#he should go through a dozen eyeliner pencils a month

[cryptocism]

guy who spends all his money on demonia boots

[dfdph]

Spotlight - Prologue

Author D.

Pairing Jungkook x Reader (female)

Genre Actor AU | Hollywood AU | Exes to Lovers AU | Romance | Fluff | Angst

Warnings Mentions of cyber bullying

Word count 3.5k

Summary “Her stylist had chosen a wonderful black Elie Saab Haute Couture for the occasion. The gown was long, sleek and structured, with overlaying tulle and tafta, the top was semi-transparent, with long sleeves and padded shoulders,  and the whole dress was adorned with an intricate golden embroidery that highlighted her figure craftily. Her hair had been pinned neatly in a bun on top of her head, with some twists and braids that she had no way of replicating on her own. The make up artist had played with golden eyeshadow and had drawn a strong and thick black line with the eyeliner, making her gaze sharper and sexier. Y/N looked like a chic princess warrior, ready for battle. And, somehow, she really felt like it. She wasn’t anxious only about the ceremony, she had read the lineup, she had read his name. She knew there was no avoiding him this time: her first love, Jeon Jungkook.”

©️ dfdph, 2021 - All rights reserved. Reposting or translating onto other sites is NOT allowed.

     Award season was the period of the year Y/N hated the most. Despite being in the entertainment industry since she was a teenager - and now being in her late 20s -, she still couldn’t get used to the stress it put her through. She actually looked forward to dressing up and posing in front of dozens and dozens of photographers at the beginning of her career, but now that she had made a name for herself, now that everyone knew who she was, Y/N would gladly stay in her king sized bed watching some movie instead. Unfortunately, even if she wanted to, there was no way she could avoid attending this season’s ceremonies. 

     The past year had been Y/N’s most rewarding yet. She had been in fact casted by a renowned and award-winning director as the main character of his new historical movie, which turned out highly successful at the box office - earning more than $110,000,000 on its opening weekend - and highly acclaimed by the critics who had praised, not only the cinematography and the intricacy of the plot, but especially Y/N’s performance - described as raw, heartbreaking and graceful. To no one’s surprise, she was soon nominated as Best Actress in most of the award events, winning all of them despite the high competition and enriching the collection of trophies she had displayed in her home office.

     When she debuted ten years ago with a minor role in an episode of a television series she only dared dreaming of reaching such a peak in her career. She could have never imagined that she would become one of the highest paid actresses in the industry, that she would afford buying her dream car and her dream house in Los Angeles, and that she would have millions of fans supporting her all over the world. Yet, there she was, getting ready for ‘the dream come true’, the award of the awards: the Oscars. And she, Y/N Y/L/N, had been chosen as the strongest contender in her category: Best Performance by an Actress in a Leading Role. She had already been nominated twice before, but this time was different, this time she felt she could actually win. Hence why she couldn’t stop walking anxiously back and forth in the 5 star hotel room her staff had booked for the day.

     Her stylist had chosen a wonderful black Elie Saab Haute Couture for the occasion. The gown was long, sleek and structured, with overlaying tulle and tafta; the top was semi-transparent, with long sleeves and padded shoulders, and the whole dress was adorned with an intricate golden embroidery that highlighted her figure craftily. Her hair had been pinned neatly in a bun on top of her head, with some twists and braids that she had no way of replicating on her own. The make up artist had played with golden eyeshadow and had drawn a strong and thick black line with the eyeliner, making her gaze sharper and sexier. 

     Y/N looked like a chic princess warrior, ready for battle. And, somehow, she really felt like it. She wasn’t anxious only about the ceremony, she had read the lineup, she had read his name. She knew there was no avoiding him this time: her first love, Jeon Jungkook.

     Y/N was a completely different woman from who she was back in high school.

     She had grown in a very poor family. Her mother had to raise her, alongside her older brother, all on her own, working long hours as a housekeeper for a rich and snob family who mistreated her and paid her just enough so that she couldn’t resign. She was a very sweet woman who had to struggle every day to give her two children the most normal life she could afford. Y/N’s father, on the other hand, was never present: an alcoholic who couldn’t keep a job for more than a month, he regularly failed to pay child support after the divorce and never once made a call to hear from them.

     Y/N understood the importance of money early on, in elementary school, when her classmates started teasing her because of her hand-me-down clothes. She was used to wear her brother’s old t-shirts every now and then and never thought too much of it. She didn’t see any difference between the rock bands pictures or the flowery prints, she didn’t realize it mattered. And when she had told her mother that those girls had laughed at her, the woman almost cried, so Y/N decided not to mention it ever again.

     Y/N grew up into a very introverted and shy teenager. She wasn’t good with socializing and generally preferred being on her own. Her desire for solitude was so evident that her classmates gave up on their attempts to befriend her and she soon became the lone wolf of their high school. By junior high, she became almost invisible. 

     Strangely enough, Y/N’s dream was that to become an actress, a profession that required a lot of things she lacked of. Confidence, to begin with, or charisma. The only thing she believed she could do was hide inside the unused storage room on the second floor and play with the old props left by the drama club. 

     She met Jungkook while doing just that. 

     The boy was just coming back from the first meeting of the Mathematics Discussion Club - of which he was the president - when he heard someone crying from a room he never noticed before. He opened the door quietly, peeking his head inside the dim lighted room, only to find the silhouette of a girl lying on the floor in a fetal position and seemingly crying her lungs out in pain. She had her hands clutching tightly her head and she was sobbing so hard that she was on the verge of hyperventilating. On instinct, Jungkook rushed to her side, his books, pencils and calculator clattering all over the floor. 

     “Are you ok?!” he screamed in worry, putting his hands over her shoulders.

     Y/N jumped up, her wailing stopping so abruptly that it made Jungkook jump as well. As it turned out, Y/N was doing nothing more than acting the part of a terminally ill girl who was suffering intense head pains - a part she had invented all on her own to test her ability with dramatic scenes. it was something she did quite often. Just the day before she was performing Meryl Streep’s part in “Into the Woods” to an invisible audience.

     “I-I’m ok.” she mumbled, drying the fake tears from her cheeks.

     “What the hell?” Jungkook murmured, looking at her in astonishment. “What was that?”

     “I was ... I was just pretending.” she replied, her voice horse from all the screaming.

     “Pretending?” he repeated as he sat bewildered on the dirty floor. “You were pretending to be in pain? Why?!”

     Y/N felt the heat rising to her face. This was the first time she had to explain her weird little secret to anyone. “Acting.”

     “Acting.” Jungkook repeated once again. “And why are you doing it in here?” he asked looking around the creepy space, with its spider webs and abandoned miscellaneous objects. “What is this place anyways?”

     “It was the old storage room of the drama club.” Y/N replied. “They don’t use it anymore. There’s no space left.”

     “I can see that.” he said staring at the shelf just above their heads that looked about ready to collapse. “So, I guess you’re not in the drama club?”

     “No.” Y/N answered looking down at her crossed legs. She wondered if he was going to snitch on her. She really didn’t want to get in trouble. Besides, it wasn’t like she was doing something that terrible.

     “I could tell.” Jungkook replied. “I saw last year’s winter play and, let me tell you, you, crying on the floor 5 minutes ago, were ten times better than that.”

     Y/N looked back at him with her mouth open in surprise. She had no idea who this boy sitting crossed legged on the floor with her was, with his white button down shirt and over washed jeans, but he singlehandedly gave her the best compliment she could wish for. “Right?!” she exclaimed sitting straighter. “I thought so too! But everybody else acted as if they saw the best performance of their lives! I knew I couldn’t be the only one who taught that their interpretation of Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra was nothing but underwhelming.”

     “Damn right.” the boy nodded in agreement. “I actually looked forward to it because I prefer it over Romeo and Juliet, but I was so disappointed. You should have played Cleopatra!” he added in an afterthought. “Why didn’t you?”

     Y/N felt herself blush once again. “I never performed in front of anyone.” she confessed. “Apart from my mother an brother, that is.”

     “That’s a shame.” Jungkook murmured pensively. “You have real talent, storage room girl. Believe me, I’m an expert.”

     Being friends with Jungkook was easy, falling in love with him was even easier. It came so naturally that Y/N didn’t even have the chance to fully realize it before they were officially dating.

     He was everything Y/N wasn’t and everything she wanted to be. Even at 16 years old he already was a very confident boy. He was incredibly smart, funny and a little bit nerdy. He didn’t belong to the upper class of their high school social pyramid, nor the middle, but he had no care in matching those standards because he loved himself for who he was - Stark Trek t-shirts, consumed tennis shoes and all. 

     In the short year the two of them were together, from junior to senior year, Jungkook became the reason behind Y/N’s happiness. She wasn’t aware of how lonely she really had been while asking to be left alone. Jungkook taught her to be open towards the world, to be curious and to believe in herself and her abilities. Thanks to him and his never ending support Y/N came to realize that she wasn’t meant to hide inside the abandoned storage room on the second floor, but she deserved the chance to follow her dreams.

     Together they filed their applications for college: Jungkook always wanted to become an aerospace engineer and had set the personal - and ambitious - goal to work for NASA; Y/N, on the other hand, had worked hard during her last year in high school to win a scholarship for whichever Performing Arts College was willing to take her in - it didn’t matter which one because she knew she started her acting career late. All she wanted was to study to become an actress, to perform on stage and bring to life incredible stories, to be someone one day and someone else the other.

     But it was such a big dream, something so fickle and risky, that Y/N couldn’t help but being overwhelmed by fear, not only for her future but that of Jungkook’s as well, because after all, despite all the changes she had gone through, a part of her was still hiding from the world. So she did something stupid, something very cliché, that nevertheless seemed the right thing to do at that time: she broke up with him.

     It’s for his own good, she had thought. He is brilliant, I don’t want to hold him back.

     Jungkook fought her and for her. He was afraid something like this would happen, he was sure it wasn’t what she really wanted, he knew she was just afraid. But Y/N was a very talented actress indeed and for a moment, as she looked straight into his dark eyes and told him she didn’t love him anymore, Jungkook felt his confidence waver.

     “I’m really thankful for what you’ve done for me.” she had said. “I wouldn’t be who I am today if it wasn’t for you.”

     “Please don’t lie.” he had whispered, trying to stop the angry and disappointed tears from falling from his eyes. “Don’t pretend. Not with me.”

     “I’m not.” Y/N replied, her voice firm. “I loved you, I really did. You’ll be my first love forever, Kook.”

     And the very next day, just like in one of those cheesy television dramas her mother loved so much, she flew hundreds of miles away from him, trying to not looking back. 

     If she said she never regretted it over the following years, it would be a lie. As she started her new life, she never failed to think of him. She wondered how he was doing, if his dreams were coming true and if he ever thought of her as much as she did of him. As she grew up and matured, Y/N realized how stupid her choice had been and how important Jungkook’s role had been in shaping her personality and in breaking her shell. Y/N was sure of it: if he didn’t found her that day inside the storage room, she wouldn’t be who she was today.

     Years after she broke up with him, Jungkook still popped up into her mind every now and then. She thought of him the first time she was casted for a walk on role in a movie; she thought of him the first time her name was credited in an episode of a TV show; she thought of him the first time she won an award.

      She thought of him with regret and a little bit of melancholy. Y/N never forgot him. Not even when when became so famous she barely had the time and energy to think about herself.

      The first time Y/N heard his name spoken by someone else’s mouth, three years ago, was a complete shock. She never talked of him to anyone, apart form her mother, her brother and Jimin, her best friend and manager, so he was supposed to be a nobody to everyone else but herself. As it turned out, with a very mysterious turn of events, Jungkook had left the path towards aerospace engineering and had decided to take his chance with acting. And from what Y/N gathered from the overheard conversation, he was starting to make a name for himself as well. 

     That night, back in her multimillion dollar villa, Y/N researched his name on the internet for the first time. 

     He was new to the industry and there wasn’t much about him, it was like he popped out of nowhere. But it was definitely Jungkook, Y/N recognized him from the pictures. He had grown into a beautiful man, so handsome that she did a double take and then had to stop herself from drooling. It wasn’t like he was ugly when they were together, but he was just a skinny teenager back then and this was a man, a real man who had lost all of his baby fat and now had a razor sharp jaw and a muscular body. Apparently, he was the protagonist of an ongoing TV series that was gathering a lot of success putting him in the center of the attention. ‘The new heartthrob’, that was how he was being called.

     Y/N couldn’t help but wonder what happened after they lost contact with each other that made him change his career so drastically. Whenever she thought about him she imagined him working on some challenging project for NASA, never on a movie set. She remembered he was passionate about theatre and cinema, but never once he had expressed the desire to become an actor like her. Y/N didn’t know what to think.

     As the years passed, Y/N watched as his acting career grew, as he starred in a success after the other and as he earned the respect of even the most strict directors and critics.

     Y/N watched, yes, but from afar, never daring to contact him and secretly avoiding the chances to meet him again. 

     She had been successful, until now.

     The drive to the Dolby Theatre went far too quick for Y/N’s taste. She could barely remember how she got from the hotel room where she had been preparing to the black luxury van. Before she knew it her stylist was taking away her favorite slippers and was putting on her dress-matching Dolce&Gabbana heels.

     Y/N didn’t have the time to think. Three years of running away and finally the moment had come. Jeon Jungkook - her first love, her ‘the one that got away’, probably her biggest regret - was probably in the car behind hers.

     “Y/N, two minutes.” Jimin called out, warning her to get ready. “You know the deal. Deep breath and own that red carpet as you always do. And-”

     “I know.” Y/N interrupted him. “The left side is my best side.”

     The man, dressed up as well in a black tux, gave her a wink. “I’ll be right behind you. You got this.” he declared, looking at her intensely. “This is the one.”

     “Thanks, Chim. But from all we know I could be the next Di Caprio.” she joked, the roaring noise from the red carpet now deafening.

     “On my dead body.” he smirked. “Talk to you later, princess.”

     “Later.” she hugged him briefly. “Oh, can you please make sure my mom and Seokjin got in fine? I totally forgot to call them.”

     “Of course. My assistant is with them, anyways.” Jimin said, putting a hand on the door handle. “Ready?”

     Y/N took a deep breath, put on her best charming expression and nodded. “Ready.”

     As soon as he opened the door, Y/N was immediately hit by the boisterous and echoing call of the fans. She wasn’t sure if it was only her impression but it seemed like every single one of them was screaming her name. She was, indeed, one of the biggest names of the night, there was no use in denying it, but Y/N couldn’t help but wish they stopped making her presence so obvious.

     A young usher, pretending not so well to be indifferent and trying to be professional, guided her towards the beginning of the red carpet, hundreds of cellphones following her movements like magnets.

     “Please, come this way, miss Y/L/N.” the usher instructed in a slightly trembling voice. “There will be someone from the staff signaling you were to stop to pose for the photographers.”

     Y/N knew this already. She had attended countless of events like this, after all. Yet she didn’t say anything to the shy boy, preferring to smile at him sincerely. “Thank you very much.” she said, watching as he blushed violently.

     Y/N started her walk, Jimin and her stylist following a few steps behind to make sure that everything went smoothly. The photographers went wild as soon as they saw her, the flashes of their cameras blinding her almost angrily. She was used to it now, she had mastered the trick: squinting sexily and blinking strategically.

     As she walked slowly towards the entrance of the theatre, posing with confidence and channeling her best princess warrior, Y/N almost forgot the worries she had about Jungkook, until a new wave of screams echoed to her ears. She stiffened, even if imperceptibly. It was him, the line up said he would be walking right after her. 

     The time had finally come. Ten years had passed and she was seeing Jeon Jungkook again for the first time. 

     She continued to walk nonchalantly, every step confident and her chin up and proud. But once she reached the end of the red carpet and the photographers moved their attention away from her, Y/N couldn’t help but stop for a second, ignoring a fellow actress and ‘friend’ waving at her a few feet further. 

     She could feel him, she could feel his presence behind her back. She could either turn around and catch a glimpse of him, or resume walking and pretend he wasn’t there. It took her a couple of moments of indecisiveness, in which Jimin looked at her questioningly, before taking the umpteenth deep breath of the evening.

     She turned, the hem of her $30 000 black dress brushing almost magically over the carpet, and there he was. For a moment the memory of the nerdy boy from high school overlapped the image in front of her. She was well aware of the fact that he wasn’t that teenager anymore, she had seen his pictures, watched his movies and interviews. The boy she remembered was long gone: standing tall and proud, more than twenty feet from her, was now Jeon Jungkook ‘the actor’, dressed in a perfectly tailored night blue tux that highlighted his toned body, black patent leather shoes and impeccably styled hair.

     And he was staring - with his dark and deep black eyes - right back at her.

[psycho-slytherin]

Strangers ch. 34

Yoongi finds your phone– and so does someone else...

Pairing: Yoongi x (female) Reader

Word count: 1.8k

Genre: fluff, angst

|mlist|

<–– Prev   Next ––>

You force a laugh. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t lie to me, y/n,” Yoongi says softly, his voice a knife in your back. “These– Jesus.” He exhales sharply as your phone buzzes again, again, again. You would’ve turned your notifications off months ago, but you need Twitter for your jobs. “How long has it been like this?”

@satanhasaholdoffrance: hey @yourname make like a tree and die

@queenynuwu: I hope y/n knows we love her!! <3 @yourname

@gummyyoongi: has anyone found @yourname‘s address yet?

“I don’t know what you mean,” you reply stubbornly. You don’t want your weight on Yoongi’s shoulders, not when you know he’ll blame himself.

“Bullshit. You said this wasn’t happening! You told me that my fans weren’t coming after you.”

“And you never checked,” you reply, your throat tight. “You know what I am. I’m a liar. And you trusted me– that’s your mistake.”

Yoongi flinches. “I know you don’t mean that.”

You begin trembling, your hands and arms and shoulders tensing against your will. “You shouldn’t trust me, Yoongi.” I’ve kept too many secrets from you.

“Well, I do trust you. I know you too well, y/n, and you don’t mean that. But this?” He taps your phone. “This is messed up.”

You take a step back, shrinking into yourself. “I-I’m sorry.”

“What? No. Why are you apologizing?” Yoongi gets up and walks towards you, his eyes intense. “My fans– the stuff they’re saying– that’s what’s messed up. And y/n, I’m so, so sorry this happened. You don’t deserve it.”

“I, uh...” you mumble, confused. Why isn’t he angry at you? You lied to him, again and again and again. “Sorry...”

Yoongi sighs, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “What are you even apologizing for?”

“I don’t know!” You cry. “I thought you’d be mad at me!”

“I’m not mad at you, y/n-ie.” Yoongi raises his arm and brushes a loose strand of hair out of your face. “I’m just worried. The comments you’re getting, the haters... they’re too much for anyone.”

Your mind drifts to the nightmares, the thoughts that your hate comments have inspired within you.

Yoongi’s gaze darkens, but he’s not looking at you– he’s staring far off, at something beyond. “I’ve seen idols, trainees– friends– that internalized those things, and they didn’t see an escape... no one is equipped to deal with this shit alone, no one.” Yoongi swallows, and his voice wavers. “So don’t try, y/n. You’re not alone, and I can’t lose you.”

You blink hard before drawing back and punching Yoongi in the arm.

“Ow!” Yoongi yelps, rubbing his arm. “What the hell?”

“That’s for being dramatic,” you say, using all your willpower to keep your voice light. “And this–” you poke him in the ribs– “is for being selfish. I don’t wanna lose me either, nerd. It’s not all about you.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Yoongi laughs. “My bad, I almost forgot that you’re a force to be reckoned with.”

“Just don’t let it happen again,” you sniff haughtily.

“I won’t, promise. Hey, do you need a lift to your next job?”

“Nah, I’ll take the bus. I’m not famous like you,” you reply. Besides, you want to be alone with your thoughts.

“Suit yourself. I have to go to the studio anyways.”

“Another BTS comeback already?” You muse, and Yoongi winks.

“Nope.”

~~~

Once Yoongi leaves, you wriggle into another sweater and shrug your coat on over it. You can’t help but feel chilly lately, and you can’t afford to get a cold.

You leave your apartment building and quickly walk towards the bus stop. Your afternoon will be spent on a photoshoot for a new makeup line, and Lisa said you’d be able to keep some of the merchandise.

You adjust your face mask and pop in your earphones, your mind a whirling dervish of thoughts. You imagined Yoongi would be furious– after all, you’d promised no more secrets. You couldn’t help but keep your Twitter mess to yourself, because you didn’t want your friend to stress about it.

Friend... the word seems strange to you, almost wrong.

Well, we’re ‘dating’ now, you think, so I guess he’s my fake-boyfriend instead.

It’s weird; for years you were completely in love with Yoongi, besotted with his face and voice and laugh and lyrics. His shy, goofy nature. His irresistible charm. You remember when you and Lisa would scream together at every new music video, each concept photo, any hint or clue or theory. It seems so long ago now.

Speaking of Lisa... your phone begins buzzing with a call from your manager/friend.

“Y/n, darling, how are you doing? How’s the leg?”

“All healed up now,” you reply, flexing and unflexing your left leg. You lost a lot of blood, but your injury missed all the arteries and important stuff.

“Great. Hey, I lined up a job, it’s yours for the taking if you’re interested. They need an extra in a cologne commercial, it should only be a two-day shoot and we can plan around Moon Over The Sea. What do you think?”

“Yeah, sounds good,” you murmur absentmindedly. “How much does it pay?”

“Pretty well, your cut would be only a little less than you’re making on the makeup shoot today.”

“Alright, sign me up.”

“Great. And... how’s it going with Yoongi?”

You jolt. “What?”

“C’mon, y/n, you can’t expect me not to ask. You’re dating your idol!”

“I-I’m not, really...”

“Oh, shush. It’s official, isn’t it? BigHit confirmed it last week. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were together!”

You grit your teeth– you have to tell her the truth. “Lisa, seriously, it’s not real.”

“I know, I bet it totally feels like a fairy tale, huh? I’m so jealous.” Lisa’s voice gets quieter, pouty. “We have to hang out soon, it’s been ages since we’ve had a proper gossip sesh!”

“But...”

“No buts! I’m ordering you as your manager to hang out with your best friend... who is also your manager... who is also me.”

You can’t help but laugh. “Yes ma’am, just pencil me in.”

“Will do! See you soon.”

“See ya.

Humming to yourself, you continue your bus ride, arriving at the studio a few minutes early. A fashionable young man strides up to you bearing shorts and a shirt.

“Ah, you’re here. L/n y/n, right? Perfect, perfect, put these on and we’ll get you straight into hair and makeup.”

“Uhh...” you examine the outfit he gave you. “Are you sure this is for me?”

“Of course I am, what are you talking about?”

“It’s black, these shorts are made of leather, and...” you trail off, gulping. “It’s all very tight.” That’s right, clothes like these will only hug the curves you don’t have. You’re not a sex icon like some of the female idols you’ve seen Yoongi with on TV. You know as someone in the entertainment industry, you’re supposed to be fashionable– but you’re too much a fan of oversized sweaters and soft pants to let them go. “I don’t know if this outfit suits me.”

“Nonsense, you’re beautiful– you just need the confidence! Besides, you’re gonna have to get used to this type of stuff if you want to get anywhere in your career,” the man chuckles. “Changing room is over there. When you’re ready, head to hair and makeup.”

“R-right,” you mumble, taking the clothes. They look so cold, you shiver just thinking about putting them on.

Ten minutes later, you stare at yourself in the mirror. Staring back at you seems to be a child, a little girl who doesn’t belong, who can barely fill out the tight crop top or shorts. And you’re supposed to be dating Yoongi? You don’t know if you want to laugh or cry. Yoongi deserves better, someone prettier, smarter, who looks like they belong at his side. In your mind’s eye, you can see Yoongi next to you in the mirror– black-haired, a brow raised, his mouth quirking upwards in a lazy smirk. He looks like a prince, a god, and you look like you’re playing dress-up next to him. No wonder so many people are upset; you’re doing Yoongi no favors by being with him.

You sigh and shake your head. You’re cold, so cold, and you hate it. You turn away from the mirror to get your hair and makeup done.

“Okay, can you give me a little lip bite? Something cheeky? Oh, perfect! Yes, hold like that!” The camera flashes while you sit frozen in place. “Cross your legs now, hold the lipstick closer to your face... can you give me bedroom eyes?”

Face flushed, you lower your lashes and pout your lips like you’ve seen real models do, and the camera flashes again and again. The lipstick you’ve got on is a brighter red than you’ve ever dared to wear, and combined with the outfit and your bold eyeliner, you look a little edgy.

“Great, y/n, you’re doing wonderfully. We need one more photo for the spread...” the photographer looks around the photo studio, which is a rather minimalist set. “Can someone get me that chair? Y/n, sit on it backwards and try for a smirk– like an ‘I’m-better-than-you’ face.”

But I’m not. Still you try, channeling your inner Seokjin as you fix the camera with your best downward stare, and then half smiling as though you’ve got a secret– which you do, too many to count. Half a dozen shots later, you’re dismissed with the promise that the money will be wired to your account by Friday.

The next morning, you wake up to the familiar buzzing of your notifications, again and again and again. You haven’t overslept, have you? No, your clock informs you that it’s not even six AM. You groan and flip your phone over to read your new mentions.

@beautyoftheseoul: Check out our new line of matte lipsticks, modeled by #MoonOverTheSea’s @yourname!

@chimyoongles: Omg @2460sunshine did you see that @yourname liked a yoongi thirst tweet? Lmaooo I’m dying she’s rly all of us

@scarletwitchisjunghoseok: I think I love @yourname now that she’s exposed herself as an army lololol

@captainkookie21: why are ppl stanning @yourname for her fuckup lol it just goes to show what a liar and a slut she is.

You blink sleepily. You liked a tweet about Yoongi? You’ve been careful about doing that ever since you became a public figure, in case Yoongi noticed. You tap through your likes and gasp:

@slutfordionysus: rt if you want Suga to crush you between his thighs, like if you want him to use his tongue technology on you ;)

Oh, fuck. You never liked that. You’ve never even seen that tweet. Which means... you’ve been hacked?

[atowncalledmalec]

That's actually really sweet

A small breakdown of the trailer that we got before 3B started. I wrote this a couple of months ago but still wanted to post it here.

Angst, a glimpse of Magnus' mental health after losing his magic.

Magnus sighed, blinking in the dim light of predawn as he rolled over, after exactly no hours of sleep. He studied Alec's sleeping form in the meager light, listening to the soft snores that emanated from his boyfriend, trying to use the sound to block out the whirling mess in his head.

With another sigh, a deeper one, Magnus rolled back over. Sitting up, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and dropped his head into his hands, scrubbing at his face as if he could wipe all of the loneliness, the hurt and anger and confusion away with the motion.

One last look over his shoulder at Alec's sleeping form had Magnus standing, as graceful as ever, even if his body felt odd, foreign to him.

That will be the loss of your magic dear.

Shying away from that thought, Magnus stumbled into his closet, decidedly not thinking about the fact that he would have to search by hand through rack upon rack of clothes, to find something to wear.

Magnus simply grabbed the first things his hands landed on and snapped his fingers to remove his silk pyjamas before the memories of what he had lost stabbed him in the gut. The wound went deeper than any he had suffered over the centuries he had already endured.

Allowing one solitary tear to fall before pushing it away, Magnus shrugged out of his clothing, forgoing the shower he didn't have the energy to take, and started pulling his chosen outfit on.

Red shirt, black pinstripe slacks, suspenders. You've worn this one before bane!

Who cares, it's just clothes. Alexander doesn't care if I've worn them before.

With that thought running through his head, Magnus gave his appearance a cursory glance in the full length mirror in his closet before wandering out into his bedroom.

With eyes lingering on Alec, watching his Shadowhunter in the vanity mirror, Magnus took a seat and started pulling his war paint out. He swiped a dusting of eyeshadow over each lid before staring critically at his work.

“It's been far too long since you've done this by hand and you look ridiculous,” Magnus muttered to himself, grabbing a wipe and scrubbing it off.

Stars sparkled in his eyes when he emerged from the wipe, having dug into them just that little bit too hard. Blinking helped take his mind off of the fact that he had to wipe it off in the first place.

Magnus grabbed his eyeliner, the one part of his makeup routine that he always did by hand, and pulled his lower lids down, ignoring how bloodshot his eyes looked, to line his eyes before he closed them and ran the pencil through his scrunched lids once more, coating the waterline of his top lids too.

With a final smudge at the excess, Magnus studied his face in the mirror once more. I'll just say that I was going for a new look if anyone asks.

Swiping his hand over his face once more, Magnus’ gaze caught on the chipped polish on his nails. He grabbed the bottle of nail polish remover and swiped it over the leftover fragments of polish on his nails, trying not to think on how closely the fragments resembled his life. Cracked, chipped, faded… lacking.

That thought sapped the last of Magnus’ will to pretty himself up. Leaving his nails polish free, he swung his legs, blinking as he wondered what to do now. He had to keep busy, lest he crumble like the polish that had blemished his nails.

“Breakfast, yes, I'm sure Alexander will need some breakfast after all of the energy he lost during battle.”

The words came softly, softer than his voice usually came out but they were Magnus’ salvation. A purpose. A distraction. A way to make some use of his now useless body.

Without a minute to lose, Magnus strode from the room, walking quickly to the kitchen to cook up a feast.

Of course, he didn't actually know how to use any of the modern contraptions his kitchen was filled with. Of course, he didn't know how to un-magically whip up a breakfast that was fit for a king… or a recovering Shadowhunter. And, of course, there was no actual food in his refrigerator.

The market! The farmers market three blocks away. I'll find something there!

Rushing for the front door, grateful to have something to do, Magnus just about managed to catch the door on its backswing, a split second before it closed, with a thudding heart.

Keys. Phone. Money. Your fucking sanity!

They were all things he had never had to worry about before. A snap of his fingers, a flick of his wrist, hell, one elegant swirl of his fingers was usually all Magnus needed to shop or get in touch with people or to let himself to into his own fucking home!

A stuttering, ragged, torment filled breath ripped from him as he clutched the door frame for support, allowing the moment of weakness when there was nobody to see it. He was unsure of what was worse, the churning of his stomach or the thundering, swirling shit storm, running through his head.

Magnus took one, two, three deep breaths in before he straightened, spine erect, and stomped back into his apartment to snatch his keys and some money up. The image of having to press his buzzer and wait out in the cold for Alec to let him in because he had left his keys went as quickly as it came.

Squaring his shoulders once more, Magnus shoved his things into the pockets of his pants and strode out of the door, head held high as he made his way through the building, riding the elevator in quiet contemplation.

A chill breeze was the first indication to Magnus that he had made it outside. He barely paid attention to the cold wind and the barley rising sun as he started towards the farmers market, running through the list of ingredients in his head.

A momentary smile graced Magnus’ lips as he recalled the one time, just a couple of short weeks ago, when Alec had made his stew, calling the ingredient list his “instructions”. Is that all it is, just a couple of weeks? He wondered to himself, it feels like centuries.

A tiredness washed through him in that moment as every single one of the years that he had existed crept up on him, all at once. They almost had him falling to his knees, the weight of those years too much to bear. Centuries.

I've been alive centuries and in all of that time, I've never faced something of this magnitude, Magnus thought.

Never once had Magnus had to think about those countries dwindling to decades, to a handful of years. His life hd always been endless, inevitable, permanent, his immortality unbending to the passage of time. Those concerns are for mortals, beings with shorter lifespans, right? Not for him. Not for the son of a demon.

His feet started moving again, the harsh wind making him snap his fingers to conjure a jacket before he could catch himself. It would be easy to pull a scowl onto his face. To snarl at the cruelty of his father's demand but his face just went slack as he wandered down the street, not one of the thousand emotions that swirled through him able to find purchase on his face.

Magnus blinked when his legs almost went from beneath him, from the uneven ground he had stumbled on. Looking up as he righted his steps, he found the reason that the ground had changed beneath his feet, maybe not metaphorically, but certainly physically. The edge of the sidewalk.

Magnus turned left and started wandering through the stalls, listening to the calling of vendors, allowing their crass shouts to drown out the thoughts that were parading through his mind on a never ending loop.

There was something soothing about it, about witnessing life going on around him when it felt like his own had come to an end. If these mundanes can exist without magic, then I can too. Right?

A stall that sold breakfast food snagged Magnus' attention, forcing him to focus rather than sink into his own head once more. He ran his fingers over the soft eggshells, thinking of their fragility and relating to them all too easily, silently wondering how many he would need.

Scooping up half a dozen, hoping they would be enough, Magnus held them carefully to his chest, pulling on a tight smile for the woman watching him. He juggled the eggs as he searched through the pastries that were on offer, selecting a couple of the largest croissants and adding them to the pile of precious eggs.

A crate of oranges snagged Magnus’ attention next. Freshly squeezed juice, that will be a nice addition. How many though? Three? Four? There's only two of us.

Picking up two plump oranges, Magnus added them to pile that he was now juggling, cursing his lack of ability to simply snap up a basket to carry them in. That lack of magical skill had him giving up. He smiled at the woman, waiting to serve him, and managed to juggle his haul into her hands.

Barely paying attention to the woman, Magnus scooped his wallet out of his pocket and handed a twenty over, thinking that it should be enough. He felt no shame in admitting to himself that it had been a long while since he had had to worry about something as mundane as paying for croissants and eggs.

Accepting the bag that the lady handed him, and completely missing the expression on her face… not that he would have been able to decipher it if he had, Magnus made his way back to his building, deciding to buy a rose on a whim as he passed a flower stall on his way out of the market.

Magnus meandered back to his building, standing uncertainty outside of the door for a moment before he remembered he would have to dig his keys out. He pulled them from his pocket, staring at the keys and the little fob before he remembered when the mundane had showed him around the apartment.

Magnus held the fob to he small panel above the buttons, starting when the door clicked open. He grabbed the handle and pulled, slightly impressed with the technology that the mundanes had come up with, in place of magic. His mind wandered again when he ducked into the elevator and rode it up to his floor.

Knowing that he would have to actually face Alec at some point, Magnus tried to run through what expressions he would put on his face, already hoping that his voice wouldn't crack when they had to speak.

A tiny part of Magnus’ brain thought of the Shadowhunters part in the loss of his magic. It had been his decision, one he knew that he would make again, in an instant, but it still hurt that he had had to make the decision in the first place, especially in light of the fact that the reason he had lost his magic hadn't been seen since they had discovered Clarys death.

Jace had run away as soon as he had announced the news, leaving him to try and get in touch with Cat to move Alec back to the loft, and to deal with the loss of his magic and Clary all in the same breath.

With straining lungs, as the implications of what that meant rolled through him, Magnus looked around his kitchen, desperately pushing thoughts of Clary's death aside, the questions he had been trying to banish over the last thirty hours surfaced once more. Do I blame him? Do I blame them all?

But Magnus couldn't deal with that now, he had to prepare Alec's breakfast, keep busy, ignore the implications and the consequences of his lost magic. It was the best way, the only way to get through the coming days.

Humming a tune under his breath, because he was fine and it kept his mind busy, Magnus emptied his groceries out onto the kitchen side, forgetting the fact that he couldn't remember getting out of the elevator.

Magnus stared at the croissants, eyeing them as one would eye a confusing puzzle before his gaze slid to the microwave that he had never used. He opened the door and tossed the pastries inside, staring at the control pad as though the instructions would light up and show him the way.

With a shrug, Magnus started pressing buttons, jabbing harder and harder at them until the infernal contraption lit up and the food started turning before he turned his attention to the eggs.

“A simple omelette should suffice,” Magnus muttered, rifling through the cupboards and drawers for a bowl and fork, it was a much more successful endeavour than the microwave. At least I know how to work the hob, even if the damn oven evades me.

Magnus soon had the eggs whipped up and cooking in a frying pan, his eyes glued to the eggs because it was easier to pour all of his attention into ensuring the food didn't burn than it was to let his mind wander.

The pinging of the microwave had Magnus dropping the wooden spoon and dashing towards the machine. He pulled the door open and grabbed hold of the red hot pastries, muttering a string of curses under his breath as he yanked his hand back and blew on it.

Snatching a dishcloth up, Magnus yanked the pastries out and slammed them down on a plate, wishing with everything inside of him that he could portal himself to Paris and pick some fresh, already warm pastries up and offer them to Alec. He even contemplated trying it in his desperation.

But, before he could raise his hand, a crackling sound rang out through the kitchen. That was almost the moment he lost it, turning around to see the eggs on their way to burning.

Dashing across the kitchen before the pan could catch fire, Magnus snatched the pan up off the hob and slammed it down on the countertop before his legs gave way.

Sliding down the side of the cupboard, onto the floor, Magnus crumpled. Knees to his chest, his arms wrapping around them, he raked his hands through his hair as the tears started gathering in the corners of his eyes.

Can't even get through making one breakfast the mundane way. How the fuck am I supposed to make it the rest of the way? How am I going to survive however long I'm allotted now, if I can't even cook a fucking omelette?

Knowing that his breathing was picking up, his stomach somewhere back at the farmers market, back where he had found Alec, filled with arrows and trying to make jokes, back in Edom. Take your pick. Magnus tried to regulate his reactions.

Magnus tried to fight the empty, lonely, powerless feeling that wanted to swamp him every other second, to take him over and drag him down the hole that he was unsure he would be able to climb out of but it felt like a losing battle. It was too much, everything fighting for ground and trying to take precedence at the forefront of his mind.

Magnus didn't want to feel, he wanted to be numb, to fall asleep and wake up to Alec telling him it had all been a nightmare or not wake up at all. He wanted to hide from the world that always demanded too much but never gave back a fraction of what his sacrifices were worth.

But I can't, because I'm Magnus Bane, High War…

Magnus Bane, friend, confident, boyfriend. I'm the one that solves problems, the one everyone turns to, every time. I'm the dependable one, not the man who gets to have a day off from the demands placed upon him.

Scrubbing the tears from his face and taking a deep breath, Magnus stood and looked down at his “creation”. It wasn't horrendous, maybe a dark spot, here and there but it looked edible… perhaps. Sighing a deep breath out, he flipped it onto the plate with the croissants, cutting any dark bits off and turned to his oranges, pushing his self pity to the back of his mind.

“I should have got more,” Magnus muttered to himself, staring at the ridiculously small amount of juice in the glass when he had squeezed the two solitary oranges out. Pursing his lips, he placed it on a tray with the plate, placed the rose in a milk jug and picked it up, taking deep breaths on his way to his bedroom.

The soft snores Alec was making had Magnus’ stomach settling a fraction, a small amount of the weight he was carrying sliding from his shoulders at the adorable sounds. He had spent the night listening to them, unable to sleep, and still he ached to hear more but he needed to keep busy, not wallow.

So carrying the tray towards his vanity, Magnus set it down and pondered the best way to wake Alec. He knew from experience that a gentle shake and soft words wouldn't cut it so he decided the simplest approach was the best and strode over to the curtains.

“Come on, Pup, time rise and face the day,” Magnus said as he shoved the curtains open, a bright shaft of light brightening the room in an instant. There, that's normal, right? He asked himself before turning to find Alec, cringing back from the light.

“Pup?” Alec asked when he was so rudely awoken, trying to cover his eyes from the burning sensation of the sunlight. Is he trying out a nickname?

“Panda?” Magnus asked, wondering if Alec would like that one better.

“No!” Alec said, racking his brain for a cell that was working.

“Okay,” Magnus said quietly, returning to the vanity to collect Alec's breakfast as he fixed his best smile in place. I can do this, I can do normal. For him, for his sake. I. Can. Do. Normal.

Even if it was actually for his own sake.

“Why is it so early?” Alec groaned, rolling into his side to bury his face in the pillows, hoping for more sleep.

The next words out of Magnus’ mouth had Alec sitting up. He tried to adjust to the light and being awake and the way Magnus was moving across the room, his boyfriend's spine semi erect and an easy look on his face. Huh?

“Oh, with everything going on, sleep has been a bit of a struggle,” Magnus allowed himself to share as he returned with Alec's breakfast.

Alec looked up at Magnus properly as he fully sat up, taking his outfit in.

“Why are you dressed?” Alec asked when Magnus slid a tray of food onto the end of the bed..

“Oh, I had to get up early to go to the farmers market before dawn, for the ingredients for our breakfast. Which… admittedly, is less than… perfect. But do you know how many oranges are required to make a glass of juice…?” Magnus asked, picking up the half empty glass.

Alec picked up a croissant inspecting it as Magnus raised the glass and inspected the contents at eye level.

“...More than I bought. I used to have magic to do all of these little errands but, I have to admit, there's a certain… charm to doing things the mundane way,” Magnus said casually, smiling his best smile. He did his best not to notice Alec's expression, ploughing on as though everything was fine.

“Is today a special occasion?” Alec asked, squinting up at Magnus, seeing all of the truths Magnus was attempting to hide behind his smiles and his casual movements.

“Well, today is your day off and I want to make the most of it,” Magnus said softly, sliding the tray closer to Alec with a smile.

Alec's stared at Magnus, his eyes narrowing at his boyfriend's blase attitude as the tray was pushed forward. Magnus still hadn't talked to him, about losing his magic or his trip to Edom. He desperately wanted Magnus to open up, to scream or yell, to rightfully blame him because it was his Parabatai Magnus had saved. To do anything other than what Magnus was doing now, pretending.

But Alec also recognised the defence mechanism, it was one he employed himself. Smile, show the world that it doesn't affect you. Pretend that you aren't falling apart and pray that nobody looks too closely. He understood those reactions all too well and still fell back on them now.

Alec had two options , he could force the issue, force Magnus to talk before he was ready to, while the wounds where still to fresh… or he could let Magnus come round. He could let Magnus come to the conclusion that he was pushing him away, and wait until Magnus had gotten it together in his own head.

“That's actually really sweet,” Alec said with a small smile of his own, trying not to purse his lips. He wanted Magnus to open up but knew it had to be in his own time, at his own pace. And it was sweet, that Magnus wanted to look after him, even if Magnus’ hurt was worse than his own and he didn't really deserve it.

“Uhm, I thought so,” Magnus said with a small shrug and another smile.

Alec leaned in for a kiss, wanting to let Magnus know, even if he didn't say the words, that he was there, ready to listen when Magnus was ready to talk or scream or fight. He almost fell on his face when Magnus broke the kiss that was barely a brush.

Magnus didn't have a choice, he couldn't wrap himself up in Alec and sink into the kiss, couldn't allow Alec to comfort him. He knew that if he held on too long, he would break, he wouldn't be able to hold it all inside and be strong in front of his boyfriend. So he pulled back after a few seconds and scooped the glass of juice up.

“Drink up, time for our morning exercise,” Magnus said, fighting every emotion with a centuries long practiced pretension that he had perfected, pretending that nothing could hurt him. Try as he might though, he couldn't do it. Not with Alec. So he stood, jumping to his feet far too quickly, even to him, and dashed from the room.

Alec accepted the glass and watched Magnus go, his face dropping. He clutched the glass, his resolve almost breaking, almost jumping up and demanding Magnus talk to him.

Alec stood, pacing the floor. He understood, to a certain degree. Not about Magnus losing his magic, he would never understand that, couldn't even begin to imagine it. But he understood what it was to feel vulnerable, to feel weak and out of control in front of those who always saw you as strong.

A thought rolled into Alec's brain as he turned on his heel once more, a way for Magnus to take some control back.

“If Magnus wants exercise, I know exactly how to give it to him.” Alec muttered, throwing some boxers on and following Magnus into the living room.

“Magnus, get your stuff, you're coming training with me,” Alec said, squeezing Magnus’ hand when he saw the red rims of his boyfriend's eyes.

Alec could give Magnus the time he needed to come around and make sure he could protect himself at the same time.

[elanorjane]

California Soulmates Chapter 2

Summary: Pop princess Belle wants to write her own music. Single father Gold wants to put his failed music career behind him. When inspiration hits, there's only one problem...the songs they're writing are each other's. "Telepathic soulmates" RCIJ for @beastlycheese

AO3

What was this complete and utter pish?

Rumford Gold sat cross-legged on the wood floor of the living room. Well, in a bedsit technically the whole thing was a living room. But it was the sliver of space he and Bae had cordoned off as shared. The window was open and a minuscule breeze, along with a lot of traffic noise, filtered in. With fifteen years of practice, he blocked out the horn and engine noises easily. The windows were old with wooden frames that had warped over the years and been painted over dozens of times, so having it shut made no difference.

He plucked at the strings of the acoustic guitar in his lap, the chain and cord bracelets wrapped around his right wrist shifting with the movement. He scowled at the illegible scribbles on the paper in front of him. He had some song about a drunken night at a club sung in a girl's voice in his head. It sounded like something out of a 16-year-old girl’s diary. He shook his hair out of his eyes and tried to concentrate on the radio jingle he was supposed to be writing for a local car dealership. He should be focused. He was lucky to get the gig. But lyrics about summer and beaches and sex kept ending up on the page instead. He must have picked it up from somewhere, but he swore he hadn’t heard it before. He didn’t even turn on the radio anymore because there was nothing on it worth listening to. The radio dial in his beat to hell Dodge Charger didn’t even work anymore after he’d mashed it a few too many times out of frustration for the drivel it was playing. Bae was always on about Sirius XM, but he could add that to the list of things Bae wanted and Gold couldn't afford.

Gold turned back to the song scratched in pencil on music sheets scattered around him on the floor. He couldn’t have penned it himself. For starters, it sounded way more pop than anything he’d ever written. More tellingly, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had sex. He doubted that he could aptly describe it anymore. He glanced over the page of lyrics, all of them inappropriate to sell cars. He’d probably inadvertently picked it up from something Bae was listening to. Despite Gold’s extensive schooling, Bae’s tastes still ran tragically pop. He sighed. Too bad this rubbish wasn’t his. The damn thing would probably be a hit. Gold balled the sheet up in his hand, crumbled it into a tight ball, and lobbed it across the room where it bounced off Bae’s bedroom door.

It wasn’t a bedroom door so much as a curtain Bae had rigged up around his bed in the corner. By the light filtering through the one window Gold could see the outline of his son sprawled out on his bed. He could hear the din of Top 50 seeping out of his headphones. Gold’s own bare mattress was pushed against the opposite wall. It was the best they could do to give each other some sense of privacy. Gold studied his son’s form then lamented the now blank page in front of him. A fourteen year old boy should have his own room. He should have grown up with a yard to play in. Gold blamed himself for not giving Bae everything he should have and keeping them in L.A. long after they should have moved back to Scotland. Or any other place besides this godforsaken city.

This was not how it was supposed to be. Gold was the founding member and brainchild behind what was an up and coming English rock band. Formed in London in the early 80’s, they were on their way to hitting it big. They were going to make real, industry shattering, mind blowing music and get rich doing it. Until it had all fallen apart.

Gold had written music his entire life. He’d picked up a slew of instruments along the way. First guitar, then piano. He spend his formative years learning every part to his favorite songs. He loved early Rolling Stones and Small Faces. In his teens he’d started a band, like every young kid in Glasgow was doing in those days. But while his friends had eventually grown out of it and moved on to football and girls as their main pursuits, he never lost his obsessive focus on music.

In his early twenties he’d moved to London and worked on finding other serious musicians and together they formed a band, focusing on heavy-sounding rhythm and blues. That’s how he’d met his ex-wife, Milah. She’d auditioned for keyboardist. They were young and she seemed just as invested in the music as he was and it wasn’t long before they were spending all of their time together. In the intervening years, the band crashed on a series of friends’ couches. Gold spent all day writing music and as many evenings as possible in whatever disreputable bar would let them play, fronting his band, playing guitar and singing lead. They were struggling musicians barely scraping by in the city and they had been the best years of his life, full of love and music.

Then, Killian Jones came in to audition after they’d lost their bassist. Gold remembered the moment vividly. They sat in a dingy basement bar of a restaurant that rented the space out to them for rehearsal during the day. Gold, Milah, and the rest of the band sat in creaky old wood chairs and on sticky tables while Jones, under the dusty overhead light, played a Led Zepplin song. That should have been Gold’s first clue. He was always a bigger fan of The Who. After Jones played his last note, Gold peppered him with questions about his abilities, experience, and musical tastes. The same litmus test he’d give anyone who wanted to join his band.

Milah and the rest of the musicians were immediately sold on Jones and his leather jacket joining the band, but Gold was the lone holdout. Reminding him that they couldn’t play their already scheduled performances if they didn’t have a bassist, Gold agreed to let Jones play on a trial basis only.  

It was after one of these tryout gigs, while they were packing up the gear, when Jones sheepishly admitted to the rest of the band that he was really was a frontman at heart.  

“We don’t need a singer,” Gold immediately responded. He wrote the songs, he performed the songs, it worked. No need to fix what wasn’t broken.  

But Milah wasn’t so dismissive.

“Give the boy a chance, love,” she told him, gesturing at Killian. The boy had a look, Gold guessed, though it seemed to hover somewhere closer to Boy George than Rod Stewart. He found everything about the new guy cloying. Jones’ eyeliner rimmed baby blues peered up at Gold in what he imagined was supposed to be a charming, unassuming grin.    

“You don’t even like being up front anyway,” Milah told Gold. While he’d taken the lead singer position out of necessity, Gold had learned to enjoy it and thought he’d grown into it. But the whole band looked at him expectantly.

“Alright, fine,” he’d caved. The kid could try it out and when he didn’t remember any of the lyrics and bombed, they’d go back to their original lineup.

So at the next gig, Gold stood stage right, playing bass and singing backup. He watched dumbly as his words came out of Killian's mouth and everyone fell over themselves. And the performance after that. And the one after that.

Crowds, for some reason, gravitated towards Jones. Droves of women, who Gold knew weren’t there for the music, began attending and standing up front. Gold wanted the music to speak for itself. But Killian was a born entertainer. He chatted to the girls in the crowd, making them titter. Gold glanced across the stage at Milah, who was laughing and shaking her head at his antics, completely won over. He’d remember that look in her eyes and the way her face lit up for the rest of his life.

“He’s sexy,” Milah had told him in bed one night, when he was still on the fence about Jones officially joining the band and taking over lead.

Gold had asked Milah to marry him the next day. He could see now, in retrospect, that he’d sensed her slipping away from him. He had loved her, he truly had. But marrying her had been his way to try and hold onto her, to keep her from leaving him. Not that it had done any good in the end. I didn’t matter, he would have married her anyway because, unbeknownst to them at the time, she was already pregnant with Bae.

With Killian Jones on the mic, the band started to gain more attention. It was so gradual at first, Gold almost didn’t notice. The rooms they played began to fill a little more. The venues got a little bigger. Until one day, at a party after a show, he looked around and realized he in the same room as Jeff Beck and Ronnie Wood, breathing the same air. All because of their mutual love of making music.  

It was only a matter of time before America began calling. The lure of recording contracts and bigger audiences was too great. The band boarded a plane from London for L.A. Upon arriving, they found a place downtown to squat in and seamlessly fell into the music scene. They spent their days recording demos on borrowed studio time. Gold remembered seeing a proper mixing board for the first time and spending hours pouring over it with a single minded intensity. When Bae was born, he joined their caravan of bohemians, riding along in vans to various gigs. Sometimes even living in a van. But it didn’t matter because Bae was a happy baby and they traveled as a band, a family.

One that wasn’t destined to last.

They signed their first record deal with a major label within six months of arriving in L.A. Moe French, a record producer so famous Gold recognized him on sight, happened to be in the audience when they played one of their best shows. He cornered them when they exited the stage. Riding high on one of their best performances ever, they signed without even reading the contract he thrust at them in his glass fronted office the next day. Within the next week they had studio time of their own and twelve of their best tracks laid down. They got so far as to even have an official photo shoot for the album cover, with Killian in the middle and the rest of them fanned out around him.

It looked like Gold had been wrong. Killian Jones had been their ticket to success in the L.A. music scene.

But he had also been their downfall.

Within a year of landing at LAX, Jones and Milah had fell for the drinking and the drugs and each other. The two ran off together and the rest of the band members, burned out by the polarizing drama, vanished, getting gigs in established bands or as session players.

He should have put himself and an infant Bae on a plane the day their family, and the band, broke up. Instead, his pride got the better of him and Gold, with Bae, had stayed in L.A. He'd stick around to show them all. While Jones had been part of their meteoric rise, he was nothing but a pretty face. Gold wasn’t going to let him ruin everything he had spent decades building.

He was in Moe French’s office the next morning.

“I’ll get another band together,” he’d promised Moe.  

“No, you won’t.” Moe answered confidently. At Gold’s perplexed look, he continued. “We own your songs now, boy.”

A horrible pit formed in Gold’s stomach. “I don’t understand.”

“The contract you signed,” Moe informed him casually. “Those songs now belong to the record label.”

“But I wrote them!” Gold defended. “We already recorded them!”

“In a studio the label paid for,” Moe countered. “You wasted my time and my money. That album will never see the light of day.” He remembered the bloated face of Moe French baring down on him. “Now get out of my office before I sue you for breech on contract,” he growled.  

He’d once ran into Eric Clapton on a regular basis. Now he was in a bedsit in east L.A. His best friend was a 14-year-old who would rather closet himself in his ‘room.’ He wrote jingles and whatever else anyone need him for, just to stay involved in music somehow, using the same Gibson that he used to write the songs that were supposed to make him and his band famous. The piano had been sold long ago to pay for this place.

He looked around the room. He used to live out of a van. In comparison to that, this was nothing. It was all Bae had ever known. Scraps of paper with song lyrics scribbled all over them were tacked all over the apartment walls. After seeing A Beautiful Mind at a friend’s house, Bae had come home and asked Gold if he was schizophrenic.

All Gold had left of his blossoming music career was an unreleased album and a trail of broken dreams. And Bae. He had Bae. If he had to do it all again, knowing the outcome, if it got him his boy, he’d do it.

Gold shook his head. He hadn’t thought of his bitterness about the music industry in a long time. He’d focus on Bae and doing what he could to keep the apartment under them and cereal in the cupboards.

He unconsciously played the first few notes of a song he’d written for Bae when he was little. It was meant to comfort his son when he had nightmares, but in truth it gave Gold just as much solace. Now that he was older, Bae didn’t need it anymore. But obviously Gold still did. He’d give in to his despondency and play it through, just the once. Then, he’d get back to work.