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#and i think he'd probably use it far more than alcohol
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Gambling With Souls (Alastor x GN!Reader)
Summary: You made a deal with Husk a long time ago, and ended up paying a lot more than you bargained for. Now you worked in one of his casinos, waiting on him and the people he gambled with hand and foot. One day Husk is challenged to a game by another Overlord, one with red eyes and a sharp ever-present smile…and, despite everything, you can’t help but feel drawn to him. What happens when the two of them start gambling with souls…and yours is thrown into the betting pool? Disclaimer: Husk is going to act pretty different than he does in the show and, yes, he's not going to be very nice to you---this is not me demonizing him. He's an Overlord, he's gonna act like one.
Tags: Alastor x GN!Reader, No Use of (Y/N), I only know Texas Hold ‘Em so that’s what we’re going with, One-sided Husk x GN!Reader (maybe, idk, it's up to your interpretation) TW: Abuse, Alcohol, Groping Word Count: 3.3k Read it on Ao3 <3
The moment you'd agreed to gamble with Husk, your life had ended.
You were a strong demon, not an Overlord---considering you hadn't owned any souls---but still not someone to mess with. Still, it was an incredibly stupid idea to gamble with an Overlord like him, especially since he was known for his proficiency in such things. You didn't remember what exactly had possessed you to think you could possibly win, but it didn't really matter now, did it?
He'd challenged you, and you had accepted.
You lost.
And now your soul was his to do with as he pleased.
Of all the demons who owned souls, Husk was considered by far the worst. He was a gambler and a drunk. He won hands, yes, but he also lost them---and it wasn't exactly uncommon for him to bet the souls he owned in lieu of money. Especially against other Overlords.
You could be working for him in one of his casinos as a dealer and in the span of one hand you were suddenly being dragged to the Vee district and forced to work as a porn star for Valentino, subject to his abuse and the abuse of your "co-stars," only to see your pain broadcasted across Hell to get people off.
Or to the Carmine district to work in a factory, building weapons that would probably kill you one day and dealing with the effects of the toxic gas and physical labor, slowly decaying over time.
Or to the district owned by Zestial...no one knew what happened to the souls he owned, and you sure as hell didn't want to find out.
Oddly enough, though, Husk seemed to take a liking to you. He always had you work at his personal gambling table---serving drinks, food, or rigging the game in his favor when he was in particularly deep shit and didn't want to lose.
And he never bet your soul.
Ever.
Sometimes he would bet you doing certain...activities, sometimes he would bet your time, sometimes he would bet a kiss, but never your soul.
Sometimes you were grateful for it, for the security it brought and the routine---you were rarely ever caught off guard when it came to Husk. Grateful for the knowledge that, hey, at least you would never be traded off to someone worse.
Other times, however, you hated it. Hated that he treated you like his prized show pony, hated that he was willing to pass you around but never loosen the chain on your neck, hated the fact that there was no escape...
...at least, there was no escape, until Husk gambled with him.
----------
It was never a good thing when Husk called you over to his table, so when one of the girls you worked with waved you down and directed you over to him---right before the end of your shift, I might add---you were...less than thrilled, let's say.
It had already been a hard enough day. It was like every jackass in Hell had decided to all get assigned to your tables at once---being loud and unruly, smacking your ass, spilling drinks, causing trouble---and, of course, none of your coworkers were any help. Your feet were killing you from all of the moving around, a customer had spilled a drink on you so now your uniform was more uncomfortable than usual, and you could definitely feel a migraine coming on.
The last thing you wanted to do was stay however many hours past your scheduled time just to plaster on a fake smile and be Husk's plaything. All you wanted was to go home and go to sleep, but the universe apparently hated you.
Fuck your life.
As you approached Husk's table, your attention was immediately drawn to the man sitting across from him. He was noticeably taller than Husk, even without the antlers atop his head---joined by a pair of red and black ears that matched the rest of his hair. He was dressed in a red suit and tailcoat that seemed to be 1930's in style, and a staff in the shape of a vintage microphone rested right next to him.
What was most eye-catching about him, though, was his smile.
Husk was an irritating man, that's just what he was like. He was arrogant without the sense to hide it, too certain of his own success every time he played a game, a hefty shit talker, usually drunk, and irritable and rude when he wasn't. Half of your job was often playing nice to soothe his opponents, trying to keep him out of trouble. Like I said, he was an irritating man.
And yet, even though it was obvious that Husk was getting on this man's last nerve, his smile never faltered. It was...unsettling, to say the least. Oddly enough, though, you found your interest in the man piquing---he didn't look like the type to gamble, after all, so what was he doing here?
As soon as you made it to the table, you plastered on a smile of your own and greeted them, mentally preparing yourself so that you didn't try to throttle one or both of them.
"Hello gentleman," you said, voice falsely bright and cheerful, "will I be dealing for you today or grabbing some drinks?"
Husk turned to you, grinning cockily and...oddly not drunk. Not sober, of course, but clearly more sober than you'd ever seen him before.
"Dealin' for us today, sweetheart," he said, smooth and low---almost flirty. You mentally shuddered.
Despite your distaste, you nodded and made your way to the middle of the table, going ahead and opening a fresh deck of cards before shuffling them---waiting for Husk to tell you which game they were going to play, and therefore what you'd be dealing out.
He turned to his opponent, "now, what game 're we playin'?"
"Your choice," the man replied, his voice overlaid by sharp radio static.
Husk laughed, and part of you wondered if this stranger had a death wish. Didn't he know who Husk was? Didn't he know what a terrible idea it was to give him, not only the advantage of playing in one of his casinos and choosing the dealer, but also the advantage of choosing the game?
What was he playing at?
Never one to pass up an opportunity to gain the upper hand, Husk---grinning---told you the game he wanted to play, and you began dealing out the cards. Quickly, the stranger recognized it.
"Ah, Texas Hold Em', hm?" He hummed, static crackling slightly in an almost-laugh, "a classic! What made you choose such a game?"
"I just figured a basic game like this would be easy enough for you to keep up with," Husk replied, the little insult sliding smoothly off his tongue. The stranger's eyes narrowed and you cringed, mentally praying to whatever god would listen that he wouldn't take his anger at Husk out on you, as was all too common among the characters he gambled with. Thankfully, his eyes never left Husk and he made no move to harm you as you set up the game, now divvying up the chips between them.
Just before you were about to start the game, however, Husk held up a hand to stop you---a dangerous glint in his eyes that made you shudder.
"Why don't we make this game a little more interesting," he said, and you could already guess what he was about to suggest.
The stranger's head tilted ever-so slightly, "what did you have in mind?"
"Why don't we gamble with something a little more valuable than money...something like the souls we own."
The stranger's smile widened imperceptibly, and you got the uncanny feeling that this is what he'd wanted in the first place. Not Husk's money, but the souls in his possession.
'Perhaps Husk's soul as well,' something in your mind whispered, but you brushed it off. Husk never gambled his soul either, so there's no way that would happen---even if that was what the stranger was there for.
Once the stranger voiced his agreement, Husk snapped his fingers and his chips radiated with a silver glow, each chip being branded with a mark that symbolized exactly whose soul was being bet. His soul was branded on a Black chip, the most expensive piece---ever present, even if he'd never bet it. Yours was a Red, the second most expensive.
He gestured to the stranger, signaling that it was his turn. The stranger followed suit and snapped his fingers, this time a bright green enveloping the chips in front of him---starkly contrasting to the rest of his appearance. His chips were now branded with their own marks as well. A Black chip with green details was branded with a bright red 'A,' and you could only assume that was his own soul.
After it was clear that the two were ready, you flipped the first three cards, and the game began.
----------
At first, things almost seemed normal, once the game had started.
You dealt the hands, split the chips in the betting pool, and watched as the two Overlords went back and forth with the flow of the game. Occasionally another one of Husk’s employees would come over and serve them drinks, but other than that none of it caught your attention.
Well, one thing caught your attention.
The stranger’s shadow.
It seemed to dance around with a mind of its own, never losing its smile, just like the stranger himself. The shadow sometimes messed with the chips on the stranger’s side of the board, sometimes it played with the ice in the empty glasses on the table, but most of the time it seemed almost…fascinated by you.
It messed with your hair, helped you shuffle and collect the cards, tugged playfully at the edges of your uniform, and simply stuck by your side most of the time. It was a nice change from the attention you were used to dealing with from customers, or from Husk himself.
The way people would scream at you when they were angry, the wandering hands that would grope or hit or grab, the catcalls and lustful threats, the glasses of alcohol that people would throw at you…this was nothing like any of that. You liked it, it made you feel…precious, in a way. Valued. Cared for, oddly enough.
The stranger seemed amused by the antics, occasionally raising an eyebrow at his shadow only to receive an innocent shrug in response.
Husk, on the other hand, was not so amused.
“Get control of your fuckin’ shadow,” Husk snapped at the stranger as it tugged gently on a piece of your hair, drawing a small smile from you. One that immediately disappeared as you heard Husk’s voice.
“Now now,” the stranger chastised, seeming even more amused at Husk’s irritation, “it’s only having a little fun, no need to lose your temper.”
Husk muttered something under his breath, no doubt some string of insults, but still, he dropped the subject. You tried not to pay any more attention to the shadow after that, not wanting Husk to get angry at you as well.
Husk didn’t seem to notice…but the stranger did.
“Husker, you have quite the specimen working for you here," he said, radio static curling around his voice in an almost...flirtatious(?) purr as he turned to look at you, "what's your name, my dear?"
You flushed slightly before giving him your name, asking his in return. After all, you'd prefer to stop thinking of him as "the stranger."
He repeated your name slowly, sounding out each syllable, before responding, "Alastor, it's a pleasure to meet-"
"Your turn," Husk interrupted, voice grating, and the stranger- Alastor's gaze snapped to him, lip curling even as his smile stretched.
"Of course," he replied, irritation clear in his tone, "pets have such short attention spans, wouldn't want you getting distracted from our game, now would we?"
"The only one getting distracted here is you."
Alastor only hummed in response, raising the bet as he did so.
You glanced between the two, the tension between them palpable, and you were more than a little worried that a fight might break out---but, thankfully, neither made a move towards the other. They just sat there, glaring.
You cleared your throat, trying to dispel some of the animosity, "raise or call?"
Husk pushed a stack of chips forward, "raise."
----------
This is how the game went, back and forth.
Husk winning some hands, and Alastor winning some in return---almost like a dance, a game.
You watched, enthralled, as the two continued on...and as Husk slowly, surely, lost more and more souls. Usually, when it was clear that one of the players were going to lose, they would call the game off---cut their losses and stop before things got any worse.
But, for whatever reason, Husk refused to do just that. In fact, the more hands Husk lost, the more determined he seemed to keep playing---to the point where, if you didn't know him well, you'd think he was gambling under the influence. It was...surprising, to say the least, and by the time Husk seemed to realize how deep of a hole he'd dug himself into, it was too late. His only choice was to keep playing and hope his luck turned around.
He had no reason to be worried, though, and he knew that.
All because he had you.
You see, there was a reason why Husk always had you serving his table. It was because of your power, what you could do for him during these games.
It was hard to pinpoint exactly what your power was, since it manifested differently depending on what you used it to do, but---in simple terms---it was almost like you had control over reality. A small part of it, at least. You could control things...well, under your control. Your appearance, the clothes you wore, anything you made, or---in this case---any game you dealt for.
There weren't any rules against the dealer controlling the game. Husk made certain of it. There was even a clause in the fine print of every contract people signed to play with him, one that gave you full permission to do as you pleased during the game, as long as you were the dealer.
So, sooner or later, Husk would give you the signal to turn things in his favor and you would do as you were told.
...
Well, apparently, it was sooner.
Husk gave you the signal, and you sunk into the familiar warmth of your power---subtly seizing control of the game. You knew the cards in Husk's hands and in Alastor's, as well as all the cards on the board.
Alastor would have two pair, Husk would have one.
Your fingers twitched slightly and the unflipped cards changed, giving Husk three of a kind and Alastor one pair.
Husk won that round.
Safe to say, Husk started to get "spontaneously" lucky, and get some of his souls---his power---back. Alastor, surprisingly, didn't seem at all bothered or shocked by this. If anything, he seemed completely relaxed, as if he wasn't losing hundreds of souls with every hand. It unsettled you, and it definitely seemed to unsettle Husk---even though he tried his best to hide it.
Eventually, though, just as you thought that---surely---Alastor had had enough and was about to call the game off, he said something that stopped you in your tracks.
"All in."
Your power faltered for a moment as you stared at him, eyes wide, and you lost all knowledge of what was on the board. Husk was staring too, mouth hanging open, before a surprised laugh slipped from his mouth.
"You're kiddin', there's no way you-"
Once again, Alastor simply said, "all in."
Sliding his soul chip forward. Smile ever-present.
You glanced at Husk, silently wondering what he was going to do. Even with you controlling the game, he'd still never gambled his soul. Whether that was because he didn't trust that you'd let him win or because he didn't want to take the risk of your power failing, you didn't know, but still...he never bet it.
You raised an eyebrow, waiting for his answer, and, after a moment, Husk shook his head in disbelief...before calling Alastor's bet. A first for him, and for you. You took a deep breath and took control of the game again, ready to change the cards, before Alastor---once again---stopped you in your tracks.
"Is this what you want?" He asked, and you froze.
"...what?"
"Is this what you want?" He repeated, sounding genuinely curious, "to spend the rest of your afterlife working here, for this man? Letting him bet your body, your choices, letting him control your free will?"
You blinked. Surprised.
No one had ever asked you what you wanted before.
"I don't..." you trailed off, unsure of exactly what to say to that. Unsure of how to answer the question.
Husk glared at him, the topic of conversation clearly hitting a nerve, "why don't you shut the fuck up and mind your own business you-"
"You don't have to, my dear," Alastor continued, cutting Husk off, "you do have a choice, you know. You could choose to help me, instead of him, or to let fate take its hold."
It hit you then that Alastor knew that Husk was cheating, that he knew you were helping him. And still, he played the game...still, he treated you with kindness and respect.
He was right, though, you did have a choice. The contract of the game specified that you could do whatever you wanted with your control of the game, so long as you were the dealer and not one of the players.
If you wanted, you could make Husk lose.
You could force him into the same position that he'd forced you into.
You could break free from his grip.
Husk growled your name and your gaze snapped toward him. It was a warning, a threat. He owned your soul, he could do whatever he pleased with it, so you better listen to him.
Alastor said your name softly, drawing your attention back to him. A careful reminder. You still had a choice in this, Husk couldn't make you do anything right now. You could always choose not to help him, to help Alastor instead. All for the chance at a better life.
You took a deep breath and closed your eyes...
...
...before letting go of all control of the game.
Whatever happened now, it was up to the cards. Not you.
Husk slammed his hands down on the table, making you jump back as piles of chips tumbled to the floor, but before you could get farther away, he lunged at you and grabbed your throat---seething with rage.
"YOU FUCKIN' BITCH, HOW DARE YOU-"
Before he could finish his sentence, or cause you any harm, a green chain suddenly formed around his neck and pulled him back---making him fall to the ground. Your gaze snapped up, only to find Alastor at the other end of the chain---his shadow laughing behind him, grin wide. From there you glanced at the table, only to find-
Alastor had a Royal Flush...
...and Husk had nothing.
You glanced back at Husk and then, again, at Alastor---the reality of everything slowly setting in. Your soul no longer belonged to Husk, even if you were still tied to another Overlord. Now, though, Husk had fallen from his ivory tower.
Now he was just like you.
You couldn't help the hysterical laughter that bubbled up from your chest, a weight you hadn't even known was there suddenly disappearing. It was over. It was all over.
"I guess the house always wins," you managed to get out through your laughter, unable to contain the bright smile that took over your face. You were free of him. You were free of him.
"Indeed, my dear," Alastor replied, chuckling at your little joke, "I can already tell, you and I are going to get along just fine."
You would never admit it, but you thought so too.
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swiftispunk · 9 months
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your summer dream | joel miller x f!reader
day one–(re)introductions
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pairing: joel miller x fem!reader rating: 18+ minors dni word count: ~4.7k series summary: fresh on the heels of the worst breakup of your life, you find an unexpected kindred spirit (and maybe a little more) in family friend joel miller, who's agreed to tag along for seven days to a tropical resort with you and your parents. chapter summary: an awkward greeting, a rocky ride and a burgeoning crush, this vacation may just prove not to be a total bummer after all. series warnings etc: [NO OUTBREAK] we'll call him dad's buddy!joel, fairly soft!joel, age difference (28/50), alcohol, food, sexual tension, smut like whoa smut (will specify with each chapter), fluff, anxiety, mentions of infidelity, mentions of divorce, jet skis????, secret relationship. chapter warnings: anxiety + fear of flying, one mention of reader taking a klonopin, gratuitous descriptions of joel miller's face and body, food, alcohol, mentions of breakups, foreshadowing. no use of y/n.
A/N: stay tuned bc things will be heating up between these two all too soon ya'll. future chapters will involve less parents and more sexy times. followers suggestions in this chapter: joel in a vintage sports t-shirt, sharing headphones on the plane
"You remember Joel, right, sweet pea?" your dad says. 
It's 4:30 in the morning on a Saturday and you're standing in an airport parking lot. 
"Um, yeah," you lie. You do and you don't. You can vaguely recall a slightly younger Joel Miller at some backyard gathering your parents had hosted a few years ago. You'd been younger too, maybe already dating your ex, Chris. Perhaps that's why you don't remember him. You tended not to notice other men when Chris was around, particularly not the ones nearly twenty years your senior.
Bleary-eyed and sleep deprived, you take him in now.
Salt-and-pepper-haired and tan skinned, thighs straining against the shorts he clearly hasn't broken out in years, it's almost hard to believe the guy's fifty. As you size him up in his worn out Longhorns t-shirt, you suddenly are able to dredge up some distant memories of thinking he'd been sweet, proudly bragging about his adult daughter (Sarah?) and all her successes at grad school.
He looks a bit haggard at the moment, his own lack of sleep evident under his brown eyes, curls tousled messily around his head. You probably don't look much better in your big t-shirt and bike shorts, clinging for dear life to the iced coffee you'd picked up on the way.
"S'okay, know it's been a while," Joel says gruffly, reaching out to shake your hand. You give him your best smile, or at least the biggest one you can manage. His returning smile is brief and tight, more to the pavement than you. God, this is going to be awkward.
"Only a couple of years!" your mother protests, far more alert and chipper than the two of you.
"Geeze, has it really been that long?" your dad chimes in, disbelieving. He rounds on you, pointing accusingly in your direction with a boarding pass in his hand. "See, this is why you gotta come around the house more, sweet pea. Joel and I still go golfing together almost every weekend."
Not your dad with the guilt trip. You've been out of the house for years now and in your opinion, stop in a perfectly acceptable amount for someone nearly thirty. Plus, your full-time job is demanding enough; you're lucky you even got time off for this.
"Don't know why he keeps invitin' me," Joel admits with a grin. "All I do is lose."
"Boost his ego, I guess," you offer with a shrug. Joel's grin widens.
"Everyone got their passports?" your dad chimes in, quickly steering the conversation away from any jokes at his expense. He's far more keyed-up than you and Joel, you notice. In fact, it's his idea to be at the airport approximately four hours before take-off "just in case there's trouble at security." You don't think he's slept all week in the lead-up to today.
Neither have you, but you have your own reasons.
Mainly the fact that you hate flying. The thought of it makes your palms sweat and your heart rate soar, at times a debilitating phobia that's held you back all your life, no matter how many times you've had to face it.
All that pre-flight anxiety is really starting to mount now, only increases as the four of you make your way through check-in and security. Gearing up for the crammed seating, the noisy airplane din and the whole being-up-in-the-fucking-air thing is already enough to make your skin crawl. On top of that, you're painfully aware that you'll be sitting next to Joel, an uncomfortable prospect that's only adding to your nerves.
You should have taken an extra Klonopin. 
The nerves really hit home when you settle in at the gate, the sight of aircrafts taking off through the wall of windows beside making you recoil in on yourself, arms wrapped protectively around your knees as you try your best to breathe. 
You're finally forced to make conversation with Joel once your parents become engrossed in private discussions about itineraries and dinner plans. And while he's not the miserable killjoy you'd thought he'd be, he is…quiet.
"You ever been to Costa Rica before?" he asks, his eyes moving between you and the gate around him, like he's not sure of exactly where to land them.
"No," you shake your head, running your hands nervously up and down your legs when you catch a 767 taking off out of the corner of your eye. That'll be you soon. Fuck. 
Joel doesn't say anything else, just nods and stares at his sneakers. 
"What about you?" you inquire, too late, unable to hold back the shake in your voice as your heart pangs with stress. Why are the plane engines so loud? Why can you hear them in here? You have to fight the urge to cover your ears like a child to block out the incessant noise.
"Nope," Joel admits. "Never left the US."
"Oh."
And that's the end of that conversation. 
Silence befalls the both of you as your dread properly sets in then. You put your headphones in your ears and let your music take you away, while Joel sighs and slumps back into the hard, plastic seating. You keep the headphones in all throughout boarding, breathing deeply and counting backwards from one hundred five separate times in an effort to calm your anxiety.
Joel's forced to tap your shoulder to get your attention when you arrive at your row.
"What?" you mumble distractedly when you yank one headphone out of your ear.
"I'll take the middle, f'you want."
"Oh, okay. Sure."
You toss your carry-on into the overhead compartment as Joel takes his seat, some stranger to his left already settled in the window spot. You pop your headphone back in and sit down beside him. 
It's around then that you notice how…broad Joel is. His knees invade your already cramped space, legs splayed out like he can't help it, shoulders brushing yours between the seats. You can't remember if he's always been that way. Can't remember if you'd ever really noticed. 
Your parents take their seats in the row ahead of you and then there's nothing left to do but wait.
Take-off is blissfully uneventful, fairly smooth and not enough to truly send you into panic-mode. You turn your music up to its highest volume and squeeze your eyes shut, balling your hands into fists until the aircraft levels out, thousands of feet above the earth. You wait until the seatbelt light turns off to finally take a proper breath in and try to relax. You let your head fall back into the headrest, pulling your knees into your chest and concentrating especially hard on every minute detail in every second of every song, anything to keep you distracted from the fact that you're currently flying in the fucking sky.
It's all going fine, until the turbulence starts. 
Now, you grip the edges of your armrests for dear life as the unpredictable bumps and shudders jostle you in your seat. You try to breathe but you can't get a proper one in–just short, shallow gasps, the sounds of which are swallowed by the continuous droning of the aircraft's engines.
Then a particularly aggressive tremor has you jumping in your seat and you stare around wildly, panic painted all over your face. Surely that hadn't been normal?
You're aware then of Joel's hand on your arm but you don't hear his quiet, "Hey," till you've pulled the damn headphone out of your ear again to find him glancing down at you with concern.
"You okay?" he asks, looking concerned in a sort of paternal way. His hand is still on your arm.
You swallow harshly, trying to reign it in. To not seem like a total fucking coward.
"Don't like flying," you choke.
"Everything alright here?” another voice is asking then, to your right. A flight attendant, you realize, apparently having noticed your distress. Great. She stares down at you with condescending eyes that eventually settle on Joel, who finally releases your arm. You don't miss the way her gaze changes when she looks at him, her eyes raking over his broad form as a smile spreads across her face.
Interesting. The guy has an effect on women, clearly.
Joel smiles back at her, a lop-sided thing that makes his eyes crinkle. "Maybe you could tell us that," he says.
The flight attendant practically melts at his voice, her cheeks burning red as she directs her answer very much just to Joel, while you continue to cower between them.
"Just some standard turbulence, nothing to be worried about," she assures the both of you (Joel).
"Never been on a plane," Joel tells her. "S'all new to me."
"Really?" She sounds way too interested. Lots of people have never been on planes. Lots of very, very lucky people. "Never?"
"First time," he smirks. "Don't mind it so much. And f'you say there's nothin' to worry about, I believe ya."
The flight attendant beams.
Has Joel always been this...charming? It's been so long since you've seen him. You're sure you must have thought so, must have seen what the flight attendant is seeing, perhaps never noticing it in any sort of…concrete way. You definitely don't remember noticing his thick, honey-sweet drawl or the amount of space his massive hands take up on the armrest. The flight attendant does though. 
"I love that accent," she comments (flirts). "You know, my family's from the South."
"That so?" Joel grins but their little moment is interrupted when the aircraft shakes violently and you gasp, your arms wrapping around your middle protectively. The turbulence continues, hard and jarring and fuck fuck fuck–you can't breathe. 
Joel catches the reaction, concern taking over his features once more.
"I'd love to hear more, but I think our friend here might need a soda or somethin'," he says.
Oh, has he finally decided to acknowledge your presence again?
The flight attendant makes a face, glancing over her shoulder uncertainly.
"We don't really offer drinks while the seatbelt sign is on…"
"Maybe you could make an exception?" Joel suggests and you catch the way his eyes flick over to you, sunken into your seat with your arms over your knees, probably looking exactly how you feel–fear-stricken and on the verge of passing out. 
The flight attendant takes one look down at you and nods quickly (probably more than happy to make an exception for Joel) before darting off down the aisle and returning seconds later, expertly managing to stay balanced as the plane rocks and rolls. You, meanwhile, have to fight to keep your morning iced coffee down. Your hand shakes when you reach out for the can.
"I got it," Joel intervenes, reaching over you to take it from the flight attendant, brushing your trembling hand away with ease. 
"Thanks, darlin'," he dismisses the stewardess with one last grin which she returns in spades before sauntering off.
Darlin'? Okay, Joel Miller. 
"Here," he offers the little green can to you once she's gone. The plane jolts and you hiss through your teeth, working impossibly hard to stay level as you take the soda from him and bring it to your lips.
"Thanks," you murmur when the cool, syrupy liquid assaults your tongue, a surprisingly distracting sensation that does seem to breathe some life back into you. You can feel Joel's eyes on you as you take a few more calming sips and few more steadying breaths. A moment later and the bumpy turbulence seems to cease. A moment after that and the seatbelt light turns off. 
You exhale for what feels like the first time in hours. 
"Feelin' alright?" Joel asks eventually. 
You nod stiffly, downing the rest of your drink and leaning back into your seat. You sigh. The last time you'd been on a plane, it had been Chris comforting you through your stupid fear of flying. Not well, mind you; he had never been the best at calming you down–certainly not the type to order you a ginger ale because he'd noticed you were about to be sick, but still. You can remember the feeling of his hand on your knee, his voice reminding that it would all be over soon.
God-fucking-damnit. You're not supposed to be thinking about him. You need a distraction. You're just about to pop in your other headphone when Joel starts talking again. 
"S'weird, flyin'," he muses. He glances to his left, where the wing of the plane is just visible through the open window, backdropped by miles of clouds and empty skies that make your stomach turn. "Thought it'd be scarier, but it's not."
"Speak for yourself," you retort with a scowl.
"Looked it up, you know," he says, turning back to face you with a gentle smirk. God, his voice is low–almost sultry and he doesn't even seem like he's trying. It's strangely lulling. "Way more likely to die in a car than a plane."
You roll your eyes. "Thanks, never heard that one before."
"Just sayin', there's a good chance we all make it outta this alive."
"Well, here's hoping, I guess," you say offhandedly, making to reinsert your earbud when Joel, once again, stops you.
"Whatcha listenin' to?"
"What? Oh…Fleetwood Mac."
"Nice. Rumours?"
"Peter Green's. Their first album."
Joel shakes his head. "Don't think I've heard it."
"Yeah, I hadn't either. I was planning to listen to their whole discography on this trip."
"Not a bad idea," Joel nods, looking impressed. "Maybe I oughta do the same."
Your brows furrow–what's with this guy? You'd expected him to be a total grouch this whole time but so far, you seem vastly more miserable than he does. Which is strange considering he's apparently in the exact same situation as you right now. Is everyone in the world just better at coping with breakups than you?
"Yeah, maybe," you shrug.
Your confusion only grows when he holds out a big palm, glancing at the white wire of your headphones expectantly.
Oh. He means...? Okay.
Uncertainly, you deposit the free bud into his palm and watch him clumsily insert it into his ear. You wait a moment, just to be sure he's not pulling some kind of weird prank on you, eventually deciding he's not when he lays his head back into his headrest and shuts his eyes. You hit play, and then do the same.
You're shocked to find that the rest of the flight passes by quickly and without much incident after that. The turbulence doesn't return and you actually manage to almost relax, something about Joel's unbothered demeanor and the way he's tapping his foot beside you bringing about an odd sense of calm. You still tense up during the landing, holding your breath until the wheels of the aircraft hit the tarmac, finally exhaling a relieved sigh when you're back on solid ground. 
"That was pretty good," Joel comments, removing his earbud and handing it back to you as the passengers in first class begin to off-board.
"It was alright. Missing some Christine McVie, though."
"I agree," he smiles. 
You shuffle out of your seats into the crowded aisle, straining to reach your suitcase in the overhead compartment. Just like with the can of soda, Joel suddenly intervenes, two thick arms reaching over you to help.
"This one you?" he asks, gesturing to the suitcase you'd been fruitlessly grabbing at.
"Uh, yeah, thanks."
You watch the way the muscles in his arms flex when he hoists the suitcase down into your waiting hands. His biceps strain against the fabric of his orange t-shirt; the bag is heavy–you hadn't packed light–but the exertion doesn't seem to affect him at all. 
Fuck, but he's tan, you notice. The fabric of his sleeves pull up his arms when he reaches for his own bag, and you catch a glimpse of his farmer's tan, just the tiniest peak of paleness contrasting the sun-kissed glow of his arms. You wonder how much darker he'll get in the tropical sun, how much colour his already glowing skin will attract after a few days on the beach.
Why the fuck are you thinking about that?
Fuck. You're staring, you realize too late. You hastily avert your eyes to find your parents already up from their seats and raring to go.
"How'd you hold up this time, kiddo?" your dad asks, well aware of your stupid phobia. "Turbulence was a bit rough, eh?"
"I think she did great," Joel tells him and you frown. Does he think he needs to lie to protect your dignity or something? That's...kind of nice of him, if a little unnecessary, you think.
"We made it, that's all that matters," your mom says before you can add anything more.
True enough. You're here now. Time to make the most of it.
-
It's not just on the plane that Joel's taken your ex's place. Despite the fact that you'd been dating for three years–and the fact that you're a fully grown adult–your parents had refused to book you a single room together, opting instead for one of those conjoined suites with a shared door between them. It was supposed to be your boyfriend on the other side of that door, now it's Joel.
The door locks, thankfully, a fact your father had taken extra care to remind you and Joel of when he'd popped in from his suite across the hall to check out your rooms, sizing them up in typical dad-fashion as though he hadn't put months of research and credit-card points into booking the best bang-for-your-buck resort package he could find.
"Walls are a bit thin," he comments, tapping the off-white drywall that separates your room from Joel's.
You shrug. "It all seems fine to me."
And it does, truly. Your room overlooks the resort, glass sliding doors leading out to a balcony that offers a pristine view of the pools and beaches below. You face west–perfect for catching sunsets. Clean white sheets and a fluffy duvet line the queen size bed in the middle of the room and the ensuite bathroom gleams with a porcelain bathtub and standing shower–the latter of which has one of those massive shower heads that makes the water fall like rain.
You wish it was enough to ease your dejection. But all you can think about is the person you're supposed to be sharing it with.
You remind yourself, again, that you're not supposed to be thinking of him.
If only it were that easy.
-
You spend the afternoon getting settled, reading for a while on your balcony before taking a stroll around the resort to get a lay of the land. You do your best to enjoy being alone, letting the sounds of Fleetwood Mac's second album soundtrack your exploring as you breathe in the warm, salty air.
You wonder if you should have asked Joel to join you, almost feeling guilty that you hadn't. Your parents have each other, but Joel's just as alone as you are. Maybe he doesn't want to be.
Ultimately, you decide, he's not your responsibility, even if it almost feels that way. Maybe it's just because he'd been so...there for you on that stupid flight. No one's been that kind to you in a while. You don't know what to do with it.
You put it out of your mind and eventually find yourself sitting on the sandy beach, watching the blue waves come and go, allowing their steady swells to distract your restless mind. You're not sure how long you stay there, working to think of anything other than the reason you're so alone here, but when the sky starts to turn from blue to orange, the sun fading over the horizon, you decide it's probably time to go dress for dinner.
-
It's at dinner that you're forced to confront a rather upsetting truth:
Joel Miller is kind of fucking gorgeous.
You'd been avoiding thinking it during the flight, on the shuttle to the resort or during room check-ins. Had tried with all your might not to admit it to yourself even when you'd overheard him turning on that seemingly natural charm for every busboy and server who so much as greeted him with a smile.
But now, making his way towards your table in his patterned linen button-down and dark wash jeans, curls fluffy after clearly having taken a shower, tan skin glowing under the fairy lights that line the restaurant's patio as he respectfully shakes the hand of the host, you can't fight reality.
Joel Miller is beautiful.
Even in the nice dress you'd thrown on, you feel somewhat meager in comparison.
He seems genuinely delighted to be there, your fears of him turning out to be a buzzkill clearly in vain. He's grinning as he approaches you and your parents, his wide brown eyes constantly taking in the views around him. The patio overlooks the ocean, its clear water black under the night's sky. The sound of rushing waves backdrops the gentle music playing through the sound system as Joel takes his seat, the one beside you. You're shocked to find your heart flutters as he does.
Your parents had opted to skip the buffet for The First Dinner, opting for the restaurant option instead. Better food, sure, but way more opportunities for awkward conversation.
"Real nice spot," Joel comments reverently to your father. "I mean, seriously, real nice."
"It's not too bad," your dad agrees with a thoughtful nod. You can hear the "but" coming. "Pool's a bit small. And you two have a much nicer view than us. We should've all splurged on the ocean-view."
"You wanna switch?" Joel offers without hesitance.
The guy's too polite for his own good.
"Oh, goodness, no!" your mother insists, to your relief. She places a hand on your father's shoulder. "Our room's great. He just wants something to complain about."
You smirk, sipping at your water knowingly. It's so typical of your dad to nitpick every little thing; he's been like that as long as you can remember. Every time you moved houses or stayed at a motel, every time you so much as ate a restaurant. Always something to comment on, always something that could be improved. Your mom's always been there to reign him in, even if you think she probably agrees with his assessments. She just knows better when to grin and bear it.
They compliment each other pretty well, which is probably how they've managed to last so long.
"We're just so thrilled you could make it, Joel," your mom adds.
"M'just glad I got the invite, ma'am," Joel says sincerely.
"Better you than that extra room goin' to waste," your dad grumbles.
Joel just smiles. You can feel his eyes on you as you wring your hands together, all too aware of why that particular room had been up for grabs. You wonder how much Joel knows. You're grateful he hasn't asked you about it yet.
The server appears to take your drink orders then. You don't have to think too hard about it; you're on vacation at an all-inclusive resort and you have every intention of getting drunk at every possible opportunity, even if you are with your parents.
You order some fruity cocktail and your mom orders a bottle of pinot grigio for the table.
"I'll get the same as her," Joel says to your surprise, nodding in your direction. The server doesn't question it, just smiles and flits off to the bar.
"You want the Blue Lagoon?" you ask him with a skeptical chuckle.
"I'm tryna get in the spirit," he grins. His voice is low, just for you, his gravelly timbre drowned out to anyone else by the sounds of crashing waves.
"What would you normally get?" you ask, genuinely curious.
"Whiskey, maybe a beer," he shrugs.
"Shit, well, if you hate this, don't blame me."
"Oh, I'll definitely be blamin' you." But he says it with a playful smirk that has you smiling back at him, once again utterly charmed. Maybe you are starting to see what the flight attendant had seen.
The drinks come fast, the bar clearly a well-oiled machine despite the restaurant now steadily filling up with hungry vacationers. The Blue Lagoon is about exactly what'd you expected, obnoxiously colourful and muddled with flecks of fresh fruit, tied together with a ridiculous twisty straw. You and Joel share a small grin when the server places the glasses in front of the two of you.
"Here's to a great week," your dad toasts the table as you all raise your drinks accordingly. "To having fun–" He directs that comment at you and Joel specifically– "and focusing on ourselves."
"Cheers," your mom and Joel say in unison.
You, meanwhile, just smile tightly and avert your gaze to the white tablecloth, unappreciative of the subtle reminder that you're here without Chris.
You take a cautious sip of your drink, finding it tastes more like sugar than anything else. You catch Joel's eye as he takes his first sip, watching as his face contorts in mild disgust.
"No good?" you press him.
"It's uh..." he starts, unsure of how to go on, like maybe he doesn't want to hurt your feelings.
"It's okay, you can say it, it's fucking disgusting," you admit with a laugh, taking another sip just to be sure.
"Cheers to that," Joel grits, tapping his glass against yours and taking another reluctant gulp. You do the same, both of your grimacing against the sickly flavour.
"It'll get the job done, anyway," you remark and you're sure Joel knows what you mean, that it'll be enough to get you tipsy enough to forget your dour circumstances.
"Fuckin' right," he grunts with a knowing cock of his eyebrows.
He doesn't smile when he says it and you think it might be the first sign he's given that he's interested in the same kind of escape as you while he's here.
He gives you another cheers and downs his drink in one go. You mimic him instinctively, more to get rid of the nasty thing than anything else.
"Take it easy, you crazy animals," your dad laughs but it's all in good fun.
You stick to wine after that while Joel switches to beer.
Dinner is nice, big portions and fresh produce. The day of travelling seemingly had everyone starved and you're pleased to find that the time passes faster and easier than you would have expected. Conversation flows lightly, mostly discussions of amenities and how each of you plans to use the one free "luxury" activity you have included in your resort package.
"I'm thinking couples massages for us," your mom suggests with a hand on your father's forearm.
"No thanks," you respond grumpily. Anything but that. Maybe paragliding or something. Something to actually get your blood pumping. You go in and out of considering the possibilities until the server clears your plates.
Of course, it takes until dessert and a second bottle of wine for your mom to bring up the one thing you don't want to discuss.
"Well, Chris sure missed out, huh, honey?" she jokes, all too casually.
You instantly tense just at the mention of his name.
"Mom."
"I'm just saying!" Her voice is several octaves too high as she gestures around the restaurant and out towards the open sea. "Look at all this! The views, the food. You two would've had a great time."
You burn in your chair, catching the way Joel awkwardly takes a sip of his beer and looks away, visibly uncomfortable with the turn the conversation has taken. Not as uncomfortable as you, though.
"Can we please not talk about this?" you say through your teeth, seething. Three glasses of wine and she's already shattering your plans to avoid thinking about him.
"Aren't I allowed to be a little angry?" she pushes back. "He was such a nice boy. I mean, before..."
"Honey..." your dad warns her. Finally.
You roll your eyes. Yeah, real fucking nice, he was. "You can be angry all you want, mom, I just don't need to hear about it."
She shrugs, raising two hands innocently like she can't see the harm in her words. Joel glances at you as you cross your arms over your chest and shake your head, annoyed. That same concern he'd shown you on the plane is clear on his face now.
Your dad breaks the sudden tension with a question directed at Joel.
"Hey, how's your brother? Staying out of trouble?"
Joel clears his throat, seeming grateful for the change of topic. So are you. You sip your wine and stare out into the dark night, fuming, only half-listening to Joel talk about his brother Tommy's new wife and the baby they have on the way.
-
After dinner, your parents decide to take a walk along the beach while you and Joel opt to head straight back to your rooms, both of you exhausted.
It's quiet as you make your way back through the resort, your brain a bit foggy from alcohol and lack of sleep. Not to mention the sting of frustration and sadness still brewing under your skin from your mom's mentioning of Chris. The buzz you have on only seems to make you more emotional and you find yourself fighting to keep it together as you shuffle into the elevator, up to the ninth floor with Joel.
You're just about to tap your key cards to enter your respective rooms when Joel speaks up.
"Hey...uh, you alright?" he asks quietly. Just like he had on the plane. He's looking down at you with concern again, eyes raking over your face like he can see the emotion stirring there.
Joel Miller, you realize, is an observant man.
You shake your head. "I'm fine."
It's a lie but he doesn't call you out on it, thankfully. Doesn't pry at all, in fact. Just gives you that smirk of his that's already starting to feel familiar and unlocks his door.
"Night," he says, voice low.
"Goodnight, Joel," you say shyly, your hand around the doorknob as you take in one last sight of him. His skin is dewy from the alcohol and tropical heat, eyes alight in a way that inexplicably has your spine tingling. His shirt is unbuttoned just enough to reveal a peek of his tan chest, the skin of his thick neck gleaming in the hotel hallway lighting.
You could be wrong, but while you look him up and down, you're sure you can catch him do the same to you. Your breath catches and you quickly duck into your room.
Another truth becomes clear in that moment:
You like Joel. You're not sure in what capacity yet. You're definitely attracted to him, an unexpected and potentially problematic fact you're still coming to terms with. But there's something about him. You like that he seems...kind. Sweet and patient with you in spite of all your anxiety and general gloom. That he doesn't ask many questions but somehow never seems disinterested in you. It has you feeling almost warm in spite of yourself, the tears that had been threatening to spill over just a moment before drying in your eyes as you crash into the big, cushy bed.
Maybe this vacation won't be a total loss after all.
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*a note on tag lists - I have made the decision to stop doing tag lists for fics - if you could instead please follow @swiftispunkupdates and hit "get notifications" for all future fic updates from me, I would very much appreciate that. you'll get notified every time I post fic or update a series (just make sure you have push notifications for tumblr turned on)
2K notes · View notes
grandlinedreams · 14 days
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|| notes: because I think this trope is always hilarious and also very cute
|| warnings: the Inner Circle (Mor and Cass) being nosy, fluff, Az and reader being silly and cute, alcohol mention
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"You've been spending an awful lot of time with Azriel lately."
Looking up from the book you've been reading, you meet Mor's questioning look with one of confusion. "Is there something wrong with that?"
"No," Mor protests, "I was just wondering."
You raise an eyebrow, eyeing her. There's an edge to her tone that you're not sure that you like, as if she's trying to get you to admit to something. "He's my friend," you say slowly, "and I like spending time with my friends."
Mor hums. "That's fair," she says, then drums her fingers on the table. "Speaking of friends, we're friends, right?"
"Of course," you agree. Where is she going with this? Had you done something to make her doubt your friendship?
Mor watches you carefully, weighing her words before she says them. "And you'd tell me if you were interested in anyone, right? Romantically, I mean."
The look you give her is equal parts suspicion and befuddlement. "Probably? Mor, what is this about?"
"Nothing, nothing," she reassures you hurriedly. "Listen, we're going to Rita's tonight. As in me, Cass, Nes, and Azriel." She pauses. "I think he'd like it if you went with us."
You close your book. "I'll go," you say, and Mor beams. "But what does Az wanting me there have to do with—"
"Great!" Mor chirps, pulling away. "We'll be leaving at eight!"
And then she's gone, leaving you more bewildered than you've ever been.
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Your friends are up to something. You know that they are, considering Mor's behavior from earlier, and now their (Mor, and now Cassian) insistence that you sit next to Azriel in the booth.
"I can't pick my seat?" You ask, and Cassian shakes his head.
"Nope," he grins, and you throw Nesta a pleading look that she answers with one of quiet amusement.
"Okay..." Not that you truly mind sitting next to the spymaster, but it's made strange for the way Mor and Cassian are watching the two of you and sharing looks you're sure they think are subtle.
"[Name] looks nice," Mor prompts after a while, "right, Az?"
You blink as Azriel turns towards you, and the slow sweep of his eyes over you makes your cheeks warm more than the alcohol does.
"Yes," he says quietly, and your lips quirk when you catch his eye before you turn back towards your drink. Whatever it is that Cassian and Mor are looking for or trying to incite, you're not sure, but you don't miss the look of frustrated confusion the pair share.
Cassian rallies himself for another attempt at whatever it is they're up to, and you cut him off. "I think I'm going to head back," you say, apologetic smile tugging at your lips. "I'm tired."
Mor looks like she's going to protest, only to stop when Azriel moves to follow you when you slip from the booth. "I'll come with you."
You don't protest, but you also catch the pleased look Cassian and Mor share before you step out of Rita's. The night air is a little cooler than expected and when you shiver, Azriel steps closer. "Cold?"
"A little," you admit, and you don't protest the wrap of his arm over your shoulders, pulling you closer.
Once you're far enough away from Rita's, Azriel speaks again. "Cassian is convinced that I have feelings for you."
You look up at him, finding him watching you already, coming to a halt. "And?" You prompt, raising an eyebrow, "do you?"
Azriel's eyes gleam with amusement as he leans down, meeting the answering upward tip of your head so he can kiss you. It's sweet and familiar, and you press to make it linger a little longer before he pulls away. "I think you know the answer to that."
"I do," you grin. "How long do you think it'll take them to realize that we're already together?"
Azriel snorts. "Longer than you think, honestly." He tugs you to him, enveloping you in his arms to ward off the chill of night. "I take it that you have feelings for me too?"
You huff a laugh, pressing a kiss to his chest. "I think you know the answer to that," you answer.
Azriel's lips meet the top of your head. "I do."
831 notes · View notes
bunnyreaper · 6 months
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𝖈𝖔𝖑𝖑𝖆𝖗𝖘 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖈𝖆𝖌𝖊𝖘 𝔞 𝔰𝔬𝔞𝔭 𝔪𝔞𝔠𝔱𝔞𝔳𝔦𝔰𝔥 𝔵 𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔢𝔯 𝔰𝔢𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔰 𝖕𝖙 3 — 𝖕𝖙 2 𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖊 wc - 7.2k warnings - 18+/nsfw, dom sub dynamic, hints of petplay, mild public play notes - part 3 kind of ran away from me, if you can't tell from the word count!! i had a lot of fun with this one, so i hope you enjoy! also on ao3! ♥
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Life was teaching you early on in this budding relationship that life without Johnny drags. 
The first day or two he was gone wasn't so bad. Before he'd even left the country, he'd sent you an incredibly drool-worthy photo of him in his fatigues. You've spent more time looking at it over the past week or so than you probably should've—fixated on the size of his arms, the confident pose, and the mic set around his neck. 
The sight of that alone sent your thoughts reeling—and was the part you'd zoomed into on the most, beside Johnny's handsome face. 
Then came the voice note, the one you've been listening to on repeat—addicted to Johnny's words and voice. Finally, you have it captured to listen back to on demand. He'd sent you other voice notes since, shorter ones with "I'm thinking about you." or "Just met a street cat, his collar said his name is Halim!" with a photo accompanying it. 
Those made your heart sing, and your smile wide, but the last one he sent was him explaining he'd be going dark, and he'd message again whenever he could. 
That had been over a week ago now, and the radio silence left your nerves on edge, frayed and tested as you waited for any sign.
Some sense of salvation had come in the form of an after-work drinking session that turned into a full-blown night out—it was a welcome distraction and an oasis of general socialisation after your desert of solitude.
You were dressed up nice, getting a little tipsy and dancing the night away—only checking your phone as you pulled it out to pay for a drink. 
The missed call notification has you rushing to down the drink, so you can head out the back of the club. As soon as the pounding music fades away, you're pressing the phone to your ear and listening to the dial—it feeling tortuously slow as you wait for Johnny to pick up with every ring. Just before it goes to voicemail, his voice is blessing your ears once more. 
"Hey, pretty girl." He greets, his voice seemingly as bright as always. 
"Johnny!" You all but squeal in excitement, a heady combination of missing him and the effects of the alcohol making your enthusiasm bubble over.
He laughs, slow and sweet, as warmth spreads through your chest. "Missed me that much, aye?" 
You missed him far too much considering the current state of your relationship, but even in your intoxicated state, you know to keep that mostly to yourself. "Missed you so much!" You giggle, moving further away from the door as a group of people join you out back—cigarettes hanging from their fingers.
"Missed you too. Where are yer?" Johnny asks, clearly hearing the commotion in the background. 
"I'm out with some people from work, but I'll go home right now, I swear—" 
Johnny cuts you off before you can even finish your offer. "Don't you dare, lass, enjoy your night. I just wanted to let you know I'm back, tha's all."
Hearing from him was such a relief, and you are so glad he called—though now you don't want to stop talking again. "Does that mean we can meet soon?" You ask—voice light, flirtatious, and most importantly hopeful.
"I was thinking Sunday if that works for yer?" 
"Making me wait again, Sergeant?" You practically twirl your hair around your finger as you tease him, smiling unreservedly as you hold the phone to your ear. 
"Keep talking like tha' and I'll come down there right now." His growl is playful, but you can tell using his rank has some sort of effect on him. 
You pull your lip between your teeth, giggling once more and flushing with need. "Do it, I dare you." You taunt.
Johnny's sigh is a little defeated, his tone a little tired and flat compared to usual."I cannae, still got things to wrap up. Tha's why I said Sunday and not tomorrow, sweet thing." 
You relent with your joking, not wanting to keep up with teasing when Johnny seems a little... low. "You're worth the wait." You whisper into the phone, soft and sincere—you hope that makes him smile at least. 
"We'll sort out the details tomorrow, yeah?" 
You nod, even though he can't see it. "Sounds good." 
He perks up a little bit, even if it sounds somewhat forced. "Feel like doing me a favour before you get back to yer friends?"
"Anything." Your answer is instant, especially if it would cheer him up right now. Coming back from the things he must see has to be hard, and you can't blame him for continuing to be affected by it. Is that why he needed an extra day? To decompress and adjust back to being Johnny instead of a sergeant in the army? 
"Send me a picture of your outfit." The sentence lands somewhere between a question and a command—though you had every intention of complying anyway. 
"Yes sir." You answer instinctually, not putting too much thought into it until you hear Johnny's growl in response. The kind of growl that ignites something deep within you every time you hear it. 
His voice is low, rumbling down the phone with a hint of playful warning. "Bonnie..." 
"Sorry." You laugh lightly, before turning more sincere. "I'm glad you're safe, Johnny."
The line is silent for a moment, just long enough for you to worry you've said the wrong thing, but as always, Johnny washes away your doubt.  "I'm glad you waited for me." 
"Of course." A shiver passes over you, the night air making you want to retreat back inside. You wrap an arm around yourself as you brace yourself from the cold. "Talk tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow, for definite. Have a nice night, angel." His wish is sincere, the softness in his voice something you'll replay over and over again. 
"Night, Johnny." 
You wait for him to end the call before you rush back into the club, beelining straight for the bathroom to snap a picture just for Johnny. The dress isn't your usual clubbing outfit, having come straight from work, but you look cute, and you feel confident as you send the picture straight to Johnny.
The next day drags even more than the last few have, especially with the mild hangover thundering your skull. Every part of the day is just about going through the motions, getting through it, so you're one minute closer to seeing Johnny. Every moment is a little dull, until you find yourself waiting for him at the exit of the train station.
The excitement and the nerves wage war inside you—with each passing second, you're getting closer and closer to being swept up in Johnny's arms, to hopefully feeling like you're finally home. But with each second, you're inching closer to vulnerability, to risk, to the possibility that somehow he might decide after today that he never wants to see you again. 
Maybe he'll look at you and realise he doesn't quite like your body, or the way your mouth moves when you talk. Maybe he'll hate your mannerisms, or find that in person you're actually really boring to talk to. Perhaps he'll just know within moments of meeting you that you'll never be his home, never be his.
The thought is terrifying, crawling around the back of your mind as you scan every passing face in the hopes of seeing the silly little mohawk you long to run your fingers through. 
And when you do, the world stills.
You spot him before he spots you, and you get a moment to appreciate his searching gaze, his quietly confident swagger, the way his denim jacket stretches over his shoulders, and his shirt clings to his stomach. 
In short, he's a vision. All man—big and strong and beautiful. It takes everything within you to not launch yourself into his arms as soon as he gets close. 
He continues to look around as he makes his way through the ticket barriers, glancing between the crowds and his phone as he makes his way closer and closer. You emerge from your hidden spot, your legs carrying you without hesitation over to him—and when your eyes meet, you both stop completely still for just a moment. Nothing but wide smiles on your faces and a magnetic pull that draws you together. 
The bodies in between you are a hindrance, a barrier you both need to be gone as you weave through them before finally standing before each other—and at that moment everything feels right. 
"Wow." Johnny says as he looks you up and down and drinks all of you in.
"Wow yourself." You giggle, checking him out just the same and adjusting to just how much more handsome he is in person—as if such a thing were possible. "Hi Johnny." Even you are surprised by how breathless you sound, but it makes perfect sense when you consider how fast your heart is beating, how your hands are starting to shake. 
"Think I must be dreamin'" He blinks in disbelief, unable to keep the radiant, infectious smile off of his face. 
You blush deeply, and find you can no longer meet the intensity of his eyes. "Flatterer." Your word is a whisper as you push yourself to your tip toes and wrap your arms around Johnny's neck, pulling him in for a hug.
His strong arms wrap around your waist, holding you close, tightly enveloping you in a serene feeling of safety, as well as his fresh, masculine scent. 
Home. You think it's the closest you ever felt to it, bundled up in his arms as he cradles you like you're the most precious thing on earth to him. 
His hands roam over your back, caressing you so delicately and savouring every bit of you, as your own hands thread around the back of his neck, and you sink your fingers in, grasping him to ground yourself in the moment. It's real, he's real, and being in his arms feels so right it almost hurts. 
"You're even more gorgeous in person, bonnie." He whispers in your ear, breath hot and sending shivers all over your body. Thank god he's holding you upright, as your entire being is so vulnerable right now to every sensation. 
He pulls away slightly, but keeps you close, his eyes returning to yours once more, looking at you like you're everything. 
"I could say the same about you." You giggle, feeling self-conscious beyond belief. "Your eyes..." They're so blue, two oceanic pools of deep emotion, pulling you under the longer you stare. 
Everything you feel is reflected in his eyes—hope, bliss, excitement. 
"Grew them maself." He laughs, his nose wrinkling as he laughs at his own silly joke. 
He has you captivated entirely, as you drink in every single feature on his face—the strong brows, the scar on his lips, the dimples hidden behind his stubble. Every detail makes your heart thump against your rib cage, makes you want to reach out and trace your fingers over every little thing you discover. 
You're snapped out of your reverie when someone's bag brushes past you, and you remember you're in the middle of a train station, blocking people's way. 
"We should move out of the way." 
"Aye." He nods, slipping an arm around you so as to not lose contact as the two of you shuffle out of the path of the commuters. "Fuck. Am not letting you go now." 
His grip tightens around you as he pulls you in once more, hands settling on your waist as he stares down in adoration.
"Good." You can't help the smile on your face, so big and bright your cheeks hurt from how unwavering it is—that's just the feeling Johnny inspires. 
This time, it's him who seems affected by your gaze, as he averts his eyes from yours. "'s a bit weird, though." He admits, a strange shyness to his tone. 
Nothing about Johnny right now would suggest he's anything even close to nervous or uncomfortable, but you figure a man like him is very good at masking how he really feels. Your hands slip to his chest, your thumbs rubbing soothingly back and forth as you try to project a sense of calm to soothe you both. 
"Have you never done this before?" You ask, curiosity brimming but with no underlying judgement.
"No." His cheeks begin to redden as he glances at you briefly, a rare display of shyness from the seemingly endlessly confident man. "Don't laugh, it's ma first time." 
You continue your soothing gesture as you speak from the heart. 
"I wouldn't laugh! I have done this before, and I'm still so fucking nervous." Said nervousness escapes you in the form of a clipped laugh. "... If it wasn't obvious from the blushing and shaking." 
Johnny made you nervous, and yet peaceful all at the same time. His pull was irresistible, concrete, even if you stumbled to him on shaky legs. You knew what he might be feeling right now, if his heart was anything like yours. 
"Oh, am sweatin' a tonne right now, if ya cannae tell." His laugh and smile are almost disgustingly sweet, along with his unbracing honesty. Johnny really is something else, you think. 
You step away from him, intertwining your fingers into his much larger hand, as you start to lead the way out of the train station. "Better get you out into the fresh air then." 
The two of you walk in comfortable silence across the short distance until you're hit with the sun's warmth and a blast of cooler air. You start walking into the city centre, aiming to wander around for a little to kill time.  
As you walk, Johnny's grip tightens, and his hips sway playfully into your own, nudging you only to pull you back to his side with a bright grin on his face. "Meant what I said about not letting go of yer hand." 
"Keep it, it's yours." You squeeze back, looking up at Johnny to see him observing his surroundings keenly—must be a soldier thing, you muse. "Do you come here much?" 
"A little. Usually kept pretty busy back on base." He answers, glancing at you before taking in more of the area.
"Well, I guess you'll be getting familiar." You nudge his hips, returning his earlier playfulness as you flirt with him unashamedly.
His eyes are fixed on you now—a brow raised and a mirthful smile on his face at your assumption.
"Oh, will a now?" 
"I hope so." You admit sincerely, feeling the heat in your cheeks. If you keep smiling as much as you have so far, the expression will be permanently etched onto your face. "But that'll be more, so after we see the kitties. Our slots in 20 minutes, right?" 
"Aye, you excited?" He looks at you as if to confirm your true reaction, his eyes searching. 
"I am, honestly I was expecting just a normal coffee date but as soon as you suggested it, I couldn't let it go." You're practically rambling, but honestly, Johnny's suggestion was perfect. First, it let you know he enjoyed, or at least was at ease around cats, which was always a green flag. Plus, it was something different, catered to the two of you that shows he'd been thinking about it, and who wouldn't swoon at that? 
And on the off chance there was an awkward silence where you didn't know what to do, at least you had furry friends for you both to pay attention to. 
His eyes flicker with doubt for a moment, before he masks it with a distracting smile. "Was worried it might be a bit naff." 
If only he knew how much you had been freaking out about how cute you found the whole thing—and the fact that he might as well have just straight up said it was the beginning of your new dynamic together. You'd be his pet, the whole thing made perfect sense. "If it is naff, it'll only be because I might get jealous." 
"Ach, why?" He asks, seemingly finding the idea of you needing to ever feel such a thing ridiculous. 
You look up at him with soft, pleading eyes and a playful pout on your lips. "Well, you'll be giving all the cats head pats, but will you have any for me?" Even the tone of your voice is designed to tug at his heartstrings, slipping into your role so naturally. 
"I'll always have some for you, kitty." He laughs, letting go of your hand just to ruffle at your hair until you playfully shove him away—then he's grasping at you again, not wanting to relinquish contact for even a second. 
"Besides, they get to wear collars and flaunt it right in front of me. Don't they know what they're doing?" A suggestive smirk is directed at him, which he eagerly returns.
"Oh, you'll be in one before you know it, bonnie." He drops this news so casually, like it's the most natural thing in the world— as if the two of you are just having a regular conversation  "We'll come again, make them jealous right back." 
You swallow thickly, already aching for that eventuality—even if it may be a ways away.
"Sounds like a date." You mumble, filled with shyness and need. Coughing, you take a moment to compose yourself and steer the conversation away from something that will send your thoughts spiraling. "I did look through the website to see what kind of cats they had, and there's a cat with your name, different spelling though." 
Johnny pulls you closer, head dipping slightly to talk close to your ear, his tone dropping to a dangerous low. "Now I'm gonnae be the jealous one." 
His words make you shiver, make it difficult to keep walking like everything is fine—but you can flirt just like he can. You look up at him, fluttering your eyelashes prettily as you smile so sweetly. "I've only got eyes for one Johnny, don't worry." 
The blush that rises to his cheeks tells you that your act had the desired effect.
"That's what I like tae hear." He mumbles, squeezing your hand in an affectionate gesture. 
After wandering the high street for a short while and just enjoying each other's company, you circle back to your destination. The two of you enter the café, kick off your shoes (or boots for Johnny), and are seated at a table toward the back of the room— just a little out of sight from everyone else. You order a tea, while Johnny orders a flavoured coffee, giving you an insight into his tastes and preferences that makes you smile. 
You remind yourself to keep that information in mind for later, filing it away under your list of things about Johnny that you're sure will only expand throughout the day. 
When the server leaves the table, the two of you look upon each other fondly—shy smiles and burning cheeks. There are so many words at the tip of your tongue, so many things you want to say and ask and know about the man before you—as your brain buzzes with energy, so do your hands, feeling a little lost now they're no longer connected to any part of his body. 
It's easy to tell that Johnny sees more than he lets on, as he observes you before him and seemingly filters through your thoughts.
You return the favour and watch Johnny intently—eyes fixated as his tongue darts out to wet his lips, as his throat bobs as he swallows, and your brain is invaded with a deluge of inappropriate thoughts. 
Luckily, you're saved by the bell—a little tinkling noise from a cat beside you as it walks on by and demands your attention with a haughty meow.
"Look, there's Jonny!" You gasp quietly, the cat just a few feet away staring at you curiously. Taking it slow, you lower your hand to the ground and make no move toward the cat, waiting for it to get a smell and a feel for you. It isn't long before the cat in question is launching himself into your lap, drawing delighted laughs from both you and Johnny. 
You run your fingers through the thick fur of the white longhair, figuring out what spots the cat likes most. 
"He likes you." Johnny comments with amusement, shuffling ever so slightly closer until your thighs touch—his arm slips around the booth seat behind you as he settles in.
Your eyes meet his, your skin prickling with the intensity of his closeness. "Hopefully like the human version." 
"Definitely." The arm around the back of the seat comes to settle on your shoulders, as Johnny slowly moves his hand over to the cat and lets him sniff his fingers. Johnny's eyes brighten unmistakably when the feline nuzzles against his hand, and then he breaks out into a mischievous grin. "D'ya think he's cuter than me?" 
Johnny tilts his head to the side, almost puppylike as he preens at your attention—your eyes roaming over him as if you're making a difficult choice.
"Hmm. He has a lot more hair than you do, but I think you win." You give cat Jonny another stroke, while you smile at human Johnny with glee. "I'll have to feel how soft your hair is to make a real decision, though."
You say it mostly as a joke, but Johnny looks sincere as he urges you to do it. "Go on." 
You raise your hand, panic flowing through you as you hesitate for a moment—your fingers hovering inches away from Johnny's head. He leans into your touch, as you stroke through the short tufts of hair. "It's... so soft." You admit, pulling away quickly before you get carried away. 
"What did yer think it was gonna feel like?" Johnny asks with a barked laugh that you can't help but return. 
You crinkle your nose, because honestly, with the fact he clearly uses styling products to make his mohawk stand on end, you hadn't expected it to feel as soft and pleasant as it did. "I don't know, I can't imagine you have premium shampoo and conditioner in the army." 
"They're just naturally luscious locks, dinnae what to tell yer." He swishes his head playfully, as if he's flipping a head full of hair. 
"Effortlessly flawless, just like the rest of you." You tease him, joining in the joking. 
"Oh aye?" He asks with a wink, playfully fishing for more compliments. 
Not that he needs to fish, you think. Surely Johnny knows how handsome he is, and even before meeting him, you've gushed over his good looks.  
Still, you look upon him with genuine admiration and rapidly unfolding infatuation, you're exalting words tumbling freely from you without much thought. "You're just so... gorgeous, godlike, really."  
"As are you, bonnie. Cannae believe it." The look in his eyes is so real, so intense it makes your heart twinge, and leaves no room for you to doubt the sincerity of his words.
The two of you continue to stare into each other's eyes, enjoying the silent conversation that seems to pass between the two of you—the unspoken desire and adoration. 
"Are we just gonna spend the day staring at each other?" You giggle, breaking the moment when it becomes a little bit too intense for you.
"Wouldnae be such a bad thing." Johnny replies swiftly, ever so smoothly. 
Jonny the cat takes that moment to crawl off your lap, rubbing himself along Johnny as he all but demands pets from the man. Johnny indulges him instantly, large fingers scratching at that perfect point between the kitty's ears. Watching it shouldn't make you blush as much as it does.
"I think he likes you too." 
Johnny nods, a serious look on his face. "He knows we're chums."
"You must give really good head pats." You tease, wishing you could take the words back as soon as you said them. Was saying such a thing too much too soon? Was it too early to start to invoke elements of your potential future dynamic? 
Johnny meets your eye, his lips curling into a smirk as his eyes turn mischievous. "Wanna find out?" 
"Of course." Your response is instant, breathless—already offering yourself up to the man before you. You quickly remember your manners. "Please."
Johnny lets the cat on his lap jump down before he turns his attention to you fully, his hand settling on top of your head as he gently, carefully caresses you. Your body is quickly overwhelmed with shivers, an electric sensation coursing through you as his fingers dip deeper into your hair, massaging at the back of your neck until your eyes start to slip shut from the sheer bliss. 
They shoot back open when his fingers dip the chain on your neck, tugging sharply enough to get your attention without putting any real force behind it.
He leans in as if to share a secret, his smirk wolfish as you continue to react so perfectly to his touch. "Nice choker, by the way, pet." 
"Wore it just for you." You whisper, words weak as you tremble with so much need for Johnny. 
He's pulling back, taking all his warmth with you, before he strokes through your hair one more time. "That's my girl."
You could burst into flames right now, or simply melt under the intensity of his gaze. Not even an hour into date one, and you can already feel how wet this man has made you, how much he makes your heart call out to him. Your body and soul burn with need, already wanting more of him in every way.
"Fuck." You sigh in frustration, burying your head into his shoulder to hide your aroused expression. "I hate that there's so many people around right now." 
"Feeling naughty?" He chuckles in such a knowing way, because he knows exactly what he's doing and how you feel about it. 
You meet his gaze, eyes desperate and pleading for mercy. "Johnny, I feel drunk and mindless already and you haven't even actually done anything." 
He moves one of your hands from your thigh to his, holding onto it for a moment. He won't offer you mercy, but he will at least let you see how you make him feel too. "Can I borrow your hand?" 
"Why?" You ask reflexively, before your thoughts catch up to you. Oh. Oh!" 
You allow him to move your hand further up his thigh until your fingers graze over the hardness in his jeans, and you have to stifle your gasp with your other hand.
"Why am letting the cats come to me insteada the other way around." He whispers, voice gravelly and strained. 
The feelings both his words and his body inspire in you are dangerous, causing you to act as you palm at his cock through his jeans, listening to the hitches in his breath as you begin to stroke and caress. He's rock solid, all before you even laid a hand on him, and it's addicting to you that he's clearly in just as deep as you are—that he sees all this as you do. 
His hand moves to grab at your wrist, warning but not painful. "Ach, quit it." He groans, now on the receiving end of such wonderful torture.
"You started it." You whine, taking the chance to grasp him one more time before you stop your teasing. "Johnny you're fucking huge." 
Already your head spins just contemplating it, but Johnny only adds to your delirium. 
"Wait until it's stuffin' yer little cunt full." He purrs, lips brushing against your skin as he does, and you have to resist the urge to moan aloud.
You take a deep breath, forcing yourself to pull away from Johnny as you slip out of the booth. "Okay, I need a breather, join me at the cat tree when you've... calmed down." 
His smile is devilish, as he watches you go, content to spectate from afar as you coo over the kittens until he can join you.
Your time at the café passes quicker than either of you would have liked, and when it's time for you to vacate your table, the server approaches once more with a bill for the teas and coffees you had enjoyed. 
"Will you be paying together or separately?" They ask, which causes you to glance at Johnny questioningly.
You'd already, in your mind, prepared yourself to offer one or both halves of the bill.
Johnny speaks before you can. "Together." He insists, reaching for his wallet and offering his card to the server—not allowing any room for argument. 
You stay silent until the transaction is complete and the two of you are alone again, before you decide to address it. "Johnny... I would've paid." 
He shakes his head, flipping his wallet shut as he slips it into his back pocket. "Don't be ridiculous." 
You open your mouth to offer further protest, but his brows quirks as he almost challenges you to say another word.
Accepting defeat, you smile graciously and sincerely. "Thank you."
"My ma would pitch a fit if she found out I let yer pay." He continues to wave it off like it's nothing. "Let me spoil yer, aye? You'll hafta get used to it anyway. Okay, kitty?" 
You're not sure if it's the idea of him spoiling you or the nickname that makes you shiver the most, but the combination of both makes your head spin.
"I better start thinking of ways to repay you." You joke, throwing him a flirtatious wink as your hand snakes under his jacket to stroke at his chest. 
Johnny pulls back, face flashing with a realisation and a bright grin. "Oh, before I forget." 
You watch him, just a touch confused, as he reaches into his jacket and pulls out a small, patterned paper bag—he hands it straight to you. "Got yer a little somethin'" 
"Johnny..." You groan playfully, having not expected a gift, or having brought anything for him either. 
"It's nothin', promise." He smiles, encouraging you to open it. 
You peel open the paper bag to find a handmade, woven bracelet inside—one you've seen in countless stalls across your life, but the sight doesn't fail to make your heart sing.
"Oh my god, a friendship bracelet?" Your delighted gasp is genuine, as you feel touched by the gesture. 
"Needed to buy something at a souvenir shop. Y'know blend in, look like a tourist." He shrugs casually. "Thought of you." 
"I love it, thank you." You clutch it to your chest, genuinely so pleased. "Did you get yourself one?" 
"No?" Johnny plucks the bracelet from you, as he takes hold of your wrist and gets to tying the threads together. 
You pout, half joking and half serious, as you realise you won't be matching. "Wow, guess we're not friends then." 
"Puppy." His tone is warning and serious, drawing your attention to him so obediently. 
You swallow, nerves flooding through you. "Yeah?" 
His eyes never waver from yours, the sincerity within making you tremble. "The things I'll do to yer, friends don't do tae each other, yeah?" His low tone and the lack of a playful smile make you clench. 
"Understood." You nod dumbly, too awestruck and aroused to give him a real response. 
"Good girl." He grins, patting your wrist with the bracelet now attached. "Ready to go?" 
"Yeah..." 
He takes your hand in his once more, leading you back to the entrance to collect your shoes before you make it back onto the street. All the while, you turn his words over in your head, desperately holding on to the soaring feeling in your chest and the pit of arousal deep inside you. The effect he has on you is downright vicious.
"Where to now?" He asks, waiting for you to lead him around the city. 
The cooler air of the street helps calm you down, as you steer your thoughts back to more appropriate things. 
"I was thinking we could just walk around, window-shop. Maybe grab some dinner? When have I got you til?" 
"Last train is at 9." 
You sigh wistfully, already dreading the moment he has to feel. "Doesn't feel like long enough." 
"You'll be sick of me by then, lass." He chuckles, his smile still making you feel as full as it did the first time you saw it. 
"Not if you're sick of me first."
The two of you take in the city streets hand in hand for a little while, wandering around the shops and chatting about anything and everything. The conversation comes just as easy as it always does, and before long the two of you head for something to eat and drink at a nearby pub.
The atmosphere is cosy as the two of you tuck yourselves away at a table in the corner, order your food and drinks and get to chatting once more. You've already teased Johnny for ordering another coffee along with his meal, while he needled you for ordering several side dishes instead of a main. 
Both of you are excited to tuck in when the food arrives, and your conversation turns to getting to know more about the other. 
"So, what can you tell me about work?" You ask, finally feeling brave enough to broach the subject. Johnny's work will come with a lot of complications, you already know that, and one of them is likely that he will have to be careful about the things he shares. That doesn't stop your curiosity, though. 
"What d'ya wanna know?" He responds, open and earnest, as he dips a chip into his sauce.
You think for a moment, trying to conjure up your most pertinent questions. "Who do you work with?" 
Johnny swallows his food before wiping his hands on his napkin and pulling out his fun. He turns it to you when he brings up a photo, zoomed in on an older man in tactical gear.
"Well, first there's the Captain, Price. Best captain we could ask for." He comments, looking to you for your response.
Something in the Captain's eyes tells you he's dependable, and you can hear the respect he holds from Johnny's voice. 
"Interesting facial hair." You giggle, referencing the grown-out mutton chops that surprisingly suit him.
Johnny laughs, nodding in agreement. "Oh aye, a right character he is." He swipes along the photo to another man, much younger but tall too.
His smile is the first thing you notice, so bright and earnest, and with perfect teeth. 
"Gaz, Kyle. We're always getting into shit together." He adds with a mischievous chuckle. "Good lad though."  
"He looks nice." You offer, before scrolling across the image yourself. 
The next man in line is the tallest and broadest, his face hidden behind a skull mask that you find strangely endearing. "Ooh, cool mask." 
"That's Ghost." Johnny whispers, his voice more sombre than before.
The lack of a real name combined with the mask confuses you. "Just Ghost?" You ask. 
"Aye, unless he tells you otherwise. Scary motherfucker, loves a good dad joke though." Johnny humanises him, and the fondness within his voice doesn't escape you. 
All in all, you're left with more questions than answers, but you already feel privileged that Johnny has shared this much with you. Still, there's something pressing on your mind. "Everyone gets a nickname, what's yours?" 
"Soap." He answers firmly, a slight smile tugging at his lips.
"Soap? Why?" You can't say you're familiar with military nicknames, but Soap certainly seems like a strange one. 
"Am good at cleaning house." There's something underlying his playful tone that you can't quite put your finger on, something hinting at the inevitable darkness underneath. 
Johnny pushes past it like it never happened, turning the attention back on you. "How's your work, anyway?"
"Boring, though I imagine every job is compared to yours." You pause, taking a sip of your drink as you try to conjure up anything interesting about your career. "I work at my PC all day and the highlight is office gossip, which is often about one or two messy people fucking everyone in the building." 
"Like reality TV, but you live it?" He smirks, already seeming amused by the inevitable stories he'll get to hear. It seems Johnny might be a little bit of a gossip. 
"Yes, exactly!" You giggle, finding his intrigue endearing. "So I live in reality TV and you live in one of those gritty military shows." 
"Pretty much." He clicks his tongue, turning to take a sip of his own drink as his eyes glaze over again. 
You dread to think of all the things he's seen—witnessing them on TV is already too much for you, never mind seeing them for real. 
"... It must be tough." You offer earnestly, unsure of what else to say. 
"Sometimes, it's no' so bad, really." He shrugs, a tight smile on his lips. "I'd rather not talk about it while I'm with yer, not now anyway. That okay?" 
The softness in his eyes fuels the guilt gripping at your chest—you never meant to pry or make him uncomfortable, only to offer yourself up as a safe space. "Yeah, I'm sorry." 
"Nothing to apologise for. You'll have plenty of time to get to know that part of me, tha's all." He gives you a smile, a more earnest one this time, as he refuses to let either of you settle in a solemn moment. Instead, he redirects to the idea of you spending time together in the future. 
"Oh, I will?" You ask, voice hopeful—any negative emotions swirling away as Johnny reaches out to stroke your hand.
"Already planning our second date in ma head." He winks cheekily, that gorgeous smile back on his face in full effect. 
You settle back into your meal with a contented warmth spreading through you, feeling like there's nowhere else you'd rather be than by Johnny's side.
When you make it to the train station hours later, your heart starts to sink as you get closer and closer to your goodbye. The sun is only just beginning to dip into the sky, but the train schedule demands Johnny's return to Hereford. 
The two of you stand before the departure boards, savouring your last moments together as you hold each other close.
"How are yer getting home?" Johnny asks, ever the gentleman. 
You don't look him in the eye as you speak words you know he isn't going to enjoy hearing, in fact, you all but hide in his chest as you mumble. "I was planning on walking." 
He stiffens, pulling away slightly. "I'll order an uber." His words are laced with a protectiveness—and whether it's his instincts as a man, a soldier, or a dom you're not sure. Likely, it's a combination of all, making him determined to get you home safe and sound. 
You already know better than to argue with him on this. "I can order my own uber." 
His eyes soften, clearly relaxing upon hearing you relent so easily. "Promise?" 
You nod. "I swear, I will." 
You cuddle back into his chest again, the two of you clinging to each other. With your ear pressed against him, you can hear the steady rhythm of Johnny's heart, and you focus on it beating as you absorb every last moment with him. 
That moment is interrupted by the station announcement, informing you that the next train to depart will be his. 
"I better get going." He loosens his grip on you but still holds your arms as he stares down at you adoringly. 
"Don't want you to." You admit, voice a little forlorn. It already hurts to let him go, especially since you don't know when you'll see each other again. Johnny could be deployed again at any moment, and after making all of this real, the thought seems paralysing.
"I don't want to either, but I'll see yer soon." He whispers soothingly, a hand stroking across your cheek as the promise falls from his lips. 
You force yourself to smile, to feel strong in the face of your separation. Something within you urges you to put on a brave face, to show Johnny that you can be resolute for him. "We'll have to think more on a cool date number two idea." 
"We will." He nods, fingers still stroking oh so delicately across your cheek, as his eyes flicker down to your lips. "Bonnie?" 
"Yeah?" Your response is barely audible, your breath stolen as you know what's coming next, and you crave it so desperately. 
"Gonna kiss yer now, if tha's alright."
"Please." 
Johnny closes the final inches as he presses his lips to yours—soft and gentle at first as his hand cups your cheek, before the other comes to grasp at you too, holding you in place as he deepens the kiss. Your body floods with euphoria, desire, peace—as you kiss back with everything you have and pour all of yourself into him. 
The two of you are lost in each other, all grasping hands and lips caressing lips—two hearts opening up to each other. 
Johnny is the only one of you with enough restraint to pull away, settling his forehead against yours as he smiles unreservedly—his eyes shining with delight. "Fuckin' Christ." 
You push against his chest, putting some distance between you as you giggle. "You better go before we commit acts of public indecency." 
"Aye." He nods, yet he tucks a finger under your chin to angle your mouth up at him. "One more?" 
You nod enthusiastically before diving back in, savouring his lips on yours—the taste of coffee, the softness contrasted with his stubble, the hint of a groan that rumbles through him. 
"Okay." He sighs, forcing himself to step away, even if your hands remain linked. "Message me when you get home, yeah?" 
"I'll be texting you the second you leave, sorry." 
"Oh, I was planning on doing the same, dinnae worry." He winks.
Reluctantly, you let him go—instantly feeling a little more lost without him at your side. 
"See you soon, Johnny." You call out, smile soft as he makes his way over to the ticket gate. 
"Not if I see yer first, sweetheart." He calls back, then turns his attention away to scan his ticket at the barrier. 
On the other side, he catches your eye once more, offering you a tiny, playful salute before he turns to make his way to his train. 
You're left in a weird state between euphoria and emptiness—feeling like you have everything and nothing at the same time. Johnny was everything you could've wanted and more, and you're already counting down the days until you can see him again. 
You watch until his silhouette disappears, and turn your attention to your phone to get to ordering that uber you promised him you'd take. When you unlock your phone, a message from Johnny is waiting for you. 
Miss you already, my pretty kitty <3
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babystrcandy · 5 months
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the lucky one (pt. 5) | jjk
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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: 27.7K chapter summary: You and Jungkook had always endured your lives, watching everyone else live theirs. It was time you helped each other learn how to finally breathe like real people. warnings/notes: typos probably, explicit language, jk and oc are the sun and moon 100%, hoseok i’m going to kiss you, karaoke..., yoonmin (i don’t ship them irl, don’t worry; all fictional and for plot purposes), panic attacks, poem referenced: mock orange by louise gluck a barbie dream house but all the dolls are kitchen knives by cassandra de alba, oc and jk are like so in love it’s not even funny anymore, oc in her mid-2521 na heedo era, she’s not doing too good, reporters are vultures, mention of king lear, i’m telling you they’re embarrassingly in love, unprotected soft sex like...soft-soft extra soft, mention of icarus/the fall of icarus, i think that’s it but if i missed anything please let me know, i hope you enjoy, my loves <3
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chapter five: violet, roses are red, not blue ( ← previous | next → )  
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FIVE WAYS YOU CAN Help Someone With an Anxiety Disorder:
Validate Their Feelings by Letting Them Know It’s Okay Not to Be Okay
Don’t Tell Them to Calm Down
Encourage Them to Focus on Things They Can Change
Help Them to Help Themselves
Discourage the Use of Alcohol or Drugs to Cope With Anxiety
OK . . .
You blinked once. Twice. Then once more, trying to make sense of the words before your eyes.
The thing was: you’d dealt with anxiety before. Hell, you’d been taking to biting your nails until they bled for a while now. You knew how it felt to peel over the edge of a toilet and empty your stomach’s contents just before a game. But . . . you never knew how to handle it or how to deal with it in such abundant measures.
Why were you looking into it now one may ask? Easy. You didn’t care much about how much you could endure, because truth be told: you knew you could handle it. You knew it would pass and while it sucked, you knew it was something you could deal with. And besides, you could deal with a lot, so . . . 
But . . . 
There were certain things that made sense to you. While you knew you could deal with everything on your plate . . . and while . . . while you knew Jungkook could handle himself . . . for some reason, you just didn’t want him to have to. 
It was an odd thing: realizing you’d rather deal with both your problems and his than let him suffer. You supposed that was what it meant to be friends, though . . . and well . . . you’d never really had any, so this was all new territory for you.
So ever since a few months ago when Jungkook told you about what happened to him just last year, you’d taken to the internet. You spent countless hours researching anxiety disorders, how to help, what to say, what to do, and on the off chance he had a panic attack near you, you’d taken to researching what to do then, too.
It made you feel a little stupid, yes, but you didn’t know how else to help. You didn’t want to make him feel . . . different for telling you, but you also . . . you didn’t want him to feel so alone anymore. (You’d even bought a book on it all (it only made you feel more clueless). 
Now . . . you didn’t know much, but you hoped the research would do something. And perhaps it wasn’t too far off either. After all, you’d been helping Jungkook stay away from booze as much as possible, even deciding to stay sober with him and you thought it was helping some. But you knew the late night talks were what helped more. You didn’t know how to say this without sounding full of yourself, but you liked to think you were helping him. 
That was what you truly wanted. To help him in ways you couldn’t help yourself. You could handle everything as long as he didn’t have to. That . . . that was what felt right to you.
So . . . five ways you can help someone with an anxiety disorder, you read again. You felt a little more than clueless. Still.
“Hey, Sunshine—“ Jungkook called for you, snapping you out of your own mind— “come look. It’s done.”
Blinking quickly, you clicked off your phone out of habit, realizing where you were. A tattoo parlor.
Yeah . . . 
It was the weekend of the final tournaments. The win or lose all, and Yunis was up there right next to the big leagues. How? All because of Jungkook. These past few months you and him had been unbeatable. Sure, you’d lost a few, but . . . more often than not, the two of you would end a match with grins on your faces moments before you jumped into his arms and just let yourself . . . celebrate with him.
That was how it had been. You and Jungkook against the world. And to be honest, you quite liked it that way. (Granted, after your little outburst, your teammates had stopped talking about Jungkook altogether and started to . . . almost but not really but also kind of . . . respect him more (except Wooshik, but whatever). That made things a whole lot better, but it was still just you and him and you were sure it would be for the rest of the season.)
Anyway . . . you were getting off-topic. 
The point was: it was almost the weekend of the final tournaments and Yunis was staying at some hotel somewhere in Ulsan. And well, while you and Jungkook were watching some movie in his hotel room, he got an idea. He wanted a new tattoo. For good luck, he’d claimed, and you . . . you hadn’t gotten a tattoo since that one mistake of one. But somehow, someway, Jungkook had managed to drag you out of the hotel and into the nearest tattoo shop he could find on the GPS. 
Which landed you there: sitting in the waiting area while Jungkook went first. (He wanted it to be a surprise. That was what he told you, which you thought was a little silly, but whatever.)
And then it would be your turn. 
Actually . . . 
You turned to face Jungkook, taking in the dopey grin he had spread across his face while he peeked at you through the door leading to the tattooing room. It was your turn.
“Hmm?” you hummed in questioning.
Jungkook shook his head. “Come look,” he repeated as he gestured for you to follow him. “And then I’ve got a couple ideas for yours. Don’t let me forget. And don’t pretend to forget. Got it?”
You rolled your eyes with a huff, but nevertheless, followed after him, shutting the door behind you. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught a glimpse of the artist, but, well, you had never been good at greeting people, so what should’ve been a small greeting wave, turned into you just staring at him with some kind of . . . smile on your face. And when you realized that was so not the way to go, you turned your attention back to Jungkook, grabbing onto the loop of his jeans as he led you to the mirror on the other side of the room.
Jungkook glanced to where you clung onto him, raising his brows as he looked between your face and your hand. “Good?”
You blinked. Then realized what you were doing. Then well . . . you cleared your throat and attempted to tear your hand from his body, but before you could, his fingers curled around your wrist. And without a second glance, Jungkook guided your hand back to him, allowing it to slip into his back pocket. 
All you could do was stare at the back of his head in shock. His dark hair was long now. Longer than it had ever been, to the point it could only be tied back with a hair tie or it’d be in his face all day, which was his go-to most days considering the days were long and hot. And somehow, he looked more like himself like that. He seemed to smile more, too, and you always managed to smile back even when you least expected it.
But you couldn’t help it. He was just . . . well . . .
(Sometimes he made you wonder if you should really find your friend this attractive but you ignored that most days.)
Whatever . . . the point was: you had trouble wrapping your head around his touch; around the fact that while he wasn’t exactly yours, he didn’t mind your hands on him at any time. No one had ever liked your touch this much. You had always been too cold; too harsh; too rough, but around him, you felt like your touch was almost . . . soft.
And that was what always shocked you.
“Are you drooling?” Jungkook asked, snapping you out of your own head.
Only then did you realize you had been staring at him for quite a while now, and well, he would always tease you about that. Because he was . . . Jungkook.
Your brows scrunched together. “What?”
But he didn’t bother to repeat his question. No, instead, he took his thumb and swiped at your bottom lip, inspecting it in thought. “Yep, just as I thought—“ he jutted his thumb toward you— “drool.”
Glaring, you stepped closer. “I don’t drool,” you nearly huffed.
“Mmm, that’s not what the evidence says.”
“It’s chapstick.”
“Really?”
“Really.” You glared a little harder. “Will you just show the tattoo?”
Jungkook only grinned.
And then, he turned his attention to his tattooed arm, slowly pulling up the sleeve of his shirt. Your eyes stayed trained on his arm the entire time, expecting some sort of skull or something stupid, but instead . . . no . . . as he pulled up his sleeve, he revealed a vine of some sort of blue flowers traveling from the empty space left on his lower forearm to his hand, covered by a saniderm wrap.
“What flower’s that?” you questioned, eyes still trained on the fresh tattoo as you carefully brought your hand to his arm. 
“Morning glories,” he hummed while he watched you slowly turn his arm to get the full view. “My mom says they’re a pain. They grow everywhere like weeds. Once you plant one, that’s it, she says. They grow like wildfire. A nuisance.” He laughed softly. “Figured it fit.”
“It’s pretty,” you murmured with a small smile. “Fits the rest.” You tilted your head to the side a little. “Kinda looks like the snake is wrapping around it.”
Jungkook nodded. “Cool, right?”
It was. It actually really was. 
“It’s nice,” you settled with instead, feigning disinterest. 
But Jungkook knew you well. “Admit it,” he pushed on, leaning toward you. “Admit you’re impressed.”
Nearly rolling your eyes, you finally huffed, “Yes, fine, it’s actually cool, Kook.”
“So I’ve impressed you?”
“Well, considering I thought you were going to get a dick, yes, I suppose I’m impressed,” you muttered with a small shrug. 
Jungkook snorted. “Well.”
Oh god. No, he didn’t.
Furrowing your brows, you pegged the question, “Please tell me you did not get a dick and balls tattooed on you.”
His face screwed up as he tilted his head to the side in thought.  “Well . . . “
“Kook.”
Pursing his lips into a cute pout, he offered you his other hand, showing off his fingers. And there on his ring finger was the number three, and on his middle was a sideways U. Meaning, yes, Jeon Jungkook did, in fact, get a small yet visible yet inconspicuous yet not that inconspicuous at all, penis tattooed on his fingers. And no, no, you were not surprised.
“Really?” you deadpanned.
Jungkook shrugged. “Whoops.”
“As long as you don’t think this is a matching tattoo kind of thing,” you started off with your finger pointing directly into his chest. “Because, I’m telling you right now, Jungkook, I am not getting a dick tattooed on my body.”
And Jungkook only snorted, shaking his head. “No, god, I’m stupid, not an idiot. I have my designs in my bag.”
Designs? Your brows twitched. He spent that much time on this? But—
But Jungkook was already one step ahead of you, walking from you toward where his bag lay on the ground beside the tattoo chair. He rummaged through its contents until he clasped his hand around a small sketchbook before he took it out and reapproached you, already flipping through it.
Flip, flip, flip . . . and flip, until . . . he paused on a page and slowly offered it toward you with an almost shy (?) look on his face. Jungkook, shy? You almost didn’t believe it, but still, you took the sketchbook from him without another word, letting your eyes take in the sketch before your eyes.
It was another flower. Well, a stem with a few flowers. Yellow this time. And a little different from Jungkook’s. Perhaps it was a little more peculiar. 
“It’s an evening primrose,” Jungkook began while your eyes stayed trained on the sketch, still analyzing it. “My mom used to have them in our garden back home. They, uh, only bloom at night. I remember every night we’d watch them. They’d do this little shake and—“ he laughed, softly at first, then a little louder— “my mom would say it was like they were yawning.”
You traced your fingertips over the sketch, remembering your own little memories of the silly flowers. That was why you remembered them. They were your mom’s favorite. She used to plant like five batches each spring and force you to come outside and watch them with her, and yes, you said force because you had always been a disagreeable child. But still, every night, you watched them.
“They’re my mom’s favorite,” you voiced aloud with a small smile playing on your lips.
“Yeah,” he hummed under his breath. “My mom said she gives her a bundle every year for her birthday.”
Glancing up, you nearly beamed. “Really?”
He nodded. “Really.”
“I guess they’d be proud of us, hmm?” you murmured, searching his face. When you realized what you’d said, you quickly cleared your throat. “For becoming chummy, you know?”
His brows twitched. “Yeah . . . I guess they would.”
A beat of silence.
Then . . . Jungkook cleared his throat, shaking his head of his thoughts as his eyes turned back to the sketch. “Anyway, uh, they remind me of home, so I thought maybe they’d do the same for you,” he allowed himself to say in a hushed tone. “But, I mean, there’s others. The drawing’s kinda shit, so—“
“I like it,” you cut him off as you held the sketchbook closer to you. “I’ll—“ you shrugged— “I’ll get it.”
Jungkook’s brows nearly shot up to his hairline. “Really?”
You only nodded. “Why not? It’s cool. It means something I think, so yeah, fuck it, I’ll get it. Besides—“ you flicked his nose— “the sketch is not half bad. You didn’t tell me you could draw.”
“That’s because I can’t.”
“Bullshit.”
“OK—“ he agreed with a shrug— “hand me the tattoo gun. I can give you a Jungkook original.”
Narrowing your eyes, you couldn’t help but purse your lips into an unamused grimace. “No, thanks, I’ll end up walking out with testicles drawn on my forehead,” you muttered with just a little bite in your words.
And that got him. Jungkook laughed, his eyes crinkling first before a grin broke out onto his face. All the while, he playfully ruffled your hair, gesturing for you to sit down in the chair a second later. And you let it happen, a small dopey smile on your face.
(And you almost realized that while Jungkook had been smiling more lately, you, too, had never smiled so much in your life. You supposed you had him to thank for that . . . 
Supposedly.)
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It wasn’t your reflection which caught your attention in the mirror. No, rather, what your eyes had landed on was the fresh tattoo of an evening primrose placed in the center of your sternum. It was almost similar to Jungkook’s, yet different just like the two of you, and the funny thing about it was . . . it kept managing to bring a small, almost unnoticeable smile to your face. 
“What’s got you smiling?” you heard from behind you as Jungkook appeared in the doorway of the hotel room’s bathroom (completely shirtless, might you add).
“Oh, nothing—“ you shrugged as you reached for a comb (totally not just pretending to untangle the ends of your hair), while maintaining eye contact with him in the mirror— “just the fact you whined and whined about how much pain your arm was in for like, what? An hour after?” Turning slowly to face him, you puffed out your bottom lip into a pout. “Such a pussy.”
His brows raised—a look of challenge. “Yeah?”
A beat of silence.
Another shrug was your only response.
Jungkook fought off a grin, crossing his arms. “I’m a . . . pussy?” Pushing off the doorway, he took a step toward you, head cocked to the side slightly. “Hmm?”
Mirroring him, you crossed your arms over your chest. “That’s what I said.”
“Oh, is that what you said?” he mused, mocking your voice. 
And before you could even protest or drop your jaw in shock, he was in front of you. He caged you in, leaning his hands on the counter behind you. One more inch and his nose would be touching yours, but you didn’t dare close that gap.
“You’re such a child,” you hissed in a hushed tone as if his proximity had made the room that much smaller and you that much more exposed.
“Mmm, am I?” he mused, his eyes trailing over your features with such languid strokes, you wondered how you ever handled his gaze before.
You raised your head ever so slightly.
To which, obviously, Jungkook found amusing. With that small, toothy, almost endearing smile on his face, he closed the gap, his nose brushing yours. “Kiss me then,” he murmured, pressing closer, just enough to brush his lips against yours in a feathering touch.
And you began to wonder how on earth you ended up becoming putty in his hands. “What if I bite you instead?” you murmured, but despite your words, you leaned into his touch.
Resting his forehead against yours, he hummed, “Well, I wouldn’t be opposed to that either.”
You felt yourself grin. “Good.”
The only response you received was his lips pressing against yours. You leaned closer, pleasantly sighing into the kiss as a grin tipped onto his face. His hands tickled your sides, lightly dancing across your skin before settling on your rib cage just below the crescents of your breasts. 
(Perhaps you forgot to mention that you were entirely topless . . . 
What? It was uncomfortable with the fresh tattoo.
Whatever.)
And well honestly, you couldn’t resist not having him close. So what if it bothered your tattoo? He felt better than any pain relief. 
Quickly, you found yourself tangling your hands in his dark, grown-out hair as you pulled him close enough to have your bare chest pressed against his. It made you feel close . . . closer than you had ever felt with anyone . . . closer than you had ever let yourself. His grip tightened on you instantly, his hands squeezing your sides once more before he gently sucked your bottom lip under the grasp of his teeth.
It only deepened from there. You melted into him, allowing him to meld his tongue against yours. The act squeezed a soft sigh out of you, to which Jungkook couldn’t contain himself. He smiled widely against your lips, and then his arms were around your thighs, lifting you up onto the sink counter. And once you were supported by the countertop, he stepped in between your parted legs as his hands found your face, gently caressing your jaw while he all but sucked on your tongue like he had done so many times before.
“Stop trying to eat my face,” you chuckled against his lips, still kissing him back while your arms wrapped around his neck.
He shook his head, but the small grin you felt against your lips gave him away. “Stop turning me on then,” he murmured back. “It’s just not fair, Daisy baby.”
Daisy baby. That was a new one.
Your brows twitched without your permission as your eyes traced his features. More specifically, your gaze fixed on his lips, watching as he tongued his lip ring—a habit he had accumulated over the years you supposed. 
It made it harder to focus on anything except him. And for the second time that night, you wondered how on earth you ended up being at his mercy time and time again. 
It just felt so unlike you. So different. So new. So . . . unfamiliar. 
Did you like it? 
You questioned yourself over and over again these past months. It felt like something you shouldn’t be able to feel. Really . . . it just made you wonder and wonder and wonder.
Until . . . Yes, you decided. Oddly enough, yes, you did like it. You quite liked feeling like this.
But what exactly was this?
. . . Your eyes met his, and your gaze softened instantly. You had no idea what this was. No idea . . .
Jungkook caught onto the look which crossed your face and leaned forward, burying his face into the crook of your neck. “What’s got you lookin’ like that?” he sighed against your skin, pressing open-mouthed kisses anywhere he could.
And your eyes fluttered shut as you melted into his touch. “Nothing,” you hummed, angling your neck to give him more access to your body. “I just—“ 
But a knock at the door halted the words from leaving your tongue.
The two of you paused.
A beat of silence.
Another knock came.
Jungkook pulled back and your eyes met, confusion passing between the two of you. 
Who could be knocking at the door at this hour? Especially Jungkook’s? (Because, really, after the whole meltdown you had at dinner after the first tournament . . . everyone had steered clear of the two of you. So you wondered once more . . . who could be at the door?)
No words were exchanged between the two of you, Jungkook only took the step into the hall, and peered through the peephole on the door. You watched in silence as he stared a second too long, his posture stiff before he sighed and disappeared back into the room. And well, in utter confusion, you hopped down from the counter, following after him only to find he had put on a tee and grabbed another, moments before he handed that very shirt to you with a tight-lipped smile.
“Who is it?” you whispered, your voice hushed as you put on the shirt he’d handed you, covering your bare chest.
Jungkook tongued his inner cheek, but before you could even press the question, his face softened. A small, stiff smile met his lips as he reached out and caressed your chin with his pointer, while his thumb brushed your bottom lip. “Keep your claws in,” he murmured, that small smile still on his face as if he thought that alone would be enough to ease your wandering mind.
“What—“ 
But he was already gone. 
His touch left you and you watched as he approached the door, while you followed slowly behind. The door was swinging open the next second, revealing—
Oh. You blinked in shock.
In the doorway stood Hoseok, whose back was facing you at that very moment while he talked to . . . Seulki?
Huh?
Tilting your head in confusion, you caught Seulki’s wide dark eyes. Her eyes widened further at the sight of you two as she quickly smacked Hoseok’s shoulder and pointed behind him. The action caused Hoseok to immediately shut his mouth as he slowly turned around, his lips down-turned into an awkward expression as his gaze darted between you and Jungkook.
Furrowing your brows, you sent him a look. 
Hoseok blinked back in response. Seulki nervously waved before trying to pass it off as her attempting to scratch the back of her head. And Jungkook . . . well . . . he was the one to clear his throat, putting an end to the silence. (You, however, caught onto the fact that his eyes remained glued to his feet the entire time.)
That . . . that made you step forward, until you stood beside Jungkook, crossing your arms over your chest as you leaned against the door frame. “Something wrong?” you questioned the two of them, keeping a close eye.
Hoseok opened his mouth, hesitating slightly. “Uh—“
“We were looking for you guys,” Seulki cut in with a wide smile on her face. “So it’s good that you’re both—“ she glanced at Hoseok, starting to fidget with her hands as she cleared her throat— “here. Hoseok?”
Hoseok eyed her, a tad startled before he nodded in agreement. “Right, yeah,” he hummed with a clap of his hands. “We were gonna meet up with some friends from college in Busan for karaoke. They’re just . . . they’re coming to the final tournaments and we thought ‘why not, let’s go out’.” He laughed . . . awkwardly if you might add. “Anyway . . . We’ve got two extra train tickets. Could be yours . . . ?”
Quirking a brow, you glanced between them. “How much?”
A perplexed look crossed both their faces. But it was Seulki who spoke up first. “What?” she mumbled, slightly puffing out her bottom lip into a small pout—something she happened to do a lot that you’d caught onto. “Nothing. We just . . . “
As her words trailed off, Hoseok picked up where she left off. In fact, he took it a step further. “We . . . “ He quickly shut his mouth, shaking his head at his thoughts before he raised his head once more, eyes now locked on Jungkook rather than hiding from him. It didn’t matter if Jungkook didn’t look him in the eye, it seemed Hoseok had something to get off his chest as he took a literal instead of metaphorical step toward him. “I . . . I feel bad . . . for how we treated you. I assumed things. I never asked you. I never thought to. I should’ve gotten to know you before listening to anything Wooshik had to say. I misjudged you. For that, and everything else . . . I’m—“ he touched a hand to his chest before he gestured toward Seulki— “we are sorry.”
And while his words lingered in the air, you hadn’t realized that the stiffness in your muscles had slowly loosened and your gaze was now set solely on Jungkook. How could it not be? 
With a careful glance, you took in Jungkook’s demeanor. It was clear he, too, was taking in Hoseok’s words. His head was still lowered, his eyes trained on his feet, but they kept moving in rapid motions as if he were fighting with himself to not look up. And all you could think was: look up . . . please, please look up.
You hadn’t expected it when you first saw them in the doorway, but you weren’t an idiot. Hoseok and Seulki had come here to make amends. They had come here to admit their wrongs. You couldn’t be angry with that . . . not when you had seen just how happy Jungkook had been the first time he’d been able to . . . see someone.
If he looked up . . . then that would mean he would be OK. If he looked up . . . then maybe he could breathe a little easier. And truly . . . as odd as it sounded . . . all you wanted was for him to be . . . happy.
If Jungkook looked up . . . all of that could be possible.
“Look—“ Hoseok began again, nearly reaching out to pat Jungkook on the shoulder, but he stopped himself before he made contact— “Uh . . . you don’t seem like a bad guy . . . so I was wondering if we could all hang out like teams are supposed to, you know? Not just to apologize . . . but to . . . be friends, I suppose, is what I mean . . . “
You swallowed hard, fighting with yourself not to speak for him. Look up, Jungkook, you repeated over and over again in your head, watching him with careful eyes. Look up. Please . . . please . . .
Another beat of silence, more painful than the last.
Then . . . 
. . . Jungkook raised his head, and his eyes met Hoseok’s, and you knew what his answer would be.
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In no way, shape, or form could you comprehend how you managed to make it to some random karaoke bar in the middle of Busan around, like, two in the morning. Hell, you didn’t even remember hopping onto the midnight train to get to the city in the first place, but there you were, dressed in whatever the fuck you could find in your suitcase that wasn’t a badminton uniform, and you were sitting next to one of Hoseok’s friends (Namjoon, you thought his name was.)
And while Namjoon managed to impress you with his choice in cologne, he had been talking your ear off for the past half hour and you couldn’t think straight for the entirety of the time he’d been telling you about well . . . you honestly had no idea what he was talking about. In truth, you couldn’t really hear much . . . because your mind was elsewhere. Because, because, because for the last half hour that Namjoon had been at your side, your eyes had been on Jungkook.
Now . . . you knew how that sounded, but you had a reason. You see, Jungkook wasn’t alone either. He had been sat next to another one of Hoseok’s friends (let’s call him Yoongi and hope you got that right) . . . and he was like . . . looking at him. No, no, like . . . he was looking him in the eyes . . . that is why you couldn’t stop staring, couldn’t stop trying to eavesdrop, couldn’t stop just . . . just . . . just whatever!
Was it embarrassing to say you were proud of him?
But . . . you were . . .
As much as you hadn’t wanted to admit it, he’d become the only person you’d ever been this close to in your life. He’d once told you you were the only one he could see . . . the only one he wasn’t afraid of to look in the eyes, and now . . . in just a few hours, he’d allowed himself to hear people, see them, interact with them beyond the restrictions he’d put on himself the entirety of his contract with Yunis.
And the little thing that made you feel all that more warm, was the attentive, genuine smile on his face as he nodded along to whatever Yoongi was saying. That . . . that made a smile of your own touch your lips as you took in the scene.
“You agree?” you heard from beside you, Namjoon’s voice startling only slightly enough to have you abruptly whipping your head in his direction with a confused expression on your face.
You blinked, furrowing your brows. “Hmm?” you hummed in a questioning tone as you snuck a glance back at Jungkook, only to find . . . oh . . . only to find him lazily shifting his gaze from Yoongi to you with an amused smirk on his face. (Great, so he had seen you looking at him. Great. That he’ll really get you later on with.) “Do I agree—what?”
Slowly, you forced yourself to tear your eyes from Jungkook and finally face Namjoon, who seemed to be oblivious to everything else. You weren’t even really sure if he had heard your question or if he were too busy inside his own head, questioning himself. But it didn’t matter either way, because . . . the music cut out, Hoseok and Seulki’s voices died down, followed by their out of breath laughter, and then:
“Alright, who’s next?” Hoseok called out, offering up the microphone.
Immediately, Yoongi shook his head, leaning back to indulge in his drink rather than the question at hand. And no one else could get another word in before, Seulki and Hoseok had caught onto this little act, only they didn’t exactly . . . go for him. No, rather, Seulki, specifically, all but jumped toward Jungkook. “I vote Jungkookie goes!” she declared as she leaned forward to dangle the microphone in front of his face.
“Agreed! Jungkook-ah, onstage now!” Hoseok exclaimed, closing the distance to Jungkook before he wrapped a hand around his arm, urging him to stand to his feet and take over the spotlight. 
(Clearly . . . something you hadn’t mentioned . . . everyone but you and Jungkook were . . . perhaps maybe a little bit or a lot or yeah, yeah, yeah . . . they were drunk. (So you could see how . . . this had happened.))
And Jungkook all but turned cherry-cheeked. “No, no, I can’t,” he laughed it off, trying to wave them away. “I’m a horrible singer, really.”
Lie.
He once sang for your elementary school’s talent show . . . you know . . .
But the others persisted, whining and whining and blah blah blah—
. . . Five minutes later, no doubt, Jungkook finally gave in with a playful groan. He took the microphone from Seulki, slowly making his way to the center of the room you guys had booked, and then you noticed something . . . his eyes had only been on you the entire time. And suddenly, you began to wonder what that meant, wrapping your arms around yourself as your brows raised in question.
Until:
“Listen,” Jungkook began, a half-grin sliding onto his face as he maintained eye-contact with you, “I’ll sing . . . but I need my sidekick.”
Raising your brows, you knew you’d kill him for that later. But still you didn’t move. All you could do was shake your head, because no, no, no you did not want to sing in front of anyone. 
“OK. OK,” Jungkook nodded slowly to himself, but you knew him better than that. He had something planned. And you could just tell by the way he began to walk toward the system in order to plug in the song that was somehow someway on his mind. Then, he turned back around, both microphones in his hands, his eyes solely on you with a mischievous glint in them as the first seconds of the song began to blast through the speakers.
Squinting your eyes in skepticism, you watched him. 
He only sent you a knowing grin.
And you suddenly had a feeling you knew exactly what he had put on.
“ . . . She ain’t got no money,” Jungkook began, trying his best to sing, but his grin kept growing and growing just as your face fell and fell and fell. “Her clothes are kind of funny. Her hair is kinda wild and free. Oh, but—”
You nearly smacked a hand to your face.
“—Love grows where my Rosemary goes,” he continued, beginning to bob his head now to the music. “And nobody knows but me.” Clearing his throat over the music, you knew you were in for it. “Come on, Rosemary, on your feet. Let’s go. Let’s go. Let’s go, because! Love grows where my Rosemary goes! And nobody knows like—Come on!—me!”
And finally . . . finally after being hounded and hounded, you unstuck yourself from your seat, your eyes solely on him as if it were just the two of you against everything, and then you took the microphone from his hand, and you knew you’d sealed your fate. Shaking your head at him, you playfully rolled your eyes moments before you glanced at the screen, checking where you were in the song.
Great, you thought. Fuck . . . OK. Clearing your throat again, this was your Hell. “I’m a lucky fella,” you began, your voice nearly tone-deaf, and certainly agony to the ears. “And I’ve just got to tell her that I love her endlessly.”
“Oh, because!” Jungkook jumped in, bumping you with his elbow. “Love grows where my Rosemary goes, and nobody knows like me!”
Snorting once, you continued for him, “There's something about her hand holding mine. It's a feeling that's fine,” you hummed along, realizing that perhaps . . . this . . . was . . . fun. And slowly, so slowly, you didn’t even realize you were doing it . . . you had begun to dance along, following Jungkook’s lead. “And I just gotta say—”
“Hey! She’s really got a magical spell and it's working so well that I can't get away,” he drawled out, perhaps carrying out his words a tad too much, but there was something about the smile on his face while he did it that you didn’t care. 
That was when you really lost it. Perhaps lost it was the wrong word, but that was when you really stopped caring if there were other people in the room, about keeping up your image or whatever. It just felt like it was you and Jungkook and the music.
And before you knew it, the song had ended, cheers came from Hoseok’s friends, but your eyes were solely on Jungkook. They had never really left him, because this was the song you’d sang at the talent show in elementary. It was also the song you had been too afraid to sing alone . . . because you were perhaps maybe not a shy child, but an antisocial one. And Jungkook . . . Jungkook had offered to sing with you. He’d never wanted to be in the talent show, but you . . . you always wanted the spotlight, and so, it was because of him that you were able to have it that day. Otherwise you probably would’ve spent the entire night crying in the school’s bathroom because you couldn’t force yourself on stage. And he . . . he had saved you back then. 
It seemed he always was . . . 
That made a smile slowly grow on your face, but before it could form into a toothy grin, cheers erupted throughout the room. Eyes widening, you glanced toward the noise, realizing it was not just the two of you but rather the two of you and . . . them.
But this them didn’t feel malicious as it had in the past. No, in fact, before you could even blink, Seulki was already jumping toward you, jumping up and down while she beamed about how that had to be one of her all time favorite songs. And Jungkook . . . well . . . Hoseok had reached him in seconds, clasping a hand on his shoulder as he went on and on about how he had no idea he had such a voice, asking if he’s taken lessons, and blah blah blah . . . all the while everyone else shouted requests at the two of you, hooting for an encore.
It . . . well . . . to say the least, it managed to bring that smile back onto your face, and finally you let yourself look away from Jungkook, knowing you could trust the others with him, and suddenly all you could see was Seulki. You’d never had many friends. Perhaps competition or surface people, but a little part of you saw Yurim, your college doubles partner and probably the closest you’d ever had to a friend, in Seulki. 
Except unlike all those years ago . . . this time you embraced Seulki with a hand on her shoulder and a warm smile touching your face as you finally let yourself tell her the little story of how the song came to be for you. Now, yes, she was drunk out of her mind and would probably forget about all of this tomorrow, but you didn’t care. 
It felt . . . nice . . . to talk to people like . . . this. And—And this feeling when you did . . . Oh what was that feeling called? Like, like warmth but better, perhaps innocent? 
Were you . . . happy?
And then . . . you began to wonder . . . was this what it felt like to have . . . friends? Were you allowed to feel like this? Like . . . like you were happy?
In that moment, you glanced back at Jungkook for a brief second just as he did the same. Your eyes met, and you knew he felt the same. And then: relief, relief, relief . . . 
A beat of silence. 
In it more relief. 
Beat.
Beat.
Beat . . .
But . . . like all things . . . balance. A knock on the door ripped that blissful beat of relief from your grasp. Brows furrowing, you slowly turned to see a blurry shadow just behind the door, indicating that someone was . . . asking for permission to come in? But . . . who? As far as you knew everyone who was there was supposed to be there.
You wondered and wondered, trying to tilt your head to see if you could make it out. And then you heard them call his name, but you didn’t believe it at first. You didn’t quite hear it. Seulki was jumping beside you, and you could have sworn you heard Yoongi announce that it was probably his partner at the door.
And then as Yoongi slowly walked toward the door, opening it to greet the man with this adoring look in his eyes, your heart plummeted to your stomach. Instantly, your eyes snapped to Jungkook, and you saw the entire world crumble before you. You tried to reach him but Seulki was still holding onto you, and you couldn’t breathe, you couldn’t speak, you couldn’t move, you couldn’t do anything but stare and watch as the world fell and fell and fell, leaving you with no way to put it back together.
Amongst the chaos, your eyes fluttered back toward the door and you heard his name once more. Jimin, you could have sworn Hoseok had called out, and you knew this was reality. 
Like an old ghost, Jimin had appeared at the door, almost unrecognizable from the boy you remembered in college. His hair now honey blonde, his cheeks full and almost rosy, with this way about him that just screamed he was different now. It made you wonder how different he was now than a year ago when Jungkook left his past behind him. 
Breathing carefully, everyone’s attention was on Jimin, but you caught sight of it first. Jimin’s eyes scanned the room and then . . . then they met yours. Your heart stopped again and you could have sworn his mirrored yours. His eyes widened only slightly, until they shifted just to the right of you, and you watched in silence as his lips parted, his brows twitching upward.
That was weird.
You would have expected him to meet the sight of Jungkook with anger . . . but the only expression on Jimin’s face was that of pain . . . perhaps . . . yearning . . . ? For something . . . ?
And finally, you allowed yourself to glance back at Jungkook, and you began to wonder if it truly were possible to die of a broken heart.
Jungkook stood stagnant, unmoving without even a single rise and fall of his chest. No, instead, his hand was clasped over his chest as if he were in physical pain, but he still didn’t move. Until he did.
Before you could reach him, Jungkook was off. He made a B-line for the door, pushing past everyone while they were distracted by Jimin’s appearance.
And you were a step behind him.
“Kook, where you going?” you briefly heard Hoseok call to Jungkook. “Jimin’s got to show you his vocals, man. He’ll give you a run for your money.”
But Jungkook wasn’t reachable. “I—um—restroom,” he barely strained out and then he was gone, slipping out the door and out of your sight.
You tried to keep up, desperately pushing past the others as you reached the door as well, but a hand on your upper arm stopped you in your tracks. Your eyes flicked from the hand on your arm to the face of the person it belonged to. 
Jimin . . . he was the one who had stopped you. Of course.
But you had never been easily swayed. You quickly ripped your arm out of his grasp, and left without a look back. But it was no use. The hallway was empty. Jungkook was gone.
So what? You’d find him. You had to.
Without another thought, you didn’t even wait to hear the door close behind you as you began to stalk down the hall, but a voice called out to you. 
“Hey, hey, wait,” the voice pleaded.
But you knew this voice well. You knew Jimin well, and you didn’t care what he had to say, not when Jungkook was missing.
Attempting to make another run for it, you put one foot in front of the other, only to be pulled back. Jimin wrapped a hand around your upper arm, pulling you into him and turning you to face him all at once. And you saw that hurt expression once again, but you didn’t care, you didn’t care, you didn’t care! Jungkook was out there and he was alone and you needed him to know you were never leaving his side again.
So fuck it, fuck it, fuck it. You didn’t care!
Desperately, you tried to peel his hand from your arm, but his words halted you in your tracks.
“Is he OK?” Jimin quietly asked, his voice barely above a whisper, almost as if he were ashamed of his own words. 
Taking a step back, you could only shake your head at him. “Are you fucking serious?” you all but hissed, the words burning on your tongue as you finally ripped your arm out of his grasp. “Now you care? Now you want to act like—“ Your words were ripped from your lips, unable to finish the sentence. Instead, another shake of your head came. “You’re fucking unbelievable . . . Of course he’s not OK. He hasn’t been for a while, and you would know that if you hadn’t—“ 
The words died on your tongue, and Jimin watched. While your eyes betrayed you, watering slightly, Jimin looked as if he couldn’t believe his own eyes. His gaze darted across your face, his brows raised in concern (?) while he watched as you fought against the floodgates, trying to bite back the tears in your eyes and the lump in your throat. 
And finally, you were able to force out the words: “He’s not OK. He’s really—“ you quickly exhaled— “really not.”
A beat of silence.
You swallowed that lump in your throat while a look of realization crossed Jimin’s face. It was funny . . . he looked completely different now than he did years ago . . . or maybe it was the look he wore. It was something you had never seen on him before. 
But you really didn’t care.
Sucking in a breath, you cleared your throat and began to back away. “And he needs me so I have to—“
But Jimin cut you off. “So he told you?” he asked almost a little too hesitantly as he took a step toward you.
Nodding, you swallowed hard. “Yes.”
His brows raised. “You guys are . . . good?”
“Yes,” you muttered, nodding again. “He’s—We’re friends.”
Jimin blinked. “Oh.”
“What?”
“I just . . . I didn’t see that coming . . . “
“Well—“ you bit your inner cheek— “it did.”
Another beat of silence.
Then: Jimin took a step back. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, almost too under his breath to even hear. “I didn’t expect that he’d be here. I haven’t seen him in . . .  in a year. I didn’t even think he was . . . I didn’t think he was like that.”
Oh . . .
Don’t say it.
Don’t say—
Don’t—
But you couldn’t help but bite out, “No thanks to you.”
Jimin pinched his brows together. “What? What do you mean?”
You just had to say it . . . 
“Nothing—“ clearing your throat, you realized just where your loud mouth had landed you— “just . . . I have to go, alright?”
With one final look at the man before you—a man you once knew that now barely resembled the one you’d known—you walked past him, eyes trained solely on what was before you. Jungkook was the only thing on your mind. Finding him was the only thing you cared about. Leaving the past behind was easy when you knew he was waiting for you somewhere up ahead.
But a hand wrapped around your forearm, halting you in your tracks. Your eyes widened as you heard Jimin speak, but you couldn’t quite make out what he was saying until you glanced over your shoulder, your eyes meeting his words head-on.
“Look . . . look, I know,” he had said, an almost desperate expression plaguing his face. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing slightly before he sucked in a sharp breath. “I know. Trust me. I do.” Exhale.
Slowly, your brows scrunched together as you pried his hand off your arm. “Know what?” you questioned, your voice a slightly accusatory tone while you cocked your head to the side, eyeing him with skepticism. 
A moment’s silence passed before he searched your eyes. What he was searching for, you couldn’t quite make out, but he kept searching and searching and searching until his brows twitched upward, an almost pained expression fueling his face. And then: “I know it wasn’t Kook’s fault,” he confessed, his voice soft and quiet as if he were ashamed of his own words. “What happened between him and Tae. I knew it wasn’t his fault.”
Instantly, your heart dropped. 
He knew. He knew and he still let this happen.
You wanted to scream. At him. At everything. At nothing. 
But you stayed frozen, your mind spiraling and spiraling.
“I tried to get them to see that, too, but . . . Kook had always been our glue, not me,” he nearly whispered, harshly pointing at his chest almost as if he were trying to punish or rather condemn himself. “Tae and I would get into arguments over stupid shit all the time, and Kook would always be there to get us to see eye-to-eye. I didn’t know how to help them. I’m not good at that; he was.”
And then you saw it: you saw the past in his eyes. Slowly, it unraveled, and you watched as the three of them practiced day in and day out while you glared at them across the field back in college. You remembered being angry, but you hadn’t known why, and now . . . now you realized you had been envious of the fact that they were . . . friends. While you had none, they had each other. 
To see the three of them in completely separate places now . . . made your head spin and spin and spin. Never once did you think they’d do anything without each other, and now . . . now you were watching the past crumble through Jimin’s sad eyes.
It was almost as if you could see the moment they went their separate ways. Kook alone. Jimin and Taehyung together . . . but . . . distant . . . 
The distance was clear on Jimin’s face, and when he spoke, he spoke with a certain type of nostalgia that you knew all too well. “I knew what I had to do,” he continued, those sad eyes of his not leaving yours. “I chose Tae. I would’ve chosen them both, but I couldn’t . . . so I stayed by Tae’s side. I knew how they both felt. I knew that I could play neutral all I wanted, but Kook was gonna leave and I had to either go with him or stay with Tae.” He shook his head as he chewed on his inner cheek. “And I couldn’t let Tae go through this alone . . . and—and there wasn’t enough time to fix what happened between them, but I thought Kook would be OK. I would’ve fought harder if I knew—”
His words cut off, getting tangled around his tongue as the lump in his throat rose higher and higher. There was no way to tell when it’d finally choke him. What would happen then?
“He was just always so . . . fine,” Jimin whispered more to himself than to you, shrugging his shoulders as if he couldn’t believe it. “I thought he’d be OK. I thought he’d ignore all of this and win that medal we all dreamed of . . . but then he left the team and Wooshik . . he told me where he ended up.” He shook his head once more, his eyes now trained on the wall behind you, tears still glossing over and threatening to spill. “I didn’t think he was . . . struggling. I just thought he was hiding. I didn’t realize he was . . . “
“Well . . . I guess we all have our own ways of dealing with . . . guilt,” you heard yourself spit out before you could stop the words from flowing. You didn’t know why, you just . . . you just . . . you were just so angry. But at him? That you weren’t sure or.
It seemed Jimin was as shocked by your words as you were. His eyes met yours once again, blinking quickly, causing a few tears to slip down his cheeks. He quickly wiped them away, shaking his head in the process. “Don’t do this,” he muttered under his breath.
But you almost couldn’t control it. You were more parts anger than anything else, and there he was, the perfect subject to take it out on. Putting up a fight was useless, your mind was on autopilot. “Tae’s at home bedridden I assume and you’re here? On a date?” you hissed out through gritted teeth. “Mmm, I don’t know . . . sounds—”
“Don’t,” Jimin quickly cut you off, mirroring your anger. “You of all people don’t get to judge me.”
You raised your brows. “Why not?”
“You—“ he shoved an accusatory finger your way— “left him too once.”
And just like that, his words pierced your chest, making the anger spread into your bloodstream. “That’s different,” you bit out, eyes now shamefully trained on the ground.
“Is it?”
Scoffing, you shook your head. “Don’t turn this around. You—”
But Jimin wasn’t having it. “He loved you, you know?” he spat like the words had burned his throat.
The world stopped.
A beat of silence. 
Two beats.
Another.
. . . You could have sworn your heart thud in your chest. But . . . but that could’ve been your breath catching in your throat. 
And then you heard it: your own shocked voice. “What?” you all but gasped out, taking a subconscious step back.
Jimin furrowed his brows as if . . . confused (?) by your reaction. “He loved you,” he went on, keeping a watchful eye on your face. “I don’t know why or how considering you were such a horrible person the entirety of college . . . but he stuck by you. I’ve never seen anyone love somebody that much. Hell, I didn’t think it was real, and I couldn’t understand why . . . but he loved you, and when you pulled that shit on him; when you left, me and Tae saw it. He didn’t talk to anyone for months.” 
He loved you? He . . .
“He slowly came back, and a year later I thought he was fine. I thought he was finally over you, but . . . “ Jimin wet his lips— “I guess some old habits never die.”
Jungkook loved . . . you? In college he—But, no! He thought you guys had been friends. You were the one who had hated him, and he had thought of you as a friend. There was no love there. No, no there couldn’t be. He did not love you. He couldn’t have. No. No . . . No!
“And now you’re here . . . defending him . . . and I just can’t wrap my head around it,” Jimin finished off, his words more stable now. Then, slowly but surely, he nodded as if he had made peace with his thoughts. “But I get it. We all make our own choices. You made yours, but you . . . you don’t get to stand here now after everything and judge me when you left him in the dark for years. I made my choices, and I regret them most days, but it is what it is. You of all people should know that.”
But if he had loved you, then . . . had you broken his heart? 
You knew you’d done quite a lot of damage on him, but you hadn’t considered that you’d broken . . . the very thing you’d come to grow so fond of. Because truly, over the past months, you’d come to know him more than you knew yourself, and you realized he’d always had this softness about him. He’d always had a good heart. That was what you had come to admire most about him. And if Jimin was right, that meant you had hurt that very part of him.
If he was telling the truth, you had done so much more damage to Jungkook than you had thought. Perhaps it had been you who had ruined him.
That . . . that made your rage boil. “I do,” you ended up biting out, your voice harsher than it had ever been as your rage boiled and boiled, nearly bubbling and spilling everywhere. “I regret every mistake I’ve ever made and I know hurting him is at the top of the list, but you knew that, too, and you still repeated what I did wrong. Why didn’t you go back for him? Why didn’t you, I don’t fucking know, try?! Why didn’t you fucking try?! Huh?!”
Those words left your lips and before you knew it, you were face to face with Jimin, not even two inches apart. Your breathing was ragged and you could feel your rage burning through your bloodstream, turning it to rot, surely burning through your skin. 
Had it reached your heart?
“Why didn’t you try?” Jimin mumbled, the anger gone from his eyes as he took in your expression. And his words . . . this wasn’t a question. He wasn’t asking why you hadn’t tried to help Jungkook back then, no . . . he was reminding you that you hadn’t tried for a reason. 
Admit it or not, you hadn’t let him in because you hated yourself. And making yourself hate him, blame him, was easier than admitting you didn’t want to live with the person you had become. 
That was why you hadn’t tried—you were exhausted with yourself, with everything. 
And only then did it hit you. As those final words left your lips, you realized why you were so fueled with anger. You realized why you had chosen Jimin as your punching bag, and you realized what you had done. 
Because, really, you weren’t angry with him. No, you were angry with yourself. It was like he had said . . . you had left Jungkook once, too. 
Looking at Jimin was like looking in the mirror. What he had done to Jungkook was nothing close to what you had done to him. So being angry at him . . . hurting him was an excuse to ignore who you were really angry with: . . . yourself.
And finally, Jimin spoke for the both of you. “Because . . . I was exhausted,” he mumbled through a heavy exhale. “You don’t get it . . . I’ve stayed by Tae’s side for a year, and I’d do it again and again, but that doesn’t mean that there isn’t a part of me that doesn’t blame him, too.”
Wetting your lips, you took a step back, your anger slowly turning to guilt. This wasn’t his fault. Why did you blow up on him like that? Fuck.
Hating him wouldn’t make you hate yourself less . . .
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“After the incident, it was like he just disappeared,” Jimin went on, his voice equal parts solemn and guilty. “Badminton was his dream. I think Tae loved it the most out of all of us, and just like that, it was gone. And without it, he just faded away. I don’t even think he blames Kook. He’s just . . . gone. It’s like he’s been on autopilot for the better half of a year.”
Fuck. Jimin wasn’t to blame. Just like Jungkook, this entire situation was just one big mess. No one was to blame. Fuck, no one was to blame, and yet . . . you were sure they all blamed themselves. 
How could you have been so blinded by rage you hadn’t noticed this before?
“And I . . . I have had to live for the both of us,” he confessed, finally raising his head to meet your watchful gaze. “I knew what I was getting into, and I did it because I care for him, but I didn’t realize . . . I didn’t realize that . . . you can be there for someone as much as you want but there comes a time when caring for someone makes you stop caring about yourself.” His brows twitched only once, but the action carried a world of pain. “Tae is my best friend. They both were, and I . . . I didn’t just lose Jungkook that day. I had to live for Tae, and in doing so, I stopped living for myself.”
I stopped living for myself. Closing your eyes, you were only reminded how wrong you had been. The three of them were all in pain, refusing to admit it. They all blamed themselves, you were sure of it. 
But no one was to blame.
No one.
Still, you stayed silent, keeping these thoughts to yourself. Your eyes fluttered back open, and it was as if you were staring the past in the face once again. And god, did it have such a guilty conscience.
“I know it’s wrong, but there will always be a part of me that resents him for it,” Jimin went on, sighing as his words left his lips. “And he—” he gestured back to the karaoke room; back to where Yoongi still resided— “is the only reason I didn’t lose myself. He is the only reason I can fucking breathe just for a second . . . so that is why I’m here. I don’t care if it’s selfish. He’s my sliver of happiness, which is why . . . “ he wet his lips, staring at you as if you were a reflection of his own past “ . . . which is why I don’t blame Jungkook for the things he did for you back then. So . . . I don’t blame you either but . . . but I guess what I’m trying to say is . . . I know what I did. I will always regret it and I will always wish I could turn back time and make it all go away, but I can’t.”
Which is why I don’t blame Jungkook for the things he did for you back then, you repeated in your head once more. Was Jimin right? Had Jungkook truly loved you? 
And then, one more final question popped into your head: Did he still?
“Min?” 
The singular name brought you and Jimin out of your little bubble. The two of you turned your heads in the direction of the sound, finding Yoongi had peeked his head out of the karaoke room. His dark eyes shifted between you and his boyfriend, a skeptical look plastered across his face. 
“Everything’s fine,” Jimin replied with a tight smile.
That was when you saw it—the way Yoongi’s face softened instantly with just a couple of words from Jimin. You recognized that look. You’d seen that very expression reach Jungkook’s face time after time again in the past months you’d spent getting to know each other more and more and . . . 
Wait . . . 
Wait, wait . . . you recognized that look, but in a deeper way, in a visceral way. Yes, you’d seen Jungkook wear it many times, but . . . you could have sworn you’d seen it somewhere else, too. You could have sworn you’d catch glimpses of it on your own face when you’d walk past a mirror or catch your reflection in a puddle. And you’d always catch sight of it when . . . Jungkook was up ahead or behind or near. 
Yes, that was it. You’d seen that expression on your own face when Jungkook was involved. But . . . did that mean? 
No, no . . . no. Stop it. You couldn’t think about what this meant or that meant or this or that and those and them or whatever! No. 
Right now . . . right now you had to focus. Jungkook had run off and you . . . you needed to find him, but—
Your gaze fixated on Jimin once again. What happened back then . . . He wasn’t to blame. No one was. They, all three of them, were in pain, blaming themselves and yet too scared to face it. None of them would dare to either. But it was so clear that Jungkook missed Taehyung and Jimin as well. And now . . . now it was clear just how much Jimin missed the both of them . . . 
And well, you could do something about that. Perhaps then this guilt would leave you alone. Perhaps then things could be set right. Maybe then things could be the way they were supposed to be before life got in the way.
The answer was clear, and you couldn’t stop yourself. “Jimin,” you began, clearing your throat and interrupting the conversation between him and his boyfriend. Once his eyes were on you, with a clearing of your throat, you continued. “I’m sorry . . . for blowing up on you. I didn’t realize that—nevermind—just . . . Jungkook . . . he misses you . . . and Tae. I can see that. He’s . . . He doesn’t hate you, you know? He blames himself, yes, but he’s not angry with either of you. I think he just wants you guys back . . . so . . . if there’s any way . . . ask Hoseok for my number.” You paused for only a second to swallow. “You shouldn’t have to live with regrets.”
A beat of silence followed your words once again, almost as if it were mocking you. But instead of turning your words to shit, Jimin welcomed the silence. He embraced it as a small smile lifted onto his lips. And then . . . then he nodded.
It was a silent agreement, but it was good enough for you. 
This could be it.
A new leaf.
For him.
For Jungkook.
For Jungkook, you affirmed, and with that thought, you nodded back. “It was nice to meet you, Yoongi,” you mumbled genuinely, before your eyes shifted back to Jimin once again. Another nod from you. “Jimin. Tell Hoseok that Kook and I went to eat, yeah? We’ll see him at practice tomorrow.”
“Hey—“ Jimin piped up before you could leave— “remember to live for yourself, too, yeah?”
And you nodded back with a smile.
The world fell away piece by piece as you turned from them, their faces still glued to the back of your mind, but you couldn’t waste any more time. As it was, your anger had already bubbled over and burned enough bridges that night to waste a lifetime. You should’ve kept your cool. You should’ve tried to see everything from a bigger picture, but this rage trapped inside you seemed to be bigger than you knew how to control. Sure, it had subsided now . . . but only because . . . because that was what was right.
You didn’t know how to explain it, but . . . Jungkook had become someone important to you, perhaps the most important in your life. You’d never felt that before. You never thought you’d be able to care about someone this much before, but . . . you did, and that was enough to put away that anger boiling deep inside you just enough to do right . . . for him.
Did that make you crazy? Maybe . . . maybe it did, but there wasn’t much in you to care about things like that. All you wanted was to find him. If you found him, everything would be alright. It would. You swore it would. 
Your feet didn’t feel like your own as you raced down the halls of the karaoke bar. The lights had begun to blur together in your vision, creating mixes of blue and purple racing in your peripheral. You’d even looked into room after room, disturbing group after group, solely searching for him.
Until . . . with your heart pounding in your chest, your breathing uneven, and a relentless shiver shaking throughout your body, through the muted colorful lights, you caught sight of a man’s figure crouched down in a corner of the building. His hands were covering his ears, his face hidden in his knees as he breathed heavily, but he was there. You’d found him. Instantly, your muscles relaxed. Exhale.
You’d found him. “Ju—” but you quickly cut yourself off before you could draw any attention to yourself.
Think. You had to think. You couldn’t approach him like you normally would. You couldn’t go in all thorns and nails on a chalkboard. This was different. This was what you had read about. What you realized you had never been good at—comfort.
How could you comfort? You had never been nurturing. Hell, you’d read something once that told you some women just weren’t meant to be mothers, and you knew you were one of them. You knew you couldn’t didn’t know how to be . . . soft.
But you had to try. For him . . .
And then you remembered:
Five Ways You Can Help Someone With an Anxiety Disorder:
Validate Their Feelings by Letting Them Know It’s Okay Not to Be Okay
Don’t Tell Them to Calm Down
Encourage Them to Focus on Things They Can Change
Help Them to Help Themselves
Discourage the Use of Alcohol or Drugs to Cope With Anxiety
But . . . but . . . fuck! How was that supposed to help you now? Let them know it’s OK not to be OK. OK . . . You swallowed hard. You could do that. Focus on things they can change. OK, OK. You could do that, too.
Hesitantly, you took a step forward.
But shit! You paused, halting in your movements. What if that didn’t work? What if you didn’t do it right? What if it only made it worse? What if you only made him worse?
Just . . . just . . . fuck, OK! Just— 
“Kookie,” you heard yourself say clearly before you knew you had even opened your mouth.
In response, his breathing stopped but he didn’t raise his head to meet your gaze. Instead . . . “It’s OK. Just go back . . . “ he muttered out, just loud enough for you to hear, but he still wouldn’t meet your eyes. “I’m OK.”
I’m OK. You swallowed hard. No . . . no, he wasn’t, and unlike all those years ago, you were not going to leave him behind. Not now. Never again.
It didn’t take another second for you to cross the distance to him before you sank to your knees right in front of him, reminding yourself not to startle him. “I’m here,” was all you said, fighting against everything harsh and rough in you, trying desperately to be soft.
The thing was: people could tell you countless amounts of things on how to help someone, but . . . you’d never get it. You weren’t good at it. You couldn’t do that, be that. You knew him, too. He wasn’t textbook like all the things you’d read up on. You assumed no one was . . . so . . . you’d like to add one more to the list: ask him how you could help.
“What—” you inhaled sharply— “What do you need me to do?”
Still, Jungkook would not meet your eyes, but he didn’t need to. You saw his body shift. You saw him process your words. And you knew he wasn’t going to hide from you. “Just—” he all but choked out— “ground me. Put your arms. Squeeze . . . hard.”
And just like that, you acted quickly. You didn’t waste any time as you scooted behind him, wrapping your arms around his figure, locking him into your body, and squeezing as he’d instructed. Resting your cheek on his back, you continued hugging his body to yours, listening to his heartbeat as you did so. Squeezing your eyes shut, you begged for this to help him, but the beat of his racing heart met your ears like a drum.
It wasn’t enough. You had to keep going. 
“OK, OK, what else?” you asked him, your voice clear and calm . . . and soft.
But the beat of his heart was the only thing you heard.
Ground him. You squeezed harder. “You’re here with me. I’ve got you. You’re safe. Speak to me, Koo,” you all but begged.
“Tell me something,” he mumbled, and you nearly exhaled in relief. “Please, say anything.”
Nodding quickly, you tried to scrounge up something, anything. “OK, um, um,” you stuttered out, racking your brain over and over again, until finally . . . “Do you remember when we were kids and my parents rented that cabin for the summer? You had this fake tattoo of a dragon that you really really wanted to put on your arm right—“ you grabbed his forearm, pressing your thumb into a spot— “here, but I wanted everything you had so I just had to have the tattoo. I whined and whined until you finally let me have it. And yet, in the end, my mom forgot to take off the plastic so neither of us ended up with the damn tattoo and we were both pissed.” Smiling against his back, you readjusted your grip on him, holding him closer than before, perhaps so close your souls could almost touch. “Your mom made us hold hands until we got over it.”
And with a small smile on your face, you heard it . . . 
His heart rate had started to slow, his breathing becoming more controlled as he tried his hardest to breathe in deep and exhale long. Was it? Was it working? OK. OK. Speak more. Speak—
“Yeah, and you wouldn’t stop crying, meanwhile, I won that thing in a raffle,” he interrupted before you could rack your brain for another memory. 
Wetting your lips, you replied, “But it worked, didn’t it?” Your eyes danced around the room, the memory almost as clear as day. The smile on your face grew. “We were sitting by the fire, getting way too messy with those s’mores you swore you knew how to make.”
“We camped outside the entire night,” Jungkook mumbled under his breath, his shoulders shaking slightly as a small laugh escaped him.
“Yeah, until you almost pissed your pants because you thought you heard a bear,” you remarked, the smile on your face too wide to contain.
“Hey!” he quipped back as his hand fell to your arm. “I was like nine.”
In shock, you watched as Jungkook slowly raised his hands to cover your arms, hugging them to his chest. Then, you rested your ear against his chest, and you realized his heartbeat had returned almost to normal . . . and . . . and . . . his breathing had calmed. And then you saw it, a drop of . . . something had wet his shirt where your cheek laid . . . and you realized . . . you were crying.
Was this softness that you felt? Or weakness?
The truth was: you didn’t care. Not now. 
Quickly, you wiped your damp cheeks on your shoulder and sniffled. “Scaredy cat,” you mumbled with a soft laugh.
Jungkook breathed out a laugh through his nose. “Brat,” he hummed as he squeezed your forearm.
A beat of silence met the two of you then. You nestled closer, holding him until he finally gave you the go-ahead that he was alright. You’d stay there all night if you had to. And he welcomed this with open arms, holding you as close as he could in his position, and just letting things . . . be, it seemed. 
Until, finally, after what seemed like hours, he whispered against your forearm, “I’m sorry.”
And you couldn’t help yourself. Your brows pinched together, confusion revisiting you as you asked, “For what?”
“You don’t need this,” was his only answer.
Another beat of silence.
And then: “You’ll always be unhappy when it comes to me.”
Squeezing your eyes shut, your only response was to hug him tighter. Fuck.
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It is not the moon, I tell you. It is these flowers lighting the yard.
As the night droned on, writings upon writings popped into your head as you tried to make sense of this, of tonight, of everything; one, in particular, visited you too frequently to be ignored; one that you had held onto for years now. You supposed it was a silly thing—realizing just how many poems you had trapped in your head, but you had three years of isolation, three years of loneliness, three years where you only read and read and read. Those three years . . . poems had been all you had.
You supposed it would always end this way.
I hate them. I hate them as I hate sex, the man’s mouth sealing my mouth, the man’s paralyzing body—
And like the poem stated, these words remained true to you. You hated many things, perhaps too much. In those three years, you had grown to hate another’s touch, perhaps because you craved it so viscerally. But . . . the scent of mock orange wasn’t in the form of a man for you. To you . . . the scent of mock orange smelled a lot like a badminton racket.
and the cry that always escapes, the low, humiliating premise of union—
Perhaps you had grown to hate badminton. You hadn’t even realized it, but . . . looking back at it now . . . you had done everything to be someone . . . to be the best, and you had wanted that. You had really wanted that. Sometimes you thought it was the only thing that would ever make you happy, but . . . 
But . . . 
In my mind tonight I hear the question and pursuing answer fused in one sound that mounts and mounts and then is split into the old selves, the tired antagonisms. Do you see? We were made fools of. And the scent of mock orange drifts through the window.
But perhaps . . . like growing pains . . . a part of you had outgrown badminton. Could this be real? Could you really have outgrown the one thing you had ever loved? And if you truly had . . . what did that mean for you now?
How can I rest? How can I be content when there is still that odor in the world?
That odor.
That damned odor of mock orange blossoms.
. . . You had smelt them the day of the incident. The stench had followed you to the hospital, crawling under your skin and resting there for the months to follow. They hadn't even bloomed then, yet you still smelt them every time you breathed. When your heart felt less heavy and your mind was clearer than the day before, when it became month after month after month, the scent finally rid itself from your senses. And you thought you might have actually been allowed to rest without that odor in the world.
But as another month melted into the next, and you tried to get back onto your feet again, the scent of mock orange drifted back into your life. You, of course, ignored this, eager to get back on your feet. You’d been able to take a few steps, which eased the ache you had been carrying around for the past few months. You knew it was stupid to imagine you could actually be healed after a few months, but you didn’t care. You just wanted to walk again . . . maybe run . . . maybe play again with a racket in your hand.
It was nice—being able to dream for a few minutes.
But it did only last for a short time. Soon you being you had gotten too cocky in your progress. You wanted to try longer walks. You wanted to see if you could run.
Then as you ignored the warning signs from your parents, from your doctors, from your nurses, the second they allowed you out on the hospital courtyard, you took off, attempting to run. But . . . before you knew it, something snapped and . . . you were tumbling to the ground, crying in pain.
And just like that . . . the scent of mock orange drifted in and remained in the air.
You remembered just laying there after that, contemplating just how much this would set you back as the nurses hurried you back to your room to be examined. You wondered if you had fucked yourself entirely. You wondered if this was it and you would never be able to play or even walk again. You wondered what that made you now. You might as well have not even been a person anymore, because back then . . . badminton had been all that you had. Back then, if you weren’t the best; if you weren’t someone great, then you were nothing. 
And yes, you knew you had never been particularly interesting, but you never thought you were . . . nothing. The scent of mock orange tainting the air reminded you of the truth—without badminton, you might as well have been no one.
As you were escorted back to your room, examined, and left to rest, you laid there, the scent of mock orange being your sole company, and you realized you hated them. You hated those stupid, putrid flowers as you hated feeling . . . less. You hated them as you hated yourself.
Guilt might have been your ghost, but the scent of mock orange was your shadow.
How could you rest? How could you be content when there was still that odor in the world?
You were sure you never would.
And truly . . . how could you rest? If you were constantly trying to be better and better? When would you finally be the best? Could you be? No . . . no, you knew you couldn’t, but then who were you?
Who were you without . . . badminton?
That was the question on your mind as you flicked at your ramyeon with your chopsticks. You supposed like the mock orange blossoms, your coming-of-age escapades did not deliver the fruits of its promise. Becoming someone was all you had ever wanted out of life. You wanted glory. You wanted greatness. And yet . . . why did the thought of badminton slowly and slowly start to turn into this . . . dark thing? Why was it that when badminton was involved . . . bad things happened?
Now, you didn’t believe in signs and you surely wouldn’t start now . . . but it became evident that you had been made a fool of, wishing on a shooting star that was on its last breath. The scent of mock orange would drift in every time, reminding you that you would never reach that greatness again no matter how many times you tried. 
And that should’ve filled you with rage . . . jealousy . . . pain . . . but . . . you didn’t feel any of that. What you felt, at its core, was a gentle ache in your chest; the same kind of ache which came with nostalgia. 
You just couldn’t stop thinking of it. Actually . . . you hadn’t stopped thinking about that scent of mock orange since you saw Jimin earlier that night. He’d told you Taehyung had loved badminton the most . . . he told you he was a ghost of himself now because of what he lost. And then you began to think of what had happened to you . . . 
Those three years . . .
All you had ever thought about was getting back to the person you used to be. That was all you had cared about, and when you finally won that first game all those months ago . . . you had felt that same joy that you had always felt after a win. Except . . . this was different, you realized.
Remembering the win now, the image of you smashing the birdie down onto the court wasn’t what came to mind first. No, you remembered that day; you remembered the thrill of the win, but the image that came to mind first was Jungkook smiling down at you moments before you sprung into his arms.
Jungkook was what you remembered that day, not the look on the other team’s faces when you took home that winning title. And then you realized what you had been trying to ignore ever since you let your walls come down layer by layer: perhaps . . . perhaps there was more to life than badminton.
In the months you had let Jungkook in, you’d lived more than you had in your entire life. You’d laughed more, smiled more, felt more. You’d felt yourself be more. 
The scent of mock orange never visited you when he was around. It was like he was the real thing. You weren’t even sure if that made any sense. But . . . but . . . if you couldn’t smell those damned phony flowers, then perhaps Jungkook had taken their place. By chance . . . did he smell like an orange blossom? Without mocking, without malice, without trickery? Was he . . . real?
There was just something about the world that Jungkook had shown you that had a way of making everything just . . . mute. It was like before he’d shown you life through his eyes, everything had been loud, intense, brutal. And then . . . there he was, a bright smile on his face and the words ‘trust me’ leaving his lips as he held out his hand for you to take.
And you took it every time.
The scent of mock orange blossoms was left behind. And you began to wonder if just as you had outgrown your hatred for Jungkook . . . had you outgrown this visceral urge to hold a racket in your calloused hand?
Glancing down, you took in the image of your hand. The calluses were still there, the small cuts from accidental injuries, the bitten nails . . . they were all still there. Did they still fit around the base of a racket as they had three years ago?
You blinked, flexing your hand. Whatever, you decided. It would be tomorrow’s problem. (But we all know how good you were about . . . not . . . getting in over your head (so like, give yourself five minutes and you’d be thinking about it again).)
Whatever. Whatever. Whatever.
Anyway.
Focus on the present.
Yes, that was the plan. You nodded at your thoughts as you blinked, forcing yourself back to the present.
The scent of mock orange blossoms still lingered in the air as you tried grounding yourself to reality. Ignoring them was the best you could do. Because right now, you were supposed to be present, aware, and solid. You were supposed to be Jungkook’s shoulder to lean on after what he had endured at the karaoke bar. You were supposed to know what to do . . . but you didn’t know anything. You just . . . you just wanted him to be alright . . . 
And all you could focus on was the fact that the two of you hadn’t spoken since you held him about—
You checked your phone.
—an hour and a half ago.
It had been quiet between the two of you ever since. It had been even quieter the second you stepped inside the nearest convenience store. (Who knew how long ago that was.)
The convenience store was perhaps too quiet now. The two of you had bought some instant ramyeon—one spicy, one mild and sat at the nearest tables outlooking the streets of Busan. Many people had walked back and forth, going about their night (well . . . now early morning), but not once had either of you decided to make little guesses about their lives as you had done many times before. No instead . . . Jungkook was silent. And you were too. 
But . . . you didn’t like the silence; not like . . . this. Slowly, with that thought plaguing your mind, you turned your head toward him.
Jungkook sat beside you, his head lowered slightly as he stared blankly out the window. He hadn’t touched his ramyeon once, which was evident as his chopsticks were all too clean without any stain or color. He just kept staring out the window, following those who walked by with his eyes all the while his tongue toyed with his lip ring. 
It was obvious why he was stuck in this limbo. Sure, of course it was all too obvious, but that didn’t make it any easier. Knowing why he was stuck like this wouldn’t do anything to . . . help.
And suddenly you were reminded of what Jimin had told you that night. Remember to live for yourself, too, he’d said before you left him. He’d told you it was impossible to live for two, but . . . why? Why couldn’t you? Why couldn’t you at least . . . help? You supposed the problem in that was the fact that you had no idea how to help, and that scared you more than you’d liked to admit.
You just . . . you just wanted him to be OK . . .
“You gonna eat that?” you heard yourself ask him before you knew what you were even saying.
Jungkook turned to you instantly with an almost shocked expression on his face as if he couldn’t remember where he was or who he was, but his eyes still shined with recognition as if he could still recognize you despite it all. He blinked slowly, eyes drifting over your face, and then . . . then he slowly started to relax. His shoulders slumped slightly as the stiff muscles in his face loosened. And once he returned to the present, his eyes drifted from your questioning expression to the ramyeon in front of him . . . and then he was shoving a huge bite into his mouth all the while maintaining eye contact with you while he chewed.
You shot him a blank look, because you knew what he was doing—avoiding the inevitable by trying to make light of the situation. “I wasn’t going to force-feed it to you, you know?” you ended up mumbling as you continued to watch him chew, half making sure he ate all of it and half not sure where to rest your gaze.
“Don’t look at me like that then,” Jungkook muttered, his words muffled from the food in his mouth.
“Like what?” you questioned as you leaned closer to him, analyzing the crease between his furrowed brows.
His eyes shifted to the ground ever so slightly before he turned back to meet your gaze. “Like you pity me or something,” he huffed, jutting out his bottom lip into a pout as he averted his gaze to his bowl of ramyeon.
And you couldn’t help but let the corners of your mouth perk up into a small smile. He was still the boy you remembered when you were kids. He hadn’t changed too much. He was still . . . him. Only now, you had grown to appreciate how he was unlike in the past. Now . . . when he flashed you that pout, you wasted no time in waving him off with a small sigh. 
“Oh, Jungkookie,” you all but mused as you grabbed a napkin from the table, “sometimes it’s like you’re still that whiny little kid I grew up with.” You brought the napkin to his lips, gently dabbing. “You really haven’t changed at all, you know?”
With his eyes flicking from the napkin to your face, he timidly licked his lips and mumbled, “I was not whiny.”
You breathed a small, barely audible laugh. “Mmm, if it helps you sleep at night,” you hummed with a small shrug as your hand, now discarding the napkin, reached his face once again, except this time, you barely thought about your next move. Instead, you let your hand drift to his hair gently curling the long, dark strands behind his ear. 
And he just stared at you, his dark eyes warm and gentle as they always had been. His brows twitched as you alternated between playing with his earrings and toying with the longest strands of his hair. He almost seemed . . . at peace, and you wondered if this could be considered a moment of happiness?
Perhaps . . . 
It was moments like this that you wondered how the sick smell of mock orange blossoms had ever ruined your life. 
But like the poem described . . . the smell wasn’t something to be forgotten. It eventually seeped back in. And just as Jungkook had almost allowed himself to sink into your touch, his eyes turned back to the window where he caught a glimpse of his reflection.
It was almost soul-crushing how fast his face fell.
Jungkook took one last look at his reflection, shaking his head slightly as he averted his gaze to the table and clenched his jaw. "Fuck,” he whispered out, his voice hoarse, “this is so fucking annoying. Everything feels so off. I just . . . “ His words tangled around his tongue as he dropped his head to his hands. “Everyone always looks at me like I'm some fucking problem. Like if they get to my core, they can fix me. But I can't be fucking fixed. I fucked up. I ruined my best friend’s life. I don't deserve to be fixed."
And suddenly it was as if you were twelve years old again, seeing your mother cry for the first time and not knowing what to do or what to say. You had grown up that way—not being able to comfort. It had always been who you were. You’d never known what to do to . . . help. 
Yes, you could follow the directions of some online article and you could ask and ask and ask how to help him, but would it ever be enough? And what if he said he was fine when he was so clearly not? What then? How were you supposed to help then?
God, you wished you knew the answers. 
“You’re not broken, Koo,” you started with, your voice just as small as how you felt in that moment.
“What if I am?” he mumbled into his hands. Slowly, he raised his head, and for another time that night, you faced that crushed look on his face. For another time that night, you saw the things he had been dealing with all on his own. You saw him. “What if I . . . ?”
And then you realized: you didn’t know how to comfort, but you did know how to bear things well. You knew how to crumble up the pain of not being good enough. You knew how to deal with a dream being crushed. You knew how to just . . . deal, and if Jungkook needed help, you could carry the load for him.
So, swallowing your own emotions bubbling up in your throat, you began slowly, "I know I can’t say . . . anything. I know that no matter what I do it's not gonna' make you feel better, because shit doesn't work that way. I'm not some fuckin' hero. I know that. You just need to know that I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere, okay? I'm never leaving your side." Nodding your head, you could feel your eyes burning again. But you didn’t care. The world could see you cry for him and only him and you’d accept it with a heavy heart.
A beat of silence followed your confession.
The world exhaled.
You inhaled as you rested your hand on top of his moments before you began again, "You're—I care about you. . . and—and that means that no matter what time it is, if you feel like you're gonna do something to yourself, then you call me. We can go throw shit off a bridge or—or punch dummies. You need to scream? Then we can go scream until our lungs bleed, okay? Whatever. It doesn't matter. Just—" you squeezed his hand as your heart pulsed in pain in your chest— "You're not alone."
Though the expression on his face didn’t lift, Jungkook accepted your hand, taking it within his grasp to intertwine your fingers together with his. “It’s been months . . . and I still feel like this . . . “ he trailed off, gently shaking his head as he turned back to his reflection in the window.
Instantly, your free hand found his cheek, slowly turning his head so his eyes would only face yours. “I don’t think healing is . . . linear,” you admitted softly. “If I think about it . . . it took me years to be able to play again. Mental shit has to be like that too, right?”
His eyes fluttered shut under your touch. “I don’t know,” he softly sighed as his other hand reached to rest over the one you had caressing his cheek. “I’m just tired of feeling like this.” He swallowed thickly. “I just . . . it’s like . . . I watch everyone else live their lives while I endure mine. And—And I don't know what to do. Sometimes everything just gets so intense, and it just happens. It's like it's some fucked up kind of instinct. Trust me, I wish I could feel something other than this, but I don't feel anything. It's all fucking numb." He nearly dropped your hand, but you clung on tighter, refusing to let him slip through your fingers. "I don't fucking know what I feel. I just . . . I feel like a fucking ghost."
And for the second time that night, you watched the once never-bothered Jungkook reveal another layer of himself to you. 
I feel like a fucking ghost, rang in your ears again.
Jungkook squeezed his eyes tight and slowly . . . a single tear trickled from the corner of his eye down the side of his nose. 
I feel like a fucking ghost, once more, and you knew the words which would leave your lips before you even had the chance to think.
"Haunt me, then," you found yourself breathing out in a hushed whisper as your thumb caught his fallen tear, wiping it away with ease.
His eyes cracked open, a shocked expression crawling onto his face. "What?” he barely got out as he searched your eyes for anything that would tell him you hadn’t meant to say . . . that.
But you had.
Haunt me, you’d told him, and you knew you’d meant it. The words didn’t have to cross your mind for you to know what you spoke was the truth.
Haunt me.
Haunt me.
Haunt me.
Give it to me, and breathe.
That is what you had wanted to say. That is what you had meant. You could only hope he knew you were telling the truth.
Tilting your head to the side, you breathed out the air in your lungs. "I told you before, and I meant it,” you began in a gentle tone. “I'll carry the weight for you. All of the pain, the anger, the hatred . . . all of it . . . I will carry it all. Give it all to me, and I will find a way to deal with it." Squeezing his hand once again, you offered up a small smile. "You're not alone anymore, Kook. You do not have to deal with all your shit on your own. You've got me, and you can hate me, you can push me away, you can leave me stranded with no way home . . . but I promise you, I'm not going anywhere."
His brows twitched. “I can’t do that. You’ve got too much to think about.”
You shrugged with a roll of your eyes as you dropped your hand to your intertwined ones. “Like what? I’ve never thought a day in my life. Barely passed college with a 2.7,” you hummed, your voice a little more chipper now as you tried to keep his eyes on you and coax a smile out of him. “I’ve got nothing to worry about.”
“The games,” he muttered with a small sniffle. “You’re shit at multitasking.”
That time, you did smile wider. There he was. “I can manage,” you mused as you leaned into him, nudging him with your elbow. “How about let’s go feed the fish by our hotel after practice tomorrow, hmm? To relax? Yeah?”
And then . . . you could have sworn he nodded. Maybe it was to himself or maybe it was to you, but you knew what it meant. You would accept a nod.
“You gonna eat that?” he asked a second later, gesturing to the half-eaten bowl of ramyeon in front of you.
And you knew he would be OK by your side. You would make sure of it. (You were the older one after all.)
So with a small smile still on your face, you detached your hands from his and reached for your bowl, scooting it toward him. Quietly, he took it from you and began to devour what you had left.
Yeah . . . he was still the same kid you knew growing up. And that . . . that was enough to make your heart feel warm.
It made you wonder if you could ever be . . . warm . . . like him. Unlike this cold, hollow shell you were so used to. Was that even written in your books? 
Wetting your lips, your eyes fell to your lap, only to be met with the image of Jungkook’s hand resting on your thigh, secured under the holes in your ripped jeans. It seemed without you noticing, Jungkook had absentmindedly reached for you, toying with the strings adorning the rips in your jeans, only to end up nestled underneath in an attempt to feel your skin against his.
It was sweet. Innocent. 
It made you feel warm, yet again, yes. But it also made you feel . . . fuck . . . what was that word?
And that was when you realized something . . .
“You’re wrong, you know?” you ended up muttering out before your brain could catch up with your impulse.
Jungkook hummed, eyeing you. His eyes were still slightly puffy, causing your heart to swell in your chest.
How could he ever think he deserved this?
Wetting your lips, you confessed, “I’m a better person because of you. How could I ever be unhappy with that?”
Jungkook blinked, clearly shocked. Then, he began to toy with his lip ring before he sucked in a sharp inhale and nearly whispered, “All I want . . . is for you to be happy.”
And you couldn’t help but smile. It was warm. It was innocent. It was because of him. “Would you look at that?” you mused in a quiet voice. “Looks like we just came to an agreement.”
The corners of his lips twitched ever so slightly as he nodded once before the two of you resumed your late-night slash early-morning meal. He finished your food for you, and you watched, making sure he ate it all, all the while, the words, I’m a better person because of you rang throughout the air.
I’m a better person because of you.
How could I ever be unhappy with that?
And you knew you meant every word.
The scent of mock orange blossoms couldn’t reach you now. 
Not here. 
Not with him.
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When you were a kid, every Barbie doll your mother ever bought you would end up scalped and decapitated. Now . . . morbid . . . you knew. You weren’t exactly sure why you resorted to . . . that, but playing with dolls just always meant ripping their heads off. You supposed it was kind of symbolic now. 
Maybe you were jealous that their lives were perfect and yours was . . . meh. Or maybe you really just really hated dolls.
You supposed there had always been a certain sickness to you; a certain uneasiness that came with being a preteen girl. You were told sweet sixteen was when the claws came out, but you began to question if yours had grown in long before then. Maybe you had been born like . . . this or maybe everyone just felt this way and spent most of their lives hiding it, because if not . . . 
. . . it felt like life was just some sick joke that you hadn’t clued in on yet.
Perhaps that was why you had become so keen on poetry: it said what you feared only you felt. 
Because really, you used to use pages out of books to fasten a joint in a pinch, too, and now it physically hurt to imagine ever even tearing a page. 
But words felt more comforting now. Sure, a racket felt like it fit into you like a hook in an eye, but now . . . now it felt just a tad more awkward than it had in the past. Words . . . words could never disappoint you, you decided long ago when they had been all that you had had.
There’s something soft in me—
You remembered reading long ago.
—we killed it and it’s rotting.
And maybe it was silly. Maybe it was dramatic, but words made things feel better. It made the world less scary. It made looking at Jungkook and wondering what this feeling in your chest was . . . not so scary. It made things . . . better.
So, you’d read, and you’d overanalyze, and you’d spend your time too wrapped up in words because it made everything that much bearable. Because it made the fact that your claws didn’t come in at sixteen so much easier to swallow; it made the fact that there was nothing soft about you alright.
Because maybe there had been something soft about you long ago. Or maybe you had killed it; maybe you had taken the softness and traded it for survival, only to discover all the rot inside of you that you had been trying to ignore for years now. 
Had the fire gotten a hold of you even back then? 
Is that why you no longer feared it? Because there was nothing left to fear? Did all this rot mean you were no different from a hit deer off the highway? 
. . . 
Whatever. 
It didn’t mean much, right? 
There were no birds coming to feast on your rotting corpse like the deer you wondered if you resembled. Nothing had come to consume your body as the world had consumed your soul. You were just there . . . 
With a sigh, you clicked off your phone, disregarding the poem as you shoved it all away into the back of the pocket of your athletic shorts. And as you stood there, you slowly glanced up only to meet the image of Jungkook walking toward you, a half-smile on his tired face with a duffel bag over his shoulder and a racket in his hand. You hadn’t seen him since you woke up that morning, quickly dressed and told him you’d meet him at the center after your run. And there he was, his hair in a small ponytail with a grin on his face at the sight of you. (You tried to ignore the urge to meet him halfway. (Also ignoring this . . . weird feeling blooming in your chest the second you saw him.))
“Well, it seems the sun’s decided to come out after all,” were the first words out of his mouth as he drew closer. And only then did you realize the day was dreary, filled with dark clouds and humid spring air. 
Tearing your eyes from the clouds above, your gaze landed on Jungkook just as he stopped before you, setting his duffel bag on the pavement beside you. He wasted no time either, poking your abdomen with his racket. “Bad day already?” he questioned, tilting his head to the side in thought.
Sighing, you shook your head. “No, just . . . thinking.”
“Well, stop, it’s aging you,” he lightly scolded.
You squinted your eyes into a glare. “You’re on one today.”
And well . . . all he did was wink. Of course.
Now . . . you knew how this looked. Just last night you and him were up into the early morning nursing each other’s wounds and now it seemed like it hadn’t even happened, but there was a reason for that. The two of you knew each other. He appreciated that you didn’t make it a big thing. You were always going to be there for him; that much was obvious by now given your history with each other. But if there was one thing the two of you both hated, it was being treated as if you were as fragile as glass. So for now . . . last night was a little secret between the two of you, and right now . . . right now you both had to get your heads in the game for the finals tomorrow.
So there . . . that was that. At least that was how it was for you. You were sure it was the same for him, but it wasn’t like you could think about that right now either. Right now you had to think of the tournament as draining as it felt to even acknowledge it.
But just as you were about to move past it all and grab your own duffle bag from the ground, Jungkook halted you with a hand on your wrist. Your eyes immediately snapped to his.
“You sure you’re good?” he questioned once more, his eyes wider now, more concerned than before.
(There’s something soft in me—
But you couldn’t burden him now. Not after what he went through last night. Because you knew him, and you knew he’d do anything to make things right for you . . . even if it meant ignoring his own troubles. And well, despite what you liked to claim, you couldn’t bear to do that to him.
—we killed it and it’s rotting.)
So instead, you blurted out: “Just stressed, you know?”
His brows pinched together slightly, but he didn’t press it further. “Right . . . “
And that was that. You didn’t let another word pass between the two of you as you picked up both your duffel bag and his and began to walk toward the training center. Jungkook, of course, fought you the entire way, trying to grab the duffel bags from your hands, but you insisted, tsking at him as he tried to outsmart you (as if he ever could).
While he repeatedly tried to snatch at least one bag from your grasp, your eyes were training on the scene in front of you. And it was only when the two of you turned the corner, now facing the center head-on, that you realized maybe the dark clouds had been a sign telling you to turn back; to stay inside; to practice somewhere else. Jungkook, on the other hand, was preoccupied, as, in your shock, he managed to snatch both duffel bags from your grasp. And he was mighty proud of himself too until he heard what you had seen . . . and slowly the grin fell from his lips as he turned to face the scene.
Because before the two of you, crowding in front of the training center were reporters on top of reporters with their big flashy cameras and notepads, and . . . behind them, spray painted across the building was your name . . . with the words ‘is a traitor’ too big not to notice.
There’s something soft in me—
we killed it and it’s rotting.
It happened in slow motion. The reporters caught sight of the two of you, and that was it. They were racing toward you in seconds, all screaming this and that, trying to get a story, and all you could do was stare in a state of confusion and shock as if you were waiting for a car to pop out of nowhere and hit you.
Off the highway like another deer.
You’d never seen something like it. Sure, you’d seen this stuff in movies, but never in real life, never because of . . . you. There had been articles published when you fell out of the badminton scene three years ago, but never something like this. Never something like this. Fuck, even the interview you’d done as a team were never like . . . this.
Off the highway like another girl.
What was . . . this?
It was bad. You knew it was bad, but you couldn’t hear anything. You could see Jungkook growing angry beside you, pushing the reporters back as he said . . . something . . . but you couldn’t quite make out what it was. You couldn’t hear it. You couldn’t hear anything.
You should have known better. You should've known there was a chance something bad would happen. Because like always, when you got that sick feeling in the pit of your stomach, when the dark clouds came out and the air felt wet but chilly but humid . . . something bad always happened. But you hadn't thought that the world would be so cruel, especially the day before the end.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. This wasn’t supposed to—
You felt the world caving in on you. You felt small. Small and disgusting. You wanted to disappear. You wanted to run, but you couldn't. Your mind had been the only thing to stay alert. Just run, you thought. Run. Run. Fucking run.
But you couldn't. You wanted to but the camera kept flashing and the reporters kept yelling and yelling and yelling and all you could make out was that everyone hated you. Suddenly, it was three years ago and everyone was pretending to be nice to you, then bitching about you behind your back. Suddenly, you were falling. Your hip was hurting. You were screaming and nobody cared. Nobody cared. Nobody—and then you were pushing everyone away again. Suddenly, you were alone again. And then you felt it. You felt it all, and then . . . then you couldn't breathe.
I can't breathe. You tried gasping for air, but it never stuck in your lungs. I can't breathe. You could have sworn this was what drowning felt like as your breaths came out quicker and quicker. Oh, my God, I can't fucking breathe.
You needed air. You needed to run.
Your eyes darted to the training center, and you knew what you had to do. You forced your legs to move as you tried to make it to the center. You’d be inside in a minute; you just needed a second. One second and you could breathe again.
But before you could even really move to make it, a hand was on your shoulder, and it wasn’t who you thought it’d be. No, it wasn’t a comforting touch; it was the touch of a reporter trying to make you stay in place just for you to answer their question. There was no making it out of this.
Glancing up, your eyes met the reporter’s and then you finally heard the words you’d been drowning out all morning: “Are the bribing rumors true?”
All air escaped your lungs. Bribing? You? “What?” you weakly asked (you’d never sounded like this before in your life, and yet . . . ).
But before anything else could escalate, Jungkook was stepping in front of you. His body blocked yours from the reporters, his hand carefully resting on your hip as he tucked you behind him while he mumbled, “Don’t bother—”
“What—” you blurted out before you could stop yourself— “What rumors?” 
You just . . . you wanted to know. Bribing? All you’d ever done in your career was try to be the best. You’d put blood and tears and sweat and everything into badminton, and this . . . this was how it repaid you. You’d fucked up your leg for it; fucked up your life; fucked up everything just to hold a fucking racket in your hand and now they wanted to say that you bribed your way into . . . into what? Success? You wanted to know the truth. You wanted to know.
But no one bothered giving you an answer. It was just question after question, confusing you more and more, and all you could come to the conclusion was the fact that the whole world must have thought you were as horrible as a person as you feared you were.
So, the final person asked, “Do you have anything to say?”
And all you could fathom was: “I—” you swallowed hard— “I . . . don’t care.”
That was it.
I don’t care, you’d said even though you did, because you always had. You cared too much. Too fucking much. And you were too much. And this was too much. And just . . . just . . . 
You didn’t bother thinking further. Your mind went blank as you tore yourself from the scene. Dropping your racket to the ground, you took a step backward. 
. . . And then you were gone.
Run, you’d told yourself, and finally, you listened.
And as you ran, you realized, things were easy for you when you could ignore them. If you spent your time worrying about everyone else, then there would be no more time left to worry about yourself. You supposed that was an issue on its own, but that was how you survived. 
A burnt child loves the fire. Yes, and you did. You loved it because it meant you’d have one more reason to survive. Survive enough and you wouldn’t have to deal with the aftermath. Just keep surviving the fire. That . . . that was what you were good at.
But you didn’t know how to deal with . . . this.
This wasn’t a fire. Far from it. 
It was almost as if you were stuck at the bottom of a lake, your foot trapped under a rock, unable to get to the surface. And no matter how hard you fought to unsheath yourself, you stayed trapped at the bottom, water threatening to clog your air pipes.
And the thing they don’t tell you about drowning: it only takes forty seconds.
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Forty seconds turned into minutes then an hour, and you began to wonder how long you had been left at the bottom of that lake. How long until the water finally reached your lungs?
It was about half an hour ago when you’d finally found the pond just outside the hotel your team was staying in, that you’d finally searched up whatever the fuck had gotten you in so much shit.
Yunis Doubles Player Accused of Bribing Referee to Make Nationals, was the headline. Apparently, an anonymous inside source had come forward and claimed that you’d not only bribed your way into winning each tournament for your team, but on top of that, you were also taking whatever drug to help with your fucked leg.
And get this . . . apparently it was because once you won finals, you’d go on to sign for Russia, leaving Korea behind, essentially making yourself a traitor. So there it was. In less than a day, you were a traitor, a drug abuser, and a cheat. Because apparently, that was true. 
Whatever . . .  it didn’t matter anyway. Even though it wasn’t true, the media had made it so, so it was by default. And as if badminton hadn’t already been feeling like a chore, your love for it lessened and lessened into . . . this hate.
That was what you felt: hate. Had you become hatred now?
Had you become a ghost, too? . . . Had you always been? . . . 
“Don’t do it. You’ve got so much to live for,” you heard a voice say in a joking manner behind you just as you tossed another rock into the large pond below your dangling feet. (The voice had startled you all the same, nearing skyrocketing the rock out of your grasp, but we don’t dwell on that.)
Still . . . 
. . . you didn’t jump. There was no need to. Startled or not, there was no need to fear. You knew that voice, and it only ever filled you with comfort, nothing else.
So instead of answering, you dropped your head in shame, eyes on the koi fish swimming idly through the water below you as your hands tightened around the edge of the rickety bridge. 
Jungkook had found you. Somehow he always managed to make his way back to you, no matter how many times you pushed him away.
(It used to be annoying. Now it was just . . . well . . . it was something else now. It had grown into something . . . more . . .)
His footsteps grew closer. He was behind you now. Close, yet still so very distant.
Silence for only a beat more.
And then, he spoke.
“I was trying to find an excuse to come find you,” he murmured, his words unexpecting of a response as he sat down beside you, dangling his feet over the edge of the bridge.
And you . . . you stayed still, peeking at him through the corner of your eye. Sure enough, he was real, and he was sitting there dressed in his athletic clothes, some of his hair pulled back into a ponytail, while he held in his hands two pieces of . . . bread (?). 
Your brows scrunched in confusion. “Bread was your excuse?” you questioned, your voice quiet.
Jungkook glanced between you and the bread, then back at you until he settled on the bread, tapping a finger to the loaves. “Ah . . . right . . . well . . . buy one, get one free,” he curtly explained. His eyes drifted back to you, then, as he wet his lips and sighed. “You talked about wanting to feed the fish.” Add in a shrug. “Thought this might be where I’d find you . . . so—“ a clearing of his throat— “Just—Are you OK?”
And you couldn’t help it. You took him up on his offer, silently grabbing a loaf of bread from his hands and resting it on your lap. Your eyes followed it the entire way, watching as your hand began to rip a small piece from the corner. “I think,” you finally replied to his question just as you tossed the piece of bread into the water. “I can’t force people to believe me. So—” pausing for a second, you watched as two koi fought over the piece of bread— “whatever, right?”
Jungkook plucked a piece of the bread off, but instead of throwing it to the fish, he plopped it into his mouth, chewing in contemplation. “You were always the best player,” he mumbled through the mouthful. Plucking off another piece, he waved it in your direction, gesturing to you. “They can’t take that away.”
Maybe it was the sentiment or maybe it was how he’d begun to eat the bread he brought solely to feed the fish, but you couldn’t help but fight off a smile. Because when times were like this, you felt fine; you felt . . . almost good, but when you were out there neck-and-neck, trying to hit the birdie again and again, you felt . . . off.
It made you realize that one: badminton didn’t feel like it used to and two: you weren’t entirely sure that the accusation itself was the reason behind your anger. Because maybe it was easier to be angry or sad. It always had been. 
But as you ripped off another piece of bread to throw to the fish, it hit you. You weren’t exactly hard to figure out you’d like to think, so really, put two and two together and you get one burnt-out badminton player looking for an excuse to quit.
Fuck.
It really was that, wasn’t it?
You didn’t want it to be. You didn’t want to believe it either because badminton was your life. There was no without. Like a hook in an eye. Hook in eye. Hook in eye. Hook in eye. You couldn’t escape it. 
But now . . . after years and years of trying to get back to that same person you were before the accident, you’d ignored just how draining it had begun to feel to practice and practice and try and try and . . . try. You mistook it for physical fatigue; for healing from your injury. You didn’t once think that your disinterest may have been because you had grown further and further apart from a racket in your hand and the sound of the court squeaking under your shoes. And when that reporter asked you if you’d cheated to get back in the game . . . you’d taken that chance to run away; to ruin it for yourself once more . . . and this time not for the sake of self-sabotage but perhaps . . . conservation.
So you began to ask yourself the same question that had been haunting you for a while now: how well did badminton still fit into you? You’d thought about it last night. You thought about it a million times before, refusing to acknowledge it, and now . . .
Then you found yourself turning to Jungkook. “What—” you sucked in a quick breath— “What made you want to play badminton? . . . In the beginning . . . “
Setting the bread aside, he leaned forward, resting his forearm against the lower part of the railing. “I’m not really sure,” he mumbled as he rested his cheek against his forearm. “It was just . . . easy for me. I liked being good at things.”
“But . . . “ (you had begun to toy with the bread instead of tossing it to the fish) “ . . . why did you love it?”
A few beats of silence.
Beat.
Beat.
Beat.
Then, Jungkook spoke: “The people, I think,” he finally said in a calm, collected tone, adding in a shrug at the end of his sentence. “I never really cared about being someone special; I just when I played, I always played with friends. It was fun. I think when I look back on it, it wasn’t badminton that I loved, it was the people. My friends . . . coaches . . . “ his eyes flashed to meet yours, “. . . you.” And he maintained eye contact. “It was the only time I ever felt happy, and when I grew up . . . when badminton felt more like a game of loss . . . it lost its magic. I wasn’t a kid anymore. Everyone had grown up and I was still there, on that court. . . . It wasn’t fun anymore . . . “
Oh.
Because, truly, you’d felt the same. Well . . . perhaps a tad different. Badminton had been fun for you because you always won. It was the only time you felt . . . special, good . . . worth . . . something. And when you lost it all, you felt like nothing upon nothing upon shit. So when you finally gained it all back, it was almost as if with each win, that magic Jungkook spoke up washed away bit by bit. Winning wasn’t fun anymore; it was being with him that made it worth . . . something.
But could winning itself ever have the same effect as it did years ago? Would you ever crave it so violently again?
“Do you think it could ever be fun again?” you voiced your thoughts aloud, hesitant as if admitting this aloud was some kind of sin.
“Maybe,” Jungkook muttered with another shrug. His attention was drawn on the fish now, his round, brown eyes following them as they swam to and fro. “But—” he breathed in heavily— “if I had it my way . . . I’d go back home and help run my parents’ shop.” There was that smile creeping up on his face again at the mention of home. “And if I really had it my way, I’d be thirteen again and I’d never grow up. I’d be small and happy and I’d never have to leave home again. That is what I truly want; to be that kid again . . . but for right now . . . I think I’d settle with just going home, knowing my mom’s special dish is waiting for me.”
Home.
He spoke of it so fondly, and you began to wonder if you’d ever loved it as much as he did. Now, you knew you did. Your parents were good, kind people. They were good parents. You loved them, missed them, but home had never been something that you’d acknowledged if that made any sense. You were just always looking forward to the future and who you’d become. You supposed you never stopped to take in the lines drawn onto the bathroom wall labeling your height year after year. You supposed you never stopped to catch sight of the way your mom would shave off the skin of the apple because she knew you didn’t like getting it in your teeth. You supposed you never thought of home as home because you always knew it’d be there, and now . . . now it was far far away and you were so so small, no longer great and big, and looking forward to the future. 
It made you wonder if this feeling deep inside you had something to do with missing this home Jungkook spoke of. And then you began to agree that, yes, yes you would very much like to be small again, coming home from badminton practice to the smell of your mother’s cooking and your father’s tunes playing on the CD player.
Perhaps . . . perhaps you wished you were little again, too. And perhaps you wished you could start over, this time with badminton as more of a love than a state of survival . . . and maybe then you’d know more of this . . . home.
“Kook . . . “ you began, eyes darting from fish to fish as your thoughts raced, “if I admit something . . . do you promise not to judge?”
Jungkook hummed moments before he reached out to tuck your hair behind your ear. “What’s on your mind, hmm?” he mused, nudging you with his elbow as if telling you to go on.
Another few beats of silence. (It was odd how it kept lurking over your shoulder like a vice.)
And then: wetting your lips, you swallowed the weird feeling in your throat, finding it hard to get these words out for some reason. And then . . . when you were sure the silence had begun to eat at your flesh, you opened your mouth to voice your thoughts. “What if . . . what if I don’t love badminton anymore?” you mumbled, your voice nearly inaudible as you heard your words echo in your head again and again. But just like Pandora’s box, once they were spoken, you couldn’t shove them back down. Your words just kept flowing. “I mean . . . I’m—I’m twenty-five years old. All I’ve ever known is badminton. I ruined my life for it. I wasted three years trying to get it back and . . . and . . . and what if I did it for nothing? I wasted my entire life trying to be the best at something that I don’t even like anymore. What am I supposed to do if—if I don’t want it anymore?”
There.
Right there.
There was the truth you’d been hiding from for so long, and it was laid out in front of you, staring back at you.
What if you had wasted your entire life trying to be the best at something you didn’t even like anymore?
It wasn’t even like you wanted an answer from him either. You just needed to say it. You just needed to admit that perhaps you and Jungkook were more similar than either of you had ever thought. 
And did that . . . did that give you relief? To be understood in this way?
“I just—“ you blurted out, still trapped inside your head— “It’s like you said. I just . . . maybe I just want to go home. I don’t . . . I don’t want to go to the Olympics or—or anything. I don’t want to be who I was. I just . . . I don’t know if I care to be . . . that anymore.”
A beat of—wait—no, unlike you thought, no silence entered your space. No, instead, Jungkook didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, baby—” he sighed, his voice like honey moments before you felt a warm hand cup your cheek— “you haven’t changed one bit either. Don’t you know? Violet, roses are red, not blue.” Your eyes met. His filled with understanding, while yours stained in shock. And then . . . then he tapped his thumb against the corner of your mouth, and offered up a small smile. “Where’s your smile? Hmm?”
Instantly, you sucked in a sharp breath as your eyes fluttered ever so slightly, taken off guard by his words. You wet your lips, trying to form any kind of sentence, but nothing ever came. Until you realized something . . . this feeling . . . it wasn’t something you were used to . . . but it was something you’d heard of . . . and it was . . . soft.
You’d never held something like that. You’d never owned something like that either. You’d never been it. You’d always just been machine parts and badminton plays. Strategies upon strategies. Always thinking and thinking and thinking and never just . . . being . . . feeling . . .
Until . . . 
. . . until him.
And you had no idea how to handle that.
“I’m so scared,” you heard yourself whisper before you realized it was you who was speaking.
Jungkook furrowed his brows as his eyes trailed across your face before he wiped his thumb across your cheek, then dropped his hand to yours. Only then did you realize you had been crying. Not sobbing or anything close, but a few tears had slipped past, and there he was again wiping them away like it was normal; like it was OK.
“Why are you scared?” he questioned softly as he squeezed your hand.
“Because,” you muttered out with a confused shrug. Hell, you didn’t even really know. You just knew . . . you just knew that: “I’m only still here . . . on this team . . . because of you. I think . . . I think what I like about badminton is . . . you. You’ve made it worth something when it’d lost all meaning to me. And . . . and . . . I think what scares me the most is that . . . is that you’ve made me . . . soft . . . and I can’t tell if I hate that or if I . . . if I’m grateful.” Quickly, you wet your chapped lips. “I’ve had good things in my life. I’ve had success and victory and fame . . . but it all felt like it came with a price. You know? Win a competition and you feel great but what about the next one? It was always just a constant race . . . but being around you . . . it doesn’t feel like I have to win anything. I feel softer and—and it doesn’t even come with a catch. It’s free.” Your eyes searched his. “Am I even allowed to have something like that when I should be obsessing over winning this championship?”
Jungkook leaned closer, taking your hand into both of his as he held it close to his chest similar to how you’d hold a teddy when you were a child. And then . . . he spoke, and you couldn’t believe your ears, wondering if this was the same man you knew when you were young. “Have all of me,” he murmured, his eyes never leaving yours as if he wanted you to know he meant this within his soul. “Take my bones and build yourself a home. They’re worn, sure, but I like to think they’re pretty sturdy . . . so . . . take them.” His eyes searched yours deeper. “Take all of me if you have to. Take all of me . . . ”
Blinking slowly, you shot him a look, a small, shocked smile creeping onto your face as you let a sliver of a laugh out before you knew it. “That’s disgusting,” you scolded him, shaking your head at his words, but you couldn’t help but find some sentiment in them. Maybe it was the morbidity to you, but no one had ever said such things to you . . . and you found yourself holding these words close to your chest just as Jungkook held your hand close to his.
He smiled back, too. “Good. I knew it’d make you laugh,” he murmured softly, and you knew this, too. It was him after all. He’d do anything to get a laugh out of you, and you began to realize that it had always been that way. (Perhaps you should’ve spent your childhood laughing more than scowling at him.) But it seemed he didn’t mind as he began to rub his thumb back and forth against your knuckles, his smile slowly fading into a solemn expression. And then: “You asked me to haunt you, but you’re the one who haunts me.”
You swallowed hard.
You’re the one who haunts me.
Oh . . . 
And then you began to wonder: was Jimin right? He loved you, he had told you. And suddenly, you realized that if this were still true . . . it didn’t bother you. You’d accept it even. But what did that mean for you?
You swallowed hard once again.
“You said I make you feel real again,” he continued on, making you forget your own thoughts as you watched his head tilt to the side in thought, ever so slightly. “I’ve thought about it. I don’t want to haunt you. I don’t want to poison your softness. I want to make you keep feeling real and soft and . . . you. And . . . and well . . . you make me want to be real again. You–you make me want to be a person, to be something, to make something of the person I am. I don’t want to end up like your King Weir—”
“Lear,” you felt yourself whisper so quietly you almost didn’t hear it. All you could do was stare at him and stare and stare and . . . 
“I don’t want to be him,” Jungkook restated. A small pause followed as those warm brown eyes you’d come to be fond of searched yours like you were the only two people left on the planet. “I don’t want to be nothing . . . and you’ve reminded me of that.” Wetting his lips, he reached for your other hand, now holding both your hands in his, his thumbs running across your knuckles.  “So I was wondering—” he maintained eye contact, while he gave a quick squeeze to your hands— “if maybe instead . . . well . . . I want you to help me live . . . no haunting necessary.”
I want you to help me live.
It echoed in your ears.
I want you to help me live.
I want you to help me live.
I want you to—
Did he know that he’d given you a whole new reason to keep living? Did he know that when you thought of him, you realized you had another reason to live? Didn’t he realize that it was him? That caring for him had made you a better person?
But Jungkook took your silence as a sign of rejection, so before you could slap yourself up the side of the head, he nearly retreated, quickly muttering out an apology for being . . . weird. Only, this was now and not then, and you were you, and well, you quickly reached for his hands, pulling them into your lap. His eyes followed your movements, clearly taken off guard, but you didn’t let him dwell on it too long.
“How about—” you began, running your thumb across the tattoos dotting his fingers— “let’s take care of each other?”
Jungkook blinked once. Then twice. Then . . . then his brows twitched in longing? Understanding? Or . . . oh what was that word?
Whatever.
It didn’t matter. What mattered was his answer. And you already knew it before you’d spoken those words. 
OK, he nodded. 
OK, he smiled. 
OK, your eyes seemed to glisten back.
OK.
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There was a time in your life, where every night you’d have the same nightmare. Over and over again, you’d be trapped in this room with no windows, no doors, just darkness. And in the middle of the room would be you, or rather a version of you, strapped to a chair, with flames slowly licking up your legs, scorching your skin. But you wouldn’t feel any pain, because it wasn’t actually you. Sure, it looked like you, but . . . you were on the other side of the room, watching with wide eyes as you heard yourself scream and beg to be released from the shackles. 
The flames wouldn’t touch you there. They were around, yes. They were burning holes into your clothes, yes, but you couldn’t feel it. All you could do was sit and watch as this variant of yourself burned alive right before your eyes.
And as if watching yourself be scorched alive wasn’t bad enough, there would be this point in the dream where you, no, she, no . . . it . . . would speak to you. Through the flames, it would hiss and whisper that it was your fault. 
It was your fault, and you’d know what it meant. 
But, No! you’d scream back. Because, no, no, no, this couldn’t be your fault. You couldn’t have been the one to ruin yourself. That would just be so, so, so . . . well . . . it would be too much.
(You knew now that it was just one big accident. Sure, trying not to blame yourself for it now was hard, but you’d learned in the past few months. It hadn’t been your fault. It hadn’t been his either.)
But back then . . . back then the incident loomed over your shoulder like a ghost.
You were getting ahead of yourself again, but . . . but the dream, no . . . the nightmare always started and ended the same. You stuck in a burning room, left to watch yourself burn and burn and burn as you, she, it, whatever (!) screamed and screamed, its voice growing louder with each, it was your fault!
And with the last shift of blame, the fire would finally set in. The red, hot flames that had left blisters and boils on your skin would begin to itch, then sting, and then consume you until all you felt was pain, pain, pain.
Then it would be your screams which filled the room.
Only when the pain would begin to shift, your back ripping with agony as this pair of . . . wings (?) split from the wounds, would you think you’d been saved. Because just as those wings had appeared, on the other side of the room, so had a door. And perhaps, perhaps then you could escape the burning room; fly out of there and save yourself. 
That was always your first thought: survive, and you would always head for the door without a second thought. It was only when you’d hear the other you’s screams that this immense amount of guilt would hit you, because there you were, able to save yourself but not without leaving a piece of you behind to burn to ash. 
. . . You never turned around to give yourself one last glance either. Instead, you always counted to three before you stepped off from the ledge, trusting that what was behind the bright light coming from the door would surely save you. And every time as you realized you were falling and falling, the heat would leave your senses and all you’d be able to feel was wind in your hair and the smell of salt water. You were no longer in the burning room. You were free.
With the opening of your eyes, you would be in the sky, your wings carrying you. And for a moment, you would believe that you truly were free; free from the incident, free from your guilt, free from everything.
Until the wind no longer felt refreshing and the vague smell of burning wood could be sensed; until you finally glanced back at what you had left behind, only to realize the wings you had been gifted were not made of feathers and bone at all, but rather wax, and under the Sun’s embrace . . . they had begun to melt . . . 
You’d spare yourself the details of stating what happened next, but the story was simple. Think Icarus. Just like Icarus, every time, your wings would melt and you’d hit the sea below you, shortly drowning but never dying. No, every time you’d get a bit closer to death . . . but you’d wake up just before you succumbed to it.
And every time you’d wake in a fright, sweat coating your body as you panted and panted, trying to figure out if you could still feel the fire on your skin or the water in your lungs. And every time you’d wake wondering if that was why you craved the fire so viscerally; if that was why you felt like you were drowning from time to time.
But . . . that dream, that nightmare . . . well . . . you hadn’t had it for a couple weeks or maybe months (?) now. It used to be something that you just considered part of your routine; something that you just had to deal with. But ever since you and Jungkook had begun this little thing you guys had going on where you’d sleep next to each other almost every night, you hadn’t been having any dreams. 
You didn’t quite understand it. You just knew that the nightmares had stopped . . . and maybe you had him to thank for that (just a little bit).
Slowly, you brought yourself out of your mind, planting yourself in reality once again as you were reminded that you and Jungkook had gone back to his hotel room after you got in a few hours practice after well . . . after your little . . . mishap. You’d showered and washed your hair, brushed your teeth, and blah blah blah. You were already tucked into bed, waiting for Jungkook to finish up brushing his teeth so the two of you could watch something to fall asleep to. (He was slow . . . of course (brushing his teeth while listening to a playlist at max volume)). And you, you were beginning to doze off, lost in your mind as you thought of the peaceful sleep you had awaiting you (partially thanks to him yeah (!) you knew . . . whatever).
Still, you couldn’t help but roll over in bed, your eyes quickly catching a glimpse of him in the mirror just outside the bathroom. And well, you couldn’t help but laugh just a little as you watched him dance to the music playing from his phone, haphazardly brushing his teeth along to the beat. (You couldn’t wait until he hopped into bed next to you and you could finally get close enough to feel his heartbeat against your cheek (not that you would admit that out loud. . . right?)).
“I can see your asscrack,” you called out across the room, laughing slightly because duh you were lying but you couldn’t help but tease him. (Plus . . . maybe a part of you missed him being beside you (you wanted him to hurry up, could you blame yourself?!).)
“Nuh-uh—” he gurgled out through the copious amount of toothpaste in his mouth— “not falling for that again. You’re full of shit.”
You couldn’t help but laugh again, falling back against the bed, the back of your head now laying in the center of the pillow. One, two, three, you counted the swirls in the ceiling. It was literally like watching paint dry having to entertain yourself until he was done. It was an odd thing, wasn’t it? Liking someone’s company that much?
God . . . what had you turned into?
“Do you sleep with your eyes open?” you heard Jungkook ask from beside you just as the bed dipped and he crawled under the covers, no shirt and only in his boxers (as usual).
Ignoring the pitter-patter of your heart, you turned to face him, your eyes immediately trailing across his features. “You tell me,” you hummed, quickly rolling onto your side so your entire body was facing him.
“Probably,” he mumbled as he settled into the bed, propping up the pillow to support his head. “Dunno though. I try not to look at you too much.”
Your jaw dropped. Then a scoff. And you didn’t waste any time, reaching forward to twist his nipple . . . hard.
Instantly, he caved in on himself, clutching his chest as he whined, “Ow. Not cool, baby.”
You threatened to do it again, your hand outstretched.
But he waved a metaphorical white flag in surrender. “OK. OK. I’m kidding. I’m kidding,” he all but begged, twisting away from you.
Falling back against the bed once again, you avoided his eyes. “That’s what I thought,” you huffed, crossing your arms over your chest as you faked your displeasure with him. 
Jungkook only found this amusing, soothing a hand over his chest before he shifted closer to you, his tattooed arm thrown over your waist as he pulled you into him. It took him no time to bury his face into the crook of your neck, nuzzling his nose just under your sweet spot. “Mmm, don’t be mad,” he mumbled against your skin, slowly kissing his way up to your ear. “You really are the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.” A kiss to your cheek. Then a squeeze to your side as he brought you closer and closer and closer until you were sure the two of you were intertwined. “You always have been, you know?”
Slowly, as confusion and shock twisted onto your features, you turned your head so you were nose to nose. “Don’t be silly,” you whispered as one of your hands found its way into his long hair. “I know you were kidding, you don’t have to overkill it.”
Listen, listen, listen . . . you knew you weren’t god awful, but every girl feels like they’re not good enough. It’s built into us, so sometimes it comes as a shock when someone is so . . . so forward. It wasn’t like people just went around saying ‘oh, you’re the prettiest girl ever duh!’ like duh! Obviously! So . . . 
But Jungkook always managed to surprise you. Always.
And just as you were about to close your eyes, thinking this was over and the two of you were going to actually get some sleep, he surprised you once more. “You know . . . “ he began, his voice low and quiet, almost as if he were fighting with himself to say his next words . . . “I spent the entirety of the sixth grade learning every flower I could just so I’d have something to tease you about,.”
“What?” you all but snorted as you threw your leg over his hip. “That’s insane.”
“Well, I had to get your attention somehow,” he mused, while his hand had begun to trace letters or random doodles on your back.
Scrunching your brows together, you asked, “What are you talking about?”
“You’re so dense. Pretty, but—” he tapped a finger to your forehead— “hollow.”
Instantly, you shot him a look. “You wanna talk?”
He only laughed.
A beat of warm silence. You traced his bottom lip with your thumb, toying with the piercing. He nipped at your thumb. Another beat. He pressed a kiss to your thumb. One more beat, then . . . 
“I had a crush on you, idiot,” he confessed against your thumb in the dead of night.
This time you actually did snort, moving your thumb to rest on his chin. “What? I was all braces and forehead acne,” you went on, remembering who you were and how you were and all the little things that you wished had been different about yourself back then. “A crush, JK? Be serious.”
“Hey, hey, I’m not a liar,” he quickly rushed over, humorously defending his honor. “I had a crush on you. Seriously. Why do you think I tried to impress you all the time.”
Your smile nearly faded. (And Jimin’s words revisited you (you pushed them away).)
He wasn’t kidding.
But . . . 
“Impress me? You spent our entire childhood showing off how much better you were at everything than I was,” you said, confusion and everything in between laced in your words. Because, truly, what? “That was like our . . . thing as much as it disgusts me to admit.”
His brows raised ever so slightly. “What?”
Oh no.
No, he wasn’t kidding. He actually did have a crush on you. But that meant . . . that meant the whole reason you had hated him growing up was over . . . nothing. He had never meant to start anything. He was just . . . he was trying to impress you and not . . . one-up you. 
He wanted you to like him back . . .
So then you had—oh, no!
“Wait,” you cut your own thoughts off with a gasp. “Oh my fucking god, are you serious? Kook, I thought you were just trying to be an asshole.”
Jungkook pulled back. “No, what the—” his words died on his tongue as it all dawned on him. “Is that why you thought I hated you?”
“Yes! Obviously!”
“Oh, shit . . . “
And then . . . as if this couldn’t get any more on-brand for the two of you, Jungkook had begun to laugh. Quietly at first, then his hand was slapping against his face as he cackled, his shoulders even so much as shaking. He was full-on laughing. Laughing.
“Why are you laughing?” you exclaimed, squeezing his shoulder
“Because! You hated my guts for like fifteen years and it’s all because you took my sixth-grade flirting as an insult!” he bursted out through small laughs. “You—” he embraced you, his hand cupping your cheek as his eyes searched yours— “are something else.”
“Well . . . it’s technically your fault,” you responded with a quick click of your tongue.
His brows twitched upward. “Oh, is it technically my fault?” he asked while trying to fight the half-grin tipping onto his lips.
“Obviously.”
“Mmm,” he hummed, thinking for only a second before: “At least you’re pretty.”
In response, your mouth fell open slightly. “I will bite the tip of your penis off.”
“Mmm, kinky,” he remarked as he nudged your nose with his.
Scrunching your nose, you tsked, “Ew.”
“Come on, baby,” Jungkook mockingly whined, pouting as much as he possibly could. “No cold shoulder. Gives me the chills.”
But you were having too much fun with this to give it up now. “You had a crush on me,” you all but gagged as you turned your nose up (once again ignoring Jimin’s words . . . ). “Disgusting.”
“Is it?” he questioned in amusement, moments before his lips were on your exposed jaw.
“Mmm.”
Jungkook gently bit your cheek. “I think you’re the one with the crush,” he mused, his lips trailing down to your neck again, this time hovering just over your sweet spot.
“Oh, please,” you scoffed, trying your absolute hardest not to show how affected you were by just his lips grazing your skin. But one gentle kiss to your sweet spot, and you could feel your heart skyrocket to your throat as you all but choked in a breath. It was just that . . . he had this effect on you. (Fuck, did he ever . . . )
“Begging now, are you?” he remarked before leaving another kiss here and then there and the oh, you guessed it, just on the corner of your mouth but not on your lips, of course.
And all you could do was admit you were weak when it came to him, and just give in. Which was, of course, what you did as a soft groan escaped your lips and you turned your head to face him once again. “Would you get over your ego and kiss me?” you deadpanned, all but pouting at him.
That almost got him immediately. His eyes flicked to your lips, then your eyes, then to your lips once again before one of those cocky grins plastered across his face. “Yes, ma’am,” he whispered, his voice like silk.
That was the last response you received before his lips grazed yours. Gentle at first was his touch, like a feather on skin, but as he nudged your nose with his, he finally closed the space between you two, pressing his lips against yours in a soft kiss. 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, running his tongue along the crease of your lips. You complied quickly, hands tangling in his long, dark hair as you pulled him closer and melded his tongue with yours. He inhaled sharply through his nose as his grip tightened on you instantly, his hand sliding up your thigh, squeezing your hip before it snuck under the hem of your shirt (or rather his old college badminton tee that he had grown out of by now (which meant it was yours by default . . . duh).
A soft mix between a gasp and a quiet moan escaped your lips when you felt the coolness of his hand graze the swell of your breast, palming it. He grinned into the kiss, circling his thumb around your nipple, knowing damn well that it would get to you and have your skin blazing in seconds. 
That was just the thing—he knew how your body worked. More . . . he knew how you worked and perhaps that was why he had figured out how to pleasure you.
Still, you tugged on his hair in annoyance, huffing slightly and pouting perhaps just a tad, which you knew he found endearing. That was the thing, too . . . you knew how he worked as well. He snickered against your lips, proving your thoughts to yourself just moments before he pulled you closer and began sucking on your bottom lip as his thumb pressed down on your puckered nipple, tweaking the bud. You hummed softly in response, grinding your underwear-clothed core against his muscular thigh.
He stilled under your touch for a mere second before his hands gripped your waist as he pulled you down onto his thigh, moving with you while you grinded against him. “Making a mess, pretty girl,” he murmured against your lips as he moved to lightly kiss your neck. His hand was at your shirt again in an instant, fisting it and pulling it up over your breasts.
“You’re such a guy,” you nearly moaned out, your hands now on his shoulders as his head dipped to your breasts, catching a nipple in his mouth all the while he flexed his thigh against your core. He didn’t stop there either. He softly hummed against your skin as he released your nipple long enough to kiss it just moments before taking it into his mouth again, swirling his tongue around the bud and sucking hard. And you couldn't help it, you jerked against him, throwing your head into the pillow as a loud moan sounded from the back of your throat.
“So you agree—” he mumbled as he still flicked his tongue over and over again over the abused bud— “you like that about me?”
Before you could even answer, his hand had gone from your waist and now tangled in your hair, holding the back of your neck. That was moments before his lips detached from your puckered bud and reattached to your lips. His other hand worked quickly, too, as he slid his thigh out from underneath you and swung your leg over his hip, his hardened length now pressed against your aching core.
“Maybe I do a little,” you whispered with a small grin playing on your puffy lips as you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him in closer.
He grinned back. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured back, kissing you quickly before you could respond.
And his comment was long forgotten as he grinded his bulge into your heat, stimulating both you and him. It was intoxicating. No, he . . . he was.
He was so intoxicating, you couldn’t help but whine out, “Take them off, please.” Your fingers were at his boxers, tracing the elastic band as you all but whimpered against his lips. You just wanted him, him, him. All of him.
“Eager?” he mused as his thumb dug into your hip. (You knew this was eating at him just as much as it was eating at you. It always did.)
“Please, Kookie. Can’t take it,” you whined further, all but straight-up riding him to scratch the ache inside you. “Need it so bad. Killin’ me.”
“Fuck,” he groaned, and he didn’t waste another second either. “Love you like this.” His own whines filled the air as the two of you struggled to tear off his boxers, your underwear quickly following after as both the undergarments eventually became lost under the covers. But neither of you cared.
It was a quick descent after that. You couldn’t help but grind your core over his hard length, the sound of your wet arousal evident even over the hum of the air conditioner. The two of you never did this. You’d always done foreplay after foreplay after foreplay, finding it thrilling to tease each other, but right now . . . right now all you wanted was him inside you. You wanted him as close as possible, and it seemed he wanted the same, the both of you unable to think or do anything other than grind against each other. 
Only then when you couldn’t take the throb between your legs anymore did he press a single kiss to the corner of your mouth before you felt him slowly enter you, inch by inch sinking into your cunt. Your eyes fluttered closed as your mouth parted and your head tilted back while you basked in the fullness which came along with his cock sliding snugly against your tight walls. Your breath hitched in your throat just as you felt him bottom out, your core taking him all the way until the hilt.
The next second, you were wrapping your legs around him, locking them together in an attempt to get him even deeper. Your eyes fluttered open next, meeting his gaze instantly as he stared down at you with his brows pinched in pleasure and those big, round eyes of his blown out . . . but was this lust that he gazed at you with? His gaze appeared different, almost warmer, almost softer, almost too soft to touch . . . to have . . . to hold. He looked too pretty like this. Definitely too pretty for you to handle.
It didn’t help when the following words out of his mouth were: "You're always so fucking tight.”
And then he began to move, not breaking eye contact once. No, his eyes watched yours as his cock pumped in and out of your wet heat. His breath hit your face, and you could almost feel his heartbeat against your chest, syncing with yours as the two of you stared into what you could only describe as each other’s souls.
It was odd, too, because while whatever this feeling was blooming in your chest scared you, you couldn’t look away. You couldn’t turn from him. You just wanted him, him, him. Always him. You feared that if you did turn away, when you glanced back he wouldn’t be there anymore. And that perhaps scared you more than anything: losing him.
But there he was. He was always right there . . . 
Almost as if he could hear your thoughts, his grasp on you tightened, his cock sinking deliciously deeper if it were even possible. The pressure in your lower stomach was becoming too much as it bloomed and bloomed, twisting and turning in a pleasurable ache. You bit your bottom lip, turning your head to the side as your breathing became more uneven by the second, but not once did you dare look away. No, you watched each and every twitch of his brow, every shaky breath, every flutter of his eyelashes, and you relished in it, soaking it all in. 
It became clear to you that you couldn’t look away even if you tried.
And it seemed neither could he . . . 
"Why are you looking at me like that?" you rasped out, trying to swallow your spit.
Jungkook nudged your nose with his. "Like what?"
You swallowed, this time harder (Jimin’s words revisited you once again). “I can’t say . . . “
His brows twitched this time. “How could I not?”
How could I not? And you knew what he meant, just as he had known what was playing on your mind. How could I not?
And then he was kissing you again, taking you by utter surprise. Sure, the two of you had had sex over and over again and each time felt a little different from the other, but this . . . this was like the beginning yet the present all at once. It was like you could feel all of him in just this kiss; like you could see his past and he could see yours and neither of you had thought about running once. 
It was soft. So was his hand as he brushed through your hair as he kissed you, tracing your hairline, your cheek, your jaw, then your neck as if he were trying to map out your features. 
(You couldn’t help but melt under his touch.)
Why was his kiss always the softest thing you had ever known?
Then . . . amidst your soft moans and carnal sounds, he pulled back, his eyes finding yours again. He glanced between the two of you where your bodies met, brows rising in marvel as he released a small sigh before rolling his hips against yours again and again. And then . . . then, he grabbed your hand, intertwining your fingers together as his gaze met yours once again and he whispered so quietly, almost too quiet you wouldn’t have heard it if you hadn’t been so close, “I don’t even know where you end and I begin.”
And you knew instantly he didn’t just mean where your body met his. No, this was deeper, and you realized he could feel that this time was different, too.
Swallowing hard, you fluttered your eyes in almost a state of shock as you stayed silent. But you didn’t need to speak. No, you took his words, and you held them close, and then you were holding him. Take my bones and build yourself a home, he’d told you, but no, no, you wouldn’t put him through that. He could take yours. He could take all of you. You would give yourself to him.
Fuck, you would give all of yourself to him. Only him. Him, him, him.
“Wanna see your face, baby,” he murmured as he brushed your hair out of your flushed face. “Prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. My pretty girl.”
And you knew that was it.
With one final kiss, you let him know all this, allowing him to take the lead once more. Everything pulsed as he picked up a sensual pace, hitting your sweet spot over and over again as his thumb snuck between your legs, skillfully working against your swollen clit while you chased the coil. It tightened and tightened, rings of pleasure hissing in your ears. His thumb quickened its pace, and then the coil snapped, your release crashing over you. All you could do was surrender to it, tilting your head back into the pillow as your hips raised while your hands squeezed his toned arms. All the while, Jungkook continued the long drags of his cock against your walls, dragging out your orgasm for as long as he could.
“Wanna stay like this,” he confessed, his thrusts growing slower and slower, unsteadier and unsteadier as he nearly whimpered into your neck. “Love this so fuckin’ much. Being with you—fuck. You make me feel so good, baby. So good.”
“I’d let you,” you mumbled against the shell of his ear, your voice a little too hoarse as you were still coming down from your high. “I’d let you do . . . all the time . . . I want—” you were delirious at this point and you knew it, too— “Want you always.”
Your words barely even registered in your brain as pleasure and that blooming feeling in your chest consumed you. It wasn’t long before you found yourself lifting his head so your lips could slot against his. And he graciously accepted your offer, consuming you just as the feeling had done.
The two of you wasted no time in escalating from gentle kissing, allowing you to further calm down from your high before your cunt was throbbing once more. And . . . before his cock had begun to feel too fucking hard inside you, nearly twitching for release as it begged for your addictive touch. 
You let yourself get wrapped up in him for a little longer, too, never wanting to stop. Your hands were on him again as you tangled your fingers in his hair and pulled. This time a loud, deep groan came from his lips, and you knew you had him. He gave another groan of submission when you tugged again, his thrusts barely cohesive now. He was close, and you reveled in this, wishing to bring him to ecstasy. With that thought on your mind, you devilishly reached over his muscular ass, fingers quickly finding his perineum and pressing into it, massaging the sensitive spot.
He was sheathed deeper inside you before either of you could breathe, the two of you too wrapped up in each other to move positions. You just wanted to feel each other again and again and again, because for some reason . . . this time was different.
Different and yet all the same. That was how it had always been with Jungkook.
And you couldn’t quite put a word to the feeling, until . . . 
“Will you cum inside me?” you whispered, your voice hoarse as you omitted a soft moan under your breath. “Please. I need more.” Swallowing hard, you finally met his gaze, and instantly, you couldn’t look away. There was just . . . something . . . there. “I need you.” Your brows furrowed as you soaked in your own words while you searched his eyes. 
Slowly, with another roll of his hips, he sank lower, his abdomen grazing against yours so he could be close enough to brush his lips with yours but not that close to kiss you. But you . . . you couldn’t be without his touch, and found yourself tilting your head to press your lips against his, finally finding that something you had been searching for in his eyes. 
And then . . . then it hit you.
“I need you,” you heard yourself whisper before you knew the words had left your mouth. “I need you, Koo.”
I need you, you’d whispered, and you began to realize . . . you knew what you felt for him wasn’t what you’d feel for a friend. Because you did need him . . . in more ways than you’d like to admit.
And that scared the shit out of you.
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lilyrizzy · 16 days
Note
prompt—When we broke up but I'm still his emergency contact for maxiel
sad fic alert! i hope you like it <3
Max wakes up to the angry vibration of his phone on the bedside table, the flashing screen far too bright in the dark of their- his bedroom.
With heavy eyes, he tries to make sense of the blurred numbers, the ones that tell him it's four-thirty in the morning and the ones that tell him it's an unknown number calling. The area code is from here, from Monaco.
"Hello?" He answers after just a moment of considering letting it ring out. He'd been having a good dream, full of honking laughter and summer sun, in which the noise of the phone had been the waves of the sea until he'd woken up.
"Is this Max Verstappen?" A serious-sounding voice on the other end of the line asks. Before Max can ask in return, who wants to know- "I am calling about Daniel Ricciardo."
For a heart-stopping moment, Max wonders if this is him. The man Daniel has been photographed leaving clubs with, who has shown up to races with him, who is probably keeping his bed warm since-
"Who is this?" Max asks, hot anger boiling over his voice, replacing the previous lukewarm irritation. "What-"
"I'm a nurse calling from the Princess Grace Hospital," the voice interrupts, quick and professional, "Mr Ricciardo had an accident while out at a nightclub, intoxicated."
The words are icey water thrown over the furious fire in Max's gut. Goosebumps raise over his arms, his legs, his whole body as he throws the covers off, already scrambling for the jeans he shrugged off just before bed.
"An accident," he repeats, panic raising the pitch of his voice an entire octave, "is he-"
"Mr Ricciardo is fine," the voice interrupts again, smooth. "A few stitches in his arm where he cut himself on some glass in the bar, a bruised head from a fall. We have cleared the risk of a concussion. We just need someone to pick him up and take him home."
Relief threatens to choke Max, but then with it a sense of dread that coils tight in his stomach. It doesn't stop him from reaching for the keys of his fastest car, because he knows the answer already to the next question he asks.
"You want me to- To come and get him?"
"Yes," the man confirms, "He isn't sober enough for us to discharge him without a family or friend."
Max doesn't have the heart to tell this stranger that he isn't either anymore.
---
Sat on the edge of the hospital bed, Daniel has the nerve to look sheepish. It's obvious he's still a little drunk from the way he sways even sat down. It's obvious he's had more than just alcohol from the anxious way his foot is tapping against air, the bed too high for his feet to touch the ground.
"Hi Maxy," he says looking up to see Max standing in the doorway, and Max wonders when one nickname and the flash of a smile will stop him from remembering how happy he used to be.
At his sides, his fingers itch to reach out, to touch what Max knows too well are the softest parts of him, to make sure they are still warm.
"Daniel," is all he says instead, and for a moment they just stare at each other under the harsh glare of fluorescent hospital lighting. Then, "they called me, to come to get you."
Daniel nods, and then the nod dissolves into shaking his head from side to side as though moving it to music only he can hear.
"Yeah well," he snorts, "they think a few little stitches and a bash on the head is enough to require a babysitter. I did try to tell them I'm a badass race car driver and this-" he waves his left arm -"is nothing compared to my titanium hand, but-"
He punctuates his protests with a jerky shrug, and this is nothing like the Daniel that Max knows.
The Daniel Max knows would be pouting, asking if Max thought he was brave for doing it all alone. Better yet, the Daniel Max knows would have wanted Max here to hold his hand while the doctor threaded the needle through his skin. Would want Max to look after him afterwards, to make it all better with a kiss and buttery toast in bed.
With Daniel's arm still waving indignantly in the air, for the first time, Max looks at it properly. Before, he'd been too busy looking at his face, the red rim of his eyes, the dark circles underneath them, still so greedy to drink him in. At race weekends in front of cameras, he's made an art of looking away.
The bandages are thick, covering a lot of his forearm. The baby cupid with his bow is mostly covered, the delicate arch of his foot and toes are the only parts of him visible, peeking out from the bottom.
"Did it hurt?" Max can't help but ask, and it's stupid. That even after perfecting the hurt they caused each other with months of shouting matches, followed by even more of stone cold silence, the idea of Daniel in pain is still one that he can't quite stomach.
Daniel's gaze shifts down to fix on his own shoes as he answers.
"Nah," is all he says with another shrug. "Nah, I just- I'm tired mate, can you drive me home? Or to your place, I just- I need to sleep it off."
Max tries not to wince at the reminder that home and Max's apartment aren't the same thing to Daniel anymore.
"Okay," he says, nodding even though Daniel isn't looking at him. "Let me find the nurse, for your paperwork."
---
In the car, Daniel presses his cheek against the window and lets his eyes fall shut.
Months ago, in another life, Max could have told Daniel not to smudge the glass with his sweaty skin. Daniel would have giggle infuriatingly and told Max, you love my sweat. Maybe Max would have a hand on Daniel's knee. Maybe Max would have leant over at the traffic lights to lick his cheek and joke back, salty, my favourite.
Or maybe he would have got annoyed, like at the end, and told Daniel to stop being such a child.
"Did you ask them to call me?" Max asks eventually, just as the light turns green again. The question has been playing on his mind since the panic of being woken by a hospital phone call ebbed away.
On the other side of the windows, the sun is beginning to rise. A new day.
"No," Daniel says, his voice clear. More awake than he looks. "No they- I forgot to change my emergency contact info back to Blake."
Max bites the inside of his cheek and nods. It's not something he thought about, because it's not something he has had to do himself. His dad is still his number one 'in case of emergency' number, and his manager Raymond his number two. It's something they fought about, once, Max not understanding the big deal, but now-
Now, one day Daniel might get really hurt or worse, and it makes Max's stomach churn to realise he would have to hear about it from Instagram or the Daily Mail like everyone else who isn't special to him.
It's not until they pull up outside Daniel's apartment building that he opens his eyes again to see where Max is dropping him off. He looks disappointed, and then- Hurt.
It takes everything in Max not to tell him to wait, that he'll drive them back to Max's place, home after all. To promise that Daniel can sleep it off in their old bed, that Max will make him their usual hangover cure that Daniel teasingly nicknames 'Max-y-Million's breakfast of champions,' but-
It'd be too hard, to know that none of it would be real. That Daniel wouldn't stay, but that the images of him there amongst all of Max's things that used to be their things would. To feel the moment fade into another memory that haunts the apartment.
"Do you need me to walk you up?" Max offers instead, but he knows what the answer will be before Daniel speaks.
"I'm good," Daniel promises, face shuttering closed so Max can no longer see the soft vulnerability of his surprise at them winding up back here, at this crossroads again.
The last time Max had driven him here it had been with a car full of suitcases and cardboard boxes.
"Okay," Max says, and it's ironic how out of all the times he threw Daniel's immaturity in his face, he is now the one suddenly blinking back tears like a child. He fixes his eyes on his steering wheel, the bold yellow Ferrari badge, so he doesn't have to watch Daniel leave again.
The car door doesn't open.
"Maxy," Daniel sighs instead, and it's all it takes for the first tear to fall, to slide off his nose and into his lap. "Max, I-"
"Don't," Max pleads, even though he's desperate to know what Daniel might say.
I miss you. I love you. I hate you. I remember when we used to be easy, why can't it be like that anymore?
"Me too," he says, because no matter what it's the truth.
Daniel's fingertips on his cheek make Max jerk, the unexpected tenderness as he wipes away a tear startling him. When Max won't look at him, Daniel sighs again, a little harder. More softness Max has chipped away from him.
"I'll see you in Barcelona," is all he says though, and the next sound is the slam of the car door behind him.
165 notes · View notes
binsito · 6 months
Text
subaru
pairing: han jisung x fem reader
genre: enemies to lovers
word count: 5.4k
rating: mature, includes: swearing, jisung is kind of an asshole to reader at first, mentions of smoking and alcohol consumption, mentions of death but in an exaggerated way due to being upset over a situation (no one actually dies, just used as a hyperbole here and there), an altercation where someone gets slapped on the face, slight mentions of reckless driving (they like to street race n shit!), words such as "stupid", "idiot", "dumbass", "bitch" etc are used, unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), mentions of cum play, pet names such as "baby" are used. i think thats it??
disclaimer: i am not too involved in the car community although i do love cars ashsh so if i got anything inaccurate i apologize but it's just a silly lil fic okie!!!!!! also not entirely proof read lmfao
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subaru wrx with a clean build.
it was baby pink, low to the ground with bright blue led headlights. the color combination was absolutely sick.
it was fucking gorgeous and jisung couldn't help but be jealous.
it was two in the morning and he had decided that he wanted to grab some mcdonalds, his sleep schedule was shit and all he ever did was watch movies, smoke, eat-
typical boy shit.
but aside from all of that, han jisung had an extreme infatuation with cars, more specifically street racing cars.
none of that corny fast and the furious shit, he was seriously into car modifications and speeding whenever he was sure there wasn't a cop around to catch him (even if there was one, he'd probably floor it to get out of the mess like an idiot, catch-me-if-you-can mentality). he had built his old honda civic up from scratch and it had been pretty loyal to him thus far. that was his baby, his girl, he loved his car more than anything and it was his pride and joy.
however that subaru was definitely one of his dream cars. something he hoped to get his hands on one day when his civic decided it was time to bite the dust.
he was sure he had seen all the street racing cars in his city, he had gone to plenty of car meets to know.. but this subaru was new and he had never seen it before. he definitely would've known if someone in his car community got a new vehicle..
you two were the only cars on the highway right now, the city was mostly dead - perfect time to get some action in.
he drove closely to the car, right next to it, lowering his passenger window to look over at the driver.
he couldn't see shit through the tint, trying to get their attention by revving his engine at them but they seemed to pay no mind
who was this guy? why was he going to have such a badass car and not use it to its fullest potential? why even bother getting a racing car if you weren't going to put your foot to the pedal?
was this guy just being an asshole? jisung clearly was trying to race, trying to get their attention..
the least they could do was tell him no?
whatever.. jisung thought, pulling up his window before speeding off, smoke obnoxiously coming out of his exhaust as he drove.
--
that weekend, jisung had gone to a car meet, it was something he participated in once a month, it gave him something exciting to look forward to.
looking at all the cool modifications his friends have invested in for their cars - whether they got a fresh wrap, new lights, whatever it was, he was excited to see it.
he pulled up in his car, parking in reverse next to the other vehicles in the lot.
once he stepped out, everyone greeted him and they caught up, talking about whatever came to mind
"i saw this fucking baby pink subaru wrx.. none of you got a new car and didn't tell me right? you know how fucking much i love those damn cars!" he whines
"uh no actually.. did you race it?" "no the guy must've had a stick up his ass because he didn't even acknowledge me.." "well i'm sure you'll see them around again, it'll be hard to miss a baby pink wrx, trust me" his friend giggles.
jisung knew he was right, how many pink subarus could there possibly be in this town? (lucky for him, just one)
"hey jisung! there's your car!" his friends giggle when they catch sight of the pink subaru pulling up to the meet. the last thing he expected was to see them again so soon, here of all places.
"holy shit" he groans, he was dying to see who the asshole behind the wheel was, but they never seemed to get down, and those blasted tints might as well have been illegal because he could barely make out the shape of a person in there.
instead they rev their engine, jisung's friend urging him to get into his car and race them. so now this asshole wants to race, huh? he thought as he got into his car, pulling up next to the subaru as they drove out into the street. both getting their cars ready and as soon as the lights turned green, they were off. the area they were racing in didn't have many stoplights and was normally empty at this time of night. jisung knew this road like the back of his palm, so he felt like he had the advantage.
he was not about to lose to this person, no way in hell. he had so much faith in his old civic, it had never failed him before, so it better not fail him now.
(but the subaru was sooo kicking his ass and it was making his blood boil.)
they raced in a loop back to the lot where the other cars were at, his friends waiting with anticipation, watching as the subaru arrived first, jisung was furious.
how could he lose to this guy? his ego took a huge hit.
to make matters worse, the driver finally rolled down their window
"i hate racing guys that have those dumb anime stickers on their car.." you smirked.
jisung gritted his teeth.
a girl? a car girl?
(those were his dream girls, but how dare she insult his anime stickers..)
"better luck next time buddy.."
oh he could not stand you.. (but that was just his fragility speaking.)
his friends held back their giggles as they rushed over to the cars, they crowded over you, checking out the wheels on your car and complimenting them.
jisung wanted to explode, who even were you anyways? your car wasn't even that cool or that fast (he was lying to himself).
(he was soo fucking jealous)
--
unfortunately for jisung, that wasn't the last time he saw you.
you also began attending the car meets once a month and were quickly becoming acquainted with his friends.
great.
they had learned that you had moved to this city for a job and were excited to find another group of car enthusiasts. you were scared that maybe you wouldn't find a group but you were proven wrong.
everyone got along well with you except.. han jisung of course!
his friends had told him to grow up and get over it but he just couldn't seem to let it go, once he had a bad first impression of someone, there was no changing his mind.
it was childish, but that was han jisung for you.
he hated how you were becoming a part of his friend group, how his friends were inviting you over to their garage on saturdays to maintenance your cars together.
and he couldn't be more obvious with his hate. he made it his job to make it very clear to you that you were not welcome here.
"hey jisung can you pass me that-"
his foot coming to kick the wrench in your general direction while you worked underneath your car.
"dude piss off. seriously." his friend chan spoke up. he was the one trying the hardest to keep things neutral between everyone.
you tried not to let it bother you, although you were not stupid and knew jisung didn't like you one bit.
it made you a little upset the way he treated you.
you felt like you had to apologize. maybe the whole anime sticker thing really hurt his feeling? you didn't mean to hurt him but maybe you took it too far before you even got to know him?
you didn't want things to be like this if you were going to keep hanging around him. you'd find the time to apologize one of these days for sure.
--
see, han jisung was charming when you weren't around or when he thought you weren't looking.
he was actually a pretty funny guy.
(you loved funny guys, had a thing for them even..)
so you tried to incorporate humor when you tried talking to him but he always just looked at you blankly or let the joke go over his head purposely.
you were starting to feel like you'd never be able to apologize to him. and if you did, you were sure he wouldn't even accept it. this was so much harder than you anticipated, why couldn't he just let you make things right?
the only time han jisung ever talked about you without a front was when he was drinking with chan in the garage. they kept a fridge in there stocked with water and snacks and jisung was thrilled to see his favorite kind of beer in there one day. it seemed that drinking made jisung so much more open, like it made him just spill whatever was on his mind easily. it could sometimes put him in sticky situations but it also ratted his true feelings out. chan figured he could get some info out of him.
"your civic is getting old, dude.." chan teased him, taking a sip out of his beer can.
jisung just hiccuped and laughed.
"don't call my baby that.. she's all i got.." he smiled stupidly
"i think she's keeping the ladies away from you"
jisung waved him off and shook his head "nuh uh.. she's a babe magnet trust me.."
"what babe is she exactly pulling? cops handing you speeding tickets don't count" chan laughs
"that subaru bitch.. fuck if she wasn't so annoying.. i think i'd fucking kiss her.."
"she's got a name you know? she's only annoying to you 'cause you want to hate her." "no, she's annoying.. hot but annoying. like cool.. you like cars too, whateverrr.." he slurs
"what if you guys talked it out?"
"would rather die, channie my boy.. besides what if it get out of hand? what if she's angry hot or somethin'?.. no thanks.." he was holding on to one of the rolling carts in the garage only to almost fall over.
"you are the most stubborn person i know, han jisung." he shook his head
chan knew jisung had a tiny crush on you, there was no doubt about it. but he knew his best friend well to know he would never admit to it. god he was so dumb sometimes.
before you were in the picture, he would always talk about wanting a girlfriend who liked cars. how they could modify their cars together, go to meets hand in hand in their obnoxiously fast and loud cars..
(han jisung loved car girls.. had a thing for them even..)
but chan just kept this information to himself, didn't out jisung's crush to you. he wasn't that kind of friend. if it was meant to happen, he'd let it unfold.
--
things remained virtually the same after that conversation with chan, most times jisung couldn't remember anything he said after he drank so he wasn't even aware he basically told chan he liked you.
on this particular saturday, chan wasn't in the garage.
normally jisung wouldn't care, he knew where everything was and he could just start working on his car on his own.
but you were there.
you were there and it was pissing jisung off.
"what are you doing here?"
"oh.. i thought channie was gonna be here and i came so we could rotate my tires-"
"ew.. don't call him that.. channie? gross."
"well you call him that so what's the problem?" "i'm his friend. i'm not trying to fuck him."
to say you were offended was an understatement. maybe you shouldn't even waste your breath apologizing to him, seemed whatever this is was irreparable.
"you're a real piece of shit you know that? i'm not trying to fuck chan, he's my friend too."
"yeah well i've known him for ages so.. and i just know when a girl is just trying to fuck him, like it's so obvious.. could you be anymore obvious? jeez. like why are you even coming in here with those slutty shorts and-"
oh god.
you knew you shouldn't have done that but he had it coming.
your hand stinging after the impact.
shit, this was bad.
you slapped han jisung straight across the face.
"f-fuck jisung- i-i-"
he was angry. face red.
you swore you could see smoke coming out of him.
"get out of here. NOW." he said angrily between gritted teeth.
you didn't want to see where this would escalate so you quickly ran out, tears stinging at your eyes.
shit. you felt like you just ruined everything.
chan would be mad right? you hit his best friend across the face.. should you call him? you didn't want to burden him. ever since you started hanging out with them, all you've ever done was cause problems to arise. it was hard not to agitate han jisung when you all were together. things must've been fine before you joined the scene..
you decided it was best to just remove yourself from them and let them be.
--
after two weeks of not seeing you or hearing from you, chan knew something was up so he decided to confront jisung. he had invited him over to play video games and jisung showed up within the hour of being asked.
chan didn't feel like beating around the bush, this was getting out of hand and he needed to figure out how to make peace.
after two rounds of call of duty, chan looked over at jisung.
"mind telling me what happened that day i wasn't in at the garage?"
"what are you talking about?"
"don't play dumb ji.. come on. we both know better than that. it's been two weeks and i haven't heard or seen of y/n. i texted her and at first she was giving me excuses to not show up at meets or come over on saturdays but now she's straight up ghosting me."
"maybe she got tired of being annoying-"
"han jisung, get a fucking grip dude. she is NOT annoying. you're being a fucking asshole. you know she's been trying to apologize to you right? are you that stupid? you think she's just trying to crack jokes and bring us beer because she wants to be annoying?"
"no she's doing that because she's trying to fuc-"
"holy shit, you are a lost cause. i didnt buy the beer and it was never for me okay? she brought it for you because i told her you liked that kind and they don't sell it in any of the shops here, only that one liquor place twenty minutes from here. and i lied to her, i told her i'd be there saturday and i wasn't just so maybe, you'd be a nice guy for once and help her rotate her tires. clearly you didn't fucking do that."
"maybe i would've if she didn't fucking slap me."
"she slapped you? well you know what, maybe you fucking deserved it? if i were her i'd do a little bit more than just a little slap. i'd rock your fucking shit for being so fucking insufferable. you're my best friend but right now, you are being the most goddamn pathetic person ever. all because she kicked your ass in a race? because you like her car? because she poked a little fun at you that day?"
jisung started to get up, dropping the controller on the couch and walking towards the door, he knew chan was right but he was too prideful to admit it. chan didn't bother stopping him, he knew he had to let him reflect on everything. the only way jisung would ever listen was if he talked hard to him, it was the only way for his thick skull to understand.
jisung was embarrassed.
his ego getting the best of him.
he knew it was too late to backtrack everything he's said and done.
he fucked up and these were the consequences.
and karma had a way with things because as he was on his way home, his car finally gave out in the middle of the highway. thankfully nothing happened and he was able to make it to the side of the road quickly but he was so upset.
he couldn't help but cry as he sat on the hood of his car. he didn't even know who to call for help. he just sat there contemplating what to do while tears blurred his vision.
he wanted to kick and scream and throw himself in the middle of traffic but before he took a leap in front of a semi, he saw that godforsaken baby pink wrx.
he figured you would drive by him and not give a shit, maybe even roll down your window to laugh and point at him but you pulled up behind his car and got out.
maybe he had died before he made it to the side of the road and he was now entering his personal hell.
"han jisung? are you okay?"
he didn't answer you, instead he looked down at his feet.
"i'm trying to help. you're lucky i was on my way home and i saw you." you said, walking towards him
"hey, i'm talking to you, idiot. want me to just leave you and your stupid car here?" you shouted, hoping to get him to snap out of it.
he shook his head and sniffled
"just..get in my car okay? i'll call a tow truck." you sighed
he didn't question you, he just walked over and got in the passenger seat. jisung wasn't surprised that the interior was sleek, black leather with pink accents and led lights. you got in contact with a towing company, thankfully they came fairly quickly and took care of jisung's car.
you got back inside your car and started your engine before looking over at him.
"nothing happened right? you're fine?" "she just gave out on me.. i'm fine.." he mumbled.
you nodded and asked him to put in his address.
after that it just went quiet.
it felt tense but not like before. like there were things you both wanted to say but decided not to.
after fifteen minutes on the road, you pulled up to his apartment.
he didn't move to get out and you didn't urge him to.
"i'm sorry about your car jisung.. a-and i-i'm also so fucking sorry that i hit you.." you spoke up, breaking the silence.
"no.. it's cool.. i deserved it. thank you for stopping for me. that's really nice of you.. even after i was such a dick."
you took a deep breath and looked down at your lap
"i've been trying to make things right between us.. i know maybe what i said about your car that first time we met might've been rude but i didn't mean it like that.. friendly competition you know? but maybe i went too far.. i'm sorry.."
"no seriously.. it's fine. i'm the one that was being an asshole.. i'm the one who's sorry okay? your car is super sick and you're actually a really cool girl.. i just guess i got intimidated by you. that sounds really fucking lame doesn't it?"
you laugh and nod at him "super lame.."
he just smiled softly and let out a chuckle.
"i guess.. truce then? you owe me anyways for the ride home.." you held out a pinky for him, he wrapped his own around yours without hesitating
"truce.
oh and.. thanks for the beer."
you blushed softly, hoping he wouldn't notice.
(he definitely did. he thought it was cute.)
"oh yeah.. it was nothing. i just had a box in my house and i thought you guys would enjoy it more than i would."
(and he knew that was a lie too. that you had gone out of your way to buy a pack and didn't just have it lying around your house.)
"right right.. well thanks..
um listen there's a meet coming up.. you haven't really been around lately so.. are you gonna come? chan's been worried about you and i know it's my fault you've been m.i.a.."
"mm.. i dunno.. i feel kinda weird just showing up after ghosting him.." you said softly.
"i'll take care of that okay?"
"how do you plan on showing up if you don't have a car?" you teased
"well i could ask chan- no no.. he'd ask me what happened.. he's so nosey, dammit.." "i'll pick you up han jisung.. don't sweat it." you laughed and in turn it made him laugh.
the next order of business was him figuring out his feelings for you now that he had apologized and formed a truce with you.
he hoped he didn't fuck things up too badly. hoped that maybe he'd finally grow a pair of balls and face the fact that he liked you.
--
jisung knew it was gonna be crazy for him to show up the car meet with you.
in your car.
he knew chan was going to question and pull him aside and bombard him with a thorough interrogation.
but he tries not to think about it, not while he's shaking with nerves as he watches you pull up to his apartment, honking at him to alert him of your arrival but your loud ass exhaust pipes gave you away the second you entered his neighborhood.
he walks up to your door, hearing you click it open for him to get in.
and god, did you always dress this pretty to go to meets or is today a special occasion? cute blouse with a pleated skirt and converse to tie it all together.
so, so pretty..
"welcome to the barbie subie" you joked which earned you a smile from him
he buckled up and you were off, jisung enjoying the way you shifted gears and drove your car so flawlessly.
part of him didn't even want to go to the meet anymore.
all of him wanted to just pull over somewhere, lean back in his chair and talk to you for hours.
"han jisung is awfully quiet.." you giggled
but he didn't find it amusing, instead he shrugged.
"oh come on.. i thought we were doing good. what's wrong now?"
"you really wanna go to this meet?" "i mean.. you're kinda the one who invited me remember?"
"well yeah but.. i don't know if i wanna go anymore y'know?" "are you embarrassed of being seen with me or something? jeez man you got some serious ego issues to deal with-" "no no! it's just i dunno.. i think i just.. fuck.. don't laugh okay? don't you dare fucking laugh.."
you shook your head and bit your lip in hopes of hiding the smile creeping up on you
"i just kinda wanna hang out? like.. just with you.. and without chan asking a million questions. just us two alone.." "so like a date is what you're saying?"
"what! fuck no!"
you frowned but only to mess with him.
"w-well shit yes okay! but like you didn't have to say that yeah? admitting it makes me feel funny.."
"it's okay jisung. it's growth and you're lucky i think you're cute so i'm taking the offer."
jisung feels like he could jump out of your car from how crazy he's feeling right now. and he's so mad at himself for being such a dumbass before because maybe he could've been going on dates with you so much sooner.
he could melt into a puddle right in your seat.
especially when you tell him you've found this huge empty lot by a construction site that you two could go make donuts.
even more so when you tell him he can drive your car.
and jisung feels like he's in some insane car wet dream of his because there's no actual way he's in your car, driving, you at his side laughing hysterically while your car spins in circles, tires screeching as it leaves dark circular skid marks.
"j-jisung! jisung holy shit!" you laugh as you hang on tightly "i'm gonna hurl!"
he stops the car and his sides hurt from laughing. cheeks sore from the huge smile he had been wearing. and when he looks at you, he feels like such an idiot because he really wants to kiss you and he regrets wasting so much time hating you for no good reason.
and you feel the same desire.
you want to kiss his stupid, stupid face.
want him to finally admit he fucking likes you.
thank god you're both finally on the same page. both leaning in at the same time and bumping into each other with a laugh.
"you first.. please.." you whisper, he cups your face and leans in to capture your lips. fluttering his eyes closed as he gets to feel your soft mouth on his. letting out a pleased sigh as he deepens the kiss.
kissing someone had never felt this good before.
when you pull away, he almost whines, almost begs you to come back. he watches as you lick your lips, almost as if collecting whatever remnants of him were left on yours.
(he'd be lying if he said he didn't think it was hot.)
and he looks at you confused when you get up and crawl into the back seat of your car, gesturing him to come join you. basically knocking over himself as he rushes to get back there.
was jisung about to fuck his dream girl in his dream car? if you told him this a few weeks ago, he'd laugh in your face.
"by the way stupid.. i was trying to fuck you not chan.." you laugh
his face is so fucking red and his cock is so unbearably hard, he almost felt humiliated.
"why didn't you say something then?"
"cause you'd never even give me a chance to.. besides i thought you said you can tell when girls want to fuck someone? was i not being obvious enough for you?" you tease him, using his own logic against him.
he physically face palms, he'd have to make a reminder to never be so fucking stupid again. he'd have to learn to not open his big mouth sometimes.
"fuck. whatever okay? we get it, i was stupid."
"i'm not letting you live it down, ever." you smiled crawling over to him to give him another kiss
he pulls you close, grips your hips tightly. he was so needy but that doesn't come as a surprise to you.
"shit.. i wish i could've fucked you stupid in my civic.. make you regret ever calling her names.." he groans
"shh.. be quiet.. you talk too much.." you teased.
he quickly pressed you down into your seats, hovering over you as he pulled off his shirt. you leaned up to touch the tattoos littered over his skin. he should work shirtless in the garage you think. why doesn't he? maybe it would distract you but that would be alright with you.
and he doesn't waste a second pulling off your top, hastily unclipping your bra to let your tits spill out for him, slapping them before taking one in his mouth and moaning.
your legs wrapped around his torso, tugging him closer, desperately to feel him against your crotch
"fuck jisung.. take it out.. i wanna see it.." you whine
he pulls back to unbuckle his jeans shimmying them off while in the process hitting his head against the roof a couple of times. you laugh at him and reach forward to help him tug them down, boxers soon following suit, letting his cock spring free.
"now i wanna see yours." he gives you a stupid little side smile and you pull your skirt up to reveal your panties. black thong that would soon be thrown out of sight. you hook your fingers on them and tug them down, throwing them at jisung once they were off your legs. he caught them and give them a nice sniff to which you slapped his arm and laughed, calling him a pervert.
he quickly manhandled you into position. he wanted to take you from behind, wanted to lap you nice and clean before he even dared sinking his cockhead inside of you.
working your pussy with his tongue, his hands spreading your asscheeks open for him to be able to embed himself within you. he could stay like this forever. he could live off eating your cunt for the rest of his life.
you were soaking.
some of it dripping on to your leather seats which made jisung fucking lose it
"your car's gonna need some detailing on the interior once we're done.." his hot breath fanning against your pussy as he lands a spank on your ass
"i think my pussy needs detailing first.." you giggle and jisung lets out a grunt. you couldn't joke with him like that, he could fucking die!
he spits on his cock and and uses it to work himself, pumping his length and letting his tip collect some of your essence so he could rub it in with his palm.
he presses an inch in, hearing your breath hitch as you scramble to hold on to the door, anticipating him to completely ruin you.
he curses as he feels your tight pussy swallow whatever he gives you, starting with an inch, then two, then three.
holding still to not overwhelm his cock and blow right then and there, he still had to work the rest in and he was already feeling his balls tighten at the sensation of your warmth.
once he collects himself, he bottoms out. taking a deep breath as he holds your hips and starts to set a steady pace.
the way your pussy was gripping on him was making him dizzy. hearing you moan his name and reaching a hand back for him made his ego and cock swell. he grabbed your hand and held it behind your back as he pressed you further up against the door.
you didn't seem to care about how uncomfortable it was at the moment, all you cared about was that han jisung was using your cunt and it felt so fucking good.
your face pressed against the window as you mumbled incoherently, he picked up the pace as a sheen of sweat started to form on his body.
"fuck.. this pussy is so greedy.. holy shit.." he groans loudly
he could barely pull out, cunt too tight and hungry for him to even let go.
"this pussy is mine now got it? m' making it mine.."
"yours now jisung..fuck yes.. gonna cum in it right?"
"you can fucking bet on that, baby.. gonna fuck you full and have you keep it in until the next car meet. then i'll just fill you up all over again, got it?"
you moaned in agreement, you wanted nothing more than to be stuffed full of jisung's cum. maybe you'd go home and play with yourself, pressing your fingers inside of you in hopes of collecting some to rub against your clit. or maybe you'd bring it up to your lips to taste him, to imagine it's actually his cock in your mouth and not your fingers.
"shit jisung.. i-i'm gonna cum.. keep going baby please.."
the pet name has him reeling, it makes him animalistic, pounding into you so hard that the car starts shaking. if anyone were to pass by, they'd know exactly what was going on inside your car.
he reaches a hand down to rub at your clit, pinching it a few times to hear you yelp.
"come on baby.. cream on my cock.. milk me yeah?" his chest pressed against your back while he whispered pure filth in your ear.
he could feel your pussy clamping down on him as you reached your orgasm, body shaking as it ripped through you, cumming with his name on your lips.
it was finally too much for him so he lets himself go, letting his cum seep into your walls as he finished inside of you, making sure not a drop is spilled.
"fuck jisung.. that was a lot.." you whined, afraid that if you moved too much you'd make a huge mess for sure.
"sorry.. just had to get my point across. i was serious about this pussy- well.. you.. being mine.." he laughs shyly
"we can discuss that topic later and see if it fits into the terms and conditions of our truce." you giggled.
he smiled and helped you up carefully to give you a soft kiss.
at least he was right about his honda civic being a babe magnet, right?
his car sacrificed herself for this moment and han jisung couldn't be too mad about it.
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please refrain from reposting, modifying, translating, copying or stealing my work. - © binsito
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acciocriativity · 11 months
Text
-> | You're on the quieter side | Ateez Reaction (Hyung Line)
Context: For all of these reactions, the scenario is the same. They're hanging out as a friend group (OT8 + reader), talking about life and getting to know each other more, since reader is new around all of them as a group.
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Genre: fluff
Warnings/tags: mentions of eating and drinking alcohol; mentions of shyness; implications of social anxiety; chaotic and loud Ateez
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Ateez Masterlist
Maknae Line version
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Park Seonghwa (박성화): he'd ease you into the conversation
You're the type of person that needs time to warm up to people, Mingi knew this, but it's been such a long time since it happened in your friendship, almost a year now, that he genuinely forgot how uncomfortable some situations could be for you, and considering the amount of crazy shit he saw you say and do, could you really blame him? He thought you'd fit perfectly in his friend group since the first month he met you, and now, you finally agreed to meet them, but it wasn't going how he expected it.
You turned into a completely new person right in front of his eyes, a quieter one, the moment his friends got to the table, since you both were the first ones to get there.
He tried hard not to laugh as you smiled and waved to Yeosang and Seonghwa, who just sat by your side. He wouldn't be such an asshole to laugh at you or tease you at that moment, you were pink enough already.
"So, how long do you know each other?"
"I'm so sorry for you, he's so annoying, isn't he?
"Be honest, does he talk shit behind our backs? Song Mingi, you'd be dead if you do."
They did their best to make conversation and make you comfortable, and it worked to be fair. You answered them to the best of your abilities, highly entertained as they started to tease Mingi, it was one of your favorite activities to do. So you didn't doubt it, you could get along well with these guys.
But it was a bit overwhelming to pay attention to so many different comments and reactions, you were far from used to it. You wouldn't consider yourself shy, no, not at all, but you never had many friends, social interactions like this were not your forte.
A few drinks later, you felt a little tap on your shoulder, and you looked over at Seonghwa, his eyes were focused on you.
"Are you okay?", he asked in a hushed tone as he leaned a little bit to your right.
"Yes, I am, but why are you asking?", you whispered back, genuinely curious.
You didn't even realize you got so quiet, trying to take in most of the conversation, unless, of course, someone asked you something directly.
"You seemed a little distracted, we are so loud, aren't we?"
"I think no one could deny that statement", you said, and both of you laughed.
"It's worse than this most of the time, can you imagine what it's like to live with them?"
You couldn't, but he painted a great picture of it for you.
The hours passed, the food and alcohol came, and you got bit by bit more comfortable around them, thanks to Seonghwa's efforts (and just a little bit of Mingi's) to ease you in a smaller conversion between just you three to a broader conversation later on.
Kim Hongjoong (김홍중): he'd escape for a little bit with you
Hongjoong felt so, so bad for you, that he wanted to scold his members, and he barely knew you, at all. If he was closer to your side, he would strike a conversation with you, but he wasn't.
You were Wooyoung's friend and that's all he knew about you at first, since Wooyoung seemed protective of you for an unknown and probably unreasonable motive. So much so, that they all thought you two were dating, until now.
The thing about them is that they're loud, loud on a daily basis, the moment alcohol is involved? It could scare some people away, and he feared you would be one of those people.
You looked terrified the moment Mingi and Jongho started to yell at each other for some dumb reason Hongjoong didn't pay attention to, but your reaction was so funny, he almost laughed. You were wide-eyed observing the scene unfold, and even more surprised that no one seemed to care at all, you didn't know they were always like that, and your face the moment Wooyoung started to instigate the discussion even more? Hilarious, but it seemed like he was the only one paying attention to you at the moment.
Then Seonghwa took Hongjoong's attention for a bit, and the moment he looked over at you again, you were gone.
Wooyoung and Mingi were now giggling together, and before he could say anything, Yunho spoke up first.
"Wooyoung-ah, is your friend okay?", Yunho tapped his shoulders and only then, Wooyoung realized you weren't there, only your bag on the chair.
"Yeah, I think so", Wooyoung frowned while he spoke, but he shrugged right after, because he knew you would be back soon.
And you really would. You left to catch your breath for a moment, let the nervous level down and go back as soon as possible, but Hongjoong found you first.
"Hey, you want to go grab ice cream down the street with me?"
Well, now you had the perfect opportunity to escape the chaos and get to know him a little more, how could you refuse?
Jeong Yunho (정유호): he'd include you in every conversation
There's some sort of magic to when you have someone's attention focused on you, and you can see that they are listening, and that they actually care.
You do think it is a little bit unfair to say that people who don't do that, don't care. Everyone is talking, right? There are multiple conversations going on, the topic changes so fast, then someone screams something and everybody is laughing. This is what happened through most of the night, a lot of changes in the dynamics and energy of the table, it was a lot to take in to say the least. But there was a constant by your side, Jeong Yunho himself being the absolute MVP of your night.
The moment you sat by his side, he welcomed you with a small, but bright smile and a short introduction, and you thought that he might be a little shy too, just like you.
Oh, how wrong you were. Yunho was the one who kept the conversation going with you, included you into the other conversation and quietly explained some of the jokes to you.
"You know, you didn't say a single thing to me until now", you said to Jongho, sat on your other side, the moment the chaos died down.
"Of course, I did! We were all talking minutes ago", his tone raised immediately, and his offended face made everyone laugh.
"I don't know, I'd be worried to lost your position to Yunho after tonight."
Jongho calmly looked at you, and then to a Yunho, who was trying to hold in a massive grin.
"Oh really? Then I'm going to past to him all of the things you tol-"
"You know what? Eat more, here, eat this", you interrupted him, picked a lonely piece of chicken in hurry, and shoved down his throat to shup him up.
Everyone laughed while Jongho coughed like crazy.
Kang Yeosang (강여상): he'd help you without even knowing
Poor Yeosang, he's more awkward than you in that table. He's not the best at making friends or talking to someone for the first time. He doesn't know where to look, because you were right in front of him, and to be honest, if the boys weren't mean like that, he would say it was on purpose.
Everything was going smoothly, after all those were his friends in a comfortable set up, but you were there, so he couldn't make himself be as talkative or as loud, and they all noticed.
"Are you OK, Yeosang-ah? You seem a little red", the devil himself, Jeong Wooyoung said.
Now, all of the attention were on him, including yours. If he was red before, now he was bright pink.
"I'm okay, of course, why something wouldn't be okay?", he said, while he did his best to keep his eyes on a random table in the restaurant.
"Oh, I don't know, you're quieter today, that's all", that was all Wooyoung said, while taking another sip of his drink.
But that was enough for the others to join in.
For you? It was heaven. You were so distracted, laughing along with the jokes, that you forgot all about the pressure on your shoulders to impress those people.
By the end of the night, you felt comfortable with everyone, including Yeosang, even though he barely talked to you directly, you felt like you could relate to him, and you knew him better than before
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coupsie-daisies · 6 months
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Kinktober '23: Virginity | Min Yoongi
Pairing: GN!Reader x Min Yoongi
Genre: Smut (minors DO NOT interact), Kinktober 2023
Summary: You finally tell Yoongi, the guy you probably shouldn't be fucking around with, that you're a virgin. Nothing could have prepared you for his reaction.
WC: 2.3k
Warnings: Reader is described having a vulva and breasts, but uses gender neutral pronouns, virginity loss (a dumb construct), unprotected sex, mentions of alcohol consumption, marijuana mention, fingering, Yoongi has a dirty mouth and a bit of a possessive streak, creampie, soft Yoongi
A/N: Here we go, kinktober day 1!! Hopefully yall like it, and forgive me if I fall behind schedule. Let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist for my kinktober fics
Tags: @dragonofthenorth0726 // @wooyussy // @burningupp-replies // @bunnypig18 // @decaffedthoughts // @brownieracha // @ferrethyun // @snow-pegasus // @wonuqrtz // @mixling-blog
Main Masterlist
Kinktober '23 Masterlist
This fanfiction is property of @/coupsie-daisies, reposting on any other platform is prohibited
You felt ridiculous underneath Yoongi, the thought clouding your mind as you kissed him, as his hands pushed up your shirt to expose more of your stomach for him to touch. And the worst part was that you felt even more ridiculous for thinking about it so much.
You had been fooling around with Yoongi for a couple of weeks now. You'd met at a party one of your older friends had invited you to, and you knew Yoongi by reputation only. He was a bit of a fuckboy, he'd slept with plenty of people and made quite a name for himself as an 'experience'. It was actually a little terrifying the way people talked about him, like he was something everyone had to experience.
But he'd been kind when you'd met him, introduced by your friend Hoseok with a request to help keep an eye on you. You'd been offended, actually, at the implication that you couldn't look out for yourself. But having Hobi's friends around to keep an eye on you had actually been quite nice, eliminating the need to socialize with strangers and all that. Yoongi had kept a drink in your hand, though sometimes swapping it out for water when he'd decided you should slow down, and eventually you ended up sitting on a couch, sidled up to him as he smoked up with his friends.
The first time you kissed Yoongi he was high, and you were maybe a little more tipsy than you should have been. But it was the start of something great. You and Yoongi were friends, maybe not the closest of friends but he wasn't a stranger. You felt safe with him, and you could go to each other with your needs. Any needs. Which was how you ended up under him now, his fingers rubbing firm, fast circles against your aching clit.
"Yoongi, please," You whined. He smirked, and you cursed him silently because you really did understand why everyone was obsessing over his skills.
"Please what, pretty baby?" He asked, leaning down to kiss your throat, and you huffed.
"Please, wanna cum. That's what you came over for, right? To get me off, help me destress." You were being annoying, you were sure, but you didn't care in the least. You just wanted to get off, and Yoongi had promised to help you relax. But instead he had you winding so tight you thought your muscles would tear.
"Not gonna make you cum on my fingers, baby. You want to be fucked stupid, right? Don't wanna think anymore? Gonna make you all dumb on my cock instead."
His words sent a rush of arousal through you, wetness dripping out to slick onto his fingers. But even so, he stopped, feeling the way you tensed under him. His fingers were slower now, barely giving you anything as he pulled back and gave you a questioning look.
"You don't want that?" He asked. You and him had never gone that far, sticking to dry humping or going down on each other, sometimes he'd slide his fingers into you, but that was different.
"No! I mean, I do! It's just..." You squirmed, blinking away your building anxiety. Yoongi stopped entirely, sitting back to give you space to breathe, but the distance only made you feel naked, much more exposed than you would have liked.
"You know you can tell me. We communicate. I promised to take care of you, I'm still gonna do that." He promised you, and you fought off a small, surprised expression. You hadn't imagined he'd taken it that seriously back then, let alone now.
"I'm a virgin." You said finally, avoiding his eye. There was quiet, and you squirmed before Yoongi was towering over you, his hand gripping your chin to lift your gaze back to him.
"You've been letting me play with you all this time, and you just weren't gonna tell me that?" He asked, his thumb tracing over your lower lip. You could swear his gaze was only getting more intense, and you swallowed.
"It's embarrassing," You admitted. He huffed out a tiny laugh, his eyebrow quirking upwards in the way that always had you going a little bit feral.
"Embarrassing? What about me being able to ruin you for any other man is embarrassing, pretty thing?" He asked. You felt a quiet squeak slip past your lips. You quickly regained your confidence though, not wanting to give him the upper hand.
"So you wouldn't be able to ruin me for anyone else if I'd already slept with another person? Good to know," You teased, lips curling into a troublesome grin. He rolled his eyes, tongue poking at the inside of his cheek. Then his lips were pressed to the sensitive spot just under your ear, his tongue dragging over it before sucking hard. Your body pressed closer towards his, rolling into the warmth that washed over you.
"Oh, baby, I already have." He whispered, his attention trailing further down your neck, leaving tiny bruises that you knew would bloom bright overnight. Your fingers laced through his hair, tugging lightly as a silent plea for him to leave his teasing and move on. He groaned quietly, not seeming to want to wait either.
He sat back, taking a minute to admire you as if he hadn't seen you laying naked beneath him more times than he could count on one hand. You felt a new wave of arousal rush through you under his attention. His hands brushed your stomach, sliding up to cup your tits, thumbs brushing in feather-light touches over your nipples as if he would hurt you if he touched them too firmly. You released a breathy moan, your eyes shutting as you basked in the attention.
"Gonna make you feel so good." He said, quietly enough that it was almost like he was talking to himself, but you knew better with the way his hands lowered down to knead at your thighs, feeling the soft plush flesh under his fingertips before pushing them wider apart.
You were entirely exposed to him, and even though he'd touched you just a little while earlier, this felt so much more intimate. His fingers slid easily through the wetness leaking from your hole, teasing you with slow, careful touches before sliding two into you, scissoring them and curling them carefully. His eyebrows were furrowed as he focused on the slide of his fingers inside your pussy, his tongue poking against his bottom lip. The attention had you hot all over and you squirming which only forced his fingers to prod a little harder against that spot you loved. You keened, his name on the tip of your tongue but coming out instead as a long whine.
"Please, need you. Don't wanna wait anymore. Waited forever." You huffed. He smiled, a genuine, brilliant smile as his thumb flicked over your clit. And then, finally he was pulling his hand away, maneuvering the two of you with gentle touches until he was settled between your legs, the tip of his cock nudging against your folds.
"Say it again," He requested, the head of his aching length running teasing circles around your clit. "Say you need me, tell me how bad."
"Yoongi," You huffed, and he dipped his cock ever so slightly between your swollen pussy lips, laying enough pressure over your entrance to make you choke on your complaints. Any shame or frustration gave way to pure desperation to feel more of him, to be full of him, surrounded by him. "Please, I need you. Need you so bad I could cry, want you to be my first, want you to take me."
Your words made him hiss, his hips pressing carefully forward, nudging his cock into you inch by inch. You tipped your head back against the pillows, your back arching off the bed and pushing you closer to him, needing more of him, needing him closer. One of your hands scrambled to find his waist, pulling him down closer to you. He didn't hesitate to give in, lowering himself until your chests were pressed together, his face tucked into the crook of your neck and his hips continuing their slow, steady roll against yours. It was another few moments before he was fully sheathed in your tight, wet warmth. His weight rested on his forearm beside you, his other hand gripping at your hip, thumb tracing over the curve there.
"Feel so fucking perfect wrapped around me, shit," He grumbled, voice muffled against your skin, but you heard them all the same, your walls fluttering around him as you tried to get used to the feeling of having him inside of you. He was definitely hitting places you'd never felt before, stretching you out more than his fingers ever had and making the fire in the pit of your stomach burn hotter, the flames consuming you and turning your inhibitions to ash.
"I need more. Fuck me, baby, please. Can take it." You begged, your fingers stroking through his hair again. He shifted, the movement pulling him out of you, and you almost sobbed when he rolled his hips back to draw most of the way out before sliding back in with ease. The rolling thrusts of his hips were slow, easy, and you melted into them. You tugged at his hair with one hand, the other dragging your nails against his waist, pulling him impossibly closer until you were breathing him in.
"Can't believe I haven't done this yet." He mumbled, sucking at your shoulder until a pretty little mark was left in his wake. "You're fucking made for me, built for my dick. Never gonna let you go. All mine, gonna take such good care of you."
He was almost as fucked as you were, his breath coming out in pants as his hips sped up. He slid his hand down, pulling your thigh up to wrap around his hips, drilling himself even deeper and groaning when you moaned his name, tightening around him.
"There," You managed to gasp, and Yoongi shifted, giving himself a little more leverage to speed up, fucking against the spot that had made you react so perfectly for him. He wondered under the fog of his mind if you'd ever felt it before, if your fingers could reach it, if you had been waiting for him to find it. Or maybe, he hoped as he reached down to swirl his fingers around your clit, maybe you would only associate it with him. The spot that he hit just right, the spot that he could find with ease.
"Choking me," He hissed out, never easing up. Your legs tightened around his hips, and your walls sucked him in like every pullback of his cock was a loss you couldn't stomach. You were close, he knew that reaction, knew those sounds like the back of his hand and he was determined to feel you cum on his dick. "Go on, pretty, let go for me. I know you're almost there, you can let go."
His words were soft, sweet, washing over your like ocean waves and dragging you down into your orgasm, air ripping from your lungs as you released around him. You trembled, your hips grinding up to meet his desperate movements, and his movement slowed down to ease you through it.
His movements didn't stop even as you came down, and it was hard to say if he was urging you towards a second one or if he was just too transfixed by the feeling of your walls finally wrapping around him like they'd been waiting for him to slide into you.
"Want you to cum too," You said, the hand in his hair moving to guide his lips towards you, pulling him into a kiss. The taste of him on your lips was like a drug, his tongue slipping past your lips to map out your mouth and his teeth dragging against your lip, not hard enough to be considered a bite, but certainly enough for you to know he could. It didn't take anything more than the kiss to push him over the edge, his groan getting lost in the press of your lips, and his hips pressing flush into yours as he spilled into you.
The kiss slowed, still hungry and desperate, but languid now as if he were savoring the moment of you two pressed so close together. Once he was out of breath, he pulled away, nuzzling into your neck and dragging you as close as he possibly could given your position. He rolled you onto your side with him so the two of you were tangled together, his softening cock finally slipping out of you and his leg trapping yours between his own.
"How was it?" He asked after a few moments of stroking his fingertips against your waist. You kept your eyes closed, basking in his attention and letting a smile curl on your lips.
"It was perfect." You said, pressing closer so he couldn't see the way your smile grew.
"Only the best for my darling." He said, tipping your chin up to kiss you again. You smiled against his lips before pulling away a bit. He followed your lips, and you giggled.
"Yours, huh?" You asked, fingertips drumming against his bare chest.
"I want you to be. Always have. Now more than ever.  don't want anyone else to have you like I do." He confessed without hesitation, and the sincerity in his voice genuinely surprised you. Your teasing gaze softened, and you kissed him once more.
"Nobody will. They couldn't even if they wanted to. I'm all yours."
copyright 2023 coupsie-daisies, all rights reserved
264 notes · View notes
moremaybank · 7 months
Text
SPARKS FLY (II) — r.c
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pairing hockey player!rafe cameron x fem!flight attendant!reader
summary rafe spends his time on his flight pushing your buttons. then, the obx thunder boys go out to celebrate their latest win, and rafe ends up running into you at the club.
warnings flirty rafe, rafe annoying reader on their flight (but it's cute), alcohol consumption, a sexual innuendo, some suggestive parts, allusions to smut (it's coming next i swear), i think that's it?
author's note decided to make a part two, and this is probably going to turn into a mini series but we'll see. (series inspired by liz tomforde)
sparks fly — the masterlist ;; rafe masterlist
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Rafe had been on fire this season, racking up win after win with the help of his team. His following was growing, and with that came plenty of women propositioning him. Normally, he would have revelled in that attention. He probably would've taken at least three of them home to have a party of his own. But something had changed. He didn't want any of them. He couldn't even think about them. All that he wanted was you.
Ever since that first flight with you, Rafe couldn't get you out of his mind. Your banter, your commitment to your professionalism, and the fireworks that erupted in the pit of his stomach whenever he interacted with you. You'd left a lasting impression on him, like you imprinted on his soul with just your glimmering eyes and captivating smile.
No matter how many girls threw themselves at him, he found himself uninterested beyond belief. The only thing on his mind was his desire to get to know you more, to win you over and to show you that there was more to him than his reputation.
Tonight, as he boarded the plane, he couldn't help but glance around, hoping to catch a glimpse of you. There you were, standing in your crisp uniform, your hair down this time around and framing your face. You were wearing a bombshell red lipstick, one that Rafe tried not to imagine painted all over his skin. Your heels accentuated your legs, and even through the stockings, he could tell how glowy and smooth they were. God, the way he wanted them wrapped around his waist, or hooked over his shoulders. Bent back with your feet near your head. He had to stop himself before he sported an accidental hard on.
You could feel eyes on you, and you turned to the right to find Rafe settled in his seat, a teasing grin on his face. He offered you a wink, before shifting his attention onto his phone.
Throughout the flight, he pressed that damn call button over and over, each time with a playful excuse to get your attention.
"Can I get another pillow? This one's kinda lumpy," he'd request with the same stupid yet panty-dropping smirk.
Some time passed, a little longer than usual, and you prayed that Rafe was finally over his antics. But you spoke (albeit, internally) far too soon.
"Could you adjust my seatbelt for me?" It was perfectly fine, and you both knew that, but Rafe refused to let up.
You fixed it for him with a huff. "I'm sure you could've done this yourself. You're more than capable."
"Maybe," he shrugged. He inched closer, the look in his eyes making it impossible to look away. "Or maybe I just wanted to feel your hands on my body."
Your thighs clenched as you gulped, and you prayed that he didn't notice. "Well, cherish that memory because it's never happening again."
He watched you walk away, heading over to another one of his teammates who actually needed your assistance.
"You know, you're trying real hard with someone who doesn't wanna give you a chance," Topper spoke from his seat across the jet. "Why not just go for one of your admirers?"
"I don't want them. I want her," Rafe responded.
Topper chuckled to himself, "Yeah, for one night. Then, you'll ruin it for the rest of us by making it awkward."
"Nah. Not this time. There's something about her. She's different. I can tell."
"Whatever you say, man."
By the time the plane touched down in Seattle, Rafe was on his way to exit the plane when he took one last look at you. There was a newfound sincerity in his eyes. "I'm not giving up, Y/N. It might not happen today, but sooner or later, you're gonna fall for me."
You tilted your head, giving him a knowing look. "I wouldn't hold my breath."
"You're stubborn. It's cute. But it won't last for long."
-
Later that night, the team had decided to celebrate yet another triumphant victory but heading to one of the hottest clubs in downtown Seattle. Upon arriving at Aura, Rafe's teammates were eager to toast to their win and spend the night mingling with people that would promise them a fun time. He agreed to join them, hoping that the night out might help him get you out of his head, even if only a short while.
Everyone entered the barely lit club, the pulsating beat of music filled the air. His teammates wasted no time diving in, but Rafe hung back, nursing his whiskey and surveying the crowd before him.
As if by chance, Rafe spotted you with your colleagues looking effortlessly stunning. Your dress sparkled from the strobe lights, and your laughter and bright smile were infectious, causing Rafe to sport a smile of his own as he watched you. You were captivating, and he couldn't help but be drawn to you.
Rafe took a deep breath, determined to seize the opportunity. It was like the universe was working for him. So, he made his way toward you, and he couldn't deny the flutter of excitement that mingled with nervousness in his chest. It wasn't enough to stop him, though. He couldn't let his chance slip away.
"Twice in one day? I must be the luckiest man alive," he said, trying to sound casual. He wondered if you could see how giddy he really was.
You turned to him, a surprised but sweet smile on your face. "Rafe? What are you doing here?"
He was elated when you didn't brush him off. "Celebrating tonight's win. But I have to admit, seeing you here is a win in itself."
"Really? And why's that?"
Rafe leaned into you, and he looked deep into your eyes. "Because I can't get you off my mind."
Your heart fluttered, and you found yourself torn between resisting his charms and giving in to the chemistry that sizzled between you. You had to admit, his persistence was starting to reel you in.
"Then maybe you should buy me a drink," you suggested.
"Let's go."
Rafe's hand found the small of your back as he led you away from your coworkers and to the bar. You both ordered your drinks, and the alcohol gave you some courage.
"You clean up nice. Not that your uniform doesn't do you justice. It does," Rafe said.
You couldn't help but chuckle. "And you clean up pretty well for a hockey player. But don't let that go to your head."
Rafe grinned, his eyes sparkling. "You know, I'm starting to think that you enjoy challenging me."
You met his gaze with a sly smile. "Maybe I do. It's not everyday that I meet someone who can keep up."
"My stamina's never been an issue, sweetheart."
You felt the heat blooming in your cheeks at the innuendo, and your slowly circled his wrist. "Then prove it. Dance with me."
"Lead the way."
Your magnetic pull drew you two closer, the connection louder than the noisy club that surrounded you. His hands rested on your hips and your back pressed against his front. Your bodies moved in sync, and Rafe's hands on you made you shiver with excitement. The spark between you was now a full fledged flame, burning so brightly it threatened to burn everything in its wake.
As the two of you continued to dance, the question that lingered in the back of your mind pulled at you. You needed to know the depth of Rafe's intentions. You twirled around in Rafe's hold slowly, your arms bracing on his biceps. You bit your lip in anticipation. "Why are you trying so hard with me?"
He paused for a moment, his eyes locking on yours. He took a deep breath before speaking, his voice raw with emotion. "You're a challenge. I like a good challenge. But more than that, there's something about you that's different. You're unlike anyone I've ever met before, and I can't resist wanting to figure you out. I want to know you. I need to."
You felt a mixture of curiosity and attraction. "So I'm a puzzle you're trying to solve?"
He nodded, pulling you closer as you swayed to the music. "Yeah. And I can't shake the feeling that the more I get to know you, the more interesting you'll become."
His answer was enough to intrigue you. "Do you...wanna get out of here?"
He smiled, with a shy but eager nod. "Yeah. Definitely."
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RAFE TAG LIST (JOIN HERE!): @oncasette @taintedxkisses @maybankslover @goldenroutledge @penny4yourthoughts @bmo-bri @hemogloban @princessbetsy123-blog @slytherhoes @whoisdrewstarkey @dreamingwithrafe @vigilanteshitposting @twelfthmortalofcrimsonpalace @wildflwrdarlin @adoreyouusugar @f4ll-for-you @tell-me-when-ur-ready @bbycowboi @jjmaybankisbae @jjsbank444 @enhypens-hoe @loverofdrewstarkey @countryclubkook @earth2starkey @angelofcigs @glen-powells @koalalafications @aerangi @cantstoptheimagines @bloody-mf-bsc @maybanksbabe @slut4drudy @lvvrgrl @dancinglikeaballerina @somerandos-world @shahanaazsoumah @darleneslane @sya-skies @ellabellabus07 @emmalandry @madelynie @urbestieboo @cruzgrecia @l1lactheflower @rafegirly @thatsthewaythechrissycrumbles @gillybear17 @allsmilesreally7 @obaex
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kira-fluff · 9 months
Note
….. can you please do “sleep with no pants” for our birthday boy kita shinsuke??? …… and make it extra spicy?? 🥹
a/n: oh. my. god. YES. i could commit tax fraud and embezzlement if he asked me to. of course. yes. yes. also, I have high alcohol tolerance so I'm not really sure how much is too much...
drunken mistakes | kita shinsuke
pairing: kita shinsuke x reader yes, this is a continuation on "sleeping with no pants on" but I decided to make it longer/special for some reason. HAPPY BIRTHDAY KITA!!! tw: fem!reader, alcohol misusage (drunkness), swearing, mutual pining, grinding, nsfw, dom!reader, sub!kita pt 1 pt 2 pt 3
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it was only supposed to be one drink. that's what you'd told yourself at the beginning of the night, but you would be lying if you said you stuck to what your convictions very often. for example, you told yourself not to fall for your best friend, kita. and yet here you are, drunk and in love. anyone looking at you around your friend's apartment could see the misery on your face. they turned to each other, speaking in low voices as if you couldn't notice because you were too far gone. well, you weren't. and you knew now that they knew you're downing your eleventh shot of casamigos because of something other than "for the vibes". honestly, your facial expression probably gave it away, too, with the lame, pouty lip and mopey eyes. the thoughts and conversations surrounding you only made you yearn for another glass of something to dim the sound of your increasing heartbeat. reaching for the bottle of tequila, your eyes met with the last person you ever hoped to see that night.
fuck, and why was he checking his phone like he'd received an invite? you swore in your muddled mind you'd wring the neck of whichever piece of shit thought it would be a good idea to invite your best friend despite all of them knowing (at least, now) that you are head over heels in love with him. you cursed as he took immediate notice of you. kita.
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kita
to be quite honest, I don't care much for parties or really any celebration that involves an exuberant use of alcohol. ever since high school, in fact, I'd done my very best to avoid them rather than allow myself to get sucked into caring for vomiting, regretful teens (or adults, if we're speaking in the now). still, when I'd received a text saying that she was wasted and needed a ride who could take good care of her, I already was putting on my coat and shoes, as if I wasn't awoken to my phone vibrating numerous times at 2am. I can't help it. whenever it comes to her, there's nothing I wouldn't do to get a chance to even be around her. she's my best friend, so it's not like it's a mutual thing. just me being an idiot and getting sucked into those eyes of hers. the way she looks at me. the way she smiles. it were those thoughts and memories that had me sliding into my seat at 2:15 and on my way to one of her good friends' house. when I arrived at the address and walked through the entrance, my first instinct was the text once again to find where she was at that current moment. it was a need. I needed to know she was safe. that she wasn't crying or confused or sick. my skin prickled as I felt a pair of sharp eyes on me. I lifted up my head to see two languid pupils blinking slowly at me, lips downturned and mopey.
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you blinked slowly up at him. "so," you hiccuped, "you're here kita." his brows furrowed at you. you grimaced. you knew he wasn't much for alcohol, but a more rebellious part of you thought he deserved to suck it because you didn't even want him here anyway. "mm...kita...." you trailed off, unsure where you were planning to take the start of your sentence. "mm?" kita replied quietly, patiently (like he always was). "'m startin' to think I'll die single." he let out a little scoff, "stop being silly. you're drunk. go to bed." you pouted, "but no one wants to go to bed with me." he flushed, thankfully it seemed you were too drunk to notice, and asked, "how many people have you been going around asking to sleep with?" you grinned at him, "just you." kita swallowed down the words does that mean you want to sleep with me? and instead opted for a choked "ok". you leaned closer. "hey kita...? since I'm drunk..." you ran a finger up his arm. he raised an eyebrow, waiting for you to go on. "since 'm drunk, I was wonderin' if you'd indulge me for a little while..." you said, the last syllables of your sentence coming out in a sigh. "what're you-" the next sound that came from kita's throat was a moan as you lifted your thighs up and placed their plush, softness on his hard, toned ones. you leaned in, whispering in his ear, "j-just.... for a while.... b-but stop me if..." you breathed many of your words in but fuck, he didn't want you to put an end to what he'd literally been dreaming of for so long. you then began your slow, languid pace of rolling your hips against his thighs. at this point, you weren't sure what was real and what was fake... but you knew you were dreaming. but there was no way in real life his thighs were that fucking hard. scratch that, you must be in heaven, because the little pants you're hearing from him are more than you could've ever asked for. his quiet "ah"s made your drunken rhythm turn faster, causing you to snap your hips and begin to roll them against his groin, eliciting a sharp groan from his mouth. "a-ahh... w-we sh-shouldn't..." you licked a stripe up the column of his neck, shutting him up. next, you made your way to the hem of your shirt, pulling at the fabric, all whilst rolling your hips against him. in a few seconds, all that was on was a shear bralette - lingerie, of course - and all that was below. kita took inhaled a sharp breath. he was already rock hard and he had no idea what he was supposed to do other than let you have your way with him. he swore he wouldn't do anything in return. you were drunk... but he couldn't bring himself to pull you off of him. he was enjoying it all too much. he blushed again, but this time in shame. he was disgusting, getting off on your drunken mistake. suddenly, you got off of him, leaving him in a strong feeling of want. he could still feel the ghost of your thighs on his legs. but then you reached for his arm lazily, dragging him over to a bedroom. you weren't sure whose it was, just that you wanted to have your way with your best friend, just for a little while, in this lovely dream. he was so compliant. his reactions were better than you hoped for, and you were living for it.
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pushing him onto the bed, he let out a grunt of surprise. "you know... I go to sleep without my pants on every night... but tonight I just might not wear anything..." kita swallowed thickly, unable to stop himself from imagining your nude form in all its glory, riding his cock. he distantly wondered if you knew what you were doing. you had something in your eyes besides that heady lust and drunkenness that had him questioning something... that maybe, just for a second, there was something there like attraction... like love. slowly, you slid your panties down, exposing your naked cunt. kita took another sharp breath at the sight of you. then, you began to go at taking his own pants off. slowly, you rubbed your hands against his erection, eliciting a groan from him, and reached for his button. unclasping it, you moved onto his zipper, slowly - painfully - moving it down. when his cock sprung free, you gasped at its size. you were shocked that something so big and thick could be hiding in his pants that now seemed entirely in the way. so, you pulled them down, now angling yourself, your entrance and the head of his cock. you both let out a groan when you sunk yourself down onto him.
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kita awoke to you in his arms, naked, and his dick pressed hard against your ass. guilt washed over him again, and he wondered whether he should take his chance to escape before you could wake up and yell at him. thankfully, nothing you did was something he'd forced upon you... he had merely let you do what you wanted to him. when you moaned his name last night he thought he might lose his mind. he leaned forward, careful not to stir you awake, and kissed the top of your head. maybe you would wake up, and instead of horror... just maybe, you'd blush.. and he could tell you how much he loved you, and not just because of what you did last night. it was wishful thinking, but maybe, just maybe, you felt the same way he did.
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myaoiboy · 4 months
Text
okay so i saw that post that said "to be loved is to be changed, but in a horrific and unasked for transformation" and this is so snotacon both sides to me.
I mean, think about it. Otacon can't *kill* someone when Snake meets him, and that's true in two ways. Yeah, physically he's a spindly litte nerd who literally couldn't hurt someone if his life depended on it, but he couldn't do it mentally either. He designs weapons. That's a far cry from actually *using* them. He's a pencil pusher who wanted to build giant robots and was willing to believe that MG Rex wouldn't actually be used.
How long do you think *that* lasted, living, working with a mercenary? At what point do you think it sunk in that if he wanted to actually achieve anything with Philanthropy he was going to have to be okay with lethal force being involved?
Surely we don't think everything was non-lethal up to the tanker? I mean, he has to explain the tranqs work at the beginning of the mission, so it's probably new to him, right? So what were they doing before that? And they don't ask themselves if they should pull out when it becomes apparent that lethal force may be necessary, so clearly these won't be the start of Philanthropy's body count.
So when was the point that he resigned himself to the fact that he was going to have to be a lot closer to death and direct killing than he ever had been before? Did Snake insist on having final judgment off the bat? Did Otacon try to convince him that they needed to do it non-lethally, did they run a mission, maybe even a few come off clean, only for something to go terribly wrong? Did they get out by the skin of their teeth? Did Snake have to kill someone, and Otacon get upset by this first death? And did they have an argument where Snake points out that he is the one that has to pay the price for Otacon's personal mission against killing?
:)
But that's all so obvious. Killing is bad, etc.
What about Snake?
I think the idea of caring for anyone is scary to him. Especially the extent to which he cares about Otacon.
I mean, half of his utility is in the fact that he just doesn't give a shit about himself, and has nobody left that gives a shit about him. He doesn't have anything to hold him back from giving 110% to the mission. If he dies, he dies. What does he care? He's a washed up alcoholic with PTSD previously known only to shrimps.
And he clearly values his utility. Even in 4, it's how he refers to himself. "An old killer." What use is he if he's concerned about whether he'll make it home in one piece.
When do you think that sinks in to him? Do you think was the first time Otacon told him to drop the mission and get back safe when things took a turn? Do you think he'd ever been in a situation where someone cared more about his life than whatever they were sending him to do? Do you think Kaz even pretended to genuinely care about his safety in the field? Forget Campbell, that's right out, he couldn't even let Snake be as he's fucking dying. Do you think he tried to finish it out first, only for Otacon to beg and scream at him that he was serious?
Or do you think it was when he got hurt, badly hurt, and he sees Otacon sitting over him at night, making sure he's okay, changing his bandages, and out of the corner of his eye he sees a hand wipe away tears, or hears a quiet sniffle, because Otacon realized how close he was to losing Snake.
Or maybe comms get cut unexpectedly during a shootout, and he gets sidetracked, held up somewhere, makes it back to the rendezvous point just under the wire, and Otacon is bawling because he really thought he lost Snake for good this time.
Do you think Snake realizes that at first? Do you think he's too obtuse to realize the tears are over him? Are from fear for him?
At what point do you think he realizes that the numbness he's fostered, that's been intentionally fostered in him (remember, he's the "Cipher-backed son", he's been moved from foster family to foster family more times than he can count, made intentionally to feel disposable, for the sake of creating a perfect soldier) has been replaced with this new pain, this fear, not even for himself, but for Otacon, for the gaping hole he realizes he'll leave in Otacon's life if something's to happen?
At what point do you think Snake realized that he'd turned a regular civilian into a mercenary, in mind if not body?
At what point do you think Otacon realized he'd fundamentally taken a US military asset and broken it over his knee?
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ashintheairlikesnow · 1 month
Note
hey hey hey I have had a hell of a day (Actually Hell) because I did too many fun things (a problem apparently) and then also we put up the christmas tree leading to the inevitable christmas tree installation arguments (they pop up every year like clockwork!)
anyway i have been overstimulated and stressed (just want to emphasize that there is NO pressure here whatsoever! id like to avoid any semblance of that actually and I know you're already working on 12 days so take your time) and it would be very cathartic to see chris dealing with similar issues (the Wonderful guy. we are pretty similar.) thanks a lot for reading this, even if you don't write anything !
Sorry this took so long, Anon! I swear I've been trying to get this written for literally almost two months now
CW: Some references to Chris's past, overstimulation, anxiety
"Hey, where did Chris go?" Laken blinks and looks around, but the living room of the house they rent - filled with laughing, happy people - shows no sign of Chris's telltale lavender hair with its new-penny copper roots.
One of Brit's friends just shrugs at them and gestures, vaguely, in the direction of the kitchen. "Dunno. He wandered off a while ago, maybe that way?"
"Oh, okay. Huh." Laken steps back, the circle of laughing people closing up tight as soon as they do. Their dark eyes scan the room, but there's no sign of him.
He'd been doing great - all but holding court, one of the most popular people at the party. He's sort of famous, since the Olympics, and people had been peppering him with questions and compliments, crowding around wanting nothing more than to be friends with the ex-pet who stood up to the bad guys on live TV. They'd seen him dancing, too, the music loud enough to nearly make the walls shake. The easy, unselfconscious dancing they loved in him the most.
He'd seemed to be enjoying himself, at the time, but...
Where has he gone?
They weave around people, stopping to pick up an ornament that has fallen off the tree. The scent of pine is subtle and ever-present, and they carefully work the ornament's little loop back over a branch, ruefully watching a couple of pine needles come loose and drift down. The damn thing is already starting to turn a little brown around its edges, thanks to Laken's roommate having insisted on buying it literally the day before Thanksgiving.
Laken doesn't even celebrate Christmas, not since they stopped going to Mass on Christmas Eve years and years ago. Still, in a house they rent with three others, they're the only one who doesn't at least pay lip service to the holiday.
And even if they don't give a fuck about Christmas, they do like having an excuse to throw a party.
The tinsel wrapped in spirals around, over, and below the ornaments glitters in the light, and the look makes them think of Chris, and how his eyes have always looked just the same, to them, when they're out at night and the moon hits the green of his irises just right.
Their search leads them to Ben, contentedly sitting on the couch, a drink in one hand and his phone in the other, quietly reading something there while the party is in full swing around him. He glances up and then instinctively, immediately, uses a finger to push his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. "Hey, Laken. What's up?"
"Is Akio not coming tonight?"
"Oh... no." Ben blushes - it's adorable, and Laken can't help the smile playing around their lips. "He's got some kind of meeting with the gymnastics team, or his coaches? Or... something like that. He said sorry, though."
"Nah, no problem. But, hey, so. Uh, have you seen Chris, like within the last ten minutes or so??"
Someone puts Christmas music on and Laken shudders as they hear that damn 80s pop song start up again. If they have to hear that fucking song one more time...
"Nope. Not in a while." Ben shrugs, taking a drink. Whatever he has in that cup is pinkish-red and probably far more alcoholic than it tastes. Laken's roommate had insisted on a signature cocktail. "You could check outside? Sometimes when there's a lot of people, to Chris it's... too much."
Laken nods, still scanning the crowd, but their stomach knots a little with the first hit of real anxiety. Ben is right, Chris can get overwhelmed by too much noise and movement, but also he's been drinking tonight - they saw the same red punch in a cup in his hands earlier - and he has a tendency to get... hazy, when he drinks. Flirty in ways that aren't natural to him. Willing to let people hug him that he doesn't like, unable to bring himself to stop them. Sometimes his stammer smooths out, which makes people who don't know him feel more comfortable and people who do know him nervous. He starts tipping his head to the side in a way that makes the sweep of his growing-out hair hide the scar on his forehead, biting his lower lip when he smiles. It makes Laken feel a little sick to see it happen and realize Chris doesn't even notice when he's doing it.
The last thing they need is to have to come up with an explanation for Chris losing track of himself again, or why he's eating olives off the charcuterie board Brit brought knowing damn well he'll just go to the bathroom and get sick all over the place again, or... fuck, what if somebody hits on him and he's too drunk to stop it?
That hasn't happened since college, but...
They pull their phone out, uneasily checking for a text, but there's nothing. If he went outside, he'd text, right? He does, he always does. Texts can be easier and Chris is always a little nervous about being outside alone.
He insisted on coming tonight, said he was feeling good lately, but-... what if-...
They flinch when fingers touch their arm, only to see Ben must have stood up when they weren't looking. He slips his own phone into his jacket pocket and looks Laken over more closely. "Hey. It's okay, he's probably fine. You know he gets weird when parties are really going. It's like a light switch, enough to too much, I totally get it. It's why I'm on the couch fucking around on Kindle instead of, you know... talking to people." Ben says it like talking to people is literal hell, and... okay, Laken can see how that might be the case. "He probably just needed to get away from it and wandered off."
"Uh, yeah. I know." Laken rubs at the back of their neck, fingers moving through the soft, shorn undercut beneath their longer black waves. "I'm sure that's it. Just... you know, sometimes he... when he gets nervous..."
"I got you." They adore Ben, sometimes, for how often they don't have to finish the sentences they don't want to say. He knows what words haven't yet spilled, unwilling. Sometimes he acts like he belongs to us, not like he loves us. Sometimes I can't trust him to find his way back on his own. Sometimes I feel like Jake, and I hate feeling like Jake.
Words die in their throat.
Ben squeezes their arm, gently. "Let's split up and search around. I'll go outside, you go around the house, okay? We verify how he is, then whichever one finds him tells the other. Sound good?" Ben smiles, and Laken relaxes a little, finding a smile for him in return.
"Yeah, sounds good. Thanks, Ben."
"No problem." Ben has always understood Chris, thanks to his little brother being similar in some ways. He understands Laken's worry, too, because better than anyone else here - he knows how Chris sometimes gets lost in his past, especially if he's drinking, worse the maybe twice Laken's ever seen him try an edible or a pill.
What if he got drunk and someone offered him something and he took it? Drunk Chris sometimes isn't a Chris who can easily turn down anything he's offered.
This party was a stupid idea.
Laken takes a deep breath and squares their shoulders.
Chris is not a child.
He is a goddamn grown man and Laken is not his keeper. They're not his parent and they're not a babysitter. They're definitely not his fucking... owner or whatever the bastards that hurt him would have called it. They're his partner. He can handle himself, better than they could if they'd lived his life, and they need to trust him to either know his limits and to get away if he can't say no, or to come to them if he wants to ask for help. Otherwise, they're not any better than the bullshit he's been buried in for longer than he's known them.
Ben goes to check outside, slipping silently out the sliding door onto the back porch where a small crowd has congregated in a cloud of skunky smoke, while Laken heads upstairs, peeking their head in to room after room with no sign of him anywhere. They see some movement under a pile of coats, but that's... definitely not Chris, based on the very female voices who yell at them to give them some fucking privacy, please.
"Sorry, Brit," Laken calls, closing the door tightly. "And, um, Leigh. Just looking for Chris-"
"Well, he isn't in here or we'd have kicked him out already," Brit says, cranky but without any real anger in her voice. Laken doesn't recognize the redhead whose eyes pop up from beneath the pile of coats next to her. "Check a different room."
"Yeah, I will. Uh... keep having fun, I guess-"
"That's the plan! Now leave, please!"
The door latches as they close it, and they exhale. There's one room left, at the end of the hall, and they can hear a familiar murmuring from behind the door when they press their ear up against it.
Laken knocks, rapping gently with their knuckles, and turns the knob when they hear no answer - but no demand to stay out either. The murmuring goes silent. They sigh, and the door swings open, light cutting across the carpet until it reveals their wayward boyfriend.
No one has claimed this bedroom yet, so it's bare and empty except for a couple unpacked cardboard boxes, Brit's exercise bike by the window, a couple of her yoga mats, a laundry basket with a few folded towels, and a bare mattress the last housemate had left behind on the floor when they moved out.
Laken's lips press together, eyes scanning the room. Chris's phone is on the mattress, along with an empty beer bottle, but Chris isn't. "Chris? Cariño?"
A muffled rustling makes them jump, heart in their throat, and then they realize the sound came from the closet, where the folding doors are closed. Laken pulls them open to reveal Chris curled up, knees nearly to his chin, an open bottle clutched in one hand, his chewy necklace in the other. He'd chosen the bat one tonight, and his hand is closed around it in such a tight fist Laken can tell his knuckles are white even in the dark.
Chris doesn't look at them. He's swaying, rocking forward and back, his eyes focused on something far, far away from them. There's red lines on his left wrist, where he's dug his nails in, scratching not quite deep enough to draw blood, but close. Laken takes a deep breath, shifting into a crouch.
"Talk to me, Chris."
"No." The answer is flat, and they watch his thumb rub over the little nub of the silicone bat's nose, the points of its tiny ears. "No, no, no. No."
At least he's saying it out loud.
That alone makes the knot of anxiety in their chest start to loosen. If he can say no, he isn't gone, maybe just... standing a little farther back, inside his own head, than the surface.
"Okay. Okay, that's fine. No talking, that's fine. Are you okay, baby?" Laken keeps their voice just above a whisper and lays their hand on the wood trim that frames this shitty excuse for a closet, the floor creaking under them. "You... kind of vanished on me, there."
Chris's eyes flick to them and then away again. "Loud," He manages, and he sounds like he's forcing the word out between gritted teeth. Maybe he is. "Too, too, too... too loud. Too much, too... many."
"I guess Ben called it." Laken sighs, pulling out their phone and sending Ben a quick text that they found Chris and everything's fine. they get a thumbs-up in reply almost immediately. Ben must have been as anxious as they are, if he was just watching for their text to come in. "Do you want me to call Jake to come get you, or..."
"No!" He snaps it, and Laken tries not to wince. He's just struggling with the noise of the party, they tell themself, he's not actually angry. Chris almost never gets angry, and even then it's only at himself. Which... is worse, somehow. "No. Just... Quiet, it's... it's it's quiet."
"Right. Do you want me to stay with you? Be quiet with you?"
He shakes his head, but he doesn't say anything else. His mouth moves, but no further sounds come out.
"Chris, did..." They want to ask, did someone say something to you? Sometimes people said things, referenced pets or something in a way that set him off. But even if someone had... he probably wouldn't tell them, at least not now, not when every word seemed to have to filter through layer after layer of self-protection in his mind. "Never mind. Is there anything I can do for you? Water, or..."
He shakes his head. "No. Just. Um. Quiet... quiet, now. Please?"
"Yeah." Laken leans over and presses a kiss to his hair. He tips his head against their lips and they exhale in relief. "I love you, Chris. Come back if you can, but if you can't, that's okay, too. Just don't hurt yourself, okay? Things should start winding down in a couple hours." They take the little plastic bat and push it against the hand that's still scratching at his shoulder, until he takes hold of it again, pressing it against his mouth and running it back and forth, back and forth.
Chris is quiet, but as they open the door to head back into the hallway, they hear a quiet, "Love, love you," from Chris, barely audible.
They smile as they close the door. Down the hall, the sounds of the party hit them like a brick, beckoning them back to the noise and the cheer and the awful fucking Christmas music still blaring at top volume. Someone yells something out and the whole damn crowd cheers, making Laken wince at it feels nearly deafening.
Maybe Chris has the right idea.
-
@finder-of-rings @endless-whump @arlin-always-writing @newandfiguringitout @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @whumpyourdamnpears @cubeswhump @burtlederp @whump-tr0pes @whumptywhumpdump @whumpiary @orchidscript @outofangband @hackles-up @grizzlie70 @mylifeisonthebookshelf @keeper-of-all-the-random-things
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cherryberry444 · 12 days
Text
I Like U
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pairing: luke castellan x apollo kid!reader
summary: in which luke is constantly getting hurt on camp, leaving you to help patch him up in the infirmary. but what if luke is getting hurt on purpose as an excuse to see you?
warning: this is my first tumblr one shot so be understanding! i am not a nurse! just making this up lowkey!
contains: inspiration from a cai prompt by @/junifairy. flirting, banter, down bad luke.
word count: 1402
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It was a typical day in the infirmary for you. You had gotten used to your usual tasks by now. Patch people up, make sure they're good to go, clean up and repeat. It had become pretty mundane at this point but it was what you were good at and plus every now and then something intriguing would happen. There were some pretty cute campers that would come in bruised up and to say you enjoyed taking care of them would be kinda sick but let's just say you didn't mind it.
One of the cutest, though nothing but trouble was Luke Castellan, son of Hermes. He was the strongest and most skilled swordsman on camp so it wasn't shocking he'd need to go to the infirmary ever so often. Although, the frequency of his appearance over minor injuries and the way he'd flirt with you while he was here did leave you suspicious. But, Luke probably flirts with a lot of people so you tried not to think much of it.
"Oh gods what is it today Luke?" You asked as Luke walked in with a few minor cuts on his face and arms.
"Nothing major..just a few sword injuries is all" Luke shrugged, taking a seat on an infirmary bed.
"For the best swordsman in camp you sure get a lot of cuts.." You said, grabbing rubbing alcohol and gauze from the hospital tray by the bed and going to sit next to him.
"Hey..." Luke rolled his eyes.
"Just saying." You said grabbing the gauze to clean the wounds on his arm first. Luke squinted slightly but didn't react much.
"So what have you been doing today, beautiful?"
You scoff. "My job"
"Other than that I mean"
"Why so curious?"
"I just wanna know what someone as beautiful as you does on their free time"
You scoff again. "Stop"
"Stop?"
"Flirting."
"Who said I'm flirting?"
"Oh please you're always flirting" you say, putting bandages on his arm.
Luke gasps lightly. "Do you really think so lowly of me?" He says placing a hand on his chest.
You look up at him with a serious face. Luke laughs. "Can't you just accept that I think you're really pretty?"
"Whatever Luke, anyone can be pretty"
"Well yeah but I think you're especially pretty" Luke smiles softly.
"Did they knock you in the head too?" You ask sarcastically, checking his head for wounds.
"No, my head is perfectly clear"
"And empty"
"Hey!" Luke says defensively.
You laugh. "Someone smart wouldn't get so much wounds"
"I'm extremely smart," Luke defends.
"Oh yeah?"
"Mhm"
"How so?"
"So there's someone I really like.." Your breath hitches at this sentence.
"And they work in the infirmary, so I kind of let my competitor hit me a few times in combat just so I can go see them. Isn't that clever?" Luke asks.
Your eyes widen. "What? No, that's stupid! Who is it?" You ask, genuinely confused after cleaning the wound on his face.
"Oh you're not very bright either.."
"What?..No.."
"It's you"
"Luke you're kidding"
"I'm not"
"You don't like me. You must be experiencing..nightingale effect or whatever but I am simply your nurse. Nothing more" You explain.
"But I'd love it if we were more" Luke says in a low voice, looking into your eyes and softly grabbing the hand that was cleaning his wounds.
"I think you bumped your head.. like actually. This is a little far, even for you." You say moving away from him.
"Not at all. Y/N, can you let me speak freely?"
"My gods"
"Please?"
"Alright go ahead, whatever"
"I've always liked you y/n. I know you think I'm just this big flirt who doesn't mean it or something but it's not like that, at all. I've always thought you were beautiful, even before you started working in the infirmary. You have to believe me." Luke says sincerely.
You stare at him for a second in silence and shock.
"I'm sorry this is too much. Fuck, I don't usually express my feelings to people but I just couldn't hold back any longer. Coming to the infirmary often, I just felt like that was the only way you'd talk to me or even look at me and I know that may be wrong but..I just wanted an excuse to spend time with you and talk to you and I know I could've just said something like a normal person but I was too scared and I-" You cut him off.
"Luke Castellan, scared? Losing in combat to come see me? You're actually so stupid.." You chuckle.
"You're kinda scary, y/n" Luke admits.
"How?"
"You don't take any bullshit and you never flirt back you just do your job and I really regret even bringing this up because you obviously don't see me like that and I just..fuck" Luke curses, looking around nervously.
You take in a breath and giggle a little. "You're cute when you're worried"
Luke's eyes brighten up. "Cute? You take pleasure in my pain?"
"Well, no. You're always cute Luke." You admit.
Luke smiles. "You really think so?"
"Castellan are you blushing?" You tease.
"No it's..it's the bruising!" Luke defends.
"Mhm right.." You sass.
"So you like me too?"
"I didn't say that."
"Oh" Luke tries to hide his frown.
"But"
"But?"
"Well..I think you're cute and strong and funny and..you know, I like talking to you when you come in here. Even if it's just you hitting on me, it's entertaining." You explain, looking into his eyes.
"I think that means you like me y/n"
"You're so full of yourself Castellan" You say, pushing him lightly.
"Hey don't push me, I'm injured!" Luke exclaims.
"Oh please you're fine" You wave off.
"You think I'm fine?"
"Shut the fuck up!" You laugh.
"Hey if you kiss my wounds do you think they'll heal quicker?" Luke asks
"Hm maybe" You say playing along.
"Hm, my lip kinda hurts too. Do you think you could kiss it better by chance?"
"Go back to your cabin Castellan" You roll your eyes, getting up.
"Not without you"
"What?! You're delusional" You try to hide your blush.
"You like me. I see you blushing. You like that idea don't you?"
"What?"
"Hm? Tell me..have you thought about what our first kiss would be like? I have" Luke says, getting up and moving closer to you.
"You're actually too much today" You laugh.
"I asked you something," He said.
"Um" Luke waited for your response.
"Maybe"
"Maybe?"
"Yeah but everyone wants to kiss you Luke so it's nothing major"
"But I only want to kiss you," He says sincerely.
"Hm" you smile softly, looking down.
"Look at me" He says, lifting your chin and softly moving your hair out of your eyes.
You look at him nervously. He laughs lightly. "Don't laugh at me!"
"I'm not..it's just..I've never seen you so nervous. I didn't know you were even capable of being nervous"
"Well I am okay you win"
"Yes I do," he smirks.
You roll your eyes. "Stop"
"Stop what?"
"Looking at me like that. Like you want to kiss me."
"Well, I do"
"Well we can't"
"Why?"
"Because this is a professional setting"
Luke scoffs. "We're gods!" He affirms.
"Demigods" you correct.
"Whatever, I think you're just scared"
"Maybe.."
"Definitely. Look there's nothing to be scared of"
"You sure?" You ask, looking at him with gleaming eyes.
"Positive, you're gonna love it" Luke claims.
"You're so conceited" You scoff.
"Let me show you?" He asks nicely.
"Alright"
Luke takes in a breath, caressing the side of your face softly. He smiles softly before leaning in to plant a soft kiss on your lips, you kiss him back, opening your mouth as he opens his and your mouths slowly move in sync. His tongue moves into your mouth as he places his hand on the back of your neck, kissing you harder. "Mm" you hum in response.
"You like that?" He asks between the kiss, making your breath hitch.
"Mm, mhm" You giggle, kissing him again before the kiss breaks.
"We shouldn't be doing this here" you say.
"So let's do it somewhere else, hm?" He suggests. For some stupid reason you agree and walk out of the infirmary with him to kiss him in a more private setting.
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spooky-something · 2 months
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What allegories (alcoholism, classism, social pressure/repression etc) do you prefer reading into The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde and what are your personal headcanons?
MAJOR SPOILERS TO ANYONE WHO HAS YET TO READ THE NOVELLA (Even though it's old as hell 💀💔)
When reading it, initially, definitely got a LOT of strong allegories for drug/substance use/abuse, which was definitely something fascinating, as we've seen it happen around us a lot of our life, and based on what we know, it really did fit a lot on how Jekyll acted during the story
However, the take of it being about things such as being transgender/homosexual, or social norms, or even the stigma on how neurotypical allistic people perceive neurodivergent (this is including everything besides ADHD, too, as I think people tend to forget any mental illness is part of neurodivergence, and not just ADHD) autistic people as "bad" or "savage" or all of these ableist stereotypes is a fascinating take we adore too, as it resonates with us a lot harder than substance use and addiction
Yet, I do truly believe the strongest and most accurate of the themes in the novella are in fact the ones referencing the aforementioned substance use/addiction/abuse, solely for the fact that Jekyll is able to recognize that this would be something he can control (unlike the other things we've mentioned) had he not began this, and that this thing he'd placed upon himself had actually caused severe damaged to all around him (not to mention himself)
Yet, since it snow balled so far that he has, essentially lost all control, it results, in the end, with him commiting suicide via overdose in hopes of preventing more damage (this could also be seen as him desperately needing a high that he ends up killing himself, although, that would be far different from what the text actually says)
To us, it just makes more sense this is the message than the other ones, though they're all fascinating takes
As for headcanons, I personally headcanon Jekyll as Aroace spec and gay, Hyde as Aroace entirely, Utterson as gay, and Lanyon and Poole as either either token straights or bisexuals
Honestly, kinda forgot the rest of the cast 💀
One thing that we don't really consider a headcanon, since it's not the message of the text at all, though something we just like, because it gives us comfort and a fraction of representation we don't have, is that Jekyll/Hyde are part of an OSDD-1B sys, and that the drug never really did anything, besides trigger out Hyde (and allow alternation of his body), who'd been there the entire time, and Jekyll just had no idea, because he had no memory of any sort of vivid trauma (courtesy of Hyde)
Also like to think Hyde isn't evil, because let's be honest... And old man and a young girl??? Those are like... The two most annoying types of people to deal with... Probably deserved it, dude /sat
I'd stamp them near or to death, too, dude... /J
But, yeah, would never truly say that they ARE an OSDD-1B system, since it's just not canon, but in my personal AU or whatever you wanna call it, they're a good representation system
Oh, also, Hyde is definitely a cry baby, that dude cries himself to sleep after losing anything ever, or dealing with the slightest insult, dude has a GLASS ego...
Some could even say that of a scientist's... /J /ref
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Just finished Antony and Cleopatra, a double-biography by Adrian Goldsworthy!
Overall, I liked it. I wasn't super fascinated, but that might just be because I already knew most of the story; there's nothing wrong with Goldsworthy's writing style. He's at his best when describing military campaigns and politics, and otherwise has a very detached style. I think he was trying to stick to the facts and be objective.
He only really voices his opinions on Antony and Cleopatra in the conclusion. He thinks Cleopatra was highly intelligent, resourceful and pragmatic, and that she probably did use her personal charm for political gain, but also that this was justified by her circumstances and should not take away from her achievements. He also repeatedly emphasizes that Egypt was far weaker than Rome, and Cleopatra used Caesar and Antony to get as far as she did - but again, this required her own political insight and doesn't detract from her competence. I thought his portrayal of her was respectful and balanced, although some Cleo fans may wish that he'd portrayed her as more powerful.
He's harsher on Antony. In Goldsworthy's view, most of Mark Antony's success came from his family connections, being in the right place at the right time, and the incompetence of his early rivals. He thinks Antony was a moderately competent administrator and legate, but a poor general for large campaigns. In fact, he even thinks Octavian was a better commander! (I actually agree with him, but only because of Octavian's later campaigns in Iberia and Gaul, which aren't covered in this book, and because Octavian was very good at covering his weaknesses with skilled subordinates.)
I do wish Goldsworthy had spent more time on how incredibly bisexual Antony was. Although he does mention the Sexy Dude Pics, Antony sneaking into Curio's house via the roof, and Cicero's claims, complete with citations. He's not trying to hide it. So I'll give him partial credit.
He also brings up the fascinating point that Antony may have had what we now call PTSD from the Parthian disaster, and that Cleopatra, far from "dominating" him as Octavian claimed, actually joined the Actium campaign to lend him moral support. It also seems very likely that the Actium campaign was damaged by Antony's struggle with alcohol use, and possibly depression.
For both Cleopatra and Antony, Goldsworthy is, surprisingly, a bit of a romantic. He readily acknowledges that we can't really know how they felt, but he sees no contradiction between politics and passion. So why not accept that they really did come to care for each other, at least toward the end?
Overall, I agree with Goldsworthy's views, and I think it's a good book for folks who want to learn more about these two, especially the military and political side of things. But if you're very attached to Antony you might want to read a different biography.
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