#i don’t think this counts as a poem anymore
Text
My father told me he was proud of me
and it’s nice.
To be someone
to be proud of.
I just wish
he’d also told me the same thing
when I tried taking it easier for the first time;
when I finally went to get help for the first time;
when I allowed myself to breathe for the first time;
when I was learning to be me
instead of a hollowed out ghost.
It’s nice
that he’s proud.
I just wish it was I that made him proud
what I liked, what I cared about.
Not something
I had to do
to survive.
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Text
the lucky one (pt. 5) | jjk
summary: Growing up you only had one goal: beat Jeon Jungkook. Sometimes you'd win, other times you'd lose. Sometimes he'd lose, other times he'd win. But you'd both walk away from the match thinking the other was the lucky one.
pairing: jungkook x fem!reader
rating/genre: 18+ Minors DNI | sports au, e2l/r2l, angst, fluff, smut
word count: 27.7K
chapter summary: You and Jungkook had always endured your lives, watching everyone else live theirs. It was time you helped each other learn how to finally breathe like real people.
warnings/notes: typos probably, explicit language, jk and oc are the sun and moon 100%, hoseok i’m going to kiss you, karaoke..., yoonmin (i don’t ship them irl, don’t worry; all fictional and for plot purposes), panic attacks, poem referenced: mock orange by louise gluck a barbie dream house but all the dolls are kitchen knives by cassandra de alba, oc and jk are like so in love it’s not even funny anymore, oc in her mid-2521 na heedo era, she’s not doing too good, reporters are vultures, mention of king lear, i’m telling you they’re embarrassingly in love, unprotected soft sex like...soft-soft extra soft, mention of icarus/the fall of icarus, i think that’s it but if i missed anything please let me know, i hope you enjoy, my loves <3
chapter five: violet, roses are red, not blue
( ← previous | next → )
FIVE WAYS YOU CAN Help Someone With an Anxiety Disorder:
Validate Their Feelings by Letting Them Know It’s Okay Not to Be Okay
Don’t Tell Them to Calm Down
Encourage Them to Focus on Things They Can Change
Help Them to Help Themselves
Discourage the Use of Alcohol or Drugs to Cope With Anxiety
OK . . .
You blinked once. Twice. Then once more, trying to make sense of the words before your eyes.
The thing was: you’d dealt with anxiety before. Hell, you’d been taking to biting your nails until they bled for a while now. You knew how it felt to peel over the edge of a toilet and empty your stomach’s contents just before a game. But . . . you never knew how to handle it or how to deal with it in such abundant measures.
Why were you looking into it now one may ask? Easy. You didn’t care much about how much you could endure, because truth be told: you knew you could handle it. You knew it would pass and while it sucked, you knew it was something you could deal with. And besides, you could deal with a lot, so . . .
But . . .
There were certain things that made sense to you. While you knew you could deal with everything on your plate . . . and while . . . while you knew Jungkook could handle himself . . . for some reason, you just didn’t want him to have to.
It was an odd thing: realizing you’d rather deal with both your problems and his than let him suffer. You supposed that was what it meant to be friends, though . . . and well . . . you’d never really had any, so this was all new territory for you.
So ever since a few months ago when Jungkook told you about what happened to him just last year, you’d taken to the internet. You spent countless hours researching anxiety disorders, how to help, what to say, what to do, and on the off chance he had a panic attack near you, you’d taken to researching what to do then, too.
It made you feel a little stupid, yes, but you didn’t know how else to help. You didn’t want to make him feel . . . different for telling you, but you also . . . you didn’t want him to feel so alone anymore. (You’d even bought a book on it all (it only made you feel more clueless).
Now . . . you didn’t know much, but you hoped the research would do something. And perhaps it wasn’t too far off either. After all, you’d been helping Jungkook stay away from booze as much as possible, even deciding to stay sober with him and you thought it was helping some. But you knew the late night talks were what helped more. You didn’t know how to say this without sounding full of yourself, but you liked to think you were helping him.
That was what you truly wanted. To help him in ways you couldn’t help yourself. You could handle everything as long as he didn’t have to. That . . . that was what felt right to you.
So . . . five ways you can help someone with an anxiety disorder, you read again. You felt a little more than clueless. Still.
“Hey, Sunshine—“ Jungkook called for you, snapping you out of your own mind— “come look. It’s done.”
Blinking quickly, you clicked off your phone out of habit, realizing where you were. A tattoo parlor.
Yeah . . .
It was the weekend of the final tournaments. The win or lose all, and Yunis was up there right next to the big leagues. How? All because of Jungkook. These past few months you and him had been unbeatable. Sure, you’d lost a few, but . . . more often than not, the two of you would end a match with grins on your faces moments before you jumped into his arms and just let yourself . . . celebrate with him.
That was how it had been. You and Jungkook against the world. And to be honest, you quite liked it that way. (Granted, after your little outburst, your teammates had stopped talking about Jungkook altogether and started to . . . almost but not really but also kind of . . . respect him more (except Wooshik, but whatever). That made things a whole lot better, but it was still just you and him and you were sure it would be for the rest of the season.)
Anyway . . . you were getting off-topic.
The point was: it was almost the weekend of the final tournaments and Yunis was staying at some hotel somewhere in Ulsan. And well, while you and Jungkook were watching some movie in his hotel room, he got an idea. He wanted a new tattoo. For good luck, he’d claimed, and you . . . you hadn’t gotten a tattoo since that one mistake of one. But somehow, someway, Jungkook had managed to drag you out of the hotel and into the nearest tattoo shop he could find on the GPS.
Which landed you there: sitting in the waiting area while Jungkook went first. (He wanted it to be a surprise. That was what he told you, which you thought was a little silly, but whatever.)
And then it would be your turn.
Actually . . .
You turned to face Jungkook, taking in the dopey grin he had spread across his face while he peeked at you through the door leading to the tattooing room. It was your turn.
“Hmm?” you hummed in questioning.
Jungkook shook his head. “Come look,” he repeated as he gestured for you to follow him. “And then I’ve got a couple ideas for yours. Don’t let me forget. And don’t pretend to forget. Got it?”
You rolled your eyes with a huff, but nevertheless, followed after him, shutting the door behind you. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught a glimpse of the artist, but, well, you had never been good at greeting people, so what should’ve been a small greeting wave, turned into you just staring at him with some kind of . . . smile on your face. And when you realized that was so not the way to go, you turned your attention back to Jungkook, grabbing onto the loop of his jeans as he led you to the mirror on the other side of the room.
Jungkook glanced to where you clung onto him, raising his brows as he looked between your face and your hand. “Good?”
You blinked. Then realized what you were doing. Then well . . . you cleared your throat and attempted to tear your hand from his body, but before you could, his fingers curled around your wrist. And without a second glance, Jungkook guided your hand back to him, allowing it to slip into his back pocket.
All you could do was stare at the back of his head in shock. His dark hair was long now. Longer than it had ever been, to the point it could only be tied back with a hair tie or it’d be in his face all day, which was his go-to most days considering the days were long and hot. And somehow, he looked more like himself like that. He seemed to smile more, too, and you always managed to smile back even when you least expected it.
But you couldn’t help it. He was just . . . well . . .
(Sometimes he made you wonder if you should really find your friend this attractive but you ignored that most days.)
Whatever . . . the point was: you had trouble wrapping your head around his touch; around the fact that while he wasn’t exactly yours, he didn’t mind your hands on him at any time. No one had ever liked your touch this much. You had always been too cold; too harsh; too rough, but around him, you felt like your touch was almost . . . soft.
And that was what always shocked you.
“Are you drooling?” Jungkook asked, snapping you out of your own head.
Only then did you realize you had been staring at him for quite a while now, and well, he would always tease you about that. Because he was . . . Jungkook.
Your brows scrunched together. “What?”
But he didn’t bother to repeat his question. No, instead, he took his thumb and swiped at your bottom lip, inspecting it in thought. “Yep, just as I thought—“ he jutted his thumb toward you— “drool.”
Glaring, you stepped closer. “I don’t drool,” you nearly huffed.
“Mmm, that’s not what the evidence says.”
“It’s chapstick.”
“Really?”
“Really.” You glared a little harder. “Will you just show the tattoo?”
Jungkook only grinned.
And then, he turned his attention to his tattooed arm, slowly pulling up the sleeve of his shirt. Your eyes stayed trained on his arm the entire time, expecting some sort of skull or something stupid, but instead . . . no . . . as he pulled up his sleeve, he revealed a vine of some sort of blue flowers traveling from the empty space left on his lower forearm to his hand, covered by a saniderm wrap.
“What flower’s that?” you questioned, eyes still trained on the fresh tattoo as you carefully brought your hand to his arm.
“Morning glories,” he hummed while he watched you slowly turn his arm to get the full view. “My mom says they’re a pain. They grow everywhere like weeds. Once you plant one, that’s it, she says. They grow like wildfire. A nuisance.” He laughed softly. “Figured it fit.”
“It’s pretty,” you murmured with a small smile. “Fits the rest.” You tilted your head to the side a little. “Kinda looks like the snake is wrapping around it.”
Jungkook nodded. “Cool, right?”
It was. It actually really was.
“It’s nice,” you settled with instead, feigning disinterest.
But Jungkook knew you well. “Admit it,” he pushed on, leaning toward you. “Admit you’re impressed.”
Nearly rolling your eyes, you finally huffed, “Yes, fine, it’s actually cool, Kook.”
“So I’ve impressed you?”
“Well, considering I thought you were going to get a dick, yes, I suppose I’m impressed,” you muttered with a small shrug.
Jungkook snorted. “Well.”
Oh god. No, he didn’t.
Furrowing your brows, you pegged the question, “Please tell me you did not get a dick and balls tattooed on you.”
His face screwed up as he tilted his head to the side in thought. “Well . . . “
“Kook.”
Pursing his lips into a cute pout, he offered you his other hand, showing off his fingers. And there on his ring finger was the number three, and on his middle was a sideways U. Meaning, yes, Jeon Jungkook did, in fact, get a small yet visible yet inconspicuous yet not that inconspicuous at all, penis tattooed on his fingers. And no, no, you were not surprised.
“Really?” you deadpanned.
Jungkook shrugged. “Whoops.”
“As long as you don’t think this is a matching tattoo kind of thing,” you started off with your finger pointing directly into his chest. “Because, I’m telling you right now, Jungkook, I am not getting a dick tattooed on my body.”
And Jungkook only snorted, shaking his head. “No, god, I’m stupid, not an idiot. I have my designs in my bag.”
Designs? Your brows twitched. He spent that much time on this? But—
But Jungkook was already one step ahead of you, walking from you toward where his bag lay on the ground beside the tattoo chair. He rummaged through its contents until he clasped his hand around a small sketchbook before he took it out and reapproached you, already flipping through it.
Flip, flip, flip . . . and flip, until . . . he paused on a page and slowly offered it toward you with an almost shy (?) look on his face. Jungkook, shy? You almost didn’t believe it, but still, you took the sketchbook from him without another word, letting your eyes take in the sketch before your eyes.
It was another flower. Well, a stem with a few flowers. Yellow this time. And a little different from Jungkook’s. Perhaps it was a little more peculiar.
“It’s an evening primrose,” Jungkook began while your eyes stayed trained on the sketch, still analyzing it. “My mom used to have them in our garden back home. They, uh, only bloom at night. I remember every night we’d watch them. They’d do this little shake and—“ he laughed, softly at first, then a little louder— “my mom would say it was like they were yawning.”
You traced your fingertips over the sketch, remembering your own little memories of the silly flowers. That was why you remembered them. They were your mom’s favorite. She used to plant like five batches each spring and force you to come outside and watch them with her, and yes, you said force because you had always been a disagreeable child. But still, every night, you watched them.
“They’re my mom’s favorite,” you voiced aloud with a small smile playing on your lips.
“Yeah,” he hummed under his breath. “My mom said she gives her a bundle every year for her birthday.”
Glancing up, you nearly beamed. “Really?”
He nodded. “Really.”
“I guess they’d be proud of us, hmm?” you murmured, searching his face. When you realized what you’d said, you quickly cleared your throat. “For becoming chummy, you know?”
His brows twitched. “Yeah . . . I guess they would.”
A beat of silence.
Then . . . Jungkook cleared his throat, shaking his head of his thoughts as his eyes turned back to the sketch. “Anyway, uh, they remind me of home, so I thought maybe they’d do the same for you,” he allowed himself to say in a hushed tone. “But, I mean, there’s others. The drawing’s kinda shit, so—“
“I like it,” you cut him off as you held the sketchbook closer to you. “I’ll—“ you shrugged— “I’ll get it.”
Jungkook’s brows nearly shot up to his hairline. “Really?”
You only nodded. “Why not? It’s cool. It means something I think, so yeah, fuck it, I’ll get it. Besides—“ you flicked his nose— “the sketch is not half bad. You didn’t tell me you could draw.”
“That’s because I can’t.”
“Bullshit.”
“OK—“ he agreed with a shrug— “hand me the tattoo gun. I can give you a Jungkook original.”
Narrowing your eyes, you couldn’t help but purse your lips into an unamused grimace. “No, thanks, I’ll end up walking out with testicles drawn on my forehead,” you muttered with just a little bite in your words.
And that got him. Jungkook laughed, his eyes crinkling first before a grin broke out onto his face. All the while, he playfully ruffled your hair, gesturing for you to sit down in the chair a second later. And you let it happen, a small dopey smile on your face.
(And you almost realized that while Jungkook had been smiling more lately, you, too, had never smiled so much in your life. You supposed you had him to thank for that . . .
Supposedly.)
It wasn’t your reflection which caught your attention in the mirror. No, rather, what your eyes had landed on was the fresh tattoo of an evening primrose placed in the center of your sternum. It was almost similar to Jungkook’s, yet different just like the two of you, and the funny thing about it was . . . it kept managing to bring a small, almost unnoticeable smile to your face.
“What’s got you smiling?” you heard from behind you as Jungkook appeared in the doorway of the hotel room’s bathroom (completely shirtless, might you add).
“Oh, nothing—“ you shrugged as you reached for a comb (totally not just pretending to untangle the ends of your hair), while maintaining eye contact with him in the mirror— “just the fact you whined and whined about how much pain your arm was in for like, what? An hour after?” Turning slowly to face him, you puffed out your bottom lip into a pout. “Such a pussy.”
His brows raised—a look of challenge. “Yeah?”
A beat of silence.
Another shrug was your only response.
Jungkook fought off a grin, crossing his arms. “I’m a . . . pussy?” Pushing off the doorway, he took a step toward you, head cocked to the side slightly. “Hmm?”
Mirroring him, you crossed your arms over your chest. “That’s what I said.”
“Oh, is that what you said?” he mused, mocking your voice.
And before you could even protest or drop your jaw in shock, he was in front of you. He caged you in, leaning his hands on the counter behind you. One more inch and his nose would be touching yours, but you didn’t dare close that gap.
“You’re such a child,” you hissed in a hushed tone as if his proximity had made the room that much smaller and you that much more exposed.
“Mmm, am I?” he mused, his eyes trailing over your features with such languid strokes, you wondered how you ever handled his gaze before.
You raised your head ever so slightly.
To which, obviously, Jungkook found amusing. With that small, toothy, almost endearing smile on his face, he closed the gap, his nose brushing yours. “Kiss me then,” he murmured, pressing closer, just enough to brush his lips against yours in a feathering touch.
And you began to wonder how on earth you ended up becoming putty in his hands. “What if I bite you instead?” you murmured, but despite your words, you leaned into his touch.
Resting his forehead against yours, he hummed, “Well, I wouldn’t be opposed to that either.”
You felt yourself grin. “Good.”
The only response you received was his lips pressing against yours. You leaned closer, pleasantly sighing into the kiss as a grin tipped onto his face. His hands tickled your sides, lightly dancing across your skin before settling on your rib cage just below the crescents of your breasts.
(Perhaps you forgot to mention that you were entirely topless . . .
What? It was uncomfortable with the fresh tattoo.
Whatever.)
And well honestly, you couldn’t resist not having him close. So what if it bothered your tattoo? He felt better than any pain relief.
Quickly, you found yourself tangling your hands in his dark, grown-out hair as you pulled him close enough to have your bare chest pressed against his. It made you feel close . . . closer than you had ever felt with anyone . . . closer than you had ever let yourself. His grip tightened on you instantly, his hands squeezing your sides once more before he gently sucked your bottom lip under the grasp of his teeth.
It only deepened from there. You melted into him, allowing him to meld his tongue against yours. The act squeezed a soft sigh out of you, to which Jungkook couldn’t contain himself. He smiled widely against your lips, and then his arms were around your thighs, lifting you up onto the sink counter. And once you were supported by the countertop, he stepped in between your parted legs as his hands found your face, gently caressing your jaw while he all but sucked on your tongue like he had done so many times before.
“Stop trying to eat my face,” you chuckled against his lips, still kissing him back while your arms wrapped around his neck.
He shook his head, but the small grin you felt against your lips gave him away. “Stop turning me on then,” he murmured back. “It’s just not fair, Daisy baby.”
Daisy baby. That was a new one.
Your brows twitched without your permission as your eyes traced his features. More specifically, your gaze fixed on his lips, watching as he tongued his lip ring—a habit he had accumulated over the years you supposed.
It made it harder to focus on anything except him. And for the second time that night, you wondered how on earth you ended up being at his mercy time and time again.
It just felt so unlike you. So different. So new. So . . . unfamiliar.
Did you like it?
You questioned yourself over and over again these past months. It felt like something you shouldn’t be able to feel. Really . . . it just made you wonder and wonder and wonder.
Until . . . Yes, you decided. Oddly enough, yes, you did like it. You quite liked feeling like this.
But what exactly was this?
. . . Your eyes met his, and your gaze softened instantly. You had no idea what this was. No idea . . .
Jungkook caught onto the look which crossed your face and leaned forward, burying his face into the crook of your neck. “What’s got you lookin’ like that?” he sighed against your skin, pressing open-mouthed kisses anywhere he could.
And your eyes fluttered shut as you melted into his touch. “Nothing,” you hummed, angling your neck to give him more access to your body. “I just—“
But a knock at the door halted the words from leaving your tongue.
The two of you paused.
A beat of silence.
Another knock came.
Jungkook pulled back and your eyes met, confusion passing between the two of you.
Who could be knocking at the door at this hour? Especially Jungkook’s? (Because, really, after the whole meltdown you had at dinner after the first tournament . . . everyone had steered clear of the two of you. So you wondered once more . . . who could be at the door?)
No words were exchanged between the two of you, Jungkook only took the step into the hall, and peered through the peephole on the door. You watched in silence as he stared a second too long, his posture stiff before he sighed and disappeared back into the room. And well, in utter confusion, you hopped down from the counter, following after him only to find he had put on a tee and grabbed another, moments before he handed that very shirt to you with a tight-lipped smile.
“Who is it?” you whispered, your voice hushed as you put on the shirt he’d handed you, covering your bare chest.
Jungkook tongued his inner cheek, but before you could even press the question, his face softened. A small, stiff smile met his lips as he reached out and caressed your chin with his pointer, while his thumb brushed your bottom lip. “Keep your claws in,” he murmured, that small smile still on his face as if he thought that alone would be enough to ease your wandering mind.
“What—“
But he was already gone.
His touch left you and you watched as he approached the door, while you followed slowly behind. The door was swinging open the next second, revealing—
Oh. You blinked in shock.
In the doorway stood Hoseok, whose back was facing you at that very moment while he talked to . . . Seulki?
Huh?
Tilting your head in confusion, you caught Seulki’s wide dark eyes. Her eyes widened further at the sight of you two as she quickly smacked Hoseok’s shoulder and pointed behind him. The action caused Hoseok to immediately shut his mouth as he slowly turned around, his lips down-turned into an awkward expression as his gaze darted between you and Jungkook.
Furrowing your brows, you sent him a look.
Hoseok blinked back in response. Seulki nervously waved before trying to pass it off as her attempting to scratch the back of her head. And Jungkook . . . well . . . he was the one to clear his throat, putting an end to the silence. (You, however, caught onto the fact that his eyes remained glued to his feet the entire time.)
That . . . that made you step forward, until you stood beside Jungkook, crossing your arms over your chest as you leaned against the door frame. “Something wrong?” you questioned the two of them, keeping a close eye.
Hoseok opened his mouth, hesitating slightly. “Uh—“
“We were looking for you guys,” Seulki cut in with a wide smile on her face. “So it’s good that you’re both—“ she glanced at Hoseok, starting to fidget with her hands as she cleared her throat— “here. Hoseok?”
Hoseok eyed her, a tad startled before he nodded in agreement. “Right, yeah,” he hummed with a clap of his hands. “We were gonna meet up with some friends from college in Busan for karaoke. They’re just . . . they’re coming to the final tournaments and we thought ‘why not, let’s go out’.” He laughed . . . awkwardly if you might add. “Anyway . . . We’ve got two extra train tickets. Could be yours . . . ?”
Quirking a brow, you glanced between them. “How much?”
A perplexed look crossed both their faces. But it was Seulki who spoke up first. “What?” she mumbled, slightly puffing out her bottom lip into a small pout—something she happened to do a lot that you’d caught onto. “Nothing. We just . . . “
As her words trailed off, Hoseok picked up where she left off. In fact, he took it a step further. “We . . . “ He quickly shut his mouth, shaking his head at his thoughts before he raised his head once more, eyes now locked on Jungkook rather than hiding from him. It didn’t matter if Jungkook didn’t look him in the eye, it seemed Hoseok had something to get off his chest as he took a literal instead of metaphorical step toward him. “I . . . I feel bad . . . for how we treated you. I assumed things. I never asked you. I never thought to. I should’ve gotten to know you before listening to anything Wooshik had to say. I misjudged you. For that, and everything else . . . I’m—“ he touched a hand to his chest before he gestured toward Seulki— “we are sorry.”
And while his words lingered in the air, you hadn’t realized that the stiffness in your muscles had slowly loosened and your gaze was now set solely on Jungkook. How could it not be?
With a careful glance, you took in Jungkook’s demeanor. It was clear he, too, was taking in Hoseok’s words. His head was still lowered, his eyes trained on his feet, but they kept moving in rapid motions as if he were fighting with himself to not look up. And all you could think was: look up . . . please, please look up.
You hadn’t expected it when you first saw them in the doorway, but you weren’t an idiot. Hoseok and Seulki had come here to make amends. They had come here to admit their wrongs. You couldn’t be angry with that . . . not when you had seen just how happy Jungkook had been the first time he’d been able to . . . see someone.
If he looked up . . . then that would mean he would be OK. If he looked up . . . then maybe he could breathe a little easier. And truly . . . as odd as it sounded . . . all you wanted was for him to be . . . happy.
If Jungkook looked up . . . all of that could be possible.
“Look—“ Hoseok began again, nearly reaching out to pat Jungkook on the shoulder, but he stopped himself before he made contact— “Uh . . . you don’t seem like a bad guy . . . so I was wondering if we could all hang out like teams are supposed to, you know? Not just to apologize . . . but to . . . be friends, I suppose, is what I mean . . . “
You swallowed hard, fighting with yourself not to speak for him. Look up, Jungkook, you repeated over and over again in your head, watching him with careful eyes. Look up. Please . . . please . . .
Another beat of silence, more painful than the last.
Then . . .
. . . Jungkook raised his head, and his eyes met Hoseok’s, and you knew what his answer would be.
In no way, shape, or form could you comprehend how you managed to make it to some random karaoke bar in the middle of Busan around, like, two in the morning. Hell, you didn’t even remember hopping onto the midnight train to get to the city in the first place, but there you were, dressed in whatever the fuck you could find in your suitcase that wasn’t a badminton uniform, and you were sitting next to one of Hoseok’s friends (Namjoon, you thought his name was.)
And while Namjoon managed to impress you with his choice in cologne, he had been talking your ear off for the past half hour and you couldn’t think straight for the entirety of the time he’d been telling you about well . . . you honestly had no idea what he was talking about. In truth, you couldn’t really hear much . . . because your mind was elsewhere. Because, because, because for the last half hour that Namjoon had been at your side, your eyes had been on Jungkook.
Now . . . you knew how that sounded, but you had a reason. You see, Jungkook wasn’t alone either. He had been sat next to another one of Hoseok’s friends (let’s call him Yoongi and hope you got that right) . . . and he was like . . . looking at him. No, no, like . . . he was looking him in the eyes . . . that is why you couldn’t stop staring, couldn’t stop trying to eavesdrop, couldn’t stop just . . . just . . . just whatever!
Was it embarrassing to say you were proud of him?
But . . . you were . . .
As much as you hadn’t wanted to admit it, he’d become the only person you’d ever been this close to in your life. He’d once told you you were the only one he could see . . . the only one he wasn’t afraid of to look in the eyes, and now . . . in just a few hours, he’d allowed himself to hear people, see them, interact with them beyond the restrictions he’d put on himself the entirety of his contract with Yunis.
And the little thing that made you feel all that more warm, was the attentive, genuine smile on his face as he nodded along to whatever Yoongi was saying. That . . . that made a smile of your own touch your lips as you took in the scene.
“You agree?” you heard from beside you, Namjoon’s voice startling only slightly enough to have you abruptly whipping your head in his direction with a confused expression on your face.
You blinked, furrowing your brows. “Hmm?” you hummed in a questioning tone as you snuck a glance back at Jungkook, only to find . . . oh . . . only to find him lazily shifting his gaze from Yoongi to you with an amused smirk on his face. (Great, so he had seen you looking at him. Great. That he’ll really get you later on with.) “Do I agree—what?”
Slowly, you forced yourself to tear your eyes from Jungkook and finally face Namjoon, who seemed to be oblivious to everything else. You weren’t even really sure if he had heard your question or if he were too busy inside his own head, questioning himself. But it didn’t matter either way, because . . . the music cut out, Hoseok and Seulki’s voices died down, followed by their out of breath laughter, and then:
“Alright, who’s next?” Hoseok called out, offering up the microphone.
Immediately, Yoongi shook his head, leaning back to indulge in his drink rather than the question at hand. And no one else could get another word in before, Seulki and Hoseok had caught onto this little act, only they didn’t exactly . . . go for him. No, rather, Seulki, specifically, all but jumped toward Jungkook. “I vote Jungkookie goes!” she declared as she leaned forward to dangle the microphone in front of his face.
“Agreed! Jungkook-ah, onstage now!” Hoseok exclaimed, closing the distance to Jungkook before he wrapped a hand around his arm, urging him to stand to his feet and take over the spotlight.
(Clearly . . . something you hadn’t mentioned . . . everyone but you and Jungkook were . . . perhaps maybe a little bit or a lot or yeah, yeah, yeah . . . they were drunk. (So you could see how . . . this had happened.))
And Jungkook all but turned cherry-cheeked. “No, no, I can’t,” he laughed it off, trying to wave them away. “I’m a horrible singer, really.”
Lie.
He once sang for your elementary school’s talent show . . . you know . . .
But the others persisted, whining and whining and blah blah blah—
. . . Five minutes later, no doubt, Jungkook finally gave in with a playful groan. He took the microphone from Seulki, slowly making his way to the center of the room you guys had booked, and then you noticed something . . . his eyes had only been on you the entire time. And suddenly, you began to wonder what that meant, wrapping your arms around yourself as your brows raised in question.
Until:
“Listen,” Jungkook began, a half-grin sliding onto his face as he maintained eye-contact with you, “I’ll sing . . . but I need my sidekick.”
Raising your brows, you knew you’d kill him for that later. But still you didn’t move. All you could do was shake your head, because no, no, no you did not want to sing in front of anyone.
“OK. OK,” Jungkook nodded slowly to himself, but you knew him better than that. He had something planned. And you could just tell by the way he began to walk toward the system in order to plug in the song that was somehow someway on his mind. Then, he turned back around, both microphones in his hands, his eyes solely on you with a mischievous glint in them as the first seconds of the song began to blast through the speakers.
Squinting your eyes in skepticism, you watched him.
He only sent you a knowing grin.
And you suddenly had a feeling you knew exactly what he had put on.
“ . . . She ain’t got no money,” Jungkook began, trying his best to sing, but his grin kept growing and growing just as your face fell and fell and fell. “Her clothes are kind of funny. Her hair is kinda wild and free. Oh, but—”
You nearly smacked a hand to your face.
“—Love grows where my Rosemary goes,” he continued, beginning to bob his head now to the music. “And nobody knows but me.” Clearing his throat over the music, you knew you were in for it. “Come on, Rosemary, on your feet. Let’s go. Let’s go. Let’s go, because! Love grows where my Rosemary goes! And nobody knows like—Come on!—me!”
And finally . . . finally after being hounded and hounded, you unstuck yourself from your seat, your eyes solely on him as if it were just the two of you against everything, and then you took the microphone from his hand, and you knew you’d sealed your fate. Shaking your head at him, you playfully rolled your eyes moments before you glanced at the screen, checking where you were in the song.
Great, you thought. Fuck . . . OK. Clearing your throat again, this was your Hell. “I’m a lucky fella,” you began, your voice nearly tone-deaf, and certainly agony to the ears. “And I’ve just got to tell her that I love her endlessly.”
“Oh, because!” Jungkook jumped in, bumping you with his elbow. “Love grows where my Rosemary goes, and nobody knows like me!”
Snorting once, you continued for him, “There's something about her hand holding mine. It's a feeling that's fine,” you hummed along, realizing that perhaps . . . this . . . was . . . fun. And slowly, so slowly, you didn’t even realize you were doing it . . . you had begun to dance along, following Jungkook’s lead. “And I just gotta say—”
“Hey! She’s really got a magical spell and it's working so well that I can't get away,” he drawled out, perhaps carrying out his words a tad too much, but there was something about the smile on his face while he did it that you didn’t care.
That was when you really lost it. Perhaps lost it was the wrong word, but that was when you really stopped caring if there were other people in the room, about keeping up your image or whatever. It just felt like it was you and Jungkook and the music.
And before you knew it, the song had ended, cheers came from Hoseok’s friends, but your eyes were solely on Jungkook. They had never really left him, because this was the song you’d sang at the talent show in elementary. It was also the song you had been too afraid to sing alone . . . because you were perhaps maybe not a shy child, but an antisocial one. And Jungkook . . . Jungkook had offered to sing with you. He’d never wanted to be in the talent show, but you . . . you always wanted the spotlight, and so, it was because of him that you were able to have it that day. Otherwise you probably would’ve spent the entire night crying in the school’s bathroom because you couldn’t force yourself on stage. And he . . . he had saved you back then.
It seemed he always was . . .
That made a smile slowly grow on your face, but before it could form into a toothy grin, cheers erupted throughout the room. Eyes widening, you glanced toward the noise, realizing it was not just the two of you but rather the two of you and . . . them.
But this them didn’t feel malicious as it had in the past. No, in fact, before you could even blink, Seulki was already jumping toward you, jumping up and down while she beamed about how that had to be one of her all time favorite songs. And Jungkook . . . well . . . Hoseok had reached him in seconds, clasping a hand on his shoulder as he went on and on about how he had no idea he had such a voice, asking if he’s taken lessons, and blah blah blah . . . all the while everyone else shouted requests at the two of you, hooting for an encore.
It . . . well . . . to say the least, it managed to bring that smile back onto your face, and finally you let yourself look away from Jungkook, knowing you could trust the others with him, and suddenly all you could see was Seulki. You’d never had many friends. Perhaps competition or surface people, but a little part of you saw Yurim, your college doubles partner and probably the closest you’d ever had to a friend, in Seulki.
Except unlike all those years ago . . . this time you embraced Seulki with a hand on her shoulder and a warm smile touching your face as you finally let yourself tell her the little story of how the song came to be for you. Now, yes, she was drunk out of her mind and would probably forget about all of this tomorrow, but you didn’t care.
It felt . . . nice . . . to talk to people like . . . this. And—And this feeling when you did . . . Oh what was that feeling called? Like, like warmth but better, perhaps innocent?
Were you . . . happy?
And then . . . you began to wonder . . . was this what it felt like to have . . . friends? Were you allowed to feel like this? Like . . . like you were happy?
In that moment, you glanced back at Jungkook for a brief second just as he did the same. Your eyes met, and you knew he felt the same. And then: relief, relief, relief . . .
A beat of silence.
In it more relief.
Beat.
Beat.
Beat . . .
But . . . like all things . . . balance. A knock on the door ripped that blissful beat of relief from your grasp. Brows furrowing, you slowly turned to see a blurry shadow just behind the door, indicating that someone was . . . asking for permission to come in? But . . . who? As far as you knew everyone who was there was supposed to be there.
You wondered and wondered, trying to tilt your head to see if you could make it out. And then you heard them call his name, but you didn’t believe it at first. You didn’t quite hear it. Seulki was jumping beside you, and you could have sworn you heard Yoongi announce that it was probably his partner at the door.
And then as Yoongi slowly walked toward the door, opening it to greet the man with this adoring look in his eyes, your heart plummeted to your stomach. Instantly, your eyes snapped to Jungkook, and you saw the entire world crumble before you. You tried to reach him but Seulki was still holding onto you, and you couldn’t breathe, you couldn’t speak, you couldn’t move, you couldn’t do anything but stare and watch as the world fell and fell and fell, leaving you with no way to put it back together.
Amongst the chaos, your eyes fluttered back toward the door and you heard his name once more. Jimin, you could have sworn Hoseok had called out, and you knew this was reality.
Like an old ghost, Jimin had appeared at the door, almost unrecognizable from the boy you remembered in college. His hair now honey blonde, his cheeks full and almost rosy, with this way about him that just screamed he was different now. It made you wonder how different he was now than a year ago when Jungkook left his past behind him.
Breathing carefully, everyone’s attention was on Jimin, but you caught sight of it first. Jimin’s eyes scanned the room and then . . . then they met yours. Your heart stopped again and you could have sworn his mirrored yours. His eyes widened only slightly, until they shifted just to the right of you, and you watched in silence as his lips parted, his brows twitching upward.
That was weird.
You would have expected him to meet the sight of Jungkook with anger . . . but the only expression on Jimin’s face was that of pain . . . perhaps . . . yearning . . . ? For something . . . ?
And finally, you allowed yourself to glance back at Jungkook, and you began to wonder if it truly were possible to die of a broken heart.
Jungkook stood stagnant, unmoving without even a single rise and fall of his chest. No, instead, his hand was clasped over his chest as if he were in physical pain, but he still didn’t move. Until he did.
Before you could reach him, Jungkook was off. He made a B-line for the door, pushing past everyone while they were distracted by Jimin’s appearance.
And you were a step behind him.
“Kook, where you going?” you briefly heard Hoseok call to Jungkook. “Jimin’s got to show you his vocals, man. He’ll give you a run for your money.”
But Jungkook wasn’t reachable. “I—um—restroom,” he barely strained out and then he was gone, slipping out the door and out of your sight.
You tried to keep up, desperately pushing past the others as you reached the door as well, but a hand on your upper arm stopped you in your tracks. Your eyes flicked from the hand on your arm to the face of the person it belonged to.
Jimin . . . he was the one who had stopped you. Of course.
But you had never been easily swayed. You quickly ripped your arm out of his grasp, and left without a look back. But it was no use. The hallway was empty. Jungkook was gone.
So what? You’d find him. You had to.
Without another thought, you didn’t even wait to hear the door close behind you as you began to stalk down the hall, but a voice called out to you.
“Hey, hey, wait,” the voice pleaded.
But you knew this voice well. You knew Jimin well, and you didn’t care what he had to say, not when Jungkook was missing.
Attempting to make another run for it, you put one foot in front of the other, only to be pulled back. Jimin wrapped a hand around your upper arm, pulling you into him and turning you to face him all at once. And you saw that hurt expression once again, but you didn’t care, you didn’t care, you didn’t care! Jungkook was out there and he was alone and you needed him to know you were never leaving his side again.
So fuck it, fuck it, fuck it. You didn’t care!
Desperately, you tried to peel his hand from your arm, but his words halted you in your tracks.
“Is he OK?” Jimin quietly asked, his voice barely above a whisper, almost as if he were ashamed of his own words.
Taking a step back, you could only shake your head at him. “Are you fucking serious?” you all but hissed, the words burning on your tongue as you finally ripped your arm out of his grasp. “Now you care? Now you want to act like—“ Your words were ripped from your lips, unable to finish the sentence. Instead, another shake of your head came. “You’re fucking unbelievable . . . Of course he’s not OK. He hasn’t been for a while, and you would know that if you hadn’t—“
The words died on your tongue, and Jimin watched. While your eyes betrayed you, watering slightly, Jimin looked as if he couldn’t believe his own eyes. His gaze darted across your face, his brows raised in concern (?) while he watched as you fought against the floodgates, trying to bite back the tears in your eyes and the lump in your throat.
And finally, you were able to force out the words: “He’s not OK. He’s really—“ you quickly exhaled— “really not.”
A beat of silence.
You swallowed that lump in your throat while a look of realization crossed Jimin’s face. It was funny . . . he looked completely different now than he did years ago . . . or maybe it was the look he wore. It was something you had never seen on him before.
But you really didn’t care.
Sucking in a breath, you cleared your throat and began to back away. “And he needs me so I have to—“
But Jimin cut you off. “So he told you?” he asked almost a little too hesitantly as he took a step toward you.
Nodding, you swallowed hard. “Yes.”
His brows raised. “You guys are . . . good?”
“Yes,” you muttered, nodding again. “He’s—We’re friends.”
Jimin blinked. “Oh.”
“What?”
“I just . . . I didn’t see that coming . . . “
“Well—“ you bit your inner cheek— “it did.”
Another beat of silence.
Then: Jimin took a step back. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, almost too under his breath to even hear. “I didn’t expect that he’d be here. I haven’t seen him in . . . in a year. I didn’t even think he was . . . I didn’t think he was like that.”
Oh . . .
Don’t say it.
Don’t say—
Don’t—
But you couldn’t help but bite out, “No thanks to you.”
Jimin pinched his brows together. “What? What do you mean?”
You just had to say it . . .
“Nothing—“ clearing your throat, you realized just where your loud mouth had landed you— “just . . . I have to go, alright?”
With one final look at the man before you—a man you once knew that now barely resembled the one you’d known—you walked past him, eyes trained solely on what was before you. Jungkook was the only thing on your mind. Finding him was the only thing you cared about. Leaving the past behind was easy when you knew he was waiting for you somewhere up ahead.
But a hand wrapped around your forearm, halting you in your tracks. Your eyes widened as you heard Jimin speak, but you couldn’t quite make out what he was saying until you glanced over your shoulder, your eyes meeting his words head-on.
“Look . . . look, I know,” he had said, an almost desperate expression plaguing his face. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing slightly before he sucked in a sharp breath. “I know. Trust me. I do.” Exhale.
Slowly, your brows scrunched together as you pried his hand off your arm. “Know what?” you questioned, your voice a slightly accusatory tone while you cocked your head to the side, eyeing him with skepticism.
A moment’s silence passed before he searched your eyes. What he was searching for, you couldn’t quite make out, but he kept searching and searching and searching until his brows twitched upward, an almost pained expression fueling his face. And then: “I know it wasn’t Kook’s fault,” he confessed, his voice soft and quiet as if he were ashamed of his own words. “What happened between him and Tae. I knew it wasn’t his fault.”
Instantly, your heart dropped.
He knew. He knew and he still let this happen.
You wanted to scream. At him. At everything. At nothing.
But you stayed frozen, your mind spiraling and spiraling.
“I tried to get them to see that, too, but . . . Kook had always been our glue, not me,” he nearly whispered, harshly pointing at his chest almost as if he were trying to punish or rather condemn himself. “Tae and I would get into arguments over stupid shit all the time, and Kook would always be there to get us to see eye-to-eye. I didn’t know how to help them. I’m not good at that; he was.”
And then you saw it: you saw the past in his eyes. Slowly, it unraveled, and you watched as the three of them practiced day in and day out while you glared at them across the field back in college. You remembered being angry, but you hadn’t known why, and now . . . now you realized you had been envious of the fact that they were . . . friends. While you had none, they had each other.
To see the three of them in completely separate places now . . . made your head spin and spin and spin. Never once did you think they’d do anything without each other, and now . . . now you were watching the past crumble through Jimin’s sad eyes.
It was almost as if you could see the moment they went their separate ways. Kook alone. Jimin and Taehyung together . . . but . . . distant . . .
The distance was clear on Jimin’s face, and when he spoke, he spoke with a certain type of nostalgia that you knew all too well. “I knew what I had to do,” he continued, those sad eyes of his not leaving yours. “I chose Tae. I would’ve chosen them both, but I couldn’t . . . so I stayed by Tae’s side. I knew how they both felt. I knew that I could play neutral all I wanted, but Kook was gonna leave and I had to either go with him or stay with Tae.” He shook his head as he chewed on his inner cheek. “And I couldn’t let Tae go through this alone . . . and—and there wasn’t enough time to fix what happened between them, but I thought Kook would be OK. I would’ve fought harder if I knew—”
His words cut off, getting tangled around his tongue as the lump in his throat rose higher and higher. There was no way to tell when it’d finally choke him. What would happen then?
“He was just always so . . . fine,” Jimin whispered more to himself than to you, shrugging his shoulders as if he couldn’t believe it. “I thought he’d be OK. I thought he’d ignore all of this and win that medal we all dreamed of . . . but then he left the team and Wooshik . . he told me where he ended up.” He shook his head once more, his eyes now trained on the wall behind you, tears still glossing over and threatening to spill. “I didn’t think he was . . . struggling. I just thought he was hiding. I didn’t realize he was . . . “
“Well . . . I guess we all have our own ways of dealing with . . . guilt,” you heard yourself spit out before you could stop the words from flowing. You didn’t know why, you just . . . you just . . . you were just so angry. But at him? That you weren’t sure or.
It seemed Jimin was as shocked by your words as you were. His eyes met yours once again, blinking quickly, causing a few tears to slip down his cheeks. He quickly wiped them away, shaking his head in the process. “Don’t do this,” he muttered under his breath.
But you almost couldn’t control it. You were more parts anger than anything else, and there he was, the perfect subject to take it out on. Putting up a fight was useless, your mind was on autopilot. “Tae’s at home bedridden I assume and you’re here? On a date?” you hissed out through gritted teeth. “Mmm, I don’t know . . . sounds—”
“Don’t,” Jimin quickly cut you off, mirroring your anger. “You of all people don’t get to judge me.”
You raised your brows. “Why not?”
“You—“ he shoved an accusatory finger your way— “left him too once.”
And just like that, his words pierced your chest, making the anger spread into your bloodstream. “That’s different,” you bit out, eyes now shamefully trained on the ground.
“Is it?”
Scoffing, you shook your head. “Don’t turn this around. You—”
But Jimin wasn’t having it. “He loved you, you know?” he spat like the words had burned his throat.
The world stopped.
A beat of silence.
Two beats.
Another.
. . . You could have sworn your heart thud in your chest. But . . . but that could’ve been your breath catching in your throat.
And then you heard it: your own shocked voice. “What?” you all but gasped out, taking a subconscious step back.
Jimin furrowed his brows as if . . . confused (?) by your reaction. “He loved you,” he went on, keeping a watchful eye on your face. “I don’t know why or how considering you were such a horrible person the entirety of college . . . but he stuck by you. I’ve never seen anyone love somebody that much. Hell, I didn’t think it was real, and I couldn’t understand why . . . but he loved you, and when you pulled that shit on him; when you left, me and Tae saw it. He didn’t talk to anyone for months.”
He loved you? He . . .
“He slowly came back, and a year later I thought he was fine. I thought he was finally over you, but . . . “ Jimin wet his lips— “I guess some old habits never die.”
Jungkook loved . . . you? In college he—But, no! He thought you guys had been friends. You were the one who had hated him, and he had thought of you as a friend. There was no love there. No, no there couldn’t be. He did not love you. He couldn’t have. No. No . . . No!
“And now you’re here . . . defending him . . . and I just can’t wrap my head around it,” Jimin finished off, his words more stable now. Then, slowly but surely, he nodded as if he had made peace with his thoughts. “But I get it. We all make our own choices. You made yours, but you . . . you don’t get to stand here now after everything and judge me when you left him in the dark for years. I made my choices, and I regret them most days, but it is what it is. You of all people should know that.”
But if he had loved you, then . . . had you broken his heart?
You knew you’d done quite a lot of damage on him, but you hadn’t considered that you’d broken . . . the very thing you’d come to grow so fond of. Because truly, over the past months, you’d come to know him more than you knew yourself, and you realized he’d always had this softness about him. He’d always had a good heart. That was what you had come to admire most about him. And if Jimin was right, that meant you had hurt that very part of him.
If he was telling the truth, you had done so much more damage to Jungkook than you had thought. Perhaps it had been you who had ruined him.
That . . . that made your rage boil. “I do,” you ended up biting out, your voice harsher than it had ever been as your rage boiled and boiled, nearly bubbling and spilling everywhere. “I regret every mistake I’ve ever made and I know hurting him is at the top of the list, but you knew that, too, and you still repeated what I did wrong. Why didn’t you go back for him? Why didn’t you, I don’t fucking know, try?! Why didn’t you fucking try?! Huh?!”
Those words left your lips and before you knew it, you were face to face with Jimin, not even two inches apart. Your breathing was ragged and you could feel your rage burning through your bloodstream, turning it to rot, surely burning through your skin.
Had it reached your heart?
“Why didn’t you try?” Jimin mumbled, the anger gone from his eyes as he took in your expression. And his words . . . this wasn’t a question. He wasn’t asking why you hadn’t tried to help Jungkook back then, no . . . he was reminding you that you hadn’t tried for a reason.
Admit it or not, you hadn’t let him in because you hated yourself. And making yourself hate him, blame him, was easier than admitting you didn’t want to live with the person you had become.
That was why you hadn’t tried—you were exhausted with yourself, with everything.
And only then did it hit you. As those final words left your lips, you realized why you were so fueled with anger. You realized why you had chosen Jimin as your punching bag, and you realized what you had done.
Because, really, you weren’t angry with him. No, you were angry with yourself. It was like he had said . . . you had left Jungkook once, too.
Looking at Jimin was like looking in the mirror. What he had done to Jungkook was nothing close to what you had done to him. So being angry at him . . . hurting him was an excuse to ignore who you were really angry with: . . . yourself.
And finally, Jimin spoke for the both of you. “Because . . . I was exhausted,” he mumbled through a heavy exhale. “You don’t get it . . . I’ve stayed by Tae’s side for a year, and I’d do it again and again, but that doesn’t mean that there isn’t a part of me that doesn’t blame him, too.”
Wetting your lips, you took a step back, your anger slowly turning to guilt. This wasn’t his fault. Why did you blow up on him like that? Fuck.
Hating him wouldn’t make you hate yourself less . . .
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“After the incident, it was like he just disappeared,” Jimin went on, his voice equal parts solemn and guilty. “Badminton was his dream. I think Tae loved it the most out of all of us, and just like that, it was gone. And without it, he just faded away. I don’t even think he blames Kook. He’s just . . . gone. It’s like he’s been on autopilot for the better half of a year.”
Fuck. Jimin wasn’t to blame. Just like Jungkook, this entire situation was just one big mess. No one was to blame. Fuck, no one was to blame, and yet . . . you were sure they all blamed themselves.
How could you have been so blinded by rage you hadn’t noticed this before?
“And I . . . I have had to live for the both of us,” he confessed, finally raising his head to meet your watchful gaze. “I knew what I was getting into, and I did it because I care for him, but I didn’t realize . . . I didn’t realize that . . . you can be there for someone as much as you want but there comes a time when caring for someone makes you stop caring about yourself.” His brows twitched only once, but the action carried a world of pain. “Tae is my best friend. They both were, and I . . . I didn’t just lose Jungkook that day. I had to live for Tae, and in doing so, I stopped living for myself.”
I stopped living for myself. Closing your eyes, you were only reminded how wrong you had been. The three of them were all in pain, refusing to admit it. They all blamed themselves, you were sure of it.
But no one was to blame.
No one.
Still, you stayed silent, keeping these thoughts to yourself. Your eyes fluttered back open, and it was as if you were staring the past in the face once again. And god, did it have such a guilty conscience.
“I know it’s wrong, but there will always be a part of me that resents him for it,” Jimin went on, sighing as his words left his lips. “And he—” he gestured back to the karaoke room; back to where Yoongi still resided— “is the only reason I didn’t lose myself. He is the only reason I can fucking breathe just for a second . . . so that is why I’m here. I don’t care if it’s selfish. He’s my sliver of happiness, which is why . . . “ he wet his lips, staring at you as if you were a reflection of his own past “ . . . which is why I don’t blame Jungkook for the things he did for you back then. So . . . I don’t blame you either but . . . but I guess what I’m trying to say is . . . I know what I did. I will always regret it and I will always wish I could turn back time and make it all go away, but I can’t.”
Which is why I don’t blame Jungkook for the things he did for you back then, you repeated in your head once more. Was Jimin right? Had Jungkook truly loved you?
And then, one more final question popped into your head: Did he still?
“Min?”
The singular name brought you and Jimin out of your little bubble. The two of you turned your heads in the direction of the sound, finding Yoongi had peeked his head out of the karaoke room. His dark eyes shifted between you and his boyfriend, a skeptical look plastered across his face.
“Everything’s fine,” Jimin replied with a tight smile.
That was when you saw it—the way Yoongi’s face softened instantly with just a couple of words from Jimin. You recognized that look. You’d seen that very expression reach Jungkook’s face time after time again in the past months you’d spent getting to know each other more and more and . . .
Wait . . .
Wait, wait . . . you recognized that look, but in a deeper way, in a visceral way. Yes, you’d seen Jungkook wear it many times, but . . . you could have sworn you’d seen it somewhere else, too. You could have sworn you’d catch glimpses of it on your own face when you’d walk past a mirror or catch your reflection in a puddle. And you’d always catch sight of it when . . . Jungkook was up ahead or behind or near.
Yes, that was it. You’d seen that expression on your own face when Jungkook was involved. But . . . did that mean?
No, no . . . no. Stop it. You couldn’t think about what this meant or that meant or this or that and those and them or whatever! No.
Right now . . . right now you had to focus. Jungkook had run off and you . . . you needed to find him, but—
Your gaze fixated on Jimin once again. What happened back then . . . He wasn’t to blame. No one was. They, all three of them, were in pain, blaming themselves and yet too scared to face it. None of them would dare to either. But it was so clear that Jungkook missed Taehyung and Jimin as well. And now . . . now it was clear just how much Jimin missed the both of them . . .
And well, you could do something about that. Perhaps then this guilt would leave you alone. Perhaps then things could be set right. Maybe then things could be the way they were supposed to be before life got in the way.
The answer was clear, and you couldn’t stop yourself. “Jimin,” you began, clearing your throat and interrupting the conversation between him and his boyfriend. Once his eyes were on you, with a clearing of your throat, you continued. “I’m sorry . . . for blowing up on you. I didn’t realize that—nevermind—just . . . Jungkook . . . he misses you . . . and Tae. I can see that. He’s . . . He doesn’t hate you, you know? He blames himself, yes, but he’s not angry with either of you. I think he just wants you guys back . . . so . . . if there’s any way . . . ask Hoseok for my number.” You paused for only a second to swallow. “You shouldn’t have to live with regrets.”
A beat of silence followed your words once again, almost as if it were mocking you. But instead of turning your words to shit, Jimin welcomed the silence. He embraced it as a small smile lifted onto his lips. And then . . . then he nodded.
It was a silent agreement, but it was good enough for you.
This could be it.
A new leaf.
For him.
For Jungkook.
For Jungkook, you affirmed, and with that thought, you nodded back. “It was nice to meet you, Yoongi,” you mumbled genuinely, before your eyes shifted back to Jimin once again. Another nod from you. “Jimin. Tell Hoseok that Kook and I went to eat, yeah? We’ll see him at practice tomorrow.”
“Hey—“ Jimin piped up before you could leave— “remember to live for yourself, too, yeah?”
And you nodded back with a smile.
The world fell away piece by piece as you turned from them, their faces still glued to the back of your mind, but you couldn’t waste any more time. As it was, your anger had already bubbled over and burned enough bridges that night to waste a lifetime. You should’ve kept your cool. You should’ve tried to see everything from a bigger picture, but this rage trapped inside you seemed to be bigger than you knew how to control. Sure, it had subsided now . . . but only because . . . because that was what was right.
You didn’t know how to explain it, but . . . Jungkook had become someone important to you, perhaps the most important in your life. You’d never felt that before. You never thought you’d be able to care about someone this much before, but . . . you did, and that was enough to put away that anger boiling deep inside you just enough to do right . . . for him.
Did that make you crazy? Maybe . . . maybe it did, but there wasn’t much in you to care about things like that. All you wanted was to find him. If you found him, everything would be alright. It would. You swore it would.
Your feet didn’t feel like your own as you raced down the halls of the karaoke bar. The lights had begun to blur together in your vision, creating mixes of blue and purple racing in your peripheral. You’d even looked into room after room, disturbing group after group, solely searching for him.
Until . . . with your heart pounding in your chest, your breathing uneven, and a relentless shiver shaking throughout your body, through the muted colorful lights, you caught sight of a man’s figure crouched down in a corner of the building. His hands were covering his ears, his face hidden in his knees as he breathed heavily, but he was there. You’d found him. Instantly, your muscles relaxed. Exhale.
You’d found him. “Ju—” but you quickly cut yourself off before you could draw any attention to yourself.
Think. You had to think. You couldn’t approach him like you normally would. You couldn’t go in all thorns and nails on a chalkboard. This was different. This was what you had read about. What you realized you had never been good at—comfort.
How could you comfort? You had never been nurturing. Hell, you’d read something once that told you some women just weren’t meant to be mothers, and you knew you were one of them. You knew you couldn’t didn’t know how to be . . . soft.
But you had to try. For him . . .
And then you remembered:
Five Ways You Can Help Someone With an Anxiety Disorder:
Validate Their Feelings by Letting Them Know It’s Okay Not to Be Okay
Don’t Tell Them to Calm Down
Encourage Them to Focus on Things They Can Change
Help Them to Help Themselves
Discourage the Use of Alcohol or Drugs to Cope With Anxiety
But . . . but . . . fuck! How was that supposed to help you now? Let them know it’s OK not to be OK. OK . . . You swallowed hard. You could do that. Focus on things they can change. OK, OK. You could do that, too.
Hesitantly, you took a step forward.
But shit! You paused, halting in your movements. What if that didn’t work? What if you didn’t do it right? What if it only made it worse? What if you only made him worse?
Just . . . just . . . fuck, OK! Just—
“Kookie,” you heard yourself say clearly before you knew you had even opened your mouth.
In response, his breathing stopped but he didn’t raise his head to meet your gaze. Instead . . . “It’s OK. Just go back . . . “ he muttered out, just loud enough for you to hear, but he still wouldn’t meet your eyes. “I’m OK.”
I’m OK. You swallowed hard. No . . . no, he wasn’t, and unlike all those years ago, you were not going to leave him behind. Not now. Never again.
It didn’t take another second for you to cross the distance to him before you sank to your knees right in front of him, reminding yourself not to startle him. “I’m here,” was all you said, fighting against everything harsh and rough in you, trying desperately to be soft.
The thing was: people could tell you countless amounts of things on how to help someone, but . . . you’d never get it. You weren’t good at it. You couldn’t do that, be that. You knew him, too. He wasn’t textbook like all the things you’d read up on. You assumed no one was . . . so . . . you’d like to add one more to the list: ask him how you could help.
“What—” you inhaled sharply— “What do you need me to do?”
Still, Jungkook would not meet your eyes, but he didn’t need to. You saw his body shift. You saw him process your words. And you knew he wasn’t going to hide from you. “Just—” he all but choked out— “ground me. Put your arms. Squeeze . . . hard.”
And just like that, you acted quickly. You didn’t waste any time as you scooted behind him, wrapping your arms around his figure, locking him into your body, and squeezing as he’d instructed. Resting your cheek on his back, you continued hugging his body to yours, listening to his heartbeat as you did so. Squeezing your eyes shut, you begged for this to help him, but the beat of his racing heart met your ears like a drum.
It wasn’t enough. You had to keep going.
“OK, OK, what else?” you asked him, your voice clear and calm . . . and soft.
But the beat of his heart was the only thing you heard.
Ground him. You squeezed harder. “You’re here with me. I’ve got you. You’re safe. Speak to me, Koo,” you all but begged.
“Tell me something,” he mumbled, and you nearly exhaled in relief. “Please, say anything.”
Nodding quickly, you tried to scrounge up something, anything. “OK, um, um,” you stuttered out, racking your brain over and over again, until finally . . . “Do you remember when we were kids and my parents rented that cabin for the summer? You had this fake tattoo of a dragon that you really really wanted to put on your arm right—“ you grabbed his forearm, pressing your thumb into a spot— “here, but I wanted everything you had so I just had to have the tattoo. I whined and whined until you finally let me have it. And yet, in the end, my mom forgot to take off the plastic so neither of us ended up with the damn tattoo and we were both pissed.” Smiling against his back, you readjusted your grip on him, holding him closer than before, perhaps so close your souls could almost touch. “Your mom made us hold hands until we got over it.”
And with a small smile on your face, you heard it . . .
His heart rate had started to slow, his breathing becoming more controlled as he tried his hardest to breathe in deep and exhale long. Was it? Was it working? OK. OK. Speak more. Speak—
“Yeah, and you wouldn’t stop crying, meanwhile, I won that thing in a raffle,” he interrupted before you could rack your brain for another memory.
Wetting your lips, you replied, “But it worked, didn’t it?” Your eyes danced around the room, the memory almost as clear as day. The smile on your face grew. “We were sitting by the fire, getting way too messy with those s’mores you swore you knew how to make.”
“We camped outside the entire night,” Jungkook mumbled under his breath, his shoulders shaking slightly as a small laugh escaped him.
“Yeah, until you almost pissed your pants because you thought you heard a bear,” you remarked, the smile on your face too wide to contain.
“Hey!” he quipped back as his hand fell to your arm. “I was like nine.”
In shock, you watched as Jungkook slowly raised his hands to cover your arms, hugging them to his chest. Then, you rested your ear against his chest, and you realized his heartbeat had returned almost to normal . . . and . . . and . . . his breathing had calmed. And then you saw it, a drop of . . . something had wet his shirt where your cheek laid . . . and you realized . . . you were crying.
Was this softness that you felt? Or weakness?
The truth was: you didn’t care. Not now.
Quickly, you wiped your damp cheeks on your shoulder and sniffled. “Scaredy cat,” you mumbled with a soft laugh.
Jungkook breathed out a laugh through his nose. “Brat,” he hummed as he squeezed your forearm.
A beat of silence met the two of you then. You nestled closer, holding him until he finally gave you the go-ahead that he was alright. You’d stay there all night if you had to. And he welcomed this with open arms, holding you as close as he could in his position, and just letting things . . . be, it seemed.
Until, finally, after what seemed like hours, he whispered against your forearm, “I’m sorry.”
And you couldn’t help yourself. Your brows pinched together, confusion revisiting you as you asked, “For what?”
“You don’t need this,” was his only answer.
Another beat of silence.
And then: “You’ll always be unhappy when it comes to me.”
Squeezing your eyes shut, your only response was to hug him tighter. Fuck.
It is not the moon, I tell you.
It is these flowers
lighting the yard.
As the night droned on, writings upon writings popped into your head as you tried to make sense of this, of tonight, of everything; one, in particular, visited you too frequently to be ignored; one that you had held onto for years now. You supposed it was a silly thing—realizing just how many poems you had trapped in your head, but you had three years of isolation, three years of loneliness, three years where you only read and read and read. Those three years . . . poems had been all you had.
You supposed it would always end this way.
I hate them.
I hate them as I hate sex,
the man’s mouth
sealing my mouth, the man’s
paralyzing body—
And like the poem stated, these words remained true to you. You hated many things, perhaps too much. In those three years, you had grown to hate another’s touch, perhaps because you craved it so viscerally. But . . . the scent of mock orange wasn’t in the form of a man for you. To you . . . the scent of mock orange smelled a lot like a badminton racket.
and the cry that always escapes,
the low, humiliating
premise of union—
Perhaps you had grown to hate badminton. You hadn’t even realized it, but . . . looking back at it now . . . you had done everything to be someone . . . to be the best, and you had wanted that. You had really wanted that. Sometimes you thought it was the only thing that would ever make you happy, but . . .
But . . .
In my mind tonight
I hear the question and pursuing answer
fused in one sound
that mounts and mounts and then
is split into the old selves,
the tired antagonisms. Do you see?
We were made fools of.
And the scent of mock orange
drifts through the window.
But perhaps . . . like growing pains . . . a part of you had outgrown badminton. Could this be real? Could you really have outgrown the one thing you had ever loved? And if you truly had . . . what did that mean for you now?
How can I rest?
How can I be content
when there is still
that odor in the world?
That odor.
That damned odor of mock orange blossoms.
. . . You had smelt them the day of the incident. The stench had followed you to the hospital, crawling under your skin and resting there for the months to follow. They hadn't even bloomed then, yet you still smelt them every time you breathed. When your heart felt less heavy and your mind was clearer than the day before, when it became month after month after month, the scent finally rid itself from your senses. And you thought you might have actually been allowed to rest without that odor in the world.
But as another month melted into the next, and you tried to get back onto your feet again, the scent of mock orange drifted back into your life. You, of course, ignored this, eager to get back on your feet. You’d been able to take a few steps, which eased the ache you had been carrying around for the past few months. You knew it was stupid to imagine you could actually be healed after a few months, but you didn’t care. You just wanted to walk again . . . maybe run . . . maybe play again with a racket in your hand.
It was nice—being able to dream for a few minutes.
But it did only last for a short time. Soon you being you had gotten too cocky in your progress. You wanted to try longer walks. You wanted to see if you could run.
Then as you ignored the warning signs from your parents, from your doctors, from your nurses, the second they allowed you out on the hospital courtyard, you took off, attempting to run. But . . . before you knew it, something snapped and . . . you were tumbling to the ground, crying in pain.
And just like that . . . the scent of mock orange drifted in and remained in the air.
You remembered just laying there after that, contemplating just how much this would set you back as the nurses hurried you back to your room to be examined. You wondered if you had fucked yourself entirely. You wondered if this was it and you would never be able to play or even walk again. You wondered what that made you now. You might as well have not even been a person anymore, because back then . . . badminton had been all that you had. Back then, if you weren’t the best; if you weren’t someone great, then you were nothing.
And yes, you knew you had never been particularly interesting, but you never thought you were . . . nothing. The scent of mock orange tainting the air reminded you of the truth—without badminton, you might as well have been no one.
As you were escorted back to your room, examined, and left to rest, you laid there, the scent of mock orange being your sole company, and you realized you hated them. You hated those stupid, putrid flowers as you hated feeling . . . less. You hated them as you hated yourself.
Guilt might have been your ghost, but the scent of mock orange was your shadow.
How could you rest? How could you be content when there was still that odor in the world?
You were sure you never would.
And truly . . . how could you rest? If you were constantly trying to be better and better? When would you finally be the best? Could you be? No . . . no, you knew you couldn’t, but then who were you?
Who were you without . . . badminton?
That was the question on your mind as you flicked at your ramyeon with your chopsticks. You supposed like the mock orange blossoms, your coming-of-age escapades did not deliver the fruits of its promise. Becoming someone was all you had ever wanted out of life. You wanted glory. You wanted greatness. And yet . . . why did the thought of badminton slowly and slowly start to turn into this . . . dark thing? Why was it that when badminton was involved . . . bad things happened?
Now, you didn’t believe in signs and you surely wouldn’t start now . . . but it became evident that you had been made a fool of, wishing on a shooting star that was on its last breath. The scent of mock orange would drift in every time, reminding you that you would never reach that greatness again no matter how many times you tried.
And that should’ve filled you with rage . . . jealousy . . . pain . . . but . . . you didn’t feel any of that. What you felt, at its core, was a gentle ache in your chest; the same kind of ache which came with nostalgia.
You just couldn’t stop thinking of it. Actually . . . you hadn’t stopped thinking about that scent of mock orange since you saw Jimin earlier that night. He’d told you Taehyung had loved badminton the most . . . he told you he was a ghost of himself now because of what he lost. And then you began to think of what had happened to you . . .
Those three years . . .
All you had ever thought about was getting back to the person you used to be. That was all you had cared about, and when you finally won that first game all those months ago . . . you had felt that same joy that you had always felt after a win. Except . . . this was different, you realized.
Remembering the win now, the image of you smashing the birdie down onto the court wasn’t what came to mind first. No, you remembered that day; you remembered the thrill of the win, but the image that came to mind first was Jungkook smiling down at you moments before you sprung into his arms.
Jungkook was what you remembered that day, not the look on the other team’s faces when you took home that winning title. And then you realized what you had been trying to ignore ever since you let your walls come down layer by layer: perhaps . . . perhaps there was more to life than badminton.
In the months you had let Jungkook in, you’d lived more than you had in your entire life. You’d laughed more, smiled more, felt more. You’d felt yourself be more.
The scent of mock orange never visited you when he was around. It was like he was the real thing. You weren’t even sure if that made any sense. But . . . but . . . if you couldn’t smell those damned phony flowers, then perhaps Jungkook had taken their place. By chance . . . did he smell like an orange blossom? Without mocking, without malice, without trickery? Was he . . . real?
There was just something about the world that Jungkook had shown you that had a way of making everything just . . . mute. It was like before he’d shown you life through his eyes, everything had been loud, intense, brutal. And then . . . there he was, a bright smile on his face and the words ‘trust me’ leaving his lips as he held out his hand for you to take.
And you took it every time.
The scent of mock orange blossoms was left behind. And you began to wonder if just as you had outgrown your hatred for Jungkook . . . had you outgrown this visceral urge to hold a racket in your calloused hand?
Glancing down, you took in the image of your hand. The calluses were still there, the small cuts from accidental injuries, the bitten nails . . . they were all still there. Did they still fit around the base of a racket as they had three years ago?
You blinked, flexing your hand. Whatever, you decided. It would be tomorrow’s problem. (But we all know how good you were about . . . not . . . getting in over your head (so like, give yourself five minutes and you’d be thinking about it again).)
Whatever. Whatever. Whatever.
Anyway.
Focus on the present.
Yes, that was the plan. You nodded at your thoughts as you blinked, forcing yourself back to the present.
The scent of mock orange blossoms still lingered in the air as you tried grounding yourself to reality. Ignoring them was the best you could do. Because right now, you were supposed to be present, aware, and solid. You were supposed to be Jungkook’s shoulder to lean on after what he had endured at the karaoke bar. You were supposed to know what to do . . . but you didn’t know anything. You just . . . you just wanted him to be alright . . .
And all you could focus on was the fact that the two of you hadn’t spoken since you held him about—
You checked your phone.
—an hour and a half ago.
It had been quiet between the two of you ever since. It had been even quieter the second you stepped inside the nearest convenience store. (Who knew how long ago that was.)
The convenience store was perhaps too quiet now. The two of you had bought some instant ramyeon—one spicy, one mild and sat at the nearest tables outlooking the streets of Busan. Many people had walked back and forth, going about their night (well . . . now early morning), but not once had either of you decided to make little guesses about their lives as you had done many times before. No instead . . . Jungkook was silent. And you were too.
But . . . you didn’t like the silence; not like . . . this. Slowly, with that thought plaguing your mind, you turned your head toward him.
Jungkook sat beside you, his head lowered slightly as he stared blankly out the window. He hadn’t touched his ramyeon once, which was evident as his chopsticks were all too clean without any stain or color. He just kept staring out the window, following those who walked by with his eyes all the while his tongue toyed with his lip ring.
It was obvious why he was stuck in this limbo. Sure, of course it was all too obvious, but that didn’t make it any easier. Knowing why he was stuck like this wouldn’t do anything to . . . help.
And suddenly you were reminded of what Jimin had told you that night. Remember to live for yourself, too, he’d said before you left him. He’d told you it was impossible to live for two, but . . . why? Why couldn’t you? Why couldn’t you at least . . . help? You supposed the problem in that was the fact that you had no idea how to help, and that scared you more than you’d liked to admit.
You just . . . you just wanted him to be OK . . .
“You gonna eat that?” you heard yourself ask him before you knew what you were even saying.
Jungkook turned to you instantly with an almost shocked expression on his face as if he couldn’t remember where he was or who he was, but his eyes still shined with recognition as if he could still recognize you despite it all. He blinked slowly, eyes drifting over your face, and then . . . then he slowly started to relax. His shoulders slumped slightly as the stiff muscles in his face loosened. And once he returned to the present, his eyes drifted from your questioning expression to the ramyeon in front of him . . . and then he was shoving a huge bite into his mouth all the while maintaining eye contact with you while he chewed.
You shot him a blank look, because you knew what he was doing—avoiding the inevitable by trying to make light of the situation. “I wasn’t going to force-feed it to you, you know?” you ended up mumbling as you continued to watch him chew, half making sure he ate all of it and half not sure where to rest your gaze.
“Don’t look at me like that then,” Jungkook muttered, his words muffled from the food in his mouth.
“Like what?” you questioned as you leaned closer to him, analyzing the crease between his furrowed brows.
His eyes shifted to the ground ever so slightly before he turned back to meet your gaze. “Like you pity me or something,” he huffed, jutting out his bottom lip into a pout as he averted his gaze to his bowl of ramyeon.
And you couldn’t help but let the corners of your mouth perk up into a small smile. He was still the boy you remembered when you were kids. He hadn’t changed too much. He was still . . . him. Only now, you had grown to appreciate how he was unlike in the past. Now . . . when he flashed you that pout, you wasted no time in waving him off with a small sigh.
“Oh, Jungkookie,” you all but mused as you grabbed a napkin from the table, “sometimes it’s like you’re still that whiny little kid I grew up with.” You brought the napkin to his lips, gently dabbing. “You really haven’t changed at all, you know?”
With his eyes flicking from the napkin to your face, he timidly licked his lips and mumbled, “I was not whiny.”
You breathed a small, barely audible laugh. “Mmm, if it helps you sleep at night,” you hummed with a small shrug as your hand, now discarding the napkin, reached his face once again, except this time, you barely thought about your next move. Instead, you let your hand drift to his hair gently curling the long, dark strands behind his ear.
And he just stared at you, his dark eyes warm and gentle as they always had been. His brows twitched as you alternated between playing with his earrings and toying with the longest strands of his hair. He almost seemed . . . at peace, and you wondered if this could be considered a moment of happiness?
Perhaps . . .
It was moments like this that you wondered how the sick smell of mock orange blossoms had ever ruined your life.
But like the poem described . . . the smell wasn’t something to be forgotten. It eventually seeped back in. And just as Jungkook had almost allowed himself to sink into your touch, his eyes turned back to the window where he caught a glimpse of his reflection.
It was almost soul-crushing how fast his face fell.
Jungkook took one last look at his reflection, shaking his head slightly as he averted his gaze to the table and clenched his jaw. "Fuck,” he whispered out, his voice hoarse, “this is so fucking annoying. Everything feels so off. I just . . . “ His words tangled around his tongue as he dropped his head to his hands. “Everyone always looks at me like I'm some fucking problem. Like if they get to my core, they can fix me. But I can't be fucking fixed. I fucked up. I ruined my best friend’s life. I don't deserve to be fixed."
And suddenly it was as if you were twelve years old again, seeing your mother cry for the first time and not knowing what to do or what to say. You had grown up that way—not being able to comfort. It had always been who you were. You’d never known what to do to . . . help.
Yes, you could follow the directions of some online article and you could ask and ask and ask how to help him, but would it ever be enough? And what if he said he was fine when he was so clearly not? What then? How were you supposed to help then?
God, you wished you knew the answers.
“You’re not broken, Koo,” you started with, your voice just as small as how you felt in that moment.
“What if I am?” he mumbled into his hands. Slowly, he raised his head, and for another time that night, you faced that crushed look on his face. For another time that night, you saw the things he had been dealing with all on his own. You saw him. “What if I . . . ?”
And then you realized: you didn’t know how to comfort, but you did know how to bear things well. You knew how to crumble up the pain of not being good enough. You knew how to deal with a dream being crushed. You knew how to just . . . deal, and if Jungkook needed help, you could carry the load for him.
So, swallowing your own emotions bubbling up in your throat, you began slowly, "I know I can’t say . . . anything. I know that no matter what I do it's not gonna' make you feel better, because shit doesn't work that way. I'm not some fuckin' hero. I know that. You just need to know that I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere, okay? I'm never leaving your side." Nodding your head, you could feel your eyes burning again. But you didn’t care. The world could see you cry for him and only him and you’d accept it with a heavy heart.
A beat of silence followed your confession.
The world exhaled.
You inhaled as you rested your hand on top of his moments before you began again, "You're—I care about you. . . and—and that means that no matter what time it is, if you feel like you're gonna do something to yourself, then you call me. We can go throw shit off a bridge or—or punch dummies. You need to scream? Then we can go scream until our lungs bleed, okay? Whatever. It doesn't matter. Just—" you squeezed his hand as your heart pulsed in pain in your chest— "You're not alone."
Though the expression on his face didn’t lift, Jungkook accepted your hand, taking it within his grasp to intertwine your fingers together with his. “It’s been months . . . and I still feel like this . . . “ he trailed off, gently shaking his head as he turned back to his reflection in the window.
Instantly, your free hand found his cheek, slowly turning his head so his eyes would only face yours. “I don’t think healing is . . . linear,” you admitted softly. “If I think about it . . . it took me years to be able to play again. Mental shit has to be like that too, right?”
His eyes fluttered shut under your touch. “I don’t know,” he softly sighed as his other hand reached to rest over the one you had caressing his cheek. “I’m just tired of feeling like this.” He swallowed thickly. “I just . . . it’s like . . . I watch everyone else live their lives while I endure mine. And—And I don't know what to do. Sometimes everything just gets so intense, and it just happens. It's like it's some fucked up kind of instinct. Trust me, I wish I could feel something other than this, but I don't feel anything. It's all fucking numb." He nearly dropped your hand, but you clung on tighter, refusing to let him slip through your fingers. "I don't fucking know what I feel. I just . . . I feel like a fucking ghost."
And for the second time that night, you watched the once never-bothered Jungkook reveal another layer of himself to you.
I feel like a fucking ghost, rang in your ears again.
Jungkook squeezed his eyes tight and slowly . . . a single tear trickled from the corner of his eye down the side of his nose.
I feel like a fucking ghost, once more, and you knew the words which would leave your lips before you even had the chance to think.
"Haunt me, then," you found yourself breathing out in a hushed whisper as your thumb caught his fallen tear, wiping it away with ease.
His eyes cracked open, a shocked expression crawling onto his face. "What?” he barely got out as he searched your eyes for anything that would tell him you hadn’t meant to say . . . that.
But you had.
Haunt me, you’d told him, and you knew you’d meant it. The words didn’t have to cross your mind for you to know what you spoke was the truth.
Haunt me.
Haunt me.
Haunt me.
Give it to me, and breathe.
That is what you had wanted to say. That is what you had meant. You could only hope he knew you were telling the truth.
Tilting your head to the side, you breathed out the air in your lungs. "I told you before, and I meant it,” you began in a gentle tone. “I'll carry the weight for you. All of the pain, the anger, the hatred . . . all of it . . . I will carry it all. Give it all to me, and I will find a way to deal with it." Squeezing his hand once again, you offered up a small smile. "You're not alone anymore, Kook. You do not have to deal with all your shit on your own. You've got me, and you can hate me, you can push me away, you can leave me stranded with no way home . . . but I promise you, I'm not going anywhere."
His brows twitched. “I can’t do that. You’ve got too much to think about.”
You shrugged with a roll of your eyes as you dropped your hand to your intertwined ones. “Like what? I’ve never thought a day in my life. Barely passed college with a 2.7,” you hummed, your voice a little more chipper now as you tried to keep his eyes on you and coax a smile out of him. “I’ve got nothing to worry about.”
“The games,” he muttered with a small sniffle. “You’re shit at multitasking.”
That time, you did smile wider. There he was. “I can manage,” you mused as you leaned into him, nudging him with your elbow. “How about let’s go feed the fish by our hotel after practice tomorrow, hmm? To relax? Yeah?”
And then . . . you could have sworn he nodded. Maybe it was to himself or maybe it was to you, but you knew what it meant. You would accept a nod.
“You gonna eat that?” he asked a second later, gesturing to the half-eaten bowl of ramyeon in front of you.
And you knew he would be OK by your side. You would make sure of it. (You were the older one after all.)
So with a small smile still on your face, you detached your hands from his and reached for your bowl, scooting it toward him. Quietly, he took it from you and began to devour what you had left.
Yeah . . . he was still the same kid you knew growing up. And that . . . that was enough to make your heart feel warm.
It made you wonder if you could ever be . . . warm . . . like him. Unlike this cold, hollow shell you were so used to. Was that even written in your books?
Wetting your lips, your eyes fell to your lap, only to be met with the image of Jungkook’s hand resting on your thigh, secured under the holes in your ripped jeans. It seemed without you noticing, Jungkook had absentmindedly reached for you, toying with the strings adorning the rips in your jeans, only to end up nestled underneath in an attempt to feel your skin against his.
It was sweet. Innocent.
It made you feel warm, yet again, yes. But it also made you feel . . . fuck . . . what was that word?
And that was when you realized something . . .
“You’re wrong, you know?” you ended up muttering out before your brain could catch up with your impulse.
Jungkook hummed, eyeing you. His eyes were still slightly puffy, causing your heart to swell in your chest.
How could he ever think he deserved this?
Wetting your lips, you confessed, “I’m a better person because of you. How could I ever be unhappy with that?”
Jungkook blinked, clearly shocked. Then, he began to toy with his lip ring before he sucked in a sharp inhale and nearly whispered, “All I want . . . is for you to be happy.”
And you couldn’t help but smile. It was warm. It was innocent. It was because of him. “Would you look at that?” you mused in a quiet voice. “Looks like we just came to an agreement.”
The corners of his lips twitched ever so slightly as he nodded once before the two of you resumed your late-night slash early-morning meal. He finished your food for you, and you watched, making sure he ate it all, all the while, the words, I’m a better person because of you rang throughout the air.
I’m a better person because of you.
How could I ever be unhappy with that?
And you knew you meant every word.
The scent of mock orange blossoms couldn’t reach you now.
Not here.
Not with him.
When you were a kid, every Barbie doll your mother ever bought you would end up scalped and decapitated. Now . . . morbid . . . you knew. You weren’t exactly sure why you resorted to . . . that, but playing with dolls just always meant ripping their heads off. You supposed it was kind of symbolic now.
Maybe you were jealous that their lives were perfect and yours was . . . meh. Or maybe you really just really hated dolls.
You supposed there had always been a certain sickness to you; a certain uneasiness that came with being a preteen girl. You were told sweet sixteen was when the claws came out, but you began to question if yours had grown in long before then. Maybe you had been born like . . . this or maybe everyone just felt this way and spent most of their lives hiding it, because if not . . .
. . . it felt like life was just some sick joke that you hadn’t clued in on yet.
Perhaps that was why you had become so keen on poetry: it said what you feared only you felt.
Because really, you used to use pages out of books to fasten a joint in a pinch, too, and now it physically hurt to imagine ever even tearing a page.
But words felt more comforting now. Sure, a racket felt like it fit into you like a hook in an eye, but now . . . now it felt just a tad more awkward than it had in the past. Words . . . words could never disappoint you, you decided long ago when they had been all that you had had.
There’s something soft in me—
You remembered reading long ago.
—we killed it and it’s rotting.
And maybe it was silly. Maybe it was dramatic, but words made things feel better. It made the world less scary. It made looking at Jungkook and wondering what this feeling in your chest was . . . not so scary. It made things . . . better.
So, you’d read, and you’d overanalyze, and you’d spend your time too wrapped up in words because it made everything that much bearable. Because it made the fact that your claws didn’t come in at sixteen so much easier to swallow; it made the fact that there was nothing soft about you alright.
Because maybe there had been something soft about you long ago. Or maybe you had killed it; maybe you had taken the softness and traded it for survival, only to discover all the rot inside of you that you had been trying to ignore for years now.
Had the fire gotten a hold of you even back then?
Is that why you no longer feared it? Because there was nothing left to fear? Did all this rot mean you were no different from a hit deer off the highway?
. . .
Whatever.
It didn’t mean much, right?
There were no birds coming to feast on your rotting corpse like the deer you wondered if you resembled. Nothing had come to consume your body as the world had consumed your soul. You were just there . . .
With a sigh, you clicked off your phone, disregarding the poem as you shoved it all away into the back of the pocket of your athletic shorts. And as you stood there, you slowly glanced up only to meet the image of Jungkook walking toward you, a half-smile on his tired face with a duffel bag over his shoulder and a racket in his hand. You hadn’t seen him since you woke up that morning, quickly dressed and told him you’d meet him at the center after your run. And there he was, his hair in a small ponytail with a grin on his face at the sight of you. (You tried to ignore the urge to meet him halfway. (Also ignoring this . . . weird feeling blooming in your chest the second you saw him.))
“Well, it seems the sun’s decided to come out after all,” were the first words out of his mouth as he drew closer. And only then did you realize the day was dreary, filled with dark clouds and humid spring air.
Tearing your eyes from the clouds above, your gaze landed on Jungkook just as he stopped before you, setting his duffel bag on the pavement beside you. He wasted no time either, poking your abdomen with his racket. “Bad day already?” he questioned, tilting his head to the side in thought.
Sighing, you shook your head. “No, just . . . thinking.”
“Well, stop, it’s aging you,” he lightly scolded.
You squinted your eyes into a glare. “You’re on one today.”
And well . . . all he did was wink. Of course.
Now . . . you knew how this looked. Just last night you and him were up into the early morning nursing each other’s wounds and now it seemed like it hadn’t even happened, but there was a reason for that. The two of you knew each other. He appreciated that you didn’t make it a big thing. You were always going to be there for him; that much was obvious by now given your history with each other. But if there was one thing the two of you both hated, it was being treated as if you were as fragile as glass. So for now . . . last night was a little secret between the two of you, and right now . . . right now you both had to get your heads in the game for the finals tomorrow.
So there . . . that was that. At least that was how it was for you. You were sure it was the same for him, but it wasn’t like you could think about that right now either. Right now you had to think of the tournament as draining as it felt to even acknowledge it.
But just as you were about to move past it all and grab your own duffle bag from the ground, Jungkook halted you with a hand on your wrist. Your eyes immediately snapped to his.
“You sure you’re good?” he questioned once more, his eyes wider now, more concerned than before.
(There’s something soft in me—
But you couldn’t burden him now. Not after what he went through last night. Because you knew him, and you knew he’d do anything to make things right for you . . . even if it meant ignoring his own troubles. And well, despite what you liked to claim, you couldn’t bear to do that to him.
—we killed it and it’s rotting.)
So instead, you blurted out: “Just stressed, you know?”
His brows pinched together slightly, but he didn’t press it further. “Right . . . “
And that was that. You didn’t let another word pass between the two of you as you picked up both your duffel bag and his and began to walk toward the training center. Jungkook, of course, fought you the entire way, trying to grab the duffel bags from your hands, but you insisted, tsking at him as he tried to outsmart you (as if he ever could).
While he repeatedly tried to snatch at least one bag from your grasp, your eyes were training on the scene in front of you. And it was only when the two of you turned the corner, now facing the center head-on, that you realized maybe the dark clouds had been a sign telling you to turn back; to stay inside; to practice somewhere else. Jungkook, on the other hand, was preoccupied, as, in your shock, he managed to snatch both duffel bags from your grasp. And he was mighty proud of himself too until he heard what you had seen . . . and slowly the grin fell from his lips as he turned to face the scene.
Because before the two of you, crowding in front of the training center were reporters on top of reporters with their big flashy cameras and notepads, and . . . behind them, spray painted across the building was your name . . . with the words ‘is a traitor’ too big not to notice.
There’s something soft in me—
we killed it and it’s rotting.
It happened in slow motion. The reporters caught sight of the two of you, and that was it. They were racing toward you in seconds, all screaming this and that, trying to get a story, and all you could do was stare in a state of confusion and shock as if you were waiting for a car to pop out of nowhere and hit you.
Off the highway like another deer.
You’d never seen something like it. Sure, you’d seen this stuff in movies, but never in real life, never because of . . . you. There had been articles published when you fell out of the badminton scene three years ago, but never something like this. Never something like this. Fuck, even the interview you’d done as a team were never like . . . this.
Off the highway like another girl.
What was . . . this?
It was bad. You knew it was bad, but you couldn’t hear anything. You could see Jungkook growing angry beside you, pushing the reporters back as he said . . . something . . . but you couldn’t quite make out what it was. You couldn’t hear it. You couldn’t hear anything.
You should have known better. You should've known there was a chance something bad would happen. Because like always, when you got that sick feeling in the pit of your stomach, when the dark clouds came out and the air felt wet but chilly but humid . . . something bad always happened. But you hadn't thought that the world would be so cruel, especially the day before the end.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. This wasn’t supposed to—
You felt the world caving in on you. You felt small. Small and disgusting. You wanted to disappear. You wanted to run, but you couldn't. Your mind had been the only thing to stay alert. Just run, you thought. Run. Run. Fucking run.
But you couldn't. You wanted to but the camera kept flashing and the reporters kept yelling and yelling and yelling and all you could make out was that everyone hated you. Suddenly, it was three years ago and everyone was pretending to be nice to you, then bitching about you behind your back. Suddenly, you were falling. Your hip was hurting. You were screaming and nobody cared. Nobody cared. Nobody—and then you were pushing everyone away again. Suddenly, you were alone again. And then you felt it. You felt it all, and then . . . then you couldn't breathe.
I can't breathe. You tried gasping for air, but it never stuck in your lungs. I can't breathe. You could have sworn this was what drowning felt like as your breaths came out quicker and quicker. Oh, my God, I can't fucking breathe.
You needed air. You needed to run.
Your eyes darted to the training center, and you knew what you had to do. You forced your legs to move as you tried to make it to the center. You’d be inside in a minute; you just needed a second. One second and you could breathe again.
But before you could even really move to make it, a hand was on your shoulder, and it wasn’t who you thought it’d be. No, it wasn’t a comforting touch; it was the touch of a reporter trying to make you stay in place just for you to answer their question. There was no making it out of this.
Glancing up, your eyes met the reporter’s and then you finally heard the words you’d been drowning out all morning: “Are the bribing rumors true?”
All air escaped your lungs. Bribing? You? “What?” you weakly asked (you’d never sounded like this before in your life, and yet . . . ).
But before anything else could escalate, Jungkook was stepping in front of you. His body blocked yours from the reporters, his hand carefully resting on your hip as he tucked you behind him while he mumbled, “Don’t bother—”
“What—” you blurted out before you could stop yourself— “What rumors?”
You just . . . you wanted to know. Bribing? All you’d ever done in your career was try to be the best. You’d put blood and tears and sweat and everything into badminton, and this . . . this was how it repaid you. You’d fucked up your leg for it; fucked up your life; fucked up everything just to hold a fucking racket in your hand and now they wanted to say that you bribed your way into . . . into what? Success? You wanted to know the truth. You wanted to know.
But no one bothered giving you an answer. It was just question after question, confusing you more and more, and all you could come to the conclusion was the fact that the whole world must have thought you were as horrible as a person as you feared you were.
So, the final person asked, “Do you have anything to say?”
And all you could fathom was: “I—” you swallowed hard— “I . . . don’t care.”
That was it.
I don’t care, you’d said even though you did, because you always had. You cared too much. Too fucking much. And you were too much. And this was too much. And just . . . just . . .
You didn’t bother thinking further. Your mind went blank as you tore yourself from the scene. Dropping your racket to the ground, you took a step backward.
. . . And then you were gone.
Run, you’d told yourself, and finally, you listened.
And as you ran, you realized, things were easy for you when you could ignore them. If you spent your time worrying about everyone else, then there would be no more time left to worry about yourself. You supposed that was an issue on its own, but that was how you survived.
A burnt child loves the fire. Yes, and you did. You loved it because it meant you’d have one more reason to survive. Survive enough and you wouldn’t have to deal with the aftermath. Just keep surviving the fire. That . . . that was what you were good at.
But you didn’t know how to deal with . . . this.
This wasn’t a fire. Far from it.
It was almost as if you were stuck at the bottom of a lake, your foot trapped under a rock, unable to get to the surface. And no matter how hard you fought to unsheath yourself, you stayed trapped at the bottom, water threatening to clog your air pipes.
And the thing they don’t tell you about drowning: it only takes forty seconds.
Forty seconds turned into minutes then an hour, and you began to wonder how long you had been left at the bottom of that lake. How long until the water finally reached your lungs?
It was about half an hour ago when you’d finally found the pond just outside the hotel your team was staying in, that you’d finally searched up whatever the fuck had gotten you in so much shit.
Yunis Doubles Player Accused of Bribing Referee to Make Nationals, was the headline. Apparently, an anonymous inside source had come forward and claimed that you’d not only bribed your way into winning each tournament for your team, but on top of that, you were also taking whatever drug to help with your fucked leg.
And get this . . . apparently it was because once you won finals, you’d go on to sign for Russia, leaving Korea behind, essentially making yourself a traitor. So there it was. In less than a day, you were a traitor, a drug abuser, and a cheat. Because apparently, that was true.
Whatever . . . it didn’t matter anyway. Even though it wasn’t true, the media had made it so, so it was by default. And as if badminton hadn’t already been feeling like a chore, your love for it lessened and lessened into . . . this hate.
That was what you felt: hate. Had you become hatred now?
Had you become a ghost, too? . . . Had you always been? . . .
“Don’t do it. You’ve got so much to live for,” you heard a voice say in a joking manner behind you just as you tossed another rock into the large pond below your dangling feet. (The voice had startled you all the same, nearing skyrocketing the rock out of your grasp, but we don’t dwell on that.)
Still . . .
. . . you didn’t jump. There was no need to. Startled or not, there was no need to fear. You knew that voice, and it only ever filled you with comfort, nothing else.
So instead of answering, you dropped your head in shame, eyes on the koi fish swimming idly through the water below you as your hands tightened around the edge of the rickety bridge.
Jungkook had found you. Somehow he always managed to make his way back to you, no matter how many times you pushed him away.
(It used to be annoying. Now it was just . . . well . . . it was something else now. It had grown into something . . . more . . .)
His footsteps grew closer. He was behind you now. Close, yet still so very distant.
Silence for only a beat more.
And then, he spoke.
“I was trying to find an excuse to come find you,” he murmured, his words unexpecting of a response as he sat down beside you, dangling his feet over the edge of the bridge.
And you . . . you stayed still, peeking at him through the corner of your eye. Sure enough, he was real, and he was sitting there dressed in his athletic clothes, some of his hair pulled back into a ponytail, while he held in his hands two pieces of . . . bread (?).
Your brows scrunched in confusion. “Bread was your excuse?” you questioned, your voice quiet.
Jungkook glanced between you and the bread, then back at you until he settled on the bread, tapping a finger to the loaves. “Ah . . . right . . . well . . . buy one, get one free,” he curtly explained. His eyes drifted back to you, then, as he wet his lips and sighed. “You talked about wanting to feed the fish.” Add in a shrug. “Thought this might be where I’d find you . . . so—“ a clearing of his throat— “Just—Are you OK?”
And you couldn’t help it. You took him up on his offer, silently grabbing a loaf of bread from his hands and resting it on your lap. Your eyes followed it the entire way, watching as your hand began to rip a small piece from the corner. “I think,” you finally replied to his question just as you tossed the piece of bread into the water. “I can’t force people to believe me. So—” pausing for a second, you watched as two koi fought over the piece of bread— “whatever, right?”
Jungkook plucked a piece of the bread off, but instead of throwing it to the fish, he plopped it into his mouth, chewing in contemplation. “You were always the best player,” he mumbled through the mouthful. Plucking off another piece, he waved it in your direction, gesturing to you. “They can’t take that away.”
Maybe it was the sentiment or maybe it was how he’d begun to eat the bread he brought solely to feed the fish, but you couldn’t help but fight off a smile. Because when times were like this, you felt fine; you felt . . . almost good, but when you were out there neck-and-neck, trying to hit the birdie again and again, you felt . . . off.
It made you realize that one: badminton didn���t feel like it used to and two: you weren’t entirely sure that the accusation itself was the reason behind your anger. Because maybe it was easier to be angry or sad. It always had been.
But as you ripped off another piece of bread to throw to the fish, it hit you. You weren’t exactly hard to figure out you’d like to think, so really, put two and two together and you get one burnt-out badminton player looking for an excuse to quit.
Fuck.
It really was that, wasn’t it?
You didn’t want it to be. You didn’t want to believe it either because badminton was your life. There was no without. Like a hook in an eye. Hook in eye. Hook in eye. Hook in eye. You couldn’t escape it.
But now . . . after years and years of trying to get back to that same person you were before the accident, you’d ignored just how draining it had begun to feel to practice and practice and try and try and . . . try. You mistook it for physical fatigue; for healing from your injury. You didn’t once think that your disinterest may have been because you had grown further and further apart from a racket in your hand and the sound of the court squeaking under your shoes. And when that reporter asked you if you’d cheated to get back in the game . . . you’d taken that chance to run away; to ruin it for yourself once more . . . and this time not for the sake of self-sabotage but perhaps . . . conservation.
So you began to ask yourself the same question that had been haunting you for a while now: how well did badminton still fit into you? You’d thought about it last night. You thought about it a million times before, refusing to acknowledge it, and now . . .
Then you found yourself turning to Jungkook. “What—” you sucked in a quick breath— “What made you want to play badminton? . . . In the beginning . . . “
Setting the bread aside, he leaned forward, resting his forearm against the lower part of the railing. “I’m not really sure,” he mumbled as he rested his cheek against his forearm. “It was just . . . easy for me. I liked being good at things.”
“But . . . “ (you had begun to toy with the bread instead of tossing it to the fish) “ . . . why did you love it?”
A few beats of silence.
Beat.
Beat.
Beat.
Then, Jungkook spoke: “The people, I think,” he finally said in a calm, collected tone, adding in a shrug at the end of his sentence. “I never really cared about being someone special; I just when I played, I always played with friends. It was fun. I think when I look back on it, it wasn’t badminton that I loved, it was the people. My friends . . . coaches . . . “ his eyes flashed to meet yours, “. . . you.” And he maintained eye contact. “It was the only time I ever felt happy, and when I grew up . . . when badminton felt more like a game of loss . . . it lost its magic. I wasn’t a kid anymore. Everyone had grown up and I was still there, on that court. . . . It wasn’t fun anymore . . . “
Oh.
Because, truly, you’d felt the same. Well . . . perhaps a tad different. Badminton had been fun for you because you always won. It was the only time you felt . . . special, good . . . worth . . . something. And when you lost it all, you felt like nothing upon nothing upon shit. So when you finally gained it all back, it was almost as if with each win, that magic Jungkook spoke up washed away bit by bit. Winning wasn’t fun anymore; it was being with him that made it worth . . . something.
But could winning itself ever have the same effect as it did years ago? Would you ever crave it so violently again?
“Do you think it could ever be fun again?” you voiced your thoughts aloud, hesitant as if admitting this aloud was some kind of sin.
“Maybe,” Jungkook muttered with another shrug. His attention was drawn on the fish now, his round, brown eyes following them as they swam to and fro. “But—” he breathed in heavily— “if I had it my way . . . I’d go back home and help run my parents’ shop.” There was that smile creeping up on his face again at the mention of home. “And if I really had it my way, I’d be thirteen again and I’d never grow up. I’d be small and happy and I’d never have to leave home again. That is what I truly want; to be that kid again . . . but for right now . . . I think I’d settle with just going home, knowing my mom’s special dish is waiting for me.”
Home.
He spoke of it so fondly, and you began to wonder if you’d ever loved it as much as he did. Now, you knew you did. Your parents were good, kind people. They were good parents. You loved them, missed them, but home had never been something that you’d acknowledged if that made any sense. You were just always looking forward to the future and who you’d become. You supposed you never stopped to take in the lines drawn onto the bathroom wall labeling your height year after year. You supposed you never stopped to catch sight of the way your mom would shave off the skin of the apple because she knew you didn’t like getting it in your teeth. You supposed you never thought of home as home because you always knew it’d be there, and now . . . now it was far far away and you were so so small, no longer great and big, and looking forward to the future.
It made you wonder if this feeling deep inside you had something to do with missing this home Jungkook spoke of. And then you began to agree that, yes, yes you would very much like to be small again, coming home from badminton practice to the smell of your mother’s cooking and your father’s tunes playing on the CD player.
Perhaps . . . perhaps you wished you were little again, too. And perhaps you wished you could start over, this time with badminton as more of a love than a state of survival . . . and maybe then you’d know more of this . . . home.
“Kook . . . “ you began, eyes darting from fish to fish as your thoughts raced, “if I admit something . . . do you promise not to judge?”
Jungkook hummed moments before he reached out to tuck your hair behind your ear. “What’s on your mind, hmm?” he mused, nudging you with his elbow as if telling you to go on.
Another few beats of silence. (It was odd how it kept lurking over your shoulder like a vice.)
And then: wetting your lips, you swallowed the weird feeling in your throat, finding it hard to get these words out for some reason. And then . . . when you were sure the silence had begun to eat at your flesh, you opened your mouth to voice your thoughts. “What if . . . what if I don’t love badminton anymore?” you mumbled, your voice nearly inaudible as you heard your words echo in your head again and again. But just like Pandora’s box, once they were spoken, you couldn’t shove them back down. Your words just kept flowing. “I mean . . . I’m—I’m twenty-five years old. All I’ve ever known is badminton. I ruined my life for it. I wasted three years trying to get it back and . . . and . . . and what if I did it for nothing? I wasted my entire life trying to be the best at something that I don’t even like anymore. What am I supposed to do if—if I don’t want it anymore?”
There.
Right there.
There was the truth you’d been hiding from for so long, and it was laid out in front of you, staring back at you.
What if you had wasted your entire life trying to be the best at something you didn’t even like anymore?
It wasn’t even like you wanted an answer from him either. You just needed to say it. You just needed to admit that perhaps you and Jungkook were more similar than either of you had ever thought.
And did that . . . did that give you relief? To be understood in this way?
“I just—“ you blurted out, still trapped inside your head— “It’s like you said. I just . . . maybe I just want to go home. I don’t . . . I don’t want to go to the Olympics or—or anything. I don’t want to be who I was. I just . . . I don’t know if I care to be . . . that anymore.”
A beat of—wait—no, unlike you thought, no silence entered your space. No, instead, Jungkook didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, baby—” he sighed, his voice like honey moments before you felt a warm hand cup your cheek— “you haven’t changed one bit either. Don’t you know? Violet, roses are red, not blue.” Your eyes met. His filled with understanding, while yours stained in shock. And then . . . then he tapped his thumb against the corner of your mouth, and offered up a small smile. “Where’s your smile? Hmm?”
Instantly, you sucked in a sharp breath as your eyes fluttered ever so slightly, taken off guard by his words. You wet your lips, trying to form any kind of sentence, but nothing ever came. Until you realized something . . . this feeling . . . it wasn’t something you were used to . . . but it was something you’d heard of . . . and it was . . . soft.
You’d never held something like that. You’d never owned something like that either. You’d never been it. You’d always just been machine parts and badminton plays. Strategies upon strategies. Always thinking and thinking and thinking and never just . . . being . . . feeling . . .
Until . . .
. . . until him.
And you had no idea how to handle that.
“I’m so scared,” you heard yourself whisper before you realized it was you who was speaking.
Jungkook furrowed his brows as his eyes trailed across your face before he wiped his thumb across your cheek, then dropped his hand to yours. Only then did you realize you had been crying. Not sobbing or anything close, but a few tears had slipped past, and there he was again wiping them away like it was normal; like it was OK.
“Why are you scared?” he questioned softly as he squeezed your hand.
“Because,” you muttered out with a confused shrug. Hell, you didn’t even really know. You just knew . . . you just knew that: “I’m only still here . . . on this team . . . because of you. I think . . . I think what I like about badminton is . . . you. You’ve made it worth something when it’d lost all meaning to me. And . . . and . . . I think what scares me the most is that . . . is that you’ve made me . . . soft . . . and I can’t tell if I hate that or if I . . . if I’m grateful.” Quickly, you wet your chapped lips. “I’ve had good things in my life. I’ve had success and victory and fame . . . but it all felt like it came with a price. You know? Win a competition and you feel great but what about the next one? It was always just a constant race . . . but being around you . . . it doesn’t feel like I have to win anything. I feel softer and—and it doesn’t even come with a catch. It’s free.” Your eyes searched his. “Am I even allowed to have something like that when I should be obsessing over winning this championship?”
Jungkook leaned closer, taking your hand into both of his as he held it close to his chest similar to how you’d hold a teddy when you were a child. And then . . . he spoke, and you couldn’t believe your ears, wondering if this was the same man you knew when you were young. “Have all of me,” he murmured, his eyes never leaving yours as if he wanted you to know he meant this within his soul. “Take my bones and build yourself a home. They’re worn, sure, but I like to think they’re pretty sturdy . . . so . . . take them.” His eyes searched yours deeper. “Take all of me if you have to. Take all of me . . . ”
Blinking slowly, you shot him a look, a small, shocked smile creeping onto your face as you let a sliver of a laugh out before you knew it. “That’s disgusting,” you scolded him, shaking your head at his words, but you couldn’t help but find some sentiment in them. Maybe it was the morbidity to you, but no one had ever said such things to you . . . and you found yourself holding these words close to your chest just as Jungkook held your hand close to his.
He smiled back, too. “Good. I knew it’d make you laugh,” he murmured softly, and you knew this, too. It was him after all. He’d do anything to get a laugh out of you, and you began to realize that it had always been that way. (Perhaps you should’ve spent your childhood laughing more than scowling at him.) But it seemed he didn’t mind as he began to rub his thumb back and forth against your knuckles, his smile slowly fading into a solemn expression. And then: “You asked me to haunt you, but you’re the one who haunts me.”
You swallowed hard.
You’re the one who haunts me.
Oh . . .
And then you began to wonder: was Jimin right? He loved you, he had told you. And suddenly, you realized that if this were still true . . . it didn’t bother you. You’d accept it even. But what did that mean for you?
You swallowed hard once again.
“You said I make you feel real again,” he continued on, making you forget your own thoughts as you watched his head tilt to the side in thought, ever so slightly. “I’ve thought about it. I don’t want to haunt you. I don’t want to poison your softness. I want to make you keep feeling real and soft and . . . you. And . . . and well . . . you make me want to be real again. You–you make me want to be a person, to be something, to make something of the person I am. I don’t want to end up like your King Weir—”
“Lear,” you felt yourself whisper so quietly you almost didn’t hear it. All you could do was stare at him and stare and stare and . . .
“I don’t want to be him,” Jungkook restated. A small pause followed as those warm brown eyes you’d come to be fond of searched yours like you were the only two people left on the planet. “I don’t want to be nothing . . . and you’ve reminded me of that.” Wetting his lips, he reached for your other hand, now holding both your hands in his, his thumbs running across your knuckles. “So I was wondering—” he maintained eye contact, while he gave a quick squeeze to your hands— “if maybe instead . . . well . . . I want you to help me live . . . no haunting necessary.”
I want you to help me live.
It echoed in your ears.
I want you to help me live.
I want you to help me live.
I want you to—
Did he know that he’d given you a whole new reason to keep living? Did he know that when you thought of him, you realized you had another reason to live? Didn’t he realize that it was him? That caring for him had made you a better person?
But Jungkook took your silence as a sign of rejection, so before you could slap yourself up the side of the head, he nearly retreated, quickly muttering out an apology for being . . . weird. Only, this was now and not then, and you were you, and well, you quickly reached for his hands, pulling them into your lap. His eyes followed your movements, clearly taken off guard, but you didn’t let him dwell on it too long.
“How about—” you began, running your thumb across the tattoos dotting his fingers— “let’s take care of each other?”
Jungkook blinked once. Then twice. Then . . . then his brows twitched in longing? Understanding? Or . . . oh what was that word?
Whatever.
It didn’t matter. What mattered was his answer. And you already knew it before you’d spoken those words.
OK, he nodded.
OK, he smiled.
OK, your eyes seemed to glisten back.
OK.
There was a time in your life, where every night you’d have the same nightmare. Over and over again, you’d be trapped in this room with no windows, no doors, just darkness. And in the middle of the room would be you, or rather a version of you, strapped to a chair, with flames slowly licking up your legs, scorching your skin. But you wouldn’t feel any pain, because it wasn’t actually you. Sure, it looked like you, but . . . you were on the other side of the room, watching with wide eyes as you heard yourself scream and beg to be released from the shackles.
The flames wouldn’t touch you there. They were around, yes. They were burning holes into your clothes, yes, but you couldn’t feel it. All you could do was sit and watch as this variant of yourself burned alive right before your eyes.
And as if watching yourself be scorched alive wasn’t bad enough, there would be this point in the dream where you, no, she, no . . . it . . . would speak to you. Through the flames, it would hiss and whisper that it was your fault.
It was your fault, and you’d know what it meant.
But, No! you’d scream back. Because, no, no, no, this couldn’t be your fault. You couldn’t have been the one to ruin yourself. That would just be so, so, so . . . well . . . it would be too much.
(You knew now that it was just one big accident. Sure, trying not to blame yourself for it now was hard, but you’d learned in the past few months. It hadn’t been your fault. It hadn’t been his either.)
But back then . . . back then the incident loomed over your shoulder like a ghost.
You were getting ahead of yourself again, but . . . but the dream, no . . . the nightmare always started and ended the same. You stuck in a burning room, left to watch yourself burn and burn and burn as you, she, it, whatever (!) screamed and screamed, its voice growing louder with each, it was your fault!
And with the last shift of blame, the fire would finally set in. The red, hot flames that had left blisters and boils on your skin would begin to itch, then sting, and then consume you until all you felt was pain, pain, pain.
Then it would be your screams which filled the room.
Only when the pain would begin to shift, your back ripping with agony as this pair of . . . wings (?) split from the wounds, would you think you’d been saved. Because just as those wings had appeared, on the other side of the room, so had a door. And perhaps, perhaps then you could escape the burning room; fly out of there and save yourself.
That was always your first thought: survive, and you would always head for the door without a second thought. It was only when you’d hear the other you’s screams that this immense amount of guilt would hit you, because there you were, able to save yourself but not without leaving a piece of you behind to burn to ash.
. . . You never turned around to give yourself one last glance either. Instead, you always counted to three before you stepped off from the ledge, trusting that what was behind the bright light coming from the door would surely save you. And every time as you realized you were falling and falling, the heat would leave your senses and all you’d be able to feel was wind in your hair and the smell of salt water. You were no longer in the burning room. You were free.
With the opening of your eyes, you would be in the sky, your wings carrying you. And for a moment, you would believe that you truly were free; free from the incident, free from your guilt, free from everything.
Until the wind no longer felt refreshing and the vague smell of burning wood could be sensed; until you finally glanced back at what you had left behind, only to realize the wings you had been gifted were not made of feathers and bone at all, but rather wax, and under the Sun’s embrace . . . they had begun to melt . . .
You’d spare yourself the details of stating what happened next, but the story was simple. Think Icarus. Just like Icarus, every time, your wings would melt and you’d hit the sea below you, shortly drowning but never dying. No, every time you’d get a bit closer to death . . . but you’d wake up just before you succumbed to it.
And every time you’d wake in a fright, sweat coating your body as you panted and panted, trying to figure out if you could still feel the fire on your skin or the water in your lungs. And every time you’d wake wondering if that was why you craved the fire so viscerally; if that was why you felt like you were drowning from time to time.
But . . . that dream, that nightmare . . . well . . . you hadn’t had it for a couple weeks or maybe months (?) now. It used to be something that you just considered part of your routine; something that you just had to deal with. But ever since you and Jungkook had begun this little thing you guys had going on where you’d sleep next to each other almost every night, you hadn’t been having any dreams.
You didn’t quite understand it. You just knew that the nightmares had stopped . . . and maybe you had him to thank for that (just a little bit).
Slowly, you brought yourself out of your mind, planting yourself in reality once again as you were reminded that you and Jungkook had gone back to his hotel room after you got in a few hours practice after well . . . after your little . . . mishap. You’d showered and washed your hair, brushed your teeth, and blah blah blah. You were already tucked into bed, waiting for Jungkook to finish up brushing his teeth so the two of you could watch something to fall asleep to. (He was slow . . . of course (brushing his teeth while listening to a playlist at max volume)). And you, you were beginning to doze off, lost in your mind as you thought of the peaceful sleep you had awaiting you (partially thanks to him yeah (!) you knew . . . whatever).
Still, you couldn’t help but roll over in bed, your eyes quickly catching a glimpse of him in the mirror just outside the bathroom. And well, you couldn’t help but laugh just a little as you watched him dance to the music playing from his phone, haphazardly brushing his teeth along to the beat. (You couldn’t wait until he hopped into bed next to you and you could finally get close enough to feel his heartbeat against your cheek (not that you would admit that out loud. . . right?)).
“I can see your asscrack,” you called out across the room, laughing slightly because duh you were lying but you couldn’t help but tease him. (Plus . . . maybe a part of you missed him being beside you (you wanted him to hurry up, could you blame yourself?!).)
“Nuh-uh—” he gurgled out through the copious amount of toothpaste in his mouth— “not falling for that again. You’re full of shit.”
You couldn’t help but laugh again, falling back against the bed, the back of your head now laying in the center of the pillow. One, two, three, you counted the swirls in the ceiling. It was literally like watching paint dry having to entertain yourself until he was done. It was an odd thing, wasn’t it? Liking someone’s company that much?
God . . . what had you turned into?
“Do you sleep with your eyes open?” you heard Jungkook ask from beside you just as the bed dipped and he crawled under the covers, no shirt and only in his boxers (as usual).
Ignoring the pitter-patter of your heart, you turned to face him, your eyes immediately trailing across his features. “You tell me,” you hummed, quickly rolling onto your side so your entire body was facing him.
“Probably,” he mumbled as he settled into the bed, propping up the pillow to support his head. “Dunno though. I try not to look at you too much.”
Your jaw dropped. Then a scoff. And you didn’t waste any time, reaching forward to twist his nipple . . . hard.
Instantly, he caved in on himself, clutching his chest as he whined, “Ow. Not cool, baby.”
You threatened to do it again, your hand outstretched.
But he waved a metaphorical white flag in surrender. “OK. OK. I’m kidding. I’m kidding,” he all but begged, twisting away from you.
Falling back against the bed once again, you avoided his eyes. “That’s what I thought,” you huffed, crossing your arms over your chest as you faked your displeasure with him.
Jungkook only found this amusing, soothing a hand over his chest before he shifted closer to you, his tattooed arm thrown over your waist as he pulled you into him. It took him no time to bury his face into the crook of your neck, nuzzling his nose just under your sweet spot. “Mmm, don’t be mad,” he mumbled against your skin, slowly kissing his way up to your ear. “You really are the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.” A kiss to your cheek. Then a squeeze to your side as he brought you closer and closer and closer until you were sure the two of you were intertwined. “You always have been, you know?”
Slowly, as confusion and shock twisted onto your features, you turned your head so you were nose to nose. “Don’t be silly,” you whispered as one of your hands found its way into his long hair. “I know you were kidding, you don’t have to overkill it.”
Listen, listen, listen . . . you knew you weren’t god awful, but every girl feels like they’re not good enough. It’s built into us, so sometimes it comes as a shock when someone is so . . . so forward. It wasn’t like people just went around saying ‘oh, you’re the prettiest girl ever duh!’ like duh! Obviously! So . . .
But Jungkook always managed to surprise you. Always.
And just as you were about to close your eyes, thinking this was over and the two of you were going to actually get some sleep, he surprised you once more. “You know . . . “ he began, his voice low and quiet, almost as if he were fighting with himself to say his next words . . . “I spent the entirety of the sixth grade learning every flower I could just so I’d have something to tease you about,.”
“What?” you all but snorted as you threw your leg over his hip. “That’s insane.”
“Well, I had to get your attention somehow,” he mused, while his hand had begun to trace letters or random doodles on your back.
Scrunching your brows together, you asked, “What are you talking about?”
“You’re so dense. Pretty, but—” he tapped a finger to your forehead— “hollow.”
Instantly, you shot him a look. “You wanna talk?”
He only laughed.
A beat of warm silence. You traced his bottom lip with your thumb, toying with the piercing. He nipped at your thumb. Another beat. He pressed a kiss to your thumb. One more beat, then . . .
“I had a crush on you, idiot,” he confessed against your thumb in the dead of night.
This time you actually did snort, moving your thumb to rest on his chin. “What? I was all braces and forehead acne,” you went on, remembering who you were and how you were and all the little things that you wished had been different about yourself back then. “A crush, JK? Be serious.”
“Hey, hey, I’m not a liar,” he quickly rushed over, humorously defending his honor. “I had a crush on you. Seriously. Why do you think I tried to impress you all the time.”
Your smile nearly faded. (And Jimin’s words revisited you (you pushed them away).)
He wasn’t kidding.
But . . .
“Impress me? You spent our entire childhood showing off how much better you were at everything than I was,” you said, confusion and everything in between laced in your words. Because, truly, what? “That was like our . . . thing as much as it disgusts me to admit.”
His brows raised ever so slightly. “What?”
Oh no.
No, he wasn’t kidding. He actually did have a crush on you. But that meant . . . that meant the whole reason you had hated him growing up was over . . . nothing. He had never meant to start anything. He was just . . . he was trying to impress you and not . . . one-up you.
He wanted you to like him back . . .
So then you had—oh, no!
“Wait,” you cut your own thoughts off with a gasp. “Oh my fucking god, are you serious? Kook, I thought you were just trying to be an asshole.”
Jungkook pulled back. “No, what the—” his words died on his tongue as it all dawned on him. “Is that why you thought I hated you?”
“Yes! Obviously!”
“Oh, shit . . . “
And then . . . as if this couldn’t get any more on-brand for the two of you, Jungkook had begun to laugh. Quietly at first, then his hand was slapping against his face as he cackled, his shoulders even so much as shaking. He was full-on laughing. Laughing.
“Why are you laughing?” you exclaimed, squeezing his shoulder
“Because! You hated my guts for like fifteen years and it’s all because you took my sixth-grade flirting as an insult!” he bursted out through small laughs. “You—” he embraced you, his hand cupping your cheek as his eyes searched yours— “are something else.”
“Well . . . it’s technically your fault,” you responded with a quick click of your tongue.
His brows twitched upward. “Oh, is it technically my fault?” he asked while trying to fight the half-grin tipping onto his lips.
“Obviously.”
“Mmm,” he hummed, thinking for only a second before: “At least you’re pretty.”
In response, your mouth fell open slightly. “I will bite the tip of your penis off.”
“Mmm, kinky,” he remarked as he nudged your nose with his.
Scrunching your nose, you tsked, “Ew.”
“Come on, baby,” Jungkook mockingly whined, pouting as much as he possibly could. “No cold shoulder. Gives me the chills.”
But you were having too much fun with this to give it up now. “You had a crush on me,” you all but gagged as you turned your nose up (once again ignoring Jimin’s words . . . ). “Disgusting.”
“Is it?” he questioned in amusement, moments before his lips were on your exposed jaw.
“Mmm.”
Jungkook gently bit your cheek. “I think you’re the one with the crush,” he mused, his lips trailing down to your neck again, this time hovering just over your sweet spot.
“Oh, please,” you scoffed, trying your absolute hardest not to show how affected you were by just his lips grazing your skin. But one gentle kiss to your sweet spot, and you could feel your heart skyrocket to your throat as you all but choked in a breath. It was just that . . . he had this effect on you. (Fuck, did he ever . . . )
“Begging now, are you?” he remarked before leaving another kiss here and then there and the oh, you guessed it, just on the corner of your mouth but not on your lips, of course.
And all you could do was admit you were weak when it came to him, and just give in. Which was, of course, what you did as a soft groan escaped your lips and you turned your head to face him once again. “Would you get over your ego and kiss me?” you deadpanned, all but pouting at him.
That almost got him immediately. His eyes flicked to your lips, then your eyes, then to your lips once again before one of those cocky grins plastered across his face. “Yes, ma’am,” he whispered, his voice like silk.
That was the last response you received before his lips grazed yours. Gentle at first was his touch, like a feather on skin, but as he nudged your nose with his, he finally closed the space between you two, pressing his lips against yours in a soft kiss. You leaned closer, pleasantly sighing into the kiss as you nipped at his bottom lip. A grin tipped onto his face before he dipped in for more, running his tongue along the crease of your lips. You complied quickly, hands tangling in his long, dark hair as you pulled him closer and melded his tongue with yours. He inhaled sharply through his nose as his grip tightened on you instantly, his hand sliding up your thigh, squeezing your hip before it snuck under the hem of your shirt (or rather his old college badminton tee that he had grown out of by now (which meant it was yours by default . . . duh).
A soft mix between a gasp and a quiet moan escaped your lips when you felt the coolness of his hand graze the swell of your breast, palming it. He grinned into the kiss, circling his thumb around your nipple, knowing damn well that it would get to you and have your skin blazing in seconds.
That was just the thing—he knew how your body worked. More . . . he knew how you worked and perhaps that was why he had figured out how to pleasure you.
Still, you tugged on his hair in annoyance, huffing slightly and pouting perhaps just a tad, which you knew he found endearing. That was the thing, too . . . you knew how he worked as well. He snickered against your lips, proving your thoughts to yourself just moments before he pulled you closer and began sucking on your bottom lip as his thumb pressed down on your puckered nipple, tweaking the bud. You hummed softly in response, grinding your underwear-clothed core against his muscular thigh.
He stilled under your touch for a mere second before his hands gripped your waist as he pulled you down onto his thigh, moving with you while you grinded against him. “Making a mess, pretty girl,” he murmured against your lips as he moved to lightly kiss your neck. His hand was at your shirt again in an instant, fisting it and pulling it up over your breasts.
“You’re such a guy,” you nearly moaned out, your hands now on his shoulders as his head dipped to your breasts, catching a nipple in his mouth all the while he flexed his thigh against your core. He didn’t stop there either. He softly hummed against your skin as he released your nipple long enough to kiss it just moments before taking it into his mouth again, swirling his tongue around the bud and sucking hard. And you couldn't help it, you jerked against him, throwing your head into the pillow as a loud moan sounded from the back of your throat.
“So you agree—” he mumbled as he still flicked his tongue over and over again over the abused bud— “you like that about me?”
Before you could even answer, his hand had gone from your waist and now tangled in your hair, holding the back of your neck. That was moments before his lips detached from your puckered bud and reattached to your lips. His other hand worked quickly, too, as he slid his thigh out from underneath you and swung your leg over his hip, his hardened length now pressed against your aching core.
“Maybe I do a little,” you whispered with a small grin playing on your puffy lips as you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him in closer.
He grinned back. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured back, kissing you quickly before you could respond.
And his comment was long forgotten as he grinded his bulge into your heat, stimulating both you and him. It was intoxicating. No, he . . . he was.
He was so intoxicating, you couldn’t help but whine out, “Take them off, please.” Your fingers were at his boxers, tracing the elastic band as you all but whimpered against his lips. You just wanted him, him, him. All of him.
“Eager?” he mused as his thumb dug into your hip. (You knew this was eating at him just as much as it was eating at you. It always did.)
“Please, Kookie. Can’t take it,” you whined further, all but straight-up riding him to scratch the ache inside you. “Need it so bad. Killin’ me.”
“Fuck,” he groaned, and he didn’t waste another second either. “Love you like this.” His own whines filled the air as the two of you struggled to tear off his boxers, your underwear quickly following after as both the undergarments eventually became lost under the covers. But neither of you cared.
It was a quick descent after that. You couldn’t help but grind your core over his hard length, the sound of your wet arousal evident even over the hum of the air conditioner. The two of you never did this. You’d always done foreplay after foreplay after foreplay, finding it thrilling to tease each other, but right now . . . right now all you wanted was him inside you. You wanted him as close as possible, and it seemed he wanted the same, the both of you unable to think or do anything other than grind against each other.
Only then when you couldn’t take the throb between your legs anymore did he press a single kiss to the corner of your mouth before you felt him slowly enter you, inch by inch sinking into your cunt. Your eyes fluttered closed as your mouth parted and your head tilted back while you basked in the fullness which came along with his cock sliding snugly against your tight walls. Your breath hitched in your throat just as you felt him bottom out, your core taking him all the way until the hilt.
The next second, you were wrapping your legs around him, locking them together in an attempt to get him even deeper. Your eyes fluttered open next, meeting his gaze instantly as he stared down at you with his brows pinched in pleasure and those big, round eyes of his blown out . . . but was this lust that he gazed at you with? His gaze appeared different, almost warmer, almost softer, almost too soft to touch . . . to have . . . to hold. He looked too pretty like this. Definitely too pretty for you to handle.
It didn’t help when the following words out of his mouth were: "You're always so fucking tight.”
And then he began to move, not breaking eye contact once. No, his eyes watched yours as his cock pumped in and out of your wet heat. His breath hit your face, and you could almost feel his heartbeat against your chest, syncing with yours as the two of you stared into what you could only describe as each other’s souls.
It was odd, too, because while whatever this feeling was blooming in your chest scared you, you couldn’t look away. You couldn’t turn from him. You just wanted him, him, him. Always him. You feared that if you did turn away, when you glanced back he wouldn’t be there anymore. And that perhaps scared you more than anything: losing him.
But there he was. He was always right there . . .
Almost as if he could hear your thoughts, his grasp on you tightened, his cock sinking deliciously deeper if it were even possible. The pressure in your lower stomach was becoming too much as it bloomed and bloomed, twisting and turning in a pleasurable ache. You bit your bottom lip, turning your head to the side as your breathing became more uneven by the second, but not once did you dare look away. No, you watched each and every twitch of his brow, every shaky breath, every flutter of his eyelashes, and you relished in it, soaking it all in.
It became clear to you that you couldn’t look away even if you tried.
And it seemed neither could he . . .
"Why are you looking at me like that?" you rasped out, trying to swallow your spit.
Jungkook nudged your nose with his. "Like what?"
You swallowed, this time harder (Jimin’s words revisited you once again). “I can’t say . . . “
His brows twitched this time. “How could I not?”
How could I not? And you knew what he meant, just as he had known what was playing on your mind. How could I not?
And then he was kissing you again, taking you by utter surprise. Sure, the two of you had had sex over and over again and each time felt a little different from the other, but this . . . this was like the beginning yet the present all at once. It was like you could feel all of him in just this kiss; like you could see his past and he could see yours and neither of you had thought about running once.
It was soft. So was his hand as he brushed through your hair as he kissed you, tracing your hairline, your cheek, your jaw, then your neck as if he were trying to map out your features.
(You couldn’t help but melt under his touch.)
Why was his kiss always the softest thing you had ever known?
Then . . . amidst your soft moans and carnal sounds, he pulled back, his eyes finding yours again. He glanced between the two of you where your bodies met, brows rising in marvel as he released a small sigh before rolling his hips against yours again and again. And then . . . then, he grabbed your hand, intertwining your fingers together as his gaze met yours once again and he whispered so quietly, almost too quiet you wouldn’t have heard it if you hadn’t been so close, “I don’t even know where you end and I begin.”
And you knew instantly he didn’t just mean where your body met his. No, this was deeper, and you realized he could feel that this time was different, too.
Swallowing hard, you fluttered your eyes in almost a state of shock as you stayed silent. But you didn’t need to speak. No, you took his words, and you held them close, and then you were holding him. Take my bones and build yourself a home, he’d told you, but no, no, you wouldn’t put him through that. He could take yours. He could take all of you. You would give yourself to him.
Fuck, you would give all of yourself to him. Only him. Him, him, him.
“Wanna see your face, baby,” he murmured as he brushed your hair out of your flushed face. “Prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. My pretty girl.”
And you knew that was it.
With one final kiss, you let him know all this, allowing him to take the lead once more. Everything pulsed as he picked up a sensual pace, hitting your sweet spot over and over again as his thumb snuck between your legs, skillfully working against your swollen clit while you chased the coil. It tightened and tightened, rings of pleasure hissing in your ears. His thumb quickened its pace, and then the coil snapped, your release crashing over you. All you could do was surrender to it, tilting your head back into the pillow as your hips raised while your hands squeezed his toned arms. All the while, Jungkook continued the long drags of his cock against your walls, dragging out your orgasm for as long as he could.
“Wanna stay like this,” he confessed, his thrusts growing slower and slower, unsteadier and unsteadier as he nearly whimpered into your neck. “Love this so fuckin’ much. Being with you—fuck. You make me feel so good, baby. So good.”
“I’d let you,” you mumbled against the shell of his ear, your voice a little too hoarse as you were still coming down from your high. “I’d let you do . . . all the time . . . I want—” you were delirious at this point and you knew it, too— “Want you always.”
Your words barely even registered in your brain as pleasure and that blooming feeling in your chest consumed you. It wasn’t long before you found yourself lifting his head so your lips could slot against his. And he graciously accepted your offer, consuming you just as the feeling had done.
The two of you wasted no time in escalating from gentle kissing, allowing you to further calm down from your high before your cunt was throbbing once more. And . . . before his cock had begun to feel too fucking hard inside you, nearly twitching for release as it begged for your addictive touch.
You let yourself get wrapped up in him for a little longer, too, never wanting to stop. Your hands were on him again as you tangled your fingers in his hair and pulled. This time a loud, deep groan came from his lips, and you knew you had him. He gave another groan of submission when you tugged again, his thrusts barely cohesive now. He was close, and you reveled in this, wishing to bring him to ecstasy. With that thought on your mind, you devilishly reached over his muscular ass, fingers quickly finding his perineum and pressing into it, massaging the sensitive spot.
He was sheathed deeper inside you before either of you could breathe, the two of you too wrapped up in each other to move positions. You just wanted to feel each other again and again and again, because for some reason . . . this time was different.
Different and yet all the same. That was how it had always been with Jungkook.
And you couldn’t quite put a word to the feeling, until . . .
“Will you cum inside me?” you whispered, your voice hoarse as you omitted a soft moan under your breath. “Please. I need more.” Swallowing hard, you finally met his gaze, and instantly, you couldn’t look away. There was just . . . something . . . there. “I need you.” Your brows furrowed as you soaked in your own words while you searched his eyes.
Slowly, with another roll of his hips, he sank lower, his abdomen grazing against yours so he could be close enough to brush his lips with yours but not that close to kiss you. But you . . . you couldn’t be without his touch, and found yourself tilting your head to press your lips against his, finally finding that something you had been searching for in his eyes.
And then . . . then it hit you.
“I need you,” you heard yourself whisper before you knew the words had left your mouth. “I need you, Koo.”
I need you, you’d whispered, and you began to realize . . . you knew what you felt for him wasn’t what you’d feel for a friend. Because you did need him . . . in more ways than you’d like to admit.
And that scared the shit out of you.
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roads diverged || h.js
pairing: joshua hong x reader
warnings: super self-indulgent. some crying, life decisions, joshua is my comfort member
word count: 759
summary: life is full of diverging roads, but it's okay as long as joshua's walking beside you
a/n: i'm definitely projecting lol. instead of crying for 3 hours, i decided to cry for 1 hour and write this for 2 hours :) problem solved
main masterlist
It’s not that you’re particularly a neat freak, but you’re pretty sure you read somewhere that cleaning your living space can help clear your mind.
It isn’t until you’re on your knees on the bathroom tile at 2 am, scrubbing between tiles with a pink toothbrush and a dream that you finally question the scientific validity of that Buzzfeed article. You let out a huff and pull the rubber gloves off your hands and throw them down onto the floor.
“Damn,” you hear a hoarse voice call from the bathroom door. “What did those gloves do to you?”
“Shua,” his name comes out as if you’re surprised at the shakiness in your own voice. Once he hears it too, his smirk falls into a frown and his eyebrows come together in concern. In the next instant, he’s on his knees beside you, pulling you into his arms.
“What’s wrong angel?” he whispers against your hair, rubbing his arms soothingly down your back.
His question is all it takes for the dam to break and not long after, the sleeve of Joshua’s light blue pajama shirt is soaked with tears. He shushes you as he pulls you tighter against him, and he wishes he could lift whatever burden was weighing you down.
It takes a minute before you can finally give him an answer. “Do you remember that really weird thing I asked you about a few weeks ago?” you managed to get out between hiccups.
He pulls away and shifts his hands down to hold yours. “Yeah,” he nods. “When you were reading that Robert Frost poem and you asked what happens if you don’t like the road less traveled and you want to go back and take the other one?”
You nod back at him, pulling your lip between your teeth to fight back the tears. “Yeah… that.”
“What about it?” he asks quietly, prodding you to continue.
“I think I’m going to quit my job,” you answered, unable to fight the second wave of tears.
“Oh, honey,” he began, his hands instinctively coming up to your face to wipe away the streams of tears. “What brought this on? I thought you liked your job.”
“I do,” you answer. “Well, I did. I’m not so sure anymore.”
“What changed?”
“I don’t know,” you confess, dropping your head into your hands. “It’s just not… I just feel like I’m stuck, you know? Like what if I missed out on something better because I’m afraid of leaving something that’s familiar?”
Joshua hums thoughtfully, choosing his words before he continues. “That’s something I wish I knew the answer to,” he sighs and lifts your chin to look at him. He hates seeing you sad, but even more so knowing that this isn’t a problem he can fix for you. “But just think, honey, if you didn’t walk down this path, we wouldn’t have met.”
You nod and break out a small smile that mirrors his. “Yeah,” you agree. “That is pretty great.”
“See?” he continues. “I think you know, no matter which path you take, it’ll be lined with good things and bad things, and that’s okay.”
“I know, I know,” you affirm. “But I like it better when you tell me.”
Joshua lets out a chuckle before standing and holding his hand out to you. “I’ll keep telling you if you finally come to bed with me,” he offers and you take it, gathering your cleaning supplies into your free arm and setting them onto the counter.
Once you’ve both finally settled into bed, Joshua shuts off the lamp on the bedside table and pulls you flush against his chest. His fingers trace circles up and down your arms as you listen to the steadiness of his heartbeat.
“As I promised,” he began. “There’s gonna be lots of diverging paths, you know? Lots of different ways to go. And they won’t always be as scenic as the ones before, or as neatly paved, or as—”
You playfully swat at his chest and smile at the rumble of laughter in his chest. “I get it,” you prod.
“My point is,” he drags out the last syllable, tilting his neck down to smile at you before yawning. “No matter which path you end up taking, I’ll be walking right next to you, holding your hand.” True to his word, he pulls your free hand into his before bringing it up to press a light kiss against your palm. “And every step is going to take us exactly where we need to go.”
taglist: @yksthings @iamxelia @coveyland @xuimhao
#caratwritersclub#seventeenweeklyarticle#joshua hong#joshua hong x reader#joshua x reader#seventeen fluff#joshua hong fluff#joshua fluff#seventeen × reader#seventeen angst#seventeen imagine#ioshua honq imagine#svt ioshua#seventeen joshua fluff#hong jisoo#hong jisoo x reader
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were you sent by someone who wanted me dead? (did you sleep with a gun underneath our bed?) - jeremy swayman
pairing: jeremy swayman x original female character
warnings: swearing, pretty angsty. hopeful ish ending because i can't do sad endings, very personal but i think many can relate in their own way, cliche ish, barely proofread
inspired by + title: "the smallest man who ever lived" by taylor swift
word count: 5.6k
author's note: i'd argue almost every piece any author writes is personal, because it has their life interspersed through the words. but this one really is, because a majority of this is the exact same words i wrote years ago after a break-up. heard the bridge to this song and immediately knew i had to write something inspired by it. also trying a new format of sorts (maybe a bit meta??), so i hope you enjoy and lmk what you think!!
~*~*~
When Noelle Betsko walked away from Jeremy Swayman, holding back tears until the call dropped, she knew it was going to be a tough time for the foreseeable future.
It didn’t matter that the pandemic had forced them apart. She knew she would still feel him for months to come.
She did the only thing she knows how to do when trying to deal with things. The one thing she always resorts to as an aspiring novelist. Sometimes on her laptop when the words were spilling out too quickly for her brain to catch up, tears littering the keyboard. Usually in her old beat-up journal, scribbling in the cursive that Jeremy claimed he always loved (“It makes your handwriting unique”) with the pens he had gifted her just a few months prior.
At the age of 21, Noelle got her heart broken for the first time. At the age of 26, she’s about to publish her first poetry collection of sorts, all of the poems modeled after journal entries written throughout her life. So not really poetry, though her mother would say otherwise.
She swallows as she thumbs through the middle part of the first known and binded copy of “miscellaneous.” There are only eight entries in the whole collection that are taken verbatim from her past writing. These are the eight.
May 13, 2020 (three days post-breakup, crying in my childhood bedroom)
I don’t even recognize who I was and who you were in those writings before these pages filled with love and hope and happiness. I can’t even summon up those feelings anymore that I knew existed at one point. Those feelings of complete bliss and love for someone so deep you can’t explain it.
I’m mad at myself for not being able to conjure those feelings, because at one point, I did love you. How could something that was part of my daily life for over two years just disappear so quickly?
But now, I’m not mad at myself. I’m mad, but I don’t know where to direct that anger to. I feel a bit empty sometimes, but then frustrated the next. Sometimes I get sad, but not so much compared to the other feelings. I spent enough time being sad during our relationship.
When we broke up, on an annoyingly beautiful Tuesday in May — over the damn phone, mind you, which whatever, it’s COVID. Fine — You told me you felt like you had been putting more effort into us.
At the time, I didn’t react, but I’ve been thinking about how angry that statement made me. Makes me, actually. I was always very open with how much I gave to that relationship. How much it meant to me. How much it affected me. But I understand that with some people, sharing everything too much equates to things not meaning anything anymore. But you out of all people should’ve known that I mean everything I say.
I felt like I gave so much. I know I gave so much. When I told you I loved you, I always meant it. Every single time. When I told you I missed you, I always meant it. I wished you were right next to me at that moment. I mentally gave so much, because to me, I wanted to. You were always on my mind, always high up on my list of priorities. I never took us for granted.
I’ve been questioning if that was the same for you. Did you start becoming complacent?
The second thing you said that day that hasn’t left my head is that you knew me pretty well. And initially, I remember not thinking much of it. So I don’t doubt that; you always knew right when I was about to cry, even over the phone. You often knew when I was mad or upset, but when I look back now, you never pushed. Which is a good thing, to an extent. But it was a bad thing sometimes too. I knew you often wanted to give me space, but sometimes I didn’t want space. I wanted you to push. To try to understand. Maybe that’s unfair of me; it probably is. I should just say I want to talk about it more, right?
But if you genuinely knew me, you would’ve known.
After two years, seven months and 12 days, I still feel like I didn’t know you. Did I ever know you at all?
When people talked shit about you, I always defended you. And I still would defend you now. But lately, I've questioned what I’m even defending. All those good qualities that I thought you had, were they even real? Of course, I know some of them were, to a certain extent. But as I look back on us, there’s a lot of doubt about whether I even knew the person I called my boyfriend for so long. I know there was a point where you cared about me, but I can’t remember when.
I often felt like I was letting you know so much about my life, but you didn’t do the same. I get that sometimes a person just wants to forget about the bad and focus on the good with a person you like for awhile. I get that. But once that was happening every damn time? That should’ve been a red flag.
June 7, 2020 (twenty eight days post break-up, outside my childhood room on the deck)
I don’t understand how you can give so much to something or someone and have it not be recognized or appreciated or enough. If I wasn’t enough for you, how will I be enough for anyone?
I hope one day you’ll truly understand how much this hurt. Not just the breakup, but feeling like I was always being pulled in a direction I didn’t always want to be pulled in. Feeling I was stuck between a rock and a hard place and never ever being able to win. I hate that I settled so much in the last year. Because I should’ve demanded more, even though deep down I knew you were never going to be able to give it to me.
I think back to our past daily texts, and I just don’t get it. At one point, we both meant the things we said to each other.
Yet we still hurt each other.
This fucking hurts.
You’ve hurt me so much, but most of it wasn’t intentional, which I think is somewhat even worse. Because I’m not totally mad at you for causing the pain. You never did anything outright to cause me pain, but I still feel like you did.
Unintentional pain almost stings more than intentional.
When I asked you out that night after we were both on an emotional high, I took a chance. For once in my life, I took the leap, knowing that I could get humiliated or hurt or just straight up shot down.
Where did it all go wrong? Or, more realistically, how did we think that we could go through the wrong when it was there at the start?
I’m trying not to blame myself too much. Trying not to tell myself that I should’ve known better.
All those times, especially at the start, when I would ask you if you genuinely liked me, you always thought I was just trying to be annoying. But you never understood that I genuinely thought that way. My self confidence from the start was lacking, and you didn’t try to understand that, because I come across to everyone as confident and self-assured.
It hurt, when you would brush things off like that. I felt like you didn’t care.
And then, it got to the point where I stopped asking that question. Part of that is because I did become more confident and you did show that you cared, and part of that was because I knew it would piss you off.
The amount of things I was scared to talk about with you because I knew it would piss you off? I don’t wish that feeling on anybody.
I shouldn’t have been scared. I shouldn’t have been uncomfortable. But I was. And if you did notice like sometimes you claimed to, why didn’t you make it more comfortable for me? Was that too much to ask for?
So larger than life that at the end, you faded into just the smallest man who ever lived. Fuck you.
Was it too much to ask for when I just wanted to know why you were upset? You didn’t have to ever tell me the full story (lord knows there were times I didn’t), but was it too much to ask for something? You told me once that I’m the person you’ve told the most to. How? You barely told me anything. And when I wanted to talk to you, whether it was about growing up in Alaska or why you were in a bad mood last night, you always brushed it off. Always.
So I don’t feel so bad about feeling like I gave more effort. I gave so much of myself to you. If you really cared about me like you claimed you did, why couldn’t you show even just 1% of that care back? Or just meet me in the middle?
I could’ve tried harder to meet you in the middle, I’ll admit that. But you didn’t even give me a map or a clue how to.
I felt so fucking left in the dark. I felt left in the dark about my own fucking relationship, something that I should be completely sure about. If you really love someone and care about them, how can you leave them in the dark? How could you not even see that I was struggling to find a flashlight?
You did care about me. I know that. To some extent and at some point in time, you did care about me. But caring about someone and their well-being isn’t always enough.
Why couldn’t you have worked with me? When I was extending my hand out, why didn’t you reach for it? How can someone just be so blind? I mean, I’m practically always spelling it out for you.
Maybe I am being selfish. But fuck, I just wanted to be happy. At some point, you made me happy. When did I start making you feel like I wasn’t enough? Why wasn’t I enough for you?
It’s useless, in a way, to keep going about this. Because I know I deserve better. And we’ll both find people who are better for us. We just couldn’t be that person to each other.
I fucking loved you.
I wish it ended differently.
July 8, 2020 (fifty nine days post-breakup, in front of the lake)
I really really fucking miss you.
I do.
I miss being able to text you that i love you and not necessarily expecting a response until the next morning. I miss knowing that as soon as you wake up, you’ll text me back and assure me that yeah, you love me too.
I’m left feeling bittersweet as I look back on memories that are just splashes and not definite strokes on the canvas that used to be us.
I miss having you as a friend.
I’ve been having more urges lately to want to text you. And it isn’t even anything important. Just moments I experience throughout the day.
Do you get the urge to do the same?
July 19, 2020 (seventy days post-breakup, still in the same damn house)
It’s hard. It really is. And it kinda just hits you at random parts of the day. Sometimes I wake up from a dream that you were in and have to remind myself that it didn’t happen.
Sometimes it physically aches when I realize that you won’t ever help me put on my jacket again, or complain that my hair is in your face when we’re lying on the couch watching Brooklyn Nine Nine, or groan when I drag you up to dance with me (which you never improved on, no matter how many times I tried to teach you basic rhythm). I can’t view our song the same way anymore, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to.
The other day, I read some simple thing on Twitter. I don’t even remember what it was, but I do remember that for a split second, I could see your smile in my mind. But it wasn’t just any smile. It was the smile you gave me when you took me ice skating that first time. I remember asking you what you were smiling at, and you said that you just were taking in this moment. I don’t know if you took a mental picture that day, but I know I did. That day seems so long ago now.
In almost anything I do, you somehow pop into my mind or into the conversation. And it’s not even in a harmful way either. It’s because you were part of my life for so long. I see a dog on the street, and it reminds me of how you always stopped to pet every single one we’s see I write something in my messy handwriting, and I remember how you always used to complain that you couldn’t read the notes I’d occasionally leave around your place when you went away. I went to the doctor’s the other day, and they said I was 5 feet and 3 inches, which is just definitely not true, and I almost reached for my phone to text you, because you would’ve cackled and insisted that no, I’m 5 feet 2 inches and it wouldn’t even matter because I’ll always be shorter than you. It’s simple and minute things that make me miss you that much more.
I still can’t listen to some songs the same way anymore, but I can at least listen to them now, which is a feat in itself. I was unpacking from college and found the teddy bear you sent me the first extended time we had to be apart and had to immediately put that out of my sight. From those boxes also came photos that I had decorated my dorm room with, and to be honest, I’m glad now that I let you keep our best one. I deal with all my emotions, besides writing, by making Spotify playlists, and I made a new one earlier this week. I think it’s helping. It’s a slow process, this whole moving on thing, but it’s one that I’m trying to be grateful for, because like most things in life, you just don’t truly know until you go through it.
Sometimes, I find myself wondering how you are and how you’re healing. But, even though we’ve both changed since the day we met, if there’s one thing I know, it’s that you’re incredibly strong and stubborn. I hope that you’re finding some growth in this process too.
October 17, 2020 (one hundred fifty seven days post-break up, apartment in orono)
It’s been almost 5 months, and you still cross my mind everyday.
Why wasn’t I enough for you? Why didn’t you fucking tell me what you were thinking? Why was I the one who had to approach you just because I was just so done with the silent treatment?
But I’m not mad at you. Not anymore. The mad phase passed ages ago.
Closure is a fake word. Even a breakup as mutual and smooth as ours was still left me with so many questions that will probably never be answered.
Any breakup fucks you up to some extent. I knew it was going to mess me up even back when we were together. But not like this. Never like this.
But like anything in life, I guess you can never really prepare for what you think you might feel, because most of the time, you discover a whole new side of you that you never thought existed.
I don’t miss you. I don’t. I don’t feel that love in any way anymore.
But I did once.
You did too, right?
November 15, 2020 (one hundred eighty six days post break-up, fogler library)
I hate Halloween.
Though, it did bring me to you three years ago. I’m pretty sure I fell in love with you right then and there.
Three years later, you texted me on Halloween, five months after our breakup. The universe really, really wanted to fuck with me.
It was a tough night for you. I knew that. Because I know how you are after losing a game you should’ve won. But that didn’t mean that I owed you anything and had to respond.
We agreed on no contact if we ever wanted to stay friends. Clearly, friends is out of the picture now, but come on. A vulnerable text after a bad night because you know I would feel bad for you?
Fuck, you know how much I would hate that. You had to have known.
Just because we’re not dating anymore doesn’t mean that everything about you just disappears. I still know your tendencies. I still know exactly how my head burrows into your chest during a hug. I still know the actions I used to do that would be followed by you attacking me with a hug. I still could point you out in a crowd.
I looked for you in every crowd for years.
That stuff doesn’t just go away, no matter how much I want it to. But fuck. Fuck. Why did you text me?
I don’t regret how I handled it. I probably would’ve responded months ago. But just like you, I’ve grown these last couple of months.
It was comforting, for a split second, to know that maybe, just maybe, these past couple of months have been hard for you too. It makes me feel human. It makes me feel like I’m not crazy.
I’m glad you texted me. You gave me another level of closure I hadn’t known that I needed until then.
But fuck, dude. You know me better than that. You should know me better than that.
I hate Halloween.
November 26, 2020 (one hundred ninety seven days, at the coffee shop i brought you to when you came home with me two years ago)
I don’t regret loving you, but I hate you for what you did to me.
Or maybe not.
I hate knowing that even though we haven’t been in a relationship in a bit, it feels like sometimes, you’re on my mind the exact same amount when we were dating. I hate knowing that I gave so much of myself and my love to you, and it always felt unrecognized.
Fuck, will it ever stop hurting? Will I ever be able to have to stop myself from thinking about you? Will it ever stop?
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Happy birthday. I hope you enjoy it.
June 12, 2021 (three hundred ninety five days post-break up, in boston, visiting a friend)
Tonight, when a friend asked me about you and how I felt about how we ended, I was able to articulate my thoughts clearly. I’m really proud of myself for getting to a point where I can take the lessons I learned the few months after we broke up and acknowledge them in a succinct way without breaking down into tears. Just watery eyes and the occasional voice crack
I’m also proud that I can say that when we were dating, I lost a bit of myself. For months, it was really hard to admit out loud.
I’m proud of how far I’ve come. Sometimes, I wish I could call or text you about it, because I think you’d be proud too. And I know I’d be proud of you. I am, to be honest. I do break resolve once in awhile and check on you through various avenues.
I still haven’t seen you in person since the last time COVID made us say goodbye. Maybe I never will again. But day by day, I’m starting to accept that and be okay with it. I’m accepting that memories that used to be so painted in my mind are blurry or almost completely erased now. But that’s okay. Honestly, it’s probably for the best.
I wonder, when you think about it, if you think about different moments that I do. That’s the thing when something ends. You have to be okay with letting go of those moments and realizing that just because you forget them, doesn’t mean they weren’t important.
I don’t think I miss you. I hesitate in saying that. Because I’ve moved on and handled the aftermath of it better than I think both of us ever thought I could. When you hung up the phone for the last time, I proved to myself again that I’m stronger than I give myself credit for. I think we all are. But we don’t realize it until we’re thrown into a situation that we think we’ll never be able to overcome.
But we do. Whether it’s because we’re forced to because there’s no other option, it doesn’t matter. Because we get through. We move on.
I hope you're moving on.
And then it goes into other topics, graduating during a pandemic specifically and losing what’s supposed to be your last year of no responsibilities before adulthood. There are other poems in here that reference a past relationship, but not as much as these eight.
If there’s one thing that Noelle did change, it was taking out the details. Jeremy may have hurt her, but he doesn’t deserve someone possibly making a connection between these poems and their shared background. She’s not a famous author by any means, but she wanted to be careful.
Not that she makes that part of her life publicly known. People don’t need to know that her brother was Jeremy’s captain for two years at Maine and that’s how they met.
Noelle grew up going to rinks. She hasn’t gone to one since they broke up.
But also, what the fuck? It’s been five years since she’s dated the guy. She really is over it by now, even if his rise to stardom in the Bruins flittering on her social media feeds still sometimes has her swallowing a bit before she can continue with her day.
Brooklyn is far enough from Boston. But sometimes it feels like it’s right outside her door.
She’s proud of her first published work. She really is. People believed in her and after numerous notes swapped back and forth with her editor, she did it. She always knew she wanted to work in publishing. She never knew she herself would publish anything.
And here she is now, two weeks after the book release, in Boston, about to do a q&a and a signing. Apparently, “miscellaneous” has been on top of numerous lists and it’s flying off the shelves. Noelle can’t really believe it and tries not to think about it too much, trusting her agent with all of that.
She’s happy to talk about her work and process though. That she can handle. And she’s grateful for all the love.
After a signing at a local bookstore, she decides to walk the 20 minutes home in the Boston fall. It’s a bit brisk, but she doesn’t mind and she just wanders, belly filled with delicious sushi she inhaled for dinner with an old friend.
Of course it happens the one time during her walk when she doesn’t avoid eye contact with someone. The song playing in her earbuds fade out of her focus and she almost stumbles.
Jeremy’s eyes were always Noelle’s favorite thing about him. She thought she would’ve forgotten what they looked like by now. But clearly she hasn’t.
Her eyes quickly cast to the person next to him. It’s definitely a girl. They’re a bit too far away for Noelle to pick out details. But it’s enough. He’s walking on the side closest to the street. It’s a Friday Night in a bustling part of the city.
It hurts. She wishes it didn’t.
Even from far away, she sees his eyes blink in recognition. Noelle puts her head back down and walks faster.
(She cries in the shower when she gets back to the hotel. She had debated feeling super sorry for herself and going to the hotel bar but refrained)
She has a few free days in Boston before flying back to New York. When she wakes up the next morning, she debates on going home early. But no, she won’t let a three second glance at someone ruin her time here. She used to occasionally come here during her college days. She loves this city.
The city may be Jeremy’s, but she can make space for herself here too.
She takes her time at a cafe, people watching and eating some breakfast. As she takes her coffee to-go, she looks out the window at the bookstore she was in the night before for the signing. She almost drops her coffee.
Jeremy walks into the book store.
Now, Noelle is debating her options. What she should do is continue with her day and walk in the opposite direction. But she’s always been too nosy for her own good. And maybe a bit self destructive. She decides to leave the cafe and cross the street immediately, so impatient to where she’s almost tapping her foot as the pedestrian signal stays red.
As a writer, she’s no stranger to movie moments. The scenes written in books or movies where the timing is too accurate to be real. The situation too good to be true. But after a car speeds through an orange and she can finally walk, she stops in her tracks instead, feet glued down to the sidewalk.
Because Jeremy is right in front of her on the other side of the street. Her book in his hand. And he’s looking right at her.
The first feeling she can recognize in herself is anger. Anger at the way their relationship panned out. Anger at the way they ended. Anger at the radio silence the years following. Anger at him for everything. Angry at herself for everything.
The second feeling is, weirdly, shame, which she’s embarrassed by. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. But she feels it anyways.
The third, and perhaps the most prominent, is emptiness. Five fucking years later, and she’s brought back to the emptiness she felt immediately after they broke up. The emptiness that the person you loved isn’t yours anymore — who maybe wasn’t ever yours to begin with.
Before she can run, he’s already crossed the street to her. He looks naturally different as someone who you haven’t seen in five years would. But he also heartbreakingly looks the same.
“We should get out of people’s way,” Noelle manages to chokes out.
Jeremy laughs a bit. Her heart lurches. “Yeah.” He starts walking and she follows him wordlessly. This is his city after all.
He leads them to a bench under a tree with beautiful fall foliage. She puts at least a foot between them as they both sit down, staring out at the people passing. She can’t take the silence.
“I see you bought my book.”
“I did,” he replies evenly. “Congratulations. I always knew you would do it.”
She squeezes her eyes shut. Maybe if she squeezes hard enough she’ll forget when she originally pitched Jeremy the bare bones idea of the exact same book that’s currently in his hand. “Thank you. Congratulations to you too. On everything.”
“You’ve been watching?”
She shakes her head. “No. But, you know Seth and…yeah. It comes up during family calls sometimes.”
“Why didn’t you say hi last night?”
She looks pointedly at a couple walking their dog. “You seemed busy.”
“She wasn’t-that-it doesn’t mean anything.”
“Oh. Because that makes me feel so much better,” she spits out, before taking a deep breath. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter. We broke up ages ago.”
“I’m sorry,” she gives him a look and is slightly proud of how he seems to shrink into himself a bit. “I-I know it’s five years too late. I know I didn’t handle it as well as I should’ve. But for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”
The thing is, Noelle always thought that maybe hearing an apology someday would make her feel better. But now that’s heard it, she’s not sure she does.
She swallows. “I appreciate that.”
“I’ve already read it, you know.”
“Read what?”
Jeremy runs a hand through his hair. “Your book. One of my teammate’s girlfriend recommended it and I asked to borrow it. It’s fantastic,” He looks down at the book in his hand. It’s like the cover is taunting her. “I wanted my own copy.”
“Oh.”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For letting me off the hook with the poems I know were about me,” he scoffs, shaking his head at himself. “You could’ve written way worse.”
She can’t help but let out a chuckle. “I thought I was pretty mean.”
“Your definition of ‘pretty mean’ is tame compared to a lot of people,” he says, mindlessly flipping through the pages of the book. “You were always the kindest person, even when you shouldn’t have been..”
He puts his hand out in her direction, the hand with the book in it. She furrows her eyebrows. “What-”
“Could I get a signed copy?”
“Jeremy. What do you want from me?”
He sighs, taking his hand back. “A chance to apologize?”
“You’ve already done that.”
“Not in the way I want to and what you deserve.”
She lets out a sigh, turning to face him fully. “I don’t know if that would be worth my time or yours. I know the book just came out, but that was five years ago. I’m over it. Forgive and forget, right?”
“But do you?” Jeremy counters back. “Clearly, you don’t forget, which I deserve. But forgive?”
“We’re just going in circles now.”
“No we’re not,” he says firmly. “You’re just shutting me down because you don’t want to talk about it. I’ve had five years to prepare what I would say to you if I saw you again. You’re telling me you haven’t?”
“Of course I have,” Noelle tips her head back. “But also, what’s the point?”
“The point, is that I still love you.”
“Fuck you,” she says in a strained voice. “You can’t just-you can’t just throw that shit out there. Fuck you.”
He bites his lip, and to her annoyance, he laughs. But she listens more carefully, and it sounds very self deprecating. “I deserved that.”
“Yeah,” Noelle looks down at her feet. “So…what? You still love me?”
“I do.”
“And what are you going to do about that?”
“What are you going to let me do?”
“I live in Brooklyn.”
“I know,” she whips her head up. Jeremy looks sheepish, which she didn’t even think was something he knew how to do. “Seth mentioned it when we caught up a bit ago. I also still follow you on Instagram.”
She tries again. “It’s been five years.”
“And I’m here sitting with you and still feel the exact same way I did back then. Even more, to be honest.” He eyes her pointedly. “Any more excuses?”
Her voice softens. “You really hurt me.”
“I know. And I’m so sorry, Noelle.”
“I hurt you too.”
He shrugs. “We were young and stupid.”
“And we’re still not?” Noelle says with a snort before swallowing. “I’m not the same person you fell in love with.”
“I’m sure I’m not either. But I don’t know if there’s a world where I don’t love every version of you.”
“Even after reading the book?”
“Especially after reading the book,” he sighs. “Noelle, I know this is unfair of me. All of this. And I’m sorry it’s taken me this long to reach out. But I always intended to. And then you’re here? And I see you twice in two days? I’d be an idiot to not try. More of an idiot than I am, anyways.”
“Try for what?”
“A second chance? To be friends? Whatever you want.” He suddenly deflates. “Even if you don’t want anything to do with me. At least I’ll know.”
“Why did you never text me?”
“I thought about it a lot,” he admits. “I tried once, actually, after the high of a really good win. But it didn’t go through. I got the message.”
“The message?”
“You blocked me, right?”
Oh. “Yeah,” she lies. “I did.” She reaches into her bag for a pen and gestures for the book, which he gives to her, a curious gleam in his eyes. “I’m in Boston for two more days, including today.”
He takes the hint immediately. Eagerly. “I have a game tonight, but I’m free tomorrow.”
“Who are you guys playing?”
“Toronto. And I’m starting. Should be a good one.”
She hums non-committedly, scribbling on the inside of the front cover. She hands it back to him with a small, close-lipped smile. She nods at him to read the message.
to my first fan,
i still love you too.
xxx-xxx-xxxx
yours,
noelle
He looks up, eyes shining but a bit confused.
“I never blocked you. I just changed my number.”
“Oh.”
“And even if I still love you, I’m still mad at you.”
“I know. I’d be more surprised if you weren’t.”
She stands up, adjusting the bag on her shoulder and putting her sunglasses on. “Text me?”
His mouth splits wide into a grin. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”
She backs away with one last attempt at a smile before turning down the street.
#k writes#hockey fanfiction#nhl#nhl fanfiction#nhl fanfic#nhl writing#hockey blurb#hockey writing#boston bruins#jeremy swayman#jeremy swayman blurb#jeremy swayman writing#jeremy swayman fic#jeremy swayman fanfiction#jeremy swayman x ofc#jeremy swayman x oc#jeremy swayman x reader
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The Quid Pro Quo
Paring: College! Peter Parker x Reader (reader's an English major)
Summary: On a rainy night, sparks fly when the two of you exchange notes on each others classwork.
Word Count: 2.1k
Genre: Fluff
authors note: hey, I might be a recent college graduate, doesn't mean everything is accurate ok? 🤭
Light rain taps against the window of Empire State University's library windows. You find yourself alone on the second floor at a table, wanting to tear your hair out over your Physics homework.
It was Friday night, the library was practically empty since most students were out partying or at the very least not thinking about their classwork. You, on the other hand, had made a deal with a fellow student to help one another on each’s work, a classic quid pro quo. You, an English major, were gonna exchange helpful notes on your classmate's Frankenstein paper that was due Monday, and he, in return, would help you prepare for your Physics test the following Tuesday. It was a great idea, brilliant even, if only Peter Parker weren’t running late.
You check your phone one more time before standing up and stretching your legs. You walk over to the big gothic looking window your table was next to, glancing at the rain smacking into the glass.
God, there were so many things you could have been doing right now instead of standing here like a young wife waiting for her husband to return from the sea. Like curling up with a nice book, with a hot cup of your favorite beverage, getting lost in whatever world and-
“Sorry I’m late!” came a familiar voice.
You turn and see that Peter Parker had decided to finally make an appearance after all. With your arms crossed, you watch as he quickly runs up the steps, tripping and almost falling while doing so. “I was starting to think you died or something.” You say quite sarcastically.
“Oh much worse,” Peter says, “Subway delays.” As you return to your seat, Peter sits on the other side, quickly taking out his own laptop and notebook. “What should we start on?”
“I don’t know if I can stand anymore Physics right now,” You glance at your phone, A Daily Bugle notification on top: Spider-Man v Lizard! Havoc on the A-Line!. You swipe it away, maybe it was better to go straight to the dorms after this. “Let’s just start on this Frankenstein paper since it’s much more open-ended.”
“Boo, I hate open ended,” Peter turns on his laptop, “At least with science everything can be quantified.”
“What about theories huh?”
“Theories can be backed up or disproven! English, it’s-it’s sooo subjective.” Peter sighs, “What do you mean the blue curtains represent depression! I have blue curtains, but not because I’m depressed but because they were on sale!”
“Ha-ha, like I haven’t heard that before” You shake your head and roll your eyes, “So, let’s see what you have. Wait, maybe it’s better if I-” You get up from your seat and walk over to sit on the chair next to Peter. “That’s better, now we can look at the screen together.”
Peter places one arm on the back of your chair, no thought really behind it. You pause for a moment before fake coughing, re-focusing on the screen in front of you.
Peter was one year older and the two of you met at an English course, Literature by Women, a gen-ed for him but a required class for you. You got to know each other the first week of the semester when your Professor assigned partner work to go through a set of poems. Ever since then the two of you would occasionally text each other with simple questions about class. That’s when you found out Peter was in a higher track for Physics and became an absolute annoyance when it came to questions. But Peter always lent a hand and never with any bitterness.
“You ok?” Peter asks.
You look at Peter whose face reads concern, “Yeah, just a little tired that’s all. Long day.” You turn back to the screen glancing at the title and opening lines of Peter’s paper.
“Ugh same,” groans Peter, “I got so caught up with something, I forgot to eat lunch”
“Oh, I think I have something.” You stop a few lines into the first paragraph, reaching over the table to grab your bag on top, you dig inside until you find half of a sandwich that you bought earlier. “Here, I didn’t know this sandwich had tomatoes and I just find them disgusting.” You make a face of disgust that causes a small laugh to come from Peter.
“You know you can always just take the tomatoes off right?”
“What about the tomato juices?” You say, “The remnant of the tomato never goes away!” You make a huge swapping gesture, “Do you want the damn sandwich or not?”
He puts his hands up in fake surrender, “Ok, ok.”
Peter takes his arm off the back of your chair scooting closer to the table before digging into the sandwich. You settle into reading Peter’s paper about the ethics of Dr. Frankenstein.
~
“Ok…ok, what you have so far it’s…”
“Horrible..terrible–” Peter sighs.
You turn and gently smack Peter on the arm, “Oh shut up,” You say, “It’s a good foundation, clear thesis, your paragraphs for the most part support it–”
“But…”
“But,” You widen your eyes and make a face. “You focus too much on the actual science of everything going on, focus more on the emotional. Victor uses the Creature for his own selfish desire not only for scientific exploration.”
“You got all of that from my paper?”
“More or less,” You turn your attention back to the computer screen, scrolling over the paper again. “See, anyone can write a thorough paper if they put their mind to it.”
“And…anyone can pass Physics if they put their mind to it as well. Let’s switch topics.”
“Oh, god no,” You say. “The greatest weakness of English majors…Science!”
You lean back as if you were fake fainting, a little too far back as you almost tip over in your seat, but Peter catches your arm just in time. “Woah there Faint-y, can lose you yet.”
“Thanks.”
“No problem,” Peter closes his laptop, and grabs his notebook, you hand him your Professor given study guide. Peter glances at the document, nodding and shaking his head at certain terms. “Ok little English major, time to blow your mind with some science!”
“Certainly, but not in the way you're imagining.”
Peter just rolls his eyes and points to one of the first lines in the study guide that you're underlining and adding several question marks to. “Let’s start here.”
Your little tipping incident sent your chair slightly further away from Peter’s than earlier. With the underside of his hand, he pulls your chair, and you, closer to him. This causes you to hitch your breath. “Pete you gotta stop doing that.” You joke.
Peter doesn’t look up from the paper. “Stop doing what?”
You huff and glance away before looking back at him. “God are you purposely annoying or just clueless?”
Peter finally looks at you, a slight smile on his face, “I just need you close to me…to-to, uh, to explain this concept. Obviously.”
“Yeah,” You blow a raspberry. “Obviously.”
~
You groan, letting your head fall into your hands on top of the table, “I’m resigned to the fact that I might have to drop out of Physics.”
“No, don't! Physics is super fun!” Peter says with a little bit too much enthusiasm.
You peek one eye through your fingers, “Pete, I don’t think we’re working on the same frequency.”
“Ok, well I have a totally funny Physics joke for you,” Peter readies himself, “What did the male magnet say to the female magnet? Seeing you from the back, I thought you were repulsive. But seeing you from the front, I find you rather attractive.”
You pick your head up and lightly punch Peter in the arm, “You’re lucky you’re cute, because I’m already–Ah, spider!”
A modest size brown spider crawls out of reach from your hand on the table. You reflexively go to swat at it but Peter catches your hand before you could do so. You glance at Peter’s hand on yours rather than at him. He quickly lets go of your hand before he goes and picks up the spider ever so gently.
You follow him as he walks over to the window, the rain slowing down. He cracks open the window, urging the bug outside. You lean against the other side of the window, arms crossed over your chest, you can’t help it when a dry laugh escapes your mouth, “Sorry, but are you secretly some kind of spider-whisper.”
“Hmm,” Peter closes the window, “Maybe. Just looking out for the little guy I suppose.”
You can’t help but smile, truly genuine this time. You reach out and take one of Peter’s hands. “Come on, I think we’ve earned a break.”
You pull Peter by the hand, taking a second to close his laptop, and throwing your jacket over everything on the table. You turn around, switching what hand is holding on to Peter’s. You continue down one path weaving up and down other bookshelves, passing empty tables, you make a sudden turn down an aisle letting go of Peter’s hand. You trail your fingers over the spines of the books, as Peter follows behind you, hands in his pocket. When you make it to the end of the aisle, you stand in front of a window, the rainstorm continuing on. “I actually find rainstorms to be rather romantic.” You say.
“The Shelly kind or the Valentine kind?” Peter says, leaning against the bookshelf.
“Both.” You peek back, a smirk playing on your lips. You walk over to Peter, standing with just enough space for someone to squeeze through.
“Not so romantic when you’re caught up in it.” Peter glances at the window, then at you. “I’ve been caught…too many times.”
“So have I,” You step a little closer, testing the waters, Peter doesn’t react. “But you have to admit there’s something, I don’t know, intimate, about being sheltered in place, with just one other person. Like under an umbrella, or the awning of some corner store bodega–”
“Or in-between bookshelves at your college’s library?” Peter’s hand comes up to gently grasp your hand, your fingers slowly interlocking with one another. He pulls you in close, in between his legs. You place your other hand on his chest to prevent yourself from falling. “I might not be an English major but I think I can read between the lines.”
“And if I wasn’t so tired, I would totally come up with a Physics joke.” You response, your face flush red.
He brings his other hand to your face, his palm resting on your cheek, his fingers slowly disappearing into the nape of your hair. “Can I kiss you now?”
“Hmm, maybe…let me ask you one question?” You say.
“Shoot.”
“Can I kiss you first?”
Peter smiles, then nods. You bring the hand that was on his chest upwards, sliding up his neck, until your own hand is entangled in his hair. You close your eyes and lean forward, pressing your lips ever so gently to his. He pauses for a moment before kissing you back, slowly, taking his time. His lips felt soft against your own, warm and comforting, even if you could still taste the tomatoes from earlier. You can’t help but giggle at the thought.
“What is it?” Peter says between kisses.
You move away just a little, you quickly peck him on the lips, once, twice–”It doesn’t really matter.”
Peter deepens the kiss, bringing both hands to hold your face, his thumbs gently caressing the skin beneath them. You loop both your arms around his neck, letting your body fall into his, your chest pressing against his. His tongue enters your mouth and it falls in rhythm with yours, dancing an unseen dance.
The two of you stop for a moment, foreheads resting on one another. “You know I’m still dropping Physics right?” You say through closed eyes and heavy breathing.
“Then I’ll keep kissing you until you change your mind.” Peter answers.
He holds you in his arms as he stands up fully, keeping his grip on you tight as he kisses you again. One of his hands drifts to your bottom, an open hand just resting on top of your clothing.
“Oh Parker,” You whisper. “Not as innocent as you look.”
“You have no idea…”
He buries his head into your neck, placing kisses up and down that make your eyes roll back. “We should…we should definitely continue this study session back at my dorm…since you know… the library closes soon.”
“Yeah, yeah of course.” Peter says as he now moves on to your ear, nibbling at your earlobe.
You break away from him, pushing him back ever so lightly, taking his hand in yours. You lead him down the aisle, half-walking, half running.
“Come on, I still have a Physics test to pass”
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Hey there, thanks for reading! Hope you liked it. If you like this consider checking out my other fluff-y story Potential Customer . Goodbye Void!
masterlist
#peter parker x reader#peter parker#insomniac spider man#insomniac peter parker x reader#spiderman#spiderman x reader#spiderman x y/n#peter parker x y/n#ps4!Peter Parker x reader#spider man 2 ps5#ps5!peter parker x reader#spiderman remastered#peter parker fluff#insomniac!Peter Parker#insomniac!peter parker x reader
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I HAVE AN IDEAAAAAAAAA!
(btw, if you wanna do this one more than my other request PLEASE DO)
highschool au mizu x reader. acidemic rivals.
mizu is literally readers worst enemy when it comes to tests and work, and the two are constantly fighting over who got a better grade
sometime after, reader starts getting unsigned love notes in their locker. they can’t recognize the handwriting as anyone they know
like a month after the notes appear, the writer asks the reader to meet them at a park
they do, and the writer was mizu (how funny) and they make up and confess
😋
pairing: high school au!mizu x fem!reader
warning(s): swearing, mizu being a lil shit
a/n: I LOVE THIS. she 100% would be like “bitch I will cut you” because she also does their fencing club and and,,,,
summary: after a while of bickering and fighting with your little rival, you start getting unsigned love notes in your locker.
word count: 823 words / 4,524 characters
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“oh, for gods sake, mizu!” you roll your eyes, folding your arms across your chest. “I’ve definitely got the better grade. you may have one our last little “battle” but I will win this war of ours.”
you snicker, gazing at her from your desk.
“I don’t happen to agree, (y/n),” she gathered herself to her feet. “I have fencing practice today and don’t have time to argue about this right about now. later, maybe?”
you laugh, grabbing your bag and slinging it over your shoulder.
“yeah, yeah. go do your little fighting thing, or whatever you do. I have debate, anyway,” you hiss, strutting out of the room on your high horse.
she watched as you went. she watched as you strutted away in your schools uniform; a sight that made her head race with thoughts she didn’t think she shouldn’t be thinking.
you were headed to your locker, grabbing out your books and bag. you stuff all your items in your bag.
but not before you noticed a note, stuffed in the back of your locker.
your eyes trace it, for a moment, a light pink piece of lined paper. you grab the paper, beginning to read what the note says.
an excerpt, of your favorite poem.. written and unsigned.
the words make you blush a little bit—someone, leaving such a thoughtful and loving excerpt of your favorite poem.
who in hell would be leaving you a love-note in your locker?
it wasn’t handwriting you could recognize.
a month after you found the first note, you would find another one each day. another excerpt of a poem you loved. and it got more… romantic, everyday you found another one.
and of course, you arguing with mizu never stopped. over test grades, group projects, presentations. you know, the usual.
but you didn’t really pay attention to it much, anymore. you were a bit distracted by the little love notes in your locker.
somebody was interested in you; mizu didn’t have that, and you did. why fight with someone who didn’t like you, when you could use your smarts to find out who did like you?
when you arrived at your locker again, you smiled bright as you saw another piece of paper.
you grabbed it.
but this time, there was no poem.
the same handwriting, but this time it read that the writer wanted you to meet them at the park—a park that bloomed with beautiful flowers.
and it happened to be just around the corner of the school.
you grabbed your stuff, rushing out of the building and to the park. your eyes saw a shadow, hidden behind a small tree. a shadow who looked.. strangely familiar..
you approached slowly, clearing your throat to catch their attention.
and there she was. mizu, standing with a fencing sword attached to her hip.
you blushed a little, your eyes widening.
oh.. my fucking god.
mizu. mizu had been leaving you love notes in your locker for the past month.
everything clicked for you. how she knew your favorite poems, exactly which excerpts to pick.
if you were being honest—mizu knew more about you than anyone you had ever known. even if you did fight so much.
and it was evident that she cared. evident that she liked you enough to do all this for you.
you smiled softly, “um.. hi.”
“hi,” she choked out. “this has gotta be weird for you. hasn’t it?”
“a little,” you chuckle, “but I can’t say I’m… disappointed, in a way?”
her blue eyes widen, “your not?”
“no,” you take a few steps toward her, “I just.. wasn’t expecting it.”
“neither—hah, neither was I,” she whispers. “but it was a pleasant surprise, I won’t say it wasn’t,” mizu takes in a sharp breath. “I’m sorry for all the things I’ve said, I have to say that. I’ve never been one to deal with feelings properly, and I think it came out as jealousy and anger.”
you nod, taking another pace toward her.
“I understand that,” you murmur. “I’m sorry, too. I did the same things to you. it couldn’t.. have felt good.”
“no—it didn’t, but it couldn’t have felt good on your end, either, being treated like that.” she reached out for your hand, rubbing her thumb over your knuckles.
“y-yeah,” your voice choked out, clearing your throat again. the sudden touch made your heart pound.
“I like you,” she whispered, practically into your ear. she was so, so close to you. “I really do.”
you nod slowly, taking in her words.
“I.. like you too.”
you murmur, your lips inches from hers.
she takes the initiative to close the gap, her lips pressing against yours. she holds your chin in between her fingers gently, the other hand grasping your hand.
you hum softly, pushing yourself up onto your tip-toes to get a better vantage point.
“short,” she chuckled, her forehead still pressed against yours.
“oh, shut up.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
a/n: combined your asks!
#mizu x you#mizu x reader#mizu blue eye samurai#mizu#blue eyed samurai#fic#fanfic#fanfiction#ask#asked and answered#request#fic request#x reader
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love letters｜lee sohee
synopsis: you wished to find out who your secret admirer is.
tags: lee sohee x gn!reader, high school au, fluff, troublemaker x class president, slight misunderstanding, happy ending
word count: 1.8k
my playlist while writing: good enough by chanyeol, spring day by bts, tomorrow today by jj project and here always by seungmin
another day, another letter. since last month you’ve started receiving mysterious love letters from a secret admirer. they always appear on your locker when you least expect it. sometimes it’s a cheesy pick-up line, and other times it’s a heartfelt poem. one thing common with each letter was its horrific handwriting. some days you struggled to read what your admirer had written because of how messy the writing was. but in the end, you wouldn’t have it any other way.
if you were a song, you’d be the best track on the album.
a smile rose to your face as you walk into the classroom. the day seemed a little brighter, the weight of your shoulders felt a little lighter. but the moment was ruined quicker than it had started, when you heard one irritating voice coming from the back of the room. “good morning class president!” lee sohee shouted with a big grin on his face.
one day lee sohee was going to be the death of you. he was the so-called ‘troublemaker’ of the class, and he made sure to make your life a living hell. sohee interrupts classes, asks stupid questions and then makes you explain things to him like he’s some type of baby who doesn’t understand anything.
“morning,” you answered in a monotone voice, sitting down on your seat. you turn to your friend seunghan, rolling your eyes out of annoyance. the boy next to you gives you a knowing look, a teasing smirk rising to his face. “don’t” you whined, pointing your finger at him. you turned back to the letter in your hand, your mind calming almost immediately.
“another letter? i swear you have admirers left and right,” seunghan laughs.
“haha, sadly i only care about one,” you said, sinking your head into your arms. if only there was a way to find who your secret admirer was.
meet me at the gates after school? can’t resist you anymore ;)
you were bubbling with excitement when you found the latest letter in your locker. today was finally the day when you were going to meet the love of your life – or so you thought. you were happily packing your stuff when you heard anton’s voice coming from the classroom door. “y/n, are you ready for the meeting?” his quiet voice asked. right. you completely forgot about the student council meeting. your secret admirer must have to wait.
the council meeting lasted a lot longer than you had expected. you were now rushing towards the school gates in the hopes that the person who has been sending you letters for months would still be there. but you were too late. the only other people around were the other student council members, none which looked like they were waiting for you.
you missed them.
you can’t believe it. after all this time, you still couldn’t meet the person who has lightened your days for so long. you wished that by finally meeting your admirer you could pay all the kindness back to them. disappointed, you started making your way to the bus stop closest to your school. you didn’t think your day could get any worse, but the universe was ready to prove you wrong. the only other person at the bus stop was none other than lee sohee himself, probably ready to make your life a misery.
but he didn’t even seem to notice you. sohee ran his hand through his hair, a deep sigh leaving his mouth. you’ve never seen him like this. sohee was never quiet, but then again, maybe you didn’t know him as well as you thought.
finally sohee senses your presence, his gaze moving to you. his eyes widened in surprise as his body jumped off the bench. you gave him an awkward wave, but it didn’t seem to go too well with sohee. the boy walked away before you could say anything. as sohee left in a hurry, he failed to notice the notebook he had forgotten on the bench. you heard your bus coming from behind as you picked up the book. quickly getting into the bus, you took a seat next to a window. you took a closer look at sohee’s notebook and you couldn’t help but to get curious on what’s inside of it.
sohee wouldn’t mind if he never finds out, right?
you opened a random page somewhere in the middle of the notebook. the page was filled with what seemed to be song lyrics.
don’t wanna waste
all these meanings
hold tight and dream on
it’s what i love the most
you with me, our memories
that’s when it hit you. “this handwriting is familiar,” you mumbled. opening your packbag, you searched for any of the letters you have received. reaching one of them, you put the letter next to sohee’s notebook – the handwriting matched.
sohee was your secret admirer?
sohee was a mess. what a fool he was, thinking that you could ever accept his love. maybe staying as your secret admirer would’ve been a much better choice. but it was too late now, after you saw him yesterday after school. you must have been so disappointed to see him waiting for you at the gate. you didn’t even have the guts to come and reject him!
sohee never thought about love before. he felt like it was a waste of time at this age. he could worry about relationships later, but then he laid his eyes on you. well, the two of you had known each other for years, but something changed a couple of months ago. sohee was going on with his day like normal, waiting for you to enter the classroom so he could bother you as usual. and then you walked in…
it was like time had stopped. the sun peeked through the blinds and the light shined on you. sohee’s heart skipped a beat, red colour creeping to his cheeks. you looked utterly beautiful. had you changed your hair? or did you put on some makeup? the boy didn’t know what had come over him. how did you suddenly make him feel this way? or had he always liked you and just didn't realise?
but now he’ll have to put those feelings aside and move on. that meant no more letters for you, as much as that hurts him.
class was ending and sohee hadn’t really seen you around all day. you must be busy with student council stuff like you usually are, which for once was good with him. the boy had no idea what class he had just sat through, as he had not paid any attention whatsoever.
so much so that he had failed to notice you entering the class. it wasn’t until you stood in front of him that his eyes spotted you. his eyes widened, like a deer in the headlights. you placed something down on the table, but sohee couldn’t see what as he was unable to tear his eyes off of you. you were gorgeous, and he could feel heat rise to his face. you were the only one who had this type of impact on him. too deep in his thoughts, he didn’t realise you had started to speak.
“earth to sohee?” you waved your hand in front of his face. “can we talk for a moment? i get if you’re busy, but i think we have some things to discuss,” you spoked, nervousness peeking through your voice.
sohee couldn’t possibly resist you, how could he? he stood up immediately, getting ready to leave the room with you, but your arm stopped him. “your notebook, it’s yours right?” you said, pointing at the book on his desk.
“oh right!” sohee laughed, grabbing the notebook and following you out of the classroom.
silence fell between the two of you as you sat down at the schoolyard. you were nervously playing with your fingers, finding the right words to say. sohee wasn’t saying anything either, which was very unlike him. you decided to take a closer look at him, something you’ve never done before. his eyes were soft as they wandered around, not quite sure where he was supposed to look. he was biting on his pouty lower lip, and there were a couple moles on his left cheek. his short hair was messy, pointing in different directions. sohee was nice to look at, he was cute even.
“are you just gonna stare at me all day? i mean i get it, i’m quite the catch” the boy finally spoke, his eyes meeting yours, a smile rising to his lips.
a blush made it to your cheeks. “so… you wrote me all those letters?”
“yeah, sorry to disappoint you,” he mumbled while lowering his head again.
“what do you mean?”
the boy scratched the back of his neck, his sweet smile long gone. “that it was me, i mean, you didn’t show up yesterday and i thought-” he started, his voice weak.
“i had council stuff to finish and couldn’t make it on time” you interrupted the boy, wanting to finally explain yourself. “then at the bus stop you were all weird and you forgot your notebook… and i took a quick look and your handwriting matched the letters but at that point i was already on my way home…” you went on. maybe you and sohee had started on the wrong foot, but now that you knew he had this softer side to him, you were starting to see him in a new light.
you moved on your seat, shifting a little closer to the boy. “i’m glad to know it was you,” you confessed, smiling at him. sohee’s head snapped towards you, face full of surprise. a shy smile rose to his lips, his cheeks hueing pink.
“really?” he asked shyly. you took his hand to yours, as you nodded as conformation. “oh wow, this is not what i expected to happen,” sohee giggled, squeezing your hand. he looked deep into your eyes, his own ones conveying all the feelings he had carried inside him all this time. his hand came up to your face, moving away a few strands of your hair. his palm was warm, just like him. like magnets, the two of you started to lean into each other.
“is this when we kiss?” he said with a teasing smirk on his face. your face dropped, of course sohee would say something to ruin the moment.
a sigh left your mouth. “just kiss me already,” you replied, grabbing into the collar of his shirt.
“gladly” he answered and finally your lips connected. his lips were as soft as they looked. both of sohee’s hands held your face, slightly squeezing your cheeks due to the boy’s excitement. he smiled into the kiss, a small laugh leaving his mouth.
you backed down a little, wanting to have a look at the boy. “what’s so funny?” you asked, voice filled with amusement.
“just happy, that’s all” sohee said, giving you the brightest smile you’ve ever seen. one that you wouldn’t mind getting used to. “now give me another one!” the boy in front of you said excitedly.
and you wouldn’t have it any other way.
- end
#riize#riize sohee#lee sohee#riize x reader#riize imagines#lee sohee x reader#lee sohee fic#riize sohee x reader#riize seunghan#riize anton#hong seunghan#lee anton#riize fics#kpop#cloudbersoofic
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hiiii,
May I request the valentines day request with vergil sparda x f!reader (dmc5 version) with this prompt [Reader/Character writes their loved one a Secret Admirer’s note and tries to deliver it discreetly. They are caught by their loved one!]
Where reader writes vergil a love poem or a confession and tries to tuck it like under his room door but he happens to be heading towards it and catches her off guard? They are not in a relationship but reader has feelings for vergil and considered the idea of confessing through the letter because she is shy :^ anyways so they encounter and reader quickly retreats shyly to her room where vergil then comes up to her to confess after reading the letter? Could be SFW or NSFW after the last part.
Totally love your writing, feel free to ignore it a shorten it if it's too much.
Love ya, xo.
(Also if u don't mind I want to be anonymous because I'm shy and anxious sorry for that :">)
warnings: smut, love confessions, mentions of crying, Nero's mother is slightly mentioned, cunnilingus/oral sex(fem receiving)
word count: 1.1k
pairings: Vergil x Fem!Reader
summary: you write a sweet love letter to Vergil and are so nervous about him finding it. when he does find it, he's so touched...he shows you his true feelings through actions.
You keep rereading those words on the page. Your hands are shaking. Though you know that you won’t be getting a response right away, even just the thought of sliding this love poem/confession under Vergil’s door was making you so nervous. You had thought about doing it this way for weeks. The eldest Sparda twin had very much caught your attention, and the only way to confess to him perfectly would be to write him a love poem. Sure, you were no William Blake, but you knew he’d appreciate the sentiment regardless. That was…if he felt the same way. If he didn’t feel that way about you, you’d have to quit your job as Dante’s secretary and run very far away from Devil May Cry.
With a deep breath, you get up from your bed. Vergil had been on a mission all morning and well into the afternoon. Coincidentally, that was the time it took you to really get the nerve to even begin writing this letter. It was beginning to eat at you too, especially as you continue to reread it and desperately want to make corrections. But you know it also comes from the heart and that means everything.
So you tiptoe across the floor and open your room door. You peer outside into the hallway, looking for signs of anyone. When you don’t see any flashes of white hair nor do you spot Lady, that’s when you make your move. You grasp the letter and you walk a little further down the hallway, finding Vergil’s room door.
It’s silent save for the beating of your heart and the rushing of blood in your ears. It’s so frightening because you have this sinking suspicion that he’s going to find your letter and he’s going to toss it away. He’ll probably laugh at your sad attempt to write the literary man some kind of pathetic poetry. He won’t even look at you anymore after this, prompting him to ask Dante to kick you out.
You almost lose your nerve again when you crouch down to slide the letter under the door. Just as you’re getting back up, you notice someone is in the hallway with you. As you turn around, you come face-to-face with the man in question. Vergil cocks an eyebrow when his gaze meets yours. Your heart nearly stops as you try to come up with the right thing to say.
“Can I help you with something?” He asks, a ghost of a smirk on his face.
You shake your head, “N-no…”
You scurry away; you feel like you could faint. This was all so intense and you couldn’t believe you actually slid the letter under the door. He was seconds away from reading your confession. Seconds away from reading the contents of your heart. You couldn’t even think straight as you managed to hide yourself in your room.
For a few moments, you dive right under the covers and hide from the world. You try to convince yourself that your blankets will shield you from the rejection that is sure to come from this. And it keeps you safe and hides your tears as you feel them sliding down your cheeks. You were almost certain that Vergil wouldn’t even be the slightest bit interested in you.
Oh but you were so wrong about that. Through time and perseverance, you managed to capture the heart of the eldest Sparda twin. Even the first time he met you, he thought you were the sweetest thing in this world. A ray of sunshine in the darkness that loomed in his heart. He had his eyes on you from the very beginning, something that made his brother tease him to no end. Yet, Dante had swore not to meddle in the love affairs of his twin.
Vergil found your letter immediately as he stepped into his bedroom. He opens it up and reads it, leaning against his now closed door. Tears well up in his eyes as he reads the beautiful poem. You had reached into his chest and stolen his heart. It was almost too much. He wasn't even sure if plain old words could even be considered good enough to tell you how he felt.
After a little while, he decided to just go talk to you. He was beginning to think maybe just being able to be open with one another could help. Vergil knocks on your door, and you’re startled. Was he coming to reject you? You take a deep breath once more and open the door for him. His eyes widen when he takes in the sight of you.
“I…I…” he starts, but can’t even continue.
You gasp as he pushes you into the bedroom, closing the door behind him. His large hands cup your face and he pulls you in for the most passionate kiss you’ve ever felt in your life. It’s soft and sweet, but there’s a lingering hunger in it.
“My love,” he says between heated kisses. “Your words have ignited a fire in my heart.”
You gasp when you feel his large hand enveloping yours and placing it over his heart. You feel the way it races just for you. Then you two meet in another sweet kiss, but the hunger lingers in this one as well. He guides you towards the bed, and within too much fuss, he begins to undress you. It’s slow and passionate, and you don’t feel pressured at all.
He tenderly spreads your legs, watching you through hooded eyes. You’re so beautiful like this. The soft lighting of your room makes you look almost like a painting. He then leans in to kiss your lips once more, making you feel lightheaded and breathless. Your eyes meet his gaze and he smirks as he begins removing his gloves. Then you let out a soft moan as his bare hands massage your thighs.
“May I taste you, beloved?”
Your heart skips a beat, but you manage to squeak out a “yes”. Vergil smirks at you, but it’s a genuine smirk. Then he spreads your legs, lowering himself onto his stomach between them. The smell of you makes him a little dizzy as he leans in to taste you. The moment his tongue touches your folds, he knows he’s done for.
He’s not ready to let you go.
Long languid laps of his tongue from your hole to your clit have you squirming beneath him. His name falls from your lips in soft pants and desperate little mewls. Vergil has never felt more hard in his entire life. This was all new, and yet there was a familiarity to it all. He wonders how he could have ever pulled himself from Nero’s mother if this is what it was to pleasure her.
He manages to push those thoughts away and focus solely on you. Just the sight of you being pleasured was enough to make him grunt against your wet skin. Your whole body feels warm, your eyes are rolled back in your head and your chest heaves as you pant to catch your breath.
“You are mine, my darling. All mine.”
#bacon.writes#vergil x you#devil may cry vergil#dmc vergil#dmc5 vergil#vergil x reader#vergil sparda#devil may cry x you#devil may cry x reader#valentine's day 2024
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Cautious Yet Optimistic and Graceful Part 3 (20/7 new ending)
PART 3 (edited with new ending)!!!! (part 1 and part 2)
CW: FEM!Reader, Morally gray Reader, JW universe, Beer, gambling, food, Killa appearance, kissing, soft(er) Vincent, mutual pinning, no beta, Possibly OOC Vincent, we never see him flirt in the film unless you count the stuff w Mr. Nobody, Suggestive content, confessions of feelings
Summary: The Marquis du Gramont invites you over for a thank-you dinner. You try to stay sane.
AN: Link to the poem here!!!! TBH I like the second translation of the poem more but that's just me. (the poem has 1 physical descriptor but I just ignored that). Added more to the ending which I think sums it up better! TY to those that chimed in on how to add the ending
You wouldn’t know what to expect when he handed you the letter, let alone the fact that you almost kissed him but ended up with a burn.
Holding your hand under running water you examine the letter more. The gold wax seal bears his coat of arms but the envelope is made of thick white paper, meaning you can’t see any words through the envelope. It’s flattering that he wrote your full name.
It’s a dinner invitation. He wants (maybe not anymore) to have you over to his home as a thank-you for your help the other night. You immediately RSVP yes to the number he included as if he's going to yank the offer out from under you. Knowing him, he might.
You don’t get to spend much time obsessing over the dinner, normal work challenges and fires that you have to put out, memorizing new names and faces to the scene, shipping some markers back to New York.
It's a relief when Killa calls you to tell you he's going to be in Paris for a few days. You spent a few years working under Killa, you feel that's where you gained some of your reputation.
Killa suggested the bar. It's a nice change of pace, to be in a bar where people can kill each other. It's a big fear of yours, that someone ignores the rules and decides to kill while on your property. Here, people almost expect it. The bar is dark and smokey, but drinks are relatively cheap. Plus your reputation exceeds you, meaning no one is trying to chat you up.
You rest your chin on your hand, and elbow on the sticky table. You see Killa at the bar, getting two more beers.
You jump at the warm hand on your shoulder, your body jerking around before stopping at the soft voice behind you.
“Mademoiselle.”
“Marquis de Gramont,” you reply. You haven’t seen him since the almost kiss, and you still had a few days before going to his mansion. You had started to mentally prepare for the dinner, but this caught you off guard. “This doesn’t seem like your usual company.”
He cranes his head to observe the crowd scattered out at tables and the bar. You follow his gaze and see a few of his guards behind you. You twist back to your original sitting position and find him looking at you.
“I’m excited about the dinner. Did you want me to bring anything?”
His eye catches Killa's frame, dressed in a purple suit at the bar, getting the new round of drinks.
“You're here with Killa.” He deduces. He's more observant than you always think.
“Yeah. He’s like a mentor to me.” You say affectionately.
“He was the one to suggest you for the manager job.” You can’t help but stare at Vincent, surprise on your face. “I know you think I did, but I thought you were ill-suited.”
You can't describe your emotions. Crushed that your crush said he didn't want you for the job you're in? Glad that Killa thinks so highly of you? You decide to tease him to cover up your wounded ego.
Nudging your shoe against his you ask “Is that why you invited me over? To tell me how bad I am at my job?”
“Cleary, I don’t hold the same position. Paris would not be the same without you.”
Your brain freezes for the third time. The gentle tone tells you that he probably means it to be affectionate.
You both turn to the table as Killa sets down two steins on the table, saving you from replying. You pull your close to your seat while Killa and the Marquis shake hands. You briefly wonder how much the gold on their fingers is worth when combined.
It makes sense that they know each other, both are the High Table representatives for their country, but you never put it together.
“Sit, please. Enjoy a game with us, ja?” Killa asks, reaching into a suit pocket for cards.
You balk at his suggestion. “No poker. It took me ages to work off my debt from the last game.”
You can see Killa's four gold teeth as he grins at the Marquis.
“Please excuse me. I have business to attend to. Killa, Mademoiselle.” Vincent says. You watch him disappear into the crowd.
On the day of the dinner, you get ready early, probably a bit too early but you need to make sure there is not a hair out of place. Even if he thinks you rejected him during the cigarette you shared, you don't see him having any interest if you reject him twice.
You need to make sure that you are ready for anything. Your most preferred situation would be ending up in his bed, finally having something positive come from the crush you’ve been nursing. If things went badly, you can always try to avoid him. The city was large, plus you could always let Camille deal with him.
Even though he told you not to bring anything you still got him something. Obsessive googling of what to give as a host gift to a rich person, as well as just asking some people you chat with in your hotel gave you an idea.
You got him lilies, seven of them to be exact. Some websites advised against gifts that make the host work to put them away but someone who had a friend who worked for him assured you that he has a dozen household staff who would take care of that.
His hand is warm between your shoulder blades as he guides you into his dining room. You try not to stare at the emperor-style around you. Everything is large, gold, and expensive.
The table is set for two, with shiny silverware marking your seats. You’re on edge, trying to figure out if this is a date under the cover of a thank-you dinner, or just that. A dinner thanking you for doing your job.
He pulls out your chair for you and waits for you to sit before going over to his
“How are you?” he asks while waiting for the food to be served. The table is long, but you sit on opposite sides of the length so you can speak easily to each other.
You shrug, before remembering your manners.
“I’m fine, I'm just struggling to find,” you pause, moving your hand around as if you could grab the words from the air,” some aesthetic to sum up Paris for the hotel.”
“City of lights, city of love, art, culture, food…” The examples roll off his tongue, clearly showing off what he knows about his home.
“That's why they filmed The Bad Touch video here.” you reply without thinking.
You can tell you have his interest even if he won't say it. You pray he thinks it's funny and that you’re not an idiot.
“The video has shots of the Eiffel Tower and Champ de Mars in the background.” you elaborate as if that would make your point smarter.
The corner of his mouth twitches in amusement as he makes a small sound of amusement.
“I have a book that will help you. Remind me after our dinner. How is your hotel?” He takes a sip of his wine.
“Amazing, as usual. We have a mafia man staying for the week, he booked two rooms. One for him and his wife, the other for his mistress! On different floors, of course.”
This made him laugh, finally allowing for a comfortable conversation to start to flow.
His library is gorgeous. As with him and everything in his home, it's grand and highly decorated in hues of gold. Books are arranged neatly on shelves around the room, and a few scattered chairs and tables for reading or taking notes. It looks like it's hardly used, or just kept in very pristine condition.
His excitement was obvious in the way he held himself, his hands not inside his pockets, but instead held tightly by his arms. He scans his bookshelves on a mission, ready to find you a specific book. You take in the titles at a more leisurely pace, looking for something you may have read.
The Marquis makes a noise of excitement, long legs carrying him over to where you are still looking at fiction.
“Les Fleurs du Mal. I think you will find it helpful,” he says, placing a thick hardcover in your outstretched hand.
You run a finger of your free hand over the cover, the title and the image of a flower embossed in gold on the hardcover.
“It’s a bilingual version. You can keep it.”
Now he's giving you gifts, you think. If he does see you as a friend it must be a good one
“This is,” you pause to search for a word. A pity gift? Flirting? “Very kind” you finish.
He hums and steps closer until his chest rests against your back while he gently takes the book out of your hands, leafing through the poems until he sees the one he wants.
You feel like you're going to combust. All you can smell is his cologne and feel him. You pray he didn't notice how your breath hitched as his arm brushed yours to get the book.
Vincent holds the page open in front of you. It's lowered to your height, but he can still see over your shoulder. You can't help but stare as his nimble fingers flick through the pages.
“The introduction explains the industrialization of Paris. The rest are poems. Some were banned for immorality when first published.” His voice is quiet, not needing to be loud given how close his lips are to your ear.
You glance down, thankful to have something to focus on other than how close he is to you and how badly you want him. One page has the original French version, Ciel Brouillé and its sister page has an English translation, Cloudy Sky. It's just four stanzas. You can get through this without making a fool of yourself. It's a short poem about a gray day.
Until it's not. He reads the French version slowly as if he wants to savor the words. The English translation is making your face hot, as the poem describes a seductive but harsh woman, and what it would be like to be intimate with her.
The poem finished, he looks at your side profile, trying to judge your reaction.
“What do you think?” he asks, voice softer since he is right at your ear.
All you can think about is your crush. You twist in his hold, now standing face to face. His arms cage you in, and Les Fleurs du Mal now digs into your back. He's looking at you while waiting for your answer.
“It's a poem.” you manage.
“Yes.”
Amusement is written over his face, you could only dream of being that composed. You bring your arms to hold onto his biceps. You fucked your chance to kiss him before you’re not doing to do it again.
You make a show of eyes flicking down to his lips and back up to meet his eyes in a silent notice of what you want. You feel his arms move under your hands then feel relief at the book no longer digging into your back. One of his hands moves to your face, giving you flashbacks about the last time you two were in a similar position.
With nothing around to burn you, it's the right time to make the final move. You quickly press your lips to his, probably a bit more forceful than you intended.
He pulls back slightly, using his hand to maneuver your face for a better angle.
“Finally.” he breathes into your mouth.
You don’t know why he called you graceful over dinner all those months ago. Now you’re all excitement mixing with nerves and incredibly turned on.
Vincent is more smooth, walking backwards with his hands pulling you by your hips. He's telling you how pretty you look, and how much he likes your perfume while settling into the plush couch. He pulls you down so your legs are bracketing his. Each complement makes your face burn hot.
Resting all your weight on your knees you hesitate to fully sit in this lap. As badly as you want this, you don’t think that you could put your heart back together if this was a one-time thing.
“Vincent, I uh” you elect to use his first name not his title. “I can’t do this if it's a one-time thing.”
He brings a hand to your face, moving your chin so you’re looking into his eyes.
“Cherie, do you know how often I visited the Continental before your management?”
You frown slightly, unsure where he is going to go with this.
“Never. I can do everything the hotel offers myself.”
His hand moves to your lower back as he sits upright to take off his suit jacket. You help as he switches hands, always have one of your lower back. You gingerly lay it over the back of the couch before resting your hands on his shoulders, having fully settled onto him.
“Do you know how often I go to that fucking disgusting bar before you started going?”
“Never?” you venture.
“Once,” he admits. “But when I was younger.”
You want to pry on what he means by that but it's not the time.
“You’re smart. Why would I do all of this?”
You want to have a good answer, to not seem like you’re full of yourself. From what you heard about him, he would appreciate your directness more.
“For me?”
“Oui.”
It's a massive boost to your ego. The most powerful man in Paris, probably all of France, says that he goes to a bar he hates just to see you.
“What about you? Did you wear this for me, mon amour?” he asks, hand moving over your thigh.
Your emotions are running high. Between his confession and actions, you’re more confident than normal.
“You should see what's underneath.”
His eyes snap to your face, delighted in your boldness.
The Marquis hooks a finger in your shirt, pulling the collar away from your body. He peers down the front of your shirt before looking back at your face.
“Pretty.”
You make a mental note to reclassify how you thought he would act in a romantic context. Still a bit annoying but charming too.
#marquis de gramont x reader#marquis vincent de gramont x reader#the marquis de gramont x reader#whhoooo okay new ending#I think its better anyway it starts right after R kisses him
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Yellow
pairing: Mick Schumacher x reader
warnings: none really
summary: yellow is the color of sunflowers, sunshine, lemons, joy and happiness and of all the things Mick associates with you.
notes: the schumacher accident never happened in this one. feel free to leave comments and/or feedback. likes and reblogs are always appreciated! also, feel free to send in requests! this one shot is part of the "love in different colors" series. also, the poem in the beginning was written by me.
disclaimer: english is not my first language, so please excuse any mistakes 😊
word count: 4.8k
Wildflowers
Need
Sun
Wildflowers
Need
Water
You
Are
My
Sun
Shining
On
The
Wildflowers
Your
Love
Is
Their
Water
They
Are
Blooming
Rapidly
Growing
Fast
And
Beautiful
2007
He runs as fast as his little legs can carry him. It is summertime, and he is barefoot. He doesn’t need shoes where he is going, you live down the street from his home. He believes he hears his mother’s voice scolding him, but he does not care. He knows that she isn’t serious. He laughs and he hears his mother laughing before he runs through the little garden door and onto the sidewalk.
Only a couple more houses. He greets the neighbors, who only see his fair colored hair running by. They know exactly where he is off too. He comes to a halt in front of your house, which is a lot smaller than his. He looks at the beautiful yellow sunflowers growing in front of the property. He has to put his head back to admire the flower heads because the stems excel his little body. He catches his breath and skips onto the walk that leads to your front door. Jumping up the stairs, he is about to ring the bell when the door is ripped open, and you hurl your body at Mick.
Few minutes later you sit on the swings of the playground close by. “And we went to the beach almost every day, Mick! The sand was almost white, not yellow at all, like I always imagined. Mama bought me a yellow dress and it is so pretty, I must show you next time, I will wear it on the first day of school!” You always talk that much, and even more when you are excited like you are right now. Mick doesn’t mind. He can spend all day listen to you, every day.
Two weeks later, when school starts again, Mick picks you up to walk together. You walk out of the door; the sunflowers are still blooming, and you wear the yellow dress. And somehow this day changes everything for him, he just doesn’t know it yet. It is in this moment that Mick thinks for the first time that he might loves you. It is innocent, it is playful and still so very, very real. After school, when you are still wearing the yellow dress and he waits for you outside the school so that the two of you can walk together, he decides to be brave. When you skip down the stairs of the school building, he smiles at you, you smile back. One of your milk teeth is missing, but it makes your smile just more adorable.
Micks heart beats fast in his chest when your little hand grabs his. On the way home you stop by one of the many fields surrounding your hometown and he picks a yellow dandelion for you. “You know, one day I am going to marry you!”, he says, and you take the flower from his hand and put it behind your ear. “You better!”, you answer him and stand on your tippy toes to blow just the hint of a kiss on his cheek. Then you laugh loud and free and start to run towards home. Mick laughs and he follows you.
2013
Six years later, Mick is still your best friends. You don’t see each other than much anymore because he goes karting a lot now. He is on track almost every day. Sometimes you tag alone, sitting on the bleachers, doing your homework, and watching him racing by. Today is one of these days. It is late spring, the sunshine starts to warm up with every day passing, and you look forward to the summer, because Mick usually has more time then. It is too warm to go carting, and you would have his undivided attention once again. You wear a yellow sweatshirt, and you wave at Mick when he steps out of his cart.
He smiles, waves back and comes over to you. “Hey”, you greet him with a wide smile. “Hey back”, he says and sits down next to you. He pulls you in a short side hug. “You really missed something today at school”, you tell him, “Lukas asked Susanne to be his girlfriend!” “No way!”, Mick exclaims, more excited by your excitement. He doesn’t really care about what happens at school. Life is very different for the two of you nowadays, while you go to school, meet your friends after and on the weekends, he is always busy. Some days he doesn’t show up at school at all. You don’t like these days. School is better with your best friend.
You are just teenagers now, but it doesn’t feel like that. You still play with barbies, and Mick is too busy to go around in circles in a little car and adolescence hasn’t quite reached the two of you yet. Some of your friends start to date, if you can really call it that, but that is still a bit weird to you and Mick. For other people it is not, and they start to ask if you are a couple, and both of you always say no. Sometimes Mick wishes that you would say yes but that would mean that he would have to kiss you and he thinks that is gross.
“Mick? You are not listening!”, you accuse him. He utters a quite apology. “What were you thinking about?”, you ask, and he becomes bright red. He doesn’t know what to answer you, and he is grateful when his father waves the two of you over. You get up first, the conversation quickly forgotten when Michael tells the two of you that you would go and get ice cream.
You cheer, your arms wrapping around the neck of his father. Mick wishes that was him in that moment. You climb into the car and Mick gets in as well, and you are already talking again, this time telling Michael about your day at school. At the ice cream place, you get lemon ice cream in a cone, like always. It is your favorite; you always tell Mick that. Like he would ever forget. You happily hold your cone in your hand, your tongue licking up the yellow delicacy. Mick watches you closely and for a moment a thought comes to his mind. Maybe kissing wouldn’t be as gross if it was you and if you just ate lemon ice cream, because you would taste like lemons and his ears turn red just a tiny bit.
2016
You are as kind as summer, that much Mick knows. The sunshine that hits his face right now reminds him of the glow of your soul. He is really happy with his life right now, but he is even happier when he gets to spend time with you. He is excited for next year because he would finally start in Formula Three and it is a new chapter. The both of you are older now, proper teenagers now, awkward and shy and there is a little shift in your friendship. It is in lingering touches and testing the waters yet none of you makes the first step, because this friendship you have is worth more than anything else. Also, Mick is older now and he doesn’t think kissing is gross anymore. But he finds out that most of the time when he kisses a girl – which is rare, you know, since he is usually surrounded by boys – he thinks about lemon ice cream and how you would taste.
You still talk a lot, like you always used to do, and it is reassuring to Mick, because even though is life is fast and exciting, it shows him at some things stay the same. It is the comforting notion of consistency that he associates with you. Generally, you haven’t changed that much, Mick thinks as he observes you while you are talking. You are more grown now, obviously, but while his face breaks out with pimples every once in a while, yours seems to be graced by the absence of puberty acne. Or maybe he just never looked closely enough, so he decides to do that now. You shave your legs now; he realizes and for a moment he asks himself whether that is because of a boy. But, he tells himself, you would tell him if you have a crush on someone.
Then, on the other hand, he isn’t really there anymore. He makes an effort to see you though, he likes to tell himself. But mostly the two of you hang out these days when your parents meet up and you tag along. Just like today, when your father had cooked saffron risotto and you had lemon ice cream for dessert. The two of you sit on the old swings of a long-abandoned playground and sway back and forth just a bit. You look more beautiful now, Mick realizes as he continues to watch you, more grown-up. “You never really listen anymore!”, you complain, and he is ripped from his thought. “Even when you are here, you are never really here!”, you accuse before you get up and stomp through the grass and the dandelions towards the house. Micks wants to tell you that he wasn’t thinking about racing but that he was thinking about you, but he doesn’t know how to, so he rather doesn’t say anything. Instead, he walks back to the house as well and pays the tall sunflowers next to garden gate no attention.
2017
He hasn’t seen you for a while. He is just so busy with racing, that he rarely comes over anymore. It makes him sad. You still text, but it became rather occasionally. You have your friends in your hometown, you are settled in school. He doesn’t want to take that away from you by pushing his non-existing presence on you. Truth is, he misses you. He misses your friendship. You are still friends, obviously, and he knows that he can call you and you will pick up and listen to him no matter what. But you don’t call him for this kind of stuff anymore. You are not best friends anymore, friends more for the fact that you had grown up together rather than anything else.
But today he wants to change that. He wants to reconnect with you, breath life back into the relationship that is slowly fading away. He is back home for two or three weeks, so he decides to just go over to your house like he used to. Suddenly he feels like he is 6 or 8 or 12 again. He opens the familiar garden door and slips though. The sunflowers stand as tall as ever, but he doesn’t need to look up anymore. Your parents’ car is not there, so he assumes that you are home alone. He rings the doorbell, but nothing happens. No one comes, and he is about to leave, when he hears you calling from upstairs. “I will be right there!” He hears you run down the steps. And then you rip open the door. You wear a yellow summer dress, and your cheeks are flustered. “Mick!”, you exclaim, “What are you doing here?”
You seem happy to see him, but it is not like it used to be. You don’t move in for a hug, you don’t grin widely. A small smile graces your face. “Hey”, Mick scratches the back of his head, “I was back in town, so I wanted to check in and see how you are doing.” You are about to answer when you get interrupted by another person emerging from behind. “Oh hey, babe. Mick was just coming by to say hi”, you smile up to the guy standing behind you. An arm snakes around your waste. “Hey Mick, I am Felix. Y/n has told me a lot about you!”, he extends his hand and Mick takes it to shake it. “Do you want to come in? We have some freshly made lemonade”, you ask him, but he shakes his head.
He forces a wry grin on his face. “No, thank you. I just remember that I need to help my mum with something. But you two have a good day!” Felix waves him goodbye and disappears into the house. Mick turns around and when he is almost through the garden door, he hears you calling after him. “It was nice seeing you again, Mick.” He smiles at you, and this time it is sincere. “You, too.” He leaves your property and returns home.
He doesn’t know exactly why it pained him to see you with another guy. It was not like what you had was exclusive. If he was honest with himself, there was nothing between you at all. All he can think about is that you must taste like lemon when Felix kisses you because you made lemonade, and he finds that this isn’t really fair.
2019
It is a warm summer day, the sun shining. You cover your eyes with your hands, looking up into the sky. You smile. It is a beautiful day. You laugh when a finger pokes in your side. “Mick, stop!”, you laugh and stick your tongue out at the boy next to you. Both of you have found your way home for the summer break, and despite not having seen each other for a while, it feels just like 2008, 2012, 2015, all over again.
You didn’t really talk to each other for a few years when Mick was always away and busy and your lives were really different. You were teenagers, and it felt impossible to bring your different lives in harmony, so you separated paths for a while, both you doing your own thing. You outgrew your teenager years at some point, however. Mick still remembers the day you reached out to him again, a delicate try to revive a friendship that had been lost between the passing years. He was so happy when you called him that evening when he laid under the yellow light of just another hotel somewhere. The pillows were bright yellow, so bright they almost hurt his eyes. You call and he almost tells you. “I thought of you when I entered the room because the pillows are yellow and so are you to me”, but he doesn’t. He is just happy to hear your voice and he listens to you talking, and he spends hours on the phone with you.
Now, you are laying on the grass by the local lake. Dandelions sprouts, poking out in between the green patches of the meadow, and you want to stay here forever. You lay on your towel; you feel like you are surrounded by a yellow ocean of flowers. The skin of your arms tingles – you forgot to use sunscreen. Possibly you would have a little sunburn later, but you couldn’t care less. Micks’ blonde hair is almost golden in the sun, you are blinded when you look at it. You feel hot. You don’t know whether it is the sun or something else. You decide not to think about it for now.
The blonde boy next to you wears a yellow cap. “Yellow is not your color!”, you tease, and he mocks offense. Then he laughs and puts the cap on your head. You smile and stick your tongue out. “Yellow is very much your color, though!”, he says so casually the compliment almost escapes your grasp. Then you realize and a little blush forms on your cheeks. You turn away from him, embarrassed by the effect he has on you.
“Let’s go for a swim”, you say to change the topic and get up. You are wearing a white bathing suit that has sunflowers all over it. You take of the cap and throw it on your towel, where it almost disappears because your towel is yellow as well. For a moment you think about that, the fact that yellow seemed to have seeped into the relationship Mick and you have had for all these years.
Mick agrees, and you both make your way to the water. The coolness of the lake water is a welcome relief from the heat of the sun. You splash around, laughing and joking with each other, like nothing has changed since you were little kids. The years of barely talking are long forgotten. As you swim, you can't help but steal glances at Mick. He has always been handsome, but something about him has changed since the last time you saw him. Maybe it's the way he carries himself, or maybe it's just that you're seeing him in a new light now that you're older. After a while, you both swim back to shore and lay back down on your towels. You feel the warmth of the sun drying your skin and the coolness of the grass beneath you. You close your eyes and take a deep breath, enjoying the peaceful moment.
You must have fallen asleep, and you are awakened by something tickling you on your back. Slowly, you open your eyes. You spot Micks body next to you, and the close proximity makes your breath hitch in your throat for a moment. “Don’t move”, Mick whispers and you do as he says. When he is done with whatever he was doing, he grabs your yellow polaroid camera from besides you and stands up. You can hear the shutter click two times and then Mick sits down next to you. He wipes something off your back. His gentle touches give you goosebumps on your arms and leave you feeling warm inside your chest.
“All done”, he says a few seconds later and you sit up. Around you, you can spot the yellow dandelions laying on your towel. “What did you do?”, you ask with suspicion in your voice. “I created art!”, he says and holds on of the polaroid pictures in your peripheral vision. You can only steal a quick glance before he tugs it away under the cap, shielding from the sun and giving it time to develop. “Whatever you say!”, you say, and he looks at you intensely for a moment. It freaks you out a bit, so you stick out your tongue at him and he laughs. He turns away and looks over at the other side of the lake where a handful of people surround the little hut that sold ice cream and fries and everything you needed for a day by the lake. “Ice cream?”, he asks you and you nod. “Lemon?”, you nod again and want to get up, but he gently pushes you down on the towel. “My treat”, he says and before you can argue he gets up and disappears.
When Mick returns, he is already fighting for his dear life. The ice cream is melting and dripping everywhere, and you cannot help but chuckle a little bit. Mick throws you a playful glance and you lose it when his eyes cream falls, just beside his towel. “Shit!”, mutters Mick and sits down. He hands you the ice cream, looking a bit like a puppy. “We can share”, you offer and hold the cone out to him. He takes a big lick and both of you have to laugh.
2020
You arrive in Sakhir on a Wednesday and Mick personally picks you up at the airport. He is nervous, he doesn’t really know why, but he maybe because this race could be the one that decides about his championship. Or maybe he is nervous because he is picking you up and he again hasn’t seen you for a few months and he missed you so much.
You step out of the airport in sweatpants and a pale yellow shirt and Mick thinks you might be the most gorgeous person he has ever seen. You look confused, a bit lost, until you see him. Your face lights up and Micks heart drops when he realizes that you are so excited that you are running towards him. Before you reach him, you drop your suitcase and jump into his arms. He catches you; he holds you close, and he takes in your scent – you smell like lemons and sunflowers and happiness. You smell like yellow, and Mick cannot remember that he has ever smelled something more delicious before.
He lets go of you eventually and takes your suitcase and your backpack from you, whatever he can to help you out. He brings you to his rental car, which weirdly enough is an ugly yellow and he holds the door open for you. He drives you to the hotel while you excitedly tell him about your flight and what movies you watched and what your favorite song is at the moment. You also tell him stories he already heard because you call almost every day, but he doesn’t mind.
Sometimes, when he makes a comment or throws in a joke, you laugh and place a hand on his bicep he swears he melts like the lemon ice he shared with you last summer by the lake. You arrive by the hotel, and he again carries your stuff up to your shared room. It is big, bigger than any hotel room you had ever stayed in and the first thing you do is to step out onto the balcony into the warm sun and close your eyes. Mick joins you soon after, and as the sun is starting to go under, a golden husk is painting your face in a shining yellow. You look like the sun, Mick thinks, and you feel like he it too, he thinks when you look at him and smile.
A bit later, you meet with the Schumacher’s for dinner in a place close by. It is the perfect mix of a restaurant and a bar, looking almost like some American diner. You order burger and fries, and lemonade and Mick steals a sip. You complain, playfully and take a sip of his beer as retaliation. Life is good right now, it is happy and joyful and yellow, Mick thinks. His family knows you, and while you talk Mick cannot help himself but watch. The two of you sit so close, squeezed into the booth. Your hand lays next to your thighs, and Mick can almost touch it. He forgets about that fact for a moment when you talk to him, and he is pulled into a conversation about your childhood memories. He takes a sip from his beer and lets his hand fall on the bench. It touches yours for a second, and he doesn’t know what to do. Does he pull away? But then you link your pinky with his like some kind of promise and Mick leaves his hand there, tied to you by your pinkies and the longing in his heart.
You walk away with Gina next to you, over to the little stage to find the perfect karaoke song and Mick cannot help but watch after you. He is enchanted by you, and he wonders how you haven’t realized yet. When he finally tears his eyes away from you and that yellow summer dress, his parents grin at him. “So, what is going on between you and her?”, his father asks her, and Mick shakes his head. “She is still my best friend, dad. That’s never changed.” “Yes”, his mother says, “The only thing that changed are your feelings for her, am I right?” Mick doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t know what to say. He knows that his mother is right, but he doesn’t know what to say to his dad. He doesn’t know what, if there is anything between the two of you, but he hopes there is. He looks up and your eyes are on him, and you smile and for a moment he is almost sure that there is something and he breaks out in a silly smile. His parents exchange a look and intertwine their fingers with one another.
Mick wins Formula Two on a bright, sunny Sunday in Sakhir. But you outshine the sun on this day, he thinks. Your smile is so bright Mick is sure your cheeks will hurt by the hand of the day. His right ear hurts a bit because you yelled into it, but he doesn’t mind. Winning Formula Two feels even better than winning Formula Three, especially because you are there this time. The occasion calls for celebration, everyone knows that. The team somehow manages to find a location where all of you fit. They buy drinks and snacks, and it is not something professional, but Mick think it is perfect the way it is. It is perfect because you are here, and you are laughing, and dancing and Mick could just spend the entire night watching you.
He is the star of the show, of today, but he feels like that should be you. He has won because you have inspired him to do better every single day since 2019, if he is honest maybe since the day, he met you for the first time. He talks to his dad and his mum and some other people when he sees that you are leaving for the balcony of the venue, so he excuses himself. His mother and his father are exchanging a knowing glance but spare him with a comment. He makes his way through the crowd, needing longer than he anticipates because people stop him to congratulate him. Eventually, he is able to join you on the otherwise empty balcony.
He just watches your back for a moment, and how the yellow dress you are wearing once again is gently swaying in the wind. He wants to go and talk to you, but the view is too pretty to pass up on. “Are you just going to stand there and watch me like a creep, or are you going to come here and give me a hug?” He laughs, slight embarrassment peeking through in the sound. When he walks over to you, he doesn’t need to see your face to know the wide grin you are currently wearing on your lips. He steps closer you and wraps his arms around your hips from behind. It is different than the other hugs you have shared all your life, it is more intimate, more real somehow. His heart is beating fast in his chest, and he is almost sure that you can feel it.
You place your hand on his arms, relaxing against his chest, snuggling impossible closer. “Are you enjoying your party, my champion?”, you say, and your words give him goosebumps – the good kind. My champion. He never wants you to call him anything else again if he is being honest. “Hm”, he hums in agreement, chin resting on your shoulder, “Even more because you are here.” The words he speaks are not above a whisper, because he is a bit afraid to say them out loud. “I wouldn’t have missed this for the world, Mick. Since I first met you, I knew that you were destined for great things.”
Mick cannot help but laugh, and you turn around in his embrace. His arms are still around your waist, your arms are now behind his neck. He is close to you, has he ever been this close to you before? His laughter dies down, but he still grins from ear to ear. “I think the first time we met, we were like two years old, and you hit me on the head with a shovel.” You scoff, but Mick knows it is all playful. “I don’t remember that, but I am sure you deserved that”, you grin up at him, “Anyway, that feels like a lifetime ago.”
“Because it is”, Mick says and rubs gentle circles on the fabric above your hipbones, “But most of my best memories are with you. Like that summer last year? I don’t think I have ever felt better than during that time with you.” You smile up at him, and Mick feels like you are impossibly closer now. “Do you remember? When we were eight?”, you ask him, your voice barely above a whisper, “You gave me a dandelion and you said that you will marry me one day, and to be honest… I always hoped that you wouldn’t break that promise.” Mick smiles, and it is soft. He looks down into your eyes and you take his breath away. “One day, I will keep true to that promise”, he says.
He kisses you now, and as he does, he realizes something. Firstly, you really do taste like lemons. And like sunshine and happiness and much, much more. Secondly, he realizes that in a world of billions of people, a life full of thousands who he almost definitely hadn’t met yet, you were his one person, and he was going to make sure that counted for something.
#mick schumacher#mick schumacher x reader#mick schumacher one shot#mick schumacher fluff#mick schumacher imagine#f1 imagine#formula 1 fanfic#f1 fic#formula 1 imagine#formula one x reader#f1 x you#formula 1
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heavy are the open hearted
pairing: jackson era joel miller x reader (mostly gender neutral)
summary: joel broke your heart, and his own in the process. this is how he tries to fix it.
or, just a song fic
content: song fic, angst, joel sings a song, allusions to 18+ themes (mdni), happy ending if you look at it a certain way. 2.2k words.
a/n: another drabble. i know this version of joel is cliche but. the song. the song. this is paired with this version of "these days" by nico! sorry for this, there's something nasty in the air rn.
The last person you’d expect to, walks onto the little makeshift stage in the Tipsy Bison.
You’re not sure who suggested it a few months ago in this never ending strive for a sense of normalcy again, but having open-mic nights (without the mic) at the bar every couple of weeks didn’t sound too bad at all. In fact, they’ve been quite fun. The doctors, and the carpenters, and the farmers all have their respective, important duties. But remembering that people had lives, and hobbies, and talents beyond the ones that were necessary for survival anymore is hard nowadays, so it’s more than refreshing to hear someone play a nice song, even if the piano is untuned, or recite a poem that recounts the leftover beauty of the world. There definitely is some left, you think, most people just aren’t looking hard enough.
It’s just that, when you’re sitting at the bar, and you see Joel Miller step onto the stage with the most timid wave to the crowd, something stutters in your chest.
He’s got his guitar slung over his shoulder and his hair looks real nice. You wonder if he’s wearing that cologne you made him. (“You seem like a lemongrass kinda guy,” you’d told him. “Do I?” he asked. You weren’t really sure until he wore it day after day. He was a lemongrass kind of guy.) Part of you doesn’t want to get close enough to figure out, the other part is aching to do nothing but that. You watch him sit down on the edge of the stool placed on the stage and bring his guitar around to his chest. It looks so natural there, like if it replaced his beating heart, nothing would change. He might even smile more.
There’s something in the air now, at least for you. In fact, you know you’re the only one that feels it, because you know what this means for Joel and there’s only three other people in the room who do too. But it’s different for you, because Tommy is Joel’s brother, and that doesn’t count (and Maria knows by proxy). Ellie has seen him play his guitar, once, she said, but she doesn’t look anywhere nearly as shocked as you feel. As a matter of fact, when you glance her way, it shows you the little smile she’s sending you until she notices you looking and turns away.
You swallow the sudden lump in your throat.
“Uh, hello,” a familiar, gruff voice says that turns your attention back to the stage. “Don’t got much to say. Been thinkin’ about this song a lot lately. That’s it.”
Joel finishes tuning his guitar, and poises himself for that first strum. It hits you like a freight train.
You haven’t talked to him in weeks. Not since he said some horrible things, and you said some terrible things back. There’s a tiny little voice in your head telling you to get up and walk out, because whatever this is an attempt at, you don’t want to see it. But then you realize, it’s not an attempt at anything. It’s just Joel, doing what he said he couldn’t do for you, for the whole damn town.
Joel starts to play—your heart plummets.
Well I've been out walking,
I don't do too much talking these days
It’s not about the guitar playing—it never truly was. But when you’d asked him to play, and he refused, and you thought he was joking until you realized that he wasn’t—well, it struck something in you. It was a small thing to tip you over the edge, you see that now, but what is it they say about the straw and the camel’s back? Except you’re not a camel—you’re a human in a fragile world with a fragile heart. Maybe you should have gotten over each time Joel seemed to purposely shut you out. Maybe it was your fault, you think, letting delusions fester in your mind for well over a year, after the first year of you two dancing around one another.
These days.
But when your first kiss turned into several more without a word being said about it, you really should have seen it coming. You both found each other carrying enough baggage to last a lifetime. You never asked to look into his, he never asked to look into yours—but there was an unspoken understanding that every time you crawled into his bed, there was a certain tenderness behind every kiss, every touch, something that could lead to a greener road. At least you thought there was.
Theses days I seem to think a lot
about the things that I forgot to do,
and all the times I had the chance to
You thought he wore a smile reserved just for you. You thought when he told you about Sarah, that one and only time, or the way he almost lost Ellie in the worst way possible, that it was because he trusted you. You thought when he said, “I’m all yours, darlin’,” as he made a home between your thighs, he meant it. If you’d known that giving your heart to Joel Miller would have it end up shriveled at his feet as he strummed a guitar for all of Jackson to hear, you’d have shackled it to your ribcage.
And I had a lover.
You thought you loved him, and stupidly, you thought he loved you too. If only you hadn’t asked him to play for you, or if only he had.
It's so hard to risk another these days.
"I’m startin’ to think this isn’t about the fuckin’ guitar,” he’d said three minutes into your argument, void of any care you thought he might’ve had for you. It wasn’t. "So I’m gonna have to stop you right there, because whatever you think there is between us—"
These days.
He didn’t say it, but he didn’t have to, confirming your worst fears. It isn’t there.
And instead of crying, instead of begging him to take back what he said, you just spat back just as coldly, “Did you ever think that if you actually let someone in, instead of acting so apathetic, and boorish, and mean, you might be a little less miserable, Joel?”
Now if I seem to be afraid,
“If there was somethin’ worth lettin’ in, I’d do it, darlin’.”
to live the life that I have made in song—
For the first time, the name he usually wore so tenderly on his tongue was sharp, and thorny, and painful—and you refused to let him see how much it stung.
“Fuck you, Joel.” He started to backtrack, some Wait’s, and something like I didn’t mean—but your mind drowned it out. Because it was the only thing it could do. You left without another word.
Well it's just that I've been losing so long.
There are two things you don’t realize right away. One—there are tears brimming your eyes as you watch Joel, watch him use a delicateness he once used to touch you, to play his guitar. And two—he’s looking right at you. Now would be the perfect moment to get up and leave, you think, but you feel absolutely paralyzed. Like the magnetism he used from the moment you first saw him has you stationed on that creaky barstool of yours.
“Well, I'll keep on movin’,” he sings with a melancholy you understand far too well. You can feel your throat threaten to collapse in on itself, to suffocate you if you don’t make the necessary moves to survive. But you can’t, and Joel keeps singing. “Things are bound to be improvin’ these days.”
You had told Joel once that you wondered if they’d have found each other without the apocalypse, in the quiet aftermath of another night spent in his bed. He didn’t say anything for a few long beats. You thought it was because he had nothing to say, and if he did, he just didn’t want to say it. But then he’d hummed, and ran a calloused hand up and down your arm.
One of these days
“Think we would’ve,” he’d responded, in an unusually tender voice. “Think we would’ve in a thousand timelines.”
That’s when you realized, in retrospect, if you had shackled up your heart, he would’ve found a way to set it free anyways. It was never yours to keep—and always his to have.
These days I sit on cornerstones,
and count the time in quarter tones to ten, my friend
Your ears are starting to ring. There’s not a sound to be heard in the Tipsy Bison except those resounding from Joel’s guitar, and his voice. You wonder briefly if anyone else is as enraptured as you are. You know what the town thought of Joel at first, know that some of them still look at him as if he’s an enigma, because he is. But no matter what you think, what he thinks, he isn’t—not to you.
“Don’t confront me with my failures—” You might be imagining it, you have to be, but you swear Joel’s voice cracks. His playing has slowed, and he sounds distant, yet simultaneously the closest he’s ever been. You think you might cry. “—I have not forgotten them.”
As the last note Joel plays fades out, that silence in the room becomes deafening, just an echo of that last strum bouncing off the walls. No one speaks, or claps, or moves—like he has truly and utterly stunned the crowd because he didn’t just stitch his heart to his sleeve—he served it on a goddamn silver platter. It’s silent, until it’s not, because the scratch of your stool against the floor jostles the quietness as you make for the exit. You don’t care that everyone is about to tie two and two together, you just care about getting the hell out of there.
Surprisingly—or, unsurprisingly—Joel follows.
As you stalk down the main dirt road, faster than ever, nothing but the lights up above leading you far away from the bar. You think for a moment you might let them lead you out of Jackson. Facing the horrors beyond these walls would be better than facing the ones within them. It isn’t long before you hear your name.
“Wait,” Joel is saying when he gets close enough, and his hand finds your arm. It doesn’t sting the way you expect it to. “Please.”
“No,” you grit out, turning around with a speed that shocks the both of you, and makes him draw his hand back. “No, you don’t—you don’t get to do that.”
“I know, darlin’, I—“
“You don’t know, Joel, you don’t.” You hadn’t realized it, but those brimming tears finally managed to find a way to fall, staining your cheeks. “If you think for a second you can just—just sing a song, and I’d forgive you, or let you back in, you’re a bigger fool than I thought.”
“Querida,” he says, and for a moment, he reaches out for you once more—but decides against it at the last second, and god, you can’t believe how bad you want him to. The name is enough, enough to drain your heart and fill it back up, and you think for just a second that you’re lying to the both of you. It is that easy for him, isn’t it, to drag you back in. “I’m not askin’ for your forgiveness, I’m not, I just—“
It briefly seems like Joel didn’t expect to make it this far, like he didn’t think you’d give him the time of day, but you are. Because you love him, you think. And the realization makes your heart cinch. You don’t respond, but you don’t walk away either. You see Joel’s throat flex with a gulp.
“I hate the way we ended things.”
Me too, you think, but instead you say meekly, “Didn’t think there was anything for us to end.”
There’s a flash of something in Joel’s eyes, but you feel like you’d be a fool to think it’s regret. But then again, you never wanted to let your ability to hope die in this world. That’s what got you here in the first place, but at least it reminded you that your heart still worked. Finally—finally—though, he reaches out for your hand, and you let him. He holds it there, just your fingers, gentle and a little scared.
You realize something then.
The song wasn’t for you—neither was the guitar playing. It was for him. Always had been, now more than ever.
“Think you and I both know that isn’t true,” he says then, and you’ve never heard him sound so small. Your tears are dry on your cheeks now, your eyes chilled from the cool night air. You can’t help but look down at both your hands.
“You have a funny way of showing it,” you tell him, and he doesn’t argue.
Instead, he just clears his throat. “I am sorry.”
“I know,” you say, because you finally do. You kind of figured it out as soon as he stepped on that stage, you just had to wrestle with it for a little bit. He brushes his thumb across the back of your hand. “I—I just don’t know when I’ll forgive you,” you continue, then look up to meet his eye. The regret is still there, but then there’s something you thought you might’ve seen in him a few times before. The hope.
“When?” he asks. “Not if?”
“When,” you repeat.
The smallest, most minuscule hint of a smile draws upon his lips. Yours twitch a little too.
“I’d like to take you on a date when you do.” For the first time in a long time, you let out a quiet laugh.
“When I do,” you say, “you’ll be the first to know.”
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thanks for reading, friend
#joel miller x reader#joel miller x you#joel miller fanfiction#joel tlou#joel x reader#my fics#oh man this is just a dumb little thing i promise#Spotify
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yandere!poet x gn!darling, pt. two . . .
˚₊ ꒰ nightmare fuel 𝄁︎ obsessive/possessive themes, self-harm/mentions of blood, f!masturbation, overstimulation (y/n receiving), death threats, assault, suicide notes, vengeful habits, + controlling/manipulating behavior.
˚₊ ꒰ word count 𝄁︎ 949.
˚₊ ꒰ key 𝄁︎ crossed out red words indicate amunet's thoughts. blue text indicate amunet's messages. purple text indicate y/n's messages.
˚₊ ꒰ sen’s statement(s) 𝄁︎ you’d find pt. one here, let alone amunet’s face claim and information here. this’ll be the last part of headcanons, btw.
☪︎︎ 𝔂andere poet! who’s trembling harshly in regret after you confronted her about her ominous sonnet named “stained cosmos”. a poem that was supposedly written in red ink, but over time it began to fade into an old brown, which heightened your concern seeing as the sonnet was quite dark …
“amunet, you have to tell me why you did this. is this your…blood? i’d be very upset if it was… are you alright?”
☪︎︎ 𝔂andere poet! who’s in their room puling fearfully to herself as the quill pen danced across her paper, even though the ink replacement was simply red dye and her tears acted as blood. how could you be upset with how devoted she is to you? were you rejecting her creativity or her…? how else could she show you how devoted she is!? but yet …
“you y/n care so y/n d…eeply…for y/n me…my beloved…y/n, what are you doing?…”
☪︎︎ 𝔂andere poet! who ends up fingering herself while announcing more slam poetry in her room, one with more lecherous intent behind it, her body writhing with an enraptured smile as she moaned carelessly as if her neighbors weren’t filing complaints about the ruckus …
“mmn, a-and your y/n scent, your y/n lips, e-even y/n your- sh-shit…y/n, your body…”
☪︎︎ 𝔂andere poet! who fell into her desires shamefully by calling you frequently since she “has nightmares” and needed you to “read her her favorite poems so she could go to bed” which was a solid excuse to use your voice to feed into her desires. she felt regretful, but each word caused a throb between her thighs, her hips rolling with need …
“and her love was too tangled up in—huh? amunet? you’re breathing very loudly—was that a moan?”
☪︎︎ 𝔂andere poet! who steals your pencils and pens during class and yet you still believe that you’re just bad at organizing. meanwhile, after the club ended and she was alone in the classroom, she was using the writing utensil, inhaling the stimulating scent deeply before smiling maniacally, placing her head on the desk while dragging the pen/pencil down her clothed pussy frantically.
☪︎︎ 𝔂andere poet! who makes you cum at least thrice every night, fingering/jerking you as her eyes fixated on your frantic reactions due to you being overstimulated since she cannot get enough of you. she praises you lovingly with sweet somethings; she manages to say new compliments every time she sees you, let alone think of you. you pleaded and pleaded for her to stop, but her flattering words only caused you to falter and give into her desires, even though you knew it would last until sunrise …
“such pretty noises from my your pretty mouth, not enough prose in the world could compare to what i own i love. maybe we should do this until death the morning again, how does that sound?”
☪︎︎ 𝔂andere poet! who owned up to her promise and used the blood of the body of a person who had the audacity to assist you with your poetry assignment as an excuse to flirt (which amunet did her best to rectify and rephrase words just for you so you could finish the assignments in class). but don’t worry! the person isn’t dead or anything, but generous enough to lie there below her mutilated and blubbering, acting as an ink supply for her projects …
“there, now i don’t have to scar my arms anymore, my darling y/n doesn’t need their memory scarred as well, they hate it when i hurt myself…but i don’t recall them mentioning about hurting others…”
☪︎︎ 𝔂andere poet! whose vindictive nature embraced more when you teased her about the new friends you’ve made, resulting in glowering disdainfully at you, grumbling short-worded complaints since she was better with her emotions on paper…or when she’s completely enamored by the thought of you. she finally cut you off, her fists clenching and trembling with indignation towards these people you’ve met, these people you’ll soon mourn over …
“i’ll kill maim everyone in our phones so they’ll never ring again… how dare you be such a cheater so ungrateful? do you not understand how far i’ve gone for your recognition? how many clothes have i stained for your acceptance? and yet you turn around and mingle with people who aren’t even above my level…”
☪︎︎ 𝔂andere poet! who nails death threats on your friends’ doors or anyone else who even lacked the decency to gaze upon you.
☪︎︎ 𝔂andere poet! who slips suicide poems in your locker unpredictably, but you found her actions trite since you knew she wasn’t actually dead but needed you right this instant. perhaps attempting to correct your behavior once more. you took your time looking for her only to find out she’s not even at school, therefore you left early.
☪︎︎ 𝔂andere poet! who was waiting outside of your apartment while spinning a switch knife around her fingers with a dazed, lovelorn, and lifeless expression, which not only deepened your confusion, but worried you tremendously. it was for your own good, she convinced herself. as much as she didn’t want to go this route, you tend to not do as she says when she says it. it’s hard to give you the best when you’re acting the worst (even though your rebellious nature only lured her in even more) …
“i’ve spilled punch them more blood than ink for your attention, and yet you still have the audacity to not make me the highest priority still look the other way? that’s alright, hun—shh, shut the fuck up don’t explain yourself. therefore, i will show you how much my soul yearns for you by engraving affirmations on your precious body in…red ink. perhaps a few marks to help everyone kill them all else conclude that you’re only my muse to alter and maim, to control and cripple. my y/n, mine, mine, mine, mine, mine…”
© all rights reserved 𝄁︎ sencity. plagiarism will not be tolerated on this blog but addressed and chastised accordingly.
#☪︎︎ sen’s submission#sencity#yandere#yandere imagines#yandere concept#yandere x you#yandere x reader#yandere x darling#yande.re#tw: yandere#manipulation#tw: sui thoughts#yandere x willing reader#yandere x y/n#obsessive yandere#obsessive thoughts#yandere headcanons#yandere smut#nsft concept#tw: manipulation#tw: assault#yandere angst#yandere character#yandere core#yandere nsft#yandere content#yandere community#yandere x gender neutral reader#yandere oc#VERSACE ON THE FLOOOOOR
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i loved the yamato! reader fic! please continue it! also here is a real question! how do you think the yamato would look as a human?
Eternally Soul Bonded (part 2)
Vergil (DMC5) x Yamato! reader
warnings: reader is a humanoid version of Yamato, reader is also a bit obssessed with Vergil (mild yandere behaviour that seems to be growing), a bit of angst, fluff, mild smut, strangling, things get a bit heavy
summary: after a whole year of you two being together, there seems to be a huge wall separating you two… and you intend to break it by force, no matter what.
word count: 2k
a.n: hi again! thank you so much for the feedback :D! Here's part 2 of the fic!! I posted a small doodle I made about my own interpretation of a personification of Yamato on my blog! Anyway, I hope you enjoy it, I'll probably make a part 3 of this since I'm having fun, and things are getting steamy~ thank you again for your support and my ask box is always open! o/
After what happened between you and Vergil, it seemed the two of you had gotten closer.
It was still unexplainable however, how you had come to exist in the world… as a personification of Yamato, and more. Ever since you had woken up in that body, you felt as if you were no longer simply “Vergil’s sword”, but also a person of your own.
It had been an entire year by now… that you two had been together in this old raggedy apartment. In the beginning, Vergil was training you hard to unlock every potential within you as his sword, ever since you unlocked his Devil Trigger. But, things were different… it felt as if your potential was permanently locked within that body you woke up as.
Training wasn’t the concern now. It wasn’t about whether you still had the potential of Yamato within you or not. It wasn’t about whether Vergil believed you were in fact the sword he’d been looking for the past 20 years. No, the problem was completely different. It was about your connection as one.
It was if… Vergil didn’t know anything about the emotions he was able to feel, because all this time, he had buried those deep inside for the sake of his hunt for power.
After the episode where he broke down crying from the first time, you were expecting, maybe even hoping that you two would grow closer again, that it meant something, and that it’d make a difference.
But it took a completely opposite effect.
Vergil… refused to talk about emotions or his feelings with you after that day. And that’s how the remaining of the year went by.
Obviously you wouldn’t let that be your reality. After all, you had just gotten him back.
…
Vergil was in his room reading when you approached the entrance. It seemed now that things had settled, he was trying to partake in more hobbies other than fighting. He had always enjoyed reading, and there was even a time where he wrote poems, although you weren’t sure if he did that anymore.
He seemed to completely ignore your presence, up until you sat down on the edge of the bed with him. Only then he looked at you.
“What do you want?” He asked in that nasally annoyed tone he always had.
“What are you reading?” You asked, ignoring his cold tone. You were used to it anyway.
“Human fiction is pretty fascinating to me, I’m reading some stories about Norse Myths”
“Do you think those kinds of things are real?”
“What things?”
Great, you two were having an actual conversation. This is how things were supposed to go to begin with.
“Gods, and all sorts of things. We’ve only had to deal with demons and demon Lords… and wannabe angels…” You spoke, leaning against his arm to take a better look at the book he read. “…But do you really think… there is such a thing, as multiple gods… that live up there in the sky?”
Vergil was silent for a moment… you could tell he was tense and uncomfortable, probably because you were so close to him.
“I don’t care about gods in the sky. These are merely myths created by the feeble and limited human mind because their existence is so insignificant in comparison to their surroundings, they feel the need to believe in something greater to be responsible for them.” He spoke even more coldly, closing the book he held. “…Now, what do you want…?”
“…I just wanted to see what you were doing.” You whispered, looking back at him. “…I think… you’re right about that. About gods… and humans.”
“…” Vergil sighed, almost in defeat, opening the book again and continuing his reading. “Do you want me to tell you more?”
Your eyes sparkled with the idea, looking up at him as if he had just offered you salvation.
“Yes…please…”
You ended up falling asleep for a brief moment after a while of Vergil reading to you. But, you could still hear his voice vaguely in the distance.
“…You present yourself as a human, you act and feel like a human, you even have needs like a human…” his raspy and quiet voice echoed in the walls of your mind. “…at first… I thought it was just an elaborated gimmick… to protect yourself against me using your full capabilities…”
“…You… are just like V… so maybe that means… the real Yamato is somewhere out there for me to find… and all I have to do is to merge you two together.”
Oh.
Of course.
He still… wanted just his sword.
You were foolish to think… after a whole year, your relationship was anything more than that.
“…What did you say, Vergil?” You shot your eyes open. They were dark and unforgiving, the light behind them was gone, just in that time where you punctured his heart. There was a coldness and lack of humanity behind your voice, as your bloodlust filled eyes stared right at the man who was tucking you in on the bed.
Vergil seemed surprised as you stared at him, his hands still holding onto the blanket he was using to tuck you in. He froze in place.
“…I’m just… an incomplete half, you say?” You continued, unblinking. “…That, you’re holding onto me just to find the ‘other half’, you say?”
You didn’t move from your spot.
“…So I can go back… to being just your sword… who can’t speak, or feel, right?”
Vergil didn’t move either.
“…I’m not like V.” The room had then filled with an unspeakable amount of despair. “…Do I have to keep proving myself, time and time again for you to understand?”
You sat up finally, holding onto Vergil’s hands and squeezing his wrists tightly so he wouldn’t leave your grasp.
“…Are you that miserable and pathetic without a sword to wield? Do you really only see me as a tool to use and regain power? I have bad news for you Vergil… son of Sparda…” You said as you pulled him closer.
“…You have no control… over the things that happen in your life.” You stared right at his icy blue eyes, eyes that at this moment were still widened in shock. “…You had no control over being trapped in Hell, or becoming some other devil’s puppet knight, or even when Nero was born and absorbed me into him. You were never behind anything, and when you were, you had to split yourself into two to even be able to achieve something.”
“…You’re nothing without the circumstances that present themselves to you. And at the end of the day, even if you do win… Dante never loses, does he? Isn’t that what pisses you off the most?”
“…Stop talking.” Vergil spoke through gritted teeth. “You think talking about my weaknesses will make me cry again like last time? Please. You really are a one-trick pony, aren’t you?”
“I’m not done talking.” You squeezed his wrists again.
“…I know every bit of emotion you feel inside your heart. The anger and jealousy, the envy, the frustration, the pain, the grief, everything. You’re sick and tired of Dante getting his way for everything, that you’re always in the shadows, that he’s always winning and you’re always losing.” You spoke through gritted teeth. “Wondering time and time again if your positions were switched… if you could’ve had a different outcome.”
Vergil’s eyes widened at your words again, you knew he could come out of your grasp at any time, but he chose not to.
“…And you think… that if you have your sword, you’ll try… countless…. and countless of times… to achieve that different outcome.”
“…Why are you… even alive right now, Vergil?”
Vergil let himself go from your grasp. He placed his hands beside you on the bed, and bowed his head for a moment.
“…I see.”
“…You’re saying… I don’t need a sword by my side to get a different outcome?” He smiled a little, before finally looking at you with a gaze you’ve never seen on his face before. “Then… I don’t need you, is that right?”
Before you knew it, his hands were on your throat.
And he started strangling you.
But you weren’t scared. You knew he needed this to overcome his weaknesses.
So you smiled.
“…I really… do love you, Vergil” You spoke with a smile as he strangled you, your eyes filling with small tears as he did, but you couldn’t help yourself. You couldn’t stop smiling.
It was like it had awakened something in him. Not a new power, or ability, or even a new form.
But a new feeling.
Those hands that strangled you, had let go of your neck, to hold onto something else.
And the man who was just now strangling you like he wanted to kill you, was now… using his lips to kiss you.
It was weird, because you had never kissed anyone before, but it felt almost natural to do this, so you kissed him back.
You would never know what clicked inside Vergil’s head for him to do this, you would never know that he was practically seeing a reflection of himself in you. A sword that reminded its master of his weaknesses that needed to be purified. A reminder of why he’s alive. Why he needs to be more powerful.
And oddly enough, that really… aroused him beyond comprehension. It was what motivated him to keep going.
His kisses were rough and sloppy, but it wasn’t much of a problem since you were too. He held your cheeks just as strongly as he did your neck seconds ago, and you were locked in place.
He seemed absolutely desperate. Either it was for affection, or for human touch, or if it was because he wanted to feel powerful again. Maybe all of the above.
But you on the other hand… the amount of pleasure you were getting from his desperation was more than anything you could possibly dream on.
He was yours.
And you were his.
And he was yours, forever, and ever, and ever, and ever, and ever, and ever, and ever, and ever, and ever, and ever, and ever, and ever, and ever… until the ends of time, and there was nothing he could do to get rid of you anymore.
“…Take off your clothes, Vergil…”
“Show me… how much you crave power.”
After a year of coldness and barely anything between you, you had finally done it. You had finally broken him.
You had him, right where you wanted him to.
And with the two of you as one, finally there was absolutely nothing that would get in your way again. Because, after all…
You were the strongest.
“Take it off, Vergil… Let’s… become one.” You smirked, offering your arms for him.
He stared down at you for a moment longer, as if he had been presented with a choice he couldn’t back away from.
And so he made his choice.
He took off his shirt, exposing his toned form, and slowly began to unbuckle his pants.
There was no turning back now… he was finally becoming one with the one person that would always be the only one for him eternally so.
He leaned down, kissing you again, this time rougher, and even more desperate. He moved his hands to your legs, lifting them up and making sure they were wrapped around his form, locking you in.
You wrapped your arms around him, and you could feel the warmth his crazed desperation was emanating… and despite never having done this before you incorporated in this body, it all felt natural to you, like before.
This would be a very… long night.
#dmc5#oc x canon#canon x reader#devil may cry#dmc fanfiction#devil may cry fanfiction#vergil x reader#vergil fanfiction#vergil#dmc vergil#vergil devil may cry#devil may cry 5#dmc v#fanfic ask
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Summary: After feelings come to light, Ominis and Aislynn find themselves unable to pull away and say goodnight for the evening.
Warning: Explicit sexual content, penetration, oral sex, unprotected sex. Both characters are eighteen.
Word Count: 2.5k
Full fic can be found here on AO3!
Ominis and I just stand there, neither of us speaking. I’m so caught off guard by him standing here, that I don’t even know how to react to him. We just stand there, his mouth open in surprise and my eyes wide with shock.
“I was coming to-”
“I didn’t expect-”
We both shut our mouths, wanting the other person to finish speaking. I keep myself silent, wanting him to speak first. Ominis must know this, because he starts to speak again.
“I wanted to see if you were okay,” he says softly, his voice shy and his cheeks red. I nod, then remember to actually speak. “No, I mean, yes I’m fine. I’m okay,” I tell him, trying to assure him as best as I can. Ominis nods, but I continue speaking. “I’m not angry, I just felt embarrassed about my hair, about why I cut it. It all seems so stupid now. Ominis, I’m so sorry.”
“Please,” he says, his voice pleading and full of regret. “I should apologize to you. No part of you is like my family, not a single bit.”
“I could say that about you as well,” I say. His face shifts, his breathing relaxes. “And I am sorry,” I continue, “I shouldn’t have implied that it was your fault. It wasn’t. I think, when I’m angry, I do these stupid and impulsive things. And I don’t want to do that anymore, I want to have a clear head when I make decisions.”
Ominis nods, understanding this. A look that I can’t decipher crosses his face. “Okay, Aislynn. I hold nothing against you, and I don’t want you think I am upset. I was just concerned, and wanted to make sure you were okay before sleeping. So, I’ll let you rest now.”
He stands there for a moment, his soft words and gentle intentions floating in my head. “Goodnight, Aislynn,” he says, turning his body slightly. But I don’t want him to leave. And as I decide in my mind what I will do, there is no impulsiveness. There is only logic, and the desire for something that I have wanted for a long time.
I reach a hand out, wanting to stop him before he turns away. “Ominis,” I whisper softly, just as my hand touches his arm. And as soon as he feels my touch, it’s like a restraint inside him snaps. He turns to me, grabs my face, and presses his lips to mine all in one swift second.
I’m so surprised that a small squeak leaves my lips as he kisses me, but I don’t give myself a second to be embarrassed by this. Instead, I wrap my arms around his neck, my fingers snaking into his hair, and I let him kiss me. I’m so consumed by him, the way his skin feels, the smell of him, how soft his lips are and how they move against my own.
“Can we… get out… of the… hallway?” I say against his lips. He nods, and I back into my room with him still attached to my lips. He shuts the door behind us, and I press myself against the wall by the door. Ominis places one hand on my face, the other on the wall by my head, and continues to move his lips quickly against mine.
When I kissed Sebastian, there had been a want. I wanted to kiss him, but I was not slow to pull away if I needed to. This is entirely different. I need to kiss Ominis, to touch him and to taste him, and I don’t want to stop ever. Now that I’ve kissed him, I don’t think I could ever kiss another person and be satisfied.
His tongue snakes itself into my mouth, and I let a moan out. Gripping his hair, I pull him closer, so close that he’s practically squishing me against the wall. He pulls his lips away for a moment. “Aislynn,” he says, my name coming out like a prayer, a song, a poem. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. Say the word and I’ll stop.”
I keep my mouth shut, and I watch as the tiniest glimpse of a smile peeks onto his face. Closing the gap between us, I lunge for his lips again and press myself off of the wall. I steer him towards the bed, our eyes shut as we tangle our tongues and lips. I break away, just long enough to let him sit on the bed, before I climb onto him. My legs straddle his waist, and I brush his hair away from his face, just looking at him for a moment. “I don’t know how often people tell you this Ominis, but you are absolutely beautiful. Like you were carved from marble, or painted by someone long ago.”
He groans as I sink my fingers into his hair. “You can’t say things like that and expect me to keep my composure, Aislynn.”
I smile, pressing a light kiss to his lips. “I promise, I don’t want you to stay composed tonight.”
Ominis lifts his head, his lips meeting mine, and we start again. It’s slower this time, the two of us wanting to savor each other for the first time. His hands move from my shoulders to my back, and I wriggle my hips slightly onto his lap, causing him to groan under me. I move my hand to the collar of his shirt, feeling just enough under it to touch his smooth skin. “I want to touch you,” I whisper, moving my lips to kiss his cheek, his jaw, down to his neck.
“Glad the feeling is mutual,” he says, his mouth open as I nip at him. Pulling back slightly, I yank my sweater over my head before tugging at his shirt. He follows suit, and I am greeted by the sight of his smooth, slender torso. His skin is like porcelain, peppered with small moles in an unorganized fashion. Ominis looks like a god, crafted by angels, who is not meant to be on this Earth.
I pull his hands, allowing them to rest on my bare waist. He skims them up and down my back, before touching the back of my bra. “Can I?” he asks, so gently that it makes me want to say yes to everything he asks for the rest of my life. “Please,” I whisper, attaching my lips to his neck once more.
Once Ominis has unclasped my bra and tossed it aside, the cool air hits my chest and I feel my nipples peak. His hands are still on my back, but I want him to touch me everywhere. Pulling away from his neck, his hands fall to my waist. I grab one and pull it up so that he cups my left breast. He follows with his other hand on my right breast, kneading me gently for a moment before pulling his left hand away and attaching his mouth to my nipple.
I gasp, his tongue making a swirling motion that causes me to grip his hair. I grind my hips, feeling him hard against me, and bite my lip to hold back a moan. “Let me touch you,” I gasp out, my voice breathy. He pulls away from my nipple, a popping sound as he removes his lips. “Not yet, I want to take care of you first,” he whispers, kissing my collarbone gently.
In a swift motion, he rolls me off of him and onto the bed. He props himself on his side, kissing me lazily as his hand traces circles on my stomach, working lower slowly until I am practically wiggling out of my skirt. “Ominis, please,” I beg, my voice whining and unlike how I normally speak. He smiles, helping me to drag my skirt all the way down and off the bed.
“Aislynn, I need you to tell me if I’m doing something wrong, or if you want me to stop,” he says suddenly, his face serious. I reach a hand out to touch his cheek, my thumb stroking him lightly. He’s so, so, so perfect.
Shimmying out of my underwear, I take his hand and place it over my center. “I don’t think there is any way you could touch me that would feel wrong,” I say with a small laugh, grinning at him. He smiles, before lowering himself over me and parting my open with his fingers.
My head falls all the way back on the bed, and I squirm as his hands touch every little bit of me. Memorizing my sex, the spots that cause me to gasp or move, before he does anything calculated. His hands guide him on what to do to me, and when his finger circles my clit and causes me to gasp, he seizes his opportunity and lowers his mouth to where his finger just was.
Pride be damned, by mouth falls open and I moan embarrasingly loud. My hands find Ominis’ head and hair, gripping him as he licks and laps at me. Neither of us are skilled, but he is so enthusiastic and devoted that it doesn’t matter. These loud noises are coming from where he devours me, and I feel every little motion his tongue makes on me. I’m convinced nothing could feel better than this, but then he slips a finger inside me and I cry out.
“Fuck,” he says, pulling his mouth away slightly and adding a second finger. “You feel amazing. You sound amazing, Aislynn.”
I moan at his words, unable to form a real thought in my head as he pumps his fingers into me. He lips find their target again, and I’m squirming and crying out, a coil in me tightening and promising something delicious. “Ominis,” I whine, my legs shaking and my hands yanking at his hair.
“Let me hear everything,” he says, curling his fingers in me as I climb higher to my build. I can see the peak of this, and with one last lick up my center I’m done for. His name, curses, incoherent words, they all tumble off of my lips as I writhe on his fingers and face, cumming so incredibly hard as he still moves his hand.
“Fuck, I- I need, oh god,” I cry out, wriggling away as it becomes too much. But he holds me, his mouth off of me but his hand still moving inside me. I look at him, at the drunken look over his face, at how his lips are glistening. He slows his fingers, but doesn’t stop them. “Please, Ominis.”
He pulls his fingers out of me, gripping both of my thighs and placing a soft kiss on the inside of my right one. “You are perfection,” he says, his words coming out with a groan. Feeling very exposed all of a sudden, I prop myself up on my elbow. “Let me touch you,” I plead, pulling him up so that he is over me. Touching the button on his pants, he nods as I undo them before standing and shuffling out of the. He takes off his last layer, and that’s it. Naked, both of us.
He climbs back over me, and I touch his length, pumping it a few times in my hand. He groans, but places a hand on my arm. “I just want to take you now,” he gasps, practically begging. “Please, Aislynn.”
“Okay,” I breathe out, letting go of him. “But I want to be on top.”
Ominis grins, shifting off of me and onto the mattress. I guide him to the top of the bed so he can sit against the headboard, and I climb into his lap. Placing a small kiss to his lips, I grasp him and line him up with myself before sinking onto him.
We gasp in unison as I lower myself, and I feel so unbelievably full and perfect with him inside of me. Rocking my hips slightly, I test out how to move my body on top of his. He groans under me, one of his hands on my hips as I try my best to move up and down on him. It’s messy, uncoordinated, and we are both not sure what to do.
It’s absolutely perfect.
His lips come forward, kissing my chest and finding one of my nipples before taking it into his mouth as I move on him. “Fuck, Ominis,” I gasp out, and he moans into my chest as I say his name. I’m rocking against him still, unsure of how to move faster, but he takes his mouth away and both of his hands fall to my hips, slowing my pace.
My brows furrow, and I think he wants me to stop. But instead, he snaps his hips up, driving himself into me and causing me to practically curse with a shout. It’s not particularly fast, but it’s deep, so much so that I feel it in the pit of my stomach as he moves in me.
“Please don’t stop,” I gasp out, grabbing his shoulders as he moves into me. He is slow, snapping his hips hard each time he moves. I clench around him and he groans, his hips stuttering. “Aislynn, I’m going to finish soon,” he says into my ear. I push my hips down, meeting his thrusts, and I moan in response. Moving my lips towards his, I kiss him as we continue to move slowly. My mouth opens, feeling myself tighten again. “Ominis,” I say, gasping and falling apart again.
Stars fill my vision once more, and I clench around him, hard. He slows, and I hear him groan. He gives me a few more thrusts up, and then I feel a warmth in me as he groans and says my name over and over again. Collapsing against his chest, he kisses my neck and jaw slowly as I pant against him.
Sliding off of him, I kiss his cheek quickly and get up to go to the washroom. I clean myself off quickly before heading back to where he is in the bed. “Scoot over,” I tell him, and he smiles and shifts on the bed so that I have room to climb in next to him.
He puts his arms around me, and all I can think of is how warm and tired I am. I feel him breathing against my hair, one hand stroking my loose strands. “Was that okay?” he asks, timidly and with so much care that my heart flips inside my chest.
Lifting my head, I press a long slow kiss to his lips. When I pull away, he is smiling. “It was perfect,” I tell him. And I mean it, I do. Messy and inexperienced and perfect. And I let myself rest my head on his chest, no thoughts in my head but a beating heart and a pretty boy with blonde hair.
#hogwarts legacy#ominis gaunt#sebastian sallow#sebastian sallow x mc#ominis x mc#slytherin#eventual smut#smut#ominis gaunt smut#ominis gaunt one shot#harry potter
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Hi, can you write about JJ’s teenage daughter being in an abusive relationship. She usually loves to write, like short stories or poems and things like that, but her boyfriend/girlfriend has been telling her that it’s a waste of time so she’s stopped.
It can go something like this: “You don’t like to write anymore?” “No, it’s just a waste of time.”
Waste of Time
pairing: jennifer jareau x daughter reader
category: hurt/comfort
warnings: abusive relationship
word count: 828
summary: your boyfriend is making you change yourself and your mom is there to help
I had changed completely and I was sure my mom noticed. I didn't do anything I used to enjoy anymore because I didn't feel comfortable being myself anymore. "Hey honey." My mom walked into my room and saw me laying on my bed on my phone.
"Hi." I kept scrolling on my phone when she sat down next to me. "What's up?"
"Nothing. Just wanted to see you." I put my phone down and cuddled into her side. She put her arm around my shoulders, pulling me closer. She scanned my room, not seeing any notebooks or random papers scattered around like she used to when I would write all day. I used to skip doing my schoolwork and would lose sleep just so I could write. "You don't like to write anymore?"
"No, it's just a waste of time." I sighed and rested my head on her shoulder. She laughed softly, thinking I was joking.
"Oh. Honey, you're serious?"
"Mhm."
"But you loved writing. You wrote ever since you were five, what changed?"
"It's just...not enjoyable anymore."
"Oh." She rubbed my shoulder gently. "I didn't know you felt that way." I usually told her everything so I could tell she was a bit hurt that I hadn't told her.
"Well I do." I let out another sigh.
"When did that happen?"
"A couple months ago." I could practically feel her heart drop when I told her. "What?"
"Sweetheart...what's going on?"
"Nothing."
"Two months ago you started changing everything about yourself."
"No I didn't."
"I'm your mom. I notice things."
"You didn't notice that I had stopped writing."
"That's because you do it in your room and I never know when you do it. But I do realize that you've changed the foods you eat, the activities you do, the things you say. I just want to know...are you ok?"
"Yeah I'm fine mom."
"Honey..."
"Mom-"
"I don't want you to lie to me. I understand if you don't want to talk about it but I just need to know, are you ok? A simple yes or no."
"I'm fine."
"That's not a yes or no. That's like a maybe."
"No. Ok? I'm not fine."
"So what's going on? Or do you not want to talk about it?"
"I don't know." I whispered, wanting so badly to open up to my mom about my boyfriend and I's relationship but I just didn't know how to get the words out.
"Well I'm here if you want to talk about it, ok?" I nodded and pulled the covers up over us, wanting to tell her I wanted her to stay without actuslly saying it. "I'm staying baby." She kissed the top of my head and stroked my hair.
"It's um...it's Lewis."
"What's Lewis?"
"He's the reason I don't write anymore."
"Did he say something?"
"He...he said it was a waste of time. He said I could be spending that time doing something else."
"Like what."
"Hanging out with him."
"Oh baby...that's not good, you know that? What else did he say?"
"He said my stories were dumb, that no one would ever like them." My voice got quieter every second, once I said the words out loud I realized how stupid it was that I was still in the relationship.
"Oh honey." She rubbed my back slowly, pulling me over a bit so I was laying on top of her.
"He said my poetry was bland." I realized a few tears had fallen down my cheeks since she was trying to wipe them away.
"It's not bland. You know he's just trying to tear you down, right?" I frowned and nodded, feeling stupid for not seeing through it earlier. I was actually glad when he told me those things because I thought I had met someone who was finally honest with me but now I knew he was just doing it to hurt me and that hurt like hell.
"I wish I didn't care...you know?"
"You're always going to care, you always have. You have a big heart, that's nothing to cry about."
"But it makes me cry a lot."
"I know hon." She started massaging my scalp a bit. "But it's ok to cry. Just don't let him tear you down. It's not ok that he's telling you that your hobbies are a waste of time and that you're bad at it. That's not his place to do and he is a complete shithead for saying it."
"Thanks mom."
"Do you still want to write? Are you still interested in it?"
"Of course I am."
"Then you should really get back to it."
"But I don't know what to write about anymore."
"Write about Lewis. Write about how he's a dickhead who tries to change you to fit into his mold." I nodded a bit and hugged her tighter. "So...what do you wanna do about it?"
"I wanna write." I looked up at her and smiled.
"That's my girl."
#criminal minds#jennifer jareau#x reader#jennifer jareau x reader#jennifer jareau x you#x daughter!reader#x daughter reader
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Part Seven of "The Lake Between Us"
Merging Star Clusters
Ezra AU x Seraphina (plus size OFC)
Word Count: 1252
Warnings: surprisingly none! 😄
Summary: Ezra's got all his favorite ladies in one place. Seraphina and Cee finally meet.
Notes: Usually, Nerdie brings the family drama, but for Ezra (and my last slivers of sanity), I left that alone this time. This fic is easy, like Sunday morning or whenever you happen to read this.
Main Masterlist/ Ezra Masterlist/ The Lake between Us Series
Cee noted that something was different about her guardian when he stood next to his truck to pick her and Zoe up. He of course took their suitcases like always and brought them in for hugs, never judging her for her choice of partner. Some days, she thought he preferred she was with a woman, she remembered him always telling her “never fully trust anyone even me, but especially men. Leave them alone as long as possible.” She’d been pretty sure he was saying that because he was her father figure as most of them seemed to she heard from her friends. That said, he looked brighter, like he actually slept and put a bit of his weight back on. Cee would never be foolish enough to tell him that last part. Ezra tended to gather it around his belly which despite never mentioning it, she knew he was sensitive about it. She was waiting for him to mention it first. The reason for his positive change. They had spoken about the person in question for the first time a few months ago but only in depth a few weeks ago.
Zora, Cee’s girlfriend of the past year, was never one to mince words or be delicate. Cee appreciated her directness but also her kindness as she was never rude with questions of comments. “So Mr. Wordsmith, this lady friend of yours, is she just that or your partner in you looking like a million dollars?” Ezra had grown accustomed to Zora’s nicknames for his expansive vocabulary and he chuckled at her question as he turned down the main road that led to his home. About twenty more minutes now.
“She has become an essential fixture in my days and nights, so yes my partner.” Answering in a matter of fact manner without a full paragraph had Cee and Zora look at each other through his rear view mirror as Cee was sitting upfront.
“I’m still in shock. She’s got to be an angel or something.” Zora exclaimed, patting Ezra’s shoulders to which he continued to smile.
“Did you not tell Zora her name Cee?” Ezra asked with a raised eyebrow. Zora furrowed her brow at the blonde who appeared in thought.
“Wait, I thought I had. Her name is-“
“Seraphina. My lovely lady’s name is Seraphina.” Ezra hummed. Both women shivered.
“Please don’t say her name like that in front of us like that again. Save that for her.” Cee looked out the window, grinning. He’s smitten, the man who told her never to trust anyone is smitten.
“Never expected you to find an actual angel Mr. Ezra. Though I guess if anyone was, it would be you. You did find that 1st edition copy of ‘Love Poems’ by Nikki Giovanni for my twentieth birthday. Didn’t think one existed anymore.” Zora leaned forward and gave him a kiss on the cheek as they pulled into the driveway and parked his truck. She hopped out along with Cee. Ezra went to grab their suitcases as the front door opened.
A woman clad in a yellow sundress with a bright smile and coiled hair up in a ponytail atop her head her copper skin shimmered from the humidity forming on her skin. She was wearing a bright fuschia lipstick on her full lips and wore blue rimmed glasses. She gave a small wave to which Cee and Zora matched. Ezra climbed the stairs and set the bags down to peck her lips then embrace her. The two young women collectively made an “ooo!”
“These two uncouth creatins are Zora and Cee. Despite their teasing, they are excited to meet you. They’re mainly having fun at my expense, not yours Sundrop.” His smile nearly hurt, it was from ear to ear. The women that made his life brighter were all gathered here under one roof. Was it alright that he felt this happy? That his nightmares weren’t as frequent? With everyone making their way into his home, he watched as Cee went to the kitchen with Sera and they hugged, rocking back and forth as Sera often did with her own family. Did that mean Seraphina saw Cee as part of her family? Wait…were the two of them family now? Shaking his head, he felt he may be getting ahead of himself.
Sundrop had already set the table while Ezra had been out. They just poured water and sweet tea and sat down together at the table. Eating and laughing all night, they asked each other questions. Eventually, Cee and Seraphina ended up outside on the porch to chat. They sat side by side, chuckling at how enamored both Zora and Ezra were with the books on the shelves.
“I sometimes think she’s more of his charge than I am.” Cee laughs as Ezra and Zora are seen through the window exchanging some heightened words over a hardcover book. Their hands are moving back and forth, both excited and likely talking a mile a minute.
“I can see why he took a liking to her. They’re discussing those volumes with quite the fervor.” Sera commenced and Cee nodded. She smiled at Sera.
“I can also see why he’s taken a liking to you. Just sitting with you is pretty relaxing. He looks a hell of a lot better than the last time I saw him.” Seraphina laughed and Cee gasped, “Ah sorry. I sometimes-”
“I know. Ezra told me. I don’t mind. I know he doesn’t like it. He’s not out here is he?” Sera chuckled and Cee relaxed again. Thankfully she was the same as she had been around the dinner table. Personable and kind. “We’ve helped each other. He’s got quite a few layers but they’re warm.” Seraphina then looked out over the water. Cee followed her eyes and peered at the lake too.
“I’ve never heard him described like that, but also you’re the only woman I’ve seen him bring to his house to meet me.”
“That’s…” Sera pressed her hands together and looked over at Cee. She knew things had become more serious between the two of them. The significance wasn’t lost on her. It fell in line with Ezra meeting her mother and subsequently her brothers at a family dinner. Her father met Ezra later that night after his part time job. “I suppose a lot has happened between us.
“In any case, it’s good for him. He doesn’t do well when he’s idle. He’ll say he’s just fine but-”
“That’s when the very bad ideas start and even longer than normal prose starts and never stops?” Seraphina and Cee laugh on that one as Zora exits the back door with Ezra holding a book of poems by Robert Frost.
“Can you believe he won’t let me borrow this?” Zora appears to be distraught, while Ezra’s arms are crossed defensively.
“The condition of the Langston Hughes poems speaks volumes to your treatment and care of books. I’ll not have the pages of my collection bent, ripped or stained.” Ezra argued. Cee and Seraphina watched as they bickered a bit more and ushered them inside the house.
Eventually, they simmered down and agreed that Zora could read it while staying at Ezra’s home and wouldn’t need to be supervised. Cee and Zora slept in Birdie’s old bedroom while Sera and Ezra retired to his. The soft taps of the wind on the sides of the house and the croaks of the crickets lulled them all to sleep for the night.
Interlude 2 Chapter eight
Chapter six
Taste-testers of Ezra’s gumbo 🍤: @rav3n-pascal22 @maggiemayhemnj @morallyinept @survivingandenduring @bonezone44 @magpiepillsjunior-deactivated20 @yorksgirl @gemmahale @missredherring @missladym1981 @alltheglitterandtheroar @megamindsecretlair @readingiskeepingmegoing @pedroshotwifey @tinytinymenace @inept-the-magnificent @vivian-pascal @jessthebaker
#pedro pascal characters#fanfiction#pedro pascal#pedro pascal fanfiction#ezra prospect#ezra prospect fanfiction#Ezra prospect fluff#Ezra prospect x ofc#the lake between us#nerdie fic
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