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#the auction part 3
match-your-steps · 11 months
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so far the biggest influence this floral design class I'm taking has had on my life is that now I feel like I could write a really good flower shop fic
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anyone need a couple sets of antique knitting needles? i might have a few extras here :P
#these are all from a lot my dad got from the rummage section of an estate sale#(which basically means there were a bunch of odds and ends that no one wanted left after the main auction part of the sale#and they were selling it off for really low prices)#it was all these needles + a plastic tub (one of those big grey ones) of crochet thread + like 3 totes worth of fabric???#and an assortment of thread and random other bits and pieces#he got the whole assortment for about $70 because he figured I might want the fabric at least#most of it is sitting out in the garage (the cat slept in it for a while) and needs to be sorted through and washed before anything#can be done with it#but there are some solid pieces out there!#and of course all these knitting needles 😂#I’m not sure what to do with most of these as I already have most of the sizes represented here#but I don’t wanna just give them to goodwill/the local pet charity thrift shop like I usually would? I feel like I should keep them for now#and maybe give them away as I find actual people who could use them#idk it’s not like I find people who are in dire need of knitting needles especially often in my day to day life 😂#(ok hang on that’s a lie—I work in the needle art department of a crafts store. I actually *do* encounter that on a daily basis#just not as much in my personal life as in the hours I spend at my job)#we’ll see what I end up doing with these but for now I guess I’m keeping them until God sends me someone they’re meant for#mobile#gurt says stuff#knitting#needle art
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dcxdpdabbles · 7 months
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Passion for Fashion Part 3
Danny nervously twirls his thumbs as Dan paces before him, mumbling insults to the Waynes under his breath. They were supposed to go third in the walkway line, as it was supposed to be in alphabetical order, but just as the computation was going to begin, a disaster struck.
Tim Drake-Wayne had been kidnapped. In broad daylight, as the teenage CO-CEO was getting out of his limo, a group of men broke through the crowd, swinging guns around and demanding everyone to get on the ground and give them their valuables.
Of course, there were security who attempted to gain control of the situation, but it seemed that three of their newest hires were traitors and in on the heist. A shoot-out was ensured.
Drake-Wayne had been taken in the chaos, and Bruce Wayne had passed out from worry. He and the rest of his kids were on their way to a hospital- a secret location to deter further kidnappings of the remaining Waynes- and the first runway of the competition was canceled.
Danny hadn't seen anything from the model changing room, but Dan had forgotten his make-up bag in the front entry and had gone back for it while Danny changed. He had been front and center when the whole thing went down.
"Who just lets themselves get taken like that!?" Dan huffs, practically spitting fire. According to the ghost, Tim Drake-Wayne's actions were an act, and the teenager had been able to get away from his kidnappers but didn't.
Dan found his nonaction insulting since it paused his fashion show.
"Um, look around you? Situation awareness." Danny tells him, gesturing to the cage they had been shoved into. While the people had been preoccupied with Tim Drake-Wayne's kidnapping, a second group of men had gone in through the backdoor and taken all the models.
Danny had thought it was the staff moving them until he noticed a few people crying as they were placed into vans. In his defense, most people aren't used to seeing someone armed like he is, so the gun-waving hadn't tipped him off.
Dan had joined him later when he followed the coordinator- another traitor- to the vans, and his counterpart had only gotten upset when they took his make-up bag.
"Please, this is just metal." Dan rolls his eyes, bending the bars and straightening them out again to prove his point. Danny doesn't mention the electric buzz the bars release, as neither is really affected by the shock. It's more of an annoying light show. "Sides, it's not like we're human. Not like them."
He tilts his chin to where other models sob in their cages below. They are all waiting for their new owners to pick them up. At least, that's what Danny was able to gather from the men's taunts. They were taken by human traffickers, who had buyers look at the competition lineup and pick which model they wanted before the actual kidnapping.
Danny and Dan were in such high demand they would be sold at an auction that would take place while the rest of their pals kept the Bats busy. Danny had no idea who the Bats were or why they would save them instead of the police.
"Tell the whole world why don't you?" Danny hisses, twirling his thumbs more " If they found out what we are we could be turned over to this world version of the Guys In White."
"Oh no, I'm shaking in my human boots." Dan rolls his eyes. He resumes his pacing. "If the Waynes had taken this seriously, we could have been seeing the results of the judge's panel already."
"Dan, this is a little more important than your fashion Obsession."
"Excuse you, my Obsession is a medical condition," Dan huffs, sliding down the cage bars, and for a brief second, his hair flickered to white before it settled back into black. A flash of pain crosses his face. "My core is killing me."
Danny winces. "Right, sorry, that was insensitive. How about I steal you some paper and pens so you can design a ball gown?"
"I like that."
Danny turns to the bars, bending them open and closing them behind him. He carefully makes his way across the giant shipping crates, to an office at the top right corner.
They are at the docks, hidden somewhere in a warehouse among many crates that will be shipped out, and Danny is honestly a little offended they have yet to be found. Sure, the kidnappers had driven through the sewers on a strangely built road that led them here, but surely someone would have noticed the apparent fact the van disappeared at a fake dead alley?
Weren't there cameras in almost every corner of the city? Dan had warned Danny about them while doing his Obsession-driven research, and both agreed not to Go Ghost while in public due to them.
Now, they could escape, but Danny wasn't kidding about the Guys in White or whatever their equivalent was here. He would rather know what level of competence they have before he makes any rash moves.
Danny also wants to see his fellow models' buyers, and he would like to have a word with them. His ghost Obsession may not be protection- much to the shock of many- but Danny has always had a moral compass that pointed to protecting others around him.
Dan knew and respected this about him, so his counterpart was willing to sit and wait for the buyers. He's just a little angsty since it disrupted his obsession.
Danny grimly peeks into the office window when he sees the coordinator talking on a phone. There doesn't seem to be anyone else around, so he carefully opens the door and creeps up behind the man.
"-If you ever want to see your son again," The man is saying, smirking. Danny can't see it due to the man facing away from him, but he can hear it in his voice.
On the desk is a laptop that repeats what he said only, the sound sounds robotic and unrecognizable. Is that a voice changer? "I suggest you ask Batman to find your boy before it's too late."
Batman? The man they were supposed to help save his humanity?
Danny knows it's a risk, but this is too much of a chance to pass up. He carefully picks up the office chair and brings it down hard on the disgusting man's head. The coordination lets out a chocked grunt of pain, but he's out like a light when he hits the ground. His phone flies across the floor, and a voice is heard speaking urgently.
Danny ties the man to the bolted-down desk using zip ties- the same ones they had used on him and the rest earlier that day, before picking up the phone.
"Hello? Is this Batman?" Danny asks, jumping slightly when the laptop repeats him in a creepy robotic voice. "Wait hold on, I think I can get rid of this voice thingy."
"...what?" A man asks over the phone, but Danny pays him no mind as he tries to click some boxes.
"Hello, testing one two three," Danny says, wincing when the voice changer makes him sound high and unnaturally squeaky. He sounds like he's trying to audition for Alvin and the Chipmunks. "Hello? Hello? Wait, I think I got it."
"Who are you? Where is Tim?" The man asks, and Danny almost rolls his eyes. He hates it when someone interrupts him while he's working with tech.
"Wait-there it is! Can you hear me alright? Do I sound normal?"
"....I can hear you."
"Awesome! Are you Batman, and if so, have you considered the importance of mental health activities? Like hugging your kids once a day? That really boosts your serotonin and dopamine levels." Danny asks, attempting to channel Jazz as much as he can. There is muffled sound across the phone line, like someone is attempting to smother a laugh.
"No, this is Bruce Wayne." Mr. Wayne says after a moment pause, "You have my son?"
"Oh," Danny tries not to sound as disappointed as he feels, but he may have failed. "I'm sorry, Mr. Wayne I don't think your son is here. I think they were using him to distract you and the police of the missing models."
There is a strange lake of sound on the other line before Mr. Wayne responds. "Can you tell me who I am speaking to?"
"Danny Fenton. I was one of the models that was taken." Danny says, then he realizes the cops must be listening in because that always happens in movies; he lowers his voice and tries to sound in shock. "I think we're in a warehouse? I'm not sure, but I was in a cage when I woke up. They said they're going to sell us. I escaped, but there were guards everywhere, so I tried hiding in the office and heard the man you were speaking to come in. I hit him with a chair."
"Mr.Fenton," A new man says suddenly, "I know this is a terrifying situation, and I-"
"Are you Batman?"
"....No, son, I'm Commissioner Gordon"
"Oh."
"Do you want to speak to Batman?"
"Yes."
"Can I ask why?"
"I need to tell him to hug his kids."
Danny waits a few seconds for a response, but he hears nothing, not even the wind. They must have muted themselves. He leans on the desk, mindful to give the kidnapper a solid kick to make sure he's still out, and glancing over to the window to make sure there aren't any guards coming his way.
"Mr. Fenton, did they give you anything strange?" Commissioner Gordon asks
Danny thinks for a moment before humming. "They gave all of us something in a needle. I don't know what it was, but it felt funny. My brother has been acting weird since he got it."
"Okay, you're doing good. " Commissioner Gordon sounds like he is frowning but the words cause something in Danny's core to pur."Okay, son, everything is going to be alright. I need you to do something for me. Every Gotham warehouse has a serial number; you can find it in the main office on the power box. Do you see the box?"
Danny glances around until he sees the small little green box. He hurries over to it, throwing the door open. "I found it."
"Good. Can you read me the number?"
Danny reads them off as quickly as he can. Once all ten digits are within the police's hands he asks again. "Do you know if Batman partakes in his kid's interests?"
"I can ask him for you."
"Would you? That would be great. It's important to let people know you care about them by showing an interest in what they are passionate about. My brother Dan really likes making clothes, and even though I don't think I can model, I do it for him, you know?"
"You're a good brother."
"Thank you.....I'm tired Mr. Gordon." Danny says suddenly eyelids becoming heavy. He slides down the wall a lot like Dan did before.
"I'm sorry to hear that but I need you to keep talking to me, Mr. Fenton."
"Batman should tell his kids he loves them. His love language may be an act of service, but Nightwings' is words of affirmation. Nightwing needs to be told he's loved."
"Mr. Fenton! Stay awake for me! Mr.Fenton!" Danny hears someone yelling, but his core is purring even more now, and the sound is luring him to sleep. Suddenly he thinks of his counterpart in the cage waiting for his paper and pen.
"I have to go. I promised Dan I would get him some stuff so he could design some clothes. Bye-Bye."
"No! Don't hang up-!"
Danny drops the cell phone after pressing the end call button and ignores it when it rings again. He hurries over to the desk, looking for paper, but finds the table lacking. Thankfully, an open suitcase has sheets that he borrowed and a few pens.
He takes them all and runs back over the crates to where Dan is. Once he arrives, he notices many models are no longer distressed. All of them are smiling with a dazed look, and a few are even giggling. He waves at a few as he hurries back to his cage.
Dan is there, muttering under his breath and twisting his fingers in the air as if he were drawing in the sky. Danny bends the bars and holds up his prize. "I got the stuff!"
"Thank the ancients! I was never going to finish Mr. Hot scales suit without it!" Dan cheers, turning one of the sheets over to a clean side. He throws his whole body on the ground, using the smooth surface to start his ball gown.
Danny watches him for a moment before his purring core is too much. Dan reaches out to grip his leg, enclosing it in his warm palm and that's all Danny needs before he's fast asleep.
Dan continues to draw for a few more minutes before he, too, is overcome with sleep. Neither notices Red Hood or Robin bursting into the warehouse, guns and swords blazing, just as the buyers arrive. They or any of the models are unaware of the smackdown that happens until everyone involved with the scheme is behind bars.
Robin finds their cage, stepping through the bent bars and pausing at the sheets of paper scattered across the slumbering teenagers. He flips one incredibly designed ballgown only to have his eyes widen at what's written down.
"Robin to Batman," he says, staring at the paper and pressing his communicator. "I have a complete list of everyone who was buying today and past buyers. We can dismantle an entire ring with this."
"Good work, Robin."
"It wasn't I who found it. It was the Fentons."
".....Are they hurt?"
"Drugged but otherwise unharmed."
"Good."
There is a pause before Nightwing speaks up "Tell me you love me B."
"No"
Danny Fenton's eyes briefly open to stare into a surprised Robin's eyes. "Tell him Batman his humanity is at risk. Says the Ghost King."
"They gave him the good shit," Spolior laughs, having heard Fenton through the coms.
Elsewhere, Tim Drake-Wayne stares at Killer Croc aka Waylon Jones who is replaying the video of Dan Fenton catcalling Waylon from his cage right after the fashion designer was dosed with high levels of morphine.
"Hey Papi, why don't you come up here and let me dress you up in the proper wrapping for a walking gift like you?"
"Hey...hey are you from the EverBurning tribe? Cause those are the hotest legs and tail I have ever seen!"
"Mr.Hot Scales, I promise Danny is the only ally of FarFrozen. I'm team EverBurning all the way! Kiss me!"
"What the actual fuck?" Tim asks, and Waylon nods.
"I have no idea, kid. The first time any of my merchandise flirts with me."
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dearharriet · 1 month
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Sunday; James Potter 📺
summary: you spend a lazy sunday evening with your boyfriend, james.
word count: 1.5K
warnings: beefy!james, fem!r, established relationship, lots and lots of fluff, mentions of eating
note: BEEFY JAMES 🩷🩷 a second part (or prequel?) to this fic is up now <3
The telly hums gently beside the trickling rain outside, lulling you into a swath of late-afternoon drowsiness. The cooking competition that once effortlessly held your attention is now fuzzy at the edges, the challenges blurring together into a mess of commentary. Beneath you, the sofa seems to swallow you further and further into its enticing comfort.
Distantly, you register the sound of the lock clicking in the front door, and then the push of it falling inward. Your eyes close heavily and startle open again and again, an endless fight against sleep that you’re probably losing.
Thankfully, your boyfriend traipses into the room at that very moment, giving you a reason to turn your head and shake some of the sleep from your person.
He’d popped to the gym while you vegged on the couch, and by the looks of it he’d chanced a trail run. His ebony hair sits in slick curls, dampened with rain. The old shirt he’d thrown on is tacky over his chest and shoulders, likely absorbed with an assortment of rain and sweat. It shouldn’t make him as handsome as it does.
As he tosses his gym bag to the floor, you push yourself up the sofa cushions feebly.
“How’s my gym rat?” you ask sweetly, with a tang of teasing at the corners of your mouth. James is all smiles, leaning into the silly nickname you like so much.
“Hiya, lovey,” he sighs in response, finally settling from his long trek home. He’ll run off to shower in a moment, but for now he moves to lean over the sofa back, aiming to get a good look at you. “Miss me?”
“Mm.” James kisses you once, twice, then leans just far enough away so he can see you. “Terribly.”
“Mm,” he mimics your hum as he leans in for a third kiss, and then two more to your chin. “Same for me. Couldn’t stop thinking of my lovely girlfriend, all warm and dry and falling asleep to the telly.”
“I was not falling asleep,” you insist, even as your eyes droop faintly, dry from so much screen-time.
James lets you have this, though he smiles soft and knowing as he kneads his calloused fingers into the juncture of your neck and shoulder. You sit silently like that for minutes, your forehead meeting his lips in a moment of lucky structure.
“D’you need to shower?” you eventually broach.
“Hmph,” James sighs, “yea.”
Bringing a gentle hand up, he encourages your head back, displacing it to the couch once more. As if you couldn’t possibly do that yourself. It’s a simple thing, an unnecessary thing, but one that James happily does without hesitation.
“Don’t move an inch, love. Back in a tick.”
James disappears, and defying his words—though you know he was exaggerating—you shuffle to spread yourself fully over the sofa.
The shower starts, and the chefs on the screen are up for elimination. You pay hazy attention to who wins, distracted by the muffled water lapping into the tub in the bathroom, and the rain still coming down outside.
Before you know it, you’re slipping under the blanket of sleep, your mind taking each evening apartment noise for its strange sofa dreams.
+
When you wake later, it’s significantly darker outside, and the apartment is fragrant with dinner-smells. The television is playing an antique auction show quietly. You haul up and off the couch, stumbling into the kitchen where James is working.
“Hello, boyfriend,” you greet sluggishly, still wiping sleep from your eyes. A faint headache lingers that only a sofa-nap causes, so you sally up to the cabinet to start a glass of water.
James, presiding over a simmering pan of mystery sauce, preens over his shoulder at you.
“Lovely girlfriend,” he returns. “How was your nap?”
Unsure of your answer, you hum noncommittally. James glances down at you in amusement as you settle against the counter beside the stove, facing him.
“Weird dreams,” you say as a means of explanation.
“Oh, yea?” James sets his ladle down carefully and crosses his arms. You watch his arms tense against his short black sleeves, and then trace his jaw up to watch his damp hair fall over his forehead. You nod distractedly to his question.
James borrows your water glass for a quick swallow, and you pretend to be inconvenienced. You’re sure he only takes it because it’s yours and he’s been compelled to share everything with you since you started dating—maybe even before that.
Handing the glass back and retrieving his utensil, he asks, “Was I in any?”
The answer is typically yes, and today is no different.
“Mm, I think so, yea.” You squint at the ceiling, dredging your warped dreams back to the front of your mind. “We were trying to swim but we had to get a turtle back to its owner first, and then I think the owner was Bobby Flay.”
You’re laughing at the absurdity as you recall the story, and James sends you amused little glances as he stirs.
“We’re lovely for doing as much. Did we get to swim for our troubles?”
“Nope,” you say disappointedly, “the dream changed to something else after that. I don’t remember what.”
James forces a frown that you think is meant to be lighthearted.
“Rubbish,” he curses. “Day ruined.”
Despite his dramatics, James’ free hand snakes over your torso, slipping under your thick sweater to soothe the skin of your hip. You smile contentedly, headache already ebbing away from the water and his hands and the promise of dinner very soon.
“Was your shower very pleasant?”
“So pleasant,” James agrees immediately, and you can imagine the simple pleasure of hot water on rain-wet hair. It makes you run your palm up his bicep, soaking in his warm skin, his clean clothes.
“Mm. I’m glad.”
A moment later, James steps away to fish a spoon from the silverware drawer. Returning, he dips it into his stew and offers it to your mouth.
“Taste,” he says, but you’re already closing your lips around it. You’d thought it was some kind of pasta sauce, but it’s significantly more rich and spicy than expected. It’s good.
“Curry?” you guess. James nods happily. “I like.”
Giving it his own taste-test, James seems to be happy with the flavor, too. A few more stirs for good measure and then he’s flipping the burner off and thwacking the spoon over the pan to rid any excess.
He moves around like a trained professional, removing the pan from the heat and wiping his hands on a kitchen towel. Competence is always sexy, but James has a way of amping it up further, twisting the metaphorical knife of affection you’ve taken for him.
There’s no arrogance in what he does, despite how good he is at it. He’d brag for days on end about his prowess in the gym, or on the field, but there’s a dexterity he has at home, too, that he doesn’t seem interested in flaunting. It’s the happiest you see him, when he’s practicing this genius of domesticity, and it makes your chest ache.
“Thank you, Jamie,” you muster sweetly, as he ferries your bowl and his to the living room. You reclaim your place on the sofa, and James settles in beside you.
You eat in a fuzzy silence, not really paying attention to anything in particular, just enjoying the food and the company.
“Good?” James ensures, glancing at you. You hum around a bite, enthusiastic. “Not too hot, you’re sure?”
“It’s perfect,” you tell him, calf pressing against his. “I was so hungry.”
“I bet,” he agrees.
Lapsing back into silence, you both pay haphazard attention to the TV once more. When your bowl is empty, you place it beside James’ and ease back into his waiting arms thoughtlessly. It’s like pinging from one good thing to the next—out of the meadow and into the clouds. You sigh.
“I love Sundays.”
James hums his agreement, the sensation shivering up your back. He follows with a press of his mouth, just over your temple.
“Love you, dear.”
The nickname makes your lips lift. James only calls you dear every so often, when he’s feeling truly, undeniably sappy.
You tilt your head up to catch his eye, watching his expression soften the same way yours does. Twisting in his hold, you press a kiss to his strong chin, his aquiline nose—reach up to fix his glasses, just because he’ll let you.
James strokes your back like a harp, and your humming is the music. You know you’ll go to work tomorrow, and you’ll miss him all day, but for now time feels doused in molasses. The apartment—James and you included—is swimming in the thick, sweet flood of your idle words and touches, as it will be tomorrow night, as it was the night before. It’s enough to make the long weeks worthwhile.
“Love you, too, Jamie,” you say, and then it’s him lulling you to sleep instead of the cooking channel.
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thank you for reading! 🏹
masterlist
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fandomtrumpshate · 2 months
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skzdarlings · 1 year
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the heist team | the threesome series ; skz ; minho/reader/changbin
masterlist.
threesome series part 2/4.
pairing: lee minho/reader/seo changbin content info: sexual content. threesome. friends2lovers. very cheesy criminal heist shenanigans (very "we're in" style hacking and some laser grids lol). "fake" kissing, getting sexy as a distraction, giving sex directions, sexual tension that gets resolved. pussy eating, dick sucking, coming inside. purple haired minho bc meow <3
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The camper van was the best idea you ever had.  It is much easier to enact dastardly schemes while inconspicuously hiding in plain sight. 
On the outside, the van looks like any civilian camper, but the inside is a veritable den of high-tech con-artistry.   It has a place for Minho to hang the get-ups for his grifting gambits, a compartment for Changbin to store his weapons and down-time dumbbells, and it has the sexiest, sleekest, most mouth-watering computer apparatus that has ever existed.  You love it more than anything in this world. 
Every job, you sit in the midst of your beloved computer screens, directing the operation while your boys do the ground work.  Despite knowing of your undying love for this system, your best friends and partners-in-crime are presently trying to separate you from your baby.
“Is she calling the computer her baby again?”  Minho asks from where he is getting dressed behind a curtain. 
“Yes,” Changbin says.  He is sitting in your computer chair with his arms distractingly crossed, his biceps bulging in his tight black shirt.  He is wearing a lot of lycra, having formerly anticipated he would be doing physical work tonight.
That all changed when you realized the nature of tonight’s job. 
You only ever target the obscenely rich, the kind of wealth that is obtained through its own nature of theft and villainy.  Tonight’s targets are a bunch of pompous elites celebrating themselves.  Upstairs is a gala kicking off a week-long set of dinners, auctions, and celebrations.   Downstairs is millions of dollars worth of art and antiquities, set to go up for auction the following day.  
It looked like a typical job, the kind where Minho could sweet-talk some fools while Changbin punched some security guards and you hacked the vault from the van.  The security system around the haul turned out to be far more advanced.  Operating with a form of artificial intelligence, it essentially learns as it goes, meaning hacking it from the outside is incredibly difficult as it will understand and respond to invasion.  It will be easier to outsmart from the inside, where you can reach your hand into its virtual heart and pluck its digital ventricles one by one. 
The boys do not have that kind of computer knowledge.  So now Changbin is in your chair, Minho is doing his make-up, and you are waving around an emergency cocktail dress. 
“Who’s gonna watch my baby if I’m in there!”  
“Yah! Rude woman!  You remember who helped you build this thing?” Changbin pats one of the computer towers to make his point.  “I can do the basic work in here, but I can’t do your complicated nerd things.” 
“I’m not a nerd!”  You definitely are.  You stare at the cocktail dress morosely.  “You’re forgetting something super important. That I am a total weirdo and I panic whenever someone looks at me! There’s a reason I don’t do the people side of things!  That’s what you guys are good at!”
“Technically I just hit them,” Changbin says. 
“You are plenty charming when you want to be and you know it,” you say. 
Changbin folds his hands behind his head, flexing all his muscles while grinning. 
“How charming?” he teases, cocky.  “Describe it to me.” 
“Shut up.”  You hit him with the cocktail dress to hide the fact he got you genuinely flustered.  “I can’t go in there.  People will know I don’t belong the second I walk in the room.  We won’t even get close enough to the computer bank for me to disarm it because they’ll get one look at me and throw me out the window.” 
“That won’t happen,” Minho says.   His changing area is behind you and you hear the metallic slide of the curtain opening.  “Because you won’t be going in there alone.”  
You don’t even have to turn around to know Minho looks devastatingly gorgeous; it is written all over Changbin’s shocked face.  His arms lower from behind his head and his cocksure expression shifts, his lips parting as he stares past you.  
Despite having the benefit of bracing yourself, you are still struck dumb when you turn and look at Minho.  It was always in the plan that Minho would serve as a distraction at the gala.  To stand out accordingly, he dyed his hair with temporary dye this morning.  The vibrant purple was more amusing than sexy when his hair was messy, but now it is neatly styled back, slick and off his handsome face.  He is dressed all in white, his asymmetrical suit partially slit at the side to show some skin.  There is an extra sparkle from his jewelry, plus the lightest dab of glitter in the sharper contours of his face.  He is practically glowing. 
He knows he looks good.  His mouth quirks in a little smirk at your expressions.  You and Changbin are both gawping at him, and it goes on long enough that his eyebrows lift and his smirk puckers with a surprised laugh. 
“What? Really?” he asks, still laughing at you. 
Changbin does an unexpected sign of the cross.  You hit him with the cocktail dress again. 
“Fine,” you say, mostly to have an excuse to duck behind the curtain because you think you might explode from lust and embarrassment and anxiety all at once.  “At least no one will be looking at me.” 
You step behind the curtain and snap it closed, leaving the boys to their banter. 
You like dressing up so this part is no problem.  The problem with parties is other people.  You wholeheartedly admit you are better with zeroes and ones than human beings.   
You try to focus on the fun elements of tonight: the dress, the glamour, and beating a high-tech security system at its own game.  It will be so fun to have a real challenge for once.  You know you can beat it but it will definitely push you more than your usual digital adversaries.
Also, you get to look at Minho looking like that.  Your view of the boys is usually through security cameras, nestled in your van surrounded by your operating system, so the proximity will be a treat. 
You open the curtain, scowling.  You do not enjoy socializing so you seldom have occasion to dress up, so you anticipate the boys will lovingly berate you.  But when you step forward, Changbin looks at you with the same dumbfounded expression he had for Minho.  Minho is sitting on the bench, knees apart and arm slung across the backrest.  His expression gets very serious when he looks at you.  He shimmies his hips, his knees parting further. 
“Turn around,” he says.  
The van feels so tense and quiet that you obey, more confused than anything else. 
Changbin’s gaze drops to your ass immediately, his jaw visibly clenching.  Minho tips his head like he is studying something. 
“Thank you,” Minho says. 
You face them again, hot in the face.  You cross your arms angrily. 
“What was the point of that?” you demand.
Minho lifts a single eyebrow.  “I wanted to see your ass,” he says, like it should be obvious.  “It’s a good one.  You should be proud.” 
You throw your sweatpants at his stupid smirk.  He catches it smoothly. 
“Can we just go already?”  You punctuate this with a stomp of your foot then storm out of your precious van. 
It is very strange being on this side of the operation.  You always have Minho and Changbin nattering in your earpiece, but usually you are sitting at your desk wearing proper headphones.  It is strange wandering around with a tiny bud in your ear, listening to Changbin report from your usual seat. 
You already have control of the hotel security cameras as they work on a separate operating system to the storeroom AI.  You replaced the live feed with a looping reel of empty rooms so the security team inside will not see you moving around.  It also gives Changbin a bird’s eye view of the gala and the rest of the hotel.  You feel anxious at not seeing it for yourself, but you are placated when Changbin whistles and teases, “You two are the best looking there.  You would be second best looking if I was there, so you’re lucky I’m not.” 
You and Minho both smile, your expressions fond.  
Minho gets you in the door with little more than a wink at the doorman.  You stay quiet, hiding your nerves as best you can.  Minho is a competent con-man and Changbin is plenty reliable so you try to focus on your own tasks.  First you need to get to the ground floor network base so you can get the AI to chase your red herring.  Once you are in, the AI will start responding, but with your virus acting as a decoy source within the building, you should be able to buy yourselves time to move onto the next phase of breaking down the system. 
“There’s a lot of muscle at this party,” Changbin says seriously, no doubt taking stock of all the burly security guards.  It is only natural Changbin would be as twitchy as you, also out of his element for the night.  “I don’t like not being there with you,” he says.  
“Easy,” Minho says in a calm voice.  You think it is directed at both you and Changbin.  He puts a hand on your lower back and gives you a knowing look.  “You’re doing fine,” he says.
You feel like terror is written all over your face.  It doesn’t help that Minho draws eyes the second you step into the hotel ballroom, men and women looking at him with the usual desire he draws.  They are equally curious to look at you, their eyes on where his hand rests intimately low on your spine. 
“I’m gonna hurl,” you say.
“Not a bad idea,” he says.  He smiles with so much effortless charm that no one would suspect he is whispering criminal tips.  “The best con,” he says, his lips brushing your ear, “is one that is close to the truth.”  You shiver as his fingertips brush up your spine.  He rests his hand on your nape.  “Look sick,” he says.  “We’ll say we’re looking for a restroom if someone asks.” 
You follow his lead, weaving your way through the party.  Looking sick is the easiest instruction to follow because you feel genuinely ill, your anxiety a toxic twist in your gut.  
Only when you are wandering the empty hotel corridor do you feel at ease.  You feel even more at ease when you find the ground floor network hub.  Your first obstacle is a regular alarm code, twelve digits in length.  It is obviously too long to guess so you physically unscrew the alarm box and start some manual fiddling.  There is no way to fully disarm it without also setting it off, but that’s where your own AI gadget comes into play.  You plug in your cypher scrambler and let it do its thing.  It flickers through numbers, seeking the correct pattern, learning from its errors.  You designed it yourself and though it is always accurate, it takes a while to pull the numbers.  You and Minho are forced to hover in the hallway while it gradually reveals each piece of the code. 
You are up to number seven out of twelve when Changbin inhales sharply. 
“There’s a waiter walking in your direction,” he says.  “It looks like he’s taking a shortcut to somewhere else, but you have less than two minutes until he’s on you.”
 “What!”  You start to panic immediately.  “My decipher machine could take longer than that, what do we—”
“Relax, relax!”  Changbin says at the same time Minho steps behind you and grasps your shoulders.  He makes little shushing noises while massaging you, not that it does much to help. 
“We’re good,” Minho says.  “It’s just a waiter, not security.” 
“I’m gonna get us killed,” you say. 
“By a waiter?”  Minho asks.  He gives your shoulders another squeeze.  “Is he going to beat us with a baguette?  Hey, hey, relax.”
You are a vibrating bundle of nerves.  Minho is not usually the type to dive into a hug but he turns you around and pulls you into his arms.  You wrap your arms around his middle and hug him back, hiding your face in his neck. 
“Yeah, that will work,” Changbin says. 
“Huh?” you say, lifting your head. 
Minho is staring into a security camera as if having a mute exchange with Changbin.  He nods in agreement, though you still don’t understand. 
“What will work?” you ask. 
“Distraction,” Minho says.  You just look at him with confusion. 
“Baby,” Changbin says in a soft tone, “listen to my voice.”
The sudden gentleness of his voice makes you shiver.  Your fingers are shaking when Minho takes your hand and rests it over his heart.  You look up into his dark eyes as he smiles at you with familiar fondness.  You open your mouth to speak but he shakes his head, shushing you gently.  His eyes drift to the side in anticipation of an intruder. 
“Baby,” Changbin says, his honeyed tone softening your nerves, “Minho is going to kiss you.  Just do what I say, okay?” 
Your heart skips a beat, your eyes widening.
“You trust us?”  Changbin asks. 
You nod, answering Changbin, gazing at Minho. 
It’s the truth.  You might be scared but you have been scared before and your boys always come through.  Even when the rest of the world left you behind, when you turned to crime to keep yourself alive, Minho and Changbin were there.  They have never let you down.  You trust them with anything and everything. 
Minho slips his hand around your waist, pulling you close to him.  You have been close before, sharing the van, sharing hotel rooms, but this feels different.  He looks at you with intent, his handsome face so close, a strand of dark purple hair curled over his forehead.  Your hand finds that patch of bare skin when you touch his side.  He is familiar and foreign at once, your Minho, and also a character, one who clasps his hand behind your back and ducks down to gently kiss your lips. 
“Take a breath, baby,” Changbin says with a little chuckle.  “You look like you’re going to pass out.” 
“Mmf,” is the noise you make, affirming that observation.   It makes Minho laugh, a breath against your lips. 
“Waiter is thirty seconds away.  You just want to look like a dumb, horny couple that wandered away from the party,” Changbin says.  “Listen to me, I’ll tell you what do.”
You nod, sucking in a breath when Minho kisses you again.  This time his mouth is a little more insistent, his lips coaxing yours open. 
“Close your eyes, baby,” Changbin says.  “Let your shoulders drop.  Minho has you, it’s okay.” 
You didn’t even realize how tense your shoulders were.  You listen to Changbin, letting yourself go lax.  Minho holds you, as promised, his arms sturdy around your waist as he kisses you deeply. 
“Let Minho move you,” Changbin says. “He’s going to lean you against the wall to hide the device, okay?  Put your hands on his shoulders.  Higher, baby, go around his neck.  Just like that.  Let him lead you.” 
Minho walks you backwards, carefully pressing you against the wall, hiding the dangling cypher scrambler with your bodies. 
“We wanna give our intruder a little jump scare, okay?”  Changbin says.  “Minho.”  
That is all the direction he gives Minho, trusting the adept con-man to know exactly what to do.  Minho does, his hands sliding down to your hips to pull them flush against his.  It arches your back.  Your hands are hooked behind his neck and you squeak, your fingers instinctively sinking into his hair. 
“God,” Changbin says.  The sudden dark colour to his voice sends a spark of heat shooting through you.  It clearly surprises Minho too, his lips parting with a caught breath.  “You both look hot.  Fuck.” 
Changbin takes a steadying breath.  You and Minho look at each other.  You get to see his smirk for a split second, then his mouth is on yours and it is no longer gentle and questioning.  It is a demand, hot and wanting, your lips opening with his guidance, your heart skipping beats when he licks in your mouth. 
“Do it back,” Changbin says.  “You want him to fuck you, baby.  Make him believe it.”
You think the him is question is the waiter.  Isn’t it?  You don’t even know where the waiter is anymore, if he’s around the corner or watching.  In the haziness of your kiss, it hardly seems to matter.  You kiss Minho back with the same urgency, pulling him closer, whimpering when he bites your bottom lip. 
“Fuck,” is the gentle whisper that Minho can’t fight.  His brow is crinkled, his eyes closed.  He kisses you again, his hands jumping up to gather yours.  He laces his fingers with yours and presses your hands into the wall on either side of your head. 
“Wrap your leg around his waist,” Changbin says.  “Like that, that’s it, you’re okay.” 
You lift one leg, shaky and unsure.  Minho catches you under the knee and pulls it more certainly around him.  He holds you there, his other hand grasping your throat very gently as he kisses and kisses and kisses you.  Your hands are still splayed open by your head, thoughtlessly awaiting direction.  Your fingers curl into your palm and you moan for real when Minho presses against you. 
Minho is a good actor, but the hard shape in his pants is very real.  When he grinds against you, so open and soft with your leg around his waist, it draws all those guttural sounds right out of you.  Minho makes one back, swivelling his hips in a maddening grind against you.  It is all too easy to imagine him fucking you like this, the effortless back-and-forth of his hips, your sweet sighs as he takes you, imagining Changbin there, his breath also stuttering. 
You do not forget he is watching all this, especially when he lets another low laugh and asks, “She feel good?”
“Yes,” Minho answers without hesitation, breathing the word against your lips. 
“Hold his face, baby,” Changbin says.  “Kiss him like you mean it.  Ask him to fuck you with it.”
You know what he means by that: to kiss Minho with fervency and heat.  You do obey, cupping his face with both hands and kissing him deeply, but the fuzziness of desire mixed with Changbin’s words makes your brain go screwy with want.  Not only does your kiss convey that desire, but words rush past your mouth, crashing into Minho’s lips in a breathless flurry.
“Fuck me, fuck me, please,” you say, your voice pitching up into a little whine as you rock against him.  “Want you to fuck me so bad, baby,” you say, thinking of both of them at the same.   You kiss Minho’s surprised, open mouth, your eyes closed, your voice loud in this hazy space as you say, “I’ve been thinking about it all night.  Need it so bad.  Please.  Want you inside me.  Want my mouth on you.  Come in me.  Come on me.  Take me, please.  I’m so hot and wet, it’ll feel so good, don’t you want to feel how wet I am?  Don’t you want to fuck me too?”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Changbin says, followed by a rush of even more inventive curses.
Minho settles on another simple, surprised, “Fuck.” 
Then someone is clearing their throat.  Minho jumps, his hands clamping tighter around you, protective. 
“Oh, right, this clown,” Changbin says.  “I hate that he’s too far away too punch.” 
You giggle in spite of yourself, which is good because you think you might simultaneously die of embarrassment.  You drop your leg and Minho lets you go, pulling himself together faster than you. 
You let him do his thing, sliding a hand through his hair and smirking at the waiter as he saunters over.  He makes his little speech, something-something-something a moment alone with the missus, something-something sorry-sorry-sorry.   He walks the waiter back around the corner, giving you a knowing glance over his shoulder. 
Thank god your cypher scrambler has its act together, even if you are a mess.  It takes you longer to right yourself than it does for the scrambler to finish its job.  Your hands are shaking as you break into the hub, but muscle memory takes over when you have your mini-laptop open. 
Minho joins you a minute later.  Your entire body lights up like a firework when he steps close to you.  Nothing in his expression conveys anything more than professionalism – his queries are about the job and the job alone – but there is an ache between your thighs that won’t subside.  You know he feels the same way as you can see he is still hard despite how much he glares at the wall.  He adjusts his pants several times while standing in that closet of a hub with you.  You keep glancing at each other, your gazes heady, speaking volumes more than your polite conversation.   
When you leave and he puts his hand on your lower back, you shiver.  You think you might double over from the persistent thumping of your easily-distracted pussy. 
Changbin lets out a long sigh and a nervous giggle.  “Good work, team,” he says. 
You have worked enough jobs that you manage to set aside your personal feelings for the time being.  It is easy to lose yourself in your work, especially when you really have to fight the security system.  
You get inside the storeroom.  You know it is filled with more traps and alarms so you sit down beside the door and type away on your laptop.  You nearly break a sweat with the intensity of your work. 
“She’s hot when she’s doing her thing,” Changbin suddenly says. 
You lift your head and catch Minho’s eye.  He smiles at you.  “I agree,” he says. 
Your heart starts skipping beats again.  You look down at your laptop, feeling uncharacteristically shy under his gaze. 
“Don’t distract me,” you say, making both of them laugh a little.  You glare at Minho but there is no real animosity behind it. 
At least they both acquiesce, going silent while you work.  You manage to disarm most of the storeroom.  The best you can do for the remainder of traps is trigger their subsequent lighting rigs so you can see them all.  A labyrinth of blue light brightens the dark entry room, revealing each laser trigger that blocks your path to the locked compartments. 
You look up at Minho whose calculating gaze is already tracing each intricate beam. 
“Got it?”  Changbin asks.
Minho starts unbuttoning his suit.  “Always,” he says, smirking. 
Minho flips the blazer down his arms, revealing just a tight white crop top beneath it.  His jacket, shoes, and jewelry form a pile beside you.   Minho does a few quick stretches before confidently approaching the laser grid. 
Before his criminal life, Minho was a dancer, and a good one.   He draws the same graceful lines with his body now, making each manoeuvre look easy even though you know it is incredibly difficult. 
“He’s hot when he’s doing his thing,” Changbin says.
“Yeah,” you say, biting your lip and watching Minho move.  “Gotta agree.” 
Minho slips over and under each laser, twisting and bending and sliding with ease.  He pops up on the other side with a graceful twirl, throwing you a wink over his shoulder before flipping a switch on the control panel.  It powers down the censors so you can scurry across the room to join him. 
The compartment door unlocks with your final hacked access code, the door swinging open to reveal your loot.  Changbin gives a successful holler into your earpiece, making you and Minho duck with his volume. 
“I’ll bring the car around, baby,” Changbin says while you two roll your eyes but smile. 
You pack your fold out bags with your selections.  One key to success is never being overly greedy.  You walk away with a substantial victory nonetheless.    
You hurry out of the storeroom with your prize haul.  Minho gets dressed again, though he doesn’t button up his jacket.  He takes a second to catch his breath while you restore each alarm so nothing appears out of place.   When you are ready to go, he takes your hand, smiling.  You run hand-in-hand back down the corridor, making a few sharp turns until you find a staff exit.  There is a small drop so Minho jumps down first then holds out his arms for you.  Though you could make the jump easily, you still let yourself fall into his arms.  
He holds you close as he puts you on your feet.  You are riding the high of adrenaline and success, your heart soaring, which might be why you so easily surrender to desire.   You kiss him, sudden and brief but tantalizing.  He blinks back at you with surprise, his face scrunching with that astonished little laugh of his.   
You smile at him.  A line of sweat dots his hairline and you reach up, smoothing some messy strands of purple hair.  The gentle caress changes the whole shape of his face, his eyes heavy-lidded, his breathing harder.  You feel yourself change too, your heart pounding against his chest when he pulls you close. 
You got greedy with that kiss and greediness has consequences.  You are so distracted with each other that you don’t notice the security guards coming at you from the opposite direction. 
“Hey!” one shouts.  “What are you doing out here?” 
You and Minho look over, then at each other.  There is no time for conversation.  You grab each other’s hands and start running, your bags of stolen goods bouncing on your shoulders. 
“Hey!” the security guard shouts again.  You can hear their heavy footsteps thundering after you, fast despite their muscle and bulk. 
You turn the corner onto a backstreet just in time for the camper van to swing into view.  The door slides open and Changbin jumps out.  You pass each other, dropping hands so Changbin can dart between you.  
Panting, you and Minho watch as Changbin effortlessly takes down the guards. 
“He’s hot when he’s doing his thing,” you say, giggling.
Minho laughs, nodding.  “I agree,” he says. 
Minho takes the steering wheel so you can apologize to your baby for abandoning her.  Changbin jumps back in the van and the three of you drive away with another successful haul. 
Later, back at the penthouse, Minho takes the longest shower in an effort to scrub the purple out of his hair.  You are in your bedroom when he finally emerges.  You can hear him and Changbin talking in the living room.  By the sounds of it, the purple is still threaded in his dark brown hair, likely to last a few more days.  You smile to yourself, listening to their playful back-and-forth as Changbin teases him and Minho snarkily retaliates. 
It is tradition after a successful job to have a few drinks and relax.  Contacting your fence and taking care of business can wait until tomorrow. 
You can hear the usual music playing through the speakers, can hear the clink of bottles and glasses, can hear Changbin and Minho laughing and talking. 
You look at your reflection in the mirror.  Though you seldom have occasion to wear pretty luxuries, you have enough money at your disposal to treat yourself.   You have been changing in and out of different lingerie sets since you got home.  You think this one might be just right: a silky black set worn under a lacy black dress that falls to your thighs.  It is suggestive but arguably casual.  You could just be wearing it as pyjamas, right?  Sure.  Sure.  Totally normal pyjamas for a totally normal night.
The best con is one that is close to the truth, Minho had said.  Then he stuck his tongue in your mouth and you begged him to fuck you with Changbin’s help.  Even you, who is terrible at reading and understanding people, know what truth was in that charade. 
You take a deep breath and march to your bedroom door with determination.  You throw it open so hard that it smashes into the wall, startling the boys in the other room.  You ignore the crash and scurry into sight, avoiding eye contact.
“Hello,” you say.
There is a moment of prolonged silence then Changbin says, “Hi.”
You look up.  They are both staring at you, both wide-eyed, both in sweatpants and t-shirts with their hair undone and fluffy.  They look very casual and very surprised.  Minho is clutching a beer bottle and Changbin is holding a bowl of popcorn.  Both of them are frozen.
You smile a very awkward smile.
“Hello,” you say again.  “I am… I am… dressed.  For bed.  My bed.  For being in my bed, like this, as I am dressed right now.  I am going to that bed, now, like this.  You can… join me.  If you want.  If you don’t want, then, okay.  Hello.  And.  Goodbye.  Bye.” 
You run back to your bedroom and slam the door closed. 
Other than the soft music still swirling in the air, the penthouse is quiet.  You cannot hear the boys, not a comment, not a sound, not a breath.
Then you hear the popcorn bowl hit the ground and a bottle smash.  They shove and yell at each other as they stumble on the way to your bedroom.  You are standing awkwardly in the middle of your room, hands folded in front of you, waiting as they crash into your bedroom door and curse at each other. 
Changbin then very casually opens the door and they calmly walk inside. 
“Hello,” you say. 
“Hi,” Changbin replies. 
You wish thoughts could be hacked like a computer.  You cannot think of what to say or do next.  You just stare at them and they stare back, although their gazes are considerably less nervous.  Their stares are thirsty, drinking you in, looking from top to bottom and back again. 
“Turn around,” Minho says, his gaze low. 
You meet Changbin’s eye before obliging, slowly turning.
“Okay,” Minho says after a long moment, giving your heart plenty of time to go crazy in your chest.  “Thank you.” 
You turn back around, just as embarrassed as earlier but not angry at all.  You cross your arms over your chest, flicking your gaze between them. 
Minho reaches out and lightly punches Changbin on the arm.  Changbin looks at him and Minho gives him a look, one you cannot decipher.  You continue to stare at them. 
Changbin nods at Minho then looks at you.  He holds out his hand. 
“Breathe, baby,” he says.  “You look like you’re gonna pass out.”
You laugh but nod, taking his hand.  He wastes no time pulling you close, guiding your hand to his heart as Minho did earlier.  He holds your hand there and waits until you make eye contact so he can wink at you. 
“I know I am the best looking man you have ever seen in your life,” he says, making you laugh again, “but I’m me.  You trust us?”
You look at him then at Minho.  His dark hair is still tinted purple, his bare face open and soft as he meets your eye.  You smile and look back at Changbin, nodding. 
“Always,” you say. 
“Good,” Changbin says. 
He cups your face and you lean towards him, anticipating a kiss, but he gently turns your face aside.  You don’t even have time to be confused before Minho is kissing you.  He swiftly draws all those sweet sounds out of you, pulling you towards him.  Changbin steps behind you, holding your hips and kissing his way up your neck to your ear. 
“Baby,” Changbin says while Minho slows his kiss to something gentle but heated, his tongue swiping at yours.  “Listen to my voice, okay?” 
You nod, light-headed but eager. 
“Good,” Changbin says.  “Come sit in my lap.  Over here.” 
Changbin is strong enough to haul you around.  You barely have to move, letting yourself go soft in his arms.  He sits on the edge of the bed and puts you in his lap, spreading your legs over his thighs.   You stare up at Minho, out of breath, your thighs twitching to close for pressure.  Changbin slides a hand down, stroking your inner thigh and making you jump, his other hand tugging down your dress and immediately going for your breast. 
Minho sweeps a hand through his hair, taking a breath before stepping up to you. 
“Still want your mouth on him, baby?”  Changbin asks, reminding you of all the things you whispered in that heated moment.  
You nod, whimpering when Changbin slides his hands into your panties and touches you directly.  He circles and circles the most sensitive cluster of nerves, grunting and pressing his lips to your neck. 
“She’s so fucking wet,” Changbin says.  He slips his hand out of your panties and abruptly grabs Minho by the hand, tugging him closer.   Minho brings that hand to his mouth, licking your wetness off Changbin’s fingertips.  “Touch him baby,” Changbin says.  “You see how hard he is for you?”
You can see.  You can feel Changbin too, hard under you.  Their sweatpants do little to disguise it. 
You do not hesitate obeying, tugging on the waistband of Minho’s sweats.  Everything feels so dreamy and good, surrounded by touch.  It all seems to happen quickly; suddenly Changbin’s hand is in your panties, Minho’s dick is in your mouth, and Minho’s hands are tugging the straps of your dress down.   This ends with you drooling messily all over the end of his dick, sucking on the head and murmuring nonsense while Changbin makes you come on his fingers.  Then Minho kneels in front of you both, your legs end up over his shoulders, and you find yourself hurtling towards another orgasm on his mouth. 
You dress ends up somewhere, the panties too.  The bra is barely on, the straps hanging down your arms.  Changbin finally kisses you when you are on your back in the middle of the bed.  He lays between your open legs, his fingers filling you up as you continue to gush all over his hand.  You grab him, squeezing his biceps as he effortlessly moves that strong hand between your legs.  Minho climbs up too, his shirt somewhere across the room.  He grabs your hands and pulls them over your head, pinning them into the pillows before ducking down to kiss you.   You come for a third time before either of them even fucks you. 
Then they do.  Minho first, with you under him, listening to every direction Changbin murmurs in your ear.  You lift your legs around his waist when Changbin says, then touch yourself when Changbin asks, and shudder when Minho comes inside you like you earlier begged. 
Then Minho is behind you, holding you, touching you, protective and familiar while Changbin fucks you.  Changbin has a surprisingly filthy mouth, continuing to tell you how good you feel and how good you look.  Minho is quiet but fully entranced by you, his hands constantly wandering.  He slides one hand down and rubs you off while Changbin fucks you.  Then he leans over your shoulder and kisses Changbin on the mouth, making Changbin finish too.  
The music is still playing in the next room.   The three of you lay there in various states of undress, you in the middle, sweaty and messy, the boys panting and gently stroking your arms and thighs. 
“I love you guys,” you say.  It is incredibly cliché to make a love confession after several mind-blowing orgasms, but you don’t care.   You don’t need to play games or tell lies or be good at socializing, not with your boys.   You can just be your nerdy self, confessing your feelings even while drifting into sleep. 
You smile when you feel Minho kissing your cheek, Changbin giggling on your other side. 
“It will have to be big,” Changbin says.  “The biggest.”
“Hmm?” you ask, looking at him strangely. 
“The diamond we steal to put on your finger,” Changbin says, holding up your hand and circling your ring finger.  You laugh and try to pull your hand back but Minho catches it, nodding in accord. 
“I agree,” Minho says.  He kisses your temple.  “I know how criminals work,” he adds.  “You’re not getting stolen away from us.” 
He and Changbin exchange an affectionate glance over you, nodding at each other, then they are each kissing a side of your face as you squirm and laugh.  You swipe at Minho’s purple hair and kiss Changbin’s cheek, then nestle into their arms as they wrap around you, protective as always. 
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jarofstyles · 4 months
Text
Illicit- II
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Check out our Patreon- part 3 and 4 are up there now!
Warnings- Cheating (H with Y/N), asshole H lol
WC- 3.1k
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“How was the event yesterday?” Niall asked, leaning back in his camping chair. 
The lake view was stunning. Nestled in the foothills of the mountain range, the lake town had always had charm. It was a true small town, despite the string of multi million dollar lake homes, and Harry had found it to be one of his favorite estates their family owned. That’s why he hosted an end of summer weekend there with his true friends. His small handful of trusted people and their significant others- and a few staff with iron clad NDA’s- were invited out to the lake house for the last hoorah of summer activities. Tubing, swimming in the lake or the pool, volleyball, bonfires, even fireworks that he hired out, all of it was being utilized before it couldn’t be anymore. It was similar each year, but this year had a new, important addition.
Y/N, his sweet little thing. 
“Horrible.” Harry grunted, watching as Y/N and Zayn’s girlfriend Hannah combed the bush around the lake looking for wildflowers. “It’s never good. I despise those things, and the fact I have to go to save face makes it even more insufferable.” The events were so drab and dull. Sometimes, in his youth, he’d enjoy the food or the drinks. Winning something at auction. But now it was watered down with people who, quite frankly, didn’t deserve to be there. He could give to charities on his own- and he did- but un-fucking-fortunately, if he showed up then there would be more eyes on it. His presence was just as valuable as his money. 
“Don’t blame ya for hating ‘em. As soon as I got out of them I felt better. But how was Katherine? She splattered you all over her instagram, said she got flowers from ya. Did you?” He knew the answers, obviously, but wanted the confirmation he all too easily got with the scoff and Harry’s head tipping back to finish his beer.  
“Fuck no. I haven’t gotten her flowers since the first date. I left Y/N in my bed, arrived to the event late to get my ear chewed off about how rude it was and dragged around to be photographed even though I’d rather chop off a thumb.” He grunted. “Then I went home, Y/N was asleep so I packed and then… woke her up.” His face grew a slight smirk, remembering how he woke her up with his mouth between her thighs and flowers actually bought for her on the nightstand. He felt awful whenever he had to see Katherine and knew it wasn't something that Y/N liked either, so he wanted to make it up to her whenever he could. The fact that Katherine showed him off like a showpony and lied about flowers she had certainly got for herself was laughable but not at all surprising. 
“It’s so odd to see you like… properly into a girl.” Niall admitted. “I have to admit, though, y’look actually happy. Weird as fuck to see you walk around with a smile after the scowls you’ve become famous for.” It really was. Y/N had exposed a softer, gentler side of Harry that hadn’t been seen before. Before Y/N he wouldn’t have been caught dead with a woman on his lap, and yet he pulled her into his lap whenever he got the chance. Even here. He didn’t give a fuck if his inner circle saw- no, he wanted them to. The need to show off the one girl he actually wanted was overwhelming at times. 
“She’s different.” There was no use in denying how much he really loved Y/N. It was obvious, written all over his face when she was around or even mentioned. She’d taken the stiff iron walls of his heart and turned them into soft molten fluff for her to mold. There wasn’t much shame he had, except for having to hide her for a bit. “I just want this contract to be over so I can move it along. She’s halfway moved in but I want her there all the time. Just can’t have her fully there because… y’know.” Because Katherine liked to show up unannounced sometimes and demand attention. He never really did, sending her off with the excuse of work, but once he got serious with Y/N he had his locks changed and a lack of care that increased as the days went on. 
Harry was an awful boyfriend to Katherine and he simply did not care. He hoped that she would come to her senses and break up with him but apparently, the perks of being attached to his name were too good to give up just because he was mean, didn’t give her attention or affection. He’d refused to kiss her besides the cheek and told her that he didn’t care if she got it somewhere else, but he was on a ‘sex ban.’. Ironic, considering he was the most thoroughly sexed he’d been in his life. Sometimes he felt a tad bit of guilt, just knowing how his mother would feel if she found out how awful he was to her- but she didn’t like the girl either! 
He was desperate for this to end so he could introduce her to Y/N. The woman he was certain he was keeping for as long as she let him. Harry was a possessive man and intended on that being forever, but he cared about her too much to lock her into a secret engagement. She deserved to be able to show off and tell the world- and so did he. 
“Yeah, I don’t blame you. It’s good there wasn’t an infidelity clause, he was dumb as fuck for that. It’s a shame cause she’s a pretty girl, could probably find some other new blood to stick to and make her money that way. But I get why she’s sticking to you. All those people wanting a slice of your empire must be fucking exhausting.” Niall was wealthy, his family going back a few generations short of Harry’s own, but it didn’t have the public notoriety that his did. He often wished that was the case for his legacy. 
“Wish she would just have a real moment of clarity and realize no money is worth this, that she could be getting dick and designer bags and someone else to dote on her. Not me. Never will be me. But, in just a few months it’s not my problem and her arse will be on the curb whilst Y/N will go public with me.” He didn’t plan on waiting very long for that. Perhaps it would be in bad taste to only wait until a day after a public breakup but he would do it if Y/N didn’t have some weird guilt surrounding Katherine. 
Their conversation was cut short by a call of his name, his beaming girl approaching with a basket of wildflowers in her hand. His heart stuttered, his scowl falling to build up a soft, fond smile. His arm opened and he patted his lap, motioning her to sit pretty on his thigh and drape her legs over him- which she easily did. Her breezy, cornflower blue dress hit just above her knees and the off the shoulder cut showed off a nice amount of skin. A necklace she had gotten from him, a sunflower pendant with an H etched into the back hung perfectly on her neck, glistening in the setting sun. The floppy sunhat looked fucking adorable on her, pushed back enough to ensure it didn’t hit Harry in the face. 
“What have you got, my love?” He asked tenderly, hand folding on her thigh and tucking under the hem of her dress. An intimate hold, but they were in their own safe place. As soon as he went public with her, he was going to show the world just how much. HE wasn’t necessarily the public type, but he had no qualms with letting people see Y/N on his arm, draped in jewelry his money bought, on his yachts, in his businesses, with his ring, and hopefully, full of his child. He couldn’t think about the last one for too long without getting hard, though, so he reserved that for later. 
“We got a little bouquet for the table for dinner. Love the flowers you got too, but it feels nice.” Her hand stroked through his ungelled hair, loving the curls they formed whenever he was unstyled. He left it like that specifically for her, and she took advantage of it. “My mum and I would do it every summer, we had that flower garden. Remember the photos?” Harry nodded, he did indeed. He would be building her her own whenever he could propose and they moved further out of the city. “Yeah, good! So, we got some and m’gonna go ask Ms.Greta if she’s got any vases. We’re eating outside tonight, yeah?” 
“We are. Proper grill out. I think she does have some, I don’t remember offhand what we’ve got here but-” He squeezed her leg, letting his fingers press into the warm flesh. “Before y’go and do that, think you forgot something.” His expectant look was clear on his face. Y/N gasped, quickly remedying the situation as she curled her hand around his strong jaw and tilted it so she could connect their mouths for what she intended to be a chaste kiss. Harry had different intentions. Instead, he snuck his tongue into her mouth and used his hand to cradle the back of her neck, slightly damp with sweaty hair, keeping her to his mouth. He was never one to half ass, even when Niall began to fake gag. 
“Alright, fucking christ. Swallow her whole, why don’t you!” Niall continued to make childish noises but Harry continued, ignoring his friend as he hummed against his girl’s mouth. He had few places he could actually do these sorts of things and he’d be damned if he let anyone tease him out of it. This was the woman he wanted more than anything, and he liked the tiny glimpses he got into their possible future. 
—------
“I like this.” Y/N mumbled into his chest. The day had dwindled down and she was sitting on his lap in front of the fireplace in the master bedroom. Harry’s chest was bare as her cheek rested against the smooth expanse, the middle of it covered in a thin layer of hair. He’d started to let it grow since they’d begun to see one another when Y/N expressed how much she found it sexy, and Harry was one to please her when she said things like that. “Not having to hide. I can’t wait until you can be mine for everyone to see.” Her lips brushed his pec, pressing a chaste kiss there.
Guilt swarmed inside his stomach like a disturbed beehive, making him swallow down the lump in his throat. While he felt no guilt at all for the supposed infidelity towards Katherine, the guilt lied in having to suppress the most incredible relationship with Y/N. He knew she didn’t love feeling like a secret all the time, and while Harry had said he didn’t care if people found out, Y/N had to think of her own reputation. That was what had him ensuring he kept it under wraps. While people would just see him as yet another dumb, horny man? They’d see Y/N as a homewrecker, a slut, every bad name under the sun. Not to mention the online bullying she’d be subjected to by Katherine, her little group and all her naive fans. 
He’d never cared about someone like this before. Yes, of course he loved his family and his friends, but this was a whole other level of care. It went bone deep. Y/N was the type of person you met once in a lifetime. The type you couldn’t let slip through your fingers because you really couldn’t. Y/N was everything and more and Harry was dedicated to keeping her as happy as possible, but the reality was that they had to hide just a bit longer. 
“I know, my love.” He said quietly, trailing his fingers over the crown of her head. “It’s hard right now. I never anticipated meeting you or I never would have… Wouldn’t have taken the deal.” The words were murmured just for her, eyes searching her own to try and gauge her emotions. She didn’t seem particularly devastated, but there was still that undercurrent of sadness that made his chest twinge. “I know I’ve told you time and time again about how much I am obsessed with you, how you’re the woman I want… But I can’t wait either. You’ve not even a clue about how much I look forward to showing you off.”
While he had complained of Katherine doing so, it was a whole other ballgame when you truly adored the person and felt proud to be theirs. 
“You do?” She peeped, eyes rounding as she peered up at him. Sometimes she was so fucking beautiful that it felt like a hit in the stomach. She was clear of makeup now, showing off her natural features. He loved seeing her in any capacity but this had to be his favorite. Private, intimate, bare. Her hair in two messy braids but still managed to have some strands in her face. Her lips were soft and plump, the overnight mask on them that she had tried to explain to him and he still had no clue what it did other than make his girl happy- his Y/N was his gift. He knew he didn’t deserve her but he never claimed to be a good person- He would keep her forever. Some could call him intransigent, but he wouldn’t argue. 
“Of course I do. Look forward to everyone seeing you on my arm. I think it will be apparent that I’m pretty far gone. People will wonder what magic powers you possess.” He laughed through his nose, leaning in to kiss the side of her head. “You just bewitched me, sweet little thing. Had me in knots when you blocked me, y’know that?” His smile grew. “Never wanted to talk to someone so badly in my life.”
“From what I knew, you had an actual real girlfriend!” She defended adamantly. “And then you basically locked me into a room with you to explain yourself. Scared the shit out of me. Y’know, there were rumors that people thought you were some sort of mafia boss.” She snorted. “Kind of believed it for a bit. You’ve got the whole, tall, dark and handsome thing going on. Mysterious. Kind of a dick.” She yelped when he lightly pinched her side, erupting into a fit of giggles. “Hey! No. You’re a handsome asshole. And to your credit, that was the last time you were all weird with me. Once I believed you, you became a sweet little thing.” Her voice cooed as she reached up to pinch his cheek like a grandmother would, making him roll his eyes.
It was true, though. He’d met her and it hadn’t gone so well in the beginning. His reputation for being cold and callous to new people, to most, actually, didn’t help when his interest in her spiked. He remembered very clearly, watching with a drink in his hand as she laughed with some of the girls. Grinning wide and showing teeth, making his chest do the weird pitter patter it usually did now when he saw her, but the first time had shocked the hell out of him. He’d never had that sort of reaction to someone before. Sure, he found people hot and experienced lust, but it was the first time in his life he craved conversation. To be nosy. So he hunted her, cornered her like prey and had him picking her brain for a while. He’d been gaining momentum, touching her and getting her a drink , and she had been into it until someone whispered into her ear on the way back from the bathroom what he assumed was the information that he was ‘taken.’ 
So what? He had gone through drastic measures to convince her to see him again, even showing her the contract that was notarized. 
“A mafia boss?” He snickered, raising a brow. “Not a chance. Though I appreciate you thinking I’ve got what it takes. No, unfortunately it’s just the multitude of legitimate businesses in my empire, my darling.” His smile grew warm, watching her return it. “Though, if that’s something you want to roleplay in bed, I’d not be opposed.” 
“Of course you wouldn’t be, perv.” With a roll of the eyes she patted his chest. “Never met someone so dirty in my life. Energizer bunny must be a sponsor of your cock because I swear, even being older than me you’ve got more stamina.” It was the truth, but she didn’t grasp how it was just for her. He used to be satisfied with a fuck or two a week, he could go without it if he went to the gym. Being with Y/N changed him to an insatiable beast, but she was his willing accomplice. 
“I don’t see you complaining when my cock is in your pretty cunt and you’re crying for me t’let you cum. Begging Daddy to let you cream all over my cock, because you tend to be a messy little girl. At least m’nice enough to let you.” He said with a straight face. There was no comment about how he could feel her clench on his thigh, but she already knew he could. His filthy mouth couldn’t be competed with and thankfully, Y/N had a thing for dirty talk.
“Alright- jesus.” Y/N whined, burying her face against his chest. “Don’t get me worked up now. I’m a little sore, someone took it out of me in the shower.” The grumbled words made him smirk, smugness and pride evident on his face. If she was really hurt she would let him know and he would grovel on his knees to make it better. “If you take it easy, I think you could have me in the morning. Wake me up with it.” A treat for the man, considering he adored watching her eyes peel open and a whimper sounding from her sleep swollen lips as he slipped in and out of her warm insides.
“Hm. I suppose that’s a fair deal.” He signed, acting resigned as he tugged her closer to him. “I’m lucky to have you, my minx. Always so good to me.”  Even more than he deserved. 
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heaven4lostgirls · 4 months
Text
promises and dreams (part 2)
pairing: finnick odair x reader
warning: angst, mentions of finnick being trafficked, president sn*w
summary: finnick odair is your best friend, but somehow you cant find it within yourself to be aanything more. Now that the 75th Hunger Games calls for Victors to be reaped you make it your plan to bring Finnick back home to Annie or you will die trying
word count: 2.1k
a/n: thank you for the love on this fic! i'm not sure when part 3 will be out but hopefully soon! let me know if you want to be part of a tag list for this fic!
part 1, part 2, part 3
Finnick’s hard gaze follows you as you take your place on the train, his eyebrows furrows as he watches you pick at your skin as you watch the scenery pass through the windows. Before long he can’t help but voice his thoughts, “Why would you do that?” he blurts out and watches as you look up at him surprised, “do what?” you question and watch as he drags his hand over his jawline in frustration.
“Why would you volunteer for Annie?” he pushes and watches as you look back at him in surprise before you collect yourself and answer him. “To keep her safe” you answer truthfully, you know you can’t tell him you also did it to keep safe, if you did you know full well, he would place himself in front of you and any possible life-threatening situations. 
“I would  have kept her safe” he urges and a part of your heart clenches as you watch how fervently he seems to be pushing the subject. Even though  Annie seemed to have survived the reaping, she will always be the first thing on his mind even if you could quite likely be living the last few days of your life.
While you’re thinking about how Finnick  seems not to care about your impending death  his mind is filled with that exact thought. He can’t understand why you would volunteer in place of Annie; he would have been able to help Annie and keep her safe, but you were a loose rocket, he knew he couldn’t contain you and there was next to no way he would be able to protect you with your stubbornness.
He continues thinking of ways to help you throughout  the games and although he promises himself to help you get home, he realises that in doing so, he’ll have to die too, and he can’t really think too hard about that because he has spent his entirety of his life after being crowned a victor telling and teaching tributes after him to fight.
You can only watch as his expression turns from frustrated to sad and fighting the urge to give him space you find yourself speaking to comfort him instead, “its going to be okay” you mention hopefully, truthfully not only to Finnick but to yourself as well. You’ve made your peace with what must happen and although Finnick  is unaware you hope that with your words you can bring him some form of comfort.
“What’re you talking about?” he asks confused, and you just look at him as you repeat your previous sentiment, his confusion only pains you to know that your closest confidant may not understand the gravity of the situation you are both about to face.
Time passes on the train to the Capitol and although Finnick and you try and keep each other’s emotions high, you both can’t help but feel pressure within yourselves and revisit past trauma as you reach the city. You know that for Finnick the months and even years after his games were not easy for him, not because he had won, well partly, but more because Snow had auctioned Finnick off like a pig to slaughter.
You watched as he fought to clench and unclench his jaw, the slight shake in his hands. As you both arrived at the Capitol you were greeted by excited faces of the wealthiest citizens in Panem, you fought the urge to scream and cry at how excited they looked to see the both of you being shipped off your deaths.
“Smile.” Finnick urges you as he looks out of the glass to all the people, he slips perfectly back into his ‘Prince of Panem’ demeanour  and you can only watch with unease as the fakest of smiles grace his face as he lifts his right arm into the air to wave to the onlookers.
You can only attempt to do the same whilst assuring yourself that this is all part of the bigger picture, to survive this act has to be perfect.
As Finnick and you are escorted off the train to the innermost buildings within the Capitol. The strained smile never leaves either of your faces and away from camera’s, your hands stay interlocked. You continue to try and calm yourselves down as you both meet with your stylists to prepare for the parade.
Your stylists lean into the fishing component of district four as you are dressed in a dark blue bikini top and mini skirt that flows and sticks to your body, complimenting your skin tone. Your makeup is filled with glittery blues and whites. Finnick’s look is a lot more subdued in comparison to your own however he does look handsome in his dark blue kilt and spear.
Your eyes follow the expanse of his chest, and you have to fight the urge to run up to him just so you could feel the ridges of his muscles as your fingertips dance over his uncovered skin, although as you spend the time saying hello to the horses, Finnick detaches from you to walk backwards in the line of carriages.
You follow his figure as he reaches the woman of the hour, Katniss Everdeen. You watch his flirt with her shamelessly and your chest hurts, not only for you but for Annie as well but you realise that if Finnick has one advantage, it’s his good looks so knowing he’s trying to find an alliance you let him carry on without interference.
Although humour takes on a human form in Peeta Mellark, Katniss’ teammate, he looks like he’s about to punch Finnick in the throat although a part of you wonders if he’d be able to reach that high. You stifle a giggle at the thought and look back at Katniss and Finnick’s conversation in time for you to see him shove a sugar cube in his mouth.
Ew. You think and although he walks back looking cool you watch as he grimaces as he reaches your carriage. At that point the only thing you can do is wheeze in laughter as he looks at you annoyed trying to get the sugar granules out of his teeth.
“That was sex appeal-“ he starts before you bark out another short laugh as you wheeze, tears come to your eyes before you slap his bicep as he rolls his eyes, “sex appeal!” you repeat as though it’s the funniest thing you’ve heard in years and maybe it might be.
You calm down and see Finnick looking at you with a raised eyebrow, “it was not that funny” he says, and you smirk in his direction, “It was when you resembled the horses when chewing that sugar cube, Mr sex appeal” you smile, and he only nudges you playfully as they announce the first district.
Your heart beats fast and loud within your chest s district four is called alongside your names, you and Finnick both smile politely and wave towards the roaring crowds before you take your place in front of President Snow’s podium.
You watch as all the districts parade out but as soon as you hear the applause and cheers go louder, you look back to see Katniss and Peeta’s outfits on fire. How fitting, you think and smile as you watch them.
They, alongside everyone else, may not be happy to be there but you can tell by looking at them, how in love with each other the both of them are.
The transfer from the parade to the interview is a blur, the only way you can describe yourself is numb. The cheers, Snow, the other tributes, they all become one jumbled mess inside your mid as your sole purpose is to do what you understand every other tribute has to do, act.
You are interviewed after Finnick and as you watch his interview, as it comes to an end Flickerman opens his mouth to speak again, “Finnick, I understand that you have a message for somebody out there, a special somebody, can we hear it?” he laughs as he pushes the microphone to Finnick to answer.
You look on in confusion, what could he possibly be doing? Finnick’s mask slips a bit, and you watch in all seriousness as he speaks, “My love, you have my heart for all eternity and uh, if I die in that arena, my last thought will be of your lips” he says into the camera and a shuddering breath passes through you. You blink back tears as you realise Finnick was speaking to Annie and as he takes his place back next to you, you send him a wobbly but hopefully reassuring smile.
You promise yourself that you will do whatever it takes for Finnick to get back to Annie.
You interview is next as Caesar looks at you with an indulgent smile, “Y/N, we’ve heard from your teammate that he’s hopeful to make it back to his special someone, is there any special someone you’re hoping to make it back to?” he asks with an indulgent smile.
You smile back fakely as you answer, “Unfortunately not Caesar!” you reply as the crowd ‘awes’ in faux sympathy. “Well then I’m sure your family must be rooting for you!”  he says as he tries another angle, but you just shake you head, “No actually, I volunteered for my friend Annie Cresta because I knew she needed me to, so really I’m just here for her” you say with a smile as you look at the Tv. Caesar nods and ends the interview as he welcomes Johanna Mason from district 7 to the stage.
You join Finnick on the podium  where all the tributes stand and he pulls himself down to whisper in your ears, “what the fuck was that?” he asks sternly and you look at him confused, “don’t play dumb, ‘I’m just here for her’ what the fuck did that mean Y/N” he hisses, and you shake him off. “Exactly what I meant Finnick, now shut up” you say and shake his hand off you as a small tear runs down your face.
You both stand silent next to one another as you watch the different tributes get interviewed in front of you before Katniss walks out in one of the most beautiful wedding gowns you’ve ever seen, you gasp softly at how elegant she looks as you somewhat remember the announcement of her and Peeta getting engaged before the reaping.
Her interview goes very smoothly as Caesar prods at her about how she was unable to have her wedding, however as she turns to show off her gown, it erupts in flames as it turns into a beautiful blue and black  colour with wings around the back. “A Mockingjay” you and Katniss both say in sync as you look at the dress in disbelief.
Peeta’s interview comes next and although he looks completely assured and confidence you can see the slight shake in his fingers and Caesar questions him, “But Peeta, the wedding, a marriage never to be?” he asks softly and Peter doesn’t waste any time before answering, “Actually we got married, in secret” he confesses and you watch Katniss as she tries to keep her composure and you realise then and there that Peeta is lying.
Interesting. You think, why would be Peeta be lying to Flickerman of all people? Although Caesar takes the news very well as he continues to ask Peeta more questions, “A secret wedding? Do tell” he prods.
“We want our love to be eternal” he states and your heart clenches at the thought, he could be very good at tricking Caesar, but you knew right away any romantic feelings he held towards Katniss was completely truthful. Maybe you and him weren’t  so different after all. “You know Katniss and I have been luckier than most, I wouldn’t have any regrets at all i-if it weren’t-“ he stutters, and you look at him in worry.
“If it weren’t for what?” Caesar prods, “if it weren’t for the baby” he says finally, and you and Finnick turn to each other in shock before composing yourselves as the crowd becomes rowdy. People begin booing and voicing their concerns as Peeta takes his place next to Katniss. You watch as victors begin joining hands and you realise why Peeta announced what he did.
You join hands with Finnick in solidarity alongside another victor from district 5, If the Capitol wanted to go back on their words, they needed to realise that it had consequences, you all lift your hands in sync as the curtains shut around you. Peeta Mellark may just be more interesting than he seems.
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timdoubleyou · 4 months
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i found jay’s black jacket (an ID guide)
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This black jacket is worn by Jay about 9 times throughout Marble Hornets, including his final appearance. And after some weeks of on-and-off research, I think I know the exact make and model.
This post will detail exactly how I found it, and serve as a guide for anyone that wants to find the jacket, whether that's for cosplay purposes, or if you're just keen on collecting items related to MH.
Main post under the cut
Intro
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The first step to identifying the jacket was to gather as many references as possible.
I went back to the web series and took screenshots from any entries the jacket makes an appearance. (shoutout to mg549′s very comprehensive MH wardrobe guide, without it this would’ve been much more of a pain)
Jay's jacket is, for the most part, very plain. It's a solid color, full-zip jacket, without any particularly eye-catching logos or other details. I had to look for moments where even the slightest distinction appeared clear on camera, at least as distinct as it can be. Even if it was just close-ups to get the shape of a zipper, or how many buttons are on a sleeve, it was the best I got. While I did manage to find a decent amount of these, there was just one crucial detail that would've made finding it near-impossible; the brand is never shown. Thankfully, I had another resource.
In 2018 Troy Sold a Lot of Stuff
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In early 2018, Troy officially announced that MH would be continued in a comic series. To fund the first issue, he held a number of auctions for production items used during the web series on Ebay.
These included items such as Jay’s camera, Brian’s hoodie, A Masky mask, and Jay’s black jacket.
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Lo and behold, the jacket listing includes a picture with the brand in clear view. It's from Gap.
Ebay does not archive sold listings older than 90 days. However, Worthpoint, a website for valuing and pricing collectibles, does. Using Worthpoint I was able to find all of these items, (and a lot more, which can be found in this doc I submitted to Archive Hornets)
Identification
With the picture from the listing and the series screencaps, I had a complete ID list.
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(Top image is from the Ebay listing, with the contrast adjusted a little for easier viewing. The bottom two images are from Entry #79)
The Gap logo (This specific logo dates the jacket being made anywhere between 1986 and 2009, when it first appears).
Front Zipper (Note the shape)
The two front pockets
The two buttons and pointed cuffs on each sleeve (Second one is a little hard to see but it's jusstt peeping out at the side)
The blue piping in the inner lining
The zipper in the right side inner lining
The gray mesh inner lining
With these in mind, I could now go to the next and longest step-
Finding the Jacket
I combed three resell sites; Ebay, Depop, and Poshmark. My main goal wasn't to actually purchase the jacket, (although, I would like to at some point) but to find a jacket listing that had every identifier, and have a more definite baseline for finding others. I needed to be sure what I had was enough to properly ID the jacket. The references I had stitched together were decent enough, but I wanted to see if there was something better out there.
After tons of page scrolling and tab-switching and comparing and contrasting, I finally got lucky.
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(first two images are from crashthecloset's listing on poshmark, last six are from shannfo-76 on ebay)
I haven't bought one myself as of posting, but I feel pretty confident this is it. The jackets were already sold, but every marker seemed to be accounted for. It also revealed new ones, like the reflective pattern and pockets on the inner lining, (zipper on the right side pocket, button on the left pocket) and the materials tag.
With that, here's some final notes that may be helpful if you try looking for the jacket yourself:
Online sellers often describe it as a light jacket, a windbreaker, a 2-in-1, or 3-in-1.
"Gap Mens Black Jacket" is the search phrase I used the most since it yielded a (very) broad result pool.
Most of the jackets I found came from Poshmark or Ebay.
The exact size of Jay’s jacket is unclear. My best guesses are either a US Men’s S or M, since Jay was pretty skinny and of average height. I’ve only been able to find maybe 2 jackets that are a size M, one of which is the first pic in the photoset above.
Gap has sold other black jackets that look remarkably similar to Jay’s, and they do pop up on resell sites. One of these was so similar, the only discernible difference was the style of the logo. I highly recommend making sure it matches the exact one Jay had before purchasing. (It's also more than fine to ask/msg me if you have any doubts!) As long as you know what to look for, you shouldn’t have a problem finding at least one.
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One detail that confounded me was this sleeve poking out of Jay's jacket. At first I thought he was wearing a long sleeve underneath, making this shot a continuity error since he appeared to Only be wearing the green short sleeve under the jacket.
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@hivemite pointed out that this might be a two-in-one jacket, which has multiple layers for different types of weather. While I have not been able to see the sleeve outside of two shots in entry #79 and #80, one listing I found did describe it as a 3-in-1.
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that's about it! hope this helps :)
416 notes · View notes
cieloclercs · 7 months
Text
what would you say (if i told you i love you)? — charles leclerc
PART: 3? (read part 2 here)
summary. in which childhood best friends blur the lines between what they’ve always known, and something more
warnings. swearing, online hate, we’re getting to the angst now 🫣 arguments, charles is an idiot, arthur and joris being sick of his shit (but what else is new)
pairings. charles leclerc x arsty!reader
face claim. tara michelle
author’s note. again, i have no idea how much modern art sells for at auctions so don’t come at me if this seems unrealistic 🙏☹️ i also feel the need to clarify that y/n has 2 instagram accounts, one personal and one for art stuff ☺️
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liked by joris_trouche and 51,196 others
y/nsart auction update! 🎨
tide - sold for €12,460 erode - sold for €9,500 wave - sold for €20,890 glint - sold for €6,300
this is nothing short of a dream come true for me. the support i’ve seen both on social media and at the auction (once again, thank you to everyone who stopped by!) has been beyond anything i ever could have hoped for 🩵
if you’d told me when i was a little girl that one day people would pay for art i’ve created, i wouldn’t have believed you. i’m so so grateful to have been given this opportunity to do something that i love and to share it with the world 💗 i can’t wait to see what the future holds!
view all comments…
username congratulations y/n! 💕💕
*y/nsart liked this comment
leclerc_pascale C'est tout à fait mérité. N'arrêtez jamais de peindre, ma fille, vous avez un don! / completely deserved. never stop painting, my girl, you have a gift!
y/nsart merci beaucoup 🥹 je promets de ne pas le faire x / i promise i won’t
arthur_leclerc congratulations petite sœur! / little sister
y/nsart merci arth ☺️
y/nsart also, ‘petite’? i’m literally older than you?
arthur_leclerc but you’re smaller 🙃
charles_leclerc toujours fière de toi, ma chérie ❤️ / forever proud of you, sweetheart
y/nsart 😐
charles_leclerc you’re still mad at me? ☹️
y/nsart if you wanted one of my paintings you could have just asked rather than wasting over €20,000. i would have let you have it for free
charles_leclerc i didn’t waste anything, y/n
username uh oh mom and dad are fighting 😳
username ironic how her highest selling painting was literally bought by her best friend 😭
username i guarantee you it would NOT have sold for that much if charles hadn’t been bidding
username i don’t want to be the one to say it but lately it kind of feels like y/n’s been using her friendship with charles as a way to promote her art…
username as much as i love y/n icl i think you might be right 🥲
username 🤢🤢🤢
username stop using charles’ fame to try and make yourself relevant! you’ll never be good enough for him babes 🥰
username the switch up on these comments from ‘fans’ is actually so embarrassing
username i know! it’s like as soon as y/n starts becoming successful everyone suddenly decides it’s not because of her own hard work but because of charles 🙄
username lmao how has she managed to make tens of thousands for that shit she calls art? i’m sensing a clout chaser 😂
username this REEKS of jealousy
username these comments make me sick. y/n has proved time and time again how talented and hard working she is. just because charles doesn’t know you exist doesn’t mean you get to hate on another girl who he ACTUALLY cares about. grow up.
*charles_leclerc and y/nsart liked this comment
username i feel so bad for y/n. no offence to charles but if he’d let the auction play out normally without bidding (although he does have a right to do so if he wants!) then she wouldn’t be getting all this hate right now 😔
comments on this post have been limited.
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liked by pierregasly and 1,567,836 others
charles_leclerc back to work 🇳🇱
view all comments…
username no y/n like? ☹️
username is y/n with you?
username guys check kym illman’s instagram! he said charles turned up to the paddock alone…
username i mean, y/n could be arriving later right?
username if y/n isn’t there it’ll be the first race she’s missed since singapore last year 😳
username y/n has a life besides charles! just because she’s not at one race doesn’t mean they’ve fallen out or anything ☺️
username but think about it…neither charles nor y/n have posted anything to do with each other since the auction a week ago normally they can barely go a day without posting each other 🥴
username can everyone just stop talking about y/n 🙄 all she ever did was distract him anyway
username forza charles! ❤️
username he’s not even smiling :((
username because he knows ferrari are shit, it’s probably nothing to do with y/n
username i didn’t even mention her? 😭
joris_trouche i think you’re missing someone mate
username JORIS??
username HE KNOWS SOMETHING!!
username JORIS PLEASE TELL US WHAT YOU KNOW
username i hate to be the bearer of bad news but y/n just posted. she’s not at the grand prix 🥲
yourusername
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viewed by charles_leclerc and 9,637 others
replies:
arthur_leclerc oh shit arthur_leclerc what did he do joris_trouche just say the word and i’ll smack him for you 😁 ↳ yourusername please don’t do that 😭 yourfriend you don’t need him, mon amour ❤️ ↳ yourusername ☺️
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you:
did i do something wrong?
we haven’t spoken in a week
charlie 🤍:
no, y/n
you:
you won’t answer my calls
charlie 🤍:
i’ve been thinking about what you said
i don’t want you to have to deal with hate because of me
you:
so you think ignoring me is the answer?
charlie 🤍:
i’m not ignoring you, y/n, i’m trying to protect you
you:
what the fuck?
charles, i don’t care what people say about you
charlie 🤍:
but i do
isn’t it for the best? if we aren’t seen together for a while, you won’t get any of the hate
you:
you really don’t get it do you
if you think i want you to cut me off to ‘protect me’ then maybe you don’t know me as well as i thought you did
charlie 🤍:
don’t say that
i just want everyone to see you the way i do
you:
and i already told you, i don’t care what they think of me
i only care what you think
charlie 🤍:
why?
you:
i’m surprised you haven’t figured it out yet
charlie 🤍:
figured what out? [ seen at 4:11PM ]
y/n?
you:
i think it’s best if we don’t see each other for a while
bye charles
charlie 🤍:
what?! [ seen at 4:13PM ]
y/n come back [ delivered at 4:14PM ]
just tell me what you mean [ delivered at 4:20PM ]
please y/n [ delivered at 4:47PM ]
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liked by yourfriend and 1,637,937 others
scuderiaferrari A DNF in Zandvoort for Charles. Now time to refocus ready for Monza 🔜
view all comments…
username what the actual fuck was going on with him today?
username i don’t know. i’ve never seen him so distracted 😕
username honestly a rookie mistake. if he’s going to be pulling shit like this then he doesn’t deserve his seat 🤷
username it’s just one mistake?? calm down 😭
username why do i feel like this has something to do with y/n…
username oh my god will you all shut up about y/n 🙄 they’re not even dating !!
username and? they’ve been best friends since they were 5 years old. if my childhood friendship broke down i’d be pretty fucking upset about it too
username we don’t actually know that they’ve fallen out tho…neither of them have said anything
username but isn’t it obvious? y/n not at the race, charles being distracted and sulky around the paddock? they’ve definitely argued about something
username charles i can’t keep defending you when you do this 💔💔💔
username how this guy has managed to keep his seat with all these mistakes i have no idea 😒
username hopefully y/n will be in monza to bring him some good luck🤞
➜ part 4
899 notes · View notes
agustdiv1ne · 7 months
Text
ticket to nowhere (but your heart) (m) — cyj
pairing: choi yeonjun x fem!reader
genre: strangers to lovers au, photographer!yeonjun, artist!reader, fluff, angst, smսt
wc: 22.3k
synopsis: twelve days. twelve days is all you have on this godforsaken train to find the spark that will save your dying art career — but you never thought that you would find it in the enigmatic stranger that you can’t seem to stop running into.
warnings: mdni!! ageless + blank blogs dni!!!, mc is bad with feelings, is alluded to have anxiety, and is written as shorter than jjun (i'm sorry to my taller friends, i love you) + the same age as him (24), this takes place in various places across the u.s. (sorry in advance), mentions of food + alcohol, vvvvv brief depiction of potential self-injury when describing a painting, beomgyu + le sserafim's sakura, chaewon, and yunjin (called jennifer here just bc i felt like it) are featured, dom!jjun, sub!mc, soft sex, oral (f receiving), fingering (f receiving), light begging, multiple orgasms, protected sex (hooray!), missionary, praise
note: part of @majestyjun's yeonjun bday event!! REPOSTED bc tumblr decided to not let this show up in the tags (edit: it's now showing up!!) </3 also my longest fic to date, so that's something
*:・playlist・:*
(cross-posted to ao3 here!)
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masterlist
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everything in your life is bland. gray.
the food that you eat, the people that you become acquainted with, the skyscrapers above you that grasp for the sky and fail to reach it — they have all become so monotone and somber and utterly lifeless. something within you gnaws at itself, aching with pain — though the sharpness of the feeling has been blunted by the passing of time — because you used to adore the city that you call home. you used to find unrivaled beauty in the skyscrapers that spread across manhattan, in the lush green parks scattered amongst the urban landscape that would turn warm and golden as summer metamorphosed into autumn, in the people that would walk by you with their unapologetic, unique fashion and confidence. the very things you used to love have dulled in hue, washes of the vibrancy you once appreciated and took significant inspiration from. 
throughout your apartment lay half-baked paintings and charcoal drawings and pieces with odd compositions from that one month where you went through a mixed media phase, staring at you with their paint-streaked eyes, mocking you. finish us, their fragmentary faces scream. they beg for you to provide them with souls, to be their maker, their creator — but not quite their god. you are not pretentious enough to go that far, to paint yourself as that self-important, that narcissistic. you are far from a god. if you were, you would be in a larger apartment, a penthouse worth millions of dollars in soho or maybe the upper east side. if you were a god, you would purchase the finest art supplies in the world, have your pieces be displayed in major galleries to be auctioned off for hundreds of thousands — no, millions of dollars by pretentious art collectors to be hung up in their gaudy mansions, their own slices of heaven. however, in reality, you fall exceptionally short of a higher being; in truth, you are a rather simple woman who had transplanted herself from her suffocating hometown to brooklyn as soon as you completed your undergraduate degree. a tiny little apartment in brooklyn, new york city, new york — an adumbration of purgatory, floating somewhere between heaven and hell. trapped, trapped, trapped. nowhere to go. 
sitting on your bed, the balls of your feet pressed against the cool wooden floor, you ponder if these thoughts, this density of emotions burrowing into your stomach, are a symptom of burnout. maybe even artist’s block, though in the past you’ve often remarked that the concept doesn’t exist. you had never experienced it, so in your sorely narrow-minded view, it simply couldn’t be possible, and other artists were simply blaming their laziness on this elusive concept. what a fool you were for ever thinking that. shame hangs like a heavy weight within your chest; who are you to criticize the experiences of other artists when you know how difficult a creative’s life can be? how could you be so insolent? 
a raging hypocrite, really, is what you think you must be. a blank, blurry stare scans over your space, the coolness of the floor spreading up into your toes. an easel in the corner, near one of the small windows that allows for a view of mostly red brick, a sliver of blue-brown water where the hudson and east rivers meet, and a few lower manhattan skyscrapers that tower high in the air across the watery expanse. it’s not that far from your bed, which sits on the wall opposite below a second window, the slightest bit larger than the other one. most of your apartment is taken up by supplies rather than actual decor, a jar of paintbrushes on your small, round dining table in the corner near your kitchen instead of a vase of flowers, works-in-progress on the walls rather than posters, pictures. 
you live and breathe art, and your entire apartment reflects that, but the oxygen is getting thinner and thinner.
even then, you’re not quite sure how long you have felt this way — it’s not as if you woke up one day and noticed the change. it wasn’t sudden like a car accident, slamming into you one second and leaving you to cope with the aftermath the next. quite the opposite, really, more akin to the tide slowly coming to shore, washing over more of your body with each incoming wave. soothing, flowing along with each ebb and flow, pulling you further and further away from the beach until you have nowhere else to go but down. 
weak fingers dig into the white comforter below you, curling into the fabric with a surging desperation — for what, you are unsure. comfort? someone to hold you? you haven’t felt the embrace of another, the warm sensation of lips pressed against your own, in an embarrassingly long time. the dating world had slipped from your hands long ago, shattering on the floor like a snow globe, your wants and hopes and desires to love and be loved soaking your lacerated feet and stinging as it enters your wounds. your mind trails to beomgyu, a fellow artist who you had met when you could afford a private studio in a warehouse one burrow over. he was fun, a sappy romantic, and he made you laugh to no end — but he ruined you. he moved across the country without warning and you’d never heard from him again, leaving you heartbroken and with questions you’d never get answers to. you wonder how he’s doing now, if san francisco is treating him well. his number is still in your phone. you should delete it. you need to delete it. you need to make dinner. you need to finish that commission. you need to do a lot of things.
you need to get out of here. 
fuck, you do. the desperation surging within your veins takes the new form of a beast, clawing its way up your throat. you need to leave the city and experience new places and see new things and—
finally, you wrench yourself off of your bed after hours of sitting there. snatching your laptop from the floor, you search. you search and search and search for something that will get you out of this city, albeit temporarily. several different trips to italy — too expensive, and too far away from here. an airbnb in florida — you’ve never been a fan of humidity, and you don’t think only seeing one city will be enough to sate you. come on, come on, there has to be something. 
and then you find it: twelve days on a train, across the country. stops in chicago, denver, san francisco, seattle, and even a national park for half a day before looping back through chicago and back to new york. this sounds…perfect. your eyes grow as wide as saucers at the price as you scroll down. for you, it’s expensive, so fucking expensive, but…
“you need to let go and enjoy life for once,” one of your friends told you at a party a few months ago, when you were experiencing a less incapacitating version of the burnout you currently face, when you had thought it was a mere blip in your unending motivation. of course, you hadn’t listened to jennifer and her sound (and moscato-induced) advice, opting to throw yourself further into your art and ultimately fail at creating anything worthwhile. you regret it now, because you feel stuck. terribly, utterly stuck — but this is your chance to change that. 
you need this; you can make the sacrifice to your already thinning bank account, you think. let go, enjoy life. let go, enjoy life — you repeat those four words over and over again as you type in your card information, as you click the button to book the trip, as you read over the confirmation email that outlines the steps you need to take before you leave. let go, enjoy life, and you will. you will, and you will relight that dimming, nearly extinguished fire within you while you’re at it. you’ll make damn sure of it. 
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day one. 
your heart is pounding. the rapid ba-bump ba-bump ba-bump roars in your ears like thunder as people upon people walk past, shoving against both of your shoulders as you stand in front of a board full of green and yellow and red. the sounds of voices and rolling luggage echo across the high, transparent ceilings of the station which allow for a view of the sky above. early mornings and you do not agree with each other, and today is no exception; poorly-veiled dark circles sit beneath your eyes, illuminated by the soft, warm light streaming in from above. looking down at your phone and back up at the screen again, you find that your train is thankfully on time, the bright green letters helping loosen the tightness gathered in your shoulders as you roll them back once, twice. your teeth skirt your bottom lip while you nod to yourself, then scan the spacious building for the escalator that will take you down to the correct platform. 
you hate that you’re nervous. the feeling twists your stomach into knots and flushes your face, cheeks hot as you stand there and wait out the remaining minutes before you can board. it doesn’t even make sense — you should be happy to get out of town, to go places you’ve never been to before, but all you can focus on is the unease creeping up your throat and blooming sour on your tongue. perhaps this is actually excitement that you are feeling. maybe you’re reading it all wrong — jennifer was more than ecstatic when you told her of your impromptu trip, saying “this is what you need! this might be your breakthrough!” 
ever since you met the her, she was always a degree more optimistic than you. looking on the bright side of things, no matter what dire circumstances lay splayed out across the dealer’s table. what’s stopping you from being the same way? several things, but at the same time, jennifer is right: you need this. your hands jitter with an odd combination of excitement and fear — maybe it’s simply the thought of solo travel that is so intimidating. yeah, it has to be. it will pass soon enough — hopefully. you roughly shove your set of headphones onto your head, slipping them over your ears. music will have to do for now, if only to prevent thoughts from racing through your head. 
once you board, you learn that your quarters are…small, though that was expected. it reminds you of your studio apartment, almost; cramped, but lacking the scattered paint tubes and canvases and miscellaneous mediums that you have not laid a single finger upon in months now. the small, travel-size tubes of paint sitting in your backpack weigh your shoulders down, begging to be taken out and spread across the small, flat canvases that are tucked snugly beside them. you muffle their pleas by turning up the music streaming through your headphones. closing the door behind you, you softly hum to the current song in your ears, shoving your suitcase in the corner of the room. 
once the attendant checks your ticket, you decide to take a nap — who cares if it’s early? you barely got enough sleep last night in the first place, too nervous to allow your eyes to shut. collapsing onto your bed, you pull the curtains next to it shut and allow yourself to drift off into a quiet, dreamless sleep.
*:・
you awake around noon with a growling stomach. with a sigh, you rub your tired eyes and sit up, smoothing out your rumpled shirt. after a quick look on your camera to make sure none of your mascara has transferred below your eyes, you make your way to the dining car that’s not too far from your own.
it’s nice, quaint; simply decorated like the rest, with large, square windows divided by thin pieces of wood lining each side. smaller tables line the wall to your right, two seats at each, while larger, four-person tables sit to your left. you opt for a two-seater towards the middle, tunnel vision blocking out the rest of the people present. you stare out at the greenery that blurs outside the window, listening to the low rumble of the train, mindlessly thumbing the laminated menu laying on the table. while you wait for the waitress to get to your table, a light, feminine voice knocks you from your own little world.
“excuse me?” the voice asks. you flinch in response, blinking hard as you look to your left and find two women sitting at the four-seater next to you. they’re both pretty, brown-eyed with full lips curved into twin smiles. they don’t look like sisters, though — more so friends. 
“yes?” you politely say, wondering what they could want with you. the shorter-haired one’s smile grows wider once you speak. she has a rounder face than the other girl, her black bangs ending above her eyes that are currently crinkled at the corners. 
“are you waiting for anyone?” the other girl asks, the one with a long wolfcut and wide, hypnotizing eyes. definitely not sisters, you think, they look nothing alike. 
shaking your head, you softly murmur, “i’m not.”
“would you like to join us, then?” the wide-eyed one asks, a hopeful glint shining in her eyes. 
“i...i wouldn’t want to intrude,” you reply. your mouth curls into something apologetic, as if you’re the one burdening them despite them being the ones to ask you. this interaction feels weird, awkward, and a very large part of you wishes you could melt through the floor and disappear forever. 
“you wouldn’t!” straight black bob chimes in, hands clasped together on top of the table as she leans towards you. cheery, excitable. “we wouldn’t mind at all, really.”
you nod with a tiny, somewhat nervous grin as you take the seat closest to you, right next to wide-eyed wolfcut. you offer them your name, unsure what else to give them. your age? your profession? your deep-seated trauma? okay, definitely not that last one. 
“it’s nice to meet you,” straight black bob says, while the other chimes in with a soft hum of affirmation. “i’m chaewon.”
“and i’m sakura,” wolfcut adds with a dip of her chin.
hands placed snugly in your lap, you pick at your thumb nail. your back is stiff in the chair, and you hope they won’t notice. “it’s nice to meet you guys too. are you traveling together?” 
both of them giggle, glancing at each other for a moment before swiveling their eyes back to you. for a moment, you’re confused. why was that so funny? they look to be decent friends, at least from your limited interactions with them thus far.
“we actually just met a few minutes ago,” wolfcut — no, sakura claims. oh, so they’re not friends, then. “we ran into each other— like, quite literally ran into each other.”
“it was…kinda bad,” chaewon laughs before she takes a sip of water. “my ass is still sore.”
you huff a laugh at that, all air and no sound, and the conversation continues with a light-hearted air to it. as the minutes tick by, you learn that chaewon is a graduate student taking a gap semester, while sakura owns her own makeup line, a small business that is beginning to pick up speed thanks to social media. one lives in brooklyn—
“no way,” you gasp at chaewon. “where at?” 
sakura, meanwhile, resides in upper manhattan. even more information about them bombards your brain as all of you begin to eat, but you doubt you’ll remember most of it by tomorrow, even later today — it’s alright, though. the three of you have exchanged numbers (to create a group chat) and have basically promised to be travel buddies for the coming days. your cheeks hurt from smiling so hard, grateful to find kind, welcoming people on this train — you’d think that jennifer would like them. the way they interact with each other is somewhat reminiscent of your and jennifer’s friendship. friends…yeah, you can see the three of you becoming good friends. 
“can we see some of your art?” chaewon asks, bob shifting like a wave around her head as she shakes it. oh, yeah. you had briefly mentioned your profession, though shame barred you from sharing your reasons that led you to this train in the first place. 
you cringe. “oh, well—”
“i’m sure it’s great!” she continues. “c’mon, pleaseee?”
with sparkling doe eyes and hands clasped tightly together, it’s difficult to say no — and you don’t, shaking your head a little as you pull up your instagram account. while you’re proud of the pieces you’ve posted on there, they aren’t your most emotional. those ones are saved in your camera roll, and that is where they will stay, only for your eyes (and a very few select others) to see. they coo and aw as they swipe through, your phone placed on the table between them. heat rushes to your cheeks as you begin to pick at the remnants of your lunch sitting on your plate. deep down, their kind comments cause an unusual sense of guilt to invade your heart. why couldn’t you produce shit like that now? what the hell is wrong with you?
with a polite smile, you thank them and move to excuse yourself before your pathetic sense of self-pity can consume you. they seem a bit surprised by your abrupt exit, but they also take it in stride, offering to text you later for dinner. slipping from your seat, you send them a wave before setting off towards the door from which you initially came. 
*:・
you don’t know what spurred you to make a stop at your room and snatch your sketchbook from your backpack before heading to the observation car, but after a whole lot of sitting and not one speck of sketching, you kind of, sort of have started to hate yourself for that decision. 
the open page in your lap is abysmally blank. no marks, no little trees or lush fields or flowers or anything that you see speeding by outside the window. your pencil has been poised against the page for the longest time, dark gray dots scattered across the page where you would press the point of the pencil to start making a mark and subsequently give up. another hour with no progress ticks by, but you still can’t make it move. move, why won’t your hand just move? 
flipping it shut, you lean back in your seat with a deep sigh. you can’t force these things, you know that much, but that won’t stop you from trying — and failing — to produce something. you’d rather not dwell on that for too long, though. those thoughts are what got you here in the first place. instead, you allow your tense muscles to relax, your eyes to lose focus and blur, blobs of green and blue passing by your vision. soft murmurs from other passengers meld together into a wall of droning noise, soft and soothing. 
that is, until the sound of someone settling into a seat a couple away from your own pops your little bubble like a sharp, pointed pin pressing into the skin of a balloon. blinking your vision back into focus, you take a quick glance to your right and—
holy shit, he’s beautiful. a sloping nose and pink, plush lips, you wouldn’t be surprised if he was a model of some sort with a face like that. his dark, slightly outgrown hair frames his side profile perfectly, sweeping back towards the back of his head where it begins to curl down the back of his neck. there’s this sort of dreamy, ethereal quality to his looks, like the universe took it’s sweet time creating him, lovingly placed tiny little stars in his sable, fox-like eyes and kissed his skin with the sun’s gentle rays, a light pink dusted across his cheeks — or, at least, the one cheek that you can see. bulky headphones sit snugly over his ears as he simply watches the landscapes pass by, one long leg crossed over the other. before you register the movement of your hands, your sketchbook is flipped back open to that very same blank page you’d given up on mere moments ago, fingers gripping your pencil once more. fluid like water is how your hand moves across the page, capturing the unique shape of his eyes, his soft yet defined jawline, the slope of his neck…
for the first time in months, you lose yourself in your work, yet you don’t even register this small breakthrough. peeking back up at the beautiful stranger every once in a while, you slowly carve out his likeness on the page in front of you, begin to add his surroundings and even a background, shading with light, circular strokes as you go, building up the deposit of graphite where it is needed most, defining the shape of his pouty lips and the strong cupid’s bow that connects his top lip to his nose, mapping out the flow and shape of locks of hair with dark, daring strokes, graphite pressing hard into the page. you even add some flyways for good measure. in your frenzied bout of drawing, you have hunched over in your chair, an old habit that is rearing its ugly head now that you don’t have a standing easel to work with. straightening your aching spine, you sit back and observe your sketch, wondering if you have missed any defining details—
and when you move to look up and take in his features again, he is staring right back at you. 
oh.
oh, fuck. 
frozen in your seat, you can’t tear your gaze away from his own, a hint of concern swirling in his irises. his eyebrows raise, eyes slightly wide as he tilts his head. the corners of his pretty lips raise, parting as if about to speak — and he does.
“are you okay?”
his deep voice snaps you out of your stupor, flinching before you quickly flip your notebook shut and sent him a tight smile paired with a nod, eyes darting around to look everywhere but him. your heart just might leap out of your chest at this rate, tear open your sternum and collide with the floor. you almost wish it would. 
he’s frowning now, a wrinkle between his eyebrows. “uh, are you sure—”
without another glance at him, you stand, clutch your notebook and pencil tight enough that it presses marks into your skin, and book it straight out of there with swift and featherlight steps. you don’t look back, far too embarrassed to even consider it, not stopping until you reach your room. the door is slammed shut behind you, but the nerves-induced ache in your chest won’t fade. pressing the cool backs of your hands against your fiery cheeks, you resist the urge to slap yourself. what the fuck is wrong with you? you should’ve just answered him and apologized for staring. he probably thinks you’re some creep now, with your weird little notebook and lack of verbal response — and the way you left. god, if a hole opened up and swallowed you whole, that wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.
“you are so fucking embarrassing,” you hiss, venemous words aimed straight at yourself, your head buried in your hands as you curl up on the bed. day one, day fucking one, and you’ve already made a fool of yourself in front of someone.
maybe you should stay in here for the rest of your trip.
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day two.
“...why is it so big?”
chaewon is referring to cloud gate — or, rather, what is more popularly known as the bean — a terribly ugly, silver, oversized, bean-shaped art installation that sits in chicago’s millennium park. an art installation that you, quite frankly, despise mostly due to the artist behind the work. given that anish kapoor is an elitist prick who has shit on the art world with his wealth and hates when people call his piece the bean, you take great, overwhelming satisfaction in calling it that. 
her question — paired with her furrowed eyebrows — causes you and sakura to snicker to yourselves. you’re grateful that they texted you this morning, had forced you out of your room because you actually were going to go through with your staying-in-your-room-forever plan (for today, at least). this park is your first stop of many, but you really want to get this part over with so that you don’t have to see this gargantuan, chrome bean ever again. despite its ugliness, you can admit that the slightly warped, mirrored reflection of the city that it provides is kind of interesting to look at, and it makes for some cool pictures. 
(still, fuck anish kapoor. you refuse to give that man any credit.)
you end up taking a photo of you flipping it off from afar, sending it to jennifer with a smirk before helping the other two girls with some of their own photos. here, there’s no pressure to create, only to enjoy and experience what surrounds you, no matter how tourist-y it may be. 
sakura slings an arm over your shoulder and pulls you closer to her, arm extended out to take a selfie. your hand raises in a peace sign at the camera, smile bright and wide like the sun above. there’s not an inkling of worry in your expression — until you see him. 
the guy from yesterday, standing maybe ten feet away. he dons an unbuttoned striped shirt layered over a tank top which is tucked into baggy, dark wash jeans. a thin, black belt wraps around his waist, a small camera hanging from his neck, and his hair looks as perfect as yesterday, shiny and smooth under the unobstructed sunlight. thankfully, he hasn’t noticed you, but that doesn’t stop your smile from fading, your heart from hammering within your chest as your brain cruelly replays the events of yesterday afternoon in slow motion. you can’t face him right now. what if he comes up to you? what if he confronts you for your odd behavior in front of this crowd? these are worst case scenarios, sure, but they are potential outcomes nonetheless. as he begins to turn in your direction, you whip around, slipping from under sakura’s arm as you face the two girls. 
“you guys ready to go?” you ask, masking your worry with a tight grin. don’t ask why, don’t ask why, please don’t ask why.
“yeah, sure,” chaewon nods. “i think i’ve had enough of the bean.”
“same,” sakura laughs.
“we could grab lunch, then go to the aquarium and planetarium?” you suggest, one foot beginning to tap against the concrete as you look back and forth between them. are there eyes burning into the back of your head right now? you can’t tell, but the prickling on the back of your neck is not a promising sign. they look at each other, then back to you — a phenomenon that has rapidly become a habit for them — and agree. surging forward, your hands loop around their wrists closest to you, and begin to speed walk away. far away.
“uh, girl? this is the wrong way, we’re going deeper into the park,” sakura notes, heels digging into the concrete to slow you down. she’s right, you know she’s right, but you’re not particularly keen on turning around. 
with a sheepish grin, you say, “maybe we could take a walk through the park first?”
as if on cue, chaewon’s stomach emits an audible growl. 
“nevermind, then.”
turning around, you find the stranger facing your way, and for some reason, he’s already looking at you. his eyebrows raise in recognition the moment you make eye contact. all of a sudden, you wish that you could shrivel up and die. despite this, you rip your gaze from his and push forward, turning to speak to sakura so that you aren’t forced to glance in his direction. mission: avoid the stranger who now haunts your life — success!
goodbye, the bean and the guy who you embarrassed yourself in front of. hello, chicago-style pizza. 
*:・
you’re tired.
you’re tired and slightly more broke and your legs and feet ache to hell after the copious amount of walking you’ve done, but your day still isn’t over. no, despite the setting sun and rising moon, you still have one more activity on your itinerary — clubbing, by request of your newfound friends, though even they claim that they don’t often partake in the activity. similar to them, you’re more inclined to small get-togethers with wine, food from that thai place down the street from your apartment, and a good movie, but hey, this trip is all about experiencing new things. hell, maybe you’ll even enjoy it, who knows? at least, you’re going to try to, but the pain radiating in the soles of your feet and calves has worsened due to your high heels. the dress wrapped around your body is tight and flattering in all the right places, yet the hem rides up every few minutes as you walk. 
“the pessimism isn’t cute. quit it,” you hear jennifer’s voice echo inside your head, yet another phrase she’s uttered to you in the past. fine — on the bright side, you haven’t seen that good-looking stranger since the park. bam, positivity, go you.
sakura’s arm loops around yours as you reach the club that you collectively decided on earlier. her excited squeals at the prospect of alcohol (or, rather, more alcohol, since she pregramed a bit prior to leaving the station) and dancing are enough to bring on a weak headache that spreads across your temples. ibuprofen. you desperately need ibuprofen, but vodka will do just fine too — it’s the first thing you order at the bar, a straight shot with no chaser because at this point, you don’t care. let go, enjoy life, you internalize as you toss the sharp liquor down your throat, fatigue melting away as the alcohol enters your veins. 
cheers, jennifer. you still need to text her back.
one more downed shot later, and chaewon is dragging you to the dance floor. the bass pounds in your ears and vibrates the floor as the three of you sway to the upbeat songs. droplets of sweat begin to bead along your hairline, bodies packed so close together that it’s virtually impossible not to be jostled by a stray elbow or shoulder as you dance. if you were completely sober, it would be uncomfortable, but your hazy senses allow for you to overlook the sardine can that is called a club. it’s easy to lose yourself in the warm, heady air, in the way your hips bump between chaewon’s and sakura’s. inhibitions melt away — you’re free; no expectations weighing you down, nowhere to be, no one to be. only music, flashing lights, and the new, fruity drink in your hand, courtesy of sakura. 
“gonna take a breather!” you yell into chaewon’s ear, the alcohol finally catching up to you. she nods, yells words you can’t make out into sakura’s ear, and both of them begin to follow you out of the crowd. you sip at your drink as you push your way through, ducking under swinging arms and avoiding splashing drinks. the crowd thins as you grow closer to the edge of the dance floor until only scattered groups of friends remain.
“you didn’t have to come with me, y’know,” you say as soon as you reach a slightly quieter part of the club, taking a seat in an empty booth. “i can handle myself.”
“it’s better to stick together. less dangerous,” sakura refutes. some of the glitter that sits above her eyes had drafted down to her cheeks, glinting as a beam of bright light travels over the lower half of her face. “you never know what could happen in a club.”
chewing at the neon pink straw in your drink, you nod, “that’s true.” 
as chaewon and sakura fall into conversation, their words not quite reaching your ears, you silently scan the club. the darkness is cut by wild lasers and spotlights that whirl around and catch on the faces of countless strangers, their pearly, grinning teeth glinting and disappearing back into obscurity in a flash. you continue to nibble at your straw, vision hazy around the edges and an airy sensation in your limbs, as if you could float up to the ceiling. you look up at the multicolored lights, flashes of red and green and blue bombarding your vision, then back down towards the crowd.
and yet again, you find him in your sights. 
suddenly, your vision has a crystal clear clarity to it. button-down shirt wide open to reveal his toned torso, he smoothly moves to the beat with an intoxicated smirk painted on his lips, a small glass of amber liquor in his left hand. dark, outgrown hair, plush lips, those dark, dreamy eyes — that’s him. shit, that’s definitely him. 
“you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” you murmur, head collapsing into your arms on top of the cool wooden table. sakura jumps in her seat next to you, before scrambling to place a hand on your shoulder.
“are you okay?” she squeals near your ear, tacking on a worried call of your name when you don’t respond right away. honestly? you’re kind of not okay. you’re tired of encountering him at every turn and being reminded of your humiliating escape from him yesterday. you’re tired of him spotting you and sending you odd looks as if you’re the weirdest person he’s ever crossed paths with. you’re tired, you’re tired, you’re just so tired. 
you decided to go on this trip to get away from the mundanity of your day-to-day routine, to get over your spell of artist’s block and see new things, but maybe you bit off more than you can chew if you were going to allow one random person to ruin that goal for you. a random stranger shouldn’t have this much power over you. 
raising your head, you send them a half-hearted nod. “i’m fine. sorry.”
chaewon frowns, “are you about to throw up? ‘cause you look like you are.”
“you look like you’ve just seen a ghost,” sakura chimes in.
sighing, you shake your head. “i think— i think i need to use the bathroom.”
as you move to get up, they do as well — though you decide not to protest this time. there’s no point, really. your legs wobble a bit as you walk, face dropping once you notice that he is near the men’s restroom now, waiting outside right across from where you aim to go. head down, you scurry past him, ignoring how his eyes widen and his knuckles pale as he grips his drink tighter. chaewon and sakura are hot on your heels as you slip into the quiet bathroom. with the music from outside now muffled, you realize your ears are ringing. reaching a sink, you turn on the faucet and splash some water onto your face. hunched over the sink, your fingers grip the edge of the counter. deep breaths, now. deep breaths. this is likely the quickest you have ever sobered up, and the sensation is rendering you dizzy.
behind you, your friends exchange concerned looks through the mirror. sakura jumps into action first, coming up behind you and placing her hands onto your shoulders. with a gentle squeeze, she murmurs, “let’s get you back to the station.”
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day three.
today, the observation car is devoid of life — and so is your body after yesterday. can you overdose by taking too much ibuprofen? you’re pretty sure that you can. 
last night is but a blur in your memory with few spots of clarity, but you do vividly remember panicking in the dimly lit bathroom as the girls fretted over whether you were going to vomit all over the floor or not. you hadn’t slept much once you returned to your room after exchanging drunken hugs with your friends, assuring them that you were, indeed, not going to throw up. after a few hours of restless sleep, you’d completely given up on proper rest — you have never slept all that well with alcohol in your system, so you’re not sure why you thought this time would be any different. 
you take a seat far away from the one you took last time. clad in your pajama bottoms and an oversized t-shirt, you’re grateful that no one else is here to see you at your worst: slightly hungover with dark circles the size of dinner plates. your legs fold up onto the chair so that your knees sit near your chest, your arms looping around your shins, fingers laced together. a deep sigh. a long blink. though the rest of the sky remains an inky black, the horizon morphs into a deep purple, the color of eggplant, almost. perhaps a smidge lighter. 
a door opens, its hinges faintly squeaking, before subsequently clicking shut. figuring it must be someone older, you do not bother with checking who entered; most people your age aren’t up this early, especially not willingly. instead, you keep your eyes trained on the ever-changing sky, chin resting upon your knees.
footsteps near you, and you assume that they will pass, but then they don’t. rather, they stand right in front of you.
“may i sit here?”
you have heard this voice before, just two days ago. unsurprisingly, he stands a mere few feet away, clad in a black tank top and gray sweatpants, a long finger pointed towards a seat. similar to you, small dark circles sit beneath his eyes, but he somehow makes them work. once you nod, one corner of his lips twitches upward before he sits down, a singular seat separating your bodies. his gaze burns the side of your face; your arms wrap around your legs tighter, your unwavering stare pointed out the window. silence envelopes the train car, tense and suffocating. your lungs tighten, prickly thorns sprouting within the thin membranes. your bottom lip may begin to bleed if you keep chewing at it so carelessly.
he breaks it first, shatters it like glass colliding with the floor, with five words:
“i’m really hungover right now.”
your brows furrow. why is he trying to strike up a conversation with you? why do you want to answer him? 
he continues before you can formulate a response, “i saw you at that club last night — you looked a little sick. are you okay?”
“peachy,” you curtly mumble, lips pursing. of course he remembers you; you did pass by him, after all, basically sprinted into the bathroom with the grace of a bull in a china shop. he hasn’t mentioned the park, but you know damn well he remembers that too.
you can sense the frown from his tone, confusion lacing the edges like delicate lace. his question is careful, slowly intonated as if he’s scared of pissing you off. “uh, did i do something wrong?”
you shake your head, not a single glance spared in his direction thus far. he hasn’t. your attitude is a direct result of your own actions, your own rampant anxieties. a pang of guilt punches you in the gut — he does not deserve your bitchiness when he, quite frankly, has done nothing but exist in relative proximity to you. 
“you haven’t,” you reply, voice meek. your eyes trace over the short fibers of the plain carpet below your seat. “i’m just— i’m sorry.”
the low rumble of the train fills the air again, no further words spoken between the two of you. there’s no clear way to explain yourself further, but your apology is sincere; with a brief peek, you find him staring out the window.
“can i ask why you keep running away whenever you see me?” the query lacks an accusatory edge. rather, curiosity and interest cushion his voice. maybe…maybe he doesn’t find you that strange, after all.
and finally, after two days of avoiding his gaze, you swivel your head to face him. you find a tilted head, a single humorous, raised eyebrow. despite yourself, you begin to smile. “honestly?”
“i’d prefer honesty, yes,” he grins.
“i—” you hesitate for a moment, then continue, “i was embarrassed.” a grimace paints your face, dragging your brows down and twisting your lips. “after, y’know…”
“running away the first time?” he supplies.
your mouth flattens into a thin line, a hand moving up to scratch your cheek. “yeah, that.”
laughter reaches your ears, partially nasally. rolling your eyes, your mouth splits into a grin. 
“i get it. i feel like i definitely startled you, so no hard feelings.” he pauses, starry eyes widening in what you believe is realization, “i never got your name.”
easily, you supply it, cheeks flushing with heat when he offhandedly comments that it’s pretty. if he notices your sudden flustered state, he doesn’t comment on it, and despite the warmth now slithering down your neck, you feel yourself relax back into your seat, legs leaving their curled up position to cross at the ankle in front of you. then, he offers his own. yeonjun — at long last, you have put a name to his handsome face. 
out of nowhere, he asks, “have you had breakfast?” 
shaking your head, you gesture to your pajama bottoms. “not yet, i was going to grab some after i changed.”
“i don’t know, i think the plaid pants are pretty fashionable,” he chuckles. you join him. “c’mon, i saw an old guy wearing boxers and a shirt in there yesterday. i’m pretty sure it’ll be fine.”
you giggle, “that’s kinda gross, but alright. let’s go.”
peering out the window again, you find that the sun has just peeked above the horizon, a wash of orange fading into blue, melting together like watercolor. smiling to yourself, you stand and begin to follow yeonjun towards the dining car.
*:・
you and yeonjun had gone your separate ways hours ago, but not without exchanging contact information. since then, he hasn’t stopped texting you, his talent at keeping any conversation going shining in direct contrast to your, well, lack of said talent. however, you do find yourself replying to him with ease — he makes it so easy to do so, mostly due to the fairly unorthodox topics he likes to bring up. currently, you’re talking about the animals that scare you the most. why? because that’s the nature of yeonjun’s conversation skills, you suppose.
another voice message pops up in your chat, about ten seconds long — one of his more obvious quirks. most of his messages are sent in this form, not that you mind. his voice is as pretty as the rest of him. heart-fluttering. okay, stop. you just met this guy. 
(jennifer always does say that you fall too easily. maybe she’s right.)
pressing play, his voice enters your left ear via your single earbud. “no because hear me out: dolphins have fooled you into thinking they’re nice. manipulated you. they literally torture their prey— and they use puffer fishes to get high! i can’t make this shit up. my fear is justified, i swear.”
under your breath, you chuckle, an elbow leaned against the dining table. after a long nap, you had texted the girls to see if they’d like to get dinner with you. of course, they said yes, but you decided to get here a bit early to grab an open table. the car is already packed as it is.
“what’re you laughing at?” unexpectedly, sakura’s head appears over your shoulder, trying to catch a glimpse of your phone. out of habit, you lock it, your reflections staring back at you through the black screen. as she sits next to you, chaewon, takes the seat across from you, elbows placed on the table and her hands supporting her chin. she sends you a knowing smile.
“is that your boyfriend?” she prods. the question causes your mouth to fall open for a moment before you snap it shut. 
“no!” you exclaim. “it’s just a friend.”
“sounds like a boyfriend,” sakura surmises, exchanging a conspiratory nod with the other girl. you release a groan, hands shielding your fiery hot face before you drag them up over your hair. 
“he’s not my boyfriend,” you shoot back. “we just met today.” two days ago, actually. if you can count that.
their mouths open in tandem, shock coloring their features. is this a big deal, or something? you aren’t even dating the guy. 
“you met a guy and didn’t tell us?” sakura grasps your arm with both hands, shaking the limb with a strength that shouldn’t be possible to come from her thin body. “you should’ve told us! we can be your wingwomen!”
“wingwomen?” you echo dumbly as you stare at her. wingwomen, as in, like, jennifer-style wingwomen? as in trying too hard to set you up with someone and ultimately embarrassing you in the end wingwomen? your love for jennifer knows no bounds, but she’s ruined the term for you long ago with her terrible luck. a shudder runs down your spine, and you grin nervously. “i don’t think that’s necessary.”
“of course it is! i’ve always wanted to do that for one of my friends, but they’re all taken already,” chaewon pouts, irresistible puppy dog eyes appearing. “c’mon, please?
“i doubt he’d want to date me, though? we’ve literally only talked once, so really, it’s okay.”
“once is enough,” sakura declares, suddenly tilting her body closer to yours. “tell us, is he cute? what’s his name?”
they’re obviously not going to let this go, and you have no power to really stop them. 
sighing, you officially give up, “yeonjun, and yes, i do.” unfortunately. 
chaewon claps her hands together, an audible smack! echoing from her palms. her smile is blinding, a supernova of pearly white teeth and pink, upturned lips. “perfect! we can work with that.” 
“i already have an idea: ask him to hang out tomorrow,” sakura says, and you send her an incredulous look, glancing at chaewon for a moment to find that she’s excitedly nodding along to the idea like an excitable puppy. her round eyes sure make her resemble one.
you shake your head. “i can’t do that, it’s too forward.”
rolling her eyes, sakura tosses her hands up in the air. “too forward my ass! how do you expect to bag him?”
“i don’t!”
chaewon chimes in, an open hand reaching towards you, “alright, give us your phone. we’ll text him for you.”
“absolutely not!”
ding!
it’s comical, how all three of you pivot your wide-eyed gazes to the phone clenched in your fingers. the flash of yeonjun’s name across the screen is enough to send your table into chaos. 
“open it!”
“what did he say—”
“calm down, oh my god!” you shriek, sending an apologetic look to the couple next to you when they look over. fingers fly over your keyboard until you’ve reached his contact. words, this time, no voice message. butterflies burst into your chest.
yeonjun: do you have anything planned for tmrw? 
after scanning over the message herself, sakura pokes at your shoulder. “tell him you don’t.” 
with a deep, heavy sigh, you do as she says.
[6:37 p.m.]: not yet, why?
“that’s too dry,” chaewon comments.
“shut up, i’m trying,” you hiss. it takes him a few minutes to respond, minutes in which you internally panic. was your text really too dry? in the meantime, you place your dinner order with a kind waiter that stops by, a hearty dish that you can drown your sorrows in the not-so-off chance that this goes terribly, terribly wrong. another ping sounds from your phone’s speakers, and time stops once you read what he sent. clocks stop ticking, you stop breathing, everything around you freezes.
yeonjun: do you wanna grab coffee in the morning then? :)
sakura sends you a sharp look. “i doubt he’d want to date me — are you seeing this right now? or do you need me to spell it out for you? this is a date, babe.”
“it’s not,” you counter weakly. you only (officially) met him today, so, “it’s really not.”
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day four.
contrary to what sakura claimed, this is very much not a date — but you’re happy about it. 
he keeps a respectful distance between your bodies as you walk, you pay for your own coffee, and you pull your own chair out when you go to sit down. it’s simple, it’s friendly, it’s a bit awkward, but there’s some things you have to sacrifice when making new friends. the croissant you’ve decided on is on the drier side, a little too flaky. you nibble on it anyway in a poor attempt to ignore the silence that has fallen between you once again. this is why you try to meet people through other friends; at least in those situations, you have a buffer, someone who knows you and the other person well enough that they can find connections between you without having to dig. you hate digging — you’re the worst at it, hence the stifling quiet that permeates the air now.
the café is quaint, if a bit moody thanks to the lighting. outside the window, the denver street teems with people, and you decide to survey the passing strangers rather than look at the man sitting across from you. wisps of fluffy white clouds float high above, sometimes passing over the sun. you wish you had your supplies with you — this would make for a wonderful painting. 
click!
turning your head, you find yeonjun holding a camera, the lens pointed at…you? you hadn’t noticed it prior, so you are unsure where he got it from. it looks like the same one he had at the park. a bashful smile appears as soon as he places it on the table. “sorry, the lighting was perfect. can’t ever pass up a nice shot.” you study the camera for a moment, and he takes your lack of response as a sign to continue, “once i edit it, i can definitely send you a copy. do you wanna see it?”
a photographer. yeonjun is a photographer. you’re not sure why it’s taken you this long to realize. maybe because you’ve been avoiding him up until now? you think. shaking the thought away, you smile. “i’d love to see it.”
he presses a few buttons, a focused twist to his plush lips, before he’s sliding it over to your side of the table. he’s right: it was a nice shot, and while you don’t often enjoy how you look in photographs, he’s found an angle that highlights your best features as you gaze outside, a slight part to your lips and your eyes wide open, shining. the sheer amount of contrast between the dark café and your warm-lit face scratches an itch in your brain. you can see it now — the golden pigment wetting your brush before being placed on the canvas, being blended into an umber, almost black, but not quite. a splash of umber here, a hint of red there…
“is this your job?” you decide to ask. 
the sheepish expression returns in full force, but there’s a hint of pride in his eyes. he’s proud of his work. “yeah. i’m not, like, famous or anything, but i enjoy it. my mom said that when i was a baby, they put a stethoscope, a gavel, a camera, a microphone, and a test tube in front of me, and i chose the camera, so it was basically meant to be,” he chuckles, but, realizing that you’re staring at him, he pauses for moment. crimson paints the tips of his ears; it’s a color that you’re pretty sure sits in your travel set. “sorry, was that too much?”
“not at all,” you reply softly. “that’s a lovely story, yeonjun.” 
“thanks.” shyly, he bites down on his bottom lip, sucking it between his teeth before releasing it. a beat of quiet passes, then he’s asking, “how about you? what do you do for work?”
for some reason, the question looms over your head like a storm cloud. it’s unavoidable and dark and heavy. a bitter taste fills your mouth, different from the aftertaste of your coffee, but you try not to let your sudden drop in mood show. 
“i’m an artist, though i don’t think many people would consider me one nowadays,” you snicker, but the self-deprecating edge to your words is not lost on yeonjun. 
wrinkles form in the space between his brows. “what do you mean?” 
“i…” you trail off. you should tell him. you should rip the bandaid off and quit avoiding facing it for what it is. “i haven’t finished a piece in months. i feel stuck, almost? like nothing is resonating with me, if that makes sense. it’s the whole reason i went on this trip. it’s humiliating, not being able to draw a single thing without hating it— sorry, that’s definitely too much.” 
“no, no, you’re fine,” and he’s sincere in his reassurances. he doesn’t look at you like you’re some sort of failure for how you feel. he doesn’t spew out a hollow apology to absolve him of the weight you’ve transferred to his shoulders, nor does he seem to mind that he’s helping you burden it. his hand reaches over the table, hesitant for a moment, before his fingers curl over yours, his warm skin against yours. you stare at his hand, but you don’t move away from his touch, allowing him to give your hand a delicate squeeze. looking back up, you sit frozen under his gaze. it warms your insides, melts the icy shards solidifying in your lungs that make it hard to breathe. “none of that makes you less of an artist. it’s something every artist goes through — hell, i’ve gone through it, and it’s okay to feel that way. it’s real and it sucks to feel like you can’t accomplish anything, but there’s nothing wrong with it. eventually, it will pass on its own, but until then, it’s not a sin to lean on others for support.”
tears almost, almost prick your eyes. however, you push them down; there’s no way you’re going to cry in public, in front of him. absolutely not. he squeezes your hand one more time, his thumb brushing over yours, before pulling away. “and if no one else will listen, i will.”
“thank you,” you croak out, blinking rapidly, taking a long sip of coffee in order to buy yourself a few precious seconds to cloak your emotions. a calm veil falls over your face soon enough, and while you hate to be the one to change the subject, you feel like you should. “do you want to go on a walk? it’s too nice out to stay in here all day.”
he doesn’t question the sudden change, humming in confirmation as he scoots his chair back. “it really is nice out. do you have any other plans?”
“not really,” you say, pushing the door open. the warm breeze caresses your face. “i’m trying to be spontaneous—”
“y/n!”
sakura and chaewon appear to your left, each carrying a couple bags that look to be stuffed with clothes. you vaguely remember them mentioning going thrifting, but you didn’t know that they’d be in the same part of the city as you. chaewon comes in for a hug, whispering into your ear, “he’s cute.”
glancing up at yeonjun, sakura feigns ignorance, “who’s this?” 
thus, your friends meet the one man you’d rather keep them away from, if only to prevent their wingwomen shenanigans. you have zero clue what they have planned, but you’re sure none of it can be good. 
“we were just on our way to the botanical gardens,” chaewon sings. “if you’d like to join usss.”
wordlessly, you and yeonjun communicate, only raised eyebrows and tilted chins. somehow, you understand exactly what he’s trying to convey. do you want to? do you? i don’t mind if you don’t. alright, let’s do it.
when you do arrive at the gardens, yeonjun’s fingers find your wrist, holding you back for a moment. his free hand gestures to the camera hanging around his neck. “mind being my model for the day?”
you blink. you, his model? “oh, um. i think chae and kkura are a bit more qualified—”
“no way,” he laughs. “i’m the professional here, and i want you. no one else will do.”
i want you — god, those three, simple words send a visceral shiver down your spine. a want, a need, an overwhelming desire for…you’re not even sure, but something all-consuming blooms behind your sternum like a moonflower in the night. with a coy dip of your head, you smile to yourself, allowing the feeling to surge through your veins, consume every fiber of your being.
“alright, mr. professional. lead the way.”
*:・
it’s early in the evening when you return to the station in a giddy haze, arm looped around yeonjun’s. the photo session had been a success; by the end, you were drunk on the compliments he aimed your way, on the way he treated you like glass as he directed you into a specific pose, the fleeting sensation of his fingertips pressing into your skin burned into your memory. 
closing the door to your room, you press your back into it, squeal into your palms like you did when you were sixteen and harboring a silly little crush. because that’s all it is right now, really: a foolish crush on a man that you probably won’t see again after this trip. you can fantasize all you want, but in the end, that’s what it is. those invading negative thoughts get drowned out by the movie playing behind your eyelids — a replay of the day. you swear you can feel every touch of his skin against yours, every ray of sunshine that kissed your skin and gifted you its warmth. scurrying over to your bag, you locate your supplies. 
and you begin to paint. 
a flurry of lilacs, a blurry figure among them all, defined only by a flowing white button up and brown, wide leg trousers, black streaks of hair and nothing more. yellow daffodils and vibrant emerald sweetgrass take shape, a cerulean sky, fluffy clouds. it’s messy and you kind of hate it, but it’s something. something is on the canvas, it’s dynamic, it has character.
“okay,” you mumble, staring at the brushstrokes, going over them again and again. “okay.”
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day five.
“can i draw you?” 
a spur of the moment question, borne from the golden sunset gracing his cheeks, highlighting strands of his hair. the day has passed quietly today, mostly spent in your room sketching to your heart’s content. though mostly inconsequential doodles paired with terribly cheesy words of prose that even your most romantic friends would scrunch their noses at, these exercises in creating without a specific goal in mind seem to be helping. a part of that gray fog over your world has been wafted away by an invisible hand, and everything is a bit more vibrant, closer to its true hue; while nothing about your creations are particularly special or groundbreaking, going on this trip is now beginning to prove its worth. 
yeonjun’s head tilts, and you shrug. “what? i need practice.”
“okay, as long as you promise to show me afterward,” he challenges, and you immediately shake your head. 
“i’m only going to show it to you if it turns out well,” you decide. you think back to the painting sitting in your room, still a bit wet, the paint overworked to hell. that one is staying a secret. it’s not good enough to be known by anyone else — and certainly not by him.
“then no deal.” when you give him a pleading look, he raises his hands. “i show you my pictures, you show me what’s going on in that sketchbook, it’s only fair.”
“fine,” you hiss, fishing your sketchbook from your bag. “get comfortable, and don’t even think about moving.”
“harsh.”
with a suppressed grin, you take in the planes of his face. he’s shifted to face you, intent eyes trained on you, which makes your job harder. gulping, you raise an arm, mapping out his proportions with a thumb. the process of pressing intentional marks into the page is a slow one, exacerbated by his unwavering stare. you have to look out at the mountains every once in a while to allow oxygen back into your lungs, and even then, the action proves difficult. graphite scratching paper is backed by the low murmur of other passengers in the observation car as you work, capturing the fading light that casts shadows across his face. however, your creative juices quickly run out, likely sapped by your painting escapade that extended far into the night. the shape of his eyes isn’t quite right, and no matter how much you erase and try again, there’s always a slight detail off about it. too narrow, too round, too—
the tip of the pencil snaps, the point rolling across the page and falling onto the floor. you curse under your breath. 
“is it done?” yeonjun asks, leaning forward. his hands gently take your sketchbook from your lap before you can protest, and you watch as his expression shifts from neutral to slack-jawed. 
“that’s…you’re…wow,” he starts, then never finishes. he still hasn’t torn his wide eyes away from the page, flitting around as he drinks in every miniscule detail, while you pinpoint every single thing wrong with the drawing.
“it’s bad,” you deadpan. “give it back, i need to fix it.”
he frowns. you seem to make him do that a lot. “there’s nothing to fix.”
“there’s everything to fix.”
“it’s literally a carbon copy of me,” he counters. “you’re crazy.”
“says the one who can’t see the shape of his eyes right now. the lash line isn’t straight enough at the top, the nose isn’t quite right, the hair lacks form. it’s terrible.”
for the first time since you met him, yeonjun is annoyed. eyes narrowed and dark, he locks his gaze into yours, throws away the key. you can’t move while he tosses the worn sketchbook back into your lap, a hand running through his hair, locks raising with his fingers and flopping back down into his face.
“i know what it’s like to be your own worst critic,” he says, voice soft like a lullaby, standing in direct contrast to his firm expression. “but it’s one thing to be critical of your art, and another to resent it. you’re a wonderful artist, y/n. talented isn’t enough to describe you, but negativity is going to get you nowhere. it holds you back.”
he’s right — you loathe that he is, and you more so hate how he sounds just like jennifer. your nails skirts the fraying edge of the leather cover in your laps, picking at it like you would with skin, peeling cracked flakes off to reveal a soft underbelly of lighter-colored suede. wine red versus warm tan. you feel like you’re being admonished, a child who’s misbehaved. you feel small, but at the same time, you need to hear it. you’ve been coddled enough. 
“i used to hate my stuff too, y’know. never thought it was ever that special, but that’s what made me underestimate myself. that’s what made me settle for less, that’s what made me lock my camera away in my closet for the longest time until i felt i was ‘ready’ to use it — but who was i to say i was ready? how do you know when you are? honestly, you don’t. you won’t ever know. all you can do is create and create and hope that you eventually make something that you’re proud of. until then, you keep trying, you figure out what’s working, what isn’t, and go from there. in the end, everything you create is a reflection of you, and that’s the beautiful thing about art. it bares your soul, it strips you down to the rawest parts of yourself that you may despise right now — but it’s still you. and don’t you think you deserve to give yourself some grace?”
his words strike a place deep within you, an ache beginning in the center of your chest and snaking out like the roots of a tree into your stomach and throat. you do deserve some grace, don’t you? you don’t spew venomous words towards your friends or strangers every day, yet you do it to yourself without a second thought. why? you bring yourself and your skills down any chance that you get. why? your art is merely an extension of yourself — is this how you forever want to feel whenever you are drawing? whenever you’re sculpting a piece? no, not at all. your head raises. 
“have you ever thought about becoming a public speaker?”
he lets out an incredulous scoff, but there’s still an inkling of teasing in his tone, “is that all you got from my mini speech? i thought it was amazing. life-changing, even.”
“no,” you deny with a tight-chested laugh. “but there’s not much more to add. you’ve said it all for me.”
the passing mountains are purple now, the greenery a muted magenta. in this moment, you decide the yeonjun is an enigma; untouchable, unreachable — standing too close to his bright, technicolor world would burn your muted one to the ground. if you are icarus, then he is the sun sending you plummeting down into oblivion.
but you want to touch him, you want to burn.
you want to feel alive again.
“let me draw you again,” and maybe it won’t be your best. maybe the slope of his chin will be crooked, maybe the intrinsic sparkle in his eyes won’t be quite right, but there’s a conviction present in your tone that causes him to smile.
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day six.
“are you really trying to have a dick measuring contest with the seals right now?”
san francisco’s iconic pier 39 is abustle with tourists, but you and yeonjun are currently at the very back of the pier, where seals soak in the sun on little wooden docks constructed just for them. at the moment, yeonjun is trying to out-seal the seals with loud barks and hoots, mimicking their distinctive sounds. yeonjun is still making noises, people are starting to stare, and you are beginning to want to climb over the wooden fence and jump straight into the ocean. 
“yeonjun, please stop,” you plead, hands gripping the sleeve of his t-shirt, yet he doesn’t stop, honking back at the seals once they respond. you tug a bit harder. “c’mon, people are staring. the seals don’t care how loud you are, you’re not proving anything.”
“i’m proving a lot of things right now, actually,” he quips before he’s going back to making noises that are unbecoming of a human being. this feels like a cruel form of exposure therapy.
you try pulling at his sleeve again. “c’mon, yeonjun.” and again. “yeonjun!”
“okay, okay, i’ll stop,” he cackles, turning to face you. he’s close — too close to be considered platonic. his hands could come up and hold your waist right now, pull you closer into his chest. it causes you to take a step back, and it’s as if he can sense the heat radiating from your cheeks, leaning down towards you with a smirk. “you embarrassed?”
“of course i’m embarrassed,” you hiss. “how are you not?”
shaking his head, his grin grows impossibly wider. “if i buy you lunch, will you forgive me?” 
pretending to think, you look off to the side, then back to him. of course you will. “maybe.”
“i’ll take that as a yes,” he laughs as he falls into step next to you. the air is much cooler here than at your other stops, a gray blanket of fog rolling in on the horizon that cuts into the clear blue sky. he sends you a hopeful look as he asks, “y’feeling clam chowder?”
with a tiny shrug, you confess that you’ve never had it before. with a dramatic hand placed against his chest, he gasps, “you live in the northeast, and you’ve never tried it? that has to be some sort of crime.”
chowder hut is his restaurant of choice, a circular, well, hut that sits by its lonesome across from the infamous pier. it’s a place he used to go when he lived in san jose and took day trips here with his cousins, he claims. the restaurant holds a lot of fond memories for him, this whole city does. you wonder what those memories entail.
“i got you a small one in case you don’t like it,” yeonjun says as soon as he returns with your food. a tray is placed in front of you: a round sourdough loaf carved into to create a bowl, filled with cream-colored, steaming-hot chowder thick with chunks of potatoes, pieces of bacon, and, of course, clams. digging a spoon in, you take your first bite — clean, briny, slightly sweet, bursting across your taste buds like tiny little firecrackers. your eyes widen at the taste, buzzing in delight against the spoon poised to your lips. he grins. “it’s good, right?” 
you hum in agreement, swallowing another spoonful. you’re crazy for never having tried this before. twenty-four years of living, and you had no idea what you were missing out on. you’ve missed out on a long of things, it seems, but you’re beginning to catch up on them with the help of yeonjun — as well as sakura and chaewon, of course. you could never forget about them.
“you’re forever going to be connected to clam chowder in my mind now, i hope you know that,” you say, tearing into the walls of the bread bowl. the remnants of the salty chowder have soaked into the bowl, mixing perfectly with the tanginess of the bread. yeah, you wouldn’t forget this in a million years; it’s too delicious to forget. 
“you do that too?” he asks. you send him a questioning glance. “like, connect people to food.”
“yeah, i guess i do,” you ponder. “my mom reminds me of this one dish she always made me as a kid. my best friend reminds me of wine, since that’s what we drank when we first met. it’s also her favorite. and now you…remind me of clam chowder.”
he chuckles, “great, i’ll always be the clam chowder guy to you.”
you giggle back. “it’s not a bad title to hold. you could be, i don’t know, the terrible clam chowder guy.”
“fair enough. i’ll take it,” he declares before he shoves the last piece of his bread bowl into his mouth. his cheeks puff out, similar to a chipmunk, and you resist the urge to chuckle at the image in your head. “now that i think about it, i don’t do it with just people — a lot of my fondest memories are connected to food, too. something human about it, y’know? food is its own form of love. or, at least, i think it is.”
“no, i completely agree. there’s something special about sharing food with others — it’s kinda intimate, i guess? especially if you’re cooking for someone, those are some of the most vivid memories for me.” 
nodding along with you, he’s leaning forward, elbows resting against the table. the corners of his lips quirk up. “you get it. the intimacy of it, i mean. my mom has always said that food is the best way to a person’s heart — food brings people together. it’s amazing.”
“yeah,” you beam. “it really is.”
for a moment, conversation ceases, the two of you smiling at each other, leaning forward over the table. your mouth opens to speak, but a loud caw draws your attention away from his hypnotizing eyes. you watch a seagull swoop in to harass a man that sits two tables over, his glasses skewed on his face as he tries to keep the bird from stealing his food. arms wave everywhere while the seagull screeches at him, flapping its wings on top of the man’s head. after a brief second of shock, the sight has you nearly doubling over with laughter, unflattering shrieks sounding from your throat. it takes a minute for your giggles to subside. while you wipe a tear from your lash line, you look back at him — and freeze.
he’s staring at you like you hung the stars in the sky, chin supported by his palm. his mouth curves into something serene and fond, hooded eyes scanning your face as you stare back. you’re no longer smiling, mouth parted as you wait for him to say something, anything. he doesn’t, so you move to break the intense air brewing between you.
“is…is something wrong?” with a flinch, his eyes blink rapidly for a second, coming back into focus. he sits up straighter, leaning into the back of his chair.
“i just— nevermind. sorry, spaced out there for a second,” his chin dips towards his chest before rising again, the tips of his ears flushing cherry. he looks nervous, almost. “um, if you’re up for it later, we could grab dinner at this korean restaurant i used to go to? it reminds me a lot of my parents. i think you’d like it.” 
while you’d rather ask where his head is at right now, what he was going to say before he stopped himself so abruptly, you say, “i’d love that.”
*:・
he was right, you do like it. 
the restaurant is cozy, a little hole-in-the-wall in the heart of the city where less tourists roam. the food is delicious, flavorful meats and fluffy rice and various veggie side dishes that you can’t stop eating. as he snaps some photos of the place, he tells you the decor reminds him of restaurants in seoul, of the mom-and-pop shops he’d frequent there. that at some point or other, some of the owners would start recognizing him when he came in and gave him extra food free of charge. 
“so you lived there for a while? in korea?” you ask as you watch him some meat for the two of you to share. the action is second nature to him, each piece staying on the grill for the same amount of time, flipped only once. you bring a piece to your mouth — it’s perfectly cooked.
“i was born there, in a town near seoul,” he says through a mouthful of rice. “moved around a bit, but i lived in seoul for most of it ‘til i was eighteen. then i moved to new york for college, but dropped out after two semesters to pursue photography. it’s been six years since i moved to the states.”
“you said you lived in san jose for a while earlier.” you tilt your head at him. “when was that?”
“ah,” he starts. “i studied abroad when i was in elementary school and stayed with some family there— do you want some more meat? i can order more.”
your meat supply has dwindled down to two pieces. there’s still room in your stomach, so you nod. “sure.”
he calls over the sole server on shift, speaking to him rapidly in his native tongue. the server glances over at you for a brief second before focusing back on yeonjun. out of their entire conversation, you recognize one word: friend. it’s a term that jennifer taught you a while ago, one that has stuck with you because she now likes to jokingly call you that every now and then. an inside joke between the two of you.
when the server leaves, yeonjun is left a flustered mess. your eyebrows raise. “why’s your face so red? what’d he say?”
“nothing! it’s just from the kimchi! it’s really spicy here,” he quickly claims before he’s gulping down half a glass of water. you, quite frankly, don’t buy it for a second, but choose not to pry. 
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day seven.
of course, at least one thing has to go wrong on a trip like this. mechanical problems with the train has rendered everyone stuck in the golden city until tomorrow morning, at which another train will take over the rest of the trip. the station is across the bay, so amtrak has given every passenger a voucher to pay for a night’s stay at various hotels across the city — customer’s choice, no less. to be safe, you choose the one closest to the bar chaewon and sakura want to check out tonight. once you told yeonjun where you decided to stay, he used his voucher there as well. he wants to stay near you, he says, to make it easy to find each other.
today, the girls join you and yeonjun at pier 39. they partake in bread bowls, they watch yeonjun embarrass himself at the seal docks, they send you knowing looks when he pays for your food. when yeonjun finds a street performer with a dance mat and wastes no time in starting a battle against the guy, they tell you that he’s trying to impress you.
“he’s not,” you whisper to them. “that’s just how he is. i promise.”
night begins to fall, and they suggest going to a bar for dinner, more for the drinks and not the food. you accept, and in turn, so does yeonjun — though you immediately regret not thinking the decision through more. the bar is dangerous. not in an external hazard sense, but in more of a you’re scared of getting drunk and vomiting your blossoming feelings onto his shoes type of sense. you keep your drinking to a minimum, still on your first drink an hour in. next to you, however, yeonjun is starting to collapse in on himself, hunched over the counter of the bar as his third drink kicks in. a giggle bubbles up from your throat. you never pegged him to be a lightweight. 
“let’s get you some water,” you gently suggest, a comforting hand on his shoulder. waving the bartender over, you ask for a glass, helping him sit up and take a sip. his chin falls onto your shoulder this time, eyes hazy as he looks up at you with a dopey smile. 
“you’re really pretty, did y‘know that?” he slurs, leaning further into you as an arm wraps around your waist. his barstool screeches across the floor, shifting closer to yours. you freeze as shock fills your veins, nerve endings beneath his touch on fire. he pokes your warm cheek. “s’pretty.”
you blink. hard. “yeonjun, you’re drunk—”
“no ‘m not. ’m perfectly— ‘m perfectly fine,” the words stumble out of his pouty lips drenched in fatigue, his tone whiny and petulant, as he turns in his seat to wrap his other arm around your waist, forehead now sagging against your shoulder. your body stiffens up, tense muscles frozen in place as he continues his delirious ramblings. 
“i need to go to the bathroom!” you all of sudden exclaim, attempting to pry his arms off of you. he only squeezes you tighter, whining how you can’t leave here alone. you sigh, patting his hair, “you could wait outside?”
he accepts the offer, but doesn’t remove his arm from your waist as both of you stand. despite his almost six foot tall frame, you are forced to support him as he stumbles along towards the bathrooms and pray that you don’t twist an ankle in the process. when you reach the women’s bathroom, he still doesn’t let go. 
“nooo, don’t leave meeee,” he whines, pulling you back into his chest while your hand grips the door handle. calling his name, you slip your hands beneath his and grab them to pull them off of you.
“i’ll be right back, i promise,” you say once you situate him against the wall, his shoulder hunched and his head hanging down towards his chest. you give him a worried pat on his head before disappearing into the bathroom. in reality, you do not have to go. instead, you stand in front of the mirror, taking in your blown out eyes, feeling a scorching heat encase your face and spread down towards your chest. he’s drunk, you remind yourself. he doesn’t know what he’s saying. 
you wash your hands once. twice. three times, allowing the cool water to run over your heated skin. you splash some on the back of your neck. calm down. calm the fuck down. 
you are, indeed, not able to calm the fuck down before a flurry of knocks reverbates against the door. yeonjun’s voice follows soon after, asking if he can come in, if you’re okay. “why have you been gone for so longggg? i miss you!”
“no! don’t come in!” you yell, glad that all of the stalls are vacant. making your way back over to the exit, you wrench open the door and find him standing there, fist raised in the air as if he was going to knock again. 
he blinks once. then, an impossibly wide grin splits his face. “you’re back!”
stepping forward, you allow the door to swing shut behind you. arms wrap around you once again, but this time, you stumble backwards into the wall. when you look up, his face is just above yours. 
oh.
oh, fuck. 
this feels like a repeat of day one all over again, you trapped under his gaze, but this lacks the distance of that day. the unfamiliarity with each other. his hands haven’t left your waist, fingers pressing into your flesh over your thin dress, while the wall presses into your back. you have nowhere to go, but maybe you’re more drunk than you initially thought, because his lips look very inviting right now. you watch his eyes trail down to your parted lips, then back to your eyes, tongue darting out to swipe over his bottom lip. his eyelids hood his dark, hazy pupils. the muscles in his neck contract, his adam’s apple bobbing as he leans closer, an electric attraction between your lips. you tilt your head, eye fluttering shut, moving closer, closer…
“y/n! there you are!” 
yeonjun jumps away from you as chaewon rushes up to you. her hands find your shoulders as she cries, “kkura twisted her ankle really bad! can you help me?”
you turn your head towards yeonjun, then back to chaewon, whose wide, rounded eyes plead you to come with her. “okay,” you say softly. “let’s go.”
yeonjun follows close behind, and all you can think of is what would have happened if chaewon didn’t show up. sakura’s ankle ends up being fine, and getting her back to her hotel room isn’t too difficult given the close proximity of the hotel. 
*:・
four days. four days you have known yeonjun, but it feels like it’s been years since you met each other. that fact strikes fear into your heart, remembering that the last time that this fast burn of feelings in your heart occurred, you ended up a brokenhearted mess for months. if yeonjun is the sun, his overwhelming heat melting you down into a puddle, then beomgyu was a black hole, all-consuming and ripping pieces of you away when he abruptly up and left. you’re unsure if you can go through that again, but at the same time, yeonjun doesn’t give off the impression of a drifter who wouldn’t tell you he’s leaving until after the fact. he’s a constant, a steady fortress. reliable, enduring. 
“good night,” yeonjun murmurs, both of you standing in front of your door. 
“good night,” you parrot back, rocking back on your heels, but you don’t really want him to go. knowing that isn’t realistic, you settle for opening your arms up towards him. for the first time, he hugs you good night, his lithe arms wrapping around your waist while he presses a drunken kiss into the crown of your head, and a feeling of being home washes over you. 
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day eight.
he sits closer to you now. no longer is there a gap that separates your bodies, a full chair between the two of you. now, he sits right next to you, thigh brushing against your own. his hand sometimes finds your knee, never too high on your leg, never uncomfortable. just…there, his thumb rubbing soothing circles into the skin. neither of you mention what transpired between you last night, his affectionate words, the mere centimeters that separated your lips before chaewon interrupted. nevertheless, an unspoken barrier between you has broken, its bricks torn down by the hands of intoxication — due to alcohol, but also because of each other.
the almost-kiss replays in your mind in a constant loop; the woody citrus of his cologne is still strong in your nose, the warmth radiating from his flushed cheeks a phantom against your skin. you want to talk about it. you want to rip open the memory like a pomegranate for the two of you to share, but you don’t. you don’t know what you would do if you ruined…whatever this is that you and him have going on. he’s become a sort of constant in your life that you don’t think you can live without. you like him; you can admit it now. what you feel is not just a mere attraction anymore, an artistic appreciation for his unique features. he brings out a brighter part of you, a part that has been buried deep into your soul over the years, beneath layers of grime and dirt and negative experiences that you won’t let go of. the gray film over your eyes has been wiped clean by him, him and his beautiful heart he so easily bares to others. his heart that is so full of love — love for being alive, love for others — you wonder if any of that love could ever be for you one day.
he watches you sketch, you let him snap photos of you doing so. you share a small bag of chips, greasy fingers brushing against each other during those times in which you both reach in tandem. for hours, you sit together in a silence that is no longer awkward, but soft and tender. shoulder against shoulder, skin against skin. words aren’t required, your actions speaking for themselves. you bask in it all.
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day nine.
the space needle isn’t that impressive.
you’re sure it’s a much better experience when you’re at the top, but yeonjun shares a fear of heights with you, so there’s no way in hell either of you are going up there. instead, you stand beneath it, amongst an ever-moving sea of seattleites and tourists, and wait for chaewon and sakura to come back down from the tall building. 
at the beginning of this trip, you’d allow for a few feet of space between your bodies, but slowly, it’s diminished to a scant few inches. you don’t really register this gradual change, as natural as it was. every once in a while, his pinky brushes against yours. neither you nor yeonjun move to do anything about it, either by pulling away or linking them together — a state of limbo that is befitting for a pair of strangers falling for each other. to make the dive into the unknown or to stay on the surface where it’s safe, that is the question.
“how much longer do you think they’ll be?” you ask, staring up at the pointed top of the tower. the sky is gray today, a bit chilly, but it’s an expected sight in washington during this time of year. “i’m getting hungry.”
yeonjun huffs a laugh, lightly elbowing your bicep. “maybe we could grab something real quick. i saw this taco truck nearby—”
“y/n? is that you?”
you’d recognize that deep timbre anywhere. the man that dropped your heart on the floor and vanished from the earth before he could watch the aftermath, the man that you never wished to see ever again.
turning around, you find beomgyu.
your phone slips from your hand, clattering against the concrete — but you can’t bring yourself to check if the screen has shattered. instead, yeonjun grabs it for you, rising with it as he anxiously asks if you’re okay. you don’t answer, too busy staring at the man now standing before you. he’s changed; his shorter hair has grown out past his ears, dyed a warm brown, though his black roots are apparent; soft pastel pullovers and light jeans have been swapped out for black slacks and a dark brown leather jacket, clothing choices more mature than when you last saw him. why is he here? you thought he lived in san francisco — you would’ve been less shocked to run into him there, but in seattle? 
“i moved here a few months ago.” shit, did you say that out loud? “i could ask you the same thing.”
“i’m on a trip,” you quickly answer, no further explanation leaving your mouth. 
he nods nonchalantly. you think you see his eyes flit to yeonjun for a second. “cool, cool.” 
“yeah.” why won’t he walk away already? your feet are glued to the cement, jaw tense as you try not to cry. the memory of him texting you that he had left the city and things between you won’t work out come rushing back. why now? how can he show his face to you after all he’s done?
he nods again. “are you here for long?”
“just— just for today.”
“well, i’d love to catch up with you before you leave. i’ve missed you a lot. maybe we could grab dinner tonight?” his smile is soft, hopeful — manipulative, in a way.
“i’m actually pretty busy today,” you begin, but of course, you have no idea how to tell him no. “but maybe if i’m free later.”
“great!” he exclaims, hands now in his trouser pockets. he looks over at yeonjun again, the upward curve of his lips flattening. “i need to get going, but i’ll text you later. you still have my number, right?”
“i think so.”
“cool.” his smile grows excited. “see you later, then.” beomgyu turns to walk away with a confidence in his strut that he didn't have when he lived in new york. when he was dating you. how shameless can he be? soon enough, he disappears into the crowd. blinking, you wonder if that really just happened, turning back toward yeonjun. his jaw is set, eyes still staring at the point where beomgyu vanished. the gray clouds feel suffocating now. the cool air constricts your lungs. you want the cement to open up and swallow you when his hardened eyes turn to you.
“who was that?” yeonjun asks, tone casual, but there’s a…jealous? edge to his question. you’re looking into things too much — there’s no way he’s jealous right now. 
“...my ex,” and it hurts you to admit it. his eyes darken as he utters a soft “oh.” you sigh, “yeah.”
he won’t look at you anymore. why won’t he? you didn’t do anything wrong. you had no control over beomgyu showing up. he purses his lips. “are you gonna meet up with him?”
your head shakes on its own, words escaping before you can think about them. “i don’t know, yeonjun.” 
“okay.” biting his lip, he turns so that he faces the space needle again, stepping away from you. you feel like strangers again, an ocean of distance between you bodies. “yeah, okay.”
*:・
you don’t meet up with beomgyu.
meanwhile, yeonjun is nowhere to be found. after the beomgyu incident, the two of you waited in tense silence for your other friends to return. he then made up some lame excuse to leave, and didn’t turn back when you called his name. you haven’t seen him for the rest of the day, even when you return to the train. he won’t respond to your texts. eventually, you stop sending them; he obviously needs space for whatever reason, so you will give him it. 
the terrible, painful thought of ruining everything you had with him sits in the forefront of your mind, taunting you. the girls try to distract you, showing you silly tiktoks and youtube videos and the like, but you simply offer them a half-hearted huff each time. once you explain what transpired while they were gone, however, their tune changes a bit. 
“y/n, i’m going to be very honest, and i need you not to take it personally,” sakura replies. though your head lays on top of your folded arms, you signal that you are listening with a bob of your head. she continues, “your response wasn’t the best. it probably confused him, and now he doesn’t know if you’re still hung up on this guy or not. if one of his exes came up to him while with you, and he told you he didn’t know if he was going to meet up with them later or not, how would you feel?”
“shitty,” you mumble into your forearm. 
“exactly. so give him space for now, and when he reaches out, explain and apologize. you owe him that much.” sakura sounds just like jennifer — they’d definitely get along. 
“i know. i will.”
the waiter comes around with water, and you order a strong cocktail to go along with your dinner.
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day ten.
“has he texted you back yet?” sakura asks for the thousandth time today.
when you shoot her a defeated glare, she gets her answer. no, of course he hasn’t. he hasn’t responded to you since he left. “you said to give him space.”
“yeah, but i didn’t know he’d fall off the face of the earth,” she shoots back. sighing, you tip your head back against the wall next to her bed. a lake passes outside, surrounded by tall grass and trees. small hills rise behind the blue expanse, but you don’t feel the same urge to grab your sketchbook and translate the view onto the page anymore. it’s funny, how easily one person can affect your mood, turn everything upside down with the mere lack of his presence in your life. 
“he just needs time.” chaewon opens a can of soda with a pop! and takes a sip. “maybe it affected him more than we realize.”
“‘cause that makes me feel sooo much better.” sarcasm drips from your voice. “i’m such a fucking idiot.”
there’s a half-day stop in glacier national park tomorrow. will you see him, or is he going to avoid you for the rest of this trip? will you ever see him again? the emotions that swirl within you are reminiscent of how you felt before you met him. that grayness. that sinking sensation festering in your chest that claws it’s way down into your stomach and shreds it apart. you said that you wanted to burn, you wanted it to hurt, but this feels all too fast. too much.
sakura makes a noise in disagreement. “no, it shows that he cares about you. you just have to make sure you clear things up with him, and tell him that you like—”
“if you’re going to tell me that i need to confess my feelings to him, i really don’t think i can do that.”
“why?” chaewon prods. “what’s stopping you? he obviously likes you too.”
beomgyu. beomgyu is the fucking reason why. you can’t bare your heart to someone again, lest you get hurt all over again. after all that has happened, if yeonjun doesn’t reciprocate, it will confirm your worst fears — that you aren’t built to receive love, no matter how hard you try to mold yourself into a person that is deserving. dread churns in your stomach, rises into your throat like bile, acidic and fervid, as thoughts of worst case scenarios where you pour your heart only to hear “sorry, i don’t feel the same way.” you can’t do it. you can’t allow yourself to spiral again. however, you don’t divulge your reasons for holding back, remaining silent as you trace the patterns on the ceiling. 
after a deep, shuddering sigh, you give them a three word explanation: “i don’t know.”
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day eleven.
stepping off of the train into fresh air sharpens your dulled senses. the national park is beautiful, for lack of better words; thickets of trees spreading out in all directions as far as the see. the sun is rising over the mountains that stretch high above your head — you’re starting to enjoy this view more than the lifeless skyscrapers that await you back home. the train station looks more like a little lodge than an actual station, but you appreciate its quaint character. reddish-brown wood makes up the majority of the small-scale building. it looks like a place where people would spend the night in, with a warm, cozy fireplace in the wintertime, and wide open windows in the summer to allow the refreshing breeze to waft in.
meandering down the path behind the station into a field of tall grass littered with bunches of tiny, white flowers, you begin to reflect on everything that has happened on this trip. originally, you went on this stupid trip with the goal to find inspiration, and last night you had a very important realization: yeonjun is that something — you started drawing again because of him, you started looking on the bright side of things because of him, and most important of all, you fell for him. you didn’t just fall for him in the way an artist falls for their muse, no. you fell for him as a person. getting to know him has been one of the best parts of your trip, but now all of that has gone down the drain because yeonjun hasn’t responded to you in over twenty-four hours and you have not a clue what to do to try to make things right. if he doesn’t wish to speak to you, then that’s that. it’s over. whatever momentum this fleeting relationship had has been effectively pummeled into the dust that would blow away with even the gentlest of breezes. 
you wish you could appreciate this view more. your paints sit in your backpack back in your room, out of sight so that you don’t have to think about them, nor hear their pleas to be used. although you now know why you lack the drive to paint and draw and generally create once again, no clear-cut solution to your problem comes to mind. instead, you wander through the grass towards a large, squatty boulder, climb on top of it, and plop down. your knees curl up towards your chest while your arms wrap around them, fingers tracing random patterns against your shins. fatigue solidifies in your bones, but the tranquility of the early morning the quiet tucks a blanket of peace over your body, swaddling the edges around you, cocooning you in.
you sit there, taking in the sounds and sights of nature, for hours. the chirping of birds sings a melody over the whisper of trees in the breeze. a deer leaps across the open field, disappearing into the trees, her fawn following close behind. bighorn sheep graze in the distance, their circular horns reminding you of cornucopias. 
the rustle of trees and grass obscure the sound of approaching footsteps from your ears. it’s not until yeonjun begins to climb onto the boulder that you notice him. you hug your legs tighter to your body as he sits next to you, but not too close. an invisible wall separates you. he does not look remotely near your direction, his focus far out in the trees. staring at him, you wonder what to say. i’m sorry? i have feelings for you?
“i never met up with him.”
he still doesn’t spare you a glance. assuming he wants you to continue, you do. “i don’t know why i said what i said, but it was shitty of me to put you in that position, and i wanted to say that i’m sorry. i was just shocked, i guess. to see him. he ruined my perception of a lot of things, jjun.” jjun. that’s a new one. you are quite unsure where it came from, it slipped out before you could think. no matter, he’s looking at you now, and it’s your turn to look out towards the horizon. “trust, commitment, love…”
his gaze burns into your temple. you take a deep breath, fingers clenching the fabric of your jeans. “they’ve all been ruined for me. it’s hard for me to trust anyone after what he did. i’m terrified that the people i grow close to will wake up one day and leave me without a word. i’m scared that i’ll never get the closure i deserve when they do. worst of all, i’ve stopped believing that love is in the cards for me, like there has to be something wrong with me for him to have left me like that—”
“don’t. don’t you dare say that about yourself.” whipping your head around, you finally meet eyes for the first time in nearly two days. they aren't soft like they usually are when they look at you, but hardened, guarded. “there’s nothing wrong with you. you have every right to be hurt, and he’s honestly a piece of shit for doing that to you, but it’s unfair to assume that everyone that comes after him will be just like him.”
“i know, and i’m sorry. i know you’re not like him.” he doesn’t respond, and you begin to chew at the inside of your cheek. you watch an ant crawl its way across the rock beneath you. the small insect disappears over the edge. 
silence. you begin to count the seconds. one, two, three, four—
“i’m sorry for not texting you back. i just needed time to think about things. a lot of things,” he starts. “i felt weird, for some reason. didn’t know how to talk to you about it.”
you offer him a tight-lipped smile. “no, i understand. i forgive you.”
important words remain unspoken, but both of you refuse to address them. instead, his hand finds yours, he links your fingers with his, and both of you peacefully watch the sheep graze across the field.
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day twelve.
not everything is fixed yet. 
despite being on speaking terms again, strain pulls your relationship taut. the unspoken words from yesterday hang heavy in the air, but you can’t bring yourself to give them a voice. you want to. your voice won’t work every time you try.
sitting next to yeonjun on his bed, you scroll through various forms of social media, bookmarking work that you find particularly interesting in between catching up on your friends’ posts. jennifer has been thoroughly caught up on what’s been going on after a long overdue apology for not responding to her texts. she understood, of course she did. she’s known you long enough to know how you can shut down whenever you’re feeling overwhelmed. 
“i’m proud of you for telling him. i know it’s hard for you to share, honey,” she cooed to you over the phone last night. “but you need to tell him how you feel before it’s too late.”
you know that. you know damn well that once you get off this train, it may all fall apart, a budding romance distinguished by reality. there’s no security, no safety net for you to fall into if you take the leap, and while he showed you an inkling of how he felt yesterday, who’s to say he’ll feel that way tomorrow? the next day? are you willing to tear your heart open for him to consume if there’s still a chance of him throwing it away when all is said and done? 
you don’t know the answer to that question. honestly, you don’t know the answer to a lot of those questions, stuck in this state of self-imposed purgatory. to rise or fall, what is the best choice? you don’t fucking know.
“is that yours?” he asks from over your shoulder, at a ceramic piece in your feed made by one of jennifer’s acquaintances. his breath snakes warmly over the expanse of your neck due to his proximity, his head so close you could turn and just kiss him— 
stop it. 
“oh, no. um.” you shift away from him slightly. distance. some distance feels more comfortable right now. “i don’t sculpt. i just paint, and draw.”
he makes an ahhh of understanding, leaning back onto his palms, the mattress sinking down with his weight. he’s staring at you like he expects something from you. what shall you give him? when you don’t say anything further, he does. 
“can i see some of yours, then?” it’s an innocent enough request. rather than simply press on your account, your fingers move on their own until you reach your gallery. why? are you really about to bare your soul to him? you guess so, because he’s gently taking your phone from your fingers after gaining quiet permission from you. 
he asks you questions as he pulls up certain pieces. the thought process behind each one, what made you do this, place that color there, how you came up with the composition, what the meaning of it all is. you try your best to explain each one. sometimes, your choices were the product of spontaneity. you thought yellow would look nice at that spot, so you put some there. her nose is crooked because it gives the piece more character. the color of the drapes in the background are blue for no particular reason other than the fact that your reference photo had blue drapes. you continue in a cycle of question, answer, question, answer, and some of your answers are more emotional than others. you remember where you were, both physically and mentally, when making all of these. you remember the ones you made when you were having a bad day, the ones where you felt like you were on the top of the world. 
then, he pulls up one that you wish he didn’t. it was buried so deep into your gallery that you have no idea how he found it — your most dreaded hyperrealism piece: a woman lays on her back, hair fading into the foreboding, void-like background. her face is twisted up into an abject sadness, a deep-seated pain that even now, you have no idea how you captured so vividly. her veiny left hand is splayed next to her head, thin crimson threads tied to each finger so tight that she has begun to bleed. the strings fall limp beside her, severed from their counterparts that meander off of the canvas. more red threads loop their way around her neck, pulled taut as if to choke her — and to her throat, she holds a pair of sharp-pointed scissors, hand gripping the metal tight enough to pale her knuckles. 
it’s dark. it’s terribly dark and you wish he never saw it. why did he have to see it? why did he have to choose that one? the world tilts on its axis as he stares down at the picture of your most soul-baring work, though you think it would be worse if he saw the actual painting in person.
“what’s the story behind this one?” he asks quietly. your lungs expel all air, and you’re left gaping for more. breathe, come on, you have to breathe. your inhale is shaky, shuddered. breathe. say something.
“that one…” your voice trails off into something quiet. scared. “i made it when i was in a really— really dark place mentally, um. i made it mostly because—”
he’s looking at you now, concern shining in his irises, but you push on. 
“because i stopped believing in fate.”
while you could say more, you stop yourself there. you hate digging — digging into your deepest fears and emotions that you keep locked behind a wall so that you never have to feel them. a pandora’s box sits in the center of your heart, wrapped with chains to keep them imprisoned. somehow, though, you think yeonjun knows what you really want to say: you meeting each other wasn’t fate to you, but a gross series of coincidences, and when he asks if you think so, you simply nod.
“but out of everyone on this train, i met you. i got to know you — shouldn’t that mean something? can’t that be considered fate?” he presses. something akin to desperation laces his words, an urgency you’ve never heard from him. 
it sure feels like fate, doesn’t it? after all of those times that you ran into him, how he found you in the observation car when it was just you in there, how your feelings have unfolded like taking apart a paper crane in the short nine days you have known each other — it feels like it should be fate, you want to admit that all of it does seem like the universe’s divine intervention. maybe you running away was really just you trying to deny your fate to meet yeonjun while on this train. maybe him finding you was fate, an apology from whatever is above for what they put you through a year and a half ago.
“i think—” you hesitate. “i think so. it’s hard for it not to when i feel like i’ve known you my entire life.”
and you sit there and he’s smiling at you like you just created the earth with your bare hands. chicago passes outside the window. the sun shines high in the sky over the high rises, glints across glass panes and into his room. all you have is one more day on this train, and most of it will be spent sleeping tonight. he’ll wait for you tomorrow, right? would he wait for you forever?
“you know, i tell most people that my name is daniel.”
tilting your head, you echo, “daniel?” 
he hums as he scoots a bit closer, planting his feet on the floor next to yours and leaning forward. his knees support his elbows as he stares down at the floor. “it’s my english name. i used it when i was in college, i use it for my work, but for some reason, when i met you, my actual name, my given name, came out instead. call me silly, but i think my heart knew you’d become someone special to me. i wanted you to use my actual name — the one my parents call me. the one my closest friends call me.”
“oh.” why does your chest feel so tight right now? 
he sucks his lips behind his teeth for a moment. “yeah.”
sitting there, you wonder how you should respond to that. words expelled like an exhale of air, colliding with each other in front of your eyes, unable to be unscrambled by your mind. this time, it’s you who reaches over, closing the distance between you with a hand over his. his palm flips open to meet your own, your fingers linking together like matching puzzle pieces. you take a deep breath, and squeeze. 
“thank you,” you whisper. thank you for being here. thank you for helping me find myself again.
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day twelve (point five). 
“i’m gonna miss you guys so much!” 
chaewon is basically on the verge of tears at this point, constantly blubbering how she is going to miss hanging out with you every day as she pulls you and sakura in for a hug over and over again. sakura laughs as she pulls away for the thousandth time this afternoon. “girl, it’s gonna be okay. we’re gonna meet up for coffee soon, right?”
she looks towards you, and you give an enthusiastic nod. “right. i’ll invite my friend too. she said she’d love to meet you guys.” 
chaewon’s pout doesn’t vanish, but she looks a little less emotional after all of your reassurances. blinking back the remnants of her tears, she nods with a watery “okay.”
you bring her in for one more hug while sakura asks, “have you seen him yet?” 
“no, i haven’t heard from him since last night.” your teeth worry your bottom lip, peeling a piece of raised skin off. the sensation stings. 
her lips purse sympathetically, a hand being placed on your shoulder. “i doubt he’d leave without saying something to you, don’t worry. he has to be around here somewhere.”
“yeah, you’re probably right.” as chaewon pulls away, you check your phone again. no texts or calls yet. doubt ricochets around in your brain, but you know yeonjun; he wouldn’t do that to you. 
“i’d love to wait with you, but my manufacturer is pissed i didn’t call them back yesterday, so i should get going,” sakura admits with an apologetic smile. her fingers squeeze your shoulder one time before her arm drops back to her side. 
“i should go too,” chaewon sadly adds, kicked puppy eyes in full effect. “my cat is waiting for me. my friend said she was a little demon the whole time i was gone.”
“it’s okay,” you laugh, shooing them away jokingly. “you guys can go. i’ll be fine.” 
with a last group hug, they grab their suitcases and head towards the hallway that connects the train station to the subway lines. sakura twirls around, walking backwards as she calls, “keep us updated! we need to know everything,”
“of course!” you yell back, grin widening. chaewon turns back too to wave, and you wave back. eventually, the crowd swallows them up, and you are left alone to wait. a few minutes pass, and you realize that this sea of people will likely make it impossible for either of you to find each other. his contact is pulled up on your phone, your thumb hovering the call button. you look around one more time—
and he’s standing right there, mere feet in front of you, in all of his glory, long hair still flopping into his face, eyes still dreamy and all-consuming. you stand there for a moment, simply staring at each other with stupid, goofy grins overtaking your faces. long legs carry him over to you, and before you know it, you’re wrapped up in his arms and pulled into his strong chest. you bury your head into the side of his neck, inhaling the scent of his cologne.
“thank god,” he murmurs into the crown of your head. “i thought you might have left already.”
pulling back, you fix him with an incredulous stare. “what in the world made you think that? i was waiting for you.”
his ears tint an opaque red, the raised apples of his cheeks flushed a similar hue. he’s bewitching, and despite knowing that since the very first day — the day that you drew him for the first time — there’s so much more to him than looks to you now. he’s beautiful in both body and soul, in heart and head. one hand removes itself from your middle to cup your jaw, steadying your gaze with yours. your heart pounds, knees weak like a newborn doe’s as he stares deep into your eyes. blinding are the emotions swirling in his dark irises, but it doesn’t burn anymore. it’s more like the caress of the sun in the springtime, bright yet gentle in its own right. 
“this feels long overdue for me to say,” he begins, eyes closing as if to steel himself. when he opens them again, resolve has been added to the mix. “but i have feelings for you. i’ve never fallen for someone so quickly. i’ve never met someone like you, and i just— i knew, from the very day that i saw you, that we’d have something to do with each other. and then we kept running into each other, and i just thought wow, this has to be—”
“yeonjun,” you call, interrupting his ramblings. he pauses, eyes wide and anticipatory, as your hand moves up to cover his on your jaw. you can’t help the tremble in your lips as you speak. “i feel the same way.”
his lips purse, hiding a smile, before he surges forward and embraces you for a second time. the pure, unadulterated joy that the action brings you is like nothing you’ve ever felt before, and you’re almost…sad, when he pulls away.
“can i take you out on a date?”
the question throws you off kilter, and you have to catch yourself before you fall face first into his chest. “like, right now? with our suitcases and everything?”
“i’ve done much worse,” he chuckles, ruffling his hair, only for the locks to fall back down into his eyes. “but i meant later today, maybe? around six? i have to go take care of some things i neglected before i left.” 
“that sounds wonderful,” you gush. despite your best efforts in keeping your excitement to a minimum, you bounce up onto your toes for second, heels sinking back onto the floor. you swear he mumbles a quiet “cute” under his breath before he’s slipping his hand into yours.
“perfect,” he beams, before he playfully continues. “shall we be off to the subway then, my lady?”
giggling, you fall into step next to him, your arm swinging with his between you. “we shall.”
*:・
he’s right on time to pick you up, dressed casually but not too casually. a cool beige, short-sleeved button-up is tucked into a pair of straight-legged black jeans that stop at his waist. the chunky converse on his feet cause him to be a bit taller than usual. evidently, he is distracted by his phone, head ducked down as he waits for you to show up.
“yeonjun!” you call out, causing his head to snap up. once he does, you find that he’s somewhat styled his hair back — most of it has been swooped back towards his ears. a few strands fall into his face, but his forehead is fully exposed, and he looks…amazing. sometimes, you wish you were a poet instead, because then you’d have the words describe what you were feeling, what you were seeing. his jaw drops at the sight of you, dolled up in a jean skirt and frilly tank top over a thin long sleeve, your makeup soft and flattering to your features. 
“hi,” he breathes, and you repeat the greeting back to him. “you look…wow.”
“thanks,” you, biting your glossy lip. as his focus flits down to where your teeth dig into the soft flesh, you shyly smile, releasing it. a shock runs through you, new and carnal and it warms your stomach when he bites down on his own lip for a split second. “um, i know we didn’t really talk about where we were going to go, but there’s a thai place down the street from here, if you wanna go there? it’s my favorite.”
“of course,” he accepts, offering his arm to you. you loop your own through, standing close to him with your fingers pressing into the crook of his elbow. “lead the way.”
now that neither of you feel the need to skirt around your feelings, silence no longer lingers between pauses in conversation — both of you are able to pick it back up with ease. you meant it when you said that you feel like you’ve known him your whole life, and it reflects in the way you banter with him without worry or care. it’s…nice, freeing, not having to think too hard about what you’re about to say. natural. everything with him feels so natural. 
when both of you are sated, in both terms of food and conversation, he offers to walk you back to your apartment. the sun is beginning to set, and the sky has faded into a wash of rosy pink. the hue reflects the giddy feeling churning in your chest, rendering you light-headed and dizzy and fuck you just want to kiss him—
and he does. standing in front of your apartment building, he swoops down and captures your lips with his. slow, unhurried, his lips taste sweet like thai tea and are as soft as clouds. no one leads the other, no one moves to deepen the kiss. no, instead, you and yeonjun savor the taste of each other, the syrupy, vertiginous feeling of your first kiss together. when he pulls away, his lips have a slightly swollen quality to them, though you’re sure own look the same. you don’t want him to leave yet. you want more, you want something carnal and irrepressible that, by the way he’s looking at you, he wants too. playing with the locks of hair at the nape of his neck, you pant against his lips. “come inside with me, please?”
soft eyes darken, and he takes your breath away once more with another kiss, hands squeezing your waist. once he separates your lips from his, he rests his forehead against yours. nerves flutter in your stomach. “okay.” 
you find it terribly difficult to keep your hands off of him as you unlock your door, as it shuts behind you. for a minute, you stand there, waiting for something, anything to happen — then he’s crowding you in against your door and his lips are on your again. although there remains an air of softness, urgency fills the gaps where your lips don’t quite meet as they meld together, his tongue slipping into your mouth to curl with your own. your shoulder blades press into the cool wood of your door, the warmth of his body against your front a dizzying contrast to your scattered mind — but you want more. you want him.
when he slips a knee between your legs and knocks them apart, you let him. when he presses that knee into your core, encourages you to grind against it, you let him, you listen. whining into his mouth, you tug at his shirt, at his belt loops, his hair — anything you can get your hands on, you’re pulling at it, grinding down harder as his jeans rub your soaked panties against your aching pearl. a cry rips itself from your throat, mouth leaving as your head is thrown back against the door. “y-yeonjun—”
“patience, love. i’m gonna make you feel good,” he mumbles as he ravages your neck, nipping and sucking at the soft skin. his hands have snuck beneath your shirt and smooth over your stomach up to the cups of your bra, squeezing the flesh over the fabric. as you raise you arms, he helps you pull your top off, the article thrown onto the floor without ceremony or care. his hands loop behind your back, fiddling with your bra clasp. “can i?”
“please,” you keen, and he wastes no time in doing so, expert fingers sliding the straps down your arms until your bra, too, lays on the floor. lips find your right nipple, enveloping the pebbled flesh in a warm wetness that causes your back to arch into him. one hand pulls you into him, while the other tweaks your other tit. his teeth graze it, and the stinging edge of painful pleasure causes you to shiver. he hums, vibrations causing you to moan his name louder, plead for him to do more. leaving your breast, his mouth kisses and laps at the skin of your stomach. down, down, down, until he drops to his knees in front of you, swiftly unzipping your skirt and pulling it off of you. lips find your thighs, biting down lightly, and you squeak, hand finding his hair and pulling. he looks up at your through his lashes, absolutely depraved and almost drooling for more. you gulp, legs almost giving out under you as you smooth your hand over his hair, pushing the strands that have fallen into his face back. “can we— can we move to the bed?”
immediately, he stands, pulling you behind him before he’s placing you onto the edge of your bed with great care. before he can fall to his knees again, you curl your shaking fingers into his shirt. “take this off? i wanna see you.”
with a huff of a chuckle, he does as you ask, revealing a toned stomach, broad shoulders, muscled arms. your tongue darts across your lips as you drink him in, causing him to smirk. “like what you see, pretty?”
“y-yes,” you stutter out, quiet and wanting and full of lecherous need. your thighs attempt to squeeze together in order to provide some relief to your pulsating core, but his legs stop them from fully closing. his fingers find your jaw, squeezing the flesh. your cheeks heat up. 
“so fucking cute.” the praise sends a white hot streak through your stomach and into your center. your face is on absolute fire now, vision growing hazy around the edges as you watch him sink down between your thighs, your panties quickly discarded to reveal your center to his eyes. two fingers trace your folds before dipping beneath them to find your entrance. his eyes widen at what he finds, fingers coming back up coated in your wetness, glinting against his fingertips and knuckles in the light streaming in through your windows. “you’re so wet, baby. this all for me? a little kissing got you this needy?”
“mhm— oh,” you gasp when he brings the fingers to his mouth, sucking on them lewdly as he refuses to tear his gaze from yours. he moans at your taste, hot tongue swiping up the remnants that accidentally smeared onto the corner of his lips once he removes his fingers. his smirk returns, hands sliding under your ass to pull you closer to the edge of the bed, closer to his mouth. you sit up on your elbows to watch him kiss his way up your inner thigh, hands holding you open for him. there’s nowhere for you to hide, as he traces your folds with his tongue, dipping into your entrance and swiping up to your clit. crying out, your fingers find his hair in an ironclad grip. he groans against your pearl, your hips bucking up into his face before his arms snake around each thigh and hold you still. he alternates between circling the bud with his tongue and sucking it between his plush lips, spit pooling at the corners of his mouth as he loses himself in your taste. meanwhile, you’re already so close to the edge, you can feel your walls begin to clench around nothing, your hips jumping up as far as he allows. as he dips down to your entrance, his nose bumps against your clit, but his tongue is back in no time to continue its assault on your poor little clit. “jjun, ‘m gonna, please, ‘m gonna—”
“cum,” he mumbles against you. “cum f’me, pretty girl.”
with his permission, your head falls onto your sheets, eyes rolling into the back of your head as your vision spots white. cries pour from your lips like honey for him to drink, but you never quite come down fully. rather, he keeps circling his tongue against your clit through your high, and as your orgasm subsides, another one already begins to build. tears prick your eyes as you plead, “jjun, no, can’t, i can’t, nonono— i can’t!”
“yes, you can,” he murmurs, removing his arm from your right thigh. his lips don’t leave your clit as you feel two fingers slip into your soaked entrance, smoothly thrusting in and out and curling up into your upper wall until he finds that soft spot inside you that has your voice shattering into shards of moans and staccato wails. he groans against you as he feels your walls clench, the pace of his fingers unforgiving as he coaxes another mind-shattering orgasm from your body. your fingers flutter around his walls, watery hiccups torn from your throat. this time, he slows down, helps you ride out your high, before he removes his fingers, licking his lips of your essence as he does. climbing onto the bed, he hovers over you, taking in your spit-slick lips and tear-lined eyes. he wipes the tears away with gentle motions, cooing when you whine. he sits there until you come back to him, lucidity shining in your eyes as you blink them open. smiling, you pull him in for a languid kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue before he pulls away. 
when he caresses your cheek with his thumb, asking you if you’re okay, you lean into his touch, “mhm, want you to fuck me.”
“i can do that,” he laughs, causing you to reciprocate. standing, he slips his jeans and boxers down his thighs until he’s left in nothing, hardened cock veiny and flushed an angry red. you think it’s an average length, on the thicker side, the girth causing your mouth to water. as he runs his hands up your thighs, he asks, “d’you have any condoms, love?”
while you’d rather him fuck you raw, you know it’s safer this way. you point towards your nightstand. “there.”
as he fetches one, you scoot into the middle of the bed, watching him roll it on before he returns between your thighs, pumping his cock once, twice, lining it up with your entrance. his free hand grips your waist, watching as you move your hips to try to slide him into you. smirking, he presses his hips forward, cockhead dipping past your entrance. both of you moan at the sensation. slowly, he works his cock into you, little rolls of his hips until he’s seated fully within you, hips flush against your pelvis. 
“move,” you whine. “please move.” and that’s all it takes for him to swiftly pull out and slide back in again. as he thrusts into you again and again, his movements grow rougher, the tip of his cock brushing against your g-spot each time. moaning, you reach up towards him, forcing him to lean over you so you can kiss him again, swallowing each other’s sounds. he’s just as loud as you, praises falling naturally between his breathy moans. 
“feel s’good, baby. so fuckin’ tight and wet f’me. so unreal. d’you feel good, too?” he coos against the shell of your ear, warm breath curling against your necks. your walls clench around him at his desperate sounds.
“s-so good, jjunie,” you hum, feeling your third high of the night approaching. the knot in your stomach grows tighter as his thrusts grow sloppy, chasing his high as much as you are. a thumb moves down to rub your sensitive clit, quick little circles against the bud until your limbs are locking up, quaking as you finally cum around him. a few seconds later, his high hits him as well, his hips quivering as he spills into the rubber with a loud groan. 
slowly, he pulls out, ridding himself of the condom and soon returning to the bed to plop down next to you. arms pull you in close as you both pant and grin tiredly at each other, basking in the quiet that permeates the air, and he stares at you, dulcet eyes boring into yours. 
“what’re you thinking about?” you decide to ask, poking the center of his sweat-beaded forehead. taking a moment to respond, he pulls you even closer so that your noses almost touch. 
“it’s just— there’s this concept in korean — inyeon,” the timbre of his voice raises slightly as he switches to his native tongue, and lowers again when he switches back to english. “that, um, it means…”
his cheeks are growing the slightest bit pink, a shade that reflects the cotton candy clouds that float past your windows. squeezing his hand, you silently urge him to continue, soft gaze finding his own. a gentle kiss pressed to his cheek, his jaw, naked skin pressed against naked skin. together, whole, one.
he starts again, “there’s no direct translation, but it basically is fate. strings of fate. i truly believe the universe has connected us in some way, whether it be through some invisible red string or another force. and i know, i know what you said about fate, but i can’t stop thinking about how we found each other. there’s something beautiful about starting off as strangers and getting here. i don’t know, i’m just rambling at this point,” he chuckles, burying his nose into the pillow under his head. “i’ve just never felt this way about someone before. i’m sorry.”
with a gentle hand, you cup the side of his face, forcing him to look back at you. “don’t be sorry, that’s beautiful, and i think—” you sigh, blinking back tears that threaten to fall. “i think you’ve changed my mind about fate. i’ve also never felt this way about someone before. i feel like you know me on some level that no one else does. you just. you just get it, and i—” 
you don’t think this is quite love yet, but you believe what you’re feeling within your chest, tingling all over your body, is as close as you’ve ever gotten to it. he smiles, whispers a small, soft, “i know,” and lips find lips once more. hands find hands, and you feel alive. you feel like everything that you see is now in vivid technicolor, no longer masked by a veil of gray.
and when you wake up tomorrow, you think that you’re going to start a new painting.
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© to agustdiv1ne. do not copy, repost, steal, and/or translate.
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wood-white-writer · 6 months
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“Didn’t mean to make your heart Blue” || [2/…]
- OPLA! Buggy x F!Reader
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"Do-mi-ti, why not me? Why not me?"
— Mitski, "Washing Machine Heart"
Pairing: Buggy the Clown (Live Action) x F!Reader
Part 1 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6
Summary: You were an apprentice of Gol D. Roger’s crew in your youth, long before his eventual demise. Along with the Red-Haired Shanks and Buggy, you were a formidable trio; the embodiment of a new generation of pirates yet to come. But times changed, and so did you and your friends. Years have passed since you last saw Buggy following the dispute that you thought ended your friendship. When you finally reunite with the blue-haired menace you once considered your closest friend, it’s under less than “friendly” circumstance.
Warnings: Fem!Reader, Canon Typical Violence, Slight Canon Divergence, Buggy is an asshole, The reader used to go by "Cross-Hairs" in the past, hot tension, resentment and love, flashbacks, Reader is strong AF
A/N: Buggy's behavior in this chapter kinda gives off Yandere-vibes, but he's not. He's just really desperate, and a general asshole, (and lonely).
He's dead.
Gol D. Roger, captain of the Roger pirates, your captain, is dead. Pierced through the back by the Marines like a pig for slaughter, a death unworthy for someone of his rank. He deserved to live a long life, drunk on rum, surrounded by his friends and crewmates, before being finally laid to rest in a casket and shipped off with the waves as per tradition.
As chaos ensues and all hell breaks loose, his corpse remains on the same stand where he met his end, left to roast in the warm sun. At the very least, he did not leave this world without flipping one last bird at the Marines.
His final words leave such a domino effect upon the witnesses, one that will last for years to come. Sailors, pirates, men, women, and children all head toward the vast oceans in a hurry, ships pushing off the docks at record speed as they prepare to hunt for his legacy. To claim his title for their own. A title he earned and subsequently put up for auction.
The Marines were hoping that his death would mean the end of Piracy, but as though fate itself had something else to say about it, it had the exact opposite effect.
You're not moving with the swarm of people. The race goes on, but you do not. 
You're still standing in the same spot as you were when you watched the officers drive their spears through your captain's back, having ceased to function as you saw the man who practically raised you, succumb to the same fate that claims all in the end.
Even as people are pushing their way past you, shoving you in God-knows how many directions on their way to the oceans, you can't find it in you to move on your own accord. 
The world has gone deafly quiet now, everyone else is gone, and you're its sole occupant now. Despite the unrest going around, and the wind that brushes against your neck, Roger's last words echo in your ears like the whispers of a ghost.
"Wealth. Fame. Power. I found everything this world has to offer. Free yourselves! Take to the seas! My treasure is yours to find!"
Someone - whether accidentally or not - thrusts against your stomach, and you take a tumble to the ground. The world finally perforates your consciousness, yet it leaves you exposed to its chaos. You attempt to stand up, but the ongoing movements from all around halt your efforts. 
You raise your arms to shield your face from further damage, suffering several pairs of feet and a handful of scratches from the crowd. Nothing too bad, but you don't dare to try and get up just yet. Your initial plan is to just stay put until the storm is over.
That is, until you hear a voice calling your name from somewhere in the crowd, muffled by the ruckus, but still audible for you to make out among the many others.
"COME ON! HURRY!"
You're hastily pulled up to your feet and collide face-first into a chest. Looking up, you only manage to register Buggy's hand tightly clenched around yours in a near-painful hold as he pushes you both through the ongoing crowd. 
While trying to navigate through the masses, you raise your head to gaze at his face.
Not unlike your own, his eyes are stained with tears.
------
Nothing is in its correct shape when you blink your eyes open. For starters, the room is spinning at an incredible speed, and for seconds, there is twice of everything. Two coats are hanging on the rack just on the edge of your vision, the same color and length and everything. You discover you have two pairs of hands and feet as you sit up, and at least over a dozen iron bars are separating you from the rest of the room.
In a minute or two, your sight establishes yourself. The world has become one again, but to your chagrin, you discover that the number of bars caging you remains the same. 
Shaking off the dizziness and nausea that accompanies your waking, you get up to your knees and discover that, once again, you're fucking trapped. This time, it's in a metal cage hanging off the floor by a hook and chain, swinging you lightly back and forth with each fraction of movement you commit yourself to. 
Exhausted from simply waking up, you clash your forehead against the bars. "Shit."
"Well, good to know that your colorful vocabulary remains the same."
You snap your eyes up to see Buggy striding into the room, and your gaze immediately narrows.
"And your eyes." His right hand dislodges itself from his wrist and hovers over to you with an outstretched finger, where it lands right in the space between your eyes. "Sharp as ever, if not even sharper. Careful, you could kill someone with those."
"Wishful thinking," you murmur indignantly and raise your hand to wave off the offending appendage. Like a fly will with sugar, it merely withdraws for a few inches before returning to the same spot. 
You elect to ignore it as best as you can.
He feigns a horrified gasp at your words and clutches his chest with his remaining hand. "Such harsh words! I thought we were friends, you and I. I mean, what kind of friend would threaten the other with their life so cruelly?"
Friends? That's rich coming from him. You haven't considered him as such since the day he left. You won't even dignify that with a response, and so you merely turn your head to the side and rest your cheek against the bars.
His voice lowers a few octaves, enough for you to differentiate between the real him and the act he puts on for a performance. "Then again, what kind of 'friend' leaves the other behind?" His footsteps come closer, each one weighing heavier than the last. "What kind of 'friend' abandons the other?" 
Your eye twitches, but you still refuse to look at him, much less speak to him.
"What?" the Showman farce has by now ended and been buried as he takes one last step forward. "Nothing to say? I'd thought that after twenty years, you'd be happy to see this handsome face."
As much as you want to admit that, yes, the years have done wonders on his face and he most definitely would've been categorized as 'handsome' in your dictionary, you don't. 
"What do you want me to say?" You tilt your head marginally to the side so that merely one eye is aimed at him. "That it's good to see you? That I've missed you?" Even though both of those statements are true to some extent, he doesn’t need to know that.
"Well, I could go for all of the above if you insist on being cordial, but for starters, an apology might suffice enough on its own." If you weren't already looking at him, you'd think that he’s joking. He isn't. He’s as serious as a heart attack, and he’s not smiling this time. All you can think at the moment is that it's strange not to see a clown smile.
"An apology?" You withdraw the impulse to scoff. "What, exactly, do I have to apologize for?"
He doesn’t answer right away. In fact, he doesn’t do or say anything at all. You can't even hear him breathing, and it’s twice as eerie as his general demeanor. It's a foreboding omen that signifies he's on the edge of his temper like a bomb sizzling just before it goes off. 
"What do you have to apologize for?" he echoes.
That's all the warnings you get before the cage rattles with enough force to knock you back against the other side of the cage. Buggy's hand curls around the iron bars with such vehemence that it almost looks like he's about to break them right off the hinges.
He leans forward until his nose barely brushes against the cold steel placed between you, his bright-blue eyes near-bloodshot with the way they glower. Even now, with the few feet between you, you find yourself almost drowning in those blue irises of his. 
"You left me. You betrayed me!" he shouts loud enough for his voice to reverberate throughout the room, all thoughts of maintaining his composure thrown out the window the moment you inadvertently admitted your own cluelessness. "Just like all the others! Shanks, now I could've predicted that, but you?"
His hand dislodges yet again to point an accusatory finger at you, but it maintains a safe distance this time. Probably afraid of what you'll try to do with it if you get your hands on it. 
You have to give yourself some credit. You've not lost your temper once since you ended up here. In your adolescence, you would've torn him a new one fo the trouble, but you can't be bothered this time around. You’d have thought two decades of separation would’ve led to some pent-up fury like it has done to him, but all you feel is … well, nothing.
Nothing yet, anyhow.
"What you did to me, now that was cruel. That was something I did not expect, but you did it, and for what?" The cage continues to shake as his fingers dig into the rods. This time, you observe, he’s keeping his head slightly tilted downwards, rendering you unable to detect his eyes. "For Red-Haired fucking SHANKS!"
With all the movement going on in your limited space, you’re jolted forth again like a ball and cling to the front bars with your hand positioned right above his. Even with the gloves and the short distance keeping you separated, you can feel the scorching heat emitting from him.
How long has it been since you were last this close to him? It was underneath the stars, you unexpectedly recall. You were clinging to him, crying your heart out as the death of your captain had finally been processed. He was holding you close, whispering something you could not make out at the time.
It was during a time when it was just you, him, and Shanks. The three of you, against the rest of the world, ready to live up to Gol's legacy and become the Pirates of the New Age. With  Shanks’ leadership, your strength, and Buggy’s general unpredictability, nothing could stop you.
But now you're here, a captive. No longer a friend, no longer a... 
It never went that far, anyhow. No use bringing it up now when it’s hardly relevant. 
When Buggy’s raspy breaths slow down and his hold on the iron rods lessens, you decide to finally speak. 
"You're the one who left, Buggy," you say, your words laced with such apparent apathy that no one would’ve guessed what you’re feeling. In reality, you want to scream until his ears literally pop. 
Your chest constricts just to say it out loud, but you won't even stop and address the tremble that threatens to claim your voice the more you go into it. "I went with Shanks, because who else was I supposed to go with? The Roger Pirates were spread to the fucking corners of the earth, Gol D. Roger was dead, and you left. I had no one except for him. You closed that door, not me." 
Silence reigns loudly upon you as you're left there, nearly breathless after your little rant despite having kept your voice even throughout it. You feel pathetic, childlike, small. People say that admitting something is the first step towards overcoming it, but you feel neither achieved or relieved of any burdens.
You just feel ... small. As small as you were the day he disappeared from your life.
Buggy doesn't say anything, his countenance empty of any tell-tale signs regarding what he might be feeling. It's almost ironic. The man who used to wear his emotions on his sleeves, the same expressive man who used to spend hours bragging about his capacities and capabilities on the Oro Jackson, has now been rendered mute like a mime instead of a jester.
His eyes find yours again after an unknown amount of time, only now, it's not just bitterness and resentment you have to salvage from them. For a second, just a brief flash of the moment, there's something else. Something vulnerable. 
It goes as quickly as it came. 
He shoves himself from the cage, his indecipherable gaze – now laced with both anger and regret – lingering on you before he starts pacing around the room, having calmed down from his outburst but being no less agitated by the turn of events. 
"What are you talking about?" he demands, sounding a tad more curious now than accusatory. "You were already going to leave with Shanks before I booked it, I just beat you to it."
This time, it's your turn to point an accusatory finger toward him, lowering your voice just enough for him to hear you recount the most painful memory you have, save for Gol D.'s death. The memory you had spent almost two decades trying to bury deep down inside you. 
"The last thing you told me was that you wished that you'd never even met me, and then you fucking left me behind to go do who the fuck knows what. Which, apparently,— " You gesture to your surroundings with a dismissive wave of your hand. "— Includes enslaving people and keeping them in cages."
"Hey, people are allowed to have side-gigs!" he retorts, almost boyishly as if you didn't just have a serious argument moments ago. "Don't judge me! You used to steal shit when we were kids, but you didn't hear me bitching about it!"
You roll your eyes. Some things don't change, that being the childish bickering, not the enslaving and caging bit. Your lip inclines upwards for just a second, and it declines just as quickly. You lean back against the other wall of your cage and heave a breath, tired of it all
"Speaking of kids," he rests his arms atop a crate to his left. "What's up with you and Rubber-Boy over there? Luffy, was it?"
Your lip drops to a scowl. Looks like the kid's Devil Fruit powers have come to light, one fruit eater to another. "What about him?"
Buggy smirks and pulls out a knife from inside his coat. He turns it playfully in his hand, balancing the sharp edge at the tip of his finger as though in deep thought. "He yours or something? 'Cause, I gotta admit, I never took you as the white-picket-fence type."
He’s joking, right? 
Right?
"He's not mine.”
The look that befalls his face almost seems like … relief? He’s quick to mask it though with a half-assed smirk.
"No?" He tips his head to each side and lets the knife lie on the crate. "You sure as hell seem protective over him, and I know for a fact that not just anyone earns the favor of the legendary Cross-Hairs.” He puts a hand under his chin, feigning a motion of deep thinking. “What'd he do? Save your life? You found him in the trash? Or did you shag up with his daddy or something?"
You raise an eyebrow. "I made a promise."
At the mention of this, he promptly ceases with his ridiculous guesses and his words turn sharp. "To whom?"
"None of your fucking business." You're pretty sure that if he learns that you made that promise to none other than Shanks, he'd unleash a different kind of hell not even the death of Roger could hope to spark. 
Rather than pushing the matter, he shrugs with an air of indifference. "I just find it funny, that's all." He chuckles, but his tone lacks any visible sense of comicalness. "You, one of the most notorious pirates to ever cross the East-Blue, disappeared for a decade to do what, exactly? Look after a simple-minded brat who talks shit about becoming King of the Pirates." 
He snaps his attention back to you and moves closer to the cage again, crouching on his knees to gaze up at you instead. "Sorry not sorry to burst that little bubble, but that title will belong to me. Once I get the map your stretchy little runt has hidden, I will find the One Piece. I will become King. I will be known, and I will be loved."
("You were loved,") a part of you wants to tell him. The part that still lingers in your shared past. ("You were always loved.")
But you keep your mouth shut.
He perceives your silence as a sign to continue. "You know, despite everything that happened, I'm opening my heart to forgiveness, for old times’ sake."
"Forgiveness?"
He smiles, but this one, you discover, is genuine. At least, in comparison to all the other ones he's flashed you beforehand. It's a lukewarm feeling, but familiar. You're almost tempted to reach through the bars and feel his cheeks, trace the edges of his lips, and smudge away the red make-up just to know if it is real or just a figment of your imagination. 
"If you convince Rubber-Boy to hand over that map of the Grand Line, I might consider opening a special spot in my crew, just for you. I know better than anyone what you're capable of. Hell, it'll be just like old times, like nothing ever changed. You and me, against the rest of the world."
Slowly, he reaches his hand up and towards you through the bars, palm open for you to take.
"Don't you miss it?" he whispers, wistfully. "I do. Save for the One Piece, it's been the one thing I've wanted more than anything else."
You blink, and a feeling settles over your chest. Not uncomfortable per se, but not kind either. Like being enveloped by a warm yet tight blanket, staving you off the cold but suffocating you all the same. 
Your dream. You remember your dream. The one you thought gone forever, now seemingly resurfacing from the depths in your heart where it initially drowned. To travel and explore the seas, the three of you by each other’s sides until the very end. That’s all you’ve ever wanted.
Now, Buggy is opening up the possibility of that dream coming back to life again. 
You're tempted to take his hand, feel the warmth that once held you so openly when you were younger.
You raise your hand to him ever so slightly.
"Fuck, Rubber Boy can come too for all I care.” He proceeds to add. “He's a special case, and there's nothing I appreciate more than special ones." 
Your hand stops and promptly withdraws.
Buggy raises his eyebrows in shock, his fingers curling as they were about to grasp at yours only to find empty air. "What? What is it? What's wrong?" 
Luffy.
You shake your head. "He won't give up. He won't give up on his dream." 
"What, Rubber-Boy?" he scowls like the name itself tastes like bitter venom on his tongue. "He's just a stupid kid, he'll grow out of it. Once he sees that there's no way he would last in the Grand Line on his own, he'll get in line."
You take a deep breath, preparing for the confrontation that's about to come with your next words. "He won't, and no power or authority on this earth is ever going to be able to change that."
A flash of hurt crosses his facial features, only for a second, yet it feels like longer. Then, it stops, and all that's left is the same bitterness he showed that very day.
Snarling, Buggy pulls his hand back and gets back up on his feet. “I should’ve expected this. You never choose me!" he flares and pulls both his hands to his chest, gesturing to himself. "It's always someone els- Always someone fucking else. First Shanks, then this damn brat! Why?" He briefly pauses, as if weighing his next words. "What did they ever do that was so special that you decided to stick around for them that I didn't do?"
You’ve just about had enough of his self-pitying attitude. 
"I never 'chose' Shanks!" you hiss back at him. "It was never a choice. Why was I supposed to 'choose' anyone for that matter? What made you reach the conclusion that there had to be a choice at all?!"
He parts his jaws to answer with what you can only expect to be yet another sneer when the curtains behind him parts, and a member of the troupe enters. A dark-skinned man with a Mohawk of sorts, with filed teeth resembling a shark more than a man.
"Boss, the kid ain't saying nothin' about the map." The man ("Sharptooth", you decide to call him for now) says with a deep twinge of aggravation. "We're already at nearly thirty-damn-feet, and all the little shit does is fuckin' laugh at us."
Buggy does not even turn to address the man, his attention solely at you, but you can tell he's irritated by this interruption.
"Sharptooth" turns to you, having just realized you’re here. A sinister grin spreads along his cheeks, and he licks his upper teeth lecherously. "What do we do 'bout her? Is she up on the menu yet? I'm starvin'."
You crouch down, one hand positioned between your knees like a predator ready to lunge at the slightest movement. Truth be told, despite your reputation, killing someone has never been one of life's greatest joys for you, and it's been a while since you last committed a murder. However, the years have done little to weaken you, and you're not afraid to get your hands dirty if the situation demands it.
You'll be sure to let him know first-hand that if he dares to try anything.
"No," Buggy replies, voice void of any tangible emotions. "She'll snap your neck like a twig before you can get within a foot of her." He turns to face the disappointed performer, and before the latter knows it, a severed hand clamps around his throat and dangles him above the ground with what you can only expect to be a bruising grip. "I am, on the other hand, not limited by such proximity."
The man's face begins to pale as the blood flow to his brain is cut short, but the grip does not lessen at all.
Buggy speaks like he’s having a normal conversation. "She stays here, and no one, and I mean no one, is going to touch her. Understood?" His soft say leaves no room for opposition.
You watch as "Sharptooth" struggles to form a coherent sentence as he desperately clings to the hand keeping him afloat. "Y-Yes si— Yes, Captain. W-We won't!"
With a bored swish, the hand shoves the performer back a good two feet, where he crashes to the ground and clutches his neck in search of air.
"Splendid!" Buggy attaches his wrist back and claps his hands together, his Show Man act replenished. "Now, be sure to tell the others of that little fact, and while you're at it,—" he draws his palms away from one another in a straight motion. "Add another five feet."
The crew member wastes no time shuffling from the ground and all but books it out of there.
Buggy heaves a deep and dramatic sigh, exaggeratedly slumping his shoulders, and swings back to you again.
"Supporting casts, am I right?"
You don't bother with a reply.
He takes this with a lackadaisical shrug. "Now, as much as I'd like to continue this intriguing, little tête-à-tête, I'm afraid I'm needed elsewhere. The show must go on, but I’ll come back before you know it."
It doesn't matter when he'll be back. You don't plan on waiting for him. You've already waited twenty long years, and as your temper simmers evenly under your skin, you intend to get one thing across.
"Just remember this, Buggy," 
You lean against the bars, pressed so tightly that it feels like your body is about to push through the narrow gaps. "If you do anything to the kid, anything at all, and you can consider our past six feet under. I'll come after you, and when I'm finished,—"
Fist clenched; you deliver a solid strike to the bar that rattles throughout the room to the point where it feels like even the ground is quacking from the force. Buggy jumps a few steps back in retreat, and when he looks up again, his breath halts. 
Where there was once a straight bar keeping you contained, there's now a prominent curve pointing out towards him. Not nearly large enough for you to squeeze through, but it's there, nonetheless.
When you lower your fist, knuckles red but intact, you finish your warning. "— Not even your Devil-Fruit powers will manage to keep you intact."
His eyes flicker between you and the now-deformed iron bar. Unexpectedly, he only stares, neither returning a threat nor even a joke to ease the tension. He doesn’t say anything at all, and the absence of words leaves nothing up to interpretation.
Buggy knows better than anyone that you don't make half-assed threats. Never you. Once you’ve set your eyes on a target, you don’t rest. He recalls the look of pure bloodlust in your eyes from back when you were young. It was neither cruel nor sadistic, but it felt cold to witness. Ice incarnate. 
A predator just following its prime instincts.
Whenever someone posed a problem to either you or your crew mates, you would counter it with a threat. It didn't matter how bold-faced it sounded, you always made sure to see it through. 
As a teenager, he begrudgingly thought that it was hot as hell. You were. Watching the way your eyes would almost glower as you made good on your promises, it did things to him.
Now, even when he's on the receiving end of it, it still does.
He can't deny that the feeling hasn't diminished. For what it’s worth, it means that you’ll keep your focus on him. He’ll have your eyes, all for his own now. Those very eyes, always so sleek and ready to cut and by God, he realizes at that moment just how fucking much he’s missed them.
How much he’s missed you.
“Well,” he says as he makes his way to the exit. “I guess I’ll see you in the front row.”
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cavillscurls · 8 months
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Foreigner’s God | A Joel Miller Mafia AU (Chapter Two)
NOTE: This is a follow up to TALK, A Joel Miller Mafia AU. It is not advised to read as a stand alone.
Pairing: Mafia!Joel x afab!reader
Summary: The morning after your unexpected night with Joel, you reflect on a substantial moment between the two of you while awaiting his safe return.
Warnings/tags: MDNI. Mentions of death and murder. Depictions of anxiety and grief. Foul language. Platonic Tommy Miller x Reader. Age gap (reader is 25, Joel is 40). Sexual references. Heavy angst. Joel and reader being goddamn idiots.
Word count: 7.5k
a/n: well, here she is. yet again, this would not be happening with out the continuous support of my jfc gals. incredibly special shoutout to @dinsdjrn for all the time taken out of their day to assist me in finishing this chapter, and to @cupofjoel for consistently listening to me babble about this story and always offering to read parts i am unsure of. you are gems. i understand the lack of smut may be disappointing, but pls realize, part one was initially only supposed to be a one shot. things change when stories become series!
chapter one. | series masterlist. | chapter three.
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❝ She feels no control of her body,
she feels no safety in my arms.
I’ve no language left to say it,
but all I do is quake to her.
Breaking if I try to convey it,
the broken love I make to her. ❞
- Foreigner’s God, Hozier.
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3 MONTHS EARLIER.
You loved to dress up.
The plethora of events your fathers line of work required you to attend was seemingly never ending, and while they often resulted in evenings of dull conversation with less than interesting men, the preparation that went into dolling yourself up beforehand was a meticulous event. Especially when a certain brown eyed gentleman was guaranteed to be in attendance.
Yes, you loved to dress up.
Loved to dress up for Joel Miller.
The attention he graced you with nowadays had become a sort of heroin to you. Always decadent, inviting you to dance, or fetching you a fresh flute of champagne. Sometimes he would save you from those less than interesting conversations, graciously interrupting whatever elderly guest was talking your ear off — to which they happily excused, for who were they to deny Mr. Miller access to whatever he wanted whenever he pleased? — and looping his arm with yours, whispering as he whisked you away to safety.
“Don’t worry darlin’, you’re stuck with me now.”
What a fantastic place to be. It’s all you could think about, all you could breathe for while you finished the final touches of your elegant ensemble. The sweetheart neckline of the black gown complimented your chest, fabric taut to your skin, accentuating your curves in all the deliciously right places.
Your father had promised when he left that morning to send a driver for you. This time, it was a charity auction. A good way to keep the Clan in good graces with the people. Besides, with their influx of money, some of it needed to be spent to avoid suspicion.
You were spritzing your wrists with perfume when the knock came down below. After your mothers passing, your father had moved you both into a two story condo. The home you called your childhood too much to bear, and far too much space to occupy for just two people. It was better this way; distancing yourselves from a painful past in hopes of a brighter future.
Your heels clicked down the wooden steps, taking one last peek in the foyer mirror before eagerly answering the door. You had expected to see Marco, the short and stout dark headed man who had been your fathers loyal mode of transport since Joel deemed it unsafe for him to travel alone. He had taken your life into his protection time and time again, much like all of Joel’s men did. You knew that if it was someone he trusted, you could trust them too.
But your gleeful expression was quickly replaced by confusion upon opening the door, for outside its confines stood Tommy Miller. He was dressed in a fashion that suggested he was also on his way to the event, but wore a countenance that assured whatever he was here for took precedence. Wordlessly, your eyes flitted behind him to see the group of four other clan members lingering on your front steps. Like a herd of tamed bulls.
Your stomach twisted into a knot.
“Tommy,” you expelled, shoulders slouching in what manifested as disappointment. “I wasn’t expecting you. What’s…what’s going on?” You raised a brow at him, watching his face contort into an array of trepidation.
“I know, hun. I’m sorry. Change of plans for the evening. Mind if we come in?” You knew you didn’t have much of a choice. No order was a fluke, especially if one of the Miller bothers were involved. Nodding dutifully, you stepped out of the way, holding the door open for the group of men to file in.
The silent lingering had you frustrated as you closed the door, flitting your eyes between the group, most of whom refused to meet your eye-line. You turned to Tommy with furrowed brows, a nausea beginning to settle deep inside of you. Something was wrong. You could sense it, feel it. The anticipation of it was nearly too much to bear.
“Tommy,” you bit, earning his attention. His hands were shoved in the pockets of his slacks. “What is going on?”
Secrecy was a gift to the world you lived in. Loyalty was a trait you were taught as honorable from a young age, and since then, you had never questioned the integrity of the empire your father fought to maintain. You were a family in ways, bonded by the inexplicable nature to protect and support. Tommy knew that. And you wondered if that’s the reason his voice trembled the slightest bit when he spoke.
“Listen, honey,” he started, his voice low and calculated. You could tell he was holding back. Your mind didn’t even know what scenario to run to when he said his next words. “Somethin’s uh…somethin’s happened.”
You gave him a look that suggested frustration, placing a hand on your hip and an arch to your brow. “Alright…and what would that be?” You were certainly running late by now, wondering if this change of plans entailed you missing the event all together. You frowned selfishly at the thought of losing the opportunity to have Joel by your side all night, unaware of the storm that was brewing beyond the doors of your home.
Tommy gave you a sympathetic look, and you noted the exchange of glances between the men that accompanied him. It made your teeth grit. You hated being the only person in the room out of the loop. It’s why you had told your father you wouldn’t be joining him for clan meetings anymore; they always made you sit outside the parlor while they chatted, brewing with both curiosity and annoyance. Secrecy was a gift. But it was also the most maddening part of the lifestyle.
“I was only told to make sure’ya didn’t leave,” Tommy explained, and by the apologetic look in his eyes, you knew that he was aware that wasn’t an answer you would have an easy time accepting.
You scoffed at him, shaking your head as if it was the most ridiculous response he could have said. “And just who exactly told you to keep me here? I don’t like being held up in my own house, Tommy,” you bit at him, but he remained calmed. He had always been a bit more rational than the rest.
“I understand,” he said, tilting his head at you cautiously. “But we’ve got some…sensitive matters to discuss, and he didn’t want me to-”
You had no time to inquire about the he in question when another knock came to the front door. Tommy barked a come in before you had the chance to protest otherwise. Your mouth closed just as quickly as it opened when the door swung open, the brooding frame that dipped through the entryway nearly knocking the wind out of your lungs. Your hands fell from your hips, body yielding to the sheer panic that began to settle in your bones.
“Joel,” you breathed when he walked through the door frame, focusing his eyes on you. Frustration melted into pure terror at that moment. You couldn’t even allow yourself to admire his gelled curls or dashing suit; the unsettling nature of his arrival taking precedence. It was true, you had seen Joel more often these last few years than ever before. But never like this. In your fathers space without his presence, seeking you out on his own volition.
He closed the door carefully behind him, exchanging a look with Tommy, somewhat winded in the way he spoke. “Can y’all give us a moment?” he muttered, to which Tommy provided a curt nod, gesturing his hand for the other men to follow him out of the foyer, towards the adjacent common room.
As their footsteps fizzled out, Joel returned his attention towards you, yet, his eyes were on the floor. He took calculated steps, and you felt your chest tightening with an unspoken terror.
“What’s going on?” A repeated question, but barely a whisper. Unsure if you were prepared for the answer that followed.
Joel stopped his tracks a few feet before you, looking at you with hooded eyes and a hung head. There was an exhaustion to his face, one that you had always noted, but now seemed deeply personal.
“Darlin’, why don’t you sit down?”
No endearing name in the world could have persuaded you to react positively to his suggestion. You scoffed in disbelief, taking a few steps back away from him. This wasn’t like Joel. He didn’t bullshit, he didn’t have time to beat around the bush. You had seen it time and time again, a ruthless hand dealt to those that wronged him. But here he was, cradling you like glass, assuming you may break.
You had always been treated by him as an equal, something that was lacking in this moment, and you couldn’t bear to accept it.
“I don’t want to fucking sit down, Joel. I want to know what the hell is going on?” Nobody could get away with such a tone in front of Joel Miller.
Nobody except you.
And maybe, a part of you knew that.
He gritted his teeth, clearly putting his most patient foot forward. You got the impression being challenged wasn’t a task he dealt with often. He lifted a hand, bringing it to the coarse hair on his cheeks and scratching at it. Something you knew he often did when he was overwhelmed. “I don’t—I don’t know any good way to say this, darlin’. I really, really don’t,” he muttered, a foreign defeat in his tone. And when he looked to you then, the vulnerability in his sorrow filled eyes was enough to have your head spinning.
You felt the air leave your chest. Blinking at him rapidly, you took a few more miscalculated steps back, as if the distance would change the outcome. You only spoke once your back hit the wall.
"Who?" One question that held the weight of the entire world. You would look back on this moment one day, and you would recall that buried in the confines of your subconscious, you knew. You knew the reason Tommy was sent to wrangle you into one place. You knew the reason Joel wanted to be the one to speak with you. You knew what he wanted to speak with you about, as there was nothing more dire amongst the unrelated family than losing one of their own. This was damage control, and you were soon to be broken pieces in the fallout.
Joel took a long moment, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip, his brows pulled melancholic over his dark eyes. Maybe, his voice even wavered a little. "They were leavin' the port. I— the whole thing wasn't s'posed to take more than twenty minutes. Next thing I know, I'm gettin' calls about a hijack and—”
The details wouldn't do any good. You figured Joel deciphered that much by the look on your face, trembling lips and wide eyes peering into his very soul. He drew in a long breath, only to release it as a defeated sigh.
"I'm so sorry."
The scream left your throat before you even had a chance to acknowledge it was there. A wail of burning hot agony that sent you to the ground, sliding back against the wall, losing feeling in your limbs. The world around you morphed into a blur of white noise and tears. You didn't know how you got there, but mere seconds passed before you collapsed against Joel's chest. He fell to his knees before you, catching you in your grief. The thundering sound of footsteps echoed from the living room; you couldn't hear the words he said, but you saw the distorted outline of Tommy's troubled face as he hovered over you and Joel. Voices turned into static, suddenly vividly aware of the beating of your heart against your chest and the pattern of your breathing that grew uneven the more you became aware of it.
"Joel, she's gonna send herself into a fuckin' panic like that."
"Goddamnit, Tommy. I know, okay. Just - just go, just give us some space."
"What're we gonna do with her?"
"Kinda fuckin' question s'that? Take your men and get out, m'stayin' here. I'll call you when…"
You would've hurled to the floor if it wasn't for the stability of Joel. No matter how deep your nails stung his skin, he let you cling to him, wet face cradled in the crook of his elbow as you sobbed incoherent strings of agony. This was it. This was the moment you became truly alone, a fear so grand it had haunted you your entire life before it finally manifested before you. Who were you? Every success and comfort you had ever experienced in your life was dealt by the hand of your fathers achievements. How would you sustain, provide any sort of sense for yourself in this world? A world you only navigated by the guidance and protection of others. Maybe your biggest fear wasn’t being alone, but being abandoned by the only people you had ever known as secure. 
What use would the Millers have for you now? 
You weren’t sure if you recalled the rest of that evening correctly, but you knew through its entirety, Joel was with you. He was carrying you in his arms from your hurdle on the floor, guiding you up the stairs and into your bedroom. He sat you at the edge of the mattress, kneeling between your knees as you held your face between your hands, hunched over and only stable by the way he gripped your biceps tenderly to keep you upright. He undid the clasp of your heels, gingerly taking them off your feet. You weren’t sure how long it took you to register any words he had said to you, but Joel remained patient, despite the glint of vengeance behind his eyes. 
He helped you to your feet when you were ready, leading you towards the bathroom. He sat outside the door the entire time you undressed and willed yourself into a scalding shower, the sound of your wails echoing off the tiled walls. You managed to get yourself into your t-shirt and underwear before the internal pain overcame you again, and you were gripping at the wall, only for your vision to blur and your body to sink back to the floor. Joel must have heard ruckus from beyond the wall, for he was through the door in an instant, finding refuge on the floor with you. This time, he didn’t need to pull you to him. You crawled into his lap willingly, wrapping your arms around his neck and squeezing onto him for dear life. He wrapped you up into him, flushing you to his chest with strong, safe arms. The sensation of his body providing some relief to the way yours ached. 
He placed a chaste kiss on your temple, burying his face into your damp hair. Your sputtering cries rattled you against him, but Joel held you steady and never let go. 
“Listen to me,” he whispered, delicately rocking your bodies to a steady, subtle back and forth. He could read you so acutely, providing the exact comfort you needed. “M’gonna find who did this, darlin’.” 
Fatigue was beginning to consume you, the array of emotions you felt suddenly an overwhelming wall you were endlessly crashing into. Grief. Sadness. Anger. Wrath. 
“And when I do—” 
But even in your state of debilitating anguish, you didn’t miss Joel’s vow to you. The very first promise. 
“I will kill them.” 
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PRESENT DAY.
When you wake up in his bed, he isn’t there. But the smell of him is.
Your body aches as you stretch out onto the mattress, the sun soaking through the curtains warms your naked skin, limbs tangled messily around the sheets. It takes your eyes a moment to open themselves and adjust to the stinging light, a vast contrast to the dark clouds that haunted the horizon just hours ago.
And when you feel the dull throb pulsing between your legs, you’re quickly reminded of the events that took place beneath those clouded skies.
You cannot help the anguish that washes over you. An emptiness so profound, emotion stings at your eyes again. When you sit up, you survey the mess around you. Your nightgown, robe, and panties along with Joel’s sweatpants are still splayed mindlessly across the room.
And yet, it feels so empty without him.
You don’t sit long, swiftly flopping back against the pillows. This time, you bury your face in the one he had been occupying. Breathing deeply through your nose until your throat is stinging and tears grace your cheeks. You are unable to pinpoint the catalyst for your crying, something you think you have done more in the last three months than your entire life. 
At first, there is a sense of catharsis: the lingering thrill of the evening's endeavors have you on a staggering high. Imprinted on your mind is the look in his eyes just before he kissed you, the skim of his fingertips against your skin, and how attentive he was to your every need. You had never before experienced a man intimately the way you did Joel Miller, and now that you’ve had him, you are not sure you will be able to let him go. Which ultimately leads you into the next misfortune —
How is any of this supposed to work? Sure, Joel has been more than accommodating to you during your time within his walls, but that does not mean he plans on keeping you around forever. 
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted you like this, darlin.’” 
His words are a never ending echo, a sliver of hope. What good would dwelling on any of the uncertainty do now when you could not even speak with him? Joel may be many things, but he has never been unfair with you. Regardless of his feelings towards your predicament, he would surely offer you a conversation. At least that is what you convince yourself of, forcing yourself up and out of the bed with one last deep inhale of his pillowcase. 
After garnering your things and wrapping your robe around yourself, you manage your way down the top floor corridor sight unseen. The clock in the hallway reads 8:23, and you wonder just how early Joel slipped away from you. Though, you try not to think about it too hard. The reminder of his absence, oblivious to where he is, sending a recurring pang of restlessness through your gut. You lock yourself safely in his bedroom, not a speck out of place from where you left it last night. However, there is one thing different. 
When you flip on the bathroom light, you gasp softly at the reflection in the mirror. Aside from the inevitable nest of hair and bags of sleep under your eyes, you are taken aback at the sight of yourself. Flushed cheeks and swollen lips, your eyes study the discernable welts littering your neck and outline of your collarbone. Most of them are a faint sort of pink tone, but a few splotch in deep hues of purple and blue. You lift an unsteady hand to run the tips of your finger over a particularly dark spot at the base of your throat, wincing ever so slightly at the tenderness. You had not even realized while it was happening how carnal your desires manifested, the marks left behind an elongated reminder, sparking vivid memories of the night prior. 
You will cherish every one of them until he returns. 
There is a newfound confidence to the way you carry yourself that morning. So much so that after your shower, you make a beeline for Joel’s closet, finding one of his sweaters that will best cover your chest and neck to adorn for the day. Warm and gray, you relish in the way it engulfs you, flooded by his aroma. The only drug that could curb your fraying nerves. You pick a pair of your own sweatpants, taking your time to comb through your damp hair and braiding it out of your face before you descend the stairs. You have no plans to leave the estate anytime soon, but as the evening's recollection flows back to you, you do recall the intended presence of another that just may help you get more answers to Joel’s whereabouts. 
If there is one place you can count on finding Tommy Miller at this time of morning, it is in the kitchen with a plate full of food. 
When you reach the first floor, rounding the corner from the hallway into the kitchen, you bite back the smirk on your face to find your assumptions correct. Peering up from the counter with a mouthful of sausage, you are gifted with a cheeky grin from the younger Miller brother. 
“Well, well, well,” Tommy tsks after swallowing, swiveling in the barstool at the countertop to face you. “Look who finally decided to wake the hell up.” 
You roll your eyes at his pestering, but contentedly walk towards him and accept his grizzly embrace. There is a comfort in Tommy Miller. Different than that of Joel, but soothing nonetheless. When he pulls away from you, you notice the minor shift in his eyes, an eruption of fragility. 
“How you holdin’ up?” The question is vague and sincere, but you know it is in reference to one thing and one thing only. The last time you saw Tommy in person had been the evening of the charity event, when he showed up to your now sold condo just before Joel arrived with the news of your father. 
You offer him a shrug, wrapping your arms around yourself and teetering from one foot to the other. “I’ve…I’ve been good, yeah. Doing good.” You nod along with your words, wondering just who you are trying to convince. “I haven’t really, uh, gotten out much since everything but—” another shrug. Useless, useless girl. “I’m hoping that can change sooner rather than later.” 
Tommy takes another bite of his food, gesturing at you with his fork. “You take all the time you need to regroup, ya hear me?” He raises his brows at you, displaying earnestness. You know he means well, everyone in the group who has taken the time to acknowledge your grief does. But it does little to reduce the ever growing shame of being incapable of taking care of yourself. 
Your eyes flit carefully around the room then. It is a rare occurance to have the common spaces alone with one of the Miller brothers. Normally, a lower rank of man would be present, or the grounds chef preparing their next meal, other hired workers serving an obscene amount of whiskey or cigarettes whenever necessary. Cleaning crews. Deliveries. A place of this size takes careful attention to detail. You hardly left the upper levels without imperative cause, but today, you decide it is best to take advantage of the silence. 
You round the counter, standing in front of Tommy who has wasted no time diving back into his breakfast, trying your best to be inconspicuous. “Did, um—” you clear your throat, tapping your fingertips against the granite countertops. “Did Joel mention when he may be back?” 
The way Tommy looks at you then has your stomach flipping and warmth pooling in your cheeks. At first, he is merely peering up at you through hooded eyes, chewing slowly as he deciphers the curiosity on your face. But then, you notice the way his gaze travels over your torso, and you have to bite hard on the inside of your cheek to avoid a reaction. It’s not like bringing Joel into conversation is anything new, but you know Tommy is no fool. He knows you know he’s no fool. You both know that is not your sweatshirt. Please, God, let this neckline be high enough. You’re too afraid to adjust the collar, knowing that if any of your special marks are peeking through, you would be feeding him a dead giveaway. 
“Said a few days,” Tommy finally picks up, wiping his mouth with his napkin. You release the breath you had been holding, thankful for whatever reason he gave himself to not question your unusually disheveled nature this morning. “But to be honest with you, I never really know what that means.” 
Neither do you. All you have left to cling onto are his promises. 
But suddenly, a few days turns into a week. A week into two, and you are left without answers only to be drowning in more questions. The most unbearable part is the lack of information. Tommy remains readily available at the estate, and on the occasion you weasel your way into crossing his path, he only offers you the same, ambiguous answers: We’re looking into it. Don’t worry too much, honey. Why don’t you go get some rest, and I’ll check in later?
You resign yourself to the guest room most nights, unable to endure the constant reminders of him in the room you had been inhabiting for months. His room. Each day, your mind grows increasingly distraught, morbid scenarios playing out vividly, so much so that you think you may convince yourself he is already dead before you even have any concrete evidence to assume there is any truth to the idea. Stir crazy is an understatement. 
On day thirteen, you cannot even begin to decipher what time it is anymore. Your body perpetually curled into a ball at the center of the mattress, blank eyes staring mindlessly out the window. You had not left the room in days, and while Tommy attempts to be as attentive as possible, you get the idea he simply is not as suave in handling such fragility. Joel would know exactly what to do. Instead of prying, the younger Miller orders the rest of his men and staff to provide you with ample space, leaving your meals outside the doorway, sliding slips of paper under the door with any vital notices or information. They seldom come. 
And just when you think you may be able to impose yourself into some sort of slumber, the lack of sleep the weeks provided a detriment to your overall condition, the commotion begins outside your window. 
You startle to attention with a gasp, propping up from your half daze to pinpoint where the noise is coming from. First, it is an array of voices that begin as chatter and evolve into shouting. They are quickly accompanied by footsteps pattering down the front steps, followed by the sound of tires screeching against the gravel. Your heart sinks into your stomach. 
You cannot think, cannot breathe as you scramble from the confines of the sheets, senselessly dragging on whatever articles of clothing are splayed around you in the room to give yourself some sort of modesty as you hurdle towards the window. You are unable to categorize every thought, every worry that plagues you as you anticipate the scene below. Your hands tremble as you fumble with the lock on the balcony, sliding the door open with fervor and padding eagerly towards the edge. Your eyes take a moment to adjust to the sudden influx of light, but then, you are watching Tommy bolt down the front steps towards the large black SUV in the drive. His own shouting mixes with that of the other men that litter out behind him as he slams his hands against the front bumper, ordering the driver to open the back doors. You hold your breath, unsure of who or what would step out, what condition they would be in, if it is even worth getting your hopes up. 
The tears of relief are instant upon Joel stepping out from the back passenger side. 
You brace yourself against the rail of the balcony, feeling the knot in your stomach grow into an overwhelming wave of nausea. As if you had been holding every bit of yourself inside only for it to tumble over in a mixture of contrasting anger and reprieve. He’s here. He’s alive. He’s in one piece, save for the busted lip and black eye you guarantee have a much deeper story than what was intended to be a “quick trip” to Texas.  
“I’m fine. I’m fine, okay?” You can make out his rushed reassurance upon the onslaught of Tommy’s questioning. A herd of men surrounding Joel Miller is not an uncommon sight, but to be sharing in their experience of alleviation is a newfound feeling. A sense of comradery, a sense of family that perhaps you had neglected since your fathers passing. 
And then it happens, drawn like magnets. He is peering up at the building, his eyes almost immediately finding you on the balcony. You feel the air suck out of you again, and as much as you want to defy his gaze, you cannot bring yourself to let it go. The wounds that coated your insides slowly begin their descent into absolution. You spot the all too familiar look of shame in his eyes, more focused on you than the rush of men around him impatient for answers. Your chin begins to wobble, and before you allow him any of  your tears, you rip yourself from the ledge, scurrying back into the security of the bedroom. 
You’re pacing rapidly, struggling to catch an even breathing pattern as you try to rationalize every emotion you have felt in the last two weeks. Of course, there isn't enough time. Not enough time to process the grief you had been reliving all over again at the thought of losing someone else so soon. Not enough time to process the disgust you inevitably discovered you felt after Joel fucked you and promised to return only to disappear for weeks. Not enough time to prepare yourself to face him, which comes sooner rather than later, and you wonder just how long you have been terrorizing the room with your uneven steps before the knock comes to the door. 
You freeze. You don’t speak. Instead, you eye the wooden door with a pained expression. There is no escaping who is beyond it, and you are not left guessing long. He waits three beats, and then, ever so slowly, opens the door with a soft creak. And when he does, he doesn’t move either. Firmly planted in the doorway, somber eyes looking at you with what you can only assume is reluctance and fear. 
Up close, the damage to his face looks worse than it did down below. You want so badly to run to him, soothe away the pain with your lips, demand he tell you who inflicted such suffering, and insist on retribution. Just like you know he would do for you. 
But you don’t. You can’t. The disappointment for his lack of consideration for you is far too grand to set aside. He must know you are awaiting his move, for he releases the door handle, taking in a large breath and clearing his throat. 
“Hi, darlin.’” 
You wonder how your face must look to him; jaw slightly slack in shock of such a mundane greeting, trembling lower lip, and brows pulled together in indiscrete distaste. Your hands shake at your sides as you fight the urge to rip your hair out. 
You wait until you're certain your voice won't completely falter before you speak. “Where the fuck have you been?” you rasp, wasting little time in pressing on fresh wounds. 
Joel’s eyes fall from you then, looking to the ground, full of guilt. He brings one of his hands up to run across his face, wincing when his thumbs grazes the sensitive skin around his left eye. He looks exhausted. 
“Listen, darlin’, I’m–” 
“No! Fuck, Joel–!” your voice raises an octave, feet carrying you forward in a strut of defiance until you are standing your ground just a few feet in front of him, hot tears brimming on your waterline. “I don’t wanna hear some – some pathetic excuse you think I need to hear because I’m too fragile!” There is a grit to your voice you are certain he has never heard, the reminisce of betrayal. “I want to know where the fuck you’ve been, what on earth you have been doing, and why you lied to me about how long it would be!” 
He takes it. Your shouting, your anger, he takes it, and he doesn’t shy away from it landing on him. He does not silence you in fear that someone may hear, or call you irrational. He does not interrupt you or condemn you for not giving him the chance to explain himself; you’re unsure whether or not you have the forgiveness to even allow him to explain himself. He licks his lips slowly, opening his mouth to speak before shutting it, eyes still unable to meet you. His silence is deafening, and you feel the familiar surge of panic in your gut. 
Your patience runs thin. “Joel!” you shout at him, and he has no choice but to snap his attention back up to you, nostrils flaring and lips pressed into a hardline. 
“Fuck,” he grits through his teeth, swinging an arm behind him to shut the door, this time a solid slam, before he is stalking towards you. You let him. Holding your ground as he towers over you. You scowl up at him, doing your best to keep your emotions at bay. “I wasn’t in Texas, alright? I was…I was just a few hours south.” 
Oh. 
You shake your head up at him, slowly. “You lied to me.” You are unable to decide which instinct is more prevalent, rage or betrayal. Perhaps they are two sides of the same coin. You had always known Joel Miller was a man of many trades, inevitably using tactics that were less than orthodox in nature to get what he wanted. Never once did you imagine you would be a part of that stratagem. 
“Yes,” he said carefully, like he is treading water. He doesn’t deny it, and gosh, does it sting. “Yes, I did.”
“Why?” 
It is the next logical question, but he still sighs like the weight of it is debilitating. “‘Cause…’cause I knew if I told’ya where I was goin’, you wouldn’t like it.” 
You scoff out an incredulous laugh, folding your arms over your chest. “Oh, so you thought a quick fuck and walking out on us for two weeks without any contact was a better alternative?” You regret the venom words as soon as you say them. They’re unfair, but then again, so was the way Joel left you. “You promised me. You looked me in the eyes and promised you would be back in just a few days. You knew how much I trusted you, how much I needed you to tell me the truth.” You could see his own retaliation brewing behind his eyes, and yet, nothing could have prepared you for the words that come next. 
“I got a lead on the man that killed your father.” 
That shut you up. Slowly, your arms fall from your chest, taut features lowering in bewilderment. Joel studies you for a moment, and you think he must see the calm wash over you because his own features soften knowingly. He takes another step towards you, and again, you let him, feeling the daze of his proximity you had been craving for weeks. You had always known there was a chance this moment would come, but now that it is here, you realize you had done very little to prepare for it. 
“I tracked him down for three days,” he begins to explain, thankful for him filling the silence as you are unable to find the right words. “Whoever he’s with noticed I was around, ‘cause they sent some little fucker to take me out.” He ran the tip of his tongue over his split lip then, indicating the injuries origin. 
Guilt. It consumes you. Of course, Joel notices the shift; he is more in tune to you than any person you have ever met. His hands are on you then, coming up to carefully cradle your cheeks. You know you should protest, push him and his hands off of you, but you cannot find the strength. Their warm embrace is a familiar luxury, and instead, you are peering up at him with melancholic eyes, feeling the weight of the lump in your throat grow again. 
“I thought,” you start softly, blinking up at him. “I thought maybe you didn't come back because you – you regretted —” You can’t bring yourself to finish your sentence. You feel foolish; a foolish little girl who is too caught up in the sorrows of her own life to see into the lives of others, projecting your own grief onto those around you. “— or something, something much worse—”
“No,” he cuts you off earnestly, and you sigh when he lets his own eyes shut and leans his forehead against yours. You try to match his breathing. Time and time again over the last three months, Joel has watched you come undone. Terrorized by a panic that could only be linked to loss. He knows your triggers, the tell-tale signs of anxiety he would try his best to soothe you from.
“No, darlin’. I’m right here. M’alright, all in one piece,” he reassures gently. That fear in your gut is replaced by relief, and you cannot help yourself from allowing your hands to reach for him, seeking a stronghold in the collar of his shirt. “And I don’t regret a thing.” You are inundated by the whole of him again, weeks of anguish replaced with unyielding warmth and familiarity. You want to bathe yourself in him, ask him for forgiveness for your harsh words, kiss away his pain, and equally thank and scold him for putting himself in harms way for you. Because that is what this lie really was, wasn’t it? A means of taking care of you, no matter how many promises he had to break to do so. Perhaps not all of them could be prioritized, and you would learn to live with it. You could live with that if it meant having Joel. 
You give yourself grace, hoping that he may absolve your behavior, and grant yourself the desire of feeling him. You rise to your toes, letting your own eyes fall closed, focusing on the mix of your breathing. But just as you are about to let yourself consume him and cross the threshold of the unspoken, you feel Joel grow rigid. His hands stop your face from inching any closer, peeling himself away from you, and with it, your eyes open, confusion replacing the momentary ease. 
“Darlin’, we – we can’t.” 
You’re not sure you hear him correctly. Loosening your grip on his shirt, you gawk up at him. “But – but you just said that –” 
“I know,” he cuts you off again, and when you find his eyes, you are taken aback to see the blatant reservation. Like he is struggling, fighting against giving into you in the way he did so easily just weeks prior. The shift hurdles into your chest with the weight of a thousand bricks. 
“I don’t understand,” you whisper, taking a step back from him. 
His hands flex mid air before dropping to his sides, and he is looking at you like the burden of his thoughts could crumble you into pieces. You aren’t sure how much more of that feeling you can take. He inhales another deep breath, pursing his lips. “Darlin,’ this–” he gestures in between the two of you. “This ain’t a good idea.” 
You know Joel is analytical. Calculated. Often never making a decision without an acute amount of thought. But fuck, you had no idea he could be so goddamn stupid. 
Now it’s your turn to stare at him, study him. For a moment, the realization of what he said did not register. You have half a mind to laugh right in his face; there was no way his mind could have changed so drastically without even seeing you for two weeks, right? No possibility that he would end whatever is blossoming in between the two of you, a festering flower that had craved the chance to bloom for years, without even providing a reason as to why. Other than the sudden decision that this isn’t a good idea. 
But then, you see it. The sincerity. The promise he seems to have already made to himself. Your face falls before you are furrowing your brows at him in disbelief, instinctively taking two more paces back to which he follows with one forward. 
“I promise you, that night really was one of the best—”
“No.” You raise a hand, stopping him. You wouldn’t entertain another one of his false promises. “You’ve…you’ve made yourself clear enough, Joel.” He wants you. Just not enough to fight for you. Not enough to problem solve when things get tough, and you would not be the girl who reduced herself to begging a man to stay, searching for an explanation to his decision that he did not even have the decency to give you in the first place. You wouldn't do it. 
Your whole life, you have lived on the outside of this circle. A circle that swore their lives to protect you while always keeping you at an arm's length — Joel had been the first one to let you straddle that threshold, inviting you into a deeper part of him and his world with uniquely open arms. He made you feel special. 
But perhaps you had misread his intentions, after all. Joel didn’t need to die to abandon you, he just had to be a fucking coward. The thought makes you sick.
You wrap your arms around yourself, hoping the pressure will soothe your ever growing nerves. You don’t look at him, tilting your detached gaze onto the floor just past his feet. “Can you just go, please?” you croak at him, and you are certain he can see the way your bottom lip returns to its tremble. You chew harshly on the inside of your bottom lip. No, he doesn’t get to see you cry this time. 
He doesn’t move at first, lingering between you and the door, a palpable tension filling the space. You hear him inhale as if he will grace you with even more disappointing words, but he spares you the blunder, muttering a barely audible alright before shuffling back the way he came. There wouldn’t be any more discussion about it, and just as quickly as you had felt a semblance of belonging, you are back to utter loneliness. 
You wait until the door latches shut and the sound of his footsteps are long gone before you force yourself to the edge of the bed, sitting down with your head hanging in your hands, panting heavy breaths. You can feel your heart pounding painfully fast against your chest, a wave of dizziness overtaking you and sending you back against the mattress. You yank the sheets over you, surrounding yourself in them, as if you could sink into them and never have to return to disheartening reality. You bury your face as far as it will go into the pillows before releasing the blood curdling scream from the back of your throat. 
This had not been how you imagined your reunion to go; dreams of being wrapped up in his strong, protective arms, peppered with desperate kisses, unafraid of who may see. You imagined he would have swept you away to his room, promising you he would tell you everything about his travels just as soon as he could have you to himself again. And you would have obliged. Happily. Content to be left in the dark of the details in his endeavors if it meant the opportunity to feel his skin against yours again. 
You know you aren’t thinking straight, but the sting of abandonment is too much to bear, eminently so that you are not thinking twice about grabbing one of the duffle bags from the closet and filling it to the brim with your necessary belongings. You are not sure you can handle another moment within these walls. Through sobs and sniffles, you wait until night falls over the grounds, bracing your ear against the door to listen to any signs of movement. And when you feel certain the majority of the estate's inhabitants are fast asleep, you make your descent down the stairs towards the back doors, giving one last look behind you before you escape into the daunting night. 
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song inspo:
tag list: @casa-boiardi @dinsdjrn @scarletsloveletter @subconsciouscollapse @thetriumphantpanda@mommasnakesss@cupofjoel@tightjeansjavi@sinsofsummers @morning-star-joy@whichwitchwanda@prettyangelsthings @nostalxgic @aphterthoughtt @drewharrisonwriter @scroogles @ilovepedro@rosaliedepp@gintheginger @escapingjunex @lizlil@sanscas @fifia-writes@evylzzz @koshkaj-blog @mxtokko @pedrosaidsheispunk @dins-riduur-anthe @sakuralikestars @spookyprofessorknightflap @therealmrspascal
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forestdeath1 · 29 days
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Canon Sirius through quotes
Part 1. Appearance
In the canon, he's described as handsome 3 times from Harry's point of view - but never pretty. By the way, Harry has only described four people as handsome (+ Tom Riddle, Cedric Diggory and Gellert Grindelwald).
"Sirius was tall and handsome. He loped with an easy grace, his hands in his pockets and a grin on his face."
"Beside him was Sirius, carelessly handsome, his slightly arrogant face so much younger and happier than Harry had ever seen it alive."
"Sirius stared around at the students milling over the grass, looking rather haughty and bored, but very handsomely so."
"Sirius was lounging in his chair at his ease, tilting it back on two legs. He was very good-looking; his dark hair fell into his eyes with a sort of casual elegance neither James’s nor Harry’s could ever have achieved, and a girl sitting behind him was eyeing him hopefully, though he didn’t seem to have noticed."
"He's still handsome, isn't he, even after Azkaban?" (Tonks about Sirius, Pottermore)
So, Sirius was handsome, but definitely not pretty. The word handsome can be used for all genders, highlighting attributes like strength, elegance, or a more classic form of beauty.
His height is described as tall several times. James is described as the same height as Harry in the Deathly Hallows, meaning at the time of his death James was as tall as Harry in the 7th book: “James was exactly the same height as Harry”. He was described as tall in later books but not as tall as other characters like Dumbledore, Ron, Sirius, Draco, Tom Riddle, Bill.
In England, as in most Western countries, a man is usually considered tall if he is over 6 feet. Typically, very tall is considered to be 6 feet 3 inches and above. So, James could be somewhere from 6 to 6'3", and Sirius taller, say 6'3"-6'4", Remus possibly under 6', but not short, since Harry doesn't note his height at all.
"To Sirius’s right stood Pettigrew, more than a head shorter, plump and watery-eyed, flushed with pleasure at his inclusion in this coolest of gangs, with the much admired rebels that James and Sirius had been."
The average head length of an adult, regardless of gender and age, usually about 8.7 to 9.8 inches. So, Peter was noticeably shorter.
6'3"-6'4" is indeed very tall. (When fanon gives Remus a height of 6.7, I wonder, have you often seen such giants in real life? My granddad is 6'8" – and he's huge to me, frighteningly so.)
After Azkaban and in the fifth book, he has long hair, but in the fourth book, when Sirius is doing well and is relaxing somewhere in the south, he has short hair.
"Sirius looked different – the hair was short and clean now, Sirius’ face was fuller, and he looked younger, much more like the only photograph Harry had of him, which had been taken at the Potters’ wedding."
"Sirius, when he still had short hair" (Moody about Sirius in the Order of the Phoenix photo)
Though in the story about Sirius and James for the auction, Sirius had long hair in 1977:
"The one who had been driving had long black hair; his insolent good looks reminded Fisher unpleasantly of his daughter’s guitar-playing, layabout boyfriend."
I prefer him with long hair, so that's usually what I go with.
Build isn't described. We know Regulus was definitely smaller than Sirius, but nothing specific about Sirius himself.
"Regulus was instantly recognisable as the boy sitting in the middle of the front row: he had the same dark hair and slightly haughty look of his brother, though he was smaller, slighter and rather less handsome than Sirius had been."
His animagus form is a bear-like dog of huge size, but that’s a weak argument.
"The enormous, bear-like dog bounded forwards."
Perhaps canonically Sirius was naturally inclined to muscle (i.e., tall and muscular rather than lanky, because lankiness usually suggests skinniness. Regulus, likely, was lanky), but since he probably didn't engage in activities like workouts, he wasn't exactly buff. Muscles don't just appear out of thin air, but some people are naturally more muscular. Basically, a normal build that doesn't need any special description (not bulky, not skinny, just normal, but tall).
He definitely doesn’t have any tattoos described, but it's unlikely Harry would have inspected every part of his body for tattoos... So, I don’t quite get it when someone says "Sirius didn’t have tattoos". It's a blank slate.
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focsle · 1 year
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I never did a long thing about scrimshaw, so it’s time! At 1 am, apparently.
I think scrimshaw is one of the most fascinating material goods to emerge from the history of the American whaling industry (which is the context I’m discussing here, though of course the artform exists across numerous eras and cultures outside this brief blip of nautical history).
It’s one way to see amatuer art that usually doesn’t often survive in other forms. To see the art project of an ordinary man who was bored and needed something to do with his hands. Others were highly skilled craftsman, creating intricate engravings or mechanically expert tools. The most common scrimshaw was images etched on sperm whale teeth. Sometimes those images came from the maker’s own imagination and sometimes they were copied illustrations. Ships & whaling scenes, women, mythical figures, and patriotic symbols make up the bulk of the visual language in those pieces that survive.
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But alongside the teeth were all a manner of carved items: canes, candle holders, pie crimpers, children’s toys, sewing boxes, yarn swifts, corset busks. So much bone fashioned into quiet little homegoods. And it’s that contradiction within scrimshaw that fascinates me. The brutality of the industry, this ivory from an animal that frankly died terribly, that’s then softened into a little domestic item. An object that could have hours to years of work put into it. Some were made to be sold but many were made as gifts. In the long stretches of boredom at sea, in the lull between back-breaking work and life-threatening terror, scrimshaw gives a window into where the minds of these men continually turned. It shows where their hearts were and what they were holding on to over all the years they spent adrift in saltwater and blood and oil. That’s the poetry I see in scrimshaw. Pain and love and longing and creativity and playfulness all bound together in these complicated little pieces that found their way out of the hands of their anonymous makers to preserve a small part of their story.
Some scrimshanders names are known. Frederick Myrick is one of the most well known American whalers, not so much for the scope of his life (of which little is known) but for his scrimshaw. Born in Nantucket in 1808, he first went whaling in 1825 on the Columbus and then again on the Susan 1826-29. In the last few months aboard the Susan, Myrick engraved over 30 sperm whale teeth, all depicting the ship he was on (though there are a handful that depict other vessels). He signed and dated nearly each one. These pieces are often referred to as ‘Susan’s Teeth’ now, and when one comes up at auction it’s not unusual for it to sell for six figures.
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Many of the teeth Myrick scrimshawed included an inscribed couplet of his devising: A dark wish for luck that succinctly gets at the violent and unstable heart of American whaling.
“Death to the living, long life to the killers Success to sailor’s wives, and greasy luck to whalers”
Sometimes large scenes were etched on panbones as well.
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Moving from scrimshaw on teeth and jawbones, pie crimpers are some of the more common sculptural items. Popular motifs included animals (dogs, snakes, and unicorns/hippocampus are big), body parts (mostly clenched fists or lady’s legs), and geometric designs.
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Others were more mechanically complicated, such as automatons and children’s toys with moving parts and gears. Here’s one of a small rocking sailboat, perhaps made for someone’s child or younger sibling.
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Sometimes a particular creative fellow created something more eccentric, like this wild writing desk kit fashioned out of a carved panbone and sperm whale teeth.
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Another frequently scrimshawed object was a corset busk that would be slid into the front of the garment in order to maintain the posture. A rather private item compared to others. And one with a very on-the-nose message of wearing close to one’s heart the memory of someone who’d be gone for 3-4 years, who might never come home again. On some level, so many of these daily objects whispered ‘forget me not’, ‘think of me while I’m gone’. 
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There’s something tender to all the various domestic items that were fashioned on the job so long and far from home, but it’s the yarn swifts that really captivate me. They were one of the most complicated pieces of scrimshaw to make, with over one hundred different pieces that would have to be carved. It could take someone the length of the voyage (2-4 years) to complete a single one. Unlike teeth which were comparatively very quick to make and were frequently intended to be sold, it’s very unlikely that a swift was made with the aim of selling it because of the significant labor that went into it. They were almost certainly all gifts, and very special ones at that. Every time I see one I can just feel the love towards its intended recipient radiating off of it.
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Scrimshaw captures a specific snapshot of a moment in time. On a broader scale it’s a surviving reminder of a bloody industry that flared up and winked out, preserved in the form of a long-lost ship and the spout of a long-dead whale inked on a yellowing tooth. But that snapshot also reveals the emotional world of the men who were caught up in such an industry: what they valued, what they thought about, what they missed, and what they wanted to be remembered of them.
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heartpiratedrabbles · 3 months
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Burning Desires
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Prompt: Sabo is pent up and dealing with new powers after coming back from another long mission.
Sabo X Fem Reader
It had been about 3 months since the last time you saw your boyfriend. He had left on a ‘secret’ mission claiming he couldn’t inform you of anything only for Dragon to reveal to you that he was sent to Dressrosa to investigate weapon smuggling. Sabo often forgot or chose to ignore the fact that you were also a part of the revolutionary army and would rather you stay away from dangerous situations.
        Despite all that, you, yourself had just gotten back from your own mission from investigating an island providing slaves to the celestial dragons. You had went undercover with a few other people, going as far as being sold yourself, but at the end of the day you destroyed the underground auction and were now exhausted.
        There was an understanding when you or Sabo went undercover that neither people would contact the other until the coast was completely clear, and you were hoping that when you got back, that you’d be able to contact him. But when you arrived there wasn’t any update on when he’d be back.
        So, imagine your surprise when you hear that Luffy miraculously in the same kingdom that as Sabo. The brother he had forgotten about and remembered only when his other one was executed. You read the article on how Doflamingo was defeated and the new bounty on his brother’s head. There is no way Sabo would have heard of Luffy’s whereabouts and not taken the opportunity to see his brother again.
        This most likely meant more paperwork for everyone down the line and more work, but nonetheless you smiled at the thought of your boyfriend finally healing his wounded heart a bit. Sighing, you put the newspapers down, wondering when he’d take the time to contact again.
~~~
        You got an update from Dragon that Sabo had eaten a devil fruit. You didn’t ask many questions, when prompted about it in the past Sabo said he’d be interested if the power felt right. You wondered what the power itself was but thought the surprise of when he comes back would be better. You had read at points that some devil fruits changed the person a bit, them having to get use to the new powers and how their own bodies worked, it’d made sense.
You’re more concerned on how Sabo would have to be more careful around water, he was often the one to jump in after others without a second thought. Koala was with him right now so he shouldn’t be too reckless, but the thought still made your heart skip a beat at the implications.
As you sit at your desk finalizing a report you can hear a small commotion in the hall. Someone probably playing another prank, you think as you look back down at your paper. As you sign your name you jump at the sound of your door being slammed open, enough so that it starts to swing back. Startled you look up to see your boyfriend, with small flames littering his body.
“Sabo?!” You stand up rushing to him to try and put him out, “What happened to you?” As you pat his shoulders quickly the flames seem to only get bigger, their heat slowly growing as well. You realize Sabo isn’t talking you, making you all the more concerned.
As quickly as you had stood up to help him, He pushed you back, kicking the door shut as he saunters to you. “Sabo? What’s wrong?” You look up to see the flames flicker more, “Is. Is that your devil fruit Sabo? Why didn’t you say anything?” You look up at Sabo, his eyes dark and staring at you, as though trying to decide to what to do. You cautiously and slowly wrap your arms around his neck, “Babe? Can you please talk to me?” You inch closer staring up at him with concerned eyes.
“Hot,” Is all he says as he wraps his arms around your waist and kisses you. You deepen the kiss, pulling his closer as you reach one hand up to grab his hat, gently place it to the side before returning your hand to his hair.
He pulls away while gasping for air, “Is that all you have to say to me?” You giggle, “Of course your hot Bo, you’re practically dressed for winter…” You trail your sentence off before slowly pushing his jacket off his shoulders. You see a small spark in his eyes before steals your lips again.
“Missed you. So much,” He mutters in between kisses. You feel a slight heat trickling down your back before it expands. You gasp a bit, trying to arch your back away from the sudden feeling, “Don’t worry” Sabo whispers as you feel him rip your shirt off and toss it to the ground. You glance at the floor seeing your singed shirt, your face getting red.
You tug at Sabo’s shirt and he quickly discards it. Coming back to you he nips at your collarbone, hard enough until he hears you moan. “God, Y/N, I need you,” Sabo groans as he grips your hips tightly. You can feel light flames brush against you as a hand wanders to your breast, squeezing it tightly.
You tug at his hair as he sucks at your neck, “Sabo, please.” You buck your hips towards him and feel him groan into your skin. Just as you reach down to unclip your bra, your office door swings open again.
“Sabo, don’t think you can get out of your work by-“ Koala stops in the doorway looking at the scene in front of her. You make eye contact with her as you quickly wrap your arms around yourself, lightly pushing Sabo away in the process.
Koala seems to be frozen in place as you cower in embarrassment. You see flames sprout from your boyfriend before simmering down with a sigh, picking up his jacket and covering you with it. “I’m sorry babe,” He says leaning down for a gentle, longing kiss. He pulls away, “I promise tonight will be fun.” He winks at you as he smiles and turns away, grabbing his hat.
“Sabo, you forgot your shirt,” Koala says while trying to avoid eye contact with both you and Sabo, stepping aside.
“To hot anyway,” He mutters as he places his hat on his head walking out.
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