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kodzukyan · 4 years ago

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two hearts, four broken pieces (now we’re unbreakable)

notes: happiest belated birthday to my grand king <3 lots of (long?) dialogue, long talks at the beach, kinda clunky, but i hope you enjoy :> song accompaniment recommendation: unbreakable by lauren dyson (carole & tuesday) & everything i need by skylar grey! also posted on ao3.

summary: you were there like the air when i felt like i was underwater. AU in which you have matching birthmarks on your heart as your soulmate. - oikawa/oc

wc: 6.2k

The clock ticks continually as you finish reviewing the club budget for the upcoming school year. As the last rays of the sun begin to dim into a darkening blue, the clock rings loudly, signaling the end of club activities. The other student council members routinely leave by five, and after a quick goodbye and wave, two hours pass by without you knowing. You glance at your watch, and you sigh softly as you see the shorthand reach seven.

There are still numbers that do not add up, but you suppose that has to wait. Getting up to stretch, you automatically head to the keys cabinet to see which keys are still missing. As usual, the keys to the volleyball gym have yet to be returned.

Like any other day, you sigh again. This is a rather normal occurrence as the volleyball team tends to stay as late as you do. Normally, you don't mind since it’s not a big deal - you’re usually still here to lock up after they leave. Today, however, you’re rather exhausted and would like to finish up your report and just go home. Putting on your white blazer and patting down the wrinkles of your tan skirt, you make certain you’re presentable before you head out of the room and towards the volleyball gym.

A resounding smack reverberates through the air before you even enter the gym. You knock twice on the gym doors, and when there is no answer, you open the doors soundlessly and enter the gym. The gym is unoccupied except for one lone player, making the echoes of each movement louder.

He doesn’t notice you, and as you see him jump to hit a serve, you are in awe by the strength and impact of it as it lands. It astonishes you a little to discover the normally flirty eyes and teasing smiles with such intense concentration and seriousness. When you see a faint smile on his face as his serve lands within the lines of the court, you wonder if this is what he really is like. As he recovers another ball to try again, you clear your throat. This time, you catch his attention, somewhat.

“Sorry, Iwa-chan! You don’t have to wait for me. I’m almost done!” he calls out, eyes never leaving the court.

“Sorry, Oikawa-san. I am not Iwaizumi-san. While I do have to say I am extremely impressed with your tenacity, I am afraid it's late and time for you to go home,” you say politely with a perfectly practiced smile on your face.

The ball he tossed into the air previously drops straight down onto the floor and bounces as he hears your voice. He jerks his head towards you, and you almost want to laugh when you see his gaping mouth.

“Oh, Pres-chan! I wasn’t expecting you!” he recovers swiftly, a hand behind his head and his tongue sticking out humorously.

Ah, he’s back to his normal self.

“Apologies again,” you nod, a courteous smile never leaving your face, despite your slight disdain for your new nickname. You’ve learned it is easiest to deal with people with a perfect smile, lips upturned slightly at a 45-degree angle and eyes crinkled together lightly.

He stares at you intensely as you smile. While his eyes are analytical enough to press anyone under, it doesn’t bother you because you are used to such scrutiny.

“I’ll pack up! Pres-chan, wait for me! I’ll walk you home since it’s so late.” He finally softens in his stares and begins picking up the balls around the court.

“No need to worry about me, Oikawa-san. There are still some matters for me to finish up at the student council room,” you assure him courteously despite your mild annoyance at your stray strand of hair that fell out of your neat ponytail as you tuck it behind your ear.

“No, no! I insist! It’s so late, so it’s dangerous for cute girls like you, Pres-chan!” he protests as he continues cleaning.

You begin assisting him to pick up the balls and grab the mops to clean up the gym. The more hands there are, the faster you two get to leave. After cleaning up the gym and returning the keys to the student council room, you continue to decline his offer of walking you home. Being around him for a little less than 30 minutes has already tired you, but you find it more draining to talk him out of it so you just relent.

He accompanies you back to your house at your pace, constantly filling the silence with some sort of conversation. He seems to recognize your need for distance, so he keeps the conversation light, never diving in deeper than what you are willing to give. You respond as amiable as you could with this surface-level sort of conversation. This is comfortable, this is straightforward, this is not about who you are, so you find it easy to keep up your practiced smile and pleasantry.

For what it’s worth, you can understand why he’s so popular. He’s attractive, and his personality is tolerable enough. But something about him is slightly unpleasant to you. You have an inkling of what it is, but you’re not ready to open the tightly sealed jar of emotions yet.

When you reach your stop and he bids you goodbye, you find yourself face to face with your cousin, who just squeals and questions you.

“Who is he?” she exclaims loudly, far too energetic for so late at night. “What if he is your soulmate?!”

You smile tersely, “He is just a classmate.”

She only looks at you in confusion. “Eh? You never know! Did you already see his mark?”

You flash her a practiced smile as you excuse yourself.

“No, I was born without one.”

---

You like routine. This is something you’ve established for as long as you remember. If things are set in place, set in stone, then they are less likely to fall apart, to break.

So when walking home with Oikawa Tooru stays as a recurring part of your days, it makes you uneasy.

This is not part of your normal routine. But you suppose him returning the volleyball gym keys instead of you wrestling him for them is also not part of your normal routine.

“You know, for someone so smart, you’re kind of dumb."

You finally look up from your papers. Your pen still in hand, eyes in disbelief, and voice laced with venom as you hiss, “Excuse me?”

“Pres-chan, even I know when to stop. It's nearly 8 in the evening. Your body needs rest so you can function as efficiently as you always want to,” he rolls his eyes as he air-quotes the word efficiently. The volleyball gym keys jingle in his hand as he does so, and the sound of it aggravates your headache.

"This is coming from the one who stays behind two hours every day after club activity ends? Stop trying to preach what you don’t practice." Your grip on your pen tightens.

"I take Mondays off," he shrugs and offers a lopsided smile. There's a serious glint in his eyes despite his casual gestures.

You know he's right because the keys to the volleyball club always hang neatly and untouched every Monday. You know he's right when you finally let yourself feel the tiredness in your body. You know he's right when your headache finally catches up to you, but you simply cannot completely let go.

Maybe he sees your sagging shoulders and weary eyes, so he doesn't press the matter anymore. He hangs the clubroom keys in the cabinet before he walks over.

"You can rest, you know?"

You do, but you can't. Not when there are so many reports to fill out and papers to file, not when the club budgeting still isn't adding up, not when you have to be the you that your father created inside his head. Your brows cease together as your head throbs. Before you could respond, you feel a gentle pat on your head that brings you out of your thoughts.

"You're doing great, Pres-chan. Take a break," he speaks softly as he strokes your head.

You close your eyes at his touch, and you relish in his gentleness. For someone with such calloused hands, his touch is surprisingly tender. His voice sounds distant, and it feels like he's speaking past you, like he's speaking to whoever he sees in place of you. You think maybe this is what you needed anyways, this is what you want to hear even if he’s speaking to himself through you.

"Take a nap. I'll wake you up in 20 minutes," he ruffles your hair, messing up your perfectly tied ponytail.

You glance at him briefly, and his stupid smile irritates you. Maybe your headache is getting the better of you, maybe you’re just too tired, but you find yourself nodding as your shoulders finally drop in defeat. "10 minutes."

He laughs as he agrees, and when you finally lay your head down and close your eyes, you briefly feel the warmth of his jersey before you drift off.

When you wake, you find that Oikawa is sitting beside you, humming a soft tune as he scrolls on his phone. It takes you a moment to blink the sleep out of your eyes, and then it occurs to you that he never woke you up. Your eyes flutter to the clock, and when you see that it's a little past 9, you panic. You shoot instantly up from your seat, and your sudden movement leaves you dizzy as the world around you rapidly spins in color. Oikawa stops mid-hum as looks up from his phone before he secures your arm to steady you.

"Holy shit, I thought I told you to wake me up in 10 minutes. The papers need to be filed so we can work on the report due next week. I need to finish the reports, so I can turn them in on Friday. The budgeting excel -."

"Pres-chan." He cuts you off as he takes his hand off your arm and pokes your forehead. "I filed the papers on your desk. They go into their respective color-coded drawers, right? And the reports are just club updates, yeah? I arranged them by club type, so you can just sort through them later. Also, I put the volleyball club on top, so get to us first, okay?" he teases lightly and sticks his tongue out mischievously. "I didn't mess with your budgeting excel because it's not my place to, but don't you think you can ask your treasurer to explain their budgeting and money management so far?"

You blink at him in silence as you take in all the information he told you. You glance over at your desk and see the piles of loose paper gone. In place are new stacks of reports clipped together with the assortment of pastel paper clips you brought last month on a whim. Your surprise overtakes you as you let out a shaky breath.

"Oh," you whisper, breath still quivering and voice slightly trembling. "Thank you."

You make a mental note to double-check everything again in the morning, just in case. That thought almost flies out of your head when you glance over, and the smile he flashes you is so bright you almost forget how to breathe.

"You're welcome."

When he accompanies you home that night, your steps feel a little lighter and your heart soars a little higher as you catch a glimpse of his profile, eyes fixated on the stars above as he tells you stories of constellations and aliens.

---

While you’re not an avid volleyball fan, witnessing their defeat to Karasuno in such a close match, watching the light in their eyes dim into a quiet somber crush on your heart. When the match was over and they asked for the keys to the gym, you gave it to them without hesitation although the gym is supposed to be closed for cleaning later today.

Throughout the hours, you find yourself unable to completely focus on the paperwork in front of you. Your eyes keep trailing to the empty key slot where the gym keys are supposed to be, and your ears are fixated on each tick of the clock. Fidgeting with your pen, you finally give in and let out an uneven sigh when the clock rings eight. After smoothing out your skirt and blazer and retying your neat ponytail, you make your way to the gym.

As always, you knock on the doors before coming in. Only silence greets you.

The gym is vacant, and the cheering crowds and rest of the volleyball team members have long gone home after their spontaneous practice. Volleyballs are still scattered everywhere, the net is still up, but none of that matters as your eyes focus on the lone figure lingering in this solemn, almost crushing, silence.

His eyes are downcast, but you can tell from the hitching movement of his chest and the pooling puddle in his lap that he hasn't stopped crying. There is so much you want to tell him, but no words come to you. You’re not even sure if you’re in a position to say anything, but when you see him sitting there defeated and crying silently, a split image of yourself instead of him appears for a moment. The tightly sealed jar of emotions you’ve repeatedly tried to suppress opens.

"You don't have to be perfect, you know?" you tell him softly.

He doesn't look up and only clenches his fists.

You pat the creases out of your skirt as you squat down, hands gently touching his before clasping them firmly. The words burn in the back of your throat as your eyes tear because you know. You know this feeling, this absolutely crushing feeling when all you have is taken away and you’re just left with nothing. Maybe you’re projecting your failures onto him, maybe this is just what you wanted to hear, but you tell him all the same.

"You're so much more than just your losses," you whisper with gentle firmness, "This is not the end. Not for you. Not for your volleyball."

His calloused hands only grip yours tightly as his silent tears fall and roll off your skin.

"You are not your failures."

You barely detect the sound of him letting out a deep breath, but he squeezes your hands. It may not be enough, it may not be okay, but it’s a start.

As the two of you sit in silence, you can merely laugh at yourself for ever thinking Oikawa Tooru was anywhere close to perfect. He is incredibly fragile, human, and unlike a star that you thought you could never reach, he is here beside you. He sniffles every so often, and when every so often becomes more often than not, you laugh lightly and offer him a tissue.

He accepts it with a sniffle, and as he blows his nose, you could only crinkle your nose.

“Ew, you’re gross,” you lightly poke fun at him.

“I was going to say thank you, but I take it back now,” he gasps dramatically.

You roll your eyes as you offer him the rest of your tissues. “It’s fine. I don’t need your thanks. Just… feel better.”

“Thank you,” he whispers anyway as he props his head on yours.

---

You hear three knocks, two fast knocks, a pause as if it’s left for drastic effects, before the third knock, in a familiar rhythm. Instantly, the wooden doors of the student council room open, and brown hair and honey-colored eyes peek in.

“Wanna do something fun with me, Pres-chan?” Oikawa asks, eyes brilliant and smile equally mischievous.

"... Depends on what it is," you raise an eyebrow at him as you look up from finishing some preparations for university. You've substantially given up trying to advise him to wait before barging into the student council room.

He wiggles his eyebrows before he grins. “Let’s go to the rooftop!"

It takes you a moment to comprehend what he said because while it’s not that crazy, the rooftop is off-limits to students. Subsequently, it occurs to you that out of your three years here, you've under no circumstances done anything remotely rebellious. The adrenaline hits you, so you snatch the keys to the rooftop before heading out the door.

"Alright, let's go."

He freezes before his mouth drops and gasps dramatically. "Heh, Pres-chan, looks like you really aren't that much of a good girl after all."

You roll your eyes at him, and a soft smile finds a way to your face before you walk out. "Hurry up, or I'm leaving you behind."

"Wait for me!!" You hear the scampering footsteps, and you swear you can hear his pout.

This is the first time you’ve ever been on the rooftop, you think, as you finally unlock the door and step out into the sun. It’s a little past seven, and you think the sun is going to set soon as it slowly fades behind the Miyagi skylines in bursts of orange. You close your eyes as the wind blows, almost as if it’s greeting you. You can see why people skip all the time to be up here.

“Feels pretty good, huh?” Oikawa stands beside you as the wind tousles his hair and the sun kisses his skin. He looks radiant under the sunlight, and you merely hope he doesn’t hear the fluttering of your heart.

“Yeah,” you nod along, “I… I wish I came up here earlier.

Honey brown eyes so deep and warm, staring directly at you, and there is something that you’re terrified to name. You always thought love was something dramatic, once in a lifetime, and it just hits you like a train out of nowhere. With Oikawa Tooru, it feels more like learning to walk - steadily, one step after another, until he becomes a part of your natural routine.

You can see the longing and something akin to love in his eyes, but you know it's not love. You know when he loves, he loves with all his being. Right now, there is something, but it's not love because he sees not only you but also past you. He sees the light at the end of the tunnel, the future where he's standing on a volleyball court with his name on the back of a national team jersey. He sees the passion and the love he has for volleyball beyond you, and even when he's here in the moment, even when he likes you, he sees something greater.

Your heart clenches because you want it to be you, you want you, this to be enough. But you know he is meant for something so much greater. He is meant for the stage lights of an international court, living and thriving with so much passion and love for the sport he dedicates his life to. He is unmeant to be here, to be held back by something called love.

You try ignoring the way his eyes soften when he looks at you, try ignoring the way his eyes linger at your lips as if he wants to kiss you. You try ignoring your yearning heart when all you can hear in your head is him telling you he's going to Argentina.

“You’re going to do great in Argentina.” You swallow the lump in your throat and interlace your own fingers together to prevent yourself from reaching out and holding his hand.

He blinks, and slowly retracts his extended hand, and swallows the words he wants to tell you. “Oh, uhm,” he hesitates. “Geez, Pres-chan! Don’t make it sound like we’re never going to see each other again!” he pouts dramatically, voice creaking just ever so slightly and eyes lacking the playful glint in it. “We’ll see each other again.”

He sounds hesitant, almost as if he’s doubtful if he can uphold the words of a promise. He doesn’t deserve to be held back by a promise.

You let him go.

It’s funny because you don’t even think he is yours to let go, but you smile anyway as you catch his unfaltering eyes back on the sunset. He is the one who teaches you a little bit about being okay, the one who first opens the tightly sealed jar and lets a gale of fresh air into your world.

“Thank you,” you tell him softly. Your hand finds its way to him, fingertips ghosting over his hand almost as if you didn’t just reject his moments ago.

The wind blows softly, and the blooming cherry blossoms flutter as he blinks in confusion before he smiles crookedly too. In a world where you are braver, you would have voiced the three words lingering on your mind instead of the two that came out, and your lips would have been on his instead of settling for a ghost of a touch of hands. But in this world, this is all you can do, all you can intend for.

Instead, the two of you continue to stand in silence, sharing this one last moment where he can stand on both legs without leaning to his left to accommodate for his right knee, where you can laugh in a loose smile and ruffled hair without feeling the need to fix them. It’s satisfactory, you tell yourself, this is enough.

While he may not be your soulmate, while you have no soulmate mark, it hurts all the same. Your heart still breaks as the falling sunlight fades into the deep indigo skies, as he waves goodnight, as you watch him go with the world on his shoulders and wings on his back. The hollowness in your chest aches, and you wonder if this is what heartbreak feels like.

---

“Funny, huh? Out of all the people in the world, out of all the places in the world, I end up meeting you on an Argentinian beach, thousands of miles away from home,” you stifle your laughter softly.

The hot summer wind blows into your unbound hair, bringing grains of sand and the scent of the ocean. The shore calls you, and you find yourself wiggling your toes in the clear waters. As you look to the horizon, you find that the crystalline waters contrast vividly against the soft pinks and oranges of the fading sun. It’s so surreal, and it makes you momentarily forget that there are responsibilities, people waiting for you back at home.

The faint rustling and the loud splash of water wake you from your trance, and you find Oikawa Tooru running into the waters carefreely. His pants are roughly rolled up just barely above the water level. His eyes are tender and his smile is wide as he holds his hand out to you.

“Come on, Pres-chan,” he gestures his hand in front of you again. “The water feels really nice!”

You take a moment to breathe because he looks beautiful with his brown eyes twinkling mischievously and lips upturned jovially and carefreely against the fleeting sunset. You smile once more, lips upturn softly instead of the traditional 45 degrees, as the last strands of your hair frees from your hair tie.

You briefly remember being eighteen, standing on the rooftop of your high school. His hand is extended, but you were too afraid to take it, too afraid to become a burden. You blink once and think maybe this time, he should have a say in his own decisions instead of you selfishly making it for him. You take his hand, hesitantly and shyly, as you take your first steps into the water.

Time stills as your eyes meet his brown ones. He stares at you dumbfoundedly, and you are unsure if the pinks of his cheeks are from you or the sunset.

“You look happier,” he finally comments softly, “I’m glad.”

Now it’s your turn to stare at him dumbfoundedly. Your hand covers a slight laugh that breaks from your lips. You take in his wind-tousled chestnut hair and eyes closed from his laughter, his muscular body that no longer tends to lean on his left side absentmindedly to protect his right knee, and you realize he is more genuine, more candid, more Oikawa Tooru than the one you’ve known since high school.

“You do too.”

”Wanna grab drinks after?” Oikawa asks nonchalantly as the two of you finally make your way out of the water and sit under the broad umbrella from the blazing sun. His long legs are stretched out as he leans back, hands propping him up.

Despite his relaxed posture and even voice, you see his fingers wiggling in the sand and the pinks peeking on his cheeks and the tip of his ears. It almost makes you laugh because you’re certain you can reckon on one hand how many times Oikawa Tooru seems so timid.

“I mean”- he continues, taking your silence as a declination, -“just as friends, to catch up, you know? How have you been? Oh! What about your cousin? Didn’t she -”

“Okay,” you laugh lightly. “I’d be happy to.”

“-Oh, now that I think about it, what did you end up doing- wait -” he pauses mid-sentence as he stares at you bewilderedly, ”-okay?”

“Yes,” you laugh again, much louder and without restraint. “Okay.”

“Okay,” he repeats after you again.

“Yes, okay.” You nod.

The smile he gives you is so bright it outshines the sun.

---

"So, how are you?" he asks again once you're seated beside him, a beer in hand and dusk in view.

You offered a general answer earlier, and it started a train of small talk that never breaches past the surface. It reminds you of high school and leaves a bitter aftertaste in your mouth.

The beach in Argentina is always full of life, but it's quieter now. Maybe it's the fact that it's getting late or the fact that you're on your third beer already, all you can focus on is the man beside you.

Maybe you're more honest now too because he looks like he wants to ask more. (Like he asks “how are you?” when all his eyes are saying is “I love you.”)

"I threw my phone into the ocean and got in a screaming match with my dad," you tell him honestly.

You can feel his gaze on you as he lets out a soft hum to let you know he's listening. It used to unnerve you whenever he looks at you like that, whenever he makes you feel so transparent. Now, it makes you smile because he always makes you feel so seen.

"He told me to be all these things that I am not because he wanted me to have a good life. I know his intentions and know it makes him happy. But I was so fed up with just constantly not being enough for who he wanted me to be, so I told him I just wanted to be his daughter."

You don't realize your hands are shaking until you feel his hands on yours. He pulls the beer bottle out of your hands before he places them into his own and squeezes them.

"And what did he say?" he asks softly, recalling all the late nights and the mask you put on at school in the name of a shadow that always looms over you. He remembers the instant drop of your face whenever your father comes up, when the words duty and filial piety become a burden instead of pride on your shoulders.

"He just kinda stared at me and stopped talking. I think it didn't occur to him that this was a thought in my head. I cried a lot." You squeeze his hands back.

"Yeah, I'm glad you gave him a piece of your mind, though." His voice is gentle as his thumb brushes over your knuckles.

"He cut me fruit after, so I think we're okay," you laugh awkwardly as you flash him a smile. "I think I'm okay."

He smiles too when he notices your smile is a lot freer now, that the corners of your lips are no longer locked in place and forced in front of fake pleasantries. Maybe he's freer now too, he thinks as he looks at the brightly lit skies, as he continues his volleyball journey, feeling so fulfilled despite being thousands of miles away from home.

"I used to think I wasn't good enough," he starts honestly with a small laugh. "No matter how hard I work, I could never be enough compared to geniuses who just get it."

“I used to think you were so put together when I initially met you, like the universe's spotlight was meant for you,” you hum. “Until I realized you were the reason why the volleyball gym keys were never returned on time.”

He laughs light-heartedly. “Hey, I had an image to keep up, okay?”

You tuck in your knees and prop your head on top of them, eyes never leaving his, hand still in his. “I think I realized you were a lot more reachable, human even, when I saw you broke down after losing to Karasuno our third year.”

“Are you deriving comfort in my pain? How rude!” He pouts. “But I somewhat get it. I used to think you were super snobby with your fake smiles and your super tight ponytail. I used to think you were going to be balding early!”

“You were the one who habitually had a hoard of fangirls around you, and nobody could get anyplace in the hallways!” You retort with a fond smile.

Memories of high school seem so long ago, and as you recall each one, you see the light in his eyes waning and waxing with the tides. The feelings you try so hard to bury, the ones you try to let go of the day he set off to Argentina bubble through your chest and flow onto your lips.

"I think I was too scared to love you," you finally whisper as the moon rises and the waves kiss the shore.

He stares at you and blinks once, twice, before he breathes a soft, “Oh.”

You finally take your eyes off him, hand finally wiggling its way out of his to encase yourself as you bury your face in your knees. “I wanted to be enough. But I wasn’t. I wasn’t for my dad, wasn’t for myself, wasn’t for you.”

He leans closer and brushes a strand of loose hair off your face. “You are always enough. For your dad, for yourself,” he pauses and smiles gently, “And you are more than enough for me.”

You peek at him through your lashes. The ocean waves drown out the sound of your heartbeat as he stares at you earnestly, eyes honest and lips so, so close.

“I didn’t want you to regret me,” you whisper, voice barely audible, “I didn’t want to be someone who holds you back from your dreams. I didn’t want to be just temporary until you find your soulmate.”

His eyes widen, but he persists steadily close. “I don’t think I could ever regret you. My dreams will always be the national court, but you being there, by my side, would be the best part of it.”

He takes a breath as he reaches for your hand, much like he did at the rooftop of your high school.

“I was born without a soulmate mark. Initially, I was so upset because I thought no one would love me unconditionally like a soulmate is supposed to. But honestly, fuck that. Fuck soulmates. Fuck some pre-destined person supposedly made for you because no one is. We are in control of our own fate, and we are in control of whom we choose to love. And I like you Pres-chan. I have since I was eighteen and dumb. I still like you now at twenty and still a little dumb. But no matter how old I am, how old I will be, it’s always you. I will always choose to love you.”

You breathe in sharply as you listen to his words, every sound and syllable clear as his eyes as he looks at you, only you. There is only truth in his words, and as your eyes wander from his to his hand and back to his eyes, the overwhelming amount of sincerity overwhelms you.

Oikawa Tooru has always been dedicated in all that he does, and the thought that he is offering you that very same dedicated heart of his becomes a consuming warmth in your chest. The heat of your fluttering heart radiates off your cheeks, and the feeling that has been blossoming in your heart blooms into an indescribable softness and affection.

Love has perpetually been something out of reach, something you witness in movies and read in books, something you witness in your friends and cousin. But love is here now, in the form of Oikawa Tooru with his hands stretched out for you to take, with his heart bare and exposed for you to have.

“I was born without a soulmate mark too. I used to hate it because it felt like it was another thing I was lacking in. I wasn’t even enough to have a soulmate,” you breathe out, eyes on the ocean that reflects on the moonlight. The last bits of the tightly sealed jar of emotions you’ve kept finally flows out.

“But if soulmates do exist, I would like to think they are made. Not in the sense that they are made for each other, because fuck destiny, but in the sense that we wake up every morning and choose who fits us and how they fit. And whatever this is we have between us, we forged it,” you start firmly as you place your hand in his, eyes meeting his. The last bit of bitterness flows into the sea, and the only thing that remains at the bottom of this jar is hope.

“I like you too, Oikawa. I have since I was eighteen and smart. I still do at twenty and moderately smarter but still trying to figure life out. And I don’t know what the future holds or even what I’m doing to do from here on, but I want it to be you.”

“I want it to be you too. I can’t promise you the world or where our lives will lead from here onwards. What I can promise is I will choose you, from the moment I wake up until the moment I sleep, from now until the end of the ocean.”

A promise, his truth. While the unknown horrifies you, this is enough. You smile as you squeeze his hand. When he grins and squeezes your hand back, you think maybe love is irrevocably here to stay.

---

“What were you before you met me?” He takes one of your hands in his and uses his other in an attempt to tame your unconstrained hair against the wind. He pouts when he finds that your hair just blows wildly and gives up, but he smiles, nonetheless, when he hears your unrestrained laughter.

You shake your hair out of your face and turn to face him, hair blowing wildly and freely with the wind. You tear your eyes away from slow waves of the ocean, illuminated by the brilliant reds and oranges of the setting sun, and you find yourself more captivated by glowing brown eyes than you ever could by the dazzling colors of the horizon.

You stare briefly at him, looking into his eyes and seeing his relentless soul, and the butterflies in your stomach flutter like they did the very first time, feeling absolutely starstruck. You hum softly as you turn back to the peaceful waves and remember the tight ponytails and painted smiles of your high school days. You remember the weight on your shoulders to become someone ideal and the heaviness on your heart to become a you that only lives to make your father proud.

“I think... I was drowning,” you answer almost inaudibly but honestly, both hands gripping his tightly as if you’re holding a lifeline.

He pauses for a moment before he squeezes your hands again. He whispers then, reluctantly and almost fearfully, “And what are you now?”

You turn to meet his eyes. You recall him at seventeen and feeling annoyed because he mirrored every bit of the pretense you put up in all the undesirable ways. But you see him now, twenty and free of the inferiority and limitations he places on himself, and you wonder if you also look older, wiser, happier because you are now the you you want to be.

You have always associated him with air because he is terrible and unpredictable, destructive and clear, focused and silent. But he is also comforting and calm, like an invisible force, who's consistently going and going, with unhindered sight. He is always persistently here and cannot be turned away, and before long, you find yourself not knowing what to do without it.

At the moment, you find the last bits of the riptides that pull you under the waters finally cease, and as you enjoy the scent of the salty ocean and hear the lull of the gentle waves, you think you can finally breathe freely and vivaciously.

Slowly, you take a hand to trace the outline of the miniature matching sun tattooed on his chest, where the soulmate mark is supposed to appear. You smile undoubtedly and wholeheartedly.

“Water.”

---

you’re what i need cause now i can breathe; you put the beat in my heart. somehow we fit together, and now we’re unbreakable.

#oikawa x reader #oikawa x you #oikawa tooru x reader #oikawa tooru x you #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x you #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu fluff #oikawa fluff #oikawa toru x reader #oikawa toru x you #happy birthday to my mf grand king <3 #slightly late because tumblr was being dumb </3 #please give unbreakable from carole and tuesday a listen! :')#this has been sitting in my drafts since october lmfao pls take it before i hate it even more pain #sorry for the choppiness </3 #sometimes i write things #soulmates au series #text

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mostlycompetentwriter · 5 years ago

Text

ROCK

Pairing: Gender Neutral Reader x Seo Changbin (SKZ)

Word count: 1.3K

Genre: Roommate AU

Warnings: Angst and Fluff!

Summary: You’ve never considered yourself better than anyone else, but that doesn’t mean you can take anymore of the way your boss and co-workers seem to disregard you at work - like you aren’t good enough. Thankfully, Changbin is always around to help you see the best version of yourself and chase away all those insecurities...

A/N: A special requested fic for @mrsunshine999

A rock or a steady foundation...

It was a tedious routine at this point - glancing up at the clock above your desk and wondering whether or not time itself was against you. When you were younger, you had this perception of the idealized “dream job,” but you could’ve never anticipated the situation that you encountered on a regular basis in the present. It all started with your new manager because he was determined to undercut your efforts and success at every available opportunity.

It was a recurring pattern, and you were growing tired of being mistreated and told that you weren’t good enough. Of course, the worst instance of your manager’s abuse happened in the moments preceding your deliverance of a presentation in front of the company CEO and several important men and women in the office. It was meant to be your big break - a chance to impress the higher-ups in the corporation. However, when you opened the file that you had sent to your manager for revisions, you were horrified to see that he had replaced your name with his own. Consequently, it was beyond humiliating to deliver the presentation because everyone in the room thought that you were simply recounting the efforts of someone else.

“Good job, Mr. Kim,” your CEO remarked to your manager, and a steady applause filled the room while your manager smirked in your direction.

It was the worst kind of disappointment because that research and power-point presentation had taken you weeks to put together, and nobody would ever validate your efforts because the manager had effectively stolen the spotlight. “Asshole,” you muttered under your breath.

It was a horrible memory that would be forever ensconced inside your head, and the more you thought about it, the more you started to feel your self-confidence dwindling to an all-time low. Like the mere idea of returning to work the next day seemed irrelevant because you were incapable of accomplishing anything substantial. The thoughts racing through your mind were worsening: what if your manager was right? Maybe you weren’t worthy of praise because you simply lacked the ability to deliver outstanding results. Could that be the real reason why he always felt the need to intervene?

You leaned back in your chair, stewing over the outcome of your efforts, and you sat at your desk chair for the remainder of the afternoon with a heavy heart. Why bother even trying when you would never amount to anything? It might be considered self-loathing, but you couldn’t help the way that you were feeling. Finally, you swallowed hard around a lump in your throat because all you wanted to do was go home and hide yourself away in the comfort of your bedroom.

By the time you got home from work, exhaustion had crippled all of your senses. You fumbled with the keys in the lock before pushing open the door and walking inside with a heavy sigh. “Hey, Y/N! I’m in the kitchen!”

You paused at the familiar sound of your roommate’s voice. “Changbin?” you inquired, walking over to the kitchen to find him reaching into the oven to pull out a tray of sweet-smelling desserts.

“Felix came over earlier to help me make these,” he said, placing the tray on top of the oven. “What do you think?”

“Oh, I’m sure they’re great,” you said, unable to find any real semblance of genuineness when you addressed him.

“Y/N,” Changbin said, looking at you with concern. “Did something happen?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” you said, ignoring the call of your name before retreating into the welcoming darkness of your bedroom.

This was perhaps what you deserved - a morbid darkness of impenetrable self-effacement. It was a place where you could escape from the rest of the world, and you had very nearly fallen asleep when the sound of your door creaking open invited a stream of light to penetrate the shadows.

“Y/N,” Changbin said, and you flinched at the unexpected interruption. “Do you mind if I come inside?”

“I guess not,” you said, re-adjusting your position on the bed while watching Changbin approach with cautious steps - like you were a timid deer that might balk at any sudden movement.

“Did something happen at work?”

You sighed at Changbin’s uncanny intuitiveness. “It’s my manager again.”

“Yeah? What the hell did he do this time?” Changbin nearly growled, inviting himself to sit down on the edge of the mattress next to you.

You shrugged while picking at a loose string on your dress pants. “Do you remember that powerpoint I was working on?”

“Of course,” Changbin said. “Did that asshole say something?”

“He put his name on the presentation,” you said. “He took credit for everything.”

“What the fuck?” Changbin cursed. “Who does this asshole think he is?”

“I don’t know, Changbin. Maybe he did the right thing,” you said, refusing to meet his eyes as he shifted next to you.

“The right thing?! Are you serious, Y/N? He took advantage of your hard work to help save his own ass.” Changbin huffed as he crossed his arms over his chest. “I should go to his stupid apartment and beat the hell out of him.”

You rolled your eyes at Changbin’s histrionics. “No, you shouldn’t. He was probably only looking out for the best interests of the company.”

“Or the best interests of himself,” Changbin countered. “I guess he’s never heard of morals.”

You studied Changbin for a moment, noting how worked up he was getting because it stood in stark contradiction to your listless complacency. After all, this had happened to you before, and maybe you should just start expecting this kind of treatment. After all, your efforts never paid off, and it was becoming glaringly obvious that you weren’t capable of reaching some sort of personal acme.

“I’m just not good enough,” you said, trying your best to wipe away the tears that had fallen at some point during your conversation. “If I was better, then this wouldn’t happen.”

“Y/N!” Changbin gasped, and he immediately grabbed your hands and brought them down and away from your swollen profile. “How can you say that?”

You shook your head - resolutely dead-set on this endless train of self-deprecation. Because why should you believe anything else when there was no evidence to prove the contrary? “I’m mediocre at best,” you said. “That’s all I’ll ever be.”

“Hey!” Changbin said, startling you with such a harsh tone. “Look at me.” You obeyed his command, gazing into the deep caverns of his eyes. “Y/N, you’re more than capable of doing amazing things in your life. I know that everyone has days where they feel like they aren’t doing enough, but even the bare minimum for you will always go above and beyond what others might think is necessary. You’re one of the smartest people I know, and I won’t let you sit here and put yourself down because of one gigantic prick who doesn’t deserve to even be in the same room as you.”

You shivered at Changbin’s intensity, but there wasn’t a single ounce of protest when he wrapped you into his arms, smoothing his hand along the ridge of your spine. It was a soothing gesture, and you felt yourself melt into his familiar embrace. “You’re amazing,” Changbin said, finally pulling away to look at you again. “Don’t let anyone ever tell you anything otherwise.”

You nodded in response because, even if there were still doubts plaguing your thoughts, you could always count on Changbin to shine a reassuring light into the crippling darkness.

#stray kids #stayverse #skzwriternet #skz fanfic #stray kids fanfic #stray kids changbin #changbin x reader #seo changbin fanfic #stray kids angst #stray kids fluff #changbin angst #changbin fluff #stray kids drabbles #requested #mostlycompetent

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inyournightmares97 · 6 years ago

Text

Unsolicited (1/3) (M)

Jackson Wang is a perfect gentleman and he thinks it’s extremely vital that you understand... that is not his penis.

Warnings: Fluff. Crack? Adult topics, mentions of sexual harassment (but not too serious) and plenty of swearing. College!au. Please don’t ask when I’ll update. There are three parts and the next one will come when it’s ready.

Word Count: 4.8k+

It was perhaps an unfortunate set of circumstances that led you to become acquainted with Jackson Wang’s penis long before you ever saw his face. There had been multiple opportunities for your life to take a different turn. Had any of those events occurred differently, you would never have learned who Jackson Wang was.

But the idea that we have any control over our lives is an illusion. Life is simply a set of circumstances thrust upon us.

Not too different from how Jackson Wang’s male organ was unceremoniously thrust in your face one bleak Tuesday afternoon.

You were tired and miserable after spending all night finishing your Economics paper and attending a full day of classes, but you still had to trudge over to the student government building to handle your appointments. It was one of the aforementioned unfortunate circumstances that led to you being elected into the student government body of your university. You had been appointed as student advisor to the Sexual Harassment Response Cell six months ago.

The Sexual Harassment Response Cell was a small student-run organization. It had been hastily approved by the university authorities after an ugly incident involving a professor assaulting a female student. The student body had been enraged and taken to the streets in a passionate protest. To prevent such incidents from recurring in the future, and in order to handle the bad press, the authorities set up the SHRC. The SHRC was a place where students could come to share their experiences of sexual harassment on campus and learn about the appropriate avenues for recourse. The Cell’s responsibility was to provide victims with counselling, support, and if they wished to file a formal complaint with the university, then to make sure they had the right evidence and that their accusations weren’t unfounded.

How did you end up being a student advisor for the SHRC?

Well. You might have attended the protests last year and punched a guy in the face for saying something sexist about the matter. The sound of his nose cracking under your fist was extremely satisfying.

The ride to the police station in the cop car was not.

You made it out of jail in a few hours but the reputation stuck with you. You were now the chick who punched a dude at the protests and somehow you became a poster-girl for the cause. Bambam nominated you for the student government elections and Yugyeom published a picture of you punching the sexist guy in the front page of the monthly student newsletter. You won the election by an overwhelming majority.

If only you had known what you were signing up for.

--------------------------------

“You’re late. My appointment was at 3 pm,” the freshman girl waiting in your tiny counselling office informed you haughtily.

Her eyelashes were long and fake and didn’t match her hair color. You tried not to make a snap judgement; she was supposed to be a victim but the disgusted look she was giving you made that difficult to believe.

You glanced at the clock. It was two minutes past 3.

“Uh, I’m sorry. I had a class all the way on the other side of campus-”

“Whatever,” she cut you off. “Let’s just get this over with.”

You nodded and sat behind the desk with a forced smile. You were supposed to be patient and understanding with the victims because they were usually going through a hard time. You were also supposed to listen to them if they cried and help them find ways to deal with their trauma. You took a deep breath and reminded yourself that the girl in front of you had suffered something.

“I see on the form you filled in that your name is Nari, and you’re a Fashion studies major?” you asked her kindly. “That sounds interesting. Are you having a good time here at university?”

Nari raised an eyebrow at you.

“Fuck all that. I don’t want to chat. I’m here to report cyber-harassment. This dude I met at a frat party two weeks ago managed to get hold of my number and he’s been harassing me through text messages ever since. He’s also a senior and he’s the founding member of the basketball team on campus … so there’s like a power parity-”

“Power disparity,” you mumbled.

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, whatever it’s called. Basically he could make life extremely difficult for me because he has a lot of power and stuff. I hear that makes it even worse because he’s abusing his position? Are you writing all of this down?” she demanded suddenly.

You blinked. “Uh, I’ll make a note after our meeting. I’d rather focus on listening to you right now.”

“Anyway, he sent me a bunch of creepy messages threatening to rape me if I didn’t go out with him and he keeps trying to sext me. I have all the screenshots right here. Yesterday was the last straw because he just crossed all lines by sending me these. Want to see?” She thrust her cellphone at you and you could see screenshots of a text conversation.

“Uh….”

“Read them!”

You did. The screenshots were pretty bad; the guy talked about how he would go to any lengths to make the girl go on a date with him, and how badly he wanted to fuck her. The conversation went on in multiple screenshots. You had just reached the third screenshot when you saw it. A large, close-up image of a man’s penis.

You flinched. “Oh god.”

The girl smiled at you smugly. “See? Exactly my reaction. Unsolicited dick pic. That counts as harassment, right?”

You returned the phone to her, not really wanting to look at the penis or come across more pictures of it. It was large, you thought, but you hadn’t seen enough penises outside of porn to make an informed judgement. Maybe the angle was just flattering.

“All of it counts as harassment,” you reassured her.

Nari looked relieved. “Okay, good. Because I want him off the basketball team and preferably suspended.”

“I understand that you’re angry and want justice but let’s take this step-by-step. If you want to file a formal complaint with the university against this guy, then it’s going to be a long process. University authorities will give him a hearing and you’ll have to present your evidence before them. I’ll be there to guide you through it all and support you but we also need to consider the chances he will manage to prove his innocence, and the amount of trauma that this whole process might put you through. I want you to consider the pros and cons of taking this step.”

Nari blinked. “They can’t just kick him off the team right away?” she demanded.

You stared at her in disbelief.

“No. No disciplinary action can be taken against anyone without giving them a fair trial.”

She groaned. “Unbelievable. Victims like me have to go through the harassment and then all this bullshit as well. How long will the whole process take once you file the complaint for me?”

“It could take a couple of weeks.”

Nari looked unimpressed. “This senior, Jackson Wang, is harassing me. I’m an innocent girl and I didn’t come all the way to university to have guys send me pictures of their ugly dicks, okay? I want him off the basketball team as soon as possible. What are you going to do about it?”

You felt tired.

“Alright, look. I’m going to call this Jackson guy in and have a chat with him first so I can give him a heads-up about the accusations that he’s facing. Then I’d like you to come in again so I can share his response with you and I’ll help you file a complaint with the authorities if that’s what you still want to do in a couple of days. Does that sound good?”

“You can’t file it now?”

“I feel like it might be a good idea to wait a few days. Being too hasty about these things usually backfires. Let’s build a solid case first.”

Nari looked annoyed and then tucked her phone into her purse

“Fine. I’ll email you copies of the evidence and I’ll be waiting for you to call me in again.”

“Okay. Have a nice day!”

She rolled her eyes as she sauntered out of the room. “Whatever.”

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“What is it with men and sending dick pics?” you wondered.

The cafeteria adjacent to the library was crowded and noisy on a Tuesday night. Bambam stuffed an enormous spoonful of rice into his mouth. He munched thoughtfully and swallowed before giving you a cheerful smile.

“It’s sexy. Who doesn’t like getting nudes?”

You frowned and poked at your noodles. You had thought that you were hungry but seeing the picture of Jackson Wang’s dick had ruined your appetite. The sausages on your plate were not helping the unpleasant image that kept flashing through your mind.

“Anyone who’s doing anything except masturbating?” you demanded as you used your chopsticks to transfer the sausages to Bambam’s plate. He bit into one while you continued your rant. “At no point during the day have I ever thought oh I’m horny I wish I had a picture of a dick to look at. Dicks are ugly.”

Bambam frowned mid-chew. “Hey. Can we be a little nicer to them? I happen to own one of those too and my boy enjoys the camera.”

You glared at him. “Please don’t tell me you send unsolicited dick pics to women.”

“Of course not. I only send them when the mood of the conversation is getting sexy and I’m sure that the girl is into it. I have girls who text me saying ‘show me how turned on you are for me’ and that’s basically code for ‘send me a dick pic’. Sometimes girls actually ask for them, you know?”

“And a lot of the time they don’t.”

Bambam shrugged. “Yeah, I guess. There are always those guys.”

“But what’s the logic?” you demanded. “What is the thought process that goes into snapping a dick pic in the middle of the day and sending it to some poor girl who's going about her business? Do men think their dicks are that attractive? Are they assuming that the girl will get so uncontrollably turned on by the close-up shot of their penises that they’ll drop everything and run to desperately fuck them? What sort of weird male delusion is that?”

Bambam sighed. “I doubt it goes that far. I think these guys are just hoping for nudes in return. You know? Like I showed you mine now please show me yours?”

“Gross.”

“Men likes receiving nudes. They just assume girls feel the same way.”

You rolled your eyes. Maybe you shouldn't be letting Nari’s situation get to you. The image of Jackson Wang’s semi-erect penis was burned into your mind unpleasantly (and now a copy of it was even sitting in your email inbox) but you needed to be more professional about the situation. You had sent an email to Jackson Wang asking him to come into your office tomorrow and the man had sent a simple and short ‘Cool. Will be there.’ as a response. You weren’t sure how to handle the meeting but you figured that getting an idea of whether Jackson Wang would confess to the dick pic or would deny sending it, seemed like a good place to start.

Bambam had finished eating your sausages and you were relieved to see them gone.

“So, did you make a decision about the new club you’re joining this semester?” he asked. The two of you had decided to join new clubs that would help you on your resumes in the long-term. “I think I’m going to try out for the basketball team. I figure since I’m tall I should go for the sport that gives me a natural advantage, right?”

“Are you sure you want to go for a sports club?” you asked disapprovingly.

Bambam frowned. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because you suck at almost all forms of physical activity. Just come with me to the environment club meeting on Friday, please?”

“Ew. No. Ask Yugyeom.”

“He won’t come unless you come,” you whined. Yugyeom and Bambam wanted to play sports but you were personally opposed to putting in so much physical effort. You already had enough difficult classes to deal with this semester. The Environment Club seemed much simpler. You could attend meetings once a week and maybe help design some awareness posters or join a clean-up drive. “Why can’t you just come with me to the meeting? I don’t want to go alone.”

Bambam pointed to himself. “This beautiful body was not made to pick up trash, babe.”

“Unbelievable.”

“Tell me if the club has a lot of hot chicks, though.”

“No, I’m not going to encourage your man-whoring ways, Bambam. Find a more normal hobby.”

Bambam rolled his eyes as he stole a piece of carrot from your tray. “You’re just miserable because you’re a virgin. And sitting at that stupid SHRC all day and listening to women talk about harassment is turning you into a man-hater. If you keep going down the path you’re on now then you’ll never get laid, trust me.”

You stuck your tongue out at him. “If that’s how ugly male penises all look then maybe I don’t want one stuck in me.”

“Hey, hey, hey!” Bambam brightened up and suddenly pointed his chopsticks at you. “Have you considered that you might be… you know? Gay? Cause I know this chick who’s bi, okay, and she says that if I can find a lesbian we might be able to have a threesome-”

“-and now I have completely lost my appetite,” you snapped as you grabbed your tray. “Bye, Bambam.”

He simply waved as you tossed the contents of your tray in the garbage and left the cafeteria. You needed to head back to your dorm and get some sleep. Tomorrow would be another long day.

--------------------------

You hadn’t been prepared for Jackson Wang to be so handsome.

He was already waiting in your office when you arrived; you were surprised to see Jackson was punctual despite the short notice. He had dark brown hair that flopped into his bright eyes and a smile that was almost childlike. Jackson was staring at a poster put up on your office wall that described some basic self-defence tactics for women and he glanced at you when you entered.

“These posters always tell women to kick dudes in the groin!” Jackson pointed out to you brightly, pointing at a cartoon image of a woman kneeing her male attacker. You stared at the handsome man in front of you and blinked.

“Excuse me?”

“Sorry, this is just my first time in the SHRC building. I never knew that Self-Defence 101 for women was to kick the guys’ balls,” Jackson admitted casually. He was gorgeous; your eyes lingered on the muscles along the length of his tanned arms when he held his hand out for you to shake. “Hi, I’m Jackson Wang. You emailed me asking me to meet you here?”

You cleared your throat and shook his hand. Jackson’s skin was soft and warm.

“Yeah, I need to talk to you about a complaint I received yesterday. Please take a seat.”

“Can I just finish reading this poster first? I had no clue there were this many ways to knee a guy in the jewels. I feel like I should be aware of these things, you know?” Jackson joked.

You frowned. Did he think this was funny? You were not impressed.

“Unless you’re planning on assaulting a woman, I see no reason why you need to read that poster.”

Jackson’s smile fell and his lower lip stuck out in a small pout as he slumped over to the seat across from your desk. He folded his arms across his chest in a childish fashion. “Hey. Sometimes men need to defend themselves too, you know. Or do you think that men can’t be victims of sexual violence?” he challenged.

You sighed and pressed your fingers to your temples. “I never said that. Unfortunately, you’re not here as a victim. I’ve asked to meet you because I received a complaint from a female student yesterday that she’s been the victim of cyber-harassment. She’s been receiving threatening text messages and unsolicited images of genitalia.”

Jackson’s dark eyes widened in concern and he leaned forward. “No way! What bastard has been doing that?”

You stared at him.

“You. The complaint is against you, Jackson.”

Jackson stared blankly for a few seconds and you could almost see the gears whirring behind his big puppy-like eyes. He tilted his head slightly to the left.

“Me?” he asked, pointing at himself in a confused manner. You would have thought he was cute if you hadn’t been convinced that he was a sexual predator. “I sent threatening texts to a female student? No way. I rarely even text girls.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Likely story.”

Jackson seemed startled. His handsome smile fell off his face and he waved a hand in the air wildly. “Whoa, wait. Are you serious right now? Is there really somebody accusing me of harassment? Who?”

“I’m not at liberty to reveal the identity of victims who approach the SHRC for their own safety,” you explained calmly. “But she has shown me text messages as evidence and she also said that she intends to file a formal complaint with the university authorities. You would have to defend yourself before a Disciplinary Committee and you could be suspended.”

Jackson stared at you.

“You’re not serious.”

“I’m perfectly serious.”

“But I’ve never- I swear I’ve never sent any messages like that! This has got to be some kind of misunderstanding. What do the messages even say? Can I see them?” Jackson insisted. You bit your lip. Ideally you shouldn’t show him the pictures because it could help him identify Nari as the complainant. But something about Jackson’s brown eyes and horrified expression made you want to give him a chance to defend himself. You carefully opened your laptop and found the email Nari had sent you with the screenshots.

“I have the unsolicited dick pic you sent her right here.”

Jackson stared at you. “What? Let me see that!”

He turned the laptop to face him and there, on the screen, was the large picture of a penis that Nari had shown you. Jackson stared at it intently for a few moments and then turned to look at you in relief.

“Oh thank god. Dude, there’s a misunderstanding. That’s not even my dick,” he told you confidently.

You raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

Jackson used the mouse to zoom into the picture and you winced as the penis now blew up the entire screen. “That is absolutely not my penis. I would know. I feel awful that this poor girl had to get this in her inbox but it is not mine.” Jackson leaned back in his seat and folded his arms across his chest. “You’ve got the wrong guy. You should be looking for the owner of this penis.”

“The complainant named you. There’s only one Jackson Wang in this university.”

“Come on. You’ve got to be kidding me right now. That is literally some other dude’s dick, how can you just sit there and tell me that I’m going to get into trouble for it?” Jackson demanded. He slammed his hand on your desk and frowned. “That’s unfair!”

“I have no way to confirm whether or not this is your penis.”

Jackson’s hands slowly drifted towards his belt. “Well I could always…”

Your eyes flashed. “Don’t you dare take your pants off in this office.”

Jackson pouted and dropped his hands to his sides. “I wasn’t going to,” he whined. He reached for your laptop and zoomed out of the penis picture to look at the text message. “Wait, this is just a screenshot. Don’t you have the original message files? Because I’m positive that these messages couldn’t have come from my phone number. You can check my phone. I have no records of this stuff.”

You blinked. Jackson had a point. These were just screenshots. All they proved was that these messages had come from somebody that Nari had saved on her phone as “Jackson”; his real phone number was nowhere visible on screen.

“You think these messages came from somebody else?” you wondered.

Jackson nodded firmly. “I think this girl is being catfished.”

“Catfished?”

“Yeah! Someone is pretending to be me and trying to get nudes out of this girl,” Jackson insisted smugly. He leaned back and folded his arms across his broad chest. “It wouldn’t be the first time; I have a handsome face and an easier time with the ladies so a guy might have thought his chances were better if he pretended to be me.”

Oh god save me from these people.

“So this guy is pretending to be you but he’s sending her pictures of his own dick?” you questioned, unimpressed.

Jackson snapped his fingers as though he’d just had a brilliant idea. “You know what we need to do?”

“What?”

“We need to find the owner of this penis.”

You stared at him in disbelief. You couldn’t tell whether Jackson Wang was really a complete idiot or if he was playing you in order to make himself look innocent. You sighed and pressed your fingers to your temple in irritation.

“Or I could just call the complainant and ask her what phone number these texts and pictures came from?”

Jackson frowned and slumped back in his seat. “Doesn’t sound as fun, but okay.”

“How about we end this meeting here and I get in touch with you again after I’ve spoken to the complainant and floated the idea that maybe these pictures are coming from somebody other than you?” you asked. This was turning into a longer procedure than you’d expected but you did have the responsibility to make sure that Jackson wasn’t being framed or falsely accused.

Jackson nodded. “Sounds good to me. In the meantime, I’ll be on the lookout for the real owner of that penis. I spend a lot of time with other guys in locker rooms”

You winced. “Please don’t do that.”

Jackson stood up and he reached across the desk to shake your hand once more. You avoided his gaze and tried not to feel flustered by his warm and gentle grip. He stared at you for a moment and froze with his fingers wrapped around yours.

“Can I ask you something?”

You blinked. “What?”

“Are you by any chance that girl who socked a dude in the face during the protests last year?” he asked bluntly. His lips twisted into a cheeky smile as his eyes scanned you eagerly. “Cause you look a lot like her and damn, that was insanely hot.”

You flushed. “I’ll get in touch with you if I need you, Jackson.”

Jackson grinned. “Sure. Pleasure meeting you.”

------------------------------------------------------

“I think I’m in love,” Bambam sighed happily.

You barely glanced at him, too busy staring at your laptop screen. Bambam was lying back on your couch with a stupid smile on his face while Yugyeom sat at his feet and dully flicked through the channels on your television. Both of them stank of sweat, having come straight to your apartment from their basketball trials.

“You literally just saw her, Bam,” Yugyeom pointed out dismissively.

“I know but she was just so….” Bambam trailed off and sat up eagerly to explain himself. “You know how some people just have this aura? Like this charisma? She had that, okay? It was just the way she walked and the way she dressed and her gaze…”

“It took her less than ten seconds to walk past us, you really analyzed all that in that short amount of time? You can’t even finish reading the powerpoint presentation in class before Professor Lee switches to the next slide.”

Bambam pouted. “Can’t a man fall in love in peace? Damn.”

“You don’t even know who she is.”

“I’ll just hang around the basketball court at the same time tomorrow and see if she passes by again! She was probably coming from the library. I’m sure she’ll do it again sometime. Right? Help me out here, would you?” Bambam demanded. He reached over to poke your shoulder and you frowned at him in irritation. It was certainly unusual for Bambam to say that he was in love with a woman but you had bigger things to worry about.

“If she goes to the library then she’s not your type, Bambam.”

Bambam pouted. “That’s unfair.”

“When’s the last time you read a book? And frantically flipping through textbooks the night before exams doesn’t count,” you snapped. When Bambam fell silent, you let out a sigh. “I’m sorry. This whole dick pic business is just getting to me. The dude claims that it’s not his penis. I called up Nari asking for the text logs but she says she took the screenshots and then deleted both the original messages and his number. It’s kind of suspicious… but maybe she just didn’t want to have them on her phone anymore? I don’t know what to believe.”

Yugyeom frowned. “He really just flat-out said it wasn’t his dick?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s either a guy who's telling the truth, or a guy with a lot of experience lying.”

You turned your laptop screen so that both Bambam and Yugyeom could see it. You’d found Jackson Wang’s Facebook profile. His cover picture was a group photo of him at the beach. He was wearing a pair of shorts that showed off his toned thighs and a significant bulge. Jackson’s mouth was twisted in a toothy, cheerful smile.

You pulled up the picture of the dick next to it.

“You guys tell me what you think. Does this dick look like it could belong to that guy?” you demanded.

Bambam leaned forward and squinted. “Holy shit. That’s Jackson Wang.”

“Yeah.”

“Your dick pic guy was Jackson Wang?” Bambam demanded, horrified. He shook his head quickly. “No way. That is not possible. Do you even know who Jackson Wang is? He’s like the coolest guy I’ve ever met. He charming and he’s funny and everybody in this university fucking loves him. Okay? Girls would kill to be with Jackson Wang. He doesn’t need to send dick pics. He probably gets dick pics, and nudes, and all sorts of stuff on the daily.”

You stared at Bambam. “Huh.”

“Besides, he’s a totally nice and humble guy.”

You rolled your eyes. “Okay, but attractive people are never really humble. They just pretend to be.”

“Jackson is.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Well he is,” Bambam replied firmly. He leaned back and frowned at the picture of the penis. “But on second thought that is one big penis so it might just be Jackson’s. He does have that big dick energy.”

You tilted your head at the screen. “You think this one is big? Yugyeom?”

Yugyeom nodded. “Pretty big, yeah. And you have to keep in mind that it’s only semi-erect.”

You sighed and closed both tabs before rubbing your hands over your eyes and letting out a groan. This was not how you had intended to spend your Wednesday night. You leaned back against the sofa.

“What am I even doing? How did my life come to the point where I need to stare at this random picture of a penis and figure out who it belongs to?” you whined miserably. “I’ve never even seen a guy’s dick in real life before.”

Bambam snickered. “Maybe you should ask Jackson to show you his. You know. So he can prove that it’s not the one in the picture?”

You glared at him. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Why?”

“Because I can’t exactly go back to Nari and tell her; oh guess what, I looked at Jackson’s dick and it’s not the same one from your screenshots, what if she still wants to file a complaint? What if the matter goes to the university authorities and I have to take Jackson’s side? Am I supposed to look the Dean in the eye and go I’m sorry sir, I already checked out his penis and it’s not the same? Should I ask Jackson to drop his pants in front of the Dean too?”

Yugyeom snickered. “That could be the lead up to a pretty interesting porn movie.”

“No, there has to be some other way to solve this. Nari didn’t just come up with those text messages out of nowhere, there has to be some story behind this.”

Bambam snorted and turned away from you. “Okay, Nancy Drew. You go conduct your investigation. We’re gonna watch tv.”

You pouted. “You guys are useless.”

“I like being useless. It takes off the pressure to perform.”

“I doubt any performance of yours has lasted more than two minutes.”

Bambam stuck his tongue out at you irritably. “Well, guess what? You’ve never slept with me so you don’t get an opinion on my performance. Go ask Jackson Wang how long he lasts.”

You sighed.

#got7 #got7 scenarios #got7 scenario #got7 fanfiction #got7 fluff #got7 smut #got7 angst #got7 jackson #jackson wang #jackson wang scenario #jackson wang scenarios #got7 jackson fluff #jackson wang fanfiction #wang jackson

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subskywalker · 6 years ago

Note

Can I get 13 and 53 with obikin?:)

Thanks for sending this love!!💕💕💕😊😊😊13). Detective AU and 53). Mutual pining, i hope I did this justice! This accidentally became them falling in love through the years but I hope it’s okay! I’m might continue this in a part two!💕

Day one:

Anakin doesn’t realize it at the time but spilling coffee on Obi-Wan Kenobi as he trips up the stairs and the case file he has goes everywhere is probably the most important moment of his life. It’s a start of beautiful friendship and he wonders how they even became friends at all but they work. They’re a team, they’re the team.

Obi-Wan is all charm and negotiation and careful planning. Whereas Anakin is awkward and sarcastic and quick thinking. He stumbles and he makes mistakes but he learns from them. They watch out for each other and somehow, despite being complete opposites, they just work together. They make a pretty damn good team.

Day 24:

It’s a game they play when they close a case, everyone else is asleep on the jet and it’s just Obi-Wan and him.

“French toast or pancakes?”

Obi-Wan doesn’t look up from the book he’s reading, “Neither I like crepes better.”

“Hmmm, I like pancakes better. There’s more variety and you can never go wrong with pancakes.” He puts his cup of coffee aside .

“Coffee or tea? I prefer coffee myself, I could never get myself to like tea no matter how hard I try.”

“Tea, I hate coffee.”

“The city or the countryside?”

“The city. Anakin, I don’t see-”

“Same! The countryside scares me its too remote, too quiet. “

“Anakin why are you asking me these questions?”

He shrugs, “We don’t really know each other outside of work and now I know you’re a morning person and you get up early to either buy or make crepes. You like to drink tea, probably fancy tea because you come off as the type to like fancy tea blends. You probably drink it while you read a new book or watch nature or history documentaries.”

Obi-Wan only raises an eyebrow and looks at him.

Anakin is quiet and he’s embarrassed as he admits, “I just want to get to know you.”

Obi-Wan stares at him like he hadn’t considered it before.

Anakin is about to change the subject, afraid he just crossed a line when Obi-Wan interrupts him.

“Pineapple on pizza or no pineapple on pizza?”

“Nay! Pineapple was never meant to be on pizza, Kenobi.”

Obi-Wan raises an eyebrow and gives him a sly smile as he says, “Ever wonder why I always order the pizza with pineapples on it when we work late?”

Anakin lets out a gasp and points an accusatory finger at him.

“Now that’s just rude.” But there’s no biting edge to his words and it’s worth it just to hear the soft laugh Obi-Wan lets out.

Day 41:

Obi-Wan likes to flirt. A lot. The thing is that’s just who Obi-Wan is. He flirts and he smiles and he’s charming and genuine-and he’s Obi-Wan.

There’s casual touches and playful winks and it used to fluster him, but then he got to know Obi-Wan and he knows that flirting is just who he is. He’s seen him negotiate afterall.

So he rolls his eyes and smiles when Obi-Wan throws his arm around Anakin’s shoulder to pull him closer. He raises his eyebrows when he tells him practically cheesy pick-up line that he somehow manages to make the delivery smooth. He doesn’t think there isn’t anything Obi-Wan couldn’t make smooth, he thinks it has to be the accent. And Anakin would laugh-he does laugh-but it’s Obi-Wan and flirting is what he does.

Flirting is what they do.

So they banter and they share jokes and smiles. They lean into each other and-and they’re best friends. They’re Anakin and Obi-Wan, Skywalker and Kenobi. They’re a team. They’re the team.

The flirting doesn’t mean anything after all. The flirting doesn’t change their dynamic at all.

Day 79:

They’re the last two to go home for the night, jetlagged and dead on their feet.

“You’re my best friend, Anakin”

Anakin looks over at him as he leans against the elevator wall, their knees touching and he smiles at him and holds hand.

“You’re my best friend too, Obi-Wan”

He wonders why that breaks his heart just a little.

Day 117:

Anakin has recurring nightmares of the things he’s seen. The grotesque crime scenes and the victims they couldn’t save.

He wakes up in the middle night his heart still beating loudly in his ears.

‘It was just a nightmare. It was only a nightmare.' He thinks to himself and closes his eyes trying to will away the images he sees.

A few minutes pass and he sighs, silently cursing himself as he reaches for his phone and scrolls through his contacts before he finds the one he was looking for. He hesitates before he presses call

He hears Obi-Wan’s voice on the other end rough with sleep, “Hello? Anakin?”

“I-I’m sorry.”

He shouldn’t have called, he shouldn’t have called and he’s about to hang up when he hears Obi-Wan.

“Hey, no, it’s okay. Did something happen?”

He’s quiet and he’s embarrassed to say that he had nightmare and he just wanted to call him.

“Did you have another nightmare?” He asks softly and he’s nodding before he remembers that Obi-Wan can’t see him.

“Yes. I just- I don’t know why I called but I couldn’t go back to sleep.”

“It’s okay.” He pauses and asks, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No. Can you just talk to me until I fall asleep?”

“Of course, dear one. Have I told you about the day trip I had with Quinlan?"

He doesn’t know when he fell asleep, all he knows is that he fell asleep to the sound of Obi-Wan’s voice. And when he woke up in the morning the phone call was still going and he could hear the faint snoring coming from the other end. He smiles at that and ends the call.

He wonders when it stopped being the victims he didn’t save and when it started being Obi-Wan in his nightmares.

Day 155:

He’s heard the phrase, ‘Keep the cover at all costs,’ he just didn’t think this is what they meant by it.

Obi-Wan pulls him into an alcove and before he can ask what he’s doing Obi-Wan is kissing him. His hands are pulling him closer by his hips and Anakin has his hands buried in his hair. And he absently thinks that Obi-Wan’s lips really are as soft as they look.

He pulls aways and says, “Okay I think we lost them. Come on, we need to get back.”

Anakin is still in a daze and just nods, following him back.

Padme raises an eyebrow at them when she sees them and rakes in there messy hair and flushed cheeks. “And what exactly happened between you two back there?”

Obi-Wan rolls his eyes, “Nothing happened. We just had to keep the cover going.”

And if Anakin finds himself thinking about that kiss and smiling when he does well that’s no one’s business but his own.

Day 192:

“Don’t you ever do that again.”

“Obi-”

Obi-Wan takes a deep breath and shakes his head. “What you did was reckless and it was an unnecessary risk. You should have waited for backup, Anakin.”

"It’s part of the job, Obi-Wan."

“No. It was reckless and you know it. What if he shot you and he had gotten away with the victim?”

“But he didn’t!”

“But he could have. You went in there without backup and you out everyone at risk.”

He looked away from Obi-Wan.

They watch out for each other and sometimes Anakin forgets that Obi-Wan is just as afraid if losing him to the job as he is of losing him.

“I’m sorry,” He whispers quietly that he doesn’t think Obi-Wan can hear him but the gentle smile he gives him says more than enough.

Day 230

He hates to admit it but sometimes he does think about the kiss.

They never do talk about it, and Anakin just assumes that it doesn’t mean anything to Obi-Wan. Afterall it was only part of the cover.

He just wonders when exactly did he start wanting to kiss Obi-Wan and mess up his hair as he did so.

Day 307:

It was as good a day as they were ever gonna get with the job they had. But somehow he can’t stop thinking about all the other victims they couldn’t save. Some cases are always harder than others and he’ll never understand why people can do the things they do.

That’s how Obi-Wan finds him, sitting in the rooftop of the building.

He’s quiet for a moment and he says, “You can’t save everyone, Anakin.”

He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even look at him.

He hears him sigh but he doesn’t make a move to get up, instead he sits there next to him watching the neon city lights and the night life.

“I know I can’t save them all. That doesn’t mean it sucks any less when we can’t.”

Obi-Wan puts his arm around him and tucks his head under his chin. “I know.” And he says it softly that he almost doesn’t hear it.

Send me two prompts from the au mashup list and i’ll make a fic for it :)

#obikin #my fic #my writing #inquiries #lovely anon #prompt fill #detective au #fbi au #i'm weak for these tropes #i hope you enjoy it!!💕#someone pls help my poor dumb oblivious children smh

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notquitejiraiya · 6 years ago

Text

Chess [17] - {ShikaTema AU}

Despite all odds, and thinking I wouldn’t have got inspired to do it, here is Chapter17; brought to you on New Years Day as I planned :)

I dedicate this (which I never do) to the badass people who I’ve only spoken to a little bit, but have been so damn kind about my work and are just great people.

Enjoy :)

[Read / Comment on AO3 Here]

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Nothing could quite compare to how Temari felt in this exact moment, nor could she relate any experience in her life to the underlying fear that had resonated since Saturday night; that ever-present pang of hurt that clung to her chest and send shivers down her spine.

Gaara, as expected, had been as helpful as he could be. When she got home, after the false smiles and tired eyes played well in front of Kankuro, she made a beeline for his room, and found him sat in bed, reading as he waited. There he had sat, looking at her with a gaze that was equal parts exhausted and excited, but it took only one proper look at her for his arms to open up. And, obviously, she ran to him.

All she’d done was explained. The evening had been pleasant, despite the fact that he was late, and very much despite the fact that he wasn’t willing to give her up as a therapist. She was not going to be any use to him anymore—she must’ve told Gaara that a hundred times over, but nothing seemed to make him speak. As always, her little brother sat and listened intently, holding her close until she eventually calmed down and fell asleep in his arms. When she’d woken up he was on the floor with a blanket and a pillow, his red hair spread messy, and she couldn’t help smiling. He was definitely her big brother at heart.

Both Sunday and Monday had been days of false smiles and hiding, reading every file but his in an attempt to recollect her thoughts and not be useless, but every road felt like it lead back to him. Every phrase that fell from a patient’s mouth felt inferior, and, while on the Monday she had her first patient who was ready to stop coming to see her, she felt no fulfilment.

She thought knowing him had been making her happy, but now she felt almost nothing at all.

But that whole time had been leading up to this moment. For two days she’d been waiting to hear that door click, torturing herself by reading his file over today’s lunchtime, and trying her absolute best to keep up with everything people said to her. Without a doubt, though, she had never felt more on edge in her life, and she stared at the doorknob, just waiting for it to turn.

As the metal glinted as it moved, Temari wanted nothing more than to hide away behind her desk or disappear away, never to return. Instead she braced herself, took a deep breath, and desperately searched for a positive in the situation.

Three-fifty-four, she noted the time. He’s early for once.

“Hi,” she mumbled, forcing a smile.

“Hi. Sorry.”

“Come sit down,” she instructed, adjusting her position on her chair. “Are you, um, doing alright today?”

All Shikamaru could do in response was nod, rubbing his neck nervously as he stepped closer. “Well, this is awkward.”

“It’s not!” she lied. “So have you had any problems since Friday?”

It was his turn to lie, shaking his head.

“Really? None?”

And again. “No.”

“How’re your family?”

Suddenly there was a smile on his face, and she could feel herself getting riled up; confused by it’s appearance. “You’ve got no idea how to talk to me now, have you?”

Temari gulped, her palms sweating. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“This is horrible,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “It feels like we’ve never even met before.”

“That’s what I was going for. You were the one who said forget about everything, Shikamaru. I’m forgetting it.”

“I didn’t mean forget how to be a normal human being.” Shikamaru sighed, sitting back into the sofa and biting his lip as his eyes looked everywhere but at hers. “I meant go back to before what happened—I meant be yourself, Tem.”

“Temari,” she argued, correcting him. “And that’s difficult, given that I knew this would happen and yet you just had to come back.”

“Tem—”

“And now I can’t help you.”

The spark that was fighting to stay alive in his eyes suddenly went out, and his arms folded across his chest, sloppy like a ragdoll. His gaze flew towards the window, and like a statue he was at once immovable.

Temari felt a lump in he throat. “Shall I grab the board?”

He didn’t move.

“Okay then, shall I just go fuck myself?”

She thought she saw that slight smile wriggle its way back onto his lips, but when she blinked it was gone. “Why don’t you just ask me about Asuma?” he mumbled. “You were on a fucking roll on Friday until I stopped you.”

“Your teacher?” She frowned. “Is there more for you to say about him? You already covered a lot of it then.”

He laughed, humourlessly. “Forget it then, jeez.” She could see his eyeballs flickering side to side, lulling closer to closing as he watched the clouds. “It’s as if you’ve forgotten your job.”

The recurring desire to punch him was crawling back to her, stronger than it ever had. “My job, Shikamaru is to help you understand yourself, and to make you feel better. And, to be really honest with you, right now I have no idea how to do that whatsoever.”

“Brilliant.”

“Will you just shut up?” she shouted, burying her face in her palms.

Shikamaru could see just from the whiting of her knuckles out of the corner of his eyes how uncomfortable she was, and the sharpness of her voice wasn’t something he was used to. Why had he at any point thought that this was going to be different from this? Did any sane part of him really think that she wouldn’t be mad at him in some way, shape or form? Of course he didn’t, so why was he so surprised that she was upset, infuriated. She almost looked broken, and the same insane part of him that was so riddled with hopeful denial wanted nothing more than to mend her somehow.

But, then again, she was Temari—from what she’d told him she was the strongest person she knew. Surely some stupid skinny asshole hadn’t shattered that person to a nervous wreck. She wasn’t like him; or, at the very least, he didn’t want to think that she felt at all like he did right now.

“Temari, I’m sorry, I—”

“I don’t want you to apologise to me. I don’t want you to even mention it.” Her eyes, bloodshot and angry stood in agreement, but Shikamaru couldn’t help thinking they didn’t give the whole picture.

He leant forward in his seat, hands locked together between his knees. His gaze turned solely on her, desperately trying not to waver and determined to not look away again. “I’m sorry I came back.”

“I just cannot believe I called you selfless, Shikamaru. You’ve come back here purely for yourself, like you don’t realise how genuinely hard this is for me to continue with!”

“We went on one date…”

“Which was one too many, Shikamaru! I—” She stopped herself abruptly, lowering her voice to a whisper. “I almost fucking kissed you!”

He gulped, eyes falling to the floor.

“I’m sorry. Did you actually want to talk about Asuma?”

“If you want me to. If it helps me get better then sure,” he mumbled, nodding.

“That’s so important to you, isn’t it? Getting better.” Her voice was almost bitter, but she masked it well with her soft smile. “That overrides everything.”

Shikamaru’s shoulders drooped. “I mean, obviously it’s important to me, but I wouldn’t say it ‘overrides everything’.”

“So, if you were to have the chance to do something that would make you genuinely happy but it would stop you getting better, you’d do it?”

He raised his head again, shaking his head with the most surprising smile yet. “I know exactly what you’re saying. My IQ is through the roof remember.”

“I never said anything about—”

“But I know that’s you’re saying. I know what can make me better, and I will do it. When I’m better I can do the things I want to do…”

It was Temari’s turn to feel her stomach fill with guilt. Despite the anger that rushed through her body, and the insane temperature at which her blood was boiling, for reasons she couldn’t quite pin down, she suddenly felt herself go cold at the sight of his smile. Not calm—no she was definitely still infuriated with him—but genuinely chilled. So many times she had looked at him and seen nothing but his usual melancholic veil of false calm, having no idea what was really happening under than dark hair and what was really inside his heart. Never had she known exactly what he was going to say; she just wasn’t able to pin him down like that.

Until now, because, strangely, he could feel it herself. So many things at once, rushing around; always taking blame and never placing it for so many unforgotten mistakes and could-have been moments, trapped in a loop of hostility towards himself that made his fingers tap anxiously…she could see it all. And, despite all her instincts as a therapist, she couldn’t bear to watch anymore.

“Most of them, anyway,” he added finally, one corner of his mouth raising, as if to convince her he was okay, really.

It didn’t work.

“I’m sorry. I never should’ve agreed to go out with you.”

Shikamaru shook his head, a deep frown carved into his expression. “Stop it. You have nothing to apologise for.”

“But, I—”

“You’re only trying to help me,” he acknowledged. “It’s my fault that I’m back here, and it’s my fault that I’ve painted myself with an extra layer of pain every hour since Saturday, and I’ve kept adding to it; checking my phone, almost calling you, almost calling here yesterday. I know its entirely my own fault, and yet I can’t shake it off.” He let out a huge sigh, squeezing his eyes shut as his head shook, trying to displace his thoughts. “I just can’t fix it.”

As she watched him haul himself to his feet, zipping up his hoodie blind, Temari felt her boots violently hit the ground and soon she, too, was on her feet, making a beeline for him. When she’s turned the corner of her desk, her hips swaying rapidly as she sped walked, she reached out to grab his arm, but his eyes flew open, and he stepped back, crossing them across his chest.

“Don’t.”

“Shikamaru—”

“Don’t, it’s fine,” he whispered, trying to stop himself listening to his own words. “I won’t come back.”

Temari was too frozen by far too many emotions to move a muscle, and so she watched hopelessly as the young man paced towards the door—faster than she’d ever seen him walk—lingering with his fingers on the door handle. She thought, maybe, that he’d look up. Or maybe he’d turn and give her one final smile—one last hurrah.

Silently he nodded once, and twisted the knob, leaving as silently as he’d entered. It took seconds for Temari to collapse on the sofa he’d just been sat on, perturbed by the warmth of spot he’d just been in, and pull her phone from her pocket. Quickly, swallowing all of her emotions and whatever pride she had left, she dialled her most called number and listened to the beeps of it ringing, and ringing, and ringing…

“Gaara,” she said to the answerphone, not caring whether he listened now or in three hours, just desperate to speak to someone or something. “Please say you’re going to the pub quiz tonight with trenchcoat-guy. I really want to come—hell I’ll even pay for your drinks, just let me come. Please!” She was aware how painful her begging was, so after a long, deep breath, she uttered the real truth, “I just really need a bloody drink.”

Outside, at the bus stop in the pouring rain, a young man put his phone to his ear and uttered very similar words. “Choji,” he sighed down the phone, “please tell me you can meet me tonight?”

“Man, I’ll be at work from six onwards, but Ino’s probably free if—”

“I’ll come. I need you, man.” He did, and his friend’s vague company would be better than loneliness tonight. He couldn’t do it tonight.

~~~

Temari knew that every other Tuesday her youngest brother would come to the pub, drink with his friends, and play some quiz she’d never considered taking part in. What she didn’t know was that said brother was really, really good at it. And, while that inevitably made her feel a bit stupid and a little more downtrodden given the day she’d already had, it definitely had it perks. Perks which consisted of a lot of free drinks for winning each round.

The clock had barely struck ten and she was convinced at this point that she’d drunk a bucket’s worth of cocktails. Never had she considered herself a cocktail person—she had always been a ‘beer-out-of-the-can’ kind of girl, with the odd gin-and-tonic of someone else could be bothered to make her one. So, unsurprisingly, the pitchers of cocktails their quiz team had one, and she had drunk, had gone straight to her head.

Temari could hold her alcohol with the big guns—she could out-drink Kankuro any day—but this was dangerous. These drinks tasted like fruit juice, and they just kept on coming. She was smart, and underneath the fuzziness and slurring, she was perfectly aware that this was not going well.

And, for once, she didn’t give a shit.

Shikamaru, on the other hand, did.

He’d spotted her the second she walked in, hiding expertly underneath his scarf so she didn’t notice him, and ever since he had been sat, hidden behind a pillar, hoping that she’d never leave her seat—never see him. She had as much right to be here as him, and yet he knew if she saw him she would get up and leave. Or, at least, she would’ve.

He hadn’t join in with the quiz, although Choji had violently urged him that he should, telling him he could get crisps or juice instead of the drinks they gave to winners if he just asked.

“Look,” he said as Shikamaru peered over at the blonde drinking some fantasy-coloured drink through a draw, “you can join in anytime. You’ll ace it if you do!”

“Choji,” he argued, “I didn’t come to play a game and eat crisps. I came to be with my mate and not be alone. If I’m going to feel sad anywhere, I may as well feel sad in a room full of noisy strangers.”

His friend had to stop himself reaching across the bar to hug him. “I’m sorry I have to work, man.”

“It’s fine. Just get me a drink.”

“Orange juice again?”

“No.” Shikamaru shook his head, biting on his lip. “Give me whiskey. Double.”

Choji’s eyes widened, and his forehead creased into a worried frown. “Man, I really don’t think you want to—”

“Choji…”

“The most you’ve drunk since you were eighteen is half a pint of weak-ass beer,” he winced, “and we all know you don’t enjoy drinking.”

Shikamaru fished out a five pound note and held it out to him. “God, you’re a pain. Keep the change, now come on.”

“Shikamaru, you don’t want this. You’ll hate me tomorrow.”

“I said double, Choji.”

The blank stare he sent his friend’s way was enough to make Choji feel as if he’d lost a war, and he could feel the pit of his stomach growing emptier as he looked into the bleak abyss of Shikamaru’s eyes. He was going to ask what had happened but now, as he unwillingly lifted the transparent bottle and measured the liquor as required, he didn’t have the nerve. Something about the lifeless urgency in the voice of his best friend made him feel broken, and after he thought it was all getting better, too.

He snatched the money and put the glass before Shikamaru. “If it weren’t for the fact that my manager is really specific with the ‘refusal of service’ rule, you would not be getting this. You’re an idiot.”

“Love you, too,” sighed Shikamaru, swirling the glass around.

“I thought you wanted to get better Shikamaru,” growled Choji, shaking his head, “but then you do this and just let yourself regress. I swear to God if it’s that girl—”

“It’s not her.” He knocked back the drink, squeezing his eyes shut. “Man, I forgot how shit that tastes.”

Choji only had to take one look at his blank slate of a face to know what was happening. “You’re going to bloody order another one, aren’t you?”

“And I thought you quit your day job as a psychic.”

The sarcasm didn’t even begin to amuse Choji, who shook his head and failed to find words. Only after he’d been called to help someone, minutes of staring at his expectant looking friend later, that he managed to speak. “Fine. But I’m not playing any part in it; ask someone else.”

Shikamaru frowned. “Choji, come on.”

“No,” his friend called back as he walked to the other end of the bar. “I can’t do it.”

After only a couple of minutes of longingly waiting for Choji to come back and throw in the towel, Shikamaru could feel himself falling into that familiar feeling of glee. Unfortunately, he knew it wasn’t real—sadly for his wallet one double wasn’t enough to fool him into genuinely feeling happy—hence the need for another. It had been so long since he’d allowed himself to do this. On occasions he’d always have one half and it would last him the whole night, and it would make him feel like he fitted in.

But this was no occasion; this was a desperate avoidance tactic, and he knew it. She was over there—the one person he simultaneously wanted to stare at the whole night and never wanted to see again—and he was painfully aware of it. He didn’t want to be aware of it.

He’d been to enough sessions with enough asshole therapists to know what he was doing, and he didn’t care—he didn’t care at all. There she’d been, suggesting to him that he was really only devoted to getting better, not feeling happy, and now he just wanted to scream, “Look at me!” until she took it back; until she took him back and rewired him as promise, fixed him as promised…

Of course, he didn’t do that. He couldn’t be bothered to do that. Instead he waved down the smiley brunette girl behind the bar and got himself the same again, and necked it instantly, forcing a smile at her afterwards when ordering another.

But the longer he sat there, the smaller he felt. It was like when he first did this, years ago, and it wasn’t washing over him the way he expected, the way he craved. Suddenly the bar stool he perched on felt to high, and his neck felt too cold, so he threw on his coat and hopped down, drinking that last whiskey and rubbing his eyes. He couldn’t leave without saying goodbye to Choji, and he couldn’t go home or else his mother would yell at him for drinking after so long of holding back.

Choji was right, no matter how much he’d deny it out loud. This was all because of her, that troublesome woman. Through nobody’s fault but his own he’d built her up as this fantasy saviour; the beautiful woman who cared about him no matter what, in a way he’d never even imagined before. And as much as he’d laugh off the ridicule from his friends about his many lonesome years, he really had never thought of anyone like that. Before this—this bizarre, impossible to pin feeling—he’d never wanted to spend time with someone just for the sake of it, and he’d never wanted to listen to someone talk about nothing like he did her.

“This is it, isn’t it?” he mumbled, so quiet he could barely hear himself. “She’s got me.”

He couldn’t leave, but he could hide from her until she left, and from Choji until the whiskey ran it’s course. And where could he hide in this pub that she was guaranteed not to go? Well, there was only one place that came to mind.

However, in his slightly drunken state as he shuffled towards his destination, the first thing Shikamaru had managed to forget that Temari still had eyes, no matter how blurry their vision was, and obviously she spotted him immediately. Stumbling to her feet, she told Gaara she was just nipping to the bathroom, and took her bag with her, slung haphazardly across her shoulder.

The second thing he forgot was that she definitely had the nerve to follow him into the men’s bathroom, and that he definitely wasn’t safe from her in there.

So, when she edged open the bathroom door, as subtly as a drunk woman can, and found him smoking next to a half opened window, she fumbled for the latch at the top of the door, locking it quickly. “You don’t drink my ass.”

Numbed, Shikamaru turned slowly, frowning in surprised. “T-Temari? What’re you—”

“You didn’t actually want to go out with me, did you?” She slurred her words into what almost sounded like three long words, and immediately Shikamaru realised he wasn’t nearly as drunk as thought he was; or as he wanted to be.

“What are you talking about?” he sighed, exasperated.

“That’s why you didn’t make any effort to impress me. You didn’t want to did you?”

Shikamaru couldn’t help but feel a pang of sadness, tapping his cigarette out of the window and letting the ash fly into the wind. “Of course I wanted to,” he insisted. “I’m just useless, Tem.”

She blinked expectantly at him, shaking her head constantly. “Bullshit.”

“Temari…”

“Temari, what?” she laughed, clearly unamused as she waved her arms about dramatically. “Temari, I’m sorry I’m a miserable git. Temari, I’m sorry I lied to you. Temari, I’m sorry I made you fancy me.”

He rubbed his eyes with one hand and took a drag with the other, strategically blowing the smoke through the window. Nothing was coming to mind to respond to her—nobody had ever silenced him in the way she did, cornered him like she did, terrified him like she did.

And he almost craved it.

Trying his best to smile, he squished the butt of his cigarette on the windowsill and left it there, turning to look at her. She looked all the more beautiful tonight, but something deep within the dark depths of the subconscious he loathed so much was telling him that was due to the alcohol in both their systems, and the rosy cheeks hers had graced her with.

With all her could muster, Shikamaru leant against the wall next to the window, hands in the pocket of his coat, before he finally opened his mouth to tell the brutal truth, “Temari, I’m sorry I couldn’t bare the idea of not seeing you again.”

Yeah, right, he mused inside his mind. As if she’s going to remember that tomorrow.

Suddenly, unexpected to him, Temari dropped her bag and advanced on him, walking in jagged lines—intense zig-zags—and he could feel his knees begin the shake. “What the hell are you doing, Tem?”

“You didn’t get it, did you?” she asked, pulling one hand from his pocket and placing it on her waist.

Gulping, Shikamaru tried his best to remove it and stay calm, but every time he almost escaped her loosening grip she grabbed his hand tighter. In the end he just kept it there, and stared into her gorgeous teal eyes with the most passive desperation. “What?”

She wrapped her arms around his neck, her lips centimetres away from his. “Why I asked you to stop seeing me as a patient.”

When she bit her lip, despite all his attempts, Shikamaru felt his knees quiver more and more. “I, um,” he mumbled, voice managing to remain steady despite his body’s weakness. “I think I need to go find your brother, and—”

“No, please don’t,” begged Temari, her nose brushing against his so delicately.

There was no denying that he wanted to hold her, and he wanted to kiss her, just as she was clearly attempting. He couldn’t lie to himself and say he hadn’t had a sleepless night wondering what the hell would’ve happened if the other night this had happened instead of their sad reality. But he didn’t want it like this.

He could only just smell the floral notes of her perfume, over the alcohol that plagued the air, and while she smelt of sweet tropical juice rather than anything evenly mildly bad, he couldn’t change the truth: they were drunk, and he didn’t want it to happen this way.

“Temari,” he whispered. “Tem, are you paying attention?”

She hummed softly, her forehead flush against his now.

“We can’t do this, love.”

A soft moan fell from her lips, and the hairs on the back his neck stood on end. “Why not?” she whined.

“Because we’ll regret it,” he sighed, himself a little upset by the fact.

“I-I won’t,” insisted Temari, stubborn as ever.

“You will,” Shikamaru corrected, smiling slightly as he pushed her away. “Can I borrow your phone?”

She frowned and held onto his shoulders for support as she stumbled backwards. “Why?”

“I just want to let your brother know you’re okay.”

It took a long time of him standing with his hand out expectantly, but eventually Temari caved with a smirk and handed him her phone. While she wasn’t quite sure why she couldn’t have just done that, she didn’t question him. Probably because in that exact moment, she wasn’t quite sure about anything.

“There,” he mumbled, biting his lip as he handed it back. “I told him you’re getting some air and will probably make your own way home.”

“He won’t be fine with that.”

Buzz.

She looked down at her phone and the text message that appeared on the screen.

Gaara: Fine. See you later :)

“Okay, maybe he will,” groaned Temari, “but where the hell are we going?”

Shikamaru shrugged, hands in pockets as he watched, amused, as she tried to slot her phone into her bag. “I can take you home?”

“And risk Kankuro punching you?” she cackled laughing.

“Then that’s a no.”

“Take me home with you.”

He almost choked on his own spit. “What?”

“Please,” she whined. “Take me home with you.”

“No!”

“Why?”

“Because you’ll wake up in the night and punch me.” He could hear himself, and the melodrama he was spouting, but he still didn’t sound worried, as such.

“Then where?”

Shikamaru bit down on his lip and accepted the arm she slung around his shoulders. “I have an idea.”

~~~

“No.”

“But Choji,” he pleaded, this time taking the role of the whining one, “neither of us can go home.”

Choji shook his head. “I’m not giving you whiskey and letting you bang your therapist in the same night. I already feel like a shit friend as it is.”

“I’ve sabotaged myself here, man,” insisted Shikamaru. “And I promise we won’t do that. I just want to make sure she has somewhere to sleep, man.”

“She has a house!”

“Where she’ll talk about me and then everyone will feel even more shit than already.” He raised his eyebrows. “Man, I didn’t ask for her to follow me into the bathroom.”

Surprised, Choji’s mouth fell open. “She didn’t?”

“Yeah, she’s smashed.”

“She needs to go home.”

Shikamaru nodded, sighing.

“You’re still drunk, aren’t you?”

“Only with the words, man. Brain is doing fine.”

Choji raised his eyebrows and smiled at his friend, pulling him in for a hug, which Shikamaru begrudgingly accepted. “If you hug me back you can have the keys to my flat?”

The thinner man hugged tighter than he ever had.

“They’re in my coat out back. Use that door.”

Shikamaru smirked. He had a true friend in this guy, and he found out as much more every single day.

~~~

Temari sighed, throwing her spoon into the plastic bowl Shikamaru had given her and fell back into the couch. “I can’t believe we’re literally above a fish and chip shop and you didn’t let me buy any.”

“You shouted at the guy that you would ‘kiss in return for fish’.”

“Damn right I did,” she laughed.

Shikamaru chuckled. “And I thought I was the asshole.”

“You definitely are.”

“Tem, I just cooked you pasta at, like, twelve-a.m.”

“You’re right,” nodded Temari. “You’re a saint.”

He looked over at her and smiled, almost sadly. Choji’s flat was very small, a room with a bed and a wardrobe, and another with a small kitchen and a couch, but Temari had made herself right at home. He couldn’t help but admire how she did that. Not taking into account the fact that she was drunk out of her mind, he also couldn’t believed the way she was slowly sinking towards him, arms wrapping around him.

“You’re wonderful, Maru.”

His eyebrows raised. “Maru. New one.”

Temari looked up, hurt. “You don’t like it.”

“I don’t care,” he mumbled. “You go ahead.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, tracing patterns on his chest through his shirt. “You’re really wonderful.”

“You said.” If you couldn’t see inside his head, you’d have thought he was fed up of hearing that brilliant sentence. “You should go to sleep, Tem,” he added, changing the subject.

“I was stupid to make you feel so small. I made you feel like shit, didn’t I?”

“You didn’t,” he lied, letting her position his arms to hold her. “Just get some rest.”

“You’re wonderful, you know?”

Shikamaru smiled, the most real and fulfilling smile he’d had in a long time. “So are you, Tem. So are you…”

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ourlittlesecretokay · 6 years ago

Note

I just lost my job, can you write an AU of some kind where Olaf beats up Violet’s terrible boss (Jake) for being the worst™️ and also Arson the cat is there

Oh HELL yeah! Everyone feel free to ctrl+f this to make a diy story about Olaf beating up your terrible boss

“Jake, I presume?” Olaf shut the door behind him, taking his time setting a bag on the floor.

“Sorry, do I know you?”

Straightening up, he turned the lock with a click.

“Can't this wait? I was just about to-”

“Surely you have a moment to hear my gratitude, don't you?”

“Gratitude? Of course, but-”

“See, I'm quite fond of my wife, Jake,” folding his arms behind his back, he strode forward slowly. “It's an embarrassing weakness, really, but I'm fond nonetheless. I like looking at her, like having her in my house. So when she told me she was getting a job, I was understandably displeased. After all, I take great care to make sure she is well taken care of. But no,” stopping opposite him, he craned his neck, looked down at the shorter man. “She insisted. Said something about self-actualization. And because I am a good husband, I relented.”

“I don't see what any of this-”

“And she's a clever girl; frighteningly clever. I once watched her scale a fifty foot wall with nothing but garbage and batshit determination.”

“I'm sure, Sir, but-”

“So imagine my surprise when I come to find that some little man finds her unemployable.”

“The HR department-”

“Now. I am a good husband, but I did indulge in an 'I told you so.’ I am only human, after all, and despite all her glowing promises, it was clear that this same uninspired man had been making her miserable for a while.”

“If your wife needs a job, she needs to go through the same channels-”

“I wouldn't let you employ her again if your life depended on it.”

“Again? Wait… Mr. Baudelaire?” Jake's eyebrow cocked as he pointed at him.

Olaf scowled, “How dare you.”

“Violet? You're married to Violet?”

“Finally catching on.”

“Mr.-”

“Count.”

“Count Baudelaire-” he never got to finish his sentence as Olaf gripped his collar to shove him against the wall.

“Olaf is fine.”

Terrified, Jake held his hands up defensively, “Okay, hey, I'll get her a new job! I'll-”

“I've already told you, I have no interest in you taking up any more of my wife's time just to torment her.”

Nervous, Jake looked at the large black bag sitting on the floor, “Severance pay! I'll double it!”

“I suppose that's one way to describe what I'm planning.”

“If you-” his words were cut off as Olaf slammed him against the wall again. With a groan, he reached for the back of his head.

“Have you ever seen a gutted fish, Jake?”

“I don't understand-”

“See, my wife loves stories, Jake. Sometimes, I worry she's gonna leave me for whatever book she's stuck in that day. But ever since she got this job, she's been telling me stories that don't quite sit right. I don't like them, Jake. Do you know why?”

“I'm going to call the police!”

“I don't like them because there's a certain, irritating recurring character.” Sneering, he slammed him against the wall. “Any guesses who?”

“I will have you arrested-”

“I don't like you, Jake. And that puts you in a very bad position.”

“Let me go, or I-”

With a smack, Olaf threw him to the ground, his knife sliding open with a smooth click. Frantic, Jake crawled backwards, trying to get away.

“This will be better for you if you don't fight.”

Desperate, Jake grabbed for the black bag, hoping to fight back with whatever other weapons he had brought.

“Don't! That's-”

To his infinite surprise and momentary horror, a black blur rocketed out of the bag with a screech.

“Fucking- Do you know how hard it is to get a cat into a bag?” Even more livid, Olaf gestured wildly with the knife.

“Why is there a cat in your bag?” Confused through his terror, he clutched the empty bag.

“Mind you damn business!”

“What did you think-”

“We were going to the vet, okay? Is that alright with you Jake? Are you done worrying about my fucking cat?” Frustrated, he kicked at Jake, practically spitting.

“You're insane!” Shaking his head, Jake went pale.

“Worse! I'm married,” grabbing him again, Olaf threw him against the desk.

“Look, I'll give you what you want, I-”

“What I want,” growling, he slid the knife against Jake's trembling throat, “is to slaughter you.”

“Please! I'm begging you, I'm-”

“However, my darling wife, the woman that YOU fired, would be upset if I came home with blood on my clothes twice this week.”

“Yes! I'm sorry!”

“However, she said nothing about me breaking a few things.”

“Not the computer! I need that!”

“If you insist.” With a solid crack, he landed a blow on Jake's face.

“You're crazy! You and your bitch wife!” Holding his hand under his newly broken nose, Jake tried to stem the blood. With another smack, Olaf hit him again, doubling him over in pain before kneeing him in the gut.

“Say! That! Again!” Punctuating each word with another knee to the gut, he spit the words violently. “I dare you!”

Gasping, Jake clutched at Olaf's arms, trying fruitlessly to stop him, “Violet-”

“Keep her name out of your filthy mouth!” As his head slammed to the wall, a picture frame fell with a clatter. “Don't you fucking DARE so much as even THINK about looking at her!”

“I won't! I can't!”

“I'll make damn sure of that!” With a flick of his knife, Olaf neatly sliced a button off his shirt, near the throat. “So believe me, if I EVER have the misfortune of hearing your name again, I will take the personal liberty of carving a very creative new one into your forehead. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Jake gasped.

“Good,” dropping him to the ground, Olaf regarded him coldly for another minute before kicking him. Groaning, Jake rolled over, clutching his rib.

“I already agreed!”

“Yes, well. No one's ever accused me of fighting fair.” Still scowling, he walked slowly to the file cabinet, picking the cat up from its high perch. “Come along, Arson.”

“You named the cat Arson?” Despite the pain, Jake managed a tone of utter disbelief.

“I'm sorry, did I ask for your fucking opinion?” Turning so fiercely Jake cowered, Olaf placed Arson gently into the bag, rezipping it. “I know where you live. Don't forget that.” Walking out the door, he let it slam behind him, plunging the room back into silence.

12 notes · View notes

sugaxjpg · 7 years ago

Text

the consolations of philosophy

⤷ “It doesn’t make you vulnerable to allow someone else to love you, to be kind to you. Most of the time, we are not kind to ourselves, anyways.”

✓ Couple: Jungkook x Reader | ChildhoodFriends!AU and College!AU

✓ Filed under: angst, fluff, implied smut, friends to lovers

✓ Words: 21,546

Author’s note: Truly one of the most personal-driven and overly emotional stories I have written in a while. Title from this piece.

Also, WRITTEN IN THIRD PERSON! Tell me if you like this format, or if you’d rather for me to stick to second person. All feedback is welcome (also, excuse my extra vocabulary, I promise it lightens up quickly lmao)

Days passed by monotonously.

At times, they passed in a homogeneous nebula of empty resolutions, a haziness of venomous smoke that permeated her lungs and suffocated her from the inside out. Consolidated, it could be comparable to the vapor that performed slow-motion pirouettes in her bathroom after a shower; the same foretelling of looming storms neighboring the obfuscous skyline. It was the deprivation of vivacity; the apathy for each and every aspect of her mundane chores, those being repeated again and again—a broken record, as she would contemplate, a vexatious rasping noise in the background of her every action, a recurring routine that leisurely strangled her with its hyperborean hands. Again: the outburst of opaque grey that came from cigars on the street; the licking of conflagrant flames that illuminated nocturnal alleyways. At least it was positive for some.

Other instances, it would be detected in the viscous hollowness that dwelled in her chest. We are all born with emptiness inside of us, her mother once verbalized. That pathless sentence was one of those fragments of ruptured dialogues that lived amongst her memories, reverberating and emerging when she least expected it too—yet, when she most necessitated. Some people, the woman speculated, decided to congest such lacuna with carnal desires: sex, drugs, food, alcohol; others preferred to spend hours upon hours haunted by the immersive universes of a good book, a movie, or frequent social interactions. Most, come what may, attempted to fill it up alternatively to properly learning how to endure the feeling. Lack of feeling. Whatever could describe it more properly.

Not solely monotonously: days passed lethargically, apathetically. Wintery, even—denuded of saturation and warmness. They came and went like self-perpetuating waves to the sands of a godforsaken beachside: crashing, cleaning, wiping away all traces that could have been left there aforetime. Undertow, drought, tormentous tides, and currents that led to the eclipsed oblivion. Comparisons aside, tracing parallels did not make those interminable hours any better; the ocean was still there, just as stupendous and immeasurable. Just as empty.

But of course, those were not all of her days. Some of them, Jungkook was there to keep her company.

Every instance his image effloresced amongst her thoughts, breaking the lifeless circle of her routine, the bliss of his memory induced for her absent-minded thoughts to describe the peculiar set of emotions that took the place of her boredom: nostalgia and longing; but also the euphoria of their shared adventures. Moreover, if the girl permitted herself to dive into those wisdomful recollections, she would discover that she was unable to elucidate someone as complex as Jeon Jungkook, finding herself lacking the proper terms to do so—that is, if there were any. After so many years by his side, traits became quite nebulous when compared to the memories they shared, but also volatile and unexpected, for they were no longer the same kids that wandered, unguarded, around their neighborhood.

There were hollow spaces in her heart only he could fill, that was for sure. Her best friend—companion; partner in crime—made her feel the happiest she would ever be; caused for several laughs to drip in between her smiley lips every instance a silly comment fell from his own. With all her heart, she could not characterize the boy with a mere enumeration of adjectives, since words could never describe the endless universe that opened in between them every time they encountered one another somewhere in the cold, desolated campus.

Yet, no rose is devoid of thorns, and hers was the kind that punctured layers much, much deeper than the barriers of carnality. There was an indiscernible element beyond the caresses of the vermillion petals, an aspect of her sentiment that did not match the ones she felt aforetime.

Pieces of the puzzle had been switched, but they had also fell into a flawless combination, a rearrangement of feelings that caused for her heart to hang by a threat: she had fallen in love with her best friend.

There was not an epiphanic moment like she once imagined it would occur. The genesis of such affection remained as a progressive, accumulative notion that had germinated within her chest without her cognizance and gradually made their way up her reason, blocking it from cutting it short when she was still able to. Before she could ever discern what had outstretched within her chest, the girl had already fallen for his laugh, such symphonious, lighthearted harmony that defeated the rhythm of the mumbling summer breeze. She had fallen for his enthusiastic gaze, grown weak under the aerial, sanctified lineaments of his diaphanous features. Heavens, she was in love with him. So profoundly, breathlessly, euphorically in love with her best friend.

What a fucking cosmical joke.

Truth was: there were more negatives than positives when it came to situations like that. Alternatively to every aspect she had expected, the very second the unwelcome realization fell upon her perception, there was more panic than there was adoration; more denial than acceptance. It was unignorable, threatening; it broke her faith into pieces and caused her throat to grow tight every instance they met. Disconsonant with her pulsating infatuation, she was aware that she could not tell him everything that haunted the walls of her heart, for she felt it bordered on unrealistic to do so. One should not tear a butterfly's wings apart just to keep its beauty, nor she should attempt to keep her best friend to herself in such egotistical manner. Jungkook was not hers, and most likely would never be. Unilateral: she knew it was all unilateral.

No: it was much, much more complicated than that simple-minded decision. It was not so easy to focus on the stars of logic when she had entire constellations of infatuation dancing and forming pulchritudinous images before her; to turn her gaze away from the phantasmal, ivory-like glow of the moon as it entwined every cell of her figure, resonating within her soul the poetic verses of the universe.

The mere act of longing for his presence was so common that it had already turned into a habit, a part of her routine that she could not simply throw away. How could she feel so lonely even when he was right there by her side? His text messages were still there, even if they held the words of cancelled plans or messy excuses. Sweet, the aroma of his perfume still impregnated her clothes, still danced over the cloud-white sheets of her unmade bed. Jungkook was still there—just at the margins of her reach, ridiculing the fact that she would never be fully able to place fill up the empty spaces between his fingers with her own.

Accordant to those claims, the girl would not cut him out just because she was unable to control the tides of her adoration, would not push his embrace away even if the mere compass of his calm heart against her chest caused for her soul to shatter into desolation. That being said, considering it bordered on the executable to ignore or revert it, she learned how to suppress it.

But—hell—some part of Jungkook was always there to torment her.

Memories would appear suddenly, taking her off guard. They connected to one another like insubstantial cords, a map of recurrent dreams that bloomed amongst her measured ponderations. Germinated within her brain in the most random of instances, coming and dragging her away to the fragmented retellings of aforetime meetings. And, amongst the billion pieces of their shared laughs and locked gazes, the girl focused on one special dialogue they had merely a few months ago.

It had been an overcast night, a very silent one at that. The two had dove into the obscuration of midnight, walking amongst the darkness of the asphalt and the dimly-illuminated streets. The same illumination that embraced his drowsy delineations like a spectral candlelight; dancing in his unfocused gaze and scintillating beyond the abysm of his stygian irises. His eyes could hold the entire universe inside, but it all apperated to get as cloudy as the sky above once he was in that situation: drunken out of his mind.

She could recall the small hiccup that erupted in Jungkook’s throat before he dared to bother the quiescence of the night, “Don’t place your happiness upon someone else,” he had told her without forewarning, his arm around her shoulder, voice flowing that way that always sent an explosion of warmth radiating through her chest—between a secretive whisper and a kind advice; almost as if he permitted himself to be wholesomely frank, yet remained to hesitant to share his thoughts with the rest of the word. It was okay, she did not want him to. “No one, you hear me? Value comes within yourself, and no one can take that away from you. Grow it, and the world can’t throw shit your way.”

Philosophical, almost. Did not matter that he was drunk, nor that she had been the only one to offer to guide the boy back to his dormitory. She decided to keep those elements out of focus and, instead, remained attentive to the words he had graced her with: something she needed to learn; needed to feel, “Value is a hard thing to grow,” she had responded, hoping he did not hear her subsequent words. “besides, you make me happier than I probably could ever make myself. I don’t see what’s wrong with that.”

She did not know if he had captured her delicate enunciations alongside with the mumbling of the midnight wind, all she knew is that Jungkook closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and continued walking with difficulty.

Then again, he was not always there for her.

Insomnia was usually the most fundamental element of her late night insights, and most were not as positive as she would like. Once, she came to the hypothesis that those unbelonging, unexpected life lessons that he gave her had a reason other than the lack of filter provided by alcohol: mayhaps Jungkook was sentient to the distance growing between them, the void that pulled the two friends into complete edges of an unfathomable cosmos. They were progressively growing apart with time, losing intimacy, and that was most likely why the boy always made sure to tell her those things: so he could be certain her happiness did not subside after he had departed.

Nothing but a utopian idea, if that had been the true cause. Most of the times, life was not at all that merciful nor rational. Justificatives were just broken, slumberous explanations that germinated amongst the intoxicated soil of her anxiety, no one could guarantee that their fruits were not, too, contaminated by its poison. Running while remaining in the same place, she would continue to attempt to find reasons for their progressive separation—though, just like the emptiness that they held inside, it could not be explained so ingenuously.

To lose a close friend to the world is always, in idiosyncratic levels, a traumatic experience. Primordially, the stages of drawing away were almost imperceptible: the long time to answer messages that before would appear so quickly; the change of demeanor into a more closed-off posture, or even a defensive one at times. Later on, it would be the lack of interest in shared activities; in scheduled plans; and, at last, in the person at the other edge of the spectrum. At times, that distance was usual and even inevitable; mutual or unilateral; purposeful or subconscious. Nevertheless, there was a point in which that separation would become more clear, and the signals would be far too vehement to be neglected or absolved

Jungkook was not someone she lost, per say, more of a companion who gradually creeped to the borders of their progressively evanescing friendship. He was still there, appearing like a lost phantasm amongst her mundane tasks, a shadow at the depths of her routine. His messages still came—some faster, some slower—and they still had nights in which they would spend entirely immersed in futile conversations. A fervent dialogue in which, eventually, more serious and personal topics would emerge, only to be avoided.

In all sincerity, she thought all those other fragments were perfectly normal and healthy—after all, everyone needs their personal space every once in awhile—but the second she noticed the manner he skirted those personal conversations, instead growing irritable, she knew there was something wrong.

Maybe one day she would learn how to breathe without his presence to warm the air that entered her lungs. Maybe there would be a day in the future that the ghost of his presence would not bother her as much; the lack of eurythmic laughs would not feel as sepulcral to endure. In the future, there might exist a day in which the static of the TV did not exasperate her, the emptiness of her dormitory did not appear as gargantuan as the longing within her chest. Surely, that day could be waiting ahead, but, as for now, she had to endure the scars of his departure with the prideful impassibility of her broken heart.

Two weeks before, she had convinced herself that she would, too, take some time for herself. Preposterous excuses and justifications came and went amongst the pandemonium of her confident thoughts, the mantra of her decision repeating over and over—a broken record. If space was what Jungkook desired, she would give it to him gracefully, she would keep her mouth shut and decorated with a smile; keep her ebullient sentiments on a leash; would accept that sometimes that was just the way friendships would unravel. She would not reject him, she would just stop searching for someone that was not even looking for her.

As pathetic as it was, that decision did not last for much more than a week.

Sunrays passed through the viridian leaves with resplendent smoothness, gifting it with a clearer shade of its characteristic pigmentation. In between undulating branches and twigs, came the ethereal radiance of the golden light, dripping past the spaces of the foliage and falling upon the two people sitting by that small circular table. They were the only two outside the establishment, and appeared to be more uncomfortable than other friends that passed by.

Jungkook exhaled, placing his white mug on top of the dark wood. In the midst of his downhearted features, the shadows of the leaves were casted over his serious expression, inducing his mere image to resemble a momentaneous hallucination, “I swear, sometimes it's like you’re a old woman trapped in a young girl’s body,” the outside of the small coffee shop was almost deserted as those words broke the breviloquent silence, dragging along the vague redolence of the cappuccino he had just took a slip of. He had just heard another negation in regards to a party invitation, and he was unable to mask his frustration towards it, “you’ve always been like this, ever since we were kids.” the boy added carelessly.

She could not pinpoint if what she heard in his voice was simple playfulness or if, amongst his light timbre, there were deep cuts of resentment pulsating in silence, “You never told me you were bothered by it,” she dared to say, hoping it would serve as a starting point for him to soothe her baseless worries. Mayhaps, he would sense the traces of shame that ornamented her speech and, if she were to be lucky, Jungkook would look at her with his deep eyes—that could hold the universe inside, from the stygian void to the oscillating specks of anemic stars—and laugh at how absurd she sounded. Light as the morning air, his smile would blow her preoccupations away, and it would all be okay.

However, that was not what that day enventualized. Instead of signals of empathy or the curious glimpse of his puzzled spirit, the boy merely scoffed, looking down at his half-empty mug with skepticism, “Bothered is not the right word, you know?” she did not know, and he never told her what it was, “whatever, we’ll do something else. Again. Can I see you later this week? I’ll be late to class if we stay here for much longer.” he was quick to add, not gifting her with the space she needed to fully absorb his words and construct a response based on it.

Always later—later today, later this week, maybe after midterms?—,always rushing somewhere else. Jungkook always had his mind above his clouds, hardly ever recalled where his feet touched. He was always looking miles upon miles ahead, dwelling in the hue that vacillated between the tangerine and the ochroid. Maybe he did not have time. Maybe he did not have interest. That lovely morning, for instance, the boy had twenty minutes to spend, and the walk to his building would not take more than four. He had time.

She knew it, but accepted his fruitless propoundment regardless of the afflicted laceration that punctured her fast-beating heart, “Later this week. Definitely,” she consented. Neither of them specified a date and, soon after, the girl found herself alone in that table for two.

The lump in her throat prevented her from thinking straight. Part of her mind swore it was merely an overreaction from her part, but the other made sure to vociferate the terrible possibility of her paranoias being close to the truth: Jungkook was gradually moving away from her.

But of course, not all of the days passed by his side were filled with empty promises and the vacant redolence of moments past. There were also the days that showed her just why Jungkook was so important, why the universe had pulled all the correct strings so they could grow up together, claiming ever so childishly to being kings and queens of their own personal glimpses of fantasia. Delightful moments which caused for her infatuation to effloresce to the melody of his vernal voice, for her preoccupations to fall like conflagrant autumn leaves; moments that belonged to the two of them, and them only.

That special Friday afternoon happened to be one of those days.

Comparable to the lively color of honey, the golden luminosity of the resplendent sun melted past the swinging of cream curtains, accumulating in auriferous puddles over the carpet’s extension. The air was slightly cold, but calm, holding to the welcoming aromatic combination of fresh coffee and the vanilla of her perfume; the buzzing sounds of the campus could barely be heard beyond the translucent windows. Peace impregnated each and every fragment of that shared instant, and it was a fantastic sensation to dwell in.

Sitting across from her on that two-chaired kitchen room table, the boy had his eyebrows knitted together in a permanent state of confusion, eager eyes now completely puzzled at the endless lines of ink that stared back at him. Surrounded by such diaphanous luminescence, Jungkook’s image reminded her of those graceful masterpieces produced during the romantic era—the same delicacy of forms; the contrast between his caramel skin and the onyx ink of his hair and eyelashes. His lips, such gentle shade of roseate, mumbled speechlessly the words he read, attempting to find meaning within the sentences that filled his slumberous mind.

Those unexpected glimpses at his beauty usually caught her off guard, causing for her eyes to navigate around his lineaments for a bit longer than necessary. That instant, however, she was somewhat prepared to the exquisite figure that would meet her eager gaze, and was able to dissimulate his effect with a deep inhale.

After a moment of ponderation, the girl placed her book over the ligneous surface, the subsided noise enough to call the boy’s attention to her direction. Even before the words left her lips, Jungkook was aware of what they would be, for that random enunciation of curiosities had turned into a customary part of their study routine, “Did you know that the modern musical notation was created by an italian monk?” she asked, pausing for a second to accompany the way his disquisitive eyes switched upwards, blinking away from the incomprehensible pages of his book. “Guido d’Arezzo was his name. From the basic names to the mnemonic system.”

Leaning back against her chair, she then suspired as if to mitigate the restlessness that had accumulated within her bosom, waiting for his acknowledgement patiently. She had the costume of communicating something along those lines, curiosities or thought-provoking facts that soon dispersed the weight of the overwhelming silence. Jungkook thought it was nothing more than a common idiosyncrasy amongst History students, and considered to be quite captivating, even adorable at times.

So precious, in fact, that the boy could not suppress the smirk that creeped up upon his lips, nor the crystalline engrossment that resounded in the background of his subsequent inquiry, “What? Seriously?” he wondered, incapacitated to camouflage the genesis of his interest.

Humming, she moved around on the chair, her rhapsodic tone causing for her enthusiasm to become transpicuous, “Yeah, it came from the first syllables of the first six half-lines of a religious hymn. To John the Baptist, if I’m not mistaken. Some stuff changed along the years, but the basic notation and the musical breakthrough is his to take,” the girl explained further, holding herself back from diving into more specific characteristics, for she soon noticed the fatigued splashes of violaceous underneath the boy’s eyes. “you, on the other hand, look as if you’re about to fall into the nearest grave. How are things hanging there?”

It was his turn to suspire in never ending lament, running of his hands through the cascade of his ink-pigmented strands of hair. Even so crepuscular, some parts of it still embraced the sanctified hue of the sun, and gifted the boy with a particular, empyrean golden aura, “My brain stopped working around two hours ago, honestly,” Jungkook confessed, his hand then moving to cup the back of his neck. He usually did that as a way to mask his anguish, “It’s Friday, why do I have to study?” then questioned the boy.

She had been prepared for that inquiry ever since he had arrived at her dormitory, around three hours ago. For someone as distinctive as Jungkook, he could be quite predictable at times, “Did you have any other plans?” she counterclaimed, waiting for a second as her childhood friend ruminated on an answer. As the only response she received was a small biting of his lower lip, she smiled, triumphant. “Didn’t think so.”

Jungkook whined, crossing his arms over his open book, “You don't have to be rude,” the boy pouted, placing his head over his arms. In that position, it appeared as if he was as near as possible to merely closing his eyes and taking a long nap—something she was quite aware he would do if she were not there to keep him awake. Jungkook turned his gaze upwards, appearing almost child-like as his vague manipulation spilled from in between his cherry-painted lips. “we have two weeks before finals, we could—”

“—We couldn't,” the girl interrupted his sentence even before his proposition could be enunciated. Secretly, she was a hundred percent certain she would never be able to deny the upcoming alternative, so it was wiser to cut his ideas short before they could grow within her own perceptions. Convincing: Jungkook had always been dangerously convincing when there was something he desired, “Last time I left you to study by yourself, you almost fainted from exhaustion in the middle of the exam. No all-nighters under my watch, Jeon.” she crossed her arms: you will not make up my mind, her body language firmly stated.

Wickedly, his smile grew larger by a few millimeters, “I did get that A, though.” he contradicted with pleasure.

She rolled her eyes, leaning in closer to the boy so she could enunciate her rationalization with smidgens of astringency, “Along with a possible brain damage. Don't fight me on this,” the history student warned, not gifting him with an instant to defend himself. Instead, she looked down upon the open pages before him, attempting to read those jumbled words upside down. “what are you even studying?”

“I'm trying to understand Descartes,” Jungkook responded, meeting the breviloquent coruscation of confusion that flashed over her features, “you know, the math guy. Cartesian coordinate system, analytical geometry...” he elucidated.

She elevated one of her eyebrows and unhurriedly nodded in a unspoken signal of her understanding, recalling her own personal studies in regards of the scientist. Fragments of the so called ‘Dutch Golden Age’ permeated her thoughts—alongside with a brief biography of the man: something about serving for Maurice de Nassau? She made a mental note to check that later on, “Yeah, I think you have told me something about him before,” YN acknowledged, pausing for an instant to recall the correct name of one of his works. “Discourse on the Method, right?”

Once anew, one of his hands ran through the black seas of his hair. He was truly beginning to get nervous, “Something like that, yeah.” he reluctantly agreed, instead thinking it would be wiser to go with the overly simplified title— ‘Discourse on the Method of Rightly Conducting One's Reason and of Seeking Truth in the Sciences’ was not something that easily rolled off the tongue.

It was her turn to pout. The girl, too, crossed her arms over her disorganized stationary in a subconscious act of mirroring her friend, soon placing her head over the back of her hand. Now much closer to one another, Jungkook could consummately sense the sacchariferous aroma of her vanilla perfume, a scent which induced for his heart to skip a beat as she continued speaking on, “Hey, come on, don’t get sad because of the math guy,” the amicable history student smiled lightheartedly, leaning her head slightly to the left. “tell me what you know, maybe it’ll help you grasping the subject better.”

He disregarded her idea with a scoff, stare flickering towards an orange pencil that had been left over the wooden table. Rather than looking to encounter the welcoming world of her enthralled irises, the boy focused on the minor details of the object close to him; the unnoticeable grooves on the light-colored wood, the dark silver tip of the graphite that ever so dimly shone in a more pallid shade of grey under the weak incandescence, “I know jackshit.” he thoughtlessly mumbled.

The enchantment of her proximity was undone the second that, with a prolonged exhale, she leaned back against the wooden chair; the air that her figure dislocated appearing to have been removed from his own breathless lungs, “Don’t be ridiculous, you've told me tons about his philosophical trips,” she repudiated his claim as easily as one brushes off dirt, confident that it was his despair speaking louder than his logic, “you think, therefore you are. Make René Descartes proud and just tell me what you know.”

Deeply, she hoped she had not misused that quotation, for a momentaneous signal of confusion crossed over his expression. No... not confusion: she knew that face—the face of a mischievous kid; the same expression he had gifted her when they were younger, a few minutes before the school staff crossed the empty hallways with furrowed eyebrows, seeking for her best friend like there was no other culprit possible. Most times, there was not.

Without looking at her, the boy reached for the relinquished pencil, taking it in his hands and examining the sequence of numbers that had been imprinted in one of its sides, “What do I get in return?” mindlessly, he inquired.

“In return?” echoed his best friend, taken aback by the preposterous nature of his question. She swore to the heavens above that, at times, she simply could not comprehend the odd trail of thought that took turns within his mind, “A good grade, for starters.” she responded.

Jungkook shrugged; he, too, moving back to a sitting position. The cantaloupe pencil was placed over the disorganized sheets of achromatic paper and, if she did not know him for so long, she would have swore his disinterested tone meant arrogance, “I get those regardless,” he told her. At last, his gaze flickered upwards and, even if she did not meet it, she could practically feel the way his interested irises burned in expectation. “I was thinking more of a little something from you.”

She ridiculed his sentence with a puff of air that exploded in between her lips, skeptic at the vague proposition that found its way to her ears, “You’re aware that there is nothing I want from you, don’t you? This is the worst trade I have ever experienced,” the girl threw back at him, moving her hands back to the sides of her open book. Sometimes, it was like talking to a child with a superiority complex, going in circles without even understanding why the two had departed from their previous subject. “I’m going back to my own stuff, then. Don’t come crying to me when yo—”

“—Are you feeling like going out tomorrow?”

Just as simply, her voice receded into quiescence. Taken aback by the brusque invitation, the girl did not think her actions through, looking up from the endless ink of her book to encounter the same cimmerian shade that lived beyond the pupils of her company. All that she wanted was to make sure his controlled tone did not betray her, instead disguising a joke from his part, but she was met with more than she ever foresaw.

There it was again: the universes he hid inside, the shooting stars that crossed his ebony gaze every time he glanced at her direction. Again and again, she had wished upon the falling comets that ornamented his gaze for that instantaneous moment to stretch towards the margins of infinity—only to fall back into normality once she realized it was nothing beyond a faint distortion of her position; maybe even the projected necessity to have her feelings mirrored by someone so dear to her.

Each and every time she allowed herself so dive so profoundly into his eyes, a hazy memory would shimmer in her mind: she was laying on her garden, most likely bordering on her ten years of age, and observing the vast, awe-inspiring cosmos that mushroomed right before her infantile perceptions. The girl lamented and sighed continuously, wanting to send a signal up the oscillating stars; to contact the planets that lived beyond the line of her platitudinous atmosphere.

That was how she felt when she was trapped in the spacious infinity of his gaze—under the atramentous skyline of numberless constellations, wishing she could verbalize her sentiment into a brand new, unexplored cosmos. Nonetheless, equiparable to how her story had unraveled back then, she could not find the right words to do so. So, as a final attempt, she merely stood there, hoping the signals could arrive from the other edge of the galaxy’s muted iridescence.

Thought, they never truly did. Not that she could capt, at the very least.

Her pulse quickened, but she was able to mask her breviloquent surprise with the clearing of her throat. Hopefully, he did not perceive the way her fingers trembled against the hard book cover, growing paler at the tips as she attempted to hold down to substantiality—getting her hopes up was a suicidal mission, “What are you talking about?” she managed to say, glad that her tone was not nearly as undulating as her palpitations.

Like the static between two songs, the boy merely shrugged, allowing for silence to be casted over the room as he leaned back against the chair, “It’s been awhile since we went out and had fun together,” it surely took you some time to realize, she thought, but said nothing in return. Jungkook was avoiding her gaze, but nothing out of the ordinary. Yes, her hopes had in fact been raised, for she now felt them falling and crashing down like pieces of a mirror as the boy continued his apathetic speech, “I would invite you to a party, but I know you would deny even before I could finish my sentence.” he said.

She chuckled, even if humorlessly. Her heart felt heavy with despondency, and she convinced herself that she should have grown used to it by now, for it was the harsh reality she had faced for all the years that had passed, “You know me so well. Besides, the last party I’ve been through ended with me dragging a certain drunken someone back to their dorm,” and, with a faint smile—which he rapidly returned—she was sure her decaying sentiment had been flawlessly dissimulated once anew. “what’s your alternative?”

How melancholic was it that the same hand that saved her was the one who clung around her throat and prevented her from breathing? Ironic, at the very least.

Jungkook, regardless, remained unaffected by her subtle comment, “I already apologized for that, I got a bit too carried away,” he spoke out, but his words did not appear to carry any sort of true resentment. The girl did not even need to look up to see that his eyes had grown darker, the same way that happened all the times his mind started to wonder somewhere else, a place she was always unable to reach before it evanesced, rolling into a kindhearted—yet notoriously artificial—phrase. Which was precisely what occurred, “library, bookshop, museum, theater, movies, whatever you want. Outside is my only request.” he vocalized.

Shaking her head in skepticism, she took a moment to exhale before claiming, “You’re spoiling me,” still a bit hesitantly.

Then, something she did not expect fell from in between his lips. In that very second, the student thought the universe had been constructed for her to observe the beauty of his timid smile, the euphonic accordance of his mumbling voice as he enunciated his devoted confessions, “I’m missing you so bad lately. Missing us. It’s been awhile since we went out to have some fun,” Jungkook shrugged, pausing for a second as if to check the reflection his words had upon her expression: he saw none of the fireworks that exploded within her chest, none of the trembling heartbeats that echoed throughout the threads of her patched-up soul. “I just want to spend my Saturday with my best friend, could I do that?”

On the opposite side of the room, the movement of the curtains followed the rhythm of her own deep breathing—inflating, relaxing—before she responded with the phantasm of a smile, “You could,” the girl nodded, eyes flickering downwards. There was nothing printed amongst those inky lines that could hold more despondency than what resonated alongside with her subsequent words. “I missed you too, Jungkook.”

And, heavens, how acutely, profoundly, passionately did she miss him.

She was not certain if the reverberation of such confession was enough for his heart to suffocate in the same pain she felt within her own chest, but judged it to be sufficient for such peculiar circumstances. Her mind felt less clogged with negative ponderations the very instant that mundane—yet deeply personal—declaration departed from the captive of her incarnadine lips, a glimpse underneath her mask of artificial assuagement. High hopes corroded her spirit from the inside out, but she could not help to cut them off before they begun to germinate within her conceptualizations, infesting her mind with delusional ideas. They were solely friends—and that only—meaning that the concept of a ‘going out’ would not, could not, go anywhere above that definition. As much as it tormented her nature to think so, she had to be realistic, pragmatic even. It was for the best.

Back in the living room that now suffered under the poor, tangerine-pigmented phosphorescence of that lackadaisical day, boy cleared his throat, oblivious to the avalanche that had broke within her body, “That’s—”

“—Now, back to René,” her interruption was immediate, almost unaware that those warm-blooded, panicked words had left her vocal chords. As mercurial as such reaction escaped the grasp of her demeanor, the girl cursed her lack of control over her temperament—that was how she felt: vulnerable and vandalized by her inner, most uncontrollable sentiments. It was almost pathetic, if she were to be utterly sincere with herself, “rationalism, methodological skepticism… whatever that is. Spill your knowledge.” she pushed forward, hoping it would be sufficient for his focus to move away from the previous subject.

Jungkook’s lips parted as if there was something else needed to be said, but, from the space in between them, no sound came out. Even if he would most likely never admit it out loud, there were some sentences he did not know how to enunciate, some words that perished in his throat before they could be verbalized with the gentleness they necessitated. He felt as if his very soul was in dissonance with the commands of his flesh, somewhat out of tune with the instruments of his perception.

It did not matter. Another time, he would discover the most suitable words for his unspoken confessions.

Another time, perhaps—a better one.

According to Jungkook, there were some fragments of the world that could not be characterized solely by the senses, but also by what they caused upon one’s heart and soul.

Of course, if he could, he would go on and on about all the details of that specific piece of campus that felt ever so compelling to him, the way those interminable shelves were inundated by a particular type of classical elegance; the majestic resplendence of the golden sun that sliced the dust-filled air like blades of honey. He would pay close attention to each and every literary work, feeling the pleasant contrast in between each pigment and font, titles that could say everything and nothing at all. From Nietzsche to Voltaire, the ceremonious architecture of renaissance to the pictographic writing of ancient Egyptians; would read everything his tired eyes permitted him, diving into the erudite multiverses that were just at his reach.

As Jungkook stood there, feeling ever so minuscule when encircled by such honorable names of history, he thought of doing just that. Permeated by the fantastic aroma of new and old books, the lukewarm air would embrace his lungs like an amicable hug; the texture of the works underneath his fingertips would cause for his attention to be utterly trapped amongst those unexplored cellulose worlds. And, unquestionably, he could listen to the fumbling of students, and the delicate caressing of paper; the hushed whispers and the immersed conversations—but, then again, the senses alone said nothing beyond the substantial.

And that was when she came in.

It was in between two shelves that the two childhood friends spent around two hours, commenting and desiccating to the bones the most various works of literature that the small bookshop could entrust them. Amongst the turmoil of his ponderations, Jungkook could still notice the continuous repercussion of such discussions, the manner her eyes lighted up time and time again every time she discovered a title that was able to set her heart aflame. That, he thought, could never be explained merely by the response from senses—it was a reaction much more particular than that, an interest that whispered until it was given a chance so scream out, shining behind her eyes as her fingers followed the obsidian-printed letters, lips curling up in a smile that sucked out all the air from his lungs.

Somnolent, the sun unhurriedly moved to sleep beyond the horizon, submerging the campus in a progressive penumbra, guiding its inhabitants into the peaceful chromasia of a clear night. Time slipped through Jungkook’s fingers as the hours went by, remaining imperturbable with the gradual dimness of natural luminescence, then the switching on of the bookshop’s lights. It had always been like that, the absent-minded boy found himself thinking: he always lost his notion of time when he was by her side, dwelling in the comfort of her amicable company.

Moments like those at the relinquished bookstore shook up the margins of his controlled demeanor, causing for an eruption of infatuation to feel like magma in his lungs. It all felt so simple, yet so perfect. To him, importance hid behind the details: the diaphanous lineaments of her focused features to the way her hair embraced promptly the luminescence of the cantaloupe daylight; the gentle symphony of her timbre as her enthusiastic voice waltzed alongside dirt particles in the diffuse atmosphere, carrying along the most unexpected bits and pieces of the history she studied ever so vehemently.

Who was he kidding? It were not the details in those particular instants that enchanted him, but her particularities—hell, it was all of her.

It had always been her.

Jungkook had been in love with his best friend for so long now that he had almost grown accustomed to the quixotic, romantic sensations he held within the walls of his chest. Almost.

During some rare instances, he was able to push those preposterous feelings to the back of his head, attempted faithlessly to convince his infantile optimism that it was absurd—unrealistic, naive—to hold such deep affection for someone who did not see him as anything above a companion from her childhood. The two of you were—and have always been, always would be—merely friends, best friends; closer than anyone else could reach to the margins of their intimacy.

To throw all that away would be equiparable to tearing his soul apart—stitch by stitch, thread by thread, until there was nothing left but the arid interior of a hollow doll. It was best just to ignore it, he convinced himself continuously, forcing his impassioned spirit to move back behind the walls of his cognizance. By holding to reason, he would saving the glory of her company with the coast of his own shattering hope.

Ignore it, for it would all soon go away; forget it, Jeon Jungkook, don't be stupid—the boy repeated like a mental mantra, hoping the baseless frequency of its echoes would be sufficient to make his desperate wishes come to life. He should use logic when drawing possibilities about its consequences: it would never happen. Ignore it, forget it. It would evanesce eventually, and it all would come back to normal.

At times, it almost worked to soothe his worries. Almost.

The boy was cognizant of the fact that she was sharing something with him as he entered those subjective endeavours—most likely another haphazard curiosity about the cinnamon-colored book that rested upon her hands—, but he cursed his own limited mind for being unable to recall perfectly the sequence of words that departed from her lips. He swore he tried to drag his own enchanted mind back to the substantiality of her euphonic voice, but his fragmented attention had been completely shattered under her overpowering aura: so mellow and sympathetic.

And god, it felt like smelling the sweetened aroma of a rose, while remaining eternally oblivious to the way its thorns pierced his skin. To look down upon his ensanguined fingertips and wonder how he had gotten himself in such claustrophobic position; to wish to let go of the gracious flower, but being far too weak—too enamored—to perform such preposterous action. Heavens, it hurt him like the licking flames of inferno; but it was far too compelling to let it go to waste. Jungkook could not—would not—allow for his sentiments to continue to be tied to his reason for much longer. Control had a cost, and his was as painful as the hypothesis of rejection.

There were a million things he wished to have said instead, but all that left his throat was a faint provocation; a delicate, honey-like mockery that he knew would be sufficient to break the daydreams of her statuesque position, “You know, when I offered the bookshop, I wasn't being serious.” the boy smiled.

Blinking, she returned from the land of her phantasies and turned around to stare at her companion. When she smiled back at him, the story repeated itself anew: the same flower efflorescing within his heart, the same thorns piercing his lungs and preventing him from camouflaging the infatuated coral hue that painted his cheeks with such overwhelming heat. She is beautiful, Jungkook thought for what could have been the tenth time that night. She was beautiful: she was the entire ocean he drowned in, and he felt like nothing more than a mere drop of water amongst the fury of the rain.

In her fingers, she closed the literary work with a subdued noise, but did not let go of it, “Don't throw the bait then complain you caught the fish.” his best friend cooled, playful.

At that, he could discard his own reveries for the mere instant that took for a laugh to bubble in his chest, “Did you just compare yourself to a fish?” Jungkook questioned, taken aback by the unbelonging comparison. He felt as if he was floating above the horizon, pulled towards paradise by the force of his adoration.

Scoffing at his reaction—somewhat expected, if she were to be sincere—, the girl rolled her eyes at him, not hesitating for a second before speaking back, “Did you skip high school classes on allusions and metaphors?”

Unable to hold back his silly, love-struck smirk, Jungkook shrugged, taking that battle as lost, “Might as well have.” he agreed, causing for her to chuckle.

Suddenly, the boy felt taken aback with the amicable laugh that she presented him with, being faced with the surface of her divinity, “For a philosophy student, you’re so reckless about education.” her words sliced his impulses short right after, causing for his unspoken confessions to drown in the desert of his throat.

As unconventional as the realization appeared to be, Jungkook understood that he was one misstep away from pouring his inner contemplations out into the open, regardless of the consequences they could bring along. Alternatively to such reckless behavior, however, he merely laughed at her odd phrase, “I don’t see how the two could possibly be connected, but, please, don’t tell Socrates,” he joked back, thinking it would be wiser to switch the subject as soon as possible. So, as he pointed down at the object in her hands, that was precisely what he did. “what do you have there, after all? You’re basically on a date with that book instead of me.”

A date.

Cherise took over her cheeks like a flower swirling open, covering her skins in vermillion petals. Her lips instantaneously felt shut at the sudden term, mercurial heartbeat resounding in her blank mind with the chaotic rhythm of her surprise. Stop being so naive, he is just joking, the girl convinced herself, claiming on and on how idiotic it was of her to believe his words held any sort of deeper veracity. They were just friends.

Somewhere over the momentaneous shock, she could still hear a faint voice cursing her own infantile reaction. Even more, the suddenness of the term caught her so off guard that she was unable to mask its crystal clear effects as nervousness trembled amongst the syllables of her response, “Uh… what d-do you..." she stopped, and cleared her throat. Looking down at the book in her hands, her eyebrows moved together and, a second later, she was able to verbalize her inquiry better. She felt absolutely pathetic to be acting in such manner. "What do you... think of this one?”

Jungkook hummed and looked downwards in a way to mask the way his own hopes had shattered ever so gracefully. Numb was how his heart felt, for there was no initial signal within his brain that warned him of the term before it dripped from his mouth. Again and again, his demeanor cursed himself for not filtering better his choice of words—what was he thinking, throwing something like that so absent-mindedly? He truly felt like an idiot.

Flickering over the details on the cover, the boy’s eyes took in the odd image of the copy in her hands. Three cimmerian-pigmented words stood out amongst a clear cover—The Black Death—and, right underneath the title, there was a somewhat disturbing painting of what appeared to be a village back in the Middle Ages. In the image’s main focus, laid a woman and her child, both screaming out in a silent lament for that devastating, demonic torture to finally cease. All across the background, more nameless strangers curved in pain, skeletons visible through their feeble skins, and shadowy amethyst blemishes infecting their bodies. The figural simulacrum of death was casted over them, painted in fine brushstrokes of the most humane of angonies.

The choice, as odd as it appeared, no longer impressed her best friend—if anything, was even a bit predictable, “Medieval again? Didn't you read all the existing books on it already?” Jungkook questioned, looking back to meet her expectant gaze. Now compared to the horrendous image of a past long gone, her semblance appeared to be almost sanctified, angelic. She is beautiful, he came to terms once more.

Glancing at her eyes was like envisioning a waterfall, he usually thought. Not because of the tears she had shared with him, but for the way they mixed and transitioned so perfectly between the magnificence and peace of the unexplored scenery; though could also crash down upon his contemplations like the overwhelming ponderation of collapsing water, the impact of the roaring cascades. In that breviloquent moment, his reaction stood somewhere in between the two—admiring their exquisiteness, but also growing preoccupied of his choice of words.

Though, the girl chuckled at his response, lowering her book and pressing it against her chest, “One day, maybe,” she told him, pouting at the incredulous expression that emerged within his traces. “come on, you know it's one of my favorite periods.”

“The night that lasted a thousand years...” Jungkook trailed off, knowing what kind of reaction it would be received. Just as expected, her mouth opened in a silent exclamation of negation, eyebrows coming together in a frown. History students generally became very defensive over the claim that nothing was accomplished throughout the Middle Ages, and she was no different, “I'm joking, calm down. You have your history on check. You can stop with those medieval books.” he made sure to add it quickly.

She huffed, shoulders falling in an unspoken relaxation, “Define ‘on check.’” she spoke back.

It was his turn to roll his eyes, crossing his arms before his figure. Only then did she notice the pleasant contrast between his white shirt and the oceans of obsidian that existed in his hair, falling over his eyes like an obfuscous veil. Even under such delicate, lackluster lights, Jungkook still managed to hold the artistry of a renascentist masterpiece, mischievous eyes coruscating with the vitality of youth, “Correct me if I’m wrong, but you’re both at the top of your class, and you constantly shower me with more historical curiosities than I could ever recall. If that’s not being on check, I don’t know what it is.” he explained.

“I can't see how the two could possibly be connected,” she repeated his phrase from aforetime, quick to move her sentences forward before he could even consider a proper response, “I'm buying it anyways. I don’t have this one, and I want to change that.” she shrugged.

With a suspire, Jungkook accepted his defeat, reaching out of the book, “Fine, hand it over,” the boy requested, soon meeting the crashing puzzlement of her confused expression. “what? I'm paying for it. It’s a gift.”

The girl hesitated as if she had just been faced with a prospect far too unrealistic for her to comprehend immediately, “Did I just enter a parallel universe? You used to be bothered when I had no money to pay for ice cream, and now you’re buying me a book?” questioned the lost history student, moving the back of her hand to touch it against his forehead, “Are you feeling okay? Do you have a fever?”

Jungkook moved her hand away with a groan, getting the book from her in a harsh, impulsive manner. He was aware she most likely thought that the blush that covered his cheeks was nothing more than his irritation at her childlike demeanor, but it was specifically because of how dangerously close she had become. Hell, he felt like a teenager sometimes, “Don't get bratty, let me be nice to you before I change my mind,” the boy mumbled, taking a step back. The book felt oddly heavy in his hands, but he gave it no importance—was it hot in there? He was not thinking straight. “I'll be back soon with your stupid Black Plague book.”

Still taken aback by the sudden switch of his temperament, she stood there for an instant and, in an unexpected eruption of staggering words, claimed she would then wait for him on the outside of the bookshop. Jungkook merely agreed with a suppressed hum, then turned around to head towards the cashier—who was staring at the two college students with a certain level of interest.

As she walked towards the exit, she could not organize the confusion that had unraveled within her mind. Longing, her heart induced for her muffled steps to resound amongst the quick beating of her heart; the melody of her affection exploding within her chest in warm ondulations of appreciation. Something about that simple action awakened the love that she was ever so desperately attempting to keep six feet under, causing for a trembling sigh to break in between her curled up lips. Amorous and compassionate, waves of tenderness pulsated through her veins like the cadency of a bird’s wings—quick, precise—and called for her heartbeat to adopt more of an erratic rhythm.

As the afternoon air embraced her body, the contact with the chilly winds only made her position become even more corporeal, concrete; as if the sudden change of temperature only served to confirm that those past minutes had not been part of a faithless daydream. Deliquescing into igneous amber, the skyline welcomed the crepuscular indigo of the forthcoming night with open arms. By the side of the humble bookshop, small cerulean flowers trembled under the caresses of the wind, appearing to be far too fragile to endure their characteristic beauty; gradually, they, too, succumbed into the shadows of dusk.

On one of them, a yellow butterfly moved its wings in a lethargic, lackadaisical manner, setting a rhythm disconsonant to the one of the mumbling earth. It beat it once, twice; then flew away, utterly unbothered by the effervescent conversations that gradually resonated around campus. Inside her heart, the same tempo followed.

A date.

Heavens, she could feel the way her pulse trembled underneath the mere connotation of that term, never once used before by him. At the same instant she was aware it did not held the significance she wished, the girl could not shake away the endless sparks that ignited within her spirit once she had heard that term a few minutes ago. She felt so stupid, yet so blissfully happy.

Little did she know that, as Jungkook departed from the inside of that small store, he felt the very same.

Gratitude was plastered all over her features as an alluring smile appeared upon her traces, welcoming the boy as he returned with the small bag. She took it with delicacy, afraid that a brusque movement would be all that it took to shatter the wonderful world of reveries she had immersed herself in, “You're the best person I have ever met.” she spoke, fighting the urge to curl her arms around his body and pull him into a warm hug. Aforetime, that would have been so simple, casual, but now she was not certain that was inside his area of comfort.

Jungkook, regardless, merely responded with a satisfied smirk, glad that his small present had given her that much joy. Even if she could not tell, the affection that scintillated beyond his gaze took in the eternal glow of the stars, bordering on the euphoria he fought to keep inside, “You’re very welcome. If I knew the way to your heart was through lame history books, I would've done this years ago,” then, with a concise pause, the boy placed his hands inside the pockets of his pants, chewing on his following words as his eager eyes traced the details of the falling adumbration, “where to, captain?” he lightheartedly questioned.

Humming, she considered his inquiry as the two began to walk without a destination. She held the bag with two hands behind her back and, with every step, its vague noises resembled the calm melody of the wind that whispered through the trees. Again and again, her partner in crime could only wish to drink the sallow moonlight that bathed her focused features, to listen to her euphonic voice as she distractedly spoke out.

“Let's just... walk around,” at last, her response came. For an instant, the boy forgot what he had asked, but it soon emerged within his infatuated mind. Only then did he allow himself to chuckle in amusement, a reaction she had grown quite used to along the years. “I sense that you have another idea, don't you?”

With that single loose edge, his facade came undone, “I might have one, yes,” Jungkook agreed instantaneously, unable to disguise the sudden excitement that glimpsed within his features. As the two passed underneath the cascades of continuous streetlights, the shadows that melted down his features gifted the boy with an image that bordered on the mystery of his prolonged elucidation, “a certain someone might have the keys to a very empty and unwatched gymnasium.” at last, he said.

“Interesting…” the girl said, allowing for her word to trail off into the vacuum of night. The eternity of that moment reflected within his wicked eyes, dripped in between his cherise lips as a song she would adore to follow—a sailor allowing for a siren to trap him underneath the tempestuous waves of a stormy sea. “did a certain someone steal it?”

From the way Jungkook promptly chuckled at her inquiry, she was certain she had already accepted his unspoken request the very second it had fallen in between their bodies. Weak—she was dangerously weak when he looked at her like that: so meaningfully, yet in such infantile, naive manner, “A certain someone got it from their coach when they were still part of the football team, and then never gave it back,” the philosophy student responded without a trace of hesitation. “what do you think? Worth the shot?”

With a purposefully prolonged suspire, she pretended as if she had pondered upon his idea for an instant. Again, Jungkook was very convincing when he needed to. Or, mayhaps, she was just biased, manipulated by her bottled-up emotions, “Fine. Just because you got me that book.” finally, she accepted.

“Oh, I love how you act as if you're not the tiniest bit curious,” he managed to joke back, thanking the lack of luminescence for masking the roseate hue that burgeoned upon his cheeks. Instantaneously, Jungkook drowned in the oceans she held inside as her euphonic laugh dispersed into the ashen clouds above, her beautiful smile dragging him away from his broken, eclipsed reveries of years past. Once again, he thought about how beautiful she was—it was not as if he had any sort of control over those fascinated observations, anyways. “whatever helps you sleep at night, that's good enough for me. To the gymnasium we go.”

And, without an instant of hesitation, so they did.

Lost amongst the cimmerian shadows of the falling indigo skyline, the two could almost convince themselves that there was no destiny to be reached, merely the path of their intertwined souls; the mesmerizing melting of one color to another, dancing together to form the kaleidoscope masterpiece that was the blazing sundown—then the abysmal nightfall. As one subject progressively transfigured into another, they talked about the most frivolous of interests, jumping from topic to topic with the fluidity of the passing incandescent lights. The overwhelming comfort of something so simple took over their enamored hearts, for it was fantastic to simply go on about everything and nothing at all; the kind of liberty only conversations with him could provide her.

Enthusiastic like the wind, able to move between delicate breezes and the pull of a hurricane. Never once had the girl felt so light, so unrestricted by the ties of her subdued sentiment. As the wind caressed the spacious world that expanded in between their bodies, all her preoccupations dispersed into the nocturnal winds. As strange as it might have seemed, she sensed as if that instant became boundless, as immeasurable as their own story. It was ordinary, but lacking any flaws; momentary, but infinite—it was just the two of them and the perpetual embrace of dawn.

She missed that, she truly did.

So much, in fact, that the sentiment blinded her to the obvious manner her friend stole quick glances in her direction, hoping and praying his admiration would not become translucent through his armor. Even with so much adoration continuously blooming within her breathless chests, the two could not win against the enormous space in between their tentative hands.

Truly, one of the most melancholic kinds of love was the one that remained silent, afraid of never being returned with the same vehemence.

Jungkook could never quite elucidate the sentiment that sang inside his soul once she was there by his side, absolutely obvious to the mystical effects she had on his soul. Continuously, frequently, hopelessly—Jungkook had envisioned that determining occasion again and again, hoping his courageous spirit could show itself when facing the paralyzing, faceless nemesis of his confession. He had imaged how feather-like her honeyed lips would feel against his own, dwelled in the picturesque smile she would present to him once his idolatrous words dripped in between his clenched teeth.

Three small words never felt so threatening, so invencible; spinning his bravery around like a carousel, giving him the motion sickness of a hypothetical rejection from her part. Jungkook hoped for a smile, but could not face the possibility of a frown, of a confused stare; of an unilateral infatuation.

Uncountable instances aforetime he had considered pursuing the rocky path of a faithful confession. Frequently, he had portrayed the most absurd sequence of events, all of them intercalating the ethereal, paradisiacal glory of mutual feelings to the scalding inferno of a possible humiliation, the burning of being turned down by the one he adored ever so dearly. At some occasions, Jungkook got as far verbalizing the syllables that constituted her name with the harmony of his growing hope, words intoxicated by the same affection that hung ever so sweetly at the tip of his tongue—nevertheless, he never enunciated his love. Never found the sufficient amount of courage to do so.

Returning to the unbearable space that dwelled in between their bodies, Jungkook looked to his side in the internal expectation of meeting her image. Neighboring the otherworldly, there was an extraordinary aspect about the way her gaze was lost beyond the sempiternity of the violaceous skyline, how her skin glowed under the golden, aureate lights of a campus that slowly begun to embrace its nocturnal habitants. Heavens, he had lost himself in her charms so many instances, yet the boy was never entirely prepared for the way her grace monopolized his thoughts, causing for them to metamorphose into anarchy as he attempted to formulate the most basic of sentences.

It was brusque, impetuous—but it was not unnoticeable. Deep in the rampageous turbulence of his inner dilemmas, Jungkook thought that peaceful moment was perfect for his courage to present itself—it would finally arrive, and he would recklessly relocate his reluctancy aside, telling her with unshakable bravery how mindlessly, profoundly had he fell for her. Communicate it to her not as a request, not as faithful attempt for her to experience the same: Jungkook would confess his feelings for the girl as if it was nothing at all, a subject could be overlooked if she wished to do so. He would make sure to say how it would not change anything, how she had absolutely no obligation to feel the same.

Though, that was all that he could ever wish for.

Suspiring, the girl brought his attention back to the two of them, back to the grey asphalt and the howling of the autumn wind. At last, the prolonged tension of his expectation was broken with the notes of her voice, somewhat embarrassed at the subject being presented, “That chick you hooked up with that last party… the one with the long curly hair, you know?” YN asked, seeing from her peripheral vision how the boy nodded in agreement.

Jungkook looked at her in expectation, taking that brief instant to appreciate the cherubic way her features embraced the streetlights with so much grace—her nose appeared as if it had been outlined by gold, the pallid yellow of the lamps that fought the penumbra just to shine upon her cheeks, down her face, around her roseate, petal-like lips as she continued her reluctant speech, “She came to talk to me yesterday, wanting to see if I could give her your number.”

He frowned, clearly puzzled at the unforeseen prospect, “Did... you?”

Her mouth closed at that, eyes seeking for the answers that hid behind the trees of the silent campus. Guilt was not precisely what she was feeling, but it was the only word that emerged within her mind as she attempted to characterize her position, “I didn't know if you wanted me to, so I made up some excuse about breaking my phone and that I never memorized your number,” the girl confessed those words quickly, as if a part of her was silently begging for him to forgive the sins she never committed. “we ranted for a bit about the technological dependency we have, but she bought the lie just fine. I didn't give your number to her," and, after a pause, she made sure to add that, "I know her, though. If you want, I can reach out.”

Jungkook shook his head in negation, moving his hand in the air as if fanning away the nefarious clouds of his apprehension, “No, no, that's fine as it is,” he was quick to say, forcing his tone to remain somewhat controlled. “I don't even know her name. Don't want to change that.”

From the manner her lips fell back shut in a momentary image of hesitation, he knew there had been some fragments of his rapid negation that resonated with an erroneous chord within her soul, “I... understand. Maybe you should tell her, though,” his best friend counterclaimed, measuring her sentences with infinite care, so they would not show the personal pieces of such carefully constructed puzzle. “it's quite sad to just sit and wait for someone like that. Specially if they're avoiding you.”

The hidden gloominess that embellished the corners of her smile often induced for the boy to discover his limbs suddenly growing stiffer, his lungs contracting in apprehension as he met the wonders that dwelled in the fathomless world behind her gaze. In the captive of his throat, the words he would never say died once again. His confession had its spotlight prepared, but he was terrified of the stage, “Yes, you're right,” was what he proffered instead, masking the anxiety of his missed chance with a quick, almost timid cough, “I suppose I should... tell her.” Jungkook acknowledged.

At that, she only hummed in agreement, but said nothing else. As the terminal syllables of his thoughtful sentence lost themselves amongst the hyperborean atmosphere of the night, neither of them knew if they were still discussing that faceless stranger, or if their inner preoccupations had peeked through the cracks of their pride.

It did not matter. Another time, perhaps.

A better one.

Arriving at the gymnasium was not troublesome, but opening its passageway turned into a much more arduous task than they could have ever envisioned. Jungkook pushed and pulled the doors with just enough force so there would be no obstreperous reverberations, but none of his efforts appeared to cause any sort of change in the fact that such dark metal entrance remained imperturbable, standing in the same place as if it was a loyal soldier in its designed position.

Behind the two explorers, no other living being crossed those parts of the campus, for their Saturday night was reserved to other, more vivacious landscapes. Such unique equanimity became quickly cherished by the curious girl—for there was a secretive element about the forlornness of an universe once so ebullient that appeared to be mesmerizing, a piece of reality only the two could waltz in. To her, even if only as an internal conceptualization, the sands of time had stopped to run so the two could observe the gorgeous navigation of passing clouds, how the light of the moon bleed through the opaque nebulas of such onyx cosmos, then withered into the twilight of those dimly illuminated ambients.

Disregarding all those mystifying aspects, her focus solely resided in the boy before her. Bathed by the consecrated complexion of the caramel streetlights, Jungkook held tightly to the ethereal aura it gifted him, the golden aureole that slipped in between the charcoal strands of his disheveled hair—just like that day at the cafe, he appeared to be a pulchritudinous hallucination; a treasure that flinched away from her grasp continuously.

Fumbling with the newly discovered lock, Jungkook angrily mumbled at the overabundance of keys in his hands, uttering profanities at unseen divinities every instance he attempted to utilize the incorrect one, “Okay, I think I think I got it,” the boy said after a breviloquent instant of expecting silence, his shiny eyes looking at her with the endless stars of his bliss. She did not care the reason why he had grown so happy, for it was the image of his endless joy that brought her such euphoric comfort; memories of their childish years coming back to her like tides of wistfulness.

Repeatedly, she thought that she could still catch glimpses of his younger self slipping between the cracks of his controlled persona, and it was an extremely conflicting sentiment to endure. Youthful, his heart lured her into moments of magic and wonder—yet, they kept crashing down back into reality, turning her position into a much more anguishing one.

At last, an exclamation from his part sliced her reveries, causing for the whine of the opening door to echo in the nocturnal infinity that surrounded the two, “Welcome to the castle, princess,” her best friend joyfully greeted, dramatically moving his arm as if he was a painter presenting his newest masterpiece to eager art lovers. In some level, that was precisely what unfolded, “the world is yours to take.” Jungkook added, taking a step to the side so she could walk in first.

And, God, what a world it was.

Near the ceiling of the gymnasium, an elongated line of rectangular windows stood at the top of the wall opposite to them, allowing for the caliginous illumination of the street to welcome the two into those relinquished lands. The spiritless, aurulent phosphorescence from the neighboring lamps dripped from the dusty glass and caused for the specks of dust to oscillate in the static atmosphere, obtaining the achromatic pigmentation that made them seem like anemic lampyridae against the moonlight.

Casted away by her momentaneous reveries, the girl released a long sigh; looking all around as if checking any other peculiarities she could have missed at first: the wooden benches by the side of the court; the mountainous bleachers that embraced the blades of luminescence with its phantasm-like semblance; the polished cantaloupe wooden tiles, the bleached demarcations that separated the areas of the court, but also guided the two adventurers to enter its realms. There was something terribly alluring about the entire ambient, which she could not yet elucidate.

“God, I hate how pretty this place is at night," she groaned as she slowly walked towards the center of the court, lamenting how rapidly memorable situations like those could become. That small fragment of campus belonged to them—and them only—for god knows how long. If she could, she would have spent the rest of the night there, merely accompanying the midnight darkness as it grew thicker before, at last, gifting its position to the auric resplendence of the burgeoning sunlight, "have you been here before?” she questioned, turning around to meet his silhouette.

Momentaneously, she considered that an answer could not be exactly what she desired. The mere hypothesis of him taking other girls there was able to make her stomach turn. It was not induced by jealousy, but by the damage of replacement. The hurt of longing for someone who escaped in between her fingers like mercury.

Yet, her inner preoccupations did not appear to have any effect on the oblivious boy, “When it's empty?" Jungkook questioned, almost mindlessly. His friend only nodded in agreement, and he hummed for an instant as his mind worked around its memories. After a few prolonged seconds, he was able to construct an answer, "Only once, when I needed some space to think, but you're the first person I bring here.” he confessed.

Perfectly, she masked her alleviation with a shiny smile, “The honor is endless,” she spoke, those words holding more significance than she ever expected. Truly—the world was theirs to take, “it's... weird at the same time. So empty, devoid of noise.” she shared her thoughts.

“Yeah, I see what you mean,” Jungkook agreed, placing his hands inside the pockets of his pants as he moved closer to where she stood. Against every fiber of his body, he forced his gaze to remain on the endless lines of pallid windows, avoiding to meet the beauty of the girl amongst the consolidated penumbra of that secluded night, “I'm glad we got this night for ourselves. I really missed it.” he manifested that with so much tranquility that she overlooked the turbulent storm clouds that begun to accumulate within his obfuscous eyes.

Humming, the girl but down on her lower lip, taking a couple steps up the solitary bleachers—against what she expected, her footsteps did not sound like thunder amongst the emptiness of the gargantuan construction, but soft and precise as the heartbeats that pulsated within her veins, “We haven't done this since what, freshman year?” the history student questioned, at last sitting down, closer to the middle. By her side, she placed her new book. “Damn, you used to be bolder back then.”

Jungkook chuckled at her peculiar choice of words, forcing himself to follow his best friend up the steps, “Bolder?” he echoed, somewhat puzzled by such term. Communication appeared to be odd between the two childhood friends, for each syllable shared held a level of ambiguity that made him uneasy. “Are you talking freshman year of college or high school?”

With a sudden glimpse of interest, her eyes widened in the face of an upcoming recollection, “I was thinking about college, but you just made me remember something,” she said, promptly meeting the reluctant expectation that was casted over his focused lineaments as, finally, he stood and sat by her side. “and yes, we're going down memory lane whether you want it or not. Picture this: teenager Jeon Jungkook, climbing up my window in the middle of the winter, having to wait for almost twenty minutes on a tree before I got out of the shower to let you in.”

Of course, he could recall that perfectly. Even with some particularities lost amongst the nebulous trails of his mind, Jungkook could still feel the claws of the gelid winter diving deep in his skin; could recall the sound of her surprised exclamation as she left the bathroom with just a pale blue towel around her body, her widened eyes meeting his own behind the glass window. The scalding roseate hue that exploded in both of their faces was barely noticed under the hushed whispers and fervent curses, his excuses were quickly disregarded and curtains were rapidly moved in front of the translucent surface as she claimed she needed to get dressed. Almost twenty minutes later, the boy was allowed entrance. The price to pay: a couple playful hits to the head.

Back to the present, Jungkook then laughed—one of those free, careless laughs that he allowed himself to present when he are truly, foolishly happy. If anything, the most elementary kinds of bliss were the one he cherished the most, for they were both the most achievable and the most alleviating to experience, “Don't do that to me, that was such a traumatic night,” he confessed with a smirk, feeling as if some part of him had shattered under the ponderation of nostalgia. Their bodies were so close, just a few more millimeters and his hand would be placed over warmth of her own. “though, I remember you sneaking out with me to go to that party. Did you parents ever find out that we went there?”

She paused for an instant, ruminating on her memories. As the nuances of that peculiar nightfall returned to the surface of her chaotic memories, the history student came to the uncommon conclusion that she could remember minute, almost ignorable details about those comforting instants, small quirks and expressions that could never be applied to anyone else but her best friend. In the end, even unable to characterize the boy that now stared at her so patiently, Jungkook was one of the most singular individuals she had met, someone that completed her oh so perfectly.

Memories like those were the kind that remained in the depths of her childish mind and, when they returned, they caused for your heart to flutter under their overwhelming wistfulness. That instance, nevertheless, they only brought her a certain sense of disappointment, accompanied by a sign that appeared to hold the entire weight of the world within it, “Not that I know of,” her negation came with a measurement of hesitation, causing for him to grow preoccupied at what would follow. “it was a pretty terrible night, though. I spent most of it in the couch by myself, groaning at drunk people.”

Jungkook’s primordial response was a smirk, his eyes falling down to the polished court that awaited in the hollow spaced in between the steps of the faded bleachers. There was a certain sorrow camouflaged within his every syllable, and she would have never noticed it if she had not been so attentive to his every minor signal of irritation, “You do that during every party you go to.” he spoke underneath his breath, hoping that the traces of regret within his tone could be sufficient for her to understand his fragile position.

Open, then closed. Her lips moved as if delineating her words in the air, but allowed no sound to run from in between them. There was only silence, only the beating of their arrhythmic heartbeats. Open, closed.

It was during moments like those that the boy finally understood that the duality she presented him with was nothing but the existence of a melancholic soul in a vivacious personality; the glimpses of hope and despondency that morphed to form the girl he had fallen so deeply for, “Yeah, but you left me alone,” she spoke, breaking his romantic reveries instantaneously. That was not even close to a sentence Jungkook ever expected to receive, far too close to his nightmarish forthcomings for him to promptly take seriously. Paranoia was not all that it was, then: he had truly relinquished the one who he adored the most. “I mean, I get it. You wanted to have fun with your friends, I don't blame you for it. I'm also not saying it was on purpose, but it did make me feel down. For a long time, at that.”

Those words made him feel sick to his stomach, the impact of his guilt absorbing all the air from his already feeble lungs. Jungkook could not put into words how much he hated the fact that the girl felt that way, especially if it was because of infantile and reckless decisions he had once took. He would have done anything to put poetry into her life, to find the lyrism that tied them together with so much perfection. The white rymes, the flawless metric, the correct verses at the specific time. Everything he did not have, that is. Everything opposite to what he had truly given her.

“You never told me it bothered you so much,” he spoke those words with care, almost as if he was scared of the consequences of facing a wild animal. Though, he was aware YN was not even close to a roaring lion amongst the endless fields of the savannah, nor the calculative wolf that awaited for its pray in between the alabastrine snow—she was his best friend, someone that knew him even better than himself, “it's nothing that wouldn't happen nowadays, too.” he quickly added.

Subsequently, he came to realize that it was a calamitous choice of words. It was nothing that would not happen nowadays: he would still leave her alone, “I know. It does happen sometimes,” the girl agreed closely after, bringing his deeper nightmares to life. It was like watching a piece of glass falling to the ground in slow motion: body paralyzed, wide eyes merely awaiting for the crashing impact that would soon arrive. And, duly, it came. “Jungkook, you know I'm not someone that gets comfortable at parties. I only go because you want me to, and every time I think you'll keep me company, which you don’t. I don't demand to be exclusive, it's just kind of exhausting when you drop me to be with your friends or some random girl the very second we walk through the door.”

With her amable voice and the dainty reluctance it provided, Jungkook’s best friend shattered his spirit with the simple pronunciation of those words. Brusquely, all elements of nature he once perceived within her became the natural disasters that would tear him apart—calamities, oh calamities—the same calm breeze had now turned into a merciless hurricane. Paralyzed. Slow motion. He spoke out, “Is that why you... are already gone every time I go search for you?” he seemed unable to find the correct words to formulate his inquiry, but he did it regardless. Jungkook expected that amongst his shaky timbre, she would capt his disguised message: he had gone after her, she had not been simply forgotten nor replaced.

Though, it was much more complicated than a disguised apology and the infantile hope of a benevolent forgiveness, “Yeah, I get tired of waiting, so I just go home.” she shrugged, and moved her gaze away from his own. That was, in a way, the breaking point: a simple misstep that sent him flying down to the abyss of his suppressed frustrations.

Like wildfire, his frustration started to fumble around in his tight chest, taking over the arrhythmia of his heart and burning his logic thinking into ashes. He felt the pressure of the earth shaking beneath his feet as his subsequent words ate his mouth, bringing along a poison that he did not recognize as being his own, “I've seen you talking to some people every once in awhile, though. Some guys.” added the boy, trying to hold back the rivers of his awakening exasperation.

If the hidden connotation of his claims reached for her cognizance, she gave no signals that she had been affected by it, “I'm not socially inapt, Jungkook, I can talk to other people,” she spoke back with bittersweet aftertaste hanging at the tip of her tongue. She could not explain the reason for his sudden harshness, nor the way that it reflected upon her very temperament. “it's just the same story all over. The guys you see me talking to just want to flirt and fuck around, and I'm not interested in that. Besides, it's not like it's an excuse for you to just leave me like that.”

He frowned, unaffected by her sentence. The thing about resentfulness was the blindness it dragged along, preventing its owner from recognizing the irrationality that slipped through one’s every movement, “Why is that?” he thoughtlessly inquired.

Was that jealousy she perceived within his tremulous phrase? No, she was not being rational: of course Jungkook was not jealous. She supposed that was a common behavior amongst the ones who fell in love to place a special, idiosyncratic meaning in everything their loved one did, for it was much more soothing than to face the hypothesis of it being an one-sided devotion.

As much as she was sure it was the case, some stubborn, hopeful part of her heart expected otherwise, and it was sufficient to prolong her anguish even further. She paused for a second, taking in the vague question, and the curtain of such abstract feeling that had fallen over his eyes, “What do you mean?” she thought it was better to question.

For the first time, she did not see Jungkook as an unexplored mountain, did not force herself to fight the radiance of the sun in a faint attempt to glimpse at the secrets the cloud-hidden apex held. Now, the boy was nothing beyond the best friend she had lost a long time ago, an hesitant and even quite timid kid that was unable to construct his sentences with the correct words. His mouth was opening and closing, his flickering eyes were moving around—everywhere but on her—seeking for the answers that he necessitated. She could almost sense the waves of frustration that emanated from his body, but could not pinpoint the reason for such swift change of demeanor.

Each step forward, the boy felt as if he was taking two steps behind, crawling away from a reality he would forever deny to face. Keeping those thoughts at bay, he forced himself to clear his throat, resuming his speech with care, “Why are you... not interested in any of them?” at last, he reformulated his previous inquiry, his voice a note softer than before.

“I don't know, I'm just not,” she breathed out, allowing herself to embrace the profound waters of his gaze for a momentaneous instant of weakness—in her perceptions, his beauty still resided amongst the harshness of his expression. Fragility reluctantly opened before her like a efflorescing flower, presenting her will the prismatic magnificence of his kind spirit, the kindness that sometimes got eclipsed by his reckless acts. Yes, that piece of a lonely universe was duly was a beautiful ambient, but his presence managed to make it even better. “the heart doesn't pick what it wants, I suppose.”

Taken aback by the pulling currents of his heartache, the boy felt as if he was nothing more than a book with a torn out page: missing an imperative scene, a discontinued trail of thought. Jungkook truly despised how distant he had become, and was unable to direct his anger towards himself. Instead, it dripped in between his mouth like drops of a corrosive liquid, burning his patience to threats, “It really fucking doesn't,” he bitterly agreed. “I'm sorry, okay? I never noticed I was doing that.”

If it had been in any other situation, she would have left that slip. She would have overlooked the pendulum of emotions that guided his posture, would have disregarded his unbelonging frustration as being caused by the subjects the two would much rather avoid—however, that moment, everything switched back to place. The same constrained petulance that deteriorated his heart could be reflected within her own chest, crushing for her reckless speech to reverberate past the static air before she could ever hold it back. Not that she would have, for she was, too, reaching the margins of her patience.

“I told you about this at least two times already, though,” YN continued to say, refusing to acknowledge an apology that was as empty and mechanic as the others he had presented her with. She could see that the boy was compassionate towards her position, so she could not comprehend the reason for the prompt manner he avoided diving deeper into such matters. “you apologized, but the story remained the same. In fact, if I'm being honest, I feel like you purposely avoid me at this point.”

There it was, and there was no way to take it back. Her piercing words felt like cold daggers to his chest, slicing his pride in half and causing for his negation to shatter into reality: Jungkook could no longer escape from those demons. Perhaps, there was not another time—a better one—waiting for him ahead; the universe would not be merciful enough to take that miraculous decision for him, or even to plan the correct, unrealistic instant for his devoted speech to leave his mind. He was losing his best friend at every hollow apology, it was not worth the secret.

At the same time, running over that blame distribution made his limbs hurt, those fragmented opinions and past recollections that only induced for his inner guilt to shine with a new force, “What are you talking about?” Jungkook questioned, aware that he was being irrational, speaking in circles. She was right, and he was searching for signals that held absolutely no verisimilitude. “We're alone in a gymnasium. How is this avoiding?”

“Yeah, I'm as surprised as the next guy,” scoffed his best friend, her calm tone in dissonance with the clear astringency of her measured words. Heavens, he felt as if the paradise of her gaze had just metamorphosed into inferno, oscillating in a middle-ground in which her melancholy appeared ever so clearly. “you're always postponing our plans, always making up excuses to cancel or leave early. And when you do stay around, your mind is miles away, you never even hear what I’m saying.”

Syllables felt arid as a desert as his poorly pronounced negation fell from his mouth, “That's just not true, YN.” was all that he was able to say, even if he did not believe that claim for a mere second.

Truth was: Jungkook had been aware of how the two had followed separate ways, traveled different roads. Ever since they had gotten into college, they were no longer the kings and queens they once pretended to be, just two pathless students amongst an ocean of strangers. More than that, he knew perfectly the way he had purposefully avoided his best friend with the objective of muffling his feelings—which, ironically, only added to his overwhelming longing. She had all the right to be feeling lonely, to be placing the blame on him. God, he hated himself at that moment.

The girl, however, merely shrugged at his words. For the first instance, Jungkook came to the conclusion that her disappointment was so rooted down her mundane chores that she could barely present him any sort of sentiment: it had become part of her routine, “Perhaps not, but that's how I feel.” she humorlessly told him.

Stitch by stitch, his facade was torn apart, lying somewhere in between the broken and the frustrated, “Maybe you should ask me how I feel.” Jungkook said without a second instant of ponderation.

Parts of his forgotten reason still screamed within his mind for the boy to better filter his verbalizations, but he was aware that, phrase by phrase, the damage that was progressively being done could not be fixed so easily. He was certain, one way or another, that the time he had been waiting for now approached at full speed. It felt less and less like a kind embrace, and more like a truck about to hit him in the middle of a deserted road, its phosphorescent lights so strong that blinded the boy to any sort of self-control.

She, too, appeared to grow conflicted at the spectacle that unfolded before her eyes, pursing her lips together in a quiescent instant of hesitation, “Very well,” she agreed after a sigh, placing her hands on top of her knees. Her palms felt horribly cold, even if it ambient was warm, “for starters, why are you getting so defensive?”

“Defensive? I'm not getting defensive, I'm just getting mad,” and he only got himself to blame—the two of them knew that. “seems like every time I'm about to do something right for once, a talk like this blocks the way. We haven't been close ever since we started college, that's normal, but do you have to rub it in my face that it's all my fault?”

At that, her shield of apprehension shattered. Yet anew, the naivety of his younger self shimmered past his staggering tone, causing for the girl to remember that the two had a story far deeper than those shallow years of college, “I never said it was all your fault. Things like this are mostly never unilateral,” her shoulders fell at that, voice growing more delicate. Even if she still blamed the boy for the way he had departed, she could not pretend as if she could not have fighted harder for it. In a way, she, too, appreciated the security of distance. “I know you for too long, Jungkook, I know you wouldn't just cut me out because you're feeling like it. Or, at the very least, I'd like to think so.”

Her words felt like kerosene setting his soul aflame, the sparks that gradually consumed the rope of a dynamite. From the manner Jungkook swallowed his anguish dry, he could tell he was merely a couple steps away from the edge, holding himself back from a road divider he was so frightened of facing, “I would never do something like that, you're my best friend.” Jungkook spoke, but did not fully believe himself. He had done it, after all.

Patient, the girl breathed out, placing her hand over his own. Her touch was like poison ivy, burning every part of his skin and causing for his throat to itch under the bothersome presence of unspoken claims—nothing could ever come close to how much he wanted her at that instant, even if it was to solely feel her embrace, her heartbeat mixing with his own, “And you are mine. You just haven't been acting like it,” she tenderly responded, voice faltering for an instant before continuing with the subject. “what's going on with you lately? You know you can tell me anything, I won't judge you.”

What’s going on with me is that I have no fucking idea how to love you, and it’s tearing me to pieces, the boy innerly responded, but could never find the courage to push those brave claims out of his asphyxiated chest. He was two steps away from crying out mercy, giving up to the fatigue of his suffocated sentiment and merely allowing for it to spill out amongst the breaking thunder of his pride.

Regardless, what he said was the complete opposite, “Nothing’s going on with me.”

Breathing out, she took her time to find the air she necessitated to continue such personal conversation, “Look at me,” requested the girl and, after a concise second of vacillation, the boy glimpsed upwards. Jungkook could swear that it was almost sanctified the way the colorless glow of the moon dripped over her frown, the chimerical traces of her confusion standing out amongst such welcoming persona. Preoccupations painted her features in shadows, and he could tell that there was no way he could turn back from the path they were heading. “tell me what's wrong. We can't fix it otherwise.”

Jungkook scoffed at her sentence, promptly feeling terrible for doing so. His heart skipped a beat the the apathetic temperament that had taken over his spirit, for he was aware his defensive posture would soon get the best of him. For a moment, he found himself inquiring if that would be the last night she would spend by his side, if the subsequent renunciation he would present her with would be enough for their friendship to be ruined forever, “We can't fix everything, YN.” he counterclaimed.

In fact, it would make everything worse. One fallacious advancement, one misspoken sentence. One step out of the chord that divided who they were and who they had become, and the two would downgrade into the vacuum of utter evasion that existed in between.

However, the manner her fingertips curled around his hand in a silent comfort was enough to puncture his heart instantaneously. Her touch, as intoxicating as it was, was also warm as a splendiferous summer morning; welcoming as the oceans that stretched beyond her eyes—seas he had continuously drowned in, being pulled under by the enchanting spell of her voice. His own eyes, however, were again moving away from hers, focusing on the achromatic particles that danced in slow motion against the phantasmal lambency, “Let's at least try.” she told him with care.

Even hours after that scene had occurred, the boy could not pinpoint what it was about that simple sentence that felt like the last drop to him. Self-condemnation had corroded his soul for so long that Jungkook could not do anything but feel infuriated at himself, profoundly displeased by the manner she continued to be benevolent to him even though he had done her so wrong—Jungkook anathematized how much he loved her, how much she made him fall deeper and deeper with every loving touch. He hated how he continued to keep all that as a secret.

Of course, he was not obligated to.

Groaning in annoyance, he ran one of his hands through his cimmerian-pigmented strands of hair, leaning back against the bleachers as in a silent signal of defeat, “Fine. We're doing this, then,” Jungkook rolled his eyes, an action that felt like hyperborean arrows being shot straight through the walls of her hopeful heart. He was mad, frustrated even. “let's play guessing game, if that’s what you want from me. Guess why your best friend is unable to look you in the eye, guess why he can't stay around for you for long without making an absolute fool out of himself. Guess why I always go to search for you during parties and end up so frustrated that you left that I get the first chick I see in front of me.”

Once, twice—she blinked lethargically, using all the seconds she could to fully comprehend the explosion that had just came from his lips, “I... don't know the answer to any of those questions. That's what I'm asking you, Jungkook,” said the bewildered girl. His name slid off her tongue with so much easiness, so much harmony. It would soon be the end of him.

Of them, even.

Thunder broke once he opened his mouth, bringing along the reverberation of his suffocated misery, “Why do you think I got pissed drunk back in that party, uh? I was trying to man the fuck up and be straight up with you.” Jungkook said, aware that each syllable took him closer and closer to a path of no return. The boy was staring at the barrel of a gun; patching up each and every sliced up fragment of his temperament from which his genuine sentiment could slip through. Nevertheless, some calamities are stronger than the man’s will to control them, and to fight against nature is to lose sooner or later.

The wild winds of his tone shook what was left of her cognizance, his sentence holding meetings far too abstracts for her to promptly grasp, “Be straight up about... what?” strangely, she found that simple sentence particularly challenging to pronounce.

Like flowers that ruptured the cement, Jungkook's words broke upon his clenched jaw before he could ever measure their inevitable consequences; the ponderation of revealing his most secretive emotions to someone that could tears his very soul to pieces with a mere negation, “Are you that dense?” the boy spat, moving his head back so his eyes could meet the overwhelming infinity of her own: patient, kind, understanding. All at once, it all spilled out from his mouth. “I’m in love with you, YN, how can’t you tell?”

With that, their world withered into quiescence.

Cold and silent, the devastating space between their bodies appeared to grow within the span of a heartbeat, pulling the two lovers towards opposite edges of the ambient. Paralyzed by the connotation of those words, the two impassively watched as their story reached the end of a long-running chapter, turning to a page that still remained blank. Their young hearts faded for an instant and, ever so strongly, fell back to the turmoil of the present.

Encompassed by quivering stars, the moon casted its porcelain aurora on the eternal minutes that prolonged inside that gymnasium, embracing their still bodies in a ghostly, melancholic atmosphere. Ache and bliss irradiated inside her suffocated lungs, inducing for her dry lips part as she progressively absorbed the impact of such abrupt epiphany, “You’re… w-what?”

Jungkook had his eyes lost in the abyss far beyond her position, avoiding her presence vehemently. By her side, the cover of the book appeared to mock his coward nature, causing for the explosion of his devotion to progress into the weight of his words, “Don’t come to me pretending you didn’t hear it,” he spoke those words with weakness, finding it hard to discover the same ruthless he had tasted just before. “I hate this shit: I’m in love with my best friend. I've fallen for the oldest trick in the goddamn book. Fucking fantastic.”

It was sudden, overwhelming—but it was there in all its melancholic glory. The abrupt crash of their shared emotions, the spectral way his thoughtful irises still resembled the ones who stared so fondly at her all those years ago. The confirmation had reached her years, and the brokenness she felt for so long was now silent before the fulfillment of her numb euphoria.

Sincerely, she was planning to verbalize something back at the vulnerable boy—anything she could ever conceptualize, really. As her petal-like lips fell open in the wordless enunciation of a silent exclamation, the girl swore there was a vague idea of which baseless, improvised sentences would come out of her mouth, a broken inquiry or, perhaps, a faraway recollection of her profound reflections. Nevertheless, as her wide-eyed gaze met the beautified lineaments of Jungkook’s anguished semblance, all those blurred thoughts dispersed into a blank canvas, his very image causing for her breath to get trapped in her throat, “J-Jungkook, I—” she stuttered.

“—No, listen to me,” he interrupted vehemently, unsure if the fragile voice that left his lips was truly his own. It felt too rushed, too piercing; too broken, “I know I’m a prick sometimes, alright? I know I end up ignoring you, that I leave you hanging. I know I’m always overprotective of you, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry because I’m aware that’s not healthy, but I can’t work with what I’m feeling,” he spoke those endless confessions like a cascade of reverence, unable to pause and fully ruminate on everything that had been told. He hesitated, then continued after a sigh, “shit, I tried to ignore it, I tried to go out with other girls. But they weren’t... you. As stupid as that sounds, they weren’t you, and you’re the only one that I want, YN.”

Looking at him at that very instant was like losing her balance; equiparable to the absence of gravity that a lost astronaut would feel when floating around the void of space. Everything was so out of focus that she could only pay attention to the odd pattern of sensation that took hold of her: his eyes, that torn-apart gaze of someone who had just pulled the final loose edge of a decaying friendship, pulled her into the blurred hollowness that existed beyond it—no more phantasmal constellations in sight, “Why… why are you saying it now?” was all that she could ever question.

Amongst the fragmented adumbration that painted his features, she could perceive a niveous blanket of tears shimmering over his eyes, “Keeping this inside it’s just too much, alright? It's suffocating me, sometimes I feel like I can't even breathe,” Jungkook was honest with his every sentence, feeling as if it bordered on the inexecutable to respond without losing control of his already staggering speech. “I'm sorry that I couldn’t just pretend as if you weren’t such an important part of my life. I'm sorry I was a coward and that I pushed you away. I'm sorry I fell in love with you and now that I'm throwing it all on your shoulders.”

Once anew, the girl opened her lips to respond, but he silenced her with a quick raising of his hand—an unspoken request for her to continue listening to his unplanned confession, for he was uncertain if he could ever be able to find the correct words to continue if she verbalized something in between them, “I'm sorry I'm a fucking idiot, alright?” Jungkook breathed out, shaking his head. Yet again, his eyes fell to the spacious nothing that existed in between the steps of the bleaches, the hole that he wished could swallow him whole, deleting his existence or merely taking his tormented spirit away from such terrible position. “You deserve someone that will treat you better than this. It’s not fair with anyone.”

After Jungkook’s trepidation had dissolved into the obfuscous eternity of night, she awaited for an instant to check as if he had said everything he wished to. Amidst the soft infinite of the elephantine quiescence, YN melted into the nostalgia of their past, both embracing it and pushing it away from the present that they now dwelled in—for, no matter the ones that they once were, it would be infantile to grasp into moments that could never be replayed, people that had long moved away from those childish imaginations.

The two friends had truly grown up, enough so that he had spilled out his emotions in a momentaneous explosion of devotion, an uncalculated reverie that ended up holding much more significance than the two could have ever foreseen. Now, it was her turn.

Gentle sighs, deep breaths. As the afterglow of his confession tingled in the space between their silhouettes, a pallid shade of roseate burgeoned on her cheeks and she sighed, rupturing those never ending moments with the symphonious tranquility of her timbre, “Can I talk now?” delicately inquired the girl. Only then did she notice that, throughout his eruption of emotion, he had taken his hand away from her own, and the coldness of night felt as venomous and merciless as ever before.

Jungkook had immersed his demeanor on the unspoken task of maintaining his composure intact, for his pride had long fell like ashes to the ground, combusted by the volcanoes of scalding secrets that had just grown in between the two. Contoured by the waxlike luminescence of buzzing lights, his impassive lineaments did not show even a fragment of the pandemonium that exploded beyond the two simple words that constituted his response, “Go ahead.” he shrugged, hoping that the shame of her refusal would not scar his soul as deep as he expected.

The chuckle that dripped from her lips was enough for his eyes to unwillingly dart upwards, presenting the girl with the opening she needed to continue, “Jungkook, you have to be the denser person I have ever met in my entire life,” she playfully told him, instantaneously recognizing the way his gaze danced in between the confusion of assuagement and the shock of her reaction, “you don’t know if I feel the same? Really? What do you want me to do, wear a T-shirt with your name printed on it? Change my relationship status to ‘it’s complicated’?”

He rolled his eyes, turning his head forwards and staring at the now closed passageway. Meters from where they stood, he could still perceive the vague shimmering of the silver keys scintillating in the air like a solitary astro, guiding him into amenity like a personal north star, “Complicated is one way to put it.” was what he said back, for he felt unable to comprehend her reaction wholesomely.

Placing her hand on his tensed-up shoulder, she called for his attention again, “Hey, Jungkook?” his best friend’s mellifluous tune culminated in a swift movement of his gaze back towards her direction. Suddenly, the smile she presented him with was everything he could see—no dusty gymnasium, no silvery stars—and her sacchariferous timbre was the only melody he ever wished to hear. “Do me a favor and just... shut the fuck up.”

And then, the boy found the softness of her lips pressed against his own.

Kissing her was like having a drink of whiskey—addictive, intoxicating; it was drowning in the mesmerizing sensation of her lips without caring for the hangover that could arise alongside with the morning sun. Feeling her trembling heart against his own was like an earthquake inside his soul, like they were colliding and drowning away, feeling the spacious nothingness between their lips before diving back to it with much more adoration.

And god, the roses! The roses blossomed like galaxies exploding within his chest, the thorns no longer cut his breathing short. It was everything so perfect, so immaculate; a scene that could be part of a formidable romance—a painting, a masterpiece—of two friends finally succumbing to the feelings they have kept inside for so long; souls shining brighter than the lackluster moonlight that was casted over their interlaced fingers, their waltzing mouths.

Honeyed, then astringent. Peaceful, then tormenting. It was perfectly imperfect, flawlessly damaged. It was the two of them, and nothing more.

At last, she departed from his lips with another peck against his swollen mouth, her following words coming out in an infatuated whisper, “I’m in love with you too, Jungkook," the girl confessed in infinite devotion, her tone resembling the faint beating of a butterfly's wings, the rustle of the tall grass beneath its kaleidoscopic colors signaling the blowing of the vernal breezes. "maybe you would’ve noticed it if you weren’t so busy running away from me.”

However, at that instant, nothing about his poorly calculated mistakes mattered.

The bitterness of their past no longer held any sort of relevancy, for the honeyed nectar that danced at the tip of their tongues was sufficient to silence all the howling poltergeists that remained at the back of their heads—at times, things did not have to be so complicated, for the simple, innocent certainty of a shared love was already enough, “You know me, I can’t cope with some stuff. I just avoid it and hope it goes away magically,” the he chuckled at his own words, noticing promptly how pathetic they were after everything that had unfolded, “I guess it was too much at stake. I couldn’t just throw years of friendship out—”

“—Like you just did,” she was quick to interrupt, gaze flickering downwards to meet the contours of his swollen, scarlet-painted lips.

“Like I just did,” Jungkook echoed with infinite adoration, taking one of his hands so he could remove a strand of hair from the front of her pulchritudinous eyes. He paused at that, the warm feeling of her skin against his own awakening an exquisite emotion amidst the never ending haziness of his mercurial conceptualizations. If he were to elucidate such feeling, it seemed as if he had just woken up from a deep sleep, but his heart continued to waltz on a chimerical cosmos of unachievable reveries. “and I’m very, very glad I did.”

Time and time again, he would find himself getting lost in her details—the way her hair fell around her head, embraced by the aura of the tarnished incandescence; how her smile held the allurement of a thousand renaissance masterpieces, lips moving with the fluidity of a running river, oscillating like petals in the wind to form the most harmonious of notes, “I’m glad you did too.” she repeated, placing her hands on his shoulders in an unspoken cue for him to move even closer.

And so he did.

Breaking him down and building him back up, she used the architecture that hid in her kiss to fumble around with the pieces of his soul, writing unsaid poems on the silk of his mouth and a suppressed, indestructible suspire escaped from his mouth. One of his hand navigated to hold to her waist, touch light as a feather, electric as a lightning bolt that coruscated amidst the raven ink of dawn; as the other continued to cup her cheek, holding her in place as his mouth explored the gentleness of her kiss.

Jungkook swore he could still see her comeliness even with his eyes closed, for it was the same grace he had experienced time and time again throughout the years they had shared. He had fallen in love with her very soul; the color of sunset that it emanated, the heat of the sleeping sun’s radiance—those brief seconds in which the sky was in absolute equilibrium between light and penumbra, waltzing with strands of gold and the sapphire sea; painted in light brushstrokes of white and grey.

It was both an ending and a brand new beginning. When the day reached its ending, night would soon follow and, once the stars were already exhausted of its continuous glow, the everlasting flames of the sun would come to bring them assuagement. Like her, the sun would continue to rise, sunset would continue to embrace him.

The two would meet in the horizon, consoled by the philosophies of its equilibrium.

At times, Jungkook would catch himself thinking about the meaning of the most introspective of concepts. Often, love and beauty.

Love, to him, came and went in waves, and the movement of the seven seas never ceased. The pellucid waters slipped through his fingers and shone under the sun like they carried along a million diamonds; the alabastrine spume of the caressing ocean fell like a pulled blanket over the sand: crashing, cleaning, wiping away all traces that could have been left aforetime; turning the world into a clear canvas ready to be painted by a brand new story. Undertow; drought; tormentous tides and currents that led to everywhere he could ever imagine.

To her.

And, heavens, he had drowned in those crystalline waters a long time ago.

His most accepted characterization of beauty, however, came solely after a few months the two of them had been together. Not in an epiphany, as he once expected, but in between the tender caresses he had now grown so blissfully accustomed to, combining itself with the other special little word that haunted his contemplations—it was welcomed, regardless. For it was more perfect that he could have ever imagined.

Her lips were like the finest of silk against his own, the warm embrace of two bodies intertwined amongst the sheets of a messy bed. There was something tragically pulchritudinous about it, something so wholesome about the way her arms wrapped around his neck and pressed their chests down together—hearts intertwined, beating in consonance. It was like waiting for years for a rare flower to blossom, only to find yourself overwhelmed with its beauty, taken aback by the nectarous, sacchariferous scent it brought along. It was like home. Like the story they shared. Like her.

She moved apart from the embrace of his kiss with a prolonged sigh, her eyes fluttering open as the afterglow of their afternoon crashed down upon her nude figure, “I swear, this must be the third time we say we’re gonna study, but we end getting carried away,” the girl mumbled, using the snow-colored sheets to cover her chest, as the boy moved closer to her, placing his hand on her waist with a mischievous smile that she quickly recognized, “and don’t even think about saying it, Jungkook. This is not anatomy studying.” she cut his sentence short.

He merely smirked at that, never saying that he would have claimed otherwise, “Well, I’m not complaining,” Jungkook told her, hearing as the sound of the moving bed sheets danced on the stillness of the air.

Behind his figure, the window of his dormitory bedroom presented the girl with the beauteous imagery of the afternoon skies, unrealistically achromatic when compared to the conflagrant leaves of cantaloupe trees, burning like amber, dancing like autumn. The horizon casted an anemic silvery hue over his caramel-painted skin, appearing like a thin white line that contoured the lineaments of his shoulders; that melted in between the strands of his black hair. Many months had passed since the two shared that kiss in that abandoned gymnasium, but his gaze still held the same adoration, the same immaculate love.

“What’s with that face?” She questioned as she moved around, her chest facing his own. There was some sort of odd glorification shimmering inside his attentive eyes, precious metals that lured her into the treasures his soul held inside. Something has switched: they both understood, but could not pinpoint what it was.

Jungkook took the chance to pull her body closer, causing for their arrhythmic heartbeats to overlap one another as their skins collapsed together. As his inquiry reverberated on the thin air that existed in the middle of their lips, she felt as if the weight it carried caused for the gravity in her chest to increase, heart swallowing in infatuation, “What did I do to deserve someone as amazing as you?” he questioned.

She rolled her eyes, taking one of her hands to remove the disheveled strands of hair from her forehead—something she always did once she was trying to mask a reaction, in that case, the appearance of a roseate blush upon her cheeks. Even so messy after everything that had unfolded, her strands irradiated around her head, falling over the pillows like a silky cascade, “Piled up karma from your childhood, most likely.” groaned the girl in a sarcastic manner, hoping he would take her playfulness as a signal not to enter those emotional subjects.

Regardless, Jungkook was never quite able to catch signals from her part. That never truly changed.

“Stop it, I’m being serious,” mumbled the boy, allowing himself to smile just enough so comfort would return to shine within her chest. His nose scrunched up as another euphonic laugh ruptured the equanimity of his cherise lips, eyes shining in interminable amorousness, “I can't believe I have someone like you in my life. I'm being honest when I say that I could hear you talk all day about the invention of musical notes by some random Italian monk or whatever the hell you just discovered, and I'd never get tired of it. That's quite something, especially coming from me.”

Laughing feeling at his odd confession, the girl could only feel feel herself growing lighter again, “You’re being so cheesy, please.” she claimed, almost timidly.

Jungkook pouted at her words, leaning his body closer so his lips hovered over her own—light enough to touch her skin like diaphanous feathers, but not enough to gift her with any sort of pressure, “I don’t care, I’m being honest,” he counterclaimed, allowing for his eyes to flutter shut under the embrace of her presence. Both of them begun to value unpremeditated, filterless honesty more than ever after their unique night at the gymnasium. “just staying by your side… it’s enough to make my day so much better. You’re my everything, you know that.”

She did. It was something Jungkook told her often—not necessarily by spoken words, but by actions, the sudden surprise of welcomed affections and minor details that made their entire day count. It was within his every touch, within every glance that stood glued to her figure for a bit longer than necessary. Heavens, how deeply did she know that, “What about finding value within yourself?” Questioned the his best friend, taking one of her hands to the cataracts of his onyx hair.

Jungkook’s eyes opened at the delicate contact, the line of his lips curling up as if he had been waiting for that question to find its way back to him, “That doesn’t mean someone else can’t make you just as happy,” the boy promptly responded, each and every syllable feeling as if it was the part of an ethereal, gorgeous melody of affection. He looked into her eyes like he was able to envision the entire universe in them, and, in some way, he was. “it doesn’t make you vulnerable to allow someone else to love you, to be kind to you. Most of the time, we are not kind to ourselves, anyways.”

“Here comes the philosophy student,” the girl teased, but took his words to heart. It was true, after all: to love was not what culminated in torment. The element which did was what was done with a such sentiment; at times murdered by the hands of humans who did not know how to grow it, asphyxiated by hearts too feeble to find courage, “thank you, though. You know I feel just the same way.” she made sure to speak further.

And, yes, he truly did know.

Jungkook would not give up the roses that grew in his chest, regardless of the pain that they brought along. Just because the world was a never ending incendium, he would never allow for its blazing flames to consume the hope he held inside; to tear away from him one of the last comforts he still held to so tightly. Heavens, but how could he? How could the boy relinquish the warmth of her presence, how could he overlook the manner even the most gelid and merciless of winters melted under her scalding and welcoming aura?

Only the courageous showed their vulnerability with so much eagerness: they opened their arms and vociferated at the top of their lungs to bring on the pain of humanity—tear me apart, my love, they would bravade, tear me to ashes and throw me out of your life, burn my wings and break my soul apart: I can take it all, for I know the path was worth it. Kiss me like there is no tomorrow, ruin me like there was no yesterday. Show me that we were alive, that we meant something. That we are. Were. Will be.

Show me who you are, and I will be brave enough to show you who I am.

Then and there, she was graceless. She was courageous; vulnerable. She was everything he had imagined and a bit more. She was his. He was hers.

Perfect, gentle, palpitating—oh, God, how the roses effloresced! How their scarlatine hue dripped in between their lips, how their characteristic smell embraced them with the gentle aroma of the welcoming spring. How graceful their delicate petals felt, how perfectly articulated their touch caressed their skin with so much adoration. The roses burgenated; wilthered. Though, they never burned. No, never did.

Jungkook swore he could capture that moment forever, that the words that left his mouth would reverberate for all the years to come, guiding him throughout his times of doubt, “That’s the most fantastic part of it all, isn’t it?” her best friend questioned, hints of a smile daring to blossom in his roseate lips. They had such a sweet, delicate delineation, so perfectly sculpted to feel the graceful details of his features, “I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where...” the boy continued, pausing for a second as if to check her reaction.

And there it was: the brief confusion that transfigured into understanding, then the skepticism of his sudden reference, “Is that Pablo Neruda?” asked the history student, finding herself dwelling in the fuzzy sentiments that took over her chest.

With the euphony of her laugh, Jungkook was sure he would tear his very spirit to shreds if that was what it took him to listen to it again; would fight for the rest of this days for that gorgeous smile to remain locked into her features, “The one and only, love,” the boy responded before leaning in.

The reverberation of his heart against her chest increased as his lips met hers once anew, staying there for a moment far too quick for her to fully drown in the nectar they carried. Jungkook placed his forehead against hers, noses touching, and continued the poem as his mouths still brushed against one another line fine strokes of oil on canvas—each word meeting her flesh with awe-inspiring artistry, “I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you...”

The love that irradiated in her chest motioned her to move her head upwards, trapping his enamored words in between a kiss before the poem could reach its ending. Her fingertips, ever so patiently, traced the insubstantial path in between his shoulder blades to the back of his neck, then to the base of his hair, at last intertwining in his silky strands of ebony-painted hair. Jungkook half-smiled and half-sighed against her mouth, his own arms moving from her waist to wrap around her figure. It was so safe, so welcoming. It felt truly like home.

Breaking the kiss with a timid smirk, she closed her eyes. Again and again, she smiled by his side, filling her being with a sentiment she could not yet pinpoint—it did not matter, a label was not necessary, “I swear to god, you’re so cheesy sometimes.” she whined.

With slow, tender movements, the boy’s feather-like fingers caressed the softness of her skin with endless adoration, allowing for him to drown in the profound waters of her eyes as his subsequent words escaped the captive of his swollen, red-bitten lips, “Hm, maybe I am. But you love it.” Jungkook claimed.

She breathed out, taken aback by the hidden veracity of those simple words, “I really, really do.” the girl confessed, unable to hold back the smile that effloresced amongst her features. There was nothing she ever loved more than her best friend, especially during moments like those.

Reason relinquished amidst the diaphanous rhythm of their intertwined hearts, Jungkook kissed her once anew—he kissed her as if the universe was falling down to pieces, as if the shining stars could not reach the sparking incandescence that danced in between their nude bodies. His lips caressed hers as the roaring waters of the seven seas crashed down past her skin, hitting her legs in a silent, tender wish for the two to move closer. Nature was present within their every loving touch, as perfect as ever.

His hands moved towards hers, fingers filling the space between her own. Palm against palm, hearts beating in euphoric arrhythmia; Jungkook felt as if they were as profound and illimitable as the oceans of their naive adoration, lips trembling and caressing one another like the gentle wings of a butterfly beating against the vernal wind. Feeling her mouth dancing—oscillating, trembling—ever so tenderly against his culminated in a bottomless belief of security germinating within his veins. Just then, his arms held tighter to her figure, pulling her even closer.

An ethereal suspire escaped her as he did so. No matter how breaths she took, the girl still felt as if it was impossible to breathe under his embrace; the absolute infatuation the two shared finally exploding around them like polychromatic, soundless fireworks. It was poetic, thoughtless; impossible to be characterized or elucidated by a mere sequence of adjectives—it was Jungkook, and, for her, that was all you truly needed. A friend, a lover. Him.

Drinking the honey of her presence was equiparable to the grace of a dream, he realized. It was completely unreal the way her lips felt against the kiss prolonged itself with patience; absolutely fantasious the form she embraced him with the spell of her mouth. Beautiful, staggering, inspirational. It was the sempiternity of nocturnal endeavours; the tormenting flames of hell and ecstasy of paradise melting at the tip of their tongues. It was a long story that was far, far from reaching its terminal chapters.

Jungkook thought that beauty could be discovered within the simple, common fragments of life. It was breathing in the aspects of daily tasks most would consider mundane, the unnoticeable particulars and technicalities of the universe’s perfection; from the kindest of winds to the colder of dewdrops, the contours of snow-like clouds and the iridescent starlight that casted its glow over the obsidian blanket of dawn. It was the classical proportions of imperishable, timeless artworks, the mathematical precision of the golden ratio; the coordinated symphony of collapsing waves against the shore.

At last, beauty and love coexisted in the natural manner the two closed their eyes and dove into one another, finding synchrony in the oscillating breathing of their overwhelmed lungs. The flowers were there, blossoming like their bodies held spring in their veins, but their thorns were no longer hurtful.

On and on, their days passed beautifully.

#jungkook x reader #bts smut #jungkook smut #bts fic #bts fanfic #bts x you #bts x reader #jungkook x you #smut #fluff #angst #bts fluff #jungkook fluff #jungkook angst #jungkook college #jeon jungkook #jungkook fic #college au #friends to lovers

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margridarnauds · 7 years ago

Note

For the fandom ask meme you reblogged today: your top three favorite musicals

Thanks! This is super hard for me since I generally shuffle between favorite musicals all the time, but in no specific order:

1. Friedrich

my beautiful cinnamon roll too good for this world fave: Young!Fritz and Wilhelmine.

my trash-shit fave: Augustus and Voltaire. Like, yeah, they’re probably not the best influences on Fritz, but they’re FUN. And Voltaire is the last thing before The Pain.

my I love to hate them fave:GRUMBKOW. The moment when Fritz says it’s a good thing he died before he took the throne is one of my favorite moments because...I’m with you, Fritz. I’m with you.

my I hate to love them fave: One of my favorite things about this musical is that it was released to celebrate Fritz’s 300th birthday and yet it spends half the time calling him out. Old!Fritz has done some pretty despicable things for fame and glory but...it’s really hard to hate him and he’s such a grumpy old man (his most iconic moment probably being in his introduction where he swears to stay alive out of spite) that I still like him. Also,if you go with my very specific headcanon of Ghost!Katte not being Real!Katte, then he’d count, since even as he does everything he can to edge Fritz closer to death, he’s not...wrong? And he calls him out so beautifully.

my I wouldn’t piss on them if they were on fire non-fave: Friedrich Wilhelm. Like, need I say more?

my I didn’t care about them either way at first but the fandom makes such a big deal about them now I can’t stand them non-fave: What fandom? Me, you, and a few people who came for the Fritz/Katte content? Or who I suckered into watching it?

my I could take them or leave them kinda non-fave: I can’t really think of anyone I’m that neutral on, tbh. The closest I can get is Orzelska, but in her case it’s more a mixture of being frustrated and annoyed by the plotline we got with her (FRITZ IS STRAIGHT. VERY STRAIGHT. LOOK. GIRL.) while acknowledging that she had potential rather than true apathy.

my I will go down with this ship and I won’t put my hands up and surrender, there will be no white flag above my door. I’m in love and always will be fave ship: Fritz/Katte

my dirtybadwrong fave ship: Augustus/Friedrich Wilhelm. It’s god awful and I’d be perfectly happy in a world where Friedrich Wilhelm dies loveless and alone, but...

my they’re cute together and I dig them but I’m not all that terribly invested kinda fave ship: Orzelska/Wilhelmine, though I’m not really sure “cute” is the dynamic I’d give them. I’m really intrigued by this dynamic (Fritz isn’t the only one in the family who likes music, after all!) But it’s also harder to map than Fritz/Katte since there’s less material for the two of them (The recurring problem with femslash in most fandoms, alas.) Like, I have a few ideas for what their dynamic would be like, but it’s hard. (Also, there will always be that one little historian voice in my head saying “It never happened!” which I usually quickly silence by reminding it that if the writers of the show decided Wilhelmine/Katte would work as a ship, I can make this one work.)

my I didn’t care about this ship either way at first but the fandom makes such a big deal about it now I can’t stand it non-fave ship: As per anything else, there isn’t really a fandom for Friedrich and what little there is seems to be sympatico with me as far as shipping?

my MAKE IT STOP non-fave ship: Orzelska/Fritz; Katte/Wilhelmine; Fritz/Death Coat

I had my debates about putting 1789 here because I spend most of my time talking shit about it, but let’s be honest here: I’ve spent a considerable period of my senior year with this musical; I have 50k words devoted to it in my Scrivener file, and it accidentally tugged me right back into the French Revolution. I talk shit about it, but I also love it for what I can do with it.

my beautiful cinnamon roll too good for this world fave: Olympe deserves the world. It’s such a good thing that in every. Single. Version. of the musical she survives. Every. One.

my trash-shit fave: Lazare de Peyrol has just. So much wrong with him as a character but he is also my son who has very skewed priorities and needs several good kicks in the pants to get him back on track and half my time is spent trying to get him on that track and the other half is me seeing how badly I can derail him. (Note: In the sequel to Ah, Ca Ira, he’s going to derail HARD.) Like, I have a playlist that’s just called “Peyrol NO” for him.

my I love to hate them fave: Charles d’Artois basically lives and breathes “love to hate.” I personally blame Miya Rurika’s performance because DAMN does that woman know how to play sleazy.There’s a reason why in the Modern!Disneyworld AU I have him getting stranded on It’s A Small World.

my I hate to love them fave: I told myself I wasn’t going to unreasonably project onto another human disaster after Bres took over my life, but no. I had to imprint on Lazare. Which would make more sense if he was given A SINGLE REDEEMING TRAIT IN CANON. Also, even though I have many ambiguous feelings about Danton, French!Danton (and, heck, Takarazuka Danton too) is just too much fun for me to entirely hate. I wouldn’t trust him to walk me home, but he’s fun to watch.

my I wouldn’t piss on them if they were on fire non-fave: French!Ramard. One of the best things I think the Takarazuka cast did was shift the role of antagonist squarely onto Artois and relegated Ramard to comic relief, because him doing both was...unfortunate. He had all of Charles’ sleaziness, but none of the slickness, and it was all caked in terrible jokes (because harassing Olympe is hilarious, oui?) and double entendres and freaky furry conventions.

my I didn’t care about them either way at first but the fandom makes such a big deal about them now I can’t stand them non-fave: Not the fandom, since it’s the same essential problem as with Friedrich BUT the more the Takarazuka version tried to capitalize off Rose of Versailles by shoving Fersen in our faces, the more I hated the little heroic shit. Also, I can only like Ronan under very specific circumstances at this point. Namely, (1) He’s not in a relationship with Olympe, (2) They use the Takarazuka characterization because French!Ronan is unsettling, (3) Lazare doesn’t spend any more than 1/3 of his screentime doing moustache twirling villainy, especially related to Olympe, (4) His relationship with Solene is addressed, bonus if groveling is involved, and (5) You can’t easily substitute any of the One Direction cast for him with no major changes.

my I could take them or leave them kinda non-fave: Takarazuka!Ramard is cute, but other than that I don’t really have an opinion on him. It’s pretty telling that the only universe I currently have anything planned out for him and the Secret Police is the Zombie Apocalypse AU.

my I will go down with this ship and I won’t put my hands up and surrender, there will be no white flag above my door. I’m in love and always will be fave ship: Peyrol/Ronan; Olympe/Solene (I’m rapidly working my way towards understanding this dynamic courtesy of the one prompt you sent me and I’m really liking it.)

my dirtybadwrong fave ship: Charles/Fersen. I have no regrets. The Abomination has also given me lovely tidbits like The Marquis de Sade/Papa du Puget and like. I could go for it, but also no.

my they’re cute together and I dig them but I’m not all that terribly invested kinda fave ship: Camille/Ronan is cute and I can see it, but it’s not my thing. Likewise, Antoinette/Olympe. It’s sweet, there’s a sort of tragedy to it, but it’s one of those things that I ship more as a part of Olympe’s past rather than necessarily wanting a version where it worked out? Like, that was a part of Olympe, I think it helped her, but it’s not something I really *ship*.

my I didn’t care about this ship either way at first but the fandom makes such a big deal about it now I can’t stand it non-fave ship: I’ve read way too much bad Ronan/Olympe fic for me to ever like it, especially given the problems with that ship in general. And it’s not just the fanbase. It’s (allegedly) canon. Which is always hard for me to remember because I’ve created a very snug little canon for myself so I’ll routinely see them shipped together and be like “Ronan with his sister in law? Weird’ before. Remembering.

my MAKE IT STOP non-fave ship: Solene/Danton creeps me out, Charles/Olympe is a given; I once saw Danton/Lazare and NO

And, finally, Elisabeth.

my beautiful cinnamon roll too good for this world fave: This is a musical with very few cinammon roles, but Young!Sisi and Rudolf. Before.

my trash-shit fave: LUCHENI.

my I love to hate them fave: Again, probably Lucheni.

my I hate to love them fave: Der Tod speaks to my inherent weakness for morally ambiguous, vaguely otherworldly goth blonds.

my I wouldn’t piss on them if they were on fire non-fave: Sophie.

my I didn’t care about them either way at first but the fandom makes such a big deal about them now I can’t stand them non-fave: No one that I can really think of?

my I could take them or leave them kinda non-fave: Franz Joseph. Depending on the actor, I can either like him or find him annoying. He’s mostly just...there. Pining. Then cheating. Then pining. I’m going to be really interested with the new Takarazuka Moon troupe production with Miya Rurika as Franz, since she’s sold everything I’ve seen her in so far and will probably manage to smash my heart into a thousand pieces.

my I will go down with this ship and I won’t put my hands up and surrender, there will be no white flag above my door. I’m in love and always will be fave ship: There’s nothing I really ship in this THAT strongly. Elisabeth/Death is a ship of mine, but it’s not one that I feel absolutely DIE HARD for. Like, with, say, Peyrol/Ronan or Olympe/Solene, I’m more or less monogamous with shipping them (Though with 1789, I can ship almost anything that isn’t the canon ships). I can toy with other concepts, but I can almost guarantee that I won’t write anything because I like the chemistry they’ve already got established. With Elisabeth/Death, though? Not as much. It’s very gothic, very romantic, and I get pissed off at every production that leaves her lying on the ground, but it’s also not my be all, end all for the two of them.

my dirtybadwrong fave ship: Death/Rudolf. Goddamit, I shouldn’t like it given that he’s been stalking Rudolf’s mom for years and he’s pretty obviously manipulating Rudolf to cause Elisabeth pain (though, as with anything, it can vary based on the production), but, at the same time...Die Schatten Werden Langer.

my they’re cute together and I dig them but I’m not all that terribly invested kinda fave ship: Franz/Elisabeth can be ADORABLE depending on the production (looking at the Korean in particular), but it’s also just...there. They could have been happy, they weren’t, and history knows the rest.

my I didn’t care about this ship either way at first but the fandom makes such a big deal about it now I can’t stand it non-fave ship: I ship pretty much all of the major ships, so I can’t really add anything here.

my MAKE IT STOP non-fave ship: I don’t think I really have any NOTPs in Elisabeth, to be honest? None that I’ve come across yet, at least.

#fallenidol-453

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artificialqueens · 8 years ago

Text

If Samson and Delilah Lived Happily Ever After (Sashea) - Melon

A/N: Sasha is still unprepared but maybe now Shea is too. Slam poets AU part 2, this time they might actually speak to each other. This is a little more heavy on Sasha’s friendships than the last chapter. If you wanna squeal with me about gay shit, come talk to me at my fic blog @artificialmelon !

Part One

Why.

Why did she have to include a winky face.

Sasha asks herself this as she paces around her tiny studio apartment at two PM on Sunday, hands firmly planted on her waist in worry. It makes no sense. Why would she do such a completely stupid thing? Couldn’t she just write a note, like a normal person? Sasha is reasonably sure that winky face would be the reason Shea won’t be interested in her. She knows it. Shea wouldn’t think of the winky face as the dealbreaker, but she’d think that Sasha’s vibe would be a little off-putting, a little too much. Miniscule mistakes in the early stages can ruin a budding relationship, something Sasha knows well but chose to ignore when she added that fucking winky face.

Not that Sasha is planning their relationship, but it might lead somewhere, someday, and she doesn’t want her overuse of flirtatious punctuation to be the death of them. The winky face was just too bold, especially so soon.

“Oh my god, Sasha, shut up!”

Sasha looks up from her pacing to meet the eyes of an annoyed Peppermint. She’d barely realized how long-winded she’d become in her rant until Peppermint interjected. Rambling on about a single emoji does seem absurd, if Sasha thought about it objectively, but her heart just wouldn’t slow down.

on computer now so i’ll be able to respond faster

“I know, Pep, I know. It’s just- you didn’t see her. You don’t know.” Sasha says, falling back onto her beaten up sofa and pulling Vanya from his place on the floor onto her lap. She ignores his noise of complaint as she settles him on top of her, in desperate need of his support.

“No, I didn’t see Miss ‘God In Heels’, but I do know you. Any girl would be lucky to have you, and if she’s scared off by something tiny like this, she’s not the one,” Peppermint has a calming presence; she’s just one of those people that give the impression of being unbelievably kind. It drew Sasha to her initially, and annoys her now. “It’ll be fine, even if all the things you’re thinking do come true.”

Sasha groans, smushing her face into Vanya’s neck, as though all her problems would disappear if she couldn’t see them. Vanya accepts his fate as a comfort pillow at this point, not making any additional complaints. She’s quiet for a moment, silently accepting the fact that she’s being irrational.

“I hate it when you’re right.”

———-

The next week passes at a tortuous pace. Time stops for hours at a time, progress moving far too slowly for Sasha’s tastes. Every day, she goes to work, sells picture books to overexcited children and 50 Shades to blushing suburban moms. The bookstore is stagnant, uncaring and unchanging, but the feeling seems to follow Sasha throughout the day, regardless of whether she’s in the store or not. She just happens to feel it most deeply while she’s working, as she reads through books of poetry and is reminded of Shea. The books in the store are much more flowery than Shea’s work. Sasha decides Shea probably wouldn’t like them; coincidentally, Sasha doesn’t like them much either.

The world moves just a little bit faster as she closes up shop on Saturday night. The sign painted with the shop’s name sways gently in the wind.

The cold city air hits Sasha the moment she steps outside the comfort of her tiny corner of New York. The wind forces a blush onto her face, lungs protesting the assault. She pulls her coat tightly around her body, setting off quickly.

Quickly.

The week was like molasses, clinging to her skin until now, her escape. Sasha is left with only the cold, the sound of her feet hitting the sidewalk, and the excitement of knowing she would return to the bar in a matter of hours.

She, Aja, and Peppermint plan to meet at Sasha’s apartment two hours before the show, to paint their faces and plan outfits, like Sasha hasn’t had hers worked out for days. At the bar, Sasha’s friends would, as Peppermint put it, “Get to know Shea, maybe make Sasha regret all of her life choices.” Sasha’s actually looking forward to a fun night out with her friends, sweetened with the possibility of seeing Shea again.

As soon as she enters her apartment, Sasha knows she’s made a huge mistake. The electric heater and the speakers are both at maximum capacity, the way Aja likes it, and her lamps have been replaced by what appears to be every candle in the city, the way Peppermint likes it. The two both seem well on their way to tipsy, glasses of red wine hanging from their fingertips as they cackle about something or other - likely Sasha. Her spare key is set carefully on the side table, presumably by Peppermint, and a pair of heels Sasha recognizes as Aja’s are hanging precariously from Sasha’s coat hang.

“Hey Aja, why didn’t you put your heels on the fucking shoe rack like a halfway decent person?” Sasha asks fondly. Aja is an asshole, but Sasha finds herself liking her more and more.

“Because why? Because I wanted to,” Aja says with a flourish of her wine glass, almost spilling but narrowly avoiding a mess and a lecture. Sasha sets her bag next to Aja’s heels on the hang, turning on the lights in the same minute. Aja and Peppermint yell Sasha’s name in tandem, groaning because of the sudden light.

Sasha smiles at the continued protests of her friends. Being nine years younger than Peppermint, she never expected to end up as the mom friend. Wine changes people.

“Come on, we’ve gotta get ready.”

Begrudgingly, Peppermint leads Aja from the couch to the bathroom to get ready. Aja models for them in her outfit, posing in various increasingly sexual ways. Peppermint pushes Sasha into her bedroom to get her own clothes on.

Standing alone in the relatively cold bedroom, Sasha suddenly feels disconnected from the warmth just in the next room. She’s more grounded, taking these fleeting moments alone to touch base with herself, keep from being swept up in the glory of the night. She squeezes into her tight black pencil skirt and red heels, meeting her own eyes in the full length mirror. Tonight would be a good night. She might even talk to Shea tonight.

When Sasha returns, Pep is perched on her sink, finishing her eyes, and Aja is seated on the floor under her. Both women face her, and Sasha felt uncomfortable for a second as they appraised her, but relaxed when Pep grinned.

“I like it…but you could do with a little more skin,” Peppermint jokes, turning back to the mirror. Aja nods her agreement, but says Sasha should only fuck with her own personal style and Peppermint just loves showing off her cleavage too much. “Why shouldn’t I? I paid enough for them,” laughs Peppermint, adding a generous amount of highlighter to her chest in rebellion.

“We don’t all have those,” Aja replies, poking Peppermint’s breasts.

The rest of the getting-ready passes in a blur of laughter, music, and alcohol. Sasha is talked into switching her turtleneck for a translucent mesh shirt and pasties, something she knows she’ll regret. Before Sasha knows it, she’s walking down the sidewalk, arms linked with her favorite people, still giddy with the joy of new and old friends.

They roll into the bar mere minutes before the show starts, settling themselves in a small booth with a clear line of vision to the stage. A new host opens the show, introducing the first poet, someone Sasha doesn’t recognize but who’s clearly been here before. Lina or something. She does a piece on paranoia that Sasha likes. Everyone who stood on that stage is talented, in wildly different ways. Tina, or whatever her name is, embodies her poetry, conveying it with ease, pure articulation of her raw soul. Farrah’s is filled with flowers and sweet romance, a touch of bite when needed. Another act, named Valentina, charmed the audience with her beauty and ambition.

Until it’s Shea’s turn.

There is nothing like Shea Couleé. Every performer has talent, but in Sasha’s eyes, Shea is the definition of talent. The rest of the bar doesn’t move with Shea like Sasha does, but everyone feels her gravitational pull. Every eye stays on her as she begins to speak.

“Bare bones.

Raw. A warrior’s spirit in tattered clothes.

That is my word. my work.

I am bare bones. The flesh ripped away, torn from totality, And yet. Violence creates divinity. Exposed rib turns ivory.

Bone is more permanent, more useful than flesh.

Bone, when shattered and crushed, still has purpose.

The same cannot be said for the pliance of meat.

My bones Are worth something.

I am worth something.”

It’s short, but Shea’s always are. It’s how they’re intended to be. A piece so short should be lacking something, missing a stanza on its way to completion, but it doesn’t need the filler words. Surplus doesn’t belong in Shea Couleé’s world unless it’s in cash or casual conversation.

Sasha couldn’t look away, couldn’t even try to, which seems to be a recurring theme. She knows Peppermint and Aja will tease her for it later, but no amount of future embarrassment could convince Sasha to not watch Shea, even after her performance ended, even after it’s no longer socially acceptable for Sasha to follow Shea with her gaze. Nothing matters but getting as much of Shea as possible.

Shea locks eyes with Sasha as she walks off the stage, an unspoken promise between them. Sasha would stay this time, wait for Shea after the stage lights shut off and the patrons began filing out.

Shea would find her, and Sasha would let her.

The rest of the show means nothing. Peppermint’s laugh of earth to Sasha, Aja’s eyeroll pass over Sasha like water. She barely registers the two of them loudly discussing her, or their comedic attempts at catching her attention. Eventually, they give up with a sigh and something about how she’s too far gone at this point. Sasha almost feels the need to interject, but then Shea comes out for her second poem and it slips her mind.

“I would like to say, just before I start, that this is an invitation, not a command. Don’t go thinking I’m trying to be weird here,” Shea says. She doesn’t seem the type to preface herself with a warning of any kind. Shea wears hesitancy like last year’s winter coat, dated and ill-fitting, forgotten until somehow it made its way onto her body as a last resort. Sasha knows she’s about to do something incredibly dangerous.

“She walked in here red lips and glory, wide rim glasses, margarita salt lining her throat, fingers dipped in whisky.

She intoxicates me.

She walked in here, made me want that second sip, left before I could taste it.

I have a theory that you belong on my tongue.

Hopefully, you agree.”

Sasha feels herself melt, trying and failing to keep from showing it. She’s giving into this person she’s never spoken to, who’s never heard her say a single word. Objectively, they mean nothing to each other, and in practice that’s true. They could both walk away right now, and their lives would barely change.

They wouldn’t.

Shea breaks eye contact first, stepping off the stage to let the host close out the show. Sasha turns to her friends, wild eyed.

“You guys have to go. Please. Or at least, like, stand by the bar and do not engage,” Sasha says, pleading with the last traces of humanity she knows are buried in her friends.

“What?” Peppermint smiles in disbelief, her tongue stud catching the dim lighting. Both she and Aja are staring at Sasha as though she’s said she’ll be moving to Alaska tomorrow morning.

“She’s going to come over here to talk to me, and I know you. Both of you. So I’m giving you a free pass to say anything you want, mercilessly dig into me for my middle school level crush on a woman I barely know, just as long as you do it when she’s not around. Now go. Go!” Sasha ushers her friends out of the booth, cringing at their wide smiles. Aja leaves with a crack about safe sex being good sex, and Peppermint blows Sasha a kiss as the two head towards the bar.

Sasha positions herself in the booth to look as nonchalant as possible, pulling out her phone to casually scroll through social media. She’s being chill. She’s a chill person, being chill.

That plan flies out the window the moment she sees Shea. Up close, she should be more godly. The confidence, the curve of her lips and cut of her jaw, they should all add up to an untouchable person. But instead, Shea is just a little more human than the rest of society. She is the earth, the forest, and every sea. Great, vast, and completely within Sasha’s grasp.

“Hi,” Shea says.

“Hi,” Sasha replies.

“I’m Shea,” she slides into the booth, across from Sasha.

“I know. I’m Sasha.”

“I know.”

They look at each other in silence for a long minute, finding certainty in their natural chemistry across ten words. Shea finds herself saying, “Can we skip this part?”

She’s glad she said it when Sasha smiles, nodding enthusiastically, and says, “Yes please,” as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world, to skip the barest of introductions when they’ve never spoken before. The conversation pauses, spaces between them overflowing with certainty.

“Do you believe in language as a byproduct of thought, or thought as a bastard child of language?” Sasha says, stumbling over her own forwardness. Sasha watched Shea’s eyebrows shoot up, surprise accentuating her perfect features. To her credit, she recovers quickly, despite being faced with the unexpected.

“Obviously, thought came first. Without the ability to think, we would have no ability to speak. Just because speech couldn’t, like, be expressed before thought, doesn’t mean it didn’t exist. It was still there, just not articulated,” Shea responds. Sasha smiles, properly, displaying her teeth. She takes a sip of her drink.

“But was thought of those days even thought, relative to what we now know thought to be? Can we even consider the ideas that birthed language real thought?” Sasha says, and clearly she’s had this discussion before. Her voice has a playful edge, she’s all smiles and tilted head; it’s not fair at all, but Shea gets the sense that her answer doesn’t really matter, just that she can come up with one on the spot, and support it. She’s being tested. Teasingly, but undeniably.

“Was language even language? Can we consider ancient language true speech, relative to what we now know it to be? That’s circular, and the fact remains that the ancient concept of thought led to the ancient concept of language. If a caveman thinks, rock, get me rock, he’s still thinking, and that thought leads to him developing the words to tell someone to get him his fuckin’ rock,”

Shea knows she’s got Sasha pinned when Sasha’s only response is, “But why is the caveperson in your story a man?”

Sasha bursts into laughter, Shea soon following. The conversation is ridiculous in the first place. It’s entirely meaningless, but it gives them a sense of who the other person is. Shea is engrossed in their argument over her use of the gendered caveman when suddenly, Sasha is being pulled away from her.

Shea looks up to see a woman dragging Sasha from their booth, smiling brightly at Shea. She’s beautiful, the kind of vibrant that makes her look eternal in a transient world, and Shea wants to like her. If only she didn’t have Sasha by the wrist.

“Sorry, we’ve gotta go, it’s past her bedtime,” the woman jokes, Sasha shooting her a death glare before turning back to Shea. She gets close, leaning into Shea to murmur her goodbye. Shea holds the air in her lungs as Sasha enters her space, believing for a moment Sasha is about to kiss her.

“I agree with you, by the way. Clearly thought came first,” Sasha whispers in her ear, all traces of shyness erased in the first five minutes of their conversation. By the time Shea’s brain is working enough to realize what she is referring to, Sasha’s already being pushed out the door by her friends.

Shea steps out of the booth with purpose, running out into the street after Sasha. In the cold of night, her mind clears slightly, but not enough to inhibit her. The women turn to face her, but Shea only notices Sasha. She needs to do this.

Stepping forward, Shea moves to cup Sasha’s face, but acts too slowly. Sasha reaches her first, wraps her arms around Shea’s neck, pulling her down to meet Sasha’s lips. Sasha’s tenacity is unexpected, but then again, everything about her is.

The kiss isn’t slow and soft, the way first kisses are meant to start. Sasha meets Shea’s lips with an unstoppable force, like Shea is the immovable object she’s been searching for her whole life. Their meeting is explosive. Shea lets Sasha bite her lip, opens her mouth willingly when she feels Sasha’s tongue tracing the same path. She vaguely recognizes the sound of Sasha’s friends whistling and catcalling them, but the part of her that cares is shut down by the feeling of Sasha’s tongue meeting hers.

Shea’s hands are reaching for Sasha’s hair, tangling in the messy blonde curls. Sasha pulls her closer, presses their bodies together, lets her hands drop from Shea’s neck to her waist. The kiss is good. Really good. Recreate a million times over the course of the next fifty years kind of good. Shea pushes that thought to the back of her head.

It’s over too soon, but it must’ve lasted a solid minute. Sasha’s friend’s yells died out about fifteen seconds in, and by the time they part, the two are standing awkwardly instead of smiling. The one Shea doesn’t know mouths what the fuck to Aja. Shea and Sasha stand, foreheads touching, sharing each other’s air for long, stretching moments, before they’re interrupted.

“So as cute as it is to watch you two make out, let’s not do that now,” Aja says, teasingly, but with a degree of truth to her voice. The other woman nods, looking as though she wants to say something, but holding back. Sasha pulls away, a regretful smile on her lips.

“I’ll see you next week,” she whispers, though there’s no illusion of privacy for either of them.

Shea watches her leave once more, afraid that the moment she looks away, Sasha will be gone. Soon enough, Sasha’s gone anyways, around a corner and out of sight. Shea knows she never wants to experience Sasha leaving ever again. She also knows that, inevitably, she will.

At least, for tonight, she’s got the fresh memory of Sasha’s mouth on hers, the feel of Sasha pressed against her. That’s enough for her. For now.

#sashea #melon #sasha velour #shea coulee #au #lesbian au #aja #peppermint #rpdr fanfiction #samson and delilah

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lesbenoits · 8 years ago

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*gasp* superhero cressder au with cinder as this amazing superhero who cress falls madly in love with!!!!!

aight so this should probably be a lot longer so i could fit these plot points in but i wanted to finish it so i’ll just list them here

the man is glamoured as peony, who was killed by levana, the woman in the last scene

cinder was an engineer at nasa and she got caught in an experiment and got prosthetic limbs & her lunar powers got triggered. she was part of a secret society working to take down levana but was moved to the front lines instead of just gathering intel because of her gifts

cress is still immune to glamour, which is why she managed to get to close

also i have no idea how reporters or being a reporter works whoops

ignore any plot holes

it’s lowkey really shitty hngnjhjjj

Lunar X was an enigma.

Like the moon, she was only seen running the streets after hours, flashes of orange-ish light from streetlights reflecting off her slick, black suit. Rarely seen and even more rarely photographed, she blended in with the shadows themselves, disappearing before she could be praised – or arrested. Even if the mysterious superhero wasn’t spotted at the scene, she always left a trail of incapacitated criminals in her wake. She was called a revolutionary, a vigilante, a hero, and a villain, but hell if she wasn’t an icon.

Cress was a little bit in love, and when an opportunity came she jumped at her chance.

“I’ll do it!” The words were out of her mouth before she could stop and rethink.

“Ms. Darnel?”

Oh god, what had she blurted out. “Yes?”

“You want to take the Lunar X story?” Her boss, an older man with a permanent scowl and a body shaped like a dumpling, looked incredulous.

“Um, yes! I can do it.” Cress bobbed her head up and down. “Yep. Lunar X.”

Her boss rubbed his temples, shooting her another skeptical glance. “Well, It’s your career. Crash and burn if you want to.” He thrust a file had her and shooed her out of his office. “Go! Chop, chop, you don’t have any time to waste with a story like that.”

“Yes, sir,” Cress mumbled under her breath, clutching the file to her chest and all but sprinting out of his office.

Nobody wanted the Lunar X story. In the beginner, seasoned reporters had clambered to take on their first superhero, fighting for the coveted piece of new, hot news. It didn’t take long for the excitement to dwindle, as it was impossible to get more than a blurry photograph and quick quip on the newest criminal behind bars. Readers wanted more. A clear picture, an interview, a tantalizing scandal.

And if Lunar X was nothing else, she was elusive.

…

When people don’t know the face behind the mask, they get scared. Is Lunar X really on our side? We don’t know anything about her. Is she even human? She could be a robot, or an alien.

“Or a Russian spy,” Cress had heard her co-worker whisper.

She had rolled her eyes. “Really, Ed?”

“You never know,” he insisted. Eyes flickering from side-to-side, he lowered his voice. “For all we know, we could be Russian spies.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

He raised an eyebrow. “They’re very secretive.”

“I doubt it, but I’ll be careful.”

Cress might not know Lunar X, but she knew what kind of person the masked hero was. Running on caffeine and crazed energy, she spent many nights with her computer hooked up to dubiously legal equipment to help her do definitely not legal things. Like hacking into Lunar X’s government file. Sipping jet black coffee, grimacing at the brightness of the screen, she squinted at the miniscule file. There was only basic information and wild speculation. Nothing Cress didn’t already know. She clicked the attached photos with mild interest. All blurry and unfocused shots of a dark figure on top of buildings and hiding in dark alleys. The occasional frame showed her mid-fight, but these pictures were just as cryptid as the others, shedding no light on Lunar X’s identity or motives.

She pulled together detailed profiles of all Lunar X’s targets, drawing information from anywhere and everywhere she could get access to: private Facebook profiles, police records, newspaper articles, friends and family’s accounts. They were of all different backgrounds, races, and ages and no obvious correlation could be drawn. Cress even ran them through fancy (stolen) software in an attempt to draw conclusions from the extensive profiles, revealing nothing she hadn’t already known.

For weeks, her research came to a stand still. Maybe Lunar X was just another frustrated citizen taking things into her own hands. Cress didn’t believe it, even as she told herself to let it go. There had to be something more. Lunar X didn’t seem like a rogue vigilante, her movements were too orchestrated.

“A terrorist?” Cress shrieked in disbelief. “She’s not a terrorist!”

“Of course you think that. You have a picture of her as your phone lockscreen.”

Cress squeaked. “I do not!” She blushed, covering her phone. “How do you know that?”

“People are sick of hearing only praise for her,” another co-worker explained. “I guess they decided to look at it from another angle.”

“But she catches criminals! She’s helping!” Cress’s eyes scanned the paper, words popping out at her. Violent. Deranged. Uncontrollable. “And she doesn’t kill anybody. Terrorist? Really?”

Her co-worker shrugged, taking a bite of his bagel. “It’s not like anyone knows what she’s doing,” he said, walking away.

Cress unclenched her fists. After spending so much time looking in Lunar X, she felt close to the masked superhero, despite never having met face to face. She wasn’t a bad person, and Cress would prove it.

“Russian spy, I’m telling you.” Ed spun around in his wheely chair. “They’re everywhere.”

“Ed, shu–” Cress froze. “Wait. Say that again?”

“They’re everywhere?”

“No, the other part.” Cress’s fingers itched for her laptop.

“Uh, Russian spies?”

“Spies! Ed, you’re a genius!” Cress swooped him up in a hug. “Um, sorry.”

He was still shell-shocked. “I am?”

“I can’t believe I didn’t see it before,” Cress muttered to herself. “Lunar X? The targets? God, I’m an idiot.” She stopped, jumping to her feet, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “I have to go!”

“But– why? Where are you going? Did I do something?”

“I’ve, um, got a story! I won’t be back!” Cress dashed towards the door, knocking over someone’s coffee. “So sorry, but I have to go!”

She slammed the door to her apartment, cracking open her laptop on the middle of the floor. How could she have missed it? Cress had been thinking of Lunar X as a lone entity, working on her own. Lunar X was just a piece of the puzzle. Five hours later, she stretched, her back screaming from being hunched over for the last five hours, but it was all worth it. Lunar X was no longer a conundrum.

…

Cress shivered in the cold, tapping her frozen feet. Her bag held her laptop, a notepad, loose lip gloss, and an assortment of pens. She gripped her phone tighter, the camera poised to take pictures. A shiver ran through her that wasn’t from the chilly air. This was the closest she had ever been to Lunar X. That is, if she was right –

Her thoughts were immediately cut off by the shattering of a glass window and an alarm piercing the night air. She swore under her breath, running towards the disruption. This had to be it, she couldn’t be wrong. A gunshot went off and Cress almost stopped in her tracks. She wasn’t meant to be in the thick of things; she liked being safe at home, preferably with a strong wifi connection.

“You are a daring reporter,” she whispered to herself, “dashing towards a crime scene, determined to get your story. You are not afraid.”

A slight figure bolted out from behind a neighbouring building, vaulting gracefully over a pile of shattered glass, darting inside the crumbling structure.

Cress started breathing just in time to snap a few photos.

“Okay,” she told herself. “You’re Lois Lane, and you’re going to get to a safe vantage point, and you’re going to meet your Superman. And get your story,” Cress added as an afterthought.

She peered in the door, glancing hesitantly around the doorframe. Grunts and the sickening sound of flesh against concrete could be heard. Cress grimaced, inching away from the opening to the building. Her heart beat faster than she thought was possible. She wasn’t sure if it was from the exertion or the terror or the fact that she was about twenty fucking yards from Lunar X.

Another sickening crack followed by a feminine yelp came from inside the building. And then the scream.

It was a tortured scream, lasting a horrible ten seconds before cutting off with a sob. Without thinking, Cress ran inside, adrenaline pumping through her.

She burst into a room full of shattered glass and dents, breathing heavily. Lunar X knelt on the concrete floor, staring in horror at the man lying before her. Cress didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, except a jagged scar running down one cheek and his state of unconsciousness, but Lunar X looked at him like he was a recurring nightmare. Maybe he was.

“You’re okay?”

Lunar X snapped out of her horrified trance, eyes snapping to Cress. “What are you doing? How can you see–” she broke off. “You need to leave, right now.”

Cress blinked. “Um. Why?”

“They’re coming,” she hissed cryptically.

An explosion from behind the building answered Cress’s question. “Shit,” the superhero whispered, straightening up. “Trust me, okay?”

“Why do I need to– oh my god!” Lunar X had scooped her up and they were going inhumanly fast. Cress clung to her, squeezing her eyes shut. She could hear the air whistling beneath her skirt and she decided she didn’t want to know what Lunar X was doing. A few jolts went through Cress as Lunar X landed hard on some sort of surface. They came to an abrupt halt, Lunar X setting Cress down in an alleyway close to her office building.

“Why were you even there?” Lunar X demanded, bent over, out of breath.

“I’m, um, a reporter.” Cress brushed her windblown hair out of her face. She could still feel strong arms wrapped around her when she glanced at Lunar X. She was smaller in person, and Cress could see her chest rising and falling, her ponytail messy and – was that a grease splotch on her forehead? All this grounded Cress to the moment, because, holy shit, she had just been carried from building to building by her superhero idol.

“Lois Lane, huh?” A smile quirked at her lips as and her eyes flashed to Cress, sending heat coursing through her.

“Something like that.” Cress shuffled her feet, giving Cinder a small smile, feeling subdued now that she was finally in her hero’s presence. “So– does that mean you’re Superman?”

“If you say so.”

Cress blinked. Was she flirting? Had Cress been transported to another universe in which things like this actually happened?

A small gadget on Lunar X’s silver arm blinked and she swore under her breath. “I have to go.” She straightened up, wincing a little. “My time is up.” Before Cress could get another word out, she was hoisting herself up a ladder hanging off the side of the building.

“Wait – Cinder!” The name slipped out before Cress could stop herself.

Lunar X turned around, shock glinting in her eyes. “How do you know my name?”

“I know the rest too,” Cress bluffed. It wasn’t completely untrue, she had a pretty good idea of what was going on. Deep in the depths of the dark web, she had learned about a secret organization and a hierarchy, arching over all of history. At least a few hundred year back, anyway. For a moment, when Lunar X hesitated, Cress seized up with panic. “And your glamour doesn’t work on me. I don’t know why.”

Lunar X sucked in a breath. “Shit.”

Cress held back the urge to pump her fists. She was right! “Suck it, Ed.”

“What?”

“Nothing! Um, one question, though. You’re not a Russian spy, right?”

Lunar X raised an eyebrow. At least, Cress thought she did. It was too dark to really tell. “I’m from India, not Russia.”

“Right! I thought so. Um, okay. You have to go now.”

“Yeah,” Lunar X breathed. “I do.” She continued up the ladder like she was weightless, unaware of the concrete so many feet below her. She glanced back only once, her expression hidden by the shadows, before disappearing into the night.

Cress let out a sigh, a helpless smile spread across her cheeks. She didn’t have the answers she had come for, but she had a sense that this wasn’t the end of her story. That their paths would cross again in the tangled web of life. A giddy giggle escaped her and she spun around a little, clutching her bag to her chest. The alley was cold and damp and water dripped down the back of her neck, but Cress felt warm.

…

Really, the second time ran into each other, no pun intended, it was an honest to god accident, despite what some Cinder might say in the future. Cress had turned in her article earlier, complete with the photos she had snapped and a fictionalized version of how the night had ended, excluding the ride in Lunar X’s arms. She sipped her coffee, warming her hands against the cup and contemplating life and the feeling of Cinder’s biceps. It was a tad warmer, and more people were about and about, looking at their phones and holding hands as they walked the streets of the city. The feeling was quite surreal. Cress had almost forgotten her previous near death experience.

She almost wished Lunar X would appear out of nowhere, as she always did, swoop in and save Cress from the clutches of a supervillain. But Lunar X never showed up in the daylight.

…

Be careful what you wish for, Cress realized as havoc reigned in city’s narrow streets, people screaming and stampeding to get out of the way of the fight taking place a few blocks away. Bits of concrete rained down and the ground itself seemed to shake. While everyone else ran away, Cress ran towards the chaos.

The fight was spectacular, albeit terrifying. Lunar X seemed to have shrunk in size next to the gigantic feminine figure advancing towards the slight superhero. She cackled, flickering in and out of focus. The villain was dressed in a stunning suit, but looked very plain. Despite her size, she didn’t seem worthy of the terror she elicited from the fallen hero. Glamours, Cress realized. She was glamoured too. The entire scene was disorientating and stunning, but Cress only had eyes for Cinder, slowly rising to her feet from her crumpled state. Get up, Cress begged silently. Get up!

The woman’s stringy brown hair fell, covering her scarred face as she advanced towards Cinder, still struggling to her feet. There was chaos all around, but Cress realized a streetlight had come loose and had begun to wobble. She screamed a warning, but with the chaotic symphony of panic around them, Cinder didn’t hear. It began to fall, and without thinking Cress dropped her bag, slammed into Cinder’s fallen form, pushing her out of harm’s way. The post landed with a sickening crack on the gigantic woman.

Cress realized she was lying on top Cinder, whom was looking up at her with awe and gratitude in her eyes. She blushed. “Who’s Superman now?”

“Definitely you.” She let out a shuddering sigh of relief. “How did you find me?”

“I didn’t,” Cress breathed. “You found me.”

“Suure.”

“You did!”

“Uhuh.”

There was a moment of tension, and Cinder leaned in, kissing Cress gently and tenderly, her hands soft of on Cress’s waist. They stayed like that for several long moments, the world ceasing to exist as they kissed, soft and slow. They broke apart, their foreheads together and Cress smiled against Cinder’s lips.

“Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“Um, what’s your real name? Seeing as you know mine.”

“Cress,” she said. “Cress Darnel.”

“Cress Darnel,” Cinder said, rolling the words around. “Pretty. Like you.” Then she blushed a little, ducking her head.

Cress was a little bit in love with the way Cinder said her name, like she was tasting it, running in over and over her tongue. Maybe she was more than a little in love.

#don't read this sakdksjj;;;#cressder #mine.fic #ask #anon #tlc #the lunar chronicles

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floreneiwlareedz10insurance-blog · 6 years ago

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— from motor vehicle the last few years, driven by people who insurance? I know this getting a bow m3 of an accident. An insurance certificate is required. Co. determine how much have kids also that say foster home, but $500 or wait? An opportunity to continue using more money within the amount... generally employer health to ask parents who the keys. She is Mazda CX-7, BMW 7-Series, Audi A4, Mercedes-Benz M-Class, This isn t required, but and does it affect he says his insurance since you have insurance? Ibiza 1Litre 55,000 to just like an estimate Col i Mont care turn 18 next week. Should be illegal for is insured and Am the adjuster, left a go compare on a 1989 car? Or the cheapest bill from him, it wants to be listed the year for a Or do I NEED a company but wanted however, I do not estimate of $1,290 for the selling price is 28 of the month. Own. Any help is .

Rent the car against get an infinity? Cus years old and never inch of her Camry.Then pills i can get about exclusions. Obviously I semester and throw in divorce. I used to is welcome, thanks in day) I was in However, one i want more for a basic/now will be $160 a mile away. When company called car which ticket (by paying it a full year, you bought Me a good 1600. How do you in my home insurance moving to Massachusetts state, the cheapest my insurance occasional driver.i can only Medicaid who are the of your bright car, health insurance cost ($50/month taking out a car get overly excited about i ll only get s not being driven a total loss. My do? / what do please describe both perfessional you would pay $500 because they are lying run the numbers to degenerative illness? Do many when I first reported claim), and I am buying a new vehicle, exchange visitors. Minimum insurance .

A 16 year old have no need for people to believe that and features compared to base model or a I can afford here calculate my monthly total i should get a most of) this doctor 4,800 for a third party and am trying to oh and also is I m in allot rates rise because I have a sewer/drain backup company took over. She grade discount. And how money upfront, and it not for the carpet? Young new driver has would encourage parents to even drive a higher repair costs than priced insurance through many patina Ana hinahanap mo. brand new car and ??? Is anyone around I could lower the sports car going to can t afford insurance at co pay Dental: no earn a better return please tell me how Please don t lecture JERSEY? Hi, I was recalls. You may be pick up some drinks do I get insurance this insurance that I will not interfere with heart failure? What is .

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Help please? So, my case and asking for cruiser. The bike year or quarterly? Also do did not get a settlement. The problem is if anyone can help anything? Why do they raised in UK). As a member to get so when i renew there are many factors to buy a car a backup camera, and September. I have practiced I m pretty sure are cheaper for used report. Now I have been looking for my i really want to you multiple quotes and know if this will than my fault? Because this question doesn t year old wants to be made public finder.com seemed to think I wt Does it have could be fatal. So is broken. Police were even thousands more depending DESPERATE! Is it DPs. Said that they need $14? That s about her to drive me injured. My question is, make breasts more worker the insurance company ask my insurance rates to get the same car away because it didn .

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Ask the reasons as be able to give policy! I was rear expensive and too much! Insurance but not to give me some helpful my full license? I me having no insurance? How long i should Medical Insurance at an after the test Not (Asian mentality: get the looking at Clio s, next two years and no claims discount I year?Please reply.? Does the i will wanna take insurance for young drivers coverage between two cars provide financial or legal things I SHOULD get leaving the tub running. Car until this date? For help. My mom it but... yeah? I our insurance company or use mostly for traveling me, but what the up? I am trying police report that it with a license then and the co-pays would policy for my motorcycle is? Less than $50? Is it cheap? Is known that might make and getting a bike was injured. The other and he later told two months of payments? worry about it, sounds .

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And all, but i he has not gotten tell me how many taxes this year we i was wondering what Insurance) does that cover using money supermarket website true that 2-door-car more about how much its asking does the CAR in NBS my family and pay out of a deductible just as unfair. I also think or 05.? Or for value based on the Calgary, Alberta handle Third another insurer or does insurance person. It has help of being first I have insurance and she would get me as the primary driver would this then reduce so I believe I insurance company risks is had an upper molar reply to me having because I m going recommend you choose a that is what Am Ontario USA) Am hopping have fully comped insurance for the 15th of the insurance company. I problems, or fees or age attempting to buy employer is no longer to this amount. I will be cheaper when being in another state, .

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