#extravagant wallpaper

[sassafras-manson]

Dining Room in New York Inspiration for a large timeless enclosed dining room remodel with a standard fireplace and a wood fireplace surround

[jrueships]

the kitty stretch continues with stef !!

more kitties under the cut cus i liked them lol

i think this one is dead

[rpfisfine]

currently grinding to get the messi jersey for pou so that fen will marry me

[chateaaa]

☆ What dating the blue lock characters feels like

Dating Rin Itoshi includes watching horror movies at 3 am, cuddling together when it's raining, sharing headphones in the bus, having a picture of you in his wallet, giving you his sweater when you're cold, literally keeps anything you give him, cooking for you when your tired, takes candid pictures of you, glares at the boys who is too close when you talk, just because flowers

Dating Reo Mikage includes going on fancy restaurant dates, him paying everything, a poloroid picture of you on the back of his phone, showing you off to his parents, opening the door for you, always giving you flowers, always buying you extravagant gifts, beach dates, buying you a big teddy bear on your birthday, giving you a promise ring

Dating Isagi Yoichi includes holding hands after school, always blushing when you make eye contact, matching keychain in school bag, keeping a picture of you in the back of his school id, going on photobooth dates, giving you tulips and chocolates during valentines day, slow dancing, cuddling together and then oversleeping

Dating Michael Kaiser includes you being his wallpaper, always wearing a necklace with your initials, carrying you like it's nothing, kissing you on top of a counter, hugging you from behind, leaving bite marks on your neck, giving you blue roses, lets you wear anything you want and will literally fight the boys who talks to you, kissing your hands, holding your thighs when driving

Dating Chigiri Hyoma includes helping you in skin care, talking about gossips, watching fashion shows together, you helping him take care of his injured leg, your username being his bio in twitter and instagram, only letting you touch his hair, buys your favorite drink after a long day, library dates, helping you build your outfits, complimenting you in literally everything you wear

Dating Kunigami Rensuke includes hugging you from behind, calling you my love, being passionate about things you like, going on museum dates, having pads and chocolate on hand when you have your period, having a period tracking app to know when you have your period, always carrying an extra ponytail incase you need it, baking desserts

Dating Nagi Seishiro includes calling on discord, matching profile pictures on games, movie dates at home, kisses on the neck, carrying you effortlessly, kissing you to shut you up during an argument, watching anime series together, building a blanket fortress, matching spiderman bracelets, building legos together, arcade dates

Dating Bachira Meguru includes sending memes, sending tiktok videos, doing tiktok dances, going on painting dates, matching frog rings, drawing the both of you and making it his wallpaper, always listening when your ranting about your day, would wear those tshirts that goes like "my girlfriend is better than you", always sharing your food and drink with him :3

Dating Kurona Ranze includes aquarium dates!!, taking care of a shark plushie and calling them our child, letting you style his hair in different hairstyles, making a playlist for you, going to the park at 3 am and pushing you in the swing, fast responses, pecking your lips, saying sorry FIRST during an argument (even if it was your fault)

changed my layout (?) idk it feels kinda plain, anw hope you all like it!!!

i might make part 2 lol

[taexual]

sleepwalking ● 20 | jjk

pairing: jungkook x fem!reader

summary: due to unfortunate circumstances, you ended up managing your ex-boyfriend’s band. you thought you’ve both made peace with it, but suddenly he’s very eager to prove to you that first love never dies.

genre: rockstar!jungkook / exes to lovers

warnings: explicit language, suggestive themes, mentions of drugs, fluff, some angst, SLOW BURN

words: 17.9k

read from the beginning ○ masterlist

chapter 20 ► so if your wings won't find you heaven, i will bring it down like an ancient bygone

The next morning arrived very quickly and not even five hours after your nightly rendezvous in the garden, you saw Jungkook again in the corridor of the hotel.

“Your room is right next to mine,” you observed with a certain surprised amusement. “Yet you thought it would be wiser to go out, find some rocks, and toss those at my window?”

Jungkook glanced at the door of his room as if he hadn’t noticed it before.

“Much more private that way,” he said with a shrug—but a mischievous grin betrayed his attempt at nonchalance. “No one suspected a thing.”

“If someone had seen you doing that, they would have probably suspected a lot more,” you said. “Compared to you just knocking on my door like a normal person.”

“I’m a romantic,” he declared, clutching his chest to emphasise his dedication to his actions, which he preferred to regard as whimsical and sweet, rather than unusual and unnecessary. “I prefer my way.”

You looked away and he wondered if he’d taken it too far. But he relaxed when he saw the corners of your lips curve into an already familiar smile as your gaze wandered from the carpeted floors to the fraying edges of the wallpaper near the entrance to the staircase.

His predilection for extravagant gestures and dramatic moves rather than simple, everyday things had been a consistent part of his personality for as long as you’ve known him. And however much you teased him about it, you still found it endearing.

Although to be fair, you found the wildflowers that he’d brought you endearing, too. Pictures that he sent you, captioned ‘us.’ The look in his eyes when he teased you about something. The way he held your hand so absentmindedly sometimes, almost forgetting about it as though your hand was a part of him.

“Should we go, then?” you asked, a little breathless. The old hotel didn’t have an elevator, and you gestured at the staircase. “Unless, of course, you’d prefer to climb into the restaurant through the window.”

Jungkook took the teasing in stride, maintaining a dignified grin. “Stairs will work, I’m sure.”

“Well, if you’re sure.”

He followed you, beaming as if he were a ten-year-old who had just held hands with a pretty girl for the first time during fifth-grade recess. He didn’t know how to contain everything he was feeling. He might have actually stopped, dropped, and rolled down the stairs like an exhilarated sack of potatoes if he’d known you were feeling the same.

“So,” you said, keeping your eyes on your feet as the two of you climbed down the narrow, creaking staircase. There were small, foggy windows scattered here and there, filtering beams of tired sunlight. “Escape from New York.”

It took Jungkook a few seconds to recognise that this was the film you’d talked about last night. His mind seemed to consider this information secondary—overshadowed, understandably, by his grandmother’s voice after she called him and the lingering memory of the scent of your hair.

“Yeah,” he said, stopping in front of the arch that led from the stairwell into the lobby. “I’m thinking the odds of catching it in cinemas are very slim, right?”

“They are,” you confirmed, stopping, too. “But it’s on Amazon like I suspected. We could watch it tomorrow if you’d like?”

A childlike excitement ignited in his eyes, but a sudden memory dimmed them.

He recalled you telling him that you had plans with Luna and Maggie tonight, and before that—his hands trembled a little at this particular memory—he recalled you saying that you had set an alarm to call your mum.

He was anxious, he realised, on your behalf.

“Tomorrow, uh—” he stammered, lost in the shadows on the staircase behind you as the two of you lingered by the archway. “T-that sounds good.”

You smiled and nodded—that was essentially all you did, but he felt the change. He felt how close you were, he felt your relaxed posture, your easy smile, your calm, confident eyes.

His gaze met yours for no more than a fleeting moment, but he felt the uncertainty in his chest lift, almost inexplicably so. Likely because, despite everything, you were here and nothing else really mattered. You’d be okay.

“You’re going out tonight, right?” he asked and you nodded. He tsk tsk-ed in response, feigning disapproval. “It's a school night. How very irresponsible.”

Your smile grew wider; he noticed it out of the corner of his eye. Something creaked with excitement on the stairs and inside his chest.

“You guys have a day off tomorrow, so I don’t have to babysit,” you bit. “The girls and I had actually been planning this since before we even arrived in Europe.”

“Okay, fair enough,” he said. “How’d you find a bar that’s open long enough on a Wednesday, though?”

“Maggie said she found a cool spot that’s not really a nightclub and not really a bar,” you explained, shrugging. “I’m not sure. We’ll give it a try.”

“Alright. That sounds cool. Let’s do our thing tomorrow,” he said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Is it, uh, a girls’ night, then?”

You began to walk, crossing the threshold but slowing down so he could catch up.

“Well, yeah,” you said. “Because if I invite you, then Taehyung will insist on joining, and Luna will inevitably invite him. And then you and I will end up third-wheeling those two all night, while also comforting Maggie. She’ll have one tequila shot and spend the whole night near tears because she misses Rue.”

Jungkook decided not to admit how pleased he was that in a hypothetical scenario where Luna would bring her boyfriend and Maggie would cry about her girlfriend, he was your equivalent partner. Of course, he would have made sure to keep you company so that you wouldn’t feel like anyone’s third-wheel or shoulder to cry on, but he understood the essence of your point.

“That’s alright. I’ll keep myself busy,” he said, a bit concerned about the colour of his face. He reached up, feeling his cheeks with the back of his hand. “I, uh—I hope you guys have fun. Call me if you get into trouble.”

You raised your eyebrows, recognising his way of turning your words against you.

“As if,” you retorted. “I know how to drink responsibly.”

He could remember times when the two of you were so drunk that the sense of responsibility resembled a dystopian concept rather than something people realistically possessed, but he enjoyed the smile on your face too much to bring it up. Even more than that, however, he enjoyed the fact that your smile did not falter, and you did not pull away to a more respectable distance when you entered the restaurant and reached the buffet table with dozens of other people around.

Things were good. They felt good.

You stayed at the buffet table to talk to Namjoon, and Jungkook went to find an empty table at the restaurant. But even as he walked away from you, he still couldn’t do anything about the tint on his cheeks.

He knew he was grinning like a proper maniac as he poured milk into his cereal. But then he met your eyes, and you were smiling at him from across the room, and your face looked radiant and glowing, and he was so in love with you that he didn’t care about his excitement coming off as threatening.

Just then, Minjun approached him with a concerned expression.

“Hey,” he said, sitting across from him at the empty table. “You look stupid. Did you put too much sugar in your cereal again?”

Jungkook snorted and let the spoon clatter into the bowl. “No. Just feeling good, I guess.”

“Huh.” Minjun looked over his shoulder and caught your gaze. He turned back to his friend with a knowing grin. “And, uh… your constant glances in your manager’s direction have something to do with that, I assume?”

“We’re going to watch a film tomorrow. It’s something my grandma suggested,” Jungkook announced with a grandeur that rivalled a lottery winner flaunting their newfound wealth.

It took Minjun a moment to process the whirlwind of changes in Jungkook’s life overnight. The last time he had seen him in Glasgow, Jungkook was, to put it kindly, a wreck. Now, his grandmother was calling him, and he was making plans to watch films with you.

“I’m—” Minjun stopped. He wanted to ask questions, but he did not know what to do with the expression on his face. “I feel like I’ve missed a few episodes of this TV show, but I’m very excited for you.”

Jungkook nodded eagerly—and then hesitated, his smile fading momentarily.

“It’s good, right?” he asked. “That we’re spending time together again.”

Minjun didn’t consider himself an expert in the field of relationships, even though he had some experience. However, when it came to this particular relationship, he didn’t even consider himself an amateur. You and Jungkook operated so utterly enigmatically that he wouldn’t even know where to begin guessing what the correct answer here was.

“Of course,” he affirmed nonetheless. “So, you’re… what? Friends, then?”

“Mhmm,” Jungkook replied with a mouthful of cereal.

“And, uh,” Minjun tapped his index finger on the dent in the lacquered table, “why is that?”

Jungkook swallowed first. “What do you mean wh—”

He noticed Minjun’s deadpan expression. Friendship was not the destination that his friend had imagined for the two of you.

“Fine,” he said, wiping his palms on his pants. “Well, first of all, it’s better than nothing. And—”

“Wait,” Minjun interrupted. “Why is ‘nothing’ the alternative to friendship?”

Jungkook clicked his tongue. “Because we’re complicated people with complicated problems.”

He almost expected Minjun to laugh at the oversimplified response, but his friend remained serious—he may not have known a lot, but he knew that there was a long story hidden behind these short words.

“Okay,” he said.

“Yeah. And second of all,” Jungkook continued, and Minjun wondered if he realised how much he resembled you in the way he spoke sometimes, “if we’re friends, then we can still work together, even if we don’t actually get back together. It’s just safe for us.”

“Ah.” Minjun nodded, recognising the subtle ways in which Jungkook was making this comfortable for you. “That’s the main thing, isn’t it?”

“It’s—well, I don’t know if that’s the main thing,” Jungkook said. For him, the main thing was you staying with Rated Riot. Everything else was an additional thing. “But it’s a—it’s a thing.”

“Hmm. The two of you are a far cry from friends, though,” Minjun remarked. Naturally, Jungkook was about to object, but his friend raised a hand, stopping him. “But I’m glad you two kids are working it out. That’s all I wanted to say.”

Jungkook released his breath and nodded instead of speaking.

He decided this was enough. He didn’t need anything else—neither a pat on the back nor an empty reassurance—to confirm that things were going well.

You had practically built a castle over the ruins in his chest overnight—things were going well.

After breakfast, Namjoon needed your help with the scheduling of recording rooms for the upcoming tour dates. The boys usually used the equipment they’d brought with them, but Yoongi had barricaded himself in his room—Jimin knocked on his door for fifteen minutes to drop off a croissant—so Namjoon, Hoseok, and you decided to book a studio to lure him out.

The scheduling took a while, because London and Paris, for no reason whatsoever, emerged as the two centres of musical innovation this month. Every studio in the vicinity of your accommodation had already been booked, so you were locked in your hotel room until late afternoon.

When you finally found several available spots, Luna and Maggie had already banished Taehyung from his and Luna’s suite—they had the largest one here—and you joined the girls in the bathroom to get ready for the night.

However, even though you joked and chatted with them, you couldn’t stop yourself from mentally counting down the minutes until your phone alarm rang. You’d set it for eight, hoping this would be a convenient time for your mum. You knew she wasn’t working today.

And, shortly after the three of you got ready—six minutes to eight—you left the girls to pre-game in Luna’s bathroom, and went back to your own dark room.

You felt very silly just sitting and staring at your screen, waiting. You could have called your mum early; you were ready for it anyway. But your hands were shaking, and you decided to wait.

You had already dressed and prepared for the rest of the night, but now, as you stared at your phone—two more minutes—you wondered if that had been a mistake. What if you cried? What if you didn’t even want to go anywhere anymore?

Two minutes, as it turned out, had a habit of passing slowly when you wanted them to pass, and passing very quickly when you wanted to prolong them. You pressed the line labelled ‘MUM’ on your phone and held your breath.

You were sitting on the floor—not because you wanted to fully embrace the dramatics of the situation or because the bed wasn’t good enough, but because your phone was charging next to the door, and you couldn’t reach the charger from the bed.

You had kept the light off, so the room was completely dark—now that was because you wanted to embrace the dramatics of the situation—and you hugged your knees to your chest, seemingly sinking deeper into the shadows.

Your mum picked up after the third ring. “Hello?”

“Hi, mum,” you said, and your voice shook despite your best attempts to control it.

“Hi, sweetheart,” she said. She sounded a little disoriented and confused. “Did something happen? Is everything okay?”

You moved your phone away from your head and wiped your cheek on the sleeve of your dark denim jacket. You felt nervous and fidgety.

“It’s—no, everything’s fine,” you replied. “Are you busy? H-how’s Kai?”

“I was just reading. And he’s playing with his friends, love,” your mum said softly—she always spoke as if she was in a crowded room, mindful of disturbing others. “Did you want to talk to him?”

“Oh. No—no, it’s okay,” you said, nibbling on your lower lip. “You, uh, changed your mind about grounding him?”

“Well, he’s awfully lonely,” she said almost apologetically. You figured she wouldn’t stay angry with him for long, especially if he complained about his broken leg—which you suspected he did. “He can’t walk much and he’s miserable.”

“Mhmm. Right.” You scratched under your chin. “I’ll, uh—I’ll check on him later.”

“Okay,” she said, hesitating for a moment. “How—well, how are you? Did something happen?”

The repeated question in place of small talk stung a little, but you knew you’d brought it on yourself. Jungkook had told you that she’d already tried to call you when you were sick in Manchester. And it was natural for her to assume something had happened when you called her yourself in any case. For a while now, you’d both had a tacit understanding: she’d text you if she wanted to know how you were, and only call if there was an emergency—such as your brother breaking his leg. But if you really needed her, you would be the one to call.

“No. No, I just—I wanted to talk to you,” you said. “I don’t, um—I don’t really know what to do, so I wanted to… talk to you and maybe that will be helpful. I don’t know, I’m—”

“Sweetheart, what’s going on?” Concern deepened her gentle voice. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m—no, I’m not hurt,” you said. You thought you knew what you had to talk about. But apparently, you hadn’t realised you’d have to articulate your thoughts to have this conversation. “It’s just… I wanted to ask about you and Dad.”

Your heartbeat echoed in your ears while your mum stayed silent on the other end.

“Oh,” she said after a minute. You heard shuffling in the background. You pictured her sitting up, putting her book on the coffee table in her living room, and pulling off the duvet. You pictured her reaching for the floor lamp next to the armchair and switching it on, wondering, all the while, what had happened. “What brought this on?”

You heard a cheerful cry from outside your room and glanced at the window. The stars behind it were obscured by dark clouds. You wondered how long it would take to recap the entirety of this past month for your mum.

“Jungkook and I were talking,” you started. You heard her hold her breath as you went on. “And I just—h-he made me realise that you and I have never really talked about this much.”

Her voice sounded distant. “Well, what is there to talk about?”

Your exhale turned into a half-choked scoff.

“A lot of things, mum,” you said.

She breathed out, then in, then out again in an uncomfortable attempt to keep her composure.

“Wh-what do you want me to say?” she asked.

“Well…” You tugged at the fabric of your black tights. “What was going through your mind when you decided to get back together with Dad?” You paused, sensing the implication in your question. “I’m—I don’t mean to insult you. I’m just—I want to understand your thought process. There seemed to be, um—so much at stake.”

“There was,” she replied with the precision of a teacher confirming that two times two was indeed four. “I had you and your brother. And I still went for it.”

An oppressive silence engulfed your dark room as your mother’s uncertainty made yours grow.

Often, when a marriage started to fall apart, the advice from well-meaning relatives—who, of course, knew more about the relationship than the people in it—revolved around the children. To you, the notion of “staying together for the kids” felt about as profound as a bumblebee repeatedly hitting the glass of a window. And the relationship that your parents had was so bad, so beyond any fixing, that no one even suggested they stayed together in the first place, not even for the children—actually, especially not for the children.

But because your mother had never received this advice—this cursed “do it for the kids”—she did not know how to explain herself to you right now.

“W-were you scared?” you forced yourself to ask.

“Every time,” your mum admitted. You felt a new, powerful surge of despair for this every time and all the years of repeated mistakes that it signified. “But I was still hopeful.”

“But you knew he didn’t change,” you said. “You knew he wouldn’t be a father, wouldn’t be your husband.”

“No,” she said. “I don’t think that’s something you know in the moment.”

You couldn’t tell whether she had convinced herself of this later—as a defence against all the relatives who shook their heads at her—or if this was something she believed from the very beginning.

“Mum, that’s—I don’t think I can ever understand that,” you said, your words pouring out in an uncontrollable torrent of agitation. “Not after what I saw you go through. It—I admire the love that you have. But I just—I can’t help but think it had always been obvious that you and Dad would never work.”

She was silent for another minute, and you were worried that you had really upset her. Then, finally, she spoke again—her voice gentle, warm. “You told me that much.”

“I’m—I did?”

“You were very smart, growing up,” she said. “Well, you still are.”

You felt an unwelcome lump in your throat and a tightness behind your eyes.

“I’m sorry,” you said. “I probably hurt you.”

“You didn’t, sweetheart,” she said, because she always did. “I know it seems—well, difficult to understand. But I really wanted this to work. I wanted to give it a chance. But at a certain point, you finally realise that this is it. It’s enough. That’s when trying becomes pointless—when you can see that it won’t work. But you can’t reach that point if you don’t even try.”

But how many times, you wanted to ask, to yell, how many times did you have to try to reach that point?

“To be honest with you, my thought process was very… well, foolish, perhaps,” she continued. “Looking back, I realise that my judgement was clouded by many of the good moments we shared—because, believe it or not, it wasn’t always bad for us. We were together for… well, for many years. We had some good times.”

Once again, you felt a little disheartened that she avoided mentioning a specific date. You wondered what number of years she would have given—you knew your parents had already been on and off even before they got married.

“So, he wasn’t always like this?” you questioned. “Cold, detached, dismissive? Not worthy of you?”

Your mum seemed a little taken aback by the exhibition of adjectives—none of which came close to the words you wanted to use to describe the man who was theoretically supposed to be your father, and the words your mother had actually used to describe him herself—but she only allowed herself half of a surprised gasp before she pulled herself together.

“He was a lot more than that,” she said. “Both, in a good way and a bad way. And I wanted to try. Our circumstances had changed, we were in different stages of our lives. We’ve both grown. Clouded judgment or not, I thought that, even if he couldn’t be the person I fell in love with, maybe he could still be the person I could love right now.”

“You thought he’d changed,” you concluded. “Grown for you.”

“I did think that,” she agreed. “I believe that people can change—and they do, really. People can absolutely transform. But your father, he—well, he hadn’t. But I wouldn’t have known that for sure if I hadn’t tried.”

You shook your head. “But had he ever—you—never mind. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable with my—”

“No, you’re—you have every right to ask me these things,” she cut in. “I understand your—frustration. But I really wanted this, and I-I felt like I owed it to myself to try everything. Just so I would know that I’ve tried everything. And even though it didn’t work out, I learned more—so much more—about love, about people, and about myself. So, I don’t regret trying.”

You needed a minute to grasp that she really did not sound regretful. But you could not understand that.

You and your brother ended up in the crossfire of it all, and she was the one who put you there, repeatedly. And then she waited for over a decade for you to find the courage to ask her about this because she never volunteered this information herself.

Was there really nothing to regret about this?

“I’m... I’m still learning,” your mum continued after a while. “Because there are some things that we can learn only by experiencing them, and I—well, I want those experiences. I don’t want to look back on my life and wonder what it would have been like if I had tried something that I really wanted, but it really scared me. ‘What if I didn’t run from it, even though running away was safer?’ That was what I thought.”

She had to be brave, you thought, to try and to stop trying. And you knew that she really was. But more than that, she had to stay true to herself as an individual. She had to follow her dreams, her hopes, her wishes. And she did.

Yet, for some reason, you couldn’t find your words.

“I think that,” she said after not hearing your response, “aside from all the other things we do for love, we sometimes need to go through these unsuccessful experiences to truly understand our boundaries and get to know ourselves. And to find peace, really, knowing that we’ve done all that our hearts wanted. At least, that’s how it worked for me. Your dad might have had other motives. I don’t think I will ever truly understand them, but his motives are his own. These are mine. So—well, that was my thought process. I think that’s all I can say.”

“Hmm,” you finally said—just to signal that you've heard her, and now you needed a minute.

She’d told you everything, then.

She was listening to her heart when she got back together with your dad. And listening to one’s heart was not an easy thing to do, you’ve come to know that very well.

But now you wondered if you were okay with her explanation. If you were okay knowing that she did that because she wanted to. If you were okay with her erasing everyone else from the equation and just focusing on herself.

Lately, you’ve come to believe that people were made up of various roles, some of which were put on their gravestones after their death: daughter, sister, wife, mother. They could be more than that, so much more. But they couldn’t suddenly be less.

You thought your mother might have actually been trying to be less.

She was trying, it seemed, to be on her own, void of any roles that framed her into a certain behavioural pattern—the sister, the friend, the wife, the mother—because this way, she could get back together with your dad because she owed it to herself. Because she wanted to try.

It was important to listen to yourself, of course. But her relationship with your dad affected her in every role she had, every role she tried to escape from. It hurt her. And because it hurt her, it hurt those around her, too: her children, her brother, her friends.

And still, she did it again. And again. And again.

No, you didn’t think it was possible to escape all of your roles like that. You didn’t think a person could wake up and, without any repercussions whatsoever, suddenly decide to be an individual, but not a parent. A partner, but not a sibling.

A manager, but not an ex-girlfriend.

A shuddered breath passed your lips, and you closed your eyes. You heard your mum’s even breaths on the other end.

If you weren’t so overwhelmed, you might have admitted to your mum that you understood certain parts of her explanation, but not others.

You understood why she did all the things you’d criticised for years. She did them because she knew that was what she wanted. That was what she believed and hoped for. And precisely because she did what she wanted, she did not regret trying again even though it didn’t work out. She’d listened to her heart, and her heart was now at peace.

And, yet—you were there. Despite her pride about having followed her heart, you were there.

You were the one helping her pick up the pieces for years after your dad left. You were there when she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t get up from the floor, couldn’t stop herself from crying.

You were happy that she was at peace now, happy that she did not regret it. But you did. You regretted it for her. You didn’t think you’d ever feel her peace.

That was what you didn’t understand: how she’d erased those nights, those years when you thought you went through everything she went through right with her. You didn’t understand how she didn’t regret any of it.

You could have asked her about it, but she would have probably repeated all that she’d already said. And maybe you’d never understand her because you weren’t her—you were her daughter, and you could never escape this role. You loved her and you could not feel peace for the suffering she had to endure. The suffering you tried to take away, but couldn’t.

Perhaps you were being unfair to her. But you could only judge her experiences through the lens of your own.

She made a mistake—the same one, several times. She tried to explain it to you, even tried to justify it, but ultimately, that was the way you understood it, and you could not make yourself understand it differently.

However—and it took you great effort to admit this to yourself—just because trying again was a mistake in your mother’s case, that did not necessarily mean it would be a mistake in yours, too. There was a bright side to your lack of understanding.

It certainly seemed that your mum would continue to believe her truth, and you would continue to believe yours, but now you identified a core difference between yourself and her: you could never listen to just your own heart; you had to take another heart into account.

Your heart was frightened. It did not know what to do. But you weren’t just his manager. You loved him. And you knew he loved you. You could not let your fear win.

You weren’t your mum, and you weren’t your dad. And Jungkook wasn’t one or the other, either.

You wondered if this precise moment—this clear distinction—would finally allow you to separate your experiences from your parents’.

“Sweetheart,” your mum said quietly. Your phone felt hot due to the duration of your conversation. “Did something happen that made you want to talk to me about this now? Did you and Jungkook fight?”

You were biting into the inside of your lip with so much force that you could almost taste blood.

“We did. At first,” you said. It was futile to evade her questions now, but your throat still felt scratchy. “But it’s different this time. We’re—I don’t know what we are. We’re trying. Well, he’s trying. And I—I’m scared.”

“Scared of what?”

“Well, scared that someone will get hurt if we get back together.” You tightened your arm around your calves and rested your chin on your knees. Your room had darkened even more; it was very late. “Scared that I won’t be able to keep going if we don’t. I-I don’t know how to explain it. I’m just scared of what will happen.”

“Darling, sometimes, taking the risk is the only way to know what will happen,” she said. “You have to be brave. There are always two kinds of ‘what ifs.’ One good, one bad.”

You ran your fingers through the braids in your ponytail, nearly ruining Maggie’s work.

“You always hoped for the good one,” you said.

“I did.”

“Hmm.”

“I hope for that even now,” she replied. You closed your eyes and exhaled. “I know for certain that your dad and I cannot be together, but I know that precisely because I tried. It’s terrifying, though. I know it is. But I think that a lot of times, fear is an inherent part of love. You’re afraid of losing this person, afraid of hurting them. But you choose them anyway.”

Your hands were so cold that you could feel them over your tights when you ran your nervous fingers across your calves. You watched the hotel floorboards, attempting to make sense of your thoughts.

“Well, it—that doesn’t always make sense,” you said carefully. “Choosing to be together isn’t always, uh, the right decision.”

“Sweetheart,” she said, and you could tell from her tone that she did not understand your allusion to her own relationship. “How can it be the wrong decision for you? I know you’re really calling me because you’re scared you’re hurting him.” You inhaled so sharply here that she had to pause for a moment and continue in a gentler tone. “But you won’t hurt him by being with him. You would hurt him if you pushed him away.”

Your eyes blurred with a sudden moisture that you tried to blink away. You were determined not to succumb to your emotions—not for your parents’ failed relationship, not for the relentless gap between you and your mother that one conversation could not fix, and not for the haunting what-ifs that loomed in the back of your mind.

“I don’t know what exactly happened between you two,” your mum continued. “But I do know this: Jungkook thought you didn’t love him anymore when you broke up. He was, well—broken. But he wants to try again. That was—well, it was not the case for your dad and me. So, I think your odds are very good.”

You straightened, pressing your shoulder blades against the wall.

It was only in Amsterdam that Jungkook told you he had thought you broke up with him because you didn’t love him anymore. Before that, you’d assumed he was the one who no longer cared.

Was this what he talked to your mum about? Or was she just guessing?

“Where—how do you—h-how do you know what he thought after we broke up?” you stammered.

Another silence enveloped the conversation, and you wondered what your mum needed it for.

“That’s…” she started slowly, “another thing that sets you two apart from us.”

A secret. That’s why your mum needed the silence—to figure out how to talk to you about this.

“What is it?” you asked.

It took her another moment—six and a half heartbeats to be precise—to start speaking again.

“Your dad never wrote me anything,” she said. “Not a letter, let alone a poem. Honestly, he could barely write my name on a birthday card.”

You didn’t immediately understand what she was insinuating because you were too busy screaming inside about the irony of your mum being the one who pointed out all the times when your dad did not care about her. And yet she chose him again, and again, and—

You gripped your legs tighter to focus. “How do you know that Jungkook—”

“He sent them to me.”

“What?” You let go of your legs. “What do you—what did he send you?”

“The songs,” she explained patiently. You were too overwhelmed to notice the caution in her words; she could sense your hyperventilation over the phone. “Well, the verses of the songs that he wrote about you.”

You were quiet for a minute. Then another minute. Your mum had to gently coax, “love?” to remind you that you were on a call.

Jungkook said he had talked to your mum because he needed her help. You simply could not fathom the possibility that she was helping him with his song lyrics.

“Why…” You swallowed, trying to come up with a question that wouldn’t make your stomach clench harder. “Why did he send you that?”

“Because I told him he could if he wanted to,” she said. You appreciated her even tone. It helped to slow down the rapid beating of your heart.

“But,” you said, “we were broken up.”

“That’s one side of the story,” she replied. “The other side is that you were still in love. So, while you locked yourself in your room and forbid his name from being spoken around you, he was coping in a different way.”

The air in the room felt dense. You couldn’t tell if you were getting too much oxygen or not enough. Your head was spinning, attacked by the voices in your head, all of them shouting at you in languages you did not understand.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you asked—the question was heavy, and your voice lowered significantly.

“I asked him if I should tell you,” she explained. “He said only if you asked about him.”

Your heart was in your throat. Your arms were numb. You felt like you were running late for something very important, and you were not going to make it in time.

“I never did,” you whispered.

“No,” she said softly. “You never did. And I didn’t think it was my place to tell.”

“Well, how—what did he say?” you pressed. “Why did he send you th-the songs?”

“He texted me, asking for permission at first,” she recounted. “He wanted to know if—if the lyrics were okay, if they weren’t too obvious, if I would mind and if I thought you would mind.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him you might drop everything and move to the Arctic if you found out the songs were about you,” she said. You could hear the smile in her voice. “He said that’s why he asked me instead.”

“Hmm. But that only happened once o-or... you know, twice?” you asked. “Haunting” and “Cursed”—those were the two songs he’d told you he wrote with you in mind. “Right?”

You were almost desperate for her to agree with you. To say that this was it, just these two songs. It was a lot, but you already knew about them. You’d manage to carry on.

Your mum sensed the hope in your voice. Almost unwillingly, she admitted, “at first.”

You were glad, suddenly, that you were sitting on the floor as the hotel room seemed to tremble around you. The realisation that Jungkook had been in touch with your mum, that he was writing about you this whole time—that your mum knew he was writing about you—was a little too strong.

Yoongi wasn’t far off, as it turned out. He thought it was you who looked through Jungkook’s lyrics for him. Apparently, it was your mum.

“The first time he reached out was right when Rated Riot first started making music,” your mum resumed, her words sharp against the lingering silence. “He apologised, and I didn’t think he would contact me again.”

“But he did,” you concluded, almost voiceless as your words stuck in the dryness of your throat.

“He did,” she confirmed. “I think, a lot of times, he was doing it to find out if you were seeing anyone else.”

The voices in your head were quick to latch onto this phrase – a lot of times! a lot of times! a lot of times! – and they yelled it at you from every crevice of your mind.

“Every time he wrote something new about you—a song, or a verse, or even a line that he ended up never including in any of their songs—he’d contact me and ask if it was okay,” your mum said. “But I don’t think he was only asking about the lyrics. He was also asking if I was okay with him still being in love with you. He was, it felt like, trying to see if I’d tell him to stop. To meet someone new.”

You had a pained frown on your face as you brought a hand over your forehead, wondering if what you were feeling was nausea or vertigo.

“Why didn’t you say that to him?” you asked. “To stop? It’s been four years.”

��For the same reason I didn’t say it to you.”

Your lips parted, but you could not find your voice. “W-wh—what—”

“Four years is just a raw number,” your mum said. “It does not account for the days you spent intentionally avoiding each other, remembering everything, and eventually working together. It is neither big nor small, and it is completely irrelevant compared to what you feel inside.”

It seemed to you, for an unthinkable second, that your mum had been waiting for your call about Jungkook—like she knew it would come. Jungkook had called her, and you would, too. It was inevitable.

But how much time has passed between his first call to your mum, and yours, right now? You wanted to claw at your chest until you ripped out every painful needle in your heart for all the years he waited for you, and for all the years you waited for yourself, too.

“And I’ve noticed that he also tried very hard to act like he no longer had any feelings for you when he wrote many of these songs,” your mum added with a conviction that only fuelled the intense turmoil inside of you. “He always claimed that he just needed something for his lyrics. He was just drawing inspiration from personal experience. But I don’t believe that was the entire truth. The lyrics he sent me… they’re a broken heart on paper. They’re a love confession.

“Mum—”

“He tried to tell himself that he’d moved on,” she continued, “but I could tell he hadn’t. You don’t write songs like that about someone you no longer care about.”

You were shaking your head even though she couldn’t see you. You knew your mum was a hopeless romantic, you thought her understanding of love differed from yours very much, and you desperately wanted to believe that you had a rational reason to argue with her.

But really, you were just trying to trick your heart into feeling better. Into believing that you didn’t have nearly as much of an impact on him as he continuously showed you that you did.

You couldn’t breathe.

“I haven’t heard from him in a while until just recently,” your mum said, gently breaking the silence. “Ask him about the song he’s working on now, sweetheart.”

Your heart exploded again. “He—he sent you something else?”

“A few nights ago,” she said. “He said he’s done with the lyrics; he has the demo. He wants to record it now. It’s called—hold on, the title was a mouthful.” You heard some shuffling on her end, overshadowed partially by your racing heart. “Ah, here. It’s called “The Puddle of Champagne on the Bathroom Floor.””

The force of her words made your stomach plummet as goosebumps battled the heat for precedence over your skin.

The past month rushed back to you in disordered flashes – Amsterdam. Your hotel room. Hoseok’s party. Boxes of champagne in the bathroom of Hoseok’s room. The motorcycle ride in Tilburg. The bet. The IV drip in Manchester. Jungkook’s irreparable tendency for big gestures. The pebbles he’d thrown at your window. The kiss in the garden outside the hotel.

You weren’t just his manager. You’d never been just his manager.

“I—I have to go, mum,” you managed to say, leaning against the wall in an attempt to stand up.

You didn’t actually have to go; the girls had promised to wait for you. But your whole body itched with an unrelenting restlessness, and you thought your legs would turn themselves inside out if you didn’t set them in motion right this second.

“Yeah?” she asked with traces of obvious concern in her words. “Call me later, sweetheart, okay?”

“I will,” you promised, lightheaded as you stood and bumped your thigh into the nightstand next to the bed. You unplugged your phone, letting the charger dangle, and navigated the room to the bathroom. Your fingers felt numb as you clutched your phone to your ear. “I—thank you. I love you.”

“Be brave, okay?” your mum said, sending another shiver down your spine. “I love you so much.”

You mumbled something—or may have actually opened your mouth to reply, you weren’t sure of anything anymore—as you ended the call and tossed your phone onto the bed from the doorway of the bathroom.

You needed water first—to wash your face, to drink, and to possibly drown your feelings in.

You weren’t sure, after all, if you were ready to go out with Luna and Maggie tonight. You weren’t sure if you were ready to leave your bathroom at all.

And that was how the girls discovered you twenty minutes later—perched on the counter next to the sink in your bathroom, cradling a towel on your lap as your mind vacillated between impressive emptiness and a thick fog of thoughts that refused to dissipate.

“Hey,” Luna whispered as the two girls slipped into the room. Now that they were here, you thought you could remember hearing a faint knock on the door. “What’s wrong?”

The question finally forced the racing thoughts in your head to stop.

“Nothing,” you responded, using the towel to wipe the water on your face, even though most of it had already dripped onto your black tights a long time ago. You missed the look that Luna and Maggie exchanged. “Sorry, were you—”

“Babe, you’re crying,” Maggie pointed out, carefully pulling your ponytail away from your face and over your shoulder.

You instinctively reached up to your eyes.

“I’m not, this is—it’s water.” You raised the towel as evidence. “I was washing—”

Maggie rubbed your arm patiently. “It’s water coming out of your eyes, babe.”

You glanced over at Luna, but she stood with her arms crossed over her chest and a concerned expression on her face.

We’ll be here a while, her stance was saying. But we’ll get to the bottom of it.

You looked down. “Sorry. I’m really okay.”

“I know you think that if you say you’re okay enough times, people will believe you,” Luna said firmly because her heart had dropped to her heels when Maggie threw the door open, and they found you here, completely dissociated, with a dangerous vacancy in your eyes. “But that’s not what happens. People just pretend to believe you, so you’d feel better. We know you’re not okay.”

You have started to realise that over the last few days.

So, taking an uncertain breath, you told them most of what your mum had just told you: about Jungkook’s heartbreak, and about your own. About his conversations with her, and about your self-imposed vow of silence. About his songs, and about your deliberate blindness for the lyricism, which had always been saturated with sentiments from the past seven years.

You chose not to mention the emptiness you felt after your mum had explained her reasoning for getting back together with your dad because you were worried you would not have enough water or towels to conceal your emotions.

After you finished speaking, Maggie, in her typical manner, made a profound summary of it all: “Well, shit.”

Luna nodded in agreement and tilted her head.

“But wait,” she said. “Why—why is this—but why are you crying about this?”

“I’m not,” you replied. You felt the childish defiance in your tone, but it was so intrinsic for you that you just said it and gave your friend an apologetic look.

“Right.” Luna glanced at her reflection in the mirror behind you, reminding herself that you’d sooner drown yourself in the flood of your tears than admit to crying. “Why are you trying so hard to pretend you’re not crying, then?”

You had to battle yourself a little more until you finally exhaled and leaned your back against the mirror.

“I—well—mostly because it’s just been so long. Fucking ages. And I was, you know. All this time, I was playing my little game.” You raised the pitch of your voice to imitate yourself, “oh, I’m such a great manager, I’m so insanely professional that you wouldn’t even think he’s my fucking ex-boyfriend.” You scoffed, shaking your head. Luna observed the way your hands trembled when you lifted them to your neck. “And he was—he was writing fucking songs about—a-and sending them to my mum to ask for her approval. Her permission. Her—just fucking talking to her. While I wasn’t talking to anyone. While I was acting like I lived in a magic fucking kingdom with purple ponies and rainbows, and no ex-boyfriends.”

The girls shared a look and half of a whole conversation—albeit in different languages, because when Luna opened her mouth to offer comforting words, Maggie placed her hand on your arm and shook her head.

“To be fair,” she said, “before I found out he’s your ex, I would have never suspected it.”

You raised your eyes. “You—well, see! That’s because I was—”

“No, wait, that’s—” Luna interjected, then paused to frown at Maggie. “Actually, hold on. How did you find out?”

You tightened your lips and returned your attention to Maggie. Most of the staff seemed to just know about you and Jungkook—like they knew most things—and you had obviously preferred to pretend like your relationship had never happened, so you’d never asked how they learned about it. But now you were curious.

“He told me,” Maggie stated simply, pulling away from you to straighten her dress. She kept her eyes on the ground.

“Jungkook?” Luna clarified.

Maggie nodded and looked up at you, tentative. “Yeah. A-and I’m afraid I might have mentioned it to Seokjin after that. And a few people might have overheard, and it, um—well, I think the news spread. But, in my defence, the band already knew.”

“The—” You blinked. “Well, I was the one who told the band. I thought I had to, or it wouldn’t be fair.”

“Oh.” She pondered that for a moment. “Okay. So—okay.”

“But how did you find out about it?” Luna pressed.

“Right.” Maggie bit her lip. She looked at you as she spoke. “It was a little over a year ago. We were drunk one night after a gig, and you were outside with Namjoon and Seokjin, having a smoke or whatever. And one of the roadies made a joke, something about how you three always disappear together. You know, a suggestive joke.”

You groaned. Most of the road crew was not affiliated with the company, so you hired new people for each tour. You recalled a few awful experiences with them and wondered if this would be another one.

“Yeah,” Maggie agreed with your scrunched-up nose. “That’s how I reacted, too. But the roadies kept going, because, you know, it was a joke, they didn’t realise it was hurting anybody. So, they were saying how they’ve heard that you had dated some producer from the label before. And they wondered if Namjoon could have been the guy, and Jin’s just the third wheel to kind of throw everybody off your scent.”

Your frown deepened. “Oh, my God.”

“Right,” she said again, nodding. “Well, Jungkook suddenly stood up and left. I didn’t even realise he was upset or anything, but Hoseok leaned over and asked if I could go check on him, so I went. I found him in the parking lot and asked him what was up, why was he looking so irritated or whatever. And he said he’s the guy you dated, not Namjoon. He said it with so much pride, too, kind of like it was an achievement or something.”

This was the moment when you looked down, and Maggie turned to look at Luna instead. Luna was positively glowing as she processed the new information and made mental notes.

“I think I mentioned that to him, actually,” Maggie went on, “because he later said, “it’s not an achievement if I’ve lost it.” But I was so drunk that I didn’t realise what he was talking about. I asked, “what’s ‘it’? What did you lose?” and he just stopped speaking and pulled out another cigarette.”

Something already tight seemed to tighten even more in your stomach.

Luna was the one who replied with a shake of her head and an affectionate observation: “The two of you have some productive discussions when you’re drunk.”

“Hmmm.” Maggie pulled on the skin around her nail. Her mind was focused on the events that happened later and she turned back to you, admitting, “I-I’m sorry I might have been the one who started the chain of—well, I shouldn’t have told anyone. I only meant to ask Jin if he knew about it, and it—”

“It’s okay,” you cut her off. “No one’s ever said anything to me about it.”

Maggie bit her lip again, still uneasy. “I’m—honestly, up until a few days ago when this whole mess with the bet started, I didn’t even think about that conversation with Jungkook, because—I mean, both of you seemed so normal around each other. Well, you know. He flirted with you all the time, I now realise, but he’s kind of a little shit in general, so it didn’t feel weird. And it didn’t even occur to me to think that the reason he was upset that night was because he was drunk and angry about not being with you anymore. I thought he was just irritated for no reason.”

Your eyes were fixed on the bathroom carpet—hoping, irrationally, that if you stared at it hard enough, it would absorb the fact that Maggie had witnessed Jungkook like this in the very prime of your insistence that you could remain professional and your past relationship would never be a problem. In the very prime of your hopeless attempt to run away from yourself.

“Yeah,” Luna said to her, understanding. “He does that sometimes. Gets upset randomly.”

“Yeah.” Maggie nodded. “A little moody. Comes with the job, I guess.”

Luna nodded back. “Yeah.”

This exchange finally snapped you out of your daze and you shook your head with a resigned smile. Luna’s face brightened as she leaned her hip against the counter next to you, and Maggie chuckled, pressing her shoulder against the wall on your other side.

“You know,” Luna said, turning to look at you. “I always wondered how he managed to resist for so long. I mean, you’ve been with the band for over two years now, right? And all he did was just tease you and make jokes. Like a middle-schooler, pulling the hair of his crush. But, really. How did he hold back from doing more?”

You tried, “but why—”

“I’m sure he was doing it for her,” Maggie interjected, pointing at you as though you were an inanimate object—something placed on the bathroom counter for decoration and easily picked up to discuss. “Maybe because he didn’t think she would want him back.”

“Well, what changed?” Luna questioned. “Why did he suddenly act on his feelings?”

“Well, Sid came along.”

“Ah.” Luna nodded, remembering suddenly how Jungkook told her that the bet had given him the push he needed. “That’s right.”

Your gaze ricocheted from one girl to the other. Your mind processed their conversation as if it were the plot of a series you had watched rather than something you had lived through.

“Yeah, and look, it may not have been that hard for him to hold back,” Maggie speculated. “Jungkook is the King of Bottled Emotions.”

“That’s true,” Luna agreed. “And he put all his feelings into his songs, which probably helped for the time being.”

“Yeah. That’s probably exactly it. And I think—”

“Okay!” you interjected, smacking your palms against your thighs. You didn’t think you had it in you to handle another and. “Hi? I’m here, too.”

Both girls turned to you with grins that indicated they were well aware of what they were doing.

“How are you feeling?” Luna asked.

“Confused,” you replied, wiping the corners of your eyes with your fingers. They were stained with your wet eyeshadow.

Luna raised a curious eyebrow. “Is that better than what you were feeling before, or—”

“It’s different,” you said, exhaling with a great strain. “I have to talk to him.”

Luna looked startled as she glanced at Maggie. “Uh—r-right now?”

The unexpected question made you lose what little courage you had. “I—I don’t know?”

“I saw him in the lobby earlier,” Maggie admitted slowly, very upset to find herself as the bearer of bad news tonight. “With Minjun. They, um—they left together.”

“Oh.” You looked down. “Well, that—maybe that’s good.”

Neither of your friends thought that was good as they both looked at each other in alarm. For once, they both thought the same thing, and that was a plan of how to track Jungkook down for you. They knew you well enough to fear that if you two did not talk about it right now, you never would.

“Really?” Luna asked uncertainly. “Because we can try to—”

“No, no,” you said. “Maybe I need to calm down first. Somehow.”

The girls both exhaled quietly. Calming down first implied talking to him second.

“Would, um,” Maggie said, “getting wasted help with that?”

You looked at her, a small smile on your lips. “It might.”

It started raining while the girls helped you fix your make-up, and the three of you stepped into the empty street laughing as the wind played havoc with your umbrella while you waited for the taxi. You hadn’t had time to properly pack your handbag or take any obligatory group pictures together, but you still felt significantly better.

Once you arrived at the bar, you stopped to shake off your umbrella and briefly split from the group as the girls hurried into the warm, dry building. Standing under the canopy by the entrance, you caught something out of the corner of your eye and turned to look. It was a waft of smoke from someone’s cigarette in the smoking area by the side of the building. You didn’t think much of it.

But when you tapped your umbrella against the pavement one last time, the smoker poked his head, gazing somewhere opposite from you. You looked up to see a familiar jet-black hair, styled in an overly gelled quiff, eerily similar to the hairstyle Sid wore every day.

The person did not turn to look at you, but this was enough for dread to grip your stomach, casting a terrible shadow over your uplifted mood.

You tried to rationalise that there was no logical reason for Sid to be in London. This person just couldn’t be him. Sid had showed up in Manchester, sure, but Jungkook had been certain that this was over. Even Sid couldn’t be pathetic enough to follow him all the way to London.

A group of people obstructed your view of the smoker as they tried to pass you to enter the bar. Apologising, you opened the door and finally walked inside.

The place exuded an unexpected elegance. A bar, with numerous tables scattered about, claimed half the space, while a dancefloor was partially concealed behind a row of private mahogany booths. The music was loud, but not overwhelming, and the area was dimly lit by massive chandeliers suspended above each table in every booth. Their faint light barely illuminated the drink menus strewn across the tables.

There weren’t many people here, and this seemed like a lowkey, comfortable place for the night—provided the person outside wasn’t Sid.

“No fucking way,” a voice cried from your left.

Flinching, you turned and noticed the entrance to the men’s room first, and Jude’s expectant eyes next. A chill coursed through you, rendering your legs numb.

No.

No, no, no, no—

“What are the fucking odds?” he exclaimed, grinning. You realised how odd it was for Jude to talk to you without Sid initiating the conversation, and you dreaded, suddenly, that he might come in, too. “This must be—what’s it called when—something about kissing, I think. Kissling? You know? Destiny?”

You swallowed. “Kismet.”

“That’s the one, yeah!” Jude raised his hands victoriously. He appeared to be on something; he had never looked at you for longer than two seconds when he was sober, let alone moved around so vigorously. “Hey, are you here alone?”

“I’m not,” you replied.

“Do you want to join us?” he asked. You didn’t like the plural pronoun one bit.

This had to be a nightmare, you thought. You half-expected to glance down and find yourself standing naked in the middle of the room—and then you would wake up.

Jude’s grin widened when you didn’t respond, and looked around to see if your friends were near. They were, but they seemed to be busy choosing a table.

“You know we don’t bite,” Jude reassured as if your hesitation was about potential biting rather than the insurmountable headache that Sid and Jude collectively induced just by being in the same room with you.

You managed a weak smile. “I’ll pass. You’re hanging around here, then?”

“We were just leaving,” Jude said—who was this “we,” you wondered irritably—and, most impudently, he leaned closer. “We have some molly to keep us company for the rest of the night. They call it mandy in England, did you know? You mix it with speed, and you just fucking fly. You look like you could use some.”

He chuckled and pulled back. You wondered if your reaction showed on your face; Jude did not acknowledge it.

You did not think you needed club drugs. You thought you needed pepper spray.

“Thanks,” you said. “But I’d prefer it if you just left me alone if that’s not too much trouble.”

He laughed—a disturbing echo of Sid’s cackle—and a shiver of revulsion ran down your spine. While Jude wasn’t the most pleasant person to be around, he was usually tolerable when Sid wasn’t by his side. What had he done to him?

“Alright, well, suit yourself,” Jude responded, unfazed. “If you change your mind, you know where to find us.”

You suppressed the urge to rattle off a list of locations where you would look for them—the sewers, a dumpster, a toxic waste site—and pursed your lips.

“So, you’re staying in London?” you asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied cheerily.

You nodded. “Lovely.”

He turned towards the door with his unwavering smirk, but kept glancing back at you every few seconds, seemingly hesitating. You watched his movements like one might watch the launch of a spacecraft—counting down the seconds until it’s in the air and out of your sight.

“Well, we will see you later,” he said, one hand on the handle. He lingered by the door for a good ten seconds, letting the cold air in and clearly anticipating your response.

You cleared your throat. “Not unless I have a say in that.”

He snorted. “Funny. We’ll be thinking of you.”

You did not speak. He did not move.

“Don’t both—” you started and then stopped abruptly.

Jude raised his eyebrows in the doorway. There was something about the way he looked at you, the way he lingered here while Sid smoked outside.

God, this might have been the same instinct that Minjun had to save Jude from Sid, but you sighed and managed a quiet, “Jude, um—be careful, alright?”

A myriad of colours passed on his face as he tried to comprehend your words.

“Wha—why—what do you mean?” he asked, so wide-eyed and utterly astonished that you felt uncomfortable looking at him.

“I’m just saying,” you said awkwardly. “Sid doesn’t care about what happens to you. Make sure you look after yourself. Drink water if you’re going to be tripping on something.”

He stayed frozen, almost statuesque—not blinking, seemingly not even breathing—for so long that you were starting to worry he had astral projected, leaving his corporeal form behind.

“Thank you,” he said after a full minute, with an unexpected clarity that you hadn’t heard from him earlier.

You nodded in response and he finally stepped outside, lingering as if tethered by a new string of hesitation, before finally letting the door close behind him.

When you joined your friends at the table they had picked, you interrupted their conversation about the atmosphere inside the club. Maggie was the first to notice your expression.

“Jesus,” she said. “What happened to you?”

“Jude’s here.”

Both girls looked at each other in dramatic disbelief—Maggie even gasped—and instinctively rose from their seats to crowd around you.

“What? Did you talk to him?” Luna questioned as Maggie pulled you deeper into the booth. The two of them scanned the bar as though Jude was still here, hiding somewhere.

“I—yeah,” you said. “But he left. I think I saw Sid outside.”

Their surprise morphed into complete horror. You gestured for them to sit down.

“But wait—fuck,” Luna said, standing straight. “We can go somewhere else.”

“No, I’m—if they come back, then yes,” you said. “But if they don’t, then let’s just stay here so we don’t run into them elsewhere.”

They looked around warily once more—just in case—before reluctantly settling down. Maggie took a seat next to you, while Luna sat down across the table.

This was when the girls began to fire every question they had, and you repeated the only answer you could offer.

“So, they’re in London,” Maggie said, tapping her nails against the table. “Why?”

“I have no idea,” you said.

“Does Jungkook know?”

“I have no idea.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I have no idea.”

Maggie reclined in her seat, deciding she’s had enough of this game.

“Well,” she said, “that’s great. I need a fucking drink.”

You hummed and brought your hand over the cocktail menu. Luna offered to make the first run to the bar, effectively changing the subject.

But shortly after, when she returned with a tray full of colourful, fruity drinks, you and Maggie were already back to discussing the details of your exchange with Jude—how unusual he seemed, and the awkward turn the conversation took.

“I think that’s enough of Sid and Jude,” Luna said, sitting down across from the two of you and handing out the drinks. “Different topic?”

“Oh, but hold on—while we’re on the topic of awkward conversations,” Maggie said, earning a quizzical look from you both. She ignored it. “Have you talked to that guy? That supervisor guy—you know the one.”

“Oh, Nick?” you asked, picking up your strawberry daiquiri and sliding Maggie’s tequila sunrise towards her. You accidentally nudged the cherry on the rim, causing it to fall into the drink. “Sorry—”

“It’s fine,” she said, deftly rescuing the cherry on its stem and popping it into her mouth.

“I haven’t talked to him yet,” you replied. “But I’m not working for Reconnaissance, that’s decided already.”

“Yeah?” Maggie smirked, punctuating her words with a purposefully seductive sip of her drink. “Anyone in particular help you with that decision?”

Despite her ambiguous question, you took a sip of your drink and felt yourself slowly relax. You were here with your friends. There was no harm to be done to either of you.

“Well, Jin did, actually,” you said. “We had a very productive conversation.”

“Hmm.” Maggie gave Luna a suggestive glance. “And no one else?”

You shrugged. “Yoongi and Namjoon—”

“Okay, you queen of evasion,” Maggie gave up, prompting Luna to giggle on the other side of the table as she absentmindedly stirred her Martini with the paper umbrella. “Are you getting back together with Jungkook or not? After everything that happened tonight?”

The way she said it—almost giving you options, even—was so simple that it made you wonder how much better things might have been between you and Jungkook if the two of you hadn’t been so obnoxiously determined to tiptoe around your feelings and had asked each other questions the way Maggie asked them.

“Well, my mum thinks we should get back together,” you said slowly.

“I care about what you think,” Maggie said—just like that. Luna nodded to herself, making a note to keep drinking until she, too, could start asking complicated questions in such an effortless way.

You finished your drink before speaking.

“I want to try,” you said. “But I’m—you know. I’m also scared that we’ll end up going around in circles, making the same mistakes.”

Maggie regarded you as if you’d dropped your hat in horse shit and put it straight back on.

“Babe, that’s a One Direction song,” she said.

You scoffed and looked down at your glass. “I know. My mum’s favourite, actually. But what I’m trying to say is, I’m scared.”

“Isn’t everyone?” she challenged. “But they still try.”

“They…” Your confidence waned as you realised you might have to talk about the complexities of your parents’ history once again tonight. You wanted to leave that discussion behind, so you finished simply, “they don’t have unsuccessful relationships left, right and centre to get inspiration from.”

“Excuse me?” Maggie arched her brows. “Rue and I have been together for three years—”

“Four,” Luna interjected.

“For four years,” Maggie corrected, “and we couldn’t be happier. Are we not successful?”

Feeling a bit like prey cornered by a very determined predator, you leaned against the back of the booth and cleared your throat. “Well, y-you are, but—”

“Luna and Taehyung!” Maggie continued, fired up. “They’ve been together for a whole year and—”

“Almost two, actually,” Luna said.

“Jesus!” Maggie threw her hands in the air. “I’m bad with dates, okay? Let me live.” She turned back to you as Luna grinned. Exhaling, Maggie continued in a more patient tone, “I mean, there are successful relationships around you. You just choose not to look at them.”

She was right about that, but it didn’t seem quite as simple or straightforward to you.

“Neither of you broke up and then got back together again, though,” you said.

Maggie was mid-syllable (a very frustrated “tha—”) when she realised that she couldn’t really argue. She quieted and frowned, finding her straw with her tongue and taking a long sip of her drink.

Luna took over. “Taehyung and I did, actually.”

Both you and Maggie looked up in surprise.

“What?” Maggie inquired first. “Seriously?”

“Well, it was only for two days,” Luna explained, grabbing a napkin from the dispenser on the edge of the table. “So, I’m not sure if it counts.”

“What happened?” you asked.

She dabbed her lips with the napkin, painting it a gentle shade of plum from her lipstick, and crumpled it.

“We were together for about eight or nine months at the time,” she said. “Rated Riot were on their first cross-country tour. Remember? It was a big deal, and the guys were stressed.” She paused to wait for your nod of confirmation. “We hadn’t seen each other in weeks. He called me one night and just—he said he couldn’t do this to me, that I deserved someone better, that he couldn’t—well, you know. The textbook ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ stuff.”

You and Maggie both nodded.

“How did you make up?” you asked.

“He flew in to see me on his day off and took back everything he’d said.” A faint smile played on her lips as she spoke, but she avoided looking at either of you—the story still felt a little too intimate, too raw to share. “He said he was confused and scared, that’s why he thought it’d be better to break up. But then he said he realised he was even more afraid of losing what we had, so he had to make it right.”

“I remember him flying out to see you,” you said. You remembered yelling at him, too, for leaving the tour right before a concert—but Taehyung usually only listened to Taehyung. “I didn’t know that it was because you broke up. I’m sorry.”

Luna finally looked up, waving her hand dismissively.

“Don’t be, it’s fine,” she said. “We made up. And the break-up barely lasted a few days, I didn’t even have a chance to tell you about it.”

Maggie was smiling as she reached for the brightest remaining cocktail on the table—a Cosmopolitan—and collected the empty glasses, putting them back on the tray. She handed you and Luna glasses of faint pink, peach-flavoured cocktails and settled back in her seat.

You nodded in gratitude and turned to Luna once more. “Were you scared? To take him back?”

“No. I…” she trailed off, searching for a better way to explain herself. Maggie, in the meantime, threw her head back and finished her drink. “I don’t know. I kind of—maybe it didn’t sink in that we had broken up? It was very sudden, we hadn’t seen each other in a while, and I knew his tour schedule. I knew we wouldn’t be seeing each other again anytime soon anyway. So, it didn’t feel like a break-up. I was—I think the whole time, I felt like he would come back eventually. Is that weird?”

“It’s romantic,” Maggie exhaled, resting her head on her palms on the table, a wistful haze in her eyes.

“You’re drooling, Mags,” you pointed out, grinning.

She ran her tongue over her lips, then waved her hand around lazily. “Let me.”

Chuckling, Luna passed her a napkin.

“I don’t think it’s weird, either,” you said. “But I—I guess I never felt that certainty. I didn’t think Jungkook would come back.”

“No? Not even when you found out you’d be managing his band?” Luna asked, her smile widening. “Because—listen—I distinctly remember you calling me after you got the offer to work with them, and you were all panicked, asking me if I knew who they were.”

“Oh.” You felt your own lips stretch into a smile. “I remember, too.”

In hindsight, that day had been absurd. You were offered the manager position for a band that you had never heard of, and during the first meeting with the HR representative at the label, you pretended very passionately that you were familiar with their music and the band members themselves. And the rep, in turn, pretended very passionately that he believed you.

“I don’t,” Maggie spoke up. “You didn’t tell me. What happened?”

“Well, she asked me if I knew them,” Luna recalled and you took a moment to sip your neglected drink, “and I said I’ve heard of them. I liked “Haunting,” one of their early songs.”

The mention of the song triggered the memory of Jungkook humming it to you in the bar in Oslo when he told you that he’d written it about you. This memory, in turn, brought back the conversation you’ve had with your mum. Your pulse sped up, and you finished your drink in a futile attempt to slow it down.

“So, she came over after her meeting, and I played her the music video,” Luna continued. “At that point, I didn’t know the names of anyone in the band. “Haunting” was the only song I’d heard. So, I played the video for her, and I was talking about how I thought the bassist was cute—”

“Oh, that’s right, you weren’t dating Taehyung yet!” Maggie interjected, raising her head with a sudden excitement.

Luna nodded. “Yeah. And then I noticed that she’s just kind of staring at the screen, completely in awe. I thought she liked the song, that’s why. So, I asked, “what did you think? It’s good, right?” and she just turned to me, and said in the most blank tone, “that’s Jungkook.””

Maggie’s mouth hung open as she glanced at you. “You didn’t know he was in a band? In that band?!”

You were counting the lines on the mahogany table and stayed quiet. Maggie gestured speechlessly for Luna to please, for the love of God, continue.

“I was confused, too,” Luna said. “I asked, “what do you mean? Your Jungkook?” and she just said, “yeah,” and went quiet again. Well, she also tried to insist he’s not her Jungkook, but I’m trying to give you the short version of the story. Anyway. I played the video again to check for myself. But he had long hair in it, sort of curly. He looked completely different from what I had pictured in my head based on the few things she’d told me.”

Maggie turned to you again. “And you never showed her what he looked like?!”

“I think I did,” you replied uneasily. You had met Luna shortly after your break-up with Jungkook, but you wanted to believe that your secrecy about your relationship wasn’t that bad.

It was—and Luna grinned as she shook her head.

“She didn’t,” she said, turning to Maggie again. “She made sure to delete every single picture they had together. I only saw him once, when she and I took her dog to the vet. She was explaining the dog’s weight loss to the doctor and had to find a picture for reference. The only photo she could find on such short notice was an old screenshot from Snapchat where Jungkook was the one holding the dog. But he had… like, a bowl cut back then? Not the dog, I mean. Jungkook,” she clarified, and all three of you snorted. “He looked cute, of course. But nothing like the guy in the music video, so I didn’t even think about him when I watched it.”

For some reason, hearing about this random picture hurt. It’s been so long and, obviously, you and Jungkook have been through a lot more together—some of which was far worse than an old picture you stumbled upon in your phone by accident—and still, it hurt.

It wasn’t the memory itself that was painful, but the parts of you that were still alive in it. The parts of you that deleted all the pictures, but kept the screenshots. Threw out all the dried flowers, but kept the matching jackets. Blocked all his profiles, but not his phone number.

And there was another keepsake that you couldn’t bring yourself to delete: a video from that fateful birthday party where Jungkook had drunkenly performed a Backstreet Boys song; one of your friends had recorded it on your phone. As soon as he finished the song, Jungkook—wielding a half-empty bottle—chased after you, threatening to bathe you in champagne if you didn’t delete the video right this instant.

You still had it. You still watched it sometimes.

And then, years later, he walked into your office for the first time, his stupid silver necklace catching the sunlight and blinding you as soon as you looked up—just as it would every day for months to come—and there he was. Existing in your life all over again.

And it felt, you thought in retrospect, like he had never truly left. Every absence of him that you tried to manufacture by deleting your shared pictures only served to accentuate the fact that he’d been here once upon a time, and now he wasn’t. It was like missing a tooth—like pulling it out by force—and then continuously running your tongue over the gap.

“So, how come you still had that screenshot?” Maggie asked, her question snapping your attention back to the present.

You cleared your throat in an attempt to mask the undertow of emotions threatening to surface.

“For my dog,” you said. “He looked very chunky in that picture.”

Maggie grinned. “And what did Jungkook look like?”

“He was…” you looked for an adequate word, did not find one, and finished weakly, “there.”

“Hmm, right,” Luna said, with an ambiguous smile on her face. You were afraid of what she’d say next. “My favourite part about it all, is that you chose to accept the job even after you found out Jungkook is in the band.”

“I personally think that’s beautiful,” Maggie, who found everything beautiful after two drinks, chimed in.

You wanted to disagree, to bring up the fact that this job was a great opportunity—it really was!—and that this was the only reason you’d accepted it. Consciously, at least. But the girls were determined to fully ambush you.

“What did you feel when you saw him again as his manager?” Luna asked, shuffling to the very edge of her seat.

“Nothing,” you said, already a little dizzy from the drinks and the intense attention from your friends. You remembered feeling chaos back then; messy, uncontrollable mayhem roaming in your mind. But, compared to your feelings now, it might as well have been nothing. “I knew we’d have to work together, so I—nothing.”

“Oh!” Maggie groaned. “You’re so full of shit.”

You weren’t prepared for the abrupt shift in her tone. “Wh—”

“Let me show you,” she said, forcing the clasp on her purse open to retrieve her phone.

“Show me what?” you asked, still confused and now a little concerned.

“I’ll show you!” she cried out before proceeding to mumble under her breath with intermittent shouts, “oh, how I’ll show you—like no one’s ever shown you anything! before—you won’t know what hit! you when I show you—”

“We get it, Maggie,” Luna interrupted, reaching out to touch Maggie’s wrist. “Get on with it, please.”

“I’m looking—here!” She tapped her screen. “Here, look at this.”

She pointed her phone at Luna, who looked at it and appeared ever more confused than you felt, even though you hadn’t even seen what was on it.

“What—who is that?” she asked.

“That’s her and Jungkook!” Maggie bellowed, sweeping her arm so far back to point at you that she nearly yanked out your earring. “Sitting in an empty bathtub, drinking champagne, and laughing!”

A rush of heat surged through you as Luna gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh, my God!”

You leaned across the table to grab Maggie’s phone from her.

The picture was beautiful, which was the first thing that you noticed. It was black and white with melancholic shadows swirling in the periphery. It was taken, you realised, from the corridor outside the bathroom during Hoseok’s party in Amsterdam.

Your stomach dropped once more tonight, because, of course, this was the night that Jungkook had named his latest song after.

Your skin felt wrong all of a sudden, and everything inside of you wanted to come out. You gripped Maggie’s phone tighter.

In the picture, both you and Jungkook had your backs to the camera, only visible from the shoulders up because the bathtub concealed the rest. You were holding glasses of champagne.

Jungkook’s gaze, captured in the dimly lit frame, was fixed on you. His head was turned slightly, and if it weren’t for the bright smile on his face, you might not have known it was him; the photograph was too dark. You, on the other hand, had your head thrown back in laughter and blended seamlessly into an unrecognisable silhouette.

Your heart pounded against your ribs as you looked up from your friend’s phone. “When—how did you even take this?”

“You left the door open, you idiots,” Maggie replied.

“Let me see it again,” Luna asked, taking the phone from your shaking hands. “This looks like it could be an actual film poster for an indie romantic drama.”

“Titled,” Maggie added, “When In Bath…”

The two girls snickered, cracking each other up by nodding along to the joke until they were pounding their fists into the table in laughter. You wondered if this was the alcohol.

“Alright, alright,” you interrupted. “It—it’s a great picture. But it doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means you’ve been in love with each other from the very beginning,” Maggie said, seizing the opportunity to play the role of a triumphant attorney, delivering a powerful closing statement in court. “And you can try to act like you haven’t been, like it all came as such a big shock, like you’d moved on, so, oh my God,” she gasped theatrically, “where are all these feelings coming from?!”

You groaned, but Maggie was undeterred, revelling in the dramatic momentum she had built.

“But this,” she lifted her phone as though in a poor production of The Lion King, “speaks louder than words. We know he’s loved you the whole time, your mum confirms it. But look at this. Look at how you’re leaning into him as you laugh. Look at how you’re touching his shoulder. You’ve loved him all along, too.”

Luna, definitely tipsy already, burst into energetic applause, and Maggie took a dramatic bow, her necklace clattering against the table. In her flourish, she nudged her empty cocktail glass with her shoulder, and you leaned over to catch it before it knocked your bag off the table. A few people from nearby booths turned in your direction.

“So, you see,” Maggie continued before you could ask the two of them to take it easy, “all you’re doing is just making excuses.”

“Well. Here’s another one,” you said, sliding out of the booth. “I’m going to grab us some snacks.”

The girls groaned and made various comments about how they knew this would happen—but their complaints soon transformed into a list of drinks they wanted you to bring back. You smiled, grateful for their short attention span, and diligently noted down their orders on Maggie’s phone, since you’d left yours at the hotel.

And still, even as you walked away, your heart refused to rest.

Jungkook had been right when he said that you needed to talk to your mum. Really, you did. But it wasn’t just her words, her experiences, and her arbitrary decisions that convinced you that you should have listened to the beating in your chest when he was in the room with you.

It was your friends, too—the family you had found and did not even realise it. It was their patience, their courage, their certainty, and their belief.

You felt a lot more determined to see what would happen. A lot more daring to make it happen. And a lot more convinced that it would be okay, eventually.

As soon as you reached the bar, you immediately noticed the change in atmosphere. The club, initially laid-back, had completely transformed as the clock struck midnight. Groups of young people filled the space, hanging out by the bar, dancing, or just chatting loudly at their tables. It took you a while to navigate through the lively crowd and return to your table with your order.

When you did, the girls grabbed the cocktails as if they had never seen any sort of liquor in their lives. They downed them in several big gulps, and, amused by their enthusiasm, you joined in, too.

As the glasses—and the bowls of roasted pistachios—on the tray emptied, the rest of the night blurred into swirls of clapping, laughing, spinning around on the dancefloor, meeting Mick Jagger’s doppelganger, buying drinks, swapping shoes with each other, losing your jackets somewhere around the club, having a Macarena dance battle, buying more drinks, recording yourselves singing along to an Elton John song that had no business being played in a club, starting a very successful conga line (not to an Elton John song), and stealing someone’s pink feather boa.

It was a night.

Jungkook had made plans with Minjun to distract himself from thoughts of you until tomorrow, and the two of them ended up doing very cultured things. But strolling around West End in the British drizzle wasn’t nearly as enjoyable as they had tried to convince themselves it’d be. Their enthusiasm about this excursion quickly faded, leading them to the nearest pub for a couple of drinks.

Several hours later, when they returned to the hotel, Jungkook didn’t see any light coming from under your door, indicating that you were still out with Luna and Maggie.

He wanted to text you the whole day, but he held back. Taehyung had told him to give you space; that was good advice. Jungkook only managed to follow it partly, but now that you were on proper speaking terms again, he didn’t want to ruin it by suffocating you.

He was bad at this, though.

He took a long shower and attempted to dry his hair, but the second his phone lit up with a text message, he dropped everything he was holding and executed a very intricate leap for the device—slamming his knee into the bedframe in his excitement.

Hissing in pain, he tumbled pitifully onto the carpet, turned on his back, fixed the towel around his waist, and hoisted himself with a grunt.

Droplets of water from his hair splattered on the screen as he unlocked his phone and momentarily confused the facial recognition. Cursing, he entered his passcode to check the sender and cursed once more when he saw that the text hadn’t come from you.

It was yet another message from the same unknown number, and Jungkook threw his phone back on the bed without bothering to read it.

He dried his hair first, then changed into sweats. It was then—while he was pulling his hoodie over his head—that the realisation struck him: unlike the previous texts from this same number, this one wasn’t fully capitalised.

Tentatively, he picked up his phone again and opened the one-sided conversation. He found that, throughout the evening, he’d received four messages from this number. The first contained a video attachment—the preview screen was black, and Jungkook did not want to click on it—followed by three taunting texts:

Remember this? :)

Come on, take a nice trip down memory lane with me, it’s a cute little clip

Do you think your manager would like to see this too? ❤️

He scrolled back up to the attachment and realised that his hands had begun to shake. Even though he had a feeling what he was going to see, he still clicked on the video and held his breath.

Honestly, it wasn’t as bad as he’d expected. Although to be fair, his expectations might have been unrealistic. Unless Sid had resorted to secret cameras, which was extreme even for him, Jungkook had no reason to get this panicked.

But this video was still not good.

It was filmed in a nightclub and the scenes played out in short flashes under the flickering strobe lights, illuminating the dancing bodies around the person recording it. The camera panned to Jungkook and the two people he was dancing with—both dressed in dark leather jumpsuits.

Latex, he saw then. Not leather.

The dancing itself wasn’t the worst part of the video, but Jungkook struggled to decide what was. First, his heartbeat faltered as he watched one of his dance partners pour champagne into his mouth, licking off the excess that missed his lips. Then, he nearly blacked out as the video concluded with him on top of a table—dancing alone at first, and then with his tongue down someone else’s throat, and his hands—

He had a vague recollection of what happened next and stopped the video before he could see it.

It was clear that Sid had to be the one with the voyeuristic lens. Jungkook had gone clubbing with him that night; Jude was sick and Minjun didn’t want to go.

Two things happened then, and Jungkook was vividly aware of both. First, his phone froze: despite turning the video off, it continued to play the faint melody of an old Benny Benassi remix. And then a disconcerting acceleration seized his heart as though the video itself had seeped into his bloodstream.

Instinctively, he turned his phone off and tried to breathe. The hotel room around him fell into a pleasant silence, but that only made the thumping in his chest more pronounced.

Attempting to ease his rising nausea, Jungkook tried to keep his mind clear: the video had been filmed years ago. He wasn’t sure if he was in Rated Riot yet, but he was sure that the two of you were no longer together. Another helpful fact was that, since you became his manager, you have witnessed him in far worse situations—and rescued him from them, too.

And yet, he did not want you to see this.

He wanted to grow, to extricate himself from the clutches of toxic friendships, to find and build a future with you. And this video felt like a painful regression into his past. An embarrassing leap back.

Overwhelmed with discomfort, he chose to keep his phone off for the remainder of the night, even if that meant missing a text from you.

And then, later that night—or rather, in the early hours of the next day—Jungkook was jolted awake by a violent rattle of the doorknob.

Honestly, for an unsettling, half-asleep moment, he thought this was Sid barging in.

However, as his mind gradually woke up, he felt a more realistic concern: other bands had overzealous fans breaking into their hotel rooms. No one on the staff thought that Rated Riot were on a level where they’d need extra security measures, but now he worried that was a mistake.

Just to be safe—in case this was Sid, after all—Jungkook grabbed the nearest available weapon: a lamp from his bedside table. But the cable limited his reach, forcing him to crouch and lean forward to push the handle down and open the door before jumping back into a defensive position.

He nearly dropped the lamp when the door swung open, and he saw you outside.

It was your presence, in general, that he noticed first. Then it was your outfit: the short black satin dress with thin shoulder straps and thick, black tights with a curious embroidery around your thighs. Then it was your tied-back hair. Your dark eyeshadow and glistening lip gloss. A pink feather stuck to your earring.

He didn’t have it in him to move or to return the lamp to its place.

“Oh, shit,” you said, trying to make sense of the scene before you. You propped yourself against the doorframe. “My key wasn’t turning. I thought I left my room unlocked. What are you—wait. Wait, wait.”

You closed your eyes and squeezed the bridge of your nose with your right hand. Jungkook lowered the lamp to the floor, keeping his gaze on you.

“Okay, I’m good,” you decided. “The room was spinning really fast for a second there.” You chuckled, then stopped abruptly and narrowed your eyes at him. “Am I on the right floor?”

Jungkook blinked, then scoffed at the unexpected question.

“You are,” he confirmed, but, even drunk, you recognised the peculiar look on his face—as though there was something else he was waiting for you to realise.

“Shit.” Your eyes widened. You whispered, “I am still in London, right?”

This time, he couldn’t help a small laugh as he approached you. First, he plucked the feather out of your earring. Then, he led you into his room, his arm around your shoulders.

“You are,” he assured again. “You just got the wrong room.”

You exhaled in relief. “Oh, thank fuck.”

Amused, Jungkook directed you towards the bed, which was the only comfortable piece of furniture here. You plopped down on it, bouncing slightly from the force of your energetic descent.

“Can I sit down for a second?” you asked belatedly. “Fuck these shoes. They’re not even—not even mine.”

Jungkook glanced down at your feet. There was a black platform heel with an ankle strap on your left foot, and a burgundy counterpart on your right.

He lifted his eyes back to your face, very confused. “They’re—whose shoes are they?”

“The black one is Maggie’s,” you explained, reaching for the strap, but struggling because the bed was too soft, and the room spun too much. “The other one is Luna’s. We thought it would be funny.”

He bit his lip. It wasn’t the mismatched shoes that entertained him in particular—not while he was sober, at least—but rather your sense of humour when you were drunk.

“Lucky that they’re the same height,” he observed.

“No, no, no, no. We saw that they were, that is why.” You hiccupped and it veered you away from the topic at hand. “Anyway, it’s not funny anymore. Now it hurts.”

You finally reached the strap of the black heel, but could not figure out the intricate workings of the clasp on it. Jungkook lowered himself to his knees in front of you.

“Let me help you,” he said.

You shook your head, maintaining your grip on the strap as you felt his fingertips ghost over yours.

“I can do it,” you insisted, passionate about your independence even when you could not tell what city you were in.

“I’m sure you can,” he said, gracefully pulling your hand away from the shoe. “But let me do it anyway.”

You huffed—in fervent protest or in reluctant agreement, he wasn’t sure. After another half-sigh, half-groan, you moved your hand to your lap and dropped down on your back on his bed.

He smiled softly as he unbuckled the strap and slid the black heel off. As he did, he noticed that the embroidery on your tights was a thin row of roses—and it wrapped around your thigh.

He found that very interesting and looked away immediately.

“So, anyway,” he said, fighting with the strap on the other shoe. “What happened to drinking responsibly?”

You hiccupped again. “Famous last words.”

He chuckled, lifting your leg onto his knee to get a better look at the stubborn clasp. Your contented sigh was the only indication of you being aware that one of your shoes was already off.

“I spoke to my mum,” you announced without any sort of transition or buildup.

Jungkook tightened his grip on your ankle in uncontrollable surprise, forcing you to lift your head off the bed with a puzzled look.

“Oh,” he managed, releasing his hold. “Yeah?”

Another dreamy sigh passed your lips as your thoughts clouded with memories, then cleared in a blissful, inebriated ignorance once more.

“Yeah,” you said, lowering your head again. The mattress was hard, but it felt very nice. “And then to Luna and Maggie.”

“And, uh, what did they say?” he asked, finally pulling the shoe off.

He got up to place the heels in a corner by the nightstand, so you wouldn’t trip over them when—if?—you stood up.

“A lot of things,” you replied, your words floating somewhere on the edges of consciousness, leaving Jungkook to grapple with the unpredictability of your confessions.

“Okay,” he said. “Maybe we should talk about all of that tomorrow.”

A smile started to form on your lips, but it was swiftly interrupted by a yawn. “Ye—yeah. That’d be good.”

Trying to push Sid’s messages away from resurfacing in his mind at the mention of your upcoming conversation, Jungkook observed your futile attempt to sit up. Having been there before—fairly recently—he empathised with the challenge of keeping your head up when you were drunk.

“Are you sure you want to stand?” he asked as you wriggled on your back, stretching out your hands helplessly—sort of like a tipsy turtle that had tipped over on its shell.

It was dangerous, he realised, just how completely infatuated with you he was to still find this incredibly endearing.

“I must,” you declared with an angry determination. Your anger was largely fuelled by the strain in your neck, caused by your perplexing attempts to lift your head and your legs at the same time. “This isn’t my room.”

It could be, Jungkook thought, at least for tonight.

However, the right thing to do was to guide you back to your own room.

“Come on,” he said, taking your hand and settling beside you to wrap his other arm around your shoulders. “Let’s get you to your bed, then.”

“That would be—” you began, gasping when he abruptly pulled you to your feet and the entire room decided to flip upside down. “Oh—you know what? I’m not sure I’m enjoying this spinning much.”

He looked at you in alarm. “Are you going to be sick?”

“I would prefer not to.”

Jungkook pursed his lips to restrain his amusement.

“I don’t remember the last time I saw you this drunk,” he noted.

“Pity,” you mumbled, your eyes closed. You tried to move your lips as little as possible, convinced that this would help with the dizziness. “If you remembered, maybe you could make the spinning stop.”

He tried to take a step forward with you in his arms. “Can you walk? Or I can carry you.”

You opened your eyes and took a deep breath. Dizzy or not, this was now a matter of pride.

“I have—” You peered down as if to check and the carpet by his bed seemed to wobble. “I have legs. Of course, I can walk.”

The proclamation proved short-lived as you stumbled over the edge of the carpet almost immediately. Jungkook shook his head and tightened his hold on you.

“Alright, come here.” He lowered his hands to your midriff. “Ready? One, two—”

“No, no, no,” you protested, pressing your palms firmly against his hands. He felt the cold metal of your room key against his skin; you must have slipped the keyring onto your finger after you tried to use it on his door. “Either I walk, or I crawl. No carrying. Too much spinning as it is.”

He doubted if carrying you would really make your dizziness worse, but he relented nonetheless.

“Come on, then,” he said. “Hold onto me.”

You finally agreed, leaning against him with nearly your whole strength as you attempted to set one foot in front of the other. Your limbs felt wooden and numb.

“You know—it might’ve been nice if you came with us,” you said.

Jungkook felt his heart rate pick up again. You probably felt it too, since your body was pressed into his, but he trusted that alcohol had rendered you oblivious to everything outside of yourself, so he did not worry about it.

“Yeah?” he replied. “I don’t think I could have walked home in your heels, though.”

You laughed so heartily that he had to pause in front of the door before opening it, a cautious—and almost possessive—instinct to shield this moment from prying ears.

“No, no. I meant because it would have been nice,” you clarified meaningfully.

His smile was warm when he looked at you. “Yeah, you said that.”

Dazed, you turned your head to meet his gaze, inadvertently granting him an opportunity to lift you over the threshold as your attention on your feet wavered. “I did?”

“Mmhmm.” He continued to look at you—while holding you so close that you were starting to question how many drinks you’ve really had tonight—as he removed the keyring from your finger. You looked down, confused. You’d forgotten you were clutching your keys in your palm. “So why did you want me to come? Did you miss me that much?”

“Hmm,” you lifted your eyes and poked his cheek in a rare moment of bold affection, “I’m not drunk enough.”

He smiled again. Holding you to him—his grip around your waist was tenacious; not even the slippery satin of your dress posed a challenge—he managed to unlock your door and open it. He wondered if you remembered that your room was three steps away from his.

“Okay,” he said, walking you to your bed in complete darkness with impressive skill. Neither of you bumped into anything or tripped. “Let’s get you into bed until you’re not drunk at all. How does that sound?”

A nod was all you could muster.

Your eyes were barely open when you felt him gently lower you on the bed. Your body, of course, succumbed to gravity with a great eagerness and you dropped onto your back with a grunt the second he let go of you. You felt a sharp corner digging into your side and exhaled in relief when you realised that was your phone. This must have been where you had left it.

Face buried into the pillows, you mumbled, “ffank-oo.”

He deciphered that as an expression of gratitude and carefully rolled you onto your back by pulling the duvet from underneath you. You were still in your dress, but he didn’t dare to go as far as helping you change. You looked half-asleep anyway.

“I’m right there if you need me, okay?” he said, untangling the dark grey duvet and throwing it over you in one swift motion. “Behind the wall.”

Peering at him with half-closed eyes, you turned onto your side.

“I’ll knock,” you said as he tucked the duvet around you in a manner that felt almost familiar, almost routine.

“You do that,” he replied. “Goodn—”

“I think Sid’s in London.”

Your words sucked the air out of the room and locked his breath in his throat.

This sudden lack of filter—or any warning on your face that you were about to say something completely shocking—unnerved him. He had forgotten what a rollercoaster your intoxication could be.

“What?” he blurted out and shook his head. “No. No, that can’t be true.”

You shrugged one of your shoulders against the pillow. Your eyes were still closed.

“I talked to Jude,” you said. “And he said he wasn’t there alone.”

Jungkook turned a few shades paler—a few more and he might have become completely transparent.

“You talked to Jude?” he repeated. “A-about what?”

“Nothing much,” you said. Irony flashed briefly across your features when you opened your eyes. “Just if I’d like to do ecstasy with them. They mix it with speed. And then they fly.”

The surprise on Jungkook’s face was loud. He could not fathom that Jude—of all people—would invite you—of all people!—to do this with them, when you never even drank sparkling water if Sid was in the room.

“Ecstasy?” he repeated.

“MDMA,” you clarified helpfully.

“No—I know what—he—what did you say?”

Your gaze met his for a moment, and the look on your face suddenly appeared very sober.

“I obviously agreed,” you said, “and a beautiful pink unicorn took me back to the hotel.”

He gave you a look and you closed your eyes again, smirking.

“I told him no,” you said. “Or something to that effect.”

Jungkook finally exhaled.

“Okay,” he murmured, glancing at the door of your room. “That—that’s good. I-I’ll take care of it.”

Your eyes flew open, alarm creeping onto your tired expression.

“No,” you said—the steel in your tone made him turn back to you. “Don’t—leave them be.”

“But they’re—”

He stopped when you reached out from under the duvet to put your hand over his outstretched wrist. He hadn’t even realised he was gesticulating—too lost in his sudden panic—but your touch grounded him right away.

“I don’t care,” you reiterated, your words slightly slurred but very firm, a bit like you were talking in your sleep—saving him in the midst of a nightmare that you didn’t realise you were having. “I don’t want you near them.”

“Okay,” he said easily. And again, “okay.”

You watched him for another few seconds, silently witnessing the storm of thoughts behind his eyes. But your own heavy eyelids soon overpowered the few semi-sober areas of your brain.

As you settled back against your pillow and let go of his hand, Jungkook grew even more aware of the texts—and the video—that Sid had sent him.

“Go to sleep,” you mumbled as if sensing his apprehension.

“I will,” he said. Your lips parted as you breathed slowly and he could tell that you’ve told him all that you could manage tonight.

“Thank you for helping me,” you added quietly.

“No problem. That’s what friends do, right?”

You snickered softly and a hazy memory of all that you did as friends rose to the surface of your drunken, tired mind.

“Hmmm.” You buried your face in the pillow, whispering wearily, “I want to kiss you. But I’m so drunk.”

Oh, he realised, breathless. So, that wasn’t all that you could manage to tell him tonight, after all.

Inhaling sharply, he sat down on the edge of your bed because he didn’t trust his legs anymore.

Your intoxication, he thought, should have come with a warning: not suitable for young children and those with faint hearts.

“You—you are,” he said. “You’re really drunk.”

“Tomorrow,” you promised.

Jungkook realised that merely sitting might not be enough to prevent his head from floating away from his body as he gripped your mattress tighter.

“Oh,” he said.

A hint of concern flickered in your drunken mind, and you lifted your heavy head. “Okay?”

“Ye—okay. Of course,” he said, rising to his feet so you wouldn’t strain to look at him. The room seemed to sway, and he wondered if your intoxication was contagious. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

His next actions were reflexive as he leaned down to press a soft kiss on your forehead before drawing the duvet up to your chest. You hummed in content and Jungkook had to turn away, frightened by his own elated expression in the reflection of your hotel room window.

Over the years, you had been the one taking care of him—almost all the time. He couldn’t even remember a lot of the times when you found him, completely wasted, and helped him get back to his hotel room. Or to the bedroom in his family’s house. But even though the details of those nights were blurred in his memory, he remembered every morning – when he woke up tucked in his bed, and the faint scent of your apple shampoo still lingered in his room.

He wondered, as he paused in the doorway, turning to look at you over his shoulder, if you’d remember much from this night.

For a minute, he watched the gentle rhythm of your chest rising and falling as you drifted into sleep, and he was alive with the realisation that the two of you finally had something that he thought you’d lost forever.

You had tomorrow.

chapter title credits: sleep token, “euclid”

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[hopeluna]

hello cupid!!

im here to request steve harrington, 18+, sith prompt 13 please and thank you!!

𖦹 ׂ 𓈒 ⋆ ۪ — Valentine's day event ˎˊ˗

Prompt 13: “you’ve never looked as beautiful as you do right now.”

CW: Steve Harrington x fem!reader, 18+ so minors don't interact, sort of a modern au? But its only indicated once, established relationship, Steve is disgustingly in love with us, oral (f receiving), sex (p in v), slight overstimulation, also reader not being insecure of her body cause we bad bitches !!

Word count: 1.8k

⁀➷ cupid: shooting my first arrow in this event, i hope its a good match for u <33

This was either going to be the worst or best idea that you have ever had in your life.

It wasn't like it was your first time here, you've been in the extravagant lingerie shop a couple of times before, out with your girlfriends on a girl's day. But this- this felt different and nerve wracking more than anything because you weren't just buying a set for some impromptu self-love-motivated frenzy for yourself, you were buying it for Steve. On valentine's, no less!

Though your relationship was relatively still new, you weren't necessarily scared at the idea that Steve would dislike this. You knew him, and you knew that he would probably faint with giddiness on sight at seeing you in delicate lingerie. So, that part isn't the problem.

The problem is that you have never done something like this before with him and it was valentine's! A super special day of love- so it really was just the inner anxieties of doing anything for the first time that was bothering you-

"Ma'am, can I help you with anything?"

Your eyes moved to the red haired woman standing before you, looking at you with a polite god-kill-me-already customer service smile. You could see the strain of work in her eyes, making you internally cringe at yourself for standing in front of the store for the past 20 minutes peering inside. She probably thought you were another hurdle between her and her shift ending.

"Oh! I was just- you know, looking for the lingerie shop."

"Yes uh, this is the lingerie shop", giving you another tired smile, she vaguely gestures her hands towards the store sign in front of you.

Right. You are about 2 seconds away from bolting out of here from sheer embarrassment. Bless her, she passes you a sympathetic smile at your obvious embarrassment and nerves,"would you like me to help you look around?"

"Yes, please. That would be great- thank you!"

You follow (Bethany- her name tag says) as she leads you inside the shop. It's minimalistic and warmly lit, the wallpapers a comforting beige colour with white tiled flooring. You're glad that Bethany as her back turned to you when you almost threaten to deform one of the mannequins by bumping into it.

"So, do you have any types or colours already in mind?", she raises a eyebrow at you questioningly over her back.

"Um, not much really. But- I was thinking maybe something in pink?"

She gives you a knowing smile, "valentine's?"

You nod wordlessly, feeling heat creep up on the back of your neck.

You felt like you were going to positively burst out sobbing right there in the middle of the floor. You had been at this for, what? two hours! Probably more than that.

It wasn't like nothing looked good on you, in fact you rather felt hot in every single one of these sets but none of them felt just right and you needed it to feel right in the words of Bethany, "if you don't feel it, its not the one."

Speaking of her, you don't think you could've got through without her care. The initial embarrassment and intimidation had worn off the second she started to help you in choosing with a reassuring sister-like smile. She had also insisted that you call her Betty, cause "Bethany makes me feel like a old woman."

"I got it!", you startle at the said woman speed walking to where you are, a beaming grin on her face and the most beautiful pink set up until now.

You try it on and you instantly have the urge to throw up from how good it looks on you.

It's the perfect mix of sexy and cute, adorned with faded pink lace all over. The garters strapped from the waist to the middle of your thighs make the skin around it spill into a little pudge, something that you know Steve will go crazy over.

"I'm guessing by your face, that's the one." Betty flashes you a cheeky smile over your shoulder, meeting your eyes in the mirror in front.

You inspect the way the cloth hugs your curves with a small smile, "Yup- this is definitely it", you pause for a moment, "do you think he'll like it?"

She only gives you a wink, "he'll lose his goddamn mind, honey."

You tried to repeat Betty's reassuring words in your head like a mantra as you got ready. You rubbed the tiniest bit of perfume, slipped into the lingerie, covered it with a robe, placed the wine out of the cupboard in case it was wanted later and sat rigidly at the edge of the bed for what felt like forever- your ears perked up for any sign of the front door opening.

You almost face plant on the floor at how quickly you get up when you hear the front door open, the clear click of it closing followed by Steve's voice calling your name.

You have to bite your tongue to keep from grinning at the way your boyfriend's face lights up when he sees you make your way to him, your bare feet making soft thumps against the carpet.

"Hey, Steve-" your instantly cut off when he pulls you close to plant a soft kiss to your lips.

"Hey, pretty girl."

Your skin prickles with goosebumps, his hands firmly placed on your waist. Your lips twitch downwards at how weary he looks. Dark patches under his eyes, eyes that seem sunken from being all day at work.

Steve nudges his nose against yours, softly. "You okay?"

You only give him a hum in response, light massaging his tense shoulders absentmindedly. "I got a surprise for you. For valentine's day."

A breathy laugh escapes you at the way his eyebrows shoot up, "You did?"

You nod with a smile, intertwining his hands with yours, gently pulling him into the bedroom. You choose to ignore the adorable way he mutters your name questioningly along the way.

Steve tries to reach for your hand gently when you let go, the both of you now standing at the centre of the room. You take a deep breath in before reaching to pull away the ties of your robe slowly, letting it pool around your feet.

You're not sure how long the silence stretches for, perhaps only a few seconds but it feels like hours. You wince lightly, not being able to help the anxieties that creep up and take root in your mind.

"Do- do you not like it?"

You take in a shaky breath as Steve's eyes widen, looking as if they just broke out of a trance. "What?- no! I mean- yes! Fuck."

You visibly relax when you notice the prominent strain in his pants when he shifts on his feet nervously.

You're about to talk when Steve suddenly pulls you into a heated kiss, nipping at your bottom lip. "Shit, you look good- really good", you smile at the shaky breath he takes in, leaning his forehead against yours.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, baby- you've never looked as beautiful as you do right now."

You tilt your head to the side with a small smile, trying to look into his eyes. "You said that on our first date too-" you huff a laugh at the way his brows furrow, "- and like yesterday too."

Steve gently knocks his forehead against yours, his fingers tracing the seams of the lace of your bra, "not my fault you look beautiful every day."

"Ha! You, Steve Harrington, are such a sap- " the teasing smile on your face falls as his grip on your sides hardens a bit, a yelp escaping you when you fall back gently on to the plush mattress.

"You bully me way too much", the words are muffled from where he's leaving firm kisses on your jaw, trailing down to nip at your collar. Your breath hitches at the barely-there touch of the pads of his fingers on your nipples over the thin cloth. He trails his kisses all over your stomach till his practically laying on his stomach, his breath ghosting over the wet patch on your underwear.

"Ste-ve", a broken, breathy moan escapes you as he pushes the cloth aside to take a hungry lick over the length of your cunt. Your boyfriend's mumbles barely reach your ear when he starts to desperately lick and slurp against your heat like a parched man.

"So perfect, so fuckin' perfect."

Steve reaches his hand up your body to tweak and twist your nipples, paired with a harsh suck of your clit that makes you cry out as your hips subconsciously grind against his mouth. It doesn't take long for you to reach your climax at how messy the whole ordeal is. Steve greedily lapping up the mess, only stopping when you push him away slightly with a whine when the touch becomes too much.

He doesn't take too much time to kiss you hungrily, making you taste yourself on his tongue, before hastily shoving his clothes off of him. Steve shakes his head when you reach to take off yours, mumbling a raspy "want to see you in it on my cock."

That, some how almost makes you want to cum right then and there.

You both moan in unison when he slides in your cunt, the wet squelch sound echoing filthy-ly in the room. Your eyes roll back so hard at the sharp thrusts, Steve snapping his hips against yours in hard, steady but ruthless thrusts- purposefully hitting that one spot inside of you.

The more you whine his name into the thick, hot air; the rougher he gets with powerful thrusts and bites across your neck that he soothes with licks before biting another sensitive spot.

"Fuck." A particular thrust makes you unravel with a moan that sounds like something straight out a porno. You're sure the way Steve grips your thighs at the delicious squeeze of your cunt is gonna leave bruises like hell. You're too fucked out to notice the red crescent shaped marks you left on his arms and back.

Steve kisses you roughly, all tongue and teeth as he comes down from his own high.

He's quick to pull you against his chest when he slumps down next to you, burying his face in the crook of your neck, almost as if he is trying to imprint the feel of you skin against his to memory.

You're not quite sure when you both fall asleep, still tangled with each other. But the soft ding! of your phone on the nightstand makes you shift and rub your eyes at the offending morning light filtering through the curtains.

You shift a little bit, only to have Steve's arm tighten firmly around your waist, snuggling into you further with soft snores. You reach for your phone to see that you have 1 unread message on your notifications along with other stuff.

Betty <33

Get that dick, girl! 🎉🎉

© hopeluna. Do not copy, translate, modify or repost any of my work in this or any other site. Do not steal or modify my ideas/concepts either.

[mintkookiess]

Miles Morales headcannons #5

Dates with 1610!Miles and 42!Miles

So i made this at 3 am, brain half asleep, half dead, so this hasn’t and won’t be proofread 😔🤚🏻 but I still hope you enjoy EHE

1610!Miles

Now during the first dates, he’ll want to be cautious once he had actually mustered the guts to ask you out

So he’ll be sticking with the classics like asking you out to dinner, watch a movie, etc.

But as time goes by after yall started to date

He’s bound to spice it up because he already knows about your faves a lot and just wants to make you the happiest in the world

Midnight dates

I can see him just visiting your room after he’s done with Spiderman duties and asks you out on a spontaneous date because he’s missed you

“Hey there sunflower, wanna go grab some food and head up to the—“ “Miles you don’t even have to ask.”

So he brings you to like some rooftop by swinging the two of you while you held on to the paperbags of some food you guys bought

And the two of you just chill, while he sketches the scenic view (but most likely has you in it)

Dates with his art

What I mean by this is that there can be dates where he asks you to come by his place and tells you to sit down

Don’t ask just do it

Spends a good hour drawing you on his sketchbook

He does show you after!

In reference to the sunflower nickname, whenever he draws you he always puts a single sunflower on your hair 🩵 boy’s a sucker for symbolism

During these tho he likes to take pics of you on his phone without you knowing

Example is the one time he asks you to sit by his window sill and tells you to look out the window, he sneaks about a thousand pictures of you in that angle

Boy makes it his wallpaper

On both his phone and laptop

He tries to hide it cause you might think he’s a creep

You wouldn’t tho

Bonus headcannon: I see Miles having a dog, and the both of you treat it as your child. Sometimes you’d take turns with bringing your furry child home, and it has become one of Miles’ excuses to see you

42!Miles

Now this one is a lot more confident, why? Because I see this guy observing you before he asks you out

Would do heavy research so he doesn’t fuck up

Like asking your friends abt what you like or simply watching you from a distance

So from the get go, his dates are already inclined to your preferences

Like cafes that have the same vibe as you?

Movie dates to movies that you love (he doesn’t care if he hates it, how can he hate something that you like??)

Midnight dates

I see this Miles being more of a sentimental or chill type of guy

Nothing too extravagant but definitely enough to make you swoon

His midnight dates would consist of him going by your place with a bunch of food, ready to spoil you with it alongside cuddles and kisses

Like the both of you cuddled up in your bed and his arm wrapped around your shoulder while he kisses the side of your head

He also likes to whisper sweet nothings to you

“I love you so much mi querida,” “Your hair is so soft today,” “You smell really good” “Making me this addicted to you, unbelievable.” “Why do you always look good even in the dark, hmm?”

He stays there with you in his arms until Uncle Aaron is bugging him for the nth time for missions as Prowler

Dates with his art

I am deadass sure that the only person he ever shows his sketchbook to is Uncle Aaron

But now there’s you

It takes him a while to tell you about it

I’m talking months

Like

“Did you know, I draw.” “What?” “Like drawing with the whole sketch, paint, stuff—“ “How come you never told me?!” “Just shut up and take it.”

He shoves his sketchbook to your chest and looks away so you wouldn’t see him blushing

And you see the bajillion drawings of you that he made, and he managed to make you look so pretty that it may have increased your self esteem a bit bc was this how he actually saw you? like damn

So once he showed you it was like some weight being lifted off from his shoulder

His “date with his art” would now consist of the both of you going to some place that inspires him

He makes you pose, this boy would instruct you on how to do that; the posing, where your hands should be, your facial expression, etc

He’s gonna make you his little model

Bonus headcannon: would have a cat in contrast with 1610!Miles. A black cat specifically. He would name it after some name that would be so close to yours, and he’s overly clingy to it (not as much as he is with you tho) the cat also loves you of course (but seemingly antisocial to everyone else) (its very 42!Miles behavior)

Tag: @ii01vp

For those who wish to be on taglist feel free to msg

More of my Miles content here babes!

[aylacavebear]

Soulmates? Yeah, right, pft. - Ch. 14

When you turn sixteen, and your soulmate's name doesn’t appear anywhere on your body that you can find, you figure you had to be the only person on the planet who didn’t have one. Most of the town shuns you, so you stick close to family. Your Aunt Ellen raised you after your parents died in a car crash when you were two, but what happens when the Winchesters return to town and buried secrets begin to come to light?

Pairing: Mechanic Dean Winchester x OC Reader/You

Word Count: 2214

Warnings: Angst, suspense, emotional situations, Crowley being Crowley.

A/N: This is my non-Supernatural fic I'm attempting. Please let me know what you think, as I always love hearing from my readers.

----------------------------------------- Chapter 14

When the SUVs pulled up to what looked like a heavily guarded wrought iron gate, attached to a thick brick or concrete wall, your heart almost felt like it would beat out of your chest. Dean at least still had his arm over your shoulders, holding you close, but your eyes were focused on the things outside. Outside the gates, all you could make out were the tall hedges and trees that had grown past the top of the wall, which you assumed encompassed the property. There were a few different types of vines, but they looked as though they’d been repeatedly cut back.

You wanted to ask where they’d taken you, but you couldn’t bring yourself to speak at the moment, even after what the judge had said. As the gates began to open, you felt like you were almost holding your breath. The driveway was neatly kept, winding its way through a pedicured landscape of trees, hedges, and flower beds. The mansion of a house where the SUVs stopped took your breath away. It was the most elegant and extravagant home you’d ever seen in person. The agent next to Benny opened the door, stepped out, and then held the door for the three of you. You swore your jaw had hit the pavement as you stepped out, staring up at the mansion before you when that Scottish accent pulled your gaze to the man coming down the steps.

“Oh good, you made it without incident,” Crowley stated, seeming quite pleased.

“What’s going on?” you asked, relieved it was Crowley and not someone from the Vaught family.

“I’ve made arrangements for you to stay here during the course of your case,” he explained. “One of my men will be back with your belongings, and theirs as well. Now, shall we get some brunch?”

You were still fairly confused, but you followed Crowley into his mansion, Dean by your side and Benny bringing up the rear. The interior of Crowley’s mansion was even more impressive than the exterior. As you stepped inside, your eyes were immediately drawn to the high ceilings adorned with intricate moldings and chandeliers that looked like they belonged in a palace. The walls were lined with dark wood paneling and elegant wallpaper, giving the space a sophisticated yet intimidating ambiance.

You walked through a grand foyer with a sweeping staircase that curved up to the second floor. The marble floors gleamed underfoot, and you could see various pieces of antique furniture and art tastefully arranged throughout the space. It was a stark contrast to the cold, sterile environment of the courtroom.

Crowley led the way down a long hallway, the rich scent of polished wood and old books filling the air. You passed several rooms, each one more opulent than the last, until you reached a set of double doors. Crowley pushed them open to reveal a lavish dining room.

The dining room was dominated by a long, mahogany table that could easily seat twenty people. The table was already set for a smaller group, with fine china, crystal glasses, and silver cutlery laid out meticulously. The walls were lined with tall bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes, and several large windows allowed natural light to pour in, illuminating the room in a warm glow.

A chef and a few servants were bustling around, preparing the final touches for the meal. The aroma of bacon, cooking meat, and something that was perhaps a fine fish dish wafted through the air, making your stomach rumble in anticipation.

“Please, have a seat,” Crowley gestured to the chairs, taking his place at the head of the table. Dean guided you to a seat beside him, and Benny sat across from you, giving you a reassuring nod.

As you settled into the plush chair, Crowley smiled and spoke to the servants, “Begin serving, please.”

The servants moved with practiced efficiency, bringing out a covered plate for each of you, while others had platters with delectable deserts displayed on them. The aromas only made your mouth water further. Another servant set a chilled, open beer on a coaster near your, Dean’s, and even Benny’s plate while another poured Crowley a glass of what looked like fine wine.

Crowley dismissed the servant as he looked at you, his expression more serious now. “You must have many questions,” he said, taking a sip. “Feel free to ask anything you need to understand.”

You wanted to answer him, but the servants set a dish down in front of the three of you, revealing what had smelled so good. Yours and Dean’s contained the most delicious-looking burger you’d ever seen, while Benny got something that was clearly something he hadn’t had in a long time. You were just too focused on your burger at the moment to even ask what it was.

“Figured you lot would prefer something simple,” Crowley told you, seeing you focused on the meal and not his prior statement.

“I’m sorry,” you apologized, looking over at him as Dean squeezed your knee in a reassuring way. “Why are you doing this for us?” you asked finally.

Crowley’s eyes met yours, and for a moment, you saw a flicker of something softer behind his usual confident exterior. “Let’s just say, I have a vested interest in seeing justice served. The Vaughts have been playing games for too long, and it’s about time someone put a stop to it.” Dean leaned in slightly, his voice low. “We appreciate your help, Crowley. But what’s the catch?”

Crowley chuckled, setting his glass down. “No catch, Dean. Just a mutual benefit. You get the support you need for this case, and I get the satisfaction of seeing the Vaughts lose for once.” Benny spoke up, his tone serious. “We’ll do whatever it takes to win this. They’ve messed with the wrong people.” Crowley nodded approvingly. “That’s the spirit, Benny. Now, let’s eat. You’re going to need your strength for what lies ahead.” As the meal progressed, you found yourself relaxing slightly, the initial shock of Crowley’s opulent home giving way to a sense of determination. You had allies in the fight, and together, you were going to bring the Vaughts to justice.

Halfway through the meal, the double doors opened, instantly pulling your attention to what looked like a butler. “They’re here, Sir,” he told Crowley.

“Ah, wonderful,” Crowley replied, delighted as a smile played at his lips. “Show them in.”

The butler nodded, and a few moments later, Sam, Ellen, Jodi, Bobby, Mary, and John came into the dining hall. You instantly stood as Ellen made her way to you, tears in both your eyes as you embraced her in a tight hug.

“Oh, honey,” she told you softly, and you heard the sadness and relief in her tone.

“I’m okay, Auntie,” you replied quietly.

Ellen held you at arm’s length, her eyes scanning your face as if reassuring herself that you were truly alright. “We’ve been worried sick about you,” she said, her voice trembling slightly.

Dean, Sam, and even Benny embraced in hugs before Dean hugged John and Mary. Even Jodi and Bobby hugged the boys, then came over to you, giving you a soft, but relieved smile, embracing you in a hug. 

“We’re here for ya, kid,” John told you with the softest expression you’d ever seen on the man.

Crowley, ever the consummate host, gestured to the empty seats. “Please, join us. There’s plenty of food, and we’ve much to discuss.” As everyone settled around the table, the atmosphere shifted slightly. There was a sense of camaraderie, of a team coming together to face a common enemy. You wished that Jo could be there, as she was more like a sister to you than a cousin. And, oddly enough, even Cas and Garth. Just as you were finally feeling like you were relaxing, your mark began burning, horribly, a pained hiss leaving your lips just as Dean was getting out of his seat.

Crowley snapped his fingers a couple of times while you put your hand over your mark, missing whatever was being said. Moments later, though, Dean was putting cream on your mark. “It’s okay, I’m right here,” he attempted to soothe you as the entire room had gone silent.

“Well, now, this changes things,” Crowley mused from where he sat, leaning back in his chair. “Why wasn’t I informed about that?”

“About what?” you asked, only wincing slightly as you looked at him.

“With that,” he began, gesturing to your mark, “we’ve got a little more leverage.”

You tried to look down at your mark, but with where it was, you couldn’t see it. Frustrated, you looked back at him, “What are you talking about?”

He practically laughed, “Dean, you haven’t told her?” 

All Dean did was glare at him and the others stayed silent, which only annoyed you further. “Tell me what?” you snapped, clenching your hands in your lap.

“I was waiting,” Dean managed through a clenched jaw, clearly annoyed.

“Will someone tell me what the hell you’re talking about? I’m tired of this, of all of you keeping secrets from me,” you snapped at them, looking around the table as your anger finally boiled over. When no one spoke up, you just got up and walked off, practically slamming the dining hall doors. 

Crowley sighed and nodded to one of his servants, who promptly followed you. The servant was a young woman with kind eyes, and she caught up with you just as you were starting to feel lost in the labyrinthine halls of the mansion.

“Miss, please allow me to show you to a room where you can rest. Your bags have already been brought up,” she said softly.

Too tired to argue, you nodded and followed her. She led you up a grand staircase and down a long corridor to a beautifully furnished room. “If you need anything, just ring this bell,” she instructed, indicating a small ornate bell on the bedside table.

“Thank you,” you murmured, sitting on the edge of the bed as she left the room.

Meanwhile, back in the dining hall…

Dean, still fuming, stood up, “We agreed to tell her when her mark came in more.”

Crowley shrugged nonchalantly, although he wasn’t pleased about his secrecy, “It slipped my mind. Besides, she has a right to know.”

Sam sighed, running a hand through his hair. “This isn’t helping. How did she not notice one of the letters came in all the way?”

Dean sighed and sat back down, “She never looked in the mirror at it, and I didn’t have the heart to tell her to.”

“Son, she’s gonna be more hurt if you wait much longer,” John told him sincerely.

“Does she have at least an idea of how you’re connected to all this?” Crowley asked, although clearly frustrated, but needing further information.

“Not completely,” Dean reluctantly answered.

“Benny, did she even pay attention when Dean testified?” Sam asked, fairly puzzled how you wouldn’t have found out.

Benny sighed, “No. I was talkin’ to her. Tryin’ to help er’ relax a little.”

Crowley was usually a calm, collected man, but this frustrated him: "What does she know?”

Dean grabbed his beer, taking a sip before he answered, staring at the label, “I told her I know she’s my soul mate, part of the thing with Lisa, and that she’s an empath.”

“That’s it?” Bobby exclaimed in annoyance and frustration.

“That explains why she knows we’re hiding something,” Mary sighed, looking back at the closed dining hall doors.

“I didn’t want to make it harder on her,” Dean mumbled quietly.

“Dean, she has to be told, before her birthday, or it’s gonna hurt her more, and not just emotionally,” Sam told him, his tone soft but firm. “I know what I told you before, but she’s quickly running out of time.”

Dean’s attention went to the doors, his mind on only you and what you were feeling. He’d hated not telling, not letting himself get closer to you than you’d let him. He’d felt everything from the moment he’d seen you that first day at the bar, and it was tearing him up inside that you still doubted him. Sam had warned him of the risks of waiting too long, but he just hadn’t been able to find the right time and he didn’t want to do it once you two had gotten stuck in that bunker. “Dean, are you even listened?” Crowley asked him, frustrated and now leaning forward in his seat, pulling Dean from his thoughts.

“Yeah, I mean, no. I wasn’t listening,” he grumbled.

An annoyed sound left Crowley’s lips as he leaned back in his seat. “Her birthday is in two days. Either you tell her tomorrow, or I’ll have to make sure the doctor is here.” His tone was of concern for you more than for Dean.

Dean looked down at his beer, “She’s gonna hate me, but… I’ll tell her tomorrow.”

“Son, she’s gonna be mad at all of us, but she’s not going to hate us, especially not you,” John tried to reassure him, feeling bad for what not only his son had to go through, but also what you have had to endure.

----------------------------------------- Chapter 15

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[oliversrarebooks]

The Rare Bookseller Part 65: Alexander's Lesson

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tw: kidnapping, branding, body control, blood drinking

December 1815

Lex was glad that he'd made it out the door early, especially since Anders wouldn't stop badgering him about where he was heading on such a cold night. He'd made up some excuse about an errand, but he seriously doubted his ability to keep this secret from Anders for long. Maybe once he'd had a lesson or two with this teacher and made up his mind about whether he was going to stick with his instruction, he'd tell his friend. Master Laurent wouldn't approve, but what he didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

It was somehow even more bitterly cold than it was the previous night, and Lex dearly wished that he were back home by a fire. He wasn't fond of the idea of spending the next several hours in the company of the frigid and imposing man who'd glared at him for his entire practice. Still, if he was such a fine and exclusive vocal teacher, beyond even Master Laurent's skill, this would be worth his while.

He arrived at a manor as icy as its occupant. It was surrounded by a wrought iron gate, and inside was a stone courtyard covered in snow, with no living plant in sight. The windows were all shuttered and there was no sign of any light. Anxiety sat like a stone at the bottom of his gut, urging him to turn back -- but he could hardly tell Master Laurent that he was like a child, spooked by the thought of a haunted house.

He picked up the brass door knocker and rapped on the door.

The door opened right away. A stiff and pale looking man in a well-kept suit beckoned him inside. "You must be Alexander. My master is expecting you. Please enter."

"Good evening," said Lex as he stepped in, trying not to flinch as the door shut behind him. There were a few gas lamps flickering on the walls, barely enough to penetrate the gloom. In the dim light, he could see that the entrance had oppressively patterned wallpaper and objets d'art in every nook and cranny. It looked more like a museum than a home anyone actually lived in.

"This way," said the servant, leading Lex down a foreboding hallway. The servant's manner of walking was odd and unnatural, almost like a puppet on strings. He thought he saw a pair of eyes peer out at him from one of the darkened rooms, but it disappeared as soon as he turned.

Just a music lesson, Lex reminded himself to soothe his heart. He's an old and eccentric music teacher, nothing more.

At the end of the hallway, the servant opened the door to a room far better lit than the rest of the home, the most extravagant music room Lex had ever seen. His fear was forgotten for a moment as he admired the wide variety of perfectly kept and cleaned instruments lining the floors and walls. Polished horns glistened on their stands, stringed instruments were hung perfectly straight in brackets on the walls, and one corner was occupied by a beautiful gilded harp. The center of the room was dominated by a grand piano. It was a much older sort than Lex was used to, but in ideal condition, and his fingers ached to play it.

To do that, though, he'd have to get past the man who stood from the piano bench to receive him. He was dressed all in black, as he was the previous day, and his piercing gaze was all the more impossible to ignore when Lex was the only other person in the room. There was something oppressive about his presence that gave Lex a senseless urge to turn and run.

Oh, how he wished he were already by the fire with Anders, laughing about this whole thing!

Lex bowed, and he felt almost as stiff as the servant (who had already fled the room). "Good evening…" He realized that somehow he'd completely neglected to get his new teacher's name.

"When you are here, I am your Maestro. You may call me that, or sir," he said.

"Yes, sir," said Lex. No greeting, apparently.

"Come. I wish to hear your talent." He gestured to a stand with sheet music arranged on it.

Lex stepped forward and took a look. The music was handwritten but impeccably neat; the piece was complex and the lyrics were in a language he was not familiar with. "What language is this, sir?"

"Irrelevant."

"I'm going to need to know how to pronounce it."

"You will learn."

Lex scowled. This Maestro's style couldn't be more different than Master Laurent's. Master Laurent was stern and critical, but not harsh like this man, and the things he asked of Lex were always reasonable. He could already tell they would be butting heads.

Well, if he didn't like the instruction, he could always turn down future lessons and give his apologies to Master Laurent.

"I'm going to need to warm up first, sir."

"Very well. I will observe how you go about it."

Lex sang a few notes, loud and soft, up and down the scales, all the while conscious of the Maestro's gaze upon him. Lex couldn't help but think if he was going to be so nakedly judgmental of Lex's warm-ups, he could offer instruction on how to improve them. Wasn't that what he was here for? Instruction?

As he warmed up, he scanned the music to get a sense of it. The difficulty must be to test him. He wasn't about to shy away from a challenge, especially where music was concerned. No doubt the Maestro wished to see if he was actually a prodigy in vocal skills, or yet another mediocrity propped up by his family's wealth.

He finished his preparations, and he sang.

The acoustics of the room were excellent, and Lex's voice rang out clear and pure. He stumbled over a few of the unfamiliar words, but the notes he sang were true.

It was objectively an excellent performance, given the circumstances, and yet his new teacher sat there stony-faced without a glimmer of a reaction.

"Again," he said, a moment after Lex finished.

"Sir, before I sing again, I'd like to know how to properly pronounce some of these words."

"Again."

"You said I would learn how to pronounce them. I can't learn that if you don't teach me."

"I will teach you much before we are through. But now I am ordering you to sing again."

Frustrated, Lex was even more determined to put everything he had into it. Surely there must be some level of effort and talent that could budge this man. Now that he'd sung the song once and had a feel for it, he was able to sing without hesitation, not caring how he pronounced the unfamiliar words as long as the sound fit the melody.

The Maestro may as well have been a statue throughout Lex's virtuoso performance. "Again."

So he sang it again. And again. By the fifth time, he'd lost his patience.

"With all due respect, sir," Lex said, "I came here for instruction, and so far, you haven't offered any."

"You are mistaken. You came here to see if you are worthy of instruction. Most men, even those who imagine themselves to be musicians, can produce sounds little better than the barks of dogs. I don't wish to waste any more time than necessary in the company of such men."

"Surely my voice is better than the barks of dogs."

"Again."

Lex was burning with irritation now. He knew very well he was in possession of a temper, one which he preferred to keep under check, so that his classmates and teachers found him patient and easy-going. This man, however, was determined to fray his patience to the breaking point.

He certainly wouldn't be coming back. He'd have to tell Master Laurent that the so-called instruction wasn't worth the frustration, and hope his teacher would be forgiving.

This time, he sang the song with the passion that was boiling over in his heart, determined to either provoke a reaction from the Maestro or at the very least know for certain that he had done his best.

The Maestro stood from his place on the piano bench at the end of this rendition, walking over to Lex, who couldn't help his defiant glare. Let him find fault with that, if he could.

"One hundred and sixty."

"Excuse me?"

"One hundred and sixty mistakes."

He was certainly just trying to get a rise out of Lex. "There aren't even that many notes in the song."

"I'm well aware," he said with that insufferable glare. "The mistakes begin even before you open your mouth, with your breathing and posture." His eyes swept over Lex, analyzing. "Stand up straighter. Eyes forward. Chest full. Deep breath from your chest. Allow your lungs to inflate fully."

To Lex's surprise, he felt himself following the instructions automatically, his back and neck straightening to the point of stiffness, taking in a deep breath. He felt strangely out of control, almost as if the Maestro had some sort of unnatural hold on him.

It must be his imagination. He complied with the instruction so quickly because he was intimidated by that icy glare, nothing more.

"Now, sing a scale."

Lex did so, and it sounded improved from his usual, and he hated that it did.

"A passable result, for an untrained voice."

"I've trained with Master Laurent for years, sir."

The Maestro scoffed. "You would never achieve perfection with him."

"While music is my passion, I don't think it's reasonable to aim for perfection. That's an impossible goal."

"So you aspire to mediocrity, then, as does the rest of humanity," he said. "Very well. The choice has been taken from your hands. I have made my decision. I will train you."

At this point, Lex hardly cared if he was the finest music teacher on the green Earth, he didn't want to spend another moment with this man's constant insults and sour look. "I've made my decision as well, sir. I appreciate your time, but I'm afraid I have to turn your offer down. I will not be training with you."

The fleeting ghost of a twisted smile appeared on his face. "Is that so?"

"Yes, sir," said Lex, backing towards the door. "Now, if you'll allow me to take my leave, it's getting late and it's very cold outside tonight, so I'd like to return to my dorm as soon as possible."

The Maestro gave no response as Lex turned and started towards the door.

And froze.

His eyes went wide with terror even as every other muscle in his body tensed, caught mid-step. He tried to take another step, to move his arms, to even make the smallest movement of his fingers. No part of his body would respond to his most desperate entreaties, completely paralyzed except for his pounding heart and ragged breathing. He couldn't blink, couldn't shout.

"I did tell you that the choice had been taken from your hands," said the Maestro.

Slowly, methodically, Lex's body was turned around against his wishes, even as every instinct was calling on him to flee. He began to walk forward to where the Maestro was sitting on the piano bench, helpless as a sleepwalker as he drew closer.

It must be a nightmare. He'd been anxious about this lesson and the strange man who had been at practice yesterday, and he'd fallen asleep by the fire, his mind turning a man into a monster. He would wake soon and tell Anders of his nightmare to make him laugh.

Lex was stopped just before the Maestro, and was dropped into a kneel, his knees hitting the wooden floor with uncomfortable force. His head was forced into a bow as his arms were arranged behind his back, the very picture of a submissive servant.

"How are you doing this?" said Lex, as soon as he realized that control of his mouth had returned to him.

"All humans must obey me, just as the ocean must obey the moon," said the Maestro in an incongruously melodic voice. "It's a simple, unchangeable fact."

"What are you? Are you a demon?"

"Some might consider me a demon, but no." He reached down and tilted Lex's head upward by his chin, and Lex was looking into his eyes, as cold and hard as stone. "I'm a far more miserable creature, a lonely thing that must rely on the blood of inferior beings in order to survive. In short, a vampire."

A vampire! Lex had never believed in such things, thinking that they were superstitions of the uneducated. But if this wasn't a nightmare or a fit of madness, then he had been very much mistaken. There was little doubt in Lex's mind that this man was exactly what he claimed to be.

And that meant that he was going to die, wasn't he? An undignified whimper emerged from his throat. He was only just a man, with many winters and summers yet ahead of him. He hadn't even finished his education or courted anyone. To die here, in this dreadful place, to feed a monster…

Icy fingers traced over his jaw. "It's exceedingly rare to find such exquisite blood, especially paired with musical talent of even meager promise. Perhaps I have the unwise hope that your company will please me."

Lex's throat felt as though it'd been coated in sand. "Are -- are you going to drink my blood and kill me?"

The placid, unreadable look did not leave the Maestro's face as he slapped Lex lightly across the cheek. "Idiotic child," he said. "Did I not already tell you that I will be training you? In exchange for instruction, you will provide me with your blood and your service."

So he wasn't to be killed, but would be a slave instead. It might well be a worse fate -- but one with some possibility of rescue. "My classmates and teachers will notice I'm missing," he said, hoping to sway the vampire into freeing him.

"Yes, so they will."

"My parents will be informed," he tried. "They're going to search for me. They'll surely get the police involved, as well."

The Maestro gripped his chin, leaning further into his face. "They will not find you," he said with stern finality.

"But what --"

"And if they did find you, how do you suppose mere humans will deliver you from a being that can control their bodies with the slightest effort?" He dropped Lex's chin. "Instead, you should wish for them to forget you, rather than perish by my hand."

He could picture it all too vividly, his parents coming to his aid, become frozen in place as he was, and swiftly cut down. Lex didn't doubt for a moment that this monster would do it, either. There wasn't a trace of fear in his eyes. He seemed used to this, almost bored with the business of kidnapping -- of course, if he lived off human blood, he would have to be used to it, wouldn't he?

As Lex trembled in fear, turning over his desperate position in his head, the Maestro stood up. He pulled a small metal object from his pocket, and began to heat it in the flame of one of the lamps. As Lex watched in horror, his arms were released from his back, and he felt himself unbuttoning his shirt, removing it…

He tried to scream, but he had been silenced once more, a prisoner in his own body.

The vampire's power held him completely rigid as the dreadful brand neared his chest, pressing into his skin with a sickening noise and smell. Lex would have wailed if he were able, or vomited, or fainted dead away, but he was held fast in the vampire's spell. His vision blurred, his reason leaving him, as all he could think about was the intense pain and fright.

"It has been a very long time since I've had truly satisfying blood," said the Maestro, sitting down in front of Lex once more. "I'm loathe to indulge myself in the pleasures of consumption, but even I cannot ignore my earthly needs forever."

Perhaps it was a mercy that Lex was already driven from his mind as the Maestro dug his fangs into the place where his neck met his shoulder. With his rational thoughts gone, he was left to the primal parts of his mind, screaming within him to remove the predator from his flesh. Yet none of this inner turmoil was allowed to surface, as he was kept perfectly still for the vampire to drink his blood at leisure.

As his blood was drained and his head further fogged, foreign and unwelcome emotions invaded his consciousness. He was drowning in it, pitch-black waters closing in above him as he sank into the depths. It was a quiet, lonely, empty place, numb and freezing, a vast expanse of despair.

Lex was barely aware as he collapsed into the Maestro's waiting arms, the spell over his body finally lifted now that he was too weak to move. He shivered violently and gasped for air, wanting to push the vampire away but unable to lift his arms to do so.

"I will take you to your chambers now," said the Maestro, picking him up as though he were a doll. Lex tried to summon up the will to fight as he was lifted, but as soon as he began to stir, he felt his limbs unnaturally shackled once more.

Defeated, he fled into the recesses of his mind, where a chair by the fireplace and a stack of books waited for him. Anders would notice his absence when the hour grew late, and Lex fervently wished that he would not investigate, lest he find himself in this same hell.

If he were fortunate, his dear friend would never find this place, even if it meant Lex would never see him again.

Lex was carried into an austere chamber and placed upon a cold, firm bed. The Maestro removed his shoes and placed them by the bedside, then placed several rough, wool blankets over him.

"You will sleep," the Maestro said.

Lex couldn't imagine being able to sleep through the agony and terror racking his body, but then the vampire placed a hand on his forehead, and his eyes began to drift shut against his will. The sleeping spell did nothing for the pain, and so he sank into an unnatural, agitated sleep full of nightmares that he could not wake from.

Previous > Masterlist > Next

Lex would rate this experience one star.

Next week, Fitz is doing extremely okay.

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[svnflower-writes]

i could never give you peace

description: James reached his hand out, gently cupping Regulus’ cheek and moving some hair out of his eyes. “Hey, little star.” Regulus leaned slightly into the touch, but didn’t speak. “Let’s get you to your room, yeah?”

or

in which James comforts Regulus after a particularly bad fight with his parents.

relationship: bodyguard!james potter x regulus black

warnings: mentions of child abuse, secret/forbidden relationship, hurt/comfort, angst, james may be slightly out of character but idk maybe he's just sad 😭

requested: yes!! @allyeardepression requested this about 4 months ago and i am SO sorry for taking so long writer's block has been kicking my ass omg i started writing as soon as you requested it but it sat there unfinished for far too long. anyway i hope you like it!!!

note: uh ok hi. this is the first thing i've posted in MONTHS and i wrote most of it in class so it's not great but fuck it i had to post something. also... sorry. the first thing i write in five months and it's heartwrenching angst, which is very typical of me. also based off a taylor swift song which is also very typical of me

ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54453148

marauders taglist: (lmk if you want to be added or removed) @lovefolder @gu1lty-as-sin @dandelions-fly-in-summer-skies @a-beautiful-fool @optimizedchaos @qwerty-keysmash @lost-in-reveriie @tulips-best @nqds

James had to pretend that it didn’t affect him, seeing Orion and Walburga treat their children like they did. After all, he was there to work for all of them. But Merlin, he felt bad. The looks that flashed across the younger brother’s face were subtle enough that anyone else would have missed it, but James didn’t miss any small details—especially when they were to do with the little star.

This was one of these moments, James was positioned outside the closed door as he heard the screaming match going on directly behind him. He heard snippets of conversation, words such as ‘useless’ and ‘pathetic’ making their way to his ears and crushing a little bit of his heart. He supposed he was lucky not to be in the room while it was happening, but all he wanted was to rush in and protect Regulus from the harsh words and actions of his parents.

James allowed his head to rest against the wall, exhaling slowly as his eyes trailed over the dark tiles on the ceilings. The decor on the house was not to James’ personal taste, a combination of dark brown, green, cream, and black. He glanced down to the floor, the extravagant geometric tiles making him feel claustrophobic and sick to the stomach. Harsh black wallpaper covered the wall, the dull gold picture frames making a pathetic attempt to soften the unharmonious glare. The paintings in the frames were judging him, the upturned noses and narrowed eyes made that obvious enough.

James and Regulus had been quick to subtly remove the paintings in the hallway outside Reg’s room—Orion and Walburga didn’t tend to go up there, so no one noticed. Sirius had given them a knowing smirk when he’d caught them sneaking down a hall with a covered portrait of one of Regulus’ great aunts, but he had said nothing. Sirius held an undeniable feeling of respect for James, he could see how much he cared for his little brother, and for that he was eternally grateful.

A sharp, high pitched shout broke James out of his trance, and he glanced at the door with a grimace.

Walburga Black was his least favourite person in the whole world. He couldn’t clearly hear what followed the shout, but he had a few ideas of what it could be. He had been in the room when this had happened a few times before, and Sirius had always seemed indifferent to his parents actions—James knew he wasn’t, of course.

It was all just an act in the Black family, everyone simply pretending to be okay and pushing their feelings to the back of their minds. Regulus was less numb to the pain, and while Sirius just sat there sprawled out on the couch, ignoring his parents, Regulus always looked unnaturally stiff. He was trying to copy Sirius, that much was obvious. But it was clear that the words got to Regulus, the way his brows furrowed and he blinked quickly or looked away with fiddling hands.

Then again, maybe there was a reason that James noticed these things—not that he could take much notice of whatever underlying feelings there were anyway, since Regulus might as well be his employer. He knew Regulus felt the same, of course. There were signs, there had been since a mere two months after James started the job. Fleeting glances, brief touching of fingers as James passed him something to eat, waiting for him in the halls— the list could go on and on.

Regulus knew that James liked him too, as James wasn’t exactly subtle. He tended to forget himself when they were around others, such as Sirius or Pandora—which made for a lot of teasing from the two. Barty and Evan couldn’t say much, as they were in much the same situation.

So the two had kept up the secret whispers and hidden gazes, neither boy making any more to further the relationship, even behind closed doors. There was only so much they could get away with, and they were not embarrassed to admit that they were terrified. They were terrified of the nature of their world, the judgements and the prejudice that came with merely trying to exist. They would prefer to be open with each other about their relationship, but they would take whatever they could get at this point.

The door next to him flew open and Walburga stormed out, not even sparing James the slightest glance as she walked past him. Orion followed close behind, the harsh glare painting his face giving James an idea of the severity of the fight. After the brother’s exchanged short hushed whispers, Sirius walked through the door, offering James a small, polite smile. He walked past and James stopped him quietly. Sirius’ eyes narrowed slightly.

“Is there anything I can do?” At James’ words, Sirius’ expression softened.

“Talk to him. I’ve done as much as I can, but I think we both know that you’re better at this stuff.” Sirius pulled James into a quick hug, “and thank you. It means a lot that you try, seriously. It’s not exactly part of your job description.” Sirius being Sirius, he laughed, but it was obvious that he wasn’t actually amused. James had known Sirius for three years, and if there was one thing he had learnt about him, it was his use of humour as a coping mechanism.

“You go sneak out to Remus, I’ll take care of him.”

Sirius grinned slightly, reaching out to ruffle James’ hair, “aw, you know me too well.”

James groaned at his now messy hair—as if his hair wasn’t always a mess—pushing Sirius away and waving him towards the door, “go find your lover, Pads.”

Sirius was out the door without another word.

James glanced down the hallway to ensure it was empty and walked into the room the fight had just taken place in. Regulus was sitting on the ground and had his knees pulled up to his chest, arms wrapped around them, and head leaning against the cushion of the couch. He didn’t look up when James entered, nor when the older boy crouched down in front of him. His face wasn’t betraying what emotions he was feeling, but James knew.

James always knew.

James reached his hand out, gently cupping Regulus’ cheek and moving some hair out of his eyes. “Hey, little star.” Regulus leaned slightly into the touch, but didn’t speak. “Let’s get you to your room, yeah?”

Regulus nodded, mumbling something incoherent under his breath before looking up. “Good idea.” he took James’ outstretched hand to help him up off the ground. Even well after he had stood up, he kept his hand in James’, determined not to let go.

Regulus clearly had something he wanted to say, but his brain was not connected to the rest of his body, still in autopilot from the fight. His eyes were empty and his hands were clasped together in front of him as James gently rested his palm on his lower back to guide him up the stairs. Regulus subtly leaned into the touch, his heartbeat slowly calming and the goosebumps littering his skin beginning to fade.

Merely being near James brought him an unparalleled sense of peace.

James let his hand rub up and down his lower back comfortingly, and for a brief second he considered taking Regulus’ hand in his own but he decided against it. His brain was plagued with guilt, wishing he could rescue Regulus from the cruel reality that was his family. But no matter what James wanted, it wasn’t that simple. It never was.

James could never give Regulus peace.

Regulus stopped walking and James looked up from where his gaze had been fixed on the floor in confusion. He soon noticed that they were in fact directly outside the door to Regulus’ room. Regulus seemed to take notice of the fact that James was lost in his head and he squeezed his hand reassuringly.

After checking if the hallway was clear, James quickly opened the door. He wasn’t really supposed to enter any of the private rooms in the house, but Regulus had insisted many times that it was alright. No matter how safe Regulus felt around him, he couldn’t risk Orion and Walburga spotting him. He really was Regulus’ only source of comfort.

Regulus sat down on his bed with a blank expression on his face. James sat down next to him and pulled a bottle of water out of his bag. He handed it to Regulus with no words spoken, because the pair didn’t need words. This routine was very familiar to the two of them now, it was almost a second nature.

James quickly checked for any injuries—he hadn’t heard anything to make him suspect that there could’ve been a physical nature to the fight, but he had seen enough bruises on the Black siblings to make double checking an automatic part of the procedure. There was one on the side of Regulus’ cheek, and James pulled out the healing ointment from his bag and carefully put a little bit on the bruise.

James pushed the guilt at being unable to protect Regulus from his parents aside, knowing that this was not about him.

Once Regulus had finished, he slowly leaned into James’ side, letting out a sigh as he closed his eyes. The crook of James’ neck was like a puzzle piece that was made perfectly for Regulus’ head, and as the two slowly relaxed into each other's presence, James let his hands drift up to Regulus’ hair. His fingers slowly entangled themselves into the dark curls as he comfortingly stroked Regulus’ forehead.

It was clear to James that the support Regulus needed right now was not someone to tend to his wounds, but someone to hold him. So hold him he did. James’ right hand moved slowly up and down the small of Regulus’ back soothingly, showing an undeniable caution not to startle the younger boy with any quick movements.

He cared more about the little star than was possible to admit, and he prioritised his safety over everything else. The two lay in each other’s arms for what felt like (and probably was) hours. Suddenly, Regulus shifted in his arms, mumbling something under his breath.

James tilted his head like a confused puppy, gesturing for Regulus to repeat himself. Regulus cleared his throat and glanced away.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For…” Regulus trailed off, and James was about to let it go—he wasn’t going to push for him to open up more than he was willing to do.

“...for keeping me safe.”

The dark haired boy’s voice was merely a whisper, head buried into James’ shoulder as he refused to meet his eyes. He was embarrassed, James realised. He didn’t know what to say, so he stayed silent.

James thought that the two were about to fall back into their silence, when Regulus spoke. “It’s peaceful.”

Giving him an inquisitive look, James turned to face Regulus.

“Being here with you. You’re peaceful.”

James stiffened slightly before slowly nodding, “yeah, I know what you mean. You’re peaceful too, little star.”

You deserve more peace than I can give you.

Regulus smiled up at him, entwining their fingers reassuringly. “I don’t think I’ve ever been more at peace than I am when I lie here with you.”

Merlin, it’s like he can hear my thoughts.

Finally, James responded. “You mean more to me than anyone else ever has, little star.”

There was a raw honesty in his tone. He may not love their situation, but he loved the boy in front of him with his whole heart.

No matter where this road was leading, James knew it was where he wanted to go. Whatever the roadworks along the way, he was in this for good.

[unpopularwriter25]

Unexpected Charms: Flirting with Oikawa

Y/N sat on the couch with her friend Hana, when her phone dinged. Hana had given Oikawa her number and now he was texting her non-stop. Y/N checked her phone and let out a deep sigh. Hana, already knowing who it was, asked, "What's it say?"

Y/N showed her the phone. Oikawa had sent: *"Missing your beautiful face already. When can I see you again? ❤️"*

Hana laughed, "He's really laying it on thick, isn't he?"

Y/N rolled her eyes. *Ding.* She glanced down at her phone again. Another message from Oikawa: *"I bet you're even more gorgeous when you're annoyed. 😘"*

Y/N responded with a simple, *"Leave me alone ❤️"*, and stood up. "I'm gonna grab a snack."

She headed into the kitchen. *Ding.* Hana's curiosity got the best of her. "Can I read it?"

Y/N nodded, "Go for it."

Hana picked up the phone and read out loud, *"You can try to ignore me, but I'll just keep reminding you how amazing you are. 😏"*

Hana smirked and, glancing up at Y/N who was distracted, sent Oikawa a picture of one of the selfies Y/N had recently taken.

Y/N walked back over and sat down beside her. She took the phone, her eyes widening at the picture. "Hana!"

Hana had attached a message with it: *"Here's a little something to hold you over. 😉"*

Y/N quickly texted back, *"That was not meant for you. Hana sent it without me knowing. Delete it."*

*Ding.* Oikawa replied, along with a screenshot showing he had made the selfie his screensaver: *"Too late, it's already making my day better. Thanks for the beautiful view. 😘"*

Y/N blushed slightly at the picture. She texted back, *"Delete it. That's so embarrassing. Oikawa, I'm so serious. Delete it."*

*Ding.* His flirty response came: *"Why would I delete such perfection? Now you can have your man as your wallpaper too. 😏"* He sent a selfie of himself, looking effortlessly handsome.

Y/N blushed furiously and responded with, *"You're not my man."*

*Ding.* Another message from Oikawa: *"Not yet, but I will be. 😉"*

Y/N groaned, finally responding back with, *"One date. Okay? One."*

*Ding.* Oikawa's message was instant: *"That's all I need to make you fall for me. Get ready to be swept off your feet, beautiful. ❤️"*

Y/N sighed, looking at Hana. "I can't believe you did that."

Hana laughed, "Come on, admit it, he's kind of charming."

Y/N rolled her eyes but couldn't suppress a small smile. "Maybe a little."

They both laughed, the tension easing as the evening light filtered through the living room window, casting a warm glow over the cozy space. The chatter of distant birds outside and the faint hum of the city provided a comforting backdrop to their conversation.

"So, where do you think he'll take you?" Hana asked, her eyes twinkling with curiosity.

Y/N shrugged, "Knowing Oikawa, probably somewhere extravagant. He seems like the type to go all out."

Hana grinned, "You better pick out something nice to wear, then."

Y/N nodded, feeling a mix of excitement and nervousness. "Yeah, I guess I better."

[whyareyouhere66]

JJ Maybank x Male Reader - You Are Home.

JJ Maybank *Outerbanks* x male kook reader [Sarah’s brother]

I did it, just like I said I would. Enjoy y’all. [Two more days till season 3!]

x

“It's always have and never hold

        “You've begun to feel like home…”

                    [-The Fray, I’ll Look After You, 2005]

Outer Banks, North Carolina. More specifically, Figure Eight.

The air that whirled around him was warm, the island’s nonchalant charm lulling him into a sense of calm. Sure, the faint arguing that drifted in from downstairs was distracting, but alas- in Y/n’s tired state he wanted nothing more to ignore it, and stay in the welcoming breeze from the window sill of the large, white house.

In his hands he twisted and untwisted the cap of his water bottle, eyes still watching over the navy blue shadow reflecting from the sky. He tried focusing in on the sounds coming from outside, the wind’s song flowing through the ocean waves around the corner. However this proved to be more and more difficult, when he repeatedly broke out of his zoned out state and was dragged back into the growing yelling coming from Ward and Rafe downstairs.

Rafe’s persistent arguing, the frustration becoming more and more clear in Ward’s normally calm, manipulative tone. 

“Hey, please let’s just-“

“No- no I’m done talking about this.”

“Let me finish, Rafe….”

Y/n let out a frustrated groan, after Rafe had blown yet another college interview it seemed Ward’s patience was bubbling down to the final straw, dragging the rest of the family into it as they heard and watched it all in the emptiness of the house.  

Y/n forced his gaze away from the outside world, looking around at his dimly lit room. Perhaps he should go to see Wheezie, check on Sarah. He knew how the latter especially hated conflict, though Wheezie herself seemed more drawn into her phone recently. 

But it was never a waste to check in. 

The h/c boy steps away from the white window sill, closing and locking it as he’d been taught. 

The bright lights from the hallway jumped at him, his eyes taking an extra moment to adjust as the downstairs argument became more clear. It seemed everyone in the  house had been more on edge recently, Ward tensing at short conversation and Sarah beginning to pull away more and more.

Y/n himself had always found himself closer to the side than anything, both him and Wheezie often being sat on the bleachers while the rest played at the game. Ward could acknowledge them as his kids, drag them around to events and all, but they each knew that they were never his first priority. 

Sarah, center of attention of course, had it all laid out for her since day 1. A legacy, a throne of you will, being built for her the day Ward laid eyes on her- his daughter, his child. She was his pride and joy, leaving the rest of the family to sit and applaud as he spoiled her. 

Y/n used to fight for it, too. Being born solely a year prior, his naive, 6 year old mind could never grasp why Sarah had been deemed the golden child. He still couldn’t really, but overtime it became more and more clear that nothing would ever change. And while he still found himself there, by the same window sill he had been today, he looked out at the family’s extravagant garden and wondered- “why?”

Rafe was the same way. Being born first in the family he still found himself pushed off to the side, set to watch his father grow instead of growing there with him. However, unlike Y/n, he never accepted it. He clung to any bits or pieces of his father he had, wanting nothing more to impress the man. 

But Ward Cameron was a hard man to impress, especially when it came to the majority of his own blood. And when you stumble as often as Rafe himself had, another rung in the twisted, family ladder falls.

The hallway, covered in old paintings and dainty floral wallpaper, led Y/n down its paths until he found himself at Wheezie’s room. 

2 knocks, 3, and Y/n stands awkwardly in front of the tall white door. 

“Wheezie?” He calls, looking at the floor with his hands shoved into his pockets. A ringing silence fills the hall, as he receives no answer.

“Wheezieeee, you alive in there?”

Curiously, the h/c grabs the golden handle and twists- peaking his head into the room. 

Lights still on, he found his sassy little sister asleep on her bed- curled into a ball blended with the comforter. He paused for a second, wondering how she managed to sleep through the houses overwhelming ringing, as well as the mindless and repeated shouts from all around. But when his eyes landed on the small, white buds poking out of her ears and tangling with her hair he put it together.

“Smart kid..” 

His hands slide up the wall, reaching the light switch before he flips it off. 

“G’night, weirdo” he mumbles, closing the door behind him as his bare feet pad down the hallway once more.

It was at this point that Y/n decided against checking in on Sarah, knowing that not only their somewhat strained relationship would create an awkward tension, but also that the chances of her sneaking out her window again were far over likely.

So instead the teen trudged down the stairs, making a beeline to the kitchen to replace the water bottle he’d been fidgeting with just minutes before.

The further down the long staircase he walked, the more he was able to see of the rest of his family. 

The tense fighting between Rafe and Ward had settled into the living room, stray documents and pamphlets scattered across fancy glass coffee tables as one man stood on each side.

They went back and forth, back and forth with the blonde boy starting, his father following closely in suite. 

With the roll of his eyes, hand sliding down on the wooden banister, Y/n neared the bottom of the staircase. 

“Dad I don’t need to go to college- I’m fine here.”

“Yeah? Yeah well I’m not Rafe. This is not…”

Rose watched on uncomfortably, sat in a stool next to the kitchen’s island. With an open laptop in front of her, and a half empty glass of wine, she stared on at the two with her eyebrows furrowed. Y/n could see her now, stepping off the final stair as he untwisted the lid of his water bottle. Back now turned to his father and brother, he could only see her in front of him. 

The h/c heard voices rise, the urge to go back up to his room growing stronger in his mind. 

“I knew I should’ve checked on Sarah-“

Just as he steps forward again, no less than 10 feet from the staircase, he heard it.

The painful slap, a harsh hit of skin on skin contact, echoes through the now silent room. He could see Rose’s eyes widened, sitting up straight suddenly as she stared in shock. 

Y/n freezes, slowly and almost hesitant as he turns around in his spot. 

Rafe’s face was turned away, mouth agape. Ward’s hand was still outstretched, a soft and lamented look filling his eyes as he seemed to finally realize what he’d done. 

The fights had been happening for weeks now. 

But never had it ever gotten physical- not once. Ward always took Rafe for granted, this was well evident in the claustrophobic walls of the Cameron house. But Ward had enough sense to not bring it to a physical level, his heart belonged to his family, he never purposely damaged that. 

In a small moment of panic, Ward stepped away. His hand retracted, firm against his chest as he cleared his throat. 

“Rafe-“

“Wow, dad…wow.” 

The blonde’s voice is full of malice, chuckling deeply as he turned to look at the man. His voice lowers to a whisper again, eyebrows furrowed down.

“Wow.”

In the matter of a minute, perhaps two, Rose is up and rushing forward to stop the fight like she’d been wanting to for minutes on end. Blood rushed away from Y/n’s knuckles, his grip on the bottle tightened extremely. In the back of his mind he still heard them, Ward rushing to his own defense as Rafe riled himself up more. Rose’s desperate, annoying pleads as she stood between them. 

But he wasn’t truly there, not present in the moment. His head screamed at him to leave, the need for fresh air bubbling over as he felt too fed-up with his family to stay another moment. 

And so Y/n left, stormed out of the building before the other 3 could do more than notice him. 

Swiftly grabbing the car keys off the counter, stuffing his feet into his shoes, the h/c rushed out to his car and ducked into the drivers seat. 

He knew he hadn’t been the one to get slapped, the one to yell and scream in the fights. But if he had to sit in his room one more night, the air thick and heavy from this scrambled family’s tension he just might suffocate. 

Trees blurred past him, eyes zoned onto the road ahead of him as his brain went into autopilot- driving him to the one place he felt he must be. 

“JJ…”

The blonde boy, although a Pogue, offered him an embrace like no other. It should feel wrong, it’s supposed to be, but for whatever reason it didn’t, it felt right. Y/n could never recall how they’d come to be- in fact at the beginning the boys tried keeping it at “no strings attached”. But, they couldn’t help it- he felt like home. 

JJ’s laugh, his voice, the warmth that would emit off his body whenever Y/n got too close. He wasn’t supposed to love him, his family’s reputation laid on the line- but he just didn’t want to stop himself. This wasn’t the first time one of them had run off to meet the other in the heat of the moment, sometimes in the middle of the night, others simply in broad daylight. It seemed the small compass engraved into Y/n’s brain was constantly pointing in JJ’s direction. 

The more these thoughts flowed through Y/n, the more agitated he grew as he sought out the comfort he needed. His grip on the wheel was firm, mind a haze as he could see JJ’s near empty house coming into view. After the seemingly hundreds of times driving here, as if it was muscle memory, Y/n had barely realized he had made it to the Cut. 

Y/n came to a stop in front of the house, taking a sharp breath. He snatched the keys from ignition, hopeful eyes leading him out of the car and onto the porch. That house, so different from his own, lured him in yet again.

All his thoughts seemed to fizz inside his head, bubbling and sizzling away so distantly, yet so present he could hear them still. Keys gripped in his hand tightly, fist knocking against the old door no more than 3 times before he squeezed his eyes shut. 

“Answer the door, Maybank…” the teen mumbled, running a hand through his hair as his felt his muscles tensed in his shoulders. 

Inside some shuffling was heard, the squeaks of door hinges alerting Y/n as he spun around to meet the blue eyed boy. 

“Y/n? What-“ 

He looked confused, immediately taking note of Y/n’s dazed face and disheveled appearance. In the back of his mind, he felt he knew why Y/n was there.

Y/n opened his mouth to talk, stepping forward. JJ didn’t wait for him, jutting his head towards the door as to invite the h/c inside.

It wasn’t too long before Y/n was situated at the couch, fed up and frustrated. JJ followed close behind him, stopping at the door way almost hesitantly, for he’d only seen the boy act that way a handful of times. It was more recent that the two began to open up to each other, the intimacy they would share building an odd sense of trust, a safe space within each other that before they didn’t know they were capable of.

Though JJ had noticed that almost each time, it was due to something from that of the Cameron house. And so, he had a feeling he already knew what this was about. 

The blonde moved forward from the door way, until he was standing in front of Y/n on the couch. The latter was almost doubled over, curled into himself with his elbows on his knees to hold his head up. His chest rose up and down heavily, fingers tangled with his h/c hair. JJ raises one eyebrow, sitting on the small table just a foot or so in front of the sofa. 

“Y/n? Hello, you with me? What happened?”

Y/n sucks his teeth, hands sliding down his face. 

“I’m so done with them, JJ.”

He didn’t have to say any names for the blonde to understand, it was almost always the same 2 or 3 people. And so he doesn’t ask any more questions, instead leaning closer to the boy in an attempt to give any sort of comfort. 

JJ Maybank didn’t know too much about comfort, after all. 

Years of not having the right comfort, not knowing how to give it, etc lead him to taking guesses, cracking jokes until one of the Pogues finally told him he wasn’t being helpful. 

Perhaps, that’s why he always felt so attracted to Y/n Cameron. 

“-I’m so fucking sick of it, they don’t,” Y/n pauses, trying to think of the right words to describe his mess of a family, “they fight, then pretend it’s all fine. And I normally can suck it up, or whatever, but I just- right now-“

He stumbles over words, frustration building up until he’s saying too many things at once to finish one thought, before another starts. 

However he’s cut off, rambling suddenly turned silence as he feels JJ’s hands now cupping his face. The boy had leaned forward, sitting just on the edge of the coffee table, his face a mix of confusion and worry. Y/n’s shoulders drop, melting into the warmth of JJ’s hold. 

“Hey, hey it’s alright-“ JJ comforted, finally getting a voice over Y/n’s thoughts. His e/c eyes finally move to meet the bold blues of JJ’s, swallowing a thick lump in his throat. “Just breathe, ok? I’ve got you now..”

Y/n listened, his shaky hands moving to rest on top of JJ’s, his face sandwiched in the middle. Eye contact never breaks between the two as the blonde coaxes Y/n into steady breathing, thumb shifting gently to rub comforting circles into his cheeks. 

As Y/n finally feels a sense of stability, now much more aware of the floor under his feet and the walls that surround him, he laughs. It’s not awkward, much closer to embarrassed than anything, and it’s just enough to bring a small sense of relief into JJ’s system. 

“I’m sorry, that was, sudden.” He laughs out, tilting his head up to the ceiling. But JJ doesn’t accept that, shaking his head. 

“Nope- no. No saying sorry.” He states firmly, his blonde hair falling messily across his forehead. He stands up, bringing the h/c up with him. Their hands have now separated, leaving a lingering warmth across the other teen’s face where they had been before. 

Y/n doesn’t even get a moment to protest, as JJ has already swung an arm around his shoulders and leads him to his bedroom. 

“JJ-“

“Nope, nah uh.” 

He turns around, them now standing in the middle of JJ’s messy room. “You-“ he jabs a finger into Y/n’s chest, “-just had a panic attack, amigo, you’re staying over here tonight.”

Y/n’s eyebrows furrow, a smile plays at his lips, amused. He no longer had any intentions of protesting, knowing that he didn’t want to leave anyways. Instead he turned around to watch JJ scrummage through his closet, following the boy’s figure with his eyes. 

A minute passed, standing in comfortable silence. And as Y/n continued to stare at JJ, a playful grin pulled the corners of his lips.

“You just call me ‘amigo’?” He asked, tapping his fingers on the dresser.

JJ paused, turning to look at him over his shoulder.

“Yes, actually, I did.” He replied, grabbing a sweatshirt from the closet and tossing it to Y/n. Neither boy made a move to change, though, nothing else than Y/n pulling the old “North Carolina” sweater over his head and running a hand through his hair.

“And you’re giving your ‘amigo’ a sweatshirt? How sweet-“ he teased, JJ simply rolling his eyes as the incident merely a few minutes prior seemed to be left behind. JJ didn’t know why he gave Y/n that sweater, this was the first time he had done that. Perhaps it was something in the way Y/n:s eyes had been so red and wide before, he wanted to see comfort instead.

The blonde settled onto his bed, Y/n following close behind and kicking off his shoes. He laid down next to him, shuffling around as he falls into the pillows. 

“Better not cuddle me, Cameron.” JJ joked, although said in a flat tone it wasn’t hard for Y/n to know he didn’t mean it. He would make jokes like that quite often, actually- Y/n already knew the outcome.

“Don’t worry, I won’t.” He jokes right back, getting comfortable on his side. 

But then as the minutes go by, hands ticking away slowly on the clock, it was predictably JJ himself who began to inch closer and closer. 

Y/n peaked one eye open, the warmth radiating from him so close, as his breath fanned lightly across his shoulder. Happens everytime.

“What were you saying, Maybank?”

“Shut the fuck up and cuddle me.” 

Blunt, yes, but in no more than a split second Y/n found his legs entangled with those of the blonde, ducking his face into the crook of JJ’s neck as a strong sense of home overcame him. 

This happened often, the teasing jabs that would only lead to such small space between their bodies. Though, that is how they liked it. Not even the beating heat of the summer could stop it, the restrictions that kept them apart in public but pulled them so close together in private. 

Because in private, there was no one else but each other to keep them company. 

[chateaaa]

☆ What dating the blue lock characters feels like (pt 2)

Dating Sae Itoshi includes matching earrings, having your initial dangling in his dominant leg (so every time he scores he dedicates the goals to you), having you in the back of his phone, being mean to everyone but you, buying you everything you want, giving you his password to all his socials, buying you flowers every week, slow dancing in the rain, watching hello kitty with you, kissing you on the back of your hand <3

Dating Shidou Ryusui includes bear hugs!!, slapping your ass every time he gets a chance, biting you randomly, love hate relationship, "shut up" x "make me", would try to be romantic (it does not work), would always expect you watching his games, looking at you in the crowd if he scores a goal, making boys near you cry because he dosnt want them to steal you away from him

Dating Otoya Eita includes kissing you on the neck, painting each other's nails in the color of black, wearing a pink scrunchie you gave him as a joke he now won't remove it from his arm, giving you his hoodie, acts of service, only wearing this specific perfume when you guys meet, pocky game (he would purposely lose)

Dating Tabito Karasu includes flirting with you in front of your friends, matching lego heart keychain, giving you cute random things and saying "my chick number 7 gave this to me, i don't need it so you can have it" that's a lie, he spended 3 days deciding what to give you, carrying you like a sack around, matching sneakers

Dating Alexis Ness includes worshipping you like a goddess, loving every single part of you, carrying an extra ponytail for you, buying you snacks, being very possessive, always wanting to wear matching clothes, words of affirmation and physical touch!!, telling his teamates about how good and kind you are, literally making you experience any kind of dates ex: beach dates, museum dates, stargazing dates, always wanting to touch any part of your body; arms, cheeks, hands

Dating Hiori Yo includes arcade dates!!, winning you stuff toys in claw machines, gaming dates, photobooth dates, physical touch and quality time!!, cuddling while raining, playing games even if your horrible, the beds in minecraft being side by side, carrying you in literally any game, sending you spotify lyrics that he thinks relates to your relationship with him, watching netflix together during summer vacation

Dating Noel Noa includes waking up during weekends with him serving you breakfast in bed, carrying you around like a teddy, all love language, gifting you extravagant gifts everyday, leaving you colorful sticky notes in the counter everyday with daily reminders such as "don't forget to drink water" or "i'm going home late, you should sleep early today"

Dating Ikki Nikko includes only letting you touch his hair, cafe dates, letting you have his drink if you like it more, gifting you a giant teddy on your birthday, would always update you through chat, sending you spotify playlists, handwritten letters, sending memes to eachother, dreaming about being married and adopting 5 cats

Dating Yukimiya Kenyu includes neck kisses!, ranting about all his problems to you at 3 am while cuddling, taking pictures of you every time you go out, his wallpaper being you (he changes his wallpaper every week), just because flowers, photographer x model, always having your favorite food in his bag

Dating Charles Chevalier includes painting each other's nails with the eye color of each other, him only listening to you, sunshine x grumpy, always asking for headpats, booping your nose, watching disney every night before going to bed, expecting you to feed him every time you go out

idk guys kasasu and otoya feels ooc, I THINK IT'S VERY HARD TO WRITE ABOUT THEM SINCE I FEEL LIKE THEY'RE RED FLAGS AND I REALLY DON'T KNOW ABOUT THEIR PERSONALITY THAT MUCH..... (sorry karasu and otoya fans 😔😔) but anw hope you all still like it ☝🏻🤓

btw PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE SUGGEST ANYTHING TO WRITE IM HAVING WRITERS BLOCK LOL

[third-world-punks]

✦ THIRD-WORLD PUNKS ✦ INTRODUCTION

“Who are we? We are the global South, that large set of creations and creatures that has been sacrificed to the infinite voracity of capitalism, colonialism, patriarchy, and all their satellite-oppressions. We are present at every cardinal point because our geography is the geography of injustice and oppression. We are not everyone; we are those who do not resign themselves to sacrifice and therefore resist. We have dignity. We are all indigenous peoples because we are where we have always been, before we had owners, masters, or bosses, or because we are where we were taken against our will and where owners, masters, or bosses were imposed on us. They want to impose on us the fear of having a boss and the fear of not having a boss, so that we may not imagine ourselves without fear. We resist. We are widely diverse human beings united by the idea that the understanding of the world is much larger than the Western understanding of the world. We believe that the transformation of the world may also occur in ways not foreseen by the global North. We are animals and plants, biodiversity and water, earth and Pachamama, ancestors and future generations—whose suffering appears less in the news than the suffering of humans but is closely linked to theirs, even though they may be unaware of it.” — Boaventura de Sousa Santos, Epistemologies of the South: Justice Against Epistemicide.

We are THIRD-WORLD PUNKS, a blog devoted to cultivating a dark-academia aesthetic inspired by Latin America and the UK Punk Scene. I'm your host, PHILOSOPHIKA, a 33-year-old British and Colombian philosopher specialising in aesthetics (the branch of philosophy that studies concepts such as beauty and ugliness and investigates the nature of art and the senses) and anti-totalitarian ethics. Keep reading to learn more about the aesthetic's main goals, sources of inspiration, and suggested hashtags.

✦ OUR MISSION

To create a Latin American take on the 'dark academia' aesthetic from the perspective of the region's actual inhabitants. The T.W.P. aesthetic actively avoids depicting the region as a holiday destination (fruity drinks, trendy hotels, sexy pool boys, designer sunglasses, etc.) or representing the culture through a tourist's eyes (for example, as exclusively consisting of festivals or big public events). This aesthetic should provide the viewer with an intimate portrait of what it's actually like to call this region home. Images of local food, daily customs, traditional clothing, distinctive architecture, weather patterns, etc., are encouraged.

To provide a modern fusion between Latin American (principally Colombian) and UK culture that does not reproduce the aesthetics of British colonialism. To this end, the T.W.P. aesthetic steers clear of antique botanical prints, colonial uniforms, overly beige colour palettes, floral chintz wallpapers or decorative accents, leather trunks, and/or anything even faintly reminiscent of a plantation. Emphasis is placed instead on UK Punk fashion and culture (think Camden Market and Vivienne Westwood), extravagant and eclectic UK (& European) architecture and interior design, and Oxbridge academia vibes.

To challenge what traditional academia looks and feels like, as well as its core tenets (eurocentrism, US-centrism, elitism, abelism, etc.). The T.W.P aesthetic celebrates and encourages out-of-the-box thinking, ethnic and racial diversity, neurodivergent and LGBTQIA+ higher education experiences, as well as discussions of postcolonial, queer, and feminist theory, among others (think TWAIL: Third-World Approaches to International Law). Quotations, reading lists, book recommendations or reviews, and catchphrases along these lines are welcome.

✦ SOURCES OF INSPIRATION

— art deco/decopunk — art nouveau — solarpunk— steampunk — gutterpunk — latin american geography, flora & fauna — latin american culture — spanish colonial architecture — pre-columbian latin america — 70's & 80's uk punk scene — elements of cyberpunk — alternative fashion — maximalism — haute boheme aesthetic

✦ RELEVANT HASHTAGS

Do you want to tag something with this aesthetic on your blog? Check out the suggestions below:

#TWP —   #TWPs —   #TWP Aesthetic —   #TWPs Aesthetic | #Third-World Punks —  #Third World Punks —  #Third-World Punks Aesthetic —

[merlyn-bane]

W(hump)IP Wednesday

*whistles innocently*

Obi-Wan groans as he forces his eyelids open despite feeling as though they each weigh about as much as a venator, having to blink several times before the cloudiness finally resolves enough to allow him to see anything more than just fuzzy blobs and red. An extraordinary amount of red. It is somewhat of a relief to find that none of it is blood, at least, but only somewhat; what he finds instead is the sort of gaudy luxury typically reserved for nobility and the obscenely wealthy. Plush scarlet carpet, dramatic ruby wallpaper, brocaded carnelion drapes concealing must be the entrance to a 'fresher or closet because there is no natural light to be found here, from a window or otherwise. The bed underneath him is also extravagant, softer than anything he's ever laid on (and not necessarily for the better for it) and large enough to comfortably sleep three adult wookies. He might almost feel like a guest were it not for the heavy binders securing his wrists above his head.

[outofconcheol]

Between The Mountains And The Sea (XMH x GN!Reader)

pairing: detective!Minghao x gn!reader genres/au/rating: angst, some fluff, sort-of mystery au, 15+ summary: In the seaside city, the ebb and flow of the tides is as constant as the presence of tragedy in Minghao's life. Until one day, the tides bring him you.

word count: 2.3k

warnings: Minghao is a detective investigating an un-aliving (referenced, no graphic depictions), unconventional detective-suspect-witness relationship, mutual pining and melancholy, OC is a different kind of femme fatale, alcohol use, (1) kiss

a/n: I watched Decision To Leave and it had me so effed up (seriously, it's amazing). I loved the dynamics between the two main leads, and for some reason, the visuals brought the Hai Cheng mv to mind. This is purely experimental, and it kinda reminds me of my rough early fanfic writing, but hopefully it's still an enjoyable read!

Minghao was nine years old when his parents had taken him up the mountain for the very first time. He cherishes the memory as though it were yesterday, still remembering the crackling in his lungs from the exertion, and their feet dangling over the edge while he happily munched on his mother’s cooking. 

“Remember Minghao,” his father had said to him, quoting an old verse from one of the many books that sat collecting dust on the shelves of his office. “The wise love the sea, the benevolent the mountains.”

He’d been so wary back then, an irrational fear seizing him - what if his shoe suddenly slipped off and was to fly through the air, only to hit some poor unsuspecting soul below? It was then that he decided the mountains weren’t benevolent after all, their harsh, jagged faces looming above the landscape, striking fear into people's hearts. 

And so, Minghao stayed away for many years. Until he met you.

He remembers the way you’d shuffled into the empty boardroom, so different from every other person he’d ever questioned. While normally their eyes were trained on the floor and their shoulders hunched, an indirect admission of some sort of guilt, you walked in, eyes level with his own. A challenge in them. 

While it wasn’t unreasonable for Minghao to question the widow of a deceased victim, you made him feel like it was. 

“You’re a hard person to track down, ___,” he mutters when you take the seat across from him. “You think you’d be more eager to come in and answer some questions given he was your spouse.”

“He was my husband,” you counter back, voice far too calm and steady for someone who was supposed to be in the harrowing stages of grief. “Not my life. I have a job, I have people I take care of.”

I am not benevolent. I like the sea.

Minghao’s father’s words come back to him when he looks at you, tempting and unknowable, your demeanor like the ebb and flow of the ocean tides that ravaged the coast a couple of miles away.

You lean over the table, inching closer and closer, and Minghao is transfixed, unable to draw back when he smells the warm hint of your perfume. You’re impossibly close, and he has to turn his head to remind himself that his colleague, Mingyu, had gone home for the night. 

“So Detective Xu,” you whisper in his ear. “Ask away.”

Minghao stands up abruptly, your curious eyes following the line of his body. Your eyes follow the line of his body, and he has to force his racing heart to calm down, reminding himself that there was a job to be done.

“Let me buy you dinner first.”

After that night, Minghao stops eating dinner at his apartment, the tiny box with the garish wallpaper making way for the sleek wood of the boardroom. His packs of ramen are exchanged for more extravagant meals - sometimes bibimbap, other times sushi, or on the rare occasion, zhajiangmian, his favorite. 

The two of you start off eating quietly, savoring the meals and tranquility amongst the hectic backdrop of your busy lives. It’s only when you’re both working to wipe down the table and put away the utensils and your hands brush against his – rough and callused against soft palms, that a chill runs down his spine – one he pushes to the back of his mind.

I’m working on the case, he’d lie to Mingyu when his partner questioned why he couldn’t join them for drinks, watching them clamber down the street. And then he waited. Waited until night had fallen and he could hear the drumming of your boots in the hallway, spotting the light blue wool of your favourite coat first, clutched in your arms while you wandered in, a coy smile on your face.

Instead, he learns that you’ve been unable to sleep in your bed since everything had happened, falling asleep to the sound of a different drama every night, a half-eaten pint of ice cream not far from your side. 

That’s why he buys you dinner, he convinces himself. You’re clearly in shock and unable to cope with your husband’s tragic passing. It’s not because you take his breath away, a formidable tempest in your blue coat, standing out against the foggy backdrop of the seaside city. 

It’s not because he also finds himself unable to sleep along with you, spending nights bundled up in his down jacket, staring at the twinkling lights of the houses across the bay, wondering which one is yours. 

He forgets to go home, falling asleep in his car, roaming and wandering the streets in the hopes of running into you outside the shackles of his job, so he can finally get to know you in the way he yearns to – not as a suspect or an informant, but as a human being.

. . .

Minghao heaves for breath, his legs buckling underneath him as he climbs the stairs one by one, chasing after a new suspect. He’d been disappointed when the captain, Seungcheol, called him into the office that morning, informing him that the case on your husband was closed due to lack of evidence. 

Minghao wanted to protest, to tell Seungcheol that you were worth it, but he realized how strange that would have sounded. And so he kept his mouth shut, being handed the next file for investigation, reading over the thief’s name – Soonyoung. The hours passed by, with him slumped over at his desk, until Mingyu is shaking him awake, telling him that Soonyoung’s been spotted and that they needed to split up and run after him — now.

The wind howls at the top of the winding road, Soonyoung cowering in the corner, and Minghao approaches the man, fingers lingering in case he makes a sudden move. His hair is matted with sweat, hands shaking as the handcuffs lock around the other man’s wrists easily, and he’s calling Mingyu for backup, ready to take the suspect back to the station for questioning. 

All of a sudden, bright lights appear from around the corner, the roar of an engine and then sputtering, the car coming to a halt. The door swings open, and Minghao isn’t prepared for what happens next.

“Hao? Is that you?” your voice calls out to him. Hao. You’d never called him that before. It was always Detective Xu, a respectful distance in your voice, reminding him of the gap between you two.

“Is everything alright?” you look from Minghao’s exhausted figure to the handcuffed man.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Minghao manages to hiss out, wondering how the universe could have given him his greatest wish, the chance to see you again, in the most inopportune of moments, where his duty outweighed his heart.

You nod, eyes shining with concern, but back away anyway, stumbling over a few rocks on the road before the car revs up again, driving away.

Mingyu arrives not five minutes later, the two of them leading Soonyoung into the car, and that’s when Minghao spots it – the tiny piece of paper. Glancing around to make sure no one’s looking, he picks it up. There, scrawled in hurried and messy ink – is an address.

He knows it’s yours, and that it can’t have been there by accident. Tucking it into his back pocket, he lets out a heavy sigh, preparing for a grueling few hours of questioning ahead of him. And then, the real investigation could begin.

“You came,” the door swings open before Minghao can knock, his fist suspended in the air while he stares at you in shock, unable to say anything. He doesn’t know if he’s more shocked or you’re more shocked that he actually showed up. 

“I made food,” you usher him in, and immediately, the smell of your cooking hits him, reminding him so much of his mother’s. He’s slipping his shoes off before he can think, and downing three shots of soju not even five minutes later.

It’s different from when you met before, because Minghao is in your home, your space. It’s different because he’s five shots of soju deep, and spilling information he shouldn’t be sharing with anyone about cases that should never see the light of day. Anything from petty thievery to crimes of passion.

You follow along with interest, pausing to nod at his declarations and add in your own theories.

“I don’t know about you Hao.” There it is again. You reach over with your spoon, pausing to take a bite from his bowl, and Minghao feels his throat go dry. “But it’s not a crime to like someone just because they’re married. If it was, the whole world would have been in flames by now.”

Minghao sputters, choking on the steaming rice that clogs the back of his throat, and your eyes are staring at him once again, deep and solemn. How would you know, unless…

“You’re tired,” you take his hand, pulling him up with you. “Please sleep.”

Minghao focuses on nothing but the warmth of your hand as you lead him down the hallway until he’s enveloped by darkness, falling backward onto the sheets of your bed. 

“Close your eyes,” you whisper to him, and he feels his gaze become heavy, the ceiling of the room that’s not his blurring into soft focus. “Pretend you’re in the ocean, floating along the waves…”

Your voice is hypnotic, drawing him to a lull, and Minghao thinks it’s so easy to love you. He wonders why your husband couldn’t have stuck around long enough to do so. 

He remains awake long enough to hear your voice go impossibly soft, asking a question to the darkness.

“I want your heart, Minghao. Will you give it to me?”

Soon enough, time ceases to exist in the quiet seaside city. The days at work begin to blur even further for Minghao, desolation creeping up his spine when he realizes that in his line of work, there’ll always be a tragedy with no happy ending.

He scribbles notes furiously in his journal, watching the passerby from the bus, when all of a sudden, there’s a shadow who takes the seat in front of him. It’s you, in your blue coat. The two of you hadn’t spoken since Minghao fell asleep in your bed. He’d spent many sleepless nights afterwards wrestling with your whispered words.

He’d never given his heart freely to anyone before, but something about you made him want to try, just this once. Even if you had nothing to give back.

“Your hands,” you finally break the silence. “They have blisters.”

Reaching over, you grab his hands in yours once again, and Minghao marvels at how gentle you are, reaching into your pocket for your hand cream. The smell of flowers and almonds permeates the air, the cold cream making him jolt, but soon enough, it’s soothed by your touch, thumb rubbing circles against his palms. 

It’s far too intimate a gesture for Minghao to wrap his head around, and all he can offer in return is chasing down a man selling balloons when the two of you exit together. He offers a red one to you, and you accept.

“Why me?” Minghao asks, watching you twirl the balloon around in your palms, eyes lighting up in glee. 

“Because you listened.”

He should have known it was all too good to be true, watching the grey clouds roll in on the coast. Mingyu had been on his case for months, asking him where he disappeared off to, why his focus wasn’t there. 

How could Minghao focus, when he remembers the way you’d giggled at the aviators hanging off his shirt, putting them on his face with a smile? 

You’d left without a trace, taking all your memories with you, from the lip balm you’d stolen from his coat pocket, to the files that had been swiped from his work satchel, containing precious evidence from your husband’s case.

How could he focus when he’d felt a taste of happiness, only for what felt like mere moments to pass, leaving him collapsed and broken. 

He knows the storm is on the way, rain pelting him, the waves crashing against the shore, their whispers becoming screams, but he drives, drives, drives, chasing the memory of you, until it leads him to the mountain. 

Tall and deadly, a solitary figure against the thunderous sky. Minghao fights the downpour, abandoning everything behind him, and he begins to climb.

He doesn’t know if it’s minutes, or hours later, when he stumbles to the top, collapsing from exertion. You’re alone, perched against a rock, looking off into the distance. He remains there still, unable to move, though he longs to know what secrets you hide.

“I’m afraid of heights,” your voice echoes out. “That’s why I like the sea - it’s chaotic, unpredictable. It can wash away everything, even all the bad memories. That’s why I married him.”

“Because someone like you would never want me, Minghao. Someone who doesn’t hesitate to scale a mountain in search of the truth. Someone kind, and dependable. A force to be reckoned with.”

“You don’t get to make those decisions,” he seethes, turning you around to face him. His hands run up your sides, and you shiver at his touch. “To decide who’s worthy of what.”

“What if I told you that my happiness is the tube of lip balm you stole from me, or a red balloon floating in the wind? That yes, maybe I’m the mountain, but only because I want to be, so the waves don’t take you away from me? That maybe we’re just two lonely souls, who’ve never had anyone really know us the way we know each other.”

“You don’t know me,” you tell him, clutching onto his coat.

“Then let me,” he takes your hands in his, pulling you closer to him. Around you, the mist thickens, but you pay it no mind, fisting the damp hair at the back of Minghao’s neck, your lips seeking his. 

When dawn rises, you remain in the comfort of his embrace, your broken souls finding peace in each other, somewhere between the mountains and the sea.

a/n pt. 2:  As always, any comments or feedback are much appreciated, but I appreciate you all anyway. Lots of love, Isi &lt;3