#How to make vanity using cardboard | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

three--eyed--cat · 1 year ago

Text

!! She, mattheo riddle !! Summary: Mattheo Riddle, your beloved ex-boyfriend, sees you trying to move on. He won't let you, scaring away any potential new guys. pairing: mattheo riddle x reader word count: 5.7k. warning: reader is a malfoy, described to be pale with long hair. smoking of weed. partial blaise zabini x reader. Gore, killing of pets, writing with blood, spelling with intestines, crucio used. smut

Golden rubbers in these denim pockets.On my waist theres a black glock New girl moved on the block

"You don't have to do that for me, Pansy." You denied her offer, it would be too much to ask. But the fact that she went out of her way just to tell you, made you smile, pink lips pulled into a grin as you stared up at her.

"You're cool, Y/N/N. There aren't many cool people in this school, so when I find one, they have to be my friend." She said it as if it was factual, making you giggle softly. You shake your head, denying the compliment.

"Whatever you say, pansy."

The girl grinned, standing up from where she sat at the end of your bed. You watched her curiously as she searched the room, seemingly looking for something.

"Looking for something?"

You asked, confused as to why she had got up so abruptly. Pansy nodded, kneeling down on the wooden flooring beside her bed, pulling something out from underneath it.

"My shoes."

She sits on the ground, opening up a cardboard box, revealing a pair of black, brand new ugg boots. This only confuses you further, why would she need her shoes?

"The boys are usually in the common room, we're gonna go pay them a little visit."

She must've seen the curiosity written on your face, answering your unspoken question. At this, you scramble to get out of bed. "Pansy, I look like shit!" There's panic evident in your tone as you stand in front of the vanity, picking apart your appearance. You grab the nearest hair brush, running it through your hair. Not that you needed too, being a Malfoy meant no matter what, you always had perfect hair.

"Girl, look at me."

She deadpanned, making you glance at her through the mirror, where she still sat on the floor in her green pajamas and unbrushed hair, watching as you get ready.

"Besides, you look hot."

She says bluntly, shooting you a flirty wink as you caught her gaze, her green eyes boring into yours. You roll your eyes playfully in response, placing the brush back onto the dresser, cheeks turning rosy pink at her romantic demeanor.

She gets up from the floor, using the bed to help her stand. You turn, walking towards your bed to grab your previously discarded sweatshirt. ---

On your way to the common room, Pansy speaks up, her voice quietly echoing through the hall.

"Honestly, I'm surprised you haven't met more of Draco's friends."

You hum softly in agreement. Draco was popular, you knew that much, yet you'd only ever met two of his friends, one of which was the girl you walked beside.

The other... Lets just say, he's a big part of why you don't go home much anymore.

"I preferred spending my holidays at Beaux Batons. When I'm at home, my parent's usually task me with running around after the dark lord, doing all of his chores and stuff like that."

She grimaces, remembering just how close your family was to Voldemort. Her family was also involved with the dark lord, but nowhere near as close to him as your parents were. She's never even seen Voldemort, so the thought of being in your place, stuck alone in a room with him for most of the time, scared her. Often, Draco would tell her stories about the man, 9/10 his tales would shake her to the core, further adding onto the evil perception around the lord. Plus, the things that he made Draco do, knowing that the boy wanted no part in such gruesome activities- but had no choice but to participate, greatly angered Pansy, who knew just how much it truly shakes her boyfriend. So, if you were stuck, doing all of the dark lords bidding, Pansy could only imagine the horrible things that you've likely seen, maybe even had to do. Seeing her change in mood, you think it's best to add on something that would allude being around Voldemort, 24/7, wasn't actually that bad. "He's not that bad of a guy, personality wise. His motives just aren't that great."

You tell her softly, as if asking her to cut the horrible man some slack, after all he'd done, killing innocent people for his own, selfish reason.

From the look on her face, you can tell she doesn't want to continue the conversation.

Mentally, You sigh in relief. If you talked any longer about he-who-shall-not-be-named, you'd probably end up spilling the real reason you transferred. ---

Finally, you both reach the bottom of the stairs and Pansy goes to open the door, but not before turning to you with a reassuring smile.

"I can't promise that they don't bite, but if they do, just know they don't mean to."

She spoke as if she were a poet, her sentence a metaphor of it's own. She had pre-apologized for her friends possible actions, in the case that they did say anything rude, or insensitive, though if they did offend you, Draco would have each of their heads on a stick by the morning. Silently, you thank her for the warning, sending a nod her way. She doesn't see your movement, occupied with opening the heavy dungeon door.

"Thanks."

You muttered, following her into the dimly lit room. Instantly, a wave of coldness washed over you, the fireplace doing next to nothing in keeping the space heated. You glance towards the culprit, huge windows line the stone walls, condensation dripping down the glass, almost blocking your view into the black lake, not that you could see much inside of it's darkness. The place reminded you of home, with it's intimidating aura and leather couches, the only difference was, the Malfoy manor wasn't green. Green, clearly handmade, blankets were strung over most surfaces, if not draped over a couch, it was folded on a table, ready for the students to use. It was certainly a prettier sight than the bland, blue walls of beaux batons.

Aside from a group of boys, lounging around the fireplace, the room was void of any life, the sound of yours and Pansy's footsteps echoing through-out the quiet, the only other sound being their voices, barely any louder than the crackling of the burning wood.

Pansy strode over, confidence in her steps, as if she had a purpose to be there. You followed behind, hands shoved into the pockets of your grey trackpants.

"Piss off, pansy."

Somebody spoke with an accent, you couldn't quite place where it was from, but you knew that you'd heard something similar, before. In the corner of your view, you can see Pansy roll her eyes before leaning back, sitting on the arm rest closest to her before an arm snakes around her waist, presumably your brothers.

"I've come to introduce you to my new best friend."

You hear Draco groan from where he sat, on the couch, behind pansy. You let out a scoff, stepping closer to the group as Pansy stifles a giggle.

"It's great to know that I'm appreciated, Draco."

Your voice catches the attention of the boys, their attention shifting to where you stood, your arms crossed over your chest.

You looked almost angelic, the fireplace casting a gentle glow onto your pale figure, arms crossed over your chest, your long hair gently cascading down your back.

You were... pretty?

From the angle of where you stood, their faces were perfectly in view, all looking semi-familiar, probably from when you'd met their parents, once or twice.

There was Theodore Nott, an Italian bloke with dead looking eyes. Lorenzo Berkshire, a charming boy with a sharp jawline, and Blaise Zabini, who always looked uninterested and unamused.

You finish checking them out, before having to do a double take. Mattheo wasn't there and you knew that he was supposed to be, since he was your brothers closest friend.

You mentally curse yourself for looking for him, forcing your gaze to pansy, who motions at a spot between Nott and Zabini.

You glance towards them, to see if they were okay with you sitting near them. Blaise nodded and you stepped towards them, Theodore stayed quiet, but made no move to stop you as you got closer.

You could feel somebody look at your figure as you sat down, their gaze leaving a trail of warmth in its wake.

"Boys, this is my little sister, Y/N."

Draco introduced you and Theodore's head snapped towards you, it looked as if a piece of puzzle had fallen into place inside of his head. You look at him, eyebrows furrowed in confusion as to why he had that look in his eyes.

"Enzo."

The boy sat beside Draco said, holding out a hand for you to shake. You rip your gaze away from Theodore, instead giving Lorenzo a warm smile as you leant forward, shaking his hand.

Once again, somebody's eyes raked over your body, sending shivers down your spine. You let go of Enzo's hand, leaning back into the plush sofa.

"That's Theodore-" Lorenzo nodded towards the boy on your left, the one who had who seemed bewildered to learn your name. He continued to say nothing, just watching your interaction with Enzo. "-and the one staring you down, is Blaise."

At this, a harsh shove was sent to Lorenzo's shoulder, Draco's lip curling up in disgust as he scowled at Lorenzo, who raised his hands in surrender.

"Nobody will be staring down my sister." He stated, a threatening tone in his voice as he sat back in his chair, leaning against the plush cushion, clearly not happy with Lorenzo's words.

Draco would never let another one of his friends touch you, not after what happened last time. They were all a bunch of players, anyways, you were worth more than any of their hoes.

Pansy shot you a knowing look, as if to say, 'they already have.' In response, you grinned softly, shaking your head as you glanced away.

---

You lay in bed that night, propped up on your side to look at Pansy as she spoke, the two of you gossiping about anything and everything.

"So... You find any of them cute?"

You didn't say anything, hiding your face in the pillows so that she couldn't see the blush on your cheeks, the movement telling her all she needed to know.

"Who!"

She squealed, excitedly. She loved talking about girly things like this, not really having a lot of female friends after she started dating Draco, surrounding herself with his mates who, sadly, didn't like to gossip.

"Zabini."

You said sheepishly, voice barely audible, muffled by your pillow. Pansy grinned, egging you on as she said.

"Oh, Blaise is totally into you, I swear I saw him looking at your ass!"

She been plotting on my brown cock

By now, the first week of school had been and gone, with no signs of Mattheo, the boy that you were dreading to see.

If anything, his absence was only making it worse, under all of the circumstances- like being the new girl in his friend group, getting sorted into the same house and even being in most of his classes. You should have seen him by now, it was a miracle that you hadn't.

However, you tried not to think about him. Which was hard, nearly impossible, so you'd distracted yourself, thoughts of Blaise Zabini plaguing your mind.

He was hot, gorgeous even and the two of you got along well, in-fact, so well that he strolled up to you in your shared potions class. His hands in his pockets as he, casually, asked if you wanted to 'hang.'

Just the two of you, alone in his dorm. Which everyone knew was basically code for, 'I'm trying to fuck.'

In response, you sheepishly nodded. You'd been asked out before, so many times that you couldn't even count, but none of the guys that asked you out were cute, or respectable, like he was.

Plus, if yours and Blaise's relationship did blossom into something more, he was the son of a pureblood death eater, meaning that your father would, hopefully, approve.

But in all reality, there was only one boy that your father wanted you to date, or in other words, give a second chance.

Not that you would ever, ever get with Mattheo Riddle again, no matter how much your father wanted you too.

After Blaise had left your table, Pansy came back, lips curled into a smirk, having watched the interaction between you and your crush.

The entire class, she pestered you about it, doing annoying things, like drawing 'Y/I + B.Z' on your paper, or shaping her hands into a heart and putting it over her eye, so that it was around you and Blaise.

It was at lunch when you finally gave in, the two of you planning to spend the rest of the day sitting by the black lake, so you could fill her in without fear of being overheard, you were also due for a gossip session, so the hangout would be solving two problems at once.

Although, as soon as you left the castle, you could feel it. A pair of eyes staring lasers into your back, watching as you ventured towards the black lake.

You couldn't recall how many times you had glanced over your shoulder, looking for something out of place, anything that could possibly be giving you the feeling of being watched.

But to no avail, until you and pansy started talking about how well you fit into their little group. She mentioned that there was still another member, who's yet to come but will be at dinner tonight.

You sat with your knees to your chest, your back facing the black lake, probably not a good idea as anything could jump out and grab you, without you knowing in time. But it was worth it, as long as you were filled in on all the Hogwarts drama.

Pansy sat across from you, her legs crossed as she rambles on, telling you funny stories about the boys.

"You know, I think you fit in really well, With the boys and I."

You smile at her honesty, you hadn't really thought about that until now, but you did slide into the group pretty easily, your jokes always at the right time, making everyone laugh, knowing with one look how was somebody was feeling, though you did that outside of your friends, as well.

"There is actually a 6th member to our little group, you'll meet him tonight."

Horror, which you feigned as surprise, crossed your face. You'd known that Mattheo had to come back at some point, but that didn't mean you dreaded it any less.

"W-what?"

Pansy dismissed your odd behavior, assuming that you were just confused as to who she was talking about.

"Apparently Mattheo was sick for the fist couple of weeks, couldn't catch the train with the rest of us."

Hearing his name left a bad feeling in your stomach and suddenly, you didn't feel like going to dinner tonight.

"You know him?"

She asked, noticing the uncomfortable look on your face. You shook your head so fast you might've given yourself whiplash, hoping she wouldn't notice, you cleared your throat, trying to get rid of the anxious lump rising in it.

"Just... heard some stuff."

You lied through your teeth, not ready to tell the girl about your bad past involving Mattheo. Well, it wasn't completely untrue, you'd definitely heard some pretty horrible things involving the boy, you'd also experienced it first-hand.

"Fair enough."

Pansy stated, shrugging.

"He's a little scary, but he's not all that bad."

You nodded, glancing away from her, opting to stare into the darkness of the black lake instead.

---

Not much happened at dinner. Sure, seeing Mattheo for the first time, since you were fifteen, was... Weird.

He looked different, in a good way. His face was more scarred than when you last saw it, but his wounds were in all of the right places. His lips were slightly chapped, glossy from his spit and his skin was tanner, not holding the same paleness he used to shar with his father, as a child. His eyes were no longer brown, having darkened to a pitch black, his pupils barely visible.

You only knew this because he had been staring at you during all of dinner. While everyone else was eating, his eyes were on you.

The kind glint they once held was gone, now holding a look of stoic, coldness as he watched you pick at the garlic bread on your plate.

You could barely eat, hyper-aware of the fact that you had Mattheo's full, undivided attention.

You tried to rid your thoughts of him, focusing on the conversation around you. Which, ironically, was just Draco talking to, or about, Mattheo, who would only respond with short answers, still not tearing his gaze away from you.

It had started to irk you, was he seriously still hung up on it? It happened over three years ago, the both of you should be over the situation by now.

You told yourself that there was another reason, not wanting to think about the bad decisions that your younger self had made.

You probably just had something on your face, or maybe, a bit of food stuck in your teeth.

When Blaise tugged on your hand, pulling you out of your seat to go to his dorm with him, you silently thanked every god that you could think of. Mentally noting that you owed the boy a favor, not that he had helped you out on purpose.

In your departure, you missed the death glare that Mattheo had given to Blaise, said boy quirking a brow towards Mattheo, confused as to why he was staring lasers into him.

Theo took a sip from his gauntlet, filled with lemonade, he regrets not telling Blaise about you and Mattheo. As much as he liked you and Blaise together, he was scared that the boy was going to get caught in the crossfire of your ex. Which Theodore knew about, from when him and Mattheo had shared a blunt on a particularly rainy day.

---

Mattheo had laid across the bed, his head hanging off the side, poorly rolled joint between his lips. Theodore was his most talkative self when high, his quiet demeanor completely out the door. Mattheo however, was the complete opposite. When intoxicated his extroverted self could only ever cough out one or two words.

"Once, when I was in muggle school, there was this one blonde girl, who would always dance in the rain. I had a crush on her, I think. I don't know, honestly, I can't remember. But, anyways. I would always watch her-"

Theo rambled on, sitting with his legs laid out, leaning against the headboard, next to where his bong sat on the nightstand. His hand flew around as he spoke, making quick gestures to accentuate what he was talking about.

"Creep."

Mattheo said, his face void of any emotion, making Theo unsure of whether the boy was joking or not.

"Shut the fuck up, Mattheo. Don't rain on my parade just because you've never had any type of love in your life." Once again, Mattheo cut in, eliciting a grumble from Theodore, but making him wonder about what Mattheo could possibly have to add.

From what Theo knew about the dark lord's son, Mattheo was practically incapable of loving, it was rare for him to show any emotion other than angry. It was rare that he'd laugh if it wasn't at someone else's expense, in other words, he found amusement in hurting other people, much like his father.

But, Theodore knew that Mattheo had next to nothing in common with his father. Then again, Theo only knew of Voldemort through what his parents told him, being death eaters they saw the dark lord often. From what he'd heard, Theodore could determine that Mattheo and Voldemort were nothing alike.

"I have." He spoke, his tone un-describable , it wasn't one of anger or sadness, but, it wasn't happy or disappointed either. Theo's face was one of surprise, his brows raised and eyes, still redder than a tomato, widening.

The boy let out a deep sigh, bringing his blunt to his parted lips, deeply inhaling as Theodore sat patiently, eager to hear about Mattheo's love life, or lack there of.

"I was 15, she broke up with me, didn't want to do long distance. She was going to beaux batons, I wasn't."

He kept it short and simple, not wanting to tire himself out with trying to string a sentence together, he couldn't function properly when high. Theodore hummed, in a tone that said, 'continue.' He could tell there was more to the story, that there were unsaid words on the tip of Mattheo's tongue.

"I... I was angry, worse than you've ever seen me. I just, didn't understand why she'd want to leave me. Still don't."

Theo nods along, ushering the boy to hurry up and get to the point.

"She's my soulmate, That's rare to find. So, I tried to make her stay. I wanted- no, need her to be around me. I- uh, I crucio'd her cat, made her watch."

---

Blaise collapsed back onto his bed, sighing tiredly before propping himself onto his elbows to look at you. "Come, sit."

He nodded to the space beside him, eyes trailing over your figure as you moved to sit.

You sat next to him, feet hanging over the edge of the bed. He chuckled at your movement, your eyebrows furrowing in confusion, not sure what he was laughing at.

He lays back down, patting his lap softly, motioning for you to straddle him. You rip your gaze away from him, a blush rising to your cheeks. Noticing your embarrassment, he placed his hands on your hips, grabbing them softly to pull you onto him.

You stare down at him, perched atop of his lap. He looks at you, as if you're a riddle he can't figure out.

"You're inexperienced?"

He says it more like a statement, rather than a question. Sheepishly, you nod and Blaise smirks softly, drawing circles on the small of your back.

"Surprising..."

He trails off, behind you, there was a movement outside of the window. His gaze hardened, thinking that it was someone breaking into his dorm. But then, he remembers that the dungeon is underwater, meaning that it was probably just a fish swimming past. Something like that, anyways.

You, on the other hand, are busy admiring his face. Resisting the urge to run your hands over the curve of his jaw, or the soft slope of his nose.

The feeling of being watched still hadn't left, you knew it wouldn't, that it was just your brain being paranoid because of Mattheo.

"Being Draco's sister, I thought you'd live up to his reputation as a player."

He spoke, but not before doing a double-take of the window. It was true, Draco is notorious for being a man-whore, or at least he was before he started dating pansy.

"You know, I'm not completely innocent."

You said, catching his attention. You looked into his eyes, only to find his gaze fixed on your bottom lip, where your teeth bit into the plushness, nervously.

"I had a boyfriend, when I was 15."

He raises his eyebrows, mocking surprise. There's a teasing tone in his eyes, as if he's egging you on, to say more about this 'boyfriend.'

"Didn't turn out?"

A rhetorical question. If it had turned out, you'd still be together, but you were here, sitting on Blaise's lap, completely oblivious to the boner you'd given him.

"I was going to Beaux Batons, didn't think long distance would work."

You shook your head before speaking, purposefully leaving out the part that still haunted you.

The reason you couldn't sleep at night, laying awake in bed, the image of your childhood pet, sprawled out on the floor, guts on display, blood used to draw hearts around it, 'M + Y/I'

"Fair."

Blaise's hands moved from your hips, trailing up your waist, pulling you closer to him. You fall against his chest, a gasp leaving your parted lips. He uses this to his advantage, pressing his mouth to yours, messily kissing you.

After a moment of surprise, you kiss back, attempting to go just as fast and needy as he is, but he bites your bottom lip, just as he had seen your own teeth do just a few seconds ago. Feeling the cushion of your flesh between his teeth, he moans softly, the sound scratching an itch in your brain, dampening your panties. He slips his tongue into your mouth, instantly asserting dominance with the way he searched around. He drops you onto the bed beside him, rolling over so that he was on top of you, without breaking the kiss. His knee split your legs apart, your clit rubbing against the fabric of his slacks, a whine escaping your mouth, into his, at the sensation. He swallows the sound, running his tongue over the back of your teeth.

Last night, I slept over hers.

A forearm is rested either side of your head, your eyes tracing over the veins that trailed up to his biceps, usually soft looking, but now flexed as he hovered over you, staring down at you with an intensity in his brown eyes. "You want this?" The question caught you off-guard, he had you practically writhing underneath him and he stopped to ask you for consent? Total baby daddy material.

You whimpered, "Blaise, P- please." The sound of his name falling from your lips makes him let out a shaky breath, half-way through a moan.

Pressing a soft kiss to your lips, he aligns himself with your entrance, slipping the tip between your soaked folds, you gasp softly, his size taking a moment too get used too.

"Fuck... you're so tight, baby."

It doesn't take long for you to get acquainted with his size, needily grinding down onto his cock, to show that you were ready.

He glides in and out of your canal, each thrust agonizingly slow. He clearly just wanted to get a reaction out of you,

During sex, I overheard.

Clouded by lust, Blaise almost missed the movement in the corner of the room. His brows pulled into a furrow, he went from leaning on his forearms to his hands, craning his neck to look behind him.

"Blaise... what's wrong?" Your voice had a whiny tone to it, the sound reminding Blaise of what he was here for. Taking one last glance around the dorm, before he turned back to you. "Nothing." Blaise placed a hand under your thigh, pulling it up to be pinned against the bed. This newfound angle lets Blaise bury himself deeper inside of you, planning to make you moan so loud that he won't be able to hear any other noises.

Once again, he thrusts into you, the tip of his cock instantly hitting that spongy place in your pussy.

A sword sliced the air, I pulled out the na-na.

"Stupefy."

A voice whispered through the air, a flash of red flying past Blaise's head, just narrowly missing him.

Under his breath, Mattheo lets out a frustrated groan. He re-adjusts his stance, moving to point his wand more specifically at Blaise.

Rolled off the bed then shot back, paow-paow.

In the blink of an eye, Blaise had slipped out of you. If it weren't for the intensity of the situation, you would've whimpered at the loss of feeling filled.

His left hand held his wand, pointing it at the intruder. The right one scrambled to make himself look decent, tucking his rock hard member back into his pants.

"Sectumsempra!"

You flinch, the sound of Mattheo's voice not only surprising you, but making you scared, as well.

A white light illuminates the room, hitting Blaise square in the chest before he could react.

He dropped to the floor, an assortment of cuts sprouting open on every inch of his skin.

You lifted yourself off the bed, scrambling to kneel beside Blaise. Your eyes rake over his wounds, which were only multiplying by the minute.

Your face held a fearful expression, scared of what Mattheo may be capable of. But, that doesn't stop you from looking up at him, lip quivering as you beg him to stop.

"M- Mattheo, stop! P- please, this isn't funny!"

Mattheo's face was devoid of any emotion, although he had the ghost of a smirk on his lips, as i fhe was proud of himself.

"Mattheo, please!"

Mattheo took note of the way you looked up at him, your doe eyes big and pleading, a slight sheen over them, a sign that you were on the verge of tears, clearly out of worry for Blaise.

Truthfully, he hadn't meant to hurt Blaise. He was just checking up on you, to make sure that the boy wasn't hurting you, or making you uncomfortable.

He just hadn't expected to find Blaise balls deep inside of you.

Mattheo tried to hold it in, he really did, but he just couldn't stand watching anyone else touch you, talk to you, or even just be near you, especially in the way you were with Blaise.

Blood on the sheets, probably spilling from my gash.

Blaise's crimson blood dripped all over the floor boards, seeing the mess, Mattheo muttered the counter curse. Causing an end to the whimpering of Blaise. Mattheo watched as you gently stroked Blaise's face, soothing the boy. After seeing this, he quickly departed, unable to watch you worry after someone else.

Looked out the glass, se him sprinting on the grass, A real ninja with the blade and the mask, got them gold ninja stars and red supreme nunchuks.

Blaise hissed, the alcohol you were dabbing onto his cuts stinging him. You sat on the sink, he's stood between your thighs, gripping them every time it hurt.

Now she tryna patch me up, but Girl, I was just trying to get a nut bust.

His blood stained your pale skin, dripping down your fingers. You cupped his jaw, using it to tilt his head to the side, giving you access to a cut underneath his ear.

Neither of you had spoke for the last five minutes, a pregnant silence between you both. You pressed a soft kiss to the wound before placing a plaster over the damaged skin.

"I'm so sorry, Blaise."

He shakes his head, as if to tell you that it was alright. He watches as you care for him, making sure that he was okay.

"If that's your ex, you should probably own a pistol."

There's a tone of honesty in his voice, making you debate whether or not to tell him that trying to get rid of Mattheo wasn't worth it.

But, I'm guessing its just wiser to exit with the dude.

After returning to your dorm, you sink into the bath, pink bubbles clinging to your skin.

It takes a good amount of scrubbing, but finally, you get the red off of your skin, a floral scented soap taking it's place.

The hot water relaxes your muscles, your back de-stiffening. You try to ignore what had just happened with Blaise and Mattheo, but it plagues your mind. Mattheo's behavior provoking a disturbing feeling in your core, one that your sure you shouldn't be having.

The blinds wide open so he can see you in the dark when you're sleeping, Naked body, fresh out the shower.

Pansy wasn't in the room, so you assume that she planned to spend the night with your brother, the thought making you cringe.

The curtains were wide open, the view of the black lake crystal clear, the movement of the fish swimming casting shadows in your room.

You adorned your body in a pair of skimpy underwear, a matching bralette just barely covering your bust.

Uh, and you touch yourself after hours.

Your fingers curled inside of your canal, failing to reach the spot where you needed them most. A whine escaped your lips, hips bucking up into your palm uselessly, trying to push your small digits deeper.

Ain't no man allowed in your bedroom, You're sleeping alone in bed.

Your movements paused, the gaze of an unknown pair of eyes trailed over your body, replicating the feeling of ice sliding over your skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

Chills crept up your spine, eyes widening as you registered what was happening. On one hand, you were concerned. On the other, however, it only encouraged you to chase the orgasm that you were so desperate for, especially now that you had an audience.

A whine escaped your lips as you pulled your fingers out, leaving you achingly empty. Slowly, you sat up, knees pressing into the mattress as you scramble to grab your pillow.

You pushed the plushness underneath your aching heat, needily grinding down onto the cotton once it was situated, making you let out a moan.

But check your window, He's at the window.

You rode the pillow as if your life depended on it, breathing shallowly as you bobbed your hips up and down. Your eyes squeezed shut in an attempt to deal with the pleasure, your back arched to the roof as you desperately chased your high, head thrown back as the pillows seam rubs against your swollen clit, making you whine softly.

Your movements grow slower, sloppier as you near your high, knees starting to give out, jaw going slack as inaudible moans slip past your lips. Your head falls forward, eyes opening as your hips stutter down onto the soft foam between your thighs.

You had blurry vision, but it wasn't nearly fuzzy enough to hide the reflection of your window, a figure stood at the foot of your bed, his brown- no, black eyes locked onto your face, rather than your body.

The sight of him did something to your body, the knot in your stomach unravelling itself. You couldn't look away from him, your gaze locked onto his face as your movements halted, you watched as his eyes flickered down to the mess between your thighs, a smirk pulling at the sides of his mouth. You weren't sure how to feel about him, on one hand, he was so... Whats the word? Smoking hot, he was so smoking hot. On the other hand, however, he both shook you to the core and had you wrapped around his finger. It was crazy how much of an effect he had over you, even without saying any words. With every passing moment, you could feel your resolve slipping and your need for him in, every way possible, growing stronger. You knew you shouldn't, but if he kept this whole 'mysterious' thing up, you were sure to fall again. You panted softly, basking in the afterglow of your release, the exhaustion crashing into you like a truck. You fell forward, onto the plushness of your bed, forehead pressed into the headboard. Shame washes over you as you reach down, pulling the cushion up to join the rest of your pillows. The velvet is soaked with your scent, emitting a sweet musk into the empty room.

You feel an urge, a need to see if Mattheo was still in the dorm, you told yourself it was just out of curiosity, but really you hoped he had stayed. Weakly, you lifted yourself off of the mattress, peeking over your shoulder.

Gone. He was gone, the foot of your bed was empty aside your school shoes. His absence made the realization sink in,

What the fuck was that?

----A/N I wrote this like 2 months ago, I did plan to finish it but lost motivation. I will make a part 2, if anyone wants one. If you've already read this, I have updated the ending a couple of times, for more suspense.

184 notes · View notes

curtis-corner · 9 months ago

Text

STAND BY ME (Darry Curtis) PART 9

I realized I never linked Part 8 to the masterlist, it's up there now and linked here incase you need to catch up/refresh!

As always, thank you to everyone who has shared how much they are enjoying this story. I read every message about 50 times :)

Taglist : @lovelylegolas2123 @amnestyliketaz @spuffyfan394

Enjoy getting into Darry's head for this one!

PART 9

Darry POV

I watch her close the door to my bedroom to get dressed, a room I’ve only just started to consider mine at all, and I turn to my brothers.

“She’s gonna be staying here a bit, so one of you has got to clean that bathroom. And I mean bleach it good.” Soda and Pony make matching faces of disgust and Steve starts to snicker.

“Aw Darry, bleach makes me itch.” Pony whines.

“No it doesn’t, he just told mom that to get outta cleaning the toilet.” Soda rolls his eyes.

“I don’t care who does it, but it better be done when I get back. Whoever doesn’t do the bathroom is more than welcome to clean up Soda and I’s old room.”

“Is that where we’re putting her stuff?” Pony asks.

“She didn’t sleep there last night.” Soda grins and Steve wolf-whistles. I give an unimpressed look to both of them.

“She’s okay, right?” Pony asks. It’s not lost on me how young he is, and how many people he’s lost already. He’s nervously biting the inside of his lip. I reach out and put a hand on his shoulder and he doesn’t shrug me off like he used to.

“She’s gonna be just fine. We’ll make sure of it.”

The house is freezing when we go in, and I work on covering up the busted window with cardboard and tape while she packs up some things in her room.

I told her to take anything she wouldn’t want to go missing – while the house was messy, it didn’t look like anything was stolen. But that may not be the case next time someone comes looking.

I tape a trash bag behind the cardboard to stop as much air as I can and walk back towards her room. I’d never been in a girl’s room before. The walls were white but the sheets and blankets were covered in pink flowers and even through the cold air I could smell the perfume she always wore.

“Just about done,” she zips up her small suitcase and I walk over to wrap my arms around her, rubbing them up and down to warm her up.

“You okay? Being here?” It was hard to believe less than twelve hours ago she was running from a break-in. She shrugs and I pull her closer, kissing the top of her head. “You need me to carry some bigger things to the truck? We can take whatever you want.” She bites her lip and looks around, her eyes lingering on the piece of furniture that looked like a small desk with a mirror attached to it. I had seen something like that in a magazine once, I knew girls usually had it and it probably had some fancy name.

“No, just the suitcase and this box please.” I pick up both and we head out. I see her glance back at her bedroom and my mind was made up before we even went out the door. I put her things in the back of the truck, then turn to her.

“Here, you can start the engine and get warm.” I hand her the keys. “I’ll be right back.” She gives me a quizzing look but gets in the drivers side to start the car and I do a light jog up the path, not wanting to leave her too long.

When I walk out of the house holding the furniture and little stool that was in front of it, I could see her surprised expression through the passenger window.

“You packed my vanity.” She says when I get into the car, and I guess the piece of furniture has a name after all.

“I did.”

“Why?”

“Because it looked like you wanted it.”

“I don’t need to bring it over to your house.” My girl could certainly be stubborn when she wanted to be. I drum my fingers on the wheel.

“I think you’re underestimating how long Soda spends in front of the bathroom mirror. You want a chance at getting ready for work, you’re going to need your own spot.”

She raises one eyebrow, a trick she picked up from Two Bit faster than the rest of us ever did. I can’t help but smile when she does that, and then she’s smiling too. She leans over to give me a too quick kiss.

“Thank you, Darry.” And I know she means for more than the vanity.

Someday I’ll figure out a way to tell her that she never needs to thank me. That it’s me who should be thanking her: for so long I felt like I was drowning and then she was there, the raft that could keep me above water. Every day that I’m with her, I can breathe a little easier.

It’s an easy drive to the general store, and when I pull up to the front, I see her looking down at her bandaged arm. I know she’s thinking about having to tell the story to Mr. Murphy and reliving it again.

“Do you want me to go in first? Talk to him?” I offer and she shakes her head.

“That’s sweet to offer, but I’ll be okay. I just don’t want Mr. Murphy worrying about me.”

“He cares about you, baby. Just like we all do.” The tips of her cheeks turn pink. God, my girl is so sweet.

“It’s nice, you know? I feel like I have this big list now of people I care about who care about me right back.” I lean my forehead down to meet hers.

“Am I at the top of that list?” I ask teasingly, but she leans her head back a little to look me in the eye and let me know she’s serious.

“Always.”

And I can’t help but kiss her after that.

When we finally break free and she looks into the rearview mirror to check her lipstick, I remember our conversation from the night before.

“You want to go to the hardware store after work? Look at paint colors for the kitchen?”

And then she gives me that smile, the big, full-on one that knocks me off my feet every time. I’ll let her paint the whole damn house if I can keep her looking this happy.

“I sure do.” She leans up for one last kiss, and then she’s out of the car and walking towards the store. Before she goes through the door she turns and gives me a little wave and I don’t fight the smile that’s taking over.

But as I drive the smile fades and I think about running into the living room last night to see her shivering, crying and barely able to stand. I think about dropping her off every night to a dark house while her father was out gambling away their food money. How her father got himself in trouble, and in doing so he put his daughter in harm’s way.

I think about what happens if he doesn’t come back. Or worse, what happens if he does.

I miss Dallas Winston for a whole lot of reasons, but I really miss him now. He would know what to do in this situation.

I take a left turn instead of a right turn, and I head to the person Dally would have gone to.

Tim Shepard is on his front porch when I pull up.

I’d known Tim a long time: growing up in similar neighborhoods, then finding ourselves in similar situations. But unlike mine, Tim’s parents left by choice.

It made him hard and bitter, and I judged him before I knew what it was like. Before I knew how hard it was to fight against those feelings taking over your whole being.

“Curtis.”

“Shepard.” He leans the box of cigarettes my way and I take one. It’s rare that I smoke, but I have a lot on my mind, and I need something to take the edge off.

“Been waiting for you to come around.”

“How so?”

“I know who your girl is. And I know who her daddy is.” I am both relieved I don’t have to explain the situation to him and pissed he’s acting so smug about knowing it.

“You know two men broke in her house last night?” Tim raises his eyebrows, mildly surprised.

“Her daddy owes half the bookies in town. It was a matter of time.”

“You know who he owes? Who would have sent these guys?” I ask and Tim takes a long drag before answering.

“I can find out. Maybe spread the word that’s she’s yours and off limits.” I narrow my eyes. Tim and I understand each other, but he doesn’t do favors for free. “My gang’s having a bit of trouble with the Carter boys from Louisville Heights. It doesn’t die down, we’ll set a rumble to settle it.”

“And you want me there.”

“I want your gang there, just like I brought mine to your fight with the west side.”

I don’t like it, but he’s got a point and I won’t argue it. Well, I won’t argue most of it.

“I’ll be there. And I’ll bring whoever wants to come. I ain’t making people fight, not after last time.” And I sure as hell wasn’t letting Ponyboy fight at all.

The silence is heavy and I can tell Tim doesn’t like it, but he gets it. That’s usually how our conversations go.

I put out my cigarette in the ashtray and get up to leave, but Tim starts speaking again.

“Some men can walk away from the table. Your girl’s dad ain’t one of them.” Tim stands so we are eye to eye. “It’s important she knows that.”

I nod and leave and as I drive back to my house, I replay his words in my head. I know I’ll have to tell her.

But I don’t have to tell her today.

I pull up to the store a few minutes before four o’clock, but I barely make it through the front door and say hi before Mr. Murphy is calling me over.

“Just a word with Darrel here,” he tells her and she shakes her head, like she knows what he’s playing at. I follow him out the back door and to the back alleyway. He takes out a pack of cigarettes, but this time I decline.

“She told me what happened. Her goddamn father can’t do right be her one day of his life.” He sounded angry and it was strangely refreshing to hear someone else as protective as I was. Mr. Murphy takes another long drag. “She says you’ve got a spare room at your house she can stay in for a few days.”

“Yes sir.” I answer and Mr. Murphy gives me a look. He might be old, but he ain’t dumb: he knows there’s no way she’s staying in a spare room.

“I offered her the apartment above the store, no one has lived in it for a bit but it’s not a bad place if you open up the windows for a day.” I school my expression into something less thunderous than I feel and try to stay calm for my reply.

“With all due respect sir, I didn’t like dropping her off at an empty home even before all this. I’d like it even less now.” I don’t break his stare and after a minute, he shakes his head, but he’s smiling.

“You know, I remember your dad when he was your age. He loved your mama something fierce.”

I remember. Plenty of kids in my neighborhood only had one parent around, and even the ones with two didn’t always have a happy home. But my parents were different. They filled our house with so much love that Soda once told me he can still feel it.

And my dad loved my mom. He was a pretty easy-going guy, but if something made my mom upset, he would do just about anything to fix it. He’d take the whole world on if he had to.

I get that now.

“I just want to keep her safe.” I tell Mr. Murphy and his eyes turn kinder, the same look I see him give my girl.

“Seems I got nothin’ to worry about then. You just let me know when the wedding is gonna be.” He puts out his cigarette on the pavement and opens the back door to go inside.

It takes a lot to make me flush with embarrassment, but that comment nearly did. I shake off thoughts of rings and weddings cakes and follow him.

“Y’all alright?” She asks and I give her a smile.

“Nothin’ you need to worry about.” I lean on the counter while she finishes stacking the receipts. The front door jingles and Sheila walks in looking like her usual moody self. They switch cashier spots and we are about to head out before Mr. Murphy calls out one more time.

“Darrel?”

“Yes sir?”

“Bobby Evans says you help him out with bookkeeping from time to time.” I nod. It shouldn’t surprise me that Mr. Murphy knows my boss: Tulsa may be a city, but it’s really just a big small town. “My eyes are getting’ older so what would you say about helping me out sometimes? I’ll pay you the same he does.”

I knew what this meant: I had earned his trust. Not just with the books, but with someone he cared about.

“I’d like that a whole lot, sir.” We nod at each other, an understanding passing between us. I put my arm around my girl and we walk out into the bright sunlight of a Saturday afternoon.

And when she looks up at me, smiling that special smile she does, I fleetingly think of rings and cakes.

NEXT: Living with our fav Curtis brothers

#stand by me: darry curtis #darry curtis fanfiction #the outsiders fanfiction #darry curtis #darry curtis x reader

49 notes · View notes

humanpurposes · 2 years ago

Text

My Heart Belongs to Daddy part vi, modern!Aemond

Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist // take the breath that's true

modern!Aemond x step-daughter

Warnings: 18+, language, family tensions

Words: 4500

A/n: Here we go, the penultimate installment! Part vii is going to be the last part and I can't really believe we're almost finished 🥲

And this is a complete coincidence I finished this today but HAPPY BRITHDAY to Ange aka @ewanmitchellcrumbs!! Consider this a little gift from me as a thank you for all your love n support 💚

Also available to read on AO3.

She wakes startled, her heart beating furiously to the sound of raised voices coming from the kitchen.

She’s in the middle of the bed, curled up on one side with the bed sheets bunched up around her.

After the mess of last night, Cregan had gone to the pub with Jace and Baela. Evidently he hadn’t come back but his things are still strewn about her room, the brown leather holdall by the wardrobe, his t-shirt on the floor, his aftershave on her vanity.

She runs her hands over her face and forehead, groaning at the headache pulsing in her head as the shouting continues.

It’s a rarity for Alys and Aemond to get so heated, usually their arguments are a cold war of curt remarks and furious glances. She holds her breath, listening for specific words but she can’t make anything out.

It concludes with Alys shouting at the top of her lungs, “FUCK OFF THEN!” followed by the kitchen door slamming, a pair of loafers clicking against the floor of the hallway and then the front door opening and closing.

She goes to the window, pulling the curtain back just enough to see Aemond’s silver Jag pulling out of the driveway. Something about seeing him leave feels so final.

Once she’s thrown on a t-shirt and some shorts she treads carefully down the stairs, afraid to disturb the eerie silence that hangs about the house.

Alys is leaning over the counter, cradling her forehead in her other hand. She breathes deeply and slowly, the cup of coffee in front of her long forgotten.

Finally she tries to compose herself, taking a sharp inhale through her nose, looking at her and forcing a smile, as if there aren’t tears welling in her eyes. “That’s it then,” she says, her voice hoarse from the shouting.

Panic strikes her gut like a knife, twisting and twisting until it burns. “Did he say why?”

Alys huffs bitterly. “He said it was ‘differing priorities’. Says he wants to reconnect with his family–” she licks her teeth and makes a sucking sound with her tongue– “he thinks I’ll just get in the way.”

“Is that actually what he said?”

“No.”

“Well how do you–”

“I just know!” Alys snaps and she flinches. Alys waves her hand vaguely in front of her face before she starts to rub circles against her temple. “I just… know.”

She looks down at the counter, hoping to find some way to make herself useful. There’s another cup in front of one of the stools. Black coffee, half-full. She reaches for it instinctively. She can’t see the prints of his fingertips and lips on the white ceramic, but she knows they’re there. He’s left a packet of cigarettes behind too, the same packet from the dinner party.

She pours the leftover coffee down the sink and squeezes some dish soap onto a cloth to clean it out. Her hands are shaking and she almost drops it twice.

“Gods, as if I even cared enough to interfere with his family,” Alys tuts behind her. “They never liked me.”

She can’t bring herself to disagree, but it’s not like the Targaryens are renowned for being welcome to outsiders, let alone the woman in her forties who took Alicent Hightower’s precious golden boy from her. She feels cruel for thinking that, especially because she knows she would never say that to Alys’ face.

There’s a tapping sound coming from the counter, a nail against cardboard. She glances over her shoulder as Alys drums her fingertip against Aemond’s packet of cigarettes. Her head is tilted and she hums distantly.

“I never meant for things to go this far,” she says, “but it’s done now.”

She can still feel Aemond’s hands on her waist and stomach, pushing her against the sink and pulling her back into him.

Why end it with Alys now? Had he told her the truth? Surely this would have turned out to be a very different conversation if he had. So why didn’t he?

“I just know these last couple of months have been fucking unbearable without you.”

She slowly places the clean cup by the sink, squeezes the water and soap from the cloth and dries her hands on a tea towel.

She can feel her heartbeat in her throat, and wonders if she’ll be able to speak if she tries.

“Mum?”

Alys doesn’t look up at her, still preoccupied with the packet. “What is it darling?”

When she doesn’t respond right away Alys turns to face her. Her mother can often be distracted, even when she tries to talk to her, there always seems to be something that’s more important. Not now though. She looks at her, really looks at her, with red cheeks, dried tears and her eyebrows raised in a sympathetic expression. Focused, ready to listen to her.

There’s an old harbour down by Blackwater Bay, two tall stone walls cutting out a little corner of the shore. In the summer people like to go down to swim there because the waves aren’t as rough as they are in the open sea and the kids in King’s Landing have made a tradition of jumping from the harbour walls. She used to go with Harwin and Jace, before Luke was really old enough to swim. The wall is highest right at the end, from a slab of concrete which everyone called ‘the table’ looking out on the other side of the harbour. Every year she told Jace she would jump from the table and every year she walked along the wall and clambered up onto the concrete. She would look down at the waves, rolling, colliding and roaring as they splashed up against the harbour walls. Suddenly her body would start to tremble and she’d forget how to breathe. She never managed to do it.

Now she thinks she’d take jumping into the bay over what’s about to come.

“I’ve done something really awful.”

The train from Oldtown to King’s Landing takes four hours. Four hours when she has nowhere else to go, nothing else to do but put her headphones in and watch the snow covered hills and fields of the Reach race past in a blur of white and green.

In the end she had accepted the Masters programme at the University of Oldtown. Alys’ reaction couldn’t be described as enthusiastic, but she would have been less excited for her to stay in King’s Landing.

Looking back, her first term had been good. She enjoyed her modules, liked all of her lecturers (even the stricter ones), was doing well on all of her assignments and she had access to the Citadel Library, which was far older and more impressive than the library at KLU.

She moved into a dorm room in the middle of the city just a few minutes from the main campus and made a few friends who all shared a flat in the well-to-do East District, which was where she did most of her socialising. On her free days she took herself to explore the city’s museums and bookshops, or she’d get herself a coffee and a cinnamon pastry and sit by the bank of the Honeywine, watching the boats and the flow of the water.

It should have been perfect, and it was in some ways. She threw herself into everything, research and essay writing, afternoons in pub gardens and parties full of strangers. Her life had become a tangle of possibilities and it was easy to let everything else slip away.

She ended things with Cregan well before she left for Oldtown. She told him half of the truth; she hadn’t been feeling like herself lately and she wanted space to feel like a person again. She didn’t tell him about Aemond or the incident at the dinner party, and she didn’t tell him that she felt like she was wandering through her own life like a lost puppy, looking for something she couldn’t quite put her finger on, something that would fill the space in her chest that seemed doomed to remain hollow forever.

He seemed shocked but he took it well. According to Jace he’s been getting rather close to Aly Blackwood, a KLU graduate from her year. Aly Blackwood is best known around King’s Landing as a goth with a heart of gold. She has tattoos and piercings, wears sleek eyeliner and black platform boots and spends every weekend going to concerts or music festivals. She’s smart and a people person, just like Cregan. If things are heading that way then she’s happy for them. He deserves someone like that, someone who doesn’t lie to everyone around her, someone who doesn’t fuck her mother’s boyfriend halfway through a dinner party, while her own boyfriend was only in the next room.

Oldtown was the perfect escape, until the 1st December came around. Everywhere she went there were lights and trees, couples huddling close together to keep out the cold, while Last Christmas played somewhere in the distance. She enjoyed as much of it as she could, especially when her new friends dragged her to go ice skating or to Oldtown’s annual Christmas market in the square. But she couldn’t shake the dread of having to go home and spending three weeks in the house alone with Alys. Three weeks of sleeping in the bed where Aemond used to fuck her.

She watches the window as the treeline of Kingswood vanishes, and the shoreline of Blackwater Bay stretches before her, which means the city is only minutes away.

She takes her phone from her pocket and looks at it with the same nagging impulse that so far, she’s successfully ignored for months. This is her last chance to call him before she gets to King’s Landing. She doesn’t even know what she would say. She doesn’t want to talk to him or see him, but she thinks it would be nice to hear his voice or just know that he’s thinking about her– if he is thinking about her.

She opens her notes app and the note titled really good advice.

Don’t engage.

Don’t listen to songs that make you sad.

It’s okay to let go.

The train emerges from a tunnel and slowly starts to halt as it comes into the glass canopy over the platforms of Central King’s Landing Station. She slips her phone back into her pocket.

Alys picks her up from the station. She’s not wearing her usual red lipstick and she’s cut her hair into a stylish bob that makes her look older– in a good way– but other than that, she looks the same.

They hug stiffly and exchange the same mumbled greeting. “Hi. You alright? Yeah, good thanks.”

Snow drifts down from a dark grey sky, but it’s not cold enough for it to settle, despite Ella Fitzgerald’s wishes for a “White Christmas” through the car speakers. The traffic is busy so she has plenty of time to admire the lights and displays in shop windows, and the trees twinkling inside the houses as they get closer to Queen’s park.

The house is gloomier than she remembers, but then she left it in early September when the weather was still warm. That’s her least favourite thing about winter, it’s dark and it’s only 4pm. It’s cold too. She wonders if Alys came straight from the office.

She leaves her bag at the bottom of the stairs and follows Alys through to the kitchen. She squints at the harsh lights as Alys rummages through the fridge. “Didn’t have any time to think about dinner,” she says, “the last few days have been non-stop.”

“That’s okay,” she mutters, familiarising herself with the feeling of the white marble countertops under her palms. “I can walk down to the shops, if you need?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Alys says, “you’re a guest.”

That’s a new feeling, being a guest in her own house.

To Alys’ credit, she’s making an effort to be around more. She comes home from the office earlier than she usually does and on the weekends she brings her laptop to the lounge and works from there.

She has reading she could be doing for uni but she’s too tired to read. Lately, every time she picks up a book the words blur and fade into one another. When she’s bored of scrolling through her phone or flicking through the TV, she tries her hand at baking gingerbread to get into the festive spirit. They turn out surprisingly well but then she’s just left sitting in the kitchen by herself, nibbling cookies and feeling utterly ridiculous for it. Why does being alone have to be so embarrassing, surely there’s no one around to care?

The worst part about being home is how obvious they’re both avoiding a certain topic.

They’re eating dinner around the island in the kitchen. The fridge is stocked up in anticipation for Christmas day (which seems unnecessary if it’s only for two of them) and in the meantime they’re living off simpler meals, mostly pasta or something with rice.

“Rhaenyra’s coming over for drinks on Christmas Eve” Alys says after a few minutes of silence.

She pauses her mouthful. Alys hasn’t so much as mentioned Rhaenyra since the dinner party after her graduation, and before that the wedding. She dreads to think this get together might include some other Targaryen relatives.

She swallows. “Why?”

Alys frowns. Rhaenyra and Harwin used to alternate their Christmases between their fathers, one year with Viserys, one year with Lyonel and the Rivers. That tradition had apparently been abandoned after Lyonel died not long after Harwin. Last year it had just been the three of them.

Alys shrugs. “Rhaenyra suggested it. We’ll just have a few glasses of wine. You’re welcome to join us if you’ve not got other plans.”

Other plans are unlikely; none of her friends are in King’s Landing. So far the holidays have just been a waiting game, but the festive season seems to drag on when you’ve got nothing interesting to do and no one to see.

“I’ll be around,” she says.

“Perfect.”

Then they come back to silence, apart from the scraping of cutlery. She worries if she’s chewing too loudly, it sounds loud in her head.

Then Alys starts talking about a new client of hers. She becomes surprisingly animated, clearly excited about the new venture for Rivers PR, until she mentions an issue with contracts and some legal dilemma, then she goes quiet. It was Aemond’s job to sort that stuff out, make things more manageable for her.

She tries to change the subject by telling Alys about Oldtown, her new friends and the possibility of a graduate role at the Citadel Research Institute.

“One of my lecturers is a partner there,” she says. “They usually reserve two placements for Oldtown students.”

“How long would it be for?” Alys asks.

“Two years,” she says, taking a quick sip of the bittersweet grapefruit soda Alys had insisted she try, “it’s paid work, and then I’ll have a job by the end of it.”

“Sounds like you’ve got everything planned out nicely.” Alys doesn’t say it like a compliment. Her voice falls as she speaks.

“I mean, it’s only a possibility,” she says, “I’d have to get accepted. I was thinking about applying for some stuff in King’s Landing too–”

“Do you like Oldtown?” Alys asks. Her expression is utterly unreadable. She might be furious. She might not care at all.

She places her glass down. Her stomach aches with hunger but she finds that she doesn’t feel like eating. “Yeah, I do.”

“Well then I see no reason to force yourself to stay here,” Alys says and promptly goes back to eating.

Her chest feels like it’s about to burst.

She told Alys the truth. She didn’t try to justify what she did. She watched her mother cry, stood there as she screamed at her and gave her space when she wanted it. Seven hells, she had moved to the other side of the continent to give her space.

She knows there’s no version of this where she isn’t the villain, where she doesn’t wake up every morning and feel like a shit human being. Part of her is still trying to accept that her mother might never forgive her, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t want to try.

The edges of her vision start to blur. “You’re here,” she says.

She watches Alys’ chest rise and fall and her lips start to tremble as she sets her cutlery down. She breathes as she hangs her head, gnawing slightly on her bottom lip.

She anticipates another argument like the one before, that will leave her with a hoarse throat and a tightness in her head.

Then Alys turns her head to face her with glassy eyes. “I hope you don’t think I’ve held you back.”

“What? No, why would you say that?”

“You seem so happy in Oldtown I just… I hate to think that you only went to KLU for me. Don’t get me wrong, I loved having you at home for another three years, but I just wanted you to be happy. That’s all I’ve ever wanted for you–” she gasps a small sob but snatches it right back. She wipes her eyes with her fingertips, careful not to smudge her makeup. “I’m sorry if I’ve made things… difficult.”

She can hardly believe what she’s seeing. “No, no, no…” she utters, reaching for one of Alys’ hands. Her throat feels thick and when she blinks she feels hot and heavy tears trailing over her cheeks. “This was all my fault. Mum, you’ve given me everything, and what have I done with it but just be selfish and stupid and–”

“Oh come here,” Alys huffs. They both stand and Alys wipes her daughter’s tears away with her thumbs.

“But you must hate me,” she whimpers, “I lied to you. I hurt you.”

Alys strokes her hands over her hair and cradles her, bringing her into her chest like she used to when she was a child. “I wanted to at first,” she mutters, “of course I did. I never would have thought…

“You know, I never actually thought I’d have kids. My parents weren’t exactly great at making me feel like a priority, and I used to think I could never be a parent because, well, I didn’t know how to be one.

“But you were so perfect. From the moment you were born I just knew I loved you, like I had never loved anyone before, and I knew I never would love anyone more than you, ever.”

She clings onto her mother like she might fade away, with the material of her blouse between her fingers and her ear pressed to her heartbeat.

“You’ve always been my everything,” Alys whispers, “I just… I don’t want to lose you.”

She pulls herself away from Alys’ embrace so she can look her in the eye. “I really am sorry, for everything with Aemond.”

Alys hums shortly. “Was it just sex?”

She’ll never forget that night in the hotel room, how stupid she felt, how empty it left her, how lost she was for months after. Sometimes she wonders, if she could, would she take back what she said? There’s no point in getting hung up on what-ifs.

She still feels lost in a lot of ways, but the dust seems to be settling now. She just hopes things will be a little clearer now.

“I think it was for him.”

Alys frowns sadly. “Oh you stupid thing.”

She wants to cry all over again, but it’s a fair statement. “Are you sure you don’t hate me?”

Alys considers the question. “Maybe just a little.”

By Christmas Eve her mood has significantly improved. The weight has been lifted from her body. She doesn’t have to spend an hour convincing herself to get out of bed. She doesn’t lose herself under the warm, running water of the shower. She doesn’t feel so exhausted from the simplest of tasks.

She and Alys finally get not one but two trees up. The ‘proper tree’ is in the dining room, with golden lights reflected in the silver and glass ornaments. In the lounge they have a smaller one that sits in the window. It has fairy lights shaped like stars and mismatched decorations, little wooden snowmen, plush reindeer and polar bears they’ve had since she was little and golden birds that belonged to Alys’ grandmother. She likes the small tree the best because every decoration has a memory. She feels like a little girl again, buzzing with excitement to spend Christmas day with uncle Harwin, aunt Rhaenyra and her cousins.

Tomorrow, she'll wake up slowly, have mimosas with her mum, roast some potatoes, eat too much food and fall asleep curled up on the sofa. Nothing else will matter. She won’t keep second guessing someone else’s every move. She won’t cry herself to sleep thinking of every little thing about her that isn’t good enough to be loved.

Alys is adamant tonight will be nothing like the dinner party in June, thank the Gods.

She changes into a mini dress with a colourful floral pattern and styles her hair nicely. She tilts her head at her reflection and puts in some pearl drop earrings, but something still feels missing. She shrugs it off.

She helps Alys put out snacks and drinks on the kitchen island and choses a playlist of all the essential Christmas songs, just in time for their guests to arrive.

Rhaenyra looks as stunning as ever, in a black two piece that fits snugly around a growing baby bump, bright red lipstick and gold jewellery on her neck and wrists. She hugs both of them tightly and smiles beautifully in a way that makes her think she might be genuine.

Baela and Rhaena follow behind her, which is a pleasant surprise.

“No boys with you?” Alys asks as they all walk through to the kitchen.

“Thought we’d keep it strictly pleasant company,” Rhaenyra says, “nice to have a bit of calm before we go to dad’s tomorrow.”

“Right,” she and Alys say at the same time.

They all sit in the kitchen. The twins are a year older than her. Baela’s been working at her grandfather’s company while Rhaena’s found her way into being a stylist, always posting from film sets and photoshoots. She looks the part too, she tends to wear bright, bold colours and pairs them with patterns and materials that shouldn’t work together, but somehow they do.

They ask about Oldtown and she doesn’t feel bad about repeating everything she’s already told Alys. The attention is quite nice.

Given the baby, Rhaenyra can’t actually drink but she pours some cranberry juice into a wine glass and sips it elegantly. “Jace told me you and Cregan broke up?” she says once the charcuterie boards have been finished off.

In that moment she tries to think of all the ways someone might react when they’re not bothered by something. Unbothered people smile vaguely and play with their hair without it seeming nervous. Unbothered people crack jokes at their own expense and laugh things off. Unbothered people don’t take as long as she’s taking to answer a question. “Um.. yeah.”

“Oh well, that’s life,” Rhaenyra sighs. “You know I broke up with my first girlfriend before I went to uni.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. And then she married my dad.”

She and Alys look at each other. They both try to look concerned at first, until she sees a flicker of a smile on Aly’s lips. She slips too, and they simultaneously snort into laughter.

But once the amusement wears off and Alys and Rhaenyra retreat to the lounge, she still feels guilty.

Baela and Rhaena are gossiping about some shared friends. She only half pays attention.

Maybe Rhaenyra meant it to be reassuring, empathetic, validating, but Oldtown wasn’t the reason why she ended things with Cregan, more a symptom of a single problem.

She has a sudden urge to reach for her phone, but she’s left it upstairs.

She was doing so fine in Oldtown. She was happy, busy, things didn’t seem to bother her as much as they do in King’s Landing.

“What are you doing for new years?” Baela asks.

“Oh um, nothing. Mum has a fundraiser she usually goes to.”

“Are you not going to go with her?”

A ballroom full of canapés, elevator pitches and entrepreneurs making small talk sounds like a living hell. “Definitely not.”

“We’re all going to Dracarys,” Rhaena says, “you know that club on Silk Street? Why don’t you join us.”

She starts to shake her head. Hanging out with Aemond’s cousins sounds like it could be a bad idea.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Baela says, “but don’t worry, it’s just us, Jace and a few other girls. Cregan won’t be there, he’s gone back to Winterfell.”

She releases a shaky sigh of relief. Right. Cregan. The person she should be worried about.

“He and Aly Blackwood are a thing now,” Rhaena says.

She keeps her eyes on a space on the counter. “Yeah, I heard.”

The kitchen falls to an uneasy silence. Baela and Rhaena look at each other and she can feel the anxiety radiating off them, restless and uncomfortable without something to fill the lull in the conversation. She doesn’t mind the quiet.

They don’t stay too late. When they go to leave the snowfall is a little heavier and leaves a light dusting over the drive and the cars.

“Let me know about new years,” Baela says, “we’ll have fun!”

She supposes so, and besides, she could do with getting out the house and drowning her sorrows with a sensible amount of margaritas.

She and Alys stand in the doorway as Rhaenyra’s Escalade pulls away and disappears down an otherwise empty street, leaving a trail in the snow that is quickly covered again.

Alys checks the time on her phone and shows her the time: 00:02. “Happy Christmas, darling,” she says, wrapping her arm around her shoulders.

She smiles and leans into her. “Happy Christmas, mum.”

Alys grins and nods towards the stairs. “Now get to bed or Santa’ll skip our house.”

She giggles softly as she goes, entirely pleased that Christmas isn’t turning out to be a complete shitshow. Alys has left a new pyjama set on her bed, white, fluffy and impossibly soft. It makes a difference from her old Black Sabbath t-shirt. She readies herself for bed, brushes her teeth and takes a few sips of the glass of water she’s brought up with her.

Her phone is plugged in on her bedside table, but it must be fully charged by now.

The moment she reaches for it, the screen lights up and it starts to ring. The glare of the white text makes her eyes sting: Aemond Targaryen.

All the months of distance are gone in a moment. All the time she’s spent trying to move on are lost for just one glimmer of hope. It would be so easy to accept the call. She doesn’t care what she should or shouldn’t say. One movement of her thumb and she’ll hear his voice.

Don’t engage.

It’s okay to let go.

She watches the phone ring until his name disappears.

A/n: I also realised that I've been referring to Harwin's father as Simon Strong which is incorrect, it should be Lyonel, so I've gone back and corrected that.

General Taglist: @randomdragonfires @jamespotterismydaddy

Series Taglist: @marthawrites @urmomsgirlfriend1 @aaaaaamond @boundlessfantasy @sahvlran @tinykryptonitewerewolf @arcielee @tssf-imagines @aemondsfavouritebastard @skikikikiikhhjuuh @queenofshinigamis @lost-and-founds @izzydlb @dc-marvel-girl96 @xcinnamonmalfoyx @padfooteyes @castellomargot @pet1t3 @okfashionista @khaothick @babygirlyofthevale (I'm so sorry I said I was gonna add you for last time and I completely forgot 😭)

#my fics #aemond targaryen #aemond x original female character #aemond smut #aemond fanfiction #aemond x y/n #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen fanfic #hotd fanfic #hotd fan fiction #hotd fanfiction #modern!aemond #modern au #house of the dragon fanfiction #stepdad!aemond #my heart belongs to daddy

314 notes · View notes

sincerelyverena · 6 months ago

Note

Hello hello :))

If I may request Charles introducing ska to an alternative!reader?? As a goth and metahead myself (mainly), I'm just begging to learn more about other subcultures I love alt people 🛐🛐

Thank you very much!

⟡⁺ TOO MUCH, TOO YOUNG

AAAHHHH ANON. I LOVE YOU SO MUCH! this was such a creative prompt, every second of this i loved writing and brainstorming now i know a fuck time about ska, so thank you! xox

. . . CHARLES ROWLAND X GN!READER ‘gi we de birth control, we no want no pickni.’ @andforthecoating

inbox is always open for requests!

in whichꕀ

✦ ﹒charles is sick of your music taste and believes he can damn well introduce you to his favourite genre of tunes and make you love it.

tagsꕀ

✦ ﹒platonic pairing﹐charles and reader bonding over music﹐charles being passionate about ska oh lord marry me pls ﹐brainstorming verena is super excited to get this done ﹐hello again its editing verena i would marry this fic and anon if i had the chance to wow it turnt out PERFECT

THANK YOU TO MY WONDERFUL BETA READERS: @no-baths-for-stan

‘You got the same CDs, haven’t you?’

Charles was rustling around in your room. You were preoccupied with applying your makeup for the day, watching him kneel by your disc collection as you glimpsed into your reflection. ‘Temple of Love’ by Sisters of Mercy stifled the background noise as you worked.

‘You should know,’ you remarked, dipping your gaze towards the palette by your side. You plunged the tip of your brush into the darkest powder in sight, moving it towards the space where your eyebrows were supposed to be. ‘Seeing as you like to rummage through them so often.’

‘It’s all the same tunes, innit?’ Charles blew out a short breath, hands falling to the edge of the cardboard box as he fell back on his heels. He glanced up towards you. ‘Same old genres, bit dull, really.’

You hissed under your breath the slightest as your makeshift brows looked a little off, moving to grab a pint of concealer to correct the mistake. Completely disregarding Charles’s complaints in the process. ‘What can I say? I like what I like.’

The young ghost rose to his feet. He took a step towards your bed, snatching his jacket. Charles shoved both arms into the garment, using one to gesture towards your vanity. ‘When are you finished with that, then?’

The brush that was patting down your skin paused mid-movement. And at last, you drew your eyes away from what you were doing, falling upon the British male with a curious look. ‘Makeup?’

‘Yup.’

You turned to look at yourself. Half of your complexion was blended out with a smooth, pure-white foundation whilst the other half of your face was still waiting for some sort of application. ‘A while,’ you decided to say.

‘Well, when you’re done with that, yeah,’ Charles began. He had moved to sit down on the edge of your bed. He rested his elbows upon the dark fabric of his pants covering his knees, watching as you continued to apply the base of your look. ‘We’re off to the record shop.’

‘Charles, you’re not going to make me buy albums I won’t even listen to.’ You reached forwards towards your phone to skip ahead a few songs, falling onto Bauhaus.

‘Maybe.’ The pointed grin on Charles’s face was unmissable as he rose back to his feet. He shoved his hands into his pockets, looking as devious as Charles Rowland could ever be. ‘But I’ll play you some music that’ll proper blow your mind.’

You rolled your eyes, knocking off spare powder from the edge of your tools. ‘We’ll see.’

That’s how you found yourself outside of the Vinyl Vault, a tiny record shop a block away from the Tongue & Tail that you liked to frequent when on the lookout for new albums. Not too keen on looking insane, you barely acknowledged Charles on the walk through the store, giving one of the usual employees a small wave.

Finally, surrounded by nothing but stacks of albums and walls of vinyl, you turned towards Charles, who was in the middle of flicking through the discs with a searching gaze.

‘You’re on a mission,’ you observed, crossing two arms over your chest.

‘A mission to broaden your musical horizons,’ Charles quipped, the pads of his fingers quick as he flicked through a few more. A soft noise of approval left his mouth as he leant back and withdrew a certain CD with a black and white-centric design. ‘Oi, have you ever given ska a listen?’

You tracked Charles with curious eyes as he approached the small CD player propped on a nearby table, fingers flicking to pop the disc out. ‘Nah, but my uncle was real into it. Kind of made me tune it out, so I never really gave it a shot.’

‘Well, looks like your lucky day has come,’ Charles drawled. He was unable to stifle the small smile that crossed his lips as he pressed a few buttons on the player before the disc whirred and an off-beat rhythm sounded throughout the shop. ‘One of my personal favourites, this is.’

‘Which is?’

‘The Specials.’

You stood and listened alongside Charles to the first track. There was something undeniably catchy about it, and one glance towards Charles reckoned he thought the same. As his foot tapped and his lips inaudibly made out some of the lyrics.

As the first track ended, you decided to speak up. ‘I never thought you would be into the blues.’

‘Try Jamaican,’ Charles answered in turn, as he plopped down on the double sofa in the corner by another stack of albums that customers had left abandoned. He absentmindedly flicked through them, bobbing his head as the second track started.

‘Do The Dog.’ You had recognised this one as you sat next to him. ‘Yeah?’

‘Ska came about in Jamaica in the late ’50s, that did,’ Charles began to explain to you, setting down one of the albums atop his knees as he looked towards you. There was a soft fire alight in his eyes as he continued to explain. ‘Two-Tone—y’know that genre from around here, yeah?—mixed Jamaican ska with punk and new wave, creating that ska-rock and ska revival sound.’

‘Interesting. So it has North American influence?’

‘Caribbean, that is.’

‘Huh.’ You pondered for a second, taking in all the sounds and rhythms the genre had to offer. You turned towards Charles, who was staring at you, awaiting your response. ‘I like it.’

‘See? Knew you would.’ Charles looked elated, nudging you a little in the ribs as he spoke.

The two of you fell into some sort of content silence as the album shifted onto its next track. You leant against the arm of the chair, head falling back against the curve of Charles’s shoulder, hearing the tune flood through the little corner of the shop recklessly.

You both allowed the album to play out to the very end before you went up to the front counter to buy it, dumping it into the little bag you had brought. You refused to admit it but Charles had won, this time.

WORD COUNT: 1.1K MASTERLIST REQ ME!

#📂﹟𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐬 .ᐟ #📁﹟𝐦𝐲 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 .ᐟ #📎﹟ 𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭 .ᐟ #👻 ﹟ 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐛𝐨𝐲 𝐝𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐬 .ᐟ #🏏 ﹟ 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝 .ᐟ #sincerelyverena #fanfiction #dead boy detectives fic #dead boy detective agency #dead boy detectives #charles rowland/you #charles rowland/reader #charles rowland x you #charles rowland x reader #charles rowland #niko sasaki #crystal palace #edwin payne

15 notes · View notes

idontplaytrack · 1 year ago

Text

✧ Never Let You Go

Jos Cleary-Lopez x fem! reader

Warnings: angst, coarse language

Read part one & part two first!

“How am I supposed to move on? When you're never really too far gone. The memories won't go away. I feel pain every time I hear your name.”

— see you later (ten years), Jenna Raine

Jos was the first to head into your bedroom at your parents’ home to collect your belongings after the ugliness of their anger had died down. “Take whatever you want.” Your Mom said, “We don’t know what to do with all of this anyway. We kept a few things, but it’s…a lot.”

Jos quietly nodded, clutching a corner of a cardboard box in her hand as she walks into your bedroom. It was familiar to her, but also not so much at the same time. She’s seen it and been in this room, but not often enough to remember it too well. This shows how much time you spend at hers instead. She started off by opening up the doors to your wardrobe, since that was the first thing she was met with upon walking in. She flips through each piece, holding the fabric between her fingers. Jos takes a few off the rack, together with the hangers.

Her minds drifts a little as she feels the fabric beneath her fingertips. Sitting down on your bed, she looks through what she’d picked out, very carefully removing the hangers from them before folding each piece and placing them into the box. She reaches the last piece of clothing, a sweater. Her own, but one you loved so much she let you keep. Jos puts it on, inhaling the scent. Your perfume. You always used it and even after several washes, the fragrance lingers on the fabric. She shifts her gaze onto your bed, it lands on the few stuffed animals you had. One of which was given to you by her. It was cheap plush bunny that she won for you at the carnival— on one of your very first dates with her. She took that one, it quickly gets put into the box. Your desk was her next stop, walking over to it, her eyes paid close attention to every little trinket, photo and sticker along the way…on the vanity, on the walls.

She studies everything on your desk, checking the drawers. Jos spots an envelope with her name on it and took it out, bracing herself for what she was about to read. But no amount of preparation was enough for what she was going to see.

“Jos,

I don’t know what else I should say to you other than ‘I’m sorry’, in fact it doesn’t even cut it. But I did my best, I can’t take any more of a life like this one. I let you down, I’m weak. I give up. I need this to stop. Nothing else can make it stop.

The best thing that’s ever happened in my life was meeting you, Jos. And getting to love you. I am so grateful for you, baby. I love you and I’ll miss you so terribly. Thank you for all the love and laughter you’ve brought to my life even on the hardest days. You have every right to hate me, but just know I love you and I’ll never forget you for loving all of me. You are my whole world, Jos.

This isn’t goodbye, Jos, but a see you later.”

She puts the letter down, tears streaming down her face that she so desperately tried to wipe away. She looks out your window and up at the sky, thinking, “I hope you’re doing alright up there, baby. Nothing will ever make me hate you. Ever. You hear me?”

She calms herself down and continues look through your things. Backtracking to your vanity, she picks up your favourite bracelet and matching necklace, keeping them safely in the box. Jos then got the urge to take your favourite sheets, pulling them out from exactly where she knew they were. A photo album was the last thing she places into the box, until a pretty thick book beside it catches her eye— it was a scrapbook filled with countless photos of you and her since the very first date.

Curious, she flips through it. “Each photo in here shows each moment I found myself falling in love with you, more and more every time.” She smiles she mutters that to herself. A few of them were the silliest photos she’s ever seen of herself, but she was glad they were captured. By you, someone who loved her the way she was, see her the way you did.

Closing your bedroom door, she carries the box to her car, settling it in the trunk. Bidding your parents goodbye, she was on her way. One way or another, she stops at an animal shelter along the way home, wanting to spend some time with some cute animals and get some cuddles. A quiet little puppy, laying far away from the rest catches her eye. “This one is tiny. Hi, sleepyhead. Hi, cutie.”

“A family was given this puppy by their neighbor because their dog had quite a few. But the kid was so allergic they had to give her up.” The staff explains.

“What- what’s her name?”

“Kid named her Bubby. We kept it.” The staff shrugs.

“Bubby?”

“Yeah.” She chuckles, “It’s a little silly, but if you want her, you get to pick her name of course.”

Jos couldn’t believe her ears. Was this the sign she was looking so hard for? Bubby was what she’d call you sometimes when you were being all pouty and sad, just to make you laugh after she found out that you thought it was the funniest nickname ever.

Jos immediately agreed to adopt that little furball and went home with her and most of everything needed to care for her.

Margot stops Jos once she stepped inside. “You got a dog? She didn’t have a dog.”

“A dog?!” Izzy came running. “Oh my God— it’s so cute! What’s its name?!”

“Her name, is Bubby.” Jos smiles a little, handing the squirmy puppy over to Izzy.

“I was just at her house to get some things. But for some reason I decided to stop at animal shelter— thought it’d be nice to be around some cute animals, you know. Then the lady who worked there said her name was Bubby.” Jos gestured towards the dog, “I asked y/n for a sign, whatever it was. It never really came. But this…this puppy. Seems like what I needed. I used to call her Bubby to make her laugh because she would, she found it to be such a hilarious nickname that I would call her that so she wouldn’t cry anymore. So yes, I got a dog. And I don’t know why, but I need her.”

“Well, she is very cute.” Margot remarked, “Okay, well, you’re old enough to make your own decisions. I was just a little shocked, I guess. Didn’t really expect you to come home with a new pet. How’d things go at her place?”

“Uh, I found something.” Jos puts the box down, rummaging through it and locating the letter. “There’s one addressed to you and Dad, too.”

“Okay.” Margot nodded, speaking as calmly as she could, taking Jos’ letters and her own. “I’ll be in the study. You girls…play with Bubby.”

“Matty sent a letter. I threw it out.”

“Good.” Jos sighs softly, “Um, she left something.” Jos turned back around to reach for the box, hand leaving the canine’s fur. “The bracelet you liked that she didn’t want to give you at first.”

Izzy gasps, “Wow. Do you want it? You can have it instead, Jos. It’s probably more important to you.”

“Huh?” Jos licked her lips, “Oh. No, no. I have my own stuff. You take that one, alright? She wanted you to have it.”

“Okay.” Izzy agrees, letting Jos help her put it on. “Is it bad I hate Matty for what happened?”

“No.” Jos answers immediately. “Hate him all you want, I hate him too. Honestly I don’t think I’ll ever stop hating his guts.”

“I’m sorry he hurt her so badly.” Izzy says.

She didn’t know what happened exactly. No one told her. It just didn’t feel right for her to know it— she’s a child. It would just be too much.

“I know you are.” Jos cups her cheek, “But she’s okay now, she doesn’t have to worry about anything anymore.”

“I know, but it’s not fair. Why did he have to do such a bad thing?” Izzy asks, cuddling with their new pet, “y/n was crying all the time and it was all his fault. He said he was sorry in the letter, but I know he isn’t. He’s always lying.”

“I don’t know, Iz. Some people are just…bad people. Life’s tough, some people make it harder. It’s not fair.”

“I know you’re sad, I’m sorry.” Izzy apologizes, “You don’t have to force yourself not to cry, you know?”

Jos chuckles, a tear falls, “I know, I just…she wouldn’t want us to see us sad all the time.”

“Oh, that’s true.”

————

“I know, I talk to you every night. Can’t help it, I miss you.” Jos chuckles to herself as she sat down on the grass. “We graduated high school, y/n. I have your diploma, your parents didn’t want it. But, anyway, I told the kids at school of for you. It had to be done— they were speaking ill of you and I wasn’t going to let that keep happening. You deserve your peace.”

Jos stares at the headstone, then continues, “How does one get over this? I mean, as okay as my therapist thinks I’m doing, as okay as I feel…I just know I’ll always miss you. Honestly thank you for Bubby, Izzy loves that dog, we all love that fluffball. You know some nights I uh, dream about the future we were supposed to have? How we would’ve moved out of this town after college, work our asses off to save up to move to New York City— but it’s okay because we’ve got each other. Then we’d get a small cozy apartment and a puppy then just grow old in the city that never sleeps. But all of that now, it’ll never happen. I can only hope you’re fulfilling even your wildest of dreams, y/n.”

Jos had a good cry and dusted herself off, getting up, “I’ll see you later, baby. Happy birthday and happy graduation.”

Three months went by, then six, then nine. Eventually, a whole year goes by. Not a day passes where they didn’t think of you. But the pain faded gradually. Some days more than others, though. Izzy wears the bracelet all the time, Jos keeps a photo of you and her in her wallet and hugs your favourite plush bunny to sleep, Margot makes your favourite dish for the family every now and then, Rob? He gets your favourite flavour of ice cream when he takes the family out for dessert because he was thinking of you. They don’t realise it because they’ve become so accustomed to it, but you were always apart of them.

That fall, Izzy enters high school, Jos leaves the state for college in New York. Rob, Margot and Izzy send her off, then she was on her own. With a slightly heavy heart that day, but she made the most of it. She settled in at her new home for the next few years, getting to know her roommates that shared the apartment with her. Her heart stings a little when they first asked about you, but she was filled with so much pride and joy talking about you…all that you’d accomplished in your life.

“She’s definitely watching out for you wherever she is, Jos.”

“I know, Grace. I— I can feel that.” Jos admits. “But part of me has become such a bitter person because of what happened.”

“You’re better than me, I would’ve punched the fuck out of him.”

“Oh, I dream of it, frying his fucking balls off.” Jos rolled her eyes, “To make him feel even just an ounce of the pain she felt.”

During her free time, Jos did whatever she wanted. Trying all the good food, seeing all the attractions. Just about anything you both made a pact to experience in the city. She did it for you, but also for her. She was happy here, as she should be. Her roommates were really nice, she’s also made a couple of close friends at school. Jos was loving every second of her time here, free and happy for the most part. She went home a little more often than just for holidays, so that she could visit you. She’d always make it a point to stop by and say hello even when things got busy at home. Another place Jos would always spend time at was the diner she was at with you pretty often, they asked about you awhile ago, assuming you and Jos broke up. But when they found out you’d passed away, they were shocked. “Hi, honey. Do you want your usual?”

“Yeah, please.”

“Coming right up.”

Jos sat in a booth, leaning back and people-watching. A little while later, the same waitress returns with a reuben sandwich and a mango milkshake. She joins Jos, sitting down opposite her.

“How’d you know that this was the booth?”

“Huh?”

“Look at the corner of the table by your hand.” The waitress says, “The last time she came by here, she wrote that down.”

“Oh.” Jos gasped quietly, “I didn’t know. I just say down here because it was in a corner.”

“She’ll always be around, honey.” The waitress smiles, “Smile, it looks good on you.”

Jos chuckles tearfully, grabbing the glass cup that contained the milkshake and taking a sip. Her eyes land on your handwriting on the table again: ‘Smile, it looks good on you’.

“You never fail to impress me. And bring a good moment into my days even right now.” She mutters to herself, well, to you, “It feels like you’re so far away but at the same time, not really. It just feels strange you’re not here with me anymore, but yet, you are. I can feel it, all the time. So thank you for that. After all, it’s just ‘see you later’, right? I’m afraid I won’t be able to love someone else as much as I love you, y/n. So, I’m not gonna rush myself to do that. If it ever feels right, it happens. If it doesn’t, I won’t let it happen. Life’s as good as it gets right now, honey. I’ve got good friends, good grades, I’m having a good time on my off-days to do what I want. Sometimes I still wish for you to be here with me— physically, because the days can get pretty tough and I just want my girl with me. But knowing you are indeed with me in whatever way possible, it helps. And I cannot wait to see you again one day, kiss you and hold you in my arms and never let you go. Because I won’t, I won’t let you go ever again.”

🏷️ Tag list:

@ashecampos @auliisflower @cheesysoup-arlo @frogs00 @ludoesartnstuffs @pda128

💭 A/N:

I just had to finish off this little story today, lol. But here’s part 3 of 3.

#auli'i cravalho #jos cleary-lopez #the power(2023)#the power amazon #multi part fic #reader insert #x reader #female reader #reader imagine #wlw #gxg #angst #mature themes #mdni #reader discretion advised #lgbtqia #alternative universe #Spotify

11 notes · View notes

bringerofjollity44 · 2 years ago

Text

Very disappointed with Ahsoka: mid-season review

I watched all of Rebels just to prepare for this and I am so disappointed with what they have done with the characters. They are all played so flat, and I have to think it is the direction and not the actors themselves. Where Hera was once sharp and defiant, she is blank and emotionless; where Sabine was rebellious and independent, she is now angsty and traitorous; where Ahsoka was once spirited and charismatic she is now sour and sullen. Every character in this show feels like a different version of the same personality - all emotions feel overly reserved yet melodramatically serious. This goes for the new characters as well, including ones who were barely present in the show such as Captain Hayle in episode 1.

Moreover, the storytelling is just bad. We have little to know idea who any of these people are or their motivations:

Baylan is Dark Jedi who repeatedly alludes to some greater good and his past in the Jedi order. But how and why did he become embroiled with Thrawn, who has been in a different galaxy for years??? How did they even meet? What are the tangible things he is looking to get out of this? This goes for Shin and Morgan as well - who are they, how do they know Thrawn, and why are they so committed to him? We are halfway through the season and we are not any closer to answering these questions. (also why does Baylan know every detail of Ahsoka and Sabine's backstories??? why is his character carrying the weight of providing their backstories???)

The Ahsoka-Sabine relationship is also wildly disappointing. The writers threw us into the middle of some conflict that was depicted nowhere without providing any backstory. This allows them to add new elements to the conflict willy nilly without having to think it through beforehand. From the audience perspective, this prevents us from feeling with the characters. For example, in "Fallen Jedi" Baylan uses the fact that Ahsoka apparently prevented Sabine from helping her family survive the purge of Mandalore - which was never shown on screen or mentioned previously in the show. Instead of feeling what Sabine is feeling and internally understanding her tension regarding finding Ezra vs. stopping Thrawn, we are just told plot elements as needed. This is a classic example of TELLING and not SHOWING, while also contributing to the characters feeling like cardboard cutouts. We need to EMPATHIZE with characters good and bad throughout the show!!!!

Some of this has shown through in the plot as well, particularly with Sabine - why did she run away with the star map in episode 2?? She is a woman in her 30s, she is not a reckless teenager like in Rebels. I don't think even 16-year-old Sabine would do this - she would not sacrifice the cause for her personal gain. She has twice now played an instrumental role in helping the Dark Jedi & Morgan find Thrawn with an explicit goal of reinstating the Empire. Sabine sacrificed so much to bring about the Empire's fall!!! Why would she throw that all away now? And I'm not buying the "she doesn't have any family left" bit - even if her relationship with Ahsoka is strained, Hera is literally right there!!! One of the big themes of Rebels was choosing family when you are cast out from society/your own family. Does none of that matter now???

It feels very much like they heavily prioritized the aesthetics - which feel very "Star Wars" and are of fantastic quality - along with fan service (including cameos, live action versions of the most random Rebels characters (e.g. Jai Kell)) which makes it feel more like a Filoni vanity project than a way to advance the story of Star Wars.

Overall, I'm worried about what this show will mean for the trajectory of the entire Star Wars universe - Ahsoka is training a non-Force-sensitive individual, which has huge implications for what the Jedi are. Again, I could be on board with this, but the show has done zero explaining regarding why Ahsoka decided to take Sabine as a Padawan. The audience is just expected to accept that it's true.

On top of that, Disney-Star Wars has once again pulled the "person appears to die but actually didn't," which is getting progressively less believable each time they do it. I am also very afraid of the potential of the World Between Worlds as a deus ex machina - are we just going to use this mechanic to connect people through disjointed points in space and time whenever it serves the plot???? I will wait for the explanation when episode 5 comes out, but given how little explanation has taken place so far in the show, I have lost trust with the writing/direction of the show to do this.

Ahsoka, so far, is all flash and no substance. It feels like it is merely a way to show us characters we love in live action without doing any thinking regarding what they should be doing together. The emotions are simultaneously telegraphed and muted, which makes the characters feel dull and not true to their original characterization.

I will keep watching because I am deeply invested in Star Wars and I love these characters from my Rebels viewing, but I am so disappointed after what feels like another miss from Disney - an emphasis on fan service by bringing back beloved characters without taking any care to how their presentation is handled and whether they need to be brought back in the first place (see the horrible execution of Kenobi and The Book of Boba Fett, bringing back Palpatine with no explanation or buildup in Rise of Skywalker, etc).

Closing thought - where was Ahsoka during the main action of the original and sequel movies? If there was another Force sensitive that appears to be very significant to the Force, why was she not involved? Clearly she was very involved in the creation of the rebellion and now preventing the creation of the First Order - yet where is she in the movies? Why does no one even mention her? Again, this logical insistency makes this feel increasingly like a Filoni vanity project that does not prioritize consistency with the larger narrative of Star Wars.

#star wars #ahsoka #sabine wren #ezra bridger #dave filoni #star wars disney #hera syndulla #baylan skoll #shin hati #morgan elsbeth

10 notes · View notes

thatalmostopsorceress · 1 year ago

Text

[Review] I Hope This Doesn't Find You by Ann Liang [240308]

I just finished binging I Hope This Doesn't Find You by Ann Liang in a day. It was absolutely amazing. I loved every second of it.

The way the author captures every emotion Sadie feels is so captivating, so realistic, so... perfect. I found myself tensing up with when she was worried; I found myself staring intently at the screen of my tablet, my brows furrowed; I found myself smiling along with her.

It was so satisfying reading this novel: the misunderstanding trope wasn't dragged out or annoying, every scene played in my mind exactly like a movie would, and the imagery used was nothing short of spectacular, flowing with the scenes and written in the perfect tone.

The character development was absolutely lovely – something very refreshing and satisfying – they were the opposite of cardboard-plank characters, they all had a purpose to serve and they acted as real humans did, they weren't too childish, too mature, too plain or too flashy.

As I kept reading, I found myself falling in love with the characters more and more – the vanity of Julius, the relatable-ness of Sadie, everything about Abigail... One thing I found especially delightful was how, even though Julius and Sadie were enemies, they were quite the same. [Spoiler Starts] They both loathe the thought of someone pitying them, they both try so hard to be so perfect, they both are equally as obsessed with each other, they make each other feel alive – they just live their lives in different ways. [Spoiler Ends]

Being of Chinese descent, I Hope This Doesn't Find You was even more fun due to the 汉语拼音 embedded within the text – I could hear every word spoken out so smoothly, it was truly an enjoyable experience that evoked immense joy within my heart.

Overall, I thoroughly enjoyed reading this novel! 10/10! I feel the constant need to gush about it.

Some of my favorite annotations that I made reading it (I'll add my fav quotes another day):

Chapter 1: slay Julius | young and rich, tall and han- | ah girl u ok ah

Chapter 2: girlie what | um girl you're a bit tad bit teeny bit uh obsessed | sus

Chapter 3: I love this guy he's so silly | RIP Sadie, rest in peace our soldier | #relatable I have hot hands

Chapter 7: #slay | HSHAHAHA

Chapter 8: he can scrub !

Chapter 9: oh no! hee hee

Chapter 10: i like how we finally have a normal ml w/o tragic backstory

Chapter 11: liar you're obsessed too <3 | he's so silly how jelly | CS student aye #relatable | we like em cats

Chapter 12: ew

Chapter 13: yoi

Chapter 14: YOI!

Chapter 16: jelly season 2. | haHA | I love this woman :)

Chapter 17: I LOVE ABIGAIL T-T!!!! | ♡ chill gal

Chapter 18: aw not salty? | yeah. salty. | GIRL WAKE UP. U. P. UP | oh my god can't you SEE | oh Abigail how I love you lol

Chapter 19: awie | slay Rosie | SHE'S REFORMED!!! | Julius is just like Sadie aeaeaergh

Chapter 20: OH MY GOD IT'S HAPPENING YALL!!!!!!! | hee hee

One question kept popping through my mind as I read this novel.... Where is my Julius Gong? I'm a top student (sadly, I'm not any kind of athlete or leader, though I do work out). I get good grades. Relatively. So, uh, God, where can I order a Julius Gong? dfjkdshjfksdf (I'm an agnostic, by the way)

5 notes · View notes

jonfarreporter · 6 months ago

Text

Golden Gate Heights resident of San Francisco, delights in the annual Dickens Christmas Fair

Known for its 163-tiled steps leading to scenic views of the Western-side of San Francisco, Golden Gate Heights is home to over 11,000 people.

Among those people is resident Therese Porter. She is Co-Director of Entertainment and Director of Street Theatre at the Dickens Fair.

Known for its unique one-of-a-kind ‘Immersion theatre’ experience, the annual Christmas event is celebrating its 40th anniversary this year.

As someone who knows the works of writer Charles Dickens well and has portrayed various characters from his books like Mrs. Finching, a character from, the Dickens novel, ‘Little Dorritt,’ Porter took a few minutes to speak to the Westside Observer.

She took some time to chat, away from the busy schedule of rehearsals and the last-week coordinating of one San Francisco’s most long-standing holiday performance traditions. The last day to attend the fair is Dec. 22. She talked about how women in Dickens stories are impacted by poverty. And, since Porter is well acquainted with many of the women characters of the Dickens novels, the question was asked.

Why does Dickens’ writing on poverty stand out from all the other 19th Century writers of his time?

“Charles Dickens was one of the few writers of his day that actually experienced poverty first hand,” said Porter.

Dickens had to leave school at age 12 to work in a boot-blacking factory for at least 10 hours a day to help support the family because his father was sent to ‘Debtor’s Prison.’

“His father, John Dickens, had always lived above his means, even as his family and his career continued to grow,” said Porter.

“We know from his writings and his autobiographical fragments that being forced out of the family home and into work at such a young age, not to mention being exposed to the dangerous and chaotic life of the London working poor, had a profound effect on his life and work,” she added.

The strata of the various working and lower classes in Victorian England are all featured in Dickens’ writings. “It’s at a depth and scope not really covered in the works of other writers of his time,” said Porter.

Satirical writers of the period such as William Thackeray (author of ‘Vanity Fair’) did write about poverty. Yet, as Porter noted. "Other writers such as Thackeray and George Eliot mentioned the poor and lower classes in their work, but not with the detail and sympathy Dickens brought to the topic.”

Dickens wrote more about the conditions of the poor than any other writer. “Throughout his life and in his works, Dickens was incensed the hypocrisy of people who were in a position to do something, and yet did very little or nothing,” said Porter.

She also noted that London was the largest city of the world at that time. “The wealthy and elite were making fortunes exploiting the labour of the growing working and working poor classes who they viewed as a nuisance and some sort of ‘other’ species,” said Porter.

There was an effort in Great Britain to facilitate reforms in public health, education and laws that affected the poor, and Dickens' works played an enormous part in that effort, as well as bringing the problems to a wide audience.

As many scholars and historians point out, part of the power of Dickens' writing derives from his use of archetype, and his unique approach to character and personality.

Porter agreed. Dickens spent time in his youth as a court reporter, and he learned to observe personalities. He was able to transform “stock characters” or “cardboard cutout villains” into memorable characters. Dickens drew much of his inspiration from real life people he observed.

Dickens was able to quickly paint a scene with “just a few brush strokes,” said Porter, as it were, with his literary paintbrush of a pen upon a story-setting canvas.

When asked… From your experience and perspective as you see Dickens, what is or was the “archetype” of poverty and its impact upon women and society?

“It’s difficult for us to fathom today the perils of poverty that so many people faced in 19th Century Britain, especially women,” said Porter.

Simple injuries or illnesses that we today can easily heal from could be catastrophic or fatal for working people and the poor. What we take for granted in terms of dealing with chronic conditions, injuries and disease could not be managed by the medical knowledge of the time,” noted Porter.

Life expectancy was short and mortality rates especially for women and children were very high.

“Although he did resort to archetypes and cardboard cutouts for some characters, said Porter, Dickens could portray women with great depth and compassion.”

“He could also vividly convey their backstory,” she said.

Yet, ironically, Porter noted. “Away from his work in writing, Dickens never really understood women. He was a difficult person to deal with in real life.”

In his younger days, “Dickens was very passionate and often romanticized the ideal wife as ‘an angel’ young, sweet & beautiful,” Porter said.

Dickens had 10 children with wife Catherine. Only eight of the 10 reached adulthood.“However, noted Porter, Dickens made sure all of his children were educated, even the girls.”

Sadly, the relationship he had with wife Catherine deteriorated. And as University of York, Dickens scholar, Professor John Bowen, told The Guardian UK back in 2019, “If he (Dickens) could have her (wife, Catherine) declared mad; and she could be confined to an asylum, he could live as he pleased and nobody would think badly of him.”

Admitting that Dickens could be narcissistic at times, Porter said, “Still, his problematic relationships with women in real life didn’t diminish his capacity as a writer to portray women as strong and resilient. This portrayal appears throughout much of his works.”

“With all the current social and cultural changes happening today, I think what the Dickens Fair offers people is truly unique,” said Porter.

“We present a one-of-a-kind ‘immersion theatre’ experience that visitors can experience and connect with in person rather than just looking at a screen.”

“It seems as if for most people today, said Porter, much of work and daily activity is spent interacting with a screen or some sort of electronic device.”

“What we offer at the Dickens Fair is an opportunity to see humanity (and a view of a specific history) from a different angle in real time in person.”

While much has changed since Dickens’ time more than 150 years ago, “there’s so much that hasn’t changed “ said Porter. “The tyranny of capitalism is still alive,” she said. “And, yes! The Scrooges of our time as well.”

The Dickens Fair concludes its five consecutive weekends, from Nov 23 to Dec. 22 at the Cow Palace. Sunday Dec. 22 is the very last day for this 2024 holiday season. For those who don’t like the rainy weather, keep in mind, the Dickens Fair is indoors and a generous expanse of the Cow Palace. Shuttles are available to take attendees back and forth so to save on extensive walking to and from the parking lot and avoid the raindrops. For more information and to p purchase tickets visit the website.

#san francisco #cowpalace #dickens fair #Therese Porter #daly city #thomas hauser #Golden Gate Heights

0 notes

sofiadragon · 1 year ago

Text

The following is all headcanon and guesswork, because the number of words in the books explaining any of this can fit on the average post-it note.

CW for some dark and violent thoughts from the minds of Snape, Lily, and the Marauders.

Lily, I think, is put on such a pedestal in canon that she needs a flaw to make sense as a character. We see her as, essentially, the plot device that birthed Harry. A cardboard cutout of a mother with nothing else to her name. She doesn't have many traits, we don't see enough of her for that, but I think vanity has to be where I land when choosing a flaw to scatter the one-dimensional beam of pure light canon uses her as and give her the necessary volume to become a real person.

Still Bullies

Just with less visible targets. I honestly think that James and Sirius shifted from picking on wizards and witches like Snape who were easy targets due to their social status, to muggle baiting without realizing how much like a DE that made them seem. Peter made the shift with them, but he did notice and signed up with Tom because he really liked that feeling of power that being a bully gave him. Sirius and James just lacked empathy due to being raised as spoiled rich boys who would one day be in the magical House of Lords. They never lacked power, they just liked slapstick humor and didn't care who they hurt so long as it was an acceptable target according to their worldview. Absolutely main character syndrom, as arrogant as adult Snape accuses them of being. Less malignant motivation than the way Peter was getting off on power, but shakes out to the same actions so it's just as bad. Snape, living in abject poverty with a lowborn muggle name was just a waste of oxygen to them, and as a bonus if they picked on Snape a pretty girl would give them attention. Once they are 17 they can use magic whenever, have their apparition license, and can get out of the castle via multiple methods.

When they shift to muggle baiting, what Lily doesn't know won't hurt her. If the way they treat a muggle police officer in that short story JKR released in any indication, they aren't as physically violent and are more in it for watching muggles run around like ants after you poke their hill. James and Sirius thrive on being the center of Chaos, and Peter just likes how helpless these muggles are in the face of little old him... which is how he gets radicalized.

Good attention, bad attention, what's the difference?

James with his aging parents who thought he could do no wrong basked in the glow of the spotlight, but kids don't actually thrive under constant praise. They need limits. They are better people if, when they cross the line, they get consequences that show people care what happens to them. Kids will seek that limit and, if they don't find it, become attention seeking with wilder and wilder behaviors that end up being rewarded by accident as the parents shower them with love because something has upset my poor baby. This is how you raise an asshole. This is how I think James Potter’s early life went.

Sirius with his abusive home life had a very skewed opinion of what "being in trouble" entailed that meant he entirely misunderstood that the way Harry was treated was abusive levels of neglect as an adult. They didn't leave marks on Harry, so they weren't harming him and it's best to listen to Dumbledore. (I think he does realize something is wrong there, and gives Harry the mirror against Albus' orders to keep Harry isolated to preserve his innocence and let him be a child, which is a seperate rant.) The detentions didn't come with physical pain for Sirius, so that's nothing at all. He gets worse than that on good days at home! He had a lot of rage to get out and it wasn't like anyone really cared about Snape. Lily was probably just using him to get better grades or something. It isn't like she cared, or she would have started hexing them back.

About Saint Lily

Snape saw over the years that Lily would stand up and tell the marauders off whenever he was attacked where she could see, but she didn't raise her wand often. She didn't pick up his wand to return it to him in SWM. Such a muggle thing to do, to forget about wands, but she's preening a bit. She's sticking out her chest and being so serious and angry, but she likes it when this happens, just a little bit. She likes that a boy would go to these lengths to get her attention. Oh, she doesn't approve, no, but it is still flattering. Like getting a beautiful spa day gift basket, but in a scent that you hate.

Later she thinks to herself: Of course I can fix him. He won't do that to me. I'm special, he won't hurt me. Look, I can yell at him and make him mad and he won't do anything to me! If other people were as good as me then they wouldn't get hurt. Just stop talking to the people who you live with those awful boys, Sev. Don't provoke them by existing. I really don't like that they target you as a way of flirting with me, maybe if you did this or that the rich attractive boy would stop hurting you and get me flowers like a normal person.

And then Snape has enough one day, and he says something she won't forgive that he really does mean, if not quite the way she thinks, and it hurts her because it's true. They talked about this before, how she forgets to do anything, that she is a strong witch who doesn't have to be physically stronger than these boys to stop them. He taught her the spells to protect herself, why won't she use them? Just make them stop. Just get me my wand back. Why do you have to be such a mudblood who forgets she has magic kind person who won't fight back?

It's a Tragedy

The thing about a tragedy is only hindsight can show the people involved how to avoid it. The people involved, being who they are, could do no better. Time travel fix-its are so common in fandom because they are the only way to fix the tragic parts without fundamentally changing something about the world or the people in it.

Romeo and Juliet are both flawed and young and stupid and they can't be better or know better than to do what they did or none of it would have happened. Snape’s Worst Memory is Juiliet drinking the poison. All that's left is for Romeo to take the Dark Mark, and it is irrevocable. We don't get to know their whole story, just flashes.

His Story

There once was a boy who made flowers bloom in his hands. Life gave him all the worst things, and he became a monster, like Odysseus in that old book of his mother's. Ruthlessness is mercy given to the self. He did horrible things, on purpose, to claw his way out of the pile of shit fate dropped on him. Then he did something by accident that he couldn't rationalize as for his own benefit. Something that hurt himself too much, and he saw a path to do One Good Thing. He made a promise, and that let him to more opportunities. More good things he could do, and his hands remembered how to be gentle like when he held flowers in his palm even if his tongue never learned to be civil. He was kind in deed and never in word, and false to all. He died a hero, even as he was the worst nightmare of so many.

And it couldn't have been any other way, with fate's deck stacked as it was.

Marauders stans like to say that Snape deserved the bullying because of all the bad stuff he did later one and because he hung out with bad people even back then

They don't seem to like being told that it's the Marauders fault Snape hung out with bad people to begin with

297 notes · View notes

pinaycountrycottage · 7 years ago

Text

DIY MAKE-UP VANITU MADE OF CARDBOARD

Hi, sweeties!

There are piles of cardboards/boxes at home so I thought of making use 9f them.

Instead of buying a vanity, I thougght of making a smaller one out of these cardboards!

You can watch how I made it in this video:

Hope you liked it.

Love,

Ayie

View On WordPress

1 note · View note

hansolmates · 5 years ago

Text

17 going on 27

summary; one second, you’re sobbing at prom because the most popular guy in school dumps you due to your relationship being a little prank to break your heart. the next? you’re a creative editor at Ego, the hottest young adult fashion magazine. as you try to figure out what’s the deal with this sudden time skip into adulthood, you come across relationships and friendships that are made to be cherished and made to be broken. pairing; photographer!jungkook x editor!reader (f) genre/warnings; fluff, crack, future enemies to lovers, teenage and adulthood angst, time skips from high school!au to late twenties!au, 13 going on 30!au, all your romantic movie tropes come to life! a really big mess honestly, various movie and music references, mentions of sex, use of alcohol, everyone give jin and jimin a big ol hug, language, a surprise guest from the queen of england w/c; 22.6k a/n; it’s that time of the year baby! the time of the year where i binge watch the good ol’ early 2000s romcoms that make absolutely no sense! a huge thank u to @eerieedits for making this beautiful banner. vivi got the whole delia’s/claire’s vibe down to a t!

if you enjoy this fic pls consider giving it a like and a share✨✨✨

March 19th, 2011

Thirty, flirty, and thriving!

You finger the dog-eared magazine, last month’s issue of a shoddy fashion magazine that featured top actress Jennifer Garner on the front cover. Her caramel brown highlights practically glow on the page, blown out and beautiful. You suppress a sigh, you long to be the radiant young woman on the cover. The headline is glittery, sparkly and just begging for attention.

Swiping a hand through the pages, your eyes are crowded with over-stimulation. Colorful models dressed up in the latest designs, Chanel and Burberry suits you can only dream of, and happy women at the prime of their lives.

Twenty-seven and in Heaven! You smile wryly at the cheesy rhyme that headlines the following pages, but nevertheless the happy model on the spread does indeed look like they’re in heaven.

Sure, you’re no shrinking violet. Heck, you don’t even consider yourself painfully average. You may not be on the traditional spectrum of popularity in high school, but you get around and have a wonderful best friend and an even better boyfriend. However given the social classes that preside, you do get those moments where you second guess your life’s position. Good thing high school has an expiration date, and you’re close to the end.

“Baby Bun, what are you doing?” the magazine is snatched from your grasp, thrown on the table without a care in the world. Jennifer Garner’s hydro-whitened smile gleams tauntingly at you, “reading that junk is gonna mess with your head.”

Your boyfriend returns from his final suit fitting, his outfit for tonight all pressed and ready to go. He pouts at you, pulling you up by the hand to lead you out of the Men’s Warehouse. Jeon Jungkook. Captain of the lacrosse team, flying by high school with a sports scholarship already in the bag. Eats up attention like plants soak up the sun. Secretly loves taking photographs of his dog and watching Netflix animes at your house.

“Aren’t you excited for prom?”

“Excited to listen to LMFAO’s Party Rock Anthem on repeat?” you guaff, “as if.”

He pinches your arm lightly, “You also forget that we’re gonna tear up the floor to Nicki Minaj’s Superbass.”

You shrug listlessly, crunching the white plastic closer to your body.

Before you can suck all the air out of the garment bag, Jungkook carefully extracts it from your grasp, easily holding it between his one arm so he can thread his other hand through yours. “I am excited! It’s just that… Jimin’s not gonna be there and we’re sitting with the Yearbook committee.”

Looking down at the floor you extract your hand from his, slipping into his parent’s Honda Civic. The yearbook committee, meaning you’d be sitting at a table with head editor Jennie and her group of friends. Friends that are popular and pretty, just like Jungkook.

Jimin is currently on a flight back from Korea due to a family funeral, therefore leaving a seat empty at your prom table. It was only seat that you cared about, other than Jungkook’s. It’s no one’s fault and Jimin of course is doubly upset to miss prom, but without your best friend you’re not sure if you can survive the night.

One of the few secrets you keep from Jungkook is the fact that Jennie and you aren’t exactly friendly to each other. You don’t know why, maybe it’s the fact that you don’t run the in same friend group or you always win the debate in Civics class, but Jennie clearly expresses her dislike for you as easily as she expresses her love for Jungkook.

Which makes you incredibly insecure, but Jennie and Jungkook have been friends for longer than you and him have been together, who are you to intervene?

Jungkook slips in the driver’s seat, but not before pressing a chaste kiss to your cheek.

Right. You’re Jungkook’s girlfriend, and that should matter more than his friendship with Jennie.

But the smell of his freshly cleaned lacrosse jersey, his duffle bag overflowing with protein powder and unfinished assignments remind you that you have your world and he has his. A conversation about your insecurities could wait until tomorrow.

“When’s Jimin’s flight?” Jungkook asks, one hand on the steering wheel and the other tapping on your thigh as he pulls out.

“He’ll be back two hours into the dance,” you report, albeit glumly as you rest your head against the cool window.

“That sucks,” Jungkook replies, a bit of sadness in his tone, “he has to miss out on his prom night.”

You shrug, “Prom isn’t everything, it’s about the people you spend it with.”

“Well then,” he squeezes your thigh, “I’m glad I get to spend it with you.”

You only have a few hours to get ready until you meet Jungkook at his house for pictures, so when you get dropped off, you tell him that he doesn’t have to get out of the car to escort you into your home. But Jungkook is insistent, putting the car in park and getting out your dress for you with such delicacy that you’re positively sure there’s no wrinkles in the fabric. Taking the dress from his grasp you wish him goodbye and a promise to meet each other later.

“Wait,” Jungkook is biting his lip, unable to let go of your hand even though you’re already up the stairs. You’re looking down at him, a rarity considering his tall frame.

“What’s wrong, Kook?”

“Uh, I was just thinking,” he’s scratching the back of his head, and you soften. The little quirk he has is a sign of insecurity, being the star player Jungkook is forced to exude confidence to a fault. “Maybe, we could skip the prom thing? You said so yourself that prom is about the people you spend it with.”

Your eyes widen, clutching your dress tighter. “What? Jungkook, that’s ridiculous. Between the both of us we’ve spent a lot of money on the clothes and the tickets.”

“Right,” he forces a laugh, and you put a hand on your hip to think it out but you can’t quite place what’s going on. “Sorry Bun, I just know how the finale of our favorite anime airs tonight.”

“You’re so silly,” you chastise, reaching down to pinch his cheek. Normally he hates it, but you can’t help but melt when he leans into your touch a little more. “C’mon, I know suits are stuffy and stuff, but let’s just do this high school rite of passage thing. Afterwards we can go to McDonalds or something and watch the recording.”

“You’re right,” his face is red, “what was I thinking? Can’t miss out on a night to see my beautiful girlfriend all dressed up.”

He squeezes your hand one last time, a little too tight for comfort. With a half smile he waves, going into his car and driving off.

You don’t have time to dwell on his weirdness (and trust when you say that Jungkook is plenty weird and it astounds you how the rest of your class has no idea) so you fly up to your room to get your hair and makeup ready. Your parents greet you excitedly along the way, telling you there’s a package left for you on your vanity.

It’s a plain cardboard box, already cut and unwrapped by your parents for convenience. The address shows it came from Korea, proudly displaying the name of your best friend on the return address. Inside is a beautiful compact, made of brushed gold and pink metal. The makeup inside is a loose glitter from a brand that you don’t recognize, but since it’s a gift from Jimin, you trust his taste.

I have to be at prom somehow, Jimin’s note on the box reads, don’t overthink and have fun!

You snort, reading the sticky note over and over in Jimin’s voice. Looking over the shade, you can’t help but grimace at the cliché name. Wishing Dust. The color is a little too white and silvery for your taste, but you’ll wear it in honor of Jimin.

The dress, the hair, the makeup all come together little by little. You like the ritual of getting ready, building yourself up to the highest order and feeling closer and closer to the beautiful women in magazines. Surprisingly, your favorite part of getting ready is applying the glitter that Jimin gifted you. The puff enclosed is cloud soft, and surprisingly the color doesn’t look too ashen on your skin. The glitter sinks into your skin like a soft butter, accentuating your collarbones and cheeks as if you are glowing from within.

You smile at yourself in the mirror. A little part of you wishes you could look like this everyday. You wish you could always look and feel this confident, and act mature and graceful.

A buzzing on your desk stops your wishful thinking, and you frown at the message that lights up your phone.

Jungkook: sorry bun, but the civic finally broke down and its on its way to car heaven. Could we meet at the party hall instead? We can take pictures there, jennie mentioned yearbook hired a photographer

Disheartened, you send a quick text back saying it’s fine. Any more explanation on your feelings would reveal your disappointment. You don’t know how you’re going to tell your parents that they won’t be taking pictures with your boyfriend anytime soon. So you suck it in and take solo pictures for your parents and some group selfies. This is just one bump in the night, the rest of it should be smooth sailing.

But when your parents drop you off at the venue your eyes first land on a beat up Honda Civic. You’re pretty sure car heaven isn’t at the prom.

The rest of your entrance is a blur as you go through every corner of the venue, searching for your boyfriend. You’re clutching his matching flower in your hand, a beautiful red rose with baby’s breath circling around it, all clutched together in a black silk ribbon. You wonder what kind of flower he bought you.

But it’s nearly impossible to find him. Not at the photobooth, the appetizer buffet, or in the lobby. It’s not until you’re sweating at the brow and nearing the corner of the venue that you do find him.

Lips locked, kissing Jennie.

The plastic encasing Jungkook’s boutonniere drops, clanging to the ground.

Whispers of you circle the air, meeting your ears and confirming all your insecurities.

“Oh my god, I knew Jungkook was cheating on her!”

“Wow, how pathetic. She ran all the way to prom alone to see this?”

“I thought his girlfriend was a smart girl. How did she not know that their relationship was a bet all along?”

Jungkook and Jennie are on the balcony, looking picture perfect in matching formal attire and flowers. The sun is setting, not taking its time as it sinks deeper and deeper into the horizon. The sky darkens and the air is chilly, much like your heart.

Jungkook's eyes are wide and in shock as he watches you from the balcony, but Jennie’s are sharp and satisfied. Satisfied, as if the whole thing had been orchestrated.

While you can’t hear him because he’s so far away, you can see the ghost of your name on his lips. Your ears are ringing, numb to the laughter of the students watching and the pity that others are throwing at you. You feel dumb. You feel like throwing up. In a bout of anger your heel digs into the plastic of the boutonniere, crushing the innocent rose in its clear coffin.

You don’t make it far out the door when one of your favorite teachers snatches you in concern.

“Honey, any further and you’ll be running on the highway," Mrs. Song jokes, pulling you away from the entrance.

You feel like a newborn deer in your heels and incredibly heavy in your dress as Mrs. Song drags you over to a staff bathroom. It's far, far away from the actual party. Mrs. Song doesn't say anything, and just gives you a sad smile as she let's you go into the single stall alone.

Sitting on the toilet and not giving a care that your dress is probably getting soiled, you bury your face in your hands and finally let the tears flow. Fat, frustrated tears roll down your cheeks without a care in the world.

"Mrs. Song please, I need to get in there."

"Now Jungkook, I think you've done enough for today. Go back to the party and don't worry about it."

You can imagine Jungkook now, he hated it when people told him not to worry. It only made him more annoyed, fists probably clenched under his perfectly tailored suit and his cute teeth uncharacteristically gritted. He cared to a fault, at least you thought he did. He ruined your night, he made you feel so dumb and silly.

But the longer you stayed in the dim bathroom, you could care less. Thank goodness for Mrs. Song guarding the door. Why would he bother to follow you? It turns out all your insecurities are not in vain, and that you’ve been ignoring a gut feeling you’ve mistaken for your lack of trust. You shouldn’t have trusted Jungkook. You shouldn’t have been so tolerable of Jennie.

Goodness, you feel so stupid. You hope that there are other bathrooms for staff to use, because you want to coop yourself in here until the last dance. Mascara drips on your sleeves, your hands swiping at your cheeks to stop any tears from staining your dress even further.

The more you hear Jungkook and Mrs. Song argue, the more you want to disappear. You bury yourself on the floor, uncaring of how dirty the tiles are. Glitter smears across your cheeks and sticks to your hands, and you no longer feel like the thriving young adult you once felt when you walked out the door this evening.

All you can do is cry and pray you can get through the night. And the next day, and the rest of senior year. You don’t want to see Jungkook or Jennie until graduation, when they walk out of the door and permanently out of your life. You wish you could skip the rest of the semester, and fastforward to the life you’ve carved for yourself in your dreams since freshman year. You wish you could be like the woman on the magazine, who has her whole life put together. To be a woman who holds all the confidence in the world and doesn’t have to worry about stupid men.

Just like the cover. Thirty, flirty and thriving. Just like the models in the magazines. Twenty-seven and in heaven.

Just once, do you want to taste the feeling of having life on your side.

March 20st, 2021

Your first thought is that you feel disgusting.

Of course, falling asleep in a random bathroom stall will make you feel those things. Your dress clinging uncomfortably to your sweating form, lulled to the sounds of Mrs. Song’s temperamental voice and Jungkook’s arguing.

But for some reason it’s a different kind of disgusting. The feeling is rotting in your throat, as if there’s a tang stuck to the roof of your mouth. You also feel impossibly dehydrated, as if you’ve run a marathon. And for some reason you’re sore? Especially in the crotch, and you don’t remember experiencing any cramps yesterday.

Your hands come to your body, and instead of feeling tulle and taffeta your hands are greeted with a silky black negligee that hangs across your waist. Panic stings in your bones like a stroke of lightning.

Eyes snapping open, your breath catches in your throat when you take in the room. You’re on a large plush creme couch, large enough to be a bed. The organza curtains are a shade of bottle green and are opened slightly to let the morning sun in. From your view it seems like this is the top floor of the complex, overlooking the city horizon.

You feel the covers shift slightly, and you realize there’s a naked man sleeping next to you. You scream.

The man screams back with an even higher pitch, falling off the couch and clutching the sheets like a lifeline. “What?” he panics, eyes darting back and forth across the room like he’s on a reality television show. “What the fuck? Is there something on my face! Why are you screaming so early!”

The fact that he’s an adult man and you’re seventeen is even more terrifying, and you feel absolutely naked despite the fact that you’re nearly clothed. But what confuses you more is that this man looks awfully familiar.

Familiar in the sense that you’ve seen him in one too many television sitcoms to count. This man in front of you looks like Kim Seokjin, the protagonist of your favorite television show: Sky City. He has the same plump lips and pretty face, only aged up. But last time you checked on Soompi, Seokjin is supposed to be twenty years old and filming the next season in New Zealand. Arguably he could be his older brother, but he never acted and you don’t think he’d be the spitting image.

“Seokjin?” you taste the name on your tongue, “Kim Seokjin?”

Seokjin relaxes considerably, and he finds it appropriate to return to the couch, placing a tentative hand on your thigh. “Right, were you really that drunk? You got my name right, but it seems that you’ve forgotten that the only name you called me last night was sex god…”

His plush lips meet the ends of your earlobe, and you squeal at the strange sensation.

You’ve had sex with this man and you can’t even remember it? Furthermore how can a peasant like you be in contact with a celebrity? What on earth happened last night? Shouldn’t you be calling the police or panicking more? Where’s the pepper spray and sharp knives where you need them? You can’t even find it in you to find a sharp weapon at your once cherished-idol, who’s apparently unfazed and drinking in your body like he has a taste of it every night.

“What’s the date?” you push him away, looking around for any signs of where you are and how you ended up here.

“It’s the first day of spring,” Seokjin says easily, stretching out on the couch. “I wonder when the cherry blossoms will bloom. Should we have a picnic with Bogum?”

“Where’s my phone, I can’t find my phone!”

Seokjin doesn’t bat an eye as he digs through the couch, pulling something from under him. He waves it in front of your face. “That’s not my phone,” you deadpan.

“Okay I guess you were actually that drunk,” Seokjin rolls his eyes, forcing the large piece of plastic and metal on your palm. “When you went to the bathroom last night you dropped your old phone in the toilet. We picked up a new one on the way to the next bar. Good thing the new Samsung dropped last month!”

Since when are phones this large? You carry the strange weight in your hands, confused as to why Seokjin thinks this is your phone. You own a beat up 2G that barely gets any reception in the school basement. But when you turn it on, the screen recognizes your face immediately and unlocks. Wow, since when do cell phones do face recognition?

A selfie of you and Seokjin appears on the homescreen, looking totally happy.

Is that you?

No longer do you have acne lining your brows, or uneven skin texture. Your smile is high and prominent. Your visage is clean and done with minimal makeup, highlighting your beauty.

The date flickers on the top of the screen. March 20th, 2021: 7:42AM.

You scream again. Seokjin screams again for the heck of it.

“How did this happen!” you shriek, dropping your phone to step up to the window. You bask in your reflection, mildly impressed and even more so afraid of what’s in front of you. Your body has filled out like an adult, and considering it’s ten years into the future, other things have filled out as well. Experimentally, your hands go out to your chest, squeezing. Yep, those knockers were not there the last time you checked.

“Well, you came back from work completely drained from a shoot and I just finished filming my Everyday Skincare Routine video with Vogue,” Seokjin comes up to you, blanket tied around his waist like a long towel. “We met at our usual bar and do what we usually do when we’re both stressed: bang it out.”

You watch as Seokjin’s hands snake around your slick silk, hugging you from behind like it’s second nature. “Is this a dream?” you ask yourself, because it’s not unlikely that you’ve had a sex dream with Seokjin and this is the aftermath dream.

“Nope,” you yelp when Seokjin pinches your butt, hard. It stings. “This is real life, baby.”

“Are we dating?”

You feel Seokjin’s grip tense, and he shoves your innocent question away with a coarse laugh. “You know both you and me don’t do serious relationships. It’s why we work so well together, you know that.”

“Right,” you reply softly. That doesn’t sound like you at all, and it scares you considerably.

“So, I gotta go,” you panic when he lets go and starts searching around for his clothes. Your face heats up at Seokjin’s perky ass staring back at you, and your eyes dart to a random spot in the corner. “I got a green meeting with Ellen, and lord knows I don’t wanna face her wrath if I’m late.”

In seconds he’s fully clothed in a plain shirt and jeans, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “Call me beep me, if you wanna reach me,” he sings, throwing a wave over his shoulder as he leaves you in the large apartment.

The door slams with a hard smack and that’s when you collapse on the couch that feels foreign and strange, breaking into tears.

The next time you wake up, it’s the next day. It’s a glaringly bright Sunday and for whatever reason you’re still in this aged-up body. Maybe time travel makes the body really tired. This isn’t a dream. You panic for the second time, walking back and forth around the loft that’s apparently yours. It seems like it’s yours, because the bills that linger on the coffee table have your name and the pictures in the one bedroom are of you and your family.

But the refrigerator in the nook is digital and has fancy ice settings, something you could never imagine owning. Your closet is filled with brand named suits, and with every designer label you pass you mentally rack up the total of just one section. It’s enough to pay for your college tuition if your first choice accepts you.

Wait. You’re apparently twenty-seven, college is long gone.

Lying in your bed feels better, surrounded by familiar pictures of your cousins and family. Your favorite snacks are tucked with care in your nightstand, and it makes you feel a tiny bit better knowing that your favorite chocolate and chips will never change.

What happened in the past ten years? Why don’t you remember anything and are you entirely sure this isn’t some strange fever dream?

Time ticks slowly as you spend the afternoon, glued to your phone. It’s a 25 Note+ and it’s filled with multiple doohickeys and settings that make you feel technologically inept. You never thought you were bad with technology, but clearly these phones have a learning curve attached to them.

You try to call your family, but according to the voicemail left they’re on a Disney cruise that you paid for. Your heart aches at the excited voice of your parents. Why are they on a vacation without you?

The next thing you aim for is finding Jimin’s contact. According to Google Maps, you’re not far from your hometown and you know that Jimin’s always wanted to move to the city so he must be nearby. To your chagrin, his name isn’t on your contact list. Strange, he’s always number two on speed dial.

Clicking on the internet browser, you go to the online Whitepages and search up Park Jimin. There may be a million ones, but maybe you could get a lead. When a picture and an address show up easily with one swipe, you scoff. The internet has no room for privacy ten years later, huh?

The most casual thing you own in your closet is a Free People dress, reaching mid-calf with flowing bell sleeves. Heck, you couldn’t even find a single pair of jeans. You don’t care however, as you swipe your keys from the counter (you gape, you own a Tesla?) and race down to the parking garage.

Jimin’s apartment is on the other side of the city. It’s strange, transitioning from high rises and shiny windows to quaint brick walls and lived-in patio spaces. You feel like it’s a race against time as you make it all the way to his room, knocking feverishly on the mahogany red door.

“What? Who is it?” it’s clear that his room is cheap, the walls thin as you hear his voice shuffle throughout the room. Why are you shaking? It’s just your best friend.

The door swings open and you and Jimin drink each other in. His baby fat has melted from his cheeks, revealing a handsome and charming jawline. His hair is no longer a natural black, but has been dyed to a sandy blond that suits his tan. His eyes, wide in surprise, are still a soft brown but not as bright as when he was seventeen.

“Jimin,” your third round of tears hits you like a truck at the sight of your best friend, and you immediately run into his arms.

But he doesn’t hug you back immediately. In fact, he doesn’t know what to do at all. Your name rolls off his lips like he’s seen a ghost.

You pull away, as if you are burned. You flinch at the way Jimin regards you. “Is something wrong?”

“I don’t know,” he looks at you, crossing his arms, “I don’t know what to feel when your old best friend suddenly shows up at your doorstep after ten years.”

What?

“Why would I do that?” you whisper, bracing your hand against the doorframe to steady yourself.

“Well, after graduation you chose a college at the last minute. Decided to go to a prestigious fashion university in Europe. Shacked it up with some British guys and well, forgot about your past but I guess I can’t blame you.”

“But I couldn’t have left you,” you know you’re not even talking to Jimin, but in fact scolding yourself for being so stupid these past ten years. “I was crying for you that night at prom. All I wanted was for you to be there and hold me!”

That strikes a cord. Jimin pops his head into the hallway, looking back and forth to see if anyone is watching. He sighs when your tears turn into sobs, shaking your form. “Come in,” he mutters, ushering you inside.

Jimin’s apartment feels more like home than your apartment does. Cosy and warm with the scent of jasmine brewing on the stove. The pour of tea soothes you slightly as you relax on the worn leather couch.

Jimin hands you a mug, sitting opposite you against the rickety living room table. “Are you okay?” he asks, showing genuine concern for the first time.

“I’m,” you roll the muddy liquid in your grasp, watching the tea leaves tumble. “I just came back from the hospital, actually. Hit my head drinking last night and I’m suffering from memory loss,” you clutch your head for good measure, feigning injury.

“Memory loss?” he gapes, unable to see through your lie.

“Yeah uh,” you wince, “almost ten years of memory loss.”

Jimin isn’t a man who thinks ahead, preferring to live in the moment. You figure he’s not going to question your excuse. Your former best friend nearly drops his tea in the process, hot drops burning his hand. He hisses, placing the plain mug on the table as he goes to his shelves, pulling out your class yearbook.

“Ten years,” he shakes his head, looking like he’s just stepped into a Korean drama. “Is that even possible?”

“Must be,” you sigh, not wanting to delve into the details of how you ended up in the future, “the first thing I did when I woke up was scream my head off. Then I woke up later and the first person I called were my parents who didn’t pick up, and then I wanted to call you but,” you squeeze the cup in your hands, “I couldn’t find your contact so I searched you up.”

“Should we call the hospital or something? Maybe you shouldn’t be walking around like this.”

“Don’t worry, they said the memory loss is only temporary,” you force a smile, knocking your head lightly with the heel of your palm, “I just gotta y’know, catch up a little bit. I thought you could help.”

Jimin is patient, albeit a little nervous, watching carefully as your eyes glaze emptily over the old yearbook. You’re unfazed at the familiar faces and events that are described to you in detail, unable to recall what happened during the events that followed graduation. There’s barely any pictures of you, so it doesn’t help when he tries to explain as much as he can.

You stop him at the sports section, pointing a finger at Jungkook being carried by his fellow teammates during the lacrosse championships. “What happened to Jungkook?”

Jimin shrugged, “Blew his sports scholarship,” your eyebrows float to the top of your forehead, appalled that your former love would do such a thing, “decided to pursue his passion and went to an art school for a degree in photography.”

So much has changed in the past ten years.

“Hey, can you please stop crying?”

“I’m sorry,” you warble, wiping at your sleeve as if the fabric didn’t cost hundreds of dollars, “I must be making you so uncomfortable by barging in. I’ll get out of your life—”

“No, not that. I just don’t like seeing you cry,” Jimin sighs, squeezing your knee, “of course I was upset when you suddenly upped and left town to study in another continent. But I was still happy for you. On the internet you seemed tons happier since highschool.”

“I can say that’s no longer the case,” you mutter sadly, taking a long drag of your tea. The burn flows down your throat, digging you to reality, “I guess I just woke up and wasn’t prepared to be the person I ended up being.”

“Well, what can your former best friend do to make it better?”

Your eyes widen at Jimin’s uneasy stare, as if he’s wondering whether he said the right thing or not.

“Um,” you bite your lip, “will you go shopping with me? I realized I don’t own any sweatpants or sneakers and I would really like to wear something comfortable right now,” you look despondently on your uncomfortable dress, swinging around the sleeves that seem to snag onto everything.

“Okay,” he nods easily, “will you also buy me new sweatpants and sneakers? And dinner? I really want a New York Strip.”

“What?” you furrow your brows, “can I afford that?”

He chuckles to himself, pulling you up and wiping the tears on your face with a tissue from his pocket. You don’t even care to ask whether the tissue is clean, only focusing on the tender gesture that you’ve missed so much.

“Honey, you’re one of the co-editors of Ego. I’m sure a couple pairs of sweatpants and steak will barely make a dent in your bank account.”

You’re flabbergasted. Ego? The fashion magazine that’s on billboards and commercials? That Ego?

After a couple checks through your bank account, and a triple check with a phone call and trip to the ATM, you’re sure the money is yours. It scares you, but also comforts you knowing that you’ve always been able to make it big.

You barely bat an eye as Jimin tugs you around the city with a familiarity that has you reeling. You struggle to remember the streets you pass and the signs that indicate what part of town you’re in, all whilst Jimin basks in the fruits of your labor. You don’t give a shit, obviously. It makes you happy seeing Jimin slowly melt and grow more comfortable throughout the day.

This is the kind of life you envisioned. One where comfort isn’t discarded for luxury, where the two cultures can marry. Jimin busts a gut when he sees you angrily shove your Free People dress deep in your shopping bags in favor of a black Adidas tracksuit that makes you feel like a soccer mom. Of course, he doesn’t know why you’re so aggressive with all your luxurious items, heck you even make him drive your Tesla, but nevertheless each passing hour brightens you up considerably.

When you two arrive at a fancy steakhouse with a dress code, the manager doesn’t hesitate to chide you and suggest the Applebee’s down the street.

You retort back that you’re an editor of Ego, and in seconds you’d have this restaurant swarmed with bad reviews. You know nothing about culinary review but you’re sure the manager doesn’t know that, and no arguments are placed after that.

The evening puts you in higher spirits, and you’re almost convinced that you’re a successful twenty-something catching up with your former best friend. You’ve always been mature for your age, high school can do that to a person, and it makes it vastly easier to keep up with the new decade.

“So,” you help Jimin get his bags up into his apartment. A little part of it feels like a bribe as you carry all the name brands on your arms, but you chalk it up to being compensation for the last ten years, “who are the people you hang out with now? Anyone I know?”

“Well, Taehyung sometimes drops by if he’s free. He’s traveling the world now, he actually works with you,” Jimin provides the information smoothly, “only he works in the international business column. But surprisingly, the person I hang out the most with is—”

“Jungkook.”

Standing face-to-face with your old high school sweetheart disarms you, and you’re sorely reminded that just you’re a seventeen-year-old in a twenty-seven-year-old’s body.

Jungkook looks tired, and he rubs his eyes a bit as if to make sure he isn’t dreaming. You in the flesh, looking purposeful and confident as you hold three bags on each arm, each piece probably costing more than his rent. He’s filled out, what once was lean muscle and minor definition has turned into full muscle mass hidden beneath a large t-shirt and sweatpants that are two sizes too big. His face is still sweet-looking and baby-like, but his hair is overgrown and waving in front of his eyes without a care in the world.

“Did I mention we’re neighbors?” you can practically hear the wince in Jimin’s voice, probably regretting that he hid that chunk of information from you.

Jungkook tastes his name on your lips, and it sounds foriegn and strange coming from the both of you. “Good to see you,” he says, voice low.

You barely formulate a response, replying with an equally nervous “right back at ya” and then you two resume staring at each other. While Jungkook hasn’t seen you in the last ten years, you saw him yesterday. Yesterday, where you started the day all peachy keen and it spiraled downhill shortly after. It’s jarring, knowing that your body doesn’t fit your conscience.

“Well I uh,” Jungkook lifts his indicator to leave, a large garbage bag, “bye.”

Jungkook shuffles out of the small hallway, and you get a whiff of his scent. It’s still the same, fabric softener mixed with his own musk.

“I,” you start off slow, “maybe I should go talk to him?”

“No,” he warns. “You and Jungkook are completely different people now, he’s just gonna think you’re pitying him if you go up and talk to him out of the blue.”

“But we’ve always been different people.”

“You really think that?” Jimin shakes his head, “I know what happened at prom was rough but, I really didn’t think much of your relationship with Jungkook before that. It seemed like you were pretty compatible—”

“Up until the point he was kissing Jennie in matching flowers on the balcony like some kind of romance film?” you scoff, crossing your arms, “right. Super compatible.”

Jimin sighs, as if he’s chastising a teenager. “Prom happened ten years ago, don’t act like it happened yesterday. People change.”

You frown, because in your mind it did happen yesterday.

Sleeping last night was hell. It’s one thing to be completely zonked out of your mind and unsure if you’re in a dream or weird coma, but knowing that you’re going to be stuck here for awhile is painful. Your loft is too big for your tiny body, your mattress cold and empty with just you in it. Without your parents to call and you feeling wholly insecure about your rekindling with Jimin, the only person you can really call is… Seokjin.

And you really don’t want a repeat of your first night.

So you suck it up, spend your waking hours in your office and quickly learning your tasks for work. You don’t even know what time you’re supposed to clock in, but from a sticky note attached to your MacBook it seems that you have a creative meeting at 10AM. You allow yourself two hours of sleep before you get moving.

The one exciting thing about your morning is that your outfit choices are virtually limitless. You feel like Cher in Clueless, all your outfits color-coordinated and organized by season. You pick out a springy Chanel number, a pale pink tweed skirt suit that has you feeling equally parts cute and an independent working woman. You even make time to buy yourself a coffee, because that’s what adults do right?

Your office is gorgeous. Also located in the upper part of the city, the glass desk and high windows fit right in. You have an ideas board filled with various designs, fabrics and models to choose from. There’s a little frilly notebook straight out of the 2000s, all filled with phone numbers and special contacts all at your disposal. You even have your own cold press coffee machine complete with a mini-fridge.

“You’re never this early, nervous for the meeting?”

You squeal, nearly dropping your coffee as you take a tour around your office. You fight the urge to gape and point accusingly at the woman standing at your door.

“Jennie?”

“In the flesh,” she gives you a cool smirk, holding her arms out for a hug. It really throws you for a loop, and you’re left stricken in your spot as Jennie closes the gap and squeezes the life out of you. Her grey pinstripe pantsuit crumples against your softer fabric. “You know you can’t get rid of me that easily.”

“Jennie and you are practically besties,” Jimin sounds a little jealous while saying that, forcing you to scroll through your Instagram page to see the countless selfies of you and your high school rival, “I mean, at least that’s what the internet says. Went to college in Europe together and everything.”

So it’s true. You awkwardly pat Jennie on the back, and she doesn’t seem to mind when she pulls away and tells you to meet upstairs. You mindlessly follow after her to the conference room, wishing a kind good morning to everyone that greets you.

Once you make it upstairs, you flinch at the loud screech of your voice. “My favorite editor!” someone in a plaid red suit runs up to you and throws an arm around your shoulders. The editor-in-chief Jung Hoseok smiles brightly at you, leading you to a seat at the head of the table right next to him. You’re cosy with the editor-in-chief? This is crazy!

“G-good morning Mr. Jung,” you stutter, trying to remain cool.

“Did something happen to you this weekend?” Hoseok jests, pinching your cheek like a long lost sister. “You always call me Hobi.”

“Oh,” you force a giggle, “you don’t even know how crazy this weekend was.”

Hoseok simply laughs and gets himself settled for the meeting.

“I’m so jealous,” Jennie sing-songs, a manicured finger trailing over the back of your chair, “only the best of the best can sit next to the big boss.”

The comment has you bristling. Are you really friends? Giving her a tight smile, she saunters to another corner of the meeting. On your section of the table is your itinerary and iPad, ready for note-taking.

“One thing that we do at Ego is consistency,” Hoseok pulls up a projection of this year’s editions, all carbon copies of the same cover. “And while that is admirable, I want to put my top editors to the test and come up with the theme for next month’s issue.”

Hoseok sends you yet another pearly white smile, and due to the sheer closeness you know that secret smile is only reserved for you. That makes you squirm in your seat, already feeling the pressure building in the pit of your stomach.

“Take two days off this week to plan. Work out the days you’ll be out of the office with HR, those days you’ll be working in the city, finding ideas and inspiration for the issue. Remember, think outside the box!” Hoseok does a little fist pump, cutting through the air like his life depends on it.

The whole lot of the group continues to stare at Hoseok, waiting for his next instructions. Then, the adults begin to panic, similar to a high school class that’s been told they have a pop quiz that’s worth half their grade. You sigh internally, you suppose high school never ends.

“C’mon,” Hoseok urges, flailing his arms around, “get out there! Make moves, make money!”

But the only moves you’ve made since 2PM are fleeting trips to the bathroom.

Obviously you don’t have any memory of your degree or experience, so instead of feeling like an editor you feel more like a teenager playing dress-up. You couldn’t even sneakily ask Jennie for help because she deadpanned: “I’m not sharing any secrets, doll.” It seems that being backhandedly mean is a theme in your relationship, so after that you rolled your eyes and locked your door. Thankfully you packed a pair of sweatpants so you can comfortably lie down on the floor while you spread out your workspace. Magazines littered the hardwood, all sultry and sexy looking models staring back at you with the same half-lidded stare and overdone makeup.

It makes you cringe, thinking back to the other day when you were jealous of these people. Now that you have this life, thriving and full of beauty, is that the only thing you want to show to your audience? How can they possibly relate to models who make triple their salary? What about the authenticity? The ingenuity?

And that’s when it hits you.

Scrambling to your computer, you search up a photographer that you know will be completely and utterly transparent.

My Time Studios: Capturing the raw moment.

You know exactly what you want for next month’s issue.

Jungkook does not expect to see you through the peephole of his apartment, fiddling with the threads of your clothes and eyes glued to the ground. He mutters a curse under his breath, jamming his fingers between the metal double lock to swing his head out. He doesn’t even bother to open up all the way, just enough to stick his face out.

“Jungkook, hi!” he still can’t believe you’re around. Jungkook winces at your tone, high and sounding like a teenager. He thought by now you’d be traveling the world, climbing to bigger and better things. Then again, the upper part of the city is certainly an upgrade. He just thought you’d want to be far, far away from him. “I b-brought you McDonalds.”

You hold up a greasy bag of fast food, and his nose immediately responds to the smell of fresh fries and a quarter pounder (with cheese, of course.) It annoys him that you still know his weakness, but he isn’t going to go that easily.

“Why are you here?” he asks a little too sharply, hands gripping the doorknob.

“I wanted to offer you a job,” you get straight to the point, as if you know your time at his doorstep is limited.

He scoffs, “You? Want to put my photos on Ego? You know my business extends to weddings and the occasional Bar Mitzvah. Why would you want me?”

You frown, crossing your arms. He looks down at your attire, a nicely fitted suit on top, but the skirt is replaced with grey sweatpants. Comical, really. “I’ve always loved your photos,” you admit to him, “you know that. And they’ve gotten so much better since then.”

The furrow between Jungkook’s brows softens a fraction, smoothed by the honesty in your voice. You’re right, you always made sure to tell Jungkook how much you loved his other talents. Namely, the photography, and sometimes his singing. He can still remember how easily you slept in his arms watching Sky City for hours, all at the melody of your favorite song. While his teachers and classmates loved to venerate his position on the team and his ability to garner attention, you encouraged him to work on the things that mattered to him the most, even in secret.

Nevertheless, that was ten years ago.

“I don’t need your charity,” he spits, “Jimin might be able to be bought by some designer clothes and an eighty dollar steak, but not me.”

The pain in your gaze is glaringly evident, and you don’t even try to hide that you’re upset as the paper bag falls against your lap. If there’s one thing Jungkook knows he’s good at, is hurting your feelings.

“You think this is charity?” you whisper, hurt delicately lacing your voice.

“Are you kidding? Last month you got Xu Minghao to photograph your spread for Ego. He’s photographed the damn Queen of England,” if you notice that he’s babbling about reading your magazine, you don’t show it in your face, “the point is, I don’t understand why you’re trying to come into my life again. I don’t want to get involved in your fancy dinner galas or anyone else from high school. So please, just go back to your picture perfect life.”

And without another qualm he slams the door in your face, effectively shutting you out. It doesn’t feel as good as he wants it to feel, clearly. He feels even shitter than before. His eyes glaze over to his rickety coffee table, cluttered with bills and credit card payments that should’ve been dealt with a long time ago.

He slugs himself over to his couch, throwing his body over the couch that’s way too short. His legs dangle in mid-air, but it doesn’t stop him from throwing an arm over his eyes to block out the sunset. The bills can wait a little longer. Seeing you was too draining.

The nap turns into a full-fledged night’s sleep, and by the time he wakes up the sky is dark and it’s the start of a new day. 12:08, the screen of his iPhone confirms. Feeling even crustier and worse than before, his stomach decides to harden the blow and go straight for the gut. He’s sorely reminded of the food you offered him hours ago.

Quickly pulling on a large denim jacket, he grabs his keys and heads for the 7-Eleven down the park. Nothing like a frozen pizza to fill the gut, fast and cheap. Despite the fact that it’s dark and late, there're still some stray people in the park. A few homeless, some high school stoners who are meeting in secret, and you are typing away on your MacBook.

Wait, what?

You’re sitting on a bench in the park, typing away without a care in the world. Shoving soggy fries that he earlier refused in your mouth, you let a couple stray potatoes hang from your lips as your eyes succumb to the screen. You look positively silly, still in a pink blazer and baggy sweatpants.

He must have been staring a little too long, because soon enough you turn your head, gasping at his figure. You quickly avert your eyes, but don’t make any move to leave the park. That interests him further.

Shamelessly, he calls your name. His legs get to you in an instant, towering over your tiny figure.

“What are you doing here?”

“Uh, I’m waiting for Jimin,” your eyes flicker to your open laptop, “and working.”

At least one of those reasons is a lie. Last time he checked, Jimin always sleeps over at Yoongi’s house on this day. He knows it’s a lie, and you know he knows it’s a lie, but neither of you make the effort to correct it.

“And what could you possibly be working on at 12AM?”

“Finding a photographer,” you hunch over your laptop, avoiding eye contact. “I don’t have much time and none of my usual contacts are good enough. This project is… personal.”

It makes him want to ask further, he can’t lie and say he isn’t intrigued in the kind of vision you’re going for in your next issue. “But why can’t you work at home?”

“Don’t wanna go,” you reply casually, “it makes me feel lonely.”

Lonely? You feel lonely? He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated at the display of nonchalance. Back in high school he always encouraged you to feel confident, but not like this. “Hey, it’s nice that you feel comfortable enough to chill in the park at 12AM, but it’s really dumb. You’re lucky you haven’t gotten mugged from all that money you’re carrying around!” he gestures to your fancy clothes and laptop, “and if you feel so lonely, call up one of your rich friends I’m sure they’ll—”

“Oh my god, Jungkook,” you slam your laptop shut, darkening the two of you. “I thought you wanted me to go back to my ‘picture perfect life’, so why do you care?” you get up in his face, standing on the bench so you’re nearly eye-to-eye, “why don’t you pester those kids over there? Tell them to drink their milk and go home,” you scoff, shoving your stuff in your bag. You don’t spare him another glance as you stalk off in the other direction.

He groans, unable to untangle himself from the mess, “Where are you going?”

“To a park where you’re not in!”

Despite the exchange for sweatpants, you’re still wearing shoes not fit for walking. They’re little white pumps, not too tall but not remarkably comfy either. However, that doesn’t deter you from getting the heck out of there, seemingly walking in any possible direction to get away from Jungkook.

“You’re being ridiculous,” he chastises once his hand clasps around your hand, pulling you around.

There’s a little resistance, as you try to hide your face to no avail. Jungkook fumbles a little, not thinking you’d be crying. But tiny, shy tears are pooling around your eyes, looking flustered at your display of emotion.

“God,” you mutter to yourself, “I feel like such a kid.”

That strikes a chord in the twenty-something man. The last time he saw you in the flesh was when you were both kids. Young, unbridled, and stupid. Well, only Jungkook was the stupid one.

“Do you want me to take you home?” Jungkook offers, feeling guilty about his roughness.

You shake your head. “No, I told you I don’t want to.”

“Can I at least call you a cab? Or a friend so you won’t get lonely?”

“Jungkook, if I had that option would you think I’d be here right now?” he’s trying, he really is. But you’re equally as miffed about this whole situation and at a loss. The two of you engage in a staring contest. It only takes a few seconds for you to crumble, and he frowns when you shiver in your thin blazer.

Instantly, he rips off his jacket, pulling it over your body. It’s huge on you, swallowing your body and hopefully containing some of his residual heat.

And finally, he relents. “If you want, I’ll come over and stay until you fall asleep.”

“Okay,” your eyes widen in instant agreement, pulling something out of your pocket. “Will you drive?”

His eyes widen at the shiny, minimalistic car key. Your sudden one-eighty has him second guessing his decision. “You drive a Tesla?” he gapes, taking your key like he’s holding the Hope Diamond.

You got your license in February. One month ago, and only because the instructor felt pity on you since it was your second time retaking it. The fancy car terrifies you, and you’re sure Jungkook has much more experience driving (over ten years worth.)

You shrug, “Not very good at driving. Haven’t had much practice.”

“Um, the car drives itself?”

“It does?” you tilt your head, dazed, “wow, technology is amazing.”

He shakes his head, putting a hand on your back so you can lead the way. You must be tired, because it seems like your head isn’t entirely there anymore. He takes charge, buckles you in and takes a couple minutes to fumble with the car settings. Nevertheless the drive home is smooth (and it takes all of Jungkook’s willpower to not squeal in excitement when the Tesla does in fact, drive itself.)

You lead him inside your loft like a tiny zombie, throwing your shoes to one corner and throwing your jacket on the kitchen table.

“Must be hungry,” you can’t even form complete sentences, “there’s food in the fridge, Kook. Sorry if it’s not to your taste.”

Shuffling away to your room, Jungkook is left to gawk at your apartment. The baseboards of your walls are crusted in pretty pearl designs, swirling around the whole expanse. There’s a television that stretches the wall of the little living room, with a sound and video game system he’s only seen in movies. Your tables are meters and meters of granite, and he wonders how the floor of your apartment can hold all this weight.

But he supposes it’s because there’s nothing much to hold. No pictures line the walls, only vague looking art to fill up blank space. There’s no touch of warmth despite the heating system under the floor that relaxes his toes. For such a big home, he can only imagine how small you must feel in it.

Your fridge is just as empty, decorated with a couple of sad-looking salads and some protein shakes. He sighs, grabbing two chicken salads and a banana shake and bringing it to your coffee table. It’s a little two quiet for his liking, so he turns on the television real low just to make the room feel a bit fuller.

Halfway through one salad he realizes he probably should’ve made you eat as well. Even though these salads aren’t remotely filling, they’re much healthier than some soggy fries. A piece of limp lettuce hangs from Jungkook’s mouth, suddenly feeling guilty for soaking up all of your amenities without inviting you. After all, it is your house. Wiping some sauce from his lips he dusts off his pants, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he makes his way to your room.

Calling your name, the only reply is the whir of the heater. He only cracks the door a tad, but he sees you slumped against the edge of the bed, bare feet hanging from the end. You barely made it, your clothes strewn across the floor, an oversized t-shirt ruched across your barely covered thighs. Without a thought he quickly scrambles to move you closer to your pillows, and then wraps your body in your plush duvet. You’re out like a light.

You’re sleeping, so Jungkook should go home. That’s what you two agreed to. He goes back to his late dinner (early breakfast?) mindlessly listening to an infomercial on rare dollar coins. He’ll leave after he eats.

He didn’t leave.

Jungkook awakes to a scream, your shrill voice echoing all the way down the hallway into your living room. It takes a second for him to register the empty white walls and the fact that he’s not in his apartment, but eventually it goes back to the point that you’re in distress. He jolts, scrambling off the couch to run to your bedroom.

“What is it?” he exhales into your doorframe, socks sliding.

Your hair is in a disarray, shirt rumpled and face scrunched in pain. You shove your phone in his face. “Since when did Iron Man die!” you cry, genuinely horrified at whatever entertainment article you’re reading.

He slumps against the wall, running a hand over his dry face. “Since Endgame, obviously. That was literally two years ago. Is that why you woke me up?”

“I-I’m sorry! I didn’t know!”

“Have you been living under a rock or something?”

“Or something,” you frown, throwing your phone across your bed, “I guess I should go get ready for work.”

Jungkook watches as you shamelessly hop off your bed, uncaring that your shirt has ridden up, revealing the full expanse of your thighs and then some. You pull out a pair of sweats from a shopping bag, nicking off the tag to put them on your legs.

“Do you have work?” you ask casually.

“Uh, no,” Jungkook coughs, crossing his arms. It’s been awhile since he’s had a solid gig. Two whole weeks have been spent doing more personal work which was fine, but at the same time his bank account could beg to differ. “I’m off today.”

“Oh, alright,” you shrug, “do you know where I can buy a good camera?”

“Why?”

“Gonna go take pictures,” you snatch your wallet and keys from your bedside, stuffing it in a fanny pack. He watches you curiously as you zip your bag shut, muttering something about how you can’t believe that fanny packs are back in style. Swinging the strap over your back, you brush past him. “You can stay if you want,” you add pointedly, before you slip into the bathroom.

Jungkook doesn’t understand as to why he’s slipping into sensory overload. The house is a shell of itself and the antithesis of a rainbow. Maybe it’s the fact that he woke up ten minutes ago or how you look completely peaceful and want to leave as soon as you wake up. Or how shocked you were that Iron Man has passed and you’ve completely missed Phase 3. Or that you’re not even thinking about breakfast or not wishing him a farewell, practically throwing him into your apartment like a second home.

He wobbles back to the couch, trying to look as nonchalant as possible as he drapes the fuzzy blankets over his body. He flips through the channels, before finally settling on an old episode of Sky City.

When you walk out into the living room, you scrunch your face in pain when you make eye contact with Kim Seokjin’s on screen appearance. Oh, how things change. Jungkook knew how much you loved watching Sky City, indulging in the protagonist's attractiveness.

“Y’know,” Jungkook says over his shoulder, “if you leave me here, I could steal whatever I want.”

“Go ahead,” you reply flippantly, already slipping on your sneakers. “There’s nothing of value here.”

What is wrong with you?

“Wait!” Jungkook throws all his pride at the window, unable to conceal his worry for you. Half your body is out the doorway, and you’re looking at him like he’s grown a second head. His voice takes up the entirety of the room, startling you. “I need to come with you,” he finally settles on, looking serious. “You’re going to buy the wrong camera.”

“Okay,” you concede immediately, throwing the keys on the couch, “you drive.”

Jungkook must know something’s wrong with you.

You don’t know how to act around him. Your heart is hurt and your body is a decade older than it was a week ago and everything in your life and mind is a complete wreck. It still aches to look at him, despite the fact that you want him around, all the time. You wish you could know a little more about your adult life, you feel like a proverbial Bambi sitting in a car worth more than your childhood home. It’s a wobbly, shaky road to adulthood, and you’re not having it.

Jungkook sleeping over is the last thing you thought would happen last night. You didn’t even think he’d relent to coming to your house, since he was pretty hellbent on not being your photographer.

But now he’s driving your Tesla again, after you instructed him to park the car where you parked it last time. That way, you can go back to the playground you were in the night before. You have a vision for the issue and it starts there. Fiddling around with the expensive camera Jungkook picked out, you feel his gaze burning into your shoulder.

“Am I doing something wrong?” you ask archly, “I read the manual and everything. Or are you just being a perfectionist again?”

“What’s wrong with being a perfectionist?” Jungkook shoots back, putting the car in park. As soon as the car stills in the parking lot, he grabs the camera from your grasp like a petulant child. “I’m just trying to make sure you don’t break it. Face it, you’re terrible at technology.”

“Excuse me! I have a Samsung 25+ and a Tesla!”

“Yeah? So why did I catch you struggling to use your pay feature on your phone when we grabbed coffee?”

“It’s new,” you mutter under your breath. Everything is new to you.

With a growl you snatch back the camera, and Jungkook for once doesn’t act like a baby with a sharing complex and relents. Of course, Jungkook manages to calibrate the camera and figure out the color balance before you could. This only annoys you further, wondering why Jungkook is still sticking around after all this time.

“Alright,” you step out of the car, slinging the camera around your neck. “Thanks for driving me around, your apartment’s just down the street, right?” You dart your hand out, and Jungkook reluctantly hands over your key beeper. Maybe it’s because he seems to love the car so much, that he has a hard time giving it back. “I’ll see you around.”

“Wait,” is that his word of the day? Wait wait wait.

“What is it now, Jungkook?”

He’s never seen you so full of negative emotions. You’ve been waiting for him to tire of you all day, from your clipped replies and unease ever since you two stepped out of your apartment.

“Um,” he looks embarrassed, scratching the back of his head, “are you really going to take pictures? You always took really blurry pictures in high school.”

The mention of high school has you icy, gripping the matte black digital camera to hold your feelings at bay. “Yes, I’m going to go take pictures because the photographer I wanted so rudely rejected me,” you revel in the way he shrinks, probably regretful already. “So if you’ll excuse me, I have a deadline.”

He continues to follow you, all the way to the park. You make your way to a little garden, and start to take some test photos next to the little daisies that decorate the patch of dirt. You practically feel Jungkook breathing down your neck, feeling antsy everytime you click the shutter. Ignoring him is difficult, especially when he makes little noises of discomfort when you presumably do something wrong.

“Jungkook, are you going to say something?” you seethe, not caring that the heavy camera strains your neck when it falls against your chest, “or are you just going to make me wait.”

Jungkook’s face is scrunched up, and finally he blurts, “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

“For saying your life is picture perfect,” he sputters quickly, looking very sweaty. Jungkook always got sweaty when he did things a little too hard. Playing sports, thinking, campaigning on video games. “I—I didn’t mean it. I don’t know. I guess I was just upset at myself and I took it out on you.”

“Well why are you upset at yourself?”

“I’m upset because I—I don’t know, it’s complicated,” he plops down on the nearest bench, and while you follow him, you don’t let yourself sit next to him. If you do, you know your subconscious will want to wrap your arms around him and comfort him. That would probably be the worst possible action to perform. “I don’t really do the whole photoshoot thing. Like I said, I’m just doing some weddings and parties here and there. I shouldn’t have said those things about Jimin and how you’re only talking to us out of charity. It’s my fault for not considering how complicated your life could be too,” he looks down at the ground, shameful, “so if you still want me, I would really like to photograph for Ego. And I would also really like that camera back.”

Unable to resist, you reach over to give him a pat on the shoulder. “I forgive you,” you reply numbly, thinking he was going to apologize for something else. You suppose he’s forgotten about that fateful prom night, just like everyone else. “It’s actually not for Ego, at least not yet. My boss is pitting us against each other, the best idea wins the cover theme.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll win,” his face eventually breaks into a grin when you remove the camera from your body. “Come to daddy, baby,” he cooes, holding the shiny new camera in his hands like a newborn.

“Gross,” you twitch, although you’re feeling all the more relieved knowing Jungkook will now be taking the visual reins. “You haven’t had a chance to look at the contract made up, but being paid five-hundred okay?”

“Five-hundred a week?”

“No, per day,” you correct, “why wouldn’t I pay you just like I pay the others?”

Jungkook’s dark brows fly to his forehead. He practically chokes on his spit at the way you put Jungkook in high regard. A blush overtakes his visage, proud and pink as he rushes to get away from you.

“You don’t even know my concept,” you called after him, chasing the midday sun.

Jungkook is already in position, fitting the lens between two buildings. The afternoon sun looks like an egg yolk, melting between the clouds. “Well then is it?” he asks, bending down on one knee to get the perfect angle.

“Well, yesterday when I thought of the idea I just wanted to be reminded of how easy being a kid was,” you don’t even know if Jungkook’s listening properly, given the rapid click click clicks of the shutter and Jungkook constantly moving around to get as many shots as possible. “I realized that not everyone can relate to the models or the clothes we advertise on Ego. Why would I want to see people I actually admire? Like, my friend’s older brother. Or Jimin, president of the drama club. Or even Jungkook, captain of the lacrosse team.”

“So, nostalgia. The 2000s are back in style, I like it,” he replies simply, tilting the camera towards you, “pose for me.”

“What? Jungkook,” you frown, holding a hand over your face. He doesn’t relent, continuing to snap you in different angles.

“Oh! That was a nice one,” he turns the camera to reveal the screen of your furrowed brows, hand over your face, “looks super grunge. Totally a throwback look.”

“Jungkook, I don’t model. I’m just the one who throws the ideas.”

“Yeah, but. Wouldn’t it be cool if the readers of Ego could see the genius behind the paper and ink?” he gestures vaguely to your outfit, “and you’re wearing Fila. So that’s like, kind of designer?”

“I don’t know,” you hug yourself, “I’ll think about it, okay? Let’s focus.”

“Fine,” Jungkook stops buzzing around you, putting the camera down and following you as you walk back to your car. You don’t think you really need anymore park photos, and Jungkook seems to telepathically agree as well.

“We need to plan some outfits and some backgrounds. I’ve already arranged a meet up tomorrow in front of our old high school with a couple of models. The school is on a grade-wide trip, so we’ll even have access to the track and field. I was also thinking disposable film? We could scan those.”

“Alright, who are your models?”

“Oh, you know. Just friends from school. I wanted it to be as authentic as possible. Taehyung flew back from Hamburg last night, so he said he’ll come. Jimin, obviously.”

“Well you only had like, two friends in highschool.”

“And you,” you clip on with a frown, “so don’t dress like a potato sack tomorrow, okay?”

“I’m not modeling.”

“Well, I’m still looking for a celebrity model to tack onto so. Don’t look like a chump.” you stick out your hand, while Jungkook pouts at your outstretched limb. If he feels sore that you called him a chump, he doesn’t comment on it when he clasps his larger hand in yours. “Partners?”

“Partners.”

“Why didn’t you tell me your celebrity model was him?”

“I specifically told you not to dress like a paper bag. Why did you continue to do so!”

“You didn’t specify that your model was Kim Seokjin!”

The current conversation is hushed, hissed between large reflective light panels and a parked car that held all your rented equipment. Currently, Taehyung, Seokjin and Jimin are huddled on the bleachers of your old stomping grounds, laughing at whatever funny video Seokjin has pulled up. They’re all dressed in variants of the same sweatsuit, a combination of Taehyung’s choosing since he’s one of the many color coordinators at Ego.

But you haven’t started yet, and you would like to get some morning shots in before it gets any warmer. Jungkook is still petulant, pretending to buy time by balancing his tripod. He’s wearing his Birkenstocks, so old they’re definitely the same pair from highschool, and yet another black sweatsuit.

“Seokjin’s like a big, fat cheeseball,” you assure Jungkook, who’s actually shaking from being in the presence of a celebrity. “No reason to be nervous.”

“That man has literally been part of our Sitcom Sundays for three years,” he gripes, “of course I’m nervous!”

“Just go to the car. If you want to change I’m sure Taehyung’s brought something that fits you.”

“Well if they see me change they’re gonna see I’m trying too hard,” Jungkook pouts, he actually pouts.

“I can’t,” you turn around, your Miss Frizzle-esque solar system dress whirling around your waist. The stars twinkle, glittering into Jungkook’s eyes. “Jungkook, do whatever you want. But we need to start in ten! No, five! I’m not paying you to try on Balenciaga and Off-Brand!”

If Jungkook is shocked by your sudden snippiness or need to get things wrapped up, he doesn’t say anything to it. For once, he’s quiet about his needs and you’re thankful for it. Once he’s gone, you have a chance to breathe. It’s all wholly overwhelming to dive right into the job. Your brain is still in 2011 unfortunately.

“Babe, everything alright?”

Seokjin appears behind you, having ditched Jimin and Taehyung after he saw you and Jungkook argue. He smooths his hands over your biceps. You’re still unsure over the exact nature of your adult-self’s relationship, but it seems that sans sex you two are relatively close with each other.

“M’fine,” you mumble tiredly, trying not to stiffen under his hold. You suppose Jimin isn’t going to be the friend you confide into this lifetime. “I’m just nervous. We’re doing all this work and it can potentially go down the drain after this week. What if my idea’s stupid and we’re wasting time? Jennie texted me that her concept is going to be killer and now I’m scared this concept is too aesthetically soft and people don’t care about nostalgia anymore and I feel like simultaneously throwing up and crying—”

“Whoa whoa, who’s replaced my confident editor and where did she go?” Seokjin decidedly goes with the notion that you’re definitely not fine. He swings his neck back and forth, peering behind the bleachers and over the football field. “My confident editor would never talk bad of herself like this! She commanded a whole crew of fifty within seconds when she did the Kim Taeyeon shoot in Milan! She never cowers under a challenge, the challenge cowers to her!” and in his gallancy you no longer try to shy away, in fact you even giggle at his silly way of comforting you. “And most importantly, she’d never compare herself to a wench like Jennie.”

Seokjin doesn’t hesitate to swipe the moisture right under your waterline, making sure any traces of your crying are undetectable. “W-wait,” you sputter, “you mean, me and Jennie aren’t actually friends?”

He chuckles, pulling you into a hug. “Even now, you’re such a good actress.”

You let Seokjin continue to hold you as the pieces in your empty mind come together. If Jennie is truly not your friend and you two have been faking it all this time, how serious is it? And if so, are you the competitive type? You know for sure Jennie is, and will she stop at nothing to make sure she gets the spread?

This fear is combined with an equal amount of sadness. You were a little excited to have a lasting friend from college, but your mother always told you to never believe anything on the internet. You suppose those selfies of you and Jennie on your Instagram are nothing but a facade.

But at the very least Seokjin’s care for you isn’t fake, and you’re thankful that you have at least one friend in this life. If you didn’t do this time skip, would Seokjin remain your only friend? You try not to think too hard about it, “Thanks, Seokjin. I really appreciate you.”

“Will you appreciate me tonight then?” Seokjin makes a move to kiss your neck, and the moment is promptly ruined.

Shoving him away you say firmly, “Touch me like that again and I’ll rip your dick off in front of this whole crew.”

“I love it when you get feisty,” Seokjin melts, but salutes you like a drill sergeant as he runs back to the men on the bleachers.

It’s then you feel a presence looming over your shoulder. Tall, dark, and emanating. He’s changed, in favor of some fitted jeans and a plain white shirt, paired with black boots. Jungkook is behind you, glaring over your shoulder at Seokjin. So much for showing off your professionalism. Crap, how much of that did he hear?

“Jungkook, I–”

“Let’s start,” he mutters gruffly, stepping past you to get to the equipment.

You slap a hand over your face. It’s going to be a long day.

However, the hours following are probably one of the brightest hours of your life since you’ve appeared in your future-self’s body. At first Jimin was anxious at your invitation, despite being in the high school plays and being okay at public speaking, he didn’t know he’d have the potential to be a model. A couple test shots and some coaching from Taehyung, Jimin is a natural, his photogenic energy strong enough to compete toe-to-toe with Seokjin.

You also have to hand it to Taehyung, who has been running back and forth between modeling and choosing outfits for the boys. Jimin and you didn’t run in the same group as Taehyung back in high school, but time changes things and if given the opportunity, you would’ve loved to be friends with him back then.

By the time you are done for the day and you feel like all the possible shots have all ready been taken, you circle around the school. You previously went inside empty classrooms, posed in the cafeteria, even pretended to reenact your school rendition of RENT in the auditorium.

Everything is mostly packed up and put into the car by the time the sun is setting, and you just wanted to perfect this one shot.

The gymnasium looks a lot smaller than it did as a child. As a teenager, you constantly feared getting hit in the face by a stray wiffleball, or throwing up during the pacer test after the 100th lap. But now, it just looks like an old gym.

“It smells like sweaty balls in there,” Taehyung curses, adjusting the patterned button down by smoothing down his chest. He jabs a finger in the boys locker room, where Jimin comes out with another new outfit.

“I think the sandwich I left in senior year is still there,” Jimin adds, pulling the collar around his burgundy knitted sweater.

The back of the gym is decorated in balloons. Overnight you managed to build a balloon ring off of Pinterest, one of your proudest moments as you made Jungkook haul the rainbow colored arc and shove it into the trunk. Seokjin is sitting directly under the arc, decorating a letter corkboard. It’s one of those cork boards all the teachers display in class, often decorated with some witty quote or a basic “Welcome to Mr/Mrs/Miss _____’s Class!”

Jungkook is setting up the camera on a tripod, wanting to do it the old fashioned way. Aside from the freakout he had in the beginning when he realized he was photographing Kim Seokjin, he’s been quiet and strictly professional throughout the whole ordeal. It’s amazing to see this side of him, as he seamlessly transitions from shoot to shoot knowing exactly what he has in mind for each photograph. His direction is soft but impactful, and the boys have no problems following directions.

“Okay boys, everyone under the arc!”

Working like this is a rush you can’t even imagine. In high school the path you were in the process of choosing wasn’t clear cut up until this point, but now you know exactly what you want to do for the rest of your life.

Seokjin holds the finished corkboard in the middle, a proud Class of Ego in white block letters.

Jungkook only gets a few shots in before Seokjin bemoans, letting the corkboard fall in his lap.

“Guys, this picture’s gonna stink.”

Jungkook’s appalled, “Excuse me—”

“Because you two aren’t in it!” Taehyung agrees easily, “c’mon, JK. Put your camera on timer mode and let’s have all of us in it!”

A blush melts on Jungkook’s neck, all the way to the tips of his ears. “What? No, that’s silly Tae. I really don’t—agh!”

The three men are in a controlled frenzy, aiming to get their mission done. Seokjin rounds the camera and makes quick work of enabling a timer and a burst shot. Jimin pulls you by the waist, tugging you ungracefully to the center of the arc. Taehyung is doing a pretty good job of hauling your muscle hunk of a photographer, pressing his shoulders across yours.

And finally, Seokjin hands you the corkboard. “You should be holding it. After all, you’re the brains behind it!”

At first it feels awkward, squished between new friends and old friends. First loves and last loves. Despite his warm bicep pressing against you, Jungkook is akin to a sheet of cardboard, arm-to-arm and stiff as a board.

“Alright people, let’s move it!” Seokjin yells unnecessarily loud, the noise echoing throughout the high walls. “Last couple shots here, and we’re not re-doing it because I’m tired as hell! So look alive and pretend to like each other!”

The first click of the camera stuns all of you, akin to many terrible school photos where the flash disarms you and your face twists. But that click suddenly gets Jungkook into gear, and you feel him slide a hand over your shoulder, squeezing you toward him so you’re pressed against the side of his chest. He still smells like floral fabric softener, and that makes you smile.

And suddenly you feel like you’re seventeen again, surrounded with the people you care for the most.

“So, the tabloids are true huh?” Jimin smirks, waving a flimsy fry in your face.

“T-tabloids?” you sputter, dabbing the ketchup off your cheek. The greasy burger slips off your grip and onto your plate. Your expression says it all, it’s painfully innocent and genuinely confused as you attempt to swallow the cheese and lettuce as fast as possible.

The crew sans Seokjin is eating a very late dinner with you at the restaurant of their choice. They put it to a vote, while you desperately wanted some McDonalds everyone else voted for a more high end restaurant. After all, you’re paying.

“Ah, don’t try playing coy with us,” Taehyung jests, “the office talks.”

“Well, whatever you’ve heard isn’t true,” you huff, crossing your arms. “At least, not anymore.”

“What?” Taehyung bugs out, “I thought you loved your no strings attached relationship with Jinnie.”

“I guess I did,” you frown, deflating against the plush booth, “I don’t know. I don’t know what I liked back then.”

You resume eating your burger, trying to ignore the worried look Jimin sends you. He reaches over the table to press his thumb to the little 11s in your forehead, a product of stress. “Does your head still hurt?” he asks.

Jungkook’s chewing slows considerably. He’s been strangely quiet this evening, opting to order a handful of appetizers and gorging on every single edible thing on the table like a glutton. But at Jimin’s question he turns his head to look at you, “Why would your head still hurt?”

“She hit her head when she went out drinking with Seokjin last week,” Jimin supplies, “messed with her memory.”

“Chim,” you frown, gently shoving him off you, “I’m fine now. Pretty much caught up. Just reevaluating my life choices, okay?”

“How could Seokjin let that happen?” Jungkook asks, putting his fork down.

“He wasn’t even there,” you shake your head, trying to clear Seokjin’s name as fast as possible. After all, this lie is completely fabricated, a blanket to cover the magical properties your true nature being here has. “I’m fine, Jungkook. Don’t worry about me.”

He huffs, resuming his meal. “Wasn’t worried,” he disarms, reaching over the table to snatch a mozzarella stick.

You cover up your disgusted expression by wiping your chin with a soft blue napkin. Jungkook is really out here inhaling the whole table and being a bit of a jerk.

“Well,” Taehyung claps his hands together, regarding all of you with a closed-lipped smile stretched so wide you’re worried he’ll break. “This is nice. I can’t imagine a time where I’d be reunited with you three. It’s weird. But a good weird.”

“Ditto,” Jimin echoes, lifting his glass to clink with Taehyung’s. Throwing an arm over your shoulder he remarks, “could’ve never imagined my ‘ol best friend would’ve wanted to pursue fashion.”

“What?” you glower, pinching his thigh, “I love fashion! I spent months planning my Clueless Halloween costume and our summers cosplaying!”

“Right, Cher,” teased Jimin, “that yellow plaid suit that made you look like a bottle of mustard?”

“You little–”

Taehyung begins to laugh when you start to tickle Jimin in the sweet spots, causing Jimin to curl his leg around your ankle and pull you onto his lap for a hair pull. It’s all in fun and nothing hurts, but you’re so caught up in it you’re sure people are worried about your well-being. Even Jungkook is laughing, egging Jimin on while Taehyung weakly attempts to pull you away.

If you could rewrite the last ten years of your life, this moment would define the remake.

“Why are we here?”

“For research purposes.”

“Are you sure the actual purpose is because you don’t feel like working in the office?”

“Jungkook,” you groan, tired of his infinite amount of negativity. “This was our senior trip! Of course I want to get a couple shots in before my big presentation.”

“You’re risking my baby’s life,” Jungkook cradles the digital camera closer to his chest, swaddling it between its felt case. Ever since you purchased the camera, Jungkook has been unable to let it go. This adoption is both equal parts cute and strange, and you’re a little too scared to ask for it back.

“I promise, no big rides,” you roll your eyes, “your baby will be fine.”

The local amusement park is a fan-favorite amongst the city-goers, a reprieve from the hustle and a chance for you to spend your copious amounts of money on overpriced sugar and popcorn. The last time you went here was two weeks ago—in your mind. In Jungkook’s mind it was over ten years ago and he probably doesn’t even remember the time spent roaming the artificial floor and the infinite amount of bubbles that seem to eject from the air to add to the whimsical charm.

Jungkook isn’t even paying attention, citing it as an artist block because he’s going through sensory overload with the amount of stimuli in the crowd. Screaming teenagers wailing under him from a nearby rollercoaster, the smell of sticky caramel apples pumping through the diffuser stands, and the amount of gaudy color that decorates every single logo of the park.

He plops himself down on a nearby bench while you wait in line to get some food. It’s early in the morning and a weekday, so you figure this is the best time to get some photographs in without any passerbys. You figure Jungkook will get the hang of it once he has some food in his stomach.

“A funnel cake?” Jungkook is bewildered when you return with the confection in hand, “it’s ten A.M.”

You raise a brow, knowing how much Jungkook loves sweet foods. The funnel cake especially, he ate at least three when you went to your senior trip, one for every meal. But you’re an adult, or at least posing as one, and you shrug loftily, plucking a hot piece of fried dough from your plate. “Alright then,” you reply, “I’ll just eat the whole thing.”

Once the cake touches your tongue, you can’t help but make an exaggerated moan in pleasure. You can feel Jungkook squirming like an earthworm next to you, either from the scrumptious smell of funnel cake or the way you’re so enthusiastically eating it.

“W-wait,” Jungkook’s stomach growls at the perfect moment, “I want some. But I don’t want to get the camera dirty, pass me a napkin.”

“I can just feed it to you!” you quip innocently, immediately ripping off a piece and shoving it between Jungkook’s pink lips. You feel a little slick in the finger, saliva briefly coating your digits before you pull away. You swallow, feeling a familiar tingle in your tummy and a sickening heat low in your belly.

You fight back a sigh, wondering if your libido also did a massive growth spurt in your twenty-seven years of age.

Jungkook is placated at the touch of food, and you take turns feeding yourself and feeding him while more customers trickle in the park. Confectioners sugar dusts Jungkook’s long-sleeved tee, the white color staining the dark fabric. You reach to pat his chest, ignoring the toneness that still remains from high school.

“Alright, let’s ride,” you declare, pulling Jungkook up once you’re done eating.

“Do we have to?”

“What happened to the adrenaline junkie I once knew?”

“He realized being an adrenaline junkie doesn’t make money and he should stay on the ground.”

“Alright, Negative Nancy,” your reply has no bite to it, and suddenly you wished you invited Jimin or Seokjin before Jungkook. Jungkook may have the talent, but he certainly doesn’t have the attitude. You don’t even get why he’s still defensive, after all you thought he apologized in the beginning. It’s not like you’re the problem.

“Gimmie your hand,” your thoughts cut out when Jungkook offers his large hand in front of yours, palm up.

“Why?”

“C’mon,” he whines, settling for snatching your hand instead. His palms feel larger, rougher as they enclose your smaller hand. “Now hurry up and walk in front of me. I’m gonna take a picture.”

You already have a feeling as to what this picture is going to look like, so you scrunch your nose. “That is so cheesy.”

“It’s for the nostalgia factor, now hurry up and pretend we’re on a date.”

You roll your eyes but relent, jogging a few steps ahead so you can get into character. This pose used to be a popular one, where the sweet boyfriend would be dragged around by the girlfriend’s hand, tugging him to wherever she wanted to go. It’s super cliche but if Jungkook figures it’ll fit your theme, you’ll do it. Eventually you forget that you’re holding his hand, and point ahead to some rides you want to try out.

“Oh, Jungkook! Remember that one?” you point to a teacup ride, with guests spinning vigorously through their own seat. “Jimin got so sick he fell asleep in the car for an hour!”

Jungkook doesn’t reply, so you turn around and face him. Click. Jungkook smirks at his little trick, which makes you rip your hand from his and walk further.

“Hey, hey,” he chuckles, the first smile of the day. Food really does make him peaceful. “The shot looks good, you look good.”

“Could’ve just asked me to turn around and pose,” you huff.

“Then it would ruin the fun,” he replies, “now c’mon, let’s ride the teacups. For old time’s sake.”

Ten minutes later and the both of you are soon regretting that decision. You’re once again slumped on the bench, this time unable to keep your head up so you rest it on Jungkook’s shoulder while he leans on your head.

“Haven’t rode that since I was a teenager,” Jungkook moans, holding his stomach. “Remind me not to eat so fast before getting on that kind of ride.”

You mirror his expression, feeling green. “Is this what late-adult life feels like?”

“Yep,” Jungkook replies, unbeknownst of how shocked you are at how weak your body has become. “You wake up with back pain, pre-arthritis from all the typing you’ve done over the last decade, and a lot of stress. Definitely not the fantasy you’d imagine from your 20s.”

“You think you’d be less stressed if you kept your lacrosse scholarship?”

“Nah, I think I saved myself,” Jungkook shakes his head, “before I could be any more awful than I already was.”

You refuse that notion, sending him a bitter smile. “Well, look at me. I became awful right after high school.”

“I didn’t mean you—”

“I know,” you hold up a hand to stop him. The two of you follow a red path up the hill, leading to a simple cable car ride. It’s a slow travel ride, made to get from one side of the park to the other with a beautiful view over the lake. “But you see those tabloid articles. They must be true.”

“I—I didn’t think they were all true,” Jungkook’s lying through his teeth to make you feel better, but you don’t care. “Why do you sound unsure?”

You shrug, “Probably wasn’t sober for most of my bad decisions,” considering your friendship with Seokjin and his boisterous drinking attitude, you wouldn’t be surprised, “If they weren’t true, I believe Jimin and I would’ve stayed friends. I can’t imagine why I left my home like that. But I guess it doesn’t matter too much because I came back. And I mean, we’re here together doing work,” you gesture between the small space between each other, “I think that counts for something.”

The two of you walk in silence for a bit, contemplating. The line to the cable car isn’t long but it’s slow, considering the cable only moves a couple meters a second. The take-off area is a risen slab of concrete, and the cars are continuously moving so you have to hop on one car as soon as another guest exits.

There’s a little bit of space between it, a centimeter gap that could be nerve wracking if there’s no staff around. You think nothing of it as you fiddle on your phone, waiting for the staff member to let you and Jungkook in on the next car.

Jungkook enters first, taking great care to cradle the camera in one hand so it doesn’t sway against the car. The car swings a little as well, and Jungkook holds out a hand for you to grab.

Instead you focus on how the once bright glassy pink is sun-ravished, faded and rusting on the metal door flaps. The color is almost pearlescent, vastly different than the vivid color you saw two weeks ago. You almost want to reach out and touch it, wondering where that quality went.

“Bun, be careful!”

The tip of your heel nicks on the stepping stone, slipping like butter as you topple forward. Jungkook doesn’t hesitate to scoop you up, hauling you into the car just as the metal door locks into place. The hard plastic of the camera digs into your chest uncomfortably as you plop on top of Jungkook, between his legs as half his thighs rest against the uncomfortable seat.

“Were you not watching where you were going?” Jungkook huffs, blowing his bangs over his forehead.

Instead of an artful answer you blurt, “You, you called me Bun.”

His eyes widen at your response, and his grip loosens around your body. His eyes dart anywhere but your face, his cheeks ruddied and stained coral as he moves to remove you from his body. “It was a slip of the tongue,” he coughs, turning on his camera and getting shots of the lake.

You huff in response, sticking to your side of the carriage. “I missed it,” you murmur to the wind, although you make yourself loud enough for him to hear.

You try to bury your sour expression in your sleeves, just to hide how absolutely childish you feel. You don’t even care that Jungkook is trying to take pictures of you looking out the view, only trying to eradicate the feelings that are still down deep in your blood. Even the twenty-seven year old Jungkook is charming, albeit in a completely different way.

The grown, mature Jungkook toots to his own horn. He isn’t concerned about a team or an image, and gave it all up to pursue an art he loves. The lacrosse jerseys exchanged for bulky long sleeves, the sport for a camera, and a mask for his true image.

“Let’s go,” Jungkook takes your hand again when the ride stops, not letting go until you’re on steady ground. You figure he must think you walk like a toddler barely on her first mile.

Would Jungkook like you even as an adult? With all this money, this power and this confidence you envisioned as a seventeen-year-old, it still doesn’t feel enough for him. In fact, you feel like a sore thumb sticking out, decorated in silly rumors and expensive clothes that separate you far from your roots.

“Hey,” Jungkook touches your arm, pointing to a basketball carnival game, “remember this one?”

“Yeah,” forcing a smile, you follow him to the small crowd that starts to form around the basketball game. The baskets are a short distance from the player, but so high up that it’s hard to tell the shape of the hoop. “I tried to tell you that it was completely rigged. From an angle you can see it’s still oval-shaped.”

“And I told you it didn’t matter if the hoop was an octagon, I’d get you that prize,” he jerks a thumb to the prize booth, where a blue Piplup plush sits proudly with all the other starter Pokemon. “And I did.”

“It’s still in my room,” you reply proudly, even though Jungkook is acting almost immaturely smug. “I, I mean it’s still in my room in my parent’s house. It’s probably lonely because my parents have been on a cruise for almost two weeks.”

He raises a brow, eyes drifting to the booth. “Should I win another one to keep your bed in the city warm?”

“That sounded oddly sexual.”

“You know what I mean,” and Jungkook’s rolling up his sleeves, handing you the camera.

“Jungkook,” you whine when he pulls out a roll of bills from his pocket, as if he prepared for this moment, “Jungkook c’mon—I don’t need any stuffed animals. Ugh.”

You swear that the majority of your day is spent watching Jungkook blow cash on a low-quality stuffed animal with packaging pellets for the inside. Turns out carnival technology has also enhanced over the years, and it takes both your whining and the clerk’s whining to stop Jungkook from blowing his entire wallet to get one basket in. Eventually the staff relents and lets Jungkook take a Piplup keychain instead, glumly handing it over to you.

“I like this better,” you chirp, clipping the ring onto your car keys, “now I can bring Piplup everywhere.”

A small, barely there smile appears on Jungkook’s face.

The rest of the day melts away like that, and before you know it the sun is slipping into the horizon and you’re being dropped off at your apartment. Jungkook even insists to walk you to your door, because your prizes are heavy. (Yes, he went back for the oversized Piplup.)

It’s all too familiar, the way the walk upstairs is achingly slow, as if the moment is stretching itself down the hallway. How Jungkook looks so prideful holding the fruits of his labor, following you with a tug of your hand because the prize is too big for Jungkook to see straight.

At the same time it’s different. The way you wobble around the hallway because you’re a little tipsy from wine flights is noticeable, even cute. How easy it is to not feel nervous when you clutch at his hand. How you two look like a seasoned couple, coming home from an all-day date.

It ends at the front door, and you crack it open so you can slip your prizes through the crack.

“Thanks, Jungkook,” you hold up the SD card that held all the precious memories of this week.

This is where you part ways. You’ll spend the rest of the night editing your presentation, while Jungkook promised to go to a bar with his friends. A little part of you hoped you’d be invited, but you knew that would be impractical considering you have work in the morning.

“Break a leg,” he says, leaning on the balls of his feet with his hands in his pockets, “you’ll do great. You’ve always been meant to do great things.”

The investment he lays on you is insurmountable, and you feel yourself flush with simultaneous excitement and anxiety. Unknowing how to calm your nerves, you give him a small “thank you” and put your hand on the knob to slip away.

“Wait—”

You blink, a deer in the headlights as Jungkook swoops down and kisses you.

You’ve received kisses—kisses reserved for a twenty-seven year old, before. Seokjin is an eager lover, and you felt it that fateful morning and even during your photoshoot when he tried to be sneaky and pull you away. Fleeting bites, kisses to the neck that are wet and hot.

Jungkook’s kiss does not feel like that. It feels like home. It feels like coming home after a long day of work, wrapping yourself in an old afghan and a hot cup of tea. The feeling of hot laundry, fresh front the dryer and smelling of floral softener. It tastes like ten years lost in a void, returning to your senses and lighting you up.

He holds you as if you’ll disappear right in front of him. Large hands cup your face, like a precious thing he never wants to let go. Your hands can do nothing but grapple after his, nails digging into his skin.

“Good night, Jungkook,” you send him a lovestruck smile, a puppy love face.

“Good bye, Bun,” he replies simply, jogging down the hallway.

Being twenty-seven starts to feel a little more like heaven.

Jennie used to annoy you in high school, but now she just down right scares you.

Her presentation is one straight out of a thriller, with red shadow lights and neon green splattered in the dark room. Her models are intense, her designs are beautiful but overwhelmingly chaotic, and the whole affair is rather grotesque. The headline Fashion Suicide glares at you in a morbid scarlet font.

Hoseok sends her a tight-lipped smile, and presses a button on his desk. “I need my antacids, Krystal,” Hoseok deadpans.

Nothing betrays Jennie’s wicked expression, in fact her smirk widens at Hoseok’s fear.

You on the other hand, are cool as a cucumber when you walk up to the front of the conference room. In fact, you barely have to say anything as the presentation presents itself. Jungkook took the liberty of making a video compilation for you, one that they could use in YouTube and Instagram promotions.

“This, is preserving our youth,” you declare proudly, letting the video play. The music that accompanies it is very coming-of-age, like a yearbook slideshow of all the pictures you took. Taehyung, Jimin and Seokjin hold their arms around each other in matching attire, looking like friends for life. There’s even some videos of you and Jungkook at the park, playfully arguing at each other. “I’m tired of seeing people who could care less about my life, who I can’t relate to.”

“This issue is for the unsung heroes—my best friend’s older sibling, the captain of the football team, and the black sheep with a dream.”

The video cuts to Jungkook, looking ultra cool at the camera while he’s dictating Seokjin’s moves. It was taken on your phone, and you’re zooming in on Jungkook’s serious face before it breaks into a laugh, eyes crinkling and bunny teeth showing at whatever stupid thing Seokjin said.

And finally, the video fades into a mock cover. The five of you are beaming at the camera, cheek-to-cheek as you hold up the placard: Ego: Class of Youth.

Needless to say, the issue is yours.

You ignore Jennie’s icy stare as you leave the room to negotiate with the creative teams on a set schedule. However, it seems that you can’t get a bit of rest when Jennie waits for you in your office.

“Jennie, get off of my desk,” you frown, watching a coffin-tipped nail flicking against a photograph of you holding hands with Jungkook in the amusement park. It hangs on a corkboard, standing up with all the other ideas that you and Jungkook have spent the last week meticulously planning.The black enamel scratches at your smiling face. You are not having this, not after all your hard work and all the meetings that have just been planned.

Her feet dangle in the air, kicking back and forth as she sings your name. “You’re still such a child,” she sighs dramatically. “In fact, I think your cute little-wittle idea would suit something more like Highlights or Disney Monthly.”

“You’re just upset I did better than you,” you cross your arms.

Jennie’s nail slices your visage in half.

“You’re right,” Jennie turns a 180 and gives you a bright, candy-coated smile. “Your idea is so good, it doesn’t suit Ego. In fact, I’m sure the editors at Mono will pay a pretty penny.”

“Excuse me?”

“Ugh, you are such a fake.” Jennie giggles, “now, did you send this idea to Namjoon yet? Their publishing date is two weeks before ours, so I’m sure they’re getting to work on this whole Throwback Thursday spread.”

You can’t believe the words coming from Jennie’s mouth. Before all of this, just how awful of a person were you? How could you sabotage your company on the regular, just to get paid a little extra dough for a rival company? It makes you think about what could’ve possibly changed. Had leaving your friends without a care in the world made you into this lost adult, grappling at the seams for attention? In college, did Jennie coerce you into being manipulative and backstabbing, and because without Jimin and needing confidence in a friend, you reluctantly agreed?

The coffee from this morning starts to back up in your throat, but you immediately tamp it down. No, you can’t be pushed around like this. You can’t keep pushing people around. You don’t want a life like this, and if you ever return to your old life, you’ll damn make sure you’ll create a future without Jennie in the picture.

“I’m not going to send anything to Mono, and I’ve already fessed up to Hoseok,” you lift your nose in the air, voice impeccably clear for someone who’s absolutely bluffing. But Jennie’s face hits the ground, immediately buying your lie. You suppose you did become a good actress after ten years. Maybe Seokjin taught you a few pointers. “So if I were you, I’d swallow your tongue before words get around. I worked it out but don’t be surprised if a pink slip comes your way.”

Turns out that no matter what, high school never ends. There will always be backstabbers and freaks and geeks. A mean girl that you subconsciously try so hard to appease, a grade that defines your life, and drama up to the neck.

“He doesn’t like you, y’know,” Jennie whispers, but the words are loud and clear and you know exactly who she’s talking about. “Never had, and never will.”

“You’re wrong,” you hold your hands, clasping them together to keep them from trembling, “he likes me.”

So you leave the office, determined to prove yourself. That kiss last night was nothing short of magical, and it took a lot of strength for you to not drive up to Jungkook’s apartment in the morning in the hopes for another one. You pick up a pizza near his place, filling it up with your favorite toppings on one half and his favorites on his. A bottle of peach champagne is nestled between your arms. In the bathroom while waiting for your pizza, you’ve wriggled out of your tight suit and into a blue hoodie and bicycle shorts. Tonight, you’re celebrating.

You’re vibrating as you’re knocking eagerly on his front door, excited to tell him the news. You hear a rustle from the couch, and some blankets shifting about. He must’ve passed out after going to the bar, how cute.

But when the door opens, the vision in front of you is far from cute.

A woman, with cat eyes and a slim figure, tilts her head at you. She’s dressed in a large white shirt, transparent enough to show her lacy black bra and panties. Bruises decorate her neck and thighs, like red and purple gems. Her long black hair swishes, slightly frizzy at the bottom.

“Can I help you?” her voice is sultry and velvety. “Are you looking for JK?”

It’s obvious as to what transpired. Jungkook dipped after kissing you and fucked another woman. A woman who’s the complete opposite of you. Someone flirty and sexy and willing to give Jungkook what he wants. You don’t know who you should be mad at.

“Who’s at the door?” Jungkook calls from the inside, and you nearly drop your bottle at the sound of the rasp. They must’ve had a fuckfest if they’re just waking up now.

Your cheeks are burning. Your heart is aching. And the vile that bubbled up from Jennie’s tirade is now resurfacing. From the way your eyes are watering, you must look like a crybaby.

“Say, JK,” the woman closes the frame tighter around her small head, preventing you from seeing inside and for Jungkook to peer, “do you have any pathetic ex-girlfriends?”

“No,” comes the muffled reply, “come back to bed, it’s getting cold without you,” the pizza starts to burn uncomfortably against your grip, “why the random question?”

“Dunno, seems like you’ve had at least one.”

At that moment, your savior appears in grey jeans and a beige hoodie. Jimin walks up to the floor, clutching a bag of groceries. It’s not hard to put two and two together as he spots you looking incredibly small in front of the strange woman, trying so hard not to break down.

Your tears finally fall when Jimin reaches you. “Wrong room,” you mutter under your breath, quickly following your old best friend when he shoves you in his apartment.

No words need to be explained when Jimin leaves the groceries on the coffee table and he’s pulling you onto his lap. You clutch him like a koala, rubbing mascara and blush all over his clothes as you sob. He pats your back and soothes your hiccups by offering you a glass of water. The stages of your meltdowns are pretty cut and dry, even after ten years. He still encourages you to finish the whole glass. He makes sure you have something to eat. He cuts your pizza into little bite sized pieces and feeds you. He doesn’t pressure you to talk until you’re ready, although he has a hunch as to what’s going on.

And when you talk, he doesn’t expect a firm, “Take me home,” from you.

“O-okay,” Jimin agrees immediately, pulling you into a sitting position. “Uptown, right? We can call an Uber or something and order from a restaurant.”

“No,” you reply firmly, “Home-home. I want to go back to my parent’s house.”

“That’s fine too,” he squeezes your shoulder, accepting the fob you hold out to him, “it’ll take about an hour, but I think the drive will be nice.”

So you two sneak off into the sunset, clutching twin slices of pizza as you roll away into your Tesla. Jimin is right, ten minutes into the drive and you’re soothed by his smooth driving and the scent of fried cheese and dough. Your friend has been calm all this time, so you figure this is the right time for him to pop off. Again, this is also part of your breakdown routine.

“Say, does this thing do calls?” Jimin asks, fiddling with the settings on your steering wheel, “Tesla, call Jeon Jungkook.”

“Jimin,” you say weakly, although the little malicious side of you wants to goad him on. You don’t bother to fight the best friend territorialism, you just watch as his hands clutch at the steering wheel as the speakers ring.

Jungkook picks up on the second ring, “Hey!” he says brightly, and it makes your chest pang to know how oblivious he is, “how did the presentation go?”

“Fuck you, Jungkook!” you cover your free hand on your ear at Jimin’s shrill yell, louder than the speakers that carry Jungkook’s voice. “Fuck you for breaking my best friend’s heart twice!”

The silence is deafening. It’s scary, like you could slash a butter knife right through the tension.

Jimin continues, “I can understand high school because you were a real doofus, but this! You fucking lead my best friend on, only to fuck another girl right under her nose! She came all the way to your apartment from a long-ass day at work to celebrate and you ruin that day! I thought you’ve grown for the better but turns out nothing has changed since prom night. You’re still the stupid, confused little boy that doesn’t want to admit how they really feel,” you gasp at the blow, watching Jimin’s gritted teeth as he zooms down the freeway on a mission. “Good fucking riddance, Jeon!”

Jimin punches the “hang up” button. A couple seconds of heavy breathing, and he turns to you with a gentle smile.

“So, you want to listen to Taylor Swift’s new album?”

Your room is lost in time. The Hunger Games novels are stacked on your shelf, looking old and worn. A Glee poster hangs over your four-poster bed, the yellow and red faded and the corners hanging by a thread from the old tape. The sheets are a pale pink, ruffly and definitely not in style anymore. When you sit on it, it creaks uncomfortably.

You hug yourself, tucking your knees in as Jimin marvels at the room with an equal amount of awe.

“If you could, would you go back to high school?” Jimin asks, sitting at the edge of your bed.

With a lazy shrug, you smile at your collection of polaroids that are hanging above your vanity. You’re still hurt, but the pain is no longer rolling in waves. “Maybe,” you reply, “probably would’ve taken you to Europe with me.”

He chuckles, “Is that the only thing you would change?”

“If I knew what I knew now?” you tilt your head, “I don’t know.”

Jimin gets off your bed, pressing a kiss into your forehead. “I’m gonna raid the kitchen and see if we can make something for dinner, yeah? Since your parents are on vacation and your fridge is probably empty, don’t judge me if there’s only Totino’s pizza rolls and nuggets in the freezer.”

When Jimin leaves your room, you quietly close the door and lock it. You lean against the cracked wooden door, falling onto the carpet and letting the tears fall. Is this what the rest of your life is going to be like? Evading pain and working too hard and trying everyday to stay afloat? Is adult life always going to be this difficult?

These past two weeks have been nothing short of a rollercoaster. Major highs and major lows, and after today you thought you reached the end of the ride. However, it’s looking like the ride has no destination in mind, rolling in waves and finding a new hill or loop to catch you off-guard.

“Are you kidding—how did you know we were here?” Another corkscrew.

“You’re a turtle on the road, Jimin. Now move out of the way.”

Jungkook’s voice startles you, and you tense when you see the gold door knob jiggle. Of course as strong as Jimin is, he’s no match for Jungkook. You hear Jimin grumble to curse Jungkook out, and the sound of him stomping down the stairs.

“Hey, open up. Please,” Jungkook’s voice is weak and strained, and you only hug yourself tighter as the knocks continue. “Or, don’t. It seems like you can listen to me perfectly from here. I can hear your breathing.”

You don’t say a peep, preferring to let everything fizzle out. Hopefully Jungkook will give up, say a pathetic sorry and be on his merry way. You don’t know why he’s followed you all the way over here, why would he bother coming when the damage is already done.

There’s a slide of fabric across wood, and you can feel the door shake against your back as Jungkook leans on his side out in the hallway.

“Back in high school, Jennie proposed that I date you to get back at you for stealing Jennie’s sewing sample and getting the higher grade,” you close your eyes, letting the story unravel. “She wanted to build you up before breaking you down, and back then I was vulnerable and thrived on attention, so I thought nothing of it.”

You hear a breathy exhale from his side, as if it pains him to continue, “But obviously, it wasn’t true and I only realized it until I was way too deep. I liked you, so much. Heck, I think I might’ve loved you. We were so wrapped up in this relationship I even convinced myself it was real, until Jennie said she’d crush you at prom night.

“I should’ve tried harder to convince us not to go. I should’ve told Jennie to fuck off. I should’ve come clean. I should’ve done something,” his fist bangs against your door, the vibrations of the impact thrumming in your back, “seeing you so beautiful in that dress all heartbroken because I didn’t act sooner. I’m so fucking sorry.”

Hearing him pour his heart out is like watching your memories in his shoes. The pieces find homes and paint a picture left unfinished.

“And then when you showed up at my doorstep, I was so angry. I knew you felt it. But I wasn’t upset at you, I was upset at myself. I felt so fucking guilty. I hated how easy it was for you to let me back into your life. I hated how easy it was to fall for you all over again. I knew how much I didn’t deserve your forgiveness, but you gave it to me and I was too selfish to refuse. I had so much fun, the most fun I’ve had in awhile.

“I’m sorry I kissed you. I didn’t intend for it to I just, I couldn’t help myself. And then I was so scared that I turned away and made the second biggest regret to date.

“But it proves that we’re not meant to be together. I don’t deserve you,” the last part is hushed, a nail in the coffin, “we can’t turn back the time, but if I could I would change it all. I would be by your side and make your world even better than it is right now. I’m sorry it’s too late.”

You clutch your mouth, suppressing the cries that muffle through the door. You hear Jungkook get up from your old carpet, turn the other way and head downstairs.

Your first love just closed the chapter for you. His words show how much he cared for you, but didn’t know how to express it. How immature he was, how he realized everything too late. And now, he wants to set you free. Even if it is a good thing, it still tears you to shreds.

Moving to your vanity, you pull out the chair and lean your head on the table, eyes poking through your hair. You look awful. The skin under your waterline is puffy and your eyes are red and bloodshot. Your forearms feel greasy, and you lift them up to reveal glitter painting the entirety of your skin. Your eyes dart to the open glitter, the package that Jimin gifted to you that fateful prom night. The compact is broken in half and left on the table, probably a product of your younger cousins fiddling through your old room.

Ignoring the sticky feeling, you let yourself continue to cry. You feel like you’re stuck in the bathroom of the prom venue, waiting for an opportunity to sneak out and go.

But you want nothing more than to go back to that moment. As amazing as your twenty-seven year old life is, you’re not ready for it. You don’t want a life without Jungkook, or a life having to constantly catch up and mend your relationship with Jimin. You don’t want to be the backstabbing bitch that tips off other magazines, or the two-faced woman who messes around with others for the sake of pleasure.

You long to go back. You long to live and grow. To be seventeen and have time to grow in-between.

When you lift your head from your vanity, you’re ten years younger.

You scream.

Your parents dash to your room with a kitchen knife and a confused face. With a wary smile and a teary gaze you say that it’s only a pimple. Your mother giggles and drops the knife, hugging you and helping you conceal the invisible mark. The hug is so warm and so missed that you nearly sigh in content. You’ve missed them.

It’s a little strange to think well beyond your years, your brain still reeling from the trip you’ve just had. Your hands smooth over your body, the previous curves and maturity hidden away in your skin. That’s okay, you don’t mind waiting anymore. There’s much more important things at hand.

If Jungkook isn’t going to realize his mistakes until it’s too late, you have to speed up the process.

Stealing your parent’s keys and hopping in your Accord, you drive off to Jungkook’s. Hair and makeup not done, and still in your plain shirt and jeans. An hour from now, Jungkook will text you saying his car is down and he’ll meet you at the venue.

It’s still rush hour, so he doesn’t notice when you park a few houses down. He’s sitting on his front porch, looking out the road. There’s really nothing in front of him, he’s just staring aimlessly, probably nervous about what’s about to go down tonight. You suppress a sigh, engraving the vision to memory. He looks great in his fitted black suit and tie, a little silver pocket square on the breast to match your dress.

He gets up quickly when he sees you, as if caught in the act. Staring at your plain clothes he asks, “Bun, why aren’t you dressed? Prom’s soon—”

“Jungkook, I want to break up.”

You see it in his eyes. Vulnerability. No longer do you feel insecure, the future told you that Jungkook genuinely did care for you back then. Or in this case, right now. His usual cheery expression crumples at your feet, and his hands fall at his sides. It feels a little unfair, knowing that you have experience under your belt, and Jungkook’s experiencing these feelings for the first time, unprepared.

“What?” he wilts, “why?”

“I know about Jennie’s plan,” you say instantly, unfazed. You give him a tight-lipped smile when realization hits his face. “So I know this whole relationship is orchestrated. The sewing sample fiasco is wrong, obviously. But I’m not going to get mad at you, I know she played you as much as she played me,” you clasp the straps of your purse, stopping you from fidgeting, “we graduate in a few months anyway. We don’t have to see or talk about this ever again. You should go enjoy your prom night with your other friends.”

The present-day Jungkook is still young and confused. He’s at a loss, looking like he’s on sensory overload as he absorbs all the information. You see his eyes flicker to where your Accord is parked, your prom dress hanging on one of the arm pulls. You never even pulled it out of the bag.

“Here,” you pull his corsage from your purse, placing the white rose atop the porch. If you try to put it on him, you fear you may never leave. With a determined huff, you turn around in the direction of your car.

“Where are you going?” he asks, clutching the railing of his porch, “what about prom?”

“I have other plans,” you shrug over your shoulder, “have a good night.”

You don’t look back, although you feel Jungkook’s stare burning in your head. You take great care in going into drive and punching in a new destination in your clunky GPS. This time you have to do things one at a time, once you get your Tesla ten years from now, you’re sure this process will be much easier.

Jimin’s family comes out of the airport, looking impeccable as always. Ten years younger, with puffy cherub cheeks and bright eyes. To your surprise (but also all things considered, it’s Jimin), your best friend comes out in a three-piece suit. It’s burgundy, and suits his dark hair well. He places his luggage into your car, hugs his family good-bye and waits for them to depart in their cab.

“You are all dressed up, and for what,” you chuckle, driving out of the airport.

“Well, when you sent that voicemail that you’d be waiting for me, I changed in the bathroom,” Jimin quips, already fiddling with your radio to play some poppy overplayed music, “but why aren’t you dressed? I thought we were going to be fashionably late to prom. Spill.”

“Hm, let’s talk about it in the morning. I wanna enjoy my prom night,” and you reach over to ruffle Jimin’s soft black strands, “y’know, you’d look really sexy as a blond.”

He pulls down your mirror, positioning it over his face. Pursing his plush lips, he tilts his head. “Yeah, maybe when I’m older,” he grins at his reflection, “so if we’re not going to prom, let’s go get pizza.”

So the two of you get pizza. But not before you take your prom pictures. Your parents meet you at the park with their old digital camera, ready for your impromptu photoshoot. Jimin uses an old tarp to cover the car up while you change in the car, shimmying in your sparkly silver tulle dress. Your hair is held up and away from your face, looking clean enough to be presentable as you pose for the camera. The two of you pick yellow dandelions from the grass, matching flowers as last minute dates. Your parents coo and are happy for you, knowing that even if you don’t attend the actual dance, the pictures will last forever and you’ll smile at them for years.

Eventually you tell Jimin about Jungkook and the whole fiasco (sans the ten year mental time jump.) The reaction is expected, Jimin says he wants to fuck Jungkook up. Surprisingly for him, he doesn’t have to do much to console you. In fact, you sip coolly from your smoothie and say Jungkook will probably let Jimin get a punch in even though Jungkook can bench press his tiny body in half. But you tell him you’re okay, and all you want to do is go home and binge watch.

Jimin carries the pie in his lap while you pull up your driveway. The smell of toasty cheese and fresh dough fill your car.

“I want to watch Sky City,” Jimin sing-songs, “Kim Seokjin is God’s gift!”

You crinkle your nose, “He’s alright.”

“What! You thought he was so hot like, last week.”

“Things change.”

Jimin makes it to your room first, saying he’ll take care of setting things up. He’ll probably steal all the available cushions and make a fort for himself while he puts a picnic blanket on the floor in front of your television. You can imagine him hogging all your stuffed animals, placing it on his side of the carpet while he rifles through your drawers so he can change out of his suit.

Your parents tell you to take out the trash before you have fun tonight. Careful not to get your dress dirty, you hold it away from your body as you waddle out the front door. You make it two steps into the driveway before the soggy trash bag is whisked from your hands.

“I got it,” Jungkook says quietly, and it takes little to no effort for him to haul the large bag into the waiting trash can. His shoulders are slumped under his white button-up, his suit jacket probably stuffed somewhere in the back of the car.

“Jungkook,” you reply, dumbfounded, “it’s only eight, prom isn’t even over yet.”

“I know… but then I realized you weren’t gonna get your money’s worth if you didn’t go. I asked the waitress if she could get me a doggie bag for my date and,” he holds up a stapled bag, presumably the dinner that was supposed to be served, “it’s your favorite.”

“Thank you,” you give him a small, grateful smile as you accept the bag. “But that doesn’t explain why you’re here.”

He bites his lip, stuffing his hands in his dress pockets. “A-and you told me before you left that I should go spend prom night with my friends,” he ruffles his hair, blown out of the pomade and falling into his eyes, “and then I realized that you were right. Jennie and all those people out there aren’t really my friends. They like my rep and they like my attention, but they don’t like me.”

You shake your head, “Jungkook, you’re very likable. Jennie and her group are just one bad bunch.”

“But I don’t wanna be liked by my rep. I wanna be liked for the things I love,” he steps a hesitant step towards you, and he relaxes when he sees that you don’t recoil, “I haven’t told anyone this. But I want to drop that sports scholarship. I applied to an art school, and I got in.”

Suppressing a grin with a bite of your lips, you cheer silently in your head. Things are changing. “I’m so happy for you, Jungkook. Congrats.”

“And I’m sorry for all the fucked up things I did. Jennie may have manipulated me but I definitely was a big part of it,” Jungkook pulls the words out of the sky, finally having enough time to formulate an apology, “but please don’t doubt for a second that my feelings are fake. I really like you, and I wish we got to know each other under better circumstances.”

“I wish we could’ve,” you echo sadly. “But our futures—”

“I don’t want to lose you.”

“I liked you, so much. Heck, I think I might’ve loved you.”

You shake your head, frowning at his kicked puppy expression. “I’m considering a fashion school in Europe,” you reach for Jungkook’s hand, squeezing it. Letting him know that everything’s going to be okay. “You and Jimin can visit me during the breaks, Europe has some great spots to photograph.”

Something in Jungkook’s gaze tells you that it’s not enough for him. He wants to be selfish and hold onto you tighter, but you know that’s not good for the both of you right now. “That’d be nice,” he says vaguely, giving you a pained smile.

Jungkook rubs his thumb over your hand, relishing in the softness of your skin. “You look really pretty,” he says, looking forlornly over the dress. He can only imagine how ethereal you’d look under the fairy lights that decorated the venue, “I wish we could’ve had one dance.”

You shrug, “The night’s still young,” you gesture to the space in the driveway, and the lights that overhead the garage.

The slow Taylor Swift music that plays from his pocket is muffled, but it doesn’t deter either of you as he places his hands on your waist and you wrap his around his neck. You’re wearing your bunny house slippers and Jungkook’s neck is moist from his nervous sweats, but you know that this memory will be engraved in your brain for years to come.

It feels good to know that from now on, you don’t have to be so concerned about the future now that you’ve had a taste of it. All you want now is to take it one day at a time. At this moment the, the only thing you want to do is focus on how you’re going to hold onto Jungkook for the last time. At least for now, who knows what will happen in the future.

“I really want to kiss you, Bun,” he leans in, foreheads touching, “but I don’t deserve it.”

“You’re right,” you tease, “you don’t.”

He frowns playfully, “Ouch. But fair.”

Yet you figure you’ve made enough headway these past few weeks, and you deserve to be a little selfish. One last kiss, you think to yourself. Your fingers flatten against the pressed material of his collar, meeting in the middle to clutch Jungkook’s slim black tie. Jungkook bites his lip, looking down at you for permission. With the tiniest of nods, you get on your tippy toe toes you lean forward and you can smell the apple cider lingering on his lips—

“Ohmygod—are you broken up or not!” both of you whip your heads up to see Jimin hanging over your open window, looking absolutely bored. His arms dangle over your sill, wearing a frayed high school jumper. “Either tell him to get lost or invite him over to watch television because I’m hungry!”

You pull away from him fully, squeezing his biceps. “Want pizza?”

He shakes his head, “I think it’s a trap. Jimin’s waiting for me to come up so he can rip my head off,” he gives a tentative wave to the second floor, but Jimin just scoffs and goes back inside, “but I’ll see you Monday.”

“Okay. Good night, Kook.”

“Good night, Bun.”

Your heart pinches a little as you watch him drive away. Before, you knew what the end game was between you two. It didn’t end pretty. Now, you’re not so sure. At the very least, it isn’t ending on a sour note.

Some time later.

“Your majesty,” you give her a practiced smile, taking careful measures not to brush the lady’s shoulders too hard in the fear she’ll whittle away, “emerald is an impeccable color on you.”

The Queen of England (the McDuckin' Queen of England!) just laughs at you and waves you off. You can’t believe you’re photographing a real queen. This is like the childhood equivalent of meeting Malibu Barbie. You thank every single choice and mistake you’ve made in your entire life that has brought you up to this impeccable moment. She’s a vision, you could cry. In fact, you’ll cry later in the comfort of your hotel room. “Do you think the photographer will take long?” she asks, frowning, “I have drinks with my friends in an hour.”

You smirk, pleased to know she’s still kicking it in her golden years. “Yeah, just so long as my husband doesn’t get distracted. Fifteen minutes, tops.”

“I’m not distracted,” Jungkook huffs, pulling away from his tripod. He gives up on trying to stabilize the camera, instead preferring to go freehand for this one. He gives you an incredulous look, hands on his hips, “I have two queens in my viewfinder and I only got room for one. Get out of the shot, Bun.”

With a playful roll of your eyes, you step away from the lady of the hour to let Jungkook do his thing. He’s right in his element, blurting choreographed poses and telling the lighting people to move at his beck and call to get the perfect angle. You stand a distance behind him, letting him take control.

“I’m so hungry,” your whisper is low enough to blend between the jazz music, but loud enough for Jungkook’s ears to listen in, “please tell me you’re almost done.”

“Oui, oui.”

“Wrong language, Kook. Please don’t offend anyone,” and discreetly, you take one step closer in your Tory Burch flats, “did you get any candids of me and the Queen?”

“Duh, Bun,” you can’t see his face but you know he’s grinning, “Jimin will faint.”

"Oh, yes! Thank you, I love you," you gush, reaching over to discreetly pinch his butt.

He shakes his head, looking over his shoulder to give you a brief smirk, "Show me how thankful you are tonight."

So silly, you think. It's amazing how well you work together as two separate entities of a photoshoot yet share a brain cell in the presence of each other. In another world, Jungkook said if given the chance, he'd be by your side and make your world a better place.

Ten years later, it's exactly that and more.

#jungkook x reader #btswritingcafe #btsghostie #kwritersworldnet #jungkook fic #bts fic #bts fluff #bts angst

3K notes · View notes