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luveline · 2 years ago

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𝐢𝐟 𝐢𝐭 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐬 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧

part one | part two | part three | part four

You don’t mean to make an enemy of Eddie Munson — he’s handsome and talented, but he’s the biggest jerk you’ve ever met. Eddie thinks you’re infuriatingly pretty, emphasis on the infuriating. CH4: You work up the guts to call him, Eddie drags you out on a date, and the looming shadow of an unknown photographer follows you around. [14k]

fem!reader, enemies-to-lovers, rival rockstars, mutual pining, kisses! tender neck kisses <3, past miscommunication, angst, hurt-comfort, sexual tension ish, TW mentioned recreational drug use, drinking, smoking, swearing, nudes MDNI

𓆩❤︎𓆪

Dora’s Convenience, Florida, February 1991

The air here smells like sulphur.

After spending the last four and a half days in Canada, Florida is a shock. The air is warm and thick and the smells are less than pretty —hot baked seaweed floats in on the sea, and the groundwater carries a naturally occurring bacteria that prompts a scent that you can't say you care for— but the people are kind.

Perhaps too long alone with only Morgan, Ananya, and your tour manager, Angel, for company has made you biassed, but so far everyone's been incredibly sweet. Hotel attendants, venue staff, a batch of shiny new techies; all smiling, happy, and willing to help. You haven't carried your own bag since the plane touched down.

Florida is hellishly humid. You miss the freezing bite of cold that accompanied you everywhere in Toronto. You long for a gust of wind that has no smell.

"Come on, wonderboy," Morgan says, tapping her uncharacteristic sneaker into your ankle.

You savour the last blessed seconds of the store's open freezer before closing the door with a brokenhearted frown. The effects of the cold and the clean smell dissipate near immediately, leaving you uncomfortable once again. Morgan continues on without waiting for you, a basket heavy in the crook of her arm. She's got enough glass soda bottles for everybody, yet you doubt she's in a sharing mood. You double back to grab one for you and another for Ananya, winding between aisles and wondering how people can eat half of the stuff on display when the weather is this hot. It feels unlivable.

At the front wall behind plexiglass and an unhappy cashier there's a TV playing Madonna, chirpy pop lyrics clearly not working any wonders.

His long hair shifts against his shoulder with the artificial breeze. He looks a little like Eddie, you think unwittingly, pretty in an unexaggerated way, his eyes big but not brown. You nibble on your lip and put the coke bottles down by Morgan's basket.

"You can go wait in the car," Angel says. Morgan's already left, happy for Angel to foot the bill and carry her things.

You shake your head. You don't mind waiting with her and the car is stifling in the heat. Better to linger in the open air.

The TV fades from Madonna to Guns 'N' Roses. You tilt your head to one side wistfully. No offence meant to your not-boyfriend, but half the rockstars on TV look like Eddie. With the picture small and blurry and up as high as it is on the wall mount, they could swap him out for Slash and you'd be none the wiser. Maybe not half the rockstars, actually —bleaching is all the rage right now, a contrast to Eddie's dark head of hair. You wonder if you'd still want Eddie to press you up against bathroom walls if he were blonde.

Probably.

You're thinking of Eddie less than you worried you would. Things are hectic beyond words, and most spare moments are spent showering, eating, or trying to sleep. Sleeping on the bus was difficult at first due to the tight quarters and loud noise, but you're at a point of exhaustion where Morgan's ranting might as well be a lullaby. The rap of Ananya's sticks against the bench in front of her or her compulsive thigh slapping fades away when you've been awake for eighteen hours straight.

You're in good spirits tonight at the promise of a double bed in your own room. A tiny room, you'd been told, but your own. Privacy feels like a myth lately; you're ravenous for some alone time to do whatever you want without judgement.

You're toying with the idea of asking Angel how you could maybe possibly get into contact with Eddie. You honestly don't have a clue in the world where he is, what state or country. He could be in Alaska and you'd be none the wiser. Where Godless follow locations where they know they'll have full venues, like the Midwest, Canada, and smaller shows in the 'worldwide' branch of their tour later in the year, Corroded Coffin are hitting every venue that's open.

You can't deny it any longer. There's no point, and now you're on good terms you see little worth in pretending Corroded Coffin aren't wildly more popular than Godless. You aren't saying better. But beyond subjectivity is the cold hard truth: Eddie's band are charting high.

Godless' new album is doing better than anyone on your team really expected it to, but, while you're unsure of the inner working politics, you know that the sales team were 'positive' rather than ecstatic. You can't fucking imagine how stuffed the vaults are about to become over at Rollerboy. If they skewed themselves in the right light they could be up there with Van Halen in a year or two. Not that they will, who knows? What you understand about the band is limited to the feel of Eddie's hands and Jamison's quiet rejection.

Point is, Corroded Coffin's new album is about to come out, and it's going to do well, and as far as you know their tour is a sell-out dream.

The cashier bags Morgan's overstuffed basket and moves onto your cokes. Your eyes slide to the magazine stand in front of the checkout.

Exclusive Conversation with Rising Stars of Rock: Corroded Coffin.

You grab it up and try to add it to your stuff inconspicuously, which means you couldn't make it more obvious. Angel snorts.

"Can I escape ridicule for one day?" you ask.

"The ridiculous deserve ridicule." Angel eyes the total and cracks open the touring purse. "You don't need a rockstar boyfriend."

"I'm ridiculous?" you ask wryly.

"Yeah, babe. You and the girls," —she hands over a pretty wad of cash with a keep-the-change nod and grabs the brown paper bags— "might not be the next Aerosmith, but that means jack shit. You guys are awesome, not just 'cause you're my responsibility. I've seen it. I've seen you guys. And I know you hate talking about being a girl band, but you are a girl band–"

You groan. Of course you are. Pretending gender doesn't play into it would be silly. But it gives you a migraine whenever you think about it, so you try not to.

"You guys could be as big as The Bangles. Especially if you stopped wasting time on silly boys," she furthers. Ouch.

Angel steps out into the sunshine. You follow, shielding your eyes as you look for the car, a pretty red Mercedes-Benz with all the windows rolled down.

"The Bangles," you repeat, genuinely surprised by her comparison. "The only thing we have in common with them is that we're girls."

"You know what else you could have in common with them? Mansions and early retirement. Hey, Hazy Shade of Winter was actually good. You should try something like that."

"Uh-huh," you say.

"Hey!" Morgan shouts, shoulders out the passenger side window. "Could you guys at least pretend you have somewhere to be? We aren't all social rejects. A sense of urgency, if you will!"

"Walk slower," Angel mutters. "Ooh, I've dropped my contact. You know, the ones I've miraculously started wearing?"

"Oh no," you giggle, kneeling down to feel for it. You must be rather overdramatic about it, incurring Morgan's whining wrath.

You find Angel's very real contact and return to the car. Morgan drones about her throat and how it's reacting to the constantly changing weather, and then swaps tactics when nobody is quite as pitying as she would've liked to complain about Ananya's "antisocial behaviour".

Ananya has taken to listening to her Walkman non-stop while not on stage. Bad for her hearing, good for her mental health, you imagine. It came about after a missing wad of cash and has yet to see an end. You resent and revere Ananya's determination, jealous that she's escaping Morgan's frankly horrendous behaviour, amazed that she has the willpower.

The more you know Morgan, the less you’ve felt you could love her. It might be cruel to recognise that. She demeans your style, pokes fun at your body, and worst of all, she takes the piss out of your constant dedication to the music you make.

Proud isn't the right word when describing the relationship you have with making music. You aren't proud of yourself for anything. You'd pictured a sort of satisfaction in getting to this point, now that you're a real musician in a famous band with sweetheart fans and the occasional acclaim. You should feel proud of yourself, but you don't.

You'd felt relief, and now the agony of clinging to it.

Worse is that this could all be different. If you were prettier, someone Morgan approved of. If you were smarter, and could garner Ananya's interest. Feeling like an outsider in the extreme that you do can't be good for you, but there's no quick fix. The only time it goes away is when you're on stage playing music for a thousand outsiders.

Or when you're with Eddie.

As you stupidly told him.

What good will it do, telling a boy how you feel? When he's off map, surrounded by people who think he's great and women who won't stop telling him so. Maybe boys, too. You can't get a read on him.

Naive as it was to tell him– whatever it was that you told him. I don't feel sick when I'm with you. How romantic. Naive as it was, you don't totally regret it. He'd sought you out at your show to take you to dinner and suddenly he's cutting the sleeves off of your t-shirt in a family owned pizza place and kissing your neck all slow and smooth like it's the only place in the world he wanted to be. His hand at your waist, and the way he stopped when you got quiet. His hug. That might be what you miss most. Boy's got a world-class smile that gives dizzying, sickly kisses but what you want to feel most is the weight of his arms around you. You want him to hold you steady.

People suck. Eddie sucks. He was mean and then he was sweet and now he's just not here.

You want to see him again.

What a sickening revelation. Anxiety pricks your fingers, pins and needles shooting down the lengths of your arms from your skipping heart. You stick your head as far as you dare to out of the window, taking deep breaths to fight the nausea.

If it barks like a dog, and it heels like a dog…

You grip the door.

You miss him, and it's terrifying. He can be cruel. You can be cruel too, but you'd been at his fucking mercy. He'd looked at you and he'd known exactly what to say that was gonna mess you up. He has a talent for it. You hate this, and you know now you won't sleep until you're sure things are okay between you, though there's no reason anything would've changed since the last time you saw him. What kind of pathetic does that make you?

It would be nice to hear his voice. The Eddie who dotes on you. Eddie under all his layers. You don't want him fucked on bad ice again, but the version of him you'd met that night makes you smile as you recall it. Wide eyes, quiet but honest.

I sent you flowers, because… because those girls are mean to you, he'd rambled, slouched on the stairs, slightly too heavy for you to help him up. And I didn't like seeing you fall over. I wanted you to feel better. I don't know anything about girls... Did you like the flowers?

The Mercedes-Benz rolls up beside The Blue Lily Club, its name taken from what it used to be, presently a hotel. It has all the trimmings of a music venue, big windows and wood, but indoors it couldn't be more plush.

Ananya holds a hand out for her room key at the front desk and doesn't speak a word. She's kind enough to smile at the chauffeur who'd helped carry your bags inside.

"It doesn't usually look this nice in here, don't get used to luxury," Angel warns. "They're redecorating."

You trail behind her, dragging your suitcase over hardwood floors. The wheels click click click. "We'll come here again?"

"Next time we're in Clearwater. S'where we stayed last time. You hadn't bumped up yet."

"Was it this hot when you were here?" You rub your hand across a clammy cheek. "It feels like summer."

Angel smiles. "You think it's hot now, try a week here in May. I usually don't remember different tour dates but that was hell on Earth. Air conditioning broke in one of the buses into Jacksonville. Holy shit."

Angel divulges her evening plans for ice cold cocktails in the hotel bar and invites you along. You decline outside of your hotel room, "I'll probably sleep."

She nods. "Nice. Catch up on what you missed."

She gets a couple of steps further down the hall toward her own room when you admit defeat.

"Hey, Angel?" You pull at the neckline of your t-shirt. "You, uh, wouldn't know how I could get somebody's number? Someone from Rollerboy?"

"From Rollerboy, huh?" she asks, knowing exactly who you want to talk to. Fuck the techie who saw you and Eddie leaving, and fuck Morgan for spreading it around.

You push your bottom lip against the edges of your top teeth and drag until the delicate skin there hurts.

"I'll see what I can do," she says.

Twenty minutes later you have a phone number for his hotel and instructions on how to actually get through their privacy wall. You perch on the edge of your white bed and stare at the phone, like wanting to talk to him will make it ring. You reach for it, hesitate, and reach for it again.

You dial the number one rotation at a time and wait for it to pick up.

"Four Seasons Houston, Samantha speaking. How can I help you this afternoon?"

You choke on air. Four Seasons? What kind of money are these losers on?

"Hi, I'm hoping to be put through to one of your guests, an Eddie Munson? Room 146?"

"And is he expecting your call?"

"No, ma'am."

"Who's calling?"

"Y/N." You consider giving your second name. Does Eddie even know your second name? You suppose he could've seen it in one of the magazines, but that's doubtful.

"Hold please."

You think about hanging up, but you've given your name. If Eddie's there and he's willing to talk to you and you hang up, he'll still know it was you calling. Is that worse? The embarrassment of chickening out versus the endless mortifying possibilities of what you might say when he answers, if he answers, oh fuck–

"Transferring now."

You hold your breath.

The phone clicks twice.

"Hi?"

"Hey," you say quickly. You inhale, intending on– on what? Your panic is palpable.

"Hi," he says again, something warm in his voice. "Y/N? My Y/N, or a fan who knows just what to say to get my number?"

You go a bit blind. "Your Y/N."

"Hey. How's Florida?"

You sit back in bed and kick off your shoes. The phone shakes in your hand. This is more nerve-wracking than any conversation you've had beforehand, and it's in the small talk stages. It should be easy, you wanted to talk to him, but this is the first time you've sought him out ever. It shows your hand.

"Hot. Really hot. The receptionist, uh, said it isn't usually like this early in the year. Yeah, it's hot."

"It's not so bad here, considering." He sounds unlike himself. You've heard him flirting, almost torturous, and you've heard him mad. You've heard him drunk, high, offended, salacious, smug, and soft. None of those memories align. "Hey," he says, confusing you even worse, "why're you calling? Is everything okay?"

You hold the phone up in the air and twist to smash your face into the huge hotel pillows. They're gloriously cold and nowhere near enough to cool the open flame that is your flushing face.

"Nothing's wrong, I'm sorry," you say weakly, pulling the receiver back to your ear, head craned awkwardly so you don't smother it. "I was– I was thinking about you," —holy fucking fuck— "uh, 'cause I saw you in Lastick Magazine."

You can still save it.

"Who'd you have to blow for that one?" you ask.

Wrong.

"Loser!" he cheers. Your heart sinks, but he goes on, "You gave me a heart attack, I thought something happened!"

"No, nothing happened," you say. If you were on better footing you'd make a sly joke about big scary Eddie worrying about you.

"Okay, good."

You smile, tugging at the sheer, cornflower blue fabric of your skirt as you think, He sounds happy to hear from me.

"How's Houston?"

"Babe, you wouldn't fucking believe it. They got us posted up in some four star skyscraper. Two mini fridges. Two. It's insanity, I'm basically royalty here."

You look around your small room. "Ah, but do you have a damp splodge on the ceiling shaped like the letter W?" you ask.

"They musta forgot to put it in the welcome basket."

You laugh suddenly, startled at his good humour. It's like it's been hooked out of your chest on fishing wire, an ugly garbling sound that infects him down the line.

"Shit, I think I was starting to forget what you sound like," Eddie says.

You know exactly what he means.

You won't tell him, though. Your heart is racing again as it did in the car; he's being lovely like you're friends, like you're more than that, and you love it but it scares you shitless. Boys do this kind of stuff, right? Say pretty things, kiss you like you're something treasured, and one day they stop answering your calls. Vet you through to their assistant, and piggy bank your affections by acting like you're still something the next time you see them in person.

Eddie kissed the top of your arm the last time you saw him. If he acts like you're just friends when you see him next, you're gonna scalp him. Or self admit.

"I meant to ask you about something before I left," he says, bridging a mildly awkward silence with a dip into flirting bravado, "but you were all over me, you know? Didn't have time to ask."

"Yeah? That's not how I remember it."

"No accounting for stupidity." You can hear his smile. "Can I ask, or are you gonna talk over me again?"

"I should hang up on you."

"After all the trouble you went to to reach me," he sympathises.

"Tell me how the dial tone sounds next time."

"Alright! Jesus, you're pushy. What I wanted to ask is, you're in Oklahoma in a month.”

“Where’s the question?”

“You suck. Fine, I’ll spell it out for you. I’m in Oklahoma next month, and you’ll be there at the same time, and I know some of your shirts still have sleeves which is lame and very 1989 of you. I could maybe take some time out of my busy schedule and help you with it. Consider it my charitable act of the year.”

You want to see him. He can’t know it. You don’t want to play games with him, and you don’t wanna get messed around. He can’t have all the power.

“I don’t know, Munson… I’m pretty busy, ‘n’ I kinda like my sleeves.”

“Yeah?”

“Yep.”

He snorts. “Shit, fine. We’ll leave your sleeves alone. Maybe we could–”

“Are you listening to Loggins and Messina?” you ask suddenly, phone pressed so hard to your ear you know it’ll leave a mark.

“What?” he scoffs. “No, of course not.”

The music gets quieter, but you know what you heard. “You are! That’s Thinking Of You, I’d know it anywhere!”

“So what if I am?”

“You’re such a sweetheart,” you say, not really thinking about how it sounds. “I love that song, it’s so sweet. I thought you were this big scary jerk but it turns out you’re just as soft as the rest of us. Turn it up, I wanna listen.”

Eddie doesn’t argue with you. He turns it up.

“What is that? It’s too clean to be on the radio. Don’t tell me you’re carrying a Loggins and Messina record around with you, please don’t, because I’d really have to tell someone about it.”

“Oh, you would, would you?” he asks.

“I’m gonna drag your reputation through the mud, Munson.”

Your too-big smile slowly fades when he doesn’t joke back. Was that too far? He can’t possibly think that you’re being serious — as if. You don’t have the power, influence, or connections to touch his reputation, let alone drag it. Your lips part as you hesitate to correct yourself, uncurling where you’d been comfortable on the bed.

Eddie finally puts you out of your misery.

“Did you hear that?” he asks.

“No? What was it?”

“That was me crying out in terror. You didn’t hear it?”

“That’s not even funny,” you complain. “I'm not the only one. You realise they’re calling you a womaniser in Lastick, right?” You grab your copy of the magazine from the end of the bed and splay it open, flicking through pages until you find his article. “‘Heartthrob guitarist Eddie Munson is barely entering his mid-20’s, but his masterful fingering has captivated the hearts of young women and pro musicians alike,’” you read, letting the magazine flop back flat.

“Did they really say ‘masterful fingering’?” he asks.

You smile at the sound of his laughter. “You pig. What’s funny about that, Munson?"

“Uh…”

“I’m messing with you. Mastery aside, you’re missing the point. They described you as a heartthrob in the third biggest music magazine in intercontinental America. Like, someone went to college for four years, worked their way up the corporate ladder, blood, sweat and tears included, to call you a heartthrob, and they didn’t lose their job.”

“Right, right. The point is that you think I’m ugly.”

“The point is that I have proof you’re…” You think about the point. You want to ruin his reputation as a heartthrob by telling everyone he listens to romantic soft rock. Because that makes sense.

“You have proof that I’m not just a heartthrob, I’m sensitive.” He sounds so fucking smug. “Making me even more of a heartthrob.”

You frown, taking the article back into your hands. “Oh, right! ‘His masterful fingering has captivated the hearts of young women and pro musicians alike, but is Munson the sweetheart he seems? Insider information hints that this young musician is spending less time making music and more time womanising the elite bachelorettes of Palm Springs.”

You blink. Your reading had become less smug as it went, and by the time you’ve finished you’ve the beginnings of a pit forming in your stomach. His alleged womanising had felt funny a moment ago. Why does it bother you now?

Because you’ve been confronted with the good. His laugh. His love songs. And you’re realising he isn’t as in your reach as you’d thought.

Eddie snorts. There’s a sound like he’s rubbing the receiver against bedsheets, and you wait apprehensively for him to speak.

“Sorry, I was turning the lights off. That’s a bit fucking rich. Who’s their inside source, Pinocchio the real boy? I was in Palm Springs for two days, and you saw me, I was fucked the entire time.” He has no clue how much you’d needed him to say that. “Maybe someone saw us together, you could pass for one of those pretty rich girls easy.” He also doesn’t know how much of an affect his easy compliments have on you, apparently. “I don’t know how someone could look at me and describe my behaviour as womanising. Pathetic, sure.”

There’s a hard edge to his voice. He made you feel better, even if he doesn’t know it. You don’t mind doing the same.

“You were sweet,” you argue mildly. “You were. You asked me how I was, and when you saw I was wearing heels you sat down in the middle of the staircase and made me sit with you.”

“You don’t usually wear heels.”

“Morgan says–” Eddie groans. “What?”

“Morgan says a lot of dumb shit, is what she says,” Eddie grouches. “Forgive me but she’s a fucking loser.”

You feel oddly protective of her for a moment, “She’s the opposite.”

“No, but her attitude ruins everything she has going for her. She’s talented, she’s the next Nicks when she sings that one song, Heartbreak House? She impresses me, but she’s fucking mean, sweetheart. You know she’s mean.”

“I guess,” you mumble, scratching the seam of your pants with your fingernail, not sure why you're defending her. “Aren't we all?”

Another patch of silence.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “Yeah, we can all be pretty mean.”

“That’s the business, right?” you ask, knowing it isn't true.

“I think… we all have a propensity for cruelty when we feel pinned, and that…” He clears his throat. “Trying to make it when the scene is this competitive can feel like a looming hand. Just waiting to pluck you off of your pedestal.”

You laugh weirdly, all strangled breathlessness. “Easy to see who writes the lyrics.”

“Fuck you. You know what I mean.”

You do. Morgan’s probably trying her best, in the same way that you’re doing yours, balancing friendship and music and fame and a high-pressure job with little room for slip-ups. And now Eddie. Maybe Morgan has an Eddie somewhere, some larger than life loverboy with a penchant for sharpness and sweetness simultaneously.

“I want to tell you something,” Eddie says.

“Oh, gross. You can’t just say that, now I’m panicking,” you admit, sitting up in bed, knuckles aching at the tight grip you have on the phone. “It’s something normal, right? Or not normal. Did you get some unfortunately transmitted disease or something?”

“Unfortunately,” he quotes. “That’s funny. Definitely didn’t, the last person I touched was you.” It’s heart-rending, until he adds, “Apart from your fleas, I’m clean. And I’m trying to tell you something slightly serious, so if you could keep any allusions of disease to yourself for a minute, I’d appreciate that.”

“Okay, sure. Tell me something.”

There’s a small sound. Maybe he’s licked his lips, or changed positions. “When I… when we had that fight, in the Prover Theatre. I just want you to know that I regret how I treated you. I wish I could take it back, and… I wish I had the guts to tell you in person, but I don’t. Sorry. I’m sorry. It’s not how I want to be, and I need you to know that you’re right about me, I’m a loser, but I’m the kind of loser who wants to take you out to dinner and knock my soda in my lap or try to kiss you too soon, not the kind of loser who leaves you hanging.” He laughs like you had, like it’s being dragged out of him, and you realise that Eddie Munson is panicking on the other side. “Shit, can I take some of that back? I’m cool, I swear.”

You smile hard, your cheeks aching. “No, you can’t take it back.”

“Fine. I’m a loser.”

“For the record,” you say, “you did kiss me way too soon.”

He laughs roughly, a sound half threat and half promise. “You annoy me so much. When you get to Oklahoma I’m gonna make sure you know it.”

A curl of warmth unfurls deep in your stomach. You have the good sense not to ask what he means by that.

Cowboy Cadaver, Oklahoma, March 1991

Eddie finds that he hates having an almost-girlfriend. In his head, in his chest, you're his girl. He doesn’t know how to explain himself beyond that. It’s this feeling like heat, like light, like the kiss of a sunbeam on a cold day warming his skin. And it’s the blessed breeze in a heatwave, it’s ice on an ache, it’s the feeling of your skin, your pulse under his touch. Absence doesn’t make the heart grow fonder —it grabs wanting by the neck and squeezes all the air out. If he doesn’t get to see you soon he’s gonna lose it.

He tried explaining it to Wayne down the phone, because he’s being a good nephew now and actually calling, but he couldn’t take himself seriously, all those cheesy metaphors like chewed cud in his mouth waiting to be swallowed and yacked back up. He said, “Does it always feel like this?”

And Wayne sort of laughed, a derisive snort to seal the deal, and said, “Eds, you ain’t the first kid to fall for a girl.”

Which isn’t what he asked, but he reckons Wayne was telling him Yes, it always feels like this. Eddie doesn’t know if he’s ever been in love before. He’d wanted to kiss that guy on the track team junior year so badly it kept him awake at night, and he was sweet on the soft bartender when he bussed at the Hideout to the point where the entire kitchen staff started calling him ‘squirty cream’ on account of how whipped he was, but Eddie can’t ever remember feeling like this.

He blames himself, thinking you were right after all – he did kiss you too soon. And for the wrong reasons. Now he knows what it feels like, knows what sound you make when you like it, how was he ever supposed to move past that? Your arm under his lips, or your hair against his cheek as he tried to hug the bone-deep dread out of your system, a faucet drip drip dripping by your thigh. He can’t remember what you smell like anymore, only that you smelled good, and he gets that this’ll be the nature of whatever relationship you two manage to cradle for a long while; he’d never ask you to follow him, and he thinks you’d rather die than do anything similar.

Still, he’s starting to offer up whatever it is whoever it is that’s looking down on him will take to get a quick hit. Sweetheart for his face in the curve of your neck, five seconds to breathe in the smell of your subtle perfume. It’s extreme, but Eddie’s feeling extreme right now. Every minute that you’re late winds the wanting coil tighter.

He doesn’t have anyone with him to tell him to get real. He pictures it instead, Jamison in the chair opposite, grimacing at the cider sticky table between them and the state of Eddie’s patheticness clearly displayed. Stop bouncing your leg, fuckhead. She said she’d meet you here, didn’t she?

He’s going over what-ifs when you appear. You’re wearing a sweatshirt that says ‘I visited the Great Wall,’ with a helpful picture overtop and jeans without rips. He’d be upset at the lack of skin if he couldn’t see the shapes of your thighs so clearly. He’s a sucker for them.

Better are your hands. No, better is your smile, because he knows you more than he should already and he knows what your smile means. You’re happy to see him, and you don’t want him to know it.

He hasn’t practised this part. Shock horror, he’s been too confident in his head yet again and assumed he’d know what to do when he saw you, but he doesn’t, God, he doesn’t have a clue. Can he kiss you? Hug you? It’s feeling like neither. You slide into the booth chair opposite and your shoe bumps his.

“Hi,” you say.

“Yeah, hi. Holy fuck.”

“What?” you ask, head whipping back to look the way you came.

“No, nothing, I just forgot how pretty you are. It’s kind of shocking up close. You know they called you ‘homespun’ in Lastick?”

“Fucker,” you say, not a hint of malice in it as you deflate in front of him.

“Mm. Nice sweatshirt. How was it? The Great Wall?”

“I don’t know, I got this at Goodwill.” You both pause, a synchronised, silently agreed upon ceasefire to take the other in. You look more than pretty, really, ‘cos he was fucking with you when he said it but that doesn’t mean it isn’t true, it is, you’re lovely when you smile and you’re smiling like he’s just told you he got a lucky scratcher and he’s giving you the winnings. “You look happy,” you say.

“Ditto.”

You grab at the collar of your sweatshirt. “Sorry, this is awkward, I don't know why.”

Eddie’s surprised at your honesty, not because you aren’t an honest person, but maybe because he’s used to skirting around the issue with you. There’s a mutual attitude that anything unsaid is untrue, and lately you’ve both said a ton of stuff you can't take back. He’s sorry, he wants to see you. You feel better when you’re with him. It’s embarrassing considering how little time you’ve spent together, and Eddie wants to change that. Hence dinner here in a blowout with floors that grab at your shoes and cigarette ash caked in the salt and pepper holders. The likelihood of an interruption is small.

“It’s fine,” he says faux confidently, while his heart is thudding against his Adam's apple. “I know how to fix it.”

Eddie reaches down under the table for the rumpled jansport he’d brought with him and pulls out two gifts. They aren’t wrapped, even though that would’ve been more romantic. He hadn’t found the time. He places them in front of you without ceremony, a chocolate rose in plastic wrap and a CD from that Indiana band you like, signed and sealed.

“What…” you mumble, picking up the CD with an adorably awed pout. “How’d you get this?”

“Asked around.” A lot. It was shameful.

Unfortunately for him, there’s a little more awkwardness to cut through, the shame of vulnerability or the realisation that you’re both standing on the precipice of something shiny and new. Suddenly, every word feels important. He has to make it clear that he’s repentant, and desperate, but only for you.

“Do you like it?” he asks.

You immediately nod, two tight dips of your chin as your thumb rubs over the plastic wrap irreverently. Your eyes are slightly widened, your pupils like dimes. “Eddie, I didn’t bring you anything.”

He leans back against the cool leather seat. “You didn’t have to. I’m just happy to see you.”

You stand up, and he thinks Oh thank fuck, you’re sitting on the bench beside him, you’re gonna kiss him saccharine sweet on the cheek like the darling girl that you are. His hand lands unabashedly atop the curve of your hip as you settle down beside him, his heart like the pull cord on a chainsaw that keeps skipping, your impending kiss the roar of the engine as it wakes.

Your hand touches his thigh. You’ve the chocolate rose in hand, a shy smile on your lips.

“Will you share it with me?”

He comes up short. Yeah, a kiss would be nice, but this is good too.

Dramatics aside (dramatics being the kinder word, because Eddie doesn’t feel dramatic at all, and that’s genuinely worse), he’s missed you without metaphor. Something in him relaxes as you unpackage the rose and snap it up. You offer him a carved leaf as you nibble on the stem. The awkwardness begins to fade, at least on his end, though that might be down to his lingering hand behind your back, not touching you but close enough.

“I told everyone I was going window shopping,” you say, covering your mouth with your hand as you meet his eyes.

“They believe you?”

“Nope. They know you’re here.”

“Mine were the same,” Eddie comforts, reaching for the flower of your rose to break it apart. He holds some up to see if you’ll let him feed you. You wrinkle your nose at him and laugh. He laughs back. “Open up.”

“No,” you say, laughing through your nose as he presses a petal to your lip. Your jaw softens as you lean back, and it’s a sight to see, your eyes lit with amusement and your lips pressed tightly closed.

He doesn’t wanna push his luck. He puts the chocolate petal in your hand and leans back to chew through his own, happy to watch you through half-lidded eyes. His squinting makes you squirm, until you figure out his angle and give him a playful glare.

It's swiftly interrupted by a big yawn. “I’m so tired,” you say, rubbing your eye with a sore looking hand.

“Your hands are fucked,” he says. It’s no wonder that you’re tired. You never stop. Even when the guitar pick’s fallen between strings. “That’s a bad one.”

He takes your hand in his to rub his thumb over the pad of your index finger, where the whorl of your fingerprint is cut decisively down the middle and scabbing over. The skin around it is mottled. His thumbnail scratches down the side of your finger gently as he looks it over. There’s nothing he can do to make it better.

“You know they invented picks for a reason,” he says.

Your middle and marriage fingers rest lightly against the meat of his thumb. Your pinky fits in the slight dip of his palm, its tip at the the bisection of hills at the bottom of his palm. Your nails aren’t long, but you’ve painted them an unassuming, translucent blue. He pushes his thumb into your fingers so they curl toward your own palm and slowly, you cover his thumb with yours. It’s a weird angle to hold hands, but he doesn’t mind. Like you can read his thoughts, you turn your hand into his, but then you must change your mind. You pull it out of his hold and face toward the table again, away from him, your forearms pushed together. You lean back with a tired moan. It turns his heart.

“I like shows, but I don’t like touring,” you say. “I think we should get to pick a venue and that’s it, that’s where we play. The fans can come to us.”

“The fans,” Eddie repeats.

He’s not trying to make fun of you. It’s weird to say something like that aloud and know that it’s true. You have fans. You both do. People like your music enough to come and see you play.

And you both like playing music enough to subject yourself to borderline torturous conditions. Packing yourselves up like parcels delivered from one stage to another.

“I bet Madonna loves touring,” he says.

“Yeah?”

“They aren’t making her live in a ten by two box sixteen hours a day,” he says.

“Don’t do math,” you plead, your head dipped back and drifting toward his arm. “I really am tired.”

“You could’ve cancelled. Not that I wanted you to.” He softens his voice, his best approximation of a caring boyfriend, though he’s never been one before.

“I didn’t want to cancel…”

“You need me to take you home?” he asks, concerned as you let your head drop on his shoulder.

“Can I just sit here a while?”

“Sure. Anything. Uh…” He wraps his arm around your shoulder.

Eddie would be content if you fell asleep but you fight your fatigue, and he’s glad for it when you move into easy conversation. This part he can do. Over the phone, he's told you about Wayne and growing up, and about stuff he doesn’t think he’s told anyone before, not secret so much as mundanities that no one ever wanted to listen to. He sticks to mundane things for now. Like the phone calls between you both (new, occasional, but always too long), he talks until he runs out of things to say, and even then he drags it out to a painful threshold.

Somehow, some way, you lay your head on his shoulder and keep it there for a while, and you tell him about your nightmare tour and all the fighting. Morgan’s not speaking to you, Ananya’s not speaking to anyone. She has a pair of headphones that she keeps on morning noon and night, sometimes during soundcheck, where she adamantly refuses to participate.

“Ananya used to be okay,” you say, nearly whispering like you’re worried you’ll get caught telling him secrets. “But she’s just as bad as Morgan now. They’re still fighting about Morgan’s– Okay, don’t tell anybody, but Morgan does a lot of coke–”

“Is that a secret?” Eddie asks.

He’s not being condescending, it’s just that half the people you see on MTV have a bad coke problem and Morgan is often on MTV.

“No, but she stole money out of Ananya’s purse at a party when we were first touring ‘cos she didn’t have a dime to her name, it’s pretty bad. I didn’t tell you on the phone ‘cos I was worried someone was listening to us.”

Eddie blanches. “You think people were listening to us?” He said some brave things to you last time, a cheeky promise wrapped up in platitudes.

“I mean, no? But the secretaries can listen on the line in some places, ‘n’ you were staying in all those skyscrapers. It’s not, like, a thing. Morgan swears she was gonna pay it back. Anya got mad, ‘n’ Morgan implied that any money in Anya’s purse was money she made.”

“I see.”

You lift your head slightly. “Please don’t tell anyone. They’d kill me if they knew I told you.”

He smiles at you reassuringly. “My lips are sealed.” He eyes your pretty mouth, your face as close as it is. “Well, mostly sealed. Ooh, you could buy my silence.”

“How does one go about that?” you ask quietly, knowing exactly how, he’s sure.

Eddie gives you the softest kiss he can manage, hiding his nervousness well. He grabs your upper arm, and grab isn't the right word but it’s the only word that makes any sense given the quickness of his movement; he's leaning in and he needs to be touching you first, steady himself. You smile into his lips.

“That’s not gonna be enough,” he says as you pull away. You startle him by leaning in again quickly, your lips parted a fraction and hot against his as your hand stretches out across his chest.

He’d intended to stay chaste with you. He's trying to rescue the head-first plunge that was his handful of confessions, make your possible relationship one that works, but he can't help himself. He takes it slow, admittedly, but slow kisses become long, and he turns lax at the feeling of your fingertips over his heart.

Eddie pulls away when he can make himself, cupping your face in his hand in an effort to communicate how much he wants to be kissing you still. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Why? Do I taste bad?” you ask. You have a shiny mouth.

“You taste like chocolate. I just figured I should buy you a drink before somebody else does.”

“Eddie,” you say, leaning into his palm ever so slightly, “there's no one else here.”

“Can’t say I blame them. Who names a bar ‘Cowboy Cadaver’?”

Your lashes kiss in the corners as you smile.

“Your band is called Corroded Coffin.”

“And it’s a good name.” He pecks you quickly. “Yes?”

Your answering hum tickles.

“Why do I feel like we aren't supposed to be doing this?” you ask, second hand joining your first on his chest.

“Because we’re meeting in secret?” he suggests, covering your hands with one of his. “Or mild secrecy. We aren't subtle.”

“You're not subtle.”

“No,” he agrees, and forgive him but he’s feeling positively sunny and sounds it.

“This is okay, though? We both want this?” you ask.

“I-” No more running away. No more casual cruelty. “I definitely want this.”

You grin, leaning up in a move that surprises him as your arms wrap around his neck, his hair under your arms. You smile sheepishly before ducking your face under his, the tip of your nose crushed to the soft part beneath his jaw. He has a grin all his own as he grasps your back. Eddie kisses the side of your head, any skin he can reach, three times in quick succession, and feels an acute sense of relief. There’s something final about it like a puzzle piece clicking into place that explains the photograph, or the snap of a finishing line against his stomach. He's suddenly pin-sharp ecstatic, and he shows it with a rough squeeze.

“You smell really nice,” he praises, his nose by your hair.

“That’s pervy, I think.”

“I’m trying to be nice,” he says.

He can hear even to himself how brazen he sounds, that awful flirtation he can't help from enacting with you now he knows you like this. He wants to impress, and he wants to be honest at the same time. He wants to be himself. It’s getting easier.

“Nice isn’t a word I’d associate with you,” you say, but you sit back to meet his eyes and amend, “That’s not true. You can be lovely.”

You give him a look that can only be described as loving. It’s pure affection, and if he weren't sitting he’d have fallen over from how it makes him feel. You lean forward until the top part of your face is on his cheek, your eyelashes twitching like a butterfly’s wing.

“Thank you for the presents. You didn't have to get me anything," you say.

He looks behind your head to the bar around you both. He's been so distracted by your looming presence, your arrival, and now having you in his arms, he hadn't noticed the patrons milling in as happy hour draws nearer. There’s a couple of older men at the bar, and one looks unseeing toward your public display. It makes him uneasy.

“You're welcome," he says. "We have an audience."

You follow his gaze over your shoulder and promptly untuck yourself from his embrace when you see the bar isn't as empty as you'd thought. There’s no time for heartbreak —you weave your fingers with his and hide them between your thighs, a small smile playing on your lips.

Eddie could get used to this.

—

Marriott Dean Music Store, Oklahoma, (still) March 1991

There’s a black and white Gibson Les Paul hanging on the wall. It caught Eddie’s eye as soon as you arrived, and while you have no use for it (and your Fender bass's gonna jinx you if you touch an instrument that isn't her, you just know it), you kinda wanna feel it for yourself.

“See the headstock? The line wrapped around the bottom?” Eddie says under his breath.

There's a storehand standing behind the small counter not too far from your position near the entrance.

You nod carefully. “Yeah?”

“Relacquered. And conveniently not mentioned on the price tag. It might be a new one, sometimes they crack backward from the pressure of the strings.”

You glance between Eddie, his pale face and a new crop of sun-wrought freckles, and the ‘like new’ label on the guitar. An ‘87 standard has no need for lies, it’s not as if the price difference between it and the new ‘91 is overlarge.

“Are you looking for something new?” you ask.

If Eddie functions anything like you do, he’ll have his own hardware but won’t hesitate to borrow from a well-packed bank of state-of-the-art instruments that follows the tour. He might even change instrument mid set. He won't need something new, but need and want are estranged.

“Nah,” he says, nudging you gently away from the guitar display. His hand ghosts your elbow, like he might steer you around. “I have a Rich Warlock, you seen those? I got a new one last year ‘n’ the output level for the bridge pickup is giving me grief, but I’m not an asshole. I could sit down and fix it myself, but…”

You brush aside a beaded curtain and take a short step down into the store, where a wealth of CD’s, cassettes and vinyls are packed in rows on tables. There’s an older man flicking through records, but beside that the room is empty. A big yellow sticker faded from the sun warns of CCTV.

“You’re too busy,” you finish.

“I'm way too busy.”

There's a calmness to being with him here you hadn't expected. It's like lying on the stairs with him all over again, but he's missing that awful far off look to his eyes, he's tip top shape: Eddie Munson is sober. He said it like it's no big deal, and maybe it isn't, but you squeezed his hand anyways because you figure you'd want someone to feel proud of you if you stopped. You don't have a problem, just every dalliance with recreational substances is a chance at something worse. He should feel good about what he's doing.

Especially when you understand the feeling that drives you there in the first place. The insane stress of wanting to prove that you're worth something, and the feeling like lukewarm water dripping down your spine when you're standing in the middle of a room, in the middle of a crowd, and you realise you could disappear and nobody would know until the next show. That confrontation of how small your life has become, through your own mediation and everything else.

You'd give anything to escape that feeling. Some nights, you do.

You told yourself you'd play it cool. What happened between you and Eddie, what's happening, it's muddled. You remember the profound hurt feeling of his final blow, and you hold it up against how you're feeling now as his fingertips coast down your arm, a thoughtless touch as he stands beside you to give his opinions on the box of records in front. He's nice. He's more nice than not. You wanted to squeeze his hand and you had, cool girl facade on the back burner.

Maybe you're the one who was cruel. You think back to how it all went down. The details grow fuzzier in the distance, but you know you hurt him like he hurt you. And unlike him, you can't remember having said sorry.

You turn your head and find his face remarkably close to your own. He doesn't flinch nor move, only smiles at the weight of your gaze and flicks to the next vinyl.

"I'm sorry," you say, awkward but earnest. You don't give yourself the time to chicken out.

You can't stand thinking you might have hurt him now. Even if he hurt you worse. The guilt of hurting anybody at all feels heavy, worse because it's you.

"For what?" he asks.

"For what I said. At the theatre. And for walking away at Monsters of Rock."

"I walked away," he says, confused. "I pretty much ran. Not my finest moment."

"No, at the store."

Recognition crosses his features. He smiles rather weirdly, inclining his head close enough to kiss you.

"You didn't have to listen to me. I respect that. You know that, right? You don't have to listen just 'cos someone has something to say." His brows crease inward. "I hate what I said to you at the theatre. And I felt guilty about it. You make me so mad, and I'm childish and I can't deal with that. But it's not your fault. You don't deserve a lashing every time I have one to give."

Eddie tilts his head to the left. "Sorry," he adds. "Don't try to make me feel better– don't, I can see it on your face. It's not why I said it."

He kisses the corner of your mouth, and then pulls back to see if it's worked. You're smiling. He takes it for a win.

"I'm a big girl," you say after a short second of staring at him, the ridge of his nose and the curls silhouetting his slight hint of cheekbone. "I don't need you to take all of the blame."

"Ah, but I'm selfish. I want it all." He shrugs. "Better luck next time."

"Nerd."

"Loser."

He goes back to the records with a smile. You look at it a little longer, allowed and aggrieved at once. He shouldn't be that pretty.

You watch his hands, hoping he'll give himself away and falter. A gift deserves a gift. CD's aren't cheap. You could buy him a vinyl. He must have a player of some sort, considering his Loggins and Messina habit.

"Think they'll have your new LP?" he asks.

"They'll have yours."

Eddie shakes his head. "I'm not asking about mine."

"They won't have it here, this place is tiny. City stores are the only place I've seen any of our stuff," you say.

"Well, you guys are plastered. I saw the cover on the side of a bus in Pasadena."

You gawp at him. "You did not."

"I did! Think I don't know that ugly font by now? Godless in huge black and white letters. It's a bad name, by the way," he ribs.

"What am I supposed to do about it? I wasn't there when they chose it."

Eddie shrugs, the toned muscle of his arms shifting beneath the fabric of his shirt. It might've been black once upon a time, but the merchandise he sports now is a washed out grey. You put your hand over the curve of his bicep because you want to, and pleasure simmers when he doesn't move away.

"If it were me," he says, in a tone of voice that spells irksome teasing a mile off, "and the name were that bad, I'd go on strike. Refuse to play. That'll make them fix it, while you still have time."

"I'm sure you could get away with that," you say.

"You don't think you would?"

"I'm not really tenured."

"Ah, but who could say no to such a pretty face," he praises, pushing the box of records away from himself. "Shit, guess we better go ask for a test run on that Les Paul. This is all… questionable."

"You're gonna serenade me?" you ask, returning his teasing.

"You're gonna serenade me. I know you know your way around a rhythm guitar. You're holding out on me," he says, knocking your elbows together.

You love this. All these familiar touches. Like a moth to a flame, you follow him back up into the main storefront and sit beside him on top of a crate, cradling the Les Paul like a baby you're terrified of dropping. Even with tour money you couldn't pay for it now. At the end, sure. But you doubt the manager would take an IOU.

"What do I play?" you ask.

"Anything."

"That's not helpful."

"Something fun," he says.

Your fingers slide up the fretboard to an E flat. You bite your lip. "I'm in bass mode." It's automatic. You'd immediately set yourself up for a baseline.

Baseline to riff for rhythm guitar is easy enough. E flat becomes E flat major. G becomes G minor.

"Pentatonics," Eddie whispers when you hesitate.

"You really aren't helpful," you laugh. "This is hard."

"I'm telling people you said that."

You mess around until you have the basis of a simple riff down, hoping you'll impress him. He shouldn't be impressed, you've seen him play things a thousand times more complicated in person, but he beams as you work your way through a verse and then an impromptu chorus.

"Is that fucking Blondie?" he asks.

"No."

"It so is! Hanging On the Telephone, everyone knows that song."

"And everyone knows it's a cover. I'm doing The Nerves version, obviously."

You smile at each other until he cracks. "Obviously," he concedes. "Do the rest."

"Like I'm your dog," you say, a joke that brushes too close to home.

You fumble over the strings, gaze resolute on the body of the guitar rather than his face.

You don't care that he said it —you care that he knows he said it. It doesn't make sense in so little words, but the feeling is contrite. It doesn't allow for sensical explanation.

The humiliation of being seen is worse than a spurned insult thrown haphazard at your feet. His insult isn't as bad as your reaction to it. The fact that he knows it upset you. That's the worst part.

It's embarrassing because he was right. Of course it is. And it doesn't get better, because you're still the same. Still running back after every kick. No matter the leg.

You play him the rest of the song. Or rather, your best approximation. It's incredibly difficult to play by ear and you haven't heard the song in a while. When the guitar sounds more like a transparent translation of the lyrics than the actual meat of the instrumentals you give up, picking at the strings and listening to the individual tuning of each once. Eddie doesn't speak. Each second of his silence grows worse, your throat dry as the Sahara and horrifyingly thick. Why isn't he talking?

His hand covers your shoulder. Fingers in a row across the slight dip of it, thumb rubbing reassuringly into your shoulder blade. "You're so fucking talented," he says quietly, his voice just above your ear. "I hope you know that."

"I got lucky," you say, shaking your head.

"No, you worked hard. There's a difference."

His hand slides over the hill of your upper arm. Eddie gives you a gentle shake. You let your head flop into the crook of his neck. His hair tickles your forehead, but he smells so good you stay longer than you should.

"Play me something," you say, trying to sound less morose than you feel.

Whether he hears your emotion or not, he pats your arm and sits up. You hand over the guitar, and Eddie props the body over his thigh and runs his fingers up the fretboard, feeling the craftsmanship appreciatively despite his earlier disapproval.

"What do you wanna hear?" he asks.

"What do you know?"

"God, I know everything. You should know that."

"Well, you can't play anything too impressive, you'll draw attention."

He nods very seriously at your sarcasm. He's immediately more at home than you'd been with it, and his hands look like they have a mind of their own. He plays a tight riff you recognise from one of their songs that is, to your horror, a warm up. He turns the amp down, and before you know it he's elbow deep in a complication of chords that might genuinely have you sweating if it were you rather than him. He does it like it's nothing. A walk in the park, and one he so clearly takes pleasure in. His eyes light up, the kind of look he's had before when he's made you laugh, or something a little milder than the electricity of his rough stageside kiss.

You're in awe.

He fucks up somewhere and laughs. A sweet giggle.

"S'what I get for trying to show off."

He plucks a string sharply. Hair's falling in his eyes, nearly hiding the sheepish curve of his lips. You see it, and adore it, and don't know what you're supposed to do about that.

"I'll get him to put this away before I break it and we can get something to eat," he says, looking up from the guitar.

"It's weird to be with you. Without anything in the way," you say before you can stop yourself.

You're glad you've said it when he raises his eyebrows. "Super weird. No more excuses. Wanna get freaky in the employee bathroom?" He laughs at his own joke. "It feels right, though," he adds warmly, before sincerity gets too much and he looks away.

He gives the store employee back the Les Paul for its case and swings his backpack over one arm. He holds the other one out, wriggling his fingers so you know it isn't optional. You'd have tried it if he didn't offer.

You hold hands out of the store and onto the street, busy but not crowded, and try to think of what you're supposed to say. You're in the soul of Tulsa, rather than the heart —you and Eddie decided to meet somewhere far enough from the city centre as to miss anyone who'd know who you are (or, more accurately, know who he is). You're not the kind of musicians who get papped often, or ever. Morgan's snow exposé was opportunistic, and Eddie was on the news for his epic destruction of property, but beside that it's purposeful photoshoots or moot. But this, this thing, whatever it is, it isn't for anybody else. You don't want anyone knowing quite yet. If Morgan found out you'd probably chuck up from the anxiety of what she'd do, some 'well-meaning' sabotage. Contrary to what she'd said in the past, how you should pick up the phone if Eddie calls, you know how she functions. Jealousy, or maybe some unjust belief that she deserves every ounce of lust or affection or attention, would absolutely wreck her. She doesn't like you enough to let you have this. You know it.

"Are you okay?" Eddie asks.

The sunlight makes him paler than usual. Pasty skin, dark dark hair, he'd be a vampire if his hand weren't warm in yours. You tighten your grip.

"I think I'm not half as cool as I want to be."

He licks his lips. "You're cool."

You lift your chin to look at the sky, the wind moving over your hair gently. You trust Eddie enough to let him pull you out of harm's way. At least, you think you do.

"I'm worried about people finding out about us."

"Us?" Eddie asks. Horror surges. It's smothered as quickly as it comes by your hand swung in his, and his pleased little smile as he says, "There's an us."

It's useless to pretend otherwise. And if it makes him that happy, you're thrilled. Genuinely.

"Would it be so terrible?" Less sun and more apprehension, Eddie fails at bravado. "If people knew about your smoking hot plaything?"

"You're not my plaything, you're– not my plaything," you stammer.

"Bummer for me. I think I'd be into it."

He guides you around a fire hydrant and across a short gap in the sidewalk. You have no idea where he's leading you. It's sunny enough that you don't complain.

"I don't want people to know about us because– because I barely know about us, and, um– I'm sorry, this is the opposite of attractive."

"How many compliments do you want?" he asks seriously, "'Cause I have a couple locked and loaded."

"Let's go back to when you didn't like me."

"Who cares how attractive you are? Not that you're not. But I don't want you to not tell me things because it's not hot. What kind of relationship would that turn into? Superficial, who wants that?" He stops swinging your hand abruptly, and to your pleasure, his cheeks are pink. "Do you want that?"

"No," you mumble.

"Oh. Good."

"What kind of relationship do you want?" you ask.

"A nice one." He does his fucking ridiculous giggle again and you could kiss him right here in the street. "You're ruining my reputation. I used to be respectable. Now I'm a bigger loser than before, and people are gonna clock on."

"They've clocked on."

"Cruel!" he says, delighted.

"I…" You look anywhere but his face. His hand is so, so heavy. "You really don't care if I'm honest?"

"I want you to be honest. We're not seventeen. I know girls do all the same gross stuff that boys do, babe."

"What do you think I'm about to say?" You laugh.

"Something really disgusting from the way you're freezing up."

The breeze kisses at your cheeks. A stray leaf falls from the tree to your left and twists through the air, dancing in circles until it stops at your feet. You step over it gingerly.

"Eddie, I just want you to know what you're getting into–"

"What am I getting into?"

"I'm not– I'm–" You struggle for words. There's no dictionary for how you feel. There's so much stuff wrong with you and he can't know any of it. You're stupid and lazy and bad at the things you're good at. You're tired, and sick, and you can't seem to get things right. You love sincerely and it's hardly ever enough. "I don't really know why you want this."

He speaks with lips barely parted, mumbling but somehow unafraid. "I don't really know why I wouldn't want this."

Eddie turns the corner and pulls you with him. An empty sidewalk beckons, white and stretching long down the boulevard. He pulls your joined hands up into the air and guides you into a slow twirl.

"I think you're beautiful. You impress me, and you make me wanna write bad songs," he says, rubbing his thumb over your fingers. "What am I saying? I can't write a bad song. It's impossible. Especially if they're about you."

"But I don't get that, we don't get along."

"What do you call this?" he asks.

You come to a stop. There's a coffee shop to your right with huge open windows. Warm yellow light pours out into the slowly darkening sky.

"I do want this," you say, worried you're giving him the wrong idea. He visibly relaxes at your statement, his grip on your hand strengthening once again. "I do," you continue, "whatever this is, I meant what I said, you know. You… make everything quiet for me. And I think you're–" Beautiful, you should say. "You're Lastick's heartthrob, everybody wants you. I like you."

"I'd hope so," he says, pulling you toward him, his second hand vying for yours. He tugs you right up against him, face lit with cocky happiness.

You hold your breath. His lashes are super long at the corners, emphasising the deep dark brown that lines his pupils and the gentler bark that surrounds it. He lays a hand against your cheek, encouraging your head up to his. He isn't soft with you like he'd been at the bar, but he isn't mean. You like how sure he is as he pulls you in, as he presses his lips to yours. Your eyes shutter closed with the pressure.

"I don't care if everybody wants me," he says, and kisses you again, your noses smushed together. "That's not true, anyway," —he laughs quietly into your open mouth, his breath warm as it fans over your lips and tongue— "and if it were," —he kisses you a third time, his head tilted to the side, his lips parted a fraction like he can't wait long enough to line up with you— "it wouldn't change what I want."

You have to take a breather if only to let your brain catch up with what he's saying.

"Okay," you breathe.

He pulls your still joined hands to his heart. "Yeah? I'm not trying to freak you out 'n' go too heavy. I know I'm on thin ice."

"You're not on thin ice."

"I should be."

Maybe. "You're not." You glance down the sidewalk to make sure your public display (you're becoming those people, apparently) isn't in someone's way. Thankfully, there's nobody around. "Sorry. This has been a really nice day, and I'm ruining it."

"Date," he corrects. "It's a date, and it's great, and you haven't ruined a thing. We're gonna get dinner and talk about music and Gareth's disgusting bunk and you can feel however you want to feel, long as it's within arms reach. Yeah?"

"Yeah, okay," you say. You manage a firm nod.

A date. Maybe you're a fool who doesn't deserve him for an almost-boyfriend. If you keep getting in your own way, you'll definitely be one.

"What's for dinner?" you ask.

Eddie smiles.

—

Colo Do Amante Hotel, April 1991

"Do you think you'll ever move away from glam metal?"

Eddie looks up from the notebook in his lap. He licks his lip to give himself more time to answer, searching for the right thing to say to you. The more time you spend together, the more he wants to say the right thing, and the more sure he feels that there isn't a wrong thing.

You are, quite simply, a wonder. A love.

He shouldn't be here. Eddie's playing a show tomorrow night halfway across the country. If even one thing goes wrong with his red-eye, he's fucked. Someone from Rollerboy will murder him, and he'll deserve it. But he's here, because he wanted to see you and miraculously you wanted to see him. A late night phone call from one hotel room to another, his quiet confession.

"I miss you," he'd said.

You'd hesitated for half a second, if that. "Come and see me, then."

So he ditched the bus, got a cab, flew out with his rockstar money and crawled into your bed. You haven't slept together, only laid with one another talking about how much being a musician sucks and how awful you both are for complaining. You'll relax around him now, and he thinks more about seeing you again than he does your muddled past, and he knows that counts for something.

"Do I think I'll move away from glam metal?" he repeats, thoughts not strictly yours.

He's trying to write about how you look now before you move, before he can forget it. Your figure curled up yet limp beside him, your hand on his stomach and your shirt climbing up the hill of your hip, the pudge of your stomach peaking out. You're wearing something much more showy than the last time he saw you, having done press a couple hours before his arrival and with no will to change. Your tights are dark and floral lace, stretched over sweet thighs vaguely hidden by your black skirt. For all the leg on show he can't see a hint of your top half before your neck. You're layered in fabrics. He loves it, you look awesome, and you'd been amazingly flustered when he told you.

Careful not to smudge your glittery make up, he'd tried to kiss you in the lobby. You'd nearly squeaked, grabbing him by the arm to pull him to the elevator bank.

"Can't blame a guy for trying. Have you seen yourself today? Actually? You're fucking killer."

You'd shushed him and clicked the wrong floor button. He pretended not to notice when you corrected yourself.

Most of the makeup is gone now, kissed off and the rest washed away, but your lashes are still lengthened and they look it as you prop yourself up by his hip and ask, "Well?"

"No," he says honestly. There's always room to grow, and music changes with time and with an evolving scene, but Corroded Coffin are famous for how they sound now. "I love how we sound… Do you think you'll ever move into glam metal?"

"Is there any room?"

"No, but when has that ever stopped anyone?"

He folds his pen between the leaves of his notebook and chucks it toward his bag in the corner of your room. You shift yourself, not quite sitting up as you pull off your sheer long sleeve and the regular long sleeve beneath it, exposing your arms and your chest to his view. He hadn't been expecting a tank top beneath.

He whistles. Can't help himself.

You dive to hide your face in the sheets, one arm tucked uncomfortably under your weight and across your chest, the other sliding away from his navel. "Shut up," you murmur.

"Sorry. You're just pretty."

"Didn't say that before I got my tits out, I notice."

He laughs at your grumbling and leans down to talk softly. "Ah, but I did, didn't I? Told you you were 'fucking pretty' but maybe you didn't hear me, you were kissing me so hard–"

You reach blindly for his face and push him away from you, not half as roughly as you could.

He's messing with you. It's his prerogative.

Being your almost boyfriend comes with privileges, like being privy to how you're feeling. Once unbeknownst to Eddie and probably everyone in your life, you're not a very happy person. He could guess why, he's not blind, but thinking it and knowing it are two different ponds. You don't say much about it, embarrassed by or maybe unable to verbalise how you're feeling beyond, "I'm tired of everything today," and, "Sorry, I'm just worried."

About what? he'd asked.

You'd nibbled your lip. Everything. Nothing worth saying out loud.

He'd make jokes anyhow, but he makes more of them when he thinks you're feeling down. Teasing you is a surefire trick to distract you from all the stuff you can't handle.

It's piling on, he knows. Morgan on the news again, shirtless in a public club, your startled face in the background. You'd been poked fun at by TV hosts and journalists alike. Nothing cruel, but making you the butt of a joke nonetheless. Then there was Ananya's continued selective mutism, disagreements over stage blocking, your ever-present employment anxiety, your very first hate letter disguised as a love note, and, to Eddie's surprise, radio silence from your friend Dornie.

He didn't like Dornie to begin with. Now he hates him.

"Don't push me away," he whines.

"Don't make fun of me."

"But you look lovely when you're mad." He grins at you where you're glaring, only your eyes and brows visible in your position. "Exactly like that."

"Lovely," you say. He can hear in your voice how the mock fight you'd started has sputtered out. You sound genuine again, a little raspy with oncoming fatigue.

"You don't like that word?"

You lay flat on your back. Head on the pillows, hands to your collar and fingers picking at one another, you look down at them and away from him and Eddie can't stand losing your attention. He ushers away his notebook on the sheets and climbs toward you on knees. He checks your face as he positions himself between your legs. You smile. He smiles back. He thinks maybe this is what you secretly wanted him to do.

"You like Status Quo?" you ask.

He smiles and lets his weight press down on you, not paying much attention to what goes where, only the feeling of being on top of you, this close, and being allowed. "Yeah?"

"Showaddywaddy?"

"Beg your pardon?" he jokes.

"Let's go for a little walk," you sing under your breath.

"Yeah. I liked that song." He sings, "I wanna tell you, that I love ya." You nod happily.

"Queen?" you ask, quieter still.

"Don't ask stupid questions."

"It's weird that we managed to find each other," you say. "Though everything. You had to like all that music, we had to want this bad, we had to be born at the same time, in the same scenes, and we had to go to the same stupid party."

He hangs his head. "I was in a mood."

"You were. I figured you were an asshole, you know?"

Eddie takes a deep, deep breath. "I remember."

"I was… pathetic," you say softly, letting your hands drop flat to your chest. You change your mind, tuck a curl behind his ear. "I was desperate, your friend Jamison… it doesn't matter. I don't know what I'm trying to say."

"There's a difference between pathetic and lonely. You tried to make friends, and I was being a dick because–" He sucks the inside of his cheek.

"'Cos you tried to talk to me and I made fun of your court case?" you ask, self-deprecating.

"Because you didn't know me."

You poke his cheek gently. "That mattered that much to you?"

"Sweetheart, we met before."

Eddie watches you hear him, and spots the resistance to what he's suggesting. He needles his arms under your waist to feel the breadth of your back in his palms, close enough to kiss you, but wanting to hear what you have to say about it more.

"We did," he says.

"What do you mean?"

"I think about a year before we met at the party, we met at the airport. You weren't in Godless, you weren't even a tech yet, you were on your way to meet the tour in New York. We met, and we talked about music, and I told you to come and meet me if you ever found yourself in the same place."

You'll put me on a list? you'd asked, charmed by his wanting to see you, as impossible as it may have seemed then.

I'll put you on the list.

"When I saw you," he says, eyes on the curve of your bottom lip, "I was hoping you'd come to see me, but you didn't remember me, I could tell straight away, and I– I'd gotten so used to people saying yes to me that I got more pissed than I should've. I feel like a loser, telling you now, but–" But it meant something, meeting you before. It meant something.

"We did meet," you say, voice like a line of spider web weighed down, and abruptly plinking back up. "You gave me a sticker. I dropped it down a storm drain straight off the plane."

He nods encouragingly, "I gave you a Corroded Coffin sticker–"

"With a rose in the background," you interrupt.

"Yeah. You remember? You had those huge can headphones and your guitar was falling apart, and I told you about Sweetheart 'cos she was still pretty impressive at the time. You didn't have time to try her before boarding, so…"

"So you said I could give her a try the next time we saw each other."

Eddie bites his lip. "Yeah."

Your breath is noticeably quickened, your gaze snapping onto his face. Recollection lights your eyes, and then, like he'd so desperately wanted to see months ago when he wandered into you of all people at a sticky, snow-loaded party, you smile at him. Like you missed him. Like you can't believe your luck.

"Well, hey, stranger," you whisper, your thumb rubbing along his bottom lip, fingers tucked neatly behind his ear. "I remember you."

"You took your time," he says.

"You could've said something," you say, chin dipping to your chest. "How did you remember me after that long?"

He's trying not to get broken up with before he's officially your boyfriend; he wants to say, You're hard to forget, but he refrains.

He leans in for a silky, soft kiss. "Immaculate memory," he says in the slice of time your lips aren't touching, a second gap as he turns his head to better kiss your top lip.

"Is there anything you can't do?" you indulge.

"Can't get this one really beautiful thing to let me take her photo," he says.

You giggle and push him away. "'Cos I know what kind of picture you want, Eddie!"

"I already told you that's not true, dirty photos are an epidemic I've yet to feed into." He's a man, not a Saint —he'd fucking love a dirty photo, but he really does just want a Polaroid for his wallet. "How about we both have a Polaroid of each other? So you don't forget me?"

Guilt lines your smile. "I'm sorry," you say, dragging him down for a kiss. "Sorry, sorry. I won't forget you again, Munson…" You rub his cheek with your thumb. "If I let you take a photo, will you forgive me?"

You're already forgiven. "Three photos."

"Deal."

"Should've asked for five."

"You could've asked for the full cartridge and a dirty one and I might've said yes. I can't believe we met before.."

Eddie rests his nose on your cheek, eyes closed, already trying to remember how many photos there are left on his camera. "I don't want a picture of your tits because you feel guilty, babe." He laughs as he talks, then, the joke feels that good to say, "I want one because you have the most amazing, killer, gorgeous pair of–"

You screech to cover his bold compliments and whack his chest playfully. "Get off of me, you freak! Get off, get off, get off."

Eddie flips onto his back, chuckling.

"How would you even know?" you ask, slipping off of the bed with a little thump and down by your suitcase. You chuck your shitty Polaroid Spectra onto the sheets by his arm and rifle around for a foil sealed cartridge. "You've barely seen them."

Like past Eddie, this Eddie still wants to fuck you stupid, but he also really isn't interested in intiating anything before you're ready. He's hoping you'll make the first move, and maybe soon, but watching the tip of your tongue breach your lips as you climb on your knees to fiddle with the Spectra, he's not really thinking about sex.

"I've seen them," he disagrees.

"You have not."

"Have too."

"Have not."

"I'm seeing them right now."

You look down at your chest. The tank top you're wearing isn't especially scandalous, Eddie just loves your shape.

"Okay," you say, shyness creeping into your voice and stature, your shoulders bunching up toward your neck a touch, "if I say something and it's too weird, you can tell me no. Please tell me no."

He shakes his head gently when you don't add anything else. "What?" he asks.

"Do you really want a dirty photo? You could take one. I wouldn't mind," you say.

Your voice drops to a murmur with the last two words. Eddie hikes up on his elbows, smile curling and appling his cheeks. "You don't still feel bad about forgetting lil ole me?"

"Of course I do, but it's not why I'm offering. I really like you, Eddie. I want to do things other couples do."

Earnestness has you sounding your best: your voice has always been one of his very favourite things about you. Your voice, your smile, your passion (maybe that one most of all). When you talk as you are now, without anything in the way, he thinks he might be at his most infatuated.

"I really like you," he says, reaching out to steal your hand from the camera. "What I want most is one with your smile, get me? One I can flash at the boys while I'm away, brag about you."

"I thought we weren't telling anyone," you say gently.

"Not for now. I'll need it eventually, right?"

You beam at him. "Right."

You pick up your camera and aim it at his face. He knows how he must look, his hair frizzy from hours on a small plane, lips sore from kissing you, ridiculously happy. Now you know everything about him he'd been purposefully hiding. All the bad in all of the good, and all the good in all of the bad. He can't wait to tell you the rest.

The flash blinds him for a split second, and your camera chugs as it ejects the photo. You drop it on the sheets and you and Eddie crane your heads together, foreheads kissing while the image appears.

"That's a good one, right?" he asks. Upside down, he's not sure.

"It's really perfect," you say.

Eddie lifts your chin for another silken kiss.

"Listen," he says as he breaks away, his lips tingling, heart in his throat. "Can I be your boyfriend?"

He hadn't meant to ask like that.

You nod slowly, then quickly, trying uselessly to tamp an ecstatic smile as you paw at his arms. Eddie pulls you back up onto the bed and you make camp in his lamp, hands in his hair and lips like an undulating wave against his. He kisses you until he can't think.

—

The photographer standing outside of the Colo De Amante is cold, fingertips frostbitten and nose like ice, but it's worth it for the photo he gets. Eddie Munson peeling out of the hotel in the late night when he's supposed to be in a different state, hair banded out of his face, giving the photographer a great view of his pleased features.

The camera clicks.

𓆩❤︎𓆪

thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed! please reblog if you have the time!! i love them being all loveydovey but im excited for the drama to start again

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson #stranger things fic #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things fanfiction #rockstar!eddie #rockstar!eddie munson #rockstar!eddie munson x reader #rockstar!eddie x reader #eddie munson fic

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deadgurlfilmz · 5 months ago

Text

CHAPTER 1- “what. The. F*ck”

Ford pines x platonic!teenage!reader

Summary- Reader and their friends go out to the forest. When reader is looking for a secluded area to pee instead they find a creepy statue. That definitely won’t lead to nothing more… right?

Warnings- teeny bit of swearing, reader is gender neutral, this is probably the only time these friends will be in the story they are only here to add context for the chapter.

it’s been 4 months since stand and Ford returned from their travels on the Stan o’ War and for the most part life has been normal. fords house is still ‘The Mystery Shack’ Stan and Soos co-manage the shack, Ford still continues his studies of Gravity Falls even writing a 4th jornal (it’s more of a personal jornal just for Dipper) and best of all there is no Bill. The pines family is no longer being terrorised by demonic triangle. YAY!

Now for you a 17 year old kid living in Gravity Falls. You are very ordinary you go to high school, have a close group of friends, decent grades and like every other teenager in Gravity falls you want to get the hell out of there. Even with Gravity Falls weirdness for example the gnomes you’ve encountered (that tried to force you to become their wife), and the ghost that haunts you’re old hangout spot (the abandoned 24h convenient store) the weird and supernatural just never really interested you.

Now for the present. It is a Saturday afternoon July 2017 you and your friends (Maren, Rebekah, Owen, and Julia) All decided to go deep Into the forest just for something to do. Owen and Julia were walking ahead of you, Maren, Rebekah, and You were gossiping about some junior his name was something like Gary? Gideon? Definitely on those lines. You spoke about his criminal history what is insane as at the baby age of 11 this boy was in prison. You all continued walking until you shouted to the group.

“Wait guys! I gotta pee” you shout so Owen and Julia would hear aswell.

Rebekah turned to you “babe… where about are you gonna pee? We are miles away from any bathroom.”

You look around and see a patch of land totally hidden with thick trees. “I’ll go over there” you point.

“Cool. We’ll just be here” Owen nods.

You walk over to the “pee spot” you walk into the tall trees and as you do the vibe changes from ‘normal woods’ to ‘suddenly I don’t need to pee anymore’. You feel as if you are being watched. You walk further in trying to shake the feeling. That is until you see a stone statue sticking out from the ground. It’s triangle shaped. On the one hand it’s creepy but on the other how can anything look creepy when it’s wearing a top hat and bow tie? You take a quick picture of it muttering under your breath “ahaha this is cool” and quickly leave (without peeing). You head back to the group not mentioning the statue you saw. A few hours pass and it’s getting dark so all of you head home.

When you 5 make it back to main gravity falls you all go your separate ways saying byes. The walk to your house isn’t long just 5 minutes away from lazy Susan’s diner. You reach you’re home taking out you’re key from you’re pocket and letting yourself in, you heat up left over pasta in the microwave and go to your room. You place the bowl on your dresser when you see a black book sitting on your bed. You know for a fact you didn’t put it there. Curiosity takes over and you pick it up skimming through the pages and taking in it’s horrifying illustrations and stories.

Two things you notice about the book-

1) the book was covered in drawing of the statue you saw in the woods. (Strange)

2) there was one man who repeatedly showed up. You recognise his face from somewhere… you take a moment to think that’s when it hits you the mystery shack! This is the man who owns the mystery shack!! You need to talk to him ask him what the fuck is going on.

You close the book and toss it under your bed not wanting to look at it any longer the only thing you can say is

“What. The. Fuck.”

—————————————————————

Okay!!! Chapter 1 done. Yay!! I know the dates and ages of characters I’ve used may not line up with the actual plot of GF but oh well just try to ignore it lol

#gravity falls fic #gravity falls #gravity falls stanford #stanford pines #ford pines x reader #stanford pines x reader #stanly pines #ford pines #dipper pines #mabel pines #soos ramirez #wendy corduroy

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pandapetals · 4 months ago

Text

Runaway

old man logan x afab!reader - i guess angst, inspired by rihanna's song desperado, set from the film logan, logan being nice, no y/n used, no reader description, mutant reader but no powers mentioned

Logan sees you on the side of the road and decides to pick you up.

read on Ao3

Logan hadn’t planned on stopping, let alone picking anyone up. But there you were, standing alone on the side of a dirt highway, the heat shimmering off the asphalt like a mirage. He didn’t know what made him slow down, what made him pull over and let you climb into the passenger seat of his beat-up truck. Maybe it was the way you looked—exhausted, dirt streaked across your face, bag slung over your shoulder like you’d been walking for days. Your skin was burnt, the blazing sun having made its mark, and yet your eyes, though heavy with fatigue, were sharp. Watchful.

Something about you reminded him of himself.

He didn’t regret it, though. In his old age, Logan had learned to appreciate the silence of a long drive more than anything else, and it seemed like you did too. You’d only said three words to him— “Thanks for stopping” —and he’d replied with three of his own: “Don’t mention it.”

After that, the two of you had settled into a companionable quiet. No questions, no small talk. Just the hum of the engine and the endless stretch of desert before you.

You'd relaxed a bit when he'd glanced over at you and muttered, “Take it easy.” It wasn’t a command, more like permission. To breathe, to let go of whatever had weighed you down on that lonely highway. And for a moment, you did. Your shoulders softened, your eyes closed, the tension in your body unwinding bit by bit, like you hadn’t felt safe enough to let your guard down until now.

Logan noticed but didn’t say anything. He just kept driving, his eyes fixed on the horizon, the cigarette between his lips burning low, the smoke curling out the window.

It wasn’t until he pulled off the road at a dusty old gas station, the kind that barely had enough lights to flicker, that things shifted again. The limo rolled to a stop, and you opened the door, stepping out without a word. At first, he figured you were just stretching your legs, shaking off the miles. But then he saw the way your bag was slung back over your shoulder, the determined set of your jaw, that wild, lone-wolf glint in your eyes.

You weren’t planning on sticking around.

“Hey,” Logan called, his voice gravelly, rough from years of too much smoke and too little sleep.

You paused, your back to him, your body tense like a coiled spring. Slowly, you turned, eyes meeting his with a wariness that hadn’t left since the moment you’d climbed into his truck. “Yeah?”

He stared at you for a beat, trying to read you, trying to figure out why he cared whether or not you left. “Run in and get me a beer,” he said, flipping a couple of crumpled bills toward you. The cash hit the dirt, fluttering at your feet.

For a second, he thought you might bolt. He could see it in the way your body shifted, like a rabbit ready to dart from a predator. Part of him expected it—half of him even wanted you to run. It’d be easier that way. No good ever came from sticking around people too long.

But you didn’t run.

You just sighed, like the weight of the world was sitting on your shoulders, and bent down to pick up the bills. With a flicker of resignation, you shoved the money into your pocket and walked into the convenience store, your bag still hanging off your shoulder like it was always ready to be picked up at a moment’s notice.

Logan watched you disappear inside, the glass door swinging shut behind you, leaving him alone with his thoughts. He lit another cigarette, the paper crackling in the quiet, and leaned against the limo.

He didn’t know why he felt relieved you hadn’t taken off. It wasn’t like you owed him anything, and he sure as hell wasn’t used to people sticking around. But something about you... maybe it was the way you’d stood on that highway, all defiance and exhaustion, or maybe it was the silence you carried like a second skin. Whatever it was, it gnawed at him, like he could see a piece of himself in you—another drifter with nowhere to be and no one to answer to.

When you came back out, a cold beer in hand, you tossed it to him without a word. He caught it mid-air, popping the cap off with a flick of his thumb, the hiss of carbonation breaking the tension.

“Thanks,” he said, his voice gruff.

You nodded but didn’t meet his gaze. Instead, you stood there for a moment, shifting your weight from one foot to the other, like you were still trying to decide whether to stay or go.

“You know,” Logan began, his eyes fixed on the darkening horizon, “you don’t have to keep running.”

Your shoulders stiffened, but you didn’t say anything. The weight of his words hung between you both, thick and heavy like the dust that clung to the desert air.

“I’m not running,” you muttered finally, your voice low, almost too quiet for him to catch but he knew it was a lie.

Logan took a long swig of the beer, watching you carefully from the corner of his eye. “Yeah, you are,” he said after a moment, his tone even, almost resigned. “We all are.”

For the first time, you looked at him— really looked at him—and in that instant, something shifted. The walls you’d both built, the ones that kept you safe but alone, cracked just a little.

“Doesn’t mean you gotta keep doing it,” he added, voice softer this time like he wasn’t sure why he was even saying it.

You didn’t respond. Instead, you walked around to the back of the limo and climbed into the passenger seat, setting your bag down at your feet, the decision made. Logan didn’t ask where you were headed, didn’t push for answers you weren’t ready to give. He just slid back into the driver’s seat, turned the ignition, and let the old engine roar to life.

The two of you drove off, leaving the gas station behind, the sun dipping low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the desert.

For the first time in a long while, Logan didn’t feel the weight of solitude pressing down on him. Maybe it was the silence between you, or maybe it was just the comfort of knowing someone else was out there, wandering the same road.

Hours had slipped away, the sky outside now washed in soft hues of pink and orange as the sun began its slow descent. Logan kept his hands steady on the wheel, his eyes locked on the road ahead. He could keep driving—hell, he’d driven through worse—but the soft sound of your head bumping gently against the window caught his attention. You were fighting it, he could tell. Your head kept nodding forward, then jerking back up as you tried to resist the pull of sleep.

Logan had lived long enough to master the art of sleeplessness. Nights on the run, nights on missions, nights spent haunted by things he couldn’t quite forget. Sleep was optional when you had the kind of past he did. But he could see it in you, the weariness sinking deep into your bones. He wondered how long it had been since you’d slept in a real bed—if you even remembered what that felt like.

Your exhaustion bothered him in a way he couldn’t quite name. So, with a quiet sigh, he pulled off the highway, easing the limo into the parking lot of a rundown roadside hotel. The flickering neon sign buzzed weakly in the evening air, casting an eerie glow over the mostly vacant lot. The engine rumbled to a stop, and the sudden silence jolted you awake.

“Why’d we stop?” Your voice was groggy, your eyes still hazy with sleep. You blinked, confused, disoriented, like you couldn’t quite understand why you were no longer in motion.

Logan’s chest tightened at the sound of your voice—how startled you were by something as simple as stopping. It reminded him of things he didn’t want to remember. “You need to rest,” he muttered, the words rough in his throat. “Can’t sleep sittin’ like that.”

He stepped out of the limo without waiting for your response, the night air cooler than he expected as it brushed against his skin. The neon light buzzed above him as he walked inside the hotel, the faint smell of old carpet and stale cigarette smoke hitting him the moment he opened the door. The place was barely a step above a motel, the kind of spot that wouldn’t ask too many questions, and that suited Logan just fine.

A few minutes later, he returned to the limo, the weight of a key card resting in his hand. He opened the door and slid back into the driver’s seat, holding the key out toward you.

You glanced at the key, then at him, an odd expression crossing your face as you squinted in the dimming light. “You got a room?” you asked, your voice tinged with confusion.

Logan nodded, but then shook his head slightly, grunting in frustration. “No... I mean, yeah, but it’s not for me. It’s for you.” He shoved the key into your hand, his calloused fingers brushing yours for just a second—enough to feel how rough and worn his hands were like they’d spent a lifetime in battles you couldn’t begin to imagine.

You stared at the key in your hand, then back up at him, shaking your head. “I can’t take this,” you murmured, a hint of something like guilt creeping into your voice. “I don’t need—”

“Hey,” Logan cut you off, his voice gruffer than usual, like he was uncomfortable with the whole situation. “I’m bein’ nice here. And I don’t do nice shit, so take it.” His eyes, though hard, had softened just a fraction, as if he was daring you to argue with him but hoping you wouldn’t.

For a moment, you didn’t move. The weight of his offer hung between you, heavier than it should’ve been. There was more to this than just a bed—it was an unspoken acknowledgment of something. Trust, maybe. Or the fact that Logan, in his own rough-around-the-edges way, saw that you needed something more than just a seat in his limo.

Your fingers curled around the key, accepting it with quiet resignation, but your gaze lingered on his. “Why are you doing this?” you asked, your voice low, the question carrying more than just curiosity. There was a vulnerability in it, a hint of something deeper, like you were trying to understand the man sitting next to you.

Logan looked away, his jaw clenching slightly as if the answer was something he didn’t want to say out loud. He exhaled through his nose, a heavy sound in the quiet cab of the limo. “Just get some rest,” he muttered, his tone clipped like he didn’t want to have this conversation. Not now. Maybe not ever.

You hesitated for a beat longer, then finally nodded, pushing open the door and stepping out into the cool night air. The pavement felt rough beneath your feet, a reminder of how far you'd come from wherever you started. The worn-down hotel loomed in front of you, the neon light casting strange shadows across the parking lot.

As you walked toward the door, you glanced back over your shoulder. Logan was still sitting there in the driver’s seat, his silhouette framed by the fading light. He didn’t move, didn’t watch you go—at least, not that you could tell. But something in the way he sat, rigid and tense, told you he was still paying attention. Always paying attention.

Inside the hotel room, the bed was lumpy, the sheets threadbare, and the faint smell of mildew lingered in the air. But it was a bed—a real bed. And that was something you hadn’t had in a while. You dropped your bag by the door, staring at the worn carpet for a moment, feeling the weight of everything settle onto your shoulders.

As you lay down not bothering to change, your body sank into the mattress, the tension slowly easing from your muscles. You closed your eyes, the hum of the highway distant now, Logan’s quiet gruffness still echoing in your head.

Outside, Logan leaned back in the limo, staring out into the fading dusk. The quiet between you wasn’t uncomfortable anymore—it felt like something else. Something that neither of you could name yet.

He stayed there, in the parking lot, engine off, his thoughts far away but still somehow with you, watching over you in a way he’d never admit to until he finally let sleep take him.

You awoke to the damp feeling of drool on your chin, blinking groggily as you wiped your face with the back of your hand. The unfamiliar room slowly came into focus—the peeling wallpaper, the dim light filtering through the blinds. You sat up, glancing around as your mind caught up with your body. For a moment, you weren’t sure what time it was, until you peeked outside, pulling the blinds open just enough to see the sky painted with streaks of orange and pink.

The sun was setting. Still early.

The limo was still parked in the lot, right where it had been when you’d gone inside. A part of you had half-expected it to be gone, leaving you behind with nothing but a vague memory of a quiet, brooding man who had given you a ride. But there it was.

You sighed, pushing yourself up from the bed, and stretching out the stiffness in your back. The bathroom mirror reflected a version of you that looked just as tired as you felt—hair tousled, eyes puffy from sleep. You splashed some water on your face, trying to freshen up, wondering just how long you’d been out.

As you towel-dried your face, a thought hit you: You didn’t even know the guy’s name.

You paused, staring at your reflection. Great. I got in a car with a complete stranger. A stranger who could’ve easily left you out there on the highway, or worse, done something while you were out cold. But he hadn’t. You knew instinctively that he wouldn’t. He could’ve hurt you, sure, but there was something about his demeanor that told you he wasn’t that kind of man. Reserved, gruff—yes—but not a threat.

Besides, there was something about the way he moved, the way he watched the world with an edge of suspicion like he was always prepared for the worst. It felt... familiar. Maybe that’s why you’d felt okay getting into the car with him. He was like you—a mutant. One of the few left in the world, just trying to survive.

You stepped outside into the cool evening air, pulling the door shut behind you. Logan sat in the limo, leaning back with his arms crossed, one hand tapping lightly against the worn leather of the steering wheel. His gaze lifted the moment you stepped into view, those sharp, unreadable eyes tracking your every move.

“Didn’t think you’d wait around,” you said as you approached, your voice carrying more uncertainty than you intended.

Logan shrugged. “Didn’t have anywhere else to be,” he replied, his tone casual, but there was a heaviness behind the words like maybe that had been true for a long time.

You opened the passenger door and slid in next to him. The limo smelled faintly of smoke and old leather, the scent oddly comforting now. You settled back into the seat, glancing at him from the corner of your eye.

“What’s your name?” you asked suddenly, realizing how strange it was to have shared a car—and now a bit of trust—with someone you didn’t even know.

“Logan,” he answered, the name grating out of his throat like it wasn’t used to being said. He didn’t look at you as he spoke, his eyes staying on the horizon, but his grip on the steering wheel tightened slightly. “Yours?”

You hesitated for a second before giving it. It felt strange to be exchanging names after all this, but something in you wanted to fill the quiet between you with more than just silence.

Logan nodded once, letting your name hang in the air for a moment before glancing over at you. His gaze was hard to read—those deep, weathered eyes that had probably seen too much for too long. “How’d you end up out here?”

You shifted slightly, the question bringing a surge of memories to the surface—memories you weren’t sure you wanted to unpack right now. But there was something about the way he asked, so direct, so unflinching, that made it easier to answer.

“Been moving around,” you said simply. “Trying to stay off the radar, keep to myself.” You shrugged, glancing out the window at the fading light. “Guess I was just looking for somewhere quieter than the last place.”

Logan grunted like he understood more than he was letting on. “Not much quiet left these days.”

You both sat in the heavy silence that followed, the kind of silence that said more than words could. The world had become hostile to people like you—mutants, outcasts, whatever they wanted to call you now. It didn’t matter where you went; there was always a sense of being hunted, being watched like you were something dangerous to be kept in check.

“How long have you been running?” he asked after a while, his voice softer now, less gruff. There was something almost... knowing in it, like he’d been running, too for much longer than you could imagine.

You exhaled, the question hitting closer than you wanted it to. “Feels like forever,” you admitted quietly. “But really? Only a few years. Things started getting... bad.”

Logan’s jaw tightened at that, his fingers gripping the wheel until his knuckles whitened. “Yeah. They always get bad.”

You didn’t need to ask if he was speaking from experience. You could hear it in his voice, feel it in the air between you—the weight of survival, the cost of staying alive when the world seemed determined to tear you down.

“Why’d you pick me up?” you asked suddenly, surprising yourself with the question. It had been nagging at you since he’d stopped on that highway, and now, sitting here with him, it felt safe enough to ask.

Logan’s eyes flicked over to you, then back to the windshield. He was silent for a long moment like he wasn’t sure how to answer. Finally, he shrugged, the movement almost imperceptible. “Seemed like you needed it.”

That was it. No explanation, no deeper reasoning. Just a simple truth, spoken with a kind of raw honesty that made your chest tighten. He wasn’t the type to offer anything he didn’t mean, and for some reason, that made his answer hit harder.

You nodded, accepting the answer for what it was.

Logan cleared his throat, breaking the tension. “So, what’s the plan now? Where are you headed?”

You stared at him, then out the window focusing on the hotel neon sign, unsure how to respond.

You hadn’t thought about the future beyond getting through the next day. “I don’t know,” you admitted. “Keep moving, I guess. Same as always.”

“Yeah,” he said, his voice low and distant. “Same as always.”

For a while, neither of you spoke, but the silence felt different this time—less heavy, more like a shared understanding between two people who’d been walking the same lonely road for too long.

Logan turned the key in the ignition, the engine rumbling to life beneath you both. “Where to, then?” he asked, glancing over at you with a look that said it didn’t really matter where you went. Not as long as you were both still breathing.

You met his gaze, feeling the unspoken question beneath it. You could keep running. Or maybe, just maybe, you didn’t have to do it alone this time.

“Anywhere but here,” you said, a slight smile tugging at your lips.

Logan nodded, pulling the car into gear and easing back onto the road, the fading sun casting long shadows across the landscape as you drove toward whatever came next.

#wolverine #x men wolverine #james logan howlett #logan howlett #logan howlett x you #x men logan #logan x reader #old man!logan #old man logan #logan x you #wolverine x reader #logan xmen #marvel #mcu #female reader #mutant reader #rihanna

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shveris · 6 months ago

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my jjk headcanons, part 2

part 1

part 3

part 4

if someone asks satoru for some change to buy snacks at the convenience store, he’ll give them a batch of ¥10.000 bills with the only request to get him some candy (shoko has been stealing money from him like this ever since their first year; rip toji he would’ve loved this)

current conversion rates (july ‘24): ¥10k ≈ $64 ≈ 58,50€

whenever yuuji passes out — from exhaustion, a punch to the face, blood loss, anything that’s not sleep sleep — he lands in sukuna’s domain. they argue &/ fight until yuuji wakes up again

satoru owns one of those password protected diaries that plays “oops! i did it again” by britney spears upon opening. he writes in it with colourful [glittery] gel pens, doodles the people he mentions in his entries, decorates the pages with stickers, etc.

megumi regularly buys treats and dog beds for his shikigami because he thinks they might feel lonely in his shadows (satoru actually started doing it first when he met the divine dogs for the first time)

toji needs reading glasses

satoru is immune to poisons and other toxins (insert traumatic childhood in which he got forced to endure all kinds of poisons etc. from the gojo clan). he says it’s really convenient in case someone tries to assassinate him with food (has happened a lot in his life already) or a cursed spirit has a CT that utilises them. shoko and suguru punched him for that statement

when they’re out in the city, model agency agents regularly try to recruit satoru, suguru and shoko

they tried the same with megumi too, at a later point in timeline — nobara shoos them off every time

the big bone structure we see in sukuna’s innate domain is yuuji’s ribcage

modern!au sukuita twins suck at school. yuuji’s only good subject is PE and sukuna’s is japanese

satoru can use the mental abacus technique (everyone is mortified whenever he does; no this is not a CT, it’s maths- no yuuta, you can’t copy th-)

modern!au sashisu live together and have no sense of privacy — shoko is taking a bath? well sucks to be her, satoru needs to pee; suguru is rubbing one off in the dead of night? well sucks to be him, shoko is drunk and needs to rant and he was stupid enough to leave his door unlocked; satoru has a migraine and is hanging over the toilet bowl, throwing up? well sucks to be him, suguru needs his help with his physics homework that’s due in 1 hour

megumi and nobara have a “if we’re still single by the age of 30, we’re marrying for financial purposes”-pact

sukuna is aroace

satoru hates drinking water. he says it tastes like nothing / it’s bland and boring and he, gojo satoru, cannot be drinking something so unworthy of him

yuuji really enjoys teas, he grew up drinking them with his grandpa

satoru can’t handle spicy food

nobara heavily dislikes anything slimy & rubbery, especially food (means she avoids seafood by default but she also doesn’t like it because “the smell is not lady-like”)

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starboyyoongi · 6 months ago

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payment. jeong yunho au

⭑ summary: you come across a strange customer one night who is quick to reveal his true nature to you. later on, however, you find out just how cruel his intentions really are.

or, in which a terrifying run in with a customer one night leads to your own demise.

⭑ pairing: jeong yunho x female!reader

⭑ warnings/tags: cursing, mentions of murder, killer!yunho, character death, mentions of/brief descriptions of blood, use of nicknames (“baby”, “doll”, “love”)

⭑ notes: this has been proofread and edited a few times, but there may be some errors that i didn’t catch 🙂‍↕️ yunho’s been on the brain as of late so i had to write something for him and it ended up being murder related how comical. hope you guys enjoy and feel free to leave your thoughts! x

YOU’RE SO CAUGHT up in how shiny his eyes look under the fluorescent lights that you don’t notice how bloody his hands are.

it’s not until he reaches into his back pocket to pull out his wallet and places a twenty dollar bill on the counter that you see how much his hands are stained red. you feel yourself freeze up a little, hesitation evident in the way that your fingers retract a little. if he notices your sudden change in behavior, he doesn’t say anything about it. instead, he slides his items—ramen, a bottle of strawberry soju, and a pack of cigarettes—across the counter towards him and gives you a smile before he walks over to the vacant table in the corner.

you blink a couple of times and shake your head a little before you grab the twenty dollar bill and put it in the register. you owe him change—twelve dollars and twenty five cents to be exact—but you don’t feel like telling him. you’re still trying to wrap your head around the fact that his hands are a bloody mess and he didn’t seem to mind it in the slightest.

you turn your attention back to your phone. maybe you’re seeing things. it’s after eleven at night and you didn’t get much sleep the night before or before you started your shift. it’s possible that all of that is starting to catch up to you, right?

right.

you glance over at him. only this time, it’s not his hands that catch your attention; it’s his face. and his shirt. and his arms. there isn’t a single part of him that’s not covered in dried blood. panic starts to creep in and you’re left feeling frozen once more. you want to look away from him, but you can’t. it’s like your eyes are practically glued to him.

you watch as he slurps up a mouthful of ramen and lets out a satisfied groan before he opens the bottle of soju. his long, slender blood stained fingers wrap around the bottle and he brings it to his lips to take a few gulps. there’s a bit of a pause before he places the bottle back down and lets out a sigh. he turns his head a little and looks around before his eyes land on you.

your eyes widen and you gasp as he smiles at you again. he parts his lips to say something, but you never get to hear it. a blank expression takes over his features instead, his smile almost immediately disappearing. the air suddenly feels thick and you can feel your heartbeat start to pick up.

you’ve never felt this feeling before.

in the eight months since you’ve started working at the convenience store, things have been okay for the most part. sometimes you had to deal with customers that had a little too much to drink and the occasional person who did a terrible job at hitting on you. you’ve also had your fair share of run ins with odd, if not mildly suspicious, customers, but nothing enough to elicit what you are currently feeling.

fear.

pure, genuine fear.

you try to run down a list of options in your head, but you can’t seem to focus. your heart feels like it’s pounding out of your chest and you can feel your hands start to tremble. the training your boss had given you months ago seems pointless now and you almost wish that the man staring you down was a robber instead. you’d have a much better chance at handling that than whatever this is.

as if something up above had heard you, your phone starts to buzz. you look at the phone screen then at him. he tilts his head to the side, a few strands of his dark hair moving as he does so. he squints his eyes and gives you a look that says i dare you. you grip your phone tightly in your hand and gulp.

fuck, you think to yourself. fuck, fuck, fuck.

you stare at each other as your phone continues to buzz before it stops. you secretly hope that it’ll ring again, but it doesn’t. you start to become acutely aware of how silent the store is now, save for some music playing softly in the background, and you hate it. you also hate how he’s still staring at you with that blank expression on his face.

he says something then, but you don’t catch it. the thoughts in your head are so loud that you can’t seem to hear anything else.

you wet your lips before stammering out a high pitched, “w–what?”

“i said,” he begins to say with an exasperated sigh, “where do you keep your computer? i need to access the cameras.”

“the cameras?” you repeat in the same high pitched tone.

“the cameras?” he says mockingly. “yes, the fucking cameras. jesus, you pretty girls really are fucking stupid.”

his comment leaves you stunned and your mouth falls open a little.

“i— what—”

“look, just tell me where the fucking computer is, okay? you can drool and masturbate over what i said later.”

“excuse me? i don’t— what?”

“you heard me. now, where’s the fucking computer?” he demands.

equally scared and taken aback by his crude comments, you point towards the door a few feet away from him and say, “it’s in there. the c–computer is in there.”

he grins at you as he comes to a standing position and it’s then that you realize how tall he is. without saying another word, he takes a few steps over to the door and pulls on the handle. you hear him mutter something about being stupid before he disappears into the office. once he’s out of sight, you let out a breath that you didn’t even realize you’ve been holding.

you take a couple of deep breaths before unlocking your phone and immediately dialing 119. you’re about to hit the call button, but you hesitate. you know that this is the right thing to do, but why doesn’t it feel that way?

you take a quick glance at the door. you don’t know how much time you have left, but it can’t be that much. all you have to do is hit the green button and tell the operator to send someone. that’s it. the whole thing shouldn’t take any longer than a minute or so. and yet, as you stare at the door and hover your finger over the screen, you can’t help but feel like you’re doing something wrong.

you’ve never been in this kind of situation before.

ever.

you think back to all of the times you’ve seen this exact scenario play out in movies and tv shows. the amount of times you’ve screamed at characters for saying or doing something stupid and ranting about what you’d do instead. but what you failed to realize back then is that all of it was fiction.

and this? this is real life.

and in real life, you don’t have time to sit around and wait for something to happen. it’s either do or die.

“fuck. okay,” you utter to yourself. “i got this. i can do this.”

with a sudden rush of determination, you unlock your phone again. this time, without any hesitation, you press the call button. you almost sigh in relief when you hear the operator on the other end pick up after a few rings and ask, “emergency services. what is your emergency?”

but as you open your mouth to speak, you hear the door open and suddenly the fear is creeping back in and your body is tensing up. you can hear the operator saying hello? and repeating what’s your emergency? over and over again. you don’t say anything as he slowly closes the door and cocks his head at you.

he knows.

you’re so caught up in the moment that you almost don’t hear him when he says, “do it.”

“do what?”

“don’t play coy with me. there’s a reason why you them called, right? so do it. tell them.”

you take note of the nonchalant tone in his voice. he seems unfazed, almost as if he doesn’t care about the fact that you’re a few words away from getting him arrested. the sound of the operator muttering a curse word and sighing breaks your thoughts.

“look, miss, is something wrong? or is this a prank call?” she asks. you can hear the annoyance in her voice and you know that if you don’t answer her, you might lose your only chance at getting help.

“yes, i…” you trail off.

you watch as he leans against the table and folds his arms across his chest, a smug look growing on his face. then he waits. he waits for you to say something, anything to the operator.

his words start to ring in your ears.

do it.

tell them.

“i’m sorry.” you finally say. you hear the woman on the other end let out a frustrated sigh as you continue. “i didn’t mean to call you guys. it was a dare. from a friend.”

you hang up before she can say anything else. he looks at you for a while longer, eyes roaming over your face and body, before he unfolds his arms and starts to clap slowly. he’s grinning so hard at you that you that it makes an all too familiar feeling start to stir in the pit of your stomach again.

“well done, baby,” he says. “maybe you aren’t so stupid after all, huh? or, well… well, maybe you are. i mean, shit, you practically made me get away with murder just now.”

your breath hitches in your throat.

murder?

“what do you— what do you mean that i let you get away with murder?” you ask timidly.

“oh, baby. don’t tell me that you saw all of this and thought that it was paint or something. no, see this,” he makes a sweeping gesture at himself, “is from the piece of shit that i killed half an hour ago. i always forget how messy murdering someone can be.”

“you killed someone?” you stammer out in disbelief.

he smiles. “of course i did.”

of course he did.

as the crushing realization starts to set in, you can’t help but start to wonder if you’re next. the thought is enough to make your chest start to feel heavy and your breathing start to speed up. you were next. you have to be. there’s no way that he’s going to let you go. not after he caught you calling the police on him and made you aware of his crime.

“woah, slow down there, baby. it looks like you’re about to have a panic attack and i can’t have you dying on me now. well… unless it’s because of me, of course.” he jokes.

you blanch at his words, barely able to register the fact that he’s joking.

when he sees the look on your face, he adds, “oh my god, relax. it’s a fucking joke. god, you should see your face right now.”

and then he laughs.

he laughs so hard and loud that it’s almost deafening.

“a joke?” you mumble out.

“yes, love. a joke. what, did you really think that i was going to kill you?”

“yes. i tried to call the police on you and i know about what you did.”

“and yet, you didn’t say or do anything about it, now did you? besides, i couldn’t kill a pretty doll like you. it’d haunt me in my sleep way too much.”

his words catch you off guard again, just like they did earlier. you scrunch your eyebrows up in confusion. why did he say that? and why is he acting so nonchalant about everything? does he think that this—

“…anyways, i think that i should go now, but it was nice spending some time with you, baby,” he says with a wink.

you watch as he barely turns around to down the rest of his drink before he tosses the bottle and ramen container in the bin next to him. he swipes the carton of cigarettes off of the table and shoves them in his back pocket before he turns towards you again.

“you know what, maybe i should come back here again. have a little more fun with you, you know?” the comment comes out in a suggestive manner and it makes your stomach churn. you ignore it, though and instead focus on him leaving.

as he walks past the counter, you catch a whiff of his scent. it’s an odd mix of his cologne and the irony scent of blood and it makes you feel a little dizzy.

when he finally reaches the glass doors, he stops. you inhale sharply, half expecting him to turn around and say that he’s changed his mind and he’s going to leave you dead in the dumpster. instead, all he says is,

“you can keep the change by the way.”

you hear him say something else, but before you can muster up a response, he’s already out the door. you stand there for what feels like an eternity, your mind struggling to process everything’s that happened. you move on autopilot for the rest of your shift. thankfully, no other customers come in for the rest of the night. there’s no way that you’d be able to handle anymore interactions tonight.

when you go home an hour later, you make a beeline towards your bathroom. you quickly strip off your clothes and step inside of the shower. you don’t wait for the water to warm up like you usually do. instead, you let the cold water run down your body and watch it run down the drain. your mind and body haven’t stopped buzzing ever since he left. the level of fear that he made you feel was different. you’ve never felt anything like it before and you don’t want to feel it again.

fifteen minutes later, you’re out of the shower and in your bedroom. the cool air of your air conditioner hits your exposed skin and makes you shiver. you move quickly, lotioning your entire body and throwing on some pajamas before slipping into bed. but just as your about to lay down and settle in for the night, a sudden loud knock at your door stops you.

you glance at the time on your phone.

1:03 AM.

who could possibly be at your door at this hour?

you mutter out a string of curse words as you slide out of bed and start walking towards the front door. i can’t even fucking sleep in peace, you think to yourself.

when you finally reach the door, you lean in and stare into the peephole. all you see is wet, dark hair staring back at you and it takes you a few seconds to realize that you’re staring at the back of someone’s head.

“um, hello? can i help you…?” you call out.

there’s a weird sinking feeling in your stomach as you watch the person turn around and when you see a familiar set of eyes looking back at you, your blood runs cold.

“hey, baby. open up the door for me, please.”

your breath hitches.

he’s not supposed to be here.

how did he—

“i know that you’re in there, doll. i can hear you breathing and shit.”

no.

“don’t make me wait all night now. open the door, baby. i’m asking you nicely.”

no, no, no.

“how did you find me? why are you here?” you finally ask, fear evident in your voice.

“i followed you here. you should really pay attention next time, doll. you could seriously get hurt, y’know.” he responds in a casual tone.

he steps closer to your door and peers into your peephole, almost as if he’s trying to look at you. “now can you open the door for me? please?”

“no. i don’t want to.”

“why not? ah! i know what it is. it’s because you don’t know my name, right?”

“what? n–no, it’s—”

“yunho. my name is yunho. and don’t worry about telling me yours, baby. i already know it.”

“how do you—”

“your name tag. don’t tell me that you already forgot about wearing one,” yunho says teasingly. he shakes his head before he continues, “but now that that’s out of the way, can you let me in please?”

“i— no. no, you need to leave. now, yunho.”

you immediately back away from the door, making sure to make as little noise as possible. you wait for his response, but you never get one. instead, you’re met with an eerie silence. you stand there for a minute, holding your breath and waiting to hear even the slightest bit of noise. when you feel like he’s gone, you let out a sigh. you go to turn on your heel, but the sudden sound of numbers being punched into your door’s keypad makes you come to a halt.

you watch in horror as the door opens and you come face to face with yunho. he closes the door behind him before he toes off his boots and places them in the corner right next to yours. he takes a step further, but you immediately take one back. he raises an eyebrow at you and hums then takes another step forward. you take another one back. the two of you go one like this until you end up backing up into your couch and he’s standing right in front of you.

his hand shoots out and you hardly have enough time to stop him from wrapping his fingers around your neck and pressing his body against yours. your hands fly up to push him back, but he catches your wrists in his other hand.

“you know, you have a shitty leasing office. it was too easy to get the code to your place,” he begins calmly. “but you made it even easier. the code is your birthday, right?”

your eyes widen at his sudden revelation. this didn’t make any sense. it’s after midnight. nobody in the leasing office is there that late unless he—

“you didn’t...” you say.

“oh, but i did.” he grins. “they should get better security if they don’t want someone breaking into their office.”

“oh my go—” you gasp out, but you get cut off by yunho tightening his grip.

“i don’t know why you’re so shocked to see me, though, doll. i told you that i was coming.”

“n–no, you didn’t.”

“yes, i did. right before i left.”

“no. you s–said that i can k–keep the change. that’s it.”

“and? what else did i say afterwards? i know that i called you stupid earlier, but you can use that fucking brain of yours, can’t you?”

almost immediately, your mind goes back to when he was leaving earlier. you remember him walking towards the door and stopping once he got to them. you also remember him telling you to keep the change and that he’d—

when he finally reaches the double doors, he stops. you inhale sharply, half expecting him to turn around and say that he’s changed his mind and he’s going to leave you dead in the dumpsters. instead, all he says is,

“you can keep the change by the way.”

he pauses before he adds, “you’ll be paying me back in another way later.”

your whole body begins to shake and your stomach lurches. there’s a sudden pang in your chest and before you know it, tears are starting to well up in your eyes.

“no,” you shakily breathe out. “no, yunho, please. i’m sorry. please, don’t.”

yunho looks at you with feigned concern as he releases his grip on your wrists and neck. you see this as your opening and try to move past him, but you immediately freeze when you feel the uncomfortable sharpness of yunho’s knife at the base of your neck.

in one last ditch effort, you lift your hands up and wrap them around his throat. you squeeze as hard as you can and watch as his face breaks out into a smile so unnerving that it makes your skin crawl.

“are you h–having fun playing with m–me, doll?” yunho chokes out. his face is starting to turn red, but he never stops smiling. it’s like he’s enjoying this more than he’s supposed to.

you open your mouth to respond, but a sudden burning sensation in your abdomen stops you. you let out a small gasp and look down. blood is seeping into your shirt and creating a bright red stain in its wake. a wave of dizziness hits almost instantly hits you as you graze your fingers over the wet material, wetting your fingers with blood in the process.

“yunho…” your voice comes out in a quiver.

“i know that it hurts, doll. i’m sorry.” yunho gently coos, driving the knife even further into your stomach. he shushes you when you let out a pained cry, tears falling down your face. he moves closer and rests his forehead against yours, warm skin a stark contrast to how clammy yours is becoming.

you’re in so much pain that you can barely keep your eyes open let alone hear him over the loud ringing in your ears. you can’t focus. everything is too much. the pain is too much. he inhales deeply before he sighs, warm, minty breath fanning over your nose and lips. you screw your eyes shut as he gently presses a kiss to your forehead before he continues in a sweet, melodic tone almost.

“but it’s my turn to have fun with you now, okay? this is how you have to pay me back and i’m going to enjoy every second of it.”

#jeong yunho #ateez x reader #ateez au #ateez fic #ateez yunho #yunho x reader

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mullermilkshake · 2 months ago

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Kento makes his own way home

The clan meeting

Yakuza!Nanami x Hostess!reader

MINORS DNI - Tags: Yakuza AU, pretty much stalking.

After leaving Ino to his own devices, despite learning the news of the latest Yakuza group going head on with the Ryomen clan, Kento had more confidence than he knew what to do with.

And that confidence drove him to make his way to your club, just to see a glimpse of you and maybe even to introduce himself.

"Welcome, Sir," The club host bowed and allowed Kento inside. "Do you have any requests for who you might like to accompany you?"

You. He wanted you and that confidence he had almost let him blurt out your name.

Almost.

"I'll sit at the bar for now, I'll decide later,” that confidence went flying out the window faster than smoke, and he couldn’t chase it.

Maybe next time.

There was a benefit to being cooped up watching the computer screens on the network, Kento took at every convenience. There was no fuss or worry and therefore no attention.

Even if it was a Ryomen clan owned club. One of the smaller ones in Shinjuku.

God forbid there was too much commotion and you turn to see him for the first time being doted on. That would have been the worst first impression ever.

Kento left the host and planted himself on the edge of the bar, ordering top shelf whiskey and reading the room.

His stomach flipped when he saw you, in the flesh and smiling with some old man throwing hand signals up to the waiters for more drinks and ice.

It should have been Kento at that table, but he still couldn't face the music to how you'd react in his presence. He knew you far more than you realised.

You however, didn't know he existed and it was far too much of a knock to Kento's existing confidence if you were impassive or indifferent to him.

Just looking at you in person, watching you smile and casually touch the old man's arm every now and then made him envious at best. How would you react to him? Just like that, working your job as you were supposed to in order to collect that tip at the end?

Or would it all be genuine?

He couldn't think, because right now, you stood up and offered your hand to the man with the most warming smile and allowed his lips to touch the back of your hand.

How could you let him touch you like that? Kento was aware it was part of the job and he was certain that the trip would be a big one because of the bottles of champagne he was ordering.

Yet the man was so old and grey, not that Kento was a young spring chicken himself either, the age gap from him wasn't anything to brag about and it was concerning that you would see straight through it.

But he had a chance though, right?

Kento must have zoned out, you were walking right towards him. Straight and no beeline, soft smile in tow and aiming for the bar.

Had you noticed him?

"Hey! Can you put this behind the bar?" you looked straight past Kento and handed over a load of yen bills to the bartender.

"Sure," he said with a warm smile and moved to pour you a drink. "Good night tonight?"

You nodded and Kento listened, keeping his head down to avoid eye contact. "Yeah, though I have just one more client until my break."

"Nice," he slid the glass of what looked like whiskey towards you. "How was old Tanaka tonight? Just as creepy as usual?"

"Shh! Don't be so loud... It's rude," Kento could have sworn you looked over at him in his periphery and if he moved an inch, his flight response may have kicked in. "He's very... ardent."

"That's one way of putting it, take care," the bartender winked and moved on to another customer.

"Thanks."

For a moment, your smile faded. If Kento had blinked he would have missed it. You were far too intelligent for the likes of these old men, just by your vocabulary he had heard at times. Not to mention how beautiful you were.

You weren't happy, that much was clear.

At some point, Kento would find the courage to interact with you. Though for now, he'd continue to watch from afar until he knew more about you and that his chance to be with you was as high as possible.

He'd ensure you would never have to work in a place like this again.

Because you were far too good for a place like this.

#yakuza au #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #x reader #fem reader #reader insert #kento x reader #kento nanami #jjk kento #nanami kento #jjk nanami #jujutsu kaisen nanami

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tornrose24 · 6 months ago

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A ghostly theory that connects Gravity Falls and The Ghost and Molly Mcgee.

There’s a huge part of me that wants to believe that Gravity Falls and The Ghost and Molly Mcgee take place within the same universe, and I came upon some interesting ideas that support just how close that could be, as well as what could happen if Scratch (as a ghost) ever came to Gravity Falls.

So let’s get the obvious out of the way–the way ghosts are depicted in the shows are completely different. GF ghosts retain a somewhat human appearance, while TGAMM ghosts only have slight elements of their original human forms.

So there’s no way they could be in the same universe, correct?

Well, I want to add another factor into this–the Haunted Mansion.

The Haunted Mansion is not only confirmed to exist in TGAMM thanks to Ollie mentioning it in the season 2 premiere episode but in a Disney’s Random Rings short, Scratch is shown to be calling the residents in the mansion in an attempt to secure a place of residency.

But here’s the thing–HM ghosts don’t resemble the TGAMM ghosts. Much like the GF ghosts, they retain a human appearance (Constance) or at least keep a humanoid appearance (The Hat Box Ghost).

(Notice how Constance looks a tad closer to the ghostly couple from Gravity Falls in retaining a more human form, compared to Scratch. You only have a few clues to what he looked like as a human).

This begs the question as to why the hell is that possible.

So here is my theory.

Gravity Falls has already been established as a ‘weirdness magnet’ thanks to a history of paranormal events–a sort of gateway between dimensions even–and was a place that Bill Cipher (a very powerful, dangerous entity) was especially attracted to. Unsurprisingly, it would be a magnet for ghosts.

As for the Haunted Mansion, its main location (New Orleans, Louisiana) has had a long supernatural history to begin with. It’s likely that all the ghosts gathering at this one mansion (combined with its own history) turned it into a weirdness magnet, like Gravity Falls. However, the mansion is NOT as powerful as Gravity Falls given that the land around the town has been attracting a lot of strangeness ever since the time of the dinosaurs and a UFO crashed into the area.

Now recall when I said that the ghosts in that HM short and the GF ghosts retain a somewhat human appearance? Well here’s my theory–

The amount of paranormal energy in Gravity Falls and the Haunted Mansion is what allows their ghosts to keep a more human form, compared to the TGMM ghosts. Not even the Ghost World has whatever this energy is. It’s also likely that these places are safe havens from the Ghost World since having to work for The Chairman binds you to an eternal job that you cannot get out of due to the eternal consequence of getting sent to the Flow of Failed Phantoms if you screw up.

Furthering the connection, GF also has concepts of corrupted ghosts, unfinished business, and even wraiths. (By the way, this took a bit of rewatching and looking through the books to confirm some things).

The most obvious corrupted ghost with unfinished business? None other than the ghost lumberjack Archibald Courderoy (who may be Wendy’s ancestor). A ghost who (along with his men) was screwed over by the family they bought a house for and even placed a curse upon them that could only be lifted if one of their own allowed the common folk to enter the mansion during one of their parties. Does any of that sound slightly familiar? Especially the curse bit? Dipper categorized this kind of ghost as a Category 11: Demonic Vengeance Specter in Journal 3. Someone even more dangerous than a category 10 (where the Grim Reaper is placed).

The convenience store ghosts? Again, supernatural powers, the ability to curse people, etc. As for their unfinished business…. Did Dipper dancing in that costume count? I don’t know on this one. In one of the GF books, Dipper talks about the concept of unfinished business when discussing that incident and he does mention that this is when a ghost is obsessed with something that they were unable to accomplish in life. For a TGAMM fan, this makes the lumberjack ghost comparable to Howlin’ Harriet, (who was far into corruption and obsessed over getting new toes) or Blair and Sonya (who were obsessed over an unreturned video and practicing a routine).

Ok, now the big one–as my friend @jackie-gremlin-ghost and I have discussed, the concept of wraiths (the ghost of a person who is still alive) also applies to GF because Dipper himself became a ghost-like being when Bill took over his still-living body and forced his soul out of it. Bill tells Dipper he’s ‘basically a ghost’ and Dipper himself confirms this in the collection of bedtime stories. And Bill was free to possess Dipper’s body–as well as Ford’s–much like Scratch possessed Molly’s body in the body swap episode of TGAMM.

(Bill posessing Dipper's body while Dipper is basically the GF version of a wraith. However, GF wraiths seem to retain their human coloration to a degree....)

(....Meanwhile, in TGAMM wraiths look no different than regular ghosts. There's no way to spot the difference.)

But wraiths in TGAMM are visible, so why isn’t Dipper? Because Bill didn’t WANT him to be visible and also Bill is far more powerful than a mere ghost. However, Dipper’s spirit is still able to take on a human appearance–more so than the actual ghosts of Gravity Falls. He’s still able to do things like possess objects, but it’s likely Bill would have depowered Dipper severely.

And of course, if Bill succeeded in his plans and killed Dipper’s body, its confirmed that Dipper’s soul would have been still wandering around in some form. Dipper could have also been prone to corruption (as hinted at for one timeline in The Book of Bill). But if Bill kept Dipper’s body alive, and the consequence of staying as a wraith for too long applied to Dipper? Oh Dipper would have been SCREWED big time. (And as shown in The Book of Bill, Ford could have ended up with those same fates too, given how toxic his relationship with Bill was getting).

So now back to Scratch.

My guess is that if he went to Gravity Falls (or the Haunted Mansion), then he’d be subjected to the weird energy that surrounds it. In turn, this could potentially change his appearance from resembling a floating blue ghost to taking on a more human–but still ghostly–appearance. And…. Well… let’s just say that he’d be in for one hell of a surprise if that happened.

#gravity falls #the ghost and molly mcgee #disney #the haunted mansion #dipper pines #bill cipher #scratch the ghost #molly mcgee #wraith molly #constance hatchaway #bipper

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ravenrothstr · 11 months ago

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Once Again Part I🤍

summary. jaehyun and his classmates go through the darkness of adulthood fill with bitterness, where both of them ended finding each other sparks in within

genre. high school! au, second chance love, fluff

words count. 9.0k

disclaimer. the story is fully fictional. other names mentioned are just for the story and pure imagination, with no bad intentions

--｡⋆✮ 🎧 ✮ ⋆｡--

Jaehyun sprang into action, swiftly manoeuvring to catch the basketball tossed by his teammates. Just as he prepared to take a shot, the coach's whistle pierced through the air, signalling the end of today's training session.

"Aish," he muttered to himself, releasing a disappointed sigh before dropping the ball to the ground.

Fist-bumps were exchanged, mutual words of encouragement were shared, and the team dispersed towards the changing room. Jaehyun situated himself between Mingyu and Eunwoo, the sound of lockers being opened filling the air.

"Let's grab dinner at that restaurant we hit up yesterday. You know, the one that always hooks us up with extra side dishes. I'm starving," Mingyu suggested, casting a glance at Jaehyun.

"Yeah, sure. Eunwoo, you in?" Jaehyun inquired, turning to his teammate.

Eunwoo merely turned his head, offering Jaehyun a cold stare before wordlessly heading to the showers, brushing past Mingyu and Jaehyun without a word. The two boys exchanged resigned sighs, accustomed to Eunwoo's distant demeanor.

"Guess he's content living life solo. Seems to be his M.O.," Jaehyun remarked sarcastically, throwing an arm around one of his teammates as they made their way to the showers together.

Despite being the team captain, Eunwoo rarely joined his teammates for post-training meals. While he was undeniably popular and academically successful, Eunwoo's reserved nature and occasional self-centeredness set him apart from the rest, particularly Jaehyun.

As the boys finished showering and left the basketball court, Eunwoo diverged from the group, his footsteps leading him in the opposite direction. With a heavy sigh, he checked his phone, reading a message from his friend.

"Eunwoo, I just finished studying for tonight. How's your day?" you texted.

Replying as he walked, Eunwoo continued his solitary journey.

The bustling atmosphere of the restaurant was a stark contrast to the quiet camaraderie of the basketball court. Laughter and chatter filled the air as the team settled into their seats, the restaurant staff familiar with their boisterous antics.

"Hey, Captain, what's your game plan post-graduation? We're hitting 18, right?" Mingyu queried, glancing around at his teammates.

"Why are you never thinking about the future?" he prodded, leaning in towards Jaehyun.

"Stop with the 'Captain' nonsense. Eunwoo's the real deal," Jaehyun retorted with a smirk.

"I know that. We're just curious. Cha Eunwoo seems to have his future all mapped out. So, what's your play?" Mingyu persisted.

While Jaehyun wasn't averse to discussing his future, he couldn't provide a definitive answer. Unlike Eunwoo, who had clear goals, Jaehyun was still uncertain about his path forward. Focused more on sports than academics, Jaehyun's family's financial struggles added an additional layer of complexity to his situation.

"The future?" Jaehyun mused, pouring water into his friend's empty glass before resting his arms on the table, his gaze fixed on the surface.

"That's a strong word," he continued, meeting his friend's gaze with a serious expression.

"Eunwoo has powerful backers," Jaehyun remarked. "His destiny's practically written for him. He knows exactly where he's headed."

His friend nodded in agreement, acknowledging the truth in Jaehyun's words.

"Anyway, let's call it a night. They're closing up shop," Jaehyun suggested, signalling for the bill.

The memory of that fateful night lingered in Jaehyun's mind as he walked home from practice. Stopping by a nearby convenience store, he purchased a pack of instant noodles before stepping outside. There, he encountered a man in his late forties seated on a bench—an encounter that would change everything.

"Evening, Mr. Jung," the man greeted, extending a hand for a shake, though Jaehyun's hands were full.

"Sorry, my hands are occupied," Jaehyun replied curtly, his guard up.

"My apologies. Let me introduce myself. I'm Mr. Lee, from the national basketball team," the man said, offering Jaehyun his business card.

Taking the card reluctantly, Jaehyun listened as Mr. Lee outlined an enticing offer—an offer that came with a condition: Jaehyun must become the team captain by the end of the semester's final game.

With a sense of foreboding settling in his gut, Jaehyun watched as Mr. Lee bid him farewell, leaving him to contemplate the weight of his decision.

The following day dawned with crystalline clarity, the school gradually filling with students as the morning sunlight streamed into Classroom 3-5, where Jaehyun found his seat. Despite sharing a class with Eunwoo, Jaehyun didn't pay much mind to him.

Entering the classroom with his bag slung over one shoulder, Jaehyun observed the usual morning bustle: some students gossiping, others hastily applying makeup in a bid to look their best. Meanwhile, Jaehyun quietly settled at his desk near the window, resting his head upon it in a familiar ritual, his hands cradling his head as he sought solace in a few moments of reprieve.

Uninterested in classroom chatter, Jaehyun often used these moments to steal a brief respite from his classmates. However, just as he teetered on the brink of sleep, the sliding of the classroom door disrupted his tranquility.

"Hey y/n, you're later than Jaehyun today," one of the girls remarked.

Y/N, another classmate, was an outsider known for your intellect and rumoured connection to Eunwoo. Speculation swirled that you might be engaged to Eunwoo in the future, inheriting both of your families' companies together. Nexus Architecture and Evergreen Designs & Associates. However, the gossip surrounding you led to disdainful treatment from your peers.

"Oh, really? We must have taken the same bus again," you replied with a smile, unaware of the snickers and whispered comments circulating around you.

Exasperated, Jaehyun heard the thinly veiled mockery directed at you, prompting a silent shake of his head before he sank further into his thoughts.

The shrill ringing of the lunch bell marked the midday break, prompting a rush of students streaming towards the dining hall. Among them stood you, patiently waiting in line for her meal.

"Oh, y/n, joining the lunch queue today?" a group of girls approached her, their tone laced with derision.

"Yeah, I forgot my lunchbox today," offering a friendly smile despite the thinly veiled contempt in their gaze.

The girls exchanged glances, stifling laughter before one of them jeered, "Aren't lunchboxes for eight-year-olds?"

Feeling the sting of embarrassment, you averted her gaze, your cheeks flushing with shame as tears threatened to well up.

Jaehyun observed the scene unfold with a mix of empathy and frustration. While he sympathized with your plight, he couldn't help but feel exasperated by the petty antics of their classmates. It was a reminder of the shallow nature of high school society, where appearances and rumours held more weight than genuine kindness.

Eunwoo's departure from the lunch table didn't go unnoticed, his actions stirring a silent curiosity among his friends, including Jaehyun. As Eunwoo made his way to the vending machine, Jaehyun's gaze trailed after him, silently observing the unfolding scenario.

"Hey, where are you going?" Mingyu's voice cut through the ambient chatter, but Eunwoo remained unresponsive, his focus fixed on his destination.

Undeterred by Eunwoo's lack of response, Mingyu exchanged a puzzled glance with the others at the table, his curiosity piqued by his friend's sudden departure.

Meanwhile, Eunwoo deftly navigated the vending machine, his movements smooth and purposeful. Yet, his concentration was interrupted by the unexpected arrival of a girl, her presence laced with a hint of mischief.

As she leaned against the vending machine, a smirk playing on her lips, Eunwoo's demeanor shifted slightly, his eyes widening in mild surprise at her boldness.

"Taking care of your girl again, huh?" she taunted, her words laden with implication.

Eunwoo's response was measured, his expression unreadable as he absorbed her words. Though inwardly unsettled by her assumption, he chose to remain silent, his thoughts swirling with unspoken complexities.

"What do you mean 'my girl?"

"Isn't she yours? For you to take care of her that much?"

She moved towards facing the machine and continued to make her purchase. Eunwoo moved aside slightly, he just stayed quiet at her question. Are you his? He just never thought of sorting those feelings out.

"Choi Ye Won, next to meet you" the girl continued and held her hand out to Eunwoo.

He hesitated momentarily, his gaze flickering between her outstretched hand and her expectant expression.

"Not for now," he replied cryptically, his tone tinged with uncertainty as he sidestepped her invitation.

Returning to the dining hall, Eunwoo's attention was drawn to you, his presence a comforting sight amidst the chaos of the lunchtime crowd. With a small gesture of kindness, he offered you the bread he had purchased, a simple yet meaningful gesture that spoke volumes.

"Hey I heard you forgot your lunch box today so I bought this for you. Though you might get hungry waiting in line"

Meanwhile, Mingyu's teasing remarks drew a knowing smirk from Eunwoo, his response veiled in playful ambiguity. Though his feelings for you remained a mystery even to himself, Eunwoo's actions spoke volumes about the depth of his care for you.

As the conversation flowed around him, Jaehyun stayed quiet, watching everything unfold. Little did he know, these events would soon draw him into a tangle of feelings and drama, making him question his place in their high school social circle.

"Jung Jaehyun, Mrs. Jeon is waiting for you in her office," a classmate's urgent voice broke through the classroom's murmurs, startling Jaehyun from the brink of sleep. He blinked, his eyes slowly focusing on the speaker.

"Now? Why?" Jaehyun's voice was groggy with confusion.

"Yeah, she's been asking for you. You better go," the classmate insisted.

As Jaehyun made his way to the teacher's office, the atmosphere felt charged with tension. Mrs. Jeon's voice reverberated through the corridor, sharp and unforgiving, as she berated a student for not meeting her expectations. Mr. Kim attempted to intervene, but Mrs. Jeon's frustration only seemed to intensify, her words lashing out like whips.

"How can I be expected to calm down when I'm surrounded by students who don't take their studies seriously?" Mrs. Jeon's voice echoed with exasperation as she gestured emphatically at the papers strewn across her desk.

"But Mrs Jeon, Jaehyun here has been making an effort. He's submitted his homework on time," Mr Kim interjected, trying to diffuse the situation.

Mrs. Jeon's eyes narrowed in Jaehyun's direction, her gaze piercing through him like daggers.

"Is that true, Jaehyun? Or are you just another slacker like the rest of them?"

Jaehyun felt the weight of her scrutiny bearing down on him, but before he could respond, there was a soft knock on the door.

"Excuse me, Mrs. Jeon," came the timid voice of yours, Jaehyun's classmate, peeking into the room.

It had been several days since Jaehyun last encountered you in the dining hall. As you now stood beside him, you respectfully bowed to both of your teachers. Mrs Jeon let out an audible sigh. Though the purpose of your presence was to meet Mrs. Jeon, it was Mr. Kim who took the initiative to greet her first, his warm smile providing a momentary reprieve from the tension in the room.

"Y/n, you're here early in the morning," Mr. Kim remarked, a hint of amusement evident in his voice as he continued, "Again."

Mrs. Jeon turned her attention towards you, preparing to deliver yet another admonishment.

"Y/n, you can't come in here every morning to ask about your exam marks. You need to socialize more with your friends," Mrs. Jeon began, her tone tinged with frustration.

"But school is for studying," you voice firm and unwavering.

The others fell into a stunned silence, captivated by your bold response. Mrs. Jeon, feeling the weight of her students' challenges, massaged her temples in an attempt to alleviate the emerging headache. Jaehyun, observing the unfolding scene couldn't help but murmur softly to himself.

"Interesting," Jaehyun whispered, his gaze fixed intently on you.

A few moments later, the school bell chimed, signaling the start of classes. Mrs. Jeon fixed them with a stern gaze before dismissing them with a curt nod.

"You, focus more," Mrs. Jeon's stern voice pierced the air, her finger pointed squarely at Jaehyun.

"And you," she turned her gaze to you, "go socialize more," her tone softened slightly.

As you both made your way through the bustling corridors filled with students rushing to their classrooms, you swung the door open, stepping out of the office with Jaehyun in tow. Just as you were about to dart off, Jaehyun quickened his pace and leaned in to whisper in your ear.

"If you want to socialize more, come eat lunch with me," he teased, a mischievous smirk playing on his lips, catching you off guard.

With a stunned expression, you froze in your tracks as Jaehyun chuckled at your reaction before darting off to their classroom, leaving you standing there, bemused by his playful antics.

The day passed in its usual blur of lectures and scribbled notes until the lunch bell brought a welcome reprieve. Jaehyun, struggling to keep his heavy eyelids from closing, finally stirred from his desk as his classmates filtered out of the room and towards the cafeteria.

As he made his way towards the door, a sudden blockade halted his progress. It was you, your innocent smile belying your obliviousness to the social norms.

"Jaehyun, let's have lunch," you said, holding your lunchbox.

Jaehyun stood there stunned, unsure how to respond. His mind went blank. He wasn't expecting you to be this ignorant but he wasn't that mean either.

"You just need to finish your lunch right? Let's eat somewhere else," said Jaehyun worriedly.

Gently redirecting you, Jaehyun guided you out of the classroom and away from prying eyes to a secluded spot beneath a sprawling tree in the schoolyard.

They decided to eat their lunch on the bench beneath a large tree in the school field, where you began to eat. It was a secluded spot, rarely frequented during lunchtime, ensuring they wouldn't be spotted. Jaehyun sat beside you, his hands crossed and feet tapping nervously on the ground. He hoped you would finish your lunch quickly, along with your lunchbox, to avoid drawing attention to their presence together.

"Are you okay?" you inquired, noticing Jaehyun's restless feet.

"Yeah, I'm fine, hurry up and finish your lunch," he replied, quickly grabbing your hand and pushing your chopsticks back into the lunchbox. You, being as innocent as ever, nodded and resumed eating your lunch.

"But—" you began, setting down your chopsticks. Jaehyun's concern grew as he turned to face you, waiting for you to continue.

"Why aren't you eating?" you asked, your gaze fixed on Jaehyun, realizing he hadn't brought anything with him.

"Did you forget your lunchbox?" you asked with a smile.

He simply nodded in agreement. Knowing that nobody brings a lunchbox anymore, he didn't want to waste any more time. You happily finished your lunch, grateful to have Jaehyun's company since you didn't have any friends to eat with at school. Having Jaehyun there made your day.

As you reached for the last gimbap from your lunchbox, Jaehyun breathed a sigh of relief. It was finally over; you had finished your lunch.

"Okay, finished. I'll get going," Jaehyun said, quickly standing up and walking away from you as fast as possible.

"Wait!"

Jaehyun forced himself to look back, a frown forming on his face. "What now?" he asked, glancing at you.

"Do you want to go to the basketball court together after class?"

"No," Jaehyun said sternly as he left.

Another school day dawned for Jaehyun. Stretching his legs off the bed and onto the floor, he raised his arms high, grazing the ceiling as he yawned. Glancing at the time, he realized it was still early, so he decided to walk to school that day.

Plugging in his earphones and selecting a song from his playlist, he enjoyed the peaceful walk. Lost in thought about his plans for the day, he reminded himself of his role as the basketball team captain—a responsibility he took seriously as a means to support his family and secure a better future.

Arriving at the school gates, he muttered to himself, "Basketball captain, no more problems."

Suddenly, he heard a commotion behind him and turned to see you on the ground, surrounded by scattered books. A girl who had walked past you was rolling her eyes and walking away.

"Hey, you pushed me!" you shouted after her, but the girl ignored your accusation and continued on her way.

Seeing you struggling, Jaehyun hesitated for a moment, torn between helping you and avoiding involvement with an outsider. He then ignores his inner conflict, he decided to lend a hand. Quickly gathering your books, he approached you and handed them over.

"Oh, Jaehyun!" you exclaimed in amazement. "Thank you for helping."

"Whatever," Jaehyun replied tersely, handing over the books before swiftly walking away. Though he wanted to advise you to be more careful, he found it awkward and opted for a brief response. Helping you was enough for one day.

You walked silently behind Jaehyun, heading to the same classroom as usual. Surprisingly, he didn't walk away or leave you alone. Given the possibility of being pushed or bullied on your way to class, you stick close to him. Jaehyun noticed you following him but didn't mind, although he hadn't realized he wasn't walking away until he reached the stairs. Your eyes met briefly, both quickly looking away.

Jaehyun cleared his throat nervously before speaking up, offering a warning. "You should be more careful," he said.

"I should, I'm sorry. I'll be more careful to not slip on my feet again."

"Not your feet, them," he corrected you. "You should be careful of people around you."

Jaehyun noticed you freeze on the landing step, just standing there. Wondering if he had said too much or if you simply didn't understand, he debated whether to approach you. Before he could decide, a group of boys approached, prompting Jaehyun to continue up the stairs, leaving you behind.

During class, Jaehyun found himself lost in thought, gazing out the window toward the school entrance. He was barely paying attention until the lunch bell rang, snapping him back to reality.

As students started leaving the classroom for lunch, Jaehyun noticed his teammates, including Mingyu, heading toward his classroom. A smile formed on his lips at the sight of friends who remembered him. Just then, you approached his desk, and he knew he was in for an awkward encounter.

"Jaehyun, let's have lunch," you said, holding her lunchbox.

Internally, Jaehyun sighed, wishing to avoid this situation. Before he could respond, Mingyu's face appeared at the door, witnessing them together. Sensing the awkwardness, Mingyu quickly shut the door again. Jaehyun seized the opportunity, grabbing your wrist and leading her to the field.

"Eat it now, hurry," he urged.

"Are you not comfortable with me?" she asked, sensing his discomfort.

The question caught Jaehyun off guard, while he was crossing his arms, tapping his feet nervously.

"What?"

"Are you not comfortable with me, Jaehyun?" you repeated.

Jaehyun blinked, realizing his behaviour. He glanced at you, who seemed saddened.

"If you're not comfortable, you don't have to eat lunch with me," you offered.

Sighing, Jaehyun realised he was treating you out of pity. He forced himself to buy some snacks from a vending machine and returned to the bench.

"Satisfied? I'm having lunch too," he said, opening his soda.

"Okay," you replied, beginning to eat.

They ate in silence, and when lunch hour ended, Jaehyun made you promise to let him go to class first. As they parted ways, Jaehyun couldn't shake off the feeling of discomfort and guilt.

A week passed, and Jaehyun found himself still having lunch with you at the field bench. His training and mood hadn't improved, and the basketball match loomed ahead. During the game, he drank the usual soda and ate a chocolate bar, feeling stuck in a rut. As the match concluded, Eunwoo's skill earned him praise and adoration from the crowd.

He threw your bag onto the floor as soon as he entered the house, frustration weighing heavily on him. Memories of the game replayed in his mind, each missed opportunity and fumbled play haunting him. Despite the team's victory, he felt like he had let everyone down, especially with Mr. Lee there to evaluate his skills. Exhausted, Jaehyun collapsed onto the bed, trying to accept the day's events before drifting off into a troubled sleep.

You sat alone at your desk, observing the bustling activity of your classmates as they rushed out for lunch. It caught your eye at Jaehyun's motionless figure, his head resting on the table. Probably lost in his thoughts. You could hear concerned whispers from his teammates filling the air.

"Let's give him some space," Eunwoo intervened, urging the others to leave him alone.

You approached Jaehyun's desk, hoping to share lunch with him and lighten him up a bit. But Jaehyun's response was cold and dismissive, hurting you.

"Y/n, can't you tell I don't want to have lunch with you?" he snapped.

His words cutting deep to you, as the feeling of shame and rejection washed over as you struggled to hold back tears as Jaehyun continued, criticizing you for being weird and clingy. With a heavy heart, you watched him leave you alone in the classroom.

As the door closed behind him, your emotions overflowed with tears streaming down your cheeks. You gathered your belongings and made your way to the field bench, seeking comfort in the familiar routine of her lunch break.

You walked to the field bench and made yourself comfortable. You could feel your small fingers trembling over the situation that had happened but forced them by opening the lid of your lunchbox without hesitating for a second. Everything stayed the same for you, except when the tears rolled down your cheeks.

The world has been harsh on you.

"And that is all for today," said the teacher, closing the book in front of him to indicate the end of the last period. You left the class with your other classmates, joining the students in the corridor. After spending your lunch crying, you feel drained.

"Y/N!", someone calls you from behind.

You recognised the voice immediately, as you turned towards Eunwoo running toward you.

"Going to art class again?"

"Yes, how about you?"

"Y/N, are you okay?" Eunwoo sensed something was wrong with your response. He gently pulled your arm.

"I'm okay, Eunwoo. Thanks for asking,"

"Do you want me to walk you there? I can tell the coach I'll be running a bit late for today's training."

How you wished you could nod. After everything that had happened today, the idea of someone accompanying you to the art centre would comfort you. But Jaehyun's words had shaken your trust in people's kindness.

"No, Eunwoo, thank you, but I'll walk myself today. You should go to practice," you declined.

"Okay then," Eunwoo hesitated before continuing. "I'll text you later."

You gave him a light smile and walked away from him. Glancing around at the surroundings on the route to the art centre, you were torn between going to art class or taking a day off. Your head and heart were at odds with each other, and with each step, your legs felt heavier.

Unable to bear it any longer, you found yourself walking back home, seeking emotional refuge with Haein, the caretaker. As you entered the house and found Haein arranging cushions in the living room, you felt a sense of relief wash over you, knowing you had someone to turn to in time of need.

A few weeks had passed, and neither Jaehyun nor you had been to the teacher's office since their last encounter. You took Jaehyun's warning about lunch seriously, perhaps too seriously. You found yourself overthinking your interactions with others and making efforts to connect with peers. Amidst all your progress, there was one thing you hadn't changed: her lunchbox. Meanwhile, Jaehyun had resumed having lunch with his teammates as usual.

"Eat up, captain!" Mingyu exclaimed with laughter.

Jaehyun smiled widely as he placed his tray on the desk and joined the rest of the team. It felt good to be back with them. Just as he was settling into his seat, he noticed Eunwoo with Choi Yewon. Jaehyun nudged Mingyu's arm and leaned in to whisper.

"What's going on with Ye Won and Eunwoo?"

"Her? You know, his new target," Mingyu shook his head.

"What? Behind y/n?"

"We all know about his schemes with y/n," Mingyu interjected. "He's just brazen enough to do it openly at school."

They glanced over at Eunwoo and Ye Won, who were clearly intertwined as they conversed. Jaehyun felt uncomfortable, he didn't the thought of you being betrayed like this. They decided to leave them alone and continue their lunch. Jaehyun then began eating ravenously.

"Hey, are you that hungry?" one of his teammates asked, but Jaehyun ignored them completely.

As soon as he finished his lunch, Jaehyun slammed his chopsticks down on the table and hastily announced, before rushing out of the dining hall, leaving his bewildered team behind.

"I'll get going, see you later"

Mingyu surveyed his teammates with frustration. The team was in disarray, with neither the captain nor the potential captain able to focus before their match. Mingyu clenched his chopsticks tightly, feeling the need to intervene.

"Someone needs to stop this," Mingyu declared fiercely.

"The weather is too great to have a bad day," you remarked to yourself as you sat down for lunch.

You had grown accustomed to eating alone in this spot, finding comfort in the gentle breeze and open space. It was a solace space for you only. Suddenly, you were interrupted by a familiar voice.

"What are you doing?" Jaehyun's voice came from beside the bench.

You looked up in surprise. "Jaehyun, why are you here?"

"Just... for nothing," he replied, taking a seat next to you with his hands in his jacket pockets.

"It's okay if you don't want to have lunch—"

Jaehyun turned to her, smirking. "Just eat your lunch," he said, cutting you off.

You returned his smirk and began eating, while Jaehyun couldn't help but smile softly at the action. He could sense that you had become more attentive and considerate toward others, and it felt reassuring.

After a few moments of silence, you glanced at Jaehyun, who seemed lost in thought. He looked distracted and anxious, you offered him your favourite juice.

"If you're going to space out for that long, you might as well enjoy a juice," she suggested.

Jaehyun sighed and accepted the juice. As both of you sat together, Jaehyun couldn't help but notice the tranquillity of their surroundings.

"Is this why you always have lunch here?" he asked, curious.

"Yeah, I find it hard to socialize at school, even during recess. So I come here to gather myself before continuing with the day."

"Jaehyun, are you okay?" you asked suddenly, breaking the silence.

He was taken aback by the question, feeling a surge of emotions. He was so close to telling you the truth of Ye Won and Eunwoo. How he wanted to save you from the betrayal.

"No, actually, I have something to tell you,"

Before he could continue, a few people approached the bench. It was Jaehyun's teammates. He quickly stood up, intending to explain the situation, while you were confused, not understanding what was happening as you looked on innocently at them.

"It's not what it looks like-" Jaehyun explained to them.

"So it was you all along," Mingyu pointed at you, ignoring Jaehyun before he continued.

"You were the one messing up with him"

"I'm sorry, who are-",

"You think you can hang out with one of us just because Eunwoo is your friend, right?!"

"This is not what it seems-"

"You getting bolder now. You think people like you now. Can you see people using you just especially Eunwoo? You no special, y/n"

They hurled insults at you, and Jaehyun's attempts to defend her fell on deaf ears. You could sense your eyes got teary, it wasn't even you who approached them in the first place. But Jaehyun was quick to realise your expression, he knew where this was heading. He immediately dragged his teammates away from you and brought them back to the class. They all left you alone on the bench.

Jaehyun was fierce, he walked in front of them in the dash.

"Jaehyun, I did a great job, didn't I? Don't worry, she's not gonna disturb you anymore", his teammate said as he smiled thinking he saved Jaehyun.

Jaehyun turned around to face him, looking at him in the eyes.

"I told you. It's not what it looks like!"

They were all startled at his action, he was really mad this time. People around them were starting to talk and gather around them. It seems like they were getting into a fight any moment now. Jaehyun looked around and gave out a sigh, putting his head down.

"Let's just go to class," he said as he entered his classroom door and closed it shut.

Your steps echoed through the empty corridor as you hastened towards the sanctuary of the girls' bathroom. Your heart heavy turns into tears threatening to spill, hiding within the confines of one of the stalls, where you allow yourself to finally release the torrent of emotions that had been building up inside.

As your sobs filled the quiet space, the sound was soon accompanied by the soft murmur of voices outside your stall. Startled, your tears momentarily paused as you strained to listen. Four concerned voices floated through the air, their words a mix of worry and compassion.

"Hey, what's going on in there? Are you okay?", one of the girls asked gently, her voice tinged with genuine concern.

"Maybe she needs a tissue," another voice suggested, practical and helpful.

A third voice chimed in, "I think she might need a pad instead. It sounds like she's crying because of that."

The girls deliberated amongst themselves, each offering suggestions on how best to help you in your time of need. Their voices blended into a comforting chorus of support, reaching your ears and offering a glimmer of hope amidst your despair.

Finally, summoning your courage, you slowly opened the door of the stall, revealing your tear-streaked face to the concerned girls outside. Without hesitation, you begin telling them what had happened over lunch. They enveloped you in a warm embrace, offering comfort and understanding without judgment.

Meanwhile, in the classroom, Jaehyun's anxiety mounted with each passing minute as he anxiously watched the clock. His worry for you gnawed at him, the weight of guilt and regret heavy on his shoulders.

Five minutes have passed.

Ten minutes have passed.

Fifteen minutes have passed.

His eyes peek around the class again as it stops at your desk. You're still not there. Jaehyun begins tapping his feet, his mind too begins to imagine every possibility that could happen to you.

'Is it possible you went back home already?', thought to himself.

Suddenly the front door of the classroom slides open. The whole classroom sways their heads facing away from the blackboard, even the teacher paused his lesson for a moment.

'Shit'

When you finally entered the classroom, your eyes red-rimmed and downcast, Jaehyun's heart sank. He could feel the weight of the whispers and stares directed at you, a tangible manifestation of the repercussions of your actions.

"I'm sorry, teacher. The toilet was really full, and I had to go number two," you explained as you bowed and made your way back to your seat.

Throughout the day, the atmosphere crackled with tension, rumors spreading like wildfire and casting a shadow over the basketball team's reputation. Jaehyun's stomach churned with guilt as he grappled with the knowledge that their actions had contributed to your pain.

Later, Coach Lee's voice boomed with disappointment and anger as he addressed the team. Eunwoo, in particular, felt the weight of the coach's words bearing down on him, the burden of leadership heavier than ever before.

As they endured their punishment of running laps under the scorching sun, Eunwoo's eyes caught sight of something on the bench where you usually sat. It was your forgotten lunchbox.

"It's okay Eunwoo, it's not your fault. We respect you as a captain", said his teammates.

Eunwoo looked at them, turning his head towards the back of him.

"He's right. I'm sorry, Eunwoo, everyone", Mingyu apologise.

'If only you held your anger on y/n, things would have been better", replied Ten, another member of the team.

"But I really can't hold it in-"

The teammates started bickering while they carried on with their laps. Eunwoo just shook his head at them, he took a glance again at Jaehyun. He was at the back of all of them. His eyes started to wander around, it stopped at something that caught his eye and made him a bit. It was the bench you sat at during lunch. There was a silver box on top of the sits. Apparently, you had left her lunchbox on the bench. Eunwoo notices it as he quickly looks back at Jaehyun to see if he notices it too. He quickly snaps out to distract him.

"Focus. Run faster! 30 laps to go!", Eunwoo shouted.

The next morning, you decide to arrive early at school. You realize you forgot your lunchbox in the classroom the day before and want to retrieve it before the school fills up. After all, the thought of leftover food sitting in your lunchbox is less than appealing.

As you push open the wooden door of the classroom, you notice Jaehyun, Eunwoo, and a few others who have already arrived. Ignoring their presence, you swiftly place your pastel brown bag on a nearby chair and hurry towards the bench on the field, seeming to cope peacefully with the aftermath of the previous day's incident.

"Is it gone already?" you exclaim, noticing the empty bench.

Kneeling down, you begin to search beneath the bench when suddenly, Eunwoo appears.

"Here's your lunchbox. I've already washed it," he says, gesturing towards the lunchbox in front of him.

"Thanks, Eunwoo," you reply gratefully, reaching out to take it.

"How did you know I left it here?"

Eunwoo hesitates, running a hand through his hair before responding, "We happened to train at the field yesterday."

"Well, that makes sense. Thank you, Eunwoo," you say with a smile, returning his gesture.

"I knew you were going to look for it. Let's go back to class," Eunwoo suggests, and you nod in agreement.

"Are you feeling better? Yesterday was rough for you," Eunwoo asks as you climb up the stairs together.

You don't react much as he expected, just humming at his question, signaling to him that you're okay now. Eunwoo begins to worry when he sees your response, his expression immediately changing as he steps on another riser above you.

"Y/n, don't take it to heart about what they said yesterday. Some people never think before they speak, they were just not in the right mind when they confronted you."

"It's alright Eunwoo. After all, what they say about me was right anyway. I saw that coming already."

As you reassure him with a soft smile, you demonstrate your adeptness at handling the situation. Growing up with both of your parents working as architects, you have become accustomed to direct and straightforward criticism, albeit often delivered in a gentler manner. You have learned to detach your emotions from such feedback and simply accept it for what it is. Even if some of the statements hold partial truth, you see little point in trying to argue or convince otherwise.

"That's not what I mean. You know I'm here for you because I really want to be, I'm not using you," Eunwoo says, offering a white lie.

"I know, that's why I said it's about me. It's true I depend on you a lot because I have no friends here, and it's harder now that you can't always be there to solve all of my problems," you pause before continuing.

"So just let me think it through for now."

Eunwoo doesn't say anything as he stands still in his position, knowing it's best for you to have some time. Deep down inside, Eunwoo understands that it's not about you needing him to solve everything, but rather his own fear of losing you. You have been there for him, even when he resorted to dirty tricks, and now that you are starting to grow apart from him, he fears being left with nothing.

Just as you are both lost in your thoughts, Jaehyun steps in, approaching the staircase. He immediately makes eye contact with you, filled with regret and the desire to apologize, but his actions speak otherwise.

-- This morning, Jaehyun's feet moved in a dash as he exited the bus, the cold breeze hitting him as he sped up. It was early, Jaehyun had already arrived at school. Without bothering to set down his backpack, he made his way to the school field. Jaehyun knew he had to retrieve the lunchbox before anyone else did. It was the only reason he could use to meet up with you again and apologize. However, to his dismay, the lunchbox was nowhere to be found.

His eyes widened in a fluster as he realised the lunchbox was missing. Without hesitation, he began searching for it. Pulling down the sleeves of his sweater, he warmed his hand with a breath before Eunwoo appeared, holding the lunchbox.

"Once again, you're second, Jaehyun," Eunwoo remarked, lifting the lunchbox with one hand while the other remained in his pocket.

"I never come in second. You're the one always taking what's not yours," Jaehyun retorted.

"Like what? The scholarship?" Eunwoo's words struck a nerve with Jaehyun.

"What do you mean?" Jaehyun asked, caught off guard.

"I know about it, Jaehyun. I'm just surprised you're doing this behind the team," Eunwoo continued, receiving a glare from Jaehyun.

The mention of the scholarship ignited anger within Jaehyun, but he restrained himself before it escalated into a physical confrontation.

"Keep it," Jaehyun said sharply, pushing the lunchbox back towards Eunwoo, causing him to sway his hand.

"I don't need those things to come in first," Jaehyun declared firmly.

He watched Eunwoo laugh at his words as he walked away, leaving him alone on the bench. At that moment, Jaehyun made a decision. He wasn't solely aiming for the scholarship anymore; he was determined to prove that he could surpass Eunwoo in every aspect.

During that lunch break, Jaehyun headed off to the library after finishing his meal. If he ever hoped to surpass Eunwoo, he knew it had to start with his mind. As he solemnly made his way to the library, everything felt unfamiliar to him. Awkwardly navigating between the shelves, he eventually found himself in the architecture section. Knowing that Eunwoo's family owned a renowned architecture firm in Seoul, with Eunwoo destined to inherit it, Jaehyun couldn't help but feel the weight of the challenge ahead.

Jaehyun let his gaze wander as he roamed the shelves, unsure of what to do next. Eventually, he selected a book that caught his eye:

"The Architecture of Happiness".

Finding a secluded spot hidden between the shelves, Jaehyun settled down on the floor with eager anticipation, immersing himself in the book.

As he delved deeper into the world of architecture, Jaehyun's passion and understanding grew. He began devouring more architecture books and design compilations, expanding his knowledge. Simultaneously, his dedication to basketball training intensified, with Jaehyun pushing himself harder late into the evening.

One night, after wrapping up the extra training alone, Jaehyun was startled to see you entering the court, still in your school uniform, your fingers fidgeting nervously as you glanced around.

"Y/n?" Jaehyun called out, bending his head slightly to confirm your identity.

"Why are you here?" he inquired as you approached.

"I- is- is Eunwoo still here?"

"Eunwoo left an hour ago. You should leave too," Jaehyun advised.

"I see. I'll head out then," you replied, making your way towards the nearest bus stop. Jaehyun didn't stop you, accompanying you silently to the bus stop. As you both boarded the bus, Jaehyun took a seat behind you.

"You could have just texted him instead of coming here yourself," Jaehyun remarked, leaning forward slightly. You flinched at his words, turning your head to look at him.

"He hasn't been returning my calls or messages lately," you admitted.

Jaehyun stared at you, his expression unreadable. It was clear to him that Eunwoo was spending more time with Ye Won, neglecting you in the process.

"You already knew, didn't you?" Jaehyun asked, subtly referring to Eunwoo's relationship with Ye Won.

You simply nodded in response.

The rest of the bus ride passed in silence. You immediately put on your earphones after your conversation, and Jaehyun followed suit, leaning back in his seat. Glancing at your reflection in the window, Jaehyun tried to gauge your emotions, but your stoic expression gave nothing away.

As the night grew darker outside, you stared blankly into the distance, your mind wrestling with conflicting emotions. Despite the calmness of the night, you found no comfort. Just as you rested your head against the window, Jaehyun pressed the stop button behind you with determination.

"Ahjussi, this is our stop!" he called out.

Your confusion only deepened as Jaehyun guided you off the bus before your intended stop. You followed him, your brow furrowing as both of you walked down a street adorned with cherry blossom flowers and trees.

"Why are you bringing me here?" you asked, turning your head to look at him.

"No reason," he lied casually. "You might like it here."

Jaehyun spotted a bench nearby, and you surveyed your surroundings. The windy night had transformed the streets into a scene straight out of a dream, with nearly pure white cherry blossoms tinged with the palest pink fluttering gently in the breeze. They seemed like confetti in the air, descending around both of you. You stood still, lifting a hand in front of you as if to catch the falling blossoms. Jaehyun watched you intently from his seat on the bench. Just then, a cherry blossom flower drifted down and landed delicately in your open palm.

"Jaehyun! Did you see that?" you exclaimed excitedly, your eyes sparkling with childlike wonder as you skipped over to him, the flower cradled in your hand.

A warm, tender smile spread across Jaehyun's face, his dimples forming as he watched you.

"Hurry, make a wish," he urged gently.

You immediately placed your other palm next to the first, closing your eyes tightly and bowing your head toward the flower. You made a silent wish in your heart before opening your eyes with a happy sigh, taking a seat next to Jaehyun. He couldn't help but smile softly at your infectious happiness.

"What did you wish for?" he inquired.

"That your life will be as happy as I was when the flower landed in my palm," you replied earnestly.

"You should wish for Eunwoo to reply to you. Why wish for someone else?" Jaehyun teased gently.

"Because the best kind of wish is the one made for others," you grinned back at him before continuing.

"It was tough when things weren't going well at my father's firm. But when Eunwoo's family firm and ours did a project together, we wished for their success, and it happened. It felt like a miracle, Jaehyun," you added, meeting his gaze.

He listened intently, feeling a connection to you as you shared your story. Your vulnerability opened up a new understanding between you both.

"Here," you said, passing the flower to Jaehyun. "Maybe one day, you can make a wish for me."

With that, you stood up from the bench and began to walk away after adjusting your skirt. Jaehyun watched you go, then turned his gaze back to the cherry blossom. The beautiful night filled with cherry blossoms remained warm in your memories as you both returned home, leaving behind a quiet night filled with delightful memories.

"Oppa, the school festival is coming up. Are you going to perform again?" a junior asked Jaehyun nervously in the corridor of the school.

"What?" he replied, staring at her blankly, trying to understand what she was talking about.

"Well, you always perform during the school festival. I was wondering if you're going to perform again this year."

"Oh," Jaehyun hesitated. With his father no longer around to practice with, he wasn't considering performing this year.

"I'm sorry, but I don't think I am," he finally answered.

Jaehyun's performances during the school festival always attracted a lot of attention from girls, which made him feel a bit awkward. However, he only paid attention to his friends and basketball team, and now to Eunwoo, whom he aimed to beat.

He entered the classroom after stopping by the library as usual. Closing the door behind him, Jaehyun made his way back to his desk.

"What? You said you went where?" you asked as your classmate who sat in front of her repeated her story.

Jaehyun smirked slightly. He was sure you didn't know about the mall the other girl mentioned.

Jaehyun went through the architecture section in the library like always, wandering his eyes around the shelves. As his eyes went from one book to another, none of the books caught his attention this afternoon.

He let out a groan as he made his way to a seat. He took out a small drawing pen he held in his pocket, letting his fingers sketch on a sketchbook he had bought. Just then, he heard your and Eunwoo's voices conversing on the shelf next to his table. Making his attention on you both, he turned his head before deciding to ignore you as he went back to sketching.

"Y/n," Jaehyun could hear a voice calling it across the library as it broke the silence.

He lifted his head from the sketchbook, just as he saw you approached by a student council at a shelf next to his table. Immediately hiding his face with his hand by laying his head on his stretched arms across the table, facing the opposite of you both. Making sure he did not get caught but he continued to eavesdrop.

"Hi Jihyo," you said to the student council.

"Oh, hi Eunwoo. Didn't see you there," she said to Eunwoo.

"Do you think you can perform during the school festival? We need someone to start the dance during the evening dance event," she continued.

"I'm sorry-? What dance?"

"The principal is finally allowing us to do a dance event as the closing of the school festival," she explained before she continued.

"We would like to have you and Eunwoo perform as the opening for the dance event. Both of you can perform a slow dance, you guys used to go to the same art elementary school," she convinced you.

Jaehyun on the other side wasn't liking what he heard, he was hoping you to turn down the offer as there was a long pause after the conversation. He gathered his strength to his legs, feeling restless over the eavesdrop. He was ready to leave the library before you could answer. Eunwoo noticed Jaehyun at the table as he stood when he decided to leave the room but your voice stops his actions.

"Okay, I'll do it if Eunwoo is okay with it," you said.

Eunwoo immediately made eye contact with Jaehyun across the shelf.

"Sure, I'll do it," Eunwoo answered, still eyeing Jaehyun.

"For you," turned back his head to face you who has on his shoulder level, looking up at him.

Your lips curved upwards at Eunwoo's actions. You're glad Eunwoo is trying to amend your relationship but your guts are telling you otherwise. You were already drifting apart from each other with Eunwoo sneaking around behind your back with Ye Won. As much as you're hesitating, your actions never did anything to avoid him yet you feel it's hard to push him away.

"Jaehyun," said you as soon you lifted your head, making eye contact with him.

By your tone and your face that brightens up when you see Jaehyun, he can tell you're more interest in him eavesdropping on the conversation than being selected for the dance. But your happiness drops in a split of seconds when Jaehyun just passes by you, ignoring you both and making his way out of the library.

Your heart sank.

It wasn't the first time you received cold shoulders from him so you faced the floor, brushing away the feelings.

"So you wanna start to practise tonight?" Eunwoo asked immediately after he noticed you, you must have felt small.

"Yeah, that sounds great."

"I'll meet you at the court then after training, the court should be big enough for us."

You nodded as you gave a soft smile at him before both of you made your way to the classroom.

Jaehyun takes a quick look over at the audience on the benches. Usually, there are a few of their teammates' girlfriends, but today you are sitting casually as you sketch in your sketchbook. He shakes off his wandering thoughts and brings them back to the training. Not long after that, the training ended and the team headed to the changing room. Jaehyun stayed at the court for some personal practicing.

At first, he was just minding his own business when suddenly Eunwoo came to court again. He could see from the corner of his eyes that Eunwoo went to you as you too walked yourself down the court from the bench.

"Are you done yet?" you asked.

"Yeah, let's start practicing."

You nodded.

Jaehyun went back to his training after hearing that and you too started your practice. From time to time, Jaehyun took a glimpse of you both. He was confused by his actions. His eyes couldn't help but lay on you and Eunwoo dancing.

"Just making sure everything okay," he clarifies himself.

He looked at how gracefully you were dancing. Surely it proves a lot that both of you were from a performing arts school. He left a smile as he romanticized the view of you both dancing.

Looking at both of you dancing reminisces back his memories with his grandmother. He used to learn some dances with his grandmother, as she was a dancer. He adores graceful movements when she dances, it softens a part of him. It could make the world around him shut for a moment, the only thing that was bright and warm was the dances.

"Mr. Jeong, please have a seat," said a man opening the door for Jaehyun, the sight of Mr. Lee and his couch filled his eyes in the room.

He's been here every now and then, just the sight of Mr. Lee and a few men in suits seems new to him. His guts are telling him something was off but for now, all he could do is casually takes a seat next to the empty beside Mr. Lee at the desk.

"Jaehyun," his couch speaks as Jaehyun sits down and continues his words that leaving a shock on Jaehyun's face, he lifts his face to the couch. It was hard to believe what he heard.

"How about giving the scholarship spot to your teammate Eunwoo?"

#jaehyun #jaehyun angst #jaehyun fluff #jaehyun imagines #jaehyun scenarios #nct 127 #jaehyun x reader #nct scenarios #nct #nct imagines

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