#then when i go back to college i romanticize home like girl make up your mind!!

[declaredmissing]

to the sea

I discovered that enchanted territory for the first time during my first year in college. February, the heart of winter. Eighteen and wide eyed, and still swept up in the romanticized glamour of New York. I once watched a film where Coney Island was underwater, and that was what I imagined the first time I went there. Past the abandoned parking lots and the desolation of an amusement park in the off-season, and my imagination was swept up in the Coney Island of Spielberg’s film Artificial Intelligence.

The protagonist of the film is a robot boy who longs to become human, like Pinocchio. On his quest, he sets off on a journey to make his appeal to the blue fairy of Coney Island. When he arrives, she is only a statue submerged. The myth dissipates for the audience, but not for the robot. That’s what I always imagined when I’d think of Coney Island; the spokes of the Ferris wheel, rusting and eerie in the shifting light of the water. The wooden statue of the blue fairy rooted in the mud, paint chipping, frozen smile splintering. Everything silenced.

My very first impression of Coney Island–a boarded up and shuttered and desolate amusement park–quickly made it synonymous with the failed American dream and collapsed utopian aspirations, but also the place where you could journey to have your wishes granted, to finally become human.

Over the years, Coney Island became many things to me, but a stubborn, tender love that remained that was born from this first impression.

Taking the Q train to Coney Island for what feels like an eternal hour becomes, for me, a mythic journey to become human again. A journey to a place where I’ll find the answers. It would become the park I'd flee to, to find solitude and freedom. That I'd run to when I was lonely, where I would take the trains to the end of the line when I needed the ocean. It was the final destination, every time, when I needed to get out of Manhattan. Where I would ride my bike on the boardwalk, teeth rattling in my jaws from the uneven slats. Where I would dress up, tuck roses in my hair, buy cotton candy and sit on the benches and look at the sky.

There is a poem titled“diaspora blues” by Ijeoma Umebinyuo, which captures the unanchored feeling of belonging nowhere.

“So, here you are too foreign for home too foreign for here.”

The immigration narrative is the same repeated story, shared experience, of how our parents sacrificed so much for us. Caught between the desire to be true to ourselves, and the guilt of feeling obligated to make our parents proud, to make their sacrifice worth it. What do we owe our parents? For the longest time, I thought I had the best compromise in college; to become a human rights lawyer. I would make them proud by taking on a respectable profession, and I would also be following a “dream career”. Idealistic, starry-eyed, younger me.

My friend tells me his mom just packed her bags and left. She got fired from her job, told them she was leaving, and left. That simply. But you don’t do things like that without the desire building in you for a long time. Maybe my mom wanted to be the girl who moved to a different city, changed her name, never looked back.

Once, my mother asked me to write her a story where she’s not in this life. "Write me a story where I run away and I start somewhere new," she asks me. "A life where I escape and I'm on my own, far away from everything here." No one in my family was buried in this land. This is not a country our history or stories are in.

Growing up, I resented sharing my writing or my secret dreams or accomplishments with my mom. Somehow, I felt that she wanted my life, and so I wanted to keep it away from her. My therapist at the time wondered – does she aspire, or is she just proud of me? I couldn’t tell the difference. How can I tell the difference when my mom tells me that she wishes she could trade lives withe me, just for a day, wishing that she could be going to college in new york city with her whole future ahead of her. I was oblivious to the fact that my mother contained an entire internal world of her own. As a teenager, it started dawning on me that she was out of place in Kansas. But only recently did I start trying to comprehend what it might really feel like to leave behind a world you know, that is familiar to you, with people that speak your native language, to an unfriendly and lonely place called the midwest.

No one in my family was buried in this land. This is not a country our history or stories are in. Sometimes I go to Coney Island because the city gets to be too much. I don't know if I invented this ritual so I can run from this city, or because I'm trying to run towards something else, or because I need some kind of anchor in such an unfriendly city. I've inherited my mother's longing for a home to ground her feet in. My mother and I long for a homeland, but this is our land now.

At night, I can see the glittering skyline of Manhattan from far away. It always pulls me in, orienting me, even though it no longer makes me feel the way it did three years ago when I first move to the city. I long for a homeland, but this is all I have.

I've inherited my mother's longing for a home to ground her feet in. This is a story about a girl who runs away.

I frequently have these dreams of walls closing in on me, how there’s no safe place for me to retreat to. When I walk through the city, I always notice the severed wings, the crumpled feathers and smashed claws of pigeons, carcasses crushed against sidewalk grates. The buildings, tall and dark and glittering, threaten to cave in and close in on me. The skyscrapers are why the city burns in the summer. The concrete aids and abets. In this city, there's so much noise and chaos competing that it crowds me out of my own mind, relentless, unforgiving. In the city, all I can think of is what I have lost.

Once, my sister, my mother and I, lying on a mattress on the floor because we couldn't afford a bedframe yet. It's a hot summer day, and my sister and I are supposed to be napping but we're bored and restless. My mom tells me and my sister that we can't roll off the mattress. "We're on a ship in the clouds," she explains. "If your limbs hang off the ship, the sky pirates will shoot at us!" Storytelling was her way of making things bearable for us; her way of shining an ordinary world.

When I was a child, I would imagine people living in the sky, and I called them the cloud people. I imagined that when they looked down below, they were filled with wonder at what they saw.

My mom doesn't tell us stories anymore. When she comes home from work, she only has energy for watching the television. Years ago when I was in highschool, we would fight all the time. I would often come home from school, missing her joy, missing who she used to be, and feeling like I'd lost her even though she was there right in front of me. I didn't know how to say this. My words came out as accusations.

Years later when my mother visits me in New York City, her face is filled with child-like wonder as I introduce her to my apartment and tell her about the classes I'm taking. As she's unpacking her suitcase later that night, she says softly, "I wish I were in college like you, spending my days studying and exploring the city."

Later that night at the dining table, she becomes animated as she's telling stories about me to my roommate. Then the conversation shifts. "She's always scolding me for watching the television. Her and her dad, they won't give me peace. But they don't understand. I come home, I'm tired....the beautiful world is in the shows." I sit there next to her silently, wondering why she never told me this before. If this is her way of telling me because otherwise, she feels that I don't hear her.

No cure for a generation of grim forecasts and daily disasters. Kerala flooding until it’s the same old song, another boat overturned and lives lost at sea. Coral reefs dying, songbirds tangled in nets. Within a few generations, the Philippines will be underwater, and there'll be no home to return to. Many of the CO2 emissions causing ice glaciers to melt and make the sea rise are from 'superpowers' like the United States, and yet its those on the periphery that will take the fall.

In Manhattan, there are projects to build sea walls instead of recovering the oyster beds. The ocean will be redirected to overflow in coastal neighborhoods–Brighton Beach, Sheepshead Bay, Broad Channel. These will be the first to be swallowed by the sea. JFK Airport was built on Jamaica Bay, marshlands that are our only buffer to the rising waters. These marshlands were built upon landfills, landfills that have been leaking detritus that wash up onto the shores of Coney Island.

Not far from this beach is the former State Island Warehouse in Port Richmond, formerly used to store high-grade Belgian Congo uranium ore destined for the Manhattan Project. Uranium had spilled there once, and dangerous contamination confirmed in 2008. During the Cold War, the Manhattan Project was an American led effort to gain the nuclear advantage as a global power. These warehouses, leaking radiation, are the aftermath of the pursuit of atomic superiority. Radio contamination, poisoning our streams, and yet seagulls still bathe in the toxic pools. Beached birds are found with plastics with cadmium, lead, mercury, chromium, silver, lining their stomachs. Albatrosses feed plastic to their chicks, mistaking them for fish eggs, the larger pieces rupturing or blocking their internal organs.

My mother sometimes tells me about what it’s like in the Philippines, and then she apologizes, says she has no one else to talk to.

After I read the UN Report released by the ICPP, I lay half awake at night seeing islands sink into the sea. I’m nestled in the safety of an apartment far enough from sinking shorelines, but my lungs are feeling like they’ve flipped upside down, my body is confused how to respond to these rising statistics. There’s no medicine for a body’s reaction to calamity reports. I wake up in the dark of the morning in a disoriented fumbling panic, squeeze my eyes shut, wait for the world to stop, but it doesn’t. I don’t know how to stop the ache in my stomach, the resounding roar in my head. The confusion of my body being torn between the violence there and here.

Who are we diasporic children living for? We feel obligations to our parents for the sacrifices they made for us, but what is the best way to continue their legacy? I wonder what I might flower into if I felt there was space for my own dreams too. If I could discard the guilt that I am betraying my parents by running away into my own future.

That same day, I go to my anthropology class. It’s the morning after the news of drone strikes in Syria and my professor asks the room, “How do you cope with it?” “You don’t,” says one kid. “We’re all screwed.” Another student yells out, “cardio.”

The next morning, I stumble out of bed, lace up my sneakers, sprint into the sharp cold air. Running to forget rising sea levels, to deafen the acrid chorus of the news, we have failed. To lean into the steady timeline of my heartbeat. Focus on the oxygen bleeding out of my lungs, the knife slicing through the numbness and my feet slamming on the pavement so I don’t think about the saltwater sparrows drowning from the rising tides. People tell me I feel too much but I’m afraid of what I’ll turn into if I don’t and so I keep running.

It's said that the story of Plato's Atlantis was intended to be a warning–that the moral of the story was that the colonial empire met its fall from hubris and greed. A friend once told me, with the certainty of a doomsday prophet, that the crest of a wave is a harbinger of catastrophe. Someone else told me there used to be fireflies where he lived in New Jersey but there was a summer they disappeared and they don't come back anymore. Like sea turtles crawling towards the lights of the highways, peregrines smashing into the windows of skyscrapers, we diaspora children are blinded wild things hurtling to the edge of the cliff. They say slaughterhouses desensitize their workers to violence, but I want to know what the opposite of that could be.

I feel entangled with the desires of my mother, unsure how to separate them her desires from my own. It’s too painful to think of how closely and attentively she follows my life, and so instead, I sever all thought of it. I don’t look back. I keep running. I keep leaving. I don’t know how to return. I don’t know how to see.

Once in this city, a baby pigeon in the middle of the sidewalk, fallen out of her nest, screaming helplessly. I didn't know what to do. I walked away and left her there. Sometimes I go to Coney Island so I can escape this city. Or maybe because I'm trying to run towards something else, or maybe because it's supposed to be the happiest place in the world.

Dystopia in the lonely lights of a theme park’s after hours, an event horizon ribboning the black ridge of the ocean. An edge like a jagged rip in space, marking the sinking shorelines that this place would someday be condemned to. the boardwalk plays sentinel, marks the border between city and sea, commands the mark where the shorelines ought to cease sinking. Faded beacon of a golden age, or a shell, about to split into something we cannot know.

During a thunderstorm, my roommate reminds me that Manhattan and Brooklyn are part of an island archipelago; everything is connected. When I sit on airplanes now, I look at the tops of clouds and I wonder what the cloud people see.

The part of me that sees with western eyes imagines a New York City submerged by the ocean in a thousand years. The other part of me, carrying the inventive storyteller of my mother and the immediate violence of submerged islands, is trying to build a raft to take us elsewhere, somewhere real for us to land.

There is a Tagalog myth of how the Philippine islands were created. It begins with a bird, flying and searching for a place to land. There was nothing beneath her, only ocean. With her, she carried the world.

I don’t credit my mother for leaving a world she knew, for the strength and courage it takes to stand up for herself in a foreign land.

On an impulse in August, I take the A train to Jamaica Bay's wildlife refuge. As I’m walking there from the station, someone stops me and asks if I’m looking for the falcons. I don’t know what he means, so I shake my head. But later, when I’m standing alone in the middle of the refuge, in the echoing expanse of marsh and silver water, I realize it’s the season for falcon watching. I like that idea, of a pilgrimage to a marsh bordering the edges of a city, to search for raptors blading across the sky.

I start looking for this feeling when I go to Coney Island. By the sea, the city walls fall away. I have room to exist. I forget sometimes that the air can smell clear like this, salt and sand and breeze. When I look up, sea birds circle the air. From below, they look like airplanes, and I think of how the shape of planes were inspired by the anatomy of birds. I think of how the turbines catch birds and shred their wings and pilots see the damage only after the flight.

I don't know when it starts to become a ritual, but every Sunday, I take the train to Coney Island and bring flowers with me. I give them to the water, as a way of thanking the people who came before me, my mother's mother and her mother and for the ancestors I don't know. I nod to the seagulls, I pay my respect to the ferris wheel and hot dog stands and the crumpled litter, I feel affinity with the oblivious beachgoers. I used to always imagine Coney Island underwater. I imagined that’s what it would be, a thousand years in the future, when New York City is drowned by the ocean and there’ll be nothing left of us to prove we were here but the skeletal bones of skyscrapers.

Moving to this city has been an education in learning how capable the world is of both cruelty and kindness. I've been thinking about refusal; how much I said no, as I formed myself in resistance to the world. but now I want to start saying yes. I refuse apocalyptic scenarios of sinking islands. I want to say yes to stories where the islands live and go on. As I sit on the bench at Coney Island, facing the sea, I think of how I saw fireflies in the park this summer. How I reached out my hand and coaxed one onto my finger, how she glowed before she lifted her wings and took flight. I think of how the news once reported that when the locals cleaned up Versova beach, hundreds of thousands of sea turtles hatched for the first time in decades. Maybe the wave is an infinitely small part of an infinite number of lines, infinite moments radiating out simultaneously and out of sequence.

In this heartbeat, the laughter of happy families warms the boardwalk. On another coast, fireflies still illuminate fields. In the deep blue, whales call to their calves. In this city, pigeons shuffling in the church altars of abandoned churches, and raptors blading in a blue sky. Someone in Brooklyn told me she became an anthropologist of animal relations because of a story her friend told her in passing, of a killer whale that carried her dead calf on her back for three weeks along the coast. I want to tell my mom, our bloodline runs from the cloud people. An airplane born us from an archipelago to a landlocked state to another archipelago. From the sky we came from, to the sea we'll return.

I wonder if the best way to fight for my parents is to just – be the person I’m supposed to be. To not run away. To not leave them behind. To fight for the future we were supposed to have, that was stolen from us.

I don't know when it starts to become a ritual, but every Sunday, I take the train to Coney Island and bring flowers with me. I give them to the water, as a way of thanking the people who came before me, my mother's mother and her mother and for the ancestors I don't know.

I want to tell my mom, our bloodline runs from the cloud people. An airplane born us from an archipelago to a landlocked state to another archipelago. From the sky we came from, to the sea we'll return.

There are things I've lost that I'm hoping the ocean will wash up and return to me. But maybe it'll bring me other things I didn't ask for. Everything is possible. Driftwood, or plastic bags, or glass bottles, or maybe another world. I imagine this world would be small, fragile, softly breathing. Maybe she'll come unannounced in the shape of a sea bird.

The albatross was once a bird without legs, that had no other purpose than to fly and fly. But now, the albatross is a bird that can touch down. She is a bird that conceded to gravity. When the albatross wings in the sky, I wonder if she looks down and sees the shimmering gold veins of cities sprawling across patchwork of forest and river, from the Atlantic to the Pacific. Does she think, this earth, I love? When she wings even higher, can she see the tops of clouds? When she lands, I wonder if she also has love for Coney Island, the smell of funnel cake and men’s cologne and barbecue and the rocky, salty brine of the ocean. Love for a beach of broken bits of shell and shards of glass and cigarette stubs and kelp. Maybe the albatross is the secret of making a heaven on earth.

Mom, I'll write us into a story where the islands were birthed from a bird rising. I'll write you a world for us to live in, maybe not a forever place, but one where something else begins. We'll take a train to the ocean. We'll trade our hands for wings. We'll look at the tops of clouds, we'll come back and we won't be the same again.

[thoughtsofnowandagain]

21 feb 2023

Hello

It's been a while since I last put my thoughts down in words. I'd say probably 10 years, you know. Thats a whole ass decade.

Back then, I think I was more of a manifester. Maybe more like a romanticizer. This time, I want to embrace how in feeling in the now rather than doing it at the end of the day and not really sticking to the transcript.

I'm almost 25. I'm currently watching New Girl on a Tuesday lunch time. I got out of bed and hour ago and made myself a giant salad for lunch/ breakfast. Yesterday I had a left over samosa from a takeaway the night before for breakfast and a Lamb Balti Curry that I ordered but didn't eat for lunch. I made my own rice and for the first time, I ate it like an indian with my hands and it's 100% tastier. It's really true that the flavors really marry together when you eat with your hand.

I am self employed, which is why I have the freedom of watching New Girl on a Tuesday. I am a bridal make up artist and a beauty therapist. I have my own cabin studio in my back garden where I work from and I go to venue to venue for my make up artistry.

I live with my boyfriend Sam, who is a Car Salesman (though I'm sure he'd call himself something more elaborate, because he does more than just sales, he does all the admon, test drives, everything! He works so hard!) We've been together 4 years and it's been the best! The lockdown years were hard but we got through it and since the new year, he's adopted a 'Calm and Collected' persona and I've felt a difference in our relationship. He's always been loving and kind but he over reacts a lot. That sounds bad. I mean like if he stubs his toe, he'll scream about it and he'll ruin the rest of the day for himself. Or if he's cooking (very rare) in the kitchen, he'll get overwhelmed and storm away, which then I have to take over and it leaves a sour taste in our mouths for the rest of the evening. He's also quit vaping since the new year and he's done really well! He's a little overweight (I love his body and his fat belly, it's the most attractive thing to me) but I've always told him to eat better, for the sake of his heart. He's been going to the gym consecutively for the past 2 nearly 3 weeks! He's done so well!

If you can't tell, I'm very much in love with that boy.

I have a small circle of friends. Megan and Hannah. I've been friends with Megan since primary school, and we met Hannah in secondary school. Grew apart after school and only recently we've gotten much closer. I think we've been going to dinners together almost every month for the past year and I have to say it's been one of my favourite nights of the month!

Megan's about to elope and get married to Joe. I've never formally met him, just the odd hello whenever he drops Meg off and picks her up again. He asked me a couple weeks ago to host a Hen Do for Meg and offered to pay for Meg's side. Probably due to the lack of time he's given us. We're going into the City and going to this crazy golf place which I've been dying to go since it opened. It's got lots of sex paraphernalia and no Hen Do is complete without its fair share of Dicks.

In college, I was friends with Amera and I had a boyfriend called George. Me and Amera became friends with a lot of George's friends but as time we on, I think I realised how tired I was. I was absolutely exhausted from pretending to be who I wasn't which sounds so cliche. It turns out I'm not that party hard type of girl, at least not for very long. I'm a be home by 11pm and sleep in the nude with my boyfriend type of a girl. And I love that life. And that's okay.

I don't talk to that group of people anymore. I wish them all the best. I've had to block Amera and her friends because I felt so sad every time I see them on socials because that's not who I am anymore. They're thriving and though I'm happy with my life, my social battery isn't what it is anymore. And that's okay.

[softykooky]

the habits of a broken heart.

☾ genre : soulmates au, unrequited love, art student!JK, english student!Y/N, angst, fluff, subtle enemies to lovers

☾ pairing : jeon jungkook x reader

☾ summary : jungkook and you are soulmates. so says the matching crescent moons on both your wrists. however, things are never as easy as they seem, and you are quick to learn that falling in love with someone who does not believe in love is a one-way ticket to heartbreak. 

alternatively,

“You still are, you know. Worth it.” You release a shaky breath. “But I was stupid to think that I am too.”

☾ word count: 26.3k (my biggest one yet!)

☾ author’s note: this took forever oh my gosh! i really hope you like it! it’s my first time writing such a big single piece, and trying a different style. thank you so much for your support, always! please let me know what you think ♡

The first time he had his heart broken, Jeon Jungkook had been 13 years old. He was fresh out of middle school and so ready to face his freshman year with an impressionable mind and plenty of voice cracks to earn him months worth of teasing. You see, at the age of 13, Jungkook wasn’t something to swoon over. He had yet to grow into his ears and Dr. Park assured him that his braces would be off as soon as she could get them. He was a little lanky and a bit too reticent to be considered social. So when a girl in his grade comes up to him, nervous and stuttering, and asks him to go to the heavily romanticized homecoming dance, Jungkook has already come to the conclusion that she might be his soulmate, even if he was far too young to get his mark yet. 

Her name was Mina, and Jungkook is confronted with this memory every time he visits home and his mother makes the family flip through the photo albums dating back to his high school years. He grimaces every time he sees the picture of them together. Him in a pink button-up to match her offensively ugly ruffled taffeta dress. 

Mina broke up with him three months after that picture was taken, through one of her friends no less and in front of his entire gym class. Jungkook couldn’t remember how long he cried for while he felt the pain from his first heartbreak would never go away, regardless of how much time passes. He held onto his mother and sobbed out the agony and humiliation of Mina not wanting to be his girlfriend anymore, and how he had lost his soulmate before he even knew it was her. His mother assured him that without the mark, there was no way to be sure and that there was hope. But back then, all Jungkook could think of was ways to avoid Mina the next day, especially when they sat next to each other in 3rd period biology.  

At 13 years old, Jungkook thought he would never find love again. 

He is 18 when he stands alongside his parents in a pale examination room and awaits his destiny. He’s leaving for college the next day, yet the only thing that’s making him nervous is the mark that will inevitably appear on his wrist in the next few minutes. The same one he would find on his soulmate’s, and Jungkook wonders if there is the possibility of scaring everyone away when the first thing he’ll ask on a date is: can I please see your wrist? 

To say the least, Jungkook is petrified. Because that mark on his wrist is going to serve as a constant reminder of his missing piece, and Jungkook knows he’ll always feel lacking until he finds them. It’s a crescent moon. Small and black and nestled comfortably on his skin. He knows many times the marks don’t have any correlation with the couples, but Jungkook wonders if you are an astrologist. Or an astronaut. Or just had a weird affinity for the moon. He smiles when they congratulate him and can’t stop himself from thinking that he might be in love with you already. Wherever you are. When he leaves for university, he feels less lonely when there is a crescent moon to accompany him. 

Contrary to the beliefs of his 13-year old self, Jungkook does fall in love again. Hard. This time, it was a girl with brown hair and big eyes and a smile so pretty he could see it from across a crowded room. She was a grade below him; a frazzled college freshman with no clue to where her lecture hall was, and he: a sophomore who had a compulsion of changing his major every other month. When he met her, it had been chemical engineering and three weeks before that was film composition. Her name was Yoojung, 18 years old while he was 19.

 Her soulmate mark is a single star, and even though he knows she is not his soulmate, he can’t help but to think how perfectly their marks complement each other. How they would make a perfect night sky. 

They had met at a frat party, no less, and the combination of cheap booze and bad hiphop music had made her look so incredibly gorgeous under the dim lighting. They had their first kiss in a random person’s living room, highly intoxicated and much too irresponsible and Jungkook had barely even remembered it in the morning until she showed up at his doorstep and invited herself in. Yet it wasn’t too long before he made a perfect space for Yoojung in his life.

 Each day after his physics lecture, he’d go to her dorm and they’d chat over breakfast until she had economics at 10 o’ clock. After she was done, he’d insist that they go get a greasy hamburger at the joint his friends took him to when they got high and, she’d end up dragging them both to the health food restaurant that prided themselves on only using organic. Leave it to Jungkook to find himself a vegan girlfriend. 

Sometimes though, when he looks at Yoojung, his mind drifts to his actual soulmate and a little flower named guilt blooms in his chest. But he is so young and his other half could be anywhere in the world, so Jungkook thinks there is no harm in allowing himself to indulge in a little affection. These days, it wasn’t completely abnormal for soulmates to part ways, and when Yoojung is in his arms, Jungkook likes to think that his soulmate would understand. They would want him to be happy. In the middle of synchronizing their busy student schedules and sneaking in quick kisses through cramming for finals, he had found it unnervingly easy to fall in love with her. 

Deeply and blindly in love. 

Yoojung brought him home to her family on fall breaks and the occasional winter vacation and Jungkook had melded perfectly into their dynamic. The son I never had, her father would tell him over the dinner table while her mother constantly made sure his plate was piled high. Her little sister was visibly in love with him, and would ask Yoojung where he was every time she came home from university, yet avoiding him at all costs when he was there. 

Jungkook’s own family, however, was a different story. To put it delicately, they had liked it more when he came home by himself and left her at school. It had put a strain on their relationship sure, but at the end of the day, Jungkook loved her. A simple love. 

Every day he remembers that their marks do not match. But if this is love and he feels like he is on cloud 9 with every moment they are together, Jungkook begins to doubt if the universe’s will is truly divine and successful. Maybe Yoojung was his soulmate and it did not matter what was on their wrists. 

He loved her intensely, and she did him. She was the first thing on his mind when he woke up and manifested in his dreams when he slept at night. To Jungkook, Yoojung could do no wrong. Like some sort of divine being or angel that the heavens sent just for him, and he found himself thinking maybe he wouldn’t mind spending the rest of his life beside her. 

But he would come to learn that the higher the climb...the harder the fall. 

Jungkook and Yoojung were together for the better part of 4 years before she cheated on him with a guy that she’d supposedly met a couple weeks ago. When Jungkook screams at her asking why she had been disloyal, Yoojung shows him her wrist. Her single inked star. 

“I found my soulmate, Jungkook. And I love you so much, you know I do. I didn’t know how to tell you so I…”

The rest of her words fade into white noise and all Jungkook can do is look at her and commit every detail to memory as he feels her fade farther away. Her teary and remorseful brown eyes. Her plush lips. The fan of her eyelashes and the mole on the side of her temple. He’ll never get to see her like this again. 

“I was ready to be with you, soulmate or not. I know it’s not fair but I wanted the same from you”, he whispers, falling down on the couch and burying his face in his hands. 

“Soulmates be damned, the universe was wrong. I was so hideously in love with you. How could you not at least tell me when you met him?” Jungkook feels his heart collapsing in on itself with every word of resignation. Of burgeoning acceptance. Yoojung can only mirror his desolate expression and stares down at the star on her skin.

 Jungkook wishes it were a moon. 

“Just go, Yoojung.” 

It would have hurt less if it was only a one night stand with a stranger she did not know the name of. He was in love and spineless enough to move past a one night stand. However, Yoojung had found her soulmate and fallen in love with him. Jungkook had merely acted as a placeholder for the real deal to come along and sweep her off her feet. 

This time he doesn’t cry. Just stares out the window of his living room and wonders what it would be like to disappear altogether. When the door is slammed shut, and he is left to nurse his aching soul, Jungkook apologizes in advance to the person that shares the same mark on their wrist as him. He no longer believes that soulmates exist. 

When Jungkook looks back at his 13 year old self with the innocent construct of what heartbreak feels like, he wants to laugh and maybe slap that stupid boy upside the head. Yoojung had destroyed him. Destroyed the innocent and starry-eyed person that he’s tried so hard to preserve. Destroyed his vulnerability and bright outlook on life and in their place, cultivated walls of rock and steel meant to keep everyone out and him safely tucked inside. In her wake, Yoojung left behind a shell of a man who pushed his emotions so deep he became numb and forgot what it was like to feel. 

So Jungkook does what he always does to push away the hurt. He changes his major; to art history this time. He stacks up bracelets on his wrist to forget the mark of a moon. He scrapes up his rainy day money and treats himself to the most expensive pair of Saint Laurent boots he’s ever worn. He tests the limits of the human liver, and takes advantage of the biceps and jawline he’s acquired since high school to establish a reputation. 

To his friends, Jungkook remained raucous and always down to order infinite rounds of shots until he couldn’t see straight. To those that looked even closer, Jungkook was so completely shattered he didn’t even feel it anymore. 

The second time he had his heart broken, Jungkook was 23. He promised himself he wouldn’t let it happen again. 

◐

“For the last time, Jimin, I’m not going to give you a blowjob so you can pay for my student loans.”

You don’t know how many times you’ve had this conversation with your roommate. Most of the time, it was convenient to have a roommate whose parents were loaded and sent him monthly installments that looked more like small loans than allowances. You knew he just wanted to help. Heck, he probably would be willing to pay them off for you without the promiscuous favor, but you had made it clear to Jimin that you wouldn’t be riding off of his charity. 

“Ugh, Y/N you’re really no fun”, he sighs, falling backwards onto your twin-sized bed and feigning devastation. You reward his melodrama with a giggle, ruffling your hands through his fried hair. Jimin had a knack for changing his hair color as quickly as his mood. 

You look at the bill that’s staring back at you from your computer screen, and it feels like it’s just reached out and punched you in the face. “Hey do you think it’s a common mistake for bank tellers to add a few too many zeroes?” 

“Y/N.” 

“Yeah, you’re right. I’m rationalizing as a self-defense mechanism.” Sometimes it was annoying that your roommate had a degree in psychology. Then again, Jimin was making more money than you and your degree in English. 

You sigh deeply and look up at the ceiling in attempts to quell your tears of frustration. And also because it is a plea to whoever is up there controlling your destiny: please I’m begging you. Melt my debt away. 

You and Jimin sit in comfortable silence and he plays with the hem of your worn comforter while you scroll through the emails you have been ignoring in your inbox. You want to smash your head in at all the deadlines. Times like these, there is one thing that brings you comfort and always has since you turned 18. 

The quaint little crescent moon that sits right atop your radius. 

You had a habit of pressing your thumb against it and feeling your pulse against the mark, stupidly wondering if your soulmate’s heartbeat has synched up with your own. If he was out there somewhere, touching his mark and wondering the same about you. He was taking his sweet time, that’s for sure. Jimin sees your nervous tic and sighs again.

“You’re so hopelessly romantic it makes me want to barf, Y/N.” You scowl at his words and chuck a pillow at his unsuspecting face. 

“I don’t understand you, Jimin. Your soulmate is out there and you’re not the slightest bit curious? You don’t want to do anything extra to find them?” Jimin looks at you with a knowing smile.

“That’s exactly it, though. I know they’re my soulmate and I’ll find them when the time is right. So why worry about it? It’s better not to force anything.” His statement is followed up with a grin and his fingers reach out to pinch your cheeks. This was the dynamic of your friendship. He is easy-going and flows like a careless river. You’ve read one too many books to not vie and daydream for the moment you lock eyes with your soulmate. 

Your mom always said that you’ll know just from a look. It’s like getting hit over the head with a ray of sun, she said. Like suddenly their eyes are the only eyes you ever want to look into again. Since then, you’ve dreamt for the day you find someone with that same moon on their wrist. For now though, you had more immediate concerns more along the lines of crippling debt. 

“What do I do, Jimin? Should I be a stripper?” He laughs and the thought makes you groan. You couldn’t even walk in heels, much less try to dance or look like you didn’t have two left feet. Stripper life just wasn’t for you. 

“Hm...I could call in a few favors for you at the office. Get you an internship or secretary position.” 

“Maybe. Too much nepotism. Your father owns the office you work at”, you remind him, and his eyebrows crease further in thought. God, maybe you do have to be a stripper.

“Wait!” Jimin yelps so suddenly you almost fling the computer off your lap. 

“I think I know someone. He’s been looking for a model for his art portfolio or something, and he said he’s willing to pay.” Jimin reaches for his phone and his thumbs type up a storm while you watch from the sideline. 

“I think he mentioned it’s about a month-long project. You’d just have to be on call whenever a stroke of genius arrives.” 

“That sounds great! I’m an amazing model!” you crow, to which Jimin giggles again.

“The several candids I have in my camera roll tell a different story, Y/N.” Naturally, he receives another pillow to the face. But you follow up with a cheery kiss to his cheek as you rejoice in the new opportunity for cash flow by a celebratory dance, which looks more like a wiggle when you remain seated on your bed. 

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!”, you chirped, “I owe you one.”

“Hey...I know how you can repay me.”

 When you look towards him, his eyebrows are raised inquisitively and there’s a devilish smirk on his lips.

Jimin gets a third pillow to his face that day. 

◓

Jungkook’s favorite type of arguments to get into is whether Neo-classicism or post-impressionism had the most impact on European art and architecture. Call him a snob, but he loves to prattle on about Degas and Caillebotte until his opponent tires or concedes out of pure exhaustion. Jungkook regards it as a battle strategy: bore your enemy so that they stop fighting. 

He’s in the middle of a heated debate with his classmate from graduate school when he receives a phone call from Park Jimin. Now, Jungkook has no idea how or when Jimin became an installment in his life, or how he’s roped his way into his inner circle. He just remembers waking up one day with a killer hangover and finding that there was a pink-haired stranger lying on his floor. When he tried to shoo him out, the stranger shoved a wad of money in his shirt pocket, muttering “just five more minutes”, and Jungkook was in no position to deny easy cash. Jungkook now considers Jimin one of his close friends. 

“What’s up, Jiminie?” He laughs into the microphone. 

“I told you not to call me that, you brat. I’m older than you.” 

“I’m taller than you.”

“My dick is bigger.”

“I-okay fine you got me there.” He hears Jimin wheeze over the line as he tries to rein himself in to say what he needs to say. 

“In all seriousness, though. I have a proposition for you.” Jimin lilts in a mischievous tone, which makes Jungkook nervous enough to get up from the café table he had been sitting at with his friend and careen to a quieter corner. 

“Shoot.”

“Okay, so you know how you were telling me about your portfolio for the gallery. The one you have to submit by the end of the season? How you needed a model on call 24/7 in case inspiration struck?” 

Jungkook wants him to spit it out because he has been searching high mountains and low valleys for someone that would be willing to be his muse for a month or two. Constantly at his beck and call so he can finish this damn portfolio and get his name out there in the art world. Maybe start debating post-impressionism with the cream of the crop. 

“I think I’ve found someone to do that for you.” Jungkook exhales in relief at his words.

“She’s my roommate and she’s super low on cash and unemployed with a bachelor’s in English literature, so she’s got time to spare.” Perfect. That way, Jungkook can call her whenever he needs to.

“That’s amazing, Jiminie. Can she meet me at the art building tomorrow at noon? We can start right away.” Jungkook breathes through the phone, a small weight coming off his shoulders now that another thing had been accomplished. One less thing he had to worry about on the journey to his goal. Jimin confirms the plans and they exchange pleasantries before Jungkook hangs up as the man on the other line starts screaming about his burning lunch on the stove. 

Jungkook catches sight of the mark on his wrist when he looks down, and quickly rearranges his bracelets so that it is once again covered to his eyes. Out of sight and out of mind. 

The gallery portfolio had been a thorn in his side. It had been months in the making and if he allows himself to reminisce, Jungkook remembers the nights he and Yoojung stayed up until dawn and talked about his blossoming interest in art. How he wanted a space of his own to display his works. Back then, she listened to him with stars in her eyes and basked in the afterglow of post-coital cuddling, promising that she would help him achieve it. 

His heart sinks at the memory of the imprint of her tresses of hair spilling on his bedspread. He burned those sheets the second she left. 

Jungkook represses his intrusive thoughts about Yoojung and wills her to get out of his head. He forces it down until it feels like he’s just dumped ice water over his heart and vomited out any semblance of emotion. He makes his way back to the cafe table with a sly smile that hides the internal ache he’s promised himself to never let anyone suspect of. 

“So what were you saying about Renoir’s Moulin de la Galette?”

◑

The art building is situated besides a library, with a bakery flanking its left. Two years spent at the university, and you’ve never once stepped foot there. Maybe it was the daunting abstract sculpture on the front lawn or the prejudices you held against annoying art snobs on their high horses, but you often found yourself subconsciously avoiding the space in intimidation. 

“Okay, Y/N, you’re going to do this so you can pay off your loans”, you whisper under your breath, words meant for your ears and no one else’s. “And if he asks you to pose nude, you run the opposite direction.” 

It was easy to get lost in the building. For art students that know how to draw, they really took advantage of abstractionism to make the most confusing map you had ever seen in your life. Luckily, with some direction from the vapid front desk secretary and some intuition, you were able to to find room 62B. You don’t think you’ll be able to forget the number 62B if you tried, Jimin had screamed it to you so many times as you left the apartment. 

The door soundlessly opens with a nudge of your hand and you stick your head inside.

“You know when Jimin told me he found me a model, he didn’t mention her lack of punctuality.” His voice is calm and subdued with no lingering annoyance, even if his words are uncourteous. You whip around to him and the first sight you see of Jeon Jungkook is merely a tuft of brown hair behind a vast canvas. And some expensive looking leather boots that anchor his feet to the ground. 

You clear your throat and approach with an outstretched hand and the shiniest smile you can muster. 

“I’m Y/N. Jimin’s roommate. It’s nice to meet you.”

“You can call me Jungkook.”

It is when he steps out from behind the canvas that you finally understand what your mother meant when she said meeting your soulmate feels like getting hit over the head with a ray of sunshine. You can’t describe it any other way, but that’s exactly what it feels like. Like the air becomes so sweet in your lungs it turns to viscous honey. Like suddenly the person standing in front of you is Valentine, encapsulated. 

You know he feels it too, yet you don’t know why he forces himself to remain blasé, and if you hadn’t seen his widened eyes and heard the gasp from his lips you would have never suspected anything at all. Stranger courtesy is abandoned and you forcefully grab his wrist, turning it over to find his mark while pulling up your sleeve to reveal your own. 

A little black crescent moon.

Right on the pulse point.

Just like your’s. 

When you finally muster up the nerve to look into his eyes again, you wonder if it is healthy for the human heart to beat so fast and so thunderously it feels ready to jump out of your chest. Jungkook, however, still wears that same expression on his face. Flat and cold, not even a glimmer in his eyes. He stares at you disinterested and wrenches his wrist from your grasp. 

“Wait, Jungkook...aren’t you….”, you sputter through a desperate smile, “aren’t you happy?” He stays silent and trains his attention on the canvas in front of him, but you can see the conflict that swirls in his iris. 

“I’ve been looking for you for so long! And I’ve finally found you. In the art building no less, just my luck that-”

“Y/N, I don’t know what you expect from me but I’m not looking for anything right now.” 

There were no objectively ugly words. But you think the ones that have just spewed from Jungkook’s lips come pretty close. They stoke a fire in your chest.

“What do you mean? We’re soulmates”, you faltered, sinking deeper into confusion as you stare at the unaffected man in front of you, whose only concern is the conglomerate of paint on his palette. 

Jungkook sighs monotonously. Almost as if he had better things to do than be here.

“It’s only a mark on your wrist. And we just happen to have the same one. Amazing that you still think somehow one single person was made entirely just for you.” His words are bored and he doesn’t even have the decency to look you in the eye when he speaks. You think you might want to punch him if you weren’t so speechless.

“Look”, he sighs as if you were inconveniencing him, “I’m not going to sugarcoat it and tell you that I’m the one you’ve been looking for this whole time. We have the same mark, but...I’m not the guy you want.”

“B-But...I’m your soulmate. We-we’re made for each other.”

Jungkook scoffs harshly, and you want to sink into the ground. “That’s just a silly myth.” 

“So you don’t...believe in soulmates?” The words felt wrong to say when all your life, finding your soulmate felt like the ribbon at the end of the finish line. But here he was now, and you felt so small under his gaze. Like you weren’t meant to be there and standing in the same room with him was a concoction for heartbreak.

“No.”

Jungkook’s syllable pangs in your ear, and you think it might be your least favorite sound. Then you leave. And if it was hard for you to meet your soulmate - the person who you’re destined to be with - who doesn’t believe in you, then walking away from him was a different cross to bear. 

You take the bus home and ignore the glare of strangers when you burst into tears at a red light, and cry the rest of the way back. Your mother hadn’t described this. She prosed on and on about the feeling one gets after finding a soulmate but never mentioned to you how it feels when you find out they want nothing to do with you. What do you do when you realize the person you’ve been chasing for forever has been trying to run away at the same time? 

Jimin holds you together that night on your bedroom floor, while you break apart and scratch at the moon on your wrist until your skin breaks. He listens to the words you sputter; as much as he can decipher when they are drowned out by the painful sound of your sobbing. Jungkook’s beliefs bleed into your consciousness. Perhaps he is right and perhaps there is no such thing as true soulmates, and the marks are obsolete. 

However, when you fall asleep in your friend’s arms from the physical fatigue of violent crying and the sheer mental exhaustion of meeting Jeon Jungkook, your mind comes to a more painful conclusion. 

A more truthful conclusion.

Your soulmate only needed to meet you to decide that he did not want you.

◒

Jungkook doesn’t believe in soulmates. He thinks they’re a stupid coy to give people false hope. An illusion to feign happiness and to take Yoojung away from someone she genuinely loved. Though in the hours of the night, when he is by himself and the bed feels too big for one body, Jungkook wonders if there is truly a reason why someone has an identical moon on their wrist. But he is still so broken and unhealed from the wounds Yoojung left behind.

 So instead of soulmates, he thinks about what she must be doing. If she’s eating well. If she’s moved in with her own soulmate and if they’re happy together. Jungkook is an involuntary masochist and he pays for it with every pillowcase that becomes stained with his tears. 

He sighs out an expletive after downing a shot of whiskey, relishing in the familiar burn as it slides down his throat. Alcohol doesn’t seem to be working efficiently, though. He’s only barely tipsy after years in college building tolerance, and he can still see your face each time he blinks. Like you are imprinted on the back of his eyelids. Jungkook wonders why Jimin had cancelled on the group tonight. 

There is a little devil called remorse and it stands atop his shoulder, unseen by everyone but him, and Jungkook decides he will get rid of it by calling another round of shots. From his seat in the dirty booth, he can see Min Yoongi and his soulmate practically dry humping on the dance floor. If anyone asks him if he ever gets jealous seeing soulmates happy and in love, he’ll laugh in their face and tell them he pities people like that. People that are so blinded by the system. But loneliness is a stern mistress and it makes him think of you. How lovely the moon looks on your wrist. How your hand felt so warm when it caressed against his skin. 

He tips his head back again. Vodka this time.

“Dude, are you okay?” 

To his right comes Kim Taehyung, designated driver extraordinaire, and he looks at Jungkook with friendly concern laced with amusement. Jungkook nods contentedly. 

“Soulmates are so bullshit, Tae”, he snickers, fingers tracing the rim of the shot glass and smirk on his face to mask the bitterness of both the alcohol and his heart. Taehyung spares a knowing glance, resting a hand on his friend’s shoulder with the weight of knowledge of Jungkook’s past. 

The night is young and so is he. He drinks until he can no longer taste the liquor and forgets altogether about what had happened only a couple of hours before. Until the crescent mark on his skin just looks like a shapeless black blob, and it makes him smile. He thinks he likes it better that way. 

Taehyung drops him home and personally tucks him into bed while he is still in jeans and his shirt smells like the bar. His sleep is dreamless that night. When the morning comes and his friends tease him about how he begged Taehyung not to leave, Jungkook will laugh and blame the alcohol for his foggy memory. He won’t tell them that he does remember, and that he was only grasping at any warm body to soothe his aching loneliness.

◐

Usually when he first opens his eyes in the morning, Jungkook is thinking about the next class he has to attend and if he is late (which is usually most of the time). This morning, albeit morbidly hungover, Jungkook thinks of the apple strudels they sell at the bakery next to the art building. Mrs. Kim always gets the pastry to filling ratio just right. But when he opens the door with a jubilant smile on his face and the scent of baked goods already in his nostrils, Jungkook has a feeling apple strudels will have to wait. 

There you are. In all your messy-haired glory, huffing like a caged bull in the doorway of his apartment, fiery gaze directed completely at him and all he can think to say is:

“How do you know where I live?” Jungkook schools his face expressionless in your presence. He hopes this will discourage you, but it only makes you angrier. 

“Park Jimin”, you snarl. 

Of fucking course, it’s always Park Jimin. Jimin who drunkenly sleeps in his bedroom and now Jimin who is leaking his address to any stranger.

“Um”, Jungkook stammers and takes a step back, “what are you doing here? Didn’t I get my point through yesterday?” He can see the statement catching you off guard, and the fury in your eyes dwindles to dejection. Only for a millisecond though, before you are aiming your wrath at him once again. 

You take a deep breath. “What is wrong with you?” 

Jungkook can think of a lot of answers to that query. He opts to interpret it as a rhetorical question and keep his mouth shut. 

“You just...found your soulmate! I’m your soulmate! And you don’t even want to get to know me? At all?”, you scream exasperatedly. Jungkook catches the gaze of a middle aged lady who is not-so-discreetly staring at the two of you, and pulls you inside his apartment by your arm. If you weren’t so frustrated, you would have been flustered at the physical contact. 

“Listen. Soulmates don’t end up together all the time. I’ve told you I’m not really interested in anything right now and it’s not a priority”, he takes a breath through his passionate monologue, “and I’m sorry that that’s not something you expected, but I….don’t want a soulmate.”

Maybe...he just doesn’t want you. 

When he says them out loud to a living breathing person, Jungkook realizes how cruel it sounds. He can see it in the way your eyes have become glossy under his living room lights and the way you shrink into yourself as self-defense against his blows. He rationalizes that he’d rather tell you the truth than lie to you now, only to hurt you later. Really, he’s doing you a kindness. Right?

You turn your back to him to gather your thoughts, and wipe the tears that you refuse to let him see. The salty drops sting the raw skin of your wrist after last night, and you are brutally reminded of the current reality. His brutal honesty makes you want to abandon all hope, but you were a woman with a plan. You came here for a reason, not to just lose your temper in your soulmate’s apartment and tell him what you really thought about him.

“I have a proposition for you”, you asserted calmly, staring Jungkook in the eye as he remains unbothered. 

“Now I reckon something’s happened to you to make you lose all your faith in soulmates, so I’m not forcing you to do anything you don’t want to do.” Your eyebrows furrow when you speak focusedly.

“We don’t have to be together. That’s your will. But…”, you hesitate, pushing past the uncertainty and fear of another rejection from Jungkook, “will you let me at least try? You don’t have to promise anything. Can we just start as friends?” 

Naturally, Jungkook wants to shoot down your offer, kick you out of his apartment, and pretend like he never met anyone by the name of Y/N. Call it divine intervention but when he looks at you, pleading for any semblance of connection, he feels a tug at his heart strings. So Jungkook makes another promise to himself. He would let you “try”, whatever that entails. But there was no virtual possibility of letting you any closer than necessary. 

You both stand in contemplative silence before he lets out a resigned sigh. “On one condition”, he responds slowly, but there is already a premature grin growing on your face and you don’t think you could stop it even if you tried.

“You still have to be my model for the art portfolio.”

You agree before he even gets to take another breath. 

“Deal.” 

When you finally make your way out of Jungkook’s apartment, parting ways with an awkward number exchange and a ‘see you later’, there is a simultaneous feeling of hope and desolation. The optimism for Jungkook combines with the insecurity that perhaps you, just as you are, is not nearly enough to make someone fall in love. Especially someone who disregards their soul connection to you. 

You walk back to your apartment with a heavy heart that warms with embers of determination. Jeon Jungkook was an enigma. A Bastille fortress of self-defense mechanisms and destructive tendencies, and you know that there is unresolved pain. Call it a soulmate instinct or something, but you see it in his eyes. You see it in the way his face begs to show emotion but his mind refuses to acknowledge. 

You know Jungkook is not obligated to accept you after the dust settles, much less fall in love with you. Under the peach blossoms of the campus sidewalk, you make a promise anyway.  To yourself and to your soulmate and the silly little mark on the inside of your wrist. Even if he does not love you, you vow to help Jungkook learn to love himself.

◓

When you are harshly woken up at 5:30 in the morning, the last person you expected to be blowing up your phone was Jeon Jungkook. If it weren’t for the pure exhaustion seeping through your bones, you would have been excited about your soulmate calling you. Alas, slumber was your soulmate now. Jungkook would have to step down. 

On the other side of the paper thin wall, Jimin is frustratedly banging from his room, your ringtone reverberating throughout the entire apartment. You pick up his call without even opening your eyes.

“Hello?” 

“Y/N I need you to come to my apartment as soon as you can.” There is no sleepiness in his voice. Just clean and cold like it always is and he has hung up before you get the chance to scold him for waking you up at this unholy hour. You’re about to give him a piece of your mind but you remember he is paying you very handsomely for your efforts, and reluctantly drag yourself out of bed to call an uber. Thank god he doesn’t live too far away otherwise you’ll stick a foot through his canvas for the transportation bill. 

The front of Jungkook’s apartment door is strangely therapeutic, and you find yourself falling asleep standing up after you’ve rung the doorbell. Either time passes too slowly when you are sleep-drunk or Jungkook moves to get the door as quickly as your grandfather does. Whatever the case, you are about to pass out on his doorstep if he doesn’t come soon.

“Y/N, why are you just standing there? The door has been open.” 

“Jungkook. Why are you making me do this so early?”, you yawn, pushing inside the apartment. 

Jungkook takes in your discombobulated appearance, and almost wants to laugh. You were still in your pajamas, and the bun on your head now looked more like a heaping blob that drooped down your temple. It was obvious that you had just rolled out of bed and he almost feels bad for disturbing your sleep, but he does not decide when his strokes of inspiration spontaneously appear. 

The living room is bombarded with Jungkook’s art supplies and stray canvases, and you take note of the clay sculpting table that blends in as furniture next to his kitchen. You plop yourself down on the stool across from Jungkook’s easel, eyes still half closed and impossibly tired.

 In this moment, Jungkook wipes the fact that you are his soulmate from his mind. He needs to do the portfolio. That is all he’s keeping you around for, and the only reason he agreed to your plan was so that you would remain his art model. 

In the silence of his makeshift art studio, Jungkook paints whatever comes to his mind, referencing your figure on the stool for the curves he can never get right without a model and need for a human presence to translate onto his canvas. You become more lucid as time goes by and the sun starts to rise from outside his window, sitting up straighter and paying more attention to his concentrated face as Jungkook pours himself into his creation. 

Looking at him in this light, you realize that he is beautiful. And not just because he’s your soulmate. Jungkook’s hair is scruffy and stubbled, undereyes sporting impressive dark circles. But the way he caresses the paintbrush and the way his body moves to the beat of the painting is poetic. He glances at you sporadically, eyes darting to and fro to capture as much as he can before the creativity burns out. He is beautiful and it makes your heart ache to know that he does not want you. In spite of the bond the universe has created. 

You wonder if in his focused hazed, he notices the new glaze across your eyes and the silent sound of your soul calling out for his. You wipe away the first dripping tear as quickly as it came. You know Jungkook sees, but does not bat an eye and you can’t tell if you’d rather prefer him to acknowledge it. 

It’s 8:00am when he puts the paintbrush down, takes a step back, and surveys his work. His eyes trail over each organic line and areas where he decided to use burnishing instead of cross hatching. It’s far from perfect, but it’s enough. 

“Okay. You’re free to go”, he announces, plucking the painting off the easel and resting it against the wall, hidden from your eyes. 

“W-What? That’s it?”, you sigh disappointedly, “you’re not even going to let me see it?” Jungkook shrugs. His detachedness makes you want to rip your hair out and sob into your pillow at the same time. You don’t understand how a person could be so unfazed. 

“S’not ready for debut. Thanks for showing up, though.” He doesn’t spare you another glance. Just goes back to cleaning his brushes and dumping out the glasses of murky paint water. You ignore the twinge of hurt in your chest and slide off the stool. 

“Okay, fine. Now it’s my turn. Would you like to go have some breakfast?”, you smile expectantly to Jungkook, who stares at you with an indifferent gaze. His first instinct is to make up a half-assed excuse to get out of this, eager to detach himself from you as much as possible and avoid any more interaction. However, he was insanely hungry, and the glimmer in your eye just looks so hopeful even Jungkook couldn’t bear to shoot you down.

He sighs with resignation. A little breakfast couldn’t hurt, and he wasn’t going with you necessarily. You were just...going to the same cafe in the same direction as him and likely sitting at the same table. Yeah, that’s it. 

“Hurry up, I’m hungry.” 

“Wait...actually?”

You blinked in shock at his lack of resistance. 

“Yes. Now come on. I know a place with really great apple strudels.”

You weren’t aware that by ‘breakfast’, Jungkook actually meant sitting in complete silence and wolfing down food like your life depends on it. You want to be grossed out when he inhales 3 apple strudels in less than 10 minutes, crumbs flaking on his shirt without a care in the world. Yet you just feel endeared. The sight makes you smile. And maybe if Jungkook did not detest you, you would have leaned over and kissed the cinnamon sugar right off his lips. 

“So….”, you sip on a sweet coffee, “Jimin told me you’re going for a masters in art history?” 

Jungkook nods halfway through a bite of his pastry. “Yup.” 

“Is it something you’re really passionate about?” you inquire, desperately wanting the conversation to delve into something that wasn’t so surface level.

“Uh huh.”

“What are some other things you’re interested in besides art?”

“Totally.” 

Jungkook is completely clueless. He only spares glances to the windows and occasional looks to his oh so precious breakfast treats. You want to slap him and be angry, but you only sigh. It shouldn’t be so hard to talk to your soulmate, yet it felt like trying to pull teeth when he was so completely disinterested in you. You wonder if this is worth it.

You look up at him from your steaming cappuccino cup and use your wildcard. 

“In my opinion, Botticelli’s Birth of Venus did little for the Italian Renaissance movement.” 

Your statement almost has Jungkook falling backwards in his chair and choking on a piece of fruit filling, eyes growing as wide as saucers when he finally processes what you just said. A flaming insult to the entire art historian community. 

“What do you know about Botticelli?”, he sneers, and you internally celebrate for this is the most emotion Jungkook has shown since meeting you. 

“I know that his work supposedly epitomizes the spirit of the Renaissance”, you swirl the coffee in your cup nonchalantly, lips curving into a knowing smirk. “But if you ask me, Bellini’s San Giobbe Altarpiece did much more to encapsulate the values of 15th century Italy.” 

Jungkook’s speechless expression is one that you want to take a snapshot of and frame it to your wall. It is glorious, and arguably more artful to you than Botticelli himself. So what, you had conveniently forgot to mention to him about the class you took junior year of college, with a professor that made you engrave the fundamentals of Italian painting in your brain. It’s so much more gratifying to see him stunned silent. 

Across the table from you, Jungkook feels a warm smile itching to display itself. Before it can appear, he disguises it as a cold smirk. He feels something akin to a butterfly at the pit of his stomach, but blames it on indigestion and the inhuman pace at which he devoured his breakfast. Yeah that must be it. There was no way he was feeling butterflies. 

He cracks his knuckles, raises his cup to gulp down a lukewarm green tea, and rests his elbows on the table separating the both of you.

“I don’t suppose you could tell me your thoughts on the influences of neo-classicism in the 18th century?” 

◑

“No, Y/N, turn to your left a little”, Jungkook frustratedly sighs behind the camera lens.

“Your left or my left?”

He pauses. “....left.” 

To any outside eye, you and Jungkook look like two buffoons trying to take pictures on what might possibly be the windiest day of the season, under the peach blossom trees. Jungkook had called you earlier that day and stressed about how he needed mixed media in his beloved portfolio, and photographs were the next topic of interest. Though you couldn’t understand why he couldn’t just set out a fruit bowl on his windowsill and call it still life photography.

Jungkook stares down at his camera, dissatisfaction clear on his face. You almost want to apologize for your abhorrent modeling skills but hey, he was the one that chose you. 

“Hmm...try staring at that boat in the distance”, he dictates, standing beside you and aiming the lens at your side profile. You do as he asks, but don’t hear the shutter of the camera. Jungkook sighs again and leans forward, so close you could feel his warm breath hitting your skin. You hope he doesn’t notice the beet blush on your cheeks.

Jungkook’s hands meet your chin when he uses it to slightly tilt your face downwards. He positions you in the way that he wants you to pose and you finally understand why photography is considered an art. Because it’s almost as if Jungkook is molding you like clay, to get the silhouette he wants to capture with his camera lens. The day is brisk, but his skin on your’s lights you on fire. 

“Okay, that’s…..that’s perfect”, Jungkook breathes, hurriedly picking up the camera that had been hanging onto his neck by the strap and angling it. At the moment his index finger presses down on the button, there is a gust of wind that surrounds the both of you.

The breeze loosens a strand of your hair and it falls into your eyes. You let your eyes drift close for a second, smiling into the cold air that tingles on your skin. Jungkook’s breath catches in his throat and he thanks the skies for the howling wind so you wouldn’t be able to hear his thumping heartbeat. But surely it’s only because it’s cold. And absolutely nothing else. Jungkook coughs inconspicuously to snap himself out of his trance, sighing in relief when he realizes your eyes are still closed and that you hadn’t noticed his internal struggle. 

He drags you to a bridge next and makes you lay on the cold wood to which you vehemently object before you remember that he’s paying you and that you want him to fall in love with you, not dislike you more than he already does. After the bridge, Jungkook makes you kneel beside the park pond and dip your hand in the icy water and you find yourself wanting to do the same thing to his precious camera. 

Before the two of you have realized, the sun sets into the horizon and tinges the sky in a combination of purples and pinks that Jungkook himself has a hard time replicating on canvas. He aims his lens at the clouds and takes a picture that he knows won’t make it into his gallery. He just felt the need to have something to remember this day by. For no reason in particular…

A buzzing coming from your coat pocket alerts you both of the time that has passed and how the sky has considerably darkened since you began the session. When you fish your phone out, Jimin’s contact photo is staring back at you while the marimba ringtone continues playing. You put the phone on speaker.

“Hey Jiminie”, you smile and Jungkook catches a glance of it. And the discomfort in his chest is definitely, 100%, not jealousy. Not at all.

“I told you not to call me that! What is with you younger people and your disrespect for the elderly?” The corner of Jungkook’s lips twitch into a subtle smile at the similarity of your’s and his conversations with Jimin. 

“Okay, okay, grandpa. What’s up?”

“Can you come home ASAP? I may or may not have broken the stove trying to make soup.” 

The redundancy of his confession makes you sigh, as Park Jimin desecrating your shared kitchen space was not a rare occurrence by any means. 

“I’ll be right there”, you chided through the line, “please do not cook anything else before I arrive.” 

“Thanks Y/N-ie, you’re the best!” Jimin’s voice is far too cheery and you make a mental note to nag him a little extra when you get home. The phone call is ended promptly and you turn around to Jungkook, eyes widening in surprise when he has already packed up all his photography gear. The sky had turned dark and the streetlights had been turned on to illuminate the park. If you had craned your neck upwards, you would have noticed the stars that awoke again to shine down upon the city. But you didn’t. You only saw the stars that were twinkling in Jungkook’s eyes. 

“Uh”, he stammers, “I’ll walk you home. It’s late.” 

“Oh! Uh...Thanks.” Though he was still cold and indifferent, your heart jumped in elation. Perhaps this could be considered baby steps. 

The trip home is quiet, only the sounds of your tandem footsteps on pavement and the rustle of a breeze through tree leaves fill the space of silence. But the quiet is not uncomfortable. Just a bit awkward as you two try to figure out how to be around one another. Jungkook’s hands are shoved in his pockets and your fingers itch to intertwine themselves around his own. To press your soulmate marks together and feel them calling out to each other. But you and Jungkook are anything but normal soulmates. For you are already head over heels in love with him and he is adamant on not sparing you a crumb of affection. 

To your disdain, the apartment was closer than you thought and the short walk with Jungkook ended before it really even began. You could practically hear Jimin’s impatience emanating from the third story of the building. 

“So I’ll see you later?”, you smile meekly. Jungkook readjusts the strap of his camera bag before nodding. He is walking away before you turn around to enter the apartment building and even though it was something small and mundane, you wished he would have waited to see you get in safely. You make your way inside, more downcast than you had been before.

You don’t see when Jungkook turns around. You don’t feel the reassurance that washes over him when the door shuts safely behind you. 

That night, Jungkook is reminded far too much of Yoojung. When he goes to make his usual chamomile, he finds her mug at the very back of the tea cabinet. She must have forgotten it when she packed up her stuff. When he spoons in the sugar, he remembers how Yoojung drinks her tea with honey instead. And when he feels himself start to fall apart, he remembers how Yoojung is not there to keep him together. 

Jungkook pushes away his pain, abandons the lukewarm mug of tea, and opts for an early bedtime to sleep away the ache. The camera sitting on his nightstand, though, beckons him to look over the photos you both had taken that afternoon. 

In the moment, he had been dissatisfied with the pictures, always thinking there must be a better angle or a better position you could shift into. However when he looks down at his camera now, in the quiet and solemnity of his bedroom, Jungkook can’t help but to think they are absolutely perfect. 

He doesn’t know whether to credit his own artistic skill or you; for breathing life into his photographs. It’s the lines of your hands, the slope of your nose, and the stray strands of your hair that makes his pictures more human. 

The ones he ends up picking though, are not perfectly  staged and not the ones where he made you change the position of your stance for 10 minutes. No, the best pictures were the ones he took without you noticing. When you had just been enjoying the cool breeze or admiring the beauty of peach blossom season. When you point out a cool looking bird and when you stared annoyedly past the cameras lens (at him no doubt). 

Yoojung is gone from his mind for just a tiny fleeting moment. For little reason at all, Jungkook finds himself smiling. And there is only the company of the moon to see it. 

◒

 It is ten o’ clock in the morning and Jungkook comes to a realization that in the couple weeks since he has met you, he has sighed more times than he has in the past 23 years of life. Jungkook sighs when you text him first thing in the morning about the dream you had the night before and describe it in painfully vivid details. He leaves them unanswered. Sometimes he wished you would just email him the google document instead. He sighs when you fidget in your seat when he’s trying to paint and keep focus, but you are only interested in asking him the snacks he has in his fridge or when he’s going to finish. He sighs when you and Jimin collectively trash his art studio by spamming his $1,000 camera with ugly face pictures and sword fighting with his sable paint brushes. Jungkook often has a hard time believing that both of you are in graduate school. 

Today, he sighs when you bombard into room 62B of the art building; what is supposed to be Jungkook’s completely zen and peaceful creative space. You are tiptoeing around him as you always do, scared that you’ll do something to set him off and your soulmate will disown you for good. He glances at you once, eyes quickly darting back to the sculpture he is molding on the clay table and saying nothing. 

“There’s a new cafe that just opened right across from the apple strudel place”, you gulp tensely. “I was gonna go check out the competition.” Your words seem deaf to Jungkook’s ear and he only furrows his eyebrows, fingers fussing over the mass of clay. There was just something he couldn’t get right. He didn’t know what it was. 

Jungkook pushes away the sculpture frustratedly, wipes his hands on his apron, and finally looks at you. Maybe he did need a break and come back to it with fresh eyes. That’s all it was, though. A break. He wasn’t going because you asked him to. 

“They better have blonde roast otherwise you’ll be compensating me for my time.” Jungkook is as ruthless and blunt as ever and you decide to look past it as you always do. Him agreeing to go with you was a mini success. 

“Welcome in! You’ve stopped by at the perfect time. The strawberry scones have just been taken out of the oven!” The cafe employee is far too enthusiastic for receiving minimum wage and greeting grumpy people off the streets who just want to be caffeinated. His name tag reads Jung Hoseok. 

“Oh, strawberry is my favorite”, you whisper, the statement only meant for your ears but Jungkook picks up on it anyway. He declines to tell you that strawberry is his favorite as well. Hoseok’s eyes light up when you and Jungkook approach the entrance, like he finally succeeded at luring a customer. 

The cafe isn’t anything special. A bit more modern compared to the one across the street and you think you prefer the latter because this new one doesn’t have the owner’s handsome son standing at the cash register. He may not be your soulmate, but even you had to admit Kim Seokjin was a beautiful man if there ever was one. However, this cafe is warm and has ceiling length windows that let in an obscene amount of sunlight. Jungkook makes a mental note to try some pictures here in the future. 

Jungkook’s phone buzzes in his pocket and you are already leaving him behind in the dust, walking straight to the counter and peering up at the menu deep in thought. You turn around to see that he is immersed in mysterious conversation, and take it upon yourself to order him a drink. 

“I’ll have a matcha latte. And uh…”, you decide, trailing off as you wonder what kind of drink Jungkook would enjoy. “And an iced vanilla mocha latte, extra whipped cream, extra chocolate syrup. Do you guys have rainbow sprinkles?” 

A little sugar never hurt anyone. Especially someone so often bitter like your one and only soulmate. 

When Jungkook hangs up and makes his way to the corner table where you are situated, the sight of the concoction on the table is enough to give him an instant cavity. You hide your smile behind the mug of matcha. He grumbles and sits down swiftly, sticking the straw past his lips in defiance and you can only watch expectantly. 

“Well…do you like it?” 

This is when Jungkook realizes you didn’t order this to spite him. You just had completely zero idea what he liked and disliked and chose the first thing you thought was best. As cold as he is, he doesn’t have the heart to tell you that when he drinks coffee, he likes it black. No cream, no sugar, and the darkest roast with the most caffeine to push him through those nights spent in front of a canvas or over a clay table. 

Jungkook fights to keep steady from the ambush of sugar and wills himself to swallow it down. There is sticky chocolate syrup on his hands and it feels cosmically more uncomfortable than paint. But Jungkook manages to look up at you and nod, to which you reward with a smile. 

“I knew you would like it”, you say smugly, giving yourself a mental pat on the back. “You look like you have a giant sweet tooth.” There is a mellow giggle that follows your statement. Jungkook feels a flutter at the bottom of his stomach, and convinces himself it’s only because it sounds so much like Yoojung. He catches sight of the moon on your wrist, and pushes the feeling away even farther. 

The two of you spend the rest of the midday there, tucked away in a corner of a cafe and losing track of time as you always do. Jungkook finds himself forgetting about the mountains of work he has to do to finish his art gallery portfolio, and the unfinished sculpture back at the studio that’s just not right. 

Today, he allows himself to enjoy your presence and get to know you more. Your favorite color is yellow. You had a dog named Benny when you were a child. You detest beer with a passion, but enjoy a nightly glass of pinot grigio. Jungkook barely notices when the entire cup of coffee has disappeared. Every last rainbow sprinkle.

On second thought, he feels that maybe there was something sweeter than his unexpectedly delicious iced vanilla mocha latte with extra whipped cream. Maybe that something was sitting right across from him, rambling about the fundamentals of English literature with unexplained vigor. 

Jungkook’s soul feels lighter when he goes to bed that night. And when he finally succumbs to Morpheus, his last lucid thought is of you; sun beams coming from the large cafe windows that comb through your hair. He looks at you through his mind’s eye and all he can see is the potential heartbreak you have the power to put him through. The fan of your eyelashes. The curve of your smile. The plush of your lips. All he can see is Yoojung as she crushes his soul in her bare hands. 

Yet in the midst of his internal conflict, Jungkook’s subconscious allows him to fall in love with you a little bit. Perhaps not love just yet, but affection. Like a toe dip in uncharted waters or sticking his finger in a bowl of creamy cake batter just for a taste. The walls he has built are still there, strong as ever, but perhaps a couple bricks look a bit askew. He doesn’t know, but his soul calls out to your’s through the fortress.

◐

“Y/N I don’t know why you thought this was a good idea.”

“Oh hush, just close your eyes and point where your heart tells you to.”

In the lobby of a train station, facing a map and an ETA board is where you and Jungkook will be embarking on your next “date but not really because you don’t believe in soulmates so let’s just hang out”. It had taken a good two hours of nagging and whining on your part to convince him to abandon his portfolio for just a little bit to go an outing. Now standing here, with you excitedly bouncing next to him and a mystery destination, Jungkook feels something akin to utter regret. 

“What if I choose somewhere that’s a thousand miles away? Or just in the middle of nowhere?”, Jungkook groans, still putting up an unbothered and cold front. 

“Well then we will go somewhere that’s a thousand miles away or in the middle of nowhere”, you quipped back at him. Jungkook had a feeling he wouldn’t be able to get out of this one. 

He reluctantly places a hand over his eyes, sighing with resignation before pointing to a random spot on the map. There is a giggle that sounds to his left and Jungkook finds himself wanting to hear more. 

“Wonderful choice”, you smiled, “couldn’t have picked it better myself.” 

Jungkook peeked his eyes open one at a time, scared of seeing what his intuition has chosen for your guys’ spontaneous destination. He breathes out a sigh of relief when he sees that his fingers landed on a town on the outskirts of the city, 20 minutes away from the university. He silently thanks the universe for not sabotaging his wallet and time. 

“We’re never doing this again, Y/N”, Jungkook speaks as you are in front of him, skipping happily to the front desk to buy two train tickets. 

“Wasn’t it fun, though? The thrill?”, you chuckle at his demeanor, to which he only shakes his head vehemently. You note the newest thing you’ve just learned about Jungkook: he has an aversion to uncertainty and spontaneity. 

The train ride was as brief as it was uneventful. You spent the time rambling to Jungkook about all the quips and quirks about yourself and he only listened. Though he kept quiet, his face was free of any annoyance or indication that you were speaking too much. Jungkook only stared at you and unknowing to you, he soaked in every bit of information like a sponge. If anyone asked, he could tell them what foods you were allergic to, what colors wash you out, and what vegetables you hated the most. 

“Wow you didn’t have to pick somewhere so far away, Jungkook.” You muse as the two of you step out of the train car. So far away in fact, that if you were to crane your head up enough, you would be able to see the university from a distance. 

“Hey, you were the one who made me choose”, Jungkook spares a rare smile, “Would you rather we have shelled out our wallets to go on an 18-hour train ride?”

“Okay, fair point.”

The city was as abundant as it was big, and the both of you walked aimlessly from avenue to avenue, stopping occasionally whenever you see a dog you just can’t help but to pet or whenever Jungkook complained about his sore feet. As cold and indifferent as Jungkook made himself out to be, you’ve quickly come to realize that he’s actually a big baby. He still hasn’t let you in or even lowered his walls by a tiny centimeter, but you like to think that even agreeing to go anywhere with you could be considered significant progress.

Jungkook doesn’t notice the pounding of his heart whenever his hands graze against your’s, walking side by side so close he can feel the heat emanating through your coat. He doesn’t notice the peace he feels, just the synchronicity of his feet as he places them on the pavement. 

The fraught wind that blows straight at Jungkook’s face prompts him to look up from where his eyes were cast on the ground. He almost staggers at how strong it is, but finds himself weak in the knees for a completely different reason.

Of course.

Of all the days, of all the times, of all the people in this entire city.

Of course she had to be the one that was currently staring at him from across the intersection. 

The red light seems to go on forever. Either that or time has just spontaneously frozen, Jungkook can’t tell. But his eyes are fixed on hers and his feet bolster him to the concrete when all he wants to do is sprint the other way and forget he ever saw this ghost from the past. 

Yoojung looks as beautiful as the day she left him. 

She’s gained some weight and her cheeks have filled out, but it looks healthy on her now (Jungkook always chided her for forgetting to eat). She stares at him with a combination of shock and guilt and something he wants to overthink into affection but he won’t give himself that satisfaction anymore. She dyed her hair. Light brown looks good on her. 

She looks...happy. As happy as anyone can look when they’re rushing through thick crowds of a city, traffic horns blaring like a dilapidated symphony. 

In the heat of it all, it’s impossible for you not to notice Jungkook’s sudden change in demeanor or the way he has suddenly stopped breathing. When you follow his gaze, there is a girl on the other side of the street that shares the same starstruck expression and even from the outside looking in, you can feel the weight of something painful in his eyes. In her stature. 

When the lights turn green, the throngs of city dwellers migrate across and you stay beside Jungkook when he doesn’t move a muscle. Not even a finger twitch. But she does. And he can only fight to keep the ache away when Yoojung gets closer with every millisecond. Until she is standing right in front of him and he can smell her familiar vanilla perfume. 

“Jungkook”, she speaks, apprehension in her voice. “It’s been a while...how are you?” 

Yoojung only spares you a side glance while keeping attention on Jungkook and you only grow more curious as to who this strange woman is. 

He wants to speak so badly but his tongue remains frozen. He turns to you with flabbergast in his eyes and shakes his head to snap out of the daze of confusion. Of seeing the love of his life again. Or who he thought was the love of his life. 

“Could you give us a minute, Y/N?” 

You didn’t know why but the words that came from his lips made you feel disappointed. Perhaps you were just stupid for thinking he would introduce you. Tell her that you’re his soulmate and scream it at the top of his lungs with sheer pride. But your imagination has hurt you countless times and you had a feeling this one wouldn’t be the last. You manage a curt nod and push away the twinge in your heart. There was a boundary between you and Jungkook and today was not the day to cross it and introduce yourself as his soulmate to any random stranger. 

Once you are out of vicinity and have found solace in a bookstore 10 feet away, Jungkook allows himself to breathe in Yoojung’s presence. 

“I didn’t know if you were still in the city”, he falters, voice coming out quieter than he would have liked it to. But what was he supposed to sound like confronting the supposed love of his life. 

“I never left, Jungkook...my entire life is here.” She sighs, smiling lightly with eyes seeping with guilt. 

He scoffs. “I don’t know Yoojung, you seem to leave behind important things pretty easily.” Jungkook feels himself getting angrier and resentful by the second, and though he knows it is unfair of him, Yoojung’s mere presence brings back all the wounds he never truly healed from. 

Granted, on a concrete sidewalk next to a traffic light pole was not the best place to have a heart to heart about failed relationships. But when has the universe ever given Jungkook the best things in life. He is devastatingly cynical for someone who dedicates his career to art. 

Yoojung wears a frown on her face, but there is no vindictiveness there. Just an overwhelming sense of remorse that Jungkook communicates as pity. 

“I don’t know how else to say that I’m sorry”, she sighs, eyes falling to the ground. Jungkook wishes it would just open up and swallow him whole. 

“Then don’t say anything.” He turns to walk away.

“Wait! Jungkook can we...can’t we catch up or something? For a couple minutes?” Yoojung is visibly desperate, and her hands are outstretched as if wanting to touch him but keeping herself from overstepping the line. 

Jungkook glances through the window of the bookstore, and you are situated on a chair, already nose deep in a hefty book. He wants to smile and tease you for being such a nerd, but the weight of Yoojung’s presence makes him reinforce those walls of indifference tenfold. 

He exhales frustration and inhales temptation, looking back into Yoojung’s familiar eyes and nodding. Jungkook walks to a nearby bench and sits down with no words exchanged, looking forward coldly even when he feels her warmth next to him. A couple months ago, Jungkook would have set all his canvases on fire to feel her beside him again. Now, he’s not so sure.

“So…”, she starts, “who’s that cute girl you were with?” 

“No one.” He shoots out a little too soon with no hesitation. Yoojung gulps.

“You know Jungkook, it’s okay to find someone. I-I know I hurt you, but I’m glad if you’ve found someone who doesn’t.” Jungkook doesn’t say anything so she continues.

“I’m really happy for-”

“I never really forgave you Yoojung.” He stares blankly at the passersby and tries to ignore the ache in his bones. The one that’s been there the day she left and took a piece of his heart with her. 

“And I don’t want to blame you for my decisions but I want you to know that I push away a lot of people because of you. People that don’t deserve it.” From the corner of his eye, he can see her nod solemnly to his words and fidget with her hands in her lap. Part of him feels guilty for unloading on Yoojung. Part of him feels like maybe he deserves to. 

“What you did was really shitty. Astronomically fucking shitty. And I’ve spent the past eternity hating you and maybe I still do, but…”, Jungkook takes a deep breath, “I want to forgive you now. If not fully, then partially. I hope you can understand that.” He finally tilts his head to look at her and though the smile on her face is as beautiful as he remembers it to be, Jungkook no longer feels the longing. No longer feels the sting that he usually does when his thoughts take him back to the years they spent together. 

Jungkook doesn’t want to call it closure, not yet anyway. Sitting here on the bench, he still wants to scream and yell and tell Yoojung of all the nights he’s spent alone since she left. He still wants to drag her back and wonder if she could love him again like she used to. 

But he doesn’t. He listens when she tells him about her new job and her new apartment right by the lakeside. They share snippets of their separate lives. Just deep enough to rekindle something warm but shallow enough to not invite anything else in. 

When he walks away from the bench and into the bookstore, Jungkook stills feels the walls that he has built around himself. He is still scared of opening up and being vulnerable but the anger held for Yoojung for so long is no longer a raging fire. More so a wickering flame. 

When he spots you, though, he remembers why he built those walls in the first place. He remembers how easy it used to be for him to climb a high peak and fall to his demise. Your eyes widen when you catch sight of him, lips curling into a wide smile and clear excitement in your expression. The book in your hands is tossed aside and tunnel vision reserved for him and him only. Something blooms in his chest and he can’t remember the last time someone’s been so elated to just simply see him...aside from his dog. Jungkook reminds himself to act uncaring. If he pretends long enough, he’ll start to believe it himself. 

◓

The train ride home feels longer than the one there. The minutes drag by and perhaps it is because of your drooping eyes or the way Jungkook is looking at you with a different tenderness than he has been before. His stare is not harsh. It’s soft and sweet, but subtle enough for you to wonder if you are just imagining it. The night has always been unforgiving and cold even in the spring, but perhaps all that’s needed to breathe some warmth, is a 15 minute train ride and a wrist with a crescent moon.

Yet every time you become more smitten with Jungkook, there is a harsh reminder that follows you everywhere like a designated storm cloud. 

Jungkook does not love you. And you are trying and you will continue to try but his eyes tell you something he is too courteous to say. You see it now as he sits across from you and admires the skyline from the window. It makes you wonder if it is soulmates he doesn’t believe in, or if it is just you that he can’t bring himself to accept. With every cold glance and wall that he puts up, you start to convince yourself that it is the latter.

“We’re here, Y/N”, Jungkook speaks quietly, interrupting your drifting thoughts. He turns around and leaves the train car with hands tucked in his coat pocket. Did you expect him to escort you out and hold your hand? Of course not. But you were tired of Jungkook being so indifferent to your existence. 

You follow him glumly out the doors that slide close after you step through. Then it zips off again and you wonder where it would have taken you if you just stayed in your seat. If Jungkook would have even noticed that you hadn’t followed him when he left. 

You sigh into the night air and wish it was winter so that your breath could be visible as a white cloud. Maybe then Jungkook would notice that you were a living being beside him. 

“Who was that girl that we met back there?”, you murmur hesitantly. Jungkook nearly chokes on air. 

“No one”, he responds curtly, effectively cutting off the conversation then and there. It makes your heart sink. She must be important and all you want to do is know every single detail about their relationship, but the look in his eyes warn you to not pry. 

You don’t think you can forget the way Jungkook looked at her from across the street. Like he had been lost this whole time and she was the North star. You saw the way his eyes twinkled in the midday sun and sparkled even more when she came closer. You wonder if you’ll ever be able to have that effect on him. 

“Hey, next time you should pick a place you and I both do not live in”, you giggle, nudging his shoulder with your own. It makes him smile and even though your heart feels heavy in your chest, Jungkook looks so beautiful when he smiles. 

The two pair of feet subconsciously carry you both to the front door of your apartment building and the scene is too familiar from the last time. You expect him to turn around and whisper a hushed goodnight under his breath, and you’ll have to watch the back of his head disappear down the street. But he doesn’t. Just stands across from you quietly and waits for you to say something. So you do. 

“Jungkook, I’m sorry if I brought up something you didn’t want to remember. I don’t really know your story but it seems you two have a lot of history.” You want to tell him how hard it is for you to be his soulmate when he is so clearly vying for the warmth of someone else. Someone who didn’t have a crescent moon on her wrist. 

“I know you’ll tell me whenever you’re ready, and if that’s never then I’ll keep waiting until forever. But I’m here if you want to talk or unload and I already know I can help because…” you fidget with your hands and look around nervously. 

“Well, because I’m your soulmate.” 

When you say it loud and explicitly, Jungkook thought the statement would have made him recoil. But it doesn’t. It just seeps through his consciousness and feels warm when he thinks about the weight of those words. You are his soulmate, regardless of if he believes in such a thing or not. You carry the same mark as he does on your wrist and somehow, by some intangible factor, the universe had decided that you were created for him and he for you. 

And when he looks at you. Really looks at you. When Jungkook processes your sincere words and how you manage to deal with his insurmountable boundaries even when you barely know him…

Jungkook has never wanted to kiss you more. 

So he does. 

Your lips taste like mint chewing gum and the ghost of words you wish to tell him but can’t. He feels you stiffen until you completely melt in his hold, and Jungkook cradles your face with both his hands, pulling you closer to him until there is no barrier between you but the clothes on your back and the emotional distance. You feel so far away even when you’re this near. Was it a trick of your imagination when you felt the moon on your wrist tingling? 

It doesn’t last as long as you would’ve liked it to. Jungkook yanks his hands from you like your skin scalded him and takes several steps back. His chest rises up and down violently when his breath comes out ragged, posture stiffening as the gravity of what just happened finally absorbs. You’re there, he knows you’re there and standing in front of him. So why is it he can only see Yoojung. Yoojung and the star on her wrist and apologies on her lips. Yoojung and the tears in her eyes when she walks away. 

You can only stare confusedly when his body goes rigid, and a sudden coldness envelops you both. 

And in the haze of post-embrace, like any two normal lovers, you catch something in his eyes that sets a heavy feeling in your stomach. Before you can confirm if it’s just a trick of the light, Jungkook is already running in the opposite direction and you can only see a shadow of sullen love that follows him. He is gone and you are standing alone, wondering how moonlight could feel so cold even on a spring night. 

You don’t get any sleep that night. Every time you close your eyes, there is only the sight of Jungkook’s disgust and regret to lull you to dreams. 

20 minutes away from your apartment, there is a boy who doesn’t sleep either. He won’t text or call to tell you that he can’t shake off the feeling of your skin on his and your breath fanning his cheek. He won’t admit to himself that tonight, when he looked at you, he felt the possibility of falling in love. He won’t tell you that the moon on his skin longs to be traced by your hands. No, he just shares those secrets with his pillow as its linen soaks up his tears. 

In the midst of it all, there is one verdict that becomes clear to him.

Jungkook wishes he had never told Jimin he needed a muse.

◑

The next three weeks is dedicated to trying to get in touch with your soulmate. Through the whirlwinds of utter confusion and desperation, you try texting, calling, emailing, even showing up at his art studio and apartment to no avail. It seemed he had a talent for avoiding soulmates. 

It hurt, to say the least. That he left you high and dry after giving you the most intense

kiss of your life and doesn’t even have the decency to let you know he’s alive. The feeling of his lips still burns on your skin and you wonder if you are a complete fool for being so smitten with a person who, quite possibly, hasn’t spared you a single thought after that night. You just want - no you just need some clarity. 

Jungkook makes you wait another week before replying. 

It is an impossibly sunny day when you wake up. Your neck is stiff from sleeping like a contortionist and your heart aches even more than your muscles with every passing morning with radio silence from your soulmate. You want to call him and tell him you’re sorry. That you’ll forget anything ever happened. It hurts to even think about it, but for Jungkook, you would go through a little more pain so he would let you into his life. 

Outside the hall, Jimin is singing along to a familiar melody of a song you don’t know the name of and judging by the aroma that wafts through the cracks of your door, he has successfully made a pot of coffee. He has been an anchor throughout this whole thing, and sometimes you make a secret wish to the stars that Jimin had been the one with a crescent moon on his wrist instead. Perhaps that way, you wouldn’t have to go through the agony of chasing love that is constantly sprinting away from you. 

Your phone lays on the bedside table and buzzes innocently to start the morning. When you reach over and scroll through notifications routinely, there is a name there that makes your heart pang. Makes you want to throw up and celebrate at the same time. A text from Jungkook. Your fingers shake as you open it. 

I no longer need a model for the portfolio. Thank you for your involvement. Compensation will be provided promptly. 

The day you met him, you already knew that Jungkook was cold. He never dawdled around a painful truth or toed the line between bluntness and sparing feelings. Jungkook spoke his mind, collateral damage be damned. But this is a different type of cold. This one feels more like dry ice on warm skin. Like the numbing chill of a fading hope. Like winter’s first snowfall when autumn had promised you it would forever stay. 

Phone in your hand and tears threatening to drip down your cheeks, you wish you would have waited a bit more before opening his text. Perhaps that way you could have spent the rest of your morning basking in the spring sun, drinking Jimin’s inevitably bad coffee, having hope that Jeon Jungkook would grow to care for you. Perhaps if you hadn’t opened it so soon, your soulmate would still seem in reach. 

Jimin’s mug nearly drops out of his hand when the door of your bedroom is slammed open. He flings it to the side when he notices your red-rimmed eyes and the shaking hands that clutch onto a cellphone. You scream and sob at the universe, at anyone, asking why it was you that had to experience the chaos of longing. Jimin was there to hold you, as he always is, and helplessly listen to the sound of your heart breaking once again by the hands of Jungkook.

◒

Room 62B of the art building is a place you hope to never have to visit again. Though it’s walls contain memories of you and Jungkook, and the evenings navigating his gallery portfolio along with your convoluted relationship, the wallpaper bleeds with a longing ache. A yearning pain. And if those walls could talk, you don’t think you would want them to say anything at all. They would only murmur what you are slowly accepting to be true.

Jungkook, your soulmate, wants nothing to do with you. 

When you hesitantly rap on the door with a fisted hand, the sound of him rustling from inside makes you want to run the opposite direction. It opens before you get the chance to change your mind and the sight of him nearly takes your breath away. He is beautiful as he always is, hair ruffled and mussed from undoubtedly running his hands through it compulsively. His lips are pink from biting on them and the dark circles under his eyes tells you of the dreams he has deprived himself of. 

Jungkook is painfully gorgeous and painfully not yours. 

“Y/N...I sent you a text earlier.” His voice is saccharine but the words taste so bitter. 

“I know. I read it”, you murmur, shrinking in on yourself. 

“I....Can we talk, Jungkook?” 

His eyes dart around nervously at your question, chewing on his bottom lip and tapping the toe of his shoe as if he was impatient and you were bothering him. And you have known that simply being around Jungkook hurts but the light at the end of the tunnel only continues dwindling. 

You understand why he is acting so restless when your gaze drifts past him and into the room. There is a girl perched on a stool, across from a canvas and easel that you know awfully well. You don’t recognize her but it’s only in your nature to begin comparing every aspect of yourself to this stranger. She sits on her hands and swings her legs back and forth, head in the clouds and eyes trailing the ceiling. She isn’t aware of the weight of her presence in the studio, nor the turmoil she has brought to you, who is standing just outside the door. 

The oxygen in the hallway thins and the breath you’ve been waiting to release since knocking catches in your throat. Coming here, you prepared yourself for a long and inevitably heart-wrenching talk with your soulmate. But you hadn’t prepared for the possibility that he had replaced you overnight. 

The only thought that blares through your mind is that this is your fault. For letting yourself think you were worth more to Jeon Jungkook than any other stranger. You can no longer find it in yourself to be angry at him. Just yourself. 

“You…”, you gulp down a whimper, “you replaced me.” 

Jungkook follows your vacant stare past him and sighs, realizing you had most likely deducted what this scene looked like. You would be right. Between the weeks of trying to understand what you were to him and the impending due date of the portfolio, Jungkook was sure the best way to move past this confusion was to just speed full steam ahead. That meant finding another muse. You were no longer an option.

You only stare down at the floor, but Jungkook begins speaking anyway. 

“Y/N, I…I’m sorry.” You scoff at his words, feigning anger when inside, you truly didn’t know if you could piece yourself back together this time. 

“Look, Y/N. It’s not you. It’s just that…”, he breathes deep, not knowing why it was so hard to say. “I’ve stopped believing soulmates were truly a thing a long time ago. I’m sorry.” 

It’s not the first time you’ve heard these words but it doesn’t mean they hurt any less.

“I didn’t want to initiate anything, Y/N, but you did and I let you and that was my fault to let anything start. I shouldn’t have when I knew nothing would come of it.”

It was a fault to him. It never should have happened. 

“So you just thought you would kiss me and decide that I meant nothing to you afterwards?”

“It was a mistake.” It was painful to think it but when you hear Jungkook say it, you experience a new kind of ache. A humorless chuckle bubbles past your throat.

 “I really thought you would grow to love me. Now I know it’s not your fault that I’m a complete fool. To fall head over heels for my soulmate who wishes he had never even met me. Much less share a mark.” 

You can see Jungkook’s eyes widen at your confession, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. It was the truth. He deserved to hear it. 

“You shouldn’t. You can’t.” He reaches up to pull at his hair frustratedly.

“Can’t what, Jungkook? Love you? You think I want to be in love with someone who wishes I didn’t exist?” You hate your voice for breaking, but its impossibly painful when he does nothing to deny your statement. 

“What do you want me to say, Y/N? What can I say to make this better?”

Try: I love you too.

“I don’t need you to say anything you don’t mean, Jungkook.” 

“Then shouldn’t you leave?”

Jeon Jungkook is cruel even when he doesn’t mean to be. There is oblivion in his gaze, and his question is one of genuine curiosity. But it still stabs you exactly where your heart is most tender. Yes, I should have left. 

“I guess I thought you were worth the pain, Jungkook. When you pushed me away and wanted nothing to do with me, I thought you were worth hurting for just to try a little more. Worth the uncertainty of being around you but never getting to actually be with you”, you numbly mutter, uncaring about the rivulets of tears down your face. Not like it wasn’t something he’s never seen before. There is more to come on the tip of your tongue, and Jungkook stays quiet to let you speak. There is conflict in his vision, but you don’t want to give yourself the false hope that he cares for you. 

Look where that has gotten you before. 

“You still are, you know. Worth it.” You release a shaky breath. “But I was stupid to think that I am too.”

Saying the words are revelation for you as much as it is for him. All this time, you’ve been running away from the truth in the pursuit of your soulmate. You hadn’t realized that the chase led you astray. 

“And I know that loving me is not easy. I’m…”, you force the words out so he can at least hear your turmoil by his hands. “I’m never really good enough for anyone. Why did I expect that I would be good enough for you?” 

Jungkook’s expression crumples into a frown. “Y/N, no, that’s not what I mean-”

“You don’t have to tell me what you mean, Jungkook. I meet you and the first thing you say is that you don’t believe in such a thing. I try to get close to you and all you know to do is push me away. And I try so hard to be enough but how can I when Yoojung still has your heart? So you don’t have to say it. I know what you mean.” You’ve stopped crying but the ache relents, and you can only look desperately at the boy who’s slipping from your grasp with every passing second. 

“I’m sorry.” The message is redundant.

“I can’t…” Rip off the bandaid. 

“I just can’t love you.”

The words make their way past his lips before he can stop them, and they shoot through your core ruthlessly. A sharpened dagger to soft flesh. It manifests itself in a physical pain that reverberates across your chest, and when the last strength left in you is used to stare at Jungkook through a pained and teary gaze, you are deaf to everything but those four words.

I can’t love you.

I can’t love you. 

I can’t love you. 

You’re not sure what he is sorry for at this point. If Jungkook is apologizing for not loving you, you don’t blame him. If he is sorry for entertaining the possibility, you don’t blame him. If he is sorry that you are the one with a crescent moon on your wrist, well...you don’t blame him either. All your life you cherished it like some kind of gift from the universe. Now, nursing your crumbling soul in front of Jungkook, you wish it had never appeared in the first place. 

You shake your head, tucking your lip in between your teeth to stop the sob in your chest from escaping. Through the crack of the door Jungkook hadn’t shut fully, the girl was still there, patiently sitting where you were supposed to and making herself scarce after inevitably hearing you bare your heart to a boy who had no interest in it. 

Humiliation goes hand in hand with heartbreak, and the embarrassment that comes with confessing your love and insecurity urges your feet to run home. But even you cannot deprive yourself of looking at him one more time. 

His wavy head of hair. The scar on his cheekbone that makes him look even more beautiful, if that were possible. The gloss in his dark brown eyes, and the way he looks at you through stone cold walls. You commit it to memory, however painful, before you walk out of his life. 

“Be happy, Jungkook.” 

You truly mean it. 

◐

 The sound of your footsteps getting farther away from him is a sound Jungkook thinks he’ll remember for a long time. It almost prompts him to run after you, cradle you to his chest, and profess how sorry he is again and again until you can truly feel the sincerity. But he doesn’t. Only remains behind the self-procured walls and watches when your figure disappears down the hallway. 

Cold. Unbothered. Indifferent. That’s what he had always told himself when it came to you. But the hallway feels so lonely and the ghost of your presence feels even lonelier, and Jungkook wonders if he had been wrong. 

He walks back into the studio, permanent frown on his face and shoulders hunched over in stress. The paintbrush feels like a stranger rather than an extension of his arm, as it always does, but Jungkook begins painting anyway. Looking at the girl in front of him, he is reminded of the look on your face when you realized he had replaced you completely in the span of three weeks, without even giving you a notice. Her presence in his art studio suddenly feels entirely suffocating. 

“Mina, Get out.” 

“What?”

“Get out of my studio. I don’t need you as a model, anymore. Thanks.” His voice cut through the tension of the room, like a hot knife to butter. He recognizes it as the voice he always forces himself to use around you, and grows even more aggravated. 

The girl scoffs annoyedly, snatching her handbag from the floor and rushing out of the room. Obviously she had thought something more was to come from Jungkook’s art arrangement. He made sure to let her know that was not the case. 

There is a gnawing in his chest. Deep and subtle, but it becomes more prominent as the window view from his studio turns from blue to black. He ponders about spending the night in here, instead of going home to his bedroom where he is forced to consult with the agony of solitude. On top of everything today, Jungkook doesn’t think he can handle that. 

Every time he closes his eyes, he sees the pain in your face when he tells you that he can’t love you and he hears the shaking in your voice when you tell him the things that weighed on your soul. He thought the word “wither” was only reserved for flowers. Jungkook didn’t realize a person could wither until he saw it right in front of him. 

In truth, he didn’t know. He didn’t know if he could love you or not. And to Jungkook, that was already a feat in itself. He’s spent so many months convincing himself that his emotional fortress was impregnable. So many nights over whiskey bottles telling himself that love was only for fools and pretenders. To be uncertain about love, now, well...that’s something he is not yet ready to admit to himself. Much less admit to you. But letting you any closer was a fatal game. 

Being uncertain about love means being uncertain about getting hurt. Jungkook has a feeling he wouldn’t make it out in one piece if his heart fell into wrong hands. 

He does end up returning to his apartment that night. But the walk feels far too long and the air feels far too frigid, or perhaps is it because he can’t hear the tread of your footsteps beside him? 

Whatever the reason, tonight feels more lonely.

The stars tell him it’s because he does not like the person he’s alone with. 

Back in room 62B, there is an abandoned painting on a rickety easel. He hadn’t even had the will to wash out his paintbrush, and he’s sure he’ll pay for it the next day. Looking at the piece now, his professor would tell him that there’s too many colors. Too much contrast and nearly not enough depth in his strokes. But what was he to do when he had kicked out his new model and couldn’t get the image of your visible heartbreak out of his brain? 

A familiar wrist with a quaint crescent moon sits on the canvas, and he sure as hell didn’t use Mina as the inspiration. Jungkook reminds himself to throw out the painting tomorrow morning. 

◓

The grease on Jimin’s skillet pan is always so hard to clean. The dish soap never truly cuts through the oil, and no matter how much you rinse it over with scalding water, it still feels soiled. On a normal day, it wouldn’t frustrate you so much. Today, a month-and-a-half after your soulmate made it clear to you that you had no place in his life, you want to throw the pan out the window and cry on the kitchen floor until it collapses with the weight of your tears. 

You settle for throwing down the sponge and making Jimin wash his own dishes.

The phone-that you usually now tend to ignore-buzzes on the counter, and you groan at your complete lack of desire to answer it. But the screen lights up with your roommate’s name and you hit the green button. 

“Y/N! How are you feeling, lovebug?” Jimin’s cheerful tone on speakerphone makes you want to cry. You can only imagine how terrible it is for him to be your roommate when all you know how to do now is mope and cry about a boy who probably hasn’t thought about you since. But he’s been holding you through all your breakdowns, and even sets up the air mattress on the floor of your bedroom when some nights are a little bit harder than most. 

“I’ve had better days”, you glare at the pan in the sink. “What’s up?’

“So I have a friend…”

“Jimin, no.” 

He sighs over the phone understandingly, but still not satisfied. “I know it’s only been a month Y/N, but it doesn’t have to be anything. He’s not looking for anything serious either. But maybe it would be good for you to take your mind off things.” 

It’s been a month. Four weeks. Roughly 31 days, and you still remember every word he said to you in the hallway of the art building. Every pause and quiver of his breath, and the way he looked so completely indifferent to your pain. Was one month enough for you to let go even after finding out Jungkook never planned to hold on in the first place?

“Look, you don’t have to decide now. I’m sorry for pushing you if you’re not ready.” His mumbling is apologetic and it makes you realize that Jimin genuinely means well. Maybe you weren’t ready to move on from Jungkook yet. Maybe you never will be. He was your damn soulmate, after all. But maybe a distraction couldn’t hurt.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I’ll do it.” 

You can practically feel him smiling like an idiot over the phone. “Really?!” You sigh into the speaker and Jimin knows better to continue talking before you change your mind.

“His name is Namjoon, he works with me at the office. Super cute. Super hot. Super smart. Checks all your boxes!”, he rambles on about the nitty gritty details and though a part you is proud that you’re making the decision to move on with life, you can’t help but to realize that no one will ever be able to “check all your boxes”.

Not if they’re not Jungkook. 

“He sounds great, Jimin.” Anyone can tell your happiness is disingenuous, even through the phone. Jimin tells you that he had already planned a date (without your knowledge), and sends you on your way with a quick goodbye when his taxi arrives. The silence of the apartment after the conversation leaves you feeling even more weighted, but hopeful for the possibility of a distraction. You had a feeling you won’t be able to forget the likes of Jeon Jungkook if you tried. But, if only for a night, you were to forget the pain of loving him, you’ll take that chance. 

◑

“What do you mean they all ‘feel the same’?” Jungkook is exasperated. He had drafted a complete version of his portfolio, working through the nights by the sweat of his brow. Now his professor was telling him that all his pieces felt the same and Jungkook thinks he might commit arson to the art studio.

Professor Sejin sighs contemplatively, taking off his glasses and throwing them on the table, all too familiar with Jungkook’s periodic art tantrums. 

“I mean that your pieces lack any variegation. The portfolio is well done and coherent, but the completed package is one-noted. It’s consistent. But too much so.”

Professor Sejin’s words make him fall back into the chair dejectedly, shoulders slumped and disappointment in his eyes at the critique of his art. Though it is hard to hear, Jungkook always welcomes productive criticism. The older man sympathizes with his downcast eyes and the visible stress on his back. 

“Look, Jungkook”, he affirms sincerely, “you just need to find some dynamic. Something to make people know that you can do more than one tone of art.” It’s obvious that the professor has a soft spot for the boy in front of him, who looks like his entire world is collapsing. The portfolio folder is handed back to him and Jungkook has the urge to burn it and not hear the word “gallery” again in the next decade. 

“I have faith in you. You’ll figure out what it is that you’re missing.” The smile on the man’s face is congenial. Genuine. And even though he has an ambitious amount of work to do, Jungkook finds the will to nod, haul himself off the office chair, and begin the trek back to his studio. 

The pinnacle of spring is approaching and the sun shines brighter with each morning. Not that he would know or care. He’s spent the last month locking himself inside, dedicating every fluid ounce of energy towards completing his project. It’s been surprisingly easier, and Jungkook finds himself finishing paintings, sketches, and sculptures with ease. Like untapped inspiration had revealed itself to him suddenly. Yet it still wasn’t enough...at least not according to Professor Sejin. 

Headphones drown out the cacophony of hustlers and bustlers with the laughter of children as accompaniment. He doesn’t allow himself to enjoy the music of the city. Not anymore. It gives him too much space to think, and Jungkook has a feeling that’s not good for anyone and definitely not good for him. 

The sight of a familiar bakery with particularly delicious apple strudels is enough to stop him in his rush, feet winding down until he is standing outside, staring at the door and wondering if he could go in without being reminded of you. Well, it might be too late for that anyhow, but further signs of protest are halted when he hears his growling stomach. 

Jungkook had morbidly underestimated your presence in the memory of his favorite cafe. You are everywhere. He sees your smiling face when he looks up at the chalkboard menu, soul vying for you to be next to him and excitedly choosing a new fru-fru drink that would undoubtedly have excessive sugar. He hears your giggles ruminating through the cafe while the other patrons only hear the music over loudspeaker. He practically feels you near, but that doesn’t matter now. It’s better this way. No one gets hurt this way. 

Jungkook plops himself at a corner table and buries his face in his hands, fingertips soothing over his pulsing eyebags and wrinkles he’s gotten from sleep deprivation. He desperately needs an espresso shot. Or five. 

“Hey…”, a voice makes him snap his head up. Jungkook recognizes the stranger as the owner’s son, who always stands guard at the cash register. The tag on his lapel reads Kim Seokjin, and Jungkook has a distant memory of you gushing over how nice Seokjin’s hair was. He had acted unbothered back then, but Jungkook would die before telling a soul that he was annoyed and jealous when you thought the cashier was cute. 

“Jungkook, right?”. He has a kind smile and a natural air of invitation. Jungkook nods. 

“I’ve seen you around a lot. Where’s that girl you always come here with?”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business”, he nearly hisses, antsy at the mere mention of you. He instantly regrets it though. Seokjin looks like he’s been cornered with a blunt weapon, and it makes Jungkook sigh at his own asshole-ishness. 

“I’m sorry”, he mumbles, “just not a good day. At all.” 

There is a pause and hesitation before the boy speaks. “Do you...wanna talk about it?” Seokjin’s question is met with silence. 

There is a predictability about Jeon Jungkook. He doesn’t open himself up to anyone. He pretends that he doesn’t have problems so well, people start to become convinced. He avoids new connections like it’s the plague. But there is something so idiosyncratic about Kim Seokjin that makes him want to talk. Makes him want to trust a complete stranger. 

So Jungkook nods, depositing his black backpack besides him and lets himself breathe deep. 

“Her name is Y/N….”

In the lukewarm air of the café, Jungkook tells Seokjin about you. About the tiny crescent moon on your wrist that identically matches his - even unwraps his cloth to show it - and how he pushed you away hard enough to put an ocean’s worth of distance between the two of you. He tells Seokjin about Yoojung and the stars on her skin that have been plaguing him since the day she left. He tells him about that damn portfolio that refuses to be finished; one that he apparently has to start over because Professor goddamn Sejin says it's too boring. He allows himself to unload, and wow is it easier to breathe when you talk about your feelings. Jungkook reminds himself to do that more often. 

The “conversation” seems to stretch for hours (if a conversation can be considered one person unleashing all their hidden baggage on the other while they sit in silence). Jin listens intently through the entire ordeal, offering occasional nods and encouragement for him to continue. When Jungkook finally finishes with a deep breath, falling back on the chair looking completely worn out, Jin fixes him with a hot tea before speaking.

“The portfolio is important to you, Jungkook. If it’s important to you, you’ll find a way. Something tells me that you’re not one to give up so easily”, he quips with a playful lilt in his voice. Jin’s genuine faith in him makes Jungkook believe in himself.

“And as for Yoojung, well, I can’t speak on your pain. You are the only one that narrates your experiences but as much as she seems like a villain in your story, perhaps she has opened a door.” Jungkook thinks his voice sounds far too wise to be coming from a guy in his 20’s.

“Would you have known how to nurse a broken heart had it not been for her? I’m sorry she did that to you, Jungkook, but..Yoojung is your past. And I see so much in your future.” 

Jungkook only stares into the abyss of his tea cup. The reflection that stares back is someone he desperately wants to learn to love. When he looks up again, there is a sad glimmer in Seokjin’s gaze. Something so despondent that he feels second-hand pain. 

Jin pulls up the sleeve of his knit sweater. On his wrist sits a faded marigold, so blanched it almost blends in with his skin and makes him wonder if it will just disappear one day. Jungkook feels his blood run cold.

“It’s been two years since she died”, he stares solemnly at his skin, “I don’t think a day has gone by that I haven’t thought about her.” 

Jungkook’s thought about his soulmate mark disappearing before. Even hoped and prayed for it the days after Yoojung left. But now, when he sees it up close on Seokjin’s wrist, Jungkook doesn’t want to wish that loneliness upon anyone. 

“She was so damn...persistent”, Jin laughs, fondness dripping in every word. “Like your Y/N in that way, I suppose. She had a goal and was hell-bent on achieving it. She was so kind and strong and much more of a badass than I could ever be. I loved that about her.” There is sorrow in his voice when he uses the past tense, and Jungkook feels even worse for pouring his heart out about his very alive soulmate. 

“She was studying to be a doctor, you know? Ironic that even the best doctors couldn’t have saved her in the end.” His sentence trails off and he loses focus gazing out the window, fidgeting with the ring on his left hand with a faraway look in his eyes. 

“I don’t mean to ramble about my dead soulmate for no reason, Jungkook. And I’m in no position to tell you what you should or should not do regarding Y/N. But if I could restart this life with my soulmate, there wouldn’t be one second I would waste not at her side.” Jin’s tone is not accusatory or convicting. Just honest.

“It’s normal to be scared and apprehensive. Hell, I would be more concerned if you weren’t going into it with a shit ton of skepticism. I was terrified. Yet out of the billions of people that could’ve had my mark on their wrist, just knowing that she was that one was enough for me to love her.”

The cup of tea has long gone cold. Jungkook only manages to stare at the mahogany table, thoughts too heavy to voice aloud, so Jin continues. 

“I think I would give anything to know that such a person still exists for me. Someone out there that was chosen by an unknown, cosmic force for an unexplainable reason just for me. To see a mark that matches my own. Well…”, Jin breathes deeply, tears welling in his eyes but not falling, “I think that must be the most wonderful thing in the entire world.”

◒

Seokjin’s words stick with him long after he has departed from the café. Long after the tea has settled in his stomach along with the weight of what a soulmate means to this stranger whose life story he has learned in the course of an evening. 

Even so, Jungkook’s not sure what he should feel. The fear of vulnerability still feels like a designated thundercloud above his head, and the thought of letting you past his walls makes Jungkook want to run the other way.

At the same time, the trepidation doesn’t feel so heavy anymore. It’s still there, and he can’t pinpoint exactly what happened but when he sees your smiling face behind his eyelids, Jungkook doesn’t feel scared. When he focuses on what you look like under sunlight, or your eyes staring at him through a camera lens, there is no fear of the broken heart you could leave him with. Just something warm. Something that feels an awful lot like...love?

 But what does Jungkook know about such things? 

He shrugs it off his shoulders, and readies himself for a night of inevitably restless sleep. He blames it on the impending due date of his beloved portfolio, but really, it is you. You and your insistence on trying every single coffee shop in the city. You and your convoluted idea of a date; letting your partner choose the location with their eyes closed. You and…

Just everything about you. 

He falls asleep well into 4am. The thin strap of cloth sits on his bedside table. Even if it is only for the night sky to see, Jungkook lets his soulmate mark breathe. 

◐

It’s been so long since you’ve dressed up or cleaned up to go out anywhere, the reflection that stares back feels like a stranger. You’ve opted for a bold red lip, meticulously applying your makeup so that even the wing of your eyeliner was sharp enough to kill. Jimin forced you to curl your hair too, of course. The girl in the mirror looks beautiful. You know that she is beautiful.

So why is it that you can only see the face that is not enough for Jeon Jungkook? A person that he is unable to love. No, not even foundation can cover the face of longing.

“Y/N”, Jimin sing-songs, “hurry! You don’t wanna be late do you?” No, you don’t want to be late. You want to not go. Maybe retreat to your bedroom and cry the night away again. But you won’t tell him that when he is so clearly ecstatic that you’re spending a night out for the first time in months. 

The restaurant looks like it is entirely out of your budget. Well, you reckon any restaurant is out of your budget with all the debt that looms overhead and your painfully apparent unemployment. Waiting for Namjoon is less than exhilarating, and you spend the time fiddling with your bracelet that conveniently covers the crescent moon. These days, you can’t bear to look at it anymore. Your eyes are glued to the little mark, before a voice sounds from across the table.

“Sorry I’m late, traffic was insane. You must be Y/N, nice to meet you.” You weren’t sure what you expected Kim Namjoon to look like but were pleasantly surprised. Namjoon looks like he takes care of himself, neat and clean and sporting a very shiny watch that looks like 4 months’ worth of rent. 

“And you must be Namjoon. Likewise.” 

When he pulls out the chair to sit down, you can’t help but to notice the cloud on his wrist. It was smaller than yours but you had no doubt it felt just as heavy. If Namjoon felt your gaze on his skin, he did nothing to show it. 

“Hey, I know I just got here but…”, he sighs and takes a look around the room, “do you wanna get out of here? Find the cheapest and greasiest food we can?” His request makes you smile, and you grab the purse that rested on the table. 

“Namjoon, I think that’s the best idea you’ve had yet.” 

You and Namjoon manage to find a diner that wasn’t far from the fancy restaurant, and you thank the skies that you didn’t have to pay $50 for a salad tonight. Just some pocket change for quite possibly the best and oiliest hamburger you’ve ever had. 

By conversation that happens through mouthfuls of food and faces smeared with milkshake residue, you come to learn that Namjoon is an unsurprisingly nice guy. He studies poetry, but is working as a secretary at an office, hence his connection to Jimin. He loves to garden and talks about his bonsai plants to you like they’re his kids, even pulling up pictures on his phone and gazing down at them fondly. It makes you smile. He plays the piano, and likes to take long bike rides when the weather permits. 

It’s nice to have someone reciprocate your effort. It’s something you haven’t experienced in a long time, all credit to one Jeon Jungkook. Namjoon is warm in all the corners where Jungkook is cold. 

In a word, he is pretty damn perfect. And if he had a crescent moon on his wrist, you probably wouldn’t bat an eye or have a lick of doubt in the universe. He encompasses everything you want, so alike you in so many aspects it makes you wary. If Namjoon had your matching soulmate mark, you would already be in love with him. 

But he doesn’t. And that thought alone keeps you from feeling anything but platonicity. He is not Jungkook. You don’t think anyone can make you feel the way Jungkook does. You want to curse the stars for making this so. 

It’s well into the night, and you both remain planted in the diner booth, chatting and chuckling over a plate of french fries. It’s when you drift off while he’s talking about his latest attempt at focaccia that Namjoon sighs and sits back in the seat. 

“What?”, you confusedly ask after he suddenly stops speaking.

He smiles. Stays silent for a couple seconds. Then speaks. 

“So what did your soulmate do to you?”

His question catches you off guard and you can only stare at him, frown on your face and words lost on your tongue. 

“You’ve been staring into space every 5 minutes this whole night, and fidgeting with your bracelet so much I’m surprised it hasn’t fallen off”, he explains, tenderness and sympathy in his tone. 

“Every time I speak, you have this sad look in your eyes and I have a feeling you’re imagining someone else’s face, Y/N. I’ve enjoyed talking to you...a lot. But I can tell you want to be somewhere else so”, Namjoon places his elbows on the table and gazes at you endearingly, “tell me about your soulmate.” 

You stare at Namjoon through shocked eyes, glistening with the onset of tears that you manage to keep from escaping. Gosh, you were pathetic. Already wanting to cry at the mere mention of him. Or maybe the fact that someone could see through your facade. You take a deep breath. 

“His name is Jeon Jungkook.” Your voice quivers, and Namjoon continues listening intently. You are reluctant to continue because you know that once this conversation begins, there is a chance you might have to confront yourself again with the pain of loving someone who doesn’t want love. You internally apologize to Namjoon in advance, for you might cry on this first date. 

“I…I’m completely head over heels in love with him  but after everything, I’m not sure I have the slightest clue what love is. Because what sane person can fall in love with a person who has made it clear that that love wouldn’t be reciprocated from the get go?”

You fiddle with the plastic straw in your milkshake, searching for the courage to go on and tell him about every thought that you have denied yourself the satisfaction of verbalizing. 

“He loves apple strudels, you know. Eats them every time like they’re the last apple strudels he’ll ever have and he doesn’t give a damn who’s watching”, you chuckle, gaze drifting off to space. There is a fondness in your eyes as you speak, and Namjoon does not miss it. 

“He’s as punctual as the day is long. One time I was late to a photoshoot and he almost made me cry lecturing me about the importance of being on time. But now I’m never late.” 

The memory makes you, as well as Namjoon, smile. 

“He paints like his life depends on it, and he’ll get oil paint on his face without noticing and sometimes I just want to reach out and wipe it off. But I think he’d murder me on the spot.”

“How come?”, Namjoon offers his first words in the midst of your monologue. You’re not sure what to say next. 

“Well...I think Jeon Jungkook might be the coldest person I’ve ever met”, you dejectedly sigh. Reality tastes bitter even with remnants of whipped cream on your lips. 

“Every time I was around him, it felt like I was willingly breaking my own heart just for the chance to know that he was next to me. That in this entire world of billions of people, the one with the same moon on their wrist was next to me. And...I guess I didn’t really need him to love me yet”, your gaze locks onto Namjoon and you find he is already staring at you with utmost curiosity and subtle pity. 

“Jungkook alone was enough. I just wish he could have felt the same about me.” 

Perhaps the reason why the truth is so painful to speak is because people have a tendency to run from it. Then when it catches up to you, it’s a harsh trip and fall to the rocky ground. There is no cushion when you land. 

Namjoon doesn’t offer advice. Doesn’t dish his own experiences to relate to your own or even make any comments from his perspective. He just sits and listens in silence, but it doesn’t feel like he is disregarding you. No, his eyes tell you that he soaks in every word. You hope you’ll get the chance to do the same for him...if he ever decides to share his story with you. 

The two of you leave the diner with a prospective to be friends, and no plans of a future second date. You had a strong feeling that spending the entire evening talking about your unrequited soulmate love had something to do with that. Nevertheless, though Namjoon didn’t work out as a distraction, you were glad to have met him. It made you realize something.

Even if Jimin thought you were ready to move on. Even if you thought you were ready to forget. It might be a lifetime before you finally let go of that boy.

◓

The morning reeks of rain and dew, humidity nearly clawing its way through his window and turning his apartment into a swamp. When he wakes up, it is not to his blaring alarm clock, but the uncomfortable sensation of a sweaty shirt sticking to his back. Jungkook groans, already tired of this day. It seems hopeless from the beginning. 

As much as he wanted to stay home and crank up the air conditioner so much that his landlord would come running, Professor Sejin’s voice reverberates through his eardrums.

You art is too one-noted, Jungkook.

Be better, Jungkook.

You’re talentless and will never succeed, Jungkook. 

Of course, these are not Professor Sejin’s verbatim, more so Jungkook’s own mind that twists his teacher’s constructive criticism into something else. He is a master at feeding his insecurity.

Jungkook chugs down a lukewarm cup of black coffee, and his stomach growls for something with a little more sugar and maybe a dash of rainbow colored sprinkles. He guesses he has you to thank for that. The art studio is always a daily destination, and this day is no different. Jungkook has a plan to dedicate himself to fixing his portfolio and maybe finish that clay piece he never got around to. 

The studio is too cold for his liking; Jungkook can’t remember how many times he has begged the superintendent to lower the AC. The cold he can deal with. The loneliness, however, is a different story. Jungkook is always alone. Alone when he’s in his apartment. Alone when he’s in class. Alone when he’s in the art room. These days, aloneness feels more haunting when he knows he had the option to escape it, but chose to stay. A part of him is ready to admit that it’s because of you. 

Jungkook hums a random melody that had been stuck in his head since the morning, fingers gliding over the slick sculpting clay. The days are easier now. He doesn’t think about you so much when the sun is out and there is the bustling of the busy city to distract him. The nights, however, are just as difficult as they have been. Jungkook’s last drifting thought is of you, and your face torturously carries over to each dream. Like his entire being misses you but he refuses to accept it. 

He takes a deep sigh in relief once the sculpture feels finished. Professor Sejin wanted something more dynamic, so there: his very own realist clay piece drawing inspiration from Praxiteles’ sculpture of Aphrodite. He sits back in pride, admiring his own handiwork and giving himself a mental pat on the back. It looks great. Perfect even. It looks….

It looks like you. 

Jungkook pales at the realization as the clay face stares back at him. No, this was supposed to be Aphrodite, the goddess of beauty and love, inspired by the ancient Greek artist that sculpted her. Then why does she have your nose? Those eyes are definitely your’s and even those cheeks are identical. Jungkook hadn’t even realized that in the rhythm of his art, he got lost and accidentally sculpted your face instead. 

He walks away from the clay table and hurriedly yanks off the soiled apron around his waist, confusion swimming in every cell of his body. How had he just...made a sculpture of you? With no knowledge that he was doing it?

Jungkook leans with his back against the sink, staring down at the floor with furrowed brows and a thundering heart. With a sudden epiphany, Jungkook leaps from his position and pulls out all the canvases, printed photographs, graphite drawings, and clay pieces he’s made for the past few months. Everything he can grab in the small studio space. 

It is then that he comes to the daunting realization:

Holy shit.

Professor Sejin was right.

 Everything feels the same. His whole portfolio has one note and no dynamic or diversity because...well, because all of his pieces are of you. Not you, necessarily, but your breath has come alive on his art in some way, shape, or form. 

The multimedia painting he made two weeks ago using polystyrene sheets was supposed to mimic sunlight through a stained glass window, but Jungkook hadn’t even noticed he'd drawn the window of the café you dragged him to on its opening day. And the colors of the glass is just the twinkle of your eyes when they stare back into his. 

The photoset he spent hours taking around the city, after taking a 15 minute train ride, were just repeats of all the places you two went to that one day. The book store. The park. The streetlight where Yoojung stopped him. He hadn’t even realized he only saved the photos associated with a subconscious memory of you. 

Jungkook can’t explain it, but he feels you in every single picture. Every piece of art that his hands have manifested since you walked into his life, stupid smile on your face and that little moon on your wrist. He feels it...and call it artist’s intuition or something but perhaps that’s why Professor Sejin could feel it too. 

Even though he stopped making you his muse months ago, you are still the root of inspiration for whatever he’s produced since. And if that’s not enough to finally tell him what he needs to hear. Finally make him realize that he’s fallen in love with you without even knowing it, the universe doesn’t know what will. 

The minutes it has been since he realized your place in his life melts like slow dripping honey, feeling like an eternity when it is mere moments. Jungkook regains his focus in the haze. He knows what you mean to him now, but there was something he had to fo first. 

He swipes all his paintbrushes and palette knives to the side, sweat on his brow as he furiously rearranges his portfolio. He takes out the pictures of Mina - no one would miss them anyway - and trashes all the photos he took before he met you. He only uses the art he’s created post-Y/N and tucks them in the manila folder so rapidly, there’s paper cuts on his fingers. But he doesn’t feel them. Jungkook has only one objective. 

He snaps a picture of the new clay sculpture he’s just finished. The photo goes into the portfolio with the name ‘Aphrodite’, but Jungkook knows better about whose face that truly belongs to. Not that anyone would bat an eye. He thinks you are as beautiful as the goddess herself. 

The trip to Professor Sejin’s office is short, unsurprising though, since Jungkook sprints the whole way there. When he arrives, and the professor can only stare as he’s bent over and huffing violently trying to catch his breath, Jungkook reminds himself to spend less time at the studio and more time on the cardio. 

He throws the portfolio onto the man’s desk unceremoniously, nearly collapsing on the chair across from him and not ready to speak yet. Professor Sejin confusedly rifles through the folder quickly, too quickly, and sighs, ready to offer Jungkook yet the same critique again. 

He opens his mouth, but Jungkook cuts him off. 

“Before you say anything…”, he gulps, finally ready to admit the truth to himself. 

“I want you to know that I’ve met my soulmate, a-and there’s a reason why you feel that my portfolio is all the same. There’s a reason why you feel it’s all one-noted or that there’s no progression.” Jungkook takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, and you are there behind his lids. 

“It’s because she sowed the seeds for all of them. Everything. Those paintings and photos and sculptures are just symptoms of what I’ve been feeling this whole time after meeting her. She’s practically the artist, not me.” Professor Sejin stays silent at his monologue, gaze unreadable but eyes sharp and trained solely on Jungkook. 

“Maybe...Maybe art doesn’t need to be super variegated all the time. Maybe it’s supposed to be a cohesive unit and the pieces should string to each other. Maybe paintings should have a relationship to photos and them, to sculptures. Maybe you’re just...wrong.” 

He is exasperated and passion flows out of him through every pore. Jungkook looks expectantly at his professor, who has the open folder in his hand and still in the process of taking in his words. When the adrenaline starts to fade, he realizes that he just dissed his venerable teacher. 

“With all due respect…”, he coughs, “sir.” 

Professor Sejin lets Jungkook spend the next couple minutes in complete torturous silence so that he can finish reviewing his portfolio. The tension is cut with the sound of the man’s hands slapping together as he closes the folder. Jungkook prepares himself for a stern lecture.

However, when he looks up, there is a smile on the man’s face. There’s no malice there, or even disdain. He pulls off his glasses, sets them on the table, and sits back in the office chair, arms folded over his chest. Jungkook can feel his heart threatening to pound past his rib cage. 

“Jungkook…”, Professor Sejin declares, “I think you’ve got a contender for the gallery spot.” 

◑

If someone had asked you what Jeon Jungkook meant to you, you would look them in the eye and tell them that he meant nothing. Because it’s easier to pretend that someone does not mean anything to you after they pretend that you do not exist. That the universe had not given you both matching marks and deemed that your souls were meant for each other. Jeon Jungkook is a stranger to you. One that you wanted so badly to love. But you’ve come to learn that no matter how hard you try; you can’t love someone who doesn’t want to love at all.

So the days trickle by as they usually do. Painstakingly slow and viscous with memories of a boy named Jeon Jungkook and the way he has hurt you enough to last a little bit over forever. 

“I understand why you don’t want to go, Y/N. But aren’t you the least bit curious? Especially after that fancy invitation in the mail?” Jimin’s query is innocent. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t make your blood boil. 

“I don’t know...the thought of going to my soulmate’s grand art gallery when the last time we spoke, he told me he can’t love me, just doesn’t seem appealing Jimin”, you snark, burying your face into the bowl of cereal you are now spooning far too aggressively. 

“But...it’s been months. And he wouldn’t have sent you an invitation if he didn’t want you to come.” 

This conversation has happened too frequently since that red envelope arrived at your apartment. You cried your eyes out when you opened it, both out of pride for Jungkook and the fact that no matter what you did, the universe found a way to keep you from moving on. 

A sigh heaves through your chest, and the cereal is abandoned by your loss of appetite. “I’m not going to show up there and have him tell me again all of the reasons he can’t be with me. I barely survived it last time.” 

“But what if, Y/N?”

There is a glimmer in Jimin’s eye and he radiates so much hopefulness for you, you can’t help but to feel it too. 

“Isn’t the what if already enough? You used to tell me that Jungkook was worth anything. Isn’t he worth the risk this time too?”

You don’t have anything else to say after that because as much as you hate to admit, perhaps Jimin is right. Jungkook is worth going through anything for, even if he wants to stay as far away as possible. Call it a fluke in the postal system that the invitation to his gallery landed on your doorstep, but can you allow yourself to read between the lines and dare say that he sent it himself? Can you put yourself through such a perilous thing like optimism?

Jungkook has left you battered and broken for the past months. But you would give your heart to him to break all over again if he asked. 

◒

To say that you did not fit in with those dawdling around the art gallery was a gross understatement. You didn’t just not fit in. Your entire presence and aura defied every expectation, and suddenly, watching the upper echelon of the city mingle with champagne and gaze critically at Jungkook’s art, makes every breath feel like an insecurity. 

The boy in question was nowhere in sight, and you now regret not dragging Jimin with you. The invitation had specifically prohibited plus one’s, and though Jimin whined to no end about his hurt feelings and emptily promised never to talk to Jungkook again, you managed to keep him home. Now, you wish you were back at the apartment with him.

The pieces were, in short, completely breathtaking (to no surprise, of course, this was Jungkook you were talking about). Though you knew he always held doubt in himself, in the short time he allowed you to be in his life, you had never once thought he was anything less than spectacular. Yet you could not allow yourself to completely enjoy them. Each brushstroke and paint color you remember from his palettes, or the filters on the photos that you helped him with, was agonizing to look at. 

You are standing in front of a canvas titled “Windowlight” when a man comes up beside you. He nurses a flute of bubbly champagne and makes no move to gain eye contact. Unknown to you, Professor Sejin knows exactly who you are. He’s seen your face in his student’s portfolio one too many times. 

“Artful use of mixed media, isn’t it?”, he mutters.

“I suppose so.” 

“He’s quite the prodigy. Have you met him yet? I’m sure he’s lurking around somewhere.” The man takes a sip from his glass, smirk on his lips hidden from your eyes that still blankly stare ahead.

“Yes. He’s a...friend.” We share a soulmate mark. He hates my guts. 

He hums a sound of affirmation and you ignore the weird feeling it leaves in your stomach; one that tells you this stranger sees right through you. 

“Ah, how rude of me. Professor Sejin. Arts director and senior advisor.” He spares you a brief glance, but you make no move to shake his hand or pretend to be courteous. You don’t have the energy for it tonight. Just being in this building, surrounded by everything Jungkook has touched, makes you want to collapse into yourself. 

“It was nice to meet you, Y/N.” He speaks nonchalantly, and you almost miss the fact that you never told him your name. Your brows crease in confusion and you are ready to turn and interrogate the stranger, but he is already walking away, gliding smoothly across the gallery. Before he gets too far, though, Sejin cranes his neck and makes eye contact. 

“Oh, and be sure to visit the one called ‘Moon’. It’s upstairs, next to the Aphrodite sculpture on the second level exhibit”, he entreats, a suspicious lilt in his voice.

“Something tells me you’ll appreciate its…sincerity.”

Honestly, you’re not sure what you expected when you came to Jungkook’s art gallery tonight. But to be approached by a stranger who already knows your name, who dubiously instructs you to seek out a mystery art piece, was not on the list of expectations. Still...Professor Sejin’s words made you curious. 

Through the night, your eyes subconsciously seek out that familiar head of fluffy brown hair and a tall gait that always seems to stick out, even in a large crowd. It was as if Jungkook versed himself in complete camouflage, so much so that you began to doubt that he was even in the building.  

The traipse through the gallery is done in silence and solitude, and you tune out the sounds of popping champagne and raucous laughter coming from the second floor, as the patrons undoubtedly banter over which piece to auction off. You hope he keeps them. You’ve never seen someone appreciate art the way that Jungkook does. 

You catch sight of a few pieces that you recognize, ones that you remember him showing you when he had finished. You always excitedly told him every single one was a masterpiece, and Jungkook only rolled his eyes and made minimal effort at hiding the blush on his cheeks. Your steps falter when you come across a set of photographs in black and white, set in consecutive frames next to each other and it feels so warm despite the lack of color. Jungkook just had that special talent when it came to photography. 

It’s the bookstore. In the city during the impromptu train ride you had coerced him to take. Your heart catches in your throat as you recognize all the other ones immediately because well...you’ve been to all those spots. A familiar pressure builds in the back of your eyes, and you swallow down a whimper of pain. 

The urge to leave becomes too strong. But not strong enough to quell the slow burn of curiosity from Professor Sejin. There is a chance that you might not run into Jungkook at all tonight with the vast space and people bumbling through the corridors. It hurts to think that you might never see him again at all, but you’ll allow yourself another indulgence. Something is calling you. 

Moon. He titled it Moon? You grip onto your wrist reflexively and run your thumb over the mark, like you did when you were younger and still had hope for soulmates. The pulsepoint there beats under your finger and lets you know how alive you are. Compels you to give into your curiosity, even if it might decimate your already crumbling heart. The stairs that lead up to the second floor are short, but the trek feels like it knocks the wind out of you, or perhaps that was just the anticipation of what was waiting for you on the other side.

You were right to be scared. Because right in the smack dab center of the circular room is where you see it, and your gasp is one that can be heard from each wall and corner. 

A painting of you. A portrait from the waist up, with oil paint and so much detail, Jungkook has even managed to line the shallow wrinkles by your eyes when you smile. You have never considered yourself beautiful in any sense but the way he has captured you on canvas starts to make you believe that you truly are. You feel Jungkook in each streak of the brushstroke where he hadn’t spread the color evenly. It is as if the painting is alive, and though you are staring at yourself, it doesn’t feel like the way it does in the mirror. Doesn’t feel like a reflection. 

No, this feels like looking through Jungkook’s eyes. It is what he sees in you, rather than what you see in yourself. And what he sees is beautiful. Through the haze of shock and confusion as to why he chose this as the centerpiece, you don’t notice the warm presence that lurks behind you. The one that has watched your every move since you walked into this building. 

“Yeah, that’s my favorite one too.” 

You whip your head around so quick it nearly gives you whiplash, but the sight of him is the nail in the coffin. Jungkook is cleaned up in a black suit, and an unfamiliar smile on his lips he rarely lets you see. A genuine one that he’s tried to hide so many times but now that it’s clear and up close, you resent him for keeping it from you. 

Jungkook is just as gorgeous as the day you lost him. 

But looking at him hurts. You don’t know why you’re even here, and why he sent the invitation, or why he was standing in front of you now and there is not a sliver of antipathy in his eyes. You don’t know why your face is plastered in the center of the gallery. Most of all, you don’t know why you are still weak in the knees for Jeon Jungkook. 

“Although, I have to say, it was a close race between this one and the pictures I made you take at the lake, when you nearly dunked me in the river because it was so cold”, he breathily laughs but you aren’t able to get through the shock just yet. If Jungkook notices your starstruck state, he doesn’t let it affect him. 

“And I definitely have to give some credit to the one I painted after you told me about your dream”, Jungkook prattles on, “where you were a mermaid who planted peaches under the sea, remember? That’s an honorable mention.” 

These memories make you want to smile but in this moment, the best you can do is try to hold yourself together when your eyes begin to warm with tears. Jungkook stays silent when you do. He notices you haven’t said a word and your gaze refuses to meet his. 

“Why are you doing this, Jungkook?”, you curse yourself when your voice cracks. “Why are you telling me these things? Haven’t you hurt me enough?” Jungkook’s smile drops off his face, and for once, you can see your own pain reflected in his eyes. 

He takes a deep breath, hands hanging limply at his side that itch to wrap themselves around yours. To feel your skin. Feel your mark. 

“I…”, he hesitates in his words, “I remember that day every night when I go to sleep, Y/N. Every time I shut my eyes, I just see your face when I told you I can’t love you, and I don’t think I’ve ever felt such aching before. Not even when she left me.” Jungkook’s voice is tinted with desperation but it just makes your walls rise higher. 

He’s lying to you. Your tongue wants to protest, but he continues. 

“I see you in everything”, Jungkook breathes out, like he is also admitting it to himself. 

“The paintbrushes I can never put down to the black coffee I force myself to drink nowadays because the ones I actually like, the ones with too much whipped cream and vanilla syrup, just reminds me of you.” His brows are knitted, and his feet vie to step closer to your quivering form. But you look like a caged animal about to bolt at any moment. 

“And when I’m reminded of you, I am reminded of…”, he gulps down the fear, “I’m reminded of how I am utterly in love with someone who deserves so much more than what I have put them through.”

The blood that runs through your veins drops to subzero temperatures, and you swear in the split millisecond that you have absorbed what he’s just said, your heart ceases its beating. The world stops turning, and the waves still for a brief moment. You can’t find any words just yet, but Jungkook can see straight through you and your stupefied expression. 

“Y-you’re lying to me, Jungkook. Stop lying.” 

“I’m not lying, please…” Jungkook knows he’s losing you by the second, but he’s promised you he would persist. He just wants you to listen. Wants you to feel how sorry he is, and how his soul screams to be next to your’s. 

“I can’t explain how it happened. Like it was an epiphany. Like someone has been screaming at me and I had been ignoring them, and that someone was my own heart.” Jungkook doesn’t stumble over his words once. He does not stutter because it is the plain white truth. 

“Stop, Jungkook.”

“It’s been knocking on the door of my chest and when I finally let it in, it just yells and shouts ‘oh my god, you’re in love’ and then I realized oh my god, i’m in love. In between painting you and convincing myself that soulmates meant nothing to me, I’ve completely and unquestionably fallen in love with you, Y/N.” 

Jungkook can’t decipher the look on your face. Something between the lines of disbelief and heartbreak, and it makes him want to split at the seams at the pain he’s put you through. How he’s convinced you you’re impossible to love. He vows to make it right again.

“Jungkook-”

“And you’re wrong, you know. You’re not hard to love. Hell, I was dead set on never loving again and you managed to make me so smitten, I can’t paint or draw a damn thing without including some aspect of you in it.” Jungkook steps back and gestures to all the canvases and photos that hang on the wall. 

“Take a look around, Y/N. It’s all you. Every piece.” Once he says it, you finally notice Every piece of art in this room can be traced to you, or a memory you two share. It’s so clear, you don’t know how you missed it before. You feel yourself in the art Jungkook has poured his soul into. Instead of making you feel elated, these words that you’ve been waiting your entire life to hear just ignites the sting. 

“Just stop. Please.” It is only a weak whisper through your lips, and he ignores it. 

“If you can’t forgive me, I get it Y/N. I can’t forgive myself either. But can you just know that you are enough. You are more than what I deserve. And I know you told me to be happy, but there is no way I can possibly do that without you.” 

When your gaze falls to the floor, you notice that his wrist is clean of any bracelets or watches. Come to think of it, this is one of the first times you are seeing it clear and in the flesh. Jungkook doesn’t tell you, but nowadays, he doesn’t allow anything to impede on the sight of the crescent moon.

When your guard is down and you are distracted, he finds the perfect time to finally reach forward and take your hand in his. His touch is gentle when it wraps around your wrist, tugging off the ribbon that circled it, and revealing the matching mark. Your pulse jumps under his fingers, and skips a beat when he runs a thumb over the moon. You are already melting with such simple contact, and you almost allow yourself to succumb. Almost.

It’s as if suddenly his skin was scalding, and you snatch your wrist from his grasp at lightning speed. The tears that have strayed down your face are wiped away as quickly as they came. The surprise on his face is missed by your eyes because before he can comprehend what is happening, you are bolting down the staircase and out the glass doors of the gallery. No, you cannot forgive him yet. What would you do if he hurt you again? You don’t think you would survive. 

You ignore the pain of seeing his art pieces as you run, now that you know you are the muse behind them all. The only noise is the sound of blood rushing in your ears, and you are oblivious to the racket of Jungkook’s shoes clapping against marble flooring as he chases after you, expertly dodging the other patrons and butlers holding trays of champagne. 

And Jungkook? Well, he is oblivious to the complete turmoil that runs through your every nerve. He only sees your back, and not the way you bite your lip painfully to keep the sobs from escaping. Not the way your pain is exhibited clear as day in the crease of your eyebrow and the wrinkle of your nose. 

The air outside is so cold it bites at your nostrils, but makes it easier to breathe. The wind calms the thundering heart in your chest.

He must be lying. There was no way he had a change of heart now, not when he was so rooted in his belief before. There is no virtual possibility, on any plane of existence, on any dimension where Jeon Jungkook has fallen in love with you. 

Right?

The hand that circles around your wrist tightly to keep you from getting any farther tells you that you are wrong. He did come after you. Jungkook’s strength forces you to stop running, but you can’t find the courage to turn around and face him just yet. But you don’t make an effort to pull away, and he takes it as progress.

“You can run if you want, Y/N. You can walk away from me and from us, but don’t doubt that I’ll always be chasing after you. For as long as it takes.” He is panting and speaking through heavy breaths, but you hear him. Loud and clear. 

“I won’t let you leave again. Not like last time.”

There is no malice. No coldness, and for the first time since you’ve met him, his words feel like warm honey instead of monotone ice. He is utterly distraught when you turn around slowly, hesitant like you’re afraid he will break your heart right then and there. 

His heart shatters at the wetness at your waterline, and the way you look up at him; completely vulnerable and scared. 

“Do you promise?” 

There is a lot of weight in your three-word question. It’s not as innocent as meets the eye, and Jungkook knows it. He feels it. When you ask him if he promises, it is an invitation back to you. You are offering him your heart, which he has already broken and bruised, and trusting him to be careful with it this time around. Jungkook already knows he loves you. And if you let him, he’ll spend the rest of his life making sure this promise remains unbroken. 

“I promise.” 

It’s a commitment. One he used to be terrified of making, but it seems so easy when it’s for you. 

And when you fly forward to wrap your arms around him, Jungkook feels like home. Like the stars twinkle a little brighter and the earth stops spinning for a mere second, just for the two of you. You feel him squeeze you closer, just as tightly, and Jungkook wants to kick himself for depriving you both of a simple thing called love. 

You are here, souls and now bodies intertwined, and Jungkook lets the pain of past hurt fall away. Pain is so miniscule when you are by his side. When you pull back, Jungkook frowns at your red-rimmed eyes, and the tears that still persist. He wipes it away oh so softly, as if you were delicate clay and he, a sculptor. 

“Please don’t cry anymore, princess, it breaks my heart. I’m so sorry.” It is the softest, most sugary tone you’ve ever heard out of him. But hearing affection from his lips makes you feel that perhaps all of this sorrow, this longing, has been worth it. He has been worth it. He always has. 

“I love you, Y/N.” Jungkook’s words are almost as beautiful as he is. 

His lips are familiar when you lean forward and kiss him. Yet they are different. This time, the hands on your waist hold you a bit more carefully, even closer if that were possible. You can feel his thudding heart as it beats against your own, learning to match rhythms with each other, and Jungkook cradles your face in his hand like you are the only artwork he has truly been proud of. 

And it’s true. All the canvases and paints and camera film seem wasted now. Nothing he ever makes will be quite as alluring as the art he holds in his arms in this moment. 

“I love you too, you goddamn idiot.”

You meant it all those months ago, and you mean it now. If Jeon Jungkook was the sun, you would gladly change your name to Icarus. If Jeon Jungkook was the moon, then you are the tides that he pushes and pulls. If Jeon Jungkook belonged to you, well...you don’t have to imagine that anymore. He is your’s, as you are his. 

Old habits die hard, but they are not immortal. They wax and wane, and remind you that in the cosmic vastness of things, you are only human. Humans whose hearts beat in tandem and souls made to complete the other. Humans with identical crescent moons, lost but now found.

Old habits die hard. But you have learned to fix those of a broken heart. 

☾

[it-was-summer]

Video Killed The Radio Star - Chapter 2 (Spencer Reid x Reader)

A/N: I’ve gotten so much positive feedback and a lot of people seem to like so I am so happy to share another chapter with you all! In this chapter I will put Asterisks  (***) before anything that might seem triggering to some viewers just to give you all a heads up! I would also like to add that virginity is a concept made by man and if you are/aren’t one that is valid as hell!- much love, Em❤️

Warnings: torture, blood, cursing, distributing individual / content, sex talk, sensitive material ahead.

Plot: The team works to find you before the situation escalates, you spend time in a less fiery version of hell.

Word Count: 2.2k

“This girl made my job easier,” Garcia was logging into your computer with a smile “, It was never difficult, but now I get to skip a few tiny steps.” She was searching through your emails, looking for any messages that could have been from your stalker, there was nothing so far. So she moved to your phone records, unknown calls, texts, anything that could help.

She did find one call from an unknown number that had left a voicemail a few minutes before two in the morning on the night of your abduction, but the only thing that she could get from it was the sounds of sobs before the line goes dead.

The rest of the team was combing your apartment in Richmond. The most impressive thing about this whole case was how you knew something was going to happen and the evidence you left behind for them. Sticky notes decorated your desk, labeling everything from your passwords to the gifts your stalker had left you. Another thing that shocked the team was seeing photos of almost all of them, you didn’t get one of Garcia, with little sticky notes next to them.

The sticky notes contained little comments like “Fine as hell,” that one was for Reid, Morgan teased him about it before he looked at his own picture that had the note of “Arms?? Yes?”

It seemed like you had a sense of humor that you didn’t let on in your videos. It made Prentiss laugh, but as soon as she did her eyes looked down at the carpet, seeing a single rose petal near your nightstand. Instead of being red like all of the others, it was the pale color of pink. “It looks like the Unsub is in love with her,” she bent down to pick up the petal with a glove “, or whatever their demented version of love is.”

Reid was focusing on the books, you had a tiny library growing at your house filled with classics, some fiction, others nonfiction. He took note that you already had copies of the Brontë sister collection in your library, and they looked slightly worn down. He couldn’t help but wonder why the Unsub would give you books you already owned. Was it just for their notes? Why couldn’t they use the copies you already own?

Hotch tore Spencer away from his thoughts “The bed was neatly made and there are no signs of struggle, indicating that our Unsub probably made the bed and had time to clean up.”

“Or that she was too afraid to sleep, either way, they probably drugged her and got her out of here as fast as they could,” Prentiss added as she searched the bed for any other evidence.

Reid hummed as he watched Prentiss flip pillows over “It could have been someone she knew, a friend maybe?”

“We can’t rule out anything.” Hotch said as he looked at his wrist for the time “Ried, go with Morgan to the library. Prentiss and I will visit the family.”

                                                      ***

March 6, 20XX

The night of your abduction you were sitting on your couch, holding one of the decorative pillows close to your chest as you watched the black screen of your television. You felt numb, after you recorded your video you broke down. It started off as crying and then slowly developed into a panic attack, but now you were on your couch trying to think about anything but this horrible situation. You glanced over at the time seeing it was nearing two in the morning, you had already called your mother. She told you to come home and you said you would in the morning.

You couldn’t think about her right now, you started to cry, finding it surprising that you still had enough water in your body to cry again. Sobs escaped your mouth, then something pricked your neck and the world was gone.

When you woke up it all felt so soft. You felt like you were laying on the softest bed ever created, your eyes fought against you, opening slowly in fluttering moments. The room was illuminated in a wondrous pink light, you smiled in your drugged state before it all registered. You suddenly felt hot, on fire, everything was on fire. You attempted to sit up on the bed, slipping back down with a yell, red rose petals flying up around you as you collided with the bed. You carefully sat up, looking down at the bed, if you hadn’t just been kidnapped you would think was romantic.

You tried to pull your legs up to your chest, but you screamed out in pain. Your eyes darted around the bed, in a terrified attempt to stay calm as you looked down at your leg. Bile found its way into your throat, burning in your esophagus as you looked down at your snapped ankle. You vomited off the side of the bed, your body shaking vigorously.

“Catherine,”  A terribly sweet female voice spoke, “ My sweet Catherine, you’re awake.”

You coughed lightly before spitting the rest of the vomit out of your mouth, turning your head to look towards the sound of the voice seeing a familiar and beautiful brunette woman smiling over at you. “My name isn’t Catherine,”

“Yes, it is. You’re Catherine Earnshaw, Jane Eyre,” she walked closer, her hair swaying to and fro gently “ Hell, You’re Emma Woodhouse and I am,”

“Crazy, you’re fucking crazy!” you screamed.

“I’m Heathcliff! I am Mr. Rochester! I am Mr. Knightley!” She screamed back at you, her happy demeanor changing in a second, rage decorating her face for a simple second before she let out a calming sigh and smiled once again. “I’m sorry, my sweet, I didn’t mean to scream at you like that. I love you.”

Tears were streaming down your face as you nodded, slowly “You love me,” too afraid to speak out against her again, you nodded through your tears.

She sat on the edge of the bed, that you were slowly realizing was indeed heart-shaped. She reached her hand out, you flinched feeling it land on your head, her hand petting your hair gently.

March 8, 20XX

Morgan was smiling a considerate smile across the table at one of your coworkers, Noelle. She was a pretty blonde, had a sweet smile. The only thing they got out of her was that you were single, her eyes stayed on Reid when she said that, and that you were nice to everyone. Baked for people on their birthdays, or days they were struggling, you were… you are considerate.

Reid hated to admit that the nicest people always seemed to capture the attention of the most dangerous people. Unwanted, cruel, attention.

Spencer excused himself, stepping away to take a look around the vast library. There was a small cafe in the corner of the library, it was possible that the unsub first met you here, checking out a book or something of that kind. He went back to Noelle, “Would you say that Y/N had admirers?”

“Not really, but there was something in December,” she let out a soft sound as she gathered her memories “,this woman came in, beautiful, said she knew Y/N from college or something. It was a weekend so she wasn’t working, but uh she was nice, wanted to buy Y/N a Christmas gift, and asked what she would like. Y/N likes roses, she likes romantic stuff so that’s what I told her.”

Morgan’s eyes widen, holding back his comments as he thanked Noelle for her time before turning back to Reid “A Woman?”

Spencer nodded, trying to make connections in his head. The books and the roses made sense, why the blood-soaked panties?  The roses because of what Noelle said, Wuthering Heights and Jane Eyre were classic romance books. He had read them both, but he wanted to see your new copies of the books, your annotated versions.

As for the blood-soaked pair of panties, his mind went to one thing, innocence. Assuming that you weren’t a virgin anymore the blood covering them would mean that your innocence was already taken from you. The unsub might’ve given them to you to remind you what you’d lost or to make the threat that you should have stayed a virgin, that you should’ve stayed innocent. However, despite your so-called ‘ruin’, it seems that she still loves you, hence the gifts.

Spencer assumed that the unsub thought that the two of you were connected through romance, maybe even a taboo type of romance. The romanticism of Wuthering Heights and Jane Eyre made that fairly obvious to him, as well as the rest of the team. Red roses symbolized romance, while the pink rose symbolized admiration and grace, indicating that your relationship with the unsub could have been anything but new.

“Can we get a map of all of the florists in the area?”

                                                            ***

You pressed your face into the cushions, it was a weekday and she had yet to come in. Heather, after a day or two you finally remembered who she was, Heather Alexander, she lived on your floor your freshman year of college. She was quiet, sweet, and, apparently, crazy. In college, she seemed less glamorous, wore glasses, had quirky hair, complete with a babyface. You used to invite her over whenever you would bake something sweet, till one day she was gone. Dropped out.

Now, almost seven years later, she seemed so broken. Living in a delusion, thinking that she was some hero or romantic interest of yours. The two of you were destined to be together, well that is until you live out the fate of Catherine Earnshaw and die.

You found it painful to cry at this point, you were so dehydrated and tired that you didn’t even try to force the tears out. It wasn’t that you were too tired to fight, well that was to be debated, you still had plenty of fight left in you. You were playing it safe, the thing that was holding you back from fighting was your mother. You couldn’t bring yourself to put yourself in danger, you needed to hold on to her, you needed to see her again and you knew she needed to see you again. So, you did what you thought was best, for now, lie in bed and feel numb.

It wasn’t that hard to feel numb, given that Heather had you hooked up to a morphine drip. You learned that whenever she was mad at you she would call you Emma, sometimes Jane, but for the most part you were Catherine. When you were Catherine,  she would give you all the morphine you wanted for your broken ankle and when you were Emma or Jane she would ween you off till she saw fit. So if you were Catherine, you would feel numb, feel okay at least for now.

You were staring up at the ceiling, feeling especially stoic, when you heard keys jingle at the door. It opened, showing a glimpse of a regularly lighted room, fluorescent as ever, before leaving you and Heather in this disgustingly pink room. “Catherine,” she threw her keys off towards the counter in the corner of the room. You were too drugged up to think about an escape plan, too drugged up to do anything but stare up at the ceiling. It felt so desperately good to be numb, you barely noticed when she touched you, but as soon as you did her touch felt like fire. “Catherine,” she leaned in close, her lips meeting yours in a second. Heather kissed you with her eyes closed, you always kept your eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling waiting for her harassment to be over. You never kissed back and she didn’t seem to mind so long as she was enjoying herself.

Heather pulled away with a childlike grin “Did you enjoy yourself today? I wish I could have stayed with you, but duty called!” Your eyes traveled down to the name on her uniform, it was the name of a floral shop near your work, the roses.

Your speech was slow and slurred, causing Heather to reach over to the morphine drip, fixing it so you would get lower levels of the drug, but that wouldn’t start working for a couple of hours. Heather seemed to know that so she simply got up, walked away, grabbed her keys, and went towards the door “You can answer in a few hours. Till then, my Catherine.”

                                                           ***

Prentiss watched your mother as she played with her hands, her mouth trembling as she spoke “Y/N called me when it all started,” she looked up, her eyes shifting between Prentiss and Hotch “I should have listened, oh I should have listened!”

“Mrs. L/N, you didn’t know this would happen. You can’t blame yourself here.” Prentiss offered comfort towards your mother only for her to let out a heartbreaking wail of pain.

“She’s all I have.”

Hotch and Prentiss were walking down the porch steps with a tin of chocolate chip cookies, a habit of her’s that you had picked up on. Prentiss looked over at Hotch, whose eyes betrayed him, she didn’t say anything about the look in his eyes. She knew that he probably didn’t want her to ask. She blew out a sigh as they got into the car

“Need a cookie?”

[angellissy]

a constant worry

Based on these requests:  Hi could I have a jjxreader imagine where she is having a sleepover with kie and sarah and something happens where they have to go and get jj? Thank you your writing is amazing!!! and this one  angst 13 with jj?🥺

13.“If you don’t hug me right now I think I might fall apart.” JJ Maybank x reader Warnings: anxiety, stress but also cute JJ :) lmk if I missed any

A/N: I would like to say that this is the imagine that I am most proud of. I poured my soul into this one and really gave it all I had. I have struggled with generalised anxiety disorder for most of my life but got diagnosed last year. It’s hard and looks different for everyone, so this imagine is based on thoughts and worries I have. I don’t want to romanticize anxiety and I really hope I didn’t, but remember it looks different for everyone. I also want to point out that getting the help I needed was the best thing I ever did for myself, so it’s worth a thought if you are struggling. If you struggle with anxiety (or anything else) and need someone to talk to, I am always here!!!! Also hope it was okay that I combined these requests :) thanks to @outabanks​ for motivating me to post this <3 

Your fingers were trembling slightly, making it visibly hard to keep a steady grip on the fork in your hand. It was shaking back and forth, the pasta that you had just dug your fork into was falling off. You watched how it slipped off, how it dropped on to the plate disappearing in the midst of all the other food. “You okay?” You looked up to meet the eyes of your best friend, hers shone with concern. You nodded, trying to shake away the feeling that had been plaguing you for the last couple of hours. “Yeah yeah, I’m fine.” “Is the food okay? We can get something else if you want?” A small smile tugged at your lips while you shook your head at her. “Kie it’s fine, really. I just got lost in my thoughts.” That was one way to put it, getting lost in your thoughts seemed to be the only thing you had been doing lately. You didn’t mean to really, it just kind of happened. It would start with something small, near insignificant, it wouldn’t mean anything to anyone else. But to you, it could be the start of the ongoing circle where you got trapped in your mind. Unable to find solace or escape. As a child you would worry about getting trapped in quicksand, shivers would run through your body at the sole thought of not being able to get out. Your mind would be stuck on thinking about what would happen if you ever did get stuck in quicksand, even if the possibilities were narrow. It was only when you got older that you realized that you should have been worrying about your mind and it’s constant attempts to draw you in and keep you there. It worked a lot like quicksand in that sense, the panic that rose felt much like the one that would arise if you ever found yourself trapped knee-deep in the sand that constantly dragged you down. 

“So you’re ready for this sleepover then?” Kie asked, giving you her brightest smile, the one that tried to tell you that everything was okay. So you nodded and forced a smile, faking it was better than nothing right? You hoped that the more times you would do it, the smile would stick and never disappear. But the second Kie looked away, it faltered. You were now on said sleepover, lying on a mattress in Sarah’s room with a blanket wrapped around your body as you listened to your friends talk. “I actually think we all should get matching dolphin tattoos, it would be like a memory for whenever we go to college.” Kie excitedly nodded at Sarah’s proposal and they both turned to look at you, faces filled with anticipation and hope. You cleared your throat and gave them a small nod. “Sounds like a great idea, we’ll definitely do that.” Just like with your fingers, your voice couldn’t help but shake. Your eyes quickly found something else to look at other than your friends, they stuck on the picture standing on Sarah’s bedside table. It was a photograph of all of you, your friends, your family. You were all were standing on the beach, your feet were covered in sand, and droplets of water were running down everyone’s body, a consequence of spending the whole day out in the water. You didn’t exactly remember who had taken the picture, but it was most likely a tourist passing through town. The tourist had passed by at the exact right time, managing to snap the loveliest picture of you all. Sarah was standing in the middle, one hand keeping her sunglasses in place while the other was intertwined with John B’s. Next to her was Pope, a large grin played on his lips as he tried to keep his balance, on his back sat Kiara. Her curly brown hair was getting in John B’s face, hiding his eyes. You could almost hear her laughter through the picture. “Guys, guys I am ruining this picture,” Kiara yelled which made Pope stumble ever so slightly, her loud voice had cut through his ears. “Jesus Pope, keep your balance.” She was laughing now, not caring about her hair anymore as she wrapped her arms around him, trying to hinder them from falling down in the sand. They had managed to keep their balance for the following ten seconds. Giving the tourist just enough time to snap the picture. Your eyes moved to the edge of the picture, where you were standing. One of JJ’s arms was wrapped around you, the other one was draped around the surfboard he had been standing on that day. You were wearing his red cap, he had forced it on you when he noticed how tired you had become from the sun. “I don’t need it, baby, it’s fine.” He scoffed at your words, situating it on your head once again. “Be still pretty girl, otherwise we’ll be the blurry couple in the picture.” You had laughed at that, and you would forever have that laugh captured. 

He was looking down at you, a smile on his lips as he had heard the way your laugh echoed over the beach. “Reminiscing, huh?” Sarah’s hand was on your arm, bringing you back to reality. “Yeah, I suppose.” You shook your head, trying to come back to what was happening right now, but a part of you lingered in those memories. Sarah and Kie propped down beside you, squeezing themselves in under the blanket. A part of you enjoyed their closeness, while another part of you was starting to wish for the comfort of your own home. You fiddled with the hair tie on your wrist, trying to distract yourself from the discomfort that was growing in your body. What would you do if something happened at Sarah’s? You didn’t know her house like you know your own. If there was a fire you wouldn’t know where all the potential escape routes were. You looked at the clock that ticked on the wall, it was almost midnight. You all were probably going to bed soon, getting tired of gossiping and dreaming about dolphin tattoos. You swallowed hard as you thought about waking up in the middle of the night, you always woke up in the middle of the night. At least for a couple of months you would wake up, feeling the need to go to the bathroom. You wouldn’t wanna disturb all the others, could you even flush without waking up the whole house? “What are you thinking about?” Sarah said, nudging your shoulder. “Um, can I flush the toilet in the middle of the night if I wake up?” Sarah and Kie let out a small giggle at your question. “Of course you can, silly!” You nodded, letting a breath you didn’t even know you had been holding. The girls sitting beside you, got up after a while, changing into pajamas and brushing their teeth. You did too, but not before sending a text to your boyfriend, telling him goodnight, and asking if he was okay. The latter was something you did every night, a habit you couldn’t break even if you wanted too. The lights had been out for thirty minutes now, the lack of light had lulled your friends to sleep. Leaving you alone in the eerie quiet that filled the room. You couldn’t fall asleep, not yet, not before you heard the comforting sound of your phone receiving a message. He still had not answered, not it had almost been forty minutes since you sent it. JJ usually answered right away, unless he was surfing, which he wasn’t since the remnants of the last storm still lingered. You twisted and turned on the mattress, chasing that position that would grant you with the feeling of heavy eyes and calmed breathing. You didn’t find it, rather the opposite. Your eyes were wide open and your breath was far from calm, every time you breathed it felt like you got less and less air in your lungs. You couldn’t wrap your head around why he wasn’t answering. Had he gotten in a fight? No, he probably just to forget to charge his phone again, he did that a lot. But what if his dad had done something to him? You threw the covers off of you, pulled on your pants, and then you were out the door. It was pouring down, the hair on your arms arose, protesting against the cold water and the lack of a jacket. You hadn’t even thought about that, your mind was solely focused on JJ. You wrapped your arms around your body, a way of keeping you warm and trying to slow down the quickened beats of your heart. Where could he be though? He was either at his dad’s or at the chateau. You bit your lip in concentration, debating your options. As much as you hated yourself for it, you didn’t dare go to his house. So you trudged towards the chateau, hoping to find him there. 

It was a long walk, it felt even longer when you were shivering with every step that you took. When you finally reached the small house it felt as if the rainwater had become a part of you, if you traced your finger against your arm, all you would feel was water. 

The sounds of laughter made you stop in your tracks, but you almost started running when you heard JJ’s voice answer to something John B had said. They were sitting on the backside of the house, almost fully shielded by a sheet that they had hung up in the trees. They were sitting in front of each other on a pair of mediocre camping chairs that looked like they would break any second. You stood still, feet burying themselves in the wet grass. A feeling of shame had washed over you, it had been silly of you to trudge all the way here just because your boyfriend didn’t answer your text. Maybe you could just a turn around and go back? Surely Kiara and Sarah hadn’t noticed, they slept like two old men. “y/n? What are you doing here?” John B’s voice boomed through the stillness surrounding you. “Uh I was just gonna go, I’ll see you guys.” You answered the shame in your veins made it almost impossible to move, it felt like your limbs were being controlled by someone else. You were a puppet, the strings were in the hands of your mind. “Hey hey! You good baby?” JJ was in front of you, hands on your face while he gave you a once over. Searching for something that would indicate if something had happened, he wouldn’t find anything on your body. It was all in your eyes really, the pain and confusion were clear as day in them. You silently wished that all your thoughts and emotions would intertwine with your tears and disappear as they flowed, they didn’t. JJ’s eyes found yours and his thumbs were quick to wipe away the water that streamed down your face. “Oh, my pretty girl.” He whispered the soft tone in his voice made you choke on a sob. “I don’t know why I am like this.” You cried, the frustration made you turn away from him and you hit your palms against your face. Why were you like this? Why couldn’t you just enjoy a night with your friends without worrying about the most absurd things? “If you don’t hug me right now I think I might fall apart.” His hands were suddenly wrapped around your shivering body, trying to keep you grounded, it was as he knew that your thoughts had been mere seconds from flying away with you. “Hey, you’re okay, I’ve got you.” and he really did. His body was pressed against yours for the next couple of minutes. Forcing you to be reminded by his presence and that he really was there, he was okay and so were you as long as you let yourself remember that. Forty minutes later you were laying in his bed, the lights had gone out in the chateau, leaving you both in the darkness. His arms were still around your body, they had only let go when he forced you to change clothes. A too big of a shirt now adorned your still shaking body, but at least you weren’t in rain-soaked clothes, which was all your boyfriend cared about. “I’m sorry that I am like this.” You whispered, your voice breaking through the layer of quiet that had been towering over the two of you for the last hour. His hands were running soothing circles on your back. “Don’t say sorry for something that you can’t control.” He paused, probably thinking carefully about what his next words would be, something he rarely ever did. “I know it is hard for you, and that’s okay. If someone should be sorry, it should be me. I shouldn’t have forgotten to answer you when I know how much it means to you.” You shook your head at him. “That literally just proves my point JJ, I shouldn’t freak out the way I did and then have you tell me you’re sorry.” Your turned your body away from him and curled up in a ball, tears brimmed in your eyes as you stared right into the wall. “I just wish I could turn my brain off.” You whispered into the night. His arms found their way around your body once again, holding you tight to his chest. “Well, I don’t wish that. I love your brain, I love the way you always come up with new ideas that everybody loves. I love how you notice things nobody else would. I love the way you care about me. I love getting those goodnight texts because that’s a first for me you know?” You nodded into his chest, biting your lip as an attempt to stop crying. “If turning your brain meant losing all those things, it wouldn’t be worth it. But that doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t get help.” You shut your eyes close at his words, this conversation was one of many, and it always ended with you both fighting. “I only need you.” You muttered, and he chuckled ever so slightly. “I wish that was true, and I wish I could be enough for you, but we both  know that’s not the case.” You groaned and turned around so that you were facing him. “Can we talk about in the morning?” He nodded, a small smile played on his lips as he watched your small pout. He leaned his face closer to yours, his forehead rested on yours, noses touching. You wish you could’ve seen his eyes, but the darkness prevented that. But if you had been able too, you would’ve seen the love and admiration that shone there, all for his girl.

[nakedmonkey]

2 for Annie x Nancy! 17 for Beth x Rio!

I no longer have the link for what this was for but I had saved the prompts, and look what happened! 

Annie x Nancy - with relief

“You ever feel like we give our bad decisions too much credit?” 

Annie says this as Nancy watches her get dressed, dressed in a robe herself. She’s home so she doesn’t have to wear normal clothes and that makes Annie feel a little pissed, because she could use a nap after the workout they’ve just had. 

“What do you mean?” Nancy asks, tilting her head and furrowing her brow the way it does when Annie says something she doesn’t understand, which happens a lot. 

“I mean, people do stupid shit and write a love song about it. You know? We romanticize everything to excuse shitty behaviour. Eric Clapton fell in love with his best friend’s girl and then wrote a song about how she rejected him and he persistently pursued her anyway, and it’s his most famous song! I mean, are we, you and I, shitty people?” 

Nancy smiles and gets up, stopping close enough for Annie to smell her shampoo. She begins to undo the buttons she’s just done up, and Annie is about to remind her Ben is due home from school soon, when she realizes she’s redoing them, lined up the right way this time. In her attack of neurosis, she’d missed a couple of them. 

“Have you been writing some songs about us?” Nancy asks, smiling down at Annie’s worried frown. 

“No.”

“Then, I think we’re good.” 

“We shouldn’t be sneaking around. It feels wrong.”

“You’re right,” Nancy says, smoothing her palms up Annie’s chest and over her shoulders. “So, let’s stop sneaking around.” 

“Really?” 

“I’m not ashamed of this. Maybe a little...surprised, but definitely not ashamed. Are you?” 

Annie smirks, already melting under Nancy’s soft gaze. Post-sex Nancy is soft. Who would have thunk?

“No,” Annie replies, wrapping her arms around Nancy’s waist, pulling her in close and tiling her chin up to kiss her chastely. When she pulls away, she sighs with relief, but visibly stiffens instantly at the thought of exposing their month long affair, or whatever, to Gregg. 

Ben has his suspicions. Annie can tell in the way he takes his time opening the front door when he’s seen Annie’s car parked outside Nancy’s house, and the way he takes extra noisy steps coming up the stairs. The way he smiles knowingly at them on movie night before excusing himself early to hang out in his room. But Gregg. Gregg is clueless, and therefore unpredictable. 

“This is good,” Nancy assures her, then, a fleeting spark of doubt in her eyes when Annie doesn’t immediately agree. “Right?”

Annie inhales deeply. 

“Unfortunately, your neurosis and obsessive nature haven’t yet surpassed how good you are at sex.”

Nancy rolls her eyes and gives Annie a playful smack on the arm as she turns away, but she’s pulled back before she’s all the way out of reach. 

Annie holds onto her, making sure she has her attention when she says, “You’re also a great mom. And the best at late night chats. This is good.” 

Nancy looks at her like she often does lately; like she’s trying to figure out how the hell it is that this is actually working, and Annie doesn't blame her. She’s spent nights trying to figure it out herself, but she figures some things just don’t require an explanation. 

Her mouth opens and her breath hitches like she’s about to say something, but then she doesn’t and Annie waits, joke at the ready, teetering on the tip of her tongue when Nancy suddenly says, “I love you.” 

It’s Annie’s turn now to open and close her mouth like a fish, uncharacteristically speechless at the confession. Her heart races then, her palms immediately begin to sweat, and her brain is at a standstill, she can practically hear the record scratch before panic sets in. Why is she speechless? Is this bad? But then, she’s speaking, the words stumbling out of her before she knows what’s happening. 

“I love you, too.” 

And it’s like instant relief. As if the sound of the words alone set everything into place, and right. The nerves are good, the panic is good. Because for once, Annie can place it on something, and it’s not regret or impending doom. It’s the feeling of having something to lose, something to fight for, something to protect in addition to Ben. 

Nancy smiles and she exhales a laugh as Annie pulls her into her arms.

“Oh, thank god!” 

Nancy kisses Annie, holding her face in both hands as she does so. She then sighs, burying her face in the crook of Annie’s neck as they hold each other. 

Annie can’t help the dumb smile on her face, or the way she immediately inhales Nancy at given the chance. A year ago she wouldn’t have known what to do with the feelings doing so would stir, but now it just feels like home–like family. 

Beth x Rio - After an argument

They’ve fought before, but not like this, because it’s not really a fight. But Elizabeth’s been antsy, and sensitive. He’ll be the first to admit that they’ve said ugly things to each other before, and that he can be particularly hurtful when he wants to be. Certainly he’s said things to her that have made her flinch, but he’s never seen her just grow silent like this. There’s something in the way that she flinches at his words this time however that really and truly makes him feel like the scum of the earth–a feeling he has ever only associated with Marcus and the look on his face when he’s disappointed about Rio missing something important. 

He’s certainly used to sitting with the feeling, but what he’s not used to is the counter argument he expected to get in return but doesn’t seem to be getting. There’s no snappy comeback, or smartass remark, or now-it-all sass he’s used to getting from her and that’s...that’s an added blow. That makes him feel especially low. 

Beth has been obsessing over shopping for the kids a lot lately. So much so that she’s become distracted. She almost cost them a deal just the other day by excusing herself every five minutes to check her bid on some ridiculously expensive, extremely rare collectible for Kenny. 

The kid moved out of his mother’s house completely, has decided to live with his dad save for weekend visits, and even those have become sporadic. In turn, Elizabeth’s decided to shower him with gifts that do nothing except drain her bank account, which is what Rio says to her when the fight about the meeting is in full swing. 

“Why does it matter!” She snaps, face glued to her laptop. “It’s my money, so don’t you worry about it.” 

It’s been a long day. It’s been a long day and he should have walked away, but–it’s been a LONG DAY, and he is running out of patience, so as he loads the dishwasher, his back to her still, he opens his mouth and lets the words slip before he can filter them. 

“Yeah, well, buying him crap he’s going to forget about in two months isn’t going to make him magically hate you less.” 

The silence is not just deafening exactly, but painful. He looks up, ready to receive whatever she is going to dish out, but it never comes. She continues to stare at the computer screen, clicking idly, swallowing audibly, her eyes welling up and just before he can say anything to save the situation, she’s gotten up and quietly excused herself. Seconds later, the door to the bedroom slams shut, and that is how Rio’s found himself knocking, locked out for the first time in--well, ever. 

“Elizabeth,” he starts softly. “I didn’t mean that, come on.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he hears her say. “All he knows is I got his dad shot and then caused a divorce. I’m the reason he has to live in a tiny one-bedroom with a second hand pull out sofa.” 

And well, he doesn’t quite know where to start.

“He’s a teenager! Teenagers are dicks. It’s the natural order of things. He’ll grow out of it, trust me. And if dumbass Dean is half as decent as you keep saying he is, he’ll talk some sense into him.”

There’s silence in return, and he gives her a moment before giving the door another knock. 

“Elizabeth?” 

The door opens a second later and she’s standing there, blotchy and teary eyed, and beautiful. 

“I’m a terrible mother,” she chokes.

“Hey, come on.”

He tugs at her hand, and again when she resists, finally holding her against his chest while she sniffles into his shirt. 

“I just want him to like me again.” 

“I hate to break it to you,” he says, pausing to drop a kiss on her crown, hoping it’ll cushion the blow, “but that might not happen until he goes off to college.” 

She groans before finally pulling back enough to look at him.

“Were you this horrible to your mom as a teenager?”

Rio laughs, “No. If I even thought about talking back I’d be in a world of pain.”

She frowns, and he finds himself tucking her hair back without thinking about it. 

“You’re a good mom.” 

“I guess.”

“You are and you know it. You want to take a bath? I’ll bring you a drink, light some candles.”

She smiles then and he thinks he might be getting her back tonight. 

“Co-baths are for after fights. That wasn’t really a fight.”

“I was thinking you could take one alone, but I like where your head’s at.”

He leans forward and drops a kiss on her neck, nipping her collarbone and getting a throaty laugh that feels like a victory. 

“Okay,” she says before meeting him for a chaste kiss. “Why don’t you start the bath…”

“Okay.”

“But run it slow because this ebay auction ends in twenty minutes and I really think I’m going to get it.” 

“What?” 

“Twenty minutes!” She calls as she runs past him, back to her computer, but now in better spirits, so he relents, making a mental note to give the kid a talk the next time he gets a chance. 

[malfoyfarms]

Room for One More

“Hey hi! I love your work! I was wondering if you could do a JJ or John B x Reader. Where everyone ends up falling asleep on the boat after a party or something and the reader has night terrors so they comfort her? (I totally get if this is too difficult. I just need fluff. 💖) xx” -nonnie

“Could you write something about planning to run away with jj?” -nonnie

Pairing: JJ Maybank x Reader

Word Count: 1.0k

T/W: Nightmares, soft JJ

A/N: hi i changed it a little bit, but i hope u still like it. 

Today hadn’t been anything out of the ordinary for any of the Pogues. Kiara was working at The Wreck, JJ and Pope delivering groceries, John B being handy at the Cameron residence, and Y/n continued to sell beverages off the cart to all the rich old golfers. The group of teens then ended their day by meeting at the Chateau to discuss some type of adventure going on in a few days. 

Y/n had been the first to retreat from the group which was odd, but not surprised as she appeared to the house with a tired body. The girl always seemed to have bountiful energy, even after working 10 hour shifts in the hot sun, but apparently not today. Her trusty blonde followed right behind her as she trekked on her way home. 

“Y/n/n, where are you going? This is your house?” JJ asked, confused as to why the girl kept walking. She silently shook her head, too exhausted to speak. This was her fourth 10 hour shift in a row, not to mention working a couple janitorial shifts after hours at the country club. 

She reached her arm back to take his hand as she entered the woods, bobbing and weaving until she reached an old tree. JJ stood in amazement as she scaled the tree with ease, unlocking the small lock with the key around her neck, and finally entering a treehouse. 

“Well are you coming?” She questioned with a smirk on her face. JJ was quick to follow her, taking in her little safety space. There was what looked like it used to be a couch cushion, a pillow and a few blankets, being used to make a bed. To the right was a small book shelf with a couple books, one picture frame and a cash box. “My parents started to steal my tips from work, so I started to hide them. Plus my sisters were driving me crazy, so I ended up here.”

“Wait like you live here?” 

“No silly goose, I just take vacations from paradise,” she chuckled. She pulled the blonde to lay next to her on the make-shift bed, using his body as a heater and source of relief. 

Not many hours later JJ was awakened by Y/n’s quick jet from sleep. She shot up with panicked breathing and sweat beaded around her face. Her clammy hand reached out to feel if the boy was still there, and the moment she felt his hands snake around her waist, she relaxed but didn’t let up the shakes. The jolts running through her body were like clockwork, just when one started at her hands, one ended at her toes. 

JJ pulled her back down to lay flat next to him, connecting their hands in the space between them. He pulsated squeezes to her hands, trying to overcome her tremors. She eventually rolled over, causing JJ’s arm to wrap around hers while neatly placing her head on his shoulder. 

“Nightmare?” He asked softly. Y/n’s eyes moved to look up at him. 

“No, it’s more the lack of one. It’s a constant recurring dream of life being exceptionally ordinary.” The conversation about her dream seemed to light a fire within her. Y/n sat up with force, pulling JJ with her. “Once we graduate, we just work for a living. Same jobs in and out. Maybe start a family, which in turn is just more mouths to feed. I’ll probably live with my parents until they kick it, what’s the fun in that? I have a go bag prepped. For the day it becomes too much ya know? Hopefully I’ll have enough money saved to get me somewhere, but even if I don’t it’ll be the thrill of not knowing where my next meal or sleep will be.”

“You’d really wanna run away from all this? What happened to pogues for life?” She could feel the tension in his voice. The two kids had been friends for ages and he was a little upset about just now hearing it for the first time.

“Well think about it Jayj, John B and Sarah will probably get married and move a little more towards Figure 8. They won’t go full kook, but enough to live comfortably. Pope and Ki? Hell, who knows what those two will accomplish,” she chuckled softly. “As for me? I’m not going to college, who knows if I’ll finish high school for crying out loud. Maybe I’ll get my EMT certification, but you know me. I can’t sit and be an EMT for the next 30 years of my life. It’s a vicious cycle. ”

JJ pulled the rambling girl towards him, placing a kiss on the corner of her eye. He watched her eyes flicker and hands move in excitement as she talked about all the crazy things she could do if she ran away. 

“I don’t think I’d leave forever though, maybe just take a break and do some soul searching? I would feel guilty if I left forever. Missing my siblings grow up, missing you out the roof.” Y/n leaned back, finally done with her rambling, almost feeling sad knowing that she was to go back to work again here in just a few short hours.

“Hold up, you think I’m letting you go on by yourself? Oh hell no. I hope you have room for one more because I’m coming with you.” 

Her smile grew astronomically when she heard him say that. 

“You’d really come with me?” 

“We could go to Charleston, or maybe Georgia. Hell I’d follow you up to Boston if you wanted.”

She smiled at him. Her legs and arms wrapped around his torso, clinging to JJ. He slowly moved himself back to lying down. 

The thought of the two of them running away, starting a new life, or just possibly taking a quick adventure seemed risky but thrilling. JJ had always known Y/n as an antsy girl, but he never imagined she’d be itching to get out. He was hopelessly in love with her, and if that meant hopping on a ferry off the island, then so be it. As Y/n slept on his chest, JJ started to romanticize the thought of a new adventure. Just him and his girl, taking on a new place, together. The thought left smiles on his face as he fell asleep shortly after.

[keanureevesisbae]

So Henry, you want to start a YouTube channel? - Chapter 1

Summary: Twenty five year old YouTuber Sandy Choi has no idea that one of her five million subscribers is the one and only Henry Cavill. When he asks her to help him out with starting his own YouTube channel, she falls more and more in love with her. But she should’ve known that dating one of the most desirable bachelors, does come with a prize.

Henry Cavill x Sandy Choi (ofc)

Warnings: None

Wordcount: 3.7k

A/N: If you want to be on the taglist, please let me know xx

Masterlist // Channel introduction // Previous chapter // Next chapter 

It is finally done. I somehow finished the final edits of my newest novel. I mean, I love the book with all my heart and I do think that it’s one of the best books I’ve ever written so far, but if I have to read it one more time, I’m going to scream. In about a week, the advanced reader copies will go to the first beta readers. It’s a nerve wrecking part, but it does mean that the moment my book is going to be on the shelves, is one step closer.

To celebrate this glorious event, I decide to go my favorite cafe and edit my next YouTube video. Other people meditate, do yoga or get some exercise in to relax. For me editing is my form of relaxation.

Never in a million years would I have imagined that I would have five million subscribers. Five million people around the globe enjoy watching my vlogs, while I highly doubt I’m that interesting. Sure, I nowadays do photoshoots, some editorials and I still dance quite a lot, but besides that, I’m homebody, who writes a lot and to get out of the house, visits cafes.  

I grab my backpack and start packing my laptop, the charger and my AirPods. I’m tempted to bring my Nintendo Switch with me, so I can play some Animal Crossing (I’ve been kind of neglectful of my island, sorry Tom Nook), but I leave my Switch in its charger.

Before I leave my apartment, I take a quick selfie, to upload for my Instagram Stories. It’s just a simple mirror selfie, showing off my outfit. Since it’s pretty hot outside (it’s July tenth and London has been trapped in a very intense heatwave), I opted for some high waisted denim shorts, a simple white crop top and some matching white sneakers. I do bring a white blazer with me, since the cafe usually has its air-conditioning on and I don’t want to freeze to death.

To be honest, before I got famous on YouTube, I never was impressed with my looks, my style or my life really. I had to celebrate my twenty first birthday alone, to realize I was pretty much wasting my life. Because of the weather, my plans to travel back to my family were cancelled and when I was staring at the cupcake with one candle on it, I realized I barely had memories from my time in college and I was already in year two.

I started to document certain moments in my life, but with all the footage I had of one whole week, I could make a two minute video out of it. But everything I filmed, had to be extravagant and then I asked myself: why does it have to be extravagant to be important enough to film? I should live my own life like I’m the main character, not a side character. I should romanticize life more. All of the sudden, I began noticing how beautiful the sky would look when I went outside for a walk, how the flowers start to bloom when it’s spring and how cozy certain cafes are.

When I uploaded my first YouTube video, I barely had subscribers, but all of the sudden more than thousand people thought my life was interesting enough to watch and a whole year later, I had 200k subscribers. I always figured that it would stay around that number, but once I graduated, published a book and moved to London, my subscriber count went up with a rapid speed. My 500k subscriber hit was unbelievable, my one million subscriber hit was beyond me, but hitting five million subscribers… It’s weird and thank God I have now reached a certain plateau, because seeing my subscriber count going up with the speed that it went back in the day, scared the living shit out of me.  

Once I’m at my favorite cafe, I order a cappuccino and some vanilla cake, before I sit down and get ready for some editing. I used to spend way too much time on editing my videos, but now I finally have found a way to be more efficient.

Time ticks by. I see multiple people leave, I order some ice tea and another soda to keep hydrated and finally I take my AirPods out and put them in their case. I’ve been here for a few hours now and I maybe should leave. I don’t want to overstay my welcome here.

Before I can get up, my phone rings and I pick up when I see it’s Lacey. We met on the plane to London. She went to UCLA, but moved back to England after she was done with school. She told me about what she was going to do in London—becoming a librarian and honestly, that’s a dream—and somehow we hit it off. She was my first and only friend here in London. Of course, through her I met multiple people that I like, but I’m always a bit awkward around them, just like I’m shy around practically anyone I have never met.

‘Hi La—’

‘I have a new fling and he is having a party tonight,’ she simply interrupts me.

‘So much for a hello,’ I chuckle. ‘What fling was this again?’

‘This is the guy I met at the zoo.’ For someone who is a librarian, she meets an awful lot of guys. When I think of a librarian, I think of an older lady with a pencil skirt and grey hair in an updo, but not Lacey, who rocks short skirts like no other. She usually has a new guy every week, but the guy from the zoo… I don’t know if I remember correctly, but I think he is around for more than a week.

‘Hasn’t he been around for like two weeks?’ I ask her.

‘Yes, he is.’

‘And you aren’t tired of him yet?’ I start to pack my bag, while I clutch the phone between my ear and shoulder. ‘What was his name again?’

‘His name is Jackson and he is such a handsome guy, so you want to join us for the party? You can say no, Sandy, because this guy has parties every other week.’

‘I just finished my deadline for the new book,’ I say. ‘I think I just want to chill at home, to be honest.’

‘Totally understand. You are one a hard working woman and I know that parties can be pretty stressful for you.’ I can hear her smile through her voice. ‘I’m really proud of you for finishing that book, always remember that.’

‘Thanks, Lacey. Say hi to Jackson from me and tell him I’ll meet him soon. If he is still around then, of course.’

Lacey starts to laugh. ‘Oh, this one will be still around. I really like this guy and every morning, he sends me a good morning text, including a bad joke.’

‘That is oddly adorable.’ I wave to the barista’s as I leave the cafe. Shit, it’s hot. Like I’m stepping into an oven. Thank God I packed my white bucket hat and I put it on, to prevent my dark hair from frying my brain.

‘It is. Oh, he is calling me. Love you, doll.’

‘Love you too. Have fun tonight.’ I hang up the phone, while I move slowly through the streets of London. I’ve never really been a party type. For me it’s always a chore, never a pleasant event.

Being heavily introverted as I am, I enjoy my time reading on the couch, being by myself. Sometimes I wished I had an animal to keep me company, but my landlord is an asshole and prohibits any sort of pet. Maybe one day I can finally move out here, find myself a better place and become happy there with a nice dog.

Maybe tonight I can film my newly updated evening routine. I haven’t done that in ages and a lot has changed since the last time I did it. For a second I’m doubting my earlier decision of not going to the party with Lacey, but I shake off that thought.

Tonight I’m staying home.

As usual.

⟢⟡⟣

Who needs an alarm, when the sun can wake you up, nearly blinding you in the process? I roll around in my bed and am about to drift away again, continuing the beautiful dream of me being wrapped in Henry Cavill’s thick arms on this Sunday morning, when my phone rings.

Groaning I push myself up, grabbing my phone from the nightstand. I sigh deeply when I see it’s Lacey who video calls me. ‘Why on earth do you want to video chat with me?’ I ask her with a sleepy voice, still groggy from just waking up. I rub my eyes, hoping that that will wake me up. After I filmed my summer night routine, I fell fast asleep and when I look at my alarm clock, I slept a whole nine hours.

Well done, Sandy.

‘I have been trying to call you since five a.m.. Why aren’t you picking up your phone?’ Lacey asks impatiently, looking genuinely annoyed.

‘Sometimes I wonder if you even hear yourself. I was asleep at five a.m., as a normal person does.’

Lacey rolls her big doll like eyes. She actually looks like those porcelain dolls, the same ones that my creepy neighbor back home collected and put on display for the entire neighborhood to see. Blonde curls bounce around her face and for someone who partied the entire night, she actually looks really good and is way too awake. ‘I have a story for you and normally I don’t want to talk you into feeling guilty, but for this occasion I’ll make an exception.’

‘That doesn’t explain why you want to video chat with me.’

‘Just wait.’

I sit up straight in bed, placing a pillow against my back, so I can lean against the headboard. I pull my knees up to my chest, to lean my arm on. ‘Tell me, Lacey, what happened?’

‘So, I arrived at the party around eleven and Jackson was waiting for me at the door. He was being a true gentleman, kissed my cheek and when we walked inside, he kept introducing me to people, saying how at the end of the night, I was going to be his girl. To spoil the end for you: I am his girl now and we had steamy sex back at his place.’

As fantastic as that may sound for her, why does she the need to share this with me? I mean, I am happy for her that this Jackson guy is a nice guy and if she is actually going to date him, that’s great, but I don’t want to hear it. It’ll make me feel even more single.

‘Anyways, while Jackson is introducing me, I feel someone is staring at me. So I look around me, only to find one guy watching me. I try to squint you know, to see who that guy is and I think to myself: wow, that guy looks an awful lot like Henry Cavill.’

I start to chuckle. ‘How much did you have to drink at that moment?’

‘None, totally sober. Jackson pulls me with him and eventually introduces me to his friend Henry Cavill.’

Oh my God, I think I forgot how to breath. ‘You are telling me that the guy who you met at the zoo, who is probably more than just a fling to you and threw a party last night, is friends with the Henry Cavill?’

‘The same Henry Cavill you refuse to follow on Instagram, because you can’t handle that much gorgeousness on your feed.’

No need to attack me like that, I think to myself. I just woke up and was hit with the realization that I could’ve met Henry Cavill last night, but I didn’t want to go to a party. Tip for next time: always say yes when this Jackson guy is throwing a party.

‘Moving on with the story, Henry—yes, I’m on a first name basis with him—kept gawking at me and finally he asked me if we knew each other. I shrugged, telling him how I’m just a simple librarian, that usually doesn’t mingle with hot celebrities. Later on, I don’t know how exactly Jackson, Henry and I got to that topic, but I casually said something along the lines of that I’m friends with the Sandy Choi. Henry nearly loses all the color in his face and Jackson starts to laugh his ass off.’

Where is this story going? What the hell is going on?

Lacey starts to laugh out loud and manages to add: ‘Jackson tells me that mister Henry Cavill is a huge fan of yours and literally drops everything whenever you post a new video and how he had an almost heart attack when you mentioned him in your July first vlog. According to Jackson, he has been questioning your comment saying that you haven’t had your fair share of Henry Cavill today ever since.’

This isn’t happening. This honestly can’t be happening right now. Lacey is totally messing with me. ‘Sure.’

‘I can see you are questioning my fantastic story, so let me show you this then.’ She shares her screen with me and shows me a picture of her, this Jackson fella and Henry fucking Cavill, looking insanely handsome as he usually does. His hair is slightly growing out, revealing some lovely curls of his and he is wearing a white blouse. The buttons are hanging on for dear life. I’m mentally kicking myself. Why didn’t I go to this party? I mean, I would’ve probably embarrassed myself, but still: I could’ve admired him from a far. In real life.

Lacey stops sharing her screen with me and smiles widely in the camera. ‘And Jackson mentioned something about pressuring him into following you on Instagram and sliding into your DM’s, but mister Cavill is petrified of doing such thing, so… I decided to give him your number and I think he already texted you.’

I swipe the video chat away, while I start looking through my Whatsapp chats. I see I have some messages from my manager, my editor, my dad and an unknown number.

‘Did he text you?’

I click on the chat, ignore what it says and press on his profile picture. ‘It’s him,’ I say. ‘It’s really him.’ I admire the photo for a second. His thick and strong arms wrapped around his dog. God, I was dreaming about something like that just minutes ago and now all of the sudden, he has my number?

‘What did he write?’

I check the chat and see that the man wrote a paragraph, instead of multiple tiny texts. That is absolutely adorable.

‘I can see you and your grin,’ Lacey says, reminding me that I might’ve swiped away the video chat, she can indeed still see me. ‘Come on, Sandy, read it to me. I deserve to know what he wrote, since I’m the reason he has your number and texted you in the first place.’

She has a valid point and to be fair, I’d probably share it with her anyways. Best to do it now. ‘Hi Sandy, I swear I’m not a creepy stalker. I’m Henry Cavill and I met your friend Lacey at the party last night. She was kind enough to give me your number. I have no idea what she told you about last night, but I just wanted to let you know that your vlogs really help me to get through my days and that you are truly an inspiration to all young people out there.’

‘This is legit the cutest thing that has ever happened!’ Lacey squeals.

Though I agree, I keep staring at the text. This is what he thinks of me? He thinks I’m an inspiration to all young people out there? My videos help him through his day? ‘I’m going to hang up,’ I say to Lacey, ‘and figure out what to text him back.’

‘Wait,’ she says, ‘you’re not going to tell me what you texted back to Henry fucking Cavill?’

I pull up our video conversation again and shake my head. ‘No, I’m not. Thank you for giving him my number, Lacey, but please don’t make a habit out of it. Thank you. Love you. Bye.’

Before I can hear what she has to say, I hang up on her and look at his text again. My heartbeat is finally normalizing again, though my palms are still sweaty. I need to text him back, because that is a polite thing to do.

But what do I text back to a man like him, especially after he told me such a nice and lovely things? I mean, how do I top that? I can tell him the things I told Lacey whenever we would watch something that he starred in. I could say that I thought he was hot in the Witcher or that they should’ve included shirtless scenes of him in Mission Impossible. I could—

Oh my God, he is online!

I nearly die of panic, throwing my phone away from me on the bed. Maybe hanging up on Lacey was the dumbest thing I could’ve done. I need her help. She knows what she could say to him.

Lord knows how long I’m thinking about a response and I know that I should text him back. I finally wrote something and before I can regret it, I press send.

Sandy: Hi, Lacey indeed told me about last night. I honestly can’t believe that you watch my vlogs and that they help you get through your days. Hearing kind words like these from any subscriber honestly means the world to me 😊

And now we wait. He wasn’t online when I pressed send, so I probably won’t get an answer from him any ti—

Ping.

He already answered? Oh no, no, no, I have to let this moment sink in for a second. He can’t already texted me back. Please, let this be my mother, telling me I need to take my cod liver oil, please let this be her.

Henry Cavill: Do I want to know what she told you?

This sounds cheeky, I can handle cheeky. I can answer to this. I’m an adult woman, who is just texting with someone who is a fan. I can handle fan encounters.

Sort of.

Besides, I can think about the right response, so this is only in my advantage.

Sandy: Just that you are a big fan of my vlogs and drop everything when I post a new video.

Henry Cavill: Right, that’s not too bad, I guess.

Sandy: And that according to your friend Jackson, you almost had a heart attack when I mentioned you in my vlog and you have been questioning my fair share of Henry Cavill of today comment.

Henry Cavill: Great…

Sandy: It’s kind of flattering to be totally honest with you.

Henry Cavill: I’m just dying of embarrassment, give me a minute.

I can’t help but to chuckle. It’s weird, that I’m actually talking to Henry Cavill right now. Who would’ve ever thought that that would happen to me? I decide not to share the Instagram and sliding into my DM’s story that Lacey shared with me.

Sandy: I hope that Lacey haven’t told any embarrassing stories about me.

Henry Cavill: Just that you went to Mission Impossible: Fall Out three times in the cinema and that you commented all those three times that there wasn’t enough of me in it.

Okay, now it’s my turn to die of embarrassment. I feel like he is sparing me the need to fall into a deep hole of embarrassment, since he doesn’t mention Lacey adding to it that there wasn’t enough ass and the lack of shirtlessness on his part, because I said that all those three times as well. I know my friend and I know that she told him that.

Sandy: Right… I’m sorry.

Henry Cavill: It was pretty flattering and good for my ego 😉

⟢⟡⟣

Henry—yes I’m on a first name basis with him now as well, but I have yet to change his name in my phone—and his texts have caused tiny disasters around my apartment.

I burned my pancakes, because he kept distracting me with texts, causing the fire alarm to go off. Because I wanted to shut the thing up, I had to stand on a chair, but my brain was still with those texts, so I nearly broke my neck when I fell off it.

While I was filling the kettle with water, I forgot the tap was still running, causing the thing to overflow with water. I stubbed my toe not once, not twice, but three times on the same table leg.

But despite that, talking to Henry has been such a nice thing all morning and the first half of the afternoon. He keeps on complimenting me on my editing, saying what his favorite moments are in my vlogs, while I on my term share about the favorite moments of his interviews, his movies. It’s obvious that we are fans of one another, so having it out in the open, doesn’t feel weird or uncomfortable.

But nothing prepares me for his latest text.

Henry Cavill: I’m going out for a walk with Kal, since it’s cooling down now. You want to join us?

I know I should answer him and I should answer him now, but I keep pacing around my living room. Going out with him on a walk, means talking to him. Like using my vocal cords to communicate with him, talking to him. Am I ready for that? What if I disappoint? I’m probably going to disappoint.

I take a deep breath. You didn’t went to the party last night, so you should go now, Sandy, I tell myself. You can do it. He is inviting you, meaning he wants to hang out with you. That is a good sign.

Sandy: Sure, I just need to get ready. I think I’m ready in about thirty minutes.

Henry Cavill: I’ll share my location, so you know where to go to, okay?

Taglist: @flhorah​ // @henrythickcavill​ // @toomanystoriessolittletime​

[yvynyl]

// Letters to YVYNYL //

Kennedy Shaw "Heaven"

/ Sometimes I get letters from right here in my hometown. Kennedy sent this one over and I think it perfectly encapsulates the feeling a lot of my readers are going through. Those of you who are struggling to make their music despite all odds, to make a life of music, to grasp on to the love they get from putting it out there. We are all in this together, our weirdo crew of misfits and hooligans who'd rather make a song that rips out our hearts and lay it out on the table for all to hear than just 'be normal.' We hear you. We hear you. Keep it going, friends.

Hi Mark,

When I think of music, I think of my grandmother singing me a song titled "don't fence me in." There's a home video of us singing it somewhere. Music to me feels no separate from myself. My mom used to listen to Tori Amos when she was pregnant with me and always told me that's why I started playing piano the minute I could.

My name is Kennedy, I'm a 21-year-old songwriter in Philly - or was in Philly - until a global pandemic interrupted my second year of college.

I'm only 21, but as far as coffeehouse music goes, I've probably seen it all. My parents used to take me to perform once or twice every weekend. They critiqued every show and were extremely supportive of how loud and passionate I was. Because of this, I know every jam band and bluegrass cover group that plays in the bookstores of the East Coast. I know which ones have AC and which ones make you pay for a meal after you perform. I have the stories of men telling me I'm "mature for my age" and taking photos of my 14-year-old legs while at the piano bench.

After I went to University, I knew a lot about basement scenes, too. I got too drunk while performing a few times, I kissed audience members during the choruses and band members during the verses. I drove off in the wrong uber twice. When the residence hall elevators shut down, I carried the keyboard, amp, stands, and book bag down 9 flights of stairs, and carried them back up at 2 or 3 AM less tired than before.

During this pandemic, and being back home in NJ, I've been asking myself why I continue pursuing music as a career, even though I never feel entirely validated or see financial gain from it. If anything actually, I see loss.

I switched my major from Music to English just before the pandemic broke in the U.S. I decided it was time to focus on a 'real career'. Then, I listened to some rough mixes of mine and decided to use all of my savings, every penny, to buy recording equipment and finish my EP in my bedroom. Clearly, I don't have any answers on why, or what's logical, or what's smart. I'm literally a crazy 21-year old girl-woman doing vocal takes in my parent's shower when they let me and finding the personal information of music bloggers and emailing demos to small labels like I'm their musical messiah. I've never filmed anything for anyone, and yet I've been dressing in vintage clothes and setting up "sets" (a bedsheet usually, chair, flowers) and recording them on my iPhone.

Even when I want to move on, the feeling of working on my music creatively is something so close to my core I don't think I can ever stop. Not because I think my music is worth listening to, or even good, I just can't stop making it. When I think of music I think of waking up from a dream and jotting down words. My dad saying to 'turn it down,' and then 'close your door'. I think of every love I had in high school giving me mixtapes, my best friend passing out on the train ride home with my amp in their lap. I think of watching strangers cry while I sing to them, basements of sweaty chances moshing, and my bandmates cans of beer. Every car ride with my parents I took for granted then, oblivious to the cost of gas and how many hours it took to get to the record shop where one person listened to half my set. I think of my younger sister listening to music to avoid new driver anxiety, and I think of my grandmother singing me songs, telling me to sing my own.  I think of pausing the youtube tutorial, running from the desktop and to the piano upstairs. I'd make this hike a million times a night but never felt tired, and when I think of these things I don't have to wonder why. 

Music is by far not the smartest choice as far as a career- maybe if I was smart I'd choose doctor, or scientist, or engineer, but feeling "smart" doesn't feel half as good as these memories music has given to me. "Heaven" is the first song I finished when I decided to work on rough mixes I had in my back pocket. It sounds haunting and compares heaven to a first love- the romanticization of first relationships is something that still pulls me in lyrically. I wrote it on bass, alone in my dorm room, probably crying. I hope you like it.

- Kennedy

…

Support YVYNYL, an independent music project here! Got a story to tell? Submit it to Letters to YVYNYL.

[samwrights]

When You Wake

I literally cannot believe I wrote this. This was originally started to celebrate Yaku’s birthday (happy belated, my love), and to satisfy the requests for a Noya/Yaku threesome. Uh, don’t come for me. I couldn’t find inspiration in the normal hq world, so we’re making it weird. If y’all thought Between the Lines was long, this monstrosity is 13.2k words. 13,200 words, with a shameful, side amount that is smut. Literally, this is all just plot.

ear candy list is, surprisingly, on the smaller side. 

⤞ Revenga - System of A Down ⤞ Violent Pornography - System of A Down ⤞ Question! - System of A Down

pairing: Yaku/Reader/Noya

w a r n i n g s//TW: rape, murder, blood consumption, mentions of getting roofied, gore, blood from wounds, supernatural AU, revenge, temporarily mute reader, reader is converted to a vampire without consent, dubcon, death, spitroasting, dirty talk, senpai kink. PLEASE read through these warnings over and over until it is clear to you that this is not going to be an easy read. The reader literally goes on a revenge spree. ⤞ THIS. IS NOT. AN EASY. READ.

Now that you have been thoroughly warned, enjoy.

The way media and films and television glorified and romanticized college parties never could have prepared you for the fateful encounter in the alleyway on a muggy August evening. Primarily, college parties were depicted as fun—drunk nights on the weekends with your girlfriends, maybe hook up with that cute boy from chemistry that somehow ended up with you grinding on him on the dance floor. Though, in some genres, college parties end up with the protagonist roofied and raped and follows how the heroine spirals and recovers. But it only was supposed to happen in the movies, right?

It wasn’t supposed to end with you halfway to death, knocking on Hell’s door with blood pooling around your lifeless body in a barely lit, bleak alleyway. It wasn’t supposed to end with warbles of light fading in and out of your vision as cars passed you by, unknowing there was someone in the alleyway between a closed down butcher shop and a florist who had already gone home for the evening. You were only in your early twenties with only two more years of university to compete—it wasn’t supposed to end yet.

“We can’t just leave her here.”

“I think she’s too far gone, Yaku. We were too late.”

The voices swirling around you were unfamiliar, or at least from what you could gather. In your condition, it was impossible to discern them in the first place—were they even real voices? They sounded entirely too angelic from what you could process in your catatonic state. Maybe they weren’t; maybe death had taken you without your knowledge and the jury that decided whether or not your soul would ascend to heaven was passing their judgment on you.

“I can save her, Noya.” One of the voices, presumably this Yaku character snarls back with urgency. It is the last thing you hear before your limp body is pulled from the concrete. The movement, regardless of how delicate, causing more blood to rush from your open wounds and draining any ounce of consciousness from your mind. “You mind trying to collect the fallout?”

Nishinoya, though shaking his head, gives a subtle grin that cannot be seen in the dead of the night. He pulls out a large mason jar from the satchel he’s carrying and places the mouth of the jar where blood is pouring out profusely from a knife wound. The man collecting the blood knew entirely too well that once his mate sets his mind to something, there was no changing it. Not that it served as a recurring issue; if anything, Noya was grateful for Yaku’s stubbornness considering it was that exact trait of his that had given the former his second chance at life.

The two of them move swiftly, trying to make it back to their hidden mansion, that was quite a distance away, in secret. Yaku is doing all that he can to make sure not to disturb your body so as not to open any wounds further that could force you to bleed out and meet the grim reaper. He wasn’t a very pleasant creature, but that was a story for another day. At the same time, Nishinoya is almost fighting to keep the same steadfast pace while simultaneously holding the now half full mason jar just under the knife wound. The blood was beginning to thicken, turning from bright red to a deep crimson as it oxidizes.

The moment they enter their private garden, Nishinoya busts down the door to their home with expertise, alerting the other members of their clan. “Akaashi!” He screeches, his voice bellowing out in decibels that should not be used unless trying to project a voice in an amphitheater with no microphone. Thank omniscient beings for noise cancelling enchantments. “We need you!” An almost timid, young looking man enters the foyer where Noya is still collecting blood and Yaku is holding your limp body in his arms.

“So that’s where you two have been,” Akaashi deadpans, unfazed by the steadily decaying girl. “Bring her to my room. You can store what blood you’ve gathered there while I remove the knife and get her patched up.” Though calm, the three of them move at breakneck speeds, laying you face down on an operating table while Akaashi suits up. From what he can tell, this was going to be a real mess, considering how deep the knife is. The three of them knew what was to come and what their designated roles in this moment were—Nishinoya was to separate the blood he had gathered from your body and ration them into IV bags, while Yaku was provide suction in case of a bleed out.

“We can save her, can’t we?” Yaku asks quietly, tools in hand.

“That will depend on her will to fight,” Akaashi says quietly, half due to concentration, half because he genuinely does not have a valid answer. “You’ve done this time and time again, Yaku. If anyone is going to save her, it’s going to be you.”

Upon coming to, the only muscles in your body that can move are your eyelids. Peeling them back as much as you can muster, you notice the only light filtering into whatever room you are currently residing in is coming from the blaring moonlight through an open window. The shadows around you make up areas and shapes that you are entirely unfamiliar with, causing you to sit up impulsively to make sense of your surroundings. A mistake on your part, as you are immediately met with a searing pain in your ribs. With further inspection from your droopy eyes, you learn that your torso is entirely bare, save for the copious amounts of medical grade bandages and gauze around your breasts and stomach. Blood pooled somewhere along your left shoulder blade where the pain felt the worst.

“You shouldn’t try to sit up right now.” The same voice you faintly remember from the alley, the one that didn’t want to leave you, before blacking out calls out from across the bedroom. The room is quite large from what you could tell and his smooth voice seems to be leagues away. “Lay back down before you bleed out again—I’ll change your bandages.” From the shadows, a man whom you presume to be Yaku emerges before you, perfect pale skin and sandy brown locks nearly reflecting in the moonlight as he approaches. His face, while incredibly handsome, is blank and is strictly business as he saunters near. Even as he is gingerly tearing off the tight bindings around you with next to no effort, his face remains nonplussed. Even as he washes the dried, crusty blackened blood off your bare chest, nothing. “Do you remember anything?” Yaku’s voice is quiet and somber as he asks his question. He takes your silence as a no.

Your mind is a hazy smog, trying to recall any type of memory at all. Rather than actual imagery, you see a white light when you close your eyes—you see colors you don’t remember seeing before, you hear crying. You hear your name. Not just your first name or a nickname either, you hear your entire given name along with your birthday, even the time of birth.

Any attempt to recall memories is interrupted by a sharp pain. You suck in a breath as Yaku tries to lift your arm to wrap the fresh bandages around your torso, causing him to grimace ever so slightly. This task was a bit easier for him when you were still unconscious, but nonetheless he is glad you’re awake. When the pain subsides, you peel your eyelids back once again, staring at the man sitting at the edge of the bed in wonder. Why was he tending to your wounds? How did he fit into the story? “You needn’t worry about that right now, [name],” he murmurs quietly, reintroducing the same delicate tone you heard before blacking out in the alley. Yaku can tell you’re wondering how he knew what to respond with and how he knew your name but, after a small deliberation, he decides it’s best not to overwhelm you right now. “Get some rest, little one,” he speaks again, “I’ll be here when you wake.” Before you know it, you’re out like a light once again.

Yaku exits his and Noya’s shared bedroom to dispose of the sullied bandages, only to be greeted to the sight of his mate leaning against the bannister closest to their room. “How’s she doing?” Yaku’s lips tighten, the seam becoming a hard line as his grimace deepens.

“She doesn’t remember anything but when I asked her if she did...”

“What?” Noya presses, perturbed at the silence. Very few things in their lives rendered Yaku speechless.

“She started seeing memories of her birth.” The two shorter leaders of the clan meander their way down the grandiose staircase in silence, each step accompanied by the dramatic chimes of a grand piano coming from the foyer. The music stops when they reach the bottom of the staircase, Sugawara pausing his fingers and quirking a brow at the couple. It was a rare occurrence to see both of them, or Nishinoya in the very least, look so morose.

“What’s got you guys looking so down? You look like someone just died.” The musician muses. Sugawara Koushi always did have the most twisted sense of humor—that was partially the reason that Yaku had kept him around. The other primary reason was solely for bragging rights and an inside joke between the clan because no matter how many times Sugawara introduced himself as Beethoven or Bach, people assumed that they all just meant he was talented. Not that it was literal and Sugawara was just a name he’d adopted when he earned another century of life.

“Ha ha,” Nishinoya drawls satirically, for both himself and for Yaku. The latter excuses himself, parting ways because he knows he can’t handle conversation right now. “Come on, Suga, that’s not funny. Yaku’s already taking this really hard and if we lose her...”

“Humans die all the time, Nishi. A conversion isn’t a guaranteed shot at a second life and Yaku knows that so why is he—“

“Because she was found just like I was. Wrong place at the wrong time and it ended with...” the shorter of the two can no longer find the words to speak. It didn’t matter how many centuries old everyone in the clan was, it didn’t matter that they had watched plagues take countless lives or even bared witness to some of Jack the Ripper’s victims—it was a different monster entirely to genuinely watch a person become prey to another human. “I hope she makes it through, if only to rip out the guys throat that stabbed her.”

Three months had passed since you had first woken up. Strength is returning to you little by little, though not enough for you to hold consciousness for more than a few minutes a day. Regardless, Yaku is relieved to see you making some form of progress, to see that you’re somewhat handling the conversion well. The head of the clan was almost always present when you did awake, though there were instances in which his partner, Nishinoya, had been the one to greet you.

Nishinoya was much more boisterous than his other half—much more talkative and, considering you haven’t found the strength to speak quite yet, that was entirely okay with you. You learned that Yaku and Nishinoya had been together a very long time and Yaku had saved his life ages ago, as the latter phrased it. In admiration, Noya mentions his partner’s abundance of patience—a skill that he himself lacked—and determination to see justice being served had swayed the younger of the two to continuously stand alongside him. Through these little vignettes of their life, however, Noya makes it a point to acknowledge the fact that he was once almost too overbearing for his senior, often intimidating him with just how open and blunt he was. “Nishi, are you boring her with details of our mundane life?” Yaku asks bemusedly as he enters the room you’d been resting in.

“Hey, we aren’t boring. I’m not boring you, am I?” Noya looks to your face, your expression not giving much away save for the light in your barely live eyes. It was far from mundane—if anything, hearing the stories made you so curious considering from just barely glancing with the two, they seemed to be a strange couple.

“We are,” Yaku confirms, though as to what, you aren’t sure. You were certain you hadn’t said anything aloud, considering you practically can’t. “Let’s just say I can hear your thoughts. It’s how we’ve been communicating with you.” The head of clan saunters over casually, sitting at the edge of the mattress opposite to his partner. Both of their rich, golden irises are gazing at you, gauging a reaction from you as he shares this bit of information. Weird, was the only way for you to describe it. Though Yaku didn’t need to read your mind to know that; the slightly panicked look on your face gave away your thoughts.

“Don’t think we don’t know about those vivid wet dreams you have of us—“

“Yū, you weren’t supposed to tell her that!”

“What? We’re all adults here—“

“Nishi, get out,” Yaku covers his face in utter horror, even more so as his partner exits the room laughing as he does so. Shameless Noya. The door closes, leaving you and Yaku alone—were he able to go red out of embarrassment, he probably would have. “I-I am so sorry about him.” Testing out the information that the man beside you supplied moments ago, you reassure him that it’s fine—that you have no control over your dreams and that he probably doesn’t have a way to turn off this strange ability. For a moment, he’s relieved because you seem to be accepting everything with grace thus far; maybe telling you the truth wasn’t going to be the worst case scenario.

But the thought of the truth makes Yaku hesitate—there was no way you were ready to handle the entirety of the truth. At the moment, you could barely handle your weekly check-ups with Akaashi—the household doctor. After a formal introduction, you learned that Akaashi was the one who patched up your wounds when you were first brought to the little mansion. From what you gathered, he was quiet and direct, kind even, but you hated the weekly visits. Not only was Yaku carrying you rather painful, as you’re still recovering from your injuries, but Akaashi had to do regular blood transfusions because, according to the young doctor that you swore could not have already completed medical school and residency, you had lost a lot of blood during the incident.

An incident in which you still can’t recall.

“It’ll come to you,” Yaku says morosely, probably responding in accordance to your thought. The man beside you gets up from the bed, holding his arms open to you, silently asking for permission to pick you up. “Sorry, I’ll try to be more gentle.” His arms are cold as he lifts you up, but all you can focus on is the throbbing in your back as he moves you. A sharp intake of breath leaves your lungs as Yaku supports you physically, adding gentle words of encouragement because he can almost feel how much pain you’re in. Every step down the steep staircase adds another metaphorical bruise to your tender skin, a small groan leaving your throat each time. And while you’re not uncomfortable with the idea of being in Yaku’s arms, you’re grateful when you’re laid down in Akaashi’s office along the leather exam seat.

“How are you feeling today, [name]?” The young doctor asks as he preps you for your blood transfusion. Much to your surprise, you feel hungry—ravenous, even—like you hadn’t eaten a meal in months. Maybe you hadn’t; it wouldn’t be that ridiculous to consider since your memory was a little shoddy.

“You’ll feel better after the transfusion,” Yaku reassures from the chair he’s sitting in beside the exam bed, “we’ll get some food in your system before we start your physical therapy.” There’s an interesting intonation in the way he speaks this, you notice. Like there’s an underlying joke or hidden agenda that you don’t quite understand, but at the same time, the strange phrasing doesn’t trigger your fight-or-flight system in any capacity. If anything, it just seems that Yaku wants to help you regain strength as best you can.

Though, that was currently proving to be a challenge as well. While you weren’t entirely sure how long ago your injuries occurred, you knew a decent amount of time had to have passed. One of your first check-up appointments with Akaashi led to the explanation of the muscle atrophy in your legs from lack of use. Once you slowly became acclimated to being awake for more than just a few minutes a day, Daichi was introduced to you as your physical therapist. He was another enigma—entirely too young to be as experienced as he was in his field, but you decided against questioning it—temporarily mute or not.

Being mute was another issue that was taking much longer than you liked. You hated only being able to communicate through Yaku’s inexplicable talent of being able to read your mind. There were many occasions in which you wanted to ask Akaashi about your condition and how bad of a state you had been brought to him in; how you wanted to ask Sugawara how he’d learned to play such a vast variety of melodies so expertly; how you wanted to tell Nishinoya that every time he tried to feed you a soup or something, it tasted foul and metallic no matter how fresh it was.

You’d have to wait until you found your voice again.

After your check-in with Akaashi, Yaku brings you to Daichi’s office just down the hallway. “Hey, there’s our little fighter.” Daichi was probably the kindest out of everyone in the household. He had a warmth to him that seemed to contrast his icy fingers when he’d hold and guide you for your therapy sessions—a little uncanny that everyone in this mansion had freezing finger tips. Maybe everyone had poor blood circulation?

From the opposite end of the room, Yaku stifles a laugh by biting his cheek. Glad to know that your deconstructed concept of time hadn’t waned on your sense of humor. Meanwhile, Daichi lays you gingerly on a mat on the ground with you back flat as he wraps a resistance band around one of his ankles, as well as your own. “Alright, [name], I’m gonna help you get your leg up and I want to see you pull your leg up as high as you can go, understood?” Five didn’t seem like a very large number, but for now it was the goal. If you could at least lift your legs five times, it was progress considering the severe muscle atrophy in your legs.

Some days, it was difficult for Yaku to sit with you through therapy. He can see the way you wince in pain because you’re trying to relearn and rebuild your muscle groups; other times he just wanted someone, anyone, to blurt out the truth about the situation and hope that it inspires you to push yourself to heal. Some days, it was difficult because Yaku found himself just wanting to hold you in his bed that you’d taken over while the two of you plot out the revenge you didn’t even know you needed. But it wasn’t always bad. There were days, like today, where the progress on your therapy was going much better than anyone in the clan anticipated. There were days where Yaku would ask what you remembered about...anything, and you would have some form of answer for him.

On those days, Yaku began to realize that your memories were coming in chronological order. From the first time you sat up or crawled, to your first word even. In fact, Yaku’s favorite moment that he’s witnessed thus far was watching your father teach you to take your very first steps—it seemed to recur during your therapy sessions, as if subconsciously encouraging you to try to walk again. Maybe that’s why today, you were able to provide Daichi with double the repetitions that he asked for—a sure sign that strength and muscle were returning to your legs. But even with what progress you’ve made so far, Yaku makes it a point to carry you back to your room and lay you back in bed to rest. As always, Yaku tucked you in as he spoke, “get some sleep, little one. I’ll be here when you wake,”

For weeks on end, dreams stop becoming dreams. Per usual, Yaku awaits in the corner opposite of the bed where you rest, allowing your memories-turned-dreams to flood his mind. Each night, they’re progressively becoming more and more clear—you’re able to recall outfits that you’d worn twenty years ago with perfect detail, scars and scrapes that your friends had, even when that one sock was in the corner of your closet from when you were seven. But the clearer these chronological dreams became, the less frequently you were waking up and it was beginning to worry the head of the clan. While you were still obtaining your weekly blood transfusions to help sustain your life, it seemed to be that they were no longer providing you with enough energy to move past your current stage of recovery. “Yaku, she needs to start feeding,” Akaashi had instructed him during a consultation.

“I still haven’t told her—“

“Come on, man, it’s been almost eight months,” the house doctor groans. There was no reason to coddle you anymore as your life-threatening wounds had already healed for the most part. Sure, there was still discomfort from your broken ribs but even those had almost entirely healed over; your physical therapy sessions and rehabilitation with Daichi were going rather well but, at this point, if you didn’t start getting more substance in your body, this would be the end of the line for you. Akaashi had advised him this for weeks now, but Yaku still hesitated. “We’ve got to tell her.”

“I know, I know. I just—“ the sandy brunette ruffles his claws through his mussed locks in frustration, “I think her power is developing. And I’m afraid if we drop the bomb on her now, it’s going to halt or hinder that progress.”

“Either tell her or feed her,” Akaashi bites, “if you don’t, she’s not going to have any power because she’s going to starve to death.” With that, Akaashi walks away because he has nothing left to argue at this point. While he may be the youngest of the brood, this made Akaashi the most volatile of the group. More often than not, he was relatively kind and patient, timid even, as he was in his human life, but also very stern and strict—all of it coming from a place of love. And Yaku, knowing the tremendous amounts of emotional pain that the former had received, the leader of the clan dare not disrespect him.

Rather than making it an argument, Yaku roams around the lodge to grab a couple bags of O negative out of storage before heading back to his room. Much to his surprise, Nishinoya is sitting at the edge of the bed already, a slight look of panic washing over his features. “Yaku, I think something is wrong.” Without another word, the creature in question hands the bags of blood to his mate before resting his forehead against yours—a sure fire way to make sure that the mental images he picked up from you were pristine and uninterrupted as you dreamed—ignoring the cold sweat beading on your forehead.

You were at the Pike house. It was the first week of the new college semester and your roommates had convinced you to tag along to a frat party they were invited to. The night was going along exactly like a corny romantic comedy—you had locked eyes with a man from across the dance floor. He was sweet—much kinder than others you had met that night. He grabbed you drink after drink, but your memory begins to go fuzzy after that despite being able to recall memories of your own birth or the stupid girl that picked on you when you were twelve and even the small pimple on her temple that you figured was probably making her insecure. So if you were able to recall these memories, dreams, whatever they were, with such perfect clarity, why could you not remember leaving that party? Did that mean he had been drugging your drinks? It was entirely possible, considering Pike wasn’t exactly known for their hospitality. You vaguely remember the man holding your hand firmly as the two of you weave and bob around people and being met with the sweltering humidity of a muggy August night and your roommates, Yukie and Kaori, were nowhere to be found.

You were dragged into a dimly lit alleyway, stumbling with every step that the man had nearly carried you by your wrist alone, reeking of trash that had been long overdue for pick up and maybe even rotting carcasses. It was difficult to tell considering the drugs you assume that had been placed in your system and it was even more difficult to recall the memories. Bits and pieces of your memory were coming back in patches—though the face of the man that had brought you there was not one of them. Nor were any of his friends that had joined in, appearing at the opening of the alleyway. You remember the sound of tearing fabric, salacious laughter of the group of men surrounding your body. You remember feeling searing pain as one held a knife to your throat, warning you that he would slit your throat if you tried to scream.

The threat was replaced in the form of one of the frat boys ramming a half-hard cock down your throat, knife still in place along the jugular vein, while every orifice and inch of your skin had been violated. Vaguely, you remember trying to bite down on the cock in your mouth and run away. The one that threatened to kill you had missed your throat when you ran and threw the knife into your back instead. Foul screeches of demeaning slander left their mouths as they kicked your ribs in at full force, as if the knife deep in your back wasn’t bad enough.

You remember them leaving your bare, naked body in the alley for death to take you.

You remember their faces.

Awakening with a start, you sit up abruptly, only to fall back into the pillow with a resonant clacking noise followed by a dull throb to your forehead. Yaku recoils, mostly out of shock rather than pain—maybe laying his head on yours wasn’t his finest moment. “You remember,” he balks after he’s recovered from the impact. You’re trying to scream, no sound leaving your lungs while tears barreled out from your eyes. Remember? Why was that a memory? Why did it have to be a memory?

Nishinoya acts hastily, tearing open one of the O negative packs and draining half the contents into his mouth and holding it there as he shoves Yaku out of the way. The smaller of the two slats his lips over your silently screaming mouth, puncturing a small wound to the inside of your lip with his teeth and letting the blood trickle in the hole. It feels like pudding trying to push through a sieve, the flavor of copper and iron tampered out by an earthy, meat flavor—maybe venison? The desire to scream fades away as well, rather being over taken to have whatever nourishment Noya is giving you to enter you more and more. Out of necessity, you mold your lips over his, sucking hard on his lip while wrapping your arms around him because it just didn’t seem that he could get close enough in this moment. Despite the fingers you have threaded in Nishinoya’s gelled locks, he pulls away with a shit-eating grin, his tongue swiping away at the trail of red liquid dripping from the seam of his lips. “Careful, might make a guy a fall in love with that kinda kiss.”

“M-more,” you croak out, deflecting the younger one’s flirty comment all together. Yaku and Noya’s eyes go wide upon hearing your voice for the first time. The former acts on instinct, downing the remaining contents of the bag in his partner’s hand before reenacting the same gesture as the latter. Yaku’s lips are much softer than his partners—or maybe it’s the quelling of whatever hunger that hadn’t been satiated that eased the desire. With Yaku, his tongue laves against the wound that Noya had made, coaxing the fluid to enter at a much more steadfast, intimate pace. Even well after he was done feeding you, Yaku sucked on your tongue, encouraging you to reciprocate, so as to get every drop. “W-What was t-that?” You pant out brokenly as soon as the two of you break apart. The question startles the two sitting at the edge of the bed—now that you had your voice somewhat back, Yaku no longer needed to communicate for you. That also meant he couldn’t control the flow of responses to not overwhelm you.

“I think it’s time you finally got your answers,” Noya mumbles, treading carefully as he looks at his partner. It was a silent reassurance that, no matter how this scenario proceeded, he would be here to support Yaku. To make you more comfortable, he adjusts the pillows behind you so that your back can rest properly along the headboard.

“M-my d-d-dreams?” Having just rediscovered your voice, it still came out in sharp, staccato-like whimpers, but the boys weren’t going to discourage you from speaking. Much like everything else Yaku had done in his life, he had done with patience and your recovery and rehabilitation were no different. But your throat was still raw and it still hurt to speak—thankfully with your mind rushing like a bullet train, Yaku was able to grasp the entirety of your question.

“I think they’re more memories than dreams.” His words come out like a condemning nail in a coffin—like a doctor telling you you only have a few months left to live—because that means everything you recalled from Pike house, the drinks, the party, the alley, all of it was real. “Noya and I found you that night barely clinging to life. Naked, soaked in blood and semen. You died that night, [name].” As he speaks, his cold finger tips traced along your breast until you feel the throbbing mound of flesh—a scar of where the knife had been thrown into you from the back and exited out the front. “The knife had gone through your aorta. Akaashi spent a long time trying to repair it but was unable to.”

Your body begins to tremble as silent sobs wrack through your body. You died? “S-so how ‘mi h-here?” Yaku looks over at Noya in discernible worry—not because the head was afraid of telling the truth, no. He was afraid how you would react to the truth. His partner looks at him poignantly, mentally reminding him that this was eerily similar to how Noya had reacted when he had learned the truth as well. Yaku’s head bobs in agreement, swallowing his hesitance before speaking again.

“I made you like me. Like the rest of us.” Your brows furrowed in confusion, suspicion even, because there’s no way that he’s saying what you think he’s saying. But rather than offering a verbal response, Yaku holds his hand out towards Noya, in which he places the other bag of O Negative in his palm. While the original plan was to just feed you once again, the second Yaku tears open the bag, the hunger you thought had eased returned at full force. You rip the bag out of his cold hands, elongated claws scratched at you as you do so, before you down the contents like a shotgunned beer before you could realize what you were doing.

“T-This is a joke, right?” You balk, voice clear as day due to the strength returning to your body once again from freshly consumed sustenance. But the tensions have gone down significantly, to the point where Noya feels relief and excuses himself to feed, leaving you in Yaku’s solitary care. Once the two of you are left alone, Yaku can only shake his head as he continues to press on with the truth. This had to be a cruel, sick joke. But it wasn’t funny and you certainly weren’t laughing. Yet Yaku had no reason to lie to you and the snack you had just consumed moments ago was meant to serve as a final nail in the metaphorical coffin to make you understand that he was telling the truth.

“We have been alive for centuries—storytellers dubbing our kind as vampires—but originally, we were simply called the Damned.” Yaku proceeds to go through the history, much like he had with all the others before you, because he feels the need to share the truth, needs to tell you that your death isn’t the end of your life but rather the beginning like it had for all those in clan. The most recent addition to the family was Akaashi. He was less than a century old, compared to the others. Akaashi had been tied to a tree and shot repeatedly, only to watch his lover drown to death, who had been tossed into the ocean before shortly before with a thirty pound weight attached to his ankle with his last few breaths. Yaku and Sugawara were the ones to set his nearly lifeless body free with the head of the clan performing Akashi’s conversion. This lead to the newborn to coming back to slaughter the community that decided to his partner needed to die for being a man in love.

Each of their stories was nearly identical. Sugawara, who apparently has been every major known classical musician in history hiding under the guise of his shapeshifter ability, and Daichi were hanged together for being a homosexual couple after their village had carved unsavory words on their bodies to remind their reincarnations of their sins. Yaku and Noya had saved each of them respectively, and allowed the two of them to go on a rampage to annihilate their executioners.

Lastly, or rather firstly, was Nishinoya himself. As Yaku goes into detail about transforming his partner, he tears up ever so slightly. And as you listen actively with no interruptions, no questions even, as he tells you about how Nishi was wrongly imprisoned for theft and how the other prisoners constantly violated and sodomized his body because he was smaller than the rest; how he ended his own life by ingesting whatever toxic chemicals he could find and how Yaku broke him out of prison to start a new life together. “Speak of the devil and he shall appear,” the aforementioned prisoner re-enters the room, a fragile smile on his thin lips as he takes a seat beside his partner. “So you finally told her?”

“B-but why m-me? Why not just let me die?”

“Do you not want revenge against the assholes that killed you a year ago, [ name ]?” Noya bit before Yaku could jump in. “They’re still alive after what they did to you—how is that fair?!”

A year?

You had died a year ago. How did your family take the news? Your roommates and best friends? Nishi was right—it wasn’t fair at all. Yaku raises a hand towards his partner in attempts to get him to calm down before he got too riled up about the situation and before he could get out the most important question. “I have to know, [ name ], if you want to continue on with this lifestyle or not before we proceed with the real rehabilitation.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You tilt your head to your newfound savior. He said it so nonchalantly, as if learning how to walk or learning that your diet was blood wasn’t rehabilitation.

“Well, we have to teach you how to feed properly so your strength gets back up—unless you just want us to feed you for the rest of your eternal life.” Noya jokes, waggling his eyebrows suggestively in what you’ve come to understand is his typical, joking demeanor.

“I mean, I wouldn’t complain.”

“Noya, can you maybe save the flirting for later?” Yaku grits out—once again slightly mortified. It brings laughter to the man in question; it was like rewatching his own life all over again, seeing him get flustered at the smallest amounts of forward affection. It was endearing, if anything.

“Sure. Let’s get [ name ] healthy first then.”

After coming to terms with your transformation and feeding more regularly, still off of a supply stock that the mansion carried, you were able to attend therapy sessions with Daichi more frequently. And while you hadn’t entirely regained muscle or use of your legs, you were able to at least stay awake more often than not. Rather than being cooped up in the bedroom, you found yourself lounging near the entryway where Sugawara would entertain you with the countless pieces he had written over the years. It was soothing and peaceful and Sugawara’s jovial personality kept you from spiraling into a deeper hole knowing that you died. It was still an insane concept, but the five men in your new home had worked hard to keep you sane. “Ready for your session?” Yaku asks gently as he takes a seat beside you on the luxurious sofa. He’s not as uptight as he was now that you knew the truth, though he still did get flustered when you would openly show affection. Even if it was something as simple as leaning your head on his shoulder like you were now.

“I think so,” doing what you could, you scooted and clambered onto Yaku’s lap, wrapping your arms around his neck firmly while your weakened lower limbs splayed across his lap. He tucks one arm under your knees while the other supports your back, effectively scooping you up and brings you to the kitchen where the blood stock is kept. You quirk a brow at the creature carrying you, knowing you’ve already had at least three bags since you woke up.

“Gotta get your strength up so you can recover faster,” is all he responds with before he sets you down on a bar stool. Yaku tears open the bag of O Negative and, much to your shock, he drinks half the contents without swallowing before his lips are on yours. One of his fangs finds purchase on the inside of your lip, sinking down and creating an opening for the blood to flow in for quicker delivery. Usually, Yaku would only have to feed you like this when you were in a weaker state, so it felt a bit out of place for him to be doing it right now, but it certainly wasn’t unwelcome. While the blood trickles into the wound, Yaku’s tongue swirls with yours intimately, coating the cavern with the liquid and he doesn’t stop until every ounce is clear from both of your mouths.

“Not complaining,” you say slowly, “but is there a particular reason you wanted to feed me instead of just letting my chug the bag?” As you ask your question, Yaku is draining the rest of the contents of the bag into his mouth before pulling you towards him in another kiss. The question is repeating over and over in your head, he can hear it loud and clear, but the other thoughts are spurring him on further. The thoughts of how Yaku’s touch makes you crave more, makes you want to feel his lips along your skin and his large hands gripping your thighs tightly. Sometimes he’s unsure whether or not you conveniently forget that he can read your mind, sometimes he wonders if you let your salacious thoughts run wild on purpose. His chest is heaving, deep intakes of breath are plunging through his nostrils despite the blood being long gone. He doesn’t want to stop but centuries of control are begging him to.

“We’re going somewhere today, after your PT,” Yaku pants out after he pulls away, tilting his head down because he can’t look at you right now—he’s afraid to. He needs to try to dampen whatever feral thoughts are running through your brain so that his own self-control doesn’t just get tossed out the window. “Noya and I are taking you out for your first hunt.”

“Uh, am I ready for that?” Shit, you can’t even walk in your own yet. Yaku laughs, grateful for the reprieve from your sexually charged thoughts when you point out the setback.

“That’s why the extra feeding tonight. I needed to make sure it was in your bloodstream so that you had enough strength for PT and the hunt,” Yaku adjusts you from barstool, scooping you into his arms once again to bring you to the mansion’s back garden. Daichi is standing a short distance away adorning a tight muscle tee and joggers, while Noya and Akaashi are sitting at the small table with cigars in hand. Yaku steadies you in front of Daichi, the latter holding onto your hands to make sure you don’t fall, before the former joins the rest the clan at the table. Sugawara emerges from inside the mansion as well, passing off a cigar to Yaku while lighting his own. It was uncomfortable in some capacity to have everybody watching—you couldn’t help but feel as if you were being critiqued on your performance.

“I’m going to be one step ahead of you, and I won’t let go, okay?” Daichi holds his arms out to give you space to take your first step. You take in a sharp breath, the scent of scent of cigars and pine trees overwhelming your nasal cavity. When did you sense of smell become that strong? With trembling limbs, you cling onto Daichi’s muscular forearms, praying to god you didn’t fall as you took a step forward.

“Hey, look!” Noya cheers from a distance, nudging Yaku in the stomach. “She took a step!” The excitement in his voice was evident because, after months of constant aid, Noya has come to have a soft spot for you almost as much as Yaku does. The two of them are watching, utterly enthralled with the way you’re only moving mere millimeters—but millimeters is better than nothing considering the muscle decay and atrophy that had taken place over the last year.

After the first few steps and curling your toes in blades of grass, your feet begin to relax as you tremble forward. Gripping Daichi with all the strength in your hands, you pick your right foot off the ground and place it forward. “That’s good, [ name ]! Gimme one more,” Daichi, a therapist in more ways than one, encourages you to continue moving, wanting to make sure both legs were receiving equal treatment. You repeat the motion with your left leg, taking two full steps. While not perfect, you kept moving forward with his guidance until his calves hit the stone wall of the garden fountain. Considering where you started, twenty five feet was a tremendous distance to cover. “You did amazing, [ name ].” The vampire holding onto you smiles big, pride swelling in chest like a father praising his daughter for taking first in a beauty pageant.

Yaku and Noya are by your side immediately in celebration, the latter much more overt with it as he’s hugging you and holding you up. “What do you think, Daichi? Is she strong enough to at least witness a hunt?” The former asks. Mentioning the “H” word again perks your ears up because a part of you almost wishes to not have to engage with whatever a hunt entails, but part of you also knows that this is your life now. Everything you thought you knew was no longer valid—this was your rebirth, your awakening.

“I think she’ll be okay if one of you carries her for it—“

“Ooh, I’ll do it!” Noya cheers almost too loudly in your ear as he’s still holding you. Without so much as a chance to offer a rebuttal, you’re swept up into his arms as he stands at full height before glancing at his mate. “Ready to go?” Yaku gives a nod, gripping tightly at the satchel over his shoulder before the three of you are off at breakneck speeds. They’re silent as they travel—perhaps because were they to open their mouths at this speed and velocity, they would be catching a whole lot of bugs in their mouths. To your surprise, the three of you end up outside ten-foot-tall brick walls and a chain link fence.

“This is a...”

“A prison,” Yaku answers simply, as if he were answering with what his favorite color was rather than his favorite meal, “considering our diet, we choose to collect our sustenance from those who do not deserve redemption.” There’s a malignant, dark twist in the headman’s words.

“Personally, I prefer going after the rapists and child molestors. Those bastards deserve to be drained of every ounce of blood.” Noya snarls—you could tell it was personal for him. But how could he tell? Surely it wasn’t just written on placards outside of prison cells.

“Easy. Walk in, ask them what they’re serving time for, and their minds fill in the blanks.” The foreboding you sensed from Yaku deepened even further; deepened to the point where it felt like a magnet drawing your eyes towards your savior. But he looked anything but. Yaku stood merely a few inches taller, his claws sharpening and turning black while red overtook the once golden hues of his irises. You look up at Noya curiously, wondering if he’ll undergo the same sort of transformation, but before you could even question it, the gold in his own eyes had already molded into crimson rings.

The three of you enter the building with ease, aiming for the top floor because, according to Nishi, that was where they kept the worst criminals. It played out exactly as Yaku said it would—ask them what they were imprisoned for and, if they were in captivity under the basis of rape, first or second degree murder, sexual assault, or anything involving a minor, he would sink his fangs into their jugular vein and drain them dry. Though he announces his satisfaction, he remains in this strange form that he has presented you with as Nishinoya passes you off into his arms.

The smaller of the two repeats the same process, taking down two prisoners of his own before taking the satchel off of his partner’s shoulder. Noya continues questioning prisoners, letting Yaku’s power of mind reading acting as the judgment call, before pulling out a small, sharp knife from the satchel and slitting each victim’s throat while holding them downcast like a gavel banging down the rule. As blood fountains from their necks, Nishinoya holds fresh IV bags over the openings to collect whatever comes out like rain. Was this how they ended up getting blood for you to feed over the past year. “Yes,” Yaku answers evenly, looking down at you with his crimson eyes, “but we were hoping to actually teach you how to feed tonight. Are you up for it?” Every nerve in your body seemed to scream no, like you shouldn’t be witnessing these events let alone doing it.

But your guts are telling you yes, yes this is now your way of survival. These men were horrid, their victims needed justice. You needed justice. Giving Yaku a small nod, he gives you instructions while the three of you search for your very first meal. Considering neither your fangs nor claws had grown in, as you were very much still a baby by all intents and purposes, Noya would have to incapacitate your prey for you while you bit the inside of your lip, reopening the same puncture wounds from earlier, to allow easier access for the nutrients to enter your body. Once they were out, Noya would puncture the jugular vein for you, while Yaku dipped you down far enough to feed.

Your lips latched on to the raw skin, hooking your own canines for leverage as you draw the blood from your dinner and the moment the warmth seeped into the opening, all doubts about what you were doing had flown out the window. You adjusted the way you’re sitting on your victim, your hands finding purchase on his shoulders as you continuously sucked every drop of life from him. “Did she just—“ Noya questions, not missing the fact that you had just moved your atrophied legs. And while Yaku is very aware of his mate’s balking, he can only focus on the way your lips mold against your meal’s neck or the muted slurping noises bubbling from your lungs like a woman starved. In a sense, that was quite literal. Noya looks over at his partner—silence wasn’t typical of Yaku when asked a question—but words are lost on him when he sees the way Yaku’s eyes are hungrily staring at your form and he’s unsure if its due to hunger or hunger. The moan that leaves your tongue when you finally pull away from the now empty body confirms the shorter one’s suspicions. “Not that seeing you turned on doesn’t turn me on, but you might wanna put that away, Morisuke.” Noya teases before walking towards you, the call of his given name causing Yaku to snap out of his stupor. Well fuck, he snarls bitterly in his head. He was gonna have to feed again, considering all the blood he had just consumed went straight to his cock.

You feel alive—more alive than you felt in ages. And despite your attempt being incredibly shaky, you managed to stand on your own two feet, using the wall to brace yourself. Noya rushes over to your side to try to hold you steady, asking if you’re alright. “I’m more than alright, Nishi, holy shit.” He has an arm under you, carefully bringing you back towards Yaku, though for the most part, you’re walking entirely on your own.

“So what, have you guys just been giving me snacks this whole time?” You sneer teasingly, though Yaku looks away because your accusation because it isn’t entirely wrong. The blood packs were indeed “snacks” but were usually only used to stave off hunts, that way they didn’t just decimate the prison on an every other day basis, but were also used as post coitus replenishments.

“One more?” Yaku coughs out, as if choking on his own spit. “We can do this one together, if you like.” He’s trying to be polite, despite the feral look in his eyes while also trying to calm down the lust and adrenaline running rampant in his system.

“Yeah, that’d be nice.” As opposed to carrying you this time, Yaku flanks to your empty side, helping you walk between him and Noya until you came upon your next victim. This one was larger than the last few—stocky and skin marred with stories of a brutal past. No matter which way you looked at him, he looked bitter, and after asking him what he was in for, you figure he was a perfect candidate. After all, intentionally murdering his wife and three children was heinous by definition. Yaku approaches the much taller man, crouching ever so slightly in the event your meal tried to escape; not that he could even if he wanted to. The leader of the Damned was behind him in seconds, snapping his neck to disarm the threat that was his build.

To everyone’s surprise, you made your way over slowly to the now lifeless, six-foot-three prisoner while Yaku punctured holes on both sides of the victim’s neck, allowing the both of you to feed. It was oddly intimate, being so close to someone while sucking the literal life out of somebody. The lapping, sucking noises brought back salacious thoughts to the man beside you, and he’s doing all that he can just to avoid trading sustenance for an erection again. Meanwhile, Noya is watching both of you in amusement. Does his partner realize that he’s gingerly scraping his claws along your spine? Is it out of encouragement, or interest? Yu can’t quite tell, but he finds it entertaining nonetheless. Even more so when Yaku squirms at the throaty moan leaving your lungs when you pull away, lips plump with a bead of leftovers dripping from the seam of you mouth.

Either way, Nishinoya knows it won’t be long now until Yaku cracks. Despite the great amount of self-control he tends to exercise, Yaku is but a simple creature that cannot stave off his desires and Noya is no different. They were going to give way to their desires sooner rather than later, but they made a vow eons ago that revenge must always come first.

One year, three months, one week, and four days. That was how long it had been since you died in the alleyway. Today was the day those boys were going to die for what they did.

By now, you were fully functioning; walking on your own, feeding on your own. The only difference between you and the others was that you still slept, though not very much anymore, and according to Akaashi, it would be a trait that you would grow out of maybe two decades after your first century. That was actually the sole reason there was even a bed in the house—Nishinoya still slept merely because he enjoyed it. He wasn’t like the others who had found a passion project that kept him up around the clock, so more often than not, he would join you in bed. After all, it was originally his bed.

And more often than not, Yaku would sit in the spacious window sill while Noya wrapped his arms around you protectively in your shared slumber, as if to abide by the repeated mantra he had said over the last year—he’ll be there when you wake.

Your dreams are no longer memories, as you’ve got caught up to current events thanks to the playback speed that they paced themselves at. Now, you’re able to recall on every single event of your life that you’ve witnessed thus far with perfect detail—including the faces of your five murderers. Each of them belonged to your university Pike fraternity; two of them were a year older than you, two the same age, and the one who had the knife to your neck was a freshman not yet old enough to drink legally, but apparently old enough to to pull the metaphorical trigger and throw the knife that had gone through your entire body, severing your aorta in your heart.

After researching in the form of disguise, you learned that tonight Pi Kappa Epsilon would be holding their annual holiday gala; fancy words for a giant frat party for those who chose not to return to their hometowns for Christmas. Knowing how these events tend to function—it was relatively easy to sneak in, even with Nishinoya and Yaku flanking your sides. You flashed the doorman a crisp fifty, knowing males always had to pay a fee for entry while women always got in for free. The bouncer grins upon seeing you in a tight, red body-con dress, but the grin is immediately displaced when his eyes land on the two men beside you. Giving your best, most flirtatious smile, you grab both of their wrists before heading inside. “Don’t lose me, okay?” You yell over the pounding music.

“We won’t,” they say in unison. Noya gives you a reassuring smile, hand pressed against Yaku’s back gently, while the latter purses his lips together in discomfort. “Just keep talking to me through here,” he adds, pressing his cold lips to your forehead chastely, “and I’ll find you.” You give him a confident nod before you throw yourself into the throng of people to find your targets. It proved a bit of a challenge, considering the strobe lighting and the myriad of people—all of the men looked the same on top of that. But once your eyes narrowed in on the man you first lured you, it was game over.

Like a tiger ready to pounce, you sauntered over to him, pushing aside whomever he was with at the moment before wrapping your arms lewdly around his neck. He looks down at you skeptically, but otherwise pleased with the bold actions. From a short distance away, Yaku and Noya are hiding like wallflowers, listening to the resounding chant happening in your head that screamed to kill him. “You know,” Noya chimes in lowly, distracting Yaku from the way your hips are grinding and gyrating against the strange man’s, “we could just kill the entire fraternity.” Yaku shakes his head—Noya was always fond of the idea of revenge against all who were guilty by association. While the others in the clan gave into his persuasion, Yaku never found it amusing.

“What if they had no idea that their brother killed someone?”

“They probably bragged about it,” Noya grumbles. From his own experience, the shorter of the two liked to think that he knew how these people tended to operate.

“It’s go time.” Yaku says abruptly, eyes locked onto your retreating form as you pull one of your rapists by the tie and lead him out the frat house. The two Damned maneuver their way towards the quietest space, hunting for a window they can exit out of to follow you without garnering too much attention towards the situation. When they end up on the sidewalk outside of the Pike house, they see you parading—brokenly, complete with fake stumbles to allude to you being drugged again—the man by the tie until he shoves you into the same alleyway.

Close behind were four others, all built and stocky as they traveled in their pack and making their way towards the alley. You were cornered amongst trash and dead rats, the five of them trying to zero in on you, yet you showed no fear. Instead, you stood at full height with the addition of your stilettos, as your body transitioned into it’s more predatory form. “Remember me?” You ask sweetly, cracking your knuckles nonchalantly. Your hair that’s covering the ugly mound of flesh scarred over from your injury is swept over the opposite shoulder, giving them full view as your short, blackened claws graze over the skin. “Over a year ago, the five of you brought a woman to this alley, raped her and you,” a feral snarl leaves your lips as you point to the youngest fraternity brother, “threw a knife into her back that went all the way through her heart and killed her.”

The five of them begin looking over at each other, wondering who ratted out who considering they had never spoken of the night since it occurred. It was easy to avoid, considering the body was never found. There was never any evidence. “W-who are you?” The youngest one squawks out.

“Don’t remember?” Your head snaps in the direction to one of the older members. “I should have bit your dick off when I had the chance.” There’s no more room for talking, no room for rebuttal. Instead, you grab the same man you lured into the alley by the tie, bringing him close enough to snap his neck. When he was neither moving nor breathing, the remaining four began to back up.

“Yo, this bitch is crazy, let’s get out of here—“

“You think you’re just gonna get away?” Noya laughs dryly as it crescendoed into full volume, shaking the walls and mimicking an earthquake that did not expand beyond the walls of the alley. The remaining four fall to the ground, not prepared for such loud noises let alone a trembling earth to accompany the sound. Yaku shakes his head in utter disgust before the crimson ring in his eyes locks with the prey.

“Done eating, love?” He calls out, causing the four other frat boys to look over in horror at the “e” word. Once again, you’re standing at full height, the back of your hand wiping away the blood that had escaped from your mouth from your feeding.

“Not quite yet,” With every step you took, they trembled back, only to be met with your two saviors blocking their only exit. The youngest one is hiding all the way in the back, trepidation causing his bones to rattle within his skin as his back hits Yaku’s calf. “I’m still hungry.” Noya lets out a snort at this—he truly did love your sense of humor.

“You’re next.” Yaku looks down at the young boy, only nineteen-years-old, who had been your executioner. That same boy looks at the leader of the clan in horror, eyes wide because he never in a million years saw this as his end. Effortlessly, Yaku picks him up by the collar of his shirt before tossing him in your direction. Rather than catching him, you gathered your claws together to form a single point, driving the makeshift lance through the stomach of the one who had ended your life. Without verbalizing it, you gave the boys permission to feed on the other two—so long as it wasn’t the one that you had tried to bite down on when he rammed his cock in your mouth.

You had plans for him.

In the mean time, you pull the now lifeless body off of your bloodied hand, drinking down whatever was dripping down your arm before tossing him off to the side; you had one more pressing matter to deal with. The last of the boys—the dessert to your meal was pressed against the wall as he tried to run from this situation, watching in mortification as Yaku and Noya beheaded the other two brothers with their bare hands, feasting on their prey. “Like I said,” you sneered as you approached the last one, ripping off his pants and boxers much like he had when he violated your mouth. “I should have bit your dick off when I had the chance.”

And so you did.

“Remind me to never get on your bad side,” Yaku muses, having finished his meal, gawking at the way you had just left the last one along the wall with his penis bitten off all the way down to the base while you returned to the youngest member again, draining your murderer for all he was worth.

“I dunno, it’s kinda hot, babe.” Noya jokes, watching in amusement as well.

“I’m actually kinda full,” You shrug, having drained the stabber entirely—that put your body count to two full bodies. “D’you guys wanna have the last one? I got all I wanted from him.” At sound of your permission, Yaku approaches the last one with a predatory glare, not daring to break eye contact as he asked you one more question.

“[ name ], do you feel that justice been served?” With a nonplussed grimace, you gave a shrug.

“If anything, these assholes got the short end of the stick. They murder a girl they raped so she comes back from the dead and kills them all with two beautiful men by her side? Yeah, I’m happy with that.”

By the time you returned home, you were an entirely different creature. You felt...free. Like there was nothing else anchoring your dead heart, like you no longer had a tether to this world. Like you had no purpose.

So now what?

Silently you meander back to your shared bedroom to further contemplate your existence, the boys you left behind glancing at each other in concern. “Want me to talk to her? I might be able to better sympathize.” Noya asks quietly so that your now heightened hearing can’t quite pick up on the conversation. Regardless, Yaku shakes his head. He knows exactly what you’re thinking, what you’re feeling and not just because of his ability to read minds.

“I’ve got a few things I want to say to her anyway.” Noya presses a tender kiss to his mates cheek before he flits away to hang out with Daichi as he normally does when he’s not with Yaku, while the head of the clan makes his way to the room. You’re lying in bed already, the dress and stilettos shed and traded for bare feet and a slip. Despite your back turned towards him, you feel the bed dip as he lays beside you, something atypical of Yaku. “How do you feel?” His voice is merely a whisper as he cautiously wraps an arm around your waist.

“Shouldn’t you know the answer?” You retort, but Yaku doesn’t recoil because he knows. He knows the sort of limbo you feel you’re placed in now that your postmortem mission had been carried out. What were you supposed to do for the rest of eternity besides act as an impromptu executioner, feeding off of the worst criminals within a hundred mile radius?

“Is that all you see us as?”

“No,” You say quietly. These Damned men had accomplished great things, from what you knew of them, in their lifetimes. Sugawara has continued composing even well after his other alias’ deaths, Akaashi has been working on a research piece for decades regarding cancer in the form of preventative measures rather than a cure, in addition to a cure. Daichi had participated in the Olympics a number of times, Yaku was once a politician in multiple countries and Nishinoya had worked closely with electronic developers over the years including Microsoft and Linux. “You guys have accomplished so much in your lifetimes, I just don’t want to be some sort of disappointment—“

“[ name ], we never knew were going to do those things. We just kept pushing on, finding out things we were passionate about and since we have unlimited time, we’ve had time to hone and perfect those skills.”

“What if I never do anything that great?” Yaku lets out a sigh, turning your now fully restored body around to face him and pressing his face into your neck. Over the duration of your rehabilitation process, he’d become so over protective of you, wanting what’s best for you in any capacity yet never fully being honest with himself.

“You have time to figure it out,” he mumbles into your own icy skin, lips tickling your veins. “Until then, just stay? With me?”

“Yaku...” he had never fully outright asked you to stay—only alluding to it in the past with talks of the future.

“I-I want you,” he whispers almost uncharacteristically. Being a diplomat, stuttering was not a thing that Yaku did very often. “To stay with us forever. To stay with me forever.” This is it, he figures. It’s now or never. Yaku can’t stand the idea of you leaving the clan, leaving him when he hadn’t yet had a taste of you, had you in any other form than a few mere kisses for feeding or in fantasies. Pulling away, Yaku shifts once again so that his arms are holding his weight above you, his lips ghosting intimately over yours.

Both of you are overly aware of the attraction that’s there—you knew of the daydreams you’d had of him throughout the year and with his ability, he was unwillingly subjected to them. Reaching up slightly, your lips press against his hungrily, your tongue immediately dancing along the seam of his lips, begging for permission to enter. Yaku doesn’t waste a second dropping the support from his arms in favor to press his body fully into yours because he’s been waiting for this moment. It’s evident in his fervent kiss, it’s evident in his ever present erection. A mewl warbles in your throat as you feel him grind against you.

Why the hell had you waited so long for this? Why did he wait so long for this?

There was no more waiting.

Breaking a part for a moment, you pull the slip off your torso hastily while Yaku unbuckles his belt and frees his lower half. Impatience floods you as you tear off the thin Henley he’s wearing, leaving the two of you entirely bare in front of each other. The large scar on your bosom that had made you self conscious for months suddenly felt dull in comparison as you’re met with the varying marks that marred Yaku’s skin. From what you could tell, they looked like whiplashes. “I need you now,” he pleads, ignoring your wandering thoughts as he hungrily pulls you in for another kiss. Though rather short lived, your overwhelmed with warmth and pulsing in your core as his fangs run along your neck before sucking lovingly at your collarbone.

“O-oh,” you moan out wantonly, clutching at his shoulders to keep yourself steady. With no preparation, not that you needed any, Yaku slowly sheaths his member inside of you, the girth stretching you deliciously. For a moment, the two of you remain still to bask in the reprieve you both felt, unaware of the third party member watching pleased in the lounge chair across from the bed. “Fuck,” you hiss out between your teeth as he’s pushing in inch after inch.

“You’re doing so good, princess,” for a moment, he’s impressed—taking eleven inches with little to no preparation can be torturous, and he knew that from experience. “Come on, baby take the last of it—oh fuck yeah,” Yaku groans out as soon as he’s balls deep within you. The two of you are still, enjoying the moment of togetherness before he bottoms out entirely in your sweet little hole. His hips move almost languidly so as not to hurt you but good lord for all that is unholy, is he holding back.

Soft whimpers leave your lungs each time his hips snap back into yours—why the hell hadn’t you fucked Yaku sooner?! A throaty chuckle grumbles in his chest at the thought. Even with him slamming his cock in you at half-force, his mind is intertwined with yours to the point where your thoughts feel like his own. “I had to take care of you princess, wanted to make sure you could handle me fucking you.”

“Then fuck me harder, ass-hat.”

“He likes it better when you call him senpai.” Nishinoya calls out from the opposite corner of the room, as if he wasn’t just leisurely watching his partner ream himself into your core. You let out a scream and at this point, you aren’t sure if it’s because Yaku have a particularly hard thrust with the head of his dick meeting with the edge of your womb or if Nishinoya’s presence surprised you. Even more so to see that he was stark naked, stroking his cock that he’s presenting to your mouth.

“Suck off your senpai, princess.” Yaku whispers devilishly in your ear, holding his cock still within you as he does so. Tentatively, you give a kitten lick to the head before you, testing out Nishinoya’s reaction to the motion before deeming him worthy. A soft grunt escapes him, his body more than welcoming of the sensation—but it just wasn’t enough for you.

“I need a better reaction than that, Nishi,” You joke.

A poor plan on your part.

The shorter of the two looks down at you curiously, a wicked twist of his lip displayed for you as he briefly tosses an amused look towards Yaku, to which the latter lets out a chuckle in addition to the shake of his head before he starts to withdraw his cock from within you. “How’s this for reaction?” Noya chirps before deftly wrapping his claws in your hair, slamming his engorged member down your throat while Yaku simultaneously thrusts back inside you. The carnal desires that had run rampant through your mind on occasion had built to this moment, built up the needy desire that the boys finally had the chance to release with you. “Yeah, you take that cock in your throat, baby. Show us how much you’ve wanted us from the start.”

Nishinoya is absolutely relentless as he repeatedly withdraws and replaces his erection in your mouth, pulling so far back as to have his tip tease and smear pre-cum along your lips, all the while chanting praise and how much he loves you; how much he’s dreamed of having you between him and Yaku. The latter can’t help the stuttering motion of his hips as he unabashedly strokes his member along your walls, the tip of dick all but moving into your womb. “Yeah, princess, take your senpais cocks so fucking good, yeah? You want us to fill all your holes with our fucking cum, don’t you?” You can only wail out around Nishinoya in your mouth in response, clenching and squeezing your pussy tightly around Yaku inside you. The clan head lets out a very audible groan at the abrupt friction. “Oh, fuck yeah. Fuck yeah, senpai’s gonna cum so fucking hard inside you, yeah yeah yeah.” Yaku is absolutely wrecking and ravaging your lower half while all the foul, salacious words leaving him were only serving to turn on his partner even more until the both of them hold still to empty their first loads inside you.

After a momentary reprieve, the two of them withdraw from you, the smallest whine leaving your lips at the distinct emptiness. Between pants, both of the males look to each other before letting out a laugh. “Princess,” Noya calls out from your left, golden eyes light and airy as they gaze at you, “did you think we were going to let you cum?”

“Y-yes?” Why wouldn’t they? Wasn’t that just normal, sex etiquette between partners?

“Oh no, love,” Yaku adds, “We’re gonna show you just how much we love you, gotta coat every inch of your skin in our fluids before you can even think about cumming.” Before you can blink, the boys are up again with Nishinoya taking his position with the tip of his still hardened member teasing the outer lips of your pussy. Meanwhile, Yaku makes it a point to slap your cheek with his own erection, making sure to keep your attention and focus on him. Simultaneously, they thrust into their respective orifices that they’ve traded—Yaku treating you much more delicately versus Noya who shoves his entire mast inside your depths.

“Oh damn, babe, you’re so fucking tight!” The latter howls, throwing his head back in ecstasy. Despite having identical lengths, Nishinoya was much more rough and rigid, your walls acclimating to every vein out of necessity before relentlessly pounding away at your insides. At his pace, your pussy doesn’t even have a chance to miss the feeling of fullness. Your voice is no longer coming out in moans or screams due to the damning pace—only in a broken staccato of warbles from the speed that Noya’s fucking you. “Yeah, baby? Gonna stay here with us forever and get dicked down every night? You’d like that wouldn’t you?”

But with the almost tender, loving way Yaku is holding your throat while repeatedly sliding his cock in from tip to base, there is no actual way you can reply. Instead, you let out grunts and cries of affirmation because you would stupid not to welcome the way these two were screwing you. It’s also more than just that.

These two, as well as the rest of the brood, had taken you in being inches from death, presented you with another opportunity for life that served as an opportunity for you to seek revenge, while caring for you and almost...loving you.

“We do,” Yaku bites, withdrawing his cock from your lips offended at the thought of almost, “love you, that is.” The hand that is cupping your throat moves to brush the backs of his claws along your jaw before pulling your chin and torso up so that Yaku can kiss you fully. There is no lust or wanton desire in this kiss—it’s love through and through that is simultaneously cold yet warm.

“You’ve been dreaming about us for a long time, princess,” Noya grits out, his peak approaching all too quickly with the way you’re clenching around him with no relief. He’s panting heavily, no longer caring about his need to assert his dominance in any capacity; all he can think about is cumming deep inside you while you cum around his thick cock. “We want to make your dreams come true.”

Yaku pulls away from the kiss in time to hear your cries—a delicacy he had never had the pleasure of knowing in a past life—as you cum with Noya. The latter is holding still for a brief moment before withdrawing, his spent body collapsing beside you. You’re sensitive, you realize, as Yaku slides back in to reclaim his space. Your walls are still trembling in the aftermath of your orgasm, but Yaku is much more gentle this time around. Pressing his body flush against yours, he wraps both his arms around you with one cradling your head, the other around your lower back to pull you as close as possible. His shallow moving thrusts in accompaniment to his pulsing girth are enough to trigger yet another orgasm in direct succession, and coercing his own orgasm. “Please stay, [ name ].” He mumbles into your hair as he feels his seed spurting within you. Though you supply no answer due to trying to catch your breath, you only nod in response. Yaku remains still inside you, so as if to seal both his and his partner’s emission within you with his own softening cock, smiling at the simple fact that you had nodded in response. “Get some rest, little one,” He adds, adjusting so that he’s on the opposite side of you and a now sleeping Noya. “We’ll be here when you wake.”

[dowoonie-namjoonie]

All You Need is Confidence

Paring: Teacher!Jae x Student!Reader x Teacher!Wonpil

A/N: IDK why but I’m on a student-teacher kick, probably because I’ve been watching PLL again so...ENJOY! BTW, if you like this I’m probably going to make it a series because why not! If this does make you uncomfy, I suggest you don’t read it. 

Warnings: Student-teacher relationships, poly relationship, slight age gap, minor language, and suggestive themes. 

(Unedited, and also there will be a second part!)

High school was not fun, you know how people say it’s one of the best times in your life, well you have reason to disagree. Senior year was the most stressful to you, purely because of the inevitable change from childhood to adulthood when you go to college. That pressure to instantly grow up scared the ever-living shit out of you without fail. 

However, school wasn’t always that bad, your senior year was bad, yes. But, three people in your life made sure on their lives that you’d have the best year ever. Number 1, your best friend Kang Younghyun. Both you and him were senior this year, Younghyun always had a higher work ethic than you. Motivated to do anything and everything, honestly, his main goal was to travel the world by himself. By far, he was the most daring, independent person you’d ever met, he had confidence practically radiating off of him. So, you can imagine that there was never a dull moment with him. 

Number 2 and 3 go hand in hand. Mr. Park Jaehyung and Mr. Kim Wonpil, they made sure the hallways were a safe place and more importantly that class was never plain. Mr. Park and Mr. Kim are best friends from what you know ever, they even went to this high school just like you and Younghyun. Even though they were best buds, they were complete opposites. 

Mr. Park’s english class was eventful. Mr. Park hated homework so he rarely gave it, said he “doesn’t believe in it.” Most of the time he’d spend class talking to kids about video games, giving so advice to novices to the games he liked. Of course he actually taught...once a month maybe! Mr. Park was just one of those cool teachers who didn’t teach, but yet someone taught you everything you need to know about the world. Weird how that happens. Commonly, people knew him as a young teacher-same with Mr. Kim-even romanticizing the man. Most of your girlfriends swooned over either one of the teachers: But, hey you had to admit it, you definitely had a crush on Mr. Park. 

Mr. Kim, on the other hand, taught a tedious government class. Mr. Kim seemed to always be second whenever compared to Mr. Park, it kinda made you feel guilty having liking the one out of the two. They both were equally good people, but since Mr. Park is barely a teacher people just like him more. You see, Mr. Kim taught, there was nothing he loved more than giving 30 slides worth of a powerpoint, making you take pain-staking notes every-other day. Mr. Kim was popular more on his visuals and how shy he was. Mr. Kim could get flustered about anything and everything, once a kid in your class asked to go to the bathroom because he needed to take a shit, and Mr. Kim blushed rocking back and forth on his chair all because how the kid worded his sentence. Mr. Kim was adorable in a I-can-make-fun-of-him way, maybe it was teenage hormones but you had a crush on him too. Ah, but the crushes you had would never go anywhere...right? 

Anyway, the theme between them two was that you always went to them when you were upset. Both teacher took a liking to you because of your playful nature and natural sense of what they taught. Your intelligence seemed to impress most people, but you had to admit when you had your downfalls, especially when learning what the difference of absolute monarchy and constitutional monarchy. Civics wasn’t your strong suit. In english class, Mr. Park would make you stand out from the class making fun of every detail about you, Mr. Kim had empathy for you. Tutoring you in a heartbeat whenever you had trouble in his class, which seemed frequent. No matter how much Mr. Kim would hate to admit it, but he didn’t mind your merciless teasing, so of course you were his favorite student. Still, they both helped you through thick and thin. Like today.

Today, today was not your day. Earlier this morning Younghyun told you he was going home early sick, so you needed to get another ride home. Or you’d have to take the bus home, which was a no-go for you since taking the public bus freaked you out. You don’t know, the fact anyone could sit next to you made you paranoid. What if it was a serial killer, who planned on following you home and killing you? See, paranoid. 

Then this girl in your class ruined your whole project, a fucking group project, those you despise. Why was it fair to be partnered up with people who, simply, didn’t care about their grade just like you did. This girl proved this fact almost definitely, for your chemistry class, you were supposed to build a representation on how electrical currents go through objects. You being you, took on the roll easily, priding yourself with most of the difficult things. The one thing she needed to do, that ignorant bimbo, was to bring a potato and toaster. So, the chemistry project was left with an F. 

When you got frustrated you cried, unfortunately this flaw was seen by everyone in your chemistry class. Leaving you the laughing stock of the school for at least the next few weeks. The stares from people-even the mocking laughing, made your spiral. And why, all because of a stupid girl who couldn’t do her part in a simple project. Embarrassing yourself further, you decided to run out of class to the nearest person who could help calm you down. 

Panic filled you as you ran through the, just nearly, populated hallways. As you sobbed down, people looked at you like you were some crazy person on the brink of a full-blown breakdown. In these situation where you had minor panic attacks, you would run to yours and Younghyun’s meeting place. The janitors closet that no-one dared to go into, no one but you and Younghyun. Since, he left earlier because he’s sick, there was only one other place where you could go besides the unhelpful guidance counselors that would give you shitty life advice and send you back to class. No, Mr. Park could help you, he always managed to make you feel better. 

People were insatiable, desperately trying to shatter you into a million pieces as you made your way to Mr. Park’s english room. Thankfully, and ironically, for you the bell had rung in the knick of time. Mr. Kim noticed a heap of students outside his classroom, crowded together whispering insults at god knows what. When he heard your name strun into the mix, he realized you were standing in the middle of this crowd, holding yourself trying to hide your tears. 

“Alright, alright,” Mr. Kim exclaimed, grabbing the attention of the students, who seemed more flabbergasted than anything. Mr. Kim never yelled. “Clear out, now!” 

The man had never looked more serious, a demanding tone riddled in his voice, his eyes like a black-hole to those who opposed him, and his hands put on his hips. So, this is what he’s like when he’s angry. His anger helped you, students cleared out into other room, lingering students were shoved away into the bathrooms fearing of a write up. Still, you stayed on the ground hiding your tears, Mr. Kim coming up in front of you, the tap of his shoes alerted you. 

“Y/N,” he started, voice getting closer as he kneeled down. Sure, he’s seen you upset thousands of times, but out of those times you haven’t cried once. There was no time due to your whining and yelling about whatever set you off that day. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” 

Mr. Kim was concerned, per usual he had empathy for you, upset himself because you were crying. He could never tell why, but he hated when you were angry or sad, he just couldn’t stand it. 

“N-No...,” you whipped a tear, looking up at his face. Being met with pure handsomeness, but there was no time to be entranced by his record-breaking looks. “Can-Can you take me to Mr. Parks...please, I need to talk to him-to both of you. Is that okay?”

Mr. Kim was taken aback, luckily for him and Mr. Park had no class, lunch break comes with perks. “Of course it’s okay, let’s go, everything will be okay.” Mr. Kim put a hand on your back, tapping you lightly to encourage you to get up. Complying, both of you made it to Mr. Park’s, just catching him in the middle of taking a bit of his tuna sandwich. 

“Oh hello...oh no,” his sandwich dropped onto the desk upon seeing you blotchy face. Uncomfortable sight to see. “Y/N, Wonpil what’s going on?”

Mr. Kim lead you to a nearby desk, out of all the empty ones he put you directly in front of the teachers desk. 

“I’m not sure,” Mr. Kim started, backing away from you as you convulsed with a sobbing fit. “I found her like this in the hallway.” 

Mr. Park clicked his tongue, looking around his desk for some unused tissue and a free water bottle. Oddly enough he had both of those things tucked away in his desk. Strutting over to you, he gently held the tissue up to your face, dapping off some stray tears, in the process placing the water bottle next to you. 

“Just calm down okay,” Mr. Park muttered, focused on cleaning you up. 

Mr. Kim came up behind him, reaching for the water bottle and opening it up for you. Carefully, Mr. Park withdrew his hand, letting Mr. Kim give you some water. Even then, you didn’t calm down, concerning both of the men when you started hyperventilating. Today was just one of those days. The whole ordeal rang through your head, no one could ever look at you the same ever again. Look at you now crying in front of two men, who you adore, sullying everything they knew about you. The thought that your life was over made your panic attack protrude, increasing your talent of overthinking.   

“What’s going on Jae,” Wonpil kept his eyes on you with pure worry in his eyes. Wonpil has never experienced a panic attack before, let alone even seen one in person. 

“She’s having a panic attack um...I’ve got this.” 

Mr. Park stepped up to you again, making sure you could only focus on him. He placed his hand on your lower thing, squeezing lightly, placing his forehead against yours. Both him and you made a deep eye contact, calmingly he said “Y/N, calm down, everything’s going to be okay.” When you didn’t respond to him, instead you ignored him, he began tapping in a pattern on your thighs. 

“Y/N,” he tried again, keeping up with the pattern. “Focus on my fingers, okay? Focus on how I’m tapping you, okay?” 

Listening to him, you began to calm down, feeling his tapping. One time on the right, next on the left, then on the right, then on the left...

“That’s it,” he began, not giving up on the tapping, pulling you back to reality. 

“I’m okay...okay...I’m okay,” you spoke up, swallowing back the horrible panic you just felt. 

Mr. Park pulled back, proud of himself that his efforts to calm you down worked, Jae was experienced with panic attacks. Although it killed him to see you like that, he’s just glad you came here for him to help you. 

With the tissue, you rubbed your face and nose of any liquid that came out of you. Both men looked at you in waiting for your next move, they didn’t know what could throw you off. 

But, someone had to speak up at some point. “Do you want to talk about it Y/N?” Mr. Park’s question made you shake, Mr. Kim noticed this nodding him off. 

“Let’s not talk about that,” Mr. Kim spoke, putting a loving smile on his face to hopefully not start up another panic attack. “Um...Why don’t we do something? Yea, like...” Wonpil was at a loss, looking over to his best friend for something that could distract you in this moment. 

“Y-Yea,” Mr. Park perked up, jumping to his desk to find anything to help you regulate yourself. The only thing he had that was remotely fun and not school work, was a Christmas word search he’d given the freshman class he taught yesterday. “This, we can do this word search!”

“Yes, a word search!” Both teachers yelled excitedly, Mr. Park placed the word search on his desk, Mr. Kim beckoning you to come over to them to do the word puzzle. 

You knew what they were trying to do, but really you were in exactly no position to deny the men who just helped you through that. After all, they were making you feel better. Like a snail, you slid off the desk, trudging your way over to both of the enthusiastic men sitting in Mr. Park’s spinny chair that they pulled out just for you. Mr. Kim placed a pencil in your hand, sliding the paper more towards you, meanwhile Mr. Park pulled up two chairs for him and Mr. Kim to sit in next to you. Sitting down next to you, the both watched you complete the puzzle, randomly helping you throughout. 

Mr. Park and Mr. Kim had a secret, an unspoken secret between the two of them. Even if it was left untouched and talked about, both men new that both of them had a crush on you. They were disappointed, even discussed in themselves that they liked you, but you didn���t make it any easier either. They felt the need to protect you, constantly, the need to make you happy when no one else could are their duties. For Jae, he started to like you when you promptly scolded him for being a horrible teacher, but an amazing guy. From that day forward, you and Jae formed a bond where you made fun of eachother with hidden love. For Wonpil, it’s when you defended him when people were making fun of the way he got flustered. He just knew you were the one, no ones ever defended him that way. The more you came to talk to them, the more their feeling began to grow for you. Ditto, same thing happening to you. 

All of it happened so fast, Mr. Park was lost in thought about you. Delicately, he watched you as you tried to figure out the puzzle. Even though your face was red, eyes swollen, and nose runny Jae still admired your looks. The way your face was scrunch up in determination to defeat the puzzle, the way you bit your lip, or the way your soft looking hair fell on your face-

Reaching out his bigger hand, he wisped a stray piece a hair from out of your face, getting a better look at your beauty. But then you turned to him, with your wide E/C eyes and a cute pout on your face, he just couldn’t help himself. His hand moved from your, now proven, soft hair. Stroking his way to cup your cheek, his callassed thumb ran across your bottom lip. The plumpness fueling him more, before you both knew it his lips were on yours. His lips encased yours, the sudden feeling making you whimper under him, the only word to describe how it felt was euphoric. First you were shocked, not expecting your teacher to touch you, let alone kiss you. Then, a feeling bubbled in you, your stupid crush and all the fantasies you’ve had about him made you melt into him. Closing your eyes, beginning to kiss him back, your hand met grasped his shirt, pulling him further into you. Kissing Mr. Park was something else. 

[ucsdwomenscenter-blog]

Beyond the Happily Ever After: Cinderella

Welcome back to Beyond the Happily Ever After, this week we turn the story book to the tale of Cinderella. The original story was written by the Sethe Grimm Brothers’ and was titled “Aschenputtel”. In this version Cinderella is actually not a helpless servant, but a witch. I’m not sure about you all, but I’m all for a sorcerer princess. Cinderella attends three balls in the early fairytale and that’s when the prince locks his eyes on her… like literally. The prince shows his interest in Cinderella, but she is not interested and even goes as far as hiding in a chicken coop to get away from him. I mean, Cinderella, sis if you are going as far hiding in a chicken coop just go home. Also, the fact that the prince is being so persistent that she feels the need to hide in a chicken coop is ridiculous. Well, during the third ball the prince covered the floor with tar, as a way to trap Cinderella but she slipped out of her shoe and got away. So she didn’t lose her slipper in the ball, it was taken from her. Like the prince truly tried to hunt her down like an animal by setting a trap. Since the prince has her shoes he goes out to try to find her using her shoe. When the prince gets to her house, Cinderella’s step sisters want the prince to fall in love with them so they cut off their heels and toes in order to get their feet to fit within the glass slipper. I just need to see how this prince looks because there can not be any circumstance where I would want to lose a toe to gain a man's attention. Absolutely not! Before, the prince is tricked into marrying her step-sisters; Cinderella appears and shows the prince that the shoe belongs to her. The prince and Cinderella get married, and during her wedding, Cinderella has her bird friends peck the eyes out of her step-sisters for being evil to her.

Honestly, what’s not to like about this story. There is a creepy prince, a witch princess, and little tiny birds that peck the eyes out of people. I guess that’s the reason Disney read this story and thought “you know what, let’s continue to tell small children this story.” I mean come on! The prince is like basically stalking Cinderella and then even sets a trap to catch her. You know who also does that, SERIAL KILLERS! Why are we romanticizing this behavior, this is not cute! If a grown ass man meets you once and then feels the need to go to these extents to marry you, he’s a serial killer. RUN! Plus the fact that he’s supposed to be “Prince Charming,” therefore creating this idea that she should be flattered that he chose her, and that his behavior is justified. It’s honestly concerning that men wrote this story, and really thought it was a love story.

Now, looking at the Disney version of Cinderella they just really humbled her. They removed her witch powers, and I just recently found out that her actual name is Mary Beth Ella Gertrude like they didn’t even try to tell people her real name. Poor Mary Beth, but no like literally. Disney described Cinderella to be a young kind girl who loved animals and lived with her step-mother and step-sister that treated her poorly. I feel like they tried to make the readers/viewers feel really bad for her, or I guess so that it could be a rag to riches story. However, it is mentioned that Cinderella’s dad was the King, so I’m assuming that the rest of her family was also royalty or do royal people not have families? Well, anywho one day another King invites all the women to the palace in an effort to find a wife for his son the prince. This story just turned into The Bachelor, which I know is still extremely popular, but I think shows like this tell people that someone needs to tell you that you’re loveable. Meaning that you have to be chosen and if you’re not then you’ll probably never find love. I mean this show, like many others, turns love into a competition and people are so caught up in this idea that they need to find love that they almost force connections just to “win”. Creating stories with this kind of narrative then teaches young children that this is how love is found and that one day your Prince Charming will appear and whisk you away.

This might have happened to Cinderella, but the harsh reality is that finding love is not so plain and simple. When Cinderella goes to the ball the prince sees her and immediately falls in love with her, when the clock strikes twelve she rushes back home leaving her shoe behind. The prince then goes searching for Cinderella, just like in the original story the only difference is that no one cut off their toes or heels. I mean I understand since it’s a children’s story, but I mean Disney named the cat Lucifer which isn’t very child friendly. I remember when I was young and we got a cat and I told my mom I wanted to name the cat Lucifer and she nearly passed out. For those who may not be familiar the name Lucifer is said to be the name of the devil. I know! They really tried to emphasize the fact that the step mother was evil. In the end Cinderella marries the prince and they live happily ever after...allegedly.

The story of Cinderella in my opinion is just not that great, it definitely doesn’t age well because I find it hard to believe that the prince couldn’t remember her face. Like if he was so in love with her, I think he would have remembered. So, as per usual here is my version of the story. Cinderella lives with her stepmother and step brother. She has an aspiring dream to one day become a nurse, so as a senior in high school she has applied for college. When acceptance letters begin to get sent out her step-brothers have gotten into all the schools they applied to, while Cinderella continues to receive rejection letters. Her step-brother’s begin to taunt Cinderella telling that she didn’t get in because she isn’t smart enough and that she will never become a nurse. Upset Cinderella seeks guidance from her aunt who tells her that she should not give up on her dreams and that she should attend community college in the fall. However, Cinderella’s step-mother overhears the conversation and tells Cinderella that she should just marry Prince Charles. Her step-mother tells her “what is the point of going to school when you have the privilege of being able to marry rich.” Cinderella ultimately takes the risk and enrolls into community college, and begins taking classes. After her first year in college, the news broke out that Cinderella’s step-mother and brothers were taken into custody for a college scandal. Turns out that Cinderella’s stepmother and brothers paid and cheated their way to guarantee their spots in the universities they applied to, and they finally got caught. Her step-brothers were kicked out of school, and her step-mother was sent to prison. Cinderella was able to inherit the house, and two years later she was able to transfer to her dream school. After transferring Cinderella continued her education to become a nurse and she lived happily ever after.

[purplesurveys]

1114

survey by dishwallafied

WHO was the last person...

you spoke to, in person? I think it was my sister, like earlier at 1 AM. She was the last person apart from me to head upstairs for bed.

you called? I tried calling our internet service provider’s hotline to inquire about our lost connection last weekend, but all I got was a useless automated message saying they’re on top of all concerns and will be addressing ours soon, which did not make any fucking sense because I didn’t get to report my issue anyway. Their social media was virtually useless too, and my dad had to physically go to one of their offices last Monday to settle the issue.

that called you? My phone’s not near me at the moment (omg a rarity) but it was the delivery person for Reggy’s croissants. GPS has always hated our street and has never been able to identify it, so whenever anyone in the family makes a purchase for delivery we’re bound to get a call or two from the rider assigned to our order to ask for directions.

you texted? It was the same delivery guy. He had tried to call me but I was in a meeting that I couldn’t get out of, so I explained to him I could only text. I also gave him a Waze link containing the exact positioning of our house so that he could set it up on his phone.

that sent you a text? I think it was just my mobile services provider sending out some random promotional text. Idk, I never open those.

you kissed? Gabie.

that kissed you? Also her. I don’t plan on kissing anyone new any time soon.

you yelled at? I haven’t recently been in a situation where I’ve had to yell at anyone...I do slightly raise my voice a lot on video call meetings just so I’m sure everybody on the call can hear me. That’s the closest I’ve got.

that yelled at you? My mom, when she was being a real drama queen about MY money a couple of weeks ago.

you watched a movie with? I watched it by myself, but I remember calling my ex for comfort because the movie was a little scary and creepy. I also remember how bothered she sounded that I was calling her, as if I was a huge burden, so...there’s that. Y’all do me a favor and be with someone who gets delighted when you call instead of making you feel like you’re a waste of space okie?? Good

you ate dinner with? My family. My dad laksa for dinner, which was perfect because I had been watching 2 Days 1 Night yesterday and the cast members kept eating ramyeon, which made me develop a serious craving for noodles all day.

you were in a photo with? I think it had been a family selfie. My family and I were about to leave the accommodation we stayed at in Tagaytay, and my mom wanted a final photo in the living room before we stepped out.

you took a photo of? My employer sent out heart-shaped red velvet cakes for all of us for Valentine’s Day, so I took a photo of it with Cooper in the background to share to the work group chat. I definitely did not expect any goodie sendout considering I never viewed Valentine’s as a special day even when I was still in a relationship, so it was a nice surprise to receive. 

you went to a concert with? Oh my Paramore show was a solo date. Gabie did come to the arena with me and I also drove Denise, Erycka, and Leigh, but the three of them settled for a different section somewhere farther out given how they already did VIP seats for Paramore’s previous concert in 2013. It was my turn to have a front-row seat and since I didn’t know anyone who was as big of a fan as I was or was willing to shell out ₱7,000 for a VIP seat, I went by myself.

you lied to? I think it was Bea, my manager? She scheduled a quick call last Tuesday just to do a check-in with me, and she was asking how I was. Of course I had to tell her I was doing fine, which is never completely true for a lot of people, I think. I didn’t want her to ask me to open up anyway, so saying I was fine was the easy way to go.

you invited somewhere? I recently saw a music clip of a certain song that’s played a lot in bars, so I tagged my entire college barkada telling them we should go back to TK soon, at least when the lockdown and the pandemic subside considerably.

you dated? Gabie.

you dumped? It worked the other way around.

you rejected? I mean, I guess I technically rejected the girl Mik told me was interested in me. We never met since Mik refused to tell me her name or show a photo, but I informed him I wasn’t planning on talking with anyone soon so she can stop thinking I’m available.

you held hands with? Angela.

you hugged? Andi, before they got out of my car since we were parting ways for the evening.

you let cry on your shoulder? This hasn’t happened in a very long time. Most likely Gabie, but this would’ve been around at the start of 2020 when we could still see each other regularly.

that let you cry on their shoulder? Figuratively, Angela and Andi.

you bought a gift for? I got a weekend accommodation for my family, but it was really meant for my dad for his 50th birthday.

you wished a happy birthday? Hans.

that disappointed you? I was more annoyed than disappointed, but it was some random Fil-Am who was being ignorant at the Subtle Filipino Traits Facebook group. That community gives me a huge migraine most days because of Fil-Ams who continue to romanticize the ~beauty~ of the country whilst completely ignoring the socio-political trainwreck here, but the group is kind of the place to be for Filipinos so I can’t see myself leaving it either.

that stayed over at your place? They didn’t stay over for the night but Angela and Hans did a surprise visit to my house a few days after Christmas.

that let you crash at their place? Gab. I used to always crash at her place when I’ve had a few drinks.

that made you angry? Idk man, can I give Mark Zuckerberg as an answer? HAHAHA I went on Facebook first thing today and the first thing I saw was a Facebook Memory, and it was a photo of me and Gabie at Athenna’s birthday party four years ago. I got irritated at first until I remembered that we were both tagged in the post, which means it would most likely show up on her feed as a Memory as well. Just to humor my petty ass, I kinda hope the memory would make her sad, wherever she is; but otherwise seeing the Memory pop up didn’t make me sad or bothered anymore so that’s a win for meee.

that complimented you? Leah, my employer’s CEO. She did a check-in call with me recently to get to know me better, so one of the first things she asked was a list of the clients I handle. I happen to be in the team that works with the company’s more big-league clients, so once she heard the brands she told me I must be a good enough worker to be assigned those clients. It meant a lot and it still does.

whom you complimented? Bea. I just let her know how helpful she’s been with me considering I’m a fresh graduate on her first job in a work-from-home setup in the middle of a global pandemic.

you thanked? A supplier I’m currently in contact with, for work.

that thanked you? The said supplier thanked me back.

you saw, in person? My sister.

that bought you something? Dad bought siopaos for us yesterday.

that made you laugh? The cast of 2 Days 1 Night, from when I was watching the show last night.

that you said you loved? I don’t remember. I think it was Kate since she helped me out with a favor.

that said they loved you? Hannah.

you flipped off? I haven’t whipped out the finger in a while, come to think of it.

you made a silly face at? Not a person, but Cooper.

that drove you somewhere? Dad was the driver for our Tagaytay trip.

WHAT was the last thing you...

touched? Aside from my keyboard, my vape pen.

threw? Cooper’s bowling pin squeak toy. He’s gotten a lot better at catching things with his mouth, so I’ve been throwing it a lot at him to continue training him.

ate? A caramel croissant.

drank? Coffee.

found stuck in your teeth? Haven’t had this happen to me in a while.

cooked? I’ve never tried cooking anything.

baked? Idk, maybe cookies 873984732842 years ago.

threw away/tossed out? The packet for the sauce that came with the siopao my dad bought.

bought? I made a purchase for 20 bags for a work thing, but only because I was assigned to do the whole correspondence with the supplier. My manager was the one who sent over the payment when the purchase was confirmed.

sold? I don’t think I’ve ever tried selling anything before.

took a photo of? Cooper hahaha. I had been dancing to a song and he was staring at me.

were frustrated with? Our internet provider when they cut off the connection last weekend.

broke? I’m not sure if I can say I broke it, but the adaptor for my phone charger finally gave up on me the other day. I’ve taken to borrowing my sister’s for now, since she says she “doesn’t use it a lot” anyway.

spilled? Some drops of coffee spilled out of my mug when I dumped several ice cubes in it.

tripped on? Kimi. He follows me evvvvvvverywhere, so I bump into him at least once a day.

kicked? I’m not really sure.

put batteries in? Haven’t had to use batteries in a while, either.

turned on? The Bluetooth on my laptop.

turned off? The electric fan last night since I found it loud.

wrote? Other than my answers to this survey, I’ve also been talking with Angela this morning over Messenger.

wrote on? Other than my phone/laptop, my journal.

cleaned? My glasses.

stuck up your nose??? My finger when a nostril itched recently.

WHERE was the last place you...

dined at? Ramen Nagi.

ordered something to go? I don’t do takeout deliveries, but the last thing I got for delivery was banh mi and iced Vietnamese coffee last week.

bought something? Facebook Marketplace.

cried? In the living room. I came across that viral video of a guy proposing to her girlfriend at a Taylor Swift concert, when he knelt at the exact moment Taylor sang “He knelt to the ground and pulled out a ring” from Love Story. It was such a sweet, classy, non-cringey public proposal and I allowed myself to be swept away by the cheesiness of it all, haha.

felt uncomfortable? Dining room table. I was sharing a story to my parents about work involving a guy and my mom asked me if I had a crush on him. My dad kind of snorted and said, “Her? Crush on a guy?” which told me he knew something was up re: my preferences lmao. They’ve never heard anything from me yet, so that made me feel awkward and I most especially didn’t want my mom to catch on to the question and suddenly put me in the hot seat.

drove to? Other than back home, I last drove to UPTC.

had an appointment at? Google Meet, hahaha.

went on vacation? Tagaytay. 

hung out with a friend? Andi and I went to a Korean barbecue place at UPTC (again), but we also drove to UP after just to revisit the good old days of being in campus.

bought clothes? H&M in Feliz.

spent more than you had planned? Ramen Nagi. I had a couple of add-ons in my meal and I didn’t know their service fee was going to be quite high, so my final bill ended up being slightly more than the budget I planned out for that day.

saw a band/singer/musician perform? Late 2019. My ex and I stopped by a jazz bar and there was a live band playing.

WHEN was the last time you...

told someone 'I love you'? Last Friday.

cried? Last night.

laughed? This morning. Cooper was being silly around me and my dad, as always. This time he was unusually behaved when we let him out, and the bizarreness of it all made us so unsettled we ended up laughing.

left your home? Last Sunday. I might go out later, too.

drank a soda/pop? Early last year. There was Coke being served at an org event, and since I felt thirsty and there was no drinking fountain around I just said fuck it and drank the soda.

made your bed? Last night when I left my room to settle in the living room.

visited a doctor? May last year.

went to the emergency room? Other than when 23 years ago when I was born, I’ve never been brought to the emergency room.

kissed someone? September.

hugged someone? Mid-January.

prayed? Six years ago. Or maybe five; I can’t really tell when exactly I made it a point to stop for good.

worked out? Around a week ago. I’m thinking if I should keep at it or if I should just stop, seeing as I’m not willing to give up my favorite foods anyway lmao.

made a phone call? I tried to make a phone call to our internet provider last weekend.

answered a phone? The other evening when the landline rang.

had an argument? Two weeks ago, instigated by my mom as usual.

played a video game? I think 2-3 weeks ago when I got in the mood to play the Switch.

played a card game? Safe to say at least a couple of years ago.

played a board game? November when we suffered a power outage for two days and had nothing to do at home.

rode a bike? LOOOOOOOOL March. The lockdown had just started and I made plans to learn how to ride a bike, but those plans fell through as soon as they began.

fell on your butt? This doesn’t happen often.

took a shower? Last night.

took a bubble bath? I can’t even remember anymore; this is a rare occasion for me.

watched TV? I last watched a TV show in general last night, but I last watched something on an actual television last Sunday when my family watched a Sunday mass livestream.

saw a movie at a theater? December 2019.

ate fast food? I got Bonchon for my family last December, if I remember correctly. My dad had done a huge favor for me and I asked what I can do to repay it, and he said to just buy dinner for the 5 of us for that evening.

ordered a pizza? Last month.

made someone laugh? I’m not sure if I had made her laugh in real life, but Angela and I had a humorous conversation over chat earlier this morning.

sang? Few minutes ago.

played a musical instrument? Absolutely no clue.

read a book? Couple of weeks ago when my employer sent me this book on PR that I was asked to read in preparation for my meeting with Leah.

drove a car? Last Sunday.

went swimming? Think it may have been my Nasugbu trip with Angela, Sofie, and Gabie back in August 2019.

got a sunburn? Idk man, when I was 8? I stopped getting sunburns as I got older.

went to church or temple? The last Sunday in March before the lockdown started.

went shopping? I did my final around of Christmas shopping last month for friends I still had to give presents to.

drank alcohol? Sometime last month after my work shift, following back-to-back meetings with my least favorite client.

smoked a cigarette? Feb last year, I think. I don’t buy cigarettes of my own and I’m also a lot more watchful of my cigarette usage, so I haven’t been able to smoke since I haven’t been around a crowd who does. I mostly vape.

threw up? I last felt like throwing up back in May, but I haven’t actualy thrown up in at least a couple of years now.

had a headache? Just this Thursday.

had a cold? No idea.

had the flu? It wasn’t strictly the flu, but I was last sick in May.

had your hair cut? March last year.

dyed your hair? Never done it.

laughed so hard that you cried? It’s happened in at least the past couple of weeks, I’m sure.

[iamartemisday]

Lokane, college au, meet cute, "wait, wait. say that again. please." :D

A/N: This is the last one I will do right now. Please do not send more. Thank you!

Jane checked her schedule. On Tuesday, she had Applied Mathematics at ten and then British Romanticism at twelve. At four, she’d have three full hours of Intro to Astrophysics. That class only met once a week, so she’d have to make all three of those hours count double. 

For the record, she was not an overachiever. Overachievers were people who greatly overestimated how much they could accomplish in a set amount of time and usually experienced massive burnout by the time the second semester rolled around. Jane, meanwhile, knew exactly how much she was capable, which was why she was only taking six classes and involved in two science clubs. Everything in moderation.

The student lounge was crowded today. In the first week of the new semester, Freshman from all over the world explored their temporary home and struggled to fit into the reality of college life. Jane could relate, this was way different from high school. There were no lockers, no bells, and the food in the cafeteria was actually worth eating. Seriously, this was one of the best Caesar salads she’d ever have. Tomorrow, she’d have to try the BLT. 

One thing that hadn’t changed, it seemed, were the cliques. A group of jock types was huddled around one of the mounted TVs shouting at a football game. Three girls had set up a mini-computer lab at the table by the door and barely said a word to each other as they typed. Another girl group on the couches giggled over the cute guy one of them saw in class. Jane listened in for a second and then went back to writing up her study schedule. There were fifteen weeks to go until the end of the semester, and she already felt like she was behind. In fact, maybe she should move this somewhere quieter. The last thing she needed right now was a distraction.

“Hello darling,” said a random guy with dark hair and green eyes as he sat down next to her. “Thank you for saving a seat for me.”

Jane stared at him. She blinked, but he was still there. “Uhh... say that again please?”

Smiling, he took her hand. “We should be going now. There should be a table free at our usual cafe.”

As skinny as he looked, his arms were like iron rods. Jane barely had time to gather her things before he was marching her out of the lounge and down the hall to the lobby. When the lounge was fully out of sight, he stopped turned to face her.

“I apologize for that. My name is Loki and that woman you saw is Lorelei.”

There were several women in the lounge from what Jane recalled. If she had to guess, he was talking about one of the giggly girls. “Ooookay.”

“She is obsessed with my older brother and has tried several times to win his heart, always to no avail as she is... put simply, a complete stalker.” Loki shrugged. “I happened to overhear her scouting you out for a plan to try and trick him into dating her.”

“How would that work?”

“I believe her logic is if she convinces you to pretend to like Thor and date him for a few weeks, he will become infatuated with you and so when you dump he will be devastated and then she can swoop in, dry his tears, and he will have no choice but to fall for her.”

Jane gawked at him. “That’s ridiculous.”

“I never said it was a smart plan,” Loki said. “Frankly, my brother's friends and I are exhausted of her and so we do whatever we can to foil her plans before they get off the ground. That was why I thought that pretending we are dating would throw her off your scent. Forgive me if I frightened you in any way.”

It didn’t occur to Jane to be scared until that very moment. The story he told was fantastic, like something out of a bad CW show. She couldn’t help but believe him, though. Maybe she was just a sucker for pretty blue eyes.

“Well, I hope you and your brother can keep away from her,” Jane said before a thought struck her. “Did she come to this school just to keep stalking you guys?”

“Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised.” 

Jane shook her head. College: so different and yet so similar. “Well, if you ever need me to fake being your girlfriend again to get rid of her, let me know.”

He laughed. “I would love to if I knew your name.”

Oh, right. Man, she was dumb today. “Jane Foster, nice to meet you.”

“You as well,” Loki said. “Now, I do feel like I owe you for the trouble. Might I buy you a coffee?”

She still had a schedule to finish, not to mention six different syllabi to go over before she went to bed tonight. For her, that could take hours. 

But what the hell?

“Yeah, I could for that.” 

And as they left the building together, Jane had a feeling she was going to like college much more than high school.

[dlwritings]

Got Your Six | Tom Holland | pt 8

series masterlist found here

general masterlist found here

pairing - mob!Tom x reader word count - 4,198 warnings - swearing, oral (f receiving), fingering, choking, m/f sex, dom!Tom

summary - A thunderstorm wakes (Y/N) up, and Tom decides to keep her company.

(previous) (next)

About three weeks passed, and things were going smoothly for the most part. Tom, Harrison, Harry, and Sam took turns accompanying us to work. Everyday when we got home, Tom and Harrison would help us train. Tom and I went to the shooting range on Fridays, and April was still unaware. It was all working really well.

But at the same time, it wasn’t. And there was only one reason it wasn’t working, and that was Tom.

Because I no longer hated Tom. I really, really liked Tom. Everything was so much easier when I hated him.

Now that we were no longer at each other’s throats, I saw how fun he actually was and how much he cared about the people around him. He was funny and witty, and we were able to keep up our banter without the malicious intent behind it.

Also, he was sexy. Had I mentioned that he was sexy? Had I mentioned that, when he wasn’t being an asshole, he was irresistibly, mouth-wateringly sexy? And he was never an asshole anymore. It was completely infuriating. If I wasn’t afraid of destroying his character development, I would’ve started being rude to him again. I just didn’t want to be the reason he was back to square one.

So, we got along well. And it was fun. And the six of us became really close.

If April and I were going to watch a movie in the living room before we went to bed, 99% of the time, the boys joined us. Harrison and April would cuddle up together on one side of the couch, and I would use one of the other boys as my pillow.

Of course I didn’t have a preference as to who I was using. 

I found out that Harrison loved Batman movies, Tom liked 90s comedies and any action film, Sam was a Star Wars fan, and Harry was a secret sucker for rom coms. Not only that, but we had bonfires two Fridays in a row, and April and I even dipped our toes in their pool from time to time. It felt so much like a vacation, I started to forget that there were people out to get us.

On the third Friday, we were all prepared for another bonfire, but Mother Nature had a different idea. It had been raining all week, and we were really hoping it would let up. While there were peaks of blue behind the clouds throughout the day, by the time the sun set, it was raining harder than it had been all week. Rainy weather seemed to make everyone lazy, because we all retreated to our rooms before midnight.

The minute the first rumble of thunder sounded, I knew I was a lost cause. It had been years since I had been capable of sleeping through a thunderstorm. The minute there was a slight boom, I knew my eyes wouldn’t shut until it was all over. At 22-years-old, nothing had changed.

By the time 1:00 rolled around, I was still awake. I decided to get out of bed and make some tea. Harry had been telling me that chamomile tea was his number one go-to drink when he couldn’t sleep. I figured there was no harm in trying it. I crept quietly into the kitchen, remembering quickly that I was the only bedroom on the main floor. As long as I didn’t drop any pots or pans, I was sure I wouldn’t wake anyone up. I started the kettle on the stove and stood on my tip-toes to get down a mug from the cupboard. As I was getting a teabag from the pantry, I heard someone coming down the stairs. I plopped the bag in my mug just as Tom walked into the room.

“Hey,” I said. “Did I wake you?”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said offhandedly. “The slightest noise gets me up. Think I’m paranoid.”

“I think that’s justifiable,” I said. There was a particularly loud rumble of thunder that made me jump and squeeze my eyes shut. The kettle whistled around the same time, so I reached to stop it.

“What, you afraid of thunder or something?” Tom asked, his voice teasing. I smiled softly and poured my tea, jumping again at the next crack in the sky. When I looked up at Tom, I saw that he looked a little concerned.

“You want the truth?” I said. He nodded, and I hesitated but decided to explain anyway. “When I think of storms, I think about my parents fighting.” I took a sip of my tea, hoping that Tom wouldn’t ask any questions, though I knew the statement was too vague to not warrant any further discussion. It had just been a long time since I told anyone about my parents. Now that I thought about it, maybe I never had.

“Why is that?” Tom asked. I pressed my lips into a tight line as I leaned up against the countertop.

“Wanna make some tea?” I asked him. Tom nodded and got himself some tea from the cupboard while I got him down a mug. The water was still hot, so he poured it without turning the stove back on. I spoke while he wasn’t looking at me.

“Growing up, my parents always fought during storms,” I said. “Like, it seemed like they saved every screaming match for a thunderstorm.”

“Why?” Tom asked, blowing on his drink as he brought it to his lips.

I shrugged. “I think they thought April and I couldn’t hear them. But we could. We would always fall asleep in the same bed, and I’d just hug her and talk to her to drown out my parents until she fell asleep. I’d stay awake until the storm was over. I think I was really waiting to hear the end of the argument. Sometimes I could make out what they were fighting about -bills mostly- but usually I just heard their voices. Like they weren’t even speaking our language.” I took another sip of my tea. “April got over it as we got older, but I guess I never really did. Now I just can’t sleep during storms.”

I jumped onto the countertop and winced at a rumble of thunder. Tom sat beside me. I needed to keep my mind off the storm, so I kept talking. I figured I was word-vomiting, but as long as Tom wasn’t going to protest, I was going to continue. “I think a lot of people see me and April and think we have these really lovely and cushy lives,” I said. “I’ve always felt that romanticizing people based on what you see on the surface is really toxic, but that’s what people do. They see us working at a cute bakery and laughing with our parents, and they think, Those girls must have it all, but we don’t. Like, we may not dress like it, but we don’t have money to toss around, you know? Any nice clothes we get came from garage sales or thrift shopping or presents for holidays from family. We live paycheck to paycheck, and I’ll be in debt from college for the rest of my life. And every meal April and I eat with our parents ends in a screaming match over something stupid. But that’s not what people see. They see this Instagram-ready cafe with the cute family and the peppy baristas.” I scoffed. “This picture that we paint of ourselves, these cute and bubbly people we both pretend to be, that’s just it. It’s pretend. They’re not real. At least mine isn’t.”

I shook my head and stared down at my mug. “April’s such a better person than I am. She always has been. People always liked her more, probably because she isn’t closed off and cold to strangers. She just trusts and loves with everything in her.” I took a sip of my tea before shaking my head again. “It’s naive.”

“Has it ever bit her in the ass?” Tom asked. “Being cute and bubbly instead of closed off and cold?”

I chuckled dryly. “Look at where we are now. This all happened just cuz she tucked her hair behind her ear and flashed Harrison a pretty smile and believed he was a normal person.”

Tom cracked a grin. “Fair enough.”

Thunder rumbled louder than it had before, and I almost spilled my drink because of it. I sighed and took another sip from my tea. I rested my head on Tom’s shoulder, and he put his cheek on the top of my head. “It’s weird to think about how we got here,” I told him.

“What do you mean?”

“I dunno,” I said. “Just, like, if you guys hadn’t come in that day, you know? We wouldn’t be here.”

“I hate putting it like that,” Tom admitted. I moved my head to look at him.

“Why?” I asked. Tom jumped off the counter and leaned against the island in front of me, then folded his arms across his chest. He stared down at his feet.

“Because I still think about how this is such a shitty situation for you to be in,” he said. “And everyday that you’re still here, I feel guilty that we walked into your shop and dragged you into this.” I furrowed my eyebrows and shook my head.

“Tom,” I said, kicking my foot out to hit his thigh so he’d look up at me. “I don’t want you to feel guilty about this anymore. I’m not mad that I’m here, and neither is April. We’re doing fine. I’ve learned a lot about life, and I think that’s super valuable. And come on-” I scoffed. “-I met you, right? And I learned that you can grow to like someone you used to hate in a matter of weeks.”

Tom stared at me for a moment, and it looked like there was a battle going on behind his eyes. Just as I opened my mouth to ask what was wrong, he took one step closer to me and took the mug from my hand, setting it on the counter. He put his hands on my knees and pushed them apart so he could stand between my legs. Then, he put his hands on my cheeks and kissed me.

I pushed him away almost immediately, shock going through my body. Tom didn’t say anything, just stood there breathing heavily through his nose. The shock wore off the longer I stared at his pink lips.

I gripped the back of his neck and brought him back in for a kiss. He growled against my lips, his teeth nibbling into my lower lip. I whimpered and tugged my fingers through his hair. “Fuck,” Tom moaned, pulling his lips away from mine. He grabbed my hair and tugged my head to the side, kissing my neck. He was leaving a mark, I knew, and his grip on my hair was tight. Rough. Dominant. Hot.

“Tom,” I moaned, threading my fingers in his hair again.

“What do you want, petal?” he asked.

“B-bedroom,” I stuttered. “Please. Please.”

“Love hearing you beg,” he said, his lips turning into a smirk against my skin. I didn’t say anything, just squeezed my eyes shut and whispered please to him again. He put his arms around my waist and threw me over his shoulder. I giggled a bit as he smacked my ass and carried me to his room. He dropped me onto the bed, and I pushed some hair away from my face as I smiled up at him. “Fuck,” Tom groaned, hanging his head as he hovered over me. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“What?” I asked, my smile dropping. “Like what? What did I do?”

“You’re so-” He cut himself off with a sigh. “-so different. So beautiful and good and honest and real, and I don’t want this to be the only time we do this, okay? I don’t, I never want to, to-” Tom’s hand balled into a fist as he pressed it into the mattress beside me, trying to compose himself. I frowned and furrowed my eyebrows, then brushed my fingers through his hair.

“What’s going on?” I asked. He clenched his jaw then licked his lips and sighed.

“I don’t want to just fuck you like I’ve fucked other girls,” Tom said. “I, I want to make you, make you feel good and kiss you and hold you, but it’s, it’s weird for me because I never do that.” He looked at me and pushed some hair away from my face. “But you make me want to be different,” he said.

“Is that a good thing?” I asked, taking his hand and kissing his palm

He laughed. “Yeah. I think it’s a good thing.” He leaned down to kiss me but pulled away before too long. “Now let me fuck you right.”

Tom started kissing my jaw, then down my neck. My chest was heaving as his fingers fumbled with the buttons of my sleep shirt. He got them all undone, and I sat up to take the shirt off and throw it across the room. Before he could do anything, I put my hands on the back of his neck and pulled him close to me. Our kiss was slow and full of tongues fighting for dominance. I sat up straighter and straddled his hips. Tom pulled his lips away from me and kissed down my chest, sucking one of my nipples into his mouth. I threaded my fingers in his hair and held his head close to me as I ground my hips against his. He pulled away from my chest with a pop and brought his lips back up to mine. I moaned into his mouth and scratched my nails against the back of his neck. He pulled away from me again and kissed along my jaw. “God, fuck me, Tom,” I moaned. I tugged at the waistband of his sweatpants and tried to tug them down his hips.

“No,” Tom said. His voice was commanding, so I stopped. “No, we’re gonna take our time. ‘M gonna make you feel so good, baby.” Tom pushed me off him, and I laid down on the bed looking up at him. He kissed me again, slowly and carefully. I whimpered as I felt one of his hands play with the hem of my sleep shorts. His hand slipped past the band and my underwear, and his fingers ran up my folds. I could feel him grin against my lips, and I let out a disappointed sigh as soon as he pulled away from me and brought his hands out of my pants. I watched as he sucked his fingers off and sent me a wink. “You taste lovely, petal,” he said, “and you’re already so wet for me.”

“T-Tom,” I breathed out. “Please. Can you, can you do something?”

“You know-” He chuckled. “-you’re so cute when you beg like that.” I wanted to say something else, but I was distracted when Tom hooked his fingers in the band of my shorts and panties and pulled them both down my legs. He threw them off to the side of the bed, then moved his body so his face was near my core. “God,” he almost moaned, “you smell like heaven.” I whined again and lifted my hips, trying to force him close to me. “Relax, relax, love,” he said. “I’ll take care of you.”

My head dug into the pillow as Tom started kissing my thighs. It had been so long since anyone went down on me, and I felt like I could cum just at the idea of it. “How bad do you want this?” he asked, sucking a mark on my thigh.

“So bad,” I whined. “‘S been so long.”

“How long?” he asked. “How long since someone’s eaten this pretty pussy?” He kept bringing his lips closer and closer to where I wanted them, but he kept leaving me disappointed.

“Too long,” I said. My eyes screwed shut as I felt his breath on my core. “Eyes on me baby.” I forced my eyes open and looked down at Tom. Just as fast, his eyelashes fluttered against his cheekbones as he looked back down at my core. Before I could beg him to touch me, he pressed his tongue flat against me and gave me a long lick. My hands went straight to his hair as he brushed his nose against my clit.

“Oh, shit,” I moaned. Tom grinned against me and started drawing shapes with his tongue. “Tom, please.” He pulled away from me, starting to leave sloppy wet kisses on my thighs again.

“What do you want, (Y/N)?” he asked, lightly biting my skin.

“Your, your fingers,” I said. Tom teased my cunt with his pointer finger, not quite moving it in all the way. I moved my hips to get closer to his hand, and he allowed his finger to slide in to his knuckles. He slid another finger in soon after and quickly brought his lips to my clit. He sucked it into his mouth, letting his tongue flick it over and over again. “Just like that, Tom,” I moaned, tugging at his hair again and digging my head back into the mattress. I jumped and looked down at him when he slapped my thigh.

“Eyes, on, me,” he said, emphasizing every word.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. I watched his every movement, relishing in the way his hair would tickle my thighs. “Tom,” I moaned as he curled his fingers to reach that spot. “I’m gonna come.” His fingers were relentless, and he kept swirling his tongue around my clit until I scratched my nails against his scalp and came. Tom didn’t move his face from between my legs until I rode out my high. He pretty much licked me clean before he gently kissed my thighs.

“Such a good girl,” he cooed, running his fingers up and down my legs. I hummed contently, and my eyes fluttered closed. He moved his body so that his knees were on either side of my legs, and he stroked my cheek to get me to open my eyes. “How much farther do you want to go, love?” he asked. “Because I’m not done if you’re not.”

“I’m not,” I said, shaking my head. I grabbed the back of his neck and pressed my lips to his again. He smiled against the kiss and pushed his tongue past my lips. I wrapped my legs around his hips and rubbed myself against him. He pulled away and nodded, then pulled his shirt over his head. I put my hands on his pecs and ran them down his stomach and to his joggers. He let me tug them past his hips and down his legs. His boxers quickly followed. I licked my lips and reached out for him, but he grabbed my wrists and pinned them to the bed.

“Let me get a condom,” he said. I nodded and watched him go into the bathroom. He came back a few seconds later with a foil. He got back onto the bed, and I took the foil from his hand, ripping it open with my teeth. Tom let out a heavy breath and watched as I rolled it onto his cock, pumping him a few times. He grabbed my wrist and pinned them to the bed again. He stared at me as he held his cock and brushed his tip along my folds. “Jesus,” he said, hanging his head. “Didn’t think I could get you anymore wet.” I almost started to beg him to do something, but he pushed himself into me and cut off anything I might’ve said. Instead, I moaned and squeezed my eyes shut. “Hey,” Tom said, slapping my cheek lightly and stopping his movements. My eyes fluttered open as I looked at him. “What have I said?”

“E-Eyes on you,” I stuttered.

“Right,” he said. “Eyes on me.” I nodded, and he finally bottomed out. He stayed that way for a moment before sliding out and slowly thrusting back in. He was fucking me slowly, pressing soft kisses across my neck as he did so. I forced myself to keep my eyes open, though the pleasure made me want to squeeze them shut again. I appreciated how slowly he was going. I felt cared about, but I hadn’t had sex in so long. I wanted to feel him everywhere.

“I, I, ah fuck,” I moaned. “Faster, Tommy.”

“What was that, darling?” Tom said, a smirk on his face.

“Please,” I whined. “You’re not gonna break me. Just, fuck, just go faster.”

“Did I hear you say Tommy?” he asked, nipping at the base of my throat.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Please, please, ah- fuck.”

“Please what?”

“Please-” I hummed as he stopped moving his hips. “Please, Tom, s-sir, boss, fuck, just please.”

“Jesus Christ,” Tom mumbled. He bit my shoulder, then kissed the skin softly. “Call me sir.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Okay…”

“Sir,” I said. “Okay, sir.”

“Good girl,” Tom cooed. I moaned loudly when Tom snapped his hips against me harder. “Is this what you wanted?”

“Y-yes, sir,” I said. “Fuck, I love it.” Tom chuckled and kissed up my throat until he pressed our lips together. He grabbed my thigh and kept me close to him. “Can, can you-” I cut myself off with a moan as he lifted my leg above his shoulder and pounded into me at a new angle.

“Can I what, doll?” he asked, his hair flopping in front of his forehead. I knew I wouldn’t be able to form a sentence, so I grabbed his hand and brought it up to my lips, sucking his fingers into my mouth. Tom moaned as I swirled my tongue around his fingers. I pulled them away with a pop and brought his hand down to where our bodies met so he could rub my clit.

“Yes, Tom,” I screamed, tugging my fingers through his hair. He gently pressed his hand against my throat, and my breathing started to get labored.

“What’s my name?” he asked.

“Fuck,” I swore. “Shit. Sir. It feels so good, sir.”

“Are you close?” he asked.

“Yes,” I whined. “Yes, I’m gonna come.”

“Come for me,” he said. “Wanna feel you squeeze my cock.” He replaced his hand with his lips and started kissing my neck. With one little nibble on my sweet spot, I came even harder than I had the first time. “Oh, shit,” Tom moaned. With a few more thrusts, Tom came as well, moaning against my neck. He let my leg fall back against the mattress and had to hold himself up so he didn’t fall against me. He gently laid on my chest, and I threaded my fingers through his hair. He peppered kisses against my breasts, and I slowly felt him soften inside me.

“Tom?” I said after a few moments had passed.

“Mm?” he hummed.

“I hate to do this to you, but I gotta go pee,” I told him. I felt him smile -his lips were still on my chest- before he pushed himself up and slid out of me. I sighed at the feeling and got out of bed, then walked over to the bathroom.

When I got back, Tom was still laying in bed, though he was under the covers now, so I assumed he had gotten rid of the condom. I was hesitant to join him in bed. I knew he had said all of the stuff about not wanting me to be like other girls, but there was a tiny part of me that wondered if he was just saying that to get into my pants.

As if sensing my debate, Tom -who had been looking at his phone- looked up at me. “There’s boxers in the top drawer,” he told me. “T-shirts in the one under that.” I thanked him, deciding that had cleared up whether or not I was staying or leaving. Once I had the clothes on, I joined him in bed. Tom locked his phone and snuggled more under the covers, then turned on his side to face me. I mirrored his position, and he chuckled and tucked a piece of hair behind my ear. “Sounds like the storm’s passed,” he said. I listened for a moment and could only hear the sound of heavy rain outside Tom’s balcony.

“Good,” I said, “cuz I’m tired.” Tom grinned and turned onto his back, putting one hand behind his pillow and one above my head. I adjusted myself so I was laying on his chest with an arm wrapped around his stomach and my legs tangled with his. He started playing with my hair, and I melted into his arms, feeling like I was fitting into a puzzle I had been in before. “Tom?” I asked, my voice piercing the quiet around us.

“Mm?”

“Have we done this before?”

Tom chuckled and pressed a kiss to the top of my head. “Goodnight, petal.”

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

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[raereview]

A Writer in Her Early Twenties Writing About Smoking Cigarettes and Feeling Inferior? …Groundbreaking

an essay I wrote in November of 2020 as I was nearing graduation from Columbia College-Chicago

You know when a bug gets stuck on its back and its little legs start flailing and it  frantically rocks back and forth trying to flip back over? That’s how I’ve been feeling recently.

I started smoking cigarettes again to calm me down because smoking weed always makes me have an unwanted existential crisis. In high school, I loved smoking cigarettes because it made me feel like an adult. I dreamed of being someone like Carrie Bradshaw; smoking cigarettes at parties and being so terribly interesting that I only had to write one column a week to pay for a lavish lifestyle. That dream was only amplified when an English teacher wrote on one of my assignments in red ink that she wanted to read my memoir one day. After that, I smoked cigarettes my friends would steal from their stepdads, while I waited impatiently to turn 18 so I could be an adult, leave my hometown, and become a real writer.

Now I’m 21 and can legally buy cigarettes in the city of Chicago. I bought a pack of American Spirits two days after the 2020 Presidential Election because my anxiety was getting high and I couldn’t. I tell myself they are better than regular cigarettes— even though it clearly says on the package they aren’t. Just holding a cigarette is sex to me (I never describe things as sex, but my first Creative Writing professor used to, and she sounded so fucking cool when she did). I always feel dizzy after the first couple hits. I can’t imagine that’s normal. I know that weed is probably better for my body, but I like that no one judges me for not inhaling correctly like they do with weed. I can let the smoke barely touch my lungs before I puff it out of my lips, and no one says a goddamn thing. And so maybe it’s just the action of smoking, but I always feel calmer by the time I put out the cigarette, leaving behind that black mark and bits of ash.

On the 13th of November, Phoebe Bridgers and Maggie Rogers released a cover of “Iris” by Goo Goo Dolls because Bridgers tweeted that she would do so if Biden won the election. I didn’t recognize the song based off the title, but after a quick google search, I remembered hearing it on the radio growing up. It’s got one of those choruses that feels like it was written to be screamed at the top of your lungs in the car with the windows rolled down. I paid $1.50 for the song on Bandcamp (the proceeds went to Fair Fight), then I grabbed my pack of cigarettes, and went out to my back porch to listen to it. I’d barely been able to get out of bed all week, but I knew the cover needed my full attention because I recently became a “stan” of Phoebe Bridgers.

For a while I felt as if Phoebe was someone I knew through a friend of a friend; we ran in the same circles, but never really crossed paths. I adore Hayley Williams and Phoebe��s vocals were on my favorite song on her new album, most of the music I listen to is indie and makes you want to cry which is how you could describe her music, and her lowercase tweets always showed up on my timeline. I knew I’d become acquainted with her eventually, I just wanted to be ready; I had a premonition she’d change my life. I wanted us to fall into each other at the perfect moment.

Sometime in late June or early July, I was laying on the futon in my sister’s spare bedroom, staring at my phone in the darkness while everyone was asleep. The quiet nights of West Texas creep me out when I’ve gone months in Chicago without a moment of silence. I don’t remember what I was initially looking for on Spotify when her solo, sophomore album Punisher came up on the “recommended” section. I hit play because it felt like Spotify was a friend trying to set me up with her for the millionth time, telling me to just trust them and to meet her. It felt like the perfect moment, spilling our guts under the covers, “What if I told you I feel like I know you, but we never met?”

By “Moon Song” and “Chinese Satellite” I was silently weeping, trying not to wake up my nephews in the next room. Punisher made me feel introspective and existential, and the record almost gave me the same floating, panic feeling that weed gives me (but it’s cool when she does it). The strings from “Graceland Too” and “Savior Complex” swam inside my bloodstream and lifted me off the futon, off the part of Texas that I suspect she writes about hating.  I was 16 when I had my first weed-induced existential crisis. My friends drove me around town in an attempt calm me down and I kept asking them if I was dead; Punisher feels like the soundtrack to that car ride. Receiving an impressive 8.7/10 on Pitchfork, the publication’s Sam Sodomsky describes her songwriting on the album as “candid, multi-dimensional, slyly psychedelic, and full of heart.” There are moments as a writer where a line makes me mad because of how well it described something I have yet to put words to, and Bridgers made me furious when she sang on the final track “I Know the End”: “When I get back I’ll lay around Then I’ll get up and lay back down Romanticize a quiet life There’s no place like my room.” It’s so simple, but it perfectly described the way I can get so anxious that I spend most of my days in bed, convincing myself I’ll never not feel this way.

That’s at least how I’d describe my recent state of constant anxiety. I know it started before the election, but constantly checking news sites seemed to amplify everything. I think the thing I have been most anxious about (personally, not politically) is the fact that I’m moving back home to my hometown after I graduate next month. I finally became an adult, but I will be graduating with my Bachelor of Arts degree in Creative Writing, and I have no job prospects and no memoir in the making. I try to remain optimistic, but the catastrophic thinking my brain does is very convincing and tells me that if I can’t find a job in my field that I’m a bad writer, and if I’m a bad writer I’ll never be understood, and if I’ll never be understood I should just quit writing now, and if I quit writing then I should just lay in bed and not go to my zoom classes. It’s a long series of pointless, self-deprecating “and if’s”, but once they start it feels like telling yourself that you’re only going to smoke a couple cigarettes, and then you end up going through a whole pack in a few days and all you’re left with is regret and a headache. So, during that week of bed-ridden anxiety, I was thankful that my new love for Bridgers was stronger than my imposter syndrome. If I was doomed to be misunderstood, I wanted to listen to a writer who I feel like I understand.

When I went outside to listen the song, I quickly remembered that it was November in Chicago and my fingers shoved themselves deeper into my jacket sleeves. I managed to peak them out just enough to light a cigarette and hit play on the song. I was sure I looked very dramatic to the men doing construction on the apartment next door: a girl in her 20’s, smoking with her headphones in, staring off into the distance. The cover initially sounds more stripped and melancholic than the original, just Bridgers light vocals and an acoustic guitar. My legs were already shivering, but all the hairs on my body stood up higher when Rogers came in and their voices molded together. I don’t know her music, but the twang in Maggie’s voice that carries the second verse was comforting to my southern roots. I took a long drag when she sang “When everything feels like the movies, yeah you bleed just to know you're alive.” If I didn’t know better, I would have thought this cover was the original.

“Iris” is a song I’ve always known all the words to, but I had never really listened to the lyrics. The song was written by Goo Goo Doll’s John Rzeznik for the movie City of Angels (1998) staring Nicholas Cage. Rzeznik told Dan MacIntosh of Songfacts that when he wrote the song he was inspired by Cage’s situation in the film and thought “Wow! What an amazing thing it must be like to love someone so much that you give up everything to be with them.” Phoebe Bridgers’ songwriting feels like it comes from the same universe as “Iris”, specifically her song “ICU”. Both songs could technically be described as love songs, but I feel that a disservice to both.

They differ from traditional love songs because write about it in a realistic way, almost as if the thesis of both is “I know everything is awful and we could hate each other one day, but I want to be with you anyways.” A line from the chorus of “Iris” almost says this exactly, but far more eloquently, “When everything's made to be broken, I just want you to know who I am,” and then verses repeat this sentiment of knowing the love could end, but wanting the love anyways. Bridgers’ songwriting in “ICU” comes at a relationship with the same approach. The verses describe things she thinks could complicate or end the relationship (the other person’s family, someone falling out of love, self-sabotage). Regardless, the refrain keeps repeating, “But I feel something when I see you”. All this to say that when Bridgers sings Rzeznik’s lyrics, they feel as if they are her own.

The Goo Goo Dolls must have also thought Phoebe would do the song justice as their twitter account replied to Bridger’s original tweet a few days after Biden was announced the projected winner, saying “We’re waiting…” with the gif of Judge Judy motioning “hurry up”. When I read or hear really good writing, I selfishly question if writing is even actually what I’m meant to be doing… if it was something that should have stayed a hobby, or a poorly constructed daydream of becoming Carrie Bradshaw. 

Recently, I wrote a paragraph about one of my favorite albums with the intention of writing a whole essay about it. However, after that I got stuck. Every time I tried starting the next sentence, I hit the backspace button until it was gone. I spent two whole days watching interviews with the artist, reading reviews of the album, listening to the whole record on repeat for hours, and I couldn’t get anything more than that paragraph. The words simply would not come to me. Moments like that, combined with rejection emails from literary magazines or hearing Bridgers sing lines that take my breath away, I wonder if I should keep fueling my love for something that will always love someone else more or if I should quit?

I listened to the cover of “Iris” on repeat until my cigarette was out. The big tree in my backyard is barren because of the new season, and so now more of my neighborhood is visible. It was around 4p.m. and the sun was already starting to set thanks to daylight savings (until I wrote that sentence, I didn’t think to consider my anxiousness and my need to stay in bed all day could also be attributed to seasonal depression). I’ve always been obsessed with sunrises and sunsets. I know I probably write about them too much: how they make the whole world “glow” orange, the transitions of the colors in the sky, how they always represent an end or a beginning. My hometown has the best sunsets and sunrises: the land is so flat you can see all the way to the horizon, there are no clunky buildings blocking your view. I thought maybe this sunset would spark inspiration in me, so turned to go toward the edge of my porch to see more of it, and for a second I looked at the windowsill I rested my lighter and cigarettes on.

Lying there was a fly stuck on its back. Before they fixed the insolation, our apartment was infested with so many flies that all summer the surfaces of my home were perpetually covered in fly guts. The fly’s little body twitched frantically as it tried to push itself over. I felt pity for the fly even though others of its kind spent the warmer months buzzing in my ear and making me want to move. As I watched the insect, I realized that my anxiety doesn’t feel like drowning or spiraling or falling. It feels like flailing— like a bug stuck on its back trying desperately to get right side up again. It’s kind of pathetic how much it feels like the end of the world. I might not be the first person to think of that, but the metaphor came to me so clearly that it took my breath away. Quickly, I used my lighter to flick the fly back onto its legs. We stared at each other for a moment. I know flies don’t have facial expressions, but I swear, it looked confused. I thought maybe it heard horror stories about me from its friends about the sweaty girl who kills them with rolled up newspaper and wondered why I helped it. Finally, it turned from me and crawled away in the opposite direction.

That fly made me like a god, but more importantly, it made me feel like a writer. I found the words again. Relating to an insect isn’t exactly Carrie Bradshaw or Phoebe Bridgers, but I was excited. I immediately ran inside and started this essay. My frozen fingers started to warm up as I typed everything out. It felt like writing and I were a married couple who had sex for the first time in months; we got our spark back. And I know writers aren’t supposed to wait for inspiration to start writing, and I know this doesn’t make me as good as Phoebe Bridgers, and I know I still don’t have any job offers, and I know I didn’t cure my anxiety but writing this felt really good.

When I wrote this essay, someone I showed it to said they “got my angst”, but not my love for writing. Maybe that’s because I don’t always love writing in the explosive, epic way I sometimes think I should? I love writing with the kind of love that I’m told is in good marriages; the love is a choice. There are days when I can’t stand a word I put on the page, but there are also the days where I find perfect metaphors for sunsets or anxiety or bugs or Phoebe Bridgers. There are days I lay in the warmth of someone else’s words as if they were the sun. There are days where I can’t stand go to class after turning an essay in because I don’t want people to associate the person on the page with the person sitting across the room from of them. However, even on days when I can’t stand writing or being a writer, I still wake up, put on my fake glasses that make me feel like an intellectual, I grab my New Yorker tote, I write silly lyrics I think of on the train, I read someone else’s work and remind myself they had 20 drafts of this I’ll never see, I reread my own work and see if any lines make me catch my breath, and I write.

I write because I still have the desire to be understood. I write to try and understand why I can’t stop loving it even when I hate it. I write because I fear one day the inferiority will be too much and I won’t wake up and choose to still love writing.

I still listen to Iris on repeat because the lyrics are as painfully relatable as they are catchy. At its core, the song is asking someone to understand. I think that’s what all I want, understanding. I want to know that someone else feels the same way I do about sunsets, or Carrie Bradshaw, or Punisher, or smoking cigarettes to look cool. If I write my truth, maybe someone will understand? Alexander Chee wrote in his How to Write an Autobiographical Novel that “To write is to sell a ticket to escape, not from the truth, but into it.” Maybe that’s why I don’t love being high because I feel like I am trying to escape the truth? Maybe that’s why I love Phoebe Bridgers’ songwriting and writing in general because it makes me feel like I am trying to escape into the truth? Maybe if I can make it to the truth, I’ll be understood? 

Maybe I’ll understand?

Sources: Bridgers, Phoebe. Lyrics to “Punisher.” Genius, 2020, genius.com/albums/Phoebe-bridgers/Punisher. Sodomsky, Sam. “Phoebe Bridgers: Punisher.” Pitchfork, Pitchfork, 22 June 2020, pitchfork.com/reviews/albums/phoebe-bridgers-punisher/. Rzeznik, John. “Goo Goo Dolls – Iris.” Genius, 7 Apr. 1998, genius.com/Goo-goo-dolls-iris-lyrics. MacIntosh, Dan. “John Rzeznik of Goo Goo Dolls.” ShieldSquare Captcha, 12 June 2013, www.songfacts.com/blog/interviews/john-rzeznik-of-goo-goo-dolls. Chee, Alexander. How to Write an Autobiographical Novel. Bloomsbury, 2019.