#spraying him in the face with a water bottle when he gets murderous urges

[meownotgood]

u have made me more obsessed than i usually am with gun fiend!aki

imagine reader trying to help him relearn how to write, read, and speak

or throwing a surprise birthday party for him and guessing where his eyes are

when you really think about it.... he's actually quite cute.... isn't he.......

when you're able to earn his trust, you're really the only person he can tolerate without wanting to pick a fight, so you have to keep a close eye on him to make sure he doesn't go crazy again. you convinced the public safety commission to allow him to live on two conditions: 1) he benefit public safety somehow, and 2) he doesn't cause any problems.

you spend your time teaching him how to fight devils, trying to jog more of his memory, and teaching him how to do basic things again. he's intelligent and learns quickly, but you need to reteach him everything again, from how to speak to even remembering to eat.

[dontfeeltoohot]

Week One of Med School TW: Vomiting, Appendicitis, Medical Procedures/Talk Set during season six Read on AO3

By the time he’s finishing up swabbing window sills and bagging a few bottles, Chase walks out with a small bag full of meds and a couple of cigarette packs. He’s paler than he’s been, cheeks flushed and eyes unmistakably glassy. Even sick, Robert Chase is attractive, and Foreman wonders why the universe is so unfair. 

Chase wakes with a start. His body jerks in the cool night air, apartment quiet and lonely. Turning his head, the digital clock by his bedside reads ‘3:10 AM’, so he shuts his eyes and burrows back into the warm covers, hoping for sleep to come quickly. It doesn’t. Instead, the doctor lays there, anxiety forming in his stomach and knotting uncomfortably. The doctor can remember a time where anxiety was just due to med school, or what House may say about his shirt and tie choice. Now it’s divorce, murder, thoughts of the unknown. 

When the clock hits ‘5:15AM’, Chase decides he’s laid in bed long enough, and that sleep isn’t going to come. The thirty one year old man gets up, exhaustion clinging to him as he shuffles over to the shower and lets the spray hit him, the heat of the water making his skin pink. He wonders what Allison is doing as he soaps his hair up with the generic brand 2 in 1 shampoo and conditioner he uses, then berates himself. It doesn’t matter what she’s doing, they’re not married anymore. She’s moved on, and he needs to as well. 

The coffee he makes sits uneasy in his stomach, and after a moment of debate, Chase leaves his travel mug behind, instead slipping on his shoes and grabbing his bag. As he locks his door, the Australian sighs and stands there, letting his arm drop. He feels off, his body feels heavy and the exhaustion hasn’t worn off like it usually does. Though he’s in no way a morning person, Chase is usually able to become less of a zombie and more of a human by the time he’s on his way to work. Today, as he slides into his car, his whole body groans in protest and the urge to crank the heat washes over him, even though it’s barely September. 

Stopping at a stoplight, the intensivist swipes at his face and moves his right hand over his stomach gingerly. Maybe he’s eaten something bad, he thinks, starting to move again as the light turns green. He’d had leftover Chinese last night, a couple days old- certainly enough time to harbor some strain of clostridium or other bacteria. Chase lets out a puff of breath, at least it means he’s not contagious, and the symptoms should be gone within twenty four hours. 

Last he’s heard, they don’t have a case, which means today shouldn’t be too taxing. Small miracles, Chase reminds himself, as he unfolds himself from the small space of his car. The movement must do something to whatever’s going on in his stomach, because a sharp pain jolts through him. The middle of his abdomen starts aching; as he’s expected it to, and a small noise escapes from his throat, something between a whine and an annoyed groan. Fantastic. 

Putting it all aside, the man reminds himself that this is work, and whining about some silly stomach ache isn’t going to get himself anywhere. He greets the receptionists at the front, clocking in and making small talk, friendly as always. 

“Morning Doctor Chase,” Rebecca nods at him, and Chase smiles back, signing the little roster. 

“Morning Rebecca, morning Julie,” he directs the second part of the sentence to the brunette on the opposite side of the table, who’s engrossed in some kind of paper work. 

“Good morning!” 

“House have you doing anything crazy today?”

“We can hope not,” the Aussie shakes his head and gives her a roguish look before setting the pen back down. “Hope it’s not too crazy for you all today.” 

With a wave, Chase heads toward the elevators and clicks the button. Two minutes later, he’s walking into the empty Diagnostics room, flipping on half the lights, not wanting to be subjected to the full force of the fluorescents just yet. The clock reads ‘6:38’, which means no one will be in for at least another half hour. Setting his bag down, the blonde sighs and forgoes making coffee, not wanting it to be cold for the others, but also unsure of if he can handle the intense smell. 

Pulling out his little book of crosswords, Chase turns to the first new one and stares at the page, words slowly blurring together. The exhaustion that’s been momentarily forgotten slams into him again, making him move his arm to prop his chin up. It’s times like these he regrets cutting his hair so short, unable to shield his face from everything the outside world has to offer. Chase hadn’t realized how comforting it was to be able to hide behind the blonde curtain and allow himself a moment to drop the mask.

Blinking, the doctor shifts and rubs his eyes, rolling his neck a bit to work out the ache from his sleepless night. Another wave of pain rolls through his stomach as he inhales, the deep ache that’s been radiating from his navel outwards intensifying. A sharp pain an inch or so to the right makes its presence known, only backing down once he exhales and shifts again, trying to get comfortable. He hears the glass door open and turns his head, nodding his head in greeting as Foreman walks through the door. 

“No coffee?” 

Chase huffs and rolls his eyes, looking young. 

“No, sorry. I got here too early, didn’t want it to be cold.” There’s an edge he tries to keep out of his voice, not wanting to start the day off with his colleague on a bad note. He knows from experience it’ll only make everything feel longer, especially when there’s no case. 

“I’ll do it,” Foreman gripes, but there’s no true heat behind the words, and though Chase doesn’t say thank you, he thinks maybe the other man can guess he’s thinking it. Slowly, he wraps an arm around his stomach, praying that the smell of coffee doesn’t set him off. He knows it’s just a matter of time till he starts throwing up, but he’d like to not deal with it for as long as he can. Chase has always hated throwing up, can remember his mum giving him drinks to help him sleep and him waking up in the early hours of the morning doubled over vomiting, the room spinning. It makes his skin crawl. 

Soon enough though, the coffee is percolating and his stomach starts flipping. He holds out as long as he can; getting through Thirteen arriving and Foreman bringing his mug over to the table, before sweat starts accumulating on his upper lip and his whole body feels like it’s burning. 

“Excuse me,” he manages in what he feels is a mostly-controlled voice, getting up and walking calmly from the room. He doesn’t need gossip about being hung over starting. 

The walk to the mens bathroom is agonizing, as he feels bile rise in his upper stomach and throat. The second he gets into the tiled room and his knees hit the ground, Chase audibly gags. He’s dimly aware that the stall door isn’t shut, but he doesn’t care, not while he’s throwing up everything he’s consumed in the past day or so. After a few more times, Chase finally sits back, shivering and weak. Somehow, by the grace of God, no one’s walked in or out, the bathroom abandoned. 

Spitting into the toilet, the acrid taste still burning in his mouth, Chase gets up and dusts himself off after flushing, limbs feeling like jelly. His head hurts from the pressure and force of vomiting, and his stomach is throbbing, from the middle of his abdomen down to the right. The intensivist shivers as he washes his hands with lukewarm water, spitting again, this time into the sink. He looks up and into the mirror, checking to see if he looks as ill as he feels. 

He’s a shade paler, but nothing noticeable. His cheeks are slightly flushed, but barely enough that an explanation is easy- he’s been leaning his hand against his cheek, his body’s a bit warm from his sweater or the heat they’ve started back in the building. Running a hand through his hair, Chase straightens and takes another second to compose himself. It seems to help, the nausea backs off from a ten to a six, the stomach pain dulls enough that moving isn’t as painful. He can do this. It’s silly food poisoning. If he were to leave, House would make fun of him for weeks on end. 

The only thing that hasn’t seemed to stop is how chilled he feels. Though not outright shivering, he feels like the temperature has dropped a few degrees, making him pull his sweater a bit tighter as he makes the walk back to Diagnostics. Taub’s at the glass table now, and all three of his colleagues have mugs of coffee, a few bagels are sitting out in a box from the deli nearby. Steeling himself, Chase walks in and heads back to his seat, hoping his abrupt exit isn’t mentioned. 

“Thank you for joining, Chase. Almost sent a search party out for you.” House walks out from his office, and Chase looks up, giving him an unbothered look. 

“Mm, didn’t know you cared that much,” he volleys, taking out his notebook.

House watches him calculatingly, and it makes nausea swirl in his stomach. When the staring doesn’t stop, the doctor finally gives in. 

“What?” 

“No coffee? No bagel? Seems a little odd for a growing boy like you, don’t you think?” 

“I already had some at home.” Chase keeps his voice neutral, swallowing and ignoring the smell of the coffee across from him. Taub and Thirteen look curiously at him, while Foreman looks uninterested.

“Riiiight. Well. Obviously something is up, but if you’d rather I not know…I’ll find out one way or another.” 

“There’s nothing to know. I had breakfast before I came. It’s not a crime.”

“Whatever you say, mate.” 

Not wanting to bother with a reply, Chase rolls his eyes but turns back to his notebook. Seconds later, Cuddy opens the door, popping her head in. Five navy blue folders are in her hand, signaling a new case. 

“Thanks honey buns, we’ll get right on it,” House sends her way, as he sets up a hangman drawing on the board. 

Taub reaches over and takes the folders from the Dean, offering a somewhat embarrassed smile. 

“We’ll get right on it.” 

+++

As they sit at a red light, Chase contemplates whether getting put with Foreman for a B&E is a blessing or a curse. The man doesn’t care enough about Chase to voice any worries like Thirteen might, which is a plus. Sure they’ve managed to rise above ‘barely talking colleagues’ over the years, and they’ve gone out for drinks more than a few times, but Chase is still fairly certain that he’s not on Foreman’s list of things to worry or care about. 

Shifting for the third time, Chase stares out the window, the pain in his stomach slowly becoming worse. At the hospital it had been manageable, but riding in a car is making it harder to ignore. All the bumps and potholes aren’t helping. 

“Can you maybe drive a little less insane?” Chase asks, right hand discreetly holding on to the black leather seat near his thigh. 

“I’m driving just fine. Quit being a side seat driver.” Foreman rolls his eyes and then smirks when he purposefully hits a small pothole. 

Chase bites his lip hard enough he’s surprised he doesn’t draw blood. 

“It’s not funny,” he grits out, stomach clenching. He’d hoped that getting sick earlier would have helped get out whatever bacteria was making him sick, but if anything he just feels worse. 

“What? Can’t handle rough roads? I thought you were from the Outback.” 

“Melbourne isn-pull over.” Chase cuts himself off when a wave of nausea hits him. When Foreman looks at him but doesn’t seem to understand, or maybe just ignores him, Chase speaks more forcefully. 

“Foreman, pull over now or I’m going to throw up all over your leather seats.” 

That seems to get the neurologist's attention, and two seconds later Chase is fumbling for the passenger door, pushing it open and barely making it out enough to not get sick inside the detailed car. It takes a moment to stop, and the only sound after the sound of sick hitting pavement is Chase’s labored breathing. 

“….you alright?” Foreman’s voice is a mixture of concern and disgust. If he wasn’t so nauseous, Chase might call him out for the caring part. 

“Jesus, s-sorry.” The blonde leans back inside the car after spitting a few times, throat burning. His stomach is aching, and for the first time, Chase wonders if he’s running a fever. He feels colder than he had at the hospital, but his face feels oddly warm. 

“Do you still think you can do the break in?” 

“Yeah, s’just food poisoning. Ate some bad Chinese last night. I’ll be fine.”

+++

Foreman grimaces for the second time in half an hour. Chase is decidedly not fine. They’re at the patient's house, and while he’s in the kitchen, his coworker is in the bedroom, checking for toxins. Except, it doesn’t sound like he’s in the bedroom, not with all the gagging going on. He has to hand it to the man, he’s surprisingly quiet, but the house is empty and small. 

By the time he’s finishing up swabbing window sills and bagging a few bottles, Chase walks out with a small bag full of meds and a couple of cigarette packs. He’s paler than he’s been, cheeks flushed and eyes unmistakably glassy. Even sick, Robert Chase is attractive, and Foreman wonders why the universe is so unfair. 

“If I put you back in my car, are you going to shit yourself?“ He’s only half joking. 

“No!” The scoff that comes after making Foreman almost laugh. Almost. “It’s not…I’ve only been throwing up.” 

“Thank god for that.” 

They get back in the car and Chase stays quiet. Now that Foreman knows he’s got food poisoning, he’s able to pick up on the slightly uncomfortable stance, how he’s swallowing convulsively, and notes the oddly placed arm around his stomach. The doctors are four minutes away when Chase coughs, but Foreman can tell what it means. 

“Gimme a sec…” the neurologist pulls to the side and sighs when Chase gets sick again. He’s surprised he has much left in his stomach. 

“Couldn’t have waited five minutes?” 

Chase sits back and looks at him, and Foreman’s struck with how young the other looks. He feels transported back in time to six years ago, meeting the Australian and wondering how some pretty boy like him had even gotten into med school. 

“Sorry. I’m done, let’s go.” The words are quiet and hoarse, so unlike Chase it makes Foreman uneasy. The man next to him is usually blasé and able to keep his composure in most situations, closed off enough that he’s still mysterious even after all this time. But now he looks young and unguarded, and sounds like a lost puppy. The man is aware the blonde doesn’t get sick often, he’s not sure he’s ever seen him sick, if he’s honest. 

Driving, Foreman glances over as they get into the parking lot, when Chase makes an annoyed noise. He spots a bit of sick on the god awful blue plaid shirt underneath the gray sweater, making him wrinkle his nose. 

“You should shower. I’ll cover for you. Say you dropped something on yourself at the patients place.” 

Chase looks grateful as he nods. “…thanks. Say it was orange juice, I was checking to see if it was bad. You know he’ll ask.” 

“Got it.” 

They go their separate ways. Chase heads down to the staff locker room, and Foreman goes back to Diagnostics. He has half a mind to make sure Chase actually makes it to the shower, but then shakes his head. He’s a big boy and it’s food poisoning, he can take care of himself. 

“Where’s Chase?”

Foreman pauses, looking at House almost amazed. He’s been here for half a second, maybe not even that long. 

“What, did you watch us come in?”

“Nope. But you’re here and he’s not. Ergo, where’s Chase? Though maybe I should start watching,” House says in mock contemplation. 

“He’s showering. He spilled juice on him.” 

House stares at him and Foreman raises an eyebrow. 

“What, you think I’m lying?” 

House smirks. 

“I think you’re trying to cover something up. So the question is what. And, why would you do it, of all people, when you don’t give a crap about our resident wombat.” 

Foreman blinks back, feeling affronted. He cares about Chase…doesn’t he? Sure, he doesn’t care about most things, but even he cares a little when his coworker is puking in his car….right? 

“He spilled juice on himself, that’s it.” 

“Why would he take a shower for that?” Taub interjects, and Foreman wants to glare at him. 

“Look, I don’t care what you guys believe. But he spilled possibly contaminated orange juice all over himself, so he went to shower.” 

House hums, then grabs his cane from where it’s hanging on the board, then starts to walk out the door. 

“Where are you going?” 

“I’m in need of a shower.” 

Foreman rolls his eyes and the three start to follow their boss. He’s not sure why he cares so much about all of this, it would be easier just to tell House that Chase is sick, but instead he’s covering for the guy. Maybe he needs to go home and sleep. 

+++

Chase lets out a shuddery breath as he leans against the shower tile, hand resting on the lower right area of his abdomen. He’s starting to think that maybe this isn’t food poisoning. He’s gotten sick over half a dozen times, but feels no better. He definitely has a fever, and his stomach feels oddly full even though he’s got nothing left in it. The sharp pain in his lower right abdomen has intensified, leaving the aching around his belly button all but forgotten. Shivering even under the hot spray, the doctor gags again, letting out what he’s sure is a pathetic noise. Nothing comes up this time, but he coughs and splutters all the same. 

A minute later, as he’s drying his skin off with a towel, the distinct cadence of someone with a cane walking gets louder and louder. Chase clenches the towel and then tries to relax, wrapping it around his waist. 

“Ohhh sunshine, I know you’re here.” House’s voice rings out and Chase is grateful there’s only one or two other employees in the locker room. Swallowing, the Australian steps out of the shower, hair wet. House stares at him a moment, fake-ogling him. 

“Sorry, wow. I forget how pretty you are sometimes.” 

“What do you want House, I was about to come up.” 

“Why are you showering?” 

He furrows his brow and chances a look at Foreman, who looks exasperated, giving a look of ‘I tried…’. 

“I spilled juice on myself.” 

“Likely story, what kind.” 

“Orange Juice. Now if you’d excuse me, I’d like to change.” 

When House doesn’t move, Chase shifts, his patience wearing thin. His stomach is throbbing, and it takes everything in him not to fold in half just to try and make the pain go away. His hand inches towards his stomach, wrapping protectively around it, trying to make it look like he’s just holding his towel up. House tracks his movements like a predator and his prey. 

“House..” 

“Fine.” The words come after a beat of silence. “Come back up when you’re finished making yourself pretty, so we can focus on the patient.” 

With that, the team leaves, and Chase deflates. His stomach gives a timely throb of intense pain and Chase grits his teeth. Maybe he should have stayed home. 

Getting back to Diagnostics feels like it takes a year, but really it’s only ten minutes. With his new, clean scrubs on, the intensivist makes his way to the large room, where everyone is sitting and waiting for him. House spies him through the glass and once again keeps his eyes trained on him. Not in the mood for his boss's antics, Chase walks in, sits down, then busies himself with the blue folder, hand guarding his lower stomach unconsciously. He gets ten minutes in when another chill hits him. The man trembles, once again ignoring House, at least as much as he can, until he walks over, frowning. 

“You’re sick.” 

“I have food poisoning.” 

Taub and Thirteen grimace in sympathy. 

“No, you don’t.” 

Chase stops himself from scoffing, but winces as his stomach throbs again. 

“Yes I do. I ate bad Chinese,” the blonde retorts. This time, House glances at him and then gets that determined look on his face. 

“Stand up.” 

“What?” 

“I said stand up, you moron.” 

The moment he’s upright, House hits the blonde straight in the lower abdomen. Chase Finally, Chase stands. The second he does, House is slamming his cane directly into his stomach, the middle of the wooden stick connecting across his abdomen. 

“House!” 

“Oh my god!” 

“What the hell is your problem!?” 

“…oops!” 

The Australian doctor is white, almost a translucent gray, skin clammy. His cheeks are dusted red, his eyes are glassy, and the look of pure agonizing pain sweeps over his features, his body tense. 

“Fuck….you b-bastard,” is all he manages to get out before he’s reaching a tiny amount of bile onto the rooms old carpet. He feels woozy and the pain in his abdomen is unlike anything he’s ever experienced in his lift. It’s as if a white hot knife is tearing through him. He can feel sticky tear tracks on his face but he doesn’t care. 

“What the hell is going on here?!” 

Everyone but Chase; and Thirteen who’s trying to talk to him, momentarily swing their head up, seeing Cuddy looking alarmed. 

“I was just proving to our resident wombat here that food poisoning doesn’t cause appendicitis.” 

“Appendicitis? Why is he not being admitted if he has appendicitis?!” 

House shrugs, but then hums. “Guess I’ll play the good doctor and go get him a wheelchair. Oh wait, I can’t, cane. Taub, go get Sir Pukes A Lot here a wheelchair will you?” 

Taub rolls his eyes but goes quickly, knowing that appendicitis isn’t something to joke around about. 

“Chase, hey, talk to us,” Thirteen tries for the third time. Finally, he looks up, tears still swimming in his eyes. 

“I f-feel like m’dying…” 

Everyone goes quiet. They know Chase isn’t one to be dramatic, if anything he’ll be reserved and hide things away. The man lets out what might be described as something between a sob and a gasp, and he curls into himself more, body shaking. 

“S-Somethin’s not right..” his words slur together, slow and feeling like cotton. The pain keeps going, unrelenting. It’s as if Michael Myers is stabbing him over and over and won’t stop, twisting the knife deeper and deeper. 

It’s hazy from there. Somehow, he gets onto a gurney, where he curls up instantly, trying to shield his stomach away. Chase feels his shirt sleeve being rolled up and a pinch, and then warmth spreads through his body twenty seconds later, coming over him in a wave of relief. There’s still discomfort but the knife is no longer twisting. He hears his coworkers and boss talking, but doesn’t bother to try and keep up with whatever they’re saying. The intensivist keeps his eyes shut and then he’s asleep. 

Chase wakes up slowly, dulled senses ever so sluggishly becoming aware of everything around him. It smells like antiseptic, and the sheets below him are scratchy and rough. There’s beeping to his right, and it’s freezing. He’s cold enough his teeth are chattering, his body spawning in hopes to rid itself of the medicine still flowing through his veins. Shifting, still barely awake, a dull ache tugs near his lower abdomen. Chase groans and forces his eyes open, seeing a nurse from the PACU putting light blue blankets over him. Eyes darting around, he realizes he’s in the PACU, though what for he’s not sure. Swallowing and coughing, throat dry and sore, he finally notices Foreman, Taub and Thirteen in chairs. 

“W-What..” he means to ask more, but the words trail off and Chase tries to keep his eyes open. 

“Hey bud, you made it. You’re in the PACU. You had an emergency appendectomy.” Taub offers him explanation and the younger doctor nods, though really it’s mostly a head loll to the side. 

“Who..who did it?” Chase clears his throat and is thankful when Thirteen holds a straw up to his lips, allowing him to take a sip of water. 

“Doctor Jacobson. But I stayed to make sure he didn’t take any extra organs out,” the woman jokes playfully, which makes Chase give a tiny smile. His eyes slip closed again, and the next time he’s awake, House is sitting in the chair in the corner, and the other three are gone. 

“You’re an idiot.” 

Chase blinks, feeling too disoriented to come up with a comeback. 

“What doctor can’t even recognize appendicitis on themselves. You learn that in week one of med school.” 

“…I don’t know.” 

“Well your stupidity cost me six weeks of only three team members and shit coffee in the mornings.” 

“We used to only have three members.” Chase’s voice is hoarse and comes out croaky from the breathing tube out in for surgery. He wishes Thirteen were here to help him drink more water. Tiredly, the doctor moves his hand that’s got an IV taped in place on top, clumsily reaching for the plastic cup. House sighs. 

“Hold on, hold on. This is worse than watching Bambi. Pathetic really.”

The older man shuffles over and carefully holds the cup close to the blonde, letting him take a few sips before pulling it away, ignoring the noise of protest. 

“Can’t drink too much or you’ll puke. And you’ve done enough of that for the rest of the year.” 

It’s quiet for a moment, and then-

“Did you hit me with your cane?” Chase isn’t sure if the scene in his head is a memory or just something his psyche has conjured up. House levels a look at him. 

“Now why would I do that? That’s completely idiotic.” 

[doiefy]

chaser // kim doyoung

pairing: kim doyoung x reader

genre: rock band au, fluff (lmao yes you read that right)

word count: 0.5k

warnings: language, doyoung is the hot frontman of a rock band

because i’ve been obsessed with chaser and could totally see an edgy doyoung singing this in a rock band 😳😳 i wrote this on a whim at 2 am and decided proofreading was for losers, you’ve been warned

If the show is exhilarating for you even behind the scenes, you wonder how it must feel to stand on stage. To fully immerse yourself in the screeching melodies of electric guitars and thundering drum rhythms, the screams of some thousand people out in the audience. To feel the air buzzing with unmistakable, euphoric excitement—and above all, to be the source of that energy.

In between sets, Doyoung always storms through the waiting room carrying all his fire and spirit from the stage in rushed steps; it’s usually brief, a couple seconds for a quick outfit change, maybe a little longer to fix the makeup he rubbed off. A glimpse of silver hair in the hall, all his jingling chains and jewellery flashing beneath dim lights, multiple iron bars through his ears and a leather jacket draped over his shoulders—he always looks wild, and you wouldn’t want him any other way.

He pulls you aside tonight, dragging you in for a rushed kiss despite your protests. Straight out the band’s hardest song, his hair sticks to his forehead with sweat and his shirt is soaked from the water his bassist threw at him earlier. You groan, peeling away from him to grab your tools.

“Quit it,” you hiss, running the pointed end of your comb through his hair to push back the section that’s gone awry. “You only have two minutes, so let me do my fucking job, Doyoung.”

“I am,” he laughs, and his arms come around your waist to pull you closer.

“You’re not!” You snap. For a moment, you consider grabbing the spray bottle and dousing him—he’s already soaked anyways—but you resist the urge. “Close,” you tell him softly; he obliges, eyes fluttering shut so you can retouch his eyeliner.

“Ask me what I see,” he says, eyes still closed and hands now tightening insistently around you.

“What the fuck?”

“Ask.”

You roll your eyes. “What do you see?”

His lips quirk upwards. “Nothing. That’s my world without you. Nothing.”

Your hand slips, and the pen makes a bold mark across his eyelid. It looks horrible, like a preschooler drew on his face with black crayon, but you can’t even be bothered with fixing it; the heat rises to your cheeks and you swat him away, turning to grab him a new jacket so he won’t see how flustered you are. “Get out.”

“But—“

“No, I’m being serious now, we have a minute before your manager murders me,” you groan. “Get dressed and get out.”

He does as he’s told, slipping into the new outfit in a matter of seconds. When he’s done, he leans over to peck you on the lips—and still giggling, gives a soft murmur: “My world.”

“OUT.”

You allow him one last kiss before shooing him away, but you’re grinning like a high schooler in love. He runs off, up the inclined walkway of the corridor and through the set of double doors, back into deafening sound. You see him appear on the monitor a couple seconds later: striking as ever, his guitar hanging from his neck and his hands wrapped around the mic.

He flashes the camera a mischievous smile as the lights dim—and without a doubt, you know it’s for you.

close your eyes bro

ok bro

what do you see bro

nothing bro

that’s my world without you bro

bro...

bassist yuta and drummer johnny when? 👀

[ag3ntl3vi]

Hoodie X GN! Reader X Masky | “Rock Paper Sisscors” |☁️

This struck me at like, 3AM while listening to Devil in Diguise. I’ll probably write more parts to this tonight if im being honest. 

!Gender-Neutral reader!

Trigger Warnings: Sexual mentions. 

Word Count: 2,317

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"Can you go any slower?" You laughed, stopping to allow your friend to catch up. Sweat dotted her chocolatey forehead as she panted. 

"Yes! I can." She wheezed. "You're just too fast!" Taylor whined loudly, bending herself in half to try and catch her breath. You rolled your eyes and pulled her up, raising her arms over her head. 

"You'll breathe better this way," You told her, taking a step back and taking a long sip of your icy water. Taylor nodded her thanks and slowed her breathing gradually. 

        "Wanna keep going?" You asked as you wiped your mouth on your wrist. Taylor feriously shook her head. "I'll pass, (Y/n)." She whimpered. You put yout arms behind your head as you began to walk down the worn dirt bath. 

"That sucks," You murmered. "We were only 1/4th of the way done."

Taylor gaped at your cocky smirk. "And you do this everyday?"

You nodded. "Twice a day if I'm feelin' lucky," You winked and giggled. Taylor shook her head in disbelief. 

"You're a machine," She grumbled, jogging to your side. You could tell she was tired, but she was the one who asked to join you in your near-night run. She said she needed the exercise to get the perfect "summer body", even though it was fall. 

You hummed. "I didn't know they made sexy machines now." Taylor pushed away the urge to roll her eyes, though she desperately wanted to. She chose not to answer your stupid comment. You both started to walk back to your dorm and planned a junk food movie night. You had the feeling she wouldn't last, but you couldn't say no to her puppy face. You had to admit, you were a sucker for your best friend.          Taylor ended up chugging the rest of her and your water bottles greedily, but you didn't blame her. She was pretty out of shape. The darker skinned girl took a large gasp of fresh oxygen after finishing off your beverage. 

"Learn to breathe, my God," You snorted. She glared.

"I just ran a mile, you can shut your mouth, you fucking monster," She hissed playfully. 

School campus soon came into view after your bickering. Taylor grumbled about how badly her feet ached and how she was never running ever again. You parted ways at the dorm. Taylor wanted to get the living room set up for the movie and sent you out for snacks and drinks. You easily migrated to the everything store. That wasn't its actual name, you couldn't care to remember what it was, but the everything store seemed to suit the run down shop better. 

        You pushed thr glass double doors open, a cute bell ringing to announce your presence to the cashire, Michael. 

"(Y/n)!" He greeted with a smile. You returned the facial gester with a small wave of your own.          "What're you here for this time?" He leaned his head on his open palm, his eyes trained on your figure. You had your back turned to him as you read the movie names on the rack. 

"What does it look like?" You chuckles, plucking a familar title from the shelf. 'Kiki's Delivery Service', a childhood favorite of yours. Michael didn't verbally answer, he was too busy allowing his eyes to roam your every curve. 

His eyes snapped to the side when you turned around to wonder down the candy isle. You shoved a KitKat , snickers, and (f/c) into your arm (allowing an extra of your favored one into your pocket, shh) before you turned the corner, finding the energy drinks. With a childish grin you grabbed a few of the better Monster flavors. You knew you had popcorn at the dorm so you didn't bother trying to find a box here. 

        You decided to check out as quickly as possible, avoiding as much conversation with Michael as you could. He gave you the creeps. He always tended to make sexual remarks regarding your running outfit, like how your shorts made your ass look plump or how cute you looked with a flushed, tired expression. In general, he didn't seem like a good guy or influence, though Taylor took an odd interest in him. She always had shitty tastes in men. 

It was getting late, you noticed. The sun started to darken as students scrambled to their respected dorms or apartments off campus. You made your way to your room. The illuminated cobblestone path gave you the worst horror movie vibes, so to say you booked it was an understatement. As soon as you were inside the safe confindments of your dorms living area, you released a loud sigh of relief. You thought about taking the elevator up, but decided on the stairs to the third story. You were very grateful you were on a higher floor, to you it served as a lesser chance of being robbed or murdered. 

"I brought a movie, candy and monsters, come on, you filthy goblin." you called into the freakishly neat room. Taylor was a very, very messy person so you tended to pick up after her more than you'd happily admit. It didn't take long for you to set positions for certain objects in specific places. Example, your shoes stayed in a small, plastic, blue bin by the door. They didn't ever make it to the carpeted floor of the living room. You had a key rack by the door so your keys were never lost or misplaced and Taylor had insisted you needed a coat rack, so your bookbags and Taylor's purses hung there. Any extra blankets, pillows, and sheets were placed neatly in the spare closet. 

        "Monsters..?" Her brown head popped out from around the corner. 

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

Taylor had passed out halfway through the movie, not that you were surprised. You pouted. You were very well use to it, but it wasn't any less disappointing when it happened. You carefully laid her on the couch, not bothering to wake her. She was a literal demon when she was woken up. You covered her body in a large, fluffy blanket before standing, pacing for a moment. 

You wondered back to your organized room and grabbed your large spray bottle you kept on your dresser. You stared down your mass of plants in your window seal and the few on your night stand and hanging from the ceiling before watering the ones that needed it, leaving your Rainbow Bush succulent alone. Satisfied, you grabbed your school jacket and your earbuds and phone before slipping your shoes on at the door. 

It was almost 1 before Taylor and you had finally settled enough to sit and watch the movie, so it was fairly late now. But, regretfully, your body was still pumped from the sugary drinks you consumed not long ago. You made a quick choice to go on a short run to tire yourself out a bit before retiring for the night. Sure, wasn't the best idea to go out at night, alone and defenceless, but you prided yourself in your speed if needed. Besides, you've done it before and you were obviously still alive!

You made your way to the dirt path you ran earlier in the day, struggling to remember a stupid songs name. You grinned when you figured it out and hurriedly played it. The opening played through your earbuds as you gently bobbed your head to the beat.

"There are boulders on my shoulders, collar bones begin to crack, there is very little left of me and it's never coming back," You sung softly along with 'Be nice to me'. An old, but greatly loved song from your middle school years. You began to run.

Your lips parted in a content smile as a phrase slipped past your teeth.

"You're a killer, and i'm your best friend. I think it's unfair, your situation," 

You began to bounce on the balls of your feet excitedly. "You say i'm changing! I'm sorry I didn't know I had to stay the same!" You jumped as your legs moved, your voice growing louder and bolder with every word thoughtlessly spilling out your mouth. You became unaware of the eyes watching your movements, head tilted in confusion. 

"Your voice is driving me insane!" You shouted, hopping more as you swished your head side to side, getting louder everytime the phrase was repeated. The last note rang through your ears and you let out a joyful that was quickly cut off. The overbearing feeling of being watched dawned on you. 

You jerked around and scanned the treeline, your eyes falling on a tall male facing you with a tilted head. You stared at him, confused before your gaze fell on the bloodied pipe dangling by his side. You fearfully and turned around, bolting in the direction the path led you to. You didn't have much time to understand why he was watching you, but you could hear his heavy footsteps crushing dead leaves as he raced after you. 

'Molly' blasted into your ears loudly, making you jerk in surprise. If you were going to die tonight, you were glad this was the song you'd die to. 

You could hear him distantly still chasing after you. Not to brag, but you could run a mile amd keep going onto the next without breaking too much of a sweat, though you'd be fairly tired.          Speaking of tired, you could feel the drousiness spreading to your head and deep down you knew that you couldn't keep the pace up for much longer. 

Sucking in a deep breath, you turned into the woods, lifting your feet high so you wouldn't be the stupid one to trip on a root and be killed first. That would be an embarrassing way to die and not even Molly could make it better, you concluded. 

So you did the most logical thing your sleepy brain could think of.

You climbed a fucking tree.

The man was a far enough distance for you to get a good amount of height between the two of you. You panted, your palms itching with needle-like pain from the rough and merciless bark, but pulled yourself up another branch and looked down. The man was panting heavily, bent over as he struggled to force air into his most likely burning lungs.  He stood up after a quick second, glaring up the tree at you.

Childishly, but overcome with a sense of acomplishment, you stuck your tongue out at him. 

Bad idea, you concluded when the guy's gloved fists clenched by his sides and he started to climb. 

You squealed. "No! Fuck off!" You shouted. "Pick another goddamn tree, you humanoid orange!" A growl ripped through your teeth as you glared fearfully at him.          To your surprise, he got down. He moved his head to stare at you before sitting indian style, his face pointed to you.

For the first time you had a proper look at him, and you weren't surprised. He looked like he came from a shitty horror movie. He wore an orange hoodie with a ski mask hiding his facial features, a red frowny face sitched into it. He had dark blue, wore out jeans and black boots that looked to be kept as clean as Taylor would keep her living space. 

'Best friend' Began to play quietly through your (f/c) earbuds and you forced down a snort at the timing. You were hoddled up in a tree while a guy who most likely wanted you dead watched from below. You shook your head and glanced at the dark sky.

'The stars are out' You thought as you spotted the little dipper, the big one wasn't far away from it's child. 

It only took about ten minutes for your easily distracted mind to get bored. You stared down at the hooded man as he drew in the dirt with his pipe. An idea struck you, a bad one, but an idea nevertheless. And it wasn't going to kill you, with a lot of hope, it may allow you to live another day. 

"Yo, tangerine!" He flinched at your loud voice, moving his head to stare at you. 

You held up a fist with your dominate hand, your opposite going under it, palm up and open.

"Wanna play rock, paper, sisscors before I die?" 

The man stilled before very, and I mean very slowly nodded. You allowed yourself to snort. Now you were going to play a childs game with a murderer. 

"Do you know how to play?" You called down. He nodded again and held up his hands. "Cool," You said.

The orange-clad killer was absolute shit at rock, paper, sisscors. He was even worse than your nephew, who was six and had the attention span of a squirell. Sometime in your game playing, you had moved yourself a few branches down to see him better in the dark woods. You now sat a branch above his head.          He didn't move much, but his shoulders seemed to slump.

You threw rock, again, and he threw sisscors. You gave an evil victory crackle whiele he glared gloomily at his open fingers.          "That was fun," You stretched your arms over your head, yawning. "Can I go now?" You calmly asked. 

He didn't move for a long while, looking between you and his gloved hands, the, back to you. Finally, he nodded. You hopped down, smiling widely. 

"Thanks," You said nervously. He was trying to kill you earlier, so you wouldn't be completely off guard around him. You started to shuffle around him cautiously. His arm shot out, grabbing your upper arm roughly. You flinched hard, looking up at him with wide eyes. 

This is it, You thought He changed his mind and wants to eat me!

Instead, you heard a deep voice whisper.

"You can leave if we can play again soon."

[sp00kworm]

Wayward

Pairing: Michael Myers (Rob Zombie Version) x Gender Neutral Reader

Warnings: Gore, Horror, Blood, Murder, Injury Description. 

A/N: Just a exploration piece for RZ Michael because I got bored. Hope you enjoy!

---

Blood felt calming. Michael twisted his knife deeper, watching the blood spurt from the wound in the young man’s stomach. His mouth opened in a twisted red smile, pink spit and blood dripping over his pale skin. He was clammy now, his skin going cold as Michael watched the blood ooze around his knife. The motion was repeated. He watched the blood bubble on the victim’s lips this time as he twisted the wound open. It was like watching a big cat rake its claws along a zebra. The blood oozed where he cut. Boredom itched along his spine quickly. The reactions weren’t knew to him. The man died slowly, and in pain, bleeding from the three wounds to his belly as he choked on his own blood flowing up from his stomach. Blood squelched between his fingers as he squeezed the knife tight. It dripped down his wrists when he raised his hand to have a look. Boredom. The itch subsided for now. The thrill of the kill faded into the back of his mind as he took a deep inhale, and held his breath, looking at the rotting pumpkins sat on the porch. Candy corns were rotting in the grass under his feet. Halloween had come to an end. So had his search.

 Boo wasn’t who he remembered. His sister wasn’t who he remembered. Laurie Strode. He didn’t understand it. He understood time had passed, but for her to not remember him. It didn’t sit well. Then he felt the bullet hit his shoulder, and it was like cold water was dropped on his head. Everything was somehow clear after the bullet. After his sister rejected him. Just like everyone else. Then the urge had reared its ugly head. The rats seemed a lifetime away when he dropped the victims on their asses, blood spurting from ugly wounds. Michael loomed over the body, coveralls sprayed with blood across his chest, and boots caked with mud and festering candy corn pieces. The man was quiet on the grass now, the blood had already popped on his lips, the air having left him while he was stood thinking. He regretted the choice, pushing the steel toe of his boot into the body’s ribs before he looked at his knife. With a quick stroke, he wiped the blood on the sleeve of his coveralls and pushed the knife into the deep pocket.

 Michael left the body in the grass and turned to the house, looking at the light illuminating the windows as a figure appeared in the window, freshly showered. He watched her breasts press against the cold glass as she opened the window. Nothing. The itch didn’t return. The body in the grass was her lover perhaps? Not that he cared. Michael took hold of his arm and dragged the corpse towards the stairs, the head thumping against the wood with sickening cracks as he ascended them. The front door swung open with a creak as he dragged the body in. Blood was left in a track as he tugged the male to the stairs and tucked him up against the case. With a soft breath, he took his knife out again and sliced at the skin, cutting a jagged smile before he removed the eyelids and coloured the body’s cheeks with blood.

“Honey? Is that you?” The woman called from the top of the stairs, dressed in a sheer kimono, tying the waist with a smirk, her wet hair dripping water down her neck. Her smile soon turned to horror as she padded down the stairs towards his creation. Her hands flew to her face as she caught sight of her lover, and she screamed an ugly howl, right from the depths of her lungs.

 Michael watched from the shadows of the entry way. Her frightful eyes glanced to the door just before he slammed it closed. A ghostly white face peered at her. Her second scream caught in her throat as he walked after her, long strides making two of her own as she fled to the kitchen. Michael soon got bored of the ear-piercing shrieks that followed her slipping feet. With a snap of his fingers, clenched tight in a fist, he caught the woman by her hair. She gasped only for a moment before he pushed his knife into her back and watched the blood spurt forwards and back, coating his hands once again in a fresh slick of crimson. She died a much less dramatic death, spasming quietly in his arms, bloodied fingers covering her mouth. The killer dropped her, fingers unlocking and snapping back shut by his side as she fell with a great hump, face pressed into the wood, spit pooling out of her slack, dead mouth. The itch was gone. The thrill was receding. She exhaled the dead air from her lungs before finally going silent and dying. Boring. He listened to the silent house and moved towards the television screen in the lounge. A bloodied finger pressed the power on. An old movie played.

 Michael watched it for a moment, head tilting with curiosity as a tank was blown into smithereens. His stomach gurgled and twisted before he realised, he was, in fact, hungry. The Shape turned and walked towards the kitchen, stepping over the woman’s body as he went, shoes thumping as he glared at the fridge, opening it with bloody fingers wrapped around the chrome handle. Michael leaned over to peer inside and dragged the ham from its paper wrapping before eyeing the bottle of milk. He pulled that free from the door as well before looking at the ham in his hand. With a soft breath, he realised the mask was still in place. Moonlight danced through his hair as he dared to reach up and pull the mask free, dirty blond hair hanging around his shoulders. He tucked the mask in his pocket before he took his food back in hand and went back to the movie. The male didn’t stop to catch a glimpse of himself as he returned to the television screen. He knew he was ugly, inside and out, he didn’t need to be reminded of it by some reflective surface. As he stood, watching the old film, Michael chewed pieces of bloodied ham, slick fingers holding the milk bottle by the neck, taking occasional sips as he waited for the next urge. The next impulse wouldn’t be too far away, of that he was sure.

 His feet moved him before the urge did. The milk gurgled with bloodied ham in his stomach as he moved to the kitchen, turning the faucet on to wash the dark, dried bit of flaking blood from his hand. They came clean and he remembered vaguely to wipe the taps down. He went out of the backdoor with a rag in his hand, leaving heavy bloodied footprints behind him, brain not thinking, not caring if he was chased. So, he walked. Michael pulled the mask over his face as he roamed back to the pavement, stalking over the heavy stone slabs with a predator’s purpose, moving from shadow to shadow, a pale face among the dark as it neared two o’clock in the morning. He passed Haddonfield’s town clock and peered at the time before moving on, past the preschool and the small, town park. The Shape walked, and strode, and moved onwards, fingers tapping against where the knife blade was stashed against his thigh. The blood tracks had stopped following him long ago. A noise caught his attention to his right, just as he turned towards a back alley along the back of the town strip. Most of the few bars were open. He listened in as music blared but also as the sound of skin slapped against the pavement.

 “Stupid bitch!”

 Michael stopped by the dumpster, and turned on his heels, moving to peer back at the commotion. A very drunk looking bar attendee stumbled to right himself against the brick wall of the bar, stringing together poorly insulting curses as a bartender struggled to get themselves upright. The crowd returned inside, unwilling to listen to the commotion nor intervene. Michael felt himself breathe heavily as he watched a fist come upwards, his fingers twitching when it missed and collided with the brick by their head. He breathed. Inhale. Exhale. Then he reached for his knife.

 You cursed your luck as the man stumbled, howling about one of his broken fingers from the miscalculated strike. He followed as you scrambled upwards and moved away, back towards the dumpsters in the alley. He followed, swaying heavily as he slurred insults.

“Bet you’re one of those fuckin’ homos, ain’t you?” He declared, the clarity in his eyes non-existent.

“Even if I was, its none of your fucking business!” You retorted. Watching his nostrils flare, you regretted the provocation and turned to dodge a heavier blind punch, watching him stumble into the dark alley, his body thumping as it collided with the dumpsters.

“Fuckin’…” He cursed violently as you watched, arms crossed.

“Last time I offer to help anyone.” You promised with venom as you clutched your bruised shoulder and turned to leave him to choke on his own vomit in the alley.

The drunk grappled himself up on the dumpster, “Don’t you fuckin’ turn your back on me!” He warned as heavy breathing sounded behind him.

 A figure loomed as a dark shadow, the white Halloween mask glowing around shadowed blue eyes as dirty hands snatched the man around. A great hand grappled him by his neck, spinning the drunk around, smothering his choked cries with a powerful grasp on his throat. The figure’s fingers went white, the grip tight around the throat, breathing heavy as he then grabbed the drunk tighter and thrashed him back and forth, slamming the back of his head violently into the brick. Crack. The bone sounded in wet thumps against the wall until the drunk’s eyes rolled and he spasmed in the grip, blood dripping down his neck as the white masked killer dropped him in a pile, hands slick from the kill. You felt fear catch your tongue, and with it, your voice. The heavy breathing softened as the white mask tilted up to look at you, red hands clenching by the killer’s sides.

“What the fuck?” You asked the air as the killer looked at the body and back to you. He twitched, shoulders moving as though he was shaking something off himself. He didn’t move towards you. A blue eye glinted under the yellow streetlight before the Shape of a man stalked away around the back of the building.

 You managed to make a noise as you scrambled back into the bar, scrambling for the phone to report what had just happened.

 Michael watched from the back window, looking at the hysterical tears dripping down your nose in your manager’s office as he offered you a coat and a drink. The sirens made him move, but he found the strange urge in his mind to see you again.

[breaking-shadows]

Breaking Shadows

Chapter 2

The angel left promising he would return soon. He left me alone, with my grandmother very much alive and her soul intact. 

I looked at the cuckoo clock mounted on the wall. It had been intricately carved to tell the story of Hansel and Gretel. Creepy, for a witch. The devious children who ate a witch out of house and home and then murdered her for all her generosity. 

The hands read nearly four-fifteen. 

I imagined sinking into the soft mattress of my bed and curling up in the duvet, but if that happened, I’d be there for the duration. I fell asleep on the sofa, wrapped in a dressing gown, to the low hum of the TV. 

The light of breaking dawn woke me before half six.

“Officers attended the scene in Cullfield, a suburb of New York City...”

I peeled open an eyelid. The TV continued to play to itself, showing American-looking police standing by a strip of bright yellow tape. 

“...the whole town was found massacred in what eyewitnesses have described as a bloodbath.”

Bolting upright, I grappled for the remote to turn the volume up, heart hammering against my ribcage. 

“Police have appealed for witnesses and urge neighbouring towns to be vigilant. We’ll have more on this breaking story as the information comes through. Now, here’s the news wherever you are.” The opening credits rolled for the local news. 

Footsteps sounded on the floorboards above. Gran was up. She must be feeling better. I switched off the TV and raced upstairs. 

“Gran!” I called. “Gran!”

I caught her leaving my room, eyes puffy and red-ringed, skin grey. The soft grey curls framing her face were wild. She gave a gasp, sucking the air from the room and fell back against the door. 

My feet stalled on the top step. “Are you okay?”

Her mouth bobbed struggling to form words that wouldn’t come. 

“Gran?” 

“Oh my – Riley!” she crossed the few steps between us and wrapped me in her arms, the scent of lavender triggering a dormant headache. One of her hands went to my hair, pulling my head towards her shoulder. Over and over she whispered my name.

Then she pushed me away, holding me at arm’s length. Withered hands cupped my face, her thumbs making downward strokes with her thumbs. She laughed through her tears. 

“What did you want me for?”

“Are we not going to talk about this?”

Gran released my face to wipe her wet cheeks with the back of her hand, sniffing away the tears as though they’d never been. “There’s nothing to talk about, Riley. I’m  tired, I must not have recovered as much as I’d thought.”

I wanted to tell her she’d be fine, that the illness wouldn’t be rearing its ugly head again, but then she’d want to know why. Even I wasn’t proud about how I’d gone about it, but seeing Gran like this again, well enough to be on her feet or nearly tumbling from them… I’d made the right choice. 

“Once more then, what did you want me for?”

What did I want her for? “The news. On the news, there’s something about a massacre in a town on the outskirts of New York. From the sounds of it, it seems like the whole town. I didn’t know if it merited checking out. It could be a coven.”

Gran looked thoughtful. “It’s possible. I have a meeting with our coven this morning, I will raise it, contact other covens there. Even if it wasn’t a coven, something like that may require investigation. Can you remember the name of the place?”

“No, I can’t. But it must be all over the news.”

A weak smile crossed Gran’s face, the one she gave me when I wasn’t being helpful. 

“Do you need me to come?”

“Ha! Don’t think you’re getting out of your studies that easily. Talking about school, unless you get a move on, you’re going to be late.”

“Fine. Am I still okay to go out tonight?”

Gran cupped my face in her hands. “Of course, of course. Go Riley, and live.”

I took a swig from the bottle in my hand, grimacing at the bitter taste. The shaped glass knocked against my teeth. Something had been off with Gran. Yes, she’d been ill, so ill I’d made a deal with a servant of death to save her soul. But still – 

“God Riley. You’re quiet. You’re here now, you might as well enjoy it.” Kat knelt on the blanket beside me. 

I could smell it as soon as Kat sat down, the stench of stale smoke burning my nostrils. “Please tell me you haven’t been smoking,” I coughed, wafting the fumes away with my hand. 

“Of course, I haven’t,” she said before diving into her bag. She plucked out a shocking pink aerosol can and sprayed it all over herself with a few squirts in the air for good measure. “Simon insists he won’t stop though, so until Channing Tatum becomes available, I’m sticking with him. Anyway, back to you, what’s up?”

I balanced the almost full bottle in the grass, the contents settling uneasily in my stomach. Once again, it would be easier to tell the truth. Although confessing to be a witch would throw up more questions than answers for Kat, and Gran would surely kill me for divulging our secrets. 

“I told you earlier I was tired, I didn’t sleep well.” Striking a deal with an angel in the early hours of the morning proved to be more time-consuming that I’d originally planned. 

“You’re seventeen,” Kat yawned. “You should be able to stay up all night and not feel its effects. But if you’re feeling shit, why don’t we find something to put a smile on your face? Where’s Will?”

I shrugged. “I haven’t seen him for a while. The last time I did, he was fighting his way to the front of the crowd.” I bobbed my head towards the fifty-deep crowd who were dancing and swaying in ways unsuited to the heavy metal band rocking it out on stage. 

Kat had spent weeks talking about this clandestine festival. She’d had to sneak out under the hooked nose of her strict mother, and I felt guilty for spoiling it. Now, with my ears ringing because of the constant din, I wished I’d stuck to the lie I’d tried after lunch. My boyfriend had barely looked at me, never mind spent any time with me, and I found myself disturbed by fleeting thoughts of the angel in Will’s absence. 

Smoke gathered, seeping into my pores choking my lungs. Makeshift fire pits sprang up everywhere in the clearing in the middle of Derwent Woods. Uneasiness prickled my skin. As a water witch, fire put me on edge, and probably affected me more than any of the nemocanes in attendance. Nemocanes were non-witches, those without power. 

“Do you want to go find him?” Kat tilted her head and fluttered her fake eyelashes. 

I’d known her long enough to know she wasn’t asking and before I knew it, Kat had pulled me to my feet. “Come on, let’s see if we can get Will to put a smile on your face. If anyone can, I’m sure it’s him.”

We delved deeper through the crowd, ducking, and weaving through twisting bodies and flailing arms, some of which smacked me straight in the face. The stench was almost unbearable, cheap perfume, the musty smell of beer all mixed in with sweat and smoke. 

“I can’t see them, can you?”

“They’ve got to be here somewhere,” said Kat. She craned her neck to scan the crowd. “Tell you what, if you go to the right, I’ll go this way, and we’ll send the other a text if we find them. Okay? Great.”

“Kat, wait!” But the mass of bodies had already swallowed my friend, bottles of alcohol raised in the air, the crowd singing as loud as their voices would let them. 

Fighting my way in the direction Kat told me to go, I was confronted by one unfamiliar face after another. They swam before my eyes and merged into one continuous blur. Heat rose in my face. Sweat coated my forehead, droplets running down the length of my neck. I tugged at the stiff collar of my denim jacket, but the more I did, the more it closed around my neck like a vice.

More limbs struck.

The fire was overwhelming.

I fought for air. 

My hand raced around my neck in a frantic motion. The contents of dancing bottles dripped down onto my hair and face. Gran would think I’d drank a brewery. 

I forced my way to the back of the crowd, pushing through people as though they were water and I was desperate for the shore. Breaking out into the open, I inhaled as much fresh air as I could, letting the space subdue the rising panic within. 

The constant roar of the band was the only reminder of where I was and the only thing stopping me from falling to my knees and making a spectacle of myself before most of the year twelve and thirteens. 

A glint of white flashed through the trees ahead.

Then another.

My blood turned to stone. 

Then a hand clamped down on my shoulder, and I spun, blood throbbing.

“Where have you been?”

“Nowhere.”

I looked back towards the treeline. 

“You okay? Riley?” Kat’s voice was muffled and far away. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” 

“I’m not sure I haven’t,” I mumbled. 

“What? Doesn’t matter. Come on, I’ve found the boys.” Grabbing hold of my wrist, Kat pulled me through the crowd where I couldn’t help but look back.

Ghosts – a definite possibility and harmless in most cases. Demon – more likely and more deadly. I looked around at all those gathered. Shit, so many. It would be a bloodbath. 

“Here they are,” Kat thrust me forward. 

Will and Simon had worked their way right to the front. Lyrics flew from their mouths delivered out of tune between swigs of beer. As soon as Will’s eyes found mine, he stumbled to me with a lopsided grin on his handsome face. I felt a pang in my stomach as another face popped into my head.

Mentally, I told it to piss off. 

“W-w-where have you been?” he slurred. His hands were all over my back, moving lower and lower. Will leaned in read to place a kiss on my lips. Reaching back, I stopped his hands travelling further but welcomed the kiss I’d waited all night for. 

Despite tasting that wretched alcohol, my heart leapt. Worries of dangers lurking beyond the trees evaporated. I’d probably imagined it anyway. Reaching up, I ran my hand through his short dirty-blond hair. 

“We need more time together,” he said, lips pressing against my ear. “Alone.”

I tensed. The meaning was as clear as ringing bells and set in my insides like concrete. I plastered a smile on my face. After all, it was what I wanted, wasn’t it? Having pined for him for the last four years with not one sign I was even on his radar, I was determined to make the most of being his. 

Somewhere, screams pierced the deafening music. 

“What was that?” Will asked, pulling away. 

I ignored him. With my body as still as stone, I looked to see what had caused panic to roll through the crowd. People fled in all directions, frantic limbs flying. I’d stood still long enough to feel the loss of Will’s body heat and watch him leave to join the dispersing group. 

Nausea surged when I realised they were running away from the treeline where I thought I’d glimpsed something other. 

Shit. 

The music cut off and a loud crash sounded as the musicians abandoned their instruments. 

“Will? Kat? I spun on the spot desperately trying to find my friends. I battled against the onslaught of bodies, the only one going towards what made everyone else flee. 

The screaming was terrible. It punctured my mind until I couldn’t think straight.  A tall blur of blond hair and white t-shirt barged my shoulder and knocked me to the ground, not bothering to stop. I hissed at the sharp pain in my hands. Lifting them from the grassy field, thick blood trickled from a jagged wound across my palm. The fragmented remains of a glass bottle lay hidden in the glass coated in my blood. Black in the moonlight, the droplets slid down my hand and into the grass. 

Shadows emerged from the trees, the stark darkness of the woods bleeding into the clearing. They moved in quick, sharp jerks barely touching the ground with their stick-like limbs. The only creatures I had ever seen scurry like that were spiders. 

Demons. But what kind, I didn’t know, had never encountered them in any of my witch studies. My pulse drummed in my ears as all other sounds died. They drew closer, the pale white of their skin stretching over thin, sharp bones like a translucent film. Two pointed pincers bulged out of the side of their head and around the front of their faces. Fire danced in their feline-like eyes. 

The only one left in the clearing, I pushed myself back onto my feet. Only me and a dozen of these things. I grimaced at the throbbing in my hand, and took calculated steps towards the demons, taking care not to trip over the abandoned debris strewn over the grass. 

There were seconds left before they reached me. Would flooding the clearing work? Should I send out a jet of water to blast them back? Quick. Decide. 

“Are you going to make a half-arsed attempt to get away or just let them kill you?”

I whirled on the familiar voice to find the angel standing there. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Saving you.”

The untamed black hair grazed his shoulders. He held my gaze steady and sure, his lips slightly parted. Something registered on his face and a darkness bloomed in his widening eyes burning with such intensity that the night sky with all its stars and wonders paled in comparison. 

I blinked the image of him away and clicked my tongue. “Save yourself.” With that, I sent three demons skittling with a low jet of water. 

“There’s too many of them, we’ll never make it. Come on,” Rafe reached back and grabbed my wrist to pull me with him.

Not that I wanted to admit it, but he was right. We barrelled across the grass heading for the stage. My much shorter legs struggled to keep up with his longer strides. Even in frantic escape mode, Rafe moved with grace while all my energy was spent trying to stay upright. 

He glanced over his shoulder. “They’re gaining on us. Hurry!”

“Can’t you sprout your wings and fly us out of here?”

“No.”

“Why the hell not?”

“I’ll explain if we survive this.” 

I groaned as he increased his speed dragging me with him, my thighs and calves burning. 

“I need to get to the coven.”

Each penetrating stab reverberated across the ground, and the closer they got, the more their screeched pierced my ear drums. Rafe stopped when we reached a black and silver motorcycle propped up by a short leg at the side of the stage. 

“Hop on,” he said, throwing his leg over. With a kick of his boot, the leg flicked up and the engine roared into life. He looked at me once more. “What are you waiting for?”

“There isn’t a helmet,” I hesitated. 

Dark amusement flickered in his eyes. “Seriously? We’re getting chased by demons who I know want to kill us and you’re worried about where the helmet is.”

I could have explained. I could have told him why the sheer thought of getting on that bike was giving me palpitations and shortening my breath. But I didn’t.

“Safety first,” was all I said. 

“Get on the bike, Riley.”

I stopped myself throwing up. “If we die now, I’m betting it’s down to a lack of safety equipment and not shiny demons with excellent cheekbones.” I hitched up my long skirt and jumped on. At first, I didn’t know where to place my hands and settled on the thin strip of leather between us. 

“Here,” he reached round, grabbed both my hands, and pulled them around his waist. My injured hang stung. My chest crashed into the solid wall of his back.

“I need you to hold on,” he shouted over the noise of the engine. 

Gripping tighter, I brushed the contours of his stomach muscles. Heat bloomed on my cheeks and I was thankful he couldn’t see the fire in my face.

We sped away and the creatures gave chase. 

“Head for Valestone,” I called. “We’ll be safe there.”

Rafe drove straight into the forest. I wondered if he hoped the trees would act as an obstacle to slow the creatures down. Derwent Forest was thick and known for the dense canopy capable of blocking most rays. Especially now, as midnight fast approached, everywhere was black except for the small distance illuminated by the bike’s headlamp and the smouldering fires left in the clearing. 

“Do you know what those things are?”

“Arachna demons. Half human and half spider. All of them female.”

“They can’t be.”

“Female or demons? Hang on!” he steered left, avoiding a row of tree trunks. The bike weaved in and out of trees effortlessly navigating root laden paths as though he’d driven this way a thousand times. 

Daring to look back, my loose hair lashed my face like gilded whips. Somehow, my faux daisy headband stayed in place. A good thing for Rafe because if it flew off, I’d make him go back for it. Demons be damned. 

“They’re getting closer!”

“They can’t move that quick. These are new ones emerging from the undergrowth.”

My head snapped back to him. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“None of this is about making you feel better,” he called back, swerving again. 

We hit an emerging root. My hands wrapped tighter around him to stop myself from falling off, but he jumped the bike and landed them back on the ground on the other side. 

“You okay back there?”

“Yes,” I said into the rushing wind. It whistled as it sailed by my ear.

A volcano of dirt and greenery erupted ahead. Rafe jammed on the brakes and skidded, landing at an angle. Two white pincers grappled out of the ground. He paused for a beat before flying off in the direction we faced.  

“Not much further now,” he called back. 

In the distance, the shadows of the forest faded paling to navy blue and lighter still as we neared the edge of the forest. I felt easier knowing we would soon be out. I’d have to wake my grandmother and summon the coven to deal with the demons – Arachna, Rafe called them. How strange I’d never heard of them before. 

We broke out of the boundary of the forest and slammed into the village. The closed lichgate of our village’s Norman church lay ahead, the church on our right, silhouetted against the sky. The interior was nothing more than an illusion created for any tourists making their way to Valestone or visitors from nearby towns. Witches in our coven could see through the magic veil like it was a splash of oil in a puddle. 

I gave a little yelp as Rafe spun the bike, landing parallel to the forest with the church behind us. He twisted the key and the noise died. 

“Well that’s something new,” he stared up at the sky, scanning across the span of the village. 

Following his gaze, I smiled, knowing what had piqued his interest. “It’s a protection dome for the coven. Powered by the High Witch.” When I spoke, my head felt like it was submerged in water, my words muffled, and ears blocked. 

And still the creatures came, their skin shining like a pearl in the moonlight.

“Here they come.”

One creature placed a pincer across the boundary marked by a row of uniform trees. As soon as they did, electric flashes surged up the offending limb until it covered the whole demon. It crackled, steam rising high before its body went limp and slumped to the ground, lifeless. Two other demons scurried up to the dead body, trying to nudge it alive with a pincer but when it didn’t move, they retreated in a hurry taking the whole horde with them.

“Nothing that intends harm can enter.”

“Impressive. I might need a word with your High Witch.”

I dismounted; my attention fixed on the smouldering mass of flesh. “I’m not so sure about that,” I said absently. “A servant of death seeking her out about a protection dome might freak her out.”

“Point taken.”

I turned to smile at Rafe. “Nice bike.��

He rubbed the back of his neck and threw his leg over the motorcycle to stand next to me. 

“Yeah, it’s not mine. Some idiot left it next to the stage with keys in the ignition. An idiot I’m very grateful to, but I’m just going to leave it here. Are you going to be okay?”

“Yes. I’m going to wake my grandmother with the wonderful news that half of the neighbouring town have witnessed and were nearly eaten by demons. Some possibly eaten if I don’t get a move on.” I studied the gash across my palm, flecks of dried blood formed a boundary around the open wound. 

“Are you hurt?”

I snatched it away, hiding it by my side. “Just a little scratch.”

“Show me.”

“I said it’s fine.”

Rafe sighed and held an upturned hand. There wasn’t a moment of hesitation in my mind and before I knew it, he was cradling my hand in his almost reverently as he ran a calloused finger tip down my palm. 

My breath bated. He smelled of soap. Clean, like rolling in freshly washed linen. I couldn’t look at his face. 

“When you get home, I want you to properly clean the wound.”

“My Gran will have a poultice of witch hazel leaves and bark. She’ll sort it.” I would have sworn I saw a ghost of a smile on his lips. 

“And I’ll come back tomorrow to heal it when I have my powers back.”

My head snapped up. “What do you mean? Is that why you couldn’t fly? Have you lost your powers?”

“So many questions, little witch.”

I cocked my head to one side silently demanding answers. 

“Angels are given a day off, if you will, every ten thousand souls they collect. Today is mine, but you live the day as a mortal. No powers, no wings.”

“You had a day off and you decided to creep around a teenage party? Not that you look much older than we do…”

At that, Rafe chucked. “Get going, or someone is going to find themselves at the mercy of an Arachna demon.”

“I need my hand back.”

A hint of colour stained his cheeks, but he dropped my hand as though the contact burned him. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

Rafe nodded in reply. 

I kicked my legs into gear. I made it to the end of the lane before the urge to look back became too much. He should’ve gone, but he was still there, lounging against the stolen bike, watching. 

It took everything I had to move away. 

Chapter 1

[millie-ionaire05]

Saudade - Ot 7 | 09

Ot7 BTS

Genre: Psychological Thriller

Rating: M (Mature)

word count: 2,188

Trigger Warnings: Hospitalization (rehab, mental institute). Mental health issues (Text Reason to 741741 if you need to reach out for help). Insinuated M x M (if you squint hard enough). Substance abuse (alcohol, pills | call 1-800-662-4357 if you are dealing with this). Weapons (gun, knife). Smoking (cigarettes, weed). Mentions of suicide/attempted suicide (National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-8255). Violence (murder/attempted murder). Mentions of blood. Mentions of therapy sessions (these are not accurate representations, please leave it to proper professionals). Mentions of physical abuse (Call 1-800-799-7233 if you are dealing with domestic violence) WE DO NOT GLORIFY THESE WARNINGS/TRIGGERS; THIS IS A FICTIONAL STORY, AND DOES NOT RELATE TO ANY OF THE MEMBERS. IF YOU ARE DEALING WITH ANY OF THESE, PLEASE REACH OUT TO YOUR LOCAL AUTHORITIES FOR ASSISTANCE, OR THE NUMBERS LISTED ABOVE.

↤ Previous | 09 | Next ↦

January 14th, 2018 | 15:20

   “I think he’s starting to remember.”

   Yoongi’s words reverberate like a threat in his brain as he downs another bottle of soju, disregarding the shot glass he’d previously been using. The desire to quiet the voice overrides the need to take things slow. Namjoon stumbles, colliding softly with the wall. He shifts, his back sliding clumsily down until his ass hits the ground and he releases the bottle, hearing it roll across the floor a bit from him.

   From his pocket he pulls out the drawing Yoongi had brought and his heart begins to thrum furiously beneath his ribs. A smudge of the graphite used tints his fingers as he unfurls the paper. Swallowing hard, he stares at the dark image, the strokes seemingly etched hurriedly on the page as if the artist felt the inspiration would disappear from his mind before he could finish it.

  As he continues to stare, the raven becomes a blur, Namjoon’s eyes beginning to lose focus. Could things have been different if he had tried more? If he had intervened and forced them to talk it out, would things not have gone so far? Would they all not be so estranged from each other?

   Letting his head fall back as despair washes over him, he turns to gaze over at the afternoon light streaming into his place from two square windows high above a small table and chair set against the container wall. In his peripheral vision, he makes out the tattooing needle, ink and supplies he has stored in that area and sits up, eyes widening slightly. He stumbles up onto his feet, sauntering over unsteadily before plopping down into the chair, his mind now locked on one thought only.

   Tattoo the bird as tribute.

   Even in his inebriated state, he doesn't worry about making a mistake. This was the one thing he was good at. His fingers are nimble, steady as he opens a new needle and attaches it to the nail gun along with the ink. An incessant buzzing soon fills the quiet space as his brows furrow in concentration.

   He barely feels the pain of the needle as it rapidly punctures his flesh repeatedly, delivering the black ink to the space beneath his skin. At the faint sound of police sirens in the far distance, a memory from the prior year comes to the forefront as he focuses on each line and stroke. A memory of him and Taehyung as they’d been tagging a concrete hedge in the middle of the night. After a few drinks, the two had grown bored, looking for something to do. Taehyung had brought a few cans of spray paint and suggested they add a bit of art to the playground not too far from where they were. He hadn’t really been down for that, but Taehyung had insisted and he didn’t want him to go alone. It wasn’t long before they had reached the spot and Taehyung began spray painting the area.

   They chuckled and teased each other as Tae colored the cement, both too busy enjoying themselves to notice the police car patrolling the area. Blue and red lights flashed across the wall, alerting Namjoon first. Straightening, eyes-wide, he tapped Taehyung’s arm, his chin jutting out to the area behind him, simultaneously snatching up his younger friend’s backpack. Taehyung turned, mouth and eyes turning into large O’s before the two began to run.

   Though their feet pumped swiftly, eating up the pavement, they were no match for the police and were soon caught, the officers none too gentle as they slammed them against their vehicle. Namjoon couldn’t help but grin over at Taehyung as the cuffs clicked into place around his wrists. Taehyung returned the gesture with a boxy smile of his own, even as one of the officers opened his bag, the spray cans spilling out onto the asphalt below. His smile dissipates as the officer grows rougher with Namjoon, yanking him harshly, hurting his arm as they straighten him up. It was then that Namjoon noticed the shift in Taehyung’s eyes go from mirthful to worried.

   He had been concerned with how the officer was treating Namjoon, but he had also come to realize that his parents would be notified of his arrest and were not going to take it well. Especially his father. Taehyung’s father was very strict and was known for physically showing his displeasure in the way of bruises and nicks that would decorate his skin.

   Namjoon squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head as if to clear the images from his mind. Letting out a heavy breath, he stands, walking towards a tall floor mirror he has leaning against the opposite wall. He’d placed it there for his clients to check out the ink he’d apply to them. Namjoon turns his forearm towards the mirror, twisting his wrist left and right as he takes in the image he’d permanently etched there.

   A lump forms in his throat, as he remembers receiving a frantic phone call from Jin just a few days after Taehyung and he had been arrested.

   “Slow down, Jin-hyung. I can’t understand a word you’re saying,” Namjoon urged.

   He could hear Jin take in a breath and let it out before he made another attempt to convey his message.

   “It’s Taehyung,” he began again, his voice shaking terribly. “He...Jesus, he tried to kill himself, man.”

   “What?!” Namjoon exclaimed, his heart falling with a thud into the pit of his stomach.

   “Look, we’re nearby,” he’d informed him. “Can-can I just bring him over? I can’t do this on my own.”

   “Yeah, yeah.”

   “Just have a towel and some clothes ready...for both of us.”

   “Wha…”

   But Jin had hung up without elaborating and after a few seconds of staring at his phone, random scenarios accosting his mind, he’d sprang into action, grabbing towels and clothes for Jin and Taehyung. And he’d been right. It had not taken but about ten minutes for them to reach his place.

   After Jin had pounded on his door, Namjoon opened up to the sight of Jin holding up their younger friend. Taehyung raised his head slowly, his cobalt blue hair plastered to his head and face. He moved as if his head weighed tons, his eyes meeting Namjoons almost reluctantly. The dark orbs swam with guilt and exhaustion. Snapping to, he reached forward to help Jin bring Taehyung in.

   The two assisted Tae with undressing and drying up. There was a lavender tint to his lips, his face pallid and devoid of it’s usual tanned color. His skin was icy to the touch. Namjoon shivered fearfully. They dressed him quickly and Namjoon had to bite his tongue to keep from demanding what had happened. He led him to his sofa bed while Jin went into the bathroom to switch into dry clothes.

   Taehyung didn’t speak as he crawled onto the pull out bed, his eyes already fluttering closed as his head touched down on the pillow. Namjoon tucked a thick blanket around him, squeezing his shoulder gently before straightening up. Jin was just stepping out of the bathroom, his dark brown hair slightly dishevelled.

   “Can we talk outside?” Jin questioned, glancing over at Taehyung’s presumably sleeping form.

   Namjoon nodded and grabbed coats for both of them. Zipping them up, they stepped outside, puffs of steam expelling from their mouths as they met the cool Spring evening.

   As the door clicked behind him, Namjoon could no longer wait for the details, demanding, “What happened?” Jin ran both of his hands through his hair in exasperation, his usually plump lips pressed tightly together in a thin grave line.

   “My being there was just pure chance, ya know?” he started, head shaking as he paced back and forth. “I keep trying not to think about how differently this night would have turned out had I not had the fucking sudden urge to go night fishing.”

   “Jin-hyung,” Namjoon insisted. “Just tell me what happened.” He paused, staring at Najmoon, his eyes full of terror.

   “Like I said, I went to the pier to go night fishing, fish bite good in this type of weather.” He closed his eyes, trying to get himself back on track. “Anyway, I had casted my line when I saw the moonlight gleam off of something in the water. At first, I just thought it was a dolphin, but it wasn’t moving. I turned my flashlight towards the object and realized it was a person. I didn’t even think twice. I took off my clothes and jumped in.”

   “Jesus,” Namjoon swiped a hand down his face in surprise.

   “I couldn’t really see their face, I just grabbed them and swam with them to the water's edge. Once on shore, and we were beneath a street lamp, the blood drained out of my body when I saw it was Taehyung. He was so pale, his lips blue. God, I panicked for a moment, but it was just a moment. I performed CPR on him and it worked, obviously,” his hand signaled towards the door.

   “How did he end up in the water?!” Namjoon exclaimed.

   “When he came to, he didn’t want to say, but he finally admitted he had climbed up the scaffolding and jumped in. Since he doesn’t know how to swim, he was hoping he would drown.”

   “What? Why?”

   Jin shook his head, “He said he didn’t want to be a disgrace to his family.”

   “Shit,” Namjoon cursed, biting at his lower lip. “His father must have reamed him pretty badly for him to want to go to this extreme.”

   “Yea,” Jin agreed, stuffing his hands into the pockets of the coat.

   “Look, I’ll take care of him tonight,” Namjoon dropped a comforting hand on Jin’s shoulder. “Go home, get some rest. I’ll talk to him. He’s going to be ok.”

   Jin nodded, “Ok. I’ll call in the morning to check up on you two.”

   Jin had left then and when Namjoon re-entered his home, Taehyung’s eyes were open, staring out, unseeing.

   “Tae?” Namjoon called softly, and his eyes refocused and landed on him. “You’re ok. You’re safe now.”

   “He told you,” he whispered, despondently.

   “Of course he did,” Namjoon sat down cross-legged before Taehyung. “We are all brothers after all and we don’t keep things from each other.”

   “Yeah,” he sighed.

   “You want to tell me what happened?” Namjoon probed. “I mean, what made you want to do this?”

   Taehyung drew his body into the fetal position, his brows drawing down tightly.

   “My...my dad didn’t take my arrest too well,” he admitted. “He beat me when I came home and told me I was a disgrace and had brought dishonor to our family. I figured killing myself would restore my family’s honor.”

   Namjoon’s eyes glittered with unshed tears, as he tried to remain strong for his young friend.

   “No. Killing yourself will not restore your family’s honor, Taehyungie,” he told him softly. “Living an honorable life will. Don’t do anything to get arrested again and work hard. That’s all you have to do. Can you promise me that?”

   Taehyung sighed, but nodded. “I promise.”

   “OK then. Let’s get some sleep.”

   Putting down a comforter on the floor, Namjoon curled up underneath a blanket next to the sofa bed, and slept knowing Taehyung was alive and well next to him.

   Namjoon picks up the soju bottle he’d released earlier and throws it angrily at the mirror. What had happened to their brotherhood and their promise to never keep things from each other? The glass shatters, falling in a glittering cascade at his feet. He looks down, his reflection a broken image across hundreds of shards. He catches sight of the white lily tattoo on his other forearm that he’d previously given himself.

   “Namjoon, listen, it’s Jin,” his hyung sighs heavily into the phone. “I got a missed call from Taehyung earlier. He’s been arrested again. He asked me not to tell you, but you know what happened last time and I couldn’t…. You have to get him out. We can’t let his parent’s find out this time.”

   Namjoon replays the voicemail left the previous night, cursing himself for drinking that night and not bothering to charge his phone.

   Namjoon takes the picture of the bird and walks to his kitchen to grab another drink, whiskey this time, pouring it into a short glass. Pulling a lighter from his pocket, he brings the sheet towards it as he flicks it open. The paper instantly kindles, growing brighter as the flame licks up the dry surface. Namjoon’s eyes follow the chard edge as it swallows up the initials that had been scribbled on the back. When there is nothing but a corner left, he drops it into the amber liquid. As the hiss quiets, he brings the alcohol to his lips. The ash and whisky slide down past his lips to mingle in his gut with the beer and soju he had previously drunk. Jin's pale face flashes before his eyes just as he passes out in a heap on the floor.

[itsgonnabe-brian-may]

when water pipes burst

// Requested: No

warnings: fluff, swear words

Gwilym Lee x Reader

4k words - whoops my hand slipped

AN: Okay okay I literally haven’t written in sooo long and I randomly started writing this and I actually really like it. It’s not the best but I think the idea is cute lol. Please tell me what you think!! I’d also like to thank @isitstraightvodka for choosing between gwil and joe for me! Gwil I think is the perfect fit for this!

Anyways, enjoy! 

//

A deep happy sigh slipped past your lips as you stared at the empty skeleton of your apartment. All your cheap furniture was packed up and in the process of being shipped across the world, or to the dumpster in all honesty. The pictures and decor hanging on your wall were neatly packed into boxes. The more precious ones were filed away in your suitcases along with articles of clothing that you were determined not to ruin or lose. 

As cliche as last looks are you swore you saw your life in the cramped and overpriced apartment flash before your eyes. 

The champagne bottle cap hitting and knocking out a ceiling lighting fixture during your christening party. Which was just an excuse to get shit-faced with your friends. It took you a year to get it fixed. 

Your first long term relationship starting in passion on the couch... and ending in the same spot. 

Movie marathons with your friends that ended in throwing popcorn and falling asleep halfway through the third movie. 

The coffee table that earned its name due to the ridiculous amount of coffee spilled on it. 

Sitting on the floor cross-legged in front of it as you studied for your final exams before graduation. 

Having sloppy and hilarious sex on it. Whoops. 

The doormat that was barely used with the words "Welcome" written in a neat script was still crisp. 

Getting a roommate when your ass of a landlord raised the rent by $300. She turned out pretty cool. Even though she refused to touch the dishes. Her decorating and wing-woman skills made up for it. 

Though eventually, your lease ran out, you graduated from school, she got a ring for her left hand and you got a new job. 

A new job in England. England. That's where your belongings were being shipped off to. 

"Shit! I have to get to the airport" you thought as the memories in your mind dissolved. 

One final final look around the place you closed the door and locked it. Taking the key off the key ring was painstaking but eventually, you got it off and placed it on the counter in the landlord's office.

Walking down the stairs, lugging your suitcase behind you. You heaved it into the trunk of your Uber and sat in the front seat. 

The drive to the airport was somber, at least at first. The downtown traffic caused conversation to blossom between you and the driver. It was a welcome distraction.

The distraction lasted as you sat next to a lovely older woman who was returning home from visiting her children. 

9 hours later you stood at the front door of your new home for the next 2 years, at least on paper. 

You fought the urge to knock. 

"This is actually my home" you laughed out loud and turned the key. 

This apartment, or rather "flat" now that you were in the UK, was nothing like your previous one. 

The walls were white and filled with windows that looked out onto a scenic view of the town's skyline of tree's and other complexes. You had a balcony that shared a wall with your neighbors to the left. 

The interior was a unique architecture, the kitchen was tiny but the living room was big and open with enough space for entertaining. 

Abandoning your suitcase at the entrance you went to explore. Sure you'd seen this apartment already online. But not everything is exactly what it seems on the internet. 

The master, and only, bedroom was gorgeous. The bathroom attached was small but it was only you, so you didn't mind. A spare room was a spare room and there was plenty of storage which was unusual for a single person apartment.

That night you ordered take out and created shopping lists and plans to execute before you had to start work in a week or so. You blew up an air mattress and tried to sleep in your new room. Unsurprisingly, you tossed and turned until you ended up staring at the ceiling. The small crack made you laugh. The crack seemed to be the only flaw that the apartment had. 

Sleep overtook you, the silence of your neighbors surely helped. 

If only you knew the storm that was your neighbor. Gwilym Lee. 

The tall and deadly handsome man was gentlemanly and sophisticated. His flat was farm from the usual bachelor pad of his friends. The man had linen curtains for Christ sake. Yet, he was a ball of uncontrollable energy when he hosted people at his house, which was as often and led late into the night. 

This time the lack of noise was mostly due to the fact that he was currently not home. He was currently off in Brighton shooting for Midsomer Murders. Though he was due to return within the next couple of days. 

His days coincidentally mirrored yours. 

Waking up at around seven in the morning, going for a cup of tea, or coffee in your case. Then showering and headed out to run errands, or in his case shoot a scene. Returning home, cleaning up, ordering or going out for food and laying in bed planning tomorrow. 

After a few days, his current shoot ended and he was headed home. First stopping at the grocer to pick up food for a dinner party. You were at the same grocer and gave the tall man a polite smile as you passed each other in the aisle.

His gaze lingered on you. For multiple reasons. One reason being he had never seen you before, and it was a small town with only one market, which mostly the people in his apartment complex shopped at. The other being you were quite attractive, even in your "I'm just going to the grocery store outfit". 

Your gaze lingered too. Again for multiple reasons. He was attractive, put together and it looked like he was going to throw one hell of a party. In a weird way, it made you hopeful for your future in England. 

A party would have to wait, your apartment was still in shambles. 

All of your furniture arrived in mostly one piece. The boxes full of pictures and kitchen utensils lay stacked and partially open. That was your date tonight. Decorating.

Grabbing a bottle of rosé on the way to the register was a spur of the moment decision, but a good one. 

Once you made your short journey home you put away the groceries and opened the bottle. Taking a small sip from the bottle before pulling out a glass and pouring yourself a generous portion. Finally, you pulled out your phone and connected it to your speaker. Putting your music on shuffle you began filing through all of the boxes.

Gwil arrived home and heard muffled music through his walls. 

'Sounds like someone finally moved in,' He thought to himself. 

Instead of rifling through boxes he looked through recipes and began cooking. With music of course.

When you heard the same artist but a different song come from the other side of the wall you laughed. Your new neighbor had good taste in music, you'd have to tell them sometime.

The sun slowly dipped under the horizon and moonlight drifted into your home. The hum of music was at a lower volume creating a peaceful atmosphere. Talking and laughing came from the other side of the wall. It didn't bother you. In turn, it made you feel more at home. Lulls in conversation created an ambiance that you couldn't explain. Your music filled those quiet moments. Even Gwil noticed it. 

He had been too preoccupied with his friends to notice that the music had continued into the night. Lucy was actually the one to notice first. The last time her, Rami, Joe and Ben had been over there was no music, no sound from the apartment on the right. Of course, her keen ear was always open to hear a song she loved. She had asked Gwil what song was playing. 

"Um, I'm not playing any music. It must be the neighbor," He laughed his face contorting with slight confusion. 

"Oh, haha, well they've got great taste," Lucy laughed before refilling her own glass of rosé and joining the others on the sofa. 

At around 11 Gwil hugged and thanked his guests goodbye. Sighing happily he began cleaning up. However, it didn't last long when a startled scream replaced the quiet. 

You had finally finished the living room when you went into your room and flopped onto your bed, exhausted. 

To your surprise your duvet was wet. You stood back up and looked up at the crack in your ceiling. With your luck the second you looked up the water pipe burst, spraying cold water all over you. You couldn't stop the scream that came from your now wet lips.  

"Holy fuck!" You yelped. 

A loud banging came from your front door. It was Gwil, who had rushed over as soon as he heard your scream. 

You swung the door open and looked at the man from the grocery store. He was dressed to the nines in a light blue polo shirt tucked into a pair of brown slacks. Of course, you looked a mess. You were soaking, your hair clung to your face, your mascara had definitely smeared under your eyes. 

"Oh my, are you alright?" He asked, not able to suppress the shock on his face. It certainly wasn't what he was expecting. 

"Um, yea, just a bit wet," you laughed, trying to move the hair from your face. 

"Well, I'm glad you're alright, but what happened?" He asked stepping past your door frame after you. 

"I guess a water pipe broke, I'm not entirely sure,"

What you didn't expect was for him to get under the stream of water himself and try and sort out the problem. With no avail, but it was a kind gesture. You quickly scrambled and found a plastic moving bin and put it under the stream to attempt to collect some of the water. 

"Let me call the landlord to shut off the water," Gwil spoke up, brushing his own wet hair back. 

"Oh god, I'm sorry I dragged you into this," You apologized profusely. 

"Hush, it's no big deal," He chuckled placing his phone to his ear. 

During the brief phone call, you grabbed your own phone, a bag and threw some dry clothes into it. You started looking for a hotel to stay at until the problem was fixed. 

"What are you doing, love?"  Gwil asked leaning over your shoulder. Your heart soared at the nickname, god he was cute. 

"Looking for a hotel, because I don't think I want to sleep in my flooded apartment," You laughed not looking up. 

"Nonsense, stay with me while it gets fixed," He responded with sincerity. 

"I can't intrude like that, It's alright, It'll only be a few days," You smiled up at him. 

"I insist, at least for tonight, It's nearly midnight," He challenged raising an eyebrow. 

"Fine, only for tonight," You said matching his gaze. 

"And because you're cute," You mumbled under your breath afterward following him out. You didn't think he heard you but he did and smiled opening his door to his flat. 

"This is awkward but I seem to have rudely never asked you for your name... I'm Gwilym, but call me Gwil." 

"Oh! It's nice to meet you formally Gwil, I'm Y/N". 

"Well, Y/N, I'm sorry it's such a mess...". 

"You've seen my apartment right?" You laughed.

"I guess your right," He laughed, his eyes crinkling at the edges. 

"If you want to hop in the shower or change, the bathroom is down the hall on the right. Just shout if you need anything," 

"Thanks," You smiled and retreated to the bathroom. You couldn't help but laugh when you were greeted by your mess of a reflection. Pulling off your wet clothes you wrung them out in the sink and hung them on the shower rod to dry. Grabbing a towel you dried yourself off and dried your hair to the point that it was a bit frizzy but it wasn't sticking to you anymore. You were slightly upset that you didn't bring anything cuter to wear. After putting on a pair of legging and a tank top you walked out. Gwil had also changed. He was currently wearing dark grey joggers and a long sleeve. You shivered slightly, not thinking to bring a sweater, even though you normally would've worn one at home. 

"Here," Gwil smiled handing you a hoodie. 

"That obvious huh?" You laughed pulling the warm fabric over your head, slowing down slightly to enjoy the faint smell of his cologne. 

His breath hitched slightly when your smile popped out from the hoodie. It had been a while since he'd seen a girl in his clothes, and he couldn't imagine anyone it would look better on. 

"Thanks, Gwil," You smiled. 

"It's nothing, love," He smiled back walking over to the couch with a pillow and blankets.

You could tell that he was going to try and sleep on the couch, that was arguably too small for him to sleep on so you took the chance and sat down before he could. 

"Y/N, what are you doing?" 

"Taking the couch," You smiled innocently.

"Take the bed, I insist," He challenged. 

"Nope, If you're so adamant about sleeping on the couch your going to have to share it with me," You shot back, blushing slightly at the unintended implications. 

"Oh, I see," Gwil laughed amused. 

"Thanks again," You yawned looking briefly at your phone which read 12:06. 

"It's no problem, love, goodnight," He smiled and turned to go to his room. 

"Goodnight Gwil," You smiled and leaned back until you were laying down. 

You stared up at the ceiling, there was no crack. It made you laugh before shifting and falling into a peaceful sleep. 

Of course moving meant a new time zone which you weren't totally used to so you woke up quite late. As soon as you woke up you sat up rubbing your eyes and checked the time. Your eyes widened and looked outside, it was raining. Great. What really was great was the fact that Gwil hadn't woken up yet. He was exhausted from filming all week and last nights wild activities. 

Gently you padded out of his complex into yours. You changed, brushed your teeth, and flicked on some mascara. Before leaving you made a cup of coffee and grabbed some newly bought ingredients to make a simple breakfast as a thank you. 

When you returned you could hear the water running. Smiling you began cooking. You had no idea what Gwil liked, whether he drank coffee or tea, liked blueberries or how he liked his eggs cooked. So you created an assortment of foods. Cut up fruit and toast with options of butter, cheese, avocado or eggs. All while humming quietly to yourself. 

Gwil stepped out of the shower and noticed two things. The humming and the smell of whole grain toast, which always smells better when your not the one cooking. Intrigued, he pulled on a pair of dark grey joggers and a maroon Tshirt and walked into the kitchen. It took everything in him to not wrap his arms around your waist from behind. 

"What's all this?" He asked, his voice still laced with sleep. 

"Just a thank you gesture," You smiled turning around to face him. 

"I already told you it wasn't a big deal," He sighed but couldn't get mad at you, especially since he was hungry. 

"Tea?" He asked walking around you to a cupboard.

"No thanks, I've already got some coffee."

His nose scrunched up, "Ugh, I don't know how you drink that stuff." 

"Well, I don't know how you can drink tea, its basically slightly flavored hot water,"  You laughed raising an eyebrow. 

He playfully scoffed. "You'll learn." 

"I'm not too sure about that," You challenged back before falling into a casual conversation. 

The next couple of mornings were spent the same way. Waking up on the couch with stiff shoulders, making breakfast, trying to get the other to drink your preferred caffeinated drink and falling into a conversation that sometimes led to sitting on the couch all day. You talked about your previous life and your new job. He talked about his acting and friends. Sometimes you would turn on the radio or a playlist and work side by side in comfortable silence. Most days ended with a glass of wine on the couch watching a classic British TV series or a movie. Though Gwil would not show you Midsomer Murders despite your begging. 

Each night you drifted closer and closer. Your knees touching, Gwil's arm around the back of the couch. Hands grazing when doing dishes or lingering touches when moving past one another. Both of you wished for more contact but didn't want to impose or assume the other felt the same thing. However, both of you agreed that you felt like you had known each other for ages and enjoyed spending time together. 

You got the call from your landlord that the pipe would be finally done tomorrow morning at 10. Meaning one more night with Gwil. In the beginning, you were anticipating and ready to get your flat back, but now you just wanted to stay. It was nice with a roommate. Especially with Gwil as your roommate. On the other hand, you definitely were ready to sleep in a bed again. The plan had been to alternate and every night Gwil tried to get you to sleep in his bed. Of course, you were stubborn and didn't. Sure his couch was nice but you awoke with stiff shoulders. You could handle one more day on the couch. 

However, after your first day at your new job left you exhausted. Letting yourself into the apartment with Gwil's spare key you sighed. Happy to be home.

As you kicked off your shoes and put your bag down you noticed that it smelled good. Really good. 

"Gwil, honey, are you cooking?" You asked with a wide smile, your question answered once you walked into the kitchen where Gwil was wearing an apron and mixing something on the stove. Two glasses of wine set out on the island where it had been set nicely with placemats and fancy napkin foldings. 

"Maybe," He said drawing the word out with a toothy grin. 

"God, you're the best." 

"Does that mean you'll try some tea?"  "NO" You laughed. 

You couldn't wipe the grin off of your face as you went and changed. 

Dinner was amazing and you found yourself thanking him and staring at him blissfully. Gwil noticed but didn't notice his own staring. 

After doing the dishes you ended up going to the usual movie on the couch. Halfway through the movie you still couldn't get comfortable. You were stiff and trying not to disturb the movie but Gwil, being the observant man he could tell something was off. 

"Are you alright?" He asked shifting his gaze, not having to do too much to look at you as you were already closed. 

"Yea, I'm just a little stiff and tired," You said with a reassuring smile. The last thing you wanted to do was make it a big deal out of it. 

"Anything I can do?" He asked. 

"No, but do you mind if we finish the movie another time?" 

"Not at all, love, to bed you go," He said smiling, not moving.

"Well, you kind of in my bed..." You laughed looking at him. 

"Oh no! I guess you'll just have to use mine," He teased back, not wanting you to sleep on the couch again. 

"Gwil, come on," You said raising your eyebrows and tilting your head. 

"Nope, I'll carry you if I have to," "Yeah right," You laughed. 

You were proved wrong because the next second a strong pair of arms picked you up. 

"Gwil!!" You squealed as you carried you to his bedroom. You protested as much as you could through laughter. As soon as you were put down you jumped up and tried to run away. His lean arms caught you around your waist and pulled your laughing self back to the bed. Gwil was laughing too, as he picked you up by your waist and plopped you down on the bed. 

"Stay." He laughed down at you. 

"Am I your dog now or what?" You teased propping yourself up onto your elbows. 

At the movement, Gwil put his hands on your shoulders. 

"If you don't I'm going to pin you down until you fall asleep," He said, trying to be serious but failing to keep laughter contained. 

"Oh really?" 

"Don't believe me?"

"Okay fine I do," You yawned 

Reluctantly he removed his hands and stood back up. However, it was your turn to stop him. You shot your hand out and grabbed his wrist gently. 

"Stay?" You blurted out. 

"I mean, I can't make you sleep on the couch, you can barely sit on it. This bed is big enough for the two if us.." You rambled trying to hide heat on your cheeks. 

"Alright," He yawned with a smile. His heart was beating out of his chest as he clambered into his bed after you. 

"Goodnight Gwil," You smiled turning your back to him, offering some space. 

"Goodnight Caridad," He mumbled coping your positioning. 

The new nickname made you fall into slumber with a smile on your face. The smile stayed as you shifted into Gwil's arms during your sleep. Your heads stayed on separate pillows but his arms snaked their way around your waist while your hand rested on his chest. 

When you woke, your first thought was 'This is nice, this is the best I've slept in a long time'. However, your thought was replaced by panic. 'Shit, this is definitely stepping over some boundary'. Instead of untangling yourself without waking up Gwil, you decided to drift back into a blissful sleep. Later, Gwil woke up just as surprised and happy. Though he had plans to make you breakfast this time, so he carefully and reluctantly unraveled himself from your limbs. 

Not much longer than 15 minutes after Gwil left you woke back up. You decided to not say anything as you walked into the kitchen seeing Gwil donning an apron again. 

"What's all this?" You asked, your voice still laced with sleep. 

"Just a 'you're welcome' gesture," He smiled turning around to face you, much like your first morning at his apartment. 

"Seriously, you're too good to me," You smiled happily up at him. 

"Does this mean you'll try some tea this morning?"

You laughed and looked like you were considering his offer. "Not in a million years," 

"Whatever," He laughed and gave you a plate with pancakes. 

Breakfast went by too quickly, of course, the intriguing conversation didn't help it go by any slower. Unfortunately, you had a meeting with the landlord soon and wanted to shower and change. Gwil shot down your offer to do the dishes and told you that'd he do them later. He picked up your bag and you both slowly made your down the hall to your room. Stopping in front of it. 

"Thank you for everything," You smiled up at him, gently taking you bag and placing it inside. 

"Anytime, It's not a big deal," He smiled leaning against your door frame. 

Something came over him at the prospect of you going back to your lives before meeting each other. He didn't want to lose what you had. In his mind, the only way to make sure was to kiss you. So he did. 

At first, you were shocked. Gwil was kissing you. Fortunately, your hands worked their way up to cup his chin as you reciprocated the kiss. Pulling away he was smiling like an idiot. So were you. 

"See you around?" He grinned and turned to make the 4-meter journey back to his own flat. 

"See you around, neighbor," You laughed happily. 

You shut the door to your flat and leaned against it, smiling like a damn fool. You were glad you had moved into your apartment. Burst water pipes and all. 

[333vam333]

The Nowhere | got7

{ CHAPTER 2 } edited a lil

Title: The Nowhere

Word Count: 1k+

Genre: Drama, Romance, Fantasy-ish, Mystery, Thriller-ish

Warnings: mentions of suicide, murder, a lil graphic (??), a lil profanity(??), a lil smut too ;)

Pairings: Park Jinyoung x reader, Im Jaebum x reader

Summary: After suffering years from the same nightmares that slowly get worse as you grow older, you learn why those taunting dreams come to you like memories you can’t remember in an unfortunate way.

~

Balmy sunlight brushes past the swaying curtains, caressing against your soft skin and brightening up the darkness in your closed eyes. As consciousness flows into you, you can feel the squishy and smooth surface underneath you, and you groan as you face away from the small window to your left. You bring your hands up to your eyes and freeze midway once you register what’s bandaged on your right arm. A skinny tube curls up your arm, stopping on the back of your hand being held down by a clear bandage. A transparent liquid flows through it. Your eyes follow the tube’s trail and stop when you see a bag of the same clear liquid.

Contorting your face in confusion, you take note of the continuous beeping emanating from beside the window, white bed sheets resting on your legs, and a plastic curtain blocking your view of the rest of the room beside you. Your eyes gaze around the dimly lit room, taking in the sun’s rays spraying a light tangerine color across the white walls and beige, glossy wood floor. 

You face the window again, staring at the tree that splattered oddly shaped shadows in the room, the branches oscillating steadily in the calm breeze. The soft chirping of birds in the distance flows into your ears, comforting you like a lullaby as the memories of last night ram into your mind. 

Your sister’s panic-stricken voice still rings in your head, causing a wave of guilt to flood over you. You release a quivering sigh and glance over at the curtain at your left, wondering if your sister is on the other side. Your heart stops, tears blurring your vision, How badly did I hurt you?..

 The faint clanking of glass grabs your attention and you look at the cabinet past your feet. You tilt your head, eyeing a person crouched in front of the small, two-door cabinet, pushing bottles out of the way only to set them back in their places carefully. You rise slowly on your elbows hoping for a better look at the person, but a wave of nausea swarms over you and your head wobbles, your vision making twos of everything. Wincing, you begin to rub your temples and close your eyes. The feeling doesn’t last long.

The man who kept mumbling to himself was now standing, running a hand through his raven black hair frustratingly, and his other hand on his hip. His white-coated back faced you. Opening your mouth to speak is cut short when the brown pastel colored door swings open, the man standing in front of you jumps and gasps, as another man stands in the door way with his arms crossed.

“O-Oh!” the man’s voice, who stood before you, cracked, “H-Hyung! Hey, how’s it goin?” He puts his hands on his hips, pushing his doctor’s coat behind him.

The man in the door way rolled his eyes and shook his head, dropping his arms. “I told you you had no reason to be here, and why are you wearing my coat?” His eyes widen and points to the nametag as he took a few steps up to his friend. 

The other man stepped back, forcing a giggle out.  “Hm? No, my name is Im Jaebum too!”

Jaebum squints his eyes, lowering his eyebrows and cursing under his gritted teeth. He releases a agitated sigh and the dull tone of his voice raises , “You always do this..Leave before-” 

Your eyes meet and you suddenly feel small, his dark eyes piercing into your skin peculiarly. It remains silent for a few seconds before Jinyoung utters gleefully, “What?..Finally realize how much you want me here?” Jinyoung opens his arms as Jaebum begins to walk forward in a daze, his expression a mixture of astonishment and relief, past his baffled friend and towards you. Your eyes don’t leave each other until he’s standing beside you.

“How are you feeling?” Jaebum questions in a hushed voice, one that embraces you in a welcoming vibe. 

You don’t answer. You’re too taken aback by his surreal appearance. His chiseled features are screaming at you, making your face flush the longer you stare at his unblemished rosy-pale skin. His narrow eyes curve into a crescent as the corners of his heart-shaped lips curl up. Eyeing the two teeny birthmarks above his left eye, you bring a smile up to your face, but it vanishes as your sister crosses your mind.

“My sister..” your hand flies to your throat once you realize the pinch in your throat, your eyes widening, “ where is she?” You continued despite sounding like a smoker.

Jaebum furrows his eyebrows and tilts his head, mouthing the word ‘sister?’ as the other guy approaches you. You spot the water bottle in his hand before you get to see his face, and as you chug the water down, the cool liquid burning down your throat gives you a strange satisfaction as you can feel it drop in your stomach. You gasp once you take the bottle away from you and hear a giggle coming from the left side of you. You hadn’t noticed but Jinyoung sat at the end of the bed, just near your feet making a little indention on the twin-sized mattress.

“Aw. You’re cute.” Jinyoung’s eyes disappear and the corners of his eyes wrinkle, the smile on his full lips is bright.

Jinyoung’s features aren’t chiseled as Jaebum’s are instead he has a childish appearance with his squishy face. He gives off the ‘friendly-neighbor’ vibe the more you stare at him, making it more easier to look at him without becoming a blushing mess. 

“Sorry to tell you, Y/N,” your eyes are on Jaebum again. You didn’t see a joyful smile plastered on his perfect face and as he sets a comforting hand on your shoulder, your heart skips a beat. And not because he’s attractive.

You began to brace yourself for whatever Jaebum was about to tell you, biting the inside of your cheek and gripping your hands tightly together. You inhale sharply in hopes to suck in the swelling tears and thoughts of the unwanted. Please..please don’t let it be so bad..

  “We found only you in the vehicle.”

What.

Your widened eyes slowly narrow, your mouth smiling in disbelief. You begin to cackle unsure whether it’s from relief that you didn’t have to hear ‘sister’ and ‘dead’ in the same sentence, or because his information was unconvincing. You, out of everyone, knew your sister was with you when you had the deer-like reaction when those bright lights approached the both of you. You remember feeling your sister’s newly painted fingernails digging into the backs of your hands, and her frantic, ear-piercing voice repeat your name as if she was a broken record.

You stare up at Jaebum, wiping your tears, with a foolish grin carved into your face. “There’s no way! She was with me, her nails dug into my hands, I swear, look!” You bring your hands up to his face but you realize your evidence is useless to him. He probably assumes it’s glass.. You frown, bringing your hands down in defeat. 

“Maybe she hit her head harder than we assumed?” Jinyoung murmurs loud enough for you to hear. You shoot him a death-glare and he jumps when you make eye contact. He leans to Jaebum and whispers to him while he keeps his wide eyes on you, watching to see if you would attack him. “She’s scarier than I thought, Hyung.”

His words make you think, Than I thought? Did he know me?..

You shake your head and decide to not let it bother you. “Where am I then?” 

“A hospital.”

“Don’t be a smartass, Jinyoung!” Jaebum growls, holding his clenched fist behind him. He inhales deeply and faces you, forcing a smile out. “Y/N, I asked around to see if anyone knew you here, but unfortunately you have no family or friends that can take you in for the time being.”

“Why would I need to stay?..I need to be in Seoul-”

“You’re still not feeling well.” Jaebum didn’t let you to finish, like whatever you had to say didn’t matter.

Everything that left his kissable lips flew over your head. Nothing made sense, and it caused your head to ache when you focused on it too hard. 

“Y-Yes I am-I mean, sure, my head was hurting earlier but that’s because I got up too fast..” you freeze, furrowing your eyebrows and squinting your eyes as you face away from the both of the men. “Right?..”

Jinyoung shakes his head as soon as your eyes land on him. “Your leg is sprained,” he gestures to the blanket and your gaze follows. You hadn’t realized your leg was bandaged or even sore all because your family was the only thing that concerned you.

“Your mind is everywhere, Y/N, take it easy.” Jaebum says assuringly, rubbing your back in comforting circles.

But it doesn’t work. You can feel your blood begin to boil, the urge to pounce on him consuming your mind, and your fists clenching so hard your nails are making your palms ooze blood from the tiny crevices. Jaebum takes note of this and steps back.

“We need to establish where you’ll be staying.” he continues, putting his hand on his chin in deep thought. 

“Can’t I just stay here?-”

“Oh!” Jinyoung’s eyes brighten and he snaps, almost like he thought of the most brilliant idea. You swore you could see a light bulb flash above his head for a split second. “Hey, Hyung, how about she stay with us?”

The amount of times your face has contorted into confusion is more than you would normally recall ever doing. “Uh-”

Jaebum’s mouth hung open in disbelief and he shook his head violently, “We can’t handle another person in the house, Jinyoung! You don’t even help me take care of the messes, and they’re mostly yours because I’m hardly home!”

Jinyoung’s smile is too bright it’s almost blinding. He grabs your hands, shaking them slightly. “Oh, you’re gonna love your time with us, Y/N.”

~

Well, this is something. I kinda got lazy midway, but I guess it’s alright. Hehe.

 It’s also shorter than what I’m used to writing, but that’s because I’m also working on something else as well. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter! 

oof.

[irondadheadcanons]

Peter has spider instincts and he can control them eighty percent of the time of course Peter hasn't told Tony of this Tony finds out when Peter comes back in to the compound kitchen covered in blood and a look of extreme satisfaction on his face (he ate a deer and fought a bear) and after Peter's shower they have a talk

(QUICK NOTE: We wrote this at 4:30 am. Just… just remember that, okay?)

–

(italics are kat/@losingmymindtonight and regular is shannon/@parkrstark) 

Okay… so… there’s a lot to unpack here.

First of all: why would a spider FIGHT A BEAR

Where did he FIND A BEAR in NYC??

Was he upstate already?

Did he kill the deer himself or did he steal the deerfrom a bear and that’s why he fought one?

Do spiders even eat deer?

I love how serious you’re going into this

This is IMPORTANT STUFF SHANNON

Listen. If Peter can control his spider instincts 80% ofthe time then that means that 20% of his life he CAN’T

Which means he spends about 73 days a year just… punchingbears and eating deer

I’m concerned

He should get that checked out

“Bruce… Bruce we’ve got a teenie little problem”

Okay okay so I looked into it and the biggest animal Ican find record of a spider eating is a bird or a rat so i’m not sure how wegot a deer here

WHY ARE YOU LOOKING THIS UP. YOUR BROWSER HISTORY IS ALREADYQUESTIONABLE FROM YOUR WHUMP RESEARCH

So Upstate New York’s black bear population is currentlyestimated at 6,000-8,000. That means that if Peter kills a black bear everytime he loses control of his “spider instincts,” it will take him about 83years to eradicate the entire population (assuming that the bears aren’treproducing)

Significantly less if he can knock out two each episode

What the fuck

Do you like my science Shannon?

#1 I think that’s math #2 I could be wrong about #1 becauseI always skipped science class #3 why are you like this

I imagine that Tony thought #3 too when Peter camewaltzing into the Compound covered in blood and deer guts

On that note: CAN YOU BELIEVE TONY LET HIM TAKE A SHOWERBEFORE TALKING ABOUT THIS

IM SORRY SHANNON

BUT IF YOU ROLLED INTO MY HOUSE COVERED IN BITS OF DEAD DEER

THE SHOWER CAN WAIT

WE HAVIN A TALK FIRST

I can assure you, I will never come to your house covered indead deer

And also

Why did he eat the deer but not the bear

SEE NOW YOU’RE GETTING INTO THE SPIRIT

Do deer taste better than bears?

Let me ask Google

I await a response with baited breath

Truly how did I live before knowing the answer to thisquestion

So apparently bear meat can taste pretty nasty if thebear has been eating a lot of salmon or carrion

So maybe it was just a really nasty bear

And Peter was like “nah. Let me get at that raw deer meatinstead”

So maybe Peter tracks the bear’s diet before attacking it

Do you think he kills the bear or does he just

Like

Roundhouse kick it in the jaw

I was wondering that

“I’M THE CAPTAIN NOW”

And the bear is just like “yessir”

Maybe he just knocks it out and then… calls it a day

Maybe he’s already full from the deer???

Which came first: the deer or the bear

Does he just… get the urge to fight bears??? Or does heget the urge to eat deer and therefore fights bears for their deer carcasses???

Maybe the deer guts on him attracted the bear so he had tofight off the bear. He didn’t want to kill it, it was just self defense

Because even in spider instinct mode, Peter is still achill bro

I just googled “is there a bear-fighting spider”

There isn’t, but apparently there IS a sport known asspider fighting

Which is exactly what it sounds like

Spiders fighting each other?

Yep

For what purpose?

Is it like a game?? A mating ritual??

DIRECTLY FROM WIKIPEDIA: “In the United States, spider-fighting is also prevalentin prisons in Florida, where inmates catch them and keep them in boxes as pets.In 2002, a fight between three inmates over the theft of a pet spider resultedin life-threatening skull injuries to one inmate and additional charges to theother two.”

SHANNON I CANT BREATHE

Life gets rough in the big house

You have to rely on spider fights

“Life threatening skull injuries”

That must have been one hell of a spider, to warrant that

Also, the ambiguity of “they have a talk” is just………there’s so much option there

There is NO info about Tony’s reaction AT ALL

I’d hope his reaction involves some concern

“Comes back to the kitchen” also means that they were justchilling in the kitchen, probably talking about some cool suit upgrades, whenPeter was suddenly like, “hold on, fam, spider instincts, gotta eat a deer” andthen goes out and comes back after however long it takes him to do this

“Peter? What did you even DO?!”

“Oh, you know. Killed a deer, fought a bear.”

“You fought a WHAT NOW?!”

“Spider instincts”

“There is not a species of spider ALIVE that does thisshit, Peter. THIS IS NOT NORMAL WHAT THE FUCK”

“WAIT. DID YOU EAT RAW, UNPROCESSED DEER MEAT??? DEARGOD. BRUCE??? PETER NEEDS A RABIES SHOT ASAP”

“Some spiders hibernate, some eat deer.”

Listen. We as a society need to accept ALL types ofspiders, strange bear fighting habits and all

And this conversation happens after the shower… does Tonyask or does he just shove him right into the bathroom?

Does he think it’s human blood at first??????

“Do we need this hide a body??? PETER??? DO WE NEED TOHIDE A BODY???”

IMMEDIATE SUPPORT FROM IRONDAD

If he has a satisfied look on his face, does that meanthat Peter’s spider instincts are still going off or does the normal humanPeter just see…… no problem with this turn of events???

Is he satisfied with the taste of the deer or the outcome ofthe bear fight?????

Maybe he’s used to it and he’s just riding that spiderinstinct high for a little while longer

Does Peter’s bucket list just look like:

1. Meet Mark Hamill2. Build a Lego Death Star3. Go to Comic Con4. Fight a fucking bear5. Pet a Dalmation

Okay but the concept of the instincts being like a highis HELLA amusing to me

“Yeah hi my name is Peter and I get high off of DECKINGBEARS and MURDERING DEER with my BARE HANDS”

Does he always eat deer? Or is it this like steadyprogression of animals. Maybe he started small with like squirrels and slowlymoves his way up the animal kingdom

The endgame is a blue whale

“Mr. Stark, can we go on a cruise?”

“…… why?”

“No reason”

Just, for a sec, imagine Peter fighting a blue whale

How do you even fight something that big???

Does he nibble on it slowly and the whale doesn’t evenrealize it

Or does he fucking pick it up by the tail and bodyslam itback and forth

BOTH IMAGES ARE GLORIOUS

“Happy? Where’s the kid?”

“I thought you had him?”

“Ah shit. He’s trying to eat a damn whale again.”

IM CRYING

So now Tony knows the 20% of Peter’s life where he losescontrol…..what does he do??? Does he lock him in the Compound with some cookeddeer meat? Does he let him loose with a really long leash? Does he follow himaround spray bottle filled with water for when he tries going after the wronganimals?

Peter sees a squirrel and starts foaming at the mouth andTony just pulls out a spray bottle and sprays him in the face

“No! Bad Peter! Leave it!”

“If you’re good I’ve got some raw bison waiting at homewith your name on it”

“This time I won’t try hiding vegetables in the rottingcarcass.”

“No, you still have to eat them! You’re still a growingspider…boy…thing”

I love how we just assume that Tony would just look atthis situation and go “…this is fine”

Actual footage of Tony

Maybe he’s afraid he’ll be the next snack if he upsets Peter

Peter just starts gnawing on one of the receptionists andTony runs over with the spray bottle like “SPIT IT OUT”

…. we’re getting into dangerous territory now

“DAMNIT PETER. I CAN’T LOSE ANOTHER WORKER. NOT AGAIN.”

“NOT AGAIN”

Poor Jenny Carter came into work wearing her fox coat. Shewas never seen again.

You know what? Serves her right for supporting the peltindustry

Peter wears Jenna like a coat

Oh GOD

But only when he’s high on spider juices

Tony has an important business meeting and the other personkeeps staring down at Tony’s leg in concern. Peter is gnawing at his anklebecause that last deer just wasn’t enough.

Tony’s like “WHAT’S THE MATTER YOU NEVER SEEN A SPIDERFEEDING BEFORE”

Peter never actually hurts Tony because even as a highspider, the irondad bond is too strong. And Tony trusts him enough to let ithappen

…… are you making this cute right now

It seems I am

Tony keeps a bag full of dried strips of meat on him tolet Peter chew on during his “episodes”

Happy mistakes it for jerky one day

Poor Happy

HAPPY WOULD BE SO FUCKING DONE

*Peter is chewing on Tony’s shoulder*

“TONY THIS IS NOT NORMAL”

“But look how cute he is”

“TONY HE’S TRYING TO EAT YOU”

“He’s giving me kisses. What a good son”

“WHAT THE FUCK”

“THIS WAS NOT IN THE JOB DESCRIPTION TONY”

Happy is disrupting Peter’s peace so when he’s complainingto Tony, Peter gets really close and Happy flinches expecting to lose an armbut Peter just slaps him across the face with his dried meat strip

“Bad Happy”

Tony’s grinning. “That’s right, buddy. Bad Happy. Shameon you, Hap. Look at him. He’s an angel”

“Spray.”

“You’re right, kiddo. Bad Happy needs a spray.”

“Tony, don’t you.. I swear to god if you—”

TONY GETS SO USED TO USING THE SPRAY BOTTLE THAT ONE DAYIN A MEETING HE JUST BUSTS IT OUT WHEN ONE OF THE STOCKHOLDERS IS BEINGDIFFICULT AND SPRAYS HIM IN THE FACE

So what state does Peter revert to while he’s in this spiderkilling mode… what kind of state of mind does he have? Like he’s high? He’sdrunk? He’s a toddler? He’s a dog?

He seems like a mix between a toddler/a dog/and a dogaddict

*drug addict

I meant drug addict

Sorry, I was just projecting there

He’s addicted to petting puppies

And chewing on them…. There was that one reallyunfortunate incident at the animal shelter….

They don’t talk about that… Lucky gets by with three legsfine now.

Shannon do you realize this is the most elaborateheadcanon we’ve ever done

This may be my favorite one yet

… Shannon we can do crack now too

Crack, whump, and fluff: THE HOLY TRINITY

This is our legacy

[wtf-taeyong]

Thursday // Taehyung

word count - 10.9k+ __________________

It was a Thursday.

Kim Taehyung’s skin was heavy with makeup, the artists fingers that were way too cold tilting his head this way and that. His temper was rising, being tired and frustrated enough that the chattering of the makeup artists was enough to piss him off, despite usually joining in with their gossip and laughter.

He hadn’t slept properly in a few days, being way too busy with preparations for the band's latest comeback and the stage that they were due to be on in less than twenty minutes. He was being worked to the bone and the few hours that he had time to have a nap, he was being kept awake by another member or simply his recurring anxieties that plagued him until it felt like he couldn’t breathe. It seemed all he did lately was stare at the darkened ceiling and pray to any of the gods out there to take mercy on him and allow a few hours of sleep. Nobody out there listened.

He couldn’t make himself fall asleep in the makeup chair like he usually would, so Taehyung nabbed a newspaper that was on the side, hoping that the words would lull him to sleep like they usually would.

Except they fucking didn’t, and Taehyung had ended up reading the entire newspaper, cover to cover, for the first time in his entire life. Well most of it; Taehyung had skipped the birth announcement and obituary page, usually finding it both uplifting and depressing.

Shrugging slightly, he ignored the constant sensation of the makeup brush dancing across his skin despite the fact that he had so much product on his face it almost felt like he couldn’t smile without it cracking, and turned to the aforementioned page - promising himself he wouldn’t look at the obituary page for fear of resuming his crotchety foul mood. However, when he was finished smiling about all the little babies that had been introduced to the world, he couldn’t help himself when his eyes darted to the opposite page.

It was all black and grey, as dismal as the topic the ink was describing, and his eyes absorbed the words like they would fall off the page if he didn’t do it fast enough. It was mostly elderly people that had passed away, which in a way was a good thing. They had lived full lives, had plenty of experiences, and Taehyung absentmindedly thought that he would prefer to die when he was old and grey.

Maybe he would be surrounded by his huge family and hundreds of dogs, thinking back to all the experiences he’d had. All of the times he’d had with his closest friends growing up, all of the hardships getting through school, all the times he’d met a cute dog in the street. All of the times, the hours, the days he spent with his brothers; on stage, in the studio, in the practise room, sitting around the dining table at the ass crack of dawn, eyes swollen shut and no words needing to be shared to express a shared exhaustion. Eventually he would think to the woman he would marry, his soulmate, and all of their children they would have. All of the sleepless nights and changing nappies, all of the birthday parties and school runs. Yes, Taehyung would be okay with dying when he was old and grey.

His eyes finally made it to the bottom of the page, to the smallest little section of writing, and he read it quickly.

It was a woman, his age. His heart was already heavy at the loss, and when he read it was a murder, a robbery gone wrong, that claimed the lady’s life, he felt even more sorrowful. He couldn’t imagine what the family and friends of this woman were going through and he was thankful it wasn’t anybody he knew.

He folded up the paper, and set it down to the side of him again. The stylist was just spraying his face with setting spray, his eyes closing automatically, and he couldn’t sleep now even if he was about to drop off. His mind was swimming with a faceless woman, alone and defenceless. Did they have long hair? Short hair? Were they tall, or short? Was she a mother? Did she have a job? Are her family okay? Were her friends dealing with this alright?

Taehyung had too many questions that he would never find the answers to.

-

“Thank you, Osaka!” Namjoon shouted over the roar of the crowd, and all of them bowed again before running offstage.

Panting and breathless, Taehyung was quick to pull off his microphone wires and had the equipment to a nearby stagehand. Grabbing a bottle of water, uncapping it and sipping at the liquid that had never tasted so good in his entire life, he allowed another stylist to start dabbing at the sweat that had built up around his face.

Knowing he was expected back in the chair to have all the makeup taken off him, he shirked off his heavy, velvet jacket and trailed off after Jimin and Jungkook, barely mustering the energy to join in with their banter. The sweat was beginning to dry up in the cold air, leaving him feeling slightly clammy and gross, and he hoped the stylists would hurry up this time and take all the crap off his face so he could go and shower.

Better yet, go back to the hotel and shower there. The water pressure was divine.

Staring at his reflection with incredibly blank eyes, Taehyung didn’t even find it within himself to flinch when his bags were revealed under the shield of makeup he was wearing. He hoped that the fans hadn’t noticed how tired he was. He didn’t want them to worry needlessly about him; he was okay. They had a few days off soon and they would spend it resting. He was alright.

Just as his face was being moisturised, one of the managers approached Taehyung unsteadily, biting his lip and clutching a phone tightly to his chest.

“Taehyung?” He started, and immediately Taehyung was on edge. The tone of voice was too nervous, too worried, and Tae wasn’t sure if he wanted to know why.

“Yes? What’s wrong?” Taehyung asked, barely able to turn his head to make eye contact that wasn’t through a mirror before the stylist tutted and brought his head back round. Resisting the urge to roll his eyes at her sudden need for speed, Taehyung merely raised his eyebrows at the manager through the mirror reflection.

“You all gave your phones in before we started, but yours has been ringing constantly. I didn’t check who it was because I don’t want to invade your privacy, but I thought you should probably call whoever it is back,” The manager said, holding the phone out to Taehyung. “They sound pretty desperate to get into contact with you.”

His heart in his mouth, Taehyung took the suddenly offensive rectangle of metal and turned it over. Quashing down the urge to vomit, he skipped past the twenty something missed calls from his mother, and called her back.

Stepping out of the chair and ignoring the outraged stylist, Taehyung started rubbing the remaining product into his face by himself, stepping out of the room and into the much quieter hallway.

The phone rang only twice before his mother picked up, as if she had been waiting for her phone to go off.

“Taehyung? Is that you?”

“It’s me, Mom. Is everything okay?”

“Oh, Taehyung, sweetheart, I’m so, so sorry!” Taehyung grit his teeth, remembering what he had lost the last time she had said these words.

“What is it?”

“It’s your friend, Tae!”

“Which one, Mom?”

“It’s Y/N! I only just found out today - in the papers - I can’t believe they didn’t call or say something, I can’t-”

“What’s wrong with Y/N, Mom?” Taehyung asked, his oesophagus closing up in panic. If something had happened to you, he didn’t know what he was going to do. He didn’t think he’d be able to handle his oldest and most treasured friend being hurt.

Suddenly wishing he had thought to call you this morning, he pressed the phone further into his head.

“Mom? What’s wrong with Y/N?”

“She’s dead, Taehyung! She was murdered!”

You had been killed.

Some person, some filthy, scum of the earth, had put their hands on you and they had murdered you.

Why had Taehyung not heard about this?

His stomach was clenched uncomfortably tightly and there was a burning sensation in his eyes. Was he exhausted or was his grief not registering with his mind?

He couldn’t believe it. You had been murdered. Your presence, your stunning, beautiful being had been robbed from him and everybody around you. He couldn’t even fathom. His mind was moving far too quickly for him to comprehend, his heart slamming against the wall of his ribcage and his lungs were being squeezed too tight and suddenly Taehyung was lurching forwards, spewing his guts all over the floor and everybody around him were exclaiming in shock, asking him what was wrong and running to get cleaning equipment (maybe a bucket too) and Jimin’s hands were on his shoulders and patting his head and Taehyung was

Taehyung was crying.

He was crying, crying your name and other words he didn’t understand. He couldn’t understand it. He was picturing your smile, the most wonderful thing he had ever seen, and then he tried to picture someone even thinking about harming you. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t make the connection.

Taehyung was crying desperately in Jimin’s arms and he couldn’t answer any questions, his tongue not allowing him to make any movements. Not when it felt like his heart had just been removed and there was an empty hole where it used to be.

People were asking his mother questions through the phone, but Taehyung’s mind was elsewhere. Swathed in horror and agony, he thought back to the newspaper and the obituary page and suddenly he was retching again, spilling possibly everything he’d ever eaten all over the floor again.

He needed to call somebody. He needed to call you, even if it was to hear your voicemail message. He needed to do something even as tears were dripping down his face and his nose was all snotty and his eyelashes were clumped together. His hands were shaking and he needed to grasp onto something; something soft and something that smelled like you, not Jimin. He wanted you, he needed you, but he got Jimin and that wasn’t good enough anymore.

-

It was the same Thursday and he was standing in the queue to check in his baggage and get through security. He was flipping through his passport, ensuring that he still had his boarding pass tucked inside for the hundredth time, then adjusted his beanie and face mask to make sure there was no risk of anybody noticing who he was.

Honestly, without the familiar six bodies flanking him as well as all of their managers, it would be harder to identify him as V from BTS.

For today, he just wanted to be Kim Taehyung. That’s all you knew him as and for once, he wanted to make everything about you.

Taehyung was sickened to think that everything else up until then had been about him.

Eventually he made it through security, with a minor issue where he had to remove his face mask and sunglasses to let the woman checking passports that it was actually him. Her eyes had widened marginally but she was thankfully professional about the situation, especially when Taehyung had raised a finger to his lips in a motion that told her to keep this under wraps.

As far as everybody else knew, Taehyung was lying in his hotel room, suddenly taken ill with some kind of flu. Only the members and a select few managers knew that he had booked a flight back to Daegu to visit your parents, his family, and then go to your funeral.

Your funeral. Tae hadn’t thought this day would come for many, many years yet.

His mind felt very detached from his body. He was going through the familiar motions of finding an empty table at a coffee shop and connecting to the WiFi, ordering a coffee that he probably wouldn’t drink, unable to keep much down since the devastating blow had been delivered to his very soul.

He pulled his phone back out of his back pocket and plugged his earphones in. There was no music playing, but Taehyung was hoping that having his earphones in was enough of a deterrent for anybody that might have approached him.

He was leaning his head on his hand, scrolling absentmindedly through the last messages the two of you had sent to each other. The last text was only last week, from him, mentioning briefly that they were doing a show near Daegu in less than a month and he would be able to get you a ticket to come and see him. He didn’t know if he even wanted to perform in Daegu anymore if you weren’t going to be there.

You had replied with only a series of texts full of happy emojis, and he sent his own in reply. Tears lined his eyes when he remembered that you would never send a text again, waking him up at 4am because you’d had a nightmare, or you couldn’t sleep, or - even better - you were drunk and uncharacteristically affectionate. When that was the case you usually only called with the sole purpose of reminding him how much you loved him. His stomach clenched uncomfortably again when he recalled how he didn’t put nearly enough effort into your friendship. He never text you first or called you to see how you were like you did. You even ordered him food from the local delivery place, paying for it online, at stupid hours in the morning so he wouldn’t go without dinner. The few times that you had visited from home, you had made so much effort to get on with the other members. It was you that managed to coax Jungkook out of his room and to play video games with you, Taehyung and Jimin, exclaiming that ‘Two against one isn’t fair! Jimin will be slaughtered, you couldn’t have that on your conscious, Jungkook’. After that, Jungkook had actually started talking to the rest of them and Taehyung had gained another invaluable friend.

You were his best friend for years and years, and he didn’t even give you the time of day; now you were gone, and Taehyung felt like he was dying too.

He sighed, resting his head on his carry on luggage. Retrospectively, bringing his favourite Gucci holdall as his hand luggage was a poor decision, based on the few glances he was receiving, but nobody seemed to think too deep into it. Making the connection between a Gucci bag and him leaving the country seemed like a stretch, but Taehyung knew enough about his fans to know that they were all detectives in the making. One picture would be all it took for thousands of questions to be asked and he was way too tired - incredibly too sad - to answer anything.

The next thing he did was scroll through your private instagram that he had followed a long time ago but never really checked. It was a normal instagram that you’d see from anybody; pictures of scenery, pictures from nights out, the odd selfie here and there. He scrolled and scrolled and scrolled - mentally thanking you that you had a love for photography because even the pictures of leaves, cozy coffee shops and woodland walks were so intrinsically you that he almost wept - all the way to the start, and the first picture you had posted made him pause.

It was you, smiling so widely it must have hurt, and your eyes were screwed shut. Ice cream was all over your face and your hair was wild around you, but you looked so unbearably happy that Taehyung couldn’t find it within him to look away.

You were wrapped in his arms and he was also covered in ice cream, hair pushed from his forehead and slightly sweaty. His tongue was sticking out towards you, as if he was about to lick the sweetness from your cheek. His hands were gripping onto you, pulling you closer as it looked like you were about to squirm away.

Taehyung’s entire body went cold. The picture had a modest amount of likes, and the two of you looked like you were having a lot of fun, but he could not remember a second of the moment shared between the two of you.

He tried. He tried so hard, searching within his very soul for any moment shared between the two of you involving ice cream and shoving it in each others faces, but there was absolutely nothing there.

He might have vomited again, right in the middle of the airport, if he had eaten anything for the last few days for him to vomit up. Maybe it would be entirely coffee based.

It was almost surreal, staring at that picture. The two of you were obviously young in it, maybe mid-adolescents, but it was startling how much the two of you had changed. There he was in the airport, an internationally famous singer, and there you were, reduced to a single obituary. Different though you were, Taehyung didn’t think scrabbling for happy memories of you would make him this… Nervous.

He couldn’t seem to remember you properly. How long had it been since he saw you last? A year? Two? It couldn’t have been more, could it?

Taehyung couldn’t even remember that much.

-

Landing in Daegu and getting into a taxi to go home was something that he thought would make him feel better. He thought that he would be able to feel the exhaustion leaving him, seeping from his body through his pores, but it only made him feel more miserable. For a long time, he had wished to go home for at least for a few days, but he hated - no, detested - that the reason he was flying home for a week was because you had been stabbed to death. The weight of the things he should have done whilst you were alive was physically causing him to droop, his shoulders curling forwards on himself, and even the taxi driver asked him if he was okay.

Taehyung just shrugged, saying that he had a lot of things on his mind, and the taxi driver had nodded as if he understood.

A single flicker of his temper from the days before flared up before inevitably dying down - How could this man, this stranger, possibly understand what Taehyung was going through? How did he know? How could he feel the same impenetrable numbness that came with the sudden death of his best friend?

Were you even his best friend? Did he have the privilege of calling you that anymore? He didn’t know that much about you anymore.

He sighed, scrubbing his eyes angrily to remove any evidence of his momentary lapse in strength. He wanted to spend time with his family, but he had a suspicion that he would spend most of his visit in your room, surrounded by your things lest he forget what being with you feels like.

-

He was lying in his childhood bedroom, staring at the blank ceiling. Being home, lying on a mattress that was as familiar to him as his mother’s arms, was supposed to make him happy. He wasn’t even meant to be lying down, he should have been spending time with his mother and father, perhaps going out and treating them to a dinner. On the contrary, the house had been almost deafeningly still and quiet when he got home, his mother only embracing him and kissing him twice before he holed himself in his room like he was fifteen years old again.

His walls were completely bare, lines indicating where posters and pictures once were. Where your face used to be, alongside his, plastered all over his room. He didn’t know when your pictures and his posters had been taken away but he didn’t care enough to get up and ask his parents.

Perhaps his room was about to be converted into something, figuring he wouldn’t come home for a long time, but the tragedy had shaken apart those plans. He wondered what it was going to be changed into. Probably a small gym, knowing his father wanted to do exercise to help his health and weight.

He realised he didn’t really care what his bedroom was turned into, as long as he could have those pictures back. If he couldn’t have you, then he would take your pictures back to Seoul with him. You hadn’t seen his new bedroom anyway and he knew you’d love Namjoon’s extensive Ryan plush collection.

The sun was beginning to go down, and Taehyung still hadn’t moved. He’d ignored his mother when she knocked on his door to call him down for dinner and he didn’t even move when his stomach growled angrily. His phone had fallen off the side of the bed several hours ago and, even when it vibrated several times, he didn’t make any movement to collect it.

He didn’t really do anything at all for what felt like several minutes but was the entire day.

By the time the sun had completely gone down and the slight draft from the open window was beginning to get uncomfortable, he was up and pulling his shoes back on. Thundering down the stairs and grabbing his coat, he merely nodded at his father who gave him a thin smile in return.

Heading out the door and down the darkened street, his feet carried him all the way to your face like they had a thousand times, before they had taken him to the other side of South Korea and away from you.

Staring up at your house, with its dark and cold windows, Taehyung felt another part of him disappear. It was almost as if a part of him hadn’t believed it, and seeing your house as empty as his life suddenly was shocked him.

The last time he had been standing in this spot, hands wrapped around the top of the wrought iron gate at the end of the path up to your door, he had been shorter. He had been smaller, weaker, completely unknown. He had been wearing nothing but jeans and a t-shirt and he didn’t even have any money on him. His hair was black and his skin was darker, imperfect, but you still opened your door to him and smiled at him like he had brought you everything you could have ever wanted even though his hands were empty.

You were always smiling at him like that, even when he had done things that were less than desirable. No matter what mood you were in, you always smiled at him like he had hung the sun in your sky for you, and goddammit he would have. He’d have done anything for you and he still would.

He’d launch himself into space and bring you the brightest star if it meant that you’d open your door, right now, to him.

You didn’t though, even after standing there for what could have been hours. His hands were burning from the coldness of the gate and he couldn’t help but let go.

He had to let go.

Turning to leave, he grit his teeth and dug his hands into the pockets of the coat that he suddenly hated. It was too big, too white, too expensive and staring at himself in the reflection of a car he walked past made him uncomfortable. He didn’t recognise himself at all, and if it wasn’t so cold he would have ripped the coat off and left it there in the road.

The street was deserted thankfully, and he made his way straight to the arcade that was on the small high street not far from the centre of town.

After school, you would usually go there together and try to beat your high scores. If one of you’d had a particularly trying day, you’d spend even longer, running back home and begging your parents for more money to spend on the machines with the bright flashing lights and excitable music that rang through his eardrums and sent pre-pubescent Taehyung into a frenzy.

No matter how hours Taehyung spent at the arcade by himself after you had gone home, practising at that one game that you were always frustratingly better than him at, you always beat him. He was going to confess one of these days, but now he never could. You would have scoffed probably, then laughed at his pettiness; back then, his anger at your perfect streak of wins was the most vexing thing in the world.

He wondered vaguely if anybody had beaten your high score.

It was closed now, the shutters brought down tightly over the entrances. No lights were on, leaving the place look unfortunately rundown and abandoned. The paint peeling from the sign was a far cry from its glory days during Taehyung’s youth, with its constant stream of happy, screaming children with exasperated adults in tow or equally excited friends.

Now, it was vacant and dark and old, and Taehyung didn’t feel the familiar surge of joy at the sight of his favourite hangout. It just wasn’t the same, staring up at the sign, without you next to him. You would have been rolling back and forth on your heels, as you always did instead of standing still, and your hands would have been clasped together in front of you. Eventually, sick of his standing and staring, you would have tugged on his sleeve and whined about going in already.

Taehyung didn’t realise he was crying until a tear fell off the edge of his jaw and onto the floor below.

It was stupid, really. He’d been crying on and off for the better part of the entire week before his flight back home, and he still wasn’t done. Honestly, he didn’t think he’d ever be done crying over you.

Scrubbing at his eyes furiously, almost angry at his own grief and how apathetic it made him feel towards everything other than you, he turned on his heel and strode down the road away from the arcade. With every step away he took, he felt a tugging, as if it was the last time he’d ever visit the place. He knew it wasn’t, though.

He’d come and play games again, one day. Maybe with his own children. Perhaps he’d even beat your high score, finally.

The walk to the dessert shop was incredibly quick, which is how the two of you preferred it. Knowing that you’d have to walk any longer than five minutes to get a huge bowl of ice cream to share would have put the two of you off, so the place that was within walking distance was too perfect for you.

Sometimes you’d skip the arcade completely, too drained by life to play, and just immediately grab your usual booth and devour the biggest sundae together before walking home, complaining about your bulging stomachs and promising never to eat that amount of ice cream again. You always did the next day.

The place was more or less the same. Perhaps the colour of the walls had changed to a more obnoxious pink rather than the muted cream it used to be, but other than that, it was all the same. The tables, the seats, the counter, the menu. Walking past and staring in, his eyes zeroed in on the booth you usually sat at and he knew that if he went in now, he’d find your names carved into the top of the table, near the wall.

It had been a good day, and exhausted from at least two hours of shooting zombies at the arcade, the two of you had chosen to sit rather quietly after demolishing the mountain of ice cream.

The sun was out, despite it being nearly evening, and Taehyung’s shirt was stuck to his skin uncomfortably with sweat. Your cheeks were slightly flushed and you were fanning your face lazily with your maths exercise book.

He was just rummaging through his backpack to locate his water bottle when his eyes fell upon a maths set that his mother had insisted on buying, despite the fact that Taehyung didn’t know what some of the stuff did. Bringing out a compass and pressing his finger gently to the sharp point and withdrawing immediately when it hurt, you laughed at him.

“What the hell is this thing for?”

“It’s a compass, Tae. You use it to draw circles or whatever.”

“It’s so sharp though.”

“I know. People use it to carve stuff into the tabletops rather than draw actual circles.”

“Carve stuff? Like, names?”

“Yeah.”

“Shall I carve our names into our table?”

“Yeah, okay.”

He had slaved over it laboriously, determined to make his handwriting perfect. You had watched him silence as he dragged the sharp instrument back and forth, making the rivulets in the table even deeper so it’d last for a long time. Initially, he had been quite reserved when scarring the table for fear a staff member - or, God forbid, the belligerent owner that Taehyung swore hated him; the only reason he didn’t say anything was because Taehyung was a loyal customer for years - caught him. However, halfway through carving your name into the table, he hunched over so his eyes were as close to the surface of the table as possible and scratched with a desperate fervour.

When he had finished, and was satisfied with the results, he wiped away the flecks of wood that he had carved out and smiled impishly at you, making you laugh and swat his hand that was resting on the table. You had called him a criminal and, laughing, gathered your things together, saying that you needed to get home soon for dinner.

Pouting but nodding, Taehyung was quickly to shove the compass back into his bag and hightail it out of the dessert shop after you.

Feeling almost as if he was watching his past self, Taehyung stood outside the window of the establishment, staring at the door. If he concentrated hard enough, he could hear the ring of the bell above the door and your laughter, morphing into a shriek when he started to run after you.

Now, he was completely alone and his ears were beginning to go pink from the cold. Zipping his coat up and tucking his chin into it to defend himself from the cold that still somehow managed to wrap itself around his body.

He couldn’t even bear to look at his reflection in the window of the dessert shop.

Continuing down the still vacant road, he stopped for a moment in front of all of them. The formal wear shop, that you had dragged him into to help you choose a dress for prom. You had forced him to rent a tuxedo and it was the first time he had ever worn anything so expensive. The fear of accidentally ruining the suit nearly overwhelmed the fun he had with you that night, but spending the entire night with you looking as exquisite as you did helped quash his anxieties.

He paused in front of the pet shop, that always had a great display of puppies or even kittens, rolling around and playing, in the front window. You would both spend more time than necessary with your noses pressed against the glass, cooing and tapping on the glass to attract their attention and yelling at the other when the animal chose their finger to go towards.

He stopped in front of the bookstore that he personally hated but had still spent hours in. The WiFi was good, and watching you get excited about a newly released book or gushing over a book you’d read a thousand times before, or even a book you’d never heard of before but had just discovered, made it worth it. The atmosphere was refreshingly calming too, although he would never admit it to you. Maybe he would now, when you couldn’t get mad at him for his constant whinging when you would take him by the hand down the road and into the shop.

Honestly, he just liked the feel of your hand in his. He feared that if he didn’t whine loudly about it, you wouldn’t hold his hand, and he liked that bit the most.

He even slowed down in front of the row of clothing stores that you had dragged him around. Well, he said dragged, but he quite enjoyed this bit too. He would pick out the ugliest things for you whilst you went elsewhere and actually put together an outfit that looked amazing on you. You’d try it all on, even the most hideous things, because you said that the way he giggled was adorable. He always corrected you and maintained that he didn’t giggle, he’s a man, but honestly, seeing you in embroidered jacquard flare trousers was too good not to giggle at.

You had quite the eye for fashion, and he’d never forget the months of bullying he’d endured from you when he had first debuted with the rest of Bangtan and you’d seen their outfits. Honestly, his fashion sense had only developed out of fear of your reaction if he wore anything bad again. He was traumatised.

He stopped outside the tattoo parlour that was still open, neon signs flashing and painting his face an orange shade. It was here that you’d come to for your first ever ear piercings, and he had held your hand throughout the entire ordeal.

Again, it wasn’t because you were scared. He just liked holding your hand.

Considering entering and getting a spur of the moment tattoo, Taehyung was brought out of his reverie when he heard voices down the road. Turning his head, he saw some students exit the bar, obviously drunk.

Figuring they may recognise him if he hung around any longer, he slid his hands into his pocket and abandoned all thought of getting a tattoo that Namjoon would kill him for. Not only Namjoon, but he’d have to explain to his fans why he’d lost his mind and got your face tattooed across his chest.

Deciding it was probably a good idea to go home and try to get some sleep, he began the ten minute walk back to your neighbourhood. The front door was left unlocked, probably for him, and he went straight up the stairs without bothering to take his shoes off.

Flopping face first onto his bed and burying his head into his pillow, he sighed heavily.

He didn’t feel any worse, or any better, from his walk. Perhaps he was slightly more raw, like his soul had been pulled out and bared for all to see, but he felt no different. It’s not that he expected to, honestly, but he was thinking he’d feel more of something. Maybe slightly resolved? Perhaps sobbing so loudly his parents woke up? Something slightly… More.

Instead of sleeping, like he originally was going to, Taehyung found himself staring into the blackness of his room until the sun rose and brought the pale light flooding in through the window he had forgotten to draw the curtains over.

When his mother knocked on his door for breakfast, it wasn’t so hard to act like he’d just woken up. Rolling out of bed and messing up his hair slightly, he stripped out of his clothes from the day before and pulled on some sweatpants and a t-shirt. Then, almost tripping down the stairs, Taehyung sat himself at the dining table adjacent to his father who was already reading the paper.

Feeling strangely like he wasn’t quite in his body, Taehyung could only muster eating some of the food his mother had made him before returning to his room. He didn’t know if it was the lack of sleep or suddenly having nothing to do at all for the first time in a long time, but he still felt like he was dreaming. It was a strange sensation of nothingness and Taehyung wasn’t sure if anything was tangible suddenly.

It was a Friday morning and, if his entire world hadn’t been tilted off its axis, he’d be in Manila, preparing for this evening's concert with his members. Currently, however, he was lying on his front with his head slightly off the edge of the bed, staring at his phone as Yoongi’s face pops up on caller ID. He didn’t make any move to pick up the phone, not having the energy and for the first time ever, Taehyung purposefully ignored Yoongi’s phone call.

The screen went black and Taehyung’s eyes slid shut.

It was a few hours later that his mom knocked on his bedroom door, opening it and seeing her son sitting on the carpeted floor, knees drawn up to his chest and still in what she thought were his pajamas.

His clothes were crumpled on the floor, his costly coat thrown onto the ground without a second thought, and his Gucci bag was still on the bed that he had slept on; not having the energy or motivation to even put it on the floor, Taehyung had merely slept alongside it. The room was freezing, the window still open and untouched. Taehyung was doing nothing except scratching his nails gently at his knees, but he turned his head slightly when his mom entered the room.

“Oh, honey,” she said, shutting the door behind her and immediately Taehyung’s face crumpled and tears started flowing down his face. She sat on the floor next to him and brought his head to her chest, kissing his head and smoothing down his hair. Her hand ran rhythmically up and down his back, occasionally kissing his head again, but the tears didn’t stop. They fell uninterrupted down his face, soaking through his mom’s blouse, but she didn’t say a word.

She just let her son cry in her arms for the loss of his best friend.

-

Later in the day, when Taehyung had mustered up the drive to shower and brush his teeth - skipping washing his face - he dressed himself in the most inconspicuous clothes he had brought with him and his mother drove him to the nearest drugstore.

Entering quickly, he ignored the suspicious look he received from the checkout guy when Taehyung reached forward to hand him his card and his jacket sleeve rode up, revealing three cartier bracelets on his wrist that were a stark contrast from his old and slightly ratty clothes. Thankfully, the guy didn’t seem to actually recognise him, and Taehyung was in and out with a box of black hair dye without any incidents.

Until, of course, he accidentally almost ran into a mother and her teenage daughter.

“Kim Taehyung!” she exclaimed, much to the bewilderment of her mother, and Taehyung forgot his manners momentarily, turned, and sprinted towards his mother's car. “Taehyung! V!”

Only when he was settled into the seat and his seat belt was strapped around him did the beginnings of guilt settle into the pit of his stomach; he regretted running away from the girl, wishing he’d stopped to talk to her and treat her the way she deserved to be treated, but he was still meant to be sick with the flu. If she had taken a picture and posted it anywhere on the internet, he’d have a lot of questions to answer, and he was enjoying his time away from the spotlight for now. If people knew he was back in Daegu - without the other members and without any kind of security - he’d suddenly appear all over the front of most magazines and branded a liar.

Technically, he was lying, but it was for a very good reason. He didn’t want to expose your existence, fearing that your relationship would be taken the wrong way, and he still needed time to grieve for you without the added hassle of explaining everything to everybody.

When he left, even Hoseok, Jin and Jungkook didn’t know exactly what had happened. He just got home from his embarrassing breakdown in front of everybody in Osaka, showered, packed some stuff, and left the dorm immediately without even getting proper permission from management.

He shouldn’t even have to get permission to go home and attend his best friend’s funeral.

Arriving home, he ventured upstairs to the bathroom and tore into the box. His tresses were a pleasant honey blonde kind of shade that he had initially really liked on him, but suddenly he missed his natural black hair. Being back home in Daegu, and revisiting his times with you, had made him think that he had changed into somebody he wasn’t. He was just Taehyung; weedy Taehyung that played too many games and never studied enough and always hung out with Y/N. Wearing the flashy clothes with the hair, the expensive jewellery and being in an internationally famous boyband didn’t change that.

Besides, you’d always said that you preferred him with black hair. He looked more familiar that way.

So, there he was, in his parents bathroom and colouring his hair black. He’d taken his earrings out, and taken off those bracelets that he had been able to buy without giving it much thought despite them costing more than they should.

He had lost his puppy fat - the muscles in his arms flexing when he raised them - and had grown several inches, but at least he looked more like your Taehyung than he did when he landed.

-

Raising his fist up to knock, Taehyung sank his front teeth so hard into his lip that the skin split and started to bleed. Wiping away the blood and ignoring the sting, he knocked again and soon after the door swung open, revealing your suddenly aged mother. A handkerchief was fisted tightly in her hand and her eyes were bereft of any emotion, face looking thin and gaunt.

Your mother looked exactly how Taehyung felt and he couldn’t even muster a weak smile at her. If she was surprised by his sudden appearance in Daegu, she didn’t show it. She merely bowed her head and opened the door wider to let him in.

Crossing over the threshold he had stepped over countless times before had never felt so awkward and alien. He didn’t even recognise the house properly anymore, time having taken away most of his memories of the house that was once as much home to him as his actual one. Your mother didn’t say anything to him, she just disappeared further into the silent house and Taehyung shut the door behind him, took his shoes off and ventured upstairs.

Feeling slightly like he was a young teenager again, he felt weird entering your room without you accompanying him. Having the strange feeling that he was trespassing your privacy, he almost knocked before entering your room, then remembered where he was and what he was doing.

As much as he wished he was, he was not thirteen anymore. You weren’t here to tell him to come in, or leave you alone, or anything else you might have said.

He took a deep breath, and pushed the door open.

The room was untouched. Clearly neither parent had entered the room either; or, if they had, they didn’t touch change anything.

The bed was still unmade from the morning that you left it, and your laptop was still on; plugged in and constantly on charge, it’s fan humming quietly. Making a mental note to turn it off before he left, Taehyung stepped into the room and closed your door gently behind him and took a seat at your desk. It was almost exactly how he remembered it, with the addition of a few notes here and there on your pinboard from university. The same art was still hanging up - most of which he had helped you pick out - and the same photographs were still littering your walls and shelves.

The pens were all in the pencil pot, several lying scattered on your desk on top of a notebook, lids uncapped and ready for you to return to use them again. Your laundry basket in the corner was half filled, a jacket tossed over the edge of it, and your wardrobe had a shirt sleeve hanging out the door.

If Taehyung didn’t know any better, he’d think you had merely left the room several hours ago to run an errand or go to class; he didn’t think you’d simply not exist anymore. It felt too surreal.

Sighing heavily, he used one foot to push the chair so he span, facing the rest of the room. Retrospectively, that was a bad idea, as suddenly he was faced with several pictures of the two of you. Your eyes were glittering with joy at him from every direction he looked and he could have screamed in horror if he felt it strong enough.

It felt like you could see him. You were looking at him, with his poorly dyed hair and deep eye bags, thin looking face and skin breaking out. No matter what he looked like at that moment, you’d still be staring at him, immortalised forever in film, and the thought made him sick. If you were here, you’d lay a hand on his cheek and ask him gently what was wrong. If he said nothing, you’d switch tactics quickly; punching him firmly on the arm and demanding to know at once. Instead, you merely stared at him, several years younger and arms wrapped firmly around an equally younger Taehyung.

He turned back around, facing your desk and the wall that was empty of your eyes, staring at him with an unmoving expression. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like not being able to tell you how sorry he was that you died, alone and in the cold, and he didn’t like not being able to tell you how sorry he was that he wasn’t around for the last few years of your life. He was sorry for not offering to help pay for your university tuition to make things easier for you, and he was sorry that he didn’t text you every single morning, telling you how beautiful you were and to have a good day. He was sorry that you hadn’t been able to travel around Europe like you had always wanted, and he was sorry that you didn’t get to move out and buy your very own cat like you wanted.

He was sorry for a lot of things, but mostly the fact that you had died and he hadn’t, leaving behind an empty, apathetic shell of who he was a few days ago.

Later in the day, he found himself with his face buried into your bed. It still smelt faintly like you, and he initially found himself inhaling your scent like it was the only drug that could satiate his craving. Now, he was content to bask in your presence, wrapped in your duvet like he was never going to move again. Honestly, if anybody had asked him, he would have said that he would prefer to stay there for the rest of his life. He didn’t want to get out of bed and fly back to wherever the members might be, merely to continue his life as if a huge chunk of it hadn’t just been carved out.

He wondered vaguely if your parents would have any problems with him staying in your room this night, but he didn’t have the energy to get out of bed and ask. He didn’t think they’d come in, lest they disturb him in the middle of his deepest pit of grief that he had fallen into, and he didn’t have his phone on him so he couldn’t even do the lazy thing and call the house phone.

So, he stayed there anyway. He lay on his back in your bed, staring at your ceiling and barely noticing when the darkness swallowed all the pictures of you that were still staring at him from the walls.

-

Before Taehyung knew it, the sun had risen on the day he was dreading more than anything.

He dragged himself all the way home, scuffing his shoes all the way and kicking a random bottle that had been carelessly thrown onto the floor all the way to the front of his house. It wasn’t a long walk at all - five minutes at the most - but for some reason Taehyung was exhausted by the physical exertion. He all but fell through the door, and the look that his mother gave him when he wandered into the kitchen was enough to tell him that he looked like shit.

Where was the boyband member he had become? He was in here, somewhere; hidden under the eyebags, greasy hair and scruffy clothes. Under the heartbreak and grief.

The other members would have a fit when he eventually rejoined them, he thought as he stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. A toothbrush hung from his lips, toothpaste messily smeared around his mouth, and droplets of water from his freshly washed hair was dripping down his bare skin.

The originally golden skin seemed pale, and it was apparent that he’d already lost weight in his three day depression. He didn’t know that heartbreak could show through his appearance so quickly, but he swore never to think twice if he met someone with the same defeated look in his eyes that he was staring at himself with.

It felt horrible. He didn’t know what exactly felt horrible, but it did.

Suddenly he was stood in front of another mirror in his bedroom, a finely tailored suit enveloping his body. The lapels were firmly pressed, and the contrast of the black fabric against his sickly skin was harsh. He had even put in the extra effort and styled his hair, doing the best he could with just a hairdryer and brush. Still, there was something off about his appearance. He looked like he was about to go to an awards show, not say goodbye to his most precious friend for the last time. He couldn’t put his finger on what exactly was wrong with the way he looked, and he knew his parents felt something off about him when he finally stepped downstairs and met them where they were waiting in the front hall.

One of them may have asked if he had slept at all, but Taehyung couldn’t remember what he had replied with. They wouldn’t properly grasp the turmoil in his head anyway; Taehyung slid his sunglasses onto his eyes, despite it being an overcast day. He didn’t want anybody to look into his eyes and see what a mess he was.

Being that there was a chance plenty of people would recognise him at your funeral - the two of you were, of course, completely inseparable and the idea of him not attending your funeral was as absurd as the idea of you being dead at all - Taehyung had even mustered up the strength to slather some foundation over his suddenly flawed and blemished skin.

He almost smiled slightly when he thought that you existence was sustaining him, and now that you were gone he was starting to decompose whilst walking around the town that you had grown up together in.

Stepping out the front door, Taehyung’s anger suddenly hit him as hard as the blistering heat did. It was sunny, not a cloud in sight, and that pissed him off more than anything. It should have been raining and windy, akin to a hurricane, and the fact that the weather was happier than he was annoyed him greatly. Feeling like he was ten years old again, he slid into the back seat of his Dad’s car and did his seatbelt up with the same clockwork motions that had been allowing him to do anything since he had read your stupid fucking obituary and received that call. He stared out the window on the way to the church - a location that annoyed him too; you weren’t even slightly religious - and he didn’t say anything in response to his parents lighthearted questions.

They asked him what he had been up to when he left the house, but he could only muster a slight hum, staring at all the houses and shops that whizzed past the car. Everybody was living their lives and he felt rather like an outsider looking in, watching all these people live their normal daily lives whilst he was feeling incredibly despondent. He felt almost like he was entirely grey, both on the inside and out.

Before he had any time to ponder this at all, his father was pulling into the car park of the church where several of your relatives had already gathered. They were all dressed in dark colours, and weirdly, the sight bothered him.

He hated the happy weather but he also hated the sight of any misery.

He’d prefer the constant catatonic state rather than these overwhelming waves of emotions Taehyung had never even felt before.

Irritation flared when his mother laid a hand on his bicep and he was quick to pull himself out of her grasp, striding towards the doors of the church without his parents. The murmurs of the relatives and friends did nothing but worsen his already foul mood, and he didn’t hang around long enough for them to take any pictures. To take pictures of him at his best friends funeral was in poor taste, but perhaps he had put too much trust in those he didn’t know as he swore he heard at least two camera shutters.

Closing his eyes in frustration, he paused on the steps leading up the church doors that were propped open, and turned slowly to the small crowd of people that were staring at him in silence. “Don’t take any pictures,” he started, voice slightly hoarse from the lack of use. “And if you can’t seem to control yourselves and take pictures anyway, there will be legal repercussions.”

He entered the church after that, and had to inhale sharply, deeply, before turning the corner. He knew that your coffin would be there, with your body so close to him yet light years away. There was nobody around to give him a fake, sad smile that he would have liked to punch off someone’s face. Not in a church though. Perhaps on the steps outside, in front of the crowd with the cameras and trigger happy fingers.

So, he stood there, staring at the stain glass windows that depicted a weeping Jesus. Before any of this, Taehyung hadn’t been adverse to religion. He wasn’t a Christian, or a Buddhist, or anything else. He didn’t really believe in God, but he never thought less of anybody that did. Now, though, he couldn’t fathom it. They said that God had a plan for everybody, that everything happens for a reason, but why did you die? What sick kind of plan was that? He didn’t think he could believe in a God that allowed your death. He refused to.

Staring at the Jesus that was crying only made him even angrier than before, so he cast his eyes downwards to the row of candles that stood on a metal stand. Some seemed to be recently lit, still tall and proud, but others were burnt down to a mere stub, light still flickering feebly despite its life running quickly out.

Taehyung didn’t ever think before this that he could relate to a candle.

He stepped closer, bending down slightly to collect an unused candle from the box full of them. Holding it above another candle to light it, he placed it in the highest bracket. Then, he stood back and admired your candle, taller and burning brighter than any of the others. Turning his back, he tensed his shoulders slightly and held his breath as he turned the corner.

God, there you were.

He didn’t blink or breathe as he stepped closer, eyes locked firmly on the mahogany coffin at the front of the congregation seating. It was an open casket, but Taehyung kept his eyes focused on one of the handles fixed to the side of it.

It was shiny, light glinting off it, and Taehyung figured that he could draw it perfectly from memory after standing in the middle of the aisle and staring at it for as long as he did. The smooth surface of the coffin grabbed his attention next, and Taehyung glued his eyes to the light that was reflected on it. He didn’t want to look at your face. Jesus Christ, he didn’t want to look at you.

He didn’t know how long he was stood there, but when he turned around again, he was vaguely surprised to see most of the people had filtered into the church and were taking their seats. Your parents were talking quietly with the priestess, your mother clutching a handkerchief to her mouth and your father’s arm wrapped tightly around her upper arms. He didn’t make eye contact with anybody, not even his own parents and siblings, he just took a seat furthest away.

He still did not look at you. He just stared at the Priestess reading mindless words, brain feeling like it was about to slide out of his ears.

He didn’t want to be here. He wanted to go home. He wanted to go back to Seoul and pretend none of this was happening.

He wanted to ignore the people that were turning to glance at him; at he who was still wearing sunglasses inside a church, at he who was doing nothing to stifle the tears dribbling down his face. The muscles in his face were tight, almost aching, but Taehyung refused to let his lip wobble or a sniff to escape him.

Hymns were sung that he did not join in on, and prayers were said as if they could do anything for you anymore, and when the pallbearers began to walk down the aisle to hoist you onto their shoulders, his eyes bored into the side of your face.

The thought that your pale, lifeless and stiff face would be the last image he had of you almost made him vomit all over the stone floors.

They shut the lid of the coffin, lifted you onto their shoulders and slowly carried you down the aisle and out the doors that were still propped open. Gradually, all the guests followed behind you, your mother being supported by your father. His mother could only muster a weak smile at her son but Taehyung didn’t even react.

His eyes were focused on another stained glass window at the back of the church, depicting Jesus spread across the crucifix upon which he died. Taehyung couldn’t bring himself to feel anything other than contempt.

-

His suit wasn’t rented. He’d had it tailored especially for his body several months ago, and whilst the shoulders didn’t fit as perfectly as they had back then, the suit still fit him incredibly well. It had cost him a dear amount and at the time, he had worn it with pride and was able to feel relaxed in front of the thousands of cameras that were focused on him and the six others surrounding him.

Now, he was wearing that very suit, cross-legged on grass that was still damp from the earlier rainfall. Despite the blistering fucking heat, the grass was still cold and wet and he knew the odds of getting grass stains all over this damn suit were high. He didn’t care, though; he fisted the grass between his fingers, ripping it out of the ground and throwing it several feet to the side of him.

His legs were beginning to go numb, so he extended them flat in front of him, leaning backwards and supporting himself on his arms, hands getting wet on the grass.

The sky was completely blue, the odd white and fluffy cloud drifting slowly past. His sunglasses lay next to him in the grass, and the leaves on the trees around the perimeter of the graveyard were rustling ever so slightly in the breeze.

The freshly dug pile of earth in front of him remained unchanged, even after several hours of sitting there and doing nothing. Honestly, he didn’t know what it was that he expected. Maybe for you to come up behind him and tell him this had been an elaborate, sick prank? Perhaps you would suddenly come back to life and crawl out of the ground. That would be much better than the reality.

You didn’t even have a gravestone; the amount of time between your death and your funeral was too short an amount of time for the undertakers to design and commission your headstone, so all there was in front of him was a shitty sign, hammered into the ground, with your name, date of birth and date of death.

He was going to pay for the headstone himself. He’d’ve made it huge, made of the finest marble with gold lettering, but he knew that you wouldn’t do that. He’d design it himself, taking extra care into what you’d prefer.

Goosebumps broke over his skin as a particularly strong breeze brushed over him, and he tore his eyes away from the recently settled mound of dirt. He could barely register that your body was under that, six feet below him. Even though your killer had been caught and apprehended, and he had just attended your funeral and watch you get buried, he couldn’t believe you were gone.

He didn’t want to believe it.

His phone buzzed against his leg, and Taehyung had to lean back slightly in order to slip it out of his trouser pocket. It was Yoongi again; the only one who had been calling him regularly. Deciding not to ignore him again, Taehyung answered and held the phone up to his head but didn’t say anything.

Yoongi was breathing relatively heavily, letting Taehyung know that the group had just finished practise for tonight’s concert or something of the sort.

“Kid?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“You good?”

Taehyung didn’t answer for a moment. His eyes were still trained on your grave.

Were you okay, wherever you were? Were you scared when you died in that dirty alleyway? Did you think about him?

He knew that when he died, he’d think of you. He’d think of his family, yes, and his friends, and his band members, but he’d think of you the longest and the hardest.

He wondered how you were doing. He knew that you’d be watching over him from wherever you were miles above him, smiling fondly at him like you always did. Taehyung knew that he’d join you one day and the two of your would walk to the arcade again, hand in hand. He knew that you’d spend every day of forever holding hands, shoving ice cream into each others face and carving names into everything.

When he saw you again, he knew you’d be surprised; maybe sad, too. But you’d run to him, leaping into his arms. You’d look as youthful and stunning as you always did and maybe he’d look more mature, but still the same. His happiest days were those with you, and he’d like to think he’d look like he does now when he sees you again. If he were wrinkly and grey you’d tease him mercilessly everyday for the rest of eternity; thinking about it, he wouldn’t mind that much. You were so pretty when you smiled.

Maybe the pain was so incredibly fresh in his heart currently, but time would help him heal. He’d be able to think back about all the years you spent together, the happy times and the most tragic, with a fond smile. He’d be able to tell his future wife and children about you; about how wonderful, smart and funny you were. How you were his first and only best friend, how you would write him letters despite being a phone call away because you always found something so wonderful and romantic about receiving a handwritten letter.

He’d tell them how hard you worked to get into University, and that you had started working at sixteen years old to support yourself and help your parents with the bills. He’d tell them about the time you sliced your finger helping Seokjin cook dinner, and Namjoon had stubbed his toe, breaking it, on his way to help you.

He’d even tell them of that time you had gotten so angry with him that you didn’t talk to him for a week because he once said that your annoyed face was so ugly that it offended him to look at it.

He’d tell them everything, and he’d keep you alive that way.

He breathed in deep, standing up and stretching himself out. He cast a single look back at the sight of your burial, before he turned his back and walked away.

“Not really,” Taehyung replied, his voice hoarse and slightly cracked. “But I will be.”

[lubdubsworld]

Congrats on 1K! I’m super super super proud of you! I appreciated how to always work so hard and post so much fic for us ❤️ I love how you share little story about your family ❤️ college been so rough lately and looking at your post make me super happy 💞 if you can, answer more asks! They are r the only entertainment that I have time to enjoy 😭 but don’t over work yourself luvvvvv uuuu 💛💛💛 - 🐰

Aww... bunny anon..... i’m sorry that college is rough ( it was a horror movie for me ; non stop screaming start to finish with a lot of blood and tears ) Thank you for the wishes and i’m glad i could make you happier!! :) Chin up, Fighting!! :) :) 

Here’s a little something from one of my unfinished , probably never going to be written fics : 

It was nine in the evening and there was a definite lack of crowd in the small street where my flowershop was located. As i locked up, i couldn't help but stare nervously at the dark streets.

My flower stock had arrived late so i hadn't been able to leave  the store before now. Smiling a bit, I glanced at my phone. My boyfriend had still been asleep when I'd left in the morning and i resisted the urge to give him a call.

 He had been late last night and would probably be late tonight as well  and I really didn't want to disturb him. Humming softly, palm absently tracing the bottle of pepper spray in my handbag , I slowly made my way to the bus stop. It was too late to be crowded and i took a second to take a gulp of water from my bottle.

As I waited for for the bus, I watched as a group of men slowly made their way over. I fidgeted, a little nervous. Hand automatically moving to the mace inside my handbag. There were three of them and they gave me a small glance before settling down on the seats, about seven feet away from me. one of them leered at me and i quickly looked away, heart pounding. Where on earth was the damn bus?

After about five minutes, the sound of a mobile phone made me look up and at the exact same moment one of the men next to me pulled out his phone.

"I'm alone. where the fuck are you?" He spat out and i froze. That didn't sound very appealing.

A pause.

"Fine. You better be here in ten minutes. " He hung the phone and then muttered something to the rest of them. His two cronies nodded, gave me another look before walking slowly to the bushes behind us and crouching behind them.

I stood up slowly, ready to bolt when the man growled.

"Aghassi!! The next bus will be here soon. Please don't move." He said , teeth bared and I went stock still. Oh, God.

After another excruciating five minutes, during which i called jongin ten times, only to have it go to voicemail, a car slowly drew up to the bus stop. As i watched in mixed terror , a man slowly stepped out. I blinked . He looked quite disturbingly...pale.

And rather unfairly beautiful.

It didn't help that he was midnight black hair and what looked like half a dozen piercings on each ear. He wore a choker, the black stark against his ivory white neck and silver rings glinted on his fingers. He was dressed in black leather pants, a blood red t shirt and a black jacket, looking more like a super model than anything else.

I watched nervously as he made his way over to the bus stop . He glanced at me briefly, for less than a second and then his eyes moved to the bushes behind me. He gave a small amused smile and made a beeline for me. As i sat frozen, sure that he was going to pull a knife or somthing, he smiled softly.

"Ma'am, could you maybe take a cab?" He casually pulled out a wallet and pulled out two 100000 won notes. I swallowed nervously.

"Uh.. Sure. Please. i have money.. Just..." i moved quickly, getting up and off the bus stop at record speed. But the moment i stepped into the sidewalk, i began to feel a little disturbed. Those two men, hiding in the bushes. Had leather jacket seen them? 

I doubted he had.

It's none of your business. this is how fools get murdered . keep walking.  

But then I heard the unmistakable sound of someone getting hit and I groaned.

Grabbing the mace, i whirled around, rushing to the scene in a panic. I held the bottle high, ready to spray it on the goons when I realized that all three of them were on the floor, groaning and clutching their sides while leather jacket stood over them, looking smug as he flexed his shoulders.

" You think you can actually fuck with me, Hansol? " He was saying and I stared as he casually pulled a knife out of his boot before flipping it open and cutting a gash down the man's face.

I squealed in shock and he looked up then, his heavy gaze pinning me on the spot. He spotted the mace in my hand and grinned wider.

"Ma'am? You okay?" He said casually, like he wasn't holding a blood stained knife. Regretting my entire existence, I stepped back, shaking my head . But he was already kicking the man away and making his way over, looking very amused.

"Were you going to use that to save me, ma'am? “ he pointed at the mace  “ That's very sweet of you..." He grinned and I felt my throat go dry.

"I.. You're fine. So i'll just go..." I turned around , ready to bolt but a hand closed over my forearm, gripping me tight.

"Not so fast. Come on, shouldn't I at least know my savior’s name? To thank you properly." He grinned and I swallowed.

"Please let me go." i squeaked out, fear bubbling over the syllables . 

" Your name." he repeated, looking more and more amused. 

I struggled a bit more but that only made him use his other hand , wrapping it around my waist and drawing me close till I hit his chest. Squeaking in surprise, i pressed my palm against his t shirt, stunned. 

Warmth seeped out from his body, through the thin fabric and on to my hands and I jumped even more. 

"I.. i have a boyfriend..." i said desperately and he chuckled.

"I'm not asking your name to propose, ma'am. I only want to thank you properly." He said looking way too entertained and I groaned.

"I'm not.. I.. It's alright. You don't have to thank me. " I said finally managing to break away.

 He grinned casually. 

"Alright. Min Yoongi at your service ma'am. " He pulled out a plain white card from his pocket. It had a number scrawled on the back. He slipped it into my hand bag carefully and i stared at him.

"Anytime you're in trouble, or want someone's tires and/or throat slashed, you should give me a call." He said softly. I tried not to scream.

“that’s... i don’t.. okay.” i finished stupidly.

“or maybe if you get tired of that boyfriend of yours and need a real man in your life. “ He winked. 

I felt my jaw drop at the sheer audacity resisting the urge to grin. 

And then he turned around and was gone. 

[she-walked-away]

Talk Drunky to Me

Hey guys! So, I suck and the muse has been hiding for almost 4 months. I'm sorry I haven't been writing, but now that the show is over and KLAROLINE IS ENDGAME, my muse is KICKING! Okay, I'm hella rusty and Klaus is probably totes OOC here, but why not come back to life with a little crack drabble?

From Ashleigh: One gets drunk and confesses all over the phone, unaware that said person on the other end was actually outside, ready to confess their love. Fluffy post canon Klaroline?*no babies* ;)

Enjoy!

Coming to New Orleans in the middle of Mardi Gras was a good idea in theory, but in hindsight, Caroline cursed her less than stellar timing. The streets were brimming full with half naked people running around, tossing beads and spraying booze over the crowds while she attempted to navigate her way through the French Quarter. She dragged two heavy, gray suitcases behind her, and sidestepped a hazy college guy who embarrassingly face-planted in front of her as he attempted to flirt. Caroline wrinkled her nose and kept on walking, thankful that her taste in men had improved immensely over the decades.

Thirty years ago, Caroline would have been in the middle of the throng of people, drunk off her ass. But older, wiser, eternally a teenager but creeping into middle-age-Caroline was more interested in spectating the festival with a glass of champagne between her fingers and an Original Hybrid by her side. 

She rarely spoke to anybody from Mystic Falls. Elena and the Salvatore brothers took the cure years before, turning human and living out their last lives in the suffocating small town. Matt married a quiet girl from high school Caroline’s math class that she never noticed and was about to become a grandfather for the fifth time. Bonnie traveled with Enzo, the witch using powers and herbs to keep herself from aging. She and Caroline kept in touch, meeting up whenever they were on the same continent.

It wasn't the first time she thought this, but perhaps she seriously considered for the tenth time, turning back and having the airline ship her belongings to Klaus’ door.  She blew her sweaty bangs off her forehead as she lugged her suitcases with a huff. Why did she feel the need to bring her whole shoe collection, including her ski boots? But, the dramatic person in Caroline (and to be honest, the dramatic person in Klaus too) eagerly anticipated the sure to be memorable look on his face when she showed up on his doorstep with her stuff. 

She stopped by an alley, pulling out her phone to consult the address Rebekah texted her the week prior. Over the past few years, she and the blonde Original had somewhat hit it off through an accidental run-in in Barcelona. Caroline ran into a little drunken trouble with a hunter one night, and Rebekah was luckily in the same place at the same time, swooping in the save her. Surprisingly, the older vampire was a blast to travel and shop with. They had a long standing tradition of hitting all the infamous fashion weeks, and Rebekah not so subtly kept Caroline updated on her family’s hijinks. 

Putting the address into Google maps, Caroline made a face when she realized how far out the Mikaelson mansion was from the French Quarter. Leave it to Klaus to find the oldest, largest mansion in the middle of nowhere on the outskirts of town. She was just about to open up her Uber app for a ride when her phone vibrated in her hand, the words “Blocked Caller” flashing across her screen.

Rolling her eyes, she swiped to answer. It was a common occurrence for Enzo to lose his phone along with Bonnie’s whenever they went on a drinking binge in Vienna or Venice and they always called her from their newest number to let her know it was them. 

“What country are you calling from this time?” she answered with a laugh.

There was silence on the other end, a shuffling noise coming through. Caroline narrowed her brows.

“Enzo? Bon?”

She heard another shuffle and a manly sounding groan came through the receiver. Her pulse jumped, her mind instantly going a hundred miles a minute wondering if Enzo got himself into some trouble.

“Enzo? Is that you?”

“Caroline,” a low, familiar accent sang through the receiver.

Her heart stopped, cheeks instantly flushing at the recognizable tone. Of course he would pick tonight of all nights to call her.

“Klaus?”

“Dearest Caroline,” he murmured, slurring a bit.

And he was as drunk as a skunk.

Caroline bit back a laugh at the cheesy moniker, finding herself wholly amused at his inebriated state. Over the decades, she and Klaus stayed in contact mostly through the phone and letters (she relentlessly made fun of his old-fashioned courting ways, but loved it all the same), so it was rare for him to be anything other than his usual arrogant, confident, murderous self. However, the last time she encountered a drunk Klaus, it was about a month after the incident in the woods and neither of them ever talked about it without blushing.

The first rule of phone sex, is to not talk about phone sex.

“Dearest Klaus,” she threw back at him, grinning stupidly at the brick wall in front of her.

“Love, have I told you how melodic your voice is?” he slurred.

Caroline snorted. “Not lately.”

“It’s like a drop of water in the middle of the desert. I ache and thirst for it,” he continued dramatically. “A taste of it is never enough.”

Caroline covered her mouth as she giggled, trying to muffle her amusement from the hybrid. Clearly he hadn’t toned down on the dramatics over the past couple of years. She heard him stumble through the phone, snarling at whoever was trying to help him.

She rushed to speak, keeping him from shedding any blood on the poor soul that ran into him. Clearing her throat, her fingers fiddled with the lock on one of her suitcases. “Been celebrating Mardi Gras?”

“Commiserating,” he all but groaned through the receiver. “Love, it’s been ages since I’ve seen you.”

“About 37 years, but who’s counting? ” she answered, her cheeks burning. “How drunk are you?

“Drunk enough to know how foolish I’m acting,” he responded dutifully. “But if I can hear your voice for one night, it’s worth it.”

Caroline rolled her eyes so hard that she could feel them ache. “A little dramatic are we?”

“Shakespeare was bloody annoying, but his writing had strokes of genius,” Klaus responded with a drunken huff.

Caroline’s eyes widened and a smile crept across her face as she realized the cause of his dramatics. “Been reading today?”

“Kol was visiting today and we had a little spat-”

“I’m sure.”

“And I say one little dagger threat and Elijah banishes me to the library for the rest of the day in exchange of him sending my dear brother off to Dubai. Bloody coward, I wasn’t going to actually dagger him. So, I spent the day catching up on a little light reading.”

“How light?”

“The whole Shakespearean catalogue,” Klaus admitted wryly.

Caroline bit her lip, trying to hold in a smile. “And?”

“I might have taken them down to the wine cellar and polished off a couple dozen bottles. I was only trying to bring a little culture into New Orleans, love.”

“You’re ridiculous,” she teased.

“Ridiculously over my heels  for you,” he shot back and Caroline groaned at the cheesy line.

“Oh God, that was terrible,” she countered with a laugh and she could hear him chuckle drunkenly on the line.

“I’m a bit wankered,” he sighed deeply.

“I would say you’re totally ‘wankered’,” she laughed. “Where are you?”

“On a street,” he replied promptly. “Watching the human race make ridiculous drunken spectacles out of themselves.”

She resisted the urge to point out that he was currently doing the same thing on the phone, but it wouldn’t have phased him.

“What street?”

“I’m not sure. Somewhere in the quarter,” he hummed drunkenly under his breath, the crowd noise in the background growing louder.

Caroline pulse increased and she tightened her grip on the phone and took a step outside the alley as she glanced around. He probably was only a few blocks away.

As ready as she was for figuring out what she and Klaus could be, the idea of seeing him again brought back both excitement and panic. She hadn’t seen him in decades, and teenage Caroline’s insecure fears were still there in the back of her mind. What if she wasn’t what he wanted? What if he realizes that “however long it takes” wasn’t worth it in the end?

“Do you ever feel like you’re alone?” he murmured, breaking her thoughts. “Like, you’re in a sea of people but you still feel utterly alone?”

She sucked in a low breath, unable to deny drunk Klaus’ uncanny way to hit the nail on the head of one of the many reasons why she was ready to try with him. Traveling by herself was amazing and it was nice to be able to not have to keep with someone else’s itinerary. But she had to admit that it was lonely at times. There would be a beautiful sunset in Venice over the water and she’d long for someone to share the beauty with, or dance the salsa with someone she knew in Havana. It was wonderful, but could be so incredibly lonely at the same time. 

But with Klaus, she never felt like that. All of the other guys she’d dated, she’d be sitting by them at dinner or at dances and knew that their full attention was never on her. Tyler’s was always on revenge, Stefan’s on Damon and Elena’s, Matt always saw her as the back-up Elena. She always was alone. 

Until she met Klaus and somehow, without even trying, she became his first choice.

“All the time,” she admitted.

Except with you.

There was a pause and she heard him take an unsteady breath. “Caro-”

She blinked quickly, trying to brush off the heavy moment. As if her body could feel him before she saw him, goose bumps suddenly rose on her arms and the hair on her neck prickled. 

He was nearby. 

She loosened her grip on her suitcases and put her phone down on top of it. Caroline swallowed, stepping around the corner and almost ran right smack into him. His hands shot out to grab her arms and steady her, his phone dropping to the ground with a clack.

“Hi,” she said quietly.

His eyes were wide, jaw slackened at the sight of her. If she wasn’t so nervous, she probably would have laughed at the comical shock on his face.

She was right, the dramatic person in her reveled at the sight.

“Caroline.”

“Klaus,” she gave him a small smile.

“W-what are you doing here?” he stammered, blinking rapidly as if he was trying to figure out if she was actually real.

Pressing her lips together, she steeled herself and met his unwavering blue-green gaze.

“However long it takes right?” she answered, her heart thumping frantically against her chest.

Klaus stared at her, his gaze unflinching as her fingers fidgeted nervously. The silence between them was profound, the noise of the crowds fading away as she got lost in his face. Her fingers itched to touch him, to curl into the soft gray henley shirt he was wearing. His curls were messy, no doubt a symptom of his all day drinking binge. But his eyes were clear as day, the drunk glassy look disappearing at the sobering moment.

Moments passed and her heart began to sank at his lack of response.

“Right. Maybe this was-”

Klaus cut her off, yanking her into his arms, immediately burying his face into her neck as he hugged her tightly. She exhaled sharply, the scent of him overwhelming as her arms wrapped around his waist and his fingers threaded through her curls.

“I-” she tried to say and Klaus cut her off with a shake of his head.

“Not yet,” he murmured in her hair.

She just closed her eyes and held on tighter. He pressed his lips to the soft skin between her neck and shoulder, inhaling deeply. Caroline fought off a shiver, feeling the scrape of his stubble against her neck as he moved his mouth up to her ear and kissed a spot behind her earlobe. He lifted his lips from her skin, moving back to where he could look at her. His hand brushed through the curls on the side of her head before cupping her cheek.

“Are you sure?” he asked, his eyes scanning her face.

He was entirely sober, his hybrid nature and the confrontation doing its job to bring him back down to earth.

Caroline pressed her lips together, meeting his searching gaze. It was such a simple question, but it was overloaded with so much meaning. Was she ready for him? Was she ready for him to be her last? Was she sure? 

Once she leapt, she could never fully take a step back. 

Caroline lifted her hand, gently pulling his off her face. Instantly his face fell and he took a step back. She reached over into the alley and pulled out her ridiculously heavy suitcases, stumbling a bit when they banged against her shins. 

“What do you think?” she asked, arching a brow at him. 

His answering smile took her breath away. He strode towards her, cupping her cheeks and pressed his forehead against hers. 

“Say it.”

She rolled her eyes playfully. “Klaus.” 

“I’ve waited decades for you to say it, love,” he needled her, ghosting a kiss on the corner of her lips.

She involuntarily moaned at the taste of him, the bite of the wine he had earlier mixed in with something that was totally and uniquely Klaus. 

Something she wanted to taste forever.

“I’m ready.”

And then he kissed her.

Please review here :)

[wellimhavinga3outof10day]

Lost Lullabies - Chapter Thirteen

Description: Mickey Milkovich, former child star turned action movie star, runs into his old co-star, Ian Gallagher, out on the street in the middle of a winter night. When Mickey takes him in, he doesn’t realize that Ian has the power to completely turn his new life upside down.

Chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13

Read on AO3

Mickey had his phone out and his agent dialed before he was two steps off the set. He waited impatiently through the ringing, very aware of the fact that Ian was following him. Voicemail.

           “Pick the fuck up,” Mickey snapped. He waited a grand total of two seconds before he added, “Get the director fired or get me the fuck off this set.” He hung up.

           A few steps later, Ian’s hand came down on his shoulder. Mickey whirled on him quick enough the Ian’s hand fell, that his touch didn’t have the chance to calm him down. “What are you fucking following me for?” Mickey said.

           Ian held up his hands. “Just wanted to see if you were okay.”

           “Okay? You wanna know if I’m okay?” Mickey almost laughed, but settled for shaking his head instead. “That director just fucking outed me to the entire cast of extras without blinking a goddamn eye.”

           “He didn’t say—”

           “It doesn’t matter what he said. What he said was enough. Extras can’t keep their fucking mouths shut and the rumours will be flying by morning and it’s worse now because you followed me.”

           “What?”

           “What do you think they think we’re doing, Ian? The director just gave us two options.”

           Ian licked his lips and lowered his eyes to the ground. “Sorry. I didn’t think.”

           “You never do.” Mickey stormed off before he had a chance to feel bad about that. He tried to call his agent again and still got voicemail. Then he called his publicist and, giving as little information as possible, told her to get ready for a scandal to hit soon.

           He barged into his dressing room and slammed the door behind himself. He stopped in front of the mirror. He didn’t think he had fucking puppy dog eyes. Several times in his career he’d been told he was incapable of looking at someone like he loved them. More than once, someone had joked about getting him a facial expression double for the romantic scenes in his movies. Who knew the secret to fixing that problem was putting Ian Gallagher in front of him?

           Mickey sighed. He screwed up his face in the mirror and then did his best to put on a completely neutral expression. He ran though his old exercises from acting class – happiness, anger, sadness – and then shook his head fast. Looking himself in the eyes, he thought, think of Ian. He didn’t notice his expression change one bit.

           It had been longer than five minutes, but the asshole deserved to wait after what he’d said to him. Mickey checked his phone to find a text from his publicist – what kind of scandal – and he replied, a gay one. Then he shoved his phone into his pocket and walked back to the set slow, ignoring everyone who shot him furtive glances on the way.

           Ian was already back on set, hands in his pockets, walking in circles as he whispered his lines under his breath. Mickey stopped a few feet away to look at him. He arranged his face in a calm manner, breathed until he was sure he had everything back in control, and then walked up to his mark. Ian stopped pacing to look up at him, his green eyes soft, questioning. Mickey almost broke his resolve on the spot. Almost.

           “We shooting or what?” Mickey said.

           The director gave a shrug that seemed to imply ready when you are and Mickey looked to Ian with his best expression of disdain. Ian jumped on his mark. The director called action. They got through three lines of dialogue, then five, then seven, and Mickey had to resist the urge to shoot the director a snotty glare. Instead he focused on Ian’s nose, gave the impression of looking into his eyes without actually doing it.

           Three minutes in, the director called cut. Mickey guessed he couldn’t have asked for a fucking miracle.

           “Now you look like you hate each other,” the director said.

           “We’re having an argument,” Mickey said.

           “But you’re still friends. Can you do friends for me, Milkovich?”

           Mickey wanted to punch the guy’s smug face in. He glanced over his shoulder at Ian, who shrugged, and then gave the director his nastiest smile. “Sure. We can do friends. After all, we’re friends, right, Ian?”

           Ian said nothing, just looked down at his shoes.

           Mickey rolled his eyes and stepped back onto his mark. He was going to have to give Ian a lesson in growing a fucking backbone, but that could wait until the scene was finished. They had to get through the thing three times perfectly for all the camera angles before they could move onto the next section and, at this rate, they’d be there until two in the morning. Maybe having a co-star who wasn’t as bratty as him would actually prove to be an advantage.

           They went through half the scene again and then again and again. Every time the director let them go just a little bit further and Mickey wondered if that meant they were improving or if the director was just a dick. He preferred to think it was the former.

           He messed up his first line somewhere around the ninety minute mark. When he did, he asked for another five minute break and the director gave it to him, begrudgingly. He didn’t storm off set. Instead, he sat down in one of the empty chairs and pulled out his phone. Three texts from his publicist asking him to explain and a long paragraph from his agent about how this was the original director from their series, a man Mickey had worked with for many years, and he was important to the shoot. The company had gone through a lot of trouble to get him back. Mickey replied, it’s him or me.

           Two minutes later he got a text from his publicist again that said, more likely we’ll have a scandal about you being a diva. Mickey didn’t deign that worthy of a reply. He shoved his phone back into his pocket, took a breath, and went back to his mark. Looking at the ceiling, he ran through his lines in his head to make sure he had them down. Ian came back to set a minute later, sipping a coffee. He handed it off to the first PA who asked for it.

           “You okay?” Ian asked.

           “Peachy.”

           “I just meant...” Ian shrugged. “Are we okay?”

           “Were we ever okay, Ian?”

           Ian opened his mouth to reply, but the director called them to attention. Mickey felt his heart drop a little further in his stomach, weighed down by his own nastiness. He couldn’t help it. Seeing Ian again was hard. Harder than he had expected it to be. And, yeah, he’d done his best to forgive the guy and move on – after all, he could’ve gotten out of it if he had really wanted to – but having those green eyes in front of him again just made him feel like a teenager with a bad crush.

           They got through the whole scene on that run and the director praised them for finally, finally hitting the right note between friendship, anger, and platonic love. Mickey flipped him off. Then they had to do it again without messing up. And again.

           It was noon by the time they finished and broke for lunch. Mickey almost let Ian walk away from him. He should have let Ian walk away from him. Instead, he clapped him on the shoulder and headed the same way. “Good job,” he said.

           Ian met his eyes with a small smile. “That took forever.”

           “Yeah, well. It’s not our fault the director’s a jackass.” Mickey meant to leave it at that, but Ian was still looking at him, and he rambled on. “Plus, you’ve got your lines down, which is more than I can say for most people I’ve worked with. And you can still fucking act after all these years, so kudos.” Ian still stared. Mickey cursed. “Whaddya want me to say?”

           Ian shook his head. “Nothing. You’ve just been so hot and cold on me all day.”

           Mickey didn’t have anything to say to that, so he occupied himself playing with the hem of his t-shirt. He knew if he pulled the threads out the costume department would throw a shit fit, so he only let his nail catch against the threads for a moment before pulling back.

           “I get that I kind of forced you into this and that you’re pissed you’re here and the director’s a dick and it’s kind of my fault, but...” Ian trailed off. Mickey risked a look at him. Ian smiled. “Think we can do it? Be friends like he asked?”

           Mickey thought about it. On one hand, all he really wanted was a good excuse to hang out with Ian as much as possible. On the other, friends was the last thing he wanted to be with Ian. He pulled on a thread too hard and broke it, cursed under his breath. He could feel Ian’s eyes on him, the question in the air, and knew he wasn’t doing a great job at hiding what he was thinking. Some benefit to being an actor.

           He met Ian’s eyes finally and said, “You left my life at fifteen, came back at twenty-four just to fuck it up, disappeared some more, and somehow wound up putting me on the set of a movie I hate? Does that sound like a recipe for friendship to you?”

           Ian’s eyes fell.

           Mickey wrapped an arm around his shoulders and squeezed him tight. “Fucking kidding with you, Gallagher.” He pushed him away, but not before getting in a good noogie. “Jesus, you’re easy.”

           “You haven’t managed to get in my pants yet.”

           Mickey laughed, tried to hit him but Ian dodged. Real happiness bubbled over him to see Ian smile, laugh. They walked to lunch together making bad jokes and ripping the script to shreds. At one point, Ian said, “If they really can’t stop us from eye-fucking, they could just make our characters gay.” Mickey laughed so hard he almost fell over in his chair.

           They went on to the next scene and the next and the next. The director had found a spray bottle somewhere and now spritzed them whenever they looked like they wanted to fuck. The only thing that held Mickey back from murdering the guy on the spot was the goofy smile on Ian’s face whenever he was dripping with water.

           Mickey was careful with his expression, careful to keep his eyes off of Ian’s. If they were going to be friends, like Ian wanted, then he had to get control of himself. It wasn’t like Ian was God’s gift to gay men or anything. He was just a guy with a serious drug problem, a hint of alcoholism, a screwed up family, and a smile that could light up the fucking sun.

           Mickey found himself laughing more often than not when Ian tripped over a line or forgot what he was going to say. He’d be lying if he didn’t throw in an eyebrow raise here or there to crack him up, if he said he didn’t like seeing Ian flustered in front of the cameras. The director grumbled something about the blooper reel being “gay as fuck” but Mickey ignored him as he got water sprayed in his face.

           They got back in rhythm. By the end of the day, their last scene took them an hour to film. It was only seven by the time Mickey had packed up his stuff and was heading out the front door. Ian caught up to him on the way, a smile and a yawn on his lips at the same time.

           “You headed back to Fiona’s?” Mickey asked.

           “Nah, they’ve got me in a hotel closer to here.”

           “A hotel?” Mickey wrinkled his nose. He nudged Ian with his elbow. “Fuck that. Come back to my place.”

            “A comfy five-star hotel bed or your couch?” Ian clicked his tongue. “Hard choice, but I’m going to go with the hotel.”

           “Wow. Respect the couch, Ian. It’s older than you are.”

           Ian laughed. “It feels like it.”

           Mickey shoved him and stepped towards the car waiting for him. “You got a ride to this hotel?”

           “Bus.”

           “Come with me.” Mickey didn’t wait for a response, just started walking. But like earlier, he knew Ian was following him. They slid into the car together and Ian gave the driver the name of his hotel before resting back on the seat. Mickey liked the silence between them, but he decided to ruin it anyways. “You like being an actor again?”

           Ian shrugged. “It pays the bills.”

           “So still not your life’s calling?”

           “Never thought it was your calling either.”

           “Like you said, it pays the bills.”

           Ian was silent for a moment, staring out the window at the streetlights as they flashed by. “To tell you the truth, I never really had much fun on set unless I was filming with you. Don’t know if I would have kept up with it even if I hadn’t gone off the rails.”

           Mickey made a noise somewhere between a ‘hmm’ and a ‘yeah.’ Then he said, “Don’t know if I would have kept up with it without Mandy. I don’t know that I’ve ever had much fun on set.”

           Ian elbowed him. “Not even with me?”

           Mickey smiled. “I have fun with you. But that’s not really about being on set, is it?”

           “No. Guess not.”

           The driver pulled up in front of Ian’s hotel and the two sat there for a moment, warm in the silence. Mickey shot Ian a look, a small grin, as he felt the awkwardness of the moment closing in. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow?” Mickey said.

           Ian nodded, forced a smile. “Goodnight.”

           Mickey waved him off and watched as he exited the car. He didn’t tell the driver to go until Ian was safely inside.

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