#aftermath of branding
Text
Flower Boy 5- Home
This chapter got a lot longer than I thought- but I didn't want to split it up, so here we go! Here's the Masterlist.
CW: painful caretaking/recovery, aftermath of branding, mentions of child abuse, minor whumpee (Jeremy is 17).
- - -
Jeremy pressed his face into the ground, pulling his wrists in towards himself.
His back was on fire.
It crept up the back of his neck and down his arm and he couldn’t help but let out another small whimper.
He finally managed to find the buckle behind his head of the bit in his mouth and tore it away from his face- throwing it across the room. The man had left the two of them alone, and frankly, Jeremy was pissed.
“Thanks so much for helping-” he groaned. He finally managed to prop himself up on his hands and knees, sweat dripping off of his forehead.
If he could just make it to the cot- lie down on something other than the floor-
“Take off your shirt-”
“What?”
The man’s voice was small. It was barely above a whisper, and Jeremy felt that that was as loud as the man could go- years of pain and misuse leaving it no more than a breath.
“We don’t want it to get infected.”
“Oh- right.” Jeremy mumbled. He carefully pulled the tanktop over his head- choking back a sob as the fabric brushed over the sensitive skin. Soft, wrinkled hands helped him to sit and he leaned over his knees, pulling them to his chest.
Prisoner twelve took the rag he had been handed and carefully wet it with the faucet built into the wall. The water was cold, but it would help cool the burns. Without any warning, Jeremy jolted away as the rag was pressed to his skin.
“Hey!” He cried.
“It’s just water-” the man reassured. He placed a gentle hand on the boy’s good shoulder and Jeremy took in a deep breath.
After the initial shock of the cold water, it felt soothing to his burnt skin. Jeremy let his head fall to his chest- silent tears streaming down his face as the older man cleaned the marks.
“Come on, let’s get you lying down.” The man stood in front of the boy and offered out his arm. Slowly- on shaky legs, Jeremy was able to rise to his feet.
In comparison, he dwarfed the man in size. Jeremy wasn’t really a big kid, but he wasn’t scrawny. He spent a lot of his time outside, doing whatever physical work would earn him some quick money. He was a little stocky- tanned skin. The man in front of him seemed practically withered. Like an old willow that drooped towards the ground. In another lifetime he was sure the guy could’ve been handsome, but his cheeks were sunken in, his hair was graying and empty in some patches, and the man was nearly skin and bones. He stayed hunched over- almost as if he couldn’t stand fully upright.
They sat down on the cot and prisoner twelve helped Jeremy onto his stomach. He let an arm fall to the ground, the other tucked up by his side. The man rewet the wag, draping the cool cloth over the burns. As he turned to walk away Jeremy reached out- brushing his wrist.
“Hey- what’s- what’s your name?”
“Twelve.” The man answered.
Jeremy hissed in a breath as he shifted. “No- your real name. Not the- the number they gave you.”
The man turned his back to the boy and he could see the faded numbers from a brand in the exact same spot Jeremy had just received his. A number 12, etched into his shoulder.
“I don’t remember that kid. It’s been too long.”
Jeremy propped himself up on an elbow- wincing at the movement.
“No but surely you remember your name, don’t you? You can’t forget that-”
“I don’t know, kid. My brain isn’t what it used to be. There’s a lot I can’t remember.”
“I- I’m not gonna call you a number.”
Jeremy swore he could see a hint of a smile. The man sat back on his cot, leaning his back against the wall.
“I- you can call me Lee. How’s that kid?”
Jeremy nodded. A rush of fever crashed through him and he whimpered slightly- his muscles throbbing as his skin flushed.
“Hey- hey Lee?” He asked quietly.
“Yeah, kid?”
Jeremy didn’t want to know the answer to the question he was about to ask, but he felt like he needed to know.
“How long have you been here?”
The man stared across the room for a moment and Jeremy could see some pain behind his eyes- as if he was trying to forget- or worse, trying to remember.
“I- I don’t know kid, honestly.” Jeremy laid his head back against the cot and the older man looked at him and sighed. “I don’t think I was much older than you when they took me, and I- I’ve been here since. I don’t know how long it’s been.”
“Oh.” A pit of fear crept into the bottom of Jeremy’s stomach. He pushed that down to deal with later. “I- I’m sorry.”
Lee shrugged, and then glanced at the boy- as if scanning his features.
“How old are you kid?”
Jeremy took in a shuddered breath against a wave of pain, blinking away some fighting tears.
“I’m- I’ll be eighteen next month.”
Lee shook his head.
“Goodness, they get younger every time.”
Jeremy couldn’t tell if the man genuinely seemed upset, or frustrated at the fact- or if he was just apathetic. Too tired, and beaten to care anymore.
“How many- how many of us are there?”
Lee waved a hand towards Jeremy’s shoulder.
“Well you’re number 326. That’s how many there’s been total, but of course not all have lasted this long. I- even I’m on my last legs here.”
“What do you- what do you mean?”
“I don’t know how long I’ve been here kid, but I know I’m getting old. I can feel it. Pretty soon I’ll become useless and it’ll just be too much to keep me around.”
Jeremy’s heart pounded in his chest. His breath was picking up pace.
“What they’ll- they’re just gonna kill you?” He cried.
Lee shrugged, as if he had accepted his fate.
“Or something. But at this point it’d be a relief for me kid, sorry to say.”
Jeremy was silent for a moment as the man stood up and retrieved the rag from off his shoulder. He re-soaked it in cold water and went to lay it back on the boy, picking his tanktop off of the floor as well and handing it to Jeremy.
He looked up at the man with red, tear-filled eyes, and Lee could see all the fear and innocence of that teenage boy.
“What’s gonna happen to me?”
His voice was so small- and in that moment, Lee could see that he really was nearly a child. Just a scared little kid- tired, and hurt, and aching- wondering if he’ll ever get to go home.
Lee sighed and knelt down by the side of the cot, bringing him face to face with the boy.
“Well, tomorrow they’ll do all the intake information. You’ll be left alone to recover for the rest of today, probably. Intake isn’t much to worry about. Honestly, the numbering is the worst. The rest of it is simple tests to see what your limits and abilities are. After that, you’ll get assigned a position, or tasks, and from then on you’ll figure out what they want from you.”
He glanced over to see the boy’s chest heaving in shaky sobs. He was nearly silent- the only sound the occasional hitch of his breath.
“Hey- it’s alright.” Lee stated- even though he knew that was a lie. “It hurts, doesn’t it?”
Jeremy nodded, digging his fingers into the fabric of his tanktop. He held it in a crumpled ball against his chest as he pressed his forehead into the cot.
“It hurts- it-” his words were strangled by a gasp of pain. It felt like he couldn’t breathe for a moment. The burning in his skin, as if it encompassed his whole body was nearly too much.
There was a gentle hand along his back, a soft voice- but all Jeremy knew was the pain. He moaned- scrambling for something to hold on to until Lee grabbed his hand. Jeremy squeezed- taking in mouthfuls of air until it finally died down enough for him to be coherent again.
“This- this freaking sucks.” He mumbled.
“I know- I know.” The man stated. He moved to sit back on the ground next to the cot, leaving his arm propped up in case Jeremy needed a hand to hold.
“What should- what should I do?” The boy gasped.
“Honestly kid, there’s not much advice I can give you. Just, just don’t be stupid- and do as your told.”
Jeremy chuckled into the bed- groaning slightly. “You- you make it sound so easy.”
Lee sighed, giving the boy’s hand a squeeze.
“Listen kid, I know it seems a lot to sacrifice, and you’re going to want to fight back- to rebel. But it’ll be better for you in the long run if you give it all up now- and give them whatever they want- I promise.”
He didn’t know how he could ever give up those freedoms.
But here he was- kidnapped- stolen from his home. He’d already been beaten so many times- chained up- and now- now he had been branded. His name stripped away and replaced with a number, like it was nothing.
He could handle the beatings- the punches and slaps- spit in his face- but what would he be able to hold on to, once everything he knew was taken away?
Jeremy balled up the fabric tighter in his fist and let shaky breaths tear through him as a new wave of pain flushed over his body.
He let the tears stream down his face as he finally drifted into a restless sleep.
- - -
“You useless piece of shit!” The man cried. “How hard is it for you to just do as you’re told?”
Jeremy held his head down, taking a step backwards as the man yelled.
He didn’t even remember what he had done.
But then again it didn’t matter- it never did.
His grades were too bad- but he worked too much to have time to study.
He broke a piece of their yard equipment- but it was old and falling apart already.
A customer was unhappy- so it was obviously his fault cause he didn’t do something right.
He could never be perfect- he could never be enough.
“What, are you just gonna stand there and stare at me? Hmm?”
“I’m sorry.” He stated. Jeremy refused to look the man in the eyes.
“That’s not gonna work. Fix it.”
“Yes sir.”
“And look at me when I talk to you. You’re lucky I don’t beat you for this, understand?”
Jeremy forced his head up to stare in his father’s face.
“Yes sir.”
“Get out of my sight. Go!”
Jeremy ducked away from the man- running off to go fix whatever mess wasn’t his fault. He let out a breath of relief as he was allowed to leave.
The first time his father had beat him, Jeremy begged for mercy.
He was twelve, and had just started working for his father’s company.
There was a tray of refreshments set out for them as they worked- and in the hot summer heat, the piles of fruit and glasses of lemonade were mouthwatering.
He didn’t know what happened- but he knocked into the table- glasses and pitchers of juice and water went flying, crashing and shattering to the ground. His father had to pay for the damages- and Jeremy had to pay for his mistake.
The ride back to their house after they finished that day was in painful silence. They parked the truck in the garage and as his father had started putting equipment away, Jeremy was instructed to go sit on the workbench.
He remembered staring at the wood of the worktable in front of him- remembering the details of the splinters and the stains- before he heard the clink of a belt. The noise that became all-too familiar, and easily recognizable.
“I trusted you, Jeremy. I thought you were old enough- responsible enough to be able to help me.”
Jeremy turned around from where he sat and eyed the belt resting in his father’s hand.
“I- I am responsible. I can help, I promise.” His voice was shaky- squeaky with fear.
“You’ll learn not to mess up like this again, you understand?”
“Yes- yes sir.” He hung his head to his chest.
“Good. Now turn back around. You need to learn your lesson.”
He learned to apologize quickly. Learned to watch where he stepped and do what it took to calm the man’s anger. He kept his mom and sister safe- never aware of what happened. He worked harder. Studied more- determined to get scholarships and get a way out of there as soon as he graduated.
But as he grew- physically and mentally- a bitterness and hatred grew inside of him as well.
It was a fire- a fire that he knew he must have inherited somewhere. But instead of channeling that into anger and aggression- he worked harder. He grew stronger. He figured out what it took to do everything right the first time- never giving that man a reason to get upset.
But the scars were still there. That aching inside from the beatings and the cold words- the pain that wouldn’t go away- along with the nightmares and the torment that haunted him as he slept.
- - -
Jeremy jolted awake- drenched in sweat.
“I- I’m sorry!” He screamed- pulling himself away from a nightmare. He quickly screamed as his muscles pulled against the burn- and the pain shocked him back into reality.
There was a man by his side- offering a cool rag against his back- wiping the drenched hair and sweat away from his face.
“Shh- you’re alright.” The man said.
Jeremy pressed his forehead into the cot.
“I’m- m sorry-” he mumbled. His whole body shook as he discovered new aches and pains with every breath and movement.
“Here- let’s sit you up so you can get something in you.”
Jeremy realized the pang of hunger in his stomach as he noticed a small tray across the room.
“They brought dinner an hour or so ago. I didn’t wanna wake you.”
He nodded- finally managing to sit.
There were two bowl on the tray- and a piece of bread sat next to it. A single cup rested in between the bowls.
The old man hobbled to the tray, sliding it over carefully. He retrieved the cup and filled it with water from the spout.
“Here- you need to drink.”
Jeremy let his head be cradled as the man tilted the cup to his lips. The water felt so good as it trickled down his throat- dripping down the sides of his lips. He reached out weakly- begging for more-
“Don’t rush yourself- you’ll get sick. Here.”
The food was disgusting.
Jeremy thought if they had the money to kidnap people and hold them all- the technology to not be found- they could at least have the decency to hire a decent chef.
The bread was spread with some sort of nutrient paste. It tasted like butter- but was far more gritty, and slightly grayish. That’s how everyone got their vitamins, Lee had explained. It was easier than forcing people to take a bunch of pills. In the bowl was some sort of bland rice. Overcooked, and mushy in a sort of broth. It was cold- and Jeremy nearly gagged as it slid down his throat- thick and slimy.
“Here-” Lee held out another cup of water. “Get used to it- the menu here doesn’t have much variation.”
He downed the water in a few quick gulps before closing in on himself. He tucked his knees ot his chest, wrapping an arm around them. He shivered- biting back a moan of pain.
“It- everything hurts.” He whimpered.
Lee nodded. Wetting the rag once more to soothe the burns on the boy’s shoulder. “You’ll get used to it. I’m sorry kid.”
“I- I wanna go home-” Jeremy wanted his mother more than anything. Her homemade chicken noodle soup- her hugs- her scent- The last time he’d seen her she’d handed him his lunch for the trip and gave him a kiss on the head.
“I’ll see you in a few days, okay Jer?” He had nodded and darted out the door before she could pull him into one of those bone-crunching hugs. “Text me when you get there!” She yelled.
He was regretting not waiting for that hug.
But the last anyone say of him was on top of a mountain- in the middle of a heavy snowfall. It had been what- two- three days since then? Would anyone still be looking for him?
Or would they just assume he’d been buried- too frozen and lost to continue to try and find?
Please keep searching for me.
I want to come home.
Please find me-
-I’m scared.
- - -
Tag List: @imagination1reality0 @morning-star-whump @deltaxxk @whumpcereal @his-unspoken-words
#whump#whump writing#ocs#my ocs#flower boy wip#jeremy telura#caretaking#aftermath of branding#captivity whump#child abuse tw#ideation of dying
14 notes
·
View notes
Text
"So…I know it's Saturday evening, and I concede the original deal was Friday…"
THE NEWSREADER | 1.03 | Helen x Dale - Creative Date Part 1
#Anna Torv#Sam Reid#Helen Norville#Dale Jennings#Helen x Dale#the newsreader#helendale#they were just!!!!#SO SOFT#THE SOFTEST#helen is so romantic like 😭#dale redeemed himself alright#bless that one smutty fic featuring the aftermath that's all im gonna say#michael i need them back let me have them back#at least give dale his soul back#also bless my brand new laptop#took me 1/3 of the time it's always taken me to make a gifset before#gifs*
115 notes
·
View notes
Text
Empyre: Avengers Aftermath #1
#Empyre: Avengers Aftermath#empyre#avengers#marvel#ben grimm#captain america#the thing#abigail brand#songbird#wolverine#comics
9 notes
·
View notes
Text
Content/CW: branding, injury and blood, past torture, medical whump, team whump, post rescue
Words: 2608
This isn’t a chapter of anything. It’s more like a scene from the middle of a (mostly) non-existent story. Since I don’t introduce the characters properly here, have a little guide:
Josephine: head medic / Otto: caretaker / Laurent: whumpee / Frankie: field medic / Riina: team leader / other mentioned names less relevant
-----
“Are you sure?” Josephine looked hesitant. She had her arms folded across her chest. “It won’t be pretty. Maybe we should wait until morning, when the others get here.”
Otto ignored her question.
He couldn’t tear his eyes from the sleeping boy behind her, his body moving slowly with deep, steady breaths. It was slightly assuring to see him be so calm, momentarily unaware of all the agony he must’ve been put through, but Otto couldn’t shake off the uneasy feeling caused by Josephine’s secretiveness.
Laurent’s broken fingers were now in a cast. The wounds on his arms had been bandaged. His previously long, beautiful hair had been buzzed nearly as short as Otto’s. The rest of him was covered under a light blue blanket.
That was what Josephine was preparing him for. To reveal whatever horrors were hidden underneath.
Otto had been the first one to inspect Laurent’s condition during the car ride home, but hadn’t had the opportunity to see under his clothes. They’d been glued to his skin by dried blood, but Frankie had assured him Laurent wouldn’t bleed out on them during the half an hour it took for them to safely return home.
Not a second went by Otto wouldn’t have praised the angel that Josephine was in his mind, for she had been there waiting for them when they’d brought Laurent in, dressed in scrubs and ready for action. Otto had spent the following hours sitting in the hallway right behind the hospital room door, his mind replaying images of Laurent’s beaten face like a never-ending slideshow. He had gotten himself through two panic attacks. Frankie, Hayden, and even Riina had stopped by every couple of hours to see if he had been let in yet, staying for a minute to console him each time, offering him food and water.
Otto had denied. Nothing mattered to him until he’d know Laurent was okay.
Whatever was under that blanket, whatever Josephine tried to protect him from, he had considered during those past hours.
“Otto.”
“Just… just let me see, Jo.”
Josephine gave him a look, disapproving his demanding tone, but stepped back to stand right next to Laurent’s bed, and with a final nod of confirmation from Otto, pulled aside the blanket.
Otto had experienced a fair share of pain in his life. The tendon on his calf had once been sliced, he’d been stabbed, yet neither of those things had been as efficient to bring him to his knees than the sight currently in front of him. His knees hit the tiled floor with a hard thud, but he instantly scrambled back on his feet, trying to get away, take back everything he’d thought about how he could take it.
He had noted Laurent lying on his side, and assumed there must have been injuries on his back. The guess had been accurate, but the specifics of what those injuries could have been like was where he’d been gravely mistaken. He’d assumed scars similar to the ones on Laurent’s arms. Bruises or stab wounds.
But this…
Rows upon rows of identical burn marks covered Laurent’s back like a pattern printed on a fabric, all the way from his neck to his pelvis, shaped like a coat of arms with something pointy in the middle. The skin surrounding the burns glowed fiercely red from infections.
Otto didn’t need to take another look to know what it was. He’d know the symbol from anywhere.
After Laurent had been taken three months ago, the team had received an anonymous letter, only containing this very same symbol, pressed on the paper in blood. The laboratory had confirmed the blood belonged to Laurent.
Riina hadn’t talked for four days after that, and anyone who had tried to talk to her had had a knife thrown at them. Everybody else had expressed their devastation in slightly healthier ways.
They had fought these people enough times. They had lost team members to them. Now, once again.
Otto’s skin crawled.
The Crowns, and their family crest, forever burned deep into Laurent’s skin, dozens of times.
“Otto?”
Otto’s vision was blurred by fury. He squeezed his trembling hands into fists, nails digging into his palms hard enough to draw blood. He took a reluctant glance at Laurent again, and noticed Josephine had pulled the blanket over his shoulders once more.
Good. Never let those repulsive marks see daylight ever again.
“Otto, I need you to breathe.” Josephine’s voice was coming from somewhere afar, and when there was a sudden touch on his forearm, though likely intended to be comforting, Otto flinched away. The initial shock was now rapidly making room for rage unlike he had ever known.
“Breathe?” He must have been yelling, because Josephine was shushing him, but Otto couldn’t contain it. Had there been something within reach he could just grab and break – there were supplies on Josephine’s medical cart, but no one was allowed to touch them if they wished to walk out alive – he would’ve smashed it to the ground.
He had no idea where to put all this anger.
Otto pointed at Laurent’s covered back. “Look at him! There’s… there’s like a hundred of them! He looks like a fucking Louis Vuitton bag!”
“It’s terrible, I know, but you have to lower your voice,” Josephine said. If she was feeling any distress about the situation, she didn’t show it. “If you need to lash out, by all means, I understand, but do it anywhere but here.”
As if on cue, Laurent let out a small whine, and Otto fell silent in an instant. He held his breath until Josephine, who was by Laurent’s side in a second, gave him a thumbs up signalling Laurent hadn’t woken up. She marched back to Otto and grabbed his arm, this time with way more force, and dragged him out of the room.
The hallway was empty, but despite it being late at night, Otto could hear noises from elsewhere in the building. He could vaguely make out Riina’s voice from her office two stories above, screaming at someone. He could hear Frankie and Hayden from their bedroom at the end of the hallway.
He was envious of all of them. He wanted to shout. He wanted to be the one in bed with his lover instead of witnessing his suffering.
“I swear I’m going to kill them,” Otto spat the second Josephine closed the door behind her. “I’m going to rip them apart, all of them.”
“Yeah, you’re not going to make it to the next mission’s team with that attitude.” Josephine leaned her back to the door. She had dark circles under her eyes, and Otto realised how exhausted she must be, having worked relentlessly to treat Laurent, for hours in the middle of the night, mostly alone. Frankie might have been helping her for a moment at some point. “Riina has asked to see him as soon as he wakes up to gather information about the captors before creating a plan.”
“But we already know who did this,” Otto said. He let out a hollow laugh. “They’ve literally put it all over him. We’ve known it was them even before.”
“Sure, but Laurent might’ve heard a lot of valuable things we need to take into consideration before going after them.”
“I wanna go.”
Josephine looked at him almost pitifully. “You’re too close to this, love. Riina barely let you join the rescue crew, so she won’t let you join the searches. And not that I have a say in it, but I think that’s for the best. Laurent’s going to need someone around when he wakes up.”
“He’ll have you –”
“Someone he knows,” Josephine said. “I joined after he was taken. He’s never met me. He’s going to want a familiar face around. Someone to calm him down as I have to poke at his injuries. We’re short on anaesthetics and won’t get a new supply until the end of the week, so you better be there to hold his hand through all the pain we won’t be able to help him with.” She paused, eyes fixating on Otto’s poorly bandaged shoulder peeking from under his torn shirt. “You need any? I’ll gladly give you some since we’ve still got some.”
Otto shook his head. He had completely forgotten about his own injury. The pain in his body was secondary to the one in his mind. It couldn’t compare to a single thing Laurent had been through. “It’s fine. Save it for him.”
Josephine didn’t look pleased. “Can I at least take a look?”
“You should go help Laurent inste–”
“For heaven’s sake, Otto,” Josephine groaned. She straightened her back, suddenly standing almost as tall as Otto did. She took a keychain out of the pocket of her scrubs and began to unlock the door opposite to the hospital room. “I’m not asking anymore. Let me fix you before you die from an infection, because if you always keep acting like this, some day you will. In you go.”
She pushed the door open and pointed inside. Otto stood still, glancing between her and the hospital room door.
“Laurie –”
“Is asleep and will manage a moment alone.”
Josephine crossed her arms, raising her eyebrows. Otto still wanted to refuse, but he knew if he did, Josephine would likely sneak into his room to stitch him up in his sleep. As kind-hearted as she was, she’d rather tie her patient to a chair to finish a procedure than let anyone walk away from her hurt.
“Be quick then.”
He had been to Josephine’s office a few times before. It was where she stored extra medical supplies, and performed minor procedures that didn’t require space for the patient to lie down.
“Why on earth didn’t Frankie take care of that?” Josephine asked as Otto sat down on the stool. Otto glanced down. He had bled through his shirt and the bandages he had quickly wrapped around his shoulder and upper arm while still on field. It had been a dumb, avoidable injury. They hadn’t come across a single soul while rescuing Laurent – Otto had managed to cut himself on the rusty, crooked fence around the mansion.
“I didn’t let her.”
Josephine let out a long sigh. She flicked her hair over her shoulders and tied it on a low ponytail, and ordered Otto to take off his shirt while she washed her hands. Moving his arm up and down, Otto realised how much in pain he actually was. He bit his cheeks to stop himself from gasping.
“You’re going to kill yourself at this rate,” Josephine said, starting to peel the bloodsoaked bandages off Otto’s skin. “This is deep. You have to let people take care of you next time.”
Otto felt a pang of shame. Josephine was clearly worried, and he hadn’t meant to stress her out any more than she already was.
“Thank you,” he said quietly as Josephine began cleaning the wound. “And… Thank you for helping him.”
From the corner of his eye he could see how Josephine half-smiled.
“Do you only ever think everything through him? Did anyone ever tell you you’re allowed to think about yourself once in a while?”
Otto didn’t respond, but he didn’t need to for Josephine to know the answer. Her face turned serious again, and she slightly shook her head.
“Don’t thank me yet,” she said. “Patching up someone unconscious is easy. I can’t tell what he’ll be like when he wakes up. I pray they haven’t broken his soul like they did to his body, but either way he’s been through hell on Earth.”
Otto thought back to the dungeon they had found Laurent in, hazy but conscious, shackled to the ground. The memory of Laurent crawling away from the team like he didn’t know them, like he was afraid, hurt like a knife. Laurent had passed out almost as soon as he’d been carried to the car. From fear, pain, or exhaustion, or possibly a combination of any, Otto didn’t know. His cries and pleads to not hurt him still echoed in his head.
“It isn’t over yet,” he said in a lifeless voice. A wave of exhaustion washed over him. He just wanted to sleep. He wanted to sleep next to Laurent, his lively and loving Laurent. He wanted him to be okay.
Josephine frowned, taking notice of Otto’s tone. “This isn’t your fault. You know that?”
Otto shook his head. He shut his eyes, trying to breathe through the guilt.
Josephine gave up cleaning his shoulder and kneeled in front of him, squeezing his hands.
“Look at me,” she said, waiting patiently until Otto’s eyes found hers. Her hands felt cold against his skin, and he could feel her steady pulse from her fingertips. “Those Crown people – they’re to blame. That Michael guy I replaced, he is to blame. Not you. You didn’t know.”
Otto winced at the mention of the old medic’s name.
Josephine tried to be sweet, but she was wrong. She was new, only been with them for two months, and she didn’t know everything. It had been all his fault. He’d trusted the wrong person. He’d made enemies, he’d been their target, and Laurent had sacrificed himself to protect him.
Otto sniffled, hanging his head. “I trusted Michael.”
“I’m sure all the others did too.”
Josephine held his hands until his breathing evened out and he managed to give him a convincing enough smile affirming he was okay. He let Josephine finish patching him up without protesting. He even accepted a pill, not stopping to ask what it was.
Half an hour later, he flicked on the lights to his room. His and Laurent’s room.
He had tried to plead with Josephine to get to sleep in the bed next to Laurent’s in the hospital room, but Josephine had been unbending. Deep down Otto understood her reasoning, but as he lay down on their bed, alone for yet another night, he gravely considered sneaking in to sit beside Laurent until morning and deal with the consequences later.
The alarm would wake him up in a few hours. The team would have an early meeting regarding the previous day’s operation, then assemble a crew of a few of them who would go and seek out the people responsible for what had been done to Laurent.
Laurent would wake up and be heard.
The crew would prepare.
Otto would not.
Josephine had been right. He needed rest. He needed to be there for Laurent. The medicine Josephine had given him had been a great help in calming the storm inside of him, and with most of the rage gone, staying behind and getting to take care of Laurent had started to sound like the best possible thing. Isn’t that what he’d been praying for months? To be with him again? Why had he been so eager to leave his side at the first given chance?
Otto hugged Laurent’s pillow against his chest. It had been so long since they had been together. He just had to wait for a bit more, until morning, when they would finally get to talk again. Otto would hold his hand. He would never let him out of his sight.
Yet before all of that, there was one more night to tackle, undoubtedly either entirely sleepless or full of nightmares.
The Crown crest might have been permanently burned on Laurent’s skin, but Otto felt like it’d also been carved on the insides of his eyelids, because it was all he could see when he closed his eyes.
#branding#injury#blood#medical whump#team whump#aftermath#post rescue#past torture#whump#whump writing#caretaker x whumpee#whumpee x caretaker#whump fic#whumpblr#writing#writeblr
27 notes
·
View notes
Text
this is one of my favorite lines in the entire game btw
#maybe my favorite one in general#the last line in element after eichi wakes up and sees tori yuzuru and wataru around him#and natsume and tsumugi's brand new unit#and yeah after everything that happened at wataru's execution and the end of the war who could have thought there would be a happy ending?#it certainly hadn't crossed eichi's mind but things ended up working out#it's such a good. summary of ! era#the aftermath of a dark period#where they are healing and managing to live happily ever after#idk it's really nice#something abt eichi seeing tori first thing after waking up and immediately hugging him#he has found people who love him unconditionally!#this close to rereading element rn#enstars#mar's midnight rambles
32 notes
·
View notes
Text
Gold IV
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3
Warnings: pet whump, branding, burns, scars, infection, collar, abandonment, hurt/aftermath, hurt/recovery
It had been over a week since the Master had branded the Pet. Had left their mark on the Pet’s neck that the Pet belonged to them and them alone. It had been a full week and yet the Pet still hadn’t recovered.
The first few days, the Master had allowed the Pet to just lay in their bed. Carried the Pet from room to room to keep an eye on them. But after the third day of this, the Master began to grow irritable.
“Why are you still lazing around? You should be up, listening to what I say!” The Master said gruffly to the Pet, yanking on the leash.
The Pet gasped weakly as they tried to lift themself up on shaky arms. They hadn’t seen the fresh brand, the burned flesh, but they knew it was horribly infected. Knew that it had oozed. Knew that they had a fever and couldn’t keep any food or water down.
And yet the Master expected them to be up and about like this was nothing.
“M-M-Master,” the Pet whispered as they tried to lift themself once more, collapsing as the trembling became too strong.
“You’re pathetic. A waste of my time. A waste of my space. And you were simply not worth your weight in gold.” The last was said with such venom that if the Pet had the energy, they would have been afraid.
But they couldn’t be afraid. Couldn’t feel anything other than weakness. The world was a fuzzy haze around them. And they felt terrible. Nothing they could do but wait to either die or for the Master to punish them.
The Pet didn’t know how long they lay there. They only knew that the brightness of the room had shifted by the time the Master returned, a stranger following closely behind them. “I should warn you, I already marked them. You could always cut the flesh away,” the Master said hurriedly.
“It matters not to me,” the stranger said.
“Then perhaps I’ll knock a couple hundred off the price. For selling as is?”
The stranger surveyed the Pet, their face impossibly blank. Fear began to grip the Pet’s heart once more, but they couldn’t do anything.
“That would be fine. May I?” The stranger turned to the Master once more. The Pet couldn’t see their face, but saw the Master was pleased.
“Please, get them out of here,” the Master said dismissively. “I should warn you, they were a waste of my investment. Perhaps they will be a better investment for you.”
The Master left and before the Pet could respond, the stranger was lifting them with gentle, delicate care. Something the Pet hadn’t experienced in a long time. “It’s ok,” the stranger murmured, “my name is Caretaker and I’m getting you help.”
“M-M-Mas--” the Pet began. They couldn’t believe. Surely this was some trick.
“I’m not your master, I bought your freedom. But before any of that, let’s get you to a doctor, then we can talk about how you want to live the rest of your life.”
The Pet began to sob quietly. They had hoped for, had dreamed about freedom. But it had been an unobtainable illusion. To have this stranger, Caretaker, tell them they were free. That they were getting help. And to treat them with kindness. This was all too much. The Pet sobbed and clung to Caretaker as Caretaker carried them out of the Master’s house.
“It’s ok, I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
Tags: @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees @madmadder @mefattortoise @nolahan @luvmikoo
#serickswrites#whump#whumpblr#whump writing#whump community#tw pet whump#tw branding#tw infection#tw abandonment#hurt/aftermath#hurt/recovery#queue#tw burns#tw scars
34 notes
·
View notes
Text
𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐄 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔?
𝐅𝐈𝐒𝐇 𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐓 - the sacrifice
a knife to your back is your first memory– it will also be your last. you cannot help but let things into your heart, such is your nature. time and time again, however, they hurt you and leave you to rot. but your heart remains open, and you continue to let more in. is it kindness, at that point, or is it sacrifice?
𝐅𝐈𝐒𝐇 𝐋𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑 - the final girl
you're very tired, aren't you? thrashing and fighting and trying to survive– it has taken its toll, but that has not stopped you. you'll continue to gnaw and scream and bare teeth until you can free yourself from this mess, even if it means being the last one left. there is rest at the end of this hard battle, i promise you. there is a time when the fight will be over– but fighting is all you know, isn't it?
tagged by @countlessrealities (thank you <3)
tagging @uselessdevice (Saros) @collidingxworlds (Abigail) @multipleoccupancy (Edgar) @governmentofficial @historiavn @versin-surfin (Léon) @theresastargirl @dcmur3 @lovepurposed @batteredoptimist (Muriel) @pctioneer @fantasywritten (Strahm)
#I was NOT expecting these results at all#i'm still thinking abt them lolll#for Fish Monet I feel it really speaks to her fatal flaw: her heart and how she never holds a grudge#forgiving sometimes the worse things and finding endless excuses even for terrible people#Fish lecter ngl I was expecting the killer but??? I guess it makes sense#her father is the killer#I'd say this result doesn't work for the first half of her life but does fit very well after Hannibal is incarcerated#she's surviving and suffering from the aftermath of her father's decisions#plus there is something feral about Fish Lecter's brand of violence it's not completely calculated it has a lot of heart#ironically lolll (she's just like her dad haha)#sorry for the rambling fdsjkhfdsjkf#fish (monet)#fish (lecter)#dash games#(musing)
10 notes
·
View notes
Text
I have officially gotten to the point where ive made an entire private discord server just so I can write out and organize an entire starship full of OCs and all their plotlines and arcs and dynamics because im just going to write my own Star Trek show apparently
#everybody needs a project <3#I need at least 12 projects going at once or ill explode <3#lemme just write up an entire Star Trek show#about a brand new starship with a crew that for the most part has never met each other#their mission to explore the gamma quadrant in the aftermath of the dominion war#headed by a young captain with their first command who is half-romulan half-human#a first officer who claims to be human but is Not#and many mooooooooore
3 notes
·
View notes
Photo
i think they would go out in boiling hot weather despite every warning imaginable because marie sold the communal brain cell for new earrings and they haven’t made a good decision since.
[id: a drawing of michiru, shirou, marie, and kuro standing on a patch of grass, against a light blue background. shirou and marie wear more casual outfits, while michiru is in her baseball uniform, kuro flying in the air in front of shirou. marie leans heavily against michiru, who holds a baseball bat and a water bottle, they smile at each other. shirou grabs marie’s arm, trying to take a baseball, expression irritated. he holds multiple bags. end id.]
#raii draws a lot#okie requests opening soonish ahee#bna#not pictured: the aftermath being them trudging back to the co-op boiling and exhausted while pingua goes “told you so”#brand new animal#wondering if that tag works </3#q
29 notes
·
View notes
Text
oh shit ehas really is about it being rotten work but not to them huh
#the whole party but i am looking at loveless telling angry that as a father he can't believe for a second angry's family would love him any#less for all the joy they would feel seeing their son again and nemesis telling voski she doesn't believe in the goodness in herself#anymore and voski saying 'i do' about it instead and aierdyn finding out so late confirmed about pebble being a construct but#they're too tired and lost to feel betrayed and still turn around and ask him to help her with the aramente since thi isn't here anymore#and they don't know what they're doing and castor looking at nemesis who makes so much more sense growing up#in the aia of the aftermath of them trying to fix it and there's no mortifying ordeal of being known strong enough to keep him from#asking her what the brand family looks like now and by the grace of fate she knows. ten years ago at least. and she tells them#and the party telling each other so much because what else do they have left to lose right now. maybe it's not about being known more than#it is about feeling seen for the first time in years since it may well be their last chance in whatever they're mixed up in#the scope of which they can't even begin to understand#better to try and prove they were alive and they were here to each other while they can#c: the hollow lands
15 notes
·
View notes
Text
Oops.
You can see the moment Leo’s heart breaks…
BEGINNING || PREVIOUS || NEXT
MASTER POST
AFTERMATH (extra reading material)
Hope you enjoyed this little Replica Intermission flashback as we head into the Holiday Special that happens a few years after this. To be honest, this was as much of a peek into the earlier years of the Central Park Colony as it was a character study. I really wanted to get a handle on how these boys were in their early-mid twenties before diving into the special because they become very different people by their thirties.
TED Talk below on the details of this scene...
I really grappled with the concept of how long it would take for the boys to figure out that the statue was the key. Most interpretations seem to assume they figure it out right away, but honestly, without CJ there to warn them in advance and tell them what it looks like they don't have a lot to go off of aside from Splinter's vague mention of a key. The fact that the Krang were praised by the Foot is enough to set off Donnie's alarms but... with the Foot already gone by the time the Krang make their grand appearance on Metro Tower, the connection can only be hypothesized.
Honestly, I think Donnie would still go to Raph first, a breach in conduct but given the sensitivity of the subject and fear of accusing Leo it seems on brand. Raph ultimately would make the choice not to tell Leo until they knew for certain... which they never did. So it was put off longer and longer until it finally came back to bite them all at the worst possible time. If the colony finds out what Leo did... it could be disastrous. At the same time, Leo's trust in his brothers has been shaken, though it still pales in comparison to the fresh, crushing blow in knowing that it was all his fault. ...Don't worry, he'll be feeling a bit better by the time of the Holiday Special.
#rottmnt replica#replica#rottmnt#kathaynesart#rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles#unpause rottmnt#save rottmnt
7K notes
·
View notes
Text
Harana | Jungkook
harana (n.): the act of wooing someone by serenading them
→ summary:
Unwilling to settle down with you after five years of dating, Jeon Jungkook decides to break up to chase after his dreams. In the aftermath, you leave your hometown, desperate to forget your past and relearn what it means to be on your own. Two years later while on your way to work, you pass by a familiar voice singing songs about a girl he had left behind.
{or alternatively: Jungkook still sings the love songs that he wrote for you. He still means them, too.}
→ genre: busker!au, exes to lovers, angst, humor
→ warnings: jimin is insane and kinda crude (he has some issues going on), jungkook is a pathetic wet bunny but he's trying his best, oc has So Many Problems, so much arguing and yearning, ambiguous ending??? but my god there is hope!! the humanity of it all!!
→ words: 16.1K
→ a/n: HOLY SHIT IM BACK (kinda) and happy new year!! yeah ok its march but im relearning how to form coherent sentences so be patient ;w; this is the first installment of my hfoh series that i teased a LONG time ago... i made it a resolution to complete this series by the end of the year before i kms (Keep Myself Safe) so here's to a brand new year :D (oh god @ universe pls be kind)
part of the “heart full of hugot” series
Two days before the incident, your shower nozzle decides to explode.
Okay, you have to admit that statement is a little misleading. Shower nozzles, in all its nonsentience, do not randomly decide to explode no matter how much you try to defend yourself to your landlord. Maybe your grip had been a little too harsh that morning, or maybe hanging 5 pounds of hair products on the handle had been a bit too much for the old sport to handle. Or maybe, just maybe, the universe was warning you about the incident.
Whatever it was, it doesn’t erase the fact that your shower would be out of commission for the next week or so (though your landlord seems adamant about prolonging your suffering as long as possible). Until then, you’re going to have to find some other ways to keep the grease and grime from building on you. Heavens know that you already have a thriving ecosystem living in the back of your couch—you don’t need another one growing under your armpits.
Lucky for you, you have friends. More importantly, you have friends who have showers. There is one problem though—all your friends live on the other side of the country.
It’s been two years since you moved to the Big City™️, but you have done little to grow your social network. Call it introversion or depression, either way, you have no more contacts on your phone than you did when you left your hometown. Well, except for one person, if you could even consider him one. Frankly, you didn’t have a choice.
“Welcome to my humble abode, stinky,” Jimin greets you as you enter his house. Your nose is instantly assaulted by the smell of Bath & Body Works® Sweet Pea, reminding you once more why you didn’t consider him a friend.
“Hey,” you reply gruffly, shucking your ratty shoes near his entrance. Your shoes look incredibly out of place amidst the sea of designer Chelsea boots and a singular pair of thigh-high heels. You take a glance at his living room, already feeling worse about yourself tenfold.
You had met Park Jimin by complete accident, much like how his mother probably felt when she first saw him too. You had never known anyone quite as… interesting as him, to put it lightly.
When you got your job as a hostess for a luxury bar and restaurant, you figured you wouldn’t make many friends with your coworkers. Everyone was so… pretty, but in the shiny, untouchable sort of way. Almost all of the servers were as gorgeous as the models you’d see in magazines. You hadn’t known that the owners only hired a certain “demographic” of people for their restaurant, and you were equal parts flattered and disgusted that you’d somehow made it (though you suppose your bullshitting skills were all to thank).
Unsurprisingly, even the bartenders were gorgeous, including one Park Jimin. He did have an aura to him that screamed “I’m a cut above the rest and I know it,” but that could just be the gold chains dripping down his neck. You almost mistook him as one of the patrons who mistakenly made his way behind the bar, and knowing the sort of clientele you’ve had to deal with so far, you wouldn’t have been surprised. It took a couple of weeks before you finally found out who he was (and what his fucking problem was).
Jimin was a part-time bartender with a full-time job as a bitch a self-made entrepreneur. Which is to say, he sold… tasteful photos of himself on the internet. You had nothing against his line of work. In fact, you would go far as to say you didn’t give a shit what he did outside of your shared workspace. But if there’s one thing Jimin is, it’s that he hates being ignored.
So when you were adamant about not oohing and aahing at everything that makes Park Jimin perfect, he made it his self-appointed mission to befriend you. Or at least that’s what he claims, but given how he treats you lesser than the shit that cakes his cheeks, you have a lot of doubts. Perhaps he’s never made an effort to make a friend, hence his inexperience with being a decent human being. Or perhaps he’s just an asshole, but who is to say? The point is: he’s the only person you knew in this godforsaken city who would likely allow you to use his shower without being awkward about it and that’s that.
The worst part about being an acquaintance with Park Jimin was that he lived in the richest area of Downtown but he wasn’t old money, that’s for sure. His entire essence screamed overconsumption, and his myriad of little trinkets littered across his apartment confirmed your previous assessment. You wouldn’t be surprised if you opened his freezer and found ten types of ice sorted assorted by color and shape like the extra bitch that he was.
He made his money through sheer force, and it would have impressed you if he wasn’t, you know. Him.
“Bathroom is over there. I placed a towel and other shower amenities that you can borrow,” he says pointing to a door with a large “FART ZONE: ENTER WITH CAUTION” sign taped to it. You don’t ask.
“Thanks,” you say flatly. You wait patiently for his out-of-pocket comment.
Like clockwork, Jimin smirks. “Sure thing. I gave you the super heavy-duty stuff. Figured you’d burn a hole through my expensive towels with how stinky you are, with your yeasty cu—”
“Aaaand I’ll be done in a few minutes. Thanks again Jimin,” you interrupt, making your way to the bathroom and slamming the door with as much force as you can muster. You hear something fall as the door shuts, and you vaguely hear Jimin mutter something about his “fart zone” signage.
You begin to prepare your shower routine, humming lowly as you go about your business. You try to ignore the suffocating scent of ten million diffusers entering your nostrils, wondering for the umpteenth time if Jimin is suffering from long-term olfactory dysfunction.
“Focus, Y/N. The quicker you shower, the quicker you can get the fuck out of here,” you whisper to yourself. However, in your haste, you knock over Jimin’s towel by accident. When the towel falls, a sheet of sandpaper slips out from underneath it, and you stare bemusedly until it finally hits you.
“YOU ARE SUCH A LITTLE BITCH!”
From behind the door, you can hear Jimin’s infamous cackle. “Did you find the loofah? I got it just for you, darling!” he shouts back through his laughter, and you just grumble back in response. How on earth no one has strangled him to death, you have no idea.
“Whatever. I’m gonna shower now! Go beat off or whatever the fuck you do in your spare time,” you grouse, stripping as quickly as possible.
When the first droplets of water hit your body, you can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief. You had both anticipated and dreaded going to Jimin’s house, but you desperately needed the shower. So you go through your routine, trying to find some semblance of relaxation throughout the process. However, it seems that Jimin was yearning for a little bit of attention as he chose to recline on the other side of the door and chat your ear off. Peace was never an option, it seems.
“Hey, Y/N! So why haven’t I seen you at work recently?” Jimin hollers from his living room. Despite the wall separating you, his voice manages to retain its volume.
You squirt a large glob of Jimin’s (expensive) conditioner onto your hands. “What do you mean? I go to work every day. You were the one who hasn’t been clocking in.”
You can hear Jimin scoff. “Um, correction! I went to work last Friday, which so happened to be your day off. If I didn’t know any better, I would have assumed you were avoiding me.”
And right you are, you think. But instead, you say, “Yeah, what a coincidence. I’ll be back to my regular schedule on Monday, though.”
“So that means you didn’t see the Justin Bieber wannabe stationed outside the restaurant then?” Jimin asks, voice miffed. “The guy suddenly sat down by the entrance window and a whole damn crowd started to appear! The absolute nerve of these people—don’t they know Park Jimin was just past the doors?”
This provokes Jimin to go on his long epic soliloquy, which you’ve learned to drown out over the past two years. He could go on hour-long tirades if he wanted, and any interruption from you would just bounce off his nonfunctioning ears. And so, you allow his voice to fall to the back of your mind, similar to white noise if it wasn’t so grating.
However, this was likely your greatest mistake. If you hadn’t been so exhausted, or if Park Jimin hadn’t been so damn annoying all the time, or if the stars had aligned just right… Maybe you would have been forewarned about the incident. It’s as if the universe was screaming at you to pay attention, but alas… You were standing on the proverbial highway, unbeknownst to the incoming traffic because you had your metaphorical AirPods on.
So there you are, completely showered but none the wiser to your impending doom, naively looking to the future with unsuspecting eyes. Even if you had known of what was to come, would avoiding it even be possible? In hindsight, you suppose not, but you still kick yourself for being so blind. If only you’d steeled your heart, then maybe you wouldn’t have felt like vomiting in front of a crowd of innocent bystanders the very next day.
xxx
Monday comes and your shower still isn’t fixed. Jimin makes the benevolent gesture of allowing you to use his shower in the meantime, though you’ll only partake in his offer as minimally as possible. He does mention that he’ll need at least an hour’s notice, warning you about “accidental voyeurism.” You shudder to think of what sort of horror you might find if you did visit him without warning, and you pray for the continued well-being of your retinas.
On your way to work, you’re too busy watching cute videos of animals to notice the unusual flock of people idling close to your workplace. When you get closer, however, the growing commotion is enough to rip your gaze away from your phone, and the sight of the large crowd makes you stop in your tracks.
It is 4 pm and the usual line of waiting patrons should not start piling up for another three hours, so this confuses you more than anything. You shuffle closer, squinting at the crowd until you notice that they aren’t lined up at all; instead, they have congregated into a large circle, but you are too far to see what they are surrounding.
An accident? You worry, wondering if something terrible happened. You tiptoe above the heads of people, subtly moving forward to take a better look. Curse you and your curiosity. You take a deep breath, bracing yourself to see something grotesque or astonishing, but instead…
It’s worse.
Inching closer, you can begin to hear a soft thrumming of a guitar and a gentle singing voice that causes alarm bells to ring in your ears. The warm melody digs up old memories of a time long past: of ballads sung outside your childhood bedroom window, of promises whispered under Spiderman sheets, of tender caresses tucking stray hairs behind your ears… They flood your senses, but all you can feel is dread.
It can’t be who you think it is. You accidentally elbow a guy on your way to get closer, unsteadying his grip on his phone.
“Hey, watch it! I’m filming a totally not-staged TikTok over here!” He yells, but you can hardly pay attention to him when you feel unnaturally drawn to come closer, still.
You’re nearly at the front, with just a couple of teenagers standing between you and the (not-so) mysterious street performer. But the distance is enough, and your breath catches. You can see him—
Black hair partially hidden under a bucket hat. Boots bigger than Pangaea and a pair of eyes equally as large. Dark ink snaking down his arms, peeking out from under oversized sleeves. Piercings that could rival Park Jimin on a good day. He isn’t facing you, but you can still see his big doe eyes, gentle sloping nose, and pretty lips stretched into a handsome smile.
Your heart is thundering in your chest. This can’t be happening, you panic. After two whole years of rebuilding and reshaping yourself, relearning how to be yourself and not… not just his girlfriend.
Jeon Jungkook stands before you, busking in front of your workplace of all locations. The universe could not have been any crueler to you.
You—you had been known as nothing more than Jeon Jungkook’s high school sweetheart. Buried memories of snide comments from jealous teen girls fill your mind, reminding you of the time when you were coined a simple side piece to the main attraction. Decor, as they would call you. Nothing more than a girl who happened to snag Jungkook before people realized he was going to turn… hot. A hot guy who could sing. An inevitable chic magnet, as they would call him.
And now, years later after much therapy and soul searching, your worst nightmare is standing in front of you in the flesh. This is what you will eventually dub the incident.
At that moment, however, there is little to no time to dwell on naming this ongoing core memory. All you can feel is the adrenaline pumping through your veins, as well as the nausea rising up your throat. You stumble backward, blatantly shoving onlookers away as you struggle to find some air to breathe. In hindsight, you probably should have backed away as subtly as possible, but you hope that your dyed hair might be different enough that Jungkook wouldn’t know it was you if he had glanced your way.
Even when you stagger towards your work establishment, the walls cannot perfectly muffle his soothing singing. You can’t make out the lyrics to his song too well, but his unmistakable voice is hard to ignore. Working as a hostess, your station is also coincidentally as close to the door as possible for maximum torture.
This can’t get any worse, you think as your mind races with conflicting emotions. You thought you had moved on, thought you were past the pain and the memories, but seeing Jungkook again, unexpectedly, stirs up a storm of feelings you thought were buried deep. Anger, hurt, betrayal—all rush to the surface, threatening to overwhelm you.
But there is no time to unpack all that baggage right now. Time will continue to march on, and your job is still on the line. How can you have the time to have a mental breakdown when you were still living paycheck to paycheck?
But even as you try to push Jungkook out of your mind, his voice echoes in your ears, his image burned into your memory. It's as if the universe is laughing at your misery, reminding you that despite all your supposed growth, you are still just you.
Painfully and pathetically you.
As you struggle to pull yourself together, a familiarly loud voice rings outside the edge of your consciousness. “Hey, Y/N! Fancy seeing you here…” Jimin greets you, his usual jovial demeanor halting midway when he sees your panicked expression. He clears his throat, perplexed. “Umm… Are you alright there, girl? You’re looking a little pale.”
You do not even have the mental capacity to wonder why Park Jimin was miraculously early to his shift, nor why he seems genuinely worried for you. Rather, all you can do is wave him off and use what little time you have before the restaurant opens to steel yourself for hours of melodious torture.
“I’m fine, Park. You should get to work,” you grit out, wiping your sweaty palms on your uniform. Normally, Jimin would have teased you about the obvious wrinkles on your skirt.
“You’re not the boss of me,” Jimin huffs, always the contrarian. He thinks better of it, however, and softens his tone. “Are you feeling sick or something? You look like you just saw a ghost.”
You freeze, perhaps giving yourself away a little. “I’m fine,” you repeat.
“You know, if you refuse to elaborate, I’m going to have to retract your shower privileges,” Jimin taunts with a smirk.
You feel a migraine growing by your temple, making you wince. God, why must men be the source of all your problems?
“I’m just… a little annoyed by the busker outside the restaurant,” you eventually admit, trying to be vague. Unfortunately for you, Jimin hates beating around the bush and would never take your crap if he knows something is up.
Unable to withstand the weight of his unimpressed stare, you clarify, “He was someone I used to know, that’s all.” You aren’t going to be any more specific than that, though you imagine Jimin gets the picture. You zip your lips, hoping to whoever is causing you pain that Jimin would somehow let the matter drop and leave you to your misery.
You brace yourself for his onslaught of questioning to come, and… it doesn’t happen. Instead, when you glance at Jimin, he is mysteriously stone faced. You wait for him to speak for what feels like a few minutes, but he doesn’t show any signs of wanting to tease or ridicule you. He simply watches you with a pensive expression. You can barely stop yourself from staring back at him, slack-jawed at his silence.
Of course, you aren’t just going to question your luck, or what little you have at least. So, you stay silent back and fidget uncomfortably.
Finally, Jimin seems to snap out of his strange reverie. He fixes you with a bizarrely sympathetic grin, patting you affectionately on the back. “I see… Well, if you ever need a drink tonight, head over to the bar for a little sip. I got you covered,” is all he says in response before sashaying away.
That was so fucking weird. You want to chase after him, perhaps beat the truth out of him. Jimin is nothing but a scheming dick, and you aren’t about to let him roam free with such sensitive information about yourself. Just as you’re about to stomp his ass (perhaps to relieve some of the building tension from your weary soul), your manager pops his head from his office door.
“Y/N! Make sure you’re logged into the booking system. There’s going to be a party of 20 coming in about an hour,” he reminds you, shooting you an apologetic look. You nod back with a sigh, swiping the booking tablet from the hostess desk and scrolling through the logs. Sure enough, it is going to be a busy night despite being a Monday evening. Perhaps a little busier than usual, in fact.
Whatever. You will use whatever distraction you can get, and perhaps the approaching noise from the restaurant patrons will be enough to drown out the sound of his voice.
You aren’t religious by any means, but you pray to whatever higher power exists that Jeon Jungkook doesn’t somehow decide to enter the restaurant. Stay outside, you plead. Outside the restaurant and your life, if possible.
Throughout the evening, you do your best to push aside the memories that threaten to resurface. You greet customers with a smile, lead them to their tables, and ensure their dining experience is pleasant despite the anxiety poisoning your insides. It's a routine you've perfected over time, a shield against the chaos of your emotions.
As the night wears on, you can feel Jimin's eyes on you from across the restaurant. You sneak glances back at him, and you blanch at his pitying gaze. If the restaurant had been slightly less crowded, you would have flipped him off.
He’s probably enjoying my suffering, you think darkly. Unwilling to give him the satisfaction, you straighten up and do your best to appear more unaffected. Just as you do so, you can hear Jungkook perfectly hitting a soulful high note.
“I’m so sorry for thinking I was strong,” you whisper to the universe. “Forgive me for my insolence.” You clench your fist in anguish, ignoring the confused looks from the customers in front of you.
By the time your shift comes to a close, you are completely and utterly drained. You feel like a snail that has been continuously salted over the past eight hours, and you cannot help but cheer in relief when the clock finally strikes two in the morning. You have to wait for the last few diners to make their leave, but otherwise you are ready to let your bed swallow you whole.
You stand by your hostess desk, leaning your head against it with a defeated sigh. Jungkook’s voice had died down only a few minutes ago, and you hope that by this point he has mercifully left the premises. You want to take a peek to make sure, but just as you’re about to make your way to the door, you feel a hand on your shoulder stop you in your tracks.
“‘Sup, bitch.” Jimin still has that weird, pitying gaze pointed at you, though his words don’t match it. “Are you okay to go home alone tonight? I can bring your dumb ass home if you want.”
You shove his hand away, ready to bite his head off when you think better of it. If Jimin drives you home, then that lowers the chances of seeing Jungkook down to pretty much zero.
“You know what? Thanks,” you grouse. Jimin smiles at you winningly, and the image of it brings a shiver down your spine. You hit him, creeped out. “Hey. Stop that, will you? You’re being really weird?”
Jimin scoffs, crossing his arms. “Me? Weird? At least I don’t look like a damn firework ready to explode just because my cringelord ex-boyfriend is singing sappy love songs outside—”
“Shut the fuck up,” you seethe, stomping on his foot. He yelps in pain and slaps your shoulder in retaliation.
“Ouch! Watch your ogre feet! My shoes are worth twice your monthly rent I’ll have you know,” he bristles. He breathes deeply, likely finding his inner calm (which you doubt exists). “But because I’m so nice, I’ll ignore your earlier transgression and blame it on your underdeveloped amygdala.”
You don’t know what’s more surprising: the fact that Jimin knew what an amygdala was or that he was forgiving you in the first place. “Whatever. Let’s finish closing up and then head out. I’m exhausted.”
You make quick work of your task and when you’re ready to head out, Jimin is already waiting by the backdoor. He’s twirling his car keys with a finger and gestures for you to follow him. As you make your way to his car in the back parking lot, you catch sight of a lone figure standing next to a beat-up pickup truck. He’s leaning against it, his hands busy tuning a battered guitar.
Your breath hitches, and you immediately feel nauseous. Of course the incident has yet to end. The night is young, after all.
Jimin accidentally slams the backdoor closed, and the noise wrenches Jungkook’s attention away from his ministrations. Immediately, his eyes lock with Jimin before finally turning to you.
Your heart skips a beat as he gazes at you, your mind racing with a hurricane of emotions. You hadn’t expected to see him again so soon, especially not after the tumultuous encounter earlier in the day. What did you say earlier? That “the chances of seeing Jungkook was down to pretty much zero”?
The chances of seeing Jungkook is low, but never zero, your mind unhelpfully supplies.
There is a long period of awkward silence. Jungkook has his mouth slightly agape, his hand subconsciously lowering his guitar to rest against his truck. To your left, Jimin’s breathing quickens slightly. You, on the other hand, are trying your best not to projectile vomit in this damned parking lot.
Jungkook is the one who decides to break the delicate silence. “Is that you…?” he calls out hesitantly.
Don’t say my name don’t say my name don’t say my name don’t say my name don’t say my—
“Y/N,” Jimin interjects. His gaze is steel cold, uncharacteristic of the carefree boy. He slings an arm around your shoulders, gently nudging you towards his car. With your view still fixed on Jungkook, you miss the way Jimin shoots the other boy with a playful smirk. “C’mon, babe. Let’s go home.”
His words startle both you and Jungkook. “Wha—? Jimin?” you splutter, flushing at his flirtatious undertone. You want to curse him out for his strange behavior, but all the shock has left you mute.
Jimin all but shoves you into the passenger seat. But just as he’s about to slam the car door, you hear Jungkook call out your name. It’s fleeting and quiet, but you heard him crystal clear.
It breaks your spirit to hear him say your name. For a moment, you feel as though you are floating.
When was the last time he called your name? And so softly, too? If you could replay that moment over and over, would you be able to catch some signs of tenderness in his voice? When you close your eyes later that night, would your dreams show you that he had been gazing at you with yearning? Was any of it true?
As Jimin starts the car and pulls away from the curb, you steal one last glance out the window, only to find Jungkook staring at you with an arm outstretched. You continue to watch him until his figure disappears into the night.
You are quietly immersed in your own thoughts, the whirlwind of emotions intensifying your persistent migraine. Unaccustomed to silence, Jimin decides to give his unsolicited two cents, as per usual.
“Geez. Didn’t know you were into the whole starving artist type. If I’d known, then maybe I’d stop trying to brag about my fortune to you,” Jimin scoffs. “If loser buskers like him impress you, then maybe I should—”
“Would you shut the fuck up for once in your fucking life!” You explode, whirling to face him with a glare. Jimin has the audacity to flinch, but he doesn’t take his eyes off the road.
“What the fuck? Why the hell are you mad at me?”
“What the hell was that back there? ‘C’mon babe.’” You mimic his voice with a sneer. “Why on earth would you do that? Now he thinks that we…”
“Why do you care what he thinks? He’s your ex, remember?” Jimin cuts you off, but you can’t even refute him. He continues, “Figured as much. And judging by how spooked you’ve looked all day, I have to assume that he was an asshole, right? Why else would you accept my offer for a ride home if you really wanted to avoid seeing him?”
You shrink under his accurate assumptions. Damn, were you really that easy to read? “I… I mean, yeah but…” You clear your throat, still feeling wronged by him. “You didn’t have to act like a weird prick in front of him!”
Without warning, the floodgates burst forth. You begin to ramble, the thoughts that have been weighing you down pouring out of you in waves. “Jungkook was my ex, yeah. But he wasn’t an asshole. On the contrary, he was really sweet. The nicest guy in my school, at least. Wouldn’t hurt a fly, that sort of person. I dated him all throughout high school and he was a great partner.”
Jimin hums skeptically. “Then why the messy break-up?”
“It wasn’t messy!” You retort defensively.
“Could’ve fooled me!” Jimin snorts. “I also frequently act like a trembling kitten when I see my exes,” he says sarcastically.
You ignore him. “The reason we broke it off was because he wanted to pursue his dreams to become a singer after high school and I wanted to do other things. It was a mutual break-up! Honestly, I’m glad that we did. Too many girls wanted him and all the unwanted attention was getting on my nerves. I was glad to find a reason to end it all,” you explain, hoping you didn’t sound as shaky as you felt. What you said was mostly true, though you left out the important bits to yourself. Mostly to save some of your dignity intact. (Truthfully, you just didn’t want to admit things you weren’t ready to face.)
“Then if you’re so glad, why do you look like you wanted to shit yourself? It ain’t adding up,” Jimin fires back.
“It’s just—” you stammer, trying to find a reason why you were so bent out of shape after seeing him. “I-I was caught off guard, I guess. I knew he was pursuing his dreams to sing and all, so I expected him to leave the country. I wasn’t expecting to see him outside where I work, of all places,” you mutter lamely. You have your head bowed, biting your lips from the nerves. Again, you weren’t totally lying.
Jimin is silent for a moment, contemplating your admission. When he looks so calm like this, it’s hard to get a read on what he’s thinking. As Jimin speeds down the highway, the street lights illuminate his face in a strange way, and for once, he looks like a stranger. His steely expression makes you nervous, for some reason.
Eventually, he asks you a question you would never have expected. “And he just let you go?”
You pause. “What do you mean?”
“I mean…” Jimin huffs, irritated. “He just up and left without a fight? If I were him, I would have…” he trails off, his jaw clenching.
You don’t know where this Jimin came from. Under the moonlight, Jimin looks livid, but that can’t be right. Jimin, mad for you? Sure, you’ve seen his anger directed towards you, but this? Everything’s gotten so complicated, and you are just about ready to succumb to sleep and hope to wake from this nightmare.
The rest of the drive to your house is silent, save for the sounds coming from passing cars. Jimin pulls up to your apartment complex, his mysterious anger finally subsiding.
Just as you’re about to reach for the car door handle, Jimin places a hand on your shoulder. “Listen, Y/N. I’ll talk to management tomorrow morning. I know the manager well enough that I can probably convince him to do something about that ex of yours. He’s busking on private property, so it should be easy to get rid of him,” Jimin says, tone serious. He swallows, and for a moment you think he looks a little nervous. “If that’s what you want, I guess.”
His kindness scares you. You want to tease him, ask him where Mr. Bitchy and his $2000 Chelsea boots had gone. Anything to make this air of severe sincerity to abate. This new Jimin feels suffocating. But instead, you nod your head stiffly.
Jimin makes a pained expression for a moment, but it’s quickly replaced by his usual playful smirk. He slaps you upside the head, laughing heartily at your stunned face.
“Get some rest, babe. I’ll see you tomorrow evening,” he chuckles, reaching over to open the door for you. You scramble out into the cold city air, taking one last look back at him through his window.
He rolls it down, leaning forward to flash a toothy grin at you. “Hey, stop with all the angst, pookie. Wouldn’t want my favorite toy to get sick from overthinking. Who else would I bother at work if not you?”
You snort, both endeared and irritated in equal measure. He’s right. Everything was going back to normal tomorrow, you’re sure of it. You flip him off with a cheeky grin before making your way to your apartment.
Everything is going to be okay. Jimin says he’ll do something about it, and for whatever reason, you feel like you can trust him on this. Surely good fortune was soon to be upon you.
xxx
Jimin had texted you while you were still sleeping:
Spoke to Manager Jeong about your little problem. He said he’ll deal with him.
You breathe a sigh of relief, your body feeling significantly lighter. Your sleep last night had been tumultuous and restless. You feel more tired than you did when you went to bed, but all your weariness fades once you read Jimin’s text.
Once you make it to work, you find that management has gotten rid of Jungkook somehow. Added with the fact that your landlord has promised to look into repairing your shower (no guarantees, but you want to stay optimistic), today has been significantly better compared to yesterday. You even catch yourself humming as you set up your workstation, a small smile gracing your lips.
Jimin has a later shift this evening, and you find that you are somewhat disappointed for once. Your overwhelming gratitude is surely the only reason, otherwise you would never admit to wanting to see him at any given time.
You are in the midst of texting Jimin about all the good news when your manager passes by your desk. You are quick to pocket your phone away from his prying eyes, ready to defend that you aren’t slacking off… but his demeanor does not reveal any ire. In fact, he looks rather pleased for once.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Jeong. What’s up?” you ask, suspicious. You instinctively fold your hands behind your back; it is a subconscious effort on your part to keep your distance from him. Something about your manager always gives you a bad feeling when he looks a little too happy.
He grins widely. “Everything is going splendidly, Ms. Y/N. In fact, I think today might just be our lucky day!”
Never during your time working here has his and your luck ever coincided. “Our lucky day?” you echo.
“Why, yes! I spoke with your lovely friend and coworker Jimin this morning,” he starts, and immediately your alarm bells ring. You don’t even bother correcting him about the ‘friend’ part like you normally would. He continues, “He gave me a brilliant idea about the busker who had been performing in front of the restaurant the past two days.”
You nod slowly, not quite understanding. “Yes… The busker has been quite… the spectacle,” you say carefully. Somehow, you know calling Jungkook a ‘nuisance’ would have been the wrong choice in this instance.
Manager Jeong beams. “Exactly! You must have noticed the amount of people we served yesterday despite being a Monday. Additionally, almost all of those new customers requested outdoor seating no less!”
You feel the world tilt on its axis. What is he on abou—?
“What are you talking about?” you exhale.
“Don’t you think it would be even better for business if we got that busker to perform inside the restaurant? Why, it’s a brilliant idea and I don’t know why I didn’t think of it first! Our live band has always been missing something special, and perhaps a vocal accompaniment is the exact answer to our problem! Think about it, the atmosphere would be…”
Manager Jeong continues to prattle animatedly about his plans to your unhearing ears. There must be static or cotton plugging your head because you cannot possibly understand anything he is saying. Jungkook? Inside? Performing at your restaurant? But Jimin said he had spoken to the manager about getting Jungkook away from you! None of this makes sense.
“That makes no sense,” you verbalize, unknowingly cutting Manager Jeong from his monologue. He halts in surprise, as if now just realizing you were standing there (much less capable of interrupting or disagreeing with him). When he snaps out of it, you sense that familiarly sinister aura emerging from him in waves. You belatedly realize he must have mistaken your outburst as antagonistic.
“Well, Ms. Y/N. Whether it makes sense or not, we have hired Mr. Jeon to perform live at the bar stage for the next four weeknights. If, for some unknowable reason, I am incorrect,” he pauses to emphasize his words, “then his services will be promptly terminated. However, judging by his popularity from simply standing out in the cold and singing silly love songs, I am sure that worry is unwarranted.”
Behind you, the telltale sound of the main door swinging open catches you even more off guard. You do not even have the chance to turn to face the newcomer, only managing to register the gust of cold wind that accompanies their entry.
And so, you hear him before you see him.
“Hello?” Jeon Jungkook greets quietly.
Even without turning, you can imagine how he looks, how he stands, how he feels, how he tastes—
Manager Jeong claps his hands gleefully. “Splendid timing! Speak of the devil…” The older man nearly skips towards Jungkook like a youthful school girl, accompanied by his uncharacteristic squeals of excitement.
You can feel his gaze on you, almost tangibly. With nothing but your shreds of dignity left intact, you force yourself to face him.
He’s still so tall, is all your mind can helpfully supply as you stand feet away from your high school sweetheart for the first time in two years. He’s still wearing the same bucket hat from the night before, semi-shielding him from view. Despite that, you catch a small flash of white graze his bottom lip as he chews the soft flesh nervously.
“Hi, Y/N.” He addresses you directly, completely overlooking your manager without a single glance. Despite his hat, he still has his eyes lasered on you, as if not quite believing you were there. You hate how his attention makes you shiver all the same.
Even though he ignored your manager (which would have been a major dispute had you done the same), Jungkook still receives a friendly handshake in return. “Mr. Jeon! I’m surprised you know Ms. Y/N, though I’m sure you must have spoken with her when she was escorting guests to the outdoor seating the other day.”
You had actually gotten your co-hostess to seat all the outdoor seatings yesterday, but you weren’t going to mention that.
Manager Jeong claps him on the back, inadvertently causing Jungkook to stumble forward closer to you. He looks up at you then, eyes bugging out of their sockets like a rabbit caught in a bear trap. You stagger backwards in turn, barely concealing the anxiety on your face. Oh fucking hell.
Your manager is none the wiser, of course. “Well, this makes my job much easier! Since you’re both acquainted, I’ll let Y/N show you the ropes. The band doesn’t start their set until later in the evening, but you’re free to take a look at the stage and other parts of our facility in the meantime,” he says, chuffed. Meanwhile, Jungkook looks like he’s been shot by a freeze ray.
Then, your manager points a sharper gaze at you. “Ms. Y/N, treat our super star well. I know you won’t disappoint me.”
Fucking superstar… You can only nod in defeat. “Y-Yes, sir…” you whisper, clenching your uniform with your fists. It is the only way to keep them from shaking like a leaf. You watch as his figure disappears behind his office door, leaving you to fend for yourself. Powerless, you train your gaze to the floor, unwilling to meet Jungkook’s eyes.
But the nerves are taking control of your body, screaming at you to eject, eject, eject!
“Sorry, I have to go to the toilet,” you splutter quickly, almost tripping over yourself on the way to the restroom. You dimly wonder if Jungkook is going to think you’re leaving to throw up, but you can’t find any self-respect left to care. All you need is air and space to breathe—preferably away from him.
You slam open the stall, hardly checking to see if anyone else is around before locking the door shut. You sit on the toilet, plant your face between your knees, and scream.
Should you go home and use sickness as an excuse? But even if you did, you still had shifts every weeknight. You would have to see him eventually. You can pray all you want that Jungkook will be fired by the end of the week, but even your delusional mind can never fathom the idea that anyone would willingly want to send Jeon Jungkook away. Plus, you remember that the regular band that plays at the restaurant has been wanting to get a singer to accompany them for ages, and you know just how damn affable he can be. They are going to love him, and you hate him for that.
It is clear to you that there is no other option:
You pull out your phone to quickly open up Indeed on your browser, frantically hunting for any openings that might fit your measly qualifications. However, you have to pause in your search to deliberate. Wouldn’t it be better to move out of the country? You had been so naive to think that moving cities was enough distance between you and Jungkook—going across the ocean is the obvious answer. Should you start up your Duolingo lessons again and hope that you can somehow survive in a different continent with only a few dollars to your name?
You shut your phone in despair. Whether or not your plans of escape are feasible or not, in the short term, you are stuck with having to suck it up and just learn to ignore your ex-boyfriend’s presence. Surely you can force out a fake smile or two, especially with how much practice you’ve gotten after working with unbearably entitled customers.
Taking a step outside of the restroom stall, you head to the sink to splash some cold on your face. You stare at the mirror, confronted by a girl who looks two seconds away from having a Netflix Original-esque meltdown. You rake your fingers through your hair, doing your best to look like you aren’t about to rush into incoming traffic. To no one's surprise, it doesn't work.
“Okay, I got this. Just pretend like he’s just some guy, because at the end of the day, he is just some guy,” you mutter to your reflection. She looks back at you unconvinced. “He may have broken my heart into little bite size pieces, but who cares! HE’S JUST A GUY!” You repeat the phrase over and over again like a lunatic, in a desperate attempt to cognitively alter your brain chemistry.
At that moment, one of the other stalls in the restroom creaks open, and a girl you recognize who works as one of the dishwashers walks out. You both have a silent eye conversation as she quietly studies your crazed expression and crumpled work uniform.
Eventually, she awkwardly clears her throat, pointing to the only sink in the restroom. “Uh, sorry to hear about your, uh, guy problem. Could I use the sink please?”
You hastily back away, allowing her to take your spot. You don’t even have the energy to apologize for your spectacle, just bowing sheepishly to her before making your way back to the main hall. If she rats you out to the rest of your coworkers, then that gives you another reason to move out of the country. Maybe you should consider a name change while you’re at it.
When you exit the restroom, you half expect Jungkook to be waiting for you by the door, but find that he isn’t anywhere nearby. He isn’t by your hostess station either, and you thank your lucky stars for once. Even if your manager had asked you to show him around, you’re sure that Jungkook can find his way around just fine. Plus, the stage is at the corner of the restaurant and is sufficiently far enough that you wouldn’t have to make eye contact with him if you were careful.
You don’t know which greater entity has been messing with your sanity these past few days, but you hope that they can show you mercy just once—a brief reprieve, if anything.
You clasp your hands in prayer. I’ll eat more vegetables, I’ll remember to floss, I’ll call my parents from time to time… Just please let me survive tonight.
“Remember, Y/N… He’s just some guy,” you reiterate through gritted teeth. If a passing coworker happens to overhear your demented chanting, then you pay them no mind.
You walk towards the entrance, flipping the sign to open. You feel like a video game character when you glance at the clock, which signals the start of your shift. You can imagine the red bold text hovering above your head: 8 more hours until freedom.
This is just like playing Five Nights at Freddy’s, except you’ve only watched the movie and you suspect your life is probably worse than whatever Josh Hutcherson had to survive through.
You take a couple heaving breaths to brace yourself for what will be the longest eight hours of your life. You’ll show Jungkook just how well-adjusted and mature you’ve become. You are a professional, and not even a boy with angelic vocals will make you crumble. After all, what’s the worst he can do?
xxx
He could, in fact, do a lot worse than you thought.
“I have many regrets being born at all,” you mutter bleakly, three hours into your shift.
Jungkook had started singing only an hour ago, so you had been filled with false confidence at first when the restaurant was filled with nothing but ambient chatter and soothing jazz music. You felt more and more confident as the minutes ticked by and your anxiety slowly melted away. You even forgot that he was somewhere in the back, likely warming up or whatever it is that singers did before a performance.
However, your brief moment of courage shatters almost immediately when Jungkook finally takes the stage.
At first, you did your best to tune out his voice, but it’s especially hard when whoever was in charge of the sound system decided to crank his volume to an excruciating level. You wanted desperately to grab some napkins and shove them in your ears, but you suspected that your customers (and manager) would be unappreciative of that gesture. And so there you lay, forced to wallow in Jungkook’s melodious singing like a criminal strapped to an electric chair.
But how much more pleasant an electric chair would be! Why on earth was Jungkook so adamant to sing sad love songs the entire time? Why couldn’t he be like his other singing contemporaries, who loved to write songs about getting bitches and making money? At the very least, even if he wasn’t quite a platinum selling artist just yet, surely he was constantly sharing beds with anyone he pleases? Couldn’t he sing about that?!
(In the back of your mind, you wonder if it would be less painful to learn that Jungkook has slept with multiple people… Because then, it would mean that he had moved on while you stood alone on your island, stranded and yearning.)
You didn’t want to think too deeply about his lyrics. However, you're only human. So when your mind barrier failed and you caught snippets of his singing, you noticed a pattern. There was always a girl in his songs. She was omnipresent, and Jungkook was always pleading for her. Begging and aching and wanting. But most all… he was always repenting. In every song, he always whispered a pious apology.
You feared what would happen if you turned around in those moments of weakness. You were terrified of admitting something, of letting words spill that had been trapped in your throat for the better part of two years.
Lucky for you, salvation comes in the form of one Park Jimin. Though, can you even count him as your savior when he had also inadvertently caused your demise?
Jimin doesn’t even have a shift today, so you’re more than surprised when his bright blonde head stumbles through the restaurant doors. His expensive coat is askew and his signature designer shades are nowhere to be found. He is panic incarnate—an expression you have never seen on his face before.
“Holy fuck,” he greets, his chest heaving as he struggles to catch his breath. His profanity startles the elderly couple waiting to be seated, their glares menacingly sharp. To his credit, Jimin doesn’t even seem phased.
In lieu of an answer, you gesture vaguely behind you. You can imagine how dejected you must look. “Holy fuck indeed,” you sigh.
It takes a moment for Jimin to regain his bearings. He straightens up and pats down his coat, but his hair is still tousled by the wind. If not for the fact that he has a car, you might have thought he had run all the way here.
“I am so sorry. I didn’t know this was going to happen,” he starts, genuinely remorseful. “I texted Manager Jeong this morning and he said he’d get your ex to leave, but I didn’t think he’d offer the damn bastard a job!”
“Mind your language, Park. I’m still at work,” you scold. You try your best to ignore the scrutinizing gaze of the elderly couple. You lower your voice. “And don’t apologize. I know you’re an asshole, but I doubt you’d actually prey on my downfall like this. I know you’re not into public humiliation.”
Jimin brightens slightly at your joke, but he still looks like a guilty puppy who'd been caught shitting on the carpet. “Yeah, well. I happen to enjoy tormenting you and I won’t let some upstart Charlie Puth wannabe ruin your life. That’s my job.”
You smile wryly at him. “Well, that’s too bad. Jungkook’s been singing for a few hours now and I’m pretty sure Manager Jeong is going to keep him long-term. He might have broken my heart, but damn does he have vocals. I'm sure you'll have plenty competition when it comes to 'who can make Y/N's life feel like hell.'”
Jimin doesn't smile back, but instead studies your face for a moment. Then:
“Do you think if I offer to suck Manager Jeong off, he’ll fire him?”
“What the fuck?” You nearly yell out in surprise, your jaw dropping to the floor. Judging by his serious scowl, you know he's actually considering it. By now, the elderly couple waiting to be seated have left the premises.
Jimin continues, unperturbed. “I know he secretly wants me, based on how his wife seems to have a personal vendetta against me. He definitely wants a taste of my bus—.”
“Stop, I get it!” You wave your hands to make him shut up, heat rising up your cheeks. “Never say that string of words to me ever again. You have just inflicted ten years of suffering onto my poor brain.”
“Hey, I’m just offering solutions here!” Jimin pouts.
You stare at him, unimpressed. “Save it. You tried solving my problems already, so let’s just accept the fact that there’s nothing else for me to do but to suck it up. It’s time for me to put on my big girl pants for a change.”
“I mean, I could do all the sucking instead, but you’re being a little bitch about it,” Jimin mumbles. He’s lucky you didn’t hear him this time, lest you give him something to really whine about.
“Anyway, I guess this is my life now. Nothing to do except hope that he never tries to interact with me or I can find another job,” you shrug.
Over your shoulder, Jimin fixes Jungkook with an icy glare that is cold enough to give you the shivers. For the first time that entire night, you hazard a glance back at the stage, finding that Jungkook is already looking back at you.
You whip your head back forward, perspiration forming down your back. For fuck’s sake, this guy.
“Well, let me know if he tries anything. I’ll beat that little freak into the floor if he tries so much as breathing the same air as you.” Jimin huffs, puffing up his chest with false bravado. You can’t help but laugh at his empty threat, knowing that Jungkook could probably bench press Jimin without breaking a sweat. Jimin's muscles are only for aesthetics, after all.
“Don’t worry, he hasn’t actually spoken to me actually. He can keep singing his sad little love songs, I really don’t mind,” you say, like a liar. Jimin snorts, wholly unconvinced.
“Well, if you need me, I’m heading to the bar to grab a drink so I can stare at your ex uncomfortably until he leaves. See you!” Jimin bids you farewell with a cheery grin as he skips a little too happily inside the restaurant.
Why'd you have to befriend the largest lunatic in the city? You massage your forehead with a groan, willing away your growing headache.
The rest of the night trickles away like molasses. Jungkook continues to sing his heart out, save for an hour intermission where he presumably takes a short break. In his absence, you hear Jimin guffaw loudly, his laughter too sharp to be considered happy. You faintly hear Jungkook shy stutters in response, and you momentarily consider running in to interrupt.
Why? Did you want to save Jungkook from Jimin’s unnecessary harassment? It’s not like Jimin is doing it out nowhere, he was just trying to be… a good friend?
You pause to ponder. As much as you hate to admit it, you know why you want to help Jungkook. But Jimin on the other hand? Why did he want to help you? Questions begin flowing through your head like a whirlwind, and your nausea increases. God, when was your next therapy appointment again?
You save those questions for another day. As you look at your watch, there are only thirty minutes left until two in the morning. You tap your foot impatiently, smiling curtly at departing customers as the restaurant slowly emptied. As they left, you overhear some of your regulars giggling amongst themselves, whispering about the cute new singer and his charming demeanor.
The last nail on your coffin has been hammered. Yeah, Jungkook isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.
With the restaurant closing soon, it sounds like Jungkook is ready to end his set as well.
Throughout the night, Jungkook rarely made a point to speak. The only time he didn’t sing was when he quietly introduced the title of his next song and the band swiftly began the first opening notes. For his last song, however, Jungkook decided to give a little more backstory for his final song.
“Hello, everyone. Thank you so much for listening to me for the night,” Jungkook says with a soft voice, his tone awfully shy despite his powerful belting throughout the evening. The few customers left give him a warm round of applause, and you hear the familiar sound of his timid giggles spill from the restaurant speakers.
“This will be my final song for the night. Most of the songs I sang today were covers, but this one is an original. I…” He hesitates for a moment, and something pulls you to turn despite the alarm bells ringing in your ears. You face him, and just like earlier in the evening, he is already looking back at you.
This time, you don’t look away; he does. His eyes flit to the ceiling, and he licks his lips from nerves. “I… I wrote this song a long while ago. I’ve never sang it in public before and I never thought it would ever see the light of day. Until, well…”
He stops again. This time, he gestures to the guitarist in the band, silently asking to borrow it. With a guitar in hand, he smiles a little more confidently at the small crowd of people. He begins strumming the first few notes, and your heart stops. “I hope everyone had a pleasant evening. Get home safe and have a great rest of your week. My name is Jungkook, and this last song is called…”
Before he can sing the first line of his song, you make a break for it.
You slam the restaurant doors open, and the stinging cold air immediately pierces their fangs into your skin. Your coat is still inside, but you can’t bring yourself to reenter. You take a long breath, the chill barely registering in your mind with how loudly your heart is pounding in your ears.
Hearing the opening to that song was enough to bring you back in time, three years ago:
You are in his childhood bedroom, his walls littered with concert posters and his floor a mess with unfolded laundry and guitar picks. The afternoon sun is streaming through his windows, bathing him in gold. You have an exam the next day and he has cram school to go to, but you’ve both chucked your books somewhere on his desk, left forgotten.
He has his eyes closed, concentrated. You’re both on his small twin bed, squished together side by side and thighs touching. You have your head on his shoulder and he has his hands on his guitar. He strums a few chords experimentally and sings a melody that only the two of you know.
(Not anymore.)
“Are you writing a new song?” you ask, voice a little scratchy. Neither of you had spoken for the past few hours, just basking in the setting sun and Jungkook’s indistinct strumming. But now, his chords sound more sure, more certain of something.
“Yeah, I just thought of it,” he hums. He opens his eyes a smidge, a smitten smile on his lips. You mirror him.
“What’s it about this time?”
His brows furrow. “I’ve been trying to write about other stuff, you know? Namjoon-hyung tells me it’s important that songs have meaning and impact.” He pauses in his strumming, looking a little conflicted. “And I get what he means. Art is all about saying something, but… I can’t help that there’s only one thing I ever want to talk about. Is that so wrong?”
You chuckle, understanding what he means. You nudge your head against his cheek, grinning from ear to ear. The fluttering in your chest has become routine to you at this point, but he somehow always knows how to increase it tenfold. “God, you’re such a sweet talker. Really, Koo. There’s no need to serenade with love songs—I’m already yours.”
He looks back at you, brimming with tender affection. “I know,” he responds. Then, he takes a pen from his bedside table, and begins writing.
During those years of dating him, you always thought that If he was a waterfall, then you were a teaspoon. You desperately tried to be enough for him, but you’re barely able to fathom the depth of his devotion. Everything about him was excessive, and you could seldom understand how he managed to contain himself. He was born to share himself, to tear bits of his soul so that the world may understand him, love him. His songs were a testament that he was trying to do that, and you always felt so lucky to be able to receive him, wholly and fully.
How cruel was it that Jungkook uses that same song to rip open the barely healed scab on your heart, leaving you bare and stinging and raw all over again.
You have no idea how long you've stood there in the cold. It must have been barely a few minutes when Jimin finds his way to you. He wordlessly shrugs his coat off and places it on your shoulders, but you make no move to acknowledge him.
You hope your silence is enough for Jimin to infer that you are not in a conversational mood, but he’s nothing if not impatient. He forcibly pulls you to face him, his hands warm even through your clothing.
“Hey, you good? Did something happen?” He asks with barely concealed irritation, but it’s not directed at you. Still, you flinch at his scathing tone, shrinking in on yourself. In your daze, you vaguely notice his resemblance to an angry baby chick.
“It’s nothing. Go back inside, I’ll be right there,” you mumble lamely, weakly pushing him back towards the restaurant. Jimin does not budge, instead leveling you with a hard stare. This time, you’re sure his irritation is for you.
“You idiot, you literally ran out like someone was out to get you. Of course it’s not nothing,” he grouses.
You sigh tiredly, shaking your head at him. “We can talk later. It’s almost closing time and I just want to go home and sleep.”
Before Jimin can argue further, the door to the restaurant opens once more, but it isn’t a leaving customer.
“What the fuck? What are you doing out here?” Jimin all but shouts at Jungkook. He holds up an accusatory finger at him and uses his other hand to nudge you behind him as if to shield you.
Jungkook winces, instinctively stepping back. Despite being a few inches taller than Jimin, Jungkook’s timidness makes him look smaller. “I… I was just worried about her—”
“Don’t you have a song to finish in there? Talk about professional,” Jimin spits out. Jimin maneuvers you so that Jungkook can’t see you, but you manage to catch sight of how his gaze follows you unfailingly.
“I finished up my set. It’s closing time.” Jungkook responds coolly. He’s still a little quiet, but you can sense some of his natural composure rising to the surface. When he needs to be, Jungkook has been known to stand his ground—usually when it comes to matters involving you.
At this time of the night and after hours of mental torture, the last thing you need is to watch your two worst nightmares duke it out in front of your work establishment. You are beyond exhausted, and you hardly have the fortitude to withstand another minute of their voices ringing in your ears.
Your eyes well up with tears of frustration, causing the two boys to freeze up in panic. You don’t give them the chance to fuss over you; instead, you haphazardly wipe your cheeks before roughly pushing them back towards the restaurant.
“Get back to work, you idiots.” Your voice sounds warbled even to your own ears, but you push past your overwhelming emotions in favor of getting back inside to close up. Hell, you might even call in sick tomorrow, just so you can cry pathetically into your bowl of cereal in solitude.
“I’m not even on the clock today!” Jimin complains faintly, but you only push him harder.
When you all reenter, you walk back to your desk and pointedly ignore the two of them until they awkwardly float away from your orbit. Despite the distance they give you, their gazes are still fixed plainly on you and they feel like knives digging into your back.
Eventually, all the final customers of the day take their leave, and your remaining coworkers start dimming the lights and bidding their goodbyes. From the corner of your eye, you see Jungkook bowing respectfully to the band, who were giving him friendly pats on the back for a job well done. Jimin walks toward you, his car keys dangling from his left pinky.
“No thanks. I’ll take the bus home today,” you declare before he can offer a ride. Jimin opens his mouth like a goldfish, flapping his lips dumbly as he stares at you in shock. You have no idea why he’s so surprised, given how you’ve been making it obvious that you need some space.
He looks like he wants to argue again, but thinks better of it. A singular moment of restraint from Park Jimin, which is an act you once thought impossible. Maybe he does care about you more than you thought.
He stiffly nods at you, shoving his hands and keys into his pockets. He still has a frown on his face when he tells you to text him when you get home. You flip him off with a shaky smirk in response, a feeble attempt to bring some levity back to your now tense relationship. It works a little, and Jimin brightens up significantly. How simple-minded of him.
With a flippant wave, you leave work and head towards your bus stop. At this hour of the night, the streets are mostly dim, save for some street lamps and bars that stay open longer than your restaurant. There are always some people milling about, enough that you never feel too on edge about how late it is. Still, your bus stop is often empty, leaving you to mull over your thoughts in peace.
You are in the midst of jamming your earbuds into your ear when a presence makes itself known beside you.
Is it possible to go through the five stages of grief in under a second? You suppose not, but it’s hard to tell what sort of emotions swim through you when you come face to face with Jeon Jungkook again.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” you mutter under your breath. You pause the song playing on your phone to glare at him with as much venom as you can muster.
Jungkook holds up his hands in surrender, doe eyes wide like prey. “I-I’m heading home too! I’m not following you, I swear!”
You groan internally. Figures that you and Jungkook take the same bus home. But hold on— “Don’t you have a car? I remember you were parked near the restaurant the other night,” you note, squinting at him.
Jungkook looks sheepish as he rubs the back of his neck. “Oh, yeah. That car was my hyung’s. He lets me borrow it sometimes, but he needed it tonight.”
“Sure…” You level him with a skeptical frown. You remember his hyung, but don’t recall him ever owning a car. You aren’t even sure that his Namjoon-hyung is allowed by the country to drive a car, much less own one.
He could be lying, but you don’t want to give him an excuse to continue any conversation. So, you busy yourself with your phone and keep your head bowed away from him.
When the bus arrives, Jungkook makes it a point to sit a few rows behind you. Thankfully, he has a better understanding of social cues than a certain Park that you know. He leaves you alone, but your entire body still feels like a rope pulled taut. You have to convince yourself not to look behind you, your morbid curiosity scratching your insides raw.
You are in the home stretch now, and it’ll only be a few more minutes before you get to your stop and make your way to your safe haven. Hell resumes the next day and the next, but at the very least you’ll have your home to yourself. No one could take that away from you.
Again, this is where you learn that tempting fate is never a good idea.
When you exit the bus at your stop, you can hear his footsteps following you. It’s hard not to notice, especially when his large and distracting boots make such a distinct racket that makes him so Jungkook.
You hasten your pace towards your apartment complex, your shoulders hunched and hands shoved into your coat pockets in an attempt to hinder the bile rising from your stomach. He had promised that he wasn’t following you, but that proclamation seems to be standing on feeble legs with how long he’s been on your tail now.
Your street is filled with rows of low-rise apartment buildings, so you hope that if anything happens, you can yell as loud as you can and alert some compassionate neighbor to come to your aid. (Not that you think he would ever physically harm you, but… You can’t say the same about your mental state.)
Your home is just two buildings away from where you are, but Jungkook still seems determined to follow you to the end. You all but skip the remaining feet to your apartment entrance, your breath coming out in puffs as you finally muster up the courage to face your supposed stalker and give him a piece of your mind.
“If this is some convoluted way for you to find out where I live, then you aren’t being very subtle about it,” you say, your chin held up high despite the growing urge to vomit pathetically in front of your ex-boyfriend. You have your hand rested on the doorknob, just a moment’s notice away from bolting into your house if the need for a quick getaway arises.
To your surprise, Jungkook wasn’t following you as closely as you expected. He had stopped trailing you about two buildings down, his own hand poised on the door with a look of genuine shock.
You both stand there, staring at each other as mutual understanding dawns on the two of you.
Everyday, the universe learns of more creative ways to be cruel.
“Oh…” Jungkook’s voice falters. He looks simultaneously frightened and amazed, as if he too finds this entire situation unbelievably harsh. He swallows thickly, looking at you and back to his door in quick succession. “Well… This is a strange coincidence,” he murmurs.
You want to believe that this was his entire fault, that Jungkook had somehow managed to track you down to haunt you for the rest of your days. You want to believe that he’s a crazed stalker who is willing to find where you work and live so that every hour of your wretched life is filled with nothing but reminders of what-could-have-beens. You just want someone to blame instead of just the cosmos—you want someone tangible to hate so that your suffering can be given some sort of identity. You want to give your mourning and hurt a name so that you can learn how to heal.
You want to believe all of that, but it’s hard to do so when Jungkook looks so incredibly uncomfortable, as if he’d rather melt into the shadows and never be seen again.
In all your memories, you have never seen Jungkook look so small.
You heave a big sigh, your fingers grasping the door knob so tightly that you half-expect it to be dented from the force. You linger for a moment, your mouth opening but nothing spills out.
What is there to say? What do you say to an ex-boyfriend that you haven’t seen in two years, who is suddenly so deeply entwined in your life once more? Do you tell him goodnight? Tell him to stay away? Tell him to come home with you?
Jungkook looks equally as conflicted. His lips are pursed tight with words left unsaid. You aren’t sure whether you want to punch the confession out of his mouth or seal them up forever. It feels like eons before he finally breaks the silence with a mirthless laugh.
“I… I just wanted to say—back at the restaurant. When I sang that last song,” Jungkook begins, and his voice feels loud because of how empty the streets are. For a moment, you are reminded of a cathedral you once visited during a vacation, how sacred silence can be. The world holds its breath, waiting for him to speak.
“I meant it all. Every word. Every lyric. I never stopped…”
He trails off, shrugging his shoulders. He stares at you helplessly, but you don’t know what to say. You don’t want to listen any more, but your feet are planted to the ground. You’re frozen like a deer in headlights, forced to brace against him as he crashes into you.
He continues, “And when we broke up back then… I never wanted that to happen. You broke it off before we could even try something—and I hated how I didn’t fight for you harder. I let you misunderstand me because I was afraid you wouldn’t want to stick around if I didn’t succeed. I convinced myself that I was holding you down, but I never gave you—us—a chance. I never stopped regretting it since.”
“Me? Break up with you?” You echo incredulously. That statement is enough to break you from your trance, the telltale signs of indignation rising up your chest. “How dare you suggest—Me? You were the one who broke up with me, asshole! You were the one who broke my heart and decided to up and leave to god knows where! Only to miraculously respawn right next to me, groveling at my feet with sad love songs as if that’s enough for me to forgive and forget? Fucking entitled bastard,” you seethe.
Somehow, Jungkook manages to shrink more, like a bunny with his tail tucked between his legs. “Yes, you’re right that I broke your heart but… When I told you I was moving away to try and become a singer, it was always with the intention of staying together. I know it would have been difficult, but I wanted you to be with me through thick and thin. But when you misunderstood and took it as a break up, I let you go because, well… I was scared that it would happen eventually. Who wants to date a broke busking fool anyway?”
He laughs, but it sounds watery. He sniffles, and you hope it's only because of the cold. “I tried looking for you, but you blocked me everywhere and no one from back home seemed to know where you went. So I just accepted that we’d never see each other again… Until a few days ago, that is.”
A misunderstanding? Is that what everything boils down to? Years of trying to build yourself back up again, relearning what it means to be happy—all the fallen domino pieces in your life trailing back to a single moment in time? All because Jungkook was scared that you didn't love him enough?
You’ve never felt angrier in your life. You fear what you might say if you continue to stand outside there, face to face with the singular person strong enough to whittle you down to the bone. Jeon Jungkook is all soft smiles and sweet songs, but how come he’s always able to knock you off your axis? Few people on this earth can stitch you up and break you down in equal measure, but somehow, Jungkook manages to do all that and more.
Then, comes the guilt. Had it been all your fault? That you hadn't returned his love in equal measure? Had you secretly given up on the hope of being on his level? Always looking down on yourself: unable to move past your insecurities. Were you terrified of being his side piece, his girlfriend, forever?
Who are you, even? And where do you stand?
(Beside him, is what you want to answer. You don't know if that's the right choice.)
You can’t bear to look at him, least of all answer him. Without another word, you shove your house key into the door before slamming it shut despite the late hour. If you awaken any neighbors, you’ll apologize later. For now, all you require is sleep and hope that this has been all a terrible nightmare.
xxx
Reality is a bitter pill to swallow.
Jeon Jungkook continues to sing at the restaurant, and after only two days of repeat stellar performances, your manager decides to promote him as the official vocalist for the band. It hurts to admit that you're not the least bit surprised; you might have a hard time looking at him, but you can never deny his talent.
His song list has added a larger variety of genres ever since his first performance. That is to say, he isn’t always singing about lost loves and tragic couples every night. Perhaps it is due to some requests from customers or his other bandmates, but it doesn’t stop him from sprinkling one or two love songs into the mix.
He doesn’t sing any original songs ever again. That, at least, is a small mercy. He doesn’t make any moves to speak with you either, despite the daily awkward trips back home after the end of your shifts. Whether that’s because he’s given up on you (again), or he’s waiting for you to make the first move, you don’t know. Frankly, you don’t think you have the energy (nor courage) to do anything about it.
It’s a few weeks after Jungkook’s first performance at the restaurant, and closing time is approaching. You appreciate Friday nights the most because it means you’ll have two consecutive days to relax and avoid your problems. It’s also the busiest night of the week, when white-collar workers decide to drink and eat for as long as the night allows them. Busier nights mean more distractions, and you’re willing to deal with twenty Karens over one Jungkook.
During nights like these, your manager occasionally asks you to fulfill some waitress duties when there aren’t enough hands on deck. Normally you’d hate it, but earning the extra tips is enough to keep your grumbling to a minimum To this day, your landlord has yet to do anything about your broken shower, and you’ve finally conceded to the fact that you’ll have to be the one to do something about it.
As you inform the customers in your area that the last call for orders is approaching, you sneak a glance at the bar to see Jimin dutifully performing his job. That is to say, he’s flirting up a storm, getting women and men alike to blush from head to toe as he serves their drinks with a salacious smirk.
What a swindler, you think to yourself, snorting when he makes eye contact with you. He gives you a cheeky salute, mouthing something as he gestures to the back door.
Despite the semi-fight the two of you had all those weeks ago, Jimin was never one to argue about the same topic two days in a row. When you saw him the next day after your confrontation with Jungkook, Jimin was back to all smiles. You still catch him sending death glares towards Jungkook on most nights, but he doesn’t bring up the matter with you anymore. For that reason, you’ve gratefully settled back into your weird, banterful friendship with him. Even if there’s still a lingering tension between the two of you that you refuse to acknowledge.
You nod thankfully back at him, excited to go to his house and take a much needed shower. At this point, going to his house has become second nature to you, and it gives you an excuse to not see Jungkook at your regular bus stop every day. You have half a mind to never fix your shower for that reason, but of course there is still the problem of having to deal with Jimin every time you need to bathe. You hardly consider yourself an impatient person, but Jimin likes to toe the line far more often than necessary.
You’re down to your last two tables before you can close up shop when your manager suddenly barrels right into your path. You nearly drop your tray of dirty dishes to the floor, holding in a loud yelp as your suspiciously stern-faced manager halts you in place.
“Ms. Y/N, may I have a word with you for a moment? It’s regarding your paycheck for the month,” he barks, lips downturned. He appears disgruntled about something, and it sends a worried shiver down your spine. And here you thought Fridays are meant to be fun. He doesn’t wait for you to reply before he stalks back to his office, an unspoken command for you to follow.
You unload your dishes in the kitchen before making your way to his office. The small, dark room is cramped with overflowing file folders and coupons from multiple take-out places. You accidentally step on a stack of papers, and upon further inspection, seem to be a pile of applications for new hires. You distinctly remember complaining to him months prior about being understaffed and him replying that no inquiries were coming in.
As you approach, your manager shuffles through your coworkers pay stubs, and you notice yours and Jungkook’s on top of the piles.
Manager Jeong clears his throat. “Well, Y/N. It seems to be your lucky day. As you know, we split the tips based on your hours and what sort of duties you fulfill. With the new hire we have as our in-house singer, we’ve had to split it one way more to accommodate his arrival. However, he has recently requested to me that his portion be reallocated… to you, Ms. Y/N.”
Your jaw drops immediately. “I-I don’t understand, Manager Jeong,” you sputter.
Manager Jeong snorts, bemused by your reaction. “Don’t understand? Well, I suppose you’ll have to ask Mr. Jeon if you want his reasoning. Regardless, since we normally deposit your salary straight to your bank account, would it be alright if I hand you his tips in cash for now? He only informed me about his request an hour ago, and the accountant has already clocked out for the week.”
All you can do is nod dumbly back at him. With a huff, your manager presses a white envelope into your hands before promptly ushering you out of his office. “Well, that's settled. Out you go! Have a good weekend, Ms. Y/N. Don’t forget to lock the register before you leave!” He calls out before slamming his door in your face.
It takes you a moment to reanimate back to life. You stare at the white envelope for a long while, unable to fathom the scribbled out name of Jeon Jungkook replaced with your own name. Then, you crumple it into your fist before stomping over to where Jungkook and the rest of the band are in the middle of packing it up for the night.
Jungkook looks up from his guitar case when he senses you fast approaching. For a fleeting second, a smile graces his handsome face before it’s smacked away by your crumpled envelope.
“Keep your fucking cash, Jungkook. What the hell is your problem?” You fume, cheeks heating from agitation. Jungkook splutters for a moment, prying the envelope away from his face and looking at it in bewilderment. When he sees it clearly, recognition dawns on his face, followed by guilt.
“It’s just… my way of saying sorry, I guess.” He answers you meekly, neck flushing red in embarrassment. Behind him, the rest of the band grow silent at the scene before them, and you debate on telling them to mind their own business when they quicken their pace to leave.
“Well, keep your apology to yourself. There’s nothing to apologize for,” you correct him with a frown. To offer an apology is to offer accountability. You aren’t sure if you’re ready to hear him say that.
“No, it’s a sorry for… using you, I suppose.”
“Using me?” You repeat, dumbfounded. “For what?”
Jungkook smiles wryly back at you. “For inspiration?” he clarifies. For being the reason I can sing? He leaves that part unsaid, but you can almost imagine him saying it.
You feel heat rising to your cheeks again, but this time you aren’t quite sure if it’s from embarrassment, anger… or something else.
Unable to conjure up a response to his simple confession, you stomp away from him with a pounding heart and shaking hands. You continue the rest of your closing shift routine instinctually, your body moving on autopilot as Jungkook’s words continue to ring inside your head. When all is said and done, Jimin makes his way to your station with a questioning stare, but you wave him off in favor of stomping ahead of him to the parking lot.
In his car, Jimin rattles off about his latest exploits and purchases, his grating voice a comfort for once. You hum noncommittally during his stories when appropriate, but you suppose your usual indifference feels different, even to Jimin's untrained ears.
At his house, you drift to his bathroom immediately. You already have a shirt button undone by the time you get a handle on the door when Jimin’s hand stops you in place. You can feel his warmth emanating against your back as he slowly pulls the bathroom door close. With a tired sigh, you reluctantly turn to face him and find him standing closer than you expected.
He has an arm resting above your head, effectively caging you. You feel your shoulders sag. Damn, here comes another confrontation. Why can’t everyone just leave you alone?!
“Talk to me,” he says. No, he demands.
You push him away weakly, but he hardly budges. “Nothing to talk about,” you lie. Had you no filter, you’d be word vomiting all over the place ages ago.
Jimin groans, rolling his eyes in exasperation. “Enough with the emotional constipation. I’m here to listen, alright? No teasing or anything, I’m all ears and maybe a shoulder to cry on. Just don’t stain my Chanel top too bad,” he jokes.
You puff out a short breath—a sorry excuse for a laugh. “Don’t you get it? I don’t want to talk about it, and that’s that.”
“It’ll make you feel a lot better, though,” he offers.
You scoff. “What makes you think that? What if I just want to ignore all my problems forever and never grow from it? Is that so bad?”
Jimin pushes himself away from you, raising his hands in mock defeat. “You’re so fucking annoying. Can you stop running away from your problems and talk to me? Hell, talk to Jungkook for all I care! Just stop being a doormat and speak your mind for once in your damn life!”
“What are you, my therapist?” You brush past him, shower all but forgotten. You begin toeing your shoes back on, ready to head home tired and smelly. At the very least, you won’t have to deal with this stupid annoying asshole any longer.
Jimin strides back towards you, but for once he doesn’t do anything to forcibly stop you. Jimin has always been gruff with you, not afraid to push and pull you in any which direction. It’s part of the reason why you can’t take him seriously, even though you’ve recently realized why he was always being such a prick towards you—
“Yeah, I’m not your therapist. But for better or for worse, I’m your friend and I—I fucking care about you, alright? And it sucks seeing that good-for-nothing stick his nose in your business and act like he can do anything without any repercussions.”
Is Jimin being for real right now? “With how often you look at yourself in the mirror, you’d think you’d be better at introspection,” is all you say to that. You shove your feet into your shoes, not caring that you’ve probably put them on wrong. Maybe it’s because it’s Friday and the fatigue from the week has finally settled deep in your bones, but you can’t help but leave one last scathing remark to drive the final nail in the coffin.
“You know, if you were a little nicer to me, maybe I would talk to you. Hell, maybe I’d like you back. But no, just keep being your domineering, asshole self and I’ll keep being the same fucking doormat bitch you know and love,” you spit, turning towards the door and away from his face. You’re not even curious to see how he reacts. “I don’t need protection, alright? When I tell you to stay out of my business, you stay out of it. So don’t try and pretend to be my knight in shining armor.”
There’s an ocean of silence, enough to hear a pin drop. The urge to apologize surges to the surface, but you stamp it down. He’s petty all the time, so now it’s your turn.
Okay, maybe that’s a little too mean on your part, but you’re exhausted. Perhaps it is true when they say you should never act on your anger when it’s past midnight. But can anyone blame you? You’re only a girl, and girls need to snap too.
When he responds, his voice sounds weak. Park Jimin, weak? It's almost unthinkable. "Why don't you trust me?"
Isn't it obvious? you want to say. But some mercy remains within you. You'll pick up the pieces another time. Instead, you rasp out, “Good night, Park. I’ll see you on Monday.”
The walk of shame back to your house is long and arduous. Your phone dings thrice, likely signaling texts from Jimin, but you turn it off without checking for sure. For once, the weight on your shoulders is slightly lighter. You huff out a dry laugh, realizing belatedly that maybe Jimin is right—maybe speaking your mind has its benefits.
There’s a small park in your neighborhood that you always pass by. You don’t remember the last time you spared it a second glance, but this time you notice a lone figure swinging back and forth, arching dangerously higher than what you would consider safe. From a distance, all you can make out are the person’s comically bright boots, and you have a sinking suspicion you know who it is without seeing their face.
Cosmos, or whoever it is that controls my life, why must you braid our strings of fate so tightly? You ask, but as always, it refuses to reply.
Against your better judgment, your feet bring you closer towards him. He has his back towards you, his feet pumping him higher and higher and you half expect him to swing in a perfect arc like a gymnast on parallel bars. You have to keep your distance a bit, lest you get the wind knocked out of you by his signature stompers.
You clear your throat, and the boy stops mid-swing and nearly catapults himself into the spongey, playground floor. Hunched over and wheezing, Jungkook directs his shocked eyes at you with a comical stare.
You raise a hand in greeting. A peace offering, maybe. “Hello—”
“I swear I’m not stalking you!” Jungkook interrupts as he scrambles to his feet. He bows deeply in remorse, the action so endearingly him. “S-sorry, I’ll make my way home now…”
“I don’t own the park, Jungkook. I was just saying hello…” You snort, wringing your hands uncomfortably. You grind your shoes into the ground, the sound of crunching leaves breaking the still air. “A-and… to say sorry, for earlier.”
“Sorry?” Jungkook repeats, confused. When he realizes what you mean, he waves his hands frantically. “No, no! Don’t be sorry! It was my fault for being so inconsiderate. I understand how you might misconstrue my actions, and I made things more awkward. I’ll consider your feelings more in the future…”
In the future… You cough, unwilling to meet his bright and honest gaze. If you stare too long, you fear you might go blind.
“I come here to the park often, when I feel too cramped inside my apartment,” Jungkook explains, frantic energy radiating off him in waves. He’s gesticulating too much, a clear sign that he’s trying to hide his nerves. You remember how he would do the same thing in high school, whenever he had to present his projects in front of the class.
You hold a hand up, a weak attempt to get him to calm down. “I’m not here to interrogate you. I just wanted to…” What is it that you wanted to do?
The two of you just stand awkwardly like that, similar to a few weeks ago when you discovered you were neighbors. You’re grasping at straws in your head, both conflicted for wanting to tell him something and running away. Even if you were to talk to him, what would you say? There’s a reason you told Jimin you didn’t want to talk—frankly, it’s mostly because you have no idea what to say or feel.
But you do know, the universe responds.
I ask you questions all the time, and this is how you respond?
Either that, or you’re going insane, the universe remarks.
Jungkook pulls out his phone, his fingers fumbling as he unlocks it. He takes a furtive step towards you, but thinks better of it. There’s a few feet of distance between you, but it feels like worlds apart. Close and yet so far. You recall how you’d easily pull him towards you in the past, how being together felt as natural as breathing.
“I know you absolutely hated it the last time I played my original song at the restaurant, so I refrained from performing any ever since that night. But that didn’t stop me from writing them. I was fine with keeping them locked in a vault forever, but…” He hesitates, searching you for any signs of discomfort. When he sees the carefully blank look on your face, he continues with trepidation.
“Can I try a song for you? You don’t have to say yes, and you’re free to tell me to fuck off and I’ll never even look at you ever again. Just…” He flails one last time, a choked sob making its escape from his throat.
Are you hopeless for wanting to say yes? Or were you reverting back to your old self who relied on him and believed in him so heavily? If you wanted him out of your life for good, you would have quit your job at the first sight of him. Maybe you were masochistic. Or maybe were you hopeful for a new start, a chance to rekindle a relationship that you’ve secretly always wanted to repair.
You have so much life ahead of you. Many more mistakes will be made and maybe they’ll haunt you when you’re older. But would it really be such a terrible gamble to take one more chance?
You nod, and seal your fate.
He presses play, and the soft strumming of a guitar fills the empty playground air.
Not for the first time, you wonder how it can be so easy for Jungkook to be so… honest. He spills his heart in every song that he writes, and you know he’s never been a great liar. He can’t help it, being genuine is in his DNA. This crashing waterfall, this boy with overflowing emotions—he sings what he thinks but feels terrified because of it. You might not understand his honesty, but you know that fear. You know it all too well.
He beholds himself to you—raw and unfiltered. A little battered and bruised, but still Jungkook. Behind everything, still the boy you’ve been yearning for.
Maybe this song is what will give you enough confidence to admit everything to him, too. As you stand there, listening to his mellow voice sing confessions to no one but you and the stars, you think you grow a little more courageous that day.
Maybe you won’t be able to tell him tonight. Maybe not tomorrow, nor next week either. But as you gaze back at his hopeful eyes, you know deep in your heart that you’ll find the words you’ve been looking for.
“I’ll keep waiting for you, if you let me.” Jungkook’s voice floats gently to you, and settles in your open palms. This time, you don’t let go
xxx
Months later, Jungkook stops working at the restaurant when an offer from a major record company arrives in his mail. Apparently, a big shot from the local radio station had pitched him to an employee at that company and they were all pleasantly surprised to find a hidden gem at a random bar and restaurant.
In your apartment, you stare outside your window and to where his home is—well, where it was. You wonder if he finished packing his things, ready to make the big move tomorrow. You stand up with a stretch, sparing a glance at your still broken shower. It would be nice to have one more shower at his place… And after that? Maybe you should start looking for a nicer apartment; somewhere far away might be nice.
Your phone rings, and you see his contact photo light up your screen. With a smile, you answer.
“Come over, if you want. I won’t make you,” Jungkook assures you.
You laugh lightly, already halfway out the door.
#bts scenarios#jungkook scenarios#bts x reader#jungkook x reader#bts reader insert#bts fanfiction#bts imagines#bts fluff#bts angst#jungkook fluff#jungkook angst#jeon jungkook#jungkook#bangtan#bts#bts fanfic
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
ftm trans Eddie Munson gets turned into a chew toy for hell bats and rescued in the 11th hour by his friends who don't know he's trans, who have to run some triage first aid and can hardly make sense of the blood and gore that used to be his body as they cut off his shirt and pants to get access to the worst of the wounds, who definitely aren't in their right minds well enough anyway to think of anything other than stopping the bleeding and getting him to a hospital, which they do, and miraculously Eddie finds himself blinking awake in a bright, fluorescent room feeling exactly like he imagines a chew toy for hell bats would feel in the aftermath which is to say: like shit. Even more miraculously, he finds hometown hero Steve Harrington posted up at his bedside with greasy hair (!!! Eddie never thought he'd see the day) and bags under his eyes.
The overwhelming relief on Steve's face when he sees Eddie is awake is touching, the misty eyes and cracking voice when he says god, i thought you were toast, man are downright flattering and, let's face it, giving Eddie all the wrong ideas that he figures he has an I-almost-died pass for at the moment so he rocks with it, let's himself indulge in the fantasy for a moment. Then, gradually, Steve's relief becomes more and more obviously some brand of deeply felt pity (or sympathy, but Eddie's never been good at distinguishing the two), which bursts his bubble enough to call him out.
"I know I look like what comes out the business end of a meat grinder, but I swear I'm good, dude. They definitely have me on the good shit, I hardly feel it. I'll be good as new in no time." Big fat fucking lie, by the way, but he'll say whatever if it gets that wounded puppy look out of Harrington's eyes.
"I...yeah, Eddie, I'm glad." And whatever it is he doesn't want to say, whatever is putting that you poor motherfucker look on his face, he's absolutely the opposite of subtle about it.
Eddie can hear the manifestation of his panic on the heart monitor.
"What? What is it? Is everyone- is Dustin-?" He can't say it, can't even think it, would rather be slowly torn to shreds all over again than know he failed at his one fucking task to keep the kid safe.
"No! I mean, yes, he's fine, they're all fine. Henderson's got a broken ankle and both of Max's arms are broken but the docs say they'll be fine in a few months with physical therapy."
The release of tension in Eddie's body hurts almost as much as the relief soothes him. "Okay then, what the fuck are you not telling me? It's fine, I'm a big boy, Harrington, I can take it."
He sighs, looking sick with it. "Eds...I don't know how to tell you this."
Oh god, what the fuck. Eddie's right back to freaking out because Steve looks inexplicably guilty, pained in the face like he's about to deliver the worst news he could imagine but if everyone's fine then-
"It's your dick, man. It's- it's gone. The bats-"
And Eddie laughs so hard he tears about a dozen stitches, immediately stops laughing, and throws up over the side of the bed and thankfully not all over his freshly reopened wounds as Steve shouts for help.
Eventually, when he's all stitched up again and barely hanging on to his hard earned lesson to not literally bust his gut laughing about the look on Steve's face (he has to force himself not to tell Wayne the specifics of how he ended up back in the OR, because he's absolutely gonna crack up and Eddie will definitely be unable to help himself from laughing with him), he realizes he's going to come out to all his friends in the very near future because holy shit, he has to tell everyone about Steve's utterly devastated expression at the news of Eddie's Ken doll-ification by way of demobat.
#I've been laughing about this in my head for WEEKS#the idea that steve feels so bad eddie got his dick eaten by demobats that he literally can't hide it and tells him immediately kills me#as always please read into the gay subtext here bc yes eddie also tells this story at their wedding many years down the line#eddie munson#steve harrington#steddie
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
I saw a deer rotting away on the side of the road, ribcage gaping open, sternum shattered, sagging leathery skin shedding coarse hair as decomposition sets in. Eyes and entrails long since pecked out by crows and vultures, the doe lay blind and empty, her cranium chewed open and cleaned out by reverent coyotes. Crawling with maggots and worms, she writhes.
Wildflowers bloomed tall around her, cushioning her corpse in a bed of milkweed and aster, wild lily and strawberry bursting through her drying skin and out through the cavernous hole in her body. Wasps and horseflies drink the nectar flavoured by her body, dripping sweet onto her ribcage.
A violent death unto peaceful sleep, bones crushed like brittle eggshell by steel alloy, whiplash and internal hemorrhaging as she stumbles forward and collapses into the cold ditch by the asphalt, gasping and twitching as her lungs filled with blood, shards of her ribcage puncturing her lungs, struggling to take a full breath as spots grew larger in her vision. Twin headlights barreled on, uninterrupted and uncaring as she lay dying in the ditch, the taillights of the departing vehicle bathing her in red light as it leaves. There are no other cars in the road.
Scavengers bowed their heads to her memory as they filled their stomachs with her body, gorging themselves on cold offal, worshipful as they licked congealed blood off the ground. A necessary sacrifice to the good of the many; her agony sustains them. They don't know anything else. She sleeps, quiet and alone, in the ditch by the road, as she decomposes. Her eyes, plucked from their sockets by hungry birds to be fed to their hungry chicks, no longer saw; she slept in peaceful darkness.
I wondered what she dreamed about. I wondered if she could still see, in her mind's eye, the life she dreamed of. I wondered if all she could see anymore was the wriggling of maggots in her skull.
I wondered if the deer on the side of the road left behind a herd, maybe a fawn, waiting patiently, nestled in tall grasses, for its mother to return. I wondered if it, too, had fallen prey to the great metal maw of a passing vehicle as it, hungry and cold, searched for its mother. I hoped not, but I know better; deer don't often practice crèches.
I felt kinship with her, in a way, a deer left for dead next to the country highway, carved out empty and left gaping. I saw myself in her in the way she died alone, ignored, rotting from the inside out as cars passed by, the way she was vulnerable, defenseless; she had no way to defend herself against her fate. The scales were tipped against her, the battle lost as soon as she took her first step onto cracked asphalt, doomed beyond her own comprehension and her killer's capacity to care. She had no antlers to defend herself. She didn't stand a chance.
A faceless figure in a nondescript truck, anonymous in the atrocity of death, with no witnesses and no guilt for what they had done. Perhaps I'd already passed them on the street. Perhaps I'd already wished them a good morning. Perhaps I'd done the same with others.
It was almost comforting, in a way, to see such a visceral and grotesque representation of myself, flayed open snd hollowed out and left to rot. It reminded me there were others like me, even if they were roadkilled deer. In the aftermath of catastrophe, I, too, lay broken and gasping, immobile as I watched the world pass me by, no one stopping to notice my agony. I supposed it wasn't quite as obvious as that of a deer, trembling and bleeding from the mouth, branded hot in the shape of a car's front grill. It was confusing, still. It certainly felt more than obvious.
I dreamed of coyote teeth tearing me apart, pulling out my organs as I watched, passive, of vultures picking at my skin, grunting in veneration as they ate me to the bone. I dreamed of crows eating the scraps left behind, pecking at my face and mouth, pulling out my eyes and tongue, rendering me blind and mute. I didn't mind; I hardly had use for them anyways. I dreamed of dandelion blooms crowding my airways, airborne seeds filling my lungs until I choked, and growing from my body again.
I dreamed of love, of prostration and black birds bowed in supplication, owing me their lives, surviving at the price of mine. I dreamed of love, of sickly sweet devotion, like the smell of decay. I dreamed of love, of poisonous butterflies drinking down the nectar of my body's wildflowers, of dangerous beauty. In my dream, I watched the jays snap up those sweet butterflies, bright wings crunching and shredding within the predator's beak, only for the eaten nymph to reappear as its bitter poison burns the jay's oesophagus, vomiting up the offensive prey. The butterfly is not saved. The butterfly is still dead, half-digested and broken in a small puddle of the bird's mucous, but the jay learns; the butterfly's death prevents others.
I dreamed of love, like the coyote and the badger that found my corpse one night, forty million years of evolution between the two, but perfect teamwork nonetheless. The two arrived together and left together after they'd had their fill of my lungs and heart. I wished them well on their journey and waited for the next scavenger to find me.
I hoped the deer on the side of the road found the same peace in death as I had. I hoped she found her closure in the scavengers who worshipped her. I hoped the faceless figure in that nondescript truck faced their retribution and I hoped the faceless figure in my hazy memories faced the Old Testament judgement I so wished.
As I accepted the deer into myself, let the shape of her rotting body brand itself on my mind (reminiscent, almost, of the brand of a car's front grill on her flank), I felt her dreams assimilate with my own. I felt, suddenly, the desire to walk along country highways in the dark, the desire to know what waits on the other side of the road, the desperation so strong that I couldn't stand to wait for the rumbling beast to pass. I felt the awe of staring into blinding light, larger than me and near incomprehensible. I understood why deer stopped in the middle of the road. I'm sure anyone else would, too. The first contact of the car's front grill to her (my) body felt something like love, like the embrace of the only one who could stand to have me.
I thought about the crows that picked off the smaller pieces of flesh missed by the larger scavengers. I thought about the sweet adoration between two black birds as they passed my eyeball to their mate, the pure devotion between them as they preened one another, beaks coated in congealed blood. Their love is a living thing, a separate entity, powerful and writhing. It occupies the crows entirely, not unlike parasitism. Their chicks will grow from my scavenged flesh, insatiable, fledging for the first time above my drying skeleton. To fly had always been a dream of mine, and now it is actualized by those young black birds, fulfilled as they hop unsteadily from branch to branch, their parents watching over them protectively. How lucky I am to witness this. How lucky I am to learn, firsthand, the depth of that love, the endlessness of life, how it begins again, and again, and again.
#this is one of my favourite things ive ever written tbh.#made it for an english assignment. sarah if youre checking for plagiarism and it matches with this. this is my account you can ask me if you#want to. love u sarah.#anyways. hi everyone#rambles#my art#ask to tag
785 notes
·
View notes
Text
Downpour
Pairing: Gale x Fem Reader
Summary: After so long trapped in the shadow-cursed lands, Tav basks in the delight of feeling the rain on her skin. One-shot.
Warnings: Oral Sex, Vaginal Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Smut.
Word Count: 3.2k
A/N: Ok, so I wanted to have a go a a romantic, Austen-esque, fluffy, soggy, sexy love-scene. I am a Pride and Prejudice girlie, and this was definitely inspired by the artwork i've seen floating around of Gale as Mr.Darcy. I STILL BLUSH WHEN I POST SMUT.
In the forest, away from camp, the rain fell heavy, warm, and welcome. After enduring the stagnant shadows of the curse for so long, Tav reveled in the sensation of the heavy droplets drenching her. She longed to feel the rain soak all the way to her bones, washing away the blood and shadow clinging to her skin. She craved cleanliness, yearning to return to the warm embrace of nature before being pulled back onto the road to Baldur’s Gate, where fresh burdens would undoubtedly litter the streets of her city.
Baldur’s Gate... The Upper City... Her home. Where her expectant fiancé no-doubt awaited her return, eager for her to forsake her studies of magic and join him as agreed in their betrothal. It was a future that demanded sacrifice—her independence, her magic, her heart—all in exchange for providing for her family. This was the destiny that loomed if they completed their quest, and time was slipping away like sand through an hourglass.
So, she lingered in the rain a while longer, relishing the freedom of being a fearless adventurer, a woman unbound, her soul still wild and untamed. She would postpone the inevitable, if only for a few rain-soaked hours.
Her thoughts drifted, as they often did, to Gale. His anger still lingered like a storm cloud after their battle against Ketheric. She had urged him to resist the call of his Goddess, to spare himself from becoming the sacrificial weapon to slay the absolute. In doing so, he had shed his mantle of martyrdom, stepping away from the edge of his perceived heroism. And in the aftermath, when the adrenaline faded and victory cries hushed, she sensed his resentment.
At the height of his struggle, she had hoped he wouldn't need convincing. She had hoped his own worth would shine brightly enough to dispel the dark intent of Mystra's decree, and that he would have enough faith in their companions, in her, to find another path. She had believed their bond ran deep enough for him to steadfastly choose to remain by her side, but she had been mistaken. He required persuasion, and it had nearly shattered her.
She understood he owed her nothing, that no formal declarations had been made. There were moments heavy with unspoken desire, where the air crackled with anticipation. She had savoured each lingering glance and flirtatious exchange. Yet now, she wondered if it had all been a fanciful illusion. How could he desire her when his heart yearned for a Goddess? When the sigil of his devotion was literally branded over his heart? She resigned herself to accepting that he would stay by her side a while longer, and would bask in his warmth for as long as she could.
“Tav!” A distant voice called through the trees, barely audible over the rain storm's fury.
She turned to see him striding purposefully towards her, embers of anger flickering in his deep eyes. Both of them were drenched, the rain pouring down so relentlessly that it only took moments to become completely soaked. His white camp shirt clung to his chest and abdomen, accentuating the contours of his muscles. The emblem of the orb was unmistakable through the fabric, as was the dark hair which spattered his chest, trailing down into the snug, rain-soaked leather trousers tucked into his boots. Heavy droplets cascaded down his nose and fell from his long lashes like tears, and he had pushed his hair back away from his face, so now only a couple of tendrils stuck to his forehead and his cheek. The shimmer of the water cast him in ethereal beauty, and his silver earring gleamed like a lone star in the night sky. He might as well have been naked, and Tav felt a rush of heat at the sight of him. He was divine, and he was furious.
“What are you doing?” His voice was coloured with fresh anger. “You will catch your death!”
“Death has tried to catch me once today, wizard,” she said in defiance, turning her face upwards to the burst sky and running her hands through her hair. “I would like to see him try again.”
“You are stubborn and infuriating to your core! You would not allow me to sacrifice myself, and yet here you stand in the middle of a storm, taunting death as though he is a pawn in your game of heroics.”
She had never seen him this inflamed; the cool bindings of his tightly-wrapped feelings had come loose to reveal a man smouldering with desperate intent. The fact he still saw himself as a sacrifice shot fury through Tav’s veins equal to that of the Wizard before her.
“Do not blame me for what happened today! Your derision is wasted on me. I regret nothing. You were not weak; you were courageous. Vilify me if you will; resent me and cast me aside. It is a price I will pay to know your light still shines in the world. But I take no credit for your act of bravery. That was all you.”
She felt tears spill their way out of her eyes, and she belligerently let them fall alongside the welcome rain, now angry that she was letting herself fall apart in front of him. She could see him subside; he had calmed from raging ocean to a still pond. He said nothing, just waited.
“Baldur’s Gate lies ahead, and so does the end of our journey. Soon I will be home. I will marry a man I do not love, to support a family who does not care for my happiness, and I will take my courage from you, from what you did today. Please grant me the blessing of knowing it was because you wanted to stay here, with me. Just let me have that, even for a moment, even if it isn't real.”
He stepped towards her, and she stepped back, as though it was the first move in a practiced dance. She knew he meant to comfort her; she was unsure how, but it did not matter. She could not bear it.
“No, please,” she pleaded, needing to be alone. Completely soaked by the rain, despite the warmth in the air, her skin was speckled with gooseflesh, her clothing clinging to her in soaked desperation. She felt ashamed and exposed in front of him. He was everything she wanted but could never have. Jealousy, anger, and longing burned within her. If he touched her, she feared she would flame to ash in his arms. “Please, leave.”
He gazed at her face, her damp skin flushed, her dark eyes deeper than he had ever seen them, the usual mischievous sparkle replaced with swirling fear and helplessness. He longed to comfort her, to hold her.
“You should not marry him,” he said, his voice nearly drowned out by the rain. The silence that followed was heavy with tension. She held his gaze, her tears halting along with her breath.
“I am acutely aware of the shackles that will bind you upon your return. The thought of it has seared my soul. I have seen people marry for all the wrong reasons—wealth, security, anything but love. Some found it suited them, others were torn apart. That fate is for the faint-hearted, and you are not one of them.”
This time when he stepped forward, she did not move.
“They are early spring, and you are blazing summer. They are dappled moonlight, and you are blinding sun. They are house cats and cart horses, and you are a wild thing. You should not marry him,” he continued, his sadness palpable in his eyes and voice. “You will wither.” The space between them felt heavy and charged, the air warm and heady in the humid rain shower. “You talked me down from my precipice; let me help you down from yours.”
She could bear it no longer. Meeting his eyes, she began to move with purpose. That was all he needed. Rushing forward, he pushed her back against the nearest tree. She mewled in surprise before his lips captured hers, soft yet determined.
“Gale..” His name fell like dropped silk from her parted lips. As soon as he heard it exhaled in breathlessness, all soft intent was washed away with the rain. His hands were everywhere, grasping at her soaked clothing, tangling themselves in her dripping hair, pulling her hips against him. The kiss was wet - rain heavy and so so desperate. His tongue danced with hers, in ways he had fantasised about alone in his tent. He had brought himself to ecstasy thinking about the touch of her tongue against his, about all the lust induced pleasure she could summon with it. He was desperately hard, unashamedly and wantonly pressed against her. He wanted her to feel the effect she had on him, how much he desired her in all her vexing, complicated, exquisite glory.
He had been angry, yes. He had been ashamed and guilt-ridden - but for reasons he did not expect. He did not feel as though he had let down Mystra, but that he had let down Tav. He had the opportunity to rid her of her burden, to strike down the threat which loomed over her head. She would be safe from the absolute, he could have given that to her, and she had talked him out of it. He felt like a coward, a meek ember undeserving of the vivid bonfire of a woman who had blazed her way into his heart.
He realised now, entangled with her in the wild rain, that he loved her. The simplicity of it was overwhelming. She was exceptional, and he loved her.
She had thought his feelings for her were wistful imaginings, but the truth was - he burned for her, he always had. Over the course of their journey, he had caught each glance with gentle hope and clutched them to him in times of darkness. He had saved every kind word and pressed them together into the pages of a book, to be taken out and skimmed through when he needed comfort. Her name was carved into his heart, and each beat belonged to her.
They broke apart, both panting and breathless from the force of their embrace and she laughed. The most beautiful, clear chime of a laugh which stirred his blood and flooded his veins with joy. He smiled at the sight of her, and with a wave of his hand created an invisible shelter above them to shield them from the rain.
“You couldn’t have done that before?” her pupils were so lust-blown the rich brown of her eyes were thin bands around black pools of desire, and her voice sparkled and danced through him.
He peppered light kisses along her jaw and down her neck, “And spoil your fun? I wouldn’t dare.” Her hands tangled in his hair in response, and she moaned as he licked away the rainwater which had gathered in the hollow of her throat.
“Lay down for me.” The grass beneath them was dry from his magic, and a soft purple blanket had been conjured out of nowhere.
She did as he was told, and the ease of her submission did something to him. She was wild, unpredictable and stubborn, and the way in which she melted and bowed at his touch, at his command, stirred him in a way he had not felt before. He was a man undone.
He spent time slowly undressing her, lifting the hem of her soaking wet shirt and kissing the plane of her stomach, working his mouth along the sensitive ridges of her ribcage, pushing her arms upwards so he could pull the sopping wet clothing over her head. As he lifted her arms he licked the curve of her breast, her collarbone, even her armpit. He wanted all of her, and she arched her back so beautifully under his touch that he could not bear to remove his mouth for even an instant.
“Gale, please.” He had never heard her voice so low before, so wanton and dripping with unfiltered lust.
“It is unlike you to be so well-mannered.” He teased between tonguing her damp skin “Where is the wild creature who has enraptured me so?”
Her response came in a moan so primal it could have been mistaken for a growl. She was an altar he couldn’t decide whether to worship at, or desecrate. He decided there would be time for both.
He peeled the rest of her clothes from her like the rind from a sweet fruit. Putting his mouth to every inch of flesh he uncovered. The rain mixed with the salt-sweet taste of her skin was fresh and heady, and he thought that no ambrosia could taste sweeter.
He proved himself wrong when he eventually pressed his tongue where she wanted it most, where her desire gathered like a fresh-filled rockpool. She was heavenly. Every moan he pulled from her was a claimed bounty, a treasure he would hoard till the end of his days. He dipped his tongue inside her, savouring her, coating his tongue with her and then swiping upwards to run over the small bundle of nerves which could undo her completely. Her hips bucked in response.
“Exquisite.” He said in between heated kisses.
“I want all of you inside me, please.” Her cry was more breath than words. Her fingers raked through his hair and the shocks of her touch ran all the way down his spine.
“You shall have me, my love. Body and soul, heart and mind. All of me, eternally.”
“Enough poetry.” She whined “Gale..”
“I want you to come against my tongue first, sweet girl. I want to taste your undoing.” He re-focused his attention back between her legs, completely devoted in his worship, intent on receiving the holy blessing of her exalted cries as she lost herself beneath him. It did not take long. His tongue was firm, his dexterous fingers stroked into her and curled to find the hidden place of her rapture. His face was lust-soaked, head spun with desire, he was drunk on her pleasure and he ground himself into the earth beneath him as she unravelled with a reckless cry. He did not stop, he coaxed her through it, tongue softening and fingers slowing their pace as her wave broke and the relentless tide retreated. Even when she was spent, he continued to kiss her intimately, revelling in the soft pulse of her muscles.
She drew him close, kissing him slowly and wantonly, savouring the taste of her own salt on his tongue. Pulling back, she gazed into his eyes, tracing the rough shadow of his beard with the pads of her fingers, fulfilling every longing touch she had yearned for. Returning the favour, she undressed him, their laughter mingling as they wrestled with his soaked leather trousers, finally leaving him as bare as she. With him above her, their bodies pressed together, anticipation sweetening the air between them.
“You are a marvel.” She whispered, tracing the vein-like mark that swirled under his eye, “I will spend each second proving to you that you made the right choice today. That the world is a brighter place for having you in it.”
“I am completely in love with you.” was his simple response, and the smile it earned him rivalled the night sky with its radiance.
“The feeling is entirely mutual.” was her teasing reply. He offered her a single soft, chaste kiss, before running his hands once again up her arms. This time to pin her hands above her head. She gasped at the sudden change in pace, and his eyes gleamed wickedly. He kept her small hands grasped in one of his, and slowly stroked the other down her body. Tracing a path to where she was still wet from desire and the focus of his tongue. Her eyelashes fluttered beautifully as his finger lightly brushed over her, and her sharp intake of breath told him she was still desperately needy.
“I’m going to need to hear you say it properly, Tav.” Briefly, his strokes became firmer, purposeful, stacking a pleasurable build back from the ruins of her last orgasm. And then, he withdrew his touch from her completely, leaving her bucking and helpless.
He kissed her throat and moaned against her skin, as he shifted his position to meet her heat. The tip of him pressed against her, and he had to dredge up every drop of restraint to stop himself pushing into her in one, hard stroke.
“Be a good girl, and say it.” Between the two of them, it was unclear who was more desperate, who was winning their little game. It didn’t matter in the end, the result was always going to be the same.
“I love you.” She met his eyes and poured every ounce of love-drenched sincerity she could into her words. She meant it. She would always mean it. And with her confession, Gale finally pushed himself into her, not breaking contact with the sparkle of her eyes as he moved himself inside her.
"Let me touch you, let me show you, please," she begged, her voice aching with desire. At her plea, he released her hands, and immediately her fingers roamed his body. Her pleasure soared as she finally explored him in ways she had only dreamed of, tracing faded scars and kissing each sun-browned freckle.
His pace remained deliberate, slow at first, savouring every moment as he pulled almost completely out of her before burying himself deep inside, revelling in her tight warmth. The pouring rain and distant rumble of thunder drowned out most of their passion's noise, but Tav seemed to take it as a challenge.
She matched his intensity, moving with abandon, grinding her hips against each dedicated thrust, enticing him to unravel, daring him to let go. And he did. His kisses turned into soft bites, caresses into bruising grips on her waist, her hips, the soft flesh of her backside.
Lovemaking turned to fucking, to pure desperation and relief. He rutted into her, primal and hot - the ability to speak a distant memory as all he could do was moan into her mouth as he approached his crescendo. He flipped her over, and placed one of his arms under her leg to move it upwards, and he fucked her into the ground. They were still soaked, and they didn’t know if it was from the rain, their sweat or their pleasure, neither of them cared.
He had angled her hips so he could move more deeply into her, and still wrap his arm around her to stroke her where she needed. It was exquisite. It did not last long. Tav threw her head back against his shoulder, and gasped out a choked cry as she clenched around him - wild and lost. The sensation of her was too perfect, and Gale followed her breathlessly and completely. All rhythm lost in the chaos of her unravelling orgasm.
As they descended from their high together, he gently turned her to face him, and kissed her cheeks, her eyelids, her nose, the pads of each fingertip.
“I love you” her voice was soft hope, he gaze a bright future. They would keep each other safe, and face each challenge with hearts and hands entwined.
“The feeling is entirely mutual.” He replied breathlessly, and her laugh mingled with the sound of rain and thunder to create the most beautiful music he had ever heard.
765 notes
·
View notes
Text
✧ 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐘𝐨𝐮 || jack hughes ♔
summary: jack calls his mom in tears and on the brink of a panic attack because he messed up, and all he wants is for his girl to come back to him. and with a little help from ellen, he knows exactly what to do for that to happen.
warnings: sad jack, asshole-ish jack (implied), one very mild mention of dark thoughts, sad, fights
publish date: 02/11/24
notes: i like how this is my first jack fic and i made him an asshole (kind of, it's implied). anyways as soon as i started writing this i was in love with my writing (in a non-conceited way). like just the way the story flowed had me dying. there’s also only one thing of dialogue at the beginning for a while but i promise there is some at the end, i got side tracked while writing. BUT THIS IS GOOD I PROMISE! (and there's a little fluff at the end) based off of this ask that i got a while ago -> idea! add yourself to the taglist ➺ taglist!
nhl masterlist | main masterlist
“Mom I think I really fucked up.”
Jack was in tears as he sat with his back against the door to his bedroom. His room was messy, with pieces of clothing scattered everywhere, suit jackets flung across his bed, and take-out containers on his nightstand, but the only thing he was focused on was the cardboard box that was set less than a foot in front of him. It had a card resting on top of it, his name written in the tiniest of letters. He could faintly smell her perfume on the sweatshirts and shirts that were left inside.
When he walked out of his room, the box was something he wasn’t expecting to see. It was resting in Luke’s hands when he walked out, proceeding to ask what it was. When Luke said it was from her, he grabbed it and ran back into his room, shutting and closing the door behind him. He had only managed to get one flap of the box open before he started crying uncontrollably.
He had seen the gray material, the logo of his team branded on it. He had backed himself up against the door and tried to collect himself and failed. Deep in his mind, he knew he shouldn’t have the right to be acting like this, he had been the one to end it. Yet, seeing the aftermath without her made him realize what he had truly lost.
The nights when he came home from a game that they won, she wasn’t there to congratulate him, to celebrate with him, to let him hold her. The nights when he came home from a game that they lost, she wasn’t there to console him, to comfort him, to tell him it wasn’t his fault, to run her fingers through his hair. The mornings that he woke up and felt lonely and cold because she wasn’t in his arms, she wasn’t there to pepper his face with little kisses. She wasn’t there to wake him up in the middle of the night because she was hungry or because she had this genius idea. She wasn’t there to cook dinner for him and Luke when that was all they needed after a long day. She wasn’t there to help him pack and unpack for a road trip. She wasn’t there to help him pick out what suit to wear for the game. She wasn’t there at all anymore.
The thoughts plagued him, angered him, saddened him, hurt him. For some reason, these thoughts never came up before, never this strong. Seeing the things that had been hers, became hers, and weren’t his hurt him. It made him realize what he had done, and what he had done was real. He couldn’t help the new thoughts that came to his mind, the ones that called him stupid, the ones who called him an idiot, the ones that were dark enough that he hated himself for those too.
When he found himself finding it hard to breathe he reached for his phone, calling Ellen. Ellen was not expecting those words when she picked up the phone. No one had known about their breakup, no one had known about Jack’s words that he said to her that night, no one had known about the way she tried to fight but he refused to even listen to her.
Everyone knew that the two were off, however. Jack hadn’t been performing well, barely even getting a couple of shots on goal during games. He had gotten into a few fights, mostly because he was stressed and every little thing someone did set him off. He didn’t go out to celebrate with the team after a win, he distanced himself from everyone including his brother.
She, on the other hand, hadn’t talked to anyone in the past two weeks. She never went to the apartment anymore, she didn’t reach out to Luke or the team at all, and she never drove Jack and Luke to games anymore, it was like she disappeared. In reality, she had been huddled up in her apartment, tears ending up on every piece of clothing she wore, they ended up on the sheets too. There was an abundance of tissues in a plastic bag that rested on the left side of her bed. Her TV had been playing nothing but sad romance movies; The Notebook, Irreplaceable You, All the Bright Places, The Fault in Our Stars, and Five Feet Apart were a few. She hadn’t moved from her spot unless she had to go to the bathroom.
Her main source of food was the snacks that she brought into her bedroom almost every other day. Sometimes if she was feeling up for it, she would order something and wait for it in the living room. She hadn’t attempted to cook, reminding her too much of when she did it for him. She hadn’t understood why he did it, what prompted him to do it, what prompted the thoughts, what she had done wrong to make him feel differently about him. She didn’t understand why he wouldn’t allow her to talk, allow them to talk it through. It was a messy night, his voice was doing the abundance of the talking.
He had yelled at her for no reason. They had been sitting in the living room peacefully and she had commented on going out for dinner. It wasn’t the comment that set him off, he had been in his mind for the majority of the night prior to that moment. He didn’t know what brought these feelings on but he had to get them out. He had screamed for about ten minutes while she sat in silence tearing up. She had attempted to fight for them, saying she was sorry for god knows what. She had attempted to get an answer out of him but was met with silence. She had stormed out after 5 minutes of pleading, leaving Jack as alone as she felt.
Jack receiving the package was the first form of communication they had had in two weeks. And that had really put things into perspective for him. He had babbled all of this to Ellen, having to take breaks a lot to control his sobs and breathing. Ellen felt absolutely heartbroken as she listened to her son cry. She knew what he had done wrong, it was painfully obvious, but the amount of tears that she could hear from him made her sympathetic towards him.
Nonetheless, Ellen set him straight, not that he needed to be anyway, he knew he was wrong from the moment she left him sitting there. She had done her best to calm him down beforehand, Jack’s mind still in overdrive. He took in everything his mom said, agreeing with every point she made about him being wrong. She spoke in a gentle yet strict tone, letting him know that she felt sorry for him but what he did was horrible. He knew that and listening to his mom say it too made it feel all the worse.
When Ellen hung up, Jack was once again left alone with the silence and his thoughts. He didn’t want to be alone anymore, yet he wasn’t in the right place to go and get her back. He thought he would just go over there and make it worse, make it so she would never want him back. So he walked out into the living room and looked at his brother who was watching TV, acting as if he had heard nothing.
Jack plopped himself down next to him on the couch. He went to say something but he could feel another wave of tears coming. He went to stand up but Luke pulled him down, not wanting him to be alone anymore either. Jack buried his head into his younger brother’s shoulder and sobbed, slightly embarrassed but too sad to worry about it.
✧༺✎༻∞
The next morning, Jack woke up with a pounding headache but he knew he needed to get his shit together. He took the box y/n had sent him and taped it back up, not taking one single thing out of there. He dressed in her favorite outfit of his, deciding he’d at least look how she liked him too. He even washed his hair, knowing how much she loved it when it was soft and looked like a fluffy mop on top of his head.
He knew that no matter how good he made himself look, it would have almost no impact on the outcome of this conversation. He knew how much he had hurt her and how much trust he had to earn back. He knew that no matter how many gifts he bought or made would ever make up for it, but that didn’t stop him from buying her favorite ice cream and flowers and making her a card.
He drove to her apartment and jumped out of the car as soon as he got there, running up the stairs as fast as he could. He knocked on the door lightly, waiting somewhat impatiently for her to open the door. It took a few minutes before he had to knock again and this time, she opened it seconds later, “What?”
“Please don’t close the door. I just want to talk.”
“Oh so-”
“Yes. “So now I want to talk.” Please y/n/n.” He cut her off, immediately knowing what she was going to say. His puppy dog eyes were out in full force and she didn’t know whether or not it was on purpose or a subconscious habit of his when he asked for something he wanted.
She sighed, knowing that she couldn’t stand his eyes any longer. She turned around and walked further into her apartment, waiting for Jack to follow her. When he stepped in, his heart stopped at the broken glass that lay in the kitchen. He followed her with his eyes as he shut the door. He watched as she sat down and wrapped a blanket around her.
Before he got there, she had been watching another sad movie, Kiss and Cry this time. She had been caught off guard when she heard the knock and only wished it would go away. However, when she heard it again, she got up and opened it, feeling both upset and frustrated at who was there. Hearing the way his voice broke when he talked also aided in her decision to let him in. She felt sad when he sat down next to her and reached out to place his hand on her thigh like an instant reaction. He retracted it as soon as it made contact with the blanket, nervous that she would yell at him.
She looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to say something. He cleared his throat and took a deep breath in preparation, “I’m sorry. And I know that no matter what I say, or how much I tell you I’m sorry, it won’t be enough. It won’t justify what I did, but just hear me out please.”
She nodded, allowing him to go on. The look on his face showed the gratitude he had for her response, “I shouldn’t have said what I said. Truthfully I don’t know why I said what I said. I think I must’ve been nervous about our future together but I feel like that’s just an excuse at that point. I don’t know what I was thinking, believe me. And I’m sorry I didn’t let us even try to talk it out, to let you talk. I- I just- To be honest, I really don’t know, y/n.
“ I feel so lost right now, I hated you not being there. I hated not being able to come home from a game and celebrate with you when we won or have you comfort me when we lost. I hated not being able to wake up and you were the first thing I saw. I hated not being able to make dinner with you or play pranks on Luke or having you wake me up in the middle of the night because you had the most random epiphany.” He gave her a little laugh, “I hated not knowing that you were okay.”
She had been looking at the ground the whole time he spoke until he said that. She looked up and made eye contact with him, both of them harboring tears in their eyes. She knew that he meant it, she knew that he didn’t mean anything he said two weeks ago. At first, when she initially thought he would come to her apartment to plead for her back, she wasn’t going to accept the ‘I don’t know’ excuse, but she could tell that he really didn’t know why he did it.
She reached out to hold his hand, toying with his fingers, “I believe you, Jack. And I’m not going to say it’s okay because it’s not, but I know when you mean something, Jack. I know that you didn’t have a reason to lash out.”
She took a deep breath before continuing, “But it’s going to take a while for this to get back to how it was between us.”
“And I know that, and I’m willing to take it at your pace, and communicate with you more, and be there for you more.”
She nodded and turned away slightly to look at the TV, “You wanna finish this movie with me?”
He smiled and nodded, following her request to sit next to her. Jack had thought back to the moment when he walked into the apartment for the first time, and remembered the broken glass, “Are you okay?”
“Now I am, why?”
“Because there was broken glass in the kitchen.”
“Oh, yeah. I knocked it off yesterday? Maybe the day before, I don’t remember. Hadn’t had the opportunity to pick it back up.”
Jack went over and picked it up in case she was to forget and got up in the middle of the night to grab a glass of water. When he got back, she laid her head on his chest and played with one of the strings from his hoodie, “This is my favorite hoodie.”
He nodded again, rubbing her back, “I know.”
“And you washed your hair.”
He felt his face flush at the realization that she had figured out what he was trying to do, “Did you think that the way you looked would convince me to take you back?”
He gave her a lopsided grin and shrugged a little, “A little.”
She sat up and kissed him, “You’re lucky it did, Hughes.”
They sat in a comfortable silence before y/n looked up at him, “Jack?”
“Yeah, baby?” The name was a force of habit and he went to apologize but when he looked down he saw her grinning at him.
“When can I get those sweatshirts back?”
Jack let out a laugh, “They’re in my car, didn’t even take them out of the box. Want me to go get them?”
“Yes please.” He went to move her off of him but she clung to him, missing how warm he felt in the past two weeks, “You gotta let go of me baby if you want them.”
She shook her head, snuggling deeper into them, “You want this one?”
She just nodded and briefly let go of him, allowing him to take it off. He slipped it over her head and then opened his arms so she could lay back on him, which she did immediately. They continued watching and she felt a tear hit her head, looking up in worry, “Jack?”
“Hmm?” He sniffled and wiped his tears off his face with his left hand.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, just missed you, is all.”
She only smiled and hugged him tighter, both of them falling asleep minutes later with how comfortable they felt with one another.
𝑻𝑨𝑮𝑳𝑰𝑺𝑻 ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
if your name is crossed out it means i couldn't tag you
@jasminecaskry85 | @lilyevanswhore | @shoesjr13 | @Exonct07 | @dancerbailey3 | @if-my-heart-bleeds | @prettyinsatiable | @hearts-4-luke | @sarawinson78 | @pucks-goals-penalties | @elegieseulogise | @crazycat-ladys-blog | @privatemythss | @5secondsofonedirection222 | @piavettel33 | @bohemianrapshawty | @mikayladavis | @klkennedy | @hockeyboysarehot | @whoopwhoop123 | @dasiysthings | @rleigh-47 | @ivy-34 | @itsnotgray | @daisysnhl | @love4ldr | @love4lando | @dyslecticdutchman | @thescooby-gang | @biscuit-muffin05 | @toasttt11 | @fratboyharrysgf0201 | @http-aatp | @biggiesmallspots | @kei943 | @Studio_reader | @ru-kru | @zebraszegras | @sleepybesson | @lausdigitaldiary | @eleutherafairy | @hockeygirl101 | @fearfam69691 | @skoolnites | @bunting58 | @francesfarhadi
725 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
crazylover06
Crazy_Life
itsbigbutts
Mens with Big & Hot Butts
pale-mirrors
Pale Mirrors
pojainter
pojainter
avie95
Armyforlifeu