remember that Marcel Celestin will literally rip you to pieces if you fuck up. Don’t forget: if Celestin even suspects you might be interested in his daughter, you’re deader than dead.

Mitch averted his eyes and gave his head a quick shake, ridding himself of the ridiculous internal commentary. He clearly understood the severity and danger of his employment, but he struggled to wrap his head around the notion of a father as overprotective as Marcel. Mitch never had anyone worry about him like that. When he joined the CIA, he was only able to do so because of his complete lack of family, friends, and life. He had always seen himself as expandable to a certain extent. Stilinski would put his life on the line, time after time, because he just could not fathom anything more important than his mission. In attempting to understand Marcel’s neuroticism, Mitch realized that Marcel’s mission was handing off his “business” to Genevieve, and that– like him– Marcel would stop at nothing to see his mission through. Even so, Mitch questioned the validity of the horror stories he had been bombarded with regarding the Celestins.

A lock snapped loudly, bringing Mitch out of his trance, as another one of Marcel’s employees opened the door for them to enter Marcel’s grand office. The walls were lined with glimmering trophies from Marcel’s past and photographs of him and Genevieve; Mitch was struck with surprise to see a mafioso’s office look so ordinary. The floor here was no longer made of stone and was instead a smooth dark wood. In the center of the room there lay a large, illustrious rug with a heavy mahogany desk sitting atop it. On the wall behind the desk, two grand windows brightened the room and gave it life.

Marcel continued walking in front of Stilinski, making his way to the looming chair behind the desk. He sat himself down, motioning across the desk, and told Mitch to take a seat. Mitch pulled out a chair and rested his body weight on the arm as he lowered himself onto the seat. He then leaned forward and looked at Marcel, waiting for further instruction.

“Stilinski,” Celestin began, “After Didier assesses your physical abilities today, I have a job for you. Tomorrow, I want you to take my daughter, Genevieve, to Paris. It’s been years since she’s been to the city and I’m having a soireè next week so she needs a new outfit. Your job is simple, keep her alive, make sure she gets something nice, and obviously don’t fuck up.”

“Of course, Sir. It would be my pleasure.” Mitch replied immediately, though his mind was churning.

“Let’s consider this a gesture of good faith. You get her there and back in one piece and you get to keep your job, you fail and… Well, I think you know what happens then, don’t you?”

Stilinski took a deep breath, “Yes, Sir. I am aware. Thank you for this opportunity, I won’t let you down.”

Celestin nodded his head towards the door, indicating that Mitch should leave. “Good, I wouldn’t want to lose another half-decent guard to incompetency.”

Mitch nodded while he got up and walked to the door. As he reached for the knob, the door swung open and he came face to face with Genevieve. Again. He looked down at her, unintentionally, before quickly backing away and letting her pass in front of him. She kept her eyes on him for another second before waltzing towards her father’s desk.

“One of the guards gave me a note telling me to meet you down here, what’s going on?”

“You know what, Genevieve, you got here just in time. Stilinski, stay here for just another minute and shut the door, will you?”

Stilinski closed the door again, “Yes, Sir.”

“Genevieve, I want you to meet our newest guard, Mitch Stilinski. He’s going to take you into Paris tomorrow to pick some things up for the event I’m planning for next weekend.”

Genevieve turned and glared at Mitch, slightly squinting her eyes, “Really?”

She had not meant it in a rude way, but she was truly shocked that her father would let the ‘new guy’ take her into the city.

“Sorry,” Genevieve continued. “That sounds like a brilliant idea father.”

Marcel smirked and waved his hand, dismissing the both of them. Mitch re-opened the door, holding it open for Genevieve. She walked past him without so much as a glance. Genevieve slipped back into the library, slamming the door loudly behind her.

Mitch, as confused as ever, shut Marcel’s door quietly. He walked rapidly away, trying to figure out where the gym was. He eventually found it, the first door to the right of the foyer, and saw Didier patiently waiting inside. Didier was leaning against a padded wall, wrapping his hands, dressed in a black t-shirt and sweatpants.

Didier greeted him nonchalantly, “So, Stilinski, how’s the first day going?”

“It could be better. Celestin already gave me an assignment and I don’t know if I’m anywhere near ready to take on this kind of responsibility.”

“Well then, you better learn soon.” He chuckled at the quip and rolled his eyes, “I kinda figured that out on my own, Axel. I’m gonna go change but I’ll be back in a minute.”

Stilinski stumbled into the locker room, trying to find the locker with his number on it. When he had been tattooed with the crow on his neck, he was assigned a number. Mitch had been given the number 7 following the death of the original number 7 in a gruesome shoot-out. The number was hidden within the bird’s eye, forever marking him as one of Celestin’s disciples. He scanned up, down, and across until the number 7 caught his eye. It was hidden in the far right corner of the locker room and when he opened it, it contained the same black shirt, pants, and hand wraps that Didier had. Mitch carefully took off his suit, hanging it in the locker, and put on the black ensemble. He wrapped his hands quickly as he walked out of the locker room.

Mitch and Axel sparred for over an hour, neither one could seem to knock the other down long enough to win. It seemed that, though years ago, Hurley’s training had stuck in their minds. Both of their hands were covered in bruises beneath the wraps, only a few punches away from dislocating a knuckle. They panted heavily as they threw punches and kicked at each other with sweat dripping into their eyes. Mitch approached Axel, hoping to win the match with a final punch, but Didier was more experienced and used Mitch’s own momentum against him. He punched Stilinski sharply in the jaw, knocked him onto his back, and held him down with one knee.

“5… 4… 3… 2… 1… I win!” Didier lifted his knee from Mitch’s chest as he stood up.

“You know,” Began Stilinski, “I would normally be mad that you beat me, but I’m so tired right now that I couldn’t care less.”

“Yeah right, Stilinski. I know I hurt your ego.” He held a hand out to Mitch.

Stilinski stood up, “I’m serious, the jet lag, the sparring, and the weird threats… I’m exhausted from all this shit and it’s only day one.”

“You’ll get used to it. Why don’t you tell me more about this new assignment of yours while we do a few miles on the treadmill?”

“Great, running and talking. My two favorite things. I’ll agree to it this once, but only because I don’t have the slightest fucking idea about what to do tomorrow.”

A few rooms down, Genevieve continued obsessively daydreaming about her outing to Paris. She could hardly even remember what stores she used to shop at in the city, let alone how to dress for an event as nice as the one her father was planning. Along the bottom row of the library shelves, there was a handful of fashion magazines, they were all a few seasons old but she figured they would hold up well enough. After all, how much could fashion really change?

Genevieve leafed through the pages, dog-earing the outfits she thought might be appropriate for the occasion. She closed her eyes, letting the sun seep through her eyelids as she pictured herself walking down the long staircase in a shimmering sage dress.

In her mind, the ideal dress would be fuller than full, putting at least two feet between her and everyone else; it was to have a laced corset bodice covered in lilac petals and small beads; and the straps would hang loosely off of her shoulders, brushing her skin ever so slightly. Unfortunately, however, Genevieve knew that it would be impossible to find such a dress on such short notice. She continued flipping through dozens of magazines until dinnertime, jotting down the names of certain shops and designers that were based in Paris, and hoped that one of them might be able to produce a miracle. Soon after, Genevieve’s night came to a close and she drifted off to sleep dreaming about the following day’s adventures.

“Genevieve, my darling, it’s time for you to get up. You’ve got to go into the city to find an outfit. Remember?”

Marcel sat down on Geveieve’s bed, rubbing her shoulder softly. She sat up and rubbed her eyes. At only seven in the morning, the sun had just begun it’s work and shone weakly along the horizon. Its rays reflected off of the curtains and into Genevieve’s eyes, causing her to turn away from the window.

“Yes, I remember.” She sighed with uncertainty, “Papà, I’m not quite sure I’m up for this today. This seems like such a big step to take… for me, and for the new guard.”

Genevieve’s stomach churned and her heart began beating quickly. Suddenly, it felt like the whole world– despite its beauty– had put her into a chokehold. She breathed with shallow gasps, never seeming to get enough oxygen. Her arms grew weak and she laid back down, praying that the horrible feeling would subside.

Her father’s eyebrows furrowed together, “You’ll be okay, my darling. I would never let anything happen to you. I promise.”

Marcel got up and opened Genevieve’s door, calling out for someone to bring a glass of water.

“But what if something did happen? What if…”

Marcel cut her off, “I know you’re anxious. I know, but give it an hour, and then you can decide if you want to go or not.”

His words, while not very helpful, provided some comfort. For some reason, Genevieve had a nasty habit of developing nauseating anxiety in the early morning. It had been happening since she was a child, but as she had not woken up before nine am in many years, she had grown unaccustomed to the feeling. It used to just set her back by a few minutes, only occasionally proving to be a real problem. Now, however, Genevieve felt like she had been hit by a two-ton garbage truck.

The same man who had brought her lunch yesterday walked in with a tall glass of water. He handed it to Genevieve who sipped on it slowly.

“Well, I’ll be in my office if you need anything. I’ll check back in an hour to see how you are. Sebastien, let’s go.” Her father patted her head and walked out, Sebastien closing the door behind them.

Genevieve sat up and leaned against the wall, breathing deeply and naming everything in her vicinity. She saw her bed, her hands, the door, the windows, and the glass of water on her bedside table. Her skin felt the cool fabric of her bed, the cold glass between her palms, the single feather poking out of her pillow, and the wall behind her head. Her ears could pick out the faint sound of voices outside, birds chirping, and the wind blowing. With each inhale, she could smell breakfast being made in the kitchen mixing with the fresh scent of her bedsheets. Taking a sip of water, she noted that she didn’t quite taste anything, but that always seemed to happen when she got to the last step.

During the next fifty-five minutes Genevieve’s breath became more natural and her heartbeat slowed. Still leaning against the wall, she bent over to place the empty water glass on her bedside table, wondering why she held onto it for so long. Her father came in soon after as if he had telepathically sensed her newfound calm.

He sat beside her, taking her hand in his, “So, was I right? Are you feeling better now, Genevieve?”

“Yeah, I guess I do feel better.” She let a small smirk take over her face.

“See, daughter, all you needed was some time. That is our most precious resource. Not our money, not our network, not our assassins… It’s the one we take the most for granted, our time. One day, you’ll see just how little time we really have.” Marcel let go of her hand, “Now, you go on into the city to find something nice to wear.”

Genevieve stood up and ushered her father out. She figured it was time to get dressed since she had already wasted so much time. After changing, she brushed her teeth and rushed downstairs, hoping to make the most of her time. While Genevieve was not necessarily excited to be going shopping, it was an opportunity that she had not been able to experience in a long time.

Her father led her to a car that was waiting out front with Mitch behind the wheel. He tilted his head down by an inch when he noticed her as a sign of respect. Genevieve slid into the back seat quietly, pulling her backpack over her knees. As she looked back towards him, Marcel shut the car door and gave her a soft smile. He patted the side of the car and Mitch slowly drove away, the sounds of gravel crunching beneath the tires. Genevieve turned solemnly towards her home, watching it shrink into the horizon. This outing was a new type of adventure for both herself and Mitch, and neither of them knew what to expect.

#dylan o'brien #Mitch Rapp #mitch stilinski #mitch rapp fanfiction #stiles stilinski #stiles x oc #stiles fanfiction #dylan o'brien fanfiction #teen wolf #American Assassin

[just-jordie-things]

00:02:30:17 - Richie Tozier

word count: 2871 warnings: swearing request: @oceanspray5​: Richie x Reader soulmate AU with the timers counting down to meeting their soulmate? With Reader being a sweetheart and trashmouth being himself yet absolutely smitten with her anyway because she's the best thing in his life. And maybe focus on Richie and how he's nervous to meet his soulmate because of being insecure thst he's unlovable. Feel free to take this in any direction you would like or even modify the type of prompt! Thank you! ___

[ 00:02:30:17 ]

“Two hours, thirty minutes, and seventeen seconds,” Richie announced to Beverly, eyes darting between hers and the tattooed timer on his wrist.  “That’s how long you have to teach me how to be a good boyfriend”

“Richie-”

“Fifteen seconds!” He cut her off, watching the last two digits on his arm tick downwards.  “Fourteen!”

“Are you gonna do that the whole time?” Bev sighed.

Richie had begged her to meet him at a little diner in Derry that the Losers often hung out at.  Today was the day he was supposed to meet his soulmate, and he’d gone to bed last night excited, eager to meet them, who wouldn’t?

But this morning, he woke up feeling awfully anxious, not realizing how big of a deal this really was.  He was going to meet the love of his life today, the one person that was made for him, his other half, and as wonderful as it had sounded twenty four hours ago, now, he wasn’t so sure.

What if he wasn’t what they were expecting? What if he was too cude? Swore too much? What if they didn’t like that?

Overthinking was a hallmark of Richie Tozier’s personality.  It was right up there with ‘Makes Dirty Jokes’ and ‘Literally Can’t See’.  And now he was overthinking about whether his soulmate would hate that he overthinks.

“They’re literally going to fucking hate me, I can feel it.  I just know” Richie told Bev, who furrowed her brows while she sipped on a milkshake.  So far, she had just been sitting there listening to Richie ramble on about all his unecessary nerves.

“That’s impossible.  Really, impossible” She said calmly, but her kind words fell on deaf ears, and Richie babbled on.

“What if theyre- like- really fucking popular? Huh? What if it’s the most popular- what if they’re a cheerleader? Do you really think I should date a cheerleader,  Bev? I mean I do but I shouldn’t be with one-”

“You’re not even making sense anymore,” Beverly shook her head.  “You’re worried they’re gonna be…?”

“More popular than me keep up,” Richie groaned.  “No one wants to find out their soulmate is that weird kid! And I’m that weird kid!”

His yelling was making other customers turn heads, but neither Beverly or Richie cared.  They were used to the frustrated attention of adults.

“Alright, how about you take a deep breath, and we’ll start from the beginning,” The red haired girl suggested, sitting up straighter in order to get to business.  “First of all, no matter what you say or do, they won’t hate you, Richie.  Not only is it impossible, but this person is going to fall so in love with you when you meet”

“What if-”

“No.  No ‘what ifs’. It’s the truth.  You could literally stab them when you meet and the bond between you will still be unbreakable.  Do you understand? That should trump all else.  It’s unconditional, Richie.  Do you get that now?”

He shrugged his shoulders, picking up a fry from the basket in front of him and poking at the other fries with it

“I just- I don’t know, Bev.  I feel like- I feel like I won’t be…” He trailed off, feeling vulnerable and angry about it.  Luckily, Beverly was patient, and waited quietly while he tried to find the words.  “Enough” He finished, staring down at his food.

“Oh, Rich,” Beverly smiled, and reached across the table to set her hand on top of his.  “That’s the best part.  You’re going to be more than enough.  You’ll be everything, just like they will be for you”

Richie looked down at his wrist once more,

[ 00:02:15:48]

and a slight smile tugged on his lips.  In two short hours, and fifteen short minutes, he was going to meet his everything.  Some people weren’t so lucky, some people’s timers ticked on for sixty years, but Richie had only waited for seventeen.  And he was meeting them tonight.  At approximately seven o’clock.

“I can’t believe this,” richie said through a heavy breath.  He put his elbows on the table and hung his head in his hands.  “I can’t believe this is happening.  It’s too fast”

“Too fast? You’ve only known your whole life that this was happening today,” Beverly laughed, earning a glare from the stressed out boy.  “Come on.  It’s gonna be magical.  And romantic, and beautiful, and, oh you’re going to remember this day for the rest of your life”

“If I don’t have a goddamn heart attack and die right now, yeah maybe,” Richie mumbled.  “It’s only the most important thing to ever happen to someone.  And I’m not… ready”

Beverly gave him a soft smile, knowing that everyone would feel that way in the minutes leading up to the timer hitting zero.  But she also knew that he would be just fine, and all his worries were for nothing.

“I can’t wait to meet them,” She told him, her smile growing on her face.  “And I can’t wait to get an invite to the wedding…”

“Okay okay that’s enough advice outta you,” Richie cut her off, but she could tell he was trying to suppress his laughter.  “I gotta go”

“Go? You literally have two hours” Bev said, gesturing to the timer on his wrist.

“Yeah, but I gotta get some stuff first” Richie shrugged, sliding out of the booth and putting on his jacket.

“You have to go grocery shopping?” Beverly laughed.  “You don’t want to hang out some more?”

“Not grocery shopping-”

“Are you gonna go buy a new outfit to impress your date?”

“Nope,” Richie grinned, eating one last french fry.  “I’m gonna go buy flowers”

And with that, he raced out of the diner, leaving Beverly to laugh and shake her head.  

He was a mess.  Whoever it was that he met tonight was sure going to be someone special. ___

(y/n) had been wandering around Derry all day, checking her wrist every minute to see the timer ticking down.  Hours to minutes, her eyes were glued on the tattoo.  It led to her bumping into a few people, and doorframes, but even so, she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the numbers.

She was terrified.

And now, after spending the whole day walking around town, she was sitting at the overlook at the quarry.  The bench there was worn down and usually required some dusting off for anyone to feel comfortable to sit there, but the view was too nice to pass up.

The sun was setting, and she liked watching the ducks swim around in the waters below.  The relaxing setting helped calm her nerves, since she’d been over-stressing all day.

All that was left to do now, was wait.

She was enjoying watching the ducks bob their heads under the water to eat when a loud sound pulled her from the scene.

“Fuck!”

The girl leapt up, spinning around just as Richie Tozier tripped over his feet and face planted onto the grass.  She gasped, and was quick to rush over to him.

“Oh my god!” She squealed, crouching down to his level.  “Are you alright?”

“Yeah- just- fuckin’ slipped”

She giggled as he pushed himself to sit up.

He finally looked up at her, and he just knew that the timer on his wrist hit zero.  He could feel it, like his heart was suddenly full and there was no chance of it ever being empty, ever again.  And just by looking at her, this stranger that he would spend the rest of his life with, he knew she felt the same way.

“Hey,” He mumbled, dusting the grass off his arms and legs.  “You… You’re-”

“Are those supposed to be for me?” She asked, smiling and pointing to the bouquet of daisies in his hand, slightly flattened on one side from catching his fall.

“Ah, fuck,” Richie groaned, trying to make the flowers look less ruined, but (y/n) just laughed again and took them from him.  “Yeah, they… were supposed to be… for you”

“That’s cute,” She mused, effectively making him blush.  “I’m (y/n)” She introduced herself, sticking her hand out towards him.

“Richie,” He replied, shaking her hand.  “This is… not what I thought” He said, and (y/n) sat down on the ground, a thoughtful look on her face as she studied his features.

He was cute, he was really cute.  She wondered if it was the fact that he was her soulmate that made him so goddamn attractive to her, but as soon as the thought crossed her mind, his wide eyes from behind his glasses met hers, and her heart melted, spreading warmth and butterflies throughout her body.

“What did you think, then?” She asked with an amused smirk.

“Honestly?” He asked, and she nodded curiously.  “I thought it’d be pouring rain, and then we’d see each other from, say, twenty feet away, and then you would run, literally, into my arms, and we would kiss all dramatic like”

(y/n) laughed at the detailed description, before looking up at the sky.

“Well, it’s clear skies, definitely no chance of pouring rain…” She trailed off, eyes nervously meeting his again.  “But, I’m still here?” She shrugged a shoulder, lips twitching in an anxious sort of smile.

“That you are...” Richie grinned, leaning forward a bit.  

(y/n’s) eyes fluttered shut as their lips met halfway, and for the first time in her life, she saw stars behind her eyes.  Soulmates were magical, they were perfection, and she’d never felt more at home than she did right now.

Richie’s lips were so soft, and she could tell already that she was going to enjoy the rest of her life with him.

When they parted, there was a warmth that could only be described as the spark between them.

“Wow,” (y/n) let out in a breath, her eyes fluttering open, finding him with the same surprised expression.  “Um…” She bit her lip, her cheeks burning pink while her heart started to beat out of her chest.

“Yeah” Richie agreed softly.

They both laughed quietly to themselves, and when Richie finally stood up, he took her hand to help her up as well.

“Well?” (y/n) hummed expectantly, and Richie furrowed his brow in confusion.  “Um, was it- uh- worth it?” She asked, showing a bit more of her shyer side than she had a few moments ago.

He just laughed, not sure how to tell her that this was even better than he could have imagined. ___

(One Year Later)

“Did you make sure to turn down the heat for the la-”

“-Last five minutes? Yes,” RIchie answered.  “You don’t trust me with cooking at all, babe, do you?”

(y/n) glared at him from where she sat on the counter.  Richie had decided he was going to make dinner for them tonight, all on his own.  She wasn’t allowed to help in any way, this was his treat to her.  However, she wasn’t all that much of a fan.  Richie didn’t have a great track record when it came to the kitchen, and this is what led to her always cooking or baking for them.  He was allowed to help her, sometimes, but she never let him cook by himself.

“Since you tried to make me a birthday cake and covered the floor with flour, melted the batter, and nearly started a fire? No, babe, I don’t trust you with cooking” She replied sassily.

“Well this is gonna be the best goddamn tortellini you’ve ever had!” He declared, and stirred the pot of boiling noodles.  “Sausage and cheese stuffed, manually, by yours truly,” He said, casting her a wink that she rolled her eyes at.  “And homemade sauce too!”

She had to smile at his efforts, he really did want to impress her.  But she was just so worried he was going to burn their food.

“Just a little longer, hon” He said, setting the spoon aside and taking the few steps over to stand in front of her.

She rests her hands on his shoulders and smiles down at him.  She’s barely any taller than him, but she enjoys having an inch or two on him for once.

Richie smirks back up at her, hands landing on her hips as she kisses his nose adorably.

He tugs her forward and helps her to her feet on the ground.

“That’s better,” He says with a small snicker.  She gives him a pout, but it goes away with a short kiss.  “Much better”

His eyes wander and land on her wrist, which was resting against his chest.  With a gentle hand he takes it, and his thumb smooths over the inked skin.  00:00:00

A smile tugs on the corner of his lips at the sight.  Sometimes he just has to check, to make sure this is real, and he’s not just daydreaming.  (y/n) knew this, and she found it incredibly sweet, every time.

They’d been together for a year now, and he was still in disbelief.

She leaned up on the tips of her toes and kissed him, for a satisfyingly longer amount of time than before.  Her fingers latched onto the collar of the flannel he was wearing, pulling him down a bit towards her so she could deepen the kiss.  And just as he was contemplating lifting her back up onto the counter, she pushed him away.

“The pasta!” She all but screeched.

Richie just laughed, and turned off the stovetop to finish up dinner.

After ten minutes of fixing up the sauce and assuring (y/n) repeatedly that’s it’s neither undercooked or burnt.  She wasn’t all too convinced, but she was too hungry to care all too much.

He made her go put on pajamas before making up her bowl of tortellini.  And when she came back, her heart melted at the sight of him setting up the sofa with blankets, a selection of her favorite movies on the cushion.

“You pick a movie, and then I’ll set it up, and you can relax and enjoy this sweet ass meal”

She giggled, and picked out a movie before settling in on the sofa.

He kissed her cheek as he settled in next to her.

At her first bite, her eyes widened, and she almost forgot to swallow.  She stared at her boyfriend in surprise, and he waited impatiently for what she had to say.

“Well?” He asked, motioning for her to say something, anything.

“Damn” She mumbled, before swallowing thickly.

“That good, huh?” He asked with a giggle.  It was a little out of character, but adorable nonetheless.  “Is it really? You like it?” He asked hopefully.

After swallowing, she grinned at him.

“Richie! I’m actually proud of you! This is amazing!”

“Great- wait, actually proud? You’ve never been proud of me before-”

“From now on, you can cook whenever you want.  But! You have to read the instructions every time!”

“Deal” He laughed, and they settled into a comfortable silence as they ate and watched the film.

After going for seconds, (y/n) was stuffed and exhausted.  She propped her feet up on the coffee table, and leaned against Richie, her head plopping onto his shoulder.

He loved when she did that.

And it didn’t take long for her to completely cuddle up against him, half asleep.  It was his favorite thing.  It was rare for her to make it through a whole movie.

(y/n) wrapped her arms around his neck, and then kissed his cheek.  When he turned his head to smile down at her, she reached up and pressed a much more passionate kiss to his lips.

He was taken by surprise, but enjoyed it nonetheless.

Even when she pulled away, his lips were still a bit pursed, and he quirked an eyebrow.

“And what was that gift for?” He asked, and was amused by the blush that dusted over her cheeks.

“Just cause,” She hummed, and gave him a sheepish shrug.  “Cause I love you” She added in a quieter voice.

It wasn’t her first time saying it, but she’d only said it a handful of times, and it still made her nervous to admit out loud.  Even knowing that Richie was her soulmate, the destined love of her life, she was still worried about such things.

Richie smiled, loving how her blush darkened when she’d said it.  He loved her so goddamn much it hurt sometimes.  And this was one of those times.  She could be so shy sometimes, even though it’s been a year now and they had forever to spend together.

He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her in close.  He kissed the crown of her head as she nuzzled into his shirt.

“I love you too, sweets” He tells her.  He can feel her smiling against his chest.

Her hand settles against his wrist as they continue to watch the movie, tracing over the black ink rhythmically.

00:00:00

They had to be the luckiest people alive, finding each other so young, leaving them plenty of time to spend their lives together.

00:00:00. ___

xoxo ~ jordie

#richie tozier #it 2017 #it 2019 #richie tozier x reader #richie tozier imagine #richie tozier scenario #richie tozier fanfiction #finn wolfhard #bill hader