#white women say the stupidest fucking shit on here and it genuinely makes me see red sometimes lol
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Subtext, by Calvin Klein
happy birthday @stinastar!!! I know it’s not the prompt you wanted, but I’ll write that too. :) Thank you so much for being awesome and so so sweet!
Legally Blonde au - modern - fluffy pre-getting together
depending on the comments I get on this, I might post a second part
tw: Geralt’s tragic backstory (foster care mention)
---
Geralt approached Jaskier slowly and kept his hands firmly in the pockets of his loose-fitting jeans. “What’s up-” he noticed the bunny ears poking up from Jaskier’s fluffy brown hair and added “-doc?”
The young law student looked up at Geralt through teary black lashes and let out another soft sniffle, his lips wobbling unattractively. Geralt hurried to drape his zip-up hoodie over Jaskier’s bare shoulders and take a seat on the wooden bench beside him.
The worried teacher’s assistant rubbed his hands up and down Jaskier’s arms through the material, trying to warm him up a little better. “Why are you dressed as a Playboy bunny, sitting on a bench in the middle of the night in this terrible New England weather?”
“I made a terrible mistake in coming here.”
“What?”
Geralt had never heard Jaskier sound so utterly defeated. Usually the student was bright and bubbly, congenial to a fault even when he made mistakes or answered incorrectly during class discussions. The charming brunette seemed to pull bucket after bucket from a nearly endless well of positivity; until now, apparently.
As he sat beside Geralt on the worn wooden bench, wearing the tight pink leotard and little wrist cuffs, practically glowing in the yellow-tinged lamplight, he seemed too ethereal to be real. Even as he shivered and sniffled, Jaskier looked too gorgeous to be human. Seeing him in such a distressed state was a little unnerving, like bumping into an old teacher outside of school or accidentally seeing your neighbors kissing through a window. It felt wrong.
“I followed the love of my life to this stupid fucking university and now he’s going to marry some fancy, well-bred blonde woman like his parents wanted and I’m going to flunk out of these classes with nothing to show for my time here and my parents are going to-”
“Hey,” Geralt interrupted, taking one hand from his pocket to place on Jaskier’s trembling knee. “It’s going to be okay. Breathe, Jaskier.”
“Right. Breathing. Yeah.”
“Are you… okay?”
Jaskier looked at him again and Geralt flinched away from the obvious hurt in his watery blue eyes. Of course he’s not okay, he’s sobbing alone on a cold bench in the middle of Halloween night.
“Jaskier, I’m sorry. I’m not good with words but- Wait... are you saying you came to school because of a man?”
“Y-Yeah. You could put it that way, I guess.”
Geralt yanked his hand away from the younger man’s knee and scooted backwards, away from the man he’d just been admiring. “Oh my god, that has to be the absolute stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. You came all the way to Oxenfurt University’s prestigious and award-winning Law School to hunt down a husband?!”
Jaskier looks taken aback. Startled and bewildered and sad, like a much smaller child rather than an adult man with a degree and a half. “Are you mad at me!?”
“A little bit, yeah,” Geralt laughed humorlessly. He shook his head, swiping one hand over his face on his way to tuck in a stray strand of white hair. “I worked two jobs to get myself through college. I was doing full-time classes and pulling sixty hour weeks at the bar and the grocery store; I don’t think I’ve had a full night’s sleep since I graduated high school. I certainly don’t know the meaning of the word vacation anymore... and you came here to follow some- some guy that you liked?”
“We’d been together for three years before he suddenly dropped me to pursue a degree in fucking bitter looking women, to be completely fair. And I managed to get a good enough LSAT score to qualify for admittance, so it’s not like I’m totally incompetent.”
“No,” Geralt nodded, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I guess that’s true.”
“No guessing involved,” Jaskier spat, tired and angry and flustered. “It is the truth, plain and simple. I deserve to be here and I will be successful.”
“Hmm.”
“Well why are you here, then, Mr. Grouchy T.A.?”
“I grew up in foster care and let me tell you, from experience, that the system is shit. If I had been forced to remain a foster child for any longer than I was, I probably would have become a match-happy little delinquent like my youngest brother, Lambert. Luckily my third foster parent, Vesemir, adopted me legally and made me his son. He already had one adopted son, my older brother, Eskel, and after me there was Lambert.”
Jaskier took a moment to contemplate Geralt’s story, pulling the sweatshirt closer around his shoulders and burrowing down into the neckline in a way that sent butterflies swirling through Geralt’s stomach rather unexpectedly. Then the younger man smiled at him, pearly teeth glinting in the light of the streetlamp. “That’s… that’s a little sad and a little sweet. It makes sense.”
“What makes sense?”
“The sadness and the sweetness,” Jaskier repeated, grinning a little more shyly than before. Geralt wasn’t sure, since it was so dark and he was so skeptical, but it almost looked like Jaskier was blushing. “Like you. Sweet, kind, caring, but a little melancholy. Anyway, I should be getting back to my dorm. I need to study.”
“I want my sweatshirt back,” Geralt said, standing and offering Jaskier a hand up. He wobbled to his feet, still wearing a pair of dangerously high black stilettos. Geralt knew this outfit would haunt his dreams for the next few weeks and cursed Hugh Heffner’s lingering spirit.
“If you’re lucky,” Jaskier replied, and click-click-clicked his way into the darkness.
Geralt honestly wasn’t sure he’d mind if Jaskier decided to keep it… maybe someday he’d wear it to class. And didn’t the thought of that send something odd and new and terrifying swirling in Geralt’s gut.
---
“Where are we going, exactly?” Geralt asked, eyeing the giddy brunette before him. Jaskier batted his long eyelashes at the grumpy T.A. and gave his sweetest pout.
“You trust me, don’t you?”
“Hmm,” Geralt’s eyes narrowed. “Yes.”
“Well then don’t stop now!”
The excitable young law student laced his fingers with Geralt’s and pulled him through the large glass doors and into the mall. When at last his eyes adjusted to the bright lights of the shopping center he asked: “What is this place?”
Jaskier grinned, taking a deep, dramatic breath. “A department store.”
Geralt rolled his eyes and took his own deep breath, his nose wrinkling in distaste. “What is that smell?”
“Love,” Jaskier replied.
“What!?”
“Love,” the student repeated, pointing at a sign with his free hand. It was large and pink and read LOVE, BY CHANEL in black block-letters. “There’s Love in the air.”
“Terrible joke, really,” Geralt teased. “But really, Jaskier, why are we here? You have plenty of clothes for court; I know because I’ve been in your closet and seen them firsthand.”
“We’re not here for me,” Jaskier elbowed his mentor and study partner gently in the side. Their hands were still interlaced in a way that made Geralt’s heart thunder dangerously against his ribs; love really was in the air, it seemed. Jaskier continued breezily, unaware of the older man’s roiling internal conflict. “I’m taking you shopping so that you have the proper outfit to wear when accepting Stregobor’s partnership offer.”
They had reached the men’s business section and the brunette released Geralt’s hand in order to dig through the racks of clothing. He was elbow deep in Calvin Klein and Kenneth Cole, hunting for jackets in Geralt’s size. “Jaskier, I can’t afford this kind of-”
“Hush,” Jaskier replied, waving his hand dismissively in his direction, letting it go limp at the wrist. “It’s a gift. No! Not a gift, a repayment.”
“I didn’t give you anything…”
Jaskier looked up from the selection of suits he’d been inspecting and shot Geralt a dangerous glare. “You most certainly did give me something, Geralt Roger Eric du-Haute Bellegarde! You looked past my bubbliness and my pink blazer and my previous degree and treated me like a person. You supported me and encouraged me without asking for anything in return so this is what I’m giving you.”
Geralt took a step towards him and sneezed. “What is that smell?”
An attendant appeared as if from thin air, a little glass bottle clutched in her hand. “It’s Subtext, by Calvin Klein!”
“It’s not really my thing,” Geralt frowned, closing the distance between himeslf and Jaskier as he made his apologies, “But thank you, regardless.”
“Let me know if you gentlemen need anything!”
Geralt stepped close enough to feel the heat of Jaskier’s body, still not brave enough to initiate touch. “Thank you.”
“It’s not a problem,” Jaskier grinned again.
Geralt considered the feelings that were stirring in his heart, driving through his veins, branching out through his mind so that all he could focus on was Jaskier...
It might be a problem, he thought, allowing himself to enjoy the moment. But it can be dealt with another time.
#legally blonde#legally blonde au#geraskier#geraskier ficlet#happy birthday stina#pre slash#legally blonde the musical#geraskier fluff#preslash#pre getting tgoether#getting together#bouncey's endless au collection
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fox rain | one
→ summary: When the love letter you wrote and submitted as an assignment is leaked to the entirety of your university, it becomes a race against time to dispel rumours and convince the seven suspected muses of the poem that they aren’t the subject before anyone realises that you are the author. Easy, right? Well… maybe not as easy as you think.
→ pairing: bts x reader (feat. seokjin)
→ genre: college!au, crack, fluff, angst
→ warnings: none unless you count overly graphic descriptions of how stupid seokjin is (i’m sorry for always making him so dumb)
→ words: 10.4K
→ a/n: i know i say this a lot, but this literally the STUPIDEST thing i’ve ever written in my life. i’ve lost maybe ten braincells per word in this fic, and i’m proud of it gdi!! some of my best jokes are in this mess, and that’s saying a lot considering my whole life is a joke. also: check bio for the chapter links for now!
— • masterlist | prev | one | next • —
When you feel yourself awakening, for a moment, you think you might have been hungover. The usual disembodiment you feel after a night out of drinking is what greets you when the last dredges of sleep start to fade out of your periphery, added with the insatiable urge to piss the equivalent of the volume of the Atlantic Ocean. There are weights over your eyes, you surmise, because there is no way you will be able to open them long enough to see whether you were actually dead.
But of course, you are still subjected to the curse of human curiosity, which allows you to gather enough strength to squint blearily and access your current surroundings.
You are greeted by the sight of unfamiliar overhead lights and sterile white walls. The window just to your left shows the darkened sky, the moon creeping just behind the evergreen trees. Groaning slightly, you push yourself into a sitting position, a sudden wave of vertigo slamming into you like a supernova. As you survey the room some more, you notice the sound of muffled conversation going on behind the nearby sheer curtain, and the smell of antiseptic wafts its way into your nostrils. You’re in the nurse’s office, you realize belatedly, grasping the threadbare sheets of your university’s barebones version of a hospital bed.
You put your head into your hands, breathing deeply as you try to remember the last thing that happened to you.
Yoongi’s dick. The stupid e-mail. The poem. The conspiracy group. Seokjin on a pedestal giving a TedTalk about himself. Yoongi’s dick. Namboob. Fainting in the utility closet. Yoongi’s dick.
The mental gymnastics that your brain is currently undergoing elicits a sound akin to a dying squirrel from your open mouth, and it must have sounded terribly loud and unnerving because the nurse bursts into the room just a few seconds after. The nurse, who must have been an underpaid med student by the looks of the designer purple handbags decorating her sullen cheeks, looks at you with less genuine concern and more acute abhorrence.
In your drowsiness, you don’t realize that your throat had somehow converted into the Sahara desert when you had fainted, so you are just as surprised as the nurse when you start doing a wonderful impersonation of Sadako instead.
“Hoo bwat meh hey?” you articulate, your tongue feeling like an oversized fist trying to work its way from out of your larynx. At the very least, no one can blame you for not trying your best to sound coherent. Seeing your struggle, the apathetic nurse has the decency to reach behind one of the shelves and hand you a cup of water. You grab it from her, gulping the entire thing in one go all while you proceed to not care about the rivulets of water and drool trailing down your chin and onto your crotch.
“Sorry,” you say, not really knowing why you were apologizing in the first place. Perhaps for existing? “I was trying to ask who brought me here.”
The nurse, unsurprisingly, only gives you an indifferent shrug of her shoulders. “I don’t know. Some gray-haired twink came in with you on his back. Apparently, you fainted in front of him for no reason, and when we checked your vitals, everything seemed to be fine.” She gestures at your ragged form, almost as if she didn’t believe that they hadn’t found anything wrong with you. You are obliged to share her sentiments.
“You’re free to leave whenever you want. Just make sure to sleep more and eat. University is tough on kids like you,” she says, turning to leave without another look in your direction. Somehow, you feel insulted even though the nurse hadn’t really done anything to you. Perhaps her lack of concern for your mental wellness and the fact that your newly acquired PTSD after today’s events only warranted “a good night’s sleep” as a form of treatment. Ah, the woes of having zero healthcare. Regardless, you decide to take her up on her advice and head home in hopes of acquiring some semblance of sleep after today’s traumatic episode.
Exiting the clinic, you find that almost no one is left on campus, save for the occasional student on their way to their evening classes. Being at your university during the evening had always been an odd sensation for you, as it reminds you of all the nighttime finals you have had to take in the past. Whenever the sun set and darkness enveloped the campus, it is always a given that you would be able to hear someone shouting obscenities from somewhere in the distance, especially since your university is well-known for the bars and clubs that litter its outskirts. Nonetheless, you hopelessly pray that you won’t pass by any drunk college kids, especially on this Friday night.
Just as you are about to cross the street to get to your bus stop, you notice a familiar face waiting by the entrance of the clinic. You backtrack, staring at the back of her head as she inconspicuously tries to peer into the curtained windows like some sort of pervert. Knowing her, your assumption probably isn’t that far off.
You approach her quietly, carrying your footsteps so that she doesn’t hear you until you place your mouth just beside her ear. Even at this proximity, she is none the wiser to your presence. You blow gently against her neck, whispering, “Sera. What the hell are you doing?”
As expected, she shrieks at you in surprise, almost landing a karate-chop on your face but you are saved by the fact that she had as much hand-eye coordination as a dead man in a coffin. You step back as you watch her slice through the air for another few seconds, her gaze wild before they finally land on your smirking face. Realizing that she had overreacted, she straightens up in a huff, glaring at you with as much annoyance as she can muster (but really, who can stay angry at your cute face for long?)
“Trying to look for that hot doctor again?” You joke, peering inquisitively at her hunched form. You wouldn’t be surprised to find a pair of binoculars behind her back at this point, given by how many times you’ve caught her “observing” potential boyfriends.
“How dare––!” She splutters, ears turning red from your accusation. When she shifts slightly, you notice a black object passing through her hands and trying to covertly slip into her bag. Ah. The binoculars.
“How dare I what? Accuse you of stalking a poor med student who is probably overdosing on Adderall as we speak? Oh, sorry for overstepping my boundaries,” you drawl, grinning at her affronted expression. “Unless, of course, you happened to hear about me fainting this afternoon and you wanted to offer me a ride home? Since you’re such a good friend, after all?
She looks at you, alarmed. “You fainted? When? How?”
“Oh, so now you’re concerned. I could’ve died with the image of Min Yoongi’s penis tattooed under the backs of my eyelids, and my best friend never would’ve known… Who, then, would avenge me and clear my name? Who, then, would take care of my growing collection of scantily clad women figurines––?”
“Did you just say you saw Min Yoongi’s penis? Holy shit!” Sera shrieks, eyes bugging out of their sockets. You are sure everyone within a 5 mile radius must’ve heard her, but you didn’t even have the energy to be mortified. Death always did sound like a great vacation idea, anyway.
“Sure, just scream it out for everyone to hear. Maybe we can get him to come back and do it again so you won’t think I’m crazy,” you mutter, grabbing Sera by the sleeve and tugging her towards the parking lot. “You brought your car, right? Bring me home.”
“Jeez, you drop this major bomb on me as if you were just talking about your cat taking a shit on your bed or something, and now you’re ordering me to bring you home? Cheeky,” Sera huffs, but she lets you drag her regardless.
Luckily, her car is parked relatively close because you honestly don’t know how much longer you can take before your knees give out from under you. It seems that despite the little nap you had at the nurse’s clinic, you hardly feel refreshed at all. All you want is to pass out on your comfortable bed for an indefinite period of time and pray for the demon under your bed to drag you to its depths and skin you alive. Knowing your luck, even the demon wouldn’t be that merciful towards a gremlin like yourself.
Sera begins backing up the car, stealing looks at you as you slowly became one with the car seat. You clench your eyelids shut, hoping that Sera would have the decency to respect your space for now and save the questioning for later. That pipe dream is immediately dashed, however, when she starts speeding down the empty streets and opens her big fucking mouth, her shrill voice reverberating in the small sedan.
“Don’t you dare sleep on me now, young miss! You have an entire weekend to hibernate so crank up that brain of yours for two more minutes and tell me what the fuck happened,” she says, nearly crashing over a trash bin in her haste to interrogate you.
“My brain? What’s that? Pretty sure that old thing disintegrated months ago. I think I shat it out when we had Taco Tuesday that one time in November,” you say, missing the way she snorts back in response. When Sera pinches your side to force you to face forward, your fatigue addled consciousness doesn’t even register the pain until a few seconds later.
“Ow,” you whine lamely.
“That literally took you five seconds to react,” Sera whistles, running over a child’s bike in the process. Neither of you look back to check the damage. “Damn, Min Yoongi’s penis must’ve been hella impressive if you’re this mindfucked. Are the rumors true? He must be packing down there, am I right?”
“Please stop saying the word penis. I’m getting triggered again,” you groan, slapping her lightly. She guffaws loudly, shoulders shaking at your misery.
“Sorry, can’t help being a horny bastard. But seriously, what’s the context? I wasn’t even aware you still talked to him after first year. He was your RA at your freshman dorm, right?”
“I don’t talk to him,” you say. You fidget in your seat, hands twisting and turning on your lap. “I mean. We were never close or anything.”
“Then care to explain how you managed to stand in the presence of Min Yoongi junior and behold his glory? Were you guys about to fuck before you realized his penis probably isn’t going to fit? Or, holy shit… Is he actually fun-sized like the rest of his body is?”
“Shut the fuck up, Sera.”
“Oh my god, he’s totally fun-sized!” She gasps, snatching up her phone while you two waited at a stoplight. “Wait ‘til Cassandra hears about this––”
Despite your diminished motor skills, you manage to grab her phone away from her before she can spread any misinformation to the rest of the student body. Min Yoongi’s penis is his business, and consequently, it seems to have become your business as well. Cue existential dread.
“Will you shut up for two seconds and let me explain? No, he is not fun-sized. I will not divulge any more information regarding that subject,” you say. Sera deflates noticeably beside you. “And no, we were not about to fuck. I just happened upon him while he was… in the midst of some recreational activities.”
“Oh, he’s into that type of shit. Understandable,” Sera nods, sagely. You have no idea what her tone might be implying, but honestly at that point you were too scared to ask. “How’d you find him like that, then? Did you hear him tugging his meat and decide to join in? Because honestly, big mood.”
“No!” you exclaim hotly, slapping her once again. “I’m not like your perverted ass! I was just––” You halt in the middle of your sentence, recollections of the past hours swimming through your mind and the fear and anxiety that had taken over you this afternoon starts to consume you once more.
“Hey, you alright? You got pale all of a sudden,” Sera notes, slowing down in her driving as she makes her way to park in front of your apartment. The two of you can see the lights of your crotchety landlord’s living room are still on, and you hope to God that he isn’t peering outside his windows and preparing to call the police on your friend (again).
“Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just,” you sigh, staring ahead of you and into the empty street. You don’t know why you’re hesitant to tell her what had happened earlier today. Normally, you would be exploding at the seams right now, weeping in despair at the sorry state of your existence. Then again, you’re not sure if you’re ready to go through the agony of reexperiencing the worst 12 hours of your life. Also, you just wanted to go pass out in your bed and never wake up.
In the end, you decide to tell her. Maybe she could offer a comforting shoulder to cry on. “Okay, so don’t laugh but… You remember the poem that got posted on the CCU Love Letters Facebook page this morning?”
Sera nods, confused. “Yeah? What about it?”
You take a deep breath, feeling your palms begin to sweat as hot licks of shame run down your back. You whisper, “Well. Yeah. I’m the author.”
There is a tangible silence inside the car. You’re afraid to look at Sera, dreading what sort of expression might appear on her face. Disdain? Pity? Mirth? Whatever it is, her quietness makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up in alarm. You’re about to book it out of her car and make some shitty excuse about needing to feed your goldfish when you hear the locks of the cardoors click shut. You whip your head towards her, eyes widening when you saw the smug look on her face.
Not a good sign. At all.
“Do my ears deceive me? Is Miss ‘i’m-never-going-to-date-because-romance-is-dead’ Y/N really the author of the sweetest and most romantic poem of the century?” she singsongs, her smirk growing with each word that leaves her lips.
“Who ever said I was against romance?” You retort, cheeks flushing so hotly that you’re sure there is steam coming out of your ears. Sera cackles loudly, slamming her hand so hard into the car horn that it causes one of the wandering cats to jump up high into the air. You are half concerned when you don’t see the poor cat come back down.
“Oh please! When was the last time you dated anyone? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you date anyone the entire time we’ve known each other!”
“We met in freshman year. You didn’t know how I was in high school,” you pout, huffing crossly. “And besides. I write romantic poems sometimes. You’ve read my blog posts.”
“Yeah, I know but,” Sera giggles once more, switching her phone on to search for something. When she finds what she is looking for, her eyes light up as she shows you the damned poem that got you into this mess in the first place. “You literally wrote ‘how wonderful is it to find that the dips in your hands look awfully lonely without mine in them?’ and you’re telling me that you wrote that?”
You push the phone away, groaning into your hands when you happen to glance at the number of likes on the post. “Fucking 2000 likes? Really? I’m gonna commit seppuku with your 13-inch dildo, I swear.”
As you let yourself descend into madness once more, you feel Sera’s hand pat your back comfortingly, though you can still hear her stifled giggles. “Okay. To be honest, I kind of knew it was you. No one else can write sappy lovesick bullshit like that and be sincere about it. Who the fuck compares skin to moonlight anymore? Are we in the 16th century?”
“You just said you didn’t believe that I’d write it,” you say. “I need people to not think it’s me. It’s so embarrassing as it is!”
“Don’t worry, I don’t think people are gonna think it’s you. There are a bunch of people in our Creative Writing class. It could be anyone,” Sera says, pinching your cheek lightly.
“You really think so?”
“Yeah, probably.” Sera hums, her thumbs flying on the screen of her phone. She pauses, chuckling lightly at something. “Though, I must say. You’re incredibly lucky. If you had used your actual e-mail address instead of your… burner one, you would have been found out immediately.”
“Little victories,” you say, wondering if the prepubescent version of yourself would have known that creating [email protected] would eventually save your life 10 years later in the future. Probably not, but you’ll take it all the same. “Will you unlock the doors now, please? I’m gonna sleep the trauma away and hopefully not be alive by Monday, but if I am… then I guess I’ll see you on Tuesday.”
“Hold on sister,” she says, restraining you back into your seat with her arm. You cough in surprise, shooting a glare back her way as she keeps you away from your bed longer than you would already like. “If you’re the author of the poem… Then can you tell me who the muse of the poem is? And more importantly, is it someone I know?”
Judging by the salacious look on her face, you know it would be a bad idea telling her. Not that you wouldn’t trust Sera with your life, but––actually, you really would not trust her with anything. Now that you think about it, telling Sera would be the equivalent of giving Kim Seokjin full access to your internet search history, and you have enough brain cells in your inventory to know that some things are worse than death.
“Ugh, can we just drop the subject, please? I really don’t want to have an aneurysm inside your car right now. I can see Mr. Park staring at us through his living room window and we both know you can’t afford bail for the third time this year.”
“Oh shit, you’re right,” she sighs, relinquishing her hold on you and allowing you to unlock the door. “But that doesn’t mean I’m letting this go! You’re telling me everything when we see each other on Tuesday, understand?”
“I’d rather die, thanks!” You call out, slamming the door shut. “And besides, I’m gonna try to kill the rumors as quickly as possible before someone figures it out.”
“How are you gonna do that? Don’t tell me you’re going to go to each of the guys and explain? Maybe tell them it’s a misunderstanding?” Sera asks, watching you curiously. The very thought of doing that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand at attention. You gaze downwards at the wet pavement, the feeling of impending doom rapidly becoming familiar.
"That would mean outing myself as the author, so that's definitely a hard pass."
"Suit yourself." Sera shrugs, already beginning to pull away from the driveway. She waves lazily at you, before driving away into the night. You stand outside for a moment longer, sighing deeply as you resign yourself to your new life filled with tomfoolery and bullshittery.
At the very least, there is no where to go but up, right?
[Life Lesson #1: It's important never to test fate with foolish declarations of optimism such as this. It only tempts whatever sadistic force that controls your pathetic human life to do their worst. So of course, it gets worse.]
To your credit, you don't spend your entire weekend wallowing in self-pity and despairing at your current situation. You only spend maybe 90% of it doing just that. The other 10% is used to plan your next plan of action.
Like an idiot, you fill yourself with too much misplaced confidence and Flamin' Hot Cheetos. You think to yourself, "Man! I have the whole weekend to think of something to do! Surely my brain will be able to make some sort of plan by the time Monday comes!"
It is a wonder that you are still somehow standing, in a state that some might say resembles being "alive," with how bad your forward thinking is. As it turns out, the weekend slips past you before you know it, with no more than a seedling of a plan than you did during the peak of your mental breakdown.
Suffice to say, you're in deep shit.
Monday comes just as surely as the sun rises from the east, which is to say that time continues to pass despite how much you'd be willing to pay for it to stop. You could live with one kidney, right? (Fate is probably more of a vegan, you surmise.)
Even when the world is ending all around you, it seems that your 8AM music composition class will wait for no one. And so, there you are: dragging your feet to what is usually one of your favorite classes, but with the added bonus of death clinging to your elbows. Perhaps your cosplay of a corpse is a bit too convincing, because most passersby are quick to step around you. Honestly, this is probably for the best, as you aren't sure what type of state your human compassion is at the moment, should someone dare disturb your "peace."
But of course, there is always that one idiot who manages to ruin your day––for the sole reason that he exists, much to your disappointment and chagrin. Hell, even his voice is enough to make your hairs bristle from just how he lilts his words ever so slightly. It is an absolute shame that the shortest route to your class is past his hair salon, so you can only imagine the speed at which your blood pressure rises when you hear him say––
“Miss Park, your split ends! Oh my word, Miss Park! Whatever shall we do but snip, snip, snip all those wretches out of your life, just like how I snip up all my haters! Aha, this is your cue to laugh by the way!” Kim Seokjin guffaws, his stupid voice unable to be muted by ten inches of concrete. Through the hair salon’s windowpane, you can see Seokjin’s hands make quick work of an elderly woman’s hair, his eyes in crescent moons with how loud he laughs. You mentally make a sign of the cross for the disaster that will soon befall that poor woman’s head.
Now, normally you would make haste to your class, with head bowed and shoulders hunched in hopes of that fool-mouthed ninny from seeing you and engaging in some of his usual buffoonery. For whatever brain cells he lacked, Seokjin always seems to have the ability to rope you into his many harebrained discussions, with topics ranging from “how often do you think people think of sleeping with me?” to “do you think if plants could dream, would they dream of sleeping with me?”
You know. The works.
As it is, today is not an ordinary day, and encountering Seokjin has only made you recall the distressing events from Friday. From your panic induced haze, you can only remember murky images of him holding court amongst a crowd of people, telling them how he must be the muse of your damned poem. The faint memory fills you with abject horror as you are reminded, not for the first time, how big his terribly well-sculpted mouth can be and how he will stop at nothing to make sure that everyone believes what he wants. (Despite how horrendous he is as an organism of this earth, you would be a fool to call his looks anything but mediocre. But that’s as far as anything worth praising concerns the likes of him.)
Something takes over you in that moment, something animalistic. As if your dumb monkey brain is going “hoo hoo eek eek… must… eliminate… AWOOGA… BIG THREAT…” and your sensible and empathetic sides are consequently forced to lie dormant in the meantime.
Hence how you find yourself bursting through Spick and Spock Hair Salon, with no plan whatsoever. All you can think of is Seokjin hanging from his balls on the school’s flagpole, and honestly you weren’t all that concerned with how Point A was going to reach Point B(alls). But we’ll deal with that later.
“What was that?” Miss Park hums, her hearing aid somewhat short-circuited with the sensory abuse it has already had to undergo. To Seokjin’s credit, his hands do not falter despite your loud entrance; however, that could mostly be explained by how much louder his own voice is in comparison, but that’s just your humble onion.
“––and basically, Miss Park, there is this poor soul out there who must be dying with embarrassment because their love poem has been exposed to the world without their consent! Now, I may be Aphrodite incarnate, but I am also a gentleman, and so I do not condone force of any kind,” Seokjin drawls, incognizant of the world around him. He continues to apply the perm solution on Miss Park’s curls, the precision at how he works almost impressive if not for the fact that he was entirely abhorrent.
“That’s nice, Jinnie, but will you please shut up? I’m two steps away from turning off my hearing aid, you know,” Miss Park says cheerily.
“STOP WHERE YOU ARE, KIM SEOKJIN! STOP FEEDING LIES TO THE ELDERLY!” You cry, filled with the same type of distress that a young peasant might feel from their first licks of capitalism. Seokjin, the wicked businessman in this terrible analogy, is the one selling his counterfeit goods to the unsuspecting innocent.
Miss Park gasps, turning to Seokjin with betrayal in her eyes. “Oh, I knew it! My perm does make me look older! Just give me the pink highlights like I told you, Jinnie. I saw the youngsters doing it on Facebook,” she says.
Seokjin turns his head towards you in slow-motion, like an ass, and even takes the care to flick his beautifully styled bangs away from his forehead so he can gaze upon you with faux interest. “Oh? Miss Y/N? In my salon? I knew you’d be back here soon enough, especially with those roots… Come, take a seat. Let me bump your sorry 2/10 looking ass to a 2.5/10 at least.”
“If it were not for the laws of this land,” you seethe, cursing him through gritted teeth. You stalk towards him, rolling up your sleeves to show that you mean Business. (Funnily enough, you were wearing a tank top that day.) “I can’t believe you’re even being considered a suspect of the poem’s muse in the first place!”
Seokjin fakes a contemplative look. “Isn’t it because of my moon-like radiance? People have told me that I glow like a newborn babe.”
“You sure have the brains of one,” you retort.
“I heard from my niece that it was because he was an extra in a play as a moon or something,” Miss Park quips helpfully. Seokjin makes an affronted noise, but does not reject her claim.
“You were, like, a prop?” You snicker, forgetting for a moment what you were doing. You watch with wicked fascination as his ears turn red.
“Everyone has to start from somewhere! And so what? I had to hang ten feet in the air with a wedgie the entire time! My battle scars are what make me stronger.” He sniffs, upturned nose and all. You and Miss Park snort, not at all inconspicuously.
He pours the remainder of the solution all over Miss Park’s head and slaps her not-too gently on the back, clasping his hands together gleefully. “Well! That should do the trick. Relax, Miss Park, and let the chemicals do all the talking or whatever.” You take mental note to never come back to his establishment ever again so long as you live.
“Ma’am, if you’d like to save yourself from listening to the avalanche of anger that I’m about to unleash, I would suggest turning off your hearing aid for a moment,” you say.
She shrugs her shoulders, reclining further into her seat and resting her legs on a nearby bench. “Sure. YOLO, as the kids say.”
At her consent, you promptly slap the hearing aid out of her ear so you can scream at Seokjin in relative privacy. Miss Park doesn’t even seem to notice, and this should’ve been an indicator of how fucked up Seokjin’s salon is if she didn’t even seem slightly shocked by your actions. (How could she, when Seokjin literally just dumped fucking chemicals all over her scalp? Isn’t that illegal?)
“I’m going to sensibly reason with you first,” you scream and jab at his chest, being unreasonable.
“Okay, sounds believable,” Seokjin replies, raising a brow. He gestures for you to follow him to where the cashier is supposed to be, except that it is so early in the morning that the other employee that works with him isn’t even in at the moment. You still have yet to know why Seokjin opens the shop at 8AM in the first place.
“Why the hell are you spreading misinformation to random people like that? You know damn well that the poem isn’t about you,” you huff, crossing your arms. Seokjin, the ever-loving twat that he is, matches your pose to mock you. He even juts out his hip the way that you do.
“Of course it’s about me! How could it not be about me? Did you not read the part about how the author looks at the moon and thinks about my skin? Everyone knows that Etude House is dying to have me as their face mask model!”
The prickling urge to strangle him strengthens. “Listen,” you say, teeth gnashing from the effort of keeping yourself from leaping and ending it all. “For once in your life, is it really that hard to believe that the world doesn’t revolve around you?”
“Oh, you’re one of those heliocentric believers? Jincentric is where it’s at, Miss Y/N!” He laughs, slapping his knee at the pure hilarity of his joke. He does not pause once at your disdainful visage.
“Fine! Believe what you want! But I need you to stop telling everyone that you’re the muse of that poem. The rumor won’t die if you keep stoking the flame with your inflamed ego.”
Seokjin ponders your words for a second, looking at you with a contemplative stare. He does not speak for so long that you’re almost willing to let yourself hope that he has acquiesced, until––”When have you ever done anything for me?”
You gape at his sudden accusation. “Excuse me? I’ve done a lot for you!”
“Like?”
You pause, racking your brain. “Uh. I haven’t killed you?”
“Fair,” he nods, stroking his chin. “But that won’t be enough to stop me. I love being admired, so fuck you for even assuming that I would stop talking about myself. However, I’ll do it for a price.”
“Price?” You groan, fixing him with a glare. “You know damn well that I’m poor, but name it and I’ll try to pay it as soon as you can.”
Seokjin grins, his pearly whites much too incandescent with how dark his soul is. “Invest in my JiHope t-shirt business. I need, like, $500 left to reach the first goal of my kickstarter.”
You stare at him, completely baffled. Is this dude for real, or is he just a caricature turned to life? “You’re a heathen, do you know that?” you say, disgust oozing from every orifice of your body.
“I am feeling quite heathen-ish today, thanks for noticing,” he replies, somber. “Does that mean you accept my proposal?”
You hate how his voice sounds even the slightest bit optimistic, because that means he really does think you’re as stupid as he is. “Can you be serious for once? And before you say it, don’t fucking pull a dad joke on me and say some shit like ‘how can I be serious if I’m Jin?’ because I will not hesitate to bite two inches off your dick.”
“That would still leave 13-inches, so to be honest I should be thanking you.” He shrugs his shoulders, unashamed of existing in this day and age. “And no, I can’t be serious. It goes against my brand.”
“Your brand of being a fucking menace to society?” you grouse.
“Exactly.”
You are seriously ready to explode, and it isn’t going to be pretty. Lord knows that Seokjin would hate having your guts splattered on his overpriced Gucci slides. “Please, can you just stop talking about the poem? It’s bad enough that the original post is getting hundreds of likes by the hour, and if I know one thing, it’s probably mostly from your own influence.”
With a hundred thousand followers under his belt, it probably isn’t that much of a stretch. As much as he is the spawn of Satan, he is rather popular among your peers. Not that popularity has ever been a good measure of compassion. Case in point:
Seokjin grins, misleadingly angelic. “Aw, are you calling me an influencer? That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“You’re insufferable!” you yell, glowering at the overly-smug theatre student. You stomp your foot on the ground, pointing a finger in his direction as your nostrils flare in annoyance. Like hell that you’re going to let this shithead make you his bitch! “If you’re not going to do as I say, then I’m going to pester you throughout your entire shift and follow you to class if I have to!”
Big words from such a weak-willed person such as yourself. It does not take you long to realize how fatal of a mistake it is to make such a promise, because you never really stopped to think about the actual logistics of such a stunt (i.e. having to be around Seokjin for longer than your recommended daily dose). You can only imagine what such an experience would entail.
After a 3-hours of watching a buffoon salvaging humanity’s hair-do’s and don’ts (his words not yours), you feel as if his very demonic energy was sucking your life force with a curly straw. You fear that when you close your eyes tonight, you will be haunted by images of his Pacific-wide shoulders and his head tilted back in maniacal laughter as he snips away with less care than a toddler. Well, at least that’s what he appears to be doing, because occasionally you will zone out but then return to the sight of a fairly satisfied customer with glossy looking locks, so perhaps he isn’t as inept as you had imagined.
Your amazement is short-lived, however, when he opens his mouth and the cycle begins anew.
After finishing his last client for the morning, he makes his way to his first class of the day. You are reminded of the fact that you are missing your own morning classes as a result, but you know that you cannot afford to let him off your sight, lest he make a bigger fool of himself (and consequently, make your life a bigger hell than it already is).
You trudge behind him, ensuring that he never strays further than three feet away from you. It’s pretty easy to keep up with him, due to the fact that he always makes a point to pause whenever he sees his own reflection (in windows, shiny surfaces, some poor boy’s bicycle helmet––his narcissism knows no bounds.)
When he finally makes a full stop outside one of the lecture halls, he intentionally sidesteps in front of you. The suddenness of it causes you to bump against his steely back, bruising your nose enough to make you yelp in pain. You’re just about to cuss him out when he turns to face you, uncharacteristically serious.
“Now Y/N, I need you to stay out here in the corridor like a good girl, okay? There’s a strict rule of having no pets allowed,” he coos, making the fatal mistake of trying to stroke your head. He shrieks when your teeth meets his palm, but you are unrepentant.
When you let go, he tries to appear unfazed, blowing you a kiss instead as he saunters off into the lecture hall. Not wanting to disturb the class anyway, you decide to heed his words and squat outside in the hallway, occasionally looking through the small window to glare menacingly at the pink-haired bastard. Despite the holes you wish you were burning into the back of his skull, he remains aloof to your imaginary death ray as he continues to take studious notes of whatever his professor is saying.
On the other hand, his classmates are a different story. They send each other wary looks, wondering why the hell this random person was doing a Jack Torrance impression. When the clock strikes, they all make a beeline for the exit, clearly avoiding looking you in the eye as they speedwalk to their next classes. Seokjin makes it out last, his gait the picture of perfect nonchalance. He has the audacity to look surprised to see you there, like you were an old friend he had not expected to meet until you both reached the pearly gates (or fiery pits, but that’s unimportant right now).
“You’re still here, Miss Golum? Have you been good? I’m honestly surprised that you are as stubborn as I am.” He whistles lowly, shouldering his backpack with a smirk. He walks down the hall towards the exit, not checking to see if you were keeping up or not.
You proceed to bite his penis in half to keep him in place. Okay, not really, but you know… one can dream.
What you actually do is follow him as he heads to the cafeteria, presumably to sustain the mortal body he has chosen to possess. It takes him an agonizing thirty minutes to decide what he wants to eat for lunch, and another thirty minutes to say his extensive list of food products that he will most likely be consuming within the next hour or so. You’ve never seen a fast food worker look so dead before, and you’re sure the poor college student behind the counter had zoned out after Seokjin ordered his tenth happy meal.
As the two of you stand to the side to wait for his order, he turns to you expectantly. “So,” he begins.
“Fa,” you retort, followed by a gasp of shock from the elder.
“Do my ears deceive me? Your first dad joke… And to think, all it took was for you to hang out with me for four hours to initiate you as an apprentice.” He weeps loudly, faking tears in an impressively short amount of time. That doesn’t stop you from kicking him in the shin, though.
“Don’t worry, I’m already dead inside. There’s no soul left for you to consume,” you reply dryly. He tuts, shaking his head.
“Before I was so rudely interrupted, I was just about to ask… As much as I have enjoyed our quality bonding time together––”
“I’ll gladly piss on your grave, don’t forget,” you interject.
“––I was wondering why you’re so adamant to dispel the rumors about the poem? You don’t seem like the type to engage in campus gossip.”
Oh shit. Perhaps there is something more than hot air in that tiny head of his.
You flounder about like a fish for a bit, your mouth opening and closing as you think of an explanation that wouldn’t out yourself in the process. You feel your cheeks reddening, only two seconds away from steam whistling out of your eardrums. Broken stammers are all you can manage as he waits expectantly, but luckily, you don’t have to think of a response when a nearby commotion forces the two of you to back away from each other.
A gaggle of freshmen storm through from out of nowhere, forcing the both of you to be swept away as they all made their way towards a pop-up stand in the middle of the court. Accustomed to the borderline cringey overexcitement of the youngest students in the university, you are quick to dismiss their behavior and decide to search for Seokjin, until you hear one of the little freshmen say something that catches your attention.
"You think the t-shirts are still available? Chaeyeon said the hoodies sold out this morning, so I'm scared that we'll be too late," a young girl says, her hands clutched to her chest as she tries to tiptoe over the crowd to survey the state of the merchants just up ahead.
Her friend pats her back assuringly. "Don't worry. The announcement on the page said they're bringing in the reserve stocks from the backroom, which is probably why everyone's here. We just have to get there first." They proceed to elbow their way through the throng of people, and completely disappear from your view. Where they stood, more people soon took their place until a sizeable swarm has taken over half the area of the floor.
Now, this exchange isn't necessarily a red flag to most people, since many clubs and organizations at your university often sold different types of goods to raise funds for their projects. However, given the circumstances that you have become entrenched in the last few days, you can never be too cautious of innocent utterances such as this.
You take a few steps back, trying your best to see over the heads of the crowd that is steadily growing larger. After a few minutes of fruitless attempts to squeeze through sweaty pits and cacophonous teenagers, you are ready to just give up and let it go when the same pair of girls from earlier exit from the side, with numerous folded up shirts in their arms.
You hasten towards them, barely being able to latch onto their shoulders to stop them from escaping. The shorter of the girls squeals in surprise, dropping her prized possessions onto the floor. She turns to you, anger ready to burst forth from her tongue when she looks you in the face. She softens almost immediately, wrath evaporating in the wind. Confused, you're just about to ask her if she knows you from somewhere when her friend cuts you to the chase.
"Oh my God! It's her!" she squeals, reaching for your hand and shaking it so vigorously that you swear you hear your shoulder bones pop out of its socket. The girl who had dropped her shirts just continues to stare at you in awe, her mouth agape as she remains speechless, apparently from your presence alone.
You feel the dread begin to build in the pits of your stomach. "It's me?" you say, pointing to yourself with your free hand.
"Yes! Miss Y/N, you have no idea how happy I am to meet you! We are big fans of your work on the CCU Pen Blog! Your short story about the talking brick wall honestly brought me to tears," she gasps out, eyes twinkling with unrestrained reverence. Judging from the death grip she has on your hand, you can certainly say that this girl isn't lying.
While you are aware of the small following that you've accumulated over the past two years as one of the top contributors in your university's open writing forum, that isn't to say that you have ever met a fan as fervent as the two before you. Still on edge from everything that has been going on, you still can't let your guard down around them.
After a bit of effort on your part, you are finally able to pry yourself away from the girl's tight hold. Coughing lightly into your abused fist, you fix them with a wary glance. They return it with unnervingly excited stares of their own.
"Um. Thank you very much, ladies. I just wanted to ask you about the function going on over there?" you ask, pointing over at the still bustling shop booth. At your query, the girls actually look confused, as if you are the weird one in this interaction.
"You don't know? I thought you of all people should know about the merch sale happening right now," the quieter girl speaks up, bewildered. She bends down to pick up the shirts she had dropped, turning it over to show you the design that you had previously failed to notice. What a terrible mistake you have committed.
(Was the mistake looking at the t-shirt? Was it waking up today? Was it deciding to live after your mother conceived you in the womb? Truly, where does the blame game truly end in this foul existence that you call your own?)
The scream that is elicited from your throat cannot be described as anything from this world, because you are sure everyone in the vicinity might have stopped breathing for a few seconds after hearing it. The macabre quality of your voice even caused the two girls in front of you to flee in fright, leaving you with the wretched t-shirt in your trembling palms.
There, printed on the t-shirt, right in front of your mortal eyes, is an image you would rather that you had not seen even if it meant having to suckle from Kim Seokjin's teets for all eternity.
In all its poorly printed glory, your face is plain as day. Anyone would be able to recognize that it was you: in the middle of chewing what appears to be a whole turkey leg.
There you were, with ketchup dripping down your cheek, sitting just outside the Fine Arts building as you scarfed down the poor piece of poultry because you had been too lazy to cut up into smaller, more refined chunks. Like the fucking caveman that you are, you had held the leg like a police baton, mouth open so wide that you'd think you might have unhinged your jaw to get the entire thing to fit in there.
You think that's all? It gets worse.
Somehow, the perpetrator of this terrible t-shirt just has to make you look even less attractive than humanly possible. Superimposed beside your sauce-stained self is none other than a PNG image of Jeon Jungkook in his prime. With his sleek black hair pushed back to reveal his forehead, you are sure that this photo is the same one that everyone on campus had swooned over just a few weeks prior, when he had been chosen to model in an advertisement for some club's fundraising event. He is the picture of quiet confidence, which might make you laugh on any other day, since the boy is anything but that in his day to day life. You only ever interact with him when you see him manning the front desk of the library, and he always has his head bowed over a book, unaware of the stares of his many admirers.
Clearly, the injustice of having a literal god beside your hulk-ish photo is downright cruel, but this optical torment does not stop there.
Underneath the photos of the two of you, there is a short line of text that is honestly the worst part of the entire thing. In bold, sans serif font, it reads “Y/NKOOK SUPPORTERS INITIATIVE” with a copious amount of black heart emojis tacked on. In a smaller, but similarly visible manner, it also reads “The Moon Poem is about them and I will stand on this rock until I die!” There are also numerous 100 and fire emojis scattered around the entire shirt.
It’s terrible. It’s downright despicable. It’s the worst thing to ever grace your vision, and that’s saying something, considering that you’ve met your fair share of delusional graphic designers.
Another scream rips from your throat––more livid, this time.
It is at that moment when you realize that maybe Thanos was right––maybe some people really do deserve to die for the betterment of civilization.
Perhaps the crowd of eagerly waiting customers can sense the heat from your unfathomable anger, because they quickly part like the Red Sea as you stomp over to the front of the lines where you will likely find the perpetrator of this heinous crime.
There is a young boy with droopy eyes standing by the tables of merchandise, his hands quickly counting wads of bills as he jams them haphazardly into his pink Hello Kitty fanny pack. He doesn't even bother looking up when you approach him, still busy with his profits, when you clear your throat to catch his attention.
"Are you the one in charge of this fucking circus?" You snarl, fists itching to come into contact with his cheeks. He hums disinterestedly, zipping up his gaudy fanny pack with a tired sigh.
"No, ma'am. I'm just the hired help," he drawls, turning away from you as he gestures vaguely at the mountains of goods still left for purchase. "Are you interested in something or what? There are still 30 people waiting to buy, so I'd rather you not back up the line please."
At the end of your patience, you admit that perhaps grabbing the poor boy by the collar might have been a bit drastic. Still, you're itching to know who the source of all this madness is, so you don't feel all that guilty when he makes a choking sound from your act of brute force. Despite your strong grip on his windpipe, his dead fish-eyes do not disappear. In fact, he looks exasperated more than anything.
"Listen lady, are you going to buy something or what? Who even the fuck are you?"
You splutter, staring incredulously at the younger. Who the fuck are you? You aren't the type to expect people to know who you are but you can at least expect that the person selling goods with your face on it would know who you are! Like, how the hell does he not know that you were the same person on the damned picket fans and keychains?
"I don't––what the hell––" you stammer, speechless for the first time in a while.
"OWO what's this? Is this a new campus couple shipping booth that just opened? Do you guys sell JiHope versions too?" Just in time to witness your second mental breakdown of the day, Seokjin makes his convenient re-entrance as he sidles up beside you. He has two burgers in hand, one of which he is halfway done eating.
You gape at him. "Did you buy a burger for me?"
Seokjin snorts, stuffing the entire remainder of the sandwich into his unfathomably large mouth. "No, you idiot. They’re both for me," he replies, with surprising coherency despite the dribbles of meat and bread product spilling onto his chin. You swear you can see him unhinge his jaw just the slightest bit.
He bends down to pick up one of the fallen pins from the floor, groaning at the sound of his back cracking. "Oh shit, that hurt!"
Unable to help yourself despite still having a freshman in a chokehold, you quip automatically "Yikes, that sounds like a couple of dinosaur bones creaking. You alright?"
Not missing a beat, Seokjin replies "Nah. I just can’t help having a bad back with how big my dick is."
The young boy taps you on the shoulder, reminding you once more of the situation you are in. "Can you let go? My shift is over so you can interrogate the next dude instead," he drawls, having the audacity to yawn at you.
Taking pity on him, you do as he asks. He straightens up, pulling his rumpled collar down before unclasping the fanny pack from around his waist. Another similarly dead-eyed young boy (who was incredibly tall, much to your chagrin––obnoxiously tall young men ALWAYS had agendas, take Seokjin for example) takes the bag from him. He gives you a short once over, no signs of recognition present in his expression at all. When he sees Seokjin, however, his reaction is a lot more than you expected.
"Oh my God, Seokjin? Holy shit, I'm a big fan!" The new boy gasps, pushing aside a customer in favor of reaching over to shake Seokjin's hand. Ever the slut for praise and appreciation, Seokjin shakes his hands with the ease of a seasoned politician.
"Aren't we all?" he laughs, haughty. The other boy laughs too, his eyes sparkling with unrestrained admiration. You sneer in disgust at the hearts visibly emanating from his body.
"My name is Soobin, and I just love your performance in last week's production at the Campus Theatre! Would you mind signing my assh––"
"Hold on," you interrupt, glaring daggers at Seokjin. "Did you fucking do this? Did you make this fucking merch booth of me and Jungkook?"
Seokjin frowns, annoyed that you had been impetuous enough to stop this spontaneous meet and greet session between him and his loyal fan. "No, of course not. Who even the fuck is Dungcock, or whatever the hell that dude's name is."
"You fucking dumb piece of shit––" you say, about to bite off his balls for real when your phone begins to ring, saving Seokjin for the time being. You recognize the ringtone to be the one you set for your alarms, and you realize that after all the commotion from this morning, you have forgotten about the tutoring session you are supposed to have with Hoseok today. Since you had cancelled last Friday's session after your spectacular psychotic meltdown, you know that you couldn't possibly skip this one as well.
Shutting your phone off, you groan, fixing Seokjin with your most solemn gaze. "Listen, I don't have a lot of time. I have to go tutor Hoseok soon, and I've already skipped all my classes today by trying to convince your imbecilic ass to be empathetic for once in your miserable life so I'm begging you for the last time––please stop spreading the rumors about the poem," you finish, tears welling up as you finally register the fatigue weighing down your bones. It's only Monday, and you can't wait for the sweet release of death.
Seokjin is silent the entire while. The merchandise boy, Soobin, has already left the two of you alone, becoming disinterested the moment you uttered the word "listen." You're breathing heavily, bracing yourself for the inevitable sound of his windshield wiper-esque laughter. To your complete and utter surprise, his mocking does not come.
Instead, he puts down his second burger, stuffing it inside his back pocket (presumably for safekeeping). He wipes his hands on his shirt, smearing ketchup sauce on it before levelling you with his gaze. He appears like he is about to acquiesce to your demands.
Is this it? Will you allow yourself to hope? Has Kim Seokjin actually developed compassion during the last 20 seconds of your heartfelt plea? Are you finally going to lay to rest the rumor that he does not actually have a second stomach where his heart should be?
Then, "Okay Y/N. I'll do it."
Hope rises just beyond the horizon.
He raises a finger, "But––"
And just like that, hope takes a pounding to the ass (lubelessly) and dies before it even has the chance to break past the peaks of your mountain of crushed dreams.
"––you have to admit that you're the author of the poem and then I'll stop exacerbating the rumors."
You can feel the demon living inside you just itching to climb its way out of your ass and circle its hands around Seokjin's larynx. Hell, you can't say you wouldn't do it yourself. "WHAT? NO!! THAT'S LITERALLY––I'M NOT EVEN––" you scream, shocked and enraged at the same time.
Seokjin rolls his eyes, placing his perfectly manicured hand on his hip. "Save it, babe. I know you're the author. As annoying and stupid as you are––"
"Hey!"
"––you've always been a pretty good writer and I would recognize your writing style anywhere. Not to say that I read your works religiously or anything, but I mean... I see your writing on the newspapers that I use to pick up my dog's shits, so I guess I read them sometimes," he says, not looking you in the eyes. The tips of his ears are turning red, but you hardly notice his embarrassment when you're more amazed that he even acknowledged your talent in the first place. You guys aren't even friends!
"Wow. I don't even know what to say."
"Just admit you're the author and we're good." Seokjin smirks, patting you lightly on the shoulder.
You frown. "Isn't that counterproductive? I want the rumors to stop, not for them to be related to me."
"Which is a sentiment that I cannot fathom at all, since I crave the attention." He sniffs, glowering at you. "You can imagine the sacrifice I am bestowing upon you by having to relinquish this newfound fame just so your little crush stays hidden."
"How benevolent of you," you deadpan.
"And since you didn't deny it, I'm assuming that you are the author after all. Besides, I just wanted you to tell me the truth, mostly so I can bully you for writing sickly sweet love poems about yours truly."
"Okay, I'll admit. I am the author. You got me," you grunt, rubbing your temples. "But there is no way in HELL that I wrote Moonlight Sonata for you. I'd rather eat my own intestines than write anything remotely flattering about you."
"That's what they all say," Seokjin says, sighing dreamily. "To be honest, I knew you were the author from the beginning and I just wanted to annoy you until you caved. I didn't think you would be that stressed over the stupid poem enough to follow me around for an entire day. That crush must be embarrassing, huh?"
"It's not!" you exclaim hotly. You clear your throat, forcing the blush around your cheeks to die down. "It's just... It was supposed to be private." Your voice breaks off into a whisper, vulnerability lacing your words.
It's true––the only reason you wanted all of this to be over was because it was never even supposed to have happened in the first place. Your words and stories were always open to the public eye. You gave and you gave and you gave, although that has never been a problem. You loved sharing your thoughts and feelings; it was one of the greatest things about being writer. You enjoyed hearing how people related to your experiences because it made you feel seen, it made you feel known. You were not alone in this journey, and that had made all the difference.
This time, however, you had preferred to go through this alone. Mostly because even you were not sure what it was that you were going through. How were you supposed to share this part of yourself with others when you did not even know what it was that you were feeling? You had poured every inch of your soul onto those pages, and to have yourself completely barren to the world like it was nothing––
That had been catastrophic to you. But at the end of the day, there was nothing you can do except to try and silence it.
Seokjin considers your sad form, watching you until a small secretive smile inches its way on his lips. You scowl, not liking the way he looks like he knows something that you don't.
"What are you smiling at?"
"Oh, nothing," Seokjin whistles, winking provokingly. He laughs obnoxiously, not faltering even when you kick him in the sin. "Just that I know you have a crush on me and you're just embarrassed to admit it. Thank God that I'm a great actor, so I guess I'll pretend for your sake."
"You're not my––" you start, before giving up mid-sentence. Was there truly any use to arguing with Seokjin? You'd rather not waste any more saliva than you already have. "Whatever. Believe what you want. All that matters is that you do what I asked you to do."
"Sure thing, Shakespeare," Seokjin scoffs, flicking you lightly on the forehead. "Also, in payment for my services, you are required to watch my next play AND attend at least three of my rehearsals and cheer for me every time I appear in a scene. I require a bouquet of flowers at every appearance."
You're about to argue, (fruitlessly, you might add), when a barrage of buzzes coming from your back pocket stops you in your tracks. You slip out your phone, and you see dozens of texts from a worried Hoseok asking where you are. You reply a quick "otw" to him before focusing back on Seokjin.
"Fine. Whatever. I'll fucking kill you the next time I see you, but... thank you. I know it's hard for you to be kind to anything other than your reflection." You take a deep breath, furrowing your brows. Saying thank you to a troglodyte is harder than it seems. "And thanks for reading my works. We're still not friends or anything, by the way. Hope you remember that."
"Wouldn't dream of forgetting," Seokjin chuckles. "Me? Friends with you? A 10 walking around with a negative 1? Fat chance." He waves goodbye, blowing you an obnoxiously loud kiss before stalking off away from you. The bulge of his smooshed burger has left an unsightly grease stain all over the back of his jeans.
Before you turn to go to the exit, you pass by Soobin who was still busy with customers. You slip a few bills into his pocket, tiptoeing to whisper into his ear. "Here's twenty bucks. Go kick Seokjin in the balls for me."
When the double doors slam behind you, the beautiful sound of Seokjin's pained howl bids you the cheery farewell that you deserve.
#networkbangtan#armiesnet#bts scenarios#bts fanfiction#bts#bts imagines#bts scenario#kim seokjin#seokjin scenarios#jin scenarios#seokjin imagines#jin imagines#seokjin fluff#jin fluff#bts fluff#bts crack#bangtan#bts fanfic#ANYWAY.... this was dumb thanks for going thru All That#time to hibernate lol
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The Girl Next Door Chp. 3
A/N: Hi friends! Here is chapter 3 at last! It’s a long one, so you might want to grab yourself a cup of tea or, in the spirit of this chapter, pour yourself a drink! I hope you enjoy it and I’d love to know what you think! xo
Demelza Poldark 9:09pm
DWIGHT <3
Hurry up!!!
Dwight Enys 9:10pm
I’m ready, I’m just waiting for Caroline. Literally waiting right outside her front door. Maybe she’s ignoring me?
Demelza Poldark 9:10pm
Don’t be ridiculous! You’re handsome and lovely, what’s not to like?! X
Dwight Enys 9:10pm
Haha oh ffs how much have you had to drink?
Demelza Poldark 9:12pm
Oh, A LOT! You’ve got some catching up to do! How amazing is autocorrect btw?! Anyways MOVE YOUR ARSE DON’T MAKE ME COME OVER YOU KNOW I WILL
Dwight sighed loudly. She would definitely come over to drag them both out if they didn’t show up soon. Dwight knocked on Caroline’s door again. “Caroline? Are you ready yet?”
“Just a sec!” She called through the door. Dwight heard clattering behind the door and assumed she was likely still getting ready and would thus be much longer than one second. He genuinely couldn’t believe she had agreed to come in the first place, and, more than that, seemed happy to be invited. That is, before she had smiled at him in her unusual way, as she had won an argument they had not been having.
While Caroline was busy still getting ready, Dwight seized the opportunity to take out his phone to see if he looked semi-presentable. He eyed his stubble and began to feel that he should have probably shaved, but he supposed he still looked fine. He smoothed his hair and double checked that there was nothing in his teeth, which of course there wasn’t as he’d literally brushed them twenty minutes ago and had neither eaten nor drank anything since. His aftershave was a little strong though, maybe. Why was he so fidgety? Probably because he hadn’t seen his friends for a while and didn’t want them to go all parental on him if he looked like shit. Yeah, that was it.
Demelza Poldark 9:18pm
DWIGHT WH Y ARE YOU STILL IN YOUR FLAT I CAN SEE YOU ON SNAPCHAT MAPS I WILL PUT MY JACKET ON IN A MIN I SWEAR TO GOD
Just as Dwight began typing a soothing reply to his distressed, inebriated friend, Caroline’s flat door swung open. She snatched her coat off its hanger and grabbed her bag before stepping onto the landing. “Sorry, sorry! My stupid fucking shower took ages to heat up!”
Dwight simply stared at her, blinking several times, as if unable to believe she was real. Yes, normally she was very pretty, but he had never seen her properly dressed up before. She stood in front of him in a one-shouldered white dress, her hair long and wavy, with a pale pink colour on her lips and a light smoky-eye behind her thick, black eyelashes. “Wow. Um – you – ehm – you look great.”
She fought a smile at his compliment and smoothed her white dress. “Thank you,” she replied evenly as she buttoned her coat. She then shrugged and flipped her long curly locks over her shoulder, “I know.”
He laughed at her lack of modesty. “You do know we’re only going to the Red Lion around the corner though, and not some red-carpet event?” he taunted cheekily, then immediately prayed it wouldn’t offend her.
Caroline gasped quietly and eyed him with surprise, but appreciated the tease. “Well, in the words of Coco Chanel: ‘A woman can be overdressed but never over elegant.’” She sauntered past him and headed down the stairs with as much grace as if she was wearing her fluffy pug slippers, that he’d seen when he attended on her pet, as opposed to heels.
It was then Dwight realised that a small dog, by the name of Horace, was following her closely at her heels. “Um, are you bringing Horace, too? I don’t think the pub allows dogs…” He frowned and bit his lip.
She looked at him as though he was the stupidest person in the world. “Yes, Dr Enys, I thought it would be a great idea to bring my pug to a bar that wouldn’t let him and then chain him to a fence for the night while I get drunk inside,” she replied, her voice dripping with scathing sarcasm. “Do you think I’m an idiot? I’m dropping him off at Mrs Figg’s flat, she loves him.”
“The latter sentence would have sufficed,” Dwight said tightly, not caring for her tone at his simple, reasonable, question.
She knocked on door number 12 of their building and awaited an answer. “Well, not for me!” she replied sweetly, a sardonic smiled on her face. Mrs Figg appeared at her door then, very happy to see Dwight and Caroline, and – above all – Horace; whom she promised to spoil rotten, telling Caroline to enjoy herself and that she could come and collect Horace the next day at any time, or even allow him to stay until Monday, if she so wished.
A little over five minutes later, as the door to their apartment building slammed shut behind them, Caroline asked: “So, how far is it to the pub?”
Dwight made an uncertain noise, as it had been quite a while since he’d gone on a night out, and longer still since he had been to this specific pub. “About a ten to fifteen-minute walk, I’d say. Will you manage it in those shoes?” He motioned to her glossy white heels, which made her an inch taller than him.
Caroline looked down at her shoes and then at Dwight and proceeded to laugh heartily. “Oh, trust me when I say I can walk better in heels than I can in flats!”
He looked at her 5-inch heels, genuinely perplexed. “What? How is that even possible?” His mind went into overdrive as he tried to recall the exact, medical formation of the human foot.
“Well, you’ll remember that I said I did a bit of modelling to you yesterday?” He nodded. “I kind of lied. I actually did a lot of modelling, it was kind of my career. It was nice to wear expensive clothes and have your makeup done by other people but honestly, seven years of being told how thin you should be and how you should wear your hair and how you should dress just got really tiring.” She laughed it off, but Dwight had a feeling that the comment wasn’t as flippant as she’d intended it to be.
He scratched his ear, unsure of what to say next. He coughed, which came out in a puff in the cold, night air. “So, is that why you–“
Dwight’s phoned vibrated and pinged at full volume, not once, but twice. He gritted his teeth together – this better be a spam email from Dominos. “Sorry, hold on, two seconds.” He fished his iPhone out of the pocket of his dark jeans and opened the messages. Caroline distracted herself with her phone, too.
Ross Poldark 9:27pm
Where are you mate?
Think Dem is about to have a nervous breakdown, if I don’t fucking kill her first for being a pain in the arse! Move it!!!
Dwight Enys 9:27pm
OMG IM FUCKING COMING IM LITERALLY AROUND THE CORNER
Ross Poldark 9:27pm
Alright keep your cock on! See you in a min. Want a beer?
Dwight Enys 9:28pm
Yeah please. Heineken
Ross Poldark 9:28pm
Well then hurry up and get here so you can order yourself one ;)
Dwight Enys 9:28pm
Why am I friends with you? Can’t believe I fell for that
Ross Poldark 9:28pm
You should know better by now Enys. We saved you and your lady friend a seat btw ;)
Dwight Enys 9:29pm
Oh don’t fucking start she’s not my lady friend
Ross Poldark 9:29pm
She is a lady is she not? And your friend?? Or are you lying to us and bringing a bloke? If this is your way of coming out Dwight it’s a bit extra but we accept and love you no matter what
Dwight Enys 9:30pm
Omg Ross
I’m gonna kill you before the end of the night I can feel it
If you fucking say anything embarrassing about me to Caroline I will never speak to you again. I will literally unstitch the scar on your face and let you slowly bleed to death
Ross Poldark 9:30pm
:(
Now now Dwight we mustn’t fight, you don’t want to upset your lady friend x
And with that, Dwight firmly locked his phone and let out an exasperated groan. Caroline, who had been watching Horace on her phone via the PugCam she had given to Mrs Figg, looked up at Dwight with furrowed brows. “What’s wrong?” she asked as they continued their way down the narrow streets, Caroline’s heels echoing loudly.
Dwight wiped his face. “My friends…” He sighed. “They are lovely people. Really, truly, the best people ever. But please, please, don’t listen to anything they say about me tonight, they are determined to ruin my life.” He chuckled, but his eyes held a serious, somewhat nervous, gaze.
Caroline placed her phone into her coat pocket as the sign of the Red Lion came into view. “But that’s the best part about having friends, Dr Enys!” she cried in amusement, smiling in victory as Dwight sighed and held the door open for her.
Ross Poldark chuckled as he placed his phone back in his pocket. “Well, I’ve managed to wind Dwight up nicely, so let’s see how flustered we can make him when he gets here,” he announced to the table, rubbing his hands together like a cartoon villain. Francis and George laughed in agreement, but all of the women looked at Ross, appalled. They were very defensive of their ‘little brother’ friend, even though he happened to be almost 4 years older than Demelza and was only 2 months older than Elizabeth.
Demelza slapped Ross on his, admittedly large, bicep. “Enough, Ross. When was the last time Dwight even talked to a girl that wasn’t any of us? He must genuinely like her – even if it is just as a friend – so don’t ruin it for him, please.” She placed her hand on top of his which rested on his thigh. He moved to place his hand on top and shook hers gently before interlacing their fingers, a gesture which Demelza knew meant that he had agreed to her terms.
“Yes, Ross, please don’t ruin it for him,” Elizabeth begged from the top of the table, before whispering aside to her husband: “Francis, darling, please make sure Ross doesn’t do anything stupid.” She placed a hand on his shoulder and brought out her largest doe eyes.
Francis took a gulp of his beer and whined internally at her ability to make him do anything. “I promise I will try, my dear. But you do know that no one can actually stop Ross from doing something stupid, I think it’s part of his DNA at this point!”
Elizabeth chuckled and leaned in to place a kiss on his cheek before wiping away the stain of her red lipstick. “Well, I’m definitely glad it’s not part of your DNA.”
Her phone buzzed, and she snatched it quickly, causing Francis to raise his eyebrows. “Who’s that?”
“No one,” she lied, concealing her phone from her husband’s view as smile spread over her face.
“Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth sighed. “Okay, fine! It’s Emma, I was just making sure that everything was OK.” She showed Francis a picture of Geoffrey Charles and Julia watching what appeared to be Finding Nemo.
“That’s a sweet photo but you’ve got to loosen the reins, darling, he’ll be starting school next year. He’ll be fine.”
“I know. I just miss him, that’s all,” she said glumly, leaning into her husband. He rubbed the side of her arm in comfort and discreetly pushed her fifth glass of red wine further away from her grasp.
George tapped Francis on the shoulder. “Is Elizabeth alright?” he whispered, his brows furrowed in concern.
Francis waved a hand dismissively and pointed at her glass of wine, a small smirk on his face. “Yeah, she’s fine, just missing GC.”
George nodded and continued his conversation with Verity, Andrew and Sam. “So, Sam, why didn’t you stay at home with Emma?”
Sam sat up stiffly, having spent most of the night thus far silently and contentedly listening to the conversations around him. “Well, ye see, she insisted that I go out ‘cause I’ve not seen you guys for a while. Plus, she ain’t feeling too well and was happy to babysit since it’s kind of her job anyways.” Sam smiled, beaming with pride that his soon-to-be wife was the friendliest nursery teacher in all of Cornwall. Resolutely sober on account of his strong Christian faith, he was all too happy to ensure his friends were able to get home safely at the end of, what would undoubtedly be, a long night of drinking.
Demelza and Ross were discussing plans for Julia’s third birthday when Demelza’s phone pinged.
Dwight Enys 9:38pm
We’re here. Where are you guys? Can’t see you, it’s weirdly busy in here tonight wtf
Demelza squealed and leaped out of her chair. “Dwight’s here!” She informed the rest of the table over her shoulder as she pushed through the groups of people, making her way to the front door.
Dwight glanced around the crowd of people in the pub – searching for his friends – before shrugging his shoulders in defeat and looking at Caroline, “Can I get you something to drink?” He had to shout slightly due to the amount of people drunkenly chatting as well as the rather loud jukebox music.
She smiled. “Yes, please, I’ll have a–“
“–Dwight!” Shrieked Demelza, stealing the end of Caroline’s sentence, before flinging her arms around her friend, nearly crushing his bones with the tightness of her hug. Although, it had been about three weeks since they’d last seen each other, and so Dwight wasn’t complaining. In fact, he was quite glad that one of his best friends seemed to miss him just as much as he’d missed her.
“Demelza,” he greeted, trying to smile and breathe. Demelza realised him from her grasp and looked curiously at the beautiful blonde woman who accompanied him.
“Demelza, this is Caroline. Caroline, my friend Demelza.”
Caroline extended her smooth, porcelain hand. “Hi. How do you–“
Demelza ignored her proffered hand and enveloped the stranger in a tight hug instead. “Hi, Caroline! It’s so nice to meet you!” She grinned widely at her, and Caroline couldn’t help but returning the redhead’s infectious, genuine smile. “Come meet everyone!” Demelza insisted, taking her arm and pulling her along.
“Demelza,” Dwight hissed, but it was too late, and they’d already began approaching the table, so he quickly followed like the obedient puppy he was.
The three of them made their way through the crowded pub to their table, which just so happened to be right at the other side of the building but was conveniently located next to the bar. “Excuse us, sorry, pardon me, sorry, excuse me, sorry, can I just get by one second?”
They arrived at the large table to a chorus of “Hey, Dwight!” followed immediately by not-so-subtle staring at the woman who accompanied him.
“Hi, guys!” He cleared his throat. “This is my new neighbour, and friend, Caroline.”
Caroline smiled, confidently waved and said: “Hello! Pleased to meet you all.”
Dwight again cleared his throat, glad that the introduction was over and that he had escaped unscathed. “So, what’s everyone drinking? My round.”
George knocked back the remainder of his beer and tried to conceal a burp afterwards. “I’ll have a Becks, please.”
“Red wine, please, Dwight,” Elizabeth slurred slightly, a happy smile on her warm face.
“Same for me, please,” chimed Verity, her head resting on her husband’s shoulder.
Francis scratched his stubble in contemplation. “Err, I think I’ll go for a rum and coke this time, please.”
Ross simply held up his glass, which proudly displayed the Jameson logo, staring at Dwight as though he was questioning the bonds of their friendship.
Demelza rolled her eyes at Ross’s inability to simply ask for a drink. “I’ll have a gin and tonic, please, Dwight. Thanks.” She patted his shoulder and sat back down in her seat next to her husband.
Dwight nodded at Demelza and turned his attention to Caroline. “What about you, Caroline?”
“Do they have any Moët?” she asked as she removed her coat and sat down on the last seat of the booth, peering past his form to studying the drinks behind the bar.
Everyone exchanged eyebrow-risen glances at her request. Dwight shook his head slowly. “Um, I’m not sure. But even if they did I’m afraid I don’t really have the budget to pay about £35 for a glass of wine,” he laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck.
Caroline’s eyes widened; she did not know it cost so much for a single glass, and it happened to be her favourite drink. “Oh, of course not. Sorry. Um, do they have cocktails?” she inquired coolly, trying to read the menu behind him.
Again, Dwight shook his head. “Unfortunately, not. This is kind of a shithole pub, you see. But we’re all very fond of it. Great memories and all that!” Everyone else hummed in agreement.
Caroline’s face fell. What the fuck was she going to drink? She couldn’t bear cheap wine after all the fine wines she’s drank throughout her life, prosecco would be a struggle too – as would cheap gin – she knew she did not like rum…
Dwight noticed her struggle and the pretty pink flush creeping up on her cheeks. “How about a vodka lemonade?” he suggested lightly.
She smiled in relief at her saviour. “Um, yes. Sure,” she replied brightly. “Thank you!” She called at his turned back as he approached the bar.
“Oh, shit,” Dwight muttered as he got to the bar, realising he had just accidentally been rude. “Sam, Andrew, do you guys want a coke or something?” he shouted over the playing jukebox, which had been turned up when The Arctic Monkeys came on.
“No, thank you,” the designated drivers called in unison.
Caroline examined her nail varnish and tried to make herself feel at ease without Dwight being there. She didn’t even know anything about these people, she only knew Demelza’s name, how does one even start a conversation? Demelza sensed her hesitation and opened her mouth to speak before Elizabeth’s excited shriek pierced everyone in the vicinity’s ears.
Elizabeth repeatedly slapped her hand against the wooden table, and off her husband’s arm before pointing to the bar. “Guys, look! Rosina is talking to Dwight!” She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.
Everyone’s heads snapped around and the boys began to wolf whistle, which Demelza reprimanded them for. “Stop it! Rosina is a nice girl, don’t embarrass her!”
Ross insisted: “We’re not trying to embarrass her, love, we’re trying to embarrass Dwight!”
Caroline examined Rosina from her seat. She was a young – late teens or early twenties – pretty, blonde girl, with a curvy figure, full lips and chubby cheeks. In other words, serious competition. Not that Caroline was in competition with anyone for Dwight, of course. He could talk to any girl he liked, she didn’t care. Besides, even if she was interested in Dwight – which she wasn’t – there wouldn’t be any competition. Wrapping men around her little finger is what Caroline had always done best, and could do with Dwight, if necessary. But it wouldn’t be. Satisfied, she relaxed in her seat and tried to catch everyone’s names as they spoke.
Dwight soon returned with drinks and without Rosina. He placed the tray of alcohol on the table and dispensed the drinks to his friends before sitting down.
Elizabeth stared at him, her glance then shifting around the pub. “Where’s Rosina?”
Dwight’s brows furrowed as he took a sip of his Heineken. “What do you mean? She’s over there somewhere,” he pointed vaguely to the other side of the room, “She came out with Ruth.”
“All the more reason to have invited her to join us,” Elizabeth insisited, “Ruth has fancied George since she was about eleven years old! Then George could’ve had a lady friend, too!” Elizabeth smiled, oblivious to the fact that she was the lady friend that George desired.
George physically shivered. “Ugh, she’s so annoying, though! And she’s like half my age!” George protested to Francis before laughing into the rim of his beer bottle.
Ross’s spine straightened. “Actually, George, she’s only nine years younger than you. Demelza is nine years younger than me, is there something you’re trying to say?” He inquired seriously, his narrowed eyes fixed on George’s form as the grip on his glass of whisky tightened.
Demelza placed a hand on her husband’s chest. “Ross,” she warned quietly, trying to push him back against his chair.
Francis, too, placed a hand on George’s shoulder; he had definitely had enough to drink that he would not hesitate to fight Ross if he suggested it. George felt the firm grasp of his friend’s hand and relaxed. “Of course not, Ross,” he said, painfully cordially before taking a sip of his beer. “Not everything is about you, dickhead,” he muttered under his breath.
“What did you just say?” Ross demanded, his voice rising. “Fucking say it again, I dare you!” He stood up, his index finger pointing at George, his nostrils flaring. Demelza grasped at his arm, willing him to calm down, her brows furrowed.
Dwight and Verity groaned. But Dwight merely took another sip of his drink.
“Guys, enough! Stop it!” Elizabeth cried in distress. She hated violence and was having a good night up until now and did not want it to be ruined by a silly fight.
“’Love one another with brotherly affection. Outdo one another in showing honour,’” Sam preached, hoping to diffuse the tension.
Francis stood up beside George and grabbed his arm. “Yes, I agree. Stop it. Both of you. Come on George, we’ll go outside for a cigarette until you calm down.” He hauled him from the table by his arm and thence out of the fire exit into the night air.
Caroline tapped Dwight on the shoulder and motioned for him to lean in. “What was all that about?” she whispered, her eyes alight with intrigue.
“Oh, yeah,” Dwight whispered, realising he’d forgotten to explain the politics of his friend group to her, “Ross and George hate each other, they have done since school. No one can remember why, not even them. But George is best friends with Francis, who is Ross’s cousin and who is also married to Elizabeth, the pretty, drunk brunette over there,” He pointed to her and she offered a drunken smile and small wave. “So, they try tolerate each other for the sake of the rest of us.” He then pointed to Verity in the corner. “That’s Verity, Francis’s older sister and Ross’s cousin, obviously. She’s married to Andrew, he’s really nice. He’s in the Navy so we don’t get to see him often. Beside him is Sam, who is training to be a minister and he’s getting married to our other friend, Emma, pretty soon. You know Demelza, and she’s married to Ross, for sins she committed in a past life,” he concluded with a smile.
Caroline sipped her drink through the two little black straws in her glass as she glanced around the table; everyone now engaged in pleasant conversation once again. “They seem nice.”
He smiled thoughtfully. “They are. You should talk to them,” he encouraged, “don’t be scared!”
“OK, I will,” she quipped, accepting his challenge. “Demelza,” she called across the table with confidence, causing everyone else’s conversations to halt, “is that your natural hair colour?”
Demelza twisted a long, copper curl nervously around her index finger. “Uh, yeah, why?”
“It’s amazing! Do you know how many people would die to have hair that colour in the fashion industry?”
Demelza jumped out of her chair and rushed over to give Caroline another hug. “Oh, thank you, Caroline!” She beamed at the pretty blonde. “Dwight, I love this woman! You can stay!” she told Caroline, patting her hand while making Sam move up so she could sit next to her new friend.
Dwight and Ross exchanged amused glances. “So, Ross, how’s work?”
Ross groaned, and sipped his whisky. “Shite, and you?”
“Shite,” Dwight agreed with a strained sigh.
“Nice.” They clinked their drinks together and took large gulps, illogically hoping that the burning sensations in their throats would somehow alleviate the stress of their respectable professions.
Demelza noticed this and sighed in sympathy. Caroline looked at her quizzically and so Demelza motioned to the two drinking men in front of them. “I think they’re both having a bad time at work right now. They’re both exhausted, you can tell, but they won’t ask for help or any time off. Ross works for Shell, and he’s pretty high up in the company,” she paused to smile proudly, “but as the oil industry is a little on the fence right now, he’s been having a hard time. And Dwight… Well, Dwight is just Dwight. His entire life is his job – and he’s worked hard for it – but I just wish he’d spend more time with other people, doing normal things. This is the first time he’s been out for about a month and last time he didn’t even drink because he was working a nightshift the next day! A nightshift!” She raised her arms in exasperation and Caroline laughed at her animation. It was clear that Demelza cared deeply for Dwight, as she no doubt cared for all her friends, thought Caroline. It would be nice to have a friend like her.
Caroline took another sip of her drink, finding – to her own surprise – that she liked it very much. “Yes, Dwight does work a lot. I hear him go to work every day, sometimes I see him leave or come in if I’m walking Horace.”
Demelza’s face lit up. “Is Horace your dog?”
Caroline smiled and immediately pulled out her phone to show Demelza a picture of him. “Yes, I love him so much. He’s my baby.”
“Awww,” cooed Demelza, also pulling out her phone from her handbag. “This is my dog Garrick, he’s getting old which makes me sad but he’s the sweetest dog in the world. This is him with my daughter Julia, she’s nearly three, I can’t believe it!”
“Oh, what a sweet photo! Horace doesn’t like children. Or people in general, really. He hates Dwight!” Caroline began to laugh as she recalled how Horace had growled every time Dwight had touched – or attempted to touch – him.
“Who hates me?” Dwight inquired, his ears turning hot at the mention of his name.
“My dog,” replied Caroline, her eyes dancing with mirth, “And me!” she added, her pink lips pursed cheekily.
Dwight chuckled quietly and took another gulp of his beer, which was now empty. “Aha, see, you clearly don’t hate me; if you did, you wouldn’t have come with me tonight.” He crossed his arms across his chest and smiled in victory at her.
Caroline flipped her hair over her shoulder and narrowed her eyes at him, resenting the implication that she was interested in him. “Goodness, are all men so odiously conceited, Dr Enys? Or is it just you?” Ross whooped at her comeback, thinking there was no way his shy friend could retaliate.
He smiled tightly before replying in a light tone: “Demelza, could you look in Caroline’s glass? I thought I asked the barman to put in some lime cordial, but it seems he put in the Oxford Dictionary of English instead.”
This time Ross whooped so loud the table beside theirs turned around to see what was going on; Ross slapped Dwight hard on the back and began to roar with laughter. “Oh-ho, Dwight! Good one, mate! I didn’t think you had it in you!”
“Neither did I,” Caroline commented as she continued to stare at him, her eyes still narrowed. Though Dwight thought she somehow looked… impressed?
Before he had time to contemplate this further, he started as he felt a hand on his left shoulder. “Hi, Dwight!” sang an absolutely inebriated Rosina, running her hand down his arm without hesitation.
Dwight’s cheeks instantly inflamed. “Uh, hi, Rosina,” he said quietly.
Caroline cleared her throat, waiting to be introduced to this pretty blonde, but Dwight took no notice of her as Rosina pulled up a chair beside him. “How’s your leg?” he asked her.
She pulled her dress further up her thigh as if he would somehow be able to see her cured knee ligaments better. “So much better! All thanks to you!” She placed an arm on his shoulder and smiled sweetly.
Dwight laughed uneasily and wished he hadn’t already finished his drink. “You’re welcome.”
The two of them then became engaged in light conversation, which Caroline watched with slightly narrowed eyes. Why wasn’t he paying attention to her? And who was Rosina? And why did she even care? Caroline went to take another drink from her glass but realised it was empty. Perhaps she could win Dwight’s attention over with a kind gesture. “How about we do some shots?” Caroline loudly asked the table, “My treat!” Everyone else agreed immediately and Caroline felt proud of her brilliant idea and went to order twenty-odd Jägerbombs.
A little over 3 hours later, Caroline began to think that her idea wasn’t so brilliant after all, as she sat crouched over the toilet, her sick everywhere except from the actual toilet bowl. Through the incessant ringing in her ears, she thought she could hear banging on the door behind her. It vaguely sounded like Demelza, but she could not make out what she was saying. Her face felt numb, as did her hands and the rest of her body, and the room span so violently she felt like she was on the teacup ride at the fair.
“Caroline! Are you alright? Can you open the door, please?” Demelza heard no reply and began to worry her bottom lip.
Verity came in then, looking for Demelza, very tipsy but not quite drunk. “My dear,” she said, placing her hand on Demelza’s shoulder, “Ross is looking for you. He told me to tell you that he loves you with all his heart and that he misses you and wants you to come back to your seat so he can admire you,” she snickered, “He is so sentimental when he’s–“
The worried look on the redhead’s face made Verity stop speaking. “Demelza? What is it?”
“It’s Caroline, she’s been sick, and now she’s not answerin’! I think I’m going to have to climb over the stall and get her. Will you hold my shoes?” Demelza did not wait for a reply and removed her black heels and placed them in Verity’s arms before climbing onto the toilet cistern and then over the cubicle wall. She landed with a thud but was unhurt. “Shit, she’s been sick everywhere. We’re going to have to take her home. Verity, will you go tell Dwight that we’re going to get Caroline a taxi?” Demelza called through the locked door of the bathroom stall.
“Yes, of course! I’ll just leave your shoes by the sink!” Verity replied, as she went off in search of Dwight.
Six minutes later, having waded her way through the various groups of people, Verity tapped Dwight on the shoulder. He turned to look at her, his eyes slightly glazed over. “Dwight, we’re going to walk Caroline to the taxi rank, she really needs to go home.”
Dwight’s neck craned past Verity, looking for Caroline, his pulse growing faster. “What? Where is she? Is she alright? And you can’t mean the one on Hilton Street? That’s far too dangerous for you guys at this time of night! I’ll take Caroline home, she is my neighbour after all.” He excused himself from Rosina’s company and went to find Caroline, but was halted in his search by one of Ruth Teague’s sisters as he tried to enter the ladies’ toilet.
“Eh, what do you think you’re doing? This is the girls’ toilets; the men’s is over there!” She pointed behind him and crossed her arms in feminist defiance.
Dwight sighed and danced impatiently on the spot. “Look, Tracey, I’m not a creep, you know I’m not a creep.” Weird start, Enys. “I’m just looking for my friend Caroline, is she in there?”
Tracey snorted: “Is she the gorgeous blonde who’s spewed all over one of the cubicles? I think Demelza is looking after her, pretty sure she’s slumped on the floor.”
Oh, fuck. Not good. He would have to pull out the ‘I am a doctor’ card. He willed himself not to slur and said, in his best professional tone: “Yep, that’s her. Could you please let me by? I need to make sure she doesn’t have alcohol poisoning.”
Tracey, mercifully, stood aside and let him enter without another word. Sure enough, Caroline was slumped on the floor, Demelza’s arm around her, trying to coax her into drinking some water.
Demelza breathed a sigh of relief as soon she saw Dwight. “Oh, Dwight! Thank God! Caroline is fucked, I think she’s asleep.”
“I’m… not… asleep…,” mumbled Caroline against Demelza’s shoulder. “I want my bed,” she moaned. “Want my bed.”
Dwight kneeled in front of them on the floor next to the sinks, his jeans becoming wet. Considering the amount of stick men get for being unhygienic, Dwight would wager that the ladies’ toilets were far more disgusting than the men’s. “Caroline? Can you hear me? Do you want me to take you home?”
Caroline made an effort to lift her head, though it felt very heavy. A handsome man’s blurry features can into her view. “Dwight?” she asked weakly. “Yes… please take me home.”
With the combined strength of Dwight and Demelza, they managed to get Caroline on her feet and walking – or rather, stumbling. Their arms were wrapped around her back, holding her up. As they exited the toilet and entered the bar area again, they were met by Rosina. “Oh, Dwight! There you are!” she smiled and ran her fingers through her curly hair. “Elizabeth said you’d gone to find Caroline and take her home. Could you drop me off, too?” She fluttered her eyelashes at him.
“I think we’re going to walk, it will be a nightmare trying to get a taxi at this hour,” he deflected calmly.
His deflection was unsuccessful. “Oh, that’s fine! I only live about 5 minutes away anyways! I’ll just grab my coat.”
Dwight sighed and carefully let go of Caroline, leaning her on Demelza. “I’ll go grab our jackets, too, Dem, one second.”
He returned to their table to find Ross and Francis preaching about the disarray of the government – Verity, Andrew and Sam all ready to leave. Elizabeth was asleep on George, who did not seem to mind one bit. Dwight grabbed his and Caroline’s coats and tried to sneak away without being noticed.
Sam ruined his plan. “Dwight! Do you want a lift, mate?” Everyone looked at him expectantly, except Elizabeth, who snored quietly in the corner.
“No, thanks, Sam. I have to walk Rosina and Caroline home.”
Francis’s mouth fell open before an amused smile stretched across his face. “Rosina and Caroline? My, my, my friend! This is a change!” He raised a suggestive eyebrow.
Before Dwight could tell him to fuck off, Ross grasped his best friend’s hand. “I’m so proud, Dwight,” he slurred, wiping away a mock tear of pride. Everyone else laughed.
“Fuck you all,” Dwight sang, releasing himself from Ross’s grip and making to leave, “Goodnight, dickheads. Love you.”
A chorus of affection rang out as he left the table, shaking his head and smiling. They were the closest thing he had to a family and he loved them all dearly, even if he did – occasionally – want to hit them.
When he returned to where Demelza and Caroline were standing, he was pleased to see that Caroline was finally drinking the water Demelza had been trying to feed her for the past 15 minutes. “This is her third glass of water,” Demelza told Dwight, “she said she was thirsty and hasn’t stopped drinking since you left.”
Dwight smiled slightly. “That’s good. Feeling any better, Caroline?”
She nodded slightly and continued to glug the cooling elixir of life until the glass was empty. “A bit. Can we go home now?” She pouted prettily at him and Dwight could not help but think how much she looked like Horace in that moment.
“Yes, we’re going. We’re just waiting for Rosina.”
“Rosina?” Was all Caroline could say. She refrained from commenting further.
“Yes?” Rosina asked as she appeared behind Dwight, wearing a pretty pink and white gingham coat.
He started when she spoke from behind him. “Nothing. I was just explaining to Caroline that we were waiting for you.” He then turned to Demelza and kissed her on the cheek as he enveloped her in a hug, “Bye, Dem! Give Julia a kiss from me.”
She held her friend tightly. “I will! Bye Dwight. Come over for dinner next Sunday and see her if you’re free, she misses you!”
“That’s perfect, I’m off next Sunday. I’d love to.”
While the two best friends said their goodbyes, the two blondes had engaged in a stare off, which Caroline lost when Demelza bid her goodbye and gave her a friendly hug.
Several minutes later, Dwight, Caroline and Rosina made their way through the dimly lit streets of Cornwall, the old brick townhouses appearing slightly menacing in the dark. Their breaths came out in icy puffs and Caroline shivered, wishing she had worn her wool coat instead. The stars above them glistened steadfastly, and a crescent moon cast some semblance of light as they made their way down a narrow side street to Rosina’s flat. Her flat was luckily one of the first few, though only accessible by a daunting number of steps. Caroline almost whimpered at the sight.
“Caroline, you stay here. I’ll just walk Rosina to her door and then we can go home.” Dwight quickly made his way up the steps, Rosina on his arm, and Caroline sat down heavily on a concrete step. So, he was really going to leave her here, drunk and out in the cold, while he shagged Rosina. She couldn’t believe it. She couldn’t believe she thought that he was a gentleman, a true gentleman, not like the actual gentleman she had met, who were all ridiculously arrogant and pompous. A hand on her shoulder nearly ceased the function of her heart. She gasped out loud.
“Ready to go?” Dwight asked. Feeling her jump, he frowned at her. “Caroline? Is something wrong?”
She pulled herself up by the carefully crafted railing. “Oh, no. It’s just… that was quick!”
He frowned at her, again. “I said I was just going to walk her to her door,” he laughed slightly, and offered Caroline his arm.
She took it and walked down the three steps. “Oh, yeah. Of course.”
It took them ten minutes to walk back to their apartment building, and they did so in silence, both lost in their own drunken thoughts.
Caroline made to fetch her keys from her small handbag, realising she had left it in the toilet of the pub. Her heart rate quickened. “Oh, shit! I left my bag at the pub!” She stared at Dwight in panic.
He pulled out his own keys and opened the entrance door. “Don’t worry, no one will steal it. You can get it tomorrow.” He held the door open for her and she stumbled inside, holding the wall until she reached the stairs, where she then hung onto the railing. They began their way up the staircase to their landing.
“No, but it’s got my keys in it!” she whined. She then clutched her chest, and swallowed, before beginning to pant. “Dwight, I think I’m going to be sick again. I hate being sick. I don’t want to be sick again,” she whimpered in a mumble, pushing her blonde curls out of her face.
“Ok, it’s alright. You can just stay at mine tonight,” he tried to say casually, “and we can go and get your bag tomorrow. It’s way too late and cold to go all the way back to the pub, and it’ll probably be shut now anyways. That is, if you don’t mind staying over.” He was glad he was two steps in front of her now because his cheeks burned furiously. He recognised the implications of his offer but at that particular moment, his only concern was that she would choke on her sick or something.
Caroline considered his offer for a minute. “No, I don’t mind. Thank you,” she said gently, before clearing her throat and raising an eyebrow at him. “Did you not want to go back to Rosina’s or something, though?” She managed to slur this remarkably innocently considering the bitter jealousy that stirred within her, which she convinced herself was merely the cheap vodka swirling around her unprepared stomach.
Dwight laughed a little and shook his head as he searched for his keys for the one to his flat, which he had still not colour coded. “No. Rosina is a lovely girl, but I think she’d be lovely for someone else,” he said thoughtfully, a gentle smile on his face.
Caroline’s intoxicated state meant that she could not smother a grin at this news. As Dwight fell asleep that night, he convinced himself that he had imagined her reaction.
The door to his flat finally opened, he entered, immediately turned on the light and unbuttoned his coat. He was quickly followed by Caroline, whose white heel caught on the door frame. She swore and stumbled clumsily, before falling right into Dwight’s arms.
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