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joheunsaram · 2 years

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On With The Show (knj)

summary: Eight years after announcing their retirement, Dark & Wild seems to have been left behind. For Namjoon, he could never forget the time his dreams became a reality, and he's determined to retake the charts by storm once again. Struggling with raising a teenage daughter, the loss of his wife and poor writing projects with terrible bands, he’s now had enough. So with a little help from the only remaining active fan site, he embarks on a mission to convince his bandmates that a comeback might not be the mid life crisis they think it is.

word count- 33.9k (🥴💀)

pairing- retired bassist!Namjoon x lawyer!Reader

rating- R

genre- rockstar!au, s2f2l, fluff, smut, angst, slight slow burn, single dad!au

warnings- retired!bangtan, dilf!joon, lowkey making fun of Mötley Crüe but not really, recreational drug use, drug overdose, hospitals, minor character death, depression, protected sex, oral (m and f receiving), too many song references (namjoons catalogue mainly), soft soft joon, joon is dad to a 16yo, jungkook is a shameless dedicated dad to twins, joon is 36, invasion of privacy, lots of talk about being famous

playlist- don’t//aeon ft rm, ny state of mind//nas, bicycle//rm, spring day//bts, always//rm, human behaviour//bjork, death with dignity//sufjan stevens, seoul//rm, outro//maanu, heavenly//cigarettes after dark, trivia love//bts, on with the show//motley crue, war of hormones//bts

a.n- this fic is part of the Can’t Be Tamed collab hosted by @jeonjcngkook. please check out the other fics in the collab, they are all amazing!

I’m very excited to share this fic with all of you! it’s been in the making for a very long time and is the longest one shot I’ve written yet. Hope you enjoy this story and that you remember never to let your inner fan girl down! Hehe💕💕

special s/o to @raplinesmoon and @playmetheclassics for beta reading this for me and to @mapleglasses27 and @bluewhale52 for hyping me up and brainstorming with me! i honestly don’t know what i would do without you all! ily 🥺

Banner by the ever talented @hobeemin 💕😍

As always feedback appreciated, a reblog and a like goes a far way. Send me an ask! 💌

The guitar riff crashed through the speakers, loud and chaotic, distorted to a growl that got the heart beating. Notes cascaded over each other as if chasing themselves in a circle like kids in a park. Soon after, the drums and bass joined them, high hat crashing in time with the snare, the strings of the bass slapping against fingers, pinging loud and clear. A destructive medley morphing into a foot-stomping melody that bounced off the soundproof walls bringing a smile to Namjoon’s face.

A smile that dropped as soon as the vocalist started singing the verse.

“What are the colours of the skies really? They're bright black when falling apart Were our drifts back then okay?”

With a scowl, Namjoon straightened in his seat, turning off the recording,and hitting the button for the mic. The band seemed unbothered as they kept playing, bobbing their heads to the music. It would be commendable how absorbed they were in the music, if they weren’t completely fucking up Namjoon’s song. He cleared his throat into the mic, thankful for the abrupt silence.

“Vince, for the last fucking time. Those are not the lyrics,” Namjoon said, only to be met with an eye roll that boiled his blood. The audacity of these rookies was too high. They had barely debuted two years ago and somehow their egos seemed to have grown infinitely larger.

“And for the last fucking time, man. These work better,” Vince argued through the guitar pick secured between his teeth, using a tattooed hand to push his bright purple hair back. He looked to the three men next to him for support and all of them agreed, nodding enthusiastically. Well everyone except the lead guitarist, Mick, who as per usual was just staring into space, expression as vacant as Vince’s head.

“How do they make sense? What’s fucking bright black? And the colours of the sky?” Namjoon questioned, frustration making itself known from the tick of his jaw as he tried not to explode.

He hated this band. He hated this job. His name held a lot of weight in the industry, and he couldn’t fathom how he had even gotten to where he was right now; writing songs for an over entitled bunch of kids half his age.

Much like any other person in the music industry, Namjoon started with a dream. Well, a dream and a threat from his mom. When he was sixteen, his mother had looked him straight in the eye and given him one year to go out into the real world and make money from the music his friends kept playing in her garage, and if he was unsuccessful, he was to pick up his studies and continue on her dream of him becoming an engineer. And well, Namjoon was a stubborn, talented kid.

Within six months, his band had not only signed onto a label, but Dark and Wild had successfully started preparations for their debut album, one that charted number one worldwide and convinced his mother that the noise he was always playing was worth something.

That number one album turned into platinum, and then so did the next three albums. By the time Namjoon was twenty-two, he was the bassist of the hottest band in the world, his songs being chanted by people of all ages, all races.

World tours, whirlwind romances, and new hotel rooms every weekend became the norm. At the peak of his career, Namjoon was an ambassador for four luxury brands, three alcohol companies, and one electronics conglomerate, his face plastered over billboards from New York to Seoul to Paris. That was also when he became a husband and a proud father to the world’s most beautiful baby girl.

And then, merely a few years later, he lost the love of his life and his band in the span of four months. It wasn’t dramatic, it was life. Everything happens for a reason, and Namjoon believed that for him that reason was the beautiful girl his wife had gifted him.

If his band hadn’t called it quits, he would have never spent time raising her, learning how to be the best dad and learning the way his daughter’s brain worked, so intricate and creative that he sometimes got tears in his eyes just thinking about the fact that he was responsible for creating someone so extraordinary.

Which is why the fact that the bunch of kids in the studio were talking about her made his blood boil, his jaw tensing from all the expletives he wanted to throw at them.

“Dude I can’t believe you picked this boomer cause of his daughter!” Vince taunted his bandmate as he laughed, his nasal snort pumping through the vein now throbbing on Namjoon’s forehead.

“What can I say, man, that chick’s fucking hot, and the way she drums. God damn!” Tommy, the drummer, professed, his hands still holding the sticks now coming to rest on his chest as he leaned back on the stool, the bandana on his head falling backwards with the movement.

Raising a child alone in his mid-twenties had taught Namjoon a lot of things, most of all patience, but he was of the firm belief that not even Buddha would have kept his cool at Tommy’s next words.

“Yo Namjoon! You gotta bring her to the next session. I can really teach her how to bang those drums, if you know what I mean,” he answered with a smile as slimy as his greasy hair, and Namjoon couldn’t help exploding out of his chair, his notebook scattering to the ground as he swiftly made his way to the door of the recording room.

However, before he could pummel that disrespectful worm into the ground, the producer next to him was on his feet, holding him back, his small stature no match for Namjoon’s large build. Seeing red, Namjoon scrambled for the door, falling to the ground and in the process taking the innocent producer down with him. All while the band laughed at him. Generation Swine, what a fitting name for a bunch of pigs.

“Yo boss, you need this gig right?” the producer wheezed from under him, trying to calm down Namjoon with rationality but he didn’t know Namjoon. Thinking about the multiple zeros in his checking account and even more in his investments, his vision cleared, a calm surrounding him.

“I don’t actually,” Namjoon replied, getting back up and helping his coworker with an apology, before he turned back to the band with a condescending smile plastered on his face.

“I quit. And my contract says I can take back my songs. Enjoy an empty album, fuckers.”

With a middle finger in the air, he picked up his messenger bag resting on the couch and his notebook and strolled out. Why hadn’t he just done this before?

—-------

Even though he was notoriously a punk rock artist, nothing calmed Namjoon down more than old school hip-hop, and so as he drove to pick up his daughter, he blasted Nas, rapping along at the top of his lungs.

“Hand me a nine and I'll defeat foes Y'all know my steelo, with or without the airplay I keep some E&J, sitting bent up in the stairway.”

It was as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He had been spending hours everyday pouring himself into music that was insightful and poetic, only to be stonewalled by a bunch of unwashed children who thought what punk really was.

Did they really think watering down his lyrics would make them more relatable? He’d been going back and forth with the Swine for months, and yet they didn’t understand that music didn’t really mean anything unless it said something.

Anyone could string together a melody and talk about fucking and destroying property but the greats always had something to say, something to change. They didn’t chase empty avenues with mixed messages, they took a stand. That’s what punk was, not a distorted guitar with the goal to get laid. He knew that at sixteen and he knew that now at thirty-six.

Real music changed lives.

As the track changed to a more mellow beat, he let his fingers tap the steering wheel, cautiously turning into the cul-de-sac and waiting for the gate to Jungkook’s obscenely secure mansion to open before driving down the long driveway. Driving to his house always made him a little nostalgic, mostly because he was proud that his youngest bandmate had finally settled down from his much wilder days, but also because Jungkook’s home always felt like his home.

It was where he had spent much of his time after the band disbanded, his deep depression and the sudden sole responsibility of a six-year old turning him into a useless shell of a human. He would always be grateful to Jungkook for taking him in when he was at his worst and coaxing him out of the darkness. He shuddered to think of how much worse he would have gotten if he hadn’t had the courage to run to Jungkook eight years ago with his daughter in his arms and tears cascading down his face.

He smiled a little, eyes turning to the big box of gourmet donuts he had picked up for his friend’s family. Parking near the front door, he picked up the box, only to be interrupted by the ringing of his phone, the usually calming chimes grating his nerves when he saw his manager’s name light up the screen.

“What Sejin?”

“Don’t what Sejin me! You quit? Are you kidding me?” The usually cheery man yelled through the line, his exasperation easily conveyed through the static.

“Yup,” Namjoon replied stubbornly, popping the syllable at the end, still too happy to have left that band of wannabes behind to be bothered by the scolding he could see coming. “I realised, I’m literally a millionaire. I don’t need this job.”

“Literally a- Again, are you kidding me?!” Sejin sputtered, and Namjoon grimaced as he heard some of his spit land on the speaker. “You do realise you signed a contract right? A two-year contract, to write for them, exclusively?”

“And?” Namjoon egged him on. “There’s that clause right? That I can pay damages or whatever?”

“They are claiming that those ‘damages or whatever’ are over five million dollars! You either lawyer up, or you go apologise to the band.”

Namjoon snorted at the absurdity. The only way anyone could get him to apologize to that bunch of talentless fuckers was if they animated his dead body with Frankensteinian magic. Not wanting to spoil his good mood, he locked his car and made his way to the front door..

“Send me a list of lawyers,” he said curtly before hanging up on a seething Sejin. He should’ve been worried, or at the very least concerned, by a threat from a very large and influential record label, but Namjoon was finally free and nothing was going to get him down. Not when as soon as he rang the bell, he was greeted by his daughter, a large grin on her face, the dimples that matched his etching deeper into her cheeks.

“Dad! You know you don’t have to drive slow even on a driveway, right?” she teased, giving her father a side hug and greedily reaching for the box of doughnuts, which he raised above his head.

“Moonie, these are for the twins!” he chastised, returning her hug and ruffling her hair only to annoy her, chuckling as she whined at him.

“Joon! You gotta stop bringing sweets! I’m gonna lose my abs!” Jungkook shouted from the foyer, walking over with one of his boys in his arms, the other running behind him. Jun-seo copied his father as he pulled a wincing Jungkook’s hair, and Namjoon couldn’t stop cackling at how cute “I’m gonna lose my abs!” sounded coming from a three-year old’s mouth.

He greeted his friend before leaning down and swooping Hyeon from the ground in his arms, trying to make conversation with the shyer twin as his daughter took the box of doughnuts, opening to look for her favourite. It didn’t take long for Jungkook to coax him into having dinner with his family, laughing at the way Moon sighed in relief of not having to endure her father’s terrible cooking for the night.

Nothing could be more relaxing than having dinner with his closest friends and his daughter, Namjoon thought as he helped Jungkook’s wife wash the dishes, taking care not to let any of his clumsier tendencies shine through. There were only so many of her dishes he could break before she would ban him from the house completely. He smiled as she told him about her day and how the twins had somehow started a paint war with the neighbouring kindergarten class, resulting in her trying to talk the principal out of suspending them.

“They can suspend someone in kindergarten?” he asked, incredulous, wiping the last of the dishes and pouring himself a glass of water.

“You know how people are, Joon. Just cause we have our personal lives plastered all over they assume that we can’t parent,” she sighed, joining him at the breakfast nook, a sad smile on her face. “That’s why I’ve been so against nannies, you know… Because what if they’re right?”

“Hey they aren’t right. You and Jungkook are great parents,” he squeezed her shoulder as he consoled her, happy to see her smile more genuinely at his compliment.

“And we don’t need babysitters cause we have Moon,” she said, looking up at him with a mischievous smirk her sons had inherited from her before she softened. “You’re a great parent too, Joon.”

Namjoon’s heart warmed at her words. He had often thought that perhaps a lack of a mother would make Moon lonely, make her want a more stable female presence. He was happy that Jungkook’s wife had filled that role for her somewhat, acting like a mother even when she didn’t have to, from teaching her about periods to gossiping with her about boys. Things that Namjoon still found a bit awkward to connect with Moon about. It was not that he was bad at it, it was just that he had never experienced those things himself, so who was he to teach her about them?

The heartfelt moment was interrupted by Jungkook entering the kitchen, a scowl on his face as he looked at Namjoon.

“You quit?” Jungkook asked, voice strained as he poked the inside of his cheek. Namjoon could feel that his friend was angry but he was still too ecstatic from leaving that dreadful job behind, so he just smiled, nodding in response.

“They are gonna sue you! Are you serious?” Jungkook seethed, confusing Namjoon who couldn’t for the life of him figure out why he was so upset, especially when he already had an amazing back up plan. At least not until his next words left him, making Namjoon bow his head in shame.

“You have Moon to think about. Do you think she’d like the media circus?”

“I just couldn’t take it anymore,” he exhaled, his teeth worrying his bottom lip as he came clean about his outburst, the days of building frustration as the band took his hard work lightly and spent hours drinking and getting high instead of working.

Jungkook seemed to soften as he spoke, and Namjoon couldn’t help but take the melting of his anger as encouragement as he continued, letting him into his backup plan, “We were so much more serious than them. We had a work ethic. We still could… Would it be so bad if Dark and Wild got together again?”

“P-pardon?” Jungkook sputtered at Namjoon’s words, coughing as he tried to wrap his mind around a comeback. Turns out Namjoon’s plan wasn’t foolproof and his heart fell as his friend vehemently disagreed, not wanting to be away from the twins to be back on the rock and roll train. He missed that life too, but unlike Namjoon, he had made his peace with it, happy to let it go to be a full-time father.

“I was a dad when the band was together,” Namjoon argued, not willing to let go of his renewed dream.

“And look what happened to Seo!” Jungkook spat, instantly regretting his words as Namjoon’s face fell. However, no matter how quickly Jungkook apologised, Namjoon couldn’t listen, the grief he had buried away clawing at his chest again. With a curt goodbye amongst the apologies, he asked Moon to follow him and made his way to the car.

“Dad… you okay?” Moon asked, once they were on the way home, worried about the way her father sat in silence when usually she would have a hard time making him shut up.

She knew he got this way occasionally, too deep in his head, and she had a sneaking suspicion it was whenever he missed her mom, and so when she didn’t hear a response, she leaned over, placing a hand over his on the steering wheel to loosen his grip.

Namjoon smiled at her, a hand leaving the wheel to squeeze her fingers between his. Sometimes he forgot that she wasn’t a kid anymore, that she was mature, empathetic almost to a fault, able to read his mind with just a look.

Namjoon promised himself that he would always be honest with her, be it about his feelings or things happening in his life. He had kept his promise whenever she would ask about her mom as a lost six year old and he kept his promise now as he told his sixteen year old about the argument he had just had with Jungkook.

In a lot of ways it helped him process the conversation, coming to terms with Jungkook’s fear from Moon’s insight. She was right when she said that it had less to do with blaming Namjoon when he was away from her mother, but more to do with her uncle’s fears of the same happening to his wife, no matter how irrational the thought was.

Namjoon couldn’t help but stare at her, mouth falling open in shock.

“Tell me again how you’re only in tenth grade?” he teased. “When did you get your psychology degree?”

“Come on dad. No one really needs university nowadays. You can just learn everything from Re-”

“You’re going to university. I don’t care how much Reddit can teach you,” Namjoon interrupted, eyes narrowed as he pulled into his designated parking space in the lot under their apartment. “You can get a real degree and then you can be my therapist.”

“I can’t be your therapist,” she huffed, crossing her arms with a scowl that reminded him of her mother so much he couldn’t help but smile. “That's a conflict of interest!”

He burst out laughing at her words, getting out of the car and helping her carry the multiple boxes of food Jungkook had prepared for the two of them, insisting that they take them despite the cold exit. Moon melted at her father’s joy, punching the code for the top floor as she adjusted her backpack. When the doors closed, she looked at him grinning widely.

“You know, War of Hormones is going viral on TikTok,” she commented, laughing at the way Namjoon groaned at the mention of his slightly cringey debut single. “I think you guys still have fans. A lot of them. People are still making thirst traps of all of you.”

“What’s thirst traps?” Namjoon asked as the private elevator opened up to their apartment, the smell of cedar and sandalwood calming him after a stressful day.

“You know like this,” she said, following her father into the kitchen and placing the boxes on the counter before pulling out her phone and scrolling through the app. She handed Namjoon the phone and he had to stop his eyes from falling to the floor at the video in front of him.

Set to an extremely horny rap about wanting someone’s dumptruck in their little garage was a video of Hoseok thrusting into the air as he sang into the mic, following by a close up of Jungkook as he took his shirt off and threw it into the crowd, just as it moved to a video of Yoongi licking up the strings of his guitar, a smirk on his face as he made eye contact with the camera.

Then there was Seokjin, Jimin and Taehyung at one of their sold out shows, ripping the buttons of their shirts simultaneously while winking at the crowd, and Namjoon couldn’t help but laugh at the how stupid they looked. The last clip was of him holding Moon as he brought her two-year old self on stage, big yellow muffs protecting her ears from the noise as he let her strum on his bass.

“Wait, why am I the only one not being sexy?” he questioned, frowning.

“I don’t know. I guess people love you being a dad,” she shrugged, taking her phone back, laughing at how ridiculous all of her uncles looked during their glory days, before looking at her father and giving him a tight hug. “I love you too, dad. And I think you still have a lot of fans who’d love a comeback.”

Namjoon’s heart dissolved in his chest, filled with warmth as he kissed the top of his daughter’s head, returning her hug ten fold, squeezing her to his chest as she squirmed. That night after she had gone to bed, Namjoon researched his fans. If Moon thought that fans still existed, maybe he could convince the guys to give the comeback a shot. They always did love Shadows more than anything.

Scrolling through numerous web pages, he stumbled on to a fansite that was surprisingly still active, posting periodic updates about Dark and Wild’s current careers, as well as edits of their old selves, and pleading for a comeback. Perhaps the way to his band member’s hearts was a heartfelt plea from a Shadow, and how apt that the username was yummyjungkookie.

His scrolling through nostalgia was interrupted by a text from his manager, a list of lawyers that were fit to go over his case with him. Picking the first name, he sent an appointment request.

However, not before messaging yummyjungkookie and asking for a meeting.

—-------

With a heavy exhale, you entered your apartment, leaving your heels haphazardly by the front door and your bag littered on the floor. Today had been an exceptionally stressful day and you could feel every joint in your body creak as you laid on the couch. Stretching, you thought about the weird email you had received. Well, two very weird emails.

Somehow when you started working in corporate law, you wouldn’t have thought your trajectory would lead to working on celebrity contracts. Initially it was an easy choice; getting paid exorbitant amounts of money for advising clients and looking over contract disputes that usually never ended in court. However, now you were tired of behind the scene action. You wanted to see inside of a courtroom again, to argue, to research prior cases that would help you form the perfect closing statements. There was a thrill to fighting a case in the courts, and you envied your friends from university who were working on class action suits against greedy landlords and other corporate vultures.

Today was supposed to be the day you gave in your two week notice, to pursue something less money-based. It was a privileged position, but you were a single woman in her early thirties, and with your last relationship burning to the ground, you often looked at your ever increasing savings account with disdain, as if your ambition was responsible for Ryan cheating. But when you walked into your firm’s partner’s office with your resignation letter in hand, he convinced you otherwise by handing you a new case.

It wasn’t a particularly exciting case, a pretty straightforward contract violation, but the moment you heard who you would be representing, you couldn’t go through with your plan. Your younger self would have murdered you if you did so.

You could see your nineteen year old self, decked out in the Dark and Wild merch that still lived in your closet, standing behind your boss as he talked about the case. Because you would be representing none other than Namjoon Kim, notorious bassist of Dark and Wild. Even though he was arguably your least favourite member, considering that he used to be a bit goofy and a little bit of fuckboy even with a kid, you would carry on your duty as a loyal fan and get him out of this bind.

After all, once a Shadow, always a Shadow.

You were somewhat a menace in undergrad, from almost missing exams because the band was doing an album signing, to following them on tour each summer, to even getting their lyrics tattooed on your ribcage.

You chronicled your interactions with them in your blog with high quality photos, which became almost notorious in the Shadow circle, your followers skyrocketing with their fame. In a way their disbandment was a blessing for you, you were not sure how you would have dealt with the workload of law school if you were still keeping up with them.

Groaning you rose from the couch, deciding a drink would help calm you down. Pouring yourself a glass of cabernet, you settled back on the couch, opening your blog on your laptop and staring at the other email you had received out of the blue.

Either Namjoon Kim was stalking you or this eerie coincidence was the fruit of years of obsessive manifestation. However, if it was, it would be Jungkook Jeon emailing you. You wondered if he still had those fantastic abs from back in the day. God, those things could cut glass.

Controlling your sudden thirst, you took another sip of your wine, thinking best to reply to the email you had received.

Hi yummyjungkookie. You’re probably wondering why I’m messaging you. Well, I have a proposition. I was wondering since you are the only active fan site we have left, if you’d be interested in helping us do an analysis of current fan culture, well Shadow culture. Let me know and we can set up a meeting! -Namjoon PS: In case you think this is a troll, here’s a photo proof

Below his email was a photo attached of the man himself, round glasses making him look younger than his age with a card on which the date and time was haphazardly written.

You laughed at how seriously he had taken the request, although you were sure you would not have believed him if he didn’t attach the proof. Your laughs only got louder as you read the next message he had sent.

Oh shit. I guess I should also say, please don’t tell people about this. You won't, right? -Namjoon

“What are you cackling at?” your roommate, Hera, questioned as she stepped out of her room, hair a mess as if she had just woken up. Well, knowing her, she probably had. She was notoriously nocturnal, being a freelance artist had that effect.

“Nothing. Just a meme,” you replied, somehow endeared enough by the email to keep it a secret. Hera walked over to the couch, yawning and reaching for your glass, taking a big swig and ignoring your scowl. You loved Hera. You had been friends since law school, but somehow as soon as she dropped out of law school she had become a little overbearing.

“Alright. What’s for dinner?” she asked, stretching her limbs out on the couch as she leaned back and turned on the television. You rolled her eyes at her, getting up to finally change.

“I already ate after work,” you pouted to get off the hook easier before apologising and going to your room.

“Ugh. I guess I’ll go on a date then. Enjoy your sad nostalgia blogging, you loner,” she called from the living room, grating your nerves as you locked yourself in your room, waiting for her to leave, so you could order food and not share. It may be petty but you were tired of paying for her meals, on top of paying for the rent.

—-------

“Wait so you called us all here to ask us to get the band back together?” Yoongi asked, eyes scrunched in disbelief. Or the early hour, Namjoon wasn’t sure. To be fair, Namjoon should’ve seen the reaction coming, considering how Jungkook had reacted, but he still had hope.

Namjoon had spent the past two days going over the fansite he had found and it encouraged him to set up the brunch meeting with his friends. If a stranger was working so hard to keep their fans engaged, shouldn’t they also do something. Didn’t they owe their fans something? Apparently the argument wasn’t as convincing as he thought it would be.

“Okay I’m not saying I’m fully against a comeback, but come on Joon. We’re has-beens… Shadows don’t even exist anymore,” Seokjin said, sipping a mimosa, freshly tanned from an impromptu trip to the Maldives.

“Speak for yourself. I will never be a has-been,” Jimin sneered, cutting into his eggs before spouting about how his singles were still reaching number one.

“That’s cause you went pop,” Taehyung argued with a grimace, pretending to throw up into his frittata, just as the waitress came by to ask if they needed anything else.

“That’d be all. Thank you,” Jungkook answered her with a huge smile just to watch her blush, and Namjoon couldn’t help rolling his eyes at the man. Perhaps bringing the chaotic group together was a bad idea. Perhaps bringing them to a high end restaurant where the average diner was a retired businessman was an even worse idea as he tried to make his friends lower their volume, especially Hoseok who was very loudly protesting that his very full schedule of production didn’t have any room for a comeback.

“Guys!” Namjoon snapped, rubbing his hands over his face in frustration. “Just please think it over–”

“It would take so long though. We don’t even have any songs… I haven’t even picked up the guitar in a while,” Seokjin interrupted, the mimosas taking their effect and turning his face a flushed red, as he looked sadly at the tablecloth, and Namjoon couldn’t help feeling a little guilty. He knew the disbandment was his fault. If he had handled things better at home, they wouldn’t have lost their friend to the chaos of the lifestyle, and Moon would still have her mom. Thinking about it lodged a lump in his throat as he tried to console the group with the only solution he could think of.

“I have three albums worth of songs written,” he declared quietly, biting his lip and looking for a reaction, only for Yoongi to speak up.

“I may or may not also have two albums worth.”

“Same,” Hoseok and Jimin spoke at the same time, and Namjoon couldn’t help smiling at how even though everyone had apparently put Dark and Wild behind them, they still couldn’t let go.

“So do you guys think we can do it?” Namjoon asked hopefully, trying not to be dejected by the way Jungkook stared at his hands, deep in thought, fingers tracing the tattoos on his knuckles. The response from the rest of the men was lukewarm as it was in the beginning but somehow now they were all reminiscing too, talking about their glory days. About the time Jimin stripped on a bartop as a dare. About the time Jungkook got so high he thought the television was recording him so he did the most rational thing he could think of and tossed it out of their 40th floor hotel room window. About the time Namjoon ran away so fast from a groupie that he had missed that the glass door wasn’t open and smashed right through it – he still had a scar on his right collarbone from it. Somehow through the road of nostalgia, a little glimmer of excitement started growing, like the embers of a campfire dying out, but needing just the right gust of wind to relight.

“But what if we don’t have the same appeal now… We’re definitely not young anymore,” Seokjin said quietly, as if he was scared to voice out his thoughts, and Namjoon couldn’t help reaching out to him, placing a hand on top of his in a form of encouragement. He had the same fears. A band in their twenties was the norm, in their thirties, on the other hand…

Perhaps they were all being silly. Thirty wasn’t old by any means but the music industry was especially vicious when it came to age. However, Namjoon tried to put the question of their sex appeal to rest as he pulled out the fansite he had stumbled on earlier, sharing the seemingly unlimited ‘thirst’ posts from the blogger, much to the men’s amusement.

“Well I trust this person,” Jungkook said after a thorough scroll, earlier mood seemingly lightened. “I am in fact yummy.”

“And I really am World Wide Handsome,” Seokjin gloated, much to everyone’s annoyance.

“I contacted her,” Namjoon said carefully, hoping he wasn’t about to get a scolding, and when he received only curious looks, he continued. “I’m thinking we can get her opinion. A real Shadow’s opinion. Perhaps she has friends. She could really let us know if the fans are for us or not. Under an NDA, of course!”

“How do you know she won’t just be wishing for us to be back together?” Yoongi sighed, remembering the almost obsessive tendencies his fans had.

“You know that one fan that wrote a whole essay defending our disbandment?” Namjoon asked a bunch of nodding heads. “This is the one.”

“I can’t believe they published someone called yummyjungkookie in the New York Times,” Hoseok laughed, his contagious cackles cracking everyone else up as well, before the laughter petered into silence.

“Let’s see what she says, and then we can decide,” Jungkook ended the conversation decidedly, before the bill came and all seven men started arguing about who was going to pay, no one willing to put their credit card away much to the waitress’s chagrin.

—-------

Off the high of the semi-successful brunch, Namjoon couldn’t sit still in the lawyer’s plush office. He looked around, tapping his feet. It was a nice office, personal yet professional, warm with deep oak furniture and shelves full of law books and fiction alike.

A giant desk took up the northern end, in front of the glass wall that overlooked the city, a big leather chair seemingly belonging to the lawyer in question facing the desk. There were a few posters on the walls, classic movies as well as music festivals. A couch sat in the corner with potted monsteras, magazines scattered on the glass coffee table.

Namjoon felt oddly comfortable, but that might be because he was certain the lawyer used the same candles that littered his home, the soft pinewood scent relaxing him. Eyes roaming to read the titles of the books on the shelf, he couldn’t stop smiling at the little windchime attached to the corner.

People wouldn’t know it at a glance, but if you knew it was unmistakably his band’s merch – limited edition merch at that. He wondered if the lawyer he was meant to meet was a fan, or if they were just so old that they had received it from their children and put it up. Namjoon was pretty proud that the windchime he had designed was given a place in a room where everything seemed to be carefully handpicked.

“Sorry for keeping you waiting, Mr. Kim.”

Namjoon heard the slightly raspy voice call out, and he stood up to greet the person. However, he was a little taken aback when his eyes met yours, his throat running a little dry and his nerves spiking for no reason. Well no reason other than his immediate attraction to you.

It should be illegal for someone to look that good in a simple red suit and a pair of black heels. His eyes traced your features of their own accord, lingering at the little necklace that nestled between your collarbones, and the wisps of your hair that lined your eyebrows.

“Mr. Kim?” you asked, and a furious flush rose up his cheeks as he realised he hadn’t answered. Stuttering a response, he sat down at your insistence, agreeing to a coffee that you rang your assistant for. If you were a fan, you didn’t seem to give it away, jumping right into business as you talked about loopholes in the contract that could get Namjoon off with minimal penance.

While Namjoon was nodding along, pretending not to pay attention to the way your fingers looked so delicate pointing out the different clauses in the document, you were internally screaming. It took everything you had to keep your cool.

You had imagined that it would be business as usual meeting one of the guys you had spent most of your youth following around but your heart had other plans, beating stupidly fast. Even if Namjoon wasn’t your favourite member, it was still Namjoon Kim of Dark and Wild.

You could tell he wasn’t paying attention to whatever you were saying, and you couldn’t help but feel like you were boring him. You tried to lighten up the dry vernacular with a few jokes that went unnoticed, so you tried to shock him into listening at the end of your meeting.

“Ah, now that we’re done. Let’s talk about your proposition,” you commented off handedly, watching as he looked at you with rapt attention, biting his lip. Was he nervous?

The thought made you laugh. Why would he be nervous? You already explained that the case was easy to settle. It was pretty run of the mill. Contrary to popular belief, a lot of songwriters worked to break their contracts after a few months of working with a band. Creative differences were inevitable sometimes.

“Proposition?” Namjoon asked, swallowing hard, scared that his thoughts had somehow been vocalised. Perhaps you could read his mind. That would be a very handy superpower for a lawyer. Wait what if you actually had mind-reading powers?

What if you knew how he had just spent thirty minutes trying to figure out how he could ask you out for dinner, or if he could simply just bend over your desk.

Fuck, he really needed to reel it in.

“Yeah you emailed me about doing an analysis on fan culture?” you answered with a grin, enjoying the reveal. Namjoon had been a rockstar for most of his life, jamming out confidently on stage, so it was extra funny seeing him so clueless. That was before he became flustered, turning a bright red.

“Oh shit? Did I fuck up my emails? I meant to send that to… someone else,” he stumbled, pulling out his phone and scrolling through his emails.

“Yummyjungkookie, right?” you asked, relishing the way his jaw dropped and his eyes widened in disbelief before reaching your hand out, “Nice to meet you.”

“What the fuck…” Namjoon mumbled, taking your hand in his and shaking gingerly, before recovering. “You’re… you’re yummyjungkookie?”

“The one and only,” you grinned.

“But you’re a lawyer…” he said in awe. Never in a million years he would’ve thought the beautiful, polished, somewhat cold woman standing in front of him was the same person who evidently followed him on tour and wrote sonnets about Jungkook’s left bicep. He thought all his fans were kids in inappropriate clothing, but then again the last time he had seen his fans was when he himself was a kid in inappropriate clothing. It made sense that as he grew up, so did his fans – apparently into super intelligent, professional women.

“Yes I am,” you said smugly, loving the way he seemed so shocked. You hadn’t thought to reveal yourself, but your embarrassment over the nickname was taking a backseat to his surprise. It made you somewhat giddy. “So do I need to sign an NDA?”

“Yes. I can mail it to you. One second,” he said, gathering his wits as you giggled at the way he dropped his phone while scrambling for it. Once he had sent the email, you quickly printed two copies, signing after reading over the straight forward terms as he did the same.

You had to control your squeal when he laid out his plans. A comeback? Dark and Wild were actually getting together and needed your help to analyse if they had any fans. You had no idea whether you could actually help him, but just the fact that he had asked you was every Shadow’s dream come true, and you could see your inner nineteen year old jumping up and down in excitement, the banner you had made out of your dorm’s bed sheet waving in the air.

Maybe it was a good thing you were a loser who still blogged about your favourite band.

—-------

Namjoon hummed to himself in the elevator, Moon’s favourite pizza in his hands warming him as he smiled at nothing. Excitement was brimming through his body, uncontained as all his plans seemed to be working out. Generation Swine was taken care of, well pretty much. He trusted you with the case, and he trusted you with convincing the band that they were definitely not has-beens. He couldn’t wait to share the news with his daughter as he entered his apartment, placing the box on the dining room table before making his way to her door.

“I’m fine,” Moon’s voice carried through the door, and Namjoon had to stop himself from barging in when he heard her sniffle. Why was his baby crying? “It’s just that I’m worried about dad… When mom died, he was so broken.”

Namjoon felt his heart drop to his stomach, a lump forming in his throat as he eavesdropped. He hated listening in. Moon was pretty much an adult, she deserved her privacy, but when another voice spoke, dampened by the line of the speakers, he stayed rooted on the spot, vying for some insight into her sudden sadness.

“He’s better now, Moonie,” the voice said.

“I know. I know. But sometimes he still gets sad. He thinks I don’t notice but I do. I joked about smoking some weed the other day and it was like his life flashed before his eyes. He looked like he was going to cry… I just… I get scared of letting him down sometimes,” she sighed.

“You know you’re never going to do drugs. He knows you’re never going to do drugs. You’re not gonna let him down.”

“I know that but… I look like her,” she sniffled, and Namjoon felt his heart break further. Had he really been putting so much pressure on his teenager that he didn’t notice the way she seemed to be feeling so guilty. He was scared of her trying drugs, given her mother’s death, but he never thought that he was making her feel like she couldn’t be like her mother, especially when she continued talking.

“I’m scared that I remind him of her everyday, and that looking at me makes him sad. I just wish he found someone or even if he didn’t, that he went out more. He quit his job and I don’t want him to be depressed again.”

“He’s not sad to look at you, idiot. He’s your dad. He knows you look like your mom. It’ll be dumb if he didn’t!” Moon’s friend exclaimed, and Namjoon relaxed a little at hearing his daughter chuckle in response.

His mental health hadn’t been the greatest since his wife passed away, years full of ups and downs that he tried to hide from his daughter as he worked through therapy. But evidently he hadn’t been too good at hiding that part of himself, and a tear escaped without his consent when he thought about the burden she had been carrying.

He opted not to listen to more, walking to the kitchen to dry his eyes as he set the table. Once he was sure that he had his emotions under control, he called out for dinner, smiling when his daughter walked in after a few minutes in her pterodactyl onesie. Sometimes he still couldn’t believe that she was almost an adult, that she had grown so much. Unable to help himself, he hugged her to his chest, kissing the top of her head repeatedly as she whined about being unable to breathe.

“Ew dad, why are you being so clingy?” she groaned, pushing him away.

“Just missed you today, is all,” Namjoon said, pulling the hood of the onesie over her head, just to annoy her as she sat on the table to eat.

“Gross,” she replied despite the smile on her face as she dug in, thanking him for the pizza. He laughed, telling her about his day as she shared about how she had finally mastered the drums for YYZ, a Rush song she had been learning for a week.

He beamed proudly when she played him the song after dinner, trying his best not to tell her that looking at her could never make him sad. That all he saw was how proud he was that despite his fuckups, she had turned out more than perfect.

—-------

Sitting on your dining table, you stared at the blank document on your screen, the blinking cursor mocking you for your lack of ideas. Sighing, you switched the tab to the google search you had done, littered with journal articles talking about fan culture. Although you had three case files to go over that your paralegal had been hounding you about, you really wanted to create a plan for Namjoon, regardless of your lack of knowledge.

“Working on your boring lawyer stuff?” Hera asked, placing an elaborate gold and ruby necklace around her neck before turning to you in a silent request to clasp it for her. You obliged, standing up from your chair, an idea forming.

“Hey. You have fans for your art,” you commented, grabbing a glass of water as she continued getting ready, lacing her ballerina stilettos. She hummed for you to continue. “How do you manage them? Like check their retention, interact with them, and all?”

“God, you’re such a nerd,” she laughed, opening her purse to pull out a lipstick, dabbing it on her lips with her front view camera as the mirror. “You just put stuff out there, fans will follow. They don’t need interaction or those fancy terms. You just do you, they come.”

You knew for a fact that she was incorrect. Even running your somewhat small anonymous blog you knew that the weeks you didn’t interact with your audience, when you didn’t answer their messages or reply to their comments, your popularity dipped. People liked being seen, especially from those they admire. It boggled your mind how she made money when she was always so blase about everything, coasting through life like nothing required effort.

“Where are you off to, anyways?” you asked, settling back into your chair to skim through the numerous articles you had found.

“Going out with my boyfriend,” she grinned, wiggling her eyebrows as you stared at her in disbelief.

“Wait, you’re dating? Who?” you returned her smile, excited for her to be in a relationship after she had been wanting one for so long. You couldn’t count the number of weekends you had to resort to headphones while she looked for the one between her bedsheets.

She was a hopeless romantic of sorts, thinking that a relationship was the cure to everything, yet she had notoriously high standards. You blamed her obsession with Disney movies for that, but you couldn’t help the way you warmed at the flustered look on her face, biting her lip as she tried to not smile.

“You know him actually,” she said much to your surprise. “But you can’t judge me if I tell you! Promise me!”

Laughing at her sudden pleading, you promised, waiting for her to continue. However, your laugh was short-lived when the name escaped her lips. She was right, you did know him. You knew him very well, had spent years with him, had almost moved in with him before he decided to stomp on your heart.

“Ryan? You’re dating Ryan?!” you couldn’t control your volume, the absurdity of the woman who had dreamt of prince charming settling for someone who didn’t even deserve coal at Christmas.

“You promised you wouldn’t judge,” she argued, standing up with a huff. “He’s changed. He became better for me!”

“Became better for you? What does that even mean? Hera, Ryan’s trash!” It was too hard to even say his name, your brain flooding with memories of how he had laughed at you when you asked him if he was cheating on you. How he had placated you with kisses, assuring you that you were being paranoid, only to be caught a few months later with a girl in your bed.

“Just because he couldn’t love you, doesn’t mean he’s trash!” she yelled back, unaware

how her words cut through you. Not knowing how to respond as she ranted about you being unlovable and how Ryan had told her he found you boring and uptight, you took your leave.

Grabbing your laptop you headed out, willing yourself to not break.

—-------

You didn’t know where you were driving to, running around the city in circles. Usually it calmed you down, to have your music playing so loud that your thoughts couldn’t infiltrate, but today it felt as if they were crashing about, the cacophony drowning the dulcet tunes of Hoseok’s singing.

Instead of clearing, your mind was full of the last memories of your relationship, of how the man you loved would manipulate you, make you feel small in moments where you should’ve felt out of this world. You had confided in Hera, had cried with your head on her lap as she stroked your hair and assured you that he was scum. You had believed her, used her words to slowly build yourself up, to learn to love yourself again.

But now it was Hera throwing the poisonous words that he had embedded in your self-image, ones that took too long to pry out, ones that left scars that you were too terrified to look at even after over a year. You couldn’t help the tears that flowed to the bass playing in the background, overwhelmed yet knowing that you shouldn’t be.

When your eyes got too blurry, you parked next to a random park, taking deep breaths and practising the techniques you had learnt. Hera’s words were just words, they didn’t define you, they didn’t control your emotions.

Only you were responsible for how you saw yourself, and even though you felt like shit right now, it would pass. You were allowed to feel the way you were feeling.

Your deep breathing was interrupted by the ringing of your phone, a name you never thought you’d see lighting up your screen. Clearing your throat, you schooled your voice to resemble normal before picking up.

“Hello?”

“Hey. Sorry this is random, but I had a few ideas. Do you mind meeting up?” Namjoon’s voice broke through your thoughts and you sighed a little, finding comfort in his dulcet baritone. It was a different tone than the one he used for meetings or the one you had heard in interviews, and somehow it felt familiar. Blaming the feeling on your rattled emotions, you agreed to his request, fixing your face to drive to his studio.

Walking into the large skyscraper you were surprised that the security at the front already had your information, providing you with a temporary employee card rather than a run of the mill visitor pass.

With your sour mood, you really hoped helping Namjoon with his project wasn’t about to turn into a part time job. As dedicated as you were to being a Shadow, your days were often long and exhausting, and carving time for another thing just seemed like too much at the moment. Perhaps he would notice how stupidly incapable you were for the task and request an actual marketing firm to do the research for him.

Visiting his studio, however, was a dream come true. You had always loved the music he created for Dark and Wild, and immensely enjoyed the livestreams he would do describing his process after each album. It was always interesting to hear how much actually went into creating a seemingly simple track, how much he thought through his lyrics, how different the finished product sounded from the acoustic demos he showcased.

Much like the personality you had come to learn about in your time as a fan, his studio was a utopia of calm, plants scattered about, thriving even in a seemingly dark room. A glass separated the recording booth from the main area, which housed multiple cream couches decorated with colourful cushions, some even with the band on them.

On the walls were their records, different colours signifying which had gone platinum – most of them. There was a large monitor attached to the glass wall of the recording booth, a large gaming chair facing it on which sat Namjoon, fiddling with the mouse. The large screen embarrassingly enough had your blog on it as the man in question scrolled, laughing at your somewhat unhinged comments.

“Please stop stalking my blog,” you deadpanned and he turned the chair to face you with a large smile on his face.

“Only fair. You stalked me all these years,” he teased, loving the way your face scrunched in disbelief. He liked how you looked today, probably more than how he found you at the meeting. Dressed in a matching pink sweat suit, you somehow looked a little softer, and definitely less intimidating than the woman spouting the Federal Reclamation Law off the top of her head. It made him glad he had gathered the courage to ask you for a meeting.

“And it got you more famous. Your point?” you replied, ignoring the heat that was creeping up your back. You really should’ve gone through your blog and parsed through all the very horny comments you had left on their photos, but then again they should take it as a compliment. You were only appreciating them!

“My point is,” Namjoon began, leaning on his elbows as he gestured for you to sit on the couch in front of him, “You’re talented at getting people hyped up. And I want to make all the other blogs I found get active again. I have a list!”

His proclamation was followed by an actual list he had compiled that he handed to you, and being in the fandom for so long, you knew almost all of the fifteen names, some of them even personally. It may have seemed that the Shadow fandom was massive, but when it came to bigger blogs, it was actually pretty small, all of you constantly running into each other at events at some point of your fan careers.

“Well, six of these are moms now and they don’t even have time to breathe, let alone continue following you guys. I don’t know about these four, but Sera is in prison,” you said.

“Prison?! For stalking?” he asked, genuinely taken aback, and you just chuckled.

“No… for embezzlement. Turns out, she liked taking money more than pictures of you,” you quipped, laughing at his response.

“But she was so into me,” he scowled.

“Sucks to suck,” you responded as he scoffed, turning his attention back to his computer as he started to strategize different marketing tactics, some of which went over your head, especially when he started to talk about TikTok.

Perhaps Hera’s news had really exhausted you or perhaps it was the fact that marketing was never your forte, but you found yourself zoning out of the conversation, hoping Namjoon didn’t notice that you looked like a mess when you entered his office. He hadn’t acted like he noticed, but you were sure that your eyes were still a little red-rimmed, and that your face was puffy from crying in your car. You hadn’t realised how quiet you had gotten till his voice cut through your thoughts.

“Hey, you okay?” he asked softly, pausing his rant.

“Yeah. Sorry, just a little out of it today,” you replied with a smile, trying not to be affected by how concerned he seemed. Even after spending such a short amount of time with him, you had started wondering why he was your least favourite member, maybe you really did view your Shadow life through a very distorted, horny lens.

“You know what always makes me feel better? Chocolate!” he suggested with a grin, opening a drawer to pull out a giant bar of some Swiss chocolate and presenting it to you with a flourish. The gesture made you laugh harder than you anticipated, the random move making you wheeze. He joined you, unwrapping the chocolate to break off a piece for you, the gesture endearing you to no end.

“Ah! So this is why you never had abs,” you joked, giggling as he groaned.

“I had a kid to take care of! And… okay you’re under NDA so I can tell you,” he whispered, leaning in, and your curiosity peaked as he came closer. “Those teething biscuits are fucking delicious! Dude, those are like crack!”

The absurdity of the statement had you cackling once again, and you couldn’t help appreciating the effort he was putting into cheering you up, even when he didn’t know what was wrong. And perhaps it was the recent rehashing of your past, but you felt your heart warm, your grin matching his.

Unknown to you, Namjoon’s heart warmed too, just by hearing your laugh.

—-------

Somehow after the night in the studio, texting and hanging out with Namjoon became the norm. At least twice a week, you’d visit the little sanctuary he had created, spouting wild plans for twenty minutes before falling into a tangent that took over the conversation, trailing it to random topics that always distracted you till both of you were enjoying take out. For someone who had spent his whole life in the limelight, Namjoon was oddly normal.

Sure he had his moments like when he accidentally broke his extremely expensive watch because he was flailing animatedly while describing how he had once found a boy in his daughter’s room. But for the most part, he was down to earth, his stories mundane, nothing like the rockstar you had imagined.

However, what was exactly the same as the rockstar of your blog, was how attractive he was, especially in the suit he was wearing for today’s meeting. Sitting next to you on the couch, his glasses were low on his nose as he scoured through the research you had collected about building fan culture. The scowl on his face complimented him, and it reminded you of how he looked when he was busy slapping the bass when he performed, lip stuck between his teeth as he bobbed his head to the beat of the music playing through the speakers.

After almost three weeks of strategizing, despite you promising yourself this project wouldn’t take all your time, Namjoon had indeed hired a marketing firm, taking the insights the two of you found during your hangouts to them while you were at work. They had done an analysis and found that Shadows had indeed not died down, and that Moon was correct in her assumption that because of their songs going viral on social media, there was a steady growth of new fans, their old videos getting more and more comments. The news made you giddy, and it was getting difficult to hide how excited you were about the potential comeback.

“Wow… this is actually really great,” Namjoon praised you and you couldn’t help beaming at his words as he continued, “Are you sure you’re not a marketer? This is so so good!”

“Shut up. I just googled stuff,” you countered, getting a little flustered at his smile. He always seemed to be complimenting you during these meetings and you were sure your head was going to explode with how big it was getting.

“Oh speaking of google, did you know that it saves everything you search?” he asked, eyes widening in the shocking revelation he had seemingly made and you giggled at him.

“Yes, Grandpa. That’s how they make their money,” you teased, your early conversation getting steamrolled once again as you explained to him how the conglomerate actually used that data to make personalised ads.

“Wait… so like they can use my porn preferences to sell me stuff?” he exasperated, before realising what he had blurted out, a blush taking over his features. He really didn’t know how to control his tongue around you, somehow you brought out his no-filter self, something that only happened around those he was closest to. Maybe it was that you seemed to know him from his younger days, and that he had read all your unfiltered thoughts that you unapologetically owned up to, but he felt close to you despite only knowing you for merely weeks. It was weird. It was terrifying. It was exciting.

“Why are you googling porn?” you grimaced, cringing at just how bad he was at technology. Did spending so much time on his passion really make him this clueless?

“It has a video option!” he defended, ignoring how stupid he sounded even to his own ears, but then again what he said was even stupider. “What do you use?”

“Your music,” you deadpanned, immensely enjoying the way he turned into a tomato, sputtering in disbelief till you reassured him that you used a porn site like a normal human. However, Namjoon couldn’t help being stuck on the thought that maybe there was some truth to your words, and that alone had his heart beating and his lip twisting into a smirk.

“Oh yeah? What song?” he teased, an elbow meeting your shoulder as he snickered.

“Bicycle,” you said, smiling at the way he cringed in response.

“I wrote that song for my daughter, you heathen!” he exclaimed, gagging in response and all you could do was cackle, dissolving into breathless laughs as you leaned back on the couch. You missed the way he smiled at you, mirroring your position next to you, waiting for you to calm down.

“You’re a great songwriter,” you complimented once you had caught your breath, wiping the tears from your eyes. You regretted the sudden compliment that had escaped your lips, but the feeling was short lived because you got to witness the elusive shy Namjoon, smiling widely and shaking his bowed head as he brought his hands to between his legs, shoulders rising and a soft blush adorning his face. It made your heart flutter a little, making you avert your gaze.

That night the two of you barely got anything done, only deciding to create a presentation to convince the band. Namjoon insisted on having a special section chronicling Dark and Wild’s journey through your eyes. It was wholly unnecessary but he strong armed you with endless compliments and an offer to never get pineapple on the pizzas the two of you inevitably ended up ordering.

You never thought you would end up becoming friends with someone you used to follow around on tour, but somehow with all your meetings, it seemed that it was not only a possibility but a reality.

—-------

You found it odd when Namjoon changed up the routine one day, inviting you to his apartment instead of the studio, but you supposed that’s what friends did. So you had showed up with a bottle of wine and his favourite gummy bears, a decidedly small gesture but the way he squealed excitedly like a little kid at the candy had you giddy.

However, you learnt that somehow, this meeting wasn’t one for your flimsy professional reasons, but for just hanging out. You didn’t know why you were so surprised that he wanted to just enjoy your company, the two of you had developed a friendship but with the only close friendship you had with Hera still hanging on by a thread, you were a little skeptical.

“So how’ve you been?” Namjoon asked after he had set up a movie on the screen and popped some popcorn. His easy comfort made you worried, making you build up walls, refusing to share anything personal, and instead opting to discuss work and how his case was going.

Apparently, Generation Swine hated him and wanted to do everything but settle, desperate to keep the six songs he had written for them with full creative control over them. It was a preposterous ask, and you told him as such. You were determined to ensure that all his copyright would be given to him with as little payment from him as possible.

“They can keep them,” he said, speaking after a long silence. “I’ve made my peace with it. Just get them to take my name off.” You argued but Namjoon had made his decision. He knew that having his name on that album would just taint his reputation. He didn’t want to be associated with such scumbags who clearly respected no one, often not even themselves. And if he was being completely honest, he had just grown tired of the months long back and forth. If they wanted his music so bad, they could have it. He would be lying if he said writing songs came easy to him, but it just wasn’t worth it. Not when he knew they would water down his works to something unrecognisable. He just wanted to focus on making new stuff with his band mates, and moving on. Something he wished he could do with you by his side, not that he would ever admit it out loud.

The movie was some Japanese flick about a band working to achieve their dreams and everything that came with the industry, and when it ended you were left in charge of the remote. To break the odd tension that had risen after the silent resignation about Namjoon giving up his case, you decided to put on a documentary about Dark and Wild.

It worked, getting Namjoon distracted with nostalgia as he told you the background of all the scenes. Like how the footage of him ripping the wallpaper off the wall in a hotel was wrongly portrayed.In reality he had somehow managed to get his hand stuck in an already existing tear and couldn’t get it out. A few months ago you would have rolled your eyes and called him a liar, but after knowing him, you knew he was telling the truth. You had never met anyone with a bigger propensity for disaster than Namjoon. It was a wonder he was still alive with how clumsy he was. You told him so with a slap on his thigh and he just laughed along.

You had started the evening at different ends of his large couch, but somehow as he regaled you with more stories, you had moved closer, sitting side by side, sharing the popcorn on your lap and the gummies on his. It scared you how comfortable you felt with him, how he made you forget about everything, how he made you laugh so hard your stomach hurt. When he left to go pick up the food you had ordered from the restaurant next door, you realised that perhaps you wanted more of that comfort. You wanted to spend evenings just watching movies and making fun of him. You wanted to hear his stories, learn more about his life, and for the first time in a long while maybe you wanted to share your stories too.

Smiling at the thought, you scrolled through Youtube on the television, watching his old music videos, in awe of how much he had changed from the scrawny kid trying hard to seem tough to the dorky heartthrob he was now. You had always felt close to the band, related to them. That’s what made you a fan but somehow knowing the real him, made you feel nervous. There was no screen to hide behind, no image in your brain to project your fantasies on, because Namjoon was no longer just an abstract figment of your imagination, he was real.

“Oh… umm… hello,” a voice broke you out of your thoughts and you looked up to see a teenage girl standing in the living room, dressed much like you used to as a kid. Wearing black ripped jeans and a loose yellow flannel shirt, she seemed like a typical emo kid, her image solidified by the multiple piercings on her ears and chunky silver jewellery on her neck and wrists. She had dark hair that was tied in a half ponytail behind her head, and her dimples matched those on Namjoon’s face. You had seen her millions of times as a toddler, often dressed in fluffy pink dresses with giant yellow noise-cancelling earphones as she watched her father perform, and you felt oddly proud to see her all grown up.

“Hi! I’m a friend of your dad’s,” you said, moving the empty bowl from beside you invitingly, feeling a little awkward. Somehow you felt nervous as if you should’ve asked him if it was okay to talk to her before you did, every fibre of you wishing to make a good first impression.

“Oh, friend, you say?” she asked, narrowing her eyes with a grin that deepened her dimples. Dropping her bag at the end of the couch, she sat next to you, folding her hands in her lap confidently as she looked at the screen. You felt yourself flush with embarrassment as you followed her gaze to the obscenely large television where the music video was paused with the image of Hoseok mid thrust. You really should’ve paid more attention to which frame you stopped at.

Watching your horrified expression, she laughed, clapping her hands. “Don’t worry! That’s my favourite video too!”

Her laugh was a little weird, hiccuping between cackles, but it was extremely contagious, coaxing you to chuckle and breaking the ice. Most would think that the daughter of a renowned rock star would be spoiled, a little entitled, but Moon was anything but that, amicably finding topics to connect with you, cracking jokes at the expense of her uncles. Her humour reminded you of her father, goofy and light hearted. It was no wonder that soon the topic turned to him.

“Have you seen this video?” she asked excitedly, searching through her phone before casting her Youtube to the screen, playing a video of Namjoon from an old Dark and Wild vlog. The band had relegated him to cooking for them, the six of them sitting in chairs in front of him as he tried to cut vegetables. He had his lower lip between his teeth as he cut an onion in half and then proceeded to lay it on the round end, gingerly moving the knife and being unsuccessful almost every time while his friends laughed.

You had watched the video before. Of course, you had. It was a classic in the Shadow fandom, one that was memed again and again, but you couldn’t help wincing all the same, knowing full well that he wouldn’t hurt himself but worried all the same.

“Oh my god, dad! Flip the onion over!” Moon laughed at the screen before turning to you. “He hasn’t cooked for you, has he?”

“Oh god, no!” you replied automatically before biting your tongue, but Moon just chuckled along, fully aware of her father’s lack of culinary skills. Video Namjoon moved on to a carrot, struggling even more if that was possible and you couldn’t help joining along with Moon’s commentary.

“Watch your fingers,” you yelled at the screen just as he slightly nicked himself, hissing in pain, sheepishly pouting at the camera. When you had first watched the video, you were endeared by his antics, but now it felt as if your heart was bursting, making you almost coo at his younger self.

“I’m so glad I saved up my pocket money to buy him a food processor,” Moon commented, still giggling at the video. “Did you know he refused to buy me take out and then would accidentally cut himself like eight times a week?”

You could imagine Namjoon being stubborn as his daughter complained while he chopped vegetables in uneven slices, fingers covered in little bandaids. It wasn’t hard to notice how dedicated a father Namjoon was, but it warmed your heart to hear how much he cared for Moon from her directly.

You could tell by her tone that even though she masked it under humour and inconvenience, she truly admired her father for all the effort he put in, and somehow the picture in your head morphed till you were laughing at him alongside her, pushing him aside to take over the chopping as he leaned sheepishly by the counter complaining and insisting he had it handled.

In your imagination, he wrapped himself behind you, resting his chin on your shoulder, annoying you while you worked as Moon teased the two of you for being dorks. You startled at the image, not knowing why your brain had decided to drift that way, heart beating oddly, and eyes blinking to rid yourself of it.

As if on cue, Namjoon entered the room, precariously balancing boxes of pasta and dessert on two plates, a bottle of wine tucked under his elbow, and for the first time since you had met him, you felt starstruck. In awe of how tightly he was holding the cutlery in one hand but how lightly he was holding the plates, swaying from side to side to ensure none of the four unevenly stacked boxes tipped over. You felt frozen, a blush slowly creeping up your cheeks before leaping into action after a little “help!” escaped his lips.

Reaching for the bottle, you took it in your hands just as Moon grabbed the boxes, leaving Namjoon with just the plates and the cutlery. He still managed to drop a fork on the ground, cursing at himself before his daughter picked it up and went to replace it from the kitchen.

“Grab yourself a plate too, Moonie,” Namjoon offered, sitting next to you and oblivious to your sudden crush, casually plating a bit of everything for you. You realised he did that alot. Always making sure that you were served before him, that you were given the first piece of any snacks you both shared, and always asking if you were comfortable.

How did a passing comment from his daughter have such a profound impact on you? You felt like one of those girls who wrote fanfiction, your imagination going wild with scenarios when he had only just been kind. Perhaps you needed to follow Hera’s misguided advice and get laid after all.

“Nah, I have homework,” Moon replied, placing the fork on the table before smirking at the two of you. “Enjoy your date,” she snickered before prancing out of the room.

“It’s not a date!” Namjoon called out after her, bringing your overactive imagination to a screeching halt, forcing you to chuckle with him and dig into the food, missing how brightly his cheeks were shining at his daughter’s offhand comment.

You were still not speaking to Hera, but maybe you should strike a truce with her. If only so you could go with her to a club and no longer give yourself false allusions of being with a famous rockstar.

—-------

“Thanks for coming guys. I know you’re all busy but I just wanted to–”

“Oh my god. Stop giving a speech! Show us!” Seokjin interrupted Namjoon, bouncing on his seat on the couch, making Yoongi groan as he invaded his space. Although Namjoon’s studio was spacious, it was crammed for seven people, Hoseok and Taehyung sat squished next to Yoongi and Seokjin with Jimin perched on the armrest, wincing as Jungkook sat on his lap. Namjoon shook his head at his friend, appreciating the encouragement but still nervous.

He hadn’t showcased a song to the whole band for a long time and even though he knew that they were always supportive, he still felt a little uneasy. The new songs were different from the ones he used to write for Dark and Wild – while the former were debaucherous and often horny, his new stuff was something that held more of him, bared him with a vulnerability his younger self used to hide behind bravado. Not to mention that all he had was a guitar and his notebook, nothing like the demos he used to show them before, usually filled with samples of instruments manufactured from the mixer in his computer.

When Hoseok asked everyone to be quiet, Namjoon took a grounding breath, starting to pluck the strings slowly, building a melody that had haunted him for weeks. The acoustic version wasn’t how he heard it in his head, but he hoped it was enough to inspire his friends to imagine how easily they would fill in the gaps. He picked the strings individually, separating the chords so that they could speak to the emotions he was aiming for.

Soft strings echoed through the space, slow and resounding, and he cleared his throat before closing his eyes and singing. He always hated how he sounded but somehow in that moment he lost himself to the melancholy, letting it guide his vocals.

Maybe cherries are blossoming And winter is going to be over I miss you (I miss you) I miss you (I miss you) Wait a little bit, just a few more nights I’ll be there to see you (I'll go there to meet you) I’ll come for you (I'll come for you) Pass the end of winter's cold Until the spring day comes again Until the flowers bloom again Please stay, please stay there a little longer

The room was silent when he opened his eyes, six pairs of eyes staring at him. They had all leaned forward, Jungkook now sitting on the floor, legs crossed below him as his head rested on his hands. There were no words and Namjoon felt himself getting nervous as Yoongi spoke.

“Holy fuck…” he whispered, and Namjoon jumped straight into defense.

“I know my voice sounded terrible. You guys know i can’t sing, but I was just thinking, if we added some drums and then Seokjin you added some of the melody or maybe Jimin with a solo in the middle with Yoongi’s production… it could be… umm… something?” he rambled, scratching the back of his neck.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Taehyung asked, his voice deep and serious, and Namjoon felt himself deflate a little, shoulders slumping before the next words left Taehyung’s mouth, “This is fucking incredible.”

It seemed that his words broke everyone out of their trance, praise flowing through the room as they excitedly left the mixing part of the studio to join Namjoon on the recording side, picking up their designated instruments.

“This is 4/4 as usual right?” Jungkook asked, taking a seat at the drums, rolling his shoulders and stretching his neck before twirling the sticks between his fingers.

“And what’s the key again?” Seokjin questioned, plugging his guitar into the amp, taking a determined stance as he smiled warmly at Namjoon and Namjoon couldn’t help mirroring his expression, his cheeks splitting with how wide his lips stretched.

“E-flat,” he replied, discarding the acoustic guitar to the side to pick up his bass, setting the dials to the sound he prepared, the pitch a higher than usual for a bass.

Soon the song transformed from an empty plea to a celebration of friendship, the instruments gelling together in a sound that went from mournful to inspiring. It somehow changed the message of the song from longing and waiting to reuniting. It was as if the melody was meant to be tweaked, his friends adding in their flair that changed how Namjoon had always heard the song in his head into one he could never fathom.

By the time Hoseok and Jimin finished singing, with Seokjin and Taehyung harmonising at the chorus, Namjoon couldn’t help choking up a little. It was as if he was transported back in time, back before he knew what it was like to lose his dream – to the time when he didn’t even know what loss was. He felt irrevocably happy and his eyes glistened as the last chord echoed into silence.

“Fuck I missed this,” Hoseok gleed into the microphone, jumping a little in excitement and the band joined in on the sentiment, their voice a cacophony of chaos as they all complimented each other and Namjoon for writing what they perceived as a hit. Soon, everyone was pulling out unfinished works, some scribbled in notebooks, others in their phones, one even on a napkin – Taehyung had a moment of inspiration in a Jazz club three months ago.

It was as if the previous years had been erased, their usual teamwork gelling into place like muscle memory, ideas flying and morphing into melodies that were lighthearted and poetry that struck a chord. Namjoon knew they were still wary about a comeback, but just seeing the joy on their faces as they brainstormed song after song, convinced him it wouldn’t be too hard to put their worries to rest.

Something told him this wouldn’t be the last time they jammed together.

—-------

It had been a few weeks since you had talked to Hera properly. Conversations that used to last hours were subdued to passing remarks about groceries and chores. She stayed out most of the time, giving you space. Sitting on your living room couch with ramen on a Saturday night, things were dull, your mind wandering on your relationship with her.

They say absence makes the heart grow stronger, but it didn’t seem to be the case for you. The more she stayed away, the more you had time to dwell on how your friendship had faded over time, how she had gone from a confidant to someone you tolerated. It made you feel a little guilty, but everytime that guilt would be overshadowed by how it seemed that you were always putting in more effort, from housing her during her financial crisis to not thinking twice about any favour she asked of you.

It wasn’t always bad, you remembered her getting you out of your introverted shell in law school, challenging you to strike a balance between coursework and hobbies. But in the past two years, you couldn’t recall a single time she had even mildly inconvenienced herself on your behalf. She was often passive-aggressive, seemingly exasperated at you. Perhaps it made sense if she was talking to Ryan during that time, his manipulative nature probably influenced her. But if she was so easily swayed was she truly your friend?

As if she was honed into you trying to let her go, she waltzed in through the front door, a huge grin on her face and smelling of alcohol. Squealing your name she startled you with a hug, her arms wrapping tight around you. It felt suffocating, unnerving.

“I miss you,” she sniffled, and usually her crying would be enough for you to forgive her, but you knew she was an emotional drunk. You sat in silence, letting her cry into your shoulder, not knowing how to react when the last words she said to you were accusations of how you had forced your ex to cheat. You didn’t know why you were being so harsh, but maybe it was because you had started to watch the Dark and Wild vlogs again, envying their friendships, comparing it to how the two of you interacted.

You patted her on the shoulder, waiting for her to sit up, and when she did you smiled, not knowing what else to do but tell her it was okay. As soon as the words left your mouth she was perking up, tears forgotten and drunken ramblings commencing. She talked to you about her night, about how Ryan was the perfect man, and you couldn’t get over the bitterness you felt. Was she trying to show off how much of a better boyfriend he was to her than you?

A ping from your phone saved you from the conversation, your face lighting up when you read Namjoon’s text.

So what do you say to a private concert? Wanna meet me at the studio in half an hour?

You couldn’t control the giddy smile as you responded, thanking him in your head for saving you from this awkward conversation. Hera didn’t like it when you excused yourself, complaining about how you didn’t like her anymore. She wasn’t wrong, but you were too excited to leave to fight her on it, apologising and rushing to your room to change, ignoring the pout she threw your way.

When you knocked on the studio door you were expecting only Namjoon to be there wanting to share some of the newer songs he had alluded to working on. However, when you entered you were met by the whole band, seven men sprawled on the couch, the coffee table cluttered with an array of snacks. They stood up at your arrival, greeting you excitedly in a mismatched unison, Jungkook’s voice the loudest among the crowd.

“Yummyjungkookie!” he exclaimed, the wink he tossed your way making you flush. You never imagined your teenage celebrity crush to ever greet you, let alone scream your embarrassing username at you. It made you wish that you had been a little more subtle when choosing it.

“Guys you are overwhelming her,” Jimin chided the men, moving away from the group to hold out his hand. “Hi Y/N. It’s nice to finally meet you!”

“Finally?” you questioned, grasping his hand in yours, a little dizzy at the sudden appearance of people you had only seen on stage or in magazines. You should’ve been used to it after spending time with Namjoon for so long but Jimin was right, it was overwhelming to see them all in one place once again.

“Yeah Joonie’s told us all about you,” Hoseok smirked, side-eyeing his friend who glared at him.

“He couldn’t shut up about you,” Seokjin added with a mischievous sing-song lilt to his voice, elbowing Namjoon who cleared his throat loudly before speaking.

“Okay!” he exclaimed loudly, clapping his hands together once. “Now that everyone is acquainted–”

“Oh I’m not acquainted,” Jungkook interrupted, moving towards you with a teasing smile, pushing his hair away from his face. It reminded you of his stage persona, his already sexy allure hammed up with fan service and it took every ounce of control you had to not swoon. The reaction had been engraved in you for years, after all. “So am I as yummy as you thought?” he asked, flexing his biceps.

Luckily you didn’t have to answer because as soon as the words left his mouth, Jimin scowled, smacking him atop his head. “You have a wife and kids!” he scolded.

“Aw hyung! I’m just trying to figure out if I’m rusty,” Jungkook whined, the earlier suavity melting instantly as he pouted, making you giggle at the sudden change. That was the Jungkook you were a fan of. Sure the sex appeal was appealing but you’d be lying if you said the real thing that gravitated you towards him was how dorky he was.

As all of them started arguing and teasing Jungkook for being a “rusty old man”, you started realising that they all were, in fact, dorks. It comforted you, helped you bring them off the pedestal you had placed them on and back to how they were just how you hoped they’d be – just a group of normal friends.

With everyone settled and introduced, and your pick of dinner ordered, Namjoon made you sit in the large comfy chair in front of the glass separating the recording studio and the mixing room. The band settled in the other room, picking up their instruments and making last minute tune ups.

“Okay. Someone told us a busy lawyer had been spending her precious free time to help us with our stupid hang ups, so we thought that we’d show our appreciation,” Hoseok announced, adjusting the mic stand. “For our favourite Shadow, after eight years, we are Dark and Wild!”

His introduction was immediately followed by Jungkook banging his sticks with each other, counting into the first song, and you were immediately transported to the time when you fought to be in the front row. They started with War of Hormones, Hoseok and Taehyung’s more mature voices and Seokjin’s new ad libs, changing the song into something fresher, something you thought you would never get to see live again. Before you knew it, you were standing from your chair, rocking along to the music as you grinned.

Namjoon watched you as he performed and he couldn’t help the giddiness he felt at seeing you so into something. You were often stoic, having a tight lid on your emotions. It made him want to work harder to get you to open up, often cracking jokes he knew were terrible to get you to laugh. If he knew he would get to see this expression on your face by just convincing the boys to put on a show for you, he would’ve begged them earlier.

He didn’t know when he had started seeing you as someone he wanted to pursue. The feeling was foreign. He never thought he would feel this way again, the bubbling anticipation for when he would see you next, the giddy joy when he saw your name light up his screen, the heart stuttering nervousness when you were near. He had assumed that those feelings had died in his youth, buried with Seo on that rainy day that tore his heart out.

He had tried to move on after her, had multiple one night stands, friends with benefits, even a girlfriend at some point. After a while he had figured that he would never feel that euphoria again, but somehow you had come in with your business formal skirts and secret thirsty blog and embedded yourself in his thoughts. And with it came the need to hold himself back, his once bulletproof confidence wavering to insecurities that he never felt before.

You never shared much of your personal life with him, never deviated from the strict line of friendship that had cemented itself between you, and Namjoon didn’t know how to break that. Every time he flirted, it seemed like a joke to you. Perhaps he was a joke too, a washed up musician with a grown child, who only met you because he was fighting with children and pathetically trying to convince people who had moved on to move backwards with him.

He didn’t realise that his gaze was unwavering as he stared at you through the glass, fingers moving over the strings automatically as Hoseok sang their old hits, but you noticed. Between your jumping, you saw how all of a sudden, his face had fallen, his jaw tightening as he zoned out like he did sometimes when you were hanging out. You didn’t know what he was thinking in those moments, but something told you it wasn’t pleasant.

His mood didn’t lift during the rest of the set, even when you tried to engage him with a smile and a wave. He returned your smile briefly before going back to the same forlorn expression that you couldn’t help being worried about.

“Thank you! You’ve been a great audience,” Yoongi said cheekily, winking at you after the last song before he was ushering everyone into the other room with you. He pulled up two stools, switching his pedals around and taking a seat while offering the other to Namjoon.

“For our last song, we wanted to show you a new one. One written by none other than Namjoon Kim,” Yoongi announced, plucking the strings as his foot toyed with the pedal, changing the tone to a fuzzier one that was overlaid with a delay, adding an ethereal ambience to the sound. Behind you the boys piled onto the couch, cheering loudly and you followed suit, clapping loudly as Namjoon adjusted the height of the mic and sat down.

He smiled at you sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “This isn’t one of the happy ones, sorry,” he said, clearing his throat as Yoongi looped a sound and started plucking the strings with a melancholic tune. “Also sorry my singing sucks,” he chuckled dryly.

“No, it doesn’t!” Seokjin argued loudly as everyone whooped.

“Go Joon!” Jungkook joined, and somehow the encouragement paired with the soft smile you sent his way made his nerves dissolve, letting him sing the song he had written years ago for the first time. It wasn’t just a surprise for you, it was for the rest of the band too. No one but Yoongi had heard it before. Initially, Yoongi had told him to showcase the song, but after trying to sidetrack him with other songs and getting the idea to invite you, Yoongi had had enough, instructing that he sing the song at the end for everyone.

It was silent while he sang, his friends behind the glass listening intently. He hadn’t sung this song properly in a long while. When he wrote it, he was in the deepest pit of his depression, often leaving Moon at his mother’s house to spend the night wasted writing rubbish on pages and then ripping them out when the words didn’t pass his harsh self-criticism.

Yoongi had found him on such a night, curled up on the floor, humming the melody as he banged his fist against the floor, fighting against his sore eyes. Of all the members, Yoongi wasn’t one he was closest to then, but it changed when instead of telling him it would be okay and coaxing him to bed, Yoongi had sternly told him to sit up and finish the song. He stayed with Namjoon the whole night and then for three nights after, subtly ensuring that he didn’t overdo his drinking, or turn to something stronger, as his self loathing crawled into the cathartic poetry dancing on top of Yoongi’s catchy rift.

Somehow writing that song had made him feel a little less sad, as if he had let go of the sorrow by transforming it into something productive. But singing the song he hadn’t even attempted to hear for so long, it was inevitable that he was transported back to that time where he was always in such a haze that the days seemed like an endless burden tied to his ankle as he sank, flailing to swim to the surface that kept moving more and more out of reach. It made him choke a little on his words.

One morning, I opened my eyes And wished I was dead I want someone to kill meIn this loud silence I live to understand the world But the world has never understood me, why No, that half is missing It's trying to hurt me I miss me, miss me baby I wish me, I wish me baby Wish I could choose me

You pursed your lips as his words reached you, feeling an undeniably need to soothe the pain that seemed to be dripping from his every pore. Namjoon had always been open, always made you laugh, unknowingly brightening your mood when work or problems with Hera refused to let you relax. He had talked about his daughter and wanting to get the band together. He had talked to you about his songwriting process, and he had told you his thoughts about the industry. But in that moment, you felt that Namjoon wasn’t always as open as he seemed to be, that beneath his usually cheerful demeanour, he seemed to be suffering, silently at that.

Why is it that I'm being so earnest Yet it's not working out Always Always (I lost my all ways)

He sang the last line abruptly, standing up as soon as he was done and excusing himself. You watched as he left the studio, yearning to run after him, but then again, all his best friends were in the room. Why would he need your comfort when he could have them?

“Go. He’s probably in the next room,” Yoongi said, walking back into the mixing room and placing a hand on your shoulder to break you out of your trance. When you looked at him with doubt, he just smiled, slightly nodding towards the door. Not wanting to overthink the reasons and too worried about Namjoon, you followed his advice, leaving and knocking on the next door.

“I’m fine, Yoons,” Namjoon called out, his voice eerily cheerful, making you suspicious. He opened the door, shock momentarily washing over him before he affixed a smile on his face. But you had learnt what his real smile looked like in the months you had gotten to know him. You didn’t miss how it didn’t reach his eyes, how his lighter right dimple never poked through his cheek, and how his lower lip quivered ever so slightly.

Before you knew what you were doing, you had your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him down into a hug. If he was surprised, he didn’t show it, instantaneously wrapping his arms around your waist, crushing you to him. Your scent overwhelmed him, an amalgam of lavender and honey that he had only ever gotten faint whiffs of now crowding his senses, coaxing him to lose the control he had tried so hard to keep over the last few minutes.

“Sorry,” he apologized, trying to clear the lump from his throat, loosening his grip, attempting to chuckle despite his heart beating erratic and his emotions threatening to overflow. “So embarrassing…”

“I’m not judging,” you whispered, holding on to him tightly. “You can cry if you want to. It’s okay.”

The moment the words left your lips, Namjoon couldn’t hold it in anymore, your permission somehow breaking his barriers and a tiny sob escaping him. He buried his face in your neck, his tears probably ruining your blouse. You could feel him shaking in your arms, and you stroked his scalp to comfort him, letting him cling onto you as he cried. You tried to control your own tears, but they followed anyways, silently tracking down your cheeks in empathetic trails. You didn’t know what to say to console him so you let him cry till he was straightening up, rubbing his eyes with the sleeve of his sweater.

He settled on the couch at the corner of the room, and you followed, looking around. The small room was some sort of a meeting area. Two large couches lined the walls in an L with a coffee table between them, the walls covered in a few paintings, and a single lamp in the corner lighting up the space. It was cosy.

“Sorry,” he laughed hollowly, and you reached out to hold his hand in an attempt to comfort him, hoping that he realised he had nothing to apologise for, nothing to explain. But he explained anyways, talking about how when he wrote the song he was in the deepest despair he had ever felt and somehow till today he had forgotten how he had felt, how broken he had been.

“We never showed it on the cameras, you know? How fucked up everything was,” he said, fingers gripping tightly onto yours, needing something to ground him as his memories flashed before his eyes.

Everything was always glamourized in front of the camera; their friendships, his relationship. All everyone knew was they were a little chaotic, a bunch of hyper dudes who would get drunk and joke around. They didn’t know that alcohol wasn’t the only vice they used to cope with the sudden plummet to fame, to cope with the stresses of releasing album after album of hits, of endless days of putting on personas that merged into a haze till they forgot who they really were.

It was okay when he took his first hit, it was meant to relax him, all the ones in the industry before him assured him that it wouldn’t turn into anything more. So the band would gather in their hotel rooms after some shows when the pressure felt like it would rip them to shreds and shoot up. It would let them slow down, float in a space where their brains weren’t capable of thinking, of overthinking everything.

That’s when Seo started joining him too, when they were just friends with benefits, before the birth control had failed, back when he was just a kid trying to emulate his heroes. He didn’t know how it would spiral, how his one off would become her everyday. He still blamed himself to this day for being too busy to notice the way her light faded, to notice how her mood swings were too drastic. He never saw her enough to put it together, not until he was getting a call from her mother blaming him angrily, screaming at him for ruining her life.

He broke down for the first time that night, apologising to Seo’s mother, and sobbing into his cellphone. That was also the last time he turned off his brain, before taking a week off to care for her. He sat in the hospital holding her hand while she slept with ventilators, just praying to a god he didn’t believe in for her to wake up.

When she finally opened her eyes, doctors warned her to go to rehab. “This will kill your baby if you’re not careful,” the stern physician warned her, and that was the first time Seo and Namjoon found out that she was pregnant, that amidst their fucked up rocky relationship they had somehow accidentally created something that was pure. They cried in each other’s arms that night under the fluorescence of the cold white room, promising to be better for their child. That was when he fell in love with her.

It was under the same fluorescence that he fell in love with her again, when she held his hand tight, her nails breaking his skin that still carried the crescent scars, as she gave birth to his daughter, the moon of his life. The nine months leading up to the day had Namjoon rediscovering Seo, had him realizing that he never noticed how kind she was, how she always put him first, shielded him from things she needed so as not to burden him. It made him realize how he had taken her devotion for granted for years and he promised himself to never do so again.

But promises are meant to be broken and it was only a few years later when he started falling back into the same patterns, using work as a cover to escape from his daughter’s shrill cries when she threw tantrums for no reason. He had promised to pick her up from school every Monday, Wednesday and Friday when he was in town. It was his responsibility as a parent but even when he was tired, he cherished those moments, listening to Moon ramble on about school and the friends she was making. He was proud of her, or so his memories liked to tell him, but he knew that inside he would always ignore her, too tired from endless practice to pay attention, placating the child with hums and nods.

It was a time when he was working on Dark and Wild’s last album, the label pressuring him to change every song he sent for approval, the guys relying on him for advice when his brain was sapped dry. He was in a haze, he didn’t know what time it was, what day and at the end of his rope, he had just stopped going home. Things with Seo weren’t bad, and they weren’t good, they just were, like a routine that had been embedded in him – one that he had no motivation to break. He would pick up Moon from school, drop her home and see Seo greeting him and he’d only wave before turning around and going back to his studio, biding his time before coming home late enough that Seo would be asleep. He’d sneak into bed and hold her till he fell asleep.

Those nights, he always knew she was awake but he didn’t have the energy to talk to her, so he would stay silent, and hope that his arm around her waist was enough. It still pained him to admit that somehow along the way, his own wife had become a stranger to him. Somehow the woman he had vowed to love in front of his friends and family as she held his daughter in her arms, had turned into something akin to a pillow he would hug at night. He would feel guilty those nights, tearing up as he held her but then his brain reminded him that the only reason he was working so hard was because of her and Moon, that it would be worth it, that once their contract expired next year he could take a break and rebuild the relationship he had. Little did he know that that would never happen. He still remembered the night he lost her, vivid in his mind like a haunting film on repeat.

He had come back from the studio like always, sneaking into his own home at 2 am. He checked on his daughter, smiling tiredly at how she had her entire body wrapped around the giant pink bunny Jungkook had given her, her long dark hair falling over her face. He tiptoed into the room, picking up the blanket from where she had kicked it onto the floor and covered her up, smiling ever wider when she nuzzled into the soft material further.

Quietly walking into his bedroom, he saw his wife buried under the covers and decided to take a shower, relishing the warm water on his sore muscles. He decided to use her body wash that night, a habit he had developed for when his days were long and he needed the comfort of her scent enveloping her. Perhaps he would wake her and kiss her this time, feeling too needy to care if he got scolded. He had argued with Yoongi that day and he needed her to relieve the stress.

Crawling under the covers he reached for her, cuddling her close till he was kissing her neck, the skin oddly cool below his lips. That was the first sign, one that made him panic as he sat up in bed and started shaking her. He could still remember how loud his heart was pounding in his ears, how his hands shook when he ran to turn on the lights, and saw how blue her lips looked. He was crying on the phone when he called the ambulance, and while he waited he held her hand, trying not to yell in despair as he begged her to wake up, ignoring the familiar paraphernalia on the bedside table.

He was still sobbing when the sirens rang out and rotating red lights invaded through the curtains of his bedroom. Still sobbing when he woke up Moon, gathered her in his arms and followed the ambulance to the hospital. Still sobbing when the doctor told him he was sorry. He didn’t know he had such a large reserve of tears, one that didn’t stop even when the cameras followed his family when he buried her, when he bowed in front of Seo’s mother, clasping onto her feet for forgiveness, when he had to explain to his daughter where mommy was.

And he sobbed again when he told you everything, baring his soul in a way he had never done before, not knowing what he was hoping to accomplish. But when you pulled him to you, wrapped your arms around his head and shushed him, he felt his chest fill with warmth. The memories that had assaulted him faded into the background, your small noises of comfort lulling him into content. He hadn’t meant to recount his life story to you in such a way, he only wanted to tell you why the song had such an effect on him, but something about you had him spilling out his truths without even thinking.

“You’re okay,” you assured him as he apologised, reaching out to the table to hand him the box of tissues that was placed there above the stack of random magazines. With the comfort of your words, he pressed the soft cotton to his eyes, steeling himself, his breaths becoming stable as you gently rubbed his back.

“Thank you,” he whispered, bringing a smile to your face as you shook your head. You didn’t know why he felt the need to thank you, all you had done was sit next to him and listened. You should’ve been the one to thank him for letting you in and for sharing his burden. You told him as such and he laughed, a light watery thing that made you join him. When he stood up, you wrapped him in a hug once again, hoping to heal him.

You had never thought that you would ever spend an evening at a private Dark and Wild concert, but more than that you had never imagined that Namjoon would somehow etch himself into your heart in such a short time.

Maybe that’s the thing about love, you never know when it will come and embrace you.

—-------

Birthdays were never your thing. You never knew why people were always so excited to celebrate another revolution around the sun. Your friends had always called you jaded, but you didn’t believe in celebrating the fact that you had just existed. A birthday wasn’t an accomplishment, everyone had a birthday from serial killers to misogynists – why should such a mundane fact be marked with a party. Yet despite your protests, your friends and family would always shower you with gifts and surprises. When you got older the parties toned down to gatherings at a bar or a restaurant, and slowly you became used to them, even expecting them.

Sitting in your room with the early evening sun pouring through your window and the latest Netflix show on your laptop, it didn’t feel like your birthday. Sure, you had received multiple messages reminding you of the fact, but with your family in another city and your friends scattered around the globe, this year it felt a bit empty, a little lonely. You didn’t know when you had started enjoying the celebrations, but the lack of one was jarring, even when you knew rationally that celebrating birthdays was stupid.

Sighing after yet another episode ended, you decided to pamper yourself, to celebrate not that you were a year older, but that despite missing your friends you were still mostly happy with your life. You gathered your favourite bath bomb and bubble bath from a little box under the bed and put on your fluffiest robe before venturing into the bathroom and lighting too many candles. The little speaker you had hooked on the door came to life with your favourite playlist as the tub filled with warm water, the bubbles increasing in volume and the colour of the water changing to a bright violet.

You decided to go all out, exfoliating and shaving your skin, and adding a clay mask to your skin. Dipping into the warm water felt luxurious, the heat relaxing your muscles. You hadn’t realised how long your days had gotten, how little time you had spent on self care, and you couldn’t help but enjoy the way your body sank into the tub, the water caressing you like a lover, the scents making your eyes droop in content.

You finished up your impromptu spa day with painting your nails a bright pink, a colour you rarely used, even going so far to spend extra time blow drying your hair into silky voluminous waves. It felt nice to forget about everything that had been bothering you lately, from Hera’s constant insistence to be friends to your sudden feelings for Namjoon. It was nice to disconnect.

However, you had barely dressed when you heard your roommate, her bed squeaking through the walls as she wailed your ex’s name, souring your pleasant mood. God, you needed a drink.

Not thinking twice, you swapped your comfiest sweats for a nice dress and grabbed your purse. Just because you didn’t have anyone to celebrate with didn’t mean that you couldn’t enjoy a birthday drink and indulge in some decadent cake. Walking to your favourite coffee shop, you decided to get a cake first, picking the extremely tall eight layered chocolate cake and settling on a seat.

Usually, you would pull up a book you were reading on your phone, or scroll through social media, mindlessly watching TikToks, but today you didn’t feel the need for distractions. Savouring the melting rich mousse on your tongue you looked around the little shop, making up stories about its patrons as your eyes trailed over them. There was an old couple sitting in the corner, sharing a quiche, and you imagined that they had just dropped off their grandchildren after spending a day with them. Then you saw a teenager, standing at the counter, biting his lip, torn on what to choose and you imagined that perhaps he was getting a drink for a crush, hoping to woo them with his choice. When he finally settled on a special strawberry milkshake with a swirl of whipped cream and two straws, you mirrored his smile as he sat next to a wide-eyed girl beaming at him.

Every new customer that entered, you would give them a back story, some more mundane than others. Like when a man with a scar over his eyebrow in a suit came to order an espresso you imagined that he was a stuntman, going into a night shoot. Or when a woman came with a bunch of kids, you imagined she was an au pair, paying her way through a social sciences degree. The stories weren’t crazy, but you liked imagining their lives to be simple, it was comforting.

You were in the middle of another daydream when your phone vibrated, a text lighting up your screen.

Hey. I think after last time, I owe you a drink. You free?

It was a simple message, but the moment you read Namjoon’s name your heart skipped a beat, stories forgotten as your daydream morphed from strangers and their lives to hanging out with Namjoon, his arm around you, his lips on yours. It didn’t help that he was somehow psychic, somehow knowing how much you hated drinking alone.

I’m actually on my way to 88… join me!

You smiled, anticipating hanging out with him for no reason other than his company. You knew it was far-fetched to think about anything happening between you, even if last week had seemed like a turning point in your relationship. He was a famous rockstar with a family, there was no way there was any room in his life for you. Even if you were friends now, once he would convince the guys of the comeback, the two of you would go to occasional hangouts and random text messages, the need for frequent brainstorming sessions over.

Finishing the last bit of cake on your plate, you grabbed your purse when your phone pinged again.

Oh if you’re with your friends, I don’t want to intrude… I was just going to offer this stupidly expensive bottle of champagne I found.

Chuckling at his oddly endearing response, you asked him if he was at home or the studio, and when he confirmed the latter, you hailed a cab and made your way to the familiar glass skyscraper that was beginning to feel a little too comfortable to go to. A knock on the wooden door later, you found yourself face to face with Namjoon, his smile making your own lips lift at the corners, your heart feeling as if it was home.

“Hi… umm… hey. Hello,” he greeted a little awkwardly, moving to the mini fridge under the mixing desk to pull out a large bottle of champagne, the gold label glittering in the low light of the room. You settled on the couch, noticing that he had already put out glasses and snacks, various packets of chips and candy littering the coffee table.

“So champagne, eh? What are we celebrating?” you asked, leaning back comfortably as he joined you, a concentrated frown on his face as he fiddled with the corkscrew, bottle between his legs, attempting to wrestle it open. It popped open with a fizzle, a little bit of the liquid spilling onto his sweats as he chuckled victoriously.

“That you don’t hate me,” he replied with a smile, pouring the drink into the flutes and handing one to you. He felt nervous, not knowing why he had said what he said. He knew you didn’t hate him, you didn’t strike him as the person who would scoff at vulnerability, but still, he felt a little guilty about unloading on you the other day. He didn’t want you to think of him as fragile or that you had to carry his emotional baggage with him.

“I don’t hate you,” you protested, clinking your glass against his before taking a sip, the smooth sweet liquid bubbling through you. It really was expensive champagne, the taste unlike any you had had before, crisp yet alluring. “You had a moment. We all have them.”

Your words made Namjoon relax, confirming that his view of you was correct. He felt light as if a weight had been lifted, making him more confident. Out of everyone he knew, somehow you had made it to the top of the list of people he felt most comfortable with. It scared him how easily you had crawled into that space, without him even realising, but Namjoon had been to too much therapy to discount you, to run away like he usually did.

He watched you as you rose, walking to the speakers you had made yourself familiar with, connecting your phone till a dance pop melody was filling the room. Sitting next to him, Namjoon couldn’t help but notice how you were closer this time, your body heat almost palpable on his knee closest to your thigh. You hummed along to the music as you finished your drink, refilling your glass and then his when he followed suit.

He sat sideways, an elbow at the back of the couch and his hand holding his head. The silence was comfortable, letting him just bask in your presence. You looked different than you usually did, your hair falling in nice waves over your shoulders instead of in a ponytail, your body covered in a dress that worshipped it, wrapping in all the right places that made Namjoon’s mouth run a little dry. He cleared his throat, starting a conversation to distract himself.

“You’re all dressed up,” he commented as casually as he could, wondering what you ditched to hang out with him in his lackluster studio. His head wanted him to feel guilty for pulling you away from something but his heart was giddy that you chose him instead. “Sorry if I interrupted something. I should’ve checked in.”

“You didn’t,” you assured him with a giggle. “I was just going for a drink by myself. You interrupted nothing.”

“What were you celebrating?” he recited your earlier question with a grin, leaning closer to you to refill his glass, the fruity scent of your moisturiser tickling his nostrils deliciously. He wanted to nuzzle into you, to deeply inhale the strawberries from your collarbones, but that would be creepy so he moved back to his earlier position, taking a heavy swig to calm himself, not that the alcohol that was starting to buzz through him helped much.

“My birthday, actually,” you replied offhandedly, laughing as his mouth fell open in surprise. You assured him that you didn’t think birthdays were a big deal, but it seemed that Namjoon didn’t care, scrambling to wish you before he was out the door. You chuckled at how adamant he was about doing something special, taking another sip, before he returned, much quicker than you thought he’d be. He held a plate in his hand, stacked with twinkies, a tiny candle poking out from the one on top.

“Here in the Kim house – well, studio – we go all out for birthdays!” he exclaimed, balancing the plate precariously on the arm of the couch before pulling a lighter from his pocket and setting the wick on fire.

“Yes, all out with twinkies,” you teased, placing your glass on the table and standing next to him.

“Well some people like to hide their birthdays. This is the best cake on short notice,” he joked before starting to sing happy birthday, swaying a little side to side, a wide grin on his face.

This morning when you woke up without any plans and knowing no surprises awaited you, you felt empty, but with Namjoon’s tenor wishing you repeatedly, your eyes glistened a little, the warmth in your chest overwhelming you.

Blowing out the candle, you wished that the warmth never went away, oddly ecstatic that somehow in thirty-three years of living you had been fortunate enough to always have at least one person who wanted to celebrate you despite your protests. Namjoon picked a twinkie from the plate and held it to your lips, and somehow the convenience store confection tasted sweeter than usual. Taking the piece from his hands, you returned the favour and he happily munched on the dessert before placing the plate on the coffee table.

The two of you settled on the couch, and between the sips of champagne, he told you about how much he cherished birthdays and never took them for granted. He always went all out on his own, renting large venues to treat his friends to absurd things like skiing trips and jumping castles.

He told you about how for Moon’s birthdays he always implemented the no “no” rule where he would do anything he asked, sharing stories about the time she had gotten him to take her to Disneyland when she was nine and puked from one too many churros, and how for her thirteenth the duo had embarked on a hike in Costa Rica finding hidden waterfalls and cataloguing bugs they found on the way.

“Birthdays with you sound magical,” you remarked, a little jealous that your dad never took you to a rainforest for your birthdays. You could just imagine the way Moon’s face probably lit up when going on her dream vacation.

“Birthdays are magical,” he replied, pouring the last of the alcohol into your two glasses, cheeks flushed from how tipsy he was. He handed you your glass, smiling at you wistfully. “It means you lived another year. It means that you’re here, alive, with me. And that’s worth celebrating.”

You felt the warmth from earlier invade you again, magnified by the bubbly wine in your veins and the way his hand was still holding the glass under yours, sending tingles up your arm. Before you could stop yourself, you leaned forward, your lips landing on his in a brief impulse that sparked till your toes. But it seemed that you weren’t the only one who wanted to do so. You had barely moved away when he was leaning forward, his free hand gently resting on your waist as his lips captured yours once again.

Never in a million years would you have imagined kissing Namjoon Kim on his couch after he forced you to celebrate your birthday, and yet with a flurried haste you were moving your joined hands to the table to deposit your glass, winding your arms around his neck. The glass fell on the table with a little tinkle, the champagne spilling over the surface, but Namjoon couldn’t care less, taking the opportunity to pull you closer, his tongue tasting your peachy lip gloss before delving in and enjoying the sweetness of the wine on your tongue, relishing the little moan you made, your tongue twisting with his.

It was hungry, the two of you wrestling with the feelings that were brewing for months, his hands roaming your sides, squeezing at the flesh, and your fingers tugging the hair at the nape of his neck, making him keen. It seemed that the moment would last forever, neither of you willing to part even to breathe. That is, until the song changed.

It's your birthday, so I know you want to ride out Even if we only go to my house Sip mo-eezy as we sit upon my couch Feels good, but I know you want to cry out

The moment the R&B vocals filled the room, you couldn’t help bursting out in a laugh, cackling at the oddly specific lyrics your phone had decided to throw at you. Namjoon didn’t notice at first, his lips continuing to move from your mouth to your jaw to your neck, nipping at the skin. However, as your laughs got more hysterical, he finally tuned into the song playing, cringing before he joined your cackles, breathless with his forehead against yours.

“So Google really does listen in,” he deadpanned, his humour adding to your joy as you clung on to him, half in his lap before standing up to grab your phone from the table. As funny as the song was, you really didn’t want a soundtrack describing what Namjoon would do to you. A little voice in your head told you to not get your hopes up, that no matter how much you liked him, it was still just a kiss.

However as soon as you turned around, Namjoon put your fears to rest. Unlike how hesitant he had seemed earlier, he was now sitting with a confidence you hadn’t seen before, legs spread and a smirk lighting his face as he stared at you. His eyes roamed your body as he bit his lip, making you feel a little overheated.

“So it’s your birthday,” he commented casually, head tilted slightly, eyes intensely boring into yours. “Wanna ride it out?”

You knew he was teasing you by quoting the silly song but your body didn’t know better, your stomach aching with lust at his deep baritone. The Namjoon you knew was a goofy, clumsy dad, but this Namjoon was the notorious bassist of your youth, cocky and fearless as he sat up straighter, hands landing on your waist to pull you between his legs.

“I’ve read the tags on your blogs, y’know?” he teased, his hands running up and down your waist, the few inches they travelled leaving fire on your skin. “I remember one,” he mused, pulling you down till you straddled him, a knee on either side of his hips. “‘God I’d pay all the money to sit on those dimples’ isn’t that what you said?”

Your mouth flew open at his words. You never thought your horny 3 am thoughts would ever be recited back to you by the subject himself and you had no words, every witty retort dying on your tongue to leave you with a lame, “You weren’t supposed to read that.”

“And you weren’t supposed to make me fall for you,” he replied, earlier bravado falling away in favour of sincerity. He cupped your jaw, thumb running softly over your cheekbone as he smiled at you. “Can I kiss you?”

As soon as you whispered your consent he brought your face to his, lips reuniting to a taste he realised he could never get enough of. It was addicting how your hands gingerly clasped onto his shoulders, how you shivered when he traced his tongue over yours, and how you moaned softly when he pulled you closer, wrapping his arms around you.

It didn’t take long for him to get needier, for his hands to grab onto your ass over your dress and mould to your flesh, to move your hips against his in a rhythm that made him heady. He wanted you so much that he felt breathless, running out of time even though he knew he wasn’t. His actions made you breathless too, like with every touch he was leading you to the edge of a cliff, hands shaking in anticipation of what was to come, but your brain refused to turn off, to forget whose hands were touching you till you were pushing him away, your forehead against his.

“I’m sorry… I’m a bit out of practice,” you apologised in a whisper, but he just grinned, dissolving your insecurities with his words.

“Me too,” he giggled, kissing your lips, once, twice, three times, his hands clasping onto yours, fingers lacing together. “We can practise together if you want… or we can wait. Whatever you like, birthday girl.”

Somehow his hands in yours and the cheeky smile on his face comforted you. You had been imagining the rockstar, the person you watched grow up through your screen and go wild on stage, but the more you looked at him, the more you saw who he really was.

His flushed cheeks, the little constellation of freckles on his face and the one hidden below his lip, the way his eyes searched yours so eagerly. He wasn’t a rockstar, he was just Namjoon, the one who made stupid jokes and stashed snacks in every drawer. The one who got bullied by his daughter and complained to you about it. The one who was brave enough to open up to you about his life. You knew him, he was real, and, like him, you were falling too.

With his hands still in yours, you leaned forward, kissing him again, confident and undeterred, and he followed suit, deepening the kiss before he was holding onto your waist and spinning around. You barely registered lying on your back before he was upon you, his weight cushioning you deliciously into the couch, the soft fabric of his sweatpants caressing your inner thighs.

“Hi,” he whispered, adoration dripping from his pupils as he smiled, fingers stroking your hair and you couldn’t help leaning forward to capture his lips once again, legs tightening around his waist. You could hear the blood rushing through you, an ambient backdrop to the sounds of his lips moving down to your neck as his teeth nipped at the skin of your collarbone. It had been so long since you had touched someone, been worshipped by someone like Namjoon was determined to do so that you couldn’t help canting your hips against his, relishing the way his pants left nothing to the imagination, his rapidly hardening cock providing the friction you sought.

With all the bravery you could muster, you detangled your hand from under his to the side of your dress pulling the zipper down with a loud purr Namjoon felt shooting through him. With the dress loosened, it gave him room to roam your skin further, his lips soothing the heated skin of your chest as he pulled the straps down to reveal your nipples. Namjoon had seen many bodies in his life; on the screen, in strip clubs, writhing under him; but something about yours made him pause to drink it up. He could see the way your lips fell open, swollen and red, the way your chest rose with your heavy breaths, nipples perked in anticipation, and the way your eyes looked up at him, wide and inviting. And right below your chest, sprawled on your right rib, were the words he wrote so long ago now.

And the swings that can't look at the sky on their own, and the kids all grown up, and me who’s a little late

His mouth fell open as he tried to wrap his head around how perfect you were. He felt a familiar rush through him. One he hadn’t felt in so long that he was almost afraid he had outgrown it – the pure endorphins of a crush fulfilled. With a muttered curse, he buried his face back in your neck, almost desperate to inhale your scent once more. His hands planted themselves on your chest, squeezing the flesh, making you moan his name in a desperation that only fuelled him further, lips moving to encase a nipple between them to add to your ecstasy.

You whimpered when his teeth came to play, the blunt edges hardening them further, making you grasp his hair and arch your back. Leaving goosebumps in their wake, his hands moved down your body, wrapping around each of your thighs, pushing your dress to your waist, denting the flesh. He had missed the feel of soft skin under him for so long, much more so since you started featuring in his life and his dreams, but touching you was better than any wet dream. The melody of your mewls intensified when he switched to your other breast, his fingers dipping to the apex of your thighs to indulge in the way your panties stuck to you, so wet all for him.

You felt your legs shake out of their own accord as Namjoon moved down your body, still relentlessly tracing you over your ruined panties. You had forgotten intimacy after Ryan, always talking yourself out of potential new relationships, one-night stands never something that satiated you, but somehow Namjoon had sneaked in and weakened your defences. When his lips sought out your clit over the thin lace, you couldn’t help but thank the heavens that he had appeared in your life, pleasure coursing through you. With every flick of his tongue, you felt yourself getting closer to coming undone, muscles tightened in suspense of his next actions.

Impatient and desperate, Namjoon couldn’t wait any longer, pushing aside the fabric that guarded you from him to dip his finger in, your walls welcoming him with a pulse as if emitting a secret in morse code just for him. With fervour, he wrapped his lips around your clit, another finger joining the first, pumping in time with your gasps. Your grip on his hair tightened and he went faster, eager to see you fall apart.

There didn’t seem to be enough oxygen in the room, enough syllables in any language to describe how he made you feel in that moment. It was as if you could feel every drop of blood inside you rush through your body, haphazard and chaotic, brewing like a storm deep in your core, getting wilder and wilder. Your senses were hyper focused, each touch making you quake, each moan that Namjoon made between your thighs vibrating through you. It bordered on too much, building until there was no way to escape.

Silence.

That’s what it sounded like. As if you were thrown underwater, your whimpers sounded like distant noises from a different universe, muffled and overwhelming. You didn’t know when you started holding your breath but when his tongue flicked under your clit, and his fingers hooked into that one spot, you finally remembered to breathe, your entire body relaxing to a point where you shook so violently that he had no choice but to look up at the euphoria painted on your features.

Eyes closed tight, all you saw were stars as his fingers rode you through your high, slowing to a pace you could relish. Soon, his lips were on yours, swallowing your soft moans, and your hands were around his shoulders holding him close.

“Okay?” he asked between kisses, heart skipping a beat at the way you beamed at him, hair matted to your sweaty forehead. Gathering your senses, you pushed him away, sitting up and pulling his shirt off, wanting his skin on yours.

He welcomed you with open arms, when you discarded your dress next to his shirt and climbed on his lap, once again uniting your lips. It was as if he couldn’t get enough, wanting his lips to be thoroughly chapped if it meant he could never stop kissing you.

“More,” you whispered, against his lips, hands roaming his strong chest and down to his abs, the muscle jumping under your fingertips.

“More?” he asked, dazed.

“More,” you replied once again, fingers trailing the little hairs under his belly button before slipping under the waistband into his underwear. His skin was soft, velvet under your touch, and he was so hard, tip messy as you played with him. He twitched in your hold, thighs flexing under you and his hands on your thighs gripping tighter, but you didn’t stop, stroking him slowly till he was keening, scrambling to push you off and get a condom.

“Condoms in the studio? How convenient,” you teased, enjoying the way Namjoon’s already flushed skin turned a deeper shade of red. However, his expression didn’t betray his flustered state as he confidently walked back to the couch, dropping his sweatpants and boxers on the way.

He stood like an adonis in front of you, sculpted and hard, his cock at eye level as he put on the condom, slowly teasing you before sitting next to you, arms sprawled on the cushions next to him.

Resisting him was futile, and your body moved on autopilot, underwear coming off without hesitance before you straddled him once again, resting your wet thighs against his. You traced his biceps, running your fingers up his shoulders to find him staring up at you. You lost yourself in his eyes, tracing the pattern of his irises, how the darkness melted into a warm chocolate.

Bringing his hands to your waist, he mirrored your movements, fingertips lightly grazing your sides. He knew you were joking, but something about your teasing made him feel guilty, made him want to dispel your worries, even if they didn’t exist. Capturing your lips, he wrapped his arms around you, resting his forehead against yours before speaking.

“Haven’t needed them for two years,” he murmured with a kiss, chuckling at the disbelief so easily painted on your face. “Told you I was out of practice.”

“You are definitely not out of practice.”

You could still feel the buzz in your body, the way he reduced you to nothing, just a mess blabbering his name. If this was him out of practice, you were almost afraid of knowing what he was like when he was more comfortable. You hoped you would find out. Cupping his face, you kissed him again before guiding his length into you, sinking down in one swoop, the stretch making you keen, thighs shivering.

“Fuck,” he moaned, his breath fanning your jaw as he tried to calm the urge to buck his hips into you. “You’re not either.”

You set a gentle pace, wanting to feel him for as long as possible, your breaths mingling together as you clung on to each other. But with one kiss, patience ran out. Tongues wrestling with each other, Namjoon lifted you up only to move you over his cock faster, jostling you into compliance as his hips thrust into you in time with his arms. Everytime he sunk into you, your nails dug into his shoulders, scratching the skin deliciously, making him go faster and faster.

It was too much.

It was not enough.

As he went faster and his pace threatened to chase your sanity away, you brought your fingers to your clit, rubbing the bundle of nerves faster and faster, matching the way he grunted into your mouth, untethered, unhinged. It felt like an eternity, dangling so close to the edge that you could feel your walls closing in on him, his cock struggling to keep up with the earlier smooth movements.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chanted, bringing your mouth back to his to lap at your lips. He thought he was so desperate because he missed sex, but nothing he had experienced came close to the way he felt lost in your warmth, unbelievably hard, forgetting the way his calves were cramping. He was so close, he could feel his eye twitching, his lip quivering with each of his moans. And then you came.

Your pussy clenched around him, pulsing, massaging him to an orgasm that made him float into the air, made him lose all sense of time, made him lose all feeling except for the way your arousal gushed into his lap, covering him, marking him as yours. And he wanted to be yours so bad. With a strangled whimper of your name, he held you still, rubbing his hands over your back, partly to sooth you and partly to ground himself, to remind him that you were real and not just one of his daydreams.

He lifted your head from where it was buried in his shoulder, lips chasing yours, tongue gently caressing, head heady with a satiated glow he felt emanating from his chest to the tips of his toes.

“Wow,” you breathed, bodies still joined together, hands playing with his hair, eyes drinking in the endeared look on his face. He didn’t reply, only smiled brightly before meeting your lips once again, getting you lost in his bliss.

You sat there kissing for a while before Namjoon’s phone rang, eliciting a groan from the man who refused to let you go. When the jingle persisted, he held you at the waist leaning forward to pick up his phone to see his daughter’s face lighting up the screen. Namjoon felt bad about sending his child to voicemail, but he had just gotten a taste of you. He didn’t want it to end, not yet.

“Sorry, Moon,” he whispered before pressing the red button to silence the call and kissing you again. You giggled on his lips at his antics, but he silenced you with his tongue, deepening the kiss with a moan that signalled the beginning of a second round. However, before you could lose yourself in him again, you heard a loud voice.

“Daaaaaaaaaaad! Daaaaaaaaaad!” Moon’s whine was clear through the static of the line, Namjoon’s eyes widening in shock before he stared at the phone. He was so sure he silenced the call! With an apologetic glance at you, he picked up his phone, clearing his throat before speaking, while you tried to control the laughter bubbling in your chest.

“Hi Moonie,” he answered, pouting at you exaggeratedly as you moved off his lap to grab your underwear. You had barely put it on before he was pulling you back towards him, an arm locked around your waist, chin propped on your shoulder as he continued the conversation. “Yes I know… I’ll get it. No, I won't forget! When have I ever forgotten anything?” he exclaimed, rolling his eyes.

The whole exchange would be adorable if it wasn’t for the way his hands moved from your waist to your chest, fingers playing with your nipple almost absent-mindedly. When he hung up, he turned towards you, kissing you once again.

“Wanna come over for pizza night?” he asked, pecking your cheek, enjoying the way your lips rose into a smirk before blooming into a grin. He knew it was too early, but he wanted to make you smile like that every day, as long as you’d let him. When the two of you dressed, he pulled you into a hug, letting his arms encompass you before whispering what he wanted the most, “Stay over after?”

Your heart fluttered in its space, growing wings and vying to get out, effervescent and giddy. Going up on your tiptoes, you captured his lips once more, softly, hugging him tighter.

“I’d like that very much.”

—-------

The week after you spent the night with Namjoon didn’t turn out to be the blissful week you thought it would be. With his case with Generation Swine coming to an end, there were a lot of meetings and paperwork. With their lawyers adamant about copyrights, you spent the majority of your time pouring over historical cases with your paralegal. Exhausting every resource, there only seemed to be one solution that you could come up with, a compromise that left you frustrated because you wanted to win.

Your communication with Namjoon was mainly relegated to succinct text messages that made you feel a little insecure about the evening you had spent with him – not to mention that his case made you feel a little guilty about building that kind of relationship with a client. However, your solace was to find a solution and put the situation to bed. Namjoon was the first man after Ryan who had made you feel safe enough to even think about another relationship and you didn’t want your constant excuse of work to dwindle the flame like so many others in the past.

Wine glass in hand, you sat on your living room couch, trying to write the final agreement and even though you knew that Namjoon had fully agreed to whatever you would come up with, you couldn’t help wanting his opinion one last time. A frustrated sigh left your lips as you reread the terms Generation Swine’s lawyers had put forward and with a large gulp of the wine, you dialled Namjoon.

“Hi,” he answered, his deep drawl making you remember how he had whispered the same word before he ruined you. Gulping, you tried to clear your head with another sip of your drink.

“Okay I have a question,” you said, scrolling through the document, ready to dive into the proposed agreement before he interrupted you.

“Me too. What are you wearing?” His tone was cheeky, an audible smile making you giggle, trying not to get sidetracked by him like you always did. There was a reason your usual twenty minute client meetings went on for hours.

“What am I wearing? Really?”

“Mhm. Missed you this week,” he replied with a raspy voice that made you squeeze your thighs together, wanting to abandon your earlier plan, but you were too close to the finish line, too close to genuinely give him your time without the added weight of dating a client.

“Namjoon Kim! I’m trying to work here!” you chastised, despite the growing need in the pit of your stomach.

“Yeah, so work with me!” he exclaimed, chuckling. “Is it that cute lace thing you were wearing that day?”

“Stop,” you whined, covering your flushed face even though you knew he couldn’t see you as he cackled through the phone. However, you did note to wear similar lingerie the next time you saw him, smiling to yourself.

“Sorry, sorry! What do you need darling?” Deciding to ignore the way your heart skipped a beat at the nickname, you put him on speaker, leaning forward to read the screen and dictating the points to him.

Essentially, the label and their lawyers had decided not to sue Namjoon if he paid the minimal contract breaking fee and gave them the rights to the songs he had already sent them demos for, four in total. You had countered that with the demand that the song may never be used by Generation Swine and that they may be used by other artists of the label if they gave Namjoon full credits, including in the title and changed none of the original lyrics.

Initially, you had been surprised that they had easily agreed. You had thought they would fight you more on it, but they were happy to agree and sign, and despite your reservations, you were obligated to provide this information to Namjoon.

“That sounds… great actually,” he said after a pause. “My name in the title too? That’s kinda crazy they agreed to it.”

“Perhaps your name carries more weight than you thought,” you commented, eyes still glued to the screen, lip between your teeth.

“I mean especially if we do a comeback,” he replied, a little smug and you couldn’t help but knock him down a notch, just to tease him.

“Last I heard, no one wants a comeback,” you grinned.

“Mark my words, Dark and Wild will be back. I’m Namjoon Kim after all, don’t you trust the words of the leader?” he volleyed back, his laugh carrying through the static making you mirror it.

“I’m sure Hoseok would love to hear that you're the leader,” you teased, only to get a scoff in return.

“Hobi knows I’m the leader,” he gloated.

“All hail President Kim,” you acquiesced through a giggle.

“That’s right,” he said, pleased and you could just imagine him puffing up his chest. “Now that that’s out of the way… What are you wearing?”

“I am not sexting you, Namjoon!” you protested, laughing at his one track mind and crossing your legs.

“Okay fine. What about… a date? When are you free?” he asked and you couldn’t help the way a blush grew on your cheeks, a giddiness you hadn’t experienced in too long bubbling inside you.

“As soon as you sign this agreement,” you answered, emailing him a copy of the document as you took him off speaker and leaned back on your couch. “So after the final meeting with the label tomorrow?”

“Well lucky for you, I can’t wait to see you,” he said, his sincerity easily flowing through the line and melting your heart in your chest.

—-----

Namjoon was livid. Pacing around his living room, he scrolled through his twitter to find himself trending. Thousands of people were talking about a Dark and Wild comeback, every single person referring to one video in particular. A blank screen with his voice echoing through: ”Mark my words, Dark and Wild will be back. I’m Namjoon Kim after all, don’t you trust the words of the leader?”

There was only one explanation for why this was suddenly going viral. There was only one person who had access to this. His heart plummeted to his stomach at the thought. He had trusted you. Trusted you with his secrets, trusted you with his authentic self. But you were just like everyone else, weren’t you? Just a clout chaser that went to the press at the first opportunity. He had to commend you. You played a long con, most of the women he had been involved with leaked pictures of him the moment he let them into his house, but you had been cunning, waiting till he had handed you his heart on a platter to shatter it mercilessly.

He could feel his hair stand at the thought of what else you might share of his life. Would you be like the first woman he had dated after Seo? The one who went on television with an exclusive interview talking about his dick. The interview his daughter’s classmates had bullied her with. He felt panicked as he called you. Would you go for an interview too? Expose how he had introduced his wife to a drug that took her life? Expose how much a failure he was and destroy the carefully curated narrative his PR team presented to the world?

His feet moved faster as if they were trying to keep up with his heart, each ring distracting him further, making him bump into the coffee table, spilling his morning coffee on the spotless surface. He watched the brown liquid cover the glass expanse before trickling onto the marble one drop at a time, mimicking the sweat that gathered on his forehead.

When you picked up, his body responded like usual, warming at the sleepy rasp, the one he remembered from a few weeks ago when you had woken up with your limbs wrapped around him, the sunlight brightening your smile. Stupid. He was so stupid!

“Why would you do this? I trusted you! I trusted you with my plans! My life! How the fuck could you do this to me?” he yelled, his frustration manifesting in a lump in his throat, choking his words, making them spill out strained and distorted. He didn’t let you speak, interrupting your feigned confusion. He didn’t have time to be nice. He had to figure out how to fix this. He needed to check on the guys. He needed to check on Moon. This was too much.

So he spoke even faster, let his bitter betrayal flavour his words with the worst expletives he could muster and ending the call with a simple threat, “Fuck you! Fuck you for doing this to me. I never wanna fucking see you again. I hope that degree is good enough because I’m gonna sue you out of every fucking penny you have. Mark my words, Y/N.”

He was panting by the time he hung up, lungs aching as they expanded, tears flowing as he realised just how much it hurt. His grip on his phone tightened and before he knew it he was throwing it across the room, shattering it against the wall with a frustrated scream.

“Dad?”

His daughter’s surprised voice pulled him out of his head, freezing him where he was still pacing, the adrenaline from earlier vanishing into exhaustion. He sighed, rubbing his hands over his face and mustering a smile before turning around, trying immensely hard to put up a brave front. But he had forgotten how precocious his daughter was, how she saw through him as she held his hand and settled him on the couch.

She brought him a bottle of water, waiting for him to drink before sitting next to him, posture impeccable and jaw tightened in a scowl. He saw himself in her at that moment, the expression one he would give his band members when they strayed out of line. Now he knew why they listened, even on a sixteen year old the look was intimidating.

“Dad, was that you talking to Y/N?” she asked, arms crossed across her chest and for a moment Namjoon felt sheepish, guilty that she had heard the ugly words he had spoken. Yet that guilt did not extend to you. He knew that if he didn’t threaten you, the things you might say to the press would have a lasting impression on his daughter.

She knew the circumstances of her mother’s death, but she never knew how complicit he had been. She always looked up to him as a role model, and he didn’t think his heart could ever take it if that illusion shattered. But he got a glimpse of that when he quietly affirmed her suspicion and watched her face fall, the scowl replaced with a sadness he wished he could erase.

“I’m really disappointed in you, dad,” she sighed, shaking her head and her words felt like a sword piercing through Namjoon’s chest. He had worked so hard to make sure she never felt that way. He knew she deserved a much better father than him, and he had tried so hard to ensure that; he had worked jobs he hated, he had read hundreds of parenting books, and he had gone to therapy. Yet the words seemed to come so easily to her, permeating the air with a tension that stiffened Namjoon’s shoulders and put him on the defensive.

“Have you seen the internet? She betrayed us, Moonie,” he retorted, voice a little colder than he wanted, but he couldn’t help it, fire stoked once again.

“Did she tell you it was her?” she replied with an eye roll, so naive.

“There could have been no one else. It was a private conversation between us.”

“But did you hear her out? All I could hear was you yelling,” she protested and Namjoon couldn’t help but shake his head. Not only had you fucked with his head, but you had also somehow put his daughter under your spell as well, especially when she continued, “You were mean. You threatened her!”

“It was to protect us. We can’t have random people think they can get away with stuff like this,” he tried to explain, watching his daughter get agitated and looking like a kid once again with her pigtails bouncing. She kept telling him he was wrong despite his efforts to remain calm and expound on his stance.

“You like her! She’s a lawyer. Why would she do this?” she argued and Namjoon couldn’t stop himself from laughing at how innocent his daughter was. He hoped she remained this optimistic forever, that she didn’t have to go through the duplicity he had experienced in his life. The more he tried to explain to her that that’s what people were like sometimes, that it was hard to trust anyone other than family, the more agitated he got at her denial.

Any other time, he would be proud of her for sticking to her stance and arguing through her thoughts, but Namjoon was exhausted. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that the reason he had found out this audio was leaked was not because of the news, but because his PR firm had called him about it. They had traced the origin to a dummy Twitter account which had posted and tagged it multiple times. They had also traced the IP address to where he knew your apartment was. There was no room for doubt when everything was crystal clear.

And so for the first time, he snapped at his daughter.

“Enough! I don’t want to hear it. I’m the parent, not you. Go to your room.”

He always hated parents that dangled their authority over their children. His parents were like that and although he was past it now, he remembered resenting them for it when he was younger. He resented their inability to talk things through, to listen to his point of view. It had taken him years to get over that feeling, but he never felt true empathy for them until this moment, his heart breaking as he watched his daughter angrily stomp towards her room.

Taking a deep breath, he ran his hands over his face in defeat. With the anger fading, came the heartbreak. He really had thought you were special, someone who somehow understood him. A chance encounter that led to him shedding the walls he had reinforced in the past ten years. He was upset about the betrayal, but his fear was more pressing. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to trust anyone again and that thought chilled him to the core. Years of therapy had taught him out of his usual defence mechanisms, to replace the toxicity with healthy coping, yet his chest felt tight as he felt the intense need to wallow.

An arm over his eyes, he tried not to notice how his skin turned moist and instead focused on what he did when he felt this way. Standing up, he grabbed his keys and headed to his studio.

—-------

You were still in bed, hand clutching your phone as Namjoon’s words rang in your head. Scrolling through the news you could see why he was seething. If you were him, you would’ve jumped to the same conclusion, but you knew it wasn’t you that leaked the video. Being hacked was out of the question, you had obscenely long passwords and two factor authentication on everything – working with high powered clients tended to seep into paranoia. Additionally, it wasn’t like you were recording the conversation in the first place. It was as if someone was in the room with you, taking notes of your conversation. Namjoon had even mentioned something about being sure it came from your address.

And then it dawned on you.

Phone clutched in your hand, you headed to your spare room, knocking furiously till a yawning Hera appeared. Her long hair stuck out at weird angles, pajamas frumpled and the impression of a pillow still on her face. She seemed like she was sleeping so soundly and it only made the anger licking at your veins ignite further.

Holding up your phone, you played the video, seething. “Did you leak this?”

“Ugh, this is what you woke me up for? Yeah. Now, let me go to bed,” she yawned, moving to close the door before you stopped her.

You expected her to deny it, to make an excuse but her blatant admittance to invading your privacy had you spiralling. You had put up with a lot with her. You had excused her shitty decisions, you had excused her inability to ever pay for anything, but this was too much.

“This was a private conversation, Hera,” you gritted, getting angrier as she just shrugged and rolled her eyes.

“Celebrities aren’t private,” she replied nonchalantly. “Think of it like I was a paparazzi.”

“But that’s the thing. You’re not. This was a private conversation and you recorded it. Do you not understand how fucked up that is?”

“Oh my god! Give me a break! I didn’t even release the juicy stuff. I could’ve told the world you were dating that guy but I didn’t because I’m your friend.”

You couldn’t help but sputter at her rationalisation. It was absurd how she thought it was okay to do this. You knew her morals weren’t always aligned with yours, but you never realised how far they had truly skewed. How had you missed this in all these years? How had you not realised how one sided this relationship had become? Why did you keep putting up with her when she never showed you an ounce of respect?

“Get out,” you said, trying to hold back your vexation.

“What? You’re kicking me out now?” she laughed as if it was the most unbelievable thing in the world.

“I said get out. I want you out of here by tonight.”

“Come on! I’m sorry Y/N. Is that what you want to hear?” she pouted, turning her voice higher to be cuter. Perhaps it would have worked in the past. Maybe it had, for her to pull it out of her arsenal, but she had gone too far. Much too far. When you repeated your words once again, she seemed angry, spitting at you how she knew you were trying to get Ryan back and she needed to always record you to make sure she could trust you. It was absurd and you didn’t want to expend any more energy on her. You were done.

You left her screaming at you, grabbing your keys and sending her one last warning before slamming the door and going to your office.

“You take your stuff and you get out. If I find anything missing or if you’re still here when I get back, I’m calling the police.”

—-------

Despite the odd look security gave your outfit as you walked into your building on a Sunday morning, you were too wired up to care. It wasn’t unusual for you to be one track minded when it came to something. You often got borderline obsessed, and today you had only one thing on your mind – get that video off the internet. Settling in your office, you scanned your shelves for books on defamation and invasion of privacy. It would make a flimsy case, Namjoon said his name on the recording after all, but if you could find a precedent, you could perhaps develop a useful argument.

When your shelves did not give you the answers you were looking for, you made your way across the empty floor to the in-house library, picking up anything of use. Before long, you were sitting at your desk, piles of books and the internet calming your nerves. However, the more you read, the more the pit in your stomach grew. It felt fruitless, looking for a needle in a vast ocean.

You needed this win to clear your name, but more importantly, you needed it to help Namjoon. It had been so long since anyone made you feel safe, made you feel as if you were worthy of their vulnerability and your heart ached as you imagined how he must have felt seeing your private conversation in the headlines. Head pounding, you tugged at your hair in frustration, reading the same line over and over till the words held no meaning at all.

You opened your drawer, rummaging for some painkillers till your hand closed around the bottle. Pulling it out, your eyes landed on the chocolate bars Namjoon had insisted on you stashing in your office. “In case you ever have a bad day!” he had exclaimed when he handed you a bunch of his favourites. The memory seemed bitter now, but you still picked up a bar, ripping it open and letting the sweet taste distract you with its endorphins.

Maybe it was pathetic crying in your rapidly darkening office with chocolate smeared on your face but everything felt overwhelming all of a sudden. If you had only lost Namjoon perhaps you would have been able to hold it together. You had dealt with breakups, not sure if the short lived stint with the celebrity even counted as a breakup. But it was the loss of Hera that had you sniffling, curled up on your chair. She wasn’t the greatest of friends but she was your best friend, had been for years and you would do anything to protect her. It pained you that she didn’t even think of extending you the same courtesy, that for her you had somehow gone from a confidant to an untrustworthy roommate.

Despite your efforts, she seemed to always look for the worst in you. As you ruminated over the decade-long friendship, more instances became obvious. It was as if every toxic red flag had been ignored by you. Were you really that desperate for kinship that you let every time she put you down slide by?

They weren’t big things, you thought. A slight here, a ruthless comment there before she was telling you to chill out and hugging you. You always thought that her comments were innocent, that they were just a part of her love language. She liked to joke around, poke fun at your outfits, your hobbies, but the more you thought about it, the harder it was for you to remember moments when she had been kind, when she had stood up for you.

Perhaps it was your fault for forgiving her time and time again, for putting up with her behaviour. Maybe this whole leak debacle wouldn’t have happened in the first place if you had called her out on her bullshit earlier. Maybe you should’ve reconsidered your friendship when she never offered to pay rent, or when she started dating your cheating, hateful ex. Was she really at fault if you had never set the boundaries in the first place?

Sighing, you set your head on the table. Hoping to will away the headache, you closed your eyes.

It seemed merely minutes had passed when your phone chimed, startling you awake but the time on the screen alarmed you. It was just past 1am. Somehow you had spent the majority of your day sleeping at your desk. Your back ached from the angle, but the pain was forgotten when your phone chimed once again. Wiping your eyes you took a closer look at your screen.

Namjoon - Missed calls (5)

Namjoon: Is Moon with you? Namjoon: Please call me back Namjoon: Please Namjoon: I’m really sorry but please I can’t find Moon

Panic surged through you at his words, your fingers flying on the screen as you called him back. The phone rang twice before Namjoon’s ragged voice was bombarding you with questions, “Where are you? Is Moon with you? Has she contacted you?”

“No, but we can find her. Namjoon, listen, calm down. We’ll find her.” You tried to comfort him but it seemed that he was spiralling, muttering about being a bad father. It was a drastic contrast to his earlier fire, alarm dousing his tone in helplessness. He went on to tell you that her phone was at home, that he hadn’t seen her for hours, and the police had told him they’d make the case a priority.

“What if she was kidnapped? What if people think that I’m famous again and they can put her for ransom?” he rambled, clearly distressed. Trying to distract him from his dark thoughts, you asked him about all the places she could be and when he informed you that everyone was looking at her usual spots, you decided to search up other spots in the city where she could be, looking up parks and concert venues. With assurance that you will look for her, you hung up the phone, ran to your car and started your search of the city.

1 am on a Monday doesn’t lead to many crowds so it was easy to go through the top spots that you had listed. You even rented a bike and biked up and down the Han river park but other than a few drunks, you found no trace of her. Back in your car, you tried to run through every conversation with her, there had been so few, and she hadn’t mentioned anything. Giving up, you hoped that they had found her and forgotten to tell you. You were an insignificant part of their lives anyway.

Calling Namjoon didn’t work, his phone just rang through each time. You knew you should just go home and let him deal with it, he had his best friends and the police on his side, he didn’t need you, someone he didn’t even trust anymore, to tag along. But the unrest in your chest wouldn’t let you turn your car around. Instead, you drove to his apartment as if on instinct. If he wanted you out, he would tell you, he clearly had no problem making his opinions known when he wanted to.

When you knocked on his door, you were met by a Namjoon you hadn’t seen before. Eyes red, hair a mess, he let you in before starting his pacing again, rambling about how he was a terrible father, interrupting you angrily when you tried to tell him otherwise.

“I told her to go to her room! Do you know how fucked up that is?” he yelled, confusing you further.

“Namjoon… a lot of kids get sent to their room. That’s not a bad thing,” you cautioned, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Not Moon. She was… so disappointed in me. I’m not supposed to be like those other parents! What if… what if that’s the last thing I say to her?” His lip quivered as he spoke, facade crumbling as he fell to his knees, taking you with him. For all the vitriol he had spewed that morning, it seemed that Namjoon just wanted you close, clinging on to you in his panic. You couldn’t help but hold him close, even if it was temporary, wishing to provide him with comfort as long as he allowed.

It was in that position that Moon found the two of you when she returned, immediately running to her father.

“Dad? What’s wrong?” she asked, kneeling next to you as Namjoon stared at her before pulling her into a bone-crushing bone crushing hug.

“Where were you? I was so worried!” he scolded, unable to stop the huge relieved grin on his face. He patted her hair as if to feel if she was real and you couldn’t help but be endeared by the pure display as they bickered, It was heartwarming to see Moon trying to explain to her worried father that she had merely forgotten her phone at home and gone to a concert with friends.

“You could’ve messaged from someone’s phone or left a note!” Namjoon argued, still hugging her.

“I left a note on the fridge!” she replied as Namjoon sheepishly made excuses as to how he had been too worried to even check the kitchen fridge.

The two were in their own bubble and it made you a little awkward to be watching such an intimate family moment when before the disaster it was made clear that you were no longer welcomed in Namjoon’s life. With a heavy heart, you stood up taking your leave despite Moon’s insistence for you to stay the rest of the night.

As you were leaving, Jungkook and Yoongi came by, both equally relieved to find their niece safe and sound. When the elevator doors closed in front of you, you decided that it was better to have gotten a glimpse into the lives of people you admired than to have never had that time with them at all. It still hurt to have Namjoon distrust you so easily, even if rationally it made sense as to why he did. You were only a fleeting moment and that was okay.

You were grateful for the time you spent with him.

—-------

It had been a week since he berated and then asked you for a favour, and Namjoon didn’t think he could ever feel so empty again. He stared at the glass of whiskey in front of him, trying to figure out if it was even a good idea to call you. Would you hear him out, let him apologise or would you just brush him off?

You hadn’t apologised for the leak and even if he did overreact in the moment, he knew that it was unfair of you to do that. But after how quick you had jumped in to help him search for Moon and how none of his other secrets came into the limelight, his gut told him that maybe he had been wrong. Maybe you had gotten hacked, or he had gotten hacked. Maybe there was an explanation that didn’t lead to him losing you from his life. But then again, did he even deserve to invite you back in when he had so ruthlessly shoved you out. Damn, he even threatened to sue you!

“Joon hyung! I’m trying to tell you all something!” Jungkook whined, the addition of the term of respect alluding to Namjoon that he had been calling his name for a while. The guys had dropped the honorifics once they had disbanded, an effort to see each other on equal footing as friends, but the habit was especially hard to drop for the youngest. Namjoon chuckled at his friend with a nod as the rest of the band grumped at Jungkook to continue.

“So… the leak was actually good huh?” he commented, large eyes scanning the faces of the six men around him eagerly. For someone who was dead set against a comeback, it seemed that the sudden downpour of support from old and new fans alike had swayed Jungkook.

Jungkook was barely even a teenager when Dark and Wild launched, so it was no surprise that Shadows held a very big spot in his heart, multiple tattoos alluding to the fact. Namjoon remembered when a doe-eyed Jungkook had excitedly shown him his first fan letter, one that was still framed in his living room.

It was endearing to see him this excited about returning, but for all his plans, Namjoon felt guilty that the thing that convinced the members to pursue a comeback was not his and your hard work but a mistake. He felt uneasy, a clawing feeling in his chest making him feel as if he had forgotten something behind.

He knew it was you.

Somehow in the months of planning, you had become intertwined with his vision of a comeback. When he imagined picking songs for the album, he thought of your input. He imagined your name in the end notes of the cover. He imagined you in the studio during practice and in the wings at the first concert.

It wasn’t a comeback if you weren’t there to enjoy it with him. Even if you never wanted to talk to him again, he wanted to experience everything because you had so easily given him access to your time and your intelligence. Perhaps he should’ve never crossed that line. Perhaps he should’ve remained professional and not let his lonely heart fiddle with his brain.

“So wait… we all want to actually do this?” Jimin asked, the men continuing their discussion, oblivious to how Namjoon had once again reverted into his head. Everyone nodded along, except Seokjin who sat with a frown on his face.

“I don’t know… Go back to the limelight? Do you think we’re ready for that again?” he asked tentatively, his lower lip between his teeth. “It was a lot of pressure on all of us, all of our partners too.”

“We’re older now. We know our limits better now. We know ourselves better now,” Hoseok consoled quietly, slurring a little and sipping his drink, his face already flaring red from the alcohol. Seokjin laughed at the juxtaposition of Hoseok’s serious tone and sleepy eyes.

“Okay. If you can beat me at rock, paper, scissors, I’m in,” he joked holding up a fist as Hoseok squared up, much to the annoyance of the rest of the band.

“Why do we always have to do rock, paper, scissors for everything?” Taehyung bemoaned, leaning back on the couch staring at the ceiling with a huff as Jungkook coached Hoseok through whispers.

“Because democracy,” Seokjin grinned, chanting 'rock, paper, scissors’ before leaving his fist as is to signal rock just a few seconds after Hoseok showed his hand, paper.

“I won!” Hoseok gleed excitedly before stopping short and staring at his friends. “I won… We’re doing a comeback?”

“We’re doing a comeback,” Seokjin laughed, trying not to hint that he had agreed before the game even started, even when Yoongi smiled knowingly at him. “Good job, Joonie.”

Namjoon couldn’t help getting a little flustered at the sudden praise from his bandmate, his heart beating faster. He had waited so long for this, that it seemed surreal that it was happening. Standing up, he raised his glass to the middle, proposing a toast.

“Dark and Wild,” he cheered, the men echoing him as seven glasses clinked together.

Fuck, they were really doing a comeback, weren’t they?

—-------

When you had left Namjoon’s apartment two weeks ago, you were sure that you would never return. There was no reason to climb the gilded elevator to the cosy home, especially with the radio silence that had continued between the two of you. You were sure he still thought you were responsible for the leak and you should’ve been mad that he never tried to hear you out, but your empathy wouldn’t let you. It made sense with how guarded he was to assume the worst, and you would be lying if you said you didn’t hope that he would call you and make things right.

Waiting for the elevator, it wasn’t Namjoon that invited you back, but Moon. She had messaged you requesting your presence at her birthday and after Namjoon had explained how he tried to make each of her birthdays magical, there was no way you could refuse. You knew it would be awkward, stilted as you tried to go through a group of Namjoon’s friends and family, but you would hate it if you were the one who took away the magic of birthdays from a girl that always believed in them.

You watched the buttons light up as the elevator ascended, a set of drumsticks gift wrapped in your hands. Your nerves flared the closer you got to the penthouse and you laughed at how ridiculous you were being. Namjoon wasn’t even an ex, he was just a beginning that never led anywhere. If anything you should’ve been grateful that it never led to more. It would have broken you if it had. But you were strong, ready to impart your birthday greeting with a brave face and leave after ten minutes.

It was only ten minutes. You could do it.

However, when the doors opened to the apartment, you didn’t see the crowd you had been anticipating. There were no balloons in the living room, no music, no lights. Only Namjoon, seated at a table in the middle of the living room.

The couches and coffee table that usually occupied the space were absent. Instead there was a table with a white cloth draped over it and two chairs. A large dish of pasta sat on the surface, along with a basket of bread, place settings for two, and a bottle of wine chilling in a bucket. Candles on the table gave the room a soft glow, your heart stuttering as Namjoon walked over, biting his lip sheepishly and fiddling with his fingers.

“Hi,” he said, flushing as you looked up at him. Before you could answer, he was apologising. “I’m really, really sorry for being an idiot. I should have never blown up at you like that. That was fucked up and I’m really sorry.”

“Where’s Moon?” you asked, ignoring his apology, just to see him squirm a little more.

“Um… her birthday wish was for us to make up… So she’s at a sleepover with her friends.”

“Well… I got her a present,” you stated awkwardly.

“Oh! I can take it. Thank you,” Namjoon said, taking the present and placing it on the table before clearing his throat. “I’m serious. I’m really sorry, Y/N. I don’t care if you leaked the clip, I’m sure you had a plan and I was an idiot for not lis–.”

“I didn’t leak anything,” you cut him off quietly, watching how his eyes widened in response, a soft “what” escaping his lips. “I didn’t leak it. My roommate recorded us without me knowing. Well, ex roommate.”

“Fuck,” Namjoon breathed before laughing bitterly in disbelief. “I really am an asshole. Wow.”

“I get why you did that though. You had to protect yourself and Moon,” you defended his actions, but he didn’t let you, apologising once more before offering you a seat. When the two of you were settled, he told you about his past, about how other partners had scarred him, how he had somehow been hardwired into accepting the worst in people, and for the first time, you let him in too, sharing your fight with Hera.

“I’m a lawyer, Namjoon. I signed an NDA,” you replied, a finger tracing the wine glass in front of you. Namjoon’s sudden laugh startled you, your eyes meeting his as you watched him cover his mouth.

“Sorry but that’s what Moon said too,” he replied, the tension in the air melting at the comment and a smile lifting your lips.

“Smart daughter you got there,” you complimented, raising your glass. He clinked his own against it before taking a sip.

“That I do,” he easily agreed.

“Tell her that her birthday wish came true.”

“Wait really?” he asked with a grin he couldn’t control. “We made up?”

“If you still want to be friends, I’m okay with that. I’d like to be your friend, Namjoon,” you replied, confused as his smile dropped suddenly, his eyes leaving yours to his fingers that traced meaningless patterns against the tablecloth.

“Yeah, friends. I’d love to be your friend. Pasta?” he asked, holding up the bowl overflowing with aglio ollio, a stiff smile plastered on his face. You helped yourself to the food, commenting on the bright flavour as he admitted that he had learnt how to perfect the dish as it was Moon’s favourite, and basically the only thing that he could cook well. The conversation flowed stonely, awkward and even with the conclusion that you were friends, it felt stifled, like the two of you were playing a part in a play, small talk seeming scripted and wooden.

When the dinner came to an end, he protested you clearing the table but you stubbornly carried the plates to the kitchen, starting to wash them as Namjoon tried to stop you. He gave up halfway, content to watch you clean, your earlier words echoing in his head. I’d like to be your friend, Namjoon.

He didn’t want to be your friend though. He thought he did. He thought that he would be happy just to have you in his life at a safe distance, but the moment those words had left your lips it was like his stomach fell to the floor. He didn’t want to give you up. He missed you, missed that he had just indulged in you once, woke up next to you once before he had fucked it all up. And before he knew it, those words were escaping him.

“I don’t want to be friends.”

His words rang through you, the last plate you were rinsing slipping slightly from your fingers. You knew it would come to that eventually, that he would realise that it was almost pointless to be your friend. You had hoped it wouldn’t have happened this soon though. With a practised smile, you placed the plate onto the drying rack, wiping your hands on the dish towel stowed next to the sink, ready to take your leave.

“Oh… okay. Thanks for dinner then.”

But before you could move he was coming closer, a hand raised tentatively as he stared at your face, eyes roaming your features and lip tucked beneath his teeth.

“Don’t leave. I… I just… I don’t want to be friends.”

Your eyes met his as the meaning of the words registered slowly, hope blooming in your chest. It lit beneath your skin, coating you like honey, warm and sweet. But you still needed the assurance, “Then what do you want?”

“More,” he whispered, impossibly close now, the air between you sparking, nothing like the insulated tension from earlier. It was as if you could see it in front of it, golden glitter permeating in your vision, softly dispersing as he moved his hand till it was resting on your cheek, his thumb stroking the sparks into a fire.

When he leaned in, he moved slowly, the dark brown of his irises melting into his pupils as they searched yours for any hesitation. And then his lips moved, stealing your attention with their murmurs, “So much more.”

You lashes flickered on their own, eyelids closing seamlessly as his mouth gently met yours with the care you had come to expect of him. In the past months, you had learned that Namjoon cared wholeheartedly for everyone he deemed worthy. He gave his all – his strength, his weaknesses, his whole heart. And with his lips on yours he reminded you once again that you were one of those people he had decided to let in. There was no doubt left anymore as you wrapped your arms around him, pulling him closer and deepening the kiss.

Chest to chest, you could feel his heart beating against yours as his hands caressed your back as if testing the silk of your blouse before landing on your ass. Fingers squeezing the flesh, he moaned into your mouth eliciting one of your own, a sweet harmony once again united to string together. His body pushed against yours, his arousal impossible to hide as he pushed you against the counter, grinding into you slowly before he was picking you up and depositing you on the surface.

Your legs opened on their own, making space for him as he solidified his place in your heart. His lips migrated to your jaw, your heavy breaths the soundtrack to his journey down your body, each kiss leaving you thrumming and weightless, his long fingers unravelling each button with delicate care. With your shirt wide open, he took a moment to leave your skin to stare at you, the lacy red bra catching his attention before he haphazardly unbuttoned his own shirt, dropping it on the floor and wrapping his arms around your waist to pull you in a kiss that was no longer gentle but a frenzy.

His tongue wrestled with yours, his mouth swallowing each of your whimpers as he pushed your shirt off, his fingers tracing the lace and pulling it down to release your nipples so he could trace them with his thumbs. You could feel your heart race, your thighs tightening around him as lust flowed through you. It was as if he had your body memorised, knew where each nerve ending sparked into pleasure.

His teeth bit into your neck, blunt and delicious, making you keen before his lips wrapped around a nipple, tongue flicking in a way that made you see stars and dig your fingers into his scalp. You could feel his smile painted on your skin, your eyes seeing how his dimples would pop out in his cheeks even when they were closed. But you wanted more, so much more.

With a shove against his chest, he unlatched from you, staring at you in confusion before you were slipping off the counter and getting on your knees. He could feel the way his dick twitched at the position. He had never imagined you like this before and his mind screamed at him for such a blunder, but then again even he wasn’t creative enough to conjure an image as perfect as your eyes glistening up at him through your lashes, lips swollen from his kisses and hands unbuckling his belt at lightning pace. Before he knew it, his pants were halfway to his thighs, his boxers pushed along with them to reveal his cock.

He forgot to breathe when you smiled up at him radiantly, such an innocent look before you were licking up his length, fingers wrapped around him. You kissed against the head, your tongue circling the skin devilishly before your lips wrapped around him, suckling him slowly. You went deeper with each suck as if wanting to swallow him whole and Namjoon couldn’t keep his wits. How did he get this lucky?

With a large laugh that peetered out into a moan, he braced himself with his hands on the counter behind you, relishing the way your tongue traced his skin each time your head bobbled, turning him into a slow mush. Before he could stop himself, he thrust in your mouth, your moan vibrating around him in such delicious torture that he pulled back abruptly, too afraid to cum before he even got started.

Pulling you up by your hand, he crashed his lips on yours again, hands too eager to rip your pants off you as he wiggled out of his own. It was a silly dance, one that left you giggling in his mouth and had him chuckling back, euphoria bubbling through him.

When both your clothes were discarded, lost in his kitchen, he picked you up, letting you wrap yourself around him like a koala as he walked to his bedroom. He had dreamed of you back here, lost in his sheets as he lost himself in you and if there was one thing Namjoon did, it was go after his dreams.

Depositing you on to the bed he crawled between your legs, forgetting all about teasing to devour your arousal right from the source. A quick squeak left your lips as his tongue met your folds, flicking at your clit as he licked up your slit, stealing your breath. His hands roamed your thighs, eliciting goosebumps and whimpers, squeezing the flesh as his lips latched onto your clit. You were on the brink of your sanity, your vision clouding as he kept up his pulsating suckles. Your fingers wrapped around the sheets, pulling them from the corners as your back arched, hips canting against his face before he was holding them down, lapping at you furiously. His hands, his lips, his fingers all played a part in unravelling you, but it was when you looked down at him and caught the hunger in his eyes as he watched you squirm that made you explode, a loud whimper floating into the air at his unrelenting efforts.

He let you ride out your high before his lips let go, instead moving to kiss at your thighs, leaving little nibbles as they climbed up your body, from your stomach to your breasts to your neck, paying special attention to your tattoo, before he was kissing your lips once again, letting your tongue burst with your flavour.

“More?” he asked, his forehead against yours, his breath cooling your heated cheeks and you couldn’t help wrapping your arms around his strong shoulders, meeting his lips once again.

“So much more,” you echoed his earlier words, earning his dimples as he pecked your lips, once, twice and then once more before sitting up and reaching in his bedside drawer for a condom. His fingers were nimble, shaking a little from his excitement as he ripped it open and quickly rolled it on. Meeting you in another kiss, his forearms rested next to your head, his hips grinding into you.

Fingers caressing his back, you reached lower till your hand wrapped around his cock, guiding it slowly inside you. He entered leisurely, carefully stretching your walls, eyes gazing into yours, making you lose yourself in them. The two of you exhaled when he was fully buried inside you, the stillness of the room echoing around you as his fingers slowly moved your hair from your face.

The silence was broken first by your lips meeting eagerly and then by his hips leaving you only to slap back against yours in an intense thrust that led to your moans punctuating the sound. With each one of his strokes, his lips moved further away from yours, your breaths mingling with each other as you lost yourselves. It was ecstatic, the way his body moulded against yours, his chest cushioning you to the mattress, while your legs wrapped around him.

In all your years and all your relationships no one had felt this perfect, this quickly. How every cant of his hips brought you closer to your high, pulled out noises from your lips you had never imagined. He grunted along with you before the tightening of your walls compelled him to reach for your clit to prolong his pleasure more, to make you writhe around him more, to make your lips seek for his more. He met your desperation with his own, tongue meeting your teeth in a flurry as his abs clenched tighter, your thighs trapping him against you, your fingernails digging crescents into his ass.

Like a wave ebbing higher and higher, you wrapped yourself tighter around him, limbs locked in ecstasy before you crashed with a high-pitched whine of his name, your legs jerking with the sudden pleasure coursing through you in a rush. He moved faster, harder, keeping you suspended as his lips found yours again. Chanting your name in a stuttered whine, his high followed quickly after yours, leaving him breathless on top of you, his face buried in your neck.

When your heart had steadied, he leaned up, kissing you decadently, luxuriating in your taste, a gentle aftermath of the flurry from earlier. His fingers stroked your scalp, leaving behind content tingles that soothed you, your fingers mirroring his actions through his hair.

You had never felt so at peace.

When he had his fill of your lips, he stood up, admiring your body before pulling you with him into the shower. Slowly kisses under warm water never felt better, your hands indulging in his body, roaming over his sculpted chest and toned stomach.

“I missed you,” he confessed, arms around you as water flowed from him to you, both of you revelling in the warmth of the water, of the moment.

“I missed you, too,” you replied, standing on the tip of your toes to kiss his nose, enjoying the way the action made him blush and shyly hide his face with a giggle.

Dressed in his oversized t-shirt, you climbed into bed, watching as he tidied up, folding your clothes. It was an endearing habit, one he picked up from cleaning Moon’s toys when she was younger, too many legos under his feet a painful motivator. He pulled his phone from his pants pocket before climbing in next to you, his chest moulded to your back, long arms around you as he told you about different songs he had been working on. He didn’t have the strongest of vocals, but his low gruff was comforting, it’s unpolished notes a serenade as he scrolled through his demos, playing snippets.

“I might’ve been inspired by the night of your birthday for this one,” Namjoon admitted quietly as he played the next song, his face buried behind your shoulders. It was a fast beat, the bass notes popping with a fun melody, electronic drums bouncing along. But what truly made your heart flutter were the words, his husky voice singing them softly.

Too many words circle around me But none of them feel how I feel I just feel it Like the moon rises after the sun rises Like how fingernails grow Like trees that shed their bark once a year That you are the one who will give meaning to my memories Who will make a 'person' into 'love'

You pouted as the song continued, a beautiful confession that had you turning in his arms to kiss him, too overwhelmed to do anything else. No one had ever written you a song, no one had ever expressed their feelings like this before, in a way that was almost bordering on magical. If your younger self knew that the lead of your fantasies would be singing you something he wrote solely for you, she would’ve passed out. The song ended with the chorus and a request.

You're my person, my person, my person You're my desire, my desire, my desire You're my pride, my pride, my pride You're my love One and only love You know... We were always meant to be... Destiny... I hope you feel the same with me..

“I do feel the same,” you murmured against his lips, kissing his smile as he pulled you closer, legs tangled with yours.

“Good because this is going in the album and it would suck if it didn’t make you smile every time I played it,” he teased, kissing your nose before you leaned away, looking at him confused.

“Album?”

“Comeback album. Dark and Wild’s back.” He grinned widely and even though usually you’d be distracted by his dimples, this time no matter how large your eyes got you couldn’t register them. Because in your head there was a childish giddiness you had thought you would never experience. Holding up a finger, you turned away from him to grab a pillow, screaming in excitement, limbs flailing as your adolescent dreams of a reunion came true. You knew it was going to happen but you never imagined how much the news would affect you.

Namjoon laughed, pulling the pillow from over your head and kissing you once more, your excitement making him even more eager for the comeback. He laid you on his chest as you asked him questions and he regaled the story of how the decision was made based on a game of chance and your roommate’s stupid actions.

“Thank you for helping me get my dream again,” Namjoon whispered, grateful that he had written to you and that you had responded.

He owed a lot to fate for whisking you into his arms.

—————

Epilogue

It was dark around you, but that was only because the lights on stage were so bright. Music boomed. Guitar riffs were clean even with their distortion. Drums were loud, cracking in the air. Hoseok’s growl echoed through your bones as you watched Dark and Wild perform, the sweet smell of manufactured smoke surrounding you. Yoongi did his signature move, licking up the fretboard of his guitar as Jimin grinned, lip between his teeth, and muted chords spilling from his amp. Right at the chorus, Seokjin kneeled on the ground, blowing a kiss to the audience as he played along, right when Taehyung started belting, licking his lips and letting the words float out of him. Jungkook played faster, increasing the tempo of the song just as his drum set was lifted into the air, spinning in circles, metres above the stage. You cheered loudly as the song ended, Namjoon looking for you in the wings and tossing a wink cheekily.

It was like being thrown back in time. It was surreal. Yet, it was so real.

Moon squealed next to you when Hoseok introduced her, a stark contrast to how she was tapping her drumsticks on her legs nervously a few minutes ago. “Good luck,” you whispered with a hug, and she squeezed you tight before running onto the stage in her ripped jeans and black tulle top, a grungy throwback to the outfits she used to wear as a kid.

Sitting on a second drum set, she waved to the crowd as Jungkook timed her in, the two setting off into a vicious solo together as Seokjin and Namjoon provided the background to the melodic dissonance. The crowd went wild, screaming at the top of their lungs, and you even saw someone throw their bra on stage, just like old times.

The show ended with the first song the band had ever released, War of Hormones. The lyrics were a little cringey with time, but the band laughed along as they played, bantering about how stupid their teenage selves were during the guitar solo. But you couldn’t help the tears in your eyes as you watched them perform, your face hurting from how hard you were smiling, your fingers wrapped around the pass on your neck.

Heart pounding in time with the bass, you watched the guys finish their last song to an earth shattering applause, the crowd going wild. It seemed that the floor was shaking with their stomps and claps.

Centre stage, the men took a bow, before Namjoon put Moon on his shoulders and the group recreated the photo they took on the last day of their tour before retiring. He made a stupid joke about his back hurting when he put her down, Moon returning her own quip about him being old as the audience laughed.

With their arms around each other, Hoseok spoke into the mic, beaming into the crowd.

“Thank you Shadows! We’ve been Dark and Wild and fuck it’s good to be back!”

taglist - @awhnamjoon @alpacaseoks @raplinesmoon @codeinebelle @aislinnstanaka @miscelunaaa @moonchild1 @shydestinyyouth @itsjaneeet @piecesofapril11 @yoontaethings @jeonyreads

Thank you for reading this fic! If you liked it, please tell me your thoughts. I worked very hard on this and would appreciate your feedback! 🥰🥺

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aimfor-theheart · 3 years

Text

COIN TOSS– PART III

(18+ MINORS DNI)

PART I → PART II

PAIRINGS: Tomura Shigaraki x Reader, a little Shouta Aizawa x Reader

SUMMARY: As you fall asleep, you wonder faintly, almost sadly, if you’re the first thing he’s fully touched without losing in a long time.

You are Eraserhead’s troubled protege with a Quirk that cancels out others the moment they touch you. Tomura Shigaraki takes great interest in you.

(Enemies to lovers, a lot of angst, some hurt/comfort)

WARNINGS: Unhealthy/complicated relationships, age gap/power struggle, violence, gore, Tomura’s trauma specifically, (in later chapters) murder, smut, some blurred lines, rough sex, a smidge of a spit kink, a smidge of somnophilia (let me know if I’ve missed anything!)

If you are under the age of 18, you should not be reading or interacting with this!

↳ A playlist I made for this fic, if you're interested!

A/N: here is your final part to this series! again, thank you @randomrosewrites for beta-ing this!! and thank you guys so so much for your support and comments, they mean so so much to me!! i had a lot of trouble with this last part, there was a lot of scenes i cut out and alternative endings before i settled on what is there now and i'm not even fully happy with it still lol. i have a lot of Thoughts about this, so feel free to reach out if you want to know more or just chat!! i hope you guys enjoy this!!

Read on Ao3

***

Shouta apologizes to you soon after. You sheepishly get out your own apology, even though you’d planned on holding a grudge a little while longer.

Still, Shouta confides that he also had his doubts and worries as a young hero and that he shouldn’t have dismissed yours. He talks in a soft, low voice for you, sits beside you on the edge of the couch.

You hate it because it’s easier to be at odds with Shouta lately, easier for your conscience. He put distance between the two of you, but you forced it apart further– if only to keep him in the dark. Maybe if only to spare yourself all the lying, all the pretending you’d have to do.

He says, “You know, you can always come to me. Whenever you need me.”

You have to swallow hard around the lump in your throat.

“I’ll always be here for you, despite everything.” he promises gently, trying to catch your eyes. Your gaze ducks away, out of his line of site.

Still, you hug him, tuck your face into his shoulder so he can’t see the guilt written across your face. Your secrets will constrict around you if you’re not careful. You know Truth is tricky and likes to reveal itself with Time’s help.

Once more, you become acutely aware of the clock ticking away on your relationship with Tomura.

But this time, you also realize how much trouble you could get in. You realize that you’re endangering Shouta now, too. You swallow hard, try to keep all of that down inside of you, but you feel nauseous suddenly. Bloated with guilt.

You wonder if you would’ve confessed to him then, if you would’ve spilled your guts the way you’d wanted to, if it would’ve saved you the heartache of it all.

Instead, you’d just clung to him, little fingers twisting in the back of his shirt, praying that you’d never need to make good on his promise. Praying you’d never need to test how far he’d go for you.

(It’s far– you’ll realize, further than it ever should’ve been. And you’re all the worse for it.)

***

Tomura thinks one of the troubles with heroes is their willingness to sacrifice anything for their greater good. He doesn’t think there’s anything noble in it, there’s nothing glorious or good in leaving their friend behind because they think it will save more. Nothing honorable in facing down a threat you know you can’t win against alone. What good is their world if they’re willing to sacrifice all that’s good to them in the process?

Everytime he watches you patrol, go up against other villains, maybe yakuza members, throw yourself in harm’s way needlessly, he realizes the Hero Commission uses heroes’ bodies as collateral damage. You are nothing to them. Even to other heroes; your sacrifice is expected. He knows it isn’t wanted, per se, but it isn’t surprising.

It doesn’t help that you have a streak of recklessness in you. You are quick to danger, just as quick to flash teeth and stand your ground, to fight mercilessly.

You struggle against large, powerhouse types. He watches you nearly get crushed or strangled some nights. Your Quirk doesn’t do much for you when your opponent has strength and weight to defeat you with a singular blow.

Your mentor is often pulling you out of danger with his capture weapon, yanking you away from a massive swinging arm or a curled fist about to smash you into the ground. But if it came down to you or the greater good, he knows what your mentor and your heroes would pick.

He thinks it’s strangely unfair, for you to give them your loyalty over him. He’s more loyal to you, isn’t he? There is very, very little he wouldn’t destroy for you. They would sooner let you be destroyed for the sake of their world.

Destroying the hero society that is so careless with you now feels, in part, like his gift to you. Freedom from the world that only cared about you when they realized you could be useful–

There is a night you become not just useful to your heroes but imperative.

It starts with your sacrifice, just as you were trained to do. You shove a civilian out of the way of a villain’s Quirk– it’s something with tusks and teeth that jut out from his body, sharp and ready to gut you.

Your mentor is busy with this villain’s accomplice.

Tomura watches when he shouldn’t. He was supposed to meet with Kurogiri, but he knows you patrol in this area and when there’d been commotion, he couldn’t help but watch from the shadows.

He watches one of those tusks jut towards you, your hand reaching out in hopes of disengaging the Quirk. But it’s a physical Quirk, not something like Dabi’s fire or his disintegration. And he doesn’t know if this Quirk disengages with it’s user or if it’s just his body.

Tomura feels his heart drop, the trapdoor given way to all icy fear as he watches one of those tusks pierce into your stomach.

Tomura stops breathing.

You grab hold of it, a scream getting caught behind your clenched teeth. Your fingers are tight, near frantic as you press into them– hope with everything in you, in him, that his Quirk disengages with yours.

Your broken off scream is wretched from your struggling body when another tusk rushes to crash into your shoulder.

You’re the only thing between the civilians behind you and this villain.

Your other hand reaches for the tusk at your shoulder, digging fingers and nails into it desperately.

Your eyes are bright and feverish with the hot pink of your Quirk.

Tomura stutters towards you, before the villain let’s out a pained groan. Your teeth are bared, blood bubbling up in your mouth, but you’re still standing, vicious and undeterred.

The tusks begin to crack where you grip them, splintering apart–

A sudden fission of light through those crevices, same fire pink as your eyes, arcs throughout the villain. A flare of it that makes the villain almost see-through, the lines of his bones burned by light, an x-ray flash, as if you’d struck him with lightning for a moment.

Eraserhead shouts for you.

When the flare dies, there is a scream of pain and it’s not yours.

The tusks shatter, splinter apart into gleaming bone that flies through the air.

You’re left standing, blood oozing from your stomach, your shoulder, but still standing, your eyes crackling and too bright.

The villain, tuskless, crumples at your feet, smoking. A normal, Quirkless looking man.

Did you–?

“What happened?” he hears the distant voice of your mentor, laced with worry, whose already reaching to staunch blood, blood that seeps so dark out of you. Tomura’s stomach rolls, twists suddenly, but you’re still standing. You’re okay– you’re okay–

“I-I don’t know.” you manage, but you sway into your mentor’s arms and Tomura has to look away, jaw clenched tight, swallowing around the sudden lump in his throat.

He hears, “I need an ambulance– there’s a hero and villain down–”

But he’s already turning away, his mind churning, trying to keep the nauseousness from overcoming him. He feels suddenly furious, that it can’t be him at your side, that he has to watch, pushed to the outskirts. His fingers rush to scratch at his neck, his throat, desperate for relief from the pressure that has built in his chest.

He will try to call you– later, much later– the only time you’ll answer him. He is certain you will be okay with your healers and–

He thinks of the flare of light, the breaking of those tusks, the sudden heap of that man on the ground. If Tomura is correct about what you’d done, about what your Quirk actually is, the heroes won’t let you die now.

No, now you’re imperative. Now you’re trapped.

And the destruction of hero society will be his gift to you, an end to all the strings in place, the hands holding you both back.

***

“You destroyed his Quirk.”

“W-what?” you manage to get out, wobbly. You’re bandaged up, your torso and shoulder wrapped in fresh gauze after Recovery Girl healed the worst of your wounds. You’d been sleeping, hooked up to an IV to aid you in recovering. “That’s not possible, my Quirk only cancels–”

The doctor that has entered to give you this news shakes his head, “No, we’ve done scans, tests, the works on this guy. His Quirk is gone from his DNA. No trace of it.”

Shouta, who's sitting beside your hospital bed, speaks up, “Is it possible that it will eventually return?”

“I suppose, but we think it’s unlikely. It’s gone from him. There’s nothing left. She destroyed it cleanly. It’s like it was never there at all.�� The doctor answers.

“I don’t understand–” you manage to get out, your head beginning to swim, giving a painful throb at your temples.

“It seems your Quirk isn’t so simple as cancelling out another’s. It’s likely that subduing other’s Quirks was just the surface of yours.”

“Is the man okay otherwise?” Shouta asks now, fidgeting in his seat when he senses your sudden distress. He leans towards your bed more and you have the sudden urge to latch onto him and not let go.

“Physically, yes. He’s fine.” the doctor answers, “However, mentally...he’s inconsolable at the moment. As you know, Quirks are incredibly– well, they’re a part of who we are, aren’t they?”

You swallow hard around the lump in your throat.

You think Shouta says something else, finishes speaking to the doctor for you. The moment the door clicks shut, the tears that you stubbornly had been holding back rush forward.

“I didn’t mean to do that,” you get out on just a hissed breath. “I-I didn’t know I could.”

Shouta shushes you gently, “It’s okay, this happens. Sometimes people don’t know the full extent of their Quirk.”

“I destroyed his Quirk, it’s not okay!” you respond, guilt thickening inside of you, dragging you down heavy, clogging your throat and chest. “I didn’t mean to do that– what if I do it again?”

“You were under distress,” he soothes, reaching out to brush a tear away from your cheek, “Really, you were fighting for your life.” And when he says it, something gets caught in his throat. Something hitches in yours, too.

His eyes rove over your face slowly, taking you in carefully, as if he hasn’t been by your side the entire time. As if it wasn’t him in the ambulance, or him kneeling beside your bed when Recovery Girl put you back together.

“I should’ve been there. It shouldn’t have happened.” Shouta admits, the confession filling the small space between you two.

You take him in now, too, tired and worried, his face finally displaying the fear and care he has for you. It softens out his features, turns his eyes gentle and dark.

You realize suddenly that you miss him. You miss quiet nights on his couch as he graded papers. You miss his clothes and his cats and the tenderness that blossomed in all your silent spaces to fill you both out.

You wonder if he misses you as bad as you’re realizing you miss him.

You think of him cooking for one again, eating alone, and it does something horrible to your heart– mangles it, twists it up horribly.

It’s made all the worse because you’re lying to him. And here he is, at your bedside.

“S’okay, Shouta,” you get out, reaching up to touch his cheek with a trembling hand. He leans into the touch, letting his eyes flutter shut for a moment. He savors your touch in a way that he hasn’t ever allowed himself to before.

But after a moment, he shakes his head fractionally, and he murmurs “I’m supposed to protect you.”

You don’t know why, but your bottom lip wobbles. Big, fat tears well up in your eyes, burn hot and put pressure on your already foggy head. You feel like you’re unraveling, your chest all swollen and tender, too, aching horribly.

You can’t decide if it’s because you’re lying and disobeying him so badly or because no one has ever bothered to say something like that to you, let alone mean it.

And you’re betraying him, your mind hisses.

When he notices, his face falls, his thumb moving to try and brush away your tears. “Don’t cry,” he hushes, “I’m sorry, don’t cry.”

You lean into his large and warm palm at your cheek, let him cradle and coddle you.

“I-I’m sorry–” you barely manage to choke out, for reasons far beyond him.

“No,” he coos, “No, sweetheart, don’t apologize.”

You choke on a sob and he grows more worried, leans over you more, brings his other hand up to stroke at your hairline, too.

He says your name softly, trying to soothe you, “Why are you crying, huh? What are you apologizing for?”

You shake your head, more tears loosening, your small fingers twisting themselves in the shoulders of his shirt. You think you’ll drown in all this guilt, it’ll fill your lungs with pressure, choke you out slowly as you struggle and thrash.

But for now, all you get out is a warbled, slurred, “Please don’t hate me–”

Shouta moves then, shifts to sit beside you on the bed. He’s painfully careful with you as he slides strong and sturdy arms beneath you, lifts you slightly into his lap, mindful of your IV, and cradles you to him.

You bury your face into his chest and try to hold back another sob as he murmurs, “Why would I hate you? I could never hate you.”

He strokes your hair, he hushes your cries, rocking you gently. Rocking you until you can stop crying, until you’re exhausted and aching and tender.

“I’ll help you with your Quirk,” he promises gently, holding you tight to him, “We’ll be okay, huh?” he murmurs, and it just forces another cry out of you, swallowed up by his chest that he cradles you to, “We’ll be okay, sweetheart.”

It’s the we’ll in that sentence that makes you squeeze him tighter. You wonder how willing he’d be to use it if he knew where you were every other night, who you filled your time with.

If he knew who called you late that night, when you’re alone in your room, aching and sore and alone. If he knew who you answered to, your voice hushed in the inky darkness;

“Tomura,” you exhale his name through the receiver.

“I saw what happened,” he answers instead, “I saw what happened today.”

You can feel the sudden jump of your heart, your nerves wringing themselves tight. “Oh,” you respond lamely.

To your surprise, Tomura rasps, “Are you okay?”

You don’t know why, but you cradle the phone to your cheek tighter, your eyes slipping shut for a moment.

“Yeah, I’m alright. Sore and tired, but I’m okay.”

“Good,” he responds, his voice softer than it usually is, just a breath when he asks, “What happened? What’d you do to him?”

You’re silent for a long moment. You can’t decide if you should tell him or not. You think of Shouta earlier and his voice like a hearth and the tender way he holds you, you think of his we’ll be okay.

But you can hear Tomura’s soft breath on the other line. You can see Ryuji in the patch of sun that splays out against the corner of the couch in the evenings. You think of him curled tight around you, like you’re the last good thing left on earth.

“I destroyed his Quirk,” you say, voice barely above a whisper, “With mine.”

“That’s new,” Tomura almost hums, but it nearly seems like he was expecting the answer.

“I didn’t mean to.”

A quiet snort from him, “What are you trying to prove to me?” he asks, “I’m not your heroes. I won’t look at you differently whether you intended to or not.”

The thought strikes like an arrow between the ribs, sharp, sudden. It stings, when you realize it’s truth. How hard have you tried to prove yourself to Shouta? How hard are you trying to prove your goodness to yourself?

“You could’ve killed him,” Tomura says, “And I wouldn’t think differently.”

You wince for some reason when he says that, “Don’t–”

“What would your heroes think then?”

“Tomura–” you snap, voice gaining some bite, a warning.

But for some reason he presses, “How badly does the Hero Commission want you now? With a Quirk like that?”

“What?” you ask, suddenly shocked.

“Don’t be naive,” Tomura says and there’s an edge to his voice. He sucks in a breath, “That’s a big Quirk. Destroying someone else’s? You don’t think they’ll be interested in that?”

You feel the pressure of tears work their way through your head, your throat. Your fingers clutch so hard at the phone that your knuckles are turning white and before you can think, you hiss out, “And how interested are you now?”

“As interested as I was before.” he returns, sharp and quick, and then with a vitriol he hasn’t directed at you in months, he says, “Don’t compare me to them.”

You bare your teeth, tears stinging sharp at your eyes, prepared to fight back when he hisses, “Mark my words, they won’t let you go now.”

“Stop it,” you spit, “You don’t know anything–”

And he laughs at that, caustic, harsh, a grating sound. Villainous. It slithers through the phone, down your spine. Your stomach twists. You hate this– your head is throbbing. You don’t want to fight. You want to stop crying, God, you wish you could just stop crying–

“I’ll be here when you realize it.” he says and there is too much heat behind his voice, simmering and venomous. You can feel the end of this conversation, the bitter goodbye in his words.

Your bottom lip trembles, and for some foolish, lovesick reason, you gasp, “Wait– don’t hang up–”

But you hear the click of the other line and he’s fallen away from you, leaving you with an empty, static silence that buzzes around in your head. In your heart.

You throw your phone across the room. You hear it clatter somewhere in the darkness. You turn to press your face into your pillow and let out a sudden, childish scream. It tears at your throat, before tapering off into this pathetic little sob.

It’s worse because he ends up being right.

And it’s ironic because it’s another string tethering you to him, the ability to destroy something with a touch.

It’s like some part of him knew all along, or maybe some part of you.

You scream into your pillow again, louder, kicking at your covers before it breaks off into a bitter cry.

***

The Hero Commission is very interested in the new discovery of your Quirk. They run tests and scans on you, over and over again, trying to find something interesting. They want you to practice with it, but there’s no way for you to practice without potentially destroying other people’s Quirks.

They offer up criminals to practice on.

It turns your stomach.

“I don’t want to do this,” you tell Shouta one night after another long series of poking and prodding at you by white coats from the Hero Commission.

Shouta is silent for a moment, “No one is making you.”

“But they want me to. It’s expected of me.” you tell him.

“They want to make sure you can control it,” Shouta answers, “And the only way to do that is practice, unfortunately.”

Or do they just want to be sure they can control me? The question bubbles up unbridled inside of you. It sounds suspiciously like Tomura’s voice.

You frown, “I can control it. I don’t go around destroying Quirks with every touch. I just mute Quirks still.”

“Under distress, too? Can you summon it completely calmly? Or stop it in an instant?” Shouta asks.

“I don’t know– no, I don’t think so.”

“Then you can’t fully control it.” he answers, which makes you ball your hands into fists.

“It doesn’t feel right taking people’s Quirks– practice or not. And it’s controlled enough.” you respond, gaining a sudden edge to your voice.

“Then don’t do it.” Shouta responds, almost impassively.

You try not to grow upset or so frustrated that you say something you might regret. You swallow tightly. “Will you be disappointed? If I don’t?”

Shouta tilts his head and in the quietness you fear he will be, but he eventually answers, “No. You’re right; you have it controlled enough that it doesn’t hinder your day-to-day life.”

You let go of a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

“Besides, if you’re under that amount of distress again, it probably flares for a good reason. It’ll probably save you if you ever need it again.” Shouta then says, “And if what they want you to do doesn’t feel right to you, then you shouldn’t do it.”

You stare up at him, a little surprised but–

Relief sweeps through you, sweet and cool.

“I trust your instincts,” Shouta says, the curl of his lips small but promising, as he reaches out to nudge your chin with his knuckle.

The guilt blindsides you later, so hard that it makes you lock yourself in your bathroom and keep a sob trapped behind the palm of your hands.

But for now, you smile up at him, the curve of your smirk playful, something he hasn’t seen from you in what feels like forever that you give to him again freely.

“Can I get that one in writing?” you ask and his answering laugh strikes you so suddenly it almost makes you dizzy and it’s like hearing the notes to one of your favorite songs that you hadn’t heard in a long time.

Like you couldn’t ever imagine forgetting it, now that you’ve heard it again.

***

Tomura wonders what it will take to make you leave your heroes.

Specifically, your precious mentor.

When he sees you again, you look like you did before nearly bleeding out in front of him and destroying the Quirk of another. It’s almost as if it never happened at all, almost like your argument never happened at all, either. In this little apartment where the rest of the world doesn’t exist, just you and him and sometimes Ryuji.

Except when he lifts your shirt there is a twisted, ugly scar from where they patched you up. Another at your shoulder. He doesn’t kiss it or run his fingers over it gently, he doesn’t make any sort of comment. He just thumbs at your waist and glares at it, wishes he could make it disappear like the villain who gave it to you.

(Not because he finds it ugly or unacceptable, only that it is now a permanent reminder of what he’d seen. Only that it reminds him that you are not guaranteed to him, not in life nor in loyalty).

You’re a little hesitant with him now. You feel more fragile to him now, too, like you’re holding something back, waiting for everything to finally fall.

The inevitable crash and break.

Tomura is gentler with you– he knows he needs to play his cards right now. It’s crucial. Something is building, even for the League of Villains. There’s more on the horizons.

And despite everything, he wants you there, when the sun is bloody and falling on a dismembered, new world.

He thinks he shouldn’t have pushed you now, when you’re so delicate, barely stitched together. But he had– he’d started another argument. He’d tried to convince you of the heroes’ lack of care for you, their greediness upon discovering the depth of your Quirk.

You throw it back in his face; isn’t that what All For One does to him? Isn’t that what he does for the League of Villains? Aren’t they all just pawns for him? Is that what he wants of you?

He seethes, digging into the skin of his neck desperately. You don’t stop him. He can feel the facade of this little apartment beginning to crumble, fall away into dust and he–

He knows he destroys everything he touches.

But you were supposed to be different.

(You are, his mind hisses, you are, you are, and that’s the worst part of it all).

You storm out that night. You leave him, no doubt to return to your precious mentor.

He thinks about destroying the entire apartment complex. He could now– he knows what’s coming. He won’t be staying here any longer. He has plans, so many plans.

You come back to him a week later, though. You’re bound to him in some way, returning again and again when you know you shouldn’t.

The make-up part is nice, with him buried so deep inside you that he’s trying to turn your stomach. Make you sick with him, the way he is with you. Your gasping moans, with the arch of your body far too pretty for hands like his.

And still, you lay on his chest afterwards, you let him run his fingers over the planes of your shoulders, the line of your pretty neck. He drags his knuckles against your soft skin, enamored with the feeling, with the way you soothe the haunting, sunken part of him. His Quirk submits to yours easily, dimmed inside of him. Maybe he should be frightened of your new potential.

But you’ve never been frightened of him, so he’s not of you, either.

You’re very bold, though, he thinks, for you to say, “Your parents were cruel.” After the argument you both had last time.

He tenses beneath you, grits his teeth. He’d thought you’d both learned your lesson, getting too personal in a place as sacred as here.

“You don’t know anything,” he says and it’s just a breath. Surprisingly toothless. He’d said it to you last time, in your argument. You’d said it to him before that. It feels almost ironic now.

You shake your head against his chest, your nose nudging into him, lips soft against his skin. You remain calm. “I know your name is Tomura. They were very cruel to give you that name.”

You say this as if it’s a fact, something as simple as the sky being blue. But it’s dark out now and the stars are dull, the moon just a scythe in the sky, caught in the window’s glare.

“What?” he demands quietly.

At least you have the guts to tilt your head up to find his eyes now. You look up at him through dark lashes.

“Your name–” you say again, gentle, “It means ‘to mourn.’ I don’t know why anyone would give their child such a sad name.”

He knows what his name means.

But this takes him by surprise, for some reason. Only because it’s not the name his parents gave him. You don’t know that, though. You don’t know anything about him, technically. He has the urge to tell you suddenly, that’s not my name.

He doesn’t, though. He stays silent. It’s his name now. And he likes the way you say it, the syllabus softened by whatever it is you feel for him.

(He won’t give it a name, he’s realizing now that names can be very powerful.)

Your fingers are gentle on him, rubbing strange patterns against a scar near his collar bone.

You have rendered him silent.

And eventually, as you begin to drift off to sleep, you murmur, “You were just a kid, you know?”

He doesn’t really know what you’re getting at, only that it does something strange to the tempo of his heart. He swallows hard, tries to keep his fingers gentle on you. Your breathing has slowed, the rise and fall of your back measured and even, but his has gotten tight.

He squeezes you against him, glaring at nothing, at darkness.

You were just a kid, you know?

It’s this part of you, the one that sees the human in him, that makes him think maybe you will be at his side until the bitter end of it all. Your compassion, the sympathy you have for the child he was, for the person he somehow became. Your unending ability to understand the worst of people.

He doesn’t dwell on the child he was, just has buried it in the cemetery of his chest– a part of him that only you have been able to reach through Quirk, through something too massive to name. You’ve soothed it, put it to rest like the dead, lit your incense in the spaces of his heart. Said your prayers along the notches of his ribs. Tried to appease that restless spirit that possesses him.

He doesn’t know why, but he starts to shake. He can hardly breathe.

And in the dark, when he thinks you’re asleep, and his secrets will be lost to your dreams, he admits for the first time in years what has always trembled inside him. He speaks the tragedy that has made a home of his body, the mourning that he was given name to;

“I wanted to be a hero– when I was a kid.”

***

Tomura thinks, for a moment, when you’re splattered in blood, that this will be your great turning point.

Your fall, the tearing and burning of your wings from your holy back. It will hurt, but he will be there on the ground with you, a hand extended to guide you. He will be there to cradle you into his chest, to hold you close when your world falls apart.

The way All For One was there for him.

The beginning of the end starts with you being a hero.

But you save the wrong person.

Toga’s been following him around as she does every so often, dogging in his shadow, skipping along beside him. You’ve become accustomed to her, too. She likes having you around. Something about not being the only girl. You’re kind to her in the same way he thinks you probably wanted kindness at her age.

The sky is mottled purple, bruised as the day sets into night. The sun looks like an open wound, violent and red.

When he thinks about it, he figures he should’ve been more careful, but then there’s a petty villain Tomura knows vaguely, someone they’ve clashed with before, who he’s pretty sure Dabi and Toga pissed off. He spots Toga first. Your back is turned to him.

“Uh oh,” Toga says, peering over your shoulder.

Tomura grabs your wrist, “Hide,” he hisses, and when you try to peer over your shoulder at what Toga is looking at, he forces you back around so the villain doesn’t see your face.

He doesn’t know why he saves you like that. Only that he doesn’t want you to get in trouble, doesn’t want you taken from him like that. He is not an idiot; if the villain recognizes you, if it somehow got around that you were seen with two of the most notorious villains, the Hero Commission would eat you alive.

And here’s the part that really gets him. You listen to him. You trust him.

You dart away, swift and fast like a fox, disappearing into the shadows the way you were trained to.

“Hey!” the villain shouts and he’s large, Tomura remembers now.

Stupid, too, he thinks, as he barrels towards them.

The glint of Toga’s knife in the sun makes him pause.

Better to not engage, Tomura thinks, not yet, not now. Too much on the horizon for something foolish to happen tonight. The apartment isn’t far from here. He hopes you’ll retreat there. He just needs to get Toga away safely now.

“Oh, I’ve missed fighting!” she sings.

“No,” Tomura rasps, “Don’t engage. We need to go, too.”

She whines a long and drawn out, “Why?” just as the hulking mass of a person swings at her. She ducks away easily, quickly.

However, then his Quirk bursts to life and it’s far worse than what Tomura had hoped for. He doubles in size, his arms in particular growing longer, and fill out with what seems to be rushing water.

“Dammit, Toga,” he hisses, shoving her out of the way as the villain blasts a large cannon of water at her.

Tomura takes the hit hard, black coloring his vision when he hits the ground.

In truth, he thinks he is out for at least a full minute, because when he’s come to, you’re shouting at the villain. You’re tugging desperately at his massive shoulder, clawing and screaming. You’ve canceled his Quirk, but he’s still too big, even without it.

Toga is pinned beneath that arm, choking and spluttering, drenched. It actually looks like she’s choking on water. She can’t even scream, too garbled, too water-logged. She looks like a doll, she looks horribly small. Her face is turning a deep shade of red as she struggles for breath. Her little hands claw at his wrist, too.

Tomura tries to stand, his vision swimming, swaying so bad that for a minute everything goes sideways.

Fuck, he curses, just as he watches you get tossed away by that villain’s other hand like you’re nothing. His Quirk suddenly ripples back to life and he blasts Toga with another bout of water, plastering her to the gravel, the onslaught of it unending.

You’re up in an instant, throwing yourself onto his neck, trying to wrench him off. His Quirk disengages again, and Toga heaves and gasps for breath, coughing up large amounts of water.

“You’re going to kill her!” Tomura finally can catch onto what you’re saying, what you’re desperately screaming. His ears ring.

You get thrown off again. More water. Toga is being blasted so hard that she can’t even choke or struggle.

Tomura thinks you’re trying to rationalize with them, you’re trying to explain you’re a hero. And to disengage. Stop, please stop, please stop–

He’s not listening, though, of course.

And he’s too big. You tried knocking him out, tried putting him to sleep with the grip of your elbow. You’re trying everything, even to crush his Quirk beneath yours. Tomura catches the flutters of pink, your inability to summon your destruction when you need it.

It wouldn’t matter anyways, not with how big he is. You struggle against powerhouses.

Tomura stumbles.

But you’ve always been gritty and sharp and determined, if nothing else. You have always fought so desperately for your life, never mind law or honor or glory.

He thinks he catches the glint of your knife, the desperate threat to let her go, leave her alone!

The villain grabs you with a massive hand around the throat, lifts you clear off the ground.

Toga has gone slack against the pavement in a puddle of water, face colored a strange shade of red and blue. A little like the way the sky blurs before his eyes.

You kick and thrash, a horrible growl wretched from your throat. You don’t think, just lash out.

And then there is blood. So much blood. It’s all over Toga now, seeping into the water– did she cut him? She managed to cut his throat? Because that’s where the blood is pouring out of–

Tomura sways.

You’re dropped.

You stumble away.

Your blade– the one you used to threaten him with, is bloody.

“Fuck!” you shout, raw and so sudden that it jars him a little. He forces himself over to the scene. So much blood. His stomach rolls.

He looks at you, your shell-shocked face. You’re looking at the knife, at the blood. At Toga, who's still not moving.

He goes to her first, tries to shake her a little, fingers held away from her shoulders carefully. For a moment, she doesn’t respond, limp and lifeless and something inside of him threatens to overwhelm him. No, no–

Her eyes flutter, though, and she wheezes for a breath, suddenly turning over to vomit up far too much water.

“I-Is she-?” your voice, so small and lost, cuts through his thoughts.

He looks at you again, blood splattered and terror caught in your eyes. Pale and slack faced and half-mad. You look like a ghost, standing there in the aftermath, in your gruesomeness.

“She’s fine,” he says, just as she wretches up more water, “You saved her.”

Toga falls limp again. He checks frantically for a pulse at her wrist with two careful fingers. Still there. She needs a doctor, though. He stands to face you.

You make a noise, high pitched, trembling. You cover your mouth to keep it in, it’s something like a sob, an animalistic noise.

“I didn’t mean to– I didn’t, I didn’t– she was just–” you’re trying to get out, almost doubled over now.

Tomura doesn’t bother to check if you killed the villain. He knows the dead when he sees it. And he won’t lie to you now, he won’t soften this blow or shield you from it.

But he also knows what he needs to do.

You keel over, about to scream more and– no, that won’t do you any good.

He grabs for you, hauls you back up and you’re shaking so hard that he fears you’re going to split apart. You’re about to lose it.

“Listen to me,” Tomura hisses and you choke on a cry. He shakes you a little, tries to force you to look at him and not the body behind him. Your eyes, feverish pink, meet the wildfire of his, “Listen to me.”

“I– I don’t–”

“Sshh,” Tomura hisses, palm going to your cheek, a little too rough, forcing you to look at only him. “Sshh, listen.”

You try to swallow and he continues, “You’re going to call reinforcements. You’re going to tell them there’s a villain down.”

“W-what?! I’m going to– they’re going to–”

He shakes you again, harder, your teeth click together with the force of it. He needs you to understand this– needs you to hear this if he wants to keep you safe and out of jail.

“Tell them I decayed him. And before that, tell them Toga cut him, and it splattered onto you. Say you heard commotion and like the good hero you are, you ran to help.”

“Tomura–” you sob.

“Do you understand me?” he snaps instead, grabbing you harder, his fingers curling against your cheek to press desperately into you. “Answer me!”

“Yes–” you gasp, wide-eyed and terrified. “Yes!”

“Good,” he hushes, wiping blood from your cheek, “Good. You saved her,” he tells you, “You saved her, do you understand?”

You nod, jerky, and he continues, hand petting your cheek, messily pushing your hair from your face, “You did everything right.”

Your breathing is still labored, but you’re quieting with the praise. When he thinks you can handle it, he breathes, “Now, are you ready? I’m going to decay him and the knife, then I’m going to leave with Toga. You’re going to call for help.”

You glance at the villain, lying lifeless, in his own pool of blood and Tomura ducks his head to force you to look at him. “Okay?” he asks, “Answer me.”

“Okay,” you exhale slowly.

“Good,” he murmurs, “Good. Now give me the knife.”

You press it, trembling, into his hands. It’s slick with blood. He forces himself to stay calm for you.

He steps away, let’s go of you. The knife turns to dust.

“Look away,” he commands then, his voice a rasp.

And you– you listen to him. You trust him. You turn away. He sets his hands on the villain. And just like that, his body breaks down, gore at first, until it is nothing but dust. It blows away easily.

And then he goes to Toga and he lifts her carefully. She’s like a ragdoll in his arms, soaked and cold. He’s certain to keep his hands away from her, fingers lifted away, but she lolls into his chest.

When you turn around, Tomura says, “Thank you for saving her.” And he means it.

You swallow hard. You look to where the villain was. He’s gone now.

“Now call your heroes, just like I said.”

You nod, eyes filling up with tears. That’s fine. They’ll have more sympathy for you, for what you’ve witnessed. They’ll believe you more. Your mentor will protect you, with those tears in your eyes.

Tomura’s eyes burn crimson as you pull out your phone, “Do what I said and you’ll be okay.”

And you do, just like that. You lift the phone to your ear. That semblance of calm that he had coaxed you into shatters the moment someone picks up on the other end.

Your voice goes high, near hysterical, “T-There’s a villain down–”

He turns away from you as you stutter and cry into the phone about what happened. You give them the lie he told you to feed them. You make Tomura out to be the villain, you make yourself out to be innocent. He holds Toga close to him.

He tries not to smile, a dizzy slip of a thing, as you do exactly as he told you to– as you lie and lie and lie through your teeth.

Toga stirs in his arms. Police sirens are heard in the distance. An ambulance for a pile of dust. The sun sets, darkness blanketing the world, shielding it from the light.

And as he stalks away, with Toga alive and in his arms, he thinks maybe he’ll make a villain of you yet.

***

The police believe you. It’s hard not to, when there is so little evidence otherwise. Tomura destroyed it all for you. It’s hard not to believe you, when you’re crying and terrified, as you should be for witnessing the death of another person at the hands of Himiko Toga and Shigaraki Tomura.

Shouta, however, is not as easily convinced.

Not after so many strange occurrences with Tomura.

When he brings you back to his apartment, when the door is shut tight, and you still stand in bloodied clothes with your teeth chattering, Shouta eyes you warily.

You want to shower, burn yourself beneath the spray of water, like you could wash away what you’d done. You squeeze your eyes shut.

You saved her.

You swallow down the lump in your throat.

“What really happened?” Shouta asks, almost tentatively, standing in the middle of his living room.

You turn and you don’t– you don’t know how you should react. Should you be offended that he’d doubt you? React in outrage after all that’s happened? Should you act confused? Play dumb?

You can’t stomach any of it. Not when someone’s dead at your hands. But someone is alive because of them, too.

Your eyes well up with fresh tears.

“I-I told you.” you choke out.

Shouta’s jaw ticks. He draws in a slow breath, “Something isn’t adding up. You have had more contact with Shigaraki Tomura than anyone has been able to have.”

Your stomach drops. Your tears fall harder.

“What’s going on?” he asks and the distance between you two feels massive. It feels continental in the small space of his living room. He seems suspicious.

The lie comes out on a sob, “I–I think he’s been stalking me.”

“What?” Shouta asks and any uncertainty he has in you evaporates as he watches your face crumple.

You let your guilt overwhelm you into choking on another cry, cover your mouth as if you could catch it in the palm of your hand. Shouta doesn’t know the truth of it, so he believes it.

He crosses that distance like it’s nothing now. He stands tall in front of you, reaches to try and brush tears away from your cheek.

“I don’t know–” you gasp, filling out your lie, “I think he's interested in me because of my Quirk. Because he can’t– I can’t decay, when he touches me.”

Shouta tips your face up towards his but you can’t look him in the eyes, let your eyes squeeze shut when he asks, “Why wouldn’t you tell me that?”

“I don’t know–” you choke out, “I wasn’t sure.”

“Did something else happen?” Shouta prods gently and you grit your teeth to keep back another sob. More tears cut tracks down your face, right into Shouta’s waiting, gentle hands.

There is a long moment where you think of giving everything up. You think of telling Shouta everything, if only to lift the weight that has settled onto your chest. Surely, it will crush through your sternum, surely your heart will burst with it’s pressure.

“It’s my fault,” you whisper, “It’s my fault he’s dead.”

“No,” Shouta says then, gentle but firm, shaking his head, “I know it may feel like it–”

“He was going to kill her.”

This stops Shouta. He goes very, very still.

“What?” he rasps softly.

“He was drowning her– he wouldn’t stop. I tried to get him to stop and he started choking me–and she saved me by–” It’s a fabrication to save yourself. That’s not how it went! Your mind screeches, that’s not how it went– you saved her by killing–

Toga was turning blue, she didn’t help you. She didn’t save you. She was drowning. She didn’t kill him. You did.

“You saved Toga Himiko, a notorious villain, one of the most wanted–”

“He was killing her!” you hiss, “She was turning blue–”

“She’s a powerful villain, too, you should’ve tried–”

Something inside of you fractures, bursts apart the way glass does when thrown against a wall. You think there are a million, shining pieces of you now lying on the floor.

“She’s Shinsou’s age!” you snap, hoping one of your shards cuts him, suddenly half-furious through all your tears. “She’s Shinsou’s age, do you know that?!”

You break now, wrenching away from Shouta’s touch and rushing to double over the sink to dry heave again, body squeezing painfully. You threw up everything in your stomach already at the scene, when recounting the story to the police, to Shouta. You claw at your stomach, trying to stop it, to keep it all down inside of you. You curl your fingers into the divots of your ribs, try to force them to give you air, but they won’t– betrayers that they are, they squeeze and squeeze until there’s nothing of you left.

Your knees buckle, head spinning when you turn away from the sink and crumple into a heap on the floor,“She’s just a kid,” you wail desperately, “That’s all I saw when I tried– when I–”

Your head bows forward, body folded in on itself, forehead digging into the ground as you cry, “I didn’t mean for him to die, I didn’t mean it– I didn’t, I swear I didn’t mean for it to happen.”

Shouta moves again finally, drops to his knees down beside you. He cradles your skull in his large hand, pushes your head into the crook of his neck to hold you, “It’s alright,” he breathes, curling his other arm tight around you, “It’s not your fault,” he hushes, “It’s not your fault.” You sob hard into his chest, fingernails digging into him, clawing at his biceps, “Sshh, it’s okay. It’s okay.”

And he holds you, buries you in the bulk of him, like he always has when you need him. Your constant, the love you never once deserved. Especially not now. Especially not here, with blood stained on your clothes, sunk to the floor with nothing but the anchor of your guilt.

He strokes your hairline, gentle, cooing softly to try and calm you.

He murmurs, his voice so deep and soft and earnest, “You’re a good hero.” When you make a strangled noise against him, he presses on, “You are. You’re compassionate. You see everyone’s humanity and that’s a good thing.”

He hushes more of your cries, fingers gentle in your hair, and you try not to throw up again when he tells you;

“You’re a good hero, I promise. I promise.”

The beginning of the end starts with you being a hero for a villain.

***

The next time you see Tomura, he questions you about what happened, if you pulled it off. You tell him you managed it, somehow. You don’t tell him anything else. You don’t tell him you haven’t been sleeping, that you can hardly keep food down. You don’t tell him that you take too many showers, trying to wash away the phantom blood.

You remember when it was Tomura’s blood on you, so long ago. A beginning that now seems so hazy. You hadn’t minded blood, then. You had never been particularly squeamish but now–

Now it could make you sick on your best days, downright hysterical on your worst.

Your guilt tears chunks out of you, bites down and shakes the meaty, soft parts of you until you’re all torn up.

It is easier to be with Tomura than Shouta now.

We have more in common, you think, and it makes you want to laugh, empty and wobbly.

You look in mirrors and hardly recognize yourself, wonder if this is really your body. If this is really your life, or if it’s someone else’s. Maybe you are possessed, maybe that explains how you got here.

You don’t tell him any of this. You stay silent.

And that’s okay because Tomura seems strangely quiet after that, pulling you to lay on his chest. He doesn’t let you put the TV on. You can tell he needs to think. You let your eyes drift close as he runs his fingers through your hair with a surprising amount of gentleness, compared to his usual petting.

But eventually he says, so soft that you fear you almost imagined it, “A yakuza head visited the League recently.”

Your eyes flutter open and in your surprise, you sit up a little, looking down at him. “Tomura–” you start, almost a warning.

He knows he isn’t supposed to talk like this here, in this little slice of another world.

But he continues anyways, his voice just a rough scratch, “He killed Magne.” And then, “And Compress no longer has an arm.”

Now you really pull away to look at him. You can feel your eyes widen out, your shock, then the stomach-turning sadness. His face is unreadable, but his jaw is tight. His eyes are simmering, so red, even in the low light like this.

“It was a set up.” he hisses, “I failed them.”

He doesn’t cry, but you can feel the slightest tremble in his body.

You hurt for him, you realize, your heart falling into the pit of your stomach. Those are two of his closest, some of his inner circle.

He looks shaken.

He looks young, with the weight of his world on his shoulders, with the crown of thorns placed on his head. Heir to a monstrous throne. All For One’s successor, boy prince to inherit an underground empire.

You just see him, though, just Tomura who's twenty, who likes sour candy and video games.

He swallows hard. He looks angry and hurt.

“Nobody mourns us,” he says eventually, looking away from you, somewhere in the darkness of the apartment.

Except you, you want to say, with a name like Tomura.

You lurch forward, throwing your arms around his neck, hugging him tight to you. “I’m sorry,” you tell him, soft, the way Shouta speaks to you, “I’m sorry.”

And then you think, I’d mourn you, and you squeeze him tighter, I’d mourn you, oh God, I’d mourn you–

He doesn’t hug you back, but you can feel the shaky breath he exhales, and the way his fingers tighten in the fabric of your shirt.

***

Tomura thinks it should be you, at his side, when he takes Overhaul’s arm. You are everything Overhaul wants. Your Quirk is what he has tried to bottle.

Tomura thinks you could’ve been useful, to switch off his Quirk, to destroy it in an incredible twist of irony. It would’ve been the ultimate power move, to have you at his side by the end of all of this.

But you’re not there, no, not with him.

You’re with your heroes, Toga had told him.

It shouldn’t, but it feels like a betrayal. It stings hard and sharp inside of him, like a livid bee that jabs at his heart.

He seethes about it. Hadn’t he done everything right with you? He’d played this game slow, knew that the rewards would be worth it.

You’re still walking away from him, though. You’re still not his.

And you’ve still got one of his ribs, left a gaping wound inside of him.

He wants it back. He wants it back.

***

Eri looks up at you with watery, red eyes when you first introduce yourself to her. You crouch to be on her level. She has silver hair. She’s timid, wobbly bottom lip and flushed cheeks.

You almost start crying, looking at her now. You wonder if this is what Tomura was like as a child– small and terrified of his Quirk, round red eyes pleading with the world. All you see in her is every other forgotten child.

“Hi, Eri,” you hush, half for her, half because you’re scared your voice might break.

“H-hello,” she trembles.

You try to keep your smile in place, but it’s a weak, sad thing.

Still, you say, “I’d like to be your friend, if you’ll have me.” And you extend your hand to her, palm up and offering. “I have a Quirk like Mr. Aizawa’s.” you tell her gently, “If you touch me while using your Quirk, it’ll stop.”

She brightens at this, not smiling but, surprised, “Really?” she asks, just a breath.

You nod, swallowing around the lump in your throat, “Really.”

She takes your hand then, eager, tightening with her small fingers, despite her Quirk still being off.

Then she looks up into your face and offers you a tentative smile. Small, just the corner of her lips lifting up.

“I’d like to be your friend, too.” she murmurs bashfully and you close your hand around hers. It’s small, almost fragile. She’s all bandaged up, arms wrapped in gauze.

You look at Eri and her red eyes and silver hair and see a coin toss, see it up in the air, spinning and spinning, catching in the light. A twist of fate like the flip of a coin.

But you think you could call it now, with her hand in yours, and the heroes that hover protectively around her.

***

There is a morning shared in blush light that isn’t the ending but feels like it could be one. In truth, you’d prefer to remember this as the ending, more of a whimper and less of a bang. The night before had been one of your better ones, too– you’d only woken once with a nightmare. Tomura had already been awake and he’d soothed you with a careful hand that drew patterns across the bare skin of your back.

That night, that morning, was gentle in the wake of all that violence, love taken root, finally bursting through your veins to make a mess of your insides.

Dawn is too mellow a place for the two of you.

(You have come to the conclusion that Tomura looks best in dusk, saturated, sharp and rich in color. Bold and vivid. You didn’t know it, but he thought the same of you.)

You never told him you loved him.

You think about that a lot, wonder if it would’ve made a difference in anything. You wonder who was the last person to tell him that, if anyone at all.

He’s still half hoping that you’ll follow him, but you think he knows he’s losing you. You are not content in fuming misery, cannot stomach to leave the mentor that has loved and cared for you with such perseverance and softness. You cannot stomach to turn away from the boy with violet hair, or now the girl that reminds you of him.

You wish you could keep him, too, despite it all, but all you see in the future with him is rubble.

In the least, you’ve always had a sense of preservations, survivor that you are, scavenger that you are. You know when to move on, can’t linger too much longer now or you won’t live through it.

You sleep better with Tomura, though, and that’s the cruel part. You wake with less nightmares. You sleep more soundly, wound up in him, so tight that you two might just grow together. Palm to palm, your Quirk quieting his, lulled and softened.

And that morning, you wake slowly, twisting around fitfully with the warmth that has blossomed gently inside of you.

Consciousness creeps to you, fighting against the pull of sleep, being coaxed awake by the fluttering of your heart, the slow roll in your core.

Your eyes lift, heavy with sleep, finally awake. You blink blearily before a sudden, sleep soft cry escapes past your lips.

You glance down the line of your body to find Tomura nestled between your legs, tongue tracing messy patterns into where you’re most sensitive. Your stomach swoops sweetly, flares into a spark of heat.

The light is soft on him. He cracks a ruby eye open to gaze at you, to open his mouth so you can watch the flash of glistening pink as his tongue laves against you slowly.

“About time you woke up,” he gets out, voice still morning-rough, a little grating. His fingers squeeze your thigh, pulling you apart further to be at his mercy, spread open all for him.

“Tomura–” you gasp, your hands finding their way into his hair, fingers gentle and weak with sleep.

He sets his mouth to you, sucks on the bundle of nerves in a way that makes you keen, almost arching away from him. He fixes his eyes on your face, watches as your expression twists up.

You can see the way his hips are twitching into the mattress. Sometimes you think he does this more for himself than you, takes pleasure in rendering you down to your most basic, most desperate.

Pleasure coils warm, simmers on the inside of you. Your fingers flex, tighten in his hair until he groans against you. When he pulls away for another moment to admire you, his lips are spit slick, a string of translucent spit and slick bridging between the two of you.

It makes you flush darkly, makes you throw your head back and whimper.

He takes you apart with the savagery and viciousness that he has always carried. Dawn spills over the bed sheets in rays of peach and honeysuckle, lovely for the impending destruction. You shatter like glass, pretty and ringing beneath his hands.

And then he’s flipping you onto your stomach, letting you claw at your pillow as he sinks deep inside of you. He hisses when he fucks into the crux of your sweet, supple thighs. Your hair is messy with sleep. He presses his chest to your back, presses you into the mattress.

You fist at your pillow, whining at the burn and stretch, and you can feel the sickle cut of his smile against the arch of your shoulder blades. He leaves sloppy kisses, scattering them, sucking at your skin until he has claimed and marked and branded you.

He nudges his nose against your cheek until you tilt your head back to his, to rub back affectionately, nudge into him like a cat. He hums in satisfaction, in pleasure, the sound of it rumbling against your back.

You feel like he’s trying to savor this. He doesn’t pull your hair, or speed up his hips. No, he waits until you arch your back for him, until you’re near begging.

He likes you weakened, maybe delirious, maybe like he’s giving you a dose of your own medicine. He’s trying to make you as addicted as he is, but there’s no need.

No need when he covers your hand with his, slots his fingers between yours. All five of them, squeezing at your hand.

“You were made for me,” he gets out, giving you a rougher thrust, his eyes flashing to your hands, “See?” he groans, fingers digging into your wrist, your knuckles, “Made for me.”

You moan, too, all wobbly and pitched, with all the pressure, with the squeeze of his hand. With the stretch of him inside where you’re vulnerable and soft and slick.

He drags everything out that morning, fucks you both into oversensitivity, until you’re both shuddering and gasping. He breaks you down, until there are tears streaming down your face, until he’s gripping you so tightly that he’ll leave a bruise in the shape of his hand.

He fits his hand against your throat at one point and your eyes roll into the back of your head. You end where you began, with the violet petal bruise of his fingertips into your skin.

You linger in bed with him that morning, letting him pet and stroke and touch you. You stay gentle, even when he gets rough.

You make cheap, bad coffee for the both of you.

You feel twenty something with a boy and his tiny apartment. A cat chirps at the window and you’re smiling when you let him in. The breeze is cool. You don’t put on clothes because you feel like an adult, with a lover.

You feel normal for a fraction of a moment after everything that’s happened.

You feel sated and tender and saddened. Your chest fills with aching as you watch Tomura drift in and out of sleep in the sunbeams.

You were made for me, he’d said and you reach out to brush a strand of hair from his face. You were made for me.

You swallow around the lump in your throat, the one that feels like needle pricks and the hard truth. You don’t have the heart to tell him that he may need you, but you don’t need him.

You want him, though, your fingers trailing down the lines of his face, you want him so badly that it hurts. Your fingers travel over the hitch of his scars, his body as familiar as a home.

You want him, but you don’t need him, you try to tell yourself in this moment. You want him, but you don’t need him. You will survive this.

Still, it’s going to hurt. You’re bracing for impact, can feel the free fall rush up to the ground, can feel your stomach swimming up where your heart is.

You’ll survive it, you think, breathing hard, trying to keep back your tears as you look at him. But it’s going to hurt, it might tear out something very precious inside of you.

You’d rather he just break your arm again. At the thought of it, you try not to choke on the bitter, furious laugh that splits from your aching ribs.

***

You get to know Eri, try to spend more time with her and Shouta and Shinsou like you’re trying to fix something you broke. The pieces aren’t quite matching up right, though. It can’t be fixed, not really, not fully.

You can’t close your eyes without seeing that villain in a pool of their own blood. Or Toga’s face made blue. Sometimes in these dreams, it’s Shinsou who is drowning. Sometimes the villain in blood is Shouta. Tomura is always the one who saves you.

You can’t look at yourself anymore. You can’t stomach to. Your lies explode out of you when you catch a glance of yourself, haggard and exhausted and beaten down.

Shouta takes you to a hospital after your fist collides with the mirror in your bathroom. Glass shatters into hundreds of reflections of your warped and terrible image. They’re not as pretty, when the sun isn’t setting in a warehouse with a boy that you think you love.

Your hand bleeds the way that man’s necks did–

Your world spins as you lean over the bowl of the toilet to throw up your lunch. You’d made it with Eri earlier, before Shouta had gotten home from class.

Shouta finds you on the floor, sitting in all that glass, with your hand clutched tightly to your chest. He must’ve heard the commotion next door.

“What happened?” he asks, voice flooding with concern. He doesn’t hesitate to step carefully over the glass to you.

The question feels too large for you.

I did something horrible, you think, that’s what happened.

“I’m sorry,” you mutter weakly, lifting your chin from its place on your chest. “I didn’t mean to.”

(That isn’t true and you know it.

(But you’re always trying to prove you’re good. Especially now. Especially to Shouta– trying to prove you’re worthy of his love.

You suddenly crave Tomura. You didn’t have to prove anything to him.)

Shouta lifts you carefully, cradles you to his body to carry you out to his car to bring you to the hospital. He treats you like you’re fragile, made of glass yourself. “What’s going on with you?” Shouta murmurs gently, but there's almost a plea in it, concern that is so transparent it hurts, “You’re scaring me– I’m worried about you.” he confesses, almost desperate, “You know you can talk to me, don’t you?”

The laugh that sputters out of you is hollow, a grating noise that gets choked off. Shouta looks at you warily, uncertain and fearful.

The hospital keeps you for three days. Eri asks Shouta about you, apparently. She misses you. Shinsou helps her decorate a card for you.

Get well soon! Is written in her poor handwriting with far too many colors, and in Shinsou’s messy scrawl at the bottom;

Miss getting my ass kicked by you.

The doctors tell Shouta you’re struggling with a lot of survivor’s guilt and you have to fight back another absurd, off-kilter laugh.

Part of you thinks you’d be better off with Tomura at this point (your coin uncertain, hanging suspended in the air), if only to relieve you of this guilt, when Shouta tends to you and cares for you and loves you so steadfastly that it makes you feel rotten and horrible and monstrous. He has no idea who he’s loving. And you don’t deserve any of it–

But you think of Eri and the way she clings to your sleeves. And how you and Shinsou share granola bars during training.

And mostly, you are terrified to be without them.

None of it’s the same, though, and you think it’ll eat away at you until you’re nothing at all but the empty lies you kept feeding them.

You want to be better, you realize, when Eri draws you in pictures, holding her hand. You want to be better, you realize, for kids like you, like her–

(Like Tomura–)

So you decide one night, with your hand still bandaged, with Eri sleeping peacefully on the couch in the crux of your arms, and Shouta at the opposite end of the couch, that you will stay with them. The easy thing to do would be to leave, to not look back. But you have always been nothing if not determined, if not a fighter.

You will become who they want you to be, who they believe you to be, even if it tears you apart from the inside out.

Which means giving up Tomura, which feels like giving up a rib.

***

You had hoped you’d be able to slip away from Tomura and leave your secrets in a rundown apartment in a part of the city you grew up in. You had hoped that you could get away unscathed, without Shouta ever knowing more.

But Dabi mentions you to Hawks.

Offhand. Something about another traitor hero. Something about Shigaraki’s bitch.

Tomura also mentions Hawks to you.

And here is your trouble, what you were hoping to avoid by never allowing him to speak about his plans; you now know that the Number Two Pro-Hero is a traitor. However, the only reason you know that, is because of your secret relationship with the leader of the League of Villains that you have been slowly, painstakingly trying to sever yourself from.

(It doesn’t help that he’s latched on tighter–)

So, if you go to Shouta to warn him that the Number Two Pro-Hero is a traitor, you have to also conveniently come forward with your own truth. And what if he thinks you’re a traitor, too?

Surely, it looks that way.

Truthfully, you might as well be– you killed someone.

You killed someone.

Your stomach squeezes tight.

You think of Shouta and Shinsou and Eri and the loss of their love, when you’ve been trying to earn it back.

You don’t get much time to mull this over, though, because while walking back to your own apartment at U.A., a shadowy span of wings fall over your form.

Your heart falls into the pits of you, the drop of it sharp, horrible.

You think running will make it look all the worse.

Besides, he’s fast.

You can’t decide how this will go. Maybe he’ll only want to speak with you, traitor to traitor. But then you will be confronted with the undeniable truth that you now need to share with Shouta, with the Hero Commission, for the sake of people’s safety. You will have to come clean. Maybe it will be worse. Maybe he’s not after you at all, but just in your neck of the woods because–

All other thoughts are cut short when he lands in front of you.

You try to think of a proper reaction. Should you be expecting him? On guard? Should you act surprised?

His wings flare and you realize quickly how massive they are. They throw you into their towering shadow, make you feel like a mouse.

His eyes glint when he pushes up his visor, the gold of them sharp, his pupils a pinprick. The eyes of a predator.

You try not to cower. You stand your ground, lift your lips a little like you might bare teeth in warning, your hackles raising. Backed into the corner, you feel half wild, too.

But Hawks beats you to any form of a greeting, his smile a menacing twist of his lips, like he’s trying to be pleasant but he wants you to see all of those sharp, white teeth of his. You think he doesn’t look like much of a hero in this darkness, with the way his wings look thorny and maroon. His voice is barbed wire, the drawl of it stinging.

You know you’re in deep trouble now;

“You and I need to have a little talk.”

***

You are kept in a steel room that the Hero Commission tells you is not a holding cell, but you definitely think is a holding cell.

Your mind has not slowed since you got here.

You scramble for a story to tell– for lies to sew.

Hawks is not a traitor. Not to the heroes’ at least. He is a traitor to the villains and you know, logically, that this is for the greater good, but something about it bothers you. Villains aren’t people to the Hero Commission. You feel strangely protective of Tomura’s league of outcasts, even if you know you shouldn’t.

But they’re young, with feelings and thoughts and lives and pasts.

Nobody ever mourns us.

No, they don’t, you think, trying to keep away bitter tears from springing to your eyes. They don’t bother trying to see the big picture, they don’t bother to try and figure out why villains are on the rise.

They can’t stomach the idea that maybe their precious hero system has given birth to their villains.

Or maybe they can and they just don’t care.

They need heroes for their charts and money and power, don’t they? So they need villains. A never ending cycle, forever going around on this carousel. You’re dizzy with it, you’re sick of it, caught up in it’s riptide.

You don’t look at Tomura Shigaraki and see the most dangerous, wanted criminal in the country. You see a twenty-year-old pawn, a chip in a bigger game. You see someone as starving and desperate as you were.

You see a coin flip.

(You see the person you fell in love with–)

Shouta enters silently and the moment you see him, you have to try to keep from bursting into tears. Your lip wobbles.

He approaches slowly, cooly, but when he gets near you, his eyes are livid and searching your face, like maybe he could finally find the lies you’d kept buried so deep inside of you. They’ve finally blossomed, you think, all of them sprouting from your body, creeping through your lungs and up your throat to choke you out.

“Tell me the truth finally.” Shouta says, sharp and icy. He speaks like he’s speaking to a criminal, “Now.”

You suck in a shaky breath, try not to flinch when he leans across the metal table and snarls, “And if you are a traitor, at least have the decency to tell me now, before they come in here and interrogate both of us.”

Tears catch in your lashes.

Through the throbbing of your head, you realize you have jeopardized Shouta in the way you never wanted.

“I’m not a traitor.” you get out, voice quiet but firm, barely above a whisper.

“No?” Shouta clips and you can see it now, the hurt in his eyes. He feels betrayed, deeply so, and you can’t even blame him. “Hawks says differently. Says you’ve been working with Shigaraki.”

You rub furiously at your cheek to try and keep the tears from falling, shaking your head quickly, “No–”

“Then what happened?” he snaps and through the blur of your own tears, you catch the way his own eyes glisten.

“I didn’t tell you everything, when I said I thought Shigaraki was stalking me.” you say, having readied this lie the moment that Hawks brought you to the Hero Commission’s doors. You give them the story they want to hear of you, not the one where you fell in love, but the one where you jeopardize yourself for them. You are careful to peer up at him through damp lashes, “I–I got close to him, because he let me, because he was interested in me.”

Shouta goes very, very still. All you can see is his chest rising and falling, quick, as he slowly begins to walk the path you’re leading him down.

“And I thought he might tell me his plans, I thought that I could help–”

“No,” Shouta says in disbelief as it all begins to connect, leaning away from you in shock, “Please tell me you didn’t–”

You lurch towards him slightly, naturally, your hands coming up to the table like you’re reaching for him. “I wanted to prove I could do this–” you choke out, voice breaking, “I wanted to prove I could do undercover work like you wanted– like they wanted!”

“What were you thinking?” he hisses in return.

“You never would’ve let me do this!” you snap, almost plead with him, and it must strike true because he looks away from you momentarily, “I-I saw an opening so I tried to take it– I was perfect for it. Shigaraki was interested in me. I used to be a thief. I would’ve fit in.”

The moment you say it, you realize how true it rings. It startles you, maybe, with how close you were. Almost, but didn’t, your coin doing an extra rotation in air. And why didn’t you? Why not be with Tomura now? Why not be where you fit in most? Where hero society wanted and expected you to be?

“I’m not a traitor,” you cry, tears tracking down your cheeks freely now– you think you’re trying to convince yourself as much as Shouta now, “I promise I’m not a traitor– I couldn’t do that to you. O-or Shinsou. Or Eri–”

And there is your reason. The truth to disguise your lies. You look at him, across from you, his face almost unreadable, with his furrowed brows and tense jaw. His eyes shine, though, gleam with unshed tears as he listens to you. The man who gave you everything, who has cared for you since the moment he found you– perhaps the sole reason your coin has flipped in their favor. All because he did more than what was asked of him, because maybe he just saw someone starving, too, like the way you did with Tomura.

Believe me, you plead, believe this.

There is a long stretch of silence after that, where all you can get in is hiccuping breaths.

Finally, Shouta asks, “Did you find anything out about him? Or the League of Villains?”

You exhale hard with relief, your shoulders finally falling. You collapse somewhat, exhausted, folding in on yourself.

You hang your head, then shake it slowly, “No,” you sniffle, wipe at your drippy nose, “He didn’t tell me anything. He didn’t trust me.”

Shouta eyes you warily.

“So that’s why you encountered him so much. That’s why you were there with Toga Himiko when–” Shouta cuts himself off when he sees your wince, the shuddering of your features at the mention of that incident. But he finally put all of the pieces together. All the pieces you’ve given him, at least.

You nod, stray tears falling quick, dripping off your chin, “I’m sorry for lying,” you get out, “I hated it— I hated lying to you.”

Truth.

Shouta throws you a hard look, “You shouldn’t have. It was dangerous and irresponsible. And now look at what you’ve done–”

Your stomach knots up tightly.

“I thought I could handle it.” You breathe and there is another truth, sprinkled throughout your lies.

But you were so horribly wrong–

Shouta is about to open his mouth again, but the door swings open and a man in a suit enters slowly. His gaze is cool as it falls on you and Shouta. You know this isn’t the end of your conversation with him, you know he wants to know more. But now, he focuses on the higher up that encourages him to sit, too.

He says, because Shouta has been such an upstanding hero and teacher, they are allowing him the courtesy of explaining everything now.

And then you watch as Shouta opens his mouth and lies and lies and lies for you.

He tells them that it was his idea to allow you to get close to Shigaraki. He knew, every step of the way. He tells them he bypassed speaking with a committee at the Hero Commission’s because it would’ve taken too much time. He says that they needed to act quickly and accordingly.

He takes the brunt of it, saves you from far more trouble. He’s a trusted hero. You’re an ex-thief in the eyes of the Hero Commission with a too-big Quirk. They won’t believe you and truthfully, if they did more digging, if they pried more, there is a chance that the truth might leak out of you, open like a wound.

Shouta protects you, the way he always has. You don’t deserve it and you can feel your heart tearing itself to shreds.

You know you can’t go back to Tomura, not after all this.

You watch Shouta lie for you, speak for you, get you out of the grave you have dug yourself. For the second time in your life, Shouta saves you. You try to hold back more tears, you try to hold back from throwing yourself onto him, clinging to him.

And finally, they ask, “Did you learn anything, then? About Shigaraki Tomura?”

He likes sour candy. He has trouble sleeping. He drinks too many energy drinks. There is a scar at the corner of his lip. He has a beauty mark on his chin. He is desperate and starved of love. He let’s a kitten sleep in the sunlight of his apartment. He tries to take care of the League to the best of his ability– he cares about them more than he will admit. He is not heartless. His hands are often cold but seeking, longing for what he can’t have.

Your eyes well up with tears but you take a slow, steadying breath. They don’t want those pieces of him, the human, messy ones. No, they want to know how evil he is, how diabolical his next plan is going to be. But you don’t know any of that, just that he holds you as if he never wants to let you go when you fall asleep at night.

So you’re not lying when you say;

“I don’t know anything about Shigaraki Tomura.”

Only that he wanted to be a hero– when he was a kid.

***

The days following are the worst between you and Shouta.

He doesn’t trust you anymore. You can’t fight him. You have nothing to say, which is perhaps worse than if you tried to fight with him.

There’s no defending you, especially if Shouta even knew half of the truth. He barely speaks with you some days.

He wedges the distance between you two wide, forces it apart further.

He does not comfort you, he does not hold you when you cry this time. He’s not there with soothing, hushed words or the gentle touch of his hand to your cheek.

A piece of his trust is broken, now so severely that it’s just a jagged edge, something you don’t think can ever be soothed.

(And you’re right, in some way– there’s a deep shift in your relationship with him, changed and scarred. It never returns to what you once had, when your life was very simple and all you knew was him.)

He doesn’t ever say, I forgive you. I will trust you again, in time.

But he eventually will make dinner for you again and you will sit beside him, shoulder to shoulder at his table with a respectable, lonesome distance between his heart and yours.

Nothing is ever the same again.

You think about running– from Shouta, from Tomura, from all of it. It would be the easiest option, where you never have to look either in the face again.

But the Hero Commission looks at Eri the same way they looked at you when they discovered you could destroy Quirks and you can’t stomach the idea of leaving her to them.

(Tomura was right in a lot of ways.

And when there’s a war on the horizon and the Hero Commission seeks to use you as a weapon, you will think of him again.

I’ll teach you, if that’s what you want, he’d said to you once. And he did.

You hate the system, the endless cycle, Prometheus chained to his rock, the need of villains to have heroes, the creation of heroes to make villains. The endless bodies, the using and discarding of real, human lives for a greater good. You wish you could destroy it.

But there is more than only destruction, too. What good is rubble and ruin and death?)

You stay so you can do what you can, so you can protect a child with red eyes, with silver hair, and a Quirk too big for their own body.

And you think maybe if you stay with her, it makes up for leaving Tomura.

***

You go to Tomura one last time, walk the distance to his apartment with your hands shoved into your pockets. It’s a familiar walk now. The pavement is wet from rain. It’s cold out. You don’t know what you’re going to tell him. You wonder how he’ll react– for a moment, you’re fearful. Will he lash out? For a moment you wonder if he’ll try to kill you.

But you know, deep down, he wouldn’t. Won’t.

And you won’t pretend you’re scared of him now. You won’t play the innocent hero, not in front of him.

The moment Tomura sees you, he knows something has changed. You are too expressive and now you look at him with a sense of foreboding. With a sadness that he feels uncomfortable gazing at.

You tell him, “I got in trouble with the Hero Commission.”

For a moment, he lets his hope grow and stretch inside of him. Maybe this is finally your turning point, your fall from grace that he will catch you on. But no, your lip wobbles and your eyes dart away.

“I can’t see you anymore,” you whisper.

At first, he wants to snap at you, hiss out something cruel between his bared teeth. Maybe if you had done this a few years ago, a few months ago, he would lash out, try to tear into his neck or you or the world. He thinks about hurting you, slamming you against a wall or–

The thought is unfortunately repulsive to him. He doesn’t want to hurt you, not like that.

His anger and resentment wells inside of him, swarms his chest viciously. He wants to argue, to point out every way your heroes have failed you. The world feels so absurdly unfair suddenly, to give him you– you who quiets his Quirk and touches him gently and winds your arms around him in the way he likes so much– only to then take you away, too. You who destroys with a touch, too. Who is perfect at his side.

But for all his work and care and strategy, he can’t get you to stay.

You will run back to your heroes.

You don’t need him, he realizes now. But you have his rib, tucked away inside of you. He wants to dig into you, pry it out, rip it from your body and take it back for himself.

But you’re crying.

And you’re pretty in the dark, like you’ve always been. This time, though, you’re not looking for a fight, there is no viciousness in you now. Maybe you’re too tired to fight.

So instead of erupting, instead of lashing out, Tomura steels himself. He’ll play the longer game, then. You don’t want to go, but you will. You’ll go back to your heroes and they will disappoint you. As they always do, at some point, eventually.

You will come back to him again, he tells himself.

And he will be forgiving, the way All For One has been with him. He sees it now; you, needing his hand, needing him to take you back. He will welcome you back into his arms, as if you hadn’t even left, and you will know then that you were right to leave.

He gazes at you, red eyes smoldering, “Then don’t.” he rasps and he’s trying to remain dispassionate, but his voice has a trembling note in it, the hidden fear underneath the harsh coolness.

Your eyes flicker back to him, your lips parting in surprise. You wipe at your eyes.

“So that’s it?”

And this makes him angry, the sharp tug of it like a dog at the end of it’s leash. He lurches forward threateningly, like he might hurt you.

(You don’t flinch. And he stops himself before he gets too close.)

“What?” he snaps, “Did you want me to beg for you to stay?”

He wants to, he realizes, he wants to howl and scream and tear apart everything in sight. He wants to say don’t go, don’t go, don’t slip from me, too.

He wants to bargain with you– what is it he can’t give you that they can?

Your heroes only love you because they don’t know you, they don’t know what you’ve done. Your heroes only love you as far as truth and justice go. A hero would sacrifice you for the greater good and you would agree with them, even if you were shaking and crying, even if you burned with all that liveliness.

But he’d sooner sacrifice the world for you.

You have his rib, he wants to scream, of course he wants to beg.

You shake your head, though, more tears falling free, “No,” you say, voice surprisingly strong, “No, I never made you beg.”

The truth of it burrows beneath his skin. He knows. The itch squirms beneath his skin. His hand reaches up, digs into the crook of his neck to scratch at it.

It’s Dabi’s voice in his head that says something about getting too distracted with this braindead hero. He has bigger plans than hiding in an abandoned apartment with you. More to do. You were nothing but a side quest.

His pause screen.

Besides, what’s there to be upset about? You’ll come back.

He won’t even punish you for leaving, he promises. He promises.

“Then that’s it.” Tomura tells you, a bitter curl to his lips.

There’s no goodbye, just the breeze between the two of you, the empty space that he always hated. The nothingness between that he always sought to destroy.

Eventually, he just turns away from you. He can’t stomach looking at you any longer. He can feel your eyes pressing into his retreating form– he imagines you rushing for him, crashing into his back to throw your arms around his middle. You can’t do it, you’ll cry, burying your face between his shoulder blades. And he’ll freeze, but eventually he’ll wrap his arms around yours and bow his head with the strength of your feelings for him.

Or he imagines later, when it’s the end of the world, and you emerge from the rubble to reach for him. It’ll be like his dreams, when the sky is falling, and you only want to hold his hand in yours.

He imagines you shouting to him, changing your mind, saying his name like it’s a song to sing, not mourning bells, not a curse or an affliction.

But none of it happens.

And when he turns around, you are gone.

You leave his life as viciously as you entered it, suddenly there, all furious and beautiful, and now gone, like a lightning strike, like a lifetime.

***

You tell yourself you’re going to be fine, but you spend random days weeping over a villain. You spend long nights awake, missing him, replaying it all in your mind. You cover all your mirrors. You try to be different. You wish you could say you regret ever getting involved with him, but it would be one more lie. You wish for the time before the worst of it, the strange honeymoon you never should’ve had.

You wish you’d remembered to slow down, to savor it all a little more. You try to remember what your first kiss was like and the shade of his eyes through the evening light of an abandoned warehouse.

You try to remember when you didn’t feel so heavy, so corrosive and lost.

It doesn’t help that you’re suspended from heroing; a choice made by both the Hero Commission and Shouta. There’s nothing for you to do some evenings.

Shouta lets you train with him and Shinsou still. Shinsou tries to cheer you up, though he doesn’t know what’s wrong with you. Still, it hurts because he’s trying. It hurts because he cares so much, even about you.

You don’t deserve it, after everything.

You take care of Eri more, too, now that she is nearly in Shouta’s care. You babysit her while he’s away. You grow close with her, fiercely protective of the young girl, careful to keep the Hero Commission at a distance from her. She settles in your lap on the couch in Shouta’s apartment most evenings, watching TV and movies, while he grades papers at the opposite end.

Sometimes she falls asleep tucked into your side. You stroke her silver hair and try to bite back tears.

She catches you, sometimes, perceptive as she is, and asks very gently, “Why are you sad?” even if a tear hasn’t slipped free yet.

And you always shake your head, trying to dispel the thought of Tomura and the parents that gave him such a tragic name as a child. You force a smile for her and you tell her something silly to distract her, “I’m not,” you promise, “I just think there’s an onion nearby.”

She wrinkles her nose at this, “No, there isn’t!” but she’s easily distracted with tickles or the promise of painting her nails or having a tea party with Shouta.

Miraculously, your relationship with Shouta begins to heal, despite your betrayal. You think he can tell something worse happened to you during your time with Tomura, you think he can tell that you’re hurting, so he ends up gentler with you. He doesn’t trust you, though, keeps you on a tight leash. He looks at you some days like he isn’t quite sure he knows you.

Nothing is the same. Part of you wants to regret it. The part of you that loves Tomura can’t stomach the idea of regretting it. Someone is dead because of you. Someone is alive because of you, too.

But Shouta doesn’t ask and you don’t tell, can’t seem to speak the words.

You can’t even say, I fell in love, can’t speak the truth because it is so horrible.

And you know what everyone would ask; who could love the likes of him?

Me, you think, vehement and grief-stricken, me, you think defiantly. Why couldn’t you? He was a child once–

Shouta lets you burrow into his chest, wraps his arms around you. He sways with you in the kitchen until you can keep back your tears, until your heart has slowed to the tempo of his. He kisses the top of your head.

And it’s Shouta who is with you, when you return from training, and open the door to your apartment to reveal a scruffy, mangy looking grey kitten that wasn’t there when you left.

Ryuji chirps happily at you, rushing to the open door.

For a moment, you’re so shocked that all you can do is stand, startled, as he rubs himself against your legs.

“Don’t tell me you found another stray–” Shouta starts, but all you get out is a small, choked noise.

And here is the impact from the fall, you think, looking at that little cat that is excitedly winding itself around your legs. You can feel the shattering of your heart, like he’d lobbed it against the wall. You wonder if it catches light the same way glass does, all stained with color and broken into shards.

You drop to the floor with the weight of it all, with the clean splitting of your heart.

The moment Ryuji climbs into your lap, a sob finally ruptures out of you.

Shouta is fast, coming down beside you, you think he’s asking what’s wrong, why you’re crying, but you’ve already gathered the kitten into your arms, cradling him to your chest as the tears come quick and furious down your cheeks.

You think maybe you should be more concerned as to how he got Ryuji here, in U.A. dorms, you should be worried about security and safety but all you’re thinking about is that little apartment that you hid from the world with him in.

No, all you’re thinking about is the way light fell through the lone window to turn him hazy and soft in your memory. You’re thinking about how he never denied you affection, so long as you gave it tenfold in turn. The drawl of his voice. The pressing of his fingers into your skin like you were a miracle.

To him, you were.

Another sob spills out of you, from somewhere deep inside you.

What a lonely life, to only be able to touch one person in certainty. You wonder who will be the next person that will lay their hands gently on a body that has known too much pain. You wonder if you will be the last person to do it.

The thought hurts, opens up a part of you that is tender and shaking and desperately furious.

When Shouta can’t figure out what’s wrong with you or why you’re crying, he gives up, and sits on the floor with you. He gathers you into his lap so your back is pressed to his chest, pushing your head beneath his chin, Ryuji still cradled in your arms.

You cry harder when Shouta tries to comfort you, when he hushes softly, so sweetly, only because you don’t think there’s anyone to comfort Tomura like this.

You think of Tomura alone, even without Ryuji and it just–

Crushes you.

You squeeze the kitten tighter to your chest as you cry and cry and cry. You let Shouta hold you against him, but there’s no comfort in the aching hollowness that is growing in the pit of your chest.

You want to scream at the world that tossed the coin.

But all that comes out is a garbled, misery struck, cry.

You never told him you loved him, never gave word to what consumed you. And you realize, sitting on the floor with a kitten in your arms, that you won’t ever be able to tell him now.

It will live and die inside of you, never spoken into existence.

And even though it’s too late and Tomura Shigaraki is readying for a battle with a giant without you at his side, you still whisper the words you never got to speak into the top of Ryuji’s head.

Your lips barely move with it, the quietest, most desperate, “I love you– I loved you.” that escapes you with a trembling breath.

Shouta doesn’t even hear the confession.

Ryuji nudges your cheek with his, though, purring softly, keeping your secret safe.

And in the least, you are able to twist into Shouta’s arms and bury your face in his chest to cry as hard as you need. There’s no distance between the two of you now, like you always wanted.

Always here when you need him, even now, when it’s not him you want.

The irony isn’t lost on you.

You mumble incoherent apologies into his shoulder, try to hide in him, like he might be able to shield you from all the hurt and ache of your first love. He doesn’t ask, but he tells you very gently, his voice like the hearth of your home, “If you ever want to talk, I’ll always be there for you.”

You keep Ryuji, clean him up, fit him with a new collar, a new life. Shouta helps you care for him.

Eri adores the kitten, hugging him to her smiling face every time she sees him. Thankfully Ryuji is even-tempered, eager for affection. Almost desperate for it.

Ryuji is like proof of another world, proof that it all happened.

Sometimes you rub between his ears and ask, “Do you miss it, too?” but all he does is peer at you inquisitively, eyes large and fixed on you.

You sleep with him, though, let the kitten curl up in your lonesome arms, hold tight to him the way you used to hold tight to Tomura.

***

In the middle of the night, your phone wakes you with its insistent chime and buzzing. You blink awake sleepily, slowly and blindly paw for your phone.

You turn the screen towards you and squint at the bright light, making out the word that flashes on it;

Unknown Caller.

You grimace, rubbing at your eyes. You debate putting your phone down, letting it ring and go to voicemail. Why should you answer for an unknown caller in the middle of the night?

And yet, something in you squirms, urges you to pick up. You have no idea who it might be— maybe someone needs your help. Is it possible it’s Shouta? Shinsou? What if it’s—

You answer finally, groggy voice slurring out, “Hello?”

You’re met with static.

“Hello?” you say again, voice hushed with sleep.

Still nothing.

Tomura sits on the other side, with the phone pressed desperately to his ear. He holds everything inside of him, barely allows himself to breathe on the other end.

He doesn’t know why he’s done this, only that he is on his way to proving himself with the League and he wishes you were still at his side.

He swallows, hears you call again, “Hello? Anyone there?”

He tightens his four-finger grip on the phone, squeezing his eyes shut at the sound of your voice, sleepy and soft in his ear, wrapping around the jagged parts of his heart.

He exhales and you must hear it because you say, “Is someone there?”

He bites back an answer, feels his lip tremble slightly.

He hears you huff, indignant little thing that you are and his lips pull into a shaky, painful smile. “I’m going to hang up now,” you say, all prickly, the way you’d get if he woke you too soon.

He used to soothe you with lips and teeth and tongue, run diligent fingers over you until you were sighing and arching into his touch. Until all your hard, vicious edges softened with the flattening of his palm on your body.

And for some reason you try, one last time into coaxing him to answer, “C’mon,” you say, almost like you know, “Nothing?”

Nothing, he wants to echo, but doesn’t.

His heart pounds an uneasy rhythm, a haunted tempo. He feels himself shaking again.

“Okay,” you exhale, slow, like you’re giving him a chance to stop you, “Goodbye.”

A beat passes, before he feels his heart lurch painfully in the hollow place of his chest at the thought of not hearing your voice again like this, so near. He doesn’t want you to go, wants to listen to you until it coaxes him to sleep.

“Wait– don’t hang up–“ Tomura hisses into the phone at the last moment, unable to decide if he wants you to hear him or not.

He gets his answer in the buzzing silence, long and drawn out, that fills his head. His heart.

And he sits there with his phone still in hand and his heart still on the line.

***

Tomura shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be watching you from afar, in the park that he thought you’d looked like a painting in. You’re beautiful.

But what does someone like him know about beauty, anyways?

The fireburst leaves are nearly gone, barely clinging to lone and stark branches. They claw up into the sky now, but the sun is shining. It’s mid-morning. You’re in the park with your mentor, with the violet haired boy he’d seen you with before, and the little girl with silver hair. The one that was in Overhaul’s care, with the devastating Quirk.

She tugs excitedly at your sleeve now and you give her your undivided attention, your face lighting up with whatever it is she tells you.

You scoop her into your arms and her echoing giggle is like wind chimes, melodic and childish and care-free.

You look happy, he thinks, with your mentor’s hand on the small of your back, looking down at you and the girl fondly. The violet-haired boy says something that makes the girl laugh, it makes you smile as you watch her.

You look back at your mentor with a look that Tomura has come to know; one that begs of attention and approval and affection. He can see the desperate glint to your eyes, hungry for his love.

He swallows around the sharp bitterness he feels. Jealousy floods him in a way he has never fully known. But it’s more than just jealousy for you and your attention, for the way you’re looking at your mentor.

No, it’s something greater, far worse.

He’s jealous of your mentor, with the easy way he gets to touch and look at you out in public. But he’s also jealous of you and your life.

He doesn’t realize it at first, but he’s begun to shake.

Because you were saved– isn’t that it? You were saved. And he wasn’t.

Maybe he’s jealous of the boy with you, too, with the possibility of his life so much brighter already. He has more of a chance than Tomura ever had.

Or maybe it’s the girl in your arms, with eyes like his, who he is most jealous of now. He has never allowed himself to ask;

Why couldn’t it be me?

But now he does and he can feel the pit in his chest grow with a livid sort of despair. Grief for a life never lived. Didn’t he deserve to be saved, too? Like the girl in your arms? Like you? Didn’t he deserve a life like this, too? What’s the difference? He wants to demand it, what’s the difference?

You were just a kid, you know?

His fingers dig into his neck. There is no one to stop him from breaking skin, for drawing blood on his own body. His chest festers, angry, like a blister. His stomach turns, his body trembling harder, like he’s a child, like he’s going to shake apart.

He looks at your smiling face, the curve of your lips, and wants you so bad it hurts. He wonders if you ever dreamt of him as a hero, the way he dreams of you as a villain. He wonders why it feels so unfair suddenly, the turning of your lives, the coming together and falling apart.

He shudders, feels the sudden lump in his throat. He tried not to mourn you, when you left him. He told himself that there was nothing to mourn; either you would be back or you weren’t worth it. He feels the pressure of tears now, though, much to his frustration. He feels his lungs burn for breath as he watches you hand the little girl off to your mentor, who props her onto his hip easily.

He watches you throw your head back and laugh, the sound of it distant, but he catches it, the outskirts of it. He used to feel that laugh against his throat, against his lips.

But now he watches you live a life he apparently never deserved.

His bottom lip trembles, a furious scowl marring his face.

He could scream or shout at a world that wouldn’t listen. The fact of it all, the helplessness of it all, burns beneath his skin like wildfire, like acid.

Tomura takes one last look at you; the expressive glimmer of your eyes, the flash of your teeth. He lingers on you, commits you to memory as if he could ever forget you. Maybe someday he will. Maybe he won’t have to, if you come back to him.

But he won’t wait on it, in an apartment that still has traces of you in it’s corners and crevices. No, he has more to do, bigger than him. Bigger than you.

Even if the horrible tempo of his heart begs differently, even if the shaking in his shoulders is an indication otherwise.

One last look of you– you’re talking, saying something with your hands. The little girl laughs again, her red eyes crinkling up happily.

Tomura turns away.

He walks a familiar path to the apartment, the wind tries to slice through his jacket, kicks up leaves and litter in shadowed alleyways.

He enters and there is no one trailing behind him, your hands twisted into the back of his hoodie, or his sleeves. It’s quiet. Empty. He surveys it once, the bed with unmade sheets. The window that let in beams of colored light, that Ryuji would sit at.

And then he sets his hands on the wall, all ten of his fingers down, the way he used to touch you.

The wall begins to decay, cracks and crumbles beneath his hands. It spreads, and spreads, and spreads like a disease filling out the body of the apartment. Dust begins to fall like early snow.

His heart squeezes painfully, his eyes suddenly flooding with pressure, with tears he tries to keep back. His head throbs, feels like it’s going to cleave apart. His ribs ache– hurt so bad it’s like he can feel the one you took from him, the gaping part of his chest.

His Quirk flares hard and hot and fast. It burns through him, floods his veins in a way that makes him cry out, suddenly shaking, suddenly pained.

He destroys the apartment, disintegrates the tiny world he created with you that existed outside of the real one. He unpauses the game. He takes apart what the world should’ve been, when he was here, with you. He sees now that a world like this cannot exist.

The peace, the ideal, the way you had understood him. Your unending compassion. It’s rare. Not enough to save the rest of them.

So he tears it all apart, pushes at his Quirk in a way he hasn’t been able to before, nudges at its strength to test it. It flares outward, eating away at the entire space, at the furniture, at the floor. Everywhere.

He seethes, blooming, finally allowing that livid and vicious thing inside of him to burst forward. It’s explosive, wrenching out of him in the form of terrible destruction.

He’ll grow into what he was supposed to–

I wanted to be a hero– when I was a kid.

The only option he ever really had, the hand extended to him a villain’s, gentle when he’d taken it.

He destroys the boy inside him, the one that was naive and hopeful and weak. He let’s that boy inside of him fall apart, split open and leaks gore before turning to dust, too. He kills the part of him that he had only ever shared with you, in the blue-dark of night, when you were lulled to sleep with just the sound of his heart.

He swallows down his anguish and his jealousy and his bitterness, keeps it safe inside him, like All For One always said to do. He’ll nourish it, let it grow, fester inside of him until the only thing it can do is explode out of him to tear the world apart, too.

When he’s standing in the rubble of the tiny world you’d made with him, the apartment complex demolished, the people inside gone, he knows what he has to do.

And he has so much work to do in order to achieve it.

He tries to forget you, to destroy your memory, too. He will not carry the weight of you around inside him.

(But in his dreams, you sit cross-legged in front of him, serene and beautiful, like a painting he knows nothing about.

In his dreams, you ask for his hands to have, and he gives you them to hold.)

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aylinaliens · 2 years

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BESTIE same thoughts please I loved this show so much I’m telling u rn no one was more excited about this show and loved it as much as I did shsjs I was recommending it to everyone I know, was checking the tags on socmed every hours but now I feel … heartbroken in a way because EAW had so much potential! It had crazy potential!! And of course a few bad episodes will not take away my love for YW as a character but I’m just so disappointed. I wanted this show to be like hospital playlist (if you’ve watched it) which shows the realities of life while being simple and very wholesome there’s no over the top BS in that show I was hoping EAW was going in the same direction :( we know nothing about jun Ho, the mother plot like is so poorly done, don’t even get me started on MW And SY and MYS being terminally Ill like who even does all this in the last few episodes ? Why did this get the green light I just don’t understand:( why not focus on YW and her relationships and friendships? Why not show us more of jh and yw communicating? Why not show us more of YW with her dad? What about flashbacks of YW and SY in law school together?gggrrr I just feel so sad and robbed :(

!!! YESSSS!! everything you said is a hard agree like ??? the fact that it had that much potential only to randomly veer off course is frustrating. like you said: this might not take away or erase the love we have for YW or some of the other characters but it certainly leaves a heavy feeling in our heart. because we saw what this drama could do! we did! i stand by my statement that the first half was not perfect but it felt consistent. the halfway doesn’t which is the problem!! they set up youngwoo/junho’s conflict & insecurity but the way in which it was written felt weird. almost as if they forgot to include a few scenes or something. everything that’s happening with MYS is so melodrama slash makjang like. okay. he’s sick. terminally ill. should they not have set this up earlier or showed more signs of it being more than just exhaustion? they really are teasing the whole trope where a mentor to the main character dies or nearly dies. they literally exist to inspire or further the plot along which does NOT fit in with the theme of eaw. the funny thing is they handled health problems (ex. ep 1/2 with that older man who dies) only to suddenly be like. OOPS. hehe guess what :) MYS is on his deathbed. and even if he survives at the end there’s a chance he only has 5 years in total :)

W H A T?? get out of here with that ‘realism’ that is such a bull crap life lesson. the ‘mentor/beloved character is suddenly dying’ is such a wack drama trope it feels so emotionally manipulative. i only watched half of the first season of hospital playlist so thank you for reminding me to pick it back up bUT YES!! they could have shown these realistic struggles and plot lines in a more sedated manner. you can have realism and struggles and painful plot lines with it being super..idk. overdramatic? weird. yeah it’s just weird. all these plot lines weren’t handled as well as the first half which sucks.

bestie bestie besstttieeeeee. the fact that they have so many unresolved or glaring plot holes open is frustrating. i understand that this is from youngwoo’s POV so obviously it’s gonna focus on her but…clearly they are making SY/MW and MYS plot lines important in the last half. should we not at least follow through with the 3882838 plots that already exist?? what i wouldn’t give to give all those plot lines you mentioned explored. it doesn’t help either that they always cut away during an important conversation either. they rarely tell us what was said or happened unless it’s in a throwaway like. it reeks of lazy writing…not clever writing

the characters (not including minwoo go choke 🥰) are not the issues really it’s the bad and nonsensical writing. and it hurts because YOU LOVE THESE CHARACTERS but you also kind of hate the canon they come from jcjwjxjsjd bestie the way this drama had us all in a chokehold only to clown on us so bad in the last few episodes is truly the worst kind of pain

#extraordinary attorney woo #kdrama #my ask box is permanently open venting to all of you about this is the only thing getting me through #kay answers #kay watches eaw #spoilers #eaw spoilers

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drivingsideways · 3 years

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Melo is My Nature Review

Well, as usual, I’m late to the party! I picked up 2019′s Melo is my Nature/ Be Melodramatic with some trepidation since I was (am!) still smarting a bit from the disappointment that’s Hospital Playlist S2, and I wasn’t quite ready for another.

I’m so glad I gave it a chance! While it isn’t a “perfect” series- in the nature of the world *sigh*- its combination of quirky, clever, self-aware humour and heartfelt performances won me over from the first episode.

More thoughts under the cut (along with some spoilers)

I’m very fond of ensemble dramas that love their characters, and “Melo is my Nature” does that very well. Perhaps a little too well, to the point that you feel the writers letting themselves be more than a little indulgent during the middle stretch of the episodes. But I can’t complain too much, because yes, I know the feeling! “Side characters” that refuse to stay in the lane and take over the narrative are also my favourites, as a writer and a viewer. I loved, loved, loved Lee Joo-bin as the flighty-but-amazingly-smart Lee So-min; that felt like such a delightful clap-back against the prevailing sentiment that often goes against young, successful women and the ridiculous levels of expectations of them, in how they need to perform gender and femininity and smartness. I loved that (like Emma! There’s a lot of Jane in this series!) the writers managed to make her likeable even though they never disregard her flaws or its consequences.

Another performance/ character that I totally adored was Baek Ji-won as Jeong Hye-jeong, the industry maven who may be (?) a nod to Kim Eun-sook, I suppose! I was afraid at some point that they’d just trash her character, by making her a little too ridiculous in an unkind way, but I found some of the loveliest scenes involved her- like the one where she tells Jin-joo to do the work, but not be too successful. In the end, there was a love and fondness for her, a genuine empathy, that really was core to what made this show so successful.

Shout out also to two of the weirdest characters I’ve watched, but thoroughly loved- Heo Joon-seok as Director Dong-gi & Lee Ji-min as Nutritionist (?) Da-mi. I absolutely adored that the only wedding in this series is between these two, and they do it in a completely predictably-unusual way.

Re: the “main” characters, I loved all of them without exception, though some more than the others :) One of the things I love about the show is how real and present the three female leads feel; they feel like whole, entire people rather than caricatures of them, even when the show reaches almost unusual levels of quirky. I love that a through-line of the narrative is how important women’s labour is- to themselves. The work they do, which is acknowledged as a part of their identity rather than just something they do to pay bills (though of course there’s acknowledgement of that aspect too!), their hunger to do it well and for it to matter- all of that is portrayed in a way that’s charming but still taken very seriously. And the way you know that its taken seriously is in the things they focus on- how Oh Jin-joo struggles to write alone, and how Han-joo’s learning to be someone’s mentor while struggling with her own insecurities, and how lost Eun-jung feels, when work which was supposed to give her purpose fails her in a time of crisis, and how unmoored she feels without it.

Re: the romance- I’m someone predisposed to dislike heterosexual romance, especially at the present moment, so it’s always with a great deal of hesitation that I start watching shows that I know have a large romance component. It’s always a bit of a coin toss for me whether the show will end up making me hate the romance or just about tolerate it. I rarely expect to *like * it. So “Melo is my Nature” was a pleasant surprise! This is one of the few series where I felt the writers put in the work to sell the “main romance” of the show. You get to know the Oh Jin-joo and Beom-soo in sharply etched sketches before they move into the romance part (with a lot of tongue-in-cheek meta humour about the formulaic nature of tv romances). I genuinely felt that thrill of “oh this could go platonic or romantic and I would like either” slowly ease into “oh my god these two are MEANT TO BE”, because the Romance is clearly in the all the ways they are NOT meant to be, but also, very, very definitely are. DELICIOUS. Just my cup of Jane Austen in a different context/ time.

Through most of the show though, my heart was divided between two characters- Jeon Yeo-bin’s stellar Eun-jung and Han Ji-eun’s pitch perfect Han-joo. Jeon Yeo-bin brought edginess, dark humour and a deep, almost- inconsolable grief to Eun-jung. Some of the stand out scenes of the entire series are hers: the moment where she watches herself on video talking to an imaginary person, and the moment she breaks down in front of the psych after talking about her mother. Watching this show, it really felt like- oh, she’s a star. Consider me sold on her for life (though, no, I will not watch Vincenzo unless there’s a Hong Cha-young supercut out there, in which case, please put it in my eyeballs now)

Han Ji-eun, imho, actually pulled off the toughest performance, because I think Han-joo’s strength of character is so often concealed by her “silliness” (in a similar vein to So-min’s), and that often makes her someone you’d overlook or not take seriously. But god, she broke my heart, from the scene in the first episode where she’s sitting alone at a table after a rough day and watching her horrible ex live his best life to the hilarious and excruciating “Oppa” scene, to the one where her kid is quite unconsciously cruel to her in the way kids can be. I was disappointed in the way they dropped the “reveal” about whom she’s dating in the last episode- not that I wanted her to be in an romance with Jae-hoon, god, NO- but it felt quite clunky. This is one of the two complaints I have with the show.

The second one is that starting from the middle, episodes began to noticeably feel like scenes/ sketches spliced together. Each scene is, within itself, perfectly written and performed, but the seams between the stories began to show. I felt one of the main reasons was that Eun-jung’s trauma tonally felt like it belonged in another show, but instead it had to get stitched into the mostly happy/ frothy storylines of the other characters. Sure, we had Hae-joon and his girlfriend’s terrible relationship, but the show had an easier time integrating that by way of Han-joo.

That said, I love how clever this show is! I love that it loves its own cleverness and can’t resist the urge to show it off- from all the meta references, in-universe jokes, and oh, that entire episode devoted to farting, complete with a song about it, which I think maybe my fave episode of the series. A great look at the place of performance in intimate relationships (and how the women bear the burden of it more than the men), but coming at it from a place of compassion and humour rather than anger. Love that choice, for the show and us!

I think @rain-hat mentioned in a comment here or twitter that Melo feels like a part of a triangle of shows along with Run On and Search : WWW. I’m inclined to swap out Run On for Rookie Historian, or huh, maybe change the triangle for a quadrangle? Rookie Historian dares to imagine a past where our protagonist is (mostly) unshackled by the patriarchy and in the “modern” ending to its main heterosexual romance, reminds us that people have always found ways to find joy and thrive outside the rigid bounds of society. Search: WWW goes about it in the opposite direction- placing us in a present/future where the patriarchy doesn’t and hasn’t ever mattered. Melo, I think, doesn’t quite do that, but in common with both these shows, it refuses to focus on the trauma of living under such structural violence, and instead talks about how we all (irrespective of gender) can find a way to remain unbroken by it. And while both Search:WWW and Melo do well at queer-platonic relationships as an alternate to the heterosexual project, it’s Run On, I think, which goes furthest there- firstly because though ostensibly structured around a het romance, that romance turns out to be falling in love with yourself/ loving yourself; secondly because it’s most explicitly queer in the choices that the characters make and the lives that they choose for themselves- Min-joo & May are each others darlings and will be for life, Yeong-hwa and Ki Seon-gyeom are allowed a tenderness in their friendship that feels like an explicit repudiation of toxic masculinity, and of course, you have May being asexual, but not aromantic, and Goh Ye-jun’s whole arc of accepting himself as a gay man, and finding acceptance of that identity from others.

Anyway! tl;dr would recommend (and have recommended!) Melo is my Nature to anyone fond of women, clever story telling and also ridiculously happy songs.

#kdrama #melo is my nature #be melodramatic #i gotta build a master list of my reviews #if only to save myself from tag and search misery #i'm a queue for you

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writingsbychlo · 4 years

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smoke and fire (05)

word count; 10,782

summary; a team bonding night forces you and thomas to confront some issues, and it goes a lot better than you had thought it would.

notes; a sweet break from all the tension, you’re welcome.

warnings; not even one.

Closing your locker door, it was with a mildly relieved sigh as you did, the shift coming to a close, and you were ready to just relax. It wasn’t a hard day, in fact, since talking to Thomas and clearing things up between you both, these last few shifts had been better than ever.

You no longer felt like you were walking on eggshells with someone who hated you and may blow up at any moments, but instead, you were simply dealing with the usual precarious balancing act that came along with not quite fitting into somewhere, being a hexagon trying to fit into an octagon-shaped hole. Almost the right number of angles and edges, but not quite. No, this shift had just been particularly tiring because you’d been required to walk up eleven flights of stairs to get to a patient in an apartment building where the elevator was broken, you were wearing new work shoes that were pinching just a little, and your bra strap was digging in just slightly.

You couldn't wait to get home, actually.

Your legs ached, your shoulders felt chafed, and if you didn’t get these shoes off soon, you’d have blisters. As others moved around the locker room, you bid soft goodbye’s to them all when they voiced their own to you, your eyes finding Chuck on the way out, and watching as he scrolled through his music choices to set up his next playlist for the walk home.

Your jaw dropped, intending to call out to him, but Brenda was soon sidling up by his side, the two sparking a conversation, and you didn’t bother, not wanting to interrupt the pair as their chatter began. You were reaching the open doors to the bay, looking out to the roads as you prepared to round the building and find the carpark, when your name was being called out, loudly, echoing around the walls of the garage and causing you to halt in your steps, turning around to see Minho.

Newt was by his side, the blond waving a little as he disappeared back into the station or finish up whatever he was doing, and you waited for a second as the darker-haired man caught up to you, grinning through the pant his short jog had created, one hand coming up to adjust the bag on his shoulder as he stopped by your side.

“Hey, can I walk you to your car?” You raised a brow at him, looking out at the scarcely fading daylight of the day shift coming to an end in the early evening, and the minimally short walk it was to the parking lot, which you could already see through the thin lining of trees. “We can chat, I have a question for you.”

That made more sense, and you nodded your head, taking a step in that direction as he matched your space, your feet meeting the cool concrete outside of the firehouse. “You know I can’t give you drugs, right? Wish I could, but it’s totally illegal, and very unethical. You’ll have to just drink away your sorrows like the rest of us.”

He scoffed, staring at you for a second, before letting out the laugh that he was holding in, his shoulder bumping a little against yours. “Damn, and here I was planning to build my pharmaceutical black-market empire solely on your cooperation.”

“Damn, if only I didn’t have a moral compass.” You sighed, gravel crunching under your feet and his as the two of you crossed over the pathway marking the official property, and the parking lot, only a few cars left from your team, all the others belonging to the new rotation who had just arrived. “So, what’s up? You got an injury, or something?”

“No, nothing like that.” He shrugged, following you along as you neared your vehicle, and he considered his next words carefully, it seemed. “I’m having a little get together tonight. Just a squad night, and I remember Chuck saying something about a movie night, I figured we’d just pick that back up. It’s going to be at my place, most of the team are coming.”

You reached your car, silence falling between the two of you as you unlocked it, and dumped your bag down onto the passenger seat. You thought about it all, who might be there, and the implications of actually going over to someone’s house. That was personal, to invite someone into your home, and you weren’t sure you were ready - or if you ever would be - to have someone from the team over to your apartment. In fact, you couldn't remember the last time you’d had a friend over to your place. Then, it clicked a little, remembering the conversation you’d witnessed taking place before Minho had joined you. “Did Newt put you up to this?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, did Newt tell you that you had or invite me to this?” You repeated, and he bit on his lower lip for a second, his eyes dropping from yours.

“No, not technically. I brought up the idea of doing something with the team, and he said ‘well, you’re inviting (Y/N) and Chuck too, right?’ and I absolutely was already planning on inviting you.” Your eyes narrowed on him a little, and an honest look flashed over his features, where cheeky and teasing expressions normally lay. “I swear it.”

You considered it for a few seconds longer, but you knew that if you turned this event down, even if the idea of seeing your colleagues outside of work still made you anxiety spike high, that you’d never be invited to anything again if you didn’t accept, and so you gave in. “Sure, text me your address?”

“Great, come by anytime after seven, we’ll probably start Chuck’s movie at about eight.”

He gave you a thumbs-up as he backed away to his own car, and you wondered for a second whether he even had your number, but he was walking away, already busy texting at his phone again as he left, and you figured he would simply get it from Newt if need be. Settling down into your car and starting it up, the radio came on in a loud blast, making you jump slightly and fumble to turn it down, shaking the shock from your body before setting off into drive.

As you drove along, you couldn't help but let your mind wander to who would be there. You knew Minho had mentioned Chuck, and you desperately hoped the young boy would be there because he was the first of the team who had welcomed you, and was so far the person who made you the most comfortable of them all, because you felt as though you fitted in with him the best. He understood you, despite your differences. You were a girl who’d had too many houses, and he was a boy who had barely seen one yet, and so the struggle of being outsiders seemed to match up perfectly.

He was funny, and reliable, and you knew you’d feel at least slightly better if he was there. You hoped Brenda would be, too. Something along the line between camaraderie and friendship had been growing between you both, and you definitely didn’t want to be the only chick there, because then they’d want o have guy talk, and you’d end up sitting silently and trying to slip away mentally to your happy place as you died on the inside a little.

Of course, Newt would be there, but he was one of the most sociable people you’d ever met, and so you couldn't exactly rely on him to spend the entire evening by your side just because you still felt like you were in a room full of strangers when your anxiety got the better of you. Even if you were certain he would if you asked him to.

Pulling out onto the highway, your music clicked off, your ringtone taking over a second later through the car’s speakers, and your brows furrowed as you looked down, a number you didn’t recognise, and you freed up one hand from the steering wheel to click accept on it once you were comfortably within a line.

“Hey, girl!”

“Hi, Gina Linetti.” You scoffed, hearing the chuckle of your coworker through the phone, and making a note to save Brenda’s number to your phone. “What do you need? I’m not turning back around to the fire station. I’m, like, five minutes from home. If you’re not dying, it can wait until next shift. Or, go to the hospital, I’ll text Derek and let him know you’re on your way.” You snickered at your own joke, and you gasped a little.

“Who’s Derek?”

“The doctor from Aaron’s case.” You flicked on your indicators, moving across the lanes slowly toward the exit as it began to near, and you waited as she thought on it, before gasping.

“You mean the hot doctor?”

“I guess.” You shrugged to yourself, before realising she couldn't’ see you, and before she could ask more, she was cursing loudly at someone else on the roads, clearly having called you from her car, and your eyes widened a little at the road rage she exhibited, trying to curb your humour in an attempt not to laugh.

“Fuckin’ idiots on the roads.” She huffed through the crackly speakers, and you grinned a little peeling off down an exit road and following the path you’d learned well toward the place you were now calling home. “Anyway, I figured I could come pick you up for Minho’s later? You’re drinking, that's not up for debate, and so you can’t take your car and try to drive home afterwards.”

“I didn’t know this was a drinking kind of thing.”

“It’s Minho’s event, of course, it’s a drinking kind of thing.” She spoke the words as thought you were supposed to know that, as though you knew him well enough, or had hung out with him for long enough that you’d know what a gathering hosted by each member of the team would be like. She seemed to sense the tension, clearing her throat to brush over it. “You don’t need to bring anything, just dress comfy for a night of movies and snacks, that’s it. I’ll pick you up in, like, two hours?”

“You’ll need my address for that.”

“Then you’d better give it to me.” She teased, making your roll your eyes fondly, and the streetlights around you were just beginning to warm up as dusk began to fade into the sky, muted shades of pastel purples and pinks coming in as the sun set, setting an iridescent backdrop for grey clouds. “Text it to me, and I’ll see you soon.”

“Cool.”

She hung up after that, the music clicking back on, and as the conversation ended, you couldn't help but feel like you’d somehow been conned into something, Brenda having had you agreeing to carpooling and drinking and a longer night than planned before you'd even known it, smooth and subtle to get her way, leaving your head spinning. As you pulled into the underground parking lot of the apartment building, you sat in the seat for a second, staring out in confusion at the other cars as you wondered what the hell had happened.

Less than an hour ago, you’d been planning to come home, make some pasta, have a bath and maybe do some reading, a night spent by yourself was the normal, all you had planned, and yet somehow, you now had plans to get tipsy and watch a movie with your team, and you were unprepared. The smell of vomit was still lingering on you from your latest patient and had greasy hair, the wash load you would have done later tonight or tomorrow for your next shift a couple of days would now be crammed into two hours; you had to wash up, make sure there was money in your wallet for a taxi later, find some alcohol from somewhere, get your uniform into and out of the washer to dry, all for plans you didn’t know you had until now.

You bit your lip, shaking your head, snatching your keys from the ignition and getting on with your preparations. You had a lot to do.

The second that you were pushing the door open with your shoulder, you kicked off your shoes, leaving them abandoned at the side of the door as you pulled back and took in the apartment. It wasn’t too messy, but it was another chore you’d been intending to get done tonight, so that you could make the most of your day off, and you let out a heavy sigh as you took it all in. Your first stop was your shower, bag dropping from your shoulder to the floor much like your shoes, abandoned to be sorted later, and you stripped of your clothes as you walked, shirt being unbuttoned and belt loosened, until you were standing in your underwear in the laundry room and stripping it all off in front of the washing machine.

It wasn’t ready to be set off yet, but you needed to shower first, and so your first call was there, tugging the band loose from your hair and running your fingers through it as your ponytail finally came loose, strands sitting awkwardly and messy atop your head in their fixed position. A text on your phone caught your attention, and you were tempted to ignore it, before realising it was probably Minho texting his address across, and it reminded you to send Brenda your own.

Switching on the warm water, you darted from the room, letting it warm up behind you as you searched for your phone, locating the device on the counter and saving his number to your contacts, replying with a simple ‘thank you’, before sending your own address across to Brenda. She, in turn, replied with a series of smiley emojis that made you laugh a little under your breath, not bothering to respond and putting the phone down.

As you stepped back into the bathroom, you were rubbing at your eyes tiredly and suppressing a yawn, shaking yourself down in an attempt to shake away the work fatigue in order to attend the plans you now had, and make the most of them.

The steam was tempting you in, the heat coming from the water was calling out to you, and as you stepped over the edge of the tub, one leg under the water, before the second was following, pulling your body under the spray and letting the what spread over your skin, a sigh slipping from you. It was relaxing, to be able to physically feel the grime slipping from your skin and down the drain as you cleaned yourself off.

The smell of bile on your skin was replaced with that of fresh and sensual smells from the creamy body wash on your side, perfume style and floral scents, something much more comforting and relaxing and you found your muscles loosening under the spray. You didn’t get to stay in the water as long as you wanted, only long enough to rinse off your hair and settle into a more comfortable state of mind. You were tempted to call it all off, to run a hot bath and put a bathbomb in it, something that would leave your apartment smelling great for hours, but you couldn't, you knew you’d already agreed, and you still had so much to do before Brenda got here.

Hopping out, with a towel wrapped around your body and another around your hair, you didn’t get to spend as long pampering yourself as you wanted to, the sheet mask on your counter that you wouldn't get to use tonight, and your favourite sets of moisturisers next to it, but instead, you had to rush through your routine, making sure your skin was taken care of, before combing through the lengths of your hair and leaving it untangled around your shoulders.

With a basket under your arm, you dashed throughout the apartment, trying to scoop up all of the old laundry that you had to try and get through, not wanting to start with chores on your day off when you’d intended to use the evening to do it all, and so you were rushing to get it at least started now. Dropping your collection in front of the machine, you sorted through it all, dividing it into piles and making sure your uniform was on the first collection, absolutely ensured to go through.

There was some basic cleaning up to be done, setting off the washer and pulling the door to the laundry room almost shut, hands on towel-covered hips as you stared around the main room, a lived-in mess that wasn’t out of control, but somehow, the time had slipped so far past you that you felt as if the clock was spinning at double speeds, less than an hour left until your friend was due here, and you let out a loud groan.

You figured that getting dressed might be a wise place to start, drying off damp strands of hair before choosing the most relaxed but still reasonably appropriate outfit that you could. Something that wouldn't make you feel embarrassed or insecure, but also met the requirements of ‘comfy and cosy’ for a night of drinking and snacking. With dry hair that wasn’t bothered to be pulled back, phantom pains along your scalp just at the mere idea of being slicked back once again, you were left to try and get some tidying done before it was time for you to leave.

You skidded around a little on the polished wood floors under you, socks making them slippery, and you started in the kitchen, shoving all the pots and plates that you’d neglected to take care of into the dishwasher, and setting it off on an extra-long cycle to get at the tougher spots that would usually require scrubbing if you did it in the sink.

While it ran, you plugged your phone in for some last-minute charging, your favourite songs beginning to emanate around the room and fill the house with sound, letting you sing along quietly under your breath as you fold your blankets, straightened out the couch cushions, and wiped down the later of dust that was beginning to build. A lamp lightbulb needed replacing, and so did the canister in your air freshener, but your phone was repeatedly chiming from the kitchen counter you'd left it on, and the sound of a car’s horn came from the street outside of your house a moment later as you realise your friend must’ve arrived.

Peering out of your window, your suspicions were confirmed, catching her head moving as she made to get out of her car, pulled up haphazardly onto the sidewalk to wait for you, and you decided that everything else could wait until tomorrow. A quick wash over room spray over it all, and the rest of your tasks needed to be left. You hadn't managed to rustle up any drinks from your cupboards, or nothing appropriate to take with you, anyway, but you were certain you’d be able to swing by a store on the way, or you’d share whatever Newt had brought and send him half the money for it.

Tugging on a pair of sneakers and cursing under your breath as the horn sounded again, your phone still chiming, you hopped around a little to pull the shoes on, grabbing a hoodie to pull over your t-shirt from the coat hooks by your door, the first jumper your hand found, and bringing it over your head. Snatching up your phone, keys, and wallet, you flicked at the lights and left the building, the catch on the food locking your apartment up nicely.

The light had faded since you had gotten home, a crisp night chill began to seep in, even more so in the main lobby as you stepped out of the elevator, seeing her parked up front, and your jaw dropped as you took her in. She looked up, sensing the movement, and grinned at you, your eyes canning along her body, before you were scowling a little.

“Bren! What the fuck?”

“What the fuck; what? Hurry up!” She leaned down and pressed the horn again, only making you scowl at her more, as she assumed that was what had you all wound up.

“You said to dress casual and comfy!” You hissed, nearing her and crossing your arms over your chest as you felt a little uncomfortable now in a hoodie and some soft cotton pants, something that was a cross between leggings and sweatpants, and you couldn't remember what they had been called.

“This is what I wear to be comfy!”

“That is what I would wear to a club!” You stared at her, the cropped tank top and the skinny jeans and the heels that were over her knees, and you let out a huff. “Hey, I can’t be held responsible. Have you seen my ass? I gotta’ flaunt it while I still got it. Get in the car, you look fine, everyone else will be the same.”

“If they’re not, I will legitimately go home.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” She grinned, slamming the passenger door as you got inside, grinning at you through the window before making her way around to the driver’s side, and something about her attitude was already making you regret your decision. She seemed like a hugely reckless driver, and you fastened your belt up quickly, and held onto it as she peeled away from the sidewalk of your building. “We have to go to the store too.”

“Why?” You question, slumping in your seat as she picked up the speeds a little more, and with her swerving in traffic and swearing lowly at other drivers who were actually following the speed limits, your suspicions were confirmed.

“Because all Minho ever has in is guy things for team nights. It’s always nachos and beer and pretzels, and pickles. Now I have another chick, we can get good snacks and I have someone to share it with.” Your brows furrowed, thinking back on a conversation you’d had with Thomas only a week prior, before disappearing to find your team, who’d already claimed a table at the bar, and all of your questions had been washed away.

“Wasn’t the paramedic before me a chick, though?”

Brenda’s face screwed up into a grimace, and she checked her mirrors, searching around the parking lot of the store, and you yelped with a little shock as she spun the car and a jerky angle into a parking space, reversing in line with the other vehicles on either side. “Teresa? Yeah, but she didn’t come to these things much. She did once she started dating Thomas, but even when she was there, she wasn’t really there, y’know?”

“So, they were, like, a thing? Serious, and all that?”

Brenda paused for a second, the engine still running, but a look you didn’t recognise crossed over her features as she stared out of the glass, watching others go by for a second and nibbling on her lip. You undid your belt, twisting in your seat a little, and wondered whether you’d crossed a line. “It’s not my place to say.”

Definitely crossed a line, then.

You had no idea how to backtrack, or get out of that situation, gaping a little, before she seemed to sense your discomfort, resetting herself and turning to face you. “I’m thinking white wine, what do you normally drink.”

“Not wine.” You teased, and she scoffed, rolling her eyes a little and killing the engine, before she was getting out of the car and stretching a little.

“Well, you’re gonna’ have to learn to love it, because as my only female friend, you’re the only person I have to do my girly-bucket list with. Like go to fancy cocktails bars and go to a wine tasting event in a fancy dress.”

“I like vodka and mini-golf. Work with what you’re given.”

She beamed, her arm linking through yours as the two of you made you way through crisp evening air toward the doors of the store. “Don’t worry, a few weeks around me and I’ll have you sipping Rioja and getting your nails done, and you’ll never even notice the change.”

“Uh-huh.”

You could fight it all that you liked, but the truth was, you were elated just to know that she considered you a friend close enough to want to do these things with, and that you might be able to finally have an out-of-work friend, too.

You never had anybody to go to nice restaurants with when you drove past them, or concerts when your favourite bands were in town, or even just someone to talk to on a lonely night. You wanted friends to buy Christmas presents for and birthdays other than your own to celebrate, and someone to be thankful for at Thanksgiving, and despite how much you’d resisted at first, with every passing week, it seemed more and more like Firehouse ‘21 and the team there were making themselves into that for you, breaking past your defences without even realising they were.

Brenda grabbed a cart from the line-up, the warm air washing over you both as the doors hissed open, and you paused at the entrance, staring around it all in mild awe as you tried to decide where to start.

“Wanna’ get that wine first, then?”

“Yep. The boys’ snacks can wait, I just saw a deal on Twizzlers.” She bolted ahead of you, leaving you in the dust for only a second, before you were forcing your feet into action, and following after her, all but stumbling as you went. She was in the candy aisle when you caught up with her, a packet of strawberry Twizzlers in one hand and raspberry in the other, seemingly weighing out the pros and cons of each one. “Which do you prefer?”

“I like both.” You shrugged, and she turned to look at you, a perfectly done brow raising at you.

“Yes, but which do you prefer?”

You grinned, taking the raspberry ones from her hand, waving it at her for a second, and you dumped it in the cart. The offer was getting a second one free to match, and so she dumped a matching packet of raspberry ones to follow, the two items sliding about in the base of the cart as she pushed a few metres further down the aisle.

“So, I’ll let you pick the wine, since we are having wine. Or, I’ll pick the wine, and you can drink beer with the men.” She gagged a little at the idea, and while neither would be your first choice on drinks, wine was infinitely better than beer. At least it tried to have flavour and be fruity, as opposed to beer, which you felt was more like a bitter assault on your mouth. She added a packet of Hershey’s Kisses to the cart, as well as some Reece’s Pieces and M&Ms. You weren’t sure where the two of you were supposed to put all of this, listening to her talk about snacks all the way around, until she was adding two tubes of Pringles and three packets of potato chips to the cart, placing all her hopes on Minho actually owning the rest of the ingredients to make nachos, and something within you doubted that he would, and so you slipped a jar of salsa dip in there too.

When you finally made it to the drinks aisle, you were staring up at the bottles on the shelf, information underneath like ‘dry’, ‘crisp’, ‘spiced’ and ‘aromatic’ that meant absolutely nothing to you, they all seemed exactly the same, just with different labels. You were relying on her for advice, brushing your hand over various bottles, to see which way she perked up in, up and down, left and right, as you searched for her favourite.

You felt like you were getting somewhere, subtle and discreet ways to find what she really wanted as you had no idea what to pick, when her phone rang, and you paused, turning to look at her as she fished it from her pocket, bringing the screen up to take a look, before answering the call.

“Hi, Min.”

You raised a brow, stepping away from the shelf for a second and trying to offer her a look as though to ask whether something as wrong, your heart dropping a little in your chest at the idea of it being cancelled, because in the short spell of time you’d been shopping with Brenda, you’d found yourself quite looking forward to the evening. Your question seemed to be conveyed well enough, because she shook her head, a small smile on her lips as you waited.

“We’re at the store. We’re, like, twenty minutes late. Relax.”

You were certain that you weren’t, you’d only been here for about twenty minutes, but as you searched for your phone, you found the time to read almost an hour later than when you’d entered, your jaw dropping a little as the time had flown past without you even noticing. The pair of you had bickered playfully all the way around, mumbled girl-talk as you wandered the store, and it wasn’t the same kind of forced conversation you were oh-so-used to providing, but it had been a genuine conversation that you’d enjoyed.

Brenda was chatting with Minho now, a softer smile on her face as the words went hushed, and your lips pursed, trying to hold in your smile as you watched the interaction, the bashful look on her face where she was normally so confident. You instead managed to busy yourself with looking back at the drinks again, trying to work out what any of the words staring back at you meant, and eventually, you settled on a bottle of rosé.

It felt like a middle ground, a compromise between red and white, couldn't be too far wrong, and it promised to be sweet and fruity, and that was probably the bet you were going to get out of the whole situation, so you placed a bottle on it down into the cart. The clinging of glass on metal caught her attention, and she turned around, glancing down at your selection before making a face, that was something you were going to take as mild approval, a mental pat on the back awarded to yourself, and she reached for a second bottle, your laugh muffled behind your hand as you watched her do so.

“Yeah, okay, we’ll be there in, like, fifteen minutes. Tops.”

She hummed a little longer, Minho still talking on the end of the phone, before she finally hung open, putting away her phone, and pacing her hands on the edge of the cart. “Everything okay?”

“Totally, he just wanted to know when we were going to get there, everyone else has already arrived.” She shrugged it off as you grimaced, guiding the two of you towards the checkouts, and you eyed up all the available spots as you went, trying to decide whether or not it was appropriate for you to mention the little something you’d noticed in that call between her and Minho.

You felt like you were still nothing more than a coworker, but everything about the evening so far had suggested that you were a friend, and that was definitely a friendship kind of topic.

You would never know if you didn’t try, and if she shut you down on it, then you knew where you stood with her, but if you never bothered to try, then you’d never have any friends at all.

“So, you and Minho, huh?”

Her jaw dropped, turning to look at you for a second, before a smirk was taking over her features, and she was staring back ahead, setting herself up on the nearest conveyor-belt and beginning to unpack the groceries, with your help. “That’s nothing particular. We just.. hook up sometimes.”

You gasped, turning to look at her, your hands on your hips as she unpacked the last few items. “You scandalous little thing! With a coworker, no less!”

She feigned the same energy, placing a hand over her heart and the other over her forehead, letting out a heavy breath. “I know, practically sinful, whatever will I do?” The pair of you giggled, the cashier not paying any attention to either of you as the young boy began to check out the items, taking the tag from the bottle of wine and scanning each item through, the two of you trying to pack it all into paper bags before it piled up, keeping up with his speed. “Seriously, though, what do I do?”

“About Minho?”

“Yeah.” She whispered, and you nibbled on your lower lip, watching her punch her PIN into the card machine as she paid for the shopping, one bag in your arms and one in hers as you held onto everything. “It’s been going on or a while, and it’s casual, but, I kinda’ like being around him, all the time.”

She grabbed the receipt, the two of you turning to the door, and only a few steps later, stepping back out into the cold air, headed towards her car. “You like him in a date him kind of way?”

“Maybe.” She sighed glancing over at you for a second, a smile on her lips. “I mean, maybe that’s just the whole post-sex glow thing, and it’s always so normal at work. Normal in a totally-never-seen-you-naked kind of way, as if it never happened, and that feels right, too. I’m a little confused, I guess.”

“Well, maybe, you should just spend some time with him and work it out.” She gave you a look, waving the bag of groceries in her arms, before trying to find her keys to open up the vehicle as you neared it, and you scoffed. “I meant time alone, like, not with the whole team in the same room.”

She rolled her eyes a little, cheeks turning slightly pink as she thought about it, and the conversation seemed to end there, taking the bag from you and placing it into the trunk of her car. As you settled yourself back into the driver’s seat, she was a little more pensive, pulling out of her parking space and setting off on a drive you figured she knew well on her way to Minho’s house, the music of the radio playing to fill a comfortable silence.

It was an area of the city that you were unfamiliar with, not being much of an adventurer, spending most of your time at home when you could, because you never really had a reason to go out. You had nobody to visit, and no friends to take out anywhere, and so you didn't fern explore anywhere that wasn’t in the immediate couple of blocks to where you lived or worked, but now, you felt a little more like you had a reason to be curious about your city.

“He invited me to stay over, tonight.”

You perked up a little bit, shifting in your seta to look at her, and she kept her eyes on the road, but there was a sheepish smile on her face. “Yeah? What did you say?”

“I haven’t decided. I packed a few things in a bag, in case, but I’m not sure.” You glanced into the backseat, not having noticed the small back stashed beside the shopping until now, but a change of clothes and a phone charger was within, presumably with some other things, and you tried to cover up your excitement, bursting with joy for the woman beside you as she possibly took a step towards her happiness.

“You totally should.”

“Yeah?” She muttered, pulling up towards a fancy-looking apartment block, stopping at the barricade displayed underneath and punching in the code, before the barrier was lifting up, allowing you inside. Your building didn’t have that kind of measures on the parking lot, and you were a mix between excited and anxious to see where Minho lived. “What about you, though, how are you going to get home?”

“Not with you, that was for sure. You’re drinking, and you’re already a wild driver.” You teased, hearing her scoff, one hand freeing up to smack at your arm lightly, only furthering your amusement.

“I’m a great driver.”

“Yeah, for Formula One racing, maybe.” She hummed under her breath, rolling her eyes and making a point of swinging in a particularly fast and wide movement into a parking spot, making you squeal as you feared she was going to bump the car on each side or crash the car, and yet somehow, she managed not to do either of those things. “You’re insane! I was planning to get a taxi, anyway, but now it’s confirmed.”

“I don’t want you getting in a cab alone.”

“I’ll be fine.” You shrugged, and she only stared at you a moment longer, her gaze seemingly getting more intense, and you squirmed a little bit, unclipping yourself and getting out of the car. She followed you, both doors slamming shut, before she was offering you a shopping bag, and changing her tactic from judgemental glares to puppy dog eyes, and you huffed, letting her lock the car and waiting for her to guide the way. “Would it make you feel better if I shared a cab with one of the boys on my way home?”

“It really would.”

“Then, I will. Just for you.” She beamed, blowing you a kiss from a few feet away as she rounded the car, and came up to your side to direct you to the building. There was a simple tune playing in the elevator as you rode up, the metal on the door shining and clean, the walls on either side of you were mirrors, and once you stepped out, the corridor was classy. Not the slightly tacky and vaguely 80’s looking carpet that most apartment buildings bought to line the halls because it as the cheapest option available on mass, but this was sleek, a dark grey colour to match pale grey walls, decorated with soft blue flowers along the way, and dark mahogany doors with golden lettering along each one.

Minho was number fifty-four, and you weren’t even sure which floor you were on but it was high up, you could tell from the view at the window near the end of the hall, and you were almost certain that the price of this apartment must be double the price simply because of the view. The door swung open only moments after Brenda had knocked, because Minho was standing before you both, and you groaned a little as you took him in.

“Do neither of you understand what comfy clothes means?”

Minho looked shocked for only a second, glancing down at himself, a pair of skinny jeans and a jumper that looked like it cost more than your entire outfit did, and he shrugged, making you feel a little insecure in your battered old hoodie that had a hole for a thumb and some loose threads. “This is comfy, thank you very much.”

“Yeah, sure it is.” You mumbled, adjusting the groceries in your arms, and he held the door open for you a little further. Brenda already knew her way around, that much was obvious from the way that she marched straight into the house, loud cheers from somewhere within lighting up from the rest of the team, a chorus of loud shouts and hollers of things along the lines of ‘finally!’ and ‘about time!’ making you grin a little at the group finally being complete. “You want me to just put these in your kitchen, then?”

“Yeah, sounds cool. Just, um, dump your shoes wherever, or keep them on if you want, and I can give you a little tour so you don’t get lost.”

“Your place is that big?” You grinned, stepping inside and toeing off your shoes to join the pile of assorted sneakers, boots and scattered slides that were on the floor. Before you were wandering along after Minho. The place really was that big, it was huge, actually, polished wooden floors along the corridors, and your place was almost entirely open plan, only a few doors, and yet Minho had walls to divide with real doors and low lighting that was intimate and fancy and it was all very impressive. “How the hell do you afford this place?”

“Only fans.” He sighed, glancing back at you over his shoulder, before snickering, and leading you into the large kitchen. An island in the middle, marble countertops and a shining coffee machine that looked like it belonged in a Starbucks sat in the corner, and you placed your bag down on the counter to match with Brenda’s, but had no idea where she’d gone. “I’m kidding, it’s not mine. It’s my grandma’s, she lives out of the city. I’m basically Monica Geller.”

“You went with Monica instead of choosing to be Ross? The guy?”

“Who the fuck wants to be Ross we-were-on-a-break Geller?” He teased, beginning to look through the bags, gasping a little as he pulled out the items stacking them up neatly, and grinning at the packet of Skittles he found that was clearly intended for him. “Thanks for coming, I’m glad you’re here.”

“If I’m being totally honest, I wasn’t going to.”

He looked up, raising a questioning brow at you as he prompted you to continue, and he tore open the packet of candy, tipping a few out into his hand and emptying them into his mouth from his palm, chewing as he waited for your answer.

“I feel like I’m invading. Like, you know when you’re having family dinner and your sibling invites their friend to stay without telling anyone and then nobody has any fun because you really want to eat a third bread roll and burp out loud but you can’t because you don’t want to embarrass your sibling and so everyone is on their best behaviour and it sucks?” He stared at you for a second, amusement flickering over his features, before he was nodding his head. “Well, I feel like the sibling’s friend who senses how uncomfortable it all is and knows they’ve messed everything up and now wishes they’d just gone home for their own dinner.”

“Well, I don’t think you’ve messed anything up, and I promise, if you burp out loud then I will burp as well so that you’re not alone.”

“You can’t just burp on command, but thanks for the offer.” You teased, watching as he turned to reach for two glasses, shining glass that made you fear touching it just in case you smashed it.

“Uh, I absolutely fucking can, wanna’ see?”

“No, not reall-”

He cut you off, a loud burp echoing aloud the kitchen, and you grimaced at the sound of the belch before he was making it again. You gagged falsely, turning your face away from him, and he did it again, laughing around himself, before he was continuing to go on, and you scoffed at him.

“Stop it! You’re awful, that is disgusting.”

“You asked for it!” He shouted back, belching again, and you groaned loudly, Chuck entering the kitchen right as Minho let out yet another loud burp.

“Chuck! Make him stop!”

“I just came in here for a drink.” He raised his hands in a surrender, and you rolled your eyes at the pair of them, watching as Chuck open the fridge, searching around for the bottle opener as he pulled back two fresh lagers, condensation forming on the glass as soon a they met the warm temperature of the room, and you worked on the cork in the top of your wine bottle until it came out with a ‘pop’.

“Are you even old enough to drink?”

Minho laughed, loudly, and Chuck scowled at you as he released the metal sealing from the glass, and the other, and you lifted the first glass to begin to fill it with wine. “Yes, I am old enough, thank you. I’m twenty-two in a few months.”

“Aw, cutie.” You teased, pinching at his cheek and he smacked your hand away, diverting to the other room, and leaving you to fill the second glass. You did happen to notice that Chuck was wearing a normal person’s version of comfy clothes, though; a pair of baggy sweatpants and a t-shirt, and you sighed a little in relief. At least Minho and Brenda would make the world’s most stylish couple when together. “Alright, Minho, you promised me a tour of your fancy bachelor pad.”

“Bachelor pad? I like that!” He grinned, and you grabbed the two glasses of wine, sticking a packet of raspberry Twizzlers into your pockets before the two of you were setting off, and he was guiding you through the halls. He didn’t need to show you much, just vaguely pointing to what was behind each door, an office he used as a home gym, the laundry room, his bedroom - to which you didn’t fail to spot Brenda’s bed sitting out on the covers, but did resist mentioning - and then the bathroom.

Guiding you back through, large double doors that slide along the wall were pulled open, revealing the group inside. Brenda grinned as she saw you, lounging on a large chair, big enough for multiple people, and Minho took one of the glasses from your hands as he made his way over to her, offering up a glass of wine and sitting down in the chair alongside her, and she grinned at you a little bashfully as she remained calm. You liked being in on a little secret with her, on knowing something the other’s didn’t it made you feel a little less like you were on the outside but instead like you were being brought into the warmth from the cold.

There were several seats you could choose from. Cushions and blankets were laid out along the floor, the coffee table pushed aside, and you could sit between Fry and Newt on the floor, leaning back against the couch with plenty of space available to you, or you could find a seat beside Chuck, who was sitting cross-legged in front of the TV, a stack of DVDs beside him, but your back was already aching at the thought of sitting up straight for so long.

The final seat was on the cushions of one couch beside Thomas. He was leaning at an angle, Gally on his other side, a space between them both and you immediately felt your walls shoot back up at the mere idea of sitting with him, but the couch looked so inviting, and there was space, and you did want to try and make headway on that truce that the two of you had called, so you gave in. Making your way over to him, you made sure to ruffle newt’s hair as you passed him by, avoiding the way he was slapping at your hands and growling a little mid-conversation there, before he was returning to what he was saying.

Pausing in front of the man who was slumped over and texting on his phone, and you cleared your throat a little. “Can I sit with you?”

His eyes flicked down to the space that he was half-leaning over into, before nodding his head, and you sat down as he moved, feeling the tension building once again. Taking a tentative sip of your wine, you found that the drink wasn’t all that bad, while it may not be your favourite choice you certainly weren’t hating it, and you took another gulp to try and drown out the tension.

Leaning down and balancing your glass on the floor, out of the way of anyone that might get in the way, you moved onto pulling the packet of Twizzlers from your pocket, you tore it open, pulling one out and placing it between your teeth to take a light bite from it. Holding up the packet, you tried to be friendly again, the plastic crinkling as you lifted it. “You want one?”

He glanced, eyes flickering over the packet, before licking his lips, flicking up minutely at the sides. “Uh, yeah. Thanks.” You nodded, letting him pluck one from the packet, before he was looking back down to the phone screen, and taking a large bite out of it, and you sighed a little.

You took a breath, preparing an attempt at making conversation once again, but he didn’t even look up, not even a flinch for you, and so your jaw snapped shut again, turning away to eat your candy as you gave up on even trying at a tenuous alliance with him, the possibility of week friendship seeing to fly out of the window.

Crossing your legs underneath you on the couch, you pulled the sleeves of your hoodie down over your hands, rubbing at them anxiously as you looked around.

“I like your hoodie.”

You jumped a little, entirely startled by his voice beside you, and your head twisted back to look at him, brows raised slightly as he actually spoke to you, and you glanced down at it, the faded blue and orange logo across the front barely visible anymore, you’d had it so long. “You’re a Mets fan?”

“Long suffering.” He shrugged, sitting up a little further, and he clicked his phone off, pushing it into the pocket of his sweatpants. “You know, maybe one day, we’ll be fortunate enough to catch a full game without getting interrupted for a call.”

“What, with our houses’ luck? You’re swinging big there.” You teased, and he grinned, a small laugh leaving him, before he was reaching over to the packet sitting in your lap and taking two more of the soft candy-sticks from within, and offering one to you, before tearing a large chunk from his own with his teeth.

“Go big or go home, right?”

“I suppose so.” You sighed, chewing on your treat as he sat up a little more, his eyes sweeping over your face, and down over your shoulders, and you felt a little nervous under his gaze.

The armour of professionalism that was usually so securely constructed around you was crumbled down. Uniform and tight ponytail made it easy to frown and put up walls and treat everybody like strangers because they knew no other side of you, but now you were exposed, like an open wound. It was all traded for soft hair that fell around your shoulders and a small smile from the joy of the evening so far, clear skin and comfortable clothes and nothing that helped you man the defences, and so you hummed subconsciously, his gaze snapping back to your own as you made the sound.

Leaning down again, you collected your glass, bringing it to your lips and taking a sip, swirling the contents around in the glass as you swallowed, because you couldn't stand the scrutinising gaze he was putting you under, fear creeping in.

“You look nice.”

It wasn’t what you’d been expecting, your sights finding him once again, soft brown eyes fixed on yours as he shrugged a little, the pink on his cheeks from the warmth of the room growing a little darker, but he smiled nonetheless.

“Y’know, with your hair down and everything.” His fingers came up, wrapping lightly around the tips of a strand of hair, playing with it for a split second, before his hand and his gaze was falling away once again, and you flushed with heat as you felt yourself at a loss for words, unsure how to approach him as a regular person, and not as the Lieutenant who hated you, and it seemed that honesty was the best way.

“You’re not as scary when you’re not in uniform.”

“You thought I was scary?” He echoed, an indiscernible look passing over his features, and you nodded your head, the truth undeniable.

“Absolutely terrifying.” You downed what was left in your glass, wishing you had gotten more as it came up empty, and you were going to need more alcohol to get you through this conversation and this night, because the slight buzz you were barely beginning to feel was doing nothing to help your nerves.

Getting to your feet, you excused yourself, headed back towards the kitchen to find a refill, and as you locate the bottle sitting in the fridge, someone clearly having put it away at some point, you brought it back out, pouring double the contents of your original potion into the glass, taking a large drink from it and topping it back up. As another pair of footsteps entered the kitchen, you jumped, almost dropping the glasses in your hands with shock, and turning to push the fridge closed, still holding the bottle.

“Jeez, Thomas, you scare the hell out of me.”

“You were scared of me?” He questioned again, arms crossing over his chest, and your eyes flicked down to them, the tone in his voice taking on the same flat and commanding aspect that it did when he was in the field and making calls, and he seemed to take the hint, his arms dropping again and shoulder slouching. “I thought we just argued. Now I feel even worse.”

“It’s not your fault. Well, it is, but-” He frowned as you spoke, and you only continued to fumble with your words. “Look, I was being a bitch, alright? And you were being a bitch too, but it’s different. I was a bitch who needs a second paramedic to lift the stretcher bar onto the frame when it had someone on, you were a bitch who can bench press, like, two hundred pounds and can kick in a front door. Big men scare women, it’s just a fact.”

That didn’t seem to help, he only seemed to slump down a little further, and you sealed your lips into a thin line.

“If it makes you feel any better, I’m not scared of you now. It’s just.. tense.” He sighed, reaching out and taking the glass of wine from your hands, before taking that to his mouth, and chugging a good half of the glass, before hanging it back, and grimacing a little.

“I hate wine.” You only laughed a little under your breath, the back of his hand travelling over his mouth as he wiped it clear. “I don’t want you to be scared of me, and it really sucks that you were, because I’d never hurt you. Or anyone, really.”

“It was more scary in an I’m-being-yelled-at-by-someone-twice-my-size way, not that I thought you’d ever.. do that..” You sighed, placing the bottle and the glass down on the counter, and leaning back against it, your head dropping to rest in your hands. “I fucked it all up again, already.”

You heard him move, the thought that he may just leave crossing over your mind, but fingers wrapped around your wrists, pulling them away from your face, and stepping back as your hand dropped to your side. He only stood a couple of feet from you, staring down at you with wide eyes that were full of nothing but sorrow, and you felt terrible for having put that emotion there in the first place.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin the night.”

“I’m sorry for yelling at you on the first day, and making you scared about working with me.” He shrugged, silence falling between you both again. “For the record, you are worth it.”

Your breath hitched in your lungs a little, the compliment meaning more to you than he could possibly know, yet he seemed to sense it, moving forwards by a fraction of an amount as he deemed it safe and acceptable to do so.

“I know what I said on that day was unfair, and you’ve proven me wrong, countless times.” A large hand found your shoulder, slipping down until he was squeezing at your forearm lightly, and there was a burn in the back of your throat threatening tears if you weren't careful. “You’re great at your job, and I think you’re a real asset to the team, and we’re lucky to have you.”

“Well, shit, now I feel bad for tricking you into saying you have a small dick.”

He laughed, loudly, and the sound you let out to match cracked a little bit, but it gave you a second’s reprieve to sniff away your emotions, choking them down as you tried to get it under control. “I got deep with you and that’s what you want to say?”

“I’m not good with the deep stuff!”

“Clearly!” He sighed, his hand dropping from your arm to wipe over his face as he looked more entertained than upset now, and you shrugged. “Okay, how about this. Let’s just start over, alright? You don’t need to feel tense around me, and I promise that you never have to worry about me hurting you. I wouldn’t do that.”

You paused, staring up at him, searching for any hint of a lie, before giving in, and raising your hand between your bodies. His palm slipped against your own, shaking it as though the pair of you were meeting for the first time, and he cracked a grin at the action. Your name fell from your lips, introducing yourself to him, and he followed suit, offering his name in return, and you felt like the past was truly being washed away this time, something you could let go of, watching it float away downstream in water under the bridge.

“Hey, you two gonna’ come join us for movie night, or are you going to spend the evening holding hands in the kitchen?”

Newt tapped his hands on the doorframe, a wicked grin on his face, and you were about to protest, before realising your hand was still clasped in Thomas’, and your mouth was dry as you found yourself at a loss for words. Dropping his hand, you grabbed at the bottle you’d left and the glass, deciding to just take both with you, and Thomas laughed a little as he followed behind, hand shifting to sit on your lower back as he fell into step behind you.

Newt flopped back down into his seat on the floor in front of the couch, and as you moved to navigate through the hoards filling the floors, a hand grabbed your wrist, bringing you to a halt, and you stumbled a little as Thomas crashed into you from the sudden pause, finding Brenda looking up at you with a grin and holding her glass out, half of the content missing.

The man beside you moved past, going to take his seat once again, and you topped her glass up, your own following, before clinking it against hers and grinning at the loud ‘cheers’ she let out as you did, before taking a sip to match her.

“Told you I’d have you converted over to wine in no time.”

“I chose this bottle, don’t you forget.” You winked, backing up a little bit as she settled back into the cushions, her shoulder pressing up to Minho’s side, and you smiled softly at the causal interaction between them both.

“Yeah, well, next time it’ll be me picking, and I’ll have you drinking the good stuff!”

You scoffed, knowing her insult in your taste was a joke, and probably well-founded, because you had no idea what ‘good wine’ consisted of, choosing instead to wander away and take your seat, trying not to spill your drink on anyone as you went.

Gally shuffled up the couch a little further as you approached, and Newt was blocking your seat, and when you nudged him with your toes, his only response was grinning up at you cheekily as he stretched his legs out in front of himself on the carpet; clearly a refusal to move as you were challenged with clambering past him to get to the cushions.

Thomas chuckled, holding his hands out for the bottle and the glass you held as he placed his own down on the table beside the end of the couch, what looked like whiskey in a tumbler, with a couple of half-melted ice-cubes floating in the liquid that matched the colour of his eyes. You handed them off to him, watching as he placed the bottle down on the counter, holding your glass in his other hand as one arm stretched out along the back of the couch, an amused look on his face as you tried to step past Newt.

Each time you lifted your foot up, blocking you off again, and you stumbled a little, trying to hold your balance and not fall into the crowded mass around the floor as you went, a collection of laughs beginning to bubble up as you became the centre of attention. Chuck was fiddling with the remotes on the TV, and Gally had offered a stabilising hand out to you, the fingers of one of your hands was wrapped around his forearm as you giggled, trying to simply sit down.

“You gonna’ take a seat so we can watch, or are you just going to stand there?”

You glared at Newt, unable to hold the smile off of your face for long, before you were bursting with giggles once again, almost falling, and clinging to Gally for support. “Well, if someone would get out of my way, I’d be able to!”

“I’m not doing anything!” Your blond partner insisted, crossing his arms over his chest and sitting back down normally without blocking any space off, and you thought you’d finally get away with it, and you lifted a leg to step over him and try and fold a leg against the cushions to sit down. Once you were balanced on one foot, though, he acted, raising up to pinch at the back of your knee, the leg still on the floor going weak, and you fell.

You toppled forwards, half landing against Gally and half in the cushions as you tried to swerve, a yelp being cut off as you hit the couch, and he continued to pinch at your leg, making you jerk the limb away from him and crawl up the couch, snatching it back from him as the contact tickled, until your back was pressed to Thomas’ side and you were kicking at Newt’s hand, the laughter in the room fading away as you swiped at your friend.

“There we go, now was that so hard?”

“You are the devil, Newt.” You hissed, lunging for him a little as he stuck his tongue out at you playfully, and you placed a hand behind you, one pushing on the couch cushions, the other on Thomas’ knee as you pushed forwards, an arm wrapping around your waist to hold you backwards as Newt cracked up, and your own laughter came bubbling up.

Yanked back down into your seat, Thomas slipped his arm free, letting it spread back out along the couch, and handing you the glass of wine. Your face was flushed with warmth, energy fizzling through you, and you took a sip, cooling yourself with the cold drink. You mumbled your thanks to Gally for his support, the opening credits of the movie loading up, and you settled back, still slightly pressed into the side of your new allegiance as you tried to catch your breath.

Stretching out a little, your leg fell over Newt’s shoulder, crooking at the knee, and he reached a hand up to sit on your ankle, squeezing a little in comfort before the room was falling quiet, Minho dimming the lights down, and Chuck began to explain the movie he was watching.

Your heart was still racing, and yet you’d never felt more comfortable. There was no bad energy in the room, you didn’t feel uncomfortable with Thomas sitting beside you, you didn’t feel excluded or left out, you simply felt loved and accepted. For the first time in your life, you truly felt like you belonged.

#thomas #firefighter!tommy #thomas x reader #thomas/reader #smoke and fire #SAF #tomuary #tommy month #tom-uary #dylan o'brien #dylan obrien #dylan obrien x reader #dylan obrien/reader #dylan obrien thomas #dylan obrien the maze runner #thomas the maze runner #thomas tmr

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kireilixie · 3 years

Text

i. Bittersweet Vanilla | Bang Chan x Reader

° 𐐪𐑂 synopsis: Have you ever heard of the phrase, “Right person, wrong time?” You and Chan would have made such a perfect couple had your destinies and dreams not gotten in the way. With no assurance of what you each truly felt for one another you both struggle to keep each other grounded among the different obstacles you face.

° 𐐪𐑂 genre: idolverse, angst, childhood friends, pro swimmer! reader

° 𐐪𐑂 warning(s): mentions of abuse, trauma, insomnia, anxiety attacks, depression, death of a family member

° 𐐪𐑂 8k words

° 𐐪𐑂 author's note: Hello! I am extremely sorry that this was published late, but unfortunately, my other priorities in life came up so I had to push back the release and editing. As you know, bittersweet vanilla is a fic I released a year or so ago. This is a fic I hold dear to my heart, and I was a bit disappointed with how I had written it, especially with the multiple plot holes and gaps. This led me to rewrite and expound on the development of both reader and Chan, this fic will hold the same plot as the previous fic but will be much more detailed compared to the original one. Without further ado, I hope you enjoy and show this fic some love!

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Such a simple yet comforting flavor

A few blocks from school, two from your swimming club and one from the street you lived on, was an ice cream parlor. Winter’s Star was a place of comfort for both you and Chan, albeit not being that popular for its remote location. It had begun a small tradition and routine for you both.

Ice cream after swim training had become a norm for you both, despite the strict healthy diet your father had established for your growth as a swimmer. You would both intentionally opt not to take the bus and walk to the parlor as to walk off the calorie intake you’d get from the dessert as to get your father off your case.

Every time you’d visit, Chan would dash in, beaming over the glass in excitement at the variety of flavors, selecting a different flavor for every visit, a stark difference to your simple preference of classic vanilla.

And every visit, Chan would tilt his head and pout in confusion, asking why you’d get that every single visit. And each time you’d reply, “I’m paying, and I like it that’s why.” rolling your eyes as he sighs at your boring nature.

Though one evening, after practice had ended a bit later than usual, you can see him deadpan at the sight of the creamy white of your vanilla ice cream. And though he doesn’t ask, you decide to explain, “I’d simply not want to risk trying something new, and honestly I just like sticking with what I’m comfortable with.” You shrug, popping a spoon of the comforting flavor into your mouth.

Chan doesn’t ponder much at your explanation nor does he reply that day, too exhausted to think of one.

𐐪𐑂 ₒ 𐐪𐑂

This routine of yours had begun the summer before middle school. Moving a lot at a young age, Chan had found it difficult to get settled into the new atmosphere, with his distinct features, he barely fit in. Therefore he found himself once again in the corner of his new school’s swim club unsure of how to apply and whom to approach.

His eyes wandered around, observing the different children doing laps and warming up. Swimming was a sport he and his father enjoyed, and it had made his father extremely happy that he had taken enough interest in it to compete in the said sport.

“Oi, newbie, what are you doing here?” The smaller boy flinched at the loud voice, turning towards the source. He sighs, here we go again, the nine-year-old boy thought.

“I c-came t-to a-apply for the swim club.” The boy managed to softly stutter out, eyes downcast, feeling intimidated by the difference in height.

“And at your puny size, ya think ya can swim fast-”

“Oi, why don’t ya shut up Jacob? A big dumb bully like yourself can’t beat me and here you are trying to scare the newbie, being all talk. Why don’t you stop wasting your time picking on new people and spend it practicing and trying to improve your times.” Chan widened his eyes as he turned to the female voice that had interrupted the confrontation.

He was shocked to see a girl around his age, twirling her goggles around her fingers as she approached Jacob, as she had called him, and his crew that currently surrounded the smaller boy.

Jacob, quite flustered with the unknown girl’s statement, attempted to come up with a good comeback but failed to do so as he muttered, “Why’re you butting in L/n, don’t you usually mind your business?” Eyes avoiding yours in the process.

“And so, what if I decide to butt in? Does your ego inflate at hounding the new kid? If it isn’t going to make you swim faster, I suggest you get your butt moving.” The smaller girl scoffed, raising her eyebrow at them, daring them to cross her.” I suggest you all get moving before I call the coach and tell him you’re slacking, wouldn’t want to swim extra laps now?”

Before Chan could even blink, they’re all dashing off into their respective sides of the pool. The transferee chuckled at that, in awe at the confidence the girl carried. She introduced herself, (Y/N) (L/N) he had learned that day, specialized in free, though claimed to be preparing herself for Individual medley.

Chan introduces himself as well, mentioning that he specialized in butterfly. At the revelation, her eyes glowed in excitement as she tugged the smaller boy towards her father.

“Dad! He swims butterfly! He can complete the relay!” Chan observed, fascinated by the complete 180 in her vibe, wherein the confidence and intimidation she had carried earlier, now dissipating to something more suited for a fellow nine-year-old.

She bounces in excitement, tugging at the end of her father’s shirt, to garner his attention. “We can finally have a relay!”

Finishing his conversation on the phone, her father turned towards the pair, raising an eyebrow at her daughter’s excitement. Bending down to their height the older man asked for Chan’s name, to which he replied a soft ‘Christopher Bang’ at this the older man’s eyes widened in surprise.

“You’re that boy that broke the record for the 50 m freestyle swim! Your dad called me earlier to inform me that you had transferred here and wanted to join, fill this up, and (Y/n) here can show you your lockers and the shower rooms to change.”

“Really! What’s your time?! Ugh, I hope it’s not faster than mine.” You had frowned at him, enthusiasm and competitiveness lighting her e/c hues at the revelation of a broken record in her specialty. “Come on, you change, then we race. Loser has to buy ice cream.”

You raced five times and lost all five. It had frustrated you though at the same time had triggered a new type of excitement at the knowledge of someone who would no longer shy away from your competitiveness.

𐐪𐑂 ₒ 𐐪𐑂

Since your first meeting, Chan had indeed become a huge influence and development in your already hectic life. It had shifted your dynamics and attitude towards the sport you had dedicated your life to since you could walk.

Before meeting Chan, you had little to no drive when it came to training and warmups, accustomed to the fact that no one could come close to you in your age range and category. Though now, with the Korean-Australian around, not only did it shift your energy towards the sport, but something had shifted in your relationship with your father along the road.

Your father was a loving man, dedicated to his daughter and bedridden wife, he had been applauded far and wide for raising such a talented daughter dedicated to a sport he too had once dedicated himself to.

It may have seemed that way to the public. However, during the early stages of your childhood, your mother had been in and out of the hospital, something that your five-year-old self couldn’t have understood nor questioned. Living comfortably with the income your father had as a coach and your mother’s family inheritance, your father had opted to hand you over to nannies and private chauffeurs to ensure that you were busy and occupied.

Among the multiple extracurriculars your father had enrolled you in, you had been six when your interest in swimming had peaked. At the discovery of your interest, it had only been then when your father had decided to become more attentive and present in your childhood.

In awe of how quickly you picked up the technique and the different styles, your father had enthusiastically enrolled you into more classes and going further as to fix your diet around the sport, proudly declaring he would raise an Olympian in his stead.

At the age of seven, he had entered you into your first tournament, there you had gotten gold, and honestly, that didn’t matter. What mattered was the warm embrace your father had given you.

Shortly after the tournament, you had arrived home, surprised to see that there had been more staff present as well as unfamiliar people dressed in pajama-looking attire and some donning a white coat.

Soon your nanny leads you into a room faintly smelling like medicine and cleaning materials, it made your nose sting. Though what caught your eye was the bedridden figure connected to multiple machines next to her, sunken eyes, and ghastly figure, you had not been able to recognize your mother.

Having little to no memories of the woman that had given birth to you, made you blink back tears as she called you, voice frail and raspy “Y/n? Is that you? My how big you’ve grown.”

You had slept in her room that night, the soft beeping of monitors and machines lulling you to sleep as you dreamed of picnics and beach trips had faith decided not to be so cruel.

It was then when you promised yourself to bring your mom more medals if it meant spending more time with her. Each tournament you’d finish, you would run in, carefully avoiding wires and the nurses, beaming in excitement about the race and how good you did.

“Are you happy?” She had said to you one day.

“Of course! I just wish you could come to see me swim.” You smile, understanding bits and pieces of her condition, you had never been that good in science.

“Do you have friends in school? Spend time with them, instead of here with me.” The statement confused you, remembering how your father had ensured that you were picked up from and to, preventing you from having playdates, with the statement that they would be mere distractions to your training.

“No not really, but I like being here with-”

“Y/n, you should be living your childhood alright, can you promise me that, love?” She raises her hand to your cheek, caressing it softly.

“Okay, I will, mom.”

A few days after that conversation, you had met Chan, a boy who would, later, be your north star.

𐐪𐑂 ₒ 𐐪𐑂

Chan was never careless, especially when it came to things like equipment and his stuff in general, he was always so thorough when it came to packing, so it was rare to see him coming back to school to get something he had forgotten.

What he also hadn’t expected was to see you here as well, fully knowing that your father had a private pool in his residence used not only to train you but as well his private students.

“You had been getting too comfortable, look at your weight, look at your times.” Chan hears your father’s voice from the locker rooms, the Korean Australian hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but with how loud your father’s voice echoed it was hard not to do so. “Do you think your mother would be proud?”

“She said, I should make friends-”

“YOUR MOTHER IS SICK.” Chan flinches at your father’s loud voice as it echoes.

“She’s sick, just because she says something it doesn’t mean you should follow through.” Your father’s voice softens this time, exhaustion peeking through.

“Friends? You’d be distracted and before you even know it. You’d be toppled off that little podium of yours.” He pauses, scoffing. “Don’t make me regret allowing you to hang out with the Bang boy. Beat his times, don’t get too comfortable just cause you’re topping your bracket.”

Chan doesn’t realize he’s been holding his breath till he hears both your footsteps as you exit the hall. What he’s heard has left him baffled, you weren’t exactly talkative when it came to your family affairs, you never seemed to be so bothered either.

The Korean-Australian remembers faintly the rumors that followed your persona. All about your reluctance when it came to making friends, never taking into consideration that perhaps your father had played a part in your icy exterior and reputation.

No wonder most of the kids in your academy had been so shocked to see you interact and talk with the transferee, knowing that you had never been the type to prefer company.

𐐪𐑂 ₒ 𐐪𐑂

It wasn’t like you to be so careless either, you were quite attentive when it came to maintaining your grades and health as an athlete.

So, the D on your most recent math test, as well as the onset symptoms of cold was something that had made your blood run cold. Your school followed a strict protocol that required athletes to maintain a good record, which included having Bs and upon all tests.

Anything less than that would mean a week of suspension when it came to training as well as being supplied a set of reviewers to “catch up”, which you were required to finish and submit by the end of the suspension.

Not only that but surprisingly, your father was quite sensitive when it came to your physical welfare, a result of your mother’s condition, honestly. Which meant that the man would not let you near any body of water until you would be in perfect health.

Dread seemed to settle into your system as you hand him your slip, which would signify your suspension. “You were coughing earlier, take time off, I’ll call the nutritionist to change your diet. I’ll call the tutor-”

“You’re getting a tutor?” Chan beams behind your father, “I can help you, I’m in advanced remember?”

Times like these the Korean- Australian baffled you with his audacity, as he continued to grow out of his shyness, and despite your dad having explicitly stated that he had preferred you not to spend any time with your fellow swimmer, he still respected the Korean Australian’s talent and dedication to the sport.

“You’re in advanced math classes Chris?” Chan nods at this in hopes that the coach would consider his offer. “Your times have gotten better, you could take a few days off, with her.”

What?

You’re both in the locker rooms packing your bags when you whisper, “How’d you do that?”

“What do you mean?” Chan hums, amused by your intrigued form.

“My dad, your coach, the F/n L/n, agreed with your suggestion. How did you do that?” You’re poking at his sides, determined to make him spill.

“Secret~” He pokes his tongue out, running out of the training hall.

𐐪𐑂 ₒ 𐐪𐑂

You had your chauffeur, drop you off in the Bang Residence, surprised to learn that you lived a street down. You’re warmly welcomed by Chan’s parents greeting and smiling at them through your mask.

“Looks like you didn’t my help nor a tutor, Y/n” Chan smiles seeing that you’re almost through seven worksheets, the swimmer knew you were smart and could keep up with your grades. Though for you to be this careless, he knew that something might’ve been bothering you.

“Come on, let’s go.” You’re shocked as he pulls you up to stand, making you drop your pen and papers, the boy barely gives you any room to argue before he’s pushing you out of the doorway.

“But- my work”

“Could be done within the week remember? Not in one go.”

Before you could even argue, you’re flabbergasted to find yourself seated on a bus, on the way to some location that Chan would not tell you anything about. “We could’ve taken the car, Chan.”

“And where’s the fun in that?” He grins dimple popping out.

“Just remember we have to be back at seven before my driver arrives-”

“Yada-yada, we’ll be fine now let’s have some fun, my style, and my treat!” Chan gestures to the mall you’ve arrived at, giggling at your stunned expression.

𐐪𐑂 ₒ 𐐪𐑂

Honestly, you’ve never ridden a bus, nor have you been to a mall, or arcade. These are all things you’ve seen in films and movies, living such a secluded life, your father would bust a vein to find out that you were here.

Though there’s a first for everything. It’s also been a while since you’ve had this much fun, laughing, and giggling at every little thing. You’re thankful to have released a little bit of stress, even for just a moment.

Chan even manages to win you a small whale plushie from the arcade. Though you probably think he could’ve saved by just buying you one from the shop across. It amazes you to see teenagers and kids just your age, littered across the mall, you had never thought to come to a place like this.

“Thanks for today.” You nudge him with your elbow, the plushie safely tucked underneath your armpit, digging into the vanilla ice cream you had gotten on the way home.

“Sure, but you’re treating me next time.” You halt, raising an eyebrow at the older boy.

“What do you mean next time?”

“Y/nnnnnn..” He drags your name in a whine. “Fun things are supposed to be done again, you can’t just live your life just swimming and going to school. We’re kids! We’re supposed to have fun and live life and make memories! That’s what life’s supposed to be! Alright?”

You should be living your childhood. Your mother’s voice pierces through your head, at Chan’s words, had this been what she meant?

“Hey. are you crying? Ya! Don’t cry” You hear Chan say something inaudible perhaps in Korean, as he frets over your crying figure, you see him pat himself down, hearing a small “aha!” before he’s reaching over to dry your tears with a handkerchief.

Softly patting down your cheeks, he sighs. “You don’t have to tell me, what’s wrong, but I’m right here, and I will always be.” He’s pulling you into a hug, you feel your body stiffen from the contact, surprised at the display of intimacy.

You don’t question why, but it feels warm and safe. Just like a cup of vanilla ice cream after a nice swim on the beach.

𐐪𐑂 ₒ 𐐪𐑂

“Hey, wake up, we’re here” a soft nudge pushes at your side, you hum in response, finding the boy’s shoulder comfortable.

Chan sighs, smiling at how comfortable you were with your head on his shoulder, cooing at your initiation of intimacy. It had taken you a few years before you were comfortable with any form of affection at all, putting two and two together to realize it must’ve had something to do with your family.

The young swimmer was well aware he was never obliged to fix you nor your situation despite his young age, but seeing you glow and smile at the different yet simple aspects of life that had been prohibited by your situation made him feel warm.

Ever since your first hug, albeit its awkwardness, you had become more receptive to little bits of physical affection and verbal affirmation. Chan smiling as recalled the first time you had initiated a hug, mindlessly throwing your arms around your best friend after he had gotten you a present for your birthday. Needless to say, you had become quite flustered at the realization of your actions.

Over the past few years, your father’s complaints about your friendship with Chan had lessened, seeing your continuous development in terms of grades and dedication. And despite being friends, the competitive fire within you had never ceased, holding on to that desire to beat Chan’s record.

The sun has set. You realize as you open your eyes, blinking out remnants of your drowsiness as you yawn. You’re raising your head from Chan’s shoulder when you realize his hand was extremely close to your face.

You’re jolting up in embarrassment before muttering, “Have I been drooling?” Quickly patting and wiping your lips for saliva.

“Uh, maybe, but it’s f-”

“Don’t you dare say it’s fine Christopher! Augh! This is embarrassing you should’ve woken me up!” You’re storming out of the car, cheeks warm in your flustered form.

Chan chuckles, how cute.

𐐪𐑂 ₒ 𐐪𐑂

Ever since hearing of your newly found friend, your mother had continuously asked for you to bring Chan over. And since their meeting, your mother had continuously asked for the return of your polite and talented friend.

It amused you how your mother stated he was like an angel with his voice and good nature, well she wasn’t entirely wrong. Your mother had never shared anything about her life before her sickness, you knew that she had been an only child like you, and from the number of books and records on the shelf in her room, as well as the violin and record player on the side, her interests must’ve been aligned with those.

So when Chan had asked, “What’s your mother like?” You didn’t really know how you could respond to the question and before you know it the line of liking music and books had been stumbling out of your mouth.

Chan’s eyes had lit up at the mention of music, proceeding to ask which artist, what genre. Though with observant eyes, Chan could see your aura dim, he decides to drop the topic, he asks you about the latest Pokemon game. That had been the first time, you’d taken note of Chan’s interest in music.

Though it still surprises you when the day he meets your mother, he arrives with a fresh fruit basket and a ukulele.

He had smiled at your mother that day before he began strumming a soft melody you didn’t recognize. It takes him a while before he states that he had made the melody on his own, struggling to find the lyrics to suit them.

You remember your mother’s words; “It should come from here, whatever you do in life, ensure that your heart will beat for it.” She had said.

Your mother at times was an enigma, speaking in poetry that you struggled to decipher. Some days, you were envious when you’d see her with Chan, seemingly sharing a secret they wouldn’t let you in on. Chan would always seem to understand the puzzling lines she’d say.

It’s another afternoon to which your mother had invited Chan over, you’re both stepping into her room when you find her immersed in one of her classics, a thick leather bounded book, you’d be too terrified to try and read, without busting a vein.

She doesn’t look up, when she hears you two enter, she never does, and you know better than to disturb her amidst her reading. Though you admit that there’s this aura about your mother when she’s immersed in a book, it’s as if she takes a step into the world she’s reading about, escaping whatever pain she currently faces in reality.

It’s only until you set the peeled apples on the table next to her when she looks up. “How has your day been, love? Your father hasn’t been overworking you too much?” She sets the book and her glasses on her bedside table.

“I’m fine mum, Chan brought you some apples, and look they’re cut like bunnies.” She smiles as you offer a slice into her mouth, carefully biting onto it.

“That’s good to hear, Chan dear, my you’ve grown look how tall you’ve grown since I last saw you.” Your mother reaches to ruffle his curls.

“Mom you saw him last week-”

“Have I? really auntie!” You roll your eyes at the overly enthusiastic reply at the mention of his height.

A knock halts your conversation, the door opens to reveal your father’s secretary, she calls your name, stating that your father had called you into his office. You take one last look at Chan and your mother, letting them know that you’d be right back.

𐐪𐑂 ₒ 𐐪𐑂

Perhaps it’s the thick atmosphere of your father’s office, but at the sight of the envelope with its infamous school colors, it’s as if all the oxygen in the room had been sucked out.

Your father passes you the envelope, “Everything’s been settled, we can get you a flat there, or perhaps you’d like to live in their dorms. You start next semester, you can move after your graduation.-”

“Does mom know?”

“She does.”

“When had this been sent in?”

“Just last week, you really don’t need to worry about anything dear, be sure you graduate and get a good result on next week’s tournament.” Right graduation.

With all the exams you had recently finished as well as training it had completely slipped your mind that you were entering high school in two months.

You faintly recall a conversation you and Chan had after finding out about his interest in music. “(Y/n), What are you going to be when you grow up?” He had asked you during one of your trips to the ice cream parlor, digging into his salted caramel ice cream.

The question caught you off guard. What did you want to do? Eyes downcast you began to finding interest in the vanilla ice cream, as you picked at it. “I’ll probably continue swimming, that’s what my dad wants.”

“Yeah, that's what your dad wants, but what do you want? Like I want to do something with music! I want to use it as a platform to spread messages, to help people find comfort in music the way I do.” He had looked so bright, so gleeful, like a star so far and out of reach.

“Oh, that’s amazing Chris. Though I don’t know what I want to do.” How you wish you were just as passionate as Chan, wishing you could break through your comfort zone to chase after the one thing you loved the most.

“Then I’ll help you find something, something you’ll come to love the way I do with music.”Maybe at that time, I had found something to love, maybe I just didn’t know it yet. “But if you love swimming, then you’ll be the greatest swimmer in the world, you’ll be an Olympic medalist!” He raises his ice cream cup as a toast, you clink yours with him, smiling at how happy he looked.

Chan was your north star, no matter which direction the universe spun, he remained unwavering, shining bright and leading you to home, him, your comfort.

Dazed, you don’t realize you’ve been standing in front of your mother’s room until Chan opens the door, he yelps in shock at the sight of your deadpanned eyes.

He says something in Korean, clutching his heart at the unintentional scare. “You scared me, why are you standing there like some zombie.”

“Oops, sorry just a bit occupied.” Quickly hiding the envelope behind your back, something his eyes don’t miss. “Let’s go, dinner’s ready.”

𐐪𐑂 ₒ 𐐪𐑂

After dinner you decide to take a walk to have some ice cream at the familiar parlor you frequented ever since becoming friends and after you had lost to him the first time you met.

Sitting down you both order, asking for your usual vanilla-flavored ice cream, Chan picks the mint chocolate chip, a special for the week. He’s silent all of a sudden, fixing you with a serious gaze as he takes in a deep breath. It made you uneasy suddenly as if whatever he would say next would change your fate.

And it did.

“Y/n remember when I said I wanted to make music?” He asks, fiddling with the spoon, nervous which was a rare sight for the charismatic boy.

You hum in response allowing him to continue. “Well, my parents and I made a deal, they would allow me to live in South Korea as a trainee, as long as I got into a good company. And well I got in, you’re now looking at the latest Australian trainee of JYP Entertainment. I'm leaving after the tournament next week!” He points to himself with his thumb, smiling and giddy to hear your response.

Korea as in Korea within Asia? That's 6828 kilometers away!

“(Y/n), are you alright? You’re not saying anything, there is something wrong.” Without noticing you had turned your head down, allowing your hair to create a curtain between you two. He reaches out to tuck your hair behind your ears and is surprised to be met by your tear-stained cheeks. “You’re crying.” He says, unsure of what to say and what made you upset. “Are you not happy I got in?”

“No, I'm happy! You’re finally getting what you dreamed of! You’re going to be amazing Chris. I’m crying because of how happy I am for you.” I’m going to be all alone. You’re going to be living 6828 kilometers away, in a foreign country when we barely turned 14. I’m going to be all alone. I want to be happy for you but why does this hurt so much? I’m going to be all alone.

You might as well tell him. “I’m moving, I got into Griffith so I’m moving into the dorms as well.”

“That’s huge! That place is a breeding ground for Olympians! That’s amazing! We’re both chasing after our dreams, after all. Congratulations Y/n.” It honestly didn’t feel like something to be happy of.

All will be alright, with time. We’ll be alright.

𐐪𐑂 ₒ 𐐪𐑂

The next following day came faster than expected you both tried to pretend he wasn’t leaving in the next few days, you tried to pretend that you’d still be able to see one another in the next few years and maybe the next few days. A sense of normalcy in the upcoming days of uncertainty. Neither of you had any idea what fate had in store for you both and you could only hope.

And soon enough the day of the tournament finally rolls around. You’re buzzing with excitement as you entered the building. Chan, on the other hand, was nervous at this being his last swim meet, he hoped to make this as memorable as possible. And though you never say it, Chan knew that deep down you loved swimming, no matter how much you tried to make it out that you only did it for your dad.

He sees you glow the moment you step into the pool, he knew you’re meant for this, to be up there with the pro athletes he too had admired. And as much as it hurt him to leave you, he’s stunned and in awe of how much stronger you’ve become.

He loved the confidence that you had as you walked into the competition hall, ignoring the curious gazes, and turning heads at the mention of your name. You have been destined to reign the competitive world of swimming, and he knew he wasn’t as good as you were to reign alongside you. He had accepted that a long time ago.

He walks with you to the locker room to prepare and change, trailing a few steps after you. Observing the looks of both younger and older swimmers in awe at the sight of you, your reputation in the sport was indeed something to uphold.

You turn to him gripping your gym bag tightly, which he had offered to carry but had been rejected along the lines of saying that you were a woman that could carry your belongings or something like that. “Well, I’ll see you later, wish me luck.” You raise your fist to him, initiating your signature good luck handshake before every competition. The handshake brought you a lot of reassurance and strength, taking away any worries you’d have.

You grin at him one last time, turning at your heels to enter the room, but before you take another step, he pulls you in for a hug, squeezing you tightly, your hands awkward by your sides, unsure of whether to hug him back. “You don’t need luck, go wreck them.”

You scoff at his words, finally deciding to wrap your arms around his shoulder. “Of course, see ya later Bangaroo.”

Up in the stands Chan observes you as you take your positions on the starting block, he smiles to himself as he sees you wearing the goggles and swim cap, he had given you during your last birthday. He had saved for it the whole year to surprise you with your favorite swimming brand. You had teared up at the gift, before smacking him for the times he had complained every time you invited him to the parlor.

He had never seen you wear the cap and goggles at practice, you had told him you had to save the luck for competitions. He had asked you to explain though you brushed off the statement by pushing him into the pool.

“It’s nice to see you here, isn’t this your last swim meet?” Chan blinks in surprise as the older man takes a seat beside him joining him to observe his daughter.

“Coach (L/n)..” Chan greets, unsure of what to say. Since, the knowledge of his rough treatment of his best friend, he had preferred not to stay too close to the older man, aware of his dislike for him.

“She’s still as amazing as ever.” Your father whispers in awe more to himself rather than Chan. “I was surprised you know, at her growth and development since your arrival. You’ve been an amazing push to her capabilities as a swimmer, that I have to admit.”

The older man stands up all of a patting him on the shoulder, “Well good luck, and thank you for giving her that push. Hug her for me later.” Chan’s surprised by the time your father leaves is just in time you finish the swim, realizing you had already won.

28.08 He gasps as he sees the scoreboard alongside your name. 28.08 You had broken his 50M Free record by a second, after years of competing and ice cream trips, you’ve finally done it. He sees you shocked as well, he meets your eyes, throwing you a thumbs up from the stands, grin highlighted by his dimples.

You looked radiant, a small voice in his head reassures him that he made the right choice., that you’d be alright. He starts heading toward the locker rooms to prepare. He’s stunned by your father’s words, he knows in his heart he made the right decision, and he knows he shouldn’t let this bother him, especially when he’s about to compete.

He steps into the starting block, slipping on his goggles, snapping them against the back of his head to erase any of his worries. Lastly, he’s putting on his swim cap. Taking deep even breaths, it’s his last swim. Chan wants to make this as memorable as possible.

He closes his palm clenching it, testing to see how shaky and nervous he was, only to see that it wasn’t that bad. His heart rate isn’t so accelerated either. They’re given the signals to take their positions. And Chan is surprised there are no unpleasant jitters in his stomach.

Chan reacts with the beep, kicking off the starting block and then diving into the waters, he feels the pull of gravity just as he surfaces to take his first breath. Rotating from his shoulders, he paces his breathing for the first lap to maintain his stamina. Though once he approaches the end, he gives a powerful kick to the touchpad turning as he accelerates. In the last lap, he pushes himself to go faster, erasing all thoughts and worries. He reminds himself that this is his specialty, the one style in swimming you couldn’t beat him at. He’s slipping his goggles and swim cap before he even realizes he won.

Chris places gold. And it feels exhilarating, he feels so happy he could cry. He sees you in the stands, grinning and he’s sure he mirrors your grin.

You’re taking a few pictures, not missing the chance to take matching iconic pics biting gold medals. A small voice at the back of your head asks what the odds of would be you two doing these pictures at a larger scale.

After dinner, which his parents had invited you to, you’re both walking to that ice cream parlor two blocks from his house. You’re chuckling as Chan waves his wallet, a show that he would be paying for the first time.

You smile as he hands you, your usual cup of vanilla-flavored ice cream. You’re now walking back to his house, soaking up the comfortable atmosphere trying to let the events that happened today sink in. Chan would be leaving tomorrow morning, and you’d be leaving in a few weeks as well.

“So, mister idol, are you excited?” Deciding to break the silence, nudging at him as his ears turn pink.

“A bit, it’s a huge leap, you know, absolutely knowing no one, I still have an accent when I speak in Korean it might sound weird, gosh I have to make friends and all that. But oh god, what if I can’t make any? What if I don’t debut? What if I just don’t cut it? Oh god, you’re not going to be there to treat me to ice cream, to binge on anime, treat me to food and ice cream. I just-” Chan pauses as his voice cracks, footsteps coming to a halt, “I’m just going to miss Australia so so much.”

You find yourself gaping, as you see the taller boy crumble. Between the two of you, it had always been you to be the emotional one, the crybaby, on the other hand, Chan had always been your rock and your shoulder to cry on no matter the situation. Seeing him cry pulled at your heartstrings, soon enough you’re throwing your arms around him, rubbing circles into his back.

“You’re going to be fine, Chris, you’ll be amazing, and if any of them starts anything with you, I’m booking a flight to kick their arse.” Pulling away from the hug, you cup his cheeks, wiping his tears for the first time in your friendship.

Knowing how worried he was with all the changes, it was your turn to be his rock, after all the times he had been yours. Chris was amazing no matter what he was doing, whether it was sitting in class paying attention to a math problem, or asking for your opinion on his swimming, or just talking to you. He was meant to be amazing.

You don’t realize you’ve been staring at him until. “Are you going to miss me?”

You sigh at his red-rimmed eyes, endeared at his sniffles. “Of course, I am, I care about you a lot, what makes you think I wouldn’t, you better not forget me when you’re all famous. I’m just a bit disappointed we’re going our separate ways, we’ve been through a lot, you’ve been there for me no matter what, I’m grateful for meeting you, Chris.” It takes you a while to realize that you’re tearing up.

“I’m really really going to miss you, Chris. It’s going to be different not swimming with you anymore, not going to the parlor to get ice cream, teasing you for how much you eat, letting me win video games, who’s going to teach me math!? If I weren’t good at swimming the teachers wouldn’t be so patient with me!” You struggle to hold back your tears, deciding to reach up and hide your face in the crevice of his neck and shoulder, squeezing him in reassurance.

Chan fixes his arms around your waist, returning the hug, “We’re going to be fine, so long as that no matter what you do, make sure it comes from here, you’ll be alright, we’ll be alright, you’re stronger than ever. Don’t you ever let anyone take that from you, okay? I have something for you. Can you close your eyes?”

With your eyes shut, you can feel Chan’s hands around your neck, you can feel his soft breathing, and the soft click of a clasp. “You can open them.” You gasp at the sight of the pretty mermaid tail that sat on the crevice of your collar bones.

“You were meant for this Y/n. You radiate and glow when you swim, you’re going to do amazing.” Chan presses a soft kiss into your forehead, a reminder of how much taller he’s grown. “I have something else for you tomorrow, but that’s a surprise for you tomorrow, I’ll give it to you at the airport tomorrow, okay?” He presses another kiss into your cheek, wiping the few tears that had escaped.

Soon enough, you’re on your way back home, the previously comforting silence disrupted by distant yet ear-splitting sirens, you pay it no mind until you notice how it sounds closer as you near your house.

You’re gasping at the sight of the bright blue and red lights, frozen still as you see paramedics roll your mother out of the house. Everything blurs as you’re pushed and ushered here and there, calls of your name passing through the other ear.

As everything goes dark.

𐐪𐑂 ₒ 𐐪𐑂

“I’m sure it was just fatigue.” In and out of consciousness, you found it difficult to determine which parts of it were real, and which weren’t.

“Mom?” Fluttering your eyes open, you were surprised to see a bright white interior, contrasting the blue hues of your room in your house.

“Y/n?” Turning towards the voice, you’re met by your nanny’s worried eyes, as she hovers a damp towel to your forehead. “You’re in the hospital dear, you passed out after we fetched you last night, your mother I’m afraid, she doesn’t have much time left.”

“Where is she-” You’re rushing to stand, wincing in pain when you realize that you have an IV attached to you. “Bring me to her.”

The nanny struggles to aid you in your haste, pushing the IV behind your quick steps. Luckily your mother had been in the room next to you, had it been any further your legs would have given up.

The soft hum and consistent beeps of machines echoed throughout your mother’s room; the sharp scent of antiseptics clouded your thinking. Your father stands from the side of her bed, you’re surprised when he meets you at the door, softly telling the nanny to leave as he takes your hand in his, guiding your IV in the process.

He quietly helps you up into your mother’s bed, who’s surprisingly awake, and smiles at the sight of you. You can feel tears well up, your heart heavy as you take in her figure, engraving it to your heart. She still wears the blue and white scarf atop her head, something you had given her after receiving your first allowance as an athlete.

You don’t realize you’re shaking as you reach to caress her cheek, carefully avoiding the wires attached to her. She holds your hand to her cheek, appreciating the warmth you brought. “Hello love, I heard you passed out, are you doing alright?”

You could only nod in response, your chest heavy as tears began to drip into the white sheets of her bed. “Now listen to me love, you are the sun, you are my sun, and I know I haven’t been there that much to show you all the love you deserve, but I do love you. You are the sun that brought me warmth in that cold room of mine, you are the light that beams when you step into the room. Don’t you ever let anyone dim your light.”

She carefully pulls you into her chest, rubbing small patterns into your back, in an attempt to soothe the shaking of your chest. “You’re going to be alright, love, live the life you love, and everything will be alright. Mom loves you so much, you're so amazing you should know that. I might not be a part of your bigger achievements, your ups and downs in life, falling in love, and all that. Though I do hope you find someone, who’d be there until the end, someone to hold your hand in this dark and empty world. Though I want you to remember that you are beyond your medals, I will still love you no matter what you choose to do in life, alright? I will forever be proud to be your mother-” Her voice dwindles as she trails off, her arm dropping from behind your back, as her breath stills in the process.

The room goes up in flames as everything begins to beep loudly, you could do nothing but sob harder as you cling to your dying mother. The next few minutes are a blur, in the chaos, you feel someone pull you from your mother’s chest as the room floods with medical personnel.

It takes you a while to realize that it’s your father who holds you, turning you away from your mother’s figure as you continue to sob, unable to say anything but cry. The word I love you lingers on the tip of your tongue, regret weighing heavily on your chest.

𐐪𐑂 ₒ 𐐪𐑂

You hadn’t realized you had passed out once more, eyes adjusting to bright hospital lights as everything feels numb. You’re surprised to see your father passed out on the chair next to your bed, eyes swollen and sunken with everything that had happened.

Feeling a bit parched, you reach for the water bottle that had supposedly been there, but instead, you find a small iPod and some earphones. Chan’s unique penmanship on the iPod catches your eye, intrigued, you reach for it.

Another strike of guilt threatens to pull at your heartstrings, of the realization that you had missed his flight. “The Bangs came by the house to drop that off, they mentioned that Chris had wanted to give you this before his flight.” Your father blinks sleep out of his eyes, stretching before he leaves the room.

It takes you a while to untangle the earphones before you plug them in the iPod with a soft click before you wear them. The small square weighs heavy on your hand as you press play.

“Hello, Y/n!” You jump a bit at the loudness of Chan’s voice quickly adjusting the volume.

“Since that fateful day where you saved me from the bullies, I have forever been in your debt. Kidding! “You roll your eyes amused as he continues talking.

“Well not really, but honestly Y/n you have played a huge role not only in my development as a swimmer but as well as a friend. You had been someone I wanted to protect from all the cruel things in this world, had I not met you I wonder if I would’ve had any friends here.” Says the social butterfly, yeah right Christopher.

“I really wished it hadn’t been this way,” I wish it hadn’t been this way either.

“We had a good run Y/n, I am forever grateful to have met you. Now I don’t have much to say, but in a few minutes, a song will play. It’s a song I made. It's something your mom helped put together. I do hope you enjoy this little gift from us, and please do give her a hug in my stead. I do hope you like this song, and may you continue to shine as you take on the professional world of swimming! With love, Your Bangaroo” With everything that has happened, you don’t really feel disappointed or sad with your best friend’s decision, maybe a bit of regret from the lack of time, but all you could do is hope that time and faith would not be so cruel once more.

Chan’s voice fades out as a soft melody of piano notes begins to play, your heart warms as Chan’s voice begins to sing.

“And take, take her to the moon for me

Take her like you promised me

Say you love her every time like how you told me the last time”

You could understand why your mother had told you that Chan was like your guardian angel. Albeit a bit of an exaggeration for a boy your age, but his soft and giving nature had been your source of comfort and happiness throughout middle school and for that, you will forever be grateful.

“Someday I know we'll meet again

In heaven by the rainbow's end

And I only wish you happiness

Until we meet again”

𐐪𐑂 ₒ 𐐪𐑂

#inkidz #stray kids scenarios #stray kids imagines #stray kids fluff #stray kids angst #bang chan x reader #bang chan x you #bang chan fic #bang chan imagines #swimmer! bang chan #idol! bang chan #swimmer! reader #childhood friends to lovers

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katehuntington · 4 years

Text

Title: Ride With Me (part 25) Fandom: Supernatural Timeline: 2008 Pairing: Dean x Reader Word count: ±6900 words Summary series: Y/N is a talented horse rider who is on her way to become a professional. In order to convince her father that she deserves the loan needed to start her own farm, she goes to Arizona for six months, to intern at a ranch owned by Bobby and Ellen Singer. Her future is set out, but then she meets a handsome horseman, who goes by the name of Dean Winchester. A heartwarming series about a cowboy who falls for the girl, letting go of the past and the importance of family. Summary part 25: Y/N and Dean struggle with the aftermath of their split. Working together proves to be difficult, but other relationships within the ranch family took a hit as well. When the cowboy thinks the day can’t get much worse, complications arise, forcing him to make yet another difficult decision. Warnings series: NSFW, 18+ only! Fluff, angst, eventually smut. Swearing, smoking, alcohol intoxication, alcohol abuse. Mutual pining, heartbreak, slowburn. Crying, nightmares, childhood trauma. Description of animal abuse, domestic violence, mentions of addiction. Financial problems, stress, mental breakdown. Description of blood and injury, hospital scenes, character death, grief. Music: (opening scene) The Eye - Brandi Carlile. (Ride with Meadow scene) Home - Hans Zimmer. Follow ‘Kate Huntington’s Ride With Me playlist’ on Spotify! Author’s note: Beta’d by my mom (yes, you read that right. My mom reads my stuff and is on Tumblr). Thank you, @girl-with-a-fandom-fettish, @kittenofdoomage, @manawhaat, @waywardbeanie, @atc74, and @winchest09 for helping me with this story. Also a special thanks to @jules-1999, who has offered me her knowledge about rodeo events like these, and @squirrelnotsam, who knows Arizona like the back of her hand.

Ride With Me Masterlist

With frustrated motions, Y/N stuffs her clothes into a bag, not even bothered to sort the items out. Her cheeks are tear-stained once again and she wipes at them angrily. Stop crying, it won’t get you anywhere, she scolds herself, done with feeling this emotional. After all, today is Monday, just another day at the ranch, and they have a lot of work to do. Garth and Ellen did the necessary stable work, but the horses which are usually trained by Jo, Dean, and herself had three days off while their riders were in Flagstaff.

Dean. Just the name reverberating in her head forces her to pause her actions. She dips her chin, closes her eyes, and takes a breath. Why? That’s the question she keeps asking herself. Why did he break up with her? Why did he pretend to care, only to hurt her the way he did? Why has he become so bitter, so selfish, so unlike the man she thought he was?

The questions remain unanswered, and she doesn’t expect they will give her any consolation either. That was the whole issue to begin with, wasn’t it? He can’t be honest. Apparently, he doesn’t think she’s capable of bearing the load he is meant to share with his partner. Apparently, she’s not good enough. Just like she didn’t meet her first boyfriend’s standards, who got tired of her spending more time with her horses than with him. Her second relationship ended in a fiasco as well, this time it was his jealousy of her success that caused the split. Yesterday proved that the third time clearly isn’t a charm. But neither of her previous significant others ever caused a cataclysm as the one Dean has left behind. Her heart is a wasteland now.

“Are you leaving?” She’s pulled away from her thoughts by Jo’s voice, her tone matching the horrified expression on her face. She stands in the doorway, looking down at the open suitcase on the floor and the unzipped bag. All of a sudden, Y/N realizes what the scene must look like. “No. I’m just sorting out my washing,” she says quickly. “Oh…” the blonde cowgirl sighs, relieved. “For a second there I thought--” “I won’t let your scumbag cousin chase me away, Jo,” her friend assures her.

Truth be told, though, she has been thinking about it. Last night she had typed down her information on a booking website, ready to confirm her flight back to Freeport, but as her finger hovered over the ‘confirm’ button, she closed the tab and slammed her laptop closed. The intern came here on a mission. She is going to prove to her parents and to herself that she has what it takes to run her own ranch and that she deserves that business loan. She is not going to abort just because her heart is broken, come hell or high water.

“Well, good. I would have roped you like a cow and tied you to the saddle anyway,” Jo scoffs, leaning against the doorframe.

The cowgirl chuckles as she collects the last of her dirty laundry, zips up the bag, and puts it on the bed. The sight of the not-particularly comfortable mattress has her wishing she could crawl back under the covers and get some much-needed sleep. That’s not an option, however, and so she takes her hat from the corner bedpost and places it on her head. Before she goes out, she quickly checks her makeup in the mirror, but thankfully her tears haven’t smudged her waterproof eyeliner and mascara, and her foundation is still covering the bags under her eyes. It’s been a while since she hid behind the beauty-products, but the confidence Dean gave her has disappeared the second he ended their relationship, so she put her mask back on. There is no way she will give her ex-boyfriend the satisfaction of witnessing just how broken she is.

Y/N inhales deeply and squares her shoulders, lifting her chin as she stares at her reflection. The woman who looks back at her is fierce and resilient; the complete opposite of the little girl that’s hiding inside. Of course, she doesn’t want to face the day nor the man who hurt her, but she is left with no choice. There is so much more at stake here; her future, her career. This is business, and she will treat it as such. Y/N glances at Jo, giving her a nod, and her friend smiles faintly doing the same.

Rubbing his tired eyes, Dean pours himself his third cup of coffee. Saying that he had a rough night, is putting it mildly. The first digit of his alarm clock had already changed into a ‘2’ when he finally drifted off, only to jolt awake an hour and a half later, his bedsheets clinging to his sweat-covered skin. For the first time in years, a nightmare has caused havoc, images of his worst memories coming through cracks in the walls he built around all that childhood trauma. After freshening up, he laid in bed again while last night’s events alternated with those same disturbing scenes he saw in his dreams, the sad motion picture of sorrow and heartbreak projected on the ceiling. He gave up on sleeping around four-thirty in the morning, got dressed, and sat out on the porch until the sun came up. But no matter how hard he focused on the sounds of the night that tried to soothe him, he couldn't get her out of his mind. The pain laced in her desperate voice, the tears that fell because of him. But after those hurtful images, he also remembers that bright smile, her giggles, the sparkle in her eyes when she has achieved something. Her tenderness, her touch… It hasn’t even been twelve hours and he’s already craving Y/N, fighting an addiction for a drug he can never have again. The girl who is no longer his Yankee.

A door squeaks and Dean glances aside, immediately redirecting his gaze back to the coffee mug on the small kitchen counter when Y/N comes into view, followed suit by Jo. Instantly, the tension in the living room shoots through the roof, the crooked, little bunkhouse barely able to maintain the strain. He doesn’t say anything, but thankfully Garth and Benny do exchange a ‘good morning’ with the girls, the silence interrupted by the casual exchange.

He spots her perfectly applied makeup, her hair tied back in a tight ponytail that doesn’t allow a single strand to escape the rubber band. Her shirt is neatly tucked into her jeans, ironed and spotless, just like the day when she arrived at the ranch. Even though she looks breathtaking, the vision saddens him; she’s back to being the woman who needs to have everything under control. He gets it, though, because when she took his advice to loosen up, she let her guard down. If she had kept both hands on the reins, Y/N would have never allowed him to get so close and comfortable. Dean only made things worse for her, and now she was left to pick up the pieces of all that he broke.

Without saying a word, he grabs his coffee and pushes the door handle down to make his exit, not wanting to make her life more difficult than he already has.

Ultimately, this Monday was bound to get worse with every passing minute. Dean decided to get an early start before breakfast and got on the tractor, but when the ranch hand tried to back up in order to drag the arena, he couldn't get the old John Deere into reverse. A glance underneath soon determined why and he exclaimed a loud ‘fuck!’ when he detected the puddle of gearbox-oil on the dusty ground. Turning the fresh horses out only added to his agitation, especially when the youngsters stirred up the palomino stallion Led while the wrangler was hand-walking him. The Quarter is still recovering from the nasty tendon injury he suffered on the job, and isn’t supposed to be bouncing off the concrete like a rubber ball on a leash, but tell that to an energetic horse who has barely been out of his box for the past month. Garth readied a horse for his boss, which he managed to ride before breakfast, but Dean was unfocused and gave up after thirty minutes.

Now, they were all quietly eating their breakfast, the delicious meal giving them some consolation. Ellen observes the awfully silent crew, exchanging a look with her daughter, who with a slow shake of her head tells her mother to not bring it up, and so she doesn’t. The head wrangler is the first to get up from his seat, rinse his plate in the sink, and return to the stables. The others follow his example, the barn soon buzzing with activity.

Y/N works like a dog, mucking out the stable in record time without pausing. It’s a good distraction for her reeling mind, the hard labor ridding her of the frustration that boils her blood whenever she thinks of the man who ruined her faith in true love. Garth, sensing that the intern was fine on her own, took the tough job of raking the arena by hand, since machinery has let them down. Meanwhile, Jo and Dean train the animals as per usual, but there’s no bantering between them during the cool down. In fact, the wrangler’s cousin has decided to ignore him altogether.

Getting more irritated with every second passing, the horseman dismounts the six-year-old gelding named Santana, deciding that a light workout is enough for today. The wrangler is always careful to not let his emotions bleed into his work, but he’s finding it difficult to keep himself in check. Jo has already parked her horse next to the bay Quarter and has tacked down the buckskin without granting Dean a look. He sighs; Jo is not easily going to forgive him for hurting her friend, but he still tries to break the stifling silence.

“Can you pass me the water?” he asks, nodding at the yellow garden hose that’s rolled up by the faucet. Without even granting him a look, the ranch owner’s daughter throws the showerhead in his direction, the nozzle clattering on the tiles in front of Dean’s feet. He sighs, annoyed. “So this is how it’s gonna be?” he scoffs. “I get that you’re mad, but you can at least t--” “I have nothing to say to you,” she snaps.

It’s not the first time Jo is angry with him, because the two have a habit of getting on each other’s nerves. This time it’s different, though, and the bitterness in her tone sends a clear message that he has burned his bridges. Gritting his teeth, he lets the comment slide, deciding that it’s useless to fire back a counter. She has a solid point after all; he doesn’t deserve her sympathy in the slightest. Figuring that these will be the only words they exchange for at least a couple of days, the cowboy begins to hose down Santana, when Jo turns on her heels with her horse’s lead rope in one hand and her fist firmly planted on her waist. “You know what? I do have something to say. You just don’t get to speak in return,” she kicks off, about to unleash her wrath. Dean lifts his gaze from the dirt and sweat that he’s washing out of his horse’s coat, for the first time looking into his cousin’s fiery eyes. The petit cowgirl, who is easily nine inches shorter than the man before her, is intimidating nonetheless. He takes a breath, bracing himself for impact. Here it comes.

“You’re a cold-hearted, spineless, self-absorbed dick, know that? For once in your life, you’ve got something good goin’, someone who was willing to look past your gigantic ego and your daddy issues, yet the first thing you do when life gets tough, is drop her like a hot potato. Do you have any idea how much pain you’ve caused the poor girl? Because I do! She wouldn’t want me to tell you this, but she cried for hours, hours, and that’s on you! Guess who had to comfort her, huh?” Jo goes off. “I am so far past mad; I am furious! I really thought you had finally found a reason to change into something better than the abbreviated piece of nothing that you are now, but it seems like Y/N wasn’t the only one who was naive.” “You done?” the wrangler says coldly when she pauses to catch her breath. “Go hump a cactus, Dean,” she sneers.

With those words, Jo strides away, the large animal next to her obediently following her, well aware that now is not the time to be stubborn. The man who’s left with the poignant insults still echoing inside his head, pulls at his bottom lip with his teeth, staring at his feet for a second before he sniffs and focuses on the task at hand again. He might have pretended that her message left him unbothered, but the opposite is true. Jo could as well slap him across the face; it would hurt less.

Defeated, the wrangler takes Santana to his box and removes the halter from the large animal’s head. The sweet horse seeks contact, nudging her nose against Dean’s shoulder. He rubs the Quarter’s withers before he exits the stable, appreciating the only kindness that he’s received so far this morning.

“Dean?” He tenses, not expecting his name to fall off the lips of the woman who he parted from only yesterday. When the cowboy meets her gaze, the look Y/N gives him is as cold as the tone of her voice. “I need a word,” she says, although it sounds more like a demand. “S - sure,” he stutters, glancing down briefly before he looks back up again, suddenly nervous. He’s not sure if he can handle being scolded by his ex-girlfriend as well. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to work together anymore,” she states formally. “I’d like a new supervisor.”

Dean cocks his head back slightly, unbalanced by the appeal. He rubs his temple, averting his eyes but then nods, acknowledging that she’s probably right, even though the request is a painful one. “Yeah, uh - sure. I’ll ask Garth,” he stammers, estimating that he would be the obvious choice since she’s so close with Jo. He wouldn’t want their friendship to be tainted by the difference in rank. “Okay,” the intern responds, her expression stark and strained, before she walks past him.

Motionless, the head wrangler remains on his spot, setting his jaw and closing his eyes for a second. Somehow, he didn’t expect their first exchange to be strictly business. Her stance is so different from what he’s grown used to. Even on the night they met when she gave him a hard time, the tension between them didn’t feel as heavy as it does now. He realized when he called it quits that she would struggle with his decision, but Jo’s confirmation that she spent most of last night crying over their separation has him desperate to ease the pain.

“Y/N…” he says softly while turning before she’s too far gone to pick up on his voice. “I have work to do,” she cuts off, shooting him a short glare over her shoulder.

Dean swallows thickly while watching her leave, fast and determined strides taking her as far away from him as possible. Damn it, he really did ruin his chances of even maintaining any sort of a friendship, didn’t he? He’s not sure what else he expected after the way they parted, but despite the loathing and vexed look she just shot him that feels like a bullet to the heart, he’s glad. Let her be angry, let her hate him. It will be easier for her to deal with those emotions, than just the overwhelming sense of sadness. He knows, because he hasn’t felt this devastated, empty, and incomplete since his family fell apart; he’s talking from experience. Wishing the day was over already, the cowboy adjusts his hat and gets back to work, hoping that riding will offer him the therapy he so desperately needs.

Unfortunately, the day doesn’t pass by nearly as fast as Dean would like to. After riding five horses, he, Benny, and Garth use their lunch break to look at the beat-up tractor that once again has let them down. The head wrangler doesn’t mind skipping his midday meal; he would rather avoid sitting across from Y/N in a room overflowing with awkwardness, plus, he’s not hungry anyway.

The machine from 1979 was bound to die on the crew sooner than later, but after the farrier slash mechanic discovers metal particles in the gearbox fluid, it becomes clear that a simple oil change isn’t going to cut it this time. “Yep, she’s toast,” Benny sighs, wiping his dirty hands with a cloth. “Just what we need,” his friend grunts. He’s not looking forward to his uncle’s response to the setback. “I’ll tell Bobby.” “I can if you want me to,” the stable boy - who is also responsible for the machinery - offers. Dean purses his lips slightly, his thumbs hooked through the belt loops of his jeans while he stares at the old John Deere absently. “Nah, I’ll do it. I got a question for you, though. Do you mind supervising Y/N from now on?” Garth shakes his head, taking in his boss, somewhat confused. “No, not at all.” “Good,” the wrangler replies quickly, thankful that the slender employee takes on the task without question. The clueless young man didn’t pick up on the relationship between Dean and the intern to begin with, and he would rather keep him in the dark, especially now that it has ended. He knocks on the rusty hood of the tractor before he heads off. “I’ll see y’all in a bit. Can you start rolling out the hay to the pastures with the wheelbarrows? It’s gonna take a hell of a lot longer without this old thing.”

The shade inside the stables is welcoming, and not just because it offers cooler temperatures. Dean’s eyes are still painfully sore from the lack of sleep and he rubs at them again, trying to stop them from burning. Shit, and it’s only Monday, he sighs to himself. The three-day event over the weekend means no time off for the employees who attended. The last time he didn’t have to show up at seven in the morning or earlier was late September, which means that he has been working twelve-hour plus shifts for fourteen days straight now. Work never stops on a ranch. The horses depend on him; they will always need food, a clean stable and exercise, no matter how tired, lovesick, or miserable he is.

The cafeteria is already empty. His aunt is probably at the guesthouses to change the sheets and towels, giving the accommodations a quick once-over. However, he finds a post-it on the long table with his name on it; ‘Don’t forget to eat. Bacon sandwiches are in the fridge - Ellen’. As the cowboy smiles for the first time today, he wonders if Bobby has told his wife anything about John’s unexpected visit in Flagstaff, hoping that he hasn’t. Knowing his aunt, she’s going to sit him down for some sweet tea and a talk, even though previous attempts of having a conversation as such proved to be unsuccessful. He appreciates her concern, though, the idea of his surrogate mom caring about him offering Dean some solace.

The wrangler walks through the high barn doors on the other side, the sun doing its very best to cheer him up, but the rays don’t reach his soul. He makes his way to the Singer’s home, reckoning he will find Bobby there. As per usual, Dean takes off his hat and hangs it on the coat hanger, kicking off his boots before he proceeds to the office in the back of the house. After knocking, he pushes the door ajar, finding his uncle behind his desk. The place is still a mess, but the occupant’s features aren’t draped in shadows like the last time he was here. The blinders are open, the window a passe-partout of the Joshua tree, together with the paddocks and pastures surrounding it.

The rancher looks up when his nephew enters. “Hey, son. How’s the tractor comin’?” “Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but it’s fried. The oil is swimming with debris,” Dean tells, taking a seat on the other side of the desk. “Metal?” Bobby questions. When the young man across from him nods, he curses. “Balls!”

Dean presses his lips into a firm line, keeping still in the worn chair to prevent it from squeaking. His uncle seemed to be in a good mood after the successful show, but he can tell that this setback has put a strain on the old man’s frame of mind.

“You’re gonna call the service station?” the head wrangler wonders. “No, that’s gonna cost us. We finally managed to make some money, I ain’t planning on spending it on that damned thing.” The rancher adjusts his ball cap before leaning back in his chair. “You boys can give it a go first, open up that gearbox, see what’s broken. I’ll order parts once you figure out what’s wrong with that piece of shit.”

Scribbling something down on a piece of paper, Bobby sighs, but then returns his focus to Dean. “There’s somethin’ else I need to discuss with you.” His right-hand raises his eyebrows slightly, his interest peaked. “What’s that?” “It’s about Cain,” his uncle murmurs. “Apparently MacLeod didn’t tell the entire story.” Dean scoffs, shaking his head. “Should I be surprised? I’m not sure what kinda vibes you picked up from that shady dude, but I sure as hell don’t trust him for the life of me.” “I don’t either. That’s why I think we should reconsider that deal.” Bobby rests his elbows on the armrests of his chair, forking his fingers together in his lap. He expected some resistance from Dean, but not such a strong reaction as his nephew fires back.

“What?! Are you serious?” he counters, perplexed. “You’re just gonna wipe it off the table?” “Not ‘just’, but we need to consider our options,” his boss returns. “How many options do we have exactly? Because the way I see it, this arrangement is a pretty damn good one. It’s good money, a steady income with the prospect of a huge bonus, not to mention what doors it might open for the future. This horse might be the break we need,” Dean advocates, remembering Y/N’s words clearly when she summed up all the possibilities that Cain might bring with him. “Look, I know Fergus is a proper dick, but he has a reputation to protect. There’s too much at stake for him, and I don’t believe he will double-cross us. If we deliver, he’s gonna pay good bucks.” “And that’s where we might have a problem; actually delivering,” Bobby returns, taking in his head wrangler. Dean draws his head back, slightly hurt, frowning at his uncle’s words. “You don’t think I can get the job done?” “I’m not sure if anyone can, son,” the owner of the Gold Canyon Ranch states calmly. “The horse doesn’t just have ‘some behavioral issues’, as Fergus put it. He’s unapproachable, unpredictable, aggressive. That stallion is dangerous to everyone in a square mile radius. Jody rang me this morning to warn us.” “Jody?” the cowboy returns, puzzled. He’s aware that the female rancher knows a lot of people in this business, but he didn’t expect the news of the famous stallion’s arrival would spread so fast. “How did she even know that Cain was coming to us?” “Because MacLeod is a client of hers. Cain is currently in her stables.”

Dean’s eyebrows hit his hairline, emerald greens staring over the desk at the man on the other side. While gaping at his uncle, questions begin to race through his mind. Jody did business with Fergus? Jody is a good trainer with excellent judgment, so if she claims Cain is untrainable, that says something. Their last conversation in Flagstaff comes to mind, the news about Gabe’s hospitalization shocking him at the time. Could his friend’s injuries be the stallion’s doing?

Bobby watches his trusted worker process the information, rolling his chair a little closer and resting his forearms on the varnished wood, closing his hand over his fist. “I know this complicates things, but I’m gonna leave it up to you. If you think you can handle the stallion, I will trust your judgment. But I don’t want you to risk your neck for the money, Dean. We will find another way.”

The horseman chews on his lip as he ponders, his focus capturing nothing in particular as his eyes flick over the items and documents on the desk. “We’ll have a week to evaluate him. I’ll make the call after that,” he decides. “Mind if I contact Jody to get some insight on what I’m up against?” “Knock yourself out,” Bobby consents. “Just leave the numbers that we agreed to out of it.” “Will do.”

Dean gets up from his seat, pushing the chair closer to the desk before he intends to slip out of the office before he’s stopped by his boss. “One more thing,” the wise man says, looking over his enclosed hands. “What’s going on with you and the intern?”

Caught, the head wrangler freezes, eyes wide with shock and pure horror staring into the hallway. Shit. How the hell is he going to answer that? Is he referring to the dance at the opening night of the horse show or the palpable tension that has surrounded the former couple whenever they were in close range of each other? Dean doesn’t know, but he has the feeling that the continuation of this conversation is going to be anything but pleasant. Composing himself before he turns back to face his uncle.

“Nothin’. What do you mean?” He shrugs as the corners of his mouth draw down, pretending to be careless. “Don’t play dumb, boy. I was born at night, but not last night.” Bobby glares at him knowingly. “Are you messin’ around with her?” “No,” Dean says firmly, the truth in his words hurting him deep down. His uncle lifts his chin, holding the cowboy’s gaze while narrowing his eyes. It’s clear that he’s not buying. “You wanna explain then why you two were like two peas in a pot in Flagstaff, but can’t even look at each other now?”

With his hand still on the door handle, his nephew attempts to keep his act together, but then he sighs. Damn it, he was so close to making it out of this meeting alive. Oh well, what’s one more lecture, right?

“Look, there’s nothing going on, not anymore. I - uh, I got carried away and I shouldn’t have let it,” he admits. “I broke it off. It won’t happen again.” “Is this gonna be a problem?” his boss asks sternly. “If you two can’t work together--” “It isn’t. Garth will supervise her from now on. Just to prevent any issues in the future,” he continues, hoping the fact that they actually discussed how to carry on as colleagues from this point forward will put the concern to rest.

“There better be a future for her here on this ranch. I can’t afford to lose a free worker, especially not one as skilled as she is,” Bobby warns, not convinced. “I’d pray that she won’t pack her bags if I were you, ‘cause I’ll give ya one guess who’s gonna have to work twice as hard and whose ass I’m gonna bust.” “She won’t leave,” his head wrangler guarantees, willing to bet his life on it.

His promise might seem based on a hopeful hunch, but Y/N hasn’t given Dean any indication to question her professionalism. She even approached him in order to change the conditions of her internship, which couldn’t have been easy for her. Their interaction will be minimized and strictly business from now on, something he reckons she will handle much more gracefully than he will, simply because she has a bigger purpose to focus on. This placement is a stepping stone to her dream of owning her own ranch, and that goal hasn’t changed. He knows she won’t leave Gold Canyon.

Bobby observes his nephew, still bothered by the fact that he didn’t listen to him when he specifically told the bachelor not to get involved with the intern. He’s going to save the rant for another time, though, the sight of an already dejected man before him having him hold back. It seems like this is doing a number on young fellow, and considering how they were with each other at the horse show this weekend, he’s not surprised. The two reminded him of his twenties when he first got together with his Ellen. The boy is hurting, more than he lets on. “Alright then. Get goin’, I’ve got bills to pay,” he eventually says, shooing Dean out with a flick of the wrist.

Relieved that his uncle is cutting him some slack, he nods and silently pulls the door shut, putting a barrier between himself and the conversation he has been dreading for weeks. If only he could be able to tell Bobby that he’s with the girl he’s in love with; he would have taken the grumpy rebuke with a grin on his face. If only.

While stepping outside, the cowboy pulls his cellphone from his jeans pocket, looking up Jody Mills’ number in his contacts. He begins to slowly stroll back and forth on the porch in its sheltering shade, the floorboards moaning and cracking under his boots as he waits with his Nokia pressed against his ear. The steady tone beeps twice before his friend picks up. “Hey,” it sounds from the other side of the line. “I was hoping you’d call.” “Yeah, Bobby told me about Cain,” he returns. “Kinda complicates things, don’t it?” “I need to listen to me very carefully,” Jody starts, earnest and worried. “Do not take that horse into your stable.”

The cowboy sighs, glancing over the land while hooking his thumb behind his belt. He figured the female rancher would try to convince him to back off. “It’s good money, Jody, and I’ve handled difficult cases before. Cain deserves a shot. I have to try.” “I get it, but hear me out. If Fergus offered you a deal that seems too good to be true, that’s because it is. I know you’re an excellent trainer, hell, the best that I know. But I’m telling you, we’re not talking about a stallion with some authority issues here. That horse is twisted, has wires crossed. I have never seen such behavior,” she presses. “So many people have tried to straighten him out already. I did some digging, and Fergus’ supposedly ‘million dollar prospect’ has moved in and out nine different stables over the past year. No one has succeeded.”

He ponders, not taking her warning lightly. Jody is an experienced equestrian who has dealt with many tough animals. She even passed some horses on to him when she couldn’t get through to them. The woman is well aware of the limits to her expertise and has always been honest with clients when a horse was too much for her to handle, but never before has she doubted that the wrangler from the Gold Canyon Ranch could do the job.

“When Gabe got hurt, was it…?” Dean wonders, hesitant, not finishing his sentence. “It was Cain.”

He sets his jaw, the muscles flexing under his stubble. Although he assumed it was the stallion who has put his former colleague into the hospital, it still shocks him. He continues to pace the deck in front of the Singer’s home. “How is he doing?” he wonders. Jody pulls in a deep breath, the message she’s about to deliver clearly a difficult one. “He’s never gonna walk again. Paralyzed from the waist down.”

Dean closes his eyes and swallows thickly. It’s the outcome they all feared, but hearing the confirmation makes his gut churn. Losing one's legs is a nightmare for everyone, but for a rider? He can’t possibly picture it, becoming wheelchair-bound. Honestly, he would rather die than to never be able to get in the saddle again.

“Dean, I know you believe every horse deserves a second chance, but please, let this one go. He is beyond repair. I’m not asking, I’m begging,” she pleads, a tremor in her voice. “If you take on Cain, it’s only a matter of time before you get hurt, or worse.”

The words are backed up by a heavy silence. The two stay quiet for a while, the words sinking in with the wrangler. Flight animals fueled by fear can do either two things; run or attack. If getting away from the supposed threat is impossible, they tend to go for the last. It’s not something the horse will even think about; it’s a survival instinct. When a naturally kind creature takes a turn like that, it becomes a thousand-pound killing machine. If Cain is truly that far gone, it is likely that he is indeed beyond saving. The trainer has to see it for himself, though, and not just because the ranch can use the cash. He realizes that if he doesn’t take on this task, someone else will, someone with less experience. If this stallion is really that lethal, the next novice trainer might make an error of judgment that will be his or her last. At least Dean has the skills. It seems like he is Cain’s last resort, because if he isn’t trainable, he will get the bullet at some point. He wouldn’t be the first horse to be put down because of similar problems.

“Thanks for the warning, Jody,” he responds after a long pause. “I’ll keep it in mind.” “Dean--” “I know. I know what you’re gonna say, but if I don’t do this, who knows what might happen to him. I’ve got a week to decide if we wanna go through with it. That’s the least I can do.” He can hear his friend grunt, frustrated, probably realizing that changing his mind was a long shot to begin with. “Just… be careful, okay?” “I will, promise,” Dean assures. “Talk to you later.”

The cowboy hangs up, staring at his phone for a few more seconds before he puts it away and steps out into the sun, heading back to the stables. The admonition continues to ring in his ears, and he allows the caution to imprint the decisions he needs to make in the upcoming days. After all, warned is forearmed.

Y/N wishes anyone had warned her how painful it is to have her heart broken by the person who made it beat just for him. Maybe she would have been more mindful then, more guarded. Maybe she wouldn’t have let him have it, had she known how careless he would be.

Around 5 o’clock, her new supervisor said it was okay if she wanted to take her own horse for a ride. Normally she trains Meadow either before or after shift, but she got all the work done at record speed, desperate for a distraction, that all her daily tasks were fulfilled two hours before dinner. Maybe Garth detected that she needed some alone-time with her four-legged friend, because he suggested the ride with a sympathetic smile and a kind nudge, sending her towards the Quarter’s box.

After straightening out the saddle pad, the cowgirl tightens the cinch. Meadow, who can be a bit of a grumpy mare when it comes to tacking up, stands still without moving a muscle, allowing her owner to ready her for a ride without pulling a prank like she usually does. Sometimes the cheeky horse will try to fish Y/N’s phone from her back pocket, nibble at her hat or her sleeve, or refuse to take a step aside when requested, but not today. Maybe she can sense that such an action could set her human off.

The horse accepts the bit when the cowgirl offers it to her, after which she pulls the headpiece over Meadow’s black-tipped ears, securing the straps skillfully. She sniffles, wiping her nose and forcing herself to keep her composure a little while longer. In a few minutes, when she’s away from prying eyes, she will allow to let the tears flow again, but not now, not yet.

Y/N unties her horse, places her left foot in the stirrup, and swings her right leg over the back of her bay mare, softly landing in the saddle. Picking up the reins, she steers her horse away from the tack up area, the smooth leather between her fingers giving her a sense of control that she’s missing in her love life.

Instead of leading Meadow towards the arena, the rider guides her towards the gate that leads to the trail. Her horse had an eventful weekend and gave it her all in competition, so it wouldn’t be fair to put her through a full workout. The performance took a lot out of the willing horse who never seizes to bring her best efforts and more. Even though the freestyle only lasted minutes, the athlete peaked with a brilliant execution of the routine, which takes a lot of skill and strength. Then there’s the ambiance of a show, the new environment, all the sensory overload. The combination of all those factors did a number the Quarter, and she deserves a calm and relaxing ride, much like the young woman she’s carrying on her back. Y/N is in no state to train, well aware that the heightened emotions will get the best of her if something might not work out the way she planned, and that’s not something she wants her companion to bear the consequences of. If anything, Meadow has been absolutely wonderful, seeming to understand that her person is sad and needs someone to lean on.

After closing the fence behind them, the girl and her horse follow the path that leads towards the hills. Cacti flank the road ahead towards the Superstition Mountains, which stand tall in the backdrop. The beautiful amber colored volcanic rock formations seem even more vibrant now that the setting sun blesses nature with a warm glow. The vegetation is much greener than it was when they searched for the herd of youngsters in the reservoir. Autumn is here, and within a couple of months, the ridges that reach for the sky will be covered in snow. It’s supposed to be a beautiful sight, at least that’s what Dean told her.

Now that it’s just her and Meadow, Y/N finally allows the suppressed tears to fall. The battle she has been fighting all day is one she knew she would lose eventually, she just wanted to be with her most faithful friend when the levee breaks. She doesn’t even intend to wipe the drops of despair away, knowing that she has to let it out now in order to keep up the facade later. And so the last rays of the day catch the shimmering pathways down her cheeks, similar to how the water cobbled at Willow’s Creek, where she and Dean shared their first kiss. All the memories, those perfect little moments that she thought to cherish forever, they are worth nothing now. It was all just a dream.

Y/N transits into a slow canter, hoping that the wind in her face will chase the sorrow away. She has to feel something completely opposite to the grief that is ripping her apart. She needs to experience freedom and the bond that comes along with this unique partnership between her and Meadow, the simplicity of moving across the desert like men and their horses have been doing so for centuries. No engines, no computers, no engineering. Just two souls of completely different species merging as one.

Resting her free hand on her horse’s neck and gripping the black mane, she pushes her heels into the Quarter’s flanks, aiding her to pick up speed. The bay mare takes over, her rider is no longer in control, but she no longer has to be. Y/N doesn’t need to direct this movie, because she trusts Meadow with her life. If there is any being on the face of the planet that she would follow blindly, it’s her companion. Meadow has never let her down, not once, and her owner knows there will never come a moment when she will. And so she breathes in, welcoming the wind to fill her lungs with newfound courage, brought on by the majestic animal that gallops across the landscape, carrying Y/N on her wings.

Thank you for reading. I appreciate every single one of you, but if you do want to give me some extra love, you are free to like or reblog my work, shoot me a message or buy me coffee (Link to Kofi in bio at the top of the page).

Read part twenty-six here

#Ride With Me #Dean x Reader #Cowboy!Dean x reader #Cowboy!Dean AU #Dean Winchester series #Cowboy!Dean series #Dean Winchester x Reader #Dean Winchester reader insert #Dean Winchester #Dean Winchester fanfiction #Supernatural AU #SPN #Supernatural #Supernatural series #SPN series #Dean angst #Dean fluff #RWM chapter 25 #Kate Huntington

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buck-buck-boose · 3 years

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I'll Love You 'Til I Die

Masterlist | Playlist

Summary: A Brooklyn schoolgirl fell in love with James Buchanan Barnes at the tender age of nine. With this love she made a vow, promising to love him until her very last breath.

Pairing: Bucky x OFC

Warnings: language, mentions of violence and gore (not too graphic)

Word Count: 3.4k

Author's Note: The story is starting to pick up pace again ;)

Chapter Twenty: The Recruits

March 18, 1943

In the two months following the nurses’ success with the serum, Camp Lehigh had nearly tripled in its inhabitants. Throughout their research and training, the five women were surrounded by fuddy-duddy sergeant majors and their crotchety commanders, with Agent Carter as their only equal; by the end of January, hundreds of recruits were being shipped in. The base seemed to be teeming with fresh-faced boys who thought not of the unforgiving grip of death, but of the blazing glory of victory— the gore and trauma of war meant little to them, but Lottie knew that she would have an intimate relationship with the horrors of war.

Sometimes all she dreamt of was blood. Blood on her hands, on her white dress, and oozing in puddles beneath her feet; the crimson color seemed to stain every inch of her skin, streaking her pale flesh with a sickeningly deep red. She told no one about her dreams because they seemed so foolish to her. Lottie hadn’t experienced a day in fieldwork, and here she was having these nightmares about the gore of war.

The ambient sounds of Camp Lehigh drew her out of her thoughts and grounded her.

Lottie was standing alone, rather dazedly, outside of the nurses’ barracks, observing all the commotion surrounding the recruits. She was still getting used to the chaotic environment that unfolded around her; everywhere she looked, there were lines of marching soldiers, followed hotly by shouting commanders, or trucks careening around buildings, as if always running late for some rendezvous. Gone were the days of picnicking in the grass and basking in the sun— the base was now all hustle and bustle, with little time for leisure.

All the activity had thrown a wrench into her combat training; Agent Carter had been training her on an individual basis with both firearms and knives, but the soldiers now needed more training than she did. Lottie had become more than proficient in the use of her M1911, which left her wanting to learn more. On the advice of Agent Carter, she’d taken up the KA-BAR and they had begun training with the knife only a few weeks prior. She was more than a little disappointed by the abrupt end to their training, but Lottie understood that training the men who would be doing the actual fighting was the higher priority. The one saving grace of Camp Lehigh was that the base was outfitted with two obstacle courses for physical training so the nurses could continue their exercises each morning. Although their combat training was put on hold, they could continue preparing their bodies for the stress of war.

A distinctly male voice interrupted her train of thought— was that a Brooklyn accent she heard?

“Hey sugar! You rationed?”

Lottie blinked for a moment and looked to her right. A group of men stood outside their own barracks, sharing a pack of cigarettes. She easily identified the man who’d spoken by the way he smiled at her; it was the same charming, lopsided grin that she’d seen on Bucky’s face countless times. His brilliantly blond hair caused a tug at her heartstrings; it was almost the same shade as Steve’s. That’s where the resemblance stopped, though; his eyes were a chestnut brown and his build was sturdier.

Lottie didn’t move from her spot, “Is that your way of asking if a lady’s got a fella waiting for her back home?”

The soldier’s grin only seemed to grow at the sound of her own Brooklyn accent, “A Brooklyn gal, eh? A woman after my own heart. What’s your name, doll?”

“I’m Lottie Green. But that’s Lieutenant Green to you, Private.” She smirked, relishing in her title. The year before, Congress had authorized the promotion of Army nurses to the ranks of Second Lieutenant, granting them positions of power in a largely male environment.

The soldier ambled over to her, flicking the ashes from the butt of his cigarette.

“Ah, so you’re one of those girls they hired to patch us up, then? I always knew there’d be choirs of angels when I died, but I didn’t know they’d send ‘em to fix us up when we’re wasting away.” He was a flirt, that was for sure, but she felt a pang of annoyance at his belittling of her profession

She wasn’t just some ‘girl’ who was shipped out to slap Band-Aids on his scratches and send him on his way with a pat on the head. She’d spent the last year of her life dedicated to formulating the perfect Super Soldier Serum. Lottie was a woman— a powerful woman who would one day hold the lives of so many men in her hands.

Lottie mustered up a wry smile, “While I haven’t got a fella back home, Private, a medic tent isn’t exactly ideal for courtship, is it?”

Without waiting for a response, she departed and made her way toward the obstacle course that was currently in use. Dr. Erskine had requested that the nurses of Project Rebirth be present for some of the recruits’ training sessions since they would be the best opportunities to scout out candidates for America’s first Super Soldier. These candidates would not only need to be physically capable but also morally incorruptible. An aspect of the serum that was discussed briefly was how it had amplified Schmidt’s already malicious personality; if they made the same mistake by administering it to a man of morally questionable character, they could have another failure on their hands.

When Lottie neared the obstacle course, she caught the tail end of Colonel Phillips’ speech to this batch of recruits.

“—but every army starts with one man. At the end of this week, we will choose that man. He will be the first in a new breed of Super Soldiers.”

Lottie barely had time to glance at the recruits who were lined up a handful of yards away from her. A clipboard had been thrust into her hands, stacked with papers that listed the soldiers’ names, dates of birth, and measurements. She scanned the pages, barely registering any information due to the sheer amount of it; it was too overwhelming to process properly.

“I heard Colonel Phillips has taken a real liking to Gilmore Hodge,” Gladys whispered, shuffling her papers.

Betty made a disapproving noise, “Agent Carter socked that guy in the kisser. No way in hell he’s our guy.”

“I agree!” Mary piped up, “His moral character is real atrocious.”

Nancy seemed to be torn, “He is the most promising recruit thus far. Sure, he’s gotta work on his manners, but gosh, even his measurements set him apart from the rest.”

Lottie hummed in thought and finally looked up to watch the recruits in action, her eyes narrowed. For the most part, the soldiers got through the net climbing efficiently and descended the other side with ease, but a particular recruit was struggling to get a sure footing in the netting. Her heart started pounding in her ears— she knew that build, that stature. It couldn’t be, he’d been rejected at the enlistment. Sure enough, the soldier lost his footing and fell with his other foot still caught in the ropes.

Lottie’s breath caught in her throat as she stared at the flushed face of one of her childhood best friends. In the distance, she could hear a sergeant berating him for his clumsiness, but her attention could not be torn away from his face. She was at a loss as to what to do; he obviously hadn’t seen her but she couldn’t call out to him to get his attention, as that would land him in more trouble than he was already in.

“Poor guy,” Mary murmured, wincing in sympathy. It seemed that she’d also noticed the trouble that Steve had been having.

“Yeah,” Lottie replied lamely, biting at her lip in anxious thought.

What would she even say to him if he saw her? Would he even acknowledge her? She knew she’d just about die if she had to undergo a silent treatment from Steve. But she deserved it, she was sure. There wasn’t a day that had gone by where she didn’t think of her boys back home. She often found herself lying in bed late at night, staring at the ceiling and listening to the breathing patterns of the other nurses in the barracks. Lottie would roll her lucky penny between her fingers and think of her best friends back home. Were they asleep? Or out at the dance hall again, trying to woo some women into a couple of dates for the next night? She prayed nightly for their safety; their safekeeping. It was a fool’s prayer, she knew— it was a war, after all. But that never stopped her from begging God on high to protect her most beloved friends.

The commotion of the obstacle course had died down, but the yells of the sergeants had not died down; it seemed that they were to continue their training elsewhere.

Betty noticed Lottie’s lost look, “They’re having ‘em run the trail.” She gestured to the tree line where they would usually do their morning runs.

Gladys looked over her clipboard, “I think it’d be best if we head back to the mess hall and grab a bite to eat. We can talk all of this,” she gestured to their clipboards, stacked high with papers, “once we’ve all got full stomachs and clear minds. I hope you all took notes, ‘cause I sure did!”

Lottie was silent on the way to the mess hall, still reeling from the fact that Steve had somehow been recruited for the military. There had to have been some mistake; he’d most likely spend more time in her medic tent than on the battlefield. Running into battle would have him hospitalized even before an enemy could manage to hit him.

They sat in their usual spot at the back of the mess hall, at a table in the corner that had been pushed up against a wall; it kept them out of the way and allowed them a sense of privacy from the other staff members. Lottie absentmindedly peeled at an orange while she listened to the conversation of her friends.

“If we can’t have Hodge for the serum, I think Johnson might be a promising guy!”

Betty laughed, “Do you really think that or do you just like the way he looks in his fatigues, Mary?”

“Gosh, I just think they bring out the green in his eyes! Either way, he’s certainly got the build for it.”

“He’s such a knucklehead, though. He couldn’t figure out the proper way to hold his rifle while he went under the barbed wire. He was practically dragging it through the mud by its strap.” Betty rolled her eyes, unimpressed with the performances of most of the men during training.

There was some continued discussion on the topic, but it was interrupted by the entrance of dozens of soldiers. They needed no introduction, as the sounds of their hoots and hollers, as well as the aroma of their body odor, heralded their arrival at the mess hall. Lottie shot to her feet, unable to stop herself from searching the sea of men for a scrawny man with too much pluck for his own good. The men milled about as they grabbed trays of food and seated themselves, loudly conversing about the training they’d just experienced.

Finally, Lottie’s eyes locked with those of a scrawny blond guy who looked as if he’d just seen a ghost. He was all the way at the other end of the mess hall, but that didn’t matter, she rushed to him as quickly as she could. She so desperately wanted to hug him before he could turn and run from her. She knew that her silly display was surely catching the attention of other soldiers, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to care; she hadn’t seen one of her best friends in over a year, dammit! She walked quickly between the tables to where he stood by the food line.

“Stevie,” Lottie choked out, crushing him in a tight hug. Tears threatened to escape her eyes, but she refused to make a scene in front of half of the recruits.

“Lottie I—” Steve began, “I dunno what to say. Why are you here? Why did you lie?”

He asked the questions with such earnest bewilderment, with sincere sorrow that nearly destroyed Lottie. He didn’t seem angry with her at all; he was instead deeply hurt, and it was all because of her. When she pulled away from their embrace, she saw the pain in his eyes and recognized it— it was the same pain she had felt when thinking of Steve and Bucky, praying for their safety.

Lottie was becoming acutely aware of the attention they were attracting but that was the least of her concerns at the moment. If Colonel Phillips caught wind of their little embrace, he would surely berate her about relationships with the soldiers, as he couldn’t fathom the idea of a platonic relationship between a nurse and one of his men. She would deal with that situation at a later time. At that moment, Lottie knew that an apology and explanation were long overdue. She planned on apologizing to him sincerely in private, but she knew that an explanation could not wait.

She grabbed Steve’s wrist and pulled him towards the table at the back of the hall, “Please trust me, Steve. I can explain everything, but I’m gonna need their help.” Lottie jerked her head in the direction of the other nurses, “What I did was real crummy of me, I know, and I’ll apologize over and over until the day I die, but I promise that it needed to be done. The girls over here will help me explain it all so you can understand.”

“Well, who do we have here?” Betty questioned as they approached, arching a carefully plucked brow.

Steve awkwardly shifted his weight and shoved his hands in his pockets, obviously intimidated by her steady gaze and cool demeanor, “Steve Rogers, ma’am.”

Mary’s eyes lit up, “One of Lottie’s Brooklyn boys! Now do tell me, where is Private Barnes? Because I absolutely must meet the man that our Lottie is so infa—”

Before she could finish her sentence, Gladys kicked her shin under the table and answered the question for Steve, “I’ve looked through every file Dr. Erskine has given to us and there’s no Private Barnes here.”

Lottie shot Gladys a grateful smile, albeit a weak one. She cleared her throat and addressed the group of women before her, “I promised Steve here that I’d explain why I fell off the face of the Earth for a solid year, but I’ll need your help filling in all the details.”

It took nearly an hour to catch Steve up on all the events of the past year. The nurses gave him as much information as they could, though there was certain classified information that they were privy to— the formula for the Super Soldier Serum —but could not be shared with anyone outside of Project Rebirth. Steve interrupted regularly to pose questions about different aspects of their research, obviously invested in all the work they’d done for Dr. Erskine and Mr. Stark. When they recounted their experiences testing the prototype serum on various tissue samples, he went a sickly shade of green, so they quickly ended that train of thought. They glossed over the details of how they finished the serum and their discovery of how Vita-Ray Radiation affected its ingredients. His brow seemed to furrow exponentially with every scientific term used

“And that’s the skinny on what we’ve been up to for the past year,” Gladys finished, holding back a giggle at Steve’s overwhelmed facial expression.

“Thank you, ladies,” Lottie smiled and rose from her seat, gesturing for Steve to follow, “Steve and I are gonna step outside for a moment.” She led him across the mess hall and outside; they came to a stop after they rounded the corner of the building. She stood against the wall, fidgeting with the hem of her jacket sleeve.

“Stevie, I owe you an apology. After the attacks I just knew that the world would go to shit,” Lottie felt her eyes start to water, “and well— it’s my job as a nurse to save lives, y’know? I couldn’t just stay home and twiddle my thumbs while everyone else went to take care of our boys overseas. And I know Bucky made me promise not to and all that, but I’d already enlisted. I knew if I told him the truth, we’d fight, and I’d have left you two on a really sour note, which isn’t what I wanted at all.”

“So, you decided it would be better to lie about going to your parents’ for Christmas and leave the two of us wondering for months?” Steve’s tone wasn’t scathing but the question still cut deep.

Lottie sniffled and knew that there was little she could do to hold back the tide of tears that would surely start flowing, “I was being horribly selfish; I knew it would hurt the both of you but I was just so afraid and uncertain about it all. I knew you two would get real concerned for me and I just didn’t want that. Plus, you have to understand, Stevie, when I enlisted, they offered me a position in a high-level government organization. I couldn’t tell anyone about my whereabouts or where I would be going— all I could say was that I would be training for the Nurse Corps. It wasn’t fully my choice to keep these things from you and Bucky; it would’ve been risky to tell anyone about the SSR or what I would be doing for them. I know you two would’ve been good about keeping it a secret, but I was still so afraid, Steve. I didn’t want to let the SSR down, so I guess that meant I had to let you two down instead.” She stared at her shoes, letting the tears roll down her cheeks and fall to the dirt below.

“Thank you for telling me the truth, Lottie. It really hurt me when I realized you weren’t coming back. I understand where you were coming from, though I don’t agree with what you did. I forgive you, but Bucky— he, well,” Steve shook his head sadly, “You should’ve seen him when he got back from bootcamp and you weren’t at the station, Lottie. Worried out of his mind, he was. I’d written to your folks a month or so earlier; it was mid-January so I knew something was up. They told me you’d joined the Corps, but didn’t know where you’d been sent. I told him everything I’d learned and he hasn’t been the same since; he was always on edge. Even the night before he was shipped out to England, when we went out with Bonnie and Connie—”

“England?” Lottie’s voice was weak with disbelief. She shouldn’t have been surprised, he was going to be deployed at some point, after all. Somehow, it still hit her like a punch to the gut.

She held onto the hope that they were at least exchanging letters to check in with each other. “Have you kept in contact with him at least?”

“I didn’t think to get an address before he left.” Steve muttered, digging the toe of his boat into the dirt in front of him.

“Dammit,” Lottie hissed and wiped away hot tears that continued to stream from her eyes. She was utterly helpless and could do nothing about it; she had no way of contacting Bucky to make sure he was safe. For all she knew, he could be one of those men bleeding in a medic tent— lying limply in a cot that was not his, thousands of miles away from home. She could only hope that he had a kind nurse that would wipe the sweat from his brow and murmur soothing sounds that would remind him of home.

At Camp Lehigh, Lottie was constantly reminded of home. She saw Bucky in every soldier she met, whether it be through their personality, charm, or looks, they all served as a reminder of him. When it came down to it, neither Massachusetts nor Brooklyn was home to her— it was only Bucky that she could truly call home.

And as their time apart continued to drag on, she realized that she was beginning to feel terribly homesick.

#40s!bucky x original female character #40s!bucky x ofc #40s!bucky #1940s bucky #bucky fluff #bucky fanfic #bucky x ofc #bucky x original female character #bucky fic #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes series #ilytid

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magmahurricane · 3 years

Photo

Carey’s dad, Bernard! I gave him heterochromia based on my URL namesake, a childhood dog of mine named Pidgeon, who had one blue eye and one brown.

Bio under cut! CW for descriptions of death, illness, and mentioned suicide!

Name: Bernard Jess (Birth name: Ralph Ellis) Playlist: Here! (Spotify)

Age: 48 Occupation: Con artist Location: Varies; travels around Northamer in his RV Birthplace: Sand Blast City Alignment: Chaotic Neutral

Species: Dog (Based on tricolor Cavalier King Charles Spaniel) Sexuality: Bisexual

Personality: +Positives: Charismatic; Clever; Exuberant; Jolly; Optimistic; -Negatives: Conniving; Fraudulent; Cowardly; Selfish; Opportunistic A real “people person” at his core, Bernard knows exactly what to say to get people to drop their guard around him. Armed with his wit and a silver tongue, he picks his marks and runs his scams, playing his short cons and booking it at the first sign of trouble. While he isn’t shy about his lifestyle of lying, cheating and bullshitting his way through life, he does truly love his wife, and holds the memories of his mother and father close to his heart. Likes: Bluegrass; Country music; Whiskey; Swindling people; Dislikes: The law; working; his hometown; dwelling on the past; violence; hospitals Hobbies: Acoustic guitar, fishing, storytelling, people-watching

Backstory (remember to heed the content warnings above!):

Born to Shirley and Maverick Ellis in the smog-filled, dome-covered rogues gallery known as Sand Blast City, Ralph had a fairly average childhood. While he attended school, his mother Shirly worked as a waitress in a dingy but well-known diner and his father, Maverick, worked the nearby mines. The Ellis family were very poor, and young Ralph often wore hand-me-downs and frequently struggled to keep up with his peers, making him a target for bullying.

When Ralph was 9 years old, Maverick perished as the mine collapsed. Shirley took a second job in a desperate effort to both pay for his funeral, and provide for their son. Ralph found himself targeted by bullies even more, though found support from other children who lost family in the mines. Life went on, the Ellis’ struggling to make ends meet and cope with the death of Maverick.

With no one to babysit, Ralph began heading into the diner after school, sitting at a booth and doing his homework. Over the years, he came to know its patrons, became familiar with its regulars and staff, and slowly began to master the art of people-watching. Ralph would sit, and listen, and watch these people - and got an earful of all the latest gossip. He learned that the man living in the apartment across had a nasty divorce and was a recovering alcoholic. The mother of one of his bullies was working the streets to keep food on the table. The stories of the neighborhood gambler, the old woman who also lost her son in the mines, the local politicians, of the baker who was having an affair, of the rich tourists who would make yearly stops in town - Ralph knew everyone.

And just like that, school life had become easier. No one would dare cross Ralph Ellis, because Ralph had all the dirty laundry on everyone - kids were less keen on bullying him when he threatened to expose their families as drug addicts or whores, or when he could tear their family apart with news of an affair. It wasn’t long until Ralph realized the power he held over his peers, and began blackmailing them into doing favors, such as carrying his stuff, doing his homework, and buying him clothes -- for the first time in his life, Ralph was able to wear more than hand-me-downs from the local thrift store. Life was starting to look up, and things were good.

Then it wasn’t. When Ralph was 15, his mother discovered she had cancer. They couldn’t afford treatment, and Shirley certainly couldn’t stop working her two jobs. Ralph took up a part-time job as a delivery boy, then a full-time job as Shirley’s condition worsened, dropping out of school to help. Within a year, she passed away.

And suddenly, at the tender age of 16, Ralph found himself orphaned, and within a few months, homeless. Despite everything - his father working his whole life and dying in those rotten mines, his mother taking two jobs, and Ralph himself giving up his education and taking up work - the Ellis family just couldn’t get ahead. Honest work didn’t pay. But he remembered coasting along in school, being able to pull peoples strings and manipulate others into working for him. He remembered the woes and weaknesses of the people around him. In a dog-eat-dog world, Ralph was determined to make his mark and make the most of the lemons life gave him.

Then, when Ralph was 19, a great plague swept over Sand Blast City. People were dying in the streets, and even more were panicking, desperate for a way to save themselves. Ralph saw an opportunity - his customers already trusted him, and he’d made it this far. It was time for his biggest, and riskiest, con yet. With a few local herbs, clean water, and a bit of cheap cold medicine, Ralph began marketing his miracle potion, promising immunity from the plague. With help from his silver tongue and the trust of the locals, the potions flew off the shelves. Ralph made more money than ever, and was, briefly, toted as a local hero. He knew he should have packed up shop and gotten the hell outta dodge, but he wanted to milk this operation for all it was worth. He stayed, intending to make and sell more of his miracle tonics…

And then, the plague got him.

The virus wracked Ralph’s body. For days, he lay by his wagon, delirious with high fever, struggling for breath, believing this would surely be his end -- and it almost was. Family of his customers tracked him down, furious that their loved ones weren’t protected as advertised. They beat the sickly con artist, and left him at death's door.

Ralph survived by the skin of his teeth, although not unscathed; as if a reminder of his treachery and what he’d done, his lungs were ruined, leaving him athsmatic, with a persistent cough and physically frail. But Ralph was nothing if not determined - as soon as he was well enough, he high-tailed it out of Sand Blast City.

Ralph would spend the next 5 years as a vagabond con-artist, selling cheap or bootlegged wares, which he either stole from yard sales or breaking and entering homes, pulling cat-in-a-bag cons and change raising, and continuing with his snake-oil salesman act. He often found himself being chased out of town, or on the run from local bounty hunters for crossing the wrong people. He also began using different names, switching his alias every few months or every year.

Then his life was changed when he stumbled into the Southern Baronies; an uppity, bountiful region famous for its large chao gardens and wine exports. It was then he met Margaret Blanche, one of Josiah Blanche’s daughters.

The Blanche’s were a prestigious family, renowned for their famous vineyard and exports, as well as owning the land upon which the Chao Garden was located. They were filthy rich, and acted the part -- which may be precisely why when Ralph, under the name ‘Bernard Jess’ - showed up, Margaret was smitten. ‘Bernard’ was exciting; he was handsome, charismatic, entertaining, funny, and judging by the stories he told the Blanche family, he led quite an adventurous life. Margaret had grown so bored of her life and wanted what Bernard had. Likewise, Bernard wanted what the Blanche’s had - their lavish lifestyle and money. He had come to them with the intention of robbing them blind, but found himself enamored with Margaret.

Josiah, of course, didn’t approve. He forbade the young couple from seeing one another, and had Bernard escorted from the property, deciding the young man wasn’t good enough for his daughter. Bernard knew he couldn’t really do anything about it, and focused on his cons with the other families in the Baronies. He and Margaret occasionally crossed paths during this time, and the two would spend time together in secret. Margaret fell more and more in love with the whimsy and rebellious attitude Bernard had towards life, and when it came time for Bernard to leave the Baronies, Margaret ran away with him

Life on the run together was golden. The two of them staged robberies, worked cons, and had made a small name for themselves. However, within a year, things suddenly took a turn when Margaret realized she had become pregnant. Fearing for her future, she pleaded with Bernard to take her back to the Baronies -- this had been great fun, but she was already tired of living off meager meals and on the run, and the pregnancy scared her. She wasn’t cut out for Bernard’s lifestyle, but promised him that upon returning, they would marry and he would join the Blanche family proper, and be able to leave this life behind.

And so they returned to the Baronies… Only to be humiliated by Josiah and the rest of the Blanches as they sneered and mocked and chastised Margaret for her stupid naivete and revealed that during her year-long romp with Bernard, they’d completely disowned her. Margaret, Bernard, nor their unborn child would see a penny of the Blanche fortune, nor were they even allowed on the property. Margaret was disgraced, disowned and suddenly, for the first time in her life, left with absolutely nothing. She was terrified and heartbroken, and all Bernard could do was be a shoulder to cry on - while knowing all too well this was his fault.

Bernard managed to make a very small arrangement with Josiah to make things just a little easier; on the very edge of the Baronies, hidden out of sight so as to not tarnish the view of the Chao Gardens and beautiful manors, was a small trailer park known as Barrow Creek. Bernard convinced Josiah to at the very least buy them a small plot of land, allow them to set up a RV to live in so Margaret could, at the very least, have a roof over her head. Josiah agreed, and the young couple moved into their new home.

Carey was born that year.

Margaret hadn’t wanted the child; as far as she was concerned, this was more Carey’s fault than Bernard’s. It didn’t help that Carey had been born with a defect - her left arm hadn’t formed past the shoulder. The baby was weak, requiring constant care and attention, and oh, how Margaret wished to smother the life from it and be done with this burden.

It was only on Bernard’s insistence that Carey was kept alive and fed; already, he was scheming how to make the most out of the situation. He felt nothing towards his daughter but inspiration -- he could make this work to his advantage. A disabled child would bring out the sympathy in people, making his cons go a lot smoother. People would give money out of pity or adoration for the disadvantaged family, he could spin a thousand sob stories about how she lost her arm, open donations to go towards putting her in school or getting her a prosthetic - in reality keeping the money for himself - and the possibilities for profit were endless.

For much of her infancy and childhood, Carey was toted around during Bernard’s many schemes, helping rake in donations from charitable and kind people. As she got older, Bernard got Carey more and more involved in his cons, reciting lines with her and having her partake in more elaborate schemes. He also taught her the art of picking pockets, breaking locks, lying, and stealing. By age 7, Carey was doing all this and more, being made to cook and clean and was expected to earn her keep for living with them, with Bernard making sure she understood that she was a financial burden unto her parents, all while using his charisma and manipulation to keep her adoring him.

However, during all of this, Margaret’s mental health was declining.

Gone was the bright, sheltered woman who wanted a life of risk and adventure - Margaret was bitter, angry, and jealous… but never directed any of it towards her husband, instead taking it out on their daughter and anyone else unfortunate enough to cross her path. She spent most of the day drunk and unhappy, or waiting for Bernard to return when he’d drive with Carey out of town to run a con.

Bernard was oblivious, for a time - and when he did become aware, he tried to ignore the problem. The rising tension between Margaret and Carey, Margaret’s drinking problem, and their growing debt were all things he tried to brush off, even as Margaret attempted to drown Carey out of jealousy for her spending so much time with Bernard.

By the time Carey was 10, the Baronies were no longer safe for the Jess family. People had wisened up to their act, the bounty hunters were closing in, as was the law. Desperate to get some cash for the road ahead, Bernard conspired to rob the Blanche’s estate. It would be a final sendoff, the last big gig before the Jess family laid low for a long time. Margaret was eager to reclaim what she’d left behind, but Carey had grown ill from neglect. She was sick with pneumonia, and thus sluggish and of little help - and so Bernard put her on guard duty, to keep an eye out if the cops or other signs of trouble appeared.

The heist didn’t quite go as planned.

In the end, the cops were called, and Bernard had shot and killed Josiah in an altercation. As Bernard and Margaret fled the scene, they left behind Carey purposefully, knowing the cops would stop for the small, sickly child. This allowed the couple to make a clean getaway, while ridding themselves of Carey’s burden.

It has now been 13 years since that day.

Bernard’s working alone now, with Margaret having taken her own life a few years ago. He carries that weight with him, knowing full well he ruined her life and that his neglect led to her deteriorating mental health. He still wears their wedding band, and insists on remaining loyal to her memory, though he does oftentimes feel lonely.

It’s difficult to pin where Bernard is at any given moment, as his cons often see him travelling all over Northamer. He’s still running his cons, hoping for that one big break and dodging bounty hunters and cops at every corner, keeping his past and his regrets close to his heart and hidden under lock and key.

#my art #my sonic fcs #sonic oc #sonic fc #OC: Bernard #ref sheets #they always say yeehaw but never ask haw yee :-(

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sly-merlin · 4 years

Text

HUMSAFAR - let me love you forever || lee jooheon

HUMSAFAR || companion or a fellow traveller.

• pairing || jooheon + doctor! y/n

• Ages || 32 and 30

• Genre || transition from angst to fluff to angst to fluff / almost divorced au

• Word count || ~7k

• Warnings || angst???

A/N :: this piece is dedicated to my dear SEVEN @msmadness99 , written for the @kafenetwork kafeholidays event! a little note for you at the end seven! enjoy🥳

beta readers ::my cutie @hunjins and sweetest @adamfoolcry (thank you so much for being patient and correcting me my two grammarly professors) and i hope you enjoyed your cameo aria)

Synopsis ||

At our parting neither you cried nor I

But why is it that neither you slept peacefully nor I

Even as grownups, we sometimes fail to understand how to keep going when the going gets tougher. Easiest decision? Give up. You chose it. Jooheon respected it. But with each passing day, apprehension of parting forces him to finally realise what he should have been doing before the going got tougher for the both of you!

He has a choice. Either to lead you closer to him or let you further away from him. Choosing the former, he makes you wear the binoculars to the past countering your impulsive decision with another of his own.

Without a word spoken, how would he say “Let me love you forever?”

Playlist: rainbow-sana, still falling for you, sixteen - ellie, you are the one for me - Shania, every man of mine - Shania (this one is just for fun)

At our parting of ways, neither you cried nor I

"I can’t take this anymore, jooheon. It’s not love if it suffocates you. Sign these papers so we can both move on. Please!” you pleaded.

November 29

You pleaded.

He complied.

The very next moment, he regretted it.

He was lost in the old conversations when your emerging figure broke his train of thoughts. He removed the baseball cap shadowing his eyes to take a good look at you. You looked tired. Incessantly massaging your nape, you passed his car with heavy footsteps without even sparing him a glance. Checking over his shoulder, he felt his confidence fading away as you neared your own car. His trembling fingers opened the door but his legs refused to move. The fear of facing you after two weeks settled in as shivers travelled from his hands reaching his chest but a voice in his head screamed for him to budge. Today was the day he had waited a long time for. He had been gathering the courage for two whole days and that might not be long for others but for him they were.

Inhaling a deep breath he walked around his car to approach you. From what was obvious to a stranger’s eye, you looked like you were struggling with your bags. Did she lose her keys again? Jooheon wondered.

“Lost something miss? I mean missus.” He corrected himself with emphasis.

He noticed you pausing your actions. Your back was still facing him but you were no more rummaging through your bag. When you turned around, he was met with a pair of furrowed brows.

“What are you doing here?” you asked in an ice cold voice.

“I just- I just wanted to see you.” he replied forgetting his love-speech he had memorised earlier.

“Leave! And never come here again. Anyone could recognise you here!” you deadpanned but couldn’t hide your worry for his privacy making him smile involuntarily.

“How are you?” he continued ignoring your warning.

“What exactly are you looking for joo?” He loved the way the nickname rolled off your tongue.

“You.”

“I won’t repeat again joo. Do not bother me again!”

“And why is that?”

“We are divorced.”

“Not yet!”

“It’s just 13 days joo. Then you’ll be free.”

“But I don’t want to.” You rolled your eyes at his sharp tongue.

“Papers are signed joo. I’m not sure where you are heading but save yourself the hard work and focus on your career instead. I need to go home.”

You whirled around to continue the search for keys when jooheon smoothly picked you up to place you on the car hood causing you to let out a small yelp. Holding you securely, he closed the unwanted distance to rub his forehead against yours to ease the creases on your head. Right when you were about to release the breath you held, his lips met your right cheek in a sweet kiss. His one hand cupped your chin in the softest of the manner and twisting his own face to the right, his cheek met with your lips to earn one for himself as well. Before you could decipher his train of actions, you were positioned back on your feet. Winking at your baffled face, he walked back to his car, all while smiling like an idiot.

“What are-?

“Don’t forget to eat something. I’ll see you tomorrow. Oh and check your pant pockets!” he shouted inappropriately loud for a public place.

His car left the parking lot and unconsciously your trembling fingers traced the pant pockets. The keys were in your pocket and like always, he was the one that reminded you!

Time passed but you kept staring at the empty space, transfixed by his actions.

But then, what’s this that neither you nor I slept peacefully!

The glass photo frame in your hand was stained with salty mixture of your tears and the mascara that was adorning your eyes till few minutes ago. Your fingers brushed the drops away to save the photo but the endless stream wasn't helping much. With back against the bedroom door and the chilled surface beneath, your body slightly shook at the midnight coldness. The heater managed to increase the temperature of the room yet it failed to release the warmth that your heart yearned for.

The photo you held with your dear life was taken in Rome, at the congratulatory trip you both had taken on your first marriage anniversary. You both were standing on the top of the Spanish steps when the tourist photographer had clicked you with hands interlocked and eyes trained on each other, a perfect heart-warming moment. You both considered yourself lucky as a few months after your trip, sitting on the same stairs was banned. Your fondness with this piece of glass and paper couldn't be described in mere words, at least you always failed to explain your love for it. And now this immortal memory was your solace in nights.

You didn’t clearly remember the day, month or year when you first encountered it. you didn’t remember the exact time when the loneliness you felt when he went away for weeks on tours, the desire to snatch few moments for the both of you, the love that still grew with each day despite not being close was morphed into a guilty conscience of your inability to shower him with the same amount of love and affection you desired when he was away. What started with him ended up with you? Even in med school and his rap rehearsals, you both managed to take some for each other leaving no room for complaints. But as the years passed, you got occupied but you still got by, somehow. Even when he went to endless tours you took it upon yourself to surprise visit him from time to time so he won't feel alone and for that you even started double shifts to use them for leave. You did what you could until it was impossible to give your all and finally you grew tired of it. It was a year ago when you had your first fight over the issue. Jooheon had taken hiatus and booked a vacation as a surprise but you were unable to take any leave. In his displeasure, he had thrown some harsh words at you but nothing that a sweet love filled apology couldn't fix. But that small argument developed into extended string of many.

"Let's have a baby y/n. It's been more than 10 years since we got together. I think we are ready for an addition" he had proposed, only two days after you were promoted. You were burdened and confused.

You refused.

He complied.

When few months passed you felt like a liability on the man who wanted nothing more than to have a family with you. So you proposed the end.

"I can’t take this anymore jooheon. It’s not love if it suffocates you. Sign these papers so we can both move on. Please!” you pleaded.

He hesitated but agreed. You'd be lying if you said it didn't hurt. You expected him to start another fight with you but more importantly for you!

That was a month ago and now you were lying on the cold floor crying yourself to sleep to pass another night.

Jooheon??

You had never called him that. It was always joo for you! Since you were 19? 20? He couldn't remember but it had always been joo.

Ignoring the trivial fights that stretched over for more than a year had been one of the biggest blunders of his life. For what he considered insignificant, you took as warning. The things he remained oblivious of, marked the end of a decade old relationship. As much as he wanted to stop you, he couldn't. How he could be selfish when it came to the person who had loved him selflessly almost half of his life.

He complied when you pleaded. And his heart ached at the absence of any tears.

I failed her! These words repeatedly played in his head for two weeks. Who else was to blame for the calamity than himself? He was the other pillar of the house that you both had built once. He, instead of protecting it had shattered you as well.

That was a month ago. Following a week after that cursed day, you both signed the papers and had queued your petition due to winter holidays. Year was ending and so his life.

It was two weeks ago. When he moved out of the house. You had insisted upon shifting into the hospital dorms but he refused. You complied.

But miracles happen at unexpected places. For him, it held true.

Two weeks ago, you had called him for separation of an old joint account. You had opened your wallet for your id card when he had found his hope. In your wallet laid multiple stamp sized photos of him, some old some new. He was aware that you used to get your favourite photos in stamp size just to carry around but why his! When you had curtly made it clear that your feeling for him had died down.

With chaotic mind he had reached home. The entangled mess that his thoughts were found themselves making straight queues of responses that lined up from his head to heart.

There was a chance you had lied. Why? He didn’t know. The only think he was sure of was that he loved you. And perhaps you did too! And he couldn’t let you further away from him.

Your impulsive actions would be compensated by his own!

In the eyes that hold my beloved, who else can be beheld

5 December.

“I have to attend appointments joo. You just can’t turn this hospital into a picnic spot. If you don’t want to meet the security then don’t ever show your face again!” you warned again.

From the past three days, he has been camping in your office. Though he did wear a mask and a cap, you were still afraid his fans would recognise him causing trouble for you in the hospital.

“Yo! No need to be aggressive woman. I just came to eat your homemade food. I’ll go right after that. You want to eat with me?”

His crinkled eyes were persuading you to agree but always knowing better, you shook your head and left the room after picking up few charts.

Shutting the door with a thud, you left the room. Jooheon’s palm met with the table, the loud noise coming back to pierce through his ears.

Why were you so stubborn!

All he wanted was a response of some sort that, if not a guarantee, would give him an assurance that he was indeed chasing his old y/n. not that lack of any was going to stop him, he was just getting anxious. He was already late. The only way to have you back was to crawl towards you, slowly, cautiously until you were ready for him to run to you.

Till then?

A little effort and lots of waiting!

6 December

You saw him leaning against your car. Again!

“What do you want Jooheon?”

“Go on a vacation with me?”

You rubbed your forehead in frustration, “are you high joo? You cannot ask me to trips! You shouldn’t even be here in the first place. You probably don’t remember but we are not together anymore!”

“Have you lost your mind y/n.” he mimicked. “The divorced is not finalised yet.”

“I don’t know what bit you in a month but all this is not a joke for me joo. I’m not taking divorce to go on fun holidays wi-

“Nothing is a joke for y/n.” his voice suddenly grew serious, “just two weeks is all I’m asking from you.”

“We. Are. Separating! What part of this are you finding hard to understand?”

“Separation to separating? Nice journey baby.” He snarked, standing tall, jamming his hands in his pockets.

“I don’t want to be anywhere near you.”

“You owe me few days y/n. I’m just cashing those.” He said nonchalantly.

“We both owe each other many things but you don’t find me demanding any?”

“Three weeks”

Wrapping your arms around yourself and ignoring his requests, you circled the car.

“Two weeks?”

You opened the door and threw the bag onto the seat.

“Please y/n.” you yapped at the proximity of the voice, gulping at him literally sitting on his knees!

“Joo do-

“I’m not asking for reconciliation. I just wanna spend some time with you. Nothing more, nothing less. I don’t wanna leave you with a guilt y/n. please.”

9 December

“Of all the places, why here? If this is where you want me to waste my 15 precious holidays then sorry I’m out!”

“Can’t you just shut your judgemental mouthpiece and concentrate? Kihyun is about to enter the stage.” He whispered, picking some piece of lint from your jacket.

Yes, you were on a vacation. Your guilty conscience had over weighed your screaming rationality and also because he was too persistent. But this was opposite the vacation he sounded so excited about! No offence to kihyun, you loved the elder but the operas were not your thing and certainly not with a body running on 2.5 hours of sleep and caffeine!

“Look look, there he is!” jooheon slightly jumped on his seat.

You begrudgingly craned your neck to notice the man entering the stage with other two artists. Without further ado, the world-famous opera singers greeted the audience and began singing.

Taking a look at jooheon's face, you observed how his eyes lit up when kihyun's voice reverberated in the auditorium. The seemingly incurable boredom due to the same old melody slowly dispelled as the prominent wrinkles emerged around his eyes, the deep dimples appearing as if his cheeks had been scooped out.

He was invested in the performance and you in a very particular audience. You thoroughly enjoyed the side view of the exclusive affair until you just couldn’t anymore.

12 December

For the tenth time, you tried your best to push yourself but the heavy, soft clouds forced you further into the bed. You felt snug under the warm blankets, the relief of not having to wake up and run to the hospital at 7 a.m. finally crushing you but in a warm way.

Kihyun's high notes still echoed in your head as you prepared breakfast. This was the reason you weren’t super excited over watching him being all majestic on the stage. Since college days, you never liked how his voice would live in your head for several days after only an hour of performance. As for the recent one, it was two days ago, the day you last saw jooheon. You had tried to call him the day after with the purpose of throwing a small gratitude speech regarding his gentlemanliness for dropping your sleepy self to home but you weren't lucky enough to receive an answer. You felt annoyed at first for his carelessness towards the so called vacation but your annoyance died down after a much needed 8 hour nap. Now, you were sprawled on the couch eating away the delicious food while catching up on an old show.

No sooner had you finished the food than you ran for the door.

"My queen!" He squealed, pouty lips trying to touch you before his needy arms could. You rolled your eyes, opening the door for him, turning around only at the dramatic gasp he let out.

"What?"

"That's not how you greet your guests missus!"

"Guest?" You scoffed before continuing, "since when joo?" Strolling around the living room, you missed jooheon's perplexed eyes.

"Do you wish to stand there for the whole day?" You jabbed to which his lips merely curved up in the disgustingly adorable half smile that you hated so much.

"Do you want to eat?" You offered

"No. I'm good. Just here for a pick up."

"I could've taken up the surgery Mr. Nam is doing today! You wasted my two days!" You shouted from the kitchen, pouring some juice for him.

"Looks like someone slept well. Your zombie eyes are gone woman" he looked through the glass, clearly poking fun at your swollen eyes. "And please refrain from mentioning scissors and blood for a few days. Also take an extra coat."

"Umm what are we exactly doing?"

"I'll let you know missus!" You groaned at the overuse of the title you were no longer associated with but remained silent. For the time being.

"FUCKIN SNOW TUBING! You screamed in horror as your now soon-to-be ex hubby parked the car. "You know I hate this so much. What are we doing here?"

"Chill madam. You won't die. Besides you said you wanted to try it once before dying and according to an ancient saying who has seen tomorrow so let's go."

"No thanks"

"Thank me later baby" he snickered.

"I don't want to wear those already worn tubing pants Joo! Let's just go back." You protested but he merely rolled his eyes at your weak protest and grabbed your arm, dragging you along the railing.

After obtaining the tickets, you both were guided towards the changing area. A man handed you the snow pants wrapped in clear plastic.

“Sir are these pants washed?” jooheon asked, very obviously ridiculing you.

“Yes mister. These clothes are dry-cleaned and sanitized for proper care.” The man explained politely.

Jooheon’s judging brows danced in sync before he left you alone to change. The pants were comfy but you couldn’t say same about the whole tubing thing you were going to experience. You weren’t against snow or the related activities, but the ski slopes were frightening. Even thinking about the steep run, you felt nauseous.

Wintry air blew your hair as you stepped outside of the lodge area and into the white carpet zone. The temperature seemed to be decreasing as you took slow steps for the tubing area. As jooheon took your hand in his, you knew there was no escaping.

************

"Did you take my pictures? I got to post it. Everyone needs to know I went for tubing. They are going to be shocked boy!"

You kept mumbling while sipping your hot chocolate. You were busy staring at the snowman marshmallow melting into the drink that you missed his loving gaze on you.

"Yeah of course everyone needs to know. That the scaredy cat y/n, who's afraid of slopes, after 8 years of resolution, finally went to snow tubing"

"Are we going somewhere else" you mistakenly voiced your hope but feeling embarrassed, immediately drew your eyes back on the mug.

"No. You ain't feeling it but you are pretty overwhelmed. Let’s just buy some pasta and then I'll drop you home. I forgot my glasses so I can't drive too late"

Your face instantly dropped at his open disregard for your subtle indication. Blowing on the hot drink, you tried to drown his words with loud slurping but the disappointment was evident on your face.

Jooheon took a note of that, suddenly feeling not so exhausted!

And just like that another day was over!

13 December

The car rolled along the few bungalows that lined up across the apartment building where jooheon was residing since last month. He had called you to pick him up for his car had suddenly stopped working which was quite strange considering how much he cared for his boy toys. But here you were, returning the favour of his kindness!

"What are you aiming for Joo? This is not a holiday, it's just a city tour. And now a bookstore? Why are you choosing all the boring things in the world! Do you want me to throw you out of my car? You huffed as he mentioned the next destination.

“Bookstores? Boring? For you?" His nose crinkled as if he smelled a burnt egg.

"I love reading and you know that! But these days I- I don't get enough time to finish a book. Not even in a month! I don't wanna hoard more books and then feel guilty while passing our library" hearing yourself, you understood how frustrated you were over the fact that even after building a mini library to enjoy your love for reading , you weren't able to do the same.

"Yes I know! That’s why I don't understand why you refuse to make some time for yourself. Just like this vacation. You can take some days off. You are no more under strict supervision y/n. You can use your allowed days!"

"I know I'm promoted and all but it comes with a responsibility. I just can't leave everything for juniors and seniors to handle while I enjoy a cup of coffee!"

"Don't tell me they don't get their paid leaves! When they are not considerate enough then why do you bother so much about t- stop? Stop the car right here!"

Startled at his howling, you hit the brakes and parked the car in the permissible area.

"What was that bitch! You wanna kill me or something?" His eyeballs widened into infinity as your chest rose and fell with newfound anger. For a tiny person, you sure had some Good temper.

Horrified, he sheepishly smiled at you before pointing outside with his finger. Your focus changed scenery when you looked outside, blood calming in an instant, hands smacking your own face in astonishment.

"Oh shit! This is still alive!"

"Cut the profanities kid."

Some other time you'd have sliced off his tongue for calling you a kid but all your attention was diverted to the store outside. Jooheon chucked to himself as your eyes gleamed with something he had been missing from days and he was simply satisfied.

The Renaissance book cafe!

The place you once called your home! Not dramatically but literally as all your time beyond studied was spent there!

The bell chimed as you both entered the cafe. The air smelled of the warm memories that still lived within you but the consciousness that the walled space provided wasn't something you'd have carried with you.

It was a nice cosy 2 storey building, owned by an old couple. They both used to sit on the receptionist seat together, making everyone coo at their loveliness towards each other. But nothing remains steady! The old man was sitting alone, reading some comic book, not caring about anyone's arrival.

You exchanged an understanding look with jooheon before entering further.

The aroma of gold liquid felt oddly similar.

"Came for the books and stayed for the coffee. “You mumbled

"Come for the coffee and stayed for you" He whispered in your ear before walking away. “I need some short stories to detoxify myself.” He announced, stretching his arms not glancing behind. He knew if he did he's found you stunned and glued. But instead you passed him weakly, going straight for the fiction section.

"At least someone has enough time to properly read. Unlike me!"

Jooheon's heart knew your now dulled expression was not just because of the books. The old couple had been the subject of jooheon's final graduation project but being too busy with rookie career you had happily offered to do the observational worksheets for him. Their smiles, little arguments, interactions with each other and customers had taught you more about life then you'd have had on your own. His arm outstretched on its own but he retracted. He couldn't!

"Hey y/n. Let’s go upstairs!" He said, gripping your hand tightly, dragging you along with him.

"Slow down joo."

Nostalgia warmed your body as your feet led you to the section devoted solely to the majestic 1700s and 1800s. He watched as you grinned, fingers brushing on various titles

"How much time do we have?" You queried hopefully.

"Umm." He pretended to count, “the whole day" you slightly jumped on your toes at his words before picking up your favourite classic from the shelf.

"Which one do you want?" You asked like your hands weren't on the other copy of the same volume.

"I always read same as you!" He felt offended at you forgetting the most significant detail.

"Oh ok."

Shoving his copy to his chest, you made your way to the distant two seater couches. The setting of the table was incredibly inviting. It's was situated on the corner where there was minimum light, perfectly providing you the comfort of home.

"Oh hear me out y/n. There's a superb paragraph" You shifted your gaze towards him as he sipped on his coffee. "Once upon a time there's was a 19 year old boy named as Lee jooheon. On insistence of his friends, he once visited an amazing coffee shop. The ambience of the shop was so alluring that he decided to take a stroll. No book caught his eye but a certain pair of eyes did. The beautiful maiden's captivating eyes seduced the poor man into daily visits. With each passing day, he found himself getting trapped inside those y/e/c orbs. He wished the woman would spare him a glance or two. He wished she'd call his name one day. He desired to be born as the bookmark in his next life or the book itself! For she'd stare all day lo-

"Well if the young man didn't shut his mouth then the not-so-young maiden would pour the hot coffee onto his head." You whisper yelled as he cowered away dramatically.

"Chill. I'm just trying to have some fun. It's totally cool"

You nodded knowingly before fixing your gaze on the lost words.

Only if you knew what he truly meant by it!"

His eyes had the song that I never sung aloud

16 December

"I wanna stay here. Backstage!" You pouted, pulling shownu by his arm.

"Jooheon would kill me!" He shrugged.

"Please noni don't wanna stand with those mad fangirls and besides, I have heard your songs plenty of times. What difference it'd make"

He pressed his lips together, eyes glaring at you. "Wow y/n. It's been like 14 months since you attended our last concert. Now you don't wanna even stay in the audience. Where's the y/n who loved the thrill of bass!" His spoke and went on to ruffle your hair.

"14 months?" You chuckled. “No way! Your calculation is so wrong!"

Shownu folded his arms against his chest giving you a no-nonsense look, "then care to explain why your dear husband is shouting at everyone to not cause any problem because his precious wife is attending after 14 months! Even the food delivery man knows that you are here. After 14 months. Precisely"

A wave of guilt coursed through you as you took in his words. You truly didn't remember the last time you went out to support your husband. Another breeze followed at the realisation that jooheon was actively making efforts. For what? You couldn't say but being aware of his little measures, you didn't want him to stop. Why? You couldn't say that either but something tender had made its way to your heart and thawed the ice.

Despite having the VIP seats, the commotion that was going to follow made you anxious. It wasn't that you weren't fond of the monsta's power packed concerts but fangirling over your family members didn't set right onto you or you could say you didn't feel thrill that the rest of audience dealt with. You were glad that kyun's girlfriend was present to provide you the much needed company.

The evening was about to end and you were catching up with mina when suddenly your voices drowned out among the hooting of the crowd.

"Well everyone, someone has a special surprise for you all. This is a complimentary performance dedicated to all of you. Please enjoy and merry Christmas everyone"

The lights focused on the single chair on the centre stage. After a few seconds, the spotlight was occupied by a raven haired man.

Jooheon

“What is he doing up there? With a guitar?” mina jerked her head in your direction and found you equally flabbergasted by the whole scenario.

“I don’t know.” you barely managed to whisper back.

“I never knew he could play that?”

Mina’s wonder laced look and also of everyone present in the arena was worth capturing. Because they had simply never seen that man with a guitar before. He was always the enthusiastic, wildly alive rapper on stage. His secret acoustic career had always remained exclusive for your ears. Until now. With hair down and a simple hoodie, face rid of any makeup, he mirrored the younger version of jooheon who learned guitar specifically for you.

You noticed how his eyes met yours for a second but darted away. He cleared his throat nervously. Not only you but the whole arena could sense the odd overwhelming feeling that he radiated. The audience seemed all ready to see him in action but you slightly chuckled at how fidgety he was being. You could only hope he won’t run away from the stage.

But instead he exhaled mightily, shifted his posture and the very familiar tune resounded in the quiet place.

“When was the last time he sang this to me?” you quizzed yourself.

As he proceeded with the song, you felt like something you treasured for so long was being exposed to the whole world. Unlike others, the lyrics spoke differently to both of you.

You’re still the one I run to

The one that I belong to

You’re still the one I want for life

Look how far we’ve come my baby.

You knew, among the sea of people, the only ears he wanted to reach were yours and you wanted nothing more than to scream on the top of your lungs that you indeed would run to him and he was still the one that you needed.

You wanted to. But you chose not to.

19 December

Your hand secured in his, he took painfully small steps to match yours as you were too busy ogling at every piece of item displayed in the showrooms. You weren’t interested in buying anything as you had told him earlier and he was pleased with anything as long as he got to be with you. Knowing that you were not keen on spending time outside in the cold, he was initially afraid of your reaction when he had suggested the idea of doing Christmas shopping. But your sparkling eyes had liberated him of the worries. Slipping into the crowd was easy but keeping a pace was getting difficult. It was an hour ago and now his one hand was crammed into his pocket and other one was holding yours. He had a Christmas presents list tucked in his shirt pocket but the warmth of your happy eyes was not something he wanted to lose at that moment. It was early in the evening so having plenty of time on his hands, he was more than happy watching you smiling like an idiot.

“Oh shit! Why didn't you remind me? We have to buy toys for ari!" You reminded him. Aria was minhyuk's three year old daughter and being the only kid in your friend circle she was more than just spoiled.

"What to get this time?" Jooheon's muffled voice got lost in his mask.

"What?"

He crouched down to speak in your ear, "I said what to buy?"

"Oh ok. Umm how about a roller coaster? She can play with it in summers and a Lego set of-

Jooheon was already looking at you when your head snapped up. "Which Lego set should we get?"

"A musical theatre"

"A hospital building"

"No"

You both cut each other and shouted, gaining unnecessary attention from a few passer bys. Slightly bowing to particularly no one, you dragged him by his elbow to enter a small antique shop.

"Why would a 3 yr. old need a hospital building" he sounded bothered by your choice.

"And she ain't going to be a musician either"

"Oh so this is about that hmm? Sorry to burst your bubble but she's going to be a rapper just like me."

"Yeah yeah we'll see-

"Do you want to buy something sir" you both turned inside the shop to find an old man smiling at you both. He bended forward forward in welcome which you both returned immediately. A glance at his face and you were already feeling awkward for barging into his shop without any purpose but before you could say anything, jooheon took your hand and pulled you outside.

"That was so rude joo!"

"Better than just standing there and looking like thieves caught up in the act" he explained and you merely nodded, getting distracted by the hamleys store in your eyesight.

"There it is!"

Jooheon chuckled at your cuteness and let himself follow your wordlessly.

"Didn't you make your list this year?" You asked, counting the sparkles on the night blanket. Of all members, including you, jooheon was always the most excited one on Christmas. He was always the one to write a list of gifts for others. That's why you were sitting on the concrete bench of the shopping centre, bags resting beside you.

You turned your head to find his eyes unwrinkled, trained on the night sky, face inscrutable under the mask. His was still just like the statue behind you, but his body radiated unprecedented sadness. But you knew him. Hesitantly, your hand reached out to break him from the bubble he had packed himself in. His shoulder trembled under your touch as he finally faced down.

"What?" He whispered.

"I was saying if you prepared a list for the gifts. We can get them so you won't have to shop alone."

"Oh!" He evaded your sight as his right hand mechanically clutched his coat just where he heart resided. You could swear you saw a flicker of something on his half covered face but didn't press any further.

"You ain't gonna get anything this time?" You asked carefully.

"No." He politely refused

You couldn't comprehend the sudden change of demeanour. He was fine in the store while surfing through the shelves so you couldn't understand the reason for his foggy behaviour. Maybe he was tired, you thought and suggested he end the day.

As you both walked the same pathway again, you couldn't help when you passed that antique shop.

Tugging at his arm, you caused him to stop.

"Umm joo, we were rude to that old man. He must have mistaken us as customers. Don't you think we can get something as an apology and maybe I'd find something good as well!" he nodded in affirmation.

"Oh yeah. We should. But hurry up it's getting colder"

You nodded enthusiastically taking a step back to enter the shop. Jooheon shook his head at your childish mannerism. Following you, he found your awestruck gaze at a wooden Christmas tree. It was a polished piece laced with beautiful ornaments. At the centre was a small golden star sparkling enough to blind someone but his gaze was fixed on something else that shone brighter than the artificial piece.

"Can we take it joo? We'll place this on the fireplace shelf, right beside your bronze mic."

The smile on jooheon's face dimmed at your words. Despite denying it several times, you were doing it too often for it to be considered an honest error.

You hummed again pestering for a response but none came.

"Joo! Can we get this?"

"I'll be waiting in the parking lot" before you could respond, he left. You were perplexed at his sudden action so you hurriedly apologized before paying for the tree.

You were breathless by the time you reached the car. Jooheon's head was resting on the steering wheel, arm limp by his side. Concern clouded your mind at his distressed state as he didn't make any move even after hearing the car window noise. Placing the gift pack on the backseat, you called his name. He immediately lifted his head only to look the other way and that's when you heard a muffled sniffle. You inched forward to rub his shoulder but he swatted your hand away as soon as it made contact with his body. It wasn't rude but still something prickled.

"Joo! Baby! Are you fine?"

"Ye-yeah. " He finally looked up but adjusted his cap to hide himself. "Let me just drop you home. Do you want to eat something? I'm not hungry so we can get something for your choice" he babbled, shifting the gears.

"What happened joo. Why are you so upset? Are you feeling sick?" A trail of questions left your lips. The more he remained silent, the more you became anxious.

"No I'm perfectly fine."

"Joo-

"I don't wanna talk about it y/n"

Irritated by his rejection, you resorted on picking your lips instead of paying him any further attention. But your attempts at ignorance went futile when he let out another choked sniffle. For the first time, you felt helpless. Your destination was near and all you could was twist the ring in your third finger, trying to distract yourself.

"I'll keep the toys with me. I'm gonna visit them tomorrow so I'll give it to them. Take your tree though"

You were already home!

"Are y-yeah I'll do that. Good night. “You remained rooted in the seat for the next few seconds but when there was no hope left, you whirled around to pick the paper bag from the backseat. Just when you clicked the button to open the door, your peripheral vision caught something on the space above the glove compartment. It was not there earlier!

Without thinking twice, you touched the paper picking it up, "is it a bill?" You were about to unfold it but jooheon acted faster than lightning to snatch it. He was swift yet failed as your grip was stronger.

"Go away joo. It'd tear!" You twisted your whole body towards the window as he struggled.

"Y/n it's mine."

He kept trying but you sneakily opened the door and jumped out of the car. You heard a loud curse but without a care for the man, you focused on the task at hand. Nothing was visible due to the natural darkness so you turned on your camera flash to look at it. Jooheon was also out of the car by now.

"Binoculars to the past?" You read out loud the words written in the centre.

"Is this some poetry joo?" If you had looked up, you'd have noticed the drained colour on his face. He was eventually going to tell you about it but he wasn't ready yet. And you kept reading out loud twisting his insides.

"Number one, sleep. Number two, meet up with hyungs, have a coffee with the old couple. Would she agree for the concert? Snow tubing to freak her out, guitar practice? Visit my parents, buy Christmas gifts? And test the waters? Withdraw the application?” your breath quickened as you recited the list.

“WI-withdraw the application joo? You also agreed to it now I don't see where the problem is-

“You can't see the problem” he interjected in a tired voice. “All this is a major problem y/n. We are divorcing and that's the problem. We'd never eat or live together and that's the problem. We'd never be there for each other and it might not be a problem for you but it is for me! I can't thin- you don't know how much I'm regretting giving in to you. I don't want to live without yo-

You didn't let him complete before you ran inside the building. He called after you but didn't follow.

But it was not over for him!

There was animosity, Indifference and anguish

The one who I was parted with had everything

But be didn't have unfaithfulness

Sprawled on the bed with the photo in hand you were missing him more than ever. The intensity of the pain you felt left you shook. You glanced at the ceiling with blurry vision. In the past week, jooheon had managed to bring the same felicity that you had known once. But with each passing tear, it flew away. You had already bid farewell to him three weeks ago. It was already over from your side so why you were still wounded. You were scared that one more day and you'd end up giving in to him. And you wanted everything but to cause him further affliction.

You winced at the constant noise of your phone. It was buzzing and there seemed no end to it. Sniffling sharply, without looking at the contact, you picked it up.

"Who's I-

"Don't leave me" the wretched sob that pierced through the phone had you dead. Pulling yourself up, you gulped against his words. He was breaking but so were you. Sounded like he had some things to say, you had too. “Please y/n. Each day is harder than the last. Please, just one more time, give me a chance to make you happy. I won’t fail you again.”

The image of his crushed face flashed through your mind and a moist hiccup shook you up.

“I’d never fight again. No arguments, I promise! I’ll change myself. Just give me a chance.”

Disbelief washed over when you heard his words. He was cursing himself for being the source while it all had started with you and not him. Your much needed explanation that followed flowed with struggle. “I- you were doing more than enough. I’m unable to return your love with the same intensity. You can find someone better t-to d-devote yourself to. I can ne-

“Did I ever say you were not doing enough? Did I- I’m sorry if I ever made you feel like that. I never meant to.”

“You didn't do anything, joo. It felt the emptiness between us. You must have too! We can both do better than this joo. I proposed divorce after calculating everything. You were not happy anymore joo. I was getting bus-

“I was happy. Very happy. I respected your decision because you said you didn’t love me anymore! You never told me that my supposed happiness was the reason.” he choked out a reply. “You co-could have talked to me. It’s not like I wouldn’t have heard you. We could have found an understanding. There were two people in this relationship y/n. You had no right to decide for me!”

His words echoed through your room. You hid your face in your knees, trying to maintain the tranquillity and he didn't speak for a few minutes, donating you the time to collect yourself.

“You were-” you began, harshly rubbing the tears off your cheeks, “you were suffering joo. You took hiatus, twice, for me and I couldn't manage some time to be there with you. I knew how it felt to be the one waiting joo. I knew how you felt when I wasn't there to share your life.”

“Half of my life, I’ve been away. You never thought about a divorce before.”

“Because I thought everything would be solved one day. But I don't know how we exchanged places. Since last year you were the one waiting for me. The days are longer when you are suddenly left alone joo.”

“And instead of asking me, you simply decided for me as well. Why did you wait for all these years?”

“I loved you joo. I would never have left you just because you were a little busy.”

“Then why can’t you expect the same from me dammit. Why can’t I spend few days, dinners and nights alone? Why can’t I return you the love you showered me with all these years?”

“You wanted a baby and I was-

“I want a baby with you! Whenever you want and even if you don’t its fine, totally fine. You could’ve said so instead of putting so much pressure over yourself over nothing. This is not the y/n I fell in love with!”

“You should go home joo. It’s getting late.”

“Why didn't you wait a little longer? Am I not worth it?”

“It’s already too late for-

“I can’t let your stupid decisions drive our future. It’s not you! It’s we! And I’ve decided to try again. First but not the last. I’m willing to do this again and again until we no longer need it. We can’t live without each other. Don’t lie anymore. Not to me, not to yourself. We can make through. We promised to love each other forever. Let’s fulfil it. Can you do that?” he asked, expecting nothing yet everything. He hated how quiet you were but it meant you were pondering as well.

You bobbed your head like he could see you. Without much thought, you hang up the phone to let him in, this time for a lifetime.

He was my companion!

4 years later, 23 December, 20:00

"Jooheon where the fuck are you?"

Despite balancing yourself on the two ladder chair, you still lacked a few centimetres for reaching the top of the tree. Star in hand, you waited for your husband but he didn't respond.

"The fuck Lee jooheon! I said put the star on!"

"Why are you cursing in front of a baby?" He cried, scrubbing his hands on the apron.

“You are so annoying. Why did you buy a burj khalifa if you weren’t gonna help!” hips jutted out, you questioned him.

“Well I have some questions too! Why are you so short? Why aren’t you using the big ladder? Why am I in the kitchen? Why is Yves eating the carpet?”

The sarcasm fell off his face when you both saw your daughter. She was lying down and was indeed chewing the side of the carpet that she held in her tiny hands. You both sprinted for the middle of the room where she was enjoying herself.

“Bad baby!” as soon as you picked her up, she wailed like you had snatched her favourite toy.

“She’s just 2! Don’t talk to her like that” he reminded as you handed her over. She was a papa’s girl after all. “Go to the kitchen! I’ll stay here.”

You pursed your lips, refusing the offer. Smiling mischievously, he circled around to hit your butt with his knee before coming back to place a sloppy kiss on your cheek. You clicked the same cheek as he ran away, making horrible plane noises to make Yves laugh. She was pleased, you weren’t.

“Lee jooheon, go back in the kitchen before I make you regret your decision.”

Your warning voice echoed through the house as you raced after them.

And you never ever regretted opening the door that day!

With sunshine and shade, there was no parting ever.

hey SEVEN! it’s candy. you can call me SIMMI ! the past month was such a happy ride with you. in the beginning i wasn’t aware of your blog but as time passed and we talked more, we found out abt our similarities, our love for jooheon and hoshi’s cheeks (this info is impo) and our interests! my sytherin sister! i’m glad you were assigned to me(this is how the message read). i hope we can continue having fun together. and thank you so much for being the sweetest person. ilysm (and this was not a typical christmas fic but i hope you enjoyed it a bit!) now i can bug you without being terrified of that stupid anon button. MERRY CHRISTMAS CUTIE PIE!

#kafeholiday20 #kafenetwork #monsta x scenarios #monsta x reactions #monsta x imagines #monsta x reader #monsta x angst #jooheon #jooheon scenarios #jooheon fluff #jooheon imagines #kihyun #changkyun #minhyuk #shownu #hyungwon #monsta x reactio #monsta x fanfic

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