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writers-hes · 1 year

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All Things End

You always knew Tommy as the cheerful boy who took care of you. He always knew you as the smart girl that he visited by the docks. The daughter of a prostitute, the son of a deadbeat father; a soldier who protected his country; a whore who protected him; a gangster who controlled Brimingham; and now, a wife. War changes people, you just didn’t realize that war could change you both. (angst, depictions of abuse, poverty, prostitution, canon-typical themes, death, war, time jumps, depictions of mental illness, and a toxic marriage)

A/N: This whole fic was inspired by Hozier’s latest releases; Nth/Unknown, All Things End, Francesca, and Eat Your Young. I recommend listening to the album before or after you read this. This dedicated to everyone who reblogged the last chapter. Thank you for the love; it means the world.

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PART ONE: Toy Horses Outside the Brothel

BIRMINGHAM, 1914

You’ve been inconsolable since the Shelby brothers left. Everyone can see how different you were ever since they left. The Shelby’s reached out to you—but you didn’t like going to Watery Lane. You begged Polly to remove the Blinders that were supposed to watch you and she agreed after a while. It wasn’t the same without Tommy protecting you. You didn’t have the strength to face them, to go to their house and pretend like it was all okay.

“Angel, I’ve missed you,” he sighed into your hair. “Did you miss me?”

“Of course, I do, Simon,” you told him. “How are you? It’s been a while since you last saw me. You don’t like me anymore?”

“You know that I could never forget about you, darling,” he said. “I have a gift for you,”

“Really?” you asked, eyes hopeful. “What is it?”

Simon smiled, fishing a velvet jewellery box out of his pocket. He opens it and you gasp. A pair of sapphire earrings.

“I have to start dressing you up when I take you to London,” he says. “You’ll wear it for me?”

“I’ll wear it,” you confirm. You fixed your hair up in a faux bun. “Will you put it on me, Simon?”

“Of course,” he says, doing what you asked. “I’m fixing everything for us,”

“For us?” you asked, brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I told you that I’ll show you the world, didn’t I?” he asked, grasping your jaw softly to make you look up at him. “I’m taking you away from this shit hole.”

“We’ll stay in Birmingham?” you asked, voice wavering. Fuck. What do you do now?

“No, we won’t,” he shook his head. “I have a mansion in London waiting for us. Why would I want to live here?”

“But…”

“But what? Are you not thankful that I’m showing the whole world? I thought I was your hero?” he asked, his hand over yours.

“You are!” you said, inching closer. “You are. But I have friends here,”

“We can visit them,” he says dismissively. “Anytime you want. Or they can visit us, you know? Once you’re mine, you’ll have everything you want on your fingertips,”

“Why are you so nice to me?” you asked.

“Because you’re my Angel. The most beautiful girl I’ve ever laid eyes on. You make me want to take care of you,” he says. “I love you. You love me too, right?”

“Of course,” you lied. “Of course, I do.”

Polly and Ada liked to visit your house every now and then. They said that it makes them forget all about Watery Lane. Over the times you’ve spent here, the house was fully in bloom. You’d buy plants and some fresh flowers to keep in a vase. There was always a pot of water ready to be heated for tea. You hated your job but this freedom, your own house…it sometimes made everything worth it.

“Shit, love. Your rich bastard must be buttering you up,” Polly says, helping herself on some tea. “Don’t think I didn’t notice the way you wore those sapphire earrings. You like him?”

“No,” you shook your head. “He has some of his men guard me…I’m afraid that he’ll stop showing if I stop wearing these heavy earrings.”

“Waiting for…”

“It’s hard,” you said. “I don’t go to the brothel anymore. Simon forbade me to work there after he gave me this. He said he’s fixing up things in London.”

“Do you want to leave?” Ada asked, looking at you.

“No,” you swallowed. “I’m thankful for…for being here. Not having to work anymore and just living comfortably but the price that I’m paying for it…”

You wanted to be there when Tommy comes back. You wanted to be the one to kiss him the first time you see him out of that train. But if you left…if you didn’t wait like you promised, what good would that be on the end of things? You wanted to see how life with Tommy plays out but what would you in the meantime? Where would you go?

“You have to choose what you’re willing to sell, then. You can’t live like this if you won’t string that rich bastard along. You won’t have to leave if you still work at the brothel.” Polly said. “Did you at least…think about it?”

“He said I could visit…or you could visit,” you replied, looking at anywhere but them. “But…but…I want to be here,”

“What if he doesn’t come back? This war…war changes people. Would you really toss your entire life away for a man in the war? I’m supposed to be on Tommy’s side, but I don’t want you missing out on life just because you're waiting for him,” Polly said. She’s always been practical, and she was…right. But you desperately wanted to see him before anything else. Still, Tommy and his brothers might never come back. If you turned down Simon’s proposal, you’ll be the town pariah. You could be wasting a good life away for Tommy Shelby.

“Pol,” Ada hissed but her aunt only smoked her cigarettes.

“All things end, darling. Maybe whatever you have with Tommy has run its course,” she exhaled, clouds of smoke entering your lungs, closing in on you. All things end. All things end.

LONDON, 1915

“I can’t believe I’m going to be married today,” you whispered. Your voice betrayed you, wavering slightly. “Fuck,”

“Hey, you can still stop the wedding,” Ada replied, stopping the work that she was doing on your veil. It was an expensive one, it cost more than your home in Birmingham. You never let that go, asking Ada to take care of it while you were gone. “We can run away,”

“I’m already here,” you nodded. “I want to…I want to see Tommy.” Your face was crestfallen, heart drumming in your chest because you never imagined your wedding to be like this. You were picking on your nailbeds again, nevermind the lacquer that coloured your nails. You were getting married in the most expensive place in London. Flowers hung from the ceiling; pearls lined your wedding dress. The sapphire earrings hung from your ears like albatrosses. The diamond ring on your finger demanded attention, a big rock on a silver band embedded with smaller diamonds. You never imagined being married like this. You always thought that you’d marry in the countryside, a nice flowy gown that you borrowed, wildflowers, and dancing. Not like this…surrounded by other businessmen, rich families who never gave a shit about you until you married Simon.

“You’re getting married but you’re unhappy. This should be your day,” Ada said, ensuring that nothing was out of place. “You’re the most beautiful bride I’ve ever seen in my life.”

You smiled tightly. You should be thankful—ecstatic. You should be happy. So many girls dreamed of this. A fairytale wedding. The war was getting worse but not for you, not for Simon. In any case, Simon relished in the war, it brought him more money. You hated yourself for marrying him today when Tommy was most probably out there, fighting for his life.

Were you to blame for marrying Simon, though? It’s been a year and Tommy has never sent you a letter. All the letters you’ve sent were never replied to. It saddened you at first because his family would have something to look for, but you were left in the dust. You never brought that matter to light, maybe Tommy didn’t want to talk to you.

It hurts to be forgotten by the person you loved most. The only person who ever truly knew you. It hurt you to realise that for him, you were forgettable, replaceable. It’s like all the years you spent together were nothing. Maybe it was spite mixed with sadness and desperation that made you accept Simon’s proposal last year. Polly was right,—all things end.

Walking to the altar with Johnny to give you away was something else. Simon was kind enough to let the Shelby’s come to the wedding. He provided them with rooms to stay at a hotel. You should have been happy but the dryness in your mouth says otherwise. His family were there, judging you for being a prostitute; judging him for marrying someone so penniless.

Simon’s smile was genuine, at least. He was waiting for you, a bundle of nerves. When you reach him, he thanks Polly. Taking your hand, he brings you to the ordainer and the wedding starts.

The reception of the wedding was in your new mansion in London. A real estate treasure with a little bit of plush green land. Your husband had a professional come in to decorate the garden—you never knew that a job like that existed.

“This house is so big!” Finn said, after he ran to you. He was playing with the other kids. “You’d let me visit you?”

“Of course, Finn.” you said, a smile on your face. “But you have to be with Ada or Polly,”

“Okay,” he says, a toothy grin. “Maybe I can bring Tommy too when he comes back.”

“Yeah,” you nod. “Maybe…” Tommy. Tommy. Tommy. Would he appear if you called him in front of a mirror thrice? You just wanted to see him.

Simon comes to you and Finn.

“Hi, Finn,” he greets. “How are you?”

“Hi,” he says sheepishly, hiding behind your gown. “I’m good. Thanks for letting me come,”

“My wife really wanted you guys here and I really needed to see who’s the famous Finn Shelby,” he said.

“I was telling Y/N about how my brother, Tommy and I can visit sometime,” he said. You visibly tense at the mention of Tommy, Simon notices. You’ve talked about Tommy before. Tommy Shelby…

That night, after consummating your marriage, Simon asked.

“Who’s Tommy? I know who he is but what did he do?” Caressing your naked back, he pressed again. “Finn was telling me about his brother, and it made you uncomfortable.”

“He’s no one,” you lied, looking up at him through your lashes. “You shouldn’t worry about him,”

“Are you sure? I don’t want you feeling uncomfortable…if he’s making you uncomfortable, I’ll have him dealt with.”

“No!” you cleared your throat. “You don’t have to, Simon. Thank you for caring,” you smiled, kissing his lips softly to forget about Tommy Shelby—the man who broke your heart.

NEW YORK, 1915

You were staying in one of your husband’s properties in America, a penthouse in New York when he came barging in, throwing you an envelope. He was angry, you could tell that clearly. He never got angry except now.

“Simon,” you said, smiling up at him.

“Who’s Tommy Shelby?” he asked, demanding you to answer. He knew who Tommy Shelby was. He knew of the Shelbys in Birmingham. But who was he to you? “Don’t even fucking lie to me,”

“What’s wrong…?”

“Who is he?” he asked, his tone more forceful now. “Don’t tell me that he’s no one! Who is he?”

“He’s a friend. A childhood friend. What is this about?” you asked. “Simon…”

“You told me during our wedding night that he was no one but I had him investigated,” he said. You furrowed your brows. “Guess what? I found out that you grew up together. You were seeing him while I was seeing you. You told me you love me!”

“I do love you,” you lied, trying to soothe his worries. “You don’t have to worry about him, you know? We didn’t see each other like that, Simon,”

“Fuck…I gave you my everything and you hang onto this Tommy Shelby cunt. Like, like…I had to buy your love and you gave it to him,” he said, stalking towards you. “I gave you everything! What could he give? He’s poor and he’s in the war. I’m here. I am!” he roared.

“Simon—“

“You are to cut off any ties and communications that you have with the Shelbys, understood?” he spat, pointing a finger at you.

“Simon, they’re my friends! They took care of me,” you pleaded, putting your hands on his waist to appease him but she just shrugs you off.

“I said ‘Understood’?” he seethed. “I gave the Shelby’s and Johnny a hefty sum of money so you won’t have to think of them ever again but you have to promise to never fucking think of them—of him—of-of your life in Birmingham. Do you understand me?”

“Simon, you—“

“I know where Tommy Shelby is in France. Tunnelling. You’ll know better than to defy me. Trust me, I have my ways of getting him and his brothers killed. I know people. Do you understand me?” he spits.

You couldn’t cry in front of him, so you just gulped, nodding.

“I understand,” you whispered, a frown set upon your face. Relief washes over your husband and he pulls you closer.

“You know that I only want what’s best for you. What’s best for us,” he whispered. “You’re my little bird. My beautiful flower, I won’t let anyone else have you. Okay? I’m sorry for making you sad but this is for the best. For us and for the family that we’re going to build,”

“I know, Simon,”

“I love you,” he says but it felt like a threat.

“I love you too,”

BIRMINGHAM, 1915

Tommy,

I hope you’re well. We all pray for your safe return home. Have I told you that Y/N got married this year in London? His name is Simon Coventry, I’m sure you know him as ‘Rich Bastard.’

He truly loves her and has taken care of her so well. We’ve been to their mansion in London multiple times. Finn loves to visit because he gets him everything he wants. Did you know that he gifted Finn his own horse for Christmas? Please, don’t worry about her anymore. She’s in safe hands, in a loving marriage, with a husband that could give her the world.

Pol

(This letter was never sent.)

BIRMINGHAM, 1911

“What do you think will happen to us?” you asked Tommy once. Twenty-one, and you allowed yourself to make bad decisions when it came to him. You were sitting close together in the balcony of your home; it was the morning, and you had the day off because it was your birthday. No serving customers today; Tommy didn’t go to work because you were free.

“We’ll stay together,” he says, like it was a no-brainer. He had stolen a bottle of whiskey in the place where he worked out and you both decided to drink today. Twenty-one and you’d make all bad decisions for Tommy. There was a crinkle in his eyes when he looked at you. “Happy birthday.”

“Thank you,” you replied, taking a sip of the whiskey.

“I got you something,” he says, tossing his cigarette butt away. “It’s not as…expensive as what that rich bastard got you, but I was thinking that…well, here,” he says, showing you something wrapped in a handkerchief. “Don’t know how to wrap gifts.”

You took it from him and undid the knot of the handkerchief.

“Tommy…”

“I asked Polly and Ada,” he says. “So, that’s not all me.”

A picture frame of pressed flowers. It was more than that for him. For Tommy, it was a declaration of his love; a life-long commitment to you.

“I’ve been picking flowers that remind me of you for the past year,” he tells you. “Do you like it?”

“I love it, Tom.” you told him, tackling him in a hug. “This is the best thing anyone has ever given me. Thank you so much,”

LONDON, 1916

Simon hardly allowed you to go anywhere without him or at least the presence of a bodyguard since last year. It was understandable, since he was a wealthy man—the world was too dangerous for him. But you couldn’t grasp why you needed his permission to go to the shops, why you needed to ask him if you could do something. Your wardrobe was chosen by him and you hardly had any control over that. The jewellery he bought were things he thought would look the best on you too.

You had to ask him for approval to meet your friends—if you had any. None of them really stayed longer than a year. It was fine, they were never him anyways. They all had ulterior motives when it came to seeking a friendship with you. They were all parties and dinners and events. One time, there was a party in his house. Some charity gathering that you couldn't care less about. You were outside in the garden when one of your employees walked by. You called him to where you were sitting.

“Can you please get me some water?” you asked. “I don’t really want to go back there right now,” you said. You spent the whole night portraying the happy wife; the younger wife and you were sick of it. To them, you were Simon Coventry’s wife. To him, you were somebody he owned. To yourself, you were a prostitute. He basically bought you from that brothel anyway. You sat there silently, allowing yourself to shed the tears that you’ve been keeping.

You were sobbing, trying to comfort your body from the loss of personhood that you’ve experienced. You were a glorified doll for Simon to look at—a pet to protect. He’s never treated you like an equal and you will never be.

Your hands were shaky, makeup staining your face. If only Simon could see you now. He’d lose it. You clutched the locket that Tommy gave you. You told Simon that you needed it, that it was a picture of your mother and that you didn’t want to forget what she looked like. It was shabby; he asked if you wanted a better one, but you declined. When Tommy gave you that locket, he helped you put a picture of your mother right beside his. You still needed to give it back to him.

In the quietness of the garden, you remembered Polly’s advice before your wedding. She was helping you fit into the gown when she started to talk quietly.

“Remember, this,” she started, zipping up your dress. “Take advantage of the world you’re in now. Even if you do not love him, take advantage of what he’s willing to give. Take advantage of everything.”

The employee comes back to you with a glass of water.

“Thanks,” you whispered. “You may go now,”

Simon loved your newfound interest in participating in his business. He always sought you in the brothel for advice. It didn’t matter if you never studied, what mattered was that you were correct. They were small matters in his company. Like, you told him that maybe he wanted to increase the bond to a partnership. Or that he had to host charity events to make his company more appealing; ensure that it was widely publicised.

You were perched on his lap, looking through the documents, while he played with your hair. He was kissing your shoulder as you flipped through the pages.

“Some of my investments have been transferred to your account,” he says and you look at him, surprised.

“Simon—?”

“You deserve it,” he says, continuing his kisses on your shoulder. “You’re my wife. You should have your own money,”

“But that’s…that’s too much,”

“Just enough for you to go on those shopping sprees, if you ever wanted anything,” he says.

“Why—“

“You’ve proven to me that I could trust you after our…disagreement about Tommy Shelby,” he declared. “I’m sorry for cutting you off from your friends in Birmingham, darling but I promise, that they’re being taken care of. Especially Johnny. He doesn’t work in the brothel anymore after I bought him his house in Watery Lane,”

“It’s okay,” relishing in the newfound power that you had over your husband. You turned to him, your knees on either side of his thighs. You straddled him and grasped his chin with your hands. “I know that you only want what’s best for me, right?” you preened, dropping your lips to nibble on his ear. “Tell me,”

He sighs, clutching your body closer to his as you trailed your lips down his neck.

“You’re so good to me, baby,” he moans. “So, so good. I’ll give you everything.”

FRANCE, 1917

Tommy had been injured and was sent to the wards immediately. There was a gaping wound on his chest when one of the tunnel rats shot him. His comrades were quick enough to retaliate; to put him above ground and call for help. He was on the hard bed, wondering if it would be easier to just give up and let the world take him.

“Y/N…” he mumbles, reaching for you. He could see you, see your arms beckoning him to come closer.”Y/N…where…Y/N…”

He mumbles your name over and over for what seemed like an eternity. He couldn’t say anything else, pleading with anyone.

“Just fucking kill me!” he shouts. “Fucking kill me, please…” he sobs, body shaking from the emotions that dwell inside. “Y/N! Y/N! Fucking kill me!” In…in-in the bleak midwinter…Y/N. Y/N.

AMERICA, 1917

“How is it being married to Simon?” one of the guests in some event asked. She was supposed to be the wife of a big oil conglomerate. Simon’s father invested in their business awhile back and had been business partners since.

“He’s kind,” you said. He is…you just can’t love him like that. “It’s amazing being married to him,”

“I see,” she replied. “May I ask where you met again?”

“We met in Birmingham,” was your meek answer, looking for your husband. You hated events like these. The heir and his younger wife. You hated everything about it. Where is he?

“What family are you from?” she asked, oblivious to the fact. Everyone was oblivious to that fact. Simon made sure to never let anyone know that you were a prostitute. ‘For your safety’ he said and you understood. She said that she’ll never forgive you for tainting her wonderful son but Simon said that it was okay. You both didn’t need anyone else.

“Sorry—do you happen to know where Simon is?” you asked, trying to change the topic.

“Can’t stay away from him too long, huh? You must really love him,” she gushed. “I hope I’m the same with my husband but our union was basically something that was already agreed upon,”

“Yeah, I do,” you half-lied. You loved Simon as a friend, as a companion. He tries his best to understand. He’s loving and as far as you were aware, hadn’t kept any mistresses. That came with a price, though. Simon never liked it when a man looks at you too long. He doesn’t like seeing you with the opposite sex. He didn’t like you exchanging pleasantries with them. “He’s the best. He allows me to help him out in the business, you know?”

“You’re involved in his business?” she asked.

“Small things,” you replied. “Arranging charity balls and the like,”

“Your governess must have been a good one,” she replied.

“I suppose so.” You lied, knowing that you could never have been able to afford one. You were living day to day when you were a kid.

The girl only smiled tightly before walking away. You watched her talk to other girls. How beautiful it is to be included in a group! You’ve always felt like an outsider. This room was filled with billionaires and millionaires. This room made up most of the world’s economy and you were a prostitute. You were in the nicest clothes that money could afford but it still felt like the same, cheap lace that you used to wear. You turned to look for your husband but he was already wrapping his arm around your waist.

“Simon,” you greeted, kissing his cheek. You were relieved to see him, somehow.

“Hello, darling. Do you wish to meet my friends?” he asked, kissing the side of your head affectionately.

“Of course,” you nodded, seeing the girl you were talking to with her own husband now. Simon took you to them, never letting your waist go.

“Simon!” the husband greeted, regarding you with a swift look before shaking your husband’s hand. “Is she the wife or a mistress?” he asked, and you frowned.

“The wife,” Simon replied honestly. “Don’t have a mistress,”

“What about that bird you were seeing in…Small Heath? Is it Small Heath?” he asked.

“Haven’t been there since I got married,” he replied. It was true. “By the way, Eric, I do hope your wife watches what she talks about with her other…friends,” he said, and you tilted your head in confusion. The girl looks down in shame.

“What do you mean?” Eric asked. “Surely, Natalia only wished to make an acquaintance. Is that right, Nat?”

“Yes, of course. Whatever Y/N was saying must be untrue,” she said, feigning innocence.

“I see. I must have been delirious when I heard your wife call Y/N boring,” he shrugged. “Anyways, if I see or hear you disrespect my wife one more time, there will be repercussions. Seeing as you’re financially unwell, I would hate to take out my shares in your company. Isn’t that right?”

“Of course, Simon,” Eric coughed, glaring at Natalia. “I apologise, Mrs. Coventry,”

You could only nod before Simon whisked you away.

“Let’s go home. No one’s worth talking to in this shit hole anyway,”

When you got in the car, Simon was already all over you. He was tugging on your sleeves, kissing your neck. You were used to this; the driver was used to this.

“Did I ever tell you that you looked absolutely ravishing in this dress?” he growled, fisting the silk fabric. “The things you do to me, pet,”

“I dressed up just for you,” you whimper. “Do you like it?” You may not love him but he was good. Maybe it’s because you’ve known each other for years…or maybe, you’re more comfortable but Simon was good at what he does. He puts your needs first. In any case, that’s how he likes it. This is what you’ve been doing for about two years. Giving everything that Simon ever wanted from you and taking double back from him. You were wealthy on your own now. If you divorced Simon, you’d never have to worry about life anymore. He had put trusts, investments, and properties in your name that he promised he’d never take away. It was sealed in a document. You were his closest kin. You own everything.

Except your freedom.

“Of course I do,” he confirms, rutting his hips on your exposed thigh. He groans at the contact. “Fuck, are we close?” he asked the driver.

“Twenty minutes, sir,” he replied.

“I’ll triple your salary for the month if you could take us there in ten,” he proposes and the driver speeds up, never minding the laws of the road.

LONDON, 1918

The war has ended and you were close to collapsing. There could only be two things—the brothers made it or they did not. You didn’t have any form of communication with them and you were nervous. What if they didn’t make it?

BIRMINGHAM, 1918

The boys were deployed in Birmingham. Cramped in vehicles, Tommy held the strap of his satchel tightly. He was anxious to see his family. He was so anxious to see you. He never received letters from you even though he wrote every week. He was too afraid that he'd turn his back on his country to come to you but he didn’t care. What kind of man would that make of him?

There were a million things that he wanted to tell you—how he left without ever telling you that he loved you. How your face was the only thing that kept him alive in those tunnels. Would you still love him now that he’s not the same? Would you still soothe him until he falls asleep?

His brothers could see his nervousness. So, Arthur offered him a tight smile. John was looking forward to seeing his kids again.

“She’ll be there, Tom,” Arthur offered. “If anyone’s going to be there, it’s her,”

“Yeah, of course,” Tommy replied. They were nearing Birmingham. They were nearing the place you both grew up in and he felt bad because he should have been thinking about his family but instead, he was thinking about you. The vehicle stops and he takes a deep breath. Will he see you? Will you run to him and finally kiss him like he’s been thinking of for four years? He braced himself as soldiers spilled out into the road. He could see Polly and Charlie with Finn on his shoulders. He smiled, telling his brothers that he saw everyone.

“You boys are back!” Polly gushed, taking the three of them in an embrace. She blinks away the tears. Tommy was searching the crowd for you and Polly could see that. “She couldn’t make it, Tom. She’s in London,”

His heart drops. Why would you miss this reunion? Why were you in London? He nodded wordlessly, keeping to himself while John answered all of the questions. The day after that, he went to your house but saw that nobody was there. He went to the brothel but there were new girls who didn't know who you were. Johnny wasn’t there either.

He went there every day for less than two weeks until one day, he saw a scrap of newspaper sitting in the kitchen.

SIMON AND Y/N COVENTRY PURCHASE NEW HOME IN PARIS AFTER THE WAR.

He furrowed his brows, turning the pages until sure enough, there you were. It was a portrait of you and Simon. He barged into Polly’s room, opening the drawer where she kept memorabilia. There were multiple pictures of you and your wedding with Simon. There was a picture of you and the whole Shelby clan along with Johnny. There was an envelope with a cheque worth a few thousand pounds from Simon. He shook, his heart beating loudly as he let go of everything. You were married. You married Simon Coventry. You didn't wait for him.

“Tommy,” Ada whispers from the door, seeing her older brother crouch in defeat.

“When were you planning to tell me?” he spat. “When?”

“Tommy, we didn’t know how to tell you—“

“Tell me when the fuck were you planning to tell me, Ada or I swear, I will blow this fucking house down,” he threatened, running his fingers through his hair. It’s not the same when you do it. Ada walked towards her brother, seeing her brother so defeated was something new.

“I…” his voice breaks into a sob. “I was under the tunnels and all I could ever think—all I could—I’m smoking fucking opium because I’m so fucking worried and she’s—she’s,” Tommy couldn’t breathe, hyperventilating. “She’s gone, she’s gone…”

There was a ringing in his ears, and he couldn’t hear Ada call for help. He was panicking, tears flowing freely from his eyes. He waited for you. He counted the days until he saw you again, but you were not here. He felt like he was underground again. It was Arthur who calmed him down, slapping Tommy across the face to wake him up. It works, it always works.

“Leave us,” Polly ordered everyone. “Drink some water, Tommy, we have to talk,”

“Pol—“

“Leave us,”

“Polly, it’s not right!” Ada said. “I should’ve listened to her when she told me she didn’t want it,”

“He has to know, Ada. I’ll tell him now,”

“It’s alright, Ada,” he croaked. “Leave us,” His brother dragged his furious sister away. He was embarrassed to have been seen like that—weak. But what else could he do? He crossed the vastness of a sea of fire just to go home to you. Polly sighed.

“It’s my fault,” she said once everyone was out. He exhales, a staggered breath as if he’s been carrying all the weight of love that he has for you.

“It’s all I ever wanted, Pol,” he said, looking down on his lap. A life with you in your home. There’d be a big garden for you to run on. You’ll have so many horses and you'll teach your kids how to ride them. “You know that it’s all I ever wanted,”

“I know, Tom but you can’t blame her,” she said. “She didn’t want to leave and I saw that but what else could she be if she didn’t leave Birmingham? I prayed for your safety everyday, I did. But…but what if you didn’t come back? Would she work at that brothel until she fades? There was an opportunity for her to have a better life outside of Birmingham. I told her to take advantage of it,” she explained, trying to reach Tommy but he flinched away. Polly puts down her hand, clearing her throat.

“She’s all I ever wanted, Polly and you took that from me. You took her-you took her away from me!” he sobbed, cradling his head in his hands. “You took her away. You took her away…”

“She sent you letters while you were away,” Polly said, placing a stack of envelopes beside Tommy. “I’m sorry, Tom but I wanted her to have a good life. Birmingham isn't good for her. You were only going to keep her from making a name for herself,”

Polly nodded to herself before leaving Tommy and a stack of letters that he never received.

He opens the one on top just to check—just today.

Dear Tommy,

Every day passes by without you and I still can’t bear it. I hope you’re well, I hope my letters become a sense of comfort for you.

It’s getting harder for me to spend time with your family. All I could think about was how the two of us would run freely in Polly’s house because you were chasing after me. I couldn’t spend time at home either because my bed reminds me of how much I liked sleeping beside you. It’s so peaceful. I sleep in your clothes sometimes and Ada gave me some of the shirts that you left. I’ll return them to you when you’re back but right now, it’s the only way for me to feel like I could breathe…that someday, you’ll come back to me. I’ll wait. I’ll always wait for you, like I promised.

I haven’t told you everything yet, but I hope I can tell you soon.

Tommy opens another one. What’s another stab to the heart anyway?

Dear Tommy,

It’s been years and you haven't written back. Are you mad at me? I’ll stop writing to you for the meantime but just know that I’ll wait for you.

LONDON, 1919

Dearest,

I’m so sorry to tell you but Johnny has died. Please come to Birmingham soon.

The letter from Johnny’s wife shook in your hands. Big Johnny was dead, and you had to go to Birmingham to the funeral. You ran to your husband’s office. Upon seeing your tear-stained face, his face falls in concern.

“What the matter, love? Did someone hurt you?” he asked, patting his lap, telling you to sit on it. You complied, hiccuping. You were heartbroken but you knew that if you wanted to go, you had to play smart. You had to play the broken doll that he loved to take care of.

“Johnny’s dead,” you whispered, burying your face in his chest. You allowed him the privilege to soothe you. His hand inching their way underneath your shirt for unbridled contact. “Johnny’s dead, Simon,” you cried. “I—I got this…letter,” you said, showing him the crumpled piece of paper on your hand. He had to fire whoever gave you this letter—it was a strict rule that he was supposed to read all the letters sent to you. It was a rule that no letter from Birmingham must arrive in your hands.

“Oh, darling,” he said, kissing your temple.

“I know…I know that I can’t go,” you said. “But…can I please go, Simon?” you asked. “He was like my father,” you whispered. It was true and Simon knew that. Johnny took care of you to the best of his abilities. You told Simon of the stories when you were younger. Him teaching you arithmetic, teaching you how to throw a punch to defend yourself…he helped you move into the house you bought. You’ve never been there for years, and you wondered if Ada continued to take care of it after abandoning them. “I understand if you won’t allow me,” you nodded, removing yourself away from him but he held you closer.

“You can go,” he whispered. He’d have you guarded so that no one could even come to you. No Tommy Shelby. “Do you want me to come?”

“No,” you shook your head, regaining your composure. “I know that the partnership with Alfie Solomons will require your full attention. Do you promise to be home once I arrive? I need you,” You stilled on his chest.

You didn’t know what a lie was anymore.

“Of course, I’ll be here,” he said.

“I can take some of the guards with me for my safety,” you compromised. You weren’t lying, though. The business he had with Alfie Solomons kind of scared you. What if he sent men to take you as ransom?

“Of course,” he said. “Where will you stay? Are there hotels there?”

“I can stay at my old home.” you said. “We can send in some cleaners before I arrive to make it nice,”

“Alright, darling. Are you leaving tomorrow? I’ll send some people now. Will that be okay with you?” he asked. You looked up to him, doe-eyed.

“Yes,” you replied. “Thank you, Simon. I love you,” you said, kissing his cheek. “Thank you.”

BIRMINGHAM, 1919

The Blinders mentioned to Arthur that the old house that Ada takes care of had the lights on. There were multiple servants coming in and out of the run-down house and they asked who was coming. It was the owner of the house. That could only mean…

“Tommy!” Arthur called, nodding at Harry before barging in the special room at the Garrison. “Stop fucking the barmaid and listen to me, mate,”

Grace looks at him sheepishly before excusing herself.

“Fuck, what is it Arthur?” Tommy asked, lighting a cigarette.

“Y/N’s coming back,” he said. Tommy halts, looking at Arthur.

“Arthur—“

“The Blinders saw the lights at her old house open with a fuck ton of servants cleaning up. They asked…told her that the owner of the house is coming back to go to a fucking funeral,” Arthur explained. “She’s coming back, mate. Your Y/N’s coming back.”

Tommy leans on the couch, running a hand through his face. He wordlessly leaves Arthur, not sparing a glance to Grace, before leaving the Garrison entirely. It was midnight, you could be home soon. In the shadows, Tommy waited, his peaky cap making him incognito.

He waited the whole night, smoking his cigarette and looking at the spot where your house could be seen clearly. At around six in the morning, he sees a convoy of high end cars line up. A black Bentley stopped right in front of the house and there you were. Tommy’s breath is knocked out of his lungs. You were dressed in something simple and comfortable for your travel but you’ve never looked so ethereal. The driver gives you his hand to help you and you smile at him. Looking around the place, peace settles in your features.

He doesn’t realise it but his face relaxes too. It’s like he hasn’t breathed in all the years he spent without you. He gulps, not allowing himself to cry. He’s stronger now and he couldn’t let his emotions get the better of him.

He looked on, noticing that Simon Coventry was not with you. It was then he realised that guards dressed formally surrounded your house. It didn’t matter to him. Fuck your husband’s security system. He’ll make a way. Just because there was a change of plans doesn’t mean that you can begin again. He doesn’t care.

You were here. You were finally home, and he wonders if the frame he gave you on your 21st birthday was still there.

PART 3

A/N: Grace will not be romantically involved with Tommy in the story for obvious reasons. There will be mentions of her but they will be minimal. Thank you so much for reading and for giving my story love and support. I hope to see you in the next one!

BTW, we need a face for Simon. Who do you think will be a perfect Simon?

Don’t forget to reblog / leave a comment if you liked it! TAGLIST: @shelbydelrey @runnning-outof-time @duckybird101 @thenattitude @swordofawriter @litteltourtius @trixie23 @everythingelseisextra @majesticcmey @liveat1am @dumb-wh @denabp16 @yvonna-chan @goldensunflowe-r @therosabel @hunnibearrr @dazecrea @daddyslittleattentionwhore @the-girl-wh0-cries-w0lf @dang-shawty-okay

#tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby angst #tommy shelby #peaky blinders x reader #tommy shelby fanfiction #tommy shelby fanfic #peaky blinders #fafic #fanfiction #angst #fluff #tommy shelby fluff #protection!tommy #cillian murphy #cillian murphy x reader

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sualne · 12 days

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carnis au accidental [???] but i was thinking about mimic luffy wanting to get closer and closer to law, and i'd been thinking since i've made the au about how he'd want to see law's scars (already various scenes on how it could happen, written notes and all, don't know which to pick), and then the fact that he knows there's something carnis still in him.

so i was thinking of another scene where he's inspecting the scars on his face and they both very close but it's not the scars he's really looking at, he's searching for that carnis leftover and says maybe mostly to himself "It's still inside you. That's just so unfair. Why, just why couldn't it have been me?"

And jokingly is thought: This is it folks, I broke the code, this is about bottom dysphoria!

But then! I thought again, the au is about feeling otherized, isolated and monstrous and wrong. i've already strongly considered the idea of luffy's death as a suicide metaphor. the mimic has been thinking about socially detransitioning because it keeps getting accosted by creeps and assholes and knows that luffy would've fought back most of the time but also knows it's much stronger now and doesn't want to get caught, he needs to lays low, it doesn't want to cause a scene, it has to go stealth.

law hates the idea because it's not enough that it killed luffy now it has to just go and erase that important part of him of as well but the mimic insist, he's still a man, he'll just fake being a girl to make it easier. but law doesn't understand because to him the mimic is faking being a man, it's faking being a person, it's faking being luffy.

the reason the mimic wants to lay low is because it doesn't want to get caught so it can stay with law and study him, understand him. law doesn't knows that, he's too freaked out by the fact that's it's a mimic! that it killed luffy and might possibly want to kill him too! but the mimic feels a kind of kinship with law because of that remaining carnis in him.

remains he got from nearly dying, from losing his family, from an attack to another carnis. and i thought, law is meant to be reminiscent of mimics. he had to regrow his face, he's (as always) autistic and doesn't always act as expected, he's also paranoid even when he happens to be right, he's traumatized to the point of psychosis, the encounter changed him. it was meant as a parallel to how ppl like to think murderers&co are all mentally ill because they can't possibly be Normal Like Them, they must be different, they must not be human, they're obviously monsters. but those victims, those who get to survive, the trauma change them, they can acquire all sort of neurodivergences, and when those same Normal People learn that a person has some kind of The Scary Disorder they think "Oh, you're a monster too! You'll (inevitably) hurt someone!" which lead back to being otherized ect.

there's also something about how law didn't just get scars from his near death experience but also what's essentially a disease.

and then back to the mimic, who recognize itself in him, in that disease, but it isn't quite right, it's not enough and it's also nothing alike at all and also he's kind of jealous? it makes no sense to the mimic itself but he can't stop thinking about law either.

it's also how a monster that's linked to what is theorized to be something close to a hivemind accidentally developing a sense of identity and facing some sort of existential crisis over the fact that it can't ever escape it's monstrous nature and doesn't want to either. and that sound like, very much like being trans and cracking your egg and realizing you're fucked cause that sure is knowledge to have about oneself and also it's in the fictional 90s of a op carnis au so good luck with that.

anyway that's a lot of words and im not sure how to phrase the rest it's just, this was supposed to be a casual au where i went "OHOHO look at the Tragedy" but i thought about it too long and now i feel like i've ended up with a millefeuilles of overlaying themes and im, i means sure. can't draw All that tho so what now.

#you know im thinking hard when im switching between my usual writing style and more proper capitalization and then how i write fics #long post #op carnis au #anyway yea. perhaps fics to come. but i also want to draw it and it's under construction as it goes so it's going to be a big all mix.#also ive been hallucinating mimics since september 1st and im no longer scared of them. they're kind of fucking adorable actually like #fucked up puppies that are also degloved humanoids and they follow me around as i go about my day it's fun. might draw them.

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dunechkka · 1 month

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The void and the reason why maybe you haven't been able to enter it.

I was doubtful about writing this, considering i literally was going to post my process with adambja's tapes because it was a requirement to have access to the tapes and not because i wanted to start a blog or wanting people to notice me; but I haven't seen anyone talking about this, and I think it is really important. (Maybe there is someone that already did, but I haven't seen it (^_^)v)

I've seen so many posts and blogs talking about "fulfillment", "perfect self concept", "law of assumption" and other things more. But the thing is, there's people, (like myself) that always struggle for this thing for "always thinking from an objective pov", they're too stubborn to belive in this, or a mental illness or struggles with mental health gets in the way

(Long text ahead)

For context.

I get it, and you may really want to enter the void, and you just can't for some reason. But there's this thing that I'm starting to belive that it may be right, and that I, even now, hate it with all my heart when people say it, is that "everything has its right time". Impatient people, I'm talking to you specially (((￣へ￣井)

But you may be desiring things that would come out wrong or won't be right for you right now (your age, your situation, or other factors). I can put myself as an example, (even though is embarrassing, but bare with me) I used to be an impressionable child, and I'm not saying that I'm not right now, now that I've grown; but when I think about the things I wanted back then, I'm really grateful it didn't come truth.

For example: I really wanted to be with this guy, but, 1) He was like a dog, flirting and kissing all the girls in my school; and 2) he was 15 and I was 12, (you may be thinking: it's only a 3 year gap Dunia, is not that bad) but when you're a teen it is a really big gap due to experience and other things that comes at a certain age. If it come after is fine, but it shouldn't come before.

Another one is that there were these two sisters who were my seniors. I really wanted to be friends with them and be like them, cause i thought they were really cool, but they used to consume a lot of drugs. They drugged one of my friends, who was in the same classroom as them, without him noticing. He was 16, back then. (it was GHB or "fraga." That's how we call it in my country. It gets you high with just smelling it) and got another one of my friends (15 y/o) to take drugs. He had to go to rehabilitation because he became an addict. (I was in a bad environment, I know)

Or one time that my life was becoming really boring I really wanted some action, i started to read a book and it was so amazing that I wanted to live that same kind of life as them. Now that I think about it, that kind of life was really boring too, and in some way stupid if you think about it.

And lastly, back when I was in school I was close to this girls and I wanted to be with them all the time, but something I didn't realized, is that they used to humiliate me a lot and bully me constantly. And I was so dumb that I didn't notice that that was bullying (＃￣З￣)

Now to the point

Where I want to get with this is that you have to think two, three, four, or a thousand times more before asking what you want when you get to enter the void. Because that's a "yes or yes" situation. In the void, you're supposed to get all you want in a second. And if you're not in a good environment (if you want to change it, then there wouldn't be any problem) like I used to be. Or you may not be in a good mental state for asking of things (unless you want to get well), for example, the ug subliminal community (Don't attack them). You can find a lot of nasty things there. From having lupus or cancer to manifesting someone else's death and for it to be horrible.

I was there for a while, but I only wanted to get a nose bleed to skip class. Or a gun or knife to have something to defend myself cause the sector my school was in was really a dangerous place. Two of my classmates got robbed with a revolver pointed at their head, and a dude that was "lost" was found dead wrapped in plastuc bags close to my school (I live in Latam, so it's understandable (ー_ー;))

So be careful with what you ask, cause you may want things because of your situation and not because you really want it. So remember to be kind to people and especially to yourself. Cause you're the only one who's going to be with you for the rest of your life. Not to be that positive person who forces or pushes people to be positive, too. You can feel like shit if you want, and you don't even have to "love" or "accept" yourself. Just learn to live comfortably or at peace with your own persona and mind. That'll be enough.

Also, there is no such thing as "perfect self concept." Like, who even decided that? If for some magical happening of the destiny, everyone decided that the "perfect concept" was to be suicidal and a sadist, everyone would want to be that? Of course not! (No shame to suicidal people, btw, I know is hard. It is only for the example). Once again, it is enough to be able to live with yourself. Don't pressure yourself to be positive, and "sparks and sunshines everywhere" all the time. Remember, being kind is enough. To yourself and to others. ﾟ.+:｡∩(・v・)∩ﾟ.+:｡

Thanks for reading, and I'm sorry if there are any mistakes or its hard to understand. English is not my native language. But I hope I made the point of this understandable. (*ゝω･*)

Bye. .ﾟ+.(・∀・)ﾟ+.ﾟ

#lucid dreams #void state #void success #void #voidblr #loablr #loa #law of assumption #manifestation #manifesting

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ofsappho · 1 year

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Summertime Sadness (part 2)

Simon "Ghost" Riley x reader

Second chance romance, heavy angst, hurt/very little comfort

Ten years ago: the first time you met Simon

Today: the first time Ghost meets you

Tags: mental illness, therapeutic boarding school, self harm, suicide attempt/suicidality, self harm, abuse, parental abandonment, much the same as last chapter. This fic is unedited because I don’t feel like editing it lol. If you see spelling/grammar issues, no you didn’t.

TEN YEARS AGO

Reader POV

It’s intake day.

Intake day happens once a week, always on Wednesday.

You don’t know why they pick Wednesday. It seems pretty arbitrary, doesn’t it?

On intake day, the nurses and counselors make all the current residents of the inpatient program line up to greet the newbies. You actually look forward to intake day. Everyone here is so boring and routine; your roommate never speaks unless spoken to and she always keeps her earbuds in. On intake day, the hope that someone nice will be admitted survives for the few hours of the intake itself.

It usually dies right after. There was one polite girl who smiled when you waved last week, but she was transferred to a different facility that night before you could learn her name.

You’ve been here for three weeks, so that’s three intake days.

You’re not sure why you’ve been here so long. It seems a little excessive; you’d think by now they’d realize your stuff isn’t so bad and maybe you could transition to outpatient appointments?

It’s a little dissociation and some minor depression. Not bad at all.

But your doctors agree, albeit gently, that you should stay for the full five month course.

The program isn’t so bad. The facility sits on a sprawling multi-acre property in the British countryside, where everything is beautiful and verdant and always chilly. It’s lovely. The tea is good. You’re getting used to how they take it here. It’s nothing like the sweet tea you drink back home.

You suppose that’s another reason why they won’t let you go home even though you’re okay; there isn’t a home to go back to. Your dad hasn’t looked you in the eye since Mom left. At least the orderlies here greet you in the morning.

(What Dad doesn’t know is that before she left, she told you she loved you and to wait for her. Soon, she’ll take you away from this place and you’ll never have to see your dad again.)

Before you head to the foyer, you check your hair in the mirror of your room’s suicide-proofed bathroom. A young teenage face stares back at you with cheeks flushed red from the sun. You trace your deep smile lines with the tip of your finger, then practice smiling. You would have feel better about moving to a therapeutic boarding school if you’d been greeted with a smile.

At first, you think the newest crop of poor souls will be uninteresting at best. Listless rich kids detoxing off Mommy’s coke, frightened preteens who’ve never been away from their parents for an extended period of time, and a few teenagers straight from an ER, IV bags and all.

And then you see him get off the bus last.

He’s tall, towering over everyone else. A lanky, almost skeletal build, with a bored, aloof expression on his face. He hides the Zippo lighter he was playing with in his sleeve before the nurses catch and confiscate it.

There’s something horrifically severe about him. He can’t be more than a couple of years older than you, but he carries himself like he’s a blade and the world is filled with monsters.

His eyes are large and dark, rich brown irises rimmed with pale blonde eyelashes. And they’re kind, even though he would probably hate having that pointed out.

You decide then and there that you’ll befriend him. He could use a friend; everyone here does. He’s beautiful in his sharpness and elegant in his abrasiveness. Maybe you can coax more of that hidden kindness out, show him that it’s worth more than his anger. You wouldn’t be able to stay away if you tried.

You both like playing with fire, though you prefer less literal ones.

TODAY

Ghost POV

Your smile fades swiftly as if it was never there to begin with.

There are two ghosts in this room. That’s what you are; a ghost of the girl he knew.

He watches and waits for you to shift uncomfortably and start blabbering to fill the silence like you used to. “Why’d you make them call me?” Ghost asks when it’s clear that you won’t.

As soon as you explain, he’s out of here. Ghost meant it when he said he never wanted to see you again.

You’re the last living reminder of the past he’s tried so hard to kill. The beeping sounds of your heart monitor spell out his mistakes in a grating, irritating rhythm.

Your answer disappoints his expectations. “I didn’t actually think you’d show.” Ghost doesn’t hear any wistfulness or longing in your voice, anything that would tell him that you’re clinging on to the boy you thought he was. Only a bone-dry and hollow statement of facts.

“What do you want?”

You ignore his question. At fifteen, you were good at that. At twenty-five, you’re better. “You got any cigarettes I could bum? You look like you still smoke them,” You say as you fiddle with your torn, bleeding nail beds with the classic anxiety of nicotine withdrawal.

He does that too when a mission stretches too long without a resupply and he finishes his cigarettes early to stave off hunger.

Ghost remembers fighting with you over the pack of smokes he smuggled into the program. He would hold it way above your head and laugh as you struggled to reach them. But you never gave up - they were bad for him, and you liked him too much to see him die of lung cancer.

He remembers the determination in your eyes and your unwavering faith that he could be saved.

“They’re bad for you,” Ghost echoes.

If you remember that moment, you don’t show it. “You know what else is fucking bad for you?” Your tone is so acerbic that it gives him whiplash.

He can’t resist taking a shot. “What, being a prick?” You just… bring out the worst in him. You make him feel as unhinged and unmoored as he was when you first met.

You roll your bloodshot eyes.

“I wasn’t going to call you out on that. I was going to say benzos and vodka. Also throwing yourself headfirst off a bridge.”

“Oh.”

What is he supposed to say to that?

“Why did you come?” You ask after a long moment of quiet interspersed by that fucking heart monitor.

Ghost grinds his teeth into each other as he reflects. He hates doing that; the inside of his skull is a bad place. “…I don’t know,” He admits. Coming here was a mistake; Ghost understands that now.

The foul taste on the back of his tongue is guilt. But why? You did this to yourself. You brought him here to play games and fuck him up, so why is he the one who feels… bad?

You sigh. “Simon-“

“Ghost. It’s Ghost now,” He cuts you off with more violence than necessary.

Your mouth settles into a tight, pained line. “Ghost. Go away.”

“But you called me here.”

That provokes a reaction.

Ghost sees it and immediately wishes it hadn’t.

You stare him straight in the eye, your dilated pupils peel back his mask and see the face underneath. Your skin is tinged gray and your bottom lip blooms red with blood from where you’ve bitten through it.

He wants back the child sobbing for his forgiveness on her knees, who looked at him like he hung the stars in the sky.

“And it was a mistake, and I should never have done it, and I just wanted the satisfaction of knowing you weren’t going to pick up the phone. That I was truly alone.”

So the memory of him is a knife you’re using on yourself. Fucking disturbing.

“Oh.”

You raise an eyebrow as you wave. “Bye.”

Right.

That’s it.

Though your dismissal rankles, Ghost does as you ordered and takes his leave of you.

His work phone vibrates a few times.

Only one person calls that it. “Captain,” Ghost greets.

Captain Price clears his throat on the other side of the line. “Lieutenant. When can we expect you back?”

‘Tomorrow’ is on the tip of Ghost’s tongue.

He’s never taken a day off in his career, which means he’s got at least a year or two in built up vacation time. “I’ll be gone for a while longer, sir. Not sure yet how long,” Ghost answers promptly.

It’s only for a few more days, a week at most. Long enough to make sure you won’t try to kill yourself again, long enough for the guilt freezing his blood and choking his lungs to fade.

“Alright, Lieutenant. Keep us posted.”

“Yes, sir.”

TAGGING: @devcica @igotmajordaddyissues @almightywdm @copiasratscheese @nerdyreaderpapi @schmelscorner

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kale-of-the-forbidden-cities · 3 months

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Della Vacker post

I made this doodle of her while i was supposed to be working on artfight refs, but not to worry! i finished those just in time today :>

notice the Vacker registry pendant and prime sources chain. Notice how anxious she looks!

and now for the playlist which will make more sense after you've read the headcanons. You don't have to think it's perfect or in character, that's okay, it's just stuff i came up with

and now under the cut is my 15 page google doc thoughts of Della Vacker, from when she started dating Alden to Legacy-ish?? warning i think they get worse as they go, don't focus on the stuff after book 1 time, i'm not sure if i like it as much as i do the other as far as writing and wording goes and stuff

if you do take the time to read this, comment on it as much as you want!!! it feels good when people point out specific parts hehe

TW: mentions of eating disorders and ~uncomfortable age gaps~

Alden and Della had sort of an arranged marriage, with Alden on Della's match lists when she was sixteen, and her parents saw and were delighted to see a Vacker as her number one, but Della tried to argue, saying he’s a hundred years older, but by the time Alden got his next list she was nineteen and invited to his Winnowing Gala. Della was standing among all these girls who were mostly at least 30 years older than her, and she was terrified. She didn’t feel good enough to be there. She felt out of place. But Alden’s parents seemed to really like her, though she couldn’t tell if that was because they actually did or if it was just because she and Alden were each other’s top matches. She felt super weird about it, and he felt weird about it too, but despite the age gap, they were kind of pressured into getting together.

And at first it was sooooooo awkward. They didn’t feel comfortable around each other, and Della still felt like a kid next to him. Not to mention the sheer perfection of him, and the other Vackers. This is where some other headcanons start coming in, with Della not feeling perfect enough, and she began to develop an eating disorder.

This whole thing is so stressful for her, but her parents are happy, and Alden seems happy, who is she to ruin it? She was once an enjoyer of gossip, but now she's part of it, there were speculations about her from the very first date with alden, and she's not used to it! She's not used to being in the spotlight!

Della: (surprised) I'm... I'm in the news?

Alden: Oh... Yes, that happens.

Della: ... But I only just started dating you- is- is that even public yet?

Alden: No, but we did go out yesterday...

Della: ... but I'm not a Vacker... I can't... (trails off)

Alden: ...

Della goes for a walk in Atlantis and feels everyone watching her, and she can't take it, she feels like she's crumbling under the pressure (even though not that many people were actually looking or saying or thinking anything bad, but she saw a few people glance her way, someone pointed at her and whispered) and she breaks down, tears start to well up, and she tries to get somewhere to be alone, but it's Atlantis, she can't just leap away, she has to go back the way she came, and she's crying and she can't breathe and people are really staring now and really talking about her and someone tries to come help but she doesn't think that's what they're there to do, she runs away, she's running through crowded streets until she finally makes it out, and once her bubble thing lets her go she sits on the ground and sobs.

And of course people saw this whole thing, and they were talking about her all over again, but this time it wasn't just speculation about her relationship with Alden, this time it was people saying she wasn't fit to be a Vacker, that she was unstable and unpredictable and mentally ill for... crying? Well then, she can't let anyone see her cry ever again.

And at some points she wishes Alden would leave her or break up with her or something but after the stories and stuff about her were published he just hailed her and asked if she was okay. And this was before she'd read them. He seemed to care about her, and Della just thinks she's bringing shame on him, but he assures her that she isn't, and it's okay, and that it will blow over and that there's no reason to worry.

She becomes very familiar with that phrase, and learns to take it to heart. She's okay. He's okay. Everything is okay. even when she feels like dying, even when she realizes she hasn't eaten in three days and almost passes out in public and she feels terrified whenever she goes out with him and everything feels like too much and goddamnit why won't he leave her what does he still see in her why couldn't she have just enjoyed her after-foxfire years normally why why why???

But then as Alden cares for her and he doesn't leave her and he smiles for real, his smile is so unlike all the pictures she's seen, it's so soft and small and hesitant and his eyes look so gentle and happy and oh prime sources, after three years she's really falling for him and oh no this is awful, she feels so conflicted. She wanted him to leave her but now she doesn't want to leave him.

After four years they finally share their first kiss, and it's... real.

It's by no means a long kiss, but it feels like forever, time slows as thoughts race through Della’s mind and she thinks oh no. And then they pull apart, and she's tearing up, and mentally beating herself up for it, which only makes her need to cry more, and she can't breathe but Alden doesn't seem to get it, he's confused, he looks hurt, he asks whats wrong, so she chokes it down and tells him she's okay, just... really happy. I get emotional, she says with a forced laugh.

And she accepts her fate.

She’s trapped.

Unless Alden ever has a sudden change of heart, she can't go anywhere.

Della was raised religious, but it wasn't nearly as strict as the Vackers. That's another thing she has to get used to - she has to carefully learn every ritual, all the history she might need to know, she doesn't want them to think she's not good enough. She has to fit into this family, and if she's a square in a circle hole, then she'll just have to cut off her own corners to fit.

She didn't really expect it to go this long - she had three boyfriends when she was in Foxfire, but they all went by super fast, obviously. And they were never serious. But Alden was serious. Her parents wanted her to be serious. the Vackers were serious.

Alden and Della obviously took things very very slowly, mostly due to the age gap and how uncomfortable they used to be around each other. They'd kissed twice after five years of dating, and it still feels so... new. They're careful in public, Della isn't herself anymore. She used to be so much happier. Now she's an empty shell, and sometimes life doesn't feel worth living.... but she's okay, she's okay, she's okay. There’s no reason to worry. Everything is perfect! She learns how to force a smile when people begin speculating about her mental health again... and she's not eating. She doesn't feel perfect enough. She hates her body, her face, her hair, she hates how ugly she feels standing next to Alden, her boyfriend, though that word feels wrong on her tongue. Even after a decade, she still messes up, says the wrong things and gets weird looks and she feels like the world could swallow her up, she could get murdered and it would be her fault.

Alden of course notices this, because, duh, he's not blind, but he doesn't know what to do. He waits for a few months, trying to let it pass because he's not good with words and... maybe if he pretends she's okay, she'll be okay. he just has to believe it and treat her as he has been - he does care, he just doesn't know what to do. He's trying to believe, but it's getting so hard to pretend because oh god she just collapsed in the middle of the room and she's not waking up and he's not very strong but he can pick her up easily and take her to the couch and he sits by her as he waits for a physician and he's trying so hard not to cry, but maybe she's worth crying over, he's so scared for her. Pretending everything was okay wasn't what she needed at all. He should have done something.

Della obviously ends up fine, but she doesn't talk to Alden about it. He apologizes and asks if she's okay, and she assures him he is, she says sorry, she promises to do better.

And she’s okay.

She takes a deep breath and forces herself to eat.

To prove she’s okay.

She even hides the scale from herself for a few months. She's okay.

Well, now that she knows her limits she can be even better than before.

Time flies by, and Alden and Della are closer than ever. They're not as close as the average couple that has been dating for a year, even though they've been together for ten, twenty, thirty. They love and care about each other, but there's.... something. Della gets better! She makes friends with some of Alden's friends, Grady and Edaline. They're also much older than her, but she's older now, too, so age shouldn't matter like it did when she was nineteen. Still, she feels the need to be polite in the same way she is to Alden's family. Despite that, it's... nice to be around them. To have conversations with Edaline while Alden is out, to have friends! She hasn't had those since the world started to judge her! Nobody wanted to be caught up in that kind of drama. She meets Edaline's sister, and they get along even better! Until she runs into her in the street and they talk for a while, and then the next day there's a picture of them in the news! Juline is a bad match, how could Della forget how could she mess up so badly how could she be so selfish to want anything for herself, how could she have slipped up like that!!!

She apologizes to Alden as soon as she sees him, then stops talking to Juline. Edaline has seen the article, and while this kind of thing doesn't matter to her, she understands why it would matter to Della. She's observant. She can tell that Della isn't okay. She and Juline talk, and they agree to let her go without asking questions. She clearly doesn't need more stress. Della is anxious to talk to Grady and Edaline for a bit after that, but when she does, they don't even bring up her suddenly cutting Juline off. Della wonders if she should bring it up, but she doesn't want to start trouble. So she pretends everything is fine and resists the urge to ask Eda how her sister is doing.

This would be the time where Della would start visiting the Forbidden Cities and learning how to defend herself - going to the human world is freeing, but it comes with its risks. She's cautious not to get caught, and she's careful not to get hurt while she's there. In the Forbidden Cities, nobody knows her. She learns both how to hold her Vanishing for a long time, but also how to resist the light passing through her with each step she takes. Humans definitely don't blink in and out of sight as they walk. She learns a human language (in my headcanon it's Spanish, which she later teaches to her kids, while Alden teaches them English). She’s interested in human culture.

Luzia gifts Everglen to Alden, and he has it rebuilt, because the pressure to make things permanent with Della is starting to grow - he's been in relationships before, and they've all gone by so fast compared to this one. He feels differently about Della, he's actually gotten to know her, he thinks he's seen her at her worst. Della hears the whispers about marriage and gets terrified. She could really be Radelle Vacker. It's not the name she tried on at thirteen, fantasizing about marrying into the family, just for fun. It's an actual possibility.

Della had been living in an apartment since her twenties, she never felt like she could handle getting attached to a house the way most elves do. Besides, she liked the limited space - there was less to do with it, less options, but so many ways to decorate and make it hers. Unlike everything else in her life. Just because she appreciates beauty and fancy things, well, it doesn't have to be big to be beautiful. That was her place of peace. But then... Alden suggested she move into Everglen with him, after it gets rebuilt. And how could she say no? She can't. She hasn't said no to Alden once in all these decades. Not like he was too sure of what to do, either. Their relationship was the best pace it could have been for the two of them. And so Della moves into Everglen, and... gives up her apartment. And Everglen is big. It makes her feel small and anxious. But she'll get used to it. One time she had to cross the house to get a cup of water in the middle of the night - it was so eerie. She kept a cup by her bed from then on.

Another thing she gave up was her trips to the Forbidden Cities. She still wanted to go, and definitely could have, but she just stopped being able to find the time to visit as frequently, and eventually stopped going altogether.

Now that they were living together, of course, people found out and started saying things and making more assumptions about Alden and Della's relationship, things that Della did not even feel nearly ready for - and they're not even married! They don't even share a room, let alone a bed! She feels kind of gross when she thinks about it for too long. but she's okay. She's getting good at this.

Until, to "celebrate" or whatever, Alden's parents suggest a family gathering at Everglen. Of course, Della is there. She already felt uncomfortable around Alden's parents, so she didn't expect it to go that well, but she wasn't expecting the sheer number of fancy intimidating and perfect Vackers that were there - she felt like scum next to them. And with the way some of them looked at her, she might as well have been. She made herself eat so they wouldn't go making assumptions about her health or mental well being, but after dinner, she excused herself and threw it all up in the bathroom. It wasn't even on purpose, she just felt that nauseous. She couldn't stay away for too long, though, because this was Alden's house, and being Alden's girlfriend, she'd surely be missed. So she gathers herself and returns for dessert, which she isn't able to stomach much of. She didn't notice until that night, but Alden seems so... stiff. And unnatural. Around the rest of his family. He's smiling, but that's not his smile. Della knows his smile! And she starts to wonder if Alden ever feels like she does. Despite how much he truly seems to belong here. Unlike she does.... she's not good enough.

And then Alden stands up and says he'd like to announce something, and he talks for a bit, then he mentions Della and she's forced to focus and listen and she doesn't even remember what he said, just that he wasn't looking at her, he was looking at his parents, while talking about her, and then he reached into his cape and turned around and kneeled down and

“Della, will you marry me?”

And she freezes up and everything stops and her heart pounds in her ears and she feels like she might throw up again and then she chokes up and looks Alden in the eyes and the tears come before she can stop them, but she doesn't stop them because.... people cry at proposals all the time. It's normal. It's... an emotional moment. That's why she's crying. She's just. so. happy.

So she covers her mouth with her hands and says what she knows she has to say.

“Yes.”

Except it's muffled and squeaky and choked so she nods to get her point across, she slowly stands up and steps towards Alden, and something in his eyes changes as he wraps his arms around her. Understanding, maybe? He's just as trapped as she is, isn’t he?

She cries into his chest, but they're definitely not happy tears. She can force a smile and pretend they are, but that doesn't make it any better. For a moment all she hears is herself sobbing and Alden's heartbeat, pounding much too hard for someone who could be truly at peace. Then the applause starts, and she cries harder, making herself feel even sicker. But this is the first time she's let tears fall in - no, has it really been a year? Has it been more? Less? She doesn't know. But it's been a while. And it's all coming out at once and the rush of hands clapping is taking over but she has to breathe. breathe. breathe. Alden rubs her back, and she focuses on that, she focuses on his smell.

And she breathes.

In, out.

She’s okay.

She’s crying, but she’s happy, right?

How could she be anything but happy?

She’s… engaged.

To Alden Vacker.

So many people would give anything for this. People would crash weddings for a chance at marrying Alden Vacker. The world envies her. She even loves Alden! And she knows she does!

So why isn’t she happy???

Where’s the feeling she’s been missing for so long?

She stands by the door as the Vackers leave, squeezing Alden's hand as she nods and smiles at each of the Vackers leaving. She's never even seen most of them. She recognizes Alden's parents, and of course Luzia Vacker, Fallon Vacker, Orem Vacker, and a few others she's read about in elvin history. She really is a part of them now.

But she doesn’t feel good enough.

Her smile falls as soon as the last ones leave, and Alden isn't looking at her, and they need to talk about what to do, they need to talk about what happened, they need to celebrate, they need to...

Alden speaks up first.

And he says,

“I’m sorry.”

And he walks away.

Della stares after him, feeling the light pass through her. She doesn't know how to feel. Alden just apologized... for proposing to her? She should feel hurt, but... she gets it. She's sorry, too.

She goes back over to the table to clean up all the plates left there, with the intent of getting her mind off of things, but... it's a giant table. It's overwhelming. She sits down and takes a half empty glass of wine that isn't even hers. She takes a deep breath and releases it in a long, slow, sigh.

She doesn't even finish the glass, but she feels sick like she's had five or ten. Or, she feels like what she thinks it'd be like? She's never actually gotten drunk, but she knows it can make you throw up. In any case, she knows she will not be getting drunk tonight. She needs to keep it together. She's okay.

The next morning, they act like they normally do, but they both know of the unspoken tension, the hurt and guilt and shame because of that disaster of a proposal that neither of them wanted to do yet. Especially not like that, in front of the Vackers. Della used to fantasize about her dream proposal - it would have been somewhere beautiful, maybe under the stars, remote and quiet. Certainly not in a well-lit room with every Vacker looking at her. She imagined tears, but she also imagined being happy. She imagined looking into her lover's eyes and smiling softly, and kissing them. Not whatever happened last night.

But who is she to complain...

For a week, they try to pretend everything is like it was, like it has been... But then they both realize that it will never go back. They can’t go back. So they start planning the wedding. And we all know how that went.

If you look closely in pictures taken when Alina was trying to get Alden to run away with her, you might see a glimmer of hope and desperation in Della's eyes, mixed with the shock and anxiety that was there already. For a moment Alden looked like he was about to leave and go with her - but then he snapped out of it. He was being beguiled.

Of course, it could have just been the angle of the picture that painted that look on Della's face.

The Vackers are all freaking out after the wedding, but most pin the blame on Alina alone, and most are pleased with the end result of it - and they almost seem genuine when they smile at Della now. For once she's done something right? Do they think she handled it well?

And honestly? Della is much happier in the week following the wedding - it's their "honeymoon period," in which they mostly just stay in Everglen where it's quiet and the world can't get to them. They invite Grady and Edaline over for tea, but that's the extent of their social interaction. For a short while. Then they're expected to go back to normal. They have to go out to work, they have to talk to people, and of course endure the speculation on what other things they could have been doing during that time.

Now Alden and Della aren't great at communication but at this point with all the rumors and expectations to continue the Vacker family line, they do have to talk about it at some point. They just.... might procrastinate a bit.

Until finally, Della is the one to bring it up.

She asks if he wants kids and he blinks, then says he doesn't know. He asks if she does, because if she does, he'll go along with it, of course. But she says she doesn't know either. They sit there at the table for a few minutes, neither looking at the other. They're not used to talking or making decisions together. Most of their decisions had been made for them until now.

So they wait a bit longer, until the pressure from their families and society becomes too much and they agree that they do want kids, even though they're still not sure. Except they've never even slept in the same bed... so they start there. And it's nice, actually. They no longer feel awkward just being around each other, and sometimes they cuddle, without saying anything. They'll lay down, and by morning Della is curled up in his arms and they're sharing a blanket. It's nice.

But they know they have to take it a step further eventually... and there's a big difference between cuddling fully clothed and... having a child. The last time Della had ever done anything remotely sexual was when she was a teenager, and Alden has even less experience. They don't even feel comfortable changing with the other there. They don't know how they're going to do this.

Okay, so they think, "well, Grady and Edaline have a kid, maybe we should talk to them.” And so they do! Which is like, really big for them, opening up and communicating and talking about their relationship with someone else - it's big. And scary. But... they're in the same boat. They're in this together. And soon, almost a year after they said they would... They have a child.

Both of them are really scared, because they didn't exactly have the best relationship with their own parents or the best childhood, and when Della finds out she's pregnant, she tells Alden immediately, and... he cries. He tries to pretend he's just happy, but Della has pulled that trick too many times for it to work on her. She sits by him, takes his hand, closes her eyes, and quietly admits that she's terrified. She tells him her fears about not being a good parent, and Alden is nodding along. He feels the same. He takes her hand, kisses her forehead, and promises that they'll do this together. But they have to talk about things, just like they're talking now. Della touches his cheek, wiping off a tear, and says, "I like it when we talk like this. It feels good." she leans on him, and he holds her.

And Della learns to take better care of herself, because it's not just her. She's actually eating every day, especially since Elwin noticed that she was a bit underweight when he first checked her. She grows more and more anxious the more time passes, and is constantly hailing Edaline to ask if x thing is normal for pregnancy. Edaline helps calm her by telling her baby stories about Jolie. She even gives her some of Jolie's old baby things, and Della is very grateful. Alden is just as stressed, and spends lots of time taking care of Della and figuring out what to prepare. When it was too early in the pregnancy to really start setting up a room yet, he tried to baby proof the entirety of Everglen, which is obviously impossible with all the wide staircases and tile floors and fancy crystal and sharp corners. But he tried. He settled for baby proofing the part of the house where Alvar's room was going to be, right by Alden and Della's room, then adding a baby gate in the hallway. This was not his idea, he was still trying to do the whole house when Edaline had to stop him.

Grady and Edaline bring Jolie over a lot and she tells them all about all the stuff that used to be hers, and when they knew Alvar's gender they let her help choose names. Being a brutally honest child (I think like 9 or 10, correct me if I'm wrong) she made a face at one of the names Alden suggested.

Of course, preparing for Alvar wasn't the only thing stressing Della out. They tried to keep it on the down low for a while, but of course the world found out about Della being pregnant. And there were so many predictions and speculation and people were even bringing up her "mental health struggles" (not that she doesn't have those, but they literally just saw her crying in public once) and wondering how she could be a good parent and how her child would turn out as an adult. Edaline saw how this was getting to her and told her to stop reading them so she wasn't as stressed, and finally convinced her by saying it'd be better for the baby if she could like. chill out a bit.

And then Alvar is born, and everyone cries, and yes, Della is stressed and anxious and scared but they are happy tears! She can't help but smile as she looks at Alvar, so small and fragile and she wants to shield him from the harsh reality of the world. Alden seems almost scared to hold him, like he's afraid he'll break him if he messes up or does something wrong. He sits down by Della so she can help him make sure he does it right. Grady, Edaline, and Elwin are there to help if needed. Jolie is at Brant's house (I believe they’ve met by now). Della closes her eyes and breathes, and the moment is so... perfect. really, truly, perfect.

For a long time, things are great! they really couldn't be better... Alden and Della aren't perfect at parenting, but they're doing their best. They're managing a balance between their work and family fairly well. Like I said, they're not perfect. They do mess up. A lot. And they're super hard on themselves. But... they're trying. Alvar is growing up fairly happy, and when Jolie is old enough, she (and sometimes Brant) babysit him sometimes. Alden and Della are closer than ever with Grady and Eda, and Jolie, too. For the Vackers, the Ruewens are the first example of a healthy family that they've gotten to see.

Now, they say all good things must come to an end.

Della is the happiest she’s been. Ever.

And then Jolie dies.

Everything fell apart then. the Ruewens were like family to Della and Alden, and Jolie was almost like a daughter or niece to them. And for Alvar? She had been a part of his life before he was even born. His special stuffie belonged to her, and he couldn't even fully grasp the concept of death yet. He kept asking where Jolie was, and Della couldn't explain it to him. Alden couldn't either, he'd never been good with words. Della had to keep telling him that she went away and she's not coming back, trying to explain death while still reeling from the shock of the news herself. At one point she got up and locked herself in the bathroom for a while, away from Alvar's questions and away from everything. Alden spent most of his days in his office, working. Della, on the other hand, had to take a break from work for a while. She knew the moment she left Everglen, she would be judged for grieving, grieving wrong, not grieving enough - whatever she did, it would be wrong. And it wasn't even her child who died. She wanted to comfort or help Edaline and Grady somehow, but she couldn't. She couldn't even get out of bed for a while. Alden didn’t really know this, because he'd been sleeping in his office.

All of this really affects Alvar's little child brain, but we can talk about his trauma another time. The planting happens, and the Vackers are right at the front. Alvar has finally gone quiet, and he seems to realize that she's really not coming back. He tries to go over to Brant after the proceedings, but he's kinda... unstable. Alden tells him it's time to go, so Alvar gives Brant a hug and goes back to his parents.

Even though they got that bit of closure, they're still broken. There's a wound that cannot be healed. A hole that cannot be filled. Della's mental health plummets, and for a bit, there is nobody taking care of Alvar. He plays alone in his room until he gets bored and goes to his parents room, where Della is usually curled up in bed, thinking too much and not thinking at the same time. Alden comes in one night and lays down next to her, reaching out his hand like they did when they were still figuring out how to be comfortable together. Della places her hand on top of his, and they sit there for a long time. Alvar comes in and crawls between them, placing his tiny hand on top of Della's. The three of them fall asleep there.

Slowly, they recover. In a year they're seemingly okay again. But nothing is the same. Della and Alden are more distant from both each other and Alvar. And the wound never healed, only scarred over.

And whether that feeling of something missing affected their decision to have another child is up to speculation, but they did have another child. Part of it was also because Della felt like she had failed Alvar, that she had let him down when Jolie died, and she didn't know how to talk to him or fix things. He wasn't doing bad in Foxfire, he was actually doing better than Della had. But Alden didn't seem to think it was good enough. Or rather, his parents didn't. Alden didn't really seem all that bothered by anything Alvar was doing. He had a habit of getting too wrapped up in work, especially after Jolie died. But Alden's parents sometimes hailed him or came over, mostly to tell him how disappointed they were in how he was raising Alvar. And Della heard them blaming her, a few times. But she didn't know how to fix it. And he was still a level one - surely he had time to turn out okay?

They end up having Fitzroy Alden Fallon Avery Vacker, whose initials they did not think through (Jolie would have thought about it). But this time they feel like they're having this child alone. sure, it's their second one, but there's still no one to just... be with them. Help them. Della is still anxious, but she has no one to stop her from looking at the news, no baby stories to look back on except Alvar's, though even his have turned sad. Jolie was there for so many of them...

Over time, they become a lot stricter with Alvar. And as Fitz (and Biana) grow older, both Alden and Della begin trying to force them into perfection. Alvar is so different and so unwilling to fit into what their family is supposed to be that Alden and Della have all but given up on him. And for Alvar, well it obviously doesn't feel great to be given up on, which really only makes him further apart from the others. He feels out of place everywhere. At home he isn't perfect enough, he has too much of an attitude, he's placed last in priority. At school, he's a Vacker. He can't escape it. It's who he is.

Prentice's mind break (if I'm mathing correctly) happened while Della was pregnant with Biana. And Alden was never really the same after it. He'd never been very talkative, but he became more distant than ever. He barely left his office, kept forgetting to eat or drink water or sleep. He got better over time, but he still smiles much less than he used to.

When Biana is born, the public doesn't really know how to feel about her. Two children is fine, but three? Isn't that pushing it a bit? So Biana grows up with people asking everything of her, but half expecting nothing. She was so scared she wasn't even going to manifest (which is a bit unrealistic but with the way things were exaggerated, she thought being talentless was very likely. Della was also very afraid of this possibility).

The happiest years for anyone in this family were from when Alvar was born to when Jolie died. Things don't seem like they'll ever be better.

Alden is forcing Fitz and Biana to be perfect to protect the family legacy. Della is forcing them to be perfect to protect them. She knows how cruel the world can be. But her “protection” doesn't come across in the best way. At home, she subtly brings attention to all their little flaws, and when they go out, she makes sure they hide them all. When they cry, she gently tells them not to, that it's okay, that they're okay, everything is okay.

After Alden recovered from the mind break, he suddenly started talking to Alvar (who was struggling a lot with Neverseen stuff and depression and an eating disorder at the time) more. And he wouldn't let Della know what they were talking about. Della stopped trusting Alden. Not that she ever truly had, but this was different.

And Alden and Della grew further apart. Nobody would know, of course, since when they're out in public or when others are around, they act as in love as ever. But sometimes they go all day without talking to each other. Della spends time with Fitz and Biana, takes them places, teaches them how to survive in this family. She teaches them how to be the best version of themselves. They are 3 and 5. Alvar is at school most of the day, and out doing... whatever until nearly sunset. Della could ask, but Alden seems like he has it covered, so it doesn't really matter. She knows she's starting to be apathetic again, and she doesn't want to be, especially when it comes to her kids, but it's so hard not to.

But then Alvar enters the elite levels, and Alden starts spending more time with Fitz. He keeps him in his office all day, but then Della goes in once and Alden is alone. Where is Fitz? She asks him, and he informs her that he's at a friend's house. Where did Fitz get friends? She should be happy for him, but something about all of this feels so wrong. But she doesn't press further. If she shows that she doesn't trust Alden, will people use that against her too? So she doesn't even question it, and instead works on becoming closer with Biana, so Alden can't take her away, too. Maybe she's being overdramatic about it, but that wrong feeling hasn't gone away. Maybe it's just anxiety. Maybe she's fine. No, she is fine. It's not a maybe. She's okay. Their family is okay.

This also creates a divide between Fitz and Biana, who used to be close as little kids. But now Fitz is disappearing every day, and Della is keeping Biana away from him and Alden, and Alvar never comes home, except briefly during breaks and weekends, but then he goes to stay stars know where. Fitz and Biana have vastly different personalities. Biana has learned to be confident and defensive, while Fitz... well, he doesn't know how to act around people. He's learned to depend only on Alden, because nobody else trusts him and he can't trust anyone else. The golden years of this corner of the family are far behind them, and now all they have is perfectionism, distrust, and a facade.

Della thinks that by bringing attention to all Fitz and Biana’s little flaws and imperfections, by pointing them out in subtle ways, she thinks that will give them a chance to "fix" them before the world notices and attacks them for it. She tells herself she wishes someone had done this to her before she had to learn for herself to be perfect.

Fitz started going to foxfire, and Della can tell he's not really okay. Did they ever get him enrolled in tutor sessions? Maybe that's where he's been going off to? She hasn't been paying enough attention. They used to have dinner together as a family every night, but then Alden got busy, Fitz started bringing his food up to his room when he started school and became swamped with way more homework than what can be good and normal for an eleven year old. So Della usually ended up sitting at the table with Biana after making some food. She figures this is a good meal to skip. Two meals a day is more than enough.

Suddenly, everything changes. Suddenly, Sophie is there, and Fitz seems so much less tired. He seems less stressed. He joins Biana and Della for dinner, and sometimes even Alden sits and eats with them as well. Things are far from perfect, but Alden is smiling genuinely again. Only sometimes, but it's there. Della decides she likes this change. But she also realizes something...

Fitz was always either away or sick, Sophie was in the forbidden cities, where there are lots of human illnesses (she knows from experience). Alden never told her why he had Fitz get up so early to talk to him alone, Alden never talks to her anymore, goddamnit- what was Fitz doing? Alden couldn't have found Sophie. He couldn't have, she knows for a fact he never leaves! He was meeting with the council right before Sophie arrived with Fitz, in her strange human clothes, and Fitz was wearing human clothes and prime sources, she's thinking about this too much and she can't breathe - this has been going on for so long?? How could she not have seen?

No, she needs to stay calm. She... needs to talk to Alden about this. He's been busy today, but she takes two plates of food to his office in the evening, gently opens the door, and sits by him. Alden clearly thinks this is unusual, but she can't tell if it's in a positive or negative way. But that's not important. They need to talk. After a few bites of food, she prepares the question. Were you sending Fitz to the Forbidden Cities? she prepares it in her mind, has it on the tip of her tongue, she opens her mouth to speak, but what comes out instead is...

“How was your day?”

Alden blinks, like that's not what he was expecting. It's not what Della was expecting either. But she's not ready to confront his lies, she's not ready to face the reality of the danger Fitz was in for quite possibly eight years? And that's how Alden and Della end up sitting in Alden's office for hours, having the longest, most normal conversation they've had in years. They sit together and watch the sun set. Della leans on him. She missed having someone to hold her. Alden missed the feeling of being loved.

Alden and Della sort of work on mending their relationship after this, but they don't really talk about Fitz and what Alden had him do. Della never feels ready to bring it up, and eventually she puts the whole thing out of her mind. After all, Fitz is fine, it's like it never happened. But it did happen, and she doesn't notice the ways this affected Fitz because she's too busy pretending everything is fine and forcing him to do the same! Sometimes it's less pretending and more just. lying to herself. Trying to trick herself into believing. One of the ways she's done this for herself these past decades is telling herself that other people have it worse. If someone is suffering more than her, her pain doesn't matter. going to the Forbidden Cities kind of ingrained this in her brain more, as she saw people who were literally starving to death on the street, and here she was, living in this fancy mansion with a good husband - after all, he's not abusive or anything, and she really loves him. Things are just… weird, sometimes. And she sort of ends up passing this mentality down to Biana and Fitz? There's a time in Flashback where Fitz says it's only fair that all this is happening - because everyone else in the friend group had a really hard time at least at one point in their life, and usually over a long time - he's fine! He's had it good. How could he complain?

Alden went to Exile with Sophie in book 2, but nobody knew about it. Well, nobody was supposed to know, until Sophie transmitted to Fitz and got him all freaked out. All Della really knows is that he got hurt on a mission from the Council, and he really didn’t seem to want to talk about it. When she tried to ask, he used the “no reason to worry” phrase three different times in that conversation. He was clearly stressed and upset about something, but he convinced her to drop it. He ended up falling asleep in his office that night, but that happens sometimes. Everything was looking bright for everyone else, until the Opening Ceremonies. You all know what happened there, so i’m not gonna go into it, but when Alden’s mind broke, Della was devastated. As far as everyone knew, he wasn’t coming back. He was dead, they had a planting for him. She didn’t eat for days. Alvar was basically taking care of the whole family, because Alden was gone and Della spent most of her time by Alden’s side, trying to bring him back. Alvar tried to convince her to leave every day, until one day he snapped and yelled at her, he’s gone and he’s not coming back, stop hoping. It was the same kind of thing she had told him when they lost Jolie.

But unlike Jolie, Alden did come back, and the Vackers tried to erase the phase of their life where he was gone. They wanted to pretend that Keefe was right, that everything had gone back to perfection in Vacker Land. But this kind of thing leaves a lasting effect. They were afraid to even talk about what had happened with Alden, for fear that he’d break from the guilt of being gone and affecting them like that. Della still visits his Wanderling sometimes, not to mourn, but... for some other reason. There’s something surreal about looking at the tree, knowing full well Alden is okay at home.

Another quick thing I want to touch on is in book 3 when Alden and Fitz went to help with Fintan’s mind healing. Della and Biana spent the afternoon and evening together, trying to do fun things to take their mind off of things. But then they heard about the fire and saw pictures before Alden and Fitz had even come home, and they understandably freaked out. The fire had consumed half of Eternalia, how could they have gotten out? How could they be okay? But they were, and both Vackers were strangled with hugs as soon as they got back.

Della went with Fitz and Biana to join the Black Swan, partially because she wanted to, partially because she felt she should keep an eye on them and keep them at least semi in line, and partially because she wanted to escape the world and their pressing stares. And Everglen, a little bit. Juline was there, of course, but Della didn’t really know it was her.

When Squall wasn't busy and didn't need to rush home, Della actually ended up talking to her a bit. Della was a little more honest (key word a little) with her because she obviously wasn't like the general public - she's a Black Swan member. At one point Squall actually thinks Della is about to call her out on being Juline when Della tells her she reminds her of someone she used to know, and hey, she's a Froster, too! But Della seems genuinely unaware as she sort of explains what happened with this old friend of hers - she's a bad match, and Della was seen talking with her... and she felt like she had no choice but to cut her off. Squall listens, but only half processes it because she's waiting for the "you're Juline aren't you?" But it never comes.

After Alvar’s betrayal, Della knew a lot of people blamed her for how he ended up. After all, how could Alden Vacker have gone wrong? It was clearly Della’s influence that caused this. And she blames herself, too. She gave up on him. She didn’t talk to him enough. This whole thing also made the distrust in the Vacker family a lot worse - either Fitz or Biana said in Lodestar that it was like their parents wanted to know everything they’re doing, every place they go. They didn’t trust them. Fitz and Biana were growing closer after everything that had happened the past few years, but Della and Alden didn’t trust them, didn’t trust each other. This led to a lot of arguments between them and the kids, maybe not screaming matches, but raised voices and slammed fists and fighting back tears. When Keefe joined the Neverseen, Fitz shut himself in his room until school started again. He got quieter, and started to feel like he couldn’t trust anyone, even his sister, who he’d been taught to keep secrets from at a very young age. Della wanted to fix this somehow, she didn’t want to lose them like she’d lost Alvar - She wouldn’t give up on them. But she ended up just becoming overbearing and seemingly nosy. She thought she was helping.

If I remember correctly, the others got told that Squall is Juline in Lodestar when they came to pick up their kids from Rimeshire. Juline gathers everyone and says she has to tell them something, and when she reveals it, Della's smile drops faster than it ever has and she feels blood drain from her face. Juline never looks directly at her, and Della is panicking, thinking about how Juline must hate her. She wonders if she should try to push her away more, but... at this point what does it matter? Fitz and Biana already spend lots of time with Dex, and they just slept over at the Dizznees- she joined an illegal organization with them for stars’ sake! So... it's fine. It's okay for her to be here, at rimeshire, talking to Juline. The world is changing, and people have bigger things to talk about than Alden Vacker’s wife sharing a conversation with Juline Dizznee. As they leave Rimeshire, Juline meets her eyes and offers a small smile. Della nods in return.

When Alvar had his memories wiped and returned to Everglen, Della was determined to help him. She had this second chance, she wasn’t going to ruin it. She wanted to really believe he’d changed. But then Alvar got his memories back, and in front of the whole world at the celestial festival, he told everyone how his parents had given up on him. Della and Alden were watching that entire thing, as the world watched them, and Della couldn’t breathe. She watched Fitz threaten to kill Alvar, and for a few horrifying moments she thought she was about to lose both of them. And it was her fault, wasn’t it? That’s what everyone said. They blamed her. Alvar blamed her. She wouldn’t be surprised if Fitz and Biana blamed her, too.

Ever since what the world has canonically deemed the “Scandal at Everglen,” things in the Vacker family have not gotten better. Alden had been talking to Fitz about matchmaking for a while, encouraging him to pursue Sophie as a romantic interest. Eventually they do get together. Della tries to be happy for him, but she still sees this and thinks, maybe give them time. If she could go back, she would have wanted to enjoy her life before committing to the Match forever. She’s almost relieved when Sophie and Fitz don’t work out. She thinks it’ll be better for Fitz in the end. She knows he’s been isolating himself from his family, from the world after the Scandal at Everglen, which is understandable. They all seem to think he’s crazy. He’s seventeen, and he almost killed his own brother, right there. But Della was watching, too, and she saw that it was Gethen doing the manipulating. Using the right words, would they make Fitz turn out like Alvar? The thought still chills her to this day.

I don’t really have a good way to wrap it up other than I don’t think anything good will be happening to the Vackers anytime soon (except Biana, she seems to be doing relatively good compared to the rest). But yeah those are my Della thoughts :)

Lastly, art tags:

@cutebisexualmess @void-kill @lemon-girl-in-devil-town @keefe--sencen @tastetherainbow290

@myfairkatiecat @awful-amateur @aspenaspenaspenaspenaspen @necromycologist @cosmxc-ars3hol3

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mrsnancywheeler · 9 months

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the lakes (10) // finnick odair x f. reader

summary: it's supposed to be over, you and Finnick are supposed to spend the rest of your lives helping each other heal. living as peacefully as possible, but the the third quarter quell throws a wrench in your domestic bliss.

previous chapter / next chapter

midnight rain

warnings: angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, manipulation of someone's feelings, hypothermia which I did my best to research, near death experiences, reader has familial issues, mental illness, self-hate, terms of endearment, backstory heavy, no use of y/n, unedited, the love triangle that was never really a love triangle

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

“What do you think would have happened if this never happened to us, if it was just you and me, at home?" Conway’s voice pierced through the night air, you could hear every breath as you laid on his shoulder. Desperate for some type of body heat.

A question that you could answer truthfully, “Eventually we would have gotten married and you'd have taken over your family business, your sisters and I would have absolutely made the most out of everyone in the marketplace.” As much as it hurt you to think about, you doubted Finnick would have come back to you if none of this had occurred. He'd leave you alone to “protect you" as he claimed without an obvious reason and your love would have faded into an unfinished fairytale of what could have been in the back of your mind. You hated to think about it, but Conway was the person you would settle to be with if you couldn't have the love you wanted.

“You really think so?" His fingers were tracing something on your sleeve that you weren't focused enough on to try and decipher. “My family, everyone at school always thought so, but you could have anyone you wanted." No you couldn't, the person you'd wanted most in the world had pushed you away, the only person your soul ached for.

“You could've had anyone to Conway."

“No, I couldn't have." He shook his head with a bitter smile.

“Yeah, who was that one girl?" You scrunched your eyes shut trying to recall her name, “Meena!” Your eyes snapped open,"You dated Meena, she was sweet.”

"Only to try and make you jealous.” He muttered, softly. Finnick had always remarked how Meena looked like you, how Conway was unbelievably entranced by you, for reasons you'd never understand. You didn't know what to say back, it hadn't worked, you'd actually been ecstatic for him to have found someone. "I wouldn't have picked Meena.” He wanted you to say you wouldn't have picked Finnick, you could tell, but you couldn't say that.

"Then, it would've been you and me, and I would have driven you mad.” You averted, giving a breathless laugh.

There was a glimmer in his sad eyes and he gave a slight smile,"No you wouldn't have.”

You smiled and nodded, "Oh I would have, I'd want to do this and that, when all you wanted was to stay home. Then you'd want to go crawfishing and I'd grumble to stay in bed.” It would have been good enough, satisfying enough, but it would never be what you and Finnick could've had. You were both creatures of extraversion, you'd go where he went and make do, if he wanted to fish you'd go along to read or let him convince you to join, if you absolutely refused he'd eventually yield to you. If you'd decided to rot away in your head Conway would desperately want to help, but Finnick would, he'd take care of you, but also force you out of it. If Finnick was everything you needed, everything you wanted, everything you yearned for, Conway was perfect for everybody else.

“That would've been okay with me." Okay. Not like puzzle pieces fitting together, just two books sitting by one another. “Kids?" There was the other thing, Conway would be a great father and needed to be in a sense, but it scared you. How could you raise a child if they were constantly close to being thrown into the predicament you were in now? You would have loved to have kids if the government was different, if none of these chains were locking that up, and Finnick was the same. Children would be perfect in another world, another time.

Yet you humored him, “How many?" No kids would be in danger since both of you wouldn't be able to come out of this alive.

“Four?" Conway leaned tilted his head to the sky, “Two boys, two girls."

“Five, three girls, two boys, take it or leave it." If you tried hard enough you could somewhat convince yourself it was just the two of you, back home, living the life everyone expected you to live. To imagine you'd just settled. He was handsome, so handsome any girl would have adored him, he was sweet and hardworking. His family cared so deeply and was basically your own. The universe stretched itself thin for you and Finnick, if it stayed still it would've been you and Conway.

He laughed and looked back at you, “I'll take it, any day, I would have taken it." He had to know, if you got out you would run right back to him, but the fantasy was better than thinking about that, at least it was easier at some points to tell yourself Conway knew. “Would you take care of my family?" He whispered, face settling into some type of seriousness.

“Of course I would." Even if you'd never be able to look at them again after what you were doing which they surely knew about, you would pour as much money into their pockets as you could.

He looked away from you, his eyes glossy with unshed tears as he stared into the dark. Like he was ashamed to say what he was going to, “It's just, it's always been all of us. They begged me to come home and I don't know, I don't know what I'm supposed to do. And you-" Conway choked on whatever he was going to say, “I'm sorry, I don't want to be an ass, I'm just trying to be honest." He wiped his face of the tears that weren't even falling, but you could see it all on his face. It made you absolutely ill with yourself, he was right, his family was so tight-knit it would be a major hit to all of them if he was gone. Yet here you were playing with him like some sort of toy to get you to the top. He was spilling all of his heart to you, saying what was hard to say and you pulled strings. You buried your face in your freezing hands.

“It's okay." Your voice was muffled, eventually pulling away as you looked at him. “You're right, you don't have to say it. But even if they aren't like yours it doesn't mean they don't need me, I'm the one in the markets, Conway. Mom’s too sick to do it, Dad has to go out and work, and Avonlea has to take care of Mom. No one else is going to do it and they wouldn't have to worry about that anymore.”

It was unsaid that even if that happened it didn't mean you'd break the seemingly impenetrable walls of their bond, a trio you weren't meant for. Maybe it wasn't worth it, if you got out you'd help them, but wouldn't be part of their team, you wouldn't be able to look at Conway’s family without being eaten by guilt on the spot, your best friend would be dead and it would be your fault, all you'd really have is Finnick. But maybe that was enough for how desperately your soul longed for him.

“I'm sorry."

“It's not your fault." You didn't blame the Games either, as far as you were concerned you were the only one to blame. You didn't know when you'd begun to cry, but the way the biting cold hit your wet face made you shiver.

Then his arms were pulling you closer, “No, that was wrong of me, I didn't want to make you cry. Your family is just as important as mine." That only made you cry more. If you weren't so unpleasable you could have been content with him, happy even, that wouldn't have stopped this from happening, but maybe you would have felt less guilty or let yourself die with him, the way you would die for Finnick.

“You're too good to me, Conway. Much too good, you deserve a Meena." You were trying to wipe away your tears, but they were coming much too quick.

" I don't want a Meena.” Then his lips were on yours and for a second it was comforting, which only fueled your nausea. It didn't matter that you were young and confused because you knew he wasn't the one, that this had been what you wanted from him just so you could be with someone else. That beautiful, kind Conway was a means to an end and this was all supposed to end one way.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

It was hot, sweat was clinging to your skin, and your head still stung. You almost couldn't bear to be too close to Finnick and his unnatural heat that was usually so comforting, but he was hovering around you so much that it was nearly impossible to get a few steps away as you all ran through the jungle. Cannons began booming off one by one as everyone finally decided to sit down. There was more guilt this time, most of these people you knew pretty well and had spent time with in some capacity over the years. Even if you hadn't killed any of them, you were still alive when they were gone, how was that fair? Nothing was, nothing had been for so long, never in your lifetime.

“I guess we're not holding hands anymore." Finnick laughed and it caught you so off guard that you couldn't help it when your scoff turned into a laugh as well. Hitting your forehead on his shoulder. The irony of it all, how you'd held hands in solidarity against the Capitol only to tear each other's throats out down here.

“You think that's funny?" Katniss asked, you understood why she was so appalled by his comment, you truly did, but his comments had always evened out your thoughts before they became all consuming. His humor brought light to the dark.

"Just a little bit.” You demonstrated with your fingers, even though it was definitely more than that.

“Everytime that cannon goes off it's music to my ears. I don't care about any of them.” He pointed at the sky, shrugging his shoulders.

“Good to hear." Katniss pulled some weapon out of her quiver to point his way. You couldn't help yourself when you tossed one of your knives up to catch it, as badly as you needed Katniss out of the arena you wouldn't let her attack Finnick. Even if he could defend himself, which he demonstrated perfectly well as he held his trident right back at her. At the end of the day you two were still the team, you could only get her out if she'd cooperate and it would be very unlikely if she went for Finnick that she'd trust anybody after that.

“Wanna face the Career pack alone? What would Haymitch say?" Finnick’s brow quirked, you briefly made eye contact with Peeta. He looked so uncomfortable, looking for an opportunity to decrease the tension.

“Haymitch isn't here." Katniss replied, not backing down. Peeta began to stand.

"Let's keep moving.” His voice broke the tension when Katniss stood as well, maintaining her own eye contact with Finnick, she looked so untrusting, so angry. Finnick grabbed your free hand as you stood. Then he was behind you, slightly grabbing the back of your head.

“We should have cleaned it, you could get an infection." Finnick frowned.

“I'll be fine, Finnick." You smiled, it wasn't like the plan was supposed to take longer than a couple days. You doubted you would die of an infection in that time. Planting a light kiss on his cheek before you tugged his hand to keep walking.

“Let's not tempt the fates." He muttered, silently insisting to be the one who pulled you along instead. Peeta was cutting down the vines as you all walked forwards, making way to see ahead. You glanced at Finnick, how could he still be so breathtaking when he was dripping with sweat? Maybe you were too lovesick for disgust at this point, but it amazed how despite all the grime the bronze of his skin still shone and you would have bet people would still line up for a minute of his time.

“Take a picture, it'll last longer." He flashed those pearly whites at you and you rolled your eyes despite feeling your cheeks get somehow hotter.

“You're a real comedian, Odair, I'll give you that. I mean I'm basically dying of laughter." You deadpanned, rather unsuccessfully, when you stumbled over some branch. Finnick's hand helped you maintain balance, but he was laughing at you just as quick.

“Angel, you don't need to fall for me, I'm already your husband. There's really no need to be so desperate." You playfully hit him.

“And you're just so helpful, I could have died.” You shrugged, over exaggerating as much as you probably could.

"That would have been a rather pathetic way to go, don't you think?” He teased, "And after all that talk about how you could take care of yourself.” Finnick tutted and you shoved his shoulder again.

Katniss' scream instantly tore you out of the moment," Peeta, no!” The machete hit some sort of forcefield ahead and he flew back, roughly hitting the jungle floor. She was immediately scrambling for him, grabbing his face. “Peeta?" Her voice shook and it hit you that maybe it wasn't an act like you and Finnick had theorized, maybe the bare bones of it all showed there was a pure, raw love there even if it didn't always seem that convincing to people who weren't Capitol citizens desperate to eat up any act. “He's not breathing. He's not breathing, he's not breathing! Peeta!” Katniss cried out and Finnick immediately ran to him, pushing Katniss away.

She'd pulled out her bow when you ran up, “Katniss he's just trying to help." You put your hands up as you slowly approached her, she looked panicked, confused and Finnick's lips were on Peeta’s. It looked like her brain was running so fast it hadn't even registered that it was CPR. Finally it looked like it had clicked and she put the bow down, running back over Peeta. You followed, cautiously placing your hand on her shoulders. “It's okay, he's gonna be okay.” You couldn't know that, but it was all you could think to say.

“Peeta, Peeta." She was begging, voice trembling and you saw yourself in her. You'd be the same way if anything happened to Finnick, her desperation proved to you that beyond all else she truly was in love with the boy from the arena.

“Come on Peeta." Finnick said gruffly, doing rough compressions on his seemingly limp body.

“Peeta, please wake up." Katniss was cradling his head and you squeezed her shoulder trying to be as reassuring as you could.

“He will, Katniss, he will." You nodded mostly to yourself. Her body was shaking from her tears.

"Please wake up.” Her body rocked back and forth as Finnick muttered continuous "come on’s,” continuing his attempt to revive Peeta. Suddenly he was gasping for air and Finnick sighed in relief. “Peeta! Oh my god!”

“Be careful, there's a forcefield up there.” Peeta said softly and Katniss laughed through the tears before kissing him. By now you doubted anyone could think their love was all a performance, it made you want to cry as well. Finnick's hand slid back into yours, squeezing it. Telling you that you were in fact on the same page, it amazed you how with looks and touches it was as if nearly every thought the two of you shared could be communicated.

“Oh my god, you were dead. You were dead, your heart stopped.” She stroked his hair, like she was terrified she'd never get too again.

“It's okay, it's working now." Katniss hugged him before they worked to get him standing up again. She was so soft, so caring, which you knew from the act with Rue the year before, but it was so moving to see in real life. All the things that really made her such a good symbol of the rebellion, not the hate for the Capitol, the love for other people.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

By day 3 it was pouring down freezing rain, buckets of it. Only a few more cannons had gone off and you couldn't reason how this would make the games more interesting, watching people die of pneumonia or something of the like. You'd figured out the boots were made to be pretty resistant to water and prevent as much sliding in the mud as possible, but it was basically up to your ankles in muck. Trudging along was a chore within itself, you couldn't even start a fire to keep warm, even if you'd strung up the tarp to keep it from the rain the wood around was all soaked. Every once in a while the four of you would string a tarp in the bare trees, one on the ground, huddle together for some sort of heat, lay the small plastic covers on you and pass the match between your hands as quickly as you could. Before they could burn out and you were terrified you'd run out, that all sense of heat would be gone.

You'd been so cold and exhausted that it took everything in you not to groan as the four of you picked berries. Grateful that Conway had paid enough attention at that station to know which one's were poisonous. Your hands were so numb it was nearly impossible to grab them, nevermind the fact that you were being soaked in the frozen droplets since it was Marlowe and Birch's turn with the plastic covers.

“Your lips are blue." You were startled when Conway was suddenly in front of you, staring at you with concern. You tried to move your hand to touch your lips but it refused to do what you wanted. Then you mumbled something so incoherent you couldn't even tell what you'd been trying to say. His hand pressed to your face, which you only knew from being able to see it. “She's like ice." He looked at the other two anxiously.

“Me too." Birch muttered and Marlowe shot him a glare before approaching you. Fingers touching your neck, searching for a pulse.

“We should set up the tarps, get her out of the rain.” Marlowe advised, looking at the two boys. "I think she's hypothermic.” Everything was a rush to you, it was so confusing. Why were you out in the woods? Conway was here, but who were these other people? It was hard to walk when Conway had led you into the makeshift shelter. “Her jacket is soaked through, hopefully her shirt isn't as much, we should take it off."

“That'll make her more cold." You were pretty sure that was Conway's voice.

“Water makes it worse anyways." The female voice rang out in your ears. Before some other ringing sound came through, this time you were sure you weren't delusional when everyone else's heads looked around. Conway instantly stood up to search for whatever it was.

When he came back it wasn't him you were seeing, there was Finnick. Gorgeous, sunshine Finnick. Your lips tried to move to say something to him but it was too difficult. By the time you felt them move an inch he was gone and it was Conway once again.

“This is huge." He remarked, bringing in some sort of package. Were you ok the boat? None of your surroundings made sense.

“Must have incredible sponsors." Another male voice rang out, who was that?

“It's a blanket!" Your jacket was being torn from your stiff muscles as something surrounded you. Was wrapped around you and your head was laid down. “You're gonna be okay."

"There's a broth too.” The female voice said again, you were seeing Finnick again standing over you, wait no it was your father. Hovering over you as if you were your mother. You just wanted to rest, this was all so overwhelming. Whoever it was was urging you to open your mouth to put a spoonful of something inside. Which was extremely difficult but eventually you managed to, the swallowing was even harder, but it did fill your insides with a pleasant warmth. Everything was such a rush you didn't know when you'd slipped into sleep.

You knew eventually you'd woken up, feeling somewhat warmer, more conscious. You knew people's names at the very least. Conway had his arms wrapped around the blanket, providing even more heat. Marlowe was laying by your side, trying to exude more heat even though she cold herself and Birch was by her side.

“You're lucky to have a mentor who could get you something like that and the sponsors to support it, most people die of hypothermia in under an hour, at least back home." Marlowe said when you'd looked at her. She wasn't bitter or angry about it, at least not at you.

“Yeah." Your voice was so hoarse you almost didn't recognize it. “Thank you for not leaving me for dead. I wouldn't have blamed you, the probability of me dying and dragging the group down waiting for me was pretty high.”

Marlowe just shook her head, "No us four until the end, we'll talk about it more then.” She looked back at the top of the tarp, listening to the rain drops. " When you're done being on the brink of death you'll share the blanket though, right? It's freezing out here.”

You let yourself smile a little,"Yeah of course.”

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

I literally cried writing this guys, I thought it wouldn't get it out but happy new year!!! I'm so grateful for all you reading and interacting with this story, I'm ecstatic that so many of you love my brain rot ideas. if you enjoyed feedback, likes, comments, reblogs are all super appreciated and my ask box is always open even if I'm super slow about it. love you and thank you so much again 💋

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babystrcandy · 1 year

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the lucky one (pt. 4) | jjk

summary: Growing up you only had one goal: beat Jeon Jungkook. Sometimes you'd win, other times you'd lose. Sometimes he'd lose, other times he'd win. But you'd both walk away from the match thinking the other was the lucky one.

pairing: jungkook x fem!reader rating/genre: 18+ Minors DNI | sports au, e2l/r2l, angst, fluff, smut word count: 30.2K chapter summary: Atlas wasn’t a god; he was just a man . . . and Jeon Jungkook could only bear so much. warnings/notes: typos probably, explicit language, forehead touches, the first games, daisy jones and the six vibes at some point, i guess kind of public sex, well elevator nsfw, fingering, squirting, nipple play, titty fucking, explicit sex, unprotected sex, cum play, wooshik (derogatory), shit goes down, reader may have a bad leg but let my girl into the MMAs (in other words, she’d do anything for jk (not that she’d admit to it)), jungkook’s past is revealed and it’s a doozy, abuse of alcohol mentioned, mentions of past suicidal ideation, mention of past suicide attempt but nothing is explained in detail, just mentioned (please be cautious of this part; and take care of yourselves), a silent voice + the female of the species + the picture of dorian gray references/inspo, descriptions of anxiety, depression, mental illness, i think that’s it but if i missed anything please let me know, i hope you enjoy, my loves <3

chapter four: build me up, buttercup ( ← previous | interlude | next → )

BECOMING SOMEONE WAS ALWAYS something you had known you were meant to do, but you hadn’t expected it to be this hard. You supposed a part of you just always thought it’d be handed to you. OK, maybe not exactly handed to you on a silver platter, but you hadn’t expected that you’d have to chase it, constantly picking up your pace just to catch up.

It should’ve been easy, right? Being a person was supposed to be easy. Emphasis on the . . . supposed to.

Even as it was happening . . . even as the parts of you that made you a person . . . even as you graduated college . . . this new life didn’t feel like it was yours. You didn’t feel like a person yet. (And a part of you didn’t want to be.)

A part of you wanted to take a step back, restart, and move back in with your parents. A part of you wanted to be a little kid again . . . her mother still brushing her hair and tucking her into bed. Now . . . now you brushed your own hair and barely made it to the bed before you passed out for the night.

You realized for many people becoming a person meant becoming an adult and that was it. You became a person when you became an adult. But it never felt that way for you.

Realizing becoming a person meant your decisions were your own and blaming everyone around you for your misfortunes was immature, had hit you in ways you never imagined.

It happened gradually.

If you broke a glass . . . that was your fault . . . your mess . . . you cleaned that up. But . . . you remembered as if it were recently when your father would let you cling on to his back while he cleaned up the mess you made just so you didn’t get hurt.

Now . . . your father wasn’t there to put Hello Kitty bandaids on your cuts. Now . . . now you cleaned up the mess and if you got cut, you got cut. You sucked it up and ran it under tap water. That was it. No sugar coating. No one was there to protect you. Not anymore.

Because you were an adult now.

But . . . you were still afraid of the dark. You still couldn’t ride a rollercoaster or a bike or even really swim.

So what exactly made you an adult?

Your age?

You still needed a hand in yours as you navigated through your own life. So how was that fair? You supposed it wasn’t. You supposed you had to accept that there was no hand for you to hold and there was no going back.

But that didn’t stop you from remembering, and it seemed all you could do these days was refamiliarize yourself with the past.

Becoming someone when you were a kid meant so much more. It used to be something you looked forward to. It used to be something that came with being an adult, and well . . . you just couldn’t wait to grow up . . . until . . . you finally did.

You wished someone had told you to slow down; don’t be so eager about tomorrow when today hadn’t even begun.

That was just who you were.

It wasn’t something you could help; you were just always curious about what the future held. Once a competition had concluded, you got right back up there to train and practice. There were no off-seasons for you. You didn’t like to stop; it made you feel uneasy.

So . . . you liked to keep busy . . .

Well . . . that all came crashing down the moment of your accident. Your future consisted of hospital beds, check-ups, and physical therapy, which all equaled a whole lot of downtime.

You supposed that was why you took so kindly to literature (not at first . . . of course, because you were still a stubborn person through and through).

And you thought . . . way too much if you thought about it. Whatever.

Thinking wasn’t always kind to you. It made you remember that you had been trained to become someone, not just an adult, but someone . . . great. Sure, you had to work for it every day of your life, but it was a routine you knew well and you liked it enough. You had chosen that life for yourself. You had chosen to become someone great the moment you picked up a racket.

Until you tore it from your own hands, and now . . . now you weren’t exactly sure who you were. And sometimes, if you really thought about it, you wished more than anything you could be a kid again. You’d become someone better if you could just start over. Maybe you wouldn’t become someone great . . . but . . . you’d become someone . . . better.

Worst of all . . . and keep in mind that you were incredibly aware how independent and hellbent on being your own person you were . . . but sometimes . . . sometimes you wished someone would just tell you what to do. You wished more than anything someone would just tell you who to be; who to become.

Things would be easier then. You were sure of it.

But you were long past those ages. You had to tell yourself what to do; who to become; how to act, and sometimes that blew up in your face but you supposed that was what it meant to be an adult. (News Flash: you fucking hated it.)

Whatever.

What you wanted to do was tell the past and the present to go fuck themselves. What you wanted to do was crawl under your bed and hide away from the rest of the world. What you wanted to do was not be a person at all.

But the past had a sick way of reminding you that you were perhaps too much of a person.

You had always been just a little too much. Too loud. Too quiet. Too ambitious. Too selfish. Too cruel. Too stupid. Too you. You’d been told it all your life and you’d never really cared until all that was left of yourself was your seemingly horrible personality. That was what you were most ashamed of—not only being a person but being a . . . bad person.

The past had a way of sneaking up on you, reminding you of who exactly you had become and who you had been meant to be.

And that night was no different.

It was the night before the first round of games. Your entire team, Yunis, had traveled by train to Busan for the event, and to say you (and most likely everyone else) were nervous. You’d, of course, sat next to Jungkook the entire time, listening to him snore literally the whole duration of the trip. Eventually, you ended up having to fall asleep with your fingers plugged in your ears, and when you awoke, you were embarrassingly drooling all over Jungkook’s shoulder. (Now . . . nobody say anything, you were already embarrassed enough as it was.)

Anyway . . .

Train. B-line to the hotel. Get your room key. Take a nap in the queen bed. Wake up. Get more practice in before curfew.

Check . . . check . . . check . . .check . . . check . . . and . . . check.

Only you had underestimated just how much your heart would be pounding the second you approached the arena’s double doors. You knew technically you shouldn’t have been there the night before the games, but it wasn’t illegal so whatever. That didn’t stop the fact that you couldn’t help but notice how much your hands were shaking when you reached out to grasp the door handle.

You just . . .

It had been a handful of months since you’d joined Yunis. You and Jungkook were good now. Friends. He had been training you, and you couldn’t honestly say that while you weren’t some kind of Olympian. . . you weren’t horrible. And tomorrow, you’d get out there, play with him by your side and know that you had put your all into it. The past should have been behind you.

But it kept seeping back in.

Your fall. The injury. Those three years.

What if you got hurt again?

What if you failed?

You were OK, maybe even good, but you weren’t . . . great.

And you sure as hell weren’t sure you could live with yourself if you cost your team a win. That nearly made you peel over and spill your stomach’s contents. And if you had to see Jungkook turn to you with disappointment on his face . . . ? That would surely kill you.

Disappointing him was something you didn’t want to do. Not after everything.

It was decided then what you would do: walk through those doors and practice until you could safely walk back to your hotel room without a sinking feeling weighing you down. That very thought stayed on your mind as you shoved open the doors, racket clenched tightly in your hand. Your eyes immediately found all the equipment set up for tomorrow’s tournament, and your heart thudded in your chest at the sight.

The thing was: you hadn’t seen a court like this in three years. Sure, you’d practiced and practiced and practiced, but you hadn’t seen it like . . . this . . . like how you left it three years ago.

So without even thinking, your body took control. Call it muscle memory or nostalgia, you didn’t know, but you did know one second you were standing by the doors, then the next you had taken all of three steps before your hand touched the net. You walked along the court, hand never leaving the net as you remembered what it felt like to have this be your entire world.

That was the thing about remembering: you never truly forgot. It had always been badminton to you. It had always just fit into your life. You missed it like you missed a childhood pet.

And then you felt it: the excitement.

For a split second, you weren’t thinking of winning or losing or anything in between. No, instead, for a second, you remember how it felt just to hit a birdie, no questions asked. You remembered the late nights and the feel of a new racket in your hand. You remembered the joy you felt when you’d see your parents in the stands. You remembered how it felt to hear the crowd scream your name. You remembered it all. And then . . . you realized you were remembering how it felt to . . . love badminton.

Why had it ever been about anything else?

Badminton had fit into you so long ago because you loved it. You weren’t sure when you had lost sight of that.

But you didn’t try to scramble for explanations. You didn’t want to. Instead, you let yourself remember, and as you did, you gave into a small thought which crossed your mind. You leaned down, nose hanging just above the net and breathed in the scent, and then you began to smile. That was what you wished you remembered about your past—the scent of a badminton net. (You supposed it was the same feeling of walking into a bookstore and that scent hitting you all at once (had you told yourself that you’d come to love the smell of a bookstore, you would’ve laughed in your own face, but . . . now . . . badminton and books didn’t have that much of a difference to you.)

Raising your head once again, your eyes fell to the racket in your hand. Here you were three years later, a racket still in your hand, and for a second you swore you felt excited about it. For a second, you wondered if you’d enjoy tomorrow.

Because maybe badminton fit into you like a hook in an eye, but maybe you had grown to hate it; to fear it. And maybe . . . maybe you could learn to love it again. Perhaps even if you did lose tomorrow . . . perhaps you could still love it. And maybe—

“Why are you sniffing the net?” you heard from behind you, and instantly you knew that voice.

Your head whipped around, eyes immediately finding Jungkook sitting at the top of the bleachers.

Oh. (Your heart pounded a little faster now.)

Had he been there the whole time?

“Stalking me now?” you called back as you slowly made your way toward him, beginning to climb the bleachers with your racket still in your hand. (You didn’t want to admit just how relieved you were to see him there, because maybe that meant he was nervous too. Maybe you weren’t alone. And maybe (just maybe) you wished he’d come find you all night.)

“I’m not much of a stalker,” he huffed, his eyes never leaving you as he leaned back against the bleachers. “Too much work.”

You reached him with a shake of your head. “You’re too stupid anyway,” you teasingly hummed as you sat down beside him, resting your racket to the side so you could lean back and cross your arms over your chest.

“That’s rude, you know?” he remarked, nudging you with his elbow.

“Eh,” was all you hummed while you turned your head to the side, immediately locking eyes with him. “Say something rude about me then.”

Jungkook only smiled. “No.”

“Come on—” you leaned toward him, staring up at him— “tell me what’s wrong with me. Hmm? Free shot.”

Jungkook mirrored your actions, leaning toward you. “Nothing to tell.”

You rolled your eyes. “Liar.”

“Fine, you’re a brat.”

“A brat?”

“A brat.”

“You’re the brat,” you huffed as you shoved his shoulder.

“Oh, yeah?” he mused, taking the chance to rest his arm around the back of the bleachers where you were leaning. His arm wasn’t quite wrapped around your shoulders, but you could still feel the heat of his body radiating off of his onto yours. “What makes me more of a brat than you?”

“For starters—” you blinked up at him— “this. Oh, and when you make coffee in the morning, you do this thing where—”

But you never finished your sentence, no, instead, you were cut off with his lips pressing against yours. It wasn’t rushed or sloppy or anything like that either. It was soft, but before you could even kiss him back, he pulled away, a dopey smile on his face as he resumed his position, leaning back against the bleachers.

“Uh . . . “ you trailed off.

“Hmm?” he lazily hummed.

“You kissed me.”

“Yeah, I wanted to.”

Narrowing your eyes, you gave him a once-over. “For what?”

“Dunno—” he shrugged— “Been a long day. I like kissing you. You like kissing me. Do the math.”

A scoff left your lips and before you could stop it, you muttered, “Brat.” (Let’s completely ignore the fact that you had a smile on your face when you said it, too.)

The silence hit you two then. But it was comfortable, filled with small smiles and this warm bubbly feeling.

And then . . .

“Are you nervous?” he asked you. “About tomorrow?”

And you knew the two of you understood each other more than you originally had thought. Because, yes, you were, and so was he. This . . . this was another chance.

Like the two of you . . . this was a chance to start over.

So instead of bottling up your fears like you would around anyone else, you let your mind speak. “Yes,” you found yourself mumbling with a soft sigh. “A little excited too, but . . . mostly nervous, yeah.”

“Yeah,” he sighed heavily, “me too.”

“How come?”

His eyes snapped to you. “Haven’t played since . . . since last year,” he mumbled before he wet his lips and shrugged.

“Why?” you found yourself asking before you knew it.

“Something with a friend happened.”

. . .

“Tae?” you hesitantly asked, wondering if he'd let you into his past.

Jungkook blinked. Hesitant at first, but then . . . “Yes.”

Oh.

Suddenly, you remembered the phone call you had overheard weeks ago. Taehyung. He was injured. No. No. You couldn’t jump to conclusions.

“What happened?” you asked instead of letting your mind decide for you, because this was Jungkook and he mattered to you, not some conversation you weren’t supposed to hear.

A beat of silence.

You swore he’d leave you like that. You swore he’d change the subject. Until . . .

“We had a falling out. Jimin, too,” he ended up muttering out as he turned away from you. He . . . he couldn’t look at you. “I knew I’d fucked up. I tried to fix it, but . . . I was too much of a coward.” A heavy sigh left him. “Still am.”

“Well . . . “ you trailed off, trying to think of words quickly because here he was telling you the truth and you couldn’t bring yourself to be enough of a person to comfort him. So you ended up blurting out: “What if you—”

But Jungkook stopped you where you were. (Perhaps you had taken too much time to respond.) “It’s past that. No ‘what if’s’ will make things OK between us,” he said, his voice strained. “I ruined his life. It was my fault. I ruined everything for him. Everything.”

“Maybe it’s a misunderstanding,” you rushed out, desperately trying to reach him before he curled back into himself. “Like with us.”

He turned to you then, brows raised. “Us?”

Then you realized something . . . your own past with him. You never . . . you never apologized, because you remembered what you did. You remembered how you’d forced the blame onto him because that was easier than admitting you had ruined yourself just like you ruined everything else. But perhaps in doing so, you had ruined him, too.

And you never apologized for any of it.

So when the words “I guess I never apologized, huh?” came out of your mouth . . . you knew what you had cut out for you.

Jungkook only sat there, staring at you in confusion as if he couldn’t believe someone was apologizing to him.

And you went on. “I blamed you for what happened to me, but it wasn’t your fault. I didn’t know when to quit. I should’ve sat the game out, but I didn’t. I did this to myself, not you,” you mumbled sheepishly. One, two, three seconds of silence passed before you awkwardly touched a hand to his. “I guess what I’m trying to say is . . . I’m sorry . . . for blaming you . . . hating you . . . not letting you visit me in the hospital. I’m sorry.”

He blinked in response.

You withdrew your hand.

Was he trying to make you feel awkward on purpose? You quickly cleared your throat just to fill the silence. “You would’ve been the only one to visit me anyway,” you blabbered on, trying not to seem so affected by . . . this. “Shouldn’t have turned you away for that reason alone. I’m pretty sure even the nurses would switch with each other so they didn’t have to deal with me.”

And finally, like some saving grace, Jungkook let out a clap of laughter. “You really are a brat,” he remarked with a shake of his head.

“I was lonely, OK? And miserable!” you whined, squeezing his shoulder. (Your little anxieties floated away the harder he laughed . . . and you knew things were OK.) “Plus! The food tasted like goop.”

He quirked a brow. “Goop?”

“Yep, so you—” you drilled a finger into his chest— “try not going crazy.”

“Brat.”

You shoved his chest in response, but couldn’t hide the grin on your face. “Listen . . . about the other thing . . . Tae’s understanding,” you began again. “You’ve always said that, right?”

He offered you a small, strained smile. “Not about this.”

And you nodded in understanding. “I’m sorry.”

“For?”

“Everything,” you mumbled with a shrug. “Tae. Jimin, too.”

Jungkook blew a raspberry. “Shit happens.”

“Well . . . my mom will be happy to know we’re finally on good terms,” you offered up, trying to lighten the mood. It also wasn’t like it was a lie either. You had yet to tell your parents that you and Jungkook were on the same team, and if your mother knew, she’d leave work just to be there to see you guys play. (What could you say? Jungkook was practically family.)

“We’re on good terms?” Jungkook questioned in response.

Oh no.

You knew where he was going with this. (You could tell by the small grin twitching at his lips.)

“We’re teammates, of course, we are,” you simply replied, trying not to give away the fact that you knew what was ahead of you.

“Are you admitting that we’re friends?” he asked immediately.

There it was.

He was going to rub this in your face.

Of course the two of you were some kind of fucked up friends, but you had yet to truly admit that, and Jungkook was going to have fun with that. (Obviously.)

“No,” you coughed out. (Like that was believable.)

He shoved a finger in your face. “You are.”

“No!” you desperately rushed out. “I’m not.”

“Oh, this is rich!” Jungkook laughed loudly, clapping his hands.

“No, Jungkook, no. Not friends. We can’t be! Our past!”

“Our past?”

You nodded vigorously, practically begging him not to put you through this embarrassment. He wanted you to admit it; to admit you were wrong and you had already done enough of that tonight.

But it seemed Jungkook had other plans entirely.

Instead of shoving it in your face that you’d admitted the two of you were friends, he simply sent you a half-grin and nodded. “Fine,” he hummed, his voice soft and smooth. “Then let’s start over . . . this time as strangers who become . . . friends.”

Oh.

You blinked.

“Fine,” you huffed, but it came out more like a dazed sigh.

With that, Jungkook kept that charming grin on his face as he held out his hand toward you. “Jeon Jungkook,” he mused, introducing himself like the two of you didn’t have a history that could fill an entire filing cabinet. “Nice to meet you.”

And you couldn’t help it: you smiled back at him, grasping his hand in yours and introducing yourself. “Nice to meet you,” you mumbled again after a second, the smile still on your face as you shook his hand.

Jungkook nodded in approval, but his hand stayed in yours and just as you gave him a look of skepticism, he tugged you into him. You let him of course. With an amused look on your face, you let him pull you into his chest, going the extra mile to swing your leg over his lap so you were straddling him.

What could you say? You enjoyed his touch all too much.

Then you felt his lips. Similar to the kiss from before, this one was also soft. At first, it was just closed lips and nimble sighs. He pulled back after a few small pecks, seemingly content with just having you close to him.

“Sorry, it’s a ritual,” he murmured against your lips.

“That how you greet all people?” you mused, laughing through your nose.

“Of course,” he hummed as he pressed another quick kiss to your lips.

But you had always been a little insatiable . . . so, the next words to leave your mouth were: “Can you show me more of that ritual?”

All Jungkook could do was grin against the very lips that had asked him that question. He, of course, gave in to your request, pressing his lips against yours once again, softly kissing you with every atom in his body. Until . . . slowly, so slow that it was almost painful, his hands found their way to your hips and squeezed, fingers digging into you and making you crave more, more, more. You just couldn’t help yourself. He was like chocolate-covered strawberries. You couldn’t resist him, not after the long day you’d both had.

And so . . . your hands found their way into his dark locks, weaving through them as you shifted on his lap and deepened the kiss. You nibbled on his bottom lip, tugging slightly and just enough to get him to comply. His lips parted slowly and you nearly sighed in contentment, but no, instead you melded further into him, now tugging his head backward by his hair in order to lick into his mouth. You just couldn’t help it. He tasted sweet.

It was sloppy and carnal . . . just the way you craved it to be. He only spurred you on from there. While you hummed into his mouth, biting and licking, attempting to taste more and more and more of him, he nearly whimpered under your touch. You couldn’t believe it either. Jungkook whimpering under your touch? It was almost too good to be true, and you loved it.

Craving more of this feeling, you tugged at his hair a little harder, causing him to wince . . . but this was no ordinary wince. No, the man full-on moaned. It was quiet and short, but it was still there. By now, yes, you knew one of Jungkook’s major turn-ons was getting his hair pulled, but you never got over it, and every time, you’d tug his hair just to see what kinds of sounds you could pull from him.

Sometimes (most times) he let you get away with it without a word. But sometimes . . . sometimes he bit back (and you sometimes liked to admit just how much you enjoyed that, too).

And tonight? Well, tonight, Jungkook was in the mood for biting back.

Instead of letting you have your way with him, Jungkook weaved his fingers into your hair and pulled hard. With a muffled whimper, he pulled you just far enough away from him to press his lips to your ear. And then . . . then . . . he said words you never thought you’d ever hear fall from his silver tongue.

“Something in me wants to ruin you. Keep tempting me like that and I don’t know if I can hold back,” he muttered with a masked growl under his breath. “But . . . I don’t know if I’d ever forgive myself.”

“I would,” you rushed out, not missing a beat. Did you know what you were saying? No, but god, you just wanted him in any way. “Forgive you . . . if it meant . . . “

He pulled back so his eyes met yours. “If it meant?”

You blinked at him, eyes lidded and clouded. “That I could feel you,” you hummed as you pressed a hand against his firm chest.

His brows twitched with intrigue. “Feel me where?”

You swallowed hard. “Everywhere.”

In real time, you watched his eyes darken completely and you almost couldn’t believe it. It was the kind of thing you read about, not something to experience, and yet . . .

Jungkook was touching you a second later, and you let him. Hell, you’d let him do anything at this point. Ruining you was on the table. Perhaps that was the part of him that he liked to hide away, but you didn’t mind it. You knew you were safe in his touch. That was the only thing you knew anymore about anything.

So when the hand on your hip tightened, you let him. He pulled you in closer with his other hand, keeping it secure against the back of your head while his mouth attacked your neck. He licked a long strip from the base to just under your ear where your sweet soft lay, lapping and swirling his tongue against the sensitive skin.

Then, he found your pulse, halting above it before grazing his teeth over it, working you up more. He continued his devious attack before he began sucking, quietly moaning into your neck as he took note of the slight gasps escaping your lips, and you were so caught up in the moment that you hadn’t even realized that perhaps the two of you were going a little too far.

In fact, it didn’t hit you until you accidentally nudged your racket off the bleachers with your leg. And the sound of it clanking against the bleachers brought you out of your own mind.

Your eyes darted to the racket . . . then . . . it set in. “Don’t mark me,” you muttered as you turned back to Jungkook.

He continued kissing your neck, but did as you said, not sucking on the skin. “You marked me first,” he breathed into your neck as his wandering hand finally found your plump ass and he couldn’t help himself. He began palming the flesh, softly humming into your neck, and making you lose your train of thought. His touch just felt so good.

Until you realized what he had said. You marked me first. And yes, he was right. Because you had. You’d accidentally left many hickeys on his neck (and all over his body) since this little thing between the two of you had begun. (What could you say? He looked pretty like that . . . and maybe there was something possessive about you . . . )

Still . . .

“Yeah, but if we both show up with hickeys—” you began, trying to find your brain with his lips still on your skin— “I think people will start to put two and two together.”

“Who cares?”

“I care,” you huffed, but still continued running your hands through his dark hair, refusing to leave his touch. “People are gonna think I fucked my way to the top.”

“Well, that’s simply not true,” Jungkook mumbled as he (unfortunately) leaned back, his lips leaving your neck so he could meet your eyes. “I have yet to see you fuck on top.”

You deadpanned. Of course that was where he was going with that. “You’re infuriating,” you said in monotone.

“Calm down,” he snorted, shaking his head at your expression. “I’m not marking you.”

And he was just about to continue his sloppy descent when you . . . well you . . . decided to mumble under your breath, “Well . . . “

“Oh, god, yes, honey?” he huffed out, using the one nickname that he knew you hated.

(You truly did hate it.)

You rolled your eyes at him, but nevertheless went on. “Just . . . don’t do it where people can see,” you muttered.

Jungkook only grinned, wide and toothy. “Wanna sleep in my room?” he offered up, and you knew what he meant.

A beat of silence.

(Did you even have to think about it?)

“Yeah, why not?” you hummed a second later, nodding with a small smile on your face.

(Not like you had planned on sleeping in your own room anyway.

(Duh.))

The arena looked different in the morning. Everything was a little different. For one, there was an audience, and for two, you were nervous too, but also excited? Whatever that meant. But you weren't caught trapped in your own mind for too long. As you stared out at the court, assessing the other team as well as the audience members, you felt your phone buzz in your hand. Instantly, it tore you away from the present as you opened your phone only to see a text message from none other than Jeon Jungkook. (A smile lifted onto your face as you opened the message but you refused to acknowledge that . . . part.)

Kook Ur ass looks good in that skirt

And you couldn’t help but roll your eyes, not even bothering to text back a response. Instead, you glanced over your shoulder, eyes searching for him and then . . . then you saw him. He was in uniform, except under the tee, he wore a black long-sleeve compression shirt, which you supposed was to hide the tattoos. In addition, his dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail at the back of his head that held most of his long locks. And you noticed that he’d taken out all of his piercings, almost making him appear like the boy you used to know three years ago. (It was an odd sense of deja vu, but . . . well . . . he still looked like . . . himself.)

You were moving toward him in an instant. Whether it was the nerves or whatever, you didn’t care about anyone else, you just needed to feel him. Maybe that would ground you. And so, you crossed the court to him, and when you did, your hands found his broad shoulders, squeezing them. And then . . . then you did something so uncharacteristically unlike you . . . and rested your forehead against his, finally allowing yourself to breathe a sigh of relief.

Jungkook reacted quickly to your touch, squeezing your arms as he laughed through his nose. “You alright?” he murmured, a hint of a teasing tone in his voice.

“Yeah, obviously, just . . . just feel like I’m going to puke,” you joked, because it was true. Now if it was because of nerves or excitement . . . you didn’t know. “Just normal stuff. Why do you ask?”

“You’re touching me in public,” he simply said, a hint of a grin on his face.

You blinked. Oh. Well . . . you supposed he was right . . . so you know . . . you kind of cleared your throat and backed up just an inch away from him. “Just—” you shrugged— “putting our heads together.”

Jungkook remained grinning. “Don’t be nervous,” he hummed as he squeezed your arm once more. “We’ve got this, Iris.”

You nodded. “Right.”

And you tried your best to believe him. (All the while trying to ignore the fact that touching him in public hadn’t even crossed your mind as unusual. It had felt . . . safe . . . right.

Fuck.)

The score was eighteen to eighteen. Your side just needed to win by four more clear points. Four more points.

This . . . this was familiar. It wasn’t like practicing with Jungkook or practicing by yourself. It reminded you of the past; a past where this could have been easy for you; where it was normal; where you wouldn’t have your heart pounding out of your chest.

You’d been here before.

Twenty to twenty. Yurim, your college doubles partner, had been by your side back then. She had been the one who stood by you as you took that fall and lost the game. She lost it, too.

That game was both of yours to lose.

You’d let her down then. (As far as you knew she had left the badminton scene ages ago.) But you had the chance to redeem yourself.

Right now . . . now you could win this game and set things right.

Setting things right meant keeping your eye on the birdie. Obviously, the more skilled player takes the front while the other takes the back, so you stayed in your spot most of the game at the back and made a few scores, but not as many as Jungkook. He just made it look so easy . . .

He deserved this. This win should be his. And you knew you had to keep your eyes on the birdie.

The two of you had gone separate ways on a court very similar to this one. If you made those points, you could mend what had been ruined.

A well-oiled machine you may have been but—

A whistle was blown, your thoughts cut off as you watched the other team set up the serve. And then the birdie was airborne.

Quickly, you readied yourself, fighting your present and past memories as you tried to stay focused. Eyes on the birdie. That was what you needed to do.

The birdie swirled through the air, heading straight for Jungkook, and you had no doubt he’d hit it, but as his net made contact, the birdie fumbled. The hit made the birdie fly higher into the air, and not over the net but rather backward . . . toward you.

And you acted fast.

Racing behind Jungkook, you didn’t think. One moment you were standing by like a sitting duck, then the next you had jumped off your bad leg, putting as much power into your jump as you could. Your eyes still on the birdie, you launched your arm forward toward the birdie. But it seemed Jungkook had thought the same thing, attempting to swing backward enough to hit the birdie over the net . . . however . . . the two of you acted on your own, non-cohesive thoughts and dived for the birdie, smacking your rackets together in the process and fumbling it all.

The point was not yours to claim. But that was the least of your worries. You had been looking at the birdie, already accepting the failure. And you realized too late what was happening as your feet touched the court once again.

Because . . . well . . . your eyes had been on the birdie. They'd watched it the entire time, and you'd forgotten about paying attention to landing on your feet. And you hadn’t taken into account how close Jungkook would be, and how that might play out.

It had only been a second where you’d let yourself forget and get wrapped up in the game once again, and suddenly, it was as if you had been transported back three years. And then . . . then . . . the past repeated itself.

It'd only been a second where you forgot; the one second you'd forgotten while your attention had been on the birdie, you landed on the court, only your leg hadn't been positioned right, causing your ankle to roll, and while you had caught yourself, that didn’t matter. Jungkook was moving, too, and before either of you could react, his body knocked into yours, causing you to lose your footing as you fell backward onto the court.

In response, you tensed, waiting for the pain to seep in, waiting for your life to be ruined once again. But no pain came. Your leg was OK. Nothing had happened. And you could breathe a sigh of relief.

The whistle blew, signifying the other team had scored a point, but your mind was still on your leg. That was what mattered to you right now. That was why you hadn’t moved from your spot on the court. That was why you had decided to ignore the world for a split second and carefully touch a hand to your hip, making sure nothing had truly happened.

Only . . . you hadn’t taken into account the fact that the rest of the world didn’t decide to ignore you.

Jungkook especially hadn’t decided to partake in any ignoring.

That much was evident as he fell beside you on the court. “Fuck, fuck, no—” you heard him instantly rush out— “Baby, fuck, your leg. I didn’t—”

Glancing up, you watched as the shocked expression on his face turned into one of concern, and before you could interject, he called out for the ref, signaling for a timeout. The whistle was blown once again in response, clarifying that Yunis would be taking a two-minute timeout before the game was to resume. And all you could do was stare at him, trying not to burst out laughing . . . because . . . goddamn it . . . you just wanted to hug the guy.

“Koo,” you settled with instead, a small smile on your face.

But it seemed Jungkook hadn’t heard you as he whipped back to face you, his eyes wide and almost innocent. “Can you stand?” he started with as he gently touched a hand to your hip. No one had ever been so gentle with you . . . like that. “Is it—Is it OK? Pain? Any pain?”

You only blinked at him.

His brows pinched together in concern. “You gotta talk to me? Is it shock? Fuck, are you in shock?”

And then you truly did snort.

He blinked. “ . . . What?”

With a smile slowly forming on your face, you rested a hand on his shoulder. “I’m fine, Koo. It was just a small tumble. Nothing’s broken and nothing hurts,” you hummed. “Well . . . except my pride. I really thought I had that in the bag.”

Slowly, his face softened into relief. “Just a little hiccup. We still got this,” he said, a small smile on his face once again. “If you’ll forgive me for tripping you in the last round.”

You laughed, “I think I tripped myself on you.”

“Eh, agree to disagree,” he mused as he stood to his feet and reached out his hand toward you. “Ready to win this?”

“Yes,” you sighed in contentment as you took his hand and let him help you to your feet . . . because you really did believe you might have a chance. You just . . . you needed to trust him. He would’ve hit the birdie if you had just let him. So now . . . you needed to trust him.

Trust him, you thought as the whistle blew once again, signifying that the game was resuming. Trust him, you hummed to yourself as you got into position while you watched Jungkook secure his stance. Trust him, you believed as he glanced over his shoulder to send you a wink just as the whistle was blown once again, and the game began. And trust him you did.

Everything moved slowly then. The world was barely turning on its axis. The other team served the ball, hitting it over the net. Jungkook hit it back. Then . . . the other team attempted to hit a smash, but Jungkook was fast. One moment the birdie was flying toward the court, then the next Jungkook was diving for it. He put all his force into his legs, diving for the ground, and just in the nick of time, he smacked the birdie clear over the net, countering the other team’s shot. And as if that weren’t impressive enough, he’d made a clear . . . one that no one had been expecting.

The other team was too caught up in the potential win to be near the backcourt. Jungkook had hit the birdie, and cleared. The birdie was too fast, hitting the backcourt without a single counter.

He’d won you guys a point.

The score was nineteen to nineteen. Two more points and you’d win. You couldn’t believe it. The two of you may have actually had a chance. You just had to trust him. Yes, that seemed to be the trick. Just . . . trust him, and truly, you did.

You knew you did as you jumped for him, helping him to his feet with a grin on your face. “You did it,” you softly said with a hand on his shoulder.

“Remind me to ice my ass when we get back,” he groaned, but somehow, someway, he still looked handsome. (And you desperately wanted to kiss him, but . . . you know . . . control yourself.)

“You good?” you asked, searching his face.

“Yeah, yeah,” he brushed off your question with a sigh. “We got this, Rosie.” He offered up a high five, and you took him up on it, high fiving him (he enclosed his fingers around your hand a little longer than he probably should have, but whatever . . . you guys could win this).

It was your turn to serve. And with equal parts nerves and excitement in your veins, you gripped your racket tightly in your hand, gave Jungkook a small nod, and made your way to your place on the court, birdie grasped tightly in your other hand.

Everything happened too quickly from then on. You briefly heard the referee blow the whistle, signifying the resumption of the game. Then you rubbed the birdie on the side of your handle once for good luck, twice for blind hope, a third time for a chance to start over . . . before you sent it flying through the air, over the net in an almost perfect serve.

You almost blinked in shock, realizing perhaps you really had gotten a lot better. This game could be yours. It really could be. Fuck, it could be. (You tried not to grin at your thoughts.)

With careful eyes, you forced yourself back into the game and watched as the other team hit the birdie. It was heading toward Jungkook and instead of worrying; instead of racing toward it, you let him hit it, watching as he delivered another perfect clear except, this time, the other team had hit it back. Only, Jungkook was quick. He countered this too.

A few more hits were bounced back and forth, and for a second you thought Jungkook would definitely deliver a lethal smash toward the other team, resulting in a win, but no . . . this time, as the other team hit the birdie . . . it came racing toward . . . you.

You swallowed hard. That was your cue. You readied yourself, eyes on that damned birdie. It was right there, but it was high, and you realized you had been here before. This . . . this was your true test, and you wouldn’t fail it again.

So with it coming straight toward you and an odd sense of deja vu hitting you all at once, you beckoned it closer and jumped off your bad leg, putting as much power into your jump as you could. Your eyes still on the birdie, you launched your arm forward, your racket slamming into the birdie and sending it at an impeccable speed toward the other team.

Fuck, you’d hit it. Fucking hell, you really had!

Time moved slowly then. You could’ve been frozen in the air and you wouldn’t know. You just didn’t even want to take your eyes off the birdie. But memories of three years ago consumed you. This was where you’d met your end.

The match couldn’t be yours; it didn’t make sense. And defeat was right there; it still tasted just as bitter as it did three years ago. It was there on the tip of your tongue. But this wasn’t three years ago, and you were not the same person you used to be. This . . . you had rubbed the birdie against your racket three times for good luck, blind hope, and a fresh start. This was not the past, it was your fresh start.

You didn’t have to fail. And you didn’t have to win. You just had to remember.

And so as time seemed to slow down even further, you realized your eyes had been on the birdie. They'd watched it the entire time, but this time, even with the pounding in your head and the ache in your leg, you hadn’t forgotten about paying attention to landing on your feet.

The birdie would land or it wouldn’t. You’d given your all to it. You remembered that at the last second.

It'd only been a second when you finally remembered. And unlike three years ago, you landed on the court, sneakers touching the ground as you bent your knees to cushion your impact. But you didn’t dare move.

You stayed crouched on the ground, head lowered as you waited to hear what your fate had in store for you. Would it be horrified screams? Cheers? And when they cheered, would they be cheering for you?

And then you heard it: loud cheers erupting from behind you as the crowd stomped their feet on the bleachers, nearly shaking the entire arena in the process. Was it? Could it be? Had you—

No, stop. It couldn’t be. Sure, you thought maybe the two of you could win, but . . . you fully expected just to walk away from the game with a loss but a newfound love for the sport you once called your other half.

So with confusion consuming you, you finally glanced up, eyes immediately landing on Jungkook, who was already staring at you, a wide, toothy grin stretched across his face as he clapped for . . . you.

You’d been here before. That was the same look he’d given you when you’d beat him just a few months ago. That was when you first felt yourself truly care for him . . . and now . . . now it seemed you’d made him proud. Had you?

Your brows shot up in shock, your body relaxing only slightly.

Then . . . you saw it. There, on the other side of the court, laid the birdie.

That meant . . . (holy fuck!) That meant you had landed the smash. You’d made the point. You’d . . . You’d . . .

You’d . . . won.

The score was nineteen to twenty-one.

You had fucking won.

Yunis landed fourth in the tournaments. You’d won. You were moving on to the next games. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Fucking fuck! Yunis would appear at another tournament. There was a possibility that your team could win it all.

Your thoughts ran wild.

You’d won. After all these years, all the pain, the hurt, the tears, the anger . . . and you’d finally . . . won.

You couldn’t help it. The second this dawned on you, you rose to your feet and fell into Jungkook. Your arms wrapped around his neck, and you held him tight, nearly letting yourself cry into his shoulder. You just . . . you couldn’t believe it. And it was all because of him.

Thank you, your hug seemed to say as you squeezed him tighter (so tight you were sure he could feel it in his soul).

Then . . . Jungkook ever so slowly wrapped his arms around you, holding you tight against him, and you realized the only reason this win felt like one was because of him. You hadn’t only won for yourself, but for him.

Perhaps this would get him to love badminton again. Because, truly, badminton fit into you like a hook in an eye, and you were sure Jungkook felt the same. You could only hope he did.

Let the record show that making acquaintances with the bartender in the hotel bar your team was staying at for the first round of tournaments was not how you imagined celebrating your first win after three years. It just wasn’t, and honestly, you hadn’t even expected to leave your hotel room. You expected to maybe . . . just maybe see what the minibar in your room had in stock and perhaps you’d drink a few small bottles of . . . whatever.

That had been the plan—to get mildly tipsy then head for the bathroom for a hot shower . . . but . . . somehow, someway you’d ended up taking the shower first, taking one look at the minibar, then deciding the actual bar on the main floor just might have better options. And then, well, you ended up sitting alone at the end of the bar, dressed in sweats while everyone else appeared to be dressed business casual.

You stuck out like a sore thumb.

It was embarrassing, really, but after the second drink, you stopped looking around the room and focused in on the bottom of your glass. Why was this how you decided to celebrate? You had no idea, because, truthfully, it felt a lot more like nursing an old wound than celebrating a win.

It didn’t help that your entire team was elsewhere and your own doubles partner was MIA since the court. So, really, that just left you alone in sweats at a bar with a drink in your hand that you didn’t even like.

Fifteen minutes later you decided you’d had enough. But just as you were about to stand on your feet, pay the bartender, and turn to your hotel room, something caught your eye.

Now . . . Jealousy was not something you had an issue with. You didn’t get jealous. There was no need to. You’d never had anyone to be truly jealous over. Right? Yes, obviously, duh. Obviously . . .

But catching a glimpse of Jungkook just on the other side of the room, talking with another girl did annoy you. No, not because you were jealous, but because here you were all alone celebrating your win and he was nowhere in sight. And now . . . now you discovered he had been in the same place as you this entire time and didn’t say anything.

Were you being dramatic? Probably.

Whatever. Whatever. Whatever.

Still . . . you continued staring, eyes narrowed and you were certain it looked as though you were trying desperately to blow his head up with just a glare. But . . . ugh! Come on, he was so—

Jungkook turned his head, his eyes locking with yours.

Your eyes widened into saucers as you quickly (too quickly) whipped back around, facing the bar once again with your drink now clutched tightly in your hand.

But you knew he’d seen you. And he knew he’d seen you.

Surely, he wouldn’t come over here, right? He was busy. Yes. He wouldn’t come over. He was—

“You have a staring problem,” a deep voice whispered from behind you.

Of course. Of course . . . Jungkook would come over.

Clearing your throat, you slowly turned to face him. “Just wondering how you bagged her,” you hummed with a small shrug as you took a sip of your drink. Yep, still the same taste. (You tried not to react to the bitter-tasting liquid.)

Jungkook ignored your jab and instead sat down on the barstool beside you, resting his elbow on the bar. “So . . . “ he trailed off, searching your eyes as he toyed with the lip ring adoring his bottom lip, “wanna come back to my room?”

You shot him an unamused look. “Is this how you treat all one-night stands?”

“Mmm, come on,” he began as he slipped the drink from your hand, taking a sip in the process, “you know I’d never ask them to stay.”

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes. “Oh, I feel so special,” you sarcastically mused. Your eyes drifted to the girl he was talking to, finding her still standing in the same spot now talking to another woman and a man. But still . . . your jealousy remained. Wait, no, not jealousy. No. “Go back to your girl. She’s waiting on you.”

Those were the words that fell from your lips the moment the fact that you could actually be . . . jealous . . . popped into your head.

Jungkook blinked, his expression faltering ever so slightly.

Then: “Alright . . .” he nodded— “have a good night, Buttercup.”

“Yep,” you breathed out, turning back to face the bar as you watched him get up and walk away out of the corner of your eye.

It was silent again. You were alone again. Until: “Can I get another one of these,” you heard yourself ask before you knew what you were doing. Why you were ordering this god-awful drink again, you had no idea, but . . . oh well . . .

Only, before the bartender could pour another one out, a hand cut in front of you, pushing the empty glass away. “That won’t be necessary,” the person said, and you instantly knew who interjected.

Turning around, your eyes fell on Jungkook for another time that night. “Kook? What?” you questioned as you watched him wave off the bartender, and sit back down in the barstool beside you.

Finally, his eyes flicked to yours, and he . . . smiled. “Told her I already had plans.”

You breathed out a laugh through your nose. “You’d choose me over somethin’ like that?” you hummed, trying to make light of the awkward situation. (At least . . . well . . . awkward to . . . you.)

“I’d choose you over everyone,” Jungkook responded without missing a beat.

And your face slowly fell into one of shock.

“So, let me ask you again . . . “ Jungkook began again while you were still in a state of shock, “wanna go back to my room?”

I’d choose you over everyone, rang through your ears again as he stared, awaiting your answer. But he couldn’t mean that, right? . . . Right?

And . . . and why did it make you feel like . . . that? Like . . . like . . . well you didn’t exactly know what it made you feel, but you did know it had done something to you. You just . . . you couldn’t put it into words, but . . . you didn’t hate it.

You didn’t hate how his words had made you feel; how he had made you feel. So, really was it a surprise that you reached forward to grasp his warm hand in your cold one? Was it really a surprise that the next few words to fall from your lips were: ‘Lead the way’?

Subtly, you, and Jungkook did not go together well. The entire walk back to the lobby, down the hall, and straight for the elevator were filled with quick steps, wandering eyes, and hands brushing (very obviously if you had to admit). Anticipation and eagerness were in the air as the two of you finally made it to the elevator.

Side by side, Jungkook pressed the upward arrow, and you watched as it lit up, the sound of the elevator gearing into action. His pinky finger brushed against yours then. It was a simple touch; one you wouldn’t have noticed if you weren’t so caught up in the memories of the last time you’d had his body on yours (just before you’d taken the train to Busan . . . so like . . . two days ago).

It was a consistent thing. You had nothing to say for yourself. It was fun. And that simple touch had your mind reeling and your body itching to touch his.

Then, as if like clockwork, the elevator dinged, the doors slowly opening to reveal an empty area. You didn’t even have a chance to put a name to the feeling that bloomed within your chest before Jungkook took your hand in his, pulled you into the elevator, and slapped the button to his floor before he vigorously pressed the door close button.

Leaning against the elevator wall with your hands clasped behind your back, you felt yourself laugh under your breath. “You know you only have to press it once,” you hummed, brows raised as you took in his appearance with a careful look.

“What’s the point in that?” he sheepishly questioned, pressing it one more time before he approached you, leaning his hands on the rail on either side of you. His nose bumped yours, his lips just barely brushing against yours. “Hmm?”

“Unnecessary time wasted,” you murmured back, leaning just a bit closer . . . enough to press your lips against his once.

“But then how would I get my point across?” he whispered back, pressing another kiss to your lips.

Subconsciously, your hand raised to caress his jaw. “What point?”

Jungkook grinned against your lips.

“What?” you questioned. “What point? Hmm?”

“That if this elevator does not close fast enough—” he moved to kiss your neck— “I might be tempted to fuck you here.”

Oh. You swallowed thickly. “And that’s a problem?”

Jungkook raised his head, his eyes meeting yours as that damned half-grin spread on his face again. He went to open his mouth, but finally, the elevator doors began to close, forcing the two of you to turn your attention to them, watching carefully as they closed shut and the elevator shaft began to move.

Blinking quickly, you turned back to Jungkook. He turned back to you, eyes flicking between yours and your lips.

Then . . . he smiled. “Not a problem now,” he murmured, and you knew there was no going back. His hands, lips, teeth, tongue were on you instantly, trying to get as close as possible that you hadn’t even noticed he’d hiked up your leg onto his hip in an attempt to get his body flush with yours. And you welcomed it all, because fuck . . . the only thing you were thinking was him, him, him.

In the heat of things, his hand snuck under your sweatshirt, the warmth of his skin providing comfort to your chilled skin. You sucked in a breath, the hand that had been on his jaw, now snaking into his dark hair, twisting and twirling the longer strands. Without thinking, you tugged a little too hard on his hair, instantly drawing a deep moan from the back of his throat.

You stilled under his touch. Fuck. Now . . . men who were vocal were your biggest weakness. You had known this before, but he’d never sounded like . . . that. And you barely had time to process it.

One second you were frozen under his touch, then the next all you could feel was him. He took you by surprise, the hand holding your thigh up reached for your ass, tugging you into him so your lower half was completely flush with his. The fact that he was already somewhat hard, too, was impossible to ignore, and only fed into the dizzying effect he had on you. And as if him slightly grinding the bulge in his pants against your core wasn’t blissful torture enough, his other hand had snaked all the way up to cup your breast, his thumb quickly finding your perked nipple and rolling it. You jerked against him, the pleasure going straight to your core.

“No fucking bra. You’re killing me,” he murmured against your lips, his thumb still rolling slowly then quickly then slow again . . . just how you liked it. “I’ll never get over how sensitive you are.”

And you . . . well . . . you couldn’t help yourself. It was your weakness after all. One more roll, and you were reeling, core throbbing, and blood rushing to your head. You gave in, letting your body buck against his as you practically mewled into his mouth.

“Fuck, I can’t wait any longer,” he all but whined as he retracted his hand from under your shirt, and before you could question his motives, that same hand was already crawling under the hem of your sweatpants. Quickly, his fingers found your heat as he gave a groan of approval before he began to swirl the wetness around your puffy lips.

“Kook,” you gasped into his mouth as his middle and ring fingers plunged into your core. “Can’t you just fuck me here?”

He curled his fingers in response, and you slightly arched against him. “Shh,” was all he could fathom while he plunged his fingers in and out . . . in and out . . . in and out.

One particular plunge had your pussy squelching. You didn’t know why it was so loud this time, but every time he’d fuck his fingers into you, squelching sounds followed. But before you could become embarrassed, Jungkook lowered his head to your shoulder, groaning into your neck as he paused his hand movements.

Was he going to say something? Was he—

“Listen,” he whispered into your neck, shocking you completely moments before the grip on your thigh became lethal as he began to quickly fuck you with his fingers, loud, wet squelching sounds accompanying each pump.

And suddenly you weren’t thinking any longer. His skilled fingers were working you so well, you barely even heard how wet you were for him, you just felt this overwhelming sense of pleasure and let yourself become consumed by it. Mesmerized by your pleasure, Jungkook continued fucking you on his fingers, dragging the pads of his fingertips against the rough part of your walls as the palm of his hand applied pressure to your clit.

One particular motion had your lower stomach muscles contracting, and that was when you felt it. Gasping slightly, you managed to raise your head, shooting your hand out to latch onto the rail behind you. “Kook,” you gasped again as your brows pinched together and you tried to focus your vision. “I think—” a small whine sounding from the back of your throat cut you off— “Fuck, I think I’m going to—”

Another whine of your own cut you off once again, and instantly, you recognized this feeling. The familiar coil building and building in your lower stomach. Only this time, it felt different—the pressure was deeper, more intense . . . like you couldn’t control it.

Your lower abdomen muscles contracted again and you knew it was coming. “Kookie,” you all but cried out as your hand grasped the forearm of the hand clutching your thigh. “I’m going to—” you tried to swallow, but your mouth felt so dry and you were so out of breath— “I’m going to fucking . . . ffffuh . . . fucking . . . squirt.”

At the sound of your words, Jungkook raised his head, lidded eyes, mouth slightly agape, and brows pinched upward, staring back at you. Quickly, he leaned forward and pressed his lips against yours. “Be good for me, yeah? Let me have it, baby,” he murmured against your lips, still not stopping his motions. “Look at me when you do. Wanna see it.” Another kiss to your lips. “Wanna see you cum.”

All you could do was nod as you tried to keep your eyes open while Jungkook backed up from you just enough to be able to see your face clearly enough. And then you felt it: the coil. It tightened and tightened, rings of pleasure hissing in your ears until it finally snapped, your release sprinkling out of you and soaking your sweatpants as this deep pleasure consumed your being in waves. You tried to fight against it, trying to keep your eyes peeled open and trained on Jungkook, but your vision was blurry and your pussy was throbbing so hard you were sure it had gotten to your head.

In the end, all you could manage was to slump against Jungkook’s buff chest while he pumped the last of your release out of your pulsating core. And once you had nothing left to give, his fingers slid out of you before he wrapped both of his arms around your spent body, chuckling slightly as you fell limp in his grasp.

“You are so loud,” he murmured after a moment’s silence as he buried his face into your hair and finally laughed, his whole chest vibrating.

“Am—” you smacked your lips together, still delirious— “not.”

Jungkook snorted. “Whatever you say, Petunia.”

“Ugh, Koo . . . “ but your words died on your tongue.

Had you been loud? Oh god . . . did you . . . you didn’t scream, did you?

Slowly, you gained back a little mobility (enough to raise your head to look him in the eyes), and asked, “Did I scream?”

Jungkook stared down at you, a wide, toothy grin spread across his face. “Only a little,” he mused, chuckling slightly at his words. “Whined a little, too. Kinda like a . . . like a little bitch.”

Your eyes blew up. “No,” you gasped in horror. “Was it really—”

The elevator dinged, drawing both of your attention to the closed doors. Wait—Fuck, you’d forgotten you were even on an elevator. The elevator must have arrived on your floor, and you two had been too caught up in each other to have even noticed . . . until now. And now . . . now you had a giant wet spot on the crotch of your sweatpants. Just your luck.

But as soon as the doors opened, Jungkook acted quickly. He bent down and wrapped his arms around your thighs, hoisting you over his shoulder. You, in utter shock (and still mildly coming down from your high), laid limp in his grasp, and let him have his way. It wasn’t until after the people boarding the elevator got on and Jungkook got off, did you realize what exactly was his plan.

“Lightweight, you know?” he chuckled lightly to the other people, and your jaw dropped.

He was painting you as a passed-out drunk. Oh, he was going to get it. (Although . . . it was a pretty good cover. (Not that you’d admit it.))

Once the two of you were finally out of earshot, you pounded on his broad back. “That was embarrassing,” you groaned, kicking your feet in the air.

“Drunk people piss their pants all the time,” he simply hummed as he continued down the hall in search of his room. “Nothing to be ashamed of, sweetheart.”

You pounded on his back again. “I did not piss my pants,” was all you spat out.

“Oh, trust me, I know,” he mused as he brought his other hand up to deliver a hard smack to your ass. And you could only huff against him in response.

Only when he’d found his room did he put you down, slowly and safely on your feet, and you were ready, already glaring at him the second you were on solid ground again. You crossed your arms over your chest and huffed to seal the deal further.

But that only seemed to amuse Jungkook more. “What?” he hummed, raising his brows as he leaned in closer to you.

“You suck,” was all you muttered.

His eyes flicked from yours to your lips as a small grin slid onto his face. “Believe that’s your job,” he murmured as he leaned even closer to plant a kiss on your cheek. “And you’re very, very, very good at your job.”

Narrowing your eyes, you demanded, “Open the door.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he cheerily replied as he slid the room key into the slot, removing it quickly, and waiting for the green light before he swung open the door. His eyes flicked to yours then, and he nodded in the direction of the hotel room. “After you.”

But just as the two of you entered the room, flicking on the light as the door slammed shut behind you, Jungkook pulled you back into him. You stumbled slightly, but nevertheless, turned around in his arms to face him with a confused look.

He only sent a small smile in return. “I like when you’re jealous, by the way,” he remarked as he curled a piece of your hair behind your ear.

Your brows knitted together. “Jealous? I’m never jealous,” you scoffed . . . but . . . you had a sneaky suspicion you knew what he was talking about.

The corners of his lips twitched a little further. “You know . . . she was from the other team,” he went on, ignoring your words.

“Hmm?” you questioned, playing dumb when you one-hundred percent knew what he was going on about now.

Earlier. The bar. That girl he was talking to.

“That girl,” Jungkook continued. “She was just congratulating our win. So you—” he tapped your nose— “sweetheart, were jealous over nothing.”

Well . . . you supposed that explained it, but . . . but you couldn’t have him knowing that you were jealous. He already knew way too much about what went on inside your head. He could not know you were jealous of all the disgusting things to be. So, you decided to . . . you know . . . lie.

“I was not jealous,” was the brilliant response you came up with.

Jungkook tongued his inner cheek, trying not to break out into a wide grin yet again. “Mhm.”

You shrugged in response as if to say, Told you so.

But those words never left your lips. In fact, you rather regretted even thinking them the moment Jungkook opened up his mouth again.

“There’s no one else on my mind,” were the words he decided to reply with.

And your face slowly fell into one of shock. “What?”

That didn’t seem to faze Jungkook. His smile still remained. “It’s just you, stupid,” he whispered, his voice like a tear on a cheek—soft and . . . sweet.

Oh. You blinked. It’s just you.

And you felt yourself smile at the words. You couldn’t even help it either. It just . . . he was sweet. He really was.

It’s just you, rang through your ears once more, and you couldn’t help it. You leaned forward and kissed him. It wasn’t like the others either. It was soft and sweet . . . just like his words.

Then, you pulled back, kicked off your shoes, and walked further into the room. “Nice place you got here,” you mused as you looked around the hotel room before you bent down to sift through his suitcase, pulling out a pair of his boxers. You slipped off your soaked sweatpants and underwear before you slid on the boxers and headed for his bed, plopping down on the mattress with your legs crossed and ankles under your knees.

(That was the thing: this was normal. The two of you shared clothes. (Well, you mostly stole his clothes, and then he’d end up finding you in them . . . and well . . . he wouldn’t be able to think straight for the rest of the day.)

“Thanks,” he laughed, his hands reaching for the hem of his shirt before he pulled it over his head and discarded it on the ground, “no cockroaches found yet.”

“Oh, wow, fancy,” you remarked with a look. “You rich?”

Jungkook cocked his head to the side, a dazed grin on his face. “You didn’t know? I’m a world-famous badminton star,” he said as he approached you, leaning his hands on either side of your body on the bed.

“World famous?” you tsked, clicking your tongue. “Oh, god, oh no. I’m so sorry. I had no idea I was in the presence of royalty.” You dramatically clasped your hands together and bowed to the best of your ability, surely whacking him in the face with your hair.

“OK, you little shit. C’mere,” he all but whined as he wrapped an arm around your back and pulled you down to the bed so you were laying flat on your back, looking up at him.

Except, the look on his face was all too much for you to hold back—you laughed. You couldn’t help it. He just looked so ruffled. It made the laughter caught in your chest bubble up in your throat, and eventually you were laughing so hard you had to squeeze your eyes shut and clutch your stomach.

As the seconds ticked by, your laughter died down and your eyes slowly opened to find Jungkook still staring at you, a dopey smile on his face.

Still holding back your quiet laughs, you quirked a brow in questioning.

Jungkook only shook his head, sucking in a breath through his teeth. “I love when you laugh,” he hummed, his voice like fucking honey or something unfairly ethereal. “Strokes my ego.”

“Like you need any more stroking,” you remarked, shooting him a look.

His brows shot up. “You offering?”

And you couldn’t help it, you laughed again, but this time tried to cover it up with a roll of your eyes. “Nice try,” you scolded as you raked your hands through his hair. “Hey—” your thoughts unexpectedly switched as your hands found his hair— “can I braid your hair for the next games.”

But Jungkook was somewhere else. His eyes were on your sweatshirt as he sighed through his nose, securing his hand on your hip to move you further up the bed so he could crawl over you. And you let him, trying to ignore how the almost possessive action made your heart thump (amongst other . . . things). He now laid with one arm holding him up, his legs on either side of your body as his free hand toyed with the hem of your sweatshirt.

“I wish you were in one of my shirts,” he mumbled almost as if he were talking more to himself than to you, but you paid it no mind. (He often lost his train of thought, staring off into space . . . and you always snapped him out of it with a bubbly smile on your face. He was . . . cute.)

“Kookie,” you hummed.

His eyes snapped to yours, wide and brown. “Hmm?”

“Can I braid your hair for the next games?”

He smiled then. “Course,” he replied before he leaned down to press his lips against yours.

“You sure do like kissing me,” you mumbled against his lips.

He nibbled on your bottom lip. “I’m not ashamed of it.”

The only response you could muster up was to press your lips against his once again, a bit firmer now. You leaned closer, pleasantly sighing into the kiss as you nipped at his bottom lip. A grin tipped onto his face before he dipped in for more. You sucked his bottom lip into your mouth, sucking on it gently before you let it go and instead licked a strip along the crease of his lips. He reacted quickly to your touch, hands tangling in your hair as he pulled you closer and melded your tongue with his. His grip tightened on you instantly, his hand sliding up your thigh, squeezing your hip before it snuck under the hem of your sweatshirt.

A small gasp escaped you when you felt the warmth of his hand graze the swell of your breast, palming it. He grinned into the kiss, circling his thumb around your nipple, sending jolts of arousal to your core.

You instantly knew what he was thinking too. Ready so soon for another round . . . but like . . . come on. Who could blame you?

Certainly not him, not now, not with you like this. “Mmm,” he hummed against your lips, his hand inching toward the hem of your sweatshirt again. “Can I take this off?”

“Mhm.”

Ever so slowly as if to savor it, Jungkook pulled your sweatshirt off you as if the two of you were watching paint dry. And finally with it off and over your head, he threw it to the ground, instantly, coming back from more, molding his bare chest against yours. “Sometimes I think you want me to cream my pants,” he remarked, shaking his head at your tits while he brought a hand up to gently roll your perked nipple with his thumb.

You laughed through your arousal, tilting your head back slightly. “You’re so stupid,” you heard yourself say in a hushed voice. It was so obvious just how much he affected you. You could hear it in your voice, and you were sure he could too.

But that only seemed to spur him on further as he sunk down lower until his face was level with your tits. He began to mouth at them, leaving sloppy, wet, open-mouthed kisses across your flesh. “Mmm, put something on the TV?” he mumbled into your skin moments before his tongue wrapped around your nipple and he began to suck.

“While you’re motorboating me? No thanks,” you huffed, trying to keep your cool, but Jungkook was sucking and nibbling all over your tits, making your head feel fuzzy and core a little too needy to be comfortable.

“I’ve never motorboated,” Jungkook countered as he traveled to your other breast, squeezing the flesh before he flicked his tongue repeatedly across your nipple. “Not classy.” His tongue swirled and you nearly mewled.

You swallowed hard in response instead. “Since when do you care about class?”

Then there was a hand on your face. And no, not like caressing your cheek or anything like that. Jungkook had full on just placed his abnormally large hand over your entire face . . .

“Shh, let me have a moment with my girls,” he mumbled his explanation before he went back to mouthing at your tits.

“Oh, my god,” you groaned in disgust as you flicked his hand off your face, but that didn’t cancel out the fact that his skilled tongue was sending jolt after jolt of arousal to your core with every lick.

“I’ve missed you, Samantha,” he sighed as he lightly bit one of your breasts. “Mmm, you, too, Rachel.” He moved to your other tit, swirling his tongue around your areola and sucking.

You deadpanned. “You named them.”

“You’re interrupting my threesome.”

“And you’re giving me nightmares,” you huffed as you pulled away from him, turning over on your side. You were being dramatic. Obviously. And you were doing it on purpose, because, well, you wanted his attention. (And you liked being a brat . . . sometimes. (OK, fine, you thought it was funny. Get over it.))

Jungkook knew this, too, as he let out a clap of laughter, immediately reaching for you as he wrapped an arm around your middle and tugged you into him. “No, no, baby, I’m sorry, I just wanted to piss you off,” he mumbled into your neck as he pressed kiss after kiss to your skin.

“Mhm.”

“Do you forgive me?”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t hold back your joking grin. “If I have to,” you dramatically sighed.

“I’m a weak man, what can I say?” he remarked into your neck as his hand slowly cupped one of your breasts. And then . . . well . . . he squeezed . . . twice. “Honk. Honk.”

And you snorted. “Seriously, Jungkook?” you choked out through a laugh. He was just so . . . god you didn’t have a word . . . he was just so . . . Jungkook. “I never expected you to be this much of a boob guy.”

“Well—” he blew a raspberry— “when they look at me like that.”

“Jesus.”

“They’re like dumplings.”

That was when you looked over at him, eyes narrowed and lips pursed. Really, your unamused look seemed to say.

“What?” He blinked, eyes wide and brown. “I love dumplings.”

“You know what I love?” you asked, turning around in his arms so your body was facing him.

He leaned forward to flick his nose against yours. “Mmm?”

You scrunched your nose. “Seeing you suffer.”

“This is what you call suffering?” Jungkook remarked, glancing between your tits and your face. And then . . . then . . . he reached out and smacked your breasts.

And you . . . well . . . all you could do was stare at him in shock. Had he really? Oh, that little—

Jungkook burst out into a fit of laughter, rolling onto his back and clutching his stomach. All the while, you stayed put, mouth still agape in shock as you blinked one, two, three times. Until he pulled you into him again, and that warmth you were so used to revisited you.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, couldn’t help myself,” he laughed into your hair, his words muffled.

And then you said something that you hadn’t even realized was on your mind until you blurted out: “Do you want to fuck them?”

Jungkook choked on his laughter.

A beat of silence.

“What?” he trailed off, and you could practically hear him blink.

But you had meant what you said, and so . . . “Do you want to fuck my tits?” you repeated again, this time craning your head to look him dead in the eyes when the words left your lips.

Jungkook rolled over, caging you in as his hand reached your face, gently brushing your hair behind your ear. “You pulling my leg?”

You shook your head, biting your lip to hold back the devilish smile that was crawling onto your face. “I know you want to . . . and I . . . wanna see you do it,” you mused, searching his face.

“Yeah?”

“Mmm.”

Narrowing his eyes at you, he asked, “Why don’t I believe you?”

“Why not?” you pouted, knowing damn well he was right. You took that as your chance to lean in closer to him, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Want me to say I need your cum? Hmm? Is that what you want, baby? You want to know that I’m thirsty for it?”

He swallowed hard. “Fuck. You’re teasing me.”

“Maybe a little,” you hummed with a shrug. “But I do kinda miss your cock.”

Jungkook flashed his teeth, shaking his head. “Brat,” he muttered under his breath as he reached for you again, pressing his lips against yours.

It was hard not to let yourself be consumed by him. You enjoyed it—how his lips felt like a tear on a cheek; how his kiss always felt like remembering something you were missing. You didn’t know what it meant. You rarely knew what anything meant, but you did know you enjoyed it; you relished in it; you craved it. Truly. You craved him. All of you.

In an instant, you were on your back again, and his lips were on your neck. He was whispering sweet nothings into your skin as he made his descent to your tits, paying extra attention to the old hickey on the underside of your breast which he left there just a night ago. It was sloppy, perhaps a little carnal, but you didn’t mind.

Jungkook leaned back up to kiss your jaw. “Want me to cum on your tits, hmm?” he asked, his voice darker now, making you nearly squeeze your thighs together. You knew what that voice meant, and god did you miss it. “Want to fucking smell like me? Show everyone who’s fucking you, huh? Want them to know it’s me? That you’re my girl?”

And you couldn’t help it; you gave in. “Please, Kookie, need it so bad,” you all but whined, knowing damn well he got off on this little bratty act of yours. “Need you to cum on my tits. Need it. So bad.”

He groaned into your neck. “You’re killing me.”

“Oh, but, Kookie, you can’t die yet,” you whined, pouting slightly. “Not until you fuck me. Pretty please?” Batting your eyelashes, you knew he was getting a kick out of this, and that . . . that was exactly why you did it.

“Yeah?” he asked as he pressed into you. His cock was digging into your hip now, making your head spin, until you could no longer ignore it.

“Mhm,” you hummed, still pouting, now with your bottom lip pushed out. “I won’t be able to breathe without it, you know?”

Jungkook grinned, shaking his head. “You’re such a little shit,” he remarked with amusement in his voice.

“Well . . . is it working?” you asked as you leaned forward and kissed the scar on his cheek.

“You don’t need to do anything for it to work.”

You quirked a brow. “Oh?”

“Don’t act surprised, sweetheart,” he mused as he nipped at your bottom lip. “Makes you look stupid.”

That little—You cut yourself off with your own actions, because really . . . sure, you’d act like a brat, but if he thought he had the upper hand, he was dead wrong.

With that thought on your mind, you trailed your hand down his chest, soaking up his warmth as you dipped into his boxers. While maintaining eye contact, a sly grin slid onto your face as you wrapped your hand around his painfully hard cock. You felt him still under your touch, but he was cockier tonight. He recovered quickly, grinning down at you as he shoved his pants down his legs and threw them somewhere in the room, his boxers shortly following. Then . . . as if he couldn’t get any more up his own ass, he looked down at you almost expectantly, glancing between your face and his cock.

It seemed the win may have worked its magic on him as well, and even if he didn’t realize it, you could tell, and that . . . that was attractive to you.

You sucked on your teeth, trying not to give yourself away, but you were sure the moment he felt your core, he’d get that much cockier. Still, you wanted to win this . . . whatever this was, and so when your thumb brushed over the head of his cock, you watched as he tried to stifle his reaction, but you caught onto him swallowing quickly the second you squeezed. Your cunt throbbed with the desire to be filled in response.

You wanted him in the most visceral way. But god did you love watching him wither, and the thought of continuing this little game overpowered everything else.

That very thought was your main drive. You shoved him back, perhaps a little rougher than usual, but the never faltering grin on his face showed you all that he was thinking. Playing off that, you hooked your thumbs into the band of his boxers you wore and tugged them down your legs, throwing them to the floor. And then . . . then you gave him one last look, pretending to adjust your position on the bed in an attempt to showcase your glistening core to him before you teasingly tore that away from him, closing your legs. (But you made sure to note how his eyes had lingered on your legs as if he were trying to pry them open with a look.)

“I want you to cum on my tits,” you stated boldly as you leaned back down while pressing your tits together with your hands so they were on display for his gaze. “Pretty please, Kookie?” You pouted once again, playing into that bratty act he loved so much.

“Jesus Christ,” he blurted out as he blinked one, two, three times. It was almost as if he couldn’t believe this was really happening, and that made you all the more confident in your desires.

Shimming down so your tits were level with his cock, you peered up at him moments before you took his cock in your hand and guided him. Gently, you brushed the tip of his cock over your nipples, the glide being slick and easy due to the beads of precum already leaking from the small slit. He was hard, and you could tell it was taking everything in him not to just forget all about everything else and just fuck you senseless right there. And you almost let him, but . . . this was too much fun.

“Mmm, I don’t think we have any lube, do we?” you exaggeratedly huffed.

His thumb tapped your bottom lip, but no words left his lips; his eyes were solely trained on your tits which were already stained with his precum. But no, you were not going to spit on your tits. You had a better plan.

“Too messy, Koo,” you all but scolded, and then . . . you made sure his eyes were on your hand as you slowly made your descent to your wet heat. Your fingers made contact with your wetness, and you sighed in contentment as you dipped into your heat, pumping your fingers in and out, and relishing in the loud, lewd sounds which came from the act.

Once you were sure your hand was completely covered in your arousal, you rubbed the wetness all over your tits, making sure to cover his cock as well. In response, his cock twitched in your grip, and you knew you had him wrapped around your finger.

“What the fuck?” he remarked in utter awe.

You smiled sweetly. “Fuck them, Kookie,” you mewled as you stared up at him. And who was he to disobey?

Slowly, Jungkook took his cock from your grasp, sliding the tip around the wetness on your chest, until he slid into place between your tits. You pressed them together tightly, creating a cushioned slit for him to fuck . . . and almost as if the warmth from your breasts enclosing around his length had shocked him out of his daze, he sighed, leaning both his hands on the bed as he began to move his hips.

“You like this, huh?” he asked, his voice raspy as his thrusts began to gain in momentum. “Like being used like this?”

“Yes, only by you,” you gasped out as he began to fuck into the slit your breasts had made solely for his cock. You let some of your spit dribble down, allowing for more lubrication.

Jungkook groaned at the sight, picking up the pace until he was nearly panting. “You’re so fucking hot,” he all but growled. “You get so fucking dumb for my cock. So fucking sexy.”

You pushed your tits together tighter, beginning to whine. “Please, I need you to cum on my tits,” you cried out. “Wanna feel you. Wanna taste it.” You didn’t know where these words were coming from, but you didn’t care. It didn’t matter when you could just tell he was seconds from busting. So you did your best, squeezing your tits together as tight as you could and silently begging him to give into all of your desire.

“Fuck,” Jungkook cursed as he threw his head back and allowed himself to release a deep moan. “Just like that, baby. Squeeze your pretty tits for me.”

Normally he lasted longer, but sometimes, when he was so desperate just to feel you he blew all too easily. It was times like those that you looked forward to the most. You liked seeing him all desperate and needy like that. (What did that say about you, you didn’t know. (You also didn’t care.))

When he came in under a minute, that was when you felt the most proud, because you’d done that. You’d taken this seemingly almighty man and made him submit to you. That was what you craved, and that was what had you nearly rubbing your clit raw when he wasn’t there to fuck you into the mattress. And so, you couldn’t help it. You began to rub your thighs together, searching for relief as Jungkook’s thrusts became sloppy and his moans increased. He was practically whining now, begging you to let him cum.

You dribbled spit onto his cock and rubbed your tits together, creating enough friction to have him gasping above you. That was when you thought he was most beautiful (well . . . there were other times, but . . . ). When he was weak enough for you to moan and whine and practically cry out for your pussy . . . that was when you thought he looked like the kinds of fallen angels you’d read about in cheesy romance novels.

“Give it to me, Kookie,” you begged, knowing that tone of voice and the use of that nickname would have him right where you wanted. And then you heard it: the tell in his voice that told you he wasn’t just close; he was less than seconds away.

In utter awe, you watched as he desperately tried to pull himself together, nearly out of breath as he pulled away, his hand instantly wrapping around his length and jerking himself off. You squeezed your tits together, continuing to watch with lidded eyes as he clenched his jaw and breathed through his pleasure. And then your mouth fell open, sticking your tongue out as if beckoning him to ruin you, and he lost it.

“Fuck, yes, just like that,” he all but moaned as his eyes stayed on your chest while he vigorously tugged at his length, focusing on the sensitive tip.

“Please, Kookie. Need it, baby,” you rasped out, and you knew that was it.

Jungkook released a strained groan, his muscles tensing as ropes of his cum shot out, painting your chest. He continued to milk his cock, whining softly as the last bits of his release hit your tongue, your chin, even dripping down your nipples. And once his orgasm had passed, he leaned over you, holding himself up on the bed before he collapsed beside you, still breathing heavily.

“I think that was a dream come true,” he rushed out, completely out of breath.

You laughed, shaking your head as your fingers crawled toward your cum-stained chest. And then you did something which shocked even you. You dipped your fingers into his cum, spreading it around before you brought your finger to your lips and licked the contents completely off. Only then, with your lips wrapped around your fingers did you turn to meet Jungkook’s gaze.

Jungkook only blinked at you in shock, watching as you swallowed his cum. He swallowed hard at the act, continuing to watch as you slowly withdrew your fingers from your mouth . . . and well . . . you supposed that was his last straw.

Without warning, Jungkook reached for you. One hand found your plump ass while the other tangled in your hair as he pulled you in for a kiss. But this was no ordinary kiss. No, Jungkook didn’t bother giving you an innocent peck. Instead, he immediately licked the seam of your lips, and you parted your mouth for him. Only instead of slotting your tongues together like you expected, he wrapped his lips around your tongue, sucking the muscle like he was trying to taste himself on your tongue. And if that wasn’t enough, once he’d gotten a taste of you and him, a soft, deep noise sounded from the back of his throat.

He didn’t care about the fact that your chest was painted in his cum. In fact, you were sure that only spurred him on more as he squeezed you tighter against him while he licked and sucked into your mouth.

It was carnal, messy, sloppy. It was almost sin. And when he finally pulled back, both of you now equally covered in his release, all he did was send you one of those half-grins.

“Wanna shower?” he offered. “Kitty cat’s hungry I think.” His eyes flicked down to your neglected core, and you nearly laughed in his face.

Instead, you nodded, completely dazed. Even from the look on your face, it was clear you didn’t know much. That was obvious. But . . . there was one thing you knew for sure: Jungkook would always surprise you.

Hours later, you were awoken by the sunlight peeking into the room through the blinds. Rubbing your eyes, you shuffled backward, finding that Jungkook was still there. You smiled to yourself, nuzzling further into him as you found his arm wrapped around your middle, and quickly clasped your hand around his, bringing it to your chest to cradle.

Jungkook stirred then, laughing under his breath. “Hi, baby,” he murmured, his morning voice nearly making you squeeze your eyes shut. (It really was unfair how attractive this man was. Jesus.)

But . . . then your dreams snuck back in. That was part of the reason you’d woken up. Your dreams had haunted you. Because you knew he was hiding something and your mind had made the worst of it.

Yesterday, you supposed, after the tournament, he disappeared, and he hadn’t told you where he’d gone. That . . . that had your mind wandering even in your sleep.

So you really couldn’t stop yourself when you mumbled out, “Can I ask you something?”

“Mmm.”

“Where’d you go last night?” you let yourself ask, swallowing hard. “After the court, where’d you go?”

A beat of silence.

He hadn’t been expecting that, but . . . He’d let you in, right? After all this time . . . he trusted you, too, right?

But another beat of silence passed and you began to wonder. Then you began to worry. And then . . . then you began to feel stupid.

But just as you were about to pull away and apologize for going too far, Jungkook pulled you closer. “My room,” he began as he nuzzled his face further into the crook of your neck. “I couldn’t breathe. Everything was . . . blurry . . . dizzy.”

You blinked. “Panic attack.”

And he nodded against your skin. “I had to be alone.”

The thing was: you weren’t unfamiliar with panic attacks. You hadn’t had many in your life, but during those three years . . . everything had gotten worse. You knew how it felt when . . . that happened, and you knew what it did to people.

“That’s OK,” you found yourself saying before you even knew it.

Jungkook raised his head. “You think that’s OK?”

You nodded, because it was. It truly was.

“If that’s what makes you feel safe . . . then yes, I think that’s OK,” you mumbled, restating your thoughts. “But . . . if you don’t want to be alone . . . if you don’t want to do it alone . . . I have nothing to do. Come find me.” You glanced behind you, eyes finding his in the dark.

And then . . . then he smiled. “I’d like that,” he hummed, his voice like honey. “But—”

“I know,” you cut him off with a gentle hand to his cheek. “You don’t have to tell me why. Just . . . if you need someone . . . I can be someone.” You dropped your hand, letting it fall to his arm. “By the way . . . I’m sorry for being a bitch yesterday—”

“Eh, used to it,” Jungkook muttered with a shrug.

Pursing your lips, you shot him a look you knew he wouldn’t see. “I was just jealous,” you finally admitted, because, really, who were you kidding?

And Jungkook didn’t rub it in your face this time. Instead, he simply smiled and hummed, “I know. I like it when you get like that for me.”

Your brows twitched. Fuck, did he ever have an effect on you.

Almost as if he knew this, too, that was when he kissed you. You hadn’t been expecting it, so the startled hum which left your lips was totally called for. However, the laugh he allowed himself to make was not. (Not like you minded with his lips on yours.)

And then neither of you were thinking and nothing else mattered. You didn’t exactly know how you got there either, but you supposed it had something to do with the fact that he was just so warm and his kiss was just so addicting and well . . . his dick was hard and digging into your thigh.

How could you ignore that? And how could he?

It was almost comedic how quickly the two of you responded to each other. He pushed and you pulled. Like a fish hook in an eye, you knew your body would be craving his in an instant (perhaps it never stopped).

“This OK?” he asked against your lips, slightly out of breath.

All you could do was nod. “Need you,” you murmured against his lips, an almost silent plea. It was vulnerable. Perhaps more vulnerable than you meant for it to sound, but it was true. You needed him, and right now, you needed to feel him in the most visceral way you could.

The world blurred. Time morphed together, moving slowly as he sighed into your mouth and you reached for his hand, pulling him between your legs. He graciously accepted your offer, slipping his hand under the pair of boxers you’d stolen from him after your shower, and pumping his fingers into your core while he swallowed your soft moans. Lewd, wet sounds filled the room as the world continued to blur and blur into pleasure, and bliss, and him.

And only after he’d made you cum on his fingers did he move your thigh to rest on his, allowing enough room for him to easily slip into your still pulsing core. It was true; he fit into you like a hook in an eye. The two of you had always melded together, and you did now. But it wasn’t what you were used to. Sure, the two of you would fuck slow, fast, rough, or soft, but this . . . this was a different kind of softness. It was the kind you had only experienced with him once—the first time you’d had sex all those months ago.

It was vulnerable. And you weren’t used to it. But you reveled in it all the same, losing yourself in every deep thrust. Like an odd sense of deja vu, you knew you’d felt this before. He fucked you slow, never soft, but always deep. He was everywhere, consuming you moan by moan, and you never wanted it to end.

As you struggled not to moan loud enough to wake the people in the room next over, you glanced down, and that was when you saw it. You could have sworn that as his cock hit the deepest parts of you, a small bulge showed. Gently, you sighed out a moan as you pressed a hand on your lower abdomen, pressing down and that was when you felt it: his cock hitting deep inside you again and again and again.

Until you couldn’t take it any longer, you grabbed Jungkook’s hand and placed it against your lower stomach. “Feel,” you rasped out, keeping your hand over his while he thrust again and again.

When he felt it; when he felt his cock creating that bulge inside of you, he lost it. He buried his face into your neck, whispering how much he wanted to have you in every way, telling you how beautiful you were, and how much he wished he could fuck you forever.

And then:

Need you, you heard your own voice whisper as he gently bit into your neck, groaning softly while he shot his thick ropes of cum into your begging pussy. Need you, you acknowledged as his skilled thumb brought you to another orgasm that night all the while he stayed sheathed inside of your warm heat. Need you, you felt as he pulled out, immediately reaching for you once again as he brought you into his body, strong arms wrapped tightly around you.

Your own voice haunted you while Jungkook fell into sleep once again. But you just couldn't get it off your mind. Why had your words entered your mind then?

Why, why why? But you already knew why. You knew because you had been battling it for a while now.

This entire time, you had wondered why you couldn’t give up on him. At first, you thought it was because you cared about him and needed to help him. You thought he needed you, but . . . while that was true; while he did fit into you like a hook in an eye . . . you knew you needed him more than he ever needed you.

That . . . that was why you couldn’t leave him alone. And fuck . . . did that ever scare the shit out of you.

When the two of you awoke for the second time that day, you knew what was ahead of you. A long day of traveling back to the training center, which meant leaving Busan.

That went well, but then the night came and as you made it into the living area of the girls’ dorm, all of your team members awaited you. They wanted to go out and celebrate Yunis’s win at the bar, which . . . you went along with, against your wishes.

Luckily . . . Jungkook was going, but . . . He had been sitting at the bar alone for half the night, and you felt less like a person and more like another cog in the wheel as you were forced to sit with your teammates instead of your partner.

But the thing that was bothering you that night was . . . Being who you were, what you had accomplished by the end of your senior year of college, and everything in between, you’d like to say you still remembered how it felt to win. But the truth was: you’d forgotten it entirely.

As the years had passed and you’d watched old teammates of yours make it farther than you ever probably would be able to again, the electric surge victory sent through your veins had slowly diminished into an afterthought. And you never thought you’d get the chance to taste that euphoric feeling again, at least not for a few more years if you were being generous. You’d never expected to end up here—winning by Jeon Jungkook’s side, and you certainly didn’t expect to owe it all to him. But there you were: standing in the middle of the very same bar you’d visited with the rest of the team at the beginning of your contract. A beer was clasped in your hand with a small smile on your face as the rest of the team conversed amongst each other, going on and on about the winning shot you had made which landed your team amongst the winning teams progressing into the next stage of the tournaments.

Yet . . . something felt off.

You didn’t feel like you’d won anything. You had. When you’d watched the birdie slam on the floor, the whistle blaring in your ears as you looked around to be met with a wide, toothy grin from your doubles partner . . . you had felt that victory. When you had thought of nothing else other than to hug Jungkook to commemorate your win . . . that was when you felt like you had actually won something.

But this . . . this didn’t feel good. It felt like nothing. And you knew exactly why.

Now . . . you didn’t want to celebrate with them. You wanted to clink your beers together in cheers with . . . him.

As your teammates loudly spoke over each other, your eyes flicked to the open bar just across the room. There sat Jeon Jungkook alone at the bar, hunched over his drink as he inspected the small tattoos on his hands. And long were the days that you would just let this happen.

“Kook!” you called out, not missing a beat.

Jungkook lifted his head in confusion, his eyes meeting yours. Why were you calling him? That was raging through his head, and you knew it, too. And perhaps it was the liquid courage, but for once, you didn’t care what your teammates thought of the two of you. Jungkook was not going to spend the night moping at a bar, instead of celebrating both your wins by your side. So . . . you waved him over (Naturally).

And Jungkook, albeit a little hesitantly, followed your command in an instant. Slowly, he approached the rest of the team, which had quieted down now since your sudden request. Whatever. You didn’t care. You wanted him beside you. That was all.

“While I do love taking all the credit, I really can’t this time,” you began as you reached for Jungkook, tugging him in by the bicep. “I’m not the one we should be celebrating.”

Once again, his eyes met yours, brows twitching at your words. And you didn’t break eye contact. You weren’t sure if you could.

“Jungkook’s the reason we won yesterday,” you continued, that small smile still on your face. “He’s the reason I didn’t entirely suck. We should be celebrating him.”

Not once did you look away from him and not once did he look away from you. It was like the others didn’t matter. This was your win, not theirs.

The silence which met your ears confirmed this notion. You were OK with that. You were sure Jungkook was too.

Why, one might ask?

Because Jungkook had that stupid, (almost charming) small smile on his face. And you couldn’t help but offer up one of your own. This was both your win.

Funny how times had changed . . . Funny . . . indeed.

“Well . . . “ someone began a second later, tearing you from your own mind, “I’ll drink to that.”

Only when you finally met the others’ eyes did you realize it was Hoseok who had offered up this proclamation of peace, practically waving around a white flag while he raised his beer toward Jungkook. And for a moment you thought maybe things would actually change. Maybe Jungkook would start to sit with the rest of the team instead of opting to stay in his dorm or sitting alone at the bar drowning his sorrows. Maybe things would be better now. Maybe this was his justice as much as it was yours.

Then . . . you noticed something. . . . When you glanced back at Jungkook, his eyes didn’t meet yours. No, they weren’t on you at all. Instead, he was looking Hoseok’s way with his brows raised in shock and a small, genuine smile twitching at the corners of his lips. It was almost as if he couldn’t believe it . . . like he’d have to pinch himself soon to make sure he wasn’t dreaming this all up. But that wasn’t what you had noticed.

Jungkook was looking at Hoseok. Not his chin or his forehead or the table . . . no, he was looking him in the eyes . . . like . . . like he could see him. But . . . ?

Everyone just has this big X over their face. I can’t see them . . . even if I wanted to, Jungkook’s voice filtered in through your ears as you recalled the memory. He’d told you he couldn’t see people. It made him anxious. Instead, big X’s covered everyone’s faces.

And yet . . . he was looking at Hoseok. He could see Hoseok.

Only then did you realize what had happened. Hoseok’s words, metaphorically raising a white flag in surrender, had snuck through the barrier Jungkook had built up so high. Even if this didn’t last, even if . . . even if it didn’t, it did now.

Jungkook could see Hoseok just like he could see you.

Perhaps, eventually, he’d allow himself to see everyone again, even those he wasn’t too fond of. Perhaps he’d let himself look people in the eyes . . . to see the world again instead of staring at his shoes while he walked with his head down. Perhaps this was how he’d define his own justice. Perhaps, you thought as your gaze lightened and your smile grew.

Until . . . a loud clap of laughter erupted from beside you, and you felt your heart falter. Your head turned only to see the image of Wooshik leaning back in his chair with a shot of soju on hand. His gaze was lazy, barely able to keep his eyes open as he grinned up at the two of you, and yet . . . it felt oddly threatening.

Maybe he was just drunk . . . but: “This is bullshit,” he all but hissed as he swigged back the shot before he dragged a hand down his face and groaned. “Fucking bullshit.”

“Wooshik,” Hoseok warned, “not today.”

Wooshik lazily swung his head in his direction. “Not today?” he questioned. “Why do we have to sit here and applaud him? When do we get to voice the fact that this shit—” he slammed a fist onto the table— “isn’t fair? Hmm?”

“We won, didn’t we?” Hoseok bargained. “Jungkook put us on the map again.”

“So that means we what? Roll out the red carpet?” Wooshik slurred. “You know what he did. We’re the ones working our asses off every day all day and we still get slammed by Coach, and Jungkook here gets to drink himself to the brink of death, not show up for weeks, then somehow he’s still paid the most out of all of us. That sound fair? That sound like something we should be celebrating?”

Hoseok crossed his arms over his chest and began to open his mouth to retort, but you beat him to it. “He gets paid more because he’s good,” you muttered, voice low and dry. “Win a match, then bitch about it.”

“Did he tell you what happened?” Wooshik instantly spat. “Hmm? Did he tell you why he’s here? Why the all star isn’t halfway to the Olympics right now?”

You blinked at him, because that was all you could do. Because, yes, Jungkook had told you something. He’d told you something bad had happened, something that ultimately had to do with Taehyung, but he hadn’t told you what. It was a falling out. That was what you knew, but the way Wooshik was looking at you, his brows pinched together and an odd, almost pained look in his eyes told you it was something so much worse than a falling out.

“Whatever it is—” you began, wetting your lips— “I’m sure it can wait. You give him shit the rest of the season. It won’t kill you to can sit down and fuck off for an hour.”

Should you have said that? No . . . but . . . whatever. Screw protecting your image. It didn’t matter right now.

“This is—” Wooshik cut himself off with a scoff.

And you went on. “It’s what?” you all but mocked, tilting your head to the side as you narrowed your eyes in scrutiny.

But before either of you could go on, a hand wrapped around your forearm, pulling you back from the man. You turned, briefly, only enough to see Jungkook right behind you with a warning look on his face. “Let it be,” he muttered, his eyes solely on you. “It’s not worth it.”

Let it be. You swallowed, hesitantly. It’s not worth it.

No . . . no . . . you couldn’t believe that. Whether you liked it or not, Jungkook had quickly become something of a comfort to you, and fuck . . . fuck (!) you cared about him. Seeing this happen . . . seeing everyone treat him like shit infuriated you. You couldn’t let this happen, not when . . . not when you could do something.

It’s not worth it, he’d said, but yes . . . yes it was. It was worth it to you. He was. Jungkook was worth it to you, and you’d be damned if Wooshik walked away from this the winner.

“Kook’s a better person than I am, Wooshik,” you mumbled, still locking eyes with Jungkook before you turned to meet Wooshik’s harsh gaze. “He gets us on the map, and you’re complaining? I just think you’re a little pathetic.” You sent him a fake pout, fully aware of just how immature you were acting, but you didn’t care.

Enough of kissing their asses. Enough of trying to be someone you weren’t. He didn’t get to win this. Not now. Not like this.

Wooshik only scoffed. “You’re just gonna let her make a fool of herself for you?” he asked, but his eyes weren’t on you . . . they were on Jungkook.

But Jungkook remained silent.

And then: “It should’ve been you on that bridge,” Wooshik practically whispered, almost as if he couldn’t believe those words had fallen from his lips.

Jungkook’s face fell, his world falling as yours crumbled into confusion. You wanted to question him, but Wooshik interrupted your thoughts.

“Do you not get it? You don’t deserve this, he does, but you took that from him,” he declared, his voice gaining in octaves as he went on. “You should’ve gone through with it months ago . . . Everyone . . . would’ve been better off without you.”

“Kook, what’s he talking about?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper, because you knew the answer. You were sure you had for a while now.

“He paralyzed his friend,” Wooshik confirmed your thoughts for you.

Then . . . the world truly did fall then, at least for you. You felt it all at once.

While the world fell, all the pieces came together. Wooshik had been the one to threaten Jungkook that day on the track. Wooshik knew Jimin . . . he knew Taehyung. He had been the one you’d heard on the phone with Jimin . . . the one who had stressed over Taehyung’s condition. Only then, you had no idea what Taehyung’s condition entailed or how he’d gotten it. And now . . . now you knew the boy who’d practically been like Jungkook’s brother (meaning another menace in your life that you had begrudgingly dealt with) . . . that boy had endured an injury which led to the suffering of his career.

And it was all because of Jungkook? But . . . but . . . no. That couldn’t be. Jungkook would never do that to anyone, let alone Taehyung.

Softness ran through Jungkook’s veins. He’d always been too kind, which you’d realized a little too late. Even when you were kids, he’d never dared to squash the clover mites which infested your porch’s exterior. He found it cruel, while you had never given a second thought to it. To you, they were just tiny meaningless bugs that left a pigmented red smear when squashed. But to him . . . to him they were . . . small friends.

Bug boy, you’d used to call him, and he’d always try to hide how his ears would flush red at the name. That little boy who cared for even the smallest of creatures couldn’t have done . . . this?

Because, well, there were not a lot of things you knew about life. You used to think you knew the world like the back of your palm. But that was just false confidence. You knew nothing. You barely knew yourself, but . . . but you knew . . . him.

If there was one thing you knew, it was Jungkook, and he would never even think to do this to a friend, especially Taehyung. There had to be something missing. This was not the truth. It couldn’t be.

“He’s learning how to walk again, meanwhile JK here’s winning tournaments. That seem fair?” you heard Wooshik hiss again, his words more slurred now as he went on, but all you could think was how invigorating it would feel to sock him right in the jaw. But that wasn’t the only thing you’d faced that night. No, what truly had the world crashing down around you was the words Wooshik had spoken before.

You should’ve gone through with it months ago. And that look on his face. It was like he knew just how bitter those words felt in his mouth the second he’d spoken them. Everyone . . . would’ve been better off without you.

You knew what that meant, but you didn’t want to believe it. You knew what that meant. Twist the knife, you wanted to say. That would hurt less, because you realized that if Jungkook had decided to go through with . . . it . . . there would have been no way to prevent it. He had no one. He had been alone.

So . . . you twisted the metaphorical knife wedged in your chest cavity a little more. You probably wouldn’t have even known. Twist the knife. Twist the knife. Twist the knife. You probably would’ve found out through your mother. Twist the knife . . . And there would’ve been nothing you could do about it. Jungkook would have just been . . . gone.

The little boy who refused to squash the clover mites; the little boy who cared for even the smallest of creatures; the little boy who had loved . . . everything . . . would have just been gone. And here was Wooshik taunting him for it in front of everyone.

That . . . that made the wildfire spread within you, and you didn’t give a shit about anything anymore. Something snapped in you. Something bad. Dark. “By which you mean he should kill himself?”

Everything was loud and silent at the same time. It was almost deafening the way everyone’s faces fell. It was almost as if they hadn’t expected those words to come from your lips . . . like saying the truth was something . . . unheard of.

You supposed the truth was a little darker . . . a little harsher than most would expect. But it was something you were familiar with. You don’t become embolized and lose your dream in one day and not think about things like . . . that. No, sometimes you even wonder what it would be like. If things would be better, but you never go through with it. And if someone were to taunt you for it? In front of people? Well . . . you weren’t just going to sit there.

Because, yeah, maybe Jungkook had never liked to squash the harmless, little clover mites, but you were forgetting one very small, very important detail. You had never shied away from squashing the little things. In fact, you often went out of your way to squash as many as you could find.

That was the difference between the two of you; the difference between you ruining your own career and Jungkook moving on; the difference between a child who chooses peace and one who seeks out rage. And a child born of wrath you had always been. It was time you stopped running from that. You used to squash every little clover mite you came into contact with, and Wooshik was no exception.

“Well?” you finally continued once, in rage, you found your voice again.

Wooshik shifted awkwardly in his spot. “I didn’t say that,” he muttered before he cleared his throat.

But you had never been a fan of cowards. “Really?” You tilted your head to the side, narrowing your eyes at his figure. “You sure?”

“Listen—”

“Ah,” you clicked your tongue, pointer finger raised to your lips as if to quiet him down. And when you spoke again, your voice was as quiet as a whistle in the wind. “My turn.”

It was immature, you were sure, but you didn’t care. You were burning. Your skin felt ablaze with heat and you were sure your nails were breaking through the surface of your palm from clenching your hands into too tight of fists. But you didn’t care.

Your mother had always told you, Be kind. You’ll catch more flies with honey, than vinegar. But what if you didn’t want to catch them? What if you’d rather see them swatted? . . . You’d take your chances with the vinegar.

That sentiment was solidified as you asked, your voice calm, almost eerily too calm, “What’s your name? Last name, I mean.”

Wooshik narrowed his eyes in skepticism. “Hwang.”

“Noted.”

“What?” Wooshik scoffed, raising a brow. “Thinking of reporting me?”

And you nearly rolled your eyes. But a hand securing around your arm brought you back to the present. And you realized who it was . . .

“Come on,” Jungkook mumbled close to your ear. His voice was soft just like his touch, but he should’ve known better. You weren’t meant for soft things. A well-oiled machine. That was what you were. You were made of metal and bolts; you were cold . . . rough . . . worn.

Tearing your arm out of his grasp, the cold welcomed you back with open arms. “No, Kook,” you heard yourself say before you realized you were saying it, and then you realized it was too late. Your mouth wasn’t your own anymore. Your words belonged to the machine you had let yourself become, and you welcomed this just as the cold had welcomed you. “Hwang Wooshik, you’re a piece of shit. No, no . . . all of you are. You sit here and ridicule him—” you gestured toward Jungkook— “and for what? Have any of you actually asked him what happened? Do you even know the full story or have you made his life shit just to feel better about yourselves? I get it. We’re a shitty team. No one wants to be here, so why not? Right? Did you ever think why this team is shit? Hmm?”

Nothing. And then . . . Wooshik only scoffed. Typical.

But you were beyond dealing with this. “And you—” your eyes focused back on Wooshik— “you have no value, not even a soul,” you bit out through gritted teeth, fists still clenched as tightly as you could, and you had no intention of letting up. If he wanted the truth . . . then fine . . . you’d serve it to him on a silver platter. “All I see . . . is a bag of skin . . . a pile of bones. It’s pathetic how meaningless your life is. You bitch and moan, bitch and moan, bitch and moan, and yet, you have nothing to show for it except for a rotten mouth and a limp dick. You wanna show off? Wanna feel like a man? Go on . . . do it . . . but remember this moment. Remember just how meaningless you actually are . . . on this team . . . in the world . . . to yourself. Remember all the cells in your body splitting for nothing . . . just to make a worthless piece of fucking shit.” Your brows raised, beckoning him. “Hmm? Don’t you get it now? You’re nothing.”

The world stilled. It was quiet, too quiet.

You didn’t dare look at anyone else, not even Jungkook. You couldn’t. And then you heard it: a heartbeat pounding in your ears. But it wasn’t yours. You could have sworn it was Wooshik’s or maybe it had been one of your other teammates. It didn’t matter. Your words had shocked them . . . maybe scared them.

Wooshik sucked in a breath first. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he questioned, and it was like you were seven years old again, being excluded from after-school plans with your friends. But you didn’t have much time to dwell on the past before Wooshik glanced between you and Jungkook, a look of realization crossing his face as he let out a breathy laugh. “Oh . . . I see . . . “

And you knew he’d discovered the truth between you and Jungkook. But honestly? You didn’t care.

Good, you couldn’t help but think. That didn’t matter right now. Nothing did except this . . .

Not that Wooshik had caught onto that. No, instead, the man had found his motive and gone with it. “Word of advice . . . he’s not the good guy,” he murmured to you, only making the wildfire within you burn brighter.

A muscle in your jaw twitched. “And you are?”

“I don’t run from the shit I do, and then cry wolf on top of a bridge,” Wooshik went on, but you were past listening. You could barely hear him. “I would’ve gone through with it. Maybe then that would set things right—”

But he never finished his sentence. No . . . you didn’t let him.

For a second time that night, something snapped within you, and you couldn’t contain it. Like a glass too full of water, your rage spilled over, and before you realized what you were doing, you pulled back your hand to gain momentum and then launched it forward, connecting your knuckles with Wooshik’s nose.

Wooshik stumbled backward, catching himself on his chair so as to not collide with the floor, while he clutched his nose in his hand. And you stood above him, hands still clenched into fists as you watched the man grovel and groan. His eyes stayed on you the entire time, an odd sense of fear mixed with bewilderment in his gaze. You realized for a second time that night, you’d shocked him. Perhaps you’d even scared him.

Be kind. You’ll catch more flies with honey than vinegar, your mother used to tell you. But you had never been fond of flies, and you had never quite liked Hwang Wooshik, either, so fuck that.

Still, Wooshik felt the need to ask, “What the fuck are you doing?”

And you only shrugged. “Whatever I want. Just like you,” you spat moments before you made an attempt to grab at his collar, but something pulled you back.

Once again, a hand wrapped around your arm, but instead of giving you the option to pull away, the person pulled you into their chest, securing an arm around your waist to ground you. . . . You instantly knew it was Jungkook (from the odd sense of peace you felt at his touch . . . but don’t tell him that).

“Take a walk,” he muttered in your ear for only you to hear, the command instilling dread within you.

“Kook,” you whispered, but couldn’t bring yourself to look at him. All you could look at was Wooshik and his now bleeding nose.

“Go,” was all Jungkook said. And only then did you gain enough courage to look at the rest of your teammates. They stared back at you with equal parts shock and fear . . . and you knew you’d fucked up. Again.

That was all it took before you pulled away from Jungkook’s embrace, listened to his words for once, and walked out of the bar into the cold before you swatted one too many flies before the sun rose. And while you didn’t regret it . . . you knew you’d done it now. You knew you’d gone too far.

All you could do now was squeeze your eyes shut, hoping this was some sick nightmare as you waited in the cold to probably (ultimately) be scolded by your doubles partner. That was what was ahead of you, and while you did feel guilty (you supposed), you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

A well-oiled machine. That was what you were. That was what you had been trained to become. You weren’t supposed to care about other people, and you wouldn’t let yourself. But you couldn’t let him talk to Jungkook like that. No, not to him. Not in front of you.

Jungkook used to refuse to squash the clover mites on your porch, while you sought them out. That was the difference between the two of you, and you’d be damned if some no-name on this shitty, D-list team told you otherwise.

He was soft, not you. Give all the unlucky shit to you. You could handle it.

If Wooshik wanted to hate someone, to blame someone . . . then he could blame you.

You supposed that was what you had done tonight: ruined yourself to save Jungkook like you should’ve done all those years ago instead of ruining the both of you. (Although . . . not like you’d tell him that. You couldn’t. This was too much. Too raw.) And worst of all . . . you knew you’d do it again.

You realized that as you waited in the cold for who knew how long. It could’ve been two minutes or twenty. You hadn’t noticed. You hadn’t cared . . . after all, well-oiled machines didn’t get cold.

Only once you finally opened your eyes to see the cold around you, did you hear the bell above the bar door jingle, signaling that Jungkook was now behind you, no doubt angry with you for your little outburst. And all you could think was fuck, fuck, fuck. You’d crossed the line again, as you always did, but you couldn’t bring yourself to apologize. Not for this.

And so, you found yourself muttering, “If you expect me to apologize, I won't. He doesn’t get to do that. Not to you. Not in front of me.”

But as soon as you had begun to turn around to finally face him, Jungkook didn’t greet you with furrowed brows and a scowl on his face. No, instead, you could only blink once before he was falling into you, his hands caressing the sides of your face moments before his lips met yours. There was no heat behind it either, no rushing, no nothing, just . . . just bliss. His lips met yours, his touch putting out the fire raging within you, and it was like you could finally breathe again. He kissed you as if that was all he could do; as if it were all he wanted to do.

Only then, when you realized he wasn’t going to rip himself from your body as if you’d scorched him, did you finally embrace him. Your hands found their way to his shirt, bunching the fabric as you pulled him closer and felt yourself succumb little by little to him. You didn’t even care if anyone saw you. It didn’t matter. Nothing did when he was near.

It could have been seconds, minutes, hours, days before the two of you pulled away, and you leaned your forehead against his, trying to catch your breath. The point was: you didn’t even care just how out of breath you had become. You would’ve sooner passed out than let him go, and perhaps that meant more than what you were willing to admit, but you did know it meant something, you just weren’t exactly sure what. But you barely had time to dwell on those thoughts before Jungkook pulled you closer, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and tugging you into his chest. And you let him.

“You’re an idiot,” he mumbled into your hair, laughing slightly under his breath.

You’re an idiot, you repeated in your head, and a smile slowly twitched on your face, because you knew what he really meant. Thank you, his hug seemed to say, and you knew it to be true. And all you could do was melt against him, wrapping your arms around his waist as your eyes fluttered closed and a content sigh left your lips. You squeezed him tighter, realizing perhaps maybe you’d needed this hug more than him. In a way, you supposed you had always needed this—to be hugged so deeply it comforted your soul.

You’re welcome, your hug seemed to say, but you knew what it actually meant . . . thank you.

Once again, you smiled, perhaps a little wider now. That is what you had wanted to tell him. Thank you. Thank you for being there. Just . . . thank you.

You would like to make one thing clear: you did not have a fondness for many things. For instance, you hated when random people on the internet adapted an instrumental version of a song that, to be honest, did not need adapting. You hated the rain. Now . . . you knew most people didn’t particularly like the rain . . . but you hated it. It always had a way of making your skin itch, leaving you uncomfortable and irritated. It was unnecessary . . . really (OK, fine, maybe not unnecessary, but, ugh, whatever!).

Now . . . obviously you absolutely despised losing. That much was evident . . . sure.

But most of all, you hated the vulnerability which came with falling short of victory. You hated how your shoulders fell, the self-hatred seeping in and consuming you as soon as you realized you had either gone too far or not far enough.

You supposed that was how it had always been. You supposed you had always been a competitive child. You supposed the fact that it hurt more to lose a match than breaking up with your first boyfriend . . . was normal for a child who had been born into competition after competition.

Of course you never actually expected to fail. That wasn’t in your blood. Failing wasn’t on the table, so when you did, it hit you ten times harder. And you always ended up doing the same thing over and over again: locking yourself in your room until the sting became easier to manage.

That was what had happened in your childhood, and that was what had happened three years ago. You’d locked yourself in that hospital room, ignoring the world, pushing people away. You’d learned to live with yourself, and you learned to hate yourself. (Perhaps it was easy to find that hatred within yourself because it had always been there.)

You supposed that was why you had taken to reading so kindly. (Sure, you had put up a fight, claiming you did not and would not like books, but, well, your heart kind of beat for it now. A part of you craved it. And that part of you followed you everywhere.)

The writings you’d memorized all those years ago stayed in your head and every once in a while, you’d remember something you’d read. And every time, it’d bring you a sense of something. Comfort, maybe? Acceptance? Understanding? You weren’t entirely sure, but it did bring you something you couldn’t push away. And that night, the night Wooshik had pushed a little too far, revealing who he was, you were also reminded who you were: an angry child who had forced herself to grow up too soon.

You knew that was what you were. You knew you were angry and crude and all things not pleasant or kind. You couldn’t give anything up. You couldn’t let anything just be. . . .You knew your heart was cold and you were more machine parts than bone.

A burnt child loves the fire, Lord Henry claimed in The Picture of Dorian Gray. (Your love for the Classics had begun there within that book (peculiar considering your previous distaste for literature . . . but well . . . you had no excuse).) You supposed the reason why you’d taken so fiercely to this small, almost minuscule quote had to do with the fact that you couldn’t understand it. And you hated being in the dark about anything.

The original saying was supposed to be: A burnt child dreads the fire. And yet . . .

That was what you couldn’t understand. You couldn’t understand why there was a need for the reverse. The saying was wrong. A burnt child should dread the fire, they shouldn’t run to it.

So . . . why? Why did the child Lord Henry speak of . . . crave the fire?

Only then did you come to the conclusion.

As soon as your fist had collided with Wooshik’s face and you saw the look everyone had given you, the answer washed over you: there was a difference between these two children. While one who has been hurt; who has been burnt by the fire will avoid it at all costs for the rest of their lives, the other will seek it out . . . perhaps even crave it.

That was why you had punched Wooshik. A burnt child loves the fire.

The day of the incident . . . that was the day the fire had scorned you and instead of taking refuge with those who cared . . . you pushed them away. Because it was easier to be angry. It was easier to feel sorry for yourself rather than to accept help.

Because accepting help meant you had failed. It meant you were weak. It meant you were not the person you had prided yourself on for years and years and years . . . It meant laying to rest the person you used to be and truth be told you missed her more than you missed feeling . . . warm . . . real. But how much did you miss her now? That was a question you had yet to answer.

Yeah, you missed the cheers as you won match after match. You missed the glorious high which came after a win. You missed team bonding and everything badminton used to be. But you didn’t miss the stress, the pressure . . . the anger. And that was the thing . . . you’d won once again after so many years and yet . . . you didn’t feel stressed to practice until your feet bled. There was still stress . . . of course, but it wasn’t consuming.

You realized you’d never actually celebrated a win before. You were always looking looking looking into the future, too caught up in it all to just . . . breathe. But now . . . now . . . now all you wanted to do was sure . . . celebrate, but rather . . . celebrate with your doubles partner.

So really . . . did you miss the girl you used to be? Perhaps a little in the sense that when you grow older, nostalgia only gets worse. But you didn’t want to be her.

You wished someone could tell you what that all meant . . . Were you still considered a burnt child? Did you still love the fire? Did you dread it? Or . . . were you somewhere in between?

You only wished someone could help you make sense of it all. You wished someone would put a guiding hand on your shoulder and tell you who you were, because . . . really you had no clue.

Perhaps you’d been clueless all your life. Perhaps you would always be.

A warm hand wrapping around your wrist brought you out of your own mind. And you realized where you were.

It was the present, not the past as much as you’d spent thinking about it. Most likely a half hour after you’d punched Wooshik in the nose, changing the entire trajectory of your team. The atmosphere of Jungkook’s room surrounded you as you sat on the edge of the bed, right leg crossed over the left while he tended to your cut knuckles from said punch to Wooshik’s face.

His hand was warm as it always was, and you were sure he must have winced at how cold yours had been to the touch, but you weren’t even certain if he was paying attention to that at all. No, it seemed as you took your first glance at Jungkook’s face since he’d kissed you earlier that night . . . that he was entirely focused on the task at hand. And truly, it was almost impossible to not notice just how meticulous Jungkook was to even the smallest of cuts on your knuckles, dabbing each and every one with a washcloth. He remained focused, his brows sat low as his eyes remained focused on your hand while his lips were pursed into an almost cute (?) pout.

But you couldn’t help but catch sight of the muscle which ticked in his jaw. Something was on his mind. No, no, he was angry. Yes, that was it. His jaw always twitched when he’d get frustrated about something. And well . . . you had never been one to keep your mouth shut.

“I thought you weren’t mad at me,” you stated almost too abruptly, nearly startling the silence itself.

Jungkook paused, but didn’t look up to meet your gaze. “I’m not,” was all he muttered before he resumed his task.

You narrowed your eyes at him. “You’re quiet,” you said as you poked him in the chest with your non-injured hand. “You’re never quiet. I actually have a hard time shutting you up.”

“Well.”

“Well, what?” you went on, knowing damn well if you pressed enough he’d cave. “If you’re mad just say it.”

He only replied with a hiss of your name. A warning (one you wouldn’t listen to).

“Kook—” you nudged his chest once again— “speak.”

For a brief second, he shot you a look. “You’re just—!” But his words quickly died on his tongue the moment he made eye contact with you. He seemed to search for something within your gaze before his brows twitched, his eyes falling to your injured hand as he swallowed hard. “I didn’t realize you got . . . hurt.”

Your gaze softened then. “It’s just a scrape,” you tried to reassure but you had never been good at comfort.

Jungkook only shook his head. “But it shouldn’t be anything,” he muttered as he began to dry off your knuckles. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

“That’s not what you said earlier.”

“I know. Fuck, OK . . . I know,” he continued muttering without making eye contact as he quickly but carefully bandaged your hand. But even once he was done, he did not let go of your hand. If anything . . . he pulled it closer. “I just . . . I didn’t realize that—I just . . . I don’t want you to get hurt for me. You’re not invincible, OK?”

“And you are?”

His eyes closed. “Come on . . . ”

“Why can you take it but I can’t?”

Jungkook breathed out through his nose, and then he was looking at you. But now there was a different tinge in his eyes. Now it was like he was hiding something . . . like he didn’t want you to really see what was going on inside his mind, and you had a sick feeling it had something to do with what Wooshik had said at the bar. And then he spoke, “Because I don’t want you to. It’s my bullshit. I don’t want you to get caught up in it.”

You realized exactly what he was doing. You had been right. He was trying to keep a distance from you, trying to keep you out, trying to protect you from . . . something. But as you had been so cruelly reminded, you were a burnt child . . . and you craved the fire.

That was it. As a child, you had sought out the clover mites just to see them paint the rocks red as you squished them. That had been fun for you. You’d always craved the fire, you supposed . . . just in different doses. And a child who learned this way of living never backed down . . . never cowered, you faced it . . . welcomed it. And you sure as hell weren’t backing down from this. You refused to leave him alone . . . because Jungkook had never even dared to squash the clover mites . . . he’d wanted to save them . . . protect them, and someone like that did not deserve to carry whatever this was on his shoulders.

Burned children could recognize each other . . . but he still had time to decide if he’d run from the fire or chase it, and you would try everything in yourself to not let him join you. Not now; not when you knew his heart. Not when you knew Jeon Jungkook, if given the chance, would still never, not even once, squash a clover mite for the fun of it.

That was exactly why you found yourself claiming: “I already am.”

He squeezed your hand tighter as his face fell further. “I don’t need you to fight for me,” he all but whispered.

But you had never been a good listener. You’d always acted first, thought later. Some would call it a flaw. You sure would, but you didn’t care.

So you listened to the first thought that popped into your head, standing to your feet as you curled your joined hands into your chest. “I know . . . but it’s what I do,” you found yourself saying. “I can’t help it. I’ve tried to change, Kook. I’ve tried to be gentle. I’ve tried to speak quietly. I’ve tried not to be . . . all the things that I am, but it never works. It just feels like I’m pretending.” And as you confessed, you couldn’t help but scoff a laugh at your words. “I’m not a gentle person. I’m loud and blunt and maybe even a little cruel . . . and now you’ve made me care about you.”

You’ve made me care about you, your words rang throughout your ears, and you realized that was the truth. You did care about him. Perhaps more than you cared about most things. And it was clear your words had affected Jungkook, too. His features softened, his brows lifting slightly as his eyes rounded and his mouth parted only just barely.

You’ve made me care about you, you were sure was ringing through his ears. And you knew this, too, because he didn’t bother to tease you or shoot you that half-grin of his. No, he just stared, trying to digest your words.

It seemed no one had ever shown him this. No one had ever tried to get through to him, and you knew that well. You knew how it felt to push everyone away, secretly hoping someone would want to break through the barriers you’d put up.

Burned children could recognize each other, and you knew exactly how Jungkook felt. Years and years of dealing with everything on your own is debilitating. You couldn’t imagine being forced into this isolation. You knew what it felt like to lose everything . . . and you could see on his face that he knew that feeling well, too.

It made you feel worthless. Stupid. Useless. It was almost gut-wrenching how much it made you feel like nothing. And, god, you were tired of being nothing. You were sure Jungkook was tired, too.

So as you went on, a slight smile on your face, your eyes had begun to water. You’d never been much of a crier, but you couldn’t help it. “Don’t you get it?” you mumbled, your voice quieter now. “I care about you more than I should. You made me. You made me fucking care about you, so you don’t get to sit here, give me whiplash, and expect me not to defend you.” You couldn’t help but let a small tear slip, because, truly, you really did care about him. “I don’t care about a lot of people, and maybe that’s sociopathic, narcissistic, whatever! I don’t care . . . but I refuse to let you put up with this, deal with this, endure this . . . alone.”

Jungkook blinked quickly, but remained silent as he chewed on his inner cheek.

“I’m in this,” you went on, squeezing his hand tighter. “Whether you like it or not . . . I . . . am . . . not . . . leaving. Got it?”

But something was preventing Jungkook from nodding at your words. He only just stood, refusing to make eye contact with you. And then, he tilted his head, his eyes on the ceiling as he mumbled, his words strained, “I don’t want to hurt you, too.” He tugged his hand from yours then and you fought the urge to grasp his hand right back.

“You won’t,” you muttered instead, eyes still trained on your now empty hand.

“You don’t get it,” Jungkook whispered in response as he stared at his own hands, almost in disbelief or astonishment. “Everything I touch . . . it’s like . . . it’s like things come to die at my hands.”

You were at a loss for words in response, because you knew that feeling. You were sure you had thought those exact same words. You were sure a part of you still believed that about yourself.

And while you mentally rotated through the things you were supposed to say, Jungkook went on, “I can’t let you all the way in. I would never forgive myself if—“

But he never had the chance to finish the sentence. No, it seemed his body wouldn’t let him. His words tangled around his tongue, and finally, you glanced his way, finding his eyes were now glossy and he was forcing himself to keep his gaze trained on the wall behind you, careful not to blink and let the tears spill.

Jungkook believed things came to die at his hands. He believed he deserved . . . this. And yet . . . how could he be so wrong? You knew him. It didn’t matter what Wooshik or your other teammates said. You knew him. You’d grown up with him. You’d watched him throw tantrum after tantrum after every clover mite you’d squashed just to tease him.

He would never do the things that had been said. And he certainly didn’t deserve to feel like . . . this. That was your driving force. Without thinking, you grabbed his hand, and brought it to your face. Slowly, you cupped your cheek with the palm of his hand, your hand covering his before you whispered, “Did the world end?”

His eyes were on you now, warming you just with one look. “No,” he softly mumbled as his thumb grazed your cheek.

He’s sweet, you couldn’t help but think as your brows twitched at his gentle action. Then, slowly, you took that same hand and brought it to your chest, laying it just above where your heart would beat deep inside.

“Oh, look, my heart’s still beating,” you said lightly, a little more pep in your voice in an attempt to get that smile on his face again. “The world will not end and nothing will happen to me at your hands . . . OK?”

His fingers flexed on your chest. “I can’t.”

“Jungkook,” was all you could whisper, an almost silent plea as you squeezed his fingers.

He brought his other hand up to your cheek and took a step forward. “Baby . . . ” he all but begged as he leaned down to rest his forehead against yours.

Tilting your head up enough to brush your nose against his, you welcomed his embrace. “Please,” you found yourself mumbling. “I’m not going to run. You won’t lose me.”

And truly, you did mean every word.

You didn’t care for the fire or the fight or anything like that. You just . . . fuck . . . you wanted him to be alright. That was what you wanted. You didn’t know why or how it happened, but it did.

That was what you wanted, and you had never been one to back down from anything. So you meant it. You weren’t going anywhere. And as the silence consumed you two, you stayed by his side, proving your words to be true. Jungkook seemed to catch onto this, too, as his words changed . . .

“But I will disappoint you,” he mumbled instead of his previous sentiments.

But who would think that would scare you off? You were all kinds of disappointing. It didn’t matter. “So? People are disappointing. It’s what makes us human,” you found yourself speaking your thoughts. “Can we just . . . carry your bullshit . . . together?”

Jungkook remained unmoving for a mere moment before he withdrew from you. For a second you thought he’d leave you hanging once again. For a second, you thought he’d locked himself away like he had months ago. But instead, he moved away from you, the cold replacing where his warmth had been as he sat down on the edge of his bed . . . and you knew what that meant.

He was letting you in. Fully. Completely. Finally.

You met him at the bed, folding your leg under yourself as you sat down facing him. A part of you wanted to reach for his hand, but you couldn’t. Something was stopping you from reaching out to grasp him, so you sat in silence, carefully taking in his features from the small scar on his cheek to the tiny mole under his bottom lip.

It must have been minutes of you just taking in his features while the silence danced around the two of you. Perhaps it went on for even longer. But you didn’t mind it. You wouldn’t run from this . . . from him.

And finally, that was when you didn’t necessarily reach for his hand, but you did rest your hand on his knee, providing as much reassurance as you knew how. You could only hope he knew what your touch meant. You could only hope he could feel . . . you.

His eyes found yours the next second, and you knew he could. He could feel you just as you could feel him. He could see you. He could see you. He could see you. That had to mean something. It seemed it did as Jungkook carefully placed his hand over yours and squeezed. Then . . . then he offered a small, strained smile before he sucked in a sharp breath, slowly exhaling . . . and then . . . then he spoke.

“It was last year . . . around January,” he began, his voice careful, calculated, quiet.

And you scooted closer, listening intently.

“We’d made it onto the national team,” he continued, keeping his eyes on your locked hands. “Taehyung, Jimin, and I . . . but it was tough. The days were long. And I wanted to . . . I don’t fucking know live a little. And there was a bar just outside the center and I . . . wanted to go. I dragged Taehyung with me. He didn’t want to leave. We weren’t supposed to leave. But I was cocky and an idiot and I wanted to get drunk before the games the next morning like we used to. So he caved . . . He snuck out for me . . . because of me. We went, we drank, until we decided it was time to go back before Coach found out. But . . . we were still drunk . . . “

As his words died on his tongue, Jungkook averted his gaze from your hands, instead focusing on the wall in front of him. But his eyes kept moving, shaking back and forth as his brain raced with thoughts of the past.

A burnt child dreads the fire, you thought. Was this his fire?

Your thoughts remained unanswered as Jungkook continued. “There’s a bridge that leads to the nationals’ center,” he mumbled, almost hesitant about his words. “It’s small, but passes over a lake.” He cupped his other hand around his chin as he rested his elbow on his thigh. His eyes fluttered closed a second later. “It was January . . . the coldest night of the year . . . and we had to pass over it to get back to the dorms. We had to—fuck.”

The hand on his chin immediately covered his face, his thumb and pointer finger rubbing his eyes. You didn’t want to guess what had happened. You didn’t want to think of the worst, but . . . You remembered the night you caught Jungkook on the bridge, staring out at the water. You remembered the look on his face; the look you knew all too well. And you remembered wondering what had happened to him.

Now . . . now it seemed something had happened on a bridge similar to the one you’d found him on. It seemed on his drunk walk home, the bridge he’d have to pass over to get back to the dorms reminded him of the past. And you both knew how sickly haunting the past could be.

You couldn’t help it. Instantly, your other hand reached to cover your joined hands.

“It was so fucking cold that night. I know it was, but I can’t remember it. I was too fucking drunk to be cold. I was too drunk to notice the water under the bridge was frozen solid . . . but not . . . not all the way through,” he went on, his voice weaker now. “It wasn’t—It wasn’t frozen all the way through.”

It wasn’t frozen all the way through. Your brows furrowed. Wait—

“When Taehyung drinks . . . he does stupid shit. Everyone knows that. I knew that,” Jungkook was muttering now, practically cursing himself. “I knew that.” He beat on his chest once as he shook his head in disbelief.

When Taehyung drinks, he does stupid shit. Did that mean . . . ?

“He wanted to—” he cut his words off with a curse. “He wanted to walk across the wooden railing to see . . . I don’t know . . . I don’t fucking know what he was trying to do but he was drunk and I was too. I was too drunk to realize what was going on. Fuck, I even encouraged him to do it. I put money on it. I fucking bet him if he could walk across the railing, I’d give him ten dollars. Can you fucking believe that?”

Jungkook turned to meet your gaze briefly then, and only then did you realize something. His eyes were glossy . . . and he was sniffling. He was crying. And suddenly, you knew where this was going.

Your brows pinched together in concern as you silently begged him to see that you weren’t leaving. No, no . . . you were scooting closer. You weren’t leaving, you were staying.

Jungkook nodded in response as if he knew what you had been trying to tell him, and then . . . then he continued. “And of course he did it,” he all but laughed, but it came out as more of a pathetic scoff. “He even made it to the end, but we were joking around, laughing about it, and he . . . he lost his balance. He must have stepped on something . . . or . . . or . . . I don’t know, but he . . . he slipped.”

He slipped. No. Your eyes shut tightly as you pulled your bottom lip under your teeth. No.

“He slipped and all I heard was his body smack the ice. And then I heard water . . . “ Jungkook trailed off, his words angry, hurt, and strained. “He fell . . . . and the ice broke. . . . It wasn’t supposed to break. But it broke and I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t see him. It was just ice and water and black. Everything was so fucking dark and I couldn’t see him . . . so I jumped in after him . . . and I still couldn’t fucking find him. And—And when I did . . . when I finally pulled him out, I thought he was dead. But I brought him back. I brought him back and he was supposed to be fine. He was supposed to be fucking fine.”

Only then did you open your eyes . . . and when you did, you saw the Jungkook that had been trapped under barrier after barrier for a year now. He sat before you, shaking his head at his memories as a few tears slipped down his flushed cheeks. And you let them fall, not because you wanted to, but because you needed him to know that it was OK for you to see him . . . let go. So you remained silent, listening to his shaky breaths until he was ready to speak again. And when he did, you stared only at him with your hands interlocked with one of his.

Jungkook shrugged his shoulders, still shaking his head in denial (?), anger (?) . . . maybe grief as a whole (?). “His back was fucked up, but we both just thought it was sore from the fall. He couldn’t really walk, so I had to help him back to the center . . . I knew it wasn’t good . . . but . . . “ he trailed off, his brows twitching. “He didn’t want to go to the hospital. I kept telling him we had to just in case. Just in case there was something wrong. But he was scared. Scared he’d get kicked off the team if they knew we snuck out to drink. So we went back, I helped him get dry, changed his clothes . . . then we went to sleep.”

He blinked. A few more tears fell.

Sucking in a breath, he mumbled as he shakily exhaled, “A few hours later he’s waking me up telling me he can’t feel his legs. Something didn’t feel right. I tried pricking his legs, pinching, anything . . . but he couldn’t feel it.”

You squeezed his hand tighter. You couldn’t imagine . . .

Jungkook wiped his cheeks, his eyes, even his nose, finally taking a deep breath to calm himself down. “Everything happened so fast after that. I told Coach. Tae was rushed to the hospital,” he said, his voice more stable now. “Surgery after surgery after surgery later. He slipped into a coma . . . and when he woke up, they . . . said physical therapy and rest would be all he’d need before he could get back to playing . . . but only one leg gained back some motility. The other . . . just never improved. Something to do with a nerve . . . his spinal cord. Whatever . . . his leg was shot. They said he missed the window, and getting back to even sixty percent would be impossible.”

Fuck. You couldn’t imagine how Tae or Jungkook felt. Having your entire life just taken away from you like that was worse than dying you were sure of it . . . and having to watch someone you cared about go through that . . . You couldn’t imagine.

“Just like that his career was over as well as any chance of having a normal life again,” Jungkook scoffed at his own words. “All because I forced him to go get drunk with me. It was my fault. I should’ve known. Maybe if I had called the hospital . . . told Coach . . . maybe then . . maybe he could’ve been OK. Fuck.”

His words circled around in your head for a moment longer. It was my fault. I forced him. It was my fault. It was my fault. It was my fault.

But . . . Wait—

Your brows scrunched together in confusion. This . . . this is what Jungkook thought would make him a disappointment. This is what had him blaming himself, hating himself . . . ?

Jungkook believed he had done this to Taehyung. But . . . but it wasn’t anyone’s fault. It was an awful thing that happened to both of them . . . and Jungkook blamed himself for it.

No . . . no . . . it couldn’t be. This was what he thought you’d hate him for.

A burnt child loved the fire, indeed. They let themselves become consumed by it, condemned to it, tortured by it, and for what?

Why did Jungkook have to suffer for something that was not his fault?

Fuck. You didn’t know what to do. You weren’t good at this. You barely even knew how to be a person, how could you help him when he thought his friend’s demise was all his fault?

Shit . . . and you had blamed him for what had happened to you. You had added to this. You had . . . No, no, no, no. You didn’t know what to do.

You couldn’t believe what all this guilt, this blame, this hatred had done to him. You couldn’t imagine . . . and you couldn’t contain your emotions. Your eyes were watering now. No, you couldn’t let them. Not now. Not when you were supposed to be comforting him.

Jungkook didn’t seem to notice the turmoil raging on inside your head as he was only looking at the floor. “He couldn’t forgive me after that,” he went on, his voice quieter now once again. “Everyone turned away from me then. I had to leave the team. I knew I did. There was no going back after everyone found out that I was the reason he was out there that night. I lost everything, and it was all my fault.”

It was all my fault, ringed through your ears. Your heart ached for him, but you couldn’t cry now. Not now.

You had no trouble holding back your emotions your entire fucking life so why was it so hard now? Why were you having trouble holding back these tears? You didn’t know, but you didn’t care. You had to keep a calm composure. You had to try. And try you did.

“I would’ve left the badminton scene entirely, but . . . my parents,” Jungkook managed to finish up with a heavy sigh. “Their restaurant wasn’t doing well. It still isn’t. They need this money. I only joined Yunis to help them. All my money goes to them. I only keep what I need, the rest is theirs.”

And suddenly it all made sense with those final words from him. Jungkook blamed himself for what had happened to Taehyung.

He didn’t feel worthy enough to continue his career knowing Taehyung’s was over, but he had to . . . because he was a good son. He had always been a good son. That you had known. But you hadn’t known their business was in trouble. You hadn’t known, and you had been such an asshole to him.

He had to be here. That was why he was here. He had to be. For his parents. Not for fame or even himself, but for them. He was a good son. He was a good person. And everyone . . . even you . . . had failed him.

Then . . . you remembered something else that Wooshik had said, and you almost let a small sob escape your sealed lips. You never imagined you could feel this way. You’d always been cold. You’d always just been a burnt child, relishing in the fire; a well-oiled machine with human parts. You weren’t meant to feel like . . . this. So why did your chest hurt so fucking much? Why couldn’t you breathe when you remembered what Wooshik had said to him?

You should’ve gone through with it months ago. Everyone would’ve been better off without you.

Then . . . you began to wonder. Had Jungkook really? Had he tried to end everything . . . And you could have sworn you felt the metal encasing your heart had begun to shrink, squeezing the muscle in a painful ache. How could Wooshik have said that knowing . . .

“Wooshik,” you heard yourself say before you knew what you were doing, “he said . . . “

“I know,” was all Jungkook could sigh. “He was friends with Tae and Jimin. This was his team. That’s why he’s so pissed I’m here, because I knew we’d be on the same team. But Coach . . . he knew who I was too and to him it didn’t matter who did what when to who. The only thing that mattered was that I was good. I was going to come out of the nationals team with gold medals and he knew that. So he offered me a lot of money . . . and I joined for my parents, otherwise, I’d be back in Busan.”

But you didn’t give a shit what Wooshik’s deal was. No, you wanted to know why he would say such a thing. Why he—

You stopped yourself from thinking, immediately speaking the words before you even thought then, “Why did Wooshik say you should’ve gone through with . . . with um . . . “

“Killing myself?”

Your heart dropped to the pit of your stomach as your eyes shut. Wetting your lips, you gained the courage to say, “Yes.”

But the silence met your reply.

It wasn’t something anybody talked about. People just kind of danced around the subject, trying not to say the actual words, and you supposed even you were guilty of this. But no one prepares you for this kind of shit. No one sits you down and tells you how to deal with this. You didn’t know how to deal with anything.

When you were in recovery, you had the same thoughts. You wondered if it would make things better, but you knew it wouldn’t. You knew it wouldn’t make anything better. You’d just be gone, leaving pain behind, and that was not what you wanted.

You hoped Jungkook had realized this, too. But the silence still remained. Until . . .

“I . . . “ he began, stumbling over his words. Then: “A few weeks before you came . . . I couldn’t take it. I did something horrible and came out of it completely fine. I wanted to make things right. I wanted to pay for what I did to him. And . . . and I wanted everything to just . . . stop. It hurt so fucking much. Every day I couldn’t breathe, I didn’t want to eat. Most days the only thing in my system was alcohol. I stopped looking at everyone, stopped being able to see them shortly after that and everything just became so . . . loud . . . and . . . and lonely, too. I guess—I guess I wanted it to be quiet . . . silent? I wanted time to stop just for a minute so I could breathe and then it would be fine. I could make myself be fine if I could just stop everything . . . just for a second.”

A beat of silence once again. And then he spoke, “I found the tallest bridge I could find here and I tried to jump . . . but . . . my mom called to say goodnight . . . and I realized I couldn’t go through with it, not when they still needed the money. I figured give it one more day . . . if I get fired then I’ll know.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “And Wooshik?”

“We’re dormmates. I slipped up when I was drunk, told him I was going to off myself,” he said through a sigh, his shoulders sinking. “Fucking stupid.”

There was the silence again. He was finished. That was what had happened to him and that was why he was here. The boy who cared even for the smallest of creatures had endured and endured and endured. How was that fair?

Jungkook used to cry for the clover mites when you’d squash them, and yet, here he was, carrying the world on his shoulders. Was he even allowed to breathe? Could he? Or was that peace stolen from him, too?

He thought he was a bad person. He thought he deserved this. He thought---How could he think that?

He was still the same Bug Boy you knew as a kid. He didn’t deserve this. He was a good son; a good friend. He was a good fucking person.

And the world had made him believe otherwise.

Everyone . . . everyone had failed him.

And you couldn’t bring yourself to tell him this without feeling the lump in your throat rise and rise and rise. You would cry if you spoke, and this wasn’t fucking about you.

This was about him. You couldn’t be selfish.

You just needed a moment to calm yourself.

But a moment you weren’t given as Jungkook whispered, “You’re silent. You get it now, don’t you?”

He thought . . .

No. No. No. No.

And suddenly, you couldn’t stop yourself. You glanced his way with glossy eyes and a quivering bottom lip. “No, no, I don’t,” you muttered, your voice hoarse. “If anything I don’t get it at all.”

Jungkook only blinked.

You swallowed hard. “Koo, it was not your fault.”

He shook his head in disbelief. “I don’t . . . I don’t understand.”

Fuck. That look. He looked so . . . lost.

And you couldn’t contain yourself any longer. The floodgates open, tears trickling down your cheeks. “How could you have known what would happen?” you questioned, trying to choke back a sob. “What happened to Taehyung is awful and heartbreaking, but . . . it was no one’s fault, let alone yours. You didn’t know he’d slip. You didn’t know he’d hit the ice. You didn’t know he’d fall. You didn’t know he’d get hurt . . . and you certainly wouldn’t ever hurt him. It was not your fault. I’m so fucking sorry you’ve been carrying this for so long . . . that—that you were made to believe you did . . . this.”

“But . . . I’m the reason he lost his—”

“No, no, you’re not,” you quickly cut him off. “Nobody could have predicted this would’ve happened. Had it been the other way around, would you blame him?”

Jungkook remained silent but slowly shook his head.

Brows raising in relief, you nodded. “No, because no one is at fault,” you told him quietly. “It was a horrible thing that happened to someone you cared about. Hurt people hurt people . . . and when people are hurt . . . they want to blame others. Doesn’t make it right. Doesn’t make it fair . . . but it does happen.” Looking down, you remembered what you had done to him, too. “I know . . . I know because I did it to you. It was never your fault what happened to me . . . and it wasn’t your fault what happened to Tae.”

His eyes softened at your words. Nobody had ever told him that before, you were sure of it, and that made another tear slip down your cheek. He’d been so alone.

That was why he looked so lost; why he ran; why he locked himself away because he thought he was supposed to be alone.

You wished you could take back all the feuds you had; all the times you’d pushed him away. You wished you could go back to the day in the hospital when he texted you. You wished instead of blocking him and refusing to see him, you had just accepted the food and allowed him to sit down at the edge of your bed. Maybe then things could have been different.

But you couldn’t go back to the past, no matter how much you wanted to.

He was here now, and he was looking at you with those eyes you had grown to care about. Big and brown and searching. He was always searching for anything. And you wanted to give him all the answers. But you knew nothing.

You were a sorry excuse for an adult. You were barely a person. How could you know anything? The truth was: you couldn’t, but you did know one thing . . . you knew him.

His bottom lip quivered as he continued to search your eyes. “I want to believe you, but it hurts so much,” he whispered as if it were a sin.

“I know,” you weakly mumbled.

And suddenly you weren’t thinking anymore. No, instead, you took one last glance at his glossy eyes, and fell into him. You swung a leg over him, adjusting yourself on his lap as your arms wrapped around his shoulders and brought him into an embrace. One of your hands slowly snaked into his long, dark locks, massaging his scalp as you buried your face into the crook of his neck. Jungkook remained shocked, his hands hovering in the air, but you didn’t care. He needed this. You knew him and you knew he needed this just like you had needed it years ago. Instead of pulling back, you continued stroking his hair and rubbing his back all the while you tried to hide the tears slipping down your cheeks and soaking his shirt.

Then . . . something happened.

In the midst of your embrace, Jungkook slowly wrapped his arms around your body, one hand spreading out along your neck while the other caressed your back. He brought you closer to him with one motion, until he was holding you back so tightly you were sure your soul had touched his even for the briefest of seconds.

He quickly buried his face into your neck, while his grip on you never faltered. “It hurts so fucking much . . . and it feels like this all the time,” he choked out through a strained sob. “It hurts. It just fucking hurts, and the alcohol isn’t helping anymore. I don’t know what to do.” His sobs came quicker now as he shook in your embrace, and you couldn’t help but cry for him as well. “I don’t know what to do. Fuck, I’m not OK. I’m not OK.”

“I know,” you whispered against his skin, trying to keep your voice steady. “I know, baby.” You pressed a kiss against his skin. It was innocent. It was sweetness. It was what he needed. “You don’t have to do this on your own anymore. I promise, Koo.”

And all Jungkook could do was nod.

“I’m as stubborn as a mule,” you reiterated, sniffling slightly. “I’m not leaving. OK? I know this—look—” you gently pulled back enough to place your hands on either side of his face. It was just enough to get him to look at you; just enough to let him know you meant every word— “I know how this feels. Hopelessness, worthlessness, anger, hatred. I know it all . . . and I know more than anyone that this is something no one should have to go through alone. I pushed everyone away. OK? When I was at my worst, I made people leave me until I had no one, and I can tell you right now that decision . . . it broke me.” You shook your head, another tear falling. “I don’t want to be broken, and I know you don’t want to be either.”

But his eyes were elsewhere. They were trained on the tear as it trickled down your cheek. “You’re crying,” he all but sobbed as he brought a finger to your cheek, catching the fallen tear. “I don’t—”

“Will you let me?” you found yourself asking, because maybe your tears weren’t selfish. Maybe . . . maybe they weren’t tears of anything other than . . . just tears. “Let me cry . . . for you. Let me carry this with you. I’m not scared of a lot of things, and I’m certainly not scared of this or you.”

His eyes stayed round and wide, still searching. And then . . . then he began to nod, and you couldn’t help but offer him a small smile.

“Good,” you hummed as you attempted to dry your eyes, but Jungkook beat you to it, wiping your cheeks clean of tears with the end of his sweatshirt sleeve. “Now . . . how about I lock the door so that fucker can sleep on the couch, and you and me sleep this shit off, hmm?”

“Can we watch a movie?” he questioned quietly.

You fought a grin. “Can I pick it?”

“Mmm, no.”

“Then, no.”

“Buttercup, don’t break my heart,” he whined, his voice slightly nasally from his now stuffy nose. His eyes were still red-rimmed and you were sure yours were too, but neither of you cared.

Hell, you couldn’t help but give a small laugh. “What are you on about?”

“You’ve never heard that song?”

You quirked a brow.

“Why do you build me up?” he began to sing, purposely doing it off-key (because yes, he had an annoyingly good voice). “Build me up.” His voice changed octaves, and you laughed in response, shaking your head at his antics. That only spurred him on. “Buttercup, baby, just to let me down?” He pointed at you. “Your turn.”

“Kook, I don’t know the words,” you giggled.

“Context clues,” he hummed. “Come on. Why do you build me up, Buttercup, baby, just to—”

“Let me down?” you whispered in a sing-song voice.

“There it is,” he cheered, nodding his head with a wide grin on his face, but the red-rimmed eyes still remained, reminding the both of you of . . . everything.

But that was OK.

You both would be alright.

“I’m supposed to be cheering you up, not the other way around,” you mumbled as you toyed with the longer strands of his dark hair at the nape of his neck.

“I hate seeing you cry,” was all Jungkook said, a small smile still on his face.

A beat of silence.

Then:

“You know . . . “ Jungkook began again.

Your eyes locked on his; this time you were the one searching.

“I really like being your friend,” he mumbled before he tucked his bottom lip under his teeth.

A smile found its way onto your face. It was warm. It was pure. It was what you both needed. “I really like being your friend, too,” you agreed softly.

And perhaps, truly, in some weird, obscure way, the two of you had met again as strangers who became friends. Perhaps this time you would stay friends.

taglist:

@hrts4kook , @taehyungs-chopsticks , @loomipee , @st3ft0n3s , @callmenada , @neg-l3ct , @dawn33 , @illegurlbangtan , @jeonsdetails , @rihabaxl , @yoongipost , @jjk1iscoming , @miumiugurl , @sadgirlroo , @lucwithbangtan , @iamsisuu , @shanelleeex , @beonim , @sherlynxx , @fairy1919 , @purplewhales , @bloopkook , @ggukcanim , @bloodline1632 , @jungkooksseuphoria , @tea4sykes , @mugiwaraelly , @darkuni63 , @jalexad , @lpgirl2324 , @fairy-jaykay , @h0tvillainap0logist , @stuffy16 , @keniicastillo , @yoongukie-ff , @seesawe , @chocolatesublimesoul , @yopjm , @jeonlovescoffee , @xmirvamx , @jk-190811 , @percyjacksonlovesannabethchase , @vminkookgf , @werxyz , @tornparts , @aprilspring , @kswr1d , @jimilter , @02010802 , @sunsetnamjin , @lonekittycat , @moonchild1 , @hanamgi , @yoongslast , @heronstairsxd

#jungkook smut #jungkook x reader #jungkook #jungkook au #jungkook fanfic #jeon jungkook #bts #jungkook series #jungkook scenario #bts smut #bts fic #bts x reader #bts au #kpop #jeon jungkook smut #jeon jungkook x reader #jungkook x y/n #jeon jungkook x y/n #bts jungkook

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melatonin-melanin · 9 months

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jirai kei as a trend and the inherent ableism and racism present within it

if you've been present in any japanese fashion or vtuber spaces for the past few years, chances are you've most likely heard of jirai kei. it's gotten major media attention in japan, and inevitably its popularity has spread overseas. what is still misinterpreted about it, however, is that jirai kei is a fashion style. jirai kei is a stereotype, as well as a subculture that features fashion elements. as opposed to the fashion aspects, the focus of the subculture is mental illness, and many people use the jirai tags and labels to find those with similar struggles and interests. you can learn more about the recent history of jirai kei as a stereotype here, and the fashions associated with jirai kei here.

jirai kei as a stereotype is bad for a multitude of reasons, but there are many people who seem to think that there's nothing wrong with the trend itself. i've seen many arguments in favor of it, ranging from "if brands are using it, that must mean the term isn't that bad" to "plenty of japanese girls are using it to only refer to the fashion, and they don't actually lash out at others or self-harm." its usage by brands and everyday people are true, and that much cannot be argued. the problem comes from assuming that, because it's something widespread in japan, it can't possibly be as bad as people make it out to be. if this trend were to come from anywhere else, i'm almost certain that people would immediately question the morality of it for several reasons. this is going to be a long post, so i hope you have some time.

TW for mentions of self-harm, alcohol and drug abuse, and child sex trafficking below the cut.

a brief rundown of jirai kei's origins

to start, jirai kei's original coinage before the trend has existed since around the 90s. it was used by misogynistic men to refer to women who they believed exhibited signs of emotional instability. this was applied to completely harmless traits, and the criteria for someone being a landmine has drastically changed over the years. for example, the first common identifier was simply "a girl who looks put together." this sexist usage still extends to present times, but now it's often conflated with the current aestheticized definition of the term.

the source of the current iteration of jirai kei

the modern-day jirai kei stereotype comes almost entirely from a gang known as the toyoko kids, who reside in kabukicho. this gang contains many members ranging from ages 9 to 24 who have run away from their homes and families. they have been known for several activities, but the most publicized ones are cutting themselves in public circles, papa katsu (underage prostitution), heavily drinking, and overdosing on over-the-counter medications. majority of the gang members also wear japanese alternative fashions, with girly kei being the fashion that's most often present in the jirai kei stereotype.

where does the ableism come in?

the rise of the aesthetic trend peaked somewhere in 2020, where a "landmine makeup challenge" gained popularity online and resulted in various people attempting to mock and mimic the stereotype for clout. people would wear girly fashion, act "wild" or "crazy" on camera, and, at worst, pretend to cut their wrists or even use makeup to create fake self-harm scars. i don't believe i need to explain why faking self-harm for views is ableist. however, the ableism is also present in the supposed "lighter" aspects of the trend, particularly its sudden association with girly fashion.

during the height of jirai kei's popularity in japan, many brands had begun to sell pink x black girly coordinates, advertising them as jirai kei fashion. it's incredibly important to note that girly as a fashion has existed for several years prior, and that multiple people had already been wearing clothing that's abruptly being labeled jirai. as a result, you have all of these random people minding their business suddenly being labeled as "crazy psycho bitches" because of the clothes that they wear. as if that isn't enough, some brands went as far as to promote the more dangerous aspects of the stereotype as well. with attempts to pander to girls who are deemed "yandere" and "highly explosive," many shops, online influencers, and companies had directly and indirectly capitalized on the suffering of the toyoko kids by encouraging people to cut their wrists, manipulate their partners, binge drink, and lash out at others to engage in the "full landmine experience."

mental illness in japan is almost never taken seriously because it's seen as a personality flaw rather than something that needs treatment. the jirai kei trend only set back any progress made for mental health acknowledgement in society, as people perceived as landmines began to be harassed for wearing girly fashion. more girls were approached by men on the street trying to scout them for prostitution, and people gave away their wardrobe because "others assumed they were troublesome" for wearing it. from another perspective, the anti-recovery nature of the trend has also taken lives. some people who felt that they identified with the term had fully embraced the lifestyle that was commercialized and promoted as something "cute and fun," resulting in more people running away from home to be like the toyoko kids. these people, who have essentially been failed by the system, are simultaneously fetishized and shunned for the fact that they're struggling.

well, what about the racism?

the racism present in the jirai kei trend, from what i've seen, mainly comes from overseas communities. the perception that many people have of jirai kei tends to have its roots in orientalism. if you've ever witnessed how people tend to glorify japan in almost every context, this shouldn't be too surprising. what's concerning, however, is that much of this glorification of jirai still goes unacknowledged by the western j-fashion community.

when jirai kei gained popularity in japan's mainstream, people mistook the name of the stereotype for the name of the fashion. this mindset also translated over to western spaces without a second thought. as a result, when jirai kei as a stereotype was formally introduced to overseas j-fashion communities, some were confused and oddly adamant. it seemed like people thought, "there's no way that japan would endorse something so horrible. there has to be different explanations!" regardless of whether this idea was conscious or subconscious, it had begun what people now call "jirai discourse" in the community. many arguments were made in favor of using jirai kei to refer solely to girly fashion, as opposed to recognizing its origins and continuous usage as a derogatory term. an especially common viewpoint that's perpetuated is that jirai kei has been reclaimed or is in the process of being reclaimed, which is something that has several things wrong with it.

problems with thinking that jirai is "reclaimed, so it's fine to use"

firstly, reclamation is subjective. the assumption that the entirety of a minority group makes the unanimous decision to reclaim a term is frankly just implausible. even more popular words that are thrown around more casually nowadays are still debated in some circles on whether or not they should be used. for a term like jirai kei, something fairly recently coined and undoubtedly controversial in most contexts, the mere idea of reclamation amongst anyone would have to take a much longer time, and that's only if the stereotype starts getting taken seriously.

secondly, the only people who have the right to consider reclamation are the people who are directly affected by the usage of this term, which would be feminine-presenting native japanese people who are mentally ill. people overseas have argued in favor of reclaiming the term despite not being a part of the group that the term is actually used against. this is not something where you can take apart the criteria and suddenly claim that you're also affected by jirai kei's usage. for a comparison that may be easily understood, that's like if a nonblack woman tried to advocate for the reclamation of the "mammy" stereotype, which stereotypes and therefore only affects the perception of black women. just because both groups consist of women, that doesn't mean they have the exact same experience with the stereotype in question, even if they happen to resonate with some aspect of it. unless you've grown up in japan as someone afab and/or feminine-presenting and have struggled with mental health, it's nearly impossible to fully identify with the extent of jirai kei's harm because it's occurred in such a specific set of circumstances to a specific group of people. the only thing that should be done in this case is doing your research on the affected group, which you can do by looking into the history of the toyoko kids and some of the individual stories of the members. that way, you can at least attain a better understanding of their perspectives and connect the effects of jirai kei to their struggles.

lastly, it is not reclaiming to simply use the term for yourself. this tends to be where the idea of jirai kei being reclaimed comes from, because many japanese girls on social media use the term to refer to themselves as well. in these instances, there are typically two separate reasons: one, the person is pretending to be a landmine for clout; or two, they genuinely identify with the derogatory meaning of the term. the latter is often the case, since there's not many other ways for people in japan who are mentally ill to find groups for themselves. when it comes to reclamation, it's important to remember that it's not simply using a word that was used against a group that you're a part of. reclaiming is about actively working to change a term's meaning into a neutral or positive context for the benefit of the group. none of these girls are doing that. there's no big effort in japanese landmine spaces to move the perception of being a landmine away from things like girly kei fashion, idol fan culture, or toxic behaviors, which leads me to the final section of this post.

it is not anyone's job to push for the "reclamation" of jirai kei.

i put reclamation in quotes because, although some genuinely may not have ill intentions, many people come off as having a "white savior" mindset as opposed to actually wanting to reclaim the term in any sense (which, as mentioned before, is not the right of just anyone), and it's usually for the sake of enjoying girly fashion without feeling bad for incorrectly calling it jirai kei. one of the defenses often used to propose that being seen as a landmine can actually be a good thing is that the people who do self-harm and abuse substances are simply "bad apples" in the landmine community. if they're not treated as the dirty underside, then they're seen as things to be pitied and sympathized with, but with the quick disclaimer of "don't worry though, not all landmines are like this!"

not only is this incredibly ableist, but this assumption being made by mainly white influencers is also rooted in the historical development of racism against asian people, particularly in the united states. if you've heard of the model minority myth, one of the biggest issues with it is that it heavily generalizes asian people as being well-mannered, good-natured, and upstanding citizens. as a result, anyone who seems to fall out of this generalization is deemed an "untrustworthy foreigner" and appears as nonexistent through a romanticized lens. this exact situation can be applied to how people tend to treat the issues surrounding the jirai kei trend. the japanese girls who are faking and/or making fun of mental instability for the sake of online popularity are suddenly being glorified as these ideal representations of jirai kei to be palatable to the western world. meanwhile, the people who are considered by many to be part of the lowest rungs of society and are actually getting this term thrown at them pejoratively are treated as an afterthought and not representative of what people overseas want jirai kei to mean. it's even to the extent where native japanese people using girly kei or being uncomfortable with jirai kei are immediately assumed to be faking their ethnicity or their japanese-speaking skills, something that many foreigners have actually done in an attempt to claim authority over jirai kei's usage. since the reality of the trend is so uncomfortable to many, people think that it's best to simply disregard it or dumb down its impact when that changes nothing. what has avoiding the topic of discrimination and fetishization ever done for anyone?

the last thing i want to point out is that, even if reclamation of the term was in progress, it would not be happening the way that some seem to think it is. if the term was being reclaimed, we would not have people (both overseas and in japan) still acting like the stereotype for tons of likes, namely by taking pictures of themselves in girly kei next to cans of pink monster while sitting on the sidewalk with someone handing them money. that is an actual image i've seen, and if that doesn't tell you that there's a problem, i'm not sure what else will.

#rise and shine #jfashion #japanese fashion #jirai kei #jirai onna #girly kei #alt fashion #alternative fashion

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madjosie · 2 months

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Thorns and Roses | Bangchan (pt.2)

f!reader x detective!bangchan

part one here

Note: mentions of drug and alcohol abuse, mentions of abuse, use of tobacco, detailed scenes of murder, mental illness

Words: 9k

Five days had passed. Nothing.

A pair of brown orbs eyed the tiny black purse that had been sitting on his kitchen counter for the past few days. The comfortable sofa swallowed his body, feet kicked up on the glass coffee table, as his finger hovered over the call button for the almost tenth time that day.

He was sure it was his fault. His fault for bringing her parents up. His fault for being noisy and trying to butt his nose into something that didn’t concern him. His fault for making her relive the traumatizing events.

He sighed heavily, his gaze fixed on the small purse as guilt gnawed at him. Each passing day without hearing from Adriana deepened his concern. Chris replayed their conversation over and over in his mind, wondering if he had pushed too hard, crossed an invisible line that he shouldn’t have. His intentions were to understand her better, to connect on a deeper level, but now he feared he might have driven her insane instead.

His usually warm apartment now felt eerie. The distant sound of cars outside and the soft hum of the refrigerator were the only company to his thoughts.

He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to focus on the way his body pressed into the soft cushions or the repeating sounds of car engines roaring under his window. His hand dropped the phone he was holding and, with a quick move, he dropped his feet from the coffee table. Snatching the purse and slipping on his shoes, he made his way out of the apartment and into the surprisingly warm street. His feet moved on their own. He wasn’t even fully conscious of where he was going, but he was sure he was heading in the right direction.

The moment his hand made contact with the cold, curved handle and the familiar bell signaled his presence, his mind regained consciousness.

“Good morning, welcome to Petal Paradise,” a cheerful, high-pitched voice spoke from the back room of the shop. “Just a minute, please.”

The usual jazz-like melody of her voice seemed to disappear, despite it being cheerful as always when she greeted someone. Chris waited, the scent of fresh flowers filling his nostrils. Their vibrant colors were a stark contrast to the dull ache in his chest. He looked around, taking in the arrangements of roses, lilies, and daisies that decorated the small shop. His free hand clutched the small purse while the other found its way to tap repeatedly on the wood of the front counter.

He couldn’t make out the sounds coming from the back of the workshop; the faint melody from the radio was too distracting for his racing mind. One second he focused on the soft hum of the music, and the next he was replaying snippets of their last conversation. He tried to push away the nagging thought that maybe he should just leave, that perhaps he was only making things worse by being here. He could just leave the purse on the counter and get out.

“Oh, Christopher, was it?”

The once faint voice in the distance was now much clearer as the auburn-haired girl made her appearance on the other side of the counter.

“Lila?” The tone of his voice was mixed with both surprise and relief. “What are you doing here?”

“I took a couple of shifts for Adriana. I suppose you’re looking for her?”

“Do you know where she is?”

The short girl spoke as she untied the knot of her glue-stained apron and set it aside on the counter. “She wasn’t feeling well, so she took a couple of days off. She’s probably at her apartment, lying sick in bed.”

Chris just nodded at the answer, not really knowing how to proceed with the conversation. Could it be that he had messed her up so badly that she couldn’t even bring herself to be at the shop, the shop she considered a second home? Chris’s hands gripped the bag a bit tighter, clearly catching Lila’s attention. “Is that hers?” All he did was nod to answer her.

“I can take that for her.” Her hand reached for the bag, but with a swift move, Chris’s hand moved the bag behind his back, an awkward expression plastered on his face. Lila’s lips broke into a laugh.

“Oh, okay, I get it.” She giggled.

His face was still filled with confusion as the girl in front of him laughed. He couldn’t quite understand why he did that, but the girl in front of him seemed to be piecing some things together.

“Go down the street, take a right turn, and you will see a big blue complex. Fifth floor.”

“Oh, I’m not—”

Her hands grabbed the man’s forearms, turning him to face the door he came from. “Yeah, yeah. Just go give her some company. I’m sure she’ll be more glad to see you than me.”

She gave him a gentle push toward the door as his head turned to look at her. She just sent him a wink, and with that, his face was hit with a ray of warm air. His feet moved on their own once more as he walked down the street, trying to take as slow steps as possible, trying to postpone facing his own problems—problems that could have been so easily avoided.

Wouldn’t it be weird if he just showed up at her apartment? What if he finally got that deserved slap that had been pending for the past five days? Actually, if that was the case, Lila wouldn’t have directed him to her. Well, maybe she didn’t even tell her about that night. There was something off about Lila today. She was probably just concerned for her friend.

Chris’s thoughts flew away as his steps seemed to quicken, and soon his gaze stopped at the blue apartment complex. He wished the building would just collapse before him, or maybe that the lift he entered would just stop working and trap him in for eternity. Better yet, if it just fell and turned into a crime scene.

This was probably the right time to turn around and leave.

He felt beads of sweat form on his forehead as the hand that knocked on the door settled at his side while the other gripped the velvety fabric of the bag. The bag that was the reason for all of this happening. Sounds of keys jingling could be heard from the other side; the doorknob turned, and the door creaked open, revealing a pair of tired, widened eyes.

She froze at the sight of him, not even thinking of a word to say, simply stunned by the face she least expected to see at her front door. He didn’t say a word either, gaze staying fixated on her tired eyes, decorated with dark bags. He seemed to be in shock that he was there at her door, just as she seemed to be shocked that he was there.

He licked his lips, trying to shift his eyes anywhere but to hers. They jumped from the light wood door to the peephole, and then lastly to his own shoes. It was painful to see her once sparkling eyes lose all their light and be replaced by redness; it made his heart swell and pick up its pace.

As he kept his head down, she noticed the thing he was holding in his hand. She forgot all about that goddamn bag, the only memory from that night being the piercing pain she felt and the sensation of the branches hitting her as she ran. Ran away from the man who now stood before her.

Two times in one night, that voice had taken control of her. Two times in one night, she had lashed out in front of the people she felt comfortable letting her walls down with. She didn’t know where it came from, and she didn’t know what caused it, but it was far more powerful than her.

She hadn’t had the chance to apologize to Lila yet, but the girl hadn’t put pressure on her, giving her a few calls here and there to see if she needed anything. Maybe in some situations, Lila’s obliviousness and trust in Adriana came in handy. But for sure, pulling out a knife in someone’s apartment would send them over the edge and break all contact with the person—hell, maybe even call the police. Lila knew she had to give her best friend space, but the lack of confrontation made Adriana want to rip her own hair out, strand by strand.

It was eating her up inside, bit by bit; she felt like she was losing control of herself.

Adriana took a step back from the entrance of her apartment, opening the door a bit more to make way for the dark-haired man. He finally looked up at her, taking a step inside as she closed the door behind him.

“I’ll set this here for you,” his voice was awfully quiet as he spoke. One more reason to make the guilt wash over her once again.

“Chris,” her voice was just as quiet as his as she called out his name. She didn’t have a sentence made up in her mind before she decided to speak, but she knew she somehow had to break the ice. She didn’t even know what she would say even if she had one made up. It didn’t feel right to tell him about the storm in her mind. Something in her just made her feel that could lead to the possible destruction of their already weak relationship. Were they even considered friends at this point? He knew about her family, her mother, her misery, and she knew about his choices in life, his dread of them, and his confusion about where life was leading him. Knowing that much about someone would surely qualify them as a friend, right?

Both of their movements were slow, as if they were both trying not to make the other one run away. They faced each other as they stood in the middle of the small apartment. The apartment was already suffocating on it's own, but now by the presence of Chris, it felt like a coffin.

“Listen, I don’t know what came over me—” Her voice was even quieter this time, but it got cut short by the feeling of her body being pressed up against his. His arms wrapped around her smaller frame, almost like guarding her, protecting her from every single bad thing in this world. She tried to muffle out another word, but his embrace only got tighter. The feeling of his arms strongly gripping her sent an unusual sensation through her senses, making her almost forget all about the past couple of days. It was a strange sense of comfort, one she hadn’t felt in what seemed like an eternity, but also one that seemed to linger in the air every time she was in his presence. His scent made her close her eyes, taking a deep breath as she slowly rested her head against him.

It was to no use to resist the urges this time; they were much stronger than her. Her arms found their way around his waist, connecting at his lower back as her body pushed further into his embrace.

He felt like a series of fireworks exploded in him as he felt her arms wrap around him. It was like he had waited for this kind of moment ever since he sat down next to her on that emerald couch that was definitely not made for two. The voice in his head calculating all of the possibilities this irrational decision could have gone wrong quieted down by the feeling of their bodies pressed together.

He knew he wasn’t good with words, and by saying anything more he could probably reignite the fire that was slowly extinguishing itself away, but he still spoke up. “I’m sorry for bringing it up.”

The sentence made Adriana’s breath stop for a second. Such a simple series of words made a couple of wires connect in her head. She pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him. It was a fight between her and herself again. Either she tells him the truth this time or she lets it bubble up in her system and leaves him to carry the burden of their issues alone.

“You don’t get it, Chris.”

“I got too curious about you. I knew I shouldn’t have asked so many questions, and I didn’t know you’d react like that.”

She disconnected from his embrace, their bodies still close, and their gazes stayed glued to each other.

“I’m so sorry if you felt scared of me at that moment—”

“I heard a voice.”

To her surprise, the soft look in his eyes didn’t change; they still looked at her with the same warmth. It was like they hypnotized her. He stood there quietly, waiting for her to continue.

Adriana licked her lips as her eyes darted from left to right in a second before they set themselves back on Christopher.

“It screamed at me. It screamed at me to run away from you. I—I didn’t have control over my body…” Her voice started to tremble. Chris felt a chill run down his spine. “Has that ever happened before?”

She shook her head, trying to find the right words. None of them felt good enough to explain this situation. He was sure going to storm out of the apartment, paint her as a weirdo or psychopath, hell, maybe even pull out a pair of handcuffs and arrest her then and there.

“That same night, I was at Lila’s apartment. It told me to get up and go to the kitchen. She—she found me with a knife in my hands. I couldn’t even remember getting there.”

There it was, the end of whatever this could have been.

She closed her eyes, waiting for a storm of words to escape from his mouth, or the sound of the door shutting, but, nothing.

His arms reached for her once more, embracing her into another hug. This time, she could feel how his heart beat against his chest, her quickened heartbeat slowing down to match his.

He isn’t leaving.

She let herself slip into the temptation once more, letting his hands wrap around her whole body. His hand made its way to her head, his fingers finding themselves getting lost in her hair.

Why isn’t he leaving?

He closed the frosted glass door behind him as his footsteps echoed through the halls of the department. After dropping off some case documents, his shift finally came to an end. For the past week, he had been assigned more and more cases, and to Hank’s surprise, they were all going pretty well. Changbin couldn’t help but feel so proud of his friend; he seemed to be more excited about Chris’s achievements than Chris himself, which led them to plan a celebration for tonight. Well, nothing fancy—just a club and a few drinks. Maybe Changbin was just trying to find an excuse to get drunk on a weekday and found his chance.

Chris made his way into the office area, found his desk, and let his body fall into the chair. He let out a sigh, eyeing the decorations in his little space, or rather the lack of them. It was almost the same as when he first joined the department, the only pop of color being a fake plant that his mom sent him, knowing he couldn’t keep a real one alive, and a bunch of yellow sticky notes glued to the edges of the monitor. They all had his messy handwriting on them—his failed attempts to make connections between murders that happened some time ago, and some filled with his own bored thoughts. That used to be one of the ways he passed time until he actually started getting assigned to do the job he signed up for. A smile found its way to Chris’s lips. He finally had that feeling of belonging he had searched for so long.

“Waiting for Changbin?” Hyunjin made his way to Chris’s desk, alerting the brown-haired boy. He mumbled in affirmation before his gaze shifted to something that the man before him was holding.

“Hank forgot to give you this,” Hyunjin lifted up his hand to show him a USB stick before setting it down on the desk in front of him. “He said you should look over it when you find the time.”

“What case is this for?”

Hyunjin just shrugged his shoulders, running his hand through his long hair. “No clue.”

Chris took the USB, slipping it into the pocket of his jacket as he put it on. “I’ll take a look tomorrow.”

With a silent nod, Hyunjin made his way out of the double glass doors at the entrance. He seemed to be working extra hard for quite some time now; it was hard not to notice that. The dark eye bags decorating his eyes were like a souvenir from every late shift he did. As Hyunjin was making his way out, he bumped into Changbin, giving him a pat on the shoulder and probably a goodbye before they parted ways. Changbin noticed Chris sitting at his desk and, flashing him a smile, picked up his pace to soon be pulling Chris out of his office chair.

“Someone is eager to drink today,” Chris joked as Changbin kept pulling him out of the office area, making their way out of the building.

“I think someone is not eager enough.”

The pair made their way to Chris’s car, a roar from the engine echoing through the underground garage. “I’ll drop my car off at home, then we’ll go, alright?”

The big neon sign lit up the street as a swarm of people gathered at the entrance of the local club. It was usually busy on Fridays like this, but this time the line of people queueing to get in was much longer than usual. The three friends exited the taxi, Changbin being a gentleman by opening the door for his girlfriend, while Chan tried not to make a joke about his action. Even though the two colleagues had planned to go drinking alone, Changbin couldn’t help but ask Chris to bring his girlfriend to celebrate with them as well. Chris didn’t mind, but he knew he was going to be a third wheel at some point during the night. As they queued up with the rest of the people, his phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Is that you over there, in the black button-up?”

“Oh wait, I see you.” The man held up his hand to wave at the girl. They ended the call as she made her way over to them. She tried to be as fast as she could, but the heels she wore only gave her the possibility of ending up in a hospital because of a broken ankle, so she took her steps slow.

He couldn’t see her properly from a distance at first, but as she got closer, his mouth dropped open at the sight. The tight black dress she wore hugged her waist perfectly, showing the curves of her hips. The heels she wore defined her legs, making her almost the same height as him. He felt his throat tighten and his mind go blurry. It was like he was seeing her for the first time in his life. Well, it was the first time seeing her dolled up like this. Realizing his trailing thoughts, he shifted his eyes to her face, quickly changing his expression to flash her a friendly smile. The smile she returned almost made him drop onto the concrete below him.

“Hi, I’m Elena,” Changbin’s girlfriend didn’t waste a second to reach out her hand to greet the new girl. She flashed her a big smile as Adriana shook her hand, “Adriana.”

Elena was always cheerful and clearly longed for some female connection. She didn’t have problems meeting new people, which resulted in her having a wide circle of friends. Adriana, on the other hand, seemed a bit more reserved but returned Elena’s enthusiasm with a warm smile. “Chan didn’t tell us that he had a girlfriend.”

“She’s just a friend,” he quickly chimed in, trying not to make another one of their interactions embarrassing again. Their relationship had finally stabilized, and they could both proudly say they considered each other friends now.

After the long conversation that day, Chris, to Adriana’s surprise, stayed with her the whole afternoon. It felt weird for him not to lash out at her or label her as crazy. She didn’t think anyone would let the story of her pulling out a knife just fly over their heads and still find compassion for her. But he did; he listened to her, comforting her when needed. His only answer to all of her talking was that it was probably a reaction to something. A reaction from her past traumas perhaps. But there was one thing he was sure of: she wouldn’t hurt anyone.

It was her biggest fear. If she couldn’t remember getting into that state, it killed her inside to think she could potentially do something irrational and hurt someone. She expressed that possibility to him, but he was quick to eliminate those thoughts from her head.

One thing she feared the most out of all was that maybe he saw her as way too good, better than she actually might be.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Elena broke out in a laugh, but the atmosphere didn’t get awkward, probably because Adriana returned the laugh at her remark.

Chris couldn’t help but notice the quietness of Changbin. He looked over at the man, who only had a weird smile plastered on his face. That kind of smile was rare for Changbin; it seemed almost forced. There was no way he was mad Chris invited someone unannounced, not after he literally asked to invite his girlfriend to a plan they had agreed would be just between the two of them.

“The line is really long,” Adriana exclaimed, looking behind them to a new line of people, all dressed in short dresses and fancy flannels. “Ugh, by the time we get in, these heels are gonna kill me,” the shorter girl replied before the two shared a laugh.

“If they even let us in.”

“Right, it will for sure get packed before we get to the bouncer.”

“Also, did you like the flowers Changbin got you?”

“Which-” She took a minute to think before another smile escaped her. “Oh my god, you were the one who made it, he told me about it.”

Adriana couldn’t help but smile at the reaction from the girl. “My friend actually made the bouquet, all credit goes to her.”

As the two girls fell into small talk, Chris moved behind them to stand next to Changbin, giving him a nudge with his elbow. “What’s wrong?”

The shorter boy’s head turned to look at the taller one. He shot a quick glance at the two in front, figuring they were deep into their own conversation, then leaned in closer to Chris. “What is she doing here?”

Chris was not expecting that kind of answer. At all.

“What the hell do you mean? I invited her.” His brows furrowed, his tone becoming a bit more stern as the words left his mouth.

“Without telling me beforehand?”

Chris’s hands now found their way to his hips, his tongue tracing the inside of his mouth as he tried to compose himself and not make a scene in front of a whole group of strangers.

“You inviting Elena is fine, but me inviting someone, oh, suddenly is not okay?” Chris practically spat his words out. “It’s not about you inviting someone,” Changbin argued back.

“Then what the fuck is it?” Chris hissed out quietly, feeling his temper boil over. He knew Changbin wasn’t very fond of Adriana. It seemed he had been connecting some dots from the cases to her, but every time Chris tried to talk to him about it, he suddenly forgot everything. He didn’t tell him anything about her outbursts either, rightfully so. Adriana had told him to keep it between the two of them, and he was in no position to let her down.

“I don’t think we should be associating with her,” Changbin started, but Chris was quick to cut him off. “Listen. Whatever fantasy you’ve got going on about her in your head, she’s not like that. Don’t you trust me?”

Changbin muttered a low curse under his breath at his friend’s words, but in the end, he sighed. “Fine, whatever.”

The two girls at the front had seemingly stopped their chat and were now looking at the men behind them. They didn’t hear much of the conversation, but hearing some commotion, they couldn’t help but to try and eavesdrop. Chris and Bin shared an awkward laugh while looking at the girls, who were quick to turn back around and continue their talk.

The line seemed to get longer and longer as they made their way closer to the bouncer. Adriana tried to strike up a conversation a couple of times with Changbin, but to no avail. He mostly answered her with very short remarks, sometimes even acting like he didn’t hear her. Adriana couldn’t deny that the way he was acting was turning a few wheels inside her head, but she wasn’t going to bug her mind about it too much and potentially ruin her mood for the whole night. Giving up, she let the three of them chat while she mindlessly scrolled through her phone.

All of a sudden, she felt a hand on her lower back. In usual cases, she would probably freak at that sensation, but now she had grown quite accustomed to it. Trying to hide her smile, she kept her head looking down at her phone in an attempt to avoid looking at the man. “Yes, Chris?”

He leaned into her ear, keeping his hand gently at her lower back. “You look very pretty.”

Not bothering to hide the shy smile anymore, she finally let it out. Blood quickly rushed to her cheeks, completely blowing her cover. The scent of his cologne didn’t help her either. It was a new one, his usual scent now replaced with a mix of wood, vanilla, and tobacco. Adriana had to admit his usual scent brought her peace for some reason, it felt comforting, but now it was like she was seeing him in a whole new light. It wasn’t just the cologne; the velvety button-up he wore hugged his shoulders just right, and the few buttons left undone at his chest made her thoughts fly away to places they hadn’t been before.

“You don’t look too bad yourself.” Yeah, he didn’t look too bad. He looked ethereal.

Chris, on the other hand, tried to bite his tongue the best he could. He did notice how her lips curved upwards and how her cheeks suddenly changed color, but most importantly, he noticed how she tried to hide it all. Some form of excitement started bubbling up in the pit of his stomach from the interaction. It seemed like the most basic conversation, just two friends complimenting each other, but he couldn’t help but feel like a little high school boy talking to his crush.

Was that what it was?

Could it really be that he had developed some other feelings for her rather than just platonic love and compassion? There was no way; they didn’t even know each other for that long.

In usual settings, Chris would blame this kind of thinking on alcohol. It usually brought out the side of him that longed for physical and emotional connection, but he hadn’t even had a sip yet.

The music was very loud, and the repeated flashing of lights made their movements look like they were in slow motion. Drunk people occupied any free space to move their bodies to the rhythm, while couples found themselves on couches and probably in bathrooms. Despite the long line of people, the four of them managed to find a free spot in the VIP booth, likely thanks to Changbin’s help. It was a small, half-circular row of couches on the bottom floor of the club, accompanied by a glass table in front of each couch. By the looks of it, there were more high-end booths on the upper floors. The dance floor was only a couple of steps away, and most importantly, the bar wasn’t far either. Right after occupying their space, the two men wasted no time bringing over the first round of drinks, whiskey and coke.

“Cheers,” the short boy yelled as the sound of glass clinking could barely be heard over the music. Adriana and Chris both drank their beverages halfway, while the two lovebirds roughly set down their completely empty glasses.

“I see why you two are together,” Adriana joked, and Elena burst into laughter at the remark. Changbin seemed to smile at Adriana’s words, which, to be honest, shocked both Chris and Adriana. With a quick bolt to the bar, Changbin returned in a second with another round of the same alcohol.

“So, you two—” Elena started, taking a small sip before continuing, “How did you meet?”

“Well…” Adriana began while she slowly set her drink on the table, a mischievous smile starting to creep up on her lips. Chris’s eyes, watching her, widened at her words. He knew which of their encounters she was going to choose, and he slowly shook his head at her in defense.

“I was walking to my shop at like 3 AM, and all of a sudden, I heard someone groan from above me.”

Chris was quick to shoot up in his defense, “I wasn’t groaning; I was wincing in pain.”

“Mhm, okay. Anyways, I looked up and saw some creepy shirtless dude on a balcony.”

“I wasn’t creepy,” Chris interjected.

“You looked creepy under that lighting, or rather because of the lack of it.”

They all cracked up in a chuckle before the other girl spoke up, “Well, in her defense, most men are creepy at night.” Changbin, at her words, shot her a pair of puppy eyes, blinking a few times as she laughed at his action, “Not you, Bin, you’re always creepy.” They all shared a laugh once again.

“No, but seriously. I had a guy from work follow me one night.” Changbin tensed up at the mention of the topic but let her continue. “I literally had to run into a convenience store and talk with the cashier for like twenty minutes for him to get lost somewhere.”

“Did you get home alright?” Adriana chimed in, clearly invested in what Elena was saying, and so was Chris. Changbin seemed like the only one well-introduced to the story. Elena nodded at Adriana’s question, “I got home fine, but I still had some problems at work.”

Chris was quick to speak up, “Please tell me that you reported him.”

“I did, but HR did nothing useful, so I changed job locations. That’s how I got here.”

Even though the topic they were discussing was quite heavy, the setting of the place they were at didn’t let the conversation get too unsettling. Elena was completely fine about sharing her story, and by the way she talked, it seemed like she had gotten over it. It was lighthearted—lighthearted to everyone but Adriana.

Help her.

The familiar ping in her head suddenly came back, although her vision didn’t get blurry this time. Instead, her eyes focused on the drinks on the glass table in front of her. She was clearly zoned out.

She could have ended up like you.

Give her justice.

There it was again. The sudden feeling of doom washed over her as the music that was once the main focus faded away. It was just her and this voice. She wouldn’t let it act out this time. She wouldn’t let it control her. They were just some thoughts anyways, right? If she was aware it was talking to her, she could discard it and maintain consciousness over her body.

Kill him like the rest.

But it was so hard, so tempting. It felt reasonable. It felt right to her at the moment.

No. How could killing anyone be right? And who was the rest?

It’s your job.

To do what? What is the job? Why was it so tempting? Why did it feel familiar?

The rose is with you.

“Adriana?”

The music was back, and the table in front of her came back into sight.

“Hm?”

It was Chris calling her this time, “You okay?” She blinked a couple of times, trying to get used to the quick changing of the lights. Even though he was asking her a normal question, his eyes seemed to be full of something: worry.

It took her a couple of seconds to ground herself again, to be aware of her surroundings.

“Is it…?” His hand was now on her forearm, holding her strongly but not enough to hurt her. She just nodded, her eyes noticing the empty spots on the once-occupied space, “Where did they go?”

“They’re dancing. You’ve been zoned out for quite a bit.”

She took a deep breath before abruptly standing up from the maroon couch and turning to look over at Chris. She took a moment to look at him while his eyes curiously looked up at her, eyebrows raised.

“Let’s go drink.”

Half the night passed in what felt like a minute, and the pair couldn’t feel any better. The four of them clinked what was probably the twelfth or thirteenth drink of the night, maybe a little more. The droopy eyes on everyone indicated that the alcohol had done its magic, seemingly washing away all their memories from the start of the night. Hence, the four found themselves dancing together near the bar, their movements syncing with the rhythm of some remixed pop song playing from the speakers.

Changbin and Elena were in their own little world, the mix of the music and alcohol making them feel like they were the only ones in the club. Their bodies moved together, seemingly forgetting about the other two friends they came with, but in their defense, they didn’t care.

Adriana clung to the new drink she got from the bartender, while her free hand found its way to Chris’s shoulder. With a drunken smile, she leaned up to the man in front of her, inching closer to his ear. “Too much PDA in this place,” she slurred out.

“Right,” he returned the same drunken smile as their bodies swayed to the rhythm. “Finish that,” he pointed with his gaze to the new drink she was holding before chugging the rest of his glass. Hand on her waist, he held onto her as he leaned to set down the now empty drink on the counter of the bar, and she followed his action shortly after him.

Her eyebrow raised at him while he took her hand, pulling her in front of him. They pushed through the crowd of people, all moving in their own styles, some not caring about the beat and some just plainly sucking on each other’s faces with no shame. Would sober Adriana find it a bit disgusting? Probably. Did she care at this given moment? Absolutely not. The only thing she cared about was the warmth radiating from the body behind her as it guided her further into the swarm of people. The music quickly changed to another track, and the lights started to flash faster.

Her body suddenly got spun around as his hands stayed holding hers. “Don’t be shy.” He chuckled to her, his body starting to follow the new rhythm. “I should be saying that to you.”

The corners of his eyes creased as he smiled at her. They were both quick to fall into the music, letting control over their bodies go completely free. As much as Chris wanted to, he tried his best to keep a respectful distance from her, but the number of people letting their bodies loose just like them was overwhelming and obviously limited the space he could give her.

Adriana, on the other hand, did not care about a thing. The only thought in her mind was how her arms moved around her, and her body swung to the song. They both soon fell into their own world, much like the pair they came with, who were now out of sight and maybe even out of the club.

Even though he was moving at his own pace, his eyes stayed glued to the girl in front of him, watching her every move. How her dress slid up higher as her hips swung, and how her hair covered her features every now and then. He was aware the alcohol was working, and the only thing he wanted was to be closer to her. He wanted to guide her hips, brush the hair out of her face, feel her moving against him.

After a long moment of dancing, and Chris trying his best not to give in to his urges to press his body against hers, the song changed to a slower, more sensual one. Their movements slowed down, and the lights went back to making the effect of everything going in slow motion. She turned to face him fully, taking his hand and spinning herself around. They both shared a chuckle, their hands refusing to let go of each other. She found herself leaning over to his ear again, and this time, the scent of her perfume mixed with alcohol made him lose it all. “Don’t be shy,” she mocked, and at that same second, both of his hands gripped her waist tightly, making her move to the rhythm he set. In response, he sent her a cocky smile, setting his eyes on hers.

The control she barely had left over her body quickly slipped away, her focus shifting from her moves to his facial features. When the light flashed, it highlighted his lips and how they stayed curved at the ends. At that moment, he felt like the only person on earth to her. The only one who could make her feel right. The only one who could make the nagging feeling of doom leave her mind for even just a second.

She finally felt it was the right moment to let herself fall freely into feeling, to let her guard down, to trust again. After all, he was the one who had peeled the walls down without making her feel threatened.

The song continued, and their bodies inched closer and closer to each other. He was still leading the rhythm, guiding her hips with his hands. Her own hands found their way around his neck, gripping at the hem of his button-up. She shifted her gaze from the buttons left undone up to his collarbones. Noticing her eyes wandering, his Adam's apple jumped as his heart beat quickened, much like the song in the background. He feared he couldn’t hold his urges in anymore; he had already crossed one line by pulling her so close to him. But as her eyes finally settled on his lips, he finally broke under the pressure.

The atmosphere between the two thickened as he cupped her face with one hand, the other settling their movements down. Her eyes closed as he inched closer every second. Closing his eyes, he let himself fully fall into the feeling, pressing his lips onto hers. It took a couple of seconds for her to react, but soon their lips moved in sync. To both of them, it felt like a huge weight had been lifted off their shoulders, like they had finally cut the tension that had been building up for so long. It was as if the alcohol they had consumed during the night wasn’t enough anymore, like they needed something stronger—like they needed each other.

The door to Christopher’s apartment shut loudly, but neither of them cared even a bit. The only important feeling to them both right now was how they embraced each other, how the heat between them started getting unbearable, and how their soft lips pressed together as if they were made for one another. She quickly tried to get out of her heels, shoving them away with her foot, not caring where they ended up. He cupped her face with his hands as she set down the black purse on a small cabinet near the front door, and in no time, her fingertips found their way to the buttons of his shirt. Their lips moved effortlessly, but the eagerness still lingered in the air. They had both waited for this moment what felt like forever, and now that it finally came, it was like someone glued them together for eternity. Adriana’s fingers slid down the hem of his button-up, passing the few open buttons and finally stopping at the buttoned one. His fingers glided against her rosy cheeks, feeling every bump and crevice in her skin as they moved down to her jaw.

For the whole way to his apartment, their hands hadn’t left each other. Either she was hooked onto his arm, or his hands held her tightly around her waist; they couldn’t bear not to feel each other’s presence. It was like the first kiss released some sort of drug, a drug that made them addicted to the taste. Her fingers finally undid the button she had been fiddling with for some time. Her hands slid on the bare skin of his chest, and his only reaction was to place one hand from her cheek to the back of her head, deepening the kiss as much as he could. That action only made her want to explore his body even more, but as soon as her hands went further, he broke the kiss. Their faces were close, breath heavy as the atmosphere in the room lay thick. His eyes still looked at her, laced with love, but hers had a different kind of spark. Her pupils were barely visible under the lack of light, but the outside street lamp lit up her face enough for him to discern what she was feeling: lust.

“Not tonight,” his sudden soft voice spoke, finally breaking the awful quietness in the apartment. It seemed like not even cars made noise outside anymore. Her eyebrows raised at his words, her body slowly starting to detach from him, but he was quick to pull her right back in by the waist. “Let’s take it slow,” his voice was still barely above a whisper, a small smile creeping up on his lips as he looked down at her. It was a sight to see. He could never have imagined she would be there in his apartment, embraced by his arms and looking up at him with those doe eyes. Maybe he needed to pinch himself to see if he was dreaming.

“And why is that?” A small smirk found its way to her lips as her arms slid around his neck. Her gaze shifted to his hair just as her fingers did, relocating the strands to her liking.

He shrugged. “It’s different this time.”

“How was it before?”

He slowly shook his head, eyes tracing every feature on her face as if he were trying to engrave it in his memory. His lips fully curved into a smile this time. “Not, not like this.” The tone he spoke with seemed quite shy, and it wasn’t hard to figure out why.

Chris did have some failed attempts at love, but deciding to focus on his career, he decided to drop it altogether. He felt like it wasn’t really his calling; the furthest he would go would be a kiss or two, and the girl would nine times out of ten completely drop him. To be honest, he rarely felt anything much for them. He figured over time he was forcing himself into it, probably to fill some kind of void he was not aware of yet, but this time it was so different. This time he actually felt something for someone, and it was quite scary. He did admit to himself he probably did chicken out a little, but it was for the better.

“Okay then,” she returned a smile before nodding, “I’ll follow your pace.”

She could have figured why he was like this. As soon as she touched him further, his body tensed up after being so relaxed for the whole night, and the little stutter he developed confirmed it all. She felt like she might have been a little too eager with everything. It had been a while since she felt this open to an act like that with someone. It was so refreshing, but it’s better not to rush into anything; who knows, maybe her traumas would resurface and ruin the moment.

“That doesn’t mean I can’t kiss you like this.” Her short trail of thoughts got cut off by him returning his hands to cup her face, pulling her in tightly to press his lips onto hers once more, this time softer and with more emotion. It was a quick, sweet kiss, but oh, did it make her legs feel like they didn’t exist anymore. She burst into a giggle as their lips parted, hitting him softly on the shoulder.

“Ow.” He pouted, rubbing the place where her hand hit him. “What was that for?” he joked, the tone still quiet. To his surprise, she didn’t answer, though. She just stood there in front of him, a dumb smile plastered on her face as her eyes never left his for even a second.

The pair found themselves on the soft couch in his apartment, their uncomfortable clothes long gone and replaced with sweatpants and plain t-shirts. His outfit looked a bit big on her, but to him, it just made her look cuter.

“Did you see anything off about Changbin tonight?” the girl asked while her fingers played with the strings of her pants.

“Not really.” He knew what she was hinting at, but he’d rather not get into that conversation right now. It didn’t feel right not telling her, but he was sure it would be worse if he did.

She hummed, nodding her head while her fingers stayed busy with the strings. An awkward silence filled the room for a while, but it was suddenly cut by a phone ringtone.

“Yours?” He quickly bolted to the counter where her purse was situated before she could even register that it was her phone ringing. With a quick move, he unzipped the familiar bag and reached to grab the ringing phone. She made her way over to him as he handed her the phone, but as he did, small purple pieces of what seemed like fabric decorated the floor beneath them.

“It’s Lila, hold on,” she said as she swiped the green button and made her way to the other side of the apartment. Chris stood looking at the ground, the color of what fell barely visible, but it turned a few wheels in his head. He kneeled down to pick up whatever he had made fall from her bag, but as his fingers twirled the pieces, he realized something. It was those rose petals again, the ones that, in a way, connected them, but the ones that existed because of her mother. She probably carried those around in memory of her, so he picked up each petal carefully and set them back in her bag.

Footsteps were heard behind him as he set the last petal down in the bag. “She called to see if I got home safely.” Her eyes fell on the last petal that took its place in her bag.

“I’m sorry, they fell out,” he said apologetically, but in return, he got a quite confused response.

“I didn’t even know those were there.”

He mumbled 'good morning's' as he passed through the rows of desks and his coworkers occupying them. The burning sensation in his right hand didn’t matter at the moment; only the hope that the coffee would finally start working it's magic. The weekend had passed in what felt like a second, and the only thing he did was hang out with Adriana. All the work he said he was going to do was left undone, and all the promises to go to sleep earlier were unkept. It was his own fault, though; Adriana had cursed him out multiple times to take some time for himself and get ready for the new weekday, but Chris was a tough cookie to crack. Now that he had finally let himself free, he couldn’t bear to be apart from her. He kept himself in check to not go overboard with anything; it's not like they were official yet, but he just couldn’t keep himself from her. All of a sudden, his curiosity about her had doubled, and with that, his focus on work had lessened. Hence, as soon as Chris sat at his office table, his name was called from his boss’s office.

A curse word slipped under his breath as he took one last sip of his coffee, slid his chair back, and turned to head to the frosty glass doors that were the only thing protecting him from whatever was about to happen.

As the doors opened, Hank sat at his desk, a familiar face sitting across from him. The monitor of his computer was tilted so the other person could scan whatever was showcased on it.

“Good morning,” Chris greeted as both of the men looked up at him.

“Morning, Chris. I’m sure you have encountered Detective Lee before.”

The man stood up from his seat to reach out a hand. “We’ve seen each other around the office,” he said, flashing Chris a smile. “Lee Minho.”

“Christopher Bang.”

The two men greeted each other as Hank turned his monitor back to its place, took a handful of files, and stood up. “Let’s take this to the meeting room to discuss.”

As they exited the office and made their way to the bigger room, Chris felt like a bunch of question marks had spawned above his head and were taunting him. He knew he had forgotten to review at least one thing for work, but trying to remember what it was felt like it was going to give him a headache.

The room they entered was much bigger, with a circular table occupying most of the space. There were a few people already in place, and the screen on the wall was already turned on. They politely greeted all three as they entered the room, Hank taking his place near the computer that controlled the big projector. Chris cleared his throat as he pulled out a chair next to Changbin, nudging him in the side with his elbow.

“What is this about?” he whispered to the man next to him, but Changbin didn’t seem to be in a very good mood today. They hadn’t talked since the night at the club, a couple of texts from Chris asking if he had gotten home alright, but no response from the other.

“The USB,” Changbin replied coldly, his eyes not moving an inch from the screen projector.

“Good morning to everyone once again,” Hank started, turning everyone’s attention to him. “As you all know, we have obtained some CCTV footage that we suspect is related to the four murders that happened during December of last year. I have sent this footage to a couple of you who are more familiar with the case, so I hope you have reviewed it.” The screen changed to the files that represented all of the snippets of the footage. “I have compiled all the important parts here so we can review them together.”

The first video was showcased, nothing out of the ordinary. A dark, snow-covered street was shown, with only a couple of street lamps casting a yellow light on the ground.

“This was approximately 13 minutes after the murder took place. The CCTV footage was captured from a gas station not far from the victim’s home.”

It all seemed peaceful until a figure showed up in the corner of the screen. A woman with long hair and a puffy coat walked on the street, both of her hands occupied with holding two bags of some sort.

“We also have more footage from that night; another camera captured her.” There she was shown again, this time a bit more clearly, but her face was still not visible, only the back of her head. She walked hurriedly with her head down, the bags still in her hand. This part of the street was familiar; Chris himself lived not too far from there.

“The other footage also captured what seemed to be the same woman, ten to fifteen minutes after each of the murders took place. She was captured near the victims’ houses, seemingly walking in the opposite direction.”

“She could be living in the area, though,” the man Chris had met not long ago spoke up.

Hank nodded at the remark, turning to the computer to enter another file. “Of course, this is only a rough take, but we have also found this at all of the crime scenes.”

The slideshow of pictures made the blood running through Christopher’s veins turn cold. The sweet rose petals submerged in blood painted the white screen. The petals he himself had brought to everyone’s attention.

“We have found this at all of the crime scenes, which concludes that the murders are probably connected and calculated. A witness came forward about the woman shown in the footage, I will show you the formal report after we take a look at the rest of the footage.”

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